A message I received recently:
I left the thingy for you in the thingy.
Before I say something about this, however, I would just like to list the ingredients of a popular snack food recently left within my reach (with apologies to Sally Fallon):
Enriched flour (I leave out all the sub-ingredients)
palm oil [read: orangutan habitat]
defatted soy flour
mono- and diglycerides
milk protein concentrate
sodium stearoyl lactylate
natural and artificial flavor
soy lecithin [from what I know, made by soaking soy in hexane, a neurotoxic substance produced as a byproduct of gasoline refining]
locust bean gum
titanium dioxide [supposedly in all white food coloring]
What has Granny's Kitchens (aptly situated on a street named Industrial Park Drive) created with this list? A doughnut-like . . . thingy.
It's difficult to hear or see the word thingy without thinking of Deborah Garrison's book of poems A Working Girl Can't Win. Years ago I reviewed it. In her poem "Superior", she capitalizes the word.
Listening to a superior talk about "the Big Picture",
She agreed, she agreed, she seconded his thesis,
and with each murmured yes her certainty mounted:
she would never be one of them--a Director, a Manager,
an Executive Thingy. She didn't have the ambition.
Garrison's Thingy is distantly related to my personal message thingy. Both are buoyant. Hers of course comes with a tiny lance.