Ten-Dollar Words to Donuts

Words. They come in handy sometimes. Other times, they dangle from mouths like powder from donuts. My relationship with words tends towards the powder side, eyes a-glaze, nose a-hairy coconut. It’s more of a preference thing really. I like donuts. I also like the unexpected.

Superfluous tautology!

See? You didn’t expect that, did you? By definition, you should have, but that’s okay. Buy me a donut. I’ll give you more. Give me coffee and the word flow, like a nose run, will never end.

I love coffee, even more than I love donuts. Still, I prefer words. I eat them a lot. Their flavor suits me.

Some words are homographs. They taste better. For instance I could say, “I’m going to leaven the conversation,” and you could reply either of the following:

“No thanks, I’m allergic to yeast.”

or

“No Rob, you’re not that funny.”

Either response is correct.

There are other words that sound the same, mean the same, and are unfortunate just by correlation. I talked to a friend the other day, and her name is the same as MyEx’s. Now in most cases, this isn’t a problem. When I’m talking to the Pirate Queen though, it does alter her follow-up question.

Watch:

“I spoke with my friend whose name sounds like MyEx.”

“Really?”

Ok, and now…

“I spoke with MyEx.”

“Real-ly?”

See? Technically a heteronym: It’s spelled the same, but it sounds different and has very different meanings.

The same thing happened when I was a kid. My grandparents had the same name as MyEx too. No, not really, but wouldn’t that have been funny….no, my dad’s parents were divorced. This created a grandparo-plethora. As a little kid I knew what that meant. It meant that Dad’s parents were “Grandma and Grandpa with the games” and “Grandma and Grandpa with the tractors.” I was partial to the games.

“We’re going to Grandma and Grandpa with the tractors.”

“Really? I feel a little sick.” (Really meaning less than enthusiastic.)

“Really?” (Really, meaning less than believing)

“Really.” (Really, meaning I’m pushing this bluff for all it’s worth)

“Really, get in the car.” (Really, meaning “Sit down and shut up or I’m gonna beat your ass.” My parents didn’t need to curse when they had words like “really” in their vocabulary. They still did; they were bilingual.)

When my sister was born, the game parents shortened their names to “Oma and Opa,” and the other grandparents lost the tractors. No really. Nobody knows what happened to them. No, Really, stop looking at me that way. Ok, fine. They’re in my garage. Don’t tell Grandma. It was part of her identity…

Really, what I need is a quick name association for my Queen that tells her which “MyEx” I spoke to.

“So I called MyEx with the tractors today.”

“Really, how’s she doing?”

See? Perfect.

Actually that’s one good thing about the Pirate Queen. She knows about MyEx with the games. She even knows we speak. She’s not confused though. She knows the meaning of the word “spoke.” It has nothing to do with rekindled fires.

MyEx and I get along, but getting along is not synonymous with “reliving the past.” The Queen knows that I’m speaking for MyEx and myself when I say the words, “That ship has sailed.” If I’m just speaking for me, I add a donut to the mix. You know, “That ship has sailed and I got the donut.” The Queen nods, and knows.

“Here, have some coffee.”

MyEx and My Queen have not met. No matter how you pronounce it, that’s an inexpressible event. That’s not to say that they wouldn’t get along—Okay, yeah, that is what I’m saying. These are two different women from two different worlds. They have unique personalities, and unique qualities. If they met without the word “Rob” in the middle of their dictionary, they might get along, but I don’t see them as friends. Their vocabularies are so dissimilar.

And still, it’s moot: the word “Rob” does smudge their dictionary between roast and robe, and no one can erase it. Rob will always mean “elephant in the room” to them, no matter how much weight I lose.

I’m not confused that they’d fight over my tusks, or hide. It defines even less than that. It means that the word “Rob” rolls off both their tongues, but one woman’s Rob is another woman’s refuse.

Rob is a Jelly Donut.

Rob is a Paczki.

Eh, either way. I’m not a Berliner and I refuse to build a wall. But, I don’t see a word that would bring them into the same room either. I’m okay with that. They both know about each other. There is not a secret lexicon with super-secret nods and handshakes. We don’t belong to that type of group. Those groups have Kool-Aid, but they never have donuts. Imagine my disssapointment.

I’m not disappointed in our group. We’re a well-balanced threesome: glazed, sugared, and nutty. You decide which is which. The important thing is that My Queen and MyEx know that the other person exists as part of my vocabulary, but that the two words will never mean the same thing.

Now let’s talk about donuts.