One morning, my son (who was maybe ten years old at the time) told me, “I play this Nintendo game good.” I replied, “No. You play it well. Well is an adverb, adverbs modify verbs, and to play is a verb. Good (in this instance) is an adjective. Adjectives modify nouns.” After I realized (again) that I sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher to him, he looked at me and asked, “Why aren’t they called adnouns? Shouldn’t adjectives modify jectives?” He totally missed the point.
The majority of my friends, acquaintances, blog reader(s), and healthcare providers are well-aware that I am a bit of a stickler when it comes to proper grammar, spelling, and punctuation. Hell, spelling ability was one of the top five reasons I married my first husband or even dated him to begin with. (Same for husband number two, in fact.) And I’m proud to say that both of my children know the difference between “your” and “you’re” and the difference between “its” and “it’s,” which is a lot more than I can say for most adults I know. I have convinced my family that the only thing worse than misplacing my keys is misplacing a modifier. They pretend to know what a gerund is so as not to upset my fragile psyche. And they know all-too-well that dangling a participle in front of me is an open invitation for my unbridled wrath to rain down upon them. I don’t care what you say, as long as you say it correctly.
If someone were to write me a note that said, “go to hell bitch.” I would return it to them with red marks showing that the word “go” should be capitalized, the word “hell” needs a comma after it, and the word “bitch” needs a capital “B” (because it refers to Me). I might also suggest that the statement end with an exclamation mark instead of a period.
I once saw this painted on the side of a delivery truck: “Quality at it’s best!” All I could think was: punctuation at its worst. I guess not everyone can get upset about apostrophe misuse the way I do.
Then there are the commonly-mispronounced words and phrases. My peeves are the butcherings of the words mischievous and supposedly. When I hear “miss-chee-vee-ous,” I throw up in my mouth a little bit. When I hear “supposably,” I roll my eyes until they get stuck. And why does 90% of the American population say “sherbert” when it is spelled and pronounced “sherbet?” There is only one R in it. I don’t much care for sherbet anyway, but when people mispronounce it, I really have no use for that shit at all. And why do so many people pronounce “asterisk” as “asterick?” Does it have anything to do with the phenomenon that causes some people to say “aks” instead of “ask?” I am also plagued by commonly misspoken phrases like these:
“At your beckon call” is incorrect. The operative phrase is actually “beck and call” (this mistake is almost forgivable because the word beckon actually means “to summon” and in fact the word beck is simply a shortened form of beckon.) Come to think of it, “beck and call” is a bit redundant, isn’t it? However, I will often respond to a call, but I shun becks at every opportunity.
One similar but unforgivable and dry-heave-inducing error is “for all intensive purposes.” It is actually, “for all intents and purposes,” which is also somewhat redundant. Even if a trite phrase is ridiculous, it should still be uttered accurately.
The worst offender of all misspoken phrases has got to be the transmogrification of “all of a sudden” into “all the sudden.” That one puts me into such an internal tizzy that I usually have to run to the nearest restroom.
I once heard someone say, “He takes me for granite.” Seriously? Well at least he doesn’t take you for Formica.
And when did it become acceptable for people to use “of” instead of “have”? As in, “I should of”? It is especially offensive when paired with the wrong verb, as in, “I should of went with you.” Oh, you mean, you should have gone with me? Well, I’m glad you didn’t because you can’t talk.
A phrase I hear a lot that makes no sense: “I miss not seeing you!” What? You miss not seeing me? Gee, thanks. I could say that to a lot of people who are up in my face far too often, “Hey, you who won’t leave me alone, I really miss your absence.”
Americans have enough trouble with English, so their attempts at uttering French words or phrases most often fail miserably. Armoire, coup de grace, and chaise longue are a few examples. I don’t mean that they should be pronounced with a French accent. That would be pompous. (No offense to my pompous friends.) They should just be pronounced the French way, but in American English. Armoire is not “arm-wah” and coup de grace is not “coo day grah.” The French do say the endings of some of their words. The bottom line with me is if you can’t pronounce coup de grace, use some other phrase. I even saw it spelled somewhere like this: cou de gras, which I think kind of means neck of fat. Not really the meaning they were going for. And I have given up on encouraging the correct pronunciation of chaise longue (literally translated, “long chair” which has been bastardized into “chase lounge.” If I were to say, “What a lovely chaise longue!” Nine times out of ten, I would come across as either pompous or, worse yet, ignorant.
There is one mispronunciation I like and intend to employ at every opportunity. I once heard someone say anticdote when they meant anecdote. I think that pronunciation might be more apt when the anecdote involves antics of some sort. I don’t care for anecdotes without antics, ergo, I prefer anticdotes and decided right then that I would thenceforth pronounce anecdote that way. Any dull anecdotes I hear will not be referred to as anticdotes, but rather, antidotes. As in: “that story was a real buzzkill, the ultimate party-mood antidote.”
And don’t get me started on inadequate spelling. I live in a relatively large city with its share of under-educated and irresponsible people. (This may seem off-topic, but stick with me.) It is a known fact that too many animals are having unprotected sex. The combination of spelling-challenged adults and sexually indiscriminate dogs leads to signs like this: “4-Sell: Brown Chi-Wa-Wa’s” and “Free Doxen puppy’s.” I would have taken pictures of these gems, but that’s just the sort of obscenity I can’t abide. I’ll have porn on my phone before I’ll carry around misspelled and mis-punctuated words. I once saw a grocery-store cake emblazoned with fancy blue lettering that said, “SUPRISE!” As in, “Surprise! We misspelled the sentiment on your cake because we’re illiterate, but that’s okay because so are you!” I doubt anyone noticed it. Had I ordered a cake and arrived to find a misspelled word on it, I would have sent it back for a correction. Not just for my own peace of mind, but also to take an opportunity to offer a helpful spelling lesson and to prevent such a tragedy from happening to someone else.
Because I never completely trusted my children’s teachers, I took advantage of every opportunity to train my kids to respect, revere, and regularly employ basic grammar rules. If any other children (or adults for that matter) are within earshot, all the better for them. One of my biggest challenges over the past few years has been drilling it into the kids’ heads that “me” cannot be the subject of a standard sentence. Here are some examples:
My son: “Me and him were making up jokes about our nuts.”
Me: “Me was doing what? . . . Him was doing what?”
My son: “Making up jokes about our nuts.”
Me: “You should say, ‘He and I were making up jokes about our nuts.’”
. . . .
My daughter: “Me and Lily and Maddie are so hot for Brance.”
Me: “Me is so hot for whom?”
My daughter: “I don’t know whom you’re hot for, Mom, but we’re hot for Brance.”
. . . .
Likewise, “I” cannot be the object of a sentence:
My daughter: “Take a picture of Brooke and I.”
Me: “Take a picture of I?”
My daughter: “No, she and I.”
Me: “Take a picture of she and take a picture of I?”
My daughter: “No, of me and Brooke.”
Me: “Thank you.”
Now, I don’t pretend or profess to be the World’s Greatest Expert on the English language. (Well, sometimes I do pretend to be.) I only got a bachelor’s degree in English. It’s not as if I did something crazy like get a Ph.D. in grammar:
“Oh, you have a Ph.D.? So you’re a ‘doctor.’ Doctor of what, may I ask?”
“Thanks for asking. I have a Ph.D. in English grammar. I’m a grammar doctor. Can I edit something for you?”
I believe my linguistic superiority, whether it is real or imagined, can be somewhat off-putting to anyone who wants to speak in my presence or send me an email or text. I wonder if they bite their tongues lest I mentally edit each word they utter. This, of course, works to my advantage because (1) I don’t have to listen to other people talk and (2) I get to talk more. And let’s face it; wouldn’t most of you rather listen to me? And I have been told that many friends suffer profound anxiety as they proofread their messages to me several times before hitting the send button. Hey, if the anxiety I cause improves their communication skills, they should be thanking me.
By the way, any so-called errors I may have made (or may make) in this blog are actually intentional examples of the poetic license I am entitled to by virtue of my obvious genius in this unpopular and endangered arena.
I know what you’re thinking:
(1) How pathetic is she that this is her only talent?
(2) Why must she try to make herself feel important by mocking and looking down on those less grammatically fortunate?
(3) Why does she abuse her children this way?
The answers:
(1) I have other talents that I am not as proud of,
(2) Therefore, I need to boost my self-esteem at the expense of others, and
(3) My kids will make me look good later when I can tell people they have Ph.D.s.
