Hands near flushing hold

I guess this sign is supposed to tell folks that the faucet is on a sensor, but it makes no sense as written. It’s funny, though. I took this image somewhere in Shanghai last year.

My reaction to the photo is similar to what I’m doing today: trying to make sense out of the vast amount of communication research that deals with media ethics and the journalistic decision-making process.

Or it could be a reminder that my life is flushing down the dissertation toilet.

Sigh.

When a chicken knocks

I’m supposed to be working on my dissertation proposal (oh that old thing), but I don’t want to neglect my blog and leave my faithful readers hanging. That’s assuming I have any, of course.

So here is a Trish anecdote for purposes of amusement (and stalling).

I was in the kitchen yesterday when I heard a knock at the front door. I thought it was weird because we have a functioning doorbell. This is what I saw when I walked around the corner:

"Anyone home?"

"I said, is anyone home?"

Apparently, this was not the first time she has come calling. Eddie said she banged on the door Friday too, and the boys cracked up.

I wonder what she would do if I let her inside. Besides poop, that is. And I certainly don’t want THAT in here.

Persuaded

While I enjoyed teaching each of my four classes this quarter, the one that affected me the most on a personal basis was Persuasive Writing. In the final persuasive research papers, the graduate students — all  writers of promise — encouraged me to stop watching “Hoarders,” camp in national parks, support art funding in schools, lobby for a three-point harness on airplanes, write my representatives in support of the Alzheimer’s Breakthrough Act of 2009, join the bone marrow registry, and go vegan.

One affected me so much that I’m doing research today. Can you guess which one?

Here’s a hint: Think about my blog.

Yes, I’m considering veganism. Or at least a more cruelty-free lifestyle.

All of the papers were persuasive, but only one made me consider each bite of food, every meal I prepare, and all my grocery-shopping trips. I don’t really object to eating meat in general, but I have always objected to the American meat industry and the horrible way animals “live” and die on factory farms. I don’t eat beef in America, in fact, for this reason.

This morning, I eyed the Thanksgiving turkey in the freezer and felt sad and guilty. I fed Trish and thought of the cellophaned breasts in the refrigerator. I threaded Dominic’s belt through the loops on his pants and thought of milking Rosebud in the second grade.

And now I’m wondering if this Web site is on the up and up.

Thanks, Austin Floyd.

A moment of joy

In addition to using Twitter and Facebook to communicate, I use social media to procrastinate. And with all the stuff hanging over my head, I’ve been socializing like crazy.

One of the entities I follow on Twitter is the AP Stylebook, of course. The good folks who maintain the account are running a contest. They want people to tweet their reasons for using the stylebook. The “best” answers win a Stylebook Online subscription.

It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

After considering many pithy responses, I decided on my go-to prop: the haiku. Here is my submission:

I use it daily
To torture writing students.
Cue evil laughter.

I didn’t know AP Stylebook retweeted my entry until I looked at my @ box and saw my post retweeted by a whole bunch of other people after the AP RT. That’s pretty cool. I hope I win …

My entry retweeted

and retweeted again

My eating disorder

Here is a nasty little secret about me that few people know (until now, that is):

I find myself having crushes on particular edible items and losing my mind over these items until I make myself sick. And then my addiction is over.

So if I think something is yummy, I will go crazy, purchasing as many as I can find. Take, for example, my latest fixation: Utz chips.

It started with a bag of the crab chips (see related post), and then spread to the Grandma’s kettle ones. Who knows where it will end because I have found an enabler: my friend Terri. We flew to Baltimore together, but she stayed for a few more days to visit her parents.

Though I love to travel, I don’t like to pack and unpack, and I refuse to check bags. So I have to be careful if I shop. While in Baltimore, I did purchase a few things for friends and family, and thus did not have room to bring back any Utz. Plus, bags of chips take up a lot of room and crush easily. Packing = bad idea.

Terri and I concocted a plan: She and her mom would go to the grocery store and do a little shopping for Utz (with some Berger thrown in) and mail me the contraband. And I would pay her for parcels and postage.

This is the image she sent me yesterday:

Utz wonder wall

I almost fell down a flight of stairs at Arnold. Once I gained my composure, I placed my order. Here is part of what is on its way to my house:

Part of my care package

Thank you, Terri, for feeding my addiction.

No intervention necessary. I’m sure I’ll make myself sick, then move on to something else.

Mystifying

The employees of the Inn at the Colonnade in Baltimore may be good at many things, but punctuation and spelling are clearly not on that list. I submit for your consideration three photos taken of the announcements on the hotel channel and one sign.

I understand that not everyone grasps grammar, spelling and punctuation. Fine. But don’t make that person in charge of writing up announcements and making signs.

Mmm…Utz chips and Berger cookies

The best part about traveling is trying new things, especially local food. Who wants to eat at a chain restaurant when you are out of town? I remember one vacation with some extended family, and all they wanted to do was eat at Denny’s. Denny’s!

I’m in Baltimore for a SCAD info. session tomorrow. My friend Terri, who works in SCAD admission, is from Baltimore and she will be working the session too. We got in at 9:30 this morning and I’ve already had Maryland crab soup, Utz chips, Berger cookies, and Balto MärzHon from the Clipper City Brewing Company.

One thing I had been looking forward to since I found out I was coming on this trip is Ethiopian food. Terri and I go to New York together every six months and Ghenet Ethiopian restaurant is always on the menu. Well, “was.” When Eddie and I went in September, though, the restaurant was closed. As in “bars on the door and ‘for sale’ sign in the window” closed. I wept.

I think you either love the food or you absolutely don’t. The deal-breaker is usually the injera, which looks and feels like skin. I’m OK with that. You use the bread to pick up the food, which consists of mashy beans, cabbage, chicken, etc., all spicy and yummy. Top it off with honey wine, and life is good.

Terri prepares to dig in

I’m fat and happy, so I’d say it’s been a good day.

Trish: not mad

Trish, a wet hen

The phrase “madder than a wet hen” came to mind today. It’s been a monsoon in the ‘Ham for the past two days, thanks to Ida. During a break in the clouds, I went to feed Trish. She came around the corner from the neighbor’s house, and she was soaking wet. She didn’t appear particularly angry about it though.

I’m sure that phrase originated in the south, but I wish I knew how and where. Wikianswers, which I don’t trust, of course, reports that it originated in the Southern Appalachian Mountains. Someday I want to have time to study etymology. Someday. In the meantime, I’ll find time to peruse the Online Etymology Dictionary.

A little peeve action

My language peeve this week (so far) is the phrase “near miss,” as in:

“Drunk woman falls onto subway tracks and survives near miss”

My friend Merriam-Webster defines it in the following manner:

Main Entry: near miss

Function: noun

Date: 1940

1 a : a miss (as with a bomb) close enough to cause damage b : something that falls just short of success
2 a : a near collision (as between aircraft) b : close call

Folks, a “near miss” is a HIT. A “near hit” would be a welcome miss. Or “Hey there, buddy, that was close!” Or “Oh my, we barely missed being victims of a horribly disfiguring accident!” Or just “Good God!”

I’m not the only one who likes to argue this point. Check out the language corner portion of the Columbia Journalism Review.

But to save argument and confusion, doesn’t “close call” work just fine?

 

Setting the record straight

I’ve been called many things in my life, but only one bothers me enough to devote a blog post to it. Certain people have called me “controlling” (not to my face, of course). Anal-retentive? Yes, of course, but I prefer the term “organized.” Perfectionist? Yes, but only about my own work. Obnoxious? Perhaps, but I like to call it being blunt.

Let’s check in with dictionary.com, which defines the word in the following manner:

1.	to exercise restraint or direction over; dominate; command.

2.	to hold in check; curb.

Calling me “controlling” is offensive to me because it accuses me of being a dictator, a puppeteer. And it is offensive to Eddie and others close to me, because it makes them seem weak and sheep-like. And if you know Eddie, you know he is not weak and sheep-like. He is very much his own person, and makes his own decisions.

It’s silly, really, because you simply can’t control other people. And I’m not interested in trying. What I would like to control is my own life (ie. the ability to get everything done that I need to get done). But other people’s decisions affect my life, Eddie’s life, and the lives of my children.

If I may quote a fine Paul Newman flick, “What we’ve got here is failure to communicate.” What certain folks call “controlling,” I call, “I just want to know what the heck is going on in advance so that I can make my plans accordingly!” Or you can call it “asking for common courtesy.” Maybe it is the reporter in me. I want to know what’s going on. I like logic.

There are people who go through life living in the moment and making spontaneous decisions. Even though I can’t do that, I am totally fine with other people doing it as long as they recognize I sometimes can’t join in the reindeer games.

Must. Remain. Calm.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I submit for your review three scenarios:

1. A special meal: Invited guests ask, “What time should we be there?” I say, “Lunch is at noon.” They are two hours late, and I’m a little put out. Am I controlling?

2. An unexpected visit: The phone rings, and potential guests report they are on their way. I say, “Great, but I have a presentation tomorrow and I won’t be able to spend much time with you.” They are a little put out. Am I controlling?

3. Clothes shopping: I take a 13-year-old relative shopping. I will not buy her the hoochie clothes she wants. Her mother accuses me of treating her like my own Barbie doll. Am I controlling?

Perhaps the real issue is that I am too honest when these things happen. I will admit that I’m honest to a fault. Perhaps I should smile and keep my mouth shut, but I’m not sure I have that in me.

But the good thing about me is that you can be just as blunt as I am, you can make fun of my need to know, and you can laugh at my obsession with time management. I won’t be offended. Just don’t call me the C word. I command it.