I bet that you’re saying that all of that rain has addled Alice’s brain. Hmm… too much rain on the brain causes a strain… I’d better refrain. But this is my blog so I can write nonsense rhymes if I so choose.
Today, however, I need to continue talking about spring unfolding and use words that begin with the letter X. Well, X was the letter a few days ago, but I had fallen behind in the blogging challenges. The challenges ended yesterday but I am determined to finish the alphabet.
So, you’re saying, what the heck does Xoompin mean? And why would Alice use a word that looks as if it came out of a picture book by Doctor Seuss? I do have to admit that Doctor Seuss is one of my favorite writers. He helped to give me happiness when I was a kid being forced to read boring stuff in my early elementary years. Think: Dick went to visit Jane. Dick tripped over a log. Dick cried. Jane helped him up. Dick said a naughty word. Jane cried. Spot pooped on the white
living room rug because…
Oh, never mind. I think that I accidentally improved the Dick and Jane stories. I remember those books. They had soft covers that felt very, very smooth, not like regular paper. They were quite colorful. But the stories didn’t match my expectations. They were choppy and boring and very prosaic, unlike the fun books by Doctor Seuss. But you’re asking… what the heck does all of this nostalgia for my introduction to Bad Writing have to do with either Spring Unfolding or with Xoompin? And what’s a Xoompin?
Well… it’s a word that you get when you have to write about something that begins with the letter X and you can’t go outside because there’s some sort of monsoon going on, which has really interrupted photographs of pretty spring flowers. Cameras tend to dislike rain a lot.
A xoompin is… oh! It’s a verb. You can’t say “A xoompin.” That would be a noun. It’s all about driving over bumps in the road. On the road… and there are always lots and lots of potholes in the spring here in Western New York after the snowfall ends. You hop into the car and you’re xoompining down a shockingly bumpy road and your passenger is sitting behind you turning green because the road is a flat version of some wild amusement park ride. But you feel good because you used a word that begins with the letter X even if it caused someone to get carsick. But carsick doesn’t begin with X. Fortunately, I don’t own a car so any potential passengers are safe from my wild xoompining down a road full of sinkhole wanna-bees, on my way to visit the never-aging Dick and Jane and their magical dog, Spot, who has made more than one spot on the formerly white carpet.