Meta: The Art of Self Reference

I am going to confess something that, as someone who loves playing with words and grammar and syntax, is very difficult to admit. I don't know how to use the word "meta." Metaphysical, metaphor, metamorphosis - those are all concepts I can grasp. But this new slang version of what I used to think was just a prefix completely befuddles me. It is one of those words that extremely cool people use, like Jeff Winger on Community. And I want to be nothing else if not cool.

I told my husband, Dan, about my confusion.

"Meta means self-referential," he said.

"When did it start meaning that?"

"Forever."

Actually, from what I can gather, "meta" has just recently gained popularity as a stand alone colloquialism. Wikipedia claims the term "meta" was coined as a word in the 1979 book Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid. "Meta" was the November 2005 Urban Word of the Day on urbandictionary.com (warning: some entries not suitable for all audiences, and I'm pretty sure they just make some of that stuff up). The New York Times ran an article on the emergence of the prefix-turned-stand-alone-word "meta" in December of 2005. And the modern, hipster definition of "meta" as a self-referential adjective and noun shows up in dictionary.com's 21st Century Lexicon, copyright 2003-2011.

In other words, "meta," in its current usage, is a fairly recent addition to our modern vernacular. It appears that I'm jumping on the Meta Bandwagon a little later than most of the other young, hip people. But, as a mid-thirties professional woman, I have to resign myself that - alas - I am not as young and hip as I used to be.

Even after my extensive (note the sarcasm) research, I still don't know how to use "meta" properly. No one can explain it to my satisfaction. Will I just know it when I see it?

"A film within a film." I can grasp that concept.

"Dude, that's so meta." Not so much.

"That seems somewhat meta, dude." Um, if your defining sentence has "dude" in it . . .

"A lot of rock 'n' roll is 'meta,'" Dan explained to me once. "Listen to just about any Kiss song or 'I Wanna Rock' by Twisted Sister."

It was starting to sink in.

He continued, "Writing about writing or singing about singing."

Then he became philosophical, "Is watching a TV show about watching TV meta, or is watching a TV show about watching yourself watching TV meta? Or is that just more meta?"

I stared at him blankly.

That's when I began using "meta" to mean anything I wanted, kind of like when the Smurfs would replace various parts of speech with “smurfed” (please do NOT consult the Urban Dictionary): "Are you out of your smurf?" "Medical history is about to be smurfed!" "Great Smurf!" or “That’s smurfed up!” (Oh, I don’t think they said that one in the cartoon.)

I have been known to say, "That shirt is so meta," or "I liked the book, but it was kind of meta," just to sound cool. And, before you try to justify my examples, the shirt did not read, "This is a shirt," and the book wasn't a book about a book. Those would truly be meta examples - I think.

"Is 'Who's on First' meta?" I asked Dan one afternoon.

"Probably . . . kind of. . ."

"Meta is like breaking the 4th wall in theater!" I proclaimed a few minutes later.

Dan looked at me with his eyebrows crinkled for a long time.

"Isn't it?" I asked, still awaiting his reply. Then I said quietly, "No."

"It might be an example of meta . . . kind of . . ."

Later that day, Dan and I were talking about a funny video he had taken of me, a video that perfectly depicted my neuroses.

"I think you like that video even though you keep saying it's embarrassing," he said. "You keep showing it to people."

"That's because I'm meta."

"What?"

"Still not right? Dang it. I thought I was getting it."

"Usually ideas are meta, not people," Dan said.

"You just made my brain explode."

Check out my writing in An Eclectic Collage Volume 2: Relationships of Life, now available at www.freundshippress.com. For more information, visit the book's Facebook page.

Yet Another Hiking Story

I thought I would say my final farewell to summer with one more hiking story. You might have guessed from my previous hiking anecdote that adventure ensues wherever my foot treads.

This time, my husband and I hiked to Mill Lake. In fact, we had originally planned to hike the Mill Lake trail in July but decided instead to venture to Norton Lakes when we saw the high water in Prairie Creek. (Prairie Creek crosses the Mill Lake trail.) Of course, that was a brilliant choice, considering the water was so low at Norton Lakes. (Did I mention my last hiking blog post was entitled In Which I Discover the Perils of Hiking During a High Water Year?) After fording the creeks and trekking across snow on the Norton Lakes trail, I was no longer allowed to use "too much water" as an excuse to turn around and head back to the car.

There were three creek crossings on the Mill Lake trail. The first crossing was at the trailhead, and as I found myself suspended on a log a quarter of the way across the creek, I thought about telling my husband, Dan, "Too bad. Change of plans. I don't feel like hiking today after all."

I was about to tell him this - very loudly - when Dan took out the camera. The last time Dan "took out the camera," he ended up recording one of my most notorious acrophobia meltdowns. (See Exhibit A.)

"STOP!" I shouted. Dan was already across the creek. “When I giggle, and I’m frozen on a log suspended over water, it doesn’t necessarily mean 'He, he, he, I’m so happy to be here with my witty, funny husband.' It actually means that I’m scared to death. I giggle when I'm nervous. It's the way I deal with anxiety.”

"And you talk a lot too," Dan added.

He put away the camera, mostly because he knew if he didn't come help me across the log, I might stay there all day.

On the way up the mountain, Dan had to escort me across each creek crossing while I whimpered things like:

"I can't move. I need help."

"I'm not going to make it - I'm not going to make it - I'm not going to make it."

"Why do you always make me do this?!"

After the final crossing, I exclaimed, probably louder than usual, “'Creek' is not a good description for this body of water. How about we say it's a whitewater rapid-ish sea of foamy waves cresting at 70 feet -- ”

"There are people up ahead, Becky," Dan interrupted my eloquent oration. "It's time to dial back the crazy.”

Luckily, we were out of earshot of other hikers when we came upon a pile of fresh (extremely fresh) horse manure on the trail. Flies covered it, resting like frogs on lily pads. This sight even grossed out Dan - invincible, outdoorsy, superhero Dan. We hesitated, trying to ascertain the least disgusting way of getting around it.

“RUN!” I yelled.

We ran across the trail, screaming and flailing our arms (actually, the screaming and flailing was just me) as flies swarmed around us like some B-grade horror movie.

On our way back down the mountain, I was able to cross the creeks without much help from Dan. I even made it across one of the creeks completely solo . . . while hanging onto an adjacent log and crawling on all fours.

“I did it all by myself!" I said with pride as my feet touched dry land. "That was good, huh? It’s okay I had to go on all fours, right?”

Dan paused.

“It wasn't very graceful,” he finally said.

“I wasn’t going for graceful. I was going for survival.”

Check out my writing in An Eclectic Collage Volume 2: Relationships of Life, now available at www.freundshippress.com. For more information, visit the book's Facebook page.

It's Always the Little Dogs (Sigh)

I have learned one important lesson on my daily jogs - stay away from the little dogs. I have concluded that little dogs suffer from what I like to call "Small Dog Syndrome," not unlike "Napoleon Syndrome (a.k.a. Small Man Syndrome)," although little dogs are probably not quite as destructive as little men.

I have been chased relentlessly by rat terriers, Chihuahuas, and miniature schnauzers. (One of my neighbors owns four mini schnauzers. Now that will keep you busy.) These little ones scamper after me and yip at me from their fenced backyards, making them virtually harmless and kind of cute.

In the not-so-cute vein, one summer morning I was running down one of my neighborhood streets. I happened to pass a woman who was gardening in her front yard while her dachshund stood guard. I ran by, on the sidewalk, a comfortable distance from the house. The wiener dog waddled up to me as I approached, his short stubby legs pitter-pattering along the grass. I thought perhaps he wanted to greet me, maybe even compliment me (in doggie language) on my healthy lifestyle. Instead, he bit me on my shin and (I swear) nodded his head in satisfaction as he shuffled back to his front yard.

"AGGGHHH!" I exclaimed, startled, expecting an apology or hoping, at the least, for a reaction from the dog owner who had, incidentally, been watching the entire event unfold.

She shrugged and turned back to her gardening.

I had a bruise on my shin for the rest of the week.

I found the mental image of the wiener dog waddling up to me and attacking the highest, reachable body part - my shin - quite amusing. I had been nipped at once before by a mini poodle named Huckleberry. "Huckleberry, don't," was his owner's unconvincing, whiny plea, so I was also used to people not taking responsibility for their pets.

But when I posted this most recent anecdote on Facebook, I was amazed at the outrage this elicited from fellow dog owners.

"Bad dog-owner!" they said. "Who lets their dog bite someone and then not even apologize for it?"

Apparently, the proper response to that question is, "The woman who lives around the corner from me and gardens in her front yard while her dachshund acts as sentinel . . . Oh, and the man who walks his pugs through the park behind my house."

I was jogging on a sidewalk that runs through my neighborhood park. I saw a gentleman walking three pugs that were barreling down the path, so I moved to the side, onto the grass, to give the dogs more room. I had no cause for concern. I was giving them plenty of space, and they were on a leash.

I repeat - they were on a leash.

Then the pug closest to me reached out, bit my heel (which was, luckily, protected by my tennis shoe), and gave one of those raspy, pug-gy growls. I glanced at the owner in dismay. He said nothing.

"Geesh," I muttered, half-hoping I was audible enough for him to hear. "Your dog's not that cute."

I've learned my lesson. Let me share it with you.

If you see a little dog, just assume that it suffers from Small Dog Syndrome, a serious, mental disorder that causes the smaller canine breeds to act out in irrational and ferocious ways.

And run the other direction.

Check out my writing in An Eclectic Collage Volume 2: Relationships of Life, now available at www.freundshippress.com. For more information, visit the book's Facebook page.

Daring Feats on Frozen Water (or in Living Rooms)

I introduced my husband, Dan, to the Sun Valley Summer Ice Shows about a year ago. Figure skating is not a sport I would normally expect Dan to embrace. But in our seven years of marriage, I have succeeded in exposing Dan to a more sophisticated culture. And I can happily say that both of us now enjoy a variety of aesthetic entertainment on a regular basis.

Okay, so maybe it's not about the artistry. Dan's initial response to the Sun Valley Ice Show was, "This is way better than the boring stuff they do on the Olympics." The Sun Valley Ice Show is a bit like a circus-on-ice.

Last weekend, we found ourselves sitting on the west bleachers, waiting for the show to begin, watching the Zamboni circle the rink. I was excited to see Sasha Cohen.

Dan, on the other hand, said with eager anticipation, "I wonder if they're going to do that trick where they swing a woman by the legs, and her head gets so close to the ground that it looks like it's going to smack against the ice."

"You mean that trick I have to watch through my fingers, the trick where the crowd gasps in horror while you clap enthusiastically and egg the skaters on?"

"That's the one."

I handed him the camera. Dan also loves the challenge of photographing the skaters' most dangerous tricks in action.

And before you think it can't be that bad because I tend to exaggerate (as my husband is probably muttering right now while he reads this), here are some examples of those "most dangerous tricks."

One woman skates while hula hooping multiple hoops. Eventually, she graduates to a fiery hoop by the end of the show. One male skater places his female partner upside down on his shoulders as they glide around on the ice. Another male skater holds his ice partner above his head with one hand. In a different number, a skater holds his partner by her stomach . . . on his head. And that doesn't include the jumps, the back flips, and the throwing of one's partner across the ice.

While I am thrilled that I no longer have to pull teeth to get Dan to take me to an ice show, I am not so thrilled when we get back home, and he wants to try "ice skating" in our living room. I have had to fend off several attempts at being flipped in midair while simultaneously being thrown over the couch. And every now and then, Dan rushes toward me with every intention of lifting me over his head and balancing me on his index finger.

"You have to go limp," Dan instructed wisely. "Don't try to control it."

"How about we don't try ice skating moves in our living room at all?"

But truly, it's a win-win situation for all involved. I get to see live, phenomenal figure skating. Dan gets to see daring feats performed on frozen water. And our neighbors probably get to see some pretty lively entertainment through our windows when we get home.

Check out my writing in An Eclectic Collage Volume 2: Relationships of Life, available September 15, 2011 from www.freundshippress.com. For more information, visit the book's Facebook page.

Calvin and the Dinosaur Museum

With the Labor Day holiday approaching, I have had less time to craft a post full of clever witticisms. So I decided to let my students do the work this week. The following anecdote occurred during a second grade class while my student teacher was attempting to introduce herself to the kids. For those of you who have children or work with children, you know you can't make this stuff up.

My student teacher had just shown the kids some pictures from her trip to Italy when little towheaded Calvin raised his hand. She called on him, and he wagged his finger at her, saying authoritatively.

“I’m Calvin with a C. Okay. When I grow up, here's what I'm going to do. I’m going to travel the whole entire world and find every dinosaur fossil in the whole entire world and bring all of them back to Idaho and put them in a huge museum, and I’m going to build it on the plains. I'm going to call it the World Museum, and it's going to have three rooms, Cabella’s size.”

All of a sudden, another second grader named Hank became very excited. He turned around to face Calvin.

“Are we friends, Calvin? Are we friends?"

"Well, yes," Calvin answered Hank abruptly.

"Can I help you now that we're friends?”

Calvin turned his wagging finger on Hank and said sternly, “Now, Hank, here’s how it’s going to be. You can help me find the fossils.”

As the class walked out of the music room, Hank bounced over to me.

"I’m going to help Calvin find fossils because I’m his friend now!”

Later that day, I told Calvin's teacher about the unusual entertainment in music class that morning.

"Oh yes," his teacher said as I finished my tale through a fit of laughter. "I've heard about this dinosaur museum. Calvin's got it all planned out!"

Check out my writing in An Eclectic Collage Volume 2: Relationships of Life, available September 15, 2011 from www.freundshippress.com. For more information, visit the book's Facebook page.