Nicknames I’ve Known and Loved

Two reports in a recent NY Times daily news flash caught my eye because of hilarious nicknames in the headlines. I want to appropriate both of them. I’ve had quite a few affectionate labels applied to me over the years, but I’m ready to add some new ones, ones I’ve selected myself.

The first was a moniker adopted by Priscilla Villarreal, whose colorful posts on Facebook have brought her notoriety. She reports on activity at the Laredo, TX border and calls herself “La Gordiloca,” or “The Crazy Fat Lady”.

My family already thinks of me as The Crazy Cat Lady. My late brother-in-law gave me a sleep shirt years ago with that phrase emblazoned on the front. I still wear it. I’d need to change just one letter to make it match my new nickname. Well, not actually, because the label I really want is La Gordiloca. I’ve been complaining about my weight for years now, and I’ll be the first to admit I’m crazy. Saying this in Spanish would sound sexier.

Moving on to the second item in the Times that day. It had to do with the brilliant pianist in the hit movie Green Book, Dr. Don Shirley. The article by David Hajdu reported on an exchange between two of Dr. Shirley’s friends. They used the initials F. B. in referring to the pianist. It stood for “Funky Butt,” composer Luther Henderson’s nickname for the pianist. Seriously? The article didn’t explain exactly how the term of dubious affection came about. I don’t really care. I want to co-opt it anyway.

I have good reasons to do this. My freshman boyfriend in college called me Bugle Butt. I swear I wasn’t prone to farting, so you can wipe the smirk off your face. That wasn’t the source of the nickname. I weighed about 110 pounds at the time, but I had a lot of junk in the trunk even then. The boyfriend had an unusual talent. He could make sounds like a trumpet just using his lips. I assume that he tried out Trumpet Butt for me first and quickly changed it to the alliterative Bugle Butt.

In my first marriage, I would dance around, singing “la, la-a-a…” and shaking my behind, earning me the pet name Fabulous Fanny, the Famous Flamenco Dancer. My husband even gave me a Steiff mouse dressed as a Spanish señorita for Christmas. Fanny and Bugle Butt don’t have the same allure as the more provocative Funky Butt.

Around the same time, I had a friend I didn’t see often, but we spoke for hours on the phone. Stay with me now. I gave her a white bear that we named Pasha (it somehow looked Russian). It was a companion to my bear, Fanny. When I phoned, I’d identify myself as Fanny Slanders, all set to gossip, and I’d ask how Pasha Galoop was doing.

This brings me around to my very first nickname. My parents called me Suzy Potts. Or at least that’s what I thought it was. Sometime in my twenties I learned what they were really saying. It was tu sei pazzo. In my mother’s southern Italian dialect she pronounced tu like thu. She was saying: “You’re crazy!” That’s my earliest claim to ownership of the “crazy” label.

My mother bestowed other variations of pazzo on me. After I learned what Suzy Potts really meant, my mother migrated to telling me I was pazzo che lupo—(loosely translated as) “what a crazy wolf.” I have no idea why Italians think wolves are crazy, but it works for me. Many Italian jokes using southern dialect feature a man named the Anglicized Pacha Galoop. And that’s how my friend’s bear became Pasha Galoop.

So, now you can see why I’d consider La Gordiloca and Funky Butt a step up in my history of nicknames. Well, Gordiloca anyway. I’m still not sure what makes a butt funky. Until I figure that out, I may just keep that one on hold.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

It’s A Mad, Mad World

Perhaps everyone went mad some time ago. Maybe I’m just noticing it more with the Presidential election behind us. Whatever the explanation, I’ve no doubt that we now live in a mad, mad world.

This notion really hit me when I heard about women in a Boston-area retirement home knitting sweaters for chickens. They provide their distaff skills for fowl that can’t keep warm in New England. These are apparently tinier birds that shed their feathers in winter months or ones that come from tropical climates. The video that accompanied the piece was adorable, and a spokesperson said egg production has improved since the birds began wearing these jumpers. It still seems like a madcap endeavor to me.

Keeping with the subject of animals, but sadly in a cruel way, a group of poachers broke into the rhino enclosure in a wildlife preserve in a Paris suburb one night. They shot and killed a rare white rhino and sawed off one of his horns. Rhino horn, when powdered, is believed to have “medicinal properties” in some Asian countries. It’s maddening that animals aren’t safe even in zoos anymore. I wish someone would cut off the erect appendages of everyone in the supply-and-demand chain for this exotic powder.

Next we have a report of a $26,500 fine for a Calgary man who tied 100 helium balloons to a lawn chair almost two years ago. His lift off went up about two and a half miles, creating a danger for airplanes. No word on whether he was still in the chair at the time. Also no explanation of why it took this long to decide the fine, which can easily be calculated to be $265 per balloon. Crazy Canadians. At least he wasn’t playing “Around the World” on the saxophone while he soared. (That was for you, Lynn.)

In the realm of good news for those on fixed incomes, we have a quote from Charles M. Becker (not Decker) of Duke University, by way of Time magazine. “Trailer parks can be thought of as gated communities for people who aren’t so wealthy.” Yeah. And jails can be thought of as gated communities for criminals, while insane asylums are gated communities for those who have gone mad since the election. They have waiting lists.

Since I can’t avoid talking politics if the subject is a mad, mad world…

Deputy Press Secretary, Sarah Huckabee Sanders, one of the President’s spokespersons, answered Martha Raddatz’s question about the alleged Obama wiretaps with: “I will let the President speak for himself.” Newsflash: dictionary definition: “Spokesperson: a person who speaks for someone else.” It’s not: “Spokesperson: a person who let’s someone else speak for himself.” Maybe she meant to say: “I will let the President tweet for himself.” We can’t fault her for that.

Finally, still on politics, Rex Tillerson, Trump’s Secretary of State, is also quoted in Time, saying: “I didn’t want this job.” We’re not sure that Trump wanted his new job, either. But Steve Bannon and Mike Pence would sure love to have it. Eeny, meeny, miny, mo…

Retirement Issues — The New Crazy

The psychiatrists’ bible for diagnosing mental illness is the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM), which came out in 1952. A revision is issued every twelve to twenty years. A new one is coming next year, and apparently it’s a doozy. Time claims: “It will literally redefine what is normal.”

As a service to my fellow retirees, I’ve looked into the behaviors that will now be considered abnormal. There may be 50 ways to leave your lover, but according to the new DSM, there are 350 ways to say you’re crazy. That means 350 diagnoses for which your psychiatrist can bill your insurance company.

The first thing to watch out for is an “irritable mood.” If you’re in one for more than a week and it can’t be explained by a medical condition or by drugs you’re taking, you could be diagnosed as manic or depressive. I don’t know about you, but I’ve reached a point in life where there’s not much that doesn’t irritate me. They should just stamp “subject to irritable moods” on my driver’s license.

A trip to the supermarket can leave me cranky for days. It might be the way they bagged the order. (How hard can it be to put the cans under the things that go squish?) Or maybe they forgot to ask for my coupons (and in a senior moment I forgot to present them). And it’s Katy bar the door if I didn’t get my senior discount! I’ll be called manic as sure as there’s little green apples.

Another condition to be careful of is “loss of interest.” Once again, duh! After 66 years as a type A personality, how long do they really think I can stay interested in anything that isn’t dipped in chocolate or poured from a wine bottle? According to the new DSM, if I don’t find something that tickles my fancy within a two-week period, I could be sucked into a “major depressive episode.”

Oh, lordy, I’m doomed. Binge eating (now a disorder) will be defined as “eating until feeling uncomfortably full.” My mother made us clean our plates at each meal. “Think of the starving children in China.” I always eat until I’m feeling uncomfortably full. How else are you supposed to know when to stop? It’s kind of like drinking wine until you have a pleasant buzz on.

I will spare you the details of Internet addiction, sex addiction and female orgasmic disorder. I’m doing this under the assumption that those problems are of more interest to a younger audience. Or at least that your psychiatrist will assume that they are, so you won’t need to address a diagnosis for any of them.

Many DSM diagnoses are psychoses or neuroses—disorders and episodes. Retirees are more prone to phobias. Actually, retirees tend to be more prone, period, which makes those sessions on the couch a lot easier. My research has uncovered both disorders and phobias for retirees that the new DSM missed.

Do you frequently not know if you’re coming or going? If this occurs more than twice a day or lasts more than ten minutes, you suffer from Bi-directional Disorder. Other signs you have this are not remembering if you were going up or down the stairs or in or out of a room. Likewise if you find yourself standing in front of the refrigerator or a cupboard, door in hand, wondering if you were opening it or closing it. 

A problem that eventually occurs in retirement is Ambivalent Disorder. Sure signs are when a former colleague who is still working describes some office crisis and you realize you simply don’t give a fig. Psychiatrists haven’t yet decided whether to treat this disorder or to celebrate it.

Moving on to retirees’ phobias. You’re likely familiar with two fears related to answering phones in the evening. Robophobia—or as I like to call it, RoboFobo—is the fear of getting one of those automatic sales calls in the middle of dinner. Even worse is Croakaphobia, which sadly becomes more common as we move through retirement. That’s the fear of getting the call that some family member or dear friend has passed away.

The constellation of movement phobias is prevalent in retirees. Klutzaphobia is the fear of bumping into things. Closely related is Stumblaphobia, the fear of tripping over something. When it becomes extreme, it morphs into Tumblaphobia, the fear of falling down.

These disorders and phobias are of major concern to retirees. If we lobby via AARP, we may still be able to get them included in the upcoming revised DRM. If we to have to wait another twelve years for Medicare coverage, we could need more than medication to deal with them. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Wine anyone?