Monday was St. Penguin’s Day. It came unexpectedly, as it always does. Two days before we had toasted each other with “Happy First Day of Spring!” When you live in the Midwest, where winter lasts about six months, and you get tired of wearing a scarf around your face, and even more tired of cooking up “frozen mixed vegetables,” a dish which greatly resembles fishfood, spring is perhaps more joyous than Christmas.
But we had forgotten about the penguins. Oh, the penguins.
“We got a foot of snow!” we said, peering out the kitchen window Monday morning. It started coming down Sunday night, and it didn’t stop until morning. School was cancelled, the construction guys didn’t show up to continue work on our basement. The snow arrived–heavy snow–twelve inches, and it stuck. It hasn’t melted away like it is “supposed to” this time of year. So now there is more snow on the ground than we have had any other time this winter. And it’s supposed to be spring! Happy St. Penguin’s Day!
(By the way, I just made up St. Penguin’s Day, but I’m going to keep it. Neologism, it’s called, when you invent a new word. And I’m at it again. My first, “melbonic relationship: for the moments when you look across the table at someone who’s talking, perhaps over a cup of coffee, and you are smiling, but you think I am never going to understand this person. It’s going to be a ‘melbonic’ relationship.” And my latest invention: “St. Penguin’s Day: a day in early spring when you get an unexpected dumping of snow.”
(Well, after all, why not blame the penguins? They are cute, so they can absorb a bit of loathing. Also, it’s late March, so Antarctica is approaching winter. They’ve extra snow on the way and they’ve got to put it somewhere.)
By the way, I made a terrible mistake, it seems. I posted that hot dog blog yesterday, not realizing that I had posted it earlier. Actually, one year earlier! The draft of it had been lost on my old laptop, and I started using my new laptop, and then discovered it on the old one in a file for “not posted things” I didn’t realilze I had posted it some time ago. My apology.
(Having a blog is weird. It’s a bit like having a dog as a pet. Fun, sure. But there are times when you look at it and you just feel guilty.)
If you are friends with a man, and just friends, and only friends, we say that it is a platonic relationship. I believe the word comes from Plato, the Greek philosopher. So you can be talking about your college roommate that one summer when you rented an apartment together, believing he had no interest in you in “that way,” because you thought it was platonic, only it turned out he wanted to lose his virginity with you, and told you so in a penclled note he left on the kitchen table… and you are mentioning the problem with Plato when you talk about it.
I would like my own name, Melby, to be attached to some kind of equally sticky situation. I don’t like things to be cut and dry. I would prefer to be attached to some kind of murky situation. Not sexual, that tends to be an area that’s just laden with discarded words and labels on the side of the road. No, I need to come up with some other kind of relationship or situation that really could use a new name…
“It is a ‘melbonic’ relationship,” the young man explained to his grandmother over a cup of tea. She leaned out of her dark green nursing home chair as he explained: “We spend a lot of time together, but mostly we are just confused by each other’s view of the world. We are close friends, kind of, but also we just don’t understand anything at all sometimes. It’s completely melbonic.” Ah, said the grandmother nodding. She understood things like these. She was coming on 92. She had been through troubles of her own….
So, there you go, reader. Melbonic. Use it. Because there are times when other people are just confusing.