Friday, August 27, 2010

Team Gunn!

Buckle up, folks; it’s gonna be a delusional and sadistic ride. The big team challenge is finally upon us, and it’s never been chock full of more morally and fashionably repugnant drama. Oh, it’s good. And I mean, “not deleting off the DVR for a while” good. We may have started out a little slow…they opted for a game of designer kickball line up instead of the norm “let’s all keep the same model because they’re really just walking hangers to us” tradition, and Peaches gave us all a giggle after she was the last one chosen. At least she’s not a sourpuss about it. She knows she makes dresses for Ladies Who Lunch out of upholstery fabric. She gets it. (Seriously though—Why does the winning designer’s model still get a prize this season? They’re so not relevant. Even in a 90 minute time frame…Not relevant. Guess that’s one lesson learned from the ill-fated Models of the Runway.)

Anyway, before we get to hear about the actual challenge we have to grit our teeth and turn our heads as the Garnier man painfully reads off cue cards. The designers nod and pretend that hair will be an important part of this challenge, but they really know it’s just that time of the season for PR to earn those Garnier promo dollars by highlighting their new flex hold hairspray and molding putty. On with the real show!

The teams broke out as such:

Team “We’re So Awesome, Let’s All Just Go Blow Each Other”: Gretchen, Ivy, AJ, Andy, Christopher and Michael C.

Team (Time out: You know when you had to do group assignments in school and there was always one loser cluster that just stared awkwardly and mumbled at each other? That’s them. Time in.) “Blah, Blah Mumble Pants”: Valerie, April, Peach, Mondo, Casanova and Michael D.

So here’s the deal: Each team has to pick a trending style and textile from the Fall 2010 lines and make a mini collection. Each team gets $1000 to spend at Mood and subsequently all the designers wet themselves. Apparently they don’t know how to divide because that’s about $160 bucks each. Um, enjoy your polyblends? Team Blow Me chooses menswear as womenswear and camel (because nothing says new and hip like head to toe camel and pleated pants), and Team Blumble Pants chooses military and lace (things seem to be looking up for this rag tag group of misfits). I don’t know if it was Mondo’s lens-less glasses, April’s deafening monotone, Valerie’s inner Gidget or Casanova’s perky man nipples and Arabian Night slippers, but they started to do something right. Granted, their looks weren’t mind blowing, but they were visually interesting, individualistic, but still cohesive. That’s what we call success in reality design competitions.

The all-knowing, Sir Timothy Gunn, Knight and Protector of Useless Flotsam and Jetsam did have one critique for our loveably confused Puerto Rican: blouse is reading matronly. What followed can only be described as a delightfully entertaining train wreck of Latin emotion. In las palabras de Casanova mid breakdown, “I’m making clothes for old ladies, sluts and flamenco dancers. I’m effing tired. I’m even getting fat!” Te amo, Casanova. Te amo your grandma garments and your weak grasp on the English language. After a pep talk from his loquacious model, “I mean, like, your stuff is so pretty. And if you, like, like it. That’s what’s important. Yeah.”, our boy manned up, grew some huevos and pulled it out.

On the other hand…Team Gretchen’s a Wench is too busy high fiving each other to actually design anything that’s not total and utter crap. Nothing but a sea of beige and future broken dreams to be seen. Gretchen continues to stick her nose in to everything. “Even if I’m not sewing a garment, I feel like it’s still partly mine” (because you’re a giant, giant douche nozzle), and everyone continues to degrade poor immunity-clad Michael C. for his not-cut-on-the-bias-cowl neck. Anyway, people keep shouting out things like camel lined leggings, grandpa sweaters and palazzo pants, and I know things are not going well. Tim, the Grand Master of Liz Claiborne, calls your “collection” ho hum. Of course it’s ho hum; everything looks like Tatooine Sand People casual wear.

Eventually the one-day-challenge (seriously getting tired of those) comes to a close, and runway day is quickly approaching. Gretchen makes a to-do list with lipstick and the designers are off, leaving only a dust trail behind them.

But enough chit-chat. Let's get to the runway.

First up: the obvious winners, Team Better Than You'd Thought We'd Be

Valerie. Not too much to say. Seems a little boxy. Whatev, it's totally safe.

Peaches. Doesn't look like a couch, so I'm pretty happy. Her model looks ragamuffin rough though. She get in a brawl before the show?

Mondo. I want to set the mustard tights ablaze. Other than that it works. Love the shoulder detail.

Christopher. Looks like he focused more on the lace than military, but well tailored, so...booyah. Wasn't crazy about the right arm whispies though.

April. I'm just so not a fan yet. Don't know if I ever will be. Pretty sure that's a pleather collar. I couldn't even see the rest of the outfit.

Casanoooova. Adios matronly, hola hot pants. So proud.

And to follow: The obvious losers, Team Gretchen's Bitches

The team of "we ain't been nothing but winners or leeches to winners" decided that their collection would be more cohesive if each abandoned his or her individual style and designed (aka sewed what Gretchen told them to) pieces for each outfit, resulting in a fashion melting pot of khaki crap. And so, I let the crap speak for itself.

ASCOT! Ok, I couldn't hold it in. There's an effing ascot. It screams Delta stewardess 1976. And the legging with the camel panel. Woof. Gretchen, I know those were your idea. I saw you weirdos high five over them.

Ivy should be put down. I know, I know, I couldn't hold it in again. A bell shaped vest. Red wool tights. Shapeless blouse. Pleated maternity shorts. Disaster.

Nothin but ugly, right? Ok, I take that back. The pants are not bad (Pants, not leggings. The leggings are horrid.) And you see the one suitable blouse? That's the one Michael made. The Michael that Gretchen and the rest of her mignons are about to throw under the bus. And with that, we enter the part of the show producers must have deemed the "Gretchen Won't Shut It" footage. There are no words. None. A small portion of the interchange went something like this:

Wench: This is a collection that we love. So much love. We made it for ourselves. We made it for us. We made it for you. We want to form a civil union with this beautiful collection and bare its children. ("And beat any one who calls our clothes babies ugly!!," screeches Ivy)

Nina: But the proportion is terrible. The colors are ghastly. Who styled this?

Granola No Mo: I mean, I guess I styled it. But I mean, it was like trying to dress up a gremlin. You can't fix a crappy collection with bangles. Even though my conception was ingenious, trolls must have come in during the night and made those Mr. Rogers sweaters and not-good-enough-for-80s-Bea-Arthur vests.

Kors: What are you talking about? I thought you loved this collection? You just said you loved it.


Heidi: Ratard. Get off my runway. Donde esta mi Casanoooooova?

In the end, despite the judge's disclaimer of not taking past performance into account (cough, cough bullshit), somehow the brain behind this collection, the main contributor, camel slave driver and stylist is safe for another week, and AJ's skinny arms are booted for a poorly executed shirt dress. (Can't really argue with that. Now this, this, is an occasion for a double elimination, kids.)

But the silver fox Tim Gunn has something to say. So I'm gonna let him say it:

I have a few words for Team Luxe, I fundamentally do not understand your behavior and demeanor and affect on the runway. I don’t get it. I don’t know why you allowed Gretchen to manipulate, control, and bully you. I don’t understand it.

You take it!! You take it and you like it! How does it taste, you denim boustier wearing she-devil?

And with that I leave you... Anxious and waiting for next week's episode in which we hope everyone else has their ah-ha moment, brought to you by Mutual of Omaha, as Ivy did, and realize that Gretchen must be put in her place. If others don't sabotage her next garment with a faulty steamer or over heated iron, I'm sure Tim Gunn will. And it shall be glorious.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

The Joys of Living Alone

I’ve never lived on my own before. Went from parent’s house, to the dorms, to two roommates, to one roommate, to unemployed and back in parent’s house, but now…Ah, now I’m on my own. If someone in Atlanta had wanted to employ me and give me healthcare, I’d probably be living with Sister doing nothing but TV watching and testing our limits on baked goods and goat cheese. So while this never came to be a reality, she should probably be pretty thankful, because I’ve discovered some non-too-great living habits I possess.

*I keep my shoes in a giant pile in the dining room. I come home; I kick them off; they stay there. The only time my shoes are on the shoe rack is when I have company over.

*I relentlessly and shamelessly drink straight out of the carton. It’s one less glass to clean.

*I let dishes pile up until the faucet is literally deemed useless due to the mounds of crap in its way.

*I’ll leave Target/Wal-Mart bags just sitting on the counter after a trip to the store. Because it’s too much trouble to put them in the laundry room where they belong.

*I loathe changing the kitchen trash bag. I’ll occasionally leave my trashcan unlined and just stuff my trash into one of said abandoned Target bags in lieu of acting like a grown up and breaking out the Hefty.

*I talk to my TV. I played commentator to an episode of Huge Monday night. I told about five people to not eat a bag of cookies. And no one did. I think I have magical powers.

*I never make my bed. I think it’s been made four times in the course of my living there.

*I don’t pay my bills until the last minute. It doesn’t matter if I have the money. I just like to collect them like Easter eggs until I have a nice little collection then pay them all at once. It’s less painful that way.

*I don’t wear real clothes in my apartment. I come home from work and change into pjs. Am not an advocate of the just-dropping-in guest. This is not Mayberry. Must have at least 30 minutes notice in order to mask the previously mentioned social hindrances.

*I hog the TV. There’s only enough room on the DVR for me.

*I eat like a five year-old. If I want a dinner of cereal, string cheese and canned pears, what’s it to you?

*I keep my house cold and my TV loud. It’s just the way I like it.

*I talk to my cat. Not conversations (because I’m not that far gone), but greetings and pleasantries are exchanged regularly.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg, folks. I know I’m not alone…Am I? Eff.

New development (and sad news for me): My regular Project Runway blogger has laid her critique to its final resting place. In lieu of flowers send bacon and hoodies as condolences. And that brings me to my latest endeavor. I need a new show to critique. I miss my Bachelor snark. I wasn’t going to touch PR because who can compete with that awesomeness? But now that it’s gone…There’s a hole in my judgmental world, and I must fill that void. So, I’m gonna make Project Runway Recap a regular addition to Biddy Corner. Hope you enjoy!

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

I like food with character. Danke, Xpress 101.

I’m pretty sure my love of cheap goods, As Seen on TV products and super stores has been well established, so would it really be a surprise to anyone that I purchased the Xpress 101 for $12 from Big Lots? Twelve. Twelve bucks. Best money I ever spent.

Sorry, Magic Bullet; Turbo Cooker, you never had a chance; this is my favorite infomercial ever.

No, it’s not the revamped Xpress Redi-Set-Go with the removable inserts. This is the original: Two wells. One shape. And it is a-mazing. One part of Sister Weekend that I didn’t talk about was the initiation of the Xpress 101 into our little lives. Because it deserves a post all its own.

Honestly, you never expect the As Seen to function properly. Nad’s hurt like hell. I don’t care if it was all natural and you could eat the wax. It was evil in a jar. Kinoki detox foot pads are complete bullshit. And make your house smell like Beggin’ Strips. As much as I love the Magic Bullet, it smells funny when the motor runs, and it occasionally won’t cut off. They don’t show that on the commercial… And now that I’m thinking about it—I don’t think it’s ever been used for anything but drinks. I tried to chop an egg once and it turned to yellow powder. Obviously I never learned chopping moderation. I’m gonna take a wild guess and assume that the Ronco Food Dehydrator sounded like a combine and would take a week to make beef jerky or craptastic fruit roll ups (Come one, you know those can’t taste good. Add a little high fructose corn syrup and maybe we can talk).

This, though. This one works. Granted, it’s been used mostly for baked goods thus far, but really…Isn’t that the most important thing?
So now, let me take you on a tour of my half moon shaped culinary adventure:
We start, with the illustriously delightful breakfast pastry: the canned cinnamon roll. It’s true what Cathy Mitchell says, even if you can only cook four at a time, it’s still faster to do two batches in the Xpress than preheating the oven and baking the whole roll. And they come out a little wonky, which gives them character. And I like my breakfast to have character. And icing.

Our next stop: The grand poobah of quick baking; What makes Sister go all Buffalo-Bill-it-puts-the-lotion-on-its-skin covetous: The mini cake. ¾ cup cake mix, ¼ cup water, 1 egg and 7 minutes are all you need for pure, unadulterated joy. Now, I rationalize making these because you don’t use any oil. That makes it better for you. The can of frosting though…there’s no rationalizing that. Whatevs. Nom, nom, nom.

Now if you’ll all direct your attention below, you’ll find the Xpress’s first non-baked good experience: The breakfast concoction: bottom layer of biscuit dough, topped with egg, followed by a layer of fake bacon (fakon, if you will) and lastly a layer of provolone cheese. The results were…Well, it wasn’t bad. I learned a lot. First of all, I need to let the dough cook a little before going layer crazy. Secondly, cheese doesn’t need the full six minutes. Because if left unattended it gets crazy crispy. Like, goes under a chemical change-no-longer-cheese-anymore crispy. Oh, and don’t cook the fakon to full-on-crispy beforehand. (By the way—where does the grease come from in fakon? Isn’t it made of broccoli and whey or something? I find that strange. Plus my microwave still smells like Bacon Bits. Two weeks later.)

Finally, I’d like to introduce you to the Xpress 101’s answer to the corn dog. Ok, I admit, it looks a little special. Like, an appropriate snack for Cartman special. If this meal had a fanfare, it’d be “Dur da dur!” But ya know what? Like it’s intellectual equal, bologna, it’s delicious.

This weekend I was feeling particularly continental and decided to take a trip south of the border. With my mouth. (That came out dirtier than I meant it to…). Yeah, anyway I made tostada bowls. Shove half a tortilla in each well, spoon in beans, taco meat, mexicorn, olives and cheese and come back in 5 minutes. Mmmmm. I forgot to take a picture. Because my tummy distracted me. Anyway, it was delicious. I made a burrito with the leftovers for lunch today. And toasted it in my Xpress 101. Because I could.

Try not to be jealous of my As Seen on TV goodness. I know it'll be hard. That's what she said.

Friday, August 20, 2010

What. The. Hat.

Sorry loves, but we have got to chat. If you’ve yet to watch Project Runway this week, I suggest you step away. If you don’t watch at all, shame on you, and you should probably just say auf wiedersehen now. Biddy’s bout to lay it out. The other Biddy (the real biddy) is who I turn to for Project Runway critique and snark, but she’s behind on her postings and I just can’t contain myself. Must. Give. Verbal. Lashing.

First of all:

Seriously? Not only does Heidi appear with a whackadoo flower atop her mop coiffure, her entrance is accompanied by Kiss from a Rose. I was legitimately confused. I thought there was something wrong with my TV. Somehow Lifetime video had been crossed with an old Vh1 Pop Up Video rerun audio. Did that really just happen? Oh, I nearly threw up.

So the challenge this week is something new (and thank goodness because if the designers had to do one more project inspired by pictures from the streets of New York taken with their Kodak Easy Share cameras, my head was going to explode with boredom.), and design dresses around the hats of Phillip Treacy. And I don’t care what you say. Those aren’t effing hats. A “hat” is defined as covering for the head, usually having a shaped crown and brim. Just because I tie a loofa to my forehead using dental floss doesn’t make it a hat. It makes it garbage. And I’d be deemed certifiable-Cuckoo’s-Nest-loco if I wore it into work. Oh Phil, what you’ve got, sir, is headwear.

So let’s get started with this clusterfuck of a runway, shall we?

The Ignored:


Peaches…I really wanted to like you. Really. I did. Then you made this dress out of a curtain and I can’t like you anymore. Plus, you had a chance to ditch your sourpuss-craptastic model and get a good one, but you kept the ugly-Iman because you wanted the hat. Then you make a dress that could give a shit about the hat. If “incongruous” was a keyword for giving somebody the boot with this challenge, Peachy-Keen would be headed back home designing for Talbots, tout de suite.


Oh, dear little monkey-boy, Mondo. Fabric talks to him. And apparently it tells him to make clown pants and paint mustaches on his model. This outfit begs for judge-talk. Like a kid acting out for attention. Dear Lord, Michael Kors, just say something, give him the slightest bit of attention so Mondo will start making normal, pretty things.


Literally inspired by hospital curtains. Not even kidding. Wish I were. Again, she made something so bland and boring, that the judges won’t even deem with a comment. Maybe you should expand your color palate past “butter.” Why don’t you just go pass out again due to two pack-a-day, case of Diet Coke diet and cause some more fake drama for reality TV? Thanks.


Screw you, snotty pants. You made an outfit a transvestite Robin Hood would love. You don’t deserve the Keira Knightly look-a-like model. Your leg warmers are where pleather meets baroque and comes to die. I just don’t like you. Why couldn’t you have just stayed crunchy, granola girl? You were so much more likeable then…


Pobrecito…My little Cassie dressed Elphaba for the Wicked Witches of the West Convention. And made her look like an expectant mother. Muy bien, dear heart.


Holy Barbie, Batman. That is really so horrid. Not only do I see puckering, the matchy-matchy shoes make me cringe. I really question the validity of the Accessory Wall. Styling’s been a big problem this season and I have a feeling it’s because they’re having to pick out of a basket of crap.


Kind of adorable. I’d prefer my “hats” without the protective gear chin strap, but whatevs. Good middle of the road outfit. Way too much tulle to make it to the top. Enjoy the mediocrity. It’s a safe, safe place. (Sidenote to AJ: Tone down the manscara. It’s way too Good Charlotte. And they’re so not relevant anymore. Plus, I don’t like you. Try to fix that, k thanks.)

The Bottom of the Barrel:


Ya know…You almost did OK. But where the hell did those grey Lycra leggings and mini come from? Those weren’t in the work room. That’s some trickeration right there. I mean, the dress is a little Mommie Dearest daywear, but it could have been safe. Way to eff it up, puffin.


Take one look at that hat and tell me it’s not “Oh, the Places You’ll Go.” And take one look at those “shorts” and tell me they’re not Huggies, quilted for extra absorption power. Gag. And a zipper? On a diaper? Seriously? Ew.

I see where you get your "inspiration," Treacy. Yah. Visionary, my ass.

The Cock of the Walk:


The self-proclaimed Susan Lucci of Project Runway. (It’s only the fourth episode, hunny. At least wait until the weeding out period is complete before owning that title.) But first off—That’s not a hat. In any loosely translated sense of the word. What we have here is a mask, people. A mask. Way to go, Val for competing in your own separate challenge. (Come on now, Phillie—Couldn’t have found one more real hat for the competition? Bet Gaga could have loaned you one of your originals back.) Anyway, Valerie made a cute dress with non-functioning zippers and an Edwardian-smoosh-the-boob neckline. Whatevs.

Other Michael

Everyone give a hand for Sun God Ra meets milk maid. I mean, I get it. The shapes work. But how can the judges not take into consideration that her torso looks like it’s set for overnight shipping? Whatevs. Congrats for being better than mediocre.

The Victorious:


Um. Huh. Is it just me or is there something familiar about this dress…

I like to call it "Up on da shore dey work all day couture." Yeah, it shimmers like the “hat,” and is ok looking, but holy boob dysfunction. That mammary strangulation just looks painful. It’s so not a top dress. I mean, he’s an adorable winner. Precious, even. But still…it’s just not a winning dress. (But seriously...Is there really one?) Ugh. Blaarrggh!

First Class Ticket to Loserville:

Ah, an auf weidersehen well deserved. There’s no way she was hindered by her hat. Make something light, pretty and flowy. There ya go. Nope, couldn’t be that easy, could it? Must make a dress suitable for a jester’s mistress. Poorly executed and just butt ugly. I was a little sad to see her go because it’s because of her that I got to hear Tim Gunn say “wooly balls,” but then I remember that the week before she dressed her girl as a “Dean or Vice-Provost,” and I wanna kick her in the orchid again.

Woo, I feel better. I think that’s enough judgment to at least get me through the weekend. Until next time, make it work!

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Ikea and Disney and Orphan, oh my!

Go ahead and mark it in the books: Sister Weekend 2010 was a major success. Sometimes I can’t believe I can have so much fun with the girl who once sprayed Windex in my face, and whom I punched in the ear for making me do her chores. But that’s what has happened. I lurv her and leaving Atlanta Sunday afternoon made me muy le bummed.

But let’s recap, shall we?

Friday night Sister had a birthday dinner for one of her good friends so after I got in to town, I bought out Publix for weekend provisions, entertained Roxie the pup and watched delightfully trashy On Demand TV until she got home. (Why she won’t watch Toddlers and Tiaras with me, I’ll never know. Nothing but telematic greatness, right there.) We spent the remainder of the evening in our matching nightshirts (Just call us Wee Willie Winkie. We’re that cool.), watching Project Runway and reveling in the awesomeness that is us.

Sister has been itching to redecorate and used that for one more selling point to get me to come up for the weekend (like I need a fourth of a reason to go to Atlanta), so naturally a trip to the illustriously daunting Ikea was gonna be necessary. Ikea is the true paradox: You arrive in a state of glorious anticipation, practically salivating over the promise of cheap Swedish home furnishings. Your feelings of joy begin to waver as your feet grow numb and your Sherpa-inspired shoulder bag remains limp and empty. Once the dollies are brought out and you’re waiting in line to pay for your 1,000 piece, jig-saw puzzle of a dresser, you know you’ve entered the 9th circle of hell: Children screaming, attempting to escape from their leashes; a herd of middle age men bounding through the check-out, anxious to get to the cinnamon roll line; every other patron moving at a glacial pace, resulting in nothing but a clusterfuck. You leave exhausted. And delirious. And with a back ache due to improper lifting.

Despite the fact that our trip was only successful for me, we did decide exactly how to transform Sister’s living room from darkish and earthy to light and Shabby Chic…Just nothing that would help us do it. Eff. Anyway, all disappointment was washed away after our late lunch at Antico, THE best pizza in Atlanta. Write it down. Paying $2.50 for a 6 oz bottle of Diet Coke was totally worth it. And a completely sufficient beverage because you’re too busy eating to think about drinking. This is serious wanna-rub-your-face-in-it kinda food. And we loved the set up: Six long tables set up in the kitchen so you’re watching them make your pizza. And if you’re anything like me, you’ve got an eye on that pitcher of sauce and wondering just how you can get a hold of it and smuggle it out in your purse. In three words: Nom, nom, nom.

After a brief food coma, Sister and I geared up for the main attraction of the weekend: The Atlanta Symphony presents Disney in Concert. Such. A. Winner.

They performed Disney faves, had clips playing in the background and some off-Broadway-singers-aka-Carnival-cruise-performers-that-are-way-too-perky-but-still-pretty-awesome singing along. Although, they didn’t really need the singers; Sister and I were doing a pretty damn good job all on our own. The only downfall was our close proximity to the margarita-drenched, CK1-spritzed, Real Housewives of Fulton County. Woof. Thankfully they disappeared after intermission (which they referred to as “half time.” True story.), and we were left to sing and cry along to “A Part of Your World,” just as it was meant to be.

Late Saturday night was deemed: Orphan Night. We saw the preview for Orphan when we saw the Hangover together and have never laughed harder. When it started coming on HBO both of us DVR’d it knowing that we would only and could only watch it together. Um. It’s not funny. At all. I mean, when the bad seed pushed that little nine-year-old bitch off the slide…I laughed. What? She totally deserved it. But when she took a hammer to a nun’s head…well. There’s just no humor in that. We turned it off. Some things should just be left as trailers.

Sunday we decided to try out the Twisted Taco’s new brunch, and let me tell you… If you like a nice Auburn d├ęcor, and your eggs Benedict on a soggy English muffin, with hollandaise sauce that tastes like yellow…This is your place. And really, who wants that moment of breaking into a perfectly poached egg, yolk dripping, when you can have them hardboiled instead? No more nasty clean up. What. The. Eff. Stick to your weird tacos; leave breakfast to someone who can poach an egg, you asses. Oh, and knock it off with the all-caps in your social media. No wonder you only have 24 Twitter followers. Losers.

And there we have it. Crazy Awesome Sister Weekend Twenty-Ten. Bring on Part Deux!

Coming Soon: “Adventures with Express 101” or “New Found Love of Half-Moon Shaped Foods"

Wednesday, August 4, 2010


My sister and I have issues. There's something very wrong with us. Over, probably, the last six months it has come out that I am woman's right to choose-serial comma and she's very pro-serial comma life. It's a dangerous combination. And after I revamped my "About Biddy" section she re-stoked the fires with this little comment on my last post:

And um, just saw in your about me that you don't believe in the serial comma. And you don't like wearing fleece and alarm clocks. So, do you like wearing each of them separately and it's just the combination that you're opposed to? Seriously. Embrace the comma. It's needed. Obviously.

I give her props because that gave me a real giggle...but still. I'm stickin to my guns. Oh, let me back it up: for the normal kids out there who don't fight over punctuation, the serial comma (or the Oxford comma) is the comma used right before "and" in a list or series.

Ex. My blog contains snark, deprecation -> , <- and judgments out the wahzoo.

Now, I come from the school of the AP Style Guide. Communications, and what not. You know, what makes the world go round. It states that unless it's needed for dire clarification, the serial comma's not necessary.

Ex. My blog contains snark, deprecation and judgments out the wahzoo.

Still makes sense, doesn't it? Yep. Sister doesn't tend to agree. She's thrown out the good ol' Wikipedia Ayn Rand example once or twice: (book inscription) "To my parents, Ayn Rand and God." Now, a normal person would think, "Oh, she's thanking her folks, the Atlas Shrugged chick and God. That's nice. Generic. But nice. Well, Ayn Rand is a little randar, but whatev."

On the other hand, someone of lesser thinking powers would read that sentence to say: "Wow. She's thanking her parents who are Ayn Rand and God. Her family vacays must've been a hoot. How does the daughter of God get punished anyway? Turn into a pillar of salt? Vicious."

And so now I bring to you a real life conversation between Sister and me. ("Me." Not "I." Because it's the object of the preposition "between." If I were on the Bachelor I would've said "I." Because the producers say it makes you sound all fancy-like. And the tan, white-toothed boy digs the fancy-like.)

Sister to our father:

So, Mellie and I are having a debate. She is anti the serial comma and I think it's absolutely necessary. Your thoughts?

PS Hope you're having a nice day! And yes, your children are big dorks who debate the importance of commas. :-)

Father to Sister:

Butu Biscuit,

Use of the serial comma prevents any possible ambiguity, as would arise in the following sentence if the serial comma were omitted (i.e., the girl’s parents are not the president and vice-president):

She took a photograph of her parents, the president, and the vice-president.

Most stylistic authorities, including the formidable Chicago Manual of Style, recommend using the serial comma. For the sake of clarity, so do I.

Hope you two dorks are having a good day.
Love you!


Sister to Sister (me):

HA! I win!

Sister (me) to Sister:

Well I am a rebel. And follow AP style. And feel like a 2nd grader when I use it. And feel like I'm being spoon-fed when I see it. Fine. If there are several internal conjunctions, I might consider using it. But more often than not, I'll re-write my sentence for clarity's sake. Serial commas give you an excuse to be lazy and complacent in your first drafts.

Strive for excellence; lose the comma!

Sister (me) to Sister: (still in a grammatical rage)

By the way, I can't believe you brought our government-editing father into this. Of course he's going to side with you. If he were a journalist or copywriter he'd tell you to go screw your Oxford comma.

Another personal belief: The serial comma is the conservative of punctuation world and hangs out with the losers, forward slash and caret. Its absence is the liberal and hangs with the cool kids, em dash and semicolon.

And there we have it. The life of a couple of really cool chicks. Just needed to share.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

At Work with Steve Buscemi

So we have music piped into our office. I'm guessing it's Sirius radio, "Sad FM Easy Listening for the Over 30." (Yeah, I channeled Bridget Jones. What?) All day, every day. It's not all bad. I dig the oldies. Only problem is they play the same songs over and over. And over. Which means at least twice a day I hear "Telephone Line" by ELO. Granted, I love any song in which "doowop dooby doo doowop doowah doolang" are legit lyrics. But it also means that I picture this every time it hits the airwaves:

Steve Buscemi twice a day. Woof.

It's also guaranteed that I'll hear Kiss's "Beth" at least once a day, but since I'm mad cool all I hear is Puck. So I guess that makes up for at least one Buscemi sighting, right?

In other news, Jersey Shore is back on the air and all is right with the world. God, this season is gonna be good...

Words and Wisdom of JS: M-I-A (which is Miami) <--Thanks for clearing that up, Situation.

I feel like a pilgrim from the friggin 20s right now.

Sammi: I just feel, I don't know. Snookers: I know how you feel.

Ronnie's at the club hookin up with grenades--that's a bigger ugly chick--and also landmines--which is a thin ugly chick...And-um-lovin life.

You're effin pale and you're nasty.

To continue the return of awesome TV: Project Runway has made a valiant return!! Winner. And that means New Old Biddy's blog is back too. Yes. Happy fists.

And finally, I've currently got Hush on in the background. You folks remember this movie? Effin Jessica Lange, man...All psycho-like, tryin to steal Gweneth Paltrow's baby. Makes me real anxious to have a mother-in-law of my very own. Holy crap.