I am the Grammarista

This is the perfect example of why we all need to proofread and then proofread again.

It was about time

It's been a while sine there was a big protest/riot/incident at Kent State, those on par with the May Day celebrations of the past that kept my frieds and family away from Kent for the whole weekend.

Now May Day hasn't even arrived and it's already happened, and it's making national headlines. "Police fire pellets at Kent State rioters" showed up on my Atlanta Journal-Constitution home page today.

I'm embarassed.

I'm also embarassed of the reaction by KSU President Lester Lefton, who when called by a reporter asking for a statement as students were rioting and being arrested, refused comment (that's expected) and told the reporter that it was inapporopriate for him to be calling at that hour on a Saturday night. As the president of the university, it IS his job to take those calls, no matter what time or day it is.

My Friday Night

I wanna go fast!

It's unfortunate that I didn't get that job last year at the Atlanta Motor Speedway, as I've recently developed a large interest in NASCAR. It is fortunate, however, that I love my current job AND it introduced me to NASCAR, all without having to drive to Hampton, Ga., every day.

I've been doing some research and writing on our NASCAR sponsorships at work -- Irwin sponsors Jamie McMurray, Lenox sponsors Jeff Burton and the Lenox Industrial Tools 301, and Sharpie sponsors the Sharpie 500. In the process, I've learned about a lot of races and where they are, and now I'm actually interested in watching.

That, and I do love me a little Talladega Nights.

At any rate, I really want to go to Talladega -- I keep hearing commercials about it being the 40th anniversary of the speedway, and I want to go!

And people think I'm a northerner...

Oddly enough -- as I was just about to push "Publish Post," the announcer in Talladega nights said: "And Jamie McMurray is in first place..." and then Ricky Bobby beat him, driving backwards, and said "Hey Jamie, I have a little something that will lift your spirts..."

Never noticed that before! :)

Popple!

Today, I found something very interesting: a Popple.

I loved my Popples -- all three of them. The greatest thing about a Popple? After you got tired of playing with them, you rolled them up into a ball, and voila! Instant weapon! Hence the reason when I found mine, I promptly rolled it up and threw it at James.

And then I realized a tragedy: James never had a Popple. He didn't even know what it was. Terrible!

I promise, I'm independent

There aren't many places where I will let my political preferences show, but I think this column is well written and gives a stark look at an unfortunate truth.

I am the Grammarista.

This is a noun. Please pay special attention to PROPER NOUNS. Thank you! :)

Just how much is $787 billion?

“Suppose you spent $1 million every single day starting from the day Jesus was born and kept spending through today. A million dollars a day for more than 2,000 years. You would still have spent less money than Congress just did.” That's a lot of dollars.

Lessons of an apartment dweller

It's interesting how great I thought my apartment was when I moved in. I loved everything about it. I will admit that in theory, it seems like a fabulous place. I will also admit that I may just be snotty and have too-high expectations. But what is undeniably true is that my so-called "luxury apartment home" is more stodgy construction and less high-quality abode.

- In apartment-speak, "hardwood floors" actually means linoleum, which is SO hard to clean. No matter what soap I use and whether I use a mop or scrub on my hands and knees, it always has a visible film.

- Cheap paint is just that: cheap. If I remove several layers of paint, leaving a visible spot, when cleaning the walls, it's a problem.

- While white ceramic floor tiles and white granite counter tops provide a bright, clean look, they're impossible to keep clean and show every minuscule scratch.

- Double-pane windows are a necessity.

- Buying the cheapest washer and dryer is probably not the best idea.

- I am envious of fingerprint proof stainless steel.

- I have gained a new appreciation for wiping the baseboards, despite the fact I used to think my mother was a crazy woman for noticing the near-invisible dust that settled upon them. Why you ask? Because when no one cleans then, the maintenance team simply paints over the dust, and it looks disgusting.

- When planning your kitchen, measuring is important, especially when placing a side-by-side refrigerator/freezer with a in-door ice maker next to a protruding window sill.

All of these things taught me one thing: I'm going to be one heck of a picky home buyer.

My Take on the News

With economy in shambles, Congress gets a raise

One word, Congress, one word: DISGUSTED.

Gar, Babies!

A couple years ago, I wrote a blog titled "Say NO to Kids." It detailed all the reasons my 21-year-old head could come up with about why I didn't, don't and won't want kids. My explanations fell into categories ranging from disinterest to vanity, and none of them were particularly impressive.

Fast forward two years. I've been married for 16 months, which is just long enough for people to stop asking me, "So, how's married life?" There should be a news bulletin about how much newlyweds HATE that question. Especially me. That question brought on a harsh reality check every time someone said those four words with a sweet smile on their face. The truth was, I's moved 800 miles away from the only life I've ever known, I had no friends, no job, I missed my family terribly and I'd found that living with my husband was very, very different from visiting every few months. But who the heck wants to hear that? Instead, I became very well-versed in "Oh, it's great! It's an adventure, but I love it!" ::Cue cheesy smile::

So we've moved past that. I've made friends, started my own company, am going back to school and have learned enough about life here that I'm surviving. James even learned to (sort-of) help around the house. Slowly but surely, I see the, "So, when are you having kids?" question beginning to creep into my life. Thankfully, my friends from Ohio know me well enough to laugh that thought right out of their heads. As for everyone else, well, the sugar coating has apparently been sucked clean off this newlywed. I have started laughing, albeit polite laughter, when someone asks me about children. Then I tell them to ask me again in seven years.

When a friend told me that James and I needed to get busy so we could be pregnant together?

Seven years.

When my sister-in-law said she wanted a niece or nephew?

Seven years. Or find a new brother.

I suppose I don't mind that people ask, because I recognize that I'm definitely in the minority with my lack of interest in children. I thought that maybe as I get older, I'll become more interested, but it's not happening. As I hear/read/see more and therefore have a more realistic view of pregnancy and life with a child, I'm even less interested, if anything.

(Thankfully, I have extraordinarily unusual parents and in-laws, who all whole-heartedly support w.a.i.t.i.n.g. I don't know if they'll be as patient in a few years, but for now, at least they don't particularly care.)

What has changed is the fact that I now realize things may be different down the road. I know that there is the possibility that we may decide that it's time to grow our family. In fact, James and I have actually had conversations about babies (Ok, maybe not real conversations, just about how I want to be able to pick what my child looks like. I I want him/her to look like James. Seriously, he and his sister were the most precious children ever, and they grew up into lovely adults, as well.). So while we're not ready now, the point is that we're making progress. We know it's a possibility, and we know that it's up to US and when WE're ready, not when everyone else wants it to happen.

But I'm still Saying NO to Kids... for now.

Celebrity Rant

I have gotten over my love for trashy magazines. While I once disregarded their lack of ethics and credibility, as both a person & a journalist, I finally decided I'd had enough.

I am also a non-fan of 98 percent of reality TV shows, especially those chronicling the lives of celebrities who are famous for little or nothing. Keeping Up With the Kardashians, The Hills, Paris Hilton's My New BFF, and even Run's House (which I do like) are pretty much publicity trains for people with little else going on in their lives.

Q: What's worse than these two things?

A: Trashy celebrity magazines that cover the so-called stars of reality TV.

Why then was I compelled to click on this story about Heidi & Spencer of The Hills? I plead temporary insanity, or maybe I was hoping the headline of "Heidi Montag's mom accuses Spencer Pratt of drugging her daughter" was actually true because that would at least be semi-news--young man drugs girlfriend, takes her to Mexico & forces her into wedlock.

The article did nothing but waste several minutes of my time and inspire me to write this blog (which, face it, is still not the most productive use of my day, but gosh! I'm dragging you down with me!).

Time out for background:I'm a HUGE fan of weddings and everything involved in them. I may be the only person on the earth who L-O-V-E loved every day of wedding planning and seriously didn't stress about, oh, anything. So naturally, I wanted to see Heidi's rock.

So what did I learn? This is quite possibly the worst wedding ring, ever. It's cool if your ring doesn't have diamonds, but what on earth is that thing?

Utterly ridiculous, ridiculously amazing

These are the most beautiful goblets I've ever seen. Please brace yourself for the price tag. So sad.

Tools of the Trade + Steamy Kitchen knife giveaway

One of the bonuses to my flexible schedule is that I can make the time to cook wonderful, creative and diverse meals every day. Perfect example: yesterday, I made pierogis. From scratch. And while I'm not sure I'll ever do it again due to the four hours it took to crank out 50 delicious pockets, it's nice to know I could if I wanted to.

Since I'm doing a lot more cooking, I've also been spending more time investigating the higher-quality, more advanced tools that I could and should be using. I've granted my husband one-time-only permission to give me an appliance for Christmas as I am sure I can't make it much longer without a food processor. Next on my list of must-haves is a instant-read digital thermometer, a la Alton Brown. As soon as I move out of our current apartment into a place where I have more control over water quality (our current water situation has stripped the finish off my pots, is killing the non-stick coating on my baking pans and leaves rust spots on my knives and silverware), new cooking pots and knives will be moved WAY up in priority.

And on that note, I want these.

In the meantime, I'll have to settle for the prospects of winning Steamy Kitchen's giveaway, which you can enter here.

'naners!

On Feb. 21, I posted a blog about a florist in Atlanta called the Banana Florist. It revisited me today because James somehow received an e-mail about the same plant in his e-mail box this week. Coincidence? Not sure what to think, actually.

What I do know, however, is that I love this florist, although I do not know where it is, and I have never been given any flowers from it (I'd remember, apparently, they come with a banana?). But I simply adore their description of the 'naner:

The banana's got it going on. Eye-catching color. Unmistakable shape. In a bowl of fruit, it stands out against the greenest grapes and orangiest oranges. Vibrant, original and immediately recognizable, the banana represents everything we strive for in the floral world. (Not to mention, those things are crazy good for you.)"

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

I miss writing fun things.

Lucky for me, there's MommyTalk.com (no, I am not a Mommy, nor do I intend on becoming one any time soon.). Read. Read more.

Then check back every other Monday. :)

Monday, November 19, 2007

Sexual Identity Crisis A few weeks ago, James and I adopted a cat that someone had left outside one of his dad's apartment complexes. She's an adorable little kitty, is quite affectionate and we simply adore her. James even bought her a pretty pink diamond-studded collar, a pink litterbox and a purple food and water bowl. She loves her pink and purple toys and is a complete attention whore. And, naturally, we named her Prada. And then on Saturday, Courtney realized that she has balls. Is it wrong that we are keeping all of his/her pink and purple stuff?

Thursday, August 10, 2006

I'm a self-proclaimed nerd.

I just wrote this on my internship evaluation about what part of my JMC education has been most helpful...

"I have come to appreciate how much copy editing is pounded into our heads. Thanks not only to my copy editing teacher, but to all professors who wont let us slack off, I cant help but think no clichés! or comma which! or no comma in a series of three! while I'm writing, re-writing, editing and re-editing. And to be honest, I'm beginning to like that little voice in the back of my head and my writing is a lot better because of it."

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

The Story of Ms. Big Head

Recently, I went for a ride in a bi-plane with my Dad. It was completly old school and amazingly fun, especially with the spectacular views of Sedona, Ariz., and the surrouding red-rock landscape. I saw beautiful formations, plunging canyons and high plateaus densly covered with evergreens, all from an open-air cockpit.

When I got out of the airplane, I had a terrible headache. It wasn't because of the pressure changes during take-off and landing. It wasn't because the pilot turned our plane on its side with the left wing pointing straight down and the right wing pointing straight up. And it had nothing to do with the fact that I was in a loud, windy seat with no roof.

It was because I have a big head.

This big head problem has been one that has plagued me for all of my life. My first softball helment, which I received for my ninth birthday, was a large--and it wasn't bought big so I could grow into it.

When my older sister and I got to the age that we wanted to share clothes, she often would not let me borrow her shirts becasue she said my big head stretched out the neck. And she was right, it did--the stretched out necks of my own shirts were proof.

During my freshman year of highschool, the same sister's boyfriend caught on to the Leslie-has-a-big-head game. She had been showing him photos of our childhood and he made a comment about what a large head I had then and still had at the present time. The two of them have long since broken up, but you better belive that six years later, he still makes fun of me.

To the casual observer, this head obesity problem isn't overly obvious. I was the athletic director's office aide during ninth grade. It was flag football time, and being the petite girl that I am, he was concerned about my safety. So he tried to give me a football helmet, despite my protests that it would be too small. And when he tried to put it on my head--it was, even though he promised me it was one of the biggest helments they had.

So, you ask, if people don't notice my big head, why does it matter? The issue is that people only don't notice my big head because I do things to draw the attention away. Like have big hair. Really. It helps.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

The Truth about Tumbleweed

Since I arrived in Arizona on June 9, 2006, I have been on a mission. The mission, which I voluntarily chose to accept, was to find a tumbleweed. One might think that this is an easy task because the Southwest United States is filled with nothing but sand, rock formations, cacti and tumbleweed. Or so the story goes.

But really, the part of Arizona where I am, Scottsdale, is nicely populated by about 150,000 people. If you count all of the Phoenix metropolitan area, the U.S. Government estimates that this number jumps to more than 3.7 million, making it one of the largest and fastest growing cities in our country.

I mention all these numbers to make a point. With all the people, there just isn't room for tumbleweed. And believe me, I've looked. I started by looking along the highways. I was told by locals (which are few and far between because not many people are actually from here. In fact, I haven't met a single one. My locals are really just transplants from the Midwest. Take this as a hint, fellow Midwesterners. LEAVE!) that the highway would be a sure-fire way to see these dry beauties. Well, they lied.

Like in Columbus, Ohio, in Scottsdale, we must often take the highway to get places. It's called the 101 and it loops around Phoenix, meeting up with other highways, such as the 202 and the 303, which take travelers to other suburban areas. So I've spend a lot of time on the highway looking for tumbleweed, all to no avail. It's even getting to be monsoon season (very windy. And it actually rains), which I was also told would be a good time to see tumbleweed, especially on the highway, but still no luck.

One day, I took the aforementioned 101 North until it heads West to a much lesser-developed area. By this I mean there are roads, the beginning of homes and only one Resort-Hotel. I thought for sure I'd be in luck. I was wrong. All I found were three very large, very yellow signs broadcasting the sale of "Luxury Condo's." Idiots. One would think that when trying to attract buyers to your condos, you'd at least learn proper punctuation. Or ask someone who already knows the difference between plural and possessive. Well, that's what I would do, anyway. Must be another "Ohio thing."

Regardless, I was becoming quite distraught about the lack of tumbleweed. To get my mind off the crisis at hand, I drove to San Diego for a couple days last week. It was a lovely time. I continued my travels West, with each mile marking another tiny bit farther away from home than I've ever been. I saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time. I visited with Casandra. I even went to a Padres game at Petco Park. Fabulous.

I eventually had to make my way back to the scorching place we call Scottsdale. It's about a five-and-a-half hour drive, if you go 10 over the speed limit (which is completely acceptable). I left at 4:44 on Saturday evening, aiming to be home shortly after 10. I made it to Yuma, Arizona, filled up my tank before I got into the boonies of the desert (read: scary! Like "The Hills Have Eyes." Only real.) and was on my merry way. Since this part of Arizona is very close to the Mexican border, there are Border Patrol Checkpoints. Slightly before 8 p.m., I passed through one and took a photo of the pretty sunset through the mountains. Then I drove away, watching the sky grow progressively darker in front of me. In fact, by 8:15, it was damn near black in the direction I was heading. Then I started to notice the lightning. Then the lightning became a lot more frequent. Then I got scared.

I've not been a fan of thunderstorms since I was about 12 and a funnel cloud went over our house, knocking down a large chunk of tree onto our deck, which narrowly missed our house. Now put yourself in a tiny car that weighs no more than a golf cart that is on the highway going 85 miles an hour. All of this is no good in a thunderstorm.

But, you see, it rarely rains here, so it is very dry. Therefore, before the thunderstorm comes something else. At home, it's called wind. It brings with it the fresh smell of wet, pollution-filled rain and we all rush to close windows and put tops up on our cars. In Arizona, this fresh scent is not fresh at all--it's thick, cloudy and full of dust. And everyone here goes inside to get away from the filth. But when you're on the highway in the middle of nowhere, you have no choice but to keep driving.

Meanwhile, I can't see anything in front of, behind or beside me. It's so windy, and there is so much dust and debris in the air that I'm thoroughly convinced I'm about to be sucked up into a tornado, but I can't get a hold of anyone who knows what's going on or can even check the weather. To make matters worse, I couldn't find a radio station that broadcast in English, so even if there was a severe weather bulletin telling all motorists to abandon their cars and head for the nearest shelter (or whatever I should do in a tornado when I'm in a car. I don't even know), I wouldn't have understood it. So I drove on at 35 miles an hour, clutching my steering wheel for dear life and seriously contemplating calling 911 and asking what the hell is going on.

This was about the time when I realized that all the "debris" hitting my car--those "sticks" and such--were tumbleweed. You see, I had in my head this picture of a tumbleweed out of a Tasmanian devil cartoon. It's perfectly round and just rolls lazily along the road. And it's all a big LIE! While tumbleweed may be nice and round and perfect sometimes, really, they're just a dried up weed that blows along in the wind. And I killed about 800 of them but was too busy freaking out to even notice.

So the lesson, my friends, is that tumbleweed aren't cool. They explode into tiny bits when you hit them, they make terrible noises as their brittle parts collide with your paint and windshield at high speeds and they don't even look sweet. I've yet to thoroughly investigate the damage these dried up sticks have probably done to my car because then I will just be angry. I pursued these somersaulting bushes for weeks and this is the repayment I get? The crushing of my media-fed Midwestern fantasy? Psh. I'm over it. If you want to see a tumbleweed, try the Tumbleweeds Cafe inside Chase Field. It seems like it'd be more fun to me.