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Dyslexia of The Mouth

denmark1051

 Uncanned Laughter
A misused word, a misremembered song lyric, a cream pie that just happened to be there: tell us about a time you (or someone else) said or did something unintentionally funny.

Dyslexia of the Mouth

Talk about hitting the hammer on the head or nailing the head of a hammer, well you hit the nail on the head. This is me and I blame my brother. In childhood, Victor hit me on the head with a baseball bat and on another happy occasion, a lead pipe. I hear him laughing now, and the laughter follows me.

Like a stroke victim, I think I am saying circumference, my mouth says circumcise and people laugh. “What? What’s so funny about a circumference?” I’m listening to my mind unaware my mouth is not cooperating.

This dyslexia of the mouth was brought to my attention by my boyfriend. We were twenty and playing the word game Geography. A graduate of private school, Iona Prep, he had a true advantage. I graduated from Windham Ashland Jewett Central and had traveled only once outside New York to Rhode Island.

We’d been through all the states and working on Countries. I was doing okay; until the letter, O.

Stumped to name a European City that began with O, Bob helped me saying, “It’s a city in Norway.”

I scream excitedly, “I know Openhagen!”

LOL, Openhagen? LOL,Openhagen?

Oslo is a city in Norway that begins with the letter O. Copenhagen, the capital of Denmark is close by. If the c is  scratched you have a European city that begins with O.

I wish I had a dollar for every time he has retold the story laughing very out loud.

We’ve been married for forty-three years.

. . . Seriously just saying

Betty Boop, My New Best Friend

 

The Name’s The Thing

Have you ever named an inanimate object? (Your car? Your laptop? The volleyball that kept you company while you were stranded in the ocean?) Share the story of at least one object with which you’re on a first-name basis.

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You ask writers to “Share the story of at least one object with which you’re on a first-name basis,” sounds kinky and similar to “Fifty Shades of Grey”.

I have never read the book, have no desire to have a relationship with an object, and have stopped apologizing for not owning a pet. However, the concept of having a low maintenance friend is appealing.

I glance around and focus on a favorite inanimate object on my desk, a Betty Boop coffee mug. Perhaps I will give her some life, make her my writing buddy, someone to laugh and encourage me as I struggle to write.

As a child, cartoons that featured ants running around and characters getting bopped on the head infuriated me. Betty Boop, the flapper with more than brains, made me laugh. The cartoons have a message and Betty solves problems.

In “The Practical Joker” Irving is annoying and prevents Betty from icing a cake, she asks Prof. Grampy “What can I do?”

Prof. Grampy says, “Send him to me!” and gets out his Bag of Tools to outsmart the practical joker.

I glance at Betty Boop and she says, “Now let’s write for an hour and we can eat donuts and drink coffee while Prof Grampy makes revisions.”

“Boop-Oop-A-Doop” I have a new best friend.

                                                                        . . .  Seriously Just Saying

 

More Betty Boop Cartoons

Blogging School Drop-Out

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April 24, 2014
It’s 6:45AM and I’m sitting at my desk wearing a pink fuzzy robe and slippers that are too big. The music from “Beauty School Drop-out” is swirling through my head only, blogging has replaced beauty.

Seriously, I’m considering dropping out or taking a medical leave from Blogging University. I don’t know if today is day ten, eleven or twelve. I haven’t completed assignments from day six through whatever we’re up to and I’m having dreams about failing.

It’s the day of the final, every seat in the classroom is filled, except mine. I wonder the room looking for a different seat and a pencil with an eraser. The exam will include reading aloud from Oliver Twist, and I never bought the book. A pencil holder is on the front desk, I check its content and none of the pencils have points. There are several Papermate Sharp Writers, but they are broken.

The professor, wearing jeans and shoes without socks, sneaks up behind me. He’s never been  to class before, and I’m surprised by his looks; a spitting image of Tom Scary, my first high school crush., except his  nose is much pointer.

He frowns, cracks his neck, and says, “Looking for something?”

I mumble, “A pencil.” Then continue to confess, “I’m unprepared. I never read Oliver Twist or Catcher in the Rye and can’t understand Shakespeare.” Tears are forming in my eyes.

He reaches in his pocket for a pen he hands me, saying; “Use this!”

Then turns to the class, and says, “Who wants to read first?”

I woke up in a cold sweat.

It took ten minutes to write this, an hour and fifteen minutes to edit, and two days to select an image header.

I’m getting dressed. It’s hard for me to think when my boobs are touching my waist, and besides I have dryer lint on my mind.

 

. . . . Seriously, what’s on your writing mind?

7 Golden Rules of Blogging

Why do I Write?

Mary Ann de Stefano writes, “MAD’S Monday Muse” and put this quote in her weekly post for readers to think about.

“I never take for granted that I’ll be able to write. There’s no acorn stash of ideas in my desk drawer. There’s only the wanting to know my life through writing, a wish felt sometimes as desire, sometimes as desperation. What reservoir the words come from remains a mystery to me.” — Jane Hirshfield in On Calligraphic Perception: A Conversation with Jane Hirshfield
Published by MAD about Words | #263 April 14, 2014

It raised questions for me:

• Why do I write?
• Do I write from a wish felt, desire, or desperation?
• Do I have a stash of ideas?
• Do I take for granted that I’ll be able to write?

Writing to me is like playing golf is to my husband, a pastime. I wasn’t born with a passion to write; never kept a journal nor wrote more than a newsletter or report for my job. I started writing after we retired and moved to Ormond Beach, Florida.

Words invaded my head, stayed there, and didn’t give me peace until written down.

I wrote secretly. Something in the newspaper or a look from a salesperson would trigger a story or emotion that nagged me. Other writers have said it happened to them and reference the experience as a “call to write”.

One day my husband stuck his head inside my study door, and asked, “What are you doing?”
I confessed,” Writing.”

Shortly after, an announcement for the Florida Writer’s Association meeting appeared in the newspaper with a phone number, I called and started attending. That was three years ago in January of 2011.

I have had some success; Florida Writer’s Association published two 1200 word stories in anthologies. However, I haven’t completed any other work, and writers block has replaced the words that used to magically jump into my head.

So, NO! As Hirshfield says, “I never take for granted that I’ll be able to write.” Moreover, I don’t have a stash of ideas.

What I do have is total absorption when writing.

It becomes a two-hour vacation. All of life’s demands disappear. The tedious part of editing is what I enjoy the most. The words go from a kindergarten version to one I feel good about. It’s the equivalent of a golfer hitting a hole in one.

I start with a feeling, then struggle to capture the moment with words and transport my experience to other minds.

Seriously, Why do you write?

(After visiting some other posts by bloggers participating in Zero to Hero I realize I am way too serious, nevertheless this is my post for day three . . .  Seriously, tell me something positive)