confronting critique
Thursday, June 19, 2008
For a writer, one thoughtful critique from someone wise and knowing is worth thousands of words of supportive praise from people who love you. (Although, admittedly, I need both to keep going.)
I am always grateful to receive critique from friends and editors that will help move my writing to a higher level.
Which is not to say it’s “fun,” exactly.
I have received two critiques on two different projects since last night. Both are smart, insightful and useful.
Nonetheless—ouch.
Not “ouch” they were poorly expressed or “ouch” I disagree or even “ouch” I don’t have the ego for this. Just “ouch” I hate confronting my deficiencies, even en route to making amends.
Before I can even fully process what needs to be done to fix the projects, I have to overcome shame for not being perfect first time out. I can accept faults and foibles in all aspects of myself but writing. In some demented, deluded way I expect nothing but brilliance when it comes to expressing ideas. Anything less is like getting caught with my pants down.
That’s not rational. It just is.
Actually, any feedback is painful for me. I received an e-mail the other day from a friend reading a novel in progress for me. She said, "I'm about a third of the way through what you sent me -- and really like it."
I heard, "I can barely drag my way through this and I'm kind of embarrassed for you."
Getting even positive feedback can be a sick game of telephone for the writer's ego, especially when it comes to a very personal project.
Once I process both the positive and negative critiques, I have to get past hating the amount of work involved in fixing the problems. I’m a lazy writer and although I know writing is rewriting, I’d much rather get it perfect the first time and move on. (Haha.) I have word games to play and emails to answer. I don’t have time for all this serious writing business.
Finally and most difficult of all, I have to figure out how to fix the problems. Fixing a broken character or wandering essay is so much more difficult than fixing a misspelled word or clumsy sentence. (Duh, Sophie. Ya think?)
What to do, what to do? Do I wait for inspiration? Do I actively seek inspiration? Do I just plunge in and start tinkering?
Maybe I should just play a few rounds of Word Challenge and worry about it later.
I am always grateful to receive critique from friends and editors that will help move my writing to a higher level.
Which is not to say it’s “fun,” exactly.
I have received two critiques on two different projects since last night. Both are smart, insightful and useful.
Nonetheless—ouch.
Not “ouch” they were poorly expressed or “ouch” I disagree or even “ouch” I don’t have the ego for this. Just “ouch” I hate confronting my deficiencies, even en route to making amends.
Before I can even fully process what needs to be done to fix the projects, I have to overcome shame for not being perfect first time out. I can accept faults and foibles in all aspects of myself but writing. In some demented, deluded way I expect nothing but brilliance when it comes to expressing ideas. Anything less is like getting caught with my pants down.
That’s not rational. It just is.
Actually, any feedback is painful for me. I received an e-mail the other day from a friend reading a novel in progress for me. She said, "I'm about a third of the way through what you sent me -- and really like it."
I heard, "I can barely drag my way through this and I'm kind of embarrassed for you."
Getting even positive feedback can be a sick game of telephone for the writer's ego, especially when it comes to a very personal project.
Once I process both the positive and negative critiques, I have to get past hating the amount of work involved in fixing the problems. I’m a lazy writer and although I know writing is rewriting, I’d much rather get it perfect the first time and move on. (Haha.) I have word games to play and emails to answer. I don’t have time for all this serious writing business.
Finally and most difficult of all, I have to figure out how to fix the problems. Fixing a broken character or wandering essay is so much more difficult than fixing a misspelled word or clumsy sentence. (Duh, Sophie. Ya think?)
What to do, what to do? Do I wait for inspiration? Do I actively seek inspiration? Do I just plunge in and start tinkering?
Maybe I should just play a few rounds of Word Challenge and worry about it later.
Labels: personal growth, writers, writing
ping!
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
I’ve been pinging recently.
Not in the computer sense, although I do a lot of that, too. But I’ve been pinging people.
Pinging is a great concept I learned a year or so ago from the book Never Eat Alone: And Other Secrets to Success, One Relationship at a Time
.
I don’t have the energy or will for the level of networking this book recommends, but the idea of pinging resonated with me (ping! ping! ping!) and now, every time my work and energy get soggy, I crank up the pinging.
Pinging is just a little poke at people to remind them you’re there and you care. I’m a pretty regular pinger in general. Granted, I tend to be a virtual pinger—I’m not big on the chatty phone call, so sue me. But if I know you and like you and come across an article or idea I think you’d like, I’ll send it along. I’ll sometimes go to my favorite e-card Web site and send a card that makes me laugh with the hope that it will make you laugh, too. If I come across an article by a writer I know, I stick it in an envelope and send it to him or her. I use this blog to ping. If I mention friends, I let them know (because I make no assumptions about who does or “should” read this). And I like to comment on friends’ blogs. Ping! It’s networking of a sort, but it’s a lot more fun than the word “networking” sounds.
I’ve been underemployed recently so I started pinging with a purpose. Queries are a form of pinging. Even if I don’t have specific ideas, I’ve been dropping notes to editors I’ve worked with in the past to say “hi.” I’ve done a lot of lunch recently. Maybe a lunch leads to work, maybe to ideas for articles, maybe just to a solidified relationship. All good things.
Now I find myself with a nice little pile of work. None of it is particularly sexy, but the checks will turn me on. I’ve got a passel of new ideas I need to package and start pitching. I feel reconnected to my career. And all it took was a little pinging.
Ping, ping, PING!
Not in the computer sense, although I do a lot of that, too. But I’ve been pinging people.
Pinging is a great concept I learned a year or so ago from the book Never Eat Alone: And Other Secrets to Success, One Relationship at a Time
.I don’t have the energy or will for the level of networking this book recommends, but the idea of pinging resonated with me (ping! ping! ping!) and now, every time my work and energy get soggy, I crank up the pinging.
Pinging is just a little poke at people to remind them you’re there and you care. I’m a pretty regular pinger in general. Granted, I tend to be a virtual pinger—I’m not big on the chatty phone call, so sue me. But if I know you and like you and come across an article or idea I think you’d like, I’ll send it along. I’ll sometimes go to my favorite e-card Web site and send a card that makes me laugh with the hope that it will make you laugh, too. If I come across an article by a writer I know, I stick it in an envelope and send it to him or her. I use this blog to ping. If I mention friends, I let them know (because I make no assumptions about who does or “should” read this). And I like to comment on friends’ blogs. Ping! It’s networking of a sort, but it’s a lot more fun than the word “networking” sounds.
I’ve been underemployed recently so I started pinging with a purpose. Queries are a form of pinging. Even if I don’t have specific ideas, I’ve been dropping notes to editors I’ve worked with in the past to say “hi.” I’ve done a lot of lunch recently. Maybe a lunch leads to work, maybe to ideas for articles, maybe just to a solidified relationship. All good things.
Now I find myself with a nice little pile of work. None of it is particularly sexy, but the checks will turn me on. I’ve got a passel of new ideas I need to package and start pitching. I feel reconnected to my career. And all it took was a little pinging.
Ping, ping, PING!
Labels: career, freelancing, self-employment, work, writing
watch your language, assholes
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
This AP story about Obama's candidacy is so full of slanted language, I can barely see my computer screen for the smoke coming out of my ears.
Some cherce bits:
WASHINGTON - Sen. Barack Obama of Illinois sealed the Democratic presidential nomination Tuesday, a historic step toward his once-improbable goal of becoming the nation's first black president. A defeated Hillary Rodham Clinton maneuvered for the vice presidential spot on his fall ticket.
Way to patronize...And as the story goes on to explain, she said she was open to being on the ticket as VP. How is that maneuvering? The language here paints Hillary as both pathetic and Machiavellian.
Obama, a first-term Illinois senator who was virtually unknown on the national stage four years ago, defeated Clinton, the former first lady and one-time campaign front-runner, in a 17-month marathon for the Democratic nomination.
AND TWO-TERM SENATOR! The sexism that affected Hillary's campaign is not blatant but reveals itself in this sort of insidious language that ignores her concrete accomplishments to present her merely an appendage to a man.
Obama drew strength from blacks, and from the younger, more liberal and wealthier voters in many states. Clinton was preferred by older, more downscale voters, and women, of course.
Of course. Dumb bitches.
Why not "Obama drew strengths from blacks, of course...."?
Blablablablablabla...until we reach PARAGRAPH 20:
With her husband's two White House terms as a backdrop, Clinton campaigned for months as the candidate of experience, a former first lady and second-term senator ready to be commander in chief.
Ah, there it is, the FIRST mention of her current office. More than halfway into the article and only inserted in this paragraph after yet another mention of the fact that she was first lady.
As the strongest female presidential candidate in history, Clinton drew large, enthusiastic audiences. Yet Obama's were bigger.
Nyah, nyah.
This story was written by a committee of 87 writers, I believe. They should all get their asses solidly kicked. This is the kind of subtle and destructive use of language that sinks any pretension of balance in the media. It is odious because of its subtlety--it affects casual readers on a subliminal level.
Some cherce bits:
WASHINGTON - Sen. Barack Obama of Illinois sealed the Democratic presidential nomination Tuesday, a historic step toward his once-improbable goal of becoming the nation's first black president. A defeated Hillary Rodham Clinton maneuvered for the vice presidential spot on his fall ticket.
Way to patronize...And as the story goes on to explain, she said she was open to being on the ticket as VP. How is that maneuvering? The language here paints Hillary as both pathetic and Machiavellian.
Obama, a first-term Illinois senator who was virtually unknown on the national stage four years ago, defeated Clinton, the former first lady and one-time campaign front-runner, in a 17-month marathon for the Democratic nomination.
AND TWO-TERM SENATOR! The sexism that affected Hillary's campaign is not blatant but reveals itself in this sort of insidious language that ignores her concrete accomplishments to present her merely an appendage to a man.
Obama drew strength from blacks, and from the younger, more liberal and wealthier voters in many states. Clinton was preferred by older, more downscale voters, and women, of course.
Of course. Dumb bitches.
Why not "Obama drew strengths from blacks, of course...."?
Blablablablablabla...until we reach PARAGRAPH 20:
With her husband's two White House terms as a backdrop, Clinton campaigned for months as the candidate of experience, a former first lady and second-term senator ready to be commander in chief.
Ah, there it is, the FIRST mention of her current office. More than halfway into the article and only inserted in this paragraph after yet another mention of the fact that she was first lady.
As the strongest female presidential candidate in history, Clinton drew large, enthusiastic audiences. Yet Obama's were bigger.
Nyah, nyah.
This story was written by a committee of 87 writers, I believe. They should all get their asses solidly kicked. This is the kind of subtle and destructive use of language that sinks any pretension of balance in the media. It is odious because of its subtlety--it affects casual readers on a subliminal level.
Labels: barak obama, dallas morning news, hillary clinton, newspapers, writing
got what it takes?
A friend’s husband has recently gone into business for himself and as she talked about this, I got to thinking about the roller coaster that is self-employment. I've been riding this ride for more than a decade.
What does it take to work for oneself?
First, it takes a certain amount of self-delusion. When I went freelance in the mid 1990s, I sincerely believed that the world was waiting for my words (alliteration and all). Had I known how difficult it would be to persuade people to buy them, I might not have waved bye-bye to my job so gleefully. Well, actually, that’s a lie. I would have. I was very unhappy in my last job and having spent most of my working life self-employed, I couldn’t wait to regain control of my time. But stepping out into the world of freelancing was a rude awakening. Huh—all those newspaper editors who loved my stories when they got them free on the Knight-Ridder wire were somewhat less anxious to run them when they had to pay for them. I couldn’t even get responses from some I knew personally. Huh. Go figger. (How sympathetic am I now to those editors, as they lose their jobs and start freelancing? Not terribly. Welcome to my world. Sink or swim.)
Self employment takes discipline. Mine ebbs and flows. Sometimes I can crank out queries and stories like a little Sophie machine, sometimes I play a lot of Scrabbulous while awash in guilt and shame. Sometimes I need an extreme self-ass kicking to get back on track.
Self employment requires tolerance for guilt and shame. When your workday is not proscribed by set hours and a reliable paycheck, you never feel like you’re doing enough. No matter how much I accomplish in a day, I could do more. No matter how much I earn, it should be more. No matter how many bylines I get, they’re in the wrong magazines. Guilt and shame are my co-workers. I embrace them.
Self employment requires tolerance for solitude. If your business, like mine, doesn’t have employees, you spend a lot of time alone. That’s why God made the Internet. The virtual world is my water cooler. I also try to plan at least one lunch date a week to make sure I don’t go all Red Rum.
Self employment requires creative money management skills. It’s one thing to manage your money with a paycheck, it’s something else altogether to manage it when you don’t know from month to month what will be coming in. In tight times, I go into spending lockdown and all nonessential spending stops. When money is coming in, I make sure to handle the important stuff, like going to the dentist.
Self employment requires a network of sympathetic souls. Nobody knows the troubles I’ve seen except other freelance writers. Ours is a particular circle of heaven and hell combined. When our work goes well, little is more satisfying. When it doesn’t, it feels like very personal failure. The weight of rejection gets unbearably heavy from time to time.
And it’s a vicious circle for us—the more we need work the more we have to pitch, the more we pitch the more we open ourselves up for rejection, the more rejection we get the harder it is to be motivated, the less motivated we are, the less work we have. And round and round and round.
I’m in a state of mega burn-out right now. I’m tired, discouraged, broke and feeling unloved. So after I get this post up, I’m calling up a friend in the same business as I who has kindly volunteered to be a sympathetic, empathetic ear. Dollars to donuts (mmm, donuts would help too) I’ll feel better after talking to her. Friends can take the "self" out of self-employment.
What does it take to work for oneself?
First, it takes a certain amount of self-delusion. When I went freelance in the mid 1990s, I sincerely believed that the world was waiting for my words (alliteration and all). Had I known how difficult it would be to persuade people to buy them, I might not have waved bye-bye to my job so gleefully. Well, actually, that’s a lie. I would have. I was very unhappy in my last job and having spent most of my working life self-employed, I couldn’t wait to regain control of my time. But stepping out into the world of freelancing was a rude awakening. Huh—all those newspaper editors who loved my stories when they got them free on the Knight-Ridder wire were somewhat less anxious to run them when they had to pay for them. I couldn’t even get responses from some I knew personally. Huh. Go figger. (How sympathetic am I now to those editors, as they lose their jobs and start freelancing? Not terribly. Welcome to my world. Sink or swim.)
Self employment takes discipline. Mine ebbs and flows. Sometimes I can crank out queries and stories like a little Sophie machine, sometimes I play a lot of Scrabbulous while awash in guilt and shame. Sometimes I need an extreme self-ass kicking to get back on track.
Self employment requires tolerance for guilt and shame. When your workday is not proscribed by set hours and a reliable paycheck, you never feel like you’re doing enough. No matter how much I accomplish in a day, I could do more. No matter how much I earn, it should be more. No matter how many bylines I get, they’re in the wrong magazines. Guilt and shame are my co-workers. I embrace them.
Self employment requires tolerance for solitude. If your business, like mine, doesn’t have employees, you spend a lot of time alone. That’s why God made the Internet. The virtual world is my water cooler. I also try to plan at least one lunch date a week to make sure I don’t go all Red Rum.
Self employment requires creative money management skills. It’s one thing to manage your money with a paycheck, it’s something else altogether to manage it when you don’t know from month to month what will be coming in. In tight times, I go into spending lockdown and all nonessential spending stops. When money is coming in, I make sure to handle the important stuff, like going to the dentist.
Self employment requires a network of sympathetic souls. Nobody knows the troubles I’ve seen except other freelance writers. Ours is a particular circle of heaven and hell combined. When our work goes well, little is more satisfying. When it doesn’t, it feels like very personal failure. The weight of rejection gets unbearably heavy from time to time.
And it’s a vicious circle for us—the more we need work the more we have to pitch, the more we pitch the more we open ourselves up for rejection, the more rejection we get the harder it is to be motivated, the less motivated we are, the less work we have. And round and round and round.
I’m in a state of mega burn-out right now. I’m tired, discouraged, broke and feeling unloved. So after I get this post up, I’m calling up a friend in the same business as I who has kindly volunteered to be a sympathetic, empathetic ear. Dollars to donuts (mmm, donuts would help too) I’ll feel better after talking to her. Friends can take the "self" out of self-employment.
Labels: freelancing, personal growth, self-employment, writing
on blogging
Monday, June 2, 2008
Blogger Emily Gould recently published an essay in the New York Times Magazine about being an extremely self-disclosing blogger, about blogging nastily on Gawker and about how this affected her life. (Not in a positive fashion, ultimately.)
I read the whole thing, long as it is, and found it compelling because I blog, because I am conflicted about the nasty blogs (like Jezebel, which is published by the Gawker people) and because I am slightly repelled by the TMI in some blogs.
Honestly—y’all don’t know from TMI here. Or if you do think you get TMI here, then you’re exceedingly sensitive. I used to subscribe to one MySpace blog—consistently the most popular on the site—that I finally unsubscribed to after a discussion of the blogger's most private of private bits. Yeah, that's TMI for me. As I promised when I launched this blog: You will never hear about my sex life or private bits here. I'm featureless as Barbie as far as you're concerned.
Part of Gould’s story involved blogging about her boyfriend, who took offense at one of her posts. She argued freedom of expression and he gave in, but the relationship didn't last.
Tom knows that if I plan to discuss him in any way that might risk his privacy or dignity, I'll run the post by him for approval. (Jack, however, has to live with whatever I feel like writing about him.) I don't think he's ever refused to let me write something and if he ever does, I'll respect that. I play fast and loose with my own privacy but with no one else's. Except Jack. But he gave up his privacy the first time he licked his ass in public. (Hm, right after I finished typing that sentence, he got up and left the room. Maybe I underestimated his sensitivity.)
Anyway, Gould’s NYT article got a large and vitriolic response. Among the 1,200-plus comments:
stop polluting ,find another job
Dear Emily,
What a sorry little cyberworld you chose to live in. Do you have a real life as well? or is this all you have? You are just a stupid little girl. Go watch the sun set and grow up!
I expect more from the New York Times. This article was nothing more than the ramblings of a moronic juvenile who calls herself a writer. I hope that the New York Times is not paying her for this piece. I long for the days when writers were people who had something to say.
Wow. People took all that time to read what she had to say, go online, and insult her. Shouldn’t they be outside watching the sun set or something?
As with so many other aspects of modern life, we seem to be deeply conflicted about blogging. I’m supposed to feel a little bit ashamed of this hobby. I’m a little sheepish when I mention it to people.
Yet millions of people read blogs and, although tech review blogs top most lists, snotty and TMI blogs tend to be very widely read. (What was Sex and the City but a pre-blogging blog?)
People enjoy voyeurism but when they feel shame about that, they lash out at the exhibitionist instead of kicking their own curious asses.
When I was at the newspaper, my personal essays elicited far greater response than any of my straight features stories. Although Paula LaRoque (hisssssssssssssss) never missed an opportunity to chastise me for using self-referential pronouns, readers seemed to enjoy those articles. What a shocker it was for me when I went freelance and editors started specifically requesting first-person from me. You mean … somebody really does care about me? But LaRoque told me again and again that NOBODY CARES WHAT YOU THINK!
And now, personal blogging is called a form of self-medication in research discussed in this Scientific American article
This is interesting but not surprising. Now-classic research by psychologist James Pennebaker at UT found that student who wrote on personal topics, even if no one ever reads what they wrote, got sick less frequently than control groups. In other words, self-disclosure is good for you.
However, the term "self-medicating" seems patronizing in this context. Is anything pleasurable to be considered self-medication? I don’t really feel like I’m medicating anything. I’m just having fun and doing what I do. Or maybe I have hydergraphia, which the article defines as “an uncontrollable urge to write.” Sure, let’s pathologize a perfectly respectable passion.
In her essay, Emily Gould was hard on herself for the degree to which she exposed herself to the world. To some extent, her excessive self-disclosure may have been a function of her youth. In your 20s, one tends to believe one’s every thought worthy of broadcast. Blogging and other forms of online disclosure are just the newest form of youthful indiscretion.
But that so many people read Gould's essay and then beat her up for it is confusing.
Maybe it’s not those of us who enjoy publicly expressing our thoughts who need a life. Maybe the people who really need to get out more are the ones who waste energy hating us.
P.S. Read Gould's thoughtful responses to her readers questions and criticisms.
I read the whole thing, long as it is, and found it compelling because I blog, because I am conflicted about the nasty blogs (like Jezebel, which is published by the Gawker people) and because I am slightly repelled by the TMI in some blogs.
Honestly—y’all don’t know from TMI here. Or if you do think you get TMI here, then you’re exceedingly sensitive. I used to subscribe to one MySpace blog—consistently the most popular on the site—that I finally unsubscribed to after a discussion of the blogger's most private of private bits. Yeah, that's TMI for me. As I promised when I launched this blog: You will never hear about my sex life or private bits here. I'm featureless as Barbie as far as you're concerned.
Part of Gould’s story involved blogging about her boyfriend, who took offense at one of her posts. She argued freedom of expression and he gave in, but the relationship didn't last.
Tom knows that if I plan to discuss him in any way that might risk his privacy or dignity, I'll run the post by him for approval. (Jack, however, has to live with whatever I feel like writing about him.) I don't think he's ever refused to let me write something and if he ever does, I'll respect that. I play fast and loose with my own privacy but with no one else's. Except Jack. But he gave up his privacy the first time he licked his ass in public. (Hm, right after I finished typing that sentence, he got up and left the room. Maybe I underestimated his sensitivity.)
Anyway, Gould’s NYT article got a large and vitriolic response. Among the 1,200-plus comments:
stop polluting ,find another job
Dear Emily,
What a sorry little cyberworld you chose to live in. Do you have a real life as well? or is this all you have? You are just a stupid little girl. Go watch the sun set and grow up!
I expect more from the New York Times. This article was nothing more than the ramblings of a moronic juvenile who calls herself a writer. I hope that the New York Times is not paying her for this piece. I long for the days when writers were people who had something to say.
Wow. People took all that time to read what she had to say, go online, and insult her. Shouldn’t they be outside watching the sun set or something?
As with so many other aspects of modern life, we seem to be deeply conflicted about blogging. I’m supposed to feel a little bit ashamed of this hobby. I’m a little sheepish when I mention it to people.
Yet millions of people read blogs and, although tech review blogs top most lists, snotty and TMI blogs tend to be very widely read. (What was Sex and the City but a pre-blogging blog?)
People enjoy voyeurism but when they feel shame about that, they lash out at the exhibitionist instead of kicking their own curious asses.
When I was at the newspaper, my personal essays elicited far greater response than any of my straight features stories. Although Paula LaRoque (hisssssssssssssss) never missed an opportunity to chastise me for using self-referential pronouns, readers seemed to enjoy those articles. What a shocker it was for me when I went freelance and editors started specifically requesting first-person from me. You mean … somebody really does care about me? But LaRoque told me again and again that NOBODY CARES WHAT YOU THINK!
And now, personal blogging is called a form of self-medication in research discussed in this Scientific American article
This is interesting but not surprising. Now-classic research by psychologist James Pennebaker at UT found that student who wrote on personal topics, even if no one ever reads what they wrote, got sick less frequently than control groups. In other words, self-disclosure is good for you.
However, the term "self-medicating" seems patronizing in this context. Is anything pleasurable to be considered self-medication? I don’t really feel like I’m medicating anything. I’m just having fun and doing what I do. Or maybe I have hydergraphia, which the article defines as “an uncontrollable urge to write.” Sure, let’s pathologize a perfectly respectable passion.
In her essay, Emily Gould was hard on herself for the degree to which she exposed herself to the world. To some extent, her excessive self-disclosure may have been a function of her youth. In your 20s, one tends to believe one’s every thought worthy of broadcast. Blogging and other forms of online disclosure are just the newest form of youthful indiscretion.
But that so many people read Gould's essay and then beat her up for it is confusing.
Maybe it’s not those of us who enjoy publicly expressing our thoughts who need a life. Maybe the people who really need to get out more are the ones who waste energy hating us.
P.S. Read Gould's thoughtful responses to her readers questions and criticisms.
Labels: blogging, blogs, emily gould, new york times, self-disclosure, TMI, writing
fire that editor!
Sunday, June 1, 2008
According to the subhead on an article about the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure
More than 13,000 expected to lace up to support breast cancer
Must be a breakaway insurgent group.
More than 13,000 expected to lace up to support breast cancer
Must be a breakaway insurgent group.
Labels: dallas morning news, editing, newspapers, writing
fire that editor!
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
First sentence of a DMN business story this morning:
Driving down Bennett Avenue just east of North Central Expressway, it's easy to wonder what happened to the neighborhood.
Driving down Bennett Avenue just east of North Central Expressway, it's easy to wonder what happened to the neighborhood.
Labels: dallas morning news, writing
full-throttle flotsam
Friday, May 16, 2008
Alrighty then, lots of flotsam for your procrastinators today. A little something for everyone. (Maybe. I don’t know.)
I am happy to report that the incorrigible Jack has become partly corriged. He has adjusted to the electric fence and no longer wanders at will. No more crossing the creek and coming home muddy, no more chasing off the mailman, no more patrolling the alley and riling up the other dogs. He doesn’t seem particularly traumatized by the limits. Perhaps the responsibility of patrolling so large an area weighed heavily on his burly shoulders and troubled his large noggin. His own yard is large enough. So many squirrels, so little time. And so much napping to be done. How is one dog to do it all without some limits?
Now I need an electric fence for the sofa. He is not allowed on the sofa and knows it, but at night, after we go to bed, he helps himself. At the suggestion of one of his many trainers, I tried booby trapping it last night by covering it with newspapers and balancing a couple beer cans filled with coins on the papers, which were supposed to fall off and make noise and either frighten him off or wake us up. They did neither. He managed to fit his large tuchus between the cans, barely even disturbing them. So, back to shutting him out of the living room at night. He hates that. The other night, I had to put his leash on him and drag him out. Literally drag him—he put that aforementioned large tuchus on the floor and wouldn’t move it.
Brat.
***
Slate has a special issue on procrastination (speaking of blogging) which includes this story, asking the question What is the difference between severe procrastination and writer's block?
So, I have this novel I’ve been working on for about three years. I’m in revisions. Ten painful pages at a time. And a half-finished book proposal that’s been collecting cyber dust for more than a year. So slow. I could do better. I know it. I’m not blocked, I’m procrastinating, Because as long as these remain remain unfinished they might be brilliant. If I finish them, their lead feet will be obvious.
Says one expert: "The chronic procrastinator knows he's presenting a negative image, but he'd rather be perceived negatively for lack of effort than for lack of ability."
***
The research corner:
Important news about men and their thingies: First, the International Society for Sexual Medicine has only just come up with (no pun intended) a formal definition of premature ejaculation. I know, can you believe it? I personally have never encountered this particular problem but in case you’re wondering, it is now defined as: “a male sexual dysfunction characterized by ejaculation which always or nearly always occurs prior to or within about one minute of vaginal penetration; and, inability to delay ejaculation on all or nearly all vaginal penetrations; and, negative personal consequences, such as distress, bother, frustration and/or the avoidance of sexual intimacy.”
And, says the study’s main author, “The hope is that more people with these symptoms will understand this is an actual health condition and seek treatment. They no longer need to suffer in silence.”
In related thingie-research: Gastric Bypass Surgery Restores Sexual Function in Morbidly Obese Men—Losing weight may help resolve erectile dysfunction in obese men.
Mostly, it helps them get laid more, I assume.
Having just experienced a highly unpleasant allergic reaction to a drug (my friends got all the gory details, I spared most of you) I was drawn to research into why scratching helps an itch. The study involved 13 healthy participants who underwent testing with functional magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) technology that highlights areas of the brain activated during an activity. Participants were scratched on the lower leg with a small brush. The scratching went on for 30 seconds and was then stopped for 30 seconds – for a total of about five minutes.
“To our surprise, we found that areas of the brain associated with unpleasant or aversive emotions and memories became significantly less active during the scratching,” said Yosipovitch. “We know scratching is pleasurable, but we haven’t known why. It’s possible that scratching may suppress the emotional components of itch and bring about its relief.”
So scratching is not really physical relief, it’s emotional. Which, when you think about it makes sense. Itching is so miserable … a persistent itch makes you want to scream, cry, bang your head repeatedly against a wall. Finally succumbing to the urge to scratch? Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. It’s more than physical relief. It’s bliss—however short lived and guilty, since we know we shouldn’t scratch.
The rash is fading and I will never take Aleve again.
Here’s a fun read from the Wall Street Journal, about retail therapy. Yup, psychologists and neuroscientists are studying that, too. Not to help us, mind you. To help retailers.
But keep this in mind—just like those little 100-calorie size snack packs of cookies and other treats can help us eat less, how we carry money can help us spend less, according to one study: Students were given $100 in pretend cash to participate in a gambling study. Some students received one sealed envelope with all the money, and others got 10 sealed envelopes that each contained $10. Individuals with multiple envelopes tended to spend less, sometimes half of what the people with the single envelope spent. "The power of partitioning can reduce spending by 50 percent," Cheema said.
I don’t like carrying lots of cash for this very reason. If I have it, I spend it. If I have to go back to the ATM, I become more aware of my spending. (And I am on near-lockdown on credit cards right now. Not complete, but I’m staying careful. Baby needs a new tank of gas…)
***
Dunno why it’s taken me so long, but I’d like to point out a new blogroll link—to the blog of my friend Jenna and her friend Rachel. The Haiku Diaries is commentaries on life entirely in the 5-7-5 format. It’s so much fun. I like to comment in haiku when I’m feeling sharp enough.
***
This week instead of just a list of google searches, a little commentary on a select few.
Again, numerous searches for crossdressers in saris this week. Is it possible these are not just fetishists? I found a New York Times article about a Pakistani talk show host: Ali Saleem may have devised the perfect, if improbable, cover for breaking taboos in conservative, Muslim Pakistan.
In a country where publicly talking about sex is strictly off limits, Mr. Saleem has managed not only to bring up the subject on his prime-time television talk show — but to do so without stirring a backlash from fundamentalist Islamic clerics.
And he has done so as a woman.
In a sari.
I haven’t found anything similarly uplifting about searches for women peeing in saris.
On a related subject, I came across this Q&A from a woman who planned to cross dress her husband for a party because he lost a bet. Responders were not impressed.
I find a lot of searches that look like this: 2008 contact emails of the doctors @yahoo.com in Florida; email contact women's america 2008@yahoo.com
I was baffled until learning that these are the kinds of searches used by spammers to harvest email addresses. OK, that would explain the ever-thickening blizzard of spam I receive.
Three of my photos have become very popular: the one of a pyramid at Teotihuacan, the portrait of a xoloescuintle and the plastic army men war atrocities. These turn up so often, I assume someone is using them for something somewhere, but I can’t figure out how to figure it out.
Someone searched hillary jillette cunt which I suppose relates to Hillary Clinton and Penn Jillette. I know he called her a bitch. Did he call her a cunt, too? What a prick.
Someone searched Elizabet gilbert eat, pray, love review childfree, which is a little confusing.
Chelle, someone searched you. Someone searched my brother Oliver. And someone searched "black and blue" "rolling stones" tribute band dallas, texas myspace which had a very happy ending, since it resulted in a job for Black and Blue. May 31, Tolbert’s in Grapevine. Glad to help…
And that's Friday.
I am happy to report that the incorrigible Jack has become partly corriged. He has adjusted to the electric fence and no longer wanders at will. No more crossing the creek and coming home muddy, no more chasing off the mailman, no more patrolling the alley and riling up the other dogs. He doesn’t seem particularly traumatized by the limits. Perhaps the responsibility of patrolling so large an area weighed heavily on his burly shoulders and troubled his large noggin. His own yard is large enough. So many squirrels, so little time. And so much napping to be done. How is one dog to do it all without some limits?
Now I need an electric fence for the sofa. He is not allowed on the sofa and knows it, but at night, after we go to bed, he helps himself. At the suggestion of one of his many trainers, I tried booby trapping it last night by covering it with newspapers and balancing a couple beer cans filled with coins on the papers, which were supposed to fall off and make noise and either frighten him off or wake us up. They did neither. He managed to fit his large tuchus between the cans, barely even disturbing them. So, back to shutting him out of the living room at night. He hates that. The other night, I had to put his leash on him and drag him out. Literally drag him—he put that aforementioned large tuchus on the floor and wouldn’t move it.
Brat.
***
Slate has a special issue on procrastination (speaking of blogging) which includes this story, asking the question What is the difference between severe procrastination and writer's block?
So, I have this novel I’ve been working on for about three years. I’m in revisions. Ten painful pages at a time. And a half-finished book proposal that’s been collecting cyber dust for more than a year. So slow. I could do better. I know it. I’m not blocked, I’m procrastinating, Because as long as these remain remain unfinished they might be brilliant. If I finish them, their lead feet will be obvious.
Says one expert: "The chronic procrastinator knows he's presenting a negative image, but he'd rather be perceived negatively for lack of effort than for lack of ability."
***
The research corner:
Important news about men and their thingies: First, the International Society for Sexual Medicine has only just come up with (no pun intended) a formal definition of premature ejaculation. I know, can you believe it? I personally have never encountered this particular problem but in case you’re wondering, it is now defined as: “a male sexual dysfunction characterized by ejaculation which always or nearly always occurs prior to or within about one minute of vaginal penetration; and, inability to delay ejaculation on all or nearly all vaginal penetrations; and, negative personal consequences, such as distress, bother, frustration and/or the avoidance of sexual intimacy.”
And, says the study’s main author, “The hope is that more people with these symptoms will understand this is an actual health condition and seek treatment. They no longer need to suffer in silence.”
In related thingie-research: Gastric Bypass Surgery Restores Sexual Function in Morbidly Obese Men—Losing weight may help resolve erectile dysfunction in obese men.
Mostly, it helps them get laid more, I assume.
Having just experienced a highly unpleasant allergic reaction to a drug (my friends got all the gory details, I spared most of you) I was drawn to research into why scratching helps an itch. The study involved 13 healthy participants who underwent testing with functional magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) technology that highlights areas of the brain activated during an activity. Participants were scratched on the lower leg with a small brush. The scratching went on for 30 seconds and was then stopped for 30 seconds – for a total of about five minutes.
“To our surprise, we found that areas of the brain associated with unpleasant or aversive emotions and memories became significantly less active during the scratching,” said Yosipovitch. “We know scratching is pleasurable, but we haven’t known why. It’s possible that scratching may suppress the emotional components of itch and bring about its relief.”
So scratching is not really physical relief, it’s emotional. Which, when you think about it makes sense. Itching is so miserable … a persistent itch makes you want to scream, cry, bang your head repeatedly against a wall. Finally succumbing to the urge to scratch? Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. It’s more than physical relief. It’s bliss—however short lived and guilty, since we know we shouldn’t scratch.
The rash is fading and I will never take Aleve again.
Here’s a fun read from the Wall Street Journal, about retail therapy. Yup, psychologists and neuroscientists are studying that, too. Not to help us, mind you. To help retailers.
But keep this in mind—just like those little 100-calorie size snack packs of cookies and other treats can help us eat less, how we carry money can help us spend less, according to one study: Students were given $100 in pretend cash to participate in a gambling study. Some students received one sealed envelope with all the money, and others got 10 sealed envelopes that each contained $10. Individuals with multiple envelopes tended to spend less, sometimes half of what the people with the single envelope spent. "The power of partitioning can reduce spending by 50 percent," Cheema said.
I don’t like carrying lots of cash for this very reason. If I have it, I spend it. If I have to go back to the ATM, I become more aware of my spending. (And I am on near-lockdown on credit cards right now. Not complete, but I’m staying careful. Baby needs a new tank of gas…)
***
Dunno why it’s taken me so long, but I’d like to point out a new blogroll link—to the blog of my friend Jenna and her friend Rachel. The Haiku Diaries is commentaries on life entirely in the 5-7-5 format. It’s so much fun. I like to comment in haiku when I’m feeling sharp enough.
***
This week instead of just a list of google searches, a little commentary on a select few.
Again, numerous searches for crossdressers in saris this week. Is it possible these are not just fetishists? I found a New York Times article about a Pakistani talk show host: Ali Saleem may have devised the perfect, if improbable, cover for breaking taboos in conservative, Muslim Pakistan.
In a country where publicly talking about sex is strictly off limits, Mr. Saleem has managed not only to bring up the subject on his prime-time television talk show — but to do so without stirring a backlash from fundamentalist Islamic clerics.
And he has done so as a woman.
In a sari.
I haven’t found anything similarly uplifting about searches for women peeing in saris.
On a related subject, I came across this Q&A from a woman who planned to cross dress her husband for a party because he lost a bet. Responders were not impressed.
I find a lot of searches that look like this: 2008 contact emails of the doctors @yahoo.com in Florida; email contact women's america 2008@yahoo.com
I was baffled until learning that these are the kinds of searches used by spammers to harvest email addresses. OK, that would explain the ever-thickening blizzard of spam I receive.
Three of my photos have become very popular: the one of a pyramid at Teotihuacan, the portrait of a xoloescuintle and the plastic army men war atrocities. These turn up so often, I assume someone is using them for something somewhere, but I can’t figure out how to figure it out.
Someone searched hillary jillette cunt which I suppose relates to Hillary Clinton and Penn Jillette. I know he called her a bitch. Did he call her a cunt, too? What a prick.
Someone searched Elizabet gilbert eat, pray, love review childfree, which is a little confusing.
Chelle, someone searched you. Someone searched my brother Oliver. And someone searched "black and blue" "rolling stones" tribute band dallas, texas myspace which had a very happy ending, since it resulted in a job for Black and Blue. May 31, Tolbert’s in Grapevine. Glad to help…
And that's Friday.
Labels: blogging, brain science, dallas morning news, dog training, dogs, google, jack, photography, psychology, research, sex, sexism, shopping, writing
do it this way
Monday, May 12, 2008
Aside from imparting the shocking news that the Oxford English Dictionary is going online only, this article (thanks again, MsKrit) is delightfully written. No nits to pick here.
Labels: books, news, newspapers, wordplay, words, writing
flotsam friday
Friday, April 25, 2008
Check out this video (sound optional but interesting.) It’s Dallas teens doing a new sport called Parkour. I was never so fearless but I like to watch.
***
According to this article, the whole emoticons ‘n’ acronyms writing style is creeping into teenagers’ schoolwork.
The idea of emoticons in a term paper makes my eyes roll, and I’m not even
anti-emoticon, as is fashionable among smart people. Wiseguys like me sometimes need to flag our wiseguyitude. I don’t emoticon often but I use them when it seems prudent.
However, the statement that really struck me in the article was from Richard Sterling, a Berkeley prof and emeritus executive director of the National Writing Project. He predicts that eventually, the convention of starting sentences with a capital letter will disappear.
Hm, I’m not liking that idea. I’m not a language purist. I think the evolution of language is fun and exciting. But I also think that what we write should be easy to read and that includes graphically. The capitalized first letter is an important cue—at least as important as the period and the properly placed comma. I like capitalizations, paragraph breaks, commas and clarity of communication.
Unlike this sentence, which I pulled from the Fair Shares for All: A Memoir of Family and Food
, which I’m trying to finish but have stalled out on:
"...Dad's minaciously short-winded frame had just been rushed to Oldchurch Hospital, the rack-rent lazaretto where I had reflexively frowned when a scalpel's intrusion spelled spasms of flashlight and seizures of bawling where once in umblical darkness I'd dozed to the clockwork berceuse of Mum's heart..."
I think it means the author's father was taken to the same hospital where the author was born by Cesarean section.
I have a decent vocabulary but in that statement alone are four words requiring a dictionary (minaciously, rack-rent, lazaretto, berceuse). One or two words, OK. I blame myself. Four? That's too many obscure words in one convoluted description. It's reader unfriendly.
The whole book is like that. MEGO. That the book was written by a national magazine copy chief makes the rococo writing all the more puzzling. A copy editor's job is to help make writing clearer.
On a related subject: Call me unsophisticated but nothing turns me off a book more than hearing it described as "lyrical." Possibly the only lyrical book I've ever really enjoyed was Bel Canto
, which I loved. So nice I read it twice.
***
Fickle, fickle media (heh heh heh).
***
The Google searches that brought people to my blog got better and better as the week passed.
newspapers:watergate scandal
for sale xoloescuintle
sophie Razzle magazine
"eating is boring"
+2 Bangkok contact email address of doctors of Bangkok "email directory update" OR 2008 OR 2009 "@yahoo.com" –indians
I-35 between dallas and austin fun stops
i can make you thin but jean fain
eagle creek subcontinent pack
2008 @yahoo.com @gmail.com florida company doctors
indian women peeing with sari
photos of male cross dresser as bride in sari
%2
***
Maybe later I’ll come up with more flotsam for our Friday. Maybe not.
***
According to this article, the whole emoticons ‘n’ acronyms writing style is creeping into teenagers’ schoolwork.
The idea of emoticons in a term paper makes my eyes roll, and I’m not even
anti-emoticon, as is fashionable among smart people. Wiseguys like me sometimes need to flag our wiseguyitude. I don’t emoticon often but I use them when it seems prudent.
However, the statement that really struck me in the article was from Richard Sterling, a Berkeley prof and emeritus executive director of the National Writing Project. He predicts that eventually, the convention of starting sentences with a capital letter will disappear.
Hm, I’m not liking that idea. I’m not a language purist. I think the evolution of language is fun and exciting. But I also think that what we write should be easy to read and that includes graphically. The capitalized first letter is an important cue—at least as important as the period and the properly placed comma. I like capitalizations, paragraph breaks, commas and clarity of communication.
Unlike this sentence, which I pulled from the Fair Shares for All: A Memoir of Family and Food
, which I’m trying to finish but have stalled out on: "...Dad's minaciously short-winded frame had just been rushed to Oldchurch Hospital, the rack-rent lazaretto where I had reflexively frowned when a scalpel's intrusion spelled spasms of flashlight and seizures of bawling where once in umblical darkness I'd dozed to the clockwork berceuse of Mum's heart..."
I think it means the author's father was taken to the same hospital where the author was born by Cesarean section.
I have a decent vocabulary but in that statement alone are four words requiring a dictionary (minaciously, rack-rent, lazaretto, berceuse). One or two words, OK. I blame myself. Four? That's too many obscure words in one convoluted description. It's reader unfriendly.
The whole book is like that. MEGO. That the book was written by a national magazine copy chief makes the rococo writing all the more puzzling. A copy editor's job is to help make writing clearer.
On a related subject: Call me unsophisticated but nothing turns me off a book more than hearing it described as "lyrical." Possibly the only lyrical book I've ever really enjoyed was Bel Canto
, which I loved. So nice I read it twice.***
Fickle, fickle media (heh heh heh).
***
The Google searches that brought people to my blog got better and better as the week passed.
newspapers:watergate scandal
for sale xoloescuintle
sophie Razzle magazine
"eating is boring"
+2 Bangkok contact email address of doctors of Bangkok "email directory update" OR 2008 OR 2009 "@yahoo.com" –indians
I-35 between dallas and austin fun stops
i can make you thin but jean fain
eagle creek subcontinent pack
2008 @yahoo.com @gmail.com florida company doctors
indian women peeing with sari
photos of male cross dresser as bride in sari
%2
***
Maybe later I’ll come up with more flotsam for our Friday. Maybe not.
Labels: barak obama, blogging, books, google, hillary clinton, parkour, presidential election, sports, writing
elections
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Dallas is accepting nominations for a new name for Industrial Boulevard. The DMN says:
There are Postal Service restrictions. Names can't be more than 14 characters, so "Down By The River I Shot My Baby Boulevard" is out. Apostrophes aren't permitted, so "What's That Smell Street" won't work. And it can't closely resemble an existing street name. "Turtle Creek Boulevard" is taken.
Want to nominate a name? Click here.
That’s the good writing du jour, IMO. Another fine line comes from Joyce Saenz Harris’ Taste section story about a book/cooking club whose motto, she says, “…might well be a chicken in every plot.” Cute. Too bad the paragraph started with the dreaded “Welcome to…”
In other election news, Oklahoma is accepting nominations for an official rock song. It already has an official state song (“”Oklahoma"), C&W song (“Faded Love”--not my guilty pleasure "You're The Reason God Made Oklahoma"), folk song (“Oklahoma Hills”) and waltz (“Oklahoma Wind.”)
Goodness gracious, who knew Oklahoma was so melodic?
Want to nominate an Oklahoma rocker? Click here.
So, Hillary pulled it out again. You want my theory about why Obama isn’t campaigning negative? He doesn’t have to because his supporters (I call them IOS---Insufferable Obama Supporters) do it for him. I hear many more Obama supporters going on about Hillary’s (and Bill’s) horns and tail than about Obama’s accomplishments. It's perfect--Obama can keep his halo and Hillary still gets smeared.
I would vote for Obama over McCain. No question. I like the guy--what I know of him. It’s his fan base for which I’ve developed a healthy loathing.
There are Postal Service restrictions. Names can't be more than 14 characters, so "Down By The River I Shot My Baby Boulevard" is out. Apostrophes aren't permitted, so "What's That Smell Street" won't work. And it can't closely resemble an existing street name. "Turtle Creek Boulevard" is taken.
Want to nominate a name? Click here.
That’s the good writing du jour, IMO. Another fine line comes from Joyce Saenz Harris’ Taste section story about a book/cooking club whose motto, she says, “…might well be a chicken in every plot.” Cute. Too bad the paragraph started with the dreaded “Welcome to…”
In other election news, Oklahoma is accepting nominations for an official rock song. It already has an official state song (“”Oklahoma"), C&W song (“Faded Love”--not my guilty pleasure "You're The Reason God Made Oklahoma"), folk song (“Oklahoma Hills”) and waltz (“Oklahoma Wind.”)
Goodness gracious, who knew Oklahoma was so melodic?
Want to nominate an Oklahoma rocker? Click here.
So, Hillary pulled it out again. You want my theory about why Obama isn’t campaigning negative? He doesn’t have to because his supporters (I call them IOS---Insufferable Obama Supporters) do it for him. I hear many more Obama supporters going on about Hillary’s (and Bill’s) horns and tail than about Obama’s accomplishments. It's perfect--Obama can keep his halo and Hillary still gets smeared.
I would vote for Obama over McCain. No question. I like the guy--what I know of him. It’s his fan base for which I’ve developed a healthy loathing.
Labels: barak obama, dallas, dallas morning news, elections, hillary clinton, music, presidential election, writing
tuesday stuff
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
To quote a friend, “not saying ‘I told you so’ is extremely overrated. I think we should be able to say it as often as we like. It's like a polite smack upside the head.”
So when I saw The Dallas Morning News quoted this LA Times online feature about the yuckiness that is Dr. Phil, I felt free to holler “I told you so” at my morning paper.
I’m pleased the LA Times mentions our book, however I did write to the paper pointing out that we did not say Dr. Phil had an affair with a 19-year-old patient, as alleged in this feature. In fact, we stuck to the official story, that the unethical dual relationship was because Phil hired this young woman to work in his biofeedback lab. Allegations of sexual impropriety were made by the tabloids, quoting unnamed sources.
Here’s a sobering thought—this Wall Street Journal financial columnist says these days, we’re better off investing in food than in investments. He suggests stockpiling non-perishables, since the cost of food is rising so fast. Woe is me, the sky is falling…
But not that fast, according to another WSJ writer, who points out that as much as we whine about poverty, we do all have iPods, DVD players and flat-screen TVs. (Actually, we don’t have a flat-screen TV and our iPods are second generation clunkers, though they work reasonably well.)
I read this WSJ article, The Do-It-Yourself Tax Cut, with interest. Here the writer suggests numerous ways you can save money with lifestyle changes. I got to be both smug and bummed, since Tom and I do most of the things suggested here and still, as Tom likes to say, we can’t afford our modest lifestyle. At least it’s reassuring that the rest of the country is catching up to us. We don’t feel like have-nots anymore. We feel like everybody else.
Apropos to nothing, we gave stinky Jack a bath in the driveway last night. What a crazy ordeal that was. We tranquilized him (it's gotta be done) and muzzled him and he still went apeshit. He didn’t mind the soap and water as much as the brushing (attempts) of his hairy ass. We finally had to give up on the brushing. He smells a lot better but his hair is a mess. World’s most exhausting canine….
And now, I must whine. Inappropriately. Much as I’m enjoying my adventures in blogging, I admit to being a tad discouraged these days. My readership numbers are stagnant. The freewheeling discussions we enjoyed in MySpace don’t happen here. Many of my frequent commenters have fallen silent, even those who complained about MySpace. Sigh. I still enjoy the exercise but it was more fun when I didn’t feel like I was talking to three people.
The most successful blogs in the blogosphere focus on one topic and I’m considering that—although I haven’t yet decided what that topic should be. Writing? Jack? Money or lack thereof?
So when I saw The Dallas Morning News quoted this LA Times online feature about the yuckiness that is Dr. Phil, I felt free to holler “I told you so” at my morning paper.
I’m pleased the LA Times mentions our book, however I did write to the paper pointing out that we did not say Dr. Phil had an affair with a 19-year-old patient, as alleged in this feature. In fact, we stuck to the official story, that the unethical dual relationship was because Phil hired this young woman to work in his biofeedback lab. Allegations of sexual impropriety were made by the tabloids, quoting unnamed sources.
Here’s a sobering thought—this Wall Street Journal financial columnist says these days, we’re better off investing in food than in investments. He suggests stockpiling non-perishables, since the cost of food is rising so fast. Woe is me, the sky is falling…
But not that fast, according to another WSJ writer, who points out that as much as we whine about poverty, we do all have iPods, DVD players and flat-screen TVs. (Actually, we don’t have a flat-screen TV and our iPods are second generation clunkers, though they work reasonably well.)
I read this WSJ article, The Do-It-Yourself Tax Cut, with interest. Here the writer suggests numerous ways you can save money with lifestyle changes. I got to be both smug and bummed, since Tom and I do most of the things suggested here and still, as Tom likes to say, we can’t afford our modest lifestyle. At least it’s reassuring that the rest of the country is catching up to us. We don’t feel like have-nots anymore. We feel like everybody else.
Apropos to nothing, we gave stinky Jack a bath in the driveway last night. What a crazy ordeal that was. We tranquilized him (it's gotta be done) and muzzled him and he still went apeshit. He didn’t mind the soap and water as much as the brushing (attempts) of his hairy ass. We finally had to give up on the brushing. He smells a lot better but his hair is a mess. World’s most exhausting canine….
And now, I must whine. Inappropriately. Much as I’m enjoying my adventures in blogging, I admit to being a tad discouraged these days. My readership numbers are stagnant. The freewheeling discussions we enjoyed in MySpace don’t happen here. Many of my frequent commenters have fallen silent, even those who complained about MySpace. Sigh. I still enjoy the exercise but it was more fun when I didn’t feel like I was talking to three people.
The most successful blogs in the blogosphere focus on one topic and I’m considering that—although I haven’t yet decided what that topic should be. Writing? Jack? Money or lack thereof?
Labels: blogging, blogs, celebrities, dog training, dogs, dr. phil, eating, economy, food, griping, headlines, money, whining, writing
creative writing
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Here are some of my early literary efforts, from my third grade Creative Writing folder. My teacher was Mrs. Fischer, who I didn't like at all. She was tightly wound.
Sophy Dembling
Class 3-409
P.S. 166 Man.
Sept. 30, 1966
Back to school Feelings
When I was walking back to school.
On September 12th.
I felt I never saw the place,
Or any teachers face.
Even though I’m in third grade
I felt I’v never spelled my name
Back then, I spelled it Sophy because it seemed more manageable for a little girl.
Sophy Dembling
Class 3-409
P.S. 166 Man.
Nov. 2, 1966
Colors
My favorite two are red and blue.
Now red and blue are nothing new
But every word I’ve said is true.
Black, gold, and silver are all right
Also yellow, green and white.
Green I hate,
But that’s all I ever see.
Green, green, green,
Is all I’ve ever seen.
Green dresses green ribbons or green, green, green books
Green paper green leaves green crayons green trees.
But still my favorite two are red and blue.
Actually, I kind of like green.
Sophy Dembling
Class 3-409
P.S. 166 Man.
Nov. 9, 1966
How The Giraffe got his long Neck
Long long ago there was a giraffe and an old bear now in those days a giraffe had a very short neck and one day the bear asked the giraffe to race with him and while they were racing the giraffe got his head cought on a branch and it got stretched out.
Note that the story is all one sentence.
Jimmy the Jolly Jumping Jack
In my toy chest way far down
Is a little box and a little clown
When I open the box up he pops
Into our room but he never knocks
Mrs. Fischer said that one was “very good.”
There was a young man of France
Who asked an old lady to dance
Now how could this be
Well he’s only three
Which gives the old lady a chance
My first dirty limerick.
Sophy Dembling
Class 3-409
P.S. 166 Man.
Dec. 8, 1966
A Flight to Happy Days Land
Happy Days land is beautiful
With birds of red and blue
Happy Days land is wonderful
The place for me and you
Happy Days land is magical
Never will a tear drop (Mrs. Fischer changed it to Never a tear will drop)
Happy days land is gay and happy (She changed it to happy and gay)
All we do is sing and hop (she changed it to We all do sing and hop)
So do take a grip to this wonderful garden,
Full of Girls and Boys
Full of little creatures
Full of a joyful noise
Mrs. Fischer thought Happy Days Land was just "OK." Everybody's a critic.
Sophy Dembling
Class 3-409
P.S. 166 Man.
Sept. 30, 1966
Back to school Feelings
When I was walking back to school.
On September 12th.
I felt I never saw the place,
Or any teachers face.
Even though I’m in third grade
I felt I’v never spelled my name
Back then, I spelled it Sophy because it seemed more manageable for a little girl.
Sophy Dembling
Class 3-409
P.S. 166 Man.
Nov. 2, 1966
Colors
My favorite two are red and blue.
Now red and blue are nothing new
But every word I’ve said is true.
Black, gold, and silver are all right
Also yellow, green and white.
Green I hate,
But that’s all I ever see.
Green, green, green,
Is all I’ve ever seen.
Green dresses green ribbons or green, green, green books
Green paper green leaves green crayons green trees.
But still my favorite two are red and blue.
Actually, I kind of like green.
Sophy Dembling
Class 3-409
P.S. 166 Man.
Nov. 9, 1966
How The Giraffe got his long Neck
Long long ago there was a giraffe and an old bear now in those days a giraffe had a very short neck and one day the bear asked the giraffe to race with him and while they were racing the giraffe got his head cought on a branch and it got stretched out.
Note that the story is all one sentence.
Jimmy the Jolly Jumping Jack
In my toy chest way far down
Is a little box and a little clown
When I open the box up he pops
Into our room but he never knocks
Mrs. Fischer said that one was “very good.”
There was a young man of France
Who asked an old lady to dance
Now how could this be
Well he’s only three
Which gives the old lady a chance
My first dirty limerick.
Sophy Dembling
Class 3-409
P.S. 166 Man.
Dec. 8, 1966
A Flight to Happy Days Land
Happy Days land is beautiful
With birds of red and blue
Happy Days land is wonderful
The place for me and you
Happy Days land is magical
Never will a tear drop (Mrs. Fischer changed it to Never a tear will drop)
Happy days land is gay and happy (She changed it to happy and gay)
All we do is sing and hop (she changed it to We all do sing and hop)
So do take a grip to this wonderful garden,
Full of Girls and Boys
Full of little creatures
Full of a joyful noise
Mrs. Fischer thought Happy Days Land was just "OK." Everybody's a critic.
Labels: childhood, poetry, writing
flotsam friday
Friday, April 18, 2008
Just a soupcon of flotsam today…
This is NOT FUNNY.
Everybody cast your votes! (Thanks, Mary. And no, it has nothing to do with Hillary/Obama. We're all exhausted ...)
Have you finished your Passover gift shopping yet? If not, MsKrit alerts us to these very special items.
Today’s newspaper was chock full of dreary, terrifying news about the economy and believe me, we’re feeling it. How are we going to pay for the electric fence we are having installed at this very moment? We have no idea. Things are a little tense around the house this morning and Jack doesn’t even know yet how his world is about to rocked. All he knows is that there are strange men in the backyard and he’s stuck in the house.
But I digress. I mention the newspaper mostly to show you this photo, the most entertaining thing in today’s paper. What’s the deal with the hoochie mama topiaries? Dallas is SO conflicted about sex….
And finally, huzzah! Not only is Dr. Phil finally, really tumbling from grace, but this MSN reaming actually mentions our book! Now, everybody run out and buy a copy!
OK, let’s get out there an EARN SOME MONEY! Jack-y needs a new pair of shoes. (Or something. He always needs something. A bath, for example.)
This is NOT FUNNY.
Everybody cast your votes! (Thanks, Mary. And no, it has nothing to do with Hillary/Obama. We're all exhausted ...)
Have you finished your Passover gift shopping yet? If not, MsKrit alerts us to these very special items.
Today’s newspaper was chock full of dreary, terrifying news about the economy and believe me, we’re feeling it. How are we going to pay for the electric fence we are having installed at this very moment? We have no idea. Things are a little tense around the house this morning and Jack doesn’t even know yet how his world is about to rocked. All he knows is that there are strange men in the backyard and he’s stuck in the house.
But I digress. I mention the newspaper mostly to show you this photo, the most entertaining thing in today’s paper. What’s the deal with the hoochie mama topiaries? Dallas is SO conflicted about sex….
And finally, huzzah! Not only is Dr. Phil finally, really tumbling from grace, but this MSN reaming actually mentions our book! Now, everybody run out and buy a copy!
OK, let’s get out there an EARN SOME MONEY! Jack-y needs a new pair of shoes. (Or something. He always needs something. A bath, for example.)
Labels: blogging, books, dogs, dr. phil, humor, passover, writing
saturday stuff
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Here’s a WSJ interview with Jennifer Weiner about her book Certain Girls,
in which she addresses Jane Smiley’s review, which I linked to earlier this week.
Weiner says, in part: “What shocked me was that she said I have to stop writing about nice Jewish characters. [In her review, Ms. Smiley wrote that Ms. Weiner "seems boxed in by her chosen genre" and should "address larger questions than the psychological ups and downs of her nice Jewish characters."]
I couldn't believe that made it past the copy desk. The idea you can tell a writer of a specific religion to stop writing about that religion is presumptuous. When an older writer tries to tell a younger writer through a review what kind of career she should be pursuing, it tends to speak to the reviewer's anxieties rather than the book itself…”
I didn’t interpret Smiley’s review as dissing anyone’s religion as much as suggesting Weiner look farther afield for her characters. Big difference. On the other hand, Smiley has written about horses and academia, which is the stuff of her life, so she should talk.
Speaking of chick stuff, Mary and I rented Private Benjamin last night and I am pleased and relieved to report that it held up. Sure, the fashions are 1980s as is some of the humor, but it’s still clever and thoughtful and fun. The cast includes Goldie Hawn, a few minutes of Albert Brooks, Eileen Brennan, Mary Kay Place, Armand Assante, Sam Wanamaker, Harry Dean Stanton…not too shabby. I love it.
More girltalk: A very kind blog reader sent me a link and asked my opinion of this article from The Atlantic, titled Marry Him!--the Case for Mr. Good Enough. It is an interesting argument for women to stop being so picky about their men and "settle" for someone who might be too short or too bald or too something or not something enough. I wasn't sure what to think of it--I had a knee-jerk negative reaction--and hemmed and hawed, but the woman who sent it managed to sum it up in one very neat sentence: I think what she says is to settle, I say is maturity. Yes, yes. Of course. That's exactly what I meant to say.
Deelish for Dallasites: The city elders plan to rename Industrial Boulevard to reflect the glamorous (very distant) future they plan for it. For you outtatowners, Industrial Boulevard is pretty much what it sounds like—a gritty stretch of auto businesses, titty bars, the county jail, bail bondsmen and, as happens to any area that abuts a dry district (that is, areas with no alcohol sales), a whole lot of liquor stores. (Read about it here.)
Among the names being floated:
Big D Boulevard (gak)
Dallas Delta (makes it sound romantic, don’t it?)
Kirk Parkway (presumably after former Mayor Ron Kirk)
Rio Vista (and what a vista the Trinity River offers!)
Stanley Marcus Boulevard (I’d rather see them name the planned Calatrava Bridge for him)
The Promenade (how grand!)
I say call it Beer Run Boulevard.
Speaking of Eileen Brennan, Tom and I watched most of the movie FM the other night. It was mildly entertaining--the hairdos alone gave us something to talk about--but we wondered which came first, FM or WKRP in Cincinatti? Anyone?
Finally, because my workout DVD shelf runneth over, and because reviewing DVDs helps keep me fit, I have decided to launch a second blog dedicated to reviews, called Suit Up and Show Up. I’ve posted a few old reviews and one new one up already and will keep up as best I can. Please check in from time to time if you’re interested, I’ve added it to my blogroll to the right.
in which she addresses Jane Smiley’s review, which I linked to earlier this week.Weiner says, in part: “What shocked me was that she said I have to stop writing about nice Jewish characters. [In her review, Ms. Smiley wrote that Ms. Weiner "seems boxed in by her chosen genre" and should "address larger questions than the psychological ups and downs of her nice Jewish characters."]
I couldn't believe that made it past the copy desk. The idea you can tell a writer of a specific religion to stop writing about that religion is presumptuous. When an older writer tries to tell a younger writer through a review what kind of career she should be pursuing, it tends to speak to the reviewer's anxieties rather than the book itself…”
I didn’t interpret Smiley’s review as dissing anyone’s religion as much as suggesting Weiner look farther afield for her characters. Big difference. On the other hand, Smiley has written about horses and academia, which is the stuff of her life, so she should talk.
Speaking of chick stuff, Mary and I rented Private Benjamin last night and I am pleased and relieved to report that it held up. Sure, the fashions are 1980s as is some of the humor, but it’s still clever and thoughtful and fun. The cast includes Goldie Hawn, a few minutes of Albert Brooks, Eileen Brennan, Mary Kay Place, Armand Assante, Sam Wanamaker, Harry Dean Stanton…not too shabby. I love it.
More girltalk: A very kind blog reader sent me a link and asked my opinion of this article from The Atlantic, titled Marry Him!--the Case for Mr. Good Enough. It is an interesting argument for women to stop being so picky about their men and "settle" for someone who might be too short or too bald or too something or not something enough. I wasn't sure what to think of it--I had a knee-jerk negative reaction--and hemmed and hawed, but the woman who sent it managed to sum it up in one very neat sentence: I think what she says is to settle, I say is maturity. Yes, yes. Of course. That's exactly what I meant to say.
Deelish for Dallasites: The city elders plan to rename Industrial Boulevard to reflect the glamorous (very distant) future they plan for it. For you outtatowners, Industrial Boulevard is pretty much what it sounds like—a gritty stretch of auto businesses, titty bars, the county jail, bail bondsmen and, as happens to any area that abuts a dry district (that is, areas with no alcohol sales), a whole lot of liquor stores. (Read about it here.)
Among the names being floated:
Big D Boulevard (gak)
Dallas Delta (makes it sound romantic, don’t it?)
Kirk Parkway (presumably after former Mayor Ron Kirk)
Rio Vista (and what a vista the Trinity River offers!)
Stanley Marcus Boulevard (I’d rather see them name the planned Calatrava Bridge for him)
The Promenade (how grand!)
I say call it Beer Run Boulevard.
Speaking of Eileen Brennan, Tom and I watched most of the movie FM the other night. It was mildly entertaining--the hairdos alone gave us something to talk about--but we wondered which came first, FM or WKRP in Cincinatti? Anyone?
Finally, because my workout DVD shelf runneth over, and because reviewing DVDs helps keep me fit, I have decided to launch a second blog dedicated to reviews, called Suit Up and Show Up. I’ve posted a few old reviews and one new one up already and will keep up as best I can. Please check in from time to time if you’re interested, I’ve added it to my blogroll to the right.
Labels: books, dallas, exercise, fitness, fitness dvds, movies, news, writing
chick stuff
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Chick flicks and chick lit are under discussion these days. In a review by Jane Smiley of Jennifer Weiner’s Certain Girls, Smiley bemoans the pinkness of the cover, which relegates the book to the girl ghetto. Actually, she laments Weiner’s evident decision to aim for the chick lit shelves.
Smiley writes:
In her latest novel, she seems boxed in by her chosen genre, and it's a shame, because she's got the intelligence and the ambition to address larger questions than the psychological ups and downs of her nice Jewish characters. For whatever reason, though, she doesn't dare.
Meanwhile, Hollywood is trying to figure out what the Next Big Thing in chick flicks will be, now that Meg Ryan is getting long in the tooth. (OK, Hollywood didn’t say that, I did. But to me, Meg Ryan epitomizes the last round of chick flicks. She’s just so cute and inoffensive.)
My first question: Why is chick lit considered a ghetto while guy lit is considered the real deal? Why should the psychological ups and downs of Martin Amis’ characters be more respected than Weiner’s?
For that matter, why wasn’t Wally Lamb’s massive bestseller, She’s Come Undone given a pink cover? I wonder if Henry James was considered chick lit in his day, since his stories are all about intimate relationships? What about Jane Austen? Is Anne Tyler chick lit?
I have similar questions about chick flicks. I love the entire Bette Davis canon—are those chick flicks? What about Gone With the Wind? (Movie and book, actually.) If a book or movie has staying power, does that move it out of the ghetto into the good neighborhood?
I guess what is considered hardcore chick lit today is written to a formula that includes lots of shopping, brand name-dropping, cocktails and looooove. And chick flicks basically are boy+girl= happily ever after, eventually. Unless they’re a about somebody dying. (Beaches—which I’ve seen and didn’t care about.)
I don’t read a ton of hardcore chick lit, but I read The Devil Wears Prada and was surprised by how well-written it was. I also enjoyed the movie. Then I read Lauren Weisberger’s second book, Everyone Worth Knowing, and found it to be the exact same story, different career (public relations). Tedious. I read Bridget Jones’ Diary and enjoyed that and the movie, but decided not to read the follow-up for fear it would suck. (I rarely see movie sequels either, for the same reason.)
I am a sucker for a few recent-ish all-out chick flicks. Although I usually find Julia Roberts irritating, I do have a soft spot for Notting Hill. (I suspect my aversion to Julia Roberts has something to do with my loathing for her breakthrough movie, Pretty Woman. No, don’t get me started.) I catch Legally Blonde on TV whenever I come across it. I love the fact that Elle gets the degree and, only incidentally, the good guy.
Most of my favorite chick flicks are moldy olides, though. An Officer and a Gentleman got me through some hard times when I first moved to Texas and things weren’t going well. I saw it several times in one week because I needed escapism so badly. I love Private Benjamin, with Goldie Hawn, in which she is widowed on her wedding night and joins the army. The ending tickles me every time I see it (and it’s been a while—I might have to find it for fun). I also like Rich and Famous, with Candice Bergen and Jacqueline Bisset, which follows a friendship over decades.
I suppose my favorite chick lit and flicks involve women going for something other than the guy. You know, finding a guy is great, but that’s not all there is to us.
Smiley writes:
In her latest novel, she seems boxed in by her chosen genre, and it's a shame, because she's got the intelligence and the ambition to address larger questions than the psychological ups and downs of her nice Jewish characters. For whatever reason, though, she doesn't dare.
Meanwhile, Hollywood is trying to figure out what the Next Big Thing in chick flicks will be, now that Meg Ryan is getting long in the tooth. (OK, Hollywood didn’t say that, I did. But to me, Meg Ryan epitomizes the last round of chick flicks. She’s just so cute and inoffensive.)
My first question: Why is chick lit considered a ghetto while guy lit is considered the real deal? Why should the psychological ups and downs of Martin Amis’ characters be more respected than Weiner’s?
For that matter, why wasn’t Wally Lamb’s massive bestseller, She’s Come Undone given a pink cover? I wonder if Henry James was considered chick lit in his day, since his stories are all about intimate relationships? What about Jane Austen? Is Anne Tyler chick lit?
I have similar questions about chick flicks. I love the entire Bette Davis canon—are those chick flicks? What about Gone With the Wind? (Movie and book, actually.) If a book or movie has staying power, does that move it out of the ghetto into the good neighborhood?
I guess what is considered hardcore chick lit today is written to a formula that includes lots of shopping, brand name-dropping, cocktails and looooove. And chick flicks basically are boy+girl= happily ever after, eventually. Unless they’re a about somebody dying. (Beaches—which I’ve seen and didn’t care about.)
I don’t read a ton of hardcore chick lit, but I read The Devil Wears Prada and was surprised by how well-written it was. I also enjoyed the movie. Then I read Lauren Weisberger’s second book, Everyone Worth Knowing, and found it to be the exact same story, different career (public relations). Tedious. I read Bridget Jones’ Diary and enjoyed that and the movie, but decided not to read the follow-up for fear it would suck. (I rarely see movie sequels either, for the same reason.)
I am a sucker for a few recent-ish all-out chick flicks. Although I usually find Julia Roberts irritating, I do have a soft spot for Notting Hill. (I suspect my aversion to Julia Roberts has something to do with my loathing for her breakthrough movie, Pretty Woman. No, don’t get me started.) I catch Legally Blonde on TV whenever I come across it. I love the fact that Elle gets the degree and, only incidentally, the good guy.
Most of my favorite chick flicks are moldy olides, though. An Officer and a Gentleman got me through some hard times when I first moved to Texas and things weren’t going well. I saw it several times in one week because I needed escapism so badly. I love Private Benjamin, with Goldie Hawn, in which she is widowed on her wedding night and joins the army. The ending tickles me every time I see it (and it’s been a while—I might have to find it for fun). I also like Rich and Famous, with Candice Bergen and Jacqueline Bisset, which follows a friendship over decades.
I suppose my favorite chick lit and flicks involve women going for something other than the guy. You know, finding a guy is great, but that’s not all there is to us.
Labels: books, feminism, movies, writing
bad headline du jour
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Abuse probed at polygamist compound
Hm, somehow the use of "probed" in this headline makes the icky even ickier.
Hm, somehow the use of "probed" in this headline makes the icky even ickier.
Labels: headlines, news, writing
today's assignment
Everyone must read this story, which just won a Pulitzer Prize for feature writing. The gist? World-famous violinist Joshua Bell does a stint as a busker in a DC metro station.
bleah
Here comes griping so if you’re not in the mood, move along. There’s nothing for you here.
I am totally out of sorts these days, all at sixes and sevens and I don’t know why. I’m not working worth a damn. I’m behind on deadlines, cranky with everyone, and just don’t care.
I’m about to turn 50 and I’m still waiting for life to kick in. There’s nothing wrong with my life except I can’t seem to live up to my own potential. I’m pissing away time with piss-ant stories. I have a half-cooked book proposal that’s been growing moldy, a first draft of a novel that I should be revising instead of playing Scrabulous and I really need to be drumming up more paying work but can’t seem to get motivated.
Most of what I’ve accomplished in life has floated my way. The jobs I’ve had, the books I’ve written—I’ve pursued none of it, it’s all come to me. But now that nothing is coming my way and initiative is in order, I am instead sinking into inertia. Well, not inertia, exactly. I stay busy, but it’s a hamster wheel going nowhere. Well, actually, at least if I were on a hamster wheel I would be working out. I’m not doing enough of that, either.
I’ve started making lists and using a kitchen timer to discipline myself. I managed to scratch most items off my list yesterday but “make dentist appointment” has migrated to today’s list. It’s not that I don’t want to go to the dentist, it’s that I don’t want to pay for it, what with Jack’s expensive new fence we’re getting this month.
It would help if I could drum up some good work. But I’m tired and bored and waiting for the Next Big Thing to come my way. Except I should be creating my own Next Big Thing.
I don’t know what to do with myself. Send Twinkies.
I am totally out of sorts these days, all at sixes and sevens and I don’t know why. I’m not working worth a damn. I’m behind on deadlines, cranky with everyone, and just don’t care.
I’m about to turn 50 and I’m still waiting for life to kick in. There’s nothing wrong with my life except I can’t seem to live up to my own potential. I’m pissing away time with piss-ant stories. I have a half-cooked book proposal that’s been growing moldy, a first draft of a novel that I should be revising instead of playing Scrabulous and I really need to be drumming up more paying work but can’t seem to get motivated.
Most of what I’ve accomplished in life has floated my way. The jobs I’ve had, the books I’ve written—I’ve pursued none of it, it’s all come to me. But now that nothing is coming my way and initiative is in order, I am instead sinking into inertia. Well, not inertia, exactly. I stay busy, but it’s a hamster wheel going nowhere. Well, actually, at least if I were on a hamster wheel I would be working out. I’m not doing enough of that, either.
I’ve started making lists and using a kitchen timer to discipline myself. I managed to scratch most items off my list yesterday but “make dentist appointment” has migrated to today’s list. It’s not that I don’t want to go to the dentist, it’s that I don’t want to pay for it, what with Jack’s expensive new fence we’re getting this month.
It would help if I could drum up some good work. But I’m tired and bored and waiting for the Next Big Thing to come my way. Except I should be creating my own Next Big Thing.
I don’t know what to do with myself. Send Twinkies.
Labels: griping, motivation (lack of), personal growth, work, writing
a question
Saturday, March 8, 2008
So, in another newspaper story today about an unsolved murder, a couple is described as "Danny's aging parents."
It seems to me that we are all aging all the time, yes? Even people in their 30s?
It seems to me that we are all aging all the time, yes? Even people in their 30s?
everybody loves me!
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Comments are spiraling out of control at my WorldHum essay, too.
my headline runneth over
Look how much is going on in this headline, which just dropped into my mailbox:
Jews Promote Vegetarianism to Stop Global Warming
Wow. It's all the world's issues in seven powerful words.
Jews Promote Vegetarianism to Stop Global Warming
Wow. It's all the world's issues in seven powerful words.
Labels: writing
tom cruise, mosquitoes, stool sample
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
In the news today in India: Tom Cruise washes his hands for five minutes.
Well, yeah. I dislike Tom Cruise but not going to fault him for this hygiene habit. You want to be careful in India. Actually, you want to be careful everywhere. One of the worst nights I ever spent was after visiting a McDonald’s restroom in Memphis. Since then, I’ve become Cruise-ian about washing my hands.
Speaking of health and India, I’m still taking malaria pills. It looks like I have another two weeks to go. I’m kind of annoyed that the nurse I saw at the travel clinic, although she noticed and asked about the psoriasis on my hands, didn’t mention that these malaria pills exacerbate it. And boy, do they ever. Don’t look at me, I’m disgusting… (She didn’t know anything about medical travel to India, either, which casts doubts on her travel medicine knowledge, to my thinking.)
For a few days after I got home, I was pretty sure I had meningitis, despite the vaccine I got against it, because I had a stiff neck. But since I had no other symptoms, I concluded it was 24-hours-in-economy-classitis.
Happily, I returned from India healthy as when I left.
But now here’s a grim story in today’s DMN about a hardbody runner who was bitten by a mosquito on the one unprotected spot on her body (her face). She got West Nile Virus and will never be the same. The end.
Wow, that’s a picker-upper. Especially since she did just about everything right—but she wasn’t diagnosed quickly enough. Yikes.
And here’s a compelling quickie about how Americans’ fixation on happiness cuts us off from a full life. Rock on, fellow melancholic.
It brought to mind a maudlin short story I wrote for a high school creative writing class. It involved a talking dove and a sad old man. (The assignment was to use five specific words in a short story. I think “dove” was one of them. Also “stool” so the old man was sitting on a stool in the sunshine. I don’t remember the other words. I guess I could have gone in a whole different direction, what with "old man'" and "stool" but I don't know where the dove would have worked in...)
The story ends with the old man saying this: Yes, dove, I want to die. Not now, though. I have had a beginning and a middle to my life. I want to make the full circle. I have had happiness, love, joy. Now, left for the end, come loneliness and regret. Perhaps they are painful but I want to die with perfect symmetry to my life. For each joy, I want a sorrow. For each filled moment, I want a moment of loneliness. Is not a moment of loneliness just as fulfilling as one with companionship? I shall die eventually and I shall die happy with the knowledge that my life has lacked nothing. I want nothing from you now, Dove. Return to me and remind me of what I have said when Death is approaching and I am afraid.
Deep shit, eh? I got a good grade, anyway, and the teacher made me read it aloud in class.
Now, cheer up and Texans get out and vote. How exciting is this?
Well, yeah. I dislike Tom Cruise but not going to fault him for this hygiene habit. You want to be careful in India. Actually, you want to be careful everywhere. One of the worst nights I ever spent was after visiting a McDonald’s restroom in Memphis. Since then, I’ve become Cruise-ian about washing my hands.
Speaking of health and India, I’m still taking malaria pills. It looks like I have another two weeks to go. I’m kind of annoyed that the nurse I saw at the travel clinic, although she noticed and asked about the psoriasis on my hands, didn’t mention that these malaria pills exacerbate it. And boy, do they ever. Don’t look at me, I’m disgusting… (She didn’t know anything about medical travel to India, either, which casts doubts on her travel medicine knowledge, to my thinking.)
For a few days after I got home, I was pretty sure I had meningitis, despite the vaccine I got against it, because I had a stiff neck. But since I had no other symptoms, I concluded it was 24-hours-in-economy-classitis.
Happily, I returned from India healthy as when I left.
But now here’s a grim story in today’s DMN about a hardbody runner who was bitten by a mosquito on the one unprotected spot on her body (her face). She got West Nile Virus and will never be the same. The end.
Wow, that’s a picker-upper. Especially since she did just about everything right—but she wasn’t diagnosed quickly enough. Yikes.
And here’s a compelling quickie about how Americans’ fixation on happiness cuts us off from a full life. Rock on, fellow melancholic.
It brought to mind a maudlin short story I wrote for a high school creative writing class. It involved a talking dove and a sad old man. (The assignment was to use five specific words in a short story. I think “dove” was one of them. Also “stool” so the old man was sitting on a stool in the sunshine. I don’t remember the other words. I guess I could have gone in a whole different direction, what with "old man'" and "stool" but I don't know where the dove would have worked in...)
The story ends with the old man saying this: Yes, dove, I want to die. Not now, though. I have had a beginning and a middle to my life. I want to make the full circle. I have had happiness, love, joy. Now, left for the end, come loneliness and regret. Perhaps they are painful but I want to die with perfect symmetry to my life. For each joy, I want a sorrow. For each filled moment, I want a moment of loneliness. Is not a moment of loneliness just as fulfilling as one with companionship? I shall die eventually and I shall die happy with the knowledge that my life has lacked nothing. I want nothing from you now, Dove. Return to me and remind me of what I have said when Death is approaching and I am afraid.
Deep shit, eh? I got a good grade, anyway, and the teacher made me read it aloud in class.
Now, cheer up and Texans get out and vote. How exciting is this?
Labels: air travel, health, writing
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