So I made up two new words this week.  You might think that in so announcing, I’m broadcasting my genius, my absolute trailblazing ways with the words.   Right?

No.  In yet another case of “I used to be smart, but since this very moment is the smartest I will ever be again in my lifetime, you’ll have to trust me on it, because WOW, I can truly be a dumbass, and it’s not likely to look up anytime soon.  Ever.”

See Those Numbers?

Case in point:  I completed The Library Book by Susan Orlean last night.  Her book came highly recommended amid critical acclaim, and through some miracle, the wait time for one of my library’s copies was minimal.  Feeling like I’d won the large-print version lottery (large print, BTW, is a sure-fire way to cut your wait time for any library hold but in this case was not done with intent, but with “Wow, apparently I can’t read small fonts on my phone anymore,” FURTHER demonstrating my cognitive decline, and actually the need for large print too), I began reading.  I promptly fell asleep. Next night, read about four pages, zzzzzzzzzzz.  Next night, the same. . .

My husband observed my lack of progress, inquiring if I actually liked the book.  When I’m pulled in to a story, it’s a challenge to drag me out.  As I obsess over music, so too can I with the written word.  I remarked that I was having a hard time finding characters I liked.  I met the protagonist right off, but hadn’t reconnected with her or felt a kinship with any characters really, so wasn’t feeling any emotional connection, despite the story being about libraries, books, library patrons, librarians, and the devastating 1986 fire at the Los Angeles Central Library–all of whom and which I find intriguing.

See, The Library Book is not a novel of historical fiction.  It’s not a novel.  The Dewey decimals along the spine should have been the first *ding ding ding* moment, but no.  I floundered for a good four days before connecting the decimals.  It’s history, you idiot.  Once I reframed my approach to reading, I dug in.  Four stars.

Of Teenagers and Zombies (Not to be used interchangeably)

A neologism is what you might think it is based on what you see if you have an inclination toward linguistics and the ancient Greeks: neo- (new) and -logos (word).  I invented two new words, y’all!  They’re considered neologisms until they’re widely used and accepted into common parlance and/or Urban Dictionary, whichever comes first probably.

Neologism is a speech path-y word to be sure, but it can be applied in the real world, so now your challenge is to work neologism into polite conversation at your next business meeting.  Go!  I actually do this with my co-workers–not using neologism, but when we are feeling a little full of ourselves or a touch sassy or annoyed, I challenge one of the girls to casually slide in a given word at our next meeting.  Christine almost never disappoints, but then I have to stare at my feet until the urge to bust into a giggle fit and high five her passes.

OK, they’re not new words per se, rather each a portmanteau.  Which in itself is another super cool, fancy word, isn’t it?  A portmanteau typically combines both word sounds and meanings,  like brunch, combining breakfast plus lunch, or Brangelina, combining, well. . . well, you know what makes up that one.  Regretfully, Brangelina is the one that first sprang to mind.  Anyway.

Broffection:  bros + affection–At my son’s sleepover last week, he and his BFF exchanged sentiments of best friend-dom, as they have done since K4.  My little one asserted that first grade was OK and all, but probably the worst grade because his BFF attended a different school that year.  His BFF responded that he hopes they’ll be friends until high school or maybe even college.  They sweetly retell the story of their meeting at least twice annually.  Broffection.


Genesis, right here.

Zombiance:  zombies + ambiance–As we settled in to watch the mid-season finale of The Walking Dead last night, my husband turned off all the lights, proclaiming, “Ambiance.”  Enough neurons fired at just the right speed, and I replied, “Zombiance” in an instant.  Then I laughed too long and hard at how clever I thought I was, and forced my husband to agree I was an absolute hoot.  Zombiance, yo.  Too bad about Jesus though, huh??

You haven’t heard these before, have you?  I hope you’ll agree that they work semantically and phonetically, and that you’ll think of me when you use them.  You’re welcome, English language, you constantly evolving nut, you.  And if I’m not as clever as I think I am and you’ve heard these before, it’s OK, I know I’m not quick like I used to be.  Sometimes can’t even tell fact from fiction.

Still Wendy

Three things not to schedule on one day:

  1. Your son’s occupational therapy appointment
  2. Same son’s four-tooth extractions
  3. A pre-504 meeting with said child’s school’s school psychologist

Helpful parenting tip right there, y’all.  You are welcome.  No, you.  Really.

I received a shower of corrugated cardboard-clad prizes in the weeks before Christmas from my best friend, Deb. She’s one of the smartest people I know, and a librarian by trade.  Amazon’s smiley packages revealed to me copies of her favorite books from the 8.4 billion she read in 2016.  I wasn’t sure with which to begin, so I let my husband judge a book by its cover, and he chose A Man Called Ove.  Written by Swedish author Fredrik Backman, it affectionately details the days of a man called Ove, a quiet, principled fellow who, in spite of himself, learns to love and be loved.  Deb got to meet Backman at an event at her library, and that made me love Ove even a teensy bit more.  I miss her so.


I completed #2 of Deb’s 2016 Best-of, Still Alice, by Lisa Genova just a few hours ago. You might have seen the book-turned-motion picture starring Julianne Moore a few years back.  There were ugly tears shed watching this movie, but the book hit me differently.  With sadness, sure, but also with fear.  We meet Alice Howland, a superb Harvard psychology and linguistics professor, at age 49.   She is at the peak of her game–a brilliant, sought-after international lecturer; physically beautiful and five-miles-a-day fit; adoring, co-author/researcher husband; two perfect, equally brilliant, accomplished children; one brilliant black sheep daughter; the beautifully appointed Cambridge home.  You want to hate her, but you don’t.  Shortly after she extinguishes 50 candles on the cake, she learns she has early-onset Alzheimer’s Disease.


Genova’s Alice speaks to us through the veil of fading memory.  The way Alice reveals her loosening on the world around her is heartbreaking and scary.  Alice knows she’s losing it; she recognizes that she can’t quite recall words and labels, her familiarity with her loved ones, career-long colleagues and places becomes that of a passing acquaintance or a just-met.

I love words.  Reading wonderful authors reminds me that I don’t use a great many words in my own communications.  Sure, I could calculate a type-token ratio (a measurement of vocabulary diversity), but I don’t think that’s necessary here.  I do better than many, not nearly as well as I’d like.  My point?  My word retrieval has begun to fade, like Alice’s did.  I have this killer elbow tendinitis, and this morning wanted to voice an iPhone reminder, “Hey, Siri, remind me to call Dr. . .  Dr. . .  Dr. . .”  For a million, billion dollars, I could not recall my GP’s name.  Were you to hold a gun to my head or dangle front row BNL tickets in reward, I’d have gotten no closer to remembering his name.  I had a moment of pause.  This is not the first time I’ve come up empty in my quest for words.  And I don’t mean snazzy, arcane selections like gerrymandering or verisimilitude.  I mean stunners like cabinet or tortilla or crate.  You understand my fear now, right?  At least Siri wasn’t in a judgey, sass-me-back mode like she can be.  Maybe artificial intelligence is smarter than I assign it credit, and Siri recognized my gaffe for the frustrating moment it was.

My husband says I’m worried about too many things.  “You’re the glue that holds our family together, you’re always organizing or planning.”  You’re tired.  You’re stressed out.   Yes, yes, true, and yes.  But the same was said of Alice Howland, and she led a MUCH more dazzling life than I do.  Yes, she’s a fictional character, but we’re the same age and we were both pretty good with language.  Her earliest signs of early-onset Alzheimer’s were cast aside for these very reasons, I pointed out to my husband.  He was spectacularly blind to and disavowing of my self-drawn comparison.  I know I’m slipping the tiniest of steps, and so did she.

I don’t actually think I’m showing signs of early Alzheimer’s Disease.  I AM showing signs of being 49 though, even if I am sporting the best hair colors of my lifetime these days, I’m no spring chicken.  But all the while I read Still Alice, I thought Still Wendy.  How will I know I’m still Wendy when I don’t?   It’s exactly like me to make mountains from molehills to be sure, but what if I am tap dancing at the cusp of the mental abyss?  Alice asked herself the same five questions every day, and directed herself to open a special computer file when she could no longer recall the truths.  In this computer file (no spoilers here) she did write a breathtaking love letter to herself, detailing her own talents, accomplishments, loves and wishes.  Probably everyone should do that for him or herself.

With today’s series of appointments–thank goodness for my text/messenger friends who were “there” for me, talking me down and through as they always do when I get too deep into my own head–I was reminded how much my boy needs me.  I’m the one who took off from work to shuttle him to and fro. I KNOW he’s a teenager, so obviously one of his parents is responsible for meeting these needs–I’m not that off my game!  But MD is forever for him; I’m temporary.  I mean, I don’t plan on going anywhere soon, but I don’t get to pick.  What will happen if and when I can’t?  He is going to need an extremely patient someone to share his life with, or will he have to hire people to care for him if I cannot?

I should compile my list of Still Wendy questions, because these questions?  These are not questions I’m prepared to answer.  I should also draft that love letter to myself, and so should you!  What would you say to you about yourself if you penned a love letter to you?