Think of your baby as a jar of pickle relish.
Actually, I'm the one thinking of my baby as a jar of pickle relish, ever since my ultrasound last week. You'll see the connection, really.
Anyway, this was the Big Ultrasound, a major milestone, viable proof that I'm packing more than a large lunch. In California, pregnant moms often get a string of ultrasounds ("See, that little circle is the fertilized egg ..."), but here in Michigan, if the pregnancy is uneventful, we get only one at 18-22 weeks.
So there we are, in a dark little room on a sunny Wednesday morning, and there's the kid. He's twisting and rolling and kicking and throwing up his arms as if he'd just made a touchdown. I say "he," although we chose not to learn the gender. The baby hardly sat still long enough to allow the technician to take measurements. Must be those hyperactive Ron genes.
Ron was quite moved. This was his first glimpse of the baby, and he was much less prepared. I was chatting and joking with the technician, but he hardly said anything. I couldn't see his face and the only response he'd give was the occasional quiet "Wow." The technician gave us a string of printouts, which Ron immediately clutched to his chest, announcing that he was taking them to his newspaper board meeting that afternoon. "You can have them tonight," he told me sternly.
The technician told us the baby weighed 10 ounces, which meant nothing to me; I've always been bad at weights and measures. I admire people who can say, "Go about 50 feet past the stop sign and turn right in the driveway." I couldn't estimate 50 feet if you paid me.
So that evening I rummaged through the refrigerator. The baby wasn't a can of pie filling or a jar of peanut butter yet, but I did fish out the pickle relish and thrust it into Ron's hand.
"Hold that," I say.
"I hate pickle relish," Ron says.
"That's how much the baby weighs," I say. "It's 10 ounces."
Ron turns misty. "Wow."
PART TWO: STRANGERS IN A STRANGE LAND
I'm still logging on to babycenter.com occasionally, just to stay up-to-date on the latest freaky scare. The moms on the January 2004 message boards are still gibbering madly. The two most common topics: insensitive husbands and safety concerns.
I expected these women to be hiding under the kitchen sink long before now. The questions are still relentless: "Is it safe to eat a sandwich?" "Is it safe to clean my house?" "Are hot dogs safe?" "Are dryer sheets safe?" "What about ball-point pens? What if I shoved one up my nose?"
Some poor women are posting the rude comments they get, now that we're all beginning to show. Shocking comments from family, friends, coworkers and total strangers. The poor gals get remarks about their weight, criticisms of their conduct and horror stories about someone's best friend's hairstylist's cousin's dry cleaner's daughter ("So, after 47 hours of labor, they finally ..."). Ouch.
I feel lucky. My family and friends have been nothing short of marvelous, and since I work from home, my only coworker is a little stuffed bunny named Bronson. And Bronson has lovely manners. But you can't control strangers, and I've given some thought to developing appropriate, dignified responses. But honestly, who ever remembers those cool rejoinders under stress? So I've decided on a short, all-purpose response to all annoying comments. I'll just squint ominously and say:
"You know, I ain't above whippin' yo' ass right here."
I know I'm too Midwestern to say it properly, but it would be fun to try, and with my hormones pumping, who's to say I wouldn't follow through?
Ha!
##
Wednesday, September 03, 2003
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
Wise Guy
A response to our press release from friend Alex in California:
MONTEREY, Calif. -- In a major retraction unseen since the Time's mega-apology for Jaysongate, Ron L. and Christine K. have admitted changing the due date and year for their child for tax purposes.
Federal prosecutors say they're considering "big-ass charges" against the couple, but would not elaborate. And in a recent development, Michigan media reporters are rabidly checking the couple's claims that their Ann Arbor house has a rosebush and roof and everything.
"Their claim ...'and everything' seems a little too grandiose, a little too Jaysonesque," said Fibs Magee, columnist of the Detroit Free Press. "In today's journalism, we need precision to maintain our credibility. When the couple last worked in San Francisco, Ron L. was chastised for saying a law firm had 'reamed its customers for sh--loads of bucks.' Such wording is unacceptable, and I think that's what's going on here."
Media critics at the Poynter Institute question the sincerity of Christine K.'s apology. Since her e-mail, the soon-to-be mother has received a two-year endorsement contract by the makers of Pop-Tarts and Fig Newtons.
"We want her to be our poster child for the Fig Newton lifestyle," said a company spokesman. "And when she pops, we want her kid to become our poster child."
Meanwhile, the Niebelungenleid Paper Clip Company of Stockton, Calif., has sued the couple for copyright infringement.
##
MONTEREY, Calif. -- In a major retraction unseen since the Time's mega-apology for Jaysongate, Ron L. and Christine K. have admitted changing the due date and year for their child for tax purposes.
Federal prosecutors say they're considering "big-ass charges" against the couple, but would not elaborate. And in a recent development, Michigan media reporters are rabidly checking the couple's claims that their Ann Arbor house has a rosebush and roof and everything.
"Their claim ...'and everything' seems a little too grandiose, a little too Jaysonesque," said Fibs Magee, columnist of the Detroit Free Press. "In today's journalism, we need precision to maintain our credibility. When the couple last worked in San Francisco, Ron L. was chastised for saying a law firm had 'reamed its customers for sh--loads of bucks.' Such wording is unacceptable, and I think that's what's going on here."
Media critics at the Poynter Institute question the sincerity of Christine K.'s apology. Since her e-mail, the soon-to-be mother has received a two-year endorsement contract by the makers of Pop-Tarts and Fig Newtons.
"We want her to be our poster child for the Fig Newton lifestyle," said a company spokesman. "And when she pops, we want her kid to become our poster child."
Meanwhile, the Niebelungenleid Paper Clip Company of Stockton, Calif., has sued the couple for copyright infringement.
##
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
Baby Niebelungenleid
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: CORRECTED VERSION
ANN ARBOR, Mich. -- Ron L. and Christine K. are expecting their first child in January 2004.
Christine, who has existed almost solely on Pop-Tarts and Fig Newtons for two months, is due Jan. 22. In a further fit of domestic euphoria, the couple is also buying a house in Ann Arbor that’s got a rosebush and a roof and everything.
The couple remains “in extended negotiations” regarding possible names, although Christine favors the name Niebelungenleid. “I think Niebelungenleid L. has a nice ring,” the mom-to-be said.
Ron could not be reached for comment, though he was recently overheard at Washtenaw Dairy, a local ice cream parlor, bemoaning the upcoming due date. “That means we can’t claim the child tax credit for 2003!” he wailed. “Couldn’t we at least get a dog?”
##
ANN ARBOR, Mich. -- Ron L. and Christine K. are expecting their first child in January 2004.
Christine, who has existed almost solely on Pop-Tarts and Fig Newtons for two months, is due Jan. 22. In a further fit of domestic euphoria, the couple is also buying a house in Ann Arbor that’s got a rosebush and a roof and everything.
The couple remains “in extended negotiations” regarding possible names, although Christine favors the name Niebelungenleid. “I think Niebelungenleid L. has a nice ring,” the mom-to-be said.
Ron could not be reached for comment, though he was recently overheard at Washtenaw Dairy, a local ice cream parlor, bemoaning the upcoming due date. “That means we can’t claim the child tax credit for 2003!” he wailed. “Couldn’t we at least get a dog?”
##
Thursday, July 03, 2003
Oh Yeah, I'm Pregnant
Yup, I'm pregnant.
Now that I've shaken that permanent gin hangover they call morning sickness, I actually have to remind myself of my current condition.
Instead of that crazed For-God's-sake-give-me-a-Pop-Tart look in my eye, I now trot around Ann Arbor with my customary Oh-God-must-I-smile-at-this-person-too expression. People are very friendly around here. It must be all the retirees. The churlish scowl I cultivated in Prague and San Francisco is totally inappropriate here. Nobody smiled in Prague except for the tourists. If I looked too cheerful, I'd get a string of Americans and Germans asking the way to Wenceslas Square. And if I let my guard down in San Francisco, the homeless guys followed me for blocks.
But basically, my morale is good, now that I've switched from Pop Tarts and Fig Newtons to Big Macs and Klondike Bars. But it's kind of a letdown being pregnant in Michigan, because most women over 25 look pregnant here anyway. They all wear these baggy shirts wtih hearts or animals on them. I now look like just another Michigan matron losing the battle of the bulge.
And I keep forgetting I'm pregnant. I spend my day amidst a litany of silent questions: “Why am I so tired? Why am I hungry AGAIN? Why am I wearing this boring shirt?” Then it hits me -- oh yeah, I'm pregnant -- and I have to do a mental check. “Is this my third can of Coke today? Are these books too heavy? Christ, did I just eat three hot dogs? This kid is doomed ...”
That's because today's pregnancy books want you to sit in a purified bubble, gnawing wheat stalks and boiling your drinking water. Last week I read that pregnant women shouldn't lie on their backs, eat luncheon meat or buckle their seatbelts over their tummy. I'd done all three the day before. It's hopeless.
Ron, meanwhile, is ignoring the pregnancy books and brochures I strategically leave lying around. Instead, he's enamored with some wacky magazine he picked up at a doctor's office: “Paranoid Pregnancy” or “The Psycho Mama” or something like that.
RON: You know, I read that sucking on lemons helps with morning sickness.
ME: Hmmmm, pass me the chocolate sauce.
RON: They've got some interesting exercises in that magazine. There's one where you ...
ME: Hmmmm, pass me the Doritos.
Still, Ron's an involved dad-to-be and I feel lucky to have him. On my tough days, I log onto BabyCenter.com. The women on those message boards have real issues. One lady asks frantic questions that would never occur to me in a million years: "Can I eat white bread? Can I wear suntan lotion? Can I use my wireless phone? Can I pet my dog? Has anybody read about epidurals? Has anybody seen my sanity? I seem to have lost it permanently ...”
Even worse are the women who write long, heartbreaking stories about neglectful husbands, insensitive friends and psychotic mother-in-laws. One working pregnant lady skips lunch so she can give her boyfriend money to pay alimony to his ex-wife. Another woman's mother-in-law is screaming because the baby won't be named after her. The mother-in-law's name is Gertrude or something like that.
I can't read the message boards for long anyway, because I always want to correct people's spelling and grammar. Don't they teach any English in school these days? And what sick mind invented all those smiley and frowny faces?
OK, I'm ranting now. Time for another Klondike Bar.
##
Now that I've shaken that permanent gin hangover they call morning sickness, I actually have to remind myself of my current condition.
Instead of that crazed For-God's-sake-give-me-a-Pop-Tart look in my eye, I now trot around Ann Arbor with my customary Oh-God-must-I-smile-at-this-person-too expression. People are very friendly around here. It must be all the retirees. The churlish scowl I cultivated in Prague and San Francisco is totally inappropriate here. Nobody smiled in Prague except for the tourists. If I looked too cheerful, I'd get a string of Americans and Germans asking the way to Wenceslas Square. And if I let my guard down in San Francisco, the homeless guys followed me for blocks.
But basically, my morale is good, now that I've switched from Pop Tarts and Fig Newtons to Big Macs and Klondike Bars. But it's kind of a letdown being pregnant in Michigan, because most women over 25 look pregnant here anyway. They all wear these baggy shirts wtih hearts or animals on them. I now look like just another Michigan matron losing the battle of the bulge.
And I keep forgetting I'm pregnant. I spend my day amidst a litany of silent questions: “Why am I so tired? Why am I hungry AGAIN? Why am I wearing this boring shirt?” Then it hits me -- oh yeah, I'm pregnant -- and I have to do a mental check. “Is this my third can of Coke today? Are these books too heavy? Christ, did I just eat three hot dogs? This kid is doomed ...”
That's because today's pregnancy books want you to sit in a purified bubble, gnawing wheat stalks and boiling your drinking water. Last week I read that pregnant women shouldn't lie on their backs, eat luncheon meat or buckle their seatbelts over their tummy. I'd done all three the day before. It's hopeless.
Ron, meanwhile, is ignoring the pregnancy books and brochures I strategically leave lying around. Instead, he's enamored with some wacky magazine he picked up at a doctor's office: “Paranoid Pregnancy” or “The Psycho Mama” or something like that.
RON: You know, I read that sucking on lemons helps with morning sickness.
ME: Hmmmm, pass me the chocolate sauce.
RON: They've got some interesting exercises in that magazine. There's one where you ...
ME: Hmmmm, pass me the Doritos.
Still, Ron's an involved dad-to-be and I feel lucky to have him. On my tough days, I log onto BabyCenter.com. The women on those message boards have real issues. One lady asks frantic questions that would never occur to me in a million years: "Can I eat white bread? Can I wear suntan lotion? Can I use my wireless phone? Can I pet my dog? Has anybody read about epidurals? Has anybody seen my sanity? I seem to have lost it permanently ...”
Even worse are the women who write long, heartbreaking stories about neglectful husbands, insensitive friends and psychotic mother-in-laws. One working pregnant lady skips lunch so she can give her boyfriend money to pay alimony to his ex-wife. Another woman's mother-in-law is screaming because the baby won't be named after her. The mother-in-law's name is Gertrude or something like that.
I can't read the message boards for long anyway, because I always want to correct people's spelling and grammar. Don't they teach any English in school these days? And what sick mind invented all those smiley and frowny faces?
OK, I'm ranting now. Time for another Klondike Bar.
##
Friday, May 30, 2003
A Distant Rumble
A Distant Rumble
So we’re driving back from my neice’s First Communion, our VW Bug charging down Interstate 96, swerving to avoid the giant potholes, and I’m brooding about a price tag.
I’d accidentally left it attached to little Charlotte’s present. Which, of course, my sister noticed, tugging it out from behind the tiny crucifix. Which was bad enough, but what was worse was that wasn’t even the real price. So now what, I asked Ron. What should I do?
Ron was too busy dodging semi-trucks and giant Imperial Cruiser SUVs to answer, so I gave up and closed my eyes, hoping for a light doze. I rarely slept in moving cars, but we had a three-hour drive ahead and it was better than gnawing further on Christine’s Religious Gift Bone.
“Wake up, Chris, we’re home,” Ron said.
I blinked and sat up in amazement. How could I have slept, for three hours, in a rattling VW on Michigan’s tragically neglected highways? But it was true, I had slept, not a light doze but a deep, profound slumber that left slashing creases in my sundress and puddles of drool on the passenger window.
“That was some nap,” Ron said, tugging my stiff limbs out of the car. “You slept through three near-accidents, two construction zones -- even a stop at McDonald’s. You even snored.”
“I’m still tired,” I said thickly, staggering into our rented condo. Ron deposited me on the couch and stalked off disgustedly to take off his tie.
I lay quietly, listening to Fridge chirp a cheery hello. Our refrigerator used to be a typical appliance, actually one of our better ones, not prone to desperate gurglings like the dishwasher or frenzied escape attempts like our clothes dryer.
But recently Fridge had begun to assert its personality. Maybe it was upset that we’d been eating more canned than frozen food recently. It began by humming irritably, then started clearing its throat suggestively. Now it screeched like a hysterical bird, demanding attention at intervals throughout the day. I tried to quiet it through brutish treatment, shaking it and slamming its doors. It retreated into frightened silence for a time, eventually recovering to chirp again, often at 3 a.m.
“Call Dennis,” said Ron, when I complained. Ron worked insane hours launching a brand-new weekly newspaper and rarely heard Fridge. Dennis was our landlord and, I suspect, a participant in the Federal Witness Protection program. Ron had seen him once, myself not at all. He rarely answered phone calls, and his McMansion outside Ann Arbor was always dark and quiet. If it weren’t for the cashed rent checks, I’d doubt his very existence.
Sighing, I hauled myself off the couch and glared resentfully at Fridge, making sure to slam the refrigerator doors after I pulled out a Hostess Ding Dong, a bowl of vanilla pudding and half a chicken.
“What’s this?” Ron asked, staring as I added a jar of cashews and a bag of Doritos.
“Just a snack,” I mumbled, tearing off a chicken wing. “Do we have any ice cream?”
Ron just shook his head, grabbed a handful of cashews and headed to the couch to wade through the Sunday papers. I polished off my feast and lurched over to join him.
“Ron, I think I might be pregnant,” I said.
He put down the sports section and looked at me wearily. “Christine, it’s been a long day.”
“No, seriously,” I said. “Fatigue, increased appetite, mood swings. This could be it.”
Ron was unimpressed. “So you freak out over nothing, take long naps and eat like a horse. What else is new?" He peered at me suspiciously. “Have you been on that weird baby site again?”
Uh-oh, busted. The newest addition to my list of Internet favorites was a scary site called babycenter.com. Its perky pink-and-blue home page featured articles on everything from fertility aids to kindergarten placement tests. Its ominous fertility stats for my age group (I was nearly 35) nearly drove me into a frenzy. Ron quickly vetoed any weird drugstore kits, so I’d secretly determined my “Magic Week” using the site’s dandy calculator.
“I’m telling you, I have this feeling,” I said.
A week later, I triumphantly waved a little white stick at Ron when he walked through the door Friday night. “See?” I crowed. “See that pink line?”
Ron’s forehead crinkled. “It’s not very dark.”
“What do you want, neon lights? This is it!”
“Go see the doctor,” Ron said, shaking the stick and peering again.
I knew then that Ron was taking this seriously, because he hated our doctor.. The man was just plain weird. We'd found him during a desperate 20-minute search through our insurance directory when I caught a scary flu virus last fall.
“I wouldn’t trust that man to take my pulse,” I said. “What other proof do you need? The line is pink!”
“It’s fading.”
“Well, quit messing with it.”
In the end I did go to Doc Weirdo, who was actually having one of his normal days. The results of his test sent me to Ron’s office on deadline day, three hours before his newspaper went to press. I charged into his office, shut the door and handed him a crinkled yellow sheet.
“See?” I said, folding my arms.
He scanned the sheet. “You had a retinal scan?”
“No, look further down, where the box is checked. See? Positive.”
Ron looked up from the flimsy paper and smiled. I bit my lip, trying not to cry.
“Yes, Chris, I see.” His eyes were wet and shiny. “I see.”
##
So we’re driving back from my neice’s First Communion, our VW Bug charging down Interstate 96, swerving to avoid the giant potholes, and I’m brooding about a price tag.
I’d accidentally left it attached to little Charlotte’s present. Which, of course, my sister noticed, tugging it out from behind the tiny crucifix. Which was bad enough, but what was worse was that wasn’t even the real price. So now what, I asked Ron. What should I do?
Ron was too busy dodging semi-trucks and giant Imperial Cruiser SUVs to answer, so I gave up and closed my eyes, hoping for a light doze. I rarely slept in moving cars, but we had a three-hour drive ahead and it was better than gnawing further on Christine’s Religious Gift Bone.
“Wake up, Chris, we’re home,” Ron said.
I blinked and sat up in amazement. How could I have slept, for three hours, in a rattling VW on Michigan’s tragically neglected highways? But it was true, I had slept, not a light doze but a deep, profound slumber that left slashing creases in my sundress and puddles of drool on the passenger window.
“That was some nap,” Ron said, tugging my stiff limbs out of the car. “You slept through three near-accidents, two construction zones -- even a stop at McDonald’s. You even snored.”
“I’m still tired,” I said thickly, staggering into our rented condo. Ron deposited me on the couch and stalked off disgustedly to take off his tie.
I lay quietly, listening to Fridge chirp a cheery hello. Our refrigerator used to be a typical appliance, actually one of our better ones, not prone to desperate gurglings like the dishwasher or frenzied escape attempts like our clothes dryer.
But recently Fridge had begun to assert its personality. Maybe it was upset that we’d been eating more canned than frozen food recently. It began by humming irritably, then started clearing its throat suggestively. Now it screeched like a hysterical bird, demanding attention at intervals throughout the day. I tried to quiet it through brutish treatment, shaking it and slamming its doors. It retreated into frightened silence for a time, eventually recovering to chirp again, often at 3 a.m.
“Call Dennis,” said Ron, when I complained. Ron worked insane hours launching a brand-new weekly newspaper and rarely heard Fridge. Dennis was our landlord and, I suspect, a participant in the Federal Witness Protection program. Ron had seen him once, myself not at all. He rarely answered phone calls, and his McMansion outside Ann Arbor was always dark and quiet. If it weren’t for the cashed rent checks, I’d doubt his very existence.
Sighing, I hauled myself off the couch and glared resentfully at Fridge, making sure to slam the refrigerator doors after I pulled out a Hostess Ding Dong, a bowl of vanilla pudding and half a chicken.
“What’s this?” Ron asked, staring as I added a jar of cashews and a bag of Doritos.
“Just a snack,” I mumbled, tearing off a chicken wing. “Do we have any ice cream?”
Ron just shook his head, grabbed a handful of cashews and headed to the couch to wade through the Sunday papers. I polished off my feast and lurched over to join him.
“Ron, I think I might be pregnant,” I said.
He put down the sports section and looked at me wearily. “Christine, it’s been a long day.”
“No, seriously,” I said. “Fatigue, increased appetite, mood swings. This could be it.”
Ron was unimpressed. “So you freak out over nothing, take long naps and eat like a horse. What else is new?" He peered at me suspiciously. “Have you been on that weird baby site again?”
Uh-oh, busted. The newest addition to my list of Internet favorites was a scary site called babycenter.com. Its perky pink-and-blue home page featured articles on everything from fertility aids to kindergarten placement tests. Its ominous fertility stats for my age group (I was nearly 35) nearly drove me into a frenzy. Ron quickly vetoed any weird drugstore kits, so I’d secretly determined my “Magic Week” using the site’s dandy calculator.
“I’m telling you, I have this feeling,” I said.
A week later, I triumphantly waved a little white stick at Ron when he walked through the door Friday night. “See?” I crowed. “See that pink line?”
Ron’s forehead crinkled. “It’s not very dark.”
“What do you want, neon lights? This is it!”
“Go see the doctor,” Ron said, shaking the stick and peering again.
I knew then that Ron was taking this seriously, because he hated our doctor.. The man was just plain weird. We'd found him during a desperate 20-minute search through our insurance directory when I caught a scary flu virus last fall.
“I wouldn’t trust that man to take my pulse,” I said. “What other proof do you need? The line is pink!”
“It’s fading.”
“Well, quit messing with it.”
In the end I did go to Doc Weirdo, who was actually having one of his normal days. The results of his test sent me to Ron’s office on deadline day, three hours before his newspaper went to press. I charged into his office, shut the door and handed him a crinkled yellow sheet.
“See?” I said, folding my arms.
He scanned the sheet. “You had a retinal scan?”
“No, look further down, where the box is checked. See? Positive.”
Ron looked up from the flimsy paper and smiled. I bit my lip, trying not to cry.
“Yes, Chris, I see.” His eyes were wet and shiny. “I see.”
##
Sunday, March 30, 2003
How Sticky Do You Wanna Be?
It's Wednesday, which is an excellent day to restart my Michigan diaries. Even after six months away from the Biz Times, I still wake up on Wednesdays with a sense of urgency. Around lunchtime, I often feel a strange, keening urge to sit in a small room with four other hungry people and moan about art.
Instead, I've got some great stories to work on today. Such is the life of the humble freelancer. One of my current assignments is for a business newspaper's inside section. The assignment (I swear I'm not making this up) goes like this: "Businesses that sell glue to tool-and-die companies. What's in the glue?"
So I'm calling up companies like Seal-Tec in Grand Rapids, Mich., and asking: "How sticky do you wanna be?"
Oh, oh, oh, and did you know that experts have tips on reducing workers' comp claims? Businesses might save money! Didn't I write that story, like, eight years ago when "Quark" meant a duck with a New Jersey accent?
No, I'm not bitter. What I'm doing is updating my resume. Being a clever girl, I saved the help wanted ad that Jim wrote to replace my position. It made my job sound very impressive -- I didn't realize I did all that!
When I'm not talking to local business folks about innovative workplace safety measures, I'm working on my crazy book. This week I created a hot Venusian nightclub called "The Space Orgy." Odd how it resembles a Las Vegas nightclub. I didn't realize I was doing research at Jessica's bachelorette party.
Not only that, but inside the club, my heroine meets a beeping killer assassin robot on the dance floor. It's one of 10,000 crawling all over the system, each programmed to only recognize one person's DNA. They blindly search everywhere, pinging everything from potted ferns to 6-year-old boys. When they locate the person with the target code, they kill them instantly with a laser beam. The bots look really benign (like silver fence posts with wheels) so people think they're some new census-taking device.
Nothing like 10,000 killer robots to liven things up. Ha!
Anyway, back to reality -- or semi-reality. Namely, my new playwriting group. It's kind of bizarre. There are some very talented people, but most of the members are crazy as loons. The demographics range from a young University of Michigan student to Eric, who's 60-something and has a new medical problem every time we meet.
The main problem with the group is that the good writers submit material only occasionally, while the less-talented people churn out reams of dialogue. So we sit through play openers like this:
WIFE: Am I disturbing you, honey?
HUSBAND: No, I'm having trouble writing anyway.
WIFE: Don't be discouraged.
HUSBAND: You'd think after 10 years I would have this book written.
WIFE: Would you like some lunch? Then we can take a walk.
HUSBAND: Tell you what, let's skip lunch and take a walk right away. Do things differently.
(they laugh merrily)
Just shoot me now. I'm trying to stay in the background because, well, I've only attended two meetings. There's nothing worse than someone who joins a group and tries to take over.
Honestly, these folks deserve a play of their own. Here's an example:
The old guy, Eric is by far the nuttiest. He's very into workshops and seminars and books that begin with chapters titled "The Draft of Discovery." He and a few other members have attended workshops led by some guy named Vincent, the Detroit area's God of Drama. So Eric's comments run along the lines of: "Obviously the letter opener in this scene is a physical corollary to the protagonist's dramatic choice." Which is actually kind of neat; I'm as much of a sucker for literary analysis as any former English teacher. But it gets kind of tiring.
Worse, Eric peppers his comments (monologues?) with "Vincent believes" and "As Vincent teaches" and "Vincent's philosophy supports ..." He's like the Disciple of Vincent. At the first meeting I attended, Eric ran out to his car to get the book "A Writer's Journey" by the Great Vincent and threatened to read passages. Thankfully, Steve, the group leader, convinced him to just Xerox some relevant parts for next time. Even more thankfully, Eric forgot to do so. I'm thinking of ordering some bumper stickers: WWVD?
So I looked forward to Eric's submission last Monday because a) He's been to all these seminars so he probably knows what he's doing and b) the group's rules state that the author can't talk during the discussion. Before we read it, Eric posed a series of deeply complicated questions and everyone dutifully wrote them all down except for me. I had no intention of talking about how the diversification of thematic elements contributed to the scene's philisophical integrity.
Then Eric talks about the role of music in his play. It's all very baffling; even Steve the Leader looks confused. But we get the point when Eric scurries over to a small boombox and prepares to play specially arranged music during the reading.
So we begin reading parts aloud. We read three lines and then Eric starts playing a piano concerto. It lasts for nearly two minutes, and Eric won't let us read lines aloud as it plays. So we just sit there for two minutes trying to look respectful. I'm trying to imagine a playgoing audience that will tolerate watching a girl play the piano for the first two minutes of a play. Then the dialogue begins, and yes, it's the dialogue that I quoted earlier. The husband and wife quickly switch from dull and domestic to addled and full of angst. "I know something is bothering you," the husband pleads. "I always get this feeling when something is bothering you and I'm getting that feeling now."
WIFE: No, let's just have lunch.
HUSBAND: I thought we were taking a walk.
WIFE: You never value my needs!
HUSBAND: I don't understand. What are you trying to say to me? I don't understand.
The husband kept saying that and I completely sympathized. I didn't understand any of it. So we discuss it, and since Eric can't keep his mouth shut, we finally learn that the scene isn't about lunch at all, but that the wife had an affair 10 years ago while the husband was attending an amazingly powerful London production of Wagner's Ring Cycle.
Then I got Eric mad because I said that the music appeared to function as a device to enhance development of the play's various characters, rather than a fully formed character in its own right. Oh well.
Steve the Leader plans to submit my one-act "The Europa Society" at a future meeting, but I'm in no hurry. From what I can tell, I've already broken every Vincent Commandment possible. I just know my thematic devices aren't diverse enough.
Oh well, back to my sticky glue story.
##
Instead, I've got some great stories to work on today. Such is the life of the humble freelancer. One of my current assignments is for a business newspaper's inside section. The assignment (I swear I'm not making this up) goes like this: "Businesses that sell glue to tool-and-die companies. What's in the glue?"
So I'm calling up companies like Seal-Tec in Grand Rapids, Mich., and asking: "How sticky do you wanna be?"
Oh, oh, oh, and did you know that experts have tips on reducing workers' comp claims? Businesses might save money! Didn't I write that story, like, eight years ago when "Quark" meant a duck with a New Jersey accent?
No, I'm not bitter. What I'm doing is updating my resume. Being a clever girl, I saved the help wanted ad that Jim wrote to replace my position. It made my job sound very impressive -- I didn't realize I did all that!
When I'm not talking to local business folks about innovative workplace safety measures, I'm working on my crazy book. This week I created a hot Venusian nightclub called "The Space Orgy." Odd how it resembles a Las Vegas nightclub. I didn't realize I was doing research at Jessica's bachelorette party.
Not only that, but inside the club, my heroine meets a beeping killer assassin robot on the dance floor. It's one of 10,000 crawling all over the system, each programmed to only recognize one person's DNA. They blindly search everywhere, pinging everything from potted ferns to 6-year-old boys. When they locate the person with the target code, they kill them instantly with a laser beam. The bots look really benign (like silver fence posts with wheels) so people think they're some new census-taking device.
Nothing like 10,000 killer robots to liven things up. Ha!
Anyway, back to reality -- or semi-reality. Namely, my new playwriting group. It's kind of bizarre. There are some very talented people, but most of the members are crazy as loons. The demographics range from a young University of Michigan student to Eric, who's 60-something and has a new medical problem every time we meet.
The main problem with the group is that the good writers submit material only occasionally, while the less-talented people churn out reams of dialogue. So we sit through play openers like this:
WIFE: Am I disturbing you, honey?
HUSBAND: No, I'm having trouble writing anyway.
WIFE: Don't be discouraged.
HUSBAND: You'd think after 10 years I would have this book written.
WIFE: Would you like some lunch? Then we can take a walk.
HUSBAND: Tell you what, let's skip lunch and take a walk right away. Do things differently.
(they laugh merrily)
Just shoot me now. I'm trying to stay in the background because, well, I've only attended two meetings. There's nothing worse than someone who joins a group and tries to take over.
Honestly, these folks deserve a play of their own. Here's an example:
The old guy, Eric is by far the nuttiest. He's very into workshops and seminars and books that begin with chapters titled "The Draft of Discovery." He and a few other members have attended workshops led by some guy named Vincent, the Detroit area's God of Drama. So Eric's comments run along the lines of: "Obviously the letter opener in this scene is a physical corollary to the protagonist's dramatic choice." Which is actually kind of neat; I'm as much of a sucker for literary analysis as any former English teacher. But it gets kind of tiring.
Worse, Eric peppers his comments (monologues?) with "Vincent believes" and "As Vincent teaches" and "Vincent's philosophy supports ..." He's like the Disciple of Vincent. At the first meeting I attended, Eric ran out to his car to get the book "A Writer's Journey" by the Great Vincent and threatened to read passages. Thankfully, Steve, the group leader, convinced him to just Xerox some relevant parts for next time. Even more thankfully, Eric forgot to do so. I'm thinking of ordering some bumper stickers: WWVD?
So I looked forward to Eric's submission last Monday because a) He's been to all these seminars so he probably knows what he's doing and b) the group's rules state that the author can't talk during the discussion. Before we read it, Eric posed a series of deeply complicated questions and everyone dutifully wrote them all down except for me. I had no intention of talking about how the diversification of thematic elements contributed to the scene's philisophical integrity.
Then Eric talks about the role of music in his play. It's all very baffling; even Steve the Leader looks confused. But we get the point when Eric scurries over to a small boombox and prepares to play specially arranged music during the reading.
So we begin reading parts aloud. We read three lines and then Eric starts playing a piano concerto. It lasts for nearly two minutes, and Eric won't let us read lines aloud as it plays. So we just sit there for two minutes trying to look respectful. I'm trying to imagine a playgoing audience that will tolerate watching a girl play the piano for the first two minutes of a play. Then the dialogue begins, and yes, it's the dialogue that I quoted earlier. The husband and wife quickly switch from dull and domestic to addled and full of angst. "I know something is bothering you," the husband pleads. "I always get this feeling when something is bothering you and I'm getting that feeling now."
WIFE: No, let's just have lunch.
HUSBAND: I thought we were taking a walk.
WIFE: You never value my needs!
HUSBAND: I don't understand. What are you trying to say to me? I don't understand.
The husband kept saying that and I completely sympathized. I didn't understand any of it. So we discuss it, and since Eric can't keep his mouth shut, we finally learn that the scene isn't about lunch at all, but that the wife had an affair 10 years ago while the husband was attending an amazingly powerful London production of Wagner's Ring Cycle.
Then I got Eric mad because I said that the music appeared to function as a device to enhance development of the play's various characters, rather than a fully formed character in its own right. Oh well.
Steve the Leader plans to submit my one-act "The Europa Society" at a future meeting, but I'm in no hurry. From what I can tell, I've already broken every Vincent Commandment possible. I just know my thematic devices aren't diverse enough.
Oh well, back to my sticky glue story.
##
Wednesday, February 26, 2003
Kmart Weirdness
This is my letter to a Free Press reporter about Kmart:
Subject:
Kmart employee program
To:
kdybis@detnews.com
Dear Ms. Dybis:
Thank you for your coverage of Kmart. The News is doing a good job at covering this particular retail disaster.
I'm writing because I have a friend who was a cashier at the Roseville Kmart (the one that didn't close) in December, and she told me about an odd employee campaign.
For a week or so, there was a sign in the employee break room that said "15 rings per minute or else!" Everyone knew what the "15 rings" meant -- Kmart
wanted each cashier to ring so many orders per minute, even if there was no bagger to help or the customer was confused and slowed the process down. My friend thinks it was 15 rings a minute, but I would definitely confirm that number.
Anyway, the employees soon found out what the "or else!" meant. If an employee failed to meet the quota, he or she had to wear name tags that said "I can only do 12 rings a minute" or some such. The idea, of course, is to humiliate the employee into ringing faster. Or maybe the customers were supposed to taunt the lazy employee while throwing coupons and wadded-up shopping lists at her.
I find it shocking that Kmart would institute such an abusive system in a time when it needs all the good public relations it can get. Heaven only knows how
much the little tags cost. Is this part of Kmart's "innovative efforts" to improve customer service? And I thought the weird concept stores were bad.
Thanks for your time,
CK
Ann Arbor
THIS WAS MS. DYBIS' KIND RESPONSE:
Subject: RE: Kmart employee program
Date: Thu, 27 Feb 2003 16:48:20 -0500
From: "Dybis, Karen" kdybis@detnews.com
To: CK, ckthegreat@email.com
Dear Ms. CK:
Thank you for your email. Out of curiosity, I stopped this afternoon by the Kmart you wrote about. Sure enough, the "ring" number on the name tag was noticable to me -- thanks to your email! I will be calling Kmart to find out more, and I will update you on the situation. I appreciate you writing to bring it to my attention. What a lousy program!!
Karen Dybis
Subject:
Kmart employee program
To:
kdybis@detnews.com
Dear Ms. Dybis:
Thank you for your coverage of Kmart. The News is doing a good job at covering this particular retail disaster.
I'm writing because I have a friend who was a cashier at the Roseville Kmart (the one that didn't close) in December, and she told me about an odd employee campaign.
For a week or so, there was a sign in the employee break room that said "15 rings per minute or else!" Everyone knew what the "15 rings" meant -- Kmart
wanted each cashier to ring so many orders per minute, even if there was no bagger to help or the customer was confused and slowed the process down. My friend thinks it was 15 rings a minute, but I would definitely confirm that number.
Anyway, the employees soon found out what the "or else!" meant. If an employee failed to meet the quota, he or she had to wear name tags that said "I can only do 12 rings a minute" or some such. The idea, of course, is to humiliate the employee into ringing faster. Or maybe the customers were supposed to taunt the lazy employee while throwing coupons and wadded-up shopping lists at her.
I find it shocking that Kmart would institute such an abusive system in a time when it needs all the good public relations it can get. Heaven only knows how
much the little tags cost. Is this part of Kmart's "innovative efforts" to improve customer service? And I thought the weird concept stores were bad.
Thanks for your time,
CK
Ann Arbor
THIS WAS MS. DYBIS' KIND RESPONSE:
Subject: RE: Kmart employee program
Date: Thu, 27 Feb 2003 16:48:20 -0500
From: "Dybis, Karen" kdybis@detnews.com
To: CK, ckthegreat@email.com
Dear Ms. CK:
Thank you for your email. Out of curiosity, I stopped this afternoon by the Kmart you wrote about. Sure enough, the "ring" number on the name tag was noticable to me -- thanks to your email! I will be calling Kmart to find out more, and I will update you on the situation. I appreciate you writing to bring it to my attention. What a lousy program!!
Karen Dybis
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)