take me out and shoot me . . .

. . . because I totally forgot how much I hate moving. Seriously. The sorting: keep, donate, trash. Then the point is reached where you keep the trash and the donate because you've run out of space to trash any more trash and time to donate any more stuff. This is how clutter follows you from house to house to house. Urg.

And to top it off, Bean killed a ground hog the other day. Yeah, that's his cute mug. Deceiving, isn't it? Since this was past office hours of animal control, the Sheriff kindly offered to come and shoot it for us in our front yard, but feeling that may leave a lasting impression upon my three-year-old that may one day lead her into premature therapy, as well as reason for the neighbors who already have their suspicions about us (Obama stickers on our cars and I may have pulled in one day with a Led Zeppelin song playing LOUDLY, heaven's to Betsy), that option was declined in favor of delicately coaxing (a gentle shove with a pool net) into a box that was later found to be falling apart at the bottom and depositing the poor critter at the all night animal hospital to be put down. He was miserable and all the fight was out of him. I was so mad at Bean that I truly, truly could not find one redeemable quality about him for days. Then I remember that he's kind of an idiot dog who is just happy go lucky and lives life for the moment and at that moment he was just a happy dog chewing away at a ground hog. Sigh. Poor Bean and his idiocy. Poor dead ground hog.

And poor me and all this packing.

Happier times to be had on the side of this week. Father's Day approaching and as it is only appropriate that we spent Mother's Day house hunting, it is only appropriate that we spend Father's Day finishing the final packing! What a year for holidays. New job starts (super yay!) and the book goes fantastically well. When I think of all the transformation this book has taken, I am amazed at how it started and in awe at how something can change from being a goofy "what if" to a serious novel of loss and redemption. Yay for goofy ideas that lead somewhere.

And, as a final note on my sad poll, I discovered, to my great chagrin, that I, alas, cannot submit my nicely corrected letter from Gemma's teacher. On the back it very clearly has "To the parent's of Gemma" written on it. Damn! Foiled again. I feel cheated of a chance to correct an error. Oh well. I'm sure there will be more out there. The real solution is simple: Gemma is finishing out this week and will be enrolled in a ridiculously expensive preschool through 8th grade progressive school starting this fall, kind of like the school I went to, only mine was free. Yay for magnet schools in California! Get with the times Asheville! Okay, enough ranting.

See you all on the other side.

inner grammar nazi . . .

. . . and oh, is this bad! I am having heart palpitations as I write this. I must be calm. So, the short of it is that Gemma is currently enrolled at a daycare that is just a basic daycare. A babysitting service where their major focus is on the kids and teachers making it through the day without any major dramas. Gemma has been lucky because she's had the experience of having two really fantastic teachers in her time there. But the teacher turnover rate is like that of a pancake house and there is a new teacher in her room now. So the administrator assures us she has "tons of experiences" (old as dirt) and "just loves kids" (needs the money) and will be able to "get this room in order" (is a strict disciplinarian). Whatever. Gemma leaves in two weeks. So the new teacher gives us a welcome letter, tells us that she's enjoyed having Gemma in class and that she was very well behaved. Of course she is. She's also creative and says marvelously observant things and can spell her name and count to twenty.

Oh, but the letter.

I can't help myself. There are so many typos, misspelled words, and such a lack of basic grammar that it not only bothers me immediately, but it continues to bother me. Days later it bothers me. I mentioned it to my husband. A couple of times. I mentioned it to my mother-in-law. I mentioned it in casual conversation to other people. I mean, really? I know Gemma can't read yet, but she can spell her name. Isn't there some point where we should expect that the threshold of education be that spelling and writing and reading be accurate if one is going to be in the education field? And if we take that to be a benchmark then shouldn't our expectations of those doing the hiring be a bit on par as well? Because once we go down that slippery sliding slope of, oh well, it's only a daycare and they are only babies who can't read or write, then what we are really saying is that we don't value education because we don't hire educated people to care for our babies and toddlers in the first place.

There are seventeen mistakes in her letter. 17! (I'm adding all the uppercase that should be lowercase as one.) Oh, and her rules of the classroom revolve around listening to the teacher and keeping hands to yourself. What is Gemma expected to learn with that approach?

Needless to say, I'm at a loss. I know I didn't go to some fancy private daycare where we all ate organic food and sang wonderful songs about saving the earth and then wrote poetry and discussed Derrida after nap time. But what I am saying is that this letter is a prime example of two things: 1) the blatant disregard of written English grammar and who we allow to be in charge of our children and 2) my obvious and irrational obsession with this letter.

So, I've corrected it nicely and marked it all up. Do I stuff it in the suggestion box so it can at least be seen by somebody so they are aware they've hired someone who can't write? Or do I bottle it up? Should I put up a poll? I think I can put up a poll on Blogger, right? This is really irking the bejesus out of me.

(Side note: Blogger also does note recognize the spelling of Gemma. Best of luck with her teacher's letter!)

very exciting things . . .

. . . starting to happen! Firstly, I have changed my mind on the chickens being revolting. Definitely now an adjective. In all that rainstorming that has been going on, the little wretches managed to break out of the chain link fence no less than three times, necessitating me to get soaking wet by walking around the block to retrieve them from the neighbors while dodging traffic. So they are now under coop arrest for remainder of our time in this house. Take that! I figure in chicken years they are officially teenagers and are just rebelling. Seeing as how chickie boarding school in Switzerland seems a bit pricey and what with customs and shipping being a hassle and all, they can just cluck discontentedly at me for the next three weeks.

To top that off, Dakota, my love cat, managed to also escape, by sunning herself in the window on the one occasion it was not raining and the screen popped out and I found her mewing pitifully underneath the deck, muddy and woebegone to be parted from my presence for even fifteen minutes, when I was on my way to feed the horrid chickies.

I hate this house.

By the way, it's for sale.

So that brings me to my third rant of the morning! If you own a house and you are renting it out to unsuspecting renters, and you are not paying your mortgage, and your renters are getting suspicious visits from the bank wondering where you are and the renters ask about this each time and you lie to them repeatedly about it when in fact your house is being foreclosed on and your renters are still sending in that rent check and yet you are not paying your mortgage, I guarantee you there is a special ring in hell that Dante meant to write about but did not foresee. I never had this issue in Wilmington when renting, but Asheville seems to be full of foreclosures. Second time! My rental history here looks like I am super irresponsible when in reality it is the homeowners or property managers. So I'm just saying - to all renters, beware! Ask! Are you planning on selling the house in the near future or is the house in danger of foreclosure? Don't be worried about offending them. Be more concerned about having to move six months into your lease!

However!

However!

Progress report on draft one of the novel: a third of the way there. Very exciting. More exciting to hear about so many of my MFA classmates getting book deals. There was so much talent at UNCW it was dripping from the walls.

And other news soon to come. I may be preaching about animal care again, soon. In an official capacity. (Those of you who remember me when I used to do this and likely got tired of hearing me talk about the problem of pet overpopulation can just hand over your checks now and we'll skip the speeches, no hard feelings! Plus I know you all make more money now. I'm just sayin'.)

And my last side note: Blogger spell check does not recognize Asheville as a word. Hello?