Say What?

One wouldn't think that in traveling 30 miles one would encounter idiosyncrasies in language.

Devil Strip?

And one in particular that I still cannot abide: the absence of "to be."

As in the sign someone posted on the fax machine that said, "needs fixed." I wanted with all my might to add "TO BE" between the two solitary words, but I refrained.

However, as anyone who has ever worked on my team knows, the absence of "to be" is guaranteed to launch me into an agitated chorus of, "to be, to be, to be, to be!!"

I was convinced this must be a regional quirk, since I hadn't heard this particular usage anywhere else, even when I lived in the Old Dominion.

The other night, my suspicions were confirmed when we attended a talk by Edward McClelland, who penned the book, How to Speak Midwestern.

It turns out, Cleveland and Akron are in two different zones.

Cleveland folks, whom he terms "Inland North," originally migrated from New England.

Akron natives ("Midland") originally hailed from Pennsylvania.

And yes, the whole "to be" thing is also a Midland thing, originating in Northern Ireland with the Scots-Irish.

I felt slightly better knowing there was an origin to the phenom, and it wasn't just because someone got lazy along the way and decided to drop the "to be." (Although that certainly could have been the original motivation, who knows?)

Other quirks between our two cities include the phrase "devil strip" used to describe what I grew up calling a "tree lawn." Mr. McClelland theorizes it was originally called a devil strip by coal miners who wanted their kids to be afraid of getting too close to the street.

As time goes on, and we become a more mobile society, many of our twangs and quirks are blending and disappearing. In a discussion we had at work, some of the younger folks said it was their parents or grandparents who had certain idiosyncrasies in their speech that hadn't been handed down.

I know that when I lived in Virginia, I didn't think I had an accent at all, until I hit a word with a twangy "a" sound, and the entire room burst out laughing.

Which I found amusing, since I had been talking to folks who hailed from Thailand, Venezuela, Israel and Germany, as well as places all across the U.S.

Who knew I had an accent?

Buy Buy Baby

"Do you notice any difference," my husband asked.

He took them off and handed them to me. I put on the yellow-tinted glasses and looked out onto the road.

"Nope," I replied. The street lights are more yellowy but it doesn't improve my night vision any.

And so, once again, we are disappointed by an "As Seen on TV" miracle product.

Like our ancestors, who also perhaps fell prey at some time or another to snake oil salesmen, Mr. Ginley and I have purchased our share of highly-touted products that did not deliver as promised. In spite of the claims by the ordinary-looking folks on TV who swore they were the best thing EVER.

Of course, being in advertising myself, I should know better. But something primal within me wants to believe that the Ginsu will be the best knife I've ever owned. (Not so much.) And Mr., who begged to try the amazing callous remover was quite disappointed. He inserted the batteries, turned it on, and watched the roller spin around...until he pressed it to the heel of his foot. At which point it stopped. Pulled it away, it spun, touched his foot it stopped. It was good for comic relief, but not much else.

A few years ago, I got caught up in a demonstration by a guy who was shredding cheese with a battery-operated gadget. I was mesmerized. Mr. Ginley whispered it my ear, "You won't be able to get it to work the way he does."

"But it also comes with all those attachments, and look, he's giving away free apple corers, and look at how nifty they are."

I feel only slightly better knowing that being a sap for these pitches runs in Mr. Ginley's family, too. His mom once purchased a set of encyclopedias from a door-to-door salesman.  His dad managed to halt the delivery of the entire set, but they let her keep the first volume. (Henceforth, when he and his siblings wrote reports for school, the subject had to begin with the letter "A.")

We're getting a little better. The other day, when Mr. Ginley paused at the "As Seen on TV" wall at the store, he said, "I wonder if Joe could use this antenna-thingy. It says it picks up all of the local channels, and he doesn't have cable, so it could come in pretty handy."

I pulled out my phone and asked the Google if it was any good. Nope.

And thus, I was able to save us a few clams.

But if we ever see a Car Cane, I'm pretty sure he's going to make me buy one.

Experiencing Technical Difficulties

For the second time in two months, our 3-year-old computer flat-lined, and I had to take it to the tech doctor.

Hard wear.

The first time, the hard drive was toast, but a team of surgeons was able to extract most of our data and reload it onto a new hard drive.

"So," you are going to ask, as did the tech who serviced our machine, "did you back up your files?"

Well, we thought we did. Until we discovered the back-up drive, which is supposed to do its thing automatically, had pooped out sometime in April. After that, anything we hadn't backed up manually was available only on the damaged hard drive.

As I said, we were lucky, in that we were able to recover our data. Luck came with a $200 price tag.

Fast forward to this past week, when our computer once again displayed a dark screen with a different but equally ominous error code.

Before taking it in, I did an online search for the error code, and found that all I had to do was insert the recovery disk for my operating system. The disk that didn't come with my computer. The disk that, according to Asus, the manufacturer of my laptop, they no longer send to their customers free of charge. A woman with a foreign accent assured me that I could buy something that might do the job. Not feeling the love, I told her, "no thanks."

The other alternative, according to Microsoft forums, was to download something that would fix my computer. Unfortunately, I couldn't get to the internet to download the fix because all I could get on my computer was the black screen of death.

Into the shop it went. Turns out, it was a corrupted Microsoft update. This time, because it was a different error and thus not covered by the warranty from the last repair, it cost me $45 to fix. (Et tu, Microsoft?)

Fearful that a third mishap could be around the corner, I ordered a recovery disk from ebay. Hopefully, this will appease the Electronics Gods, and I won't ever have to use it. But I will be prepared, just in case.

Technology is a wonderful thing, really it is.

But I gotta say, I do wax nostalgic sometimes for the days when I wasn't a slave to hunks of metal with sketchy recall. 

When the only faulty memory was my own.

Failure to Communicate

Trolling through my favorite muse (Facebook), I saw a post from a friend about email classes being taught in college.

A discussion ensued about the relative merits of communicating via email versus the other snappier methods such as instant messaging.

While I have always espoused the theory that brevity is the better part of valor, I have to take exception to the idea that the best way to communicate is by eliminating vowels and peppering one's messages with emojis.

I cannot tell you the number of times I've received an email communication that has left me scratching my head, wondering what the sender was trying to convey. It was obvious that their fingers did the thinking, that the brain took a powder while the message was being typed.

I hate to sound like a codger here (I know, that ship sailed long ago), but back in the day, when you had to type out every letter of every word, then reread your missive and correct it, all before sending, the world was a better place.

It's all too easy to fall into the trap of firing off an email/text/IM without taking the time to review it to make sure it makes sense. And yes, even I have been guilty of same. But it's not the way the circus should be run. (Monkeys, monkeys everywhere!)

I think teaching email writing is a swell idea, but I would argue this should happen in high school, not college. And that the course should include basic do's and don'ts. For example, do speak in complete sentences with wholly-formed words. Do use correct grammar. Do reread your email before you hit the "send" key. And never -- and I do mean never -- send an email when you're pissed. Write the email, get the bile out of your system, then hit the "delete" key. You'll thank me later.

Also, just to note, a well-written email (or cover letter or résumé) is critical if you are applying for a job that is centered around communications. Please, for the love of God, understand the difference between "your" and "you're." It's not that hard, it really isn't.

For those who think the business world is stuffy and that we should get on board with instant communication, well, I don't think we're quite there yet.

And if you send me a message with a lot of gobbledygook, don't expect me to take the time to try to figure out what you're trying to say.

I may be a codger, but I can hit the delete key with the best of them.

Getting Rocked

"Pop!"

I shifted my eyes slightly to the right and swore. Repeatedly.

Bright and early Monday morning, a rock hit my windshield, leaving a small hole and spidery cracks radiating from it. In one of the worst possible spots on the windshield, in my line of vision.

A call to my insurance company, a recorded message, and a transfer to the company they contract with to makes glass repairs, assured me that mine was a common occurrence.

The next day, Glass Guy #1 met me at my car in the parking lot at work, confirmed that I did not just want him to prevent the crack from getting worse, that I wanted to replace the windshield. The following day, I rendezvoused in the same place with Glass Guy #2, who scanned my credit card, and did the job on site.

Back to my Monday.

Like hateful bookends, the conclusion of my workday came with a visit to the dentist. After my plea for double the novocaine (a standard request because I have very sensitive nerves, I don't care if there was a root canal in that tooth), I sat in the chair for an hour and a half while he and his assistant did their thing. He drilled. And drilled. And drilled a bunch more. They took molds of my tooth. They crafted a temporary crown. I sat the whole time, my heart racing like a rabbit, fearing that the drill would hit a nerve.

Yes, I'm a big baby in the dentist's chair.

And so I took my sore jaw home to my Mr. He was appropriately sympathetic. Boo hoo me.

Then I took a look at my Facebook page. I saw the photos of the devastation in Houston. Not rivers, but oceans of water cascading down city streets and through neighborhoods. People in boats, rafts, being rescued. Neighbors saving neighbors.

And I realized a bigger lesson, not just about the relative nature of our pain, but also about randomness. About how quickly things happen, big and little, to cause us irritation (my case) or irreparable damage (Houston).

I go along every day assuming nothing will change. That I'll go to work, come home, eat, go to bed. With minor variations, it will go on and on and on. Then the realization that something can happen so quickly without warning and apparently at random. A rock. A storm. The passing of a life.

No way to prepare. But maybe the point is to be aware of where I am now. Of all that I have. The people who make my life hum. The birdsong. Squirrel chatter. Beautiful warm days and cool weather nights perfect for sleep. Enough money to keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach. And so much more.

Sometimes a small rock can teach a large lesson.