Wo: “I’m making margaritas!”
Two hours later…..
Me: “Let’s cut your hair!”
Month: October 2010
It’s been a pretty stressful week here at Chez PlazaJen. I’ve got a ton of work going on, and I’ve been burning the midnight oil to get it all done. Yesterday I was just plain stupid by the time I got home! So, my perspective on things is a little skewed, as I’ve had some tunnel vision and whack-a-mole days of late.
Today I got an email. From someone I didn’t know, and it didn’t appear to be spam. (I even checked, afterward, and the sender and send-ee both have LinkedIn pages that match city/state, plus the signature contained a phone number and address.) A little background first: I use my full name for one of my gmail addies and sometimes I get invitations to family reunions that aren’t mine, I’ve been asked to weigh in on Christmas plans (by family that isn’t mine), so on and so forth. I usually, gently, try to steer the person back to their address book so the other Jennifer out there doesn’t miss out.
Given my state of mind, it might explain why I found this so goddamned funny when I opened an email that had every appearance of being intended for me, as it did actually come from a real person, who was sending to his wife and me. (but not me.)
The email subject? “Wedding Pics You Requested.”
The copy? “Enjoy”
Now, I’m sure it’s a joke between them, but I really was still a little surprised by the last one….not what I expected. At all.
Not only would I be ecstatic that I’m not going to be stuck in the mine until Christmas, as originally predicted, but I’d sure be lobbying to be Miner #2 or #3 out of the hole in the ground. Hell, stuck with me, they’d probably be putting rocket fuel under my capsule to escalate my departure. (she NEVER shuts UP!)
I heard parts of the story this morning on NPR, that they are figuring out who gets to go first, and then there’s some debate and jockeying for who will be last, as that person will hold the record as an individual for the amount of time spent trapped in a mine (or some such record.)
I’d like to think I’d be brave enough to go first. But I don’t know. I just hear the descriptions of this capsule, and it’s long journey – two Empire State Building’s worth of distance – through the tube, and I feel my chest compress and the claustrophobia slithers in from all sides. Because if you’re first, that’s probably when it’s going to jack itself up, if there’s a major flaw in the entire structure. Kaplooey, you’re done for. But once the first one gets out, hey, get the hell out of my way, that capsule is working and see y’all up on top, pops. I wouldn’t give a hoot about any records. I’d also be glad I wasn’t one of the three fellas who had both their wives AND mistresses show up at the mine site, because no matter how glad either one of those ladies is going to be, heads are gonna roooooll.
All in all, these men are all known by their first names in their country, they are heroes, and it’s miraculous they’ve survived this disaster. The lawsuits have already begun, too. It seems like this is yet another industry that is poorly-regulated and allowed to operate unchecked, both abroad and at home. I hope action comes from these tragedies/catastrophes to change and improve the regulation of all these jobs where lives are on the line – oil rigs, miners, etc.. The drive for cheaper, faster, plentiful resources and money, attained from the backs of these people who bend because it’s a job, it’s their livelihood, their options are limited – it makes me crazy, because sitting on top of those backs are the fat cats who profit from their labor, sitting back and calculating how much a disaster would cost them, versus the cost to “do the job right” – money always wins with them, and human life becomes a number, just another line on an actuarial chart. I went off on a rant, there, yes. It’s that Norma Rae creature in me. I wrote a folk song when I was in 4th grade (and performed it in music class!), a dark dirge-like song about the life as a miner. Lots of flats, if I recall correctly. I come by it fair & square, those hippie parents and all the old-timey music.
It’s dark as a dungeon and damp as the dew,
Where danger is double and pleasures are few,
Where the rain never falls and the sun never shines
It’s dark as a dungeon way down in the mines.
~ From “Dark as A Dungeon”, by Merle Travis
Wo: “You’re becoming a cranky old lady!”
Me: “Becoming?”
I don’t claim to have perfect grammar, spelling, or even spectacular sentence structure. I do, however, make every effort to use correct spelling and proper grammar, and I try to limit the number of sentences I start with the word “so”, as that is a particular weakness of mine.
This week has been a bit crazy, hectic, stressful, you name it – but I have been provoked twice now to actually yell at the television because of spelling and grammar. The Fox 4 morning news crew are a fun bunch, but a couple of them just cannot get the proper use of the word “good” versus “well”. I finally had to post on their Facebook page because I just couldn’t take it anymore. Don Harmon, the weatherman, had just finished saying “Slow..ly. Slowly. I think that’s right.” And then Mark Alford responded with something like, “It’s going good out there.” My post:
Way to go, Don, properly identifying adverbs! (slow-LY!) You are correct!
Next, let’s get Mark telling the world things are going WELL instead of
‘good’, since that is not proper grammar and it makes me yell at him.
Thanks!
To his credit, Mark actually responded with humor, saying “im well with that!” I may have to go down there with a ruler and rap some knuckles. Actually, it would be rather fun to have a paintball gun and every time an egregious grammatical mistake is uttered, KAPOW! I would also shout what they should have said, since I’m quite good at that already. The traffic guy should be very afraid if this comes to fruition.
Which brings me to this morning, when KSHB (NBC) flashed up two different slides (the typed-up cards on their template background that accompany the anchors while they’re talking) with horrid typos. The first one was about the new television season, and that production had “haulted” on a show. Uh, wtf is that? You can haul things, but you don’t hault them. Then, THEN, the next story was about – wait for it – BOAL GAMES. This is not the closed-captioning system translating, this is someone typing it in for the day’s stories. Seriously, I think six-year olds know how to spell “bowl”.
I think what bugs me in all of this is that even though I don’t hold my local media outlets to the standards I would hold, say, the New York Times, I do expect a certain amount of accuracy and I expect a whole lot of proper grammar. This isn’t a reality tv show, this is the news. Manufactured, selective, tilted at times, sensationalist most of the time, but you are still THE NEWS. And in ignoring grammar and spelling, it feels like we are moving yet another ten paces closer to accepting an unacceptable level of national stupidity. Why not just start typing it all in phone-texting style? Hell, start doing shots of Jager during the news, why wear a tie, or a nice pantsuit (Katie Horner, I’m lookin’ at you), just wear swimsuits or dress like the cast of Jersey Shore? Talk smack, talk trash, why have standards at all? Editorialize while you’re at it!
Nevermind me, I’ll still be getting my real news from NPR. I have never heard Steve Inskeep say “Things are going good!” And I’m GREAT with that.
This would ordinarily count as a public service announcement, however, I may wind up cursing so much, the lesson will only remain appropriate for truckers, sailors, and Marines.
First, a message to the old man leaving Price Chopper on 103rd in your little white truck: FUCK. You. Thank you for not understanding the general concept of merging, so I was forced to hit my brakes and send my leftovers flying off my passenger seat, to leak and smear on all the papers in my bag. Fuckyouverymuch. Punching it to get out of the parking lot? I get it. Getting into the middle lane and pulling into my lane while there was still room? That’s awesome. Except you didn’t do that, did you. You went below the speed limit and made like you were coming over, then went back into the middle lane, then came back over again, as I was wildly gesturing and screaming at you by that point and sending all my belongings on to the floor of my car. I got to play the “Is he coming over? Is he waiting? He isn’t going a consistent speed? I am? But now I’m not, as I don’t want to wreck my car?” game. And, for the record, I was going below the speed limit. I got to come home and scrub things, after calling you numerous, colorful terms that would have made even George Carlin pause and look at me in admiration. Have a splendid evening, douchecanoe.
Merging. I have witnessed this problematic element of driving quite often of late. Let me break it down for you. The whole fucking point of merging, especially when getting onto the highway, is to be TRAVELING AT THE SPEED OF TRAFFIC. This is why those goddamned red lights on the entrance ramps are the bane of my existence, even though I get the reasons behind them. This isn’t a putt-putt-putt along lane, slow way down maybe stop if it doesn’t feel right. We are not doing the goddamned double-dutch jump rope and you get to pick and choose when your feet are going in. Get your ass going. And to all the rest of you sailing along in the right-hand lane? Get the fuck OVER. Y’all don’t seem to understand how badly I wanted a driver’s license as a child and it was denied to me. I studied the inserts Shell Oil used to run in Woman’s Day and Family Circle, using Goofy to show how to properly accelerate (imagine an egg between the pedal and the floor! Press down slowly!) I ate up every bit of information on what to do in accidents, when to use flares, how to stay safe on the road. So to say that I studied the Iowa Motor Vehicle License book would be an understatement. I absorbed it. I can still see the line drawing for merging onto the highway.
Here’s the one from the Missouri booklet, it’s quite similar:
This is not that hard, people. Driving isn’t a right, it’s a privilege. Let people in as they’re merging, and if you’re a merger, speed the fuck up so you’re not creating a potential 20-car fender bender and sixteen more high-blood pressure cases.
So. In case you’d like the full-blown directive from the same book, here you go:
ENTERING THE HIGHWAY
Entrance ramps are short, one-way ramps used to get on the highway. At the end of most entrance ramps is an acceleration lane. Use the ramp and acceleration lane to increase your speed to match the speed of the vehicles on the highway.
As you are speeding up, watch for an opening in the highway traffic. Switch on your turn signal, and pull smoothly into the traffic. DO NOT stop at the end of an acceleration lane unless traffic is very heavy and you have to stop.
Drivers already on the highway should give you room to enter, but if they don’t, DO NOT force your way onto the highway. You must yield the right-of-way to them, even if that means stopping at the end of an acceleration lane.
Namaste, motherfuckers.
Or, as the lady who strolled up with her kids while we were waiting called it, “Story Corpse.” The Wo and I both laughed about that one later.
This was parked in Brookside for the past few weeks – part of a journey two Airstream trailers make on each side of the Mississippi, gathering stories and memories shared between two people. On Wednesday evening, we got to be part of that really cool, special opportunity: to record ourselves and be a permanent part of the collection in the Library of Congress. One person is the interviewer (me) and the other person tells their story (the Wo.) When reservations were first open, I logged on about 10 minutes after they’d begun, only to find nothing was open. That’s how fast it filled up. I added myself to the waiting list, not thinking it would actually happen. Then, I happened to be on the computer when the email came out to all of us wait listers, and there was only one time slot that could work – I crossed my fingers and replied. Thirty minutes later, I got confirmation that we had the 5:30 slot!
Because I’ve been listening to NPR for so long (I answered, “My entire life,” which is pretty much true, apart from some breaks here and there), I knew what we were doing, but the Wo got a bit panicked the night before as he read some of the sample questions. As he put it, “Nobody expects the Jenquisition!” Of course I wasn’t going to ask him unnerving, awkward questions, and I knew how he’d answer most of the questions, anyway. Eleven years and change of togetherness combined with a pretty good memory (sometimes too good) and I figured it would go pretty smoothly.
It did, there were lots of laughs, some tears/watering eyes, as we touched on the highs and lows of our combined lives. We exited with our own CD of the 40-minute conversation, and we’ll have a certificate and our own little place in the gigantic library someday. Who knows, maybe we’ll be one of those Friday morning voices I hear on Morning Edition. (I’m not counting on that.) I did fall completely in love with the microphone and noticed I totally dropped my voice when I asked the questions. Made me think, hmmm, maybe podcasting isn’t such a goofy idea after all. Heh. But what I really took away was a reminder of how much I love this man, how much he loves me, and how much I cherish our life together.
