I left college with an unflinching grasp on the high-holy rules of writing as dictated within the spiral-bound book known well by journalism school survivors: “The Associate Press Style Guide.” To this day, certain AP faux pas make me cringe.

As in:

Over vs. More Than Over is spatial: The horse jumped over the fence. More than is numerical: She has worked in journalism for more than eight years.

Between vs. Among Between refers to choices or relationships of two objects or people. Among is reserved for more than two.

Less vs. Fewer Less is for mass, non-specified quantities, ie. This analog T.V. is thousands of dollars less than a flat-screen T.V. Fewer is for a specific, countable number. She had fewer than 10 items in her cart. (Also note my use of  T.V.)

Spell out numbers one through nine; 10+ are numerical. 

Use old GPO style for abbreviations of U.S. states ie. California is Ca.

Hyphen vs. Em-dash vs. En-dash OK, I’m not Grammar Girl. (P.S., WordPress, why can’t I get an Em-dash up in here?)

Irregardless is not a word! Technically, this isn’t AP Style, but I see it in writing too often. I just needed to vent.

I think I scare my colleagues with my mad AP style skills. I’ll also be the first to admit that I’m not perfect. If you’ve read my blog, you’ll know I’m not immune to typos. I also know that AP has its quirks, that some of the rules above are not real grammatical rules, rather are dictated by AP for style consistency amongst publications. But one quirk I haven’t been able to grasp, however, is the AP’s refusal to acknowledge the serial comma.

I was happy in my no-serial-comma bubble until about two years ago when I received a B+ on a paper in a technical writing course. Mostly, my grade was knocked down because I didn’t use the serial comma. That’s when I learned–when it comes to its denial of the serial comma, AP is the cheese that stands alone.

I now work in a job that is a mix of journalism (AP style) and academic (Chicago/APA style) writing, and I swing like a pendulum back and forth between use of a serial comma or no serial comma. Seriously, AP, why do you have to hate on me like that?  Strunk and White did it. Lynne Truss does it.

Honestly, I have gotten so confused that I just scatter commas about like party confetti on New Year’s Eve. I sprinkle them everywhere, even if they don’t belong. I’ve seen so many conflicting rules that I don’t know a comma from a hole in the ground.

So I’ll send this question out into the Internet universe: Why, AP style? Why no serial comma?

That said, every time I slip the nimble little e-reader out of its case and curl up with it in bed, I feel…well…it’s like I’m cheating on my books. I look up at the shelves and I see them, gathering dust, no new additions for months and I sense…judgement. Through the broken spines and dog-eared pages I hear the voices of my fellow bibliophiles, like Becca, who, upon hearing I had purchased said Kindle refused to IM with me for at least 20 minutes. (Incidentally, she recently confessed that *gasp* now she wishes she had one too.)

I kind of sort of started becoming interested in the Kindle last year, during the lazy, hazy, dog days of summer, when I emerged, breathless and wild-eyed from the writing of my master’s degree thesis. I researched the device when procrastinating and discovered that my local library had an e-book loan service. No, I didn’t want an iPad, nor did I want a Nook color. I wanted my e-reader to be as close to a book as possible, no Facebook distractions and no Angry Birds. I liked that it had a keypad, the screen wasn’t back-lit, and that it had free WiFi, making it all the simpler to purchase books whenever I wanted.

My crush continued to develop until finally I broke the news to Scott, a book lover himself (leave it to me to marry a librarian). (Full disclosure: The following is slightly embellished for artistic flare.)

Me: “I have this feeling, I think that I kind of like the Kindle.”

Scott: (Looks up from his book, something big, laborious, and likely related to politics or history.) “Mhm.”

Me: “No, like, I LIKE like it.”

A week later.

Me: “Remember how I told you that I had a crush on the Kindle. I think I need a Kindle.”

Scott: (Looks up from his book) “So buy a Kindle.”

Me: “Yeah…I don’t know if I should spend the money on a Kindle. I don’t really NEED a Kindle. I just think I need a Kindle.”

Two hours later

Me: “Yes, I totally need a Kindle.”

Scott: “You said that before.”

Me: “But I don’t think I should buy myself a Kindle.  But, if you got me a Kindle for graduation, I could accept it.” (I justify most unnecessary purchases by making Scott my accomplice.)

Scott: “So, you’ll order the Kindle, charge it to our shared credit card, and I will have bought you a Kindle for graduation.”

Me: “Nope. I won’t order it. I need a Kindle. Like right now.” I go on to list the many reasons I need a Kindle. Immediately.

10 minutes later, I conclude my argument. Pretty much with myself. Scott went back to reading 8.9 minutes before I started talking.

Me: “So you can drive me to Target.”

Scott: “Why?”

Me: “Because they sell Kindles. And we need detergent, and I don’t remember what kind you like.” (A ruse.)

45 minutes later…Target doesn’t have the right kind of Kindle.

Me: “OK, to Best Buy!”

Scott: “Now are you SURE Best Buy has Kindles?”

Me: “Absolutely.” I’m totally not sure.

Scott: sighs. “OK then.”

We go to Best Buy, purchase said Kindle, I download “The Hunger Games” and proceed to not talk to him for the rest of the weekend. Pretty sure that was a Win/Win. (Side note: He called himself a Hunger Games widow for the next month, even though I finished the books in a few days.)

But alas, while much beloved, my Kindle is a needy mistress, and the electronic library loan system a fickle friend. All of the books worth reading have a long waiting list, (just one person can check out an e-book at a time, and there’s a two week check-out max with no renewal option). When the long awaited “your book is now available” e-mails do finally arrive in my inbox, they arrive two, three at a time.

These days, I shush my poor husband when he enters a room. “I have two weeks to read the three books I checked out from the library, plus my book club book,” I panic. I know that if I don’t finish “The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks” I will be bumped to the back of the 8-person queue, which means two more months of waiting. I’m just not that patient. I will have moved on to “The Buddha in the Attic” by then. And, of course, I cannot just not complete a book that I’ve started, no matter how much I dislike it or how much it stresses me out, (ahem “I Don’t Know How She Does It”).

So now I know why e-reader owners read more than regular book readers (somebody told me the number is around 30 percent): it’s the pressure. It’s the availability of everything in an instant that drives you to read the Hunger Games trilogy in a weekend (who needs sleep, right?). It’s light, dainty ease of carrying around a 500-page tome in a nearly weightless package, so that you can read it while waiting for the train, while standing in line at Starbucks, while at a restaurant and waiting for your husband to return from washing his hands. It’s an addiction. It’s a problem. And as much as I love books, I’ll tell you one thing:

I need to get back to reality soon.

(After I finish this chapter.)

“You can either jump, or I can push you,” he says. His head is round and hairless, connected to his shoulders by a thick slab of a nearly nonexistent neck. He looks not unlike the bulldog tattooed on his bicep. Swirling script beneath the image weaves a single word: Spike. I don’t know if it’s my tormentor’s name or if it honors a beloved pet. Judging by this man’s studded collar and sleeveless T-shirt, I’m pretty he’s self-representing on this particular piece of body art.

It figures that I would ushered through the doors of death at the hands of a man named Spike.

I look down. Several stories. We are standing in a basket, dangling at the top of a crane. To my left I see the ocean; it’s just past sunset. At my feet, a small platform. I’m expected to step to the edge, lean over, and let go. Over Spike’s shoulder, I see my friend Jessica– looks at me helplessly. You’re braver than I am, her eyes seem to say, but you look scared out of your wits. Remember, you signed up for this. (In my hyper-anxious state, I could be imagining this.)

I shift slightly, the cables wrapped from my ankles to my waist are bulky, tight and uncomfortable. A million thoughts speed bum-rush my psyche.

Why did I decide this was a good idea?

Is free bungee jumping really such a bargain?

I can’t believe a fried Oreo is going to be my last meal.

I’m glad that I overcame my vanity and didn’t lie about my weight on the release form. It seems like accuracy is important at a time like this.

I thought I was a daring adventurer. Apparently, that’s not true. Wuss. Wuss maybe a more accurate descriptor.

Actually, fried Oreo isn’t the worst thing to have eaten moments before potentially dying.

I forgot that I’m afraid of heights.

They think it’s funny to have a chalk outline of a body visible directly below where I’m supposed to jump. FYI, bungee jumping company: It’s not.

Spike’s sigh pulls me out of my reverie. “Look, I’ve pushed people before. Grab the handles at the side of the cage, step to the edge of the platform, lean forward, and, when I count to three, let go.”

My eyes are bright with fear. “What happens when I let go”

“You fall. You experience it. Some people love it, some hate it.”

I wonder if I will love it. I’m 23. Just a month away from packing up my life and moving thousands o, someplace different, an unknown. I’m blind, feeling my way through the dark. I don’t know if everything will be OK, tonight or in the upcoming years. I don’t know what 30-year-old me will remember of tonight, just that I will remember  it always.

I take a deep breath.

I step forward on the platform.

I wait for the countdown.

I let go.

Sub arbore sedebat {He sits under the tree}

Subito! {Suddenly!}

To this day I use the term subito; I whip it out with ferocity and excitement when the situation permits, hoping to impress those around me with my foreign language prowess. Yes, I am a genius. I know three words in Latin.

So four days into 2012, I dust off this term from the deep, cobwebby depths of my memory: 2011 is over. 2012 is here. SUBITO!

I’m not so much the resolutions type, at least not at the New Year, more a list maker when the mood strikes. But if I look back, 2011 was a rather accomplished, albeit turbulent year. Scott and I celebrated our first wedding anniversary, flitted off to Europe for a weekend to celebrate my 30th birthday (and the acquisition of free flights after getting bumped on a previous trip), each finished a master’s degree, road-tripped down Virginia’s Skyline Drive to Monticello, wandered the streets of Charleston, SC, and ate ice cream on Coney Island’s boardwalk in the spring, and spent Christmas Eve in Manhattan. I became an aunt times-4 with the birth of my brother’s son. I started a new job (hence my absence on this site for the past few months, sorry!). I fell asleep at 11 on New Year’s Eve, only to be jolted from slumber at midnight (subito!) by explosions of fireworks.

I am so grateful for this past year, for the downs as well as the ups, for the experiences that made me stronger, that taught me that control over my life is never completely in my hands no matter how much I wish I could know exactly what’s going to happen when (just call me type A), that reminded me of the good in others, that taught me to be patient. I am grateful for the books that I read and the lessons I learned, the people I met, and the relationships that continue. For my family, for my husband.

So if I were a resolution person, well, I’d already have failed at giving up procrastination seeing as I’ve waited 4 days to even start this process. But, if I were, I would resolve to pay more attention to what really matters. To experience more. To let go of frustration, anger, sadness instead of letting negative feelings nestle into my psyche. To create. To be my best self. To explore. In 2012 and beyond.

Sometimes, life is carefully thought out. Planned. Evaluated. Executed.

Sometimes, life just happens. It comes at you fast, without warning.

Subito!

Maybe I can write about….

• My new bread machine.
• How I convinced my husband a bread machine was a necessity.
• How we bought the bread machine used from his ex-Home Ec. teacher
• How my husband took Home Ec and he’s a better person for it.
• The time my husband made himself shorts out of white velvet in Home Ec.
• Bread recipes.
• Why it’s bad to blog on an empty stomach.

Some chocolate would be good. I wonder if we have chocolate. I think we have chocolate Special K. Maybe that will suffice. Nope only Cinnamon Pecan Special K. Now all I can think of is a Cadbury Fruit and Nut Bar. K-mart sells them. It’s right across the street. If I leave now I’ll be back in 10, maybe 15 minutes. And then I’ll be able to write.

Shreds of chocolate broke off the candy bar and melted into my t-shirt. I wonder if we have any Spray ‘n’ Wash.

Googling chocolate stain removal with household products.

Why are the measuring cups in the cabinet with the baking soda instead of in the baking drawer.  I wonder if Scott knows there is a baking drawer.

I’m pretty sure that cake mix is expired. I wonder what else in here is expired…. I bet there’s a way to feng shui the kitchen. I could use some increased chi. I wonder what chi actually is. Chi. Chai. Chai tea. Chai tea latte. I really hope that the shopping center expansion across the road includes a Starbucks.

Googling Shopping Center Expansion plus Starbucks.

No results. A girl can dream, I suppose.

A gingerbread latte would be awesome right about now. Maybe they’ll get the syrup soon. Maybe a cinnamon dolce latte.

OK, right, writing. Work.

The cursor blink is hypnotizing. It’s like a metronome. I can use it to keep rhythm with the song playing in my head. “We will we will ROCK YOU.” Blink blink. I’m rocking nothing. Still no words on the page. Maybe if I do some research.

Facebook. Facebook is research.

Nobody has updated in the last 3 minutes, bummer.  Twitter? Nope, nothing new.

If I finish writing I can reward myself with a drive to Starbucks.

Maybe I can write about ….

1. Cleaned the entire apartment — even that space between the oven and the counter-top and underneath the microwave.

2. Organized my closet.

3. Experimented with three new recipes.

4. Convinced Scott to let me buy a bread machine.

5. Baked three loaves of bread.

6. Gone to the gym (making up for bread consumption)

7. Reversed the effects of an organized closet.

8. Planned a trip to Hong Kong.

9. Caught up on my periodicals — except that early-June issue of New York Magazine announcing the kick-off to summer. That just made me sad, seeing as somehow I missed summer this year.

10. Slept.

I spent Sunday afternoons and many  week nights with my nose buried in a book, vision blurred from too many hours of staring at a computer screen.

I typed approximately 1,438,893,201 words about scientific rhetoric, the publishing environment, marketing plans, budgets.

I spent approximately 1,294,398,312 minutes procrastinating.

On Tuesday, I proofread my final paper and hit send.

I’m at the end of a big game, and I’m running through a tunnel.

“Hey, Susan! You  just finished your master’s degree! What are you going to do next?”

“I’m going to Disneyland Hong Kong!”

(No joke).

We took him to McDonald’s and the park. We ushered him to the library and asked him to pick out what books he wanted to read before bedtime. We showed him how to skip stones in the river. We wore him out at Philadelphia’s Please Touch Museum (all the photos we took there are a blur — he didn’t stop moving for 3 hours). We took him to Target (he likes the red circles, kudos to Target’s branding). We were invited by a firefighter in our neighborhood to come into the station and look at the trucks. We laughed as he tipped over at the weight of the helmet on his head.

We rode the train, and as it pulled up his eyes grew wide. He looked out the window and exclaimed, “Look, there’s houses! Look, a bird! Look at the park!” We waved goodbye after we got off at the station. I soaked in his unfiltered joy.

On Monday, when I boarded the train for the 33-minute ride to work, I counted the cars like I always do. A four-car Monday is a bad sign, it makes me anxious and a little superstitious. A five-car Monday is a good sign, it means I’m more likely to get a window seat. An all-by-myself-seat Monday means an awesome week is ahead.

As I stepped on board (a five-car Monday!), I still had a little three-year-old’s voice in the back of my head. “Look, a conductor! Look at his hat! Look, a window seat!”

I watched the world pass by, the familiar stops and houses just waking for the day, “Look, a car!” I listened to music and rested my head against the back of the seat. We pulled up to the last station and nobody sat down next to me (look, an all-by-myself seat!). I didn’t worry about the workday ahead, or deadlines or school. I didn’t think about much of anything at all, except the unusually cool August morning, the blue skies, the fox into a bush as the train approached.

What I learned from a three-year-old: Happiness is Riding the Train.

(Until someone who bathed in cologne sits down next to you.)

No regrets. Just eat the chocolate.

Addendum: 8/23

Avoided wrap dresses on windy days.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=18768430

Pinterest

*Cue choirs of angels and a spotlight from heaven*

But then I saw the price tag. Being on a shoestring decorating budget, I was crushed.

*Cue trombone in a Debbie Downer Wah-Waaaahhh*

Thus, after much obsessing, I e-mailed the husband at work on Friday with a cryptic: We must go to the thrift store this weekend.

He didn’t even ask why. I guess he knows better by now. And Saturday morning, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, we made our way to the haven of used goods where I picked up a United States road atlas for a whopping 30 cents and a world atlas for 90 cents, just in case I decide to do this at some point:

Which, by the way, is totally my intention.

Exacto-knive, scissors, and cutting board at the ready, I scoured the Internet for appropriate images I could use as templates. (Ever have someone come up behind you while you Google the words “bathroom sign images”? It requires a bit of explaining. Or some pretending it didn’t happen.)

I copied the images into a Word document, blew them up to about 5-inches high each, and hit print.

Then I cut them out and traced around them on our appropriate maps. Me: San Diego. The husband: Philadelphia. I made sure to get the full city names on the torso, and attempted to include the exact roads on which we each grew up somewhere in the figure as well.

I very carefully attacked the atlas with my scissors and Exacto knive and came out with a good-looking pair (if, I do say so myself!). It took the better part of a Netflix on-demand documentary to complete (Art of the Steal, in case you’re interested).

I taped the figures to a standard piece of cream card-stock, and inserted the entire thing into a pre-matted frame from Ikea.

Including the frame, the entire project came to less than $15. They’re not as beautiful as the ones produced by TerrorDome on Etsy, and when I have the funds to afford a more professional version I will be sure to place an order (I adore the shadowbox effect).

It’s a sweet way to acknowledge both our childhoods and our love of road trips. (They also represent the husband’s insistence that road maps are better than GPS.)

Now I’m thinking …. hmmmm…. where should we go next.