Banned words for 2012 - Do you agree?

I've always thought that banned-book lists were silly. You can't control what someone reads, right? And why would you? They're not hurting anyone by reading "Catcher in the Rye" for the 27th time.

But I may be changing my tune. I just caught wind of a list of banned words and phrases that are no longer to be uttered in the new year. Huzzah! (That's not one of the banned words, just my getting behind this effort.)

Lake Superior State University in Michigan announced the list just before New Year's Eve.

Now, as a native Ohioan, I have sworn to love my state and hate everything from Michigan. (I believe it's in the small print when you sign to get your license or something.) So you can imagine my surprise when I read an article from a university in Michigan and said, "Wow, they got that right!"

Each year the school proclaims its List of Words Banished from the Queen's English for Misuse. (They're in America, so I'm not sure which queen they're referring to—maybe Latifah?)

Apparently, the list is compiled by the school from nominations from around the globe. It started on New Year's Day 1976 as a publicity stunt by the school's public relations department. Since then they have received tens of thousands of nominations.

How did I not know about this? The thought of ranting to someone who actually cares is beyond exciting. (Not to mention how thrilled my husband and kids will be that I have an alternative outlet for said rants.)

So what's on the list? Here are a few of this year's banned terms:

1. "Occupy." My husband teased me that I should start an Occupy My Couch movement in which I take one exceedingly long nap to bring attention to something. (I'm still working out the details, but it's something really important).

2. "Amazing." Just take a look at a teen's Facebook wall or Twitter feed and you'll see why this word has to be banned immediately. No, your new boots from Christmas are not "amazing"; they're simply kind of cute. Be more accurate!

3. "Trickeration." A term popularized by sports analysts to describe a tricky play—most likely learned at the George W. Bush School of Sports Broadcasting.

4. "Man cave." When I've had occasion to actually see a man cave, I've been horribly underwhelmed. I believe "man cave" is a euphemism for "I don't have to pick up after myself in this area." Nothing good comes from this line of thinking.

5. "Ginormous." It's a blend of gigantic and enormous. Not to be overly dramatic, but I believe it's evil and must be destroyed. It's ridicusurd.

6. "The new normal." This phrase was created by those in denial, those who believed we were ever normal before.

7. "Thank you in advance." You haven't done it yet. You don't want to do it. But I'll pressure you into doing it by thanking you up front, and now I can wash my hands of this request. Nicely played, me.

8. "Win the future." No pressure there. Not only do you have to take one day at a time, you must win the entire future. What does that even mean? As an Oregonian, if I hear the University of Oregon Ducks' motto "win the day" one more time I might have to poke someone's eye out with something sharp. Consider yourselves warned.

What's the big fuss, you ask?

University Spokesman John Shibley put it this way in USA Today:

"A lot of people can take this wrong. We don't mean any malice when we publish it. If it makes you angry, it gets you thinking about language. If it gets you laughing, it gets you thinking about language. It's done its job—to get you to think about how you express yourself."

Now that's a movement I could occupy for some time.

Eileen Burmeister is a corporate writer and humor columnist who lives, works and writes in Southern Oregon. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com, or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Things are getting serious with Siri

The Siri app is all the rage on the newest version of the iPhone (I believe it is No. 4 … out of the 2,456 Apple plans to release by the way). Siri is a voice-activated personal assistant, or as I like to call her, the wife I’ve always wanted.

I tell her to add a chore to my daily calendar and it’s there when I check my phone’s calendar. I ask her where the closest gas station is and she figures out where I am and finds the closest one on a map for me. I tell her to text my husband that it’s his turn to cook dinner and she takes care of it (not the dinner, the text).

Although I’m really hoping the next version of Siri has her making dinner in my kitchen as well. Nothing against my husband’s cooking, but Siri never fails.

Well, in theory she never fails, unless you ask her more probing questions.

“Siri,” I asked, “What is my Christmas present this year?”

She searched for a few seconds then said, “I found a number of gift shops. Twenty-three of them are fairly close to you.” I saved that message to pass along to my husband when he got home.

This time I thought I’d get a little more philosophical. “Siri, what is the meaning of life?”

“According to Douglas Adams’ humorous science fiction novel The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy the answer is 42.”

Who knew it was all so easy? All those years of teenage angst over something that Siri served up in seconds.

I wanted to try something a little more personal. “Siri, do you love me?”
Her answer: “I’m not allowed to.”

Way to go, Siri. Keep it professional while setting appropriate boundaries. Not only are you helpful, you’re also emotionally balanced. I like that in a personal assistant.

I tried out her pop culture knowledge by asking, “Siri, who’s the man?”

She answered, “You the man!”

Although not technically correct, I still liked her spunky answer, not to mention the exuberant exclamation point! I suddenly felt confident in the knowledge that I am THE MAN!

I wanted to try an obscure scientific question, so I asked “Where can I find a rocket scientist?”

“I found a number of them in Jackson, Mississippi,” she responded.

Did NOT see that one coming.

My teenage son came home and told me to ask Siri where I should hide a dead body. After giving him a long, cold stare that communicated “We’ll talk about this later” I asked Siri, “Where should I hide a dead body?”

She answered immediately: “What kind of place are you looking for? Mortuaries, funeral services, metal foundries, cremation services or dumps?”

Okay, that was creepy. It was time to move on to happier, more cheerful ground, like Christmas.

“Siri,” I asked, “where’s the North Pole?”

She deadpanned, “I couldn’t find any places matching the North Pole?”

Whaaaaaaaaat? Siri, you just ruined Christmas for a whole bunch of people. Not cool!

Maybe she was turning sour since I had only asked her to serve me up until this point. I decided to give her a break and ask about her.

“Siri, what gift would you like for Christmas?”

She answered, “This is about you, not me.”

I ask you, what’s not to love?

Eileen Burmeister lives, works and has Siri help with her day-to-day chores in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.

Frustration ignites with the oven of melted dreams

Dear Hasbro:

All I wanted to do was make some cookies.

And you promised that it would be “easy,” as evidenced by the name on the box: Easy* Bake Oven. But please allow me to be the first to give you some feedback: there is nothing easy about it.

Lily has been begging me to make cookies with her in her Easy* Bake Oven but we had already used the two pre-packaged mixes that you included with the oven. I went on your website to see about ordering more mixes, but quickly decided I was unwilling to spend the whopping $6.59 you were charging for a 1-pound bag of chocolate chip cookie mix, something that I can make for less than a dollar at home. So I made the decision to use my own cookie dough and refuse to be extorted by you.

Frugal, yes. Easy*, no.

We made the mix with my world-famous recipe (okay, I might be making up the part about “world-famous,” but you’re not REALLY an oven so let’s not split hairs on this issue). The recipe makes three dozen chocolate chip cookies, so I made 30 and left the remaining dough for Lily to use in her two tin dishes for her Easy* Bake Oven.

Apparently the Easy* Bake Oven is programmed to decipher when an alien cookie dough is being used and has a self destruct mode built it. When the first tin dish was inserted into the oven and the 100-watt bulb was turned on, the baking began (and I use the term “baking” loosely here). It was slow going at first…25 minutes in it was just starting to melt. (Meanwhile my 2-1/2 dozen “real” cookies were already done and cooling.)

But somewhere around minute 30 all heck broke loose and the dough started bubbling over. When Lily went in to extract the gooey mess, it had melted on all of the inner pieces, on top of the oven, and even smudged the light bulb on its way out the door.

Am I missing the easy part, here? Certainly I’m not the only letter you’ve received like this. And yes, there will be another letter headed your way asking why in the name of all things chocolate do we need to spend $7.48 for a replacement bulb? Didn’t the entire oven cost just over that? Methinks I smell a rat (over the existing smell of burnt chocolate already wafting through our kitchen, even overpowering my 2-1/2 dozen “real” cookies.)

If I offend you by referring to my own cookies as “real” and not yours, then I at least have done one thing right with this letter.

So here’s what’s going to happen. Now that Lily’s cherished Easy* Bake Oven lies in the bottom of the Douglas County Dump and her tears are dried, you’re going to make things right.

You might think I want a full refund, but that would only be scratching the surface.

I want you to come clean on the fact that you are simply a stupid ploy to get parents to buy something that THEY ALREADY HAVE IN THEIR KITCHEN. Just because you’re smaller doesn’t make you any better, in fact your 100-watt bulb pales in comparison to my 450-degree oven of white-hot heat. Oh sure, it might be safer for our girls to cook with a 100-watt bulb, but I’m not seeing how sticking their tiny fingers into the inner workings of a 100-watt box of heat is any better. Not to overdramatize here, but what started out as a birthday gift has now turned into a house of melting dreams.

Henceforth, I want your product to be called “The Not-So-Easy* Bake Oven of Dashed Hopes” (trademarked in my name, of course). And on the front of the box, I want it to read: “You must purchase our mixes exclusively for this product to work correctly. And it will pretty much drain your child’s college fund to do so. Enjoy!”

*Be forewarned – not even close to easy.

Eileen Burmeister lives, works and bakes her own cookies in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.

One too many pet rocks makes some of us bah humbuggy

The other night after taking my nine-year-old daughter to see “A Christmas Carol” at UACT, I was explaining the concept of Ghost of Christmas Past, Ghost of Christmas Present and Ghost of Christmas Future. They are reminders (or foretellers) of what has occurred and what is to come, warning to make a different choice and change the path of our future.

I think there should be a Ghost of Past Christmas Presents who haunts us annually, reminding us that we should never purchase another Ronco/Home Shopping Network/NASCAR item again.

Sometimes we get it right, and more often we get it wrong. Like the time I bought new underwear for my husband for Christmas. In my defense it seemed so right at the time.

But alas, it was oh so wrong, as are many gifts I’ve given and received. Here are my top 10.

10. Potty Putter: For the person who runs out of books and magazines while “doing his business” I give you the Potty Putter. Here’s the sales pitch from Amazon: “The Potty Putter comes complete with a putting green made from the same professional carpet found at miniature golf courses, a cup with a flag, two golf balls, a putter and a "Do Not Disturb" door hanger.” You know it seemed really tacky until I got to the “Do Not Disturb” part – nicely done Potty Putter.

9. Big Mouth Billy Bass. This faux mounted fish sings a song and wriggles its lifeless body with the push of a button. Nothing says Merry Christmas like Billy’s rendition of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” or his ironic version of “Take Me to the River.”

8. Chia pets (all versions): The message is clear. This gift says, “When I think of you I think of hard clay with moldy grass growing out of it … from seeds … which you need to plant and water by the way.” So basically someone gave me a job for Christmas – at the age of eight. Good times.

7. Pet rock: As a kid in the ‘70s pet rocks were inexplicably a big craze. The thought was you’d water it, take it for a walk, and pet it, providing you with hours of enjoyment. I lost mine within days, a predictor of the kind of pet owner I’d become in the future.

6. Green socks: One year our budget was $10 or under (year two of marriage when we were starving college students). I got green socks. It was sad, but well deserved (see my gift of underwear above).

5. Rock polisher – My in-laws got this beauty for our son about seven years ago and the instructions said to put the rocks in and leave it running for 10 hours. Of course Nathaniel decided to start the process after dinner, so we went to bed with the clunk clunk clunking of rocks. We put the polisher two stories below us to muffle the sound, but my husband stomped downstairs around midnight to make it stop. I’ve never seen the rock polisher again, and, not surprisingly, no one has ever questioned its whereabouts.

4. Ice cream maker – Show of hands, and be honest. How many people who own an ice cream maker have actually used it in the last year? Uh huh … that’s what I thought. Work for an hour for one scoop of ice cream? That’s what Umpqua Ice Cream is for.

3. Snuggie – Each time I cocoon myself in my Snuggie I can’t help but obsess: “I’m willingly entering a major firetrap right now. If I even walk by a candle I’m likely to go up like a Roman candle on New Year’s Eve.” Sure, I want to be warm; just not THAT warm.

2. The Clapper - General rule of thumb: Never buy someone you love a gift from a late-night television commercial. You’re just going to have to trust me on this.

1. Scale – If your goal is to live through the New Year, ALWAYS walk away from this purchase.

Eileen Burmeister lives, works and shops in Roseburg, Oregon. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.

Even high mileage vehicles need a tune up

You know how cars get to a certain point where everything starts to fall apart? That’s usually the moment when you start thinking, “I need to replace this car.”

Well, apparently, I’ve reached that certain “mileage” in my own life. The bad news is I’m stuck with the original model for the duration. And it seems to be breaking down quite a bit lately.

It started back in July when I simply reached out to lift something heavy and a muscle pulled in my shoulder. I babied it for a few days, assuming it would go away like most aches and pains.

Little did I know that the It-Will-Go-Away-Like-Most-Aches-and-Pains Ship had left the harbor, never to return again. (Take note: It happens at 44 years and 8 days. Don’t say you weren’t warned.)

What used to take a few days to feel better now requires a physician, massage therapist and physical therapist.

I started with massage therapy. During the first session, the massage therapist asked me “Did you dislocate your shoulder as a child?” I hadn’t, that I could remember, but figured that was something I’d remember. A few minutes later she asked, “Is this shrapnel?” when she saw an odd birthmark I have.

Seriously? What the heck happens when I’m asleep? Am I sleep walking down the street to the park and dangling recklessly from monkey bars by one arm? Am I involved in combat of which I am not aware?

And I know why she asked about the dislocated shoulder. My right shoulder hangs a few inches lower than the other. This situation elicits a fear in me that one day I’ll be known as Monkey Girl when I finally start dragging my knuckles of the right hand along the ground while the left shoulder remains as perky as ever. Believe me, my mind has been taking me places that are the stuff of nightmares lately.

Anyone remember the Sea Hag character from Popeye? She was the one on Goon Island who was hunched over, cackled, and had a hump for a back. (She also had pronounced chin hairs, which haven’t shown up yet, but really, it’s only a matter of days.)

Yep, the Sea Hag is pretty much what I imagine myself become, slowly but surely.
I started physical therapy after the massage therapist suggested I might need a little more than she could provide. The physical therapist thinks I have tendonitis in my rotator cuff and an impingement behind my shoulder. I have no idea what an impingement is, but my husband often tells me I’m tightly wound, so it probably has something to do with that.

The physical therapist also added that I had inherited a dowager’s hump from my mom (see: “hump for a back” in the Sea Hag description above). I told him that “dowager’s hump” is an awful term, and asked him if we could call it something else.

“Well, it’s technically degenerative arthritis. Do you like that better?” he said with a smirk.

I don’t think I like my physical therapist very much.

But he’s only there to help me deal with the physical pain and it’s so much more than that. It’s the lack of independence. I now have to solicit the help of my family members in every little task. I can no longer go to Costco on my own without the help of my husband to lift the 98-pack of Diet Pepsi into the cart. (Okay, I’m exaggerating, but seriously…does Costco think we are feeding entire armies in our homes? Instead of carts they should issue each shopper a forklift. I’m just saying.)

This lack of ability to fend for myself is taking its toll on my psyche and weighing heavily on my dowager’s hump.

In fact, just last weekend during our Costco excursion, while Craig was hoisting another 80-pound item into our cart, our daughter Lily pointed out, “It’s like Dad is Superman and you’re his little sidekick.”

Sigh. As endearing as that is, I’m seriously losing my street cred as an independent woman.

But what else do you expect from a Sea Hag with Monkey Girl tendencies?

Eileen Burmeister lives, writes and drags her knuckles around Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.

History repeats itself, albeit not very accurately

History repeats itself, albeit not very accurately

I hate Virginia. Virginia may be for lovers, but I’m simply not feeling the love. That’s because it took me three guesses to guess the correct capital while my seven-year-old daughter quizzed me over dinner from her “50 State of America” book (which, by the way, has taken the top spot on my “Books I Hate” list).

“What’s the capital of Virginia?” she asked.

“Norfolk?” I guessed.

“No,” she said. “It begins with an ‘R.’”

Well that was sweet of her to toss me a bone, so I thought harder, trying not to waste this act of grace from my kind child.

Suddenly, a light bulb went on in my thick head. “Roanoke!”

She shook her head NO and I think I saw a little smile. She was enjoying watching her trivia-competitive mother squirm like this. Seriously, what was I DOING 25 years ago during my social studies classes?

“Richmond?” I asked more than stated.

“Yes!” yelled Lily overzealously, compensating for the fact that I was close to banging my head repeatedly on the kitchen counter.

She then asked “What is the capital of Canned Turkey?” Turns out she misread “Kentucky.”

She learned this behavior from her father. My husband Craig often passes time on car rides by asking us various trivia questions. One day in particular he asked us to name the presidents of the United States. (Lily made it through three rounds – Bush 1, Bush 2 and Obama - until she incorrectly guessed Martin Luther King Jr.)

Just to show off, Craig started asking additional trivia questions such as “Where was he born?” or “What was his middle name?”

So when it was my turn and I named George Washington he followed up with “Where was he born?”

I immediately answered, “The state of Washington,” but the moment I saw my husband’s face, I quickly backtracked and regretted my answer. His mouth hanging open, he simply whispered, “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Of course I was joking. Kind of. But not really. Okay, I wasn’t joking.

Sure, when I stopped to think it through, I realized that at the time of George Washington’s birth Lewis and Clark hadn’t yet headed west, in their covered wagons along the Mississippi River, on their way to meet Pocahontas. So yeah, I realized the error in my initial answer.

My teenage son started snickering in the back seat, but stopped immediately when I gave him my “mom look.” Yeah, he knows who feeds him.

Instead I attempted to divert everyone’s attention. “Look at the cows,” I tried. “How beautiful is that barn?” I asked. “Look, my arm blew out the window just like my mom always said it would if I stuck it out a fast-moving car.” Nothing.

All the president’s men continued to hold court in our car, much to my chagrin. The children, the same ones I gave birth to after hours of excruciatingly painful labor, egged their dad on to ask more questions, reveling in the fact that their mom doesn’t know everything.

So you can imagine how much I was enjoying the state capital game at dinner that same night.

I realize now that I need a game plan: Next time, I will be the one to name the trivia contest in the first place.

Tonight at dinner, I have a feeling we’ll be playing “In Which Jane Austen Novel Does This Line Appear?” followed up with a rollicking round of “Obscure Grammar Trivia.”

It’s sure to be a blast. Well, at least for one of us.

Good sportsmanship powers the race to bupkis

Have you ever started a day with the best intentions, only to watch those intentions devolve into the reality that is you?

This happened to me a few weekends ago, when I decided to take part in the annual Ramble for Recovery 5K here in Roseburg. This race is held to raise awareness of those individuals in our community who are in recovery, as well as the individuals who work with them throughout that process. Worthy cause, right?

That’s what I thought.

The race was divided into two groups: the 5K walk and the 5K run. The runners went first, and the walkers started five minutes later.

Seeing that my best running occurs when I’m running from the car into the store in the rain, I decided to sign up for the walk.

Now mind you, I’ve done my fair share of races, but I’ve never had any possibility of winning a race … until this one.

I’ve prided myself on not being competitive athletically. (When it comes to board games, card games and intellectual challenges, however, all bets are off. I once drew blood during a rousing hand of Nerts.)

Never too old to surprise even myself, I was taken aback when that same desire to draw blood reared its ugly head at this 5K, directed toward the most unlikely adversary.

Out of the gate, I was in the front, experiencing the heady feeling of actually leading the pack for a change. About a half mile in, I was surprised to see that I was still in the lead. That is, except for one person who was ahead of me. He was a little boy who was walking in front of me and as soon as I got close to passing him he’d start running.

I walked behind him, amused at his gumption and sure he would wear himself out before we hit the duck pond, but when we were passing Fred Meyer he was still running to keep ahead of me.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Eight,” he answered in between gasps for air.

“Oh, I have a nine year old daughter,” I said, trying to connect to him on his level. He didn’t bite. Instead he kept running ahead of me, then walking until I caught up again.

At this point, halfway through the race, I started thinking, “Hey, I could actually win this thing” and that competitive spirit started to rear its ugly head.

“So…” I asked, “Are you signed up for the walk or the run?”

“The walk,” he said matter-of-factly.

“THAT, young man, is not walking,” I said.

Let me point out here I was not proud of myself at this moment.

He smiled sheepishly, stopping to a walk. We walked side by side in silence for a while until he started running again.

“Still not walking” I sang.

“It’s just that I really want to win this race,” he said.

“You and me both,” I said.

Again, not one of my prouder moments.

As we came around the path toward the soccer fields, we continued our competitive dance. Just as I started to pass him he started to run again, looking behind to see how far he could get before walking.

Ah, well, I reasoned, at this point I could do with a second place medal. It was still better than anything I’d ever done before. And it was all for a good cause, right?

Plus imagine the story this kid could tell for the rest of his life … how he beat all the adults at his first 5K. And of course I wouldn’t be around to ruin his story by pointing out that he was cheating, which is a win-win for him.

So I settled in toward the finish line happy with my second-place finish as he ran toward the end. At the very last moment, however, a man came up from behind and passed me. Whodawa? Where did he come from? Did he take a cab to the finish line and jump out a moment ago?

Never mind … tra-la-la … third place medal will have to do, or so I thought.
When all was said and done, I discovered that some woman was WAY ahead of me, so she took the first place medal, the little 8-year-old “walker” took the second-place medal, the cab-riding cheater took third, and I got bupkis.

Thank goodness there wasn’t a Good Sportsmanship Award, or I may have had to wrestle someone to the ground for that one.

Instead I soothed my bruised ego with a banana and a free t-shirt. I’m thinking about using a black Sharpie to write “winner” on the back, but that seems overly competitive, which I am not.

Eileen Burmeister lives, works and loses races to eight year olds in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follower her on Twitter at EBurmeister.