I am scared at the idea of job hunting again. My D.C. hunt sort of stalled, and part of it was because I really didn’t like the idea of just going to another Metro stop in D.C. I do like D.C., don’t get me wrong, but like Toronto, it’s come to this: I think I’d rather visit the place on occasion than continue to live here.
My husband, IP, is starting to feel the same way.
The idea of moving across the country is definitely scary and daunting, and I remember how frustrating it was to send jobs out into the ether of a city hundreds of miles away, but the idea of staying here indefinitely scares me more. One is something I desperately want; the other is something I desperately don’t want. Because I don’t fit in with D.C.: I’m not a workaholic, I don’t enjoy trekking from Maryland into D.C. on the weekends for touring and sightseeing, I’m losing interest in the politics of the place, and whatever lifeblood people have that allows them to happily work 100 hour weeks just doesn’t have a place in my bloodstream. I dislike my job, and honestly the idea of getting another job here, no matter how much I might like the work, is not uplifting at all—I’d still have to walk up to the Metro, ride the Metro, work in concert with the government (most likely), and do the same 9-5 gig in a city to whose charms I’ve grown immune.
Sorry, D.C.
Now, of course I know there’re no guarantees that we’ll be happier out West. IP lived there for a couple of years and, while the scenery was stunning, he was miserable. What makes it better this time around is that we’re a bit more set in our careers and, most importantly, we have each other. Together we can make informed and researched choices and, when research and information fails us, we can hold each others’ hand as we take the plunge. We are being pretty methodical about this, but we came to this conclusion long ago: D.C. is not a long-term place for us. It was a stopover, a place to develop our skills, a place to strengthen who we are as professionals in order to seek out situations in which we’re able to use our expertise successfully. But—big, big but—we always wanted to take those skills and expertise and transfer them somewhere else, a place that uses our knowledge well and understands that we have lives outside of the office. Will we get a better work-life balance? Hopefully; it’s what we seek and prioritize above anything else as our eyes turn West.
My current boss once said that, because we spend so much time together, we should treat each other like family. Except she doesn’t treat us like family, and I don’t expect her to do so—but I think it’s fair for me to expect to see my family on a regular basis without being made to feel guilty. Unfortunately, what this boss was trying to say was that the office should be treated like our family only by us—complete and utter dedication to nothing but her company mission. I beg to differ. I have complete and utter dedication to one thing and, with some work, to hopefully two soon: my family and my writing. Both occur outside of work. IP and I hope that we can find a place out West that will understand this better than our workplaces seem to at the moment, better than D.C. seems to as a whole.
In sum: I don’t thrive on my job or this town. A lot of people in this town do, and I say good for them. But it’s not what I want, what IP told me he wants, not what we thrive on at all, so we’re starting to look elsewhere. Somewhere where the sun shines a bit more, where there are peaks rising into the sky, where getting out of town and into nature is only a whim away. I don’t know how long it’ll take, but we want to act on our goal before it becomes something we just tell ourselves to make the D.C. workdays, the Metro delays, the soundbites a bit more bearable. I think we’re going to make this happen, and that’s why I’m looking at my Google Reader, hoping to find a few places that seem to fit and might like to have me.
I promise we’ll visit, D.C. And I promise we’ll remember to stand to the right.
The flakes of death descended from on high,
a rushéd panic to the nearest Giant.
Metro halted; the planes, they would not fly;
the region to the snow was quickly pliant.
In our homes we bundled up our dears;
We watched the power, both outside and in.
A gasp, a catch of breath; oh, escapéd fears!
On the plows and Pepco hopes were pinned.
The flakes died down, but buried deep we were,
unyielding snowbanks stopping up our streets.
And then, another blizzard, death comes sure!
The federal government succumbs to winter’s feats.
O woe, the binding hand of the snowpocalypse!
Our dreams for calm are once again eclipsed!
Welcome to the introductory sonnet by Sonnet 87. No, no one searched for “snowpocalypse sonnet,” but I thought it apt given what D.C. is experiencing. Fun to write? Yes. A masterpiece? Oh, my no! But at least I sat my butt down to write it!
Full disclaimer: I didn’t watch the Super Bowl. My post yesterday will probably hint to you that I don’t care about the Super Bowl, or its half-time show, or the ads. My friends on Facebook and the message boards I frequent were dissecting the ads last night, though, and there seemed to be universal revulsion for the Dodge Charger’s “Man’s Last Stand” ad. So I went to check it out:
Um . . . are you serious? No, really? We women are fun-suckers who make it so guys can only express themselves through a Dodge Charger (Dodges, by the way, are awful cars, so I would fully expect the Charger to fall apart should a man choose to make a last stand in one). Let’s examine the list of things that poor men have to engage in because we harpies have trapped them into a life of quiet desperation:
I will get up and walk the dog at 6:30am. Bzzt. 6:45am, and I’m the first one up, if you can believe it. No dog. I would love a dog. IP hates dogs. Ergo? No dog. (Don’t tell me to get a cat: I hate cats and IP’s allergic.) If we had a dog, I’d run with the damn dog. That’s why I’d want one: instant running buddy I would take care of since I wanted him, not IP.
I will eat some fruit as part of my breakfast. I do encourage IP to eat fruit. But he never really listened to me and has, subsequently, stumbled onto a love of clementines on his own. I had nothing to do with it. On the other hand, he sometimes gently pushes me towards vegetables. What’s that, you say? A woman who doesn’t subsist on celery? The horrors!
I will shave. I do like a clean-shaven man, but should IP really feel the need to go back to his mountain man days, he can go back to his mountain man days. I’ve no authority over his facial hair just like he has no say in how short I cut my hair.
I will clean the sink after I shave. Yeah, I don’t recall ever demanding this at all. He’s done it of his own volition since we moved in together. I’m actually the one who loses hair like nobody’s business and has to keep an eye out for gatherings of my hair here and there.
I will be at work by 8am. Bzzt again. 9am. And I’ll be at work, too. Why does this ad assume that women are at home and are forcing men to be the breadwinners? Do they not realize we’re in a recession? That two incomes are needed to survive these days? I do the commute, too, I dislike my job, too, but I do it because it’s necessary. And I don’t believe women created the corporate and economic structure. Who was that? Oh yeah. Men.
I will sit through two hour meetings. So will I. They’re boring as can be but they’re a part of the job. And you know what makes my job bearable? No, not my goddamn car (which is a great Mazda3), but knowing that I get to end the day with my husband at home.
I will say yes when you want me to say yes. Please don’t be spineless. It’s unattractive in anybody, male or female. You protest? Then protest.
I will be quiet when you don’t want to hear me say no. Why does the media insist on perpetuating the idea of a man keeping his counsel in the face of a shrew? Why is equality in communication so hard to envision? Why are women supposed to always carry the day when we so obviously don’t? I don’t make as much as you do, my reproductive capabilities are always up for legislation, I’ve been of a victim of sexual harassment. All done by very vocal, aggressive men. We’d love to hear you keep quiet about our pay, our wombs, our fine asses (among many other things). But you don’t. So don’t pretend we limit your freedom of speech when it’s men who tend to limit our freedom of movement and being.
I will take your call. And I will take yours. What’s your point?
I will listen to your opinion of my friends. And I will listen to yours. There are a bunch of IP’s acquaintances whom I don’t like. He’s not shy about mocking my friends, either. Guess what? He doesn’t hang out with the ones he dislikes. I do the same.
I will listen to your friends’ opinions of my friends. Yeah, no. That doesn’t happen. And if it did, I’d want IP to point out how inappropriate this is so I could call out my friend (and vice versa).
I will be civil to your mother. IP loves my mother. He loves my dad so much he’s willing to pay $1,000 to call him “Dad”. As pleasant as IP’s parents are to me, I’ll never have the rapport with them that he has with my parents. So yes, I will be civil to IP’s father and mother, thanks.
I will put the seat down. Yeah, IP does leave the seat up at times. But? Guess what? It doesn’t bother me. I am able to put the seat down if need be, just like he pulls the seat up if need be.
I will separate the recycling. I do this, too, macho man.
I will carry your lip balm. Huh? Why just the balm? Anyway . . . When IP sees me balancing my purse precariously for one reason or another, he’ll ask me if I need him to hold my purse. I will usually say no, but sometimes I can’t keep my balance and have to say yes. What’s the big deal? He offered. And? I carry his stuff in my purse all the time.
I will watch your vampire TV shows with you. I hate vampires. We don’t have a TV. Yet I have plenty of shows I like, but I don’t force IP to watch them with me on YouTube, Hulu, or iTunes. Why? Because I don’t need to have him there 24/7. We’re both introverts and like to have some time to ourselves, and that sometimes includes mindless media for the both of us.
I will take my socks off before getting into bed. Is this really an issue? I wear socks to bed. My feet get cold. IP does not. Is there some kind of gender imbalance that we’re currently unaware of, a social norm we’re violating? Someone please explain!
I will put my underwear in the basket. Another thing that I think IP was doing of his own volition before I showed up, I believe. He’s pretty organized. I’m the clutter person. He gets exasperated at me. How’s that for role reversal?
And because I do this, I drive the car I want to drive. So . . . a man is willing to put up with so-called emasculation and inequality (which, in most cases, are just examples of the responsibilities all adults have, not just men) just so he can drive a Charger. I don’t know about you other couples out there, but we like to do things on equal terms around the WordNerdia-IPia household. And we all have to do chores that add up, yes, in order to bring some semblance of order to our lives. We all engage in routines because, hey, that’s adulthood, and I’m sure most guys were on a similar daily schedule before they coupled off with their partners (or were they just smashing beer cans against their foreheads? Somehow I think not.). IP and I are also quite kind to each other, and like to brighten each others’ day, be it little stuff like IP visiting me at work for lunch or me going to the deli to pick up some beer for the weekend.
Being together means cooperation, and that means that one side is not always on the triumphant side, changing the things she hates about the man and making him into a good, pliant husband. The best thing about IP is that he makes me pause, evaluate, sometimes modify my beliefs, attitudes or actions. I know I do the same for him. A good partner makes you grow, and I’m willing to bet that the people (men) who made this commercial have no idea how to communicate with a woman as a person—we’re probably just little ladies who are fun to have sex with, but take away their fun in exchange. So what’s the only escape? A car! The only place of sanctuary.
Except that men dominate and run the private and public sectors of our lives. The fact that this even aired speaks to the dominance of men; the female version would never air (let’s see . . . I will let you sleep when you can’t get out of bed with your mild, spring cold; I will let you take your mother’s side even though you’re supposed to back me up; I will raise our children single-handedly while you play Xbox; I will wear makeup so that you don’t have to see the real me; I will attend all school meetings without you because you’re tired from your job [never mind that I am, too] . . . shall I go on?).
What is with the anger? What is with the need to revolt (sometimes violently) against half of the population when you basically control the world and there’s really nothing against which to revolt? The whole Michael C. Hall narration on the Dodge one was creepy. It’s like, hey, let’s see how far we can push this suburban family man/serial killer to the edge with the humdrum of everyday life that applies to everyone but that women obviously imposed.Must kiiiiilllll perceived domestication, even if it’s only while driving a car.
Don’t even get me started on the Bridgestone Tires one. That one was just. sick.
Nice one, advertisers. You just managed to offend half of your consumer base on the most-watched night of the year. I never pay attention to the ads and even I’m pissed.
As I begin writing this, snowflakes of death have been descending for over a day from the heavens and wreaking their vengeance on my fellow D.C.ers and me for our vanity, blasphemy, and worship of the god that is the Beltway. Or, we’re just getting a really big and unusual winter storm.
Since it looks like hibernation is the order of the day, how about some random observations to tide us over, hmm?
Soon you’ll be seeing the debut of a new feature on Sonnet 87: actual sonnets. I get all kinds of crazy sonnet searches ranging from zombie sonnets to Ann Arbor sonnets to sonnets 2010, so I figured why not? Using the searches as inspiration and varying between Spenserian, Shakespearean and Petrarchan, I will slowly but surely write the sonnets. However, since they will be creative works, I’ll be placing the blog under a Creative Commons license. Which one, I don’t know yet. Will my sonnets be good enough to steal? No, most likely not. Will they be funny? Hopefully so, and not in a painful way. Are they copyright worthy? Yeah, since it’s my work. I can’t help it if some kid wants searches for my non-existent analysis of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 87 for his or her college paper, but I wouldn’t want something into which I put some minimal creative effort used for someone else’s profit. Like I said, I doubt they’ll be good enough to steal, but I do want to cover my ass.
Three nights ago, I had a dream that I was a groupie for Rob Thomas. Yep, you read that right, I was a groupie for the lead singer of matchbox twenty. While I do find him attractive, it’s less in a hubba-hubba kind of a way and more in a “Can my husband and I have coffee with you and your wife sometime? You two seem cool,” way. Although I don’t know if IP would go for that: he thinks Thomas is a whiny singer with random lyrics. I personally think Rob Thomas is an excellent lyricist and just gets better as time goes on. I’m starting to think of him as Paul Simon-y: willing to experiment different genres, maturing with his writing, and doing what he can to push himself creatively while a lot of other people are stuck in the pop rock world. And here I must add that I’ve been listening to Cradlesong non-stop during my commutes and workouts lately.
For the second weekend in a row, a snowstorm has ruined our dresser-shopping expedition. Cue sad WordNerd. Because I’ll be traveling to visit Michigan next weekend (assuming Tuesday and Wednesday aren’t snowy clusterfucks themselves that ruin flight plans), IP and I won’t be able to go then, either. In the meantime, the old dresser has stopped shaving off pieces of my left middle finger, so at least there’s a ray of sunshine in this woeful tale of unattained bedroom furniture.
I don’t care if President Obama used “Snowmaggedon” for this particular storm, or that many other people are, too—in the WordNerdia-IPia household, it’s Snowpocalypse 2010 or snOMG II. Iwisse. (Pssst. Iwisse means “truly” or “indeed” for all of you not in the Middle English know. Yes, it’s obsolete.) But the whole Snovechkin thing in reference to the Caps’ Alex Ovechkin? I love hockey, and I can see kind of what fans are going for, but: a clunker of a name, honestly.
Apparently all liquor stores in MoCo are closed today. IP is doubly happy that he stopped off to get some Jack Daniels after an appointment because he finds the closed condition of the liquor stores to be “just cruel”.
Is there anything cozier than baking some cookies, writing a post, and exchanging snarky comments with the husband? Methinks not.
Hate is such a strong word, but when your dresser rips the skin off your middle finger’s knuckle, you hate it. With a passion.
I have to say, though, I hate it when people say that hate is such a strong word. So is love. Yet people use that with abandon just as often as hate, no? The above being the case, I can’t believe I began this post with a phrase that I hate so much!
Anyway . . .
I really do hate our dresser. It’s actually a conglomeration of two Target dressers: one IP bought out west and one that he bought here when two of the drawers started to fall apart on him. The styles are similar but still off: that leaves our drawers uneven, with one or all of them slipping forward on the wheel track and opening. In order to make sure that at least two of the drawers stay put, I have to layer the two middle drawers: the top middle above the bottom middle. That involves pushing up the top middle drawer base over the bottom middle’s lip. And sometimes my poor middle finger gets caught in the crossfire. I think I’ve done it to myself about five times this week. Something must be shifting because I used to be able to do this with ease and no fear of injury.
Over the weekend I scraped off skin and started to bleed. Much swearing ensued. IP looked on silently during my diatribe against the dresser until it ended, and then said, “Okay, task for next weekend. New dresser.”
Yay!
I’ve been agitating for one, but have never really gotten myself together enough to organize a weekend trip to the furniture story. The new dresser calls for moving my old desk into the second bedroom (and it’ll replace IP’s old, old desk which needs to be tossed along with the old dresser). It’ll free up space in our bedroom and give us not only room for our clothes but it’ll save my left middle finger’s skin.
So, now? Onto day dreaming!
My absolute favorite from Ethan Allen, priced at $1,599:
Up next, at $2,299 (!), this beauty from Crate and Barrel:
At $1,199, this dresser from Pottery Barn isn’t the greatest simply because it’s white, but I do love the style:
And finally, a two more realistic purchases. Not as nice or charming, but I guess as long as they don’t scrape half of the skin off my finger I’ll be content.
This dude, at $540, from Roomstore:
Or this one at $585 from Roomstore. If they had another color, I’d go for this:
In the end, though, we just need another dresser, and soon, before I’m walking around my phalanges showing (hyperbole much!?)
While reading Jasper Fforde’s complete oeuvre in 2008, the back of the books contained an advertisement for Fforde’s upcoming novel, Shades of Grey. I was geeked, of course: as you may remember, Ffrode was my Best Discovery of 2008 and The Eyre Affair won Best Book of 2008. I find his work simply delightful: it’s imaginative, witty, and the underlying themes of all books (including this one) are to question authority, maintain individuality, and do what you can to improve society, not what you’re told you should do (which often doesn’t benefit society at all, just the elite). So, not only are they fun to read for their alternative reality/fantasy/futuristic bent, but Fforde’s trying to say something. He’s not just zany.
Anyway, the advertisements for Shades of Grey? Well, one said July 2008, another said July 2009. But both dates rolled on by without the book forthcoming. My friend and I would periodically check for updates (she recommended Fforde to me initially), and it was my friend who finally saw that Shades of Grey: The Road to High Saffron would be released in late December 2009. I pre-ordered it and waited. I was a bit nervous, I admit: the book had been pushed off from publication for more than a year, so that could portend some serious problems with the plot, character development, pacing, or a host of other problems.
I’m pretty happy to say that the book was worth the wait.
I want to be fair, though: the book, while good, could’ve used some tightening. It reads a bit slow during the first third of the novel; the story seems to be casting about to find its ground, and the introduction of the new world that Fforde created is a bit confusing. Simply put, society in Fforde’s new universe is arranged by what an individual can see on the color spectrum, ranging from the lowly Greys to the lofty Purples—they are all know, collectively, as the Collective (see what I did there!?). Strict adherence to the Rules are the path to a calm in unremarkable life, and the rite of passage at the age of 20 can either lift you up (depending on how you test and what your visual color range is) or throw you down. Apart We Are Together is the credo of the society, and the book’s main protagonist, Jane G-23 (a Grey) and Eddie Russett (a Red), unite in a struggle to allow freedom of ideas, expression, and the right to choose a path in life (instead of having one assigned to you). (ETA: This all comes, by the way, after Something That Happened, which is implied to be how our society destroyed itself and caused a massive upheaval that sorted itself out into Munsell’s Epiphany, the man who presumably set the new world order.) While all this is crystal clear to me now, the beginning was a bit muddy. Not fatally so, but it’s evident that Fforde may have struggled a bit as to how to introduce the world. The back-of-book adverts give me roughly the same story that appeared in the finished product, but I believe that Eddie and Jane are younger than originally envisioned. At the start of the novel, both have not taken the Ishihara (the rite of passage and, of course, the test for colorblindness); the initial summaries of the book had Eddie already in the working world when Jane came into his life.
I felt that the book hit its stride when certain shortages are discussed; the obvious parallel was oil shortages. The discussion of these problems began to nudge out Eddie into a starker light, which propelled the book immensely. From there, the characters solidified into people as opposed to products of this strange society, and Jane evolved from being the girl with the striking retroussé nose to an intelligent and solitary revolutionary; Eddie evolved from being a Red color dunce to a leader who would do more than take his place in the Collective. The high stakes that change carries are clearly demonstrated in the latter half of the book: the privileges of position and leadership can lead to death or covert insurrection from within. The power of leadership can lead to selfishness or selflessness. I will be kind with this book and also not spoil the ending, but I’m happy to say that the back of the book announces that there are at least two more forthcoming Shades of Grey novels. I feel that once Fforde hits his groove he’s incredibly hard to knock off, so I’d expect the second and third books of the series to be considerably stronger. Unless, of course, this is Fforde being cheeky and there won’t actually be a Book 2 and Book 3, but there’s too much unresolved and too much revolution to set into motion at the end of Book 1. The story as a standalone could work, but the final chapters set us up for new adventures.
And what is, you may be asking yourself, High Saffron? Again, I won’t spoil, but I will say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Or at least seemingly good intentions.
Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Husband or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books):
1) The Case for Books: Past, Present, and Future by Robert Darnton
2) Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher
3) Lavinia by Ursula K. Le Guin
4) Under the Dome by Stephen King
. . . with an unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach. Massachusetts elected a Republican senator and the Red Wings lost to the Washington Capitals despite controlling the game. Coincidence? I think not.
I really like words. I really like digging into words and knowing their meanings, origins, and future directions. Probably in an pretty nice world, I’d be a lexicographer, researching and defining words in quiet camaraderie with my fellow lexicographers. I’d be assigned a portion of the dictionary, then research and define my way through said portion. In this way, I get to work with the things I like best while still working on my own for the most part. Forget being a team player: I’m the one who always has to pull the most weight, anyway, and I’m sick of interacting with people. Words will talk back, they’ll alternatively confuse and elucidate me, but I imagine it would be like having a very interesting conversation all day long. Instead of explaining to the entitled science academic why we couldn’t get wireless in the meeting room (deemed unnecessary by the hosts—but the entitled science academic will still stomp her foot and scream “Right now!” like a two-year-old instead of accepting the situation like the supposedly respected scientist she is).
But I digress.
My first book of the year is Emily Arsenault’s debut novel, The Broken Teaglass, a tale of two lexicographers and the murder mystery they find embedded within the citation files they work with on a day-to-day basis. The protagonists are Billy, a recent college grad who majored in philosophy, and Mona, an employee of Samuelson Company, who has one year of seniority on Billy. They’re brought together when Billy is asked to take on a correspondent who Mona’s been handling—the last letter contained references to dominatrix and editrix, prompting Billy and Mona’s supervisor, Dan, to turn to Billy to answer the letter. Billy consults first with Mona, and that’s when they stumble upon the first citation (cits, for shorthand) among editrix that will lead to a complete story and real-life murder mystery that begins to involve current and former employees of Samuelson Company. Mona takes the lead and Billy follows, indulgently at first, but he becomes immersed and involved in the story told by Dolores Beekmim, pen name for former employee of Samuelson Company.
Although Billy and Mona focus and fixate on the story of the murder that involves their colleagues, the book does not attempt to drive at the need for justice or a public revelation of the story they find. Rather, the discovery of the cits that are told under a story also titled The Broken Teaglass mirror Billy’s own coming-of-age; sure, he doesn’t murder anyone, but the ennui that can settle in soon after you get your first job is all too evident in Billy’s and the cit writer’s day-to-day life; both the cit writer and Billy harbor a secret that they apparently refuse to share with their closest confidantes. Even the situation that leads to the murder is reflected in Mona and Billy’s first interaction: the passing of correspondence.
In contrast to most book lists, I’m actually not going to spoil this one. Why? Because it’s a good, solid read. It does start off a bit slow, but the pace quickly picks up as Billy and Mona become more defined as characters. I would say that the biggest weakness are the murder cits themselves; not in that they’re badly written or irrelevant, but some are repeated several times—sure, it is helpful because you can pick up on clues more easily in the repetition, but I did find it a bit tedious to read the cit for softbound over and over again even if it was Billy’s favorite.
Arsenault, in her acknowledgments, apologizes to her fellow lexicographers, both for fudging the lexicographical process a bit, and for rendering a lexicography office as more of a stodgy, uptight environment. What’s funny is that I walked away from the book wanting to work for Samuelson Company (in a more ideal location, of course; trade Massachusetts for Colorado and I’m so there). Murders in the cit files aside, I wanted to bury my head in words all day and not come up until it was time to go home.
Oh, and I wouldn’t mind a teaglass. I imagine it to look this when not broken:
Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Husband or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books):
