Fortitude foretold

Man Versus Machine has been a recurring motif over the course of this blog. It seems I’m destined to face the techno-beast again and again.

I’m not technologically adept. But I’m nothing if not persistent. Dogged. Relentless.

For 20 years I was coddled by onsite tech support. Most of that time, all I had to do was punch in four digits and someone appeared in my office, tapping away until life was good again. In the late 90s, corporate resources became constrained and Y2K gave way to the tech support principle known as RTFM.

One of the things I miss about working in a conventional job is onsite tech support. The last 10 years I’ve had to fend for myself. I’m not sure I’ve acquired much skill but, out of necessity, I’ve become a bulldog. When some gizmo goes kaflooey, I hammer it until it succumbs (a popular tech support principle of the self employed).

In the past three weeks, I’ve suffered the dysfunction of three computers, endured an ISP conversion gone horribly wrong, lost my business phone line, gazed as my Garmin gave up the ghost and watched my four-in-one crumble into nothing. I was afraid to make toast.

Yesterday I awoke at 4:00 a.m., in a puddle of hot and cold sweat, palpitating with anxiety and set on getting at least one or two of these things straightened out.

At 11:45 last night, I realized I was still in my pajamas, I hadn’t eaten, but I proudly had wiped out a few gremlins. I decided to take a break and read the paper, which had been sitting on the kitchen table all day.

I flipped to the horoscope. Don’t you love reading your horoscope when the day is already done? I find it’s much less foreboding that way, and too late to act on flimsy advice.

Mine read: “It is sometimes hard to let things go. Then again, being just a tad obsessive does have its benefits. For instance, you can focus intently on something you want to accomplish and not quit until it’s done.”

I’m not quite done. But today’s another day. Do I dare peek at what the stars portend?

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Filed under Technology and Social Media

Finale favorites

It was bound to happen. Yesterday’s reference to choosing one’s own funeral music has led to lengthier discussions.

I was comforted to discover I’m not the only healthy person to put a little thought into this. I view my funeral as one last opportunity to amuse my friends and still end the conversation with the last word.

My father said long ago that when he goes, he wants “Abide With Me” played on a bad cello with canaries singing in the  background. One last joke.

My mother—in comments to yesterday’s post—shared her funeral program plans du jour, which include both a Requiem and a Bruce Springsteen ballad.

In a chat with friends yesterday, one said she had her whole service planned. Another said she’d leave the details to her mourners, while preferring to focus on the wake.

Recently, while giving you my impressions of the final scene of Les Misérables, I shared that I’d be adding “Finale” to my funeral program. “Finale” isn’t just the reference to the musical’s closing number, but (spoiler alert) a commentary on the death experience.

I’ll say, I do have a few hymns picked out. Some come and go, but two definites remain, “I Want to Walk as a Child of the Light” and “There’s Wideness in God’s Mercy,” but I don’t want the traditional version of the latter. The one I want is a different melody altogether. For the record, it’s #469 in the Episcopal Hymnal, not the more popular #470. Are we clear on that?

I’d like to avoid what happened at my mother-in-law’s funeral. As she was near the end of her life, she requested specifically that “How Great Thou Art” not be played. She hated that hymn. Guess what the organist played as the final hymn of the service? Personally, I love “How Great Thou Art.” A little overdone on the funeral circuit, but moving nonetheless.

Don’t hate me, but I’m not a fan of “Amazing Grace,” so let’s skip that one and leave more time to get to the potato salad.

Now, on to the after party. Some of the popular music I’ve chosen includes The Beatles’ “Let it Be,” Jackson Browne’s “Rock Me on the Water,” Simon & Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” Natalie Cole’s “This Will Be (An Everlasting Love)” and now, “Finale” from Les Miz. There are many others that come and go from the hopper.

We make these selections as if we have any control but truly, we are at the mercy of our loved ones, who may have a different agenda.

I remember a time when my son, who was seven or eight at the time, was really angry at me. He searched for the most hurtful thing he could think of to say, which was: “When you die, I’m gonna get up and sing ‘Go Go Power Rangers’ at your funeral!”

It still makes me laugh to imagine him as a middle-aged man in a suit and tie, standing at the church lectern and singing this thumping cartoon theme song to his mother. He will, after all, have the final say.

Your turn. What’s in your final playlist? Anyone have “Dust in the Wind?” “Last Train to Clarksville?”

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Filed under Family and Friends, Music

Divine misery

It was a fitting backdrop.

Gloomy skies. Hovering gray clouds. Damp, chilly air. Persistent rain, following a month of persistent rain. Profound fatigue. Even a sinus headache. Miserable. Just miserable.

And perfect. Perfect for going to see Les Misérables.

I had given the tickets to my husband for Father’s Day.

We had never seen the show. It was coming to The Kennedy Center on its umpteenth tour, so I thought it was time to see what the 25-year-plus sensation was all about.

I hope it’s safe to divulge that I knew next to nothing about the play. Granted, it’s said to be the longest-running musical in the world, the third longest-running show in Broadway history, based on one of the most notable novels of the 19th century. I should have done my homework but, because the weekend sneaked up on me, I didn’t read up as I normally do before seeing a show.

A friend was kind enough to give me a synopsis over lunch on Friday—between bites and meeting agenda items. Otherwise, I might have surmised that Victor Hugo penned an entire story around a Susan Boyle hit.

After an insufficient night’s sleep, a long morning at church and a big lunch, the first act of yesterday’s matinee was an exercise in foggy frustration, as I struggled to piece together, ce qui au nom de Dieu, was happening on stage. The novel—1900 pages in French, 1400 in English—is composed of 365 chapters, so I cut myself un petit peu de slaque.

I found that the music itself created a story through sheer emotion, even without the lyrics; in fact, my husband and I agreed it was the best score of any Broadway production we’d seen. Otherwise, we’d have been tempted to walk out at Intermission for as well as we could follow the plot.

But we hung in. Between acts, we re-read the program synopsis and hoped for the best. Besides, we had great seats.

The curtain rose on the second act and all became sharply clear. My headache even went away. The social and spiritual themes came  to light—grace, forgiveness, sacrifice, redemption, love. I cried as the finale was sung, first by Jean Valjean and then by the ensemble. I put on the CD last night and played the song several more times.

I might need to see Les Miz again. In the meantime, I now have one more selection to add to my funeral playlist: “Finale,” and isn’t that fitting as well?

Subject for another day: Do you have your funeral music picked out?

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Filed under Music, Theater

Mixed mementos

I tacked a day onto this week’s business travel to visit my mother in Phoenix. We had a nice time, and now off to work I go.

There’s one thing I’d like to tell you about the visit, only because it speaks volumes about how I got to be the way I am.

Before I arrived, my mother had been going through some boxes of family mementos. She had taken a few relics out to share with me. There were some old family photos, obituaries, news clippings (one about my grandfather, who was hit by a truck in 1939). In with the collection was a list of mixed metaphors.

My mother and her brother had collected these over the years. She and her siblings were blessed—or cursed—with a reverence for the English language and genetically endowed—or cursed—with a perverse sense of humor.

My cousins might be surprised to learn that these treasures, which until now were only traded aloud at family parties, dwell on typed pages (I’m bringing you copies). I trust it’s okay to share these here, as I presume the utterers have either passed on or aren’t reading this blog. While my uncle collected many during an illustrious career, my mother gathered others from friends and talk show hosts.

I did share a few from memory in earlier posts on malapropismsmixed metaphors and other mix-ups, but here’s from the official family archive:

“That will take the steam out of their sails.”

“I’ll get that done by tomorrow, come hook or crook.”

“I’ve been beating my head against the bushes all day.”

“Oh, well, it’s all water over the bridge.”

“You could have knocked me over with a 10-foot pole.”

“Now the fat’s in the frying pan.”

“He’s really treading on thin water.”

“It was as hard as pulling hen’s teeth.”

“You can’t beat blood out of a dead horse.”

“How the Sam Hell!”

“I’m afraid there is no outlook in sight.”

“All right gentlemen, let us circumcise our watches.”

“That guy’s got a rough hoe.”

“He’s still green behind the ears.”

“That guy just beats to a different drummer.”

Commentary on something bad: “Well, that’s the luck of the Irish!”

After a harrowing visit to the dentist: “When that drill hit a nerve, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

On excellence: “He was head above shoulders.”

And my personal favorite: “When in Rome, you have to dance to the music.”

Have a good week and keep your metaphors separated.

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Filed under All Things Wordish, Family and Friends

Hello, nose. Meet grindstone.

No dessert until I finish my dinner.
No TV until I do my homework.
No shopping until I clean out my closet.
No new blog posts until I turn in my writing projects.

Sorry, I just had to put these declarations in writing. In front of a community of witnesses.

Actually, the grown-up version of that first one should be: No dessert if I finish my dinner. As far as those others go, it’s time to ramp up the self-discipline. I’m grateful to have a busy work schedule this Fall; much of it entails lots of writing.

Given looming deadlines and a busy travel schedule, it’s hard for me to justify writing recreationally. So, Word Nymph may have to put down her feather pen a little more often, so she can concentrate on her day job.

This also means that the new fall TV schedule will have to go on without me. I had even blocked out time from 1:00 to 2:00 this afternoon to watch the final episode of All My Children, so that I could write here about how the serial had changed since the last time I watched it (30 years ago), but I just can’t justify it. Books and mags remain neatly stacked for my return. Fall fashions will await me at Lord & Taylor, as the next personal project, making room in the closet, stands in the queue behind other obligations. I might even have to sit out National Punctuation Day this year—it’s tomorrow and, alas, I’ve made no preparations.

However, the work does yield good travel tales, as well as opportunity to observe regional language differences. Maybe I can weave an epic tale when things settle down.

While you may see less of me around here, may I rely on you to stay in touch?

Please post a comment now and then, and tell me what I’m missing:

  • How did All My Children end? Did Erica Kane find happiness? Is there peace in Pine Valley? Is Susan Lucci finally free to overindulge in Boston creme donuts and Popeyes chicken and biscuits?
  • Who’s interviewed in Vanity Fair’s latest Proust Questionnaire?
  • Is the bow blouse still (back) in fashion and will I still be able to get one?
  • Has Mark Zuckerberg caved to public outcry and put Facebook back the way we like it?

All right, I’ve procrastinated long enough.

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Filed under Beauty and Fashion, Movies, Television and Radio, Reading, Technology and Social Media

Size matters

When the alarm sounded this morning, there were visions of lumens dancing in my head.

It was obvious that I hadn’t adequately cleared my cranium following yesterday’s marathon search for a new portable LCD projector. After hitting six stores, I came home empty-handed and light-headed.

You see, I have immediate need for a teeny-weeny portable projector to show presentations around the country. The most striking lesson I learned is that one man’s portable is another man’s albatross.

1000-lumen bulb

You might already know all this, but here’s what else I’ve learned:

  1. It’s all about the lumens. For the unenlightened, a lumen is a unit of luminous flux, or brightness. The more lumens the better. Any fewer than 1,000 is considered impotent.

  2. The challenge is finding mega lumens in a small package. Two pounds—about eight inches in length—is an ideal size, yet a portable projector must be able to be stored in a small space, and not arouse suspicion at the airport.

  3. They actually make a “pocket projector.” One salesman boasted that, at 50 lumens (pfft!), his packs as much punch as a thousand. Nice try, mister.

  4. There’s a difference between an LCD and a DLP display. Apparently, looking at a DLP can give you a headache of not-tonight-honey proportions.

  5. While I can grasp such measures as resolution, contrast ratio and viewable screen size, I’m puzzled by something called “throw ratio range.” I gather that’s the distance it’ll go when it suffers performance anxiety in front of an audience and I hurl it across the room.

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Filed under Technology and Social Media, Travel

The tell-tale tub

One of the first subjects I wrote about on this blog was anthropology.

I asked you to consider what social scientists would learn about you if they happened upon your magazine rack.

Now and again we have a chance to learn about each other, as households of humans, through our recycling bins.

We know quite a bit about our neighbors—their dietary habits and how they spend their weekends—on recycling day. They also get a glimpse into who we are, that is, unless we’ve mastered the art of burying clues, as I do when necessity dictates.

Doesn’t every  family stash its Little Debbie cartons or otherwise-telling proof of vice beneath the Kashi Go Lean?

What do we know about people based on what’s on their curb?

A bin brimming with dead PBR soldiers might reveal a group house of twenty-somethings, while a heavier load of Shiraz bottles and brie rinds is a sure sign of a girls’ weekend.

Walking down my street, you’d envision from this curbside container an adoring aunt who spoils her visiting nephews:

You’d also know that neighbors aren’t rushing to party with the empty nesters who left this blue bin behind.

Quick, take a look, what’s in your trash tub? Do tell: What’s buried beneath those Evian empties?

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Filed under Food, Hearth and Home

Poof!

“The man turned his friend into police.”

I won’t name names, but this item caught my attention this morning.

Why did the man make news, because he betrayed a friend or because he worked an act of magic?

Tip of the day: Know the difference between “into” and “in to,” between “onto” and “on to.”

No one wants to be turned in to police, but it might be fun to be turned into police.

That’s all for today. Would anyone care to offer more examples illustrating the importance of a space?

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Filed under All Things Wordish

Chat it up

There’s a new blog I’ve started reading; I thought you might like it too. It’s a football blog.

I know, I’m not much of a sports fan, and I know next to nothing about football.

I do enjoy good writing, though, and I’m learning that sports writing is different from regular writing. Style guidelines are different—numerals are permitted within text and there’s a whole field of vernacular out there with which I’m unfamiliar.

Word Nymph is going into a busy work period these next few weeks, and could do with a lighter writing schedule. So today, I’ll point you to another blog. Chat Sports covers professional and college football, basketball, baseball and hockey. The San Francisco-based company encourages sports audience interaction through social networking and news on team-specific websites.

A couple of weeks ago, my son, an avid sports fan and recent college graduate, signed on part time with Chat Sports as a writer covering the Baltimore Ravens. He has written three columns to date which, if I understood the content, I’d find entertaining and insightful.

Check out his writer page, get to know him, read his posts, drop him a comment. Or jump into the chat on the ChatRavens page.

Yes, we’re still a Redskins family. But it’s fun to have another team to follow. Now if I could just understand what they’re doing out there on the field.

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Filed under Family and Friends, Sports and Recreation, Technology and Social Media

Sounds like hypochondria

As part of my consulting practice, I do a lot of work for the medical profession. I often work with groups of doctors who are discussing the latest treatments for various diseases. When I’m on a project, I’m immersed in descriptions and data about symptoms, diagnosis, prevalence and treatment.

It’s interesting work and I enjoy it. There’s only one drawback. By the end of every project, I’m convinced I have the disease. In my mind, I’ve had ADHD, Alzheimer’s, Narcolepsy, Colitis and some pretty serious neurological conditions. I imagine there are also some pretty nasty viruses brewing in my system.

If I were to self diagnose, I’d say it’s a hypersensitivity to data and descriptions.

My latest condition? Misophonia. I didn’t pick this one up at work but rather, watching the morning news. Have you heard about it?

As best I understand it, Misophonia is a low tolerance for certain kinds of sounds, thought be the result of abnormal connections between the autonomic and limbic systems of the brain. People who suffer from Misophonia aren’t just annoyed by their triggers. They’re enraged.

Maybe you saw the news story. A woman and her husband had to eat in separate rooms.

Speaking from experience, I can tell you the condition isn’t triggered by loud noises. I can put up with most loud noises. What triggers my Misophonia—and, I trust that of my fellow sufferers—are the quieter human sounds: breathing, chewing (the sound of any gum chewing whatsoever sends me into orbit!), slurping coffee or soup, the shuffling of feet. If I had to name one trigger that evokes homicidal thoughts, it would be a nose whistle.

I’m sure there’s an olfactory equivalent and I’m sure I have that too. I suspect it’s because I’m nearly blind as a bat and, therefore, my senses of hearing, smell, taste and even touch are super-acute.

I’ve heard music in my bedsprings, I can smell when someone has visited a house with a dog and I routinely detect what my husband had for lunch. The toe-tapping of an average human feels to me like the footsteps of the Jolly Green Giant.

Okay, so now you know there’s something wrong with me. Give me a moment and I’ll give you the proper clinical term.

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Filed under Health, Movies, Television and Radio, News