One Word

One of my favorite questions, when I'm getting to know a new friend, is, "If you had to choose one word to describe yourself, what would it be?"  I've thought about it lots, and "mercurial" is usually how I describe myself.  But that can change, depending on my mood.

I've chosen a new one.  For now.  "Picaresque."  Dontcha just love to add "esque" to the end of words?  It makes anything sound smart.  For example, instead of saying, "He's a big old redneck,"if you say, "Oh, my.  He's quite Hillbillyesque." you sound like a scientist observing a lab rat instead of like a snobbish person whose mantra starts with "There, but for the grace of God, go I."

The best one, though, is "Kafkaesque."  I think that describes me perfectly.  Actually, combine "Picaresque" and "Kafkaesque," and you have me. 

Don't you just love words?

Ok.  If you notice a change in my writing style, I must find it incumbent to tell you about the catalyst.  Ignatius J. Reilley.  Here's one of my favorite quotes:

“I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

I decided to read this book again, after a long, fallow period, during which the extent of my literary pursuits was limited to Cosmopolitan and Better Homes & Gardens magazines.  With the occasional Oprah thrown in for good measure. 

I was pleased to remember how hilarious it was.  Laugh-out-loud-esque, in fact!

I so identified with Ignatius.  There are a myriad of ways, but I'll describe only one, for now.

I started a silly, little, quasi-job today.  After five grueling hours, I was hobbling on my swollen feet.  I was too exhausted to assume a Samuel-Gompers-esque role among my fellow, down-trodden, indentured servants.  The inferior lunch I inhaled during my nine and one half minutes (I had to allow thirty seconds to walk to the break room and back) cost me precisely 45 minutes of hard labor, after taxes.  If I had deigned to purchase any of the products I was hawking, I would have been better off staying home, playing Words with Friends, and watching Toddlers-and-Tiaras-marathons.  I have GOT to catch that Honey-Boo-Boo sensation.  I feel like a pariah, pretending to appreciate the latest rage.

Speaking of pretending...  After three hours and twenty-three minutes at my daring new endeavor, I decided to employ some mercenary-esque techniques.  In an attempt to extol the virtues of my most exhorbitantly expensive elixer, I devised a dishonest deception regarding said potion.  In a trembling attempt at tempting potential patrons to partake of my products, I proudly proclaimed that I was 77 years old.  And that I'd discovered the fountain of youth in the form of a 0.025 ounce jar of serum (that sounds more valuable than "cream.")  And that since I'd started this beauty regimen, I'd been told by my numerous new admirers that I didn't look a day over 67.  I said this with a straight face.

Since I'm only 51, I hoped this yarn would provide enough margin of error to prevent any embarrassing intercourse.  Fortunately, none of my potential patrons believed me.  Unfortunately, I struggled with assessing the ages of the lovely ladies I so assiduously assaulted with my apologue.

Well, like IJR, I'm exhausted after an extremely stressful spell of struggling in a sweatshop, selling scents.  And like him, I adore alliteration.

Wow.  I'm worn out.  Wiped out.  Worthless.

Exhaustedly yours,

Elizabeth (my new nom de plume)