Grammar Girl

One of the risks in having a big ass-vocabulary and a motor mouth is that I have a large reserve of words that I occasionally misuse, mispronounce, and (eek!) misspell. This is not to be confused with the myriad alternative spellings and made up words found on this blog - those are deliberate. I think.

Certain peeps ebulliently point out my verbal and written gaffes with justifiable glee, as it's my wont to identify theirs with what I'm sure comes across as a truthy air of superiority. But as I pull up my slipped aplomb skirt, face flushed, I am in fact grateful. I ain't perfect, I don't want to suck that way, and my druther is to keep the wheel of my squirrel cage on kilter as it's cranked by language and wit. So Boone, Mr. Pid, Sheena, and others, mea culpa. Mea culpa.

As a path to redemption, Cheek proffers Grammar Girl, a weekly Podcast and blog on word usage. Well written and full of useful examples for everyday readin' and writin', it joins the Links That Don't Suck honor list. If you have similar reference sites, share.

Ollie Ollie In Come Free

James, by Mark Tonra

Blogmother Sheena has tagged me. Viral chain blogging somehow rates higher than chain e-mails. Go figger.

Cheek’s Weirdness, in Six Degrees


1. I can wolf whistle freakishly loud. Learned the skill from Grandma of Hampton University fame when I was 7. Running with urchins in the swampy neighborhood was limited only by being in range to return dad’s own “time for dinner” beckoning whistle. I forget its volume occasionally and wound the ear next to me (my apologies to Mr. Pid, the last victim). I can also whistle and hum at the same time. Fingers are required for both feats, and volume is realized only on the exhale. Using just lips yields a soft tune, accomplished only with inhaling (If I Only Had a Brain is my soft whistle tune druther).

2. I’m a recovering picky eater reveling in the discovery that it’s textures that wig me out, not tastes. It’s freed my palate to boldly go where Cheek hasn’t before. A recent first was oysters – cornmeal fried with cheese grits and remoulade sauce at Kool Beanz Café. Carolina Mom’s incredulity finds her not buying the oyster intake story until a witness testifies. Raw oysters score in the danger zone on the texture-ick-o-meter. not. gonna. do it.

3. I have never eaten a hamburger, steak, or any red meat. No vegetarian here (CheekierMeSly Passim), but digestion proves futile. Recent bidness travel found me seated next to the owner of the FatBurger chain – thanks, PW, for not dismissing me out of hand! I join Sheena in her condiment non-druthers: ketchup, mustard, straight mayo, pickles … ew.

4. My long-term recall is judged a peculiar shade of powerful by the average bear. Music lyrics and childhood deets in particular. But if I don’t put my car keys and phone in the same place every time I come home, I’m screwed. It’s all about balance.

(Props to online comic strip xkcd.com.)

5. My vocabulary is, well, let’s call it big-a**ed. And I get crap for it daily. JMU MC slammed me during freshman year midterms as a f*cking English major for calling a cafeteria offering “putrid”. His own vocab ain’t nuthin’ to sneeze at, but his twitty wit is infamous. Snobbery risk avoidance measures found me peppering my speech with choice mal mots. I wear my smartified grammarian badge of courage proudly now (f*ck ‘em if they have to look it up!), but that potty mouth action is here for life. Color me turned on by folks who – as a new acquaintance puts it – use three syllable words. Regularly. Strung together even. I have the most recent laugh on JMU MC – his utterance of “Buy our CDs, and go to hell” will not be lived down. A Freudian slip or Tourette's?. (MC, love ya, no sh*t.)

6. Stupid human tricks: I can touch my tongue to my nose. Can curl it too, but can’t flip it. I can pull my thumbs back to touch the bottom of my forearm. I have restless pinky toes, always moving out and in, unconsciously. My second toe is longer than my big toe. My largest mole is on the right side of my head. I’m green/blue-eyed, but my right eye has a streak of reddish brown. I hear noises at high frequencies that most can’t (some cash registers, monitors on with CPUs off). My knee caps have unusual wiggability by hereditary design of the patriarchal persuasion. And I make superlative, foodgasmic chocolate chip oatmeal cookies while whistling, rolling the squishy dough in perfect balls, not eating a f*cking hamburger, and thinking about my age 10 swim time in 50m freestyle.

Ready or not, here I come. Cheek tags:
JenE
O’Mama
RobinaRobinaRobina
Uninstalled MOCC
WiseHilda

Don't Want Your Love, Don't Want Your Money ...

Mo' better music is on tap for Cheek in 2007, both performing and attending. Bummin' that I missed Thomas Dolby last week in Atlanta. His tunes One of Our Submarines and The Key to Her Ferrari far surpass She Blinded Me with Science in my book. Had no idea that he played keyboard on Def Leppard's Pyromania album and contributed the synth sounds on Foreigner's 4 album for Urgent and Waiting for a Girl Like You.

Too bad my crack, hi-tech Pocket PC phone isn't one of the 500 million+ benefitting from his invention of polyphonic ringtone software. Thomas Dolby does not completely suck. If you don't catch one of his shows, keep an eye out for him as a speaker at a tech conference near you.

King Size Me, Baby

When Kimplified and the DogSchool 101 Diva divulged their Elvis addictions a few years back, I scoffed with eyebrow raised. Hell no was my initial reaction when invited to a tribute concert. But Kimlified's musical taste palette is superlative, and she lauded the night as an ultimato experience.

Well, color me Elvis sequins and stuff. Born as a small thang in 1996 at the Star Bar, the Kingsized spectaculah sells out the Variety Playhouse bi-annually on the anniversaries of the King’s birth and death.

Red’s tale of a Vegas-style act seemed promising as the scantily clad burlesque Dames A’flame strolled the crowd before the show’s start, including Li’l E (a height-challenged bloke dressed in older Elvis garb, plunging neck line and furry chest hair included).



Curtain opened to an Elvis in utero back drop behind a platform with go go dancers getting’ their King on. The smokin’ 8-piece band, 3 backup singers with great pipes, and the bald, smooth crooning Big Mike grabbed the audience from the start and never let go. Their encore had you wishing Elvis had lived to actually cover Bruce Springsteen’s Thunder Road and Born to Run.

Now proudly on Cheek’s list of how to do Atlanta right, you may find yourself drug to Dames A’flame performances at the Midtown Vortex or Tongo Hiti at Trader Vic’s Lounge. But you won’t be sorry.

This, too, shall pass

That many of my southern family and peeps pronounce 'error' exactly like I'd say 'era' makes this even sweeter. Saw this as a bumper sticker on the drive back from knoshing with the DogSchool101 Diva.

Geeks (a.k.a., Heroes) Rule

xkcd.com

Ain't No Moralifying Me!

Another example of how truthiness sucks.

What Happens in the Basket, Stays in the Basket

Used to only have one varmint that jonesed for naps in the clean clothes basket on the dryer. The leg sticking out identifies Stuey as the malkin whose habit led to injury. Leaping up once, he tore his ACL *and* his PCL, leading to his second knee surgery (tore ACL on his other knee in a flying leap off a bathroom counter). Add a surgery for a growth on his paw, and Stuey is one pricey critter.

New abode has no door on the laundry room, so a chair is a permanent fixture to support the Stouchebag's penchant. Bastard went and shared his bad habit with his brother Oscar this weekend. Perhaps it was only a matter of time, as Oscar is a container ho.

Urchin Nougat discovered the boys in their shared nap container during her visit chez Cheek to lend painting assistance. Two drab bathrooms no longer completely suck, in Restoration Hardware Silver Sage. Paid her an hourly wage equivalent in Sephora dollars - teenagers are so easy to please!

Any on your list?

They may channel those of a 7 year boy, but they're worthy resolutions. Seem simple? Nigh on impossible to an urchin. From Robbie Schaefer's "Resolution Song" on his new release Songs for Kids Like Us.

I will finish all my home work, I’ll even do the math
I’ll stop throwing kitty cat in the bubble bath
I won’t stick peanuts up inside my nose
And blow them out to see just how far each one can go
And I won’t lock the babysitter out of the house
And climb up on the roof and pretend I’m Mighty Mouse
And I won’t take my hamster, the roof is way too high
I won’t put a cape on him to see if he can fly

I will be more patient, I won’t hit my sister
‘Cuz she’s really not that bad, one time I almost kissed her
I won’t put toothpaste into her pajamas
‘Specially cuz that one time, turned out they were mama’s
I won’t let my action figures swim in the toilet
They really love to do that, I’m gonna have to spoil it

I will eat more broccoli, I won’t hit my brother
I’ll drink less soda pop and listen to my mother
I’ll be a better friend, I will always try to share
I’ll be a better kid, now I swear I swear I swear

Occam's Razor

Cheek's resolution for 2007:
Keep it simple.

"Any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius -- and a lot of courage -- to move in the opposite direction."
- Albert Einstein

'Tis the Season

Gift giving continues ... you simply MUST check out Pandora.com. Free music listening online. Define a channel of stuff you dig, and Pandora plays like stuff you may not know, albeit potentially diggable. So far I have two channels: EFO, for all music vaguely acoustical; and XTC for all things vaguely electric. Plan to add Jazz and Blues tunage channels directly.

Word Power

Get Fuzzy from 22-Dec-2006, by Darby Conley.

A tip o' the hat to CarolinaMom for starting my love of words. Pre-kindergarten library afternoons, reading languidly and racking up the gold stars as the completed tally grew. Another shout out to Jill Rock, who suffered upon the 12th grade English Literature class my first paperback school text: Word Power, the only book I've ever burned. Don't get yer knickers in a twist - tradition was to cathartically light that weekly quiz-driven pain in the *ss and watch it smolder.

This post is more about the stars than the burning. For many years now, I've enjoyed A Word a Day. Words known and new, with a quote nestled inside (usually of the provocative variety). It joins the vaulted Links That Don't Suck, and I hope you'll consider subscribing to enjoy it every morning as I do.

The power of words is rather stunning. We can't think, feel, or connect with others without them. Wit can't exist in their absence. Poetry may not be universally cherished, but without its lyrical form in music the human race would be SO missing out. Learning is utterly, ultimately dependent on them.

So, words = knowledge. knowledge = power. low word knowledge = ignorance. From here, if you choose to maintain low word knowledge, that equals being clueless (without clue and damn proud of it to stay that way). Clueless = Stupid, and stoopid people suck. If you take the road less traveled and opt for expanding the vocab, then your state can change from cluefree (currently without clue but willing to seek one out), to clueful. Clueful people are the cheekier kind, in general.

G'head. Be particular. Choose not to suck.

Merry Ho Ho

James, by Mark Tonra.

Merry Ho Ho to all y'all.

Upstaged

More things that don’t suck: The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and The Colbert Report, both on Comedy Central. Colbert’s smarmyness sends my wit-o-meter off the charts. His show is usually the superior tingler of my language coconut, but this month’s Kernan the Grammarian specialness moment goes to Jon Stewart, hands down. Was Stewart intimidated by Seinfeld’s comic legacy, or does he regularly c*ckup words and I’m too new a viewer to see a pattern? Joyful mockery, either way.

Word candy also buzzes brains on Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. Have dug Aaron Sorkin’s writing since Sports Night (d*mn gotta find the box with DVD set from BroBuckwheat!). To wit:

Conservative: "Why do our sides hate each other?"
Liberal: "Your side hates our side because you think we think you're stupid. Our side hates your side, because we think you're stupid."

And speaking of thinks that don’t suck: The Dilbert Blog. It’s my holiday gift to you. Don’t be a graceless receiver – you can’t return it. Tear off the shiny bow and paper every morning and cackle with glee at what’s inside. No slack*ss excuses accepted when Cheek next sees you. Expect pop quizzes.

So give back. What cranks your linguistic squirrel cage? Share what’s vivid and pithful.

Falling

1(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness

e.e. cummings

Fall has arrived in Atlanta. The weekend’s wind felled many leaves whose riotous colors haven’t been enjoyed in years due to summer droughts. The deep, vibrant reds in the crape myrtles and pear trees are my favorites. Saturday was Veteran’s Day: read my blogmother’s post .

Autumn’s smells also arrived for me this weekend. Glorious wood fairies brought oak from the trees felled in their own yard, and visiting Florida Dad has been the fire master in addition to working repair and installation magic in the new abode. Quaffing hazelnut hot cocoa (with whipped cream, natch!) by the fire is great stuff.

I’m no Becky-homecky, but I’m compelled to share this seasonal smell druther that doubles as a winter humidifying service. Carolina Mom got me hooked years ago, and my first pot brewed yesterday to much olfactory satisfaction:

Orange Potpourri:

- Dedicate a large pot for the season; fill with water
- Slice 4 to 6 oranges, quarter, squeeze juice in the pot, then toss in the quarters
- Add copious amounts of whole cloves and cinnamon sticks (buy in bulk at CostCo, Sam’s, Whole Foods, etc.)
- Bring to a boil for a few minutes to get things airborne, then simmer on low all day
- Add water periodically; shutoff overnight
- Next morning, boil again, then simmer all day
- Change the pot once a week, tossing the contents into the garden or a compost pile

When you visit chez Cheek, this scent will welcome you. Now I just need my annual supply of roasting chestnut candles and I’m set.

Changes

Something I read a couple of weeks ago has stuck with me. A German man “freed” in 1992 from his prison term for a murder sentence refuses to leave the joint. Seems rules there say he doesn’t have to leave if he doesn’t wanna.

What is up with that?

Is change so bad, so much to be afraid of, that being locked up is better? Is accountability and living your life based on your own choices more heinous?

And Heinous Bienfang, where are you?

Changes a’plenty have been on tap in CheekDom. Personal, professional, abode. Balking was indeed my first response to each of these changes, but the rightness of them made themselves evident. Eventually. Perhaps my resources aren’t as stretched as Prisoner Heinous, as I have friends, countrymen, furriners, and family (you know who you are) with which to discuss and touch and know migrations, evolutions, and conclusions. Those without such resources are … outlaws, I suppose.

Heinous, there’s beauty in the breakdown. Count some crows, let go of your murder of one, and fly. Purposefully seek happiness with reason as your absolute. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Kernan the Grammarian

Some old dish: I'm an FSU grad. And a big college sports fan, albeit not in favor of FSU football. My passion was ACC basketball, and as my last semester was FSU's first in the ACC, I unabashedly cheered on every opposing team. Go 'Heels!

Was an English major at aforementioned "institution". Years later, was dubbed a Grammarian by a beer fairy, and yes, I resemble that remark. Last week, my alma mater solicited funds under the guise of pride. Those lame bastards aren't getting one red cent outta me. Why? Kernan's pet peeve, that's why. See below. If you can't figger out what's wrong with this picture below, you suck. Mebbe not completely, nor as much as FSU does, but you suck nonetheless.

The English department should serve as editorial review staff for outward bound communications, methinks. Or is this an overreaction as a Grammarian? After all, who needs Two Weeks Notice, or Eats, Shoots and Leaves? Be careful about seeking out they're form of education for you're learning. Supposably their folks get it right most of the time, irregardless of the occasional mistake or three.

Grrrr. Aaaack! Thhpptt!

By request: Things to eat before you die

A sister in the wankosphere has challenged me to scribe in spirit of her recent post. To wit, another blogger’s “Guide to the Globe: Things to eat before you die.” Oh, Sheena. Know ye of whom you challenge to such a task? The self-proclaimed, most-particular picky eater of my own acquaintance?

Thankfully, my taste buds have been recently awakened. My Dad & stepMom Judy sojourned with me over the summer, preparing most dinners for two months. I eat things once scoffed at, picked around on the plate, and avoided. Going to restaurants now requires more time, as I look beyond the appetizer section and can sit at the big kid’s table. Onions, zucchini, mushrooms, tomatoes: bring ‘em on! No shit. You laugh, but this is revolutionary stuff for one famous for ordering pizza, light on the sauce.

So, I’m not a foodie. Yet. Give me time. My must list pre-dates my taste revolution. I’ll have to leave off the obvious ones that others glom onto: fresh glazed off the conveyor belt from Krispy Kreme; Hostess HoHos, and more. But I do have some foodgasm musts:

1. Chicharron de Pollo from Roberto’s Little Havana in Cocoa Beach, Florida. Ask for extra mohito sauce to get the requisite garlic/lemon zing and to dip your fried yucca. End with Tres Leches cake and roll yourself home.

2. A grilled cheese sammich with crisp bacon on sourdough bread. Had my first at the Fog City Diner in San Francisco, sitting at the counter while Johnny Bench (Cincinnati Reds catcher & MLB hall of famer) and Ed O’Neill (Married with Children) dined in the booth behind me. Good with tomato as well.

3. Bacon. Glorious, wonderful bacon. Good with everything except chocolate. Prefer it fried, but often microwave it at home.

4. Garlic. Roasted and spread. Minced or chopped, and in everything (again, except chocolate). Garlic makes everything great and can forgive other weaknesses. Hope vampirism isn’t catching, cuz I’d be so screwed.

5. Chicken Piccata, done right. Meat beaten flat to less than a quarter inch thickness, lots of lemon and garlic.

6. A Chocolate Dipped Cone from Dairy Queen. A treat of my youth, rediscovered in adulthood. Zesto in Atlanta serves a gourmand version.

7. Brie and Fruit in Phyllo Pastry. Not only good in restaurants, Super Target’s own splendid Archer Farms brand in the frozen food section, with pears.

8. Potato Paradise: Shoe string fries (Houston’s), Freshly made potato chips with sesame ginger dressing (Village Tavern), The Swede's Mashed Potatoes (real butter, half and half, and secret spice), and Rosemary Garlic New Potatoes (chez moi, Judy’s recipe). After all, I haven’t met a potato I didn’t like.

9. Smoked gouda beer batter cheese fondue. Visit me, and in 10 minutes you’ll have warm heaven over crusty bread and granny smith apples. Yes, lots of garlic.

10. Olive Tapenade. First sampled in New Orleans with mushroom paté. Love it on bread, with veggies, or by the spoonful.

And I agree with Sheena: Dill pickles are among the highest on my “ew!”-o-meter – will send my grilled cheese sammiches back to the kitchen to decontaminate the damn plate and ding the server on the tip for not listening when I said NO PICKLE!

Running on Empty

Too many occasions of being empty recently. Trip to Carolina Mom’s in The Swede’s 8 cylinder, petrol-guzzling SUV brought pump sticker shock to this 6 cylinder, higher mpg girl. Over $50 US to fill the tankage each time – ouch! – and price has gone up since. My ’95 Mazda keeps-on-goin’-with-no-car-payment model receives daily affirmations and praise, but when I have to heave it into the crush yard, these freakin’ prices have me wanting more choice and less cashola for hybrids.

The perky little beverage fridge recently purchased at CostCo is now sadly empty of the case of wee 8 ounce Coca-Cola bottles, chilled to perfection and the right refreshment skosh after watering the potted plants in the scorching late Atlanta afternoons. Having seen some SPECT scans of brains on caffeine, I momentarily swore off the stuff. But those bottles and that cold taste take me back to my Grandma’s house in Buckroe Beach, when the bottles were bigger (and you could return ‘em for cash) and she put ‘em in these black and gold lamay koozies to mind the sweat potential on her cherry furniture and piano. I’d set one down next to the typewriter in her attic office, where I’d write a missive asking yet again for a sleepover (as if my folks didn’t expect it every time). I’ve learned since that Grandma didn’t have a lot of patience for little kids – her profession of teaching calculus at Hampton University was the right audience age for her liking – but she won an academy award for putting up with my antics. Or was it more the Nobel prize for toleration? Her house and the former institute, now university are still there, tho' Fort Monroe nearby has been decommissioned and will soon be full of park goers or snob residents, depending on how the wonks lobby (and empty of Army staffers).

Empties have been rattling in my car as well. No, no alcoholic binges in the present. Just the aluminum bones from the drained cans of sparkling water, which I’m trying to fake my body into believing is my new soda. It’s fizzy! It sparkles! But my grumpy, caffeine-addled brain ain’t buying it.

But the big empty peeve? My HP OfficeJet LX, circa 1993, is out of ink. I’ve gone practically paperless – I read & review everything on my laptop, and print occasional directions and errant expense reports. I haven’t bought a new ink cartridge for the printer in – oh, mebbe 3 years? Well, damn if they don’t make the suckers any more. I can find after market knock offs and refill kits for about $50 US. But a new printer costs about that, and now the printers are so cheap and it’s all about refilling the empties. Where the hell was my ingenuity not to get in on THAT racket?

So, fill ‘er up. Load the gas tank: cha-ching. Trip down memory lane with the case of coke bottles. Bribe the brain to let go of the sugar buzz. Acquiesce and buy the new printer. But when I slip, I do have a place to fill up. My new wow can be found at QuikTrip, where for 59 cents you can get a 32 ounce drink with your choice of ice – crushed or cubed. Heaven! The crushed is almost as good as the “rabbit pellet” ice I loved at the cafeteria at the HQ building at Kennedy Space Center. One of these days, I’m gonna get me one of those rabbit pellet ice makers installed where I live, and I will be able to fill up my cup any damn time I please. Yeah, I’ll lose my teeth faster, but my cup will always be full.

Yankey Doodle Damdandy!

Summertime in the South. Despite the drought conditions, the potted hydrangeas are faring well enough.

So, my pop is a Yankee Doodle Dandee. He’s been visiting of late, and in honor of his happy to you day (and, oh yeah, the American Independence holiday), The Swede and I hosted a cookout. How many blokes DOES it take to mitigate the unintended hickory chip fire on the chargoal grill?

A small crowd, albeit most enthusiastic enough to stay for the fireworks in the distance at the municipal park. Despite the rainout for the finale, which my father watched as a lightning magnet under his golf umbrella.

In the midst of heading abed, the phone rang. Carolina Mom sounded sleepy, scared, and disoriented. Righteously so. Two trees had fallen on her home, and she was awakened by the cacophonous noise and the sights and smells of the electric box on her house dancing an Irish jig. Good news: no loss of life, hers or the sweet girls Duchess and Druscilla (of the feline variation). Bad: much house action. Heading there to lend labor, TLC, etc.

The occasion for this post draws me to the date, and a folk band. The Fifth of July, and Eddie from Ohio. They are on the evergreen list of things that don’t suck, with wondrous harmonies, fantastic live performances, and clever lyrics. Known entities since my teenage years. To wit, I share the following "Fifth of July" song lyrics:

One if by land,
Two if by sea,
Three if by phone or facsimile.
Four if by plane,
Five if by boat,
Six if bilingual,
Seven by goat.
Eight by ten glossies of me ….

Happy to you day, wherever you are, be you Yankee Doodle Dandee or otherwise.