Author Archives: Naptimewriting

Grammar nerds unite!

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In a book review on Salon.com, Laura Miller dips a toe in the prescriptive vs. descriptive linguistic debate, one in which some of us (no names) stomp around furiously when people use the phrase “where are you at?” and others (no names, but doubtless their mailboxes have unnecessary apostrophes scratched out) notice that everyone understands what it means, whether or not it is technically correct grammar.

Now, I heart Miller because she hearts David Foster Wallace, and that’s all I really need to know about a person. I believe, however, that she’s a bit too lenient with the descriptivists. She mentions her own pet peeve of dangling participles. Otherwise, she’s pretty laid back about the whole fall of civilization as we know it, at the hands of the business jargon creators, the advertising grammar bastardizers, and the genuinely lazy. (Please. I taught college English. I know some of it is laziness and “I have better things to do” -ism and “why bother” defeatism. But that most of it is really bad education in the early years wherein something like 50% of students are getting As.)

Ladies and gentlemen, would it kill us all to learn the proper use of “whom?”

I would like to announce, in light of this discussion, the production of my new album, Grammatically Corrected Songs. The playlist of final tracks:
I Can’t Get Any Satisfaction
Lie, Lady. Lie.
I Have Spurs That Jingle Jangle Jingle
You Are Nothing but a Hound Dog
Lie Down, Sally
Isn’t It Coincidental (and Generally Annoying but Not Ironic)?
and a medley of every song that should have “I Want You So Badly” rather than “so bad” but barring those that actually mean “I want you when you are bad,” regardless of their connotation for bad.

Send additional track suggestions to my producer. I’ll get to work on them when my band reconvenes next month.

Dollars and nonsense

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I think, if you’re going to charge that kind of money to listen to me and tell me the same things my friends do, I’m going to go out with my friends more often, practice with the band more often, and pay someone to clean the house once a month, instead. Because, though I’m sure you’re worth it, that fee is some serious bullshit, given my budget.

Hell, coffee these days is some serious bullshit, given my budget.

Thank heavens for friends, bass guitar, and maybe, maybe, maybe not paying Spouse to clean the house.

I’m confused.

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I’m a bit confused, I must admit. When you were new to this world, we had to eat dinner in under 3 minutes. As you grew, we got even faster, because without at least two hands to supervise your every antic, we were in way too much trouble to even make dinner worth it.
And now it takes you 90 minutes to eat the tiniest dinner we can concoct.

I’m also stymied on this: I know my parents wished upon me a child just like me—nay, worse, if possible, in every timbre. So is that why you have that thing about licking applesauce and yogurt off your spoon one cc at a time? Is that why your temper is absolutely off the charts? could this be why you hold grudges for over a year, even if that means more than a third of your life? Is that why you drive me batshit insane? Because I thought it was that you took after your father.

And clear something up for me, if you would…why do you feel the need to use what I say against me? I can’t handle tantrums or whining or freaking out in general (from you anyway, since I’m brewing my own over here), so I told you to take a deep breath and explain your point of view carefully instead of flipping your Dr. Jekyl switch. But that doesn’t mean you need to answer a “no, we don’t have candy corn for dinner,” with “[big sigh] Mommy. I understand you don’t want me to have sugar right now. But how about just one piece?” What the hell kind of freak of nature are you? How can I resist a calm and reasoned response? You know me better than that. Let’s be honest: I really need you to be of moderate intelligence, like me and Pa, because we are simply not up to the task of someone who listens and modifies his attacks based on our weaknesses.

And maybe it’s my lack of a full compliment of firing neurons, but I’m not quite clear on why, in a fit of frustration with your nonsense, I ask, “you wanna rumble?” having never used that word before, and you intone “and ramble in blackberry bramble” from a book we haven’t read in several months. Do you have a perfect memory for words? Why, then, does it seem impossible for you to remember what I said just three minutes ago? You do something forbidden. I gently correct you. You stop. I thank you for listening. And three minutes later it happens again. And I’m again patient and you’re again responsive. So why does it happen again five minutes later? You just proved you can remember what I say when you want to.

Do you want to rumble?

Gee, I wonder where to live

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Our dilemma:
Median Home Cost Seattle $422,190 Berkeley$660,500

Why?
Precipitation Days Seattle 155 Berkeley 64
Sunny Days Seattle 152 Berkeley 256
Graduate Degrees Seattle 17.19% Berkeley 34.02%

Oh.

Source: Sperling’s Best Places, which is good clean time wasting fun for the geographically ambivalent.

Peanut University

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Things I learned today:

A small child galloping through the house shouting “I’m helping; I’m helping” is absolutely irresistible. And probably not helping.

When a flashlight is pointed directly at a fetus in utero, the thing squirms as though it’s never seen light. This does not surprise parental units, but older siblings experiencing this find it hilarious.

If you explain to a three-and-a-half-years old person that you REALLY hope nobody teaches the cat how to open the bedroom door, and he asks why, and you tell him because the cat doesn’t know how, he will IMMEDIATELY think to teach the fetus. And he will explain to the fetus, incessantly, how to open a door, ending every lesson with “and then get into bed and cuddle mommy and daddy but don’t jump on the bed.” I guess those instructions are now part of the canon, repeated as they have been every morning for nigh on two years.

Here is how to build a ben: (Yes, before I give you the instructions, it’s *ben*. Took us almost 15 minutes to figure out what the hell he was saying, asking him if he meant bench or bin or is there another way to say this and no I don’t know how to build one but I’ll help if you can you just show me?)
Spread out all the long sleeve adult sized T shirts on the living room floor. Allow approximately one cat-sized space in between each “so we don’t have any dammits when the cats walk across the floor.” Take the sticks you collected the week before (you just ONLY use rain soaked sticks) and layer them on the shirts, weaving a perpendicular pattern until all the sticks are gone. Then add some rocks from the collection your mother didn’t know you had in your dollhouse. Leave the results out until you “need” to have cocoa, then bundle each ben in a heap on the couch until after nap, when you build them all again.

This University-level education has been brought to you by Peanut University: The Leader in All Things Bat-Shit Insane but Kind of Funny Nevertheless.

This just in.

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Newsflash: most people are idiots.

I’m not just noticing. But most people seem not to know and I feel it is a grave public injustice that the majority of humans do not understand that the majority of humans are severely lacking in the mental capacity department. So I’m telling you on this massive soap box that gets a whopping 200 hits a day. I guess that means 6 billion minus about 200 are idiots. Minus at least another 200 who haven’t found this blog yet.

And since everything on the Internet is true and citable in your poorly written college papers, have at it. 5,000,000,600 people in the world are idiots.

You do know you have to pay me if you quote me, right?

SIGG toxic b.s.

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I am so angry it’s taking all my energy not to scream obscenities and cry. Sigg, the maker of stainless steel bottles I’ve used for YEARS to escape exposure from the scary hormone-disrupting chemicals found in plastic (especially BPA), actually contain BPA. Or did, until last year when they changed their liner without telling anyone about the toxins.

Should I have known when they touted their bottles as an eco-alternative that “does not leach BPA” to read between the lines and see that doesn’t mean “does not contain BPA?” Sure. But I wasn’t the only one fooled. Consumer advocates have been trying to prove for years what we all suspected: Sigg is too good to be true.

Now Sigg is willing to replace their old bottles with their new, BPA-free bottles. I refuse to link to their website because I am angry I could spit BPA tainted water. Several retailers are exchanging the bottles for the new version or for an alternative.

I’m not getting new Sigg bottles. I’m going to put on hold my boycott of Whole Foods, whose dolt of a CEO wrote an editorial opposed to health care reform and basic human services (hello, do you know your customers at all?) because Whole Foods is taking back Sigg bottles for a credit. And with that credit I will buy the bottles I thought I could never afford but am now KICKING myself for not buying earlier, distraught with what I may have done to my body, my children’s bodies, and my Spouse’s body by relying on Sigg for so many years.

I’m scared and mad and feel so f—ing misled. What is the point of reading and researching and trying my absolute best if goddamned companies goddamned lie as a way of doing business?

No aluminum. No Gaiam bottles (I knew that because they taste like plastic). No Sigg bottles.

Yes to stainless steel. Yes to Kleen Kanteen. Maybe to whatever other alternatives you’d like to suggest, if you can prove they’re not taking our money and lying like certain other companies. Like all of them.

Don’t wanna be an American Idiot

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Wow, Berkeley Rep has done an impeccable job translating Green Day’s music into a rock opera. Topical, affecting, disturbing, riveting, rocking musical. I’m still agog after last night’s performance.

Michael Mayer’s directorial hand is obvious in this production—you can see Spring Awakening shimmering in everything from production to staging to script. But American Idiot is very much its own theater. And, damn, it’s good theater.

Driving, pulsing, almost relentless, the transitions are breathless, the casting almost flawless, and the use of gobs of Green Day music with minimal dialogue compels beyond what most musicals accomplish. The lyrics, of course, are artistic rants, so Mayer wisely lets them speak for themselves; but he and Billie Joe Armstrong masterfully add layers I never expected to see without seeming forced. Lighting and sound are teched beautifully; I was honestly worried in advance about volume, because I’m a sissy at concerts, but the levels were perfect. Only the fetus had trouble with the pounding bass and angst-filled vocals.

My fears, other than the volume, were that the show would be a pretense for music, and that a rock-and-roll musical would make me feel old. Neither was true. The music is a show in itself, but Mayer did a great job taking substance and layering it with more. And from the opening number, I felt in tune with the characters: fraught with frustration and anger and powerlessness. Maybe because I associate most of Green Day’s music with my piss and vinegar phases. Maybe because I’m not that old (yeah, right). Probably because it’s a well written and impeccably performed show.

The singing last night was impeccable, and highlights include a flawless Tony Vincent as St. Jimmy; immensely likeable John Gallagher, Jr. as Johnny; intense voice of Christina Sajous as The Extraordinary Girl; the raw and adorable Matt Caplan as Tunny (and my friend T’s newest hardcore crush); and special appearance by the compelling Libby Winters as Heather.

A few missteps aren’t worth mentioning. Human beings on stage are sometimes not on top of their games. Righteous choreography sometimes, maybe once, looks silly because this is a group of people on stage moving in ways the other people in your life don’t. The best person for the role sometimes just doesn’t fit into it, even after months of rehearsal. So what? This show is still headed for Broadway, hopefully with the whole cast and crew intact.

I would give my favorite of the night to Tony Vincent for a riveting performance, but we had our first non-grandparental babysitter ever last night, and she ROCKED it. I’m in love. Not to take away from the cast and crew of American Idiot. You fine people should be proud of an accomplishment both remarkable and laudable. Hence the post. But finding a good sitter I trust is too good to be true, even on the Tony Awards. Everyone else in the world: go see Berkeley Rep’s American Idiot. But don’t take my new best friend the babysitter.

I heart Maine

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How  about a shout out to the Senators from Maine, both of whom are Republicans and both of whom are showing the kind of logic and leadership I wish all leaders had. Nobody likes compromising. But these Senators have studied the health care issue, know what they want, and are willing to fight for a solution that suits  their philosophical leanings AND the needs of Americans.

They don’t like the Democrats’ plan as is, and they’re changing what they don’t like. I’m not arguing they should get everything they want, or even anything they want, but I am a big fan of leaders who listen and think, and who don’t feel the need to protect their original opinions to the death.  I’m not so ignorant that I think we’re going to convince the Maine Senators on a pure public option, though it’s what I’ve lobbied my Senators and Representatives for.  I’m also not a fan of forced bipartisanship, three of each bickering until they water things down enough. I like a couple of passionate people from each side choosing to come together with good intentions to make compromises that really work for Americans, not just for politics.

Though that’s not the situation here, I’m still bumping Maine further up our list. I was always a Masshole-New Hampster type, but if *this* is what being conservative in Maine means, I can actually abide a conservative-leaning home.

Plus, Maine seems to be doing fine work on the way to equality for all. You’ll move up further if you pass gay marriage. (You know you want to. Hubby Hubby is the best B&J flavor.)

Idealogues are pains in the ass. Those GOPers who genuinely prefer health insurer profits to a healthy nation, stick to your guns. Those who are terrified of change: take a deep breath and move slowly. Republicans who want to fix the system but can’t stand what it will cost: do the math on what we lose keeping things the way they are.  Sometimes you have to spend money to make money.  Those Republicans who want to help people but just can’t swallow the fact that Barack Obama is President: get new jobs. Because the fact that you put your fingers in your ears and vote “whatever is the opposite of Obama” are not leaders. You’re followers. Contrarian follwers, but followers nevertheless. Liberals who still want Universal health care or a single-payer system, keep fighting. But at a certain point, we’re all going to have to accept that the other side, whoever they are, have a point. We’re not getting single-payer, and we need to compromise on public option. So push all you want, but make sure it’s not counter-productive, or you, too, can get new jobs with the GOP ideologues.

When I am Queen

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I shan’t be able to ban things like tantrums or sleepless nights, though I’d like to. Too easy. When I am Queen, bad behavior will still, alas, have to be beaten out of our foes and children.

But while I’m planning my world domination guidelines, I need your input. What would you ban or mandate?

When I am Queen there will be no:

  • RVs
  • croutons
  • single-serving packs of cookies or crackers
  • pesticide or herbicide
  • High School diplomas granted until candidate proves mastery of the apostrophe (and clear grasp of scientific principles but let’s get punctuation first)
  • leaf blowers or gas mowers
  • car alarms
  • cell phones (yeah, yeah, blah, blah, in *my* day we did just fine with pay phones for emergencies. you gotta problem with it, *you* get yourself anointed Queen. tough to do on my blog, but go ahead and try.)
  • Electoral College
  • mosquitoes

When I am Queen every soul on the planet will have:

  • clean water
  • shelter
  • Charleston Chews, chilled if they find that pleasing
  • free, good health care
  • something in their lives they find beautiful
  • safe food
  • a quiet room all to themselves whenever they want it
  • au gratin potatoes
  • a magic leak-proof pen that appears whenever they need it, where ever they are.

I know I’ve forgotten to bestow or ban something…please, dear advisors, point out my oversight.

Neither here nor there

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Some updates, rather than the interpretive dance I had planned. What can I say? Cold day, no leg warmers. Somehow I successfully purged all Flashdance clothing from my wardrobe. Sigh.

Hazelnut update: nausea has abated and I haven’t yakked in 5 days. I can now, maybe, enjoy Week 18 in digestive peace, wailed upon only from without for a change.

Novel update: another agent sent a “no thanks.” Must send out the next round, but it might be a while with my other deadlines. Rough count: two dozen submissions, maybe half a dozen read the first few pages, four requested more pages, none is going to reap the outrageous profits from the book’s eventual sale. The next agent wants an exclusive, so it’ll just be her and the manuscript for the next two months.

Geography update: we’re gonna be here for a while. But if houses still keep getting 8 and 9 bids, going for 8% over asking for much longer, we’re gonna reconsider the greatest place on earth and think about moving to number 4 or 5.

Peanut update: hardcore into flashlights. We often have to go “into the deep dark woods” in the garage to look for spiders and tigers. Thanks so much, Kipper.
Also popular: filling baskets and bags with household and toy detritus and carrying them around until just the perfect resting place is found.
Word of the day, uttered at least once per sentence: dammit!

Lit update: trying Delillo. Trying hard, but it shouldn’t be this much work to like books. Gonna keep at it for a day or two and if he doesn’t hook me, I’m off to something new.

Conference update: my paper is in critical care, with a thready pulse, threatening to code. But we’re giving it our best and we’ll see if it pulls through. We’re only scholars here; not wizards.

Ode to early 90s lit crit and football

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Cup of hot tea, four piles of journal articles fanned around me, pocket full of tape flags, and this on a foggy October’s Sunday morning:

“A grunting, crunching ballet of repressed homoeroticism, football, Ms. Steeply, on my view. The exaggerated breadth of the shoulders, the masked eradication of facial personality, the emphasis on contact-vs.-avoidance-of-contact. The gains in terms of penetration and resistance. The tight pants that accentuate the gluteals and hamstrings and what look for all the world like codpieces. The gradual slow shift of venue to ‘artificial surface,’ ‘artificial turf.’ Don’t the pants; fronts look fitted with codpieces? And have a look at these men whacking each other’s asses after a play. It is like Swinburne sat down on his soul’s darkest night and designed an organized sport. And pay no attention to Orin’s defense of football as a ritualized substitute for armed conflict. Armed conflict is plenty ritualized on its own, and since we have real armed conflict (take a spin through Boston’s Roxbury and Mattapan districts some evening) there is no need or purpose for a substitute. Football is pure homophobically repressed nancy-ism, and do not let O. tell you different.”
–Infinite Jest p.1047

It’s like straight out of a pop culture and critical theory class in 1992, except they tended to deconstruct wrestling more often. Good, good times.
Happy American homoeroticism day, football fans.

Just one day.

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I want one day.
ONE day in which I don’t need tricks and techniques and reverse psychology to get my job done. I want ONE day in which I’m in charge of only my own actions, in which I get stuff done without taking six times as long as should be necessary because it will be just me and the voices in my head.
I want ONE day in which things are easy; where I ask and things happen. Calmly. Happily. Without whining or crying or throwing or hitting or questions or bullshit. I want ONE g-dd-mned day where I don’t have to explain safety and society and polite and dangerous and inappropriate and unacceptable. ONE day where I don’t need to consciously reinforce all the good behavior of someone else in a DESPERATE attempt to stave off the batshit insane bad behavior that I can’t even label “bad” because it’s not the way I want to do things.
I want ONE f—ing day where I can just operate on my own list, focusing when I want to, spacing when I want to, and taking freaking breaths when I want to. One day with clear goals and outcomes, milestones and markers, measurement and metrics, respect and a f—ing paycheck.
I want ONE day where nobody tells me about their bowels or their bladder or makes me help them evacuate either. I want ONE day where I actually feel like I’m doing a good job. Where I don’t need a g-dd-mned book to give me suggestions for making things smoother and can operate without needing freaking experts telling me how to get through the day without homicide and suicide and infanticide and freaking increasing the shockingly low child abuse rate.
ONE day where I don’t have to explain or cajole or bargain or compromise or invent games to convince everyone but myself that life is fun and washing hands is wonderful and eating is jolly. One day where the growth, development, life, or death of people around me is really none of my concern and certainly not my responsibility. I just want to do my day.
I want ONE day. ONE. One. 1. Just one.
Or I want a 60 hour a week job so someone else does this b-llsh-t for me.
Never mind. I want an 80 hour a week job. The weeks I handled a 120 hour work week, all billable hours, I barely had enough energy to shower. I want that again. Someone else handle this. Someone who’s good at it. For just one day. Or maybe forever.

Ugh. I don’t wanna.

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I don’t wanna schedule appointments and go to them. I don’t wanna get ready and be on time for stuff.
I don’t really want to leave the house.
I don’t wanna do that project I promised.
I don’t wanna read that book I’m supposed to.
I don’t wanna make any more meals or clean up after any more meals or clean up after any more creatures.
I don’t wanna play games or blocks or cars or squirt stuff.
I don’t wanna smile at strangers even if they deserve it.
I don’t even wanna clean up after myself.
I don’t wanna put that away or get that other thing back out. I don’t wanna look for the thing I can’t find.
I don’t wanna hear about the sick and the starving and the abused.
I don’t wanna fight any more about being polite or sharing or eating or cleaning up or getting dressed or putting on clothes.
I don’t wanna answer the phone. I don’t wanna pay bills.
I don’t wanna puke any more.
I don’t wanna prepare for all the holidays and the craziness and the expectations and the visits.
I don’t wanna hear about what other people wanna talk about.
I don’t wanna hear any more sounds for, like, three days.
I don’t wanna be so drained after fun visits with friends.
I don’t wanna be such an introvert or so sensitive or so easily swayed off my precarious center.
I don’t wanna do any of this today. Or tomorrow.
I just don’t wanna.