Contronyms: Why I'm Glad I'm a Native English Speaker

You are sleeping.  The alarm goes off.  You reach over and push the button to turn the alarm off.


Why is this sentence so confusing?  It's because the word "off" is a contronym--a multiple-meaning word whose meanings are antonyms.  In this sentence, the word off means at first to turn on (the uncommon meaning), and then secondly to turn off (the more common meaning).  Who can stand being that kind of confused so early in the morning?

I stumbled upon contronyms accidentally when reading the wall post of one of my friends on Facebook.  It said, "Antonym slang is just confusing."  She was quoting her teenage son.  Having no clue what antonym slang is, I googled around and found a listing for contronyms--words are their own antonyms.

For example, the word clip can mean detach and also fasten.

She clipped coupons out of the newspaper.  Then she clipped them together with a paper clip.

dust:  to add fine particles; to remove fine particles

He dusted the cake with a fine coat of chocolate powder.  Then he dusted the powder off the kitchen counter.
sanction: approval, punishment

The school sanctions the sale of condoms in restrooms. 
Good luck on this one, and please choose the correct definition.

Certainly, many of these contronyms are part of idiomatic expressions.  The word strike means to hit, but it also means to miss when you use the baseball term strike out.  When put together with the word out, the meaning of the word strike changes.  In some ways when the contronym is part of an idiomatic expression, it's even more confusing.  Imagine trying to learn English and coming to this sentence:

We tried to convince him to go to the party, but we struck out.
You look up the word struck, which is tricky itself because it's an irregular verb.  Then you find it means to hit.  The word out means away from.  So struck out means hit away from.   Poor guy--his friends want him to go to the party so badly that they're willing to hit him.  Lucky for him, they missed.  Hmmm....I bet all those ballplayers who strike out wish they they were hitting that ball away from home plate.

There are zillions (and I'm not exaggerating--that's at least 14) of reasons why I'm happy to be a native English speaker--contronyms is just one of them.  It's the bomb.

The Greatest Generation of Hoarding

Over a month ago, my refrigerator broke.  Wonderful Marjorie loaned me a small refrigerator until the old one was fixed.

Using that little fridge made me realize--what the heck was I storing in the big one anyway?  When I cleaned out the old fridge full of rotting food, I found three jars of salsa (all different), four jars of mustard (again, all different), and five bottles of salad dressing (don't ask).  What was I doing with all that stuff?

Every jar and bottle had its unique occasion.  Believe me, I used all of those jars of mustard--some for hot dogs, some for cooking, some for sandwiches.  They all had their place.  But in retrospect, my desire to have everything available at all times seems a little nutty.

I noticed another shopping pattern when I discovered a full container of sour cream, and another container only one quarter full.  See, I don't buy sour cream when I've run out of sour cream.  I buy it when I'm about to run out.  If you see duplicate containers of food in my fridge, I guarantee you that one will be unopened, and the other will be about a quarter full.  I never ever ever run out of sour cream.  Or cottage cheese.  Eggs.  Butter.  You name it.

I know where I picked up this habit--from my parents.  Survivors of the Great Depression, they are part of what Tom Brokaw calls "The Greatest Generation."  I suppose if there's anything you learn from the Depression, it's how to hoard food.  My parents' garage was crammed full of canned food, teetering on rickety shelves.  Green beans, olives, tomatoes, peaches, pears, creamed corn--it was like walking down aisle 7 at Ralphs.  When my mom was in the kitchen, she would ask me with complete confidence, "Honey, could you please get a can of peas from the garage?"  My mom and dad always knew the exact contents of the inventory.

Even though I grew up in the relative financial comfort of the sixties and seventies, I adopted the hoarding habit.  I stuff my fridge and my pantry full of duplicates in preparation for that moment when I run out of Tillamook cheese, Worchestershire sauce, or bamboo shoots.

Well, you never know the scope of your crazy until you have to clean it out of a stinky, rotting fridge.

This week, a Ukrainian man named Yuri fixed my old enormous fridge.  Now as I'm repopulating my fridge, I'm a little more careful.  I actually let myself run out of yogurt before I bought another pint.  I feel more efficient, more green, and more in the moment.

Yes, they were a great generation.  They worked tirelessly because it was the right thing to do, and with limited promise of reward.  They toiled in the present so that we would all have a bright future.  And they hoarded in the present for that moment in the future when they would need a can of tomatoes for their spaghetti sauce.

I Pledge My Allegiance

I'm not a soccer fan, but I am a sports fan.  Even though I don't follow any particular team, I can chip myself out of hibernation to root for somebody in that playoff, quarter final, or championship game.

Now we are in the midst of the FIFA World Cup.  Americans are famous for their ignorance of the world's favorite sport, even to the extent that we have a different name for it.  Nevertheless, like many big sporting events, I am following.

With international events, I tend to root for (1) the Americans, (2) the Italians (I do have a red passport in addition to my blue one), and (3) the underdogs.  With soccer, it isn't hard to root for the Italians since they win the World Cup every few years.  Sometimes I'm embarrassed by their theatrics, but then again, we wouldn't be Italians if we didn't go over the top.

This year, the Americans and Italians were eliminated early.  I was disappointed for the Americans, mostly because this means that American interest in the World Cup is going to drop significantly now.  But also, I was surprised by the Italians.  What happened to those guys?  They won last time.  I can only conclude that in their cockiness, they forgot how to to play soccer.

Anyway, now as we push through each round of the tournament, I am forced to change my allegiances frequently, especially since the teams I'm rooting for keep losing.

My first rule is to root for the Europeans, unless they are the Germans.  One look at my red passport shows over a dozen languages for the  European Union--it's not hard to pick one.  I just can't bring myself to back the Germans, though.  They are the absolute opposite of Italians.  No emotion, just cold, hard precision.   I'm especially troubled when I look at the German team, which plays with technical perfection.  They look like little soccer machines.  Whatever they decide to do, those Germans are very good at it.

I tend to root against the South Americans, because they are the most successful winners of the World Cup over time.  Here I invoke rule #3--root for the underdogs, and root against the favorites.  But if it's a South American country against the Germans--I'll go with South America.  And if two South American countries play each other--I'll root for the better team, more likely to beat the Germans.

If an Asian or African country is playing, I cross my fingers for those guys (unless they're playing Americans or Italians).  So--Uraguay vs. South Korea?  I rooted for South Korea (they lost).   Japan vs. Paraguay?  I rooted for Japan, and of course they lost.

In the quarter finals, three of the matches are a European team vs. a South American team.  Whereas previously I had rooted against Ghana, now I am rooting for them--to beat the Uruguay team and also keep an African team in the tournament.

Confused yet?  I am.  Every day my allegiances change as the teams I root for get eliminated from the World Cup tournament.  I can't take my likes and dislikes too seriously.  However, I worry that the final game will be Brazil vs. Germany.  Brazil is the absolute opposite of underdog, and Germany is, well, it's Germany.  I suppose I should add a fourth rule to my allegiance policy--anyone but Germany.

Maybe I should pick my teams next time by the color of the flag.  Does anyone have purple?

Bobby Bacala, Save Some for Me

I totally understand Bobby Bacala.

Bobby Bacala is one of Tony Soprano’s men in the Italian gangster show, The Sopranos. In one episode, Bobby Bacala’s wife is killed in a car accident. Mourning her death, he refuses to eat the last batch of baked ziti that she made. Only an Italian could understand such dedication to food.

I thought about Bobby Bacala when my refrigerator broke several days ago. It didn’t exactly break, but it stopped cooling consistently (that pesky light still goes on, though). Everything in my freezer melted when I was away at school. By the evening, everything was back to its icy state.

Having an on-again, off-again refrigerator just won’t cut it, especially with summer upon us. So I dumped the rotting food in the fridge section and saved some of the items in the frozen section, hoping that the fridge would miraculously decide to work again permanently. It hasn’t.

Desperate to have some fresh food in the house until I get the fridge fixed, I borrowed an ice chest to house a few perishables like milk and eggs. I figured that would give me a little time until I get the fridge repaired. As I was in the market buying what few items would fit in the ice chest, I got a call from Marjorie.

She was so excited—Rebecca is back for the summer from college, and she brought her dorm refrigerator with her—and did I want to borrow it?

Of course I wanted to borrow it! With the extra room, I added a few more luxury perishables to my shopping list, including a precious brick of Tillamook cheddar. My life was coming back to normal.

For the past few days, I’ve been carefully filling that little fridge with food, and unceremoniously throwing out bad food from the broken fridge. It feels good—making things simpler, smaller, and reducing my carbon footprint. I could live like this in a wonderfully minimalistic way. Maybe I'll even use that large refrigerator space for bookshelves.

It wasn’t until today, though, that I decided to completely give up on the old one. Today is trash day, so I dumped everything into the stinky smelly trash bin. But I paused when I got to the freezer. Inside the freezer is my most cherished possession: the last batch of spaghetti sauce that my mom ever made.

Occasionally she would give me some of her sauce to freeze for a time when I was too tired to cook. There is nothing in this world that tastes like her spaghetti sauce. Over the years, I’ve learned to make it myself, but it doesn’t have that loving, mom touch. Anyway, she always dated the food she gave us, and this one was dated February 9, 1999. She died four months later, before I had ever used the sauce.

I’ve kept that sauce in my freezer all these years. Like Bobby Bacala, I refuse to give up on the love for that person I have cherished more than anyone. The sauce is probably frozen down to a tiny cube of red ice, but even then, I know it has a piece of my mom. It has her love and her caring and her years of experience of Italian cooking. If nothing else, it has DNA from her saliva when she tasted it. She is really inside that container. Whatever it has, it is the most important material thing my mom left me.

I paused at the freezer as I held this container of spaghetti sauce, housed in an old Cool Whip tub. Like everything else in the freezer, it had melted. Maybe this is a sign. It’s June, after all—the month of my mom’s birthday, and the month of her death. Maybe it’s time to give up the spaghetti sauce. It’s just the physical form of a memory, and I’ll always have that memory. Maybe it’s time to let go.

Feeling a little melancholy, I brought that tub of my mom’s last batch of spaghetti sauce over to the tiny refrigerator that has lived in Rebecca’s freshman dorm room all year. I opened the door, and I squeezed that tub into the teeny tiny freezer compartment. It fits perfectly next to the miniature ice cube tray.

Thank you, Marjorie, for the freezer--like a super hero, you always come through with exactly what I need. My mom is still around, living in Rebecca's fridge. The month of June is kind of tough, so I'm grateful that you have helped me hang on to her a little longer.

Ultimately, Bobby Bacala acquiesced to family pressure to serve his wife's last dish of pasta. I haven't reached that point, but Bobby and I certainly agree on one thing: you can hold onto that special someone as long as they fit in your freezer.

What Big Teeth You Have

Have you ever had a toothache? The name itself is a misnomer; "toothache" sounds so mild, almost benign. One single tooth with a little pain. What's the prob? It's just a little pain in one single tooth. Come on, I have 32 teeth in my mouth; how much can one tooth hurt?

Oooouuuuuccccchhhh.

Let's be honest; it's not a toothache. It's an explosion of pain on a regional scale.

The "toothache" started Wednesday night. You'd think I'd head to the dentist on Thursday. No, that would have been much too smart. I had other plans. Thursday we drove to Santa Cruz to move Rebecca out of her dorm, and Friday we drove home. Then came the weekend. I called the dentist today (Monday), who can't see me until tomorrow. So we're talking about 5+ days with my friend the toothache.

Sometimes the pain is pretty mild; just a sensation that makes my tongue want to explore the area and see what's going on. Hmm, if I poke my tongue on this tooth, will it hurt? How about if I touch the gum over in the corner? Will that hurt? Yup, sure does! Other times It's a more serious ache. And then throughout the day, there are moments of excruciating pain. The sensation spreads to the whole right side of my mouth, then up the side of my face and into my right ear. Those are the moments when all I can think about is the Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. And the desire for the pain to stop.

Actually, it's all pretty interesting. It makes me think about people who live in chronic pain. How do they ever feel cheerful? How do they function, be productive, enjoy life?

Man, I am such a wimp. I sit grumpily on the couch and feel sorry for myself. I growl at anyone who talks to me. I rub my gums with my finger. I swallow some Advil and wait for the pain to ebb. And eventually, it does.

So how are you feeling?

In Search of . . .

Here's the problem with being open-minded: a constant state of confusion. Well, maybe it's the combination of an open mind and only sporadic bits of information about world events. I'll give you some examples.

Arizona passed a law recently regarding illegal immigrants. Now I'm perfectly clear about how I feel about the law--I think it's a bad law. I think when we base our actions on hatred and fear, we're going to make some very bad decisions. Research has shown that undocumented workers actually contribute as much or more to the communities in which they live as compared to the resources they use. So what am I confused about? Boycotting Arizona (is that anything like Raising Arizona?). On the one hand, I think I get it. Let's cut off our financial and other dealings with the state of Arizona as a way of protesting this asinine, hateful law. Would a boycott be effective? Is there a better way to protest the law? Let's bring this question to a place near and dear to my heart: Dodger Stadium. The Arizona Diamondbacks are playing at Dodger Stadium this week. There were protesters at the stadium. So are the protesters expecting that the Dodgers would refuse to play the Diamondbacks? I'm thinking, that doesn't make sense. But I don't know how to articulate my thoughts in a coherent way.

Okay, here's a more complex issue, and one that I am woefully ignorant about. A flotilla (is that the right word?) of boats with humanitarian aid approached a blockade set up by Israel, to try to get aid to Palestinians in the West Bank. Israeli soldiers boarded the boats and there were violent altercations. The two sides tell pretty different stories about what exactly happened. The world of public opinion is really pissed at Israel. I see smart and educated friends on Facebook talk about how horrible Israel's actions were. But then, I've also heard a spokesperson from Israel discuss the situation. He said that the blockade is set up to prevent weapons from getting to terrorists. He said that Israel told the group trying to deliver aid that they COULD deliver the aid, but not by breaking through the blockade but by working with the Israelis. And you know what, I believe him. Maybe I'm being naive, but it makes sense to me that they would allow the aid, as long as they controlled what and how the aid was brought into their country. And I do think Israel has a right to protect itself. I think the protesters chose, in an act of civil disobedience. to try to break through the blockade to show that they believed that the blockade was wrong. I think that they had a right to perform this act of civil disobedience. But I also think that their protest and resulting PR was more important to them than actually getting the humanitarian aid to the people in need. That's their right, but it does mean that Israel isn't as big of a monster as so many seem to be saying.

But then, I really only have the most surface understanding of what's going on in the region. So I am confused, and don't feel that I know enough to even have an opinion. It's like, I want someone who is VERY knowledgeable and not emotionally involved or biased in any way to explain the situation to me, with all of the history, current events, and nuances. Oh my God, I know what I need. I need someone logical. Someone brilliant. Someone who can help me grasp the complexities. I need you Spock!

tridecalogism

"Tridecalogism" is a thirteen-letter word that means "thirteen-letter word."

I just finished the first two books of the "Midnighter" series by Scott Westerfeld. A sci-fi fantasy story targeting young adults, the source of good magic is the number 13, and good guys in the story name their weapons with tridecalogisms.

To name a few:

blamelessness

backscratcher

justification

gravitational

lexicographer

irresponsible

individuality

Our heroes are highschoolers (oh, that's a tridec!). Not to give too much of the story away, they use common household objects containing metal alloys as their weapons. They wield these weapons to kill dark, evil creatures like flying panthers. Reading about kids swinging a tire iron at a leathery vulture is one thing; when that tire iron is named "Unjustifiable Deliciousness," it brings the whole scene into three dimensions.

I loved this story for the plot, the characters, the mythology--it was a fun read. But even more than that, I loved learning all these tridecalogisms. I didn't even know there was a word for that! How scintillating! Now I instinctively count the letters in long words to see if there are 13. Twelve is just so...even, and uninteresting, and disappointing.

So tomorrow during the Boggle Battle, don't worry. Even though I am armed with a dozen tridecalogisms, it's unlikely that I'll find them on the 16-letter Boggle board. That would leave just three unused letters, which is next to impossible (gosh, is there a tridec for that?).

Overzealously yours, call me--

"Instructively Serendipitous Groundbreaker"

Brave New World

Hold onto your hats. I'm doing something I've only dreamed of, why, I'm doing something that couch potatoes around the world dream of. I am writing this blog with a small laptop (netbook, I think) on my lap, as I relax on the couch in front of the TV. Yes, I can be a couch potato (a role I was born to) AND spend time on the computer SIMULTANEOUSLY. I know what you're thinking. This is nothing special; people have been doing this for years. You are correct. But this is a new world for me. I have my cumbersome desktop computer lodged stodgily on my desk upstairs. One old computer upstairs. One television downstairs. Once upon a time (the day before yesterday) I had to make a choice. I could check my email OR watch "Glee." I could check on my friends' status updates on FB OR watch "Big Bang Theory." I could play a game of Spider Solitaire OR watch "Lost." Now I can do it all! No more choosing between my many recreational activities that involve as little aerobic exercise as possible (except my fingers, baby; they are busy typing on this wee and wonderful keyboard!).

Right now, I'm watching the Dodger game as I giddily type. I don't think life can get much better than this.

There is a dark side to this wonderful new world. This computer is just a loan; Gina was kind enough to let me use this delightful device for the summer. At the end of August, Gina will wrest this tantalizing technology from my hands. The horror, the horror.

Tut, Tut

Tut , tut, Mac! Don’t worry about the Boggle tournament with my fourth-graders. I know the three-letter-word handicap seems daunting, but I’ve changed my mind. You can have your three-letter words. To level the playing field, I have a different plan. I’m going to arm my kids with words like these:

keb: a ewe that gives birth to a stillborn calf

mon: a Japanese family crest

orf: a viral infection of sheep

mor: a humus layer formed by slow decomposition in acidic soil

fid: a conical wooden pin used to splice strands of rope

lac: a dark red transparent resin used to make shellac

tej: Ethiopian honey-mead

yex: to hiccup, belch, or spit

zho: a cross between a yak and a cow (I’m surprised it’s not a “yow” or a “cak”)

They can pore through online dictionaries finding these gems, make lists, study them if they want. Heck, they don’t even have to memorize the words. All they have to do is guess, and we can just check online when we’re adding up points. See—they have a distinct advantage over you and your vast vocabulary. Since they know so few words to begin with, they won’t selectively perceive only the words that make sense, because they learn new words at school on a daily basis anyway. Instead, they’ll make a stab at it, even if it’s unfamiliar, and go on to the next word. You, on the other hand, will automatically eliminate three-letter-words that seem unfamiliar. Ironic, isn’t it?

So you can climb an ivi looking for keds, walk through a col looking for ceps, or wrap yourself in a kip until you’re in a kef.

The three-letter-words belong to ewe.

Mind-Boggling

My friend Gina teaches 4th grade. One of the activities the class enjoys is playing the game Boggle. That's where you have a board with a bunch of letters in random order, and you create as many words as you can using the letters that are next to each other, in a set amount of time. Gina has told her class tales about a legendary hero who can out-boggle anyone; this amazing being can write down words faster than a speeding bullet; leap over other players with a single bound . . . you get the idea. So the class decided to challenge this superhuman boggle player to a game. The problem is, tales of the legend have been exaggerated. How do I know? Because, like Neo in The Matrix, it is I. I am The One.

Only, see, I'm not. I mean, maybe in my younger days, when I spoke so quickly that only hummingbirds could understand me, and finished essay tests in school before my fellow classmates had picked up their pens, I could jot down quite a few words in a friendly game of Boggle. But now I'm like an old gunslinger, not so quick on the draw. And those kids have been practicing Boggle all school year. I haven't played for years.

Until tonight. My son Dustin brought out the game, and I played against him and his girlfriend Dani. I won the first game. But then, for game 2, we weren't allowed to use 3-letter words. This is the same handicap Gina has proposed for me when I face her class in the Boggle Battle.

I valiantly scribble all the 4-letter words I could find, as the grains of sand in the hourglass quickly fell. At the end of the round, I had . . . lost.

So yes, I'm scared. Those kids very well might crush me. What would Mr. Anderson think?

Appealing revision

First--GOOD FOR YOU, MARJORIE! (that's me jumping up and down and cheering)

I knew you could do it! Now that wasn't so hard, was it?

Let me preface this by saying that I had written this whole blog post, and then when I clicked on the publish button, I lost everything to my on-again-off-again router ("you are not connected to the Internet"---arghhhh!). So here I go trying to reproduce some spontaneity. I'm saving it in a Word document first, though. Don't test the gods--I'm not sure they like me anyway.

My first thought was, who are these "Portable Elephants" and how were they able to commandeer Marjorie's email to invite me to be a blogger? Oh, yeahhhh....it all came back. Of course, Portable Elephants is absolutely perfect, and as usual you came up with it. You are so cute and clever! But that's your job, isn't it?

The seeming randomness of portable elephants reminded me of other randomly put together phrases, like rumble fish. I decided to come up with more examples using a noun and verb generator online. Here's what Mr. Internet and I created:

Crying courtesy: I suppose the opposite of crying shame

Oscillating homesickness: I'm having fun...wait, I miss my mommy...wow look at that!...wahh!

Crooked psychiatry: redundant

Clumsy openness: my favorite kind

Chipped curfew: kind of like chipped beef, it's when you come in a few minutes late and it's really good on sourdough toast

....and my favorite,

Appealing revision: what this blog will probably never experience.

Anyway these phrases are completely random but seem to carry so much more meaning than portable elephants, which seems much more random but actually has more meaning. I just wanted to say that Portable Elephants is perfect. Seems random, but has meaning (more taste, less filling?).

Oh and thank you for all those embarrassing kind words. I wasn't planning on saying anything nice about you--I'm saving that for my other blog which nobody will read.

And now? I'm not watching Friends. I am watching House. And I should go 'cause I'm working on another blog. And maybe saying some nice things about you.

:^)

Blog Virgin

Okay, here goes . . . my first blog. I'm not sure, blogs are so cool and trendy. And I really don't know anything about blogs. I don't visit many blog pages (is that what they're called? blog page? I don't know the lingo. I'll be kicked out of the blogosphere! Everyone will know I'm a fraud!)

So the next question is (wait, did I ask a first question? Oh yes, there are at least two questions in my parenthetical statement above), why am I writing a blog? Well, it's like this. I was standing over there, rusting for the longest time. Wait, no. Let me try again.

I'll tell you about my friend Gina. When we were in high school, I described her as someone bursting with love and hugs for everyone. Well, she's also bursting with brilliance, energy, and creativity that is breathtaking. She suggested that we share a blog. I'll write, she'll write. We'll brutally edit each other's blogs. Now I'll be honest. While Gina is busy writing songs, pounding out tunes on the piano, teaching her fourth grade class, reading, writing, creating art (pant, pant, pant), taking care of her ever growing menagerie, travelling with her 11-year-old son Santino to Europe, fighting the good fight at her school, I'm . . . I'm . . . probably watching an old Friends episode on TV. So the idea of sitting down and writing a blog is somewhat daunting for me. (Well, the sitting down part sounds okay; I'm really good at that.)

But I'm going to give it the old college try. I even figured out today how to set up this blog. I considered stopping with that. I mean, I don't want to overdo it on the first day. But it occurred to me that creating a blog and then never actually writing something would be rather sad.

So I'll be back. (Hmm, I'd rather quote the Tin Man than the Governor. Have you noticed how much I like parenthetical phrases? I really do. I think they're very fun; I also like semi-colons a lot. How about you?)