I Write; Therefore, I Read

I never cared for Stephen King.

I knew he was an incredibly prolific author, the adopted son of Maine and progenitor of my clown nightmares. That's where I was content to leave my familiarity with him; once I have been reduced to tears of terror and snorts of self-aware shame in a public showing of the film It (because my sister heard it was "really good!" and didn't want to go alone), I'm happy to acknowledge this genre might not be for me. But after hearing that I should read his memoir On Writing from multiple published authors, I decided to listen to them over the din of my clown-induced sobs and give it a go.

I read two hundred pages in three hours.

Yes, as a teacher I've honed my ability to skim through student essays, and yes, I've been starved for reading material beyond dispassionate history textbooks, but this memoir was darn good. Aside from his vivid storytelling ability (Indeed, the first chunk of the book is about his childhood, which I never thought I would care to hear about, but he hooked me! Maybe that's why he's a famous author.), he just gives some practical, down-to-earth advice about writing. The one that sticks out most in my mind is this: to be a writer, you have to read a lot. No exceptions.

And there it was, my carte blanche to kick back and drift through Frank Herbert, Kurt Vonnegut, J. K. Rowling (a tenth time)! To produce something creative, you must replenish your own font. And what a breakthrough that was, to be given permission by Stephen King himself to read for pleasure despite a demanding day job and home life. I realized I had written off reading books for fun as something I used to do, back in my college days, when I still had this since-forgotten thing called "time." No more.

Guiltless, I dove into a new genre: treatises on grammar. Stephen King had quoted many times the seminal work on the English language, Strunk and White's The Elements of Style. Though I've read its entertaining knock-off cousin, The Elephants of Style, and though its rules have been hammered into me by persnickety, beloved high school English teachers, I had never gone straight to the source.

I love it. I love it so much, I'm reading "the little book" slowly to let its wisdom marinate my soul. I realize many would assume a list of grammar rules is not the height of entertainment, but Strunk is sassy in a way that only tight-assed, rule-abiding nerds can be. Much as a Lord of the Rings fan would split hairs over the proper pronunciation of the Black Speech of Mordor, Strunk berates the philistines who split infinitives. He makes you want to learn the elements of style just so you can earn his approval and be in on the joke.

Strunk's lessons fluidly infiltrated my writing. Not blog posts, mind you, but professional emails—emails to my students. In response to homework or essay queries, I abandoned my generally warm tone for "one must avoid the passive voice" and advised they "omit needless words." Perhaps it wasn't the best approach during a time of social isolation, but it wasn't intentional, and that's my point. If my writing can so easily absorb the style of a glorified grammar book, how much more beneficial would an actual book be?

So, because of Stephen King, I now consider reading an essential part of my day. Like eating, sleeping, and walking my dog, reading is a must. One must read if one wishes to write.

And with that, I give myself permission to explore a new land free from pandemics but doubtless ridden with some fantastical pestilence that only our hero can overcome.

Thanks, Stephen King!

Dog-Worthy

My dog's sighs are definitive.

When she heaves out a gusty breath, she is over it: it is long past bedtime, or she should have gone on her afternoon walk thirty minutes ago, or heaven knows we are eating right in front of her to torture her.

Each sigh signals utter resignation. She has given up the fight, and this—whatever the status quo—is her life now. Forever.

Her current doom is to cuddle with my boyfriend on the couch while Bob Ross paints softly in the background. Every time I stir, she snaps awake and stares up at me with longing. And every time I don't move toward the bedroom, she drops her head slowly back down on the couch, punctuating her disappointment with a sigh: she wants to go to sleep, goddammit.

And to do that properly, she requires complete darkness, absolute silence, her bed. Anything less cheapens it.

After the fourth or fifth lamentation, she starts to feel like my conscience. I know I should be going to bed earlier than this. Do I really need to prolong my losing streak in Hearthstone? Will Reddit implode if I don't read every new r/aww post? What have I gained from staying up so late, apart from my dog's judgment?

And it usually works. If I won't do it for myself, I can at least do it for my dog. That's what her sighs say, I'm sure. On occasion, she won't even wait for me. She will trot into the dark, quiet bedroom and plop down on her cushion emphatically, forcing me to contend with the reality that in my household, my dog sets the example.

Once we have both tucked ourselves in (as we have now, because dog guilt trips work), she is content. What had been huffs of hopelessness give way to delicate snores of approval. I have made the responsible choice.

My dog lets me know what she's thinking many ways other than sighing. I could (and will) write a parvum opus about her expressive ears, for instance. But her sighs are what push me to be a better person. When I hear her let one out, I know I have some thinking to do about how I have displeased her so. And usually, whatever corrective action I take for her sake benefits me too: I take her on that walk, I put back those chips, I go the eff to bed.

I love my dog simply because she is my dog (the best dog), and these transcendent moments of understanding between us, however melodramatic or judging, only strengthen that love. I like to think that she loves me not because I feed, pet, and play with her (even let her sleep, sometimes), but because I am her human. And because I am her human, I get grief for the errors of my ways. Because I am her human, I strive to be worthy of her. And because I am her human, I want to be able to say at the end of the day, especially if we haven't officially put an end to that day, that I took care of her to the best of my ability.

Now if I could just live the rest of my life the way my dog thinks I should, I'll be set.

The Things I Carry

Check your pockets (if you have them). What's in there? If you died mysteriously right now, what might the police conclude about you after rooting through your things? Maybe because of the preponderance of crime shows on television, I spend an absurd amount of time thinking about this.

Also, I'm talking specifically pockets here, not purses, man-bags, or clutches because it seems that things we keep in our pockets fall into two categories: precious things we want to make sure we have easy, unfettered access to; and tiny random crap. 

This is what I regularly find in my pockets, usually after accidentally running it through the laundry:

• tissues
• paper clips
• dog treats
• multivitamins

And this is what I fear a detective would conclude when he or she happened upon my tragically beautiful corpse vs. what these things actually mean about me:

Tissues 

Detective:            Victim was ill or cold-weather sensitive, possibly a hypochondriac.

Actually:              Victim was trying to be a goddamn adult for once and have her own tissues 

                               instead of always asking other people (her mom) for them. Definitely a  

                               hypochondriac—once convinced herself she had a collapsed lung. She didn't.

Paper clips

Detective:            Victim was organized, a little OCD.

Actually:              Victim was organized, a little OCD. Also a teacher.

Dog Treats

Detective:            Victim owned a dog.

Actually:              Victim owned a highly food-driven and cutest, best-ever dog whom she loved 

                               very much so that's why she got the healthy, organic dog treats and why she 

                               hired a dog trainer who advised her to have treats in her pockets at all times so 

                               she could keep her amazing dog focused and mentally stimulated on walks. 

Multivitamins

Detective:            Victim was health-conscious, trying to supplement her diet. Hypochondriac 

                               profile more likely.

Actually:              Victim was a de facto vegan and needed all the B12 she could get. Had expensive 

                               pee.

For the record, I consider all these things precious. My precious. 

SO, if I do meet an untimely death—with full pockets—the truth about me is right here, detective! Come to my blog to find it.

'Snot Fun

I'm a teacher in the final weekend of her winter break, so of course I'm sick. It's just the teacher code. If you're not sick at the most inopportune time and forced to entertain/educate/babysit kids while praying for the sweet release of death, they revoke your credential, I'm pretty sure.

I could blame something scientific, like the germs I surely picked up in Vegas while indulging in booze and gambling (and boobs! Burlesque show post forthcoming). But why be reasonable in an anti-vaxxer world? No, I'm sure it was Old Testament justice.

Anyway, while the sound of my voice progresses from a Jewish grandmother to a drowning parrot, and Nickelodeon-grade slime spews forth from my face, I have time to contemplate how miraculous it is that I'm not more sick. Maybe God does love me.

It started our first night in Vegas: that scratchy, closed throat that heralds physical and emotional doom. You're going to get really sick. And you're on vacation. And there's nothing you can do about it.

At first, I genuinely thought I was having a bad reaction to all the smoke. Californians do have a rather delicate constitution when it comes to smoke. And weather. When I woke up the following day in my nonsmoking room, I could barely swallow and my nose was an unstoppable force (tissues were, unfortunately, not immovable objects). In a display of some truly impressive mental gymnastics, I convinced myself that eight hours of breathing in clean air had somehow reminded my body of what a smoke-free environment was like, and the anticipation of descending into a hazy casino was causing the psychosomatic reaction of a sore throat.

Yes, I know. But considering that my sister is consistently able to convince herself not to throw up when the reflex hits, I think this is small potatoes.

I armored myself with toilet paper, having run out of hotel-provided tissues, and set out for adventure. Ignoring my physical breakdown, I proceeded to gallivant around Vegas for the next two days, walking on average ten miles a day.

It gets better. Circumstances prevented us from really indulging in the stellar deals on alcohol you can get in Vegas, so we overcompensated our final full day there. Each of us had at least twenty drinks throughout that day. TWENTY.

Amidst blowing my nose loud enough to wake the entire Rat Pack, I told myself, idiotically, that even if I were sick (which, of course, I wasn't!), alcohol would *kill the bacteria* and I'd get better. I know that's not how it works. I know. But I didn't want to know. I wanted to be drunk in Vegas.

So it is that I prolonged the inevitable and began the new year under a microbial cloud. But I also:

• learned (sort of) how to gamble at craps
• ate great Italian food recommended by aforementioned craps-table dealers
• drank 20+ drinks in a day without feeling more than buzzed, so I'm basically a goddess now (or Irish Catholic)
• saw a fancy burlesque show with all the boobs!

If the superstition is true that what you do on New Year's Day (and the next day—why not? It isn't true anyway.) is what you do all year long, then I suppose I can look forward to a year of good company, good boobs, and body-wrecking fun. 

Concerning Hair

My Dear Readers,

How much time per day do you spend on hair removal? Think about it. 

There are, of course, the obvious culprits to consider—underarm stubble, leg bristle, rebellious brows. These are usually shaved off or plucked on a semi-regular basis. Whatever hair you choose to expunge from your person, do you remove it a few times a week and call it good? Or are you like me, a masochist swirling in a hairless prison of her own making, never considering not removing the hair but only satisfied with the smoothness that daily removal can bring, yet tortured by the knowledge that with more frequent removal comes faster growth, so that each pass of the razor or jerk of the tweezers brings decreased marginal return until a stronger high is needed. Such is my predicament. I spend thirty minutes every day on hair removal. 

Think of how much can happen in thirty minutes. I could finally watch The Mandalorian. I could go for a run, or (far more likely) sleep in. I could take Duolingo lessons. I could do literally ANYTHING ELSE. And I sacrifice it all for vanity. 

Shamed by my slavish devotion to the time-consuming art of hair removal (every damn day, mind you), I invested in an epilator. No longer would I be late for social events or forego opportunities for self-improvement because I was shaving! No, henceforth, I would endure some short-lived pain for a new life of smooth punctuality and possibility. 

First of all, epilators do not save time. It took perhaps four hours to fully charge my epilator, and then about an hour and a half of "epilating," aka teeth-grinding and pain-induced sweating accompanied by occasional hair removal. 

Second of all, epilating taught me the depths of my masochism. I've endured Brazilian waxes before. I thought I had evolved beyond pain. No. Epilators are slow, self-induced torture. Not only will it take you about an hour and half to mow your assorted lawns (if by "mowing" you mean getting on your hands and knees and grabbing handfuls of grass at a time), you get to revel in the knowledge that 

• you're bringing this pain upon yourself and can stop it at any time (but shouldn't, because then what is it all for?!), and
• it won't last as long as waxing anyway because sometimes epilators break the hairs instead of pulling them out by the root, and because hair grows cyclically, it won't be possible for you to pull out all the hairs at once.

Oh no, the first time you epilate—when the sting is sharpest—you can contemplate the prospect of repeating this grueling process every day for a week until you've finally (probably) pulled out all the hairs. And because you can't shave in the meantime, you get the worst of both worlds—unimaginable pain and persistent stubble. 

My sisyphean gambit had been inspired by watching my boyfriend clock his showers at ten minutes flat. Unencumbered by removing most of his naturally occurring fluff (of which, thankfully, he has more than I), he is able to go about his life. In the average time between the end of his showers and the end of mine, my boyfriend is able to: 

1. Level up in WOW
2. Read about why millennials hate Pete Buttigieg
3. Cook dinner
4. Apply to a job
5. Take our dog for a walk
6. All of the above! 

My point is, there's more time for life in his life. I want that. 

So, I got to thinking...if hair removal is so futile, perhaps it is not necessary every day? I tried not to shave every day. I tried! But I've eaten the fruit of knowledge! I've known the feel of smooth legs and can no longer abide stubble on my person. If I skip a day of shaving, I automatically feel like I'm not presenting the best version of myself to the world and the day is off on the wrong, furry foot. I hate that I feel this way. I take cold comfort in lipstick feminism, but nevertheless wonder how time spent on hair removal plays into such things as gender norms and the wage gap. Yes, this is where my head goes. 

I know it is not only women who routinely work hair removal into their self-care routine. But more often than not, women are the ones in society suffering from a focus on hair removal. Of course men enter this circus too, but there is more of a societal expectation for women to have hairless legs than for men to have a hairless chest. And many women who do remove their hair regularly, like me, do so for the purely selfish reason that they enjoy the feeling of smooth skin. But with this practice comes great cost. Aside from the high, repeating monetary cost of waxing, threading, or sugaring (which has apparently been around since 1900 BCE, guess I'm the fool), there is an opportunity cost. Maybe it's marginal day to day, but the cost builds. What could you do with all that time? 

In a society where such time-saving measures as paying people to do your grocery shopping are no longer far-fetched, I wonder why we have not streamlined beauty routines. At the same time, when I'm not cycling through the standard millennial freak-out about how well paid and yet poor I am—and whether it's not only due to corruption and, like, the patriarchy, but also somehow a function of the time I spend playing whack-a-mole with my follicles—I occasionally take solace in the meditative solitude of shaving. So, that may be my answer for the moment: with that extra time, I could just chill the fuck out, turn off my brain, and enjoy the dopamine hit of completing a mindless task. 

But these are the thoughts that make me want to tear my hair out.