the ineffable

I imagine that any thinking person who speaks English as a first language feels at least a little frustrated by all the bad grammar that punctuates a given day. The people we work with send embarrassing gibberish e-mails, thinking that all will be forgiven by that little tag at the bottom: Sent from my Blackberry. I have often thought someone like me could probably make a living purely by editing, say, the menus at Indian restaurants. So on/so forth.

As a member of the grammar police, I find this especially tough. Consider, for instance, that I mentally edit everything I read, thinking about ways in which I might write a given sentence differently. Often it’s a matter of style, but if we’re talking about a straight-up error I will actually take pen to paper and mark my correction in, for example, the novel I’m reading.

Sometimes I wonder if editing comes from the same place as OCD. Wouldn’t it be interesting if someone classified jobs using the DSM-IV’s axis system? Because, first of all, some jobs—firefighters, salespeople, models—should be recognized as mental illness. And secondly, this explains why I want to be a grocery store clerk.

In any case, we each have our own peeves and tics. Mine, for many years, was the ubiquitous errant apostrophe. I would tool around town, reeling from signage that blatantly misrepresented possessives, wondering How can I be expected to carry on in a world that is unaware of the chasm between its and it’s?

But then, in college, I became a pet owner and was exposed to the most egregious error of them all: the quotation marks that vets put around pets’ names. My beloved cat Tippy became “Tippy.” At first I thought it was just more bad grammar from the functionally illiterate minds of The Great Unwashed.

But then I got to thinking—maybe those quotation marks meant something more. Were they, in fact, a symbolic gesture? Here at the vet’s office, your pet is not family; it is “family.” The quotation marks turn an animal into an abstraction, removes the familiar by calling into question the most basic unit of an animal’s identity. Its mocking little “voice” implies something alien, something Other.

On the other hand, maybe those quotation marks represent an animal-centric point of view, as in: maybe the name Tippy does not quite capture the snarling tangle of feral beast buried deep inside that fat orange cat. To you, he is Tippy. But to “Tippy,” and to us here at the vet’s office, his foolish slave name simply doesn’t do justice to this reluctantly domesticated creature that might, at any moment, throw off the shackles of a life indoors and find his rightful place in the natural world.

Tippy used to make this terrible guttural garrrrwwowl sound whenever he could, say, see the bottom of his food bowl. It was a truly unholy howl that was somewhere between an air raid siren and bagpipes. And in those moments I glimpsed something that, just maybe, I hadn’t quite captured in his sweet little name...a name that some might say would have suited a better-natured cat anyway. And while I have a well-developed sense of irony, to me he will always be Tippy—emphatic, unadorned, familiar, and loved.

deep thoughts

A new feature that promotes rigorous philosophical inquiry via instant message.

In today's partial transcript, shiveringjemmy and nietzchehag29* will explore the complexities of life, love, and cyberstrumpets.

shiveringjemmy: question: how many facebook friends do you have to have slept with to be considered a slut?

nietzchehag29: this is a question that makes me anxious. also, do we mean slut in the awesome way, or in the "you have soul aids" kind of way?

shiveringjemmy: OMG soul aids. I love you.

shiveringjemmy: I'm not sure?

nietzchehag29: I'd say 15?

shiveringjemmy: 15? You totally have soul aids.

nietzchehag29: I think maybe seven? that sounds about right

shiveringjemmy: seven is respectable.

[end transcript]

Hypothesis: While the cyberstrumpet formula involves a complex analysis of the Facebook-friends-to-benefits ratio, wholesome persons should aim for a single-digit beneficiary scenario.

*Names may have been changed to protect anonymity.

sunny-side up

Friends, I am weary.

Work has been really busy lately, and the truth is that I just wasn't made to be busy. I am clearly of a different era and class...a time and place where it was possible to lead a life of leisure, or (even better) when ladies could take to their beds without being asked too many questions.

I've been too weary even to write a real post, and there's nothing sadder than a neglected blog. But I am working on adopting a better attitude, and while that is obviously futile and ridiculous (see!), I thought I'd take a break from complaining about the things that make me miserable and write this cheerful little post about the things I'm loving lately.


What I'm Listening To: The Ricky Gervais Guide to...Natural History
I'm a huge fan of the Ricky Gervais podcasts, and the iTunes store has promised me that this one discusses "genital aesthetics." Brilliant!


What I'm Drinking: Cappuccinos
I got one of these Bialetti stovetop cappuccino makers for xmas and it's just swell. I use Peet's espresso forte.


How I'm Impressing My Friends: Bacon-Wrapped Dates
Three ingredients: halved bacon strips, halved medjool dates, and almonds. Smush a half-date around the almond and wrap with a half-slice of bacon. Bake at 375, turning once, until the bacon looks crispy.


Recently Purchased: Feather Duster
My new ostrich feather duster is a source of endless delight. I love the way it's so perky and menacing at the same time.


Recently Delighted By (Part One): Editorial Commercials
Have you watched that crazy show about the couple who has 18 children? Somehow they seem less fucked up than Jon & Kate even though they have ten more children AND super creepy religious beliefs. But my favorite thing about this show is the Plan B adverts that are shown during every single commercial break. Well played, Madmen.


Recently Delighted By (Part Two): Animal Cracker Cookie Cutters
A gift from my sister. I recently had a baby shower for friends and they were somehow cute without seeming obnoxious.


What I'm Reading: The Braindead Megaphone by George Saunders
Another gift from my sister. She went to a David Sedaris reading and wanted him to sign something as a gift for me. I already had all his books, so he signed this instead. How cool is that?


What I'm Watching: Veronica Mars

I wish I could quit my life and become a girl detective. Or a grocery store clerk. There's not an awesome show about grocery store clerks, though.

the bitter strumpet

"I'd like to begin by saying Fuck Lance Armstrong. Fuck him and his balls and his bicycles and his steroids and his yellow shirts. I'm sick of that asshole...and while you're at it, fuck Tiger Woods, too."

George Carlin is a continuing source of inspiration for me as I refine my curmudgeonly 'tude. Sometimes, as I sit here and rage at, say, D's subletter, who blasts her stereo so loud that my veins pulse like I've been stuffed in the trunk of a car with blown speakers, I wonder: is this what it's like to grow old? To shake my impotent fist at the neighbor's devil music?

It doesn't help that I'm housebound due to Chicago being one big ball of blizzard for the foreseeable future. Today my mother brought up the ice traction cleats during our debriefing after the 24 premier--a sure sign of dark days ahead.

In other words: mama needs a drink. And by "mama," I am of course referring to my own barren, drunken self.

I have never been much of a fan of what we in the South refer to as "liquor drinks," but I found my interest kindled after I discovered The Violet Hour, my favorite bar in Chicago. A number of experiments followed, which resulted in the following recipe:


"The Bitter Strumpet"
A Cocktail for the Disaffected

4 to 6 ounces grapefruit juice (fresh-squeezed preferred)
1.5 ounces chilled vodka (Stoli preferred)
1 ounce Campari

Shake over ice; pour in a glass. Imbibe with ill will.

Easy peasy!

A few etymological notes: The "bitter" gestures to the Campari, of course, which is basically syrupy bile. "Strumpet" was chosen because cocktails (and especially rosy-colored cocktails) are totally slutty.

tv wars

I’m a relatively recent convert to the television series Gossip Girl. Here’s what I know: Serena maybe killed someone back when she was a coke whore; Blair is my fashion idol; I am a 30-year-old woman who is in love with Chuck Bass, who may or may not be a teenager in real life (I’m too scared to look into this); and Jacob Clifton, my very favorite recapper on all of TwoP, is a snarky emo ironical genius.

I’m an even more recent convert to the television series The Secret Life of an American Teenager. Here’s what I know: some ugly dorkwad got knocked up by the town rebel at band camp; ABC Family has a thinly veiled misogynistic agenda; the Corky-re actor may or may not be experiencing a second wind; and Molly Ringwald should kill herself in real life.

The interesting thing is that both shows are about the weird ways in which teenagers are stuck in this limbo between their juvenile and adult lives. But while Gossip Girl is just Dawson dressed up in the emperor’s clothes (i.e., well dressed children talking like characters in a David Mamet screenplay), The Secret Life is a love letter to crazy “Christians” who get married before they’re old enough to drive. The CW formula is something like Tyra + Passions - Two Decades = Escapist Fantasy, whereas ABC Family is more like Sermons – Church + Ugly-People Sex = Weirdest Ever Abstinence Advert.

I plan to google what James Dobson thinks about all this. I will let you know.