Embellishment is killing me

I was reminiscing with a good friend (and future DC roomie) the other day of how our journalistic training has rendered us incapable of embellishing.

Once an expert BS-er who could whip out papers and charm educators with my correctly constructed sentences and ramblings, now I'm having trouble writing 4-page double spaced papers.

DOUBLE SPACED. I am pathetic.

Flowery writing has been hung up like those roses crafty girls dry and put in their journals and scrapbooks.


I've spent the past couple years on my own craft of cleverly weaving adjectives and adverbs of detail to fit precious inch and word count requirements of newspapers/magazines.

I have veered too far into my former NYU teacher's belief that "Condensing is an art form!"
This coming from Betty, a woman so neurotic about being on time, she confessed our first day of class to setting 3 alarm clocks. Kindred spirits (I currently set just 2).

I have neurotically crossed over too far to the journalistic hallmark 'anti-embellishment' and I'm having a hard time pandering to the other side for the sake of college papers (in other subjects, mind you).



Speaking of neurotic people, it's my dad's birthday today!
Yes, sir, good old 'Oh Henry' is turning the big 6-2!!

He is the greatest dad, and however humble he is feeling on any given day, he will heartily agree or disagree with that statement.

Worthless with fixing things around the house (he was an east coast prep school boy, read: high on intellectual, low on 'handy' skill sets), he always wants to solve my problems, including very insensitive harping that I must "be nicer to people" and "be positive" if I want to be happy. (Yeah, that was one of my first Men are from Mars, Women from Venus lessons in life.)

He is the one from whom I derive all my Type-A, Obsessive-Compulsive, Urban-Pining complexes.

(My blog is just one manifestation.)

Although, 22 years ago, Henry burned out of his east coast city upbringing/collegiate years/professional years, and now proudly claims complete political apathy as he lies low in the boring abyss of 70 degree year-round temperatures of Southern California.

(Something I also see myself doing circa "some" years from now.)

And even though he, himself elected to move to the most moderate temperature place on the planet (it was either SoCal or Addis Abbaba, Ethiopia- never fear, he did his research),
he still neurotically checks the weather every day.
When it's universal knowledge that to move to SoCal is to forfeit the need to weather check.

(Furthermore, he takes it upon himself to educate us on the matter i.e.
"Did you know the humidity is 2% down today?
And the high is 76 today versus 74 yesterday!")

He found out that for him, life's too short to not boogie-board/surf/soak up the sun every day.
Not like Henry has ever learned to surf or anything (or go outside much, really), but you catch my drift. (hah! pun!)


Love you Dad.


Now, a product of my rambling, you have yourself one embellished post.