Mothers' Day

To get my first Mothers’ day quibble out of the way, the apostrophe goes at the end of Mothers because the day belongs to all mothers, not just one. But, as long as you’re letting your mom know how much you appreciate her, I’ll let it slide.

It’s a hard day for me since my mom died. I want to revel in the appreciation my children show me, all the while, wanting to hide in the bedroom all day crying. I miss my mom, as much as anyone who’s lost his or her mom does. You may appreciate your mom, but you can’t really understand how important she is until you don’t have her anymore.

I’ll be staying at home, cooking for my children, again this year. I have been every year since the year we went to Red Lobster. I have nothing against Red Lobster; they were doing the best they could under the circumstances. What I realized there, and what had been an issue for me at every Mothers’ Day dinner out, was that on Mothers’ Day too many people want to take their mothers out, and too many people haul along children that have no experience going out. I felt like I was in Chuck E. Cheese, the maniacal birthday party factory. Every ten years, I swear I’ll never go back to Chuck E. Cheese again. After ten years, I forget, think ‘Oh, how silly of me,’ and go back. I imagine Chuck E. Cheese is one of the places that encourages the type of behavior in children in public that drives me nuts. I have no problem with taking children to eat in nice restaurants, even in restaurants much nicer than Red Lobster. If you want your children to act appropriately in public, you have to take them there and train them to behave. I understand that even the best children misbehave sometimes, which is not the issue for me. My number one quibble is the parents who let their children run around the restaurant, as though every adult will be as enamored by their children as they are and let their children stand in the seats, do disgusting things with their food or their bodies (and then laugh and encourage it), or bang on the table with the cutlery. Because parents who let their kids act inappropriately in public drives me crazy, I was miserable every Mothers’ Day we went out. So now, I cook at home like mom’s do and leave those whirling dervishes alone.

Happy Mothers’ Day!

Graduation Day

12 May 2012

Note: This is yesterday's post, but I was so exhausted last night, I couldn't finish it. It was the good kind of exhaustion.

I graduated with my Masters Degree in English - Creative Writing Emphasis (with Honors) today. I came very close to skipping the ceremony, but it was especially rewarding because one of the students I taught in my first semester as a graduate teaching assistant earned his Bachelor's Degree today too. I spent the rest of the afternoon celebrating with friends, all the while toting my grandson around because my daughter had to work.

In the evening we saw a play, The Kitchen Witches, at the Stone's Throw Dinner Theatre, it was so funny, cheek and gut crampingly, teary-eyed, can't catch your breath funny. It was an audience participation of sorts, and from the stage, they kept asking how my rash was. Stone's Throw is a non-profit organizaton, and one of the ways they raise funds is to sell tickets for a drawing for a door prize, and tonight, I won. I was able to choose from a selection, and I picked a set of tiny bowls, which evidently have some specific purpose, but I'm not sure what that is.

Writing Prompts Are Working for Me (and other various good things)

I began the month with an ginormous schedule to get the things I wanted to get done finished, and part of that schedule included writing poetry every day. (I've made these schedules before; they're usually good for about four months.) I've been working on scholary writing for so long, I couldn't seem to get back in the groove. I was writing a lot of bad Dr. Seuss imitations, which makes sense since I'm reading a lot of Dr. Seuss to my grandson lately. Once I had the schedule put together, complete with "Write a Poem" in purple for each day, I remembered my Thesis Advisor telling me that it's best to say you'll write about "something." So, I deleted "a Poem" and started giving myself writing prompts: one day it was "Write About Love," another was "Write About Teeth." Each day, I gave myself a different assignment, and I began writing what I thought were crumby poems. I pulled them out after my friend Sarah begged me to read them to her, and they're pretty good, even the one about love! Because, really, how good can a poem be when the working title is "Love is"? No doubt I'm excited about this breakthrough. No doubt.

In other news:
I had the most wonderful comments on some of the scholarly writing I did for my for my degree, including "The writing itself...is refreshingly academic." It makes me wonder what they've been reading lately, but I'll take the compliment.

I've finished grading for the semester. YAY! My grandson is well and happy, finally. And I graduate with honors on Saturday. My negativity is at a low ebb in the midst of this a huge self-esteem boosting week.

Progress, Glorious Progress

First off, to stop putting the date on top of my posts. Evidently, the blog does not operate in Central Time, so I look like an idiot, which I'm not (not usually, anyway).

In my quest for something fulfilling to do after getting my master's degree, I'm making great strides. (Here's where I start getting negative.) Nothing to do yet, and I just put all my eggs for next semester into one basket, turning down a sure position for the possibility of a better position. I don't know why the whole application process needs to be so complicated and tedious. I guess, the process does eliminate the slackers. Such is life. I've managed to turn my CV into a resume, quite the challenge. I needed to get it from 5 pages to 3, all the while adding my new accomplishments. I filled out necessary applications. I hate forms, and I'm no good at them. I always print multiple copies because in the face of an application, it's not beyond me to spell my own name wrong. I still need to do more work on cover letters and letters of intent. How do you "brag" on yourself without sounding arrogant? Um, yeah, I just got those little awards, my students think I'm awesome, I'm the best teacher out there, so you should hire me. In the back of my mind, I fear that someone has already gotten the job, and the process is just a formality to satisfy some agency or university policy. I just need to get the committee in my head to shut up because I'm awesome, and they'll love me.

My grandson, who's napping while I write this, is not snoring for the first time since my daughter's family moved here. It's freaking me out. I keep going to check to make sure he's actually breathing. I keep telling myself to relax, that he's fine, but I must go check. It's nice for him that he can breath easily, but I don't have that reassuing "zzzz zzzz."

I'm as excited about Obama's announcement as anyone who's relatively moderate to left leaning. It's about time we rethought what it means to be equal, which doesn't necessarily mean being the same. Carolina was a disappointment, though.

This morning I read Mark Twain on James Fenimore Cooper's Literary Offenses. JFC is in my family tree, on nearer the trunk somewhere, so it was a bit of a blow. I'm further out in the branches than he is, where the wind has more power. It would have helped if I'd actually read  The Deerslayer or The Pathfinder, but when I do, I'll know what to look for--according to Twain, some hideous writing. I appreciated Twain's list of what writer's should do, though. I may not follow it, but at least if I don't, it'll be a choice rather than an oversight.

I'm off to face cover letters and letters of intent, where I'll chant Stuart Smalley's mantra: "I'm good enough. I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me."

A Long Good Day

8 May 2012
I was up amazingly early considering my night owl tendencies. I wrote a poem, not a great poem, but a better poem than I've written in a while. The stress of being a grad student, working on my thesis (which is poetry), and a teaching assistantship burned me out in the worst way. It felt good to write that poem.

Even though I'm gutless about publishing, with all else I'm pretty ruthless. And I made much progress on my application to a PhD program, and I have happened on the most perfect job opening, so I'm scrambling to apply for that, as well. I won't be able to do both, but if the job happens, then I'll look for other, more creative, ways to get my PhD. I want a PhD in English with an emphasis in creative writing in which I would complete a creative thesis, but I haven't found many universities that offer that. So, if anyone knows of one, I'd appreciate the tip.

I spent the afternoon taking care of my sick 2-year-old grandson. He was so pitiful before his nap, snuggling into my neck and whimpering, but he woke up pretty chipper, so I took him to see Mommy at work on our way to pick up his prescriptions. My daughter, who goes to college during the day and works nights, calls me the "graycare." I may never forgive her. Thankfully, she's off tomorrow, and I'll be able to grade the last of my students' essays and finish the semester.

I'm excited to have time to read. I usually read several things concurrently (A skill I learned as a graduate student). I focus better if I have variety, but I have to watch that I'm not reading two books that are too similar or I'll mix them up. This has happened in my courses, and I've made a fool of myself more than once, having to say, "Wait, I'm sorry, I have [charater x] confused with [character y] from my other class." At which point, I wish I could dissolve into the floor, leaving my dusty remains for them to sweep up later. I started re-reading Atwood's Lady Oracle. I'd breezed through it for a course, but was so focused on key elements, I didn't have time to savor the story, and the story was one I wanted to spend time with. Undergraduate reading is the best because you have time to get the key elements and savor the story. I actually had time to read my assignments more than once. Graduate reading is hell. That's all I can say about it. I'm re-reading Hahn's The Narrow Road to the Interior, too, but I read poetry over and over and over as a matter of course. And, on deck, I'm about to start Ellis's Founding Brothers. It's a book my dad recommended, and he doesn't recommend many so I thought I'd check it out. I'll start it right after I finish reading my new issue of The New Yorker, which I finally have time to read. I finally have an ahhh... moment.

The Gutless Wonder

6 May 2012
I am a gutless wonder. I spend a lot of time writing, but I never do anything with my writing. I write short stories, poems, researched scholarly articles, and even a longish satire, but they sit in the digital ether, waiting for me grow a backbone. I have no idea if I'll ever actually develop one, but I have a plan. My plan includes moral support that might wind up being a coffee klatch, or coffee clutch, depending on what part of the country you live in. All my life it was clutch, and one day, I looked it up. It's klatch. I was so disappointed. Clutch reminds me of tiny farm foul twittering around mama hen. Klatch, well, it just rhymes with, never mind. The word klatch is just not nearly as appealing. As I was saying before, I plan to gather moral support, in the form of a friend, to help me sort through the overwhelming task of submitting. I've started before, but the sheer number of places I could submit my writing to was daunting, and after I'd decided where to submit, the rules were confusing, and by the time I got that far, I lost my nerve. Except once. I submitted a poem to The New Yorker. I was graciously declined via a form letter, which according to all my writing friends and colleagues, should be framed and mounted on the wall like some sort of trophy. I'm not like my friends. I have this image of their letters on the walls papier machéed into the shapes of moose and elk, looking rather grayish as they stare down into the room. My New Yorker letter is here, somewhere, and I'll probably see it again, but I've no great respect for the fact that the editors at The New Yorker weren't interested. I have my Master's thesis, which is a book of poems that I haven't decided whether to submit whole, or in parts, dozens of other poems,  several short stories, and three scholarly articles that need an existence in the physical world. I promised myself I would work on it last month, but I didn't. I'm constantly breaking promises to myself regarding submissions. I watch my friends juggle teaching, writing, and raising families, and they have what it takes to submit their work and get published. Maybe this time, just maybe, I'll actually send something off.