Dad, can I borrow Mom's black rubber gloves?
Uh, why?
So I can be a superhero.
Uh, okay.
[...]
Dad, can you tie this blanket around me?
Sure.
[...]
Dad, can you put Hammie in my back pocket?
Okay.
"Hammie": Hamster Wonder and Sidekick Extraordinaire
Off to save the worldBatKid in action
During our nightly snuggle yesterday, The Boy informed me that his teacher had encouraged them to practice the things they are good at.
You're getting your VV love early this week because I'm on a roll (two weeks now!) and I figured it was a shame to end the streak just because we're going away for the weekend.
Off to Fargo for some early May Long-ing for this family. Ohhhhh yeah...the awesome metropolis that is Fargo. I've been getting the strangest looks when I tell people where we're going. But then I tell them I'm meeting some Canucks there, and their consternation clears. Apparently being Canadian explains away the crazy.
[Aside: I totally milk that. "Oh, that's not how we do it in Canada." As in: six-week unpaid maternity leaves, pay-as-you-go healthcare, leaving out the U in words because of laziness, and so on.]
So I got a new computer at work last week. Any of you who have ever done a computer transfer knows what a pain it is, particularly as deadlines don't take "but I had to spend 8 hours trying to get everything set up!" as a valid excuse.
Given my technological disability, these things tend to go beyond annoyance and well into the realm of bringing my life to a bleeding, crashing halt. Although, having spent years dealing with the fact that a mere touch from me will crash the most sturdy of systems, I've gotten used to more IT visits than your average bear. So no surprise that I got the laptop with the loosey-goosey hard drive that gives me the black screen of "Hard Drive Not Found" every time I breathe on it.
Anyway, to add to the nastiness, I've had to switch over to Office 2007. We actually did a trial run of this product at our house, which lasted for about four minutes and ended with "THIS IS TERRIBLE! GET IT OFF NOW! I CAN'T STAND IT!!" Which may or may not have been me.
Of course, ranting about how much I hate change doesn't exactly fly at the office, so I've been trying to grin and bear it. Tough stuff, given that stoopid "ribbon" at the top of Word and how nothing is where it is supposed to be and all the rounded corners and having to download compatability patches and how Adobe doesn't work with it and all sorts of blech.
But speaking of grinning, The Husband tells me that if I don't stop whining and complaining on here, I will lose readers. That may be "reader" singular, so I figure I'd best come up with some Pollyanna around here.
And so, after what must be the longest segue ever:
Top 5 Things I Like About Office 2007
1. The to-do-list/upcoming appointment bar on Outlook 2007. No more flipping over to my calendar to confirm that I have no life!
2. [...]
3. [...]
4. [...]
5. [...]
Aaaaaand, I'm out.
Yes. It really is that bad.
I've mentioned several times here before that my favourite piece of punctuation is the semicolon. But it seems to me that I've been remiss in elaborating on the object of my affection and just why it is I find this little mark so intensely attractive.
Honestly, I'm surprised none of you have asked, although perhaps its charms are obvious, or perhaps you have feared the boredom that so oft accompanies tales of a beloved from an enamoured lover, in which their love affair is the most passionate, most intimate, most heavenly that ever existed - just like every other one.
Nonetheless, the tale of our coming together bears telling. In many ways, it's the old story - girl meets punctuation mark, they fall in love, they have a falling out after a misunderstanding, and then, brought together again, they ride off into the sunset.
I'm not sure when I started using it; it was probably in high school that it began to appear in my essays. Soon, my papers were littered with it, and we were young and foolish and in love.
Then, a wedge where once it seemed no crack could be - a second-year university paper returned, filled with green circles highlighting each instance of my beloved, and the fateful comment: Your use of the semicolon is incorrect.
Betrayed! Not only by high school English teachers who failed to instruct me in the ways of the punctuation world, but by the very mark with which I lavished my work. How could it rest there so easily and so silent while so clearly aware of my error?
We parted ways for some time after that. I was angry at the part it played in eliciting a grade of less than an A (on an English paper, no less!); it was hurt by my swift abandonment and the solace I found in the easy and welcoming arms of the comma.
But despite thinking I'd moved on, I kept thinking about it. Seeing it in other places, jealous of the way others seemed to use it so effortlessly.
So I became the bigger person, swallowed my pride, and finally learned how to use the darned thing. And started doing just that.
We moved slowly at first; both chastened and burned by the ill-advised yet intense passion of our first encounters, we were unsure of what our new relationship would look like. But hesitancy gave way to that easy understanding that comes with years of intimacy, caution became comfort, and it has since become my dearest punctuation partner.
Here's why: when it comes to connection, the semicolon is unmatched. Semicolons connect two independent but related clauses. In other words, like marriage at its very best, the semicolon takes two individuals and bonds them while maintaining them as distinct beings.
Observe:
My kids are whining. They don't want to clean up the Lego.
My kids are whining, for they don't want to clean up the Lego.
My kids are whining; they don't want to clean up the Lego.
The first example does the job, but it's choppy. Across the pond, they call the period a "full-stop," which I think is a much better description of its effect. "Period" suggests a simple pause, but in reality, this mark requires a reader who is cruising along to stop abruptly and look both ways before stepping on the gas again.
The second example allows the reader to keep going, but it's cumbersome. A comma joining independent clauses demands the use of a conjunction, an extra word serving to join the two sentences together. Plus, this is where danger lies: too many writers, either lazy or still under the impression that a pause invariably equals a comma, leave out the conjunction, leading to that fatal error - the comma splice.
But the third, ah, the third example is a picture of elegance. The two sentences remain distinct, but they are joined nonetheless, sweetly and by the simplest of marks. The semicolon inserts a brief pause without the jarring effects of the full-stop, while simultaneously speaking of promise: Reader, there is more to come, once you have caught your breath.
The semicolon is often described as being a "combination of a period and a comma." Although prosaic, this definition speaks truth. Like the period, the semicolon signals closure and gives the dignity of finality to the preceding clause; however, at the same time, like the comma, the semicolon beckons the reader on, softening any end-of-clause harshness.
The period, all business with its judge's gavel-like stamp of termination. The comma, all pleasure with its sassy swirl and its crooked come-hither finger. Brought together into punctuational perfection.
And that, my friends, is why I love the semicolon.
Fresh off another night of cat herding getting the kids to bed (with bonus craziness after The Boy's kindergarten-palooza concert last night), I'm struck again by how much my kids hate going to bed.
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