Confessions of the Socially Awkward

I would so love to be one of those people who can walk into a crowded room, smile, speak intelligently (or at least endearingly), and leave a generally good impression. You know them--the little bursts of light and sound that everyone loves. They can keep a conversation in the air like it's a feather, while the rest of us have bricks falling on our heads.

I tend to walk into a social gathering half-hidden behind my husband, wearing a look usually seen only on the faces of terrified animals with large eyes, and I generally find that I have absolutely nothing to say to anyone, even if they are speaking to me and waiting for me to return some form of communication. My brain is screaming, "Speak! Say something...anything. Open your mouth!" but all I can do is smile and look nervous. Hopefully this comes across as shyness and not mild mental retardation.

I can stand up and give a speech, in front of hundreds if necessary, but put me in a room full of strangers--or even worse, acquaintances, and I will shrivel up and die within five minutes.

I am undoubtedly, perhaps incurably, socially awkward. My family always thought I was aloof, maybe a little snobbish. For a while during my college years I believed I could pass myself off as mysterious, but now I must face the truth: I belong in a cabin in the woods. I am the next Emily Dickinson, only without the poetic genius.

I should begin the blueprints for my hermitage immediately.

:)

Complicity and Convenience

"You have just dined, and however scrupulously the slaughterhouse is concealed in the graceful distance of miles, there is complicity."
--Ralph Waldo Emerson


I think I've always been a vegetarian at heart. Growing up, I wouldn't eat meat unless it was de-boned, fried, and virtually unrecognizable as animal flesh. One of my high school friend's parents would always tease me when I was over for dinner by assuring me that there were no bones in whatever meal we were about to consume: salad, pasta, chocolate cake. There has always been something unsettling to me about eating an animal, a being that breathes, moves, feels, and--yes--loves. It seemed to ago against my very nature, my own being.

I didn't become a vegetarian because I wanted to be healthier, though I certainly am now, but because my conscience could not bear the weight of so many innocent lives. I began to wake up in the night with dreams of animal slaughter, and finally decided to follow a truth I'd felt (often only subconsciously) for most of my life: that animals were not meant for my consumption, that they were not created to serve my appetite, that they were meant to be free beings, not slaves.

I have never been evangelistic about my vegetarianism. I have not handed out pamphlets, worn T-shirts, or preached in front of Burger King. I have not tried to convince anyone that they are going to hell for eating animals. But often when others find out that I am a vegetarian, they immediately put up their guard and begin to defend themselves, to express their opinions about animals in really obnoxious ways. I sometimes wonder if there is not a tiny speck of conscience that tells them they may be wrong, a speck of self-doubt. There must be.

If we eat meat, eggs, or dairy products, wear leather, fur, or wool, the truth is that we are complicit in a great deal of cruelty. I am guilty of much of it. (I too sport my wool jacket and love my cheesy lasagna.) Factory farming is a greedy, cruel, disgusting business that robs of animals of dignity and a natural existence. If you picture your beef coming from happy cows on a family farm, you are mistaken. Factory farm animals are brutalized, live their entire lives in spaces so small they cannot even turn around, and are often fully conscious when their feathers are boiled off, their hide is skinned, parts of their bodies are lopped off. I am a vegetarian because I cannot bear the thought of being complicit in the torture and horrible death of innocent animals.

I think it is a tragedy to never question these things because it may be inconvenient to you. You may have to start buying cage-free eggs or organic milk, or buying organic meat--God forbid. You may not be able to scarf down a Big Mac quite so blithely. We are happy to think that we are nice to animals, that we would never torture and murder them, but we are as complicit in their deaths as the slaughterhouse workers, as the greedy business owners and factory farmers.

Gandhi said that "the greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated." Abraham Lincoln expressed similar sentiments. If this is the case, America is probably the most depraved country in the world. We consume most of the world's resources, and it has been said that the grain we feed to our farm animals would be sufficient to end world hunger. This may be an oversimplification, but there is truth there. Is a steak really worth so much pollution and waste and suffering? I can't imagine so.

I am still considering my own complicity in the suffering of God's creatures. I regret my new wool coat; I want to give up any non-organic dairy products. I want to be more careful about the cosmetic and cleaning products I buy, know exactly what's in my vitamins...I want to care enough to do all I can to alleviate the sufferings of others, to be inconvenienced for the sake of mercy. Jesus wasn't a vegetarian, but I bet if he lived in today's horror land of factory farming he would be.

Fire Drill Thrill

It is Thursday. This has been a gray, rainy, boring week. I have sat at my desk with my little desk lamp, falling asleep into endless pages of questions like "O my love is like a red, red rose is an example of what literary device?," with only the occasional quip from my sarcastic co-workers, a siren wailing in the street, or an argument over whether nouns preceding gerunds need to be made possessive to resurrect me from hideous and unrelenting boredom. 4:30 should be a joyful acclamation of freedom, but then I have the ungodly traffic of 21st Avenue to contend with.

The most exciting thing happened today, though: we had a fire drill, which required our entire floor to empty out into the rainy cold street, huddling under umbrellas, a dentist's office awning, or just letting the rain soak through. It was delightful. Seriously, my department is so boring that this was the highlight of our month. I actually felt a little giddy.

I thought back to a few months ago, when I was a preschool teacher herding my classroom of 3 year olds outside for our first fire drill. Of course, one kid was barefoot, another was wearing rubber boots from the dramatic play center, and the classroom princess slipped and sullied her bright yellow dress. We made it to our safe place, though, and they all looked up at me with their big, worried eyes. I was very grateful that the fire wasn't real.

Today I might not have minded. The warmth might melt the ice off my windshield.

Winter in Nashville as a standardized test editor is killing my soul.

Home

I sometimes forget how much truth there is in fiction. Or how much there can be. Today I stayed home from work (sick) and finished up Marilynne Robinson's newest novel, Home. Throughout the book I kept thinking how it couldn't come close to Gilead, her Pulitzer prize winner; I love that book so much, as almost everyone who has read it does. It is gorgeously written, so full of poignant, unbelievably beautiful moments and stunning writing. It is the most delightful book I have ever read. So I was prepared to be disappointed by Home.

I wasn't at all. It was a completely different experience than Gilead, a much more painful one, but moving and wonderful in its own way. I wept through the last ten pages as if weeping for my own life--that's how real the characters were, how believable and lovable. But they were also universal, all of us, people I know. I understood my own father and brother better than I ever have before by reading this book; in 325 pages I learned more about them than I probably ever could in a face to face conversation. In a fictional story set in a fictional place I found truth about my own family, the people I love. Isn't that amazing? This is why we read fiction; this is why we return again and again to the written word, to stories, to stories real enough to break our hearts and make us weep for ourselves, for our families, for all people. This is literature at its best...making us more human.

So yes, add Gilead and Home to your reading list.

Just Another Mundane Moment

I locked my keys in my car today, and, of course, I don't have a spare. (Getting a spare made has been on the mental to-do list for about two years now.) I was at church and we had all just said our final "Thanks be to God" when I realized that I had left my keys in my purse, which was tucked safely under the seat of my car. Thanks be to God. We had to call a locksmith and stand outside in the breezy cold to wait for him and then shell out 60 bucks for the ordeal. Normally in such a scenario I would cry, panic, and have a melt down, but today I actually thought it was kind of funny. I just thought, "Hey, my first time calling a locksmith."

If only I could handle every setback in life so graciously. I seem to think that life is supposed to be very smooth and uneventful, and that things like car trouble and broken bones shouldn't happen to me. I'm always so shocked when they do, and so distraught. But I'm learning that setbacks and hard times are just part of living, part of being a human being. Usually they pass and we don't think too much about them later on, but in the moment the smallest difficulty can seem so overwhelming. Really though, as I look back at all the catastrophes of my short life I see that God was always working things out for me, helping me, making a useful lesson or at least a funny story out of all those events. Often, difficulties in my life seem to be opportunities to see goodness and mercy in others: The time my car broke down in the middle of nowhere and a family picked me up and took me to their house, where I played with their kids and talked to their cows and ate dinner with them until my family could come to my rescue. The time I couldn't raise enough money for a mission trip and someone wrote me a thousand dollar check. There have been tears that led to friendships, confessed sins that led to trust and solidarity, miscommunication that led to understanding. Life's greatest disappointments have generally formed my character, made me more compassionate, doused my pride with the cold water of reality, shaped my spirituality, and led me deeper inside myself, helping me to find my true self.

So perhaps "Thanks be to God" isn't just empty sarcasm, but a wry prayer for grace to trust that God is good and that every moment of our lives matters--even the mundane one, the irksome one, the painful one. If Christ is in us, then every circumstance is an opportunity for Christ to teach us, or at least to embrace us, to share with us, to remain with us, to love us.

Is it Spring Yet?

I have wanted very much for autumn to stay, but, alas, winter is swiftly approaching. The glorious fall colors are fading fast and the bare shivery tree limbs are taking their place. And it's getting dark at 4.30pm, which is almost unbearable to me. If I had one wish right now it would be to skip winter. I mean, just skip right over it into springtime. Glorious spring.

Then again, I didn't even really know what spring was until I had my first real winter in Oxford. I spent almost 4 months trudging several miles a day through rain, snow, and cold, so when spring showed up I really knew it was there. One day I was walking through the park on my way to the library when I suddenly noticed yellow...flowers! It was like an epiphany: "Oh, so this is spring. I see." It was so life-giving to watch the trees begin to blossom, the flowers to bloom, the heavy coats to disappear. Ah, spring. It was like that scene from The Chronicles of Narnia in which Aslan brings the winter-cursed Narnia back to life: like God's breath had melted all the snow and brought flowers straight up from the earth in a whole palette of brilliant colors. Magnificent. I certainly left England on a happy note.

So Winter. Here it comes. Cold, dark, windshield-iced winter. But after winter has its frosty stay, the earth will wake up again, the flowers will put on their tutus and prance in the sunshine, the world will be bright and beautiful and eager once more.

And so will my little Floridian heart.

Reflections on Confirmation

John and I were confirmed yesterday. We're officially Episcopalian. It's funny--even just four years ago I wouldn't have imagined myself in a denominational church, much less the Episcopal Church. But we change, life changes us, and so it is. I have certainly found a home there, a stabilizing connection. I find it hard to believe how whole I feel these days.

The confirmation ceremony was not quite as daunting as I'd imagined; I had been a bit nervous about the bishop and his hat. Even though I appreciate high church and have no problem with the ceremonial garments, that hat just gets to me. But I saw a kind and smiling face underneath the hat, which I think I've decided I like after all, if only for its amusing qualities.

John and I attended a month-long Inquirers' Course prior to being received. Throughout the whole class I thought that Father Rick was referring to all of us who were to be confirmed as "contrabands" and secretly wondered what the meaning of this strange term might be. I didn't realize until yesterday morning when I looked at the order of service that Rick had actually been saying "confirmands." I'm glad I didn't ask why I was illegal.

So I've been thinking about the process of confirmation, what it means to be received into a body of people. I think I've always thought of church in social terms, as a family, which it is; but it is also, somehow, mystically Christ's own body. Every time we celebrate Holy Eucharist we are reminded of this: that Christ is present with us in our own bodies, and in those we share communion with. We who are many are one because we all share one bread, one cup.

I don't know why, but these words of Mary Oliver come to me now:

Of course I have always known you
are present in the clouds, and the
black oak I especially adore, and the
wings of birds. But you are present
too in the body, listening to the body,
teaching it to live, instead of all
that touching, with disembodied joy.

My reception into the Episcopal Church was an event and a commitment, but more than that it is a reminder to me of my life that is hidden with Christ, where God is; of my true self; of Christ dwelling in me, loving me, teaching me, and helping me to live a life that is truly reconciled to God and aligned with the core message of the gospel.

Because they were 2 for a dollar/ I steal sandwich ideas from overpriced shops so I don't have to spend money there anymore

Have you ever SEEN the inside of a pomegranate?

Weird. And fabulous. I'm quite smitten actually.

Also, need a new sandwich idea? Bored with your carnivorous ways? Try this:

7 grain or flaxseed bread (or any fancy stuff)
Mango chutney
Gouda cheese
Avocado
Alfalfa sprouts
lettuce (if you've got room left)

And this is why vegetarians should run the country.

:)

All Saints' Day

Yesterday was All Saints' Day, which we celebrated today at St. David's. I wish everyone would celebrate this lovely feast day instead of Halloween, which gives me the heebie-jeebies. I enjoyed the lectionary readings, the new altar linen, and the sermon that included a shout-out to that fabulous Julian of Norwich. (I love the Episcopal Church.) Plus, we bought some Pan de Muerto (Bread of the Dead), which was quite tasty. I also learned that my patron saint is St. Vincent of Saragossa, a Spanish deacon and martyr who was tortured to death on account of his fearless, fiery manner when he spoke on behalf of his bishop who had a speech impediment. They had been dragged to prison during a time of persecution; the bishop was exiled and Vincent was sentenced to death. I thought that this was quite appropriate for my patron saint. According to Catholic lore, his body was thrown to the vultures, but a raven guarded it; next, they had it thrown into the ocean, but it washed up on shore and was properly buried by a pious widow.

The Episcopal church doesn't believe in praying to saints, but they do like to honor and remember them, which I think is a good thing for the church to be doing. After all, isn't the Universal church inclusive of those who sleep, who live, and who are not yet born? It is comforting for me to think of my life linked with so many others--"we who are many are one body because we all share one bread, one cup." So many lives connected throughout time and eternity, all children of God, members of Christ's body, and members of one another. It makes me glad to be a Christian. It also compels me to make my life worthwhile, to use the gifts God has given me, to live out the gospel that has become so dear to me.

youth, innocence, and naïveté

Spending my teenage years surrounded by a warm church family that really believed in young people and valued their contributions to the church, society, and the world, I never thought less of myself for being young and idealistic, for being trusting and perhaps a bit too naive. In youth group we were taught that we could make a difference in others' lives, that we could "change the world." We were all about it, too: mission trips, outreaches, rallies. The older people in the faith always invited us to be a part of the "grown up" life of the church. I remember being asked to speak at ladies' meetings, preach at events, lead important groups. I felt very affirmed in my youthfulness; I believed that it was a beautiful and worthwhile time in my life.

Then I went to a Christian college where it was pretty much the same. I was rarely doubted or made to feel inferior, never condescended to because of my idealism or innocence. I just thought that innocence--voluntary innocence, I mean, the innocence that you choose even though you know how ugly the world can be--would be respected and appreciated.

And then I joined the real world. I have never in my life felt so young. When my new co-workers found out my age, they actually laughed. They make sure I know that I am a cute little girl. I get to hear about their breakups and divorces, their failed dreams, their bitter disregard for any possibility of kindness. And I feel how young I am, how trusting and sincere. And how little value the world sees in those qualities.

I'm not an oblivious little angel--I mean, I'm a little theologically and politically liberal; people don't apologize when they swear in front of me anymore (for which I'm very grateful); I'm not blind to how horrible life can be--but I do still think of myself as very innocent, and I don't see anything wrong with it. I don't trust the government; I'm scared to leave my apartment at night; I give all strange men the "I'm a bitch--don't even look at me" vibe whenever necessary. But I still trust people; I still believe that there are things like goodness and mercy, hospitality, community, honesty, integrity.

I was crushed this week when I had a traumatic dentist visit. I unthinkingly expected the dentist to do her job and to treat me like a human being; she did neither. I wasn't really as horrified by the gigantic hole she left in my tooth as by her uncaring and thoughtless conduct towards me. I complained about it to someone I work with and was told, "You're young. You're naive." And she's right. I was horrified by this experience because I deeply believe that people in the medical profession should care about their patients more than their pay checks.

Mostly though, I realize this difference between myself and others when it comes to love. I married a kind, thoughtful, gentle man who adores me. I believe in love; I believe in marriage forever; I believe that it is possible to share your life with one person as long as you live. I've also only been married for 6 months. I don't share these opinions at work because I know what I'll hear: "You're young. You're naive. Just give it a few years."

So often, the young ones are the wise ones. The ones who know how to live. If being a woman of the world means being bitter and burned-out, you can forget it. I'll take childlike innocence any day. I wrote an essay about my summer camp kids for a writing class last semester, which I think sums this whole discussion up nicely. Here's a little piece of it:

They teach me to live a freer, closer, kinder life—closer to the small things, more aware of the vast expanse of being; they show me how to care about rocks and leaves and spider webs; to be curious; to be struck with awe at the world. They remind me of the great wonder that is a human soul, remind me with their fragile, tremulous personalities that life is precious, beautiful, and a gift, even when it’s difficult. I no longer look back at my own childhood with nostalgia, mourning the loss of my innocence; in these children I’ve found a second innocence, a holy wonder I can only call grace. I find myself talking to flowers and stars, greeting the moon each night, finding joy in ladybugs and lizards and tales of dragons, in the feel of sunshine on my skin, the touch of another person’s hand, the sight of water pooled in droplets on the grass and trees after rain… My summer camp kids have helped me to see and to love these things, and to live as they do—simply, sweetly, with eyes like a little child’s.

There is a writer who talks about the second innocence--Annie Dillard? I can't remember. It's a chosen innocence, not even one you're born with. It's a choice to keep yourself unsullied; to live outside of the greed and the selfishness and the bitterness that make up most adults' lives. It doesn't mean you don't see the world's pain, its destructive sin, the possibility that it will chew you up and spit you out. You see that, but you choose to live inside of a greater truth. You choose grace, mercy, kindness, a life in the spirit. You choose to hope, to trust, and to love.

Perhaps innocence is wisdom after all.

Tuesday Blues

There are some things in life that are so utterly lonesome.

Tonight, driving home after working a little late, I found myself (as usual) in an endlessly long line of traffic, watching the light go green to yellow to red five times before my car made it to the intersection. The sun was going down and the sky was pale yellow; everyone's headlights were glaring. Everyone looked bored out of their minds and irritable, in their plush cars and SUVs. Everyone was inching along, cutting each other off, honking--but mostly just sitting and waiting and wanting to get home. It seemed like there were a thousand of us, even just at that one intersection, but it still felt so lonely, so empty, so cold.

Another Tuesday in Nashville.

Please spell the words on my tombstone correctly.

Today I actually corrected a cereal box. I mean, I took out the blue ink pen and wrote in a comma and a hyphen and crossed out a period. I wish this neurotic demand for correct grammar and punctuation would cross over into clean-house-neurosis. I am happy to report, however, that following my latest confession I actually cleaned my house--and very nicely and sweetly asked John to mop. :)

While we're on the subject of punctuation and grammar, however, I just feel the need to get a few pet peeves off my chest (because I know that you are all as excited about correct usage as I am):

1. The use of its and it's--I know this is a tricky concept for people and that even the most educated make this mistake, but it really gets to me. It's translates to "it is" (as in "Boy, it's annoying when people use it's wrong) and its is used to show possession (The naked tree misses its leaves). There is no such thing as its'.

2. Unnecessary apostrophes--Everyone has seen the signs: Photo's taken here. Bananas' on sale today. This is probably my biggest pet peeve. I want to scream when I see these signs; I want to go up to their creators and demand an explanation for those apostrophes. Why are they there? What purpose do they serve? Ahhh!

3. The gradual disappearance of punctuation from the English language-- I realize that things have to change. Once upon a time, all nouns were capitalized instead of only proper, and everyday words like "today" were hyphenated (to-day)--and I think we will all agree that our evolution away from such practices brought good and necessary changes. However, why don't people use commas like they used to? And what's happened to the good old semi-colon, anyway? And let's not even talk about the fate of the hyphen...

Okay, that's probably enough complaining for one day. Thanks so much for indulging my fantasy that other people actually care to hear my grammar grievances. God will surely bless you.

Much of this is due to my own pent-up rage against illiteracy, but I've also been reading the fabulous book Eats, Shoots, and Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation by Lynne Truss, which has surely only served to exacerbate my punctuation perfection issues. She's much worse of a punctuation nazi than I am, although I must say I wish she used more commas. She seems to be a follower of the fewer -commas- the- better rule. Alas.

I would like to end with a nicely-written sentence about writing, which I like for the semi-colons and the colon and dislike for for the unnecessary comma splice and sexist language. But, hey, who am I to judge the quote-worthy?


"It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop." ~Vita Sackville West

Domestic Confessions

I am a terrible housekeeper.

I have not mopped the floor since John's parents visited last, which I think was a few months ago.

The only thing I can stay on top of is laundry, and that's only because I like to fold towels.

Our apartment is decorated much more poorly than a guy's college dorm room, and there is a mountain bike in our kitchen.

There are bags of plastic recycling piling up in the living room which I've been planning to cart to the recycling place for months.

Upon opening, I immediately stick every bill, letter, card, or flyer into an overstuffed basket on the kitchen table. John regularly fishes out receipts and other important bits of information.

Everything is dusty.

I'm supposed to be doing the dishes right now, but they are "soaking."

I didn't realize how bad things were until John and I were discussing my interest in getting a rabbit from the Nashville Bunny Rescue. The conversation went something like this:
"Are you going to clean out its cage?"--John.
"Of course I will!"--me.
"We can't even keep our apartment clean."--John.
"Oh."--me.

Bunnies might have to wait.

I really don't know how this happened. In college I was a neat freak: I made my bed every day, alphabetized the poetry section of my bookshelf, color-coordinated my closet. My roommate was a clutter bug and nearly made me crazy with clothes on the floor, papers scattered everywhere, dishes left in the sink.

Alas, the tables have turned. At least I'm enough of a feminist to know that this doesn't reflect upon my intrinsic worth as a human being. And I never forget to water our bamboo.

Still, God help us.

Ramblings on Writers and Writing

Yesterday, John and I took the bus to downtown Nashville for the 15th annual Southern Festival of Books, a gathering for writers, publishers, book sellers, and book lovers. There were tents set up with books on sale, chances to meet the authors, different organizations for writers, etc. There were also book talks, special speakers, and book signings. Unfortunately, John and I failed to locate a program until we were leaving to catch our bus, so we missed all the good speakers, including Sherman Alexie, which was a real shame. However, I did talk John into a watermelon snowcone and a children's book reading by the author of The Knot Fairy, The Sock Fairy, and other fairy tales. Poor John was, of course, bored out of his mind, but I thought the reading was delightful.

One thing I noticed at the festival was how ordinary the writers we met were. I'm not sure what I was expecting...Jaques Derrida? Edgar Allen Poe? They were just very ordinary people who wanted to share their books with the world (and get paid for it). One very elderly woman told me all about her children's book Too Tall Alice, walking me through the whole idea and plot with so much tenderness for her dear little book. I felt like a jerk to put it back on the table and move on. She really loved that book.

I guess I'm writing this to say to all of you secretly and publicly aspiring writers: go for it! Write your books and poems and stories and blogs. Perhaps the ordinariness of life has a bigger part to play in writing well than I've realized. Perhaps being ordinary is what actually makes us good writers. I think that what makes ordinary writers exceptional is the ability to find the holy in the every day, to find beauty and meaning in laundry and dishes and stinky diapers, in the schedules and setbacks and monotony of things, in ordinary life. My very best college professor, Dr. Cotton, always says that he likes good writers better than great writers, which mostly I think means that he likes the writers who are ordinary people, not the geniuses. He likes the Mary Olivers, the Lucille Cliftons, the Raymond Carvers. Good writers are those who capture life as it is, who tell the truth about things in a beautiful way, who make us see the world as if for the first time.

I think I've been afraid to write because I fear that I won't be Virginia Woolf; I won't be Mary Oliver; I won't write the Pulitzer Prize winning piece of literary greatness. What if my writing turns out to be a Wal-mart clearance shelf book? (Shudder.) I guess that's the risk you have to take when you're writing; the risk that you won't be as good as you thought or hoped; that your book will be ignored or criticized; that no literary magazine in the entire world will want to publish your work, much less pay you for it.

Josh Ritter has a song with a line that says, "God, have mercy on the man who sings to be adored." I think that's true for writers too. You can't write for publication, for hope of being the next Denise Levertov. You have to write for the love of it, for the need of it. For the same reasons that you pray and work and live.

Braniac

My seven year old nephew called tonight to ask me how many words are in the English language and how long it would take a person to write all of them. And he really, sincerely expected me to know the answers.

It's nice to have someone think you're that smart. :)

"Mankind"

Did anyone else notice that Sarah Palin kept saying "mankind" during her debate with Joe Biden the other night? I had a stack of freshly laundered, rolled-up socks at hand and I chunked one at the television screen every time she said it. (I had to clean up my living room after the debate.)

I mean, she's a woman running for vice-president. She, of all people, should know better. The archaic language was worse than the winking.

I don't know which I hate worse: getting a letter addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. John Orzechowski" or hearing a well-educated person refer to the collective human society as mankind.

Read a grammar & usage handbook, for God's sake.

Life in Nashville.

I haven't been writing much lately. I have been working and reading the non-fiction of some very good women writers and enjoying being a newly wed. Most recently I have been spending eight hours a day reading, answer reviewing, and critiquing the Language Arts portions of standardized tests. It's my new job. I like it better than trying to keep 11 three-year olds under control or writing articles for a cheesy fundamentalist website. I don't come home with funny kid stories or paint on my shoes anymore, but now I can at least stay awake until 9.30pm. I get to find other people's mistakes, which I am very good at; my boss put a hanging plant over my desk that bears an uncanny resemblance to my hair; and I get to tell people that I work for the Discovery Channel, even though I don't actually.

Plus, it's fall now and I'm not in Florida, so that means I get to wear my fashionless brown cardigan that my college roommate said makes me look like a librarian.

Life is good.