Jonathan Safran Foer

Mr. Foer spoke at my university last night. He was amazing. Really, really insightful and articulate. I was so impressed and not really bummed that he didn't read from his work. He said two things by way of advice that really stuck out to me. First, that writing never gets any easier. He said a very wise writer once told him that writing is like pulling teeth.

Out of your penis.

As he promised, it really did make me feel better to hear that writing is still excruciating even with an international best selling book or two under your belt.

He next said that he didn't feel like writers were all that creative compared to other people. We just tend to retain things better. I think that's very smart. Sometimes I feel like an iron trap. Something will happen in front of me (like the hand washing manager lady) and I can't let it go for weeks. It simmers around in my brain until I find a place to write it down and let it free. But when it comes out, it doesn't even feel like me writing it down. I was just some sort of vessel for the words. And I liked that he feels this way, too.

Follow up to Gourevitch: The florist is mentioned in the book. What I found so interesting about it was that Gourevitch, who travels all over the world to write, doesn't use people whose job title is "interpreter." He just goes into villages and finds the one person with the best command of French or English to help him out. He finds these conversations, though sometimes labored, to be more genuine. He also finds that a local person with whom the subject is familiar creates a more relaxing environment for the interview, breaks down a barrier if you will. So that was really interesting to me. The wildness of it all! I think about how sometimes people get nervous being interviewed and try to imagine the further strangeness of a foreigner doing it for a major American publication. I can totally see why using a local friendly face is necessary to get a good sense of trust built up.

Babies

I am sitting in the lobby of my workplace doing some writing before I have to tutor. The lobby is also the sitting area for the food court. Right now, all the food employees are eating lunch before the basketball game starts. The food court is managed by a big giant corporation. The manager is out there in a fancy suit talking to the food workers as if they were five.

"Everyone," she says in a teacher voice. "Yesterday was Debbie's birthday. But we missed it. So we are going to eat CAKE now and celebrate."

The employees look up from their burgers, fake bowties dangling on starched fake tuxedo shirts. They grunt or express other similar pessimistic sentiments. The manager says, "Now, after we eat the cake, what will we all do? What?"

The workers respond in monotone: "Wash our hands."

Manager: "Now that's very good. The last time there were only ten names on the hand wash sheet and we have 34 employees. Someone is either not washing or not signing."

The employees are all quick to assure the manager that they have indeed washed their hands. They ask her to smell the soap on their skin. She nods and lights the candles, commands them to sing. They begin to drone Happy Birthday to Debbie, who looks like she wants to die. The manager grabs a tiny piece of cake and stomps away. The workers all start to laugh and then resume talking about their lives. They tell Debbie she looks 25.

This is a lie. Debbie looks about 86. To use my father's phrase, she looks rode hard and put up wet. But she is their friend and they tell her this nice thing. After the manager leaves, they begin to jovially celebrate her birthday. I get the impression they actually celebrated it the night before. I'm glad about this. I hope nobody washed his or her hands. I hope instead they used the hand washing sheet to wipe their collective butt.

This incident makes me remember ridiculous corporate procedures from when I worked at K-mart. Just the thought of that damn hand washing sign up makes me remember "meet and greet" and other forced behavior that made me want to jab a staple gun into my skin just to make sure I was still human.

I Gave Philip Gourevitch a Breath Mint

Philip Gourevitch came to Pittsburgh today to do a reading. The English department sponsored a lunch with him for the graduate students and I got to sit right next to him! He was a most fascinating person. I perked up the most when I asked him what it was like to work with an interpreter. In his book We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families, he mentions an interpreter only once and I asked him why this was.

He then told us all a fantastic story about a possibly gay Rwandan florist who was a wonderful interpreter and used the exposure as a potential business venture. Philip would take him out into farmlands, and the florist would try to wheedle the farmers to grow plants for him. Anyway, it was a great story. My favorite part of lunch.

Afterward, I gave him an Altoid. Everyone should have an Altoid after lunch, particularly if he or she is going to give a workshop and reading.

The Ears

After I wrote my last post, I called my rugby physician, Dr. Gloyboner. Though dazed and confused from the tail end of a thirty hour shift (don't worry! Those only happen every four days, she told me for reassurance) she seemed to think the ear candles would be a fun experiment and possibly something good to photograph. Would they work? She had no idea. In her professional medical opinion, I should go to the doctor and have her use some sort of suction device they use for extreme ear wax situations.

So my party began and I barely heard the door knocking when guests arrived. I told them all about the problem and they all seemed very interested in these ear candles, which cost $3.29 apiece. After everyone was done eating, I requested the help of my friends to burn the wax out of my ears. They agreed to help.

The first step was reading the directions:


Note the look of joy on the woman's face as she is candled. The instructions use candle as a verb.

My four very good friends then each took her position around the procedure. Patsy photographed the event for posterity. Libby held the candle in my ear and regulated the pressure with which it was jammed into my ear hole. Renee held the scissors to trim the fabric every inch and also lighted the thing. My new friend Theresa held the water bowl--a precaution advised by the instructions to catch "ash."


Note the paper plate with a hole cut in the middle. This was also advised by the instructions as an ash catcher and flame barrier. A paper plate. Paper.


The whole procedure took about ten minutes. I was excited because I could hear something out of the ear with the candle in it! It was the sound of the smoldering beeswax candle. Other than that, nothing happened except a very strong smell of burnt fabric.


In the end, it looked just like a half smoked joint in a puddle of bong water and was just about as effective in removing wax from my ear. As a writer, I must say the experience was very necessary and rewarding. As a patient, I far preferred my morning call to the student health center, where they eased my suffering with the "elephant ear" gun.

Dr. W. peeked in my ear and said, "Whew! That's a big plug. I'm gonna get an RN to flush that out for you." She left me a paper gown to put on and I heard her in the hallway talking to the nurses from the front desk. Brenda and Vicki began arguing over who got to flush my ears and use the new gun. Evidently, they had all been dying to use the elephant ear and my visit caused quite a stir. They squabbled for a bit and eventually decided they would each get to do one ear.

Nurse Vicki filled a squirt bottle with warm water and attached a laser-beam looking thing and went to town on my ear. After a few pumps, she showed me the dish. In it was a peanut-sized lump. (The nut part of the peanut) No freaking wonder I couldn't hear anything! I wanted to hug her and remained fascinated that something so large could fit inside my ear canal.

I barely had time to gush about my new auditory skills before Brenda started squirting my other ear. She pumped the elephant ear a few times and yelled, "Here it comes!"

"All right! This gun is amazing. Here, look. Do you want to keep it?" She showed me yet another lump, this one the size of an M&M. That from my good ear! I told her she could keep my wax lump and just sat back enjoying my amplified hearing. "Shoot, girl. You're a new woman!"

And with that, they left me to change out of my paper gown and go about my day with real hearing powers. For example, did you know the keyboard keys made clicking sounds when you typed on them? It's true!

What?

I am prone to ear wax blockages. It's true, gross though it may be. Every few years, I have to go to the doctor to get my ear irrigated. The first time this happened, I left the office aware for the first time that footsteps of others were audible.

My left ear is currently clogged to the point where I can't hear what people are saying. I am hosting a party this afternoon. I feel like instead spending the day with my head tilted to the left, moaning. I've tried all the RiteAid remedies and have decided to do something new: ear candling.

After driving all over the city this morning, I finally located a pair of Wally's Beeswax Ear Candles. When Corey gets home from work this evening, exhausted from a 5am to 9pm day, I am going to make him light the candles on fire and shove them into my ears. Hopefully I will find some relief. The package promises that the softened wax will drain from my head and I'll be able to hear like new again.

Until then, I will spend much of the day saying, "Pardon?" "What???" and doing airplane-cabin tricks to try and pop my ears open.