OGD: Obsessive Grammar Disorder

I've seen a lot on social media lately criticizing people's grammar and, honestly, it's time to cut everyone a little slack. The Your/You're/There/Their/They're thing has been done to death. I understand when to use an apostrophe, when a quotation mark is called for, and who's on first. But typos happen, brain farts happen.  Bad grammar happens.


As an English major-turned-blogger, you'd think I would be all about the grammar.  But we didn't study dangling participles or dependent clauses in my college classes--I guess they thought we already knew all that.  I have a confession to make:  I couldn't diagram a sentence to save my life.  (Please don't tell the English Department at UW, because they might revoke my diploma.)  My 7th grade daughter recently asked for help with language homework that involved predicates and subordinating conjunctions. (Cue chirping crickets.) Not a clue...

I have probably broken three major grammar rules in this post alone--I couldn't tell you which, of course, since I am not a Grammar Nazi. This is not to say I don't think good grammar is important, but an occasional slip here and there does not doom one to Punctuation Purgatory.  I will not think you're stupid if you misuse parts of speech, but it's quite possible that I won't  understand you. "They're dog was over their with there cat" would leave me puzzling for days.  I know it's a personality flaw of mine--being so literal means I spend way too much time obsessing over such things.

Hello, my name is Kristin and I suffer from Obsessive Grammar Disorder.

I love words and how, when combined just right (and with a little pixie dust) they can create magic.  While growing up (the youngest in a family of five) I realized that I was never going to best my brothers at anything physical, so I decided to out-vocabulary them. (See, I'm pretty sure that was not the correct way to say that, but I'm going to call it "Poetic License" and move on.)  I started looking up words in the dictionary and dropping them casually into conversation.  I once told my brother that he was obtuse and he stared at me with such a mixture of such frustration and loathing that I felt a little giddy inside.

When used correctly, words can exert tremendous power; when used incorrectly, they create confusion.  And it drives me insane.

There was a construction site near our house last summer that posted a sign along the road that read "Truck's Crossing". Every time I drove by there I went a little crazy trying to figure WHAT THEY WERE SAYING. Was there just one truck that somehow owned that part of road?  Could I not cross there? Curse you, OGD!


There are many examples of grammar gone bad on Pinterest.  I came across this beauty recently: "Southern Born/ Southern Bread/ and/ Southern Girl/ Til I'm Dead."  I got to the "bread" part and was prepared for a clever play on words, but instead was sadly disappointed with plain old bad grammar.  She, of course, meant "bred," but there I was trying to figure out what southern bread was (biscuits maybe?) and obsessing over what could made this into something funny. ("Southern Baked/Southern Bread/and/ Southern Girl/ 'Til I'm Fed," maybe?)

Web MD defines Obsessvie Compulsive Disorder as a "potentially disabling illness that traps people in endless cycles of repetitive thoughts and behaviors."  Much like its counterpart, Obsessive Grammar Disorder causes those afflicted to compulsively try to extract meaning from bad grammar. Treatment involves a dictionary, a thesaurus, and spell check.  Or you can go with the holistic approach:  read three books and call me in the morning.

Six Weeks in a Desert

Lent begins tomorrow and so I begin my annual Facebook Fast.

My second grade teacher at St. Joseph's parochial school, Sister Judith, told us that we were to give something up for Lent so we would understand the suffering of Christ as he was crucified.  (She was not known for her warm demeanor, but for the Vulcan death grip she applied to unruly children.)

Somehow I don't think not being able to see funny cat videos on Facebook or take a quiz to see which Disney princess I would be (Belle) quite equates to being having your hands and feet being nailed to a cross. But giving up Facebook is hard for me.  And I don't think a loving God, such as my man Jesus, really wants me to experience the same pain He did. (That and He sometimes laughs at my status updates about grumpy teenagers because he remembers how moody I was.)

The first year I gave up Facebook for Lent it was mostly to prove I could.  I guess my friends and family felt I shared a little too much in my timeline posts and  didn't believe I'd last the 40 days.  Well, I fasted in that internet desert of no status updates and rose again as a blogger.

Last year I didn't Facebook fast--I thought I'd try a six week program of exercise and healthy eating instead.  That lasted about a week and a half.

The year before that, however, proved enlightening.  I had been Facebook-less for about four weeks and had convinced myself I'd never do it again.  What was I getting out of it, anyway, besides being cat-video-free?  In a bout of boredom I started perusing Pinterest (another internet time-suck).  There I snooped through my teen daughter's boards (which in Pinterest-ese is a grouping of like things, or "pins") titled "bucket list." On that board was a pin about meeting her favorite author.  Hmm, that was kind of interesting.  I found the website for the current author of choice and saw she was doing a tour to promote her newest title.  AND she would be a bookstore in Seattle in a few weeks time. So I took my daughter and friend to see the author she loved and became, for one short moment, not the worst mother ever.  All because I'd given up Facebook.

It may not have been what Sister Judith had in mind, but it was pretty darn cool.

Writing from the Dark Side

The other night I watched a movie about a woman who was having a hard time being a stay-at-home parent ("Mom's Night Out"--don't waste your time, even if you get it free from the library like I did). She found herself hiding from her kids in the closet, sobbing into her glass of wine, until she learned to deal with her stress by writing a blog.  Then her days were filled with sunshine and rainbows.

If only life was more like the movies...

This made me realize, however, that most of these so-called "mommy bloggers" are parenting small children, babies to elementary-school-age.  You don't see many bloggers waxing poetic about the joys of teenage offspring--why do you suppose that is?

Mother/Son Bonding

I, myself, am up to my eyeballs in teenagers (well, more like several inches over my head, since two of the three are taller than me) so I have a few ideas on the subject.

1) Teenagers are on the internet.  They do not take kindly to their parents broadcasting to the world-wide-web that Johnny just got his first pimple, or that that Suzy is hormonal and is being a major pain in the butt.  If you want to live with your offspring for the next several years without WWIII taking place in your living room, you just can't even go there.  If you want to write about your kids, your only option is to create decoy titles for your posts, like "Why the 80's Were So Cool" or "Retirement Planning for the Active Mom."  Throw them off the scent, as it were.

I don't know you.

2)  Raising teenagers is not for sissies.  While writing about young children can involve all sorts of cute and funny stories, it's hard to come up with a delightful anecdote of how your sixteen-year-old slammed the door in your face after yelling he hates you, or a heart warming tale of a teen daughter freaking out because you went into her room after dirty laundry.  It's sometimes dark on this side of parenting.  You say things you don't mean, you yell, and you make mistakes.  There comes a day when you realize you only have a year or two left to turn this swirling mass of hormones and body odor into a functioning adult. And you panic. We are not laughing at these events, and quite honestly we'd rather no one else knew about them.

3)  We are crazy busy.  Don't get me wrong, parents of littles are also trying to juggle all sorts of stuff: tying shoes, finding binkies, washing load after load after load of tiny socks and shirts.   You'd think parents of teens, with their kids half grown and able to feed themselves,  would have all the time in the world to spin tales of their parenting glories. But right now we're just trying to keep it together as we drop off and pick up, drop off and pick up, fending off major teenage attitude all the while. We are coordinating school sports with driver's ed and dinner and the tenth load of laundry filled with stained team uniforms and the oldest's favorite shirt.  We are filling out forms for college applications and graduation requirements and the permission for the HIV class at school. And we are reminding (nagging), counseling (bossing), and reminding/nagging again trying to make sure our kids get it all done.  The teenage years are crunch time for parents--did I mention they have to be functioning adults in a year or two?

Don't Talk to Me

I don't consider myself a mommy blogger because I sometimes write about my kids, anymore than I ever considered myself to be a soccer mom because my kids all played soccer.  I did a quick search for blogs about parenting teens and they all sounded equally serious and dull.  These years can be tricky, but if you don't have a sense of humor as a parent, you'll never survive.  I once told my son that getting through his teen years was going to require either military school for him or AA for me.  Luckily we didn't have to resort to either.  Yet.

Cult of the 12th Man

Being a non-football fan while the Seahawks are in the playoffs is kind of like being a Buddhist at Christmas.

Right now people across the Pacific Northwest are gearing up for the big game (against who I do not know).  Whole families dressed in 12th Man gear are flooding the grocery stores to stock up on chips and drinks and anything decorated in blue and green.  Faces are painted and flags are flying. Meanwhile, at the Graf house, we are spending a lazy Saturday watching movies and reading.  Not a single Seahawk logo to be seen.  Why, oh why, does everyone else seem ga-ga over this sports team, but we could care less?

Last year as the Seahawks played their way to the Super Bowl, I wrote a piece about my ambivalence for the game  ("Only the Lonely").  It's not that I hate it, I just don't get it.  And quite honestly, the crowds of people decked out in team gear everywhere I go is starting to creep me out a little.  Is this a cult or something?

Merriam-Webster defines "cult" (in the non-religious sense) as:
 a :  great devotion to a person, idea, object, movement, or work (as a film or    book); especially :  such devotion regarded as a literary or intellectual fad
 b :  the object of such devotion

 c :  a usually small group of people characterized by such devotion

So yeah, it's a cult. (Except for the small group part.)

When I googled "why do people like football?" I came across this article at Discovery.com that claims it's mostly testosterone.  All that charging and tackling and manly behavior.  Also it gives guys something to bond over.  But what about the women?  I know plenty of females who love the actual game itself just as much as they love the socializing that goes with it.  Who knows what sort of chromosome I am missing that prevents me from bonding with football. (Though my siblings claim it's further proof I was secretly adopted.)

Sure, I see everyone getting behind the local team who's winning.  And, hey, think of all the tax revenue it's bringing to our state (Seahawks win = more money for schools!) And I think many of the team's players are very fine inividuals:  from weekly visits to Seattle's Children Hospital, to their time spent with the local  Marysville Pilchuck team that was devastated by the shooting at their school, these men really have shown how to be a sports hero.

So there's this giant, happy blue and green cult going on and I just don't fit in.  I will never a member, I will never drink the kool aid. But somehow I ended up in a place where everyone not only gets it, but LOVES it.  Sometimes to the extreme.  From the  couple named their baby girl "Cydnee Leigh 12th Mann", to the guy who got the Seahawk logo stamped on his prosthetic eyeball.  And yes I know die-hard football fans everywhere do crazy things, but usually I don't have to live among them.

The bright side of all this for the non-football fan:  come game time the grocery store is practically deserted.  I can happily trip up and down the produce aisle with nary a sighting of those blue and green jerseys.  Just a few stragglers who forgot dip.  And to those tardy few 12th Men (and Women) I can shake my head and smile.  Yes, you, the 12th Man, just paid for my kids' education.

The Meaning of Thanksgiving

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, the ignored middle child of holidays.  Before Halloween has even come and gone, many stores start displaying their Christmas merchandise without so much as a thought for Turkey Day.  As the supply of princess costumes and mini Snickers starts to dwindle, people start looking forward to what's considered the holiest of holidays (from both a religious and a retail perspective). It's possible if you look hard you might find a few Thanksgiving decorations, but how can other holidays compete with Santa Claus, birth of a Savior, and Hallmark Channel's "Countdown to Christmas" made-for-TV movies?

Can we all just stop for a moment before the Black Friday sales begin and remember what Thanksgiving is all about?

Pie.  Thanksgiving is about pie.  

Go back with me for a minute to the very first Thanksgiving, celebrated by the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag Indians.  These natives had just saved the Pilgrims' heinies by not letting them all starve to death. (An act they may have regretted later.  "I told you not to feed them--now we'll never get rid of them!")  About half of the Pilgrims who set out on the Mayflower didn't live to see this first harvest festival, so those who did must have been very thankful, indeed.  Historians seem doubtful that any sort of dessert was served at this meal, but if there had been pie perhaps the relationship between the settlers and the Native Americans would have remained harmonious past the breaking of the wishbone.

My Grandma Mabel was never known for her cooking skills (a trait I seem to have inherited), but the one dish that all us grandkids loved was her Chocolate Chip Pie. 

This heavenly concoction consists of Cool Whip (not real whip cream, mind you, but Cool Whip, the non-dairy, hydrogenated vegetable oil whipped topping), marshmallows, and chocolate chips in a graham cracker crust.  (Grandma Mabel, not surprisingly, later became diabetic.) While we were growing up I always thought this was my grandmother's secret recipe--I even have it on a note card in her old fashioned handwriting.  Imagine my surprise when I saw the same recipe on the back of a graham cracker box.

Grandma Mabel was a first generation Norwegian American who lived through two world wars and the depression.  To me, that pie is a symbol of all that is great about our nation:  not only was Grandma's family able to thrive in this country, not only were they able to feed themselves, but they had dessert as well.  A dessert that required Cool Whip. From the store.  You know you've made it as an American when you serve processed food products for dessert. You couldn't do that back in the old country, now could you?

Pie could also be seen as a metaphor for what our country has become today:  a collection of several different ingredients (people from different walks of life) coming together for the greater good (pie). Sometimes involving hydrogenated vegetable oil.

So as you sit down to your meal on Thursday, there is no need to count your blessings or plan your Black Friday shopping strategy. (And for the love of God, do not finish your turkey and mashed potatoes and head straight to the mall!)  Instead, stay home with your family and your dessert--and just be thankful for pie.

Disclaimer:  While all types of pie deserve our recognition for its role in shaping our great country, Grandma Mabel's offering remains my favorite.  I share her recipe here with you.

College Funds, Hypothetically

My son is getting ready to go off to college next week--time to break out that college fund.

Hmm...college fund, college fund...

Shoot, I knew I forgot something.

Yes, I am one of those irresponsible parents that hasn't been stashing away $50 weekly since my child's conception so I can send him to an ivy league school.  But now that the day has come, I wonder if maybe I should have made it more of a priority.  It just takes budgeting, right?

What did I spend my children's hypothetical college fund on, exactly?

To start with, I invested that cash in a stay-at-home mom, who never had to drop the kids off at daycare when they weren't feeling well. With my husband as sole breadwinner, I could be home to read stories, play games, help with homework, and drive them to every activity under the sun.  The average weekly salary for a full-time nanny is $652 (according to a story in USA Today).  That's a $33,904 a year savings, or a whopping $610,272 for 18 years (taking into account the time span between children and when they were all old enough to stay home unsupervised together and not kill each other).  That might even cover an exclusive private college in the South of France.

I also dipped into my kids' tuition money to bankroll their childhoods.  All those swim lessons, summer camps, baseball camps, soccer fees, karate classes, ballet classes, gymnastics; trips to the beach, the zoo, the aquarium, the movies.  And don't forget the snacks--I must have spent a small fortune in goldfish crackers and fruit snacks alone. Total, for all three kids, I figure these things add up to about a million-jillion dollars.  If you round.

(Au revoir, South of France.)

And now here's my shocking, all-true-confession:  I spent my kids' college money on wild, gambling trips to Las Vegas.  Okay, they weren't so wild and my "gambling" consisted of $20 in the penny slots.  My husband and I have been going to Las Vegas for our anniversary the past six years, both for the sunshine (we live in Washington state, for cripes sake) and for the grown ups (we have three kids for cripes sake!). We spent money we probably couldn't really afford and took some time to relax with just the two of us. I like to think of this as an investment in our marriage. Total cost for all six years:  about $9,000.  If you haven't checked out costs for in-state schools lately, $9,000 will only get you through the first quarter.  I don't know what the job market looks like for someone with three months of college, but I imagine it smells a lot like McDonald's.

If you figure I saved $610,272 by not having to pay for a full-time nanny, minus the million-jillion dollars I spent on three childhoods, and then reduce it by the $9,000 dollars spent on my marriage, things start to look a little bleak.  However, if you consider the intrinsic value of a mother's love, a childhood full of enriching experiences to take with them into adulthood, and two parents who are still happily married (to each other), I think we all know what our total is:

A son who will be going off to college already in debt with student loans.

I was still feeling guilty the other day when my son and I started talking about his pending departure. The topic of classes and grades came up and he jokingly (?) said something to the effect that he doesn't have to go to class if he doesn't want, or even pass any of his classes, really. After my reaction of disapproval and dismay, he told me he was just kidding. Because--now pay attention, here's the kicker--if he was going to spend that much of his own money, he was going to make sure he was passing his classes.

Is this taking responsibility for his own future I hear?

So...by not saving money for his college fund, I was actually being a good parent?

Well, that's what I'm going with, anyway.  You all can draw your own conclusions, but I'll be over here feeling all smug and eating goldfish crackers.

The Funny Papers: Snohomish County's Local Voter's Pamphlet

It's here--the latest publication of some of the funniest writing currently available...by mail...to any registered voter in Snohomish County.  I may be the only one who looks forward to the Voter's Pamphlet with such glee, but when you read it you'll be amazed it isn't on the best seller list. (Okay, maybe because it's free.)  And while the current edition does not include a candidate who lists his community service as being President of the Wiener Dog Appreciation Society (oh, that was a good one!), it is full of all sorts of tidbits to keep me entertained.

All good plots need a couple of remarkable characters to keep the reader interested, and the realm of politics is full of characters.  Running for U.S. Representative in District 1 is someone who goes by the name "Mike the Mover."  He has no elected experience, but he was a household goods carrier for thirty-five years.  Okay, that's no reason to count him out--he's a regular guy who knows what it's like to work hard for a living--but if you go by a catch phrase instead your real name, I can't believe you really take the position seriously. And you might ding my coffee table.

Not to be outdone by the mover, District 7 offers us GoodSpaceGuy, whose professional experience includes only "prosperity building."  I'm not sure what that means, but it does sound, well, prosperous, doesn't it?  It seems a good part of GoodSpaceGuy's platform rests on the government's lack of viable space habitats, "connected together in various, turning configurations."  Wow is all I can say to that. Good luck, GoodSpaceGuy.

Any good publication needs a good story line, and I found that in the State Representative District 10 race.  This candidate has no elected experience ("I am not a career politician!"--he is a fan of the exclamation point!), but he was an advertiser "until the recent downturned economy."  So...he's currently unemployed?  Again, not a reason to count him out.  He lists his education as "high school valedictorian, #1 in class, UCLA studies, and entrepreneur."  Okay, he peaked in high school, dropped out of college, and then worked odd jobs?  It all becomes clear once you read his platform: he will "help integrate the Recreational Use Law into practice in Washington."  Ah, the story of a promising young academic who has become an unemployed, college drop-out, all because of the evil marijuana. But he does love an exclamation point!

Legislative District 21 offers for State Representative a candidate who has a snazzy photo accompanying his statement--think Casino Night at the Lodge, circa 1979.  His education consists of "Some college, many excellent management seminars, lotta hard knocks."  Only true characters can get away with using "lotta" while wearing a 70's era tuxedo.  Thank you, District 21.

Finally, a real page-turner must always have real gooder righting. (Wow, that hurt to type.) Why worry about proof reading when there are important political agendas to be promoted?  Tired rhetoric ("Teach a man to fish..."), incomplete sentences ("Let's face it."), random capitalization and quotation marks ("A big part of this is 'NOT' to accept corporate funding") and a "lotta" exclamation points (!!!!) are all hallmarks of a successful voter's pamphlet.  While the current edition could use some intense professional editing, the last issue included a candidate who had "SO" many typos that it was clear he didn't even have time to use spell check.  I felt this also meant he didn't have time to fulfill his duties in office and did not vote for him.

The lesson you should take away from this is it's your civic duty to be informed on all political races and issues.  Read your Voter's Pamphlet so you, too, can laugh at the candidates--and hopefully choose those that will be least likely to embarrass you while in office.