Apostrophe
Maybe it's because I have one in my name.
Maybe it's because I went to Catholic school and punctuation meant both an arrangement of little dots, commas and dashes AND an occasional rap on the knuckles: the former, to assure meaning in written communcation; and the latter, to drive a point home on a physical level.
But there's no doubt that I'm a punctuation Nazi. And I have a graduate degree in apostrophe.
It appears that my breed is dying, and worse, we forgot to produce progeny. We watch with despair as possessives are written as it's and it is is written as its. They're strewed about with wild abandon on billboards, placards, sineage - even magazines and newspapers. I'm either OKEEFE or O KEEFE on credit cards, bank statements and junk mail lists. I guess they ran out, with all those meaningless high falutin' commas everywhere else. There were none left for my name.
So, instead of trying to change the world, I hereby declare the apostrophe dead.
No longer will I seethe when I see one where it doesn't belong. I'll just assume it's on its way to that happy place in the sky where punctuation is respected and treated well.
That goes for you, too, James Lipton. No more gushing about Bernard Pivot and his Apostrophe. It's over babe.
Maybe it's because I went to Catholic school and punctuation meant both an arrangement of little dots, commas and dashes AND an occasional rap on the knuckles: the former, to assure meaning in written communcation; and the latter, to drive a point home on a physical level.
But there's no doubt that I'm a punctuation Nazi. And I have a graduate degree in apostrophe.
It appears that my breed is dying, and worse, we forgot to produce progeny. We watch with despair as possessives are written as it's and it is is written as its. They're strewed about with wild abandon on billboards, placards, sineage - even magazines and newspapers. I'm either OKEEFE or O KEEFE on credit cards, bank statements and junk mail lists. I guess they ran out, with all those meaningless high falutin' commas everywhere else. There were none left for my name.
So, instead of trying to change the world, I hereby declare the apostrophe dead.
No longer will I seethe when I see one where it doesn't belong. I'll just assume it's on its way to that happy place in the sky where punctuation is respected and treated well.
That goes for you, too, James Lipton. No more gushing about Bernard Pivot and his Apostrophe. It's over babe.
posted by Kitty O'Keefe at 6:15 AM
1 Comments:
I suppose you think we simply sit about on our hinders, gnawing seed and
squeaking or something. Nothing could be further from the real domestic
cuisine of mice, I assure you. For example, this evening I'm trying a new
meat loaf recipe. While it
slowly bakes..filling the
house with droolly redolence..I have fetched
out the Hunt's patent Tomato Sauce (I believe the amis call this catchup or some such) from the ice box and a glass jar of
bread and butter pickles
(minus pickles, eaten long
since). The pickle juice,
poured just right into the tomato remnant, reawakens the sauciness of the sauce and, as a finish for plating for presentation of some layered slices of steaming meatloaf, cannot
be excelled.
In time, alas, the juice
goes off and is no longer
fit for cooking. At this
point we thin it by half
with rubbing alcohol and
use it in relicted parfum
atomizers as a cat spray.
We adjust the needlevalve
of the nozzle just so and
get a short range broad
fine mist of picklejuice/
alcohol that saturates both cat eyes and nostrils
with one firm squeeze of the bulb. For reasons I
cannot fathom a favorite
reaction to this event
among cats is to sing and
turn back-sommersaults for
a while...
Ah! The oven bell. Time
to remove the meatloaf to
cool somewhat before turning it out to slice. I shall set the table. For some reason I always like to use the pistol-grip
stainless for a meatloaf dinner..something from
childhood's table perhaps. Ta, m'Kitty. Leave off the use of apostrophes if you must, me'auld deary, but you'll always be O'Keefe to me.
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