Diarrhoea or Diarrhea

  • So, diarrhoea, eh?

I’m still so impressed that I’m spelling this without looking it up. Although, i can’t be sure that this will always be the case. It’s one of those words that leaves me wondering how many r’s and where and is there definitely an ‘o’?

(Yes, my American friends, there is an ‘o’ in there in my neck of the woods!).

I’m even more impressed with the fact that it is not merely an intestinal problem born of a bad curry. But, rather, a state of mind that inflicts Scots that live 5 miles from Glasgow, that work during the week and empty the bowel that is their mind at the weekend.

Clean up on Aisle 5, please.

Verbosity.

Is that even a word? Of course it is. I checked it. You don’t seriously think I would use a word that was made up by me?

Definition

I paraphrase.

One who finds it difficult to get to the point without describing everything.

Example:

I met a woman down the street today who was pushing a pram. It was a lovely pram; full of beautiful colours and challenging activities for her offspring.

OK. Maybe not that, exactly. But you get the idea.

For some reason, my husband is not interested in the particulars of a case but insists on knowing the point immediately. As in, ‘What’s the point to this story?’

It pisses me off big time.

OK. I’ve got a boring story to tell. Please let me embellish it so that it sounds as if I have a life.   

Is this a man thing?

Or, maybe, ‘Oh God, I’m boring the arse off the world,’ kinda thing?’

Most women I know like to embellish the finer points of a story and do so in an entertaining and self-effacing sort of way.

They make the boring sound entertaining because they observe the details.

Unfortunately, a lot of men do not appreciate the finer details.

‘Get to the bloody point, woman,’ is what they’re really thinking.

I am horrified at this idea. The very notion that a story worth telling is stunted in its prime.

Except for one teensy, tinsy observation.

I have listened to and continue to listen to, ‘stories from school’, and, let’s face it, if there was ever anything created that was destined to drive you to distraction and bore you to death is the story of, ‘She said’, ‘I said’, ‘She did’ and ‘I did back’.

That aside, you can usually pass muster with your kids. ‘Oh, did she? That’s awful. What did you say?’

Slightly different story going on here with your nearest and dearest.

So, OK, darling , I’m sorry that the point of all my stories is lost in the minutiae. But, I’ve been here all day wiping the crap off of shitty knickers and trying to come up with a menu that suits everyone, so forgive me if I can’t just ‘get to the friggin’ point’. I’m trying to have a conversation here.  Made up, for your information, of all the drips that go into making the drops of life. I beg your pardon for not holding your attention in some riveting account of the day in the life of….. well, you get the idea.

I know I talk shit a lot of the time.

This, by the way, is a very profound observation.

I repeat, I know I talk shit a lot of the time.

As opposed to?

Sometimes, I don’t know.