Ending the Debate Over Ending Punctuation

A few weeks ago, my writing group called into question the use of  !? to end some dialogue in my work in progress. I staunchly defended my choice but failed to change their minds. Then—with uncanny timing—Facebook friend Gail Johnson posted about Benjamin Dryer’s recently released book Dreyer’s English: An Utterly Correct Guide to Clarity and Style. The title intrigued me—grammar nerd that I am—but the reviews are what convinced me to make the purchase. It’s not often a writing instruction book garners descriptions such as “utterly delightful,” “smart and funny,” and “brilliant, pithy.”

Also described as a "mind-blower" and
a "frankly perfect book."

A few pages in, I realized the book is deserving of its accolades. It truly is a book that “makes you smile and makes you smarter at the same time.” But what amazed me is that on page 65, rule #64 provides the answer to whether !? should ever be used. According to Dreyer ... it shouldn’t. He considers the use of it so completely wrong as not to be worth discussing. What!?

Far be it from me to challenge the wisdom of the copy chief of Random House (which Dreyer happens to be), but I contend there are times when a single mark of punctuation simply won’t suffice.  Take, for instance, these lines from my WIP. 

“That’s it, JJ,” Barb said, pointing. “My truck.”

“That?!”

My intention was to convey JJ’s simultaneous need for confirmation and amazement that Barb would be driving a one-ton sweeper truck. Does “That?” Or “That!” adequately express this mixture? 

I rest my case.

I suppose JJ’s emotional state could be described with words.

“That?” JJ hiked his eyebrows high on his forehead, and his eyeballs bulged from their sockets. 

But why go to all that trouble when the same effect can be achieved by two simple taps? Well, three. You also have to tap the shift key.

I agree with most of what Dreyer has to say in his book. (I’m sure he’ll be relieved to know this.) I agree the use of  double exclamation marks or double question marks is superfluous. Do we need to stress that a question is being asked or a character is expressing intensity of emotion? No! And Dreyer’s mandate that “periods and commas … are always (italics mine) set inside [terminal quotation marks]” makes me smile. Broadly and smugly. 

Dreyer does offer me hope in my struggle to gain approval for !? with the following revelation: “The dictionary takes its cue from use.”  If writers (as in everyone who writes) want “rest room” to become “restroom,” all they have to do is persist in using the latter. If we want to start sentences with “And” or “But,” now we can because we’ve insisted on doing it for so long. It makes sense that punctuation should follow this same process of acceptance—within reason. “Ladie’s Restroom” should never be legitimized no matter how many times it appears on the doors of ladies’ restrooms.

If you feel as strongly as I do that sometimes ?! is not only warranted but necessary, please join with me in continuing to use it. But because this path to acceptance could be a long one, I’m also asking you to do one more thing to expedite the matter. In the comments on this blog, on Facebook, or on Twitter, simply respond with ?! Feel free to respond as many times as you like, as that will increase its frequency of use.

PS While we're advocating for this mark of punctuation, we also need to come up with a name for it. Any suggestions?

Grandparent Fail?

In the middle of my teaching career, I became a devotee of Jim Fay and his Love and Logic approach to discipline. If you’re not familiar with Fay or his theory, I’ll sum it up in one sentence: Children need to experience the consequences of their actions.

While this practice served me well as a teacher and a parent, as a grandparent I’ve been a bit reluctant to use it. I mean, that’s my privilege, right? After responsibly raising my own child and contributing to the development of thousands of others, haven’t I earned the right to be a bit indulgent, the right to do some spoiling? I’ve seen the memes on FB and the slogans on t-shirts—the ones that say things like If Mama says “no,” ask Grandma. So I know I’m not the only grandparent who feels this way.

But we all have our breaking point. And recently, after being in charge of my precious but energetic grandsons for two days, I’d reached mine.

On a sweltering Tuesday evening, we walked to the farmers market in a nearby park—we being grandsons Brooks and Bennett; their mother and my daughter, Kristin; my husband Bill, called G-Bill by the boys; and me, affectionately known as  Grammy Dee. In addition to the market, there were food trucks selling traditional fare but with unique preparation and/or embellishments. After all, this was Nashville. 

One truck sold specialty hot dogs that featured nine-inch wieners. But these weren’t just any ol’ wieners. They were organic, uncured, gluten- and casein-free, all-beef wieners. Most importantly, they were made from cattle that had been grass-fed and humanely raised. And since it would be a crime to smother such healthful food with canned chili and processed cheese, toppings ranging from alfalfa sprouts to dry-roasted sunflower seeds were available. As you would expect, these special “dogs” came with a special $9 price tag. But, hey, the health benefits were surely worth it, not to mention the peace of mind that came from knowing the cattle had enjoyed a good life right up to the point they were slaughtered and made into wieners.

Kristin and the boys stood in the hot dog line, while Bill and I headed over to the truck selling specialty grits. We’d made our way to the front of the line when I noticed a little toy-like box with two moving stick figures. It had been placed on the truck’s window shelf to collect tips. I was contemplating the rationale of tipping at a food truck, when Brooks and Bennet joined us. They proudly displayed their hot dogs that rested precariously on paper plates. Brooks’s hot dog was topped with mustard and what looked like pickle relish and a tossed salad. Bennett—who is a man of simple tastes—held a hot dog drizzled with catsup. That’s it. Catsup.

Brooks's hot dog

Bennett's hot dog

Bill and I oohed and aahed over their choices and bet them they’d never be able to eat hot dogs that big. They grinned and insisted they’d have no problem at all. 

And then they spied it—the tip box. 

With the certainty of a Vegas bookie, I predicted what would happen next. “DO NOT TOUCH THAT BOX,” I said quickly and firmly. “YOU WILL SPILL YOUR HOT DOGS.” 

But who was I kidding? It looked like a toy. It had moving parts. They were young boys. There was no way they could keep their hands off that box. Before I could re-issue my warning in a louder voice, they’d both reached for it, and splat, Bennett’s hot dog—without a single bite missing—hit the dust.

Bennett, Brooks, G-Bill, and Grammy Dee stared in shocked silence at the dog in the dirt. Bennett was close to tears, and a contrite Brooks began to explain it was really his fault because he’d knocked Bennett’s hand. I’m sure all the grown-ups in the line were expecting Bill and me to say, “That’s okay, we’ll buy you another one.” But we didn’t.  

For two days, I’d been lenient. The boys had lounged around in their pajamas most of the morning. They’d watched way over their quota of television and eaten way over their limit of sugary treats. I’d spent a small fortune taking them to the movie and buying snacks. I’d purchased them books at the bookstore and a dozen donuts of their choice. Looking at that hot dog lying in the dirt, I felt the time had come for a little love and logic. I felt awful, but Bennett would just have to wait until we got back home to eat. 

It was a hard test…for me. We all gathered at a picnic table, and four of us ate our meals while Bennett sat beside us looking like a starving waif in a Dickens’ novel. The fair thing would’ve been to make Brooks share his hot dog, but that wasn’t do-able. It was slathered with mustard, and Bennett was not starving to the point that he would resort to eating mustard. 

With the resilience of a six-year-old, Bennett quickly recovered. He excused himself to go over to the playground, and by the time we left the park, he’d forgotten about the hot dog. When we got home, he scarfed down chicken nuggets and a fudgecicle and was perfectly satisfied. 

Grammy Dee, however, is still haunted weeks later by that sad little face at the picnic table. I fear she will never completely recover.  

The Taming of the Screw

I don’t know if it’s a common occurrence or I'm just special, but ANY home repair or improvement project I’ve ever attempted has NEVER followed standard procedures. There is ALWAYS a complication that isn’t addressed in the easy-to-follow instructions. Given this pathetic history, I don’t know why I thought I could take down an old set of drapes and replace them with sheer panels. But in a moment of weakness—or delusion—I decided I was up to the task. I mean, what could be so hard about removing a few screws and pieces of curtain hardware and putting up a simple rod? Right? 

Did I say a “few” screws? Those drapes were professionally installed, and I contend that had this house been flattened

The old drapes had been installed in 1985.
It was time for a change.

by a tornado or earthquake, those drapes would’ve still been attached to the wall. I removed no fewer than twenty-eight screws, most of them with a three-inch screwdriver because anything larger wouldn’t fit in the space between the rods and the wall. 

I took my time, constantly reminding myself there was no hurry and that calm persistence would eventually pay off. My progress was slow but going smoothly, and I was thinking of hosting my own HGTV show when I came to that #*&!@ twenty-eighth screw. The one in a very hard-to-reach space.The one with the stripped head.

The culprit.

I should insert here that the tools at my disposal are limited. Early on, Bill and I learned that we should never attempt home repairs or projects together if we intended to stay

married. We also determined attempting them as individuals

wasn’t such a good idea, either, so we’ve never invested in

Every tool in my arsenal was
was employed in my war against the screw.

anything more than your basic tools: screwdrivers (lots of screwdrivers), pliers, drill, duct tape, and toilet plunger. In any normal situation, those should get the job done. But, as previously stated, normal never occurs for me, and this project was no exception.

This is why Spackling is my best
friend when it comes to
doing home projects.

For hours, I tried every size and type of screwdriver we owned, succeeding only in mangling the head more. I ran next door to my neighbor to borrow a mini-hacksaw, thinking I could saw off the head. That resulted in scraping a huge chunk of plaster from the sheetrock. At that point, I was hours into this project, dripping with sweat and seriously considering knocking down the whole dang wall with a sledge hammer. 

Had I been thinking straight, I would’ve given up and called the handyman we keep on speed dial. But I didn’t do that. I didn’t do it because this battle had become personal. Now it was Dee Dee versus the screw. It was Dee Dee against that one-and-a-half inch piece of metal that weighed a tenth of an ounce. I told myself, “ You is bigger, you is stronger, and you is smarter than that screw.” 

The screw was small and not very smart, but it was still
a formidable opponent. I'm thinking of having it bronzed.

I headed to Lowe’s in search of some magical solution. I explained my problem to a man in the tool section. Not a salesman, mind you, but a burly guy with lots of tattoos and a cart full of caulking tubes. He explained to me that I could drill a hole in the center of that screw and it would come right out. I was skeptical, but who was I to argue with a man who knew how to caulk?

Back at home, I dusted off our forty-something-year-old drill and proceeded to attack the screw head. It was slow going—probably because the drill bit was also forty years old. I gave up on that tactic after seeing no sign of progress. But I did not give up on my project.

I stood on my step stool and studied that screw, determined more than ever it would not defeat me. That was when another idea came to me. I grabbed the hacksaw, but this time instead of attempting to saw off the head, I slid the blade back and forth across the top of it, deepening the groove. I measured the depth with my thumbnail and realized I was making progress. I sawed some more. Before long I was able to fit the edge of the slot screwdriver into the wedge. I pressed hard and twisted and … the screw turned! Only a millionth of an inch, but that was enough to encourage my flagging spirit. Again I pressed hard and gave the screwdriver another twist. The screw turned a little more. With new found hope and energy, I continued: press, twist, press, twist … and with one final twist, the screw released its death grip on the wall. Victory has never tasted so sweet.

As I was writing this post, UPS delivered the new curtain rod to my front door. We’ll see if this one goes up easier than the old one came down. Given my history, I’m betting it won’t.

The rest of the story...

To my surprise and delight, the new rod and sheers went up with relatively few problems and with a total of six screws. So to borrow another title from The Bard--All's Well That Ends Well!

Moonlight and Meatloaf

In the Author’s Note in Some Form of Grace, I promised readers some down-home recipes from Flo’s restaurant. Today I decided to go with Flo’s Famous Meatloaf because when Flo features this as her blue plate special, the line is out the door. (Get recipe here.)

To get the ball rolling on this post, I googled “quotes about meatloaf” (not to be confused with “quotes by Meat Loaf”), hoping to find something really clever or funny as a good lead-in. Fortunately, I found quite a few quotes. Unfortunately, I also found that in the food world, meatloaf is maligned only slightly less than Spam. Of those quotes, 99% of were not the sort that would entice you to click on a meatloaf recipe. For example: “Meatloaf. I don’t like it. It’s like a bunch of hamburgers that got caught in a car accident” (Norman’s Corner, 1987). Or this: “Meatloaf. Smeatloaf. Double beatloaf. I hate meatloaf” (Randy-A Christmas Story, 1983).  

But I was diligent in my search and eventually came across this: “If you make this meatloaf for the boy you’re hung up on, you’ll own him” (Bijou Hunter, Damaged and the Bulldog.)

Ding! Ding! Ding! I’d hit the Daily Double. A quote for meatloaf AND Valentine’s Day  all in one. I could multi-task! In the blogosphere, it doesn’t get much better. 

For all the verbal abuse it takes, meatloaf—if done right—can be delicious. And, believe me, Flo does hers right. As proof, I made her recipe for dinner while recently visiting family. My niece said her husband didn’t eat meatloaf, so she’d bring some fried chicken. Not that I was watching, but that evening I noticed he not only ate meatloaf but went back for seconds. 

So ladies, if you want to please your sweetie this Valentine’s Day, whip up this recipe for a romantic dinner. Chill the wine, dim the lights, and, as the quote says, “…you’ll own him.” 

Give this recipe a try and let me know how it works for you, but please keep your comments G-rated.

PS Gentlemen, this goes for you, too. What lady wouldn’t appreciate a meal thoughtfully prepared by your own hands? And if you throw in kitchen cleanup, she’ll be positively swooning.

PPS Wine with meatloaf? Why not? Go here and enter meatloaf in the search bar.

Dirty Santa Is Fraught with Faux Pas-sibilities

            I for one am NOT a fan of Dirty Santa, that activity where, right under your nose, people exchange a gift you gave them for one they like better. Anyone with even a modicum of manners knows that such behavior is just plain tacky. It is my fervent Christmas wish that eventually Dirty Santa will go the way of friendship bread and fruitcake. But just in case you're planning to attend an event involving this onslaught to your holiday cheer and your ego, here are a few hints for surviving it.

One-stop shopping for all your Naughty Santa needs!

 1.  Dirty Santa does not mean Naughty Santa. My friends “Nola” and “Nick” learned this the hard way. They were invited to a church party for which they were to bring a Dirty Santa gift. They’d never heard of Dirty Santa and quite understandably interpreted dirty as naughty. They thought it a bit strange that a church would be doing this, but, hey, it was a progressive church. The pastor wore jeans and the “choir” was basically a rock band. So snickering and elbowing each other like a couple of teenagers, they searched the aisles of a marital aids store and selected an appropriately inappropriate gift. Imagine their horror at the party when the first couple of gifts were unwrapped, and Lola and Nick realized their social gaffe. This unfortunate incident does, however, have a happy ending. This was indeed a progressive church, and their gift proved to be the most popular. Which leads to my next survival hint...

2a. It’s all about the gift. If you remember nothing else, remember this: Dirty Santa involves cut-throat competition and is best left to seasoned gift-giving professionals. Unlike a White Elephant exchange, the ultimate goal of Dirty Santa is to bring the gift everyone will covet and the one that will be stolen the maximum number of times. If the gift you bring isn’t stolen at all, you brought a dud. I brought a perfectly lovely scented candle to my first Dirty Santa exchange. The first hint of my rookie status was that my gift was chosen last. I’d made the mistake of not"staging" it properly, not placing the candle in a sparkly gift bag with a huge bow and enough tissue paper to stuff a mattress. The second hint that my gift was a loser was the stiff half-smile and unenthusiastic “Well, isn’t this nice” from the recipient. She knew, and at that point I knew, no one would be stealing that candle.

Half the battle of Dirty Santa success
is in the presentation.

2b. The $10 maximum is only a suggestion. Like most interstate drivers, no one takes the limit seriously. If you properly stage your gift, that alone can cost ten bucks. And bear in mind you’re up against the pros here—those people who Christmas shop in January or who can snag a 42" smart TV on Deal Dash for about the same price as a ... well, a scented candle. 

Apparently, scented candles aren't coveted
gifts among Dirty Santa participants.

2c. The pain is acute, and recovery will take time. Sadly, my first Dirty Santa experience didn’t end as happily as Nick and Lola’s did. It was March when the recipient of my gift informed me she’d finally lit the candle (another indication of her excitement over it). I stood there with an expectant smile, waiting for her to tell me how it calmed her frazzled nerves or reminded her of a walk in a garden. Instead, I got, “My son came home and said, ‘Something stinks.’”

I guess it could’ve been worse. My friend Norma, another Dirty Santa victim, once told me she couldn’t attend a party, so she sent a crystal salad bowl with the instructions to just bring her whatever gift was left. She got her salad bowl back. 

The painful humiliation inflicted by Dirty Santa is a long, drawn-out affair. You must wait an entire year to redeem yourself because, hello, there is no Dirty Cupid, Dirty Easter Bunny, or Dirty Turkey.

2c. Only slightly less mortifying than bringing the loser gift is receiving the loser gift. (As in poor Norma’s case, these events can sometimes occur at the same party and to the same person, although it is rare.) From the moment you unwrap that gold, spray-painted Christmas tree made out of coat hangers, you know there’s not a snowball’s chance it’s going to be stolen. When that happens, Dirty Santa can become character building. There’s not a dang thing you can do but force a smile and mutter, “Well, isn’t this nice.”

3. There is no such thing as “getting into the spirit” of Dirty Santa. I can hear you saying, “Aw, Dee Dee, lighten up.That candle incident happened over fifteen years ago, and you're still whinging about it.” There may be some truth to your accusation, but as far as I’m concerned, nothing—and I mean nothing—zaps the joy from gift-giving faster than this activity. Whoever came up with the whole idea surely must’ve been a cohort of Ebenezer Scrooge or the Grinch...before their miraculous transformations.

          I haven’t heard a lot about Dirty Santa lately. I think the trend is being replaced by Ugly Christmas Sweater Parties, those activities where Generation X-ers and Millenials make fun of the beautiful sweaters I wore until they started having Ugly Christmas Sweater Parties. Please excuse me, I feel another post coming on.          

I believe that eventually Ugly Christmas Sweater Parties
will become passe' and I can again wear my festive sweater collection
to all my holiday events.

 

        

Grammy Dee the Groupie...NOT!

            In the lingo of the entertainment industry, I consider myself more of a “seat-filler” than a “plant.” More of a person designated to occupy a seat and make the place look full rather than someone situated in the audience to drum up excitement. It’s not that I don’t enjoy being entertained. But be it a lecture or a rock concert, I tend to internalize my enjoyment rather than joining in enthusiastic audience participation. I mean, go beyond a little hand-clapping, head-nodding, or foot tapping, and I’m waaay out of my comfort zone. So what are the odds that last week a seat-filler like me would find herself filling a seat right under the noses—literally—of the entertainers in a popular Nashville restaurant?

            I should’ve been suspicious when my daughter Kristin and I were told there’d be a forty-five-minute-to-an hour wait and then our name was called within ten minutes. And when the two of us were seated at a table for six, a foot from the stage, I should’ve declined. But I’d perused the menu during the previous ten minutes, and my mouth was already watering for chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes with gravy, and home-made cobbler. I couldn’t risk an actual hour-long wait. And the stage was bare, so maybe, I thought, we could eat our meal and make a quick exit before the show began.

            Nope. We’d barely scooted our chairs under the table when two performers—let’s call them Jim and Bob—appeared on the stage. They tuned their guitars, adjusted the mics, and checked the sound system. Satisfied that all was well, they stepped down. I breathed a sigh of relief. Still time to eat and make our get-away. But rather than go do whatever else he needed to do, Jim decided to visit with Kristin and me...well, mainly Kristin. Go figure. But even after she informed him she had a husband and two kids and she was there with her mother, he hung around to tell us about his career playing with TimMcGraw and give us a free, autographed CD. Okay, something was definitely up.

            About the time our food arrived, Jim and Bob returned to the stage and cranked up the music. And about the time I’d sweetened my tea, the waitress came over and asked if we minded if a few of Jim’s family and friends joined us at our table. And so it was I found myself right in the middle of a mini mosh pot pit.

            The pressure was on. Front and center, in full view of the entertainers who were stomping and strumming their hearts out, and surrounded by Jim’s partying friends and family, I couldn’t have felt more awkward if I'd been seated on the stage. I did the only thing a hungry seat-filler could do: I dug into my food.

            To be fair, Jim was a nice guy and an accomplished musician. As it turns out, he was also the writer of several hit country songs which he performed and I enjoyed. And while I might not be the most rambunctious of fans, I’m a polite one. I didn’t heckle, I applauded when appropriate, and I chewed my food quietly. Kristin and I stayed for the entire program, and I tipped generously—at least enough to cover the cost of the CD. What more could a performer want from a fan? Had Tim McGraw himself been on the stage, I might have been a bit more rowdy. But I doubt it.

Performers in background were closer than they appear.

 

           

That Awkward In-Between Age

                                                                                                                                                   
            I just “celebrated” another birthday. With this one came the problem of classifying myself according to age. Middle-aged didn’t really seem honest unless I’m planning to live to one-hundred-thirty. But “senior citizen” or “elderly”? That would be my mother. I gave it some thought and decided I’m a ‘tweener—someone between middle age and death. Here are some of my observations about this awkward in-between age. 

            Transportation: My latest car-buying expedition convinced me I’m too old to ever again consider a ground-hugging sports car. I’m over the “need for speed,” and zipping along at 85 mph with only a few inches between the asphalt and my ass no longer carries the thrill it once did. However, I’m not yet ready for an over-sized tricycle or a motorized wheelchair, either.   

        

'tweeners have to make lots
of choices: Fashion or comfort?

            Fashion:  A recovering shoe addict, I’m learning to manage my obsession of buying the latest styles, regardless of the pain they inflict. But as any addict will tell you, although the urge can be controlled, it never completely goes away. I’ll bypass rhinestone-embellished gladiator sandals for Clarks only if it’s cold or I’ll be doing a lot of walking. I haven’t succumbed to wearing jeans with elastic in the waist but don’t object to a little lot of stretch in the fabric. And those As-Seen-on-TV-waist-extender buttons? A great alternative to Spanx—especially on a hot day. (Right, Shel?)

 



 Appearance: I’ll admit it: I’m vain. Even at this age, I worry about my appearance. I buy the wrinkle creams and the teeth-whitening toothpaste, and, yes, have even given Botox and fillers a try. I’m fine with my hair being gray, but I’m not ready to crop it above my ears or perm it into wash-n-wear curls. As a ‘tweener, though, I see maintenance taking over my beauty routine. By the time I apply ointments, floss my teeth, take medications, and insert eye drops, my bedtime ritual has already run thirty minutes past my bedtime. Should a beauty routine interfere with beauty sleep? It’s a dilemma. 

 

Beauty or...

maintenance?

            Manners: I try hard not to harp on the shortcomings of younger generations. In many ways, I think they’re smarter than ‘tweeners were. I hope I haven’t reached the point where I consider it my God-given right to interrupt someone because I’ll forget what I was going to say if I wait for them to finish speaking. Or to pull into traffic at my leisure and expect others to look out for me. However, I have caught myself holding up the line a time or two while trying to decipher the coffee choices at Starbucks. 

Snack A or Snack B?
(A no-brainer. Snack A, of course!)

            Food: Sadly, I’ve come to the stage where eating certain foods just isn’t worth the consequences. Not only the consequence of weight gain but also of heartburn. A juicy hamburger for lunch followed by a greasy pizza for dinner are things of the past for me. I’m trying to teach myself a slice of cantaloupe is as good as a hot fudge sundae (like that’s ever gonna happen), but I haven’t yet reached the point of having a bowl of Raisin Bran for supper. 

            Exercise: My exercise regimen has downgraded from jogging and competitive tennis to a lovely Pilates class and power-lifting a wine glass to my lips while I soak in the hot tub. But I hope I have a few years before participating in chair calisthenics. I came across some exercises in a magazine that required jumping. I gave them a try and was pleased to find I can still get both feet off the ground at the same time, albeit not very high. However, I also discovered that landing hurts my knees, so I’m looking for something that will give me the same results and allow me to keep at least one foot on the ground. 

            Technology: I know a few computer basics and how to text-message. But keeping up with the latest technology grows more challenging every day. I don’t understand half the advertisements on TV about computers or phones or tablets. The other day a salesman at Best Buy showed me an iPad on which I could download 500,000 apps. I couldn’t bring myself to tell this young geek—and I use that term with all due respect—that by the time I downloaded 500,000 apps, I’d be wearing wings and circling that great cellular satellite in the sky.  

            s-e-x:  From time to time, I’ll read about which generation experienced the greatest changes in its lifespan. Some claim it was our grandparents who lived through the Industrial Revolution. Others say it was our parents who ushered in the Technology Revolution. I contend ‘tweeners have faced the greatest adjustments with the arrival of “the pill” and the Sexual Revolution. We went from spelling out the word sex...in whispers...in gender-segregated company...to marching in demonstrations calling for “free love.” And that was all within a range of about fifteen years. Now, yet another “pill” is insisting all the fun doesn’t have to end just because we’re getting on in years. We can massage our mates with exotic oils right after we rub in our arthritis cream.  

            Advantages: For all the adjustments ‘tweeners have to make, there are also advantages. For me, grandchildren would top the list. Acquiring patience is another. Until recently, I was an “annual” gardener. Spent a fortune on blooming beauties at the nursery only to bring them home and watch all the blossoms fall off a week later. Lately, I’m learning that good things—like daffodils and tulips and peonies and roses—come to those who wait. Other advantages? Realizing how quickly time flies and taking the time to live in and appreciate the moment; preferring the scent of fresh basil or honeysuckle over that of pricey perfumes; discovering the luxury of an uninterrupted night’s sleep. Another favorite—learning I don’t have to have all the answers in order to believe.

Grandkids--the best advantage of being a 'tweener!

Word Nerd

           The other day a friend posted her results of one of those Facebook quizzes. You know, one of those that tells you what kind of animal, car, state, cookie you most resemble? I generally scroll right past them, but this particular quiz caught my interest. It claimed to identify the kind of “thinker” one is, and it classified my friend as a Linguistic Thinker. Such a thinker, along with other traits, “...is intrigued not only by the meaning of words but also by the sounds of them and their rhythm.” 

            I was positive I was a Linguistic Thinker as well. More and more these days, I find myself in awe of words, either spoken or written. They don’t necessarily have to be complicated, polysyllabic words, although it’s okay if they are. As long as they communicate ideas with sincerity and clarity, I’m impressed. Add a touch of local color or creative flare or—as stated above—arrange them in a particularly mellifluous combination, and I’m downright gobsmacked. (How do you like that last word?)

Martha Bryant, on the left, claimed the
title of current reigning Word Wizard
with the word gunsel. Look it up.
Rest assured, the competition to unseat
her at our next gathering will be fierce.

            I don’t claim to be a philologist (another great word!) by any stretch  of the imagination. I’m not an expert who applies “a critical attitude toward words, their roots and their meanings.” (WSJ, 4/5/14). Rather I’m a dilettante—a dabbler in diction, an amateur tripping through a garden of wordly delights. A word nerd, if you will. I often enjoy a book as much for the way it’s written as for the story. As a rule, card and board games don’t interest me, but give me one involving words and I’m all over it. I’m a faithful solver of the Daily Cryptoquote in the newspaper. (I used to be obsessed with crossword puzzles but gave them up when I realized what a timesuck they were becoming.) Only a word nerd would have dictionary.com for her homepage, right? And who else but a word nerd would spend an entire evening with other “nerders” (aka the Inklings) in a cut-throat, high-stakes word tournament, vying for the title of Word Wizard?

            So with all this evidence of my linguistic leanings, I saw no need to take the quiz. But I did. I breezed through it, scoffing as I clicked off the too obvious answers that would identify me as a...Philosophical Thinker??? What? Surely not! Philosophical Thinker couldn’t possibly apply to the person who gave up reading Sophie’s World because she couldn’t follow the geared-to-middle-schoolers explanation of existentialism. The same person who, full of ambitious optimism, bought a book entitled Half Hours with the Best Thinkers and fell asleep fifteen minutes into the very first half hour. The person who pored over the two-paragraph explanation of secular humanism in the The Bathroom Book Edition III and still remains clueless on the subject.  

            Needless to say, I’m crushed. My entire thinking paradigm now must shift from “What is the meaning of this word?” to “What is the meaning of life?” and let me tell you that is a major shift. Quite frankly, I’m not sure at my age I’m up to the challenge. One thing I am sure of, however, is that I’m through with Facebook quizzes. A few more life-altering discoveries like this one, and I’ll be lucky if I can think at all.   

            Want to know what kind of thinker you are? Here’s the link. But be forewarned. You might not like the results.

 

           

             

"Ears" to Making New Friends

            A confession: Having lived my entire life in the Bible Belt, I’ve always harbored a slight wariness of those living outside it. This skepticism arises not so much from differing religious practices or views as it does from cultural discrepancies in general. But since much of my extended family now lives in the Northwest, I lately find myself having to step out of my comfort zone and, if not exactly embracing, at least accepting some of their rather strange customs. Customs such as considering plaid flannel appropriate for formal occasions or refusing to recognize y’all as a perfectly good word.

As evidenced by this picture, my fondness
for corn on the cob, began at an early age.

            Last week my niece Amy sent me a link to Miss Writerly Crankypants. It reminded me if people truly search with open minds and hearts, they can find a common bond or two with fellow humans regardless of differing theologies or politics or style preferences. Although Miss CP lives in the Northwest, I feel as though I have found a new BFF, as she and I share a deep and abiding love of ...corn on the cob. Reading her post made me want to reach across the proverbial aisle and give her a big ol’ Bible Belt hug. After all, war-time alliances have been formed between countries with less in common.

            With her permission, I’m providing this link. If you click on it, you can save yourself potential credit card woes, and you’ll definitely have a LOL read.