What a Word Wednesday: Absquatulate



Yon Bridget is plagued with personal demons today. My two-year-old grandson has been visiting this week, and she’s not used to being second fiddle. Whatever he loves, she loves. So today, in a desperate bid for affection, Bridget “absquatulated” with his favorite snack.*

What does it all mean? According to dictionary.com, “absquatulate” means to leave, or flee. Simple, right? When I say it aloud, it cracks me up, and sounds vaguely obscene. Do you agree?

Here’s the kicker: I visited etymonline.com for more info, and discovered the word originated around 1837.

It’s the brainchild of William B. Bernard, author of the play, “The Kentuckian,” uttered by the character NIMROD WILDFIRE. I kid you not. You can bet Nimrod Wildfire “absquatulated” with the show every night.

It’s a service I enjoy providing, arming you with powerful words as you battle the forces within and without. Your new word is very effective and doubly obscene if you say it very slowly…combining “Nimrod Wildfire” with it will slay the fiercest bully.

Bridget’s panties are in a bunch today, but her constant “absquatulating” will decrease when my grandson leaves. I hope.

*Okay, anyone with any wits about them can see I orchestrated this picture. I write FICTION, remember? But she did steal a stick of butter off the counter again yesterday, so it’s not a complete fabrication.

Close to You: Music and My Mom

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Like most twelve-year-old girls in the seventies, I had my ears glued to Karen Carpenter’s smooth, evocative voice. I spent hours in front of the mirror in the privacy of my bedroom, hairbrush in hand, belting out her songs with the emotion they deserved. I wanted to be just like her. One big problem: I was shy. It seemed likely the mirror would be the only audience I’d ever have.

Mom had a different idea.

My mother, now eighty-something, is a talented lady. Back in the forties, she was a first class dancer who gave up a career in NYC to marry my father. She was a minister’s wife, a job which encompasses the roles of politician, ambassador, hotel manager, entertainer, and on and on. Most daunting of all, she raised five children. After we were all in school, she also worked outside the home. And she’s an artist:


                                                         She likes to paint on old bottles

My Lady Mother is still one of the most modest, humble people I know, and has never lost her creative spark.  She tap-danced until the age of eighty-five, with a grace and elegance right up there with the great ones.

She can also sing, which brings me back to my awkward years. It turns out Mom volunteered the two of us for a duet at the church’s mother-daughter tea. My big-time balking was no match for her calm, matter-of-fact reassurance, so I agreed to sing the Carpenter’s “Close to You” with her.

I worried about it for weeks, imagining all kinds of heinous scenarios. I would open my mouth and screech. I would trip and fall, dragging Mom down with me. I would lose my skirt. (This last one actually did happen in front of a much larger audience years later, but that’s a story for another day.) No amount of practice tamped down the embers of anxiety in my stomach.

The moment arrived, and I walked with her to the piano, knees wobbling. The whole world watched. I looked down, chock-full of fight or flight, too scared to look at the audience. Her hand clasped mine, gave it a reassuring squeeze. I lifted my eyes to hers, took courage from her smile, and the music began. She began singing, and I followed along, her beautiful soprano voice like a gentle tug on my hand, guiding me out of my fear and into the world of music I loved so much.

Thanks to the gentle guidance of my mother, I discovered I could sing in front of an audience despite my shyness. It was the first of many performances.

Mom still provides a feeling of peace and reassurance. I am beyond grateful for the gift of her nurturing, knowing how precious it is.






Waxing Lachrymose Wednesday


Poor Bridget. The world is a sad, sad place. If you look very closely, you can see one tear at the corner of her eye.  Every fiber of her being is Waxing Lachrymose. This is a term I first heard years and years ago, when I read Wuthering Heights for the first time. Bridget is milking her sorrow for all it’s worth; because it’s raining,she can’t go outside while I work on my edits.

Someone who is Waxing Lachrymose is given to shedding tears. Even just saying it to myself with great emotion is so satisfying. I imagine different scenarios for you to use this great phrase:

You Wax Lachrymose at the office, after the boss dumps a pile of work on your desk.

After a disastrous football game, your son tells his teammates: “Don’t Wax Lachrymose, fellas, we’ll do better next week.”

You say to the shoe salesman, after learning he’s out of your shoe size: “Dang it! I’m going to Wax Lachrymose all over you.”

You get the idea. Imagine how much more intelligent we’d sound if we used this phrase. Instead of road rage, how about if we just roll down the window and yell, “Waxing Lachrymose at you, Sir!”

Bridget doesn’t understand what she’s doing. She doesn’t know the rain (or my editing) won’t last forever.

I challenge you to use this word today in your daily life. Leave me a comment and let me know how it went. Spread the word.