Email from The Gaydi Project
To: aaryn730@gmail.com
Subject: You asked if I felt old…
Well…a sure sign that you’re turning forty is when your mother takes a shower with her glasses on!
Proving that one person *can* make a difference
Check out what I found in my inbox last night:
Dear Aaryn-
I read your blog post today. You are absolutely right in pointing out our grammatical mistake with the English language, it was not intentional. That was an error on our part and we have changed the text to read “coach.com anyway.”
We strive to give our base a good experience when exploring our site and discovering new styles.Please feel free to call me at [redacted] or at jennifer@polyvore.com.
Did I actually call Polyvore a bimbo??? I take it back. Polyvore is no bimbo. Polyvore writes in cursive, sends thank you notes, and knows her dessert fork from her salad fork.
See my latest CityBeat column (also below this post) for context. It wasn’t up for 12-hours before the Polyvorites were all over it. And might I just say, kudos to Jennifer and Polyvore for that. Gigantic, enormous, bigger-than-the-Oxford-English-Dictionary kudos to them. Of course, I’d be even happier about the correction had she included a pair of shoes as a gesture of apology. Wouldn’t that really have been the right thing to do? Then I’d be calling her a mensch in addition to sending big wet cyber-kisses.
A Way With Words: Thoughts on the selective butchering of the English language
While browsing the fashion collages posted at Polyvore the other day, I clicked on a link for a brooch that had caught my eye and received the following message: “This item appears to be out of stock. Continue to coach.com anyways?” Something tells me Coach did not approve that message.
That a girl raised on the pristine streets of Salt Lake City should venture to the Coach website is absurd. I hail from the place that patented the claw bang and the annoy-een habit of drop-een the “g” from the end-eens of words. Coach is beneath my station.
But even more disturb-een (OK, I’ll stop now) is the usage of a non-word word on a website that boasts 140 million monthly page views, a guerilla attack on the English language if I’ve ever seen one. Especially—or should I say, expecially?—because fabulously dressed women should know better. Use of “anyways” indicates one’s proclivity for dotting her “i”s with bubbly hearts, a habit that should be illegal for anyone older than 12.In that one message, Polyvore revealed her inner bimbo.
Here’s the thing: There is the purposeful creation of a new word to make a point or an intended misuse on the side of irony, and then there is the insidious, Palin-type jackassian nincompoopery, and never the twain shall meet. What follows are a few examples of the latter, so-called words that cause my spellcheck feature to freeze in exasperation.
Schoobrary: The only way this can be taken seriously is if it’s delivered with a snicker and a set of air quotes. In case you live under a rock—or anywhere in the entire world outside of San Diego—“schoobrary” is a lazy, shortcut term to describe the long anticipated Downtown library, which, if ever built, will house a school. Only, “schoobrary” isn’t really a shortcut because when you use it in a sentence, it still requires an explanation. “Schoobrary” isn’t a word, and I have to question whether Scott Lewis (CEO of Voice of San Diego) wasn’t munching on schooby snacks when he coined a now-broadly used term that sounds more like a cartoon dog’s breakfast cereal than a place of higher learning.
Athletical: Like its bastard cousin “schoobrary,” “athletical” is a regional colloquialism. And by regional, I mean used in Wisconsin. By my father-in-law. “That kid on my soccer team is a natural. He’s really very athletical,” he might say. Or, “Sure, Brett Favre is a fuckwad. But you gotta admit, he’s still got his athletical abilities.” The first time he said it, I squelched my urge to correct him. It’s sort of endearing, after all, and since I respect my elders, I chose to say nothing and make fun of him here instead.
Nucular: Dubya. Need I say more?
Heighth: Usually accompanied by width, “height” is guilty by association. Unless you have a lisp, “heighth” is not a word.
Irregardless: Ah, one of my favs. Like the phrase “for all intensive purposes,” this oldie but goodie is fun to say, flows off the tongue, gives the impression that the speaker has contemplated his situation from every possible angle and is completely, maddeningly wrong. It’s frequently overheard during grocery-store exchanges between long-lost acquaintances catching up while palming the avocados. One or the other person complains about his boss or cloying in-laws or the options for his upcoming colonoscopy. “I could take the pills or gag down the juice, but, irregardless, the emptying is going to suck.” People: It’s “regardless” or “irrespective.” Pick one and go with it. (And, FYI, my in-laws say the pills are the way to go.)
Expresso: Do you think they’ll serve expresso at the schoobrary when it opens? No. They will not. You know why? Because there is no such thing as “expresso.” There is also no such thing as a “venti.” Yes, it takes less time to make an espresso than a pot of coffee, and you can now get it in an extra-large cup from a drive-thru window. Certainly, this is very confusing. But when you order a double shot of expresso in your venti látte, you just sound like a douche bag.
Douche bag: OK, this is a real word that is, admittedly, pretty fun to use out of context, specifically when applied to people who frequent Starbucks, attend tea-party rallies or go by the name Mel Gibson. On the other hand, it’s tired and offensive. It should be scratched. Or not.
Supposebly and ostensively: These substitutions for “supposedly” and “ostensibly” sound so similar to the real thing that it can be tough to catch the imposters, especially if the person speaking has a Hungarian accent. But again, they’re not words. They’re faux words and they’re dangerous because the temptation to use them ironically can be irresistible, and if substituted long enough, they will become part of the user’s vernacular. Say a thing often enough and it becomes the truth. Which brings me to my next word…
Nonplussed: Ah, the pièce de résistance of my pet-peeve world. An actual word, to be nonplussed is to be perplexed, and how awesome is it that the meaning and the sound are in direct contrast to one another? It just blows my hair back. This definition, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, goes back to the early 16th century, and I’m sticking to it. But it’s been used to mean “unfazed” or “nonchalant” for so long, by so many people—et tu, New York Times, et tu?—that the wrong definition has become a commonly accepted definition.
And while such an occurrence doesn’t make me very happy, it should bring great hope to those who support schoobraries, those cultivating their natural athletical abilities and the fashionistas of the world who have to decide if they would like to click through to coach.com anyways.
(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)
From France to Floatopia and back
On the night of my 38th birthday two years ago, Sam and I awoke from a nap around 9:30, hopped on Le Metro and made our way to La Tour Eiffel. We held hands and walked toward the park against the setting sun. The air around us filled with the growing sound of every language on earth as laughter and conversation rose into the warm summer night and combined to make one vibrant, celebratory hum.
We arrived at the far end near the Wall For Peace and looked down along the Champs du Mar toward the Eiffel Tower, where hundreds upon hundreds of (very fashionable) people reclined on picnic blankets, shared bottles of wine and baguettes, cheese and patisseries.
Some people had set their bicycles down on the lawn and joined their friends. Some lit votive candles. Others set out fresh sunflowers in vases, raising the bar for ambiance. I wondered as to what the special occasion might be but after strolling to the tower and sharing a sugary crepe with my husband, I realized it was just another Tuesday night in Paris. It was all so civilized.
It was this night I thought about when I heard the story today of San Diego’s Floatopia event this weekend.
Organized in response to the 2008 alcohol ban on San Diego’s public beaches, Floatopia is a floating booze party that utilizes a loophole in the ban and allows revelers to drink alcohol so long as their feet do not touch the sand.
(photo by Katie Orr, KPBS)
Could this possibly be the same planet? Where can you set a vase with fresh flowers?
Participants seem to be young-ish and dumb-ish, which is probably part of the reason for the original ban—a few bad apples, and all that—though it’s dumb-asses of all ages who can’t drink responsibly to begin with. Oh, if we ‘Murkins could just handle our alcohol with aplomb and a little je ne sais quoi.
But no.
Instead of sticking it to The Man and subtly masking their cocktails in unmarked cups like any good subversive, these knuckleheads noisily take their drink to the ocean. I won’t enumerate on the many problems inherent in that choice except to offer two words: Jerry Whipple. Not surprisingly, the city council will vote on another ban next week.
One Floatopia attendee, Ashley MacDonald, told KPBS reporter Katie Orr she understands why the police and lifeguards and council members want to put an end to the event. “I think the reason they’re trying to do it is they’re old and they suck!”
The lack of eloquence in that statement made me cringe, so I plunked it in to Google translator to take the edge off:
Je pense que la raison pour laquelle ils essaient de le faire, c’est qu’ils sont vieux et ils sucent!
God, isn’t that beautiful? I’ll bet even woo-hooing sounds refined in French.
One Love
I never really understand why people are hesitant to take their kids to the Gay Pride Parade. Over the weekend, I had several different conversations about it—since I’d planned to take Ruby—and got several interesting reactions. One couple I met at breakfast this morning said that they’d always wanted to go, but motioned toward their six-year old and whispered that they’d heard it’s “basically a porn show.” Another friend dismissed it because all the “cocks” aren’t appropriate for her daughters.
Now, the porn thing is off by astronomical distances: This is a public event with participants from all across the city. The Mayor was in this past Saturday’s Pride parade, as was Republican Ron Roberts from the County Board of Supervisors, and believe me, there isn’t anything remotely titillating or even vaguely pornographic about either of these guys. Even the public defender’s office represented with a float bearing the slogan “Getting people off since 19[something or other]!”
However, while nobody was whipping out their cocks along University Avenue during this weekend’s party, I have to admit that my friend’s concern was wholly legitimate.
I stand corrected because I did indeed see Cox at the parade. As did my daughter and my bestie’s daughter and all the many children and grown-ups and families who sat on the curb in the heat, beneath a sky the color of swimming pools, sharing sun screen and snacks and spray bottles, celebrating our gay brothers and sisters.
Ruby was very excited about all the swag, the horses ridden by the Wells Fargo people (I suppose it could be argued that bankers are pornographic), and the stilt walker.
I was excited about my friend Barbarella‘s piglet, Carnitas—who may have cured me of my bacon habit forever—and the Gay Men’s Chorus, since my friends Skip and Andy were marching.
I didn’t find Skip and Andy but they were out there and they were proud, I know.
Oh, and speaking of excitement, Ruby just about peed her pants at the sight of the man with the RAINBOW! HAIR!
Who’s not tickled by RAINBOW! HAIR!?
Personally, I was tickled by the message on his shirt because the message is the reason I bring my daughter to the parade. Love, not hate, is what I wish to instill in her.
I guess this could be considered Jesus porn because I was practically orgasmic at the sight of these folks. Standing there in the street watching groups of people march beneath such signs is encouraging. They make you believe in humanity and remind you that The Rock church doesn’t represent all Christians. Just too many of them.
Of course, I’d be lying if I represented the parade as all Hail Marys and Holy Water. There was a little bit of shaking, jangling flesh out there, too. And God Bless it!
So she has pasties on her nibbles. Still: Not porn. Just a little edgy. And, I’m guessing, much cooler than my flesh-toned padded bra that’s so old it has dimples. Anyway, have you been to the beach lately? Right. Moving along…
Every parade is better with queens:
In fact, pretty much every situation in life is improved by the presence of a drag queen.
However, the people you really want on your side when the chips are down (or up, no matter) is your family. Which is why PFLAG is the greatest part of the Parade every single year. PFLAG is, hands down, the very best group, float or no float.
I challenge anyone to remain stony when these people walk by. I wanted to run up and hug them. Instead I took their blurry picture with my phone.
I don’t know who Ruby will love when she grows up. And I don’t care. I just want her to love, to be loved and to be happy. I hope that’s what she is learning from me.
Passages
I was writing a post tonight about my recent trip to Southern Utah to celebrate my grandfather’s 90th birthday and about how it exceeded my low expectations by approximately the same distance between Ruby’s hands and the end of the rainbow kite she flew against a cloudless blue sky in the hot desert wind last Wednesday afternoon. I was writing about how we settled easily into vacation mode, taking slow walks to and from the pool where my daughter shared lemonade slushies with her cousins and her uncle and then finally put together all of the things (monkeys! airplanes! rockets!) she’s been learning in her years of on-again/off-again swim lessons.
I was writing about the three generations of women who went into town for pedicures and had the greatest time they’ve ever had together. Ever. I was writing about how cousins and aunts and uncles moved around one another in spirographic circles, moving in and out of conversations, getting familiar with each other after many years apart. I was writing about the heat of 90 birthday candles, about how they make a sheet cake sag, about how they lit up my grandfather’s face as he bent to blow them out.
I was going to write about the belly dancers and my grandfather’s face as he bent to give them money, about his very sweet, very funny speech, about how sometimes things are better in retrospect than they were in the moment, and how I felt a tinge of melancholy at wishing the rosier view had been the reality.
And with my stories, I’d planned to include some pictures. But WordPress—damn-hell Wordpress!—won’t let me upload them and it reminded me of the re-design I keep putting off.
I got frustrated, hit command+A and then DE-LETE! So that’s all I got for you. I’m quitting Wordpress. Soon. I’m ready for a change anyway. Who’s with me?
Back to school: The unintended side effect of being a parent
If you were to offer me $10 million to do high school over again, I would turn you down before you could finish your sentence. It wouldn’t matter if I were allowed to take with me all the hindsight I’ve collected since tossing my mortar board out the window of my mother’s white Toyota Corolla with the lapis-blue interior. I suppose you could sweeten the pot with Elin Nordegren’s $100-million divorce settlement from her naughty little Tiger and I might entertain reliving the misery.
Oh, those many brooding days spent slumped against the cold brick of East High School on the corner of 13th East and Ninth South, bangs draped across my dark-lined eyes, chain-smoking clove cigarettes while skipping Mr. Koenig’s typing class. I never could stand his greasy comb-over or his resenting scowl or his plaid, short-sleeve, button-down shirts or, most especially, his shiny, shiny patent-leather shoes. I dreaded, with all the force of my scornful teenage angst, the way he trolled the rows with his hovering red pen, ready to slash it across my page of typos, his enormous belly pushing against my shoulder as he leaned in to make his mark.
Ewww. No. Not even Elin’s hush money is enough to make me endure the pettiness, the hormones, the mean people and—worse—the stupid people. God, those stupid people. And now they friend-request me on Facebook? Ignore. The irony in this scenario is that I am going back, and I’m not getting paid to do it. That’s right: I’m going to do it all again, gratis! And I’m not just doing high school. I’m doing K through 12.
Because I’m a parent, you see. And this educational do-over is the part of being a parent that nobody ever warns you about. It’s the part I certainly didn’t ponder with any amount of critical thought when I decided to be a mother. I sort of figured you just had to make it until the kid’s 5 and then send her off down the road with her princess backpack and her lunch box and she’d pop out of Harvard at the end.
But I cozied up to Harsh Reality last week as I sat down for kindergarten orientation in the library of my daughter’s new school.
By the time Sam and I filed in to the parents-only event, we were relegated to the child-sized seats at the front of the room. My ass didn’t fit on the chair like it used to, but I had no time to harrumph about this because I was suffering a flashback comparable with those once induced by the LSD I took in my teens. Hmmm…maybe it was me, and not Mr. Koenig, who was the jerk, after all.
The days will be long for my girl, jam-packed with math, reading (independent and aloud), writing (modeled, shared, interactive) and social studies. Granted, despite the endless budget cuts, there is one very generous 20-minute block of each day dedicated entirely to PE, music and art, so it’s not like she won’t have an outlet. Important, too, because when she gets home, she’ll need to focus on the homework.
There will be lots of that apparently—a weekly packet full of it—and You Know Who will be sitting at the dining-room table doing the math, the reading, the writing, the social studies. I started to sweat as I read the information packet, remembering too vividly the many nights of crying over Algebra III equations with my tense and utterly helpless mother next to me. Oh my God, people! What did I get myself into?
I was trying to snap out of my PTSD when I became aware of another thing I hadn’t fully internalized but which became shockingly clear to me that night in the library: Those stupid people from high school? They grew up and became stupid parents. And they were sitting behind me, not raising their hands, blurting out questions willy-nilly, talking over the teachers and other patiently waiting parents.
“But, my little Caeidyn has to eat before the 11:15 snack time. Can he just sit quietly at his desk and eat when he gets hungry?” No. He’ll adapt. “You said that there’s no food allowed on birthdays. But, can I bring cupcakes for little Makynzie?” No. You may bring pencils… “How about popsicles?” Nope. No food. “So, what you’re saying is that Jaelyinn can’t bring cookies for the class on her special day?” Collective gasp.
That was it. “Must we really engage in this line of discussion for 10 minutes?!?” I hissed at the clodpates. “They. Said. No. Food. Is it edible? Yes? Then you can’t bring it! And what the hell kind of name is Jaelyinn, anyway?!?”
It’s been proven (by researchers at MIT, among others) that résumés topped with “black-sounding names” generate fewer job interviews than those bearing names more phonetically pleasing to the Aryan ear. But employers would do well to know that people with creatively spelled WASPy names that include lots of consecutive vowels (unlike mine, of course) tend to be coddled, entitled pricks who will call in sick to work on their first day. Or ask for a nap after their lunch break.
OK, so I didn’t really blow that night in the library. I rolled with it. I took my lumps and a lot of deep breaths. I sat quietly taking notes, since that’s what a good student does. I might have even thrown up a little prayer to the friendship gods asking, Please, I’ll do anything without complaint—even division of fractions!—so long as you don’t let my child become besties with Jaelyinn.
Because that fate might just drive me to black eyeliner and a carton of cloves.