X is for Xanthous
Yesterday, my roommate got an email from a friend that said, “I just rented a movie. It turns out that ‘XXXmas’ does not stand for ‘Merry Merry Christmas.’” I laughed until I snorted.
X does present a problem, doesn’t it? I mean, I refuse to tell you about the time in 5th grade when I was chosen by my music teacher to play the xylophone at the school assembly for a performance of “Sakura,” a Japanese folk song. In my opinion, “xylophone” is a meaningless word invented simply to balance out alphabetized file cabinets and dictionaries.
But fortunately, my “Word of the Day” emails are paying off. Last week, I learned a timely new term:
xanthous \ZAN-thuhs\, adjective:
Baby chicks and daffodils. Sunshine and canaries. As the dreary, despondent soul that I am, yellow is not really my thing. I have never been a big fan of the color, mostly because when I wear it, I look like a corpse – which is odd, because when my sister Becca wears it, the angels sing and bluebirds and butterflies land on her shoulders.
We have the exact same coloring. It bucks the laws of science.
In a moment of recent self-pity, I told my mother and sister-in-law that when it comes to love, I feel like a yellow Starburst: if it’s the only option, someone will choose it – but in a bowl of pink and red, the yellow doesn’t stand a chance. Ashley said, “Some people prefer the yellow Starburst.” Mom said, “You’re more like a chocolate truffle in a sea of pink and red… decadent and intense, and no one quite knows what to do with you.” It was all very sweet. And then my moment of wallowing passed, and I ate a cookie.
One of the worst Family Feud answers ever:
Question: Name something packrats have a hard time throwing out.
#1 Answer: Photos.
Worst Answer: Corn
Corn is yellow.
Yellow flag = penalty.
Yellow light = warning.
Yellow skin = jaundice.
Yellowbellied = cowardice.
The only color worse than yellow is baby blue.
And that’s all I have to say on the subject of xanthous.