And I love my neighborhood. We went out for dinner tonight to celebrate the completion of my first ever book manuscript. I had a hankering for pasta with fresh tomatoes and fresh mozzarella, so we went to Anna Maria, which used to be a short walk from home but now is a short drive away. They haven't got a kids' menu, but they can make whatever you order (Ben wanted pasta with alfredo on one side, marinara on the other. And the desserts! Mr. Tangerine always gets the tiramisu, but was too full to finish it tonight. Ben and I shared the bomba al cioccolata, a blissfully light and airy, warm and moist square of cake, swimming in bittersweet chocolate sauce, with a dollop of whipped cream. It was all we could do not to lick the plate clean.
I love the area we live in because we're sequestered amid a zillion great restaurants, precious few of them part of mega-chains. Would have to drive a good 10 miles to the closest Olive Garden, but there are over a dozen Italian indies within a couple miles of us.
And I love the neighborhood because while we were at the restaurant tonight, there were five other tables with kids (this, at a place where the cheapest pasta dish costs $10.50). Three of the six families were of mixed races. One of the families had two dads. I like that none of these groups stick out as "other" here.
Sure, the city's noisy and congested, and snow turns black from exhaust along the roadway (although: hooray for it being 44 degrees on a late-December evening with no snow on the ground!), and real estate's small and pricy. But I wouldn't trade it for clean, peaceful, spacious homogeneity. I find homogeneity discomfiting.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Saturday, December 23, 2006
The C-word
Mostly done with Christmas shopping, including buying my assigned ingredients to cook for Christmas Eve dinner at my sister's. Still not done with the book! Ha. Maybe I should work on that this afternoon.
Just wanted to report Ben's two finest remarks today:
• "Holy C-word!" (Because he's too genteel to use grown-up words and say "Holy crap.")
• "You know what's more fun than school?" he asked. "Christmas!" (Indeed.)
Mr. Tangerine and I are excited because my cousin's gonna give Ben the game of Operation—and we haven't played it in many a year! Man, I hope it's still fun. We'll find out tomorrow night what all Ben has in store for him from Santa—I've got all these toys and gifts sealed in shipping boxes and shopping bags, hiding in plain sight. Ben is none the wiser. But I don't really remember everything that's in those boxes. I hope Santa did a good job and Ben doesn't greet his goodies with disdain come Christmas morning...
Just wanted to report Ben's two finest remarks today:
• "Holy C-word!" (Because he's too genteel to use grown-up words and say "Holy crap.")
• "You know what's more fun than school?" he asked. "Christmas!" (Indeed.)
Mr. Tangerine and I are excited because my cousin's gonna give Ben the game of Operation—and we haven't played it in many a year! Man, I hope it's still fun. We'll find out tomorrow night what all Ben has in store for him from Santa—I've got all these toys and gifts sealed in shipping boxes and shopping bags, hiding in plain sight. Ben is none the wiser. But I don't really remember everything that's in those boxes. I hope Santa did a good job and Ben doesn't greet his goodies with disdain come Christmas morning...
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Interjections!
Apologies for all the non-posting of late—that book deadline is December 27 now, and I procrastinate madly, but have had either the discipline or laziness not to be blogging up a storm in the pursuit of procrastination.
I am compelled to report Ben's latest mash-up of idioms. Are all six-year-olds prone to combining words and phrases like this, or is it just Ben?
"Holy lord of gravy!" he exclaimed this morning. And no, there is no gravy in the house. Just a saying...or two...or three. He was having a blast looking through a stack of old kindergarten papers, artsy things from last year. One item was his rendering of a train trip with Mr. Tangerine. Now, they rode the Amtrak from points north. Various commuter trains to the suburbs are called the Metra. The mash-up boy declared that the drawing paid homage to the time he and Daddy rode the "Ametra train." Refuses to acknowledge ever riding on Amtrak—nope, it's all Ametra, all the time.
Still haven't sent out my holiday cards. Why? Because his school picture was so cute, I wanted to include it in all our cards. So Mr. Tangerine scanned it in (shh! don't tell!) and I ordered a zillion prints via Apple's iPhoto. Paid extra for FedEx shipping so I could get my cards in the mail sooner rather than later. Well, them bastards inadvertently forgot to use FedEx (but not before sending me an e-mail giving me a FedEx tracking number), and said, "So sorry, we'll credit you for the express shipping, the pictures will be coming via untraceable regular mail." Then they followed up a few days later to say, "You know what? The carrier might have lost those pictures. We'll refund everything, and you can reorder your prints." Ten days after originally placing my order, I haven't received anything. My theory? Not only was the package not FedExed, it was never sent by USPS either. So I'll be heading to Walgreens (I wish they'd use an apostrophe) or somewhere and using one of those kiosk dealios to print the danged pictures myself. Which is exactly what I was trying to avoid when I ordered the pictures online in the first place, you know? Holy lord of gravy.
I'm not quite done with Christmas shopping—there are a handful of nieces and nephews who may well be receiving Target gift cards, because my gift-idea machine is all tapped out. Mr. Tangerine and Ben are pretty much done shopping for me, without having done a thing—I've been shopping for myself and getting things I want, and then they can give them to me for Christmas. The boots couldn't wait for the 25th—I started wearing those a couple weeks ago. Toasty warm! (They're the boot version of Merrell's Primo Chill slides that nestle my tootsies so splendidly.) It may be deemed highly unsentimental to buy one's own gifts, but (a) Mr. Tangerine works long hours and (b) who knows what I want better than me? I have also bought some thoughtful things for him, but he's mainly excited about the plasma TV that's coming this week. It's really his birthday present from months ago—he just didn't get around to ordering it until now. I'm not too excited about having a 50-inch screen in my living room (which we'll have to start calling the Plasma Parlor), but elsewhere in the blogosphere, somebody remarked that her new plasma TV would come in handy for making Greg House's blue eyes that much bigger and bluer. She's right! Not to mention Jim on The Office! And when some crossword fellas I know appear on The Oprah Winfrey Show next month, it'll be groovy to see it on a bigger screen. (Degrees of separation from Oprah: Two! If that's how you count it. If you know someone who knows a third party, is that one degree of separation or two? I've never been clear on that.)
Probably I should be eating lunch, decorating the tree (just put it up yesterday, and thank the good lord of gravy that it's one of those pre-wired-with-lights fake ones—real ones drop needles, need watering, like to list to one side, and occasionally give me itchy eyes, plus you have to string the damn lights yourself, and I wish to never, ever do that task again), or, say, polishing that manuscript. All quiet on the house front, with Ben and his dad out playing football. See what I mean about the procrastinating? With 10 days to go until my deadline, and 8 days until all those Christmas presents need to be wrapped (not to mention acquired!), I have no business blogging right now. Oh, the sacrifices I make. (And oh, the rationalizations of a lifelong procrastinator. Jesus gravy!)
I am compelled to report Ben's latest mash-up of idioms. Are all six-year-olds prone to combining words and phrases like this, or is it just Ben?
"Holy lord of gravy!" he exclaimed this morning. And no, there is no gravy in the house. Just a saying...or two...or three. He was having a blast looking through a stack of old kindergarten papers, artsy things from last year. One item was his rendering of a train trip with Mr. Tangerine. Now, they rode the Amtrak from points north. Various commuter trains to the suburbs are called the Metra. The mash-up boy declared that the drawing paid homage to the time he and Daddy rode the "Ametra train." Refuses to acknowledge ever riding on Amtrak—nope, it's all Ametra, all the time.
Still haven't sent out my holiday cards. Why? Because his school picture was so cute, I wanted to include it in all our cards. So Mr. Tangerine scanned it in (shh! don't tell!) and I ordered a zillion prints via Apple's iPhoto. Paid extra for FedEx shipping so I could get my cards in the mail sooner rather than later. Well, them bastards inadvertently forgot to use FedEx (but not before sending me an e-mail giving me a FedEx tracking number), and said, "So sorry, we'll credit you for the express shipping, the pictures will be coming via untraceable regular mail." Then they followed up a few days later to say, "You know what? The carrier might have lost those pictures. We'll refund everything, and you can reorder your prints." Ten days after originally placing my order, I haven't received anything. My theory? Not only was the package not FedExed, it was never sent by USPS either. So I'll be heading to Walgreens (I wish they'd use an apostrophe) or somewhere and using one of those kiosk dealios to print the danged pictures myself. Which is exactly what I was trying to avoid when I ordered the pictures online in the first place, you know? Holy lord of gravy.
I'm not quite done with Christmas shopping—there are a handful of nieces and nephews who may well be receiving Target gift cards, because my gift-idea machine is all tapped out. Mr. Tangerine and Ben are pretty much done shopping for me, without having done a thing—I've been shopping for myself and getting things I want, and then they can give them to me for Christmas. The boots couldn't wait for the 25th—I started wearing those a couple weeks ago. Toasty warm! (They're the boot version of Merrell's Primo Chill slides that nestle my tootsies so splendidly.) It may be deemed highly unsentimental to buy one's own gifts, but (a) Mr. Tangerine works long hours and (b) who knows what I want better than me? I have also bought some thoughtful things for him, but he's mainly excited about the plasma TV that's coming this week. It's really his birthday present from months ago—he just didn't get around to ordering it until now. I'm not too excited about having a 50-inch screen in my living room (which we'll have to start calling the Plasma Parlor), but elsewhere in the blogosphere, somebody remarked that her new plasma TV would come in handy for making Greg House's blue eyes that much bigger and bluer. She's right! Not to mention Jim on The Office! And when some crossword fellas I know appear on The Oprah Winfrey Show next month, it'll be groovy to see it on a bigger screen. (Degrees of separation from Oprah: Two! If that's how you count it. If you know someone who knows a third party, is that one degree of separation or two? I've never been clear on that.)
Probably I should be eating lunch, decorating the tree (just put it up yesterday, and thank the good lord of gravy that it's one of those pre-wired-with-lights fake ones—real ones drop needles, need watering, like to list to one side, and occasionally give me itchy eyes, plus you have to string the damn lights yourself, and I wish to never, ever do that task again), or, say, polishing that manuscript. All quiet on the house front, with Ben and his dad out playing football. See what I mean about the procrastinating? With 10 days to go until my deadline, and 8 days until all those Christmas presents need to be wrapped (not to mention acquired!), I have no business blogging right now. Oh, the sacrifices I make. (And oh, the rationalizations of a lifelong procrastinator. Jesus gravy!)
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
The N-word
Ben's hankering for an after-school snack. "Mom, can you get me some food? I want the N-word."
"No noodles!" I replied. He's had about five separate servings of ramen noodles, pasta, or mac-and-cheese in the past three days. N-nough is N-nough!
(If you're looking for perspective on Michael Richards' racist outburst, read Leonard Pitts' column in the Chicago Tribune, arguing against the use of that other N-word. Free registration required.)
"No noodles!" I replied. He's had about five separate servings of ramen noodles, pasta, or mac-and-cheese in the past three days. N-nough is N-nough!
(If you're looking for perspective on Michael Richards' racist outburst, read Leonard Pitts' column in the Chicago Tribune, arguing against the use of that other N-word. Free registration required.)
Sunday, December 03, 2006
June 29, 1912—December 1, 2006
Rest in Peace, Grandma
My grandmother died in her sleep early Friday morning. It took her 11 days of bouncing back and forth from death's door before she died. I spent several hours with her on Thursday, and she exhibited the agitation the hospice professionals often see when someone is near death. This agitation consisted of struggling mightily to get out of bed and "go"—looking back, I suppose she was convinced that heaven was just down the hallway, and she could go already if we'd only get out of her way. We couldn't, though—she didn't have the strength to walk unassisted, she was catheterized, and she would likely have fallen and caused herself physical pain. She was able to "go" about 12 hours later, resting peacefully with the aid of morphine and a sedative.
The old broad had a surprising amount of strength left that last day. This I know because she kept planting her feet against my legs and kicking, trying to dislodge me from the bedside so she could clamber out. I'll bet I'm the only one of her grandchildren she'd ever kicked—so yeah, special memories. (If I'm still alive at the age of 94, I hope I've got that much muscle tone and oomph left.)
Hospice volunteers assured me that I oughtn't take the kicking personally. It was a tremendous help to have a volunteer and the volunteer coordinator with us that afternoon. One of the nursing home's staff nurses (or a nurse's aide? not sure) showed amazing grace—holding Gram, comforting her, shushing her, nuzzling her—to help ease her out of the agitation. And this, despite a hot flash midway through! I hope she's there on Monday morning, when we return to the nursing home's chapel for the funeral service, because I'd like to thank her again in person. (Gram thought that was a huge selling point—"a place I can live that has a chapel where I can hold my own funeral? Sign me up!")
The Drama
Grandma's life had many dramatic highlights, from Day 1 to (roughly) Day 34,500. She always said she weighed a pound and a half when she was born, and was swaddled in a shoebox near the stove. I can't help but wonder about the accuracy of that measurement. Plus, she was born about 8 months after her parents married—perhaps she wasn't small and early, but they wanted to give the impression of premarital chastity? Or maybe she really was a preemie, and thrived despite the nonexistence of NICUs. She spent some of her childhood on an Indiana dairy farm, and her family later returned to Chicago.
During the 1918 flu epidemic, sickly-kid Gram escaped harm, but her healthy sister perished, leaving her an only child. When she was about 17, her father was getting dressed for work one morning and keeled over with a heart attack, leaving just two members of that family of four. (So sad!) He was only 40 or 41 years old—can you imagine?
As a young woman, she worked for a milliner (but wasn't too keen on hats later on life). She later married a man who became the sweetest grandpa in the world, but probably was a dreadful husband during the early decades. He was an alcoholic who once passed out in the street; someone came to the house to alert Gram. Eventually he pretty much stopped drinking, but I can't imagine how incredibly difficult it must have been to raise children with a husband like that.
She had a difficult delivery when her second child, my dad, was born. He was in a breech position, and he sustained a broken right arm and permanent nerve damage in the birth process. Gram and Grandpa used condoms in the years following this traumatic birth experience (which she told my sister about five years ago—she spoke so candidly in her last years); she must've been terrified when she became pregnant three years later. (Though there were no complications that time, fortunately.)
Grandma and Grandpa never owned their own house. Instead, until I was a teen, they lived in the upstairs of a two-flat owned by Grandma's stepfather, a cranky man whom she never cared for. Eventually my great-grandmother developed Alzheimer's disease, and Gram cared for her for as long as she could. Then the stepfamily whisked Nana off to a nursing home and opted for tube feeding. After her mother's death, my grandparents moved to a senior citizens' apartment building in the suburbs, where Gram was pleased not to have to answer to her stepfather/landlord.
Gram continued living there after Grandpa died about 14 years ago, and I think she appreciated having a place to herself finally. She had a live-in caregiver for five or six years, until about a year ago when she became too medically frail to live at home. She had five or six (or seven or eight) hospital visits over the past year, but enjoyed the nursing home she moved to. She could play bingo on the premises, and she could attend Mass any day she wished.
Her last hospitalization came a month ago, and the specialist physicians determined that there was nothing more they could do to improve her condition. They recommended that she enter a hospice program to receive palliative care, and I'm so glad that Gram agreed to it. (She was always remarkably pragmatic, though she definitely struggled with this tough emotional decision.) She lived only a few more weeks, but hospice arranged for palliative medications, and the staff and volunteers were so helpful to us family members, putting alarming things into their natural context within the end-of-life process. Gram hated the discomfort of IVs, so I know she was happy to avoid dying in a hospital, stuck with needles and hooked up to monitors.
Childhood Memories
I never liked the "clean plate club." When a grandma expects you to finish all the food on your plate, but she's cooked assorted Polish dishes and sauerkraut and you're a picky eater, it's just not happening. (I'm much more suited to my in-laws' tradition of "leave some on your plate for the spirits.") I preferred to focus on the lazy Susan in the center of the table.
Grandma knitted and crocheted, so we had cute little sweaters and ponchos (in the poncho's early-'70s heyday). She handcrafted Barbie clothes, which my sister still has. Did anyone else ever have a bra for their Barbie doll? Gram made one. She also crocheted a blue bikini; when crocheted bikinis came into vogue several years ago, I thought back to Barbie and Grandma's fashion prescience.
When I was young, Grandma enjoyed tending her collection of African violets, aloe vera (she'd snip off a piece as needed for medicinal purposes), and my favorite, the burro's tail.
In the basement of that two-flat, there was an old wringer washing machine. There were more treasures up in the dusty old attic. There were so many layers of enamel paint on the staircase up to the attic, the railings were smooth and shiny. (So much for preserving original woodwork!)
Eloquent Summary To Place It All in Perspective
We'll say our final goodbyes tomorrow morning. Grandma had a long life, but she liked to say, "I never thought I'd live this long." She raised three boys, and buried one of them five years ago. She got to see all six grandchildren grow to adulthood, and enjoyed her 12 great-grandchildren. I'm glad my son had the opportunity to know his last remaining great-grandparent, and to gain an understanding of death as a natural process. It was an honor for me to be able to share those last two weeks with my grandma, too. She was surrounded by her family during that period and received an outpouring of love before she died. And then when death finally came, it was peaceful and pain-free. Can't ask for more than that.
My grandmother died in her sleep early Friday morning. It took her 11 days of bouncing back and forth from death's door before she died. I spent several hours with her on Thursday, and she exhibited the agitation the hospice professionals often see when someone is near death. This agitation consisted of struggling mightily to get out of bed and "go"—looking back, I suppose she was convinced that heaven was just down the hallway, and she could go already if we'd only get out of her way. We couldn't, though—she didn't have the strength to walk unassisted, she was catheterized, and she would likely have fallen and caused herself physical pain. She was able to "go" about 12 hours later, resting peacefully with the aid of morphine and a sedative.
The old broad had a surprising amount of strength left that last day. This I know because she kept planting her feet against my legs and kicking, trying to dislodge me from the bedside so she could clamber out. I'll bet I'm the only one of her grandchildren she'd ever kicked—so yeah, special memories. (If I'm still alive at the age of 94, I hope I've got that much muscle tone and oomph left.)
Hospice volunteers assured me that I oughtn't take the kicking personally. It was a tremendous help to have a volunteer and the volunteer coordinator with us that afternoon. One of the nursing home's staff nurses (or a nurse's aide? not sure) showed amazing grace—holding Gram, comforting her, shushing her, nuzzling her—to help ease her out of the agitation. And this, despite a hot flash midway through! I hope she's there on Monday morning, when we return to the nursing home's chapel for the funeral service, because I'd like to thank her again in person. (Gram thought that was a huge selling point—"a place I can live that has a chapel where I can hold my own funeral? Sign me up!")
The Drama
Grandma's life had many dramatic highlights, from Day 1 to (roughly) Day 34,500. She always said she weighed a pound and a half when she was born, and was swaddled in a shoebox near the stove. I can't help but wonder about the accuracy of that measurement. Plus, she was born about 8 months after her parents married—perhaps she wasn't small and early, but they wanted to give the impression of premarital chastity? Or maybe she really was a preemie, and thrived despite the nonexistence of NICUs. She spent some of her childhood on an Indiana dairy farm, and her family later returned to Chicago.
During the 1918 flu epidemic, sickly-kid Gram escaped harm, but her healthy sister perished, leaving her an only child. When she was about 17, her father was getting dressed for work one morning and keeled over with a heart attack, leaving just two members of that family of four. (So sad!) He was only 40 or 41 years old—can you imagine?
As a young woman, she worked for a milliner (but wasn't too keen on hats later on life). She later married a man who became the sweetest grandpa in the world, but probably was a dreadful husband during the early decades. He was an alcoholic who once passed out in the street; someone came to the house to alert Gram. Eventually he pretty much stopped drinking, but I can't imagine how incredibly difficult it must have been to raise children with a husband like that.
She had a difficult delivery when her second child, my dad, was born. He was in a breech position, and he sustained a broken right arm and permanent nerve damage in the birth process. Gram and Grandpa used condoms in the years following this traumatic birth experience (which she told my sister about five years ago—she spoke so candidly in her last years); she must've been terrified when she became pregnant three years later. (Though there were no complications that time, fortunately.)
Grandma and Grandpa never owned their own house. Instead, until I was a teen, they lived in the upstairs of a two-flat owned by Grandma's stepfather, a cranky man whom she never cared for. Eventually my great-grandmother developed Alzheimer's disease, and Gram cared for her for as long as she could. Then the stepfamily whisked Nana off to a nursing home and opted for tube feeding. After her mother's death, my grandparents moved to a senior citizens' apartment building in the suburbs, where Gram was pleased not to have to answer to her stepfather/landlord.
Gram continued living there after Grandpa died about 14 years ago, and I think she appreciated having a place to herself finally. She had a live-in caregiver for five or six years, until about a year ago when she became too medically frail to live at home. She had five or six (or seven or eight) hospital visits over the past year, but enjoyed the nursing home she moved to. She could play bingo on the premises, and she could attend Mass any day she wished.
Her last hospitalization came a month ago, and the specialist physicians determined that there was nothing more they could do to improve her condition. They recommended that she enter a hospice program to receive palliative care, and I'm so glad that Gram agreed to it. (She was always remarkably pragmatic, though she definitely struggled with this tough emotional decision.) She lived only a few more weeks, but hospice arranged for palliative medications, and the staff and volunteers were so helpful to us family members, putting alarming things into their natural context within the end-of-life process. Gram hated the discomfort of IVs, so I know she was happy to avoid dying in a hospital, stuck with needles and hooked up to monitors.
Childhood Memories
I never liked the "clean plate club." When a grandma expects you to finish all the food on your plate, but she's cooked assorted Polish dishes and sauerkraut and you're a picky eater, it's just not happening. (I'm much more suited to my in-laws' tradition of "leave some on your plate for the spirits.") I preferred to focus on the lazy Susan in the center of the table.
Grandma knitted and crocheted, so we had cute little sweaters and ponchos (in the poncho's early-'70s heyday). She handcrafted Barbie clothes, which my sister still has. Did anyone else ever have a bra for their Barbie doll? Gram made one. She also crocheted a blue bikini; when crocheted bikinis came into vogue several years ago, I thought back to Barbie and Grandma's fashion prescience.
When I was young, Grandma enjoyed tending her collection of African violets, aloe vera (she'd snip off a piece as needed for medicinal purposes), and my favorite, the burro's tail.
In the basement of that two-flat, there was an old wringer washing machine. There were more treasures up in the dusty old attic. There were so many layers of enamel paint on the staircase up to the attic, the railings were smooth and shiny. (So much for preserving original woodwork!)
Eloquent Summary To Place It All in Perspective
We'll say our final goodbyes tomorrow morning. Grandma had a long life, but she liked to say, "I never thought I'd live this long." She raised three boys, and buried one of them five years ago. She got to see all six grandchildren grow to adulthood, and enjoyed her 12 great-grandchildren. I'm glad my son had the opportunity to know his last remaining great-grandparent, and to gain an understanding of death as a natural process. It was an honor for me to be able to share those last two weeks with my grandma, too. She was surrounded by her family during that period and received an outpouring of love before she died. And then when death finally came, it was peaceful and pain-free. Can't ask for more than that.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Out of the mouths of babes
The kid and I walked past Leather Sport's display windows en route to getting ice cream at Cold Stone Creamery (at the Boystown branch, where customers may fill the tip jar without fear of coercing the employees to burst into lame song) this afternoon. One of the mannequins was dressed in a leather mask, strappy leather vest, and a red bikini brief (with a book tucked in the front waistband, because after all, it's the holiday season, and books make lovely gifts).
The six-year-old exclaimed, "Look! A burglar wearing only red underpants!"
Really, a vest doesn't count as a shirt, so the kid's quite astute.
The six-year-old exclaimed, "Look! A burglar wearing only red underpants!"
Really, a vest doesn't count as a shirt, so the kid's quite astute.
Monday, November 27, 2006
People I would make out with
1. Whoever invented online grocery shopping. I was just sitting here pondering the size of my grocery list and my extreme disinterest in getting out of pajamas and going shopping, and watching Mr. Tangerine fill a trash bag with crap toys nobody needs while simultaneously watching football on TV, and then I remembered Peapod. Just need to pick up some milk at the corner store, and Peapod will schlep everything else I need, first thing tomorrow morning. Love Peapod!
2. Whoever developed the concept of hospice care. Sign me up when I'm old and moribund, because this looks like the way to go. (Speaking of which, Grandma has often been likened to the Energizer Bunny, and is still hanging in there. Maybe a few more days?)
3. Whoever first concocted the Smoking Gun cocktail, with raspberry vodka, lemonade, and soda. Tastes like harmless raspberry ginger ale, but the waitress assured us that it wasn't a weak drink—just a delicious one.
4. Whoever honed the pecan pie concept.
5. Mr. Tangerine, though I'm kinda waiting for him to shave the beard. I miss his face.
2. Whoever developed the concept of hospice care. Sign me up when I'm old and moribund, because this looks like the way to go. (Speaking of which, Grandma has often been likened to the Energizer Bunny, and is still hanging in there. Maybe a few more days?)
3. Whoever first concocted the Smoking Gun cocktail, with raspberry vodka, lemonade, and soda. Tastes like harmless raspberry ginger ale, but the waitress assured us that it wasn't a weak drink—just a delicious one.
4. Whoever honed the pecan pie concept.
5. Mr. Tangerine, though I'm kinda waiting for him to shave the beard. I miss his face.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Never mind
Eh, I'm not making pie this week. I'd have had to make the dough for the crust today, and have to find time to bake tomorrow, and know for sure if we were going up north for the holiday. My last remaining grandparent, my late dad's mother, is easing toward death.
A couple weeks ago, she'd ended up in the hospital yet again, and the medical specialists all agreed that there was really nothing more they could do to remedy matters, and they recommended that my grandma consider hospice care. So she returned to the nursing home that's been her home this year (and she likes it there—the staff adores her. The lunch lady pops in to visit every day, and a young maintenance guy checked on Gram this evening) a week and a half ago, agreeing to stay there and receive palliative care rather than returning to the hospital. We figured she had months to go, but she had a precipitous decline yesterday morning.
The hospice nurses and volunteers who visit Gram have indicated that she's been showing a number of textbook signs that she's near the end of her life now. The best guess seems to be that she has a few more days left. So I spent all day yesterday, this morning, and this evening visiting her, along with assorted cousins, cousins' kids, and uncles.
I think hospice care is a wonderful thing. It's not just for cancer patients—Gram's got end-stage congestive heart failure and she's 94. She seems pretty ready to die, and her body's slowing down—she's hardly eating or drinking, she sleeps most of the time, and she's not upset. She even seems slightly peeved that every time she peeps open an eyelid, somebody starts in on her with "Are you comfortable? Do you need anything? Do you want a sip of juice? Do you have any pain? Are you cold? Are you hot?" Invariably, she says she's fine. (She gets a little morphine to ease breathing difficulties.) The hospice approach seems orders of magnitude more humane than the average hospital death. No heart monitor beeping, no IV needle prickling in her vein, no being intubated, no hospital schedules, no pointless prolongation of life + suffering. The hospice volunteers and nurses are so incredibly helpful to family members, too, as the hospice approach is to ease the process of death for everyone involved. I truly believe my grandmother will have a good death, and she deserves no less after the long life she's led and the physical and psychic pain she's experienced.
It's exhausting, what with all the 30-mile drives and tapping into emotional reserves. Ideally, perhaps, Grandma would have died peacefully in her sleep after a really good day. Second best is dying when she's had time to prepare herself for it, when she's had all her family gathered around and saying their goodbyes, when the hospice protocol is focused on keeping her comfortable at all times. Hospice doesn't mean giving up hope—it means you stop expecting successful treatment of medical conditions and instead focus on giving someone the best and least stressful end of life possible. It really has been a moving experience so far, and I'm honored to be able to share some of that time with my grandmother.
A couple weeks ago, she'd ended up in the hospital yet again, and the medical specialists all agreed that there was really nothing more they could do to remedy matters, and they recommended that my grandma consider hospice care. So she returned to the nursing home that's been her home this year (and she likes it there—the staff adores her. The lunch lady pops in to visit every day, and a young maintenance guy checked on Gram this evening) a week and a half ago, agreeing to stay there and receive palliative care rather than returning to the hospital. We figured she had months to go, but she had a precipitous decline yesterday morning.
The hospice nurses and volunteers who visit Gram have indicated that she's been showing a number of textbook signs that she's near the end of her life now. The best guess seems to be that she has a few more days left. So I spent all day yesterday, this morning, and this evening visiting her, along with assorted cousins, cousins' kids, and uncles.
I think hospice care is a wonderful thing. It's not just for cancer patients—Gram's got end-stage congestive heart failure and she's 94. She seems pretty ready to die, and her body's slowing down—she's hardly eating or drinking, she sleeps most of the time, and she's not upset. She even seems slightly peeved that every time she peeps open an eyelid, somebody starts in on her with "Are you comfortable? Do you need anything? Do you want a sip of juice? Do you have any pain? Are you cold? Are you hot?" Invariably, she says she's fine. (She gets a little morphine to ease breathing difficulties.) The hospice approach seems orders of magnitude more humane than the average hospital death. No heart monitor beeping, no IV needle prickling in her vein, no being intubated, no hospital schedules, no pointless prolongation of life + suffering. The hospice volunteers and nurses are so incredibly helpful to family members, too, as the hospice approach is to ease the process of death for everyone involved. I truly believe my grandmother will have a good death, and she deserves no less after the long life she's led and the physical and psychic pain she's experienced.
It's exhausting, what with all the 30-mile drives and tapping into emotional reserves. Ideally, perhaps, Grandma would have died peacefully in her sleep after a really good day. Second best is dying when she's had time to prepare herself for it, when she's had all her family gathered around and saying their goodbyes, when the hospice protocol is focused on keeping her comfortable at all times. Hospice doesn't mean giving up hope—it means you stop expecting successful treatment of medical conditions and instead focus on giving someone the best and least stressful end of life possible. It really has been a moving experience so far, and I'm honored to be able to share some of that time with my grandmother.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Obligatory pre-Thanksgiving food post
Yes, I haven't been posting much lately. But I've been making progress on my book, so you can't make me feel guilty about substandard blogging.
I just reviewed the week's lunch menu with Ben, so he could choose which day he wanted to bring a lunch rather than buy hot lunch at the cafeteria. Wednesday, he's excited about hot lunch. Why? Salisbury steak. He exulted in Salisbury steak. He is jubilant at the prospect of eating Salisbury steak. Who can explain this?
Ben's little-man armpits occasionally stink a bit. I think it smells like...armpits. Ben? He has pronounced his armpit stank to be redolent of a burrito. Which begs the question: What the hell kind of burritos are they serving at the school cafeteria?
We'll be traveling up north (but not too far north) for Thanksgiving, to Mr. Tangerine's folks'. I'm going to make pecan pie. Two pies, actually—my mother-in-law requested two rather than one, "so we can have pie for breakfast." I like the way she thinks. I'm planning to make the pie crust from scratch for my very first time, breaking out the virginal rolling pin that has so far served only as a toy. I don't eat lard, and it's so hard to find a frozen crust made with vegetable shortening, plus...shortening? Eww. I don't like the concept. (Yes, I know most store-bought cookies and crackers and so forth are made with shortening, essentially. But I don't like to think about it.) So it was with keen interest that I read an NYT article this week about testing different fats in pie crust. The winner was apparently a combo involving duck fat (!), but an all-butter crust was a definite contender. And I love butter. So I borrowed a recipe from anarchist and pastry chef Emma Goldman, and we'll see if I can actually make a good pie crust. I just bought one of those U-shaped dough cutter gizmos (for cutting the butter into the flour) and some pie pans, so there'll be a lot of virginal baking tools popping their cherry this week.
The pies themselves will be basically my dad's modification of the pecan pie recipe from the Karo corn syrup bottle—only with a skosh more butter and triple the pecans. Because who wants corn syrup pie with a few wan little nuts suspended on top? I know that's how most people think of pecan pie, but we like it when the sweet goop is invaded by crunchy pecans. Num, num, num.
Ooh! If you have a Trader Joe's store near you, try the house brand of chocolate bar. The 500-g bar (that's more than a pound!) of bittersweet chocolate (48% cocoa solids—I thought I liked dark, dark chocolate, but I think bittersweet is the cusp beyond which I don't want to eat chocolate. Semisweet, bittersweet, good good good. Something with 72% cocoa solids? Meh. Yeah, so on Wednesday, I bought a giant bar of bittersweet chocolate with almonds. There are only 2 or 3 oz. left—but I assure you, I haven't eaten it all myself. Probably a 45/45/10 split among me/Mr. Tangerine/Ben. I just might make a habit of buying these jumbo candy bars. There's all that scientific evidence of salutary health benefits from various compounds in chocolate, right?
Damn. Now I'm thinking that maybe I should make one plain pecan pie and one chocolate pecan pie. I could buy a bar of, say, semisweet chocolate, melt it down, stir it in. What do you think? Do you think that if I'm not driving to your house with this pie, you couldn't care less whether the triple-thick pecan pie is laced with chocolate goodness? Ah, but there's something so reassuring and classic about pecan pie without chocolate, and it's certainly rich enough without the chocolate. Maybe I'll just nibble on the chocolate while making pecan pie—is that a sensible solution?
I just reviewed the week's lunch menu with Ben, so he could choose which day he wanted to bring a lunch rather than buy hot lunch at the cafeteria. Wednesday, he's excited about hot lunch. Why? Salisbury steak. He exulted in Salisbury steak. He is jubilant at the prospect of eating Salisbury steak. Who can explain this?
Ben's little-man armpits occasionally stink a bit. I think it smells like...armpits. Ben? He has pronounced his armpit stank to be redolent of a burrito. Which begs the question: What the hell kind of burritos are they serving at the school cafeteria?
We'll be traveling up north (but not too far north) for Thanksgiving, to Mr. Tangerine's folks'. I'm going to make pecan pie. Two pies, actually—my mother-in-law requested two rather than one, "so we can have pie for breakfast." I like the way she thinks. I'm planning to make the pie crust from scratch for my very first time, breaking out the virginal rolling pin that has so far served only as a toy. I don't eat lard, and it's so hard to find a frozen crust made with vegetable shortening, plus...shortening? Eww. I don't like the concept. (Yes, I know most store-bought cookies and crackers and so forth are made with shortening, essentially. But I don't like to think about it.) So it was with keen interest that I read an NYT article this week about testing different fats in pie crust. The winner was apparently a combo involving duck fat (!), but an all-butter crust was a definite contender. And I love butter. So I borrowed a recipe from anarchist and pastry chef Emma Goldman, and we'll see if I can actually make a good pie crust. I just bought one of those U-shaped dough cutter gizmos (for cutting the butter into the flour) and some pie pans, so there'll be a lot of virginal baking tools popping their cherry this week.
The pies themselves will be basically my dad's modification of the pecan pie recipe from the Karo corn syrup bottle—only with a skosh more butter and triple the pecans. Because who wants corn syrup pie with a few wan little nuts suspended on top? I know that's how most people think of pecan pie, but we like it when the sweet goop is invaded by crunchy pecans. Num, num, num.
Ooh! If you have a Trader Joe's store near you, try the house brand of chocolate bar. The 500-g bar (that's more than a pound!) of bittersweet chocolate (48% cocoa solids—I thought I liked dark, dark chocolate, but I think bittersweet is the cusp beyond which I don't want to eat chocolate. Semisweet, bittersweet, good good good. Something with 72% cocoa solids? Meh. Yeah, so on Wednesday, I bought a giant bar of bittersweet chocolate with almonds. There are only 2 or 3 oz. left—but I assure you, I haven't eaten it all myself. Probably a 45/45/10 split among me/Mr. Tangerine/Ben. I just might make a habit of buying these jumbo candy bars. There's all that scientific evidence of salutary health benefits from various compounds in chocolate, right?
Damn. Now I'm thinking that maybe I should make one plain pecan pie and one chocolate pecan pie. I could buy a bar of, say, semisweet chocolate, melt it down, stir it in. What do you think? Do you think that if I'm not driving to your house with this pie, you couldn't care less whether the triple-thick pecan pie is laced with chocolate goodness? Ah, but there's something so reassuring and classic about pecan pie without chocolate, and it's certainly rich enough without the chocolate. Maybe I'll just nibble on the chocolate while making pecan pie—is that a sensible solution?
Sunday, November 12, 2006
What I learned at the gym today
• If you (i.e., not me) wear a thong underneath your cotton stretch capri leggings when you work out, you may well end up with a stripe of sweat soak-through that traces your buttcrack. Just what everyone wants—even more of a reminder than the thong-facilitated wedgie itself that your sweaty asscrack is on the loose.
• If you (meaning me, in this case) work out with weights enough to add muscle tone, your metabolism slows magically, and you will find yourself losing weight the same week you bought a dozen Krispy Kremes. (Alas, I don't get into the gym between training appointments to do cardio, so that midsection flab remains problematic. Most of my pants are too baggy, dropping down at the waist and draping loosely around the butt and thighs. Except for those three pairs of pants I bought two years ago. Those fit great below the belly zone and in the rear, but there's still a little too much muffin-topping for my comfort. And the pants—too big and too tight—are all the same size!)
• A couple weeks ago, another health-club patron eavesdropped when my trainer and I discussed her performance in the marathon. The eavesdropper is one of those lunatic exercise fanatics who works out vigorously for three or four hours at a stretch, at least several times a week. She ain't right in the head, clearly. So the eavesdropper butts into the conversation and volunteers that she herself had finished the marathon in an enviable 3:21. Later, out of her earshot, my trainer says, "I know I passed her around mile 20. There's no way she finished in 3:21!" Today, the trainer reports that she found out the eavesdropper's name, looked her up in the standings, and learned that she's a damn liar who actually finished in 4:02. What would possess someone to boast of speed that she does not possess? The inevitable response to such boasting is, "Wow, that's impressive!" Does it not make her feel like a big ol' loser when she knows the truth is that she's much slower than that? Whatever. She's probably just nuts.
• If you (meaning me, in this case) work out with weights enough to add muscle tone, your metabolism slows magically, and you will find yourself losing weight the same week you bought a dozen Krispy Kremes. (Alas, I don't get into the gym between training appointments to do cardio, so that midsection flab remains problematic. Most of my pants are too baggy, dropping down at the waist and draping loosely around the butt and thighs. Except for those three pairs of pants I bought two years ago. Those fit great below the belly zone and in the rear, but there's still a little too much muffin-topping for my comfort. And the pants—too big and too tight—are all the same size!)
• A couple weeks ago, another health-club patron eavesdropped when my trainer and I discussed her performance in the marathon. The eavesdropper is one of those lunatic exercise fanatics who works out vigorously for three or four hours at a stretch, at least several times a week. She ain't right in the head, clearly. So the eavesdropper butts into the conversation and volunteers that she herself had finished the marathon in an enviable 3:21. Later, out of her earshot, my trainer says, "I know I passed her around mile 20. There's no way she finished in 3:21!" Today, the trainer reports that she found out the eavesdropper's name, looked her up in the standings, and learned that she's a damn liar who actually finished in 4:02. What would possess someone to boast of speed that she does not possess? The inevitable response to such boasting is, "Wow, that's impressive!" Does it not make her feel like a big ol' loser when she knows the truth is that she's much slower than that? Whatever. She's probably just nuts.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
"TiVo destroyed my marriage!"
You can picture the cover illustration on a retro pulp-fiction dime novel with that title, can't you?
TiVo has many charms, and the company frequently adds little service enhancements to fine-tune the interface. That's all well and good, but Mr. Tangerine was trying to figure out why last week's episode of Heroes (which you should all be watching) wasn't waiting for him in the Now Playing list. He navigated to the place that tells you what's happened to one of your scheduled shows, and got this little explanation:
"This program was deleted because someone in your household removed it from the Now Playing List on Mon 10/30 at 10:58 pm."
You like how TiVo sows the seeds of interpersonal conflict? Odds are, Mr. Tangerine himself inadvertently pressed the Delete button and zapped his show. But TiVo's all suspicious: "Someone in your household—I'm not naming names, but I think you can figure out who—is clearly out to get you." It just strikes me as a little pissy and passive-aggressive. But TiVo can get away with that sort of behavior, because nobody throws TiVo out of the house. TiVo's place is secure. TiVo needs to get knocked down a peg or two.
Update! In a tizzy because he needed to see last week's episode, Mr. Tangerine downloaded it from iTunes. While watching it, he realized that oh, yeah, he watched it last Monday...and then deleted it from TiVo after watching it. And still TiVo casts blame broadly and sows dissension!
TiVo has many charms, and the company frequently adds little service enhancements to fine-tune the interface. That's all well and good, but Mr. Tangerine was trying to figure out why last week's episode of Heroes (which you should all be watching) wasn't waiting for him in the Now Playing list. He navigated to the place that tells you what's happened to one of your scheduled shows, and got this little explanation:
"This program was deleted because someone in your household removed it from the Now Playing List on Mon 10/30 at 10:58 pm."
You like how TiVo sows the seeds of interpersonal conflict? Odds are, Mr. Tangerine himself inadvertently pressed the Delete button and zapped his show. But TiVo's all suspicious: "Someone in your household—I'm not naming names, but I think you can figure out who—is clearly out to get you." It just strikes me as a little pissy and passive-aggressive. But TiVo can get away with that sort of behavior, because nobody throws TiVo out of the house. TiVo's place is secure. TiVo needs to get knocked down a peg or two.
Update! In a tizzy because he needed to see last week's episode, Mr. Tangerine downloaded it from iTunes. While watching it, he realized that oh, yeah, he watched it last Monday...and then deleted it from TiVo after watching it. And still TiVo casts blame broadly and sows dissension!
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Cyber-Neologoliferation
Word geeks will want to read James Gleick's interesting article in today's NYT Sunday Magazine, "Cyber-Neologoliferation." Gleick writes about the updating and revamping of the Oxford English Dictionary and the rapid spread of neologisms via the Internet.
I don't know why an article on words would mangle three of them, though—in the online version, at least, two words near the end have lost their first letter—"emperature" and "annabes"—and what the hell is a "petrie dish"? I don't think Rob and Laura Petrie were bacteriologists.
I don't know why an article on words would mangle three of them, though—in the online version, at least, two words near the end have lost their first letter—"emperature" and "annabes"—and what the hell is a "petrie dish"? I don't think Rob and Laura Petrie were bacteriologists.
Mm-hmm, that sounds about right
| What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Inland North You may think you speak "Standard English straight out of the dictionary" but when you step away from the Great Lakes you get asked annoying questions like "Are you from Wisconsin?" or "Are you from Chicago?" Chances are you call carbonated drinks "pop." | |
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| What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes | |
"I'm Peter Roskam, and I'm a loon"
In a suburban Congressional district (the 6th) outside of Chicago, two newcomers are vying for a seat being left vacant by the retirement of longtime GOP congressman Henry Hyde. The Democratic candidate, Tammy Duckworth, has a helluva bio: she lost both legs in Iraq, where she flew helicopters. Her tag line on her home page is "A lifetime of service, a voice for change." Okay, that makes sense. She's served in the military, and she's a Democratic looking to change how the country is being run.
Duckworth's Republican opponent is named Peter Roskam. He's campaigning from the hard right in a moderate Republican zone, and apparently many suburban Republicans are voting for the Dems this time around. (Hooray!)
Roskam is running TV commercials in which he blabbers, "Tammy Duckworth will raise taxes; I won't. Tammy Duckworth will [blah-blah-blah] Social Security; I won't. I'm Peter Roskam and I approved this message because it's time for a change."
What the...? How would voting for a Republican candidate to replace a Republican after six years of a Republican congressional majorities and presidency constitute change, exactly? I don't suppose a far-right congressman would buck the Bush administration and fight for real changes in how things are run?
My guess is that focus groups said the electorate wants change. But just saying the word change doesn't make Roskam the candidate for change, now, does it?
Duckworth's Republican opponent is named Peter Roskam. He's campaigning from the hard right in a moderate Republican zone, and apparently many suburban Republicans are voting for the Dems this time around. (Hooray!)
Roskam is running TV commercials in which he blabbers, "Tammy Duckworth will raise taxes; I won't. Tammy Duckworth will [blah-blah-blah] Social Security; I won't. I'm Peter Roskam and I approved this message because it's time for a change."
What the...? How would voting for a Republican candidate to replace a Republican after six years of a Republican congressional majorities and presidency constitute change, exactly? I don't suppose a far-right congressman would buck the Bush administration and fight for real changes in how things are run?
My guess is that focus groups said the electorate wants change. But just saying the word change doesn't make Roskam the candidate for change, now, does it?
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Emergent ethnic identity
My six-year-old doesn't know much about social constructs of race—he knows that there's a huge spectrum of skin colors, but his innocent mind has not yet been sullied with labels. Recently, however, he's begun thinking of his own ethnic identity and reaching certain conclusions:
Ben: "I'm [light brown ethnicity] like Daddy."
Me: "All [light brown ethnicity]? You're not white, too? Like Mommy?"
Ben: "No."
Me: "Not even half?"
Ben offers helpfully: "My butt is white..."
My entire genetic and cultural heritage can be boiled down to pasty buttocks...which do indeed run in my family.
Ben: "I'm [light brown ethnicity] like Daddy."
Me: "All [light brown ethnicity]? You're not white, too? Like Mommy?"
Ben: "No."
Me: "Not even half?"
Ben offers helpfully: "My butt is white..."
My entire genetic and cultural heritage can be boiled down to pasty buttocks...which do indeed run in my family.
Lies, damn lies, and statistics
I went to a relative's wedding a couple weekends ago. During the Catholic priest's comments to the couple and the folks in the pews, he cited some data that have got to be complete hogwash. He said that 1989 U.S. Census data showed that while half of all marriages end in divorce, the figure drops to 1 in 1,100 when the couple shares the same religious faith.
Oh, really? First off, I don't know that the Census tracks religious beliefs. I don't see any mention of religion in this list of Census topics. And they don't currently count each year's number of marriages and divorces. So the source the priest cites sounds like hooey.
Then there's the issue of the actual data. Just 1 in 1,100 couples who are the same religion get divorced? That's funny. The divorce rate is higher among Baptists than among other religious groups or atheists, per the Barna Research Group's national study. Other research has shown that the South has a higher divorce rate than the rest of the country. Given that many Southerners are Baptists, I suppose that priest would have us believe that all those Southern Baptists getting divorced are the ones married to Jews, Catholics, or Presbyterians—and I highly doubt that's what's going on here.
It's insulting to have a clergyman cite evidence that—while he'd like to believe it's true—sounds highly implausible. The only concession he made was that 1989 data is a little outdated—but he stood by the findings.
I suppose some people believed what he said. These may be the same people who'll tell you about the kids who died—died, I tell you!—because of McDonalds ball-pit horrors like heroin-filled needles ('cause we all know that junkies never empty their syringes, and that they like to leave their syringes and drugs in children's play areas rather than hanging onto them) and poisonous rattlesnakes. (Astonishingly, at Ben's first acting class, another mom encouraged me to sit next to her...and proceeded to tell me both of these urban legends, no matter how assiduously I tried to work on a crossword puzzle instead of listening to her. She even poked me in the arm to regain my attention. And then she concluded by asking, "Can you believe that?" "No," I replied. "No, I can't.")
Oh, really? First off, I don't know that the Census tracks religious beliefs. I don't see any mention of religion in this list of Census topics. And they don't currently count each year's number of marriages and divorces. So the source the priest cites sounds like hooey.
Then there's the issue of the actual data. Just 1 in 1,100 couples who are the same religion get divorced? That's funny. The divorce rate is higher among Baptists than among other religious groups or atheists, per the Barna Research Group's national study. Other research has shown that the South has a higher divorce rate than the rest of the country. Given that many Southerners are Baptists, I suppose that priest would have us believe that all those Southern Baptists getting divorced are the ones married to Jews, Catholics, or Presbyterians—and I highly doubt that's what's going on here.
It's insulting to have a clergyman cite evidence that—while he'd like to believe it's true—sounds highly implausible. The only concession he made was that 1989 data is a little outdated—but he stood by the findings.
I suppose some people believed what he said. These may be the same people who'll tell you about the kids who died—died, I tell you!—because of McDonalds ball-pit horrors like heroin-filled needles ('cause we all know that junkies never empty their syringes, and that they like to leave their syringes and drugs in children's play areas rather than hanging onto them) and poisonous rattlesnakes. (Astonishingly, at Ben's first acting class, another mom encouraged me to sit next to her...and proceeded to tell me both of these urban legends, no matter how assiduously I tried to work on a crossword puzzle instead of listening to her. She even poked me in the arm to regain my attention. And then she concluded by asking, "Can you believe that?" "No," I replied. "No, I can't.")
Monday, October 30, 2006
So, you think you're smarter than me?
You may be thinking, "Hah! That foolish woman has a faltering grasp of grammar. It's than I."
Au contraire, mon pest. A recent Language Log post linked to an older post explaining why either me or I is correct. Per the Columbia Guide to Standard American English:
"Than is both a subordinating conjunction, as in She is wiser than I am, and a preposition, as in She is wiser than me. As subject of the clause introduced by the conjunction than, the pronoun must be nominative, and as object of the preposition than, the following pronoun must be in the objective case. ...Some commentators believe that the conjunction is currently more frequent than the preposition, but both are unquestionably Standard."
So if you've been internally berating yourself every time you use "than me," cut yourself some slack. It's A-OK.
Au contraire, mon pest. A recent Language Log post linked to an older post explaining why either me or I is correct. Per the Columbia Guide to Standard American English:
"Than is both a subordinating conjunction, as in She is wiser than I am, and a preposition, as in She is wiser than me. As subject of the clause introduced by the conjunction than, the pronoun must be nominative, and as object of the preposition than, the following pronoun must be in the objective case. ...Some commentators believe that the conjunction is currently more frequent than the preposition, but both are unquestionably Standard."
So if you've been internally berating yourself every time you use "than me," cut yourself some slack. It's A-OK.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
My name is...
Funny dialogue between Ben...jamin and me this morning on the way to school, while he dawdled despite the second bell having already rung. Actually, ring is the wrong verb here—the sound's a little closer to an air-raid siren than to a bell. Takes time off the end of my life every time it blasts the air when I'm too close to the loudspeakers.
Anyway, the boy was walking slowly through a frost-covered sward of weedy, trampled grass.
Me: Pokey! C'mon, Pokey.
Ben: My name's not Pokey.
Me: C'mon, Tim. (He asked yesterday why we hadn't named him that.)
Ben: My name's not Tim.
Me: C'mon, Toby. (He has a school friend by that name.)
Ben: My name's not Toby.
Me: C'mon, Toby!
Ben: (more vehemently) My name's not Toby!
Me: (Silently giggling to myself: "My name's Kunta Kinte!")
If you don't know what I'm talking about, then you might be too young to recall Roots, the seminal 1977 TV miniseries based on the book by Alex Haley.
Anyway, the boy was walking slowly through a frost-covered sward of weedy, trampled grass.
Me: Pokey! C'mon, Pokey.
Ben: My name's not Pokey.
Me: C'mon, Tim. (He asked yesterday why we hadn't named him that.)
Ben: My name's not Tim.
Me: C'mon, Toby. (He has a school friend by that name.)
Ben: My name's not Toby.
Me: C'mon, Toby!
Ben: (more vehemently) My name's not Toby!
Me: (Silently giggling to myself: "My name's Kunta Kinte!")
If you don't know what I'm talking about, then you might be too young to recall Roots, the seminal 1977 TV miniseries based on the book by Alex Haley.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Ooh, I hear elections are coming up
Most of my ballot choices will be easy.
My Democratic congresswoman is in tune with my stances on all the issues, and in a heavily liberal district, she's likely to garner at leasst 70% of the vote. My U.S. senators—Barack Obama and Dick Durbin—aren't due up for reelection yet.
A lawyer friend gave me this link for bar associations' guidance on judicial candidates (with the advice to scroll down to find another link for the Chicago Bar Association's ratings listed elsewhere), so I'll print out whatever's there and take it to the polling place (conveniently located around the corner in Ben's school!).
For statewide offices, there are a bunch of Democratic incumbents to vote for. The only conflict here is that I'll have to hold my nose while voting for Rod Blagojevich. Sure, he tends toward corruption—that venerable Illinois/Chicago political tradition—but he's our corrupt politician. With his bold action on key issues near and dear to my heart—requiring Illinois pharmacists to fill prescriptions for emergency contraception, initiating universal health care coverage for the state's children, and proposing universal preschool—he's built up plenty of good will. That keeps me from considering his GOP rival, Judy Baar Topinka. She's a woman, yes, but Blago's feminist political credentials are probably better than hers.
Then we have the Cook County races. The big one here is the battle for the Cook County Board President seat, and those of you who aren't from the Chicago area may not have heard about it. (Cook County includes the city of Chicago as well as dozens of suburbs, and has a population of 5.3 million. So this is a significant post.) The Dem incumbent, John Stroger, was fond of political hiring and maintaining a business-as-usual stranglehold on political reform. In the primaries, a County Commissioner with the delicious name of Forrest Claypool fought hard for the Democratic nomination, and I strongly supported him. (I didn't donate or volunteer, but trust me—in my head, the support was fervent.)
Anyway, about three weeks before primary election day in March, John Stroger suffered a massive stroke. His volunteers picked up the pace with phone calls, and a seriously ill man handily won renomination. Eventually, he made it out of the hospital and into rehab, and eventually, without ever seeing or speaking to the media, John Stroger issued a letter. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe someone wrote and signed it for him—who knows? The letter said, in essence, "I'm stepping down and I want my son Todd on the ballot in my place in November." His son Todd, whose political and executive experience is meager, who has never served on the County Board. The Democratic officials acceded to this wish, whoever it belonged to, and thus Todd Stroger is on the ballot.
His Republican opponent is Tony Peraica, and local Democratic politicians sent me a letter mentioning Peraica's anti-choice and anti-gay record. Which means Peraica's views are antithetical to mine—except that he supports the reform efforts, while Todd Stroger's whole raison d'etre is "politics as usual." Todd Stroger isn't even making much of an effort to define himself as a candidate—really, one is left to see a vote for Stroger as a vote for continuing the malarkey that's gone on, and the best way to further Forrest Claypool's reform goals is to vote for a right-winger.
So I might actually vote for a Republican. The last time I did that, it was to send a representative to Springfield, and I think he was a Rhodes scholar. Peraica's much less appealing than that guy—whoever he was—but Cook County needs some housecleaning, and continuing an unenthusiastic Stroger dynasty is repugnant to me. It would be lovely to write in Claypool's name on my ballot, but Peraica will have to fight for every vote he gets in a blue city. A friend pointed out that the County Board Commissioners tend to have a Democratic majority, and so Peraica couldn't do much harm on that front.
If you're in Cook County, what do you think about the Stroger/Peraica faceoff?
My Democratic congresswoman is in tune with my stances on all the issues, and in a heavily liberal district, she's likely to garner at leasst 70% of the vote. My U.S. senators—Barack Obama and Dick Durbin—aren't due up for reelection yet.
A lawyer friend gave me this link for bar associations' guidance on judicial candidates (with the advice to scroll down to find another link for the Chicago Bar Association's ratings listed elsewhere), so I'll print out whatever's there and take it to the polling place (conveniently located around the corner in Ben's school!).
For statewide offices, there are a bunch of Democratic incumbents to vote for. The only conflict here is that I'll have to hold my nose while voting for Rod Blagojevich. Sure, he tends toward corruption—that venerable Illinois/Chicago political tradition—but he's our corrupt politician. With his bold action on key issues near and dear to my heart—requiring Illinois pharmacists to fill prescriptions for emergency contraception, initiating universal health care coverage for the state's children, and proposing universal preschool—he's built up plenty of good will. That keeps me from considering his GOP rival, Judy Baar Topinka. She's a woman, yes, but Blago's feminist political credentials are probably better than hers.
Then we have the Cook County races. The big one here is the battle for the Cook County Board President seat, and those of you who aren't from the Chicago area may not have heard about it. (Cook County includes the city of Chicago as well as dozens of suburbs, and has a population of 5.3 million. So this is a significant post.) The Dem incumbent, John Stroger, was fond of political hiring and maintaining a business-as-usual stranglehold on political reform. In the primaries, a County Commissioner with the delicious name of Forrest Claypool fought hard for the Democratic nomination, and I strongly supported him. (I didn't donate or volunteer, but trust me—in my head, the support was fervent.)
Anyway, about three weeks before primary election day in March, John Stroger suffered a massive stroke. His volunteers picked up the pace with phone calls, and a seriously ill man handily won renomination. Eventually, he made it out of the hospital and into rehab, and eventually, without ever seeing or speaking to the media, John Stroger issued a letter. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe someone wrote and signed it for him—who knows? The letter said, in essence, "I'm stepping down and I want my son Todd on the ballot in my place in November." His son Todd, whose political and executive experience is meager, who has never served on the County Board. The Democratic officials acceded to this wish, whoever it belonged to, and thus Todd Stroger is on the ballot.
His Republican opponent is Tony Peraica, and local Democratic politicians sent me a letter mentioning Peraica's anti-choice and anti-gay record. Which means Peraica's views are antithetical to mine—except that he supports the reform efforts, while Todd Stroger's whole raison d'etre is "politics as usual." Todd Stroger isn't even making much of an effort to define himself as a candidate—really, one is left to see a vote for Stroger as a vote for continuing the malarkey that's gone on, and the best way to further Forrest Claypool's reform goals is to vote for a right-winger.
So I might actually vote for a Republican. The last time I did that, it was to send a representative to Springfield, and I think he was a Rhodes scholar. Peraica's much less appealing than that guy—whoever he was—but Cook County needs some housecleaning, and continuing an unenthusiastic Stroger dynasty is repugnant to me. It would be lovely to write in Claypool's name on my ballot, but Peraica will have to fight for every vote he gets in a blue city. A friend pointed out that the County Board Commissioners tend to have a Democratic majority, and so Peraica couldn't do much harm on that front.
If you're in Cook County, what do you think about the Stroger/Peraica faceoff?
Monday, October 16, 2006
What mystery?
Just read the Salon interview with Richard Dawkins, whose book, The God Delusion, is ranked #6 in Amazon sales. I'm an atheist, like Dawkins, and always have been.
The most interesting part of the interview, for me, was the discussion of the grand "why" questions.
Dawkins says: ...Now, the mere fact that you can frame an English sentence beginning with the word "why" does not mean that English sentence should receive an answer. I could say, why are unicorns hollow? That appears to mean something, but it doesn't deserve an answer.
The Salon interviewer, Steve Paulson, rebuts: But it seems to me the big "why" questions are, why are we here? And what is our purpose in life?
Dawkins: It's not a question that deserves an answer.
Paulson: Well, I think most people would say those questions are central to the way we think about our lives. Those are the big existential questions, but they are also questions that go beyond science.
Dawkins: ...Those of us who don't believe in a god will say that is as illegitimate as the question, why are unicorns hollow? It just shouldn't be put. It's not a proper question to put. It doesn't deserve an answer.
Paulson: I don't understand that. Doesn't every person wonder about that? Isn't that a core question, what are we doing in this world? Doesn't everyone struggle with that?
Dawkins: There are core questions like, how did the universe begin? Where do the laws of physics come from? Where does life come from? Why, after billions of years, did life originate on this planet and then start evolving? Those are all perfectly legitimate questions to which science can give answers, if not now, then we hope in the future. There may be some very, very deep questions, perhaps even where do the laws of physics come from, that science will never answer. That is perfectly possible. I am hopeful, along with some physicists, that science will one day answer that question. But even if it doesn't -- even if there are some supremely deep questions to which science can never answer -- what on earth makes you think that religion can answer those questions?
*****
You know what? Dawkins' interviewer thinks questions about humankind's grand purpose are a universal. They're not. I've never found reason to dwell on such things. I certainly don't "struggle" with these questions—I've scarcely even mused absentmindedly about them. I'll grant you that plenty of people do ponder the meaning of life, but then, plenty of people express a belief in a higher power. (To each her own.) I just might buy Dawkins' book.
Edited to add a link to Pharyngula, including a clip of Dawkins' appearance on Stephen Colbert's show.
The most interesting part of the interview, for me, was the discussion of the grand "why" questions.
Dawkins says: ...Now, the mere fact that you can frame an English sentence beginning with the word "why" does not mean that English sentence should receive an answer. I could say, why are unicorns hollow? That appears to mean something, but it doesn't deserve an answer.
The Salon interviewer, Steve Paulson, rebuts: But it seems to me the big "why" questions are, why are we here? And what is our purpose in life?
Dawkins: It's not a question that deserves an answer.
Paulson: Well, I think most people would say those questions are central to the way we think about our lives. Those are the big existential questions, but they are also questions that go beyond science.
Dawkins: ...Those of us who don't believe in a god will say that is as illegitimate as the question, why are unicorns hollow? It just shouldn't be put. It's not a proper question to put. It doesn't deserve an answer.
Paulson: I don't understand that. Doesn't every person wonder about that? Isn't that a core question, what are we doing in this world? Doesn't everyone struggle with that?
Dawkins: There are core questions like, how did the universe begin? Where do the laws of physics come from? Where does life come from? Why, after billions of years, did life originate on this planet and then start evolving? Those are all perfectly legitimate questions to which science can give answers, if not now, then we hope in the future. There may be some very, very deep questions, perhaps even where do the laws of physics come from, that science will never answer. That is perfectly possible. I am hopeful, along with some physicists, that science will one day answer that question. But even if it doesn't -- even if there are some supremely deep questions to which science can never answer -- what on earth makes you think that religion can answer those questions?
*****
You know what? Dawkins' interviewer thinks questions about humankind's grand purpose are a universal. They're not. I've never found reason to dwell on such things. I certainly don't "struggle" with these questions—I've scarcely even mused absentmindedly about them. I'll grant you that plenty of people do ponder the meaning of life, but then, plenty of people express a belief in a higher power. (To each her own.) I just might buy Dawkins' book.
Edited to add a link to Pharyngula, including a clip of Dawkins' appearance on Stephen Colbert's show.
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