If you’re looking for misuse of the English language but don’t want to hang around with politicians, doctors or civil servants, consider reading press releases. My inbox is full of the things and they frequently cause rude, rude noises to come out of my mouth.

“Guestspert”? Are you (bleeping) kidding me?

Whaaat? When did “e-tailers” become a word?

“Turntabalist”? Your parents must be so proud.

Sometimes, though, neologisms have their revenge: They become so ubiquitous  that I find myself using them, either in print or aloud.

When I say things like “repurposed,” I want to smack myself. On purpose.

Or how about “I know, right?” and “going forward”? How did these get to be such earwigs?

Just read a lovely, raw, real piece called “Sometimes” written by a woman named Arnebya at a site called What Now And Why.

It’s lovely because it’s honest: Sometimes, I am jealous of my children. They have so much time and opportunity and I feel like I’ve wasted so much time and opportunity.

It’s raw because it’s, well, really honest: Sometimes, when I pull up to my house, I don’t want to stop; I want to keep driving.

And it’s real because she exposes herself fearlessly: Sometimes I want a drink so badly I consider leaving work early to sit in a bar alone, read my book, and catch a virus from the peanuts being eaten by many unsanitized hands.

Every year in early March the city of Anchorage puts snow on downtown streets, so the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race can have its ceremonial start. For the next nine or 10 days Alaskans talk about wheel dogs, snub lines, mandatory 24s and towns with names like Ophir, Shageluk, Shaktoolik, Unalakleet, Koyuk, Kaltag and – my personal favorite – Safety.

“Safety.” Just what I’d be thinking about if I were standing on sled runners in the middle of the night, on zero sleep, with wind chills well below zero.

This year’s race was won by 53-year-old Mitch Seavey in 9 days, 7 hours, 39 minutes and 56 seconds. He’s the oldest person ever to win – and this year, he beat his own son, Dallas, who finished in fourth place.

Like they say: Youth and vigor can often be overcome by age and treachery.

As in, my relatives are never cold. Specifically, my great-nephews are never cold. I was visiting them on a 10-below-zero night when a friend called to say that Jupiter was quite visible in the night sky.

The boys stampeded out the front door – in their PJs – and stayed out there for at least five minutes, looking. At least they put on their boots.

I used to be that kind of badass. But I find I’ve lost my happy thoughts after 11 years Outside – which is how Alaskans describe Everyplace That Isn’t Alaska. (It gets the upper-case even in the newspapers.)

Yesterday we went to the Metropolitan Opera’s live movie theater broadcast of Richard Wagner’s “Parsifal.” It was a semi-frugal experience: The discounted movie tickets that I bought through MyPoints reduced the $22-per-head cost, and I used my giant $3-per-refill cup.

In another year DF will be old enough for a senior discount, which will shave another $2 off his ticket. But what’s an extra $2 when you get more than five hours of scorched-earth opera?

By that I don’t mean that the music takes no prisoners, but rather that the set is a post-apocalyptic expanse of cracked clay – except for Act II, in which the principals spend most of their time standing in 1,200 gallons of blood. You learn the most interesting things during the intermission interviews.