My Dinner with Donald

When I started my website almost four years ago, I made a silent vow that there were three areas about which I would never write:  family (husband being the exception), religion, and politics. And 86 essays later, I’ve managed to stay faithful to my promise.   That is, until now.

Unfortunately, there are some temptations that are just too difficult to resist.  Which is why I never keep Graeter’s ice cream or bags of chips in the house.  But now I find myself in the embarrassing position of having succumbed, not to a calorie-laden, albeit, delicious food, but to the wicked and senseless need to write about Donald Trump.

For when something looms larger than life, much like the inflated giant  balloons in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, the allure simply cannot be ignored.

I do not personally know Donald Trump, and probably will never have the opportunity (if one could call it that) to meet him.   Nevertheless, his performance on his newest TV show, “Look Who’s Running for President,” has made it impossible even for the Trump disenfranchised like myself, not to be curious about the derivation of his boundless hubris, as well as  the secret identity of his hair stylist.

Even after two Republican debates, and even more insufferable media interviews, the essence of The Donald remains elusive to me.  I have some important questions of my own that have not been addressed on national TV, questions of a more personal nature that might only be answered in a one-on-one interview.

The fact that this interview will never occur in real life has not stopped me from fantasizing about he and I chatting across a dinner table.

At his suggestion, the meal takes place at Maison Trump, atop the Trump Tower.  He  escorts me through the Trump Lobby, past the Trump newsstand, and onto the Trump elevator.   We arrive on the 42nd floor, and are shown to our table by the maitre d’ wearing a Trump tie.

The room is glass-enclosed and Donald makes sure I have the seat with the best view of the city.  It is a beautiful, clear evening, and I can  see stars in the sky.  Am I hallucinating, or have they actually lined up to spell “Trump?”

Needless to say, the table is elegantly set, with large T’s engraved on the service plates, and the Trump monogram strategically sewn on the linen napkin so that his name could not help but meet your lips as you dabbed the cloth to your mouth.

As for the rest of the decor, the walls which were not made of glass, are decorated with, you guessed it, Trump-l’oeil.

We order, and as we wait for our appetizers, I begin my interview.

First of all, Mr. Trump, I would like to have more information about the mirror you look into when you shave each morning.  I am asking because I too would like to own one.   It must be so comforting  to have an image reflected back at you that eliminates all imperfections.   The pouches under one’s eyes, the jowls, the waddle under one’s chins, and the slightly orange tinge of one’s skin simply disappear.  It is no wonder then, that when all one sees is one’s own beauty, one has a perfect right to criticize the appearance of others, particularly others of the opposite sex.  So, please, where did you purchase that mirror?  Never mind.  I probably couldn’t afford it anyway.

Trump-KissingAnd speaking of appearances, Mr. Trump,  I think you were unfairly characterized by Bill Maher as resembling an orange-haired orangutan.  I don’t think you look like an orangutan at all, but rather like some rare albino lizard.  Except when you pout and purse your lips, guppy-fashion.   Please don’t be upset.  You’re in good company.  Our Senate Majority Leader has been likened to a turtle.  So tell me, Mr.  Trump, any chance that you and Mitch McConnell might have been separated at birth?

My third question, Mr. Trump, is why do put your name, in very large letters, on everything you own? I used to do that for my children when they went to camp, so that nobody would take their things.  Is that it , Mr. Trump? Are you afraid someone will steal your socks, or your buildings? Or perhaps it’s more serious than that.  Perhaps you are a secret dyslexic and fear you will one day forget how to spell your surname.  Or worse, that you have the beginnings of a memory disorder, and slapping your name on everything serves to orient you, like giant Post-It notes.  You are not alone, Mr. Trump.  And there is help out there.  One more thing, as long as we’re on the subject.  If you do get elected, and build the Great Wall of Mexico, can we look forward to seeing your name on top of that structure, as well?

I know I’ve taken up a lot of your time, Mr. Trump.  But I do have a final question.  How did you react to the Pope’s visit to the United States? I know you don’t agree with some of his positions, like global warming, and immigration, but these are relatively minor matters.  I’m referring to a much bigger issue here, a matter of ego, if you will.  For an entire week, it was an elderly Spanish-speaking foreigner in a long white robe, riding in a small black car, and filling Madison Square Garden, and not you, who was capturing the headlines.

And so ends my Dinner with Donald.   He thanks me for my interest and concern, and leads me back to the Trump elevator, at which point he turns to me, and in his characteristic fashion,  tells me that I’m fired.

Posted in Politics | 2 Comments

Romancing The Crone

For those of you who have imagined me lounging by the pool for the month of August, that couldn’t be further from the truth.  In fact, I’ve been lounging on my screen porch, which is nowhere near the pool, and doesn’t dictate that I wear a bathing suit.  But I have not been idle.

As a matter of fact, I’ve been very busy pondering life, and how I might best find purpose for all those estrogen-free years that lay ahead.

You see — I was a post-menopausal seeker, looking for role models for the third act of life.   I refused to accept that gray hair, a few wrinkles, and five extra pounds of tummy fat somehow reduced my societal net worth.  (Although I do admit that it does give one pause!)

Although I have reached a point in life when my age exceeds the speed limit, I am not ready to step aside.  Surely I still had something to contribute.

I had heard of cultures which revered older women.  And it was in this enlightened realm that I discovered the Triple Goddess — the representation of the three stages of a woman’s life.

triple-goddessThe Triple Goddess!  Where had she been all my life?  I had blithely experienced Stage One, The Maiden,  and Stage Two, The Mother, with a total lack of awareness of my inherent value.  No way was I going to blow Stage Three!

The more I learned, the less I feared being discarded because I was an “older woman.”  True, there were certain things I could no longer do, like become a Victoria’s Secret model.  Not unless they added about six more inches of fabric to their panties, and two more cup sizes to their bra inventory.

But neither would I agree to be ignored or overlooked by a youth-worshipping society.  I had discovered a place of honor.  I would  embrace Stage Three of the Goddess cycle, and live out my remaining years as a Crone.

A Crone!  I heard you gasp.  But let me reassure you.  Not the crone (notice the small “c”) as represented by the witch in Hansel and Gretel, but the beautiful and benevolent Crone who appears as Cinderella’s fairy godmother.  The problem-solver who turns mice into horses and pumpkins into coaches.

Okay, so I’m exaggerating.  I really don’t intend to mess around with plants and animals. But I will strive to become the authentic Crone — the honored third aspect of the Triple Goddess.

According to legend, the Crone is a symbol of self-value, and respect.  She is venerated for her experience, judgment, and wisdom — and clearly,  someone to turn to when you don’t know the answer to Final Jeopardy. 

To quote from one description of the Crone Goddess,  she is ” the wisdom keeper, seer, healer, and midwife, whose knowledge is sought out to guide others during life’s hardships and transitions.”  Cool.  Although I think I can do without the midwife part.

I hope it’s not too late for me.  With all this guiding and healing to accomplish, I probably should have started “Croning” years ago.  But I’m a hard worker, and have confidence that I can catch up.

I do have one question, though.  Must I look the part? Does deciding to become a Crone require a new outfit? I’m sure Crones no longer wear gowns and tiaras,  or carry magic wands.  But must I let my hair grow, and purchase flowing robes?

Or will people take me just as seriously if I choose Not Your Daughter’s Jeans and a tee shirt?

No matter.  The important thing is to make up for lost time and immediately get to work on developing my wise woman energy.

I’m really looking forward to engaging in my new role.  Since I’m a novice, I will begin in the safe bosom of my very own family, and maybe work my way out to a few close friends.  I’ll have to let them know that I’m available for advice dispensing.

Do I wait for them to come to me, or do I take the first step?  Should I tell my son that he should shave his beard immediately because it makes him look like a red-headed Smith Brother? Or tell my husband that the color of his favorite sports jacket gives him the appearance of someone with the flu?

I don’t think so.  Because a truly wise woman knows when to shut up.

Posted in Aging, Fantasy | 2 Comments


It’s not your imagination.  There are more TV commercials intruding on your favorite programs than ever before.  Or should I say, the actual programs appear to be filling in the time between  clusters of annoying commercials.

These days, even Charlie Rose can’t seem to get a word in edgewise.  No wonder he has so many different broadcasts on a variety of channels, rivaled only by Law & Order reruns.  Poor man.   It’s the only way he can get to complete a sentence.

Despite the number of avoidance devices that are at my disposal, such as the DVR and the mute button, and  lower-tech strategies like flushing the toilet, or letting the dog out, I occasionally get lazy and merely sit and stare at the screen.  This causes a sudden onset of extreme irritability, especially aimed at the proliferation of  advertisements for prescription drugs.  America – are we that unwell?

shutterstock_145467145In addition to the fact that the possible side effects of these drugs sound worse than the medical conditions they claim to serve, I’m also struck by their names.  It’s as if someone selected a rack  of high-point Scrabble tiles, and was forced to turn them into words.

So will you know what to discuss with your doctor when your bladder’s acting up? To find out, take the test below.


  1. A chewy, colorful little candy that gets stuck in your tooth
  2. A religious holiday
  3. 50th anniversary celebration
  4. Dial 911

Prevnar 13

  1. Successor to the throne of Prevnar 12
  2. A bar mitzvah announcement
  3. Friend of Artoo Detoo
  4. Take 2 aspirin and call me in the morning


  1. National anthem of Tezla
  2. New non-stick frying pan
  3. A Mayan ruin
  4. I’ve fallen and I can’t get up


  1. The machine that cleans the ice in a hockey rink
  2. The brother-in-law of the man who invented the wireless
  3. A type of pasta
  4. I’m coming down with something


  1. Archenemy of Superman
  2. A sneaky wager at the track
  3. A USSR space capsule
  4. Get undressed and put on this gown


  1. Son of Xorro
  2. Former ruler of Russia
  3. Not a soprano
  4. Say aah!


  1. A former football player
  2. A remedy for chest congestion
  3. Old fashioned record player
  4. You have six months to live


  1. Opposite of Offexton
  2. Gasoline formerly known as Esso
  3. A very fat Onex
  4. Does my insurance cover this?


  1.  A ’70s rock group
  2. A Xel that belongs to Jan
  3. Znajlex spelled backwards
  4. It only hurts when I do this

I will stop here, in case I lost you at Victoza.  But no list would be complete without at least a mention of Restasis, Humira, Enbrel, Linzess and Orencia.  No, this last one is not a city in Spain, nor a fizzy orange-colored drink!

So how was your Rx IQ?  If you have any interest left at all, the real answers are below:

Jublia: toenail fungus; Prevnar 13: pneumonia vaccine; Otezla and Enbrel: plaque psoriasis; Harvoni: hepatitis C; Myrbetriq: overactive bladder; Xarelto: afibrillation; Victoza: type 2 diabetes; Onexton: acne; Humira: arthritis; Linzess: IBS; Xeljanz and Orencia: rheumatoid arthritis; Restasis: dry eyes.

NOTICE:  1000 Things To Say…..will be taking off the month of August.  So, as the song says, See You In September.   Enjoy the rest of your summer.

Posted in Doctors, Medicine | 7 Comments

Generation ___________?

It occurred to me the other day that I was invisible.  Not just me, but my entire generation.  It appears that we lack importance.  I’m basing this rather sad conclusion on the fact that we have been entirely overlooked by the folks who bestow catchy cohort labels.

Let’s get specific.  At the risk of revealing my true age, which most of you already know, I’m referring to those of us born before 1946 and after 1926.  Admittedly, I have steel wool in my brain when it comes to math, but according to my calculations, we number almost 28 million (2010 U.S. census), and yet we go about our daily lives without a cultural tag.  And personally, I’m feeling a bit resentful.  What kind of legacy is this to leave to our children and grandchildren, otherwise known as the Xs and the Ys, and possibly the Zs?

Born too late to be World War II heroes, and too early to be a part of the post-war birth explosion, we have wound up sandwiched awkwardly between the Greatest Generation and the Baby Boomers.  An entire generation without a context!

No doubt a result of having too much time on my hands, I decided to delve into this matter a bit further.  Perhaps understanding the genesis of other generational labels would allow me to suggest something clever and catchy for my own.  Something that would acknowledge the faceless 28 million.  Something that might fit neatly as a crossword puzzle response or a question on Jeopardy.

Well, thanks to Tom Brokaw, who, himself, happens to be one of the faceless, those born between 1901 and 1926 were widely lauded as the Greatest Generation.  I don’t disagree.  They survived the Depression and fought the second world war.  They deserve the recognition, but come on, Tom, whatever happened to taking care of your own?

And the hype about the Baby Boomers? Aren’t you just sick of it?  Those born between 1946 and 1964 think they’re so special.  And who can blame them with all the attention they’ve always gotten from the media and the marketers.  So big deal.  You’ve earned a lot of money and went to Woodstock. But you have no exclusive claim to rock ‘n roll, civil rights, or feminism.  Some of us latter-born question marks  were right there with you.

Generation-naming just kept moving forward, leaving us further in the dust.  Soon there was Gen X, a term with literary roots co-opted once again by Madison Avenue.  Covering roughly the years 1966 to the early 80’s, the X originally meant that the fate of this generation was unknown.   Gen Y was so-called because it was the next letter of the alphabet.  These folks are also known as the Millennials because the majority come of age after the turn of the century.  There are actually more of them than there are Boomers.

But I’m getting a little sick of  the attention they’re getting, as well, with all the tweeting and Instagramming, and the me-me-me attitude.  But what else can you expect from a generation that wins ribbons just for showing up?  All of that self-centeredness, however, does not make them ineligible for an unique identity, even if the word “millennial” does evoke visions of a multi-legged insect.

And have you heard about Gen Z, also known as iGen?  Born after 2001, and most barely old enough for a bar mitzvah, they already have the attention of the cultural pulse-takers, while their grandparents and great-grandparents slip further into obscurity.

All of which brings us to today, when I’m sure somewhere someone is working hard at predicting the zeitgeist of a generation yet to be born, and trying to figure out a catchy name.

So back to the predicament of the invisible 28 million.  Surely there were significant events during our decades that would lend themselves to an overriding identity. For example,  I’ve heard us referred to as the “Depression Babies” or the “War Babies,” but those are such downers.  Certainly we can do better.

shutterstock_112636382We are the generation that saw the end of prohibition, the New Deal, Social Security, Superman, and sliced white bread.  (Forget the last one.  I think I’d rather be known as a “War Baby.”)

The truth be told, I actually discovered that my generation did, in fact, have a name.  If you are not a sociologist, I challenge you to tell me what it is.  I don’t recall ever seeing it used in any type of popular media in my lifetime.  If you were born between 1926 and 1945, welcome to the “Silent Generation.”

The “Silent Generation.”  How does that sit with you? Called thus because we didn’t make waves, worked hard, and stuck by good old fashioned values.  All positive traits, I suppose, but so boring!

So as the Silent Generation, it seems fitting that we have gone unnoticed.  And now that the truth has been revealed, however disappointing, perhaps it’s time to move on to more important  causes, such as discovering the true nature of Atticus Finch.

After all, “What’s in a name?” asked Juliet, from her balcony in Verona.  But at our age, should we really be debating existential questions with an iGen?

Posted in Generations | 6 Comments

Getting In Touch with Your Inner Hostile Person

As an adult at the outermost limit of middle age, I admit to embracing  two bits of pop psychology by which I try to live out my days: staying in touch with my inner child, and not sweating the small stuff.

Generally, the two popular wisdoms co-exist side-by-side rather peaceably.  In addition to being playful and potty-trained, I have also learned to be rather tranquil about  life’s little inconveniences. I try to keep my head when all around me are losing theirs, and generally maintain a calm demeanor even while on hold for thirty minutes and forced to listen to Kenny G.

If dates get cancelled, they can be rescheduled.  If I miss a train, there’s the next one.  If I burn the toast, there’s still another slice in the loaf.  No need to get upset.  That’s me most of the time.   Mature and dry.

shutterstock_283471874Notice I said most of the time.  Hey, I don’t claim to be perfect.  Nor does my inner child.  And like most children, she is prone to occasional temper tantrums.

There are definitely things in this life worse than Kenny G., things  that deserve a good lashing from the dark side of my younger self.  So I take an occasional holiday from tranquility and sublimely enjoy getting really ticked off!

I’m not proud of the fact that I throw sponges at the television, but there are certain commercials that just drive me nuts.  For instance, the two cardigan-clad women  who claim that the biggest fright of their lives was losing their tooth enamel.

And then there are those middle-age dames seductively prancing around in nightgowns, tossing their long locks, and making seductive eye squints while a voice-over talks about vaginal dryness.   I’d like to put them in a room with those dreamy couples from the Viagra and Cialis commercials and have them all deal with a four-hour erection.

But the juiciest TV tantrum of all is brought on by none other than toilet paper ads.  Especially the latest one that extols the virtue of ripples and its ability to let you drop your drawers.  Oh please, lady, your refined British accent notwithstanding, are you really okay with the fact that you’re getting paid to discuss shit?

I can feel my temperature rising even as I write.  So why, you might ask, don’t I simply walk away, or mute the sound, or change the channel?  Stop being sensible.  I don’t do any of these things because…   I’m enjoying myself!   Hey, my cranky inner child also deserves an outlet.

But yelling at the television is small potatoes when compared with the primary target of my latent temper —  my local super-duper supermarket.

The hostility rises within me even as I approach the parking lot, silently daring anyone to try to beat me out of a parking space.   This response is triggered by the fact that I know before entering the store that they will be out of the exact items that brought me there in the first place.  It happens all the time.

It’s as if everyone in my town wants the same brand of cottage cheese on the same day, and I get there last! Or is it that the store is mismanaged and they can’t seem to keep the shelves stocked? My money is on Option #2.

So I walk from aisle to aisle, getting grumpier by the minute.  By the time I get to the check-out counter with whatever items I manage to salvage from my long list, I’m in quite a state.  And, damn, I now have to get scanned by the smiliest, most pleasant check-out person in the entire store.

“Find everything okay?” she innocently asks in a voice so sweet it could send you into a diabetic coma.  “No,” I snap.   “You were out of the cottage cheese again!”  I don’t stop there.  I go on to describe the other items I couldn’t find, how poorly managed I think the store is, and how I wouldn’t be here at all if there was another supermarket within 10 miles.  She stares at me,  clearly stunned, but somehow manages to stutter “Have a nice day!”

My supermarket tantrum is not my dirty little secret.  My husband is well-aware of my Dr. Jekyll\Mr. Hyde dualism when it comes to stocking the larder.  He hears me muttering under my breath as I make out my shopping list, and in the interest of not having me ram my car into a shopping cart, he has kindly offered to take on this domestic chore .

But no.  I won’t even consider it.  Because, as in the case of those stupid television commercials, I derive some perverse pleasure from an occasional bout of foolish outrage.

So I have granted my inner hostile person, young or old, to express her full emotional range.  There’s nothing quite as refreshing as a good hissy-fit aimed at an inanimate object. (Apologies to the supermarket clerk.)   Besides, perpetual tranquility can be such a bore.

Posted in Kvetching | Leave a comment

No “F” in (the) Way

As a “woman of a certain age” who attempts to chronicle life’s nonsense with wit and wisdom, it is completely understandable that one of my role models should be Nora Ephron.  To me, she was the gold standard.   When it came to humorous essays from a female perspective, no one did it better.  After all, what mature woman couldn’t identify with feeling bad about her neck,  or the belief that life would be better if only she could find the perfect handbag.

I will never be Nora, not even if I lived another hundred years and kept writing.  But that’s okay.  I’m content to have her as the focus of my admiration and my muse.  I evoke her name each time I sit down to write, and derive inspiration by asking myself, “now what would Nora say?”

So when a  friend  happened to remark  to me, “Your essays are so funny, you should really put them in a book,”  I immediately thought, “that’s what Nora did.”

Flattery notwithstanding, I could have let it go at that.  But unfortunately, ideas often assume a life of their own.  And this one morphed into a disembodied voice, which might have been Nora’s (or perhaps my mother’s?), who kept repeating “so do it already!”

IMG_0810The idea of creating a book was daunting.  Nevertheless, I decided to go for it.  I spent the better part of last summer writing, rewriting,  and organizing, and much to my own amazement, produced a cohesive manuscript consisting of 50 of my essays.  Well, somewhat cohesive, anyway.   After all, it was my first attempt.

But the 200-odd pages just sitting on my desk wasn’t going to get me anywhere. Then an acquaintance kindly offered to show it to an editor she knew at a publishing company.  And so the journey began.

But the manuscript, professionally packaged according to the industry standards that I researched on Google, never got out of the box.   The editor couldn’t possibly read anything that wasn’t submitted by an agent!

So my manuscript needed a middle man.   Locating a literary agent was all that was standing between me and The New York Times best-seller list.  Surely this next step was not beyond the scope of my abilities.   Wrong!

Looking on the internet, which contained listings of thousands of agents, was not very fruitful, so I racked my brain to come up with anyone I knew who was a writer — and had an agent.  Yes, there was that woman, the journalist, who had a few books to her credit.  So with high hopes, I shot off an email.  She politely replied that her agent represented only journalists whose last names started with letters from L to Z.  If you fell into the A to K category, you had to look for someone else.

Yes, the literary world was highly specialized.  It was necessary to define my genre.  I did not write mysteries or science fiction, self-help books, or bodice-ripping romances.  I wrote humorous personal essays. (“Like Nora,” I wanted to scream to all those who ignored me.)   The problem was, unless you were a famous person writing personal essays, no one was interested in what you had to say.  Well, if no one was interested in what I had to say, how was I ever going to be a famous person? I seriously thought about changing my last name to Ephron.

I didn’t.  Change my name, that is.  But, so far, no agent, no editor, no publisher.  Thus, like so many other frustrated new authors (notice I didn’t say “young” authors), I decided to shortcut the journey and self-publish.

Self-publishing is a lot like regular publishing except that the exchange of money moves in a different direction.  Instead of the publisher paying you for the right to print your book, you pay them for the right to print your book.  And who knows? Perhaps my book would eventually sell enough copies so my heirs would each make $1.50.

And so the process began and nine months later, my baby was born.  My book of essays, entitled How Old Am I In Dog Years? and other thoughts about life from the far side of the hill was a reality.

The book was officially released on May 12, with immediate distribution to Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other on-line book sellers.  There was a promise, but no guarantee that the book would find its way into actual book stores.

So you can image my surprise when I recently walked into my local Barnes & Noble book store, and sauntered over to the humor section.  Much to my sheer amazement and utter delight, there I was on the shelf, spine following spine, nestled right up to Nora!    I’m so glad that I didn’t change my name.  Because she’s an “E” and I’m a “G.”   And there we will remain, side by side, me and my idol.  As long as there’s no “F” in the way!

ScreenClipHow Old Am I In Dog Years? may be purchased from, B&,, and Googlebooks, or check with your local Barnes & Noble bookstore.  The book may also be purchased directly from me at  An electronic version is also available.    For those attending the book launch in Westport, CT, the book will be available for sale at that time.

Posted in Uncategorized | 5 Comments

Pop Quiz

shutterstock_175225310There is nothing that says “old” more than conversing with someone several decades less ancient than you, and having absolutely no idea what they’re talking about.  The grammar and syntax seem familiar,  but the actual words may as well be Urdu.  This could bring tears to the eyes even to those among us with Twitter accounts.

So, as a public service to my cohorts on the upper end of the age spectrum, in an effort to keep everyone well-informed and au courant,  I present below my second annual “English As A Second Language” self-test.   As much as I would like to credit myself for having  invented this new jargon, the words were actually selected from among the 1,500 new entries into the Oxford English Dictionary.    Have fun!


a) A monkey in a preppy sweater
b) A cross between a vanilla bean and a grape
c) A spelling error committed by the dyslexic man who comes to resurface your driveway.
d) Some of the above


a) A part of a man’s anatomy that no longer hangs straight, but tends to lean to one side
b) A mouthwash that makes you laugh
c) A new type of frozen treat
d) None of the above


a) A veterinarian that treats only beasts of burden
b) Places where you park your yaux
c) Something you eat with your dagel
d) All of the above


a) Sylvester Stallone calling his friend Lola
b) A yoyo that can’t get off the ground
c) A depressed Latino
d) A and B, or maybe not


a) Ricky Ricardo asking Fred Mertz for an explanation
b) A “for men only” grassy area
c) A male ordering an egg cream without the milk and chocolate syrup
d) I’d like to buy a vowel, please.


a) Nickname for the comedienne who used to work with Sid Caeser
b) An electronic moji
c) An item at a sushi bar
d) You’ve got to be kidding!


a) An aquatic mammal that wanted to be a dolphin but decided to remain as he was
b) Taking another photo of a cat, but in a different position
c) Asking someone to marry, changing your mind, then asking again
d) I don’t have time for this nonsense.


a) The act of sanitizing one’s purse
b) Paper or plastic?
c) A place for old people to shower
d) I’ll take “European history” for $800, Alex


a) A worm with loose dentures
b) An underage “tsk-er”
c) Your seatbelt pretending to close, but then switching to “open”
d) A; definitely A


a) Title name on a Broadway marquee when they ran out of “a”s
b) Half a memory
c) Peter Sellers describing a performer who doesn’t speak
d) Enough already!

Bonus Question:


a) The yearnings of a Russian speaker
b) The yearnings of a Polish speaker
c) An English speaker imitating the yearnings of a Russian and\or Polish speaker
d) I vant this to end right now!

Interpreting Your Score:

0 – 4     Best to stay inside your gated community
5 – 7     OK to talk to people age 50 and over
8 – 10   Congratulations!  You have been approved to converse with millenials.

If you care, here are the real answers.  1) Vape:  inhaling vapor from an e-cigarette; 2) Listicle:  internet bullet-point list; 3) Dox:  personal information getting out on the internet; 4) YOLO:  You Only Live Once; 5) Mansplain:  boorish man needing to correct what a woman says; 6) Emoji:  A picture used in electronic communication to denote an emotion or expression; 7) Repurpose:  to change something so that it can be used for a different purpose; 8) Douchebaggery:  Obnoxious or contempible behavior; 9) Clickbait:  Attractive link on the internet used to tempt readers to click on it; 10) Meme:  An idea, behavior, or style that spreads from person to person within a culture.  Bonus Question: Vishing:  phony phone call attempting to acquire personal information.

Posted in Communication, Language | 2 Comments