"Sticklers Unite!", said the Panda

As the earth spins and people go about their daily life, history is being written,  love and war is being documented, the citizens of the world are becoming ambivalent to dying punctuation and grammar.  Most of them unaware.  But not I.  I have a nagging sense - a perception that emanates from the universe to those hyper aware - of structure falling out of place.  When I write a letter, an email, a post, I feel out where apostrophes belong because I don't know the actual rules. I'm not sure if the period goes inside or outside of the quotation; inside or outside of exclamation points.  I'm pretty sure that I abuse of semi-colons, put hyphens to shame, and dishonor commas.  I vaguely haze through the elementary mnemonic tricks embedded long ago in our memory that taught us how to construct proper sentences. To this day,  I don't know what a conjunction is or where the junction proposes to be. Determining a possessive, which should be cake, makes my spine want to disconnect from the brain.  For a self-proclaimed writer, syntax should be my cup of tea. (As you get to know me, you will see that I wrote the last two sentences just  to incorporate cake and tea into the matter.)

I believe in language and literature.  For all the rebellious tendencies I have to defy the norm,  I'm still an advocate of proper grammar, punctuation, and writing in all its forms; a lazy advocate at that.  Now that I find myself typing reports at work trying to make sense of atrocious run-ons and freaking out when I have to rearrange a sentence, and more recently attempting to make it effortless for readers to capture the essence of my thoughts, I break into an invisible sweat admitting I know not what I do and hope that the sticklers forgive me when I violate the building blocks of expression.

Here is a small example that will practically force you to appreciate how important it is to give mind to punctuation:

A woman, without her man, is nothing.

A woman; without her, man is nothing.

Case closed.

Eats, Shoots & Leaves is a wonderful British token to help all the lost ones find their position in regards to the dying discipline crying out for adherence to the most basic foundations of communication.  She even works for a company designed solely to protect the integrity of the apostrophe in the coming generation of texting and fried brains, where full-stops (the word for period in Britain) do not exist, much less the respect for spelling.

For those who have a nagging sense to risk losing their friends by correcting someone's ghastly use of 'your' versus 'you're', or cringe at their personal disappointment of not remembering what a clause is, this books is for you. It's a hilarious read at the least (gotta love those BritBrits), if you don't give a flying monkey about easy-to-read paragraphs.  Communication skills are plummeting fast in a world where its kitsch to bend the rules to your liking.  I strongly believe in the human right to self-expression, so it's about time I re-educate myself and enforce the laws that my disgruntled English teachers didn't bother to instill in us, leaving us lost, shattered, and with a strange void that needs filling.  If you're going to write, do it right!
*I swear I didn't intend on making that pun.  My geeks status rises without even trying.*

I've known about this book for a long time.  I checked it out from the library years ago. The fear of responsibility that comes with knowledge threatened me to put it down before the first chapter was over, despite its hilarity and wit.  Today, I'm taking it on.  I will do write (right, more puns made of cheese) by prose, essays, letters, texts, and even post-it notes. Read up if you're writing is atrocious. Yes, even if you're just a chronic TXTR:

[caption id="" align="alignleft" width="500" caption="If the language doesn't attract you, let the illustrated Panda be your inspiration."][/caption]

*P.S. This post does not even begin to scratch the surface of how I feel about my Alzheimers-like attack on spelling, spell check, and the misuse of words' definitions (shudders).  Kudos if you catch any downtrodden mistakes of language. Save them before I do.



* P.P.S. The blog, Cake Wrecks, on the blogroll to the right, is a direct result of the tragedy that happens when you don't mind the English language. A depressing waste of cake. Must see to believe.

Gentrifying the Dining Table

When we first got married, our house was empty. We didn't have a place to eat or sit on. We did everything on out carpet. And I mean everything. *wink* *sorry*

However, I was carrying on a full-time job. So was he, and he travels at really odd hours. We were exhausted and barely able to find 5 relaxing minutes together where we could talk about anything other than settling in our apartment. Also, my health was already mysteriously deteriorating, but I was pushing through it, pumping iron at the gym. This, of course, would dwindle with time. Making meals for two, and one extremely picky eater was new to me. Basically, there was no time to stop and think of fixing up our place to make it a home, not just sleep quarters and a messing area.

As I adapted, haphazardly and by trial and error rather than careful planning, the instinctual nature of any newlywed was kicking in. What's next after tying the ball and chain? Fix your place up. Make it your own. We're still working on it, piece by piece. Exhaustion and health bills keep us from the more focused approach to furnishing. These are some of the battles of chronic fatigue, swollen joints and limbs, inflammation headaches.

About 6 months in, my mother sensed  -like moms do- that I was having a hard time keeping up. She bought me a simple bouquet of fresh, blooming, bright yellow daisies. I previously believed this flower was too simplistic. However, it brightened up my house like I hadn't imagined and I apologized to my new fabulous table center for being so short-sighted.  When I was single, I was the unromantic type who said flowers are overrated. So soon after being bound by law to man, my sexy husband picked up my newfound value for the lifting effect of nature's little gifts (without my telling him, brownie points!) . The man who said he wasn't the type to buy flowers was buying roses to a woman who said claimed they were cheesy.

Now, I long for my table to decorated with something alive. I'm much more plant minded.  This week I was buying veggies and fruits at our local produce shop across the street and saw they had a quaint purple gem I'd never seen before for $1.99! Hells yea.

Further now, it's been a really rough week health-wise.  As a matter of fact, I was buying celery, parsley, and cucumber for an alkalanizing smoothie (I think I Sarah Palin'd that word and I'm not apologizing for it).  I barely had the energy to chop and blend my concoction. My hands were and still are kind of rubbery with swelling. My feets feel like boats. Piles of mail mixed with Husband's projects seemed to be climbing higher on our table. The couch was collecting a Home Edition line of living accessories for my own planted butt. Ah, but this cute chrysanthemum could charm any home accumulating clutter.

See below the progression of inspiration from something humble sprung from the earth:

Progression No. 1

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="THE USUAL BAD WEEK SCENARIO"][/caption]

Progression No. 2

 

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="WILD LIFE OXYGENATING THE ROOM, BECOMING MORE MOBILE"][/caption]

 

Progression No. 3

 

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="439" caption="FULL ON INSPIRED, ORGANIZATION ACHIEVED"][/caption]

 

I lie. It was not just pure beauty that led to my pro-activity. By No. 3 my Percocet had kicked in. Which I do not encourage even for Lupsters! I'm taking it temporarily for all the recent damage my frail organs went through and simply because otherwise I'll lose my day job.  I'm not unaware of the dangers, not to mention potential addiction if usage is extended too long. Just setting up a disclaimer right now. However, I wrote a little song called "I love you Perky-cet".

Moving right along, building up my home is a slow process in my condition.  Keeping neat and organized is hit or miss. When my husband is in town, he helps with the maintenance. Otherwise, it quickly amounts to a chaos that I'm learning to not be apologetic about anymore.  It's not easy going to sleep knowing the dishes is working on hardening grit or wondering if I passed out before I closed all dangerous cat nooks.  But everyone once in a sucky day, something awesome and wonderful completely distracts me from pain (No, Perky-cet is not awesome and wonderful) and I can power through achy knees and make my apartment a neat, symmetrical dream home.

*P.S. Sorry about the picture quality.  I'll be upgrading to stealing Husband's camera soon.