In my adult life, I’ve mostly followed, without examination, the rule that four-letter words were the “bad” ones and should be eschewed. But I’ve begun to realize that five-letter words, at least when you’re making mini crosswords, can be villains too. A year or so ago, I started constructing 5X5 crosswords for a friend who was recovering from heart surgery and, I presumed, needed entertainment as she convalesced. I solved the Wordle and used that word as the anchor each day. I have a couple of cruciverbalist apps that suggest five-letter candidates to fill gaps. But lately I’ve found myself wallowing in unacceptable suggestions, ones that would fail the so-called breakfast test of crossword construction, words or names people can’t face before their first cup of coffee. For example: Adolf, bimbo, boner, bowel, dildo, enema, farts, feces, gonad, G-spot, hymen, kegel, labia, mucus, Nazis, ozena (disease of the nose in which the bony ridges and mucous membranes waste away), pe...
Getting old. Not since my teens have I felt such angst. At my age, though, I suppose it’s called agita. And whereas people care about adolescent angst and write novels exploring it, old-age agita is a bore for everyone, including the sufferer. There’s the stress of doctor’s appointments and tests, which fill your calendar, as workdays and social events once did, and any of them may foretell the cause of your death. There’s the lost word or name that signals dementia. There’s the anguish over friends who have died and the sorely missed opportunities to be with them. There’s the horrifying knowledge that if you compliment a baby or dog on the street, the owner of that baby or dog receives your words with dread, fearing you may prolong the encounter. There’s the even more horrifying sense that when you talk to your children, whom you love beyond measure and desperately want to connect with, they subtly steel themselves for your inevitably irrelevant or trite or tedious or, worse, ove...
Today I spent a few minutes organizing my underwear drawer—or my drawers drawer, you might say. I wasn’t organizing it to make it neater. I was organizing it to help me remember which day to wash my hair. You see, I wash my hair every other day, which you’d think would be simple. But since my hair is basically pretty clean, I can’t tell by just looking at it whether it’s a hair-wash day. I mentioned this to my husband. And amazingly he used to have the same problem—until he came up with a solution. If he’s wearing a dark-colored pair of undershorts, he washes his hair. If he’s wearing a light-colored pair, he doesn’t. And because he gets dressed after he showers, he always know what shade of underwear to put on, which twigs him the next day whether to shampoo or not. I decided to make this solution even more mindless by alternating and restacking my briefs—light, dark, light ... It’s embarrassing how big a breakthrough this is for me. What other wisdom has my husband been hu...
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