Suddenly Southern
by Maureen Duffin-Ward
Love me, Love my Blog!August 15, 2008 Grammar Girl When I was growing up, my mom always corrected my grammar. I remember telling very animated stories about them things, and all Grammar Puss cared about was “THOSE” things. My mother and I still laugh about a lesson that took place over dessert. I was six-years-old. CAN I have a piece of cake, mom? I asked. It’s MAY, she said. Can I have a piece of cake, May? I think my mom put a fork in it and called it a (May)day! I hated getting corrected all the time. It broke up the timing of my tales, and it bordered on child cruelty to come between me and my dessert. And yet. The apple (pie) doesn’t fall far from the tree. I just gave my graduating goddaughter (gasp!) a grammar guide: The Elements of Style by Strunk & White. (E. B. White was the author of Charlotte’s Web and famed writer from The New Yorker; Strunk was White’s college professor.) But wait, there’s more. (To my present, too. I’m not that crazy.) The Elements of Style got its start in 1918 and just gets better with age. I love the Strunk/ Once you nail their top ten, you can go pro. From college applications to job applications, from your profile on match.com to launching your own dot.com, a bit of good grammar goes a long way. I still do plenty of Grammar Don’ts. You can find more than a few in this column alone. But as Professor Strunk said, you have to know the rules before you can break them. The following rules are his; the parentheticals are mine: 1. Form the possessive singular of nouns by adding ’s. (Charles’s second wife has nothing on his first wife.) 2. In a series of three or more terms with a singular conjunction, use a comma after each term except the last. (The serial comma, like the serial killer, is in a lot of trouble. Most of today’s editors just say no to red, white, and blue.) 3. Enclose parenthetic expressions between commas. (See serial killer above.) 4. Place a comma before a conjunction introducing an independent clause. (I write run on sentences, but that comma and that big but just saved me.) 5. Do not join independent clauses with a comma. (Add a conjunction with the comma, and you’re good to go. Go for broke; try a semi colon.) 6. Do not break sentences in two. (Awwww. I want. Attention.) 7. Use a colon after an independent clause to introduce a list of particulars, an appositive, amplification, or an illustrative quotation. (I’m positive I forget everything I ever (if ever) learned about appositives. What are they?) 8. Use a dash to set off an abrupt break or interruption. (Gotta dash – brb) 9. The number of the subject determines the number of the verb. (duh) 10. Use the proper case of pronoun. (Who or whom? I don’t have that kind of time. If you’re stuck, just write to me.) In closing, I’d like to thank my very first editor. Now MAY I have another piece of cake, MOM? --- July 31, 2008 Where's Mason Dixon When You Need 'Em? Is DC Southern? Is Virginia Virginian? Why do people from Maryland call themselves Washingtonians? You know you’re lost when you buy a place in Greater Washington DC’s North Potomac and natives (been here two years) sneer, “that’s the old Gaithersburg (Maryland).” I’m no stranger to coming up a little short. I thought I moved to Georgetown. But, actually, I missed it by three $treet$, so I live in West End. Cue the eye rolls. Do I mean the old Foggy Bottom? I guess. So somebody better tell the Georgetown Ritz Carlton. As for the Georgetown Holiday Inn, let’s not even go there. I heart DC geography bees. Virginia is for lovers is what they tell you. Here’s what they don’t tell you. There’s no love outside the city limit. North Virginia in NOT Virginia: It’s just a suburb of DC. One wrong turn out of the city does not a true Virginian make. You have to be FFV, First Family Virginian. And that's by invitation only. I send my regrets. A society where you have to prove your descent from an original Virginia colonist? You know what that means. Reston need not apply. I’m from Philly where the who’s your daddy DNA tests aren’t about who came over on the Mayflower. First Family means the one before the divorce. And yo from Philly if yo say yo are. We got bigger fish to fry. Which brings us to Maryland and yes, the best crabs in the country. The Sybil of states, Maryland’s multiple personalities cover everything from stealth to wealth, from the Inner Harbor to the inner streets, from Chevy Chase to the Naval Base. What I like about living in DC is that it’s so easy to fit in. Everyone’s from somewhere else (and by somewhere else, I don’t mean a different parish, I mean a different state or a different country) so it’s truly the rare bird that can’t fit in (W, enter stage right.). It’s easy to feel at home in a place where most of the insiders are outsiders, or at least the natives are outnumbered, so it feels like a fair fight. Our nation’s capital is truly a home away from home for all. Talk about hospitality. I think it’s very fitting that Miss Manners IS actually from here. I thought I had left these questions behind when I moved back from North Carolina, but It’s Southern, No It’s Not Really Southern/ So is DC Southern? Depends on where you’re coming from. Are YOU Southern? Take my quiz and find out now! -- July 7,2008 You Can't Store Happiness It’s moving time again! Not for me, thank God. My husband and I moved last summer, and we’re finally all settled in (unless you count the fact that more than half our worldly goods are stuffed somewhere in storage.) As millions of Americans move every summer (the most popular time of the year to hit the road), I offer this timely and hard-won advice: Just say NO to storage. I know it’s tempting. How can you resist a quick fix when the to-do list is so daunting? Our house hadn’t sold yet (or worse, it sold and unsold), so we were temporarily moving from a four-bedroom house to a one-bedroom condo. My husband’s idea of downsizing was walking around with a Sharpie writing “STORAGE” on all the cartons. We marked the essential boxes “Georgetown,” and the rest we’d deal with later. One year later Storage is a four-letter word. Each and every trip results in cursing, crying, blaming and shaming, not to mention the occasional bodily injury. Our movers didn’t major in interior design. They unloaded our prized possessions as if they were dumping mulch off a forklift. My husband returned from one six-hour scavenger hunt empty handed. No crab pot. No lampshade. No iron. What did you do all this time? He fell, that’s what he did. (So much for the climbing CD tower) A wakeup call for both of us. Life’s too short to worry about your wrinkles. If I want a good cry, all I have to do is visit my customized Stickley dining room hosting not a family Thanksgiving, but a set of golf clubs, a Christmas tree stand, an outdoor deck umbrella and four collapsed cartons of, um, “STORAGE” resting comfortably on our beloved King bed. In fairness, all storage units are not created equal. I hear there are gorgeous ones that come with private bowling alleys. Ours looks more like a cellblock, and on visiting days, I get to see my stuff in prison. If that’s not enough to scare me straight, there was an article in The New York Times about the foreclosure crisis finding its way to the cinderblocks. As people fall behind on their monthly storage payments, the companies are auctioning the contents to the highest bidder. A recent winning bid was $160 for someone’s full house. How comforting. That’s okay. I may come with a lot of excess baggage, but I’ve stumbled onto something big. As Harvard professor and author Daniel Gilbert explains in his book, Stumbling on Happiness, we have no idea what will make us happy (our predictive powers are limited by what we know). He’s right. After almost 20 years of home ownership and bigger is better suburban living, I found happiness in renting a one-bedroom condo in the city. A little goes a long way. (A little bathroom, not so much, but there’s always a catch.) I like my Romeo and Juliet balconette with its view of the Capitol, okay, another condo, but still. I like how I can clean the whole place in an hour. How my deliveries no longer sit out in the rain. And how locking myself out of the house is a problem of the past. I heart doormen. And I really love living in the city. I like walking to dinner with my husband. I like doing my errands on foot, heading to CVS and blowing it off for an art gallery. I like walking to Trader Joe’s for my groceries and only buying what I can carry. I like walking around the Tidal Basin. (I think that’s the Tidal Basin.) I like a city with history, especially when it’s rich in current events. I like a city with great hotels. And I like my company staying at a nice hotel☺ Here’s to stumbling on happiness. Trust me, it’s not in storage. Sometimes happiness is just making the next move. -- May 27,2008 City Sampler What’s your favorite city? DC? NY? San Fran? Chicago? Paris? How could you forget Boise, Fayetteville and Des Moines!? You know where this is going, don’t you? It’s another best of city “study,” and drum roll please, another upset! Kiplinger has just released its Best Cities 2008. the so-called top spots in the nation to live – and, well, we don’t live there. Since I actually LIVED in one of its most livable cities (always a runner-up), I see it as my civic duty to ask: Were these guys graded on a curve? And the winners are: No. 1: Houston, Texas No. 2: Raleigh, North Carolina No. 3: Omaha, Nebraska No. 4: Boise, Idaho No. 5: Colorado Springs, Colorado No. 6: Austin, Texas No. 7: Fayetteville, Ark. No. 8: Sacramento, Ca No. 9: Des Moines, Iowa No. 10: Provo, Utah With all due respect to Kiplinger, I think they have gone way outside city limits with this best of the bunch. It reads more like a list of American Airlines’ canceled flights. A best of the rest, maybe, but a best of the best? No way. And it’s not just because my hometown didn’t make the cut. Yo!Philly! It’s an acquired taste! Houston is number one. Seriously? Now it may be nice for the Bushes, but “as Bush goes so goes the nation “ has got us into enough trouble, hasn’t it? Katrina evacuees headed home as soon as they could. Nuff said? As far as the runner–up, Raleigh’s own Idol, Clay Aiken, is proof positive that this town knows how to make second best look like a win. But I lived there for seven years and I cannot tell a lie. I made lifelong friends in Raleigh, and I still miss my crepe myrtles. But Raleigh is NOT the second best city in the country. It’s still fighting for second best city in its state, bless its heart! Poor Charlotte will never hear the end of this one. And what’s Omaha have besides steaks? Boise?!?! Stop it. Colorado Springs – now see if they had a few CREDIBLE cities on the list, I would actually explore this one. But now that I know the fix is in, I’m just going to stay right here. In DC, the best city in the world. Oh, that’s right, it’s not a city. It can’t win. But oh, it does. -- May 7, 2008 It's Not My Day “Happy Mother’s Day! Are you a mother?” Wait! Let me stop you right there! Here’s a moment that never has to happen: A single woman without a mate, or a married woman, no kids her fate, has to defend her turf to a complete stranger: “No, actually, I’m not a mother.” Cue the awkward pause. As a mother of none, I have fielded this well-meaning question every Mother’s Day weekend at grocery stores, florists, gas stations and interviews. But it wasn’t until I saw it happen to someone else that I decided we could use an intervention. Last Mother’s Day weekend, my Realtor was showing my husband and me a house when the owner came home. As if it isn’t awkward enough sizing up someone’s place with the seller looking over your shoulder, he broke the tension with a little small talk. “Are you a mother?” the man of the house asked my 30 something Realtor. She turned purple, fought back tears, and shook her head no. Wanting to rescue my Realtor and Mr. Enquiring Mind from a ruined Mother’s Day, I said “But we HAVE mothers.” By the look on my Realtor’s face it was clear she HAD a mother. Just how awful did this have to go? Sometimes the probing is so funny it’s sad. Like the time I handled the furniture store lady’s “Happy Mother’s Day! Are You a Mother?” with a smile and a gentle no to let her off the hook quickly. She was crushed. “Do you AT LEAST have pets?” For the record, I don’t have pets either. But I do have something to celebrate on Mother’s Day. The funniest, smartest, coolest mom in the world is mine. And she turns 79 next week. She became an actress at 75. And she joined match.com a week ago. After 122 hits on her profile, we like her odds of a match made in heaven – at least a little help from my dad above. See, you don’t have to be a mom to celebrate Mother’s Day. You just have to love a mom. Or have loved a mom. I’m proposing a don’t ask, don’t tell policy for Mother’s Day. You don’t ask someone if she’s a mother, and you don’t tell someone she’s a mother. I’m guessing the millions of moms who are having breakfast in bed won’t feel slighted if the cable guy doesn’t join the celebration. Happy Mother’s Day! Let’s leave it at that! -- April 25, 2008 Mrs. Green Jeans If you want to look 20 years younger and 20 pounds lighter, just buy a pair of jeans. First, let me give credit for the advice: It’s from my friend Jan (She’s 55 and looks 35, so who am I to argue?) Like many life lessons, this came via a typical girlfriend Q&A: Why don’t you ever wear jeans? I look awful in them. Then they’re not expensive enough. Apparently, I’ve been hanging around with my Levi’s wearing husband for too long. His 501 button fly jeans might feel good, but they don’t look good. On me, anyway. So off to Georgetown I went. Please learn from my mistakes. This is NOT where you want to go if you have self-esteem issues. I was proud of myself rustling through the rack in size order, fast- forwarding through the twenty something sizes without self-pity or a hint of nostalgia. I held up a pair of thirty somethings and felt brave enough to try them on. Isn’t 60 the new 30? Or is it the other way around? Where’s the old 30? Should these be, um, tight? Additional jeans were on the next floor, I was told. And we all know what they mean by additional. I felt way more at home upstairs, especially after I convinced myself I was looking at hip sizes. Gentle readers, please do not correct me on this. If I’m going to remortgage the house for a pair of jeans, I don’t need no stinkin math lesson. Let’s leave the hip checks to the Capitals. I am happy to report I am the proud new owner of overpriced jeans. My husband loves them. When he told me how great they looked, I said, “Guess how much?” Then we played this game: “No, higher…” “No, higher…” “No, higher” until he gave up and said, “Really?” But am I going to trust a guy who buys LEVI’S? Speaking of hard to believe, I better air my dirty laundry. After a few too many trips to Georgetown Cupcake, I’m afraid to wash my jean$. Do I go with the self- punishing behavior: wash my thousand dollar jeans and see a shrink if they shrink? Do I consult my financial planner first? Is dry cleaning protecting my investment? Or am I already washed up? Don’t let me scare you off. You need to go shopping right now and buy a pair of jeans. I don’t care where you buy them, just as long as you overpay. You can’t put a price on feeling young and dumb! *By the way, my jeans didn’t really cost $1,000. I just finally wanted to be able to say, “No, lower.” --- April 14, 2008 Return to Sender To blog or to post that is the question. Well, actually, “Is it a blog or is it a post?” that is really the question. And after reading a snarky NY Times column, Citizen Huff pointing out Arianna Huffington’s misuse of the terms, I know they’re watching. According to my greatest hits report, two people have hit my new blog. Sure, I’m a little concerned it’s counting the time I looked, and then looked again, but that’s okay. If you build it they will come. Thank you for coming. Good night everybody. Don’t forget to click your columnist. Or blogger? Please post your answer. And put that yellow sticky away.(Click Tawk to Me in the toolbar!) Best, Citizen Duff April 11, 2008 I Feel Your Pain On a scale of 1-10, how much pain are you in? WAIT! DON’T ANSWER YET! When my dad was dying, and before he was diagnosed with leukemia, his pain was pretty unbearable. We could tell by looking at him that something was really wrong. He went from wincing to groaning to actually screaming out in the night. Oh, and did I mention the rapid weight loss? My mom and dad went to his doctor for an emergency appointment. Doc: On a scale of 1-10, how much pain are you in? Dad: Five Perhaps that’s why my dad was delegated, I’m sorry, referred, to the (for lack of a better name) pain management doctor. The pain management doctor said, “Jack, if I talked to ten guys who were 78-years-old, nine of them would tell me they were in pain.” My dad knew better than to settle for that. “But I was 78 two weeks ago, doc, and I wasn’t in this kind of pain.” So much for the right answer. He was given some lame advice to swim it out at the Y. Oh yeah, and eat bananas. Two weeks later and in his dying bed, my dad was pumped full of morphine and feeling no pain. The hospital doc came through and said, “Jack, on a scale of 1-10, what kind of pain are you in?” My dad said, “nine.” He winked at me and whispered, “Mom taught me that.” Well, not really. She told him to say nine BEFORE he was told to put on his bathing suit and do a few laps. Not when all was lost and he was swimming out to sea. My 86-year-old mother-in-law has chronic arthritis, and her pain has just gone from manageable to not. She called us recently from South Dakota and told us the pain was so bad she couldn’t walk. We scheduled her an appointment with her doctor. I called after to see how it went. “They gave me something for sleep.” “What about the pain?” “Well, it subsided.” “Did you TALK about the pain?” “Yes, they said on a scale of 1-10…” “What did you say?” “ I said I don’t know how to answer that. How do I know?” This from a magna cum laude college graduate. That’s all I had to hear. Not only do we need universal health care, we need a universal pain scale. And I’m not going to wait around for one, so here it is: Question: On a scale of 1-10, how much pain are you in? Answer: 10 April 6, 2008 A Little Dab'll Do Ya! I think my husband is addicted to Vicks VapoRub ®. I was willing to work with him when he actually had the flu (If it looks like a cold and acts like a cold, it's the flu). But his symptoms are long gone (unless you count throwing dirty tissues all over the house), and he still climbs into the marital bed smelling like the tuberculosis ward in a third world country. I don't want to come between a guy and his superhero (Vick Vapor: killer of congestion, toe fungus and seborrheic dermatitis), and I don't want to sleep with 'em either. I know, I know. Florence Nightingale has nothing on me. It's hard to say when I turned on the sick. I think it has something to do with that tattered old robe my husband sports at the first sneeze, blanketing him and the house in illness. Or maybe it's the grey wool HAT he wears, yes, indoors, that I find depressing. Or the way he runs to the drugstore between the sneeze and the God bless you to buy $100 bucks of new supplies; he never looks in the cabinet of colds gone by, the hundreds of AM & PM cough suppressants he has in his collection. Perhaps I'd have more mercy if I'd caught even one of his alleged flu viruses. You think I'd be used to it by now, that fresh whiff of camphor, turpentine, Carbomer 954 and titanium dioxide. Apparently the vapors induce creativity. Vicks' fans have come up with enough unconventional, don't try this at home applications to keep them using well beyond cold and flu season. VapoRub enthusiasts claim Vicks can cure everything from paper cuts and splinters to erectile dysfunction. Wait, little blue pill or little blue bottle? A little dab'll do ya? Wildlife rescuers are using it on polar bears to dupe unsuspecting mamas into adoption. Why, baby bear, what a beautiful scent you have; you smell like Papa bear, so you must be family! Hollywood actors keep it in tear bags-- to dab under their eyelashes to make them weep. I'll give them something to cry about: You Know Your Honey's Addicted to Vicks VapoRub When... 1. He thinks Hamlet's rub in "to sleep: perchance to dream, ay there's the rub" is Shakespearean for smear more Vicks on thine chest. 2. He moves you to a colder climate so he can use year round. 3. He tries to cover up the smell with beer breath. 4. He burns Vicks in a votive 5. CVS staged an intervention for him. I asked my Vicks addict if he was okay with me outing him in this column. Always the good sport, he said, "Sure! But you need a better ending." "Like what?" I said. "Well, you know, it kind of calls for a But I still love him." And I do! (It's the vapors talking.) April 5, 2008 Moved to Tears If you’re thinking about moving, you’re not alone. About 40 million people move every year. So why do psychologists say moving is a life changing trauma right up there with divorce, receiving a letter from the IRS and the death of a spouse? I’ll tell you why. You’re taking everything you own, everything you hold near and dear, and placing it in the hands of three guys who thought high school was a waste of time. Not to worry. Just know the movers from the shakers. Here are ten deal breakers. 1. The foreman introduces himself as “William, Don’t Call Me Bill.” Says HE’LL pack the china closet because it requires the utmost in care. Next thing you hear is shattering glass. “Oh Nooooooo. Mr. Bill, err, Mr. William…” 2. The movers split your dining room table in half and offer a quick fix: “duct tape and a Martha Stewart tablecloth.” 3. When you jump onto the moving truck to retrieve your blood pressure meds (the shoebox marked “Rx: DON’T MOVE MY MEDS”) you find 300-pound “Tiny” stretched out and catching some z’s on your brand new beach chair. (He blames the splintering wood on your termites.) 4. You painstakingly separated all your aerosol cans and flammables. “Somebody read their mover’s manual,” Tiny says when he sees you’ve packed your poison. He gives you a big wink and proceeds to pack the hazmats straight into your moving van. Tells you he’ll see you on the other side. 5. After eight hours of loading, the movers are ready to take off for DC. Until their truck doesn’t start. You have to provide the jumper cables, and sit in your little compact as the moving van lurches into gear and comes straight at you. 6. The guys won’t unload until you pay in full. You reluctantly hand over the cashier’s check and sign a shaky document agreeing to any overages. “Don’t call me Bill” drags his estimate clipboard across the hood of your car and leaves a six-inch scratch. 7. You paid for a pack and unpack – such a deal! Their idea of unpacking is dumping the contents of 700 cartons on top of your bed. 8. Your $2.99 eyeglasses from Wal*Mart are wrapped in 35 pounds of packing paper, and your $5 sombrero from South of the Border is given its own special carton. The Monolo Blaniks you remortgaged the house for travel coach. They’re scrunched in the bottom of a stroller with every shoe in the house, including mudroom boots. 9. Your jewelry box lost a little of its shine. You find your “ Reel Emraled” bracelet on EBay. 10. For Tiny’s closing act, the moving of your antique armoire, a light rain starts to fall. He refuses to carry your hand-painted treasure the rest of the walkway unless you sign a no-fault waiver that it’s at your own risk. Says he’s never had much luck with French stuff. Can’t promise he won’t fall. -- |
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