Elf on the Shelf: the horror continues

So here we go again with that freaking elf on the shelf.

People, I just don't know if I want to live in a world where all the mommies are required to creep around their own homes night after night, in the middle of the holy-hell-I-am-so-tired, making big-assed messes to fool the urchins into thinking that elves have gotten up to festive and naughty capers while the family sleeps. And then, of course, the mommies get to clean up the messes while the urchins frolic adorably and drink hot chocolate (made by the mommies, or made by the daddies so the mommies get to clean up that mess, too).

But apparently for some mommies, even this marathon of torture isn't enough work.  Now, it seems, it will not do merely to pull the bedraggled elf out of the storage room (if you can find him, because all the Christmas crap was hurriedly stuffed into the laundry room by mistake right before Grandma and the fabulous neighbors arrived for Easter dinner . . . oh.  Is that just me?).

This party idea comes from a perky, perky blog called

Giggles Galore

.  I'm not even kidding.

Now, I gather one must host a party to welcome the elf.

A party.  Do you believe that shit?

The blogger at

Swish Designs

does this kind of thing professionally, so I was ready to cut her a break -- until I read that the elf on her shelf arrives at the "Welcome, Elf!" celebration with gifts for the children of the home. GIFTS!

People, I weep. I mean really, I weep at the prospect of hosting a party for a doll.  This just can't be right, can it?  My fellow mommies must have been hypnotized into a frosting-covered, jingle-bells-ringing, tinsel-throwing trance.  I blame that stupid "Christmas Shoes" song.

Sisters!  I call upon you!  Rise up!  Rise up against the tyranny of the elf on the shelf!  You have nothing to lose but your red and green construction paper chains!

+ + + + + + +

Today's Advent book is

The Year of the Perfect Christmas Tree

, by Gloria Houston.  It is 1918, and Ruthie's father has not yet returned from the War.  So Ruthie and her mother work together to harvest and transport the town's Christmas tree -- their family's responsibility for many years.  Through Ruthie's eyes, we see how heroic and hard-working her mother is, and we learn about the values of the Appalachian community that is their home.

Harrumph!

 

So I have been reading reading through all the class information packets that got sent home with the sunny girl on the first day of school, and I think I may need to poke a stick in my eye to obtain a little relief.  In Prince William County, Virginia, the first week of school is nothing but forms, forms, info packets, forms, and requests for donations.

Photo courtesy of the fabulous Miser Mom

Every class has a different set of forms to read through. And all of these freaking forms have to be signed by a parent:  "Yes, I realize that my child will be required to attend this class.  Yes, I realize that my child is required to wear clothes to school.  Yes, I realize that you think my child is a dumbass and comes from a family of litigious dumbasses who will sue you if you don't state categorically that students are required to provide their own pencils."

But today the one form that has particularly frosted my cake is a particular teacher's screed about all the nonsense up with which she will not put.  She uses very huffy language (kinda like I'm using now), and I was actually only partially offended by her tone ( I do love a teacher who won't put up with a lot of nonsense). 

But my head exploded when I read this:  " . . . so keep your electronic devices off and out of site."

People, I get that we are all busy, and everyone makes mistakes or overlooks typos, but come on! --

1.  You are a teacher.
2.  You are introducing yourself to your students, and should want them to see your best possible self.
3.  You are also introducing yourself to their parents.
4.  Some of their parents can actually read, and do know the difference between site and sight.
5.  You had the whole summer to proofread this document. 
6.  You would lower the grade of a student who made this mistake.

Harrumph!

First day


Well, today begins the fall semester of classes at the community college where I teach introductory writing courses.  I'm looking forward to meeting my new students because the students I have had in the past have been hilarious.  Sometimes they just didn't know it.

Here are some actual things my actual college students have actually said to me:

* * * * *

Here was the sentence under discussion:  We were annoyed by his digging in the yard.
ME:  In this sentence digging is a gerund, because it is a verb form used in place of a noun.
STUDENT:  Now you're just making stuff up, aren't you?
* * * * *

Talking (as I do over and over and over) about the correct use of subject and object pronouns:
ME:  Him and me went to a bar.  Who can tell me what's wrong with this sentence?
STUDENT:  Well, it's wrong because . . . -- hey!  Who did you go to a bar with?!
 * * * * *

During a unit on fairy tales, I went off about why, and how much, I hate the Disney version of "The Little Mermaid."   I may have even stamped my foot.  I was eloquent, y'all.  When I paused to take a breath when I finished, I heard someone mutter, "Dang . . ." under his breath.  And then a girl raised her hand and said, " No offense, but if you talk like that at home, your kids must really hate you."

* * * * *

During that same fairy tale unit, the class considered Angela Carter's "The Company of Wolves," a dark feminist re-telling of the Little Red Riding Hood story.  The phrase we were considering was:  "Carnivore incarnate, only immaculate flesh would appease him." 
STUDENT:  Maybe it means that her innocence is what saves her?
ME:  Well, but is she really that innocent?
ANOTHER STUDENT:  She's banging a werewolf -- how innocent can she be?

* * * * * 

I can't wait!  Let's do this!

Heavyhanded metaphor


So I've been neglecting my garden, which isn't surprising to anyone who knows me.  My poor hydrangeas were left to fend for themselves over the winter, and here the hydrangea metaphor or symbol or meaningful image or whatever you want to call it can be understood to stand in for any old thing you can think of:  my blog; my marriage; my laundry; my health; my friendships; my stack of books to be read; my kids -- and that's just what I can think of off the top of my head.


Some heavy-duty shit has gone down around these parts in the past months, but I won't babble on about it again because there's a long list, and I've talked about some of it before and I don't want to bore you, and some of it is not just my own shit and would be an invasion of another person's privacy, and some of it is just that I am a pain in my own ass sometimes and need to shake off my winter blahs so I can blossom again -- just like my hydrangeas.

And see how I did that?  Brought it right back around again like a boss!  Who said my English major was useless?