Acronyms.  Nowadays they’re everywhere, but it wasn’t always this way.   They’ve filtered in slowly, undetected, under the radar.  Organized and committed, scouts deployed and embedded into unsuspecting communities.  They’ve played the long game and have now become part of our culture.  They have succeeded in overtaking the lifestyle and even the language of this great country’s citizens.  

Pilot acronyms were launched and they permeated into target areas, testing for sustained viability.  Lone Wolf, RSVP, parachuted in and nested firmly in place.  Polite society readily enlisted this acronym, engraving the letters onto expensive invitations to extravagant high profile galas, weddings, benefits and other exclusive events.  BYOB and FYI landed shortly after, assimilating rapidly all in accordance with the overall mission.  

It didn’t take too long for the Acronym Army to launch operatives into various other integral organizations.  The U.S.Government absorbed whole stockpiles of letters to refer to its numerous agencies.  FBI, CIA, DOD, HUD, IRS, DOJ and hundreds more alphabet combinations renamed countless departments and remain fully operational.  

The military, too, accepted the incursion of acronyms.  SCUBA, MEU, OTS, TBS, MAWTS, JAG, ASVAB, MEPS, OPSEC, CO, NCO and an entire language of capital letter shorthand words are now part of the official vernacular.  In fact, acronyms have assumed total functional control over the entire military machine.  They are winning an unnamed war.

Acronyms infiltrated the sports world with high speed and low drag.  The National Football League, the National Baseball Association and the National Hockey League are now referred to as the NFL, NBA and NHL.  Likewise, the Professional Golf Association, PGA, has adopted a title acronym.  Even within the sports themselves, acronyms have crept into common usage.

”USA,” says a golfer, urging his playing partner to continue putting.  “You’re Still Away!” 

“Oh no!” assesses another as a mishit shot lands better than expected, “that’s a UBE . . . Ugly But Effective!”

The Acronym Army’s efforts are not confined to the United States.  Not at all!  They have expanded into all countries in their attempt at world dominance.  One notable problem with foreign acronyms is in  their decoding.

While teaching international high school students at a Catholic school, I found it common for student work product to bear the acronym JMJ (a short reverant prayer meaning ‘Jesus, Mary, Joseph’) at the top of each page.  Understandably, when a student from Mexico submitted her papers with CTM atop her pages, I took it to have a similar meaning, but in Spanish.  

“We need to speak to you,” said a spokesperson for a group of Mexican students after class.  “Why do you allow Angela to write CTM at the top of her papers?  Why aren’t you angry?” 

“Why SHOULD I be angry,” I replied, “it’s just a prayer!” 

The students looked at each other, wide-eyed and bewildered.  

“No, it is NOT a prayer,” they said, “it’s meaning is terrible!” 

“Well,” I said, “the American students write JMJ at the tops of their papers and that means ‘Jesus, Mary, Joseph,’ so I just assumed that CTM is a similar honorific.” 

“NO!” they gasped in unison, “is NOT an honorific!  It means something horrible and unforgivable that someone does to a mother!”  

I realized immediately what had been lost in my ignorance.  The following day, I held Angela after class.  

Handing her a graded paper with CTM circled in red with a large question mark, I began sternly, “Um . . . care to explain?”  

“Oh, Mrs. West!” Angela sobbed as she melted into a desk before my eyes, “I HATE it here and I just want to go home!”  

We talked for a while and ultimately laughed at her inappropriate rebellion and my unwitting ignorance.  At the end of our conversation, we mutually concluded that swearing acronyms were definitely not the best way to channel frustration.  

Acronyms, firmly established and firmly fixed in place, have expanded their efforts.  A siege of them has launched an aggressive offensive on the entire world population.  The attack has been so coy, so cunning, so calculated that the success of the mission was guaranteed with the initial acronym bomb.  LOL is the texting counterpart to the initial Little Boy attack on Hiroshima.  First-time texters soon learned to convey tone and levity with its use.  

More acronyms soon proliferated like a mushroom cloud onto the internet.  They are as plentiful as snowflakes in a blizzard.  Many computer users, however, are not fluent or comfortable with them.  Americans, unwitting hostages of the Acronym Army, find themselves surrounded by operatives they don’t recognize, understand or appreciate.  They are forced to adopt a new way of life and language in order to communicate effectively .  And in the meantime, before we prisoners are conversant in the new Acronym culture, mass confusion prevails. 

What does this even mean? I asked myself, trying to decipher a new unread message on my phone. 

I’d texted a friend, asking if she’d like to meet for lunch.  Her response was unintelligible.

”Can’t decide on OOTD! Working on it! ISTG NGL. SYL. LOL!” 

WHAT?  What do I do now?  I wondered, Are we meeting or not?  What a ridiculous non-answer answer!

While I stewed about the text, I checked my emails.  Maybe she’d sent me something more clear and concise.  Nope.  Nothing from her.  Just a bunch of sales solicitations that were destined for the Trash Bin icon.  BOGO topped each e-flier in a banner. 

“60% off PLUS BOGO if purchased before End of Summer Sale!”  

O.K., I thought with satisfaction, I KNOW that BOGO stands for “buy one, get one.” 

Another ad enticed prospective buyers with an acronym everyone is supposed to know. 

“Limited Stock!  Order now! FCFS!” 

And still another.

”15 shoppers looking at this right now!  Buy now before it’s too late!  BNWOT while supplies LTD!” 

Obviously, supplies were limited.  Anyone would know how to translate LTD.  But BNWOT remained a mystery.  And as for the meaning of FCFS?  I had no idea.

Still not sure if I should meet my friend for lunch, I texted her again. 

“Got your message.  Are we still meeting today?” 

She responded immediately.

”WTF! Can’t you read? LMAO!  BTW you’re too funny!” 

At a complete loss, I mentally sparred with her. 

Of COURSE I can read!  But obviously YOU CAN’T WRITE OR SPELL!  I have NO IDEA what you said!

At that point, I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to meet her for lunch!  Was THIS part of the objective of the Acronym Army?  Cause mass confusion, hysteria and conflict?  Ruin relationships?  I was beginning to think so!  

Knowing that I was losing a battle, I called in some reinforcements . . . a young professional woman! 

I snapped a screenshot of the indecipherable texts I had exchanged with my friend and sent it to young, twenty-seven-year-old Hailey. 

“Could you help me with this?” I pleaded.

I waited anxiously as bubbles on my screen indicated that she was responding.  Finally my questions had been answered about lunch.  I WAS going to meet my friend!

”Sure!” came the response, “Your friend said:  Can’t decide on the Outfit Of The Day!  Working on it!  I Swear to God!  Not Gonna Lie!  See you later!  Laugh out Loud!”  

Laugh out loud?  I thought, Laugh out LOUD?  I thought LOL meant ‘Love you Lots!’ 

And, come to find out, her second response said, “What the F*? Can’t you read?  Laughing my A* off!  By the way, you’re too funny!”  

Thank goodness for young people!  They’ve broken the code and have been commissioned as Intelligence Officers for the Allies.  

My next assignment as a new recruit in the war with the Acronym Army is to enlist the expertise of these IOs and ask them to decode a whole list of acronyms for me. For starters, I have:

SMH

FOMO

IYKYK

OFC

TLDR

ETA

HMU

LFG

ATP

OTP

ISTG

NGL

PDA

STG

TBH

UWU

YOLO

IIRC

MBN

OG

TFW

FTW

FWIW

WHAT DO THEY EVEN MEAN?  

“I’m so glad we could all get together on such short notice!” exclaimed Gabby to seven of her gal pals. “It’s been like forEVER!”

Life and jobs and marriages, children, pets, parents and things in general interrupted their tight knot of friendship.  This set of self-proclaimed sisters was a patchwork quilt of mutual love and devotion.  They would be friends ‘til the end.  Some of them met in the sandbox during preschool, others bonded as cheerleaders in high school and the rest came together through mutual friends and acquaintances, either during or after college.  No matter from whence they met, they coalesced into a formidable, unbreakable bunch. 

Hazel, the newest, trendiest and most popular restaurant in town bustled with excitement.  Anyone who was ANYone, simply had to see and be seen there.  The former warehouse, with its brick walls, open ceilings and sizable paned windows was now the most sought-after eating establishment in the area.  Gabby was so pleased that she thought to confirm a reservation way ahead of time in high anticipation of this evening together.

Cara and Becky, Melanie, Molly, Rita, Jackie, Robin and Gabby all arrived within minutes of each other.  Like a newly opened bottle of champagne, the women greeted each other with effervescent energy, squeals of delight and sparkling smiles.  Right on cue, a hip and handsome waiter appeared, ready to take their drink orders.  

“Let’s toast to US!” exclaimed Gabby, raised cocktail in hand, “Our lives have become crazy busy, and though we don’t get to see each other as often as we used to, we’re still together and we’ll ALWAYS be . . . all for one and one for all!  Cheers!”

”To US!” cheered the rest, clicking their glasses together.

Lively girl conversation, like a symphony of songbirds, chirruped through the bistro in intricate harmony.  Cara’s three kids had run her ragged with their various activities.  Her son, Blake, was the star on his high school varsity swim team.  He held the fastest time for the 400 meter butterfly race and was now advancing to sectionals.  Sharon was a soprano in a prestigious madrigal group in high demand to perform at local town events.  The choral director expected attendance at what Cara believed were too many practice sessions.  And her little one, Marissa, was thriving in gymnastics.  

Melanie, now a single mother of two, was overwhelmed with Life.  In fact, she didn’t know HOW she managed to break away for this evening out.  She worked two jobs, struggled to make ends meet and was forced into reluctant dependence on her mother for emergency child care.  Most recently, though, she’d landed her dream job as a high school administrator.  She wasn’t living on Easy Street by any means, but her schedule now jibed with that of her children and she was happy.  

Molly was the managing partner at a prestigious law firm downtown while her husband, Bennet, saved the lives of countless patients with heart disease.  In fact, they had just returned from a business trip to New York where he guest-lectured at NYU’s medical school and accepted an award for Heart Surgeon of the Year.

Indeed, this group had all the ingredients for a best-selling manual on how to succeed in Life and maintain lifelong friendships despite the obstacles that get in the way.  Throughout their meal, each of the women shared the woes and wonders of their lives, the ups, the downs, the funnies, the sads, the surprises, the disappointments and even the not-so-notables.  

There was no disintegration of their mutual affection for each other . . . until three and a half hours later when the hip and handsome waiter delivered the check to the table.  Suddenly he was no longer hip . . . nor handsome.

“I’ll take that,” said Gabby, quickly grabbing the leather folder.  “Wow!  I was expecting a high number, but not THIS high!” 

Cell phones immediately jumped open to the calculator app, each woman deciphering her share and offering her own disclaimers of financial responsibility. 

“I only ordered a salad off the starter menu!”

”Well, I ordered the sampler charcuterie board, but we all shared it so we should all split the cost!”

”Hold on a sec!” interrupted another, “I’m vegan! I didn’t eat anything from the charcuterie board, so leave me out of the cost of THAT!” 

“Maybe, but French fries came with MY dinner and you ate half of ‘em, so you owe for that!” 

“That’s right!  And I gave you some of my pasta on your bread and butter plate!”

“You guys!  I’m gluten free and I didn’t share anything with anybody!” 

Gabby had had enough!  She was a hot kettle about to blow!

”Everyone pipe down and listen up!  What happened to our slogan “All for one and one for all?” We split the bill evenly, eight ways . . . after we add the tip!

Again, a cacophony of resistance and objections was so loud it caught the attention of nearby patrons.  The newly-demoted not-so-hip, not-so-handsome waiter appeared, asking if there were any problems. 

“No, No!” Gabby snapped, “we’re fine . . . just settling up.  We’ll be ready in a few . . . ” 

As soon as they were alone again, the fighting continued. 

“Well I’m NOT paying for something I didn’t eat!” hissed Rita,  “and I shouldn’t be forced to.  I can’t help it if I’m gluten intolerant!” 

Perusing the itemized bill, Gabby peered over her reading glasses and said smugly, “Well, Rita . . . Honey, you may be on a gluten-free diet but this little piece of paper here shows that you ordered three glasses of gluten-free Rombauer chardonnay for $12.50 a glass, so that’s $37.50 right from the get-go . . . before the cost of your gluten-free meal and your part of the gluten-free tip!  Now, who ELSE needs help figuring out what she owes?” 

“In case anybody’s wondering,” Gabby continued, “those blue signature cocktails with the smoke on top were $18.50 a piece.  I know I ordered two and so did Molly and Melanie.” 

Cara abruptly interrupted, “I didn’t order ANY alcohol, so I’m not kicking in for all of you guys that drink!” 

“You didn’t order alcohol,” Becky admonished, “because you have a little pink flask engraved with ‘Time to Par-Tee’ tucked inside your purse and you added whatever’s in it to your water!  Don’t think we didn’t see that!  Whatever do you mean you’re ‘not kicking in for those of us who drink?’  Pay up, Buttercup!” 

“Oh, by the way, Rita!” exclaimed Gabby, “don’t forget that you ordered a whole chicken parmesan meal and a side of garlic bread to-go, so obviously you’re responsible for that whole charge.  THAT didn’t slip under our radar!”  

“Oh shoot!” cried Jackie looking at her text messages, “Gotta go, Girlie-girls!  Emergency at home!  I’ll figure out what I owe and Venmo you some money, Gabs!  Sorry!”  

And on her way out, she turned back and said cheerily, “Let me know when we’re going to do this again!  Love you guys!”  And off she ran.   

Without noticing Jackie’s ultra smooth departure and the empty offer to ‘Venmo some money,’ the bickering over the bill continued well into the next hour with no satisfactory resolution.  Finally, disgruntled and disappointed with the whole scenario, Gabby announced her solution. 

“All right, everyone, it’s getting late and we’re all on each others’ last nerve . . . At least I know you’re all on MY last nerve.  So, here’s the deal:  I’m going to put tonight’s dinner on my credit card and each of you give me the cash for your HONEST  . . . And I mean HONEST share.  Next time we’ll have an understanding of how the bill will be paid beFORE we sit down.  Sound good?”  

How could it NOT sound good?  Gabby presented her card, signed for the meal, adding a healthy twenty percent tip, and brought the evening to a close.  

“G’night Everyone!  This was fun!  We’ll do it again soon!”  

As Gabby lay in bed, debriefing herself on the evening’s hysteria, she considered the wild display of personalities.  Despite their pecuniary behavior, she loved her friends and would have them in her life forever.  But, as the saying goes, she who laughs last, laughs best.  Gabby, full of self-satisfaction, planned to submit the entire dinner bill as a business expense and write it off.  After all, it’s All for One and One for All!

“Get in the car!” barked my father.  “Mass starts at 9:00 a.m. and it’s important that we get to the church on time!”  

Everyone should attend services on Sundays.  They are holy days meant to take the focus off of the daily grind, to break away from all the stressors of Life and to thank God for all the blessings He has given us.  We express our gratitude, we ask forgiveness for our transgressions and we pray for grace to sustain us through the week to come.  Throughout my childhood, I spent every single Sunday morning in church.  My parents made sure of that!  The entire family, dressed in our Sunday’s finest, occupied the same pew at the same service, Sunday after Sunday, week after week, month after month, year after year.  If my prayer missal was not turned to the correct page, my father quickly shuffled the pages, gruffly shoved the book back to me and pointed to the line and exact word that corresponded to the proper place in the liturgy, admonishing me with his stern scowl for not paying attention.  I attended religious elementary, middle and high schools and studied all the teachings of our faith from Genesis to Revelations.  To say that religion was ingrained in me would be accurate, but to further say that I was devout is a different story altogether . . . until recently.  I have seen the light and have become an avid church-goer.  And I am ALWAYS on time.

Part of my religious education included lessons on the construction of churches and their changing designs over time.  Throughout the ages, Christian churches were constructed in the shape of a Latin cross.  There was the altar in the sanctuary, of course, at the top of the cross and then an intersection by a horizontal transept across the nave, or gathering area for the congregation.  There were confessionals, secondary altars, votive candles available for the devout and penitent, locked collection boxes and icons representing the twelve stations of the cross.  The attic in my parents’ house is a veritable museum housing numerous school project models, dioramas and shadowboxes my siblings and I constructed.  

Not once, however, in my twelve years of religious education was I schooled on the social dynamics of church seating!  Congregants always sit in the same general area, give or take a pew or two!  Why is that?  Why do we stake claim to our territory?  I, myself, typically sit toward the front of the nave, thirteen or fourteen rows back, on the left side of the center, taking the aisle seat.  I even have church-neighbors who have planted their own flags.  We may not know each other’s names, but we expect their presence every Sunday, in their self-claimed areas.  A friend of mine and her husband sit across the center aisle a few rows ahead of mine.  All is right with the world when I see them there.  Two of my other friends sit toward the back of the nave, not together, but in that general neighborhood.  Another friend alternates each week between the front and the back.  Her husband likes to sit in the back and she likes the front; therefore, the compromise.  My church community operates well this way: a place for everyone and everyone in his place  Recently, however, a new worshipper has moved into the neighborhood.  I noticed him immediately.  It was pretty hard not to!  He is young (probably in his early-to-mid 30s), tall, strapping and quite the specimen of masculine magnetism!  “Who is HE?” I’ve asked myself for months now.  “Why does he always come alone?”   “He’s so gorgeous!  I wonder what his story is!”  And so it went until about three months ago.  I asked one of my friends who sits toward the back of the church if she’d ever noticed the hot guy in my neighborhood.  

“Yes!  I watch for him every Sunday!  I make sure to get to church on time so I don’t miss him!” she admitted, “Who IS he?” 

“No idea.  I thought YOU’D know,” I said, not even attempting to hide my disappointment.  “We’ve got to find out!”

”He looks like Jesus!” she noted, pointing out the similarity that the REAL Jesus was in HIS 30s when he caught everyone’s attention. 

Week after week, we Faithful promptly report to church.  Imagine my surprise when, upon taking my silent roll call and checking to see that everyone was in his correct place in his self-assigned neighborhood, Hot Church Guy took his seat right next to me in MY pew!  Right. Next. To. Me!  I stifled a gasp.  In an instant, I was my middle school self, nervous and giddy when in the company of a cute boy.  

I surreptitiously texted my friend who was not able to attend Mass that day.  

 “Boy! Oh boy! Oh BOY!!!  YOU should BE here!!  This is going to be the best Mass in the history of Mass!!!”  

During the homily, the lady in front of me blocked my view of Monsignor, so I wrestled with which way to move so I could pay attention to his sermon!!!

Should I scoot to the left toward Hot Church Guy OR to the right . . . away from him?  

I, of course, did the right thing and moved to the right.  I don’t know why I bothered to scoot anywhere!!  I couldn’t concentrate on one word that was said!  Just being next to Hot Church guy had me undone!  Then it hit me like a Category 5 hurricane!  In just a few minutes during the recitation of The Lord’s Prayer I’d be HOLDING HANDS with Hot Church Guy!!!  

Uh oh!  My hands!  What do I do about my hands?  They’re going to be all sweaty! 

Suddenly a loud THUMP behind me to the right (on the OTHER side of the center aisle) shook me back into the present!  An older lady collapsed to the floor and a couple of physicians in the congregation flew to her aid.  

While the flurry of excitement persisted around that lady, Hot Church Guy struck up a conversation with me while we waited. 

“Oh!” he began, “don’t tell me that’s an Oura ring!  Look!  I’m wearing one, too!”  

Oh my gosh!  He noticed my ring! He’s TALKING to ME!  What do I say?  WHATDOISAY?!

“Is yours set to report your calorie intake or your steps?” he asked.  

 Why did he have to ask me such a hard question?  I couldn’t think.  

 “Uh . . . Um . . . “ I stammered, not really knowing the answer, so I punted, “Steps taken!”

“Oh!” he said, “my Oura reports steps taken, too, but I mainly wear it to remind me to go to bed on time!” 

How do I respond to THAT?  I couldn’t.  I JUST couldn’t!  

The doctors removed the older woman from the church and Mass continued.  Divine Inspiration led me to blow on my hands just prior to the hand-holding, community-building recitation of The Lord’s Prayer, so I was no worse for wear.  

As Mass drew to a close, the lady in front of me wished me a good week.  

“Thank you!” I said, “You have NO IDEA!  It’s already gotten off to the best start possible!”  

Little did she know that no week could ever begin better than by sitting in the pew with Hot Church Guy!  If she only knew!”

Sunday after Sunday, Mass after Mass, it became quite evident that I am not the only churchgoer who has noticed Hot Church Guy.  Come to find out, there are many of us who keep watch over him.  We communicate through knowing glances, smiles and subtle nods.  We know when he arrives, we know in which pew he sits and we particularly take note of anyone who happens to accompany him. Since the service is also live-streamed online, many people attend Mass at home watching on TV.

“Hey!” my phone buzzes an incoming text, “he’s here and he’s got a girl with him!”  

“No WAY!” I reply, “I never even THOUGHT about a girlfriend!  Where is he?” 

Another text from someone at home razzes my phone. 

“Hey!  Where’s Hot Church Guy?  Is he there?  What’s he wearing so I can look for him?  The camera doesn’t have a wide enough angle, so I can’t see the whole church!” 

“That’s YOUR problem,” I reply, “If you’d come to church in person, you’d see him!  But, as long as you’re looking, he’s on the far right in the third or fourth pew from the front . . . he’s wearing a long-sleeved, corduroy shirt . . . Maroon colored, blue denim jeans and black leather biker boots . . . and an Oura ring on his left index finger!” 

As the congregants proceed up the center aisle to receive Communion, all eyes are on the lookout for Hot Church Guy and The Girl.  Glances ping throughout the church from one of us to the other like cell signals bouncing off multiple cell towers or like the ball in the old Atari video game, Pong.  In fact, there is so much going on in the airways it’s a wonder the signals don’t jam up and cause a major power outage!

At last we saw her.  Our eyes locked on our target as we silently assessed her suitability to become the Official Girlfriend.  Needless to say, she failed miserably.  The poor thing was thin (too thin) with long, mousy hair (too long; too mousy), wearing round glasses (too round) and her clothes were drab (too drab) and hung loosely (too loosely)  on her tiny (too tiny) frame.  

We, never even having MET Hot Church Guy, are extremely protective of him and are acting as his silent marriage brokers.  I doubt that ANY woman he brings to Mass will ever get our blessing!  

Last Sunday’s events may be the cause for an extended visit to the confessional.  There I was, minding my own business in my pew, antenna on high alert for the arrival of Hot Church guy, when six nuns filed in and plopped themselves down right alongside of me.  

“Good Morning, Dear,” said Sr. Mary Claire, introducing herself.  “My sisters and I came to this Mass because we wanted to hear the monsignor’s sermon.”  

“Good Morning, Sister,” I replied very respectfully, “you’ll LOVE this Mass.” 

Now I was nervous.  I was sharing a pew with SIX NUNS.  Oh well.  There really was nothing to fear, after all.  I could proceed, business as usual, like every other Sunday.  BUT (and I should have known this from twelve years of Catholic school) nuns have an uncanny sixth sense.  They KNOW things.  NOTHING escapes their finely tuned receptors. 

“Dear,” whispered Sr. Mary Claire, “I’ve been noticing several women darting their eyes toward you.  Is everything o.k.?” 

Holy crap!  NOW WHAT?  Do I tell her what’s really going on or do I lie? 

Everyone who knows me also knows I cannot lie.  I don’t know why, but I just can’t.  It’s a curse.  My nose doesn’t grow like Pinnochio’s, but my speech and mannerisms betray my words.  I HAD to tell the truth!  Sr. Mary Claire would be onto my deceit lickety-split and I couldn’t risk what unknown wrath would befall me when that happened. 

“O.K., Sister,” I sputtered, “here’s the deal . . .” and I proceeded to explain all there was to know about Hot Church Guy, all of our furtive glances and signals and our vehement disapproval of ANY girl who happened to accompany him.  

“Oh my,” she said with a hint of playfulness in her voice, “point him out to me!” 

“No way!  No can do, Sister!  That would be too obvious!  You’re just going to have to wait.  I’ll let you know when it’s cool to look at him!”  

From that point on, it was as if Sister Mary Claire had left the convent and returned to civilian life.  She was now simply Claire (or Mary), canvassing the congregation, watching, waiting and wondering when she’d get a glimpse of our obsession.

“See, Sister?” I risked, “I TOLD you this Mass was a blast.”

“Yes, you’re right,” she agreed, “but I’m going to have to stay for the next Mass!  I haven’t gotten one prayer said during THIS one!” 

I often reminisce about my parents and their commitment to raising my siblings and me to be devoted churchgoers.  I may have taken the scenic route in Life, but I know my father would be so proud to know that now I ALWAYS get to church on time!