Again with the nerddom

This was on one of the message boards I monitor for work. Brilliant!

47 RULES FOR WRITERS:

1. Verbs has to agree with their subjects.
2. Prepositions are not words to end sentences with.
3. And don't start a sentence with a conjunction.
4. It is wrong to ever split an infinitive.
5. Avoid clichés like the plague. (They're old hat.)
6. Also, always avoid annoying alliteration.
7. Be more or less specific.
8. Parenthetical remarks (however relevant) are (usually) unnecessary.
9. Also too, never, ever use repetitive redundancies.
10. No sentence fragments.
11. Contractions aren't necessary and shouldn't be used.
12. Foreign words and phrases are not apropos.
13. Do not be redundant; do not use more words than necessary; it's highly superfluous.
14. One should NEVER generalize.
15. Comparisons are as bad as clichés.
16. Don't use no double negatives.
17. Eschew ampersands & abbreviations, etc.
18. One-word sentences? Eliminate.
19. Analogies in writing are like feathers on a snake.
20. The passive voice is to be ignored.
21. Eliminate commas, that are, not necessary. Parenthetical words however should be enclosed in commas.
22. Never use a big word when a diminutive one would suffice.
23. DO NOT use exclamation points and all caps to emphasize!!!
24. Use words correctly, irregardless of how others use them.
25. Understatement is always the absolute best way to put forth earth shaking ideas.
26. Use the apostrophe in it's proper place and omit it when its not needed.
27. Eliminate quotations. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "I hate quotations. Tell me what you know."
28. If you've heard it once, you've heard it a thousand times: Resist hyperbole; not one writer in a million can use it correctly.
29. Puns are for children, not groan readers.
30. Go around the barn at high noon to avoid colloquialisms.
31. Even IF a mixed metaphor sings, it should be derailed.
32. Who needs rhetorical questions?
33. Exaggeration is a billion times worse than understatement.
34. The passive voice should never be used.
35. Do not put statements in the negative form.
36. Verbs have to agree with their subjects.
37. A writer must not shift your point of view.
38. Place pronouns as close as possible, especially in long sentences of 10 or more words, to their antecedents.
39. Writing carefully, dangling participles must be avoided.
40. If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
41. Take the bull by the hand and avoid mixing metaphors.
42. Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
43. Everyone should be careful to use a singular pronoun with singular nouns in their writing.
44. Always pick on the correct idiom.
45. The adverb always follows the verb.
46. Be careful to use the rite homonym. And Finally...
47. Proofread carefully to see if you any words out.

Remember, I'm not a nerd. I just have nerd-like tendencies.

Your Vocabulary Score: A+

Congratulations on your multifarious vocabulary! You must be quite an erudite person.

How's Your Vocabulary?

For the record, I used both those fancy words in my last college thesis on John Ashbery and his poem Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror. I got an A.

But, uh, I'm no nerd.

Stolen from Frog Princess.

Bored? or Avoiding Writing?

If I were to take Atlanta mass transportation to work, I would have to drive my truck to the train station three miles away. From there I would take the train into Buckhead and then catch the bus which would drop me off a couple of blocks from my building. Because three forms of transportation are completely ridiculous for all of my six mile commute, I drive my SUV.

With that said, I don't mind driving to work. I play different games in certain parts of town. In Downtown I play "Homeless? or In a Band?" In Midtown I play "Crazy? or Listening to an iPod?" Lately I've been taking pictures of funny things I see.

The first time Louisa took me to eat Ethiopian food, I'm pretty sure I said something to the extent of, "I'm not sure if I'm hungry for sticks and dirt." So it turns out there is such a thing as food in Ethiopia, and to my knowledge it doesn't involve sticks or dirt. Nor sand.

But I still laughed my ass off when I saw this mascot to an Ethiopian restaurant:

(Click for big on any photo)

That's right folks, there's a skeleton on that roof. The mascot to an Ethiopian restaurant is a skeleton. The humor isn't lost on me.

The Friday I drove out of town for St. Patrick's Day, there was an inordinate amount of traffic. No wonder:


Red or green? RED OR GREEN?! Making my left-hand turn was a little hairy and I'm glad I had the picture for insurance reasons if nothing else.

Then Saturday The Boy and I were on our way to IKEA when I laughed my ass off seeing this billboard:


I bet you $100 that the billboard was drafted by a crusty old white guy. Because no one in his right mind would put "Sistahs getting real" like that in downtown Atlanta. No one.

Secondly, everyone knows it's "sista," not "sistah." Puh-lease.

My Visual DNA

(As always, click for big)

Get your own.

My dog was sick on the carpet too

There's a phrase from a previous post that's been running through my mind the past week:

"Life and joy intrudes."

Only I see now that it is grammatically incorrect. It should be "life and joy intrude." I liked that phrase--I was pleased with it--and now I see the truth in it.

Dear Bloggers, life and joy have intruded.

Last week The Boy got us tickets to see the hockey game at Philips Arena. Having been acquainted from work with the architectural firm that designed the venue, I was really excited to see the building that I've walked by so many times. It was embarrassing to admit that even after The Hockey Player, I've never been to a pro hockey game. I was with a goalie. He took out my front tooth fighting with me over a puck. And yet I never made it to a pro hockey game.

The Boy spoiled me thoroughly with excellent seats. "I think F is a close row," he said as we sat down six rows behind the home goal. Between the second and third period, he took me to explore the building and we walked up to the nose-bleed section and gawked at the difference.

"I'm ruined," I said. From above it resembled the metal hockey game my brothers and I had, where we'd pull a wire and move the plastic players up and down their destined paths. However, from our seats we could see the players grimace as their opponent's stick wrapped around their necks, whipping them down onto the ice.

In our seats I giggled with glee and smiled at The Boy. He was pouting over my college hoodie. I made a silly face and grabbed a handful of his nachos and shoved them in my mouth; neither of us had time for dinner. I turned back to the game but got distracted by the bright red on the giant screen. Look at that girl eat, I almost said.

Then I realized the red was a Georgia color, just like the one on my hoodie. And that girl packing away the food was me. Fatty was eating on the giant screen. Nice.

The boy behind me poked my back. "Hey, that was y'all on the screen!"

Yeah. I saw. Grumble grumble.

Empty nacho carton stowed under our seats, I leaned into The Boy with our second round of beers and concentrated on the game. The Capitals took a slap shot so hard the ref ducked and-

"OH SHIT!"

I screamed obscenities and hid my face in his shirt. The puck, however, slid into the netting in front of us and fell soundlessly back onto the ice. I thought I was going to die. That's how good our seats were.

"I thought the puck was going to break my face," The Boy half-laughed, hopefully feeling as sheepish as I did.

I don't remember anyone around us freaking out quite like I did. It reminded me of a story I had heard that morning: A guy had brought a date home to his apartment in a not-so-nice area of town. A car backfired, but his trained "ghetto ear" had him diving from his chair onto the cement of his balcony. No one else on the balcony even so much as flinched. When asked what happened to the rest of his date, he responded that there wasn't much room for romance after ducking behind her because he thought he heard gunshots. I thought I heard gunshots.

I thought I heard gunshots after gorging my face on the jumbo screen.

So life and joy may have intruded. Doesn't mean I stopped making an ass out of myself.

Just a little while longer

"The reservation is at 7:30 at Einstein's. Okay. See you then." I slid my phone shut with The Boy and brushed a wisp of hair away from inside my sunglasses while regaining focus on the road. The Bradford Pears are beginning to bloom. It's the first bloom of the season and also my favorite.

With a careless flick I flipped my turn signal on and turned right onto Piedmont Road from Ponce de Leon. I immediately got out of the right-hand lane because cars are usually parked there this time of day and then I smiled for knowing that.

You did it, a blog friend reminded me last week and the thought repeated through my head until it became a mantra. I did it. I did it. I. Did. It.

I built a nice little life for myself. I wanted a mentally rewarding job, so I went out and got one. I wanted to move into the city--just to see if I could do it alone--so I signed some papers. I wanted friends, and the reservation for dinner is for four. And The Boy? So far he's icing.

I did it.

Nothing has ever come easily for me and subsequently struggle is a constant. There has been a lot of failure and there has been a lot of tears. But everything I ever imagined for myself when I was too young to know what it all meant, I have. It took me a little while longer, but I got it all on my own terms, which is probably the most important accomplishment of my life.

I brushed more hair out of my eyes from the open windows and followed Piedmont Road's path into Buckhead. There my own trusty white steed, my Explorer, made another right onto Lenox.

I wanted some shoes.

Blink

This was originally written during the Great Blog Break of December, 2006.

The staccato of my right turn signal illuminates the quarrel behind me.

Flash. She's yelling at him.

Flash. He bends over and looks for something between the seats.

Flash. She looks as well, but then stops to holler some more.

Flash. He looks out the window.

Flash. She flips the visor to reapply some lipstick.

Flash. She yells some more.

Flash. He looks out the window.

Flash. He looks out the window.

Flash. He looks out the window.

I wanted to tell them whatever was lost in their Land Rover wasn't worth all the anger. That when she yells like that, her face contorts unflatteringly. That he leans away from her, putting as much physical distance between them that seat belts will allow. I wanted to say it's Friday night and I'm going home alone while they are out together.

I often forget about the downside of having a significant other: the fighting. I have had some knock-down fights in my day. The screaming. The frustration of not being understood. The contempt. The low blows.

The traffic light turned green and I drove home, excited over my evening of laundry and season one of Coupling which arrived in the mail yesterday. They turned left and will look forward to an evening of frustration and contempt.

Actually, it's kind of nice not having someone around to tell me what a piece of shit I am.

I believe

I believe in skinny dipping. I believe in listening to sad music to heal a broken heart. I believe in 3 AM trips to Waffle House. I believe my true friends will go to karaoke with me. I believe in admitting when I'm wrong. I believe in the caress of a thumb. I believe it's okay to watch 4 hours of MTV on a Sunday afternoon. I believe in always looking for the good in someone. I believe in theme parties. I believe in rekindling lost friendships. I believe in holding hands. I believe in having iced tea for breakfast. I believe in secrets. I believe in having more than one great love. I believe in singing along with the radio, even if it's a really bad song. I believe in using chopsticks when appropriate. I believe anything is worth trying once. I believe in writing. I believe in always having your shirt on in your profile picture. I believe in curling up under an afghan, even in the summertime. I believe freckles are beautiful. I believe in falling in love with laughter. I believe in casual Fridays with lunchtime margaritas. I believe it's okay to say no, but it's even better to say yes. I believe in high heels and that special pair of blue jeans. I believe in forehead kisses. I believe in gently teasing. I believe in sleeping with my dog nearby. I believe in driving home when the sun rises. I believe we can grow up and not become our parents. I believe in indulging in instant gratification if you are okay with the consequences. I believe in creativity. I believe in having cheap beer and expensive martinis. I believe in trying harder. I believe in respect. I believe in mixed CDs. I believe in having a broken heart, if only once, just to see the world differently. I believe you're never too old to go home, wherever that may be. I believe in me. I believe.

Oh holy god and fuck.

The ceiling. It leaks. Again.

In three fucking places.

You can read about previous ceiling leaks here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here.