@RASJacobson

Today marks the beginning of a new feature for me: Made-It-Up Mondays.

On Mondays when I’m in the mood, I am going to throw out a 100% made-up word and ask you to a) define the word, and b) then use the word in a sentence that indicates how the word could be used.

Why? Because someone recently gave me the book The Meaning of Tingo: And Other Extraordinary Words from Around the World.

(Of course, it is my new favorite book.)

I read that that there are approximately 1,010,649.7 words in the English language. And while this seems like a really enormous lexicon, many nuances of human language sometimes leave us tongue-tied.

Sometimes it is necessary to turn to other languages to find a word to find le mot juste.

As Bill DeMain noted in his article “15 Wonderful Words With No English Equivalent”:

“Zhaghzhagh” is a Persian word, a noun, meaning the chattering of teeth from extreme cold or rage.

We don’t really have a word for that in English, do we?

When I can’t find the right word on the word-shelf to fit my mood or predicament, I just make one up.

It will be fun to see what other people come up with.

Remember, you can’t be wrong because the word I throw out will be a 100% fictional word.

If you’d like to submit a made-up word of your own, feel free to contact me. (My info is under the “Contact Me” tab.)

I’m starting alphabetically.

This week, the made up word is:

ARBORCADE

What the heck is that? When would you say it? Define it and give me a sentence in which you show me how you would use it.

You know, if it were a real word. 😉

I’m kicking off Wednesday #TWITS: a fancy-schmancy acronym for Teachers Who I Think Scored / Teachers Who I Think Sucked. (It only took me eleventy bajillion hours to think up that one.) So here is my middle school memory about one very specific moment. Obviously, I have changed the teacher’s name.

• • •

In middle school, I had the meanest homeroom teacher. Unfortunately, she was also my English teacher, which meant I had double doses of her each day. Mrs. Dour ran a tight ship. She liked her rows straight. She liked her students quiet. She hated boys who leaned back in their chairs. She also hated girls who wore clogs. “Too noisy,” she complained. She called on people when their hands were down, and when she wrote words like “onomatopoeia” on the blackboard, she pressed so hard against the slate that the white chalk often crumbled into dust. Mrs. Dour wore her reddish-hair in a tight bun every day, but by 8^th period, when I had her for English, most of her hair had fallen down, giving her a slightly deranged look.

I was pretty scared of her.

One June day, Mrs. Dour gave us all a 7-minute writing assignment during which time we were supposed to do something in our black and white composition notebooks.

I can’t remember what we were supposed to do because of what happened next.

Mrs. Dour turned her back to the class to write on the board. She was wearing a lightweight, white top and a long, gauzy, white skirt that day. I remember this because at that time I was preoccupied by what everyone wore. I noted in my superficial middle school manner that white did not flatter Mrs. Dour’s pasty complexion, and I planned to deconstruct her ensemble after class with my two friends during our bus ride home.

Right about then I noticed a small, reddish dot on the back of Mrs. Dour’s skirt.

Initially, I figured Mrs. Dour must have sat on one of her red felt-tipped markers. She was the only teacher who wrote in red felt-tip marker, and her fingers were often covered with red lines by the end of the day. While waiting for inspiration, I stared at the red mark on Mrs. Dour’s skirt – and I noticed the stain had grown larger. I looked around to see if I could catch anyone else’s eye, but everyone was madly engaged in our teacher’s in-class activity. As Mrs. Dour’s hand carefully crafted perfect cursive letters, I tracked the red as it spread across her bottom. What started out first as a dot, morphed into a quarter-sized circle and rapidly grew into an asymmetrical patch of red, the size of my adolescent fist.

I remembered how, midway through that year during gym class, we girls had been made to watch The Movie, a film created to explain what was starting to happen to our female parts. Our innards. I learned why some of us had boobies already and why some of us would have to wait. (In my case, years. Stupid hormones.) I remembered how we had grabbed each other’s hands as we huddled together in the gymnasium, trying to stifle our giggles. And before we left the locker room that day, each of us received a plastic “goodie-bag” filled with a cute little free sample of mouthwash, some deodorant, two sanitary napkins, and two tampons.

So I knew what was going on.

Meanwhile, I waited for someone else to notice. Or do something.

But as I watched the hand on the clock do that backwards-to-go-forwards click, I realized I was going to have to be The One.

I quietly pushed back my chair and, leaving my clogs behind so as not to make noise, I tiptoed across the room to join Mrs. Dour at the board.

She saw me out of the corner of her eye but kept writing, her back to the class.

How I wanted her to turn sideways and look at me, but she didn’t.

“Is there a problem?” Mrs. Dour snapped without so much as glancing my way.

If she had looked at me, I could have been more discreet. Instead, I fumbled for words. It hadn’t occurred to me to get the words right and then approach Mrs. Dour. My feet had just moved me to where I needed to go. I figured the words would follow.

“Yes,” I said.

Mrs. Dour spat, “Well, what is it?”

Heads popped up.

As inaudibly as I possibly could, I whispered: “There is blood all over the back of your skirt.”

Mrs. Dour, whom I had always assumed to be very old, was probably in her late forties. She was always so terse; she came off like The Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz, which definitely added a decade of scowl lines to her deeply furrowed forehead.

So there I was, Dorothy Gale, stuck in the tornado that was Mrs. Dour.

“Come with me!” Mrs. Dour growled. She took my left arm firmly and escorted me from her desk to the door which she snatched open. Together, we marched directly across the hall to the student bathroom where Mrs. Dour disappeared behind a stall door.

I stood by a trio of sinks, waiting for directions. For divine intervention. For Mrs. Dour to tell me to go. Or stay. Or something.

I didn’t expect Mrs. Dour to cry.

But that is exactly what she did.

From behind the stall, I could hear her pulling the terrible, industrial squares of toilet paper and weeping.

For the first time, I stopped seeing my English teacher as Mean Ole Mrs. Dour, the persnickety disciplinarian with all those rigid rules: the woman who gave me detention at least once a week.

I saw her as a small, embarrassed, woman who didn’t know what to do.

I looked at myself in the mirror and found enough courage to ask Mrs. Dour if there was anything that I could do for her.

My voice echoed against the empty bathroom walls.

“Do you think many people… saw?” Mrs. Dour asked.

“I don’t think so,” I lied.

Truth be told, I suspected that nearly everyone had seen the mess on the back of Mrs. Dour’s skirt, and if they hadn’t seen it with their own eyes, the people who had were likely telling everyone who hadn’t.

I was pretty sure that would be the end of Mrs. Dour. After suffering such public humiliation, I was positive she would resign that afternoon.

But Mrs. Dour was in homeroom the very next day. She was not any nicer. She continued to do her job just as she had before.

She continued to complain about the girls who wore clogs. She continued to issue me my weekly detention. Mrs. Dour was not a nice teacher. I cannot remember any books that I read or projects that I did that year. I remember only that single incident. But I learned something important from her nevertheless.

I learned that sometimes a person has to push through her fear no matter how scared she might be and just keep moving forward. Sometimes, you have to take a deep breath and face the thing that you fear: which in this case – as is often the case – is the fear of ridicule or the laughing masses. Because sometimes that’s all you can do.

I suppose Mrs. Dour did teach me one other lesson.

A teacher myself, I can tell you I have never, ever worn a white skirt.

Ever.

And I never will.

When is the last time you were truly afraid? What got you to push past your fear?

Back in May, I realized my fall 2011 semester was going to be hectic, so I asked a bunch of people to consider helping me out by writing about a memory of a favorite (or not so favorite) teacher who helped them learn something about themselves or the world.

Because everyone has a favorite teacher, right?

And, let’s face it, even the bad ones taught us something.

I was stunned by the response.

Everyone was all: “Omigosh, this is like, totally awesome!”

The guys were slightly less Valley-Girlish.

I am truly grateful to everyone who submitted a story.

So starting next Wednesday — and running every Wednesday until the well runs dry — I will post one story.

For those of you who use Twitter, the hashtag will be #TWITS – an acronym to stand for Teachers Who I Think Scored or Teachers Who I Think Sucked.

(It only took me eleventy-bajillion years to come up with that one.)

If you’d like to be part of the action, I would love to read your words.

Maybe as we go along you might say, “Hey, I don’t see my experience represented here.”

Well, that’s so not okay!

So haul out your yearbooks.

Now, stop looking at yourself.

Okay, now stop looking at you-know-who.

What do you mean: “Who?”

You know the one.

Now turn to the teachers’ page and write about something that one of them did that you promised you’d never forget.

You can find my email address under the “Contact Me” tab. 

Tweet this Twit @ RASJacobson

Schedule:

Renée Schuls-Jacobson • August 17, 2011 • Lessons From Teachers & Twits • “Spot Check”

Jessica Buttram  •  August 24, 2011 • Meet the Buttrams • “Hard Ass”

Save Sprinkles • August 31, 2011 • How Can I Complain? • “A Different Kind of Punishment”

Steven Hess • September 7, 2011 • “Read the Books”

Piper Bayard • September 14, 2011 • On Life, Belly Dancing & Apocalyptic Annihilation • “The Power of a Swift Kick”

Zach Sparer • September 21, 2011 • Faux-Outrage • “Substitute Preacher”

Kelliefish • September 28, 2011 • Kelliefish13’s Blog • “Mrs. Clayton”

Larry Hehn • October 5, 2011 • Christian in the Rough • “Ode to Werner Berth”

Kelly K • October 12, 2011 • Dances With Chaos • “Buzz Champion”

Tyler Tarver • October 19, 2011 • Tyler Tarver • “Yo tengo el gato los pantelones”

Tamara Lunardo • October 26, 2011 • Tamara Out Loud • “Those Who Can’t Teach”

Leonore Rodrigues • November 2, 2011 • As A Linguist • “Damage Done”

Mark Kaplowitz • November 9, 2011 • Mark Kaplowitz’s Blog • “My 1st Grade Teacher Must Have Had Stock in Crayola”

Mary Mollica • Novemeber 16, 2011 • The Decorative Paintbrush • “Not to Be Trashed”

Paul Waters • November 23, 2011 • Blackwatertown • “The Good, the Bad & the Ugly”

Penny Thoyts • November 30, 2011 • “Lessons From Mrs. Gurney”

Chase McFadden • December 7, 2011 • Some Species Eat Their Young • “If You’re Lucky“

SaucyB • December 14, 2011 • Life & Times of a Self-Proclaimed Saucy Bitch • “Hidden Potential”

Kathy English • December 21, 2011 • The Mom Crusades • “Mrs. Schmidt’s Wonderful World”

Annie Wolfe • December 28, 2011 • Six Ring Circus • “The Day Mrs. Dean Saved My Life”

I have been gaining subscribers for a year now. I have this cool, little dashboard that tells me how many people have viewed my blog, which pages they have checked out, what words they searched to find me, and a whole lot of cool information. My lice post is still the number one most frequently viewed post and, if you Google search “drag needle splinter twit,” you will find this.

Here’s what I don’t understand. Every day, more people are visiting my site. Which is totally excellent. And I am grateful to everyone who comes to check me out. And I’d like to take this opportunity to say to the folks searching for “psicologia: esconderse bajo la cama”: I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.

But here is what I’m pondering:

Why do so few people who read blogs actually leave comments? I mean I have my regulars, the folks upon whom I can rely on to say something. They are the people with whom I have come to know and have developed cyber-relationships. Through these online exchanges, I have met so many smart/interesting/funny people. Some cyber-friendships have progressed to emails; some to phone calls. Heck, I’m playing concurrent games of “Words with Friends” with Jessica Buttram and Ironic Mom.

So imagine my surprise when a friend that I actually know in real life — yeah, I’m calling you out, Aaron — admitted that he has been reading my blog since my blog was born, that he has been there since its infancy, and added that he has really been enjoying watching li’l boggie mature. Now this of course made me all shivery and happy inside, and I immediately gave him a hug Actually, I may have hugged him first and then squealed when he made the comment, but you get the idea.

Of course, I love the idea that people are reading my content.

But later (after the hugging and squealing), I wondered, Why doesn’t Aaron ever comment? What’s up with that? And if Aaron isn’t commenting, why aren’t other people commenting? I decided to create a poll to try to find out. Seriously, I’d love to hear from you lurkers who read but don’t necessarily comment. Please know I don’t have any way to identify about you except the answers you leave here because all the info is collected at Poll Daddy and reported back to me anonymously. You know, unless you put your name in the comment or something.

I love writing and I am working my butt off trying to bring you interesting stuff. Am I missing something? I can never predict which posts people are going to go bonkers over and which ones will be duds. (I mean head lice? Really? Over 200 hits every day?)

Author Kristen Lamb (a woman to whom I refer to as “The Queen”) often writes about how important it is for writers to try to connect with one another in her blog and in her books We Are Not Alone–The Writer’s Guide to Social Media and Are You There, Blog? It’s Me, Writer . I know not all of my readers are bloggers, but whether you are or not, I would love it if you would leave me a comment. For me, blogging is — of course — about writing, but it is also about creating a dialogue. After I have written something the delicious part is hearing what people have to say about it. The comments are like a fabulous dessert you get to eat — after slaving away for hours making a difficult meal.

If you are writing a blog, you are hoping that someone is maybe (*hopefully*) reading your words. Admit it. It’s true.

And if you are checking out other people’s stuff, you don’t have to feel pressured to write a crazy long comment. Even a short little “Thanks for this!” or “Hilarious!” can really make someone’s day. So don’t be shy. Just say, “Hi!”

Truly, I am interested as to why people choose to be quiet when they could be part of the dialogue. So please, enlighten me. At the risk of sounding like the National Inquirer, inquiring minds really do want to know. Has anyone else given any thought to this phenomenon?

What drives people to comment?  And what makes lurkers stay in the shadows?

Tweet This Twit @RASJacobson

From the second the movie came out, people have told me that I look Jennifer Grey from Dirty Dancing. You know, “Baby.” It happens all the time. In reality, my cousin Michelle is the one who really looks like Jennifer Grey. Like exactly.

But I can see why people think I look like this incarnation of Jennifer Grey. We’ve both got the mouse blonde-brown hair and the curls that were hot in the 1980s — and if mousse hadn’t been invented, I would still be stuck with all that frizz. Mousse has been very, very good to me. When it gets humid enough, I probably do look like the 1980s Jennifer Grey, but I don’t want to have to keep doing this.

The other person people tell me I look like is Sarah Jessica Parker (after her mole was removed). I don’t mind having people tell me I look like SJP because I think she is stunning. In fact, most women I know think SJP is stunning. It’s men who complain that SJP is decidedly un-hot. I once heard someone say SJP’s face looks like a horse’s. Well, I love horses, and if my features are equine, I’m good with it.

To be true, I don’t really think I look so much like SJP in real life as I behave like her character, Carrie Bradshaw, in Sex in the City. You know, I dress really funky; I collect fabulously expensive shoes, and let’s not forget, I live alone in my tiny, expensive New York apartment without a husband or son.

Except that I live in the suburbs in Western, New York. You know, with my husband and son. Oh, and I hate to shop and I have maybe seven pairs of shoes.

Still, I get the SJP thing a lot.

I recently saw Ironic Mom (aka: Leanne Shirtliffe) was playing around with a fun app that shows you your celebrity doppelgangers, and I decided to try it.

Here are the results:

Astoundingly, SJP did come up. Along with a lot of other very attractive women, so I am not complaining. But apparently, I look much more like The United States Secretary of State, Hilary Rodham Clinton than anyone else (74% match) — a woman who is 20 years older than I am.

That said, I think Hil looks smokin’ in that picture.

I was surprised, however, to see that I also came up looking like Howard Dean and composer Phillip Glass (look at that man’s nose, people!).

Wow.

Those kind of hurt a little.

So, like Leanne, I decided to try the experiment again using a different picture. This time, I selected a photo of my curly haired self, since I am usually a curly girly and because I am that vain.

Here are the results:

I would call this my “I wish” list. Omigosh! I wish I looked like Penelope Cruz. If I did, I’m thinking I would be much more famous. And Nicky Hilton? I don’t think I have one character trait in common with Nicky Hilton, so that one leaves me with a big question mark over my head.

Holly Hunter is probably a pretty good doppelganger on the day-to-day. In this picture anyway. She looks like she just finished walking with a friend on a really humid morning or, perhaps, went swimming and let her hair air dry. Yeah, that sounds like me.

And, I suppose, if I have to be a guy, Howie Dorough (eldest singer of the Backstreet Boys) or pop singer Zac Hanson aren’t the worst boys to look like. I mean, at least they’re kinda pretty.

I wanted to run this app all day long using different pictures of myself, but I had other stuff to do. And, of course, what is the point? No one will ever tell me I look like Katie Couric, and I don’t think anyone under 35 even knows the name Samantha Fox! Oh and as far as Amy Weber goes, yeah right!

My identity was confirmed at the grocery store last night, when a stranger stopped me in the frozen food section and said, “Wow, you look just like the girl from Dirty Dancing! You know, Jennifer Grey. Before she got her nose job!”

And — as Homer Simpson might say — that brings us back to doh!

What celebrity do people claim you look like? Do you think they are right? Or do you think they are crazy?

I have two favorite posts that you simply must read this weekend if you missed them the first time around. Or I won’t be your friend anymore. People like to relax. And there is nothing wrong with that, right?

Paul Johnson caught United States’ President Obama trying to relax in the UK this week. Paul Johnson’s outrageous Scenes from the Special Relationship features photographs of Obama and Prime Minister David Cameron chillaxing together while playing ping-pong. What? Two major world leaders playing indoor sports doesn’t sound interesting? Trust me, my friends. The Good Greatsby‘s dashing wit and uber-hilarious social and political commentary is worth a click. The comments are faboo, too!

Another piece of deliciousness comes from Leanne Shirtliffe aka: Ironic Mom. For those of you who do not know Leanne, let me introduce her to you briefly. Leanne is a teacher, a proud Canadian, and the mother of the devil’s spawn delightful twins who keep her notebooks filled with ideas for new blog posts. Well, this week, you get a double dose of our girl from Calgary. I challenge you not to laugh out loud when you read When Irony Ruins Your Day. And if your kids are outside relaxing this weekend, playing with their water guns, sipping their aqua-tinis . . . well, later on, just make sure the taps are turned off. Leanne would want you to.

That’s all for now. After you do your required reading, have a great weekend.

And try to relax.

What are you doing to relax this weekend?

Every once in a while, Monkey will do something that really makes me mad.

Like on a really hot day, he’ll spray me with his water gun – but he will forget to mention that he’s filled the barrel with a special concoction of water and the added bonus of blue food coloring (you know, for greater impact). So that’s pretty much the end of that white bikini.

Or he’ll tap things, even though he knows I can’t stand repetitive tapping.

Or he’ll leave his cup sitting on the kitchen counter. (And I don’t mean the cup you drink out of.)

Or he’ll put his jeans in the washer and then transfer them to the dryer…with an entire pack of chewing gum still in the pocket. So that’s pretty much the end of everything in that load.

But this.

This takes the cake.

Leanne Shirtliffe is Ironic Mom, and – after this “little inicident” where her daughter decided to write on a non-traditional writing surface, well… you tell me what you would have done.

Or better yet, tell me the worst thing your little stinker has ever done – to date!

That you know of.

And if you don’t have a stinker, ‘fess up!

What’s the worst thing you ever did as a kid?

A while ago, I decided that I would reward the person who made the 3,000th comment on my blog with a gift.

No, there is nothing significant about the number 3,000. I was obsessing over my stats just happened to notice that the number was fast approaching, and the time felt right.

I just wasn’t sure what I was going to offer up.

I figured as an English teacher, it would be most appropriate to offer up a book. But what to send?

And then the day came, and I saw who made that 3,000th comment, and everything became clear.

When I arrived in the bloggersphere last May, the very first person to welcome me was Carl D’Agostino. Carl helped me to network with some of his blogging buddies and he has been a steadfast follower ever since my very first post. In fact, no matter what time of day I post, I can pretty much count on Carl to be the first responder. If he lived closer to me, I would totally have him on my person to contact in an emergency list. He is that reliable and that fast.

I was thrilled when I saw that Carl made the 3,000th comment back in March. And because he is a former teacher, I offered him two book titles: F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic The Great Gatsby (which he once confessed he’d not ever read) or Lynne Truss’ irreverent Eats, Shoot and Leaves: A Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation.

Carl chose Truss’ hilarious book for grammar sticklers.

Then I told Carl there were strings attached to the gift.

I asked him if he would write a short response to the book in which he explained one thing that he enjoyed or learned which I could use in my blog.

Here is his response:

A Book Report by Carl D’Agostino on Eats, Shoots & Leaves by Lynne Truss

If you see how the two pieces of punctuation in the above title affect understanding a great deal, you will enjoy this book and even learn some history. If you don’t see alternative meanings, you need to read this book. Truss says, “Punctuation gives sentences manners.” She explains how punctuation allows sentences to speak to us rather than merely appear before us.

I am glad Mrs. Schuls-Jacobson gave me this reading assignment (over spring break – sheesh).

Carl emailed me a great cartoon to accompany his response. Extra credit bonus points duly noted and awarded. Even if this illustration was created six years ago, it’s still funny. 😉

So thank you and congratulations to Carl! If you like his illustrations, you can find lots more of them here on his blog I Know I Made You Smile.

And to the rest of you, keep those comments coming. My blog will be a year old in May. I’ll probably have some other special surprise up my sleeve.

Unless it is really hot outside, and I’m not wearing sleeves. 😉

Some folks are timely with their posts. They write about Christmas on Christmas. Me, not so much.

It has taken me until spring vacation to write about the shenanigans that occurred on April Fool’s Day, when Ironic Mom (Leanne Shirtliffe) and EduClaytion (Clay Morgan) got together and created a hilarious way for bloggers to have a little fun. They call it “Search Bombing” and it involves using Google to type in little things we bloggers know about each other and then intentionally searching for them in an attempt to have them show up on the intended bloggers’ “Most Frequently Searched Terms” lists. And since most bloggers are obsessed with moderately interested about their statistics, it is a fun little way to add a little personalized zing to each other’s pathetic lives spent chained in front of our computer screens.

If you want to know more about Search Bombing, check out this link here. The video kind of explains it all.

The following are terms that I’m pretty sure by which I was intentionally search bombed:

• Lessons in making out with a teacher
• Teachers lessons to dance get me body
• Pictures of hot teacher in Halloween costume
• Giving a cross for a bat mitzvah
• Calgary Calgarah
• The Conclusion for 2011 – kindle and nook almost in a tie
• Pictures of hot girls in graduation hats in space
• I was bullied by my zombie camp counselors
• Teacher fucks puffy coat in elevator
• Did William Golding have any siblings?

Now, people simply have to understand that the post that gets the most views every day is my piece on head lice. Okay, fine. I have an irrational fear about getting head lice. And even thinking about head lice totally freaks me out. That friggin’ post averages 147 hits a day, thus serving as a constant reminder of my neurosis. So I’m not sure I was actually search bombed, but the following are terms that showed up, and they seemed waaaay too detailed and each only registered only one search – which put them on my uber-suspicious list. These searches might have been intentional or not; either way, they are hilarious.

• My kid has head lice. Do I have to do something?
• I was around someone with lice. I use gel and two different hairsprays everyday. Am I ok?
• How do I know it is head lice or just dandruff?
• Has anyone ever tried to blow torch head lice?

So what is the point of today’s blog? I don’t know except to say thank you to Clay and Leanne and Chase and Carl and Jessica and Wendy and Larry and Kathy and Worst Professor Ever… and everyone else who regularly visits my blog enough to know that I loved overnight camp and that I have a thing about people in puffy coats on elevators, that I like to dress kinda slutty for Halloween and that I have a thing for Lord of the Flies.  Thank you for making my first year in the bloggersphere so memorable, for introducing me to your friends, and for letting me sit at the cool kids’ table at lunch.

I got this little gem from a colleague who was in the midst of grading three sections of English 101 mid-term papers. Upon completing one full section of essays, he decided to reward himself.

(I usually reward myself by eating a bag of Snickers.)

Anyway, he found this little gem and sent this around via department mail:

My colleague took pause to wonder:

Do you think if we “sexed it up” (as the British say), we could ever get everyone to use it?

Let me be the first to say that I am a Grammar Pimp and proud of it.

I use Grammar all the time.

And she has never failed me.

Ever.

Grammar is slick.

She is tireless, and she never lets me down.

She has never asked me for anything, and I have only benefited from my relationship with her.

Seriously, who wouldn’t want in on that kind of action?

Grammar, you have a bag full of tricks, you dirty girl.

You aren’t afraid of anything: noun-pronoun agreement, misplaced modifiers, dangling modifiers. Colons don’t scare you and –  Grammar, you little trollop – you love when people use their hyphens properly.

Don’t you?

Yes you do.

Knowing Grammar is great.

But using Grammar is excellent.

I’m telling you: Use Grammar.

She wants you to.

If we approached grammar as if it were a reality TV show, do you think it would make kids more psyched to learn their grammar rules? Or would a whole bunch of teachers just get fired?