If you missed Day Thirty’s post, it was a doozy (something extraordinary and bazar)! I had to include the definition. My post was extraordinary in that non-boasting way—out of the ordinary for me. Not so much bazar. Did you know Doozy is an Americanism. I am full-on stopping myself from wandering off and researching Americanism, and what words are Americanized; but if you get an itch, I say scratch it!

I always thought doozy came from the word bulldozer, because a bulldozer picks up an extraordinary amount of dirt, and dozer is similar to doozy. I was wrong.

Just last year, I learned that nosey neighbors do not partake in ease-dropping, they eavesdrop. I thought they eased their way into a conversation—that makes so much more sense than standing under the eaves so one can be in close proximity to overhear a conversation. Imagine trying to explain that one word of eavesdrop to a room full of second-language students. I used to teach second-language students. I would fail.  I can’t draw an eave. And don’t get me started on old wives’  tale….seriously? How about my lifelong version: old wise tale. Better, isn’t it?

My mom used to make a celery at her job (salary). I partook in a friendly game of chest (chess), until I was in my early twenties.  My boyfriend at the time found me simply hilarious. Hamburgers were ham-buggers. As in one of my favorite words: bugger-butt—it’s a term of endearment, in my book.

There is actually another human in the world besides me that Googled: when did the word bugger occur.  Oh my, I can’t share the origin here! Probably shouldn’t use it as a term of endearment anymore. No wonder I stopped eating meat. What’s another word for digress? (Laughing.) Digress also means ramble! Who would have known?

Before I so trade-markedly steered off tangent, Day Thirty’s post was the topic. Yesterday afternoon, I was confronted once again with the injustices of the world in regards to the treatment of my son with Aspergers. Pausing.

It’s so hard to write about this, when Crazy Frog is doing the Mexican hat dance in my head.

After the melancholy (but necessity, I might add) of Day Thirty’s post, Crazy Frog is making up in oddity, double-time. He still is trying to figure out where he was when Elephant plunged through. (If you haven’t looked at my lingo, yet. No doubt I’ve lost you. LINGO BUTTON.) There’s an awesome music video on the lingo page

See what I mean: I wrote this line for this post: “My heart was aflame in grief.”

My heart was. It really was. But not now! ‘Cause Crazy Frog is laughing at my words.

This is what Crazy Frog thinks is ridiculous: 

Melancholic Little Me Wrote in reflection of Day Thirty’s post: “As I wrote those words yesterday, a voice rose and spun up from the depths of me like a steel bristle brush. As it moved upwards, the brush swirled round and scraped off all this goop and gunk that had collected and stuck like barnacles to the symbolic-flesh of my very soul. The words excavated, don’t do the experience justice. I don’t know where this new part of me had been hiding, but I reckon she’s a part that was pushed down right about the time I was four years of age. She’s a feisty thing, all done up, like a strong and mighty male elephant, with a silky-sweet interior. She’s the one hiding behind the curtain. “

Here’s where Crazy Frog stepped in to avoid me going into deep emotional, opposite-of-bliss state. Notice how my voice and inflection change: “Anyhow, this voice, she was mighty powerful, and as I think about her I get an odd Southern dialect mixed in with some back-woods cowboy. Crap? Is backwoods cowboy offensive? Oh! It is. In-bred rednecks. Interesting. It’s actually racist; and I didn’t even know. Is it okay to use the words still, since my relatives have the last name McCoy and lived on a farm near the woods with over twelve children? No offense intended to any in-breeds out there. Or to my family. I guess?? I’m getting flashbacks of when I used the term…(omitted) Oops! I reckon I best be stopping myself right there.

Life is hard, when I can’t even get through a paragraph without worrying about burning someone’s britches. Oh, that doesn’t make sense. I used burning britches the wrong way. I give up. I did find a neat article about eavesdropping and its origin, but I can’t include the link, because the poop-head (LV’s two cents; LINGO BUTTON) that wrote the article included some inappropriate jokes at the end. Seems to me that author has a bit of digression issues herself.”

I think that brief description  illustrates nicely the difference between Little Me (melancholic) and Crazy Frog.

And my point? I spent all day thinking about yesterday’s post—the meaning, the release, the seriousness—until I realized a part of me had resurfaced, one I hadn’t connected with in a very long time. So I’m adding Elephant to my lingo list, and letting Crazy Frog teach Elephant how to dance. (Remember he appears as a him but is a girl inside the elephant suit.) Wow! Real life is stranger than fiction.

I think I’ll take Little Old Me and join Crazy Frog and Elephant now, in that dancing. (Tipping my hat.) And  just let the dust settle from yesterday’s post. See what’s left behind in the dirt, after this backwoods cowgirl rides out into the sunset. Buenos noches. Y’all come back, now! You here.