Some Advantages to Misspelling

Some say it all started when then Vice President Dan Quayle misspelled “potato”. He didn’t actually misspell the word, he incorrectly corrected an elementary chap by suggesting that an “e” should be added on the end. That incident may have brought our lack of spelling efficiency to the forefront of the public eye, but it certainly wasn’t the beginning of the story. Our family took off on many travel adventures during my childhood. Mile upon country mile in our brown Ford LTD station wagon forced me to concoct methods of entertaining myself. Car Bingo got old quick so one of my favorite pastimes was to read the billboards and ad signs along the road with the goal of recognizing misspellings. There were plenty enough to keep me occupied. For example, I pointed out a sign once that said something about cheap “gasolene”. I suspect my parents sometimes grew weary of answering all my questions. Understandably so. Most were trivial and senseless. But in this case, my dad came up with a great answer. Said the wise one, “They do that on purpose so you will notice their sign.” Made sense to me. After all, I do notice a lot of purposeful misspellings even today. Take “Krispy Kreme” for example, where both the words are spelled wrong. Not to be outdone, their rival “Dunkin Donuts” got in on the misspell act long ago. Throw in the chocolate drink “Quik” and food munchies that call themselves “Snaks.” One local restaurant combines both these misspelled words to get my attention. It must work because I go there about once a week. I’m not a spokesperson (can’t say spokesman anymore) for any product but worthy of mention in this column are Ultra Brite and Gleem toothpaste, Infiniti automobiles, Liquid Plumr drain unclogger, Cheez Doodles, and various sorts of Lite diet items. Add those to the “texting by sound” phenomenon and it’s a wonder the younger generation can spell at all anymore. But alas all that misspelling is starting to take its toil. Just ask people who misspell stuff when they’re trying to sell it on Ebay, a modern development that’s here to stay. If you misspell, people don’t see your item when they do a search. Ouch. Some industrious folks go so far as to purposefully misspell an item when they do a search in hopes of finding a bargain. One guy claims he bought for two dollars a box of pocket watch “geers” no one seemed interested in. He spelled “gears” right and reposted it on Ebay and quickly sold them for $200. I never won a spelling bee in elementary school. You could probably tell that by reading this and any other of my columns. What may surprise you is that I finished second quite often. I don’t know for sure but I think maybe “gasoline” got me a couple times. But I’m not too worried about it these days. Spell check is alive and well on my computer and when I butcher the spellings in these columns it is largely on purpose. All this spelling and misspelling has made me hungry. So sometime soon I will head over to the Quik Snak and git me sum taters. Oh, excuse me, Mr. Quayle, I meant to say tatoes.

Hitting the Jackpot on Snow Day

January was one of the coldest, snowiest, wintryest months I can ever remember. I’m sure somebody somewhere can remember it being worse. And some historical archive will probably back them up on it. But it would have been hard to convince me of the reality of global warming the last few weeks. I’ve been dodging ice, eating snow cream, and freezing my buns off ever since 2010 rang itself in on January 1. One reason I think it seems so much colder is because I am so much older. I used to be able to walk outside in a t-shirt and shorts and play in the snow. Nowadays if the temperature is anything less than the highway speed limit, I am bundled up in 10 layers of clothing with insulated socks, reinforced gloves, and seven different kinds of head coverings. Despite this, an accumulation of snow significant enough to prevent the kids from attending school is enjoyable. At least for the first 30 minutes of the first morning they’re stuck at home. By lunchtime I am frantically searching for a phone number to call that will hook me up with the place that accepts volunteer drivers to man those snowplow trucks that clear the roads. To my horror, no such phone numbers exist. On a recent snow day, I decided to give the wife a break and haul my youngest two boys to a local pizza buffet. To honor their wishes, we dined at a joint with an arcade attached. You know the deal. You slap your money into their machines and they spit out little tickets at you. My first indication of trouble occurred as we arrived in the pizza place parking lot and my middle son announced that he hoped no one was there he knew. “Why, you ashamed to be seen with me?” I asked. “Exactly,” he answered. Despite the insult, I proceeded inside and paid for the three of us to eat pizza. Proud of myself that we got out for less than $13 (kid discount and water to drink)- I settled in with my chicken barbeque pizza while the boys quickly ate and headed to the game room. On several occasions I heard shouts of delight from my sons, at one point followed by a scream of “Jackpot!” Before long they ran over to me draped in tickets, closely resembling that animal guru Jack Hanna who enjoys wrapping snakes around his neck. So excited were these juveniles that they hardly touched their dessert pizza. The poor guy at counter patiently waited as they anguished over how to spend their credits. For 661 tickets they got: Silly Goo, a dominos game, two suckers, two water guns, two Tootsie Rolls, and a miniature plastic Slinky. Based on my unscientific calculations, the total value of the above listed items hovers around $2.50 to $3. Because they had brought their own money, I wasn’t too concerned about how much they spent but curiosity led me to ask. “Ten dollars,” one of them answered. “Each,” added the other. Twenty dollars! I wondered out loud if it was worth it. But after arriving home, I decided it probably was. Mom got a break, the kids had a blast, and I got to spend some snow-day time with my boys. Jackpot.

Wii Bowling Score a Hit on Facebook

As you may remember from a recent column, I am now on Facebook. I’ve actually been on it for a while, but just have been hesitant to admit it. But my shame has long since subsided. Several fellow deacons from my church and the pastor’s wife Facebook now. Even Billy Graham is on there and I am one of his 56,268 fans. Because of Facebook, I can claim to be friends with a high profile professional golfer, a cast member from the Survivor television series, a Nashville recording artist, a major league pitching coach, and Miss California. (And for the record, each responds when I send him/her messages.) But I digress. The true purpose of this column is not to impress you with my list of friends. Okay, the pro golfer is John Daly, but that’s the last time I’m going to drop names. The subject at hand involves something I posted on my Facebook site recently. Unlike many of my “friends,” I don’t change my profile picture every week or so. It’s been the same one pretty much the whole time. Also unlike most of my friends, when I download pictures to share, they are usually ones with some relative substance to them like family gatherings and mission trips. That kinda stuff. I broke that pattern and joined the silliness by posting a cellphone picture of me in front of a television a few weeks ago. In that picture, I was pointing at something on the television. It all started when I accompanied my kids on a visit to their grandparents and the Wii game was allowed to tag along. Before I knew it, hotly contested games of Wii bowling erupted. And to be honest, I stunk. (Or is it stank? I can’t remember). Upon our return home, the kid’s enjoyment of Dad’s humiliation led us to the playroom to continue our rivalry. Suddenly the tables turned. Ole’ Dad got in a zone and all of sudden, I couldn’t miss. Eight strikes in a row at one point. When the game ended, I had bowled a Stroupe family high of 279. Unheard of. Out of sight. All that jazz. I needed permanent evidence. So there I am in the picture, pointing at my score on the television. So proud was I that I displayed it for the world to see on Facebook. Within minutes I had received eight friend comments congratulating me on my accomplishment. One of them said something like “this just blows me away,” which I’m counting as a positive. On top of the gaming world was I. At least until I showed up to work at Gardner-Webb the following Monday. One of my colleagues informed me that he had seen my picture on Facebook. “Impressive,” he said, “but not as impressive as the 300 I bowled.” Despite the pin my colleague inserted into my balloon, I have decided to leave my Wii picture on Facebook. Although the score has been surpassed by a so-called friend, my picture remains- primarily as a taunt to my children. Plus, John Daly is impressed.

I'm Having Ibuprofen for Lunch

I will confess to you that as I write this, I am wearing glasses. Not prescription glasses but rather those magnifying glass kind you get at the dollar store. Quite simply, the English alphabet letters on the computer screen are blurry these days. I see fine if the object of my interest is off in the distant yonder somewhere. But close up stuff gives me fits. I have come to realize something. I am aging. Granted I am not complaining. I’m at peace with the process. But it hurts a man’s pride to realize there are certain things he can no longer do. Like jump and touch the rim of a regulation basketball goal. I could do it now, but only with the aid of a trampoline. I read recently that a man’s ears and nose continue to grow throughout his entire lifespan. Splendid. At least you would think the positive of such a reality would be that one would gain the ability to hear and smell better. Not so much. There are times people are talking and I can only make out about two thirds of what they’re saying. I am then forced to use my imagination to attempt to logically fill in the rest. This gets me in trouble at times, especially at home. On a recent Sunday, a watch alarm rudely started beeping during the sermon. It was high noon and the watch was ready to eat, even though everyone knows that Baptists are not constrained by time limits. Anyway, I noticed that the alarm was creating a minor disturbance in the surrounding rows. Finally, my middle son punched me in the arm and whispered to his oblivious father, “Dad, cut your alarm off!” And to make it worse, I’m a deacon who is expected to be a role model of some sort. Backs don’t like aging. My 46-year-old back loudly complains every morning about having to get up. I now sleep with a pillow between my knees to relieve the strain. And since I can’t touch the rim anymore, I don’t play much basketball these days. I took up tennis a while back. Immediately I developed tennis elbow and something on the bottom of my feet called plantar fasciitis that hurts like the dickens. So I’ve moved on to racquetball. My younger buds get a kick out of seeing me arrive armored up in non-matching elbow pads, hunter safety glasses, my son’s wrestling knee pads, and a velcro forearm brace for my tennis elbow. Recently I was asked what I would be having for lunch after the racquetball match. “Ibuprofen,” I answered. Which reminds me of my daily pill routine. I start the morning with a reflux pill and sometimes a vitamin C pill for good measure. Before slipping into bed at night (where my pillow awaits its opportunity to be placed between my aching knees), I gulp down a cholesterol pill, a Centrum Cardio for good heart health, an aspirin for circulation, and a fish oil pill for the heck of it. So there you have it. I have bared all for the world to see. But don’t be surprised if you see this column appear again sometime in the near future. The aging process may cause me to forget that I’ve already written it.