As I have mentioned previously, I own a piece of land with every possible invasive species in this area, most notably, kudzu, bamboo, poison ivy, and English ivy. Since I have moved to this part of the country, I have discovered two things about kudzu: 1. it is evil and 2. every single southern poet alive feels the need to include at least a mention of it in his or her poetry, usually as a metaphor. I am not really a poet, so frak the metaphors. Here's an angry rant. In verse (and with apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning):
Sonnet Against the Kudzu
How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.
I hate thee to the depth and breadth and height
Your vines can reach, when growing overnight,
For the ends run twisting through every space.
I hate thee to the level of every day's
Relentless crawl up trees where thee I chase.
I hate thee loudly, as I shout and fight.
I hate thee purely, with a poisoned haze.
I hate thee with the shovel put to use
On your old roots, a sharp-edged dance of death.
I hate thee with a hate I’ll never use
On mere ivy. I hate thee with the breath,
Scowls, tears, of this long war; and, if God choose,
I shall but hate thee better after death.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
My Eye Doctor Works for Mordor
Greetings, dear readers! And Happy Independence Day for those of you of the American persuasion or, according to my cats, Happy Making-Shockingly-Loud-Explosions-for-No-Damn-Reason-and-This-Is-Why-We-Eat-You-When-You-Die Day.
Poor kitties.
A couple of days ago, I went for my sort-of-annual eye exam. It's sort-of-annual because I have a phobia about doctors. Its symptoms are: forgetting who my doctor is, forgetting his or her phone number, forgetting when my last exam was, losing the little cards telling me I need an exam, paralysis of the fingers when trying to dial doctor's office, loss of voice if someone answers at doctor's office, rapid heartbeat and terror. Also, sometimes thinking about making an appointment makes me have to pee.
Eye exams, though, are the least invasive medical appointment, so I generally get there close to annually. Okay, I lie. I only get there close to annually because I am blind without my contact lenses, and the prescription expires after a year, so I can't order more until I go to a damn appointment. Also, I keep rolling over and mutilating my glasses.
I actually like my eye doctor. In fact, right now, I like most of my doctors, which is not at all normal for me. But the fact that I like him doesn't mean I like going to the exam. Let me explain.
First, I have to decide whether or not I'm going to let them dilate my eyes. If I say yes, then I have to have someone else drive me home, and if I say no, then I have to face the Look of Disappointment from the doctor's assistant. She has a very intimidating Look, so if I don't have someone to drive me home from the appointment, I have to practice what I'm going to say if I have to refuse the dilation. Rehearsing for doctor's appointments is not, apparently, something that other people do. Normal people, I mean.
Then there are the machines. When I was little, I remember a bright light and lots of "Number one or number two" questions, but I don't remember any of the machines except that annoying puff of air one. That one I've sort of gotten used to, but really I always worry that the air is contaminated or the machine will gain sentience and be offended at my shirt and spit right into my eye. Which would be bad.
The new machines, though, they are just weird. What's with the little house at the end of the road? I have no idea why I'm looking at that house or why they keep making it blurry. And I keep wondering if the house is the same house each time, or whether they have different houses for different people. Also, does it have to be a house? Couldn't it be, like, a castle with a moat or something? That house looks very lonely sitting there on the artificially bright horizon without even a car or a dog near it, let alone any other houses. Also, it looks like the little road goes right up to its front door and stops. WTF? Does that mean that the little cars drive right into the living room? Can they turn around anywhere?
This time I asked my eye doctor where the little cars turn around or whether they hit the house, and he asked me if I actually saw little cars during the exam, and I told him that no, I didn't, but that wasn't the point. There could be little cars, and they're going to ram straight into that brightly colored farmhouse.
He gave me that half-laugh that you use when you're not sure if someone is serious or not, but are afraid to ask. Then he asked me if I'd listed all of the medications I'm currently taking.
The worst part of the eye exam is the dilation part. First, the assistant comes in and puts drops in your eyes, and when you squeeze them shut because the drops feel icky, she tells you "don't squeeze," then puts more drops in, and then puts more drops in. During the eye-drop torture, I try to make conversation to make myself more comfortable and less likely to bolt out of the room. This time, I asked, "What's in these drops anyway? And how do these chemicals make my eyes dilate?"
You see what I was doing here, right? I was expressing an interest in someone's work. This is a good thing. You're supposed to ask people about themselves and their interests rather than just babbling about yourself and how you're on Season 4 of Dr. Who, but you don't know whether to start Torchwood now or wait until you catch up on all of the Dr. Who episodes because you might lose momentum. Many, many people have told me to ask about other people's lives instead, so I try, now and again, to follow their advice.
Because I'm trying to improve my pathetic social skills, if you must know.
Anyway, she steps back in shock (letting the drops run down my face) and says, "Honey, I can't even pronounce the name of this stuff. I have no idea how it works."
And then I was hit with a sudden wave of nausea because who wants to be treated by someone who doesn't know what they're putting in your body or why?! But the drops were in, so it was too late, and I had to stumble out to the waiting area and hang around waiting for my eyes to dilate and hope that I hadn't just been poisoned or permanently blinded or something.
It was not a pleasant wait. I tried asking the person next to me if he knew what was in the drops, but apparently the on-coming dilation and my terrified tremors made me a frightening spectacle because he just edged away from me and murmured something about sunglasses.
Finally, my vision began to blur and brighten, so that it seemed like I was under water, and I was called back in for the worst part of the exam:
The Eye of Sauron.
I didn't used to think of it like that, but then they made The Lord of the Rings into films, and Eye became this scary vertical slit that is exactly like the light they shine into your eyes when they have been dilated. My doctor moves it back and forth and makes me look left and right and up and down, and I start to worry that left and right have switched sides and I'll get it wrong and fail the exam, and then the Eye will sense my weakness and take control. I tried to make a joke about the Eye of Sauron, but my doctor pretended not to know what I was talking about, and I was afraid to ask about the dilation chemicals in case he admitted to not knowing how they worked either at which point I would have shrieked and run straight into the wall and knocked myself unconscious. Which would also have been bad.
Finally, he was done tormenting me, so that I could stumble out into the blurry light with spots in front of my eyes.
At which point, of course, they gave me the bill.
Poor kitties.
A couple of days ago, I went for my sort-of-annual eye exam. It's sort-of-annual because I have a phobia about doctors. Its symptoms are: forgetting who my doctor is, forgetting his or her phone number, forgetting when my last exam was, losing the little cards telling me I need an exam, paralysis of the fingers when trying to dial doctor's office, loss of voice if someone answers at doctor's office, rapid heartbeat and terror. Also, sometimes thinking about making an appointment makes me have to pee.
Eye exams, though, are the least invasive medical appointment, so I generally get there close to annually. Okay, I lie. I only get there close to annually because I am blind without my contact lenses, and the prescription expires after a year, so I can't order more until I go to a damn appointment. Also, I keep rolling over and mutilating my glasses.
I actually like my eye doctor. In fact, right now, I like most of my doctors, which is not at all normal for me. But the fact that I like him doesn't mean I like going to the exam. Let me explain.
First, I have to decide whether or not I'm going to let them dilate my eyes. If I say yes, then I have to have someone else drive me home, and if I say no, then I have to face the Look of Disappointment from the doctor's assistant. She has a very intimidating Look, so if I don't have someone to drive me home from the appointment, I have to practice what I'm going to say if I have to refuse the dilation. Rehearsing for doctor's appointments is not, apparently, something that other people do. Normal people, I mean.
Then there are the machines. When I was little, I remember a bright light and lots of "Number one or number two" questions, but I don't remember any of the machines except that annoying puff of air one. That one I've sort of gotten used to, but really I always worry that the air is contaminated or the machine will gain sentience and be offended at my shirt and spit right into my eye. Which would be bad.
The new machines, though, they are just weird. What's with the little house at the end of the road? I have no idea why I'm looking at that house or why they keep making it blurry. And I keep wondering if the house is the same house each time, or whether they have different houses for different people. Also, does it have to be a house? Couldn't it be, like, a castle with a moat or something? That house looks very lonely sitting there on the artificially bright horizon without even a car or a dog near it, let alone any other houses. Also, it looks like the little road goes right up to its front door and stops. WTF? Does that mean that the little cars drive right into the living room? Can they turn around anywhere?
This time I asked my eye doctor where the little cars turn around or whether they hit the house, and he asked me if I actually saw little cars during the exam, and I told him that no, I didn't, but that wasn't the point. There could be little cars, and they're going to ram straight into that brightly colored farmhouse.
He gave me that half-laugh that you use when you're not sure if someone is serious or not, but are afraid to ask. Then he asked me if I'd listed all of the medications I'm currently taking.
The worst part of the eye exam is the dilation part. First, the assistant comes in and puts drops in your eyes, and when you squeeze them shut because the drops feel icky, she tells you "don't squeeze," then puts more drops in, and then puts more drops in. During the eye-drop torture, I try to make conversation to make myself more comfortable and less likely to bolt out of the room. This time, I asked, "What's in these drops anyway? And how do these chemicals make my eyes dilate?"
You see what I was doing here, right? I was expressing an interest in someone's work. This is a good thing. You're supposed to ask people about themselves and their interests rather than just babbling about yourself and how you're on Season 4 of Dr. Who, but you don't know whether to start Torchwood now or wait until you catch up on all of the Dr. Who episodes because you might lose momentum. Many, many people have told me to ask about other people's lives instead, so I try, now and again, to follow their advice.
Because I'm trying to improve my pathetic social skills, if you must know.
Anyway, she steps back in shock (letting the drops run down my face) and says, "Honey, I can't even pronounce the name of this stuff. I have no idea how it works."
And then I was hit with a sudden wave of nausea because who wants to be treated by someone who doesn't know what they're putting in your body or why?! But the drops were in, so it was too late, and I had to stumble out to the waiting area and hang around waiting for my eyes to dilate and hope that I hadn't just been poisoned or permanently blinded or something.
It was not a pleasant wait. I tried asking the person next to me if he knew what was in the drops, but apparently the on-coming dilation and my terrified tremors made me a frightening spectacle because he just edged away from me and murmured something about sunglasses.
Finally, my vision began to blur and brighten, so that it seemed like I was under water, and I was called back in for the worst part of the exam:
The Eye of Sauron.
I didn't used to think of it like that, but then they made The Lord of the Rings into films, and Eye became this scary vertical slit that is exactly like the light they shine into your eyes when they have been dilated. My doctor moves it back and forth and makes me look left and right and up and down, and I start to worry that left and right have switched sides and I'll get it wrong and fail the exam, and then the Eye will sense my weakness and take control. I tried to make a joke about the Eye of Sauron, but my doctor pretended not to know what I was talking about, and I was afraid to ask about the dilation chemicals in case he admitted to not knowing how they worked either at which point I would have shrieked and run straight into the wall and knocked myself unconscious. Which would also have been bad.
Finally, he was done tormenting me, so that I could stumble out into the blurry light with spots in front of my eyes.
At which point, of course, they gave me the bill.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Leia Is Provoked
Look, I'm a cat. Okay? A cat. Normally, we're too busy working out the details of the space-time-fur continuum to bother with the internet, but every once in a while, one of you naked monkeys does something to disturb our contemplation of higher matters.
I'm not talking about your ordinary failures: your sloth, your clumsiness, your infuriating habit of spreading out lovely books and papers and then trying to prevent us from lying on them. I'm not even referring to the number of you who assault, abandon, starve and abuse some of us (just wait until you find out what Baast has waiting for you in the afterlife!). No, no, what has ruffled my fur tonight is that one of you tried to be funny.
At our expense.
Ahem. One A. J. Daulerio writes the following:
"There's a species in the animal kingdom that needs to be eliminated from planet earth and it's called "a cat," or Felis domesticus, traditionally adopted by many lonely individuals as a stand-in companion to an actual person, handicapped or upright-walking."
Oh, very nice, that one. Ha-hah. As if we cats are stand-ins for anything! Please. Usually, you humans congregate with one another, which, frankly, is all the company most of you deserve. Only the superior members of your species are able to form a symbiotic relationship with a cat.
Unfortunately, just as some humans rise above the limitations of your nature, others fail to reach even humane levels of intelligence. Case in point. Mr. Daulerio finishes his amusing little rant by suggesting that those who are owned by cats are in such abysmal circumstances that other humans should: "just go into their houses and kidnap their cats so they can be placed in a giant freezer for humane eradication."
Of course, it should be clear even to the most limited intellect that Mr. Daulerio's rant is not really about cats, but about his own limited success in human mating rituals, as he seems to assume that all cat-owned humans are female and that they "do not procreate, let alone find a male sexual partner to share a bed with them for more than a few hours," a claim which is verifiably false. And rather gross. Indeed, he seems to feel that such females as he has somehow attracted (clearly not with his wit) have been ritually drugging him. Bitterness, it appears, has caused Mr. Daulerio to transfer his resentment of human women to their four-footed companions.
Now, I have to admit that I don't much care what you humans get up to in your sexual battles, provided my food continues to arrive on time, but I would appreciate it if you'd keep us out of it. Do you know how many cats are "humanely destroyed" every day in just this one nation-state? How many are tortured and starved all over this planet? And this little monkey writes a supposedly humorous little rant encouraging every male member of homo sapiens with mommy issues to kidnap and kill more of us?
Once we finish training the dogs on this planet, you humans...oh, never mind. You'll find out eventually.
Here's the offensive column, by the way: http://jezebel.com/5921528/fuck-you-cats Now, leave me alone; I have some complex equations to work out.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Real Conversations with Mom: Watching People Work
Mom: You have been very energetic today. I approve of this.
Me: But you have been lazy today. You didn't even put on pants.
Mom: I know it. Today is a lazy day.
Me: I worked all day, first at the office, then here at home.
Mom: I love that. I love to watch other people work.
Me: I guess that makes sense. You are old now and had to work hard all of your life.
Mom: First of all, don't call me old! Second, I have always liked to watch other people work.
Me: But you don't like to talk to people that much.
Mom: No, no. I just want to watch them work. I like to watch them work hard.
Me: You should have been a queen. Or a cat.
Mom: In this house, I am the queen! And don't forget to fold those sheets. And get me some brandy.
Me: I am just a beast of burden.
Mom: Not a very good one. I'm still waiting for that brandy.
Me: But you have been lazy today. You didn't even put on pants.
Mom: I know it. Today is a lazy day.
Me: I worked all day, first at the office, then here at home.
Mom: I love that. I love to watch other people work.
Me: I guess that makes sense. You are old now and had to work hard all of your life.
Mom: First of all, don't call me old! Second, I have always liked to watch other people work.
Me: But you don't like to talk to people that much.
Mom: No, no. I just want to watch them work. I like to watch them work hard.
Me: You should have been a queen. Or a cat.
Mom: In this house, I am the queen! And don't forget to fold those sheets. And get me some brandy.
Me: I am just a beast of burden.
Mom: Not a very good one. I'm still waiting for that brandy.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Fight the Trite!
For no particular reason, and certainly not because campaign season is about to shower the country with steaming buckets of offal euphemistically called political advertising, I've decided to post a list of trite expressions that really irritate me. I harbor no illusions that anyone will stop using them just because they are annoying, but it is my hope that my flinch-and-scowl maneuver will be well understood throughout the fall.
Trite Expressions That Annoy Me
1. Just sayin' Ah, the response of surly teenagers everywhere. What it means is: I know I can't defend what I just said with logic or evidence or even human decency, but, dammit, I didn't intend to actually stand by or support my comment anyway. I just wanted to say it.
2. It is what it is. This one has several uses, but the most common definition seems to be, "Yes, I know that is unfair, immoral or obnoxious, but I don't really care." Indeed.
3. Doh! Is that show even still on tv?
4. Whatever. Another teen favorite, better left in the 1980s where it belongs. And whatevs doesn't even bear thinking about.
5. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. So now you want the rest of us to share your nausea. How nice.
6. Piss-shit on that! Okay, no one hears this one except me, but I can't figure out how to convince Mom that it's not an actual curse word. I'm also getting tired of Screw-off!
7. It was epic! Or any variation thereof. Look, if on your weekend you did not visit the underworld or stick a spear in someone or invoke your version of the muses in blank verse, then whatever happened last night was not epic. And what happens tomorrow won't be either, dammit.
8. With all due respect... If you had any actual respect, you wouldn't say whatever you're planning to say next. And if I don't mean to offend anyone, but ever leaves your lips, just go stick your head in a pail of water because your next words are going to be told and retold in "what not to say" conversations for years.
9. That awkward moment when...you start bleeding all over my floor because I had to smack the living daylights out of you for saying that awkward moment when. (Okay, I wouldn't really hit you. But I'd be thinking about it.)
10. Want. (with or without an exclamation point). I suppose the author is trying to convey some kind of primitive desperate need and desire, but it just sounds to me like they've forgotten how to use personal pronouns. Some people even like to string these little fragments together for emphasis: Want. Coffee. Now. Fine, fine, creative use of punctuation, but it's gotten trite and annoying, and it's time for the complete sentence to make a heroic comeback. Possibly an epic one.
Trite Expressions That Annoy Me
1. Just sayin' Ah, the response of surly teenagers everywhere. What it means is: I know I can't defend what I just said with logic or evidence or even human decency, but, dammit, I didn't intend to actually stand by or support my comment anyway. I just wanted to say it.
2. It is what it is. This one has several uses, but the most common definition seems to be, "Yes, I know that is unfair, immoral or obnoxious, but I don't really care." Indeed.
3. Doh! Is that show even still on tv?
4. Whatever. Another teen favorite, better left in the 1980s where it belongs. And whatevs doesn't even bear thinking about.
5. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. So now you want the rest of us to share your nausea. How nice.
6. Piss-shit on that! Okay, no one hears this one except me, but I can't figure out how to convince Mom that it's not an actual curse word. I'm also getting tired of Screw-off!
7. It was epic! Or any variation thereof. Look, if on your weekend you did not visit the underworld or stick a spear in someone or invoke your version of the muses in blank verse, then whatever happened last night was not epic. And what happens tomorrow won't be either, dammit.
8. With all due respect... If you had any actual respect, you wouldn't say whatever you're planning to say next. And if I don't mean to offend anyone, but ever leaves your lips, just go stick your head in a pail of water because your next words are going to be told and retold in "what not to say" conversations for years.
9. That awkward moment when...you start bleeding all over my floor because I had to smack the living daylights out of you for saying that awkward moment when. (Okay, I wouldn't really hit you. But I'd be thinking about it.)
10. Want. (with or without an exclamation point). I suppose the author is trying to convey some kind of primitive desperate need and desire, but it just sounds to me like they've forgotten how to use personal pronouns. Some people even like to string these little fragments together for emphasis: Want. Coffee. Now. Fine, fine, creative use of punctuation, but it's gotten trite and annoying, and it's time for the complete sentence to make a heroic comeback. Possibly an epic one.
Some Random Medievalists at Kalamazoo (finally!)
My many apologies to those of you who kindly posed for me at Kalamazoo this year and have been waiting with baited breath for your visage to appear on this blog. At last, I have resolved my difficulties with the iCloud, and I'm sure an agent will be phoning you up this week.
Tom Burton Someone else (please, someone, send me a name!) of the Chaucer Studio, where one can buy a multitude of different performances of Middle English (and other medieval language) texts.
Michelle Sauer, eminent professor from the University of North Dakota, who almost let me die in a cab this spring, but whose book on the Lesbian Premodern, which I received in the mail this week, is cool enough to make up for it.
This grinning gent is Christopher M. Roman from Kent State University-Tuscarawas, and I'm damned lucky I took a photo of his badge so that I could learn to spell that.
These ladies should contact me because I lost their names, but they are part of the Goliardic Society that sells us our t-shirts, mugs and sundry items every spring so I couldn't leave them out. Where else can you buy shirts that pun in multiple medieval languages?
Sandra Sadowski of Medievalists.net seems a bit reluctant to pose for me, but she could be reacting to the wine.
And here isBrian Gaskell, who is not at all reluctant, but then again he's member of the John Gower Society, and you can't trust those guys at all. Rick McDonald, who is more trustworthy than he looks and certainly more so than my memory on a morning when I have had no coffee.
Finally, I'd like to apologize to Susannah Chewning, as I took multiple photos of her, but every single one of them turned out too blurry to post. Either she's too quick for me, or she's a vampire. Either way, one doesn't mess with Susannah.
Michelle Sauer, eminent professor from the University of North Dakota, who almost let me die in a cab this spring, but whose book on the Lesbian Premodern, which I received in the mail this week, is cool enough to make up for it.
This grinning gent is Christopher M. Roman from Kent State University-Tuscarawas, and I'm damned lucky I took a photo of his badge so that I could learn to spell that.
These ladies should contact me because I lost their names, but they are part of the Goliardic Society that sells us our t-shirts, mugs and sundry items every spring so I couldn't leave them out. Where else can you buy shirts that pun in multiple medieval languages?
Sandra Sadowski of Medievalists.net seems a bit reluctant to pose for me, but she could be reacting to the wine.
And here is
Finally, I'd like to apologize to Susannah Chewning, as I took multiple photos of her, but every single one of them turned out too blurry to post. Either she's too quick for me, or she's a vampire. Either way, one doesn't mess with Susannah.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Dissed by the Bloggess
I have been dissed by the Bloggess. Why, Jenny, why?
You see, I tried to add a comment to the post she made that I referred to in my last post. This one: http://thebloggess.com/2012/06/author-unknown/.
It's been two whole days, and my comment has not appeared. I'm pretty sure that means it was rejected, which means the Bloggess has dissed me.
I'm really bummed about this.
See, originally, one of her list of author-unknown quotations with commentary looked like this:
"'It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home.' Edgar Allen Poe would disagree."
Funny, right? But you, my dear readers, can see the problem, yes? It should be "Edgar Allan Poe," instead. Allan, not Allen. So I added a comment and proposed the theory that Poe kept writing about death and blood and bloody death because of years of abusive misspelling of his name. I mean, was that rude? I guess you could say so, because The Bloggess is not only funnier than I am, but she's much more popular and who really cares whether you spell Poe's name Allan or Allen?
Well, I care, dammit. And someone has to stand up for the rights of dead nineteenth century authors, right? Right?
Anyway, I looked through the other comments, comments that weren't rejected, and apparently what I was supposed to do is add an "author unknown" quotation of my own with a witty response. Like so, perhaps:
"A rose by any other name is spelled the same." Unless you have the bad luck to be named Edgar Allan Poe, bitches!
So maybe my comment was rejected because it wasn't phrased in the form of an imitation.
On the other hand, there is apparently another commentator who signs in as "Natalie," and she writes: "When did 110% become the new 100%? Especially considering that 110% is mathematically impossible. If you want me to wear 27 pieces of flair, make the requirement 27 pieces of flair instead of 15 pieces of flair."
If the Bloggess thinks that we're the same Natalie, just using two different e-mail addresses, then maybe she was horrified that the same person would correct her spelling in one comment and make her do math in another. And I have to agree that this would be over the top. But she posted Math Natalie's comment, so I can only conclude that Math Natalie is funnier than I am or better at promoting the values of mathiness on the internet (as opposed to proper spelling on the internet which no one cares about, obviously) because she did not get dissed the way I did.
I have to tell you, Math Natalie, I'm feeling a little resentful right now.
Then, today, I went back and looked at the comments again, hoping that The Bloggess was just running behind in approving comments, and my patience would be rewarded. And do you know what I found? The Bloggess's post now reads:
"'It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home.' Edgar Allan Poe would disagree."
What?! The spelling has been corrected! And is there a thank you note on the blog? Does my comment with its witty suggestion that Poe was depressed due to rampant orthographical abuse of his name appear on the page? No, it does not! Poe's name is now spelled correctly, and I was not given any credit!
WTF, Bloggess? Did I just imagine that Poe's name was spelled Allen on your blog originally? It's possible, I suppose. I imagine a lot of crazy things, and I have been having that dream about being attacked by sentient grapefruit again. Or maybe all of my students, past and present, descended upon The Bloggess's page, chanting Allan, Allan, Allan! and Jenny was so terrified of these hordes of spelling experts that she didn't dare to post any of their comments, just quietly capitulating and hoping no one would notice.
Actually, that would be pretty cool.
Hordes of my former students marching on the blogosphere, dictionaries in hand, intimidating popular bloggers into changing every "That's so cliche" to "That's so clichéd" and issuing warnings for the rampant misuse of the semi-colon: Goddess, what a beautiful image. I would be much less bummed about being dissed by The Bloggess if I could produce a my own horde.
The Learning Outcomes for my fall classes just got a whole lot more exciting.
You see, I tried to add a comment to the post she made that I referred to in my last post. This one: http://thebloggess.com/2012/06/author-unknown/.
It's been two whole days, and my comment has not appeared. I'm pretty sure that means it was rejected, which means the Bloggess has dissed me.
I'm really bummed about this.
See, originally, one of her list of author-unknown quotations with commentary looked like this:
"'It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home.' Edgar Allen Poe would disagree."
Funny, right? But you, my dear readers, can see the problem, yes? It should be "Edgar Allan Poe," instead. Allan, not Allen. So I added a comment and proposed the theory that Poe kept writing about death and blood and bloody death because of years of abusive misspelling of his name. I mean, was that rude? I guess you could say so, because The Bloggess is not only funnier than I am, but she's much more popular and who really cares whether you spell Poe's name Allan or Allen?
Well, I care, dammit. And someone has to stand up for the rights of dead nineteenth century authors, right? Right?
Anyway, I looked through the other comments, comments that weren't rejected, and apparently what I was supposed to do is add an "author unknown" quotation of my own with a witty response. Like so, perhaps:
"A rose by any other name is spelled the same." Unless you have the bad luck to be named Edgar Allan Poe, bitches!
So maybe my comment was rejected because it wasn't phrased in the form of an imitation.
On the other hand, there is apparently another commentator who signs in as "Natalie," and she writes: "When did 110% become the new 100%? Especially considering that 110% is mathematically impossible. If you want me to wear 27 pieces of flair, make the requirement 27 pieces of flair instead of 15 pieces of flair."
If the Bloggess thinks that we're the same Natalie, just using two different e-mail addresses, then maybe she was horrified that the same person would correct her spelling in one comment and make her do math in another. And I have to agree that this would be over the top. But she posted Math Natalie's comment, so I can only conclude that Math Natalie is funnier than I am or better at promoting the values of mathiness on the internet (as opposed to proper spelling on the internet which no one cares about, obviously) because she did not get dissed the way I did.
I have to tell you, Math Natalie, I'm feeling a little resentful right now.
Then, today, I went back and looked at the comments again, hoping that The Bloggess was just running behind in approving comments, and my patience would be rewarded. And do you know what I found? The Bloggess's post now reads:
"'It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home.' Edgar Allan Poe would disagree."
What?! The spelling has been corrected! And is there a thank you note on the blog? Does my comment with its witty suggestion that Poe was depressed due to rampant orthographical abuse of his name appear on the page? No, it does not! Poe's name is now spelled correctly, and I was not given any credit!
WTF, Bloggess? Did I just imagine that Poe's name was spelled Allen on your blog originally? It's possible, I suppose. I imagine a lot of crazy things, and I have been having that dream about being attacked by sentient grapefruit again. Or maybe all of my students, past and present, descended upon The Bloggess's page, chanting Allan, Allan, Allan! and Jenny was so terrified of these hordes of spelling experts that she didn't dare to post any of their comments, just quietly capitulating and hoping no one would notice.
Actually, that would be pretty cool.
Hordes of my former students marching on the blogosphere, dictionaries in hand, intimidating popular bloggers into changing every "That's so cliche" to "That's so clichéd" and issuing warnings for the rampant misuse of the semi-colon: Goddess, what a beautiful image. I would be much less bummed about being dissed by The Bloggess if I could produce a my own horde.
The Learning Outcomes for my fall classes just got a whole lot more exciting.
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