Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter

Sometimes I wonder why I'm so weird.

I say to myself, "Mustard, it can't be so hard. Watch what others do, and do like them.  Combine your mad observational skills with your gift for mimicry, and next thing you know, you'll have your very own passport to normal town."

I get my hopes up. I drive to the mall, park my car and walk around, mentally cataloging the words, mannerisms and general demeanor of the masses.

And for a little while after my foray, I can "pass". But, inevitably, the effort wears on me, and the facade surely falls.

Recently, it became clear to me that my efforts have been in vain. A careful scrutiny of my family proves that strangeness this profound is imprinted into my DNA and I might as well stop this losing battle with mother nature.

Ten minutes after arrival at my dad's place, my niece, Paprika, turns on the stereo, blasting a song from one of the 80's hair bands. With a faraway look in her eye and an expression bordering on idiotic ecstasy, she does a half squat and sways her hips rhythmically from east to west. Interestingly, her flow bears absolutely no relation to the beat emanating from the musical masters assaulting my ears. Upon seeing the fun being had, my father joins in, doing his own version of the squat and sway.

"We are dirty dancing!" he proclaims.

"Woo hoo," chimes Paprika.

As it turns out, the rhythm does, in fact, get me. By invisible forces, I am brought to my feet and add my own two cents to the boogie. Now, it is generally agreed upon that I'm a pretty spiffy dancer. So, it's no small surprise that both of my loved ones put an abrupt halt to their festivities and stare at me.

As my dad walks away, Paprika drops her verdict. "At least you won't hurt yourself when you fall, cause you're not that far from the ground."

A little later, the three of us are hanging out, eating pizza. It suddenly occurs to me that Paprika can help me settle a question that's been nibbling at the edges of my mind for some time.

"Hey, Paps, what does ZOMG mean?"

"ZOMG?"

"Yeah, you know, Z-O-M-G?"

"Umm, I don't knowwww?" In a judgmental cadence that comes so naturally to teenagers.

My father, from whom I inherited my worship of books, swoops in to settle the matter. Sprinting into the adjoining room, he comes back with this:

Handing it to me, he says, "Look in here. This book has every word in it."

I resist. "Dad, the word I'm talking about is a current slang term. I don't think it's in the dictionary."

He insists, now waving it frantically in the air, "No, no, it's in here. Everything you want to know, you can learn from books. Just look."

One of us has to fold, and I know it's not going to be him. I sigh and take the book.

All of 300 pages long, copyright 1975.

"This book is 35 years old."

"Every word in the English language. Just look for it."

Like a dumbass, I turn to the listings under "Z".

"It's not in here."

"What?"

"The word."

"What word?"

"ZOMG"

"Oh, then it must be in Latin. Let me think. Zomg? Well, the root, zo, probably comes from...."

I tune him out. He'll be occupied with this fruitless train of thought for a while.

I look to Paprika, hoping we can commiserate about the unique nature of my parent.

She is busy. Looking at the mirror on the wall, and practicing running her tongue around her lips. She tries left to right, then right to left, altering speed and angle of attack.

I give up. Thanks a lot, DNA.