Just Like Honey

December 4th, 2006

There is a long, painful list of words I don’t like. Some of them are on the absolute, do not say ever or I will rip your ears off list, and others are just meh, marginally irritating. Thick, for example, is a word I strongly dislike, unless it’s used in very specific circumstances, perhaps by describing a deliciously thick, luxurious mattress for me to lay my tired head upon. Other than that, thick just conjures…well, it brings to mind some dirty images, and not even in a good-dirty way, just in a dirty-dirty way that makes me very unhappy. I don’t even like it to be used in the description of hair, as in, “Cindy Crawford probably has thick, lovely hair!” Because when I hear ‘thick’ in conjunction with ‘hair,’ I instantly think of a thick, lovely mustache, which is more upsetting than I can really convey. So, you know, down with ‘thick,’ particularly when used with ‘hair’ and especially, my God, when used with ‘creamy.’

Socks, on the other hand, might just be the greatest of words, for it’s extraordinarily evocative of warmth, coziness and happiness, even if I can’t wear them to sleep in, and even if I haven’t worn them in about 10 months, because dude, if I haven’t mentioned it before, it’s still hot and humid, which is oh so…holiday festive. But anyway, I dare you to say the word out loud and not feel happy. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

Socks.

Today’s word of irritation is ‘authentic,’ and it seems like it’s making a comeback, although it’s been around for a long time in the ‘keeping it real’ context, and I’ve just ignored it, I suppose, because I actually didn’t think anyone could use it in a serious manner (I am certain I would start laughing). The first time it ever really seeped into my consciousness was during the first season (for me, anyway) of Starting Over (shut up), where a contestant/participant/whatever’s main goal was to become ‘more authentic.’ Honestly, authentic screams Franklin Mint to me, as in, that limited edition coin set emblazoned with Shirley Temple is totally authentic and not a knock off, even though one would have to be beyond batshit insane to create a counterfeit Shirley Temple coin set. Further, I can’t help but get the impression that by using the word in that context, one is being…well, not all that authentic, because it screams ‘PRETENTIOUS’ to me. And nothing gets under my skin more than any kind of pretense, really. I’m not good at it, I’m not good at dealing with and in fact, when I see it, I have an overwhelming urge to pick at it like a scab and rip it off until the, uh, authenticity is exposed. Or whatever. You know.

I promise I’m not thinking of any specific situation or person when I bust out with this, and if you’ve used the word in this context, I completely forgive you, and it’s unlikely that I even noticed. Because at the end of the day, I’m honestly not that observant. However, I am super-observant of fake people of any kind and I can’t say I’m a fan, although I don’t know anyone who is, so that might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever said, but really? How hard is it to just…be real? And uh, if you’re still seeking authenticity and are fake because you’re not sure who you are, then maybe you could be real about that, too, and just say, “Hey dude, I’m going through this really weird period of self-discovery and man, it’s hard! Hoo boy!” Just don’t call it authenticity, or I will beat you over the head with a carton of Madame Alexander dolls with certificates of authenticity, and I mean that from the bottom of my cold, cold heart.

I have no idea where I’m really going with this, it was just irking me the whole damn day after someone used it this morning (No one you know. Relax.), along with a frillion other things, not the least of which is that my laptop is sitting in what Adam calls “the ICU,” for it is just sitting there on our office desk….disemboweled (sob!). Looking at it makes me want to throw myself in a fit of tears over its sad, empty parts spread all over the desk. He claims – no, he promises – that he knows what he’s doing and yet I am completely panicked, for I *love* that laptop, and if I have to spend the next year hard boiling my ovaries, I am not going to be pleased. No, not pleased at all.

Separately, since I’ve been sick, I’ve been drinking an inordinate amount of tea. As in, I’ve honestly had somewhere in the range of 10-15 cups of tea a day, and I’m not exaggerating. Thus far, Pomegranate Pizzazz is my favorite, followed by black vanilla, but the point here isn’t the tea, it’s the fact that ever since I’ve been drinking tea, I’ve been putting honey in my tea, and it wasn’t until today that I realized (oh my God) that I’ve eaten/drank more than 3 pounds of honey in the last five days. Three and a half pounds of honey, to be very specific, and if you break down the calorie content, well, it’s not good at all, is what I’m saying, and I’m not even the calorie-counting type. It may be natural, but holy God, it’s heavy.

Coherence is overrated.

* Jesus and Mary Chain.

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