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!

Talk about an apple for the teacher!

Well, so the end of the school year has finally arrived, and the sunny girl wanted to thank some of her teachers.    But apples are so twentieth century . . .

. . . so the sunny girl whipped up these cute little mini-pies.  

Don't you wish you were the sunny girl's teacher?!

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?

Cranky . . . .

Image via Cranky Birds -- a fabulous blog!

 Here is a sampling of comments that I have actually made -- in writing -- in the past few days . . .

1.  Across a spreadsheet that our Girl Scout Council requires of the over-worked cookie mommy volunteers:

This is s stupid form -- and is a duplication of effort. Troops have already provided this information through eBudde; why does this council require this ridiculously awkward form in addition?  This is why volunteers flee as fast as they can from working with Girl Scouts.  You do it to yourselves!

I thought this tirade was a better idea than asking someone to help me learn how to fill out an Excel spreadsheet.

2.  On the feedback page of yet another purveyor of beautiful clothing that my two teenaged girl urchins yearn for:

Dear Free People -- I would be more inclined to purchase your lovely dresses for my lovely daughters if these dresses actually covered their asses.  Regards -- Liz

I have sent this note a few times, to various merchants.  By the way, props to ModCloth, who brought back the "Longer Lengths" section of their online catalog (I must not be the only person who complained).  But Free People -- what the heck?  The name they gave the dress pictured above is "Lolita Syndrome."  I'm not even kidding.

3.  This is actually a groveling email I sent after I was -- let's just say a little testy with the nice pharmacist at CVS:

Dear Kathy -- I wanted to apologize again for losing my temper this morning while trying to find out where the hell my mother-in-law's chemotherapy prescription was.  I also deeply appreciate your help in getting the cost of the drug reduced from $8,100 for a 30 day supply to only $1,200 -- even after I implied that you didn't care whether my mother-in-law lived or died.  I know you do care whether my mother-in-law lives or dies.  I was overwrought.  Regards -- Liz

4.  Here's my text to my beloved tall boy, when he asked whether I could come fetch him from his college campus in the city for the long Easter weekend or he should wait outside in the rain for the commuter bus that might or might not show up and sit with a bunch of people who might or might not have the flu, and get home well after dinner time after walking that last six blocks in the aforementioned rain:

Bus.

Snapshot: Oh, noooo . . .

I looked out my kitchen window yesterday and took great comfort, as I always do, at the sight of the cool and leafy green woods that we call a back "yard."  Really, because our property is backed by a large parcel of common area (property that is owned "in common" by our homeowners' association), we really look out into a deeply wooded vista.  It's wonderful.

But then I noticed a horrific sight for a lover of all things summery:  a leaf -- just one -- that had begun to . . . shudder . . . turn.  People, my heart dropped just the tiniest little bit.

I really don't like autumn.

The best cheerleaders ever!

So the girl in charge and the rest of the Bulldawgs played their last softball game yesterday.  We traveled down to Halifax County, Virginia for the Regional tournament quarter-finals.  The Bulldawgs played hard on a hot, hot day.  Mercy -- it was hot.

But these three guys brought even more heat!  They call themselves the Hype Squad, and they are hilarious. While the guy on the right has two sisters on the team, the two on the left are football players, and seniors, and friends with several of the Lady 'Dawgs.  Their sports season is over; they will graduate in a week and a half.   So why not concentrate all (and I mean all) their school spirit and electric friendship vibes on these awesome Bulldawgs?

Fabulous!
 

 

The girl in charge and her kick-ass bestie were a little ambivalent at the end of the game.  They hate to lose, y'all.  But they also will graduate in a week and a half, and I suspect they are looking forward, just a little bit, to chillaxing these last few days.

They've earned it.

Snapshot: movie night!

Well, we haven't even finished the school year around here, and the cul-de-sac capers are starting up again, as the warm weather has beckoned us all to come outside.  Last weekend we all gathered in the middle of the court to watch the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie.  Families brought blankets and softball/soccer chairs, and sodas and a few margaritas, and the girl in charge made a big old batch of popcorn, and we all settled in.  How cool is our pal Tom -- who set up this swanky inflatable movie screen -- with speakers and everything?!

We're going to have a great summer!

Snapshot(s): Back Bay friends and neighbors

The weather is changing now, and you all may remember that I really dread the fall. So to perk myself up a little bit, I thought I would remind myself and you of my fabulous beach-filled summer in Sandbridge, Virginia. In addition to spending cherished time with some of my favorite people . . .






. . . I shared my Back Bay beach vacation with some more exotic neighbors:






I'm ready to go back!

I think I know what's going on here.

So it's been a while since I checked in with all of you here, and I do apologize. I have to say, the school year for the college kids snuck up behind me, and then jumped out from behind a tree and scared the bejeezus out of me -- so I had to go lie down. The college academic calendar meant that not only did the tall boy go back to school last week, but so did a gaggle of besties and cousins. It seemed like every time we turned around we were saying good-bye to someone. In addition, I myself headed back to school, teaching again this semester at the community college -- which I am realizing more and more is what I was meant to do.

But here's the weird thing: all those college kids have been reporting bizarre natural phenomena, which have forced them to evacuate -- like the girl in charge's bestie (an 18-year-old freshman), who was in residence at the College of William and Mary for a whole week before Hurricane Irene came for a whirlwind visit and she was told, " Get out. Oh -- and if you get a chance, tell your folks where you are." I paraphrase, but only slightly.

In contrast, the tall boy was not evacuated -- he was told to hustle to his college campus as soon as ever he could. The tall boy, who had plans to move in to his new dorm room last Saturday, was sent a text from the college doo-dahs: "OK, so remember how we told you don't even think about showing up to college early? Well -- forget that; get your ass here as soon as possible."

I'm paraphrasing again, but it turns out that between the hurricane (due to hit us on Saturday -- right in the middle of hauling a refrigerator and a carpet remnant across the hilly Catholic University campus) and the earlier damage caused by the earthquake (the National Cathedral was supposed to host a big and important Martin Luther King, Jr. event that was moved to the CUA campus because the Cathedral was so damaged), there was no way in hell the tall boy and his dad were going to get a car on to the Catholic University campus. His actual text from the nice Campus Life people said, "If you plan to arrive on Saturday with a vehicle of any kind, you are so screwed." Paraphrasing again . . . .

What does this mean? It means that the tall boy and his dad were unloading the boy's shit at his dorm in Washington, DC at 11:30 on a Friday night. Now tell me that's not a great dad!

Just a little word about our earthquake (summary: I was driving, so never even knew there was an earthquake -- while at home, the hellhounds freaked out). Californians mock us for our measly 5.8 quake but I would respectfully say to each of my west coast friends, "Back off, bitch!" We live in Virginia, y'all. We have some experience with hurricanes (I would submit Camille, Agnes and Isabel -- who all were very cranky ladies ). But we don't do earthquakes.

We don't do uncontrollable wildfires either -- and yet the Great Dismal Swamp has been burning since mid-July. That just looks like a beautiful sunset, but it really is smoke -- I took this picture at the beach in early August, on a day the wind was blowing from the west.

Add to all of this bizarreness the fact that just last week my friend Wendy's teen-aged son took out the trash without being asked, and I think it's pretty clear we are looking the Apocalypse dead in its gaping maw. Not that I'm worried.

Why don't they give the mommies valium any more?

So it's been way too long since we've had any medical drama around here -- and that's clearly unacceptable. So the first week of school for my two fabulous girl urchins brought with it a trip to the emergency room AND a diagnosis of -- wait for it -- shingles.

The sunny girl started the shenanigans when she tripped on the stairs.

tangent: I'll wait for the chortles and snickers of my oldest friends to subside; as they continue to clutch their sides with merriment I will inform my newer cyber-pals that I myself have quite the reputation for, shall we say, wearing a pair of crutches with flair. Or at least with regularity. And all of my injuries have been sustained on or near a flight of stairs. I'm serious -- I feel like I've thrown a double-dog dare out to God by living in a three-story house.

Well, so the sunny girl yelled "ouch!" when she stumbled, but said she "stubbed her toe." Does this look like a stubbed toe to you?

Unfortunately, my family has spent enough time in emergency rooms that we know the primary rule of the E.R.: always bring a book.

The final diagnosis: it's broken, twinkle-toes. On the up side, she gets out of P.E. for a month AND she and Jolie Blonde make a matched set. Jolie Blonde also follows her mother's family tradition, sustaining injuries that require surgery and physical therapy.

You just think I'm talking about my sister with the bum wrist and her daughter with the broken volleyball arm.

But really I'm talking about Coleen the retired gymnast and her daughter Jolie Blonde, who loves horses but apparently not enough to stay on hers while she's riding him.

And oy! The trials and tribulations of a school-loving girl who has been quarantined are hard to describe. It's not enough that school is out of the question for now, or that the nerves in her throwing arm hurt like a -- well, you fill in the blank.

My girl in charge has also been banned from cul-de-sac capers because the littlest fabulous neighbors have not had chicken pox yet. This picture, taken last Thanksgiving, will not be replicated any time soon.

But me? I'm just fine!

And then my head exploded.

So you know how our family is so lucky because we get to go on our own family reunion beach vacation, and then a month later we get to do it again with our beloved un-family, right?

Some of our happiest memories are of our weeks in Sandbridge, Virginia, with this amazing, loving, welcoming family of dear ones.

And we did join them again this year, and we did have just the swellest time again, too.

It's hard to convey the fabulousness of this week: it's about the food . . .

. . . the quiet time with friends . . .

. . . the running or relaxing by the water . . .

. . . the singing . . . .

Really, this is how a beach week is supposed to be.

But here's what I want to know: If YOU went into to see the hilarious and heart-warming Despicable Me with your urchins, wouldn't you expect that your eight-year-old piece of crap minivan would still be in the parking lot when you came out? Me, too! And yet you and I would be mistaken.

Apparently, while some family vacations are not complete without medical intervention of some sort, it appears that other beach vacations require the theft of the family vehicle to complete the experience.

And can I just say that I absolutely had the complete experience: the police report; the late night phone call to get someone -- anyone -- to come fetch us in the middle of the night; the lovely chat with the nice insurance company lady; the discovery that a rental car is not covered in our plan; it was everything you could want a car theft to be -- and even more!

Because I had even more glamorous excitement on the drive home from our fabulous vacation: the sunny girl and I zig-zagged across the state in order to retrieve the girl in charge, who had been attending Hollinsummer (more on this in an upcoming post, but early reporting indicates: gosh! It was fun!) in Roanoke, Virginia. We were in the zag portion of our journey when we had to stop for necessary re-fueling, by which I mean Chik-Fil-A. A fast food parking lot is the best place to sideswipe another vehicle while driving a rental car, I always say.

Oh, the tooth-gnashing and clamped mouth as I avoided letting loose with a string of self-directed wrothful epithets! Oh, the dread in calling the husband! And oh! oh! But the deep and sincere chagrin at the thought that the husband would be scampering like a bunny as soon as he got off the phone to fill the fabulous neighbors in on my ridiculosity!

I'm not even going to tell you about how the police eventually recovered the stolen "vehicle" but how it was also involved in an armed robbery so it is being held as evidence and they'll get back to us about the part where we actually get the stinking thing back -- like I want it back, after all this drama.

tangent: My friend Tim says it's time to ditch the mom-mobile mentality and get a Mercedes coupe. But I think what should happen is that I will get a very sturdy Vespa. And I will get a big wicker basket to hang on the front. And I will wear a floppy hat with a giant pink flower. And if the girl in charge needs a ride to softball practice, she can grab her equipment bag and climb into the basket.

All in all, it was just the most relaxing vacation ever -- aside from the part where I poked a stick in my eye in frustration and angsty despair. Twice.

Image credits and information:

OK, so since I'm clearly having one of those summers, my tragically beautiful and new camera is missing -- even though it made it home safely from the beach. So:

All the lovely beach photos are courtesy of various members of the Kline/Moran/Pollard/Dixon clan whose Facebooks I have scavenged. Thanks, everyone.

Crappy photos were taken on my iPhone.