To Hungary (and Austria and Germany) We Go...

I keep double-checking to see if I have my passport. Then, I cannot make a firm decision on what clothes I am going to wear on the airplane tomorrow. Then, I reconcider my coat choice--I have two but neither are waterproof and should I bring my fancier, leather jacket? We leave at 7:00 am tomorrow morning and I am very excited. Correction, I will be very excited tomorrow after we leave the apartment and all the luggage and such is set in stone. Once you lock the door, you know that what is in your hands will be your life for the next 2.5 weeks. Before then, I reserve and exercise the right to change it. I shall not be blogging over the length of the trip--I hope to make one or two posts but one never knows. I always plan on sending more postcards than I wind up doing, too. The best of intentions, I guess. In case I don't get to post any pictures, I will enclose someone else's here--so you can envision my surroundings as I wander the cobblestones and palaces.Wish me well, I'm off to Europe. Let's hope we never come back! (I don't have a job or anything to come back to after all.) Hope y'all won't forget me when I'm gone.

And I'm Off...

One of the reasons that I am a preschool teacher right now is that it's rather flexible. I'm paid hourly and allowed to take unpaid time off if I choose. I'm not roped into any long term responsibilities. It is a job to tide me over until graduate school or, worst case scenario, a more "career" like job related to writing if I don't get accepted. Plus, I get to play all day, every day. I get to teach little munchkins and have the immediate reward of seeing that knowledge be remembered, be put into application. And I get to quit to take off to Europe for three weeks! (We leave of Wednesday, yay!)

And so, Friday was my last day in my Toddler III classroom, populated with 16 of the sweetest kids I've known, though their memomy may be sweetened in my mind because I'm not going to have to deal with their evil sides any longer--no more making them clean up, no more lining up, no more "sit on your bottoms" at circle time, no more biting and hitting. But here is my photo montage commemoration of the time I got to spend being a part of their lives, the great memories and round faces. Just imagine a swelling orchestra of sound in the background and grab a kleenex.

Recipe for Instant Bubbles:
Dish Soap + A Twisted Pipe Cleaner = Hours, no, Minutes of Fun
(minutes because of a short attention span and a propensity for spilling)

"If you're ready to go outside, put your hands on your head."
Notice the little feet on the floor, showing them where to line up.

Meet my allergy boy, who cannot consume:
wheat, milk, soy, peanuts, banana, strawberry (that we know of so far)
He once erupted in hives from merely touching some spilt milk and rubbing his eye.

Truck! Truck!
I miss my truck boy, who no longer attends our school, even though he did bite my ass. Sniff.

Playing in the tunnels on a rainy day, in lieu of outside time.
Meet my "Whadat?" boy.

Guess who ripped some pages out of book at naptime?
H is for Hat. Dontcha know?

When you're two, it's still okay for boys to play dress up.
He's a Fireboy. And when a girl wears it, she's a Firegirl.
We are very PC around here.

Welcome to the Kitchen, aka Home Living center, where everything you are served is called pizza or coffee. Remember to blow on the coffee or you will be reminded that it's hot.

Where my love affair with Spider Man all began.

Take a look at that nose!
Somebody has allergies.

Say "Cheese."
No, we can't say "queso" because that doesn't make you look like you're smiling, silly.

Water play.
No, the baby isn't drowning. She's taking a bath.

The challenge is not how tall they can build it,
but how long they can wait before knocking the whole thing down, Godzilla style.

Goodbye to all my munchkins. I say it now in cyberspace to preserve it--they cannot seem to understand right now. I tried to explain it to them on Friday.

"This is my last day here at school."

"Teacher Gnomey is at school."

"But I'm not going to go to school with you anymore."

"Tomorrow I get to stay home with Dad."

"Yes but you will have a new teacher now."

"I like Teacher Gnomey."
Sigh.

The job is stressful. No question. But the kids... the kids themselves I will always miss. I hope they will miss me too but am comforted by their short memories. They will retain the learning but forget the face. Good luck to the two teachers remaining in the room. Please take good care of these budding humans.

The Sex Appeal of Diapers...

Yes, that's right. Take it off, baby. Take off that dirty diaper. Yes. Yes!

Okay, that's an exageration and I am well aware of it. I use it, however, to point out how extremely daft the sexual segregation that exists in the field of early childhood education is. Early childhood education you say? Well, that's the term for what preschool teachers actually do, preschool teachers versus mere babysitters. A babysitter makes sure the child doesn't fall down the stairs or get a diaper rash. An early childhood educator tracks and improves language and motor development, social skills, and early academics such as vocabulary expansion, noun naming (colors, shapes, animals, etc), and pre-reading skills. And this field is populated by 99.9% women. Which means that, correspondingly, the field is among the lowest paid professions across the board. And without going into that gender/salary divide too greatly (for such is not the subject of my rant today), many preschool teachers accept that because their own children are close by, they receive discounts on their child's care, they only need a supplement to their partner's income, and/or they were not born in this country and it is an easy field to work in with the qualifications of only the love in your heart for children.

But I would absolutely love to see a man in the classroom. As would a lot of the single mother, rather lonely ladies that work around me, I am sure, but me for not purely visual reasons. We had just such a man apply to work at my school this last week, to fill the position that I am leaving in fact. I got to meet him as he spent about an hour in our classroom and he seemed very attentive, eager to get down on the children's level to interact, and caring. Yes, a little gay too, of course. Everyone asks that. He also had six years of experience in the classroom with infants and toddlers. Yet immediately, I heard about the issue of him being a man.

First of all, I was asked wasn't it illegal for a man to be changing diapers like that or to be in the potty alone with a 2-3 year-old that was learning to use the bathroom? No, not illegal. Wouldn't a lot of our parents have a problem with a man doing such things with their child? I should hope not. Doesn't Daddy do it at home? But, it's okay because he's gay, right? Or, is it worse, because so much child molestation seems to be of the male-male variety?

Geez. How stereotypical can we get, ladies and gents? Are we saying that any naked person, girl or boy, of any age, brings up purely sexual feelings in the male? That the only reason a man would want to be that close to a child would be a dirty, deviant, sexual one? That we cannot trust a man to be around any kid without supervision from a woman? And this stereotype not only hurts men but us women too and doubly so. This sort of attitude only perpetuates the idea that the job of child rearing is a female one. That caring for kids cannot be trusted, cannot be taught to men. It means that we women will always be changing the diapers, will always be singing our ABC's, will always be the ones cleaning up puke, potty training, and the ones in early childhood education. The field will always be underpaid and under-respected--meaning that, well, big deal, it comes naturally to women and they just sit around all day playing with kids, which is what their genes teach them to do anyway. How much skill does that take, changing dirty diapers and singing songs?

I for one hope that this gentleman who interviewed gets the position. That is, if he passes his background check and fingerprint clearance, has his CPR and First Aid certifications and his references check out, just like all the rest of us. I want my kiddies is good hands when I leave and, if those are a man's hands, it shouldn't make any difference. It's a demanding job that requires patience, creativity, love and empathy. Any person who has all of that and wants to share it with children, with the future and it willing to exchange it for peanuts plus hugs an hour deserves respect and encouragement. Not suspicion and derision just because he happens to have a penis. (I am assuming. That's not really part of the interview process.)

The Latest Headlines...

Well, not Providence, not Rhode Island, not Brown for Gnomey girl. No full teaching scholarship. No Ivy League. That's #1. And #2, no Seattle, no Washington, not even a paper letter from those guys. Instead, I had to inquire only to get an email reply:

"I'm sorry to tell you that you were not accepted. You will be hearing officially from the grad school but I know you wanted to know ASAP. We also had close to 300 applicants and the fiction committee members told me that this year's submissions were especially good so the competition was fierce. Thanks for your interest in our program and good luck with your writing."

Only 300 and they accept a good number in comparison to some other schools. Probably about a 10% acceptance rate. And I can't even make that large-as-my-ass target? Of course, right now, I can't even get out of bed except to go to the bathtub or the couch. But I still can't wait to hear how much I suck from the 3 other schools I am waiting for.

Tune in next time for (rejection?) letters from:

• University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa
  
• University of Alaska, Anchorage
• Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore

On the upside, I've decided what my new profession will be if the Fictional Gnome thing doesn't work out for me. Meet my new gnome role models:




My name is Happy Digging Gnome,
I like to dig in the garden.
I am in charge of planting
flowers and vegetables
for my family to eat.

(How Bohemian, really.)

My name is Brewmaster Gnome.
I put beer in foam cups
to protect our garden
from nasty slugs.


(And on that note, let's all have a beer...)

Flash Fiction Friday #29

I never said you were...

• Outright Plagerism:
• "I never said you were going to get anything good. That wasn’t in the deal. A structure, that’s it, that’s all that’s called for. The rest is word vomit, only big chunky clumps of phrase and the implied smell that comes along for the ride." (compliments of Just a Cool Cat)

• The Best of Evil and Manipulative Lines that Horrid Bitch said to me During the Course of our "Relationship":
  
• I never said that you always had to take out the garbage. I just assumed that because you always do it, that it is one of your favorite things. I'd never want to take that away from you.
• I never said you were funny. I just pretended to laugh. Was that misleading?
• I never said you had to love me. I completely understand if this dry husk of bedsweat and tears is unappealing to you. Go, one of us should live while we still have a chance, before the whole useless mess explodes into a black hole of nothingness and despair.
• I never said you had hairy earlobes but I reserve the right to demand that you shave them.
• I never said you had a small penis to Samantha. One of your other exes must have let that little cat out of the bag. Oops. Did I say little?

And that, ladies and gents, is all I have been able to post for this weeks FFF.

FFF #28

So it's:

• a week late
• gone through countless iterations
• not really that good
• now posted

All based off of last week's FFF challenge of "The realization slowly dawned on me…"

She sat on the bench on her lunch break, her thumb marking time in her paperback book. “You certainly do look Irish,” said the bum with a wink to the girl on the bench. If portliness, a ruby red nose and cheeks were intrinsically Irish, he could also have been Irish. And bums too have a predilection for the drink. There was another bum on the sidewalk, sleeping. Shoulders hunched toward his chest and lying on his side in a bent-kneed L. Slowly, the realization dawned on the bum that his compatriot was about to piss.

“Hey man,” said the Irish gent with a flick of his chin. The other man’s hand was thumbing a seam at the crotch of his brown corduroys though his eyes were still closed. “Hey man. Don’t you be pissing here, man.”

The sleeping man’s beard brilloed out into a pillow for his chin on the pink, marble sidewalk. A sidewalk that was salmon colored with flecks of grey, silver grouting, bulbously artistic grey planters dotting the street at regular intervals. Tourists strolling between special occasion restaurants and trendy boutiques, the traffic-free quiet of a pedestrian mall.

“Hey man!” the tubby leprechaun spurted, toeing the other man with a scuffed, steel toe. “This ain’t no place to be whipping it out, asshole. Don’t you remember where it is you fell asleep?”

He stirred slightly and opened his eyes in slits against the afternoon sun. “I wasn’t pissing, dude,” he said, rolling around the sleep taste in his mouth as if he was about to spit. He was younger than the first and edgy. No jolly belly and rosy cheeks but both parts instead emaciated and sallow.

“You was about to. I saw you roll over onto your side and reach around for your dick.”

“You full of shit. I wasn’t pissing.”

“No, I said you were about to and you ain’t in private here. Catnapping on 16^th is where you are.”

He pushed himself up to sitting and ran four fingers through his beard. “I hear the buses.”

“Yeah you do. Think they sound like that anywhere else in this city? You need to watch your ass man ‘cause pissing in front of a young lady like that will get your ass kicked. You nasty, man.”

“Fuck you, who are you calling nasty? I’m just sleeping in the sun and the sidewalk’s clean and they haven’t cleared me off yet or nothing. It’s nice fucking day, dude, and you gotta go and talk shit about my dick.” He lit a cigarette.

“You were about to fucking piss and I wasn’t about to sit on my ass and watch that nasty go down. We got a girl over hear don’t need to see that.” They girl attempted to pretend she was still reading her book. Turned a page that she didn’t read.

“How the fuck am I to know with my eyes closed that there’s a fucking girl—”

“Don’t you say fucking and girl together! Don’t you insult like that.”

“How was I to know there was a girl here?” He waved the cigarette at the girl on the bench. She nodded and sat up to leave but instead made like she was repositioning her body in the spring sun.

“Well keep it zipped.”

“It’s zipped.”

“It fucking better be.”

He rose to his feet, lean and shaggy against the lounging Irish man, who had his hands crossed on his belly and his legs at the ankles, swinging idly under the bench. “It is zipped, you ass! You got eyes? There was no pissing, there will be no pissing, so shut the fuck up, you tubby bastard.”

The portly bum held up his hands, as if the confrontation was only a formality, a pre-friendship ritual that had to be gotten out of the way. He reached for his pack. “You’re right, man. How long has it been since you ate?”

“Not today. Last night?”

“Want a sandwich?”

“Whatcha got?”

“I got a veritable deli in here. You like turkey?”

The lean, young man sat down atop his military style duffel. He finally stopped gesturing enough with it to take a leisurely drag on his smoke. “Yeah.”

“Mustard?”

“Just make it how you would. I appreciate the favor.”

“You camp ‘round here?”

“This time of year.”

“I go down to New Mexico every winter. You ever been?”

“How you manage that?”

“I’m an old-timer. I still hop the rails. Have been on and off since 1978.”

“Nice to meet you, man.”

“How about avocado?”

News, of some rather indistinct sort...

And I quote:

I'm writing to inform you that you have been placed on the wait list for the MFA program at Oregon State University. The Graduate Committee was very impressed with your work, but we have a limited number of available positions, and offers have been made to a few writers ahead of you. We had a record number of applicants this year, so acceptances were extremely competitive. Should any of our initial offers decline (the final deadline for acceptances is April 12), and it becomes possible for us to offer you a position for next year, we will let you know right away.

In the meantime, if you accept an offer elsewhere, we would appreciate your letting us know. Thank you for your patience.

Don't hesitate to get in touch with me if you have any questions.

Sincerely,

Keith Scribner
Director, MFA Program

Well, since Oregon is #7 in the 7 schools I applied to, this news is less than heartening. Wait-listed at #7. Not that I wouldn't want to go there or that I underappreciate the gesture. No, it's just that I have no idea how to feel about this information until I get further information from numbers 1-5 (Iowa being out as well). And it just makes me all the more anxious to see what's up with Providence, Baltimore, Tuscaloosa, Seattle, and Anchorage. I feel like the old, raisined woman at the linoleum retirement home that keeps asking, "Why don't they write?" Because, they don't like you, Mrs. Gnomey, says the orderly. Because they don't like you.

Green Beer and Headbanging...

So I stayed up until 11 o'clock making green cupcakes for the kiddies at work. Okay, a drinking two Guinesses in preparation. I hope they appreciate it. I know that they will at least appreciate the sugar. But the real St. Patty's Day celebration begins tonight at the Flogging Molly show. I don't know why the band would pick Phoenix of all places to play on the day of the big event. You'd think they are in quite high demand--prices up, sold out shows--and why the desert and not some overly Irish city (Boston, Chicago) is beyond me. But I am happy to reap the rewards. So maybe my stress will evaporate into the atmosphere of the open air amplitheater as I rock out with green beer and Drunken Lullabies.

Headbang good.

In My Ears...

Is about where my shoulders are at this point. My tension level is through the roof and I feel sorry for The Boyfriend for having to live with me through this trying period. I am honestly counting down the hours until I can check the mailbox again. I think about going to bed early because then the next day will be here quicker and I can check the mailbox again. I check the mailbox when I get off work at 4:30 and (if empty) again after the gym at 6:30. Today, as the mailbox was empty on both attempts, I considered going back for a third round at 8:30 but, good news for my self-respect, I held back. Somebody please let all this waiting be over and let me know if, where, and when I will be going to grad school so I can move on with the rest of my life and refrain from shrugging my shoulders every few minutes in an attempt to loosen the permanent, Boy-Scout-tight knots.

On the upside, The Boyfriend and I leave for Hungary in exactly two weeks from today. I cannot wait. I am sure that it is going to feel like the honeymoon after planning the wedding. All that stress and planning gone (hopefully) and only vacation ahead. I've already scheduled a haircut and some new pants are in the mail. I'm too poor for a pedicure but will give one to myself. Not that it will be seen. Open toed shoes are only okay in areas like Phoenix this time of year. Bye bye toes. Hello blisters from all the walking along cobblestone streets and the shuffling through train stations. I cannot wait to greet you again.

Life is what happens when you are busy making other plans. I use that quote often and I do believe it. Those are the times when you work out who you are in everyday conversation and actions. But some moments put everything on hold. Some moments are so... momentous, so life-defining, that maybe life itself does get put on hold in anticipation. With elevator music and stress. Sure doesn't feel like life. That sounds like (one of) my definition(s) of hell.

Falling on my Head Like a Memory...

Here comes the rain again! And I say that with enthusiasm and a silly grin upon my dry, chapped lips. It finally rained in Phoenix this weekend after a record-setting 143 days without any trace of precipitation. I know, I know, it is the desert. It is not supposed to be a lush and verdant getaway. But even the saguaros need some moisture to continue holding their arms at odd angles like that. Their shoulders get tired after a while, you know.

Rain in Phoenix is unlike anywhere else. People don't know how to drive. Of course, with the high population of blue hairs that retire down here, a lot of them can't see over the steering wheel on a normal day. Plus, when it rains, it usually pours. Hey, isn't that an idiom? Maybe they made it up for Phoenix because it Saturday it came down in sheets from morning until night. The shallow topsoil just can't hold onto it and puddles flood entire lanes of streets. Some get washed out completely. The best part, however, is that all the mountains ringing the Valley--the McDowells, The Superstitions, Four Peaks--have snow on them. Probably for a few more hours now as the high is 68 degrees today but it was a landmark sight around here. Sonny, I remember a time when cars were powered by fossil fuels and it snowed on those there mountains. I'm not just talking guff, you hear?

The Boyfriend was so ultra-excited that he even shot a (2 minute-long!) video of the storm outside our apartment that you can check out here.

An Authorial Milestone

I am now a paid writer. I have the check in my greedy, sweaty hand for a whole $85 for a freelance article I wrote. All about the Gila Wilderness and it's road/mountain biking activities geared toward the fitness enthusiast. It's not Pulitzer winning stuff, I know, and now that I read it in print I see a few awkward areas that could have been tightened up. They must have liked it, however, because they extended the story an extra 200 words to avoid cutting and offered me two more jobs since to be published in April and May.

Wow. Well, it's not a short story, not the fiction of my heart that beats the salty blood to my extremities and back again. But it is something, something heartening, something that could develop into more once I have a few clippings to my credit and that I could carry with me to any location, any schedule. It's something I can be proud of--I'm Gnomey and I'm a teacher and a freelance writer. My chest would swell with pride every time I had the opportunity to say that. So I shall make a copy of my medium-sized check and frame it for my wall next to my college diploma, soon to be followed by my grad school acceptance letter (cross your fingers!). It will make for a nice design balance between that wall of pride and the bathroom papered with rejection notices. Yin and Yang. Feel the flow.

And They Say "It's in the Mail..."

Today marks the third day that my mail box has been empty. Uno, dos, tres = three! No junk mail, no bank statements, no advertisements for real estate, catalogs, postcards from admirers, no anything. It makes me wonder whether the mailman has even been to our complex or not. I mean, who actually checks up on such things? Maybe he is some horrid Newman of a mailman whose creedo is "Either laziness, ineptitude, or general sloth shall prevent the mail from making its rounds."I was actually tempted to sit in wait for any other tennant to come round the mail boxes--the typical thin metal variety, segmented into cubes with flimsy, difficult to turn locks--to see if anyone else received anything. That way at least I would know that he had been here and not that the gods do not want me to ever know where I will or will not be moving to in six months. Maybe they are trying to spare me all those grad school's rejection notices. I will cry out to them now, NO! Spare me nothing, oh deities. I crave knowledge, I eat the apple willingly even if childbirth will be painful for all future generations and we can no longer walk around naked (outside of our own homes). Give me the 4-1-1. Or maybe my happy news, my acceptance letter, was lost somewhere in the post and there will only be 24 hours to respond to keep my spot and some other loser will snatch it up and spend 2 amazing years studying and win a Pulitzer prize with his first novel. NO! He deserves to toil on in obscurity! Not I! Please, Oh Mr. Mailman or you gods or whoever has any control over this lack of postal information... do not return to sender. Address is not unknown. There is such a sender. There is such a zone. (Sorry Elvis)

Photo Credit to madameshutterfly.

I've Created a Monster...

I've got a little student named Roberto. It's so fun to roll off of your tongue--Rob-errrrr-to. His mother says that she also calls him Robert and we could too. But how much fun is Rob-ert when you can say Rob-errrrr-to? Little Roberto lives in a small world all his own where the planet rotates at quicker speeds. Like an insect who has a short life span, he seems to pack twice as much into every moment as his purely-human counterparts. Try to grab him and his smooth, 2 year-old skin slips right out of you hands. And getting him to sit in a chair for more than 2 minutes at a time? Good Luck. (We used to have trouble with 30 seconds at a time and we are very proud of the improvement!). If you want me to be simple about it, he's hyperactive like a hummingbird in Pampers.

Roberto's speech is also improving by leaps and bounds, which often happens when children get exposed to other children and to the learning environment. He now wants to know the word for everything--in English as he also speaks Spanish at home. When he asks, over and over, this question comes out as "Whadat? Whadat?" I don't think the boy has enough time to put a space between his words.

"Whadat?"
"It's a fish."
"Ish. Whadat?"
"A Seahorse."
"Orse. Whadat?"
"The wall, Roberto. It's the wall."

My epiphany yesterday, however, was that I was the person who taught him this. O yes, it was me. Mea culpa. I must say sorry especially to his mother, who must deal with this anomoly daily, and to ear drums everywhere. When I lead the academic portion of the day, which we call "circle time" (yes, yes, you can laugh), I often pose that question to the kids. It is very important to involve the kids in the books you are reading, for one, and also to have them identify shapes, colors, etc. with their own words. So I often point to Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? and say, "What's this? A bear. A brown bear." I often grab my cardboard circle, triangle, square, etc and hold it up, call on a child, and ask them to identify it by saying, what else, "What's this?"

Little Roberto. Little, fast-paced, hummingbird of boy. I wonder how long it would take, or if it is even possible, to teach you to say, "Excuse me, teacher, but could you explain to me what this object is? I would appreciate it." But I don't even think that I could say that many words to the boy, in a row, to teach him without at least one interuption of "Whadat? Whadat?"

"Whadat?"
"It's a tree, Roberto."
"Tree. Whadat?"
"That's your friend, Natalia."
"Talyah. Whadat?"
"Yo no sey, miho. Por favor, no mas!" says Teacher Gnomey in her halting, white girl Spanish.

The Excitement of the Great, Wide Open...

The Boyfriend and I leave for Europe in exactly three weeks from today. Yay! 1.5 weeks in Budapest and 1.5 in Stuttgart, Germany. I have my eager nose in my guidebooks and travel websites trying to suss out an itinerary of places to go and things to see (local wine and beer to drink). It all seems a little in the air, however, which is a bit disconcerting when you think we will be flying a third of the way around the world. I'm excited and nervous and scared of the Magyar tongue (our Hungarian friend calls it his "old and useless language"). But hey, if any of y'all out in cyber space have had any good or bad experiences out there, things you recommend we must must do, PLEASE let me know. I'm all ears.

Given the limitations of my current job, I had to give three weeks notice at work. There is just no way that they can keep the position open for three weeks and, well, I don't think I want to come back. Yes, there is always the money factor and, yes, that is a big one. But I will also know where I will (or will not) be going to grad school and so only need a temp, summer job. Hopefully one with less responsibility and headaches and bitemarks. I will not have a job when we return to the country. I'm so horridly irresponsible and, oh, it is so much fun, let me tell you. Working with children is rewarding. Anyone who has experienced it knows how it goes--when you're there, and pulling out your hair and wiping noses, you wonder why in the hell you submit yourself to it. But afterwards, you miss those little muchkins, darn it. The hugs and the giggles.

In the air. Flying around like a plastic grocery bag in a suburban breeze. No, wait. That was American Beauty. How about a feather artistically floating towards a bus bench where a tidy, mentally challenged man sit. No, that's Forrest Gump. Seems like a recurring theme of late. Where will you be in six months? I have no fucking clue. Geographically, economically, career-wise. Maybe I will dye my hair pink and change my name to Sunflower by then, work in a head shop. Or, buy designer jeans and pointy black shoes and a Kate Spade laptop bag--be a professor in training! It is really scary that I am 26 years old and am just letting loose from the sides of the pool and entering the open water. Let's see where (and if) I hit land again. At least I have a great companion in The Boyfriend. I know I have that support by my side, along with my brilliant family and friends, in my quest for my dreams.

But I do have one thing that will be concrete and final, unchangeable and utter fantastic. A thing that I actually have a time schedule for though, who knows, these things are known to be a bit early or late. I'm going to be an Auntie in October! Bring on the Anne Geddes pictures!

In Case You're Mad at Me...

Me? What? I didn't do anything wrong! How could you kick me and set me ablaze? Who made up this curious, mean-spirited and very amusing game of Gnome Punting?

Is No News, Good News?

Maybe, if this is the sort of news I will be getting...


That is an acceptance rate of exactly 3.36%. Jeez. I guess I am not in the top 3.36% of my class. Sniff. I really didn't expect to hear anything this early. Maybe that's why this sucks so hard. Great, juvenile phrase I am using there but, well, it feels apt. It feels very very sucky.

It feels like my student Dominic's arm (squeaky-voiced little Dominic) when big ole Johnny bit him, clamped down, and then shook his jaw like a dog tearing meat. Apparently, Dominic wanted to push the button that made the vroom, vroom noise too and Johnny had taken ownership. That happened on Thursday. Then Friday, Child Protective Services came to pick big ole Johnny up. They were removing him from his grandmother's custody. Grandma, a badly-aged 50 with greying gang tattoos, including a small cross on the point of her chin. Poor, big ole Johnny. I have a feeling that someday Johnny's dental records will be cataloged with the state along with his fingerprints, instead of just on Dominic's arm.

It's been a long week. So tonight I am grilling bratwursts, after bathing them all day in beer, and watching our new Spartacus DVD and eating chocolate wafer rolls from the Chinese market. They seem more Italian to me as such cookies usually come with ice cream or gelato, sticking up as a cylindrical, crispy garnish. But apparently they are made in Taiwan, popular in Asia, and definitely on the menu for on the couch tonight. More news to come as it arrives.

A Red Letter Date...

Hey, do you know what today is? Besides a Wednesday, that is. It is the first of March. Mm Hm. That's right. Oh, what's that you say? You don't know the significance of the 1st of March? Actually, let's just capitalize all of that. The First Of March.

Well, March is when I am supposed to hear back from my graduate schools that I applied to, oh, three months ago and have been waiting on pins and needles on ever since. To flip everyone over to the same page, I am trying to get my Master of Fine Arts in creative writing, both to become a better writer, to have time and energy to devote full time to writing and the writing community, as well as to earn the credentials necessary to teach the subject at the university level. This is also my third year of applying. So nobody talk any fluffy breezy dryer-sheet-commercial spring-fresh-scent BS about me being a shoe-in or but of course you will make it and you will be smacking them away with a ten foot pole. Okay, that last idiom got a bit turned around but you get the point.

It is very very competitive. Everyone thinks that they can be the Next Great American Writer and, of course, everyone can't be. Why? I excruciate over the why I haven't gotten in but, well, I can never know. It's not like they write you little notes back with your rejection letter. It's just the thin little, one sheet of paper with the school's insignia. It does seem, however, that graduate schools lately have been making a lot of "safe" choices of late--choosing well-crafted fiction that mimicks what seems to be selling well it the book stores currently. Not pushing, but rather comfortably smoothing and sealing the envelope with a satisfied smack. That sounds arrogant or ignorant, perhaps, and maybe it is. I have read some articles in the writers wrags and journals that supports this. But I also have to say something to build up myself enough to send more stuff out there to be rejected.

Now last year I didn't actually hear anything until Mid-March and into April. But the school technically say decisions will be made in "March or early April." And so, I have been marching, arduously marching, away the minutes until March. Well, it's March, damn it and I'm sure that time will not march any longer but slink along like a garden snail, making a sticky smacking noise with every miniscule movement.