If colors had personalities, yellow would be cheerful. It's the first color to make a widespread appearance in the spring around here, and I for one appreciate it.
Well, I finished my paper only 5 minutes after the department closed on Thursday, which is probably the closest to on time I've ever been with a paper. I managed to dodge several bullets—the black ink cartridge on our printer was almost empty, but held out for 40-something pages; some of my typed notes disappeared, but they were mostly digressions; and my instructor was totally cool and said I could turn it in "whenever"—and I got the damn thing out the door. So I was pretty pooped out Thursday evening (i.e., no blogging).
Friday we spent the day in Frankfurt. First we went to America (a.k.a. the Consulate) for a few hours to renew D.D.'s passport. As D.D. pointed out, it felt a bit strange to hear so much English.
Then we went to the zoo. It's east of the skyscrapers downtown, but we could still see buildings rising up around the zoo grounds. For a relatively small zoo, we still weren't able to see every single thing in 3-1/2 hours. We only saw the giraffes in the distance on our way to the restaurant (L.H. had found out via their web site that they have a Mexican restaurant—it was ok), and we tried to see the lions at 6:40 on our way to the gate (they close at 7), but some grumpy zookeeper was telling everyone to take off because they were closing. Jerk. Fortunately, a lion was in its outside enclosure, so we got a walk-by viewing.
Saturday we slept in, then we had to make the mother of all grocery trips because we were out of *everything*. Mother Hubbard looked in our pantry and was shocked. When I shop, I like to take a list, and I stick to the list, unless I think of something that I know we are definitely out of and that should have been on the list. L.H. takes a list, but he tends to use it more as a starting point. D.D. is 7 and wants everything in sight, list schmist. Sadly, L.H. and D.D. have had to become fairly adept at sensing when I'm reaching my grocery-shopping breaking point, at which time they become quiet and wary-eyed. I feel bad for them, but at least I retain my sanity and don't lash out at them.
There's a reason L.H. and I have stayed happily married for 10 (!) years:
Thursday morning, preparing to charge myself up for the last leg of paper-writing, I put on a full pot of coffee. L.H. was still in bed, but awake, so I told him, "I hope you've got your coffee-drinking shoes on." And he replied, "More like coffee-drinking Depends." Hee! I love that man!
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Out of Pocket
I know everyone is panting breathlessly, waiting for my next sparkling update, but I've got nothing but a brain full of a linguistics paper on cognitive metaphors. So check back in next Friday once I've got the bitch turned in.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Errata
I didn't mean to imply in my previous post that gluttony is the primary trait L.H. has passed on to D.D. It's probably only a coincidence that they both love spaghetti more than our pets, because L.H. hated spaghetti as a child. His mother still finds it astounding that her small child who hated mushrooms, onions, and tomatoes and would only eat spaghetti plain with a little butter turned into such a big spaghetti fan.
No, love of language is the trait he's most proud of passing on. I asked D.D. a question last night, and she answered, "Oui. I mean, si." She's as fluent as any other second grader in German (according to her teacher), and L.H. keeps her in practice with Swedish. She's even mentioned wanting to learn more Spanish, in addition to the few words she remembers from kindergarten. And she is always asking language-related questions, like wanting to know about the letter 'e' with the two dots over it. (She should ask her dad; I have no idea.)
And she's like both of us in that she loves Ren and Stimpy. She's watched the first couple of seasons on DVD with us (thanks JEKL!), and she does a passable Stimpy voice. Hee!
***
Small kids are cute, but I'm glad D.D. has left that stage behind. There's a little sister at D.D.'s ballet class who I think is about 4, and everything she says comes out at the top of her voice. I guess I'm just not used to little people, but I think that would drive me ape shit if it were my child. I'm sure D.D. was a lot louder a few years back, but now she spends as much time as she can finagle sedated by television, so I'm more used to the loud toy commercials narrated by MONSTER TRUCK RALLEY-TYPE ANNOUNCERS. Yes, even here in Germany.
No, love of language is the trait he's most proud of passing on. I asked D.D. a question last night, and she answered, "Oui. I mean, si." She's as fluent as any other second grader in German (according to her teacher), and L.H. keeps her in practice with Swedish. She's even mentioned wanting to learn more Spanish, in addition to the few words she remembers from kindergarten. And she is always asking language-related questions, like wanting to know about the letter 'e' with the two dots over it. (She should ask her dad; I have no idea.)
And she's like both of us in that she loves Ren and Stimpy. She's watched the first couple of seasons on DVD with us (thanks JEKL!), and she does a passable Stimpy voice. Hee!
***
Small kids are cute, but I'm glad D.D. has left that stage behind. There's a little sister at D.D.'s ballet class who I think is about 4, and everything she says comes out at the top of her voice. I guess I'm just not used to little people, but I think that would drive me ape shit if it were my child. I'm sure D.D. was a lot louder a few years back, but now she spends as much time as she can finagle sedated by television, so I'm more used to the loud toy commercials narrated by MONSTER TRUCK RALLEY-TYPE ANNOUNCERS. Yes, even here in Germany.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Mini-Me
Our Darling Daughter is a perfect mix of the two of us. When she was born, MIL said she looked just like me, and my mom said she looked just like L.H. When she was a little older, they switched positions, but there was no doubt that she belonged to both of us.
As she's gotten older, she looks more and more like me (to the point that my nephew swore that a photo of me at about age 6 was D.D.), with certain features that are her dad's. People we've just met even comment on it. It's a running joke that if we lose her in a crowd, I'll just ask everyone if they've seen a smaller version of me.
Anyone can manage to produce a genetic duplicate of themselves, though, so I'm more excited that she's taking after me in other respects. She loves to read. Every night, either L.H. or I read to her (she often reads along and corrects me when I misspeak), then she takes a book or two to bed for another 15-20 minutes of quiet reading. She's getting very fast, too, and will announce how many pages she's read when she's done. Some days she wants something short and easy, like one of her many Arthur (the Aardvark) books. Tonight she is reading a chapter book that came with her American Girl doll (thanks gwamma!).
But 2 recent events have proved beyond a doubt that she's got the reading gene. In a friendship book (remember those?) that went through her class recently, she put down "reading" as both her hobby and her favorite thing to do. Then as we were walking from the car to our house this afternoon (we're leasing our parking space to our neighbor, so we park on the street around the corner), she was *reading and walking*. Classic Nee childhood behavior. Only TV zombifies her more than books, and she is actually continuing to read now that we're home instead of turning on the TV (her usual M.O.).
Probably over a third of our household goods we shipped to Germany was books, and I am afraid the percentage will be somewhat higher when we eventually head back. I guess I should start saving for that now. Eek!
Added 30 minutes later: She tried to eat and read, but I nixed that because 1. I am using the book for my research project and don't want it covered in spaghetti sauce, and 2. she would not actually manage to eat anything, and I'd rather that reading not become mixed up in her mind with dieting.
And to round out the picture of her genetic heritage, she is able and willing to eat copious amounts of spaghetti. Her father is (in)famous in his family for having eaten something like 15 meatballs at one meal. Peas, meet pod.
As she's gotten older, she looks more and more like me (to the point that my nephew swore that a photo of me at about age 6 was D.D.), with certain features that are her dad's. People we've just met even comment on it. It's a running joke that if we lose her in a crowd, I'll just ask everyone if they've seen a smaller version of me.
Anyone can manage to produce a genetic duplicate of themselves, though, so I'm more excited that she's taking after me in other respects. She loves to read. Every night, either L.H. or I read to her (she often reads along and corrects me when I misspeak), then she takes a book or two to bed for another 15-20 minutes of quiet reading. She's getting very fast, too, and will announce how many pages she's read when she's done. Some days she wants something short and easy, like one of her many Arthur (the Aardvark) books. Tonight she is reading a chapter book that came with her American Girl doll (thanks gwamma!).
But 2 recent events have proved beyond a doubt that she's got the reading gene. In a friendship book (remember those?) that went through her class recently, she put down "reading" as both her hobby and her favorite thing to do. Then as we were walking from the car to our house this afternoon (we're leasing our parking space to our neighbor, so we park on the street around the corner), she was *reading and walking*. Classic Nee childhood behavior. Only TV zombifies her more than books, and she is actually continuing to read now that we're home instead of turning on the TV (her usual M.O.).
Probably over a third of our household goods we shipped to Germany was books, and I am afraid the percentage will be somewhat higher when we eventually head back. I guess I should start saving for that now. Eek!
Added 30 minutes later: She tried to eat and read, but I nixed that because 1. I am using the book for my research project and don't want it covered in spaghetti sauce, and 2. she would not actually manage to eat anything, and I'd rather that reading not become mixed up in her mind with dieting.
And to round out the picture of her genetic heritage, she is able and willing to eat copious amounts of spaghetti. Her father is (in)famous in his family for having eaten something like 15 meatballs at one meal. Peas, meet pod.
Monday, March 21, 2005
And Now for the Rest of the Story
Our Little Shop of Horrors plant put out a new leaf, and it looked like a Venus flytrap on its side until it finished unfurling. I'm starting to think it might be an alien life form.
***
Turns out I misread the sign on the new restaurant in our village. It's a pizzeria/kebab house. I guess I was confused by the picture of a guy *wearing a sombrero*. That doesn't really say "pizza" or "kebab" to me. They don't even deliver, so I doubt we'll ever try them out. Besides, one should approach such a place only if one has acclimated oneself be eating a steady diet of Taco Bell and Sonic chili dogs.
***
There's an older couple from Spain that live across the street from us, and I see them sometimes when I'm out and about. Today the lady was wearing a red leather jacket, red leather boots, and a hot pink knit tube?skirt. I saw a blind man behind her wince.
***
Turns out I misread the sign on the new restaurant in our village. It's a pizzeria/kebab house. I guess I was confused by the picture of a guy *wearing a sombrero*. That doesn't really say "pizza" or "kebab" to me. They don't even deliver, so I doubt we'll ever try them out. Besides, one should approach such a place only if one has acclimated oneself be eating a steady diet of Taco Bell and Sonic chili dogs.
***
There's an older couple from Spain that live across the street from us, and I see them sometimes when I'm out and about. Today the lady was wearing a red leather jacket, red leather boots, and a hot pink knit tube?skirt. I saw a blind man behind her wince.
The Navel-Gazing Post
Do you ever have one of those days where you just feel like a meat sack?
***
I have to say that I'm a rather reserved person (in person). Once I get to know and love someone, I can be the real, the obnoxious me, but until then I can be a hard nut to crack.
I'm the same way with my writing. I've only let a couple of people that I love and trust read my fiction (not the blither-blather I post here), and I only talk about it in a rather general way here. But that doesn't mean I'm not interested in how other writers go about the business of writing.
One thing that I haven't made up my mind about is keeping writing-in-progress type statistics. Some writerly blogs I have seen have a special column dedicated to number of words written for the month, or number of manuscripts sent out to publishers, or number of rejections for a year. I can understand *mentioning* those things in a self-woo-hoo kind of way (like, I hand-wrote 3 steno pad pages of a long-dormant story last night; woo hoo!), but I feel that I myself would get so bogged down in the minutiae of this kind of "bookkeeping" that I wouldn't manage to keep writing. Maybe that's just an aspect of my anal-retentive nature.
One of the blogs I follow irregularly is from a person I came to respect on the recently vacated writing list, and she is a member of a smaller group that self-selected from the larger critique community. Apparently, they use the numbers I mentioned above as part of an internal support system comprising congrats, reminders, and a shoulder to cry on. It kind of reminds me of a weight-loss program, where every member is trying to accomplish the same goal but is eager to encourage every other member in the process. Anyhow, I can see how putting your numbers out there in such a situation would be part of the way such a group would function, but working alone, I don't think it's for me.
To put it a bit crudely, to me it's like a potty-training parent: she and every other parent in the same boat is totally excited that Susie made a poopy in the potty, but no one else wants to hear it.
So forgive me if I don't post about my poopies on a regular basis, but occasionally I'll get off my high horse and offer myself a very small self-congratulations here.
***
I have to say that I'm a rather reserved person (in person). Once I get to know and love someone, I can be the real, the obnoxious me, but until then I can be a hard nut to crack.
I'm the same way with my writing. I've only let a couple of people that I love and trust read my fiction (not the blither-blather I post here), and I only talk about it in a rather general way here. But that doesn't mean I'm not interested in how other writers go about the business of writing.
One thing that I haven't made up my mind about is keeping writing-in-progress type statistics. Some writerly blogs I have seen have a special column dedicated to number of words written for the month, or number of manuscripts sent out to publishers, or number of rejections for a year. I can understand *mentioning* those things in a self-woo-hoo kind of way (like, I hand-wrote 3 steno pad pages of a long-dormant story last night; woo hoo!), but I feel that I myself would get so bogged down in the minutiae of this kind of "bookkeeping" that I wouldn't manage to keep writing. Maybe that's just an aspect of my anal-retentive nature.
One of the blogs I follow irregularly is from a person I came to respect on the recently vacated writing list, and she is a member of a smaller group that self-selected from the larger critique community. Apparently, they use the numbers I mentioned above as part of an internal support system comprising congrats, reminders, and a shoulder to cry on. It kind of reminds me of a weight-loss program, where every member is trying to accomplish the same goal but is eager to encourage every other member in the process. Anyhow, I can see how putting your numbers out there in such a situation would be part of the way such a group would function, but working alone, I don't think it's for me.
To put it a bit crudely, to me it's like a potty-training parent: she and every other parent in the same boat is totally excited that Susie made a poopy in the potty, but no one else wants to hear it.
So forgive me if I don't post about my poopies on a regular basis, but occasionally I'll get off my high horse and offer myself a very small self-congratulations here.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Wallowing in Spring
Most Germans—at least, those I've observed here in our village—take their seasonal responsibilities very seriously. When we had our first cold snap in the fall, everyone dutifully trooped out for the last lawn-mowing and hedge-trimming of the year. On the third day of spring weather, people could be seen sweeping and scrubbing sidewalks, trimming rose bushes, and putting out new flowers. So I find it humorous to see one house where they still have plastic evergreen garlands and candy canes festooning their balcony. They may not have made it out on the balcony since they put the stuff out, but you can't miss it from the entry to the house.
After the first day or two of industriousness, though, everyone is out catching some sun and enjoying themselves out of doors. Even though the river is up over the sidewalk on the north bank again (all that melted snow had to go somewhere), the river meadows farther down were covered with bodies when I rode the bus past this afternoon. At the moment [of composing], I myself am soaking up some sun at the playground with Darling Daughter, whose goal seems to be filthing herself up as much as humanly possible. She's taking a break from throwing herself off the swing into the dirt to watch a ladybug that landed on her hand. This week we've seen our first ladybugs, bumble bees (the size of jawbreakers), and butterflies of the year.
Another marker of spring is the annual migration of the ice cream parlor owners from the Mediterranean. ("Italian ice cream" is *the thing* around here.) Their return is heralded by the appearance of patio furniture outside of every shop that can be considered a dining establishment by the furthest stretch of the imagination. Last year, it was still pretty cold when the restaurateurs decided it was spring, but people flocked to the outdoor tables like lemmings, huddled up in their heavy coats and scarves.
I can't help but compare this spring to the one we experienced in Sweden, which started *late*. D.D. had to hunt easter eggs in a snowsuit because it was that cold, and there were a few flurries while we were outside. I don't think we actually saw the sun until early May. I don't remember exactly *when* it was, but I remember going downtown and seeing that every inch of grass in every public area was covered in half-dressed bodies, and every shop was empty. I thought I, the Texas-raised girl who was used to 360 days of sunlight a year (only a slight exaggeration; the Austin visitor center site says it gets 300 days), was the one to appreciate it the most, but it turns out that power-sun-worshipping is a popular sport in Sweden.
***
Darling Daughter has some strong prejudices. Lovely Husband was flipping channels on the TV and came across a concert by some German singer I'm not familiar with. D.D. immediately declared that he was too old to be cool (about 50 in her opinion), plus he was singing a country song, and that was definitely out. So be forewarned that she has deemed herself at almost-8-years-old to be the arbiter of all things cool.
On the way home from the playground D.D. was telling me that she likes to call the still-leafless trees naked. Then she said, "I see your penis, tree! hee! hee!" It's hard to keep your cool in front of your child when you want to fall down laughing.
After the first day or two of industriousness, though, everyone is out catching some sun and enjoying themselves out of doors. Even though the river is up over the sidewalk on the north bank again (all that melted snow had to go somewhere), the river meadows farther down were covered with bodies when I rode the bus past this afternoon. At the moment [of composing], I myself am soaking up some sun at the playground with Darling Daughter, whose goal seems to be filthing herself up as much as humanly possible. She's taking a break from throwing herself off the swing into the dirt to watch a ladybug that landed on her hand. This week we've seen our first ladybugs, bumble bees (the size of jawbreakers), and butterflies of the year.
Another marker of spring is the annual migration of the ice cream parlor owners from the Mediterranean. ("Italian ice cream" is *the thing* around here.) Their return is heralded by the appearance of patio furniture outside of every shop that can be considered a dining establishment by the furthest stretch of the imagination. Last year, it was still pretty cold when the restaurateurs decided it was spring, but people flocked to the outdoor tables like lemmings, huddled up in their heavy coats and scarves.
I can't help but compare this spring to the one we experienced in Sweden, which started *late*. D.D. had to hunt easter eggs in a snowsuit because it was that cold, and there were a few flurries while we were outside. I don't think we actually saw the sun until early May. I don't remember exactly *when* it was, but I remember going downtown and seeing that every inch of grass in every public area was covered in half-dressed bodies, and every shop was empty. I thought I, the Texas-raised girl who was used to 360 days of sunlight a year (only a slight exaggeration; the Austin visitor center site says it gets 300 days), was the one to appreciate it the most, but it turns out that power-sun-worshipping is a popular sport in Sweden.
***
Darling Daughter has some strong prejudices. Lovely Husband was flipping channels on the TV and came across a concert by some German singer I'm not familiar with. D.D. immediately declared that he was too old to be cool (about 50 in her opinion), plus he was singing a country song, and that was definitely out. So be forewarned that she has deemed herself at almost-8-years-old to be the arbiter of all things cool.
On the way home from the playground D.D. was telling me that she likes to call the still-leafless trees naked. Then she said, "I see your penis, tree! hee! hee!" It's hard to keep your cool in front of your child when you want to fall down laughing.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Spring Fever
It is glorious outside, the epitome of a spring day. The sun is out; we could tell before we even got out of bed this morning. I hadn't noticed—thanks to all the overcast recently—that the sun is already much farther north in the sky. Our car's external thermometer said it was 15C (around 67F) yesterday. This Sunday is the official first day of spring, but it appears to be getting a running start. I'm all for it.
There are snow-drops and yellow and purple crocuses in the neighbor's yard, confirmed with Darling Daughter's binoculars (thanks westtexasgirl!). A little snow is clinging tenaciously to a few roofs and the shadier parts of people's yards, but I have full confidence that it will be gone in another day or two. Oh happy day!
Self-flagellation, again: If it weren't a time-waster itself, I'd make myself write 100 times, "I will not fart around." But instead I will work on my paper. Only 16 days until the due-date. Ack!
There are snow-drops and yellow and purple crocuses in the neighbor's yard, confirmed with Darling Daughter's binoculars (thanks westtexasgirl!). A little snow is clinging tenaciously to a few roofs and the shadier parts of people's yards, but I have full confidence that it will be gone in another day or two. Oh happy day!
Self-flagellation, again: If it weren't a time-waster itself, I'd make myself write 100 times, "I will not fart around." But instead I will work on my paper. Only 16 days until the due-date. Ack!
Composed March 12
At the supermarket meat counter (pre-packaging is not so big here), you can get ground beef or pork or a mix, so I asked for the mix to put in spaghetti. I get home—and it's pork all the way, baby. I should have suspected something was amiss when the woman gave me the exact amount I asked for, because she usually messes it up on the order of 100 grams. Something had to give, I suppose.
The mistake wasn't enough to ruin my lovely spaghetti dinner, but I was still a bit put out. So Lovely Husband says, "Eat pork and be merry," only he puts in a slight pause after "eat." That cracked us up. Now he's considering sending it to the Pork Advisory Board as a new slogan. Even if they don't use it, it will be immortalized here in my blog.
The mistake wasn't enough to ruin my lovely spaghetti dinner, but I was still a bit put out. So Lovely Husband says, "Eat pork and be merry," only he puts in a slight pause after "eat." That cracked us up. Now he's considering sending it to the Pork Advisory Board as a new slogan. Even if they don't use it, it will be immortalized here in my blog.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Mother Nature Hates Me
On Wednesday, Darling Daughter and I spotted the first flowers of spring, *2* snow-drops (little, white, bell-shaped flowers that are the harbingers of spring here and in Sweden) in someone's yard. Thursday, it turned cold and dark. Today, Saturday, we woke to a heavy snowfall. It is still too warm, relatively speaking, for it to stick, so everything was slushy when I ran down to the store around noon. Since we are now guaranteed to neither starve nor freeze to death (yay! tile oven!), I do not plan to move from the house for the rest of the weekend.
[Added about 4 pm—Mother Nature is now taunting me; we're getting alternating clear skies/sunshine and dark gray clouds, but no more snow. Hooray! The snow from this morning has melted off most of the roofs around us. Double hooray!]
I suspect Lovely Husband of a plot to push me over the edge. It is subtle and insidious. This morning he repeatedly said, in a delighted voice: "Look at all the snow!" "It's steadily snowing!" "I love snow!" See the simplicity, the evil?
***
As an aspiring writer, I feel it is my duty to propagate new words as I come across them. In that spirit, here is a bit of new vocabulary (with attributions) for you to enjoy and use:
fantacular (4-year-old niece) – fantastic plus spectacular, I think
stupitude (me) – state of being stupid
a sphincto-cranial event (via John Scalzi) – an instance of head-in-ass syndrome
***
I had a very unproductive week, school-wise. I'm only halfway through my primary source for my paper, and I haven't even begun my analysis. I got a lot of housework and Internet surfing done, though, which I guess you could say is the mental equivalent of staring and drooling.
I admit that one reason I haven't finished reading for my paper is that I have been reading for pleasure. My first choice would be fantasy, but since I've read all my books (1) and the pickin's are slim in English at the library (I'm too cheap to go out and buy books), I have only read one Terry Pratchett novel in that genre. So I turned instead to Jane Austen. I have a copy of Pride and Prejudice at home, so I started by rereading that. Then I read Sense and Sensibility and Mansfield Park.
I have to say that P&P is still my favorite work by JA, followed now by MP. S&S? Not so much liking there. It was hard to understand, and therefore empathize with, the characters in the first half of the book. I may give it another try before I have to return it. There's still Emma, Northanger Abbey, and Persuasion to read, so the order of favorites may still change.
(1) "La chair est triste, hélas! et j'ai lu tous les livres" ["Alas, the flesh is weary, and I have read all the books"]-- Stéphane Mallarmé
[Added about 4 pm—Mother Nature is now taunting me; we're getting alternating clear skies/sunshine and dark gray clouds, but no more snow. Hooray! The snow from this morning has melted off most of the roofs around us. Double hooray!]
I suspect Lovely Husband of a plot to push me over the edge. It is subtle and insidious. This morning he repeatedly said, in a delighted voice: "Look at all the snow!" "It's steadily snowing!" "I love snow!" See the simplicity, the evil?
***
As an aspiring writer, I feel it is my duty to propagate new words as I come across them. In that spirit, here is a bit of new vocabulary (with attributions) for you to enjoy and use:
fantacular (4-year-old niece) – fantastic plus spectacular, I think
stupitude (me) – state of being stupid
a sphincto-cranial event (via John Scalzi) – an instance of head-in-ass syndrome
***
I had a very unproductive week, school-wise. I'm only halfway through my primary source for my paper, and I haven't even begun my analysis. I got a lot of housework and Internet surfing done, though, which I guess you could say is the mental equivalent of staring and drooling.
I admit that one reason I haven't finished reading for my paper is that I have been reading for pleasure. My first choice would be fantasy, but since I've read all my books (1) and the pickin's are slim in English at the library (I'm too cheap to go out and buy books), I have only read one Terry Pratchett novel in that genre. So I turned instead to Jane Austen. I have a copy of Pride and Prejudice at home, so I started by rereading that. Then I read Sense and Sensibility and Mansfield Park.
I have to say that P&P is still my favorite work by JA, followed now by MP. S&S? Not so much liking there. It was hard to understand, and therefore empathize with, the characters in the first half of the book. I may give it another try before I have to return it. There's still Emma, Northanger Abbey, and Persuasion to read, so the order of favorites may still change.
(1) "La chair est triste, hélas! et j'ai lu tous les livres" ["Alas, the flesh is weary, and I have read all the books"]-- Stéphane Mallarmé
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Writing and Weather
I used to lurk on a writing-themed yahoo group—until the number of personal attacks outnumbered the number of useful comments—but now have no place to post my brilliant insights on writing. So consider this a thinking-out-loud post and feel free to skip ahead.
One thing that used to annoy me about the writing list was how *literal* people were in their critiques of other people's work. (It's a surprisingly easy trap to fall into.) For instance, suppose you read, "His eyes were filled with anger," or "I could see the fear in his eyes." (1) I understand the argument that these are perhaps overused expressions, but I seriously wanted to start knocking heads together when people objected to them because they weren't literally true.
Now I am reading Metaphors We Live By for my term paper, and the authors are able to clarify the source of my annoyance for this example: human beings conceive of eyes as "containers" for emotions. This idea is so intrinsic to us that we can say someone's eyes are "full of" anger/fear/hatred/joy and not think twice about what it means. We use the metaphor "eye=emotion-container" in our everyday speech, not just as a literary device, so when we encounter it in literature, we should not assume it is an affectation.
So take that, critiquers!
(1) Lakoff, George and Johnson, Mark. Metaphors We Live By. The University of Chicago Press, 1980. p. 50
***
The weather-caster on CNN International said that Europe was experiencing lower than normal temperatures for this time of year. Well, DUH!
We're currently getting either rain or very wet snow. It doesn't matter, as the effect is the same: melting snow. Hoorah! I would gladly take a whole week of dreary, gray skies and showers if it means the snow will finally be gone. Lovely Husband was hoping for *more* snow, but he's obviously off his rocker. I don't think that's proof enough to have him locked up, though. Hmm...
I will say one nice thing about the snow here—it stays white all winter. In Sweden, it would turn dirty gray, and even at the start of May there were still glaciers of blackish ice on all the street corners where the snow plows had deposited snow over months and months. I guess there's just not a large enough volume of snow here to keep gravelly slush on the streets and sidewalks. The snow that sticks around is invariably on stretches of ground that no one has to (or can) walk across.
***
Novel Do-Nots, Cont'd:
3. No one will live for centuries without biological or gravitational effects. My old-timers will look like withered potatoes, not young people in the prime of life. This applies to wizards, sorceresses, elves, etc.
One thing that used to annoy me about the writing list was how *literal* people were in their critiques of other people's work. (It's a surprisingly easy trap to fall into.) For instance, suppose you read, "His eyes were filled with anger," or "I could see the fear in his eyes." (1) I understand the argument that these are perhaps overused expressions, but I seriously wanted to start knocking heads together when people objected to them because they weren't literally true.
Now I am reading Metaphors We Live By for my term paper, and the authors are able to clarify the source of my annoyance for this example: human beings conceive of eyes as "containers" for emotions. This idea is so intrinsic to us that we can say someone's eyes are "full of" anger/fear/hatred/joy and not think twice about what it means. We use the metaphor "eye=emotion-container" in our everyday speech, not just as a literary device, so when we encounter it in literature, we should not assume it is an affectation.
So take that, critiquers!
(1) Lakoff, George and Johnson, Mark. Metaphors We Live By. The University of Chicago Press, 1980. p. 50
***
The weather-caster on CNN International said that Europe was experiencing lower than normal temperatures for this time of year. Well, DUH!
We're currently getting either rain or very wet snow. It doesn't matter, as the effect is the same: melting snow. Hoorah! I would gladly take a whole week of dreary, gray skies and showers if it means the snow will finally be gone. Lovely Husband was hoping for *more* snow, but he's obviously off his rocker. I don't think that's proof enough to have him locked up, though. Hmm...
I will say one nice thing about the snow here—it stays white all winter. In Sweden, it would turn dirty gray, and even at the start of May there were still glaciers of blackish ice on all the street corners where the snow plows had deposited snow over months and months. I guess there's just not a large enough volume of snow here to keep gravelly slush on the streets and sidewalks. The snow that sticks around is invariably on stretches of ground that no one has to (or can) walk across.
***
Novel Do-Nots, Cont'd:
3. No one will live for centuries without biological or gravitational effects. My old-timers will look like withered potatoes, not young people in the prime of life. This applies to wizards, sorceresses, elves, etc.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
People Watching
I am an inveterate people-watcher. I haven't veered off into voyeurism--yet?--but I really can't help noticing that the love-child of Sherlock Holmes and David Crosby (complete with mutton-chop sideburns and a long-stemmed pipe) was accompanying Anna Nicole Smith's grandmother through downtown today.
Remember Better Off Dead with John Cusack? A woman in the bank was wearing the dad's aardvark-fur coat, minus the cute aardvark-head hood. Where do you even find a coat like that?!
Here's another one: remember the Chicken Lady from Kids in the Hall? A woman on the bus was wearing a furry? feathery? fuzzy? scarf that looked as if she had skinned the C.L. and dyed her fuzzy neck-thing purple. Ghastly.
Yes, I know, I'm probably going to burn in hell.
Remember Better Off Dead with John Cusack? A woman in the bank was wearing the dad's aardvark-fur coat, minus the cute aardvark-head hood. Where do you even find a coat like that?!
Here's another one: remember the Chicken Lady from Kids in the Hall? A woman on the bus was wearing a furry? feathery? fuzzy? scarf that looked as if she had skinned the C.L. and dyed her fuzzy neck-thing purple. Ghastly.
Yes, I know, I'm probably going to burn in hell.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Cat Psychology 101—Now Enrolling
Here is how I like to imagine our cats view the world.
Eliza Cat (lying on the radiator at the top of the stairs):
"Here comes that woman! She's headed straight for me! Do I have time to hide?! Maybe if I crouch down she won't see me! OH NO! She's spotted me! Run for the bed!!"
(Shoots under the bed like a flash.)
Later, back on the radiator:
"Here she comes *again*! Must flee!"
(Jumps down to the stairs, flings self between rails and drops down one foot to the top of the tile oven.)
"Whew! That was close! It's a good thing I'm so clever and agile!"
Missy Cat (lying across the middle of the stairs):
"That woman wants to come upstairs again—over my dead body, Beeyotch!"
Eliza Cat (lying on the radiator at the top of the stairs):
"Here comes that woman! She's headed straight for me! Do I have time to hide?! Maybe if I crouch down she won't see me! OH NO! She's spotted me! Run for the bed!!"
(Shoots under the bed like a flash.)
Later, back on the radiator:
"Here she comes *again*! Must flee!"
(Jumps down to the stairs, flings self between rails and drops down one foot to the top of the tile oven.)
"Whew! That was close! It's a good thing I'm so clever and agile!"
Missy Cat (lying across the middle of the stairs):
"That woman wants to come upstairs again—over my dead body, Beeyotch!"
Quickie
The Chinese take-away was replaced by some sort of Mexican pizza restaurant. I only saw the newly painted window as I drove by the other day. Although the word "Mexican" is on the sign, we don't have high hopes for the quality of the restaurant, as there is a "Mexican" fast food restaurant in town that is pretty much a Turkish kebab house, maybe with a bell pepper thrown into the food. The meat is that shaved goat or pork or whatever. I don't know what kind of indigenous gods there are in Turkey, but that place will definitely give you Montezuma's revenge, if you know what I mean, so we avoid it.
Alas! (My new favorite exclamation after reading Pride and Prejudice. Not that it's in there, but whatever.)
Alas! (My new favorite exclamation after reading Pride and Prejudice. Not that it's in there, but whatever.)
Indoor Fun
When I took D.D. to the movies last week, we got there early enough to catch the very end of the credits from the earlier showing, and I saw that the band that did the soundtrack is named Bananafishbones. That is the best band name I have ever heard! I am already planning to name any goldfish we get in the future that. It's probably a good thing that there won't be any baby-naming possibilities in my future, because Bananafishbones S. has such a ring to it, don't you think?
***
We inherited some kind of tropical tree thing when we moved into our apartment, and it makes me a little nervous. For starters, it leans over the stairs (it's much too heavy to move), and we brush against it every time we go by. I'm not sure why it hasn't died, because we hardly ever remember to water it. And it has these weird things—I think they're some sort of air-roots—that dangle off it between its big, frond-y leaves; some of them are several feet long, and sometimes they stick out over the stairs, too, like long feelers. If we all turn up missing, check the plant.
***
In other news, snow.
***
Sometimes I don't think D.D. lives in the same world with the rest of us. We were watching a movie, and some characters were talking about the prizes (record albums) for a talent contest they were planning to enter. Out of the blue, D.D. says, "I hope they like bagels." There wasn't anything about bagels in the scene, so I asked her to explain what she meant, and she said, "You know, they're like donuts with little seeds on top." Thanks for clearing that up, honey.
D.D. is forever going on about having a "project" or "experiment", usually involving water, plastic bags, and/or strings. Many of her "projects" are variations on a disco ball, but she still has managed to make some, uh, creative things, and even a few things that work, like a string pulley. She's not scared of math, either, so it occurred to me that if her 7-year-old's plans of becoming a dancer don't pan out, she might end up an engineer. But then my experience of working with engineers sits up and screams in horror, "NOOOOO!" I guess 7 is too young for any of us to be making career plans for her yet, but perhaps I will gently steer her away from the soul-sucking career of engineer anyway.
***
I love this site: The Top 100 Things I'd Do If I Ever Became An Evil Overlord. It includes classics such as
7. When I've captured my adversary and he says, "Look, before you kill me, will you at least tell me what this is all about?" I'll say, "No." and shoot him. No, on second thought I'll shoot him then say "No."
and
53. If the beautiful princess that I capture says "I'll never marry you! Never, do you hear me, NEVER!!!", I will say "Oh well" and kill her.
It has inspired me to start a list of things I have seen in fantasy novels that I will NOT do in my novel:
1. My protagonist will never know something without knowing how he knows it.
2. My protagonist will never instinctually know how to do some horribly complicated task (see number 1).
This is just the beginning. I'll add to the list as I come across other useful items. Feel free to send suggestions.
***
We inherited some kind of tropical tree thing when we moved into our apartment, and it makes me a little nervous. For starters, it leans over the stairs (it's much too heavy to move), and we brush against it every time we go by. I'm not sure why it hasn't died, because we hardly ever remember to water it. And it has these weird things—I think they're some sort of air-roots—that dangle off it between its big, frond-y leaves; some of them are several feet long, and sometimes they stick out over the stairs, too, like long feelers. If we all turn up missing, check the plant.
***
In other news, snow.
***
Sometimes I don't think D.D. lives in the same world with the rest of us. We were watching a movie, and some characters were talking about the prizes (record albums) for a talent contest they were planning to enter. Out of the blue, D.D. says, "I hope they like bagels." There wasn't anything about bagels in the scene, so I asked her to explain what she meant, and she said, "You know, they're like donuts with little seeds on top." Thanks for clearing that up, honey.
D.D. is forever going on about having a "project" or "experiment", usually involving water, plastic bags, and/or strings. Many of her "projects" are variations on a disco ball, but she still has managed to make some, uh, creative things, and even a few things that work, like a string pulley. She's not scared of math, either, so it occurred to me that if her 7-year-old's plans of becoming a dancer don't pan out, she might end up an engineer. But then my experience of working with engineers sits up and screams in horror, "NOOOOO!" I guess 7 is too young for any of us to be making career plans for her yet, but perhaps I will gently steer her away from the soul-sucking career of engineer anyway.
***
I love this site: The Top 100 Things I'd Do If I Ever Became An Evil Overlord. It includes classics such as
7. When I've captured my adversary and he says, "Look, before you kill me, will you at least tell me what this is all about?" I'll say, "No." and shoot him. No, on second thought I'll shoot him then say "No."
and
53. If the beautiful princess that I capture says "I'll never marry you! Never, do you hear me, NEVER!!!", I will say "Oh well" and kill her.
It has inspired me to start a list of things I have seen in fantasy novels that I will NOT do in my novel:
1. My protagonist will never know something without knowing how he knows it.
2. My protagonist will never instinctually know how to do some horribly complicated task (see number 1).
This is just the beginning. I'll add to the list as I come across other useful items. Feel free to send suggestions.
I wasn't going to haiku about the weather again, but during a flurry of crafts with Darling Daughter, my lack of artistic talent prevented me from visualizing the most aesthetically pleasing arrangement of the available beads, foam shapes, paper, and glitter glue, so I had to resort to creating a poem out of lettered beads. In case you can't make it out onscreen, it says
blue skies-sunshine-green-
only a figment of my
imagination
It's ok, but it's not the same without the glitter glue effect.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Humorless
When I went to bed last night, a day of bright sunshine had taken its toll on the snow outside, and I was looking forward to more of the same today.
I awoke to the sounds of snow being shovelled.
I may just go back to bed. Almost 2 hours after getting up, IT IS STILL FALLING. I can't even bring myself to haiku about the injustice of it.
I awoke to the sounds of snow being shovelled.
I may just go back to bed. Almost 2 hours after getting up, IT IS STILL FALLING. I can't even bring myself to haiku about the injustice of it.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Life in the Fast Lane
I took D.D. and her friend to the movies Wednesday afternoon, and I was *the only adult* in a theater with a bunch of 8-year-olds. I have seen the 9th level of hell and will be getting religion directly.
I was looking for one of my Violent Femmes tapes recently and came across a box of tapes we didn't have shelf space for. I dug out a big stack of my music and 1) got down on my knees and thanked all 7 dwarfs that there wasn't any Whitesnake or Bon Jovi in there, then 2) drug it downstairs for dishwashing music. That's one chore that just *flies* by when you're listening to techno dance music. I'm sure Mr. Voyeur John Deere employee across the street is enjoying the sight of me shaking my ass while I wash coffee cups.
In order to increase the literary quality of my blog, I have decided to start composing portions of it in haiku. I hope you enjoy this new feature.
Skin like Death Valley;
Garments of yarn—I hate you!
Snow driving me mad...
Harbinger of Spring,
Sunshine yellow Narcissus
Smells like pee—must go!
I was looking for one of my Violent Femmes tapes recently and came across a box of tapes we didn't have shelf space for. I dug out a big stack of my music and 1) got down on my knees and thanked all 7 dwarfs that there wasn't any Whitesnake or Bon Jovi in there, then 2) drug it downstairs for dishwashing music. That's one chore that just *flies* by when you're listening to techno dance music. I'm sure Mr. Voyeur John Deere employee across the street is enjoying the sight of me shaking my ass while I wash coffee cups.
In order to increase the literary quality of my blog, I have decided to start composing portions of it in haiku. I hope you enjoy this new feature.
Skin like Death Valley;
Garments of yarn—I hate you!
Snow driving me mad...
Harbinger of Spring,
Sunshine yellow Narcissus
Smells like pee—must go!
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Seared Eyeballs, etc.
A lady got on the bus this morning with a baby stroller that could double as an all-terrain vehicle (very common here in Germany), but I didn't really pay her much attention until she was getting off the bus. She had on these *pants*; they were ghastly: black, textured upholstery with white horizontal threads in them. Whoever sold her the things should be taken out and shot, and whoever designed them should be sterilized. They were hideous; I mean, I wouldn't even pick up something made in that fabric off a curb, even if it were still wrapped in plastic and had the price tags on it.
***
I have held out hope these many months that the Chinese take-away in our village would reopen. There was even a sign up for a while that they were remodelling, and I just knew that my faithful patience would pay off. But alas! This morning I saw that the name had been scraped off the sign, and the building was closed and shuttered. I will have to make a special trip for Chinese food in the future (which is actually not too hard; I can think of 4 places in town off the top of my head). But it is a pisser nonetheless, because we are down to only 2 restaurants around here that deliver, both pizza/Italian. That means I have virtually no excuses for grocery shopping laziness.
***
Weather-bitching level: 10
I guess I don't really have it so bad compared to the poor sods in northern Spain (-26C, I read), but -6C plus snow and ice on the ground is bad enough when you're getting around on foot. And when you hate snow. Actually, I was doing pretty well this winter; we didn't get much in the way of snow until February, but now I am ready for it to leave, thank you very much. I'm looking forward to warmth and sunshine outside at the same time.
All the shops around here have already put out their spring clothing lines, and it is a bizarre sight: people wearing parkas stopping to look at window displays of scantily clad mannequins in front of photos of flowers. L.H. and I always complain that it is still below freezing outside, but we probably won't be able to buy snow gloves for D.D. if she loses hers again before next October. And the winter clothes went on sale the beginning of February, which is when it started snowing (see above). Stu-pid!
***
I have held out hope these many months that the Chinese take-away in our village would reopen. There was even a sign up for a while that they were remodelling, and I just knew that my faithful patience would pay off. But alas! This morning I saw that the name had been scraped off the sign, and the building was closed and shuttered. I will have to make a special trip for Chinese food in the future (which is actually not too hard; I can think of 4 places in town off the top of my head). But it is a pisser nonetheless, because we are down to only 2 restaurants around here that deliver, both pizza/Italian. That means I have virtually no excuses for grocery shopping laziness.
***
Weather-bitching level: 10
I guess I don't really have it so bad compared to the poor sods in northern Spain (-26C, I read), but -6C plus snow and ice on the ground is bad enough when you're getting around on foot. And when you hate snow. Actually, I was doing pretty well this winter; we didn't get much in the way of snow until February, but now I am ready for it to leave, thank you very much. I'm looking forward to warmth and sunshine outside at the same time.
All the shops around here have already put out their spring clothing lines, and it is a bizarre sight: people wearing parkas stopping to look at window displays of scantily clad mannequins in front of photos of flowers. L.H. and I always complain that it is still below freezing outside, but we probably won't be able to buy snow gloves for D.D. if she loses hers again before next October. And the winter clothes went on sale the beginning of February, which is when it started snowing (see above). Stu-pid!
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Most Boring Post Ever
(Don't say you weren't warned about the high boring factor of this post.)
I was quite a slug while Lovely Husband was away at his conference. I've finally gotten around to having a mild cold this winter, so that was my excuse. Actually, I probably could have fought off the cold with my amazingly anti-illness powers, but I stayed up late reading the first night L.H. was gone, and I've been dragging ever since.
We've still got some snow on the ground, but I'm ready for spring now. We had a little early-springish sunshine yesterday, but Mother Nature is a tease. The forecast says there's an Arctic front on the way for all of Germany. Blech!
L.H. brought gifts from Cologne: Darling Daughter got a pink canvas make-up bag thingy with red sequins on it (tres chic!), and I got a bottle of the original eau de cologne. We were trying to decide what it smells like, and D.D. figured it out—bug spray. Very citronella-ish, but not unpleasant. I've just now put some on for the first time, so I'll have to report back on whether or not it ends up smelling like sweet pickles on me. Stupid body chemistry.
Speaking of weird smells, when D.D. and I started working on the Valentine's puzzle from L.H., we almost choked on the overpowering stench of patchouli (not my favorite scent) from inside the box. L.H. says the gift shop where he bought it was full of incense, but I suspect it was assembled in a drug den in Amsterdam. That might explain the way the pieces don't fit together correctly.
I'm starting to wonder about the pattern of scented gifts—cologne, scented candles, stinky puzzle. And that isn't even the first patchouli-scented gift from L.H. Before I went to England in the summer of 1996, he bought me a sunflower umbrella. From a head shop. It took forever for the smell to fade.
Random observation from our village:
The florist near D.D.'s school regularly puts decorations outside her shop, usually holiday related, but she's lost me with the latest: plywood cut-outs of *shoes*. What do shoes have to do with selling flowers? Is this her way of announcing that she'll be adding shoes to her inventory, because flowers alone is just not lucrative enough? Or maybe her shoe fetish is spilling over into her business. I have never heard of a shoe-themed holiday, and the cut-outs seem to be firmly attached to the beam where she displays her hanging plants, so I have to assume they are a permanent addition to the decor. Weird.
I was quite a slug while Lovely Husband was away at his conference. I've finally gotten around to having a mild cold this winter, so that was my excuse. Actually, I probably could have fought off the cold with my amazingly anti-illness powers, but I stayed up late reading the first night L.H. was gone, and I've been dragging ever since.
We've still got some snow on the ground, but I'm ready for spring now. We had a little early-springish sunshine yesterday, but Mother Nature is a tease. The forecast says there's an Arctic front on the way for all of Germany. Blech!
L.H. brought gifts from Cologne: Darling Daughter got a pink canvas make-up bag thingy with red sequins on it (tres chic!), and I got a bottle of the original eau de cologne. We were trying to decide what it smells like, and D.D. figured it out—bug spray. Very citronella-ish, but not unpleasant. I've just now put some on for the first time, so I'll have to report back on whether or not it ends up smelling like sweet pickles on me. Stupid body chemistry.
Speaking of weird smells, when D.D. and I started working on the Valentine's puzzle from L.H., we almost choked on the overpowering stench of patchouli (not my favorite scent) from inside the box. L.H. says the gift shop where he bought it was full of incense, but I suspect it was assembled in a drug den in Amsterdam. That might explain the way the pieces don't fit together correctly.
I'm starting to wonder about the pattern of scented gifts—cologne, scented candles, stinky puzzle. And that isn't even the first patchouli-scented gift from L.H. Before I went to England in the summer of 1996, he bought me a sunflower umbrella. From a head shop. It took forever for the smell to fade.
Random observation from our village:
The florist near D.D.'s school regularly puts decorations outside her shop, usually holiday related, but she's lost me with the latest: plywood cut-outs of *shoes*. What do shoes have to do with selling flowers? Is this her way of announcing that she'll be adding shoes to her inventory, because flowers alone is just not lucrative enough? Or maybe her shoe fetish is spilling over into her business. I have never heard of a shoe-themed holiday, and the cut-outs seem to be firmly attached to the beam where she displays her hanging plants, so I have to assume they are a permanent addition to the decor. Weird.
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