Apparently, the new craze is to plug your blog address into a blog I.Q. calculator to see what reading level your blog is. I just plugged mine in, and it came back with an elementary school level. What does this mean? Do I not use big enough words? Do I not talk enough about Chaucer? I just don't understand. Don't get me wrong. I don't feel any less smart because of the rating, nor do I think I will quit blogging either, but I am curious how the ratings are determined.
Jenny commented on Ali's blog that if the level of her blog is below genius, does that mean that her blog is more readable than Ali's? I think this is a valid question, but reading both blogs on a regular basis, I can't say that one is more readable than the other, or that one is more valuable to "smart" people than the other. I have to repeat myself, I just don't get it. It seems to me that the assignment of readability is arbitrary. Oh well.
Anyway, for all you elementary level readers, I dedicate this post to you, for I love you all and hope that my urbane commentary on life and whatnot entertains you for a few moments out of the day, even if it will probably lower your I.Q. to read it.
Happy Holidays to all, and I hope all your dreams come true in the new year.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
What the F***
So, today I'm reading the Yahoo! News, and I see an article about Jessica Alba being pregnant. I'm thinking, "Ah, that's nice." Of course, then I scroll down and see the comments that have been posted and think, "What the F*** are these guys thinking?" Apparently, some people feel they must point out that according to God's law, Alba is a bad person because she and the baby's father aren't married. This got me thinking about how often this kind of thinking pops up in today's society. These people seem to feel that not only is it wrong for a child not to grow up in a two parent home (male-female parent home), but they just have to force this view on everyone, whether others want to hear it or not. It's really starting to piss me off!
Sure, I think that a child growing up in a loving two parent home is better equipped to handle their future life than children not growing up in a loving home, but there are a lot of kids who receive just as much, if not more, love in a one parent home, or in a home that is not represented by the "traditional" family model. What people forget in their rush to follow "God's" law is that it is the child who counts. It's all about love. If the child is going to be loved, who cares if it's raised by a mom and a dad, 2 moms, 2 dads, a grandparent, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, or whatever.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that we're all equipped with morals, standards, ethics or whatever you want to call them. If you think that you have to have yours dictated by someone else rather than just doing good because it's the right thing to do to make a better world, maybe you had better re-evaluate yourself. Maybe you should take time away to discover whether your "good deeds" are done so that you can go to heaven, please another person, or look like an appropriate Christian, Buddhist, Jew, Muslim, etc., or whether you are actually a good person who just likes to see others happy and be happy, as well. I'm tired of the hypocrisy! Get a backbone, people, and think for yourself. I'm not saying religion is bad or good. I'm just saying that rather than let others tell you how to think or what to do, use the great, grey matter between your ears and make some decisions on your own.
And by the way, it's none of our business if Jessica Alba is married before she has a baby or not. This is her business, and she needs to do what she feels is right, not what we feel is right. Rant concluded. You will now be returned to your regularly scheduled program.
Sure, I think that a child growing up in a loving two parent home is better equipped to handle their future life than children not growing up in a loving home, but there are a lot of kids who receive just as much, if not more, love in a one parent home, or in a home that is not represented by the "traditional" family model. What people forget in their rush to follow "God's" law is that it is the child who counts. It's all about love. If the child is going to be loved, who cares if it's raised by a mom and a dad, 2 moms, 2 dads, a grandparent, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, or whatever.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that we're all equipped with morals, standards, ethics or whatever you want to call them. If you think that you have to have yours dictated by someone else rather than just doing good because it's the right thing to do to make a better world, maybe you had better re-evaluate yourself. Maybe you should take time away to discover whether your "good deeds" are done so that you can go to heaven, please another person, or look like an appropriate Christian, Buddhist, Jew, Muslim, etc., or whether you are actually a good person who just likes to see others happy and be happy, as well. I'm tired of the hypocrisy! Get a backbone, people, and think for yourself. I'm not saying religion is bad or good. I'm just saying that rather than let others tell you how to think or what to do, use the great, grey matter between your ears and make some decisions on your own.
And by the way, it's none of our business if Jessica Alba is married before she has a baby or not. This is her business, and she needs to do what she feels is right, not what we feel is right. Rant concluded. You will now be returned to your regularly scheduled program.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
No Really! It's a Blog Post, Not a Diary Entry.
Apparently I'm supposed to write in this blog more frequently than I do. I've been getting a lot of smack about not having written over the last two (or three) weeks. I do apologize, but hey! Life has been pretty much a continuous line of nothing new. It just seemed to me that I shouldn't bore everyone with posts of "Job's goin' well. Niece is sick. Haven't written a damn thing! Sure do wish I had some sort of life." Anyway, for those of you who have pestered me (you know who you are, Oliver!), this post is for you.
This job is going well. I've been trained to take care of Medicare D patients who are mostly from California. I've been on the phones a couple of days now, so I've been able to talk to these people. Let me say now that I adore these people and wish that I could do more for them than I can. So far, they have been so nice and laid back. All I want to do is say, "It's okay, Hun. I'll make sure everything is good for you." Ah well, nothing like trying to help the older generation with your hands tied behind your back. It's a good thing I like a challenge.
My niece, Elizabeth, is back in Children's hospital. She's been there since before Thanksgiving, and it doesn't look like she's coming home anytime soon. Most of you know the saga surrounding her, so I won't rehash old news. I'll just say that my angel is sick, and the doctors aren't sure why she's not getting better. I miss her.
Writing has definitely taken a backseat to my life, at this point. Even my thesis is suffering. However, now that I'm in my regular work schedule, I hope to get back on it. (Sorry Stephen. I love you, but you've been a little too much for me lately.)
Finally, for those of you who didn't know before, I'm telling you now. I have no life. This isn't likely to change soon, but at least I'm now developing the finances that might support a life in the future. If any of you have suggestions for how I might develop a life, they would be greatly appreciated. If, however, you only wish to ridicule my lack of a life, I must request that you not comment and instead focus on the possible reasons your life is so awful you must make fun of my lack of one.
Well, that's it. I hope I haven't bored, but if I did, well, I told you there was a reason I wasn't posting.
This job is going well. I've been trained to take care of Medicare D patients who are mostly from California. I've been on the phones a couple of days now, so I've been able to talk to these people. Let me say now that I adore these people and wish that I could do more for them than I can. So far, they have been so nice and laid back. All I want to do is say, "It's okay, Hun. I'll make sure everything is good for you." Ah well, nothing like trying to help the older generation with your hands tied behind your back. It's a good thing I like a challenge.
My niece, Elizabeth, is back in Children's hospital. She's been there since before Thanksgiving, and it doesn't look like she's coming home anytime soon. Most of you know the saga surrounding her, so I won't rehash old news. I'll just say that my angel is sick, and the doctors aren't sure why she's not getting better. I miss her.
Writing has definitely taken a backseat to my life, at this point. Even my thesis is suffering. However, now that I'm in my regular work schedule, I hope to get back on it. (Sorry Stephen. I love you, but you've been a little too much for me lately.)
Finally, for those of you who didn't know before, I'm telling you now. I have no life. This isn't likely to change soon, but at least I'm now developing the finances that might support a life in the future. If any of you have suggestions for how I might develop a life, they would be greatly appreciated. If, however, you only wish to ridicule my lack of a life, I must request that you not comment and instead focus on the possible reasons your life is so awful you must make fun of my lack of one.
Well, that's it. I hope I haven't bored, but if I did, well, I told you there was a reason I wasn't posting.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Just a Question
I've decided that this blog is going to be a weekly one. This is due mostly to the fact that when I get off work, I'm just too tired to do anything accept watch a little boob-tube and eat some Ramon noodles. Perhaps this will change once I get out of training and start doing my job in earnest, but I'm not going to hold my breath just-in-case.
I've been trying to keep up with the blogs of my friends, but they, too, have to wait until the weekend, and I usually don't comment on them. My poor friends. They must think I don't love them anymore, and that I don't find what they write interesting, but I do. I truly do. I just don't have a lot to say right now that doesn't have something to do with work. This leads me to the question I want to ask with this blog:
Do you (have you, would you, etc.) allow work, school, social obligations, family, etc. to consume you to the point that it engulfs you, forcing you to foresake what you consider the pleasures of life?
(Obviously, my answer to this question is yes. You can use the two posts I've made since I started working as evidence. Throw on top of that the fact that I only leave the house to go to work, and it becomes clear that I'm working myself up to lonely recluse status. Ay, me. Looks like I'll be dying alone. I won't be found for weeks, and my body will be gnawed by the dozen or so cats I'll have collected by then.)
I've been trying to keep up with the blogs of my friends, but they, too, have to wait until the weekend, and I usually don't comment on them. My poor friends. They must think I don't love them anymore, and that I don't find what they write interesting, but I do. I truly do. I just don't have a lot to say right now that doesn't have something to do with work. This leads me to the question I want to ask with this blog:
Do you (have you, would you, etc.) allow work, school, social obligations, family, etc. to consume you to the point that it engulfs you, forcing you to foresake what you consider the pleasures of life?
(Obviously, my answer to this question is yes. You can use the two posts I've made since I started working as evidence. Throw on top of that the fact that I only leave the house to go to work, and it becomes clear that I'm working myself up to lonely recluse status. Ay, me. Looks like I'll be dying alone. I won't be found for weeks, and my body will be gnawed by the dozen or so cats I'll have collected by then.)
Sunday, November 4, 2007
There's Just Too Many Verbs
So, I've started my new job with Express Scripts. I think it's going to be a good job, and I like the people who work there. But there's one thing that bothers me. Friday, in my training class, we were asked to write a definition of a Patient Care Advocate in our little four person groups. Then, we all came together as a class and wrote a definition. What we came up with, or rather, what the rest of the class came up with, while stating what we all thought would make a good PCA, was horribly wrong in the grammatical sense.
I say that the rest of the class came up with it because I bit my tongue, for the most part, refrained from becoming the grammar Nazi I usually am, and allowed them to express themselves. It was very painful for me to hear, and see. The biggest thought in my head was, "Too many verbs." In fact, I think I pointed this out to them out loud, but no one took any heed. I'm not sure they even understood what I was trying to say. I don't think they realized that trying to fit utilizing, supporting, educating, assisting, providing, (and several more verbs in the same vein) was a bad thing in a one or two sentence statement.
In the end, they only used about half of the verbs they had originally suggested, but it was still too many. I wonder if I should have spoken up? But then again, how important is it to write grammatically in a class in which we are only learning to speak knowledgeably and empathetically to patients, not to write in this manner. After all, when speaking, all of these people seem to have a fine grasp of English grammar.
I say that the rest of the class came up with it because I bit my tongue, for the most part, refrained from becoming the grammar Nazi I usually am, and allowed them to express themselves. It was very painful for me to hear, and see. The biggest thought in my head was, "Too many verbs." In fact, I think I pointed this out to them out loud, but no one took any heed. I'm not sure they even understood what I was trying to say. I don't think they realized that trying to fit utilizing, supporting, educating, assisting, providing, (and several more verbs in the same vein) was a bad thing in a one or two sentence statement.
In the end, they only used about half of the verbs they had originally suggested, but it was still too many. I wonder if I should have spoken up? But then again, how important is it to write grammatically in a class in which we are only learning to speak knowledgeably and empathetically to patients, not to write in this manner. After all, when speaking, all of these people seem to have a fine grasp of English grammar.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Everyone Else Is Doing It
Ladies and Gentlemen! Below you'll find the pile of poo I wrote at the writing marathon. I am posting her for your perusal because, well, because everyone else who was in my group is doing it, and I don't want to be left out. You all know what a conformist I am. (I don't know if I'll ever finish it, but hey! Starting it is half the battle.)
Massages By Appointment
She was not an attractive woman. Her hair sat fastened in a tight bun at the back of her head, pulling the skin around her temples and forehead tight, giving her the look of an old oriental in a state of shocked disapproval.
She said her name was Lynette, but the cracked, red patches on her hands belonged more to an Olga, or perhaps even a Lupe. I didn't want her to touch me with those hands, those lying hands that looked like they had never touched or caressed, but only scrubbed and kneaded.
Her clothes hung from her like loose leafs of elephant skin. To say she was a scarecrow would be too generous. There was only bone and skin. Skin that sagged and wobbled and dangled, its translucence alive, yet stagnant, faded from what may once have been the delicate, creamy color of slowly churned buttermilk.
Massages By Appointment
She was not an attractive woman. Her hair sat fastened in a tight bun at the back of her head, pulling the skin around her temples and forehead tight, giving her the look of an old oriental in a state of shocked disapproval.
She said her name was Lynette, but the cracked, red patches on her hands belonged more to an Olga, or perhaps even a Lupe. I didn't want her to touch me with those hands, those lying hands that looked like they had never touched or caressed, but only scrubbed and kneaded.
Her clothes hung from her like loose leafs of elephant skin. To say she was a scarecrow would be too generous. There was only bone and skin. Skin that sagged and wobbled and dangled, its translucence alive, yet stagnant, faded from what may once have been the delicate, creamy color of slowly churned buttermilk.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Not Your Every Day Superheroes
Okay, so I threatened to do this, and by gosh darned if it didn't go and do it. In honor of Halloween, I've created some superheroes in the Mystery Men style. Feel free to create your own, or improve upon mine.
Bunny Man? When danger lurks, he runs and hides.
Tortilla Girl? She throws stale tortillas like Frisbees to disarm her opponents.
Eco-Man? He only uses environmentally friendly weapons--bio-degradable paper costume and all.
Literature Guy? He spouts Milton, Keats, and Plato at his enemies until they lose consciousness from either confusion or boredom.
Dictionary Man? He throws heavy reference tools at his enemies. (They come back to him like boomerangs.)
Opera Woman? She can render anyone unconscious with a high C.
Leather Man? Well, no one knows what he can do, and they don't really want to ask.
Lazy Boy? He defeats his foes by rendering them unconscious with his super sonic belches, all from the comfort of his recliner.
Dancing Queen? She...uh...he...I mean...she dances circles around her enemy creating the Vortex of Death. After which he, excuse me, she redecorates the room to match the villain's bruises.
Bitter Woman? She uses biting sarcasm to wound her opponents before taking them down with her feminist diatribes.
Mama's Boy? He stands around while his mother beats the crap out of his enemies with her trusty rolling pin (this is actually a super duo.)
Frances the Yodeling Wonderkind? I think it's pretty obvious what Frances' super power is. Yes, he throws Yodels at his enemies until they are too sticky to move.
Yodelayheehoo? Because her brother Frances stole her most effective power, she relies on the family tradition of yodelling to explode the heads of her enemies.
Woody Allen? He stutters. (Actually, he's not very well liked by the rest of the super heroes because of his lack of self esteem and his constant need to talk without ever coming to the point.)
Bunny Man? When danger lurks, he runs and hides.
Tortilla Girl? She throws stale tortillas like Frisbees to disarm her opponents.
Eco-Man? He only uses environmentally friendly weapons--bio-degradable paper costume and all.
Literature Guy? He spouts Milton, Keats, and Plato at his enemies until they lose consciousness from either confusion or boredom.
Dictionary Man? He throws heavy reference tools at his enemies. (They come back to him like boomerangs.)
Opera Woman? She can render anyone unconscious with a high C.
Leather Man? Well, no one knows what he can do, and they don't really want to ask.
Lazy Boy? He defeats his foes by rendering them unconscious with his super sonic belches, all from the comfort of his recliner.
Dancing Queen? She...uh...he...I mean...she dances circles around her enemy creating the Vortex of Death. After which he, excuse me, she redecorates the room to match the villain's bruises.
Bitter Woman? She uses biting sarcasm to wound her opponents before taking them down with her feminist diatribes.
Mama's Boy? He stands around while his mother beats the crap out of his enemies with her trusty rolling pin (this is actually a super duo.)
Frances the Yodeling Wonderkind? I think it's pretty obvious what Frances' super power is. Yes, he throws Yodels at his enemies until they are too sticky to move.
Yodelayheehoo? Because her brother Frances stole her most effective power, she relies on the family tradition of yodelling to explode the heads of her enemies.
Woody Allen? He stutters. (Actually, he's not very well liked by the rest of the super heroes because of his lack of self esteem and his constant need to talk without ever coming to the point.)
Friday, October 19, 2007
Hi. My Name is Mishell, and I'm a Procrastinator
You know that Peanuts comic strip gag where Lucy is trying to get Charlie Brown to kick the football? She always promises not to pull the ball away, and Charlie Brown always runs full tilt at it and kicks himself into summersaults. Well, I'm Charlie Brown. I run full tilt at everything. That wouldn't be so bad, except that I'm Lucy, too. I keep pulling that football out of my own path so that I end up on my ass complaining that I always fall for my tricks. Aaargh!
Anyway, I'm working on my thesis (as most of you know by now, and if you don't, then you haven't been paying attention to me, because I talk about it constantly in one form or another). Well, I guess I should say that I'm trying to work on my thesis. I've got 14 pages of a 60 page (or so) rough draft, but I keep finding excuses to not get any farther. I've got outlines and notes jotted all over the place, but I find that rooting my butt to the chair in front of my computer gets harder and harder (unless I'm going to catch up on my Freecell, that is.) I'm meeting with my advisor today, and I have no new pages to give her. I've got lots of ideas, but no clue how to put them on paper. It all sounds so stupid when I do, like I'm the pretend graduate student. This makes me want to work even less. (See that football being moved?)
Furthermore, rather than using that valuable procrastination time to work on the short story I started last year, I've let the story rot in revision hell. This is a story that means a lot to me, and I think it has the potential to be really good, so why can't I bring myself to get back to it? I haven't even looked at it in at least 2 months. It whispers to me every day, but I ignore it, saying that I shouldn't be speaking to it since I'm supposed to be concentrating on my thesis. "I can't divide my creativity, right now." What the hell is that? What does that mean? I don't know, but I think I see Lucy holding the ball on this one, too.
I tell myself that this procrastination is caused by the fact that I don't have a job, and I'm constantly worrying about getting one and how I'll pay the rent if I don't. I keep trying to get on at the university. In fact, I have a resume in there right now. I put off applying for other jobs because this is the one I really, really, really want, but on Sunday I decided that I couldn't wait anymore. I'm out of money, and unless I want to become the Bag Lady of Belmont, I need to work. Well, Wednesday I got hired for a job I'm not sure I want to do. I know I'll do it, but I wonder if it's going to help my procrastination or just give me another excuse not to do the two things I love most.
Anyway, I'm working on my thesis (as most of you know by now, and if you don't, then you haven't been paying attention to me, because I talk about it constantly in one form or another). Well, I guess I should say that I'm trying to work on my thesis. I've got 14 pages of a 60 page (or so) rough draft, but I keep finding excuses to not get any farther. I've got outlines and notes jotted all over the place, but I find that rooting my butt to the chair in front of my computer gets harder and harder (unless I'm going to catch up on my Freecell, that is.) I'm meeting with my advisor today, and I have no new pages to give her. I've got lots of ideas, but no clue how to put them on paper. It all sounds so stupid when I do, like I'm the pretend graduate student. This makes me want to work even less. (See that football being moved?)
Furthermore, rather than using that valuable procrastination time to work on the short story I started last year, I've let the story rot in revision hell. This is a story that means a lot to me, and I think it has the potential to be really good, so why can't I bring myself to get back to it? I haven't even looked at it in at least 2 months. It whispers to me every day, but I ignore it, saying that I shouldn't be speaking to it since I'm supposed to be concentrating on my thesis. "I can't divide my creativity, right now." What the hell is that? What does that mean? I don't know, but I think I see Lucy holding the ball on this one, too.
I tell myself that this procrastination is caused by the fact that I don't have a job, and I'm constantly worrying about getting one and how I'll pay the rent if I don't. I keep trying to get on at the university. In fact, I have a resume in there right now. I put off applying for other jobs because this is the one I really, really, really want, but on Sunday I decided that I couldn't wait anymore. I'm out of money, and unless I want to become the Bag Lady of Belmont, I need to work. Well, Wednesday I got hired for a job I'm not sure I want to do. I know I'll do it, but I wonder if it's going to help my procrastination or just give me another excuse not to do the two things I love most.
Monday, September 24, 2007
A Little More About Name Calling
"I'm sorry if you felt offended, but I don't think what I actually said came across."--Jenny
There is absolutely no need to apologize, my dear and lovely Jenny. I think I should qualify my statement. It was not you who offended me, but rather the idea that offended me. The idea of "Old Maid." And I think I was, and am, offended because of the fact that there is no reason at all these days for any woman to be labeled as this.
As you pointed out, in Jane's day not marrying had dire financial consequences, whereas today "Sisters are doin' it for themselves!" (Gotta love Annie Lennox and Patty LaBelle.) What frightens me is that even though, and I'm sure in some cases in spite of the fact, we can now have financial stability, single women of a certain age are still looked down on socially and labeled with derogatory names. (Men don't have this problem. If they never marry, they are simply called a bachelor. However, the term bachelorette is only applied to a woman who is about to get married. Hmpf! What's up with that?)
I guess what's really got my goat munchin' on my britches is that even though we now CAN do it ourselves, society doesn't really WANT us to. Or at least, it doesn't want us doing it for too long. And the scarey thing is that even though we feminists are fighting against this, somehow our little girls are still learning it, AND they're buying into it.
There is absolutely no need to apologize, my dear and lovely Jenny. I think I should qualify my statement. It was not you who offended me, but rather the idea that offended me. The idea of "Old Maid." And I think I was, and am, offended because of the fact that there is no reason at all these days for any woman to be labeled as this.
As you pointed out, in Jane's day not marrying had dire financial consequences, whereas today "Sisters are doin' it for themselves!" (Gotta love Annie Lennox and Patty LaBelle.) What frightens me is that even though, and I'm sure in some cases in spite of the fact, we can now have financial stability, single women of a certain age are still looked down on socially and labeled with derogatory names. (Men don't have this problem. If they never marry, they are simply called a bachelor. However, the term bachelorette is only applied to a woman who is about to get married. Hmpf! What's up with that?)
I guess what's really got my goat munchin' on my britches is that even though we now CAN do it ourselves, society doesn't really WANT us to. Or at least, it doesn't want us doing it for too long. And the scarey thing is that even though we feminists are fighting against this, somehow our little girls are still learning it, AND they're buying into it.
Monday, September 10, 2007
What Did You Call Me?
"...the real consequences of being an old maid"--Jenny, as told by Shane, concerning Jane Austen and the film Becoming Jane.
Oh Jenny, Jenny, Jenny. I do love you so much, so it hurts that I must tell you how offended I am. I say this mostly in jest, but there is a kernel of offense. After all, I am of that ever-growing class of women that Jane once belonged to. We are called old maids or spinsters. I don't have the experience of having been married at one time, so I can't claim the respect that a widow receives, nor the interestingly lascivious reputation that a divorcee is saddled with. Instead I am to be pitied, to be mourned, for never having known the joys that belong to marriage. Ahhh, poor me.
But seriously, I understand this comment as relates to Jane Austen and the time period she lived in. When a woman did not marry by a certain age in the 17th century, it was almost a given that she would never marry. What bothers me is that a lot of people think it's still valid today. (Not you, Jenny. This I know.)
This belief was most evident to me when one of my nieces said, "Aunt Shell, you need to find a husband." (Yes, this is an exact quote!) My first reaction was to stare, slack-jawed, at said eleven-year-old girl-child. My second was to wonder how in the hell this thought occurred to her when I've spent her whole life telling her how important she is to the world and that no man (or woman, if that is who she turns out to be) is needed for her to identify herself. With this one statement, I realized that, as far as women who never marry are concerned, the world hasn't really changed since Austen's time.
I have no plans to remain single for the rest of my life (as I'm sure Jane didn't,) but I'm not going to get married just to stop the pity that's thrown my way. I don't feel particularly pitiful or unwanted. I do feel a bit picky, but I can't see that as a bad thing (except for my age difference issues--sometimes I wish I would just get over it.) In fact, the only thing I actually lament about being almost 40 and still single is that the only one I have to share triumphs and defeats with (that is, the only one who is affected by them besides myself) is my cat, who deeply cares whether I am happy or not.
Finally, I should say that if turns out that I do remain single for the remainder of my days, oh well. At least I'll be in good company, Jane my sistah!
Oh Jenny, Jenny, Jenny. I do love you so much, so it hurts that I must tell you how offended I am. I say this mostly in jest, but there is a kernel of offense. After all, I am of that ever-growing class of women that Jane once belonged to. We are called old maids or spinsters. I don't have the experience of having been married at one time, so I can't claim the respect that a widow receives, nor the interestingly lascivious reputation that a divorcee is saddled with. Instead I am to be pitied, to be mourned, for never having known the joys that belong to marriage. Ahhh, poor me.
But seriously, I understand this comment as relates to Jane Austen and the time period she lived in. When a woman did not marry by a certain age in the 17th century, it was almost a given that she would never marry. What bothers me is that a lot of people think it's still valid today. (Not you, Jenny. This I know.)
This belief was most evident to me when one of my nieces said, "Aunt Shell, you need to find a husband." (Yes, this is an exact quote!) My first reaction was to stare, slack-jawed, at said eleven-year-old girl-child. My second was to wonder how in the hell this thought occurred to her when I've spent her whole life telling her how important she is to the world and that no man (or woman, if that is who she turns out to be) is needed for her to identify herself. With this one statement, I realized that, as far as women who never marry are concerned, the world hasn't really changed since Austen's time.
I have no plans to remain single for the rest of my life (as I'm sure Jane didn't,) but I'm not going to get married just to stop the pity that's thrown my way. I don't feel particularly pitiful or unwanted. I do feel a bit picky, but I can't see that as a bad thing (except for my age difference issues--sometimes I wish I would just get over it.) In fact, the only thing I actually lament about being almost 40 and still single is that the only one I have to share triumphs and defeats with (that is, the only one who is affected by them besides myself) is my cat, who deeply cares whether I am happy or not.
Finally, I should say that if turns out that I do remain single for the remainder of my days, oh well. At least I'll be in good company, Jane my sistah!
Monday, September 3, 2007
For Love of a Thesis
Well, it's time, once again, for me to pick up my thesis and work on a new section. The last section was about Steven King's short story "The Mist," and this new section will be about his short story "The Breathing Method." Now, I chose King as my subject because I dearly love his short fiction and feel that it has received a raw deal from the academic establishment. I also chose him because I felt that if any author could hold my attention long enough to write a 40 to 70 page critical paper, it would be King. I'm starting to wonder at the wisdom of my choice now, though.
The problem I'm having is that as I analyze King's work, I find that said analyzation is sucking the joy out of reading the stories (which is pretty much the only reason to read any story, in my opinion.) I find that by ripping everything apart I find new layers to marvel at, but that in ripping them apart, I feel a bit like Houdini unmasking fraudulant psychics. I feel smug in my ability to identify and explain the how and why of what makes the stories tick, but I lose a bit of that magical feeling of letting a story guide me through its little world.
I tell everyone that it's a good thing that I chose an author I love, or I would not be able to endure the constant re-reading and picking-apart of the literature, but I'm beginning to wonder. If I had chosen an author I liked a bit less, I think it would also hurt less to grow tired of that author. Oh Steven, whatever shall I do? I fear that I may be losing you, and it's something my heart may not be able to bear. (Sighs audibly.)
The problem I'm having is that as I analyze King's work, I find that said analyzation is sucking the joy out of reading the stories (which is pretty much the only reason to read any story, in my opinion.) I find that by ripping everything apart I find new layers to marvel at, but that in ripping them apart, I feel a bit like Houdini unmasking fraudulant psychics. I feel smug in my ability to identify and explain the how and why of what makes the stories tick, but I lose a bit of that magical feeling of letting a story guide me through its little world.
I tell everyone that it's a good thing that I chose an author I love, or I would not be able to endure the constant re-reading and picking-apart of the literature, but I'm beginning to wonder. If I had chosen an author I liked a bit less, I think it would also hurt less to grow tired of that author. Oh Steven, whatever shall I do? I fear that I may be losing you, and it's something my heart may not be able to bear. (Sighs audibly.)
Saturday, August 25, 2007
On Becoming Jane
Yesterday afternoon I decided to treat myself with a movie. The movie I chose was Becoming Jane staring Anne Hathaway. A certain English professor I know poo-pooed the movie because it concerns the romantic endeavors of Jane Austen, and as everyone knows, Jane Austen was a spinster. Ergo, she could not have had a romantic life. After having seen the movie, I can firmly say that this professor is totally wrong in her opinion.
This film is rather like the film Immortal Beloved, in which the mystery of Beethoven's will is explored. Yes, the film is speculative, but the speculations are grounded in fact. In Becoming Jane some of the facts are tweaked a bit so that they might be presented (like Jane's "challenged" brother, George, going to church with them,) within the context of the film, but on the whole, the film does a good job of showing what life was probably like for Jane Austen.
The speculative aspect of Becoming Jane concerns her affair with Tom Lefroy. While there are only two letters surviving that make mention of Lefroy, the film implies that there were several more letters that did not survive, and that perhaps the reason Jane remained single her entire life was because of the love she had for Lefroy. To me, this seems a very plausible bit of speculative fiction. After all, just because the woman never married, it can't be assumed that she never loved, and what better reason to never marry than because she could not have the one she truly loved.
The film is a joy for any Austen fan to watch, but be prepared to start crying about half-way through the film. (I'm sure not everyone will cry, but for those of us who have a propensity for it, bring tissues.) It's chock full of the heartache that comes from the audience knowing how everything will end, while the characters do not. It's beautifully acted, directed, and shot. The music fits the time period, and the costuming is so subtle it can be nothing but accurate. While I'm sure that there will be some Austen fans who can resist the pull of this film, I can't see them being the majority. For while it is a love story, it is a love story that goes beyond mere romance. It is an "epic" love story, one that examines what it really means to love, not just a mate, but life, family, work, and anything else worthy of such feeling.
It's been a long time since I've watched a film that touched me as much as this one has, and I can definitely say that it will become a part of my collection on the very day it is released on DVD.
This film is rather like the film Immortal Beloved, in which the mystery of Beethoven's will is explored. Yes, the film is speculative, but the speculations are grounded in fact. In Becoming Jane some of the facts are tweaked a bit so that they might be presented (like Jane's "challenged" brother, George, going to church with them,) within the context of the film, but on the whole, the film does a good job of showing what life was probably like for Jane Austen.
The speculative aspect of Becoming Jane concerns her affair with Tom Lefroy. While there are only two letters surviving that make mention of Lefroy, the film implies that there were several more letters that did not survive, and that perhaps the reason Jane remained single her entire life was because of the love she had for Lefroy. To me, this seems a very plausible bit of speculative fiction. After all, just because the woman never married, it can't be assumed that she never loved, and what better reason to never marry than because she could not have the one she truly loved.
The film is a joy for any Austen fan to watch, but be prepared to start crying about half-way through the film. (I'm sure not everyone will cry, but for those of us who have a propensity for it, bring tissues.) It's chock full of the heartache that comes from the audience knowing how everything will end, while the characters do not. It's beautifully acted, directed, and shot. The music fits the time period, and the costuming is so subtle it can be nothing but accurate. While I'm sure that there will be some Austen fans who can resist the pull of this film, I can't see them being the majority. For while it is a love story, it is a love story that goes beyond mere romance. It is an "epic" love story, one that examines what it really means to love, not just a mate, but life, family, work, and anything else worthy of such feeling.
It's been a long time since I've watched a film that touched me as much as this one has, and I can definitely say that it will become a part of my collection on the very day it is released on DVD.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
On Walking
I recently started walking in the evenings. Just around the neighborhood. Anyone who has been to my house knows that it's pretty hilly, so I get a descent workout. I find, much to my surprise, that I'm enjoying myself immensely. I put my headphones on and listen to my music as I walk, so it's not like I'm doing any thinking, which is very nice. I think way too much. It's good to be doing something that lets my mind go relatively blank.
The music relaxes me. I think I've been missing music in my life for a while now. I don't usually have it playing in the house. Normally it's either a movie playing or silence. I used to listen to music on my 40 minute drives to and from school, but now that I live so close, I don't even get that. A long time ago, almost a lifetime, I was a music major, so music has always been a large part of my life. I guess without it, I've lost a bit of myself. It feels good to connect with it again. It feels like we're rediscovering each other, like high school sweethearts coming together at the reunion. I feel almost whole.
On my walk today, I passed by an old man standing on his front porch. He was across the street, so I couldn't really see what he looked like, (I don't wear my glasses on my walks) except that he was wearing a white undershirt without a top shirt. He waved at me. I waved back, and then I smiled. It was kind of strange. Strange for me, at least. It's been a long time, almost 25 years, since I've lived in a neighborhood in which people waved at you as you walked by. It felt good, too. To him, I was just some woman walking by, ponytail bobbing, arms swinging, lips moving to music he couldn't hear, but something in him thought I needed that wave. I guess I did. Made me feel like I was a part of the neighborhood instead of just someone who lives a few blocks over. We didn't say anything to each other. I couldn't have heard him if he did. The French music in my ears was turned up too loud for that. But it still felt like we shared this tiny speck of a moment together. Funny. Never felt that before.
The music relaxes me. I think I've been missing music in my life for a while now. I don't usually have it playing in the house. Normally it's either a movie playing or silence. I used to listen to music on my 40 minute drives to and from school, but now that I live so close, I don't even get that. A long time ago, almost a lifetime, I was a music major, so music has always been a large part of my life. I guess without it, I've lost a bit of myself. It feels good to connect with it again. It feels like we're rediscovering each other, like high school sweethearts coming together at the reunion. I feel almost whole.
On my walk today, I passed by an old man standing on his front porch. He was across the street, so I couldn't really see what he looked like, (I don't wear my glasses on my walks) except that he was wearing a white undershirt without a top shirt. He waved at me. I waved back, and then I smiled. It was kind of strange. Strange for me, at least. It's been a long time, almost 25 years, since I've lived in a neighborhood in which people waved at you as you walked by. It felt good, too. To him, I was just some woman walking by, ponytail bobbing, arms swinging, lips moving to music he couldn't hear, but something in him thought I needed that wave. I guess I did. Made me feel like I was a part of the neighborhood instead of just someone who lives a few blocks over. We didn't say anything to each other. I couldn't have heard him if he did. The French music in my ears was turned up too loud for that. But it still felt like we shared this tiny speck of a moment together. Funny. Never felt that before.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Choosing Stories for my Collection
So, today I've started to work on my collection of short fiction. It's been a lot of fun going through my old stories to find ones I like enough to continue working on. What most interests me, though, is that I found stories from all stages of my writing career that I liked--from my first workshop class stories to the one I've been playing with for the last several months.
I thought, when I first imagined this project, that there was no way I would ever be interested in returning to my very first stories. I had the idea that all of them were tragically disfigured and there was no way of putting them to rights. However, upon revisiting them, I'm pretty impressed. I know that sounds egotistical, but it's true. Granted, all three of the stories I've chosen from my first workshop need much more attention than any of the rest of my stories, but they're good stories. Interesting stories. There's something in them that says to me, "This is true. This is who you are. Don't let these ones slip into anonymity."
I had a bit of a scare while trying to decide which stories to include. The one I most wanted to have in this collection was missing. I lost the jump drive I had saved it to, and like a dummy, I hadn't backed it up on my hard drive. Well, I looked all over the freakin' house for the folder the hard copy was in, (I have hard copies of all my stories. Thank God!) but I couldn't find it. I thought about the advice Ali and Jenny gave about doing a blind rewrite, but the thought depressed me. I loved the story the way it was already written, and I was afraid that I would destroy the tone I had set for it with a blind rewrite. To make a long story short (too late,) I finally had a wave of genius and checked in the empty chest of drawers in the spare bedroom. Not only was this story in it, but I found the critiques of many of the other stories I had chosen for my collection. Whoopee! It felt like Christmas. At any rate, the conclusion to this is that I really should label that drawer as holding all my hard copies. I could have saved myself a lot of grief if I had already done it.
I thought, when I first imagined this project, that there was no way I would ever be interested in returning to my very first stories. I had the idea that all of them were tragically disfigured and there was no way of putting them to rights. However, upon revisiting them, I'm pretty impressed. I know that sounds egotistical, but it's true. Granted, all three of the stories I've chosen from my first workshop need much more attention than any of the rest of my stories, but they're good stories. Interesting stories. There's something in them that says to me, "This is true. This is who you are. Don't let these ones slip into anonymity."
I had a bit of a scare while trying to decide which stories to include. The one I most wanted to have in this collection was missing. I lost the jump drive I had saved it to, and like a dummy, I hadn't backed it up on my hard drive. Well, I looked all over the freakin' house for the folder the hard copy was in, (I have hard copies of all my stories. Thank God!) but I couldn't find it. I thought about the advice Ali and Jenny gave about doing a blind rewrite, but the thought depressed me. I loved the story the way it was already written, and I was afraid that I would destroy the tone I had set for it with a blind rewrite. To make a long story short (too late,) I finally had a wave of genius and checked in the empty chest of drawers in the spare bedroom. Not only was this story in it, but I found the critiques of many of the other stories I had chosen for my collection. Whoopee! It felt like Christmas. At any rate, the conclusion to this is that I really should label that drawer as holding all my hard copies. I could have saved myself a lot of grief if I had already done it.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
How Josh Groban Erroded My Sense of Being
Okay, so I just clicked the hyperlink on my profile to see who else likes Josh Groban. Do you know what happened? Not a single person besides myself popped up. This event forces me to question whether anyone else who blogs on this site likes Josh. Then again, it could just be that I misunderstood the question and answered in such an off-the-wall fashion that no matter who I had named as a music preference (24 year old tenor or not), I would have achieved the same results.
So now I'm questioning my profile question answering abilities. This leads me to question my ability to answer other kinds of questions. If I can misunderstand a question as simple as "What are your music preferences," what will happen to me the next time I have to give an answer to the State Patrol about my expired license plates? How am I going to be able to provide an answer to the always nagging question "What am I going to have for dinner tonight?"
I have to somehow find a way to gain my confidence back. After all, I can't go through life not being sure about any of the answers I give. If anyone has any ideas, please let me know. I just don't think I could survive knowing that I don't have the right answer for everything.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
