One of my closest friends from college is looking for a kind soul in Memphis who can put up her younger brother temporarily. He's being evacuated from New Orleans due to the impending storm.
If you know anyone who's willing and able to help, please be in touch. Thanks.
August 30, 2008
August 27, 2008
August 26, 2008
You define me.
During my senior year of college, when I realized I might want to work in publishing, I interned over winter break at Merriam-Webster. Before then, I had no idea the dictionary gurus were headquartered 20 minutes from my hometown.
On my first day, my boss gave me a tour of the building. We turned the corner from the computer lab and entered a room full of tiny cubicles and the biggest card catalog I've ever seen. "These are the definers," she said.
The definers? It sounded like the most powerful job in the universe. Turns out it's done by a bunch of twentysomethings who spend all day reading magazines, websites, newspapers, and books. When they notice a new word appearing frequently, they write all its sources on an index card and put it in the card catalog. (This is probably done on computers by now, but I kind of hope not.)
When it comes time to update the company's collegiate dictionary, about every five years, they go through all the words in the catalog to see which ones are still in common usage. Then they nominate the most popular—and, I'd like to imagine, the most logical—for inclusion. I forget how many make the cut, but I think it's no more than 25 or so per new edition.
I'm remembering this today because Laurence Urdang just died. According to his obituary, he edited more than 100 dictionaries, including the first edition of the Random House Dictionary of the English Language, which weighed around nine pounds. "Mr. Urdang’s view of language," writes the NYT, "was that of an enjoyer, someone who delighted in its flexibility and invention, rather than that of a guardian always on alert against violations of precedent."
It's my job to be a guardian on high alert, so it's good to be reminded of the incredible pleasure inherent in working with words. Mr. Urdang, sleep well. You're my kind of definer.
On my first day, my boss gave me a tour of the building. We turned the corner from the computer lab and entered a room full of tiny cubicles and the biggest card catalog I've ever seen. "These are the definers," she said.
The definers? It sounded like the most powerful job in the universe. Turns out it's done by a bunch of twentysomethings who spend all day reading magazines, websites, newspapers, and books. When they notice a new word appearing frequently, they write all its sources on an index card and put it in the card catalog. (This is probably done on computers by now, but I kind of hope not.)
When it comes time to update the company's collegiate dictionary, about every five years, they go through all the words in the catalog to see which ones are still in common usage. Then they nominate the most popular—and, I'd like to imagine, the most logical—for inclusion. I forget how many make the cut, but I think it's no more than 25 or so per new edition.
I'm remembering this today because Laurence Urdang just died. According to his obituary, he edited more than 100 dictionaries, including the first edition of the Random House Dictionary of the English Language, which weighed around nine pounds. "Mr. Urdang’s view of language," writes the NYT, "was that of an enjoyer, someone who delighted in its flexibility and invention, rather than that of a guardian always on alert against violations of precedent."
It's my job to be a guardian on high alert, so it's good to be reminded of the incredible pleasure inherent in working with words. Mr. Urdang, sleep well. You're my kind of definer.
August 24, 2008
Wedding encore
I was one of three official friendtographers at Bene and Aisha's sunny, pretty Piedmont wedding last weekend, so I took about twice as many rolls as usual. It was a pleasure to do, since everyone was beautiful and in a fantastic mood.
The full set is Flickred, of course—here are some of my favorites.
The full set is Flickred, of course—here are some of my favorites.
August 21, 2008
When editors get punchy
I don't understand why even when I say it "i-boo-pro-fen," it comes out sounding like "i-bee-pro-fen," or why there's a u in there in the first place. They should officially rename it Wal-Profen and call it a day.
There's really no good reason for Emeril to design a line of clogs, or for clogs to exist at all. I guess people think they're comfortable, but so are my jammies, and nobody claims those are fashionable or fills entire store racks with them in different colors. Plus my jammies aren't made of neon plastic.
The prefix über just doesn't apply that often. And yes, it needs the umlaut. I don't care if you think it looks weird. I'm the decider.
There's really no good reason for Emeril to design a line of clogs, or for clogs to exist at all. I guess people think they're comfortable, but so are my jammies, and nobody claims those are fashionable or fills entire store racks with them in different colors. Plus my jammies aren't made of neon plastic.
The prefix über just doesn't apply that often. And yes, it needs the umlaut. I don't care if you think it looks weird. I'm the decider.
August 13, 2008
Weddingpalooza
Here's a handful of photos from last weekend. The whole set is up on Flickr, if you're feeling matrimonial. Remember that all brides should wear red, and nobody should ever drink Manischewitz.
August 11, 2008
I can hear the bells
I'm back from Seattle and my oldest friend Claire's sweet, mellow, beautiful wedding on a small stone patio beneath a tremendous weeping willow tree. The bride wore draped red satin and pearls and looked like she was attending the Oscars in 1925. The groom included Cyndi Lauper lyrics in his vows. Songs were sung, tears were shed, and pie was eaten.
Photos coming soon, though sadly not of her new slightly round, bespectacled, Chinese American in-laws dancing to "Billie Jean" in the basement rec room. You'll just have to trust me on that.
In fact, her wedding was so nice, I think I'll go to another this weekend. Three cheers for love! Plus an extra cheer for the fact that this one is in Oakland, so I don't even have to get on a plane.
Photos coming soon, though sadly not of her new slightly round, bespectacled, Chinese American in-laws dancing to "Billie Jean" in the basement rec room. You'll just have to trust me on that.
In fact, her wedding was so nice, I think I'll go to another this weekend. Three cheers for love! Plus an extra cheer for the fact that this one is in Oakland, so I don't even have to get on a plane.
August 04, 2008
Fourth (and probably final) half
Another season, another half-marathon. You'd think my body would be used to this occasional punishment by now, but it really wasn't happy during the second half of yesterday's SFM.
After three miles, I felt as exhausted as it usually takes seven or eight miles to feel, with none of the euphoria. My feet hurt, my breathing hurt, and my vision got blurry for the last mile or so. Around the 10-mile mark, I had to stop and walk for a while—that's never happened to me in a race before.
It was an incredible relief to finish, as always, but without the adrenalin rush that makes the whole experience worthwhile. I just felt sore and tired and nauseated, and I couldn't even eat. I took a shower and slept for almost three hours.
I felt a little better when I woke up, but it still seemed like a sign that it's time to switch to 12K races. I've never been a natural runner, it's always work—but this was very unpleasant work with little reward. It's been in the back of my mind that my body would tell me when the long runs got to be too much, and I think that happened yesterday.
This realization brings a potent combination of disappointment and relief. I still love the camaraderie of official races, the numbers and timing chips and water stops and free granola bars at the end. It's just that 13.1 miles is really far for a regular human body to run. My legs are staging a protest, and they're unionized.
I'm proud of myself for having trained to the point where I can run a half-marathon at all. My objective was never to beat a certain time or hit a loftier goal—I don't secretly want to run a full marathon or triathlon or become one of those people who dress entirely in wicking. The half was my goal, and I got there. But in the end, if something makes me feel physically terrible, then it's no longer healthy.
And no, this isn't all because I'm in my 30s now. Shut up. Unless you mean that it's the wisdom of age talking, in which case . . . you might be right.
After three miles, I felt as exhausted as it usually takes seven or eight miles to feel, with none of the euphoria. My feet hurt, my breathing hurt, and my vision got blurry for the last mile or so. Around the 10-mile mark, I had to stop and walk for a while—that's never happened to me in a race before.
It was an incredible relief to finish, as always, but without the adrenalin rush that makes the whole experience worthwhile. I just felt sore and tired and nauseated, and I couldn't even eat. I took a shower and slept for almost three hours.
I felt a little better when I woke up, but it still seemed like a sign that it's time to switch to 12K races. I've never been a natural runner, it's always work—but this was very unpleasant work with little reward. It's been in the back of my mind that my body would tell me when the long runs got to be too much, and I think that happened yesterday.
This realization brings a potent combination of disappointment and relief. I still love the camaraderie of official races, the numbers and timing chips and water stops and free granola bars at the end. It's just that 13.1 miles is really far for a regular human body to run. My legs are staging a protest, and they're unionized.
I'm proud of myself for having trained to the point where I can run a half-marathon at all. My objective was never to beat a certain time or hit a loftier goal—I don't secretly want to run a full marathon or triathlon or become one of those people who dress entirely in wicking. The half was my goal, and I got there. But in the end, if something makes me feel physically terrible, then it's no longer healthy.
And no, this isn't all because I'm in my 30s now. Shut up. Unless you mean that it's the wisdom of age talking, in which case . . . you might be right.
Bib: 23041
Gender: F
Age: 30
Hometown: San Francisco, CA
Place Overall: 1195 out of 1984
Women: 579 out of 1145
F 30-39: 207 out of 395
FINISH: 2:15:21 Pace: 10:20
1.7 miles: 15:59 Pace: 9:25
Gender: F
Age: 30
Hometown: San Francisco, CA
Place Overall: 1195 out of 1984
Women: 579 out of 1145
F 30-39: 207 out of 395
FINISH: 2:15:21 Pace: 10:20
1.7 miles: 15:59 Pace: 9:25
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