I actually recently had this discussion twice, and neither time really left me satisfied, so I will now present it to you. The topic that has left me so stymied is this: Why do people insist on referring to certain garments as "assless chaps?"
[Aside: yes, this comes up. I have friends (you know who you are) who like to bandy about the term in question somewhat frequently, typically in an effort to disturb those foolish enough to listen to them. I am sometimes one of those fools.]
I know this is the type of question that keeps people awake at nights, and I hope our bringing the subject out into the open will help avoid some of those difficult and annoying tossings and turnings. I wonder about it because I have often (by which I mean about once a year) heard someone use the phrase, and it always ejects me from whatever conversation is actually going on by causing me to think, "Aren't chaps assless by definition?" Seriously, aren't chaps those leather things that cowboys wear to protect their legs from ... something? Aren't they worn over pants? Aren't they like pants with a significant part missing? You don't ever hear about assful chaps. I did some research here, and it looks like I had pretty much the right idea.
Both times this discussion happened, the people I talked with thought that "assless chaps" referred to the chaps MINUS the pants. Naturally, I think it's a misnomer if that's the case. They should be called pantsless chaps. (Or trouserless chaps, for you Brits out there -- not that it seems right that Brits might wear chaps.)
Ultimately, I guess "assless" is funnier than "pantsless." Plus, "assless" is in general a concept that one doesn't hear about a lot. Other possibilities spring to mind, though: chaps without ass, butt-baring chaps, and cornhole cutaways (OK, so that one didn't involve the word "chaps," but it made me chuckle).
I'm just not sure. Next time you see a cowboy, ask him what he calls them.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Back to My Roots
Why, hello there! I feel like I haven't talked to you in forEVa. Well, forever is a bit of a stretch, but it's been quite a while. Really, I've been suffering from a bit of writer's block for while (probably exacerbated by the fact that calling myself a writer is playing fast and loose with the spirit of the term). Couple that with some object-at-rest type of inertia, and you haven't read a peep out of me. All I have to say about that is this: peep.
All seriousness aside, though, it's tough sometimes to decide what to write about. I don't really want to write about college hoops all the time (although it does occupy a good portion of my brain these days), maybe because I don't want to mess with the Hoosiers' recent run or to think about the Wahoos' struggles of late. And I don't want to get into writing about the AFC Championship-bound Colts, either. So I'm thinking that sports is out.
I also have had trouble following up my X-mas story, given that I am highly amused by the whole thing. So what is an Abs to do in the face of such a conundrum? After much deep brain things going on inside my head, I have decided to get back to my roots. At least my roots as far as the Chronicles are concerned. What are those roots, you ask? Facial hair.
That's right. Lest we forget, my goatee (more specifically, it's removal) is what actually started things here at the Chronicles, and we have managed to write more than a reasonable number of posts about it. Still, why would I try to write about it again? Simple: THE GOAT IS BACK.
That's right, I have re-grown my goatee. After about 1.5 years without it, I have decided that I missed it too much to go on, and I took advantage of the time off of work at X-mas to allow it to take hold. I like seeing the goateed version of myself in the mirror these days. Plus, my chin is warmer. The Girl, on the other hand doesn't really know what to think about it. Having never seen it on me before now, it's a bit of an adjustment. From time to time she will cover my goatal area with her hand "just to make sure [I'm] still in there."
So I face the new year with a warmer and fuzzier face. What else I face it with I will talk about in a future post. For now, enjoy your weekend.
P.S. Go Horse!
P.P.S. Go Hoosiers!
P.P.P.S. Go Hoos!
P.P.P.P.S. In gathering the old posts about the goatee, I went back and applied some of Blogger's nice new labels to the old writings to group them together. Unfortunately, doing so moved them to the top of the site's feed. So, to the two of you who actually use the feed, sorry about that. Sadly, I don't think there's anything for it. Moreover, I expect to be doing more of that in the future. So sorry in advance.
P.P.P.P.P.S. Again, I say: peep.
All seriousness aside, though, it's tough sometimes to decide what to write about. I don't really want to write about college hoops all the time (although it does occupy a good portion of my brain these days), maybe because I don't want to mess with the Hoosiers' recent run or to think about the Wahoos' struggles of late. And I don't want to get into writing about the AFC Championship-bound Colts, either. So I'm thinking that sports is out.
I also have had trouble following up my X-mas story, given that I am highly amused by the whole thing. So what is an Abs to do in the face of such a conundrum? After much deep brain things going on inside my head, I have decided to get back to my roots. At least my roots as far as the Chronicles are concerned. What are those roots, you ask? Facial hair.
That's right. Lest we forget, my goatee (more specifically, it's removal) is what actually started things here at the Chronicles, and we have managed to write more than a reasonable number of posts about it. Still, why would I try to write about it again? Simple: THE GOAT IS BACK.
That's right, I have re-grown my goatee. After about 1.5 years without it, I have decided that I missed it too much to go on, and I took advantage of the time off of work at X-mas to allow it to take hold. I like seeing the goateed version of myself in the mirror these days. Plus, my chin is warmer. The Girl, on the other hand doesn't really know what to think about it. Having never seen it on me before now, it's a bit of an adjustment. From time to time she will cover my goatal area with her hand "just to make sure [I'm] still in there."
So I face the new year with a warmer and fuzzier face. What else I face it with I will talk about in a future post. For now, enjoy your weekend.
P.S. Go Horse!
P.P.S. Go Hoosiers!
P.P.P.S. Go Hoos!
P.P.P.P.S. In gathering the old posts about the goatee, I went back and applied some of Blogger's nice new labels to the old writings to group them together. Unfortunately, doing so moved them to the top of the site's feed. So, to the two of you who actually use the feed, sorry about that. Sadly, I don't think there's anything for it. Moreover, I expect to be doing more of that in the future. So sorry in advance.
P.P.P.P.P.S. Again, I say: peep.
Monday, January 01, 2007
A Bizarro Rockwell X-mas
Maybe for you, like for the people who make Hallmark commercials, the idea of Christmas conjures Norman Rockwell-ish images of families cozily gathered around the warm glow of a fire, rosy-faced and gazing at each other fondly with the twinkle of lights on the tree behind them, with Sister carefully opening a present while Brother, Mom, Dad, and Grandma all watch in eager anticipation. Doesn’t that just sound like Christmas to you?
It doesn’t to me. I think more of people doing 85 different things at once, telling off-color jokes and making fun of each other in a way that typically escalates into some enthusiastic expectorations of, “Sheeeeeeiiiiiiitttttt,” or, “Well, now, goddammit…” Don’t get the wrong idea. People aren’t being mean or evil, and it’s not like the kind of stuff you see on Cops: Naughty or Nice. It’s all in good fun, and everyone laughs a lot. We just generally have somewhat skewed senses of humor. For example, my mom gets a kick out of involving Granny in different things. She’s always telling me how she “took Mother to Texas” or “took your granny for a boat ride” or something like that. I know that doesn’t sound all that odd at first, but the thing is that my granny is dead. So Mom is really talking about doing those things with Granny’s ashes. Weird, huh? I think so, but it’s weird in a creepy but funny sort of way. And Mama Abs refuses to believe that it’s even a little bit creepy. People who aren’t amused by it clearly don’t have senses of humor, according to her. However, I think it’s kind of a tired joke at this point because Granny died 10 and a half years ago, and they’ve been carting those ashes around ever since. (My uncle once put the ashes on a bar at the Elks lodge where Granny used to hang out and asked random people there, "You wanna buy my mother a drink?") Making it even weirder is that it’s really just half of Granny’s ashes doing these things at this point, as the other half have been buried or scattered or something. Sometimes, Mom will even “put Mother under the Christmas tree” (the ashes are in a goldish box with a ribbon on it). Sigh. I guess Granny did always like Christmas. All that is by way of explaining that I think it’s safe to say that Mr. Rockwell didn’t spend any time at my folks’ house at Christmas time. Or if he did, he sure as hell didn’t paint pictures about it.
Take this Christmas, for example. Instead of a traditional gift exchange, we decided to try a Yankee Swap type of thing with my step-dad’s family. The short explanation is that everyone brings a gift and puts it under the tree. Then everyone draws a number. The person with number 1 chooses and unwraps a gift from under the tree, then the person with number 2 can either take number 1’s present causing number 1 to pick and unwrap a new present, or number 2 picks and unwraps a new present. Et cetera. I’ve tried this with lots of different groups, and they often don’t get into the spirit of the thing, which can be summed up in one word: "MINE!". These folks who don't get into the proper spirit think it’s “mean” to “steal” someone else’s present, so it ends up being just a gift drawing. Booooorrrrriiiiinnnnnggggg. I knew that this family group would have no trouble with those types of hang-ups, and it would be a good time. I wasn’t disappointed.
There were some growing pains as people got into the flow of this kind of gift exchange. I got hosed by drawing number 2, so I didn’t expect to end up with a good present. What I unwrapped when it was my turn was a handful of little glass things that Mom told everyone were “salt dips.” I don’t know what that means, and I don’t want to, but the kicker was that these glass thingies were once my step-dad’s mom’s property, thus making them heirlooms, I guess. Having heard that, I thought there was a good chance that someone would steal them from me or at least give me something more interesting for them afterwards like, say, a pack of matches.
After I unwrapped the glass dip thingies, Mom was explaining to everyone (about 15 people) what they were and where they came from. As that explanation wound down, my step-dad’s grandson’s fiancée (or should I say my step-sister’s son’s fiancée? how about step-nephew’s fiancée? whatever, you get the idea), who is a nice, sweet girl who recently graduated with a degree in Mortuary Science – no, I am not making this up – decided to move things along and grabbed a gift to open. Not many people noticed, though, as there was a general hubbub about the dip thingies and who wanted them (not me) and how there were other family heirlooms to consider among the gifts under the tree. However, the to-be-step-niece-in-law got everyone’s attention by holding her newly unwrapped gift – a bag of some indeterminate material – aloft, patting it, and asking, “What is this? Is this a joke?” Everyone in the room looked confused as they tried to figure out what it was. Apparently, it was a joke, as evidenced by my brother and I nearly collapsing in fits of laughter when we realized what it was. Then, Mama Abs started laughing. The to-be-wife-of-my-step-dad’s-grandson wanted to know what we were laughing at, but we couldn’t tell her just then, due to all the laughing we had to do.
Finally, gasping and stuttering in between guffaws, I said, “Those. Are. My grandmother’s. Ashes. Half of them anyway.”
Hilarity ensued from there, and I imagine a weird and possibly creepy family tradition was born. And why not? Granny always did like Christmas.
To her credit the girl in question laughed about it, too. And, yes, she was allowed to grab another gift. And, no, I didn’t get stuck with the glass salt things. I got a DVD. So everybody won.
Can you imagine that in a Norman Rockwell painting?
Me neither.
It doesn’t to me. I think more of people doing 85 different things at once, telling off-color jokes and making fun of each other in a way that typically escalates into some enthusiastic expectorations of, “Sheeeeeeiiiiiiitttttt,” or, “Well, now, goddammit…” Don’t get the wrong idea. People aren’t being mean or evil, and it’s not like the kind of stuff you see on Cops: Naughty or Nice. It’s all in good fun, and everyone laughs a lot. We just generally have somewhat skewed senses of humor. For example, my mom gets a kick out of involving Granny in different things. She’s always telling me how she “took Mother to Texas” or “took your granny for a boat ride” or something like that. I know that doesn’t sound all that odd at first, but the thing is that my granny is dead. So Mom is really talking about doing those things with Granny’s ashes. Weird, huh? I think so, but it’s weird in a creepy but funny sort of way. And Mama Abs refuses to believe that it’s even a little bit creepy. People who aren’t amused by it clearly don’t have senses of humor, according to her. However, I think it’s kind of a tired joke at this point because Granny died 10 and a half years ago, and they’ve been carting those ashes around ever since. (My uncle once put the ashes on a bar at the Elks lodge where Granny used to hang out and asked random people there, "You wanna buy my mother a drink?") Making it even weirder is that it’s really just half of Granny’s ashes doing these things at this point, as the other half have been buried or scattered or something. Sometimes, Mom will even “put Mother under the Christmas tree” (the ashes are in a goldish box with a ribbon on it). Sigh. I guess Granny did always like Christmas. All that is by way of explaining that I think it’s safe to say that Mr. Rockwell didn’t spend any time at my folks’ house at Christmas time. Or if he did, he sure as hell didn’t paint pictures about it.
Take this Christmas, for example. Instead of a traditional gift exchange, we decided to try a Yankee Swap type of thing with my step-dad’s family. The short explanation is that everyone brings a gift and puts it under the tree. Then everyone draws a number. The person with number 1 chooses and unwraps a gift from under the tree, then the person with number 2 can either take number 1’s present causing number 1 to pick and unwrap a new present, or number 2 picks and unwraps a new present. Et cetera. I’ve tried this with lots of different groups, and they often don’t get into the spirit of the thing, which can be summed up in one word: "MINE!". These folks who don't get into the proper spirit think it’s “mean” to “steal” someone else’s present, so it ends up being just a gift drawing. Booooorrrrriiiiinnnnnggggg. I knew that this family group would have no trouble with those types of hang-ups, and it would be a good time. I wasn’t disappointed.
There were some growing pains as people got into the flow of this kind of gift exchange. I got hosed by drawing number 2, so I didn’t expect to end up with a good present. What I unwrapped when it was my turn was a handful of little glass things that Mom told everyone were “salt dips.” I don’t know what that means, and I don’t want to, but the kicker was that these glass thingies were once my step-dad’s mom’s property, thus making them heirlooms, I guess. Having heard that, I thought there was a good chance that someone would steal them from me or at least give me something more interesting for them afterwards like, say, a pack of matches.
After I unwrapped the glass dip thingies, Mom was explaining to everyone (about 15 people) what they were and where they came from. As that explanation wound down, my step-dad’s grandson’s fiancée (or should I say my step-sister’s son’s fiancée? how about step-nephew’s fiancée? whatever, you get the idea), who is a nice, sweet girl who recently graduated with a degree in Mortuary Science – no, I am not making this up – decided to move things along and grabbed a gift to open. Not many people noticed, though, as there was a general hubbub about the dip thingies and who wanted them (not me) and how there were other family heirlooms to consider among the gifts under the tree. However, the to-be-step-niece-in-law got everyone’s attention by holding her newly unwrapped gift – a bag of some indeterminate material – aloft, patting it, and asking, “What is this? Is this a joke?” Everyone in the room looked confused as they tried to figure out what it was. Apparently, it was a joke, as evidenced by my brother and I nearly collapsing in fits of laughter when we realized what it was. Then, Mama Abs started laughing. The to-be-wife-of-my-step-dad’s-grandson wanted to know what we were laughing at, but we couldn’t tell her just then, due to all the laughing we had to do.
Finally, gasping and stuttering in between guffaws, I said, “Those. Are. My grandmother’s. Ashes. Half of them anyway.”
Hilarity ensued from there, and I imagine a weird and possibly creepy family tradition was born. And why not? Granny always did like Christmas.
To her credit the girl in question laughed about it, too. And, yes, she was allowed to grab another gift. And, no, I didn’t get stuck with the glass salt things. I got a DVD. So everybody won.
Can you imagine that in a Norman Rockwell painting?
Me neither.
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