Scribbles by Viv, Vintage chicks lol

From My POV, Acronyms Are KPC

I try to be a hip social medialite, but who can keep up with the ever-changing acronym dialect? 

When this whole social media thing started years ago, I thought for months that WTF meant “Wait Till Friday,” you know, kinda like TGIF. It was only after I emailed it to my supervisor in a company memo that I found out differently.

The 5-year-old explains the latest acronyms to Grandma.

The younger people keep coming up with new acronyms so that older people — AKA parents and grandparents — don’t have a clue what they are actually talking about, which is usually how clueless their parents and grandparents are.

In my first week of AAC —Advanced Acronym Classes (taught by my grandchildren) — I’ve learned that MTFBWY does not mean “May Take Forever, But We’re Young,” (which explains why I never used that acronym), but instead, stands for “may the force be with you.” 

I also learned STFU does not stand for St. Francis University. Sister Mary Jean called to express her “disappointment” in me.

Facepalm.

Even vintage chicks know what LOL and LMAO means, but how about TL;DR? Turns out that means “too long, didn’t read.” Now that I think about it, one of my editors used to write that on the stories I sent him. He sometimes sent my stories back a second time with a scribbled “CALMSO!” (cut a lot more sh** out)

Because of my experience with the WTF acronym, I made an assumption recently when my younger sister sent me a text that said: WFH?

“WFH?! NOTHING HAPPENED! WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!” I fired back.

Sis texted back: “OMG. LMAO. WFH means “Working from home.”

Scribbles by Viv, Vintage chicks lol

Tumorous Humorous: Goes Well With Pita Chips

I used to hate the way my face was falling to the earth, outpaced only by my thighs.

Once a lady asked the name of the chubby dog that was wrapped around my feet. I had to tell her it was my ankles.

The problem with growing old is that even though you still feel young in your mind, your body begins to crack and disintegrate like a human pork rind.

A few years ago, when I was 60, doctors discovered a tumor the size of Rhode Island growing between my brain and my ear canal.

“It’s an Acoustic Neuroma,” the doctor said.

I was pretty sure I bought that album in 1979.

Anyway, after a 13- or 14-hour brain surgery, I was as good as new.

That’s a lie.

I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t drink. I couldn’t sit. Heck, I couldn’t even roll over.  Half of my face was frozen and numb because the tumor had wrapped around my right facial nerve. Someone had fashioned a turban out of barbed wire and attached it to my head with steel beams and iron spikes which were driven into my skull and all tangled in my bloody hair. Wires and tubes were attached to my arms and other body parts. Had I been crucified?

On the upside, I was on some pretty mind-blowing narcotics so I was waaaay down the rabbit hole having tea and crumpets with Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Mother Teresa.

One thing I could do was laugh — albeit out of the side of my mouth with a gurgling sound and one wide-open, freaky eye that refused to close. I didn’t care. Did I mention the drugs?

Every few minutes a staff member would come to my bedside, ask me to squeeze her fingers and ask the same questions: “What’s your name?” “What day is it?” “Who is president?”

I had married twice, taken both husbands’ names, then reverted to my maiden name, then married again and did not take his name.

My mom had to down several 5-Hour Energy drinks just to write my names in the family Bible.

The first time the nurse asked me if I knew my name, my youngest brother quipped, “Oh sure, start with the hard questions.”

I liked to mess with them when asked the president question: “Taft?” “Weird Al Yankovic?” “Grant? Did the North win?”

Accomplishing one goal at a time — walking up and down stairs, gardening, driving, hiking up a Virginia mountain, making Fruit Loops for dinner — I recovered.

5 weeks post-op with my crooked face and my beautiful niece, Chandler.

For the most part, my face came back, my wrinkles returned, and I no longer looked like I got Botox injections from a one-eyed physician.

I was so happy to see the deep lines return to my face that I made them a welcome home casserole with extra Oil of Olay.

Growing old never had looked more appealing.

Coronavirus, Scribbles by Viv, Vintage chicks lol

The Boredom of Trying Not to Die or Poke Someone in the Eye

Every day melds into the next. Week into week. Month into month.

And now, year into year.

I always thought if I had more free time, I would get so many projects completed. Those bins of photos and memorabilia that need sorted, catagorized (or tossed) and put into scrapbooks; that bathroom that needs a total overhaul; the two books and eight short stories I’ve been working on here, there and nowhere; that stack of sewing and mending that has been gathering dust in the sewing room for seven years now; a new backyard patio … the list goes on.

Conveniently, I blame the pandemic.

One good thing about the pandemic is that I have little contact with other people, most of whom I just want to poke in the eye. Hard. Seriously, when did vulgar stupidity become cool?

Conveniently, I blame social media.

I’m already bored with cooking. I cook it, we eat it and it’s gone. Seems like a whole lotta work with nothing to show for it but the extra COVID-19# around my waistline. It’s quicker and much easier to just grab a spoon, a jar of Nutella, throw in a handful of chocolate chips, some bacon and call it a day.

Don’t judge. Bacon is a food group.

Maybe I could complete more projects if I did not have so many distractions?

Last night I stared vacantly at the salad I had prepared for the fourth night in a row and distinctly heard a few active brain cells yawning. I put it back in the fridge, and rummaged through the cupboards for something more, um … tantalizing. In the back of a bottom cupboard — where I hide shit from my husband — I found a bag of stale chocolate chips. I downed a handful. And then another. And another.

Things must change. I have to get motivated, finish the projects, maybe shave my legs, brush my teeth, feed the poor, enroll in pole dancing classes, join the National Guard or recycle all those wine corks. Something.

Otherwise, at this pace, my first trip in over a year won’t be my lifelong dream of visiting and hiking in the Dakotas, but will likely be a trip to Texas for an appointment with Dr. Nowzaradan.

If you don’t know who Dr. Nowzaradan is, you probably are not the type of person whose idea of an appetizer is a bag of chocolate chips poured directly into your gullet.