Word Play

I saw these the other day and thought I would pass them on to you. They are from the Washington Post. Mensa each year asks their readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. Here are the 2009 winners: (Number 2 of the second list has great meaning for me!!!)

1. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time. (this one describes me alarmingly well)
2. Ignoranus : A person who's both stupid and an asshole. (I know several people who this word describes beautifully)
3. Intaxication : Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with. (Been there, done that)
4. Reintarnation : Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
5. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future. (this surrounds Ignoranus's I feel)
6. Foreploy : Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
7. Giraffiti : Vandalism spray-painted very, very high
8. Sarchasm : The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
9. Inoculatte : To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
10. Osteopornosis : A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
11. Karmageddon : It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
12. Decafalon (n.): The gruelling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you. (have no idea what this would be like. Sounds terrible though)
13. Glibido : All talk and no action.
14. Doppler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
15. Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
16. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out. (so that's who it was....)
17. Caterpallor ( n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.

The Washington Post has also published the winning submissions to its yearly contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words.

And the winners are:
1. Coffee, n. The person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted , adj. Appalled by discovering how much weight one has gained.
3. Abdicate , v. To give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach. - Ahmen!!!!!!!!!!
4. Esplanade, v. To attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly, adj. Impotent.
6. Negligent, adj. Absentmindedly answering the door when wearing only a nightgown.
7. Lymph, v. To walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle, n. Olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence, n. Emergency vehicle that picks up someone who has been run over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash, n. A rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle, n. A humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude, n. The formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon, n.. A Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster, n. A person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism, n. The belief that, after death, the soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.
16. Circumvent, n. An opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men.

So, there you have it. Wordplay for a Wednesday.

Holding back the Sahara.

You will be delighted to hear that I resolved my costume dilemma in the time honoured way. I threw money at the problem and rented something. The local costume shop does not really 'do' fictional characters but they specialise in medieval dress. This resulted in me going as Maid Marion complete with long blue silk dress with laced up bodice, sleeves that small families could have camped in and a waist length curly black wig. Oh, and a girdle of course. I have now been told that I must grow my hair long, black and curly, which could prove tricky. Also, that I must instantly throw out my wardrobe and only wear medieval dress. This is either because I looked unutterably ravishing or because it gave everybody such a laugh that they want me to hang about like a court fool to amuse them everyday of the week. I am going with the latter as the most likely option.

Back in the real world, the builders are working so fast that if you blink, you'll miss something. There are skylights going in in the new corridor and doorways being bashed through. Studwalls are flying up and the new chimney breast is built. The electricians are festooning the house with cabling and the icing on today's cake is that the Forestry Commission have turned up and are taking down the trees that border my garden.

These have been slowly and steadily falling down and the next winter storm could have seen them tumbling onto my garden. As they are at least 80ft tall this was a problem which made me glance at them furtively in the lightest of breezes as I wondered whether they were leaning just a little bit more than yesterday. Taking them down is also going to have the added bonus of flooding my garden with evening light. OK. Flooding the garden is an exaggeration, but it will make a big difference. It is all too exciting for words.

The dust, on the other hand, is not exciting. Overwhelming would be a better word. The Loyal Hound is an interesting shade of grey, as am I, and all my worldly goods. Everything is coated in dust. I left footprints on the carpet when I went upstairs earlier. There is so much of it that it seems improbable that I will ever get rid of it. I am determined to not worry about it. I shall cross that dustbath when I need to. Right now it would be like trying to push back the Sahara to try and tackle it.

Costume Crisis

It seems that I stumble from one crisis to another. This weeks' mini drama? A costume party on Saturday night.

The title is 'Favourite Fictional Character'. I have come up with many cunning ideas for what I could wear to this. My favourite being Mavis the Fat Fairy from Will o' the Wisp (does anyone else remember that?? Heaven with Evil Edna the television). Here they are for you to admire...



I already have the figure for this, but couldn't face dying my hair blue and my wand is missing in action.

Having discarded that, I have had many hours in the car this week to think of cunning alternatives. Unfortunately I have not been near actual shops where I could then FIND whatever genius costume I came up with. Consequently I have done what I always do. Absolutely nothing. I live in the hope that on the night I will mysteriously come up with a fabulous idea which I can create using loo roll and double sided sticky tape (neither of which I have to hand).

This weekend's party is made more complicated by the fact that the cooking season has started again. So from Friday I am cooking for 14 people and will need to get a four course dinner onto the table in record time on Saturday night. The moment coffee is sent out I will do my 'wonderwoman' quick change in the kitchen before running off like a reverse cinderella to join the party.

So - back to my clothing dilemma. Bearing in mind how I am spending the weekend, I briefly considered The Swedish Chef, from the muppets. I just don't have the eyebrows for it though, and neither do I think I should be drunk in charge of a knife.



Then I thought I could go as God but that might offend those who think she is real, rather than fictional. My next idea was to dress entirely in black and decorate my Thumb with a small wig and dress and go as Thumbelina. All my black clothes are now dust clothes though and I don't have a wig small enough for my thumb. I wish I were a boy 'cos then I'd go as Captain Pugwash who is possibly my favourite fictional character ever. I have the perfect stomach for this costume so that would save on padding.



So, I now have to stop coming up with improbable ideas that I can't execute and instead, come up with a costume that can be made up out of bits of string, building rubble and carrot peelings. Any cunning thoughts?

One week in and I'm already behind.

So, the builders have started. The hovel has started it's metamorphic process and will soon shake off its chrysalis of dust and become a palace. Or so it goes in my fantasy world.

The builders started last monday and true to form they flooded the house in record breaking time - just three hours! That was fun and a novel way of keeping the dust down I suppose.

Despite the fact that this is supposed to be a five week project they have already been AWOL for two days out of the last six. Impressive, no? At this rate the five week job will escalate into a seven week job which will see me being seriously unamused.

They have done lots of destroying though. Walls have been knocked down and ripped out and I think they bought some extra bags of dust and rubble to scatter around and make the works look more impressive. Somehow, not only the house but also the garden is smothered in rubble.

This week should see new things going up - stud walls and things and the house I imagined will start taking shape. At that point I expect I'll start panicking and wondering if I am doing the right thing so that is an emotional rollercoaster to look forward to.

In the meantime I have moved all my possessions into one end of the house and am working in the kitchen with all the company business crammed into the understairs cupboard.

The nice thing about starting is that I can get excited about finishing. I have made improbable resolutions to myself about sorting all my things out before I put them back. Books will be alphabetically ordered (or if I am feeling shallow, then colour co-ordinated!!!), odds and ends that I hang onto for no apparent reason will ruthlessly be delivered to the charity shop. In this dream, mysteriously, my remaining possessions will become chic and elegant items rather than shabby and decrepit bits of ikea uselessness. World of Interiors will be slavering over the prospect of photographing the wonder that is the hovel. My optimism knows no bounds at this point.

What does a boyfriend turn into?

I have a great friend who has just had an article printed on her. In said article, her other half, who is close to 70, was described as her 'boyfriend'. This is blatantly not suitable. You can't call a 70 year old man a boyfriend. But what choice did she have?

She couldn't call him her lover. Possibly if she were French this would have worked, but not for a Brit. We just don't do that. Neither can she bring herself to call him her 'partner' as it sounds too pc for words and also, faintly businesslike. But what is she left with?

There are moments when the English language is horribly deficient, and this is one of them. So what do you call your lover when you start rolling down the hill of life? What alternatives are there? If I ever find a man, and it might take years, then this is a dilemma I may face.

Suggestions please.....

My Underwear is not good enough.

I have been in London a few times in the last fortnight and I have come to one inescapable conclusion. My underwear simply isn't good enough.

Let's get something straight here. It's not as if everyone was strolling around wearing nothing BUT underwear, but they all looked so well turned out, so co-ordinated and fashionable and in vogue, that they quite obviously were wearing beautiful underwear. Most likely the sort where pants and bra actually matched and were made of intricate lace hand stitched by elves, bred for the purpose.

All of a sudden my cotton knickers and tired bra, which only match because I accidentally dyed them all in the wash, felt horribly tired. I am a useless female and it is no wonder that I am single. It is beside the point that I can't remember when anyone last saw me in my underwear but perhaps they can tell just by looking at me that I am a failure on the lingerie front?

The thing about it is that I balk at the cost of lovely underwear. A decent bra and knicker set costs the same as the bathroom taps. I need the taps more. My priorities are obviously all quite wrong. If I had good underwear, I would have a lover who would then urge me to let him pay for the taps. I see now that good underwear would have been an investment that would have paid for all other things. Why did my mother never tell me this? Why did I have to wait until I was 36 for this vital piece of information to reveal itself to me in the middle of Kensington High Street?

The problem is now too big to solve though. My bank account is under severe strain at the moment and paying for new underwear was going to be an impossibility. I mended my shoes with duct tape the other day rather than buy more. You see the problem.

Something had to be done though and my solution was pathetic in the extreme. I bought underwear in the supermarket. It wasn't plain white or plain black which is my normal approach. There are small patterns that nobody but me will get to see and bows on the front in delicate red ribbon. This is harlot underwear in my world. I even bought a new bra which had lace on it. The extravagance is shocking, I know.