Horton Hatches The Idea

Quiet! Writer at work.

I write in my head.  That’s probably true for most writers. You start with an idea: a tiny, fragile egg to be protected and nurtured. 

While my body is working out, washing dishes and folding clothes, my mind is elsewhere.  I’m building a nest for my egg, picking up and discarding twigs, bending and shaping them to my purpose.  Thinking.

I warm and nurture the idea as it matures.  I think aloud, often in my car, and the first, tiny cracks appear, signaling the time is ripe for my idea to hatch. 

This is the dangerous part.  The fledgling idea is vulnerable; it will be a while before it is strong enough to be on its own.

Many are lost before they ever see the light of day.  A good, stiff cross-breeze can shake the branches of my brain, and just like that, Splat!   The idea plummets to the ground and is forgotten.

A torrential downpour of daily obligations may drown my fragile idea.

Or it can be snatched away by my pets, Laziness and Apathy.  They are always on the prowl about the house.

I cannot breathe easy until my little idea has been safely typed into the fortified nest of Word and strengthened with offsite backup.  Now I can concentrate on fattening it up, feeding it a special diet of regurgitated adjectives, adverbs and prepositional phrases.

At last the big day arrives.  My little idea has grown plump and strong, and is ready to try its wings.  I kick it out of the nest. 

Fly free, little blog post!

Soar above the turkeys.

My baby!

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Victoria Is Got A Secret

Victoria’s Secret, that purveyor of fine lingerie, has just launched a new commercial for spring.   The title is “Incredible”.   And so it is.  A parade of Lolitas struts toward the camera, their nubile bodies clad in tiny, brightly colored panties and push-up bras.  The theme, “Now there’s 5 ways to be incredible!” flashes across the screen in time with the throbbing beat of the music.

Check it out.

http://vsallaccess.victoriassecret.com/2011/03/01/incredible-tv-commercial-spring-2011/

After seeing this, I know exactly what you’re thinking:  Doesn’t anyone at Victoria’s Secret speak proper English?

There’s 5 ways….” What the…??? 

“There’s” is a contraction of there and is.  Would you say, “There is 5 ways to be incredible”?  No!  Would Paul Simon have us believe, “There is 50 ways to leave your lover”?  No!  Could we have some subject/verb agreement here, for Pete’s sake?   It’s plural.  “There ARE 5 ways…” Are.

Some would say that, far from being upset by the bad grammar, the average male viewer wouldn’t even notice there were words on the screen.   I have more faith in the Y-chromosomed.  I bet there are many 12 and 13 year-old boys who were also disturbed by this commercial.  Mighty disturbed.  Possibly to the point of losing sleep. 

Victoria’s Secret is a sophisticated, successful company.  Sure, they sell sex.  They push the message that a female’s highest calling is to be a sexy little girl/woman, but I would expect them to go for the usual stuff when choosing employees: namely, brains and talent.   Maybe they hire exclusively from their target market.

Wanted: Advertising Executive 

 Top, international women’s “fashion” retailer has an immediate opening in their advertising department. The successful candidate will meet the following basic criteria:

  • MBA from an Ivy League School
  • Top 5 percent of her class
  • 10 years of experience showing increased responsibility
  • Less than 25 years old
  • Height/weight proportionate (to a Barbie doll).

 Job duties will include:

  • Analysis/purchase of media
  • Creative input
  • Liaison with outside agencies
  • Strip the suit and strut the product at a moment’s notice
  • Appear as October in the company calendar (and possibly fill in for the CFO in March if the cow doesn’t drop that extra 2 pounds of baby weight by the photo shoot.)

 Having appeared on “The Girls Next Door” will be considered a definite plus. 

 

 

Perhaps management could add the ability to read and write English to their list of qualifications for new hires.   They could squeeze it in right after “Baby talk” and before “Jello wrestling”.

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Paper Pulp Fiction

When will the carnage end?

There is a disturbing trend taking hold in America.  If you read the headlines, you know I’m talking about the escalation of tree rage.

You can go into any hardware or home-improvement store in America and find trimmers, loppers, and cans of poison, brazenly displayed.  All are designed to maim or even kill our leafed-brethren.

The most recent incident involves Harvey Updyke, a man whose name is now synonymous with tree rage.  Such is his irrational hatred of trees, that he allegedly poisoned rival Auburn University’s revered, old oak trees. * 

When will the tree carnage end?

That’s why I was delighted with my last order of office copy paper.  “Paper from farmed trees” was prominently printed on the side of the box.  I don’t recall seeing this before, and I’ve purchased tons of paper in my life.  Have I, unwittingly, been contributing to the cruel reaming of the barked?  Where has my paper come from?  I shudder to think.

Maybe they were murdered in the California redwood forests.  Or they came up-river from the Amazon rainforest, smuggled into this country by the greedy, evil paper industry (no doubt with ties to Haliburton).  Perhaps roving bands of bounty-hunting tree thieves are on the loose in the suburbs, slipping quietly across neatly manicured lawns in the dead of night to debauch innocent maples.  Oh, the humanity!

Please lumberjack responsibly!

Upon further reflection, though, is farming trees better?  Doesn’t that mean they live their short lives constrained, unable to run free in the wild? Um, metaphorically speaking.

Would it be more humane to have free-range trees?  But now we are returning, full-circle, to the argument against the barbarity of slaughtering trees in the wild.

It’s hard to know which is the more politically correct option here. 

I think there is but one course of action open to the compassionate arbor-humanist.  Join me now in my vow:  I’m not buying any more paper until the manufacturers can truthfully declare: “No trees were harmed in the making of this paper.” 

*Mr. Updyke, by all accounts an Alabama fan, may have also been motivated by some sports team/school rivalry. Interestingly, his release from prison was contingent on his taking anger management classes and avoiding Auburn fans and herbicides.  I am not making this part up.

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Using Technology To Avoid Commitment (The Padded Room Variety)

Portrait courtesy of lackcolor.com

I talk to myself. Which is OK, except I’ve started answering me back. 

Sometimes I have long, involved discussions with me while puttering around the house.  I’m a sparkling self-conversationalist!  I also talk to the TV and the cat, but I don’t think that counts. When I talk to the TV and my husband is in the room, I consider that social interaction.

Most of the self-chatting is done in my car.  Almost every day I spend quality time going to the bank, the store, lunch and commuting.  If I’m listening to talk radio, I talk back.  If I’ve got music on, I sing along.  Loudly.  Then I critique me.  I can be pretty hard on me, but it’s for my own good.

I like to give advice to other drivers.  I give a lot of advice, and I deliver it with a lot of passion. 

I use most of my car time to write.  Well, not really, because I’m driving.  But I think up and develop most of my blog posts in the car – I call it writing out loud.

A therapist would probably have a field day with this.  They would say I:

–         like the sound of my own voice

–         have no friends

–         am a managing witch who can’t resist telling everyone what to do

–         hate my mother

But I’m not worried.  This isn’t a Sybil thing.  Nobody else is rolling around in my brain; it’s just me, myself and I.  I’m not walking around town muttering while checking the trash cans.  I only do it when I’m by myself.  So far. 

Perception counts more than reality, however, so I’ve come up with a way to disguise this innocent habit.

I was in the restroom at O’Hare airport many years ago when I realized that the person in the next stall was talking to herself.  One of the poor, crazy people who wander around big airports, I assumed.  Imagine my surprise when a chic businesswoman emerged from the stall!  She had one of those (then) new-fangled cell phones pressed to her ear.  This was the first time I met “The Person Whose Conversation Is So Important It Can’t Be Interrupted To Do Her Doody”.  It would not be the last time.  My first thought was “How did she get her panty hose back up with one hand?”  My second thought was “Hygiene?  Eeeew!”

Drawing from that experience, I’m going to use cell phone technology to my advantage.  More specifically, a Bluetooth, hands-free, earbud gizmo.   I’ve taken to wearing one whenever I’m in my car.  Now when someone pulls up next to me at a light and sees me waving my arms around and talking animatedly, they think I’m on the phone, and that I’m Italian.

That ought to take care of the situation.   But I’ll make a deal with you.  If I’m talking to myself and I start answering in voices I don’t recognize, I’ll seek professional help. 

Promise? 

Promise.

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Breach of Promise

All you left me was alone

You came into my drab life unannounced.  I didn’t seek you.  I had become resigned to being out in the cold.  Suddenly you were there and life was bright, mellow sunshine.

You seduced me by degrees.

I thought that you were here to stay; that you would never leave me. 

This morning I awoke and you were gone.  You left like a thief in the night, stealing my hope.

I trudged to work through a world of gray; sleeting, chilling snow turning to slush as it hit the puddles that are all you left behind.

Spring, you done me wrong.

My slushy puddle of pain...

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Who Are You?

Silhouette courtesy of whats-their-names.

An all too familiar scene:

“Hey, Peg!”

Me, squinting: “Hey yourself, mmpphh.”  Do I know you? Is that a woman?

Her: “How’ve you been?”

Me, smiling, mind furiously racing:  “Great!  Never better!  How are YOU?” Client?  Works out at the Y?  Teller at one of the banks? Jane’s co-worker from her daughter’s wedding 4 months ago?

Her: “Can’t complain.  How’s Bill?”

Me, heartily: “You know Bill!  Same old, same old.” How do you know Bill? Fellow Rotarian?  School board? Old classmate? Wife of old classmate?  Mary Alice’s husband’s cousin’s wife, who I spent 5 minutes with at the New Year’s Eve party???

Her:  “What are the girls up to?”

Me, stalling: “Both away at college – hard to believe.  And your….family?” Knows the kids.  Teacher? Parent of their friends?  High school?  Grade school?  Sports team?

Her:  “One is away, but we still have one at home. Mike says we’ll never get rid of them, but you know him.  He’ll be devastated when they’re both out.”

Me, fake laughing: “Oh, that Mike.  What a kidder!” Mike.  Must be husband.  One in college, one still at home.  Think, Peg, think!

Her: “I’ll never forget that time in Peoria when the hotel management threatened to throw us all out.”

Me, genuinely: “That basketball tournament!  I was mortified!”   I know you – Cassie’s mom! Yes!  Mike (husband) coached girls basketball in 6th grade.  Whoo hoo!  Now, what is your name?  WHAT IS YOUR NAME???

Her: “Well, nice seeing you.  Give my best to Bill.”

Me: “Right back at you. Great to see you, too!”

We go our separate ways.  Ten yards down the hall I stop, pivot and point at her retreating back in one quick, fluid motion that would have done me proud at a Charlie’s Angels audition.

Me, loudly, triumphantly: “Sue!”

 

I am not stuck-up, nor am I deliberately rude.  You are probably one of the most fascinating people it will ever be my good fortune to meet.    

I’m 51.  My eyesight isn’t what is once was, and my memory is shot.

If I don’t know who you are, believe me:  it’s not you, it’s me.

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Short Little Attention Span Theatre

 

Technologically Divertable Division

 

For in that sleep of death, what texts may come, when we have shuffled off this mobile phone.

 

“To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the Slings and Arrows of outrageous (bzzz, bzzz)… of outrageous”  (bzzz, bzzz)…

“Just a sec.”

(tippity tappity tappity)

lol OMG! Bsy now –txt u bck l-8er.

 “Where was I? Was I up to Sea of Troubles?”

“To be or not to be….”

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Songfluenza Outbreak Nearly An Epidemic

The Lonely Goatherd - highly contagious!

I’ve picked up a nasty virus.  It is just getting started, but already I am fuzzy headed and can’t think straight.   

This is the worst case of Songfluenza I have ever had.  It’s an especially virulent strain involving “The Lonely Goatherd”.  

One rarely knows how these things are contracted.  The latent virus may be lying dormant for weeks or months.  Something triggers it, and without warning you’re breaking out in “lay-ee-odl-lay-ee-odl-loo”. 

But I can pinpoint the precise moment I caught The Goatherd.   A co-worker passed it on as he walked down the hallway whistling the infecting tune.  Bill is known to be a chronic carrier.  You would think our employer would do something, but their hands are tied.  They are afraid of a lawsuit.  I am not blaming Bill, poor guy.  But why don’t these people just stay home when the virus is active?

At first, I didn’t even know I had been infected.  Another co-worker noticed the symptoms.  I was at the copier and she said, not quite meeting my eyes “Um, did you know you’ve been kind of humming that song from the Sound of Music?   Like, all morning?”

If I had just the melodic strain, it wouldn’t be so bad.  But I always get hammered with both the music and lyrics.  I cannot concentrate.  It is like having a hole in a tooth that your tongue will not leave alone.  My brain feverishly puzzles; is it “Soon her mama with a pale pink coat heard”, or “Soon her mama with a gleaming gloat heard”?

The fear, of course, is that the strain will mutate, a process known as genetic drift.  Then it is just a short hop to the rest of Soundus Musicus. 

What if it crosses over to the dreaded Yodelus family?   Granted, such cases are rare nowadays.  But it wasn’t that many years ago that sufferers were institutionalized, poor bastards.  This was both to prevent contagion and to protect them from angry mobs.

Now that the weather has forced people indoors, we are going to see more outbreaks.    

The Centers for Disease Control reports the Lady Gagus variant is nearly a pandemic.  But they say there is no cause for concern.  That strain, although annoying, is short-lived.  As with most of the Pop Musicus genus, it runs its course in about 15 minutes.   This is not to minimize the danger.  Serious cases have been reported.   Some sufferers are left with the lingering inability to tell fashion accessories from road kill.

I want your disease!

Modern science cannot truly eradicate this menace.  There are, however, steps we can take to lessen the spread.   The most effective way is to just avoid others when contagious.  If you have to go out, be doubly careful.  When I feel an “odl-lay-ee-hoo” coming on, I cover my mouth with the crook of my arm.

Prevention is especially important when dealing with the most vulnerable in our society – those whose immunity has been compromised by participation in musical theater. 

I am trying to look on the bright side.  This bout should boost my immunity to Soundus Musicus, and possibly the entire Rodgers & Hammersteinus order. 

For now, there’s nothing I can do but let it run its course.  Maybe I should just go home.  I’m sure in a few days I will be as right as rain.  Raindrops.  Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens….

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How I Know That Spring Will Come

My feet, enjoying a well-deserved rest on my desk.

The town’s parking meter maid resumed her rounds this morning after a winter hiatus.  The birds are chirping, the snow is melting and the thermometer is supposed to hit 50 today.  But that isn’t how I know that spring will come.

I wore violet suede shoes with little flowers on them today. 

I am not a particularly “girlie” girl.   I’m a practical, matronly woman.

My winter boots, my constant companions until just a few days ago, are sensible.  They are crepe-soled, flat-heeled, ankle-high and they zip on both sides for easy on-and-off.  OK, they’re Totes.  Dear Sweet Lord, they are Totes!  I am not THAT old.  I was just seduced by the easy, winter practicality of them.

You served me well, noble steeds.

 

I was half asleep this morning, rooting around in my closet when I came up with the violet shoes.  I forgot I had them.  They were an impulse buy – not my usual sensible pumps.   

Next thing I knew,  my feet and I were striding confidently out the door, clad in violet suede with flower adornment.  It was pure instinct.  Like the swallows returning to Capistrano and the salmon swimming upstream to spawn.  I answered an ancient call, hard-wired in my DNA.

In spring, a (young) woman’s fancy turns to thoughts of pretty shoes.

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Change Would Do You Good

Up, up and away!

Last week I posted a beginners guide to the new language, Euphemish. (check out my post “New Language Discovered” to get up-to-speed).  From time to time I’ll present more advanced concepts for the inquiring student.

Today, we’ll explore the Euphemish term, Rate Change

In our introductory lesson we learned:

Eumphemish:  Rate change.   English translation : It’s gonna cost more. 

      The word “change” when applied to rate, price, cost, etc. ALWAYS means an increase.  If the price were actually going down, that would be trumpeted clearly and repeatedly.  In English.

Upon opening my cyber mail today, I was treated to as fine an example of the Euphemish “rate change” as you are likely to find. 

In just a few short paragraphs, the company told me of their:

  • enhanced pricing changes
  • new business rate adjustments, and a
  • reduction in the preferred discount

After 2 follow-up emails with an actual person, I was able to clarify that the company was actually announcing a …. (wait for it) … price INCREASE.  Not just a little increase, either –  13 to 70%, depending on the state.  Would it surprise you to learn that these examples of clearcut obfuscation came from an insurance company?

Study Notes:

The addition of the adjective “enhanced” to the pricing changes does not affect the underlying meaning – just makes it look more fancy.    

Substituting “adjustments” for changes should not confuse the careful student.  “Adjustments” is an Euphemish synonym for “changes”.  When coupled with “price” or “rate”, it still means get out your wallet.

I call your attention to the subtle use of the word “reduction”.  Only upon further reflection do we realize that reduction of a discount is an increase.  Masterfully complex use of the language!

Stay tuned for further lessons in the exciting, fast-growing language!

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