I had a Jill Scott moment this weekend. Right.

I’m still reading Eats, Shoots and Leaves and I love it. I can’t put it down on BART. I squeeze in just one more paragraph before starting work. Today I read all about the history behind colons and semicolons.

I thought back to the first time I used, really used well, really used correctly, the semicolon. Ahhhhhh. It was Freshman English 101 at UNC. David, that was my TA. David, the name embodied a Greek god. He embodied a Greek god. A mountain man from Boone, via way of the beaches of San Diego, ranches in Montana, other locales I could only dream of. He wore faded blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. His blonde hair encircled his head in tight ringlets. His blue eyes penetrated whatever, whomever, he looked at. He was the most exotic man, the most exotic person, I had ever met.

He had the practice of passing out sample compositions, asking us to read them, then challenging us to pick out the one, the two mistakes. I was torn. Should I give into my inner desire to identify the error, to embrace my language geekiness, to the mutual exclusion of popularity in class? Should I? The class was small; in the end I didn’t care. I couldn’t stay away from the pull of the language. I raised my hand. “Yes, Lori?” “Well, the second to the last paragraph contains a split infinitive.” He smiled; I had identified it correctly.

Pre-David, I didn’t know the correct usage of semicolons. I used them indiscriminately. As he pointed out. One day in his office, I remember it well, the sun streaming through the windows, the cool air of an autumn day in Chapel Hill, he dissected my paper with me. “What are you trying to say here? Do you know how to use a semicolon?” I thought for a moment. “Actually, no, I don’t.”

“You can only use a semicolon when connecting two complete thoughts.” He pointed out my errors. Pointed out where colons were appropriate, where commas should be inserted, where my lovely semicolon could rest peacefully.

I’ve felt a certain smugness since then. I don’t think most people know the correct usage of semicolons; I feel a special calling to insert them into my writing. I notice when others use them wrongly and think of David, his blue eyes staring at my composition, “Do you really know how to use a semicolon?”

So where does the typing go? I often have several programs open at the same time on my computer. After toggling back and forth, I’ll begin typing, only to look at the screen and realize the words aren’t there. I’ve typed them. I toggle again. They’re not in any program. Where have all the letters gone?

It’s not particularly original, but it did make me laugh. My friend was waiting for me to meet him for drinks; I was obviously taking longer than he expected. This appeared in my inbox:

Lori- Lori Loo, Where Are You?

We Got Some Work To Do Now.

Lori- Lori Loo, Where Are You?

We Need Some Help From You Now.

Come On Lori Loo, I See You . . .

Pretending You Got A Sliver.

But You’re Not Fooling Me,

Cause I Can See The Way You Shake And Shiver.

You Know We Got A Mystery To Solve,

So Lori Loo Be Ready For Your Act.

Don’t Hold Back!

And Lori Loo If You Come Through

You’re Gonna To Have Yourself A Lori Snack!

That’s A Fact!

Lori- Lori Loo, Here Are You.

You’re Ready And You’re Willing.

If We Can Count On You, Lori Loo,

I Know We’ll Catch That Villain.

I called him, didn’t even say hello, and just laughed. “You’ve made your point; I’m on my way.”

Every Friday is casual Friday. We’re allowed to wear jeans to work. Which I find simply preposterous. We’re adults. We’re in a business setting. Let us decide what is appropriate to wear and what isn’t. But I don’t set the policy.

For the first year at my office, my dress never changed between “business casual” Monday through Thursday and “casual” Friday. I always wore skirts or dress pants on Fridays. Then my co-workers started teasing me. “How come we never see you in jeans?” “Hello, there, Miss Fancy, too good to wear jeans?” “Do you even own a pair of jeans?”

I was embarrassed to admit that no, I did not. Well, I did. I do. One pair. From college, over 10 years ago. That were ripped and torn and faded and so not appropriate for anything but drinking cheap drinks in a dive bar. I’ve never thought I looked particularly good in jeans, so I never really focused on making them a part of my wardrobe.

My girlfriends decided to remedy the situation. One Saturday they took me to Gap. They were an excellent support system, bringing me multitudes of sizes, cuts, colors, and styles. And they were decisive. “No.” “Absolutely not.” “Mmm… no.” “Check out your ass!” So that was the pair I got.

As we were leaving Gap, we noticed the promo playing on the instore televisions featuring Missy Elliot and Madonna rapping, singing, dancing, all about Gap jeans. At some point someone in the video said, “Where’d you get them jeans?” and it’s stuck. Emmy and Tricia played out the situation come the next Friday in my office. I’d walk in, all sassy, strutting my new blues, posing by the copier, all the while the other office workers following me, spinning, imitating Missy and Madonna, their speech punctuated with, “Where’d you get them jeans?” A modern day West Side Story.

Each time I wear them out, Em and Tricia still comment, “Where’d you get them jeans?” and snicker.

I was having a particularly rough day at work today. I emailed Em for emotional support. We had plans to see a show tonight. I mentioned I wanted to go home after work, and change into my red cowboy boots and jeans to lift my spirits. She responded with, “Red cowboy boots and where’d you get them jeans are always good for the soul. Ole!” Couldn’t help but laugh.

Read this. By Lance. So true.

I look around me. I’m traveling first class, which I think is a mistake, but I’m going with it. I typed in my origin and my destination into our corporate travel web site and this is what came up. First class. I’m going to play along until someone stops me. This is what I see around me. Three older white men sleeping. Hands crossed in laps, head bowed. Two men (plus me) working on laptops. One on a work document, one organizing downloaded music files. And me. Observing them. One man reading the NWA magazine, concentrating on the article “A Ticket to the World,” news about Northwest’s partner airlines. Or maybe he’s sleeping. No, he’s really reading. Not sure why, but he is. Now he’s studying the types of planes Northwest flies. 16 747-400s. 17 747-200s. 8 A330-300s. 22 Dc-10s. 72 757-200/-300s. 148 A319/A320s. 164 DC-9-10/-20/-40/-50s. 36 RJ-85s. 94 CRJs. 64 Saab 340s. And the North American route systems. Where the hubs are. Where the flights go to. Now he’s joined the ranks of the sleepers. A man to my left, reading a paperback novel. Tom Clancy, perhaps???? Why am I the only woman in first class? The man next to me, awake now, listening to his iPod. Scanning through artists, selecting the one perfect one. Still scanning, still circling. More, more, more. Stop. Yes, that’s the one. Wish I could tell you what he was listening to, but can’t see it because of the glare. Two men in front of me, talking about a radio campaign. One sniffing a lot, as though he’s done too much cocaine in his lifetime. “Yeah, that’s what we’ll do. Rad, man. Yeah. That’s it…” sniff, sniff, sniff…. A gnat flying around. I’ve tried to swat it several times, unsuccessfully. There it goes again. Fly, fly, fly…. Over my wine glass, over the man sleeping next to me… Fly, fly, fly… I’ll get you. Yes, I will.

I’ve currently read a string of unusually really good books. Word Freak, about professional Scrabble players. Middlesex, about a Greek American hemaphrodite growing up in Detroit. Currently, Eats, Shoots, and Leaves, The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation. I love punctuation; I love language. Knowing this, Emmy gave me a book about the history and nuances of punctuation for my birthday. And I love it. My favorite quote from the book so far, “In fact one might dare to say that while the full stop is the lumpen male of the punctuation world (do one job at a time; do it well; forget about it instantly), the apostrophe is the frantically multi-tasking female, dotting hither and yon, and succumbing to burn-out from all the thankless effort (p. 46).” Long live the apostrophe.

Airports also provide an unprecedented arena for people watching. I see single moms, trying to comfort uncomfortable children. Children screaming, wailing, wanting to be anywhere but in an airport. I see couples, about to be separated, exchanging hugs, tender embraces, kisses, sweet nothings. I see business travelers purposely striding to their gates, anxious to leave their business city and return back to their home. I see vacationers, relishing the last moments of freedom before returning to the mundane existence of day to day life. But best of all, I see.

Walking to my hotel room, I saw the sign on the conference room door, “Hooters of America.” Curious, I glanced in. Yep. Middle aged beer belly white man interviewing fresh young things. It couldn’t get any better than this. I’m always thinking “What if….” What if I got laid off tomorrow? What would I do? Where would I go? Did I want to be a Hooters’ waitress in Detroit? The days are long, the nights are cool. Could be just as interesting as my year in Korea, come to think of it.