I had my advanced comp studs analyze commercials today. They all did an awesome job, but one student brought in a particularly awesome commercial:
How much do you love, love, love local commercials?
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Accented Americans
Before beginning my teaching responsibilities at UC, my interaction with with people not born in the United States was pretty limited. If you can believe it, rural Dakota isn't exactly a hub for foreign-born people. The only unique accent I heard growing up was when my Oklahoma cousins came up twice a year.
Since teaching here, however, I've worked with and taught a number of people who speak with an accent. Currently, I have a Jamaican who loves to talk (and I love to listen to him), a Polish woman, a few Latinos, one Indian woman, and a number of Africans, mostly from Ethiopia. My classroom is like the United Nations. Or like an ad from the United Colors of Benneton. And I love it.
I, myself, have a Nor'Dakota accent. I say flayg, bayg, waygon. I say oh sure. I say oh yeah. When I go home to the local bar, my accent comes out thick. The first good friend I made in college was Hidatsa and Sioux, and I hung out a lot with her and her cousins. I loved their accents. It was like hills and grass. Once in awhile, I'll hear that accent down here and think of her, of them.
My friend L. does a hilariously fantastic impression of her Japanese mother. My friend S. has a completely addicting New York/Jewish accent. My friend K. slips very easily into her Mexican blood. My friend J. from Minnesota doesn't sound like she's from Minnesota at all. My moved-away friend N. has this great East Coast thing that I miss much.
B's parents have a bit of a Florida/Ohio accent, and it's a little Southerny. They say "darlin'" a lot. My dad will say things like "wort-less" for "worthless", and other things like "doggone it" and "you know, a guy could ..." when he is hinting that his three children should do something.
I like music an awful, awful lot, and I like the musicality that happens when a language is tackled by people who weren't born with it on their tongues.
Since teaching here, however, I've worked with and taught a number of people who speak with an accent. Currently, I have a Jamaican who loves to talk (and I love to listen to him), a Polish woman, a few Latinos, one Indian woman, and a number of Africans, mostly from Ethiopia. My classroom is like the United Nations. Or like an ad from the United Colors of Benneton. And I love it.
I, myself, have a Nor'Dakota accent. I say flayg, bayg, waygon. I say oh sure. I say oh yeah. When I go home to the local bar, my accent comes out thick. The first good friend I made in college was Hidatsa and Sioux, and I hung out a lot with her and her cousins. I loved their accents. It was like hills and grass. Once in awhile, I'll hear that accent down here and think of her, of them.
My friend L. does a hilariously fantastic impression of her Japanese mother. My friend S. has a completely addicting New York/Jewish accent. My friend K. slips very easily into her Mexican blood. My friend J. from Minnesota doesn't sound like she's from Minnesota at all. My moved-away friend N. has this great East Coast thing that I miss much.
B's parents have a bit of a Florida/Ohio accent, and it's a little Southerny. They say "darlin'" a lot. My dad will say things like "wort-less" for "worthless", and other things like "doggone it" and "you know, a guy could ..." when he is hinting that his three children should do something.
I like music an awful, awful lot, and I like the musicality that happens when a language is tackled by people who weren't born with it on their tongues.
Monday, January 26, 2009
“I think your wife is faking her psychosis”
I am sitting at the kitchen table, ignoring the CBS soap that I have turned on for the background noise (see title), making lesson plans, and watching it snow.
Boy, is that snow pretty today. A soft and slow snow.
We’re now on our second week of classes, but praise Allah, I do not teach on Mondays this semester. I wake up on Sunday morning and love the two full days I have ahead of me. I’ve got a good batch of students this Spring, I think. I’m teaching a couple sections of basic writing this semester, and am already in love with it. I’m working with people who actually want to talk about the placement of a comma; eager people who tell me the difference between there, their, and they’re.
Dreamy, dreamy.
Happy New Year! by the way.
This week will go by fast, as did all of 2005, 2006, 2007, and 2008 did. I am headed to Fargo this weekend. My brother has gotten his orders; his all-expense paid trip to the desert. (Thanks Bush. Thanks Rummy. Thanks Cheney. So glad you jokers are out. ) So, we’re having a big going-away bash with lots of friends and families. Keep him close in your thoughts, ok?
I’ve been waiting for the new Wally Lamb novel, The Hour I First Believed. By waiting, I mean I’ve just been hanging around the new release shelves at the local libraries. I finally snagged it on Friday. I love it. I love how Lamb and others like John Irving are like, “yeah, I write these 800 page novels that end with the most perfect lines ever, and yeah, they weigh 7 pounds and your arms will get tired, and yeah, they redeem and sweep and wrench. But you know what? You’ll wake up early just to get another 50 pages in.” I imagine they just walk into their uberfamous publishing houses, throw the manuscripts on the desk, and say, “you’re welcome.” Lucky bastards.
I’ve got about 1/3 of this final lesson plan done, so I best get back to it. I can’t wait to get to the point in my career when I can just get up there and talk, relevantly and coherently, for hours. When I don’t babble and tell my students things like, “I watch my neighbors all the time” and “I’m pretty good with chopsticks” and “Harry Potter is king.”
Boy, is that snow pretty today. A soft and slow snow.
We’re now on our second week of classes, but praise Allah, I do not teach on Mondays this semester. I wake up on Sunday morning and love the two full days I have ahead of me. I’ve got a good batch of students this Spring, I think. I’m teaching a couple sections of basic writing this semester, and am already in love with it. I’m working with people who actually want to talk about the placement of a comma; eager people who tell me the difference between there, their, and they’re.
Dreamy, dreamy.
Happy New Year! by the way.
This week will go by fast, as did all of 2005, 2006, 2007, and 2008 did. I am headed to Fargo this weekend. My brother has gotten his orders; his all-expense paid trip to the desert. (Thanks Bush. Thanks Rummy. Thanks Cheney. So glad you jokers are out. ) So, we’re having a big going-away bash with lots of friends and families. Keep him close in your thoughts, ok?
I’ve been waiting for the new Wally Lamb novel, The Hour I First Believed. By waiting, I mean I’ve just been hanging around the new release shelves at the local libraries. I finally snagged it on Friday. I love it. I love how Lamb and others like John Irving are like, “yeah, I write these 800 page novels that end with the most perfect lines ever, and yeah, they weigh 7 pounds and your arms will get tired, and yeah, they redeem and sweep and wrench. But you know what? You’ll wake up early just to get another 50 pages in.” I imagine they just walk into their uberfamous publishing houses, throw the manuscripts on the desk, and say, “you’re welcome.” Lucky bastards.
I’ve got about 1/3 of this final lesson plan done, so I best get back to it. I can’t wait to get to the point in my career when I can just get up there and talk, relevantly and coherently, for hours. When I don’t babble and tell my students things like, “I watch my neighbors all the time” and “I’m pretty good with chopsticks” and “Harry Potter is king.”
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Mac Attack
Oh, The Onion! How Wonderful You Make My Life!
Apple Introduces Revolutionary New Laptop With No Keyboard
Apple Introduces Revolutionary New Laptop With No Keyboard
Monday, January 19, 2009
I am a ranty old lady
who rants.
Dear Stupid Frat Boys:
I realize most of your energy goes into such endeavors as date raping, sticking forks in each other's lawns, falling off of balconies, chanting up and down the streets of Vermillion, and puking outside of the Char Bar. Perhaps, though, you could funnel some of that energy into shoveling your fucking sidewalks.
Don't you operate under the guise of community service and what not? Isn't your purpose, no matter how transparent, to do things that better the place where you live and go to school? Why is it, then, that your sidewalks are always icy and full of trampled on snow? At least 30 able-bodied men live within your houses. Shovel your goddamn walks. It's fucking rude not to. It sends the message that you are better than the people who traverse your walks.
Shovel your sidewalks. It will only take you about 20 minutes, which leaves you plenty of time to go back to sexually offending this town.
Dear People in Cars who Won't Stop for Pedestrians at Crosswalks:
Fuck you. Seriously. Fuck you.
Dear Smelly Man at Gym:
Take a goddamn shower.
Dear Stupid Frat Boys:
I realize most of your energy goes into such endeavors as date raping, sticking forks in each other's lawns, falling off of balconies, chanting up and down the streets of Vermillion, and puking outside of the Char Bar. Perhaps, though, you could funnel some of that energy into shoveling your fucking sidewalks.
Don't you operate under the guise of community service and what not? Isn't your purpose, no matter how transparent, to do things that better the place where you live and go to school? Why is it, then, that your sidewalks are always icy and full of trampled on snow? At least 30 able-bodied men live within your houses. Shovel your goddamn walks. It's fucking rude not to. It sends the message that you are better than the people who traverse your walks.
Shovel your sidewalks. It will only take you about 20 minutes, which leaves you plenty of time to go back to sexually offending this town.
Dear People in Cars who Won't Stop for Pedestrians at Crosswalks:
Fuck you. Seriously. Fuck you.
Dear Smelly Man at Gym:
Take a goddamn shower.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
An Open Letter
Dear Student Who Gave Me a Super B-wordy Look This Morning,
I do apologize for not seeing you right away at the intersection. To be fair, though, your dumb frat boy boyfriend was driving and didn't really "stop." I did let you go first, though, so the super b-wordy look and mouthing of some obscenity was probably out of order. This is a college town, remember, and your professors do take part in town life. This includes driving. I would just be a bit more careful about who I mouth things to. I remember ALL of my students. Maybe not names, but certainly faces. I remember your face, super b-wordy looker, and would know it if you walked into my classroom.
Dear CSG Employee,
I am kind of a local, and more importantly, a regular. Sometimes, I just order a hot tea, but many times, I order a 27 dollar lunch. I take off my coat, set myself up in a corner, then come order. You probably see this. So, why do you ask, every-gd-time, "This is to go, right?" It just seems rude. I realize working the 1 pm-4:45 pm is a hard shift, but customer service skills really should be a priority for you.
Dear SoDak Wind,
Please stop. You are making NoDak look bad.
Dear Raziel's,
Your chicken vegetable soup was delicious today. Thank you.
I do apologize for not seeing you right away at the intersection. To be fair, though, your dumb frat boy boyfriend was driving and didn't really "stop." I did let you go first, though, so the super b-wordy look and mouthing of some obscenity was probably out of order. This is a college town, remember, and your professors do take part in town life. This includes driving. I would just be a bit more careful about who I mouth things to. I remember ALL of my students. Maybe not names, but certainly faces. I remember your face, super b-wordy looker, and would know it if you walked into my classroom.
Dear CSG Employee,
I am kind of a local, and more importantly, a regular. Sometimes, I just order a hot tea, but many times, I order a 27 dollar lunch. I take off my coat, set myself up in a corner, then come order. You probably see this. So, why do you ask, every-gd-time, "This is to go, right?" It just seems rude. I realize working the 1 pm-4:45 pm is a hard shift, but customer service skills really should be a priority for you.
Dear SoDak Wind,
Please stop. You are making NoDak look bad.
Dear Raziel's,
Your chicken vegetable soup was delicious today. Thank you.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Grandma Flo
My Grandma and I spent 4 hours on the road together over the holiday break, and she told me stories, stories, stories.
When they were building the interstate in North Dakota in the 1940s, my grandma and her sister went to the city, and they couldn't figure out how to get off the exit ramp. They looped round and round.
She also is quite the hip lady. She's been out to the local lesbians' house in our area for a karaoke and wine party. She said she had a real nice time, and those girls fixed up the house real nice. She's also got a gay best friend. He graduated with her in 1946 from Napolean High School, and he now lives out in California. He calls her up all the time and gossips in low German and when he's home, he'll get a polka or a waltz out of my Grandma.
She told me about her first days of teaching in a country school and how she had to shovel coal, and how when she was 22 and faced with 32 second-graders, she got so mad at a kid one day that she yanked on his ears. He had jug ears and was asking for it.
She told me about dating my Grandpa's younger brother before dating (and marrying) my Grandfather. They were Methodists and rich, and my Grandma was Catholic and poor and came from a bar family. The wrong side of the tracks, indeed. She told me about the time she was driving to her uncle's wedding and her car broke down, so she walked 2 miles to the church in heels and a dress.
My Grandma turns 81 in February and I am asking her for all her recipes.
When they were building the interstate in North Dakota in the 1940s, my grandma and her sister went to the city, and they couldn't figure out how to get off the exit ramp. They looped round and round.
She also is quite the hip lady. She's been out to the local lesbians' house in our area for a karaoke and wine party. She said she had a real nice time, and those girls fixed up the house real nice. She's also got a gay best friend. He graduated with her in 1946 from Napolean High School, and he now lives out in California. He calls her up all the time and gossips in low German and when he's home, he'll get a polka or a waltz out of my Grandma.
She told me about her first days of teaching in a country school and how she had to shovel coal, and how when she was 22 and faced with 32 second-graders, she got so mad at a kid one day that she yanked on his ears. He had jug ears and was asking for it.
She told me about dating my Grandpa's younger brother before dating (and marrying) my Grandfather. They were Methodists and rich, and my Grandma was Catholic and poor and came from a bar family. The wrong side of the tracks, indeed. She told me about the time she was driving to her uncle's wedding and her car broke down, so she walked 2 miles to the church in heels and a dress.
My Grandma turns 81 in February and I am asking her for all her recipes.
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