After making a resolution to put writing on my calendar, and carving out two hours to keep this resolution, Microsoft thinks it’s appropriate to update my Windows 10. I thought these things were supposed to happen at night while I am fitfully trying to sleep. We are now forty-five minutes into my two hour appointment with my keyboard and only 32% finished. No other party but the god of Microsoft would dare to interfere with MZ’s calendar. Just ask my family.
I resorted to working on my bosses computer. We won’t tell him. However, if I happen to turn on this computer under duress of a work deadline, especially on payroll day, and find this red screen of dread, I’m fairly sure there will be hell to pay. Which reminds me, I have this catchy little tune in my head The Bells of Hell Go Ting a ling a ling thanks to a post on my pastor’s Facebook page. No, we did not sing this in church this morning. Hubby wishes I’d stop humming it and get on with my writing.
“Ubermensch.Ubermensch. Ubermensch,” I listen closely to the pronunciation over and over on my phone at the breakfast table. It’s part of the morning routine, finding the word of the day in my inbox. I can’t help but giggle when I look up the definition.
“Uber… what. What’s so funny?” hubby asks when I begin to giggle.
“Oh nothing,” I say as I switch over to the camera app on my phone and aim across the breakfast table. There’s a hint of a smile as the flash goes off.
“Don’t post that,” he says.
“What makes you think I’d post this one?” I ask, considering if I should crop out the message on his t-shirt. I decide to leave it there.
“If something happens to you, they’ll come after me,” he cautions as he looks down at his shirt.
“If you didn’t lend your shirts out, the message wouldn’t be there,” I say. My interpretation has a different take.
“So what does it mean?” he asks.
“Your shirt?” I ask.
“No, Uber… however you say it,” he says.
“Look it up. You may be surprised,” I respond. He always thinks I bring out the worst in him and fears what may come up in my memoir. Should he be worried?
Dictionary.com defines it as “superman” while Wordsmith.org defines it as “an ideal man; also used ironically.” Wikipedia rips the word apart from it’s German origin to popular culture, a complicated dissertation. For me, I’ll just settle for the irony of it all and get back to the memoir.