My pet peeves center on grammar and word-usage. I feel uncomfortable about them, yet I revel in them.  Many years ago I was chastened when criticized for laughing at someone’s mispronunciation of a particular word.  I’ve long since forgotten the word, but  it was pointed out that those who mispronounce words often do so because they read, never having heard the word in spoken English. In the same vein, is recoiling in feigned horror or laughing at “improper” grammar or word usage equally elitist?

Or is it innate in my mental makeup?  Surely, it exercises the intellect – for example, when I’m attempting to determine whether someone’s usage of “me” instead of “I” is correct, particularly in a convoluted or recursive sentence featuring one or more embedded phrases and clauses. I enjoy figuring out what is the subject, the object, and which verb is controlling. The same mental gymnastics are required when trying to figure out the meaning of “I couldn’ fail to disagree less.”

Having apologized for what can be termed misplaced elitism, if such a thing exists, here are three of my linguistic Pet Peeves:

“Exact same”.  I claim ownership of this one, as I’ve not seen discussions of this term anywhere else. “Exact” and “same” are adjectives. I don’t know what an “exact” thing is. Is it measured with a micrometer? Is there something precise about it? I understand “exactly the same thing,” where “exactly” is the adverb it should be. I’m at a loss as to what an “exact same thing” is.  Recently, I reviewed a brief where the drafter made the point that a law firm had filed virtually the same brief in half a dozen cases, characterizing them as “near identical” briefs. I suggested changing the characterization to “nearly identical”, observing that the brief was “near” only if he’d printed it out and held it close to his glasses. He wrote back generally agreeing, but cited several published California appellate cases where the courts, surely aided by crack law clerks with Order of the Coif credentials, had used the exact same phrase. (Whoops.) To humor me, the brief was filed using “nearly identical” to describe the similarities.

“Chaise Lounge”.  This is a corruption of the correct “chaise longue”, from French. When I see this, I think of “lounging” in an airport lounge waiting for a flight, rather than the reclining seat next to the pool at the resort I wish were the termination of my flight. Merriam-Webster online suggests that English speakers were more comfortable importing this French term for a “long chair” as “lounge” because they wanted a word with spelling they knew and unambiguous pronunciation. I dunno. I once pointed out to a newspaper columnist his error in a column he wrote. He, an adherent to the belief that proper English is that which the people speak, acknowledged the etymology of the word, but disputed that he’d made an error.

Finally, “Nonplussed.” My favorite, because its common (incorrect?) meaning is the one almost universally used by current American writers, and it is used to convey the near opposite (whoops again) of the original meaning. I’ve never heard anyone say “nonplussed” in ordinary speech, but it comes up often in opinion columns and other popular writing. The original meaning, “Astonished to the point of being unable to speak”, or loosely, “perplexed or unsure of what to say” also comes from  French, non plus or “nothing more.” Now, in this country, at least, it signifies a state of being unimpressed, as in “I was nonplussed by the candidate’s speech.”

The nicely perverse consequence of pet peeves like this is that the more widespread the error, the more proper its usage becomes.  In France, I believe there’s a commission that certifies acceptable words. English speakers, of course, wouldn’t put up with nonsense like that. We’d be nonplussed by their suggestions.

Once Upon a time…and still… hair was the most important thing.

To the day my mother died, the first thing we did when we saw each other was comment on each other’s hair. Mom would either say, “That’s a great haircut, Penny,” or “What did you do to your hair?” Or anything in between. (My dad said only one thing every time: “What the hell happened to your hair?”)  For many years my mother went to the hairdresser every week. I’m not sure she ever washed her own hair. When I was in high school she took me along, so every Friday I had my hair washed and teased and sprayed (Yuk) so even a ride on a roller coaster over the weekend wouldn’t undo my do. But this little story isn’t about my hair. It’s about loyalty.

When my mom finally convinced my dad to retire, my parents left New York and moved to California to be near my brother and me and our families. For Dad the trauma of the move was that he could no longer ride the Long Island Railroad’s bar car home from The City with his buddies. For Mom, she had to leave her long-term hair cutter and find a new one. Not knowing better, she found the hairdresser who did the hair of most of the women in Rossmoor. As a result, she looked like them and they all looked like little old ladies from Rossmoor. They’d get these nasty tight little permanent waves to “give their hair body” and from behind, all these 4’11” Jewish grey haired women looked the same. From the front they did, too. My mom hated how she looked. But would she switch hairdressers? Of course no! But every year the Rossmoor hairdresser would take a vacation for a few weeks and her friend would sub for her. This woman gave Mom wonderful, flattering haircuts, and no silly curls. She looked so much better! I’d comment, of course, as soon as I saw her. “Mom! I love your hair! Who did it?” And she’d say sadly, “I know. It looks so much better, doesn’t it?” And I’d say, “Can’t you continue going to her even when What’s-Her-Name comes back?” And she’d say, sadly, sounding a little like Eeyore, “No. I couldn’t do that to her.” My mom knew her hairdresser’s whole life story, and like all of us, she had some troubles she confided to Mom (and probably to all the other Rossmoor gals.) Mom just didn’t have the heart to add another sadness to this woman’s life. So as much as I tried, I couldn’t convince her to switch. She never did. But once a year, for a few weeks, she looked great.

Just a word here about genetics. I went to the same hairdresser in San Francisco for 25 years. From when I had a raging Jewfro in the 70s to when I had a modified Jewfro in the 90s. I, too, didn’t have the heart to leave my guy. He’d become my friend and, like my mom, I’d become his confidente. But he made the mistake of taking a very long vacation one year, and my daughter invited me to visit her hairstylist in Berkeley. She took one look at me in the mirror and asked, “So…how committed are you to the 1970s?”

After several months of expensive therapy, I was finally able to break up with my SF guy and keep him as a friend. Wish I could tell my mom.

Someday I’ll tell you about the purple hair.