Banging My Head Against Your Grammar

Even the best of us have off days. I’m in the midst of writing six MBA application recommendations for one of my former super star consultants who is applying to the top MBA programs in the nation. As such, I am mortified to admit that I used the non-word “impactful” in his Harvard recommendation. Although not nearly as egregious as the pitiful business grammar I witness on a daily basis, I sincerely hope he is not given demerits for having a slang-infested review attached to his application.

That being said, I have to vent. The following bullet points list some of the grammatical errors I've spotted this week that have driven me to brink of bonker-dom (yes, I realize that is not a word). If I can rescue even one person from grammatical ghetto-fabulosity (yes, I realize that too is not a word) with this blog post I’ll be content.

• If you post a picture of yourself, what should the caption read? The answer is “me” or some variation thereof (e.g. “this is me” or “picture of me doing X”). So why then, when people post pictures of themselves with friends or significant others, do they caption the photo “Boyfriend and I”? Does the addition of another entity in a picture warrant a change in the subject? Would you ever say “I and boyfriend”? Exactly. You cannot use "I" without a corresponding verb. Captions like those make me want to poke knives into my eyeballs.
• I absolutely loathe the incorrect matching of pronoun to subject. I have already commented on Fergie’s blatant misuse. A singular subject requires a singular pronoun, period. When referring to a distinct person, you must use “his or her” not “their”. A doctor does not treat “their” patient; a doctor treats his patient. A child does not miss “their” blanket; a child misses her blanket.
• On a similar note, I groan audibly when I notice writers slaughtering the pronouns “who” (referring to people) and “that” (referring to groups or things). You cannot say “people that” it’s just plain wrong. You would never say something as silly as “baseball tickets who”, so why would you use the word “that” when referring to your brethren? It’s “people who”, thank you very much.
• In addition, for the love of God, when will people stop referring to a company as “they” or “their”? McDonald’s does not sell a lot of “their” Big Macs. McDonald’s sells a lot of "its" Big Macs. Seriously people, did we grow up in a jungle? If you insist upon using “their” when referring to the achievements of a corporation then please insert a human entity into the sentence. “McDonald’s managers sell a lot of their Big Macs” would be correct.
• Keep your punctuation inside your "quotes," unless otherwise directed by Arjewtino. Thanks.

I do not have perfect grammar (please comment on any flaws you might spot in my posts), but it’s pretty damn solid compared to the atrocities I read in the average correspondence (whether blog or business deliverable, 90% of you are killing me with your grade school errors!). My advice: read a few more books or newspapers instead of browsing the internet so much. At least then you’ll realize that “impactful” is not a legitimate word…

Winds of Change

For what I will euphemistically coin ‘logistical error,’ I was not able to welcome the New Year with a midnight kiss until 5 minutes after the hour. That moment when you just want to melt into your lover’s arms and drown out the horns and blinking lights in a beautiful, lip-locked pause was train-wrecked by commotion, Grey Goose and the Backstreet Boys (literally). It took multiple minutes for my husband to find me from across the balcony and summon my hormonal self into his arms. The sluice gates of my tear ducts trembled as he gripped my shoulder and reminded me, through tender speech, that I am the most important thing in his universe. His words were as sincere and fervent as he’s ever uttered. The rest of the evening was a chaotic mess of broken Patron glasses; obnoxiously flirtatious old men; smeared mascara; sloppy PDA; misplaced keys; dueling black jack losses; bitter, windy cab lines; and charred snacks – like the din of a B-horror flick on fast forward. 2008 was thrust upon me in the most tumultuous of unscripted impromptu [aside: I am going to leave that tautology in the text simply because I like how it sounds]. For most, such a night would be discarded as unromantic; perhaps even disastrous. However, despite my enduring guilt for having been situated across the bar from my husband at the most fundamental of social-norm ‘together’ times, the genuine love that radiated from his 12:05am words and consoling bear hugs will remain imprinted on my soul in a way no other midnight peck on the lips ever would.

I do not believe in karma so much as coincidence. Regardless, assuming there is meaning behind the happenstance of our ridiculous New Year's outing, 2008 is going to bring spontaneous movement away from the comfort of my status quo, but be overflowing with the most intense, bona fide love I have ever known.* In doing everything traditionally wrong, my sweetheart and I found our own perfect way to say hello to the winds of wonder that breezed so wildly through our New Year’s door.

*Reference cliché: "I love you more today than I did yesterday, but not as much as I will tomorrow."

Light My Fire

I am sure that if 30 year old me could have had a word with (i.e. influence upon) 20-something me, my life might not have been nearly as exciting as a Twixter. Let’s compare site statistics alone. DC Cookie, my long-[permanently]-hibernating site of singledom, gets twice as many daily hits as my current project. Because let’s be honest, despite the melody of my voice, who [besides best friends and cyber-stalking exes] really wants to hear the droning hum of an old woman’s romantic drivel? I have such vast, worldly wisdom to extend upon the lovelorn masses, but nary an interested, needy listener.

As such, I challenge those who stumble across my SAT-vocab-infused mumblings to suggest a topic of interest (within PG-13 boundaries, of course). In my infatuated state of matrimonial exhilaration, without assistance I simply cannot conjure a "Stream of Jessica" that is not directly related to my emotional jubilation – which, lovely in small doses, can also act as a ferocious audience-repellant. I welcome any and all commentary, anonymous or otherwise, to ignite my creative spark plugs. I am aching for new fodder...

Holiday Family

I have never spent a Christmas Eve or Christmas Day without my family. Whether Canadian blizzard or temperate West Coast aurora, my sister, my parents and I have always unwrapped our multitude of blessings together following the yuletide dawn; our day awash with giggles, hikes, family games and gluttonous turkey giblets. There is enough laughter in our Christmas celebration to fill a lifetime.

This diaphragm-tightening chortling got me thinking last night about those who are not lucky enough to have family, friends and in-laws vying for their companionship in the holiday season, and those who are unable to escape the claws of their employment to relax for a few weeks as the New Year approaches. The Christmas season is my absolute favourite time of year; a time when stress disintegrates from the merriment of loved ones around a warm fire. And the concept of somebody unable to experience that same warmth with his or her own congregation of relatives minces my heart to shreds...

Viva

I don’t know what it is about the city of sin, but I absolutely cannot get enough of it. Las Vegas is a desert mirage of grandiose proportions. The clocks stop [or rather, cease to be] and the multitude of toothless gamblers and Amazonian women propel forward as if with slow, chaotic purpose. I am infatuated with the din of clanking slots and techno, the barren breeze and the perpetual neon. I’ve seen the city from every angle; stripper pole to artisan bar; thousand dollar bottle service to e-infested late night rave; family musical to sensuous revue; cool, mountainous hike to sweltering poolside; strip to suburban home. The gaudiness is magical and the local inhabitants are simple in their wants but complex in their open-mindedness.

I have been to Las Vegas more times than I can count (I flew there four times last year alone), but I have never celebrated the beginning of a New Year in this necromantic cesspool of wonder. It is perplexing how uncontained my excitement is for my upcoming Sin City holiday…

Yin and Yang

After landing on the runway at National Airport a few weeks ago following a trip to Mexico, my cell phone vibrated repeatedly with news from my best girl. She is in love. As I patiently awaited the reappearance of my overstuffed bag at the luggage carousel, I called to listen to her amour-intoxicated voice describe her knight in all his untarnished valiance; she sounded as relaxed and jovial as I’d ever heard her. I beamed. I adore hearing tales of love-revelation, particularly when it’s my best girl who has unearthed her long-merited, romantic compliment. I absolutely cannot wait to meet this fresh, deep-water catch.

Our conversation later reminded me of some unsolicited advice I gave last year, when my sweetheart was being slandered by a woman scorned. Though horribly misconstrued, the intent of my pointed blog post was to remind the Infuriated that love can never be forced, nor should we permit ourselves to erupt green with jealous vitriol when the path we have taken to find it dead ends. We stumble unknowingly through a series of unfit lovers until the yin to our yang comes along and when he does, it’s glorious. I wonder now, when an irrefutable love has been deservedly delivered to her doorstep, if she’ll understand that the blunt vocalization of my counsel was never uncongenial. I hate to see a woman suffer, whether a best friend or a complete stranger. In fact, despite that we have never met, I feel oddly delighted by her new found happiness.

I cannot stress enough the validity of the most common of clichés; “when you know, you know” and nothing else is worth the draining effects of wrathful, heartbroken spite. If rapture, trust and devotion do not instantly envelop both parties in a milkshake of sanguine euphoria, then the recipe needs an ingredient overhaul. And tender patience is the only means to reach that perfect state of satisfaction with the partner for whom we are intended.

It's a Wonder I Don't Starve

It is with unfortunate biological chance that I did not inherit the gifted cooking genes from my mother’s side of the family. Thankfully my husband is a genius at the stove; even his drunken snacks at 3am involve the sautéing of exotic mushrooms with avocado oil and finely diced shallots.

But when my sweetheart travels, I am left to my own devices. Knowing that there is an elevated likelihood of all the Frosted Mini-Wheats in our house disappearing this week in his absence (for lack of other pre-made ‘instant gratification’ options), he set it up that I would have a series of delicious, reheatable portions of homemade turkey soup available for the duration of my brief solitude. Before packing for a trip to Puerto Vallarta (where I will be joining him shortly), he meticulously cut the last of the turkey from the bones and boiled the carcass into a flavourful stock. The only thing I had to do after dropping him at the airport was add the contents; an easy task, for someone who isn’t a bumbling idiot with a hot pot. How could chopping carrots and scooping grains of rice possibly go wrong?

Humbly, I am the living proof that it can.

First, I determined that celery, onions and carrots were not enough legumes for me. Why not broccoli, or better yet, cabbage? The pretty purple variety…that just happens to turn turkey broth into a veritable borscht (oops number one). And exactly how much dry rice should be added to a 10-quart pot? My un-cuisine-educated guesstimate was 3 overflowing cups, which unfortunately was at least double what was necessary (oops number two). So instead of turkey soup, I’m left to consume an indigo-hued rice casserole for the next three days.

I’m praying that my fatuous housewifery is recessive…