Grief-Bacon

A friend of mine calls Facebook the devil. I disagree. Were it not for Facebook, I’d never know that kummerspeck is a thing (FYI, kummerspeck gets autocorrected to jumpers peck–like that’s a thing someone would say, Autocorrect, you loser.  I’m sure. “Hey, did you notice Helga’s jumpers peck?” said no mean girl Teuton ever.) See, kummerspeck is a German word with no English translation, and I learned this because of Facebook. Thus, Facebook cannot possibly be the devil, as it’s educational.  Thank you, Grammarly.

And this is related to a muscular dystrophy diagnosis in this way:  Doritos, Oreos, mashed potatoes, along with an entire pantry of foodstuffs not ending with the “o” sound are killing me. In the US I think we call it stress eating or soothing with food or some pop-psychology-esque euphemism, but the end result is kummerspeck.  Go, Germans on this one!  You sound like you’re yelling at us when you talk, even when you whisper, but with respect to kummerspeck?  #nailedit  And I got me some damn kummerspeck (which is now in my iPhone’s text prediction window, which is freaking awe-some). Not a lot, not yet, but it would will be easier than falling off a log to keep adding to my store of grief-bacon if I don’t check myself.  Crap.  Scheisse.  I’m killing myself with “scheisse” here, people.  Linguistics.

In other news, and in a REMARKABLE SHOW OF PARENTAL RESTRAINT, I refrained from calling out my son’s dick move this morning, instead going with “jerk move.”  By comparison, it doesn’t yield the same mouthfeel satisfaction, the word “jerk,” but he’s 12, and I’m the mom, allegedly modeling socially appropriate, adult behavior.  This parenting gig is NOT for the weak.

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