Generation Exhausted

The "h" is still silent

Sometimes I wonder if my annoyance at seemingly small things is a sign of getting old. I still subscribe to a generally "don't sweat the small stuff, water off a duck" way of thinking, but there are some things that just hit me like fingernails on a blackboard, and I find myself wondering if my annoyance is rational or not.

The entire time I was growing up, I listened to people mis-pronouce my last name, Divnich. The "h", you see, is silent. The name is pronounced "Div-nik". Rhymes with tick. But of course, on the first day of school, when they sat us all in the gym, and read our names from a class list, I would get "Div-nitch". Rhymes with rich. Or itch.

Which is reasonably understandable - the first time. Heck, even the tenth time.

But the first school I went to, I was there for four years. FOUR YEARS. And they would call "Div-nitch" and I would quietly say "Div-nik. The "h" is silent." And as the months passed, all of the teachers I encountered would get corrected (politely, of course), and pronounce it properly when taking attendance, and say it right at the end-of-year-awards, and call my mother and ask for "Mrs. Div-nik" when I got beat up after school.

And then the following September, the next year's teacher - who had been listening to my name pronounced properly for one, two, three years in all of those circumstances, would look at my name on a list and say "Div-nitch."

I normally don't correct people about the pronunciation of my name anymore if it's not someone with whom I'm going to have ongoing communication. The people who know me pronounce it right (and then they spell my married name, Haggert, wrong) , especially once they've heard my very own self pronouncing it on my voice mail or something. It's not an issue anymore, you know? And I seem to move in circles where the people are intelligent enough - or at least, listening - that they get it right sooner rather than later.

But today, it bothered me, and it wasn't even my name they were calling. (because, it's not always about me)

Every month, our school holds a Student-of-the-Month assembly, where a kid is chosen from every class as the best example of that month's designated character trait. The chosen kids, about 30 in all, are called forward one by one. Sometimes, there are additional kids' names called for things like team acknowledgment, etc.

So I sat in the assembly this morning. Now, we're a fairly cosmopolitan school in a large urban centre. An ethnic mosaic. In addition to the MacGregors and Jones, there are Lings and Mohammeds and Maillouxs, etc. Names that might be tough to pronounce at first glance, especially if you're a MacGragor rather than a Mohammed.

There's this one family that, like ours, has seen three kids go through that school. Two are still there, so, roughly, this is the eleventh year that the last name has been on the books. Eleven years of hearing this name at assemblies, over the announcements, on the playground. Eleven years of this last name being in various classrooms.

The first names of the two aren't easy either, but again, see ELEVEN years, above.

Both their names were called this morning, by a teacher who's been at the school five years. By a teacher who taught one of them, and coached another.

By a teacher who butchered the pronunciation of both their names, first and last, BOTH TIMES.

The first time, at least a dozen voices corrected her. And then she went right ahead and pronounced it wrong the second time anyway.

Three kids. Five years of teaching there. Two months into the school year. Reading a list that she was given Friday, plenty of time to ask the kid's homeroon teacher, "hey, how do you say this name?"

From my perspective, the teacher either isn't trying, or isn't listening, neither of which are excuseable.

We hear a lot about how hard it is to reach kids these days. How they don't pay attention, don't respect the classroom, etc. But I'll never forget the day I had to call a fifth grader up for a recognition. A kid I'd never met at that point, and I'm not a teacher there.  I checked with someone ahead of time, and that kid's eyes lit up when I called out "Xu" and pronounced it "Shu" without missing a beat. She thanked me for getting her name right, and for a year after, whenever I saw her in the hall, she made a point of saying hello.

Pronouncing a name properly seems like such a little thing, but who knows what kind of difference it would make?

Oh, ouch

One of the things I HAVE been doing is continuing to seek an agent for the novel I finished last spring.  About half the queries I've sent have resulted in a request for a partial, and three have read the full. Nothing but passes yet, but the ones who've read have had good things to say, and been very kind in their ultimate rejection.

Now, I'm also used to form rejections. They're a part of the biz. I understand their necessity. No problem there.

Today, I got a form rejection from an agent in response to an email query that had included the first four grafs. It was the standard "No reflection on your work, my plate is full, have to be very choosy, sorry there's no personal response, yada yada..." I'm a big girl. I can take it.

Except, the assistant that emailed the rejection hadn't bothered to delete the comments her boss (the agent) had originally made when forwarding the query to her.

So, underneath the rejection, we have the agent's very blunt "I think there's nothing really interesting about this..."

Ouch.

It's certainly not as bad as some of the horror stories I've heard about this kind of thing happening, but it stings. It's enough to make me wonder if the ones who said they laughed out loud, the ones who said they identified with the main character, the ones who said they liked the pacing...were lying, and didn't really think anything good, and were just being nice.

I'll get over it. Tomorrow will help - I'm going to see Diana Gabaldon! And Kim! And I'm wearing my funky new boots that make me look young and hip!

So there.

Things I want to do

There is this list of things I've been running around in my head for the last couple of months, things that I want to do. This isn't the BIG SIGNIFICANT list - it's not a list of things like work for world peace, or get rich and famous, or visit Ireland or clean the basement.

No, this is a list of little, realistically do-able things that I keep meaning to get around to, and never do. And the list gets longer, instead of shorter, and I look at the list (ok, I don't actually LOOK at it, I said it was in my head, didn't I?) and say, "I don't know what to do first!" So I do nothing. And then I feel like crap for doing nothing, absolutely nothing on this list, and then I think to myself, self, what the hell have you been DOING for the last ten months? Because you've gotten NOTHING done.

Here are some of the things on the list. This is the first time they've ever been written down, and maybe that will help.

1. I want to go through all the digital pictures my cousin in Quebec has sent me of her beautiful babies, and put a bunch on a CD and go get it printed out so that Grandma can have pictures to take to church and show off to her friends.

2. A very old friend of mine had a baby in July, and I never thought she'd have a baby, and I can't picture her with a baby, yet I know she will be a wonderful mother, and I want to write her a letter and tell her how wonderful it is that she had a baby and how being a mother is a phenomenal, fantastic, terrifying adventure full of amazing challenges that she will handle just fine.

3. I want to write the novel I started in May, because I know it will be the best thing I've ever written, if I ever get around to writing it. Because it's all there IN MY HEAD, and I just can't seem to get it out of my head and onto the page WHERE IT BELONGS.

4. I want to write this fantastic essay that's rattling around up there in my brain, has been for months, and send it to Reader's Digest, because I know they will love it, and I told the editor there so, and if it never materializes, her suspicion that I'm an unreliable lunatic will be confirmed.

5. I want to prepare and send a package to all the local schools offering my services as a speaker on a number of parenting topics.

6. I want to clean my office, with the vacuum and everything. And paint the door that serves as my desk, because it's getting all worn and chipped, and a good coat of Melamine paint would work wonders.

7. I want to scrapbook some of my Disney stuff from this year and LAST YEAR, because my Disney scrapbook that I got last year has a total of one finished page. ONE.

8. I want to start a neighbourhood book club with my very good friend.

To be fair to myself, I do stuff. Today, I sent three ideas in response to an Invitation to Query. And on Saturday I am going to Books & Breakfast with Diana Gabaldon in London. And Kim is going with me! And I will bring all six of Gabaldon's Outlander books with me, in the hope that she will sign them, and not think I'm a certifiable lunatic. (Ms. Gabaldon, not Kim. Kim knows I'm a lunatic. Yet she still talks to me.)

The list is longer than that, but you get the idea. Just a whole bunch of stuff I keep meaning to get around to, but never do.

When a butterfly flaps its wings in Malaysia

Apparently, it's all Wilma's fault that the Web site and ftp at work have been down since yesterday. Considering work is hundreds - thousands even - of miles from anywhere Wilma hit, that was pretty much unexpected.

Who knew? I'm not quite sure myself how it all fits together, but I'll go along with it. It sounds slightly more plausible than "cyber monkeys."

Today, I made cupcakes with the little one for her to take to the Girl Guide Halloween party. Not from scratch - dear god, no - but from a mix. I spent $9 on cake mix, frosting and Halloween gummy worms, when I could have bought already-made cupcakes from the bakery section for $2.99. But the little one wanted to make cupcakes, and I wanted to be Mother of the Yearrrr at least once. And I didn't burn them, either.

Except I think the only reason she wanted to make them, rather than buy them, was because she wanted to lick the beaters and the bowl. And I let her. But she had to let me have one of the beaters.

On Sunday, the criminal element hit my garage with their red magic markers. It's the first time I've been graffiti-ed, and I was not pleased. However, while I was scrubbing away, the neighbour brought me a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser, which I'd heard was a miracle cleaner, but never tried.

I am now converted. It cleaned the graffiti right up, easily. I had to buy one today, because I want to replace the one my neighbour gave me (it's the right thing to do) and since they come in packs of two, I now have one for myself. I find myself anxious to start cleaning. By the weekend, I may very well have erased the whole house.

Tomorrow's 6/49 jackpot is $40 million. Forty. Million. besides the obvious things, like pay bills, put money away for the kids, etc, here are some of the things I'd do with $40 million.

I'd donate $50k worth of playground equipment to the school. (then what would the parents' club fight about?)

I'd start a college scholarship for teenaged mothers.

I'd buy all new computers, including laptops for the teens.

Umm...huh. I don't know. I'd like to think that other than travelling, shopping, etc. and, you know, paying CASH for stuff like that, I wouldn't change a whole lot, but I suppose that's wishful thinking. $40 million is just too huge a sum to imagine. I'd settle for a million. Just enough to make a few dreams come true, but not so much that it would complicate life.

What would you do with $40 million?

Life Lesson #483

Note to self and others:

Do not invite your mother to come to an out-of-town booksigning with you, and then ruminate to The Internets that you might go spend the night at a friend's instead. Beware your own absent-mindedness.

Thus endeth the lesson.

I hate doing the Math

Number of years I've been a Diana Gabaldon fan: 5

Number of Gabaldon books I own: 6 (although two are currently missing and one is in tatters)

Number of times I've missed Diana Gabaldon's London, Ontario book-signing: at least 2

Number of times she's signed in Detroit: Unknown

Number of times she's signed in Windsor: 0 (because, as all Canadians know, the 401 stops at London)

Number of days until she's in London again: 6

Number of hours I'd have to drive to get there: 3 (two to get there, one to wander around town, because she's not at anyplace easy, you know, like Chapters on Wellington)

Time of day I'd have to wake up if I left that morning: 5. A. M. In the Morning.

Amount of sleeping space on the floor Kim can offer me if I go the night before: 12 inches by 48 inches

But Kim has already turned her furnace on, so that's a plus. Oh, what to do, what to do.

Thoughts?

Wouldn't it be easier to just fly South for the winter?

Lately, whenever I'm talking to anyone in real life - you know, as opposed to, on the Internets - the conversation inevitably turns to the winter ahead, and the dreaded heating bills. Along with Bird Flu and Impending Doom, we've all bought into the media's warnings that this year's heating costs will be astronomical. So, we trade ideas on how to keep the heat cheap.

I, for one, have resolved not to turn on the furnace until December the First. After all, I reason, last year Kim was without heat until nearly then, and she did fine. And she lives Up North. North of here, anyway.

So, we'll all hang heavy quilts on the basement windows. And wear sweaters. And block the drafts with rolled up towels. And keep the hot coffee brewing.

Now if Linda would just get going on the invention of those QWERTY gloves, I'd be all set.

Apparently, all I can write are trip reports

Day One is now posted over at the Disney blog. Check it out! And don't forget to comment!

Once again, it's all my fault

Yesterday, Older Daughter was doing some much overdue cleaning in her bedroom. It's amazing what kids will accomplish when you hold out Internet access as a reward. As she approaches sixteen, (good Lord, she can't be THAT old, can she?) we've agreed that she can have her computer connected again.

So she cleaned, and I inspected, and she cleaned some more, and I inspected again, and she went back to take care of cleaning under the bed.

We bought her a brand new double bed last year, complete with a shiny new bed frame.

A shiny new bed frame with sharp edges.

Raise your hand if you know where this is going.

The next thing I know, she's running upstairs with a finger gushing blood. Her shiny new bed frame had sliced the top of the knuckle on her index finger.  Hubby took one look and said, "Take her in."

The good thing is that we were in and out of ER in 45 minutes. The bad news is, she has three stitches and the entire world knows it's all my fault for making her clean her room in the first place.

Mother of the Yeeearrr. That's me.

Let the tale begin!

The first installment of our Disney Trip Report is up over at my Disney blog. Read and enjoy!