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What’s Her Poison?

My daughter is turning 21 years old next week. How crazy is that?! I remember when I became of legal age like it was yesterday.

Well, I remember some of that day. Actually, it’s a bit of a blur.

Anyway, I decided to be “the cool mom” and buy her something from the liquor store to celebrate. A typical visit to the store lasts about five-ten minutes – just enough time to pick up a last-minute bottle of wine after realizing the restaurant we are going to is a BYOB. This time I spent half an hour trying to decide what Jenna might like and left empty-handed. I don’t know what the kids like these days, and I certainly do not know my daughter’s drink of choice. But I’m not under the illusion that she doesn’t have one.

When I was her age, I loved my Seagrams wine coolers and rum and cokes over the more affordable and highly accessible Coors Light and Corona. Remember Zima? I was a big fan.

But, my prior knowledge of alcoholic beverages from the 1990s was of no help to me right now. Does she like Malibu Rum? Or is that too sweet? A little Bailey’s Irish Cream, maybe? That’s more of a coffee drink. How about a nice bottle of wine? Where do I start? The options are endless! I briefly considered a bottle of pre-mixed sangria, but then I shook my head and kept walking. I didn’t think it would be this hard.

Or maybe my brain can’t accept that she is turning 21 and able to walk in this store and purchase whatever she fancies. When she was a little girl, her favorite drink was chocolate milk. Maybe I would have had better luck at Wawa; they have Yoohoo.

Frustrated, I bought myself a $20 bottle of wine and went home. My firstborn is turning 21. I need a drink.

Anti-Oxford Comma

Yes, it’s true. I am anti-oxford comma.

There, I said it.

I feel much better now.

Do you still like me?

Are you going to unfriend me?

Unsubscribe to my blog?

Call my mom and tell on me?

All of the above?

For those unfamiliar with this ongoing debate, this discretionary punctuation mark has caused quite an uproar in writing workshops, high-school English classrooms, and even courtrooms around the country. It is a fight to the death over whether or not a comma needs to precede the last element in a series – like red, white and blue.

Does it make your skin crawl that I didn’t use an Oxford comma just now? I’m sorry. I can’t help it. Baby, I was born this way.

I know I’m in the minority here. Lots of people disagree with me. Even Grammarly is against me. Every mistake it catches in this post is comma-related. Hey! I pay for Grammarly premium. I expect a special setting for comma preferences with my subscription.

Here is the tricky part. As a non-profit communications professional, I am obligated to follow the style guide assigned to me by the powers that be. If they follow the Associated Press (AP) style guide – as many sensible organizations do – AP is much more liberal and doesn’t care whether you use it as long as you pick a side and remain consistent throughout the document. It’s very democratic, and I, for one, am quite pleased with this compromise. There is no judgment. No muss. No fuss. No tracked changes or vetoes from the majority. Everyone is happy.

I mean, really, doesn’t this make sense? Can’t we all just get along?

Unfortunately, the non-profit I currently work for uses the Chicago Manual of Style guide (UGH!), which strictly forbids omitting said (and sad) serial comma. This means that if I want to get paid, I must relinquish my inherent – and practically religious – belief on this issue and acquiesce.

After all, I have two children to put through college. I can be a team player. And I’ll just save my recreational, controversial and reckless anti-oxford comma activities for my blog and someday my book.

Unless I find an editor who is pro-Oxford comma, then we may have a problem.

P.S. – I hope this doesn’t change things between us. I still love you regardless of your punctuation preferences. No matter how misguided they may be. 😉

Put This On My Tombstone

Years ago, I used to have a job at my synagogue organizing their events. Clipboard in hand and an envelope of checks in my pocket, I used to refer to myself as the cruise director of the congregation. At the end of every dinner, program, fundraiser, lecture, or Chanukkah party, I’d station myself at the front door to say goodbye to the attendees. Not wanting to sound like the flight attendants on SNL who shooed passengers off the plane saying “buh-bye, buh-bye, buh-bye.” I opted for a simpler catchphrase – Thanks for coming.

One night after a particularly long and hectic day, Mr. K approached me at my post with an amused look on his face.

“That should be on your tombstone,” he said to me.

I looked at him confused – not fully understanding what he was talking about. Mr. K. had a weird sense of humor.

“Thanks for coming; that should be engraved on your tombstone.”

At first, I thought that was a weird and random thing to say. We didn’t know each other well enough to discuss my plans for the afterlife. But the more I think about it, I kind of like it.

Cemeteries are sad places, and no one really wants to be here. What if someone sees that sentiment on my tombstone, gets the irony, and lets out a chuckle? Thanks for coming would be a sincere appreciation from me to the living who came for a brief visit. And how nice it would be for me to know that I can still spread a little joy to someone from the great beyond.

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