1. Finish book review.
2. Write e-mails to x, y, z, and also a, b, and c
3. What should I read en route? Do I want an actual, you know, book?
4. Charge up all the devices. ALL THE DEVICES.
5. Every little thing that makes life in my own skin (and, let's face it, head) must come.
6. Back up SD card, because there will be pictures OH YES there will be pictures!
7. Fruit snacks, for a fruit snack deprived son.
8. Call all the people I love to tell them I love them.
9. Take care of this forgotten/neglected item of business.
10. What about this or that appointment when I come back?
11. Shoes, back up shoes, slightly cute but still comfortable shoes.
12. All the socks.
13. Twelve days = fourteen tee shirts WHY.
14. ANTICIPATE.
15. Crossword, back up crossword, back up back up crossword.
16. Magazines?
17. Gum for the air/ear pressure.
18. Pens. Notebooks.
19. All manner of wipes.
20. Everything ready? Check? Let's go.
Monday, May 19, 2014
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Dear post-semester mood,
You are flighty, aren't you? For days, you're gray and rainy, chilly, austere. And yet your light--the light lasting longer is a temperature of its own, tending toward gusty but sunny, or scattered sunny, or tiny hits of sunny in an ambiance of mercurial.
The tulips have spent their glory, all but a handful--a dark purple Queen of the Night, a streaky pale yellow and red. The flax and the centaurea are bluing up the joint. And columbine are making their first spiky statements. These are your flowers, are they not, Post-semester mood? I believe that, at one time or another, you planted them.
Post-semester mood, your obsessive checking for student retorts online has just about ended. But your letter of recommendation writing is still turned up to a million. That's on the "Things I Said I Would Do" meter. Which is still hitting the red zone regularly. The needle is twitchy.
Still, though I am in the throes of you, Post-semester mood, I am nonetheless hanging out in a quiet place. I am in a straightened and tidied room, whichever room I'm in. I'm wearing lighter colors and I'm holding a finger to the winds to see if it's time to have breakfast on the patio.
Post-semester mood, you are transient, changeable. You're a sudden directional shift. You're accommodating and, it must be said, a little languorous. You're my capricious--a bit--companion, and yet you're my steadfast. I wake up, there you are. I tire of a task, you're ready for a little reading, a small irresponsible excursion, a nap. I do the dishes and you are there, making it feel like a tiny stolen joy.
Post-semester mood, I hope you stick around. You're my unreliable, constant consort, perfect for this green, warming, restless, liminal state of being. Provisional, that's what you are, and I need you for now, until the new jurisdictional mood settles in, God only knows when.
fitfully yours,
htms
The tulips have spent their glory, all but a handful--a dark purple Queen of the Night, a streaky pale yellow and red. The flax and the centaurea are bluing up the joint. And columbine are making their first spiky statements. These are your flowers, are they not, Post-semester mood? I believe that, at one time or another, you planted them.
Post-semester mood, your obsessive checking for student retorts online has just about ended. But your letter of recommendation writing is still turned up to a million. That's on the "Things I Said I Would Do" meter. Which is still hitting the red zone regularly. The needle is twitchy.
Still, though I am in the throes of you, Post-semester mood, I am nonetheless hanging out in a quiet place. I am in a straightened and tidied room, whichever room I'm in. I'm wearing lighter colors and I'm holding a finger to the winds to see if it's time to have breakfast on the patio.
Post-semester mood, you are transient, changeable. You're a sudden directional shift. You're accommodating and, it must be said, a little languorous. You're my capricious--a bit--companion, and yet you're my steadfast. I wake up, there you are. I tire of a task, you're ready for a little reading, a small irresponsible excursion, a nap. I do the dishes and you are there, making it feel like a tiny stolen joy.
Post-semester mood, I hope you stick around. You're my unreliable, constant consort, perfect for this green, warming, restless, liminal state of being. Provisional, that's what you are, and I need you for now, until the new jurisdictional mood settles in, God only knows when.
fitfully yours,
htms
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Dinner: a discourse.
Who shops for dinner, and how is that shopping done? That is the question. I still have in my possession a small red clothbound book from two decades or more ago, in which I wrote my shopping lists on the left-hand page, and my menus on the right. I was a veritable wizard of using stuff up. I shopped once every two weeks, and that meant--as you have probably surmised--that by the end there was damned little out of which to conjure comestibles. As I am sure I have wheezed on about in the past, I was a scholar of my cookbooks, and knew what kind of cookie or cake I could make, if we needed cookies or cake, when I had but one egg, or when I had oil but no butter (often), and so forth. I knew how to substitute this for that. I could make homemade yogurt and I stretched fresh milk with powdered.
I knew that we were heading out of the woods once I started to work, when we could afford cold cereal on a regular basis. I am not defending cold cereal, but it made life easier by far when I did not have to arise from my slumber in the gray of the morning to cook a hot breakfast each and every day, as I did for quite some time. With the development of slightly more money clinking around in our pockets and coin purses, my shopping became less straitened. I still planned, I still listed, but I could go to the store if I needed another gallon of milk or a lemon or, you know, popsicles or a watermelon. It got better.
These days, when I consider dinner at my house and I draw from my vast stores of cooking experience a fresh and unspoiled blank, I make a list of things that I could cook, things that I almost always have the ingredients or. Risotto, I might write on the list. Plate of vegetables. One of the things I can almost always rustle up is a bowl of pasta, with something saucy to go on it or something vegetable-y. Or both. Pasta, in my book, makes a satisfying supper. You don't have to eat a lot of it--i.e., you don't have to go into a carbohydrate coma--but it is filling and warm and can be quite elegant. That's if you don't look in your refrigerator and think, ugh. Or what the hell. Which, to be honest, is how I feel sometimes when I look into the drawers and find some sad looking carrots and half a sheaf of now decidedly unfresh celery. When, exactly, were those depressing vegetables purchased? What is there to be done?
Luckily, the people, there is in these modern times a thing called The Internet, where people who write there occasionally surprise you with a recipe. And even luckier, sometimes the recipe kind of matches what you have in your refrigerator, in which case: WIN.
I ran across a pasta recipe today (it was an adaptation of this recipe from Mario Batali) that called for sundry vegetables and blistered tomatoes--charred in a hot pan so that the skin blistered. I read the list of ingredients: orecchiette, asparagus, spinach, tomatoes, burrata (that fancy fresh mozz with cream in it, whoa). I thought: Me, me, me, me also... I'm really close on this one. As in: I had the right pasta. I had some gorgeous fat purple asparagus. I also had broccoli that I could cut into very skinny stems, and I had some cherry tomatoes that needed a purpose in life. Also: baby kale, which would stand in for spinach. And a ball of mozz. Not burrata, but close enough.
Thus inspired-stroke-guided, I did the following:
I knew that we were heading out of the woods once I started to work, when we could afford cold cereal on a regular basis. I am not defending cold cereal, but it made life easier by far when I did not have to arise from my slumber in the gray of the morning to cook a hot breakfast each and every day, as I did for quite some time. With the development of slightly more money clinking around in our pockets and coin purses, my shopping became less straitened. I still planned, I still listed, but I could go to the store if I needed another gallon of milk or a lemon or, you know, popsicles or a watermelon. It got better.
These days, when I consider dinner at my house and I draw from my vast stores of cooking experience a fresh and unspoiled blank, I make a list of things that I could cook, things that I almost always have the ingredients or. Risotto, I might write on the list. Plate of vegetables. One of the things I can almost always rustle up is a bowl of pasta, with something saucy to go on it or something vegetable-y. Or both. Pasta, in my book, makes a satisfying supper. You don't have to eat a lot of it--i.e., you don't have to go into a carbohydrate coma--but it is filling and warm and can be quite elegant. That's if you don't look in your refrigerator and think, ugh. Or what the hell. Which, to be honest, is how I feel sometimes when I look into the drawers and find some sad looking carrots and half a sheaf of now decidedly unfresh celery. When, exactly, were those depressing vegetables purchased? What is there to be done?
Luckily, the people, there is in these modern times a thing called The Internet, where people who write there occasionally surprise you with a recipe. And even luckier, sometimes the recipe kind of matches what you have in your refrigerator, in which case: WIN.
I ran across a pasta recipe today (it was an adaptation of this recipe from Mario Batali) that called for sundry vegetables and blistered tomatoes--charred in a hot pan so that the skin blistered. I read the list of ingredients: orecchiette, asparagus, spinach, tomatoes, burrata (that fancy fresh mozz with cream in it, whoa). I thought: Me, me, me, me also... I'm really close on this one. As in: I had the right pasta. I had some gorgeous fat purple asparagus. I also had broccoli that I could cut into very skinny stems, and I had some cherry tomatoes that needed a purpose in life. Also: baby kale, which would stand in for spinach. And a ball of mozz. Not burrata, but close enough.
Thus inspired-stroke-guided, I did the following:
- I heated the oven to 400 degrees. I filmed a roasting pan with olive oil.
- I used a peeler to peel the bottom half of those asparagus stems. Then I cut them in uneven diagonally angled pieces of about 3/4".
- I peeled the stems of the broccoli and cut it into skinny long pieces.
- I cut half a purple onion into thin half moons.
- I took some coarse salt from Slovenia (thanks, Natasha!) and crushed, along with some crushed red pepper, with the flat of my big knife and strewed it all over the vegetables.
- I tossed the pan around until things were a little bit oiled up and put it in the oven.
- I began to heat my heavy skillet. Concurrently, I began to heat a pan of water for the pasta.
- When the pan was hot, I put in a little oil and the baby kale. I let it wilt, then tossed it around till it was still green but very docile. I put that on a plate.
- Into the still hot pan, I threw my slightly-the-worse-for-wear cherry tomatoes. Grape tomatoes, really. I let them hang out there and char. I tossed them around a little so they could char on other spots. Then I turned off the heat and just let them blister away.
- When the water boiled, I put my third of a pound, approximately, of pasta in and let 'er cook. Orecchiette is a hefty pasta, so it takes twelve minutes or more.
- While that was happening, I tore apart my mozzarella into shreds. Nothing too fine.
- As the pasta was getting close, I checked my roasting vegetables--they were perfect. I took them out. I checked the pasta every couple of minutes.
- When it was done, I drained it, put it back in the pan, and threw in a couple of tablespoonsful of butter, then all the vegetables, and then the mozz. I tossed it and tossed it until the butter was melted and the cheese was melting and everything looked fantastic.
And then we ate it. And let me tell you: it was so good.
Ten things to do when you have finished the grading.
1. Lie down. You really should. You deserve it. Lie down and finish your novel, or if you are not reading a novel, start one.
2. Review your agenda. In my case, the agenda is entitled, The Get the House in Order Project, and it was wildly ambitious. Some of the stuff on that agenda--that stuff can be done later. Maybe in a few weeks. Resume your lie-down.
3. Okay, fine, get up. Think about dinner. Make soup and make blueberry scones because there are (a) blueberries in the refrigerator and (b) no reasons necessary to make scones if they are delicious and you want to. (check out the butter technique in that recipe--it is legit.)
4. Read some more. Take a short nap.
5. Watch tons and tons and tons of basketball. Revel in both the sloppy and the elegant play of the post-season, especially when you have no horse in the race, no dog in that fight, no team that you particularly care to root for. Learn other teams' players' names. Root for a team that is almost certain to lose to either (a) the Spurs or (b) Miami, depending on which part of the tournament you're prognosticating.
6. Read the nice comments students sent you. Remind yourself that you only had to wrangle with just one student, and even there, the wrangle was civil and is now resolved. Forget about the time when you woke up thinking about said student. Just let that go.
7. Sort through your winter clothes and put them away. Remind yourself how many freaking sweaters you have, not to mention skirts. Make vows about shopping, vows that will no doubt be fruitless but which feel salutary whilst putting the sweaters, not to mention skirts, away for the season.
8. Catch up on the last few episodes of The Mindy Project. This can be done concurrently with nearly any item above, but is worth enjoying on its own. However, eating a scone while watching television will never go amiss.
9. Think about China. China China China!
10. Put off decisions about meetings and commitments. They are out there, calling to you in faint, distant voices. But they can wait. They can wait while you open the windows (figuratively--it's still a little chilly) of your summer life and let the wind chimes make a beautiful, apt music, a music that is spring and the end of grading and the taking in of a deep, expansive breath. Breathe it. Just--breathe.
2. Review your agenda. In my case, the agenda is entitled, The Get the House in Order Project, and it was wildly ambitious. Some of the stuff on that agenda--that stuff can be done later. Maybe in a few weeks. Resume your lie-down.
3. Okay, fine, get up. Think about dinner. Make soup and make blueberry scones because there are (a) blueberries in the refrigerator and (b) no reasons necessary to make scones if they are delicious and you want to. (check out the butter technique in that recipe--it is legit.)
4. Read some more. Take a short nap.
5. Watch tons and tons and tons of basketball. Revel in both the sloppy and the elegant play of the post-season, especially when you have no horse in the race, no dog in that fight, no team that you particularly care to root for. Learn other teams' players' names. Root for a team that is almost certain to lose to either (a) the Spurs or (b) Miami, depending on which part of the tournament you're prognosticating.
6. Read the nice comments students sent you. Remind yourself that you only had to wrangle with just one student, and even there, the wrangle was civil and is now resolved. Forget about the time when you woke up thinking about said student. Just let that go.
7. Sort through your winter clothes and put them away. Remind yourself how many freaking sweaters you have, not to mention skirts. Make vows about shopping, vows that will no doubt be fruitless but which feel salutary whilst putting the sweaters, not to mention skirts, away for the season.
8. Catch up on the last few episodes of The Mindy Project. This can be done concurrently with nearly any item above, but is worth enjoying on its own. However, eating a scone while watching television will never go amiss.
9. Think about China. China China China!
10. Put off decisions about meetings and commitments. They are out there, calling to you in faint, distant voices. But they can wait. They can wait while you open the windows (figuratively--it's still a little chilly) of your summer life and let the wind chimes make a beautiful, apt music, a music that is spring and the end of grading and the taking in of a deep, expansive breath. Breathe it. Just--breathe.
Friday, May 02, 2014
The new rhythm.
This morning I woke up at the same time as usual, 6:48 a.m., twelve minutes in advance of my alarm. I lay there and let all the indicators do their test runs, then I opened my eyes, put on my glasses, looked at my e-mail.
I needed to be at work by 8:30, and my day would be full. But it would be a different kind of day from now on.
Last night, the Publication Studies class debuted their chapbook, and the winning author read his work. This is the second year that I have not been the teacher of the class, and thus I've been an interested but sort of distant spectator of this process. This, and the publication of the the spring edition of Folio, are two of the big markers of the academic year, that the year has been, as it were, achieved.
It's a celebration and a valediction, wrapped in a small alienation, suffused in an infusion of joy and relief, with a tiny tincture of sadness. Just tiny, but still.
Next week, the work will come in, and I will read the writing of these students for the last time. I'll have things to say to them, again for the last time. Most of us, students and teacher, will have said what there is to say to one another, at least for now. A few of them, I may be having conversations with them for a long time, but mostly one-sided, mostly in my own mind. Because that's the nature of teaching, and semesters. And of being with students, and then not.
Well, I started this post this morning and now it's almost five. My poor husband has caught the sick I had last week, which is so unfair it's not even really comprehensible. So we'll be staying in. I'll be refreshing my course sites from time to time to make sure that no student concern goes unanswered, and getting used to letting go of all that, because hey: the semester is over. And it's time for something new to happen.
I needed to be at work by 8:30, and my day would be full. But it would be a different kind of day from now on.
Last night, the Publication Studies class debuted their chapbook, and the winning author read his work. This is the second year that I have not been the teacher of the class, and thus I've been an interested but sort of distant spectator of this process. This, and the publication of the the spring edition of Folio, are two of the big markers of the academic year, that the year has been, as it were, achieved.
It's a celebration and a valediction, wrapped in a small alienation, suffused in an infusion of joy and relief, with a tiny tincture of sadness. Just tiny, but still.
Next week, the work will come in, and I will read the writing of these students for the last time. I'll have things to say to them, again for the last time. Most of us, students and teacher, will have said what there is to say to one another, at least for now. A few of them, I may be having conversations with them for a long time, but mostly one-sided, mostly in my own mind. Because that's the nature of teaching, and semesters. And of being with students, and then not.
Well, I started this post this morning and now it's almost five. My poor husband has caught the sick I had last week, which is so unfair it's not even really comprehensible. So we'll be staying in. I'll be refreshing my course sites from time to time to make sure that no student concern goes unanswered, and getting used to letting go of all that, because hey: the semester is over. And it's time for something new to happen.
Thursday, May 01, 2014
You guys.
Okay, first of all: first of all, this is the last day of classes, the last day of classes of the semester that almost nigh unto killed me, as in I am almost dead, but I have survived, I have prevailed, I have a new header!
Today, I read the last of the poems and the last of the essays. Today, I met with my independent study students and advised them for the last time. Today, it is the last day. Did I respond to many an e-mail, many a panicky, pleading e-mail? and did I respond with a firm and gentle, not to say severe, not to say way harsh tone? and did I say unto the panicky student, "Panicky student, you must chill. YOU MUST CHILL."?
The answer to all of these questions is yes. Yes, I did. I wore black and I wore shiny shoes, and I was in charge of the last day of school, lo! the last day of school recognized me and surrendered.
Good lord.
Well, the final work doesn't come in till next week, so it's not like I'm done done, but I am done with the meeting with students, and that feels like, the people, a blessed, blessed relief.
Cheers to blessed, blessed relief.
Today, I read the last of the poems and the last of the essays. Today, I met with my independent study students and advised them for the last time. Today, it is the last day. Did I respond to many an e-mail, many a panicky, pleading e-mail? and did I respond with a firm and gentle, not to say severe, not to say way harsh tone? and did I say unto the panicky student, "Panicky student, you must chill. YOU MUST CHILL."?
The answer to all of these questions is yes. Yes, I did. I wore black and I wore shiny shoes, and I was in charge of the last day of school, lo! the last day of school recognized me and surrendered.
Good lord.
Well, the final work doesn't come in till next week, so it's not like I'm done done, but I am done with the meeting with students, and that feels like, the people, a blessed, blessed relief.
Cheers to blessed, blessed relief.
Friday, April 18, 2014
National Poetry Month is eating my brains.
I just thought you'd all like to know--you, the reading public--that my lack of posting, or postage, or whatever nominalization you prefer for "where on earth is The Megastore?"--it's all the fault of the cruelest month, April, which is (coincidentally? I think not.) National Poetry Month. So, you know, you can go read some poems over here. I am behind, but just one poem, so I'm feeling pretty good about that. Dr. Write is also posting poems. In conclusion, it is super poetish over there.
In the meanwhile, I do have some recommendations, however.
The Megastore Recommends.
1. Getting your visa application mailed off finally. You guys, do you realize that when you go to China, your passport is like chopped liver? And by "chopped liver," I don't mean "something gross, whoever THOUGHT of that?," I mean "something that is pretty much useless without a visa." AND, the people, getting a visa means a lot of steps that make your head hurt. As in, do you need to have all your hotel reservations and your plane reservations set? or is that a little waffly, and will your basic itinerary do, as long as you have an invitation letter from someone in China, aka your son? How much does it cost? HOW MUCH? omg. And you need pictures. And you need a FedEx office. And so many steps that you think, whoops, too bad I already bought my plane tickets, because I am never going to get this done.
But then you do get it done, step by step, and all your brains are still, mostly, in your head, except the poetry-writing portions. And then you wait.
2. The amazing food you will eat when you are in China. Everyone I read says that the food in China is beyond. My son says so. My friend says, "Make sure you eat Uighur noodles!" I tell my son about the Uighur noodles. He says, via Google Hangout, "They're all right. Tell your friend (shrugs with palms up) 'They're all right.'" With or without the noodles, though, I am going to try as many things as possible. I am looking forward to what China will taste like.
3. Don't think about the crazy toilet situation over there. Just don't.
4. Also, while you're not thinking about things, don't think about that fourteen hour flight. It sounds horrible.
5. Do think about the fact that there are beautiful mountains near and around Chengdu.
Like these:
The people, I recommend Chinese mountains like these.
In the meanwhile, I do have some recommendations, however.
The Megastore Recommends.
1. Getting your visa application mailed off finally. You guys, do you realize that when you go to China, your passport is like chopped liver? And by "chopped liver," I don't mean "something gross, whoever THOUGHT of that?," I mean "something that is pretty much useless without a visa." AND, the people, getting a visa means a lot of steps that make your head hurt. As in, do you need to have all your hotel reservations and your plane reservations set? or is that a little waffly, and will your basic itinerary do, as long as you have an invitation letter from someone in China, aka your son? How much does it cost? HOW MUCH? omg. And you need pictures. And you need a FedEx office. And so many steps that you think, whoops, too bad I already bought my plane tickets, because I am never going to get this done.
But then you do get it done, step by step, and all your brains are still, mostly, in your head, except the poetry-writing portions. And then you wait.
2. The amazing food you will eat when you are in China. Everyone I read says that the food in China is beyond. My son says so. My friend says, "Make sure you eat Uighur noodles!" I tell my son about the Uighur noodles. He says, via Google Hangout, "They're all right. Tell your friend (shrugs with palms up) 'They're all right.'" With or without the noodles, though, I am going to try as many things as possible. I am looking forward to what China will taste like.
3. Don't think about the crazy toilet situation over there. Just don't.
4. Also, while you're not thinking about things, don't think about that fourteen hour flight. It sounds horrible.
5. Do think about the fact that there are beautiful mountains near and around Chengdu.
Like these:
The people, I recommend Chinese mountains like these.
Monday, April 07, 2014
Hey ho, let's go!
It's Monday!
Here's something I treasure: a day with no big plans, or no big plans that require me to be somewhere on time, or disappoint someone. A day when I can wake up and say, what shall I do today? Even if the question is just a little bit rhetorical--as in, I've got a hella lotta grading to finish, so what I shall do today includes a hella lotta grading. Even so: I can lounge and be insouciant and wear slouchy clothes and eat what I want when I want and take a nap. And do a hella lotta grading.
I just planned my week, and it's not so bad, if I do say so myself. It includes open-er afternoons than those to which I have lately been accustomed (p.s., Google, stop correcting my spelling! open-er (more open) is not the same as open-air (Google's correction). Although an open-air afternoon is also a nice idea, come to think of it...
Carry on, Google.)
--yes, open-er afternoons than those to which I have lately become accustomed, a shocking lack of meetings, and (fingers crossed) the grading is actually diminishing. We are entering, almost, the small bloom of open time before the last-of-the-semester onslaught. Onslaught: what a word:
I call this small bloom of open time the lull before the onslaught. We are not there yet. But we are almost there. I can feel it. I can see it. It's a full-on synaesthetic experience, this almost thereness. Are you with me?
Here's something I treasure: a day with no big plans, or no big plans that require me to be somewhere on time, or disappoint someone. A day when I can wake up and say, what shall I do today? Even if the question is just a little bit rhetorical--as in, I've got a hella lotta grading to finish, so what I shall do today includes a hella lotta grading. Even so: I can lounge and be insouciant and wear slouchy clothes and eat what I want when I want and take a nap. And do a hella lotta grading.
I just planned my week, and it's not so bad, if I do say so myself. It includes open-er afternoons than those to which I have lately been accustomed (p.s., Google, stop correcting my spelling! open-er (more open) is not the same as open-air (Google's correction). Although an open-air afternoon is also a nice idea, come to think of it...
Carry on, Google.)
--yes, open-er afternoons than those to which I have lately become accustomed, a shocking lack of meetings, and (fingers crossed) the grading is actually diminishing. We are entering, almost, the small bloom of open time before the last-of-the-semester onslaught. Onslaught: what a word:
onslaught (n.)(Also, is it just me, or does it kind of rhyme with Anschluss?)1620s, anslaight, somehow from or on analogy of Dutch aanslag "attack," from Middle Dutch aenslach, from aen "on" (see on) + slach "blow," related to slaen "slay." Spelling influenced by obsolete (since c.1400) English slaught (n.) "slaughter," from Old English sleaht (see slaughter (n.)). No record of its use in 18c.; apparently revived by Scott.
I call this small bloom of open time the lull before the onslaught. We are not there yet. But we are almost there. I can feel it. I can see it. It's a full-on synaesthetic experience, this almost thereness. Are you with me?
Wednesday, April 02, 2014
The State of the English Language: an update.
Abstract: The English language is still going to hell in a hand basket. Evidence: people are still using the lovely noun "gift" as a verb.
Background: Readers of this blog may recall that I have, upon occasion, pointed to this abomination--using "gift," the noun, in place of the perfectly serviceable verb, "to give." E.g., and to wit: "This scarf? My best friendgifted it to me for my birthday." ( < abomination. Appropriate: my friend gave it to me for my birthday." See? Perfect!)
Data: I'm no linguist, scientist, social scientist, or shaman. But I keep hearing people use this infernal locution: "She gifted me this fantastic yak hair sofa." "He gifted me my own heart served up on a platter!" "The cat gifted me with this dead mouse." Etc., etc., on the radio, in magazines. On blogs and social media. It hurts my ears and my brain. Also, I was thinking about it while I was walking from my car to my office. So, clearly, and to sum up, the data points to a continuing trend of a thing that is abominable!
Discussion: While it is the height of foolhardiness to attempt to change usage, one cannot stand idly by whilst people say things that hurt one's ears, and brain. Even if not standing idly by means sounding kind of persnickety, grouchy, and middle-aged. And rant-y. One must take up one's voice, one's pen, and one's blog in defense of what is right: the right of a verb to be a verb and a noun to be a noun, and never the twain shall meet, just in this one case, since of course it is the God-given right of words to transmogrify into whatsoever part of speech is necessary at the moment. Just not gift (noun) togift (verb): that is right out.
Conclusions/Recommendations: If you are one of those who has upon occasion, or frequently, given this gift-as-verb shenanigan a trial spin, do the right thing, and quit it. Cut it right out. Take a vow and never do it again. And if you're tempted, remind yourself of the pretentious, ultra-fancy wannabes to use it. Do you want to be a pretentious, ultra-fancy wannabe? I didn't think so.
If you have never and will never, good for you. Be stalwart. Giving is a beautiful thing. So is to give, with its deep and honorable roots as a verb:
Gift, too, has deep and honorable roots--as a noun:
Say it with me now: and never the twain shall meet.*
*except in the case of gifted, which is the past participle of (yikes!) to gift (verb), meaning "talented." This is the only exception we shall grant.
Background: Readers of this blog may recall that I have, upon occasion, pointed to this abomination--using "gift," the noun, in place of the perfectly serviceable verb, "to give." E.g., and to wit: "This scarf? My best friend
 |
| It's a scientific report. Like my blog post. |
Data: I'm no linguist, scientist, social scientist, or shaman. But I keep hearing people use this infernal locution: "She gifted me this fantastic yak hair sofa." "He gifted me my own heart served up on a platter!" "The cat gifted me with this dead mouse." Etc., etc., on the radio, in magazines. On blogs and social media. It hurts my ears and my brain. Also, I was thinking about it while I was walking from my car to my office. So, clearly, and to sum up, the data points to a continuing trend of a thing that is abominable!
Discussion: While it is the height of foolhardiness to attempt to change usage, one cannot stand idly by whilst people say things that hurt one's ears, and brain. Even if not standing idly by means sounding kind of persnickety, grouchy, and middle-aged. And rant-y. One must take up one's voice, one's pen, and one's blog in defense of what is right: the right of a verb to be a verb and a noun to be a noun, and never the twain shall meet, just in this one case, since of course it is the God-given right of words to transmogrify into whatsoever part of speech is necessary at the moment. Just not gift (noun) to
Conclusions/Recommendations: If you are one of those who has upon occasion, or frequently, given this gift-as-verb shenanigan a trial spin, do the right thing, and quit it. Cut it right out. Take a vow and never do it again. And if you're tempted, remind yourself of the pretentious, ultra-fancy wannabes to use it. Do you want to be a pretentious, ultra-fancy wannabe? I didn't think so.
If you have never and will never, good for you. Be stalwart. Giving is a beautiful thing. So is to give, with its deep and honorable roots as a verb:
 |
| what a splendid, splendid verb. |
Gift, too, has deep and honorable roots--as a noun:
 |
| what a lovely, lovely noun. |
Say it with me now: and never the twain shall meet.*
*except in the case of gifted, which is the past participle of (yikes!) to gift (verb), meaning "talented." This is the only exception we shall grant.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Ritz crackers: a review.
Recently on the Facebooks, a friend posted the following:
to which I replied:
This weekend, I found myself at Target. (I know.) I got some cleaning supplies and bobby pins and a box of Ritz Crackers. Because it had been a long time (been a long time been a long time been a long lonely lonely lonely lonely lonely time), and I needed to see what they were like. You know, science.
I am here to tell you that between me and the historian and Bruiser, who polished off half a sleeve of them, they are gone gone gone. All of the Ritz Crackers are gone.
I suppose this means that
(a) they are delicious.
It can't be denied. They are crunchy (the effect of some horrible, who knows how horrible? fat), yet they are soft. Their flour is probably some weird hybrid between soft wheat and, like, marshmallows. They are salty yet they are sweet. You can put a slice of cheese on them, or you can eat them in a stack. One at a time, but still: a stack.
I think from the above analysis, we can also say that
(b) they are dangerous.
Dogs will leap up onto a table to get them. Well, not leap up, but put their front paws up. People (some people) will eat them directly from the sleeve in the car on the way home from Target. And surreptitiously sneak a short stack (less than five) from the cupboard, if you can get them into the cupboard, and then return for another short stack, or even a tall stack! Until they are gone gone gone.
(c) addictive? like crunchy yet soft, salty yet sweet things are prone to be.
Last night before I went to sleep I had to give myself a talking to about things, like taking better care of myself, eating food that makes me feel good, this and that and whatnot. I was alternately compassionate and stern with myself, and I'm pretty sure that the Ritz Consumption Orgy of Late March 2014 factored in somehow. The people, I ask you: why is it that all day long one can think salad and vegetables with great happiness and equanimity, but by the end of the day, one is all CHEESECAKE? Why?
to which I replied:
This weekend, I found myself at Target. (I know.) I got some cleaning supplies and bobby pins and a box of Ritz Crackers. Because it had been a long time (been a long time been a long time been a long lonely lonely lonely lonely lonely time), and I needed to see what they were like. You know, science.
I am here to tell you that between me and the historian and Bruiser, who polished off half a sleeve of them, they are gone gone gone. All of the Ritz Crackers are gone.
I suppose this means that
(a) they are delicious.
It can't be denied. They are crunchy (the effect of some horrible, who knows how horrible? fat), yet they are soft. Their flour is probably some weird hybrid between soft wheat and, like, marshmallows. They are salty yet they are sweet. You can put a slice of cheese on them, or you can eat them in a stack. One at a time, but still: a stack.
I think from the above analysis, we can also say that
 |
| so golden & delicious. like salty-sweet-crunchy-soft crack cocaine. |
Dogs will leap up onto a table to get them. Well, not leap up, but put their front paws up. People (some people) will eat them directly from the sleeve in the car on the way home from Target. And surreptitiously sneak a short stack (less than five) from the cupboard, if you can get them into the cupboard, and then return for another short stack, or even a tall stack! Until they are gone gone gone.
(c) addictive? like crunchy yet soft, salty yet sweet things are prone to be.
Last night before I went to sleep I had to give myself a talking to about things, like taking better care of myself, eating food that makes me feel good, this and that and whatnot. I was alternately compassionate and stern with myself, and I'm pretty sure that the Ritz Consumption Orgy of Late March 2014 factored in somehow. The people, I ask you: why is it that all day long one can think salad and vegetables with great happiness and equanimity, but by the end of the day, one is all CHEESECAKE? Why?
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Things I will never: a short and probably intermittent series.
 |
| with heels? be serious. (via La Mimi) |
I had a pair of overalls when I was in college. I bought them at Sears, in the men's work clothes section. They were cute. I was cute in them.
Then I had another pair later. They were short overalls that I bought at the Gap. They were cute, and I was, again, cute in them. You'll have to trust me. But it might have been the kind of cute that was right at the verge of its shelf life. Maybe. Even though I don't believe people have shelf lives. Whatever: cute.
But now? I was with my niece in Nordstrom and we stood near a rack where grown women buy their clothes and there were overalls on that rack. And I said, No. And by no, I meant not even.
2. Purchase, order, cook or eat offal.
 |
| I came, I saw, I said no freaking way. |
 |
| NEVER. (via The Big Bake Theory) |
The people, why? Why? when there is perfectly good organic, vegan sugar right there?
Monday, March 24, 2014
Adventures in late night baking.
"I'm going to make chocolate banana bread when we get back," I announced at 10:15 p.m. That's right: P to the Mizzo, as in right after we got back from our dog walk.
The reason for all the late nightery was that (a) I read a recipe several days ago for double chocolate banana bread. I confess to you that regular old banana bread moves me not in the least. For one thing, it tastes like overripe bananas, which is the state you generally want your bananas in for banana breadery. So no: I will never look at old bananas and think: why don't I make you into banana bread? I will straight up throw those bananas out, true story. Not that I'm proud of it or anything. But chocolate banana bread? That had some possibilities.
Also, (b), I happened to have some bananas. Which had been (c) sitting around all weekend, looking like potential chocolate banana bread material. Did I want them to get brown and bespeckled? No I did not. But they were fully yellow, which by 10:15 p.m. last night seemed ripe enough for the baking.
We got back from the dog walk (beautiful sky full of brilliant stars) and I threw off my jacket and got out the bowl. The double of the double chocolate was first, cocoa powder and second, chocolate chunks. I happened to have a sad, past-its-expiration-date bar of semisweet baking chocolate in my refrigerator that was just the ticket for the chunks--I bashed it up with my chef knife until the pieces broke, then stirred them into the batter. The bananas tasted fresh and not gushy, so: perfect.
While it was in the oven, we did this and that. I graded a discussion and read some more material about last night's epic episode of The Good Wife (spoiler alert: I'm not going to say one damn thing about it). The house filled with the most divine smell ever, dark and cacao-saturated and fresh fresh fresh bananas. Beautiful.
I went to check it at the appointed hour. Found my toothpicks for checking doneness. Done.
I grabbed the hot pad that was directly at hand. Stiff, this hot pad was. Stiff, not to say unyielding. Okay, to say: unyielding.
The people, that pan fell straight out of my useless hot-padded hand and onto the floor.
Did I utter an oath? Of course I did. And then fetched a spatula and scooped it, as if it were pancakes on a griddle, back into the pan. And ate a little bit of the hot ruin whilst doing so. OMG.
It is the best banana bread I have ever baked. I cooled it on a baking sheet and put it in a Tupperware, and right now I am eating a bowl of it, broken into pieces and topped with vanilla ice cream.
The reason for all the late nightery was that (a) I read a recipe several days ago for double chocolate banana bread. I confess to you that regular old banana bread moves me not in the least. For one thing, it tastes like overripe bananas, which is the state you generally want your bananas in for banana breadery. So no: I will never look at old bananas and think: why don't I make you into banana bread? I will straight up throw those bananas out, true story. Not that I'm proud of it or anything. But chocolate banana bread? That had some possibilities.
Also, (b), I happened to have some bananas. Which had been (c) sitting around all weekend, looking like potential chocolate banana bread material. Did I want them to get brown and bespeckled? No I did not. But they were fully yellow, which by 10:15 p.m. last night seemed ripe enough for the baking.
We got back from the dog walk (beautiful sky full of brilliant stars) and I threw off my jacket and got out the bowl. The double of the double chocolate was first, cocoa powder and second, chocolate chunks. I happened to have a sad, past-its-expiration-date bar of semisweet baking chocolate in my refrigerator that was just the ticket for the chunks--I bashed it up with my chef knife until the pieces broke, then stirred them into the batter. The bananas tasted fresh and not gushy, so: perfect.
While it was in the oven, we did this and that. I graded a discussion and read some more material about last night's epic episode of The Good Wife (spoiler alert: I'm not going to say one damn thing about it). The house filled with the most divine smell ever, dark and cacao-saturated and fresh fresh fresh bananas. Beautiful.
I went to check it at the appointed hour. Found my toothpicks for checking doneness. Done.
I grabbed the hot pad that was directly at hand. Stiff, this hot pad was. Stiff, not to say unyielding. Okay, to say: unyielding.
The people, that pan fell straight out of my useless hot-padded hand and onto the floor.
Did I utter an oath? Of course I did. And then fetched a spatula and scooped it, as if it were pancakes on a griddle, back into the pan. And ate a little bit of the hot ruin whilst doing so. OMG.
It is the best banana bread I have ever baked. I cooled it on a baking sheet and put it in a Tupperware, and right now I am eating a bowl of it, broken into pieces and topped with vanilla ice cream.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Let's play a short round of "should" and "am."
I should be grading.
I should also take a brisk walk around the campus.
I have a full slate of appointments with students in the Learning Commons-stroke-Dungeon, which has suddenly become porous with last minute cancellations. I have, as it turns out, forty unscheduled minutes to take this brisk walk (once I have finished blogging).
But how can I even think about walking when I should be grading?
This is perhaps the existential fact of my existence.
There is no time at which
I should not be grading.
If I am sleeping, it's possible
that I should be grading.
Eating dinner, taking a shower, reading a book:
should be grading,
and why am I not?
I am, instead, blogging. And contemplating
why my hand hurts a little bit.
Thinking about cleaning the screen
of my phone. Possible shopping online.
Considering what I might make for dinner,
and whether tonight will be the night
that I do a little cleaning and straightening
before I collapse like a heap of sad,
devoid-of-willpower sack of laundry onto the bed,
where I will watch more episodes of Veronica Mars.
Also, come to think of it,
thinking about Veronica Mars.
I should also take a brisk walk around the campus.
I have a full slate of appointments with students in the Learning Commons-stroke-Dungeon, which has suddenly become porous with last minute cancellations. I have, as it turns out, forty unscheduled minutes to take this brisk walk (once I have finished blogging).
I am, instead, blogging. And thinking about where I will stash
my techno-stuff, and about whether, maybe, I should be grading?
Also, how does eating the orange I have in my bag
fit into this plan of walking?
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Good Lord.
It's been more than a week! The silence(-ish) has been good for me.
Random bits:
The desert in the springtime is glorious. Bright, clear, dry, warm. Smells like orange blossom. I recommend it.
Seeing the people you love in faraway places is both wonderful and difficult. Even from the very first moment, I find I have to stop my mind from ticking with the moments passing. Time feels loud, if you let it. So you can't let it loom, all tickety-tock. But it's still there, all tickety-tock.
That said: we went on little hikes and to a children's museum and had a picnic here and shrimp al diablo there (pro tip: at Mexican restaurants in Mesa, when they say "al diablo" they are not kidding around). We watched movies and made drawings and built edifices with Lincoln Logs. It was wonderful. And then difficult, because we had to leave.
But you do have to leave. People have things to do, the people there, and you yourself also, your own little long list of things you must do.
The best thing about spring break: going to see the people you love.
The other best thing about spring break: being in your own home, in your own place, quiet, just you and the dog, doing the things on your list. [Bruiser's list: bark at the UPS guy; take a nap; take a nap in an auxiliary location; bark at kids walking home from school; backup napping.]
The list: long, but elastic. To include:
One thing that always makes me feel like spring is coming: new white jeans. I found some perfect ones, you guys. I will be wearing them substantially before Memorial Day, and I will be the vernal equinoctial harbinger--one of them, anyway--of tulips, snowdrops, crocus, and all the light to come.
•|•
Random bits:
The desert in the springtime is glorious. Bright, clear, dry, warm. Smells like orange blossom. I recommend it.
•|•
•|•
•|•
But you do have to leave. People have things to do, the people there, and you yourself also, your own little long list of things you must do.
•|•
The best thing about spring break: going to see the people you love.
The other best thing about spring break: being in your own home, in your own place, quiet, just you and the dog, doing the things on your list. [Bruiser's list: bark at the UPS guy; take a nap; take a nap in an auxiliary location; bark at kids walking home from school; backup napping.]
•|•
The list: long, but elastic. To include:
- catching up on grading (nowhere near complete);
- read book for book group (making progress);
- mail this and that (check);
- get visa for travel to China (gaa!);
- put away heavy woolen clothing (check!);
- count the weeks till the semester is over (it's moving right along, folks);
- nag Scotland daughter perpetually about her trip to America (I'm very good at this);
- video and other chat with all sorts of children and grandchildren (who needs to grade?);
- visit daughter and grandson and granddaughter (check! at Costco!);
- read other book compulsively (done!);
- eat Girl Scout cookies (Q: how many is too many?).
- Laundry and assorted chores.
•|•
One thing that always makes me feel like spring is coming: new white jeans. I found some perfect ones, you guys. I will be wearing them substantially before Memorial Day, and I will be the vernal equinoctial harbinger--one of them, anyway--of tulips, snowdrops, crocus, and all the light to come.
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