Thingies and all that stuff
For someone who loves words as much as I do, I suppose it could be considered a bit surprising that I am so lazy about the use of them in conversation. But often, I seem to be unable to drag the appropriate word out of my cluttered little mind in a timely fashion and so I simply resort to the use of "replacement words". You know what I mean... we all do it from time to time. Here are a few examples of what I'm talking about:
"Pass me the "thingy" on the dresser, will you?"
"Dana's bringing "whats-his-name" with her again, is she? He seems nice"
The reality of the situation is that quite often, use of replacement words doesn't make any difference at all to the understanding of the listener. If you are actually in the room with the dresser, the "thingy" is likely easy to identify. If you know Dana, process of elimination will provide "whats-his-name" with a moniker soon enough - especially if you know him well enough to comment on his nice-ness.
But there are other times when this type of verbal "fluffing" can get a bit trickier. Case in point - you just got a new toy, appliance, backyard shelter, crib... and need to describe putting it together for someone who's never seen it before. Usually, with me - it goes a bit like this:
"It's easy to put back together... fold the doo-hickey up and slide it between the beige flangy-thing and the silvery piece on the left hand side. Then use two of the thing-a-ma-bobs in that blue cup to tighten the leggish-bits. Can someone hand me a "star" screwdriver?" Yes - ask anyone... I really talk like that.
Now, I’ve often shared that my dear, departed father was proud of his 3 girls - and would tell anyone who listened that we out-classed most men when it came to common sense and technical abilities. (He exaggerated... we're good, but I don't think we're that good.)
But poor Dad struggled for years to impress upon me that it isn't a "star" screwdriver, nor is it a Robertson. It's a Phillips. (I had to look that up on Google just now - for even after numerous decades of reminders (some delivered with an astonishing number of swear-words attached), my grey-matter refuses to glom onto this fact. Its as if my brain is a teflon frying pan and that information is a freshly cooked egg in a '70's TV commercial.) He also despaired mightily of ever getting me to do a proper measuring job. The measurement of the window sill? It is thirty-two and a half inches and 3 little "dibbies". Check it yourself.
As years passed, I flung away all pretense at trying to remember the correct words or terms. Our time on earth is limited, and I firmly believe that life is too precious to waste on worrying about making sure we give things the proper labels. And so if you ever find yourself pitching a tent with me as a helper or (heaven forbid) putting up stove-pipe while I'm in the room, you'll just have to bear with me. If its blue - its the "blue thingy". You're smart - you'll figure it out.
