TESTING. Point Reyes gives its visitors a sense of beauty, fulfilment, vastness and terror. I will write this post very soon.
A Predicate Nominative is a noun or a pronoun that comes after the verb be or become (in any form), and tells us something about the subject of the sentence.
Maria is a surfer.
The sisters are good friends.
Satyen has become a police officer.
When he grows up, he wants to be a firefighter.
The italized words in each sentence above tells us a little something about the subject of the sentece, which is underlined.
Not too difficult, but did you remember this incredibly sexy grammar term? For more grammar terms to wow your friends with, check out the Super Simple Grammar Girl glossary.
The former Kerala nun who has published a harrowing account of harassment during her time in service raises the most serious questions in the history of sexuality. It’s a fact, whether ‘man’kind accepts it or not – Women are harassed, by Men, whether they are in convents (in Kerala), pubs (in Mangalore), or homes around the world.
From Indian Express:
In the Malayalam memoir called ‘Amen’, former Sister Jesme lifts the dark veil over sexual abuse, corruption and power struggles in the catacombs of convents where she lived for about 30 years.
The church is yet to officially respond to the tell-all reminiscences of the 52-year-old Jesme, holding they would react to it after studying the book.
An English professor and the Principal of a church-run college in Thrissur, Jesme quit the convent in 2008 after spending years of ‘sufferings and struggles’.
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So there’s a lot of grammar lessons available online. But if you’re like me, and incessantly correct people’s grammatical errors, sometimes you might be at a loss for the right terms in a sentence.
And worse, there might just be someone smarter than you (or me) out there who really knows what figure of speech might is in this sentence.
It is really disturbing when you’re raising beer mugs Friday night, cheering to another slothful weekend, and after another swig of the almighty Smithwicks, S says, “This beer is greatest.”
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Here are some excerpts from an article Ranjani sent me to read and comment on. The entire article is available at http://www.prospect.org/cs/articles?articleId=10646
LINDA HIRSHMAN wrote in her article Homeward Bound in 2005. I do not agree with everything she says, but some of her thoughts, for reasons other than belonging to the endangered species of feminists, are valuable enough to be reproduced here. In another post that will follow, I will – alternatingly – fight some of these thoughts to the ground, and toss the others around with their bedfellows in my brain.
“Choice feminism” claims that staying home with the kids is just one more feminist option. Funny that most men rarely make the same “choice.” Exactly what kind of choice is that?
I found that among the educated elite, who are the logical heirs of the agenda of empowering women, feminism has largely failed in its goals. There are few women in the corridors of power, and marriage is essentially unchanged. The number of women at universities exceeds the number of men. But, more than a generation after feminism, the number of women in elite jobs doesn’t come close.
The real glass ceiling is at home.
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Come to think about it, Sex and the City throws an insane amount of wisdom out there for you to ponder on. True, you have to sift through a (very enjoyable) half-hour of mundane conversations between four seriously rich, stylish, sexy New Yorkers (everything you’re not) and a score of mindless ads (on American television at least), but more often than not, you come away with some serious stuff you can mull on with your friends. Of course, the same does not apply if you’re a man.
But if you’re a woman.. imagine how much you can talk about with your friends over something Sarah Jessica Parker aka Carrie Bradshaw says in the episode – ‘Why are we should-ing all over ourselves?’
Aren’t we all doing that? All the damned time? Consider half the FB status messages I’ve gone through this morning..
Why am I awake? It’s Sunday mornings. – T
Should have showered AFTER doing the dishes. – M
I should eat more chocolate. – A
My Frequent Flyer miles expire this month. I should go somewhere. – A
Time’s flying fast. I should slow down. – N
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People stop to listen when he begins to speak. He is one of only four scholars doing his research on queer culture and literature in India. The elite Indian academia has opened its doors to embrace his intelligence and ideologies. His hands move gracefully during conversation, testimony to two decades of Bharatnatyam practice and performance. His voice booms loud and clear, even in a bustling Chinese restaurant. He learnt voice inflection while training for the theatre.
“Monogamy is violence to human nature,” Aniruddhan Vasudevan declares, banging the dark polished wooden table. The china trembles, the glass of water wobbles on its leather coaster. “Monogamy is just a functional asylum, but monoamoury is too much to expect.” Another bang. A girl at the adjacent table jumps and clutches her lover’s hands. The petite Asian waitress discreetly shakes her head. Aniruddh grins impishly; he is used to being disapproved. His actions have evoked the similar reactions throughout his life.
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Delhi. For the longest time, I couldn’t wait to get away. Now, I am away and can’t wait for the airplane to touch down in dear old, dreadful Delhi.
People argue passionately that Delhi is characterized by contradictions of wealth. But to me, the supreme contradiction lies in the seasons that inevitably become the subject of frustrated conversations.
Summer for the sweaty millions is torturous anywhere in India but Delhi has the most sweltering summer of all.
Hordes of people scramble for every patch of sinewy shade. The parched lips of child beggars open in an eternal cry for ‘paisa’. The rich cool themselves in their air-conditioned cars and air-conditioned homes and air-conditioned restaurants. Groups of lanky teenagers in unbuttoned shirts whistle at girls passing by; the girls gaze downwards, pulling their prickly synthetic dupattas closer to their bare necks. Couples crouch behind bushes in the overgrown gardens of Humayun’s tomb (a UNESCO World Heritage Center), touching urgently, knowing the only spies here are the pitiable eunuchs begging for money. At night, the newly weds throng to India Gate to cool themselves with neon ice-lollies and gaze at the shimmering lights of Rashtrapati Bhavan (the President’s mansion).
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