it should go without saying.

At the #3 spot on my List of Annoyances, just behind “People Who Drive Unreasonably Slow” and “People Who Own Tiny Dogs and Carry Them in Bags,” are “Teachers Who Cannot Spell.”

Sadly, in my professional and personal life, I run into these types far too often.

If the English language and its proper usage are not your forte, do not choose a career in which you will be setting an example for others. Top offenders in this group are those who teach children. I realize I have high standards when it comes to this sort of thing, but I feel I’m justified here. If I had a dollar for every time I came across an improper usage of “your/you’re” by someone with a Ph.D., I could retire next summer.

on the eve of an era.

Today, in the news (CNN,  I think), I saw the phrase “inauguration eve” for the first time in my life. While accurate, I found it sort of, well, cute.

Eight years ago, I was seventeen. I was beginning to pay attention to politics. I was angry. I was disappointed. I couldn’t vote in the most recent election, not that it would have mattered. And George W. Bush was comparatively tame back then. But now, eight years, two presidential elections, countless fuckups, disasters, scandals, bodies, wasted dollars, ruined lives, and sleepless nights later, the tide is finally turning.

I want to be elaborate in this post – I want to list specific events, exact numbers, precise statistics. I want to use flowery speech and articulate my deepest feelings.  But I can’t. I don’t have the patience. I don’t have the heart  – or the stomach – to think about the past eight years and the damage done any longer.

I laugh a little at the hoopla surrounding the events of this January 20th. It’s a little excessive – but it’s so amazing, too. The collective spirit of the people is soaring. People are excited. People are paying attention. People actually have hope, after spending so much time in a desperate darkness.

I, along with millions of others the world over, am ready for the change to begin.

flotsam and jetsam of humanity.

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I obsessively collect bits of paper and orphaned photos. I consider them the most amazing, yet brief, insights into our world and the people in it. Sites such as Found Magazine and Passive Aggressive Notes are like porn for me. My fascination started with shopping lists. It quickly expanded into strange notes, receipts, photos, and various other things. I treasure these unusual scraps, and I always wonder what the explanations are.  Possibly one of the most inexplicable pieces I have  is this, found in a friend’s yard. It’s confusing and sad and wonderful all at once.

The Flickr set for my collection is here, and more will surely come.

scribo ergo sum.

In February, I will celebrate (or at least note) my fourth blogging anniversary. I remember when I first learned what a blog was – thanks to my old pal IndyGirl. I was blown away by, and completely foreign to, the concept. A website! Of one’s own! Where you write and put up pictures of things! And people leave you comments! How incredibly novel!

My blogs have gone through many phases and had many names. I’ve written about everything from my family to depression to childhood memories to politics to how completely not-funny I think Dane Cook is to how to make a flan. I’ve posted lots of photos and even more lists. I’ve gone on hiatus about six hundred times.

I think all bloggers, particularly the newer, greener (and I don’t mean eco-friendly) ones, really value and desire love from the blogging community, from the public. I know I did. It feels good to read comments, to see the amount of them climb, to check your stats and see how many people viewed you. Even if these people came to you via Google searches for such things as “crock of shit drawing,” “mutant women photos,” “happens in the bedroom at night,” and a particular favorite – “birthday wishes for older men.”

Someone recently tried to insult me by making a remark about how few people read my blog (as gauged by the amount of comments). It isn’t important who, or what context. What I actually found more insulting was the idea that it would be possible to offend me with this. As if my self-worth hinges on how many admirers I have on the Internet. At one point in my life, I’ll admit,  this might have been possible, it might have got me down for maybe a day. But not now. I don’t need veneration from the virtual world to feel good about myself or justify my writing. I know who my friends are, I know who reads my blog, and most of them don’t comment. And I don’t mind.

I’m not selling anything, I’m not trying to show off how mindblowingly awesome I am, I have no one to impress here. I write because I forget. I write because I like writing. I write to keep my writing skills honed, because I hold articulacy in very high regard. If I’m read, that’s great, that’s flattering. If not, I won’t suffer – and neither will my self-esteem.

“Those who write clearly have readers,
those who write obscurely have commentators.”

albert camus

curioser and curiouser.

This week, Kya has been very curious about Obama. She has asked me what foods he likes to eat, who does his grocery shopping, and why he has to live in a light house.

overheard #74

Kya: Mommy, I’m mad.
Me: Why’s that?
Kya: I’m just mad because… because… I hate Christmas.
Me: (barely able to stifle laughter) Christmas is over! Why are you talking about it now?
Kya: I just do! I just hate it! I like getting presents, but I don’t like Christmas.
Me: Okay, why?
Kya: Because! Because flowers don’t grow and you can’t wear skirts and it’s no fun.
Me: Oh, you mean you hate winter. Not Christmas.
Kya: Yeah. I hate winter. Just like Scotty does.

lots of things, but not carolina.

What’s been on my mind as of late:

  • The new Watchmen movie
  • Aphex Twin
  • Discovering that Wendy and Carnie Wilson are the daughters of Brian
  • Ways to soothe a teething baby
  • Yoga
  • Childhood nostalgia
  • Traveling to Colorado for a friend’s wedding
  • The story of Bobby Sands
  • Obnoxious people
  • Genetics
  • Blogging, or not blogging
  • This digital short from SNL