August 7, 2010 · 8:20 am

Remember the tweens?

At the risk of seeming like Austin Powers, what decade is this?

No, I haven’t just emerged from a cryogenic time chamber, but I do find myself wondering what to call this and the next nine years. We’ve passed the aughts; that was a little weird but we got through it.

There doesn’t seem to be a uniform convention for describing this decade and that bothers me. This baby is eight months old; isn’t it time we named it?

Some say it’s the teens, or twenty-teens. But considering it’s not yet 2013, aren’t we really in the tweens?

I just saw a TV commercial for a car dealership advertising markdowns on “all oh-ten models.”

I thought perhaps we might be in the 2010s, or simply, “the tens.” But oh-tens? I guess technically ‘010 could be considered correct.

As a nostalgia-holic, I like reminiscing about sixties culture, seventies music, eighties fashion (wince) and so forth, so I’d really like a simple word that can be spelled out, just in case I need to reminisce later. 

Any ideas for what to put in the tens column?

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August 6, 2010 · 8:13 am

Sounds easy enough

You’ve seen me refer to the Fake AP Stylebook before. The group puts out funny little comments about language every day on Facebook and Twitter. If you don’t use these, you can go elsewhere to see some great examples. Some really get me thinking.

Case in point:  A recent post observed, “there/their/they’re – What, seriously? This confuses you?”

I have never had trouble distinguishing among the three. I don’t find it confusing at all. But it’s not because I’m good at remembering rules necessarily; otherwise, I’d have gotten this bring-versus-take thing down long ago.

What I realized is that it says something about the way my brain works.

When I hear and when I speak, I see the words written out. I suppose this means I am a visual learner or perhaps a visual thinker. I envision words as they are spelled. Maybe that’s why I have such a sensitive ear when it comes to pronunciation. If people saw “sherbet,” maybe they wouldn’t say “sherbert.”

Like the Fake AP Stylebook, when I see there/their/they’re confused, I am tempted to wonder how anyone can get it wrong. I also wonder how anyone graduated from second grade without mastering it, but perhaps I’m too quick to judge.

“There,” “their” and “they’re” are homonyms. They sound exactly the same. It’s no wonder people who are not visual learners might be homonymphobic.

If we had to spell according to how words sound (“sound it out,” we were always told), especially in this confusing language we call English, how can we be expected to commit the difference to paper?

Maybe I can offer some tips.

Let’s start with “there.” “There” is often the answer to “where?” “Where are my glasses? There they are.” On top of my head, usually. So that one’s easy:  Where?  There! Spelled the same (after their respective consonant digraphs).

“They’re” is a contraction of “they” and “are.” Until I had a baby, I thought contractions were easy. You begin with what you are (you’re) trying to say and shorten it; for example, “They are” doing something. With a contraction, typically a letter and a space come out, an apostrophe goes in and, voilà, two words become one. In a sense, they’re getting married. To use song lyrics as a prompt, “They’re Playing Our Song” or, for readers of my generation, “They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa.” By now they probably are.

I haven’t come up with a tip for “their.” Maybe you have one. For now, let’s just say it’s the other one, and remember, “i” before “e” except after “c.”  Oops, and except in “their.”

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August 5, 2010 · 8:09 am

Girl power

Thirty-six hours after the concert, I still have an estrogen hangover. Make no mistake, that’s a good thing. 

The night before last, I had primo seats and VIP privileges at the final stop on the Lilith Fair tour, thanks to some well connected friends.

It feels like years since I’ve been to a concert. I was just glad they didn’t confiscate my Tums at the door.

You will recall that Lilith Fair began in the late 1990s and ran three years as an annual concert celebrating women in music.  Founded by Sarah McLachlan in response to concert promoters’ alleged bias against all-women shows, Lilith Fair featured women solo artists and women-led bands. After 10 years, Lilith Fair resumed this summer and culminated its multi-city tour in the Washington area  Tuesday night. Truly, it was music of women, by women and for women. 

I have nothing against male musicians—in fact, I have secret crushes on many of them—but it’s a rare and stirring experience to wallow in the glory of one’s gender on a sultry evening, enjoying a cold beverage under the stars, in the company of terrific people of both genders.

Following a number of smaller acts appearing throughout the afternoon, the main stage kicked off with Sara Bareilles, new to the Fair and white hot these days, who opened with several familiar hits. She was followed by Cat Power, whom  I didn’t know, but are in the very large cyber-basket I carried out of iTunes yesterday.

For me, the treat of the night was getting to hear Martie Maguire and Emily Robison of the Dixie Chicks, performing as their new group Court Yard Hounds.  They dazzled the audience with their strings (fiddle, mandolin and banjo) and earth-moving vocal harmonies. Best line of the night: “The Dixie Chicks stay at The Ritz. The Court Yard Hounds stay at Motel 6.”

Indigo Girls sprayed a geyser of energy into the pavilion, finishing up with my—and I think everyone’s—favorite singalong, “Closer to Fine.” Then Sarah McLachlan brought it home with a set comprising her classic cry-in-your-chamomile ballads and more upbeat selections from her new record. Whether she’s at the piano, burning up the guitar or demonstrating one of the richest voices in the business today, every one of her songs stirs emotion.

As a student of song lyrics, it struck me at the time how many appealed uniquely to the female spirit. I don’t intend sexism, but I also don’t suspect many men think, let alone sing, “Your love is better than chocolate.” (Maybe “your love is better than a Chipotle double meat burrito with extra guacamole”)

For the finale, Sarah invited all of the preceding acts—and their crews—on stage, where they sang “Because the Night,” written by Patti Smith and Bruce Springsteen. It was fitting for the last words of the last song in the last show in what I hope isn’t the last Lilith Fair tour, to be “because the night belongs to us.”

I expect my next hangover will arrive with my iTunes bill.

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August 4, 2010 · 7:40 am

Time to space out

Hallelujah!  There is good news for middle-agers.

Indeed, there are new findings about old brains.  The good news is that, according to a new book and some additional long-term research, the brain of the average 40-to-60-year-old isn’t ready for the trash heap.  In fact, it is more flexible and more capable than previously thought.  We are even generating new brain cells, never mind how we lost the old ones.  They’re always the last place you look.

The bad news is that we no longer have an excuse for our, what word am I looking for, oh, yes, forgetfulness.

Admittedly, I haven’t yet read The Secret Life of the Grown-Up Brain or the 55 years of research of the Seattle Longitudinal Study, which has followed thousands of people over decades to determine how their brain function changes over time.  But findings have been featured in the news all week, with various medical experts agreeing, that the grey matter of the gray-haired isn’t to be underestimated.  In fact, it often improves over time.

It’s the flexibility aspect I find especially comforting.  First, let’s set aside any question about the adaptability of older people in life and work settings, as the overwhelming number of comments readers posted on our recent discussion of the generation gap shed valuable light on all facets.

My personal experience is that, while I believe I am quite adaptable to all sorts of new things–technologies, ideas, ways of doing things–breaking old habits isn’t easy, if simply from a mechanical standpoint.

Here’s a tiny—literally tiny—example.  I cannot for the life of me seem to break the habit of typing two spaces after a period.

Like many women of my generation, I went through formal typing training in high school.  Even if we had either high career aspirations or hopes of full-time engagement inside the home, we were told that strong secretarial skills were something we could “fall back on.”

A key rule in typing—no pun intended—involved inserting two spaces after every period.

Of course, this had everything to do with the block spacing of yesterday’s typing technology.  When modern word processing came to be, much changed.

I recall in the 1990s a colleague referring me to The Mac is Not a Typewriter, one of several manuals of style for the new age—including writing for the Web–on the matter of the double space.

I have known for more than 20 years that a second space has no place after a period, but I can’t control my fingers.  I have even gone so far as running a search on a completed document, and universally replacing two spaces with one.

The recent news about the middle-aged brain gives me hope, and takes away my old-dog-new-tricks excuse.

Perhaps I need to make a public pledge to give up the second space, just as I did on April 8th when I gave up the Oxford comma.  I have held true to that pledge, so there’s no reason I can’t retrain myself on this one.  I still think one space looks funny but then again, so do a lot of correct sentences about which I preach.

Can anyone recommend a double space support group?  I am ready to change.

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August 3, 2010 · 8:02 am

Queen for a day

Do you ever have days when you can’t seem to do anything right?

Or weeks?  Or months?  I go through long periods when I seem unusually prone to mistakes, and they overshadow anything good I might do. 

Lately it seems that every day I find an error in a blog post, about a millisecond after hitting the Publish button.  I am able to go back in and correct it, but the daily e-mails that go out to subscribers are indelible proof of my carelessness.

It makes me think of humor columnist Gene Weingarten, who won the Pulitzer Prize for featuring writing earlier this year.  Weingarten described his first emotion as “abject shame” because the column for which he won the prize contained a redundant phrase, “history of prior neglect,” which “suddenly seemed to sum up my life.”  He went on, “When the prize was announced, I became certain that my obituary in The Washington Post will begin: “Gene Weingarten, who once shamed this newspaper by winning a Pulitzer Prize for an article containing an egregious redundancy…”

While I can by no means relate to such prestigious acclaim, I can most painfully relate to the shame of a public mistake.

Yesterday, following about a week of stupid errors, I managed inadvertently to insert an obscure bit of code that made the entire blog post disappear.  After an hour of sweating and panting, I found and fixed the problem, but knew the mistake was already out there for all to see and ridicule.  Welcome to Loserville, Population 1. 

Just then I received an e-mail notice from WordPress, my blog host, that Word Nymph was one of 10 blogs featured in Freshly Pressed, its daily display of best blog posts that entertain, enlighten or inspire.

In selecting blogs for Freshly Pressed, WordPress considers among other factors:  unique content that’s “free of bad stuff,” images and other visuals, typo-free content and compelling headlines.

Or, it might just be that they choose at random, to give every blogger his or her chance at a global audience and 24 hours of fame.

Either way, I allowed myself to bask in the attention of thousands of fellow bloggers, many of whom posted playful comments that kept me giggling all day long.  I had the chance to become aware of hundreds of great blogs out there, which I plan to not only read but get to know their writers a little better.  

Yesterday opened up a whole new community of which I felt privileged to be a part.  I enjoyed meeting my new friends from Australia, Canada, France, Germany, Hong Kong, Indonesia, the Philippines, the United Kingdom and other places.

While I won’t break into a chorus of “It’s a Small World,” maybe I will try to beat myself up a little less about errors and typos.  Well, probably not.

When I started Word Nymph, my mental image was of a playground.  My wish was that one day it be full of people, laughing and squealing and ready to play.

Yesterday that wish came true, even if just for a day.

Hey guys, come back tomorrow!

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August 2, 2010 · 8:03 am

The Office

A project I have been working on has led to some interesting reading about demographics.

I read an article over the weekend that pointed out that, for the first time in U.S. history, four generations are working side by side in the workplace.  In “The Multigenerational Workforce: Managing and Motivating Multiple Generations in the Legal Workplace,” Sally Kane draws out the distinctions among the so-called Traditionalists, born before 1945, the Baby Boomers and Generations X and Y, in terms of how they tend to function in the workplace.

The article suggests that, largely because generations view the role of  technologies differently, the groups may also relate to their colleagues differently in meetings and in one-on-one interaction.

Obviously, Traditionalists have witnessed the most change over their career spans.  Presuming they entered the workforce in the late 1960s, they worked through cultural and technological revolutions the GenXers and Millennials may have only read about or seen on screen.  In the last 40 years, they have adapted to new workplace devices and vocabularies and, I dare say, have done so pretty well.

Technically a Baby Boomer, I began my career in 1983 at a high-tech trade association.  I was working in a leading edge industry that presumably used cutting edge technologies and forward thinking business concepts.  I worked hard to learn the lingo and became just proficient enough to stay employed in the industry for the next 20 years.

It doesn’t seem that long ago, but I realize now how many of the words we spoke and tools we used must be inconceivable to today’s young professional. Likewise, the collection of gadgets so indispensible to today’s office worker were as unforeseen to the workers of yesteryear as the practice of team-building.

If indeed such a wide gap exists, as the article suggests, in the interpersonal relations among the generations, perhaps I can be helpful in forging some understanding by explaining some commonplace terms from the early 1980s office.

Facsimile machine.  It wasn’t called a fax or used as a verb for years to come.  It was used only when time was of the essence; in my office, that was about twice a year.  We sent and received facsimiles by inserting a telephone receiver into a foam-padded cradle attached to a large roller in which we manually fed single pages.  The machine emitted a horrendous odor when receiving.

Message pad.  These were pink and were headed with the words, While You Were Out.  The answering machine came into existence a bit later.

Word processor.  As in, “please let me know when you are finished with the word processor, so I can use it next.”

Ashtray.  If you don’t know what this is, visit the Smithsonian; they probably have one on display.

Slides.  Little tiny cardboard frames encasing celluloid images shown on a carousel projector.

Transparencies.  Plastic sheets containing words written or images drawn with colored markers, shown on an overhead projector.

In Box.  It was a real box into which your mail was placed, before it was known as “snail mail.”

Out Box.  A lot could be known about you, depending on whether yours was above or below your In Box.

Christmas bonus.  Christmas was what they used to call Holiday, but bonus?  That one’s a little fuzzy.

Did I forget anything?

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July 31, 2010 · 8:30 am

Dear Chelsea

Dear Chelsea,

Please accept my very best wishes for you and Marc on your wedding day today. 

You and I have never met, which explains why I wasn’t invited, though I have met your parents a time or two.  Your future mother-in-law used to be a television news reporter here in my area, so I do feel a remote connection.

I’ve been a fan of yours since you arrived in Washington in 1993 at the tender age of 12.  You endured undue ridicule about your appearance and later, the sex scandal of the century, with grace and maturity and without any siblings to share it with.

You grew into a beautiful woman, excelled at Stanford and landed a high caliber job.  I enjoy the occasions on which you step to a podium and speak with intelligence and poise.

I trust no detail of your lovely affair has gone unattended.  Just arranging all those helicopters to transport your guests to the event must have beeen a challenge. 

Because we can always  count on the public to jab political figures and those they love,  I imagine there will be snickers about the $15,000 you are reportedly spending for Porta-Potties for your Rhinebeck affair, but then you would also take heat if you neglected to make arrangements for your guests’ comfort.  Damned if you do… 

I too had a ridiculously large wedding.  I had no wedding planning consultant or technology to help me.  I did have great parents who helped.  Besides picking up the ridiculously large tab, my father picked out the dinner menu and made sure the reception venue was perfect.  My mother, while not Secretary of State, arranged for all of the flowers and centerpieces and thoughtfully selected the church music (even though the church music director snubbed her requests and played what he wanted anyway).  My husband and I did everything else ourselves. 

I was in charge of arranging transportation for everyone.  Two hours before the ceremony, I stood by to make sure our parents and the wedding party and the groom were picked up on time.  When they had all left, I realized my oversight.  I had forgotten to arrange transportation for myself.  So I threw my wedding dress in the trunk of my car and high-tailed it to the church.

I tell you this, Chelsea, as one bride to another.  It’s just something you might want to check on.

Blessings to you on your special day.

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July 30, 2010 · 8:05 am

In Memoriam: Darrin Beachy

Of the special things we could truly count on in life, one was going to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware–and to Espuma restaurant–and having the great pleasure of being served by Darrin Beachy.  Every year for the last 10 years, my husband, friends and I have made a point of having dinner there.  The creative fare was about 40 percent of the reason.  Darrin was the other 60 percent.

Yesterday, when I told you about Darrin in my blog post, I had no idea he had passed away suddenly in June, at the age of 42.  Darrin might have been part owner at one time, or the business partner of chef Jay Caputo, but he was a big part of what Espuma does well–taking the highest quality raw ingredients, treating them with love and respect, and creating culinary masterpieces unlike any other.  The restaurant is tiny, so he also served patrons in the dining room.

As I said yesterday, while the printed menu is simple, listing only the ingredients, Darrin made the menu come alive.  Slowly and quietly, he took you through every delicious detail of how the food was prepared, in such a personal story that you were on that boat with the fishermen or in the fields picking the produce at its ripest moment.  When you ate at Espuma, you didn’t take leftovers, because you never left a morsel on your plate, but you always took a bit of Darrin with you.

When we went last summer, we were disappointed to learn that, because Darrin had won a series of bartending awards, he had moved behind the bar to serve his famous homemade cocktails.  We sat at the bar before dinner that night. Darrin’s Italian Mojito, made with his homemade limoncello and fresh basil, was the best drink I’ve ever had.  In fact, ever since last summer, I have tried unsuccessfully to replicate it and was planning to stop by in August and ask him to give me a lesson.

I cannot imagine Rehoboth without Darrin.  I just know when we go in August, it will feel a lot less Beachy.

Here’s to you, Darrin, my friend.  Thanks for giving us good times, good food and a bit of yourself.  If I could, I’d toast you with an Italian Mojito.

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July 29, 2010 · 7:47 am

Poetry for the palate

When I started this blog, I promised to share occasional samples of good writing, whether by poets, authors, journalists or songwriters.  Today I’d like to add restaurant chefs and the menu writers who staff them.  I enjoy good food as much as I do reading and writing, so any occasion to combine these interests is a welcome treat.

It used to be that the best restaurants were as creative in presenting their gourmet creations on a printed menu as they were in presenting them on the plate. 

One playful, alliterative chef might have portrayed his gnocchi as a “platter of petite potato pillows,” while another balanced his bounteous entrée with “braised baby bok choy.”

I tingle reading about tender young reeds of California asparagus and glistening flecks of pesto.  Once, at Janos in Tucson, I actually wept when mushroom baklava was paired with a demitasse of consommé, silhouetted on the dinner plate in pistachio dust.  Such artistic wonder could never be captured in mere words.

Things have changed.  It seems nowadays, fine dining menus no longer offer poetic descriptions.  The food stands on its own.

On one hand, omitting excessive verbs and adjectives puts the spotlight where many believe it belongs–on the food itself.  This is effective when exotic or rare ingredients might otherwise be overshadowed by flowery language.

Examples of a straight menu include:

Restaurant Eve, Alexandria, Va. – Sautéed Sugar Toads with Glazed Sunchokes, Castelvetrano Olives and Espelette Pepper Aïoli.  Or Wild Chicken of the Woods Mushroom Custard with Roasted Morels, Porcinis, Chanterelle Foam Feuilles de Bric Crisps and Micro Beet Greens.

The French Laundry, Yountville, Calif. – Four Story Hill Farm Cuisse de Poularde, Kanzuri Mousse, Akita Komachi Rice, Broccolini, Cashews, Shishito Peppers and Sauce Japonaise.  Or Tartare of Japanese Toro with Sea Urchin, Razor Clams, Cucumber, Hawaiian Hearts of Palm, Thai Basil, Coconut and Lime Aigre-Doux.

Charlie Trotter’s, Chicago – Steamed Tasmanian Ocean Trout with Green Tea and Coriander Dusted Garbanzo Beans, followed by Meiwa Kumquats with Frozen Meringue and Cured Black Olives.

On the other hand, a straight menu takes half the fun out of the restaurant experience.  In my quirky circle of family and friends, we make a parlor game out of going around the table and doing dramatic readings of the menu. 

One of my favorite restaurants is Espuma in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, where the printed menu does the cuisine no justice whatsoever.  Rather, your dinner choices are brought to life by the waiter, who vividly recounts how fishermen brought in their fresh catch that very morning; how the afternoon sun fell upon, at an acute angle, the wild blueberries that are lovingly tucked into the shortcake (garnished, by the way, with an orange-thyme biscuit, cantaloupe carpaccio, citrus granite and EVOO); or how the Classic Three-day Berkshire Pork made it to the platter, in a day-by-day account of its journey.  Don’t even ask about the Duet of Hudson Valley Duck or you’ll be weepy for the rest of the night.

Do you have favorite menu descriptions that have remained in your memory over the years, or can you suggest any eateries that still playfully present poetry on their pages?

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July 28, 2010 · 7:39 am

Waiting on Godot

My parents were sticklers when it came to teaching us proper speech.  I look forward to sharing more examples later, but one particular lesson comes to mind today.

One approach my father took in teaching life lessons was to warn me about certain behaviors and then say, “Don’t ever do that.”  For example, before I began learning how to drive, he once said, “notice how some drivers make a turn and go immediately into the middle lane.  Don’t ever do that.”  Instead, he instructed, turn into the closest lane and then change lanes gradually.  Even though at the time I didn’t have any personal context, I came to see that he was right; plenty of drivers make these sloppy and dangerous turns.  And I don’t ever do that.

Another time, he warned me that some people say “wait on,” when they mean “wait for.”

I had never heard anyone say “wait on” in any way except correctly.  My father assured me that someday I’d hear someone ask, “what are you waiting on?” and, when I did, he wanted to be sure I didn’t repeat it.  It might be a regional thing, he said; still, “Don’t ever do that.”

I listened for it but it was years before I noticed anyone saying “wait on” in lieu of “wait for.”  I was in the car with my new fiancé, behind another car at a stop light.  The light turned green.  The car in front of us didn’t move.  My then-fiancé honked the horn, stuck his head out the window and shouted, “What are ya waitin’ on?”  The moment about which my father warned me had come.

Let’s just remember that to wait for is to await or expect  someone or something.  To wait on is to serve, as a waiter waits on a restaurant patron.  Unfortunately, to wait on is still misused quite often.

John Mayer is “Waiting on the world to change,” as 30 years ago, Mick Jagger was “Waiting on a friend.”  It could be that the friend was laid up and needed waiting on.

Just this month, we read the following in sports headlines:

  • David Lee Waiting on LeBron
  • Brett Favre Waiting on Ankle to Heal
  • Waiting on Kovalchuk: Why Steve Yzerman should trade for Simon Gagne

Perhaps it’s one of those errors that, having gone colloquial, will in time be condoned by official sources.  That doesn’t appear to have happened yet, thank goodness.

Is it too late to turn the tide?  Or is it worth putting out a reminder and a tip for keeping it straight?

Maybe we can think about the Samuel Beckett play, “Waiting for Godot,” the title of which has become colloquial itself.

We recall that, in the play, the two main characters are waiting for a third, named Godot, who never comes.  The expression “waiting for Godot” has come to mean waiting for something that will never happen, or is futile.  I certainly hope by expecting to turn the tide, we are not waiting for Godot.

Or do we just simply reprimand ourselves, or our friends who ask “what are you waiting on?”  “Don’t ever do that.”

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