Acronym Overload

My grandniece, Isabella, has an impressive vocabulary for a twelve-year-old. She and her mother, Pam, went to see the new super computer that her father, a Burlington, VT police detective, will be using in his investigations. Pam posted on Facebook that as they entered the police department, Isabella noticed a bin labeled OIC (which means Officer In Charge). She asked: “Daddy, why is there an inbox for Opioid Induced Constipation? Do police officers have a lot of trouble with that?”

After I picked myself up off the floor, it dawned on me that there’s been an explosion in the use of acronyms lately, especially in the field of medicine. They’ve been proliferating at such a rate that a lot of them have multiple meanings. As long as we’re going to have more than one usage, we might as well have one of those relate specifically to seniors.

Take for example the popular term NSAID. You probably know that as NonSteroidal Anti-Inflammatory Drug (like aspirin, ibuprofen and naproxen). For me, NSAID means No Sense Asking—I’m Dieting. I need to practice that reply when I’m offered second helpings. And desserts. And, sadly, a glass of wine.

Those who have heart issues will be familiar with ECASA (Enteric Coated Aspirin), one of the medications my husband carries in his travel kit. An equally useful translation at our age is Every Calorie Adds Some Adipose. That’s the fat around our bellies.

ICS (Inhaled Cortico Steroids) are a lifeline for anyone with asthma. In our house we call ICS Inhaled Cat Stuff. That can be anything from their hair to dander to litter than has hitched a ride between their toes and landed on our bed. For people with respiratory problems, our ICS makes the medical ICS a good item to have handy.

Women my age are frequently prone to bladder issues and the advertising community has a field day with the acronyms for what ails us. I’m willing to bet that OAB (OverActive Bladder) and LBL (Light Bladder Leakage) began life on a storyboard in some agency creative’s office. In the age of gluten intolerance, OAB must also stand for Oats And Beans, two fiber sources to substitute for wheat. For many women, LBL means Laughter Brings Leakage. So does sneezing.

My favorite bladder-related acronym is BBS (Bashful Bladder Syndrome), an apparently common anxiety disorder also known as paruresis. This seems to be the opposite of a leaky one. Folks with BBS just can’t go if anyone else is around. I feel bad for anyone who has trouble peeing when they feel the urge; (I can pretty much pee on cue). But I love the phrase so much I’m not going to make up a replacement definition. Wikipedia has a list of déclassé nicknames for this condition, so you don’t need one from me.

“Syndromes” is a word that pops up frequently in these disorders. In addition to Bashful Bladder Syndrome, You have IBS (Inflammatory Bowel Syndrome) and FMS (FibroMyalgia Syndrome). Or as, I prefer to define the latter two: Inhale, Breathe, Snort (how I clear my sinuses during allergy season) and the self-explanatory Feline Mothering Syndrome.

“Disease” also appears in many conditions that are familiar in senior circles. First we have CAD (Coronary Artery Disease), not to be confused with CSD (Cat Scratch Disease), whatever that is. I’ll leave CSD alone, but I’m changing CAD to Check And Double-check. Did we turn off the appliances before we left? Count cat noses? Close the garage door? Then there’s GERD (Gastro Esophageal Reflux Disease), or as I think of it: Gotta Exercise, but Rarely Do. That one was a no-brainer.

The final medical acronym on my list is EDS (Excessive Daytime Sleepiness). I was surprised when this turned up in my research. It’s such an appropriate phrase for seniors (well, for me anyway) that there’s no way I’m going to tinker with it. I get sleepy after lunch, during excessive heat (like the past few days) and when I’ve been reading or typing for more than twenty minutes.

That puts me at three for three right now. On that note, I think I’ll grab a cat and go take a nap.

Creepy, Meet Sleazy

Some of the items in the news last week were downright creepy. For some reason they’ve brought out my sleazy side. When I tell you what they are, remember that I did not make these up. Therefore, I feel that I shouldn’t bear the full blame for the raunchiness of my reactions. You be the judge. Or not, if you’re easily offended.

Item one was a report on the first successful penis transplant. Or perhaps the first one that those involved decided to distribute to the media. In no way do I mean to minimize the importance of having a functioning member for men who’ve lost their original for some reason. It’s just that—as I’ve already said—I found this story too creepy even for me.

The transplanted penis came from a cadaver, giving new meaning to “a stiff one.” Of course, that makes sense. Finding a living man to part with his own willy out of a spurt of generosity is too remote; it’s not like you come with a spare. By the way, in preparing to write this post, I searched for slang terms for penis. I hate using the same word over and over; it’s boring and bad style. The Online Slang Dictionary gave me well over 100 ways to say schlong, most of which even this raunchy blogger had never heard.

Back to the news. My immediate reaction to the transplant was “Eeeuw!” I told my husband about it on our latest drive to Providence. “As a woman, I can’t imagine letting a man put that thing inside me! It was dead, after all.” Mumbling sounds from Jagdish; I didn’t ask for clarification. I continued. “Nope. I’d say: ‘Look. I’ll just give you a hand job. But wait a minute. First I need to find a latex glove.’” This had both of us laughing so hard, I almost swerved into the lane next to me.

Before I leave this topic, a survey of hands please. How many of you have heard the term ‘zubra’ for said piece of equipment? Who thinks that the person who submitted ‘Russell the love muscle’ to the Online Slang Dictionary was named Russell? Did you know that a ‘chubbie’ is not a fat one; it’s a semi-erect one? Finally, a ‘tallywacker’ is not only slang for a dick; it’s a length of rope that shepherds use to count sheep. Makes you wonder what the shepherds are doing with those sheep in the dead of night.

Moving on to other news. Live with Kelly informed us of a company that’s making beer from bellybutton lint. Double “eeeuw!” It’s the 7 cent Brewery, located in Australia. No surprise there. Apparently, they culture yeast that they glean from the lint harvested in local navel gardens. They unveiled their brew at GABS, the Great Australian Beer Spectacular. Kelly and her guest cohost sampled the beer and proclaimed it drinkable. Yeah, right. Aussie Aussie Aussie Oi Oi Oi.

I told my husband about this on that same drive to Providence where I informed him of the successful winky transplant. Then I wondered out loud. “I hope they don’t get that lint from the same corpses where they get the donor wieners.” Triple “eeeuw!” I know folks often think of hot dogs and beer together at summer barbecues and baseball games. But this is one combination just too gag-inducing to swallow.

Take it easy. I’m already on my way to wash my mouth out with soap. Then I’ll probably have a glass of wine. But it will be awhile before I consider having a beer again.

Rebel without a Cause

I’ve always featured myself to be a bit of a rebel. I’m not sure when or how this self-view started. The first example I remember is in picking the college I’d attend. My sister went to Douglass (then the women’s college of New Jersey). Seven years later, my brother enrolled at Rutgers (the men’s college). The next year, everyone assumed I’d go to Douglass, especially when I was early accepted, even though I didn’t apply for that. I played the rebel and picked Pembroke, the women’s college of Brown University.

By my senior year at Brown, my contrarian tendencies had fixated on motorcycles. I wanted to buy one when I had enough money. That would be a long time off, but it turned out it wouldn’t matter. I visited a store and discovered that I was too short for even the smallest machine that was available back then. My feet didn’t touch the ground when I straddled it as though stopped at a traffic light. When I leaned far enough to one side for my foot to reach the ground, the bike fell over.

While my family might have considered my next phase rebellious, my peers would have seen it as predictable. I became the family hippie. My hair was so long I could sit on it and I wore Jesus sandals that laced up to my knees. That wore thin after awhile. Besides, I was working in Manhattan for what was then a Big Eight accounting firm. CPAs didn’t approve of Jesus sandals.

Now that I’m retired, I’ve started to think fondly about becoming a rebel again. The problem is that I don’t have a cause to protest against. I don’t even have a flag to fly to advertise my rebellion. Let’s face it, when folks reach my age, there’s a fine line between rebelling and being an eccentric old coot.

One thing I’ve considered now and again is dying my hair a weird color. Not all of it. Just a big swath down the middle. Some older women can pull this off, especially if they have short hair, as I do. I never quite reach the point of doing this, because I can’t decide on the right color. Sometimes I think it’s purple; other times fuchsia. Maybe even orange. Then again, bright chartreuse could be an option. But never blue; that's an "old lady" tint. As you can see, crazy hair isn't likely to be my first foray into late-life rebel-hood.

I’ve also thought about getting a tattoo. This won’t seem rebellious to most people, since so many women who are otherwise traditional have tattoos these days. I’ve tried to make the case (to myself) that getting my first tattoo after age seventy would qualify as a contrarian act. That dog doesn’t seem to hunt. It may be because I’m not wild about the idea of getting poked by needles again now that I no longer need yearly blood work as part of my cancer follow up. But stick-on tattoos are a cop out.

The final idea I’ve come up with is to wear a long, dangly feather in one ear. This also fails to take flight when I remember that I have a short neck. And also now two cats who would almost certainly see this as one more toy for them to play with. For sure, a neck full of scratches and an earlobe stretched to within an inch of its life would push me over the edge into eccentric. If I’m going to wear that label, I’d rather do it because I’ve rescued six more cats. (Don’t panic, Jagdish; that’s not happening.)

It looks like I’m going to have to accept the fact that at this point in my life, I’m destined to be a rebel without a cause.

Mother’s Day Perspectives

This week, I decided to post on Sunday to celebrate Mother’s Day. My perspective on this day has changed over time. Since I never had any human children, for much of my life the focus of my celebration of this holiday was my own mother. She died the weekend of my fiftieth birthday.

The following Mother’s Day was a sad one for me. It brought home the realization that I no longer had a mother in my life. It affected me almost as much as her actual death had eight months earlier. We have just one mother, and when she is gone there will not be another. My father had predeceased her by twelve years, so I felt somewhat like an orphan.

For most of the years between her death and this year, I had feline children. The celebration of Mother’s Day in our household shifted to me as the mom to our cats. I received cards (with little paw prints) and flowers. It helped ease the sense of loss from not having a mother of my own anymore.

A year ago January, we said goodbye to our fifth and possibly final cat, Luke. I decided to spend at least a year catless, mourning him as he deserved. I wasn’t sure I would want to start a new family at this point in my life. When May came, there was no reason at all to celebrate Mother’s Day. The void in my life was as painful as that first year after my own mother died.

I had never given much thought to being a mother to my cats. I loved and cared for them deeply. I fed them, changed their water and their litter boxes. In their later years, I often dispensed medications or other treatments. Despite the cards and the flowers, I had never framed that attention in my mind as “mothering.” It wasn’t until Luke was gone that I realized that the mother role can have many definitions. I spent over a year not being a mother to anyone, and still, as always now, being motherless.

As January slid into February this year, I began to think about making a home for some rescued cats. Ones whose aging owners had either died or had been forced to give them up. I knew I wouldn’t want to start over with kittens; I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them without a home if they outlived me. I opted for senior felines who might have had a difficult time being placed.

We adopted ten-year-old Kallie in March. She’s a calico and tortoise combination, quiet and gentle. In fairly short time, she began sleeping with me, much as Luke had done once Pansy was no longer with us.

In April we added seven-year-old Stella. She’s what is called a torbie—a tiger and calico combination. She’s a talker and she’s as energetic as Kallie is calm. I’ve given them floral middle names, an echo of my other girls. They're learning to tolerate one another and I’m confidant they’ll soon become friends. 

They have once again allowed me to claim the mantle of motherhood. Jagdish asked what I wanted for Mother’s Day. I said just a card from them, and maybe a small bouquet of flowers from the supermarket. Yesterday, Fedex delivered two dozen red roses—a dozen from each of my new girls. Their greeting card (with cats on the front of course) thanked me for adopting them and giving them a good home.

As Mother’s Day 2016 comes to a close, I look back on my changing perspectives of what that day has meant to me over the years. Once again, I can look with a smile to what the years ahead will bring.

Kallie Jasmine and Stella Periwinkle, thanks for making me a mother again!

Love, Mom.

Big Brother Is Watching

Several items in the media made me realize that Big Brother may be watching us a lot more than we realize. Some of this spying can be helpful, but other applications send a frisson of fear up my spine.

The first report that caught my attention was something I saw in the Daily Skimm, a cleverly written email summary of sometimes arcane news items. There’s now a smart mattress that can tell you if there’s been “activity” on it. At first I thought this was another aspect of the Fitbit craze, to help you figure out how many calories you burned during—um—your sleep activity. As a service to my readers, I did some on-line sleuthing to learn more about this slumber wonder.

It’s made by Durmet, a Spanish company, and it sends an audio alert whenever it’s “in use.” What’s more, it can tell the “duration, intensity and impact per minute” of that usage. The matt-app allows you to trigger certain music when a horizontal mambo is detected. One song that immediately comes to mind is Lay, Lady, Lay, but Tears On My Pillow might be more appropriate if there’s a cheating spouse involved.

A few days after I read about the mattress, the New York Times had a piece on being able to tell whether or not your dog was walked. That tool uses GPS to see where the pet has been. It seems to me that puddles of pee and piles of poop on your rugs would be a more immediate way of knowing if the walker has been ripping you off.

This reminded me of another GPS-based app that I found useful when I was consulting for Brown Development. At the end of the day I would take the Brown shuttle from the building where I worked to the main campus up the hill. Then I’d walk home the remaining mile, usually stopping to see my husband at his store on my way. The shuttle provided on-line updates of where it was along the route. When it was running late, I could keep working at my desk and still catch it without having to wait in the cold.

I think I also read that there are companies that can tell you the location of the pizza you ordered for delivery. Or maybe I just imagined that one. It makes sense, after all. If you think about it, there are quite a few ways that Big Brother could use this type of remote sensing technology. Let’s explore a few of them.

Your dentist could catch you lying about your oral hygiene if the free brush he gave you at your last visit had an app like this embedded. Disproving your flossing would be more of a challenge, and it’s the flossing that really helps keep your gums healthy. I’ll let the scientists among you keep working on that one.

Similar technology could monitor whether or not I really practiced the saxophone when I claimed I had. Maybe it could also produce an audio-graph that would provide clues to what songs I’d played. I’m not sure who would care about this, and frankly, there’s another way to know if I’d been playing. Just see if the cat is hiding under the bed; she’s not a fan of my music.

Speaking of cats and dogs, by putting sensors in their custom brushes, you’d be able to tell how long the salon spent grooming them. In our home, we can judge that by how much of their hair is standing on end from static electricity.

A real Big Brother application would rig the freezer door to tell when it’s been opened and for how long. I’d have a hard time lying about those midnight raids for ice cream. That might be even more effective than a food journal in reducing my caloric intake.

I think the most creative use is something that will put the fear of God in my Catholic readers. Or more accurately, the fear of their parish priests. The same electronics that report what’s going on with the smart mattresses could be embedded in rosary beads. The penance the priest doles out in the confessional would require you to use your beads. If you don’t work your way through the prayers as prescribed, your sins won’t be forgiven. It certainly adds a new dimension to “a good act of contrition.”

I’ve just scratched the surface here. You no doubt have many ideas of your own. Maybe I’m a romantic, but I’m confident our apps would find larger markets than that smart mattress.

Nostalgic Reflections—Demure Edition

Last week’s post on nostalgic reflections was—how shall I put it?—a tad risqué. I’m following up this week with more demure reflections. My husband scored just 45 (out of 90) last week; my sister knew only two items. This week’s quiz gives everyone a chance to redeem themselves. The questions are multiple choice and there may be more than one correct answer for each one. Every correct reply (including lucky guesses) nets you 10 points. Hint: maximum is 120. Answers are again at the end.

By now, you all should know that I played alto sax in school. What other musical instrument(s) did I play in the high school band?

1.     Clarinet

2.     Flute

3.     Glockenspiel

4.     Oboe

5.     Tenor Sax

What foreign language(s) did I study in high school?

1.     French

2.     German

3.     Italian

4.     Latin

5.     Spanish

What bone(s) did I break when I was in school?

1.     Arm

2.     Finger

3.     Foot

4.     Nose

5.     Rib

My Freshmen dorm mates in college called me The Lady in Red. Why?

1.     I wore red sneakers.

2.     I had a red raincoat.

3.     I wore red Dr. Denton-type footed pajamas.

4.     I had a red bedspread and curtains in my room.

5.     I frequently wore a red scarf around my neck.

What sport(s) did I compete in during college?

1.     Archery

2.     Fencing

3.     Field Hockey

4.     Sailing

5.     Skiing

What skill(s) was I never able to master?

1.     Bowling

2.     Knitting

3.     Ping Pong

4.     Touch Typing

5.     Whistling

Answers and Explanations

Other musical instrument(s)? Oboe.

My classmate was a fabulous alto sax player, so there was no way I’d ever get to first chair. I decided to try oboe since the oboist was two years ahead of me. I couldn’t master the double reed, so I settled in as second chair alto sax.

Foreign language(s)? French (2 years), German (1 year) and Latin (3 years).

My brother and I studied Spanish one evening a week in New York City in the seventies. Learning Italian is on my to-do list.

Broken bone(s)? Arm and nose.

I broke my arm twice. Once was by falling off a swing around age 6 and once was ice skating during high school. I also broke my nose water skiing during high school. I broke my foot twice, and my rib once, all after age forty.

Why The Lady in Red? Red bedspread and curtains, which my mother made for me as a birthday present my first year in college.

I did have red sneakers, but those were during high school. I was wearing them in my too-large ice skates when I fell and broke my arm. I had a cute raincoat with mushrooms printed on it, but never a red one. The red Doctor Denton-type pajamas were purchased after college. My trademark neck scarves (in a multitude of colors and prints) also came much later.

Sport(s) Competed In College? Archery, Fencing and Sailing

This was tricky. I competed in archery just once, as a favor to the phys ed teacher. One of the other students was an excellent archer and had a chance for an individual medal. They were short one person to field a team, so I participated to help out. Fencing was also sketchy. I was the only female student fencer. I practiced with that same phys ed teacher and went to just one meet each of my first two years. Sailing was a team sport and I competed throughout the season my freshman year.

I was excused from field hockey my senior year in high school because of my broken nose; I never went back to it in college. And skiing? LOL.

Skill(s) That Escaped Me? Bowling and whistling

I bowled once in grammar school. We were an odd number of kids, so my best friend and I bowled every other frame. I managed five gutter balls and one pin before my friend finished the match for both of us. Try as I might, I’ve never been able to whistle.

I taught myself knitting and made sweaters for two boy friends. I had trophies for ping pong, which is amazing considering I later learned that I have no depth perception. My father made me take typing in high school. He said there was no way he was going to pay to have my term papers typed in college.

Give yourself 10 points for each correct answer. Remember: the maximum score this week is 120. If you scored seventy or above, good job. Ninety or above, congratulations! You’ve qualified as an expert. Now go celebrate with a nice glass of wine.

Nostalgic Reflections—Getting To Know Me

Something I heard last week sent me into flashback mode. It brought to mind words people used to describe me years ago. I realized most folks who know me today would never guess that the phrase referred to me, which in turn led me to create a quiz based on my nostalgic reflections.

Think of this exercise as a way to get to know me. If you like the game, feel free to use it with your friends and family to learn about each other. Answers (True or False unless otherwise noted) and amplifications are provided at the end of this post. Apologies in advance if any of it grosses you out.

Things People Used To Say About Me

1.     She probably sleeps with a coding manual under her pillow.

2.     Her normal expression is half way between neutral and negative.

3.     I bet she’s really a blonde and dyes her hair brown to look smarter.

4.     Ask her what time it is and she’ll tell you how a watch is made.

5.     She has brass __________. (Fill in the blank.)

Things I Did On A Dare As A Kid

1.     Tackled and kissed a boy on the school bus.

2.     Ate a freeze-dried worm.

3.     Pooped in the woods.

4.     Stole a tube of Tangee orange lipstick from F. W. Woolworth’s.

5.     Rode my sled down the steep “boys’” hill.

Nicknames People Had For Me Over The Years

1.     Bugle Butt

2.     Elaine the Pain

3.     Imelda Decker

4.     Sax Kitten

5.     Suzy Potts

Answers and Amplifications

Things People Used To Say About Me

1.     Sleeps with coding manual… True. My first career was in computer programming and systems, and my colleagues acknowledged that I was damn good at it.

2.     Expression between neutral and negative… True. I was extremely focused and serious. This trait kept me from being mugged on my daily walk from the Port Authority to Colgate Palmolive and back.

3.     Really a blonde… False. I’ve never been accused of trying to look smarter. In fact, I tried bleaching my hair with peroxide when I was in seventh grade.

4.     Ask what time and get a watch… True. My colleagues thought I answered everything in too much detail.

5.     Brass __________. Balls. Could there be any other answer?

Things I Did On A Dare As A Kid (Can you tell I was a tomboy?)

1.     Kissed boy on school bus. True. It was a wood paneled station wagon. I pinned him on the floor while I planted a wet one. There was a lot of cheering.

2.     Ate a worm. False. This is sort of a trick question. While I didn’t eat a freeze-dried worm, I did eat a fried grasshopper on a dare. It wasn’t all that bad.

3.     Pooped in woods. True. It was a struggle; I couldn’t even fart on cue, but I was determined to win the dare.

4.     Stole lipstick… False. Orange Tangee was my color, but I didn’t steal a tube. Weekly confession was an effective deterrent.

5.     Sledded down the “boys’” hill… True. I crashed into bramble bushes and cut my wrist on the runner. (Defective steering mechanism.) But I earned kudos from the boys—the same ones who dared me to kiss on the bus and poop in the woods.

Nicknames People Had For Me Over The Years

1.     Bugle Butt. True. This was given by one of my college boyfriends and whatever you’re thinking is probably correct. He had an odd skill: he could play the trumpet using just his mouth. I told myself that explained his affection for brass wind instruments. If only we had Sir Mix-A-Lot in the sixties. “I like big butts and I can not lie.”

2.     Elaine the Pain. True. No explanation needed.

3.     Imelda Decker. True. I had about 50 pairs of shoes. One lunch break I bought five pairs at Saks Fifth Avenue (just a block from Colgate Palmolive). I got two each of two styles of Mary Jane heels, in four luscious colors. The fifth pair was navy T-straps. Imelda Marcos had nothing on me.

4.     Sax Kitten. False. I played alto sax in high school, and there were jokes about sax appeal, but never a nickname.

5.     Suzy Potts. True. My parents called me that. At least, I thought they did. Turns out they were saying “you’re crazy” in the Italian dialect of my mother’s family. I misunderstood and they let me think it was a term of endearment. I signed cards to them “Love, Suzy Potts” even after I learned the truth.

Give yourself 5 points for each correct answer. If you scored over 55, you’re a good friend. Seventy or above makes me suspicious that you skipped to the end.

Election Alphabet

The primaries leading up to the Presidential election this Fall have created a new lexicon of media vocabulary. See how many words and phrases in my Election Alphabet you’ve heard or read during the campaigns. Don’t be surprised to see a second edition of this at year-end.

A You’re no longer adorable; you’re abhorrent, especially if you’re Trump’s policy about banning Muslims from entering the U.S.

B Bombastic, a bully, a bigot and a blowhard. Only one candidate has earned all these monikers.

C A carpet bomb is not an ugly rug made in the Middle East. Like Raid, it involves an aerial assault to eradicate vermin at ground level.

D Is for divisive and disgusting, the former frequently used to describe Trump’s rhetoric, and the latter being his go-to word for anything his rivals do or say to offend him. But my favorite election d-word is demagogue. That’s because it transforms so easily into demigod, which has me picturing Trump grunting: “Me God, You Jane.”

E Candidates positions evolve during a campaign. Evolution is how one candidate tries to out-flank his or her opponents. Often the state holding the next primary is a deciding factor in how much a candidate evolves. And in which direction.

F Fingers are the new measure of someone’s manhood. In my salad days it was feet. I suppose it’s good to know what our candidates’ hands are up to.

G Pay attention to what’s happening at the grass roots level and to the ground game. Do not confuse these with gray roots or ground hogs. Or Colorado’s grass game.

H Two of Trump’s favorite words—huge to describe everything he’s going to do (and his fingers, apparently) and horrible to characterize his opponents.

I More monikers for you-know-who. Irrational, ill-informed, irascible and irritating.

J Is for Japan. See Nuclear Triad (Donald Trump’s).

K Kerfuffle describes a back-and-forth between candidates that’s reported in the media. Both parties fuel kerfuffles, especially during political talk shows.

L Labels Trump uses for his opponents—low-energy (originally stuck on Jeb Bush, now transferred to Hillary) and liar, liar, pants on fire (slapped onto Lyin’ Ted Cruz).

M A movement to engage first time voters, such as Bernie’s Democratic Socialism and Trump’s White Supremacy.

N Nuclear triad—land, sea and air; or in Trump’s case—North Korea, South Korea and Japan.

O A trio—obfuscating, obstructionist and outsider—that describes a number of candidates. “Outsider” is supposed to be a badge of honor. The question is whose chest it truly belongs on.

P Some pairings. Polls and primaries, in which the former seldom predict the results in the latter. Also persona and presidential, meaning Trump’s primary shenanigans are simply a persona he took on to fire up supporters. He assures us that when he’s elected, he’ll be more presidential than anybody.

Q The early Republican debates were quarrelsome, querulous and quirky.

R Is for Rat-f—ker, a peculiar descriptive employed by Ted Cruz. It was intended to explain what he’d rather do with a rodent than with Donald Trump. Wasn’t “none of the above” one of the choices?

S Stands for sycophants and suck-ups, two ways to portray the same people. They make up that concrete floor of Trump supporters.

T Has to be Twitter, Trump’s main form of communication with his sycophants and suck-ups. His tweets may set the Twittersphere on fire, but 70% of women say he doesn’t light theirs.

U Uninformed is what Trump is on foreign policy (see his nuclear triad). Don’t panic. He’ll be OK if you give him an earbug with Hillary on the other end.

V Trump’s tweets go viral. This is not the same as virile. Someone please tell Donald.

W Walk-back—the latest way to describe a candidate’s change in position on an issue, because “evolve” doesn’t always cover it. Trump walked back his stance on punishment for illegal abortions several times. I can’t leave the letter W without mentioning wives. Trump and Cruz got into a kerfuffle over whose wife made prettier arm candy. I suppose that’s better than arguing over whose hands are bigger.

X No, a xenophobe is not a musical instrument. The hatred of foreigners strikes a sour note, even when it’s masquerading as nationalism in the Republican primary.

Y Yuge is the phonetic spelling of Trump’s favorite word to describe his accomplishments (and probably his hands). A Yugo, on the other hand, is a defunct car. The Yugo was not yuge and was the butt of many jokes. Draw your own conclusions.

Z Zero is the chance of election vocabulary becoming civilized any time soon.