Are you tired of the English language being overtaken by etymological atrocities like, “sexting,” “staycation,” “tweetup,” and “turducken”? Would you like to do your part in saving words that are so infrequently used, they’re in danger of becoming extinct?
Then do your part! Join the fight for vocabulary by adopting these neglected words, and use them as often as you can! Go to www.SavetheWords.org and adopt yours today!
Or, if you prefer the simplistic version: absence makes the heart grow fonder. If the maxim is true, then you all should be head-over-heels in love with me! I do apologize for my disappearance. Injury, illness, travel, and general “meh” kept me away. But rest assured, I have returned. Exciting, no?
I visited the doctor yesterday, thanks to a wicked shoulder injury that has been plaguing me for, oh, the last 17-18 years. As always, my doctor and the nurses asked me if my husband and I have any trips coming up (because we usually do), and I gave them a brief rundown of our next vacation. Standing nearby was a woman who, after hearing me express excitement at the idea of being able to swim with sting rays again, made a face and, appearing genuinely distressed, asked, “How do you keep the sting rays from hurting your kids?” The conversation that followed went something like this:
Me: “Well, I don’t have any kids, for one thing. And for another, sting rays aren’t aggressive creatures in the slightest. They’re completely docile.”
Woman: “You don’t have kids? What’s wrong with you?”
Me: *exchanging glance with nurses* “Beg pardon?”
Woman (from here on out, known as “Momzilla”): “You’re a woman and you don’t have kids. Why not? Kids are precious gifts from god! Life is not complete without kids!”
Me: “Really? I think life is not complete without living it the way each individual sees fit for themselves. My husband and I love to travel. We love being able to go and come as we please. I have no desire to clean butts for years, sink 93% of my life’s savings into Mattel products, or stress every day about whether or not I’m permanently screwing up another human being. If you’re happy doing all of that, more power to you. I’m not.”
Momzilla: “So can you just not have kids or something?”
Me: “Are you serious?”
Nurse (who is a terrific Mom, and has great kids, and knows I don’t want any for myself): “So, Hope, tell me what to buy to be able to dye my hair your color…”
…….
Here’s the thing, boys and girls. I’m not opposed to people having children. I don’t hate children. I have a nephew, and I positively adore him. He’s great. I have friends with children, and they’re terrific. My friends are awesome parents, and they’ll raise awesome kids. Heck, I compulsively check one friend’s kid-blog for updates on her son, because by his third week of life he was already cooler than I (artist for a mom, musician for a dad, there’s no competing with that!) I like being an aunt, both official and unofficial. But I have no desire to be a mother. It’s just not in my DNA. When I was younger, sure. I thought I’d be a mom. Why? Because I was a girl, and girls were moms, and I never gave it much thought otherwise. Once I started getting older, though, and realized that even the simple thought of pregnancy, birth, and child-rearing made me vaguely nauseated and annoyed, I figured out that motherhood just would not be in the best interests of me or any kid unfortunate enough to have me for a mom.
So why does this offend people? Why do momzillas seem to take personally the fact that I don’t want to become one of them? Deal with it, I just don’t. I give incredible kudos to those people in the world who are able to be terrific parents with amazing kids. Keep up the good work. Not all moms are momzillas. Not all kids are brats. But I’ll guarantee you that every momzilla has a brat. And every reluctant mother has a child who isn’t loved half as much as it should be. I’m in that second category, and I recognize this fact. Isn’t it better that I acknowledge this, and don’t do that to a child?
Both my parents wanted me and my brother, and they doted on us like mad. Things weren’t always perfect (know any family that is? Pshaw–not with teenagers around!) but we always knew we were loved and wanted. Knowing that feeling, why in the world would I condemn a child to anything less than that, by having one myself? Sorry, I may be selfish, but I’m not cruel. No matter how many people think I should be just because of my procreational abilities.
Okay, rant over. Moving on 
Living in Alabama as I do, I have had the dubious pleasure of seeing Tim James’ campaign videos. One of his biggest beefs: that Alabamian driving tests are administered in languages other than English. He’s not mad because they’re only offered in other languages, just that the option exists at all. He isn’t alone in this ridiculous gripe. Millions of Americans huff indignantly when an automated voice asks them to, “Press 1 for English,” and righteously proclaim, “If you want to live in America, learn the language!”
This amuses me, it really does. Why? Because English-speakers rarely speak actual English. They butcher it. They abbreviate it. They see “grammar” as something debateable and unnecessary. Bad spelling isn’t seen as a fault, it’s seen as a humorous trait. Grown adults can’t figure out the difference between “there,” “their,” and “they’re.” Emails are scattered with semicolon-dash-parentheses notations of smiley faces, used liberally in order to express intent. It’s much easier, after all, to tack on a graphic than to attempt to clearly convey your thoughts through words. Txt-speak is rampant. We abbreviate words that have no need for being abbreviated. “You” becomes “u.” “Too,” “to,” and “two” are all represented numerically: “Me 2!” “Meet u @ 2!” and “Going 2 bed.”
Even funnier are the rancid accents often used by the “Speaka da language” folks. What to see irony in action? Watch a redneck lecture immigrants on how to speak English.
Am I guilty of bad grammar? Sure, probably more often than I care to admit. Grammatical mistakes are perfectly reasonable. “If y’all wanna live in America, learn to talk American!” is not.
I decided to complete my Hooked-on-Facebook transformation by adding a “Like” button to posts. I’ve tried it out, it seems to work. So if you see that I have “Liked” one of my own posts, rest assured that it isn’t rampaging narcissism, it was just me checking out the new button!
Also, there is a new “Share/Save” menu bar at the bottom of each post. It has huge selection of programs (Twitter, MySpace, GMail, Reddit, Digg, etc), but if you use one that isn’t listed, let me know and I’ll get it on there, as well. If I can, that is.
So, I have been ridiculously absent for an obscene amount of time. I could blame it on a hectic life, outside interests, computer problems, health issues, or any number of things, but the sad truth is that I have been completely dominated by Facebook.
You see, I’ve tried to keep my more, shall we say, inflammatory writings and opinions off of this blog. I’ve been told so many times that to fly too many controversial flags is to give a bad impression to potential employers/editors/readers, and to risk alienating an audience. Facebook, however, doesn’t seem to inspire that kind of tact. I talk politics, religion, and idiocy with passion and regularity. I don’t mind angering people. I have no problem inciting a riot beneath my status updates.
And that freedom quickly becomes addictive.
The problem is, while I may not be alienating readers with my opinions here, I’m also not encouraging a following by being an absentee landlord. So which is worse? Not writing at all, or writing things that could really tick someone off? I’d have to go with the former. At least if I’m making someone mad, they’re reading what I’ve written, yes?
So my socks are pulled up, my boots laced tightly, and my gumption restored. Let’s see where we can go now.
Happy Ides of March, everyone!
Since we’ve last talked, a very dreadful thing has happened: my age-odometer flipped to a new zero. That’s right, I am now 30. Which means I’m close to 40. Which means that 50 is right around the corner. After 50, I’m fine, because you basically get to start over and be just as fabulous as you were at 25. It’s the decades in between that comprise the “getting old” years. I realize that most people treat the “0″ birthdays as momentous occasions, perfect for taking stock of their lives and plotting ahead for the future, but that’s just not my style. Honestly, any plans I make on traditional plan-making days are doomed from their inception. New Year’s resolutions, birthday wishes, and post-Halloween candy regrets never lead to anything productive. If anything, the promises I make to myself on these days are almost guaranteed to be broken. Maybe I just can’t stand the conformity. Perhaps I dislike feeling as though I “must” make resolutions, wishes, and declarations. Or, more likely, I’m lazy and stubborn and need more motivation than a simple calendar number to make me do something.
Sounds about right.
Now that I think about it, Caesar and I may have been kindred spirits. After all, he didn’t much cotton to being told to be superduper extra careful on the 15th of March, and look where it got him. Perhaps if he’d been told, “Trust everyone and be joyous this Ides of March,” he would have been defiantly wary, and Brutus wouldn’t have stood a chance.
That being the case, let me make a few belated, mandatory birthday wishes: I hope to gain ten pounds, NOT write a best-seller, and never taste chocolate again.
Hmmm…I feel the need to rebel already…
I have been spending these past several weeks covered in yarn. Literally. I have been learning to knit for an article an a very prominent knitter’s magazine. I was beginning to feel in over my head, but about midway through, a friend of mine posted on my Facebook, “I was thumbing through a backwater newsagent’s and saw an article written by you! Made my day!” Since that “backwater newsagent” was in Australia and I live in Alabama, it very well made my year, and gave me the boot to the tuchus to get back to my project at hand, as well
The article is now completed, and I have, oddly enough, developed a real affinity for knitting. I’m not very good at it yet, but I’m really, really liking it. I’ve also learned a very important lesson. When given the option of several different choices, don’t pick the coolest looking one every time. Pick the simplest one and move your way up. 
Every time. Because next, I’m tackling something simple and planning on feeling much, MUCH better about the outcome!
I’m still stuck on what to call this upcoming decade. The trend seems to be toward referring to the past 10 years as “The Noughties” (or “Naughties,” depending on what spell-check you’re using), what with the awkwardness of the double-zeros. This leaves the next 10 years as the “2ks” for obviously double-grand reasons. Feels a little “Y2K” trendy for me, but whatever works.
Resolutions for this year are still pending. There are the standards, of course, such as losing weight, improving my physical strength and flexibility, and learning to browse Amazon.com or a bookstore without spending my nonexistent inheritance, but the ones that are actually important – professional, personal, and the like – are still muddling in my mind. A new query system, new online (and hopefully brick-and-mortar) classes, and better journaling habits are a must, as are rededications to things like housework, dog bathing, and not vacuuming during televised sporting events are right in there with everything else.
So, hopefully, my next post will contain some sort of system, some organization, something. Then again, it may be another “Geeze, I’ve really gotta get on that,” rambling. Guess we’ll find out!
This season has been a little insane, and this post may very well reflect just that. I have been working on several projects which have been keeping my scribbling fingers extra busy. One project, as a matter of fact, is forcing those scribbling fingers to become…knitting fingers? It’s a blast to learn new things, and since I have no problem making a complete and utter fool of myself, writing about my foray into a new “talent” is proving to be fun.
My wonderful husband gifted me with a lovely new desk for Christmas this year. I have been without a real workspace for several months, since my old computer died and be bought me a Dell all-in-one. Absolutely fabulous computer, but wicked heavy. Far too heavy to place on the wickety-wonkety forty-bucker from WalMart I’d been using up ’til then. So I’ve been set up on the dining room table, with papers strewn everywhere, no organization, no structure; I don’t know about you, but I need my supplies to be organized so my brain can remain creatively chaotic. If even my resources and materials are scattered to the four corners, how am I supposed to be anchored at all? Surely someone out there can understand that.
For now, I believe I shall snuggle down into my warm PJs, check on the sickly husband in my bed (poor fellow has a dreadful sore throat and aches…sads!) and cuddle down with a furbaby or three for a little movie viewing. Hope your holiday was spectacular, and I hope your tomorrow is restorative.
