Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Zo

I'll always appreciate my niece Zoe for the way she single-handedly has eradicated most memories of me as a child by carrying just enough of a resemblance to my photos to pass off as my own.

-Who's that loud-looking child with the patchy hair?

-I don't know, some orphan with a rash. Hey, here's a cute picture of me with flowers in my hair!

But I'll always love Zoe for crawling into my heart like a little tick refusing to leave. And I accept. She'll out-eat any adult at the dessert table, she's always brushing the hair out of her eyes, the only thing I see her do more than laugh is lie, and she calls all her stuffed animals by the same name. Except for the one that was named Kari on the tag. That one she calls Maggie.

Zoe's been working her way up the rankings as my favorite niece/nephew (we really need a gender-neutral term for this unit already) for the last five years. But five years to the day and she's done it. Happy birthday, Zoe. On the seventh. Sorry. Tuesdays and Thursdays are very easy to confuse.

CMoS

I frequent the Chicago Manual of Style fairly often at work. I guess now is when I make some kind of “Bible” reference.

… I refuse.

Today, under section 5.191 for those of you following along (ok, ok I love the “work Bible” references! But I hate myself for loving it if that counts for anything.), I came across this quote that they actually were hilarious enough to include in their official, peer-reviewed guidance on "Beginning a Sentence with a Conjunction." It comes from Charles Allen Lloyd, “Next to the groundless notion that it is incorrect to end an English sentence with a preposition, perhaps the most wide-spread of the many false beliefs about the use of our language is the equally groundless notion that it is incorrect to begin one with ‘but’ or ‘and.’ As in the case of the superstition about the prepositional ending, no textbook supports it, but apparently about half of our teachers of English go out of their way to handicap their pupils by inculcating it. One cannot help wondering whether those who teach such a monstrous doctrine ever read any English themselves.”

Well ok then.

I just love the keywords, “groundless notion,” “handicap,” and “monstrous” because, Charles, you are berating me and not only do I deserve it, but I want your approval now more than ever. Take notes teacher roommates. The abuse cycle is the only way to educate.

Uncool, Staples

Agreeing with my peers against any independent thought generated by my own brain to gain their approval and respect is a character flaw I'll get around to mending one of these days. But not yet.

So when Jane shared with me that she wished people would stop wishing away the season we're in to hop on the autumn bus, I was completely on board. (Watch as I brand this opinion with a "we" and make you love me forever.) I think my true identity might even agree with that. If she exists. So when I saw a "back to school sale" sign this week, well we were just sick about it. (There it is.)

Don't get me wrong, office supplies really do it for me. But it's August 5. And that's just cruel. It reminded me of how much I hate this commercial. The kids' dark circles under their eyes, the heartless Uncle Joey-like father my nightmares inform me is going to be my husband some day, the fact that Staples and I share a birthyear, and then the abuse of office supply packaging when he just dumps single pencils into the cart. Stop it! I hate to do this to you, but misery loves company:

Delirium

I just got back from a run that was probably too long and too hot, but worth it in the end when on the sidewalk during my last stretch, I saw a gummy worm that my brain simultaneously told me was both a green and red gummy worm, and also slithering across the cement toward my feet. And for three and a half seconds, I was just as mentally handicapped as any schizophrenic Sunday dinner-guest. Or any member of the cast of Felicity. Either way, it was awesome. And I giggled the rest of the way home.

On an unrelated, or quite possibly more related than any of us could know, note, I saw the movie Inception last night and, my word, I recommend it with my entire heart and all three levels of my subconscious.

Pride Sockets

I got my wisdom teeth out last week. In the beginning, the entire experience was even better than the first, which I only recently stopped raving about.

• I got the nausea, pain medication, and strict liquid diet that made my sister's well-maintained high school eating disorder look like an Asian hot dog eating contest.
• An ex-lover of mine dropped off a TV, a Netflix account, and one more denial to my offer for marriage. But are you sure you're sure? Either way my entertainment was set, and the amount of Jell-O I planned to put away would have turned Bill Cosby's urine lime-flavored.

Internally I started to scoff at every story I had heard thus far about the "nightmare" of adult wisdom teeth recovery. This is the best! Again! I started getting cocky about my graceful recovery. I was too busy praising my doctor (and myself) when he called for what a good team we make, that I didn't listen to any advice he had to give. Plus, at one point Jane told me I was a champion, which carried my kid sister ego all the way through a couple of straws and up to last night when I woke up with a pain shooting down my right jaw.

So I'm trying to clear the air publicly to fight off whatever pounding I feel beneath my gums right now. It could be a blood clot. But I think it's the sting of pride.

I blame no one for this but myself,* and I swear on every pudding cup in my fridge I will have more sympathy for the next wisdom tooth patient who shares their "horror story," just as long as I wake up in the morning the champion Jane thought I was on Thursday.

*Except for the "dental hygienist" soliciting her advice at a party I prematurely attended night of my surgery. No, Popsicles aren't fine, and you're bad at your job. I respect you, but I also blame you a little.

Is this for a grade?

A few weeks ago, I was one of the best communicators I knew. It wasn’t because I had finally realized how to have a fluid conversation that wasn’t in the written form quite yet, and my word it certainly wasn’t because I had mastered the wink by any means, but it was because I finally had some answers to the “what’s new with you?” question.

I’ve had problems with this question for quite some time. It reminds me of Mrs. Ash’s “journal time” in the fourth grade, where our prompt was to write a letter to our teacher telling her about our week, and being as creative as we’d like. My first prompt consisted of a story about me starring me and began with truth but somehow ended in my brutal death. Some kids got a whole page written back to them from Mrs. Ash. I got a giant red question mark. I learned at an early age that to respond to this “tell me about your week/life/what is new with you” confrontation, we must not lie (I’d never), we must not be too self-indulgent (Maggie who?), and we can get close, but we must not die at the end (dead giveaway). (There is also the off-chance that some people are just filling silence with stock questions, and teachers just want a quiet hour in the middle of the day, but the optimist in me refuses both.)

A couple of weeks ago, my current-events storm for this question was the most perfect:

-I had been robbed. (“Well our house was broken into and all my property and sense of security was stolen, but let’s not talk about me, I want to hear about you.”)

-I saw two moose on a hike. (Always a crowd pleaser.)

-I had some of the best homeless attention of my life. (“I didn’t know angels could walk.” Oh bearded man (or woman), you shouldn’t have.)

But lately, the most I have to come up with is that Jane made some great waffles yesterday morning and shared, and I’m getting my bottom wisdom teeth out next Thursday. But everyone always crams advice down my throat with this last one, and I’ve already been through the process once. I know how to cope. A season of Heroes and Vicodine.

So here’s to hoping something goes terribly wrong with my wisdom teeth operation (yes, operation) and I finally have something to say to people again that isn’t old news, me news, or false news because if I’m going to cut anything, it’s going to be the truth. And it’s going to be obvious. You’ve been warned.

Your URL Is Showing

I’ve recently come across this Web site that allows the user to enter text or a URL/blog into its search bar, and it will generate this word cloud of most used words in that site. I figured my blog cloud would be filled with words like, grocery store, homeless people, twins, and probably I. Instead, the biggest, most used words were Christmas, Maggie (when do I use the third person? Gross.), ago (why?), Jane (but not Kristine?), comments, receptionist, and chocolate. Nightmare! I was right on the self-centered thing, but dead wrong on everything else.

I don’t even know myself.

And Kristine, I love you. Kristine. Kristine. Kristine. That should do it.

Speaking of word clouds, some days I worry that I'll never find a man who loves me this much:

http://thedailywh.at/post/501152060/ugliest-tattoo-of-the-day-who-says-romance-is

But now I know exactly how to design that Old Man Winter tattoo I've been dreaming about.