As usual, Jen has outdone herself and come up with yet another wonderful topic for the Spin Cycle.  I have to tell you, this one really got me fired up.  Ok. Well that might be a bit of an exaggeration. But regardless it’s a great topic.

Not to offend anyone that may stop by to read this, but I have to throw this out here: one of my biggest peeves is misusing words in the English language. Not just the misspelling of them, but using the incorrect form. I hate nothing worse than reading something that has a great point, but in the process, I have to wade through error, after error, after &^%$# error. Chances are I’ve tuned you out and your point, no matter how great it was, is lost because I have trouble taking you seriously.  Really, it’s sad that so few people correctly use the English language when writing. I catch teachers doing it on places like Myspace and Facebook. Social networking sites are not free from the critical eye of moi!  And if you’ll make that mistake there, chances are you do it in the classroom too!  How are we supposed to educate the youth of tomorrow if the teachers themselves can’t get it right? All that said, if you’re guilty and I still read your blogs, I love you anyway. So don’t take it personally, okay? This week was all about venting!

The list of the errors that bother me most, includes but is not limited to:

Your instead of you’re.

You’re is a shortened version of You Are. But I see it, ALL THE FREAKING time written as your. If, when you read the sentence back to yourself, you can say you are in it, then for the sake of not making yourself sound foolish, and uneducated change it.  Please. I implore you!

Examples:

Your house is cute. That would be correct. It is possessive of the word you. It is something someone owns, or refers to the individual.

Your so lucky!  Incorrect. It should read: You’re so lucky!

Moving on.

Using there instead of their, or vice versa; and having no idea when to use they’re. Confused much?

Again, here’s the easy way to remember this: There is a place. Their with the I, is the possessive, like your, above. They’re is the shortened (contracted) version of they are.  Capiche?

Examples:

There house is pretty. Wrong! It should read: Their house is pretty. (possessive, got it?) I remember this because if it belongs to someone it is the form with the word I in it.

We are going to go ride over there. Correct! (There – is referring to a place).

There coming over.  Incorrect! It should read: They’re coming over. Correct! Again if you can repeat it to yourself,and have it read, as they are, then you should use the contracted form or simply write, they are.

Brake instead of Break or vice versa.

Brake is a noun and means to stop.

Break is a verb (think back with me, verbs are often action words).

Examples:

I am going to brake this colt. Incorrect.

I am going to break this colt. Correct! As an aside, the term break isn’t used very often anymore in the horse business, and it’s not really in my vocabulary. I use the word, “start” when referring to colts, because that is what I am doing. I am going to teach him how to ride around, as opposed to the negative connotation of “breaking” him. I want to to work with him, not demand of him. You’re all probably confused. Sorry.

I am going to have my breaks worked on. No, you’re going to have your brakes worked on. And technically that’s incorrect too, because you shouldn’t end a sentence in a pronoun. Let’s try again:

I am going to have some work done on my brakes!  We have a winner!

It’s when it should be Its.

It’s is the contracted version of it is, or it has; Its is the possessive form of it or belonging to it- meaning it is gender neutral.

Examples:

Its time to go. Incorrect. It’s time to go, would be correct. It is time to go! Read it with me now- IT IS time to go. It’s time to go! I think we might be making progress with this teenie word that is so misused!

That horse is in it’s own pasture. Incorrect. That horse is in its pasture. Because that pasture belongs to the horse.

I think that concludes this lesson for now. If only everyone else remembered what I do from third grade English, maybe I’d be less peeved!

To read more Pet Peeves, visit Sprite’s Keeper.

When I was 20 I met a man.

I mean, what 20 year old girl hasn’t met a man?

But this man, he was different. He was 9 years older than me.  He had a great job.  He was mesmerizing. He swept me off my feet. Two and a half years later, he married me. And the fairytale died. On our wedding day.

We had gone for a mini-pre honeymoon to a friend’s lake house. I remember being very excited about something I wanted to do, and I remember asking him to go do this *thing* with me.  And then I remember receiving the snarkiest, nastiest comment from him I’d ever heard. I was crushed. While I’m sobbing and upset, he sat there, apathetically and told me to get over myself.

And that was just the beginning.

Three months into the marriage I was seeing a therapist because I hated myself. I wasn’t good enough. Smart enough. Pretty enough. I couldn’t keep the house clean enough. I couldn’t ride my horses well. I couldn’t rope good enough.  I spent too much money. I couldn’t cook anything he liked. I never said anything appropriate. Our life was a secret from the world and only certain things need be shared. I never shared the right things. I was constantly criticized for giving people too much information. I didn’t get what the secret was.  I didn’t need to be in school.  College was stupid.  There was nothing wrong with him, of course.

Two months of therapy later, I had just learned to cope- and pray for him-  because you know that’s what good Christian girls from the South are supposed to do for their husbands.  Because prayer changes everything and makes all things better.  And because Christian girls from the South, don’t get divorced.

Irresponsible doesn’t begin to describe this man. He pulled in a hefty 6 figures a year yet our phone and electricity were constantly shut off. The propane tank was never full. My dad still made my truck payment. But somehow there was always money for him to go out with his friends. And stay out. All. Night.  Always money for him to buy the latest fashions, suits and ties. While I shopped at Wal-mart.  Because you see, he needed to look good for his job.

Eighteen long months into this terror that was now my life, it was discovered that all he’d told me about his past was a lie. He’d never been to college; he’d never run at TCU or TT; he’d never made the alternate Olympic team for the mile relay. The list goes on.  Once these were discovered, the terror that was my life got worse.

I made an attempt to kick him out at that point- but that didn’t work, because, you see, he made the money, so he paid the rent and he wasn’t getting kicked out of a house he paid for.  The grocery list had to be *approved* based on what he deemed we needed. And instead of the wall for his punching bag, it became me.  I was terrified to call the cops on him because he told me they’d never believe me.  That I was wrong.  That I had made him do it.  There’s more, but I choose not to relive it if I don’t have to.  I don’t recall if my parents even knew that the physical abuse had started. It was while I was in another set of therapy sessions (this time for clinical depression) with the college shrink that I began to realize I wasn’t myself anymore.  That  the old me, the girl who had the world by the tail, who had confidence in herself was gone. I wanted her back. But I was too scared to go after her.

When I finally managed, through all of this, to graduate from college in December of 2002, my parents threw my younger sister and I (I was on the 6 year plan- she made it through in 4) a graduation party.  He didn’t come to the party.  In fact, he didn’t acknowledge it.  It was at that point,  that silently, I considered leaving him.

I cannot begin to describe for you how sick I felt when a few days later,  my little brother suggested that we go move me out.  He suggested it while he knew this man was at work. While we could sneak over and get the things I needed out of the house; be in and out before he knew what had happened.  You see, a man like my ex huband, he has a sixth sense about things.  I just knew he would come in and find me, and I’d be caught and things would get ugly.

I didn’t get caught. However, he did call while we, my dad, brother, sister and I, were in the process of moving me out. I didn’t answer. So he called my sister. Then my dad, and finally my mother who had stayed behind.  He continued to call. We continued to ignore him.  Finally I had collected my thoughts enough to talk to him.  Hindsight being what it is I probably should have just continued to ignore him and had a lawyer call him the next day, but I was scared of him.   By the time we actually talked, he was at our former home, to see the mess I left behind. And of course he tried to talk his way back into my life. He had no idea I felt this way, and he didn’t know what had caused me to leave. And why was I so unhappy, blah, blah, blah.  (You know, as I write this, I have that same, sick feeling in my stomach that I got that day I left).

Leaving him was the bravest thing I ever did. It went against everything I had grown up believing- that marriage is sacred; that God can change all things and make things good; that I just needed to try harder, pray harder, work harder. I’d like to say that leaving him instantly healed my self- loathing and low self esteem.  To some degree it did- though it was and still is a process.

I still find myself, 7 years later, wondering if I said too much, or shared too much or if what I said was inappropriate.

I still doubt myself on occasion and once in a while that girl who hated herself shows up. Someday I hope she’ll be gone completely.

For more spins on bravery, visit Jen at Sprite’s Keeper.