Category: Cultural Observations

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Literally

By Jim Spiegel

People abuse the English language in many ways, but I am never more bothered than when I hear the word “literally” misused.  Take a perfectly good idiomatic hyperbole like “scared to death,” for example.  Why do some folks insist on trying to add emphasis to this phrase by saying “I was literally scared to death”?  No, my friend, you were figuratively scared to death.  Had it been literal, you wouldn’t be here now.

Some of the most striking abuses occur in the context of sports.  Several years ago I was listening to an NFL playoff game involving the Pittsburgh Steelers, who were trying to mount a last-minute comeback.  As they drove down the field, the announcer declared, regarding their quarterback at the time, “Cordell Stewart is literally trying to pull a rabbit out of a hat.”  Naturally, I wondered why he would do that while playing football.  In another case, an ESPN radio commentator was discussing the poise of a particular basketball player when he said that this player “literally has ice water in his veins.”  Uh huh.  But my all-time favorite—if you can call it a “favorite”—appeared on a website advertising a student development conference.  The blurb about the keynote speaker asserted that this person’s work had “literally turned the world upside-down.”  Hmm.  Now that is impressive.

Other common linguistic mistakes, such as mispronunciations (of words like “nuclear” and “asterisk”) and confusions of terms (such as “jealous” for “envious” or “sarcastic” for “caustic”) are annoying but excusable.  However, faulty uses of “literally” are on a different level because they typically spoil a perfectly serviceable metaphor or hyperbole.  And it is even more disturbing when the offender is a professional broadcaster or academic.

So, gentle reader, I beg you to be responsible in your use of this word.  Or, if you must abuse it, please do it in private so that others won’t be corrupted by your indiscretion.  My hope is that we can put an end to this error, because if I hear the word abused again I am going to lose my mind.  Figuratively speaking, of course.

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Customer Service, Common Sense, and Brightly-Colored Pieces of Plastic

By Amy Spiegel

For the past two years, we have homeschooled our oldest son, Bailey. This year we were planning to send him to a charter school that would meet two days a week and continue from home the other three. For us this seemed like the perfect hybrid, mixing the best from both traditional school and homeschooling. Unfortunately, the scheduling didn’t work out, so we decided to stick with homeschooling for the time being. I really liked the format of the curriculum, however, and decided to use the homeschooling version. When placing my order, I informed the salesman that the charter school was in the process of sending me materials that I would have to return since Bailey wasn’t participating. Though I knew what his response would be, I asked if it would be possible for me to simply keep the parts that I would be purchasing and return the rest thus saving time for myself and shipping costs for everyone. He informed me that this wouldn’t be possible. Instead, the company was sending me materials that I would then mail back. Then the company would send me the same materials for which I would pay a hefty shipping cost.

Ah, the wonders of modern technology. I don’t know about you, but I encounter this all the time. I put it in the “we don’t have a button for that” category. The first time I remember encountering it was when we became vegetarians and, around the same time, parents of a kid’s-meal-eating toddler. I would go to McDonald’s or Burger King and explain that I wanted a fish sandwich but my son was desperate for the latest brightly-colored piece of plastic they were advertising. Would it be possible for me to substitute a fish sandwich for the hamburger? I would be happy to pay the difference in price between the highly processed, brutality-infused “hamburger” and the heart-attack-inducing but relatively cruelty-free piece of “fish.” The response was always the same. First, a look of puzzlement, perhaps accompanied by a scratch of the head. Then a quick look around in hopes that a supervisor was rushing to the scene to rescue the poor cashier from this over-demanding customer. Finally, “No, I’m sorry. We don’t have a button for that.” Apparently with the advent of modern cash registers, common sense was permanently placed on the shelf, along with paper products and old-fashioned courtesy.

Of course, it isn’t just fast food restaurateurs who are guilty of this crime against humanity. Customer service has become an automated nightmare for anyone not satisfied with the “buttons” available to us. I worked in customer service just after graduating from college and was rather successful at it. I attribute a great deal of that success to my willingness to work outside of the system in an attempt to help people (not to mention my southern accent-everything sounds better with a drawl.) The one positive of this situation is that those who are willing to step out of the matrix and interact with us as human beings shine like stars.

I will never forget the experience I had while visiting a fast food restaurant with my sister. We were buying kids’ meals for our children and after I explained my dilemma, the store manager suggested that we purchase the fish sandwich and the brightly colored piece of plastic (for merely twice the price). After I declined to do so, the manager looked down at Bailey and said, “So he won’t get a toy and everyone else will?” Holding my breath, I replied “Yep.” She reached under the counter, pulled a toy from the box and made my son’s day. I guess she had a button for it after all.

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Shirtless Men and High-heeled Women

By Amy Spiegel

 

I’m no feminist by any stretch of the imagination—mostly because I consider it a diminishment of what I stand for as a woman. But having said as much, I would like to know what makes men think they have the right to go around half clothed. Every time I see some guy walking around bare-chested I feel as if they are saying “Yes, women look upon my manly lack of breast. Gaze upon the evidence that I will never have to endure child birth or breastfeeding-induced chaffing.” (I don’t come at this issue from a modesty standpoint, though being raised by two former Pentecostals hasn’t given me the broadest of views on the subjects.) It isn’t as though the chest you are staring at is that of the latest Calvin Klein model (we should be so lucky). More often than not it’s Fred, your fifty-something neighbor mowing his yard, who would make a great spokesman for the need to ban all trans-fats.

 

When I see such a display of male prerogative, I’m tempted to utter the childish phrase “It’s just not fair!” It puts me in mind to go out in high heels (or to go out and purchase a pair of high heels) and prance around the neighborhood shouting “Yes, men look upon my feminine fragility. Gaze upon the evidence that I will never be drafted into the military or be asked to unclog the garbage disposal.” Let’s face it, we may be of the same species but there is a considerable distance between Venus and Mars. So why fight it? What is it in me that rises up in defiance when my sons drop their drawers and go the bathroom outside while my daughter and I huddle in the port-a-potty trying to convince ourselves that the blue water really does kill all the germs?

 

There must come a point when we learn to appreciate each of our contributions to society as a whole and to the well being of one another as husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers. I think this moment came for Jim and me several years ago when he was sitting on the couch reading and I was putting away laundry. I was mindlessly doing my “woman’s work” when it suddenly dawned on me that I would be doing this menial task for him for the rest of my life. Never again would someone wash my clothes, fold my socks, etc. I walked into the living room, a little perturbed. In a rather self-righteous tone I said “It must be nice to open your drawer and, like magic, there are clean clothes to wear.” Without skipping a beat, he looked up and said “And it must be nice to go to the bank, insert your ATM card and, like magic, there is money.” He went back to reading. I went back to putting away clothes but I think that moment is the one of the defining moments of our life together for I truly believe we both walked away thinking “sucker.” 

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Chip Dip, Tatoos, and the Generation Gap

By Amy Spiegel

In our small Indiana town, we have one grocery store. One of my goals upon arriving here was to win over the clerks of this store. In the six years we have lived here, we have gotten to know our neighbors, the librarian, even the post office employees and yet I have barely been able to induce an occasional smile from the vanguards of produce with whom I interact several times a week. Only a handful of employees work there and they seem to be divided into two distinct camps. If you frequent our grocery establishment during evening or weekends, there are one or two younger cashiers and a bus boy waiting to ring you up. While not what I would call “socially inclined,” they seem like veritable Chatty Cathies compared with the stone-faced entourage of the early morning and afternoon hours. I am sure that I have not helped my cause by often bringing all four kids, dirty- faced and loud, sometimes in our beleaguered wagon, sometimes on foot. (Once I brought in not only our own children but a miscellaneous collection of neighborhood kids as well. This resulted in our being “escorted” throughout the store by a suspicious cashier.)

A few days ago, everything changed. I had a hankering for potato chips and French onion dip and stopped in on my way home to grab the dip. As I approached the cash register I noticed one of the young cashiers showing off a large and obviously newly acquired tattoo on the back of her neck. As I rolled my eyes at the follies of youth, I noticed one of the frozen chosen casting a similar glance. We caught one another’s eye and smiled. Just like that, I was in! She rang up the chip dip, all warmth and friendliness and we exchanged some sentiment regarding the impulsive nature of the young. I realized as I was leaving the store I had firmly planted my flag in the older generation’s camp.

Living in a college setting, I have transitioned from hip younger wife with a pierced belly button and discreet tattoo herself (if you tell my daughter about either of these, I will flatly deny it) to big sister figure to “young” aunt. I know the day is coming when some foolhardy girl will dare to say I have been “like a mother” to her. It creates a strange sensation as time marches on (usually on your face and midsection) and yet a large percentage of the population seems to remain the same age. I would be lying if I said that there weren’t times when I wanted to strangle these flesh faced young beauties with my support pantyhose (okay maybe not strangle them but at least use the support hose as a handy blindfold for my husband on occasion). I rarely find myself truly envying their youth (though I would take their pre-stretch marked abs any day of the week). Turning 30 and putting the turbulence of my twenties behind me was one of the happiest milestones of my life. What I resent is the assumption that I resent them or, heaven help us, wish I could go back and relive those days. Why is it so hard for each generation to appreciate the other’s perspective?

Perhaps even one day I will stand scowling at a harried mother of four with a wagon full of dirty-faced kids. I hope not. But walking out of the store, I held my head high and felt like proclaiming to the world “Yes, I have just purchased chip dip which has approximately 5 grams of fat per serving. And yes, this dip will immediately settle in the nether regions of my thighs and take at least 4500 crunches to remove (like that’s going to happen). I may be 30ish, and I may weigh more than I care to admit at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles, but I know better than to let some body-pierced goon come near my neck with a giant needle and ink that does not wash off with soap and water!”

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Reflections on the Price of Gas

By Amy Spiegel

I would have never thought that the experience of pumping gas would be an occasion for deep personal reflection.  But as the weeks of high gas prices have dragged on, the Spiegel grocery cart has been “freed” of more and more luxury items.  (My friends Ben and Jerry feel quite abandoned and the kids have noticed that their cereal now comes in “dog food bags” rather than the more traditional and chic toy filled box.)  I have been surprised to see how something so seemingly mundane can reveal a great deal about myself and the way I see the world.  As a political science grad and concerned citizen, I have pondered the various theories for relief.  I don’t want to reveal my ignorance by putting forth any concrete solutions to this eco-political quandary.  At times, it has made me feel so small and helpless I have been tempted to humbly kneel down before the almighty gas station and admit defeat.  On other occasions, I feel disposed to raise my fist in defiance, pack up the van and move to the country, build a windmill and thumb my nose at society in general.  (These moods could be brought on by watching too much of “The Wilderness Family” with my kids.)

What I have noticed most, though, is my own sense of entitlement and my frustration at having limits placed on my freedoms.  Jim and I certainly have never been wealthy and have gone through seasons of lean and leaner, but recently, with each new trip to the pump, I find that portion of our budget dedicated to gas growing resentfully larger.  As a matter of logic, that portion of our budget dedicated to other things grows smaller.  (Again my friends Ben and Jerry come to mind-after all, they have bills to pay as well).  We aren’t what you would call big spenders but as trips out to dinner and babysitting fall to the wayside, I have been shocked by the depth of my bitterness.

When I finally stopped to analyze the true source of my grumbling, I realized I was squirming under this new limitation of movement, desperate to go wherever the heck I pleased.  In this country we are simply not accustomed to limiting our mobility.  Miles of interstate, relatively well-maintained, beckon us to new and exciting destinations.  There are times when I am so weary of this house that a trip to the pet store seems like a vacation.  There is an upside to being forced to retrench (a word I have always wanted to use, thank you Jane Austen and Persuasion).  It has given me an opportunity to test my ingenuity.  Need new sleeveless shirts for watching the kids in the yard?  Just cut off the sleeves of your stretched out old ones.  Nothing to eat for dinner?  Make breakfast-pancakes taste good any time of day.  But if prices continue to rise and you happen upon an abandoned house where the Spiegels used to live, just head for the open country and look for the windmill.