The day Madeline’s fancy new baby gate came in the mail, she finally figured out how to get out of her doggie pen, and spent the day sitting on my couch, next to expensive throw pillows, chewing a $1 roll of paper towels.
If my internet/network isn't working when I get to work tomorrow AM, I'm going to tell my boss that I'm going home until it's fixed. I can check my email more frequently and conveniently from home.
I don’t really think this will go over well, but the “doing nothing” at work today really put me in a foul mood. I have so much to do, and I don’t need my boss giving me attitude because my company is making it impossible to do that work.
“You’re not a kid anymore. You have the right to choose your own life. You can start again. If you want a cat, all you have to do is choose a life in which you can have a cat. It’s simple. It’s your right.”—Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
“This was very different from the image of home I had imagined vaguely for myself before marriage. But this was the home I had chosen. I had had a home, of course, when I was a child. But it was not one I had chosen for myself. I had been born into it, presented with it as an established fact. Now, however, I lived in a world that I had chosen through an act of will. It was my home. It might not be perfect, but the fundamental stance I adopted with regard to my home was to accept it, problems and all, because it was something I myself had chosen. If it had problems, these were almost certainly problems that had originated within me.”—Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
“So I jump ship in Hong Kong and make my way over to Tibet, and I get on as a looper at a course over in the Himalayas. A looper, you know, a caddy, a looper, a jock. So, I tell them I’m a pro jock, and who do you think they give me? The Dalai Lama, himself. Twelfth son of the Lama. The flowing robes, the grace, bald… striking. So, I’m on the first tee with him. I give him the driver. He hauls off and whacks one - big hitter, the Lama - long, into a ten-thousand foot crevasse, right at the base of this glacier. Do you know what the Lama says? Gunga galunga… gunga, gunga-galunga. So we finish the eighteenth and he’s gonna stiff me. And I say, “Hey, Lama, hey, how about a little something, you know, for the effort, you know.” And he says, “Oh, uh, there won’t be any money, but when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness.” So I got that goin’ for me, which is nice.”—Carl Spackler (Bill Murray), Caddyshack
Jen H.: I’m a fan of the Oxford Comma. On Facebook. Me: I’m a fan of the Oxford Comma. In my life.
Technically it’s called the Harvard Comma here in America. The only reason I care is because it is because Brittish grammar doesn’t require that the OC be used while American grammar requires the HC.
Also - WOW! Can someone please remind me that I’m Marcia’s sister and therefore I should be less of a nerd sometimes? (:
Unfortunately, the use is not “universally” required. And for some reason most print media believes that they’re exempt from using the HSC (we were calling it the OC because of that Vampire Weekend song). And those who work in print media are adamant that they are right. Which is why print is dying. Because they deserve it for not using the serial comma.
“I had rather be shut up in a very modest cottage with my books, my family and a few old friends, dining on simple bacon, and letting the world roll on as it liked, than to occupy the most splendid post, which any human power can give.”—