It’s no secret that I love words. I enjoy the elasticity of language more than the rules and appreciate that slang is always in flux; we’re continually creating new idioms to express the ways we see ourselves and the world. We can play with words by juggling their meanings and smash them together to create new ones; we can invent new adjectives by adding “y” onto the ends of words or squeeze a whole sentence into a word using hyphens to make long it-may-give-you-a-headache-or-a-good-laugh jargon-y lingo that outsiders scratch their heads at. The dictionary is always expanding, and I adore all the 171,476 words that currently exist.READ MORE
Six months ago, I met up with my co-blogger Michelle in New York. She was there with her husband while I brought my twelve-year-old daughter. It was a hot Memorial Day weekend. By hot, I mean really hot. Like 100-plus-degree hot. And crowded-with-marine-uniformed-guys hot. (Not that I much looked, or touched.) On the Saturday, we decided to “hop-on hop-off” with one of those open-bus tours and visit north Manhattan and Harlem. But things didn’t go quite as expected.
On paper, it was pretty easy and appealing: you hop on a bus, and then you hop off of it whenever you want to explore whatever monument or place you stop by, and you hop back on the next double-decker. Hop on, hop off. Easy. But in order to do so, people actually have to get off the bus and make room for you. Or — even better — you have to get on a bus in the first place.