I've been feeling a bit dumb* lately given the striking absence of anything even remotely academic down here. So, imagine my delight today when I discovered a secret swimming pool** that wonders never cease harbors in one of its cabanas a small library!
There I was happy to come across this past Sunday's New York Times Magazine stashed between Edgar Sawtelle and some book about pie. I was glad for two very specific reasons, and their names are Ben Zimmer and Freddie Ljungberg.
Ben Zimmer is not my newest crush.*** Zimmer took over where (All hail) William Safire left off with the magazine's "On Language" a few years back. Some people loyally follow Heloise or the Peanuts; I follow Ben Zimmer.
So, here we go.
The word reiterate is redundant. The word iterate all by itself is a verb that means to repeat. Therefore, to say reiterate as in "Let me reiterate how Prince William is soooo going to regret marrying whatsherface," is in itself iterative, or repetitive. The "re" in reiterate is as unnecessary as the "re" in reduplicate. Think about it.
Good, don't you feel better now?
* recent examples include turning the heat on two nights ago instead of the air conditioning and the fact that the most intellectually engaging conversation I have had of late is one discussing what exactly a caper is. If anyone has any idea whatsoever...please...please...
**Admit it. It's one thing to find a secret garden, a secret code, or a secret sample sale, but it is another thing entirely to find a secret swimming pool with a library!
***Freddie Ljungberg, on the other hand, is (see brilliant).
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Dear Prince William: Big, big mistake. Huge.
A few weeks ago I stated that I wanted to date Prince William for the summer, thus inheriting The Best. Summer. Gig. Ever., for which I would get to wear a tiara, attend cricket and other strange English sporting events, as well as drink tea, pinkie out, every afternoon.
Well, it was most disappointingly brought to my attention this morning while standing in the checkout line at The Tiara Unlimited that Billy boy has gone and proposed to whatshername. This news, of course, was unnerving--namely because great now I suddenly would have no excuse to offer nonplussed neighbors and friends for my recent odd behavior. And, and! I was getting reeeeeeeeeeeally good at being a princess.
First of all, I've got the princess wave down (fingers together, slight rotation only at the wrist). Some of my neighbors have even begun waving back as I drive down the street waving out my rolled down windows (which were tinted last week as a preemptive gesture).
Second, Larry, the gate guard at the entrance to my "planned community" (as there doesn't appear to be any other kind here) has started curtsying after I say "Much appreciated, Jasper" in my now nearly native--and obviously convincing--sounding Queen's English accent.
Third, my new friends, who have been serving as royal body guards and security (admittedly unpaid and unbeknown to them) like me because I'm always up for going to a sports bar to feed my almost maniacal obsession with the World Cup. In one of those ironic twists my life is oh so prone to, it seems as though in practicing to be England's next princess, I've become one of the American guys.
Fourth, I've perfected the unemployment/leisure thing. I've taken to wearing gowns to the beach and I've been practicing my inevitable royal maritime etiquette by racking up as many hours as possible on the yachts of other people who have the unemployment/leisure thing down perfectly, and who also take to wearing gowns to the beach.
And then of course there was the little tea fiasco.
Yes, people, in a bold, bold move, I replaced my daily afternoon appointment at SB* with tea, pinkie out, at home on the linai.**
At first I was quite reluctant and actually somewhat angry over the prospect of giving up one half of my favorite addiction for subjects who weren't even loyal yet. But, I took a deep breath and in the name of foreign diplomacy headed to the Tea Emporium for what was supposed to be a quick trip for some English freaking Breakfast and whatever...raspberry scones.
Little did I know that this little jaunt would turn into a fascinating 90 minute research expedition and literary extravaganza: seriously, the writers at The New Yorker have nothing on those anonymous scribes who specialize in tea literature. Tea boxes, it turns out, provide an abundance of information that rivals both Shakespeare and Dr. Phil in the genres of wisdom, self-help, and love.
So now that Billy boy has made the Biggest. Mistake. Of. His. Life. by not officially offering me The. Best. Summer. Gig. Ever., I've decided that I want to date a man who espouses the same qualities as my Earl Grey and White Blossom Passion Fruit.
I mean, really, who wouldn't want someone who is "robust" or "full of character yet peaceful and serene?"
And who wouldn't be happy to go to dinner with someone of a "noble blend" or with the "the perfect marriage of sweet and spice?"***
I'm all for a man--royalty or not--who is "surprisingly potent and offering an ample dose of inspiration" or a man who is "bold in both depth and character." And for the record, I'm totally fine with a man who is "scented with bergamot from Italy."
"A well-rounded infusion with refined lingering notes" whatever that means exactly sounds good to me, as does a man who offers "sweet contemplation from dawn til dusk." Asking sweet contemplation of what, seems--at this point--beside the point.
*SB's CEO was understandably alarmed by the dip in profit as of late before I explained to him the whole prospective Best. Summer. Gig. Ever. thing. (soooo not looking forward to the certain groveling that awaits me tomorrow afternoon at 4).
**translates roughly to the American "screened-in porch"
***Boys, I'm informing you that, on the upside, soon potential girlfriends will no longer be comparing you to that Noah guy in The Notebook (yay!) or Johnny Depp just in general (whatever, you have Megan Fox, we have JD) in terms of a set of standards they want you to live up to. However, this means that, on the downside, you will soon be competing with tea leaves and other herbal infusions.
Well, it was most disappointingly brought to my attention this morning while standing in the checkout line at The Tiara Unlimited that Billy boy has gone and proposed to whatshername. This news, of course, was unnerving--namely because great now I suddenly would have no excuse to offer nonplussed neighbors and friends for my recent odd behavior. And, and! I was getting reeeeeeeeeeeally good at being a princess.
First of all, I've got the princess wave down (fingers together, slight rotation only at the wrist). Some of my neighbors have even begun waving back as I drive down the street waving out my rolled down windows (which were tinted last week as a preemptive gesture).
Second, Larry, the gate guard at the entrance to my "planned community" (as there doesn't appear to be any other kind here) has started curtsying after I say "Much appreciated, Jasper" in my now nearly native--and obviously convincing--sounding Queen's English accent.
Third, my new friends, who have been serving as royal body guards and security (admittedly unpaid and unbeknown to them) like me because I'm always up for going to a sports bar to feed my almost maniacal obsession with the World Cup. In one of those ironic twists my life is oh so prone to, it seems as though in practicing to be England's next princess, I've become one of the American guys.
Fourth, I've perfected the unemployment/leisure thing. I've taken to wearing gowns to the beach and I've been practicing my inevitable royal maritime etiquette by racking up as many hours as possible on the yachts of other people who have the unemployment/leisure thing down perfectly, and who also take to wearing gowns to the beach.
And then of course there was the little tea fiasco.
Yes, people, in a bold, bold move, I replaced my daily afternoon appointment at SB* with tea, pinkie out, at home on the linai.**
At first I was quite reluctant and actually somewhat angry over the prospect of giving up one half of my favorite addiction for subjects who weren't even loyal yet. But, I took a deep breath and in the name of foreign diplomacy headed to the Tea Emporium for what was supposed to be a quick trip for some English freaking Breakfast and whatever...raspberry scones.
Little did I know that this little jaunt would turn into a fascinating 90 minute research expedition and literary extravaganza: seriously, the writers at The New Yorker have nothing on those anonymous scribes who specialize in tea literature. Tea boxes, it turns out, provide an abundance of information that rivals both Shakespeare and Dr. Phil in the genres of wisdom, self-help, and love.
So now that Billy boy has made the Biggest. Mistake. Of. His. Life. by not officially offering me The. Best. Summer. Gig. Ever., I've decided that I want to date a man who espouses the same qualities as my Earl Grey and White Blossom Passion Fruit.
I mean, really, who wouldn't want someone who is "robust" or "full of character yet peaceful and serene?"
And who wouldn't be happy to go to dinner with someone of a "noble blend" or with the "the perfect marriage of sweet and spice?"***
I'm all for a man--royalty or not--who is "surprisingly potent and offering an ample dose of inspiration" or a man who is "bold in both depth and character." And for the record, I'm totally fine with a man who is "scented with bergamot from Italy."
"A well-rounded infusion with refined lingering notes" whatever that means exactly sounds good to me, as does a man who offers "sweet contemplation from dawn til dusk." Asking sweet contemplation of what, seems--at this point--beside the point.
*SB's CEO was understandably alarmed by the dip in profit as of late before I explained to him the whole prospective Best. Summer. Gig. Ever. thing. (soooo not looking forward to the certain groveling that awaits me tomorrow afternoon at 4).
**translates roughly to the American "screened-in porch"
***Boys, I'm informing you that, on the upside, soon potential girlfriends will no longer be comparing you to that Noah guy in The Notebook (yay!) or Johnny Depp just in general (whatever, you have Megan Fox, we have JD) in terms of a set of standards they want you to live up to. However, this means that, on the downside, you will soon be competing with tea leaves and other herbal infusions.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The Lake: A Cautionary Tale for Boys Everywhere
Continued...
As I was saying in my last post, I'm going to help the boys out again by relaying a story I heard from an undisclosed, yet reliable--I assure you--source.
I can vouch personally for the fact that if an Ohio boy takes you on a boat, you're going to be returned to land in pretty much the same condition as when you first pushed off. However, the same cannot be said for the unfortunate Ohio boy who is taken to the Lake* by an Ohio Girl.
So boys, should an Ohio girl pull into your driveway one bright and early morning and quite officiously inform your father who is innocently picking up the Sunday paper that she is taking you to the lake, remember that where this story is going is downhill. In fact there is evidence that these occurrences are two of several warning signs.
Others may include but are not limited to the even vaguest of vague notions that you have somehow made her angry the night before and that she is still in her pajamas, her hair is in a bun, and she is wearing no makeup. Why should her physical appearance tip you off? Because, you see, she is making a sartorial point: taking you to the Lake has NOTHING to do with her and EVERYTHING to do with you.
And even if you aren't the brightest bulb in the box and you receive a text message in all capital letters from a girl in your driveway telling you to GET DRESSED OR NOT WHATEVER because YOU ARE GETTING OUT OF BED AND COMING DOWNSTAIRS AND GOING TO THE LAKE, at the very least recall the mobster movies of your not so distant youth--nothing good ever came from some poor chap being escorted to the Lake. In other words, things are not going to shake out well for you,Russo.
Now should you--despite the obvious aforementioned red flags--still find yourself in the car on the way to the Lake one bright and early morning, there are still opportunities for you to realize that you, son, are not on your way to a picnic:
1. There is--now that you're looking--a conspicuous absence of a picnic basket or anything that resembles or could serve as a picnic basket.
2. There is a very large empty coffee mug next to the Ohio girl. This should be reliably read as she's caffeinated and ready and, well, you're not.
3. Despite her proximity, she is still texting you in all capital letters and ever so slowly that vaguest of vague notions that you may have somehow made her angry the night before is becoming increasingly, nauseatingly less vague with every 75 mile per hour minute that passes.
4. She pulls a bottle of your favorite whisky out of her purse and tells you to drink up. Hellooooooooooo.....this is NOT an early morning toast to your overall wonderfulness, nor should it be misinterpreted as a final act of affection. Or mercy. In fact, in certain circles, this act will later be called "criminal intent**."
*I've capitalized "Lake," so that it may serve as an Everylake. Ohio is blessed or cursed--depending on what side of the car you're sitting on--with a plethora of lakes.
**I don't want to mislead you here in anyway. The Ohio girl has no intention of physically hurting you when she drives you to the Lake. She's after a very specific brand of mental alteration that begins with her telling you to get out of the car and saying calmly but pointedly: now talk. You see, she wants answers; she wants explanations for your bad behavior. And, it is in this way that she will have you wishing you had woke up to a horse head in your bed that morning rather than her in your driveway. :)
As I was saying in my last post, I'm going to help the boys out again by relaying a story I heard from an undisclosed, yet reliable--I assure you--source.
I can vouch personally for the fact that if an Ohio boy takes you on a boat, you're going to be returned to land in pretty much the same condition as when you first pushed off. However, the same cannot be said for the unfortunate Ohio boy who is taken to the Lake* by an Ohio Girl.
So boys, should an Ohio girl pull into your driveway one bright and early morning and quite officiously inform your father who is innocently picking up the Sunday paper that she is taking you to the lake, remember that where this story is going is downhill. In fact there is evidence that these occurrences are two of several warning signs.
Others may include but are not limited to the even vaguest of vague notions that you have somehow made her angry the night before and that she is still in her pajamas, her hair is in a bun, and she is wearing no makeup. Why should her physical appearance tip you off? Because, you see, she is making a sartorial point: taking you to the Lake has NOTHING to do with her and EVERYTHING to do with you.
And even if you aren't the brightest bulb in the box and you receive a text message in all capital letters from a girl in your driveway telling you to GET DRESSED OR NOT WHATEVER because YOU ARE GETTING OUT OF BED AND COMING DOWNSTAIRS AND GOING TO THE LAKE, at the very least recall the mobster movies of your not so distant youth--nothing good ever came from some poor chap being escorted to the Lake. In other words, things are not going to shake out well for you,Russo.
Now should you--despite the obvious aforementioned red flags--still find yourself in the car on the way to the Lake one bright and early morning, there are still opportunities for you to realize that you, son, are not on your way to a picnic:
1. There is--now that you're looking--a conspicuous absence of a picnic basket or anything that resembles or could serve as a picnic basket.
2. There is a very large empty coffee mug next to the Ohio girl. This should be reliably read as she's caffeinated and ready and, well, you're not.
3. Despite her proximity, she is still texting you in all capital letters and ever so slowly that vaguest of vague notions that you may have somehow made her angry the night before is becoming increasingly, nauseatingly less vague with every 75 mile per hour minute that passes.
4. She pulls a bottle of your favorite whisky out of her purse and tells you to drink up. Hellooooooooooo.....this is NOT an early morning toast to your overall wonderfulness, nor should it be misinterpreted as a final act of affection. Or mercy. In fact, in certain circles, this act will later be called "criminal intent**."
*I've capitalized "Lake," so that it may serve as an Everylake. Ohio is blessed or cursed--depending on what side of the car you're sitting on--with a plethora of lakes.
**I don't want to mislead you here in anyway. The Ohio girl has no intention of physically hurting you when she drives you to the Lake. She's after a very specific brand of mental alteration that begins with her telling you to get out of the car and saying calmly but pointedly: now talk. You see, she wants answers; she wants explanations for your bad behavior. And, it is in this way that she will have you wishing you had woke up to a horse head in your bed that morning rather than her in your driveway. :)
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