Face-palm: A Visual

It occurred to me that I used *facepalm* a couple times last week.  And then I saw this gif.

Face-palm

For never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

Oh my giddy aunt - they've done it!  Shakespeare has met Clay-mation.  And there are garden gnomes.  I really don't need to say more!  So here's the trailer:

Gnomeo & Juliet

Always listen to experts. They'll tell you what can't be done and why. Then do it.

Web fail of the day:

I typed "expert" into Thesaurus.com's search bar, hit enter.

There are no results for "expert."


I confess I snorted.  Reading further, Thesaurus.com asked,

Did you mean "expert"?


*Face-palm.

Broadly speaking, the short words are the best, and the old words best of all.

Copywriting moment.
The sentence I'm wrestling with ends thus:
"and will maintain the fast, high-quality production standards which it has become known for."


Except that I want it to say:
"and will maintain the fast, high-quality production standards for which it has become known."


But I still feel more comfortable with the first one, because more readers will be able to identify with it.  Do we sacrifice grammar for readability?  I'm going to side with Churchill:
"This is the sort of bloody nonsense up with which I will not put."




Later the same morning, I found this lovely confusion:
"Charlie Acuff shined in the shadow of his famous cousin Roy by staying in the Knoxville area and becoming its best-loved old-time fiddler."


How old-timey was it?  Well, it was so old-timey we even employed verb constructions to show you!  Shouldn't it be "shone"?  And by the way, how does anyone shine in someone else's shadow?
*Face-palm...

Bulletin:

I've been reading a lot lately (and compiling lists of articles to go along) about the "problem" with 20-somethings these days.  I'm not sure it's a problem; I find it to be a lack of internal pressure.  But I'll explain later.  I'm still working on it...don't hold your (collective) breath!

Pardon him, Theodotus: he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of his tribe and island are the laws of nature.

One would think that,

should one purchase such a gargantuan truck,

one might learn how to properly park said vehicle.

I'm just sayin'...

Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear.

Seth Godin recently posted a blog titled "Check-In, Chicken."  And while I'm not actually part of a small, closely-involved team that would have check-in meetings every morning (or even once a week, although maybe we should consider it), his suggestion is good for even an individual level.  So here goes:

What are you afraid of?
I'm afraid of failure - that everything I've done in my life and in my writing career to date will not be enough for the job I'm doing, and I will disappoint everyone (myself included).  In my mind, I'll run dry of ideas, be unable to contribute any further, and become a leech or burden to the company.  Conversely, I'm afraid that the company will decide I'm no longer providing what they want, to the standard they want, and I'll be let go without explanation.

I know these are unreasonable fears.  Growing up, I received approval based largely on my performance.  I know that I am able to (and most of the time do) outwork my peers, especially in the past decade as "my peers"have become increasingly less reputable.  And I know that I want to learn, I want to improve, I want to be taught and guided.  So I have nothing to fear except fear itself.  (Right? *Worried face)

I'm afraid of success - there are several new relationships (work, social, housing) that have the potential to be long-term - longer term than I've ever experienced.  Talk about new realms of scariness...

According to a New York Times article, 20-somethings these days have at least seven jobs before they turn 30.  I'm happy to only have accounted for half of my job quotient (although I have four more years till 30 arrives).  I personally would like the stability and routine of a long-term job.  I would also like to buy a house - I desperately wish to tear down wallpaper and repaint and buff floors and rebuild stairs without asking permission.  And I would like a stable, fulfilling relationship.  But it would take me pages and pages of writing to record all the even more terrifying things that go along with these desires.

Hi, I'm Jess, and I'm a chicken.

Then tender Tim Tankens he searched here and there/For some garment to clothe her fair skin

I’m in a stage of life that I’m calling “Hey, at least I dressed myself!”

Years ago I denounced fashion (tie-dyed bike shorts and sweater clips were on the way out anyway) and focused more simply on dressing myself.  That was the jeans-and-a-Goodwill-tshirt stage (which may have been a fashion trend, but I was either behind the fad or unaware of it).  But every seven years or so, I have a closet crisis: I wake up one day to realize that my wardrobe is unsuited (har) for the position I’ve found myself in.

For instance: I spent the last two years working at a bookstore, wherein I wandered barefoot and carefree.  All my jeans had holes in them; I layered tank tops like mad; my hair was usually tucked into a bandana or hat; and shoes were of the devil.  But then I got hired as a copywriter at a marketing firm.  And my closet disintegrated into a heap of threadbare jeans, de-elasticized built-in bras, and sole-rubbed flip-flops.

I’ve always looked through magazines like Newport News (which is really the only one I can remember looking through, now that I think of it).  And I used to tell my mom, “If I had a lot of money, I’d dress like that.”  Well, I have more money than I ever have now.  But I’m still not committed to my wardrobe or personal style enough to start buying expensive magazine pieces.

A shift in shopping ideals has helped.  I used to buy something I liked because I liked it, then realized six months later that I never wore it.  Now I’m working hard at buying something I like that will go with several pairs of my current pants/shirts and that I can see potential in – a piece that makes me want to buy new, slightly more mature clothes.

Here’s where all this gets tricky: I’m a writer.  We don’t have uniforms, we aren’t exactly artists (although I heart black clothing), we aren’t complete hippies, nor are we absolute yuppies.  I like all those styles.  Blending them into something that I like, that suits me, and that is appropriate for most occasions literally freezes me into a panicky statue.  Nine times out of ten, if I’m late to work, it’s because I was standing in front of my closet agonizing over what to wear.  And I’m not a three black skirts kinda girl!  Give me options, color, texture, variety!

So today, the stage I’m dealing with looks this: a loose silver v-neck sweater over an olive halter, tucked into jeans with a gold belt, gold and copper accessories and sandals.  It may be cute.  It might not be fashionable.  In fact, it may not work at all.  But the important part is this: I’m here, and I’m not naked.  Jess dressed herself!

Man reading should be man intensely alive.

"The book should be a ball of light in one's hand."

Labor Day weekend we cease from our labors (or labor at play).  I chose to spend as much time as possible in the delicate weather that was balancing between summer and fall.  Days were spent sunbathing and nights in long-sleeves with hot tea.  And every moment that my attention was not required (by family, or chores, or Puck), I read.

Robin McKinley's newest book, Chalice, was airy and perfect.  I literally could not stand to put it down.  By the end, unconsciously wistful for bees and living earth, I found myself in the backyard, lying in the grass in late sunlight.  And it had a wonderfully triumphant ending.  McKinley has maintained her place as one of my favorite-est fantasy writers yet again!  Other books by her that I'd whole-heartedly recommend: The Hero and the Crown, The Blue Sword, Sunshine.

I'm about ten pages from the end of Spelling Mississippi, by Marnie Woodrow, which I'll devour for lunch.  Woodrow's first novel is clearly that: she struggles a little to find her rhythm, but I found myself willing to read her choppy prose.  She wrote with such a clear idea of her characters, many well-tangled and interesting story lines, and such a powerful sense of place that I really couldn't give up on her.  The book is not ending as I'd predicted, and I feel confident that even in these last ten pages or so, I will continue to be caught off guard.

Others on my shelf (in various stages of reading and enjoyment) include: Oxygen, by Carol Cassella (who could resist the title or the cover?); The Little Bookroom, by Eleanor Farjeon (courtesy of my compatriot bibliophile, Josh); Mirror, Mirror, by Mark Pendergrast (we're all narcissists, but why?); and One More for the Road, by Ray Bradbury (he's just fantastic; period).

In other news, I'm considering joining the Twitter movement.  Thoughts?

What is rare is the courage to follow the talent to the dark place where it leads.

There are motion-sensitive lights in the bathroom.

This worries me.  This morning, I was taking a few minutes to… ah… re-center, and suddenly, I was alone in silence and darkness.  I was pretty sure I’d gone simultaneously deaf and blind.

“Great!  It’s going to be Helen Keller Redux.”  That thought amused me – I played Helen Keller in “The Miracle Worker” in seventh grade (rather convincingly, may I add).

Being in the furthest stall from the door and the motion sensor, I took a minute to think through my options.  I could slide my shoe across the other stalls and hope to trigger the lights.  But I only had two shoes and very bad aim.

“I get up in the middle of the night, and it’s dark then, and I never seem to have a problem.  In fact, I never even open my eyes.”  But it occurred to me that the fan wasn’t running, and I could hear voices (of the president and someone else, both male) just beyond the door.  That skeeved me out enough to risk leaving the stall prematurely.  And of course it took hopping to the end of the row of stalls and waving my arms before the silly lights came back on.

I can really only think of one good reason for this installation decision: productivity.  Companies pay to get the most out of their employees, so unnecessarily long bathroom breaks must be discouraged.  And while they’re doing it, they’ll save electricity!

The ironic part, in my case, is that I was hired as “a creative.”  I love how that adjective has so solidly become a noun, a noun that means “Because I have more right-brained tendencies and an art background and ADD and can draw, I am entitled to certain privileges and rule-breaking.”  Enter irony: I’m “a creative.”  I’m OCD, type-A, extremely focused, overly-sensitive to rules and procedures, and can draw.  But I digress.

As a creative, I'm encouraged to do whatever necessary to keep the inventive brainwaves, er, waving.  I go for short strolls around the building, walk the river at lunch, Google odd visuals, read writing blogs, Stumble around the internet, eat every three hours or so...what if I also need more than four minutes of lavatory re-centering?