Days of my Life #24

My deceased second ex-husband, Peter, was a volatile SOB whose idiomatic language would always amuse and infuriate me. It’s not exactly because of the actual words he used, it was that most of his “isms” were at the same time both silly and mean-spirited. He was a deeply injured soul. This wasn’t the reason I made him an “ex” exactly, though it may have had something to do with it.

His clever word combos often became distorted and ugly in the fury of the moment. Take for instance the quote “hangin’ would be too good for him”. (Which now might be applied to certain politicians, naming no names). This particular phrase pulled an amusing verbal punch when, let’s say we might be watching soccer and the ref made a decision about which “Ex#2” disagreed. Obviously, it was a game. Obviously, “no one should ever be hung,” I would remark. “Maybe the ref’s uniform might be removed, trampled, then hung out to dry…a more humiliating but undeadly experience.” I’d suggest. He would momentarily look at me, or in my direction, I couldn’t tell, pause, then just crack open another beer and continue his tirade against people who could not possibly hear him, and I would move to another room or go for a walk and eventually told him to take a hike, permanently…off a cliff I might’ve said, though conveniently I can’t remember. Alcoholics do drive people away…or people tell them to get their keys and leave. I did the latter. He died a few years later. When I heard I vomited all over the driveway.

Words, singularly or bunched together, can really pack a wallop. I do recall being called a collection of names by bullies when I was in grammar school. Yes, they called it grammar school in those days before spell check and voice recognition. We learned a good deal of grammar and spelling and even the beginnings of how to think, critically. The bullies, as I recall, were not concerned with using grammar – they did their damndest to belittle me and utilized some sort of critical thinking in their focus of my large eyes and curly hair, which unbeknownst to them would later be my best and most enviable attributes.

Who would’ve known, in those days of relative innocence and teachers, then woefully ignorant of dyslexia and hyperactive kids, who advised my parents I’d probably never be able to read, much less write properly, that people would later pay me good money to put words together (those foolish, big city newspaper editors) or that I would author books and plays and have my words reach across the world to people I didn’t even know, just by the push of a button.

Ah, notoriety, or whatever this is that you might wanna call it. I’m delighted when I craft words together these days because I never know exactly what is going to happen. I owe my turns of phrase and in discovering expressive art to a woman I met years ago who became my teacher and friend. Whatever spirits watch over me must shake their heads (or whatever body part they might have) to demonstrate their disbelief at what situations I find myself and then the methods I use to I create my way through it all.

Life is strange, isn’t it? I mean now, it’s totally weirdo, wacko, sci-fi, with governments coming out admitting ufos are real, that we have a five year old running the USA telling people to stick lights up/in their orofices, and that his cadre of ass kissers have thrown any semblance of critical, or for that matter, humanitarian thinking out the window…etc. I mean really?

Even without wading through the above exaggerated bull poop, which most of us would love to do without, life can be pretty unexpected and often wonderful. We don’t have to be mean-spirited or cruel, but we can find creative ways to use our words to express ourselves, to get our point/s across and make our world a better place. I’m working on it.

Tune in.

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