Tiger, Tiger, Tiger. What the hell. Maybe you have great focus, but you still don’t think. Because if you’d thought about it clearly, you wouldn’t have done it. You’re just another guy after all.
Now they say you are a sex addict because the numbers of girls are up to 9 or 10 as of this writing. Like my friend just wrote to me, "Can't anybody just be an ass anymore?"
Do you get now the far-reaching effect your “transgressions” have?
Did you tell yourself that as long as your wife doesn’t find out, it’s all good?
Did you think that the girls you fooled around with were so taken in by your celebrity that they would keep their mouths shut? Did you think they were all starry-eyed and had no agenda of their own but to be there for you when it was convenient for you?
Did you actually think it would never come out? Because, my little brother-in-law, the truth always comes out. You sure were stupid to think it wouldn’t.
Oh yeah, I've already established you didn't think.
And you have children you didn’t think about as well. You might not think now that this will affect them because they are so young. But it’s affecting them already. And it will into the future. When they get to school, they are going to hear things from other kids who heard their parents talking. You have no idea, really, what you've done.
Don’t think you didn’t have a chance at bringing home an STD. You are lying to your wife and your girlfriends; you can be sure your girlfriends are lying to you about their exploits.
Your right to privacy is virtually nonexistent by your actions alone. It has nothing to do with anybody else, not the media, just you. The media has helped make you as rich and popular as you are; did you actually think any action of yours is not news?
Your reputation was one of the best of any celebrity’s. You seemed to be respectful, dignified and always seemed to know what to say in any situation. Did you think there weren’t hordes of people ready to see you fall?
You may feel mired right now in the physical and emotional aftermath of your wife, your mother and other family and friends finding out you are a lying, cheating bastard. You have no idea even yet the effect your stupidity will have.
You have ruined the kind of marriage only a first marriage of two people in love can be. Your marriage has lost the “we are so special; infidelity will never touch us; we will have that happy ending” feeling. Your wife had it. Now she doesn't. The bubble has burst. The trust, man, the trust. So much more important than any other part of marriage.
If you want to keep your marriage now and your wife consents to attempt to stay married to you, there’s a lot of work that you MUST do. You must be willing to spend the rest of your life proving yourself to her. I’m not saying it’s going to take the rest of your life, but you must be willing. You must be willing to be completely transparent from now on. It’s not hard to do. It really isn’t. Lies take on a life of their own, completely out of your famous control.
You must answer your wife’s questions honestly and fully. Really. She’s going to ask a lot of questions at first. She’s going to want to hear the hurtful things you’ve done. She’s going to want the ever-loving truth, man. The full truth. Because no less than the full truth will keep your family together. And she will know. Her senses are acute now, hyper really, and the blinders are off. She knows now many things you think she doesn’t, because there were bells ringing in her head the whole time you were cheating, but she chose to trust you. Now all those bells are like little metal tabs in a slot machine, falling into place, making sense out of every ding. She knows a lot.
Every little thing you did, every text message, every phone call, every card, gift, everything you’ve ever said to her, whispered to her, written to or done for her is suspect. You have made her entire life a sham, a lie. Her entire life with you.
Transparency, man, full disclosure. She deserves no less.
And get yourself a real name.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
All My Life's A Circle
I’m almost through with another well-written TV series, this one British, called, “William and Mary.”
Have I said how much I love Netflix?
The show’s about a single dad who is an undertaker and a single mom who is a midwife and how they get together (via a dating service) and all the baggage that goes along with their families.
(I think it should have been the other way around, with the dad the midwife and the mom the undertaker.)
For instance, Mary’s mother spends a couple of episodes trying to get Mary back with Mary’s long-ago ex-boyfriend and she wants nothing to do with him and is very clear about it. You find out soon enough that the mom and the ex have spent so much time together, they’ve actually fallen in love. And the Brits make it all quite all right. They are much less stuffy about those things than us Yanks.
It’s so well done and has me laughing and crying through each episode. It is filmed making the most of the beginnings and endings of life and is not depressing at all, despite the tragedies that occur because they show the best moments right along with the worst. It feels quite real.
Granted, I am still in a weakened condition, but not too weak to know great story lines.
I thought I would have avoided romantic movies and shows right now, and life and death events, seeing as how my marriage so recently became undone, but I am drawn to them by some invisible force. Possibly one of self-flagellation.
I do find it therapeutic, though; watching them gives me a reason to let go with my emotions in a safe place and not keep stuffing my busted heart inside my shirt, with it surreptitiously leaking when I least expect it. It’s so boring when I just cry all the time in front of people—not fun at all.
Shows and movies give me hope.
Celluloid hope, but hope nonetheless. And fake hope becomes real if you hold onto it long enough.
Have I said how much I love Netflix?
The show’s about a single dad who is an undertaker and a single mom who is a midwife and how they get together (via a dating service) and all the baggage that goes along with their families.
(I think it should have been the other way around, with the dad the midwife and the mom the undertaker.)
For instance, Mary’s mother spends a couple of episodes trying to get Mary back with Mary’s long-ago ex-boyfriend and she wants nothing to do with him and is very clear about it. You find out soon enough that the mom and the ex have spent so much time together, they’ve actually fallen in love. And the Brits make it all quite all right. They are much less stuffy about those things than us Yanks.
It’s so well done and has me laughing and crying through each episode. It is filmed making the most of the beginnings and endings of life and is not depressing at all, despite the tragedies that occur because they show the best moments right along with the worst. It feels quite real.
Granted, I am still in a weakened condition, but not too weak to know great story lines.
I thought I would have avoided romantic movies and shows right now, and life and death events, seeing as how my marriage so recently became undone, but I am drawn to them by some invisible force. Possibly one of self-flagellation.
I do find it therapeutic, though; watching them gives me a reason to let go with my emotions in a safe place and not keep stuffing my busted heart inside my shirt, with it surreptitiously leaking when I least expect it. It’s so boring when I just cry all the time in front of people—not fun at all.
Shows and movies give me hope.
Celluloid hope, but hope nonetheless. And fake hope becomes real if you hold onto it long enough.
Death lives!
I’ve been watching a short-lived gem-of-an-HBO series using Netflix: “Dead Like Me.” It’s a quirky, entertaining little show, well written, tackling the ever-interesting subject of the after-life.
Ellen Muth stars as George, an 18-year-old, life-avoiding girl who is working the first day of her first job after high school graduation as a file clerk at a temp agency when she goes out during her lunch hour and is killed by a space shuttle toilet seat plummeting to Earth. As you can imagine, she is pretty much blown to smithereens and her mom, dad and 11-year-old sister have to pick up the pieces of their lives and try to go on. But the story isn't about them.
Immediately after death, George finds that she’s a grim reaper, part of a small group of reapers headed up by Rube, played by Mandy Patinkin. She’s known as Toilet Seat Girl, thereby confirming my own suspicion that at least the writers of this show think like me: Life is no different after high school or death. Most people don’t seem to change. (Did I say high school equals death?)
The reapers must take the souls from bodies of people about to die and they do it after getting a name, time and place on a Post-It note from Rube, every morning at a pancake house where they meet.
I'm just saying, hilarious.
They make their way to the place, find a way to discover the person there who is scheduled to die and run their hand along an arm or shoulder, drawing the soul from the body. A moment later, whatever is scheduled to happen to that person takes place and they lead the just-dead person away from the scene and toward his or her “light.” Each reap has a twist of its own.
One kicker: George is a reaper in her hometown, something that is unusual even by reaper standards, and she gets to check in on her family every now and then. She is seen by the living, has to live and work among them, earning money for her expenses as if she was alive.
But reapers don’t look like themselves to the living. George takes advantage of this to visit her family, pretending to be somebody else and see how they are dealing with her death. This is not encouraged by Rube as it can wreak havoc with your focus. There is one day a year—Halloween, natch—when they are seen as they looked when alive.
The stories are great and ironic and interesting. The series ended all too soon, as the good ones all do.
Ellen Muth stars as George, an 18-year-old, life-avoiding girl who is working the first day of her first job after high school graduation as a file clerk at a temp agency when she goes out during her lunch hour and is killed by a space shuttle toilet seat plummeting to Earth. As you can imagine, she is pretty much blown to smithereens and her mom, dad and 11-year-old sister have to pick up the pieces of their lives and try to go on. But the story isn't about them.
Immediately after death, George finds that she’s a grim reaper, part of a small group of reapers headed up by Rube, played by Mandy Patinkin. She’s known as Toilet Seat Girl, thereby confirming my own suspicion that at least the writers of this show think like me: Life is no different after high school or death. Most people don’t seem to change. (Did I say high school equals death?)
The reapers must take the souls from bodies of people about to die and they do it after getting a name, time and place on a Post-It note from Rube, every morning at a pancake house where they meet.
I'm just saying, hilarious.
They make their way to the place, find a way to discover the person there who is scheduled to die and run their hand along an arm or shoulder, drawing the soul from the body. A moment later, whatever is scheduled to happen to that person takes place and they lead the just-dead person away from the scene and toward his or her “light.” Each reap has a twist of its own.
One kicker: George is a reaper in her hometown, something that is unusual even by reaper standards, and she gets to check in on her family every now and then. She is seen by the living, has to live and work among them, earning money for her expenses as if she was alive.
But reapers don’t look like themselves to the living. George takes advantage of this to visit her family, pretending to be somebody else and see how they are dealing with her death. This is not encouraged by Rube as it can wreak havoc with your focus. There is one day a year—Halloween, natch—when they are seen as they looked when alive.
The stories are great and ironic and interesting. The series ended all too soon, as the good ones all do.
Who dat?
I’ve thought of another grammatical instance that is so frequent I’m sure they’ve stopped teaching the proper usage in school.
It’s the difference between “that” and “who.”
Think of it this way: Are you a who or a that? You may be a “that” but I am a “who.” A person who, not a person that.
I learned this from a guy who worked as my reporter when I was the weekend editor at a local newspaper. It used to drive him crazy when writers didn’t use it correctly and he seemed to find it everywhere. That’s what got me on the lookout for it and now I see and hear it everywhere.
People say it incorrectly on TV much of the time, in dramas and comedies, on talk shows and while delivering the news and such. It’s likely wrong in their scripts and on their teleprompters.
It’s disgruntling. And I’d prefer to be gruntled, which I now can be, dictionary-ily speaking, as that word has morphed into meaning the exact opposite of its original meaning, “to grumble.” Putting “dis” in front of gruntle originally was how one intensified the sense of the word, instead of using it to express the opposite meaning, as “dis” is used today.
That and who may seem small to you. It isn’t.
Ask Dr. Seuss.
It’s the difference between “that” and “who.”
Think of it this way: Are you a who or a that? You may be a “that” but I am a “who.” A person who, not a person that.
I learned this from a guy who worked as my reporter when I was the weekend editor at a local newspaper. It used to drive him crazy when writers didn’t use it correctly and he seemed to find it everywhere. That’s what got me on the lookout for it and now I see and hear it everywhere.
People say it incorrectly on TV much of the time, in dramas and comedies, on talk shows and while delivering the news and such. It’s likely wrong in their scripts and on their teleprompters.
It’s disgruntling. And I’d prefer to be gruntled, which I now can be, dictionary-ily speaking, as that word has morphed into meaning the exact opposite of its original meaning, “to grumble.” Putting “dis” in front of gruntle originally was how one intensified the sense of the word, instead of using it to express the opposite meaning, as “dis” is used today.
That and who may seem small to you. It isn’t.
Ask Dr. Seuss.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
M.J.: Not Black Or White
This documentary, "This Is It," culled from the rehearsals from Michael Jackson’s comeback tour earlier this year, generated strong opinions in my family about his guilt or innocence as a child molester. Those who think him guilty are not interested in seeing the movie and don't apologize for it.
I find myself leaning toward his innocence. None of my family has any way to discern the facts and likely we never will. I believe he suffered at his father’s hands, possibly being unable to have any sex life at all. I think he had a real love for children and animals and just didn’t think it possible anybody could think of him as a child molester because he couldn’t hurt a fly.
I find it sad that he couldn’t recreate a good childhood for himself without people taking advantage of him and torturing him with those unthinkable charges in the hopes of a financial windfall. When I hear someone say, “It’s never too late to have a good childhood,” I think sometimes it is.
Being the genius that M.J. was, I think he also was de-compensated for the genius in other ways, although I’m sure I couldn’t say what those ways were, but I see them in other geniuses, your regular, everyday brilliances, not famous ones.
I really liked “This Is It.”
Michael’s incredible talent came through, of course, and there’s nothing unlikable about that. He definitely is a diva-type, without the meanness and histrionics. He's driven to be a perfectionist and he is so soft-spoken and kind.
I kept looking at his wierd face, which I understand a bit more since his death when I heard he thought of it as “art.” Strange, but I get it somehow, although please do not consider me a proponent of that kind of sculpting! I thought he was beautiful as nature made him. He appeared quite thin, his outfits morphed throughout each song, and I had to keep watching, tapping my foot as much as I could throughout.
The dancing was exceptional, just Michael by himself or the dancers, or a combo. Michael spoke about saving his voice throughout and you could see and hear him doing that throughout the different rehearsals. He also made a couple of jokes. He wanted everyone to be at ease, while trying to get the best out of everyone. He was definitely hands-on, once saying, "I want to hear it how I wrote it," in his nonaggressive manner. The dancers spoke mostly about Michael’s inspiration and how they were amazed they were there with him, clearly all in awe.
Getting a glimpse of how they put that show together was revealing and fun. Some people seemed to be sucking up to Michael (I got to calling him "Michael" in my head during the movie; it did not feel strange) but I got the impression he needed to be looked after, as his mind was busy creating. This documentary didn't try to give you the personal glimpse of Michael—I feel it was intended to show the professional instead—but he is such a force in his quiet perfection that it all felt personal.
I ended up feeling badly that the show will never be performed in front of an audience and that the dancers and singers were left in a sort of limbo, never consummating their hard work by showing the world on stage what they were achieving with this show.
I also felt that the military theme that runs through M.J.'s work, and also sister Janet’s, must hearken back to their childhood and their father’s treatment of them. When Michael did the Jackson 5 bit during rehearsals, it brought me right back to being about 13 years old, sitting on my parents’ bed, watching the little TV on my father’s side, just being mesmerized by their stage show.
Michael is still mesmerizing.
I find myself leaning toward his innocence. None of my family has any way to discern the facts and likely we never will. I believe he suffered at his father’s hands, possibly being unable to have any sex life at all. I think he had a real love for children and animals and just didn’t think it possible anybody could think of him as a child molester because he couldn’t hurt a fly.
I find it sad that he couldn’t recreate a good childhood for himself without people taking advantage of him and torturing him with those unthinkable charges in the hopes of a financial windfall. When I hear someone say, “It’s never too late to have a good childhood,” I think sometimes it is.
Being the genius that M.J. was, I think he also was de-compensated for the genius in other ways, although I’m sure I couldn’t say what those ways were, but I see them in other geniuses, your regular, everyday brilliances, not famous ones.
I really liked “This Is It.”
Michael’s incredible talent came through, of course, and there’s nothing unlikable about that. He definitely is a diva-type, without the meanness and histrionics. He's driven to be a perfectionist and he is so soft-spoken and kind.
I kept looking at his wierd face, which I understand a bit more since his death when I heard he thought of it as “art.” Strange, but I get it somehow, although please do not consider me a proponent of that kind of sculpting! I thought he was beautiful as nature made him. He appeared quite thin, his outfits morphed throughout each song, and I had to keep watching, tapping my foot as much as I could throughout.
The dancing was exceptional, just Michael by himself or the dancers, or a combo. Michael spoke about saving his voice throughout and you could see and hear him doing that throughout the different rehearsals. He also made a couple of jokes. He wanted everyone to be at ease, while trying to get the best out of everyone. He was definitely hands-on, once saying, "I want to hear it how I wrote it," in his nonaggressive manner. The dancers spoke mostly about Michael’s inspiration and how they were amazed they were there with him, clearly all in awe.
Getting a glimpse of how they put that show together was revealing and fun. Some people seemed to be sucking up to Michael (I got to calling him "Michael" in my head during the movie; it did not feel strange) but I got the impression he needed to be looked after, as his mind was busy creating. This documentary didn't try to give you the personal glimpse of Michael—I feel it was intended to show the professional instead—but he is such a force in his quiet perfection that it all felt personal.
I ended up feeling badly that the show will never be performed in front of an audience and that the dancers and singers were left in a sort of limbo, never consummating their hard work by showing the world on stage what they were achieving with this show.
I also felt that the military theme that runs through M.J.'s work, and also sister Janet’s, must hearken back to their childhood and their father’s treatment of them. When Michael did the Jackson 5 bit during rehearsals, it brought me right back to being about 13 years old, sitting on my parents’ bed, watching the little TV on my father’s side, just being mesmerized by their stage show.
Michael is still mesmerizing.
Friday, October 23, 2009
For Two Reasons
How about those love and angel and best friend forwards we seem to get every day via email?
Don’t they make you feel special—“You are an angel; to me you are one of the finest, warmest, sweetest people I know”—me and 500 others up in the Send-to section.
What the hell?
Stop filling up my inbox with that crap!
I no longer open them because 1) I don’t feel great because you sent it to me and 2) I sure am not forwarding it to everybody in my contact list to keep myself from having a plague of locusts descend or whatever else it is these emails sweetly threaten.
It’s crap and it’s not even fun crap. Doesn’t put a smile on my face. Doesn’t stretch my imagination or make me use my brain in any productive way. Probably puts malware and, at the very least, tracking cookies onto my computer.
Stop sending it to me.
If you can’t write a decent note once in a while, something a person can look forward to opening and actually respond to, take me off your list. Think of it this way, if you wouldn’t write it on paper, stick it in an envelope, put a stamp on it and send it to me via snail mail, don’t send it through cyberspace!
As if any of those people are going to read this.
The rest of you – thanks for reading this rant and, hopefully, adding a rant of your own below.
Don’t they make you feel special—“You are an angel; to me you are one of the finest, warmest, sweetest people I know”—me and 500 others up in the Send-to section.
What the hell?
Stop filling up my inbox with that crap!
I no longer open them because 1) I don’t feel great because you sent it to me and 2) I sure am not forwarding it to everybody in my contact list to keep myself from having a plague of locusts descend or whatever else it is these emails sweetly threaten.
It’s crap and it’s not even fun crap. Doesn’t put a smile on my face. Doesn’t stretch my imagination or make me use my brain in any productive way. Probably puts malware and, at the very least, tracking cookies onto my computer.
Stop sending it to me.
If you can’t write a decent note once in a while, something a person can look forward to opening and actually respond to, take me off your list. Think of it this way, if you wouldn’t write it on paper, stick it in an envelope, put a stamp on it and send it to me via snail mail, don’t send it through cyberspace!
As if any of those people are going to read this.
The rest of you – thanks for reading this rant and, hopefully, adding a rant of your own below.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
In A Moment
It seems to me that people are all caught up with their technology, and I wonder if they are really present in their own lives any more. Gone are the days when you drove to or from work and either prepared yourself mentally for your day or wound down from the events at the office and looked forward to your evening at home. It seems people are either talking or texting with their cell phones while driving and I wonder what the long-term effects, if any, there are going to be.
Will people end up less relaxed? Unable to truly enjoy silences or park their bums on the couch for an extended afternoon of movies, classic TV or a handheld book and cup of tea? I think people are already showing signs of being more stressed than not. Most people I know are always tired. I don’t remember people always being tired when I was in my 20s and 30s.
I was wondering if taking pictures or videos at get-togethers lessens the enjoyment of the actual event. Looking for that great shot and hoping to get the best moments might be removing us from participating.
Because I live so far from my daughters and their families, I love that I get to see so many pictures of their days, movies from their special events and even being able to see them in real time on the computer. Living hundreds of miles away and still feeling involved as a mom and grandmother is a real gift that my mother did not get to take advantage of just several short years ago and it must have been abysmal for her mother when she moved to a completely different country, way back when air travel was not in most people’s budgets, never mind the price and quality of overseas calls in that era.
By posting pictures and videos on places like Facebook, you get a wider group of people able to enjoy the moments you’ve digitally caught and they post feedback and similar stories—I think we might actually be able to enjoy those events even more, being able to relive more of the best moments more often. Different moments stand out to different people and we might be getting more of the actual event with the addition of the digital version.
My granddaughters are 4 and 2 years old. Saying “cheese” for pictures is an integral part of their everyday life. I wonder what they think of saying that word and smiling for the camera as compared to eating cheese, which they both love doing and likely happens daily as well. I think I’m going to have to ask them what cheese means and see what those two brilliant, clear-thinking, unabashed girls have to say.
It sure is easier nowadays to go on a long trip with young children, what with the portable DVD players, hand-held games and more available to entertain them. Are they going to be able to entertain themselves when they are alone? Will they be missing out on using their imaginations? I used to think that maybe it would be detrimental; now I’m not so sure.
One definite improvement: I haven’t heard of today’s kids ever saying, “Are we there yet?”
Will people end up less relaxed? Unable to truly enjoy silences or park their bums on the couch for an extended afternoon of movies, classic TV or a handheld book and cup of tea? I think people are already showing signs of being more stressed than not. Most people I know are always tired. I don’t remember people always being tired when I was in my 20s and 30s.
I was wondering if taking pictures or videos at get-togethers lessens the enjoyment of the actual event. Looking for that great shot and hoping to get the best moments might be removing us from participating.
Because I live so far from my daughters and their families, I love that I get to see so many pictures of their days, movies from their special events and even being able to see them in real time on the computer. Living hundreds of miles away and still feeling involved as a mom and grandmother is a real gift that my mother did not get to take advantage of just several short years ago and it must have been abysmal for her mother when she moved to a completely different country, way back when air travel was not in most people’s budgets, never mind the price and quality of overseas calls in that era.
By posting pictures and videos on places like Facebook, you get a wider group of people able to enjoy the moments you’ve digitally caught and they post feedback and similar stories—I think we might actually be able to enjoy those events even more, being able to relive more of the best moments more often. Different moments stand out to different people and we might be getting more of the actual event with the addition of the digital version.
My granddaughters are 4 and 2 years old. Saying “cheese” for pictures is an integral part of their everyday life. I wonder what they think of saying that word and smiling for the camera as compared to eating cheese, which they both love doing and likely happens daily as well. I think I’m going to have to ask them what cheese means and see what those two brilliant, clear-thinking, unabashed girls have to say.
It sure is easier nowadays to go on a long trip with young children, what with the portable DVD players, hand-held games and more available to entertain them. Are they going to be able to entertain themselves when they are alone? Will they be missing out on using their imaginations? I used to think that maybe it would be detrimental; now I’m not so sure.
One definite improvement: I haven’t heard of today’s kids ever saying, “Are we there yet?”
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The One Where I Become A Dictionary Editor
My question is why do people not capitalize the “e” in Earth when they are talking about our planet? They are the same people who capitalize the “m” in Mars, and the “j” in Jupiter and they always seem to capitalize Hell and Heaven, but for some reason, they must think they are talking only of the dirt, not the planet, when they are actually talking about the planet Earth. How about fixing that?
I want to be a dictionary editor because I am tired of their criteria. Specifically, one criterion—the one where if enough people use something incorrectly for long enough, it gets voted in as a proper use of the word, no matter how it may add nothing of value to the language.
An annoying example:
Entitled: Used to be that a book couldn’t be entitled but a person could.
Because so many people thought they were writing or talking “up” by erroneously using “entitled” where “titled” should have been, those of us who knew the difference and loved the difference in meaning are now forced to put our knowledge aside and dumb down.
By talking up, I mean, for example, the millions of speakers at podiums everywhere and on radio and TV who think they are coming across as emphatic intelligentsia when they use the trite phrase, “each and every ...” Makes me shudder every time. STOP SAYING THAT!
Another one:
“Myriad.” So many people use it as a noun instead of an adjective. To be sure you are using it properly, think of the word “many.” If “many” can be used in place of “myriad,” then you are using it properly.
Proper: “She counted myriad species of fish in the enormous tank.” “Many” works just fine in place of “myriad.”
Improper: “He removed the myriad of ties from the closet.” Would you say, “He removed the many of ties from the closet”? You might, but you’d be wrong and you’d sound wrong.
Before some of you get all wadded up, I already know: I checked the online dictionary and the improper use of myriad has snuck its way in there already. I’m brokenhearted, again, and taking it all too personally.
What is the point of learning this stuff and being good at it? “It” being the only thing I could point to as my personal academic strength. It is where I shine, just like a full moon in my own personal orbit.
Most of the time in the newsrooms I worked in, I was the go-to for spelling and correct usage —I was the walking reference, the person people asked instead of looking it up, because they knew I’d know and it took less time to ask me. If I wasn’t sure, I wanted to look it up. It also made me happy to be helpful. And to be right. I love being right.
That’s probably the real reason this distresses me so—I’m not right nearly as often now that our language is declining at this disturbing, faster-than-you-can-say-perspicacity pace. In the time I took to write this, I discovered this pet peeve I have is fast becoming a waste itself, like a cow’s opinion. You know, “It’s moo.”
I want to be a dictionary editor because I am tired of their criteria. Specifically, one criterion—the one where if enough people use something incorrectly for long enough, it gets voted in as a proper use of the word, no matter how it may add nothing of value to the language.
An annoying example:
Entitled: Used to be that a book couldn’t be entitled but a person could.
Because so many people thought they were writing or talking “up” by erroneously using “entitled” where “titled” should have been, those of us who knew the difference and loved the difference in meaning are now forced to put our knowledge aside and dumb down.
By talking up, I mean, for example, the millions of speakers at podiums everywhere and on radio and TV who think they are coming across as emphatic intelligentsia when they use the trite phrase, “each and every ...” Makes me shudder every time. STOP SAYING THAT!
Another one:
“Myriad.” So many people use it as a noun instead of an adjective. To be sure you are using it properly, think of the word “many.” If “many” can be used in place of “myriad,” then you are using it properly.
Proper: “She counted myriad species of fish in the enormous tank.” “Many” works just fine in place of “myriad.”
Improper: “He removed the myriad of ties from the closet.” Would you say, “He removed the many of ties from the closet”? You might, but you’d be wrong and you’d sound wrong.
Before some of you get all wadded up, I already know: I checked the online dictionary and the improper use of myriad has snuck its way in there already. I’m brokenhearted, again, and taking it all too personally.
What is the point of learning this stuff and being good at it? “It” being the only thing I could point to as my personal academic strength. It is where I shine, just like a full moon in my own personal orbit.
Most of the time in the newsrooms I worked in, I was the go-to for spelling and correct usage —I was the walking reference, the person people asked instead of looking it up, because they knew I’d know and it took less time to ask me. If I wasn’t sure, I wanted to look it up. It also made me happy to be helpful. And to be right. I love being right.
That’s probably the real reason this distresses me so—I’m not right nearly as often now that our language is declining at this disturbing, faster-than-you-can-say-perspicacity pace. In the time I took to write this, I discovered this pet peeve I have is fast becoming a waste itself, like a cow’s opinion. You know, “It’s moo.”
Thursday, September 17, 2009
You Raise Me Up
or Men Will Be Boys Practically Every Time
I have long thought that the custom of bringing up boys differently than girls is completely out of whack—tragic, even.
There are a million little and large ways we do it.
For instance, many responsible parents teach girls about home economics and boys about yard economics. Many parents, without even realizing it, teach girls that looking good is important. We praise girls for being able to make themselves look “pretty,” by making their hair look pretty and dressing them nicely; we reinforce the importance of it all and give them a reason why by telling them to “go show Daddy.”
We teach boys that being active athletically is the way to go, providing them our favorite sports balls from birth and spending time teaching them to play. We praise boys for winning and, when we are parenting well, for trying very hard to win. Many of us use and overuse the phrase, “boys will be boys.” That phrase does such a disservice to all of us.
Girls are read fairy tales, stories involving princesses and princes, frogs, and magic mirrors. Girls are told that men will rescue you if it’s true love, that we might actually need rescuing. We read to our daughters that we are the victims of bad men and jealous women and how frogs turn into princes with a kiss. Boys are read books that foster interest in things like space and science, sports and math. Stories including frogs that we read to boys don’t include kissing them.
That frog-turning-into-a-prince story is encouraging girls to be sexual in the hopes that men will be transformed by their love. What a load of hogwash! Is it no wonder so many marriages fail? I’m not talking just divorces here: Many people stay together in failed marriages for fear of any number of things (another subject entirely!) and don’t have the joy of true partnership.
We teach girls how to anticipate and accommodate. We expect them to act emotionally and be nurturing, putting other’s needs ahead of theirs. We teach boys to do what they must in order to be the best. We expect them to man up, act like a man, be tough.
Parents, yes, good ones, raise their children by gender.
Here women sit around waiting for true love, when men don’t have a clue—they never were read those stories; they don’t know what they are supposed to do.
I think we need to be more thoughtful about the way we parent. I raised two daughters—wonderful women, both—but I unwittingly did the gender thing. I didn’t realize it; I wasn’t thoughtful enough at the time, but lucky for me, they are much more thoughtful than I was. They are figuring out much of this stuff on their own.
I think instead of being gender-driven, we should raise our children to be people, the best people they can be. Teach them to be imaginative, kind, thoughtful and foster a love of reading so strong their minds can’t possibly remain shut to the infinite possibilities.
I have long thought that the custom of bringing up boys differently than girls is completely out of whack—tragic, even.
There are a million little and large ways we do it.
For instance, many responsible parents teach girls about home economics and boys about yard economics. Many parents, without even realizing it, teach girls that looking good is important. We praise girls for being able to make themselves look “pretty,” by making their hair look pretty and dressing them nicely; we reinforce the importance of it all and give them a reason why by telling them to “go show Daddy.”
We teach boys that being active athletically is the way to go, providing them our favorite sports balls from birth and spending time teaching them to play. We praise boys for winning and, when we are parenting well, for trying very hard to win. Many of us use and overuse the phrase, “boys will be boys.” That phrase does such a disservice to all of us.
Girls are read fairy tales, stories involving princesses and princes, frogs, and magic mirrors. Girls are told that men will rescue you if it’s true love, that we might actually need rescuing. We read to our daughters that we are the victims of bad men and jealous women and how frogs turn into princes with a kiss. Boys are read books that foster interest in things like space and science, sports and math. Stories including frogs that we read to boys don’t include kissing them.
That frog-turning-into-a-prince story is encouraging girls to be sexual in the hopes that men will be transformed by their love. What a load of hogwash! Is it no wonder so many marriages fail? I’m not talking just divorces here: Many people stay together in failed marriages for fear of any number of things (another subject entirely!) and don’t have the joy of true partnership.
We teach girls how to anticipate and accommodate. We expect them to act emotionally and be nurturing, putting other’s needs ahead of theirs. We teach boys to do what they must in order to be the best. We expect them to man up, act like a man, be tough.
Parents, yes, good ones, raise their children by gender.
Here women sit around waiting for true love, when men don’t have a clue—they never were read those stories; they don’t know what they are supposed to do.
I think we need to be more thoughtful about the way we parent. I raised two daughters—wonderful women, both—but I unwittingly did the gender thing. I didn’t realize it; I wasn’t thoughtful enough at the time, but lucky for me, they are much more thoughtful than I was. They are figuring out much of this stuff on their own.
I think instead of being gender-driven, we should raise our children to be people, the best people they can be. Teach them to be imaginative, kind, thoughtful and foster a love of reading so strong their minds can’t possibly remain shut to the infinite possibilities.
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