Words, Writing and Tank Girl

Three of the four jibs are in pink.

What is a jib and why is it cut? As in,”I don’t like the cut of his jib.” I looked the word up, honestly expecting it was an archaic term for a person's wang. Ah...no.

Jib
     noun
1) Sailing:
 a triangular staysail set forward of the forwardmost mast.

2) the projecting arm of a crane.

3) In the phrase “cut of  one’s jib,” it refers to a person’s general appearance or personality.

In the 17th century the shape of the jib sail often identified a vessel's nationality, and hence whether it was hostile or friendly. The term was being used figuratively by the early 1800s, often to express like or dislike for someone. (source)

Then there’s rubricate.

My first thought on seeing this word is that it MUST mean:
       To successfully con a mark (AKA Rube) out of the contents of his wallet.

'Back in her carnie days, Donna could be quite good at rubricating the yokels.'

The definition is actually:

1: to mark, color, or illuminate (a book, etc.) with red; write or print in red letters
2: to provide with or regulate by rubrics

Etymology: Latin rubricatus, past participle of rubricare (“to colour red”).

zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

With those origins, how come the word rubric (a noun) means something completely different from rubricate?

1a: an authoritative rule
especially: a rule for conduct of a liturgical service
1b: name or title
specifically : the title of a statute
2: something under which a thing is classed : category

Shouldn’t the definition include references to shades of carmine, crimson or cardinal?
~~~
Common advice to aspiring authors—write what you know. Sure, I do that but I’m not attempting to write the Great American Novel nor do I have that lofty aim. I ramble randomly or rant and rave.

If I had a deep desire to pen a brill sci-fi novel I think I’d be kind of fucked. I’m too busy propping up my own tottering world to create one out of nothing.

If I tried? The main character would be a flaw riddled, cranky-ass twatzilla with a tendency to hastily jump into shit without thinking or planning overmuch (writing what I know—me). She’d have a warped sense of humor and a dreadful habit of overindulging in pretty much everything—after all, why indulge when you can overindulge. In what does she overdo? Dunno—waddya got?

Oh my butterscotch dipped god, I just neatly described Tank Girl. Fer fuck’s sake, I never noticed our vast similarities before. I guess I’m a punked out, foul mouthed, mutant kangaroo banging woman with the ability to outrun any ice cream van on the planet. Okay sure but:

A) Ten’s most def not a mutant kangaroo.
B) While I’m unable to run, it’s not like ice cream vans ever come through Valhalla. I haz a sad.
C) Tank Girl is young—I’m a few light years past my youth.

Back to my unlikely book, Tank Girl’s already out there in the science fictional/urban fantasy universe. Who else could plausibly be my main attraction? Maybe my protagonist will be a demure churchgoer who bakes, crochets, is unfailingly polite and solves mysteries?

HAH //snort// Yeah, demure? Bakes? Engages in fine needlecraft? That’s not gonna happen. (Mind you, the creation of breads and pastries is a godlike accomplishment. Also, I bow before knitters and other fabric artists but, no surprise here, that ain’t me babe.) I couldn’t write a Miss Marple or a Kelly Flynn.

I believe I’ll stick to blogging.