i write like

So there's this website. Perhaps some of you are familiar?

It analyzes your writing and kicks back a result, showing you which great/famous/currently popular author you write like.

Now of course you don't always get the same author. Many of my blog posts, for example, kick back different results. (I'm sure if I put them all in the system I'd get some sort of average, but that would be way too science-y of me and boring).

The name of the game isn't to find your second self. The name of the game is to have fun. And recognize when you're being way too verbose (like Stephen King) or using too many run-on sentences (like hemingway) or including a zillion metaphors (like Steinbeck). Or doing all three.

So let's take a look at some of my posts, shall we?

On January 5, I wrote a post entitled experimenting with size 8. On that day:

I write like
Cory Doctorow

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Just last week I was channeling James Joyce. See?

I write like
James Joyce

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Just for kicks, I analyzed both my first blog post ever AND my personal favorite, and was given this:

I write like
Stephen King

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Now, I'm not a huge Stephen King fan, but whatev. He's like already a classic author, right? So I can't complain.

Especially when I compare it to the result I got for my most recent post:.

I write like
Stephenie Meyer

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Ok all of you Stephenie Meyer fans, please don't take this the wrong way, but ...

I THOUGHT THEY ALWAYS SAID THE MORE YOU WRITE, THE BETTER YOU'LL GET?!



(p.s. I'm hoping with that line being in ALL CAPS, I'll get JK Rowling as my result for this post.)

the benefits of married life

Come to find out, I do the dishes whilst standing on one foot.

I realized this when a precariously-placed glass glass fell from the drying rack, bounced off the countertop and shattered on the floor at my feet. Or, I should say foot. Because while one of my feet was planted firmly on the ground (in fear of little glass bits trickling underneath it), the other was up in the air.

I was stranded. On one foot. One bare foot, I might add.

But then, my husband’s superhero theme music began playing.

He whooshed in, dustpan and broom in hand, rested my raised foot on a chair, and began collecting and sweeping the glass shards that threatened my life.

As soon as the floor was safe, he swooshed out and resumed his disguise as an avid video game player with selective hearing.

All this to say, if you are thinking of placing a very breakable glass glass precariously on the drying rack, don’t. Simply walk away while walking is still an option.

But, if you DO place a very breakable glass glass precariously on the drying rack, only do so when your husband is present and only if he has superhero theme music. Otherwise you may have to navigate the glass shard minefield alone.

And you will fail, my friend. You will fail.

leo

After watching Inception, I simply must must must say something about Leonardo DiCaprio's hair ... because seriously, does his stylist EVER suggest ANYTHING other than the slicked back, quasi-bowl cut that he wore for Titanic?

Ok, so he got away from it a bit for The Departed. (And for those two hours of my life, I began to see what Leo-mania was all about).

But then Shutter Island happened.

And now Inception.

And his hair is back, my friends. It's back.


For a glimpse of Leo then, go here.
For a glimpse of Leo in the mid-career, go here.
For a glimpse of Leo now, other than what you see above, go here.

The hair remains.

Inception was wonderful, by the way.

Hello, Mr. Mason

When I was 14, living in Elk Grove Village and very much into Christian music, Jars of Clay (with special guest Plumb) came to town. Because we didn’t have all sorts of money to throw around, my brother and I (I think my sister was in on this, too) decided to meet them in person at a Christian book store signing.

Now I won’t get into how the lead singer looked particularly glazed over, or how none of them apart from their lead guitarist said a word (or even looked at us), or how that same lead guitarist shook my hand (and made me inwardly squeal with delight), because all the assumptions and judgments would all just be hearsay, and in their defense, they WERE like only 24 years old and had already reached MTV stardom.

But I will say that regardless of the oddities of the meet and greet, the entire experience was super awesome, because “Whoa! They’re like right there and they’re so … real!”

It was so awesome, in fact, that I began feeling sad that I hadn’t pressed my parents to buy us tickets. I mean a totally great concert was going to take place THAT VERY NIGHT and I wasn’t going to be there. Me! The future wife of the guy who shook my hand!!

I started to plan. Scheme. I could win a radio contest! Or convince my parents to drive us out there in hopes some tickets were left! Or maybe I could even hang around the building and jump them as they exited!!

But the minutes passed and nothing happened. I knew any last-minute attempts would be frivolous. So I stayed home. (After my family had a celebratory meal at Denny’s in honor of my engagement, of course … what can I say, we’re classy folk).

And that was the end of that saga … until last night.

I really believe Christian music is the only division of music in which you can, as a listener, leave it all behind as you dabble in mainstream music … and then return thirteen years later to find the stations are playing the same songs by the same artists and the local events are headlined by the same bands.

So although it was kind of weird, I wasn’t all that surprised when I found out who would be taking the stage on Family Night at Three Rivers Festival here in Fort Wayne:

Jars of Clay.

With special guest, Plumb.

Needless to say, I went. And although it was kind of sad (because hello! Plumb is now like 35 years old and she’s still trying to rock out), it was also very fulfilling.

Mostly because, since I’m now married, I knew things between the lead guitarist and I were officially over.

I mean he didn’t even look at me.

Happy v. Glad (reprise)

Alright. I lied. I’m sorry. I said I’d get around to posting the real Happy v. Glad by the end of last weekend, and, well, it’s Wednesday and I’m just now getting around to it.

Not that anyone actually cares. It’s just that it caused me to break one of my personal Rules of Blogging, and it has me somewhat miffed.

But anyway, moving on …

As much as I’d like to spend this post discussing the dream I had Saturday night in which I was a dancer for Lady Gaga (complete with white leotard, diamond-studded tights, and white patent stilettos), I fully understand that would be yet another long sidetrack, so I’ll spare everyone.

(Just know that it was awesome, and I think somewhere, somehow the dream fulfilled a lifelong wish of mine: To wear white stilettos without any hassle, pain or stumbling.)

So on to the real reason behind Happy v. Glad. Oh, that epic duel.

I have a slight phone-phobia. No, I don’t struggle with maintaining conversation when I’m actually talking with someone on the phone. And no, I don’t shake and cry when the phone rings and beg Tad to answer it.

It’s just that I don’t like thinking about an upcoming call.

What if we have nothing to talk about? What will I say? What if I’m boring? What if they’re boring? Who makes the first move to end the call? What if no one EVER makes a move to end a call?

These are my fears. They’re silly, I know, because as soon as the call starts I’m perfectly fine and everything goes wonderfully. It’s just the waiting. The knowing. The over-thinking that gets me.

So, I often text.

Except texting can be just as much of a beast because I happen to care WAY TOO MUCH about the words I’m using and how I’m using them.

I can’t help it. I’m a word person.

So yes, I’ve been known to take soooooo long to answer a text that the sender ends up sending another text to provide additional information, thus interrupting my super-long and intense crafting of a response. I’ve also been known to erase entire messages, only to write and rewrite until the wording is perfect and I say all I want within the allotted 160 characters. I’ve also been known to spend minutes (minutes!) debating over two words. Weighing the pros and cons, denotations and connotations of each.

Which is where Happy v. Glad comes in.

It was a simple text. One I was crafting to honestly thank Tad for inviting me to Game Night. But also politely decline because I’m busy, busy.

Glad sounded a bit too much like I’ve been expecting him to ask me.

Whereas Happy sounded as though I’m jumping for joy at his asking me.

I spent two minutes debating before deciding to go with Happy and be done with it.

“babe I think I’m just going to stay home tonight. is that ok? but I’m really happy you asked me to go.”

That was it.

I swear if the UN decided to start communicating via texts, I’d have my application in so fast.

Well, as fast as I could. I’m not sure how long it would take me to decide how to word my stance on cultural conflicts.

Or, as some may call it, war.

Happy v. Glad

(Before I launch in to my regularly scheduled post, I would like to draw your attention to my abbreviation of the word ‘versus’. Note that I have it as 'v' and not 'vs'. I learned this in Business Law class in high school. A class that a friend and I signed up for because 1) we knew it would be full of only the most intelligent boys from our graduating class … you know, the future doctors and lawyers and world dictators, and 2) we would be the only girls. And yes, it worked out exactly as we planned and was wonderful. What was not wonderful was the teacher. To sum up his strangeness, at the end of the year, in an attempt to show us how much he appreciated us, he gave us a wallet-sized photo of himself. Complete with a heartfelt message on the back.

Yes, I do believe that sums up his creepiness.)

And with that I believe I’ll hold off on my regularly-scheduled post. Because this sidetrack was THAT good. And we simply must let the terror and creepiness that was Mr. T___ sink in.

So if you would, please check back later this weekend to see what Happy v Glad is really all about. Because in all honestly, it’s not about my friend and I trying to hit on future stock brokers of America under the odd tutelage of a possibly misguided teacher. No. THAT post would have been called The Things We Do For Love.

Or maybe just Amanda and Julie v. The State of Their Future Happiness v. Mr. T___.

Luedeke (LEED-uh-key)

As you may or may not remember, depending on whether you’ve been a follower of this blog from the near-beginning, the whole post-marriage name change thing was very difficult for me. Very, very difficult.

It could have been because I was going through some sort of identity crisis.

It could also have been a fear of life-long commitment.

Or maybe it stemmed from the stress that comes when transitioning from one weird-looking and impossible-to-pronounce last name to an even more weird-looking and impossible-to-pronounce last name.

My vote is on the latter.

I had spent my whole life coming to terms with “Heinsch” as a last name. I knew all of its trouble-spots, and was armed with the right word equivalents should I have to spell it over the phone (s as in sam, c as in church). I knew what to expect should someone attempt to say it without help. I also knew it was 100% without a shadow of a doubt German and if you could pronounce Heineken or Heinz, you could pronounce Heinsch.

Luedeke, on the other hand … let’s just say the best pronunciation guide I was ever given went like:

“Luedeke. Like you LEAD A KEY TO THE DOOR.”

Lead a key to the door? It definitely wasn't the kind of must-have information I'd envisioned sharing with clients, co-workers and, sometime down the road, fame permitting, Wikipedia.

So, after over a year of living with Luedeke, I think I finally have a solution.

“Whoa!” the person will say, looking at my business card or driver’s license or debit card. “How do you pronounce that?”

And then, calling upon my European heritage and knack for languages, I’ll spit it back to them in a thick Russian-German-Norwegian accent, slightly altered, of course, for believability.

And suddenly, instead of being hard to pronounce and weird-looking, it’ll be very European and cool. And I’ll be exotic and possibly even a spy who has spent ten years encoding super-secrets within websites!

And people will not feel sorry for me or apologize. They’ll be envious.