Patsy Porco

Posts Tagged ‘humorous essay’

I’d Rather Curse

In COVID-19, Humor on October 16, 2020 at 5:29 am

A few years ago, Socrates’s pronouncement, “An unexamined life is not worth living” was ubiquitous. I remember reading it everywhere, and hearing celebrities and talk-show hosts spout it. The expression was akin to trendy words or phrases that seem to pop out of nowhere and then be heard everywhere, like “my bad” and “I need a drink.” That last one has survived many generations. Others, like “I’ll eat my hat,” didn’t fare as well.

Even when it was popular, “An unexamined life is not worth living” sounded like baloney (another word that is edging its way into obscurity, at least in this sense, and probably in the meat sense, too). Even if it is true, it sounds obnoxious. Examine your life if you’re so inclined, but don’t tell me that if I don’t examine mine, I don’t deserve to live.

If you haven’t yet listed everything you’ve ever done and relegated some of your actions to the positive column and others to the negative column in order to earn your right to life, that can wait. The question that you should really be focusing on is: Am I wearing pants?

I’m not talking about pants that are acceptable in the home, like yoga pants, sweatpants, or boxer shorts. I’m talking about pants that you can wear out in public, or even a skirt or a dress.

If the police arrived at your door right this minute to arrest you, would you feel comfortable going outside in what you’re wearing now? My guess is no. I surely wouldn’t. Fortunately for all of us, mug shots are usually taken from the chest up. But even if your current outfit doesn’t become part of your permanent record, don’t think you won’t be judged by your cellmates. Of course, they’ll probably be in their underwear, too. Which brings me to my point: While we muddle through the health pandemic, we have created another one: a bottomless society.

I recently saw a clip of a newscaster who was broadcasting from home. He was wearing a starched shirt, tie, and suit jacket. Without thinking, he pushed back from his desk and treated his viewing audience to a shot of his boxer shorts.

In ordinary times, this would be noteworthy, but now, it was just an amusing video clip that we all watched from our homes in our pajamas during working hours.

My friend told me that her husband appeared before a judge on a Zoom call yesterday. Her husband looked like he was wearing a suit from the waist up, but he was actually wearing pajamas pants on his bottom half.

Why are we not getting fully dressed? I realize that it’s normal to dress less formally at home than at work, but why have we become averse to dressing our bottoms? I am as guilty as anyone. Probably guiltier, because when I have work video calls, I usually attend them from bed if I’m not required to turn on my laptop’s camera. When I have to be seen, I roll out of bed, pull my hair back into a ponytail, put a giant hoodie on over my nightshirt, and wear big red-framed glasses to distract from my lack of makeup. What is going on with me and the rest of the world?

Are humans intrinsically lazy? I don’t think so, because you just know that in the 1950s, people would have gotten “dolled up” even if they were in the ICU. I’m sure there were plenty of men wearing suits and women wearing starched dresses and white gloves while hooked up to life-saving devices in the hospital. And as soon as they were released, I have no doubt that the men plopped on their fedoras. The women probably wore hats in their beds.

So, why have we – people who have examined our lives and deserve to live … and the rest of us – given up on half of our wardrobe? I think I know.

Early in the pandemic, I started receiving emails from retailers who were pushing sweatpants, yoga pants, and plaid pajama bottoms, because, they claimed, people weren’t wearing dress pants, or even casual pants, any longer. Now, realize, these ads arrived about a week into the pandemic. At the time, most of the world had been blindsided by COVID-19, and we were focused on our survival … and where to find toilet paper. We certainly weren’t thinking about quarantine fashion. But retailers were, and they pounced. They told us that we didn’t need to bother dressing our lower halves in work attire, and that we should all wear the equivalent of pajama pants all the time.

And we fell for it. All of a sudden, online stores had massive sales on extremely casual pants and we loaded up on them. And because these pants usually had elastic waistbands, we didn’t notice that we were loading up on food, as well. Several months into the pandemic, we couldn’t get into our nice pants and skirts even in our dreams.

You know who should examine their lives? The marketers and stores that told us to spend our days in loungewear. Not only have they turned us into a world of slobs, they’re also responsible for our collective weight gain. We had nothing to do with it.

This is a perfect example of why my life is better unexamined. I wouldn’t take the blame for my transgressions, anyway. I’d blame someone else.

Which reminds me: In the 1970s, another pompous saying was popular, “It’s better to light one candle than to curse the darkness.” You heard it everywhere. It was a very old Chinese proverb that was adopted by Father James Keller, the founder of the Christophers, in the 1940s.

Suddenly, one day, we all woke up and everyone was reciting it, when they weren’t the day before. Everywhere you went, you heard, “It’s better to light one candle than to curse the darkness.” To which, witty people would respond, “I’d rather curse.”

I would, too.

Photo by Luke Peters on Unsplash

The Scalping of Duke

In dogs, Humor on July 8, 2020 at 1:24 am

Last weekend, I tricked our dog, Duke, into letting me shave him. It had been really hot for weeks and Duke had been very uncomfortable walking around in his fur coat. I couldn’t find a dog groomer who had an opening before mid-August, due to COVID-19 restrictions, so I ordered a trimmer to shave him myself.

The trimmer arrived on Friday from Amazon. I had no plans for Saturday, so it seemed the perfect time to shave him. The only thing that worried me was that I had never used a hair trimmer on anyone or anything in my life. But I thought, “How hard could it be? I’ll just take it slow and easy.”

First, I started off by brushing him, which he loves. It’s like a luxurious body scratch to him. Then, when he wasn’t looking, I switched his brush for the electric trimmer.

It was nice and quiet, like the ad claimed it would be, so he didn’t even react to the switch. Things started out smoothly enough. The razor didn’t cut off too much too quickly. Actually, very little hair came off. I began to worry that it was going to take a week to shave him. And then I discovered that I was holding the razor upside down. After that, things speeded up considerably.

Once I held it right-side-up, the trimmer took off. I lost all control of the thing. It cut so deep that Duke had big holes in the top of his back. It didn’t break his skin, thank God, but it got right down to skin level. I found the power button and turned it off. Then I assessed the damage. It was pretty bad. Duke had a body full of long, thick, orange hair –– and gouges on his back that revealed the color of his skin (grayish). Now I had to match the length of the rest of the hair on his long, 135-pound body to those naked patches on his back.

It was just like when I cut my bangs. I cut them and they’re uneven, so I cut more, and they’re still uneven, so I cut more until I look like a serial killer.

But, back to Duke. He was so good. He only ran away once, and not far –– only into the house. He eventually came back and allowed me to shave him. I shaved for hours. We took breaks. We took naps. We had snacks. But we always returned to the task at hand: trying to match the length of the rest of his body hair to the length of his back hair. That did not prove, possible, however. I soon realized that I would have to shave him hairless to make his hair even, and I didn’t think that look would work for him.

So, we spent most of the day on the deck. Piles of hair accumulated around us. Whenever Duke decided to eat a hunk of hair, I would distract him with a treat and sweep up the debris. As I shaved, I discovered the different settings on the razor.

I used to hear my husband and son tell the barber that they wanted a #4 on top and #2 on the sides and back, but I never really thought about what that meant. Until Saturday. On Saturday, I discovered that there were cutting settings right on the razor –– but not until I had been shaving for at least two hours. There were also “limit combs,” that had inches marked on them. I supposed they were to limit how short the razor could cut, but I didn’t use them because Duke’s hair was so long and so thick that the razor cut nothing when the limit combs were attached.

Duke, as I said, was very cooperative. But he didn’t like standing for his shave so he reclined on the deck most of the time. This limited me to doing one side at a time. After I finished one side, I would have to physically roll him over so I could do the other side, and then roll him on his back to do his stomach. (The stomach shaving didn’t go very well at all. I didn’t change the razor setting and he had much less hair on his stomach than on the rest of his body to start with, so now he has no hair on his stomach at all, except patches that refused to come off.) When I finished his stomach and both sides, I had to lure him, with a dog biscuit, into standing up so I could compare his sides.

Of course they didn’t match. The hair lengths weren’t even close. It was at this point that I noticed that his face and rear had been completely ignored. So, I started on his face while he was standing. All of a sudden, Duke threw himself back down on the deck, causing me to gouge out more hair, but this time right above his eyes. “Great, just great,” I thought. “Now I have to match the rest of his head to the gouged-out areas. While he was standing, I also noticed that when I thought I was shaving his stomach, I had, in reality, shaved not only his belly but halfway up both sides of him, unevenly. I now had a dog who looked like he had lain in acid.

So, I put in a few more hours trying to even things out and trim his bottom. The bottom went well. That’s the only area that looks halfway normal, though. The rest of him is either bald or has visible trimmer tracks in the remaining hair. I don’t even want to talk about his back anymore. I just hope people don’t think he has mange.

At some point in the late afternoon, we both got bored, so we went inside to eat. Duke currently looks like a patchwork quilt, but he’ll never know, as long as I keep him away from the judgy dogs in our neighborhood.

At least he’s cooler, now –– in temperature, if not appearance.

What’s an Editor to Do?

In grammar, Humor on July 3, 2020 at 1:21 am

Michael, Ally, and True went to dinner. Michael ordered trout. Ally ordered steak. True ordered eggplant lasagna. Michael liked the trout, but he thought it was a little dry. Ally thought her steak was the best steak she had ever eaten. True thought their dinner was too salty.

Wait, what? Did True think that all of the three dinners were too salty? Did True sample a bite from Michael’s plate and Ally’s plate? That couldn’t be right, because True was talking about one dinner. No, in this case, True was a nonbinary person, i.e., a person who does not identify as a male or female. So, when True thought “their” dinner was over-salted, True was referring only to True’s dinner.

That True thought this about True’s dinner isn’t readily apparent, though, is it? That’s because of the ambiguity that is created when “they” and “their” are used to refer to a single person in the written language. “They” and “their” are commonly misused in verbal communication all the time, however. Almost all of us use those words incorrectly in casual speech. For instance, I’ve heard things like, “A patient has to take their medicine regularly,” or “That kayaker lost an oar in the water. Would you please reach over and get their oar since you’re closer than they are?”

That usage is incorrect, but, in everyday conversation, it’s the rare person who would correct it (I stopped doing this because I was told it was an annoying trait). However, as a copy editor, that is my job. I am paid to make sure that nouns and their pronouns/possessive adjectives agree. (I just learned about possessive adjectives about a minute ago. In the last example above, “their” oar is a possessive adjective. “Possessive adjective,” however, is a mouthful, so I am only going to use the word “pronoun” to refer to both pronouns and possessive adjectives from here on out. Please adjust.)

In my capacity as a copy editor, if someone wrote, “A patient has to take their medicine regularly,” I would be obligated to change it to either: “A patient has to take his (or her) medicine regularly,” or “Patients have to take their medicine regularly.” And I would be incompetent if I didn’t change “Would you please reach over and get their oar since you’re closer than they are?” to “Would you please reach over and get his (or her) oar since you’re closer than he (or she) is?”

How a person self-identifies is not my concern. However, I am very concerned with sentence structure. To be fair, alternative pronouns have been introduced, but they never took off, so “they” and “their” are being routinely bandied about to refer to one person, and I just cannot have it. It’s not grammatical.

Yes, language is a living thing and it evolves, and I’m all for that. My father refused to acknowledge that “ginormous” and “horrific” were legitimate words. Those words don’t bother me. I’m totally chill with them. And I’m very woke about gender expression. You can identify any way you want. But I will always believe that singular pronouns are for singular people.

There’s a solution out there. And when I’m crowned Pronoun Queen, I will find it.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, Urania … and Nora?

In Books, Humor, Writing on August 13, 2013 at 11:39 pm

I just finished a book, Murder Me Now, by Annette Meyers, about a bohemian flapper poet/detective, Olivia Brown. When Olivia isn’t detecting (or drinking gin in Greenwich Village speak-easies), she composes poems which she later recites to her adoring fans. And her fans are legion. People stop her on the street, halt their conversations on trains, and line up for hours outside a venue at which she is scheduled to appear, just to hear her recite her work.

Between you and me, I find it hard to believe that poetry was ever that esteemed, even a century ago. Poetry confuses me. But, I don’t think most poets know what they’re writing about anyway, so I’ve never worried about my lack of insight into a poem’s meaning.

Olivia, however, is no regular poet/detective. She has a muse, whom she creatively calls “Muse.” When she feels a poem upon her, she only has to sit at her desk and ask Muse for inspiration. Nine times out of ten, Muse puts all of the poem’s words into Olivia’s head, in sonnet form. All that Olivia has to do is type.

I’m no stranger to muses. I’ve been known to ask deceased writers to a-muse me. Sometimes you’ll hear a person say that a living person is his muse, but the person talking is usually a man who has designs on the woman he calls his muse. As soon as their relationship fizzles out, he’s on to another muse.

I prefer a muse who is dead. You don’t have to meet for coffee or buy thank-you presents for spirit muses. If I could find a muse who would write my blog posts for me, instead of just inspiring me, that would be another plus in the muse’s favor.

My favorite form of writing is the humorous essay. When Erma Bombeck died, on my birthday, I took it as a sign that she was to be my muse. I asked her to inspire me and, for a while there, I thought she did. But I get the feeling that she didn’t find me funny enough to bother with, so she moved on.

I think that either David Sedaris or Dave Barry would be a perfect fit as my muse, but they’re still alive, which rules them out … for now. In the meantime, the search continues, but I think I’m getting close to finding myself a muse.

It’s said that everything happens for a reason, so when my friend recently loaned me her copy of a Nora Ephron book of essays, I Feel Bad About My Neck, I took note. When I started reading, I had a eureka moment: “Eureka! I have found her!” I know, like I’ve never known anything before, that I would very much like Nora Ephron to be my muse. I would welcome her inspiration. I would really welcome her actually writing my blog posts, but I’ll work up to that request.

In the meantime, I have to get Nora to agree to take me on, which might be too much to ask of her. In fact, she’s probably appalled that I’m asking her to muse me at all — especially since I am incorrectly using the word “muse” as a verb meaning “inspire.”

In Nora’s lifetime, she was a talented, sophisticated, intelligent, witty, sardonic, and hilarious writer who was widely admired. Why would she lower herself to muse me?

The answer is: because I’m alive and she’s not. I can keep her voice alive during the rest of my lifetime. That reason alone might sway her. After all,  even though she died, I’m certain that she still has lots to say.

What do you say, Nora?

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