Good Writing Vs. Good Grammar

If you write clearly, readers will scan right over grammatical faux pas like a possesive its or your instead of the contraction it's or you're. When writing becomes cloudy, thoughts on the page come out confused, it may become necessary to clarify by scrutinizing the placement of an apostrophe.

My favorite recent example was simple. It's a tin tub that some baba may use for clothes washing. It's sold in Walmarts here, in the recreation section. Yep, one woman's daily grunt work is another man's tail gating -- we have here a grammatically incorrect ice + beer repository. On its side, embossed and unpainted, is the phrase:

Drink's

No prep-phrase, no further punctuation, no other thing on the other tin side.

I can only assume two situations leading up to this fantastic proclamation.

Drink is...
Drink owns...

Drink is actually an entity, person even, and he/she/it owns the contents of this bin. The fact that this implication is stamped there, far more permanent than flimsy, weather-susceptible paint, is quite the statement. Someone really wants you to know that the contents of this bin is DRINKS, except that they look dumb. The extra emphasis of physical form, and its being all in CAPS, makes this drink toter look particularly headlong crazy stupid. Not to mention that you need a specific bin for such a purpose, not just any bin, and this bin is not insulated like a cooler. The entire existence makes me a little giddy.

Another example, not from Walmart, not for plebs, is the acronym MOBIS. Mission Oriented Buisness Integrated Services. It sounds so good and encompassing and solidly important that it cannot help being a stand-out, motivational, desirable thing for you and your employees, or you and your degree, or you and your future. It should be on a poster with a dolphin.

However, if you are a noob to the business-sphere (as most professional volunteers are) you may look up this stand-out acronym. It may confuse you with its lead-fisted mission to inform you in as few words as possible.

Here is what I would do:

Mission-Oriented, Business-Integrated Services

Because it is four adjectives and a noun. The human eye can recognize three things in a clump together immediately, but four starts confusing it. Either your brain can clump it into two groups of two and do intuitive multiplication, or it can count one through four, or it can recognize three and add one. If your brain is like mine, it tries to run all three of these algorithms at once. If not, well done to your brains.

Grammar exists to asuage and expedite these sorts of things. By clumping the four adjectives into two groups of two adjectives it takes some of the pressure off uninformed brains. The hyphens clump, and the comma separates. The hyphens also show that the two noun/adjectives are describing the plain adjectives (I'm not so good I know the real terms for those, I'm pretty primitive myself).

Alternatively it could be:

Mission-Oriented, Business, Integrated Services

Not as physically pretty on the page, but still effective, takes down the adjectives to three (still intuitively recognizable). It does, however, change the meaning. This is where people who pay grammar, and in particular punctuation, lose their readers.

Are the services integrated? Is the business these services serve integrated? Are they business services that are integrated?

Without punctuation, you'd never know. They're just words in the ether of interpretation.

At least "Mission-Oriented" seems pretty straight forward. There's little other thing for either of these adjectives to be interpreting.

I know, this may be overkill. It may over analyse the message. You could argue the jumble of adjectives get the message across sufficiently without the grammar, and besides it's an acronym---people don't even pronounce the actual words! They pronounce the word "mobis", like mobil, but through a snake's mouth.

I stand by the idea that if MOBIS is a term to describe bettering your product (services are products) then you are falsely advertising the effectiveness of said product. That's all. It's bad, so the seller is bad, and I wouldn't spend my money there.

Vanity

Are all people as pre-occupied by appearence as I am? I spend very little time actually readying myself for public appearences, but spend gratuitous amounts of time before hand planning my whole wardrobe and minimal makeup repertoires. Scanning through haut couture magazines and analyzing minute blendings of color and placement of metallic shades above and below various layers of eyelash. I translate cartoon characters, and TV actress wardrobes and makeup sets from long shots to closeups, and try to find equivalents in my existent closet, then rake through malls for similar things. I do this in binges every 3 years or so, depending on my life situation.

The current transformation is from Peace Corps Volunteer to Yuppie.

Truth be told, half the Volunteers I met were already on the Yuppie Fast Track. Suits and delusions of power enough to help the world, a handsome bunch of Anakin Skywalkers. I went with a nice pair of linen slacks, Cairo circa 1942 sort of look, and a brace of brightly flowered button down shirts, two darts away from being Aloha wear. I had zero pairs of heels.

Little did I know what Moldovankas had in store... Two years' inundation of stillettos and sparkles birthed me back into America stylin.

Pair that with the year of Princess enforced one hour daily of fake eyelash application and costume scrutiny, it's amazing I don't preen constantly.

I do notice everything, though. From Hip:Leg ratio, whether you'd look better in profile or straight on, how much hotter you are than me, and me than you, hair maintanence, age of clothes, uneven eyeliner, brand of shoe, and whether all these things work for you or against your personality. How much they reflect your personality. How much of your personality you soak into these damned things. If I compliment your $500 Manolos, and you shrug or light up.

Anyway...I tell myself I only worry about these things when my mind is not otherwise occupied, like with work, or driving.

And since I do these things in binge cycles, I like having help. Since this one in particular is into unknown social territory, help would be nice. My first two forays were completely alone except for my mother's voice: "You know, you are petite."

This turns out to have been gold. I had no clue, but as soon as I walked into the super elite petite sections of Ann Taylor, it's like the clothes were made just for me! Like Guess things are for Key$a or American Apparel for my friend FrannyPants.

It was nice, but nearly as nice as my first shopping experience in Texas. It's Texas, things are bigger and better in Texas, right? Well, they are bitches about parking, but they know how to grease thier commissions. I had just been whinging with a shop girl at DKNY in Maryland about how I have no clue what clothes to buy for my first office job, and needed a personal assistant. She agreed, and folded the skirt and put it away.

These girls, Christine and Francesca, saw me walk in and didn't stop at "Hello, can I help you?" but expanded:

Hi! I'm Christine! What's your name?

Kiddo

So, how are you? What are we looking for today?

Oh, you know, work clothes.

Ok, well, I just helped a young lady in a legal office, do you like any of these (25) things.

They also served me Merlot, and gave me great advice, and I bought things from them without question, hoping they may get a slice. I was even sold a pencil skirt for $1. Their passion and professionalism were fantastic. They allowed me to think really hard for 1 hour, and now, my wardrobe is built to the point where I need not worry again about it.

Thank you.

Now I need my wardrobe to look like this:

And not just be a random bar slung between water works and a wood shelf.

Houston

I'm visiting my friend Houston, in his namesake hometown, for my vacation this year. What do I do, on my annual vacation, you ask? I work 8-10 hour days in a fun little office, and help host fun little networking round tables and presentations about oil wells in Yemen. I wear pantyhose, suits, and three inch heels. I make spreadsheets and battle with Microsoft Word for the privilege of typing upside down to make name-place cards for lunches (Hint: it's not possible. Manipulate the system by flipping the name positions on the page and then flip the direction of the paper as you feed it into the printer one page at a time.). I learned that if you are making an online agenda for a series of activities for a group of people, overkill and simplicity are key.

This is very fun, and useful. I learn all sorts of things, meet all sorts of people, and receive some Yemeni coffee (yum). I also see a whole city from a Not Tourist's perspective. I know most of the highway systems, and where all the HOV lanes are. I know which restaurants have good take out, which suck, which biker bars are particularly unsafe, and which will give you free baklava if you are made to wait too long.

Things I have learned about Texas and Texans:

1. Houstonians are a breed of particularly aware, educated, and clean-accented Texans.

2. "Everything is Bigger in Texas" does not necessarily mean size. It also mean quality. If you are going to open a restaurant, it is not going to be some anonymous building with food and seating inside, it's going to be themed, and decked out, and the staff is going to be competent. I have met no incompetent employees, from security gaurds to waiters to managers of oil corporations. Even people who work slowly, and in circles (I have met only two), finish their jobs to the nth degree.

3. The world runs on the things people do here. We worry about gas prices for a reason. This city is largely where the deals are brokered for those prices. It is the cradle of capitalist life. Such an overarching theme, and motivational core lends the entire city a sense of Can Do not currently felt elsewhere in the world. The roads and streets are ridiculously clean, the street cleaners dress business casual, the shopping strip malls are sequestered in glades seemingly designed by adult graphic design nerds. While there are super-churches dotting the highways, high quality restaurants and shoe boutiques evoke the same God/Jesus awe and devotion.

4. Sheriffs, of course, wear ten gallon hats and ride horses through the streets in packs of 5 or 6 pintos.

5. There are no zoning laws. Want your house to be the next puppy palace? Go for it. Want to build a skyscraper with a 7 level parking garage in this neighborhood? Show me the money. It's crazy. Luckily there is enough money flowing through all these ramshackle entrepreneurs succeed and fallen shacks of yesteryear's failings are few and far between. Either that or some observant person will see that bankrupt China Buffet that looks like Disney financed a mini Beijing, and refit it as a bonsai and other big tree nursery--instant gimmick. Why not?

I like it.

Nasty

A new and wonderful this has started: When I blow dry my un combed hair, strands clump together, they stay wet longer and blow around like strands of sunny kelp. They fall into configurations around my face that make me look like Key$a. It's off putting. Like wearing a wig for the first time, no way your face can look like that. No way you, your face can transform so much with something so arbitrary. If you've never tried it, it's $10 worth of fun from Party City.

I've worn wigs a good deal before, and never was I perturbed by their outcome. It''s awesome, in fact, to suddenly be a red head. Your own natural hair though,, and realize you suddenly look exemplary of many an abhorrent thing.

I look nasty, in fact. Slutty and mean. Not dirty with mud in my skin, but suggestive of it in a degrading and cheap fashion. I look ready to offend you just to watch you feel bad about yourself, like I might glean some vicious satisfaction from it. I look, suddenly, like I have undergone a serious change of personally and am now hard to dea with and nauseating to your own, higher sensibilities.

Luckily my hair dries, I straighten it and put it in a pony tail and arrive to work fresh and tidy, 10 minutes early. The next several hours are spent with a good deal of attention dealt to consideration of others, making their lieves easier and richer. For guests I am sweet and good humored and obliging. For co-workers I look for things they need help with and then do them.

So leaving tonight it's mentioned in passing that the innocent busboy with his huge liquid eyes, and nervous hand gestures should learn to be more nasty (implication to “stand up for himself”) and he can learn from Her---giant finger gestures at me.

Instantly three other coworkers chime in – Oh yea! She IS nasty!

I am surprised and a little offended. Who are these people, and what have I done to them? When did I cease being a skipping pollyanna and become a whip cracking delilah? If this is true, why has no one else in my life ever noticed it?

RegrEtsy

Zoids and her hubby, uh, Boy Zoids, are having a steampunk party in my sweet basment for Boy Zoids' b-day. I am their Organizer. I imagine myself as a blonde Jennifer Lopez from that one movie. I call and drum up ideas etc.

I have already experimented with some uber british olde recipes. I have rearranged furniture. I have draped everything in pretty cloth. I have started rigging a weird tutu/corset thing made of a wife beater and coat hangers. I have spent too much money on little brass studs to decorate everything.

Then I realized how hard some of these things are to make-- phew! Sewing!

I talk to my little friends on the facebook via some sort of new fangled ICQ and one, Card Shark, sends me a sweet idea for a steampunk bodice:

I take some issue with it, but am amused by the site it comes from "regretsy.com" and it occurs to me that if I can buy something this crazy on etsy, I must be able to find exactly what I want!

Here they are.

The only thing I have to regret is my life wasted as an artist and not an engineer so I cannot afford to buy such beautiful artistic things.

Encouragement

What is the difference between reactions to positive and negative feedback? What is more motivational? No witty story is going to grow here as I contemplate this. It's one of those less than fun situations where my brain focuses too much on the moment. Digestion becomes the thing to do later. I have faith my brain keeps the words and emotions in a bundle and unpacks them on its own time, like in my dreams or whatever, and that the confrontation with criticism will eventually prove to be productive.

If it does, I will consciously never be able to attribute the outcome to that person, that time, those words they used to mould me anew.

My current menial labor is in a restaurant. I started as a busser—that idiot who brings you bread, water and silverware, the unknowledgeable a-hole hovering with a fifty percent chance of screwing something up for you without you knowing it. Yep. That was me. I was taught a thousand tiny details about things you, a guest, are not supposed to notice. The fact that you don't notice them is what means I'm doing my job. So I won't enlighten you on what they are, only how I feel, emphatically, about it.

It is very noble work. Someone must do it so others can enjoy their lives. The sort of training undergone to make guests feel smooth and carefree is ongoing. Even after you are technically proficient other anal retentive people working higher in seniority and merit are going to continuously notice things you didn't do and should have. It is a steady stream. A steady stream of negative feedback.

Most people attempt to put positive spins on this negative feedback, to say it with a smile, or whatever. Most people fail at this.

It tends to come out as a very clever combination of “You're Wrong” and “You're Good.” Win for behavior, fail in execution.

In between these motions are little glimpses of social behind-the-scenes footage between staff members. In these moments you are not being criticized at all, but are on equal footing with everyone around you. It raises you way up. It has a Machiavellian way of eliciting dog-like devotion.

Bussing, in particular, is great for training people like you would train a dog, because of its monotony and eternally changeless repetition of movements. Constancy.

Personally, this is an ideal environment for accepting criticism. The stress of the initial criticism melts into the next and the repetition builds up awareness. Unfortunately, this too has its limits.

After so long, I get bored with the repetition and stop caring whether or not I'm being criticized at all. Improvement stops. It becomes no better than the all love or all hate environment. Which is only the fault of the task at hand. If it were a task complex as, say, directing films, I would flourish.

Variation with constancy? Is that what we've learned in today's rumination on mundanity? Ironic to anyone else?

Today's Gym Adventure

Middle aged ladies on a walk date. One is late because a kid had a sore throat. One is late because she has a sore throat, and we all know that you're about to come down with typhoid if your throat is parched from mouth breathing all night.

They also called in maintenance to complain about the smell in the gym. Apparently, it was like “vomit,” but I'd be running for 15 minutes at this point after a 10 minute warm up, and well, I guess my nasal passages are just out of touch.

In the past I would have disdained these women. In the past I'd have ignored them, let their story about a puking 9-yr-old and carpooling roll right by me. I'd come up out of the situation like a mermaid surfacing to clear, interesting conversation.

I am trying to be a better person, and see the relevance of their lack of pancakes yesterday morning. I decided good people do that. Give other people chances. Give the benefit of the doubt that perhaps they are an undercover spy and are suffocating. Perhaps I can relieve their bordom with sprightly and inspiring spontaneity. Maybe they really are interested in war, and ancient mosaics, or how magnets work.

It could be worth it to find out, right?