Well read vs well fed

I was on a flight to Boston for a press check about a year ago. I'd picked up "The Audacity of Hope" in the airport bookstore and was flipping through the pages. The man sitting next to me asked me if I'd ever heard Barack Obama speak. "Only on television," I replied. The man, who was from Chicago, told me of hearing him speak in Illinois, how moving his messages of hope were. He began telling me of his own medical missionary work in Kenya, and how he'd worked in the village Senator Obama's father had come from...

Then a "People" magazine appeared inches from my face. My friend/print producer Holly said, "I'm done with this. Do you want it?"

Embarrassed, I sputtered, "No thanks, I'm good." Holly shot me a perplexed, "Whatever, hater," expression and went back to her seat.

She knew how bad I wanted to read that "People." I never did finish "The Audacity of Hope."

Here's the thing: I can't read for pleasure anymore. My 16 years of copy editing have greatly debilitated my ability to read words on paper without a critical eye for syntax, punctuation or even typesetting. I read and correct technical, corporate and public relations documents without absorbing the content. It's a skill I'm glad to have, as it pays my bills, but when I read outside work, I have a hard time getting lost in stories and letting go of the critical eye.

I spend my down time reading AP news sites and blogs. My very favorite is Gawker, which I read for the comments. I loved the "New Yorker" for years, but let my subscription lapse because the back issues were piling up, because, alas, the last thing I wanted to do after a day of editing was to read anything else.

I do read two or three books a year, usually when I'm on vacation, but for every book I finish, I start and get fed up with the writing style of two others. Last year, I bought Susan Estrich's "Soulless," a sendup of Ann Coulter's "Godless." After about three chapters of dummy subjects, misplaced modifiers and redundancies, I was left wondering if the publishing house couldn't afford a copy editor or if Ms. Estrich was too consumed with hubris to allow her work to be edited, a la dear Dominic Dunne in "Vanity Fair." Though I did really enjoy reading Jon Stewart's "America," as it was funny and divided into easy-to-digest segments for short-attention-span readers like me, I couldn't help noticing that the typesetter hadn't corrected the quote marks and apostrophes that turn into inch- and foot-marks when type is transferred from Word to InDesign.

Back in August, my buddy Thad, a very talented designer/illustrator/photographer, gave me a book to read. He'd picked it up in Eckerd because the cover caught his eye. He raved on and on about it and said he'd read half the book before noticing the "Age 10 and up" on the cover. I let it sit on my desk for a couple of weeks before I brought it home. I had no interest in reading a kid book, but I do make an effort to at least start the books my friends give me, then give them back pretending I'd read them.

Several weeks later, on a boring Sunday afternoon, I decided to give the book a quick glance so I could give it back to Thad. I read it cover-to-cover in just over four hours. Cried out loud in gulps because it touched my stony little heart. Immediately wrote the author a fan letter. Sent copies to my mother and sister.

Since then, I started a couple of grownup books and got bored with them. I'm starting to get bored with myself here and want to go read Gawker. Anyway, read "Hurt Go Happy" and let me know how much you loved it.

Caption contest!

Dateline: Downtown Raleigh, 14th floor, 1/23/08

Write yer own That Girl From Shallotte caption for this picture. C'mon, make a me laugh! Disclaimer: All references to the lyrics of Rockwell will be immediately disqualified.

Here's one to start with: Working conditions were less than ideal on both sides of the window.

My MacGuyver

Mr. Sweetypants is a scientist, but I couldn't begin to tell you what he does for a living. He has an advanced degree in chemistry and works with spectrometers. That is, seriously, all I can tell you about what he does. I have an English degree and a short attention span and never took chemistry in high school or college.

God bless him, he tried to explain it to me when we were dating and I tried to pretend to follow him, but he saw that glazed-over-not-really-listening-anymore expression I'd get. To be completely fair, he relies on spell-check (though he's a great writer) and asks me to explain parts of speech to him. I usually sing School House Rock songs in response.

Two years ago, our A/C gave out in August, here in hot and humid North Carolina (you really don't want to move here from the Northeast, Arizona is much better), on a Sunday. I was seriously about to grab the panting cats and go to a hotel. But Steve dashed up to his lab, got a tank of liquid nitrogen, brought it home, rigged it to a fan and made a cooling system for the bedroom where I was whining.

He walked me to the door this morning as he always does, and I slid a little on the icy step. Because today is cleaning day, and because I am very sensitive of our cleaning lady quitting after the episode two weeks ago, I told Steve we should do something about the step so she wouldn't get hurt/sue us. Steve said he'd salt it.

I went out and started warming up Judy Jetta. I watched Steve come out with the Crate and Barrel salt mill we got as a wedding present and gently grind expensive sea salt onto the step.

Boogie on, reggae woman

So my mama and my aunt are currently cruising the tropics. One of their stops is in Jamaica, and Steve and I have been postulating wildly on what these two tee-totalling, Southern, Christian ladies are up to down there, and what they'll be like when they get back.

We figure my aunt will come stumbling off the boat reeking of Red Stripe and calling everybody "mon." She'll be wearing a tie-dyed Bob Marley tee and sporting a head full of beaded braids like every frat/sorority kid who's ever been there.

My mama will have had a more spiritual experience. She'll have wrapped her hair in a green, yellow and black headdress and will have adopted a militant, if red-eyed, stance. First thing, she'll call my sister Jill, and instead of begging her to cut her dreadlocks, will ask how to best maintain them. She'll read Haile Selassie's autobiography and get in trouble at the Methodist church for saying "Jah" instead of the other word. She'll start using the pronoun "I" twice and will sign off her e-mails "One Love." Then, she'll focus her energy on the legalization of marijuana movement (with the full support of Willie Nelson) and will start calling the police "babylon."

Next time we go to Shallotte, we'll have jerk chicken and plaintains for dinner with the delightful tones of Peter Tosh's "Legalize It" on the stereo, followed by foot-long spliff of ganga, Scooby snacks and a long nap. Steve and I will come back to Raleigh, get drug tested and lose our jobs. We'll protest, saying my mother forced it on us as part of her religion, but HR will turn us down. Then my mother, the rasta activist, will raise a big stink in the press and our companies will give us our jobs back, but we'll be pariahs.

Why, oh why, couldn't they have cruised Alaska again?

Random January Monday, 2008

An entry in three parts.

I. Freak injury

My right shoulder was hurting all day yesterday and I just assumed it was from sleeping on it wrong. I spent the whole day twisting and stretching to try to relieve it.

Last night, as my girl-buddy and I were waiting to cross Blount Street in front of the church in the netherlands where we park, it started seizing up like a vise. By the time we got close to the cars, I felt like my right lung was getting squeezed out of its cavity and I couldn't breathe. Didn't say anything because I was freaking out and didn't want to freak my friend out.

When I started the car, a white-hot pain started shooting down my shifting arm. Involuntary tears were streaming down my face and I was terrified of losing my Chick-Fil-A lunch. I limped poor Judy Jetta the three miles down Capitol in third gear. Managed to get home and out of the car, but I couldn't even stand up straight. Came in the door screaming and couldn't get my coat off.

Steve helped me get face-down on the bed and was going to rub my back, but I couldn't stand even the lightest touch. He said he could feel my muscle jumping all around in spasm. Used up all my remaining stash of guaranteed happy funtime elixir from Dr. Feelgood and stared at the ceiling all night.

II. Seeing a physician

My very liberal GP, Dr. Feelgood, closed her practice a few months ago and I never bothered to get a new doctor. I called the practice Steve visits at 8 a.m., then waited around the house for three hours for them to call me back.

They fit me in and Steve drove me to my appointment a half-hour early so I could fill out all the forms. In the waiting room, as I watched Steve read a National Geographic, I saw the entire rest of our lives together; getting older and hanging out in doctors' offices.

Once we got the insurance info filed, I spent a good 15 minutes filling out the extensive medical history questionnaire. I filled in the information explaining my Grandma Tommie's glaucoma, my Grandpa Lee's prostate cancer, my Grandma Ruby's diabetes, my Grandpa Grady's heart disease and my daily intake of cigarettes, coffee and alcoholic beverages, and lack of exercise habits.

I was finally escorted back. The nurse weighed me, took my blood pressure, etc. Then she proceeded to ask me questions and take notes about my exercise habits and daily intake of cigarettes, coffee and alcoholic beverages. I really wanted to say, "Can't you look at the questionnaire on the chart?" But I didn't and politely (and with great embarrassment) answered all the questions aloud.

Minutes after the nurse left the room, the P.A. came in and introduced herself. She then began asking me about my exercise habits and daily intake of cigarettes, coffee and alcohol. That's when it became really funny to me. I stopped short of saying, "If you'll refer to the two recent sets of notes, you'll see that medical opinion has been established that I'm a lazy, chain-smoking lush dependent on caffeine to continue to be functional."

III. The diagnosis

I'm allergic to purebred North American domestic alley cats like Dave. I lived with Himalayans Ed and Eudora for 1o years before rescuing him and never had a problem.

The potties are in here where I spend hours writing silly e-mails and blog entries -- we only have two bedrooms and a small bath in our little WWII bungalow, so there's no other place to put them where they'll be out of view. I've been sneezing like crazy for a few weeks and just started taking Claritin last weekend, but it was too late.

My loud, frequent, very physical sneezing, in conjunction with a gall bladder problem, is what the doctor thinks led to the wear-down in my muscle, which led to the breakdown spasms.

My Sophie's choice is between chucking the cats or my desktop computer and giving up communication altogether, as I cannot type on a laptop and don't like to talk on the phone. Think I'll keep taking the Claritin and snuggling with my purry babies. If I have another muscle attack, I'll make the most of the Skelaxin I got today and write laid-back, happytime blog entries.

Happy pills to all, and to all a good night.

Cosmic response to my last entry?

I glanced out my kitchen window just as a huge gust of wind lifted the deck furniture umbrella straight up out of its base and took it away. It's currently on the roof.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness

I think the average American has a misperception of the English as quaint, simple people who attend Anglican services in Gothic cathedrals and invite the vicar round for tea. The six English boys I went out with over the years, including the one I married, are all godless heathens. Our English ancestors were Puritans who fled these people who mocked their pious beliefs, and my experience with the Brits leads me to believe all the religious ones caught the boats out.

My darling Mr. Sweetypants was not only raised without religion, he's a brainy scientist who reads Einstein and Richard Dawkins for fun and is a card-carrying member of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti monster -- even has the noodly-appendaged one badged on his car.

Religion or lack thereof was never a concern for the two of us as we decided to team up. I did grow up in the United Methodist church, but aside from making crafts and marching around, belting out "Onward Christian Soldiers" at vacation bible school, I never got much out of it or the whole memorizing-scriptures-and-creeds-and- dogma thing. I lost what little religion I had, ironically, at my Church of Christ-founded liberal arts college, whose mascot was the Fightin' Christian.

I don't disclaim spirituality. Organized religion doesn't do much for me, but I do hedge my bets and would never say I don't believe something else might be out there. I attended Unity church during my early 30s spiritual crisis, even had a Unity wedding. It's a really nice approach to living: It's all Golden Rule-as-interpreted-by-many-cultures-based.

In my adult world in the creative underclass, I haven't run across many church-goers. On the rare occasion I have, I've stopped myself from drawing back and asking, "Really?"

My bi-weekly house cleaner's business card reads "Son-Shine Cleaning." She has a "Got Jesus?" plate on her car. We give bags of clothes to her to take to her church's outreach center for the underprivileged. (Oh, and big disclaimer lest this seems classist: She owns her own business and lives in a bigger house than we do.)

I left her a note this morning to please clean under the bed. She did a great job, and neatly stacked the things she pulled out from under it on the side. Atop the various notebooks and cat toys was Steve's paperback copy of "Atheist Universe."

While I have no problem with or any desire to read the book, I have a problem with offending my cleaning lady. I don't believe in hell, but I really hate that she might think I'm going there, instead of Steve the heathen who bought and read it. I also don't want her to pray on our godlessness and decide she needs to quit. Her rates are really great for this area, and I've been using her for so long that I've completely forgotten how to be motivated to mop.

If she leaves, there will be hell to pay.