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Posts Tagged ‘Peeves’

In the business writing class I teach, I conduct mock interviews with students. To prepare them adequately, I ask questions that take three forms:

  • “Normal” (“Where do you see yourself in five years?”)
  • Inappropriate (“Do you have children?”)
  • Kooky (“If you were a tree, what tree would you be?”)

Now there’s a new screwy question they have to consider:  “What is your Facebook password?”

It is a disturbing trend on the job interview circuit.

Businesses want it for two reasons:

  1. To make sure the candidate doesn’t do anything in his private life that may embarrass the company or affect work productivity.
  2. To get to know the candidate better to see if she would be a good fit with the rest of the employees.

Regardless of the reason, it is a bad idea for candidates because it (obviously) could cost the person the job. If the person does get the job, the interviewer could still have some preconceived notions that would affect how he or she treats the new hire.

No one would ever get a job if potential employers had an all-access pass into a candidate’s personal life. As Orin Kerr, a George Washington University law professor, puts it in the above linked article, “It’s akin to requiring someone’s house keys.”

I can’t imagine what someone would say about the books on the shelves in my house, for example. Meteorology textbooks, scholarly journals, qualitative research books make me look educated. Travel books show I’m globally minded. David Sedaris, Tom Wolfe, D.H. Lawrence, Flannery O’Connor — I think I’m still OK.

And then things go downhill. What does “The Modern Witch’s Spellbook” say about me? Or “Linda Goodman’s Love Signs?” Must I explain that I went through “a phase” in high school and don’t like to get rid of books?

Some might say not to put anything on your Facebook profile you don’t want the world to see. They have a point, and I do that to a certain extent, but I still want to have interesting, unvarnished interactions with my friends and family. So I just monitor my privacy settings.

Even with that, I can’t control some things. My friend Julia (of the New Orleans extravaganza) took a trip down memory lane on Facebook with embarrassing results for me.

She posted pages of the diary I kept for us during our ninth grade trip with my parents to Myrtle Beach.

I’m mortified.

I take pains to make sure my FB life and work life are separate. What would my current employer (or future ones) say about “prose” like this?

Shudder.

“Eyelashes” was the nickname we gave to the T-shirt shop employee we thought was hot. And here’s a picture of what I thought was hot back then:

Shudder, again.

Yes, that’s a Polaroid. Yes, I’m suitably humiliated. So I guess I was wrong in my last post. I do have shame. I didn’t even tag myself in her posts.

So I say “nay” to businesses asking for snooping rights into Facebook. A business that asks for entrance is not the kind of business I’d want to work for anyway.

Mashable has some tips in case you find yourself in that situation.

And please don’t judge me too harshly. Puberty is a bitch.

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Camping seems like a great idea until you find yourself coated in mosquito bites, sleeping on a rapidly deflating air mattress, and lathering your children in calamine lotion because of a mysterious rash.

Why do people in first-world countries see the need to schlep their belongings out to the woods to sleep on the ground? Isn’t one of the benefits of being citizens of a developed nation the fact that we have beds, shelter, etc.?

I didn’t think about any of this as I happily agreed to go camping with two other families at Edisto Island State Park this weekend. Roaring fire? S’mores? Getting back to nature? Sign me up.

But these should have been my first and second clues that this was a bad idea:

Uh oh.

The creatures were out in full force. Worms were rappelling out of the trees like Tom Cruise in “Mission Impossible.”

This worm took up residence in my hair.

And that suited Dominic and Gideon just fine.

Dominic shows off his worm habitat.

To be fair, the campsite was equipped with water and electricity, so it is not like we were truly roughing it.

Camp, sweet camp

But as soon as we put up the tent, it rained. And rained. And rained. We stayed inside and watched superhero cartoons.

The rain finally moved on, leaving everything dirty and muddy. Nate’s shoes were destroyed, so he borrowed Charlotte’s as he went to get a drink (and grab Charlotte’s purse).

Nate brings sexy back.

Despite the monsoon, we did have the requisite cookout, fire and s’mores.

And Nate’s sexy look worked on someone: a friendly Southern toad.

The next day we hit the beach.

This is one way to keep him still.

Gideon can't stand to be left out.

Dominic finds some kind of crab.

New media and old media happily coexist on the beach.

Good company, lots of laughs, and some relaxation almost made up for the critters, dirt and back pain.

However, as Eddie groused the whole time he was loading and unloading the car, I’m going to guess that is the last time he strays from the comfort of his own habitat.

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I get it. I do.

Rush Limbaugh makes his living by making outrageous statements and polarizing people. He thrives on controversy because that drives an increase in listeners. His livelihood depends on him being a jerk.

So no one should be surprised at his latest antics, and that it took three days for him to apologize to Sandra Fluke. He had to make sure that people were good and outraged. He had to make sure people were paying attention to him.

It’s all part of his shtick. I doubt he even believes all the things he says. I worry more about the people who actually listen to him, believe him, agree with him, and use his words to get fired up in their own lives and voting booths.

But let’s look at the controversy. I don’t mean birth control pills or whether it is actually used for contraception (in many cases, it is not). I don’t mean Limbaugh’s crazy assumption that you need to have a pill each time you have sex. I mean the issue of women having sex in the first place (something that frightens Rick Santorum very much).

Limbaugh said about Fluke, “She’s having so much sex, it’s amazing she can still walk.” That wasn’t the point of her congressional committee testimony, and I have no idea whether she is getting it on regularly or not. But what if she is? So what?

Why is it still OK, in 2012, to brand a woman as a “slut” for enjoying herself? Men have been doing it for years, and earning acclaim (see Warren Beatty, Hugh Hefner, Gene Simmons, Gerard Butler, etc.). Note the difference between the terms “ladies man” and “whore.”

Why are we still rooted in the 1950s idea of what a woman should do and be? I should ask my mother-in-law. She’s still pissed that I’m not home all day with the kids. (It doesn’t impress her a bit that I have a Ph.D., great job, and I make it home in time to cook dinner for Eddie every day.)

Why aren’t there more women in positions of power in the United States? According to the 2010 Census, woman outnumber men 157 million to 151.8 million.

I’ll tell you why: Women often have a hard time getting along with other women. You need proof? Watch this season of “Survivor.” (Or don’t. It is embarrassing.) This season’s twist is that all the contestants are in the same camp, but they are on teams by gender.

Instead of using their collective skills and knowledge to work together and build a shelter, make fire, etc., they’ve been racing over to the men’s shelter to “get warm for five minutes.” (If you know you are going to be on “Survivor,” wouldn’t you practice making fire?)

They lost an easy challenge because they could not figure out how to work together.

I want these smart, strong women to start supporting and relying on each other. Men are often dismissive of women; women shouldn’t do it too.

I know, I know: Aggressive men are “go-getters” while aggressive women are “bitches.” But the fact that women outnumber men means that we can change that image, as long as we aren’t doing the name-calling also.

March is Women’s History Month. Women, now is the time to speak up, speak out, make a difference.

And if you want to get it on with hundreds of people, Sandra Fluke, do it. I won’t judge you. Limbaugh can kiss my butt as it walks away to help foster true equality.

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Warning: This post contains graphic images and text that may be disturbing to sensitive readers.

(Don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

I don’t usually talk about politics in this blog, but I’m concerned about the Republican Party. They’ve had four years to get their act together and this is what they’ve come up with:

How are these guys the best the party can offer?

I can’t address all the craziness these folks have perpetrated over the past few months. Here are a few of the tastiest tidbits.

Mitt Romney

During an economic policy address at Ford Field in Detroit, he mentioned that his wife “drives a couple of Cadillacs.” Later, he explained that they were parked at their different houses. You know, for convenience. Oh. OK. Of course. He must not have learned anything from poor John McCain in 2008.

Romney is like the uptight, nerdy dad trying desperately to “get real” with the cool teenage son. Think Phil Dunphy.

Rick Santorum

At a speech at an Americans for Prosperity forum in Michigan, he derided Obama as a “snob” for suggesting that Americans should go to college. Hmmm … I guess he knows a thing or two about college. He has three degrees: a B.A., M.B.A. and J.D. I suppose he was indoctrinated by those “liberal college professors.” Quelle horreur!

And, by the way, look at the priority other countries place on higher education. The United States is slipping further behind. Do we really want to be the Patrick Star of the globe?

With his sweater vest, he reminds me of the teenaged son’s irritating, know-it-all best friend: Eddie Haskell.

Newt Gingrich

How is he a viable candidate? Let’s give credit to the flux capacitor that transported us back to the 1990s. It was a more innocent time. He was able to squall freely about Bill Clinton’s sexcapades while carrying on a hot and heavy affair with Whitehall Barbie. And he’s trying to represent a party that espouses family values such as preserving the sanctity of marriage. OK. Oh, and he wants to colonize the moon.

He’s like the drunk uncle who passes out on the couch during the family meal. Or like an older Arthur.

Ron Paul

It is amazing that he is running as a Republican in 2012, considering his Libertarianesque leaning (that is actually more like the Republican Party of old). I guess he thinks the Republicans are his best chance (according to him, “parties are pretty irrelevant”). He’s clearly not considered a contender. The debates were tough to watch. Even though the man was speaking some sense, his opponents looked at him patronizingly.

In the family dynamic, Paul is the senile grandpa allowed at the dinner table until he pinches the daughter-in-law’s backside when she goes for more rolls. Then it’s back to the nursing home for Old Man Simpson.

So this is what we’ve got:

Lest you think I’m a “liberal college professor” or part of the “left-wing media,” I’m not giving Democrats a pass. They’ve just (wisely) kept their collective mouths shut and let the crazies duke it out.

In the interest of full disclosure, I do have to unveil a skeleton in my closet. (Remember, I warned you about graphic images.) Here it is in all its tattered, bony glory:

I was Newt’s press intern during the Jim Wright scandal. So glad the days of “mindless cannibalism” are over. Oh … wait.

(Notice my hand is in my OWN pocket.)

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About 400 people have linked, emailed, tweeted or otherwise made me aware of this cartoon:

I love the cartoon, and I love that people thought (think) of me when they saw (see) it.

(That’s indeed how I feel on a regular basis.)

While most of my friends and family know me as the grammar guru, the Internet thinks I’m a different kind of freak. Just look at the search terms people used that led them to my blog.

Finding me via “parasites” and other such terms makes sense because of my “Procrastination by parasite” post.

And “rednecks” also makes sense because of my frequent posts about the “Redneck Games.”

“Butterfly McQueen” and “antithesis” led searchers to posts about rhetorical devices.

I can even explain “std in the mouth” because I admitted in the procrastination post that my leap into the information vortex includes viewing images of “STD outbreaks” and “meth mouth.”

The last term is inexplicable on many levels: Who uses “inhumans wallpaper” as a search term? Why did the search engine pick me? What did searchers really want?

Not someone who likes to talk about grammar, for sure.

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Aging gracelessly

One of the many great things about my job is that I’m sometimes off on Fridays.

“Sometimes” doesn’t happen very often though. In fact, the last time was October 2010, I think.

When I am off, I go to the YMCA for the line-dancing class.

(Yes, I like line dancing and country music.)

Eleanor, the cranky cottonhead, was there, as were Martha and Jan. They were thrilled to have fresh blood.

They were impressed with my mad dance skilz. I guess it becomes difficult to successfully complete a grapevine once you hit 70.

And then they informed me that I really needed to see “Menopause The Musical” at the Lucas Theatre.

How old do I look?

Subtract a few dozen people and that's the class.

Don’t answer that.

Combine this experience with my last post and you’ll see a trend. There’s also the fact that Eddie and I had an overnight sitter last night, but were still in bed by 10:30.

What is happening to my life?!?

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This has been an eye-opening week.

I feel old. Scratch that. I feel like I’ve landed on another planet.

Why?

Kids today.

(This is where I shake my fist menacingly and yell, “Get off my lawn!”)

  • A student approached me after class one day and asked me, in all seriousness, if I would change the time of a required class next quarter because she doesn’t “do 8 a.m.” classes. Because she is a very sweet student, I nicely replied that I couldn’t help her with that, but I was sure she would be able to rise to the occasion. And I reminded her that college (usually) leads to a job where she would be required to perform on schedule.
  • A student has missed a number of classes because he “slept through” the alarm repeatedly. The class meets at 11 a.m.
  • A student who informed me he needed an A in the class stood me up for the meeting where we were supposed to discuss his progress toward that goal.

These students are all interesting, talented people who are paying to go to college. Yet I seem to care more about their education than they do. So I don’t understand what is going on here.

Back in my day …

Wait a minute.

I seem to recall sleeping through a 9 a.m. history class. And I may have tried to get out of that class because it met at 9 a.m.

I still don’t have an explanation for or experience with the other two scenarios.

At least I don’t have helicopter parents making my life miserable. One such person called my husband to request that he wake up her son to go to the gym.

Now THAT’S truly alien behavior!

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December is my favorite month of the year because it is my birthday month, and because it features Christmas, Hanukkah and Kwanzaa – a holidaypalooza! No one gets any work done all month, people eat their body weights in cookies and candy, and parents have the chance to threaten their young children with the phrase, “Santa sees what you are doing right now.”

Christmas Eve is my favorite holiday because of the anticipation. Christmas Day has always felt like a let-down because the wait is over. It’s 364 days for the next build-up. But maybe that’s just me.

So, Christmas Eve = good; Christmas Day = kind of bad.

Here are other pairs:

Good: Bringing home and decorating a real Christmas tree.
Bad: Real Christmas tree needles that clog the ancient vacuum cleaner.

Good: Realizing a new Dyson vacuum cleaner with Root Cyclone technology might make a great Christmas gift.
Bad: Um … asking for a vacuum cleaner for Christmas.

Good: The boys are old enough to help decorate the tree.
Bad: They haven’t figured out the art of spacing.

Good: More quality time with the kids.
Bad: More time with the kids. (You know it is too much togetherness when you hear your son say, “Gideon punched me,” and your husband responds, “Good.”)

Good: Selecting the perfect presents for friends and family.
Bad: Wrapping all those presents and the bills that follow the purchase.

Good: Seeing a person’s reaction when she loves her gift. (Hi, Trish!)
Bad: Seeing the reaction when he doesn’t. (Hello, Ed.)

Good: Taking the kids to see Santa.
Bad: Knowing that the 5-year-old is not getting the computer he requested (!).

Good: Going to your first Hanukkah party.
Bad: Fleeing the Hanukkah party because your son has a meltdown because he doesn’t like the way his shirt collar feels on his neck.

Good: Unseasonably warm weather when the central heat has been acting strangely.
Bad: The kids deciding it’s OK to take off their clothes outside to better enjoy aforementioned warm weather.

Good: Having the time and inclination to make Christmas cookies.
Bad: The extra 10-pound reminder of why you shouldn’t.

Good: Deciding (well, hoping) that friends and family will forgive you for not sending holiday cards because you’ve been out of the country for three months and didn’t get your act together.
Bad: Feeling like a schmuck each time you go to the mailbox and see greetings from others.

Good: Singing Christmas carols as loudly as possible in a closed car.
Extra Good: Torturing your kids with your holiday singing after they’ve been torturing you all day with superhero noises.
Bad: There’s nothing bad about that … for you!

Good: Stop-motion Christmas specials such as “Rudolph, the Red-nosed Reindeer” (although I’m partial to “The Year Without a Santa Claus” because of the Miser Brothers).
Bad: Stop-motion specials such as “Rudolph’s Shiny New Year.” (It’s like the Scrappy Doo of specials.)

Good: The whole holiday season, in my opinion.
Bad: It’s almost over. Sigh.

Happy holidays to all of you!

 

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After posting my last update, I (not surprisingly) fell into a funk. All I wanted to do was read trashy fiction (Patricia Cornwell, I’m talking about you) and watch “Modern Family.”

Now I’m back.

Here are my top 10 observations about France:

1. French folks haven’t gotten the memo about cigarettes and cancer. Or, if they have, they don’t give a bleu, blanc, rouge crap. Even the mannequins smoke. (It gives new meaning to the sentence, “Check out his butt!”)

 

2. The French revere their produce in a way that Americans don’t. Even heirloom tomatoes, not conventionally pretty, earn places of distinction at weekly markets.

3. The French pay attention to details. Sure, people flock to the Eiffel Tower, but even a lowly door knocker can be a must-see. And then there is the variety and presentation of delightful treasures such as macarons.

4. Americans appreciate personal space. The French don’t. At all. They end up wearing each other like cheap suits. They don’t even give the Mona Lisa any room.

5. Sometimes the French don’t have a good grasp of English. At least they try. (And more French speak English in France than Americans speak French in America.)

6. Though images can often cross language barriers, sometimes they don’t. And some signs end up being unintentionally hilarious and/or weird. What do these signs mean?

It's OK to cross here with your large piece of lumber?

No coughing while wearing a Cleopatra costume? No feeling the bicep of a man made of tiles?

 

Don't let red people reach into your European Men's Carry-all?

7. France is pigeon heaven. They are portly and plentiful. One even roosts in the window above my bed, tapping on the glass occasionally to make sure I’m awake.

8. The French love dogs. They take them everywhere, and let them go everywhere.

9. There may be nothing better in this world than a warm crêpe from a street vendor.

10. Robert De Niro has a side job with a circus.

 

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The fan gently hummed. The clock tower five feet from the headboard of my bed chimed the hour of four. I was tucked into crisp white sheets under a fluffy white duvet. I was about to slip back into slumber when I heard it.

Buzzzzz.

Too loud for a fly or a mosquito. This was a healthy, robust buzz. Powered by what I didn’t know, and wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.

I turned on the light. Hovering four feet above me was a massive winged creature. Like a yellow jacket that sampled the “Alice in Wonderland” cake. I squelched a squeal. (It wouldn’t do to yell; it is a very small village, and a noise like that surely would have awakened my coworker next door, or the students in the apartments across the narrow street.)

I grabbed a sweater and whipped the sleeve at it, Indiana Jones style.

The beast dropped out of the air. And disappeared. Completely. Like Michael Myers after Dr. Loomis shoots him over the railing.

There was no way I could go back to bed without knowing where it was, dead or alive.

I got a book and waited.

After about 10 minutes, I heard the tell-tale buzz (Poe had nothing on this). The winged devil rose from the floor on my left, a foot from my head. I sprang to my sweater. It flew out of the bedroom into the living room.

For about 10 more minutes, the beast and I created a spectacle straight out of a Looney Tunes cartoon. I finally trapped him in the folds of the sweater and flung him outside. He clung tenaciously to the fibers and demanded to come back in. I cursed (quietly) and shook harder. His creepy little legs at last released my cardigan.

Before I could close the window, he flew back inside.

At this point, I was really thankful no one could see in my windows. With renewed vigor (and while choking back a panicked gurgle), I sweater-snapped him again.

He stopped, dropped and rolled.

I pounced again with the sweater, gathered him up, tossed him out the window again, and shut it quickly.

I have no idea if he lived, but I know I didn’t go back to sleep.

Addendum:

After posting this account, I did some research (prompted by a comment on the post). I think I tangled with a European hornet, or Vespa crabro.

And perhaps I need to change the pronoun in the story to “she.”

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