Tag Archives: tricky

Correction Fluid

Correction fluid: (n) an opaque, quick-drying fluid for obliterating handwritten or typewritten matter.

As I read the definition, I smile a bit over the word “obliterating.”

If you didn’t live through the liquid paper or white-out phase of office business done with a typewriter, you missed a juncture in time when creative effort was often made to try to cover a mistake, when typing the entire letter over again might have been quicker.

First and foremost—for a long time, it was just white correction fluid. This meant if you were typing on paper that was white, and by the way, preferably twenty funny wisdom on words that begin with a C
pound, you might have a chance, if you used the brush sparingly, of covering up your typing mistake and having the letter look as if it had never been sullied.

But unfortunately, if you worked at a business where stationery was used, with a higher quality paper which sometimes had a tint, then you had a carnival of difficulties.

First, the heavier paper took your typed letter or word deeper into the texture, which made it much more difficult to cover it up with correction fluid.

Then—guess what? White correction fluid on pale blue stationery does not avoid the appearance of a mistake, but rather, advertises it.

So, they came up with colored correction fluid. But as you probably would guess, matching the color was extremely tricky.

I had a friend who was so adept that she could mingle two different colors of correction fluid to get the exact color of her company’s stationery. Then, after twenty or twenty-five minutes of fussing with the “cover-up,” passing the letter around the office to see if anybody noticed the use of the correction fluid, you would tentatively fold it up, put it in an envelope and send it off.  Then the next time you talked to the recipient of your correspondence, they would make some sort of joke about how the correction fluid had not totally dried—so the letter stuck together.

It was one of those ideas that seemed really smart until it was actually put into practice and it became very complicated to pull it off and still look professional and error-free.

Thank God for the arrival of the computer, where you can hit the back space, and nobody ever need know your office-place iniquity.


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Boor

Boor: (n) an unrefined, ill-mannered person.

Personal revelations are risky.Dictionary B

You may think you’re being transparent or even clever–but others might find you to be a boor.

In other words, distasteful.

But at the root of all comedy–which is really the best doorway to mutual human understanding–is a certain amount of surprising revelation.

Yet there is a reason we disdain bathroom humor, even though we all take a crap.

So what can we share without people squinting and expressing their disapproval over our candor?

Tricky business, huh?

For instance, I could tell you that I enjoy farting. It is very true. But there is a certain amount of my readership that would assert that such a confession is classless. They would feel superior to me. Even if I explained that I try to do most of my farting under the covers, and not welcome others to visit, or that the relief it gives to my tummy has an almost supernatural-salvation sensation, I would still be in danger of being cast into the role of the boor, who must be segregated from the decent folk.

So to keep from being an outcast, I would never, ever admit to you that I relish farting.

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Arose

dictionary with letter A

Arose: (v) past-tense of arise.

Every once in a while, clarity crashes in on my dullness.

I’m not so certain I want it to happen all the time; otherwise I would be constantly alarmed. (A certain amount of dullness is necessary for me to achieve slumber.)

But the piece of clarity that made its way through the wilderness of supposition which surrounds my being was this:

If I don’t believe in God, I’m stuck with Earth.

That means I’m limited by what surrounds me and the hope and talent that lies within me.

  • There would be no creation.
  • There would be no divine intervention for my illness.
  • My prayers would be exercises in futility.
  • I would be limited by empathy and condolences to aid others.
  • And Jesus never arose from the grave.

So this would be it.

When I was twenty-five years old, such a concept seemed somewhat acceptable since I believed I had at least five more decades of mortal passage. But now, as I discover I have more “used days” than “new days,” I am not quite so sure I want to surrender the possibility of possessing a bit of eternity.

I am certainly sympathetic to those who are agnostic–because it all seems such a wonderland of wishing and dreams when it comes to dealing with the issues of God’s love and heaven.

But I consider if I would be more disappointed if I reached the end of my life and was an atheist, and found out there really was an afterlife–or if there would be any disappointment at all to discover that Jesus was second-cousin to Santa Claus, yet I would be completely unaware of my lacking, because there would be nothing but oblivion.

Tricky, don’t you think?

So if the Son of God did not arise, so that we could celebrate that he arose, then the possibility of me doing the same is highly unlikely.

Honestly, I find that distasteful.

Just as being a father of children meant advocating for the North Pole and the toy shop, and describing the tooth angel in visual detail, I think the child in me needs the story of a man who arose from the grave … to give myself a chance to live on past my last breath.

 

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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.