Verbal Abuse (New & Improved)

Yesterday morning, Luke told me, "I play this Nintendo game good." I said, "No. You play it well. Well is an adverb, adverbs modify verbs, and to play is a verb. Good (in this instance) is an adjective. Adjectives modify nouns." After I realized (again) that I sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher to him, he looked at me and asked, "Why aren't they called adnouns? Shouldn't adjectives modify jectives?" He totally missed the point.

The majority of my friends, acquaintances, blog reader(s), and healthcare providers are well-aware that I am a bit of a stickler when it comes to proper grammar, spelling, and punctuation. Hell, spelling ability was one of the top five reasons I married my husband or even dated him in the first place. And I'm proud to say that both of my children know the difference between "your" and "you're" and the difference between "its" and "it's," which is a lot more than I can say for most adults I know. I have convinced my family that the only thing worse than misplacing my keys is misplacing a modifier. They pretend to know what a gerund is so as not to upset my fragile psyche. And they know all-too-well that dangling a participle in front of me is an open invitation for my unbridled wrath to rain down upon them.

I don't care what you say, as long as you say it correctly. If someone were to write me a note that says, "go to hell bitch." I would return it to them with red marks showing that the word "go" should be capitalized, the word "hell" needs a comma after it, and the word "bitch" needs a capital "B" (because it refers to Me). I might also suggest that the statement end with an exclamation mark instead of a period.

Now, I don't pretend or profess to be the world's greatest expert on the English language. (Well, sometimes I do pretend to be.) I only got a bachelor's degree in English. It's not as if I did something crazy like get a Ph.D. in grammar:

"Oh, you have a Ph.D.? So you're a 'doctor.' Doctor of what, may I ask?"

"Thanks for asking. I have a Ph.D. in English grammar. I'm a grammar doctor. Can I edit something for you?"

I believe my linguistic superiority, whether it is real or imagined, can be somewhat off-putting to anyone who wants to speak in my presence. I wonder if they bite their tongues lest I mentally edit each word they utter. This, of course, works to my advantage because (1) I don't have to listen to other people talk and (2) I get to talk more. And let's face it; wouldn't most of you rather listen to me?

Because I don't trust my children's teachers, I take advantage of every opportunity to train my kids to respect, revere, and regularly employ basic grammar rules. If any other children (or adults for that matter) are within earshot, all the better for them. One of my biggest challenges over the past few years has been drilling it into the kids' heads that "me" cannot be the subject of a standard sentence. Here are some examples:

Luke: "Me and him were making up jokes about our nuts."
Me: "Me was doing what? . . . Him was doing what?"
Luke: "Making up jokes about our nuts."
Me: "You should say, 'He and I were making up jokes about our nuts.'"

Katy: "Me and Lily and Maddie are so hot for Brance." (Their real names, by the way.)
Me: "Me is so hot for whom?"
Katy: "I don't know whom you're hot for, Mom, but we're hot for Brance."

Likewise, "I" cannot be the object of a sentence:

Katy: "Take a picture of Brooke and I."
Me: "Take a picture of I?"
Katy: "No, she and I."
Me: "Take a picture of she and take a picture of I?"
Katy: "No, of me and Brooke."
Me: "Thank you."

As I have stated before, any so-called errors I may have made (or may make) in any blog posts are actually intentional examples of the poetic license I am entitled to by virtue of my obvious genius in this unpopular and endangered arena.

I know what you're thinking:

(1) How pathetic is she that this is her only talent?
(2) Why must she try to make herself feel important by mocking and looking down on those less grammatically fortunate?
(3) Why does she abuse her children this way?

The answers:

(1) I have other talents that I am not as proud of,
(2) Therefore, I need to boost my self-esteem at the expense of others, and
(3) My kids will make me look good later when I can tell people they have Ph.D.s.

Today is the First Day of the Next Four Years

How did it get to be January 20 already? I was supposed to be more on top of my new life plan by now. Instead here I am either Facebooking or blogging. Not big moneymakers for a work-from-home lawyer. So this will be short. Mainly so I can go watch the inauguration ceremony. I love it that Obama will be sworn in with his hand on the same Bible Lincoln used. I don't care what your political views are, you have to admit it's a nice touch, and would be a good smack in the face for racists and white supremacists, were they capable of understanding.

I have an old Vietnam vet client who used to tell me a lot of the old classic southern racist jokes -- not because he thought I was racist, but simply because he knew I was white, and because he knew I liked to laugh. I did laugh, but mostly at his audacity and at the realization that when I was a kid, that stuff was common and no real harm was meant by it. We didn't know what "hate speech" was. The "N" word was a mere descriptive term that my grandparents used. They never uttered it in a pejorative way. Anyway, don't want to go off on that tangent.

My client told me that he recently discovered that he has some "half-breed" grand-nieces. He said, "And I'll be damned if they ain't the purtiest things you ever did see." So proud of them and so struck by the young girls' beauty.

Then he proceeds to tell me, "You know, I've been thinkin' 'bout it, and all them white presidents ain't never done us a damn bit o' good, so maybe with this one we have a chance."

It's not the skin color itself that makes it different. Never should be in any case. But I think it's the life experience or empathy or symbolism behind it that makes it different. Not that that alone would make a person a good (or bad) president.

I wonder how many of us are not so much glad to see a new president as they are just glad to see the old one go.

High Resolutions

When I was working on my English degree, I preferred world literature over English or American. But I always did like some snippets from English poet Alexander Pope.

Every January, I am reminded of this:

Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always to be blessed.
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

(I think he's really referring to Heaven there, but for our purposes, let's pretend he's talking about our materialistic Earth.)

Sure, I don't have much breast from which hope could spring, but no matter how negative I seem, I am always hopeful that the next day, week, month, year will be better (or even better as the case may be). Is hope a bad thing? Does it mean you're not satisfied with today? I think it just means you always hope for the best, you hope for blue skies and rainbows and butterflies and a magic invisible leprechaun to hand you a million dollars every time you ask for it. You hope for your family's health and safety and happiness and that they don't kill you in your sleep.

Might I add that Pope also said Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. So maybe I'm a fool to rush in to such hope—especially when I seem to have all I need, and especially when hope has no power over fate or destiny or cellulite. I imagine angels take things as they come and rest as the discontent keep searching for something they think might be better.

My favorite Pope quote (Americanized here) is probably: True wit is nature to advantage dressed; What often was thought, but never so well expressed. This really has no relevance here other than to point out how witty I am.

All this to say, a new year always gives me a feeling of a do-over. A mulligan. A chance to be more successful, patient, grateful, sensitive, and spiritual. Basically, a new chance to be more better. A chance to become someone I'll never be without a lobotomy, but I'll keep hope alive--at least for that leprechaun.

We'll see how it goes.

Free Preview Below. Enjoy.

I just took the first batch to the post office. About 100 covered the first half of the alphabet. Such shameless self-promotion, I know. You will be getting your hard copy with pictures soon (if you're lucky enough to make the cut). Once you read it, let me know if you'd like me to unsubscribe you for next year. There's a waiting list. And if you're just some random stranger who has stumbled upon this page after Googling something like "dog puke" then this is all you get.

And I must apologize to those A-M's who received the bad font copies. They are very hard to read, even for me with my new trifocals. I blame Kinko's. If you need a new copy, just ask, and I'll tell you how to print from this screen.

Eighth Annual Boring Mitchell Holiday Letter

I apologize in advance to my blog's regular readers (both of them) as much of this garbage was previously published there. But it's been modified to conform to the highest standards of propriety I endeavor to adhere to during the holidays. This yearly breath of hot air you've come to live for won't ease any mental instability, emotional malaise, or gastrointestinal difficulties 2008 may have caused, but it should at least serve as a temporary painkiller. Our year wasn't nearly as cool as Michael Phelps' or as crappy as Sarah Palin's, so don't expect much. In a nutshell, Mike went to war, I almost killed our dog, Luke disposed of another carcass, and Katy subjected us to her steady bout of premature PMS.

Luke started 6th grade and maintains a biohazard backpack and scores commensurate with his lackadaisical attitude. His penmanship tells us he may have been Japanese in a past life. He stands up to bullies with his clever wit, and I'm glad to suggest comebacks that may one day get his butt kicked. He's 12 and has already had braces, but still loses baby teeth and expects tooth fairy visits. His milestones include: moving up to the front seat without my blessing; getting his first hunting license; and surviving a weeklong Boy Scout camp without the helmet, bubble wrap, and clean boxers I packed for him to wear. We hope he'll make Eagle Scout and get a scholarship since we can't afford college now. Scouting has prepared him for: 10-mile hikes; shoveling up a pecked-over fox carcass as I dry-heave; and selling popcorn.

His quotes of the year: "Well, I guess we're all floating in the same toilet." "We need to get a real Christmas tree so we can blow it up in the back yard in January." When I tried to pick his nose before a basketball game, "Mom, it's not picture day." Katy said, "With credit cards, buy now, pay later." Luke: "Or buy now, move to Kentucky." And . . . "Katy, now that you're in 3rd grade, don't rush it. These are good times. Before you know it, it'll all be over."

Katy still exhibits energy and temper levels that would outweigh Amy Winehouse's blood-heroin content multiplied exponentially by the number of Brangelina's children. This explains why we introduced her to deodorant. ("I don't need a shower. Can't I just rub soap in my armpits?" At least she's not high-maintenance.) Katy's not only a back seat driver; she has back seat road rage. Gymnastics class doesn't take the edge off, and basketball only fuels her competitive spirit ("We don't keep score, but we won.") I envy her in-your-face enthusiasm, but it doesn't always agree with my inner Goth. Needless to say, I thoroughly enjoyed her 2 weeks of summer Brownie sleep-away camp. She's a wizard with electronics, the coffee maker, belching, and the microwave. ("Mom, try the 'popcorn' button next time.") We replaced a lost retainer with one that glows in the dark. If she loses this one, it'll be easier to find. At night. Her alertness continues to amaze us. As I drove through Starbucks, she said, "$4.76 for a drink??" Then it hit me: She's far too aware of my poor judgment. Her lowest grade so far is a 97, but her spelling skills are somewhat lacking. She tattled, "Luke called me an a-s-s-w-h-o-l-e." She read a sign on a grocery store sample tray and said, "Ewww, 'use tongues to pick up food?'" I had to explain the subtle difference between tongues and tongs. She's 9 and already taller than any underage Chinese gymnast. For her birthday, we consented to ear-piercing after she signed a contract agreeing to a pre-set limit on future unnatural holes to be punched in her body.

Her quotes of the year: "When I was little, I thought phone calls went through wires. Now I know they go through satellites." "Our bus driver is a Washington Rednecks fan." "I love the smell of french fries in the afternoon!" "It's National Night Out. Can we go camping?" And for a spelling-word sentence, "I don't want to go to juvenile." She asked, "Isn't that kid jail?"

As for me, if not for my family, the presidential campaign and election onslaught would've sent me straight to a polygamist compound for relief. I did find some solace in watching the debates. On Saturday Night Live. In spite or because of my giving out too much free legal advice, my veterans' law practice has made me a part-time mom with adult-onset ADD. (I hope to add some hyperactivity so I can get something done.) I spent the year volunteering at various veterans' benefits events and tried (with marginal success) to appear professional at conferences. My income isn't yet enough for me to fly first-class, but I've been known to splurge on extra fees for an aisle seat, lavatory privileges, and an armrest. I finally got a website; now I just need a real office to improve the chances I'll shave my legs and wear a bra more often.

My midlife crisis took an unwelcome turn one morning in April when I woke up 42. I invested in "progressive" (edgy word for "trifocal") lenses with my tattoo money and set up a page on Facebook (too old for MySpace, too young for real life). At least my American Idol obsession still gave me something to talk to our babysitter about. Before he went to Iraq, Mike briefed me on the outdoor man-activities (besides peeing) that I'd need to do. Now I can operate all our gas-powered tools, tell the difference between the propane and septic tanks, and try to keep from killing the garden. I also discovered we have a sprinkler system. In his absence: I tried sleeping in the middle of the bed, but gave up when I couldn't reach the snooze button; I almost killed our dog after he ate 4 huge chocolate bars (the vet said his puke smelled like brownies); and I ran out of gas looking for it 2 cents a gallon cheaper than $3.98. I also found out that Cuban cigars aren't so easily replaced after serious humidor neglect.

The rest of my year's highlights included some girlfriend weekends, a scrapbooking retreat, and an occasional workout when I take the trash uphill to the curb. At Halloween, since this small town's trick-or-treating options left a lot to be desired, I took the costumed kids to the grocery store and let them pick out all the candy they wanted. Next year, maybe we'll skip the costumes, too. Last month, I spent the extra time-change hour learning how to reset our thermostat's clock. At Thanksgiving, I gave thanks for my many blessings, including a life-changing GPS that lets me watch myself make U-turns, and for stretchy low-rise jeans that allow for yet restrain holiday abdominal distension.

Mike spent 2 months in Iraq between April and June. I kept his return a secret from the kids, and they almost didn't recognize him when he came off the flight line. With a lot of exercise time and no drinking, he lost 15 pounds. (He's since caught up on all the Mexican food he missed.) We think the C-5 that brought him home via Germany imported more beer than passengers. The best part of his tour was flying combat with his life-long best friend, Drew. The worst was crouching at the sound of incoming mortar fire and fearing a round would hit a nearby port-a-john. His less glamorous trips included TDYs to Phoenix, Des Moines, Las Vegas, Panama City, and Midland for the Confederate Air Force airshow. For July 4th we went to Lake Charles, Louisiana. He took a jet for his fly-by while I had the pleasure of driving a carload of children.

On a family trip to Lake Murray, Oklahoma, he was stopped for speeding. He told the cop, "I haven't driven much since my tour in Iraq . . . ." The kids were impressed with his ability to escape with just a warning. They're much more familiar with the sexual harassment and police brutality I endure every time I get pulled over. In October, he went on a Wild Hogs Harley trip with his dad and uncle. Aside from losing a saddlebag with his wallet and a wad of cash on the highway somewhere in the southwest Texas desert, he had a great time.

We marked another year of putting up with each other by spending a weekend in Austin and celebrating on 6th street after Texas beat OU. He came to terms with my inability to hear any odd car noises or to park in the garage to his specifications. In return, I abandoned all hope that he'd overcome his complete and total lack of interest in learning which towels go in which bathroom. We're still working on 2002's deal to stay in the same room when we talk. He'll turn 45 soon, and only acts his age when he's snoozing on the couch in front of the History Channel.

In our abundant free time, we home-school the kids in musical literacy with "Name that Band." Mike challenges them with classic rock and country while I quiz them on pop hits of the 80's, 90's, and today. They may not master algebra or history, but they'll be a lot more fun at parties. We've also instituted a rigorous training program using our floor plan to show them where to put dirty dishes or clothes, flush toilets, hang wet towels, turn off lights, and shut doors. We're saving table manners for 2010.

For next year, I resolve to rely on more than my eBay feedback for a self-esteem boost, stop buying vegetables only to store them till they rot, and check my head before looking for my sunglasses. Mike plans to race his dirt bike and play guitar more often, as well as get comfortable wearing reading glasses in public. The kids should resolve to stop nagging me to do laundry, stop taking so long to order at a drive-thru, and learn to cut their own dang nails.

We hope you weren't hit too hard by this year's economic enema. At least we can take comfort knowing that all the AIG executives' children will still get their new ponies for Christmas. But seriously, amidst all the commercialism and stress, keep in mind the most important gift we received this particular holiday season: O.J. is finally going to prison.

We wish you true joy for the holidays and lasting happiness for the new year. And remember that we're not here to gain God's love. We're here to give it.

Love,

Jill, Mike, Luke, Katy & Buzz the chocoholic dog