I have a problem with my toes. As in, when my toenails grow, they bug me. So I cut them off. Only... I'm really *bad* at cutting them off. So I always end up with mangled bloody messes. As my sister in law, Michelle, says, my pedicures tend to go... wrong.
So, someday, if the CSI people show up at my house and find blood (not going to pontificate on the reasons this might come to pass) you need to tell them that they should make sure that the *amount* of blood isn't attributable to my toes. Because, microscopically speaking, the house is *full* of my toe blood.
Just thought I'd tell y'all. Just in case, you know.
They will quietly wear togas around campus. They will wear a shirt all day that says, "Happy Bellybutton Appreciation Day!" and when anyone speaks to them they will ask, "Do you like my hat?" and then insist that they do have one on, even when people say they don't. They will say, "in accordance with prophecy" after everything they say for 24 hours. They will calculate the square root of 123,456 using the Babylonian method
Every semester when my students are writing their personal narratives, I tell them that the hardest part about narrative is honesty. But it's not the *intent* to tell the truth that's hardest. The very hardest part of narrative is that we have to be honest with *ourselves.*
Maybe without meaning to, we're always telling ourselves little lies--probably so that we feel better. i.e: I'm not really that whiney. Or, when I broke that kid's arm it wasn't my fault. Or, I don't tell lies. Or, there's nothing I'm ashamed of.
But the rub of personal narrative?
no one likes a perfect protagonist.
Polyanna? Only interesting because she (SPOILER) gets paralyzed at the end.
Well, I spent today writing about my *own* life. It's something I haven't done for awhile, bad writing teacher that I am.
And the thing is? That imperfect protagonist thing?
It's really hard. Really, really hard.
So I feel your pain, students. Doesn't make the pain any less necessary, unfortunately, but I still feel it.
got a revision request from a peer-reviewed journal for an article I submitted. the article is a statistical analysis of YA book marketing versus sales. they said they liked it. but could I do it without all the graphs?
Recite the Young Women's theme (from memory!). While holding cookies. Wear a "High School Musical" tattoo on their cheek. For a week. Wear PJ's to school and tell us all a bedtime story. About the most embarrassing thing they've ever done!
wear all of their clothes backwards and bake us all a cake shaped like a castle. tell every single person who looks him in the eyes: "I just love you..." [note how he won't look at my camera? I'm hurt.] drag around a pet shoe all day
They will draw a chalk circle around the Karl statue and then stand inside it for 1.5 hours without once stepping over the line. They will do this while wearing a sign that says, "No! Never! I'd die first!"
So, y'all who know me well enough to have experienced one of my oh-so-enlightening grammar rants will know that I am not a prescriptionist. Indeed: prescriptionists annoy me with their snobbiness and refusal to acknowledge that reality--->language--->reality.
This was a very useful read. If you'd prefer to not look stupid, that is.
I disagree with their interpretation of the word "hopefully." It's been used the "wrong" way so often that using it the "wrong" way no longer makes you look stupid. In fact, if you're the kind of person who would call other people on this "wrong" use, you're the one who will look stupid. For not friggin acknowledging reality.
You're lucky because I'm not feeling quite as pontificous about it as I was earlier, so you get to be spared my ramblings.
The thing is... Nothing today was really terribly hard. The day was just... exhausting. Whiney, vomiting, babies. Moody, semi-adolescent lapses into the weepies. Naughty students* with their inappropriate jokes about NRB's** and make out-sessions with drunk 40-year olds. Trying to keep the babies from destroying Steve's office at 8PM when we were trying to make him come home.
It's the end of the semester and I'm overloaded with stuff to do; it's the darkest part of the year; I haven't eaten nearly enough carbs lately. All good excuses for my moodiness, I guess. Doesn't seem to make me less moody, though.
Y'all have anything to snap you out of the crankies? (Carbs, unfortunately, are out, but I'm open to other suggestions!)
*obviously not all my students are naughty. some even make me awesome facebook groups. but the naughty ones will know who they are because I've never made a secret about their naughtiness. So, students, if I've never personally told you that you're naughty, then I probably like you and you shouldn't worry about it.
**you don't want to know what an NRB is. Seriously. Except for maybe Margie Mills. She might find it amusing and should email me. Everyone else should probably just wipe the acronym directly from their brains.
Last night I kept dreaming that my kids were at the side of my bed, poking at me. "Wake up, Mom!" they'd say. "It's morning! You have to wake up!" They would push my eyeballs open and shake me and yell in my ear.
Then I *would* wake up. It would be the middle of the night. There would be no babies poking, pushing, or talking to me. The room would be dark and I would realize, "Crap. It was a dream. I didn't *have* to wake up."
Every time I open the microwave in my office, it turns on. Like, the door is peacefully closed and the microwave is dark and then just because I decide to *open* the door, it decides to turn on--spewing forth waves of radiation directly at my abdomen.
My boss called to report the problem, but the techs couldn't reproduce it.