“Let’s go get some fuckin’ artisanal cheese.”

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There was no cussing in my childhood home.  (There were also no sweets, no Skippy and no white bread, but that’s a separate story).

I don’t remember it being an explicit rule, the swears just… weren’t there.  We didn’t do it.  You weren’t supposed to do it and you knew it in your bones.  The only person I remember enforcing “language laws” was Nanna, but I think it just wouldn’t have occured to us to swear in front of our parents (or even away from them).

I don’t know when that system broke down for me.  Probably in my mid-teens.  And I’ve never looked back.

Ready for a little reverse diatribe?

I don’t like people who don’t swear.  I think it’s contrived.  I think they’re missing out on the full texture of language.  I think they’re missing out on the full range of their emotions.  I think they’re letting certain words become taboo in their brain.  And, by extension, letting certain harmless and healthy ideas, actions, and objects become taboo.  And we’re already far too overzealous in tabooifying.

CBC’s And Sometimes Y recently put together two shows on this subject: on taboo words; and on the n-word.  They are well-thought out and timely discussions — especially in dealing with the recurring and present question of how and whether words with a negative connotation can be reappropriated.

My personal take on word reappropriation is that we can’t or shouldn’t do it in cases where the word was specifically invented to be derogatory towards a particular group of people — the n-word being a perfect example of this (<-how much do I wish I had a different way of referring to these words, than by the 1950s schoolteacher “the x-word” formulae).

So while my list of off-limits words is teeny tiny, I am not suggesting that we should start submitting reports at work entitled “The Fucking TPS Report” (<-okay, maybe for TPS reports…).  And I think that people who swear /at/ other people leave a great deal to be desired. But there are times of frustration or elation or description where laying on a little colourful language really captures the moment.  And I don’t think those moments need be too extreme.  There is something about calling something “fuckin’ great” that is just… accurate.  (And certainly not untrue to the etymology of the word.)

Right, so.  All that said, while “fuck” is certainly an active participant in my vocabulary, there are some places where I will curb its usage.  The obvious places of course.  But, somewhat surprisingly, I learned this week that those places include farmers’ market.  Where the aggressive k’s of the expletive rub up against the happy family farm atmosphere.  After sampling a scrumptious zatar-flavoured flatbread, I turned to my friend and said “that is fuckin’ delicious”.And then I said “I don’t think you can say ‘fuck’ at a farmers’ market”.  And I think I was right.

Posted in: food and drink, language, ponderings

Judging a book by its couverture.

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Well now.

When you’re buying a book titled “Sacre Blues”, attention to detail is very important. It is important, for instance, to note whether the copy you’re buying is called: “Sacre Blues” or “Sacré blues”. It is important not to be distracted by little details like “how pretty the book is”, and instead to focus on bigger picture concerns like “whether it’s written in a language in which you are fluent”.

When you’re buying a book with an ambiguously franglais wordplay title, about “an unsentimental journey through Québec”, by a bilingual author who lives in Montreal, it should not surprise you when you sit down with a latte, and notice that the subtitle of /your/ book is “un portrait iconoclaste du Québec”.

And it should not surprise you that the first lines on the back cover read “Sacré blues propose un voyage irrévérencieux au <<pays de la poutine>>…”. So by the time you are reading “Chapitre Premier”, you really should have noticed the small font under the title which reads “traduit par Hélène Rioux”.

Because if you buy “Sacré blues” through amazon.ca, the accent egu* in the written description is going to be your only real clue that you are buying the french translation of the english book /about/ french culture.

Smrt. Or rather, fté.

And I really did only buy this version because I could not resist the bright blue and black cover with a sheep wearing a crown. I know. I’m a sucker for layout.

Come on! The sheep is wearing a crown! He thinks he’s people.

In my defence, the cover of the english version is hella lame. I mean, look at this:

I don’t especially want to carry around a book that reminds me of Grade 11 religion class, thank you kindly.

So, what have we learned here? I can think of two important lessons: 1) apparently I have francophone taste in cover design; and 2) apparently, my french is sufficient to read, understand and enjoy the first 4 pages of a french novel.

But can it hold up for 440 pages? Je pense que non, but it may be an excellent demon-facing challenge for myself.

Alright sheepie, it’s on.

*not a moron disclaimer: “egu” is intentionally spelled incorrectly for my amusement (based on a historical french class moment). Duh.

Posted in: books, language

“You kids quit all that exercising!”

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President’s Choice is clearly not on board with the whole “healthy kids” fad. They’re running a commercial right now where a mother is in a hammock reading a book beside a pool full of kids. The kids are playing Marco Polo, and when the ad starts up, the mother is smiling serenely enjoying her book, and a sunny summer afternoon.

But then the cries of “Marco!” “Polo!” begin to wear on her. Rambuctious little brats, and their loud active games. And her ingenious solution?

“Who wants ice cream?”

And so the commercial closes, happily ever after, with her getting the peace and quiet she needs to enjoy her book, with the kids all silenced at the edge of the pool eating their big bowls of chocolate peanut butter ice cream.

I understand the “hook” of this commercial. As someone who enjoys kids in moderation, but finds the magical sounds of the playground grate on her like so many nails on a chalkboard, a dozen little darlings shouting “MARCO! POLO!” would indeed, break my summer bubble.

But in real life I would never go tell a group of kids to stop playing (and by extension, exercising) because I was having trouble focusing on my “M is for Murder” serial (unless they were on my lawn, in which case they might get a round of “get offa my lawn!” and possibly a fist-shaking).

And in real life, it seems not only ignorant but irresponsible of a food company to, even playfully, suggest getting kids to be quiet by feeding them large servings of sugary treats.

Although, in real life, that tactic would also backfire on the paperback parent, who in about 15 minutes is going to feel, see, and hear the hyperactive repercussions of their short-sighted solution.

Posted in: rantish peeve

The hip bone’s connected to the… rough articular cartilidge?

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Sometimes when you’re trying to do something right, you end up doing something very wrong instead. I’ve done that. Many times.

In particular today I’m thinking about my knees. In trying to get and stay fit, I’ve been overzealous and done real damage to them. To be fair to myself, I’m also built a little wonky for the activities I like to do. I like high-impact, high-strain, high-pressure. My knees, on a womanly wide angle to my hips, do not. (Neither do my boobs and back, but that’s a whole other bag of fish).

Swimming, yoga, and other soft and snuggly activities are not my go-tos. Hitting stuff, running after stuff, pivoting, twisting, jumping — I’m /on/ it. Probably all part and parcel of the same personality which doesn’t like to practice, write, tidy, or grocery shop in a balanced coordinated everyday sort of fashion — but prefers a Big Stellar Do-It-All-At-Once Blitz. Short, fast and intense.

But I’ve been trying to be good. I am trying to keep my bike in a low gear. I have stayed away from kickboxing of any form. I am stretching the muscles that tug my knees to the bad place. I ice them when they whine. I go more mindfully up the stairs. I am trying to do better.

So I was wondering if I could go on the treadmill today. I’d been skipping and my knees seemed cool with that, just an occasional twinge when I pushed too hard. But the treadmill? Did I trust my knees enough to try it? Not to undo all of my newfound “being-goodness”, but to add something else to my repertoire of “if you do it carefully” activities. The treadmill was the first exercise I got into when I got into exercise, and I’ve been feeling nostalgic for it.

I was also feeling incredibly gunshy. Having part of you become chronically troublesome eats away at your faith in your body. I started to look at my knees as ‘them’. Knobbly barriers to doing what I wanted to do. Traitors. But, like any relationship, seeing them as ‘the obstacle other’ isn’t helping us get on any better. So I’ve been trying to listen, to acknowledge and respect their limitations instead of trying to shove past them.

But I felt like a careful try on the treadmill wouldn’t be disrespectful. And I do have to balance the needs of my knees against the well-being of the rest of me. So we made a deal. “I promise” I said, “I’m listening. If you hurt at all, just tell me, and I’ll turn around and get right back off.”

“Fine. But you don’t turn around on a treadmill, chucklehead. It’s not helping anyone if you fall sideways off the machine and crack open your skull.”

“Do you want an icepack later or not? Because I might just ‘forget’ you backtalking sonofa…”

So on we went. Because nostalgia + gunshy == tentative attempt. And tentative attempt == beautiful 15 minute gentle run. And it. was. heaven.

My knees are not better. And it’ll be a visit to the sports doctor at the end of June that tells me exactly how they are. It might mean a trip to the MRI, it might mean a little surgery to smooth out the rough edges. It might mean recovery time and physio and scars. But it will also mean fixing what’s wrong instead of letting it fester and tear and grow worse. It’ll mean being armed with knowledge and tasks instead of being stuck in a murky clicky achey limbo.

And in the meantime, we’re just going to go for a little run.

Posted in: corpus, life stuff

“No, no, the 84011 is for the bread…”

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I took this photo a few days ago while grabbing some new pictures for my aunt’s B&B website. It’s a little grainy (I refuse to use the flash), but how fantastically oil painting-esque.

Oily fruit

However, like an uncanny valley of still-life, like poorly executed subsurface scattering, the PLU sticker on the orange compromises the believability.

It ruins my photographic trick, and leaves white smeary sticker crud on my fruit, but apparently these stickers are also informative. (The white sticker crud is food-grade, by the way. The sticker is not.) According to Everything2 (and confirmed elsewhere), the PLU codes on those tiny ubiquitous annoyances can tell you a little something about the fruit you’re buying. The four-digit numbers are standardized codes for the type of produce (e.g. banana is 4011), and a “9” in front means organic, while an “8” means genetically modified.

How much of a nerd am I if I ask the EF to “grab me a 94011 from the kitchen while you’re up?”

Posted in: food and drink, ponderings

“I will call you… Gerald.”

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I have a surplus of Matthews and Bryan/Brians in my world.  There is room for no more.  If you come to our wedding and you meet someone and think “oh damn, we were introduced but I can’t remember his name!” there is a 48.5% chance their name is Matthew or Bryan.

We met with the wedding officiant last weekend (it went smashingly by the way — she thinks we’re the bomb), and she was getting overwhelmed trying to sort out our family trees.  “So your brother is named Matthew, and his husband is named Matthew, and both of your dads are named Bryan/Brian and there will be other guests at the wedding who are /also/ named Bryan and Matthew?”

Yes.

On our way home from brunch this morning, we stopped in at a furniture store to check out couches (now entering month umpteenth of our couch search).  And the name of the model we’re thinking of getting?

Matthew.

For fuck’s fuck.  🙂

Posted in: life stuff, ponderings

Bodies at rest lie on the couch, bodies in motion do laundry and go to the gym and work on websites and play guitar and…

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*deep breath*

I should be brought in to science lectures as Exhibit A proof of Newton’s first law:

“An object at rest will remain at rest unless acted upon by an external and unbalanced force. An object in motion will remain in motion unless acted upon by an external and unbalanced force.”

“A Catherine in motion will be an unstoppable force of productivity. If acted on by caffeine, this force will escalate to whirlwind grade task completion. However, if she stops activity, she will grind to a comatose-like halt until next prodded into action.”

My activity levels are probably best captured by sound effects. Like the sound of something hand-cranked when you make the first labourious pulls — a slow, heavy grinding. Until you build up some momentum and the gears turn on their own, in an elegant whirring mechanical frenzy of action.

Sure, it would be good to lead a balanced “a little action every day” sort of life. Good in a three square meals, matching socks, ocean sounds, structured sort of way. But not good in the “I got 15gajillion things done today, LIKE A FOX.” sort of way.*

One day I may live life as a string of calm well-sorted well-balanced days. But today is not that day. Today, I live LIKE A FOX.**

*This may be nonsensical to people who don’t know how fun it is to add the phrase “like a fox” to the end of most sentences.

**See?

Posted in: life stuff, ponderings

I

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“The cure for boredom is curiousity. There is no cure for curiousity.”*
~ Dorothy Parker

I so enjoy And Sometimes Y. I was checking their website for a past show to stream when I realized I was only 6 minutes away from the live Monday re-airing of their Saturday show. That made me so happy (<-it’s very easy to make me happy).

Discussions of punctuation are very interesting to me — in part because I am so hedged in the conversation. There are extremely salient points to be made in defense of the enforcing the grammatical status quo. There are also extremely salient points to be made in defense of language as a dynamic, constantly evolving, shifty, masterless creature. I love sticklers, and while I have less love for the txt msgrs and experimental literarians, I also understand the need not to suffocate your communication in punctiliousness.

Though I always find one of the repeat arguments confusing (used both for and against correct grammar use). The argument is that emails are /never/** properly punctuated. Never? Whatthe? Mine are almost unfailingly properly punctuated. As are most of the emails I receive. I’m not saying that it’s perfection in my in and outboxes: sentence fragments abound and word usages are frequently and unabashedly bastardized. But there are commas and periods, full sentences, greetings, and closers. As there should be.

Interrobang

There’s a fair amount of grandstanding among sticklers. Not all sticklers stickle in private, and many are more intent on seeking out violators to prove their point than they are interested in setting a good example. As opposed to some of us mini-sticklers who mis-type an “its” in an IM window, and it makes a little muscle by our eye twitch in horror.

Ille dolet vere, qui sine teste dolet***

*If you’re quoting an American, should you use American English spellings?

**Interesting too that they were discussing (briefly) the use of punctuation marks in graphic design. Which makes me smirk when I look at my use of asterisks and forward slashes. Though in the case of this blog, my use of the forward slash has nothing to do with design, and everything to do with WordPress’s default use of (and conversion of the <i> tag to) the <em> tag for italics. Which actually translates to <b>, which makes my head explode. Though I’m usually too lazy to go through the code every time I save.

***He mourns honestly who mourns without witnesses. (Martialis)

Posted in: language