Becky Clark's Blog, page 6

Irritating Phrases

The other day I stumbled on a list of Top Ten Irritating Phrases, as one does when one is searching for yet another synonym for “looked.”

• At the end of the day
• Fairly unique
• Hashtag blessed
• At this moment in time
• With all due respect
• I’m just being honest
• Shouldn’t of
• 24/7
• It’s not rocket science
• I could care less

I would like to add ironically and literally to the list because so many people don’t understand their meaning. And let’s go ahead and include air quotes, too. I’m not “kidding.”

While we’re at it, let’s axe underage woman—which I believe is a child—and its corollary, boys will be boys, which usually refers to men, come to think of it.

I personally is another phrase I hate because it seems like the linguistic equivalent of having toast with your pancakes. (Which I have done on occasion and for which I’m still ashamed.)

But my ultimate pet peeve word is arguably. First, coming from a large argumentative family, I learned as a wee bairn that EVERYTHING is arguable. A seemingly innocuous sentence like Abraham Lincoln was arguably the best President makes me sputter in fourteen different directions, none of which have to do with history. Why can’t they say “I think Abraham Lincoln was the best president, “ or “Abraham Lincoln was the best prez because he wore that awesome hat” or even the weaselly “Many people think Abraham Lincoln was the best president”?

But at the end of the day, I personally am fairly unique in thinking this. With all due respect to Lincoln scholars, it’s literally a nightmare to be subjected to “history” 24/7. After all, it’s not rocket science.

Oh, I probably shouldn’t of said that, but I could care less. I’m just being honest.

What’s your numero uno irritating phrase?

Nope, Pretty Sure I’m Right

I was out with writer friends recently and the discussion turned to language, as it does.

We were at Happy Hour after our Sisters in Crime meeting. During the meeting that morning, someone used the word “peripatetic.” Because I’m me, I loudly confessed my ignorance and demanded a definition. (Turns out I wasn’t the only one who didn’t know, so YOU’RE WELCOME, CLASS!)

The only time I’ve ever seen or used the word “peripatetic” is when I sing along to my Chorus Line album. In the song “One,” there’s a lyric:

She’s uncommonly rare, very unique,
Peripatetic, poetic and chic.

Doesn’t give me any context clues, but it’s fun to sing.

It actually means someone who travels around, working in various places for relatively short periods. The woman who used the word was describing her writing schedule lately, meaning she hadn’t been able to sit and write regularly.

This led to more confessions about words we’ve seen but never knew the actual definition of.

Within the last few years, I learned the actual definition of “bespoke.” It means “handmade or tailored” but from context I always thought it just meant a fancy suit, because it was always used as a descriptor of something a rich guy was wearing.

The other word I learned not too long ago was “penultimate.” From context, I always knew that it meant something toward the end of a list. Turns out, it very specifically referred to something that was second-to-last.

Who in the world cares about something second-to-last? Other than a middle child, that is. Or me, come to think of it, as the seventh of eight kids. (I’m quite certain nobody ever referred to me as the “penultimate Clark,” although now I really think I need new business cards.)

Our conversation then devolved into words we knew quite well, but had no idea how to pronounce. This is a much longer list among us readers! (Thank goodness for audio books, eh?)

Awry (pronounced incorrectly as AW-ree)Ague (aaaawg)Colonel (colo-nel)Peignoir (peg-nor)Penelope (PEN-uh-lope)Hermione (HER-me-own)Misled (MY-zuld)Andromeda (and-dro-ME-duh)Epitome (EP-i-tome)Chagrin (CHA-grin)Reprise (re-PRIZE)Macadam (McAdam)Cumin (COO-men)

So, what about you guys? Got any confessions of your own?

Things I’ve Noticed Recently

I never see baby squirrels. Just full-sized ones.

Along the same lines, the only eyelashes that get stuck on my eyeball are long, but I never see little ones growing. And I’ve looked.

My favorite thing about the pandemic lockdown was seeing people’s living spaces on Zoom, especially news anchors, teachers, and yoga instructors.

I have yet to develop an interesting “zoom space” of my own.

Nala does her happy dance after she eats breakfast. I used to think this meant she needed to go outside to potty. Now it seems it’s her doggy way to thank me for her delicious breakfast. I think I’ll start doing that after my meals.

Sometimes when I’m feeling fragile I choose a crossword puzzle with a “medium” difficulty level and it’s harder than a “very hard” one. And then my feelings get hurt.

What have you noticed recently?

Oh, To Be Made Out of Glass

I pulled out my Fat Folder of Fervid Fun, otherwise known as my idea file, casting about for something I wanted to blog about. My pal Leslie Karst over at Chicks on the Case had recently blogged about Marilyn vos Savant, and look at the clipping right on top of my file!

I figured that was fate!

I clipped this article because I’m fascinated with the human mind and body.

Up until 1987, when I got pregnant, I never thought much about how my ‘ol meat skin worked. But then I had questions. So many questions. My doctor would listen patiently and then tell me, “If you were made out of glass, I could answer that.”

Then in 2017 I had a benign tumor plucked from inside my spinal column which fascinated and horrified me. Still does, in fact. It seems every day is a new adventure in figuring out the brain-body connection. (If you want to read more about that escapade, there are a couple of posts here and here. Nothing gross, though, unless you ask nicely.)

Again, until it mattered, I hadn’t thought too much about how my brain worked. The day after my surgery they hoisted me out of my bed and two therapists held on to this strappy contraption they trussed me up in. I was chatting and laughing, happy to be on my feet and not paralyzed. They pointed me across the room toward my husband and told me to walk, so I did. But then I saw him go pale and I looked down. I honest-to-goodness thought I was walking normally, but I hadn’t moved an inch. My mind told me I was marching across the room, but my legs didn’t get the message at all. It was like when you try to call Verizon.

Recovery from spinal surgery continues to be a hoot, although not that dramatic these days. Even though it’s been five years, my brain simply doesn’t talk to my nerves very well anymore. Example … I went to step on a spider in the basement the other day. If my floor was a clock, he was on the twelve. But when I aimed at him, my foot landed at about two-thirty. What the what? Tried again. Ten-forty-five. The poor spider didn’t know what was happening and skeedaddled to ten o’clock so, of course, my foot stomped at seven-fifteen. At this point I was laughing and just hoping if I stuck with it long enough, he’d run under my foot at some point and commit seppuku.

But back to Marilyn vos Savant’s description of auditory pareidolia.

I think this interests me so much because in addition to having my nerves scrambled, I’ve done a ton of research into synesthesia, another condition that people think is made up. Synesthesia is when senses are crossed. Like if you hear a certain musical chord, you also see the color green. Or if you’re angry, you taste peanut butter. There are a million different ways to be synesthetic, all fascinating.

I read a Smithsonian Magazine article about it and it completely captivated my imagination. This was back when I wrote for kids so I wrote a couple of manuscripts in a YA mystery series where the main character had synesthesia.

My research led me to talk to people about their experiences with it—long before the internet made it easy—and so many of them had a common story. Either they didn’t realize they saw the world differently than everyone else until they were well into adulthood, or they found out in kindergarten playing with those wooden blocks with the letters of the alphabet painted on them. They’d be annoyed because the blocks didn’t match the alphabet they saw in their heads. A was supposed to be red, B was yellow, C was green and so forth, and the blocks were painted all wrong. And when they pointed this out to the other kids or their teacher, they were met with blank stares because nobody knew what they were talking about.

So if they didn’t have an experience like this with the blocks, they typically didn’t find out they had synesthesia until they were much older. This made perfect sense to me because how often have you ever had a conversation with someone about how your emotions taste or the feel of music on your ankle?

But when I wrote about my high school marching band character just learning he has synesthesia, the members of my critique group at the time called me out on it. “No way!” … “You’d totally know you were different!” … “How could he not know?”

I had to convince them, just like this woman writing to Marilyn had to convince her husband about her auditory pareidolia, a condition she most likely was born with. She probably asked her husband, “What song is that?” and he gave her that blank look.

I still want to write about Dash, my synesthetic teenager, but in the original drafts I hadn’t quite been able to do him justice. Maybe some day.

I suspect every one of us has some unique physical or brainwave oddity, whether we’re aware of it or not. So what’s yours? Does your foot come down where you tell it to? Are you double-jointed? Can you roll your tongue or turn it upside down? Can you roll your Rs? (I can’t!) Do you have synesthesia or pareidolia? Did you lose your sense of smell or taste when you had Covid? Can you sense an earthquake before it happens? Can you contort your body so it fits into a suitcase? Do you have ESP? Does the ouija board always move for you? Did you ever Jumanji anything? If not, is there some oddity that fascinates you?

Got a New Garden Hose The Other Day…

… and now I have many, many thoughts about the instructions on my new garden hose.

Every kid who grew up in suburbia drank from a hose. None of us died from it. You know why? Because not even the dumb kid who lived on the corner wrapped his lips around the nozzle of the hose and THEN turned on the hose. That’s a good way to swallow your weight in earwigs and spiders. And, yanno, drown. Even he knew enough to turn the hose on and let it get cold before drinking. The whole point of drinking out of the hose was because you were parched from too many “Duck, Duck, Goose” rounds, or chasing a wayward basketball down the street, or trying to keep the dumb kid out of kissing range. Besides, nobody’s mom would let the entirety of the neighborhood children troop into their house and leave behind the pervasive aroma of Eau du Sweaty Kid and a zillion dirty glasses.

Why? Just why?

The only reason I can fathom being tempted to blast water into an electrical outlet is if there is a wasp nest in there. But everyone knows the better way is to get your kid sister to poke at it with a stick.

I see nothing on here that specifies the actual use of this hose. Is it for my medium duties? My crush resistant couplings? My all-weather construction?

But it brings up another question.

Again, I don’t want to pick on dumb kids, but who would go off and leave a hose building up pressure until it looks like Veruca Salt in WonkaLand?

We’ve been over this, Mr Hose Instructions. *stamps foot impatiently like Veruca Salt* It doesn’t matter if anything has made a home inside the hose because the minute water blasts outta there into someone’s face or an electrical outlet, they and all their itsy bitsy furniture and appliances will blast out too.

Where’s the warning about getting spider furniture strewn all over your lawn? Hmm?

Deos splng rlleay mttear?

I used to give this to the kids when I did school visits, much to the dismay of their teachers. But it fascinates me, how the brain works. So, in honor of all National Spelling Bee finalists, enjoy.

I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid! Aoccdrnig to a rseaerch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deson’t mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

Amzanig huh?

How’s your spelling? Have you ever been in a spelling bee? And why is it called a “bee” anyhoo?

Mistakes? Who, Me?

Here is a list of mistakes I made over a two-day period. The ones I could remember, anyway. Thank goodness I have a healthy self-esteem.

1. I had two people scheduled on my Chicks on the Case group blog. One realized she was going to be out of town, so I asked the other scheduled two weeks later if she’d switch. Easy peasy. I made the switch and got it all ready to go. But then on the day it published, I was convinced I’d done it wrong. Spoiler alert: I had done it all correctly. But I scrambled to redo both posts, apologized to my cohorts (who had no idea what I was talking about), then got an email from both authors asking what was going on. So I scrambled to undo the redo and finally got it right. Sheesh.

2. Our electricity went off for longer than a blip so I thought I should call and alert someone. Unfortunately, I called the gas company rather than the electric company. I finally realized it AFTER I jumped through all the phone prompts and finally got to a real person. I thought it was kind of funny. She did not.

3. I forgot my reusable totes for groceries so had to put everything in plastic and my groceries escaped and sailed all around my trunk.

4. I subtracted a deposit in my bank register instead of adding it, and couldn’t figure out for a very long time why my statement wouldn’t balance.

5. I allowed a three-year-old to help me wash the dishes. I knew better, but made a rookie Grandma mistake. Luckily she’s closer to the floor and likes to mop up stuff.

What about you? Got any fun mistakes to share?

The One Where Becky Learns a New Word

I love maps. If I had known the word cartographer as a kid, I might have had an entirely different career trajectory.

I’ve talked many times about my huge family and how we’d drive all over Colorado when I was growing up. What I might not have told you is that I used to get carsick on those rides. In an effort to keep me from urping on every mountain pass, my parents installed me in the coveted center of the front bench seat in the station wagon. I know! Rewarded for barfing … a dream come true. But what it really meant was that I got to hold the map and help direct Dad on our route, tracing my finger along the roads, pointing out interesting landmarks. I’m sure my siblings still discuss in reverential tones those times I’d require silence to direct their attention out the left side of the car where, just over there, was a creek/campground/town I couldn’t pronounce. Reverential, I’m sure of it.

I don’t read deeply in the fantasy genre, but I love to pore over those intricate artistic maps in the front of the books. Works of art, most of them. Every time I examine one, I wonder where in their writing process did the author think about, or finalize, their map, because I’m also fascinated with other authors’ writing processes. I pepper them with questions any chance I get, in case they do something I think might help me tweak my process.

Because I do have a process. A fairly substantial one. In fact, I wrote EIGHT WEEKS TO A COMPLETE NOVEL because people regularly ask me about my writing process.

I have certain things I always do with a manuscript, most of which I learned the hard way … you know, by NOT doing it that one time.

You might not be surprised to learn I make maps for every book—towns, office buildings, train stations, apartment interiors … all kinds of things I don’t want to have to remember.

Now that I’m starting a fairly intricate new series—fifteen books, with a huge cast of characters—I knew I had to work a tad harder on my town map than I usually do.

As much as I love maps, I typically just make a quick pencil sketch of my fictional town. And I’m no artist, so it’s very rough!

But in the case of my new Sugar Mill Marketplace series, since there are so many people and places to keep track of, I decided to step up my game and create a bona fide map of Sugar Springs, my fictional town. It’s based on a real town in Colorado, Buena Vista, but I have to take liberties to bend it to my will.

I got a map of Buena Vista and my plan was to just tape it to a window and trace what I needed. Unfortunately, my map is one of those colorful Chamber of Commerce maps with printing on both sides, so the other side bled through and I couldn’t see what I needed.

So I went to my thotful spot—my craft room—and thunk about it. I haven’t had carbon paper since about 1983, but I do keep a supply of fusible interfacing on hand. You never know when you need to fake a quick hem or something. I placed the map on a table and taped the interfacing over it and started tracing with my sharpest Sharpie.

Then I was able to tape my Sharpied interfacing to the window with a piece of paper over it and actually be able to see the lines while I traced, like I wanted to do originally with the Chamber map.

Way harder than it sounds, btw. The thing that makes fusible interfacing fusible are all the little bumps on one side that make it stick when you iron it on fabric. Not so helpful when you’re trying to trace. But finally, after much creative cursing and a forgiving Sharpie, I got it done.

I’ve already filled in some things, most importantly where the Marketplace is going to be. But also some things that I needed to know when writing the novella that bridges my Mystery Writer series with this new Marketplace series. I can’t remember if I told you or not, but one of the characters in the new series is Dena Russo, the mother of Charlee Russo from the Mystery Writer series. I needed to know where her house was, a couple of offices, the sandwich shop … that kind of thing.

As I work on each new manuscript, I’ll be able to add in the new places I need, and remind myself where everything else is situated.

I’m pleased as punch with my new map and know it will serve me well, but now I’m wondering if Ptolemy or Leonardo da Vinci used fusible interfacing as their map-making medium.

What about you … are you a cartophile? (Yes, I had to look that one up.) Do you study maps in the front of books and as you read, flip back and refer to them? Will you notice if one of my characters drives the wrong way home? Do you make maps for your own books? Do you have a stash of fusible interfacing for map-making emergencies?

Funny Friends

I’ve been on Facebook for a long time. A really long time. I got an account soon after it opened to normals and not just students. Of course, I was a precocious forty-seven-year-old so it’s to be expected.

Way back then, O Best Beloved, Facebook automatically started a blank post with your name, then you fill in the rest like, “Becky is … eating a sandwich.”

I found this old blog, highlighting some of my fabutastically funny friends. Since Facebook isn’t nearly as fun as it once was, I resurrected it to see if we couldn’t conjure up them good ‘ol days.

• is repeating the magic words and waving her magic wand, but the house still looks like…oh, wow. No wonder we never invite anyone to dinner.

• is feeling virtuous. Hopefully it won’t last.

• helped Katie today… again more industrious than the bloody industrial revolution…

• kicked over an ant hill today. REBUILD. Haha.

• wonders who names their child Aldous?

• had a couple of thoughts just now. Must be digging out of the cotton mush that took over my brain today.

• ‘s husband is a genius… he’s decided to “create a new month called Edu-vember, where teachers are able to catch up on all of their work without distraction! Help spread the word!”

• bought a new orange basket, because nothing says ‘I love you’ like storing your kids’ toys in a receptacle that smells like cow dung.

• is back at work, no sick Johns. (Um. Should probably clarify that I am not a hooker.)

• feels a little bad that my 7 year old left an empty table setting for me, and my 4 year old waited up past 9 because he wanted to say Good Night. It’s nice to be missed, and–hey! One of my kids set the table!!

• is so excited that her marshmallow tree is blooming like crazy and she will have a bumper crop of fresh marshmallows in a few weeks. Fluffernutters for all.

• is nimbly avoiding the past participle but crashing into the continuous aspect.

• imagines the students in his Children’s Lit class will greet his newly written lecture on the predictive coefficient of children’s fantasy with sustained applause, rhythmic clapping and stomping, and loud, piercing ululations of untrammelled joy tomorrow.

• was playing in his office chair and found a fun lever that made him fall out of it! *hops up and pulls it again* WEEEEEE!!!

• is listening to a fantastic Gordon Lightfoot record. Yes. I said Gordon Lightfoot. Deal with it.

• thinks winter is being a control freak. Relinquish!!

Did any of these make you snort right out loud like they did to me? Do you remember when Facebook was fun?

A Penny Saved

I got an “overpayment notice” in the mail the other day from Time Magazine. I had to read it three times. At first I thought I misread the sender and it was really about our Mad Magazine subscription. They send silly notices sometimes.

Yes. We do read every word of Mad Magazine here in BeckyLand. What of it?

Here’s the notice I received:

Dear Becky,

We appreciate your prompt payment for you [sic] TIME magazine subscription. However, our records indicate that you overpaid and are due a balance of $0.01.

We will extend your subscription for 1 additional issues(s). [??] Or, if you would prefer a refund check for the balance please contact our customer service department.

Thank you again for being a subscriber. We look forward to assisting you in the future should you have any questions or concerns about your subscription.

Go ahead. Read it again if you need to. I’ll wait.

So many jokes. So many options.

Let me first say that I loves me my Time Magazine and I read it cover to cover every week. But really?  They’ll cut me a check for a penny? What might that cost them? Do you think if I asked real nice they’d set up a direct deposit account for me? Or hand-deliver it straight into my piggy bank here in BeckyLand? Will I get it right away or will they spread the payment over the course of a few months so as to earn the float from it? Do they choose not to send me the copper for fear I’ll melt it down and buy them out?

After prayful consideration and many eeny-meeny-miny-moes, I decide to take the additional issue instead of the serious coin I had been offered. A lesser woman, however, would take advantage of their largesse. And a greedy woman would try to take advantage of other companies with this same policy.

If I overpaid my property taxes would I get another year of public school?

If I overpaid Water and Sanitation would I get extra flushes?

If I overpaid at the grocery store would I get fat? Hmm. Yes, probably.

If I overpaid my electric bill would a year’s worth of electricity ooze out of my outlets?

It boggles the mind.

Me? I’m not greedy, so I’ll take Time Magazine’s generous offer in the spirit in which it was intended. But next year, I’m overpaying by 52 cents to get an additional year on my subscription.

If we had a greedy bone in our bodies, what other ways could we take advantage of companies with this same policy?