Language Mangling (Would These Be Cases of "Mangluage?")

We live in a world where, instead of reading a finely-crafted story, people see movies to experience literature. Cliff Notes are considered too long a read. E-mailing replaces letter-writing. Texting rules; and it comes with its own dialect. We have lost most all appreciation for grammar, oratory and the written word – and it shows.

I have a list of pet peeves as they relate to grammar and pronunciation. Despite the fact I own a library of dictionaries, Roget’s Thesaurus and several editions of the AP Stylebook, I’m still reasonably hip for a word geek. I can live with (and use) things like “LOL,” “BTW” and “ASAP.” I understand a few lines of “text-ese.” I catch myself using bad grammar more often than I want to admit, but hopefully not in my professional life.

But things happen everyday which make me cringe, and everyday the public is more accepting of it. The “dumbing down of America,” I’ve heard it labeled. As I remember back to my college journalism classes, where a misspelled proper name or incorrect fact resulted in an automatic failing grade, here are the things that drive me nuts:

Mangle #1: “Less” versus “Fewer”
Less refers to quantity or bulk; fewer refers to individual quantity. “I had less than $10 in my pocket” versus “I had fewer than 10 one-dollar bills.” This is abused ALL THE TIME. When I called out its incorrectness to a radio producer, the reply was, well that’s how my listeners talk, so it makes them more comfortable to hear it that way.

Mangle #2: “You and me” versus “You and I” versus “ANYONE and me or I”
I can’t even write these without my computer’s Spelling/Grammar Check kicking in. Say the sentence in your head without the other person in the equation: “Sally and me want to go to the store.” Did Me want to go to the store or did I want to? Go with what makes sense. Wait – that implies that one has sense.

Mangle #3: Know Your City
I can only speak for my hometown, but if you’re going to be a broadcaster somewhere, for goodness sake, learn to pronounce things properly. The names of streets; politician names; area cities and towns. In Houston, on every TV station, there’s at least one anchor who can’t get it right. “Hiram Clark Blvd.” is not “Here-am” and our Texas senator is Hutchison – not Hutch-in-son.

Mangle #4: “Electorial” College
It’s Elec-tor-al. There’s no “I” in it. Enough said.

Mangle #5: “Good” versus “Well”
This is my pet peeve because it totally confuses me. From the AP Stylebook: Good should not be used as an adverb. “Good” is an adjective that means “as it should be or above average.” As an adjective, “well” means “suitable, proper or healthy.” As an adverb, “well” means “in a satisfactory way or skillfully.” I feel good = I am in good health. But if I feel well, I don’t know if my sense of touch is working properly or my skin is soft and supple. Hmmm. When your head stops spinning, please proceed to #6.

Mangle #6: “My Bad”
On the heels of good, well or indifferent, I can’t stop this one. It’s too ingrained into everyday life. Technically, it’s not incorrect. It’s just me. I hate the fact apologizing for a slight error (and sometimes large errors) is replaced with this flippant “I could not care less” response. The lack of sincerity is just one more pebble in the rockslide that is good manners.

Oh well, I guess one can chalk it all up to laziness – not looking something up; not checking facts; a lack of doing one’s research. But hey – we’ve elected politicians who can’t spell “potato” and can’t pronounce “nuclear,” so I think I’m ranting for nothing! But if you have Mangluage Pet Peeves of your own, please feel free to comment!

It’s the holiday season, and we are increasingly reminded to share goodwill to all men (and women, of course). We are encouraged to remember those who aren’t lucky enough to have the blessings that most of us have. Each day on my commute to or from work, it’s VERY easy for me to remember these holiday sentiments and send comforting thoughts to these less-fortunate drivers:

-- The person who’s gold-packaged, silver-rimmed Escalade is stylish, but sadly didn’t come with a working blinker.
-- The middle-aged businessman whose heinous disfigurement of a Bluetooth ear and a GPS keypad attached to his right hand rend him powerless to understand the concept of “Exit Left.”
-- The dyslexic Mercedes driver who can’t seem to distinguish one lane from another.
-- The schizophrenic teen girl whose selves don’t know whether to listen to ColdPlay, Lil Wayne or Katy Perry – or text her friend to help her decide.
-- The learning-disabled driver of a BMW 7 Series who isn't aware that his performance auto will easily achieve the speed limit.
-- The mom in the fully-loaded Navigator, whose dangerous stress level is accelerated by apparent multi-tasking: opening/closing the sun roof while talking on her cell phone as she sips her Diet Coke® and changes her precious baby’s DVD from Elmo to Dora.

At this charitable time of year, let’s all try to embrace the spirit of the holidays and help these people. And while you’re at it, please say a prayer that this Escape Hybrid-driving, hair-pulling, patience-challenged, stifled-screaming blonde woman gets to work (or back home) in one piece!

Would Someone PLEASE Explain Kelly Ripa?

I've been home this week for Thanksgiving. Normally, I don't get to watch morning television. But this week I've been catching "Live with Regis and Kelly." And I'm puzzled. What is with Kelly Ripa?

I read in the media trades that the show is very popular, especially with women who are able to stay home in the mornings. Kelly fawns all over sweet, aging Regis like a granddaughter. Kelly is cute. Kelly is very fit. Kelly apparently is supermom and superwife. I think Kelly must appeal to a group of ladies who aspire to be like her -- and it must be a bigger group of women than the ones who think she is full of it. Obviously, I fall into the latter group.

I think Kelly is Regis's arm candy; a step up from Vanna White, except Vanna can spell. Kelly doesn't say anything compelling. She doesn't pose any thoughtful issues. I kid you not - the topic of conversation one morning this week was how Kelly and Reg decided to match their clothing colors. Did they steal that from Sesame Street? At least Kelly's husband Mark Consuelos is featured in a recurring bit on Oprah - Oprah's ranked a little higher in the Nielsen ratings.

I've seen the ads for various products that highlight Kelly as a overachieving robo-mom. I had seen Amy Pohler's portrayal of her on SNL and at the time I didn't get that Kelly's really like that. I laughed at the SNL "fake ad" that shows Kelly as a spokesmodel for haircolor laced with crack cocaine - implying that's how she makes it through each grueling day of TV fame, kids and family.

I will bet cold, hard cash that in reality, behind that perfect spouse and parent persona, there is a stable of employees who make sure her life runs smoothly. Or at least that's what I have to believe to not feel less accomplished, achieving and/or successful. Eeeek.

I guess I see now why my husband prefers talk radio...

The Mascara Conspiracy

Ads these days have so many disclaimers. “Do not expect these same results.” “Paid endorser.” “Professional driver on a closed course.” “Don’t try this at home.” Everything is designed and executed to protect the poor, unsuspecting consumer from either expecting to lose 50 pounds in 1 week if a certain tablet is ingested to believing they’ll learn Portugese after listening to a 3 CD-set.

Let’s talk cosmetics. If I’m not supposed to believe I can drive a new sports car on the ledge of a skyscraper 40 stories high, then WHY should I believe my skimpy little eyelashes will grow exponentially if I use mascara A versus B? Sure – it helps to wear it and my eyelashes actually show up.

But if I believe Cover Girl and use one of their latest mascara products, then the wooly bear caterpillars that crawled on Drew Barrymore’s eyelids should appear on mine. On TV, she bats those black, feathery-eyelashed lids in the ad and mysteriously, magically, my dining room set is dusted! In the magazine, they look like a fine grade of corduroy. They’re long enough and defined enough to rake leaves in my backyard with them.

For the record, I’m in advertising. I know she has a make-up artist who painstakingly painted each eyelash individually. I know about photo retouching. But it’s ridiculous and quite frankly, a lie. There are never any disclaimers on mascara ads and the photos, film footage and claims are as false as the lashes the models are wearing. If ever there were an appropriate time and place for the “Results not typical” line, it’s here.

Giving Tendonitis “The Boot”

I have been so very blessed with good health in my life. No broken bones, no sprains and very few stitches. Even the taking out of my teen-aged wisdom teeth took about 30 minutes from anesthesiology to a gauze-packed, incomprehensible speaking voice. When I think of all the bike spills, horse throws and tree falls I endured as a kid, I remind myself how lucky I am. At what point did my bones, joints and muscles start to bark back at me?

So last year, when the outside of my foot had a subtle, nagging pain, I went to a podiatrist. He informed me I had tendonitis. Tendonitis? What? Isn’t that an athletic disease? (All you people who know me can stop snickering now.) With all his years of medical study, years of residency and private practice -- and how does he figure this out? By looking at the bottom of my shoe heels. Thank you, Dr. Scholl.

Apparently, I pronate. Before you think I’m supporting some segment of the porn industry, it just means I roll out on the right side of my foot when I walk, thus putting pressure on the point where tendon meets bone. In defense of Dr. Happy Feet, he did also take x-rays and ordered an MRI on my ankle and foot area to confirm what my shoe heels told him. Not only did it confirm his initial diagnosis, but he believes I had a major – like “oh my gawd my foot” – foot injury in my life that might have weakened it. I know I’m a blonde, but that’s news to me.

He’s not quick to go to surgery, for which I’m very thankful. He exhausts – and below, you’ll see why I use “exhaust” – all options first. The tendonitis diagnosis led to three months of fun-filled foot frolicking:

Month 1. Wrap the foot/ankle and wear a Not-Ferragamo Walking Boot. But it might as well have had a Ferragamo logo on it to go with its $400 price tag. Zero to deductible met in .7 seconds. And on top of that, I found the exact boot on Walgreen’s website later for $70. Nah – there’s no price-gouging that would yield a healthcare crisis.

Month 1 – Part 2. Prescribes a TENS unit. There’s another $200 toward the deductible. TENS stands for Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulator – an electrode that attaches to my foot to shock the blood into flowing through my foot. Great…he’s giving this to a blonde who enjoys drinking wine in the evenings.

Month 2. Just walking on the boot is not making it any better. Let’s keep the boot and raise her a pair of crutches. Remember me? The one who’s never had a broken bone? I would have had more coordination in a hip-hop dance class.

Month 2 - Part 2. Prescribes shoe inserts supposedly designed to keep me from rolling out when I walk. Here’s another $300, complements of my healthcare provider. And they don’t work…to this DAY I’m still shaving off the outsides of my heels.

Month 3. Orders for physical therapy. Ten sessions of using my foot to “write” an imaginary alphabet in the air. Ten sessions of doing things with weights and rubber bands on my foot. Ten sessions designed to either (1) make it better or (2) make it worse – either way, it’s supposed to predict the next course of action.

After Month 3, I knew that if none of this worked, my next step would involve surgery. I didn’t need Dr. Metatarcel to tell me that. And quite honestly, my foot’s not in that much pain. So I just abandoned the whole production and decided to play my own doctor. Lose weight; watch how I walk; wear well-made shoes. So far so good.

Oh well, at least my foot does tell me when rain is coming, so that’s a bonus!

MAMMOGRAMS (Or How to Go From Cantaloupe to Crepe in 15 Seconds)

Because of my Mom’s history surviving breast cancer, I’ve had to get annual mammograms since the age of 30. I’m not complaining; it’s uncomfortable and a bit unnerving, but it’s just a fact of life.

But this last time, the lab technician was particularly rough. I think in a former life she packed sausage or stripped industrial wallpaper by hand. Mammogram techs are all women, so they’re usually sensitive to the uncomfortable situation in which they’re placing you. And certainly, they aren’t doctors, but this one had ZERO patient relations skills. And at about 4’11” tall (as well as wide) she made me look like an NBA center.

You’re already feeling vulnerable as you walk in to a very cold, clinical, dark space with a very large machine in it. You’re feeling exposed in your not-anywhere-close-to-designer hospital “grobe” – that’s a combination gown and robe. You’re nervous anyway, and you’ve been asked to remove your deodorant for the procedure. Add smelly underarms to your current list of assets. NOW you’re the picture of confidence and calm.

Then, you are asked to offer up your bare breast so she can lift it and place it on a piece of plexi-glass. Oh yes – there are also spot lights on it/around it/under it, so it looks even paler than it is. Most of the techs I’ve had over the years are gentle and very descriptive as they guide you and your breast to the point where they can get a useable x-ray of it.

Not Yoda the Jedi Boob Smasher. She grabs my breast and pulls one way, while telling me “turn.” Now I’m college-educated, but at least tell me which WAY to turn. Instead I turn toward her and my retreating boob – but no. “Other way” is all she could manage to blurt out as she started bringing the top piece of plexi-glass down for the top-to-bottom clamp.

“Grab this handle.” “Hold your chin up.” “Feet straight ahead.” “No, turn back – hips facing the other way.” At least she got a little more descriptive as I became a Cirque de Soleil contortionist. And now for the smashing. I have never seen my breast look more like a wheel of gouda than right now. I really thought it might explode. Snap – the picture is taken. Five minutes of maneuvering and mangling for 10 seconds of x-ray.

Now she moves the plexi-glass torture device to the side-to-side clamp. Same contortional activity, just a different breast shot. In this pose, my boob looks more like a Frisbee than a wheel of gouda. More maneuvering, more smashing and snap – the picture is taken. Luckily, the pictures are good and I don’t have to do any of this again.

Except for the other breast. Contort, mangle, smash, snap. Contort, mangle, smash, snap. Yea! We’re done. My breast and chest area are a lovely shade of crimson and there’s heat emitting from it as the blood slowly begins to flow again. And by the time I get home, bruises have appeared on my upper rib area as well as near my underarms. I think this technician must have earned her world heavyweight title belt after my appointment.

See ya next year, Rocky.

When Did I Reach the Geritol Demographic?

So I’m watching TV. Who are all these new friends I have? Sam Waterston, Wilfred Brimley, Robert Wagner and Sally Field. And why is that aging garage band annoying me with “Viva Viagra?” I’m already feeling my age, due to the genre of advertisements popping up in my current choice of programming: retirement funds, osteoporosis meds, medic alert bracelets, hover-round chairs. Oh yes – and I can also install an easy-bathe tub and shower combo that will accommodate my wheelchair.

Then I hear, “Carol is a formidable woman. But she was no match for something smaller than the tip of a pen…” I look and there are arteries and blood and little scary clotting globules! And they are talking to ME. My name. Never mind that the woman on-screen is an African-American. It’s ME.

So thanks to a Plavix anti-cholesterol ad, I’ve been to a cardiologist. I’m healthy and my heart rate is normal. But I do have elevated cholesterol, so the doctor recommended the usual: modified diet, daily exercise, getting rid of stress. The exercise is pretty easy…my dogs help with that. Anti-stress? Well – I can’t quit my job. So it’s mostly up the diet modification. Now I know how my Dad felt when Mom fed him that first meal that wasn’t fried and didn’t have any salt on it. Fat-free cheese is still artery-plugging cheese. And even worse, it’s like eating Play-Doh.

And my husband – who’s a fabulous cook – is no help: “Yuk. Fat free sour cream is awful.” “I hate fake butter, it doesn’t melt.” “I think I’ll grill us a steak tonight.” “Here, I baked banana nut muffins.” On top of that, my Benecol Smart Chews look like caramel candies; so he ate a handful. I guess his cholesterol is taken care of for at least a year.