Still avoiding my dissertation…
ow operating dissertation-avoidance through some kid-centric products on my Etsy site. If you have a little one, whether a little boy or a little girl, I promise you I will have WAY TOO MUCH FUN procrastinating on my dissertation and customizing a journal or paper pack for your little peanut. A lot of the pics on my site focus on princesses because I just got a custom order for a friend’s daughter, but I have a large variety of themed papers and stickers (cars, sports, animals, Sesame Street, Harry Potter, etc.) just waiting to find a new home in a journal or paper pack.
I even have a new Go Green! journal for kids, which offers fun, creative ways to teach and encourage environmentalism and an appreciation of nature in your little one.
Some pics of my “For Kids” section, featuring a balanced mix of vintage and modern papers and lots of fun stickers and other prizes that I like to hide in the envelopes I include:
Unintentionally creepy pumpkins.
ach year around the first week of October, the local grocery stores start stocking up on their pumpkin inventory. I’m sure I’m not relaying any top-secret information here. I’m sure it happens near you, too. There are some choice, stellarly globular pumpkins to choose from with perfectly positioned “handle” stems, and I’m generally pretty impressed by the selection. Until I cock my head about 45 degrees and notice the Good Pumpkins’ bastard step-children (no offense) on the neighboring crate. And they scare the living SH*T out of me. And not in the appropriately ghoulish Halloweeny way, either.
I’m not sure who paints these pumpkins, but I’m pretty d@mn sure they should be served a restraining order from the entire child population. Hugely bulbous eyes, buck teeth ready to chomp, often some oddly colored tennis-ball-sized noses and freakishly shapened eyebrows… Pumpkins are meant to be carved, not to be painted. I mean… trick-or-treating occurs at night. It’s generally dark at night. Ergo, no one will see your freakshow pumpkin anyway (thank dog). But during the day… why should you induce nightmares in such a way?? It’s highly inconsiderate and cruel.
That being said, there are some acceptable ways to paint pumpkins. Most of them require a significant amount of artistic talent, un/fortunately, which just goes back to the fact that: pumpkins are meant to be carved, not to be painted.
Here’s why…
Cool painted pumpkins:
Source: http://bit.ly/ATNSY
Nightmare-inducing painted pumpkins:
Source: http://bit.ly/3cbc91
Cool Nightmare Before Christmas-inspired painted pumpkin:
Source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/rivernaiad/2993504572/
Creepily smiling pumpkin that has no business being near our neighborhood children:
Source: http://bit.ly/zmvbx
Awesomely crafted and painted (to an insanely perfect degree) Yo Gabba Gabba pumpkins:
Source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/pairadocs/2985953954/
Terrifying pumpkins that I can only assume are alcoholics due to their bulbous noses:
Source: http://bit.ly/LjCcZ
The fear of pop-culture illiteracy, courtesy of The Onion.
he most reliable of all fake news sources, The Onion, released a study in 2005 that focused on the necessity of a minimum of four hours of TV-viewing per day in order to maintain pop-culture literacy. The study’s findings remain terrifyingly relevant four years later. Tell all your children. Sit them down and enforce a passive, sedentary lifestyle if you know what’s good for them. Oh, and make sure you give them an IV of caffeine- and sugar-rich soda while they sponge up all that mind-numbing drivel. Just you wait: you’ll win Parent of the Year!
What follows are some of my favorite excerpts from The Onion’s article:
Study: Watching Fewer Than Four Hours Of TV A Day Impairs Ability To Ridicule Pop Culture
Dr. Madeleine Ben-Ami, a professor of cognitive science and chief author of the study, explains:
“The average person requires a minimum of four to six hours of television programming each day to be conversant on the subject of The Apprentice or able to impersonate Anna Nicole Smith.”
Tracking 800 individuals between the ages of 15 and 39, researchers found that people who watch fewer than four hours of television a day have difficulty understanding the references made on VH1’s Best Week Ever, and are often unable to point out the absurdity of infomercial products or the cluelessness of American Idol finalists.
Mary-Kate needs an ice cream. Or five. (Photo source: Reuters)
The contrast between regular and irregular TV viewers was made plain by a simple experiment: Irregular and regular TV viewers were videotaped while watching footage of Michael Jackson.
“Note how this young man remains calm, observing the series of photographs quietly,” said Ben-Ami, pointing to one of two monitors running footage of individual study participants. “Meanwhile, his counterpart laughs uproariously, pretends to gag, and feigns sexual intercourse with a throw pillow. Seconds later, he leaves his seat to execute some kind of ’80s-style breakdance and injures himself, probably because of his excessive weight.”
“The first man doesn’t have a television,” Ben-Ami added gravely. “The other man watches an average of 40 hours of network and cable programming each week.”
Ben-Ami said she and her colleagues fear that, if it is not corrected, television illiteracy could result in an American sub-group unable to function in the modern world.
“Because the ridicule of pop culture comprises the bulk of today’s social discourse, a non-viewer is at a distinct disadvantage in the workplace, on campus, and in the dating scene,” Ben-Ami said. “An employee who can’t participate in jokes about Ashlee Simpson’s disastrous Orange Bowl appearance will sit dumbfounded while a more able coworker ingratiates himself to the boss by laughing. And just as the bird with the most colorful plumage attracts the most attention, so too does the bar-TV viewer who yells, ‘Have a sandwich before you faint!’ when Mary-Kate Olsen appears on screen.”
The study’s findings have triggered concern among parents across the country.
“I don’t want my 10-year-old to enter college without the ability to mock boy bands,” said Myra Savage of Phoenix.
Indeed.
Read the article in its glorious entirety HERE.
(*Initial “T” found HERE)
lol = lull = void = not a laugh.
Image: http://www.flickr.com/photos/spacesick/ via WeLoveTypography.com
I never converted to LOL-speak. Well, OK, that’s a lie. Because I do always enjoy a good WTF. And, OK, fine, yes, I’ve used BTW and OMG on occasion. Albeit rarely. If I do, I usually spell them out in various ways, like Bee-Tee-Double-You, or Oh-Emm-Gee. But LOL? OMFG? ROTFL? IMHO? TTYL? TTFN? STFUBMIQIP????
What’s that? You didn’t quite get that last one? Sorry about that. It’s rather newly minted. It stands for “Shut-the-F*ck-Up-Because-My-IQ-Is-Plummeting. Get with it, please.
Anyway, the LOL is what really gets me. Mostly because every time I see it, I hear “lull” in my mind. And an awkward void seems rather antithetical to a hearty laugh. So, if I’m laughing, whether via IM or TXT or e-mail or carrier pigeon, I go all old-school and type out “ahahaha,” which looks and sounds much more like the actual sound being emitted from my mouth. And thus, I feel more authentic and less of a teen who refuses to spell. (BTW, what the F is up with spelling cool “kewl”??? IT’S THE SAME NUMBER OF LETTERS! I don’t care to know your phonetic interpretation. If expediency is the name of the game, then there’s no excuse here. There’s no shortcut. So spell the d@mn thing right. Sheesh.)
Plus, it’s way more fun to type AHAHAHA and obnoxiously alternate back and forth on the home row than it is to type LOL, which are two letters that rest one on top of the other, so it only takes one finger. And most likely the middle finger. Which says it all, really.
Monday Monday (cue The Mamas & The Papas).
think we can all agree that Mondays, as a general rule, SUCK. 
Mondays are proof that the weekend is no more, proof that another freakishly long week has mindlessly begun to putz along, proof that I need serious caffeine and/or Peanut M&Ms to get through the first half of the day (let alone the second)… Yep, Mondays kind of blow. And it seems like “every other day (every other day), every other day of the week is fine, but whenever Monday comes (but whenever Monday comes), you can find me cryin’ all of the time.” And that’s not so nice, Monday. Not so nice at all.
But this Monday (as in, today) was very different. Granted, I still scarfed down a bag of M&Ms at approximately 2:15 pm, but I’d venture that I would have managed OK had I not. And that’s saying a lot. Please trust me.
So… here’s why The Mamas & The Papas proved irrelevant aujourd’hui:
1. We found out that my baby niece gets to say “later, dudes!” to the hospital staff tomorrow, where she will snuggle herself into a heavily padded car seat and head home to meet her doggy sibling and greet her new sleeping and playing quarters! Her twin baby brother has to stay in the hospital just a little while longer, but we’re all sure he’ll be hittin’ his own car seat really soon. I mean, duh, he has a dog to meet.
2. Speaking of baby nephew’s awesomeness… the inaugural whizz occurred today. And by “the inaugural whizz,” I mean that I had my first victim-of-an-out-of-control-peepisode during a diaper changing. It. Was. Awesome! Like a renegade missile attack, yet streamlined directly across my wool sweatered chest. That is, before he whizzed on his own head. Still trying to figure that one out. Impressive. I’m also still trying to figure out why I’m so thrilled to have been peed on by my nephew… Rather than any freaky-deaky urophilia tendencies, I prefer to assume that I merely feel as though he has “marked his territory” and, therefore, he thinks I’m a keeper. Not that I equate him with a dog peeing on a fire hydrant, but… whatever. I’m just a proud aunt who’s ecstatic when a “first” anything occurs, OK? 
3. I have a handful of ESL students in my writing course this semester, which I love, but which also proves an interesting dynamic within the class… and after class, during my office hours. Today, one of my adorable ESL students (let’s call him Ed), came to my office hours to discuss his comprehension of an assigned article (for which they must then write an analytical summary). Ed is a wide-eyed first-year student, somewhat soft-spoken and completely anxious to learn… he’s basically a dream student. And, as a longtime student of a foreign language myself, I can completely empathize with the difficulties he’s facing, his curiosities, etc. etc.. Anyway… it was a pleasure to meet with him and to discuss the text and the course in general. And then, toward the end of our discussion, he looked me in the eye and said, “You are a much better writing teacher than my last one.” And, OK, I realize that this is probably completely selfish/childish/lame/whatever of me, but… I wanted to freakin’ HUG the boy when he said that! I mean, I of course played it off professionally (and somewhat evasively) and simply asked him what course he had taken last semester, how he felt the course improved his writing, etc. etc…. of course I did not ask about the professor he had… but, meanwhile, a lavish party was unfolding in my mind. And this was the first “compliment” I’ve really received about my teaching in a writing course, so… I relished it.
4. Oh, so remember back when I rambled about Revolutionary Road, and I mentioned a dude who played a supporting role, and I was completely blown away by him? “Him” is Michael Shannon, and he was nothing short of extraordinary. I immediately did the IMDB thing to find out what other films he’s been in (which I then promptly added to my Netflix queue), and to read his bio, find out if he’s married or destined for me, etc. etc.. Anyway, as it turns out: my future husband was nominated for a Best Supporting Actor Oscar for his role in RR! So that’s pretty awesome. Awesome for him, of course, but also awesome for me because the news of the Oscar nod oddly legitimizes my film/acting reviews and, in my mind, brings me one step closer to getting into red carpet premieres and schmoozing with the likes of Ebert & Roeper. Speaking of: god, poor Ebert and his non-existent voice, huh? I mean, he’s kicking cancer’s A, which is phenomenal, but… I can’t help but want to hug the little guy whenever I see him and his wrapped throat.
5. I weighed myself at my sister’s for the first time since early last fall (I don’t own a scale and generally tend to ignore their existence). After passing out, I promptly high-tailed it to the gym. I made it four times last week, and even though I got home late tonight and wanted to watch The Bachelor at 8pm (priorities), I still busted a move to the gym to get in 45 mins of cardio and 25 mins of weights tonight. And then I watched that psycho-”do what I tell you to do”-dominatrix Lauren get the axe. Nice work, Bachelor.
6. Speaking of reality TV… Olivia on The City is a slightly less diabolical Blair Waldorf.
7. The freakin’ Paper Source 2009 Wall Art calendar is finally on freakin’ sale!!!! I’ve been waiting for weeks! Once January 1st hit, I figured, “Awesome, Paper Source will hack the hell out of the calendar prices.” But no. They tried some “buy one, get one half off” bullshiz, which is ludicrous because, come on, who wants two of the same calendar?! Anyway, I kept revisiting their site (and their shops) to see if, perchance, they had come to their senses and knocked some bucks off of their calendar prices. But no. Until… now. Way to hold out, Paper Source. You almost got me. But now… your calendar is ALL. FREAKIN’. MINE.
Another Monday, another List in homage to Anna at:
Maybe paddles are overrated?
hings used to semi-work out for me. And I recognized that it was not by pure luck. And certainly not by any skewed notion of “fate” or “destiny,” neither of which holds much weight in my mind. I worked for stuff, and I like to think I did my work quite well. In the past year or two, however, my health has prevented me from working quite as well. Or even near to “quite as well.” And, unfortunately, things no longer seem to be semi-working out for me. Or even EVER working out for me.
For instance, yesterday morning I received a school-related email that, briefly translated, proclaimed the following:
WELCOME TO SH*T CREEK! (paddle ferociously, but at your own risk.)
PS) Paddles not provided.
So… that was fun.
And today marked the first day of the spring semester. It unfolded as first days usually do: a couple absences, a couple droopy eyelids, the token late dude with The Best of Bass Volume 1 pumping through his ear buds, the usual brown-noser (horrible expression — where the F did that come from? Must research.) who’s already committed the entire syllabus and first poem to memory thanks to course website technology, the token athlete who spritely raised her hand as I discussed “Attendance” to tell me that her Lacrosse coach would be getting in touch with me about games/absences… I guess what I’m trying to say is that there were no surprises. Today was so utterly, completely, unfailingly a First Day of Class… kind of disappointing, really. I’m teaching from 1-2 this semester, a time slot that has generally been targeted throughout academic circles as the worst for teaching/learning, what with the post-lunch food/friend coma setting in. I have a friend/colleague who literally chucks an eraser at a student’s head if s/he appears to be slipping off to Sleepy Town. Tempting as this well-reasoned pedagogical method is, I decided against it. For today.
So… that’s fun.
Oh, potentially good news, though: remember my anti-Aetna pog from last week? Well, I came across a lovely little tidbit of contradictory information on our university’s health services website that I feel may help my case, and which compelled me to write a letter to our health services director. Dr.Mr.HealthServicesDirector promptly and impressively replied to my message, and his assistant then set up a meeting so that Dr.Mr.HealthServicesDirector and I can discuss the matter in person next week. Also, he said that he was going to contact our university’s Aetna representative. So… while I realize that Dr.Mr.HealthServicesDirector is not the Aetna Angel of Granting Coverage, I am still hopeful that maybe, just maybe, something can be altered here, so that our university’s students receive the health care and coverage they deserve.
So… there’s that.
In closing, did you all hear about the white supremacist family in New Jersey who got a lot of flack (and media attention) a couple months ago after a local bakery refused to decorate a cake for their 3-year-old son, little Adolf Hitler Campbell? Well, apparently, little Adolf and his two sisters JoyceLynn Aryan Nation Campbell and Honszlynn Hinler Jeannie Campbell, were taken into NJ state custody today. Check out the story and pics HERE.
In which I kind of ramble and blame it on insomnia
ave any of you seen Revolutionary Road yet? I saw it last night and, I must say, it was absolutely everything I had anticipated it would be –the rather excruciating level of sadness that was evoked (which I sickly thrive on), but particularly the brilliance of Kate Winslet, who can pretty much do no wrong in my eyes. Watching this film, watching her character’s downward spiral (don’t worry, I’m not giving anything away), I couldn’t help but see Sylvia Plath… over and over… and over. Which then made me think of the 2003 movie Sylvia, which was disappointingly painful, primarily due to Gwyneth’s flimsy portrayal of Plath. I kept wanting to knock her off her bicycle, and was pretty sure I could, right through the screen. It infuriated me. Why couldn’t Kate Winslet have played Sylvia? Probably because the script was less than stellar, too. But still… Kate would have been a brilliant Sylvia.
Anyway…
Michael Shannon rules.
Revolutionary Road was certainly not without its faults, but I could easily overlook those flaws when considering the insanely beautiful acting (two words: Michael freakin’ Shannon. I’m a believer.) and the unique emphasis on the links between communication, emotion, and the limits of sanity. I still have some issues with Leonardo Dicaprio, though. I’m not even sure I can articulate what those issues are, because I do generally think he does really great work and has chosen impressively interesting and complex roles. But… I don’t know… sometimes he still just makes me cringe. And he finally is starting to look his age, which was reassuring (I was worried Kate would outperform him — she’s a presence to be reckoned with, and sometimes Leo’s baby face proves a bit difficult to be taken seriously.). Close up, Leo looked every wrinkle of his thirty odd years. But still, from a distance, he maintained the posture, build, and swagger of a tween, and I couldn’t help but constantly see the foul-mouthed, boy genius Rimbaud.
So, the film set my mind reeling. In both positive and negative ways. The film was not the only reason for my insomnia last night, but it didn’t ease the pain. Especially the fact that Vinnie from my much beloved Doogie Howser, M.D., played a colleague of Leo’s, which only resuscitated my love for all things Doogie and my old-school yearning to be the keyboard that his fingers so intimately graced on a nightly basis.
OK, I’m totally exaggerating my Doogie fascination, but for real, how am I supposed to take Leo seriously when Vinnie Delpino’s boozing it up at the other side of the table? I half expected Wanda to come strutting up as a slutty waitress or something.
Anyway, I was up all night. Literally, not a wink of sleep. So, to pass my time, I decided to filter through job listings for potential full-time teaching positions next year (next academic year, that is, starting August or September 2009. In case you don’t know, when you’re an academic, you define time by semesters and breaks and academic years. December 31st may technically be New Year’s Eve, but for us academics, the new year generally begins in September and ends in May.).
So, those of you who have been reading me for a while know that this year has marked my first time teaching a (primarily freshmen first-year-student) Writing Seminar at my university (I’d spent the last seven years teaching various levels of undergraduate French language/composition/literature). It’s been an adjustment, to say the least… but a lovely, inspiring adjustment that has proven challenging in the best of ways. 
I’ve really loved it. So, I applied for a renewal of my Writing Fellowship (what’s allowing/paying me to teach the seminar) for next year since my French Teaching Fellowship expired as of last May. Why did it expire as of last May, you ask? Oh, because I’m having a bit of a rough time completing my dissertation, have I not mentioned that? Yeah. You could say I’m a little behind. But, as long as I can find funding, I’m OK (and by “OK,” I mean “receiving some type of income to support me while I struggle through the Big D”). And, from the outset, the Writing Program People (you down with WPP? - yeah, you know me!) made it sound kind of like a no-brainer: as long as you weren’t a total delinquent instructor with evaluations that related you to Bernie Madoff or something, all indicators pointed to a pretty seamless transition from first-year Graduate Writing Fellow to second-year Graduate Writing Fellow.
It seemed like a no-brainer, that is, until the WP Director sent all applicants an e-mail stating that the “selection process” would take longer than expected due to a variety of criteria that the selection committee was considering. Umm… sh*t? So now I’m scared cr@pless that I’ll have zero income secured for next year and I’m going to have to sell everything I own — which, granted, isn’t that much, but still, it’s MINE — and go live on the streets or on the beach or in the basement of the Harvard Library or something (notice I didn’t say “live with a family member — that’s just too scary). So… that’s why I started applying for jobs in my insomniac state last night/this morning. I applied to four, all of which were full-time faculty positions (mostly non-tenure track, which is OK by me) for English Writing/Literature instructors. This is interesting to me for a variety of reasons… not the least of which is: umm, I’m getting my Ph.D. in French Literature. But… I’ve always done the comparative thing… and this year has taught me that teaching French in English translation can be very satisfying as well (except poetry… too much lost in translation for the majority of verse I’ve come across). So… anyway.
A pair of insanely cute Robeez baby booties
The disastrous state of my financial affairs (no thanks to my stupid-head health insurance company mentioned in my previous pog) sort of begs me to say “screw you 2009/2010 Writing Fellowship,” and then miraculously receive some fabulous income doing some fabulous teaching of some fabulous subject with fabulous colleagues at a fabulous university (preferably on the sea or in the mountains, but I’m not picky), and life would be fabulous and I could finally get a doggy and pay off bills and actually be able to afford to get car washes and buy meat and buy my new baby niece and nephew Robeez and stuff. Wouldn’t that be fun?
It would be fun. But only if someone actually thinks that one year of experience teaching Writing/Reading/Composition/Literature in English qualifies me for a faculty position. But I can teach French, too! I’m a double threat, people! COME ON, SMALL LIBERAL ARTS COLLEGES!!!!! WORK WITH ME HERE!!!!!!!!!!
Ugh.
Anyway. Wish me luck that I have some type of income next year, please.
Though I suppose living on a beach somewhere couldn’t be all bad. I mean, hey, if you’re gonna be an impoverished, homeless, pseudo-intellectual, at least be a tan impoverished, homeless, pseudo-intellectual, right?
(***Academia-related images borrowed from the always entertaining PhDcomics.com***)
Freaky Friday (not the movie)
oday I came across a couple of stories that caused me to come very near to choking on my tongue (is that possible?) and writhing to the point of near concussion. The second of these stories dates from February 2008 but, what can I say, sometimes I’m a little slow on the uptake.
Freaky Friday Stories:
1. A Muslim family was removed from an AirTran Airways flight at Reagan National Airport on New Year’s Day after paranoid, non-Muslim passengers overheard a “suspicious” discussion. Passengers on an AirTran Airways flight overheard members of a Muslim benignly discussing “the safest place in an airplane” and, the next thing the Irfan family knew, nine nine of their relatives, including three small children, were taken off the flight and detained by security.
Sadly, Atif Irfan, a 29-year-old Alexandria, VA, lawyer, admitted:
“My wife and I are generally very careful about what we say when we step on the plane,” adding that they have received suspicious looks in the past. “We’re used to this sort of thing — but obviously not to this extent.” Irfan said he thought he and the others were profiled because of their appearance. The men had beards and the women wore headscarves, traditional Muslim attire. (Source: CNN.com)
Irfan felt that the FBI agents treated him and his family with the utmost decency and “professionalism.” Unfortunately, Irfan could not say the same for the representatives from AirTran who, he felt, disrespected his family and his faith:
“Really, at the end of the day, we’re not out here looking for money. I’m an attorney. I know how the court system works. We’re basically looking for someone to say … ‘We’re apologizing for treating you as second-class citizens.’ ” he said. (Source: CNN.com)
At first, unbelievably, AirTran would not rebook the Irfan family. Eventually, after having convened with AirTran officials, the airline offered to refund the Irfan’s airfare for their original trip (that they missed) and to reimburse them for the replacement tickets that they had to purchase themselves.
Good grief.
Finally, as of this afternoon, AirTran has issued the following “apology”/statement:
“We apologize to all of the passengers — to the nine who had to undergo extensive interviews from the authorities and to the 95 who ultimately made the flight,” the statement said. “Nobody on Flight 175 reached their destination on time on New Year’s Day, and we regret it.” (Source: Associated Press/MSN.com)
AirTran finally apologized to this poor family, yet lumped the entire passenger list into the same statement???
Please tell me we are better than this.
2. Anne Trubek’s article on GOODmagazine.com entitled “Stop Teaching Handwriting.” In case that title is too abstract for you, please allow me to translate: Trubek makes the (ridiculously negligent) argument that handwriting is hazardous to our children’s health and should be heretofore dropped from the primary school curriculum (following in the steps of the Kiwis). Trubek (not to be confused with that A-hole Alex Trebek) advocates for the elimination of penmanship instruction due to the near-fatal blows to her child’s self-esteem. See, if your kid, like Trubek’s, can’t produce a legible lower-case “g” then, well, your kid will need an unlimited supply of therapy and will most likely start twitching and convulsing every time s/he approaches someone by the name of Gregg. 
(*Sidenote: I grew up with a kid named Gregg Flagg. How traumatic would THAT be if you were “g”-deficient??)
Anyway, making an argument based on potential blows to a child’s self-esteem holds no relevance as far as I’m concerned. Anything and everything could cause a child to have increased low self-esteem. I mean, I experienced anxiety every day in my elementary school lunchroom because, unlike my friends, I never had actual fruit in my little brown bag. The closest I came was Del Monte Diced Peaches in Heavy Syrup. And a Hostess Apple Pie, which was really, like, 99% sugar. Meanwhile, my friends’ mothers clearly cared more for them, because they were busy wolfing down crispy apple slices and anally peeled orange skins in impressive, unending ringlets.
But, once lunch was over and I sulked back into our classroom, you know what always boosted my confidence level? Handwriting exercises in our huge writing tablets with our huge pencils and huge erasers nearby. My mom may have been anti-fruit, but I had near-perfect penmanship and knew exactly what to do with those dotted lines. Sometimes I even added little flourishes at the end of my hugely scripted words. Why? Just because I could, that’s why.
Amazingly, Trubek is a freelance writer (!) and a college professor; yet, she claims:
The only time I pick up a pen is to sign a credit-card receipt. Let’s stop brutalizing our kids with years of drills on the proper formation of a cursive capital “S”—handwriting is a historical blip in the long history of writing technologies, and it’s time to consign to the trash heap this artificial way of making letters, along with clay tablets, smoke signals, and other arcane technologies. (Source: GOODmagazine.com)
Artificial?!? SMOKE SIGNALS?!?!? I don’t even know what she’s talking about. How is the use of our own hand/finger motions artificial, but pressing a button to produce a letter NOT? Whatever. I’m just glad that carrier pigeons are apparently still on the “KEEP AROUND” list.
So… like Trubek, I am also a freelance writer and a college “professor” (ABD, d@mn it!). And, as I’ve transitioned from my role as grad student into my role as instructor, I have found that some students now prefer to take “notes” on their laptops rather than on old-school with pen-on-loose-leaf paper. Which begs another question: is loose-leaf paper becoming obsolete?? Poor Mead. Still, of the 20 students in my writing class last semester, only two of them consistently brought their laptops to class for note-taking purposes (or, as I occasionally suspect, for IM/Facebook/E-mail/surf-the-internet- purposes as well, which I generally try not to think about as I’m teaching). The vast majority of the class still uses an “artificial” pen and “artificially” writes in a notebook, often mapping the discussion in a way that would be rather impossible on a computer. Furthermore: have you heard of BLUE BOOKS?!?
So, I’m sorry, but I refuse to accept that handwriting is an unnecessary skill. Also: what about Post-Its?! EVERYBODY uses Post-Its. I mean, come ON!
Anyway. Enough about Trubek and her unfortunately ungifted-at-handwriting son. But, still, I bet he compensates for his illegibility in another area… like, say, dodgeball.
*Post-Script: I prefer not to enter “handwriting vs. computer” territory because it will only make me very angry and very sad. As someone whose art most often relies on my lettering skills, I find it more and more frustrating to hear proponents of technology-as-more-efficient. Certainly, computers and various software programs grant opportunities for quick, large-scale reproductions; however, the handwritten word will always hold more weight and intimacy and historical/personal relevance as far as I’m concerned. How sad our world would be if we no longer wrote each other notes or postcards or love letters? or Post-Its?
*Post-Post-Script: I am currently obsessed with the following book, and I suggest that you all take a gander if you have any interest/appreciation for the handwritten word:
*Post-Post-Post-Script: National Handwriting Day is January 23rd.
In which I dissect Beyoncé/Sasha Fierce’s hypothetical boyish existence. And find that it generally sucks.
t’s 10pm on a Saturday night.
I could be out with friends or something, but… why would I do a thing like that when I have pajamas and Swiss Miss With Mini-Marshmallows and internet and down slippers and crap TV?!?
Also, I’m somewhat anti-social.
Anyway, my mind has been reeling all day, and if I don’t do something to channel the energy, then bad things could occur. We do not want bad things to occur, right? Right.
So, instead, I’d like to talk about the bootylicious anomaly that is: Beyoncé Knowles. Or Sasha Fierce. Or Ms. (Jay-)Z. Or whatever the H her name is today. More specifically, I’d like to talk about her craptastic song, “If I Were a Boy.”
Despite the grammatically correct usage of the past subjunctive “were” in the title, I take major freakin’ issues with the lyrics of this song, most of which indicate that Ms. Fierce probably has a little more penis envy than she should really admit to her fans. I don’t think they’re ready for this (jelly). I mean, first she’s all bootylicious and shakin’ her T & A like it’s her job (which, OK, I guess it kind of is), and now suddenly she’s all, “If I had a pecker…”?! I’m all for exploring one’s gender identity and rejecting society’s generalized restrictions on gender performance, but… there’s a reason why “Celebrity World” (CW, not to be confused with The CW of Gossip Girl and ANTM fame) focuses so heavily on packaging and branding… Case in point: Britney. Britney shaves her head and she’s instantly deemed psychotic. OK, that’s not the sole reason for the psychosis diagnosis, but… it contributed. The viewing/listening public just can’t handle that sh*t. Sudden celebrity changes are the equivalent of being blindsided by a Sarah Palin VP nomination. A rapid downward spiral ensues, head-scratching-to-the-point-of-baldness occurs, and feelings of betrayal abound. Beyoncé, stop confusing your fans. You once demanded: “Say My Name (b*tch)!” But now, with your split-personalities, how the F is anyone supposed to know what name to say (b*tch)? If you’re going to market yourself as an @ss-shakin’ “Survivor” and “Independent Woman,” cool. But then don’t go daydreaming about boozing with the dudes and cruising chicks.
I just copied/pasted the lyrics to “If I Were a Boy” from a site that referred to the song as “Beyoncé’s new hard-hitting ballad.” Umm… “hard-hitting”? Like, when I hit my head hard against the wall in an attempt to knock the Fierce right out of it? Apparently, in a statement to reporters, B.S.-Fierce (sort of) explained: “Sasha Fierce is the fun, more sensual, more aggressive, more outspoken side and more glamorous side that comes out when I’m working and when I’m on the stage.” Hmm. Curious. Especially when considering the so very non-fun, non-sensual, non-aggressive nature of this lame-@ss song.
Anyway, here are the mind-numbing lyrics. Reader beware.
BEYONCE – “IF I WERE A BOY” LYRICS
If I were a boy
Even just for a day
I’d roll outta bed in the morning
And throw on what I wanted then go
Drink beer with the guys
And chase after girls
I’d kick it with who I wanted
And I’d never get confronted for it.
Cause they’d stick up for me.[Chorus]
If I were a boy
I think I could understand
How it feels to love a girl
I swear I’d be a better man.
I’d listen to her
Cause I know how it hurts
When you lose the one you wanted
Cause he’s taken you for granted
And everything you had got destroyedIf I were a boy
I could turn off my phone
Tell evveryone it’s broken
So they’d think that I was sleepin’ alone
I’d put myself first
And make the rules as I go
Cause I know that she’d be faithful
Waitin’ for me to come home (to come home)(Chorus)
It’s a little too late for you to come back
Say its just a mistake
Think I’d forgive you like that
If you thought I would wait for you
You thought wrong(Chorus)
But you’re just a boy
You don’t understand
Yeah you don’t understand
How it feels to love a girl someday
You wish you were a better man
You don’t listen to her
You don’t care how it hurts
Until you lose the one you wanted
Cause you’ve taken her for granted
And everything you have got destroyed
But you’re just a boy
So, OK, there’s this whole starter stanza that has a condescending tone toward Ms. Fierce-if-you’re-nasty’s definition of guys, which involves wearing what they want and having fun with other dudes who stick up for them when friendship duty calls and horrible stuff like that. Because girls totally can’t wear what they want and girlfriends suck and are not to be trusted and stuff. Clearly.
Then she oddly switches from the “dude friend stanza” to the Chorus, which hypothesizes how holier-than-thou Beyoncé would act if she were her own dude: she’d listen, she’d know “how it feels to love a girl” (homoerotic?), she’d “be a better man,” and it would totally be as good as it gets. She would basically complete herself.
But then s/he oddly non-transitions into the next stanza, which returns to the condescending tone and talks about the horrors of putting oneself first and making up the rules as one goes. Now, OK, relationships involve more than one person (well… not always, but…mostly) and there should be a good balance struck between the partners involved and mutual consideration and give and take and yada yada yada. I get it. But… since when did putting oneself first get such a bad rap, huh? I mean… d@mn. I think we could all use a little more of putting ourselves first, in my own humble opinion. Any time I’ve truly felt effed-up in my life, it’s because I got sidetracked from myself as a result of focusing my attentions too much on someone else and putting THAT person first. How can you be good with someone else if you’re not good with yourself? (and then, I inevitably wonder: “What if I’m NEVER ‘good with myself’? Answer: a life of solitude.”) So, again, as in Sasha’s first stanza of the song, s/he’s presuming that guys have it “better” than women in some fictitious way, when in reality, women *do* have those same choices Sasha F’ed-in-the-head mentions: we can wear what we want, we can stick up for one another, we can put ourselves first, and we can make up the rules as we go. And choosing to do those things would not be bad or shameful. Don’t we all make up the rules as we go along and feel things out? I mean, sh*t Beyoncé. Furthermore, what’s all that cr@p about the phone? You could turn it off as a guy, but not as a girl? What the F is happening here?!?
And then s/he non-transitions again and mentions how p*ssed s/he is because her dude ditched her and you better freakin’ believe she ain’t sittin’ ’round waitin’ for him to come back. I mean, she’s writing a song all about him and imagining how she’d act if she were him, but… she’s, like, totally over it. Because…
… he’s “just a boy”… and he doesn’t understand… how to love the multi-faceted Beyoncé Fierce Z Knowles. But… she says that he’s “just a boy” like it’s a bad thing, yet, she spent the entire song thinking about how she’d act if she “were a boy” — not if she were a man — so… what the freakin’ freak?!
This song sucks. It’s confusing in a non-sensical kind of effed-up, poorly written way.
And the only reason I even care enough to pog about it is because I’ve just recently started listening to non-NPR radio again (after, like, a 6-month-or-more hiatus), and the local pop station I sometimes switch on only seems to have about 8 songs on rotation (Britney’s “Womanizer” and “Circus,” Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance,” Taylor Swift’s gag-inducing “Love Story,” T.I./Rihanna’s totally rad “Live Your Life,” The Veronica’s “Untouched,” Katy Perry’s “Hot ‘n Cold,” and then Beyoncé’s piece of S). Apparently, this station is manophobic.
Anyway, so I hear “If I Were a Boy” every 8 songs, and the craptastic lyrics are enough to make me gnaw my freaking steering wheel.
I’ll save my commentary on Taylor Swift’s “I’m a princess who needs to be saved” lyrics for some other whiny post about sucky pop lyrics from women for women that seem to perpetuate the idea that women shouldn’t put themselves first and do what they want and adjust their lives accordingly, rather than sit around conforming to mainstream notions of gender appropriateness while waiting to be “saved” by a guy (whether they deny that’s what they’re doing or not).
Whew.
Breathe…
Kay. Better.
Night.
Overheard while grading papers in… Panera Bread #1058
reetings from Panera Bread store #1058!
OK, I just totally made up that store #. I guess I feel like the inclusion of a store # somehow grants my “Overheard” stories more legitimacy or something. Also, the mention of a store # propels me DeLorean-flux-capacitor-style back to the summer I spent living off of cereal and entering data from mystery shopper visits for roughly 2 pennies an hour (give or take), courtesy of Temp Agency Craptacular (TAC), Ohio. 
Actually, I still pretty much live off of cereal. It’s become a kind of religion, really. But, for all I know, my devotion to all things frosted and mini and wheaty just may have begun that great Mystery Shopper Summer of 2001. How can we possibly know the origin of such things? I mean, no matter how big things bang — whether from the heavens or from Stephen freakin’ Hawking — they’re still just educated guesses, right?
But I digress. I have some serious eavesdropping to tell you about, for crying out loud!
So yeah, I’ve spent the past 4 hours here in the local Panera (#1058) establishment, perched at a 2-person table with my laptop, poring over student essays that take a ridiculous (and what should be totally illegal) amount of time to comment upon and grade. Because of the mind-numbing nature of the activity, occasional pauses prove crucial so as not to lapse into severe catatonic state (semi-severe catatonic state, on the other hand, is entirely acceptable, and even sometimes fun). My “occasional pauses” generally involve Mountain Dew refills and trips to grab more napkins, which will inadequately serve as makeshift Kleenex because, for some reason, my body temperature prefers to remain in the subarctic range and my blood likes to stage frequent coups against flowing freely. It happens. Blood can be a real b*tch sometimes. Anyway, my occasional pauses have also granted me admission to several entertaining conversations taking place within earshot. And, (un)fortunately for me — and, now, for you! — “within earshot” equates to about 8 different tables. SCORE!
Within 4 hours’ time, though, the rotation taking place among those 8 tables ultimately equals some crazy-@ss permutation of patrons and conversation topics that range from sexually inquisitive fifth-graders to an abnormally loud sexagenarian conversing with herself (and, unbeknownst to her, the entire patron population of store #1058) about the mysterious identity of another Panera patron at a neighboring table. Yeah… not at all awkward. Stomach ache.
Oh, sometimes I just say “stomach ache” in reference to embarrassing, awkward situations that cause me to have sympathy pains for whomever I am embarrassed for. Whoa. Did I seriously just write “for whomever I am embarrassed for”??? ISSUES.
Anyway. I had a total stomach ache for that sexagenarian. And for the mystery dude she was rambling about for a solid 15 minutes, who patiently sat with his family and pretended not to pay attention to the fact that an elderly woman was verbally stalking him from 2 feet away:
“Did I run into him at the library? Or maybe he works at the hospital. Or it’s possible he was in line with me at the post office. Or maybe we had a hot ‘n steamy love affair in a past life, but he was a really awful tipper.”
OK, I made up that last one. But hey, a reincarnation-prostitution link seems equally as likely as the other options, don’t you think?
Then, for about 35 of my 240 Panera minutes, I had the pleasure of deciphering the political viewpoints of a trio of Frenchies seated to my right. I love eavesdropping on francophones in America… mostly because I know how I acted as an anglophone in France, and how sometimes — just sometimes — I wrongly assumed that no one around me could understand English, so I’d naively divulge some utterly embarrassing and/or personal piece of information. 
Or, worse, I’d make some sarcastic, smart-@ss comment about a certain odor being emitted from the dude violating pressed up against me in the metro. And then he’d turn to me and be like, “F*ck you,” in English. And then I’d be all, “Oh sh*t — no, no — I didn’t mean YOU, I meant–,” but he was already gone. Stomach ache. Anyway, so I like the She-Raesque power that I possess as a bilingual eavesdropper, ready to lay the smack-down on anyone who so much as HINTS at a negative comment toward me or anyone around me. Though, the truth of the matter is that I’m a non-confrontational wuss that would NEVER have even a paltry fraction of the balls the metro dude had when he called me out and made me feel like A. And I mean metaphorical balls, just to clarify. I don’t have literal ball envy, just to clarify. Where was I?
Yeah, so this French trio was heatedly discussing Obama and “le bonheur” (happiness) and closed-minded pricks and all that good stuff. At certain points of the conversation, I had the distinct impression that Française 1 (the lead Frenchwoman of the threesome, which consisted of one dude, two women) felt that le bonheur and Obama supporters are mutually exclusive. I could be wrong. Regardless, I despise talk of le bonheur as the ultimate end to justify the means. Or just as the ultimate end in general. The pursuit of happiness and all that kind of stuff. I mean, what does that even MEAN? “The pursuit of happiness.” Pff. As if some box-’o-happiness sits there, mocking us humans at some super top-secret, undisclosed locale, and we each have “Amazing Race”-style clues that may help or hinder us in our trek. Whatever. Also, what if I’m in the pursuit of UNhappiness, huh? because it definitely seems that way more often than not. So what does THAT mean? that I’m not exercising one of my inalienable rights? or that I’m just an alien? On second thought, don’t answer that.
Maybe I should have saved this for Tuesday’s “Random Thoughts” post. Cr@p. Oh well.
OK, one more overheard conversation. And I promise you: this one’s a doozy. So, toward the end of my 240 Panera minutes, 2 adorable little fifth-graders tumbled into the booth in front of me. I know that they were fifth-graders because they couldn’t help themselves from inserting “fifth grade” into just about every other sentence/question. Proof:
1. “Are you gonna go to our fifth-grade dance?”
2. “How will you wear your hair?”
3. “What fifth-grade boys are you going to dance with?”
But that’s not the “doozy” part. Here’s the “doozy” part: suddenly, Girl A launched into an enthusiastic description of a heated, verbal fight that had occurred among four of their fifth-grade friends the other weekend. Girl A couldn’t seem to contain herself with the back-and-forth, hilarious zingers that her friends pelted one another with. Girls A and B then proceeded to laugh and laugh and laugh (and so did I, albeit nonverbally). Once the laughs abated, Girl B understandably entered Skeptic Land and demanded the authenticity of this information. 
Truth be told, I was wondering the exact same thing — Girl A seemed oddly omniscient and an unsettlingly skilled storyteller/fabricator from my vantage point. But Girl A was quick to state that their friend Maggie was the all-knowing source of all this priceless information: as it turns out, Maggie was at the scene of the fight-crime with her girlfriend Abby, “because Maggie’s a bisexual,” she nonchalantly added, as though bisexual fifth-graders are just as common as gossipy fifth-graders. By the time I had digested this fascinating piece of information (Maggie and Abby — who knew?!), Girls A and B had already begun dissecting the outcome of the fight and who was still friends with whom among the four fifth-grade hellions.
AWESOME.
I love Love LOVE that fifth-graders find bisexuality as common as gossip. Isn’t that one of the best “doozies” you’ve heard of in a very long time?!? You’re welcome.
I am so thankful for generationally increasing acceptance and openmindedness.
Hey, everyday is Thanksgiving, right?
