too many commas

Hell, yes! (Hell, no!)

There are a lot of stupid things that I insist my friends see when they visit the city. I tend to avoid the traditional things (for example, I've still never been to the top of the Empire State Building), but there are certain little sights that I think are too much fun to miss.

For example, NYC's New Museum has this sign on the front of the building:

Rainbow-colored neon sign reads: Hell, Yes!

Fun, right? But the best part is on the base of a stoplight directly across the street from the museum, where you can find this little piece of cheeky graffiti:

It's partially covered with a sticker, but the stencil reads: Hell, No!

The unsolved mystery of A Hair's Castle

There is a children's hair salon on the corner near my apartment, where kids can throw makeover parties or get their hair cut while sitting in fun chairs shaped like race cars. It seems like a great place to go if you're young and twitchy and desperately in need of a haircut.

I've become sort of obsessed with this salon -- for one reason: Its name has puzzled me for a year and a half. It's called "A Hair's Castle." The logo features, as you'd expect, a castle, but offers no hint as to what this ridiculous name means.

I'm assuming it's a pun. It has to be a pun. But what the hell is it punning? I've narrowed it down to two things: It's either a play on the story of Rapunzel, where the maiden lets down her hair to allow the prince to climb into her tower, or it's a play on the word "heir." Both of them feel like a stretch, but it's the best I've come up with.

Maybe it doesn't meant anything at all, which, frankly, would make it the most brilliant advertising scheme ever. I mean, a perplexed blogger is writing about it from her bed on a Wednesday night. If it had a simple, cheesy name like Kidz 'N' Curlz, it might have gone unnoticed.

Os Gêmeos mural at Houston and Bowery

The entire time I've lived in New York, there's been a dancing-people mural at the corner of Houston and Bowery to commemorate Keith Haring (probably best known for his "Crack is Wack" mural).

Recently, it was painted over. I don't deal well with change, and passing it was a bit of a shock to me at first. Then I realized that the new mural is 100 times cooler, and now I make a point to walk by it whenever I'm downtown. Seriously -- it's amazing.

The mural was painted by Brazilian graffiti artists Os Gêmeos, and it truly gives merit to the concept of street art as a true art form. Look at the detail and colors. I want to marry one of these guys just so they'll do a mural like this on my wall.

This reminds me -- I have yet to finish my New Year's resolution to tag a building. I still have a month!

Os Gêmeos mural

Even though I don't look it, I'm very excited that my dress sort of matches.

Detail shot

Another detail shot

Four score and seven years ago

It's been about that long since I posted on here, and I'm feeling a bit rusty. Nothing a quick stretch and a few cracks of my knuckles can't cure, I assure you. *Craaaack.*

There, that's better.

Life's been busy. I've been working like a fiend, and in my "free time," I've taken on a bunch of side projects, including a book-editing venture and some writing projects. I've also recently switched positions at my job, and now I work relatively normal hours. I come in at 9 and leave at dinnertime. It's the first time in my professional life that I haven't had a vampire's schedule, and I'm still blinking a bit every time I step into the sunlight. I actually went to bed at 10:30 p.m. yesterday, which I don't think I've done since junior high. 

I got a new camera recently that I love like it's my child, and I've been playing with it as much as I can. I missed my film SLR more than I realized, and it's a blast to be able to take beautiful photos again, especially since I don't have to pay to have these developed. I also realize that I'm about 10 years late in my excitement over digital, but I never realized that digital images could look as artistic as film. I have hundreds of photos on my laptop that need to be edited and uploaded, and I'm sure I'll be posting many of them here. (Above is one of them, which I pulled into Poladroid, a really fun program that turns digital photos into Polaroids. You even can shake them while they're "developing." I can't stop playing with it.)

Coming up soon -- a slew of Digital Wall of Shame errors that have been sitting in a pile in my apartment waiting to be scanned. And I'm always looking for more, so send your embarrassing grammar goofs my way!

Photo: Tom Moran's sheet-metal statue of Abraham Lincoln, Onaway, Mich., taken July 26, 2009

Happy New Year!

   

Blurry view of New Year's fireworks from the Brooklyn Bridge.

It's a new year, which is as good a time as any to bring a dying blog back to life. I've been busy, but I've also been a bit blocked, to be honest. I haven't given writing the attention it deserved and allowed myself to get caught up in running through life without taking the time to reflect.

Yesterday, I sat down and spent a good chunk of time writing -- just writing -- for myself. The end product was nowhere near the quality I would have appreciated and was far below what I'm capable of producing, but I'm proud of my effort and inspiration regardless of the result.

Which brings me to my New Year's resolutions. I love resolutions, and the idea of a clean slate, even if it's relatively arbitrary. I try, however, to make a point of making resolutions I actually *want* to keep, not just ones that I feel like I ought to do.

In 2009, I will:

1. Submit at least three pieces of writing for publication.

2. Kiss a random stranger I've just met. Bonus points of the person I kiss sweeps me backwards like in old Hollywood movies.

3. Worry less and chill more. (Yes, it's vague and more of a personality shift than a specific goal, but it never hurts to try, right?)

Last year, I resolved to tag a building with graffiti. I'm a big chicken, so that resolution hasn't come true yet, but this year, I swear it will happen. Because, you know, I'll be worrying less. Or something.

Giving up on TV

I've never been a big TV person. In Middletown, I had about 13 channels -- four of which were foreign-language stations. In college, I didn't own a TV for a while, and then, after winning one as a door prize, stole whatever channels I could get from my neighbors.

But when I moved to New York, I decided I was going to go all out and get the special deal with Time Warner: phone, all-access cable and Internet. It was overwhelming at first to have so many channels. I didn't get past the 20s for a few weeks. Even now, I only watch about three stations.

The quality is horrible. Half of the stations are scrambled or have a sound delay, so I can't even watch some of the programs that I want to. And really, TV is crap. Even with hundreds of channels, I often realize that there's nothing on.

But I have noticed that, despite these factors, my couch time is creeping up, and instead of spending time doing other things that I enjoy, I'll allow hours to pass by as I'm trapped in a television-induced coma. Don't get me wrong, it's been fun being in the know (for the first time) about certain TV shows, and it's comforting to turn on the TV when I get home from work so my apartment doesn't feel quite so empty. Plus, I enjoy vegging out in front of a good show as much as anyone.

But deep down, I know it's not good for me. I know there are better ways to spend my time. And if my apartment feels scarily quiet -- I'll put on some music or my favorite DVD.

Or maybe I'll just learn to enjoy the silence that is so rare in my life.

Taxi-cab interventions

I broke up an almost-fight at 6 this morning.

I had just gotten out of work after 13 long hours and was starting to nod off as I sat in the cab on my way home.

Moments after the driver turned onto my street, he slammed on his brakes and laid on the horn, startling me into alertness as my computer bag and purse flew to the floor. He had nearly missed clipping a driver in a white sedan, who was trying to parallel park into one of the coveted spots on my block.

The driver, who was wearing a ton of gold chains and a ridiculous amount of hair gel, started screaming at him and got out of the car. The cabbie started screaming back. They exchanged swear words and blame for a few seconds before Hair Gel flopped back onto his seat and crossed his arms.

"I ain't moving, man. So screw you."

Hair Gel just sat there, his car idling sideways on the street. The cabbie started to get out of his car, making threats at Hair Gel.

I'd had enough. I was tired and frustrated from a hard night, and I wasn't about to be held up by an asshole driver and an idiot cabbie while I sat here -- still on the meter -- and watched.

I stepped out of the car. "Get back in the cab," I barked at the cabbie.

"And you," I said, turning to Hair Gel. "Move your car -- NOW."

To my surprise, they both jumped to follow my orders.

"Yes, ma'am," said Hair Gel sheepishly. "Sorry."

He quickly parked his car, and the cab driver sped down the rest of the block in silence.

The crisis of kitty litter

There are a lot of things I imagined I'd worry about as a New York resident.

Kitty litter wasn't one of them.

It's always been a given -- one of those things you pick up at the grocery store, lug to your car and bring into your apartment. Sure, the 21-pound boxes can get a little heavy, but what's a few steps?

I never realized how heavy 21 pounds gets when you're lugging it from the grocery store four blocks away. And I never thought about the fact that my favorite kind of litter -- you know, the stuff that's scoopable and odor-free and actually does its job -- wouldn't be available at my local grocery store. If I wanted that version, I'd have to trek about 14 blocks to the good pet-supply store.

I guess some New Yorkers have their litter and other pet supplies delivered, and I can see myself going in that direction eventually, but I'm still non-native enough that getting kitty litter delivered seems just plain wrong.

So for now, I guess I'll deal with the flower-scented junk and consider my trips to buy litter my daily dose of weight training.

Finding my way back ... or something

When you haven't posted in a long time (cough MONTHS cough), there's this odd pressure to make the first post back something monumental, or at least really funny and interesting.

Well, folks, this ain't gonna be that post. Sorry. I just can't perform under that kind of pressure.

Instead, here's a random sampling of my life in the past several months.

-- I've been working -- a lot. There are weeks where I've worked about 80 hours. Apparently this place gets slower in the summer, when all the attorneys and judges head to their fancy summer homes and escape the heat of NYC, but I haven't seen it yet.

-- I've had a fantastic amount of visitors. My entire immediate family except my dad has been here, and a lot of friends have found their way to my tiny apartment and pullout couch, including Brandon, who adopted me as his roommate for a few weeks while he was doing research for his doctorate.

-- To keep from constantly thinking about work, which is an occupational hazard in this business, I've been taking on a few side projects. I've been working on some art stuff and have begun writing a children's book. It's totally fun, and I hope it will be the first of many. If things go as planned, the incredibly talented Terrence Henesy will illustrate the book, at which point we'll actually pitch it for publication. Hooray!

-- I am running my first 5-K in September, and I'm really excited! I have a great running trail that begins practically outside my door and snakes along the East River, so I really don't have an excuse NOT to run. In addition, I just joined a really swank gym, which means that the next time you see me, I'll be able to kill you with my bare hands.

-- My cat keeps getting cuter AND fatter. Poor thing is cooped up in the tiniest space ever, which makes her crave attention and limits her exercise. I might buy her a harness and take her for walks, which would make me that crazy cat lady on the block.

-- Not working at a newspaper means that my grasp of current events is slipping, and I sometimes find out about major world news from random people, like my mom or a guy on the subway. It's shameful. In addition, I've severely decreased the pool of fantastic grammar goofs, so start sending them my way!

Seriously though, I'm sorry for being a horrible blogger, and I promise to be better.

I'm too afraid of the snarky "update your blog" comments to wait this long again.

Still alive, I swear!

I know, I know. It's been a ridiculous amount of time since I've posted. I will be better -- I promise. There will be a real post in the next few days.

It's just been a bit crazy in the land of too many commas.

(In the meantime, go here and read some cute grammar cartoons.)

"I'm like cat here, a no-name slob"

Random factoid: I live with my cat, Holly Golightly, only a few blocks away from the apartment building featured in "Breakfast at Tiffany's."

Talking trash

It's so easy to recycle in NYC because it's required.

Every apartment building, as far as I know, has bins for paper products and bins for plastics, metals and other recyclables. My building has one at the bottom of every wing of stairs. Every day, I just walk down with a bag full of cans, papers and boxes, and I drop them right off.

When I moved in, the rental office gave me the cutest little list (see it here) of what is recyclable and what isn't. It features sassy-looking recycling bins, like the ones pictured, grinning as items fall into them. I taped it to my cupboard, because you'd be surprised what is recyclable, like wire hangers and shampoo bottles, versus what isn't, like styrofoam and battieries. Plus, the cartoons make me smile.

Even better? Every floor of my building has a trash compactor. All you do is drop your trash into a little chute and it disappears forever. Sometimes I feel a bit guilty dropping a bag of kitty poop into the compactor, because I'm not sure if it goes into a dumpster that someone has to deal with or if it does, in fact, get "compacted" immediately.

Either way, I don't even have to carry it down the stairs, so I'm happy.

Settling in

I interrupt the snarky grammar errors once more to give you another update ... with pictures!

I just finished my first week of work. The job is interesting, and my co-workers are so good at their jobs it's intimidating. It's really exciting to have so many people to look up to and learn from, even if it makes me feel a little dumber in the process. But I like having mentors!

I'm totally moved into my apartment (see pics here), and all I'm waiting for is Time Warner to come tomorrow and set me up with cable, Internet and phone, and it will finally feel like home.

For the most part, I really like living here. I love not having to drive anywhere. I love walking the 45 minutes home after work. I love getting small amounts of groceries several times a week. I love the feeling of activity, of constant movement. I love how fast people talk and how they always seem to be rushing. I love my little apartment, and the fact that I was forced to get rid of so much and live with only what I need. I even like having to walk up six flights of stairs -- most of the time. Hey, it's good for me!

I don't love, however, the mass of people practically sitting on my lap in the subway. I'm not a huge fan of having two strangers grab my butt in the same day (true story!) on said subway rides. I don't love having to brave the elements -- sideways rain, for example -- just to get to work. And lugging my baskets of laundry up the street, washing them and hauling them back up the six flights of stairs? I could do without that. And don't even get me started on the cost of living.

But in general, I think I'll grow to love it here.

At the least, I'll develop some really strong leg muscles.

Life so far in NYC (the boring details)

I moved to Manhattan yesterday. The move itself went swimmingly, and the movers even took Holly Golightly the kitty in the cab with them so she wouldn't freeze in the back and we wouldn't have to take her on the train with us. I gave her sedatives, which was funny, because she was totally stoned all day and kept tipping over when she tried to walk.

My new couch even fit in the apartment without a problem, which had been a constant source of stress for me this week, and my mom and I decided not to help the movers carry all my stuff up the six flights of stairs (I don't have an elevator) and instead began unpacking immediately, letting them huff and puff and blow the apartment down.

Right now, my apartment is mostly boxes, although it's coming together nicely. Because it's so TINY (less than 300 square feet), I have been focused on using all the space I can in creative ways, so it's already a lot more organized than previous apartments. For example, I used an over-the-door shoe rack in my bathroom to hold toiletries, lotion, etc. It looks pretty cool, and it's very handy.

My mom and I walked around the neighborhood a lot already, and the more I see of it, the more I love it. It's really pretty, bustling and diverse. I was a bit worried about the last part -- since it's a relatively rich area, I was afraid there would be nothing but white old people, but so far I've seen a huge range of people. The rich old ladies with big sunglasses and furs are here, but there also are families, lots of racial diversity and plenty of people who don't look like millionaires.

My new grocery store is fantastic; it's tiny, but it has everything I need and really nice employees. This was a surprise to me. I always assumed NYC service workers would be brash, rude and hurried, but I've encountered the most friendly, helpful people everywhere I go. Even at the drugstore, an employee approached me to see if I needed help and spent 10 minutes advising me on face wash.

Right now, I'm sitting in a Starbucks across the street, where I had to pay $10 to use the Internet. Apparently, nothing is free in NYC -- not even WiFi. Sigh.

The only thing I've gotten for free here so far is windburn. It's really, really cold, rainy and windy right now.

Movin' to NYC

This month has been crazy so far, and I feel like I've done nothing but run around since I got back from spending Christmas in Michigan.

In short?

I accepted a new job and I'm moving to Manhattan at the end of the month. My last day of work at the newspaper is Monday.

In long?

The job is with a litigation consulting company that helps law firms prepare for trial through mock trials, witness preparation, research and a bunch of other things. The department I'll work in makes the graphics, posters and visual aids lawyers use during trials. I'll be managing the graphics workflow and editing them when they're done.

Whew. I think I might miss the answer to the "What do you do?" question simply being "I work for a newspaper." It saves a lot of words.

Anyway, I got a tiny apartment in Manhattan's Upper East Side. The neighborhood is really nice, the building is historic and pretty and I'm really close to the East River, a great running trail, tons of restaurants and a few blocks from Central Park. (See too-detailed pictures of the apartment and the neighborhood here, if you're curious.)

So far, everything has fallen into place. I came by the apartment relatively easily (if you don't count paying a ridiculous amount to hire a real estate agent), I sold my car to my friend Mala, who is buying it for her daughter, and I've already booked movers. Now I just have to get rid of 90 percent of my belongings and, um, pack.

Yeah. About that.

Digital Wall of Shame: Those naughty Alpena girls!

My dad sent this to me the other day, and I seriously laughed so loudly I scared my friend Sue in the other room.

Apparently, he said, this headline -- published on Dec. 7 -- was the talk of the town.

Meet Holly

About a week and a half ago, this little lady showed up on my front porch, shivering, hungry and trying to sneak into my warm apartment. I happened to have some cat food left over from when I raised Roger the starling, whose dietary needs required me to make the world's most disgusting sludge, so I dumped some in a bowl and fed her.

She kept showing up. And on Saturday, I decided to let her come in. I've called the Humane Society and checked the paper's "lost" ads, but it doesn't appear that her family is looking for her, despite the fact that she's really healthy and came to me with a flea collar.

Let me begin by saying that I'm not a cat person. I have never owned a cat and I'm actually really allergic to them. I don't know the slightest thing about cats. But there was no way I was going to let her stay outside in the cold without taking care of her. It's not in my nature.

In the past four days, this fiesty feline has taken over. She follows me around mewing if I don't pay enough attention to her. She demands I clean her litter box the second she finishes using it. She takes over my bed, my couch and my apartment in general.

And she's loving, sweet and appreciative of everything. She makes me smile, and I love having someone to talk to, even though she can only mew back and pretend to understand.

But, to be honest, she's also making me nuts. She doesn't sleep when I sleep but prefers to stay up breaking things, scattering my papers and trying to get me to wake up and play with her. When she finally falls asleep, she insists on sleeping on my chest, prompting an instant allergic reaction and sometimes an asthma attack. And for being such a tidy little girl, she eats like a pig, throwing food across the room and knocking over every water bowl I've tried -- no matter how heavy.

I've wanted another pet for a while, but I didn't realize that she would be so much like a new, loud roommate. Rats just aren't so invasive. But I've also noticed that I look forward to going home and having someone waiting for me. And I love how much she likes to cuddle. And she keeps me entertained. And, as my friend Mala pointed out, it's obvious that she's chosen me to be her owner, and she trusts me and likes me already.

So if I don't hear back from her owners, I'm going to keep her -- even if that means I give up perfect lung function and a good night's sleep.

When I look at her cute, squished-looking face, I know it's worth it.

Half-baked

I have been a cooking fiend this past week. I made a few dishes to bring to my friend Genie's house for Thanksgiving -- green-bean casserole, artichoke dip and brownies -- and I also made a batch of brownies (complete with dark chocolate peanut M&Ms) for my lovely co-worker Mala's last day of work.

Then, on Saturday, I tried making pasties (it's NOT pronounced like the nipple covers strippers wear, but with a soft A), which is a dish commonly made in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. It consists of onions, rutabaga, potatoes, carrots and beef in a pie crust.

Here's a sample picture of a pasty -- I didn't take any photos of mine because I forgot, but it looks really similar -- that I stole from here.

They're delicious -- my mom has made them for years -- but I didn't realize how complicated they would be to make. And after I had all these pesky pie crusts stuffed, rolled and perfectly laid out on the pan, half of them burst open in the oven. Apparently, according to my mom, I overstuffed them.

Finally, after more than an hour of prep and an hour of baking, I ate my first solo-flight pasties. They were delicious. Could have used more meat and smaller pieces of veggies. Would have been nice if more than three had stayed intact. But all in all, a good first try.

I now can proudly call myself a Michigander.

Digital Wall of Shame: Dying of embarrassment

Poor Mom. She was "alway's" there, and this is what her family gives her in return.

The idea of the traditional American burial creeps me out enough. You spend thousands of dollars on a comfortable coffin you won't enjoy. Your family members have to endure a funeral service where they surround your stone-cold body in its open casket and make awkward small talk while publicizing their grief. And, really, worst of all, there's a chance your headstone could be messed up, eternally marking you as an idiot.

You better believe that if someone screws up my headstone after I die, there will be a haunting.

(This horrific photo from the afterlife -- which made me laugh out loud at work -- is stolen from a blog I really love to read, Apostrophe Abuse. You should definitely check it out.)

Digital Wall of Shame: The snark's on me

In April, my sister and I bought a sweet little embroidered wall hanging for my mom that had the Lord's Prayer on it. We all thought it was so nice, and my mom proudly displayed it in the living room for all to see.

Today, she sent me an e-mail. As she was rearranging furniture, she noticed one thing -- a typo. Whoever stitched this obviously took a long time staring at this sampler, but he or she never noticed that the word "will" was spelled "wil."

And neither did I after staring at it for so long. And I call myself a copy editor.

I can quit any time I want

Recently, I've noticed that when I have an asthma attack, especially exercise-induced, my old inhaler doesn't seem to work.

So my doctor decided to bust out the big guns, in steroid form. I take it in the morning and at night, and it's supposed to prevent attacks during the day. It's too early to tell if it's working, but I can tell you one thing: This stuff is pretty much speed.

I'm hopped up for about two hours after taking it. If I take it too soon before bed, I toss and turn and can't get to sleep. In the morning, it's as effective as a shot of espresso.

I also hear it has cocaine-like withdrawal symptoms. But I'll get there when I get there. Right now, just give me my drugs.

Now excuse me while I go run laps around the newsroom to release some inhaler-induced energy.

Lazy weekend

This week was a three-day work week for me, because my mom came to visit on Halloween and stayed till Tuesday. Since I had a glut of vacation days remaining (thank you, switches!), I took the whole time off.

The short week suits me just fine, especially since Tuesday was election night, which is like the Super Bowl for geeky journalists. It also, however, means a day of complete chaos and disorganization for the understaffed copy desk. I didn't leave the newsroom until 2:30 a.m. and wanted to sleep for days.

My weekend starts tomorrow, and I'm faced with a very rare situation: an entire day with nothing planned. What shall I do? I'm sick right now, so the responsible thing to do would be to stay in bed all day and recover, but what fun is that? I could work on my projects, but again ... that's no fun. Maybe I'll go see a matinee. Or do some Christmas shopping, even though I'm massively early. Or paint something. Or try out some new pumpkin recipes (I can't get enough pumpkin these days). Who knows.

I've been reading like a fiend recently, mostly the books from my childhood I wrote about a few entries ago, but also a few really fantastic books, including Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game (fantastic!), Ender's Shadow (possibly more fantastic), Vonnegut's Hocus Pocus (still reading, and liking it so far), and Neil Strauss' The Game (frighteningly enlightening and fascinating).

I decided not to do NaNoWriMo this month, simply because November is too nuts to voluntarily add some more stress. But it has gotten me thinking -- it's been a ridiculously long time since I've painted or done any creative writing. The closest I've come for either is writing and drawing in my journal; blogging; writing stories for the paper, which doesn't really count, regardless of how creative; and working on essays for the book my mom, sister and I are working on. I can tell, too. When I forget to give myself a creative outlet outside work, I tend to get a little blue and feel really restless.

Maybe tomorrow will be a painting day, after all. And maybe tomorrow, I'll also scan and post some delicious grammar mistakes I've stockpiled. :)

Reading, writing, editing and .... swimming

Just some random stuff going on:

My sister, my mom and I have been collaborating on a book. I can't get into the details too much right now, except that we have set what feels like an unreasonable deadline to finish. I'm really excited about it right now. My mom is the photographer, I'm the writer and my sister is the designer -- in short. We're going to self-publish.

I've also picked up the editing work I keep putting off. A friend is writing and self-publishing a novel, which I'm editing. But we've both been so busy that the project keeps getting put off. I'm finally starting it up again.

On a final book-related note, I have been rereading all my favorite books when I was a kid. I began with "A Wrinkle in Time" by Madeline L'Engle, which was one of my all-time favorites, and read "A Wind In the Door" for the first time, which didn't even come close to the greatness of the first book. I don't even want to read the rest of the series, because that was such a new-agey disappointment. Madeline, I miss you, but I just can't love everything you wrote. I'm sorry.

Then, I checked out a huge stack from the library: "Island of the Blue Dolphins," by Scott O'Dell; "The Indian in the Cupboard," by Lynne Reid Banks; "James and the Giant Peach," by Roald Dahl; and "Harriet the Spy," by Louise Fitzhugh. I just finished "Island of the Blue Dolphins," and I was impressed by how much I enjoyed it as an adult. Often, the books I loved fall short when I read them now.

Next up: National Novel Writing Month, which starts Nov. 1. I decided this year's book will be fun and goofy, not serious, like they've been the past two years (when I got burned out and didn't finish). This one is a satirical romance novel about a smokin' hot police officer and a grammar-obsessed copy editor. It's called ... dun dun dun ... "The Cop and the Copy Editor."

No segue available
And on a completely unrelated note ... I've begun to swim a lot, ever since I hurt my knee and had to put a hold on my running. My knee is a lot better now, but I'm still taking it really slow so I can keep it that way. And I'm really enjoying the swimming, which I haven't done seriously since high school. I actually surpassed my high school swimming limits last weekend: I swam a mile without stopping for the first time in my life! I am still excited about that.

Digital Wall of Shame: Cheap shots and merucry

Since this is a grammar blog, not a typo blog, I feel a bit cheap for posting so many spelling errors on the Digital Wall of Shame. I mean, it's almost too easy of a snark, and it's one that anybody would recognize (I hope) as an error. At the same time, it's so. damn. funny. It's mostly funny because it's so fixable -- all you have to do is click one little button, and errors like this can be corrected.

So while I might be taking cheap shots, they're also well-deserved. Even an idiot can use spellcheck.

DWS: Brought to you by the letter M

Today's Digital Wall of Shame comes, once again, from my hometown paper, The Alpena News, whose publisher doesn't find it necessary to hire copy editors.

Or use spellcheck.

Mackinac Island

When I was a kid living in Alpena, trips to Mackinac Island, on the cusp of Lake Michigan and Lake Huron between the two peninsulas of Michigan, were common. We'd go with band, or as class trips, or with our youth groups. It was a fairly easy trip for the adults to organize: You drive two hours, hop a 20-minute ferry and you're suddenly in what feels like another world.

Cars are banned on Mackinac Island, and people get around by walking, riding a horse-pulled carriage or by bicycling. The island is known for its lilacs and fudge, and in the early spring the air is thick with three smells: flowers, chocolate and horse crap.

It's really tourist-focused, full of stores selling cheap American Indian goods and logo T-shirts, and as I got older, it stopped being a place I wanted to go.

But last month, when I took two New Yorker friends back to Michigan with me, I knew they'd have to see the island. We hopped the ferry, walked around the silly stores and ate in a fantastic restaurant. Then we rented bikes and took them around the 8-mile circumference of the island. It was beautiful -- it felt like we were riding on an island in the Caribbean, not a tourist trap in Michigan -- and it reminded me why I used to love coming there so much.

(More photos behind the cut.)

It's a record, baby!

A few weeks ago, Mala, Mike and I went to the college in New Paltz to take part in the world's largest fingerpainting. It was disgusting, sticky and slippery. I loved it, although I finally got the last of the paint out of my hair a few days ago.

Here are some of the fingerpainters:

Check out more pics behind the cut.

Read to me, baby!

I just discovered the wonders of using my iPod as a tool to help me clean.

I've never minded cleaning, as long as there's a distraction. But the problem is that the distraction is usually too, well, distracting. If I put on a TV show or a DVD, I inevitably end up sitting down to watch part of it. If I talk on the phone, I end up dropping it or getting a sore neck.

But iPods are great. All I have to do is stick it in my pocket, pop the earbuds in my ears and get sweeping, organizing, whatever.

Instead of just listening to a music playlist, however, I've been downloading audiobook podcasts, which is great because they're free and I can catch up on reading while being productive. It's a twofer. Right now, I'm listening to "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer."

I've also been considering listening to audiobooks while I work out, but that just seems too nerdy.

Because, you know, writing a grammar blog doesn't already qualify me as "too nerdy."

Digital Wall of Shame: Fugitive infestation

This is one of my all-time DWS favorites. It's been taped on my wall for about a year now, and every time I look at it, I start to laugh. And itch.

Stopped in my tracks

Sometimes, I'm a little stupid, medically speaking. I put off going to the doctor when I have bronchitis and it turns into pneumonia. I have a painful procedure done but don't schedule a follow-up appointment. I don't get the required tests at the required times. And I still haven't gotten contacts, almost a year after I decided to take the lens plunge. The only thing I'm good about is going to the dentist. I'm a freak about my teeth.

Everywhere else, I'm a mess.

But at least I'm starting to realize it. That counts for something, right?

For the past two weeks, I've been running, hiking, jumping, lifting and twisting with a knee that might have something seriously wrong with it. We're talking torn cartilage maybe. Or meniscus problems. And it's not getting better. Every time it gets better, I get optimistic and do something that hurts it again.

Today, I made the first step to stop being a medical moron. I'm taking a break.

I'm going to rest my knee. I will not do anything high-impact for two weeks. No running, no intense hiking (this makes me want to cry -- it's the prettiest time to hike!), no aerobics. Tae bo, you're on the shelf (this makes me smile -- I hate Billy Blanks more than I should).

It's funny, two years ago, I basically led a sedentary lifestyle. I was in college, and although I ate relatively healthy, I probably worked out about four times in one semester. Now exercise has become a habit -- and one that I really enjoy -- and the idea of not working out stresses me out.

So I'm not stopping completely. I'm just going to stick to low-impact activities during this time, including swimming, bicycling (this makes me gag -- boooring) and using the elliptical. I'm also going to stop pushing myself to be ready for the 5K. If worse comes to worse, I'll walk it.

If in two weeks, I don't see improvement, I'm going to the dreaded doctor. Because my doctor is smart, even when I'm stupid.

The best holiday ever

Happy National Punctuation Day!

Today is the day you give love, not to mothers or fathers or to your boss or secretary, but to the incredibly useful and horribly unappreciated semicolon, apostrophe, comma and hyphen.

So take that ellipsis out for a drink and let her know how special she really is.

; - ( ) : ... < > ! ? , ' .

Digital Wall of Shame: Spellcheck edition

Sometimes, there's really just no excuse for a mistake. Like when the main story on Page One isn't spellchecked.

Come on, people, get your act "togehter"! Actually, please don't, or I'd run out of things to snark.

(My apologies for the ridiculously crappy scan. I was too lazy to redo it.)

Book Festival

While it was still disgustingly dark out this morning, Mike and I hopped on the bus down to Brooklyn to check out the Brooklyn Book Festival.

Originally, I was a bit miffed that I had to come back early for work because I had to miss a few presentations I was really excited about, including one of my favorite writers, Dave Eggers, who spoke at 5. But it ended up being really fun anyway, and I walked around all day with a book high and a silly grin.

Here are a few highlights:

Three minorities and a microphone
One session, titled "Culture Crash," featured Ana Castillo, whom I studied -- and liked a lot -- in a Chicano literature class in college, and two writers I'd never heard of but really enjoyed, Amitov Ghosh and Colin Channer. They each read some of their works (note to self: buy all of them), and answered a few questions after the reading.

My favorite part was the (white) moderator, who apparently felt a duty to remind these three (minority) writers of the theme of the forum. He posed questions focusing on the "cultural," but the questions were really awkward and none of the writers seemed to be able to answer them. I love awkwardness over a microphone.

Two out of three ain't bad
I heard another much-liked writer, George Saunders (so funny!), read nonfiction, which was a nice surprise, since I've only read his fiction. I also fell in love with a new writer, Joshua Ferris, and cajoled Mike into buying his book so I could steal it. It appears to be written in the first-person plural ("We did this, we did that"), which is so weird and seems like something an English teacher would assign just to challenge her students.

But another woman who read with them -- Lynne Tillman -- was terrible. I felt sort of bad for her; she read after Ferris, who was kinda hot and charmed the crowd, and before Saunders, who was clearly the person everyone wanted to see. She was boring, droning and, worst of all, ridiculously pretentious. The best part of her reading was the snarky commentary Mike and I wrote back and forth in a notebook. Good thing she didn't go last, or nobody would have stuck around.

Word jealousy
The first event was a poetry slam featuring young (under 20) poets from Urban Word NYC, which seems like a really interesting program and one I would have thoroughly enjoyed as a teen. Too bad I first heard about it today. Some of the poets were incredible, to the point where I'd buy their books. And this, of course, made me ask myself WHAT, at 24, have I accomplished compared with the 19-year-old with a book deal?

Attack of the clones
I don't think I would find as many hipsters with plastic glasses and front-swept hair at a Tegan and Sara concert as there were at the book fest. It was as if every coffeehouse, Apple store and thrift shop in the city emptied out and poured onto one city block.

In addition, there apparently was a woman walking around the crowd who looked identical to me, although, as Mike put it, "a little more generic." Take that, less-hipster-looking-than-me girl!

"Your baby is DELICIOUS!"
My friend Steve ordered me to eat at the Original California Taqueria on Court Street in Brooklyn, and I was extremely grateful for the recommendation. The vegetarian burrito was delicious, although it was also the most awkwardly large thing I'd ever seen. If I had wrapped a blanket around it, people would have thought I was carrying a newborn with a crispy, flaky, delicious tortilla face.

No pain, no gain?

I ran today for the first time since my knee started being messed up again. I decided to do the treadmill because it gives a little more than the pavement, and I figured I'd be as nice to my poor, broken legs as possible. After all, they're pretty good to me: They take me where I need to go with relatively little fuss, and they're responding well to my efforts to make them stronger.

Scatterbrain
On my way to the gym, I stopped at CVS to pick up a knee brace, which I believe makes the fourth or fifth knee brace I've ever owned. Those suckers have magical disappearing powers, I swear.

I got out to my car and looked for my keys. Nowhere. After peering in my car, I remembered that I had, indeed, carried them into CVS with me. I spent the next 10 minutes searching the shelves, and I finally found them on the shelf next to some lotion I was thinking about buying.

I'm bad about losing things. Maybe those braces aren't magical, after all.

Masochist
At the gym, I managed to skip straight to week three of the Couch to 5K running program, which I recently discovered, and I was able to complete it without a problem -- not even an asthma attack.

Or so I thought.

My knee is KILLING me now. The weird thing is, it makes me want to run more. The way I see it, my knee will probably always hurt, and I might as well work through the pain.

But it also makes me wonder if I'm being a bit masochistic. Maybe the fact that it hurts makes it feel like more of an accomplishment than if it were totally easy. Maybe I'm the type of person who only appreciates something if it took hard work to get there.

Is that really a good mindset to have? Is "No pain, no gain" a good mantra, or is it just going to make me end up unable to walk?

Digital Wall of Shame: Cool aunt edition

My aunt Colleen sends me a "care package" every few weeks. When I see the manila envelope in the mail, I'm instantly excited. She loves browsing for errors that will make me laugh, and every envelope is stuffed with mistakes she found (mostly in the local paper, The Alpena News) and her snarky comments.

Here's one she sent a while ago that I finally got to scan in. Yay technology! I especially liked it because I happen to live in "New Your." I left Coll's sticky note on there for added flavor.

Why I love being a copy editor

Working as a copy editor has some major benefits. Sure, we work nights, so there's not much time for a social life, and the crappy lighting and too much staring at a computer screen has killed my vision (I never needed glasses before I started this career), but really, it can be great.

For example, I get to flex my obsessive-compulsive muscles at work, fixing grammar errors and looking for holes in stories, which surprisingly makes me much less OCD when I get home. And the headline writing is a really fun, creative form of expression. Plus, I love most of my co-workers.

But mostly -- it's the vacation time. I'm not gonna lie.

I technically only get 10 days of vacation a year until I hit the five-year mark at the paper, but our boss is really cool with us switching with other copy editors. And any time I work overtime, I can choose not to get the hours and instead take 1 1/2 comp days. Likewise, any time I work a holiday (which, I'll admit, sucks sometimes), I get overtime and a comp day.

Which means that this year, I've taken about five vacations -- one for nine days -- and still have five days of vacation time left and two personal days. So I can take one or two more.

As much as I bitch about the hours and having to work holidays, I really can't imagine having a nine-to-five office job where I have to get up early and where I have a set amount of time off, and that's it.

Plus, I doubt I'd have people around me who would fully sympathize when I get stressed out by comma overuse or messy hyphenation.

DWS: New scanner wrecks havoc!

I am proud to announce that I am the owner of a brand-new HP scanner! (Thanks, Mom and Dad!) This means that you'll have more freshly cut newspaper mistakes to giggle over every week. To start off, I figured I'd share a hard-copy version of an error I've already posted here, because it's so much funnier when it's styled in headline format.

So, without further ado, I give you:

Not only is "wrecks havoc" ridiculous, as I stated here, "area" is NOT an adjective. "Area" is only a noun, and if you wanted to use it as an adjective, the correct word is "areal." Or just use "local," and you won't look like a bonehead.

Running, for real?

I've always wanted to be a runner: one of those people who thinks jogging for two hours at a time is fun and who has to buy new shoes every three months, not out of fashion but because they were simply worn out. I always wanted to have a reason to subscribe to -- and read -- Runner's World and to wear those silly little running shorts with the hidden key pocket.

I've always wanted to simply enjoy the act of running, to like this basic, back-to-nature form of exercise that seems to be so great.

But I've never been a runner. In high school, even during my very athletic days, I ran. But my form of running came in quick, short bursts. In volleyball, basketball, even in track, I rarely ran for more than a minute continuously. I was fast, sure, but the concept of pacing and long distance was completely foreign. Run for too long, and I get an asthma attack, a side ache and knee pain.

I'm not as fit as I was even in high school, and my asthma has gotten worse. But I've decided I am going to become a runner. So recently, I've been lacing up my sneakers and hitting the pavement. I even bought a pair of silly running shorts. In November, I'm going to run a 5-K.

I still have asthma attacks, and I get side aches, and my knee is currently killing me as a result of last week's runs. And I doubt any of this will go away. But I can't just sit here and wait until my body is perfect and my cartilage stops being torn and my lungs stop hating me.

Because if I keep waiting, I'll be sitting here forever.

Sh is cool!

The Kalamazoo (Mich.) Gazette featured a pretty hysterical misspelling on the streets of K-Zoo. Guess whoever painted the street should probably sit in on a few third-grade spelling lessons at nearby Northwood Elementary. [via]

I almost killed a reality TV star

On Saturday, I decided to head to the Gold's Gym in Newburgh, about a half-hour from my house, to check it out, because I'd heard great things about it. For example, there's a "cardio theater," which has dozens of cardio machines in a dark room with a movie-theater screen in front. It plays new DVD releases as you run or cycle. Amazing. And there's a pool. And a sauna. And a whirlpool. But I digress.

As I was driving there, I passed the future site of the Orange County Choppers' headquarters. (In case you didn't know, the Orange County in the TV show is MY Orange County, in New York, not the O.C. in California.)

Apparently, a bunch of motorheads are pretty pissed off at our OCC pals, because they hired nonunion labor to build its HQ, and they decided to protest.

I pulled up to the stoplight on the corner of the protest and waited for the green. When it turned, I waited a few seconds (all New Yorkers run red lights. If you don't, you'll get rear-ended), then pulled into the intersection.

At that moment, the leader of the OCC family, Paul Teutul Sr., blasted through the red light on his bike to turn left. I slammed on my brakes and laid on the horn, barely avoiding throwing him across my windshield.

I'm lucky. Not only would I have killed a dude, but his death would have set half the hicks in America out to get me.

I look like a typo

Kendra reminded me of this fun game, where you type "(your name) looks like" into Google and pick your favorite results.

Here are mine:

Elissa looks like her face is going to fly off.

Elissa looks like Cher.

Elissa looks like a pearl, a flower.

Elissa looks like a man and skates like a(sic) alien.

Elissa looks like it was a typo and meant to be Melissa.

DWS: All hookers want is a wife

This gem for today's Digital Wall of Shame comes from today's St. Paul Pioneer Press in Minnesota.

If you can't read the story, it's about how CAREER WOMEN really want the equivalent of a wife: someone to cook and clean so when they're home from work, they can simply relax. I assume the copy editor who wrote the headline was simply restricted by space, leading him or her to replace "woman" with "girl."

Said writer apparently forgot that "WORKING GIRL" has a whole other meaning.

DWS: Big, dumb brother is watching version

I'm back from vacation in Alpena and will have a proper post about it soon, but I just wanted to leave you with a lovely Digital Wall of Shame addition, courtesy of the airport in Saginaw, Mich.

I hope "your" shaking in "you're" boots.

Watch out for those sprinklers!

Today's Digital Wall of Shame entry comes, once again, from The Alpena News. I am eternally grateful for the fact that I can still see a .pdf of the front page even though I live across the country.

I'm actually heading back to Alpena tomorrow morning, and I'll definitely make sure to pack my umbrella.

Don't want to be caught unprotected when sprinklers are falling from the sky.

Plain Jane can't get publishers to notice

A Jane Austen fan submitted the first chapters of "Pride and Prejudice," "Northanger Abbey" and "Persuasion" to 18 publishers, changing the names and titles but leaving everything the same.

Only ONE publisher recognized that it was plagiarism. Another called it "original" but didn't ask for more chapters. Every publisher rejected it.

I guess it must make budding authors who've been rejected feel a little better, though.

Read the story here. [via]

A is for Anagram

After a slew of sad pet posts, I felt like it was time for some fun. So here is a nod to one of my favorite books as a kid, "A is for Annabelle," in the form of a life update.

A is for Anagram Some anagrams of my first name are Ass Lie or Lassie. My first and last name -- Elissa Englund -- work out to be Languid Lenses, Sensual Dingle, Aged Unless Nil, Sundae Sell Gin and Sailed Legs Nun. Mike and I spent a long afternoon a while ago trying to figure ours out. These, however, were found at this site.

B is for Birthday I turn 24 on Saturday. I usually pretend that I'm not a birthday person because it seems like the grown-up thing to do. I play noncommittal and play the "Oh, it's almost July 21? Well it's just another day ..." game, but it's all a lie. I love birthdays. I love opening presents and the anticipation and beauty of wrapped gifts. I love family gatherings with lots of food (all my favorites, of course) and lots of noise. I love feeling special. Birthdays are the best, and I don't think I'll feel any differently when I turn 44.

C is for Camping To celebrate said special day, Sue and I are going camping here. I am thrilled, although it means that I won't be getting the new Harry Potter on the day it comes out. Oh well. I'm completely OK with waiting, unless some jerk gives away the ending by wearing a "Harry Potter dies on page 543" T-shirt at the mall. Which happened for the last book. Have I mentioned that I hate people?

D is for Dimwits Speaking of hating people, my stupid-person tolerance is waning. And I seem to be a magnet for idiots recently. WHY CAN'T PEOPLE UNDERSTAND THINGS THE FIRST TIME THEY'RE TOLD, NOT THE SIXTEENTH!? End rant.

E is for Ears I have really small ears. My mom says they're dainty, but really, they're childlike. I heard that your ears keep growing until you die, which means that by the time I'm old, they will be a normal size.

F is for Flight Next weekend, I head to Michigan for a long vacation ... nine days! I plan to do nothing but sit at the lake, hang out with my family, eat my mom's amazing food and visit my sister at her camp.

G is for Gillian at Gold's Gym I've been going to a trainer at the gym for a while, and the results have been amazing. In addition to the expected physical benefits, I feel stronger, have more endurance and have more general athletic confidence than I have in a long time. I'd highly recommend it, even though she sometimes pushes me to the point of throwing up.

And because I'm lazy, this session ends with G. Stay tuned for H through Z at another date.   

All alone

One more rattie post, and then I'm done. Actually, there's no choice in the matter. After today, I will have nothing rat-related to write about.

I put Sammy to sleep today. He wasn't doing well, and had just stopped eating. It would have been cruel to continue. My vet was really kind and understanding, and he actually kissed his sick, ugly little head before he did it. It was quick and less painful than I had expected. I had been told that when they put small animals to sleep, they have to give them an injection in the heart to kill them, which is akin to stabbing them in the heart. But while there was an injection, it was peaceful, and he died while I was holding him.

As I was leaving, the vet gave me a hug and told me that this visit was on him. He didn't charge me to put him to sleep or to have him cremated (I can't bury him, since I live in an apartment). He told me it's because he could tell I'm a good pet owner and an "all-around good kid."

It was very touching. If I ever have another pet, I'm definitely going to him. Although this will be my last rat ever. I can't handle having something I love die every three years.

The Rat Pack

Frank Sinatra (the white rat) and Sammy Davis Jr. (the brown rat) got sick with pneumonia a few weeks ago. I took them to the vet last Friday, and Frank died that night. I knew it would happen, but it was still really hard, especially because I feel guilty that I didn't notice it sooner. But he was old in rat years, and I am trying to keep it in stride.

Here's him in healthier days:

I kept Sammy there through the weekend, and picked him up on Monday after shelling out nearly $300. I know. It's sick. But I love them and don't want them to suffer.

Sammy's still holding on, but barely. He's dragging himself along because his back legs aren't working, and although he's eating, he's not drinking water. I don't think he'll make it through the weekend.

Mountain Jam

I realized I never posted any photos of Mountain Jam, which my friend Robin and I attended at Hunter Mountain, N.Y., on June 2. Most of the day was great ... the weather was perfect, warm yet breezy, and most of the bands were good, with the exception of the crappy filler bands on the side stage.

No more music

Living in Middletown is a challenge sometimes. There aren't a lot of things to do, it isn't a very nice city and most of the people are kinda scary. But there are a few good things about it.

One of my favorite things is a bar called the Corner Stage, owned by a blues lover named Mike Quick and his wife, Goshe. Every night has live music, often featuring Mike and some of his friends. The drinks are reasonably priced and the atmosphere is less like a bar and more like a really hip coffeeshop that happens to serve beer.

Everyone there's really nice. People dance to the music (often badly, which adds to the fun). On their random blues jam nights, the performers range from an amazing 9-year-old kid to an 80-year-old man. When I walk in the door, the bartender gets a drink ready for me.

I just found out that this bar is closing in August. When it's gone, the one thing that's unique and great about Middletown will disappear.