Here I am

At my office at school on the Saturday between Christmas and New Years, possibly the only body in the building (if this were a sci-fi universe and someone were scanning for life signs, might would be the only blinking red dot on screen displaying the schematic of the Williams building.)

I came to school to write to avoid distraction because our house is too messy and too cold, and to strewn with books.

It turns out that my little cube here at the Williams Building is also messy (though less so) and also cold (though less so) and if my desk is not strewn with books, Katie's is. Hi Katie--hope you don't mind that I just read most of Drown, and have filched Among the Missing because I've heard of Dan Chaon but never read anything by him.

However, you might be pleased to find that writing book you lent me, and The Littlest Hitler, Best American Non-Required Reading 2005, and your new copy of Drunk by Noon on the desk when you get back.

I like Junot Diaz a lot, but it's hard to make the transition between his voice and stories back to my own, which seem so white bread in comparison...plus I'm still kind of depressed because the people in his stories have lives that are not happy.

I'm Back

I read about four pages of one book, and wrote maybe 400 words one morning...but then, I read the newspaper each morning, which I don't get here at home, and I made chocolate truffles out of chocolate chips and whipping cream. And I won two our of four games of Rummikub (my mom won the other other two) and listened to 8 CD's of Alice Munroe's Runawaywhile I was on the road.

Hittin' the Road, Jack

I'm loading up the car with about 14 loads of laundry and more books than I'd read here in 2 weeks to go see my parents for 4.5 days. I always have this irrational belief that away from home, time will somehow expand and I will accomplish all kinds of stuff that I know I should have done before I left. Bringing it with me is my psychological crutch so I can leave my house. When I get to my destination, experience tells me I will either forget about it or just decide it's not important--it will be easier when I get home.

No Paul for family Christmas this year...no film runs smoothly--his editor got so sick her first day on the job that he had to drive her home, and now he's riding the AVID (editing system) himself--even though he's no jockey, so it makes for a slow ride--but strangely, editors who want to work for free during Christmas don't hang from trees like plentiful ornaments.

That was a weird paragraph. It's early (for me).

My Little Brother is So Smart

He sent this to the L.A. Times op-ed section. Did they print it? No. BUT, he reports, all the "think" phrases did mysteriously disappear about a week later...think this might have had anything to do with it?

To the Editor,

There's a newly-overused grammatical device taking over the pages of your publication. It's in op-ed pieces, current event stories, generally anything in print where the writer seeks to convey hipness. It's the word "think" used in place of "for example" or "such as." Has anyone else noticed this? Every morning I see it in yet another piece from some writer who I used to like until they pulled out this annoying cliché, clearly oblivious to the fact that it is a cliché, because they fastidiously avoid cliché. After all they're hip.

Think Meghan Daum. Think Patt Morrison. Think Rosa Brooks.

Somehow this offends me. "Think" is a command intruding on my reading experience, like bad music intrudes upon shopping or dining. Somehow it graduated from something kind of edgy and quirky to something that shows up in the lamest of mainstream publications. Think "24/7" in 2001. Think "Fiddy" right now.

Now at first glance one might come to the defense of "think" as a means of literary brevity. It's merely verbal efficiency; it tells the reader exactly what to do rather than burdening her with those old cumbersome illustrative phrases, which consisted of two words -- a whole extra word! Think "such as," "for instance," or even "e.g." which, while not even a whole word at all, forces the reader to go the extra step of deciphering a Latin abbreviation.

But alas, that argument tends not to hold water. When Dawn Chmielewski writes in the Sept. 16 LA Times "Think comedic horror, a la "Bud Abbott and Lou Costello Meet Frankenstein," it's preceded by this decidely overpopulated sentence: "The disturbingly realistic prop is the centerpiece of Upchurch's latest sketch, "Department of Doom," in which actor Neil Patrick Harris (of "Doogie Howser" and "How I Met Your Mother") plays a malevolent, Canadian-accented co-worker who joins Cubicle Carl on a morbid misadventure." This writer makes it abundantly clear that she's not trying to save ink way before the appearance of "think." Most of the others do too.

Worst of all is when someone clearly out of his element is so anxious to use this device that he attempts to stuff "think" into a sentence where something more traditional was really the way to go. Morris Newman writes in the Oct. 11 Times "Experimental houses have notable forebears in Southern California. Think Charles and Ray Eames' 1949 house in Pacific Palisades, a factory-like dwelling made of industrial materials ordered from catalogs." Um... okay. It's the literary equivalent of wearing Fred Segal to a funeral. It might have been cool somewhere else, but not here.

I'm sure this unwelcome new cliche will someday be outed in journalistic circles as the trite phrase that's trying just a little too hard. Until then, I place my faith in a few remaining writers at the Times to stay strong and avoid the group "think." Think Dan Neil.

Stain Follow-up

The other day at Publix I saw these Tide-to-Go Instant Stain Removers and bought one. Got home and looked at the fine print:

Works well on these stains:
Tea
Wine
Grape Juice
Chocolate Syrup
BBQ Sauce
Ketchup
Coffee

...okay, well I do drink tea, and occasionally have ketchup I guess.

Does NOT work well on:
Grease
Blood
Ink

...huh, lets just say that as a writer/editor (I edit with ink pens), a woman (who can never quite keep track of how quickly 28 days can pass), and a fan of hummus (with olive oil)salads (with oil and vinegar) breads dipped in oil...I'm not sure this is going to be the miracle I was looking for.

Stains

I woke up this morning a little sad—it happens sometimes. Then, as I was getting ready for work, I pulled on a sweater, and saw it had a stain. Front and center, two shades darker than the fabric around it, it seemed to be an oil stain, from a cooking mishap no doubt. The stain made me sadder, because I like the sweater very much, and because I had already donned the rest of my outfit, and this was my only sweater of appropriate weight, color and length to go with it. In my state of sadness, I couldn’t face re-strategizing the whole outfit, so I left the sweater on.

I thought about the stain on my sweater as I drove to work. I find that once I have a stain on your clothing, I spend more time thinking about the stain than the clothing itself. Things like fit and quality of fabric and all the things I love are still there, yet are somehow sublimated by the presence of a stain. The stain is shame, and to wear it to work is to put that shame on display—an almost unthinkable choice—I believe that most people would wear clothing that was ill-fitting or of lower quality before they would wear something with a stain. Although we forgive people who wear clothes with stains, we assume that they either a) acquired the stain during the day and have no other clothing options at their present location, or b) did not notice the stain that morning, but once they do will probably be appropriately mortified.

Why is this? After all, what does my stain say about me? Only that I like to cook with olive oil; that I have a zest and appetite for life; that I have lived, and enjoyed a good meal and I have the stain to prove it. My stain should be a positive thing.

But it’s not, really. I can rationalize all day about zest for life, but evidence of our appetites or experiences is not something to wear outwardly in society. Adults who wear stains with frequency are likely child-like or homeless—they are reminders of misfortune. For someone like me, a stain hints at excesses, sloppiness, or it reveals carelessness, lack of preparation in someway. Why was I unable to protect myself? Why didn’t I wear an apron? Why did I pour the oil in a manner so cavalier? People are kind, and they will assume it was an accident, a random event, no trick of my subconscious. I hope this is true. They credit my character and assume I would not expose them to the unsightly stain if I could help it. As I look in the mirror, then shrug and continue on my way, I know this to be untrue.

The truth is that I was sad this morning, and I was tired, and I thought—what is the point of this exercise? Am I supposed to wear an unstained shirt so all the people will see it, and then assume ALL my clothes are clean, that I have no stains items at home, hanging in my closet? And am I supposed to see their clean clothes and think the same of them?

Fuck that, I thought, and wore my sweater with the stain. But still, I thought about it as I drove to work, and when I arrived, I held my purse in front of it as I crossed the lobby.