Thursday, December 10, 2009

Ding Dong

I know it has an apostrophe that isn’t supposed to be there. I’ve been racking my brain to come up with some pithy explanation about why it’s correct to put the possessive apostrophe on “Bahama Mama’s” when we do not, in fact, possess anything. At least, the Christmas cards we sent out don’t say what we possess. I tried to tie in “possession” as in “spawn of the devil”, but I couldn’t make it work. I also briefly thought about going to Strunk and White to see if I could pull out some archaic reason, but then I remembered that I hate that book and only keep it around as a threat to myself. “Put down the cake, girl. Don’t make me get out the Strunk and White!” I could have lied about why “Merry Christmas from the Bahama Mama’s” is correct and I’ll bet only a handful of you would have checked up on me, but it’s really, really close to Christmas and I’m tottering on the verge of Santa’s Naughty list, so I decided not to push it. I’ve got my fingers crossed for a pony.
What can I say? I’ve been too long away from Henry James. I even caught myself misusing “I” as in “He brought chocolate for Hal and I.” I spent a whole night reminding myself that objects are always “me”. Well, not the whole night. I spent part of the night wishing I had majored in something less related to my life, like math. Interspersed with wishing someone had, in fact, brought us chocolate.
So, I apologize for disturbing your perfect Grammar World this holiday season. I think I’ll go possess myself a giant Cadbury with raisins and nuts as consolation.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Rut Ro Tiger

I’ll say up front, just so there’s no scandal later on, that I am not one of Tiger’s mistresses. I know I look the type—leggy, blonde and well dressed—but don’t worry. You won’t have to face the paparazzi asking for stories of “when Big Bahama Mama seduced Tiger” or anything like that. Maybe you’re disappointed. If so, feel free to make up stories and sell them to the Enquirer. If you get rich, give me a percentage and we’ll all be happy. Everyone except Tiger, that is. Oh, and his super-model wife who is, apparently, a dupe.
And, no, my mega-rich golf pro husband did not cheat on me. Far worse. I made fresh bread and he toasted it. Yup. Steaming hot from the oven, he sliced it and stuck it in the toaster and glopped butter on it when it was done. I feel so violated. Toasters are for bread that is past its prime. It’s the AARP for bread. But in no way can one call burn-your-hands-hot bread “past its prime.” I may relegate him to store bought bread for the duration of his miserable, gluten loving life.
I feel the same way about vegetables. Store bought veggies can be buttered and salted to high heaven. But if I pull broccoli from my garden, don’t you dare cover the taste up with sauce. A bit of balsamic vinegar on a tomato is okay, but garden veggies are not conduits for Ranch dressing. I feel strongly about this, and if I had a prenuptial agreement, I would still consider divorce a viable option for a man who treated my produce like haggard, trucked-in stuff. Deep breath.