I had a young chap approach me the other evening whilst I was standing at the customer service desk. A sheet of paper in hand, he explained that he had to take a test for school that covered some information on this paper, and could I help him find a test prep book?
"Well, sir, let me take a look at the paper."
Five seconds later, following a quick glance over the page...
"Ah, so this is a test where you check for grammar, spelling and punctuation errors? We have several excellent prep books--"
"No, no, it's a reading comprehension test."
I stare at him for a moment, and look back down at the sheet. Sure enough, it does say Accuplacer: Reading Comprehension across the top.
Well, it actually says "Accuplacer: Reading Comprehensin". Thus my mistake. In fact, I saw three spelling errors and two grammar errors in that first glance, and so merely assumed that it was a fairly standard GSP-ish placement test.
Nope.
This sheet was given to him by the testing facility at the college in question. It had been prepared, according to the top right corner, by a female who indicated that she was an "Adjunct Instructor of English" at the same school.
Leaving aside the fact that I firmly believe an instructor of English (or any other academic subject) should be able to spell "comprehension" without assistance, where is SpellCheck when you need it?
This summer, I seem to be relearning the art of baking a cake. I hadn't baked a cake for six months or so before this summer, and I'd done perhaps one per year for several years before that. That isn't enough to keep your hand in. Cakes are unlike any other baked item. You must be Intuitive with cakes. You must have an Instinct for cakes. You must Understand cakes.
And if you don't practice by making one once in a while, the cake will cackle evilly as it flattens itself on the bottom of the pan.
(This is what happens when you decide to blog rather than try any longer to sleep. You start psychoanalyzing baked goods. Let this be a lesson to you all.)
Recently there has been all sorts of flutter at The Bookstore about how we all need to "push" electronic books. I am disgusted and repelled. Oh, yes, I understand in theory that ebooks are a neat idea, that you can read them on your iPhone/Kindle/Blackberry, that they are often cheaper than their bound counterparts. I know I'm paranoid. I know I'm hopelessly out of date. But I loathe the idea of electronic books and all they represent to me. That which is electronic and seen on a screen is ephemeral. It doesn't exist in a physical sense. It is seen, read, perhaps even enjoyed--and then tossed in the programmable trash can in preparation for something else.
You can't change the words in a physical book. You can't (as easily) delete a physical book. No electronic byte, bit or megakilagigawhatsit can replace the feel of a battered old paperback or a brand-new-you-just-cracked-the-spine-for-the-first-time hardcover. Nor can it replace the smell of an old leatherbound book that has sat on the shelf of a pipe-smoking professor for forty years. (Though saints preserve me from sheet music that has sat in a cigarette smoker's house for the same amount of time.)
Helene Hanff only had nightmares about "huge monsters in academic robes carrying long bloody butcher knives labeled Excerpt, Selection, Passage and Abridged." I wonder what she'd think of a world where beautiful books were slowly being replaced by an image that doesn't actually exist. I suspect I'd enjoy hearing her scalding comments on such a situation.
Really, I swear that cakes and ebooks have a connection.
When I was but a young diva and starting to learn the Fine Art of Cake Creation, I fell deeply in love with an ancient and battered-beyond-belief copy of Fannie Farmer's Cooking. That book details precisely how to cook virtually anything, from milk toast (which isn't quite so revolting as it sounds) to a roast chicken to tea to Desserts.
I still don't own a copy of this book, though it is in print. I want rather badly to come across an older edition--say, 50-60 years old--in hardcover in a bookstore or even online, rather than spend $10 on a silly little paperback that will never stay open to the recipe I want and that won't have the history or FEEL of an older book.
I'm having cake-related ideas, though, and googled a rather unusual cake name this evening to see if the recipe was available online. Surprise! Fannie Farmer's Cooking is online in entirety (I hope) courtesy of Bartleby.com, which I've used occasionally for poems or some such for an English class.
This leaves me in the rather peculiar position of decrying ebooks with might and main on one hand and being utterly delighted that this book is available in such form on the other.
(My sweet tooth is coming out strongly on the side of "the other", while my waistline has cast a strong vote for the former.)
Humph.
There's a quote I only half remember about someone standing athwart history and howling "STOP!!!!". Sometimes I feel like that person.
I got an email today which told me that the church in which I grew up will close this fall.
This church was in a particularly nasty neighborhood. It was an old Catholic church of a style seen on the East Coast and in Europe. Honestly, if you were to walk into this church you would think you were in Italy somewhere. The paintings all over the ceiling, the organ, the stunning stained glass...all of it ad majorem Dei gloriam, and so very, very beautiful.
It was in this church that I first heard the chant and polyphony that have come to mean so much to me. The Latin Mass had a most peculiar time slot--two in the afternoon--and yet, since it was what I was used to, that seemed like the perfect time to have Mass.
The convent next door was a homeless shelter for a decade or so. As such, it was a disaster: it was poorly supervised and averaged over three hundred emergency calls per year for fires, overdoses, fights, etc. The church eventually regained control of the convent and turned into a building-of-all-use for the church and associated school. I remember holding receptions in what was once the nun's chapel: the choir seats/stalls were still in there.
The people of that parish worked so hard to keep it open, to keep a church in that neighborhood. They had so little to give--nearly all the congregation were within a generation of immigrating from Puerto Rico, Mexico, and Latin America. Many couldn't speak English. They gave that church so much: never was a church more immaculately kept; when one of the priests decided to organize the parish to clean up the neighborhood, the outpouring of volunteers for housepainting, cleaning of lots and throwing out of drug dealers (yes, the priest in question actually went door to door to tell the drug dealers to leave the neighborhood or clean up their act) was nothing short of amazing. The church school gave the parish kids a strong educational foundation that would serve them well all their lives.
Yale's school of nursing has wanted the land on which the church stands for expansion and parking for many years now. I don't know if the land will be sold to Yale. I suspect it will. I cry to think that that beautiful church will become an empty lot or a parking structure.
Perhaps I'm focusing overmuch on the building and less on the impact it has as a church. Forvgive me. In that church and listening to that chant, that polyphony, I was closer than I have ever been to the divine. The priests who said Mass there will always be in my memory: Father Zocco, the little Sicilian priest who dreamed for years of saying the Latin Mass once more and who, when given the opportunity, could not have been happier--he gave sermons laced with cooking and gardening metaphors, as he loved both; Father Newman, pastor of the church for so many years, who could often be found tinkering with the church boiler or cheerfully messing around under the hood of his Model T before Mass; Father Richardson, a pastor who learned the Latin Mass in order to minister better to his congregation; Father L'arche, who gave me my First Communion; Father Fitzpatrick, that champion of the Tridentine Rite, who died so very young last year. I never knew any of them terribly well, you understand, but they all formed me a little.
I remember one day creeping quietly up the stairs to the choir loft after Mass. I wanted so badly to see where that music was created. I stayed there silently for quite some time, just reveling in the fact that I was in the presence of Something so much bigger than I. When I eventually came back downstairs, half the congregation was frantic as I had simply disappeared...well, I was about seven or eight, and I did mention what sort of neighborhood the church is in.
I know deep down that the polyphony, the chant, the reverence, the love will always exist. I carry them with me. The demolition of a church cannot destroy those things.
And yet the tears stream down my face when I think that that church will soon not be there.
Whilst waiting to head out to HBP, I came up with this yummyness:
Take one burrito-sized tortilla. Spread it thinly with mayo, pile on salad greens. Slice some roasted red peppers and gherkin pickles and throw them on the tortilla. Spoon on some tuna salad, roll up the totilla into a wrap, and munch.
This would be even better with the addition of artichoke hearts, but I didn't have any in the cupboard. They've gone onto my grocery list, though, as I'll be making this again and soon.
I finished dinner with a large mug of cafe au lait. Usually I don't drink coffee at night (or if I do, it's decaf) but since I've been going to bed so early lately and I'll be up until at least 3 'cause of the movie, coffee sounded like a wise decision.
Must go make up and head out! Have a good evening!
Looking over this blog, I realize that there is one reason to be grateful for the stupid/nasty/rude/moronic customers upon whom I wait. Two words: blog fodder.
In short, if I were to have naught but sweet, intelligent, well-read, responsible customers...I wouldn't really have anything to write about.
But couldn't I at least have a higher percentage of these sorts of customers?
There is a family who comes into The Bookstore on a near-weekly basis. Sometimes it's just the mom and the son, sometimes the dad and the son, sometimes all of them. The son is perhaps in his late teens (bit hard to tell, but I'd say past puberty) and has Down's Syndrome or something similar. Down's Syndrome, just in case anyone isn't familiar with it, is fairly distinctive: the eyes tend to be lower, the face sort of round-square, shorter height, mental retardation varying from slight to relatively severe.
The son, who I'll call Jack, is probably in the moderately retarded range. He uses quite simple language, and seems interested in movies/books marketed to the 5-7 year old age range. He also has a somewhat thick speech impediment and a stutter. To be frank, I can only understand about half of what he says, and guess at the rest based on context. Jack is quite sweet but also understands (to a degree) certain social boundaries: he loves to talk to people, but doesn't just walk up and talk to strangers or stare at them.
Anyhoo, I had a fairly nice evening tonight, and was straightening up the customer service desk when Jack's mother came over to it. I'd noticed that she and her husband had been sitting in the cafe area and had let Jack walk around the store on his own. This is new (he might be in the DVD/music department for 5 minutes or so on his own, but never the store, which has exits and whatnot), so I kept a half an eye on him when he hove into view and assumed (correctly) than his parents were trying to increase his independence a little.
I asked Jack's mother if I could help her find something, and she explained that she hadn't seen him in a little while and was wondering where he was.
"I believe he's in the music department; he was headed that way when last I saw him."
"Oh, thanks. I hope he hasn't been any trouble? We're trying to let him be alone once in a while to learn how to interact when we're not there, but I was worried he might pull books off of shelves or something."
Heh.
Jack will occasionally pick up a book or DVD and ask about it/show it to his folks, but if he doesn't buy it then he puts it away correctly. He always asks permission before picking up a DVD if it's on a display, as he doesn't want to "mess it up." He's polite, tidy, and very respectful of personal space.
I told her as much, and followed up with, "Quite frankly, ma'am, he's better behaved than the majority of my customers!"
She laughed, and thanked me for saying so.
Shortly thereafter, Jack and his family were heading home. While I'd seen Jack several times that evening, he hadn't seen me. He immediately got this big grin on his face and grabbed his mom's arm. "L-l-l-l-look, mom! It-t-t-t-t's m-m-m-m f-friend!" He pulled her over to me, gave me a hug, and introduced me to his mom. "Mom, this is UbiC-c-caritas. UbiCaritas, th-th-this is my mom!" We talked for a few more minutes before they left.
Yeah. I could do with more customers like that.
(We once had a customer complain about Jack because she was offended that she had to look at him. I kid. you. not. She actually was stupid and nasty enough to speak to the store manager and demand that he not be allowed in the store based upon nothing more than the fact that the kid isn't "normal." Elaine, the store manager, said that the kid wasn't doing anything wrong and was a "valued customer." Customer whinged some more about--again, I kid you not--how she was going to call corporate because she couldn't stand being in the same store as such a person. The store manager laughed in the woman's face and pointed out that the second-in-command in the company has a kid with Down's and would be rather unlikely to agree with such a point of view. Customer stormed off in a huff, and good riddance to the brainless twit.)
This week I opened the store for 5 days straight. The customers were cranky, the tasks to be done too many for the short staffing and monotonous to boot. Yet I'd periodically find myself scanning out product/dealing with an idjit customer/listening to the latest in moronic store policy with a goofy grin on my face. Why?
In no order whatsoever:
-I'm going to a "real" university in the fall. Yes, me. Yes, me, UbiCaritas. Registered for classes and everything, I am. Yeah.
-Oooooh, but my paycheck was nice this week. It will be nice next week, too. The credit card balance is sliding lower and lower...
-A dear friend is expecting her first kid on August 4th. Me, I'm kinda hoping he shows up two days later, the 6th being this diva's birthday and all. I'm going to be Auntie UbiCaritas...and let me tell you that that makes me grin obnoxiously! Must find a name for the kid for the blog. Hmm.
-Voice workshops with voice lessons two days in a row and masterclasses and what-have-you. What's not to like?
So, there I was, auditioning at the Met. (What can I say--I dream big.)
The curtain on the back of the stage refused to stay closed, so I had to hold it for everyone else who was auditioning, too. At some point or other, I realized that I should have brought binder clips, because binder clips work quite well for holding curtains closed. (Why this was my concern and not that of the presumably well-paid stagehands at the Met, I do not know.) As I held the curtain, I realized that I wasn't even sure what I was singing or how the words or melody went.
When I was finally called, I couldn't find my way through the curtain and had to crawl underneath. Yes, I was wearing a diva dress at the time.
Once I got out there, I realized that I still didn't know what I was supposed to be singing or how to sing it, but I was handed a score. Well, that was...nice. Then I saw that my accompanist (in fact, a friend from school who is, to the best of my knowledge, a vocalist rather than a pianist) was sitting at an organ. While I knew nothing about the music, I did know that it was supposed to have piano accompaniment. However, I sight-read the whole shebang reasonably well, though I did have a certain amount of trouble with the Queen-of-the-Night-esque Fs.
Possibly the weirdest moment of all?
When I realized that I was singing (more recitative-ing, really, which is, for the non-singers out there, a sort of half-speaking/half singing) a synopsis of one of the Terminator films.
Come to think of it, I could see Terminator II being a really cool opera.
I bring to you a recipe.
I've started four blog posts in the last couple of days. Each was more sickeningly navel-gazing/meandering/boooooring than the last.
So I'll post about food. Food is always good, yes? Yes.
This weekend being my first weekend off in Cthulu-knows-how-long, I've made some comfort food. Really easy recipe, and my gosh but it's the BEST pepper-onion-sausage sub EVER.
You'll need two bell peppers (I suggest red and green, but orange or yellow also work), one yellow onion, five spicy italian sausages, a little cooking oil, and four hoagie rolls. One of these will be plenty for a person and the sub mix sits well in the fridge, so only pull out as many rolls as there will be people eating.
Slice the onion in half. Slice each half into strips. Ditto the peppers. (If you're like a Certain Diva--starts with U, ends with s, you may need to get another pepper as you may find yourself eating a good bit more than a bite or two of the crunchy fresh pepper. Just warning you!)
Toss them into a large frying pan with the Italian sausage (spicy) and enough oil to cover the bottom of the pan plus a little more. Cover and cook on medium heat, stirring periodically. Once the smell is mouth-wateringly tempting and the sausages are a nice brown all over, slice the sausages into bite-sized pieces. Let sizzle for another five minutes or so, and then turn off the heat.
Slice a hoagie roll down the middle without cutting all the way through. Prop this over the toaster with the cut edge down. Turn on the toaster, and toast until the roll is crispy-brown but not burnt. IMMEDIATELY spoon some of the sausage-pepper-onions over the roll and serve with lots of napkins. Side salad strictly optional. I'd also suggest serving with a fork for the bits that get away.
The SOP mix only gets better with fridge time. Reheat and serve over a fresh-toasted hoagie roll for the next day's lunch/dinner. Mmmmm!
Over the last six months or so, some of you have probably (not) noticed that I've been using the privacy restriction features on Vox for this blog. In short, if you aren't in my "neighborhood", the chances are that you've noticed a significant decrease in work-related posts.
I did a lot of thinking some time ago. While all names are changed to protect the ignorant/stupid/malicious, my name (and those of friends) appears nowhere on this blog, I've never mentioned the name of the bookstore chain for which I work (though it's probably a bit obvious), no one in real life would link me to the screen name "ubi caritas"...this is still the internet. My job has a firm no-blog policy, and however much I might fuss about my job, I still like it and like the "employment" thing, too.
I have toyed with the idea of setting up a more anonymous and non-vox blog: one that doesn't have the "social network" aspect, one on which my picture does not appear, and one from which no one could possibly find me on Facebook and trace back to the blog or vice versa. If I were to do that, I could tell a lot more stories: no one would have to know in what area of the country I live (I mean, how many bookstores are there in Fort Worth? Frankly, I've given anyone out there enough information to find me--and that concerns me a little), I could describe more situations as they happen rather than write them up and spend a good bit of time changing them to make them less obviously my store...there is definite appeal.
On the other hand, I like and value the comments that many of you make here. I don't want to slip off into the blogosphere without telling some of you where I go. I suspect that if I decided to do that (and it's far from decided, I assure you--I still can't decide) I'd send those of you I "know" fairly well (comments to one anothers' blogs and/or exchanged PMs) the link to the new place.
Just thinking aloud here. Feel free to toss out any suggestions!
