reality check

I have a good imagination. And I'm overly curious (nosy, you say?), so as I pass people on the street, I like to concoct a story of who they are, where they're from, and what they're doing out and about. In my mind, they are unfailingly foreign, speaking a language that I also just happen to speak. I work out an entire conversation in my head, generally beginning with a look of desperation in their eyes, begging me to say something in a friendly tongue, and ending with me helping them on their way in perfectly communicable (but not perfect- I'm not that conceited even in my day dreams) Russian or German or Italian or wherever I decide they should be from. I am never nervous or bashful speaking their language; my grammar is correct and my accent decent. And best of all, my words do not fail me.

Enter reality. Let me replay a recent conversation T-rav and I had at the Russian Cultural Center:

We walk into the building on a Saturday afternoon. The door is open and there's a very-Russian looking guy (skinny, round face with angular features, thin hair) standing in the middle of a room that would make a better ballroom than space for a receptionist's desk. Trav says hello and asks about language classes. The Russian guy says something very fast in Russian. Ooo, I think I caught something about them not working. But how can I be sure...we stand there awkwardly. Trav simplifies his request in slow and basic English. The Russian looks bewildered and slightly irked. We ask him if he speaks English. Obviously not. So then, we think, we'll switch to Russian! Pause. What were those words I used to know? Trav and I stand there and look at each other and stare at the Russian and the Russian stares at us. I switch to staring at the floor. I notice that there are several pieces of paper blowing around on the ballroom's wooden floor. It would look quite nice if they refinished it. I'd like to put up a mirror and dance a jig. If the Russian weren't there, that is. Damn. All I can remember is "I want to see your rubber boots." I suck. We continue staring. Finally I blurt out Russian class in Russian. A light turns on in the Russian's eyes and he starts talking on the phone in rapid Russian. Ah, it's the head of the Cultural Center. We find out what we need to know and give the Russian back his phone. We manage to mumble a Russian thank you on our way out.

And that is the difference between my dreams and reality.

random

Today is 11/11/11. It seems significant somehow. You decide.

Editing page after page after page of textbook makes me want to stab my eyes out. Unfortunately for me, editing is all I've been doing lately. Which is why I've been checking facebook incessantly, reading loads of blogs/websites/news articles, and posting a bit more often than usual. Anything to distract...

When I was a freshman in college, I was never cold. I walked around campus in the middle of winter late at night in jeans, a sweater, hat, and gloves, and was almost never cold. I'm now freezing 95% of the time no matter what I wear. Maybe it's because I'm getting old.

T-rav and I have been eagerly engaged in a month-long Prison Break marathon. We finished the last episode last night. I feel as though it has left a small hole in my heart.

Thanksgiving is less than 2 weeks away. It can't come soon enough.

impulse buy

Yesterday our sturdy hp laptop of 6 years finally went kaput. Because it kindly alerted us to its imminent demise by randomly freezing up, shutting down, and beeping sorrowfully during the previous week, there was no meltdown from me like there could have been without proper mental preparation. Just acceptance and a tinge of sadness. It has been with me for a long time through master's thesis, resumes, lesson plans, UVU presentations, and a second bachelor's for T-rav.

But this tinge of sadness wasn't enough to keep me from buying a new one right away. As in less than 1 hour after we played a requiem for our old one, we were on our new laptop, checking email and reading the news as if we'd had it for years. And the best part: it cost us less that $400 thanks to some killer deals at Staples. Impulse buy? Maybe. But you can't really go wrong with a laptop that is twice the computer you had before at a fraction of the price.

my secret stash

I have a secret stash of books. Books that I keep hidden in a box or on a separate shelf away from prying eyes that I'm a little (ok sometimes a lot) ashamed to admit that I love.

No, they're not dirty romance novels. What kind of girl do you think I am?

They're fantasy novels. And they're not that well-written and the story isn't so unoriginal (thanks, Tolkein for inspiring a generation of plagiarists writers) but I can't help myself. I've loved them since my tween years. And every so often I have the urge to read them again. All 12 of them (and some 6000 pages).

Which brings me to my current dilemma: there are so many books I'm longing to read. I have 4 on hold at the library, several on my shelf just waiting to be picked up, a queue on my kindle, and dozens waiting for purchase on my amazon list. It doesn't make sense to me to waste my time reading silly books that I've read, literally, dozens of times. But sometimes I just need to. And they never get old, no matter how many times I read them.

So tell me. What can you read without ever growing tired of it?

(Do you like how I have neatly avoided mentioning the title of these hidden books?)

a different Halloween perspective

One of my Afghan coworkers today was asking me about Halloween. Well, mostly he just wanted to know why I didn't have treats for him today since it was "Halloween weekend" (yes, that man can EAT). Here's about how our conversation went:

Me: Are you planning to dress up or go to any parties?
Him: No, probably not. I'll go like this [wearing jeans and a fleece jacket)
Me: What? Why? Have you ever celebrated Halloween? Gone to any haunted houses or anything?
Him: No...well, I almost went one time last year, but then I didn't.
Me: Why not? Haunted houses are fun!
Him: Well, I've seen real dead bodies and watched people die, so fake ones don't scare me. In the village where I grew up, there were a bunch of houses down the street that exploded with the people still in them. I used to walk past those houses late at night by myself when I was a kid. And I played hide-and-seek in the basement with the windows nailed shut. I even followed a ghost once, but it got away from me.  Once you've seen the real thing, the fake ones just aren't scary.
Me: [blank stare]

What do you say to that?

mansplaining

My new favorite word (T-rav, don't you wish you had never sent me that link?)
to mansplain: 

1- to delight in condescending, inaccurate explanations delivered with rock solid confidence of rightness and that slimy certainty that of course he is right, because he is the man in this conversation 

2- To explain in a patronizing manner, assuming total ignorance on the part of those listening. The mansplainer is often shocked and hurt when their mansplanation is not taken as absolute fact, criticized or even rejected altogether

(from urbandictionary.com)

Now just to be clear, mainsplaining isn't just explaining something while being male (though for some it seems to be). It's when a male tells a female how to do something she already knows how to do, or how she is wrong about something she is actually right about, or miscellaneous and inaccurate "facts" about something she knows quite a lot more about than he does. 

I also recognize that many men, and women, for that matter, are know-it-alls by nature. They'll condescendingly explain things to men, women, children, dogs, cats, whoever will listen. And some people go in to teacher mode when talking about something they know about (I'm sure I occasionally do this when discussing English. But at least I actually know something about it). It happens.  

Off the top of my head, I can think of about five or six of my friends/acquaintances/co-workers who can't talk about a topic without mansplaining. I've experienced plenty of linguistically related mansplaining (some of them seem to think that speaking a second language or living in a foreign country somehow makes them an expert on grammar, semantics, phonology, or language history)--a science or math or engineering major telling me all about something I've spent 6 years formally studying (and many more informally). And of course, the mansplainer was always wrong. But much more often I have to endure mansplaining related to women and their roles, their feelings, and, worst of all, what they can/can't or should/shouldn't do. 

Naturally, it infuriates me and my reaction is instantly prickly. I really hate being told what to do, but I especially hate it from a mansplainer. What gives him the right to tell me what I can do, how I really feel about something or how he's sure I'll feel when I get there, where I can go, etc. 

When I take a step back and think about this logically, I realize that many of these guys may not realize that they're coming off in such a condescending or overbearing way. They may not even be particularly chauvinistic at heart. But that doesn't really make it any less irritating. 

So my questions for you are: do you know a mansplainer? If you do, what does he mansplain about? And how do you respond? 

My Weekend

This was the first weekend in, well, weeks, that we haven't had people visiting, been visiting people, or had good weather. So the natural thing to do was hop in the car and drive west, west into the mountains of the east: the Blue Ridge mountains. We spent the afternoon hiking through unspeakably beautiful hillsides.

We went through a town called Waterlick. If this grocery store hadn't been closed, I would have shopped there. 

Hurrah for the self-timer on my camera. Its one redeeming quality.

  I think we're going to go back next weekend.

How's your autumn coming along?

What does English sound like?

Want to know what English sounds like? I think this (rather strange) video does an excellent job with their fake English...all the right sounds, plenty of real words, nonsensical word order. What do you think?

version 3.0

In my mind I can categorize myself into 2 versions.

Version 1: shy. introverted. somewhat timid.
Version 2: friendly. opinionated. bossy. adventurous.

My family is much more familiar with version 2. And as the oldest child in the family, I feel confident declaring that it is not my fault that I'm bossy. Can I help it if I had a lot of responsibility and decisions put upon me as first-born? Nope. Not my fault. Sorry, siblings.

When I wasn't at home, I was almost always version 1. I hated talking at school and loathed being called on to answer questions because then everyone would stare at me (they really wouldn't--what 9-year-old listens to much of anything in the classroom. But I thought they would stare at me. Especially if I said the wrong thing. Oh the horror!). I had some friends, but was far from "miss popularity." I hated being labeled as "quiet" like it was a bad thing. What's so bad about being quiet? I knew in my heart that I was NOT quiet, not really, but on the outside, that's what people saw.

Version 2 emerged as people got to know me. I didn't hesitate to shout down any of the rotten little boys on the playground, and I think most of my friends thought of me as much more adventurous and extroverted than they were. Sassy, even. But it took time and effort to get to that point.

Which brings us to the present day. When I meet new people, potential friends possibly, I am often still version 1. I might feel uncomfortable conversing, maybe even have a hint of a blush whenever the conversation turns toward me. Sometimes I'm just fine, extroverted even, but I have to be in the right mood, drunk with some kind of energy and excitement. I wish I could merge my two selves into one better version that doesn't feel shy, but doesn't mind still being introverted. But it's easier said than done, I guess.

I wonder if any of you feel this way. Which is the better self? I know, I know. The answer is probably neither. I should embrace my selves and be comfortable with who I am! Also easier said than done. ;)

On saucing

Applesauce is among the five or so foods I could live on continuously if they didn't kill me first (bread, cheese, gelato, nutella, apple-related anything). But not just any applesauce. My grandma's applesauce. Because, you see, it's better than any I've ever had before. Yes, ever ever. Because my Grandma is The. Best. Cook. And even though she has Alzheimer's and needs to be occasionally reminded of what to do next, she's still the best. 

First you take Cortland apples and core and slice them, a step which we were able to skip because we're friends with an apple-product-factory owner. Then you throw them in a pot with a teensy bit of water and bring them to a nice sturdy simmer, cooking until they turn to mush. You must stir and watch very carefully not to burn them. It helps to have a very lovely grandma watching over things to inspect the progress.

Only stop for a picture when you're ready to take the apples off the heat. Otherwise Grandma will scold you. Nicely, of course. Next pour the mushed apples into a press that spits out the peels and other unsavory bits on one side and sploosoms out the sauce on the other. 

Dump the sauce in a bowl with a bit of sugar and stir. Then divide it into jars, wipe down the mouth of the jar, and boil the heck out of them until sealed. And I almost forgot the most important part: reserve a jar to eat right away, slightly warm is best.