Textual Malfeasance

Passing on the family jewels

As they get older, it's quite apparent that I didn't aim my inherent cynicism far enough over my children's heads when they were younger.

Both kids had one teacher for a total of three years and I liked him (they had his wife for a total of two years and I like her, too). A friend of my son's had so far made it through to fifth grade not knowing how to read or write because his parent's refused to hold him back or get him extra help - as every one of his teachers had recommended they do - because "he'll catch up soon." He covered his ignorance with a sharp wit and disruptive behavior. I was in the classroom one time when this teacher had had enough, walked quietly to the kid's desk, and told him to give him his shoes (he hung them from an overhead light in the classroom, which is just one reason I liked this guy). "Aw, man!" the kid said. "That's Mr. Man to you." That's another reason I liked him, especially since he never raised his voice while dispensing such discipline. No, it makes no sense, but the kids loved it and responded to it.

But he had the educator's disease of turning what he learned at the last seminar he went to into his new reality. Consequently, metacognition was his buzzword for the beginning of my daughter's six-grade year with him. I might have mentioned a time or twenty that he probably didn't know what it meant and that he'd learned it at the last class he took, the one where they had to choose a rock and commune with it (I am not lying about that).

Yesterday my college-sophomore daughter texted me after one of her psych classes:

We're learning about metacognition in my cognition class. Always makes me think of Mr. Teacher saying that and you saying he must have learned it at the last teaching seminar hahaha.

Far from being discreet with my cynicism, turns out that I infected them with it.

Busted

A few weeks ago my brother, nephew, and I went to our cousin's daughter's wedding. We don't know her and she wouldn't recognize us if she bumped into us in an empty room, and the room was not uncrowded. When her brother got married a couple of years ago I decided to go to the wedding not because I care about these people (at least not in more than the generic way that one cares about all mankind), but because I wanted my daughter to see some of her extended family (we live only about an hour away from almost all of my cousins - yeah, yeah, kind of sad) now that she's old enough to work out familial relationships and attach names to them. My brother brought his son for the same reason, and my nephew was a good sport about going to the wedding of people he doesn't know and probably never will know.

It took us about two hours to get there and the ceremony lasted twenty minutes. During the ceremony we realized that we didn't know anyone there except our cousin, and we don't really know him. And, could not have less in common with him. Not sure what happened to the rest of his family, although a couple of steps were missing from the directions that came with the invitation so some people might have gotten lost. We did not sign the guest book because we didn't see it until it was too late.

After the ceremony they hustled us outside so they could move the wedding chairs and set up the reception tables and chairs for dinner. After surveying the crowd, social butterflies that we are, on the way down the steps my brother said, "I'm done here if you are." "Roger that." And we left. We felt a little guilty, especially since we were really hungry. As we were slinking out toward the car, my nephew said, "That smells really good." He was right: I think we missed a good dinner. Arrive at 4:50, wedding at 5:00, in the car searching for a restaurant at 5:25. And then the two-hour trip home.

A few days ago we got a lovely (and prompt!) thank you note in the mail.

Dear Dad's Cousin and Dad's Cousin's Husband,

Thank you for the gift. [A specific reference to the specific gift (nice touch, that)]. It was so good to see you!

My husband didn't go and she didn't see either my brother or me. I don't expect a bride to remember all the people she doesn't know who come to her wedding and eat (or don't) the food they've spent months agonizing over. I fully understand that it's a bitch to write thank you notes to people you don't know and I very much admire anyone who does such a nice job of it. But now I don't feel so guilty about skipping out.

An alternate view of normal

::I told him I'm tired of him acting like a kid. It's time to grow up. We're adults and he needs to start acting like an adult. It's just that simple.

:So, how long?

::Oh, not bad, just three days this time.

:Is he there now?

::Yeah, I just dropped him off.

Two nice-looking young women having a cheery conversation in the grocery store about the one's boyfriend who is so into sports that he just left for a three-day Superbowl party? Maybe a three-day snowmobile trip with his buddies? A three-day Halo bender? Wait, what did she just say?

::No, not city this time. County.

As in jail.

Rain, pain, it's all the same to me

I am, apparently, easily amused. Sometimes when I'm texting I don't correct the word that Word (or T9) selects for me because I want to see which word it thinks I might mean. Today I meant to say "No rain here." Instead,

On pain here.

Recipients of such messages are rarely as amused as I am.

Schooling up

Unless you're speaking of a specific one, it's conventions, people, not convention. As in the Geneva Conventions, more than one. We can argue about whether waterboarding violates a Geneva Convention, but not the Geneva Convention. But there's no need to argue at all because, you know, the people we currently torture are, conveniently, not prisoners of war.

As long as I'm in the middle of a pedantic fit, nothing is comprised of anything. One thing comprises other things. A jury comprises twelve people. A six-pack comprises six bottles. Okay, you can put away your crayons and get ready for recess now.

I think they missed the point

I always thought The Truman Show was a cautionary tale about the illusion of perfection that is really a trap of conformity. According to this ad I heard on the radio, maybe it's me who doesn't get it:

After the birth of their child the Joneses decided to stop renting and buy a house. So, why did they choose Paradise Ridge? Because, like The Truman Show, everything is perfect.

It's probably in Stepford County.

You go, English language

What a wonderful world we live in. While looking through a thesaurus to find something a little more eloquent than giddy I came across this word:

crapulence (where you'll also find the adjective form, crapulous)

Dare I look to see if craptastic is also a word? No, this is enough for one day and I shall go to bed happy, while at the same time mourning the many wasted past opportunities to use my new friend.

Permission to color outside the lines

For people who can barely resist the compulsion to use a T-square to draw lines on their blank pages just so they can stay on top of them: how to wreck a journal.

Time for a new happy place

When undergoing anything stressful or painful we're told to visualize ourselves on a tropical beach, or floating through fresh powder, or wherever our own happy place is.

We didn't have dental insurance until a few years ago, hence I hadn't been to the dentist for quite some time. At first we were on a plan so amazing that the receptionist blurted out, "This is awesome coverage!" as if she could scarcely believe my great good fortune. Visiting this dentist was like spending time at a spa: TV above the river-rock fireplace in the cozy and elegant wood-paneled waiting area with overstuffed chairs, cookies, and coffee-table books on art and photography, subdued and soothing lighting, a bathroom that is more homey then the one in my home, headphones with a choice of music, or DVDs or premium cable on the LCD TV at every chair. Digital X-rays so you can clearly see your mouth on the  monitor while the dentist explains where and why there will be pain in your future, and she is so very sorry that she can't spare you every bit of that pain and would gladly assume that pain for you if it were possible. Constant checking to see if you are comfortable, pain-free, or need more ointment on your lips because they are looking ever so slightly parched (Bag Balm, by the way). Do you need the gas adjusted? Do you need a restroom break? Perhaps a shoulder massage? Can I wash your car for you while you're waiting? And the best part: without requesting it, a little envelope for you to take home with a few Vicodin in it should you feel any discomfort later.

New insurance, so now we're consigned to a managed-care dental factory. The kind of place where the dentists' names are not painted on the door, but stuck into a black felt readerboard, letter by white plastic letter. Go there six months apart and all the names will be different than the last time you visited because no one sticks around long enough to merit the commitment of a name rendered in paint. The kind of place that assumes you're a lazy slob and can't be trusted to floss and know that Bacteria Lives in Your Mouth! The kind of place that doesn't mention the availability of gas.

Today at the new dentist I had to get an old filling drilled out and most of the tooth rebuilt in anticipation of a crown (the old dentist would have done the crown first because this is a half-assed approach to proper dental treatment).

Sitting in the chair after being commanded to put on cheap plastic sunglasses that smashed my eyelashes and sans headphones, BBC America, and Bag Balm, and while listening to the drill and gagging on the bits of tooth flying around toward the back of my throat, I realized that I was visualizing not the warm beach on St. John, my usual happy place, but my old dentist.

Overwhelmingly defeated

On a church reader board:

Real worship is routed in the Word.

Anyone blathering on about the Word should at least get the words right.