International Translation Day

Sunday, September 30th, is International Translation Day. Why are there no Hallmark cards to celebrate?! It’s insulting, really. I think we translators deserve to have our own day, too. *wide grin*

Below are shamelessly plagiarized sections from an article you can read in its full glory at http://www.translators.org.za/indexes/english/jerome/jerome-history.html. [My comments look like this.]

St Jerome, the bible translator, has always been considered to be the patron saint of translators and interpreters throughout the world. For a long time, the days and weeks around 30 September have therefore been used by translators and interpreters and their associations to celebrate the occasion. In 1991 the Public Relations Committee of the International Federation of Translators (FIT) launched the idea of an International Translation Day.

[What, you say? You don’t think translation affects you?]

- Imagine how difficult it would be to assemble furniture or bicycles, or to use video recorders, that you bought in a kit if the instructions were not translated (and everybody knows what problems badly translated assembly instructions can cause).
- People with allergies to specific products would be at a risk if the ingredients on product labels were not translated.
- Well-translated labels, instructions and marketing material can enhance a company's image, while faulty translations will certainly do a company's reputation no good!

FIT’s 1993 press release on the occasion of International Translation Day 1993 gave some interesting statistical figures. Examples:

- Did you know that the Bible has been translated into 310 languages, and some text passages of the Bible into as many as 1 597 languages?
- Did you know that the works of Lenin have been translated more often than Shakespeare's dramas (321 compared to 93), and that Jules Verne was published in more languages than Karl Marx (238 against 103)?

Those were the figures in 1993. [Who knows what they are now, and I'd like to see how Karl Marx compares to the Harry Potter books.]

Freya

Let's take another walk down Memory Lane. I was enjoying academic and dorm life at Hollins College in the early 1990s. One fine afternoon I returned to my room and found an envelope under the door with the Freya logo on it, a black hooded form, and I freaked out. As I understand it, Freya is a secret society with the mission of communicating between administration, faculty, and students, and filling in the gaps left by other organizations. They occasionally walk around campus at midnight wearing black hooded robes to protect their anonymity, and carrying candles to symbolize hope. I knew they granted scholarships. When a friend of mine had to rush home when her mother became ill and wasn't expected to live, Freya gave her a scholarship so that she could travel home. Other than that, Freya remained low-key and wasn't something I talked or thought about.

Despite all the great Freya efforts and ideals, there was an air of mystery and definitely of fear around the group. Watching them walk by with their candles at midnight was eery. Everyone would be completely silent. That gives us a good illustration of how one might control others and how certain groups gain power, doesn't it?! Fortunately, Freya uses its power for good rather than evil.

Anyway, so my fingers really did shake as I opened the envelope. As it turned out, I was the recipient of their scholarship that year. I don't remember how much it was, but I was baffled as to what I had done to deserve such an honor. To this day I scratch my head at the strangeness and wonderfulness of it all. Thank you, Freya.

The fun thing was that notices were posted around the campus indicating that I was the scholarship recipient, and people would walk up to me and ask me if that meant that I was a now a member. Freya has been a secret society since 1907 and remains a secret society to this day! If I were a member, I wouldn't be saying so, now would I?

Spell Check

Ah, Spell-Check. Have a look at the blog entry I made yesterday. The first thing Spell-Check pounced on was "DMV," Department of Motervehicles. Its first suggestion is "DAV," for which www.acronymfinder.com has definitions including: Disabled American Veterans, German Mountaineering Association, and Date of Availability.

Spell-Check does not like "Heehee," and prefers the much more elegant "Heehaw."

Oh dear. What should we do with "Yay!"? How about "Ya," "Yak," or "Yam"?

This next one is very helpful. Obviously, "mothafucka" is incorrect. Please change it to "motherfucker," "mouthful," or perhaps "motherfucking."

These suggested corrections just tickled my funny-bone. Although I must admit that the corrected profanity was not something I had expected. Perhaps because I seldom type profanity -- I think it's something to be saved for special occasions so it'll have a nice big effect.

I love, love, love Spell-Check. Day in and day out, it saves me from certain embarrassment in my work. Yay!

Z's Two-Week Anniversary

Today is my two-week anniversary: 14 days since I passed my driving test to get a driver's license. This is how things went down:

The lady behind the DMV counter said, "Now you and your Mom drive around to the back of the building." My neighbor had been gracious enough to take me, and, yes, she is indeed old enough to be my mother, plus most people think I have a white parent. She had to show a valid CA license, AND had to be in the car with me until the person giving the test appeared. I had arranged for another neighbor to pick her up and take her home.

I was so nervous that I thought I'd pee in my pants, so thoughts of homicide were kept at bay. I was thinking I'd go to the driving school and run over the receptionist who had said I could just take myself, by myself, to my driving test since I was an adult.

I stood in line, chatting with some senior ladies who were taking the written test for the 3rd and 4th time although they were excellent drivers and had had licenses in other states. My driving instructor was there, too, accompanying a student in his late teens. I could have had him take me . . . for another $100. The instructor, in his mid-twenties, had acquired some facial hair that looked like a furry finger placed vertically on either side of his mouth. He later looked at my road-test results as he told me he had taught my test-giver-lady's son how to drive. I was so happy that it didn't occur to me ask about the fingers. Yes, I had passed!

I had made the test-giver-lady flinch. Hey! It wasn't my fault; a car had parked in an odd turn in the road, the road was narrow, and there was a planter/road divider on the other side, so it looked like I was going to hit the parked car. But I did indeed pass. Yay!

The first thing I did was drive to the beach (making as few left-hand turns as possible) and sob with relief. I hadn't slept well for the previous two nights. Plus the day before I had added some extra pressure thinking, "I MUST pass this test tomorrow!" as I sat on the bus, squeezed between an extremely large man (he usually takes up two seats, sometimes three to be really comfortable) with bright blue/green/white eczema covering his forearms and teenagers discussing their sex lives. "And I said, 'Oh no, mothafucka, you did NOT just come before me!'" Usually that kind of thing, bus life, doesn't bother me, but I was ready to be in my zehicle. Yay!

Getting home I missed, erm, more exits than I care to discuss, and I ended up in the wrong town. Twice. Heehee! By the time I got home, I was dripping with sweat (I forgot that I had really good air conditioning) and exhausted from the stress. But I had chocolate milk coursing through my veins, and I had a license. Yay!

Henna Hustle, Part 3

Here is my henna-ed hand, one week after application. It was pretty much completely gone a few days thereafter.

"'Ma'am, what's that on your hand?" This from a military guy on the bus. I explained that it was henna. He explained that his language instructor had similar designs on her hands. Too bad I had resisted the urge to tell him it was the sign of a very contagious skin disease. Heehee!

Z's Garden

I was deliriously happy to find a bucket holding sidewalk chalk in 24 colors for under $5. Yay! I ran out of steam, otherwise there would've been more fuzzy purple things. It's fun to walk out and see this every day. When it rains, I get the opportunity to plant another garden. What's not to love? Click here to return to LiveALushLife.

Glance for Lance

My driving instructor was fabulous, very knowledgeable, and with the patience of a saint. I was so freaked out that I took in about 60% of what he said, and looking back at what we talked about, I just laugh and laugh. " Traffic check" means checking for any cars, pedestrians, etc. as you pass side streets and the like. " Glance for Lance" means checking for people on bicycles, before you turn right.

-Traffic check!
Yeah, my mother lives really close by . . .
-Traffic check! It's 40 miles an hour here: Gas and go.
. . . and one day she just showed up at my doorstep . . .
-Traffic check! Signal. Glance for Lance. Look left, turn right. Gas and go.
. . . holding her cat . . .
-This is an unprotected left-hand turn. Don't be scared. Just move one car-length into the intersection.
. . . and said she was going out of town . . .
-Okay, gas and go. Careful, you almost hit the curb. That's an automatic fail on the driving test.
. . . and would I watch her cat . . .?
-Check for hobos and jay-walkers. Look right, turn left. Gas and go.
. . . that's just wrong, I mean, why not ask me first . . .? . . .
-Pull all the way up to the stop sign. Don't be shy. Traffic check!
. . . I may have had plans . . .
-Traffic check! If you are going 55 miles per hour on the freeway and you're in a head-on collision, you might be lucky, but at 65 miles per hour, you'll probably die. Gas and go . . .

Henna Hustle, Part 2

Henna has been used for body art and hair dye since the late Bronze Age in the eastern Mediterranean. When *I* experimented with henna, it looked like someone from the Bronze Age had worked on me. One fine Saturday afternoon I warded off boredom by walking into a Cost Plus store and emerging with a decorative box containing a “complete” henna kit. I mixed the henna powder with a strange, tea-based brew. I smeared a small amount on my arm to test for allergic reactions. After 24 uneventful hours I made some more paste, put it in a little plastic sleeve with one corner cut off, and squeezed it onto the palm of my hand.

It was messy. I had no control of the paste, which sometimes sputtered and sometimes came out in blobs. I had trouble using the plastic stencil, so I had to think of something and freehand it. Oh boy. It looked like I had been attacked by the henna monster.

There was still so much paste left that it seemed wrong to toss it. I applied some to the sole of my left foot and, for good measure, on the top of my left foot. Then I sealed it all with a sticky mixture of lemon and honey and waited for it to dry. And waited, and waited, and waited. Because the longer you leave it on initially, the longer the design will last. I had started too late at night and by now I was basically sleepwalking, so I carefully put a sock on my left foot and a cotton glove on my left hand, vowing not to touch ANYTHING that might rub off the henna.

Easier thought than done. I hopped around my apartment on one foot, locking the doors, checking that the stove was off. That was fine. Then I had to go to the bathroom with only one arm and one leg/foot. Balance issues. Need I say more? This was a different kind of henna hustle.

The design lasted about two weeks and got lots of stares. My design was darker and lasted much longer than that of the professional henna hustler, but it betrayed the fact that I didn’t know what I was doing. I can’t find the photos I took of my “work,” so what you see here is a picture of my professional henna job, the day after application.

The Zehicle

I am giddy, *giddy*, GIDDY with the sense of freedom I get from my new-to-me vehicle. Wow, wow, wow! I don't have to walk, take the bus, or rely on other people and their time schedules to get me places. My little 1992 Toyota Corolla was a fabulous, life-changing gift from my even more fabulous friend.

It's not a vehicle; it's a zehicle!

I've wanted a car for a long time, and it just appeared in my life, so to speak. If it can happen to me, it can certainly happen to you. Just decide today that you are incredibly lucky and that people shower you with love in different forms. Like the nice lady who waited patiently because I was afraid to turn right at a red light.

-Z

Henna Hustle

She was a sweet little lady and so very friendly. She gushed about how beautiful my hands were and how I should be a hand model. She held one of my, erm, magnificent hands in hers and closed her eyes for a moment. "New beginnings," she smiled.

Next thing I knew, she had produced a bag connected to a squeeze-bottle tip, something I associate with cake decorating, only hers held henna. She explained that the henna came from India and that it took her days to prepare the paste. In under a minute she had applied a gorgeous, intricate pattern to my, uhm, stunning hands.

I grinned, she beamed. My grin turn into a grimace, though, when she told me the price: $50. Yikers! That had been an old-school hustle, people. The exquisite design and praise for my, eh, bewitching hands didn't make that okay.

The photo above shows my well-formed hand with henna a few hours after application. The nice lady did some touch-ups and covered the whole thing with a honey-based brew, and I didn't wash that alluring hand until it was absolutely, positively nasty, because the longer the henna paste stays on, the longer the stain is supposed to last.

Sometimes no one can relate to you

You're the only fat one. The only tall one. The only black one, gay one, foreign one, etc., etc., etc. We call it "diversity," and we've all been there, including this duck, with the color and the hair. Love it. Photo by Lita DuBose.