I don’t know how my husband manages to watch CNN Headline News. I almost always seem to find something in their newscasts that drives me nuts. If it isn’t the way the simpering newscasters attempt to pull off a look of sympathy after showing a gut-wrenching news clip it’s that they seem to lack a quality I find integral to broadcast journalists–the ability to articulate; to turn thoughts to words quickly when not reading off a teleprompter.

Today I heard a CNN newscaster, talking about the California wildfires, say that, “the damages have caused billions of damages.” Now, I might write that off as a slip of the tongue, but that sort of slip happens so often on CNN, particularly during the daytime Headline News broadcasts.

What I found more annoying occurred when one newscaster was discussing CNN’s bulletin board feature with another. Newscaster #1, presiding over the bulletin board, had just read a comment from a man who had lost his home to the wildfires and watched his memories go up in flames. With a heartfelt look, Newscaster #2, the anchor, commented that “talking about this must be cathargic for people.”

Cathargic? You mean cathartic, sweetheart. Apparently you were absent the day your class learned that little vocabulary word in high school English, huh?

Just for kicks, I Googled “cathargic” and came up with 620 results. Almost every time I saw cathargic used it was clear from the context that the author meant cathartic. None of the results I found were from what I would consider intelligent sources, although one was a comment in a blog from someone who said he’d discovered that cathargic meant “causes evacuation of the bowels.” I found no such thing (because no matter how hard one tries, apparently cathargic is still not a word), although cathartic means “purging,” and it can be used to refer to something with a strong laxative effect. Either way I like the comedic value in this definition.

Imagine the bubble-headed newscaster:

“Talking about the fires must be cathargic for people. I mean, because first you say, ‘Holy shit, my house is on fire!’…and then you do it!” (With apologies to Bill Cosby, who used that joke in another context.)

Now, I’m no genius and I certainly do not possess perfect grammar skills or a vast vocabulary, but I do expect the people who deliver my news to be articulate and to use real words instead of made up ones.

I guess I’ve seen Broadcast News too many times.

Dove is doing some really cool things with its Campaign for Real Beauty. This one’s apparently a commercial from the UK, but I believe the same one is running in the US. (I haven’t seen it; but then I don’t watch much TV.) We’re bombarded daily with cultural pressure to be perfect, and the beauty industry is a key player. How many times a day do we see or hear ads that tell us we have to have flawless skin, no lines or wrinkles, vibrant hair color, long lush lashes, and nary a ripple of cellulite or anything less than washboard abs?

What would our world be like if there was no “beauty industry,” and instead there was a “healthy lifestyle industry?” What if advertisements urged us to make healthy choices instead of showing us how to correct the damage our unhealthy choices have done? I’ll bet I see dozens of ads for weight loss products to every one ad that encourages me to eat a balanced diet and get more exercise, and dozens of ads for anti-aging products to every one that tells me to eat foods rich in antioxidants and use sunblock.

Sad, isn’t it?

Greyhound owners are all too familiar with a little something we call “counter surfing.” This act of thievery occurs when a tall greyhound sees something edible on a kitchen table or counter and desire, not to mention a bottomless pit of a stomach, overcomes reason and training.

Last night I was preparing a quick meal of kielbasa and pasta salad. I plopped the kielbasa, still steaming, on the table and went to get the rest of the meal set out. When I turned back to the table, there was my precious little greyhound girl with her mouth poised over the sausage.

I barked a warning, “Elll-aaah…” and she stopped dead, mouth open but not touching her intended prey. She was completely frozen in mid-snatch.

Trying not to laugh, I said, “Just what do you think you’re doing, young lady?”

Body still frozen, her eyes turned toward me and I could almost hear her thinking, Aw, crap. BUS-ted!

No snausage for you, Ella girl.

I love StumbleUpon. While it turns up a lot of inane (though still sometimes funny) gobbledygook, nearly just as often I come across something that makes me think. Robert J. Samuelson’s Newsweek article, “The Sad Fate of the Comma,” was one such thing. While punctuation articles don’t normally intrigue me–anyone who knows me and my writing knows that my understanding of grammar is more practical than theoretical–this one caught my eye because it was not only engaging and well-written, but a treatise on modern life. About the disappearance of the comma from today’s writing Samuelson said:

If all this involved only grammar, I might let it lie. But the comma’s sad fate is, I think, a metaphor for something larger: how we deal with the frantic, can’t-wait-a-minute nature of modern life. The comma is, after all, a small sign that flashes PAUSE. It tells the reader to slow down, think a bit, and then move on. We don’t have time for that. No pauses allowed. In this sense, the comma’s fading popularity is also social commentary.

Talk about the hectic pace of American life reminds me of a little anecdote where an American businessman in Mexico meets a native fisherman who’s bringing in his small tuna catch for the day. The American asks the man why he doesn’t spend more time on the water catching more fish. After all, what on earth could he possibly be doing with all his extra time? The Mexican tells him that he sleeps in late, fishes a little, plays with his children, takes a siesta with his wife, and then spends the evenings sipping wine and playing guitar with his amigos. The American scoffs and advises him that if he’d just put in more hours catching fish he could cut out the middleman, sell directly to the processor, and eventually even open his own cannery where he would control the product, the processing, and the distribution. “You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village,” he says, “and move to Mexico City, then Los Angeles, and eventually New York City where you would run your expanding enterprise.”

“How long would this take, senor?” asks the fisherman.

“Oh, 15 or 20 years,” says the businessman. “But that’s not the best part! When the time is right you announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You would make millions!”

“Millions?” says the wide-eyed Mexican. “But then what, senor?”

“Then,” says the businessman, “You could retire to a coastal fishing village where you could sleep in late, fish a little, play with your grandchildren, take a siesta with your wife, and spend the evenings sipping wine and playing guitar with your friends.”

I think the pace of my own life is probably just right. I do sleep in late, and I’ve been known to take a siesta now and then. Most of the time I let my body’s natural rhythm control when I wake up and when I go to bed. But I’ve certainly been known to multitask (it’s the American way, after all), and I’ve certainly felt the seductive pull, the suction created by the frenetic whirlwind pace so many Americans embrace. I feel guilt-ridden and ashamed because I’m not doing a million different things at once. On top of my work–on top of doing a job that I love, I might add–I’m not volunteering and joining and running frantically to and fro with a cell phone pressed to my ear and a laptop strapped over my shoulder. What must I be missing!

But I’ve taught myself to be what most Americans would probably consider chronically lazy. I’m a slacker, folks, and I make no apologies. (Well, yes I do. And excuses, too. But not today; not here.) I make a decent income as a writer while my husband contributes the bulk of our family income through his job as an IT manager. If needs be, I could survive on my income without the added bonus of his (which is easily twice what I make). I’d have to simplify…a lot. Still, I could probably do it. And I wouldn’t mind it, either.

Not that I’m considering ditching my husband any time soon.

So there you have it, folks–I’m a human comma. I’m a pause that beckons, “Hey, slow down a moment; stop and think.” And you’ll likely never see me vow to do more and make my life any busier than it is. I want to live easy and enjoy my husband, kids, dogs and siestas right now. Care to join my little society of lazy Americans? Together we can utterly fail at keeping up with the feverish pace of the American lifestyle.

I start blogs a lot like I started diets back in the days when I thought dieting worked. with lots of enthusiasm that eventually tapers off into procrastination. I probably shouldn’t tell the world that I’m a notorious blog slacker, but really, what’s the point of blogging if you’re not going to be honest?

If you really want to know more about me, click the “Who Am I?” tab and learn up. I’m ordinary (again with the honesty), but I have a way with words and a few things to say, so perhaps you’ll visit again and hear me out. I think I’ll start off by posting some short and short-short fiction I wrote several years back. Maybe you’ll care enough to comment. Maybe you’re a literary agent and you’ll offer to make me famous. (Hey, it could happen!) For whatever reason you’re here, enjoy. And please leave a little of yourself behind in my comments. Just be a good guest and don’t make me clean up after you or, worse yet, kick you out.

Welcome to my blog! Here goes.

This post originally appeared in an older, abandoned blog of mine on January 19, 2006. I thought it was worth reposting here.

My little girl is an expert compliment-giver. And although we often joke about the way she seems to suck up to people (after Shayla issues a compliment, Peter’s been known to say, “Did anyone else hear that giant sucking sound?”)…she’s really very genuine about it.

Last weekend we went on an excursion to the mall. I hate malls, but I endure them occasionally when Shayla decides she needs to make a pilgrimage to Build-a-Bear Workshop to spend her Christmas money. And my daughter, ever the charmer, was striking up conversations all over the place. “I like your braids!” she said to a beautiful brown-skinned woman with plaited black hair.

The woman smiled. “Thank you!” she said. (It was a conversation spoken in exclamations.) “I’ve been meaning to get them done again, and make them smaller.”

“Oh, well, I think they’re perfect,” said Shayla. “Did you do them yourself?”

“No,” said the woman, “I go to my beauty shop, because I’m all thumbs with doing hair.”

“Well, so…it works! Your beauty shop makes you beautiful.”

“Thank you! Aren’t you the sweetest!”

And on it went, throughout the afternoon. The first woman had lovely braids. Another man had fabulous shoes. The guy at Comp USA was wearing a really cool shirt. And every time Shayla handed out a compliment, she made people smile, maybe because they knew somehow that the sentiment came from a sincere heart.

I have to stand in awe of Shayla’s special gift. I’m sure I had the same gift once, myself–the ability to notice the positive things about people before drawing any other conclusions. I wish I had the instinctive ability to see “beautiful braids” before seeing “black woman,” or “fabulous shoes” before “dorky salesperson.”

I could learn a lot from this 8-year-old.

In fact, I’ve learned a lot from Ian, too. I can’t recall exactly how old he was when he first saw Men in Black on cable, but he must’ve been pretty young–maybe 4 or 5. He’d decided that he wanted to be a Man in Black for trick-or-treat that year, so I went to Goodwill and found the pieces to make a great outfit: black suit, white shirt, tie, and shades. As we went out for trick-or-treat, I asked Ian which one of the Men in Black he was. I fully expected him to say he was “the black guy;” after all, Will Smith’s character was the cool one. You know what Ian said instead?

“I’m the one with the mustache, Momma!”

The one with the mustache. When he said it, I was overwhelmed with pride. Despite growing up around a great-grandmother who had no problem with reciting a nursery rhyme that went, “Eeny meeny miney mo…catch a nigger by the toe…”, somehow I managed to instill a positive attitude toward people’s differences in my children. My mother is less prejudiced than my grandmother, and I’m less prejudiced than my mother, and hopefully, somehow, my kids won’t be prejudiced at all. It’s something I’ve worked hard at, because my heart knows what’s right even when my baser instincts cause me to fall back on early training and I become one who separates people into categories–black/white, thin/fat, tall/short, pretty/plain.

People are people; I’ve always taught my children that, and I strive to put that principle to work in my own life. I try to recognize beautiful braids, not race; cool shoes, not a loser in a dead-end job. I’m getting better at it, but when I forget, these amazing kids I’m raising are right there to remind me.