tuckova

brought to you by the letter F

FRIENDS & FAMILY: Summer vacation is absolutely THE BEST. I want Squire home all the time. He's working on changing his screenplay into a short story or something. I don't know. He has summer goals. He makes me laugh every day. And Friar and I talk about nearly everything and I'm so glad to have known him so long and still be so blown away by everything he knows. Last night he was talking about Konrad Lorenz and summer pub behavior and I actually rested my chin on my hands and looked at him raptly. We're our own little enclave these days, inside this ghost town. Nearly all my other friends are out of town and we write or text each other but I have nobody who wants to meet me at the beer garden for like, maybe the rest of the month? It is kind of lonely.

FICTION: Loved Gilead. Not crazy about Good Scent from a Strange Mountain. Started reading Summer of Caprice last night and it was just about perfect for my mood, a little surrealist Czechish thing. Still working through Watership Down with Squire.

FUN: Oh the sun the sun the sun! It is lovely. Although I think the naked boys next door moved out (or maybe went on vacation) because there was a lady over there cleaning all the windows (YAY!) and then all the curtains were drawn (BOO!) and not a sign of them. We have ants and that is our only guest. The cottage is kind of awesome, though. These birds built a nest in the broken-down porch, and it's been fun watching her brood and now the parents both fetching worms for the babies. They seem to not mind us very much, though we do try to be a bit quieter around them (I guess, if they had the whole forest behind them and they built on the peoplehouse, that's what they get).

FLICKR: I have some pictures up on Flickr. Talk to me; how are you doing?

please see your doctor regularly

Today I found out that I do not have cancer. It was highly unlikely that I did, but the two weeks I was waiting for test results were pretty awful for me and probably anybody who had to listen to me. So that was a relief. I quickly moved beyond being relieved, which makes sense, to being pissed at myself and really embarrassed. I feel things very intensely but I'm generally a fairly level-headed person, and this crazy amount of dread, and the crazy if/then hamster wheel I put myself on, and my near-surreal need for reassurance felt like a betrayal of my character by... myself. Either it's bad or it isn't, but the two weeks while you wait for the results are not an appropriate time to freak out. Freak out after the results are bad, or better yet don't freak out at all. You know? It was stupid. It was like somehow if I worried enough I could influence the results? It's not that kind of test though, and anyway I am not a great holder of breath. Anyway, I'm fine. I am shifting myself back to relief, which is the more appropriate emotion, and to continued resolutions to take care of myself as if I were my best friend and not secretly a lunatic. I got home and painted my face up to see what I would look like when I get old. Deep frowny bits sure, but also I've already got some pretty good laugh lines already going on. It was not unhopeful. Then I forgot to take the makeup off before Squire came home, so he had kind of a surprise, there.

The Editor's Dilemma

IN THE HIDDEN CHAMBER OF OUR INTIMACY ALL PROS AND CONS MINGLE.

A writer writes something. Next, an editor edits it, eliminating grammatical and factual errors and usually tightening the style if needed. The text then goes to a translator, whose job is to translate the text. A final editor (me!) then makes sure that the text is as natural sounding as possible in the target language.

THE FAMOUS TIGHTROPE WALKER HOUDINI WOULD SPREAD HIS ARMS.

The translator’s dilemma is the challenge that a translator faces when needing to relay something from one language that does not translate exactly or even smoothly. A joke is lost; do you “make up for it” later? How can you convey a stylistic flourish? Do cultural activities get explanations?

 

TIME SEEMS TO STAND STILL TILL MY HISTORY COMES ALIVE.

The particular translator's dilemma that I’ve been thinking about this week is the one that happens when for some reason the source language editor has not done their job. This is sometimes not because the editor did a bad job, but because the writer did not feel the need for an editor at all.

 

I WOULD ASSEMBLE IT THE WAY FIRST ANTHROPOLOGISTS WOULD ASSEMBLE SKELETON OF MESOZOIC SAURIANS.

The dilemma is this: What if the writer is a poor writer; what if the text is error-ridden in the extreme? Is the translator's job to make sure the writer's work is reproduced as faithfully as possible?  to make text sound as good as it can? to make the text easier for the reader? Is the translator's duty to the writer, or to the text, or to the reader?

 

SHE IMPERSONATES THE HEAVENLY AND HELLISH BEAUTY.

The language editor's dilemma is the same song at a different pitch. It IS an editor's job to fix factual, grammatical, and stylistic errors. The problem is, when the text gets to the translator, it should already have been cleared of error in the source text, and the language editor should really only be worrying about such stylistic changes as are necessary to make the text sound natural in the target language. Should.

 

IT TESTS TRESPASSING INTRUDERS IN AN INNOCUOUS FOREPLAY.

But. I just got done editing a book that had so many errors it was almost funny. I decided to go at it as the first editor should have done, which meant a lot of research. It turns out that I enjoyed it (the research part) a lot more than I’d expected. I turned in a text that was reasonably accurate, grammatically correct, and stylistically still a reasonable reflection of the writer. I feel a little morally conflicted, because the English version doesn’t align with the original as it should, which is beyond the call, but I felt I had to do it that way. I’m not even sure if I was appropriately loyal to the readers, who have now been robbed of some pretty funny stuff. However, since it was too good to throw it all away, I have given you a little taste of the meal.

 

HEROD WASHED HIS HANDS.

facts are simple and facts are straight

Hi! Hi! What's up with you? What's up with me is that I have TOO MUCH TIME and everything takes on this super-saturated intensity, and I forget that the world is in fact going on as usual and it's just I'm looking at it a bit funny. But anyway I thought maybe I should just say what's facts and not so much feelings.

Facts are that we've been going to the cottage a lot. Pulling nails out of old boards, lots of chainsawing, watching various flowers (planted and otherwise) pop up. The current focus is on the front porch, which was caving in because the previous owners built it on sand. I am not making this up. So the whole thing came down and now we will figure how to put it back up, this time not on sand. Lots of time spent in pubs, on the train, and at the dining room table with graph paper trying to figure out what to do. Graph paper and booze is a winning combination.

Facts are that I've been sick for almost two weeks. I'm so much better now, but I still can't walk about without a box of tissues in hand. This is somewhat complicated when there are abrupt pressure changes, which render me entirely useless on the best of days. On Saturday I spent most of the day in bed, drifting between sleep and a pile of New Yorkers, jumping up with a periodic flood of motivation only to sink back down as everything went black and starry. Sunday was better, but still not great: the one thing I nearly managed to accomplish (picking up a glass from the floor) was thwarted when I smashed my face into a nail. Good times.

Facts are that freelancing is going pretty well, actually better than I would have thought. I am able to put food on my family! That said, it turns out that marketingspeak is my chalkboard fingernails, and that I am also not terribly happy with art critiques, of which I currently have a book's worth to do. I love the translator and it's not hard work, it's just irritating. Last week I did a medical paper on yawning, which was fine text-wise, but lead to more napping than was probably strictly necessary. Coming up this week: a travelogue. You guys, if I don't get a simple "stereotactically-inserted somethingsomething in the cortex" soon, I'm going to scream. Yes: "It's not brain surgery" for me means something else: it means it's actually hard work.

Facts are that I've thrown the last two books I've read, which is not good. I'm thinking of a New Campaign, reading Pulitzer winners (exceptions: Do not have to read the egregious Kavalier and Clay again). This started as an idea to read all the Man Bookers, but then I realized I've hated more than half of the ones I read, echh. So: Pullet Surprises it is. If I take off the ones I've read already, I've still got some 70 books to read, so this becomes part of the five-year plan, clearly, because I am not one of those book-a-week geniuses.

Facts are that I feel sometimes as though I'm making no progress as a person, and then I remember how much I was crying this time last year, and I feel ready to launch my own self-help channel. Now: your turn.

three by three

Things that annoy:
people who use air quotes to convey their superiority
errors on government websites
my brain when insufficiently stimulated

Things that confound:
people who dance to a different rhythm than the one playing
taking the time to wonder instead of taking the time to find out
where the last hour went

Things that delight:
the mash-up of "It Wasn't Me" and "Let It Be"
20 minute naps
when you throw your head back to laugh

a wasted mouthful

We did our whirlwind rock star tour of California (I didn't take many pictures, sorry). We saw our first roller derby and it was awesome. We ate a lot of good food. I found out that Hendrick's gin is as good as its ad copy. I fell hard in love with otters and seahorses. I watched Golden Girls for the first time. I found out what the dot over the I is called in the course of losing (but not badly) at trivia night. I turbo-taxed. It was mostly very good.

On the road to Monterey, we passed a car on the side of the road. Two people were hugging beside the car. My first response was WHAT THE HELL? My sister and my son both said AWWW. This, along with their cute noses, blond hair, and general irresistibility,  none of which I share, is further evidence that I am basically raising my sister in boy form. I do not wish it any other way.

Now I'm home and singing "good morning, jet lag, here we go again..." to myself. I am sorry that I did not get a full vacation while we were there (two rush jobs) but I am grateful as anything to have today off so I can wander from room to room in a half-daze. I may glut myself on the New Yorker or on television for the whole day. Or both! Certainly I am staying in my jammies. It's just going to be that wacky.

I was planning to let Squire stay home after I woke up at four and found out that he had been up since three, but he insisted on going to school. Ah, school. We have not missed you at all.

Uhm, I got a really awesome contract (editing medical, marketing, and miscellaneous texts, mmmmmbop) with a Prestigious Hospital and I'm pretty excited about that.

I have felt more precious and more disposable in the last two weeks than I have in a year, and holding those two feelings at the same time is a level of dissonance that I generally try to avoid. It will pass, but probably not until I've watched an entire season of True Blood or something.

whoa welcome to February

The conversation with the principal about "Perhaps the school should alert parents to the fact that their kids are on facebook" did not go quite as planned, since for example he did not know that his own school has a facebook page. He thought I was warning him THERE IS PRON ON THE INTERNETS!! which I was actually on like, the fifth book in that series, but whatever: baby steps.

Last week there was also a conflict with the gym teacher; he apparently thought that we were making fun of him with our very politely worded "Please excuse Squire from the whole-class detention" letter. The guy has some respect issues, as do I, so we started at least with that in common. I was kind of outraged about the whole situation; Friar seemed to be afraid I was going to go in and actually kick the guy's teeth in. Apparently he didn't understand that I have to get really angry as a form of girding. Maybe it's my Cold War upbringing but my thought is that I need to be armed, not that I need to fire. Naturally when I went in there my intention was to make sure that we're all on the side of getting my child as well educated as possible. I was all California smiles and charm. My people skilz are unfathomable so now we're all best friends and stuff; I know all about his daughters and his cottage and his 10 year break from teaching and his blood pressure and alla that. And he has a better understanding of Squire, and wheee, job well done awesome high five to myself.

"Unemployment" (by which I mean: no longer collecting a steady predictable paycheck) is not really all that bad; I've got enough work coming to keep my devil's playthings busy. I do spend a lot of time reading and a lot of time looking up stupid crap that I have no actual interest in, and I watched the entire first season of GLEE in basically one sitting, but ehn, things are happening. The brain surgeons keep giving me work, and then fun little things along the way, like a job reading a book for a recording for blind people.

Yesterday Squire and I cleaned his room. It's basically the first time I've set foot in there since September (I call "goodnight" from the doorway, because whoa! he is messy.) I generally believe that you should be allowed to keep your own room, but like, not when you can barely open the door, so it was time for an intervention. FIVE HOURS, yo. Mostly because the archaeological significance of many things had to be appreciated for a few minutes, which my Pave The Earth housekeeping style does not understand and so I had to have frequent breaks to keep from screaming. But anyway, it got done.

I am distressed by people who do not understand LOLCATS grammar and try to make up their own, like they think it's just speaking English badly rather than any actual structure. Also irritated all out of proportion by people who "loveeeeeeee" things. It is a silent E; you are not emphasizing anything by typing it a dozen times. Yeah, so I'm going to go to Prague for a bit and take care of an actual baby until I can start thinking like a grown-up again. Wish for pretty weather for me! 

get a little warm in my heart when I think of winter

Hearty chortled greetings. How was your weekend? But first let me tell you about mine. Friar had been having recurring nightmares about the cottage. When I have nightmares about the cottage, I do not want to go there in case they might be true. When he has nightmares about the cottage, he has to go to be sure they are not true, so we bundled up and went to the cottage this weekend.

I believe - no, I admit - that at some point Squire made a face about the trip, and I hissed in his ear that I did not want to go, that I was going in order to be kind to Friar, that periodically we do things we don't like in order to be kind, and that the kindness is removed by our bitching about it, and I am going so he's going and I don't want another word about it. I do understand that my saying to him that I don't want to go is fundamentally no different from his saying that he doesn't want to go. I'm balancing my hypocrisy with a little self awareness. That could totally be my epitaph.

To be fair, the person who volunteered to be in charge of preparing and packing the food failed to prepare anything for me other than boiled eggs, which was a large factor in my dampened enthusiasm. Yes okay also we brought bell peppers and tomatoes, but for protein: boiled eggs. Mmmm, really, boiled eggs for lunch dinner and breakfast? That causes brisk rubbing of the anticipatory hands! And heart attacks!

It was 20 degrees below. Celsius, but still: that is cold. Fortunately we were bundled and had many, many pairs of extra socks. Mostly the whole weekend I couldn't get warm. Even when the inside of the cottage was a perfectly reasonable temperature I was generally under a pile of sleeping bags and doing Inward Moaning. However, we also played in the snow, which was very fluffy and unsuitable for snowballs. It was, however, very nice to run in and also to fall down in, which I did quite a bit. Squire made snow angels for his grandmother, who had mentioned them (city snow is unsuitable, as it can contain Surprises), and I took pictures. And that part was a lot of fun, and coming back to the toasty cottage after that part was also a lot of fun. And breaking out the wine and cigarettes and sitting down to play games with a now-crackling fire at our backs, watching the thermostat inside rise while the one outside fell, that was also also fun.

We played every game in the cottage at least once, dried our socks over the stove, and Squire and I started reading "A String in the Harp" (1970s Newbery book), which is very promising. I have some ideas about the 70s and children's literature in the 70s in particular, and the contrast between what Newbery winners reflect and what bestsellers reflect... but I'm really not probably qualified to expound on it without at least a bottle of wine tucked under my belt.

Anyway. How was your weekend? I hope it was also good.

front window

Dear Boys Across the Street,

Well, not boys. I assume that since you're living just two of you in those big rooms that you have incomes, and incomes usually mean jobs, and jobs mean some kind of grown-upedness, but now I am an old woman and any male this much younger than me is a boy. Anyway, dear boys:

Thank you so much for moving in. Thank you for being home pretty much whenever I am looking out the window in the evening. Thank you for dressing up to go out, or for staying home to have parties. Thank you for knowing that towels don't get you as dry as the air does. Thank you for having parties with beautiful girls, drunk already at 6 and everybody laughing to show all their teeth. Thank you for going out dancing. Thank you for dressing sharp. Thank you for not having curtains.

Love,
What I Am Becoming

what we disagree about when we disagree in the kitchen

COOKING:

Rice does not need to be washed or toasted before it is cooked.
Meat can be cooked in a tablespoon or less of oil.
Rinsing cooked pasta, especially in cold water, is a sin.
Toast should be brown but never black.
Sugar is not an appropriate second ingredient in any savory food.
Most vegetables taste better raw.
Potatoes do not count as "vegetables".
A meal should not take longer than 1 hour to prepare.

WASHING DISHES:
The person who cooks is ideally excused from doing dishes.
When washing dishes, it is important to wash at least all the tableware.
Sometimes this involves two loads, but it is part of "doing the dishes".
It is okay to soak pots overnight.
Dishes that are soaking should soak in the sink.
Emptying the dish drainer is part of washing the dishes.
Putting away the dishes is the last step in doing them.