DBA

DBA: (adj) Doing Business As

Over-prepared.

I have been guilty of this.

I have what I consider to be a healthy sense of gloom. (I’ve never bought into doom, but gloom catches my fancy.)

So if I’m going to a meeting, I always take too much information.

If I’m being interviewed, I have been known to over-answer the question.

And in the process of doing this, I cast a suspicious light on myself, because folks wonder why I’m yammering so much without being probed.

For instance, I recall the first time I went to a bank to start an account with my music group. I was unnerved. Well, maybe not unnerved, but kind of a mingling of overly careful and defiant.

I had read what the bank required in order to open an account called DBA—”Doing Business As.”

In other words, it was me doing business as the name of my music group.

It was really quite simple.

Matter of fact, we were halfway through the process of signing up with the bank officer when I started jabbering.

I offered that we were just getting started.

I detailed examples of how much money we made—or how little money we made.

The process, which was really rather uncomplicated, became bizarre because of my off-putting approach. Then the bank officer, feeling a bit uncertain due to my jittery profile—which now included some sweat at my brow—called over his superior to handle the matter.

I was screwing this thing up.

When the senior officer arrived, he sat down and realized that I had just painted myself into a corner of flummox. He turned to me and said kindly, “Calm down. People get DBA accounts all the time—and most of them aren’t criminals.”

I laughed.

It felt good to laugh.

Matter of fact, laughing may be the only remedy when we have allowed ourselves to go bonkers over nothing.

Creep

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Creep: (n) an obnoxious deviant

I have been called many things. Fortunately for my soul and psyche, most of them have been positive or relatively neutral.

Yet I certainly have had my share of profane labels attached to my doings.

But nothing—I repeat, absolutely nothing—came close to the day that beautiful Merrilee called me a creep.

It was many, many years ago, but I can still relive the moment, taste the adrenalin in my mouth, and feel my face flush with humiliation.

I was in one of those moods—trying to be clever with everything I said. Although dear Merrilee was extremely attractive, she did have some sort of cardiovascular situation—or maybe it was just a skin disorder—which caused her face and arms to turn red, leaving patches of white skin beneath.

On this particular day, apparently my candid and joking spirit had made her nervous, and she sprouted the symptoms, in ruby red. At that point, feeling I was on a role and drunk on my own wit, I said:

“Dear Merrilee, you look like a thermometer.”

Of course, it wasn’t terribly funny, but because she was a little strained and nervous, she burst into tears.

This caused everyone in the room to gyrate to her cause and move to her side, comforting her. If we’d been on a ship, it would have tipped in my disfavor.

Defensive, I began to explain that I was “just kidding,” and it was the first thing that came to my mind.

Amazingly, this did absolutely no good and just increased the welling of the tears.

One of the girls who was holding Merrilee very close spat at me, “You are such a creep!”

Before I could stop myself, I responded, “I’m not a creep! You’re a creep!”

Well, since I was the one who made little Merrilee cry, it was pretty obvious to everyone that I had won the “creep award.” At that point I finally got the sense to quickly apologize and leave.

I cried like a baby on the way home.

I felt so stupid.

But I have to tell you this—the chance that you will one day be a creep is pretty high. Whether you are an actual creep depends on whether you stay defiant—or if it sinks in, even many years later, what a creep you really were.

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Chair

Chair: (n) separate seat for one person

I was five years old the first time someone referred to me as “fat.” It came off the lips of Aunt Pruney-Face Fussypants. (I don’t recall her real
name so I’m working off stage directions.)

She whispered to my mother, “Don’t let him sit in that chair. He’s too fat. He might break it.”

I don’t know if I was stunned, mystified, humiliated or defiant, but I went over and sat down in the chair anyway–just to prove that it would embrace me from the bottom up.

It held its ground.

Yet over the years, certain chairs have gone “snap, crackle and pop” when introduced to my backside. So I hbave developed the mystical ability to peer at a piece of furniture, determining its width and sturdiness. I avoid bargain-basement furniture, realizing that it’s only suited for an anorexic market.

Chairs are problematic when you’re large.

Large is problematic because you’re always looking for a chair.

Aye–there’s the rub.

So even though I have encountered tens of thousands of seating units on my journey, many had to be rejected by my prejudice toward their outward appearance.

 

 

 

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