I wonder if the Monterey Highway Walmart carries thumb screws. An iron maiden? The rack? And which department? Lord knows I won't be able to find a clerk to direct me. These were my thoughts as I sat in the Ralston Hall parlor during Jackie's poetry reading on Monday and fought valiantly to ignore the long, grizzled ponytail adorned with gaudy, plastic tropical flower, the requisite "right on" head bobbing. In other words, Mary. Just when I thought we'd never meet again, lulled into a false sense of peace, listening to Jackie's amazing poetic compositions, I heard a commotion behind me ... and, somehow, I just knew. Was it the heavy stomping on ancient hardwood floors? The rustle of several large canvas bags slung over a meaty shoulder? The multitude of key chains tinkling against one another? Whatever it was, I recognized that commotion without ever turning around. And I froze in horror. God, if you can hear me, I prayed, please don't let that be Mary. But my prayers were in vain. Jackie, slightly irritated by the interruption, asked the late-comer to have a seat up front, and I could no longer deny what my heart knew to be true. And the worst part of all: Katie was nowhere to be found. I was left completely, utterly alone to face this human nightmare. Because Katie and I had agreed to meet and attend the reading together, I pondered medieval torture devices with which to punish her. Now that I think about it, thumb screws are too kind.
But, if I'm honest, I've never had all that much trouble avoiding Mary, even at events like this. Being trapped in a classroom with her, well, that's one thing. But this should have been a piece of cake. It should have been. A little more than halfway through the presentation, I looked behind me and spotted Katie sneaking in. Thank God! I caught her eye, squinted, curled my lip (Elvis-style), and nodded my head in my arch-nemesis's direction. She just raised her eyebrows and shrugged. Good Lord, Katie, how could you miss her? Especially when, as per her usual routine, her cellphone began to play the Beatles' "Imagine" at top volume? Jackie really appreciated that! But come on, she should have been expecting it. I was.
Jackie's performance was amazing, and it was certainly reason enough for me to travel 40 miles, risk a parking ticket, and navigate that steep switchback trail topped with a 90-step, vertical, rickety wooden staircase in the wilderness before emerging at the top -- completely out of breath with stinging leg muscles -- in the packed school parking lot. One long trek across campus brought me to the mansion and the parlor ... just in time to wait 25 minutes for Jackie to begin late. Where the hell was Katie?! I'll tell you where she was; she was in the wrong building. But I only learned that later. After the reading, I ran to Katie, we embraced, and I asked her (quite perplexed), "Where's Robin?" After all, even though I enjoyed seeing Jackie, my main reason for showing up was to meet Katie's fiance.
"Oh, I left him out on the grass with the puppy," she said. "I was afraid he might make some noise and get us kicked out." (The puppy, not Robin). Hmm ... I wish Mary had been as considerate. But poor Robin, exiled to the yard with only a infantile canine for companionship.
"But I thought he's the kind of dog that can't bark," I replied, confused.
"He is, but he sometimes makes other weird noises. Let's go get Robin." And we ran outside into the sunshine to drag him back to the mansion.
No sooner had we re-entered the parlor than Mary cornered me. Desperately, I looked for escape or rescue, but Katie and Robin were occupied introducing the new puppy to a group of friends. And he was, indeed, making some very weird noises. I was on my own.
"Hey, Brooke!" Mary exclaimed, trundling over to me with a huge smile ... and, believe it or not, a lazy eye.
"Hi, Mary," I mumbled in reply, eyes downcast, defeated.
"Where are you working these days?" God, does this woman have no control over the volume of her voice?
"Um ... I'm not working. I'm unemployed, unfortunately."
"You're unemployed?!" she screamed. "Wow! That's too bad. But don't worry; things will pick up. You'll find something." Thanks a bunch, Mary. Naturally, every eye in the room was pointed in my direction at that point, and I'm praying for a hole in the floor to swallow me up. Katie and Robin were seated a few feet away, watching this spectacle with rapt attention. I felt like I was acting out a particularly raunchy sex scene in a soap opera or something. Super uncomfortable, embarrassing as all hell, but I have to play my part.
You know what happened next. I don't even need to tell you. But I will. She started in with the "teenage daughter" stories, the very stories that compromised my sanity for so much of my grad school career. In case you're wondering, said teenage daughter just turned eighteen, and get this: she has a job. That made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Mary and her drug-addicted, promiscuous teenage daughter are both gainfully employed while I am one step away from the shelter. It's times like this that I want to drive up to the city and throw myself from the Golden Gate. But, with my luck, I'd be one of the few who get blown under the bridge and into the safety net. Or I'd land on a garbage barge or something. Sigh.
Finally, after (I kid you not) at least 15 minutes of torture, Katie finally came to my rescue. She explained to Mary that we were headed off to lunch. And we darted outside to freedom.
Robin asked about my rather strong reaction to Mary. "You don't understand," I explained. "I despise that woman more than anything on Earth. I would rather stick pins in my eyes than even look in her direction."
"You couldn't even tell, though," Katie said. "You seemed like you were having a regular conversation."
"Well, that's good, I guess. Where are we going for lunch?"
"Hola's, of course" she answered. Ah, Katie! You know me too well. The only remedy for a Mary encounter is a large dose of Hola margarita. Or, as was the case so many times in grad school, the effects of two or more Hola margaritas make a future encounter with Mary almost bearable. Class is more fun that way, too! So, one margarita and a plate of nachos later, the rage began to subside. Thank you, Katie!
I like to consider myself a fair person, so, to be fair, I will say that Mary has lost at least 75 pounds since I last saw her. I may hate her guts, but it's nice to see that she has less of them. That couldn't have been easy. And imagine the heartache she must have suffered when she outgrew her collection of tie-dyed t-shirts. At least, she'll always be able to fit into her peace sign Converse sneakers and her long, dangly dream-catcher earrings. And let's not forget that orange and yellow tropical flower hair pin.
Honestly, though, Katie is probably my biggest fan. She's certainly one of my most supportive friends. She's tried, and continues to try, to get me a teaching job at her school -- even though we would technically be competing. She wrote me the most complimentary letter of recommendation you could imagine. It brought a tear to my eye. I suppose I can forgive her for abandoning me to my arch-nemesis for 15 interminable minutes. Just as long as it never happens again. Got it?
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
People who "forget" to wear green on St. Patrick's Day. What is wrong with you people?! I happen to be wearing seven shades of green today. Yes, all at once. I've got my shiny green shamrock earrings, a lime green shirt, my sparkly green best friends ring from Seattle, a jeweled two-tone green bracelet, green-eyed cat socks, and a flashing green button that says, "Everyone loves an Irish girl." If I can manage all that, what's your excuse? If you're one of these crazy rule-breakers (Katie), consider yourself pinched.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Word Nerd
I know what you're thinking; I'm practically psychic that way. You're wondering what the hell I'm doing up at such an ungodly hour. I'm kinda wondering that, myself. Actually, I'm anticipating an exciting day tomorrow (well, today), and I can never sleep when thrilling events await me. So, since my mind is still spinning from that one cup of contraband caffeine, I thought I'd put myself to good use on the Internet. Mwahaha!
Emilie, other assorted awesome people, and I went to see Alice in Wonderland on Saturday night. It was my first 3-D movie. Can you believe it? I wanted so badly to reach out and pet the Cheshire cat (shocker), but I was afraid someone might see me flailing my arm about like a fool, so I kept that nearly overwhelming desire to myself. I have to admit, though, that I had a real issue with Lewis Carroll's vocabulary fabrication. In my world, it is a crime, punishable by death, to randomly invent new words -- especially if you're a mathematician. Fudderwacken, Lewis Carroll?! Off with your head! (As an aside, you may not know that this same author is responsible for the word chortle. Yes, he made it up ... and it is now a regular part of our lexicon. Sigh.) I was thankful, really, that it was pitch dark in the theater and that, as an added bonus, everyone was wearing dark glasses ... because I was unable to suppress a violent shudder each and every time a nonsensical word was uttered on the screen. I imagine that, had we been in a well lit setting, I might have been mistaken for a Tourette's Syndrome sufferer. Or an epileptic. Other than that (and an astoundingly unrealistic ending), I quite enjoyed the film.
On the way back to Emilie's place, I started a conversation about lazy eyes. No need to go back and read that a second time; you've got it right. Lazy eyes. I mentioned that, if I place my hand about an inch in front of my eye, it automatically moves (independently of my other eye) to the side, searching desperately for something to look at. If I take my hand away, you can observe both of my eyes staring in different directions. It's pretty creepy. Naturally, I demonstrated this. Seeing is believing, after all. And why should Emilie pay attention to the road when she could witness a phenomenon like this? You're, no doubt, wondering why the hell I happened to bring that up, aren't you? Well, we started off talking about the 3-D glasses and how they bugged our eyes out for the first several minutes. My mind just wandered from there. And you know how I am; my mind flits from one thing to another to another until, eventually, I'm so far off on a tangent, it's almost impossible to understand how I got there. Okay, scratch the almost. It's full-on impossible. And, since I'm me, I'm going to talk about it, whatever it might be. Talking is just what I do, yo. Emilie, on the other hand, is a normal human being. But she always takes the time to carefully consider everything I say, no matter how bizarre. I totally love her for this, of course. She's a deep thinker, that one. Although, she usually thinks about really complex concepts like philosophy and theology, literary symbolism and mysticism. Pondering the random shit that flies out of my mouth must be like a vacation for her. In any case, she always gives my words far more attention than they deserve, and she provides insight on top of it.
"It's almost like I have a lazy eye, except that both of my eyes do it," I said. "And only when I cover one with my hand. The covered eye just can't stand not being able to look at something, so it wanders off on its own."
Several moments passed in silence as I watched the wheels turning in her head. Then, with great sincerity, Emilie thoughtfully replied, "I think that, instead of a lazy eye, you have an ambitious eye." And that totally made my day. Maybe even my week.
I would love to believe that, even if only in a random body part, I am (in some small way) ambitious. So what if I have no goals for my future? Who cares if I don't even have concrete plans for tomorrow? And what's it to ya if I can't bring myself to care about any of it? I have an ambitious eye. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is going to stop me from looking at stuff. No matter how far it has to wander or how freaky it has to look doing it, my eye will see, damn it!
Meanwhile, we had a big family dinner last night. It was amazing, as usual, because Mom cooked it. And I'm not just saying that because I eat the same odd concoction every night when left to my own devices. Beans by Brooke. I invented it. And no, I'm no hypocrite; it's perfectly acceptable to invent recipes, just not words. Anyway, Beans by Brooke is cheap, healthy, and kind of gross. Easy, though. That's the ticket. Slowly, over the past five days or so, the scurvy and rickets have started to resolve because it's been that many days since I've eaten dinner at home. Thanks, everybody, for feeding me and possibly saving my life. I owe you!
While attempting to plop a heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes on Tony's plate, Lindsay managed to get his arm instead. "Oops! I potatoed your arm, Tony," she said. And I totally cracked up. You were expecting to see this in the "Pet Peeve of the Day" section, I know. I would have thought so, too. But, for some inexplicable reason, I completely love it when people misuse nouns as verbs. It just tickles the hell out of me. For the life of me, I can't understand it. I mean, just look at how crazy I get over invented words, misspelled words, and annoyingly abbreviated words. You would think that misused nouns would turn me absolutely batty, but no. They make me laugh with glee. (They do not, however, make me chortle.) Go figure. Must be a glitch in my software.
I laughed out loud and exclaimed, "I'm going to write about this!" And you should know that, whenever I say that (which is quite frequently these days), I mean it 100%. Tony is wondering if he'll have to watch his every word now. I've got him all paranoid. Hee hee hee! Didn't I tell you, Em? Here it is: the lazy eye story in all its glory ... as promised.
Anywho, Tony napkined the potatoes from his sleeve and the night progressed normally. See what I mean? I will even go so far as to misuse nouns, myself. Napkined! Ha!
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
Gotcha! There is no pet peeve today. Instead, I have a favor to ask of you. As you can see, I have four followers. (Is it just me, or does that sound uncomfortably cult-like? I will call this the Church of B. Each night, we shall commune over steaming bowls of Beans by Brooke and talk about vocabulary at every opportunity ... and there will be countless opportunities because we are an unambitious people.) Other than those four wonderful, supportive friends/relatives, I have no idea who's reading my nonsense. I know that curiosity killed the cat and all (and there's nothing that devastates me more than a dead cat), but I would dearly love to know my audience. It is, after all, the first rule of composition. I can't very well scream at a room full of students for breaking this rule if I can't follow it. Please, please don't take that joy away from me. Would you be so kind as to click the "Follow" button and type in your first name? I strongly discourage the use of your full name. You will pop up on every search engine forever if you do. Trust me; I already learned that lesson. (If you ever want to read something boring as all get-out, google me and click on the blogger link. You'll find loads of snooze-worthy writing about 20th century literature. It was part of my grade; I swear.) First names, however, are nice and anonymous. I happen to know that more than my special four are reading this on occasion, but it would be cool to see your names. And, for God's sake, people, write a comment every now and then. Mom cannot be expected to shoulder this burden on her own. Thanks!
Emilie, other assorted awesome people, and I went to see Alice in Wonderland on Saturday night. It was my first 3-D movie. Can you believe it? I wanted so badly to reach out and pet the Cheshire cat (shocker), but I was afraid someone might see me flailing my arm about like a fool, so I kept that nearly overwhelming desire to myself. I have to admit, though, that I had a real issue with Lewis Carroll's vocabulary fabrication. In my world, it is a crime, punishable by death, to randomly invent new words -- especially if you're a mathematician. Fudderwacken, Lewis Carroll?! Off with your head! (As an aside, you may not know that this same author is responsible for the word chortle. Yes, he made it up ... and it is now a regular part of our lexicon. Sigh.) I was thankful, really, that it was pitch dark in the theater and that, as an added bonus, everyone was wearing dark glasses ... because I was unable to suppress a violent shudder each and every time a nonsensical word was uttered on the screen. I imagine that, had we been in a well lit setting, I might have been mistaken for a Tourette's Syndrome sufferer. Or an epileptic. Other than that (and an astoundingly unrealistic ending), I quite enjoyed the film.
On the way back to Emilie's place, I started a conversation about lazy eyes. No need to go back and read that a second time; you've got it right. Lazy eyes. I mentioned that, if I place my hand about an inch in front of my eye, it automatically moves (independently of my other eye) to the side, searching desperately for something to look at. If I take my hand away, you can observe both of my eyes staring in different directions. It's pretty creepy. Naturally, I demonstrated this. Seeing is believing, after all. And why should Emilie pay attention to the road when she could witness a phenomenon like this? You're, no doubt, wondering why the hell I happened to bring that up, aren't you? Well, we started off talking about the 3-D glasses and how they bugged our eyes out for the first several minutes. My mind just wandered from there. And you know how I am; my mind flits from one thing to another to another until, eventually, I'm so far off on a tangent, it's almost impossible to understand how I got there. Okay, scratch the almost. It's full-on impossible. And, since I'm me, I'm going to talk about it, whatever it might be. Talking is just what I do, yo. Emilie, on the other hand, is a normal human being. But she always takes the time to carefully consider everything I say, no matter how bizarre. I totally love her for this, of course. She's a deep thinker, that one. Although, she usually thinks about really complex concepts like philosophy and theology, literary symbolism and mysticism. Pondering the random shit that flies out of my mouth must be like a vacation for her. In any case, she always gives my words far more attention than they deserve, and she provides insight on top of it.
"It's almost like I have a lazy eye, except that both of my eyes do it," I said. "And only when I cover one with my hand. The covered eye just can't stand not being able to look at something, so it wanders off on its own."
Several moments passed in silence as I watched the wheels turning in her head. Then, with great sincerity, Emilie thoughtfully replied, "I think that, instead of a lazy eye, you have an ambitious eye." And that totally made my day. Maybe even my week.
I would love to believe that, even if only in a random body part, I am (in some small way) ambitious. So what if I have no goals for my future? Who cares if I don't even have concrete plans for tomorrow? And what's it to ya if I can't bring myself to care about any of it? I have an ambitious eye. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is going to stop me from looking at stuff. No matter how far it has to wander or how freaky it has to look doing it, my eye will see, damn it!
Meanwhile, we had a big family dinner last night. It was amazing, as usual, because Mom cooked it. And I'm not just saying that because I eat the same odd concoction every night when left to my own devices. Beans by Brooke. I invented it. And no, I'm no hypocrite; it's perfectly acceptable to invent recipes, just not words. Anyway, Beans by Brooke is cheap, healthy, and kind of gross. Easy, though. That's the ticket. Slowly, over the past five days or so, the scurvy and rickets have started to resolve because it's been that many days since I've eaten dinner at home. Thanks, everybody, for feeding me and possibly saving my life. I owe you!
While attempting to plop a heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes on Tony's plate, Lindsay managed to get his arm instead. "Oops! I potatoed your arm, Tony," she said. And I totally cracked up. You were expecting to see this in the "Pet Peeve of the Day" section, I know. I would have thought so, too. But, for some inexplicable reason, I completely love it when people misuse nouns as verbs. It just tickles the hell out of me. For the life of me, I can't understand it. I mean, just look at how crazy I get over invented words, misspelled words, and annoyingly abbreviated words. You would think that misused nouns would turn me absolutely batty, but no. They make me laugh with glee. (They do not, however, make me chortle.) Go figure. Must be a glitch in my software.
I laughed out loud and exclaimed, "I'm going to write about this!" And you should know that, whenever I say that (which is quite frequently these days), I mean it 100%. Tony is wondering if he'll have to watch his every word now. I've got him all paranoid. Hee hee hee! Didn't I tell you, Em? Here it is: the lazy eye story in all its glory ... as promised.
Anywho, Tony napkined the potatoes from his sleeve and the night progressed normally. See what I mean? I will even go so far as to misuse nouns, myself. Napkined! Ha!
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
Gotcha! There is no pet peeve today. Instead, I have a favor to ask of you. As you can see, I have four followers. (Is it just me, or does that sound uncomfortably cult-like? I will call this the Church of B. Each night, we shall commune over steaming bowls of Beans by Brooke and talk about vocabulary at every opportunity ... and there will be countless opportunities because we are an unambitious people.) Other than those four wonderful, supportive friends/relatives, I have no idea who's reading my nonsense. I know that curiosity killed the cat and all (and there's nothing that devastates me more than a dead cat), but I would dearly love to know my audience. It is, after all, the first rule of composition. I can't very well scream at a room full of students for breaking this rule if I can't follow it. Please, please don't take that joy away from me. Would you be so kind as to click the "Follow" button and type in your first name? I strongly discourage the use of your full name. You will pop up on every search engine forever if you do. Trust me; I already learned that lesson. (If you ever want to read something boring as all get-out, google me and click on the blogger link. You'll find loads of snooze-worthy writing about 20th century literature. It was part of my grade; I swear.) First names, however, are nice and anonymous. I happen to know that more than my special four are reading this on occasion, but it would be cool to see your names. And, for God's sake, people, write a comment every now and then. Mom cannot be expected to shoulder this burden on her own. Thanks!
Friday, March 12, 2010
Chillin' at the Pool
I took a walk yesterday. Yeah, I know. Totally out of character. But I'm not stupid. I understand that a 100% sedentary lifestyle could lead to complete muscle atrophy. Then, I wouldn't have a choice -- and I do hate having my choices taken away from me. Of course, I could always send away for a Hoveround ... but doesn't Medicare usually pay for that? I think Hoveround is the brand of motorized chair (although it could be Lark) with the commercial showing the old ladies, their scooters perched just at the edge of the Grand Canyon. They're smiling and waving, comfortably seated mere millimeters from disaster. Man, that commercial makes me want my own Hoveround! But since I don't have the money (or the Medicare) for that right now, I decided to take a walk -- on my own two legs. And, after all, it was a gorgeous day ... for once.
When I do get out and about within the complex, I like to walk by the swimming pool -- the one closest to my apartment -- because you just never know what you're gonna see. A family of Mallard ducks paddling about. A cat, carefully leaning over the edge to take a sip of chlorinated goodness, losing his balance and falling in. The Clothes People, as Lindsay has termed them, going for a swim fully clothed. What? Yep. There's a rather large group of Latino residents here who love to use the pool but only dressed in street clothes. I'm not talking shorts and t-shirts, either. I've seen them taking a dip in jeans, button-down shirts, skirts, and even sweats. I have no idea why they do this, but I'm thinkin' it could be religious. After all, Pentacostals hang at the beach in long dresses and nylon stockings. Or, I suppose it could be an interesting alternative to the laundromat. Not really sure ... but it's odd. However, what I saw while out on my walk was the strangest sight I've beheld so far.
Stretched out on the lounges facing the pool reclined two women reading a newspaper. Normally, I wouldn't think twice about this. However, these two were bundled up to such a degree that they could have been express-flown to Antarctica and dropped on a glacier in the middle of nowhere with no chance of frostbite or even a case of the shivers. They each wore a large, puffy snow jacket with the hood pulled so far down and cinched so tightly, only the eyes and nose could be seen. Well, except for the fact that they were wearing sunglasses. Then, there were snow pants, thick socks, and bulky boots. Did I mention the gloves? I could literally see about two square inches of skin -- around the nose. Everything else was carefully covered. Remember that it was at least 70 degrees outside. And ... if you're that cold -- and that covered -- what's the point of lying out by the pool? I'm guessing they weren't working on their tans. Although, they might have been preparing to take a dip. I couldn't see enough of either of them to ascertain whether they belong to the Clothes People clan. But that's a little extreme, even for those guys. As I pondered all of this, I watched as one woman/man/alien struggled to sit up and hand the Metro section to the other reclining Eskimo. It's no easy feat, after all, to move around wearing so much gear. Maybe, for shits and giggles, I'll wear my space suit down there the next time I'm feeling aquatically inclined.
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
Official documents -- published, legal, etc. -- filled with grievous spelling and grammar errors. Is it really that hard to proofread it first? Why, just yesterday, while filling out a job application, I came to the legal portion at the end only to find that it appeared to have been written by a kindergartner. So horrified was I that I quickly marked all of the mistakes before returning it to the front desk. "Um, I don't mean to be picky," I said, "but you might want to let your manager know that this release is filled with terrible writing errors. I've made all the necessary corrections, so feel free to use them." Her puzzled look was comical. But come on! I can't let something like that slide. How embarrassing! If they hire me, I'm going to insist on taking over all writing and editing duties -- even though that doesn't even remotely appear in the job description -- because I cannot possibly work for a company that blithely hands out poorly written material like that. Right?
When I do get out and about within the complex, I like to walk by the swimming pool -- the one closest to my apartment -- because you just never know what you're gonna see. A family of Mallard ducks paddling about. A cat, carefully leaning over the edge to take a sip of chlorinated goodness, losing his balance and falling in. The Clothes People, as Lindsay has termed them, going for a swim fully clothed. What? Yep. There's a rather large group of Latino residents here who love to use the pool but only dressed in street clothes. I'm not talking shorts and t-shirts, either. I've seen them taking a dip in jeans, button-down shirts, skirts, and even sweats. I have no idea why they do this, but I'm thinkin' it could be religious. After all, Pentacostals hang at the beach in long dresses and nylon stockings. Or, I suppose it could be an interesting alternative to the laundromat. Not really sure ... but it's odd. However, what I saw while out on my walk was the strangest sight I've beheld so far.
Stretched out on the lounges facing the pool reclined two women reading a newspaper. Normally, I wouldn't think twice about this. However, these two were bundled up to such a degree that they could have been express-flown to Antarctica and dropped on a glacier in the middle of nowhere with no chance of frostbite or even a case of the shivers. They each wore a large, puffy snow jacket with the hood pulled so far down and cinched so tightly, only the eyes and nose could be seen. Well, except for the fact that they were wearing sunglasses. Then, there were snow pants, thick socks, and bulky boots. Did I mention the gloves? I could literally see about two square inches of skin -- around the nose. Everything else was carefully covered. Remember that it was at least 70 degrees outside. And ... if you're that cold -- and that covered -- what's the point of lying out by the pool? I'm guessing they weren't working on their tans. Although, they might have been preparing to take a dip. I couldn't see enough of either of them to ascertain whether they belong to the Clothes People clan. But that's a little extreme, even for those guys. As I pondered all of this, I watched as one woman/man/alien struggled to sit up and hand the Metro section to the other reclining Eskimo. It's no easy feat, after all, to move around wearing so much gear. Maybe, for shits and giggles, I'll wear my space suit down there the next time I'm feeling aquatically inclined.
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
Official documents -- published, legal, etc. -- filled with grievous spelling and grammar errors. Is it really that hard to proofread it first? Why, just yesterday, while filling out a job application, I came to the legal portion at the end only to find that it appeared to have been written by a kindergartner. So horrified was I that I quickly marked all of the mistakes before returning it to the front desk. "Um, I don't mean to be picky," I said, "but you might want to let your manager know that this release is filled with terrible writing errors. I've made all the necessary corrections, so feel free to use them." Her puzzled look was comical. But come on! I can't let something like that slide. How embarrassing! If they hire me, I'm going to insist on taking over all writing and editing duties -- even though that doesn't even remotely appear in the job description -- because I cannot possibly work for a company that blithely hands out poorly written material like that. Right?
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
What the ...?
Read Across America 2010. What can I say? It's a day, in honor of Dr. Seuss and held each year on his birthday, when people interested in volunteer work can gather at primary schools and read short books to children at all grade levels. Literacy is an issue close to my heart. Obviously. So, early this morning, I met with my Kiwanis club -- which, Kay will tell you, is a group comprised mainly of fossils ... and me -- and I picked out some picture books. Honestly, I wasn't planning to write about this. I mean, how interesting could it be?
Holy crap! I can't even remember the last time I was so amused. Okay, that's a lie: it was last Saturday. But we'll get to that. First of all, I would just like to say that I think I was the only volunteer taking this thing seriously. The fossils just stood around in the school library, eating refreshments and chatting about Medicare and such. Meanwhile, I frantically picked out books, trying desperately to coordinate subject matter and age-appropriateness. After that, I practiced each book, making sure that I would have enough material to last my entire 20 minutes per class. After all, there is no tougher audience than a group of small children. And I was scared ... real scared. Studying my school map carefully, I circled each classroom, drawing arrows from one to the next, plotting my course so as to eliminate any risk of tardiness. Books and map tucked under my arm, name tag firmly affixed to my teacherly sweater, I was ready to go. I waved to the snacking fossils, and I was off.
And, naturally, they threw me right into the deep end. There was no working up to it. No. First grade. Ay, Dios mio! The teacher led me over to a bench and instructed the kids to sit on the floor in front of me. They gazed at me with huge eyes filled with excitement. Oh, the pressure!
"First grade, HI!" I exclaimed. "My name is Brooke and I'm a teacher. I teach grown-ups how to read and write."
And they went crazy. I mean, these little monsters were seriously impressed. I got a chorus of wows and cools. It was love ... and it was mutual. After the first story, I automatically slipped into teacher mode (I can't help myself, really).
I asked, "So, how many of you think you might like to write a book when you grow up?" Every single one of them raised a hand. Aw, yeah!
One excitable Indian boy began frantically waving his arm back and forth. I pointed, and he proudly stated, "I wrote 15 books this morning." Hmmm... methinks somebody's not telling the truth.
"Really? Fifteen books in one day? What are they about?"
Nodding his head, he answered, "Endangered animals ... and, uh, technology." Okay. Interesting combination. "I'm going to print out copies on my mom's computer so that everyone can have their own. Because, when you write books, you want people to read them." His classmates soberly nodded their tiny little heads, as did I. A wise young man ... with eclectic interests, to be sure. And quite prolific.
Next up: fourth grade. For these kids, I had picked out a Cinderella-inspired story about a Native American girl. Once again slipping into teacher mode, I asked, "Does anyone know what a wigwam is?" No one did -- except for one impossibly small Asian boy with magnifier glasses and a yellow jacket.
"A wigwam is a Native American dwelling made of animal hides and straw. For the most part, wigwams are dome-shaped." What the ...? Is this kid for real?! It's like he was reading out of an encyclopedia.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Christopher." Nerd King of the fourth grade.
"Christopher, that was an excellent answer. Nice job!" Because, honestly, not ten minutes before, I had figured out what a wigwam was by looking at the pictures and putting two and two together. If you'd asked me yesterday, who knows?
The second story was the real tale of the three pigs and the big, bad wolf. If you haven't read it, it's hilarious. The class loved it. But, at the beginning, the wolf asks (hypothetically), "What kind of idiot builds his house out of straw?"
Christopher answers, "The Native Americans!" And we all had a good laugh ... at the expense of our native peoples.
That story completed, I was ready to head off to the next fourth grade classroom, but before I could make my escape, a girl seated near the door grabbed my arm and demanded, "Hey, what's that?" I noticed her pointing to my fifth grade book selection. "I thought you said you didn't have any more books to read us!" Another girl gasped, her eyes full of betrayal.
"I don't! Honest. This is for the fifth grade." And I ran.
After the second fourth grade class, in which nothing much happened, I followed the arrows on my map to the fifth grade. I read them an incredibly moving, beautifully written story about a girl tortured with Dyslexia and her triumph over the disability. At the very end, the author included a note in which she revealed that she was the girl in the story. Her teacher inspired her to keep working at her reading skills, and now she writes books for children.
A chubby Asian kid, lounging in his desk gangsta-style, raised his hand and asked, "So, that's supposed to be a true story then?" I replied that it was, in fact, autobiographical. "I don't buy it."
What?! "What do you mean you don't buy it?"
"That didn't really happen," he stated with complete confidence. "Cool story, though."
When I signed up to read to these elementary students, I suspected I was making a huge mistake. I was sure they'd tear me to pieces, cause me to run screaming from the building. Instead, I wanted to run screaming to the Principal's office, begging to let me teach Language Arts to these super fun smarties. Who ever would have imagined it? I'm SO volunteering for Read Across America 2011. You should, too.
So ... about last Saturday. Bridget, Lindsay, Mom, and I went to Sausalito (necessitating a trip across the Golden Gate Bridge. Hooray!) for Bridget's hair and makeup consultation. We were all eager to see what a gorgeous bride she'll make in just three short months. I'm sure these are the right people for the job. Not only did B2 emerge from the salon looking like a supermodel, but the hairstylist is a creative writer in her free time and loves to talk about copy editing. What luck!
On our way home, we got to talking about food. After all, none of us had had breakfast, and we were all starving. Lindsay told us that Tony doesn't like Thai or Chinese food because it's too fatty. No, he prefers to stick with Mexican food. Huh? Seriously, Tony? You do realize that there's a bucket of lard in practically every entree, right? It's their main staple.
"Well, I don't like Vietnamese food. Yuck! I've never seen a bowl of Pho (Vietnamese meat and noodle soup, pronounced fuh) that didn't have an Exxon-Veldeze-worthy grease slick spread over the top," I said.
"Well, maybe we could open our own Vietnamese restaurant, then," Lindsay offered. "Then, you could make non-greasy Pho."
And then Bridget said it, endangering my status as Title Queen. "We can call it What the Pho?!" Hell, yeah!
I was really proud of this title, as well as her other ingenious offering, Pho, Yeah. And on Sunday, when I met with my bank friends for my Russian sister's birthday, I told my Vietnamese friend, Lien, what Bridget had come up with.
"Oh, we say that all the time," she replied, totally unimpressed. "What's really funny is this place I saw in Las Vegas. It was so hilarious that I made Sonny turn the car around and go back. I had to get a picture. The place was called Jenny Pho."
Get it? Like the name Jennifer. And, really, Jenny Pho is exactly the way I've heard every Vietnamese person I've ever known pronounce that name. So, yeah. I think we may have a winner. Sorry, Bridget.
Ah, we Fogeds have an enterprising spirit. The rap group (F Y'all), the Vietnamese restaurant (What the Pho?!), Lindsay's pizza cart, etc. Of course, none of it ever really comes to anything. But we've sure got a lot of ideas.
B
Pet peeve of the day:
People who write text message abbreviations in letters, emails, office memos, and other forms of written communication -- especially essays assigned for college classes. In fact, I can't even stand to see it in text messages. R U kidding me? I h8 that shit! We're killing our langualage.
Oh, and when I told B2 that I'm writing a new pet peeve at the end of every post, she cautioned me, "Do NOT write about irregardless. That's everyone's pet peeve, and it's not original." Too late! So, sorry if that was cliched. I'll try harder.
Holy crap! I can't even remember the last time I was so amused. Okay, that's a lie: it was last Saturday. But we'll get to that. First of all, I would just like to say that I think I was the only volunteer taking this thing seriously. The fossils just stood around in the school library, eating refreshments and chatting about Medicare and such. Meanwhile, I frantically picked out books, trying desperately to coordinate subject matter and age-appropriateness. After that, I practiced each book, making sure that I would have enough material to last my entire 20 minutes per class. After all, there is no tougher audience than a group of small children. And I was scared ... real scared. Studying my school map carefully, I circled each classroom, drawing arrows from one to the next, plotting my course so as to eliminate any risk of tardiness. Books and map tucked under my arm, name tag firmly affixed to my teacherly sweater, I was ready to go. I waved to the snacking fossils, and I was off.
And, naturally, they threw me right into the deep end. There was no working up to it. No. First grade. Ay, Dios mio! The teacher led me over to a bench and instructed the kids to sit on the floor in front of me. They gazed at me with huge eyes filled with excitement. Oh, the pressure!
"First grade, HI!" I exclaimed. "My name is Brooke and I'm a teacher. I teach grown-ups how to read and write."
And they went crazy. I mean, these little monsters were seriously impressed. I got a chorus of wows and cools. It was love ... and it was mutual. After the first story, I automatically slipped into teacher mode (I can't help myself, really).
I asked, "So, how many of you think you might like to write a book when you grow up?" Every single one of them raised a hand. Aw, yeah!
One excitable Indian boy began frantically waving his arm back and forth. I pointed, and he proudly stated, "I wrote 15 books this morning." Hmmm... methinks somebody's not telling the truth.
"Really? Fifteen books in one day? What are they about?"
Nodding his head, he answered, "Endangered animals ... and, uh, technology." Okay. Interesting combination. "I'm going to print out copies on my mom's computer so that everyone can have their own. Because, when you write books, you want people to read them." His classmates soberly nodded their tiny little heads, as did I. A wise young man ... with eclectic interests, to be sure. And quite prolific.
Next up: fourth grade. For these kids, I had picked out a Cinderella-inspired story about a Native American girl. Once again slipping into teacher mode, I asked, "Does anyone know what a wigwam is?" No one did -- except for one impossibly small Asian boy with magnifier glasses and a yellow jacket.
"A wigwam is a Native American dwelling made of animal hides and straw. For the most part, wigwams are dome-shaped." What the ...? Is this kid for real?! It's like he was reading out of an encyclopedia.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Christopher." Nerd King of the fourth grade.
"Christopher, that was an excellent answer. Nice job!" Because, honestly, not ten minutes before, I had figured out what a wigwam was by looking at the pictures and putting two and two together. If you'd asked me yesterday, who knows?
The second story was the real tale of the three pigs and the big, bad wolf. If you haven't read it, it's hilarious. The class loved it. But, at the beginning, the wolf asks (hypothetically), "What kind of idiot builds his house out of straw?"
Christopher answers, "The Native Americans!" And we all had a good laugh ... at the expense of our native peoples.
That story completed, I was ready to head off to the next fourth grade classroom, but before I could make my escape, a girl seated near the door grabbed my arm and demanded, "Hey, what's that?" I noticed her pointing to my fifth grade book selection. "I thought you said you didn't have any more books to read us!" Another girl gasped, her eyes full of betrayal.
"I don't! Honest. This is for the fifth grade." And I ran.
After the second fourth grade class, in which nothing much happened, I followed the arrows on my map to the fifth grade. I read them an incredibly moving, beautifully written story about a girl tortured with Dyslexia and her triumph over the disability. At the very end, the author included a note in which she revealed that she was the girl in the story. Her teacher inspired her to keep working at her reading skills, and now she writes books for children.
A chubby Asian kid, lounging in his desk gangsta-style, raised his hand and asked, "So, that's supposed to be a true story then?" I replied that it was, in fact, autobiographical. "I don't buy it."
What?! "What do you mean you don't buy it?"
"That didn't really happen," he stated with complete confidence. "Cool story, though."
When I signed up to read to these elementary students, I suspected I was making a huge mistake. I was sure they'd tear me to pieces, cause me to run screaming from the building. Instead, I wanted to run screaming to the Principal's office, begging to let me teach Language Arts to these super fun smarties. Who ever would have imagined it? I'm SO volunteering for Read Across America 2011. You should, too.
So ... about last Saturday. Bridget, Lindsay, Mom, and I went to Sausalito (necessitating a trip across the Golden Gate Bridge. Hooray!) for Bridget's hair and makeup consultation. We were all eager to see what a gorgeous bride she'll make in just three short months. I'm sure these are the right people for the job. Not only did B2 emerge from the salon looking like a supermodel, but the hairstylist is a creative writer in her free time and loves to talk about copy editing. What luck!
On our way home, we got to talking about food. After all, none of us had had breakfast, and we were all starving. Lindsay told us that Tony doesn't like Thai or Chinese food because it's too fatty. No, he prefers to stick with Mexican food. Huh? Seriously, Tony? You do realize that there's a bucket of lard in practically every entree, right? It's their main staple.
"Well, I don't like Vietnamese food. Yuck! I've never seen a bowl of Pho (Vietnamese meat and noodle soup, pronounced fuh) that didn't have an Exxon-Veldeze-worthy grease slick spread over the top," I said.
"Well, maybe we could open our own Vietnamese restaurant, then," Lindsay offered. "Then, you could make non-greasy Pho."
And then Bridget said it, endangering my status as Title Queen. "We can call it What the Pho?!" Hell, yeah!
I was really proud of this title, as well as her other ingenious offering, Pho, Yeah. And on Sunday, when I met with my bank friends for my Russian sister's birthday, I told my Vietnamese friend, Lien, what Bridget had come up with.
"Oh, we say that all the time," she replied, totally unimpressed. "What's really funny is this place I saw in Las Vegas. It was so hilarious that I made Sonny turn the car around and go back. I had to get a picture. The place was called Jenny Pho."
Get it? Like the name Jennifer. And, really, Jenny Pho is exactly the way I've heard every Vietnamese person I've ever known pronounce that name. So, yeah. I think we may have a winner. Sorry, Bridget.
Ah, we Fogeds have an enterprising spirit. The rap group (F Y'all), the Vietnamese restaurant (What the Pho?!), Lindsay's pizza cart, etc. Of course, none of it ever really comes to anything. But we've sure got a lot of ideas.
B
Pet peeve of the day:
People who write text message abbreviations in letters, emails, office memos, and other forms of written communication -- especially essays assigned for college classes. In fact, I can't even stand to see it in text messages. R U kidding me? I h8 that shit! We're killing our langualage.
Oh, and when I told B2 that I'm writing a new pet peeve at the end of every post, she cautioned me, "Do NOT write about irregardless. That's everyone's pet peeve, and it's not original." Too late! So, sorry if that was cliched. I'll try harder.
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