Tag Archives: goodies

Adjunct

Words from Dic(tionary)

dictionary with letter A

Adjunct (n): a thing added to something else as a supplement rather than an essential part

I think it’s misspelled. It would be so much easier to understand if the word was “addjunk.”

Really, that’s what we all do. We add a bunch of junk to our lives as we journey, convincing ourselves that it’s priceless, only to spend most of our time shuffling it around from place to place, even though it is inconvenient and infrequently used.

About ten years ago I came to the realization that the only power in getting older was in being smart enough to travel lighter. I had so much unusable, often unrecognizable material hanging around me, like unwanted relatives stopping in for a loan, that I was often baffled as to whether there was enough space for me to live and breathe.

It was stupid. I had added so much junk to my human trailer that I was beginning to resemble white trash on my way to NASCAR. (This is not to say that ALL people who go to NASCAR are white trash. I speak by permission, putting into practice comedy, and quite bluntly, the law of averages.)

So what did I do? I started giving away everything I had not used in the previous sixty days. It was astounding–because things that I did not view as worthy of a two-month connection were valuable to others around me–sometimes even a life saver. I looked generous.

Now, I wasn’t really generous. It was a practical move to make sure there was enough oxygen in the room for me and my necessaries. In no time at all, I had grown lean and mean, and at my fingertips were all the goodies that I preferred, which by the way, were much easier to locate since they weren’t hiding under the freeloaders.

The second thing I did was I decided to live. Now I’m not talking about sucking in air or planning a shaving and bathing schedule.

If I wanted to do it, if it was practical, fruitful and in the spectrum of my abilities–I just did it.

Is there anything worse than people who are aging, who both lament getting older and also constantly offer regrets about their lack of accomplishment?

Shut up. It’s addjunk.

It seems that many people over fifty have only used their time and energy to practice becoming professional complainers. Here’s the key: give and live.

Give away everything you don’t need and live out what you want to do, and in the process find out if it was worth tackling.

I realize that to some degree this essay has nothing to do with the definition, but you can take that up with my boss.

(Ha, ha. I don’t HAVE a boss. I gave him away … so I could live.)

Abscond

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter A

Abscond: v. to leave hurriedly and secretly, typically to avoid detection of or arrest for an unlawful action such as theft.

Absconding is a three-part process. Tricky business.

First, you need a plan. Second, you need to execute it well, and third, you need to cover your tracks so you don’t get caught.

Since I never plan to apply this principle to a diamond heist, the closest I ever came to “absconding” is what I shall refer to as the Great Hot Fudge and Marshmallow Cream Caper.

When I was a kid,  during commercials of my favorite cartoons, I really enjoyed slipping into the kitchen and acquiring a scoop of hot fudge from the refrigerator or a similar dipping into the marshmallow cream.  Here was the problem: after a while, the addiction drives you so frequently to the ice box that it becomes very difficult to hide your “absconding” of the container from your mother and father, who apparently meticulously view the contents of all such treats in the freezer.

It also was difficult to take a little bit from the containers and still satisfy the itching need.

So what I came up with was … water. After an evening of absconding hot fudge from one jar and marshmallow cream from the other, I slipped into the kitchen and dribbled some water into each container, stirring them up thoroughly. It made it appear as if the vessels still contained the same amount of goodies as they once had. My parents would be none the wiser.

I can tell you that I was extremely impressed with my ingenuity. It seemed to work. For a whole week, I pursued this practice–until, on the following Monday, I went to the refrigerator and discovered that there was NO marshmallow cream or hot fudge sundae, which had been purchased to take care of the sweet monkey on my back.

I took a deep breath, trying to gain control, and attempted to figure out how to broach the subject with my parents without drawing attention to my greedy need. As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait too long, because my dad asked where the hot fudge was. My mother replied, “I stopped buying it and the marshmallow cream because they were too watery.”

From that point on, I was never able to abscond hot fudge or marshmallow cream via my silver spoon. Because to get my mother to purchase it again, I would have to admit that I was the source of the dilution.

I thought it was better to keep up the delusion.