Category: New Mexico

Old habits like these are so hard to break*

It was seventh grade. She was Mrs. Olivas. Typing teacher. A rail thin Hispanic woman with long black hair, parted down the middle, a sour face and an even sourer disposition.

(sourer doesn’t sound right, but Word grammar checker told me that “more sour” was incorrect…so let’s roll with it)

Mrs. Olivas taught my brother, well ahead of me in school. She taught my sister.

And then she taught me.

There we all sat, trembling, at the keyboards of electric typewriters distributed about the classroom. Eyes forward. No looking at your fingers!

Mrs. Olivas would wander the room, shouting letters like a drill sergeant. We would type what she shouted. In unison our keys would strike the paper.

My sister had warned me, with her accent, her “v” sounded like “b” and vice versa. And she graded harshly when you got it wrong.

Mrs. Olivas taught us that after every period ending a sentence, you hit that space bar twice.

End a sentence, space twice, start the next sentence.

One space looked too crowded. Too hard to tell where one sentence ended and the next began.

Two spaces.

No questions. Don’t ask. Two spaces.

I follow this great lady, Debbie Ridpath Ohi, on Twitter (her screen name is inkyelbows). She is a writer and creates spot on comics about and for writers.

So imagine the shock and awe in my world when I read the following re-Tweet:

@inkyelbows From literary agent @Ginger_Clark “Authors: stop double spacing after every paragraph. It’s unnecessary.”

What?!? Sputter sputter. What!?!?

I say…..WHAT?!?!

Ok, to be fair, Twitter itself had me changing my typing habit. Why type two spaces when that takes two of the precious 140 characters? So I figured in the Twitter-verse, it was ok.

But in my regular writing? Stories, emails, blog posts. Can I stop?

Period-space-space is in my muscle memory! It lives in my cells!

Seventh grade was almost thirty years ago! If I don’t period-space-space won’t Mrs. Olivas come haunt me in my sleep like the La Llorona of the Smith Corona?

“Peerrrioood-spaaaaace-spaaaaace,” she will howl outside my window!

I found this bit of explanation online: ” It is generally accepted that the practice of putting two spaces at the end of a sentence is a carryover from the days of typewriters with monospaced typefaces.”

So to do a period-space-space is something of a throwback. It marks me as “old school.” Someone who learned to type on an actual typewriter.

Ok, fine. I’m trying. Every day I’m trying to retrain my obstinate thumb to only tap that space bar once. Just once.

It’s tough! I still have to do a find and replace when I finish any document, including this blog post.

I’m too old to learn new tricks!!!!

Waaaah!

Oh, and:

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.

*apologies to Hank Williams Jr for bastardizing his lyric.

Coming tomorrow: “Three Grammar rules that are okay to break.” My world is off its axis!

Oh yeah, rocking it real slow

You know what’s a hit right now? The T-Pain auto tune app on the Apple iTunes app store called “I Am T-Pain.”

Auto tune is actually a cheat for artists to use, it cleans up bad notes. Many legit artists use them in concert to make their notes right, offenders include country starts Reba McIntire and Faith Hill.

But, as kicked off by Cher with the song “Believe” (1998), it can also be used to deliberately distort the voice.

A style that R&B and Rap artist T-Pain has used to great success.

So now, Mr. Pain has brought an app to the app store with some serious capability that will make you sound just like him.

Yay!

Without further delay:

My R&B rendition of our state song.

Any semblance to actual musical skill is the fault of the auto tune. If it’s good enough for Reba, it’s good enough for me!

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(I can’t believe I’m actually posting this. My family will be so embarrassed!)

I’m just an ol’ fashioned girl

Sort of, anyway.

I mean, over the weekend, in fact, last night, I had occasion to make dinner for my husband. I admit, there is something so *deeply* satisfying to cook for my man, and even more so when he took a first bite and made a yummy noise. Gets right to the heart of me!

Ok, so here’s another way I may be a bit stodgy. Ladies, listen in here… The weekend just past was Labor Day.

And we all know what that means, right?

Of course, no wearing white after Labor Day. We can wear it again come Easter.

There, I said it. I know, I know, that rule is out of date and there is such a thing as “winter white” and so on.

To me, this rule really applies to two items of clothing…pants and shoes.

A nice crisp white blouse with darker pants is fine.

But pair that with white shoes? *gasp*

My mother, who was, in her day, quite fashionable (don’t scoff dear mum, I have the photos to prove it!), taught me the no white after Labor Day rule.

But then she also gave me the handy carve out that, since we lived in New Mexico and the weather stayed warmer in New Mexico than, say, eastern climates, wearing white a little bit longer was acceptable.

But no, I took the rule entirely to heart. Nope, nada, ain’t gonna do it! Back in my college days living in the sorority house, I was one of *those* girls who would point and gasp in horror when one of my sisters dared to sport a pair of white heels in the month of September.

Really rude, I know.

Then again…who wears white heels? Seriously.

I seem to have zero trouble following my own rule because…I don’t own a pair of white pants. Really, there are only a very select group of women in this world who should be allowed to wear white pants. The rest of us can sit out this fashion, trust me.

And I’m pretty sure I don’t own any white shoes either, if you don’t count athletic shoes, which I don’t. (and mine aren’t white anyway)

Pretty much, in my middle years, I’m less and less inclined to get uptight about this rule.

And what kicked off this whole train of thought was an article in Time discussing the origin of the rule. Turns out the history is a bit fuzzy.

Ah well.

Really, in fashion, to each their own, right?

(I’m looking at you, Lady Gaga)

Saaaaaalaute!

So, there I was today, in bumper to bumper traffic, trying to get to work.

The Bay Bridge is closed this weekend for construction, so the traffic patterns in the Bay Area have gone all wonky.

My usual peaceful, easy commute was jammed up. Fine. A fact of life in a highly populated area.

As you may or may not know, in California, it’s legal for motorcycle riders to “split the lanes”, meaning, they can ride in that space between two cars, side by side in their respective lanes.

It took me quite some time to get used to this, but now, especially in a traffic slowdown, I’m quite alert. As a car driver it’s always best to stay the course when a motorcycle comes whipping down between lanes.

This morning, as I sat, fully stopped, I watched the usual parade of motorcycles split the lanes. A Harley rumbled by. A really sweet BMW bike glided through. A couple of those very speedy Japanese bikes that force the rider to stick his rear up (doesn’t seem right to go a 100mph with your ass higher than you head, but what do I know?).

And then, in my rearview, I saw this patchwork bike come wobbling along, looking like something out of the Road Warrior films.

Apparently mismatched parts had been collected from the junk pile. The thin tires looked better suited to off road than asphalt. The fender didn’t match the bumper. It made a sound like a monkey wrench caught in the spin cycle.

But the rider sat tall in the saddle. He was decked in leathers and fully in command of his vehicle, proudly guiding his bike through Bay Area traffic.

And as he passed by, I noted the New Mexico license plate bolted firmly to the back.

As he rode away, out of sight, I held hand to my heart and quietly hummed “O Fair New Mexico”.

“O Fair New Mexico, we love, we love you so….”

Thank you, New Mexico, for keeping it rasquache, even here in the Bay Area.

Oh so ready for the Labor Day Weekend. Happy and safe one, ya’ll!

As the world keeps tilting and turning

And there is nothing you or I can do about it.

Today heralds the incoming month of September.

Labor Day, the “official” end of summer, is nigh.

And, if you are perceptive, over the next days, you can sense a change in the atmosphere. The earth has moved in her orbit a tiny bit, and the angle of the rays from the sun are a little less direct, a bit less overhead, more muted.

The days get moment by moment shorter.

When the breeze blows by on a warm day, you catch the faintest bit of chill in the air. Almost imperceptible, but it is there.

And Fall starts to move in, unpack its red and gold and yellow hued bags, and set up residence.

September is the month of still summer warm days but cooler nights. Of State Fairs and rodeos and roasting chiles. In the Bay Area, the crab fishermen start patching nets and negotiating rates, getting ready for the Fall harvest.

An extra blanket may find its way onto my bed. The Feline will sleep a little closer to her humans.

There is talk of Halloween in the air. “What are you going to be” and bags of miniature chocolate bars for sale.

Soon pumpkins will be lit with candles and ghouls will rule the night.

But today, oh today. Today is still baseball and flip flops and cinnamon flavored churros. In small towns, talk of “will that steer take the blue ribbon this year” and kids are back in school and the public pools grow quieter.

The day is still warm and I still grip, and grip *hard*, to the last, butter slippery straws of summer.