and I may have cut it a leettle bit too close, snackwise.
Author: simchajfisher
Seven Quick Takes, In Which I May Be a Bit Dehydrated
1. Yay, Patheos tech team! They brought my archives over from my old blog. My pages, too, which I’ll be updating soon. Stay tuned for a list of top ten favorite posts, or at least top posts which seem entertaining without triggering any calls to child protective services.
2. My Register post is up: The Happiest Voice. Last week I had The Saddest Voice. I think I’m onto something here. Stay tuned next Friday for The Voice Which Best Exemplifies Perfect Indifference.
3. In a recent bout of economizing, I told my husband I was ready to downgrade on gin. I am now the proud owner of a nice, big bottle of something called New Amsterdam, and for all I know it does taste exactly like New Amsterdam.
But more importantly, stone cheap.
(My husband, being a gentleman, did tap on it before he bought it, to make sure the bottle was actually glass.) It’s not quite as smooth as my favorite Tanqueray, but it tastes fine. But the next day, I remembered something I used to know: when you buy liquor, what you’re really paying for is the next day.
(Sorry, I just realized this is the second time this week I’ve used an adorable animal to express my inner disposition. This stops now.)
4. Speaking of thrift, my son recently showed me his toes. He was wearing sneakers at the time. So I had a free moment and headed to the Salvation Army to look for some replacement shoes. They didn’t have anything for him, but they did have these for $5:
which I had no choice but to buy for my 7-year-old daughter. They have little disks built into the sole, so you can spin around like a beeeutiful spinning ballerina princess ballerina. Now obviously, a seven-year-old girl is capable of spinning around without the aid of a special shoes; but then you don’t get to be the greatest mother in the world for ten minutes until you say no to a third ice pop.
5. 100 years ago, Igor “Why You Do Me That Way” Stravinsky premiered his insane, herky jerky, dissonant Rite of Spring
It doesn’t get really nutso until about the 3:33 mark. People were so upset by what they heard and saw that there was a riot. A RIOT, because the music wasn’t beautiful, and people still wanted and expected art and music to be beautiful.
Now, I’m of two minds here. I like Stravinsky, and I’m not one of those people who insists on all harmony all the time. I’ve sat through John Cage concerts, and I listened hard. I went to Die Alte Pinakothek and did not skip the abstract expressionists, but lavished my eyeballs all over them all afternoon long. On the other hand, I want to give those concert rioters a medal, because first there was the Rite of Spring, and now there’s this. Where were the rioters when these folks
took the stage? To poop on stage? Because art, that’s why? I would make some puns about the heavy load that an artist bears, but I’m too busy weeping until I’m dead.
6. If you hear anything about whether or not print newspapers can survive, here’s something to keep in mind: my husband is a reporter, and the other night he emailed me to let me know that he was running late, and that he would be bringing home some cheese. He said that a cheesemaker owed the paper some money for advertising, and that they had persuaded the ad guy to let them pay their bill in cheese. So, there you are. Buy newspapers when you can, before the business acumen leads them to trade in the good camera for a sack full of magic beans and five shares of Enron.
7. And here is a common potoo:
You may think the photographer just caught him at a bad moment, but no — that’swhat the common potoo always looks like. This particular potoo is named Igor Stravinsky, and he looks like his week has been about as much fun as mine.
Hey, happy Friday! And happy summer, dammit! Finally.
Hey, Gentiles!
This is what I’ve been trying to tell you. You are not getting nearly enough chicken fat, beets, or fish jelly in your diet. Or tzimmes (which sounds delicious, but is basically a bunch of strangled root vegetables with hot prunes). Yes, gentiles, if you ate more food that looked like this:
you wouldn’t need this:
Found in my local grocery store circular. Oh, New Hampshire.
Pipilare
Cute little story on NPR’s Morning Edition today: Parvum Opus: Followers Flock To Pope’s Latin Twitter Feed. I didn’t realize this, but the Pope’s Twitter account was only available in Latin as of this year.
When the Latin account was launched in January, Vatican officials didn’t expect more than 5,000 Latin nerds, that is, followers. But by May, it had surpassed Polish and was in a tie with German at more than 100,000.
“The surprise is that nerds are in all walks of life — cab drivers from South Africa, homemakers, journalists,” says Monsignor Daniel Gallagher, one of the six language experts working in the Vatican’s Latin Office.
[…]
Gallagher says his office gets letters — as well as tweets — from all over the world. Many are from Muslims and atheists who don’t necessarily like the Catholic Church but are grateful it’s keeping the ancient language alive.
He acknowledges that Twitter can encourage shallow thinking and knee-jerk reactions, but is convinced Latin’s economy makes it better suited for tweeting than many other languages.
“It tends to express thoughts as briefly, as concisely, as precisely as possible,” Gallagher says.
I was never good enough at Latin to enjoy unpacking those dense words — “The sailors bring flowers to the beautiful girls” was about my speed. I was planning to take more Latin in college, but the conversation went like this:
Me: I want to take Latin.
Course advisor: C’mon, take Greek.
Me: Oh, I dunno, I think I want to take Latin.
Course advisor: Simcha. Greek. C’mon.
Please understand, he had a southern accent and blue eyes, and I was 18. So I took Greek. And now I can say, “Do the gifts of men persuade the gods?”
Anyway, it was a trip to hear Sylvia Poggioli say “ancient language” instead of “dead language.” Gosh, what a weird century.
I may have to start following football.
Or become a 1970′s lawyer, one or the other. Check it out. (language warning)
Miss Utah says “Bep”
When I ask my kids an impossible question in a high-pressure situation — say, something like, “You thought it was okay to use a toilet plunger, a real, used toilet plunger, that is used for REAL POOP, for your Dalek costume? What were you thinking? Huh? What made you think that was okay?” — they don’t know what to say. They’re the ones who put themselves in that situation, and yet they know and I know that there is no acceptable answer to the question. But I’m all caught up in the passion of the moment, and I actually stand there, glaring at them, waiting for an answer. More than once, the answer I’ve gotten is ” . . . bep . . . ”
I don’t know what “bep” means. It’s some kind of croaking that comes straight from the soul of a person who’s face to face with the impossible, I guess.
“Bep” is more or less what Miss Utah said in a widely circulated, widely mocked video from the Miss USA Pageant. Someone named Nene Leakes asked her, “A recent report shows that in 40 percent of American families with children, women are the primary earners, yet they continue to earn less than men. What does this say about society?” Here’s Miss Utah’s response:
Dopey, right? Of course it is. But my response was pretty much the same as what NPR blogger Linda Holmes says here: that there’s no possible way anyone could give an intelligent or meaningful answer to that question, especially in that setting.
Not to put too fine a point on it, what kind of a simultaneously (1) dumb and (2) impossible to answer question is that? First of all, it’s three questions rolled into one — what does it say that in 40 percent of homes, women are the primary earners, or what does it say that women earn less than men, or what does it say that we allow these two facts to coexist?
Second of all, “What does this say about society?” Really? Not “What kinds of help do families need to make ends meet?” or something with at least some policy meat on the bones, but “What does this say about society?” Asked by NeNe Leakes? While you’re standing next to Giuliana Rancic, whose other job involves making people walk their fingernails down a tiny, hand-sized red carpet? What would have been a good answer to this question that could have been delivered in the time frame she had?
I think about this kind of stuff a lot. I’ve studied it. I’ve had about 20 years longer than Miss Utah USA to think about it. I have no idea what I would have said if someone had asked me such a moronic question on live television.
This isn’t the kind of question that actually tests what you know; it’s basically a test of your ability to generate cow patties on command.
What do they want from this poor woman? They starve her and paint her and wrap her up like a rhinestone mummy, dangle a cash prize in front of her, and then ask her about women’s place in society.
I don’t suppose she stumbled because she was suddenly struck by a paralyzing bolt of irony. I suppose she just got mixed up, and didn’t know what to say. But still.
I don’t have any particular opinion about beauty pageants. They used to seem exploitative and demeaning, but boy, you have to work pretty hard to stand out in that field these days. It almost feels wholesome and reassuring that all these women have to do is trot around in bathing suits and have very white teeth, and nobody expects them to live tweet an orgasm or something.
What does that say about society? Ohhhh, I don’t know. Bep.
Honk honk!
Yesterday, as I pulled into that treacherous intersection that always makes drape my forearm across the steering wheel so I can steer better, I said to myself, “I’m not going to accidentally honk the horn today. I’m not going to accidentally honk the horn today.” And then I was all, “AUGHHH, WHY ARE YOU HONKING AT ME, JERK?” Then, to cover my confusion, I wadded up an old Burger King bag and vehemently threw it into the backseat. That’ll show ‘em.
I’m telling you this story because I want you to know what to expect when you read my blog.
I’ve been blogging for about six years now — most recently for the National Catholic Register. I sometimes write for various other respectable publications, like Catholic Digest and Our Sunday Visitor, and I wrote the chapter on motherhood for Style, Sex, and Substance. I speak at conferences and events. And this fall, I’ll have my first book out: an ebook and audiobook called The Sinner’s Guide to NFP.
I write about books and more books, art (good and bad), pro-life issues (good andbad), how to raise decent kids and have a decent marriage in an indecent world, and how to tell the difference between coming closer to God, and just copy-catting people’s holiness style; and how to see stuff that you need to see and do the stuff you need to do. Among other things, I have recently covered the papal conclave, a secular company that’s bucking Obamacare, and, over the years, more posts than you mightthink it’s possible to write about modesty.
And then sometimes I just write about HONK HONNNK!
I think today is one of those days, and all of you guys out there — you know, my new readers, who have no idea who I am and no particular reason to keep on reading my stuff – you’re the people in the cars around me. Just living your lives, following the rules of the road, looking straight ahead so you don’t accidentally make eye contact with the twitchy lady driving the van with all the crooked bumper stickers and the windows that are so smeary, you can’t tell if that’s nine kids inside, or just an enormous amount of car garbage. Carbage.
Well, before the light turns green, let me introduce myself. I’m Simcha Fisher. I’m 38 years old, I’ve been married for fifteen years, and I have both nine kids and a van full of garbage. I’m a homeschooling failure, a drinker, a sorehead, a slob, a pedant, and, depending on who you ask, a prime example of what’s wrong with religious people, what’s wrong with the Church today, or what will continue to be wrong with the Church tomorrow unless we dooooooooooooo something.
The archives from my old blog should be up soon! In the mean time, here is what I look like:
and here is what I feel like:
This lady is not me, however. Repeat: not me.
My sincere thanks to Elizabeth Scalia the Great for inviting me on!
Happy Father’s Day, Abba
Thanks for all the times you carried me.
Audiobook voice casting – need help!
Sorry for the non-father’s day-related post. We’re celebrating here by weakly cheering on my husband for holding down an apple. Yep, it’s pukesville U.S.A. It’s just as well we didn’t get him the bourbon he really wanted, because Pepto Bismol makes a lousy mixer. The steak is going back into the freezer, the whiffle bat is going back on the porch, and we’re having strawberry shortcake anyway, because what the hell.
Anyway, I need some quick help from you guys, especially if you’ve been reading my stuff for a while. As I’ve mentioned, I’m putting out an audiobook in the fall. Audible.com will be using one of their professional readers, but they are letting me help choose someone. The editor says:
Casting an audiobook is much like casting a film— use any description you like, to pinpoint the voice you imagine.
E.g.: “Greta Garbo crossed with Tom Hanks and a pinch of mustard!”
Any casting notes you give me will go directly to the Audible Studio’s casting director, who will bake them in to the production of your audiobook.
So, I can’t just say, “Hire Anne Bancroft!” I mean, she’s dead, but also, even if she were alive, I couldn’t say that. But I can ask for someone who sounds like Anne Bancroft.
My problem is that I don’t know names. I’m not familiar with a lot of famous voices. I’m looking for someone who sounds friendly and motherly, I guess, but who can deliver a punch line with a real punch in it. The book is chatty overall, grave in some places, and pretty tart many others. I would like a woman with a deeper voice, maybe a little gravelly, with a good sense of comic timing.
I would be very grateful for any suggestions! I said I’d turn in my casting notes on Monday. Thanks!
Oh, and tomorrow I will have a Big! Anouncement! (still not pregnant)
It happens to all of us.
I am not one of those conservatives who hates the environment. I don’t boycott my parish if the priest happens to mention Earth Day, and I don’t set a heap of tires on fire to make reparations for people who use cloth diapers. I even recycle, and use cloth dish towels, and do the laundry in cold water, and have a compost heap that is there on purpose. I like the environment.
But when I am stuck in traffic with dozens and dozens of other idling cars and trucks, and the police have closed off two lanes while a tow truck maneuvers into position to tow one of these
to the nearest Mobil station because it has run out of gas, then YES, I am going to laugh.
Need you ask? It had a COEXIST bumper sticker. I laughed!