As a rule, I enjoy writing. But today it would appear I have nothing much to say. That is, I have a lot to say but it is not of any importance. Thoughts come and go and ideas peek out of the morass of day to day living. But inevitably my best ideas are swallowed by sleep, appearing as they do just when I can’t keep my eyes open in anticipation of the sandman’s visit. Which brings up one of my super non-important questions … why a sandman? Why not a sleep-witch, or a snooze-fairy? Where does he sleep … the sandman … when he is at home? Does he have a family that lives at the beach?  Does he carry the sand in a bag or does he just sort of disintegrate all over your face? Did anyone ever think about how scary that might be for a child trying to fall asleep? These questions flit through my mind like so many dust motes looking for a flat surface. I mean, Is the whole sandman thing really worth writing about?

At what point does a random thought or idea become a topic?

Is it enough to be irritated by the treachery of old age, or do I need to be angry? After all, it’s hard to be angry about aging when I can never seem to recall what it is that sets me off. So where do I start?

When it seems as if my extremities have become elastic and exist for the sole purpose of banging into doorjambs and curbs, is there really enough of an idea there to write about? I mean everybody whacks their knuckles on the counter because their hand is moving to a different drummer, and missed the cue to turn right along with the rest of your body, right? So, do I write about it because it is a sort of universal truth, or is it too trivial and nobody cares?

And while we are on the subject of useless inane meaningless ideas, have you ever thought of how many words are synonymous with fiddle-dee-dee or fol-der-rol? I looked them up one day and composed a list. And then I had no idea what to do with it.

Should I compose a thesis exploring the guilt associated with throwing out packaging? I wage a never-ending battle against my mother’s legacy of hoarding boxes and bags, along with everything else that might come in handy one day. Is that really any sort of rationale for writing about it?

Does anyone else hate brushing their teeth? There are days when the aggression of an electric toothbrush is just too much and I revert to the manual brush for a quiet end to my day. As more and more of my mouth is filled with faux teeth, should I not be able to brush less? And really, who is keeping track? Does the tooth fairy, boon companion of the sandman, make house calls anymore? And if so, does the American Dental Association underwrite her travel expenses?

Did you ever notice those everyday irritations always arrive in batches of three or five or seven? Do you think if is because they are prime numbers and like to be indivisible except by themselves? Or is it just that after seven you stop counting?

Well, what do you know? I guess I really had a lot to say after all, even if it was all…

applesauce; baloney; beans; bilge; blah; blarney; blather; blither; bosh; bull; bunk; bunkum; claptrap; codswallop; crapola; crock; drivel; drool; fiddle; fiddle-de-dee; fiddle-faddle; fiddlesticks; flannel; flapdoodle; folderol; folly; foolishness; fudge; garbage; guff; hogwash; hokeypokey; hokum; hoodoo; hooey; horse-feathers; humbug; jazz; malarkey; moonshine; muck; nertz; nonsense; nuts; piffle; poppycock; punk; rubbish; senselessness; silliness; skite; stupidity; taradiddle; tommyrot; tosh; trash; trumpery; twaddle.


  1. Thoroughly delightful reading , Connie. Thanks for the baloney, the fiddle – faddle, etc.
    My very best to you.
    Dawn Giese

  2. “…my mother’s legacy of hoarding boxes and bags.” What about string and aluminum foil and the wax-paper bags in boxes of cereal (until they switched to plastic). Our Mother was a true child of the depression. Make do, or do without.

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