My Christmas Combo

A portrait of my winter reading list, compliments of my friends and family this Christmas - each of which, I'm unreasonably eager to dive into. Evidently, I possess a wide spectrum of interests. I also have friends and family who know me eerily well.

:)

Flapper Speak

Hats off to the ladies of Stuff Mom Never Told You; they've done it yet again with this week's podcast on the history of flappers. As they recount, there's a lot more to flappers than cigarettes and fringe. Most amusing for me - their language. The vernacular used during the 1920's, I've discovered, is not merely ingenious and impossible to decipher. It's also, somehow, still very much ingrained in my vocabulary. Behold...

applesauce: flattery, nonsense
bank's closed: no kissing or making out
beercat: a hot-blooded or fiery girl
berries: (1) perfect (2) money
cake-eater: a lady's man
cat's meow: great or cool
dewdropper: a young man who sleeps all day and doesn't have a job
dogs: feet
ducky: very good
egg: a person who lives the big life
fag: a cigarette
floorflusher: an insatiable dancer
futz: a euphanism for the f-bomb
giggle water: booze
handcuff: engagement ring
hope chest: a pack of cigarettes
joint: an establishment
juice joint: a speakeasy
mind your potatoes: mind your own business
nookie: sex
on a toot: a drinking binge
quiff: a slut or cheap prostitute
rag-a-muffin: a dirty or disheveled individual
razz: to make fun of
rhatz!: how disappointing!
rub: a student dance party
rummy: a drunken bum
splifficated: drunk
stilts: legs
sugar daddy: older boyfriend who showers girl with money/gifts in exchange for sex
swanky: good or elegant
tomato: a 'ripe' female
torpedo: a hired thug or hitman
vamp: a seducer of men
zozzled: drunk

I'd like to grab some giggle water - the beercat that I am - and go on a toot. Mind your potatoes! I'm not looking for any handcuffs, especially from these dewdroppers about town. I'm looking for the joint that doesn't mind a good floorflusher and a zozzled tomato.

Allow the reintroduction of flapper speak to begin. Call me an egg, and meet me at the juice joint.

A Toast to Hardcore

I'm not gonna lie, I like to think of myself as fairly hardcore. We're not talking monster truck driving, chick fighting, porn star hardcore. I'm more of an obsessive compulsive perfectionist with a lot of energy and an addictive personality. Which... easily lends itself to goals achieved only through extreme commitment. And I must say, as I look back on the past month, the badge of hardcore honor goes to me.

Sixty-hour work weeks feel like cake walks, and multiple trips to Last Chance each week have become customary to round out my extensive Christmas list. (For those of you who aren't familiar with Last Chance - it's a warehouse discount clothing store in which shoving, kicking, aggressive shopping and stalking of staff are essential in order to get the good stuff. There's also an underground barter system among the "regulars" and I'm getting closer and closer to becoming a member of the club) Six mile runs are now short, and don't limit me from going out the night prior with girlfriends to local blues bars and dancing until the wee hours of the morning. December 25 calls for a 10 mile run, and even in the snowy land of Ohio (where you'll find me come Christmas), I'm really looking forward to it.

Also, I finished my holiday shopping on time. Self proclaimed as hardcore, and no less proud to boot. A Celebration Ale is in order.