Word of the Day: hack

Short but powerful, the word ‘hack’ has multiple lingustic uses. It can be a noun, a verb, an adjective, a verbal phrase and an idiom.

However, I’ve chosen to highlight its use as an adjective.

The word ‘hack’ is a truncation of the word ‘hackneyed,’ which describes something trite and banal.

Example of formal usage:

The lyrics to 13 year-old Rebecca Black’s song, “Friday” are so hackneyed as to be utterly embarrassing.

Example of informal usage:

Jesus H. Christ, they really need to fire the hack writer who wrote that song.

The Burka Dance

Burkas in France,

Now don’t stand a chance,

And I’m not really sure where I stand,

I think quite liberally,

And I’d sure hate to see,

The flames of intolerance fanned,

Though it’s hard to refuse,

One’s own right to choose,

There’s one thing I don’t understand,

It’s not religion or race,

Burkas cover your face,

Could I wear one since I am a man?

To Paulo, with love: a limerick

(Yes, I know I said my next post would be a WOTD, but I need to give that a little more thought…)

This is dedicated to our dear friend Paulo Nunes, with respect, admiration and the greatest affection:

A spicy young fellow from Brazil,
Planned on working out daily until,
He became the crowned queen
Of the bodybuilding scene,
And the king of the weightlifting hill.

Poor Man’s Library Book Cover Part II

I blame Miss Kitten for making me do this 🙂 LOL

…july

When you have been friends with someone for a considerable length of time, you can pretty much tell the tone of the discussion the moment someone answers the phone and hears the greeting. Kate knew to settle in if I called sobbing. I knew anything beginning with “Aww…Marn” meant my plans for lunch were going to be scuttled in lieu of being a good pal.

It was a blistering hot, sticky July day as July days are in central Carolina. I grabbed some water, my cigarettes and headed to the back deck.

Kate opened with a story about meeting some guy at brunch with some of her friends. Apparently Eros was at a loss for things to do that day. They ended up spending the weekend together, in a drug induced fog and having incredible sex.

I couldn’t figure out how a call that opened with “Aww…Marn” would be bad given the above. Kate and her boyfriend of four years had broken up several months prior and if anyone deserved bacchanalia, it was Kate.

I guess my confusion was fairly evident because Kate paused. “Marn…we did a lot of drugs.” Having grown up around drugs, having a husband who works in an industry where drugs are fairly prevalent, it’s pretty hard to draw anything other than an eye roll from me. In my world drugs are broken into two categories: that which you can do and that which you cannot do. The “can-do” category is limited to pot and certain pharmaceuticals. The “cannot-do” is basically everything else.

I was waiting to hear that she imbibed in blow, her drug of choice for partying. Alas, no. She went were you did not go. She tried meth. Is it any wonder that the sexy times were incredible?

Further issues contributed to Kate’s angst. She tells me she behaved like an asshole to her friends. She tells me this guy has a record and deals. She tells me she didn’t use any form of protection what-so-ever.

Rather than join the pig-pile, I flatly stated that it was great that she had a fuck-and-run but that’s all it needs to be. A fuck-and-run. I told her to delete his name from her phone, get herself to her OB/GYN and move on with life. It would be her dirty little secret, her lost weekend. We all have one and for her to be any different is a little unrealistic when you’re speaking of a (then) 38 year old woman.

She squeaked “An AIDs test.” I shook my head “Are you telling me that you haven’t been tested?” Bless my friend’s little heart. She couldn’t handle being a Gen-Xer.

I half-listened to the rest of the phone call. To be quite blunt, I had no desire to hear about having fantastic sex with a convicted felon. I really don’t give a frog’s fat ass about the glories of any uppers, methamphetamine being the primary one. The douchenozzle wrecked her car in the process and, admittedly, I thought – now you know why this guy needs to be relegated to the fuck-and-run bin.

After an hour or so on the phone, I thought we had reached a clear understanding of how to carry forward. Delete number. Go to doctor. Repair car. Avoid meth. Am I missing something in the sage-advice-doling department here? Clearly, I must have been.

Two weeks later, she called me to tell me she had seen him again.

Kate’s folly aside, I wasn’t exactly skipping sans souci through life. In my world, I was clinging to what little bits of sanity I had remaining in my feeble mind. In less than a year, I had given birth to a child, I had to take a demotion in order to mother appropriately as my previous job mandated travel, I had the pressures of being the primary breadwinner and master financial planner for this enterprise we call a family. All this on top of the fact that the better half travels for a living so I was doing this alone, at times. By the end of June, my nerves were so tattered, holding myself together and getting through the day without breaking down in tears was a mere impossibility.

I thought my advice to Kate was stellar. Rather than beating her up, rather than validating the peanut gallery of friends of hers in Atlanta, I simply stated that what was done was done and gave her a path for moving forward. No judgment. Just support. Imagine my seething rage to learn that she did not listen to me.

When she called to tell me she had seen him again, I was trying to feed my son dinner after an exhausting day at work. Dock was on the road so there was no way I could pass the responsibility torch. As I was covered in pureed green beans and a sweet potato, I was awash in the stupidity of others. Something I have no patience for (the color combination of pureed green beans and sweet potato does nothing for my complexion).

“Aww…Marn. He called. He is upset. He says he really misses me. I went to see him. He makes me happy.”

And with that, the tongue forked, the tone turned harsh and I did not hold back. “Of course he makes you happy. I should even go so far as to say that he makes you feel good, right? THAT’S HIS JOB. He’s a drug dealer.”

I cannot tell you how long that phone call lasted. I can say it lasted longer than Milkface’s patience for the high chair. I can tell you that we both had food in our hair at the end and the floor was a right mess.

Kate’s taste in men has always been beyond the pale. There were only two suitors that I remotely liked and one didn’t even work. It was a fine line for me to walk as I had long suspected that neither she nor my husband liked each other very much. There was always this underlying tension of “you’re not good enough for Marn…” which saddened me.

I tried explaining the importance of a common value-set. While entirely unfair, life has us in certain stations and mixing doesn’t always result in the most beneficial of outcomes. Why my brilliant, beautiful and gentle best friend ended up with these less-than-desirables wasn’t lost on me. She was a healer. She took in stray animals. She took in stray men.

So, covered in food with a whining baby as my soundtrack, I listened to Kate talk through her thoughts. He treated her well. The sex was great. He’s a nice man. Blah. Blah. Blah.

The end of the call was very tense. I had thrown down the gauntlet saying “No more. There will be no more.” She said she knew better, that it was over, that she dreaded being bored and alone but knew that I was right. The madness needed to cease immediately.

Poor man’s library book cover

When it comes to protecting books I’m a bit OCD. Most people hate the clear vinyl covers that librarians wrap around books, but I love them. Not only do they protect the book, but being a bit of a mysophobe, I like the fact that I can wipe the cover clean with some rubbing alcohol without hurting the book. After all, who knows what kind of hygiene practices the previous patron had?

Anyhow, my affinity for book protection led me to scour the internet for clear vinyl covers for my own private collection. I found a host of websites, some of whom sold library equipment, bookshelves, etc. I got lost day dreaming of creating my own home library, book cart included, when I remembered that I was searching for book covers. I did find a lot of good solutions to my book protection needs, ranging from manual application to machines that can actually do the job for you. The only problem with all of these solutions, was the fact that they all cost a lot of money. Each book cover cost anywhere between $1 to $5 dollars, not cheap for a man with a budget. What is a poor bibliophile to do?

Glancing around my man cave I noticed that I had an over-abundance of sheet protectors. Hmmm… Sheet Protectors + Scissors + Tape + Book = Solution. A few minutes later I had my first specimen finished. Will it last for all eternity? Probably not. Is it a professional job? No. Was it cheap? Yes! Happy protecting, my friends!

Thy will be done…

Ceiling Cat kicks naughty hoomins out of Teh Gardin of Eatin

For more hilarity, plx to visit teh LOLCat Bible website.

Förlåt, min svenska är inte så bra…

The title of this post is Swedish for “Sorry, my Swedish isn’t that good.” This is something that I repeat constantly. Here’s why.

It will be hard for this to sound like anything other than woefully self-pitying and bitter, but this is something that has been bothering me for a while. I’ve posted about this on Facebook so this may be a bit of repetition for some of you.

I’m pretty embarrassed about the fact that even after living in Sweden for nearly six years, I still struggle with the language. My level of listening comprehension is fairly high, but carrying on a decent conversation is still difficult for me. It’s. Just. Really. Hard. I’m reminded of my shortcomings on a daily basis because all of the meetings and conferences at work are held exclusively in Swedish, and many of my Swedish colleagues speak to me only in Swedish. Fair enough, even though this is an international school that employs several teachers whose Swedish ability is mediocre at best. This uncompromising policy has really improved my Swedish immensely in the last two years.

The problem (if one could even consider it a problem) is that it’s really not essential to know Swedish to live in Sweden. Just about everyone here speaks English to some degree, and it’s usually easier to just use English with a Swede than to struggle to communicate in the native language. Most Swedes are delighted to meet a native English speaker and relish the opportunity to show off their English skills. Because of this it’s easy to become lackadaisical in learning Swedish. Therefore, English speakers tend not make any real effort to learn the language until they end up in a situation where they really need to know it.

Despite my pitiful but gradually improving ability, I must acknowledge that my colleagues have been wonderfully patient and supportive. Indeed, most teachers are.

Unfortunately, the people who make me feel really stupid are certain members of Swedish boyfriend’s family. My listening ability is actually quite good (as previously mentioned), but many of them speak way too fast. Others have the heavy guttural Gothenburg accent, which makes it hard to understand them. When they speak to me I might not give an immediate response because my brain is still trying to process what I just heard. I must have pretty confused look on my face during this pause. Then they try yelling the same thing to me thinking that’s somehow going to help. It usually just confuses and flusters me even more. When that doesn’t work they try talking to me in that patronizing “I’ve told you a thousand times” way that an adult talks to a child. It’s unpleasant.

What’s even worse is when I make a mistake and get ridiculed for it. The other day I was talking to Tobbe’s grandmother and I mispronounced one word. We were talking about his sister and what a talented photographer she is. “Hon har mycket talang” (She has a lot of talent) I said. But I had mispronounced the word ‘talang’ as ‘talång’ (pronounced ‘Ta LONG’) She laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Apparently she didn’t notice that I wasn’t laughing with her. I was mortified. Really humiliated. Being laughed at in a ridiculing way is one of the things I hate the most. I wanted to crawl into a hole in the ground and die.

Not being able to speak the language well is utterly frustrating for me because I’m a perfectionist. I really hate having to do something knowing it’s going to be a half-ass effort. Learning to speak a new language is hard enough without someone laughing at you whenever you make a mistake. I have so little confidence in my ability. Therefore, whenever I’m about to speak Swedish to someone I’ve just met, I have to apologize for the awfulness of it first. Then at least they’ve been forewarned and hopefully won’t be insulted by my hopeless but unintentional butchering of their precious language.