Lushes, Tweekers, and Nymphos are People Too

Education should benefit not just the  intelligent, the innocent, and the disciplined. It also should serve the stupid, the criminal, and the addicted.

What if that alcoholic serving time for a string of DUIs needs to communicate clearly in a letter to his family which of the prison's inmates is his new bitch and which of the inmates he is the bitch of? That could be critical if someone ends up pregnant.

And if that meth-head who can cook his own stuff without blowing off half of his arm could write an instruction manual, he'd not only save countless limbs, but make millions while doing it.

But, of all the addicts out there, Nymphomaniacs have a need for the mastery of language much more than any other. Matthew Cullinan Hoffman reported in Newsweek last year that "40 million people a day are logging into porn websites, (about 13% of the US population). Up to 9 million may qualify under the strict clinical definition of a 'sex addict'."  If nymphomania is going viral, the ability to express oneself in writing will become a must. Unlike the alcoholic rapist and the illegal chemist, nymphomaniacs feel safer broadcasting the different facets of their addictions because they aren't a felony.  

Just as knowledge of subject and direct object aids the alcoholic in the same way that mastery of transitional phrases and organization guides the meth-head, knowing what to do when you miss your period is key for the sex addict. Do you see that alcoholic crawling out from bar bathroom he passed out in to buy a copy of Strunk and White's Elements of Style?  A meth-head jamming cotton into his bleeding nostrils so he can go out and pick up Diana Hacker's A Writer's Reference?


That's why Jenny Baranick newly published book, Missed Periods and Grammar Scares, is brilliant. Not only does the title catch the eye (not the one-eyed monster, you pervert) but her examples and explanations of grammar basics revolve around two things that nyphos can relate to the most: sex and the drama that comes with it.

But, Baranick does not pigeonhole her market. Those lovely ladies who want to avoid being labelled a whore (and these days all a girl has to do is speak to more than one man within 30 minutes to be branded as such) need to know that even the smallest comma error can come back to haunt her. Take, for example, the following sentence from Missed Periods' chapter on commas:

Before you begin turning a trick is to find a spot on which to focus.

Forget the comma after "turning," a hooker's advice is befuddled by those extra words "is to." Knowing that a comma is necessary after "turning" will keep all those innocent and delicate ballerinas, well . . . innocent and delicate.

The title of Baranick's book may not immediately grab a man's attention, but the content is just as valuable.  Men are getting smarter and consulting their female friends when they are trumped up by love. But what if he texts this sentence (also taken from Missed Periods) to his homie with the double XX the day after his girlfriend (Kim) breaks up with him?

Do you think it was due to my pet python escaping daily requesting threesomes with her friends Laura and Samantha texting constantly while Kim and I were on dates or forgetting her birthday three years in a row that made Kim break up with me?

Receiver of said text can't offer her wisdom because she isn't even sure what question he's asking. Did Kim get the flock out because his python escaped daily? (Once would have been enough for me.) Or did Kim dump him because he daily requested threesomes? Did he want to have threesome with any of her friends or just Laura and Samantha? If he wanted to have threesomes with Laura and Samantha did he want Kim watch? Did he want Kim, Laura and Samantha to have threesomes while he watched? Did he want to be involved in this estrogen fueled threesome? Wouldn't that make it a foursome? And the texting: is Kim's issue with who is texting or when the texting was being done or both?  The interpretations are endless.  If the commas were in their proper places, it would be easier to say whether or not Kim dodged a bullet or if she is just a bit possessive and a lot conservative.

So, no matter who you are, which vices you do or don't indulge, you can only benefit from buying a copy of Missed Periods and Other Grammar Scares. It will help keep it real.

A Rose By Any Other Name, Part II

I have just been made aware of a startling reality: not everyone in the world is reading my posts.

I know, hard to believe.

Well, there's at least one guy who isn't at the very least paying attention to the wisdom I am throwing down: Goddanit420.

When I was notified that he had sent me a message through one of the dating sites I loiter, the handler name alone made me groan. His age--26--made me think will I ever attract someone over the age of 30? 

Maybe I Should Audition

But, in the name of open-mindedness (or desperation) I read his email.  To my surprise, his writing has an eloquence to it. He mentions being surprised to "have not made my acquaintance" seeing how we live in the same city and that I have a "pretty face."

Hey, "pretty face" is pretty damn eloquent in comparison to other complements about my appearance that I've gotten through this site.

Still, my experience with these south-of-thirty gentlemen has not been fruitful and my enthusiasm for dating is at dead point.

I send a nice, congenial reply indicating that I am flattered by his interest but that I think he is just too young for me.

It takes 30 seconds to get the response I always get when I kindly try to dodge a cub: age doesn't matter; I need to be open-minded.

Well, it worked out for Demi and Ashton, right?

But Goddanit420 adds that he "doesn't think [I] read his profile."

Well, of course I didn't. "Goddanit420" didn't exactly draw me in. I don't have issue with marijuana, nor those that smoke it, but that name screams stoner, which is not what I am looking for. I love, love, love wine but 2BuckChuck ain't my handler name.

Calling me on my quick judgement did motivate me to read the profile. Okay buddy, let's see you prove me wrong.

I scroll through the pictures: one of his sitting at the beach, one of him showing off some tattoo work on his lower arm, one of him fishing.

One of him wearing the cardboard case to a 12-pack of Budweiser as a helmet.

Under his list of interests: THC.  He claims that he's not an alcoholic but that he can't drink anywhere "without being Judged" [sic].  Also, he has a car, but no license because of too many unpaid tickets.

But his money would be my money.

Good thing I read that profile, because a rose by any other name . . .

Zeffirelli's Romeo and Juliet

To Quote My Grandmother: "Why Are Teenagers So Stupid?": YOLO

Traditionally, New Year's Eve is the official reboot-your-life day. But for me, that feeling of renewal comes in September when the school year begins.  All students march onto campus with their shiny new folders; backpacks clean of tagging; fully stocked with college-ruled notebook paper, pens, and pencils. Hell, some even have highlighters. Young, pimple-ridden faces are lifted to the sky with the resolve to keep up with work and earn better grades.  Even the students who have never earned higher than a 'D' in their lives claim that this year they are going to stop screwing around and focus on school because they have realized a fateful truth . . .

YOLO.

They doodle it on my class syllabus; they shout it in the halls.

YOLO.

Now, YOLO may be a new word, but it's not a new concept. When I inquired what the hell they were saying to one another--who knows what kind of underground revolution my students are capable of--I learned that it is an acronym for "You only live once."

"Oh Captain, my captain."

"YOLO" is the descendant of "carpe diem" which was most often translated as "seize the day," until today's youth gave it just one more revision. Oxford English Dictionary defines "Carpe Diem" as the Latin term for "enjoy the day; pluck the day when it is ripe."

In high school, "living" would mean dodging all of their parents' and teachers' expectations in order to drink, screw, and do drugs. (That's true for many adults as well, but I'd like to say it's not as popular of an approach as it is to teens.) I mean this without disdain or condescension; I was no different at that age. The only thing different is that I YOLOed to the soundtrack of Whitesnake and Motley Crew instead of Kayne West and Katy Perry.

Living life to the fullest--or YOLO-- is not just the mantra of today's youth. The name's just changed. Lord Byron, a master of deviance in the early 1800s (google him, you'll see what I mean) would have tagged "carpe diem" on his backpack. Those hippies of the 60s, would be content to say "seize the day" to their classmates as they trudged from class to class. 

But don't be too hard on this wave of language revisionists. Just as constant as adolescent culture is the need to anchor oneself to a particular era with slang.

Back when "capre diem" led the charge for the nonconformists, a man might go to a lushery to enjoy a few gatters. As he became kanurd, he might start looking for a buor because more than likely only a dollymop would be in such an establishment. If he could get enough mecks down her gullet, she might let him feel her heaving bubbies. But, before she allows him to play with her charms, she would make sure he hadn't spent all his chink. There's no way she'd allow him to put nebuchadnezzar out to grass for free.

In the 1960s, "seizing the day" shredded the propriety of the previous century. A man (or woman) would no longer have to grouse around in the underworld of violence and crime in order to enjoy the spoils of alcohol, drugs and sex; one would merely have the desire to mock The Man. Instead of a seedy bar, one could attend a jam. After a few brews and maybe a little boom (shit, in the 60s they might have also indulged in some beast and girl), the hunks will start interacting with the skirts in the room, but unlike the buors at lusheries, these guys can't assume they are all pigs. They may have to settle for copping a feel, and if they get lucky, swapping spit. Otherwise, that stone fox might just flip a lid and call the fuzz. Then everyone would have to beat feet and ruin the jam altogether. 

miriamaguilar.tumblr.com

Today, teens have plenty of kickbacks to choose from when they are looking to YOLO on a Friday night, but they prefer house-parties. Finding alcohol and bud is easy enough at any social event, but if a guy is not Facebook official with anyone, house-parties provide more sluts to hook up with. If a guy is crazy horny, even a skank will do. But, if he truly wants his bros to think he's hooker, he'll find a kickback where the hotties will be more gucci. They gotta roll it sick, yo.

No longer a teenager, when I YOLO, it doesn't involve lusheries, boom, or skanks. In fact, sitting here, typing up this post, sipping my morning cup of Jo while I enjoy the fresh beach air and watch my kittens frolick-- that's yoloing to me.

Okay, there might be Bailey's in my coffee. 

What of us goes to waste?

I have a whole lotta skills, yo.

Unfortuneatly, not all of them are valuable. Some are useful; some are enriching. The rest go to waste.

When I think of "useless," the connotation is more pragmatic. These are skills necessary to stay alive or reach a certain goal--that goal being in the name of efficiency or necessity. 

I have skills that are very, very useful. I am very good at knowing how to obtain food and wine. An expert, in fact. Grow food? Not so skilled there, but I'm still alive so I figure it's a skill not everyone needs. I am also very good at selecting shelter: an apartment three blocks from the beach. Can I build a shelter? No, but that goes into the category of growing food. I know how to use a hammer, that's a shelter-building skill. Thank the goddess that I have the skills required to teach others how to use language which keeps me employed so that I can pay for already-grown food and already-built shelter.

In addition, I have skills that enrich my ability to stay alive. I am a pretty good cook. Italian food is one of my specialties. I can also make a pot black beans that would impress a Cuban.

I am also have great organizational skills. I can create a system for anything--a step-by-step process even a monkey could follow (my job as a high school teacher has perfected that skill so that it is becoming a more useful skill).  And planning? I am a planner extraordinaire.

And dare I say that my skills in writing not only enrich my life, but others as well? (Again, this might be a useful skill because if I didn't write, I have no idea how I would keep The Crazy at bay.)

The skills I have that I consider wasteful are those that neither keep me alive nor enrich my life. They might enrich another person's life, but since I can't use them, they just rust over.

For example, I am very good at flirting with women. All women: gay, straight, in transition. Now, my ability to pick up on women would be very enriching if I were a lesbian. Unfortunately, I am straight. And there is no occasion other than hooking up with women that my skill would be useful. Maybe enriching to men who would like to watch me pick up on women, but being a side-show for men is neither a goal nor a flourish I have in my life.

Another skill I have that serves no purpose is my ability amp a situation that has a green terror alert to a red terror alert within 60 seconds. If I were an actress, my flare for over-reaction and drama would be very useful. I am not, nor desire to be, on the stage.

Lastly, I recently learned that I have the skills required to be a foot mistress. I guess I am excellent at trampling, stomping, and squashing. Now, if I were into feet, that'd be great. But, I'm not. I hate my feet as a matter of fact. Now, I do have a friend who is greatly enriched by my skills, but the novelty has worn off for me, so it has slipped into my wasteful skill category.

What are your most wasted skills?

My Childhood Monster

A fellow blogger and author, Christine Rains, is celebrating the release of her paranormal romance, FEARLESS, by hosting a blogfest based on childhood monsters. I couldn't resist an entry, especially since my next project is going to be revising the YA horror novel I wrote when I was a YA. A very grounded YA.

My childhood monster answers the age old question once posed by Luke Skywalker: Why would Storm Troopers want to slaughter Jawas?

Well Luke, because they are scary little suckers. Storm Troopers may be an army of evil, but they wear white, shiny uniforms. Not quite the image of a childhood terror.

And as I child, I thought I saw one in my bedroom and to this day, the image still haunts me.

I grew up in a foreboding house located up in the hills where there were few residents and lots of wildlife. The city hadn't bothered with putting up many streetlights, so the nights were silent and dark. Tomb silent. Grave dark. My father claimed that any light, no matter how dim, that might be on anywhere in the house would keep him up, so no nightlights in my house. No sir.

I would sleep with my window open so that whatever moonlight available could break up the pitch blackness of my room. Some nights, I would sit up--rigid, teeth clenched-- in my elevated, antique brass bed, and wait for my eyes to adjust to the shadowy darkness so that I could make sure I was alone in my room before lying down to vulnerable sleep.

Yes, that's my dresser.

Yes, that's my laundry basket.

Closet door is definitely closed.

Oh my god, what is on my chair in the corner? Whew, just my teddy bear.

I was never quite brave enough to check under my bed. Probably should have, because that's the only place the Jawa could have been hiding.

One night, I went to sleep feeling safe, but it must have been a bad dream that jerked me from my slumber. I shot up from my repose, panting.  I wish I had just stayed in the nightmare.

At the foot of my bed, I saw a cradle. In the cradle, the profile of a hooded figure, no bigger than a small child. While the cradle seemed to be rocking from side-to-side, the figure rocked forward and back. I knew by the way the hood pointed at the back, and the rim formed what seemed a perfect, stiff circle that it was a Jawa.

A Jawa sucking his thumb.

Well, not sucking his thumb in the traditional sense. When the Jawa rocked backward, the thumb slowly pulled away from the hood; when the Jawa rocked forward, the hooked arm and jutting digit disappeared behind the folds of cloth. Rock back, rock forward. Rock back, rock forward.

I sat in complete terror: heart pounding, sweat dripping. I did end up screaming for my parents. But instead of begging for a light to be left on, once they reassured me that a Jawa nor a crib was nowhere to be found in my room, I shut my curtains, wanting  my room to be at dark as tar so that whatever was in my room, I wouldn't be able to see it.

An Emerging Market: Cougars

Dear Apple,

I realize that you are taking over the world. You lure us with cute pictures and the illusion that you are saving us time (try completing a task without your cellphone or computer within reach and you'll see just how much "time" technology is saving you). You promise convenience and efficiency. But the most seductive thing about your product? It's pretty and easy.

Instead of worrying about things like words and being burdened with texting complete sentences, you provide cute, little icons for users to make their communication both clear and quick. I no longer have to deny anyone a moment without the honor--the need-- to interact with me.

I can text a birthday cake instead of "happy birthday" (also helps avoid the unanswerable grammatical question of whether or not or even how "happy birthday" should be capitalized).  I can text a thumbs-up for "that sounds great!" or "I agree." At the end of a long Monday, I can choose a pile of poop in response to a "how was your day," and at the end of a Friday, I can text a martini glass. Or the hypodermic needle.

And I have to thank you for the egg-in-frying pan icon when I need to send a text about breakfast. Or to present what age, blogging, and too many drugs in high school has done to my brain.

And who doesn't need a picture of an eggplant in his or her daily communication? Oh, and Apple, thanks so much for the hedgehog, the nose, and the ghost with the eye patch.

But Apple is sorely neglecting a market: Cougars. We are adapting to texting as a main mode of communication to accommodate our twenty-something interests, but the age gap does bring about some problems. Therefore, Apple, I need you to please add these icons to iPhone 5.

I need a in place of "please, don't send me naked pictures." 

I need one of these to indicate that I don't send naked picture.

(Well, maybe for $.)


And I definitely need one of these so that my potential suitor knows that I don't put out on the first date.

If my request comes too late for the iPhone 5, I suppose I can use a thumbs down + the camera + the eggplant in place of "please don't sent me picture of your penis," but that's three things I have to tap! So, Apple, I'd hop on it because my next letter will be to Android.


Regards,

Cougars of America

P.S. Trust me when I say that we have more power than the NRA.

Why We Need LOL

I speak two languages: snob and sarcasm.

Snob is my written language; sarcasm is my colloquial language. Whenever I write anything -- fiction, prose, emails, grocery lists--I always used correct punctuation, sophisticated vocabulary, and rhetorical flourish. I use semi-colons in my text messages. Hell, I even capitalize first person "I" and spell out "you."

Sarcasm is my colloquial language. I know, I know--sarcasm is only funny to the person using it and is the sword of language. But in the home I grew up in, sarcasm was as valuable as a lifeboat on the Titanic. After years of wielding it in the name of survival, it flows naturally from my mouth, more free than air.

When I was in school to get my teaching credential, I recall a professor warning to "never use sarcasm with students" because it causes psychological damage. At the time, I wondered how I was going to teach anyone anything if I had to be mute.

Then I learned that I needed sarcasm to not only survive my childhood, but also to survive my profession. Have I scarred any teens during my teaching career? Probably. But fuck it, I've always been a bit Darwinian. And the students always know that I'm just kidding. I mean, the voice inflection that cloaks those biting words provides a cushion, right?

But, speaking sarcasm  is so much easier than writing it. And when one is texting (or IMing) it is meant to flow like conversation; it's digital dialogue. Therefore, taking the time to chose that perfect word or orchestrate language so that tone comes through is just practical or reasonable, even for masters of the written word.

Thank God for LOL and :).  Tacking one--or both if the sarcasm is really poignant-- indicates that one is j/king.

LOL is infant in the family of language, but it's precocious. It has already evolved. In the beginning, LOL was primarily used by the receiver of a message to mean that the content of what was sent made him or her to "laugh out loud."

For example, when a prospective suitor texted me, "UR cook dinner n suck cock?" I responded with "LOL" as a kind way of saying "The fuck I am, asshole." If it's a new flirtation, I might tack on a :) as well. That way, he knows that I have no intention of cooking him shit nor sucking on anything but that I am not offended by his sarcasm. If he was being serious, he'll learn right away that I may not be the girl for him. Better he learn that now than after dinner, right?

But then, LOL went from a message receiver's signal that he or she is enjoying the conversation to a message sender's tool to keep the conversation amiable.

This evolution affects both sides of the conversation. Now, the potential suitor would text, "UR cook me dinner, LOL" and I would respond with "No, you're going to buy me dinner, LOL." I don't think he's a misogynistic dick and he doesn't think I am a gold-digging bitch. Instead, we learn that we are both witty and playful.

If potential suitor texts, "UR cook dinner?" without the LOL :), I know that his question is serious and I can whip out my snobbery and respond with, "Sure, after you take me out to dinner, buy me a dozen roses, and then send me a thank you card the following day."

As long as the communication is clear, it's all good. If the potential suitor was joking and the lack of LOL was an oversight, well then, I've learned that he's careless. No thank-you. Still a win-win for me.