The State of the English Language: an update.

Abstract: The English language is still going to hell in a hand basket. Evidence: people are still using the lovely noun "gift" as a verb.

Background: Readers of this blog may recall that I have, upon occasion, pointed to this abomination--using "gift," the noun, in place of the perfectly serviceable verb, "to give." E.g., and to wit: "This scarf? My best friend gifted it to me for my birthday." ( < abomination. Appropriate: my friend gave it to me for my birthday." See? Perfect!)

It's a scientific report. Like my blog post.

Data: I'm no linguist, scientist, social scientist, or shaman. But I keep hearing people use this infernal locution: "She gifted me this fantastic yak hair sofa." "He gifted me my own heart served up on a platter!" "The cat gifted me with this dead mouse." Etc., etc., on the radio, in magazines. On blogs and social media. It hurts my ears and my brain. Also, I was thinking about it while I was walking from my car to my office. So, clearly, and to sum up, the data points to a continuing trend of a thing that is abominable!

Discussion: While it is the height of foolhardiness to attempt to change usage, one cannot stand idly by whilst people say things that hurt one's ears, and brain. Even if not standing idly by means sounding kind of persnickety, grouchy, and middle-aged. And rant-y. One must take up one's voice, one's pen, and one's blog in defense of what is right: the right of a verb to be a verb and a noun to be a noun, and never the twain shall meet, just in this one case, since of course it is the God-given right of words to transmogrify into whatsoever part of speech is necessary at the moment. Just not gift (noun) to gift (verb):  that is right out.

Conclusions/Recommendations: If you are one of those who has upon occasion, or frequently, given this gift-as-verb shenanigan a trial spin, do the right thing, and quit it. Cut it right out. Take a vow and never do it again. And if you're tempted, remind yourself of the pretentious, ultra-fancy wannabes to use it. Do you want to be a pretentious, ultra-fancy wannabe? I didn't think so.

If you have never and will never, good for you. Be stalwart. Giving is a beautiful thing. So is to give, with its deep and honorable roots as a verb:

what a splendid, splendid verb.

Gift, too, has deep and honorable roots--as a noun:

what a lovely, lovely noun.

Say it with me now: and never the twain shall meet.*

*except in the case of gifted, which is the past participle of (yikes!) to gift (verb), meaning "talented." This is the only exception we shall grant.

Dear Meltdown,

I appreciate that you waited patiently until six days before Christmas to point out to me that we really really really needed a Christmas tree. But, dear Meltdown, you did not so forcefully point this out until just after the television started to make the in-your-face gesture of a blue screen, which threatened to take away one of the most basic of human rights, the right to lie in bed and watch a little television, especially before falling asleep. That blue screen really kicked the "We Need A Christmas Tree NOW" campaign into high gear, so that, in fact, we did go get a Christmas tree. Three of them. Live, planted in pots, and 40% off at Lowe's. They are glowing in the living room as we speak.

Dear Meltdown, I also appreciate that you did not assert yourself in the face of the grading that still, still is waiting to be finished, especially if by "finished," we mean "started," really.

I appreciate that you, Meltdown, abated while I made the pizzas for the belated birthday party for Running/College/post-Mission son, and that you withdrew entirely for the viewing of Christmas Vacation that was the specified activity for the post-pizza evening.

But that rant by Clark Griswold--you know the one, the one that ends "Hallelujah! holy shit, where's the Tylenol"? That rant, dear Meltdown, that rant reminded me of you.

Sincerely, lisa b.

And another phrase I hate:

Just because I have three married children, a self-sufficient, self-supporting, property-owning son living in Kansas, and a daughter who's considering taking a position as a nanny, as well as a son, the last, who is about to leave for farflung parts for two years, and just because I've hit a milestone birthday, and just because I'm feeling some sadness about all of this and considering, finally, renovating or redecorating or some similar "re-" project in the downstairs, doesn't automatically fit me into a category.

You know the category I'm talking about, the one applied to people like me who've raised their kids, and said kids once raised leave. The category that implies "what will she do with herself?" and "how ever will she spend her time?" and "it's a difficult transition for us all, honey." Okay, fine, but it reminds me of when I went to therapy for the first time and I was describing my circumstances and emotions and actions, and the therapist's basic response was, "all of this is symptomatic." Really? Symptomatic? Because I actually thought all those symptoms were my life. My actual, living and breathing, rejoicing and grieving, chaotic and hypnotic life.

My kids? They're not and never were birds, and neither was I. The kids are the people I love the most, who I've got used to talking to on a regular basis, hearing their perspectives, opinions, dreams, rants, and jokes. People I heard wake up in my house, the music of the pipes when they'd turn on the shower, the openings and closings of doors at their comings and goings. Specific people, so their leaving isn't categorical, and neither is my response.

I'm having none of this "empty nest." What's happening is, I'm missing my kids, all right? and I might need a minute, now and then, just to miss them, noncategorically.