I Am The Grammarian About Whom Your Mother Warned.

mytextlife@twitter re: pet hates @johncleese.com: People who use the word "irregardless" then get angry if you ask them if the GED was hard.

Alright, so I'll admit it; I'm a bit of a snob. At least when it comes to language. I am not speaking of persons denied access to higher education who are simply handicapped by a limited vocabulary. I am speaking of highly educated professionals who have no excuse. Well, them and my ex-husband.

Don't misunderstand, I was not born with a silver thesaurus in my crib. Quite the contrary. My siblings and I grew up hardscrabble. My grandfather was a farmer, my grandmother a housewife. My mother raised four children completely on her own, often times working two and three jobs at once.

However, Mom is a reader and she passed that gift to her children. When we were ten and six respectively, mom read my brother and me Where The Red Fern Grows; a charming coming of age tale written by a man who obviously has anger issues with man's best friend, as he killed every last dog in the book.

Mom would read a chapter; my brother and I sobbing openly as yet another furry friend got bumped off (a fact my brother denies to this day.) Mom would dry our tears, give us an ice cream cone and the next day we would be back begging for more (little masochists we were.)

This love for reading quickly grew into a love of language. And, as with any love, one becomes angry when it is disrespected. Example:

(local news anchor who shall remained unnamed as I am sure she has been humiliated enough already): And today in sheerie lank a...

Me: I'm sorry, did she just say "sheerie lank a"?

My poor husband: Uh oh.

Me: No, seriously is that what she just said?

Him, trying to ease out of the room: Um, yeah. Why?

Me: The word is SHRA-lon-ka

Him: Are you sure?

Me: Yes

(second anchor appears on screen: Thank you _________, for more on
Sheerie Lank a go to our website.....

Me: No he didn't.

Husband: Uh oh.

It's not that I expect everyone to know how to pronounce Sri Lanka, or even to know where it is. I do, however, think that if you are a professional newscaster someone, somewhere, would have told you how to pronounce the name of the city in the lead story.

I imagine I acquired my language snobbery from my mother whose greatest pet peeve, (even greater than white shoes with black pantyhose, although that is a close second) is the use of the term "hot water heater". Every time she would hear it, she would roll her eyes, sigh and and say, "If it were hot, it would not need to be heated, now would it?" We figured out pretty quickly not to use that phrase. And sher-bert? Sher-bert would get you grounded.

When other kids where playing Twister and LIFE, we were playing "Dictionary Tag". Seriously. We would all gather in the living room and open the dictionary. We would then search Webster's for a word no one else knew the meaning of (yes, that is a dangling participle -I am not a grammar snob, well okay, yes I am but hey, no one's perfect). Personal favorite? Zygote; (a fetus from conception to two weeks).

And yet, even with this innate language snobbery, I manage to marry quite possibly the biggest idiot ever born to two otherwise normal human beings. He had the irritating habit of only listening to about half of what I said. I imagine this is a normal percentage rate for married couples however Rick (who gives a whole new meaning to the term "Rick-rolled") also liked to pick up random words he had heard me use and drop them into conversation. Of course he never bothered to learn what the words actually meant. Thus it was pretty common that I would be standing beside him, stunned, as he told the store clerk she was being ostentatious or when he asked his best friend if he had ever masticated in public.

Now one idiot is bad enough. Get two of them together and what you get is complete verbal homicide.

For a short time Rick and I worked for the same company: a tire store run by a suave old drunk with a third grade education and a nasty temper. One day, after a particularly long visit with Jack Daniels my boss made me cry. Over what, I don't recall. What I do recall is Rick's angry response:

Mr. O, you need to leave her alone! You're just being facetious.

Fa- what the hell did you just call me?

Facetious - look it up, it's under "V"!

At which point Rick was fired and I was given the rest of the day off with pay, (presumably allowing Mr. O private time with the dictionary I kept on my desk, perusing the "V" section for facetious.)

Oh, Oh, Oh, Listen To The Music...

Email from sweetboy89@home: Hey Mom, I Googled that song you wanted. The reason you couldn't find it was because it is called "Tush" not "Looking for some touch". Also, Hootie and the Blowfish aren't really a new band, since they haven't had a hit since the nineties.

So, it probably started all the way back when I was five and singing "Joy To The World". Not the Christmas carol, the hippie anthem. Joy to the world/olive was a girl. Yep, that's what I sang. Cute for a five year old. Weird when you're twenty-five and your husband looks at you with that cocked puppy dog head look and says, Excuse me? Did you just sing "Olive was a girl?" Well yes, those are the words. Um, no. Um yes. Umm, really, no.

Turns out the actual wording is All The Boys and Girls. As soon as he said it, I could hear it plain as day but for twenty years I had been singing the words wrong. (Although in my defense, it IS a song about a wine-mooching frog, how right can any words be?).

This was not, unfortunately, an isolated incident. I have been misunderstanding the words to songs my whole life. There was Barry Manilow's Looks Like Tamata's, the Stones' Two Fuck Hero, and of course, that England Dan and John Ford Coley classic, I'm Not Talkin' 'bout the Linen.

And let's not forget the aforementioned "Tush". I truly thought the words were "Lord, take me downtown, I'm just lookin' for some touch." I loved that song. So raw and honest. The story of a man who just wants someone to reach out to him. Just to feel that touch. Yeah, no he's just lookin' for some TUSH. Little bit of difference.

But, the centerpiece of my idiocy artwork has to be Me and Bobby McGee. I used one line from that song as my motto for years. "One day of miscellaneous, I let him slip away." Wow, how perfectly does that describe the tragedy and triumph that is life. One miscellaneous day, a nothing day if you will, one simple choice makes it a day you will always remember. The day you let love slip away. Beautiful. Powerful. And wrong. Kris Kristofferson, that genius of a songwriter (and a right-proper hottie in his day) actually wrote the line "One day up near Salinas" Well, crap. Now I need to find another theme song. What's that new one by Hootie and the Blowfish?

You Ain't From Around Here, Are Ya?

MyTextLife posted on Twitter via text: NASCAR GPS: In fifty feet, turn left. Then left. Then left. Then....

When you look at it chronologically I have spent as much time living in the South as I have in the West but I have never identified myself as a southerner. Nor is it likely the south will ever claim me as a native. Truth be told, I just don't blend.

The funny thing is that when I lived in Utah, the men just LOVED my southern accent. I couldn't hear it, (unless I was drinking but THAT is another blog all together). Here in Mississippi the first thing most people ask is, "You ain't from around here, are ya?" Well, duh.

It could have to do with the fact that I am the antithesis of the sweet southern belle. I am acerbic, political, feministic, highly opinionated and (gasp) a registered Democrat.

For Christmas my beautiful son bought me a tire cover for my Jeep. It was plain black and he offered to have it embroidered with anything I wanted. I looked it at that lovely blank canvas and said, "No thanks. I'm going to use it for bumper stickers. Sort of a mobile Myspace." He went noticeably pale but as it was a gift and he was raised right, he simply smiled and said, "Okay, mom."

And thus began my collection. And my obsession.

The first sticker, dead center, was "Curiosity was framed, stupidity killed the cat". Followed in short order by, "I still believe Anita Hill", "Come to the dark side, we have cookies!" "What if the Hokey Pokey really IS what it's all about?" , "Well behaved women rarely make history." and the jewel in my Yankee crown: "HILLARY 2008". (Although, out of respect for our insurance premium, I relegated "Paddle faster, I hear banjos!" to my office bulletin board.)

Getting these stickers was not a simple task. Most of the ones I found locally were of the "These colors don't run" and "Take your kids to Sunday School, they need and deserve it!" variety. I had to order my Hillary 08 bumper sticker from Ohio for gods sake. OHIO.

When my husband realized I was seriously going to put Hillary on my Jeep he freaked out. "Babe, we really can't afford to have to repaint the Jeep, not to mention replacing the tires." I put it on anyway. (Nice bonus, both he and my kid quit borrowing my Jeep. Score!)

Not long after, as I was making my twice weekly trek down I-20 to school, an old rust bucket pick-up truck pulls along side of me and the driver gives me the bird. As I was driving at a reasonable rate of speed, had not changed lanes in several miles (thus eliminating the possibility I cut him off) nor had my left blinker going; I have to assume it was my sticker collection that raised his ire. I also have to assume he followed me for several miles to have time to sound out the words.. (Hill... hilla...hillar?..HILLARY! That bitch!)

I wish I had thought to take his picture, but it happened kind of fast. (Plus, I really like my camera and wouldn't want to risk damaging its delicate sensibilities with such a crude image- but I digress).

So the guy...classic redneck. Porn-star mustache, three days stubble, mullet (seriously? where do you go to get that haircut? Do they charge extra not to laugh while doing it - "Yes sir, business up front, party in the back - no problem."), dirty wife-beater t-shirt, tore-up pickup truck emblazoned with faded confederate flags and "piss on Chevy" stickers, flipping off random women on the interstate. And he thought I would be upset that we don't share the same political leanings. Go figure.

Me hablo Spanglish

To: vida@tothebone.net

Hola mi hermano, como esta?

Reply from vida@tothebone.net

You realize you sound like a rapper? Hello my brother, wuz up?

So I am taking night classes to try to finally get my degree. After twenty years out of school I knew it would be hard but I never thought the class that would sink me would be Spanish.

I have wanted to learn spanish since I was six years old and had a small part in Los Tres Osos. I got to be the voice of Goldielocks when she was discovered breaking and entering by the three bears. I still remember my line. "Aye yae yae yae yae". Said it perfectly.

As I was growing up we lived in a lot of heavily hispanic areas and my urge to learn the language everyone was making fun of me in only increased. There was a brief period where my yearning ebbed when my darling cousin Lisa that it would be oh so hilarious to tell me that "puta" meant Hi, how are you in Spanish. Didn't take but one ass-kicking to realize that Lisa? Not so friggin funny.

Anyway, so here I am in Spanish 201 and totally lost. It's not the speaking of it, although I do suck at that. It is all these conjugations. Esta, este, estamos. What the hell? Luckily I sit next to an incredibly bright young girl named Scout (her dad is a lit professor) who would be happy to help me if we'd just quit screwing around long enough to pay attention.

Scout has this unique way with accents. She can nail anyone, anytime. My favorite has got to be the Southern Baptist Belle. Dripping with sugar she will look me directly in the eye (after another of my oh so witty comments- ex. "Does the chick in this picture look high to you?"), then, with a completely straight face and a dead-on drawl, she will shake her head and say, "You make Jesus sa-yed". Kills me every time. La profesora? Not so much. I guess she thinks that at forty-one I should be past the gigglegirl stage. Mi mal.

Skin off a teenager..

(voicemail to Shel). Hey sis, so I am surfing the net and there is this ad for younger skin. It says, "She was born in the fifties" and has a pic of Madonna. Okay so far. Then I read the copy. She is over fifty and has the skin off [sic] a teenager. And I realize, Oh my God, she really might! Anyway, guessing you're still at yoga. Call me when you get home. Love you. Bye.

My sister Shel never answers her phone. Literally, never. Even if you are talking to her and accidently hit the end button when you call RIGHT BACK you will still have to go through the whole answering machine message and then just start babbling until she picks up.

Not to mention she has this huge house so even when she is home it might take her a while to get to the phone so you have to sit there and just keep talking until a) you hear her voice on the other end or b) her snotty-ass machine hangs up on you.

I am sure if she were so inclined she could keep me out of public office with some of the messages I have left on her machine.

Example:

Oh. My. God. You should see the guy I am looking at right now. Major hot. So hot. Umm, humm. Baby come to mama! Oh crap! He heard me! Shit, the window was down. Damn damn, uh, gotta go.

And of course she doesn't turn the machine down when she has guests. She says her friends find my messages really amusing. Great. So now the guy who put down her carpet knows that I made the fatal error of wearing a fluttery skirt on a windy day and flashed some poor chick at Cups. And to make matters worse I was wearing my old Victoria's Secret panties that say "LOVE" across the butt. Except my ass has gotten so big that it no longer says Love but instead reads more like" LUUUUUUUUVVVVV". Yeah.

Okay, so I cut up the VS card...

(text to Vida) Hey V ~Okay, so I cut up the Victoria's Secret card. Every time I max it out, they just raise the limit. Sick bastards

Okay, so I have a shopping problem. Well, it isn't a problem for me but my husband... maybe a little more. I say "Carpe Ann Taylor!" He says, "How did we get overdrawn, I haven't even mailed off the bills yet?"

Anyway, so I am talking to Vida and she says, "Why don't you just cut them up?" and I think, "What is WRONG with this woman?" Then I remember, Vida is the sensible one. It's funny, she used to be the artistic one. Now that's Shel. Odd how we rotated. Well, they rotated. Come to think of it I was always the smart one. Which is wierd since both of my sisters are considerably better educated and more successful. Hmm. Still, always wanted to be the pretty one. THAT's never going to happen.

Point is I looked at my checkbook, (ouch ), looked at my income vs outgo and realized that a) that configuration goes completely against all laws of physics and b) if I want to go to Spain next year I had better stop spending and start saving.

So I got out the VS card, sighed deeply and began to cut. Right after I got done ordering three really cute dresses, two pairs of shoes, a bra and panty set and a lingerie bag.

Hey, small steps right?