My daughter-in-law accidentally coined the word dittle when she meant to say ditto, and it came out wrong. Then she said that was her new word. It's an all-purpose word that can be used in any part if speech. It makes a great exclamation word:
"We went Christmas shopping today."
"Dittle! What'd you get me?"
It can also be used as a noun:
"If you're good you might get a dittle."
It's not technically a substitution for profanity, but feel free to use it that way if you must.
It can also be used as a verb:
"I really dittled my finger."
That last sentence was because of a mishap in the kitchen last week. My family, used to gourmet cooking as they are, requested hotdogs and canned chili for dinner one night. Being extremely competent with a can opener, I opened up the can of chili, bent the lid back out of the way and scrapped the contents into a pot.
Apparently that particular can was possessed because the lid suddenly developed a mind of its own. It bent forward and took a bite (a deep bite) out of my finger.
I don't usually have pictures, but I went all out for you here. Aren't you proud of me?
It's deeper and more painful than it looks. It's also my index finger (one of the most important, I would think) and it's on my left hand. I'm left-handed.
My family was relieved to know that I didn't get any blood in the chili.
I did get blood everywhere else. I knew it needed stitches, but I wasn't about to spend the next four hours sitting in an emergency room. No bandaid was up to the job, so we bandaged it with multiple paper towels folded down to size and taped around my finger.
I soaked through two of those makeshift bandages that evening. I finally stopped bleeding by morning, but anytime I bent my finger, the waterfall of gushing blood began again. That made it difficult to shower and dress for work, but I managed. I was quite proud of my ability to cope until it came time to put gel in my hair. Pressing the dispenser on the bottle started the bleeding up again. Since I didn't want streaks of blood in my hair, I was stuck.
This is where Indiana came to the rescue. I debated all other options, but finally I asked him if he would help me. I pumped gel into his hands, and he immediately assumed an expression of high-end stylist snobbery as he lightly worked his fingers through my hair.
His technique was so good it disturbed me.
Although he was a good sport about helping with my hair and even putting my earrings in, I knew better than to press my luck. By the next day I'd perfected my own finger-less strategies and was able to do without an assistant.
A doctor friend took a look at my finger and agreed that yes, I should have had stitches, and no, it didn't look infected in spite of the swelling. She did point out that if I continued to bend my finger the wound would continue to break open. She suggested either using a splint or taping two fingers together so that it would stay straight and heal.
She did not tell me how to type or play the piano while in a splint. This could get interesting.
So there you have it. I dittled my finger and am going about my normal life, plus all my Christmas-related duties, with diminished capacity. My poor, swollen digit sticks straight up most of the time in a vain attempt to heal.
I guess I should be glad it's not my middle finger. Then I probably wouldn't need a dittle to express my opinion.
