Bend The Rules Until they Squeak

You know, over the years I've come to accept the fact that the internet is a place that full to brimming with misspellings, bad grammar, and callous disregard for the English language.

My only refuge has been in "respectable" news organizations that still take the art and rules of writing seriously. So there I am today, reading an article on cnn.com a (relatively speaking) respectable news source.

Trouble is, I can't focus on the article because this is glaring at me from the right hand side of my screen.

It actually hurt my head.

Yes, I know, that's an advertiser and not CNN. Yes I know CNN just pumps out the ads, they don't proof them, yada yada yada.

That said...Funk and Wagnall wept.

Word of the day: Obdurate

ob·du·rate   [ob-doo-rit, -dyoo-] –adjective

1. unmoved by persuasion, pity, or tender feelings; stubborn; unyielding.
2. stubbornly resistant to moral influence; persistently impenitent: an obdurate sinner.

Ah obdurate. How I embody you so.

This word crossed my path again yesterday while watching an episode of Jeeves & Wooster, a fun British show that dates back to the early 90's. The PG Wodehouse books date back much farther than that, some written in the early 1900's and now in public domain (thus all loaded up on my Kindle!).

The Good Man introduced me to Jeeves & Wooster and I'm now hopelessly in love.

I love language and words, and Wodehouse certainly had a way with the Queen's English.

So I sort of chuckled this morning when I turned to my blog idea generator, and this was the suggestion:

"When other people tell me what to do...."

Answer: I become obdurate.

I'm not proud of it. It's just in my nature.

As the third of three kids born to a very smart and very in control family, I was "the baby" and thus everyone just, you know, told me what to do.

This certainly got me past many a hazard in my infancy, but there came a time, I don't know what age, when damnit, I was tired of being told what to do!

So much so, that being told what to do made me act out.

It's a trait that's carried through to adulthood. In fact, it only became more deeply entrenched an increased in velocity.

One would think that this would make me a very bad employee. Actually, when it comes to managers I like and respect, I have no trouble being told what to do in the workplace.

No, Madame Obdurate is more of a home life kind of gal.

Which makes friends, family and loved ones *ever* so happy.

I find my tendency to dig in when someone tells me what to do really isn't all that unique. It's pretty much a go-to for most of us.

Because we're all special little snowflakes, we want to do things our own damn way and I don't care what you say and pa-tooey!

Yeah.

As I often say to my friends, you don't have to be free of your emotional baggage, you just have to be self-aware about it.

See how I reel 'em in? Look at that face? Would she harm a fly? No, I don't think so. But tell her what to do and WHAMMO! Obdurate all up in your grille!

Seeing myself in a new way

You know, looking at a photograph of myself is always an interesting and somewhat humbling experience.

In a photo, I never quite look the way that I imagine I look.

Where did those lines around the eyes come from? Do my hips really look like that?

Ah well.

The other day, I received an interesting photograph that surely has me pondering some things.

Here, I'll share the photo with you, my fabulous readers, so you can see what I'm talking about.

It is a fun photo of me driving! Isn't that neat! A perspective one doesn't often get.

Look at me...intense expression on my face. Hands firmly at ten and two. Or maybe more like eleven and one, but no matter.

That's a concentrated and skillful driver, no?

Yup, that photo was kindly mailed to me by the Superior Court of the county where I live.

Wasn't that sweet?

It appears they are of the belief that I didn't stop fully before making a right turn at a red light into a very busy intersection.

And so for the luxury of a faboo photo of me behind the wheel, I was charged $500.

I'm *ever* so pleased about that. Tickled pink. And other euphemisms I can't think of right now to sarcastically convey that I'm not very pleased AT ALL!

Next step: onward to driving school. Yay me.

Have I ever mentioned how much I hate red light cameras? Oh I really hate them.

If you hear a tiny *pop*

...it is the sound of my mind being blown.

*pop*

Yesterday, I talked about this whole period-space-space thing.

So today, I'm going to take on a few grammar rules. I am breaking Sister Mary Margaret's ruler right over my Strunk and White. Oh yes I am!

(That sounds kind of....naughty! heh heh)

Ok, confession time: I didn't go to Catholic school. APS was a-ok.

Apparently middle school is much on my mind this week. Likely reflective of my mental age right now...but I digress.

Today we speak of Mr. Parker. Oh yes, another educator that saw my brother and sister pass through the doors of his classroom before I came along, all impressionable and scared.

Mr. Parker was, to put it mildly, a grammar Nazi.

(Yes, that's putting it mildly! And no I am *not* prone to hyperbole! Quit taunting me!)

Mr. Parker was all about forcing us to diagram sentences at the chalkboard.

(For the younger readers, yes, we used actual chalk in those days. And we had to walk uphill both ways to get to school.)

Mr. Parker would rattle off a sentence, and then we had to diagram the damn thing.

If you got stuck, he'd make sarcastic comments. Occasionally singing a little ditty meant to embarrass you. And then he'd tell you how you blew it. Because we always blew it when it came to diagramming sentences.

Fun.

So Mr. Parker's waltzing, melodic teasing is in the back of my mind as I read this article:

Three grammar rules that are okay to break.

Doh! That's wickedly delicious, like getting caught smoking out behind the portable buildings!

(Not that I did, I was am a painfully rules compliant girl)

Here we go:

1. Feel free to boldly split infinitives.

They quote the famous Gene Rodenberry line, "To boldy go where no man has gone before" as evidence that this is ok.

Hmm. Not sure "Star Trek" is the high water mark for grammatical correctness. Then again, maybe I could get into this.

Problem is, it's also been drilled into me that adverbs should be kept to a minimum, under which "boldly" would qualify.

So...to capriciously break the rules, seems...well, I just did it, that's not so bad.

Oh yeah, I'm turning to the dark side!

(Mixing metaphors too! Oh, I'm naughty!)

2. Ending a sentence with a preposition is nothing to worry about.

Ok, I admit it, I already do this. And I hear Mr. Parker in my head when I do, but damnit, I do it anyway.

But I'm not going to stop!

At least until I get in trouble and then I'll be very compliant and mild.

3. Is it even okay to use sentence fragments? Yes.

Yeah, ok, fine. I do this. A lot. With frequency. And I'm not going to quit!

If loving sentence fragments is wrong, I don't want to be right!

I often get that green squiggly underline in Word that says "sentence fragment, consider revising." To which I reply, boldly: "NO!"

Then click ignore. It feels so good to click ignore.

You wanna know what else?

I also dangle my participles. I do and I'm not sorry.

Oh I'm grammatically running amok now!

Whoooooooo!

I fought the law...

...and the law will probabaly win.

Ok, not me, but a man named Dave Vontesmar. Mr. Vontesmar lives in Arizona. Phoenix, to be exact.

And Mr. Vontesmar has to commute daily for his job at Sky Harbor airport.

Mr. Vontesmar is not a fan of the recently installed cameras that Phoenix has been using to catch speeders (and, let's be clear, raise revenue).

It is, as this article describes, a "photo-enforcement gantlet (sic) on Interstate 17, Arizona 51 and Interstate 10."

Mr. Vontesmar IS, however, a fan of going in excess of the speed limit.

And so the perfect solution is born.

Dave Vontesmar wears a monkey mask when driving. Sometimes a giraffe mask, but mostly a monkey mask.

And when the tickets, some 37 so far, totaling fines upward of $6,500, show up at his home, he says:

"'Not one of them there is a picture where you can identify the driver,' Vontesmar said. 'The ball's in their court. I sent back all these ones I got with a copy of my driver's license and said, 'It's not me. I'm not paying them.''"

Well ok. I guess they use the car registration and the driver's license photo to id the drivers and issue the ticket.

So Vontesmar is working a loophole here.

Except...

"...officers sat outside Vontesmar's home and watched him drive to work. 'We watched him four different times put the monkey mask on and put the giraffe-style mask on,' Officer Dave Porter said. 'Based on surveillance, we were positive that Vontesmar was the driver.'"

So fine, he's probably not going to get away with this, but damn...you gotta like his style!

File this under: hot desert sun does something funny to folks.

Photo from azcentral.com

Dear Canadian Hiring Managers:

It's ok. Unclench. You might like it.

"A telephone survey of 100 senior Canadian executives showed that more than a fifth of executives said a single typo on a resume or cover letter could cost a potential employee a job, while 28 percent said two mistakes would kill their chances."

Wow, really? I'm a hiring manager. I went through a two year period where I was constantly hiring. I've probably looked at over a thousand resumes. All were done to greater and lesser degree. Yes, some were so sloppy it wasn't worth taking a look, but a minor error here or there, especially if it's a common typo, teh for the, for instance, is certainly acceptable.

I agree that job seekers need to put a best foot forward all of the time. I agree with polishing the resume, having someone else read it, making it clean and crisp. This is your sales pitch and you need to get it right.

But for me and for the hiring managers I know, one typo doesn't kill anyone's chances. Unless this is a job for the typing pool where accuracy matters, it's more about the qualities of the person, not their keyboarding skills. I think if that's the view the company takes of minor human error, then who would want to work there anyway?

Source.

I don't know, call me sentimental

I blame NewMexiKen and his recent blogging about citizenship tests. I pondered on it a bit in this post too, but lately, I've been thinking a bit about being an American and, yes, in my post-Fourth of July haze...about being patriotic.

I still get a proud chill when the Blue Angels fly low overhead. I put my hand over my heart when they play the Star Spangled. I can recite the Pledge of Allegiance with practiced ease.

Patriotism sort of became a bad word during the previous administration, where aspersions were cast left and right about who was and was not patriotic. That made me grit my teeth.

So ok, I don't wear it on my sleeve, but sure, I am patriotic. I own it.

When I read this article in today's Las Cruces Sun News, I have to admit, I got a little lump in the throat proud.

A small piece, really. Just a short bit about a local boy scout troop doing a proper ceremony to dispose of soiled flags.

I don't really know all the rules about flying the flag, but I know enough. I get testy when I see a flag flying in the rain. Or unlit in the dark. Or when it's been whipped to shreds but still flies.

I don't really do anything wacky about it, like the guy who tore down the Mexican flag on the UNM campus when he noticed a violation of flag protocol.

But I notice stuff and it bugs me.

It was an interesting read at the VFW site about the main code for flying a flag. I learned a little there.

Also interested to see the link to this site, a company that provides proper disposal of a flag for a fee.

Mainly, getting back to the event held in Las Cruces, I was just happy to see a new generation of kids is learning respect and both the proper way to fly, and when the time comes, dispose of, Old Glory.

Photo recycled from this blog...taken at Fort Stanton, NM

Yanking. My. Chain.

(Written last night, posted today)

The universe is yanking my chain. Messing with my head. Freaking me out, man.

Because tonight, I might actually kinda sorta believe in the goodness of humanity.

That's so not me. No, I think people are mean, and mean people suck. But tonight...I have a softer spot in my heart for the world.

I was on my way to the grocery store to pick up something for dinner. I waited in a left turn bay for the light to go my way. Out of the corner of my eye in the rearview mirror, I saw a small white pickup stomp to a halt at an odd diagonal to the left turn bay. Then the driver was out of the car and weaving around on foot in the opposite-side lane.

"Oh crap," I thought, eyeing him in my rearview, "this guy's messed up." I immediately reached for my phone to call the police, and as I did I turned to look out my window to see what the guy was doing. Was he going to hurt himself?

Then I realized why he was making a weaving wavy line in the oncoming lane. Leading the parade was a Mama Duck and three little chicks tailing her every move, the guy madly following behind, making classic herding motions with his hands.

Obviously, the duck and young 'uns had wandered into traffic and this guy was chasing them, trying to get them to safety, and waving off oncoming traffic at the same time.

Finally, Mama D got over to the curb and she hopped up. Three babies hopped and jumped in vain, unable to make the distance. The guy reached down, cupped his hands, and gently scooped up each baby and placed them on the sidewalk. When all were safe, he trotted to his truck and jumped back in.

This wasn't a Teva wearing, hola granola, tree hugging guy, either. He was a tradesman, driving a worktruck and clearly had put in a hard day's work on a freaking hot day.

And at the end of that day, he saved four lives.

I was stunned, and my heart felt warmth.

Then, while in the grocery, I went over to the bakery to pick up a few of my favorite cookies. They are baked on site and tantalize behind a glass case. A bakery employee has to help you get to the good stuff.

I stood by the glass and waited. The bakery employee was alone back there, on the phone, taking an intricate cake order. No worry, I got time. I can wait for delicious almond horns.

So I waited. I didn't even feel impatient. It allowed me the chance to oogle all the other tasty cookies on display.

Finally, she hung up the phone and turned to me. She said, "Thank you so much for waiting, I'm so sorry!"

"No problem," I said and ordered the horns.

She put a couple in a box then added one more. "One extra for having to wait," she said, smiled, and sealed up the box.

I was stunned. I got rewarded for patience? Me, the least patient person I know?

Then on the way home, I arrived at a four way stop at the same time as another car. I was the car on the right, and thus supposed to be the first to go. That never happens according to the law in California, so as usual, I paused. The other driver, a teenage girl, gave me the wave. I smiled and waved back and turned left through the intersection.

At the next intersection, I arrived the same time as a huge SUV. I was on the left this time. I paid it forward, gave him the wave, got a smile and wave in return.

With a goofy grin on my face, I then made my way the final few blocks to home.

Sure, it's a Monday, hotter than the hinges of hell, The Good Man is violently sick (Norovirus is the main suspect), Mom-in-Law got roughed up at her doctor, and the cat is hot and lethargic. By all accounts, it's a sad day where I live.

But right now I feel...dare I say...optimistic about my fellow man.

Questionable fashion choices

So. It's expected to be about 90 degrees here today.

I know, I know. I hear my New Mexico peeps saying, "pish posh, 90 degrees is a walk in the park!" and you are right.

90 degrees in Albuquerque is a fine day for a walk/run/jog/picnic/bike ride/what have you.

90 degrees here is intolerable. Because of one thing...

Humidity.

See, the human body was made to be an evaporative cooling device. Just like a swamp cooler, really.

From the Wikipedia entry: "Evaporative cooling is a physical phenomenon in which evaporation of a liquid, typically into surrounding air, cools an object or a liquid in contact with it."

Right. I sweat. The dry air evaporates it. I feel fresh as a daisy. A sweaty daisy, but a daisy, nonetheless.

In the Bay Area, due to this large body of water, the uh, you know, Bay, we have a bit of humidity. Not much, mind you. Not Georgia on a hot summer night or Singapore all year round. But enough.

Enough that my finely tuned machine, calibrated to the New Mexico climate, can't properly obtain "fresh as a sweaty daisy" and I just obtain sweaty.

But that's not the point of my discussion.

The point is...it's due to be pretty hot today. "Pretty hot" is something of a rarity around here. We get maybe two weeks, when all totaled up each year, of "good lord it's hot" days.

The rest of the time, the weather is temperate and mild.

Because of this, few homes and businesses have any sort of air conditioning. I know, right? I almost passed out when I first moved here. "You want to rent me an apartment WITHOUT air conditioning? Do you want me to *die*?!?!?"

So in order to stay cool, people go to their drawers and the back of their closets to withdraw their "warm weather" clothes.

Herein lies the problem. In New Mexico, it gets hot a lot. Everyone has at least ONE pair of serviceable shorts, usually two or more. Something that people wouldn't be upset at being seen in public with you while you were wearing them.

Not so in the area where it doesn't often get that hot.

Yes, the first "damn it's hot" day of the year means seeing shorts that are a bit tight and frightfully short.

I don't mean on a cute girl, I mean on the overweight middle aged dad-man whose legs haven't seen the outside of pants legs in decades wearing the shorts he bought for Spring Break back in college, thirty years ago.

This morning I saw a woman walking down the street in a purple bathing suit with the elastic about shot, thus hardly supporting her ample upper parts. This was paired with some lycra bike shorts, scarcely concealing her ample lower parts. She also carried a pack of Kools and smoked profusely. But that's a whole other blog post.

Unless you are actually ON a bike, I'd like not to see the bike shorts, please.

Look, not all of my stuff is great to look at, but I have the decency toward my fellow mankind to wear a pair of shorts that don't crawl up my heiney as I walk. My skin is pale from too many days under office florescent lights, but I make an effort to keep cool and keep my dignity at the same time.

For the good of all mankind.

Stay cool out there, ya'll.

A public service announcement.

From eHow.com, the appropriate way to handle a four way stop. Emphasis added is mine.

1. Slow your vehicle when approaching a 4-way stop. As you stop at the stop sign or red light, notice if there are any cars at any of the other stops, or if there are any approaching at the same time.


2. Stop your vehicle completely. This means that your tires are completely stopped and not rolling at all. If there are cross walk lines or painted indicators on the road, stop at the appropriate lines. If it is a stop sign and there are no lines on the road, stop when the front of your car is even with the stop sign. If there is something blocking your view of the other stops signs, you may move forward only after stopping completely at your own stop sign.


3. Look at the other stops to see if there are any other vehicles stopped or moving. The vehicles leave the stop signs in the same order in which they arrived. The first vehicle to arrive at a complete stop is the first vehicle allowed to leave the stop sign.


4. Know that if there is more than one vehicle arriving at the same time at the 4-way stop, the vehicle furthest to the right is allowed to leave first. Always allow at least a few seconds to make sure no one else takes off even if it is your turn to leave first. Many people do not follow this rule, even though it is the legal way to leave a 4-way stop.

Note that nowhere in that discussion does it say that if you drive a big Mercedes SUV, that means you get ahead of anyone, anytime.

It also doesn't say that if you come screaming up to the four-way stop at an excessive speed, barely touch the brakes, and then hit the gas, you get to go first.

I don't care how busy you are. Or rich. Or good-looking. Or that your car is nicer than mine. Mine is paid off. And I don't mind rolling that hoopty patched up with bailing wire and duct tape. Bite me.

This message brought to you by my frustrating morning commute.

(no, I didn't get in an accident, but it was close. Thank goodness for that brake job I got last week.)