Sauce: A note on made-up words.

Made-up words are difficult. See, you get to make them up. But there are still rules. Is there anything more frustrating than that kid who turns your game of “exploring the Andes while running from tigers and crocodiles and other accurately-placed harmful animals” into a game of “this is how we do it and there’s no other way and I AM THE PRINCESSSSS!!!”
Not that I speak from a bitter personal experience.
Anyway, the thing about made-up words is this: Even when you’re talking about them, you have to say “made-up” with a hyphen. If you don’t, it looks like this: made up. Which looks absolutely awful.
And then “blogstipation” (see last post). My heart yearned to write it out as “blongstipation,” because “blong” is more entertaining to say than “blog,” which isn’t even a made-up word (except it sort of is, but not by me, which makes me angry). It’s also probably something inappropriate. I’m sheltered and wouldn’t know.
Other made-up words that annoy me are as follows:

Ablobadub (ah-blob-oh-dub)
It’s frustrating because: It has no meaning.

Celeriatubega (sell-air-ee-at-uh-beg-uh)
It’s frustrating because: It’s the cross between celeriac and rutabaga, which is a genetically implausible combination that would taste nasty and I spelled “baga” wrong.

Rainblowery (rain-bl-ow-air-ee)
It’s frustrating because: It’s that moment in a storm when there is a rainbow and the tornado sirens are going off, which ruins the moment of a perfectly good rainbow (also, what kind of imbecile describes a tornado as “blowery?”)

Smostrum (smoh-strum)
It’s frustrating because: It’s when it’s snowing and foggy and you’re perfectly happy playin a little tune on the old gee-tar and then someone knocks on your door selling religions. Need I explain further?

Add your own made up word in the comments below! It’s not hard, folks! It’s just dumb!

Comments

Welcome to Weirdness!

Hi, world, and welcome to “The Password’s Lasagna”! One day I’ll share where that name came from - for now, just revel in the wonderful idioticity of the word “Lasagna”. Say it over and over again. Let it flip off your tongue in all its gleeful lasagnaness. Say it until it means nothing, say it ‘til it means everything. Lasagna. It’s a word with many layers. Moving on quickly now... I have to wonder if, in a year, I will regret this first post. I’ll think “what kind of imbecilic idiot was I, to think starting a blog would be a good idea?” As if there aren’t more constructive things to do. Like...fishing. Or hunter-gathering (which is the sport of gathering as many hunters as possible in one weekend and stuffing them all in the back of a closed pickup, preferably with a limb or so hanging out and dripping blood). Or making clay...things. Useful things. Mugs and the like. Or I could be chilling with friends...engaging in meaningful conversations over cups of coffee.

Noodles: Just, noodles.

I realized on Thursday that I have no idea who I am. It was very disconcerting, particularly as it happened moments after I’d stood up suddenly, not realizing there was a heavy plank shelf directly over my head. It was also after two or three hours of inhaling the stale remnants of ten years of uninhibited mouse parties, and an entire bottle of environmentally caring cleaning fluid. Anyway, this isn’t exactly humorous (unless you get a kick out of existential crises), but it made me wonder if anyone else feels the same way. So, readers, tell me this - do you feel as if you know who you are? Or are you just pretending to know? Or are you, at this moment, simultaneously reading this on your phone and telling a complete stranger all the ways that you feel isolated from the rest of the human race? Let me know. “I” am interested in your answer. PS Anticipating zero comments, because the majority of my readership is too intellectual to stoop to the paltry pract

Noodles: It’s autumn, all of you.

Hi world. It’s me, your favorite super sheltered, extremely Scandinavian, strangely endearing pile of soggy, tomato-drenched crinkly noodles! Otherwise known as Baby Swedish Lasagna under an Inadequate Tent. The reason I bring up my origins is this: I grew up without hearing anyone say “y’all”. I believe the contraction never crossed my path outside of a book until middle school, when it became trendy among my equally sheltered, pale-skinned friends. I started saying it often, with little understanding of its pronunciation, spelling, or proper usage. At some point, perhaps in a fit of cultural sensitivity, maybe after the madness of middle school had seeped out of my neurons, I stopped using it. Except in emails. Yes, my friends, I am an email y’aller. It just works for the already-awkward group conversations. There’s honestly no equivalent in northern dialect. Check it out. “You guys.” Offensive to feminists. “You girls.” Offensive to mature women. “You ladies.”

The Password’s Lasagna.

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