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dmswriter

Monthly Archives: May 2013

Weird Word Wednesday!

22 Wednesday May 2013

Posted by dmswriter in Updates

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

fidgeting, funny words, humor, jiffle, Memorial Day, nervousness, weird words, writing

We’re halfway through the week, so it’s understandable that we’re getting a little antsy for the weekend to arrive. Especially since it’s a three-day version, thanks to the Memorial Day holiday.

Think of a time when you were waiting impatiently for something: a bus that was running late; wishing that a speaker would land the verbal airplane of his monotonous commencement speech, or maybe sleep that escapes you in the middle of a long night.

Being unable to sleep at night can leave you with a restless feeling

http://www.middlexeshospital.org

Did you feel restless? Slightly anxious? Without knowing it, you might have even jiffled while you waited.

Yes, jiffled. Today’s weird word is jiffle, and it means “to fidget or shuffle.”

Eudora’s dinnertime jiffling rattled the silverware, making the meal very annoying for the rest of the Fogelstrom family.

Look around you next time a sermon drags on or a coworker is busily finishing that last bit of paperwork so they can leave on time. Check out a group of grade schoolers, fidgeting in line for the recess bell to ring.

We jiffle. Eyes blink a little faster, feet tap restlessly, fingers jitter on tables.

Sometimes kids get restless in class

http://www.nea.org

We’re all jifflers at one time or another.

Gerald earned a time out when his incessant jiffling disrupted Mrs. Crankshaw’s fifth-period algebra lesson.

I leave you with a quote from “Where I’m Calling From: New and Selected Stories” by the late Raymond Carver, an American poet and short-story writer.

“But I can hardly keep still. I keep fidgeting, crossing one leg and then the other. I feel like I could throw off sparks or break a window – maybe rearrange all the furniture.”

Now that’s some serious jiffling!

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The Mysterious Disappearance of Mrs. Nesbitt

14 Tuesday May 2013

Posted by dmswriter in Updates

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children, home, humor, Mother's Day, mothers, raising children, writing

Getting your kids to clean their rooms is a lot harder than it seems. Impossible, sometimes.

When our younger two were tots, I tidied their rooms myself. It was fun balling up their bitsy socks and lining them in drawers, folding striped stretchy pants with ruffles at the waist, and picking up Matchbox cars.

It's tough to get kids to clean their roomsFun, that is, until our daughter turned three. Suddenly, Eva’s idea of a good time meant emptying her dresser drawers, every one of them, and flinging everything on the carpet. Everything.

I routinely wiped out on Matchbox cars littering the floor, and woe be unto the person who got up in the middle of the night to navigate the mine field of toys on the way to the bathroom.

Being a good new mom, I turned to parenting articles for answers. One magazine suggested that spending five minutes cleaning up every night would give your child a sense of responsibility. Skip the night light! You could tuck them into bed where they’d fairly glow with accomplishment!

I don’t know whose kids were affected by this. Not mine.

Yelling was too much work, and an allowance didn’t dent their desire. Weeks passed and toys piled high; in a desperate attempt to get the kids to clean, I plucked the last card from my Mom Deck of Tricks:

Make something up.

If you can't get your kids to clean, hiring a cleaning lady might be an option

Enter Mrs. Nesbitt. I envisioned a plump lady with iron-grey hair, wearing sensible oxfords and a healthy dose of polyester. She’d be a take-no-prisoners cleaner, whomping dust from couch cushions, thrusting her vacuum wand into the dark corners I neglected. The house would sparkle when she left, all our problems swept under the Rug of Avoidance I was creating.

Even though she didn’t exist, she could still take the blame for things. It all seemed so tidy.

The next time my daughter asked why she had to clean, I cast a pitying glance her way. “Since Mrs. Nesbitt didn’t show up today, we have to do the cleaning,” I said sadly.

She turned back to her room, eyebrows stuck together in a puzzled frown. So far, so good.

Another few weeks went by with me happily blaming Mrs. Nesbitt for the conundrum she unwittingly created. Gotta sweep the floor, kiddo? Blame No-Show Nesbitt. Fold the laundry? Ha! Looks like Mrs. Nesbitt forgot again.

One day, reality struck.

After making her bed once too often, Eva came out of her room, beginnings of a black cloud swirling over her head.

“If you’re paying Mrs. Nesbitt, she should be doing the cleaning,” she fumed, one little foot stomping the ground for emphasis.

Eva’s little foot stomped my heart, too. I couldn’t do it anymore – Mrs. Nesbitt’s gig was up.

“Honey,” I said, bending down, “there is no Mrs. Nesbitt.”

She stared. I waited for a wail of disbelief, to feel her thorns of accusation, but instead, she smiled.

After that, it became a joke around our house. Bed not made? Blame Mrs. Nesbitt! Dog doo lurking in the yard? Must be Nesbitt’s day off!

Mrs. Nesbitt faded away as the years passed, but recently she made a comeback. It was Mother’s Day, and my husband made supper, vowing to wash the heaps of dishes after he returned from an errand.

He pointed a finger my way. “Stay out of the kitchen,” he threatened.

After he left, I filled the sink with water and started scrubbing.

He returned, and with an exasperated look, asked me why I had washed dishes, on Mother’s Day of all days.

I smiled.

“I didn’t,” I said. “Mrs. Nesbitt stopped by…”

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The Power of Words

07 Tuesday May 2013

Posted by dmswriter in Updates

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Arabic, blessing, Egypt, Greece, history, Italy, language, power of words, travel, traveling, words, writing

Think about the last time words moved you. A quote that had you reaching for pen and paper; wedding vows that made your heart stop, or a speech that rocked you to greater goals.

In September, 2011, we took a trip to Italy and Greece. Many moments there were powerful in their own right – treading the same stones that Julius Caesar had at the Roman Forum? Hard to wrap my mind around. Dining in the shadow of the Colosseum? Everything tasted better with such a spectacular view!

The beautiful view of Athens from the Parthenon

Our view of Athens from the Acropolis

And walking between the immense columns of the Parthenon, staring out over the rooftops of Athens left me silent. Do modern-day Athenians take this view for granted? Forget that one of the world’s most iconic images looms above, day after day, watching?

One of the most powerful moments came on the last day of the trip. We woke, excited to be finally heading home, but torn by the the whisper of unrealized opportunities: new foods to try, side streets to explore and the endless, thrilling possibilities of just one more day in a foreign country.

In a room overlooking the Aegean Sea, we gathered to say goodbye to our traveling companions, scattering across the world to homes in New Zealand, Australia, Ireland and the United States. In the middle of goodbyes, the lady from Egypt stopped me.

Until now, we hadn’t exchanged much more than pleasantries, but I had seen her kindness to others: a woman from California lacked the necessary shoulder covering to enter The Vatican, so the Egyptian lady loaned her a beautiful scarf; she ate meals with different people and carried on friendly conversations with each person.

Athens, Greece, is on the edge of the Aegean Sea

Aegean Sea on our last day in Greece

But now it was my turn. She grabbed my hands and started speaking in what I assumed was Arabic. She knew English – I heard her accented English many times on our trip – but for some reason, she spoke to me now in Arabic.

As I stood there, holding her hands, feeling the power of her words, a sudden comprehension flooded me with the knowledge that this was a blessing. I felt the power of that blessing reach across cultures, languages, and generations, straight from her heart and through my hands.

She finished, smiled, and walked back to her husband. I opened my mouth to call her back, to ask her to repeat the words in English, but I stopped.

The language didn’t matter; the power of her words did.

When have words changed you? Left you a little bit different than you were before you heard them?

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