Word Nerd,

September Update: A Job Finally and Chevy Chase in Person

2009-09-11T17:20:00.003-05:00

If you follow my Facebook updates you already know, I got a job. Starting Monday I'll be working for SingerLewak Accountants and Consultants, proofreading financial statements for the auditing division. (Don't worry; that doesn't require me to do any actual numbers work.) Next week sometime they should be sending me down to Irvine for four days of training (that's about an hour south of here), and then, praise Jesus, I'll be a full-time employee, with health insurance and paid time off and everything. And it only took me seven months of looking.

The job itself promises to be tedious--in fact, high tolerance for monotony was one of their requirements--but it's a stable company that's past the lay-off stage, and it's a job I know how to do and do well. So, yay. Next item on the list is to find an apartment closer to work, maybe something in Santa Monica if I'm lucky. I'm settling in for the long haul.

In slightly more glamorous news, my friend April and I went to the Paley Center's NBC Fall Preview last night. We got to watch early sneak peeks of NBC's new shows Trauma, Mercy and Community, the first two so early they hadn't finished color correction or visual effects, and instead of opening titles we got a screen that read, "Opening Title, :07."

Community, on the other hand, not only offered a completed pilot but a panel with the producers and cast, including Joel McHale and Chevy Chase. At this point, McHale is still "Joel McHale from The Soup," but once this show airs he ought to graduate to just "Joel McHale." The show's very funny, and it's packed with ringers: besides McHale and Chase, there's John Oliver from The Daily Show, Ken Jeong from The Hangover, Yvette Nicole Brown from about a million shows, and Danny Pudi, who's probably played the Indian guy on some show you've seen recently. As for Chevy, he had a lot of fun on the panel playing around with his famous a-hole persona, but if he's really the dillhole diva he's sometimes rumored to be, his co-workers have an awful lot of fun mocking him in public. You may think because you're Chevy Chase you can get away with wearing army fatigue pants to a panel, but your producer will still call you Steve Irwin, and your twenty-something castmate will still laugh out loud when you don't know what Twitter is.

Oh, and if it needs to be said: I'm nowhere near the fires.

--SA

August Update

2009-08-23T16:14:00.006-05:00

Hey, so I have a gig! It's a tiny gig--like, I've been working at it two weeks and I've just about earned enough to buy myself a nice cold coke--but it's work, and my name's on it. It's a column about Culver City food, and you can check it out he re. It's slanted to local events and locales, but the recipes are, of course, useful anywhere. And the good news is, you lovely people can help me earn money just by clicking the link! I earn for every page view and subscriber, so every time you check my page it's a penny right in my pocket. Won't you help me buy a second coke? Pretty please? And don't forget to come back over and over and over. I post about three stories a week (and you'll get them all if you subscribe).

Let's see, what else? Still looking for an actual, rent-paying job. It's been six months now, and I'm pretty tired of looking. As of a week ago I'm hosting a Mad Men TV club; we were four last week, and we'll see how many turn out tonight. (Good show, btw; check it out if you're a fan of literary TV.) I'm doing a work exchange with a friend I made through another TV club. We're both working on one-hours (hers a spec of an existing show, mine an original pilot). Friday we exchanged outlines, Wednesday we'll give each other notes. I can't tell you how much more I'm getting done with somebody waiting to see my product.

Otherwise, let's see...there was something else I wanted to tell you. What was it. Think, think...Oh, yeah! I cut all my hair off.

Ha, ha, just kidding; this is me.

It started as a trim, then everything after that is a little fuzzy. I don't know, it's possible my scissors are possessed by the spirit of Young Meg Ryan; we're looking into it.

-SA

August Post: I Prefer My Irony Fictional, Thanks

2009-08-07T16:22:00.003-05:00

Well, be careful what you wish for. I've been wishing for something sufficiently interesting to blog about for weeks, and now I have it. The very next day after getting my first paid writing gig (not the kind of swanky gig that would pay my rent or even buy my groceries, but a gig nonetheless), my computer's crashed. It's been breaking down pretty rapidly for the past several weeks--it doesn't hibernate properly anymore, which is a real problem since it overheats pretty easily, plus the CD drive's quit and the power cord's disintegrating--but yesterday it actually died and refused to revive for several hours. I'm rapidly approaching the point at which fixing it would cost more than replacing it, and since the writing gig I have and the others for which I'm applying require, as it turns out, the use of a computer, I don't have time for the so-called Geek Squad to ship it off to their mysterious factory for a few weeks. But of course--and you knew this was coming, right?--I can't afford a new one. If I could string together enough of these little freelance jobs, and ate nothing but beans and cornbread (and the occasional orange, to ward off scurvy) for the next few months, I might be able to save enough to buy a computer...but to get and complete those jobs, I need a computer. It's a frickin' O. Henry story around here, is what I'm saying.

You guys, I don't know what to do. Well, I know to go buy the cheapest thumb drive I can find and back up all my files, but past that, I don't know what to do. Help?

-SA

First Week of June: Spec/Pilot, TV Club, Kurtzman and Orci

2009-06-05T23:16:00.003-05:00

Well, life's still pretty uneventful. I spend most of my time either working on the spec script I need to enter the studios' various entry-level TV writers' programs (deadlines end of June or mid-July) or putting off working on the spec. Now that I should be working on a spec of an existing show, of course, suddenly I'm totally motivated to work on my original pilot. I fully expect this situation to reverse once the deadlines pass and I ought to be working on something original.

I'm still dragging myself out of the house for networking events a couple times a month, but I find the bar scene frustrating. People tend to gather in tight little knots--not least because the music's so loud you can't hear the person next to you unless you put your ear to her mouth--and even when you do manage to break into a knot or corral a straggler it's mostly small talk. The whole experience is like speed dating without the structure. Or the satisfaction.

But, while it's easier to complain, it's ultimately more useful to puzzle and solve. So, starting last night I held my first TV club (like a book club, but with a TV show). I had half a dozen fellow aspiring writers over to my house to watch Burn Notice and talk about it afterward. It was kind of awesome, if I do say so myself. It was a small enough group everyone got to chime in, and I think after ten weeks of talking to these people I'll actually know them well enough to call them friends. Inspiring, challenging, uniting, potentially one day leading to employment: that's what I want from a networking mixer. By request, I'm starting up another club for True Blood; if these go well I'll keep organizing them for new shows in the fall and spring. Besides the physical meetups, we also have a Facebook group with a discussion board and we're exchanging emails. And since I'm administrating the whole thing, everyone knows who I am, so I'm not just networking with people, I'm making an impression. It's a totally self-created opportunity and I'm pretty proud of it. Thank you very much.

What else...Oh, the other day the roommate and I went to a WGA panel with Alex Kurtzman and Roberto Orci, the writing team behind, let's see, The Legend of Zorro, Mission: Impossible III, Transformers and its upcoming sequel, the new Star Trek movie and the TV shows Alias and Fringe--and, apparently, the episode of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys where Hercules gets turned into a pig. You know, "Porkules." They were quite the comedy team up on stage; they actually made me wish I had a partner...until I remembered I don't actually like people. That's a hurdle. Oh, and for all those who read this blog solely for vicarious star-spotting (you know who you are): Masi Oka from Heroes was totally there. A trekker, perhaps?

Until next time,

SA

May Doldrums

2009-05-21T02:12:00.002-05:00

I haven't been blogging for a while because I really haven't had anything to say besides "more of the same." It's not that nothing has happened: Mom and Aunt Sara came to visit, and I experienced my first (and second) earthquake, but otherwise...huh. Not much new. The earthquake was strange--at first I thought the neighbors were just being unusually rowdy--but it was a short-lived excitement, and then I was back to the day-in, day-out, sending resumes, doing laundry, eating turkey sandwiches, daydreaming about fictional people, waiting patiently for my break. I could pretend there was something worth writing about there, and if I were a good blogger I would, but alas, I am not and will not.

How about all of you?

Week Eight, As It Turns Out: Things to Do When You're Bored and Jobless

2009-04-11T16:27:00.009-05:00

1. Take a personality test. According to the Jung test at similarminds.com, I'm a "mastermind" (INTJ), an "introverted intellectual with a preference for finding certainty. A builder of systems and the applier of theoretical models."* Sounds pretty accurate (and impressive, actually. Mwahahaha). I also scored a 5 on the Enneagram test, which means I feel "ambivalent about the world and consequently [my] mind is [my] best friend. Gifted in analysis and making sense of things, perception and invention come naturally. [My] inner world can become a hideaway from the real one." The language sounds a little fortune cookie, but I've never had a fortune cookie that accurate** (except one that read, "You are a lover of words. You should write a book someday." Also, another one that recommended I go shoe shopping).

Seriously, if you haven't taken a personality test before, or haven't taken one in a while, I recommend it. It's fun even if you do have a job--and I want to know what all of you score (leave 'em in the comments!).

2. Perfect your biscuit recipe. I found a recipe for the fluffy, buttery drop biscuits like they serve at Red Lobster (but without the weird metallic taste Red Lobster biscuits seem to have). Delicious, but not nearly as good the next day, and there's no way you could make a sandwich out of them, never mind slathering them in sausage gravy. Back to the butter:shortening mix (1:2) and rolling, this time with a little more salt and a bit of sugar. Word to the wise: do not use kosher salt in biscuits. The biscuits are great, but the large flakes of salt go off like saline bombs on my tongue. It's disconcerting.

3. Explore Save the Words, a website dedicated to saving little-used words from disappearing from the English language altogether. Finally, a site full of words I've never heard before. It's like discovering a whole new room in your house you didn't even know you had.

4. Cut your own hair. Well, what's a girl to do when she's ready for a change and can't afford to pay someone else to make it? Tell herself that hair grows back and pull out the scissors, that's what.

While it's nothing a competent stylist couldn't improve, I'm pretty proud. And hey, if anyone else wants to try this one too, send me pics (no fair, guys who use clippers).

5. Apply for jobs. I got a rejection letter from a temp agency a couple days ago (a temp agency!), and when I wrote back to ask if there was anything I could do to make myself a better candidate, they explained they're getting hundreds of applications for a handful of positions. You know it's bad out there when temp agencies won't even put you on the books.

And that, sadly, is it for this week. Don't forget to take your own personality test (the link is here) and leave your scores (with explanations) in the comments!

Until next week,
SA

*The actual spread, I'm glad to say, is fairly balanced, nothing alarmingly high or low:
Introverted (I) 67.74% Extroverted (E) 32.26%
Intuitive (N) 51.35% Sensing (S) 48.65%
Thinking (T) 68.75% Feeling (F) 31.25%
Judging (J) 53.85% Perceiving (P) 46.15%

**Of course, that's exactly what an INTJ/5 would say. And this footnote is exactly the kind of thing an INTJ/5 would add to having said it (etc.).

Week I-Don't-Know-Which: Let the Frenzy Begin

2009-04-03T00:05:00.007-05:00

Wow, it's been way too long since I blogged, hasn't it. Let's see, what have I been up to? Well, not working, sadly, though compared to a lot of people these days I haven't been unemployed that long. I read on Slate the other day that the average person who gets laid off in this recession will be out of work five months. Five months. So, good news, I'm not a huge loser. Bad news, I've got a lot more unemployment to look forward to. I may need to downgrade to eating meat every other day.

Otherwise, I'm doing pretty well. I'm still seeing lots of (free) movies with my roommate, going to writer's events, going to networking events. Last week I went to a WGA panel with the writers of Lost, and yep, I still really want to do what they do. They all said they were waiters before they were assistants, and assistants before they were paid writers. It's what I've been hearing everywhere: you have to be there, meeting people, making a good impression, and then when you find people willing to read you, you have to have something good for them to read.

To that end, I'm doing Script Frenzy now, an annual online event challenging aspiring writers to finish a 100-page script in the month of April. I'm writing a pilot (that's the first episode of a TV show, in this case a hypothetical one), and hopefully a spec as well. Spec is short for on speculation, as in the opposite of paid; it's an episode of an existing show to showcase your writing skills and your ability to mimic someone else's show. Several of the big TV studios run workshops or fellowship programs that can get you an agent or even a staff gig, and those applications require a spec. Agents and showrunners, though, apparently like to read pilots. So in the next month I'll be attempting a finished pilot (one hour equals 45-65 pages) and at least part of a spec to hit my 100-page mark. Wish me luck!

And that's me for now. Hope you're all doing well, and remember to keep praying for Angie. Till next time, love to you all and thanks for your comments,

SA

P. S. For those of you who just read these things for the star spotting adventures, I did pass the ER wrap party red carpet on the street across from one of my writer's meetings last weekend. I only managed to spot one star, but he was a pretty good one: Uncle Jesse himself, Mr. John Stamos. Enjoy.

Pray for Angie

2009-03-19T13:26:00.002-05:00

My cousin Angie has colon cancer. She still needs more tests, but apparently a good prognosis has her losing only parts of her colon (and as Daniel can tell you, losing part of your colon is very survivable). If the tests go poorly, however, she may lose her entire colon, which means an external bag. We're praying hard that she gets a good prognosis; please join us.

Angie has a wonderful husband, Chris, and two preschool-aged boys, Tyler and Ethan.

Extremely Belated Week Four: With Belated Pictures!

2009-03-18T18:58:00.007-05:00

Not too much going on last week (and yes, still no job), so I'm just going to include pics of my new digs. First, the neighborhood:

See, Grandmother? Nice, safe neighborhood. No bars on the windows, no drug dealers on the corners, not a single graffito. The neighbors are friendly, and look how sunny it is, even in mid-winter! Seriously, guys, it's a chilly evening when I have to put on socks.

This is my room, or as much of it as I could get from the doorway:

Cozy but functional. The shared bathroom:

Can you believe there was a time people built bathrooms with no counter tops and no cabinets of any sort? Seriously, there's nothing behind the door but wall and a very shallow shelf.

The living room is all Josan's, but it's lovely:

And I didn't bother photographing them, but there's also a washer and dryer (woohoo!). I really love the house, and I really love Josan. I'm feeling pretty blessed, living-wise.

Now I just need a job to pay for it all.

-SA

Week Three (I Think): The Networking Mixer

2009-03-06T23:35:00.011-06:00

OK, I completely skipped posting last week so I'm going to be good this week and blog on Friday instead of putting it off to Sunday. Fortunately it's mostly been more of the same, so a blog covering two weeks won't be any longer than the one-week version. Shouldn't be, anyway. Nobody measure.

So, for those of you still reading, I attended my first networking mixer tonight. One of the toughest parts of breaking into the entertainment business, in any role (no pun intended), is getting a "break." It's not like becoming an accountant, where you get a degree and maybe a certification, then you send out resumes, interview and (hopefully) get hired. There's no direct path to writing for television. TV shows don't send recruiters to colleges, or advertise jobs on Monster, and even if you could find a showrunner's email address he or she wouldn't read your resume if you sent it. How do TV producers find writers? They hire their friends. They hire their friends' friends. They promote their assistants. They basically hire people they know or people vouched for by people they know. So how do you break into the TV business? You know people. You know as many people as possible, and you convince as many of them as you can that you're a) talented and b) likeable (they're equally important--TV writers spend a lot of time stuck in a room together).

Unfortunately, a lot of writers are like me: shy. I mean, as a general rule, the extroverts who aspire to the entertainment business shoot for acting or maybe directing. The introverts aspire to the safely off-stage writing.

So how do introverts get to know people? Well the internet has been a God-send, I'll say that. But there's still no substitute for face time, and that's where networking mixers come in. You get an invite from a friend or acquaintance (see, you have to know people to even meet people), try to put together an outfit that looks cool and current but not like you're trying too hard (I have a theory that in LA, unless you're actually on a red carpet, you can never go wrong with a nice pair of jeans), show up to an expensive bar and try to strike up conversations with as many strangers as possible. It's sort of the opposite of what any introvert would describe as fun.

I had no trouble finding the X Bar (sadly, no mutants...that I know of), but I drove around another fifteen or twenty very frustrating minutes trying to figure out where I was supposed to park (answer: valet, and get the bartender to validate your ticket). So by the time I got inside, all I wanted to do was turn around and leave. I'd already valeted my car, though, and I'm working really hard to save money, so I couldn't let that $6 go to waste (that's right, $6 to park with validation). I ordered a Pepsi, sat in a booth and said a little prayer. Almost immediately a couple passing by caught my eye, asked if I was there for the TV writers mixer, and accepted my invitation to sit. Ladies and gentlemen, for me, that is a major victory.

Networking mixers are a little like speed-dating. There's no bell to send you to the next person, but whenever the conversaton flags or one or the other of you gets bored you make noise about saying hi to someone else and look for your next new friend. I made it a goal to meet five people before I fled, but after I made my quota, as I was jotting down names and reminders in my notebook, another newcomer caught my eye and, after a little conversation, offered to introduce me to the event organizer (i.e. the most networked person there). So I met her, and two more of her friends, bringing my total number of new acquaintances to nine. I have to quit surpassing my goals like that or I won't have anything left to shoot for.

After talking with each of them enough to hopefully make some kind of impression, I slipped out. Now I'm back home, enjoying my idea of an excellent Friday night: velour lounge pants, comfy couch, blinking cursor and the sound of the washing machine rumbling in the background. Now that's a nice evening.

Otherwise: Josan took me to a "Script to Screen" panel at the WGA that featured several studio execs, an agent (the Spink half of Benderspink--that'll mean something to the LA folks), and a writer (they guy who wrote The Rock and Con Air, who arrived late and slightly buzzed and was absolutely the most entertaining and informative person on the panel). Also, my favorite first cousin once removed, Lee Ann, sent me a link to the UTA job list and I sent out resumes for assistant positions, but still no solid leads on a job. Keep praying.

Was that shorter than my last couple of posts? We'll say it was and wrap up. Until next week,

SA

P.S. Think this post was too long? Confused about what a Spink is? Pretty sure Lee Ann is actually my second cousin? Leave a comment! It's like leaving your mark in the world, without having to accomplish anything or deface a national monument.

Mistake of the Week, 21-Feb-09: First Week in LA Edition

2009-02-21T19:47:00.007-06:00

From the credits to Fanboys, an actual movie starring real actors (including Carrie Fisher, William Shatner and Billie Dee Williams) and distributed by a real studio (which currently has a film in the running for Best Picture, actually):

"Thanks to Skywalker Ranch and all it's staff."

For those still on tenterhooks since my last post, I've reached LA! Mom graciously sold me her Taurus, which Dad and I hitched to the back of his F350, and he and I drove straight through from Dallas to Los Angeles in 28 hours. Let me tell you, Arizona? Just as empty as you always heard.

The Room: I'm renting a room from a woman in Culver City, smack dab in the middle of Los Angeles--south of Hollywood, north of LAX, sandwiched between Santa Monica and downtown. The room is in a duplex in a nice, quiet residential neighborhood, and there's a grocery store and a handful of restaurants within walking distance. (Alisha and I tried the Indian restaurant today, and it was pretty good--spicy but not too spicy, lots of nan.) The room itself is small, and I'm sharing a bathroom, but I seem to have room for everything. Now if only the kitchen were a little bigger...

The Roommate: Josan (pronounced Joanne but with an S in the middle) is a 25-year LA veteran, originally from Detroit. When I first met her, she told me once she took a trip to New Orleans and in the airport she heard a man say he was "fixin' to" do something--and when she turned around, he was white! (Yes, that's right, Yankees: "fixin' to" is a Southernism, not an African-Americanism.)

Josan is lovely, and she's gone way out of her way to make me feel welcome, taking me along to different social engagements, brainstorming different parts of town to show me (we had beignets and cafe au laits in the Farmer's Market at the Grove last night). She's a writer herself, an actual member of the WGA, so we finished the night out at one of the Guild's free movie screenings--in this case, Fanboys (I liked the movie better than Ebert, but I did think Kristen Bell was wasted). Tonight she took me to Beverly Hills for a reading of The Importance of Being Ernest. Apparently two brothers she knows from church, Chaz and Don Butler (sons of Daws Butler, the voice of Yogi Bear, among many others), stage informal readings of classic plays every few months with friends in their home. It was an ecclectic group, with varying degrees of skill, but it was a lot of fun all the same (I did Gwendolyn to raves, darling, raves). In May we're doing Pygmalion--time to brush up on my (terrible, terrible) Cockney accent!

The Job Hunt: So far, no joy. I'm sending out resumes for copy editing, proofreading and copywriting jobs, and I think starting next week I'll be sending assistant and administrative assistant resumes to agencies and studios, just to see if I can get a foot in the door. Keep praying!

I wanted to have pictures of my room and the neighborhood for this post, but I only just found a desk, so a lot of my room is still in boxes (big, big thanks to Alisha for spending her Saturday afternoon helping me put the desk together). I'll try to get those for next week's post. Until then, remember, it's means it is; its describes the properties of it. That little apostrophe is all that stands between us and anarchy, people.

Love,
SA

P.S. If you haven't already done so, leave me a comment! I'm curious to know who reads these posts.

Raise Your Hand If You Know What a Head Gasket Does

2009-02-11T20:14:00.002-06:00

So, change of plans. Dad finally fixed the car last night--turns out the acceleration problems and, of course, check engine light were because of faulty spark plugs--and I spent my morning renewing the registration and getting it inspected before driving it out to California. They even gave me new plates for the car.

Then, approximately half an hour after I passed the inspection, my car quit. In the middle lane of 121 going 65 mph. It made a buzzing noise when I touched the gas, it lost speed, then it stopped responding entirely.

I threw on the emergency lights and maneuvered off the highway and into a gas station parking lot; the sudden lack of power steering only added to the fun. By the time I opened the hood, the engine was smoking and something suspicious and green was leaking out of it.

The car was at 93,335.5 miles--just shy of the 100 thousand mile warranty expiration. I eventually got a tow to the dealer, and dad drove all the way from Arlington to Carrollton (for the non-locals, that's about an hour in good traffic) to pick me up and talk to the dealer. Long story short, the head gasket blew, it was leaking coolant but not pulling any more from the completely full well, and the engine burned up. They're totally willing to replace the engine--just as soon as we provide documentation that we've maintained it according to dealer recommendations. (Didn't replace the timing belt at 60,000 miles? Ooo, that could be a problem. Yes, of course the problem had nothing to do with the timing belt; that's not really the issue, is it?) And just as soon as Hyundai agrees to foot the bill, they'll order the new engine. From Korea.

Now if I were moving to New York or San Francisco or Seattle I'd just say "forget it" and go on carless. But not in LA. I've yet to hear or read anyone who thinks one can get along in Los Angeles without a vehicle of one's own. So now I can either hang out in Dallas another three weeks or so and wait until the Grey Goose gets a new heart, or I can move on and get a new car. And a quick peek at my bank account confirms that by "new" I mean "pre-owned" (a delightful term, like someone has taken the trouble of owning it for you so you don't have to bother).

At the moment, I'm trying to arrange the latter; we'll see how that goes. In the meantime, everybody lift my spirits by dropping me a comment to let me know you're reading. It's nice to know I'm not just talking to myself.

-SA

The Final Countdown

2009-02-10T21:25:00.009-06:00

For those keeping track, we're now T minus 34 hours. I had an awesome going away party tonight at Spring Creek Barbecue, with all the Stinsons not sick or out of town plus a few good friends. Aunt Cyndi even came all the way from Tanzania to see me! Well, her mother is in the hospital as well, but I'm sure that was a secondary consideration. Apparently everybody's excited about coming to visit me in LA. You know, it's funny: I never heard that when I moved to China. Bob and Doris Frazier came as well, but it turns out when they got the text inviting them they assumed it was from their grandson, who's on his way to China himself. They were pretty surprised to find my family instead of theirs at the restaurant, but they stayed anyway. After all, Spring Creek is good barbecue.

Twenty-four hours from now Dad will be at my house to load his truck, then Thursday morning he and I will start our four-state caravan to La-La Land. I've got a laundry list of chores to take care of tomorrow (Finish packing the bathroom and bedroom! Clean my car! Sell a couple hundred books to Half Price Books! Get my car inspected now that it's finally, finally running right!), and then it's just me, the road, my iPod and a walkie-talkie with Dad on the other end--truckin'.

I'm going to try to blog weekly once I'm out there, at least for the first few months. This means you all have permission to bug me if I go eight days without posting. In exchange, just to get an idea who all reads these, I'd like to hear a roll call. Shoot me a comment if you read this, either on the blog or on Facebook. I'm curious to know who my audience is (outside my mom and, if I'm funny enough, my dad). Holla!

-SA

Return from LA

2009-02-04T03:16:00.003-06:00

Warning: lengthy post ahead.

For a long time now I've had this fear that when I sing in church I'll end up sitting by a real musician. See, even though I know a little music (marching band, all four years of high school, baby!), my voice is only fair and when I sing harmony my aim is sometimes more shotgun than rifle. But even though I know I miss notes, I stick with alto, because it's my true range and because I enjoy the harmony. I just always hope nobody around me has perfect pitch and can appreciate how very, very badly I'm mangling the chords. So you can imagine how excited I was last Sunday to look over and realize I was sitting one pew behind Weird Al Yankovic.

Mr. Yankovic, if you're the kind of guy who googles himself and you find this post, I can only apologize.

For those who don't know, I spent all of last week in Los Angeles in preparation for moving there. I've felt pulled toward LA for a while now, and since I've just been laid off from my formerly cozy job, it looks like this is the time to finally take the leap. Through Culver Palms C of C I found a woman who'll rent me a room, I visited a couple of churches (Culver Palms and Hollywood) and liked both of them, and I visited some old and some new friends. All in all, I'm pretty excited about the move.

I'm also pretty scared. I've moved around a lot, but I've never moved somewhere without a job before, and you may have heard, the job market's not great anywhere at the moment. I have savings, but LA is far, far more expensive than Dallas (I have two different friends paying $1800 a month for a one-bedroom apartment out there), and I'm not sure how far they'll go. Plus, the industry I'm looking to break into, TV writing, is extremely competitive and lacks a clear entry--a lot of it's knowing someone who can get you a job, or get you read, or what have you. And have I mentioned there are fewer jobs out there now?

So I'm alternately psyched and psyched out. But like I said, I believe I see God signaling now is the time, so now I'm going, terrible market and all. Dad's driving me out a week from today, and then...God only knows.

Thanks to everybody who's been helping and continues to help me make this transition; I don't know what I'd do without the generous friends and family who look out for me. (Also, if anybody has a twin mattress and springs, I could really use them.) I'll try to post here regularly about my progress.

-SA

Just Got Back from Hollywood

2009-02-02T01:17:00.003-06:00

Lots to tell tomorrow, but here's an unrelated bit for now.

I got home late (11:30-ish), and thankfully my roommate's Super Bowl party had broken up. My roommate's friends are lovely, mind, but nobody likes coming home from a long trip to someone else's party. It was a church group, and mostly married adults, so aside from a few snacks in the kitchen the house didn't look much different than I'd left it (except for the laundry that migrated from the den to my bedroom; thanks, Amanda!). There was, however, one terrible sign of the evening's festivities: a dried yellow puddle behind the toilet seat.

Now I'm just going to full-on rant here, so pardon, but: what the crap, guys? Why is it that every time we have males over I find urine on the toilet? What's the thinking here? "Hey, if there's pee on the toilet, it shows I'm a man"? "Hey, this toilet isn't as nasty as my toilet"? "Hey, this isn't nearly as bad as what I could have left for her"? "Hey, screw her"? It cannot possibly be that you don't know how gross it is. It cannot possible be that you don't notice it happens. Brain damage or a horrible contempt for your fellow human beings are really the only viable possibilities I can come up with.

First: if you're not skilled enough with your willie to hit a great big target more or less directly beneath you, you're not skilled enough to pee standing up. Sit your butt down. Second: if somehow an accident happens (and hey, accidents happen), THERE IS TOILET PAPER RIGHT BESIDE YOU PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING HOLY JUST CLEAN IT UP CLEAN IT UP CLEAN IT UP. I'd really appreciate it.

Like I said, this is not an isolated incident; this is a pretty reliable pattern with male visitors. It's also just about everything women despise about men in one small, concentrated burst (yes, I went there). Please, men, I beg you: stop the madness. Get control of yourselves. Quit making me gag. Otherwise, I promise, THERE WILL BE MORE CAPS.

-SA

P.S. For the non-Americans out there, the Super Bowl is the final championship game for American football. Besides the football (and pretty much everything in my life is besides the football), the Super Bowl is primarily popular for its commercials, since corporations spend several million dollars per 15- or 30-second spot and therefore air the newest, craziest, funniest and most celebrity-filled ads they can put together. Some of them are actually good.

New Website

2009-01-24T12:15:00.001-06:00

Hey, everybody, I've got a website! Check it out: www.stinsoneditorial.com

Thanks to Alisha, Wayne and Jonathan for making it happen.

MotD 15-Jan-09: Tween Hotel Navel Gazing Edition

2009-01-15T14:40:00.004-06:00

From a hotel brochure, touting a reopening:

Originally opened in 1852, I now awake from a 30-year slumber and am reminded of
experiences and enchanted memories of yesteryear. I remember the delighted faces
of those who entered my grand entrance, the epic romances, secret lucrative business transactions, surreptitious admirations and other shenanigans that I shall never share.

There are no typographical errors (sorry if you wasted time looking). There were, but I'm sharing the cleaned up version, because typos are not what's important here; what's important is that you and I are reading a hotel's love letter...to itself. The hotel claims to be over 150 years old, but apparently that's just 12 in people years, because this is the kind of mannered, overwrought drivel many, many people write as they transition into adolescence, and of which, later in life, they are rightly ashamed. "Secret lucrative business transactions"? That's three--three--adjectives piled on one weak noun. That noun is about to collapse. That noun is a twelve-year-old twerp trying to bench press twice his own weight to impress the cheerleaders over on the elliptical trainers. Someone needs to have 911 dialed and ready to send, is what I'm saying. And "surreptitious admirations"? It's a secret crush, kid. The extra syllables just smell like flop sweat.

You guys, this is just the opening passage; this bilge went on for an entire page. And it got printed. An adult--no, several adults--looked at this, said, "yes, I want this writing to represent my company," and approved it. For that matter, an adult presumably wrote it. How? How do these things happen? Was everyone just afraid of the author (if he's a 12-year-old in a grownup's body, that's understandable)? Did no one dare say out loud, "this stinks like a mutt soaked in cheap perfume"? Is the entire hotel run by aliens whose exposure to earth-speak is limited to Harlequin novels? Is there actually a tween running this hotel? (Wait, that may be the premise of an actual Disney Channel show. What's the Suite Life thing about again?)

Look, I'm just going to say it: not everyone writes well. Writing is a skill. It requires talent and practice. It involves the word "shall" only in extreme circumstances (or legalese). When done poorly, it makes puppies cry. So please: when someone you love tries to publish crappy writing, don't enable. Just say "no." The sanity you save could be my own.

-SA

MotD 9-Jan-09: Pun on "Trip" Edition

2009-01-09T23:18:00.001-06:00

It's back! Mistake of the Day is back! Grab your friends, gather round, and bask in the glow of someone else's gaffe. From the safety instructions in a hotel guest services directory:

Do not answer the door in your room without verifying who it is.

If the door won't reveal its identity, just ignore it, no matter how loudly it calls. Actually, should you be worried that there's a door in your room that can talk? That's a little weird, right? Cause for concern? Maybe just ignore the door and call a doctor. Unless of course the phone starts talking before you've even dialed; in that case you should probably just RUN.

-SA

[Full disclosure: I would probably just leave this how it is, because the vast majority of people wouldn't be confused by the error, and making it technically correct would require a lot more words and more tortuous grammar. On this one, simplicity wins out.]

Thanksgiving 2008

2008-11-30T16:33:00.006-06:00

It's come, it's gone, and tomorrow I have to go back to work. After five Thanksgiving celebrations in one month, I'm ready to give turkey and dressing a rest--so I guess I'm most thankful that for Christmas we can have a nice brisket.

I didn't remember to bring a camera to the Stinson shindig, but these are some of my favorite pics from the two-day Holder gathering (follow this link to see the rest). Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

-SA

MotD 24-Nov-08: Hellfire Edition

2008-11-24T12:31:00.003-06:00

From the sign outside the little Presbyterian church around the corner from my house:

You cannot enter heaven until heaven enters us.

So don't even try! We'll beat you back! God may have extra room once we're all in, but don't expect to cut ahead of any of us! You should've joined when you had the chance, ha ha ha!

I should add, this sign was up for about two weeks. That's two weeks during which no one, not one single person, in the congregation noticed.

Also, I don't actually know if Presbyterians call it "joining."

-SA

MotD 19-Nov-08: Special Spanish-language Edition

2008-11-19T09:59:00.007-06:00

From the cover of a Spanish-language employee handbook:

MANUEL DEL ASOCIADO

Not sure what the mistake is? I'll give you a hint: the English translation should be "Associate Manual."

Still no? One more: the English translation is actually "Manuel of the Associate." See it now?

I know a lot of Spanish surnames begin with "Del" ("of, from"), and that many involve livelihoods (Guerrero, i.e. "Soldier"). So if this were actually Manuel's name, it would basically mean that his ancestors came from a town named Associate, famous no doubt for its natural abundance of low-level white-collar workers. Presumably none of the houses in the town have roofs or doors, just three grey, upholstered walls with a fluorescent light suspended above. The local pastime is, of course, data entry; and once a year everyone gathers for the single holiday, called Holiday and associated with no religion, creed or culture, during which the mayor (who is appointed by the nearby town of Corporate) passes out free booze to promote the idea that the citizens of Associate genuinely enjoy interacting socially.

Manuel is going to have such a good time when he finally saves up enough money to go visit his homeland. If he's smart, he'll time his trip to coincide with Holiday. After that three hours is up he can spend the rest of his vacation in Independently Wealthy.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 14-Nov-08

2008-11-12T15:30:00.003-06:00

As suggested by my brother, Jonathan, a headline from cnet.com:

ElectraTherm gets funds for 'waste-heat generator'

Is this one of those pure science applications that humanities types just don't understand? Why would you want to generate waste heat? The minute you generate it, it's wasted. It's downright Sisyphean--except Sisyphus didn't design his rock. And does the heat have to be wasted? If you somehow MacGyver a way to use the heat, does the device cease to be a waste-heat generator? If so, I hope they're working in a warm climate, because otherwise one day some lab assistant will inevitably stand too close to the machine on a chilly day and accidentally enjoy the warmth. And then what will they do? They got those funds for a waste-heat generator. All those months of work, down the drain.

I should add, those quote marks amuse me. Assuming the writer knows you only use quote marks to indicate, you know, quoting (it's a big assumption, I know, but bear with me), then they're actually a fairly subtle way to call out how dumb the writer and editor know this name to be. "Look, folks, this is what they're calling it--a 'waste-heat generator.' It's not our phrase, we're just reporting it." I get ya, Mr. Martin LaMonica; I get ya.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 7-Nov-08

2008-11-06T09:55:00.004-06:00

From a hotel brochure:

Menage á [RESTAURANT NAME REDACTED]
Bring three friends to the [REDACTED] for Dinner (four total) and receive a free round of cocktails.

Oh, [REDACTED]. I'm going to assume you took Spanish in high school. Or that you did take French, but spent the whole time looking up curse words in your French-English/English-French dictionary. Also, that there was a cute boy/girl/whatever in every math class you ever had. Because [REDACTED]? "Menage" means "household." And "ménage à trois" means "household of three." See, it's cute because it's more wink-wink-nudge-nudge than just saying "three people living together and all screwing each other." The point is, "menage a [REDACTED]" means "household of [REDACTED]," which maybe doesn't sound as titillating or adult as you'd hoped.

But even if you'd picked the right French word for three (that would be "trois"), a ménage à trois involves a couple plus one more--which in no way adds up to four. What you're offering is some kind of double-date special. Or, possibly, a family special. Come to think of it, if it were a family special, "ménage" goes back to being an appropriate word. But listen, [REDACTED], if a family special is what you're actually talking about, I should warn you, don't name it "Ménage à [REDACTED]." A lot of people think that word "ménage" is dirty.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 6-Nov-08

2008-11-06T09:29:00.003-06:00

From a guest services directory:

Long Distance Interstate Calls – $5.00 first 10 minutes, $1.00 for each additional 2 minutes.

Let me be upfront with you: I dislike math. I can do it (at least the elementary-level stuff), but I find it a chore, and if I have the option of using a calculator I generally will. But even I, who somehow muddle through life by rounding and approximating rather than performing actual mental calculations, cannot fathom why this hotel would quote the rate $1.00 for 2 minutes. That's $.50/minute, right? My basic division skills haven't eroded to such a degree that I can't halve 100? There are still four quarters in a dollar? Dogs still chase cats, and Santa brings gifts to the good boys and girls? Right? Right? I mean, look at it: $1/2 minutes. Does anyone look at that and not see half? Fifty cents, people! Just reduce the fraction!

I'm genuinely baffled by this one. Do they round up to two minutes? Do they have a crippling obsessive-compulsive need to keep prices round? Do they feel a religious conviction that all phone calls should last an even number of minutes? What's happening here? The world may never know.

But I would also like to point out, before I wrap up: $.50/minute for a domestic call? Not to get all "grumpy old man" on you, but I should be getting some dirty talk for that kind of price. Wait, let me check what kind of hotel this is again.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 2-Oct-08

2008-10-02T16:27:00.002-05:00

From a pizza menu - an item name:

I-DA-HO

Now, I assume this name has something to do with the fact that the pizza is made with potatoes (garlic mashed potatoes, in point of fact) and topped with the kinds of garnishes one might sprinkle over a baked potato. Nevertheless, I cannot fathom the reason for the dashes. Unless, of course, this pizza is sexually promiscuous and proud of it.

What do you think? Should I point out this possible misunderstanding to the client, or just let it pass?

-SA

Mistake of the Day 26-Aug-08

2008-08-26T10:10:00.004-05:00

From a housekeeping "do not disturb" response card:

We have acknowledged your request not to be disturbed while attempting to provide Housekeeping services.

I'm trying to decide what kind of hotel expects its guests to provide housekeeping services - and to prefer not to be disturbed while doing it. A special resort for the obsessive-compulsive, maybe? The hotel version of a Sack 'n Save? A retreat for guilty white liberals, where Hispanic maids are sent around, not to clean, but to witness the guests cleaning up after themselves (but how much are those maids being paid, eh? That's the real question)? Regardless, I salute the hotel's cheek in not only expecting its patrons to clean up after themselves but implying in its communications with them that it doesn't really expect them to succeed. Presumably the rest of the card reads, "Once you've finished your attempts we'll let you visit the spa while we do it right. Don't miss the Hot Aloe Pomegranate Sea Salt Shea Butter Zen Koan Rub - exactly like Confucius did it!"

But seriously: this is what happens when people try too hard to force the fancy. What these people really want to say is, "We came to clean your room but your Do Not Disturb light was on." See? Simple. Too simple, apparently--if we used plain English people might realize the emperor had no clothes. How will we charge them $2k a night for a hotel room then? So instead they add a lot of unnecessary flourishes and tortuous (and, if you're me, torturous) syntax in an attempt to denote "high-class." (There's that word "attempt" again.) And what do they come out with? Unintentional insults to their guests. It's like those tired "character attempts foreign language out of dictionary and accidentally speaks nonsense/insults locals" situations lazy comedy writers churn out. Except of course that the people who run this hotel speak English as a first language.

Hmph. I'm going to go reread Strunk & White now. Excuse me.

-SA

Geek Chic

2008-08-07T22:58:00.005-05:00

I knew a guy in college, a super-nice guy, who liked to refer to himself as a geek, and I always felt a little odd about it. I assumed it was because of the way he pushed that label for himself; it always makes me uncomfortable when people try too hard to label themselves for you, like they're afraid to let you figure them out for yourself. But recently, when browsing a web site touting geek-wear for tots, I realized there was a more concrete reason I didn't like the label for him: I'm not convinced he met the requirements.

The site (here--check out that adorable "I have an imaginary friend" design) shows all kinds of math and science jokes you can print on your baby's onesie; it even has music and literary options. But my friend didn't really follow any of those fields, certainly not with the single-minded glee I associate with geekdom. He just really liked sci-fi entertainment. I'm not sure what that made him, but the more I think about it the less I think that made him a geek. My dad will watch anything Trek, but he's far from a geek, and I doubt anyone who knew him would describe him that way. My brother, on the other hand, combines a love of sci-fi with a passion for computer programming, and that seems like a better fit for the term (hi, Jon-Jon!).

So I guess my position here is that it takes more than DVRing Battlestar Galactica to be a geek, just like it takes more than following the Cowboys to be an athlete. Geeks, for my money, are people with intense interests in particularized fields of study who actively participate in the field to at least some degree. But YMMV; what do you guys think?

-SA

P.S. On a side-note, are any of my high school or college friends not procreating right now? Show of hands.

ETA: Brunching.com just graphed out a geek hierarchy (i.e. a flowchart of who considers themselves less geek than whom). How does my "does something constructive" criterion feature in? You be the judge.

Mistake of the Day 29-Jul-08

2008-07-29T17:41:00.003-05:00

From a hotel restaurant menu, an item description:

1 large cookie with a 1/2 pint of milk

There's nothing technically wrong with this, except...why a half pint? Why not a cup? Though now that I think about it, they probably realized people would think of the container first instead of the measurement. I do wonder, though: how many people, off the tops of their heads, know what a half pint equals? I wasn't confident I did; I had to look it up--and I do a lot of cooking.

You know, guys, this may sound un-American, but...should we consider going metric? Our measurement system is a little bit medieval (three teaspoons in a tablespoon but four tablespoons in a quarter cup? Why?) and, frankly, hard to remember.

And not medieval and hard to remember in the charming way that our non-standardized language is.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 24-Jul-08

2008-07-24T10:38:00.001-05:00

From a resort event calendar:

Friday Evening Family Calm bake

We're...talking about drugs, here, aren't we. Won't anyone think of the children?

-SA

Catch-up Post

2008-07-18T11:46:00.003-05:00

I know I haven't posted in a while, but that's because I've been so very, very productive this week. See -

1. As of this week I'm officially registered for thesis work this fall. That's right, folks; I am getting this thing done.

2. I've started a second blog called TV on the Brain. I know, I know, I don't even keep up with this blog that well, but blog #2 will be less about me personally and more about, well, you can probably guess. Have a look! Comment! Please!

3. I've started studying Chinese again, according to the Bowditch method. (For those of you who never read Carry On, Mr. Bowditch in school, first, my condolences, and second, Nathaniel Bowditch, father of modern maritime navigation, learned foreign languages by reading Bibles side by side, since the English text is pretty familiar already, requiring less back and forth, and because if it's a written, human language, it's got a Bible translation.) I started in Genesis, and an hour and a half's steady work got me five verses in. Before you laugh, I'd like to see you work a Chinese dictionary (note: this challenge does not apply to my Chinese friends).

4. Since I am absolutely finishing my thesis this year, I'm putting together applications for LA TV writing fellowships, workshops, etc., for next year. I'm putting the finishing touches on my first totally complete spec script, and now I'm getting ready to mail it off and see if actual professionals think I can write. Competition's pretty fierce for these programs, so I'm just trusting that if this is where God wants me, this is where I'll end up.

5. Since the original spec I'm working on involves a lot of noir elements, I called a friend of a friend of a friend who works as a homicide detective for Dallas PD and set up an interview. He seems friendly and willing to help out, so hopefully he'll be a good resource for the kinds of small details that years of watching TV cops just won't tell you. I'm psyched; I even went out and bought a digital voice recorder for the interview. (By the way, if you're curious, send me a question before Monday and I can probably pass it on to Detective Quirk.)

6. I have some odd bumps on my hands, so I used my shiny new medical insurance for the first time and visited the doctor. (I mention this not because you'll find it interesting but to shore up my busyness claims.) Diagnosis? Can't say. Thanks, doc!

So, you see, I haven't been blowing you all off; I've just been swamped--but in a good way. In fact, I'm feeling pretty proud of myself. And now I've added "blogged" to my list of tasks accomplished this week. See? I'm on a roll!

Hope you're all doing just as well.

-SA

Daddy's All Right

2008-06-16T10:25:00.003-05:00

Yesterday was Father's Day (if this is news to you, my condolences). I visited my parents for the weekend and stayed for church on Sunday, just as I had on Mother's Day. The differences were interesting. My dad used to complain that on Mother's Day we got a sermon on how wonderful and angelic mothers are, and on Father's Day we got a sermon on how dads need to do a better job. Yesterday, at least, we didn't get the Dads, Shape Up sermon; we got no mention of the holiday at all.

Surely even if you didn't attend church yesterday (or didn't pay attention to the sermon if you did attend) you've noticed how differently the two holidays are treated. Madison Avenue bombards us with reminders in the run-up to Mother's Day, exhorting us to put our cash where our love is. Did you notice TV reminders about Father's Day? If they were there, they slipped by me.

I suspect this holiday imbalance reflects a larger cultural one. Take television (because what medium today acts as a better bellwether of our national psyche?), where it's getting hard to escape the Bad Dad cliche. Certain producers and showrunners, like J.J. Abrams (Lost, Alias, Felicity, and the upcoming Fringe) and Joss Whedon (Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly, and the upcoming Dollhouse) have become somewhat infamous for their Bad Dads, to the point that seeing or even hearing about a loving, non-abusive father on one of these shows is cause for surprise. There are exceptions, like Alias's Jack Bristow, but I strongly suspect his move from a shadowy figure embodying all the lies and betrayals of Sydney's past to morally gray but dependably loving daddy happened both because of Victor Garber's knockout performance and because Ron Rifkin's Arvin Sloane, another father figure repeatedly teased as Sydney's potential biological father, provided a sufficiently black-hearted contrast. When the choice is down to a ruthless, mass murdering egomaniac and a cold but ultimately guilt-ridden occasional murderer, the choice seems pretty clear, no? Mothers still come in good, bad and ambiguous models, but something about becoming a father seems to turn a man rotten to the core. Thank goodness the male protagonists so rarely procreate (though check out the dire and hilariously over-the-top consequences when Angel accidentally did). What's so bad about dads?

But maybe Whedon and Abrams are exceptions with particular axes to grind. Let's check out the rest of the TV landscape for a more representative sample. In the 2007-2008 season, the top-rated scripted programs were, in descending order, House, Desperate Housewives, CSI, Grey's Anatomy, NCIS, CSI:Miami, Two and a Half Men, Lost, Without a Trace, and Heroes. I don't watch all of these consistently enough to give a fair breakdown of their treatment of fathers, but here's what I do know:

House: none of the regulars are dads (despite the fact that they're all old enough to be), and we've only seen or heard anything significant about the eponymous hero's dad twice, once when he was played by R. Lee Ermey (the sadistic gunnery sergeant from Full Metal Jacket, who's been playing the same character ever since), and once when House confessed to his patient that his dad used to physically and rather creatively abuse him. Dads occasionally pop up as patients or patients' loved ones, and they're usually either incompetent or outright creepy (but then, all patients are on House).

Desperate Housewives: Mike reacted to his wife's pregnancy by developing a chemical dependency; Tom is a well-meaning doofus raising four regular-strength hellions and one extra-strength spawn of Satan; Rex just mostly neglected to defend his kids against their mother's crushing neuroses. In the guys' defense, though, the women are way worse. I've got to quit watching this show.

CSI, NCIS, CSI:Miami and Without a Trace: These are all police procedurals, so you'd really be surprised if the dads the assorted law enforcement officers come across weren't bad, creepy or incompetent--they're all suspects or red herrings. Of the principle characters, not many seem to be fathers; they're all devoted to their careers, and these aren't family shows. On CSI, Catherine's ex-husband and baby daddy was a dangerous user and loser, and on Without a Trace Jack lost his family in an acrimonious split from his wife.

Grey's Anatomy: Hoo-boy. We'll stick with the main character, Meredith Grey, whose father abandoned her with her cheating, emotionally abusive mother, then reappeared years later with a nice, new family, including two sisters Meredith didn't know she had. Then the new wife bought the farm in Meredith's hospital and Dad showed up drunk to ban Meredith from the funeral and smack her around a little. Said dad and his abandoning ways are also presented as at least half the reason (let's not underappreciate mom) Meredith is unable to commit to her dreamy, patient, perfectly coiffed paramour, Patrick Dempsey.

Two and a Half Men: Alan exposes his preteen son to Charlie Sheen. I think that covers it.

Lost: A J.J. Abrams joint. Daddies are alcoholics who try to make you complicit in major medical malpractice, then die in a foreign country visiting the illicit children they abandoned, then haunt you when you get stuck on the worst tropical island ever during an attempt to recover their bodies. Or they're just con men who steal your kidneys and paralyze you by pushing you out of 8-story buildings. Or you get in trouble for murdering them to stop them abusing your mom. Or they murder and/or betray your friends to try to rescue you, then stick you with grandma while they go get blown up. Or they turn your dreamy husband into a cold mob enforcer. I could go on.

Heroes: Double hoo-boy. The entire second season, and a good chunk of the first, was about kids cleaning up their parents' super-powered, world-destroying messes. To be fair, two of the twelve or so geniuses behind the Destroy the World to Save It program were women; also, even though the cheerleader's dad started out evil, Jack Coleman is the best actor on the show and Mr. Bennet the best character, so he got a limited pass into white-hat-land. Well, light-grey-hat-land. He may also get some sort of technical pass since he adopted Claire (he doesn't seem nearly as concerned about his son--but then, who is?).

And that about covers it. If TV teaches us anything (and it teaches us many things), it's that dads are evil. Why we have a holiday to celebrate them, I don't know. We don't celebrate Hitler Day, do we?

Of course, in real life, some dads are pretty crummy. Some dads really don't deserve a holiday. Mine does. He's smart, he's funny, he's actually handy in all the ways that stereotypical men pretend they are, he's patient, he's kind, he's godly, he's humble, he's supportive, he's loving, and I could go on. I don't write for TV (yet), but if I did I'd write a dad or two who was awesome, because I know from awesome dads. Happy Father's Day, Dad. It's no Sunday sermon, but I hope it'll do.

-SA

Everybody Wants Me

2008-06-12T13:45:00.002-05:00

I got no fewer than three separate pieces of mail this week welcoming me to the neighborhood. One was from a bank and two were from hospitals; all three offered me free gifts ("gift" checks and first aid kits, respectively) if I would send back a little more information about myself. Clearly they have too much information about me already.

How do they know who I am? All of this junk was addressed to me by name at my current address. I don't own that house, and I don't have a lease that a rental company could use to sell my info. I notified the post office about my change of address; I notified my various financial institutions. Who is selling my information?

I won't rant here about companies buying and selling individuals' private information like it was some sort of commodity (though you may feel free to do so in the comments section). We all know why it's evil and scary and wrong, and we all know as well why it's not stopping anytime soon. I just wanted to share my sadness and frustration that the Corporations have found me. It wasn't that many years ago that getting mail was exciting; now it's just a hassle and a waste. Thanks, Corporate America. This never happened in communist China.

Though, on the bright side, I did just get myself a shredder. That should be fun.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 06-Jun-08

2008-06-06T13:34:00.002-05:00

From a brochure:

The entire...team is united to provide exceptional experiences in everything we do, from...customer service and support, to...team member relations, to our internal operations, to our partners and vendors.

Those ellipses up there are fig leaves to cover the identity of this company, which is so eager for your business that it will do whatever or whomever it takes to make a deal happen. Understand: it's not shocking that they'd make the offer; it's shocking that they'd make no pretense about it.

-SA

P.S. The "team is united" to "provide exceptional experiences." Are you snickering? I'm snickering.

Mistake of the Day 27-May-08

2008-05-27T12:51:00.001-05:00

From a hotel flyer:

Over 50,000 sq. ft. of flexible function space with...specious Exhibition area.

See, when I first read this I thought it seemed like an awfully specialized niche - you can only hire this space if your show seems attractive or true but in fact is not. But I've been to a corporate meeting since then and I have to say, I think they could restrict their space to public shows of hollow sincerity and still make a pretty good living.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 12-May 08 b

2008-05-12T16:39:00.002-05:00

From a resort newsletter, golf cart rental section:

Reservations are required and must be 22 years or older with a valid drivers license.

Wow, 22 years--that's a long waiting list. Though this does explain why Florida's traffic is supposed to be so bad; Dave Barry always blamed the immigrants and oldsters, but apparently it's because even totally inanimate, noncorporeal ideas can get licensed in the Sunshine State (the right-coast Sunshine State, not the left. Although it wouldn't surprise me if California licensed ideas as well. Equal rights for conceptions!)

-SA

Mistake of the Day 12-May-08

2008-05-09T12:08:00.004-05:00

From a room service menu, breakfast section:

FRUIT AND SEVERAL

I've never been a several fan, which I know is very un-American of me; when I was a kid I sort of remember enjoying the colored milk after you let the several sit a while and get all soggy, but since then I can't get behind it. I really just don't care for solids in my milk, you know? And I find several itself either boring (grown-up severals) or a sugary sock in the head (kid severals). Give me a nice yogurt or toast with a scrape of butter any day.

Bonus several trivia: corn flakes were invented by Seventh-day Adventist John Harvey Kellogg in the 19th century as a healthy, vegetarian alternative to the standard American eggs and pork breakfast. That's right--breakfast cereal was the tofu of its day.

-SA

The Big Two-seven

2008-05-02T15:28:00.004-05:00

Well, I'm 27 years old today, and while it's not exactly a milestone, I do enjoy just celebrating me for a day (or a weekend) a year. I promised my cube-mate, Alisha, that I would wear any hat she brought for me today, so I've spent the day in a red and green elf's hat. It's gotten some attention. She also wrote "Happy Birthday, Sara Ann" on the whiteboard behind us, though, so most people have figured out what's going on (and, of course, what to say). It helps when you help people.

Another coworker brought me breakfast this morning, and most of the Art Department, plus a couple of IT guys, one woman from Hospitality, and one artist's three-year-old daughter, took me out for lunch. We sat out on the patio, so I'm a little pink, but it was delicious--and free, another favorite part of the birthday. Of course, some of the reactions have been mixed. When one of the PMs came by with best wishes and heard how old I was, she seemed genuinely shocked to hear that there were still people out there that young. Our VP hugged me and sang to me, then stage-whispered to the PM, "B@&%$ ain't even 30" (is was affectionate, coming from her). Of course, the artist who brought me breakfast was surprised to hear I was that old.

Tonight I'm having dinner with my parents and tomorrow I'm shopping with my mom. My brothers are coming into town tomorrow as well (Daniel's birthday is Sunday), and tomorrow night we're having a big birthday dinner for both of us. I'm looking forward to it. All in all, it's shaping up to be a pretty cool birthday. Thanks to everyone who's left birthday wishes!

-SA

Mistake of the Day 30-Apr-08

2008-04-30T13:41:00.001-05:00

From an email a colleague just sent me:

Thank you so much you are the best I am very happy you are part of the USFI family

I have no criticism for this sentence. It is perfect.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 23-Apr-08

2008-04-15T15:38:00.005-05:00

From a client's emailed instructions:

On front, there should be an error on the bottom left pointing to the left.

Well, at least it leaves us free to be creative.

But seriously, is this guy Yosemite Sam? Foghorn Leghorn? Some other two-dimensional Southern caricature? Does that word really sound like "error" in his head? Or, wait--he's British, isn't he? Two vowel sounds were about to collide and he rushed an R into the breach. But as far as I can tell that's only for short vowels, and that's definitely a long O, so...

OK, I give up. He was just being meta. And I applaud him; from now on, when I can't spell a word, I'm just going to put "error"--beat people to the [sic], as it were. "'Boom' is an onamatap[error], isn't it?" "We stood on qu[error]e forever." "What is going on with this [error] traffic?!" Now I don't have to carry that Merriam-Webster's around with me everywhere!

(No, I do not carry a Merriam-Webster's around with me everywhere. But I do wonder who Merriam was.)

Bonus true story: once we were playing Taboo with my mom's family and LaVerne, my grandmother's husband, started throwing out clues like, "you sleep on it, it's on your bed, you put your head on it." It was "pillow," of course, but we protested, because surely "sleep" and "bed" and "head" were all taboo clues. But no, he showed us the card, and none of those words were on there--because the word was "pillar."

-SA

Mistake of the Day 15-Apr-08

2008-04-15T11:59:00.006-05:00

From a resort owners' newsletter, in an election results announcement:

M--- V---- Secretary Treasure

And it's not even Secretary's Day! That's so sweet!

On the other hand, Administrative Professionals Day is next Wednesday, and this newsletter goes out in May, so...sweet in a boneheaded sort of way? But not as boneheaded as Administrative Professionals Day is to begin with - I mean, we all know who keeps track of the important dates, right? AP Day is just a boiling cauldron of resentment waiting to happen - not to mention embarrassment when your AP retaliates for her token-of-appreciation-free holiday by "forgetting" your next important date - and while if you're Jewish you might just forget Passover beginning, or if Japanese you might miss Showa Day, if you're a Protestant male you're about to forget Mother's Day. And may God have mercy on your soul, sir. I hope you've got a good thing going with that secretary treasure, but the home life is about to get rough.

-SA

Reasons Not to Poke My Eyes Out 10-Apr-08

2008-04-10T12:39:00.004-05:00

I spent an entire day yesterday proofreading motel stationery (I ask you - how often does Super 8 really require letterhead?), which involved hours squinting at the spacing between phone and fax numbers and trying to keep straight whether this property spells out road names or abbreviates them. Now today I'm back to the dreaded mauve-and-sea foam green resort newsletter that inspired this series in the first place (it looks like something the Circus of the Retirees published circa 1986: MARVEL at the clashing colors! WONDER why every square centimeter must be crammed with either text or photos, or both together!). But, as always, there are a few bits to brighten my day. Here they are, in no particular order except that it's the one in which I found them:

The resort is pleased to celebrate the Dietrich/Tarantino wedding. You guys, I know she's dead, but imagine if Marlene could somehow pair up with Quentin! It would be campy melodrama to the power of infinity! Plus, Uma v. Marlene? My money's on the throaty German.
The resort is also pleased to celebrate the Testa wedding. That's it, no other name - just Testa. I'm...not sure what to make of that. Is someone marrying him- or herself? Is this two people with the same last name who figured it wouldn't look so inbred if they didn't line the names up right next to each other (two Testas? What are the chances?)? Or is this just a bride who has the balls to admit that this wedding has nothing at all to do with the groom? Inquiring minds want to know.
Chocolate chip cookies. The fact that they exist, of course, and also the fact that our copywriter, Joe, gets me one every time he lunches at La Madeleine. Such as he did today. Yummy.

-SA

Why I Could Not Be a Detective

2008-04-07T08:29:00.002-05:00

I was surprised when I woke up this morning, given the time of year and my relative proximity to the equator, to see it was still dark outside. I got ready and came to work as usual, but then for some reason all the school zones I passed through were flashing 20 mph, despite the fact that school should have been in already. I pass through about seven school zones on the way to work, so it seriously about doubled my drive time. On my way through probably the fifth one I checked the posted times, and sure enough the reduced speed should have ended at 8:30. And then I checked my clock - not the right-hand numbers as I'd been doing all along, but the left-hand one. It was 8:00. I was an hour early to work.

My alarm clock, which I inherited from somewhere, is one of those smart ones that will reset itself to the correct time anytime it's plugged in, and will even automatically correct for daylight saving time - the old daylight saving time. Which apparently should have started today. If only I'd checked any one of the half dozen other clocks I passed while getting ready this morning, I'd have noticed the discrepancy.

So happy daylight saving time, everybody. At least I wasn't an hour late (look for that post sometime in October).

-SA

European Vacation, Photos

2008-04-04T22:35:00.010-05:00

And, last but the opposite of least, Paris. Turns out that city's pretty photographic.

Paris 2008

Versailles (remember to click on photo to go to the album).

Versailles 2008

And now, Antwerp - less English but just as old. Click to see the full album.

Antwerp 2008

To start with, just the Cambridge photos (click on the bridge to see the full album). There's not much, but what there is sure is English! And old! Old and English!

Old posts are illustrated now as well.

Cambridge 2008

European Vacation, Bonus Post: All Checked Luggage Is Lost Luggage, or Why It Took Me Three Days to Fly Home from Paris

2008-04-01T22:04:00.006-05:00

My friend Bob once flew all the way to Taiwan and didn't suffer a moment of jet lag. Of course, that's because jets hadn't been invented yet; it was shortly after WWII and the trip took five days, stopping at, as far as I can tell, every single island chain in the Pacific along the way. Air travel has changed since then. Now we cross oceans in a day. Maybe.

I was scheduled to fly home from Paris Saturday; but like the enthusiastic finale of a Fourth of July fireworks show, the travel curse outdid itself with a cluster explosion of travel impediments. First, I missed the very first RER train to Paris Charles De Gaulle airport because I managed to mis-set my alarm clock (for the first and only time since I bought that watch); I still got to the terminal before my plane left, but would they let me on? They would not. "No, it is closed," the Frenchwoman behind the desk informed me, and that, clearly, was the end of that conversation.

They put me on the next flight - which left an hour late. By the time I landed at Heathrow my chances of making my next flight, which left from Gatwick, were rather slim. But then, a break! Customs was practically empty, and I cleared it more quickly than I've ever done before. I hustled to the baggage carousel, because the Paris check-in counter had made me check my backpack (something that happens only rarely - I don't like to check baggage, because I don't like waiting around for luggage to unload, and because the airline can't lose luggage you don't give them to handle). I found the carousel with no problem, and sat down to wait for my luggage.

At this point I should mention that for the Paris-London leg of my trip I flew British Airways. Those of you watch the news probably know where I'm going with this. BA just built their own, brand new terminal, Terminal 5, at Heathrow. It's big; it's shiny. It's much nicer than, say, Terminal 3, which I also got to see. It doesn't work. Particularly, the scanning system which gets baggage from planes to carousels broke down, and Saturday morning absolutely nobody got their luggage. It was such a big problem that not only did the British news report on it, but the American as well. I and my fellow passengers waited over an hour for our baggage, or indeed any baggage, to show up on our carousel. Finally, one of my fellow travelers returned from talking with airport officials to inform us we all needed to go fill out lost luggage reports and get on with our lives. I waited my turn in line, filled out my form, and was informed that my backpack had been checked into the luggage area, so it was around...somewhere. On the off chance that somewhere was somewhere accessible to me, I went and checked some of the further carousels - and there was my big blue backpack. I snatched it up and scurried back over to tell my fellow passengers where I'd found it, then made my way downstairs to the ticket desk to get myself on the next flight to Texas.

The British Airways customer help people were, I have to say, lovely, and tirelessly helpful. One gentleman, Andy, called the Continental helpline (my next two flights were on Continental) on his blackberry and took the first shift on hold waiting for an actual human being to pick up; then, after handing the phone to me, he got called away to deal with someone else and actually left his blackberry with me (the entire rest of the half-hour it took me to sort everything out). So, thank you again, British Airways customer service personnel. You were the nicest part of my day.

Less nice were the options Continental offered: I had already missed the last flight of the day to Texas, and both of the next day's flights were booked solid. I could either show up to the airport at six the next morning and wait around the whole morning on the off chance I could get a seat, or I could take a guaranteed ticket Monday at 11. I took the guaranteed ticket.

This is already long, so I won't detail for you how I had to trek to three different hotels to find an ATM that worked, or how I walked up and down and up and down the row of shops that comprised the village nearest my hotel looking for an Internet cafe that turned out to be a Western Union with a couple of extra computers. I will mention that it rained on me during all of that. I spent the rest of Saturday and Sunday under the covers in my hotel room, watching TV and eating bread and Nutella. By Monday morning, thank the Lord, the curse had apparently exhausted itself, and I made it to the airport and onto the plane with no problems. The plane was still an hour late, mind, but even with customs to get through I made my next plane (also delayed) from Houston to Dallas, where my parents actually picked me up. Turns out all you have to do to get an airport pickup in this family is get lost in a foreign country for a couple of days.

And now I'm home. Praise Jesus. Obviously I haven't got the photos sorted yet, but I'm working on it, and I'll post a mention when I get them up. Until then, thanks for sticking with me.

-SA

European Vacation, Day Whatever: I Don't Know Why I Keep Trying to See the Louvre in Under Two Days

2008-03-28T14:50:00.004-05:00

My alarm went off promptly at 7:30 this morning, but it failed to rouse any of the three of us longer than it took to turn it off. By 9:30, though, we did manage to drag ourselves out of the hotel, and we took the Metro to the underground Louvre entrance (which features almost no line for tickets, so I highly recommend it). Once there I splurged for an audioguide, but Getty and Sindy boycotted since there were no Chinese-language ones (apparently quite the insult since there were Japanese). I guess Versailles spoiled them.

We started out to do things in the proper order - that is, chronologically - but by the time we finished Near Eastern Antiquities and Pharoanic Egypt it was time for lunch (by even European standards). We had an overpriced but tasty lunch at the Louvre cafe and decided to abandon our tidy plan in favor of hitting all the famous things we cared most about seeing in whatever order we could find them - a sort of geurrilla museum tour. After an overlong line for a slightly alarming toilet (and keep in mind what travel through places like Tibet has done for my toilet standards), we attacked, in quick succession, the Venus de Milo, Winged Victory of Samothrace, a progression of madonnas with child in the Italian Painters section, The Wedding Feast at Cana, the Mona Lisa (apparently the Louvre is pretty confident about who she is, thank you very much), The Raft of the Medusa, and Cupid and Psyche.

I should mention that at this point my feet hurt pretty much constantly - it ebbs and flows, but they're always in pain. Sadly, I failed to check the date on the ibuprofen I brought, and it doesn't offer much comfort; the only thing that helps is time and rest (a taste, I suppose, of what age will bring). Unfortunately, time is just what tourists in Paris never have.

It was half past three by that time, and we determined (while sat on a handy bench) that we'd better skip the Champs-Elysees and head straight for the Musee d'Orsay. We struck out from the pyramids entrance and founds ourselves in the Tuileries gardens; by the time we got to the end of them, I realized we'd overshot our bridge entirely. So, we doubled back outside the garden wall, walking along the river, but when we reached the footbridge that reached from the gardens to the Orsay's front entrance, we founds ourselves blocked on one side by a gate and on the other a fence. So, we had to finish the length of the Tuileries, all the way back to the Louvre, to escape the fence and cross the Seine on another bridge. Then, of all things, on the other side of the river we had to walk the entire length of the Orsay to find the entrance on the west side. There we very nearly stood in the regular line (a good twenty-minute to half-hour wait) but on a hunch I checked around the back and discovered the special passes line, for which our Paris Museum Passes qualified us. Switching to the five-minute line was, and I do not exaggerate, a victory. For me, at least, it was more exciting than seeing the Mona Lisa.

We started wander the Orsay in chronological order (in our defense, it is much smaller than the Louvre), but quickly gave that up and headed to the top level to see the most famous artists (Monet, Manet, Degas, Sisley, Pissaro, Van Gogh). We took pictures of ourselves in front of paintings (frankly, no photograph you or I take can reproduce a painting; standing in front of it gets closer to the point of snapping your favorites, which is to say, "Look, I've seen this in person!"). I made sure to get a shot of myself in front of Whistler's Mother, which I felt was my patriotic duty. The little British children who came up after me, on the other hand, were just thrilled to see that painting from the Mr. Bean movie. The fatigue makes it hazy, but I'm pretty sure a little of me died inside.

Once we got outside it was raining, so we came back to the hotel for dinner and a short nap before taking in the Champs-Elysees by night. An hour and a half later we finally did what every tourist in Paris does in the end and just admitted defeat. Getty rolled back over and went back to sleep, but I? I put my shoes back on my worn-out feet and came to update you, all you lovely people who've been keeping up with me this whole time. Tomorrow, a succession of planes, which, since they involve mostly only sitting, I look forward to very much. It's very unlikely, of course, that I'll be blogging; but if something horrible happens to me I'm sure you'll hear some other way. Sunday I'll try to post some pics with the blogs; I'll let you know when it happens. Until then, au revoir! (See, I learned two phrases in French this week.)

-SA

European Vacation, Day 6b: Apparently No One Noticed That I Skipped Day 5

2008-03-27T15:33:00.003-05:00

We slept till 10:30 this morning, and it was gooood. After that we had to do tourism penance, so we schlepped out to Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise and wandered all the way across it locating Jim Morrison's and Oscar Wilde's tombs (no others because Sindy, who picked this sight to see, apparently just thought it would be picturesque). Morrison's tomb was well-trafficked but underwhelming, but Wilde's was surprisingly interesting: it's topped by a large rectangular stone, about seven feet tall, with very modern winged figure in relief and Wilde's name carved in underneath, sans epitaph. It was also covered in kisses - graffiti in lipstick. I think Wilde would have approved.

After that a long Metro ride brought us to the Musee Rodin, the small villa where Auguste Rodin lived and worked, and where all the sculptures he donated posthumously to the city in lieu of rent are housed. We saw The Thinker, The Kiss, Balzac, The Three Shades, and The Gates of Hell, as well as several more. Sadly, they were doing some dirt work around The Thinker, so we couldn't get close enough for any good pictures. After that we hit the Church of the Dome, which houses Napoleon's massive tomb; if, as Sindy compained, the tombs at Pere Lachaise were too cramped, this one tomb for one (small) man had all the room in the world, with upper and lower observation galleries and a collection of sculpture surrounding it. Never has a ruler whose political system has been so roundly demolished been so honored.

From there we took a long stroll (more penance) to the Eiffel Tower. I had forgotten how big that thing is. Paris's many sights get so many superlatives lavished on them that it's easy, especially at the end of a busy day of seeing a lot of the same thing, to feel underwhelmed. But even having noticed how well we could spot the Eiffel Tower no matter where we went, getting up close to the thing was still amazing. There at the tower we paid the tourist version of a thousand Hail Marys and a thousand more Our Fathers: we stood in line for the elevators. The one at the bottom took us 45 minutes, easily, and then the one from the second floor to the top took us another half hour. There was even a fifteen minute line to get the elevator back down. The view? Spectacular, of course, especially since the sun set while we were at the top and by the time we got back down to the second level we had a king's view of Paris by night.

We were definitely worn out by then (in line, Getty kept insisting her feet were going to fall off; I, of course, never complain), so we followed the foot traffic to the nearest Metro station and took a couple of long rides home. Yesterday's prediction came true, as we had Chinese for dinner - not bad, but no where near as good as what we ate in China. Then, though my feet (and legs, and back, and shoulders, and eyes) were weary, I dutifully dragged myself to the net cafe to update you, my loyal readers. Enjoy; there's only one day left. See if, based one what we've already seen, you can't guess where we must be headed tomorrow.

-SA

European Vacation, Day 6: Being King Has Its Perks, Until the Peasants Revolt

2008-03-26T15:40:00.006-05:00

We left the hotel at 7:30 this morning to catch the train to Versailles. We were able to buy a passeport pass that covered round-trip train fare, all the different tours, audioguides, and even a discount on the tram that tours the grounds. We didn't by any means see everything there was to see, but even what we managed to take in was impressive. Apparently Louis XIV spent half the annual income of one of the richest countries in the world to renovate his dad's old hunting lodge, and he definitely had something to show after all the expense. Every square inch of the thousands upon thousands of square feet is covered in marble, gold, and specially commissioned paintings celebrating French monarchs and Roman gods (who symbolized the French monarch's divine right to rule). If the usual palace is like a nice, chocolatey brownie, the Chateau de Versailles is like a pound of fudge with extra sugar on top. After we got out I asked Getty how she thought it compared to Beijing's Forbidden City, and she answered without hesitation that Versailles was more impressive. It's incredible to think that someone could have thought this place up, much less that they could have made it happen.

Some highlights: I continued my long tradition of getting separated from my group in foreign places and lost Getty and Sindy in the King's and Queen's apartments for about an hour. Fortunately, I had a book to keep me company while I waited to be found.

Our tour of the grounds took us to the Hameau de la Reine, the fake peasant village Marie-Antoinette had constructed so she could pretend to be a poor shepardess when real life got too tough. On the way there I couldn't make Getty understand where we were going ("so what's this queen's something ham?"), but once we got there they were ecstatic over the live farm animals behind the storybook cottages. I think of myself as a city girl, but I was downright country next to those two. Incidentally, despite all the snow recently, it definitely is spring - the goats were butting heads and the donkeys were doing the thing that donkeys do that, you know, makes more donkeys. Welcome to the country, girls!

Before we left we decided to get a picture of ourselves in front of the grounds, and when I looked around for someone to ask, I spotted a couple in cowboy hats. I said, well, there's someone from my part of the world, or someone who wishes they were. Turns out, the latter: we stopped to ask, and they didn't understand a word we said - they were French. In addition to the hats, they each wore a different Texas Rangers badge, like a kid would wear on Halloween, just pinned to their regular rain-proof jackets. I later got a glance at the back of the man's jacket, and it read, in English, "Country Line Dancing," with a location (in France). I have no idea what to make of this couple, but after they'd taken our picture and gone on I realized what an opportunity I'd missed and snagged them on the way to the train station to take a picture with them. I have no idea if they understood why I wanted that.

We were pretty worn out when we got back, but we managed to take in Sainte-Chappelle, the church Louis IX constructed to house the newly aquired relics of the Passion, including the crown of thorns Jesus wore on the cross (the church cost a fraction of what the relics did), and the Pont-Neuf, "New Bridge," the oldest bridge in Paris. We retreated to the hotel at that point to change and bide our time until French restaurants opened - we were determined to have at least one nice meal out on this trip. We arrived at 7:25 and were turned away - too early - so we wandered the streets in piteous fatigue for twenty minutes more, then returned and got a pity table (really, they opened at 8). I had the steak tartare and pomme frites and loved them; Getty and Sindy were less pleased with their meals - Getty applied liberal amounts of Worcestershire and Tabasco to her chicken. I won't be surprised if tomorrow they want to try one of the numerous Chinese restaurants on our street.

And then, I came here, and wrote it all down for you, so you could enjoy reading it and/or be bitterly jealous. Now, I will go home and play a little thematically appropriate Dodizhu ("fight the landlord," a three-person Chinese card game) and relax my tired muscles. Tomorrow, the Cimetiere du Pere-Lachaise, the Musee Rodin, and, if the weather will behave, the Eiffel Tower. Also, and most importantly, a late morning.

-SA

European Vacation, Day 4: It's Starting to Get Hard to Keep Track of What Day It Is

2008-03-25T13:58:00.005-05:00

It took us longer than we would have liked to get to Paris, and we arrived halfway through the afternoon. We tried a guidebook-recommended hotel, which was full, then stumbled on a nice one on our way to the full hotel-recommended hotel. Divested of our bags (of which mine definitely wins - it's as big as both of theirs combined), we set out to see what we could in the time we had left.

We left home base in the Marais and took the Metro to the Ile de la Cite, the island on the Seine River which was the original Paris, and around which the modern city has grown up. First stop: Notre Dame. We took several pictures outside, including a couple for a Chinese woman who spotted us and asked Sindy to take a picture of her (very important in Chinese photography to have yourself in the picture with the famous sight - otherwise, how can you prove you were there?). We made a tour of the interior, read a little history from the guidebook, circled the outside and took about a hundred pictures more (I had loads of fun trying to explain what "flying buttresses" were). Then we crossed over to the Left Bank to check out some remnants of the medieval city and some remanants of Bohemian and Lost Generation Paris; then we made our way to the Latin Quarter.

And then I finally got some french fries. I've been trying this whole trip to get some french fries - in Britain I wanted to try fish and chips, but because of the bank holiday we couldn't find a pub that sold them. Then in Belgium it seemed only right to try the frites, as the Belgians invented them; but we by the time we got hungry again after the huge Chinese meal, the friterie was closed. But now I have been triumphant: I've eaten french fries in France. It's like a weight has been lifted from me; I'm not french fry cursed. I can't tell you what a relief this is. Also, they were delicious.

By the time we got to Saint Chappelle it was closed, and we were tired (the Chinese girls more than me, much to my surprise and probably that of everyone who's ever taken a long walk with me; I can only imagine that my longer legs gave me some sort of advantage), so we headed back to the hotel. I managed to impress the hotelier by asking for the key in French (in case you ever need to know, "May I have the key to number five, please" is "cinq"). We came back out collect breakfast and a picnic lunch for tomorrow - apples from the verder (grocer), cheese from the fromagerie (cheese shop), and bread and pastry from the patisserie (bakery). We added some water and orange juice to the bag and sent Getty home with the goods. But did I go home? I did not. I came here, gentle readers, to keep you updated. I know how you pine to hear about my doings.

Tomorrow, Versaille, and no doubt hundreds more pictures. Shame I can't post any of these yet. Until tomorrow.

-SA

European Vacation, Day 3: A Chinese Tour of Antwerp

2008-03-24T14:58:00.004-05:00

Bit of a hitch this morning, as despite our very un-vacation-like early start we got to St. Pancras (not to be confused with St. Pancreas, as apparently even quite a few British do) International Train Station mere moments before the train left - and the Eurostar is "not a train you just rock up to," as the station attendent informed me. I apologized and looked a bit hopeless (as is my custom whenever I need someone to let me out of a bind), and he put me on the next train, two hours later, without making me pay the difference (trains at more reasonable hours of the day cost less reasonable fees).

I napped a bit on the train over (friends, never go on vacation without a sleep mask and neck pillow), then realized, as we passed through France, that since I was going to Paris with a couple of Chinese girls I should probably learn a little French. I got out my guidebook, worked the whole rest of the time, and am proud to say that now I can count all the way to ten in French. Wait, hold on a minute...yeah, I can count to ten. Excellent; I'm sure that will be very helpful in the days to come.

Getty (Guo Zixi) met me at the train station in Brussels and we hopped the train back to Antwerp, where she goes to business school. Apparently Getty's learned to cook since I saw her last, so she spent most of the afternoon whipping up the best Chinese meal I've had in years. Thank goodness my appetite is coming back as I slowly recover from jet lag; it was mostly absent that first day or two (though, frankly, if you're going to lose your appetite, and you have the option of doing it in England, Belgium or France, you would definitely want England - and I'm sure not even my British friends would disagree).

After Getty finally finished cooking we spent some time hammering out a game plan for the next few days (apparently in another couple of days the temperatures will skyrocket into the double digits Celcius! We're looking at 15 degrees by next Friday!). Then Getty and her roommate Sindy (not a typo, just a Chinese "English" name) took me on a walk around Antwerp to see the famous sights. We took in the impressive Onze-Lieve-Vrouwekathedraal (Cathedral of our Lady), the statue of the hero who founded Antwerp by cutting of the hand of a giant who was terrorizing the area, and Het Steen ("the Stone"), the fortress overlooking the river Scheldt. I'm glad to be able to say it only snowed on us a little.

And that's it for Belgium. Tomorrow morning we head for Paris, and we'll spend the rest of the trip there. Many thanks to those who've posted comments - nice to know someone's reading these things - and a special thanks to my cousin, Lindsey, who just a few moments ago agreed to pick me up from the airport Saturday (since my own parents couldn't be bothered to come get me). See you then!

European Vacation, Day 2: Easter Mass and Day in an English Village

2008-03-23T16:11:00.003-05:00

Though I intended to be in bed early last night to help recover from jet lag, I came in to say good night to Ed and we started talking; and even though I was yawning the whole time, it's been years since I've seen Ed, and likely will be years before I see him again, so I decided I could sleep when I got back to America and just stayed up chatting into the wee hours.

That, of course, made it harder to get up in time to walk a mile and a half from Ed's flat to the university this morning for Easter mass at King's College. (Some quick items to explain that last sentence: a) we walked because Cambridge is set up for walking and biking, and though we have the use of a borrowed car we would almost certainly have had to park just as far away as we walked; b) I'm not sure there are Americans who still don't know this, but just in case, "flat" is British for "apartment"; c) this was an Anglican mass, as Cambridge is, officially, an Anglican university; and d) Cambridge, the university, is divided into several colleges, which all have their own students studying from a variety of subjects - think of the different houses in Harry Potter.) There was already an inch or so of snow on the ground when we left the house, and it kept on snowing while we walked through town and during the entire half hour we stood in line ("queued") outside the chapel. We got good seats, though, once we got in (me in my sneakers ("trainers"), since my slippers are not waterproof and my only other option was flip-flops). It was my first Anglican service, and I really enjoyed it - the high church aspects like incense and liturgy and parading a silver (and I don't mean the color) cross up and down the aisle made it feel quite foreign, but the sentiment behind the songs (which we had translated in our programs) was very much what I would expect from the churches I grew up in, and I really enjoyed the lesson, which the dean gave and which addressed the intellectual difficulty of the resurrection and the frank impossibility of ever proving it.

Three points stick out particularly: one, the deacon prayed for blessings on the archbishop of Canterbury, and then also for the bishop of Rome (the pope), the patriarch of the east, and the leaders of the free churches (that's us, apparently; nice description, I think). Two, we queued up to receive communion from the robed people up front (that's the best I can describe them), and it turns out Anglicans, or at least these Anglicans, are one cuppers. It was particularly disturbing because one gentlman in line in front of us was yellow, by which I mean exactly the color of particularly thick urine. I've always heard jaundiced people were yellow, but I imagined something much more subtle than this. The second was when, before communion was passed out (and there was a lot of "before" - they mentioned communion, and I thought, oh, it's time; then it took three more pages to get to the actual event), we heard a crash and a commotion over by the altar, and, after a flurry of white robes, someone carried out the young altar boy who had fainted.

I won't go into detail about the amazing Gothic chapel we worshipped in, but here's the link. I'm confident to say we don't have anything like it in America - for one thing, there were no churches in America in 1547.

After we walked back, we took the car out to visit Ben, a friend of Ed's and the car's owner. His family live in a village outside of Cambridge called Thriplow (pronounced "Triplo" - the English are somewhat conflicted about their TH's). We had Easter lunch with Ben's family, the Taylors (including leeks and parsnips, very English vegetables, and cream poured over the chocolate cake). Afterwards they had the young people (all high school age or older) hunt through the house for chocolate bunnies, and then we played Wii for a while. Daniel's problems over the summer continue to pay dividends, as his friend lent us a Wii for a while and consequently I'm not terrible at it - which somewhat made up for my inability to locate a single chocolate bunny. We ended up staying on for tea (that's dinner), which included sandwiches of salmon and butter (Ed had no idea Americans didn't put butter on sandwiches) and two completely different cakes to the two we had at lunch. They say tea brought down the English empire, and I can see how it might have. Good thing I'm doing so much walking these days.

Tomorrow it's an early start to London, and from there a train (through the Chunnel) to Brussels to meet another friend, Getty. We'll stay the night in her place in Antwerp, and then Tuesday the two of us and her roommate will train it to Paris for the rest of the week. Here's hoping (and praying) the miserable weather lets up.

-SA

Words Ed's computer suggests I've misspelled: sneakers, color, Thriplow, roommate and, oddly, Ed's.

European Vacation, Day 1: In Which Jet Lag Makes Me British

2008-03-22T15:57:00.004-05:00

This one will be short, because I'm quite jet lagged. I'm also using a lot of words like "quite" and "bit" and "lovely"; can you guess where I am? If you guessed England, you guessed right - Cambridge, to be specific. I'm here visiting a friend from China (but not a Chinese friend), Ed Day, for a couple of days - after all, if I'm going to Europe, I might as well stop over in England, right?

Ed graciously drove all the way to Gatwick to pick me up (about an hour and a half each way), and once we got here we took a walking tour of the university, made slightly more picturesque by intermittent snow. If you ever visit Cambridge or Oxford, I highly recommend doing it with a member of the university; Ed just flashed his university ID each time we got to a gate (you have to pass through a gate to get to any of the private grounds, and each college, or subdivision of the university, has its own gate), which saved us both money and time. He also, of course, knows the grounds, and he doesn't make up stories like apparently the punting tour guides do (Samuel Pepys, for example, did not actually start the great London fire, and Hitler did not hold off bombing Cambridge because he took a fancy to the stone eagle above one of the gates and decided to make the school his secret death camp).

And, obviously, the British English is really creeping up on me. Just a few minutes ago I actually told Ed I had to dash to the loo. I can barely spell "loo" (O? U? Spellcheck tells me the former), but here I am using it, and I have to say what sounds charming in a British accent sounds garish and very fake in an American one. Sadly, the aforementioned jet lag has left me unable to properly monitor my vocabulary. As long as I can keep from tacking R's on to words that don't actually have them, though, I think I'll be all right.

Ta for now,
SA

Mistake of the Day, Special Edition: They're Letting Me Leave the Country!

2008-03-17T17:22:00.002-05:00

Do you know what I got in the mail last night? My renewed passport! I'm so excited! I don't even care that the accompanying brochure forgot to capitalize the I in "Is" in the title, "With Your U.S. Passport, the World is Yours!" Because it's true! It is mine! Woo-hoo!

Wow, that was quite a string of exclamation points. I'm a little winded.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 16-Mar-08

2008-03-16T19:27:00.002-05:00

From a church bulletin, in an article about a fund-raising dinner:

beef filet miñon

I guffawed so loudly when I read this that my mother shushed me - and service hadn't even started! Listen, my fellow Texans: I know that most of the foreign food names you use are Spanish (and there is certainly nothing wrong with that - long live Tex-Mex!). But even before our forefathers wrested Texas from Mexico, the Anglos had discovered another garlic-fueled foreign cuisine with which to replace their own bland, boiled fare: French. Now, if you're like my parents, the closest you get to French food is driving by La Madeleine's on the way somewhere else. But here's a tip: if you go somewhere fancy (and Olive Garden doesn't count), even if the food you're eating isn't French, it probably bears a French name. Because if it's French, they can charge extra for it (French is fancy). And, to come back around to our case in point, that "ny" sound in French is spelled "gn" - think of the Italian "lasagna." Plus - bonus! - "gn" is so much easier to type on an English keyboard. So, "filet mignon," if you please - especially since the other option is grilled chicken breast (are you Texans or are you not?).

Also, and this is a quibble, but: all filet mignon is beef. That's what filet mignon is.

-SA

Reasons Not to Poke My Eyes Out 20-Feb-08

2008-02-20T12:22:00.005-06:00

You may notice that today is not, in fact, February 20, but when I began writing this post, it was. Now, seven almost identical but very slightly different employee handbooks later, it's March, and I haven't posted in well over a week. I hope you'll understand. Frankly, I haven't even read through my own employee handbook; those things are deadly dull. But now I've read through seven of someone else's, multiple times, in two languages. In case you wondered, they don't get any more interesting on repeat readings.

So, much belated, I'm sharing with you what little bright spots I found last week to alleviate the tedium. One and one only (the first) is from the handbooks in question:

"In case of an emergency, REMAIN CALM!" Yes, sir, right away, sir, on the double.
Several coworkers and I ate at a place called Hunan Dynasty in Irving, which was only middling; but I got a truly awesome fortune cookie there, which fortune is now tacked to my cubical wall: "A new pair of shoes will do you a world of good!" If you insist, little cookie, I guess I'll give it a shot.
Yesterday, Alisha and I ate at a place called Pan Acean in Coppell; the pad thai was delicious, so the fortunes didn't have to be as good. Still, I may start to like fortune cookies: "You are headed for a promotion." I showed it to my boss, but he just laughed. (But the cookie says!)

They're not much, folks, but in life you've got to take what you can get.

-SA

Colonian? Colonite? The Colonite?

2008-02-20T10:19:00.004-06:00

I got a ticket this morning for "parking facing traffic" - I parked with my drivers-side door to the curb in front of my house. I was surprised and a little irritated, because if there's a rule about which way to park on our street, the other cars don't seem to know it. Fortunately, down at the bottom, there was a line that informed me, "This is not a court summons. All that is requested is that you obey the law in the future."

So, to answer the question some of you have been asking, I rather like living in The Colony. It's suburban in a quiet, one-story, low-key kind of way, but it's not overrun with big box stores and row upon row of franchise establishments in that way that makes so many suburbs virtually identical to each other. Main Street has too much traffic at rush hour, and I wish they'd finish 121 so the service roads weren't so clogged, but even with all that I've cut my commute in half. It's not amazing - I won't remember it distinctly like Florence or Wuhan - but it's comfortable, and it's a nice place to live.

And you'll get to see it first-hand, assuming you live in North Texas and have a spare couple of hours Saturday afternoon. Everyone local should already have received an invitation to our housewarming party, but in case you missed yours:

Sara Ann and Amanda's Housewarming Party
Saturday, February 23, 2008
3pm-6pm (come and go)
Snacks and refreshments furnished

I'm not including the address, because, hey, this is a public blog, but you know how to reach me if you don't have it. Hope you can come!

-SA

Mistake of the Day 19-Feb-08

2008-02-19T09:20:00.005-06:00

From a key packet:

The L----- requires that a jacket be worn by men when dining in any of the restaurants.

Jackets worn by women will be asked to go and change wearers. Jackets worn by only one man will be offered the complimentary use of a couple of busboys for the night (tips are appreciated).

-SA

Mistake of the Day 12-Feb-08

2008-02-12T23:27:00.001-06:00

From a flyer for a complimentary continental breakfast:

Butter, Jams, and Preservatives

I assume that last is the first sign of an oncoming backlash against political correctness, in which, rather than calling things by the most inoffensive term one can devise, one applies the most brutal honesty possible. "Preservatives" here obviously means "Margarine." Note that were this new anti-PC movement in full swing, "Butter" would be "Yellow Fatty Goodness," and "Jams" would be "The Only Way Most of Us Really Enjoy Fruit."

-SA

Mistake of the Day 11-Feb-08

2008-02-11T12:05:00.000-06:00

From a set of telephone dialing instructions:

LONG DISTANCE & INTERNATHONAL CALLS

I believe those should be "dithtanthe" and "callth."

-SA

Mistake of the Day 5-Feb-08

2008-02-05T14:35:00.001-06:00

From a faxed correction to the welcome page of a guest services directory:

Sincerely,
M---- W--------
Vice Predisent / General Manager

Sadly, I can't show you the fairly juvenile scrawl it came in, which sort of made the whole thing. I do hope the VP/GM himself didn't write it.

-SA

Please Help

2008-02-04T14:34:00.000-06:00

As all of you, I'm sure, know, I did mission work in China for two years. I keep in contact with the organization that sent me, and I’ve learned recently that one young man who’s over there now, Jeremy McGill, was mauled by a wild elephant while traveling on vacation. For a few days, they weren’t sure if he would make it – both of his lungs were collapsed, and he couldn’t breath on his own. Eventually, though, they stabilized him enough to airlift him to a hospital in Bangkok that specializes in elephant-inflicted injuries. He’s there now, and he’s steadily improving, but the airlift ate up most of his insurance money, and he’s about to run out of funds, if he hasn’t already (needless to say, missionaries to China don’t make much money).

The problem is rather personal for me, obviously, since Daniel was shot on a mission trip to Ecuador last summer. The prayers, cards, and funds offered by dear friends and complete strangers alike got him through it, and he’s fine now (as a matter of fact, he helped me move furniture last weekend). I hope Jeremy can experience the same blessings we did, so I’m reaching out to all of you to ask those of you who do so to pray, and those of you who are able to contribute to his medical care. His alma mater, Freed-Hardeman, has organized a medical fund for him, so please, if you have any money to spare, send a check to:

Freed-Hardeman University
Attn: Jeremy McGill Medical Fund
158 East Main St.
Henderson, TN 38340 USA

Stumped

2008-02-04T10:31:00.000-06:00

Do you know which of these is correct?

(a) beaurocrat
(b) bureaucrat
(c) beuraucrat

It took me a few tries with the online dictionary to get it right. Stupid French...

-SA

*The correct answer is (b).

Mistake of the Day 28-Jan-08

2008-01-28T16:17:00.000-06:00

From a hotel guest services directory:

Ground beef chuck grilled to your specifications served on a freshly baked shite or wheat bread

Wow. So...Freudian slip? Or a scathing critique of American eating habits? You be the judge.

(Warning: link NSFW.)

-SA

EMERGENCY: PLEASE PRAY - Updated

2008-01-25T09:30:00.000-06:00

I got an email yesterday about a young man in my old program, China Now:

Wuhan teacher Jeremy McGill was traveling in Yunnan and was gored by an elephant while trying to take a picture. He was taken to the hospital and underwent surgery. He made it out of surgery ok and the doctors said it went very well but THE NEXT 48 HOURS ARE CRITICAL!!

This is kind of like hearing someone in the States got gored by a bull - it's pretty wild. I got another update this morning, and it wasn't promising. Please pray for Jeremy; he needs all the prayers he can get.

Update (1.26.08): It looks like Jeremy will pull through. His breathing is improved, and he's stabilized sufficiently that they're transferring him to a hospital in Bangkok that specializes in this sort of injury (if a doctor were going to specialize in elephant goring wounds anywhere in the world, I guess it would be Thailand). Thanks to all who prayed, and keep it up.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 24-Jan-08

2008-01-24T14:29:00.000-06:00

From a marketing strategy proposal I came across:

Discover geographic, demographic and psychograpics of targeted market

OK, set aside for a moment that the noun version of "geographic" is "geography" and "demographic" "demography." People, just be careful about coining words. Sure, it's fun to do, and it makes you feel clever; but often it actually exposes your ignorance. This person, for example, apparently didn't realize that the study of the mind already has a name: "psychology." Not that "psychography" isn't a word; it is. And while a few French writers have apparently used it to mean something like a biography of the mind, its most common English meaning is, per Merriam-Webster:

psy·chog·ra·phy (n) 1 : automatic writing used for spiritualistic purposes 2 : the production of images of spirits upon sensitive plates without the use of a camera held to be accomplished by means of spiritualistic forces

Now maybe these marketers are concerned with how the spirits feel about their marketing campaign (and hey, it would at least be a new gimmick). But I suspect they'd actually just better pray that none of the laptops in the proposal room open up a dictionary.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 22-Jan-08

2008-01-22T14:48:00.000-06:00

From a promotional piece:

...and receive our totally "loaded"...service for one low price

Just so we're clear, "loaded" service is the service you get during happy hour.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 21-Jan-08

2008-01-21T17:45:00.000-06:00

From a restaurant's promotional piece:

We proudly brew Starbucks Coffee to satisfy your Java cravings.

Wait, the programming language developed by Sun Microsystems? The one with the cute, swirly coffee cup logo? I didn't know people craved languages - at least not ones based on C++. And I don't know how much this joint is charging to fix that jones, but people, you should know: Java is open source.

Oh, wait, now I get it; they mean the island. You know what, the tropics are beautiful, but between the record overpopulation and the active volcano warning...oh, who am I kidding? This is my kind of place. And it's nice to know Starbucks' exorbitant prices get you more than just the jitters; imbibe enough pseudo-Italian caffeinated milkshakes, and you will actually find yourself transported to the former Dutch colony of your choice! That's a bargain at any price.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 14-Jan-08

2008-01-14T13:32:00.000-06:00

From a hotel safety card:

Items in need of maintenance such as burned out light bulbs, doors that are difficult to close and lock, missing exit signage, etc. should immediately call Dial 4105.

On the one hand, if light bulbs (burned-out light bulbs, no less) would give me a heads up, I wouldn't be stuck in the dark. On the other hand, I've seen Terminator 2, and I don't trust sentient light bulbs any further than I can throw Arnold Schwarzenegger (or, for that matter, Summer Glau).

Bonus points to anyone who missed the commas.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 10-Jan-08

2008-01-10T11:07:00.000-06:00

One of our optometrist clients sent a correction to his scrip pad - apparently it's "NPI," not "MPI" - and kindly asked us to

CORRET PLEASE

We did.

-SA

Mistake of the Day, Special Edition: Stars Need Proofreaders, Just Like Us

2008-01-09T13:26:00.000-06:00

Apparently most of last night's People's Choice Awards winners sent in pre-taped acceptance speeches to show their solidarity with the striking writers. Joaquin Phoenix sent in a pre-taped...well, it was either a misguided show of support or great big flipped bird, as in, "screw you, WGA, I'm ONLY writing from now on." Of course, we don't know if the person who scribbled out his speech cards was union or non, but we do know that that person did not proofread.

Oh, Joaquin. Your own name? Really? I mean clearly it's been a rough...night? Week? Lifetime? And certainly your name is a tougher spell than, say, Brad's, or even George's. But that's no excuse. This event was televised, Joaquin. And it's your own name.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 8-Jan-08, Number Two

2008-01-08T17:56:00.000-06:00

Actual order status reported to a friend by web site:

Item should ship in a view days.

People, just...just read over your writing once - just once. You'll be glad you did, I swear.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 8-Jan-08

2008-01-08T17:39:00.000-06:00

From a guest services directory (GSD):

The hotel offers one complimentary self-parking space for our guests.

Imagine the scrum to get that one parking space! Do you think the valets just stand around and laugh?

-SA

Mistake of the Day 3-Jan-08

2008-01-03T14:59:00.000-06:00

From a breakfast menu:

Served with Your Choice of Breakfast Sausage, Canadian Bacon, or Virgin Ham

Sacrificed at the Altar of the American Breakfast.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 2-Dec-08, Number Two

2008-01-02T16:52:00.000-06:00

Now I wish I'd resolved to blog more for the new year. From a promotional brochure:

Snuggling in blankets and a hearty breakfast is just the beginning of this unique offer.

Toast might add extra cushion, but snuggling with jam or eggs just seems kind of gross. That's taking "food is love" to an uncomfortable new level.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 2-Dec-08

2008-01-02T16:27:00.000-06:00

On a brighter note, here's my mistake of the day. Since I never use clients' names, we'll have to do it Victorian style. From an address line, a hotel name:

F------- San Hose

I'm not entirely convinced the artist didn't do it on purpose to screw with me.

-SA

Happy New Year's - Time for Change

2008-01-02T11:11:00.000-06:00

I just spent my New Year's holiday packing and watching the Law & Order (original flavor) marathon on TNT, interspersed with a little CSI (original flavor) on Spike. Sadly, I'm not packing to move to a new place in Dallas. I'll be camping out at my folks' for a little while while I continue the much-longer-than-anticipated North Dallas Apartment Hunt 2008 (formerly 2007).

So why not stay where I am, you ask? Well, because this Saturday my cousin is bringing home her brand new husband. See, as you may or may not know, I moved in with my cousin after her divorce late last summer; it was the perfect arrangement (I thought), since I needed a place to live, and she needed to have someone around after her marriage broke up, especially since she'd become a single parent. But by the time I'd actually moved in, she'd found a new boyfriend in Alabama; a few weeks later she took a short-term contract job in his home town, and a few weeks after that we got word that she'd eloped with him. That was a couple weeks before Thanksgiving.

She didn't come home for the holidays; she didn't call or write. After she left for Alabama, I heard from her twice: one text to warn me when she (and the boyfriend) came home to visit two weeks after she'd gone, and one text about the utility bills. I heard about the wedding from my mother, who'd heard it from my aunt (my cousin's mom), who was was the only one to get a phone call, and that a week after the fact. Frankly, most news I get that far removed I consider rumor. Just before Christmas, she did email me directly - not to tell me that she was married, but to let me know they'd be moving back on Jan 5, and by the way how was I doing with the apartment hunt? She was so excited that I'd be moving near the Cheesecake Factory, and she'd have to come visit all the time so we could go there together. My cousin is a lunatic.

So how do you deal with a lunatic relative? When her father started pulling this kind of crap I (like my cousin) was in high school, and the burden of figuring out how to deal with him fell pretty squarely on my parents. I haven't contacted her any more than strictly necessary these past several months because I didn't think I could say anything to her without just going off on her. On the other hand, while this husband will almost certainly pass, she - and her baby girl - will be my relatives forever. That's the rub, of course: if she weren't family, if I didn't love her, this wouldn't hurt so much. And it does hurt.

So her decision to cut us all off these past few months has, I guess, given me some much needed space to be angry. Starting Saturday, though, she's back. Dealing with the husband generally won't be a challenge - he's a very amiable guy. Had they married under better circumstances, I probably would have liked him. I'm just struggling to figure out a balance between being gracious and being an enabler. I know nothing I say or do is going to convince her she's done anything wrong (we, her loved ones, just don't "understand" - remarkable how some people think that word means "agree"). And if she continues to attribute all of this behavior to the will of the Lord, I may not be able to hold my tongue. But regardless of how this all ends up, I don't want to alienate her.

So: advice? I'd welcome any you've got. Let me know here or any other way. And pray.

-SA

Word of the Week 28-Dec-07

2007-12-28T09:18:00.000-06:00

Nothing particularly interesting to report this week, as approximately half of America is on vacation and work for those of us on the job is slooooooow. However, so I don't let you down completely, here's a word for the week, one that's been knocking around in my head for a couple of days and which I finally looked up:

otiose ('ō-shē-ōs, from the Latin for leisure) - 1. futile 2. idle 3. functionless
I have nothing planned for this weekend, so I intend to be more or less otiose the whole time.

Use it in a sentence today, and watch people try to decide if they should ask or not.

-SA

Christmas is Coming, the Goose Is Getting Fat

2007-12-18T13:47:00.000-06:00

Hi, my name is Goose.

As you may or may not know, I work at a marketing firm. This is the time of year when our clients send us goody baskets to show their appreciation and generally keep the professional relationship lubed, so every morning somebody ducks her head into our cube to tell us what sugary delights await in the break room. Impersonal gifts that they are, all of these offerings are factory-made, and if I were really, really honest with myself, they're not that good. They're not noxious, of course, but none of them so far have been worth the calories (believe it or not, I don't really burn a lot of calories proofreading). And yet (and this is the really shocking part - maybe you should sit), I EAT THEM.

I won't bother lamenting the holiday tradition of gifting sugary treats (in fact, if you live here in town, I hope you like lemon pound cake; at least it's homemade). A thought did strike me though, and if you're still reading, I'll share:

I'm a fairly picky person - not about everything, but about certain things, definitely, and food is one of them. My mom calls me a gourmet (higher praise than I deserve, but here I am passing it on), and given the option I can be downright finicky. I think Hershey's tastes as least as much like wax as chocolate, for example, and I will turn my nose up at any dish containing canned green beans. So why am I eating this crap?

I can only imagine that it's more the idea or the expectation than the actual experience. Chocolate and peppermint? Sounds fantastic! And yet somehow the reality is pretty ho-hum. Still, you never know - that next cookie may be the knockout. So I can't say I'm giving up sweets, or that I won't go sample whatever free gifts the break room offers. But I am trying out a new policy: sweets have one bite to impress me, and then they're trash. So if the next time you see me I'm wearing sweatpants in public, you'll know the quality of gifts around here has improved. If I still fit into my trousers, though, I may have just found a holiday sweets policy that works.

P.S. If you throw my pound cake out after one bite, please don't tell me about it.

Mistake of the Day 11-Dec-07

2007-12-11T11:49:00.000-06:00

From a ritzy New York City spa menu, drink section:

Energy Booster
Boost energy and is so nutrient that it provides antioxidant power of fruits and vegetables with are crucial for preventing cancer.

It's like I'm teaching English in China again. For this, you'll pay over $20 a pop.

-SA

How to Take a Practical Joke

2007-12-10T16:26:00.001-06:00

Sure, we'd all rather be the prankster than the butt (it's called the butt, after all); but I believe the ability to take a practical joke sportingly is just as important, if not more important, than the ability to pull one. How you take a joke says a lot about you - do you have good grace? A sense of humor about yourself? A sense of humor at all? People remember the answers to those questions. So, even though you didn't ask, here's a short list of suggestions:

Don't try to pretend you knew what was going on all along.
You're probably not fooling anybody, and it just comes off as insecure.
Don't try to pretend you know who did it if you don't.
Again, not fooling anyone, no matter how you posture about not wanting to name names or get anyone in trouble.
Don't threaten to get people in trouble.
Obviously, if it's malicious, extreme, or truly disruptive, you need to report it. But if it really is just goofing around, don't try to get confessions with threats of repercussions. That just makes you the jerk.
Don't pretend to be more upset than you are.
This is not a valid counter-prank. "What constitutes a prank" is a whole other post, but suffice it to say, pranks involve getting people to believe something when they should know better; people are supposed to believe you when you tell them your feelings.
Give them the reaction they're looking for.
This may seem counterintuitive, like looking surprised or admitting they fooled you means they win. But here's the truth: looking flabbergasted and going on about how you had no idea puts you in on the joke. Now you're laughing with them.

Granted, pranks may be a sign of fondness or otherwise; and when caught off-guard, it's hard for anyone to react to a prank appropriately. However, take whatever jokes come your way with a smile and a little grace, and you can really impress the pranksters (and, likely, any number of other people around the office or in the group who know what's going on). Some people, of course, are just mean; their minds you won't change. But at risk of sounding oddly British public school, let me repeat: be a sport. Odds are you'll impress people - and at least you won't lose respect.

This post has been brought to you by a recent incident I won't detail because this is a public post. Contact me personally for (hilarious) details.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 10-Dec-07

2007-12-10T16:14:00.000-06:00

From an internal mass email:

Package fond.

Hey, if we could do that, a lot more families would be a lot happier this time of year.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 7-Dec-07

2007-12-07T14:02:00.000-06:00

From my favorite island resort's recycling instructions:

In your guest unit we will leave a blue-colored plastic bin.

Just so we're clear, it's blue-colored, not blue-feeling. Recycling does not make people sad!

-SA

Mistake of the Day 6-Dec-07

2007-12-06T13:14:00.000-06:00

From a newsletter for an island resort:

Polar Bare Swim

That takes it to a whole new level.

-SA

ETA: Apparently, that's not actually a typo. Careful, there, ostensibly family-oriented island resort!

Mistake of the Day 29-Nov-07

2007-11-29T11:42:00.000-06:00

A client asked us to add copy to a CD design - and I quote:

I also think we need to add a special emblem “compact dick DIGITAL AUDIO."

I have nothing to add.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 26-Nov-07

2007-11-26T14:49:00.000-06:00

From the intro page of a hotel guest services directory:

Sincerely,

B--- B----
General Manager & Staff

The man is the GM and the staff - he must be incredibly busy. Maybe he has that superpower where he can split himself into two people, over and over again. There was a Marvel character like that, right? Or have I just unwittingly confessed to having seen a few episodes of Smallville? In any case, kudos to him for finding a lucrative way to use his powers that didn't involve world domination.

At least, not that we know of.

-SA

Reasons Not to Poke My Eyes Out 16-Nov-07

2007-11-16T15:30:00.000-06:00

Plotting dots on a map of the DC area today - a project that takes days, once you factor in several emails back and forth to the client to get the information straight. The charting is fine, the client's attitude is frustrating, but I did find one little bright spot:

Actual county name in Virginia: SPOTSYLVANIA.

I'm picturing a wood full of puppies.

-SA

Mistake of the Day 15-Nov-07

2007-11-15T18:28:00.000-06:00

From a new form meant to increase productivity:

SUGGESTIVE CHANGES

It's not that kind of workplace, I swear.

-SA

Reasons Not to Poke My Eyes Out

2007-11-14T15:40:00.001-06:00

Though, on the whole, I like my job pretty well, occasionally I have days that make me want to poke my eyes out. These days usually involve newsletters, hotel room services booklets, telecom guides, or other long, involved documents which take up most of the day and which require me to pore through endless small print and research any number of references (airline reservation numbers are a favorite). The best copy writer will make numerous small mistakes in these kinds of documents - mistakes of style, formatting, even spelling and punctuation. Those copy writers who could not be described as the best, but who are still employed in surprising numbers by surprisingly pricey establishments, provide the kind of copy which must be virtually rewritten; my job would be easier if they would just send me a bulleted list of the info and be done with it. It's not the first read-through that gets me; it's the fourth and fifth - and all of it on a glowing computer screen. (Too, even once I finish my revisions and send them off to the artist to implement, I know they'll just return the next day to check again.)

Today is one of those days: since 11 this morning I've been tearing through a resort newsletter, done up in pink and green and completely airless, with text or photos crowding every square centimeter of space. It would be exhausting to read through if I didn't have to correct it. But I do.

So, to keep from growing too dispirited, I've decided to keep a list of unexpected treasures sifted from the endless sand of overly peppy copy. Here, for you to share, my REASONS NOT TO POKE MY EYES OUT:

* Apparently there are actually people in the world named VanLanschoot. And naturally, they get married at island resorts.

* A delightful company name: Cheeseman Tours. I don't know what they tour, but I'm excited.

* This has nothing to do with the newsletter, but I just got a free Peanut M&M's from the vending machine. Of course that means some poor sap didn't get his M&M's, but I'm choosing to believe he didn't spend all day combing through the print equivalent of a clown car. A clown car full of money-grubbing, mauve and green clowns. Free chocolate! Woo!

That's not a lot of reasons not to violently blind myself; but the chocolate is pretty cool, and, of course, there's my natural aversion to self-mutilation. So, for today at least, my eyes remain intact. As, I hope, do yours.

National Meeting and Al-Amir

2007-11-11T13:11:00.000-06:00

I spent all day yesterday in a meeting, so naturally, half my extended family called me. Thankfully, I remembered to put my phone on vibrate.

Every November and April my company has national meetings at which every single one of its seventy employees, down to the warehouse personnel, gather to hear about the last year's P&L (that's profit and loss, apparently) and next year's projections and quotas. It's interesting information to have, and if you've ever worked for a company with more than five employees, you know that that kind of transparency to the lower-level drones is rare. But, well, it's an all-day meeting. An all-day meeting on a Saturday. So I was pretty happy to see it finished.

But the meeting was only officially finished. That evening, our CEO, Faisal Ahmad, hosted a dinner for the art and hospitality departments, which was not required, technically, but was required if you knew what was good for you. That sounds ominous, but aside from the wait (we had a three hour break between, and since I live an hour away from work, I couldn't really go home and nap), it was really a pretty neat evening. We went to Al-Amir, a Lebanese restaurant on Greenville Ave. in Dallas. We dipped pita bread in hummus and baba ganouj (I liked the hummus best), then gnawed on these very pleasantly spicy kebabs (big kerfuffle when the waiter brought only beef and no chicken) with lightly seasoned, sort citrus-y rice and charred squash and tomatoes. Delicious. I also tried a mojito, which I like fairly well, but if you've ever had drinks with me (so, not very many of you, I guess), you know that I never get through a whole drink. Anyway, I was distracted by, you know, the belly dancer.

Afterwards, there was dancing, which ranged from "fairly good" to "it's nice that you have that kind of confidence." I may never look at our VP in quite the same way. Also, we had hookahs, which - you know what, if you don't know, go here. All in all, probably the best "cultural experience" I've had since I got back from China. I got home at midnight, which is early for a night of drinks and dancing, but awfully late for a business meeting. I decided I wouldn't set the alarm and if I woke up in time on my own, I'd go to church. Apparently, God was listening, because when I rolled out of bed at what I was sure was one or two in the afternoon, the clock read "8:30." So, to church I went. I only hope my sweater didn't smell like strawberry tobacco.

Proof

2007-11-07T10:34:00.000-06:00

For those who are interested, here's my very own page on the USFI website. (Hopefully it'll be gone by the time you check, but it's cute that they've put a typo on the proofreader's page, right there in my name.)

Mistake of the Day 5-Nov-07

2007-11-05T11:15:00.000-06:00

Menu item:

Main Lobster Sandwich, $29.00

The price is not the typo.

Halloween

2007-11-02T11:53:00.000-05:00

Wednesday was my first time to give away candy for Halloween (I've always lived in apartments before), and I think I'm well on my way to becoming a grumpy old lady. I don't mind giving away candy - it's a major holiday, lots of strangers did it for me back in the day, and after all, it's just hospitable. But I gotta say: kids in costumes? Eh. I can see how it would be fun for them (how is it that I don't remember a single costume from my own trick-or-treating years?), but I can't say it excites me all that much. So that covers grumpy; now for old.

What's with the teenagers trick-or-treating? A) Some of them seem to think "all the skankiest clothes I own, all at once" is a costume. It may be, but not one of the Halloween variety (remember, the idea is make-believe). B) Aren't you old enough to get a job and buy your own candy yet? Or at least old enough to get a ride to an actual party? Why are you scamming candy from neighbors? Let go! If you're old enough to go out after dark by yourself, you're too old to be horning in on children's fun. Or, let me put it this way: Halloween, especially the ritual part of it, is for those for whom magic - witches, ghosts, goblins, superpowers, and the force of incantation - is still a real possibility; so if you're not a child or a transplant from the Medieval Ages, it's not your holiday. (I should add here that I distinctly remember the year my dad told me I was too old to trick-or-treat. I was twelve, and I was heartbroken.) Of course, I know that, "why don't all these dang kids get jobs and buy their own candy," is the thought of an old person - an old, grumpy person. And it seems a little early to be that person. But there you have it: I have no Halloween spirit. Bring on the good holidays.

Mistake of the Day 29-Oct-07

2007-10-29T13:49:00.000-05:00

Most of my new proofreading job is the kind of detail work that most other people would consider tedium; but occasionally I run across the kind of detail I think everyone can appreciate. So, premiering today, my occasional-but-still-called-daily item, the MISTAKE OF THE DAY.

"Jeans, shorts and sandals are not permitted for dinner. Collard shirts for men are required for dinner."

The Talo-fibula, To Be Exact

2007-04-18T20:49:00.000-05:00

You always hear that you're supposed to always wear clean underwear, in case you're ever in an accident. No one ever tells you to clean your house for that reason.

My dad told me the other week that I have good natural balance, based on the fact that I'm able to pull a U-turn on a bicycle on a narrow residential street. Apparently, this is a skill that no amount of yoga can teach (not that my Dad does yoga - it's some lady on the bike club). Generally I defer to him on all matters athletic (and mechanical, and construction-related, and...you know what, my dad and I have very dissimilar interests; that's not the point). Unfortunately, I think he may have called his one wrong, based on the fact that I'm apparently not all that good at walking. At least, not as good as I should be.

That's right: I just sprained my ankle walking. Last time - back in June (same ankle) - I could blame the combination of the curb and the flip-flop. Apparently, those don't get along. This time, it looks like it was all me. I was wearing flats. I was walking on level, carpeted ground. I...have no excuse. This is just sad.

Fortunately, an extremely kind friend came to my office, got my keys from me, drove to my apartment, fetched my crutches, brought them back to me at the office, and drove me back to my apartment. This is where we began, the disaster area that is my apartment. I could blame it on the packing I've started doing, but, well, I think the packing may actually improve the tidiness of my living space. Friends: don't let this happen to you. Learn from my mistake, and keep your space presentable. Someday, someone you know and like but who probably doesn't want a chance to survey the remains of your last several days' meals will have to check your freezer for frozen peas. Do your dishes, and it'll be much more pleasant for both of you.

The underwear thing's probably important too.

Winter Strikes Back

2007-04-08T17:12:00.000-05:00

I fully intended to write a post about cycling today. After all, a few weeks ago I bought a new bike (christened Bessie), and I've been training for the Easter Hill Country Tour (that's the one that happens over the Easter weekend, in, you know, the Texas Hill Country). However, Nature had other ideas.

As everyone in the country is aware, winter made a vicious comeback this weekend. We woke up in Kerrville Saturday morning ready for ride number 2, but the hovering-above-zero temperatures combined with the fitful but persistent rain convinced even Dad to find something else to do. We hit Fredericksburg for some shopping (if you ever want to pick up some Texana, Fredericksburg has you covered) and did lunch at Kerrville's famous Mamacita's (chicken enchiladas with sour cream sauce highly recommended). Then we looked outside at the rain (with intermittent sleet!) and decided that there wasn't much use in holding out for a ride Sunday. So, we packed up and drove home.

The drive home was like something out of the twilight zone. Back in the eighties, Lady Bird Johnson (LBJ's widow) sponsored a program to seed native wildflowers alongside Texas highways, and one of the highlights of the Hill Country in spring is the blankets of bluebonnets and cloth-of-gold* alongside the highways and spreading through the fields. On this trip, though, all the purple and blue and yellow flowers of spring were nestled in white snow, glinting with ice. We got an inch last night (which, of course, isn't a patch on what more northerly climes saw), which is more than most parts of Texas see in January. The entire month. What's going on? I thought globe was warming.

Anyway, we'll see how the wildflowers do with this seasonal switch (and, consequently, how long I can keep using the weather as a metaphor for my state of mind). Updates...eventually.

SA

*Full disclosure: those flowers may not be cloth-of-gold; in my family we call them "pretty little yellow flowers."

How Did Winter Get So Warm?

2007-03-01T14:39:00.000-06:00

I'm sleeping about half the day now (thanks, depression!), but my sleeping hours might be more lively than my waking ones. My time-for-brain-pills alarm goes off at 1:00 pm, and generally wakes me up, usually very confused to be where I am. Not that I'm anywhere unusual - just my bed - but whenever my conscious mind drifts into a fitful lull during the early hours of the morning, my unconscious apparently decides to make a break for it. The dreams are incredibly vivid; I can't remember the last one that seemed like a dream until I'd woken up from it. All kinds of characters populate my dreams - if you're reading this, in fact, you've probably made an appearance in one of my dreams. There are strangers, too - say, a kindly old woman who reminds me of my Aunt Evelyn, and her unseen son who I'm pretty sure shot her. They're not usually what I'd call nightmares (old lady slaying aside); but neither would I term them "sweet." They're like little alternate lives I live with my eyes closed, that don't always make rational sense but make complete intuitive sense. Or, possibly, I've just been reading too much Zhuangzi.

The Eternal Stair

2007-02-17T21:25:00.001-06:00

I've started going to the gym on a regular (ish) basis, and I've become fascinated by the stair climber. Most gym equipment, of course, looks as if it had its origins in some medieval dungeon, but the stair climber, as a torture device, is devilish in its simplicity: you climb and you climb, but you never get anywhere. It's the damnation of Sisyphus, but with more moving parts.

True, the treadmill and the stationary bike also offer all the effort of transportation without any of the satisfaction of destination; but I think in our society running and biking have been more or less divorced from their original functions as modes of conveyance. One bikes for exercise, not to get anywhere (never mind fun). One runs to be able to eat carbs with impunity, not because one needs to get somewhere in a hurry. But climbing stairs...unless "Eye of the Tiger" is playing, or you've hacked off the offensive coordinator, stairs are still a means to a (physical) end. Stairs are for getting somewhere (and on all the non-infernal ones, there's always the option of descent). That's why the stair climber is such an exquisite frustration: something is supposed to happen, and it never, ever does. You're within inches of the top, but the stairs keep on coming.

In our gym, the stair climber has been mostly replaced with bikes and treadmills, or better yet, elliptical trainers, which offer motion bearing no resemblance to anything done in real life. The two remaining StairMasters, both clearly relics, occupy an ignominious corner in the back. And, for the most part, they are ignored. But once in a while, some guilt-wracked soul will pass by the business-like treadmills and toy-like ellipticals and mount the old stair climber. She starts climbing, and she keeps climbing, stepping ever upward, always knowing she'll never reach the top. But don't worry - she isn't me.

Suddenly, It's Winter

2006-12-09T15:27:00.000-06:00

I came up with that title a couple weeks ago, when Wednesday's high was around 80 and Thursday's was in the 40's. I've been meaning to put up this particular post since then - well, actually, before then - but I haven't gotten around to it. Which is appropriate, I suppose, since this post is about my new-found inability to get anything done.

Just before Thanksgiving, I presented a paper in my Galatians seminar. It went alright at first, but then as the discussion went on, I started crying. Everybody else was sufficiently professional to keep on discussing just as if there weren't tears streaming down both of my cheeks, and at the break I went to the bathroom, composed myself, and sat through the other presentation without incident. But then, the next week, before I could even get to class, I started sobbing there on the sidewalk at the mere prospect of going. Needless to say, I turned around and went home.

I emailed Mom (who's a psychologist, for those of you know don't know or didn't remember) to describe what was going on: apart from the teariness (which now afflicted me whenever I even tried to get any work done for the class, or thought about previous bouts of teariness, or thought about class), there was the listlessness, the inability to get anything done, and even the complete lack of joy at the prospect of the holiday season, usually my favorite time of year. She suggested I go to a psychiatrist at the campus center and tell him I might be depressed. (For those of you who don't know, psychologists counsel, psychiatrists prescribe.)

I couldn't get an appointment with Dr. Dutton, the psychiatrist on staff, until Tuesday before Thanksgiving, at 8 in the morning, which meant making the round trip back from Arlington to Waco, but it was worth the gas. Being home and amongst family and friends cheered me up considerably, but before I left for the appointment, Mom and I chatted about whether or not I needed meds, and sure enough, just discussing the situation brought on the waterworks. So, to Waco I went, to meet Dr. Dutton. He's quite the stereotypical shrink: he wore a corduroy blazer over a turtleneck, his hair is receding in stages, and he sports round glasses that tend to sit nearer the end of his nose than the bridge. He speaks softly, in something of an ivory tower mumble. He gave me a list of possible symptoms and asked me to circle mine. When I handed them back he looked them over and confirmed, "No periods of high energy or activity?"

"Manic episodes?" I replied. "No."

We talked a bit further, and he ended up writing me a scrip for Zoloft. I've been taking it since that Tuesday, and, well, I've managed to write this entire post without shedding a single tear. I'm still recovering my will to study, and hopefully that'll return soon, since I have papers very much due in both my courses for the semester. Dr. Dowd, my Galatians professor, has been very sympathetic and understanding about the whole situation, and I get to talk to Dr. Candler Monday. He's pretty nice in general, so aside from the queasiness of having to tell a relative stranger about my mental ill health and ask for unusual leniency, I have high hopes.

See, right there, I started to cry again; but I was able to hold it back. That is a miracle.

Anyway, I have some theories on why this is happening, but clearly that needs to keep for another post, because this one is long and heavy enough. So, enough for now.

Sara Ann

PS Those of you familiar with depression may know that suicidal thoughts are a common symptom. Let me reassure you on that score, at least: I haven't started wanting my life to end.

Things to Do Besides Work on My Degree: Murder!

2006-11-10T17:14:00.000-06:00

So this weekend is the annual Waco Friends of the Library Book Sale, and I just bought...Okay, I'm not going to tell you how many books I bought, but it was enough that they (the friends of the library- or maybe that's me, I don't know) came over with a library cart and helped me wheel them around and load them into my car. I picked up a little sci-fi (Asimov), but mostly I picked through the mystery section. In addition to my girl Agatha, I'm trying out a little Sayers (I know, I know - I like mystery and I've never read Sayers!) as well as Gardener and Queen. Mmmm, murder...

Christmas List

2006-11-09T16:22:00.000-06:00

It's up on Amazon this year.

Quick Update

2006-10-30T22:40:00.000-06:00

No real post this week, because I'm less than 24 hours from a due date, but for a quick chuckle, try this. I am shocked that it didn't work.

Also: notice the subtle Brit-ness of the headline. Tell me that doesn't make you want to edit.