Posts filed under ‘Life Preservers’
Always Missed. Never Forgotten.
Five years ago today, the world lost one of its best, our friend Damon Garde. To those who know, I say “Always missed. Never forgotten.”
Our lives have, somehow, gone on. Grief abated to a point that let’s us function. We are forever changed, but we have, as people do, found ways to return to almost-normal. We were broken but we have worked together to patch those places by helping each other, by living life, by honoring the uniquely wonderful being that was Damon, by remembering.
The best we can do is to remember.
Remember the freedom of being with a friend who accepted exactly who you are. And try to be accepting and inclusive of the new people you meet.
Remember how he danced. And, given the opportunity, get up and pull someone out there with you. Keep an eye out for those who might not otherwise get asked.
Remember a water skiing adventure or a motorcycle ride. And don’t let too many days or months go by without interrupting the daily grind with a bit of free-form hilarity.
Remember the freely, happily given support, and take the time out of your busy days to lend a helping hand. And. When someone wants to help you, be able, as he once advised me, to “just stand back and receive the love.”
Remember his quirkiness. And keep an eye out in this busy crowded world for those oh-so-rare individuals who will re-define your definition of cool.
Remember volleyball or golf or ping pong or the infamous synchronized swim. And don’t ever forget that fun is out there to be cheered, created from thin air, or jumped into with abandon.
Remember his profession and the signature mailman jacket. And, as he suggested, leave an occasional Twinkie in the mailbox and slip your postal worker a 20 at Christmastime.
Remember his ingenuity. And don’t be afraid to take on a project, to use your imagination, to build something that will last.
Remember that life goes by fast. And make time for your friends, for your family, for your passions, for the things that bring you joy.
Remember his friendship. And, remember that, no matter what life brings, you have been lucky enough.
Remember that great big, genuine grin. And don’t forget, even today, to smile.
Looking Up
21 years ago tomorrow, a dear friend of mine gave birth to a beautiful, sweet, and very cool kid.
She went through some of the toughest times a kid can go through, fighting cancer before she’d even started school. That is not my story to tell. But today I am remembering the day her Mom hosted a Make-a-Wish block party to celebrate the very happy end to that fight.
It was a great day. A joyful celebration, with a petting zoo and a jumpy castle and a bunch of running, giggling happy children, with neighbors, family, friends, with sunshine and bright moments. (It was also, behind the scenes, a tribute to the bravest and most amazing Mom I have known in my generation.)
It began to rain as I was driving home after the party, and, as I was getting out of my car, I looked up and saw (only one I’ve ever seen) a stunning DOUBLE rainbow. Yeah, I stood, I stared, and I laughed aloud in the street with tears rolling. Then, I ran into the house to call my friend and share the moment. And she told me something even more phenomenal.
Throughout her daughter’s illness, they had told her that rainbows were for her, a sign of hope and health. And, back at the party, while cleaning up, they saw the rainbows, too. And the child looked up and asked, “Is that my rainbow?”
Well–say what you will, believe what you want, unexplainable doesn’t matter–yes. Hell yes.
And now two decades have passed. I’ve learned the tough lessons that I had no clue about back then–that all endings aren’t happy. That sometimes hope, bravery, and believing aren’t enough. That life can, and often will, take a turn for the worst. I am, I admit, a bit forlornly but taking that fighter’s stance, yeah, a bit proudly too, much more cynical and much less hopeful than I was 21 years ago.
But. I won’t forget that day.
I can’t and won’t promise that miracles happen, that good always triumphs over evil, that “things happen for a reason.” But. I can avow without a hint of doubt or cynicism that wonderful things can and do happen, too. Tonight at midnight, I will raise a glass to wonderful moments and say Happy Birthday to a beautiful, sweet, very cool adult. A life preserver who will always hold a very special place in this old broad’s heart.
And tomorrow? Well, the Weather Channel says sunny, partly cloudy, with a chance of rain. I’ll be keeping an eye out.
Snail Mail My Email Project
A few weeks back, via a friend’s facebook post (thanks Brett), I heard about snailmailmyemail.org, a site where you could type in an email and have it turned into a letter and mailed for free. When I went to take a look, I learned that they had been completely bombarded with responses and were looking for volunteers to help transcribe.
Well. I have decent penmanship. I can doodle a bit. And, although I have embraced the ease and speed of computers, I have also grieved the disappearance of real letters from the world. I still have shoeboxes full of them, but it’s been a very long time since I added anything to the box other than, say, a store-bought card that made me laugh especially hard, feel especially good, and/or came with the signature of a niece or nephew.
So I signed up. Here are a few examples of the emails I snail-mail’ed:
1. There were some really wonderful expressions of love and marriage. Here’s a short, sweet, Serbian one that was headed for a lady in Croatia. I also had letters that were written in German, Polish, Spanish, French, and Hungarian. (Thank goodness for freetranslation.com.)
2. There were letters to and from roommates, colleagues, siblings, parents, children, grandparents . . . and pets.
3. The Award for Initially Baffling But Most Hilarious Request goes to Derek who’s email included this request: “Please include a picture of two (preferably male and female) giant sandwiches getting married while drinking beer.”
Although it will be nice to see the dining room table looking like a table for dining instead of the opening scene of Hoarders as directed by Dr. Seuss, I will miss this project. It’s been an honor to help put words of friendship, love, joy, encouragement, understanding, gratitude, and lunchmeat out into the world.
Cheers and Thanks to Ivan Cash in San Francisco who created the project. And shared the fun.
________________
You can see more about the project, letter destinations, and the coverage the project has gotten on the website. Please note that all images/letters are property of snailmailmyemail, used here with permission.
Things Change
It was about 25 years ago. College graduation was just behind us and we’d gotten together during the summer for a long weekend. It was the first of many annual gatherings, and it was the best. We didn’t have a lot of money–we splurged on a limo one night to go to Atlantic City and it cost us $30 a piece. And I remember pitching in. I remember the excitement and the feeling of being a little crazy. I also remember figuring out how to drive back to Pittsburgh without using a toll road because after the limo and $40 on slots, I didn’t have $10 left to my name. Not in my wallet nor my bank account. I still recall laughing about that as I spread a paper map out across my hood, looking for a way home.
$30. Hard to imagine that that was once a lot of money. But it was. And we spent it. And it was worth every penny. I discovered that night that I am not a casino person, but the limo ride was hilarious and crowded and adventurous and a whole lotta fun.
We were spending the weekend with friends who were among the first to get married and the first to have a home that wasn’t a tiny apartment. At one point in that house, the couple who lived there were busy elsewhere. And a few of us found a pad of Post-It notes and a pen. And we decided to leave little notes. And we scribbled and giggled for quite some time.
Another highlight was that one of our friends, who missed the weekend, missed the weekend because she was giving birth to the first of our next generation. And we all went to the mall and bought baby gifts and shipped them off. Beyond Atlantic City and the mall, the memories are a jumble of uproarious laughter, beers, and hugs.
It was a brilliant weekend. One of the best.
Last week, that same couple came to stay at my house. They didn’t use a paper map to get here. There’s GPS these days. And they were driving an SUV, not a mustang or a purple (or was it periwinkle?) Gremlin. And an SUV has seats for teenage children. One who is about to leave for college. And it’s an incredible feeling to think that she is now as old as we were when we first met.
Incredible feeling as in awesome, nostalgic, bizarre, mind-boggling, joyous, midlife crisis inducing, and pretty darn cool.
They stayed two nights and I played hookie one day to go to Kennywood. Another swingback in the circle of our friendship as the last time I had been to that amusement park was with them and some of the other Atlantic City trip friends about 12 years ago. Of course, that time, I was fighting a hangover when it came to making my way around the rides. This time, my feet hurt.
Things change.
The next day, I left for work and they left for more of their trip. After days of prep and orchestrating sleeping arrangements and sharing one shower, I came home that day to an empty house. Is there a relief when company leaves? Even the best of company? Sure. But it makes me sad. And my little house felt lonely and quiet.
I sighed and straggled to the kitchen to make some dinner. My hand on the refrigerator door handle, I saw it. A Post-It note. And I started to giggle. And there were more. A lot more. In the ice cream, in a drawer, stuck on pictures, hanging in my medicine cabinet, under my pillow. I found another one this morning, in the egg carton. And I’m still giggling. And I suspect there are more to be found.
Paybacks aren’t always a bitch. Sometimes paybacks are hilarious.
We’re a long way from the college campus, and we’re older. There’s less drinking, more aches and pains. Dreams have been achieved or not. Hopes have been realized or jaded. We get up early to go to work. We pay for electricity and gas. We have mortgages and car payments and credit cards and loans. We don’t see each other every morning, go to every meal as a group, or go out dancing three nights a week. We’re grownups for heaven’s sake. We’ve seen a lot. We’ve done a lot in separate lives.
But. All these years later, maybe there are few gray hairs or a few extra pounds here and there. Maybe we’re not quite as spry or not quite as quick. The memory’s a bit foggy. The heart’s not quite as light. But. The faces are the same, the eyes still light up when we spy each other. The hugs are still tight. The laughter still as infectious. The friendship is still strong. These life preservers still float.
Yes, things change. But, the important things remain the same. And it is good to discover at middle-age, that some things are invincible.
Til next time.
Happy Father’s Day
He was the guy who treaded water beside me when I was trying to learn how to water ski. He was willing, even hoping, to be left behind if I succeeded. The bestest Life Preserver of all. My Dad.
I am just returned home from a celebration in the house where I grew up. Called my Dad, like always, to say I got home safe and said Happy Father’s Day one more time while trying to communicate in those few words a million thank-yous and I-love-yous deserved by the Greatest Dad in the World. Here are just a few reasons:
1. Getting tucked in with a hilarious made up bedtime tale (that featured three children very like my brother and sister and I) or a lullaby on the harmonica.
2. Dad, running behind my bike the first time the training wheels were off. Holding onto the seat and then just pretending to be holding onto the seat.
3. Sitting on the front porch next to my Dad on a summer evening, just to sit on the front porch to enjoy the summer evening next to my Dad.
4. Sitting me down, after some sibling fuss, to tell me that someday I wouldn’t see them every day, that someday I would miss them.
5. Father-Daughter trips to go camping, canoeing, or backpacking. Including the last one when it began to rain as we stepped out of the truck and didn’t stop. Everything so wet we couldn’t even light a fire. And we still had a great time.
6. Packing and unpacking and getting me to and from college twice a year for four years. (Not to mention he was paying the bill for me to be at college.) (And definitely to mention his complete and unhesitating support when I made the Great Big Decision to change majors for the love of writing.)
7. Taking me to buy my first car and then doing miracles to help keep the Mustang running for the next 13 years.
8. Fixing everything that ever broke in apartments and house, from appliances to screen doors. Including dropping everything to come over, as it got dark, to undo and redo the wiring in the kitchen light and the dining room light. I had foolishly attempted this task on my own, which left me with one light that wouldn’t turn on and one light that wouldn’t turn off.
9. Saving me from getting as close as I ever want to get to a nervous breakdown. Dad’s have a way of making problems disappear, even big, strange, stressful problems like a gigantic hole in your house.
10. For lifting me up 48 years ago for the first time and never putting me down or letting me down for even a moment since.
Each year on my Birthday and occasionally on Father’s Day, too, my Dad re-tells the story of the day I was born. He gets such a smile on his face as he pantomimes and retells how he was standing, as new fathers did back then, looking through the glass at the hospital nursery, when the doctor held me up and said, “Mister Schmidt, you got a redhead.” I like to think I smiled back.
Happy Father’s Day Dad.
Home
Vacations are great. Vacations are awesome. Vacations bring me joy, expand my life experience, save my sanity.
But, for me, no matter how much fun I’m having, no matter how delightful the company, no matter how awesome the weather, somewhere around the end of a week away, I feel it. It’s a niggle in the neck, a breath in the chest, a softening of the laugh lines—it’s the desire to be home. Not just to sleep in my own bed, use my own shower, and root through a closet instead of a suitcase but also to be in the city I love, to feel grounded among familiar surroundings, to return to family and friends.
I recently considered this sweet hankering for home in a whole new light.
Last week, I was on vacation in New Orleans. During the day, I was working with the St. Bernard Project.
No, it has nothing to do with large, cask-bearing dogs.
St. Bernard Project is a 501(c)(3) organization working to rebuild homes and lives of Katrina survivors. I can attest, from first-person experience, that these are good people doing things the right way for the right reasons. Using volunteer labor, they are able to rebuild an average-size home for just $15,000. (Which, in case you’re really bad at Math, is freakin’ incredible.)
St. Bernard Project’s namesake is St. Bernard Parish, which was devastated during Katrina. St. Bernard Parish was one of those close-knit communities, with families who had lived in the area for generations. Proud Americans. Good blue-collar folk who cut their own grass, throw a good potluck party, help out their neighbors, know how to stretch a paycheck, and love a football team that wears black and gold.
Yeah. Pretty hard, as a Pittsburgher, not to feel the affinity.
In August 2005, the hurricane had passed and they were mostly okay. Then, the levees broke. And the water rose—fast. And every home in St. Bernard Parish was flooded. Every single home. Population-wise, imagine flooding every home in Etna—as well as every home in Aspinwall and Allison Park and Glenshaw.
Mother Nature certainly had her hand in this, but despite the personafication, weather has no capacity for intent nor intelligent thought. On the other hand. The government left citizens stranded, first on rooftops, then in noxious FEMA trailers. Contractors took the last of people’s savings, did no work, and disappeared. Insurance companies were, at best, ridiculously inefficient or, at worst, despicable, horrible, rotten, oh-you-better-believe-there’s-a-special-place-in-hell bastards.
Note: Local officials had re-zoned St. Bernard as NOT being in the flood plane—only a couple of years before the levees broke and flooded the entire area. Insurance reps told homeowners they didn’t need flood insurance, and people who had paid premiums for years dropped flood coverage. They still had hurricane insurance. But the insurance companies said, no, this is all flood damage, not hurricane damage. (Tomato-tomahto—either way, I’m pretty sure it’s a rotten one.)
I am no expert on all that went on in New Orleans. But I do know that there are far too many layers (and not enough cuss words) to tell the complete tale here.
But here’s my point: When I’m away, I miss home after 6 days.
In St. Bernard Parish, it’s been nearly 6 years. And there are still people waiting to get home.
Not preaching. Not arm-twisting. Just sharing. I know you good-hearted peeps have other charities and other commitments. But, should you be interested, I will tell you this. The St. Bernard Project volunteer experience is sweaty and dirty and grueling . . . and absolutely fantastic. It may sound crazy but last week was, truly, one of the best vacations I have ever been on. Heck yeah, the ability to enjoy New Orleans’ sunshine, beignets, barbecue, booze, jazz, art, and unique ambience in the evenings is an awesome post-work perk, but, still. To escape the cube. To use the body and the brain. To feel, at middle age, like maybe something you did actually mattered. To work really hard—without any stress. Damn. It was freedom. It was soul defibrillation. It was cool, y’all. If you or anyone you know is looking for a volunteer or fundraising opportunity or would like to make a donation, go to http://www.stbernardproject.org/. Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/stbernardprojectBooya
Osama Bin Laden is dead, and I am glad. I believe he will burn in hell. And you can tell Rashard Mendehall that God and I are fine with my what is in my heart.
{While you’re at it, you can tell the media that social media commentary is not news—unless, instead of being an actual journalist, you are a lazy moron.}
It’s okay to be glad he is dead. As Winston Churchill said, “You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something, sometime in your life.”
I understand the burial at sea. I appreciate that last rights were respected; that took some class. And I really appreciate that there’s no gravesite/shrine.
But still. I wish I lived near the ocean. So I could go there and spit in it and fall on my knees, eyes unabashedly to heaven, in thankful rejoicing.
I hate terrorists. (Yes, hate.) And I’m okay with that.
If you want to give evil the benefit of the doubt, if you want to keep your heart open to the idea of really really bad people someday transforming, you go right ahead. But don’t preach at me about real love and true hate until you’ve reached your 40s.
Anyone who knows me knows I have never been an Obama fan. But, whatever my personal opinions about government and leadership, I don’t see the point of blindly, immediately bashing every single thing the man does or says. Read this.
The cause of securing our country is not complete. But tonight, we are once again reminded that America can do whatever we set our mind to. That is the story of our history, whether it’s the pursuit of prosperity for our people, or the struggle for equality for all our citizens; our commitment to stand up for our values abroad, and our sacrifices to make the world a safer place.
Let us remember that we can do these things not just because of wealth or power, but because of who we are: one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
C’mon people. That’s good stuff. Lies and insincerity rarely induce goosebumps. Whatever your politics, give the man his due this week. He was the man in charge when this all went down. He deserves some respect. And, if you can’t muster respect for the man, find some respect for him as the representative leader of The United States of America.
Not everything that happens in the world is or needs to be orchestrated or spun. You can’t just swallow baby bird style: eyes closed, mouth open, and squawking. Neither should you puke it all back up into unrecognizable chunks.
I find it amazing that people have the capacity to think that Osama is holed up somewhere with Elvis and Michael Jackson but are incapable of imagining that we would announce that Pakistan was not involved in order to help an ally save face—and lives—in an unstable country, during an incredibly volatile time.
This isn’t a movie where the blundering clutz giving the good guys away is funny. This is real. Life. And. Death. Stuff. So, you know, maybe sit down and shut up for a minute, yeah?
I’m not saying don’t be inquisitive. But take a moment. Watch different channels. Listen to different stations. Read a newspaper (and not just the headlines). Listen to others. Use your brain. Whatever it may be, form your own opinion. Just because it’s in the news doesn’t make it true. But. Just because it’s in the news doesn’t make it false either.
I find it amusing that some news channels were suddenly spelling Osama with a U. Do they think people are stupid enough to confuse Osama with Obama? And/Or that we wouldn’t notice? Really?
I also find amusement in the fact that the President’s speech preempted Donald Trump’s TV show. I don’t care what your political preferences are, that was a brilliant and subtle touche if ever I saw one.
Last but not least, do we really need to see the photographs? Do we need children to see them? Do we need our enemies to see them? Simmer down and think for a moment. This isn’t a Friday the 13th movie or an episode of CSI.
Dear conspiracy freaks: If a Navy Seal walked up and handed you a DNA sample, what? You have the knowledge in your head or the equipment in your parent’s garage, sitting there next to your PlayStation and a case of Red Bull, to prove anything more than we already know? Preposterous twits.
They have a DNA sample. Granted, I would have preferred that the DNA sample came in the form of his head, on a pole, carried at the front of a huge parade through New York City. But, for now, we have to let the military and the scientists sort it out. For now, all I can say is:
God bless the Americans who gathered, shared, and deciphered the intelligence. God bless the Americans who supported the mission—for a very long time. God bless the Americans who carried out the mission. And God bless those who remain in harm’s way to fight (and, yes, hopefully kill) other terrorists.
It doesn’t matter if Clinton started it. It doesn’t matter if G.W. Bush laid groundwork. It doesn’t matter if Obama got input or even pressure from others to say “Go.”
Osama Bin Laden is dead. And I am glad. And, no matter what else may remain unclear, one thing is not open for debate: The Navy Seals kick ass.
Should you be so inclined, donations can be made to the Navy Seals Foundation.
Missing Opening Day
It’s Opening Day for the Pittsburgh Pirates. I can’t help recalling what it would be like to be at the ballpark. The sun is shining after a couple of wintry spring days. I suddenly have a hankering for a steamed hot dog in a mushy bun. At this moment, I’d like to be playing hookie at a turnstile, showing my ticket, part of the frenetic crowd, chatting with an usher. I’d like to see pristine grass on the ground and that train whistle guy on the JumboTron.
Being born in the 60s into a family that loved baseball and knew it well, I was taught to swing a bat before I could lift one, and I learned to catch and throw before we had figured out if I were left or right handed. (I used to catch a ball, take off the glove, and throw with the same hand.) When we’d sorted that out, my Dad took me to Honus Wagner to pick out my very own baseball glove.
That was a BIG day.
I became cognizant of the Pirates when they were winners. When they were a respected organization. Pirates Fan was as equivalent to the term Pittsburgher then as Steelers Fan is now (believe that or not those of you who buy most of the beer at sporting events these days). Pirates Fans cheered and screamed and grieved together. We remember—too clearly still—the day Roberto Clemente died. We remember “Chicken on the hill” and “By a gnat’s eyelash” and “We Are Family”—which truly was something more than an advertising slogan.
The Pirates were winners. I knew each player’s name and number and position.
I attended the last game ever in Three Rivers Stadium. And on groundbreaking day for PNC Park, I was there for the re-naming of Clemente Bridge and the digging ceremonies. And when I saw Willie Stargell walk through the crowd, I was in awe.
I will admit to you that I was one of the people who thought financing the new ballpark was a great idea. I believed when they told us how it would help the team. And this city’s economy. I believed. And I loved baseball. And the Pittsburgh Pirates have always resided in a very special place in my heart. They were a Life Preserver. I was a Fan.
But. You know the old saying: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me 18 times, shame on the Nuttings.
Last year was the year I gave up. Last year was the year it became too personally unethical to give Pirates ownership any more of my money. Last year was the first year in my life that I did not attend a single game. Nor watch one on TV. Nor even listen to one on the radio. (Which I find to be one of the most singularly pleasing sounds in the universe; I’m not sure why, but it reminds me of the radio at home on the kitchen counter, when the cabinets were green and my grandparents were alive.)
Today, I heard a lot of hoopla, stirred up by advertising dollars and, god bless them, a few who still seem to believe. I am willing to admit that some of the young guys may be good players, exciting even. I wish them well, but I will not be sucked into the lies yet again.
If the Pirates win a lot and all these exciting young men are still around after the trade deadlines, perhaps I will try to learn their names. Perhaps, when the owners stop spitting on the history of a once proud organization and decide to care more about America’s past time than bobble heads and fireworks and overpriced food, perhaps I will pay them some attention.
It’s opening day in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. And I am missing it.
The Grin in Chagrin
The NFL football season ended last night. I, like all of Steeler Nation, feel bad.
But. I don’t feel that bad.
I haven’t screamed. I’ve barely pouted. Until 7:35 this morning, I had not shed a tear.
I don’t feel that bad. And that baffles me.
I suspected, at first, a scenario in which I am in a coma, last night was an IV-induced dream, and Rocky Bleier is my doctor.
But. At work, fully clothed, unable to fly, pinched myself. I’m awake.
It’s real, eh?
Well, maybe I don’t feel that bad because I got to have a lot of fun this season. Having attended only two Steeler games in my life (both losses), this year I got to attend two more: the opener and the AFC Championship game. And, despite a temperature difference of about 70 degrees, I had a similarly exhilirating, palpitating, voice-losing, Towel-twirling, high-fiving-the-nephew, brought-home-a-winner blast at both.
Or maybe I can’t feel pain because my endorphin levels are still so high from the game of January 15. Could a win last night possibly have felt any better than the night we beat the Ravens? I wonder.
Then again, maybe I don’t feel horrible because the Packers are a team that’s hard to hate. Small market, storied history, fans who know the game—I’ve always felt the affinity. (Losing to Dallas in XXX was worse. So much worse.)
Look, I’m not saying I’m turning cartwheels (or would be turning cartwheels if I could do a cartwheel). But. I’m okay. Which is weird.
I was pondering thusly, in my car, coming up on 7:35 a.m., as I crossed the West End Bridge and veered right, onto the ramp to 65. And with the car aiming North, there—in a wee trickle of rare February morning light—sat Heinz Field. And I reached for my Steelers scarf like Linus Van Pelt.
Last night, I believed. Not wished. Not hoped. But believed the Steelers were going to win the Super Bowl. Even though (or, actually, because) the odds makers called them underdogs. Even after nearly all the talking-heads picked the green and gold. (Good on ya, Terry B.) Even after Pouncey finally, most definitely, had to sit out. Even after 58 minutes and 1 second of losing. I believed.
How is that possible? I’m a devout lapsed Optimist.
Think for a moment about how this season started. After last year? With Santonio gone and Ben suspended? With some rookie at center? Remember that? Yeah. Now, think about how you’ve felt for the past few weeks. How you felt going into last night’s game.
This year was extraordinary. This year was a transformation. This year surprised. And it wasn’t us. It wasn’t the media. It wasn’t Goodell. It wasn’t luck or juju or even our beloved Myron or the Rooney tradition or some dynasty magic.
This year was extraordinary because of that group of men on the field last night. The Steelers 2010 squad. Players and coaches. Good guys and “bad” guys and even a kinda skeevy guy (who I want to believe has changed but, bottom line, either way, is still an incomparable quarterback). Quiet guys and crazy guys. Big guys, tall guys, fast guys, and small guys. Veterans and rookies. This happy few. They made us believe. They overcame the obstacles. They played through the tendon-tearing, ankle-twisting, gut-wrenching, heart-breaking injuries. They stepped in and stepped up. They unselfishly supported each other. They kept their cool right next to their swag. They played with heart. And talent. They gave us an amazing season. They made it to the Super Bowl and let us come along for what was a wild and wonderful ride.
Maybe I don’t feel that bad because pride trumps disappointment.
But maybe they do feel that bad. And so I say, Gents: Chin up. Stand tall. You had a great year. Thank you for being one of my favorite life preservers. And thank you for making me proud to be a Steeler fan every day—even today.
What was your favorite thing about the 2010 Steelers?
Never Tailgate is a gift book with car photos and tips for new drivers. Dare to be Happy is a gift book with advice about life (and doodles). Both are available on amazon.
Life Preservers 
A Superior Innovative Quality Post
Yes. I’m a writer. I’ve been studying, learning, practicing, and making a living with the English language for more than 25 years. But I am not one of Those People. The ones who spitefully note grammar or spelling errors in friends’ emails or facebook posts. The ones who can spend two hours arguing whether or not the phrase anal retentive requires a hyphen. I couldn’t care less if my friends know the difference between who and whom. I truly sincerely assure you, I am not one of Those People.
However.
If you are being paid money to communicate a message. And you bungle it out of what can only be stupidity or laziness. You. Annoy. Me.
Freakin’?
This morning, I heard a radio commercial that claimed its product was “freakin’ great.”
Yikes. How crass and unprofessional. Yes, I realize it’s not actually the F-word, but it’s a slang that exists only as a stand-in for the F-word. (And, let’s be clear, I’m not nearly as offended by the F-word as I am by bad writing.) If you can’t think of a better adjective than freakin’, you should probably change careers.
Word Choice Matters
The words less and fewer are not interchangeable. (Used incorrectly in a financial services ad couple of weeks back, which made it extra amusing.)
Every day and everyday are also not interchangeable. Although I admit this one’s borderline pet-peevian.
People n’ Things
When referring to a human being, the pronoun is who, not which or that.
The Apostrophe
Learn how to use an apostrophe. The Joneses will thank you. The Joneses’ cat, however, will not care.
Lighten Up, Frances
Must we really muddle meaning and/or mangle grammar simply to avoid using words like mankind? Really?
Interesting to note: The word mankind derives from the word humankind (not penis).
Hackneyed Smack Need
You do not offer educational solutions; you’re a college. I don’t want creative banking or innovative toilet paper. Buildings, paper products, shampoo, cars, etc., are incapable of being environmentally conscious. Or any kind of conscious. Can we all admit this kind of sloppy writing is a problem (and not an opportunity)?
Stop It with the Ellipses
And
Also on the annoying list are reviewers who high-and-mightily, completely aghastly, so-oh-oh condescendingly spout things like, You can’t begin a sentence with a conjunction!
Yeah. Okay darlin’. Why don’t you take that tone and your 1902 diploma and go ask your doctor to bleed you with leeches to ease your blood pressure a bit.
Which Reminded Me
I once had a client call a boss and complain that I was a bad writer because I used prepositional phrases. And the boss called me into his office. I expected a chuckle of commiseration and time spent figuring out how best to interpret the feedback and magically edit the text in question. Instead. I got a lecture on the importance of customer satisfaction, a dramatic portrayal of his disappointment in my skill as a writer, and a stern warning to stop using prepositional phrases forthwith.
Which, you know, meant I was thereby forbidden to say, “Up yours.”
Hire a Professional
If you need wiring done, you call an electrician. If your pet is due for shots, you go to a vet. If you want to communicate clearly and effectively to business-related audiences, if you want to promote a professional image, if you want to get the most out of your media buy, use a professional writer.
Speaking of, how about a shameless plug for fellow-writer Christine Hollinger of WordPlay Writing? She’s a long-time colleague, kind blog follower, situational grammar consultant, and supporter of sanity. In other words, a life preserver. And a darn good freelance writer.
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September 1, 2011 at 6:32 am 10 comments