Talk of (My) Town

In which I use humble brags to make my complaints

Did you hear that? That was the sound of my knees as I got up to get my coffee. I’ve hit that point in life where my joints make creaks and cracks when I stand and I’m incapable of keeping that oof a silent oof. My mind thinks I’m 28; my body thinks I’m 78. (For the record, I’m neither.)

Is daylight savings making you a grumpy sleepy ass? Oh, it’s just me?

I’ll think of something…

about predictive text

I’ve always felt like I have something to prove. Doubt my ability, tell me I can’t, or otherwise assume I’m a 90-pound¹ weakling, and my competitive streak comes flying out. (You have a competitive streak? Well mine comes out flying faster than yours.)

In 2000, when I was a West Coaster, my friend Eugene said, “A couple of us are riding the STP this year.” The Seattle-to-Portland bike ride is a popular annual event, a bike ride of 200 miles from (do I need to say this?) Seattle, Washington, to Portland, Oregon.

“Oh, fun! I’ll join you. Where do you plan on camping for the night?” Most people do the ride over two days, because what kind of idiot is going to ride 200 miles in one day?

“You can do it in two days.” Eugene scoffed with the confidence only a twenty-something boy could muster. “We’re doing it in one-day.”

So, apparently, I was that kind of idiot.

The coveted one-day rider patch. I’m not going to harp about the missing hyphen between “one” and “day,” but know I’m thinking about it.

I’ve run marathons, hiked the Grand Canyon by myself, took a three-month solo cross-country trip in pre-cell phone days, dropped acid, got a tattoo, and—yes—biked 200 miles in a single day all because someone didn’t want me to/didn’t think I could or should. Don’t tell me what I should or should not be doing.

Which leads me to… predictive text. I fucking hate predictive text. When my phone or writing program tells me what they think I’m going to say next, I rebel. When Scrivener² suggests that after “long” I probably want to say “time,” I frantically search for another word to use. If my phone tells me when I text the husband, “What’s for,” that my next word will most likely be “dinner,” “lunch,” or “breakfast,” it pisses me off, because while, yes, I want to know what’s for dinner, I don’t want my phone assuming it’s what I’m going to say. I’m tempted to write “that meal we eat in the evening,” but that defeats the purpose of the quick text. In Scrivener, I find myself struggling for a different word, EVEN IF THE WORD IT SUGGESTS IS THE PERFECT WORD!

Nobody ever said I was a rational human being.

about The New Yorker

My family is persecuted by the New Yorker. My grandfather read the magazine cover to cover—didn’t skip a single Talk of the Town or book review. Of course that meant he was always woefully behind on his reading and his pile of New Yorkers unfortunately outlived him. For my mom’s last birthday, she told my father that all she wanted was for him to not renew their subscription. My New Yorkers have collected in various piles around the house, and each week on Thursdays, the husband says with a smug smile that makes me think of poisoning his coffee, “Oh, look! You have a new New Yorker,” and he tosses it on one of the piles.

My current backlog of 24 issues. More may be hiding around the house.

There are people who want to get their email to inbox zero; I’d like to get to New Yorker zero. (My sister claims she reads every New Yorker in a relatively timely manner, but we all know that simply means she’s a liar.)

Each week I promise myself I’ll at least look through them, read only the articles that interest me. I’m relieved when there’s a double issue because that gives me an extra week.

Ha! As if that extra week matters. I do read them… sometimes. I could cancel my subscription, but I use the New Yorker archives extensively for research. For The Whisper Sister, I relied heavily on its Speakeasy Nights and Liquor Market columns (and how the hell they got away with printing those during Prohibition, I’ll never understand).

Speakeasy Nights from The New Yorker.

The Liquor Market appeared regularly and every November a more detailed price list was published for holiday shopping

The pile of New Yorkers is next to me. Taunting me. Telling me I’m an uncouth person for not being able to discuss the story of Kamala Harris’s sorority (10/28/2024) or whether or not humans can teach the northern bald ibis to migrate (2/17 & 24/2025). Every few months, I pick up an issue and read a story of great interest to me, and think, “Yes, I’m a sophisticated person who enjoys The New Yorker,” and then the magazine goes into the pile, the rest of the magazine unread.

I feel personally attacked each time an issue arrives. I have no great revelations on this topic; I simply wanted to complain.

about my dog

Bailey has taken over my girl’s room (that’s what my girl gets for leaving me to go to college). Bailey makes herself a nest and snoozes away. I’d crawl in next to her with a book and spend the day if it didn’t annoy her so much. Much like my human children, if I get too close, I get the side eye and a snarl as she backs away from me.

Until next time, make good choices!

jennifer

1. Or a 155lb weakling. Your choice.

2. A writing program that’s easier to use for fiction than Word