Vernacular, Colloquialisms, and Naming Your Body Parts
Tuesday, Sept. 12, 2006 at 11:13 a.m.
On this day in 1978, The magnificent phallic symbol Cleopatra's Needle is erected in London on the bank of the Thames. It doesn't really have anything to do with Cleopatra. The obelisk has a twin in New York's Central Park, also named Cleopatra's Needle. It has nothing to do with Cleopatra, either.
Hello, my chickybabies!
My goodness, I didn�t realize I was going to open a can of inter-continental vernacular worms by informing you all that my fanny was hurting. Let me expand on that, please.
My right buttock was hurting.
Earlier yesterday, I had gone to the Obi-Wan doctor for the results of my latest pelvic and trans-vaginal ultrasound, in order to see what the bugger that had caused me complete and utter pain back in July was up to. When I had the first US in July, the prognosis was a �complex cystic mass�, which meant that I had a thingy in there that had tissue as well as a fluid-filled thingy growing in my abdomen. Now, it seems that the tissue portion of it has gone away and I am only left with a fluid-filled thingy. Which, in the big scheme of things, isn�t so bad, so long as I�m not experiencing pain, which, for the most part, I�m not. I guess the Lupron� injections are working.
However, I was due for my Lupron� injection, which was shot into my right buttock. And that stuff stings.
Hence my right buttock (fanny) hurting.
Now, the lovely and bodacious hissandtell tells me that in the land of Oz, fanny actually refers to, not my buttocks, but the lovely area that I affectionately call �Lillian�. You name yours too, don�t give me that. Well, Lillian hasn�t bothered me lately, other than the terrific boffing I received early yesterday from the lovely Hubster and his Olaf. And the trans-vaginal US was not really any fun, as it has the sensation of a pepper mill being shoved sideways into the hoo-hoo.
So, my Australian �fanny� was not hurting, necessarily (she was a bit sore). I am an ugly American, hence, in the future, when I speak of my fanny, I am in fact, speaking of my buttocks.
In other news, the Hubster and I spent our Saturday evening kayaking on Tempe Town Lake. The parks & recreation service holds a �Moonlight Kayak� once a month, and for a very low fee, we got all equipment provided and a group of about 15 went paddling across the lake to catch the moonrise. At the same time, AZ State Uni was having a football game, and the stadium is on the south side of lake, so we were also treated to fireworks during the course of the evening. Do those SunDevils know how to party or what?
We had such a good time, in fact, that we (Hubster and I) have decided to forego getting each other anniversary gifts this year in favor of a kayak. After all, a kayak license in Tempe is only $5 per annum, and a single-seater will fit very well inside my Trixie (my Toyota Matrix, that is; Trixie does not refer to any other part of my anatomy, thank you. Perish the thought).
Despite my general fears of bad grammar and syntax, talk about some thoughts that definitely need to perish:
Get Frosty, yo.
Ack. Another victim of Rapper Wannabe Syndrome. And is it any wonder, when the poor kids today have this kind of thing to contend with whenever they go to their local shop:
But did my generation have it any easier? Us children of the 1980�s Me Decade? What with Alex Keaton and The A Team and ALF it�s any wonder we survived with brain cells intact. And while we didn�t have Instant Rapper Kits, we had to dodge these at our K-Marts and TG&Ys:
Oh, the pain. Oh, the ignominy. Oh, the repressed false memories of Satanists running daycare centers.