Category Archives: thaumasmus

Thaumasmus (thau-mas’-mus): To marvel at something rather than to state it in a matter of fact way.

Consider the bumblebee. It makes a buzzing sound. It circles around. I eats from flowers. It is nice to look at. It is a marvel to behold. Not quite a butterfly, but more than a mosquito. They don’t flutter. They don’t suck your blood and make you itch.

Bumblebees remind me of my grandmother who lives with us. She’s not an exact match, but she’s close enough. When she sleeps at night, or takes a nap in her chair, she makes a buzzing sound. Sometimes she sniffles, but most of the time she buzzes. It is a wonder to behold—Grandma sounds like an snoring insect!

Grandma eats from flowers too! Well actually, she drinks from flowers. She has a silver tulip cup that she was given by “John” when she worked in a hotel room in New Orleans back in the 60s. “John” would fill it with Southern Comfort and she would drink it down before they “bounced up and down” New Orleans style. “John” disappeared the day after his probation officer visited them and asked what they were doing. “John” was honest. Grandma said he was stupid. She lost $5.00 cash each week. But, another “John” soon came along. He was wealthy so he “donated” $8.00 per week to Grandma. It was like a windfall after the other “John.”

Around that time, pole dancing was invented. It paid $2.00 per hour. Grandma jumped at the chance to “dance” naked with a shiny silver pole. She wore only a rubber band on her wrist to hold the cash that patrons slipped her. Between her tips and wages she was able to buy a car. She rented it to tourists. Surprisingly it wasn’t stolen. That’s when Grandma met Mel. He owned a car wash called “Kleen Weels.” They fell in love and got married. That’s when my mother was born. Soon after, Mel was gunned down in the “Car Wash Wars.” Grandma raised my mom as a single parent.

Between Mel’s life insurance, the car rental business, and pole dancing the two of them were well off. My mom was home-tutored and went Tulane University where, in addition to her B.S. in engineering, she got a law degree.

Now, Grandma is a bag of wrinkles who’s headed for the last roundup. Every once-in-awhile she yells “Get your fu*kin’ hands offa me!” She frequently walks around the house naked asking “Where’s the fu*kin’ stage?” Sometimes she asks where “John” is—“He owes me five fu*kin’ dollars.”

Anyway, we love grandma. We don’t give a fu*k about her past.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

Thaumasmus (thau-mas’-mus): To marvel at something rather than to state it in a matter of fact way.

This is totally unbelievable. It’s like meeting a shark in a movie theater rest room or having a toad jump out of an orange you’re about to peel and eat, or seeing your grandma levitating over her bed pan.

Unprecedented!

I was taking a shower two days in a row! Don’t cry for me Argentina. I have adopted a new hygiene regime. I’m tired of people saying “What’s that smell?” when I approach them. And then, when I get close to them, they say things like “I smell raw onions” or “Did you roll in fertilizer?”

Until now, taking a shower has always been a choice for me—a sort of political statement and expression of my autonomy. I cut back to once-a-month in the sixties when everybody had an axe to grind. My smell went with my long hair and beard. People would say: “Where did you get that righteous smell, Dude?” Or “Far out on the odor, man.” I was a walking talking site of protest. I had a slogan I would chant in elevators and other closed places: “if you don’t like my smell, go ahead and go to hell.” When I said it in an elevator people would applaud and yell “Right on, man. Stink man, stink—stink it to the man.”

I was on top of my game. I had a purpose in life. I smelled. I wafted. I showed all those sweet-smelling losers that they were victims of the odor industry, masking the smells God gave them to find peace, love and happiness on the ripe winds of B.O.

It is 1980 now and those days are gone over. Now, my odor is seen as a sign of neglect and even neurosis. I had smelled the way I had smelled for over a decade and my world was falling apart. I had no friends and I had trouble keeping a job due to my smell. My last job was at McDonald’s. I thought the smell of the kitchen would mask my B.O., but it didn’t. People said my smell was ruining their meals. I was fired. As I was going out the door a woman grabbed me by the arm. She smelled like me. She said: “I know what you’re going through, dude.”

She has saved my life.

We sat on a park bench and started talking. Her name was Chive and she said she was tired of catcalls and abuse for her smell. She realized she couldn’t change the world. She was ready for a change. She had a paper bag with two bars of Dial Soap in it. We went to her place and showered together. It was ecstasy. We vowed to start with two showers per week and then, eventually a shower every day would be our goal.

There I was, holding the soap and waiting for Chive.

We were only at day two, but given that we showered together, I was converted. It was wonderful. I was sure that after today our smells would be controlled.

I was so grateful that Chive had come into my life—so suddenly, just at the right time.

The sixties were groovy, but wow, the eighties were going to be dope. After a week, we were already set to be married and had already settled on the name of our first child: Glade.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

Thaumasmus (thau-mas’-mus): To marvel at something rather than to state it in a matter of fact way.

Dear Ma,

Oh wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! I am stupefied, flabbergasted, and flipped out. I am bonkers. Over the rainbow. Flying high. Beamed up. Rockin’ out. You finally answered one of my emails. It only took two years. But I am persistent. You’re my mother. I thought it would take only a couple of weeks to get through to you. Look, I’ll put my cards on the table: I ruined your life, to a certain extent. When you found Dad rollin’ between the sheets with one of Jessy’s community college friends, anger was appropriate. You saw them, but they didn’t see you. You watched through a crack in the door, as they groaned and twisted and squirmied around like a couple of earthworms in heat. You snapped, but you pretended nothing was wrong. Dad had made a fool out of himself, slobbering after somebody half his age, but beautiful, smart and artistically inclined. She made beautiful hand-cut doilies and paper mache planet mobiles that she sold at the town market on Thursdays. She was so much better than you, but that shouldn’t matter to an aging overweight woman who used to be average-looking before the big butt and saggy boobies took over—and the dye job on your hair. It’s not a real hair color—it looks like pumpkin pie, but it smells like hard-boiled eggs. But you’re a mature, smart woman with a PhD in European Angst Studies. I thought you would’ve borne your woes like a weight lifter bench pressing hell and anger, using them to build you up, not tear you down.

I thought you could take it after you told me what had happened. I thought your education and life experiences would get you by. When you asked to borrow my pistol to learn “another skill,” I thought nothing of it. Dad seemed a little worried, but I paid no attention. He worried about everything. I still remember how he worried when Japanese beetles started eating his garden. He just sat by the garden box shaking his head, and then, lit the garden on fire.

But anyway, we went to the shooting range a couple of times, and then you told me you were ready. “Ready for what?” I asked. You said, “You’ll see.” Then I realized you were going to shoot Dad. I called 911. There was a two-day stand-off with cops circling our house. You made Dad dance to the tune of the pistol, firing toward his feet. Then, you put the gun down on the kitchen table. You surrendered and the police took you away. You got five years. What a shame.

Dad and Lucinda are having a baby. They are so happy, and so am I. Please stay away from us when you get out of prison. It could only lead to trouble. By the way, you left behind some jewelry. Do you mind if I sell it?

Your son,

Joey

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.