This
post reminded me of my own initial foray into the world of
cursing. I was eight years old and had been hanging out with my older,
cooler friend, Melanie, discussing the superiority of the spiral
perm over the body wave, and listening to the Thriller album on her record player.
Melanie had just told me the story of a girl she knew who had
supposedly met Michael Jackson in concert and claimed that he had
kissed her on the shoulder. Evidently, the girl was so excited about
having famous spit residue on her skin that she put a Band-Aid on
the spot so that it wouldn't be washed away in the shower. Had this
happened today, the young lady would simply excise the flesh and sell
it on eBay, but, alas, this was during the 80s and people hadn't yet
developed the ability to auction off parts of themselves online. I
might add that I believed this story, because, again, these were the 80s
and everyone thought Michael Jackson was a straight black man.
The story concluded with the girl's mother demanding that she remove the Band-Aid so as to cleanse
the sacred saliva from her body, and do you know what the girl said to
her mother? DO YOU??? She said, the f-word to her mom! I KNOW!
It's so shocking I can hardly keep my jellies on.
Except that I did keep my jellies on because I had no idea what in the
heck "the f-word" was. I grew up in a non-profane home, a home where
the strongest invective ever spoken was CRIMENY. In fact, I recall having once used the word "crap" a bit liberally at the dinner table, like,
"Yeah, guys, I have a bunch of crap to do tonight and then I'm going
to take this crap over to Valerie's and we're going to play with her
crap." Later, my mother gently pulled me aside and asked if I knew
what "crap" meant. I did not, and when she told me I of course
recoiled in horror, realizing that I had just told my family that I was
scheduled to play with my friend's poop.
So, I didn't know much about swearing, and I certainly didn't know
what the f-word was, but it sounded like something that could really
jazz up my dinnertime conversation. "Hey Melanie, what's the f-word?" I
ventured. She looked at me, a little bit frightened, not sure if she
was ready to be the corruptor of such a naive soul. "It's, like, the mother
of all swear words," she told me, but she wasn't about to say it out
loud, not with her mother downstairs, no way, no how! "Fine, then just
tell me what it rhymes with," I offered. This seemed like a
reasonable compromise, so she said it sounded like "luck," but without
the "l." "So it's fluck? That's the word, fluck?" I asked. "No,
WITHOUT the l. Like what you just said but take out the l." Again and
again I tried to say the f-word correctly, but it kept coming out
"fluck." "Fluck? No, wait, fllluuuuck. Hold on, let me try
again...fluck?"
And then, like a magical, mystical awakening, akin to a delicate rosebud
blossoming in the warm, spring sunshine, but more beautiful, it came
to me, and I shouted excitedly, "OH!!! I
GET IT!!!! FUUUUUU----" at which point Melanie leapt up from her
Seventeen magazine and covered my mouth with her hand. "SHH! You're not supposed to say it so loudly!"
But she had opened a Pandora's Box, and I just kept repeating my
favorite new vocabulary word, over and over again as if it were the
sacred mantra of my eight-year-old soul. I had no idea what the word
meant, of course, but I knew it sounded a lot better than "crap."
After promising not to tell my parents what I had learned under the
threat of never getting to borrow her WHAM album again, I skipped home
that day, singing the sweet tune of the f-word to myself. I would
have been horrified had I known what I was actually saying, but
probably not quite as horrified as I would have been had someone
explained to me what Madonna's "Like a Virgin" was really all about.
I had skipped home singing that the day before.
And I thought it was exciting when McSweeney's published my list. Clearly I need to start developing a skill set of sorts if I want to remain in this family.
An Open Letter to the Women Who Continue to Use the Second-to-Last Bathroom Stall Despite the Gaping Crack in the Door:
Look, I realize that we're all women here, and maybe I need to spend a little more time getting in touch with my YaYa Sisterhood, but it makes me a little uncomfortable when, while washing my hands in the restroom, I happen glance in the mirror only to see the reflection of YOU, sitting behind me. On the toilet. Without pants on.
I've worked pretty hard all my life to keep on the good side of the law, and trust me, sometimes it's taken Herculean restraint, but one of the key issues deterring me from committing a felony, or even racking up too many parking tickets, is the fact that I would have to go to prison. And one aspect of prison that would make me REALLY regret robbing that bank is the fact that I would have to watch other people go to the bathroom. As a free, law-abiding citizen, working in a professional office environment, I would like to think that I could at the very least wake up in the morning, feeling confident that I will not have to bear witness to another human's pee.
And you, YOU, Out in the Open Pee Lady, what is YOUR deal? Have you been watching too many self-empowerment Oprah shows? Doesn't that bother you, the fact that everyone you work with now knows what color underwear you're wearing? WE ARE NOT REALLY SISTERS! This flagrant displaying of the pee will not stand!
There are seven other securely closing stalls from which to choose. Next time, kindly spare us all the peep show.
Last summer when my parents were visiting me here in Chicago, we all
went to the Jamba Juice located directly beneath their hotel. I'm not
sure if you're familiar with the chain, but it's one of those
juice/smoothie places that tries to convince you, the ever
health-conscious consumer who actually hates healthy food, that their
shakes are full of nutritional goodness when they're actually just
full of sugar.
Things I like about Jamba Juice:
1. Their smoothies.
Things I do not like about Jamba Juice:
1. The names of their smoothies. I desperately try to avoid saying
things like, "I'll have the Orange-A-Peel--no, wait! Make that a
Mango-A-Go-Go, and toss in a Berry Fulfilling for my friend here." I
usually try to get around the kitschy titles by telling them that I
want "the one with the bananas and the strawberries and the orange
juice," which earns me a scowl and a loud, "One Orange Dream
Machine!"
2. The mandatory free "boost." A "boost" is an embarrassing name for
a nutritional supplement that gets scooped into your drink, like it or not. They
claim to have 6 different boosts from which to choose, but I'm pretty
sure that no matter what you pick, they just dump a cup of sugar into
the blender. If you don't want to get into a 20 minute argument with
your Jamba Juice team member, I strongly suggest you just pick a
boost, hand over your $5 and step to the side, because should you
happen to say something terribly naïve, something like, "Oh, no
thanks. I don't really want a boost," THERE WILL BE HELL TO PAY.
First, you'll get a disbelieving stare, as if you had just told her
that you wanted to suck your shake out of her bare cleveage, and then
a barrage of questioning will ensue. "You don't want a boost? But
it's free! How can you not want your free boost? You have to have a
boost! Pick a boost! BOOOOOOST!" The one good thing about the existence
of the boost is the occasional laugh I get out of an old man asking
for a fiber boost. Mmm..regularity.
3. The Jamba Juice team members. Clearly, the theme of this
enterprise is Embarrassing You, One Shake at a Time, and no one works
harder at bringing a blush to your cheeks than your Jamba Juice
salesperson. First, they do that annoying thing where they ask you
for your name, and then with every verbal exchange they insert your
name so as to trick you into thinking you are really Best Jamba
Friends Forever! Furthermore, each employee has some sort of annoying
personality quirk that makes that person AN INDIVIDUAL, so in your nightmares you
can actually recall which specific Jamba juicer caused you to awake in
a cold sweat.
Two specific employees stand out in my memory, due to their eccentric
(neurotic) behavior. The first is a girl who terrorized my family
during their Chicago Jamba experience last summer. My stepfather
ordered first, and decided that he wanted an Orange-A-Peel with an
energy boost. Jamba Girl shouted out, "THANK YOU THURMAN! ONE
ORANGE-A-PEEL WITH ENERGY BOOST FOR THURMAN! HAVE A NICE DAY,
THURMAN! NEXT AFTER THURMAN!" thus ordering my mother to step up to
the plate. She decided that she, too, wanted an Orange-A-Peel, and
put in her request.
Not. So. Fast. Carol.
Jamba Girl caught on to the fact that my mother was ordering the same smoothie as her husband, and
she insisted that she order a different drink, I suppose so
they could lovingly intertwine arms and sample one another's boosts.
"NO ORANGE-A-PEEL FOR CAROL! THURMAN GOT ORANGE-A-PEEL! TRY SOMETHING ELSE
CAROL!"
My poor, helpless mother made an earnest attempt to make another
selection, but she didn't want anything else. She wanted the
Orange-A-Peel! "No thanks, I'll just have the Orange-A-Peel." "NO!
NO ORANGE-A-PEEL! THURMAN GOT ORANGE-A-PEEL!" and then she did this
little dance, flailing her arms about her head and twirling around as
if she were a human smoothie cycloning in the blender and shouted "IT'S JAMBA TIME!!!"
After some serious tenacity on the part of my mother, she finally got
her drink, but I think a little part of the Jamba Time Girl died that
day.
The other memorable employee works at the Merchandise Mart, and his
shtick is to greet each customer with raised arms, as if signaling a
successful field goal attempt, and exclaim, "Hey! What's
hap-penin'?!" as if you were the tightest homies in all the
land. It would be more convincing if he didn't do it to every single
person in line. Sometimes I wonder if he's just nervous and is airing
out his underarms. I kind of hope that's the case, because otherwise
he clearly thinks this wave-your-hands-in-the-aaaaair bit is wining
over the general populace, which I'm pretty sure it's not.
I kind of wanted to say something to him when I ordered my drink the other day, but then I remembered Jamba Time Girl, and how dejected she was when her flair didn't work. We'd already crushed the hopes and dreams of one overzealous employee. If this guy wants to reach for the stars when he takes my order, that's fine by me because hey, IT'S JAMBA TIME!
Today I received a very kind and supportive email about my website (along with the wise suggestion to add some comments to this rig, which I would do if I had any modicum of capability to do so, which I do not), but what was most exciting about this gracious communiqué was that it was in French. Répetez après moi, en Français!
A H writes:
Félicitations pour ton blogue.
Je crois que tu devrais rajouter les commentaires utilisateur.
En tout cas si l'idée te déplaît, garde au moins ton style d'écriture particulier et mes meilleurs souhaits de succès.
This is precisely what I needed to increase my international appeal. Now I just have to wait for my first French hate-mail, and the circle will be complete.
Merci, A H, vous m'avez rendue tellement heureuse!
Today I have to talk to a group of U of C grad students about my experiences as a community college adjunct instructor. Hmm...where to begin? Should I start with the laughable pay, then segue into the sporadic, unpredictable hours, and end with something uplifting, say, the remote possibility that their part-time stint may, one distant day, perhaps once the democrats regain control of, well, anything, lead to a full-time position? Or would that be filling their heads with the impossible dream? Maybe I should conclude with a cost analysis of individual health insurance plans, plotted against student loan interest. (Hey! The latter can be deducted from your taxes! Opa!)
The problem is, and I've gone over this in my head so many times before that it's almost lost all meaning, that it's a really great job for people who love what they study, as most humanities grad students do. Often you have complete authority over what you teach and how you teach it, which can be simultaneously liberating and traumatic, but ultimately allows you to force your thesis project on a bunch of unsuspecting undergrads and there's NOTHING THEY CAN DO ABOUT IT HA HA HA HA.
Unlike teaching high school, which is the purest form of torture still legal today, the students (generally) are polite and respectful and if they don't show up for class three weeks in a row you don't have to call their parents and schedule a conference about why Blake really needs to apply himself or he'll still be living at home when he's 35, Mr. and Mrs. Blake, just chew on that pleasantry for a second. In college, when students are truant, you just drop them! Bye-bye!
And they still write hilarious things in their papers for you to make fun of, like, Victor Hugo wrote about France under the rule of Napoleon Bonobard, and, In his diary, Winston wrote, "DOWN WITH BIG BROTHEL!" Down with the big brothel, indeed! Thank you, spell check, for not catching syntax errors. My drunken grading is markedly more entertaining as a result.
So I want to tell these grad students that it's a really hard job, that I cried almost every day the first semester I taught, because I was the idiot who tried to create 3 new courses at 2 new schools and after working 80 hours a week to pull it off, still couldn't pay my half of our modest rent. I want to tell them that they'll have to juggle other jobs and give up their week nights and still take part in the full-time job search. But I also want to tell them that all of the effort I've invested in this job has ultimately been worthwhile, because at least I don't feel like I'm wasting my life anymore. The job is challenging, but that's what makes it interesting. And then I'm going to tell them to step out of the way, because I'm here for the college administrator's reception, too, and I'm about to steal their job opportunities.
I suppose this shouldn't come as a surprise from a man whose entire life revolved around drinking Wild Turkey and shooting things, but still, we were just in Vegas to see the sights of Fear and Loathing. It's almost the same feeling I had when Johnny Cash died while I was in the middle of reading his (second) autobiography.
Sarah: I think I'm going to try this free haircut offer. I'm going to ask her for style suggestions, but I already expressed that I don't want a bob with bangs, and she said that
was fine.
Jason: Yeah, that sounds good. I think you may want to reconsider the style though.
I once knew a Bob with bangs...he was very stylish.
To my best recollection, I've sold out exactly twice this year. The
first time was a blatant act of treason against my family code when I,
a Cleveland girl, rooted for the Pittsburgh Steelers during the
playoffs in hopes of stealing half of Jason's Super Bowl winnings.
That strategy obviously didn't pan out too well, and all of those stupid
football rules I learned were for naught. Never again will I put my
trust in professional sports! DO YOU HEAR ME, BASKETBALL? I SAID NEVER!
Broke and a traitor, I have been forced into sell-out number 2:
Google AdSense. The text ads you see at your left are my virtual
"Student Loan Fund" jar that guilts you into leaving a buck at every
independent coffee shop, a desperate attempt to garner some cash from
this website endeavor. I don't expect to earn much, but if I make
even enough to cover the monthly server fee it will be worth it. And
if there's anything left over for beer, well, the next round's on me!
So just ignore them if you like, but should you happen to accidentally
click on one (or four) of the ads, perhaps repeatedly, perhaps from multiple
computers so Google doesn't catch on to the fact that I'm trying to
cheat the system, I certainly won't complain.
I've always felt that living in a northern climate gives a person admirable strength and tenacity because, you know, it takes work just to exist six months out of the year, but how all 2.9 million residents of this city keep from killing themselves each winter is beyond me. I feel dirty just looking at that picture. Mother Nature could really use a trip to the day spa, or at the very least, a hot shower.
A few weeks ago when I started teaching nights again and continued working during the day, I sketched out a pictoral blow-by-blow of my week for Jason. As you can see, I get off to a rough start on Monday, but then it appears that things are looking up for our heroine! Be ye not fooled by that half smile on Tuesday and Wednesday. I wrote, "I can sleep in a little, working 'til 8's not so bad," but what I really meant was, "I had a bloody mary for lunch! I don't even know where I am!"
Then it all comes crashing down on Thursday, THE KNOCK-OUT PUNCH, because I have to copy and paste for almost 8 hours and then put on my coat and walk out of the building with everyone else who just worked a full day, but instead of going home like a normal person, I get on the train and GO TO ANOTHER JOB! Why do I do this, you ask? BECAUSE I AM POOR! Poor and crazy.
Thursday is a 12-hour day, and when it's over I want nothing more than to sleep in the next day. However, sleep in I cannot, because I have to get up for The Kick in the Ribs When I'm Already Down on Friday.
Since today is Friday, The Kick in the Ribs When I'm Already Down, I am not sleeping in. Instead, I am sitting in this cubicle, looking up numbers on one website and entering those numbers into a database for 8 hours. My head hurts, I'm tired, and I can't even have any bloody marys for lunch. Only a guest appearance by Ira Glass could turn this day around.
P.S. I should probably mention that Jason does this exact same routine, Knock-out Punch and Kick in the Ribs and all. He just complains about it a lot less, mostly because I whine enough for both of us.
Call me egotistical, but I can't help feeling like I'm bringing
eternal salvation to the souls of each document I data enter when I
click the "save" button and "SAVED!" pops up in 28 pt. font at the top
of the page.
It's like I'm a data entry missionary over here. Good works, without all the shots and community outreach!
Has the Whole World Lost Its Head? or, Why I Should Have Studied Math Instead
[ed note: Painfully boring and somewhat snobbish post to follow. Reader discretion advised.]
I'm not afraid of being called a grammar snob, so I was kind of excited when I saw the cover story of last Sunday's Tribune Magazine, "Is Grammar Dead?" The author, Julia Keller, addresses the question that often divides linguists: Does it really matter if a person uses correct grammar, as long as one is understood?
The concept of the mutability of language is an interesting one, and while I have to admit that change is inevitable (and not always bad), I still feel myself wanting to hold on to some notion of right and wrong when it comes to the English language.
For example, when our President unleashes a verbal catastrophe along the lines of, "It will be he's and I's responsibility to secure the nation," (national address, January 2005) I vomit in my mouth a little bit and a small part of my soul dies. Yes, I understood (kind of) what he was trying to say, but I simply cannot convince myself that comprehension alone forgives this heedless slaughtering of my mother tongue. I mean, why not just scrap this whole "language" thing entirely and grunt and point? I suppose it's fitting that I study French, a language that has an entire ACADEMY dedicated to preserving the purity of the language. Ain't no "bling-bling" in Le Petit Robert, know what I'm sayin'?
Getting back to the article, I was reading along and everything was fine until I got to the part where Keller highlights the malapropism irregardless. Of course, I expected her to write something about how this term is a bastardized version of two perfectly acceptable words, regardless and irrespective, but instead, she claims, AND I QUOTE, "...this formal-sounding word is merely a bloated version of 'regardless,' whose meaning is identical." FORMAL-SOUNDING??? WHOSE MEANING IS IDENTICAL??? !!!
Which is when I sent the following email to the magazine editor:
"I must contend that irregardless is only a word in the sense that (nky-lr) is an accepted pronunciation of nuclear. It has entered our vocabulary via brute force, despite the fact that the prefix ir- and suffix -less logically negate one another. If anything, irregardless conveys the opposite meaning of regardless, as any persnickety "word maven" would eagerly point out."
To which I received this response (my interpretations in italics):
"Dear Ms. W., [Hey Snobby Snoberson,]
Thank you for your letter. [Stop emailing us.] The Tribune uses Webster's New World College Dictionary, which defines "irregardless" as "regardless." [Our truth is THE Truth. Stop questioning it.] Other dictionaries may differ, of course. [You are not entitled to your opinion.]
Sincerely, [Screw you,]
Grammar Hater
Deputy editor
Chicago Tribune Magazine"
Look, Mr. Deputy Editor of the Chicago Tribune Magazine, I don't mean to MISUNDERESTIMATE your linguistic prowess, but IRREGARDLESS of your tidy retort, I am right and you are wrong. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some frozen vegetables to DETHAW.
McSweeney's published my inane list, which I submitted so long ago that I had forgotten about it entirely until I got an email this morning referencing my "interesting NFL helmet idea," and asking if I had seen it on ESPN.com two months ago like he did. For the record, I don't read ESPN.com, partly because I don't really even like sports, but mostly because that site is entirely unnavigable to me with its excessive side bars and banners and flashy graphics. Frankly, it scares me. So, no, this did not come from ESPN; this came from drunken attempts to find entertainment in a sport that doesn't really entertain me. Evidently, that's all it takes to write content for the leading sports website. Perhaps I should submit my resume.
Nevertheless, this is as famous as I'll ever be, and I'm pretty excited about it.
Oh, Internet, I know I've been neglecting you like the Bush Administration neglects the environment (ok, I haven't treated you that badly, because if I did you'd have withered away to about four brown and diseased urls that are so polluted with human waste that they're of no good use anyway and we might as well just drill them for oil just in case). Here you've been sitting alone and empty, focused on that inauguration protest picture and thoughts of a Portishead concert you'll never be able to attend, while I've been out SEEING THE WORLD and living it up offline.
I'm sorry that I forgot to tell you that I went to Las Vegas for the first time:
where I fell in love with the oldest, dirtiest casinos around:
and possibly took illegal pictures inside of them.
I was already feeling like a BIG WINNER having doubled my money in the slots:
but then Jason and I got engaged and we were so giddy from the love and sleep deprivation and also a little drunk on all those free drinks we gambled ourselves, that we OPENED THE $4.75 HOTEL WATER AND DRANK IT. Below, you see evidence of the open bottle on the left.
Here's another shot of Jason in our (surprisingly nice) hotel room, enjoying the very expensive non-sulphuric beverage:
But since it was Vegas, and what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas (hey! marketing campaigns! they work!), we simply replaced our opened water with two bottles from the open conference room next door so as not to have to actually pay the $9.50 for potable water. Some might call this "stealing," but I prefer to call it "maximizing my resources."
Here is a picture I took on the night of our engagement (and subsequent water stealing maximizing), right after we made the pilgrimage from Bally's to Circus Circus so we could see the carousel bar (pictured above) from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
It's a good thing I took this picture BEFORE our walk home across the desert, because that return trip nearly killed us both and we had to stop in at least 6 casinos along the way to regroup and reinebriate.
Despite the foot and leg injuries that may never heal, we had a fantastic time overall, though we've both been left with the disturbing desire to bet on things in exchange for free beverages. You know, like, betting the bartender that I can guess how many ice cubes are in the glass in exchange for a free gin and tonic, or betting the cat a bloody mary that I can finish the crossword puzzle before she does. Strangely, I keep losing. Did I ever mention that my cat LOVES bloody marys?
Posted by sarah at 
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