Cliches

I have a love-hate relationship with cliches. On the one hand they embody the trite, the unoriginal, the shopworn. On the other hand they are linguistic shortcuts, the common currency of our verbal interactions. Imagine if we had to laboriously explain cliches each time they were spoken and you get an idea of how much time we save by using them.

Proverbs are cliched notions that have wormed their way into a folksy vernacular: "A stitch in time saves nine," "Don't count your chickens before they are hatched," etc. I don't really have problem with these; they have stood the test of time (another entry in the cliched phraseology hall of fame). They are so familiar, in fact, that we don't need to produce the whole sentence to convey the idea. Simply stating "don't count your chickens" is enough. Maybe someday we will evolve to the point that declaring "chickens!" (or texting dcyc) does the trick. But I digress.

The cliches that cause me indigestion are the newer ones--those that meet the trite test but are not time-tested (can all those T's be accidental?). New enough that they are often uttered with the air of having hit on a new idea, a clever turn of phrase, but old enough to make me wince inwardly when I hear them. I think in this age of constant and instant communication, this plague of cliches hits harder than it used to--original thought is under constant threat.

Specifics you say? Well okay. How about thinking outside the box? I simply don't anymore. I will think everywhere BUT outside the box. So there.

Can we agree to disagree? No, we can't. What that says to me is "I am right, but my time is too valuable to waste arguing with you." And that just makes me want to short-sheet your bed. Also argue about this topic and any other that comes to mind. You lose either way, believe me.

What goes around comes around. Perhaps, but not as often as it should.

It is what it is. Technically this is a sentence but I think it should be downgraded to a punctuation mark, along the lines of a period. Why? Because it doesn't actually add meaning, other than symbolic, and it will stop a conversation cold.

I could go on, but I think you catch my drift. One of the biggest problems I have with cliches is that they are so seductive. My efforts to avoid using them probably gives my speech a somewhat halting quality, like a reformed stutterer. It is not that I am trying to not repeat myself--I am trying to not repeat myself and thousands of others. That is why I like analogies. Ideally, they are composed on the fly and the most successful are both unexpected and apropos. I keep trying for the bullseye in this extreme linguistic sport.

So, finally, this latest thing of asking questions and then answering them? Talk about total control of the conversation. Do I think this is really lame? Yes, I do. Have I caught myself doing this? Sadly, yes. Did I hate myself in the morning?
You know I did.

Chickens

It seems fitting to write about chickens three days before Easter, and about eggs as well. (My favorite philosophical question has to be the chicken/egg conundrum and I invoke it frequently in a work setting, but this is about chickens and eggs in a very real sense.) It is actually, specifically, about the eggs in this photograph. You may not be able to tell from looking at them, but these eggs came from happy chickens. At least this is what I am told by the man who should know.

Who is this man? Well, he has a place on my list of good people to connect with should the shit ever hit the fan in a major way. Not because he is an attorney (though he is) but because he is also a doctor, and a chicken farmer. Yeah, I know, but no, I am not going to share his name or the location of his farm.

So this is a person who provides both medical advice and eggs, and mostly I take advantage of the eggs. Eggs from happy chickens do add complications to any baking activity. For starters, and I probably don't even have to say this, the ugly eggs get broken and used first. That sometimes makes for hard decisions. The pretty eggs get transferred from one box to the next until finally I feel compelled to crack them into something--an omelet, a pan of brownies, wherever their fate takes them. In addition, each egg must be broken into a separate container--I learned this the hard way because even though they are nature's perfect package, eggs still have a shelf life. (Especially the fertilized eggs which I like to think came from especially happy chickens.)

I like the green ones best and when the green-egg-laying chickens were swept away by the Spring 2008 floods I felt the loss very personally. Fortunately a new generation has matured to take their place and I can once again count on green eggs amongst my dozen. Every once in awhile, I save pieces of shell because they are exactly the color that I want to paint my bedroom walls. For some reason these are eventually determined to be cooking refuse and are thrown away by someone (who coincidentally wants white walls in every room).

Never mind--there are plenty of eggs and shells to take their place--and all of them from happy chickens.

Happy Easter!