Alone at night and trying to sleep, we travel the road of memories often focusing on the mysteries and puzzles of long ago. Many of mine torment me even unto the present as my mind wanders to the deeper and more esoteric bugaboos of my early years. Will I never discover what a diddely squat is and why doesn’t it mean anything?
At home when it came to eating broccoli, why was mother so concerned with the children in China? Were there not problems of greater moment here in America? My trust in reportage was sorely tested by the information from a kindergarten classmate that if you step on a caterpillar, it turns into a butterfly. Multiple squished, green blobs on the sidewalks near my house testified to my diligence in investigation and truth-seeking. Sadly, the hypothesis has never (yet) been proven.
As an adult, similar conundrums have arisen to plague me. Why do I never know anyone in the society page photos? What is a White Party and why is it not considered racist? How can television ads be taken seriously with such claims as: “Free diet plan, plus cost of the food” or when a new medicine warns, “May cause death.”
The LGBT world does not escape my questioning mind. I toss and turn over serious quandaries. How can members of our community support policies that suppress and discriminate against us? How can loving parents suddenly turn and disown their children? Other issues create tensions of a more personal and physical nature. Why do my minimally invasive questions to Orlando Bloom go unanswered? With so much to ponder, it is a wonder I ever fall asleep.
Tapas vs. topless
We of the LBGT community know we did not choose our lifestyle. There were incidences so early in our lives we didn’t even understand what it meant to be attracted to toys, sports and people we were told were not suitable, but which we now realize pointed to the reality of our self-identity. Seemingly unconnected events have continued to unexpectedly reinforce this insightful assessment.
For example, my first visit to San Diego was to attend a conference. One had to stay closeted in those days, so I met in the bar with guys from the group and joined in the drinking, swearing, chick assessing, etc. with my best straight impersonation. Through the din someone suggested a great tapas and dancing place. I had just learned the word and as I wanted to sample some local food, quickly agreed. When we approached our destination, I realized to my horror the word had not been “tapas” but “topless.” What a fright! What an education! Suspiciously gigantic breasts worthy of suckling King Kong swung and bounced. Areas terra incognita to me were exposed to raucous appreciation.
Giving credit where due, the ability to twirl pendulous mamalia in opposite directions simultaneously is an admirable talent, although not one often seen on a job resume. I commented as expected and stuffed a dollar here and there. I’m not really sure where, as I shut my eyes. I was spared the humiliation of a lap dance by a phone call from our driver’s wife and (“dammit!”) we had to leave.
It was a sensuous display to be sure, but my complete lack of interest further confirmed my gayness. I’m sure you have similar stories and agree: Being LGBT is not a choice.
A few minutes of research on Google reveals that there are two competing theories on the origin of “diddely squat”:
The most common theory is this:
“15th century from the Old French se quatir meaning “to crouch”. As squatting is involved in the performance of a certain bodily fu “That boy don’t know squat about baseball.” (* Please excuse me mincing my words in this manner. I’m trying to hang on to our Cyber-Moms award.)
The use of doodle here is clearly distinct from its standard meaning of “an aimless or casual scribble” and is probably best understood as an expanded form of doo-doo, an infantile word for squat (see above). So, why was doodly/diddly added to squat? We can only speculate. It could be that, in addition to reinforcing the meaning of squat, it also renders the expression humorously euphonious.”