December 18, 2010
Have I ever mentioned how much Stephen hates getting up in the morning?
I mean really hates getting up.
This morning he has an exam at 9.00 am.
I forced him out of bed at 7.45.
As expected he is crabby, cranky. . .
Next term he teaches a class at 9.00 am on Wednesday and Friday.
Keith is taking another 8.30 class.
This means that 80% of the mornings, I am going to have to deal with an angry, crotchety, downrightpissedoff someone.
Stephen because he was forced out of bed before noon.
Keith because inevitably Emily will not be out of the house on time for him to arrive to his 8.30 class on time.
I think next term I will be up and out of the house by 6.30, on the bus no less, and the rest of them can fend for themselves.
I'll mop up the blood when I get home.
Somehow, someway, I suspect because of my tenacity and ability to ignore Stephen, we made it to work this morning in time for him to invigilating his last exam.
He even had breakfast.
Not the one I made for him.
Apparently it wasn't what he wanted.
Because he is obstinate, stubborn and overall petulant, ill-tempered, peevish and irritable.
I really need to pull in some favours to prevent him from having those 9.00 am exams.
The anxiety I experience isn't worth it.
And Stephen's bodily well being wavers precariously on a thin line every time I have to get him up before noon.
Recently via Facebook my friend Jolyne posted a comment about whether sociologists can bowl.
I don't know about other sociologists, but this one certainly can.
Okay, correction, could.
I'm certain I could propel a bowling ball down a bowling lane, but I'm no longer certain if the end result could be considered bowling.
From the age of 5-18, I bowled in the YBC. . .Youth Bowling Council.
Three times I became the provincial junior womens, and then senior womens champion.
Now, before you get all excited, oooohhhhing and aaawwwing, you should know that acquiring that title didn't exactly require a lot of skill.
All I had to do what beat my competitor, who was from the only other YBC bowling house in New Brunswick.
In what used to be called Chatham.
We would drive there, or they would come here, and we would have a bowl off.
Whoever won that bowl off was the provincial champion.
This caused problems, because in larger provinces, with more youth bowling houses, those people who made it to Nationals had to bowl against several people.
Meaning they were more competitive, had a lot more practice, and competed more than we did.
My dad, one year, was in charge of the YBC for NB.
And every.single.day. after school for months, he would pick me, and the other bowlers from the highschool, and we would bowl for at least two hours.
He was making sure what we lacking in competing, we made up for in practice.
I never won any gold, silver or bronze, but during my last year competing, I did come in fourth.
But it was never about medals for me.
It was about getting out of NB and seeing what went on in the rest of the world.
A lot went on in the rest of the world. . .or at least what I saw of it.
Believe me.
I had a lot of fond memories of these trips away from home.
I have a lot of trophies sitting in my basement.
Trophies I don't know what to do with.
Stephen wants to display them.
I.
Think.
Not.
Somehow I can't see how my 1980s bowling trophies would necessarily fit into our antique like living room decorating scheme.
And there is no where in the kitchen for them to sit and collect dust.
Stephen's man cave perhaps?
I am leaning towards donating them, but to whom or where is the real issue.
I competed in 5 pin.
When we bowl now, its usually 10 pin at Kingswood, and my muscles ache the next day.
And for a couple of days after that.
But I did have a lot of fun.
Made some friends.
Later had a child.
Known as Emily.
All because of bowling.
NO!
I did not have sex in a bowling alley.
The remainder of that story will come in January, specifically on January 21st.
Title Lyric: Let's Go Bowling by the Arrogant Worms
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Odds and ends, odds and ends. . .
December 17, 2010
Because I've been marking for the last several days, and will continue to do so for the next few days, there hasn't been much going on that's is necessarily blog worthy. But, I've tried to put together some odds and ends, if for no other reason than to be able to close my eyes at night knowing I've done something other than mark and calculate grades.
I really, really dislike marking.
Marking is like grocery shopping, taxes and housecleaning.
No matter how well you do it the first time, you still have to do it again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
End of the term marking is the worst.
All I do is eat, sleep, occasionally transport a child here or there, and mark.
Occassionally, if I have all the necessary information, I may actually calculate a grade.
I have final grades for some students, but until I have them for everyone in a course, I can't post anything.
And don't bother emailing me asking if you're one of the calculated grades because I'm not going to tell you.
I'll just delete your email.
The only redeeming element of marking is that Stephen has to do it, too.
So we do it together.
He sits at one side of the table, me at the other, and we mark.
Given how much time we actually get to spend together, marking together can almost be considered a date.
We started doing this together the first Christmas after we started dating.
Misery loves company, right?
Gripping, complaining, groaning, commiserating. . .it is so much better when you have company.
Plus Stephen has trouble with math, so I have to help him.
Me helping Stephen with math. . .
The kids find marking season somewhat stressful, as well.
I tend to get a little crabby when I'm marking.
And very focused.
Focused as in you can be standing next to me and talking and I will have no idea that you're there.
Or what you said.
Causing Em, on more than one occasion to stomp out of the kitchen in frustration.
Tikka almost shredded my pants this afternoon before I realized she was pawing at me because she had to poop.
I wish I could say I was mesmerized by the outstanding and Pulitzer prize like writing of my students.
It's more I concentrating so hard trying to understand what they're writing that my brain literally blocks out everything.
There is only so much your brain should be made to do at one time.
So this evening, while Stephen was giving his exam. . .
Yes, an exam on a Friday evening from 7-10. Only to be outdone by his 9-noon exam tomorrow morning.
As in Saturday morning.
. . .I decided to shake things up a little and instead of marking, I read through my manuscript, making the last of the edits I am going to make.
And I do mean the last.
Putting in ampersands where they need to be, making certain periods, commas and various other punctuation marks are included or removed, that there is the appropriate spacing between quotes and text, that I haven't, again, improperly used elliptical dots, that the little red, wavy lines so generously provided by Microsoft Word are genuine mistakes and not my insistence to spell words like labour and flavour properly. . .
Tomorrow morning I will, hopefully, dot all the "i"s and cross all the "t"s and send the manuscript to the publisher.
And like grading, grocery shopping, taxes and housecleaning, book writing is something I'll have to do again.
I live such a wild and crazy life.
I was driving past the construction site for the latest sports center Fredericton can't afford. . . I think it's called The Grant Harvey Center, or something like that.
I don't really care, given that it cuts straight through the UNB Woodlot, causing significant environmental and ecological damage.
What I did find interesting was the name of the construction company engaging in this natural destruction.
Foulem Construction.
If it wasn't so ironic, it would almost be funny.
Title Lyric: Odds and Ends by Bob Dylan
Because I've been marking for the last several days, and will continue to do so for the next few days, there hasn't been much going on that's is necessarily blog worthy. But, I've tried to put together some odds and ends, if for no other reason than to be able to close my eyes at night knowing I've done something other than mark and calculate grades.
I really, really dislike marking.
Marking is like grocery shopping, taxes and housecleaning.
No matter how well you do it the first time, you still have to do it again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
End of the term marking is the worst.
All I do is eat, sleep, occasionally transport a child here or there, and mark.
Occassionally, if I have all the necessary information, I may actually calculate a grade.
I have final grades for some students, but until I have them for everyone in a course, I can't post anything.
And don't bother emailing me asking if you're one of the calculated grades because I'm not going to tell you.
I'll just delete your email.
The only redeeming element of marking is that Stephen has to do it, too.
So we do it together.
He sits at one side of the table, me at the other, and we mark.
Given how much time we actually get to spend together, marking together can almost be considered a date.
We started doing this together the first Christmas after we started dating.
Misery loves company, right?
Gripping, complaining, groaning, commiserating. . .it is so much better when you have company.
Plus Stephen has trouble with math, so I have to help him.
Me helping Stephen with math. . .
The kids find marking season somewhat stressful, as well.
I tend to get a little crabby when I'm marking.
And very focused.
Focused as in you can be standing next to me and talking and I will have no idea that you're there.
Or what you said.
Causing Em, on more than one occasion to stomp out of the kitchen in frustration.
Tikka almost shredded my pants this afternoon before I realized she was pawing at me because she had to poop.
I wish I could say I was mesmerized by the outstanding and Pulitzer prize like writing of my students.
It's more I concentrating so hard trying to understand what they're writing that my brain literally blocks out everything.
There is only so much your brain should be made to do at one time.
So this evening, while Stephen was giving his exam. . .
Yes, an exam on a Friday evening from 7-10. Only to be outdone by his 9-noon exam tomorrow morning.
As in Saturday morning.
. . .I decided to shake things up a little and instead of marking, I read through my manuscript, making the last of the edits I am going to make.
And I do mean the last.
Putting in ampersands where they need to be, making certain periods, commas and various other punctuation marks are included or removed, that there is the appropriate spacing between quotes and text, that I haven't, again, improperly used elliptical dots, that the little red, wavy lines so generously provided by Microsoft Word are genuine mistakes and not my insistence to spell words like labour and flavour properly. . .
Tomorrow morning I will, hopefully, dot all the "i"s and cross all the "t"s and send the manuscript to the publisher.
And like grading, grocery shopping, taxes and housecleaning, book writing is something I'll have to do again.
I live such a wild and crazy life.
I was driving past the construction site for the latest sports center Fredericton can't afford. . . I think it's called The Grant Harvey Center, or something like that.
I don't really care, given that it cuts straight through the UNB Woodlot, causing significant environmental and ecological damage.
What I did find interesting was the name of the construction company engaging in this natural destruction.
Foulem Construction.
If it wasn't so ironic, it would almost be funny.
Title Lyric: Odds and Ends by Bob Dylan
Thursday, December 16, 2010
All the lights are shining, so brightly everywhere, and the sound of children's laughter fills the air. . . .
December 16, 2010
Now that I have finished teaching, the panic that normally ensues each and every morning in my attempt to get Emily to school on time has vanished.
Meaning Em is late for school.
But that isn't my problem.
I still get her up at 6.00 am, and get her up again at 6.30 and then start reminding her of the time by 8.00 am, but other than that, she's on her own.
Which is the reason it is now 8.27 and she still isn't ready to go.
But I am.
Zebra stripped flannel jammies and all.
Some mornings she does make the attempt to be on time.
Yesterday for example.
I return home, settle in at the kitchen table with my sharpened pencils, stacks of paper and jazz via cbc online, when I get a phone call.
Screening phone calls is a must.
And then I hear,
"MUM! I know you're there! Answer the phone, it's an EMERGENCY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Who could resist?
And an emergency it was, indeed.
Em was presenting her Bollywood project in her World Music class.
She remembered everything, including our dvd of Slumdog Millionaire.
Or, rather, the dvd case for Slumdog Millionaire.
The actual dvd was still in my laptop because she was watching it the other evening.
After she explains her trauma to me, I ask her one important question:
"Do I have to put pants on?"
Em: Yes Mum. I can't come out to the car. You have to bring it to me.
Translation: Mum, don't you even THINK of coming in here, to my highschool, where I fight for purchase in a hormonally charged jungle of fads and one-up-man-ship, where every day my life in on the social ladder line and I am just barely able to maintain my position as sort of cool kid who seems a little offputting, and all my hard work will be for naught if YOU show up to my CLASSROOM wearing your zebra striped flannel pajamas!
Pants it was then.
Again, I haul myself out of the house to take Em her dvd.
And when I get there, she is happy to see me, or, more likely, happy to see that I was indeed wearing pants, AND I had brushed my hair.
Some of her friends, the ones I've been allowed to meet, are in this class, so as soon as my face shows up in the window, they start waving.
I bet they would have thought my zebra striped flannel jammies were cool.
When I walked into the music hallway of FHS to give Em her dvd I was greeted with an unusal sight.
Scads of elementary school children lined up in the music hallway.
Seeing my puzzled look, a teacher walks by and says, "Preistman Street Christmas concert rehersals.
Ah.
Yes.
I remember those days.
The elementary school Christmas concerts.
A highlight of every Christmas season.
With three children, I have attended many a Christmas concert.
Leaving work early, or finding someone to cover an exam, only to arrive with a 10 km vicinity of the school because there was never any parking.
I swear there were mothers who, at 8.30, dropped their kids off to the classroom and then just went to the gym to ensure front row seats.
Not me.
By the time I got there, I usually had to stand in the back because there were no seats left.
There may have been a couple of times, before Em started school, when I arrived early enough to get a seat.
Only to have to try and explain to Em, again, how come she couldn't go to school.
Now I spend my morning explaining to her how come she has to go to school.
Meredyth was always entertaining when she found herself on stage.
She LOVED it.
Her first Christmas concert was actually when she attend a pre-school a couple of days a week when we lived in Hamilton.
All dressed up, red velvet dress, white tights, black Mary Janes, she's on the stage singing her little heart out, when, mid song she jumps off the stage, runs over to me and her grandmother and announces to all in her loudest outdoor voice that she has to POOP. NOW!
Another year, after we moved back to Fredericton and she was in elementary school, right after the class had finished their song, the boy beside Meredyth leaned over to kiss her.
She promptly pushed him off the stage.
In front of the entire audience.
He was the son of my professor at the time.
I had this professor every morning, 5 days a week, at 8.30.
We never spoke of it.
Keith was interesting.
He didn't like at all the idea of getting on stage in front of a bunch of parents to stand still, let alone sing anything.
All the children would come onto the stage, take their place, smile and wave at their parents, who were smiling at waving from the audience to let their child know that yes, they were there, in case there were any questions later. . .
. . .and Keith stood there, rock still.
Terrified.
He acknowledged me with a weak smile and an almost imperceptible wave.
As if he feared forgetting the entire reason he was out there had he done anything more.
Anything that would have broken his concentration.
I swear I could see a sheen of sweat glistening on his upper lip.
And that was just when he had to go out, stand still, and sing.
The year he had to go out there wearing the apron I had paid a classmate to make for me for grade 8 Home Ec, the blue apron with the small pink and yellow flowers no less, just about caused him to become catatonic.
But the best was his last year in elementary school.
He had a wonderful, energetic, charismatic teacher, who made Keith do something I was never able to get Keith to do.
And still can't.
Unless he is under the influence.
He had to dance.
And sing.
At the same time.
He was virtually apoplectic in the days leading up to this performance.
But when he came out on stage, he looked straight at his teacher, never breaking eye contact, until the entire charade was over and he was able to leave the gym.
He spent the remainder of the day sitting in his desk, rocking back and forth muttering, "I can't believe he made me dance. I can't believe he made me dance" over and over again.
This went on for a couple of days until he snapped out of it, and proclaimed he would NEVER engage in such activities again.
Hmmmm. . . .he should have added until he was 19 and attending parties at university residences.
Emily never shared Meredyth's enthusiasm for, nor Keith's fear of the Christmas concert.
She just plain didn't want to do
And couldn't understand how come she had to if she didn't want to.
And much like her one and only Bonnie Kilburn dance recital, she would stand on stage, singing, and looking as pissed off about the entire thing as she possibly could.
All the other kids were smiles and waves, but Em stood on that stage as stiff as a board.
She would give me the "You have no idea how pissed off I am about being up here, again" wave, do her schtick and get out of there.
She never wanted to dress up.
In fact, she would actively scheme to wear her oldest, rattiest looking play clothes.
Until I intervened and said she either dressed nicely on her own, or I would dress her nicely.
And I believe she, too, had to wear the blue apron with the pink and yellow flowers.
But I don't think it scarred her as much as it did Keith.
I still carry the battle scars of the elementary school Christmas concerts.
And miss going to them.
Very much.
When I mentioned to the kids that maybe I would go to one, they said that would be creepy given that I have no children of my own performing.
Like stalker creepy.
But I miss the kindergarteners.
Free and unsure of what they're doing.
Watching the teacher attempt to just get them in their spots is a little like sheep herding.
And you never know when one of them is going to burst into tears, push someone off the stage, or, my favourite, the one kid who doesn't so much sing as scream at the top of his or her lungs.
Ahhhh, memories. . .
Title Lyric: All I Want for Christmas by Mariah Carey
Now that I have finished teaching, the panic that normally ensues each and every morning in my attempt to get Emily to school on time has vanished.
Meaning Em is late for school.
But that isn't my problem.
I still get her up at 6.00 am, and get her up again at 6.30 and then start reminding her of the time by 8.00 am, but other than that, she's on her own.
Which is the reason it is now 8.27 and she still isn't ready to go.
But I am.
Zebra stripped flannel jammies and all.
Some mornings she does make the attempt to be on time.
Yesterday for example.
I return home, settle in at the kitchen table with my sharpened pencils, stacks of paper and jazz via cbc online, when I get a phone call.
Screening phone calls is a must.
And then I hear,
"MUM! I know you're there! Answer the phone, it's an EMERGENCY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Who could resist?
And an emergency it was, indeed.
Em was presenting her Bollywood project in her World Music class.
She remembered everything, including our dvd of Slumdog Millionaire.
Or, rather, the dvd case for Slumdog Millionaire.
The actual dvd was still in my laptop because she was watching it the other evening.
After she explains her trauma to me, I ask her one important question:
"Do I have to put pants on?"
Em: Yes Mum. I can't come out to the car. You have to bring it to me.
Translation: Mum, don't you even THINK of coming in here, to my highschool, where I fight for purchase in a hormonally charged jungle of fads and one-up-man-ship, where every day my life in on the social ladder line and I am just barely able to maintain my position as sort of cool kid who seems a little offputting, and all my hard work will be for naught if YOU show up to my CLASSROOM wearing your zebra striped flannel pajamas!
Pants it was then.
Again, I haul myself out of the house to take Em her dvd.
And when I get there, she is happy to see me, or, more likely, happy to see that I was indeed wearing pants, AND I had brushed my hair.
Some of her friends, the ones I've been allowed to meet, are in this class, so as soon as my face shows up in the window, they start waving.
I bet they would have thought my zebra striped flannel jammies were cool.
When I walked into the music hallway of FHS to give Em her dvd I was greeted with an unusal sight.
Scads of elementary school children lined up in the music hallway.
Seeing my puzzled look, a teacher walks by and says, "Preistman Street Christmas concert rehersals.
Ah.
Yes.
I remember those days.
The elementary school Christmas concerts.
A highlight of every Christmas season.
With three children, I have attended many a Christmas concert.
Leaving work early, or finding someone to cover an exam, only to arrive with a 10 km vicinity of the school because there was never any parking.
I swear there were mothers who, at 8.30, dropped their kids off to the classroom and then just went to the gym to ensure front row seats.
Not me.
By the time I got there, I usually had to stand in the back because there were no seats left.
There may have been a couple of times, before Em started school, when I arrived early enough to get a seat.
Only to have to try and explain to Em, again, how come she couldn't go to school.
Now I spend my morning explaining to her how come she has to go to school.
Meredyth was always entertaining when she found herself on stage.
She LOVED it.
Her first Christmas concert was actually when she attend a pre-school a couple of days a week when we lived in Hamilton.
All dressed up, red velvet dress, white tights, black Mary Janes, she's on the stage singing her little heart out, when, mid song she jumps off the stage, runs over to me and her grandmother and announces to all in her loudest outdoor voice that she has to POOP. NOW!
Another year, after we moved back to Fredericton and she was in elementary school, right after the class had finished their song, the boy beside Meredyth leaned over to kiss her.
She promptly pushed him off the stage.
In front of the entire audience.
He was the son of my professor at the time.
I had this professor every morning, 5 days a week, at 8.30.
We never spoke of it.
Keith was interesting.
He didn't like at all the idea of getting on stage in front of a bunch of parents to stand still, let alone sing anything.
All the children would come onto the stage, take their place, smile and wave at their parents, who were smiling at waving from the audience to let their child know that yes, they were there, in case there were any questions later. . .
. . .and Keith stood there, rock still.
Terrified.
He acknowledged me with a weak smile and an almost imperceptible wave.
As if he feared forgetting the entire reason he was out there had he done anything more.
Anything that would have broken his concentration.
I swear I could see a sheen of sweat glistening on his upper lip.
And that was just when he had to go out, stand still, and sing.
The year he had to go out there wearing the apron I had paid a classmate to make for me for grade 8 Home Ec, the blue apron with the small pink and yellow flowers no less, just about caused him to become catatonic.
But the best was his last year in elementary school.
He had a wonderful, energetic, charismatic teacher, who made Keith do something I was never able to get Keith to do.
And still can't.
Unless he is under the influence.
He had to dance.
And sing.
At the same time.
He was virtually apoplectic in the days leading up to this performance.
But when he came out on stage, he looked straight at his teacher, never breaking eye contact, until the entire charade was over and he was able to leave the gym.
He spent the remainder of the day sitting in his desk, rocking back and forth muttering, "I can't believe he made me dance. I can't believe he made me dance" over and over again.
This went on for a couple of days until he snapped out of it, and proclaimed he would NEVER engage in such activities again.
Hmmmm. . . .he should have added until he was 19 and attending parties at university residences.
Emily never shared Meredyth's enthusiasm for, nor Keith's fear of the Christmas concert.
She just plain didn't want to do
And couldn't understand how come she had to if she didn't want to.
And much like her one and only Bonnie Kilburn dance recital, she would stand on stage, singing, and looking as pissed off about the entire thing as she possibly could.
All the other kids were smiles and waves, but Em stood on that stage as stiff as a board.
She would give me the "You have no idea how pissed off I am about being up here, again" wave, do her schtick and get out of there.
She never wanted to dress up.
In fact, she would actively scheme to wear her oldest, rattiest looking play clothes.
Until I intervened and said she either dressed nicely on her own, or I would dress her nicely.
And I believe she, too, had to wear the blue apron with the pink and yellow flowers.
But I don't think it scarred her as much as it did Keith.
I still carry the battle scars of the elementary school Christmas concerts.
And miss going to them.
Very much.
When I mentioned to the kids that maybe I would go to one, they said that would be creepy given that I have no children of my own performing.
Like stalker creepy.
But I miss the kindergarteners.
Free and unsure of what they're doing.
Watching the teacher attempt to just get them in their spots is a little like sheep herding.
And you never know when one of them is going to burst into tears, push someone off the stage, or, my favourite, the one kid who doesn't so much sing as scream at the top of his or her lungs.
Ahhhh, memories. . .
Title Lyric: All I Want for Christmas by Mariah Carey
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
The wire's hot, the lights are red. . .
December 15, 2010
Yesterday, I gave my one and only Christmas exam.
CRIM 2103: Introduction to Qualitative Research Methods in Criminology.
I know how students feel about writing exams.
Because I remember very clearly how I felt about taking them.
In fact, when I wrote the exam for the Sociology equivalent of this course, at Christmas time no less, I was 8 months pregnant for Emily.
The exam was held in the Ted Daigle auditorium.
But not the TD auditorium you currently know and love.
The 1.0 version. . .complete with teeny tiny postage stamp sized desks made for women who were no more than a size 2 and wooden seats.
If memory serves, I wrote the exam sitting in one seat and using the table beside me.
Because MY little postage stamp sized table rested at an almost 90 degree angle when resting against the ever growing Emily.
By far it was the most uncomfortable exam I ever had to sit through.
So uncomfortable that I actually left without finishing it.
Afterwards, the professor asked why I didn't write at a normal sized desk on the stage.
A caring and wonderful thought.
But I was already feeling like the Grand Spectacle and didn't think a stage presence would make me feel any better about being, at that time, the only pregnant woman on campus, who already had two children, no husband and more issues than Playboy magazine.
My grade for the course was a B.
Now I teach this course.
So, while sitting in a class room with table and chairs, watching my students write their exam, it was hard to for me to feel a lot of sympathy for their plight.
And I saw a lot of plight stricken faces struggling to figure out how the hell to write this exam.
Which was odd considering I told them that everything, both theoretical and practical would be on the exam.
But at least none of them were 8 months pregnant.
Unless someone was hiding something.
I actually don't like giving exams.
And I sure as hell don't like marking them.
But I've yet to figure out a better way.
I sit there, watching the students.
I eat.
Drink tea.
Am bored out of my skull.
I did some marking yesterday, but I find it hard to concentrate.
So imagine my happiness when I was able to leave, return home, and bask in the glory of being nestled at my kitchen table, laptop in front of me, all my missed tv programes queued and ready for watching, papers stacked practically to the ceiling. . . .
And then the phone rang.
My brother, in an obvious state of upset.
My brother had two beautiful dogs, Namaste
Geronimo.
Geronimo took it upon himself yesterday to see what would happen if you were to chew through an extension cord.
A jolt of electricity is what happened.
He electrocuted himself.
And, naturally, experienced the requisite repercussions.
My brother provides all the details here:
http://really-deep-rest.blogspot.com/2010/12/shocking-isnt-it.html?spref=fb
And remember, he is currently carless.
Stephen and I make the usual hour drive in 45 minutes.
Me, I sit in the passenger seat.
Again.
But, once sure we were headed in the right direction, I promptly put the seat back, my Ontario purchased car pillow behind my head, and fell asleep, only to wake up when we were practically pulling into my brother's driveway.
Now that is a road trip.
The Goddess of Good Luck, who thus far hasn't even been aware of my brother's existence, or so it would seem, shined upon him, for the moment we walked into his front door, it was clear that Geronimo had come out of his state shock in one peice.
Jumping, peeing, pooping, kissing Mummy Dawne. . .all was right with the world.
And Namaste was just as excited to see us. . .I never thought there would be a dog who kissed more than Jer and Kat's dear Mouin (RIP baby girl) but Nam is may actually have surpassed Moo.
As all was, very thankfully, well in the canine world, Stephen took Jer for supplies, including a new extension cord, and I remained with the poochies for some long overdue Mummy Dawne lovin'.
You can only imagine the reaction of my two canine companions when we arrived home.
Frankie sniffed, and sniffed some more, and then gave me a look that could only possibly say one thing:
You tramp!!!!!! You harlot!!!!!!!! What are their names!!!!!!!!!????????
Tikka, on the other hand, sniffed me up and down and looked at me as if to say, "How's Uncle and when is he coming to visit me????
Again, I was forbidden from driving home, but as it was still light out when we left, it would seem that my calm, serene, gentle, and always-oh-so-careful Stephen John may have a touch of rural road race car driver in him.
He was careening through these rural roads, making race car driver turns. . .
I was amazed, shocked, somewhat terrified, and awestruck all at the same time.
Who knew?
Which makes me wonder what other deep, dark secrets, passions even (rawrrrr) lurk beneath that Clark Kent facade.
By the time we arrived home and were subjected to the canine version of the US airport pat down, had supper (salad and chicken breast. .so not the heroes welcome home dinner of pizza I was pining for) I had nothing left.
Nada.
Brandy and Billy the Exterminator was all I was able to manage until I felt it was a respectable time to go to bed.
8.00 pm.
And now, here I sit, another day, the same ceiling high pile of marking waiting for me, watching Em eat her breakfast cereal while Reilley sits beside her watching every spoonful of milk and cereal move from bowl to mouth, waiting for the opportune moment to stick hit feet into her bowl, as Em pines for her cell phone.
Hoping that some kind hearted high school student returned it to the office.
And if not, wondering where she'll get the money for a new phone.
All things being equal, I am hoping that the only eventful thing that happens today is me sitting at the kitchen table marking all day while yelling at Stephen to sit here and mark with me.
Cause misery loves company.
Or, when I take all the exams and papers outside on the street and light them aflame with my neighbour's blow torch.
Title Lyric: Electrocution by Nada Surf
Yesterday, I gave my one and only Christmas exam.
CRIM 2103: Introduction to Qualitative Research Methods in Criminology.
I know how students feel about writing exams.
Because I remember very clearly how I felt about taking them.
In fact, when I wrote the exam for the Sociology equivalent of this course, at Christmas time no less, I was 8 months pregnant for Emily.
The exam was held in the Ted Daigle auditorium.
But not the TD auditorium you currently know and love.
The 1.0 version. . .complete with teeny tiny postage stamp sized desks made for women who were no more than a size 2 and wooden seats.
If memory serves, I wrote the exam sitting in one seat and using the table beside me.
Because MY little postage stamp sized table rested at an almost 90 degree angle when resting against the ever growing Emily.
By far it was the most uncomfortable exam I ever had to sit through.
So uncomfortable that I actually left without finishing it.
Afterwards, the professor asked why I didn't write at a normal sized desk on the stage.
A caring and wonderful thought.
But I was already feeling like the Grand Spectacle and didn't think a stage presence would make me feel any better about being, at that time, the only pregnant woman on campus, who already had two children, no husband and more issues than Playboy magazine.
My grade for the course was a B.
Now I teach this course.
So, while sitting in a class room with table and chairs, watching my students write their exam, it was hard to for me to feel a lot of sympathy for their plight.
And I saw a lot of plight stricken faces struggling to figure out how the hell to write this exam.
Which was odd considering I told them that everything, both theoretical and practical would be on the exam.
But at least none of them were 8 months pregnant.
Unless someone was hiding something.
I actually don't like giving exams.
And I sure as hell don't like marking them.
But I've yet to figure out a better way.
I sit there, watching the students.
I eat.
Drink tea.
Am bored out of my skull.
I did some marking yesterday, but I find it hard to concentrate.
So imagine my happiness when I was able to leave, return home, and bask in the glory of being nestled at my kitchen table, laptop in front of me, all my missed tv programes queued and ready for watching, papers stacked practically to the ceiling. . . .
And then the phone rang.
My brother, in an obvious state of upset.
My brother had two beautiful dogs, Namaste
Geronimo.
Geronimo took it upon himself yesterday to see what would happen if you were to chew through an extension cord.
A jolt of electricity is what happened.
He electrocuted himself.
And, naturally, experienced the requisite repercussions.
My brother provides all the details here:
http://really-deep-rest.blogspot.com/2010/12/shocking-isnt-it.html?spref=fb
And remember, he is currently carless.
Stephen and I make the usual hour drive in 45 minutes.
Me, I sit in the passenger seat.
Again.
But, once sure we were headed in the right direction, I promptly put the seat back, my Ontario purchased car pillow behind my head, and fell asleep, only to wake up when we were practically pulling into my brother's driveway.
Now that is a road trip.
The Goddess of Good Luck, who thus far hasn't even been aware of my brother's existence, or so it would seem, shined upon him, for the moment we walked into his front door, it was clear that Geronimo had come out of his state shock in one peice.
Jumping, peeing, pooping, kissing Mummy Dawne. . .all was right with the world.
And Namaste was just as excited to see us. . .I never thought there would be a dog who kissed more than Jer and Kat's dear Mouin (RIP baby girl) but Nam is may actually have surpassed Moo.
As all was, very thankfully, well in the canine world, Stephen took Jer for supplies, including a new extension cord, and I remained with the poochies for some long overdue Mummy Dawne lovin'.
You can only imagine the reaction of my two canine companions when we arrived home.
Frankie sniffed, and sniffed some more, and then gave me a look that could only possibly say one thing:
You tramp!!!!!! You harlot!!!!!!!! What are their names!!!!!!!!!????????
Tikka, on the other hand, sniffed me up and down and looked at me as if to say, "How's Uncle and when is he coming to visit me????
Again, I was forbidden from driving home, but as it was still light out when we left, it would seem that my calm, serene, gentle, and always-oh-so-careful Stephen John may have a touch of rural road race car driver in him.
He was careening through these rural roads, making race car driver turns. . .
I was amazed, shocked, somewhat terrified, and awestruck all at the same time.
Who knew?
Which makes me wonder what other deep, dark secrets, passions even (rawrrrr) lurk beneath that Clark Kent facade.
By the time we arrived home and were subjected to the canine version of the US airport pat down, had supper (salad and chicken breast. .so not the heroes welcome home dinner of pizza I was pining for) I had nothing left.
Nada.
Brandy and Billy the Exterminator was all I was able to manage until I felt it was a respectable time to go to bed.
8.00 pm.
And now, here I sit, another day, the same ceiling high pile of marking waiting for me, watching Em eat her breakfast cereal while Reilley sits beside her watching every spoonful of milk and cereal move from bowl to mouth, waiting for the opportune moment to stick hit feet into her bowl, as Em pines for her cell phone.
Hoping that some kind hearted high school student returned it to the office.
And if not, wondering where she'll get the money for a new phone.
All things being equal, I am hoping that the only eventful thing that happens today is me sitting at the kitchen table marking all day while yelling at Stephen to sit here and mark with me.
Cause misery loves company.
Or, when I take all the exams and papers outside on the street and light them aflame with my neighbour's blow torch.
Title Lyric: Electrocution by Nada Surf
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Always been a storm. . .
December 14, 2010
Speedboat, anyone? Row boat?
If not, an ark would be more than welcome.
But please, no canoes.
I've seen some wild and wacky weather, but yesterday's monsoon was something else.
Rain in sheets.
Thunder and lightening in December.
Umbrellas making people airborne because they certainly weren't keeping anyone dry.
Sidewalk travellers soaked from roadside lakes cum tidal waves created by the sadistic drivers who wanted to see the splash.
When we retrieved Em from the highschool yesterday, I thought perhaps a kid pick up drive thru had been established.
Cars were lined up on Prospect Street like coffee addicts waiting for their morning Timmies.
Teachers tossing students into cars filled with anxious parents hoping that whatever saturated child ends up in their vehicle is actually their own.
Or at least a better one.
This morning, the city has enacted Emergency Measures.
But these measures apparently do not extend to the universities, therefore, I have to go to work and give my Introduction to Qualitative Research Methods exam.
While we live at the top of a hill, we have to travel to the bottom of the hill and then up another hill in order to get to the university.
Given the school and road closures, I have to leave early to get to work on time to give my 9.00 am exam.
And to make sure Keith gets to his 9.00 am exam.
Because if I have to be miserable, it's only right that someone else, preferably one to whom I have given birth, share in that misery.
While Em lounges in the luxury of having school closed, nestled warm and snug in her bed, Reilly purring loudly beside her equally pleased that she will be home with today.
And it doesn't take a brain surgeon, or someone with a 200 IQ to figure out where Stephen is at 7.25 am.
The world can be very cruel.
Yesterday, in the panic to get from the school to the car with minimal soaking, Em misplaced her cell phone.
Panic ensued.
There is nothing to cause panic faster in a teenaged girl than the loss of her cell phone.
To not be able to talk to those people with whom she just spent the entire day causes calamity of catastrophic proportions.
I suspose it isn't much different than when I was a teenager.
More than one afternoon, after getting off the school bus, I wiled away the hours between after school and supper lying on the floor of my father's in house man cave, talking on the phone to my friends.
The friends I had just left.
Because who knew what would happen on the bus from Oromocto to Geary that would HAVE to be shared with my other hormonally charged teenaged girl friends?
The difference is that my parents KNEW I was on the phone.
Mostly because they were trying to get through with some direction or other regarding dinner, or unloading the dishwasher, or repointing the chimney. . .something small and easy to do.
Unless my mother had left one of her infamous directives written on paper towel.
In a house full of paper, we always looked for the orders for the day on paper towel.
I'll have to ask her about this when I see her Saturday.
My kids, because of cell phones and texting, can communicate with one another without me even being aware of it.
All of a sudden, one of them will appear in the kitchen, (because in spite of it being 2010 I still spend most of my time in the kitchen) to tell me they're going somewhere or other.
Having been brought up in a pre-cellphone era, I still say things like, "But I didn't hear the phone."
They just roll their eyes at me.
Shake their heads.
And start surfing on their in phone internet for a nursing home.
For now.
Because clearly my competence is depleting if I can't remember that they have almost telekinetic, mindreading powers thanks to their cell phones.
Poor Em.
She took the car apart in the driveway, hoping desperately that her phone had fallen into some small crack or crevice heretofore unknown to us.
Tires tossed on the rain saturated front lawn.
Engine torn apart, parts scattered hither and yon.
Birds and small woodland creatures snug on the front and back seats.
I think a couple of squirrels were rolling the steering wheel down our court.
But alas, no cell phone materialized.
We even went back to the highschool, in monsoon like weather conditions to search for her phone.
Attached to the top of our car, a spot light powerful enough to alert alien life forms of our presence on Earth.
And completely drying out the sopping sidewalks and rain permeated pavement.
Still no cell phone.
Hope: some kind hearted highschooler found her phone and took it to the office.
Reality: some smart ass highschooler has Em's phone and is wracking up charges that will break the bank.
Or a bus ran over it.
And what's left of my small, almost invisible, thread of sanity.
My cell phone shit storm has now been extended to include my children.
In spite of having two stressful weeks, weeks that could have resulted in me not falling off the wagon but hurling myself off it with reckless abandon into a vat of peanut butter M&Ms, I managed to lose another 5.4 pounds, bringing the total to 22 pounds lost, never to return again.
Ever.
Christmas will be a carrot walk compared to the past two weeks.
Between students, kids, husbands, I could have easily consumed enough sugar and carbs to sink a battle ship.
But I didn't.
I am, however, working on how to make grapefruits taste like pb M&Ms.
I think it'll be a best seller.
Title Lyric: Storm by Fleetwood Mac
Speedboat, anyone? Row boat?
If not, an ark would be more than welcome.
But please, no canoes.
I've seen some wild and wacky weather, but yesterday's monsoon was something else.
Rain in sheets.
Thunder and lightening in December.
Umbrellas making people airborne because they certainly weren't keeping anyone dry.
Sidewalk travellers soaked from roadside lakes cum tidal waves created by the sadistic drivers who wanted to see the splash.
When we retrieved Em from the highschool yesterday, I thought perhaps a kid pick up drive thru had been established.
Cars were lined up on Prospect Street like coffee addicts waiting for their morning Timmies.
Teachers tossing students into cars filled with anxious parents hoping that whatever saturated child ends up in their vehicle is actually their own.
Or at least a better one.
This morning, the city has enacted Emergency Measures.
But these measures apparently do not extend to the universities, therefore, I have to go to work and give my Introduction to Qualitative Research Methods exam.
While we live at the top of a hill, we have to travel to the bottom of the hill and then up another hill in order to get to the university.
Given the school and road closures, I have to leave early to get to work on time to give my 9.00 am exam.
And to make sure Keith gets to his 9.00 am exam.
Because if I have to be miserable, it's only right that someone else, preferably one to whom I have given birth, share in that misery.
While Em lounges in the luxury of having school closed, nestled warm and snug in her bed, Reilly purring loudly beside her equally pleased that she will be home with today.
And it doesn't take a brain surgeon, or someone with a 200 IQ to figure out where Stephen is at 7.25 am.
The world can be very cruel.
Yesterday, in the panic to get from the school to the car with minimal soaking, Em misplaced her cell phone.
Panic ensued.
There is nothing to cause panic faster in a teenaged girl than the loss of her cell phone.
To not be able to talk to those people with whom she just spent the entire day causes calamity of catastrophic proportions.
I suspose it isn't much different than when I was a teenager.
More than one afternoon, after getting off the school bus, I wiled away the hours between after school and supper lying on the floor of my father's in house man cave, talking on the phone to my friends.
The friends I had just left.
Because who knew what would happen on the bus from Oromocto to Geary that would HAVE to be shared with my other hormonally charged teenaged girl friends?
The difference is that my parents KNEW I was on the phone.
Mostly because they were trying to get through with some direction or other regarding dinner, or unloading the dishwasher, or repointing the chimney. . .something small and easy to do.
Unless my mother had left one of her infamous directives written on paper towel.
In a house full of paper, we always looked for the orders for the day on paper towel.
I'll have to ask her about this when I see her Saturday.
My kids, because of cell phones and texting, can communicate with one another without me even being aware of it.
All of a sudden, one of them will appear in the kitchen, (because in spite of it being 2010 I still spend most of my time in the kitchen) to tell me they're going somewhere or other.
Having been brought up in a pre-cellphone era, I still say things like, "But I didn't hear the phone."
They just roll their eyes at me.
Shake their heads.
And start surfing on their in phone internet for a nursing home.
For now.
Because clearly my competence is depleting if I can't remember that they have almost telekinetic, mindreading powers thanks to their cell phones.
Poor Em.
She took the car apart in the driveway, hoping desperately that her phone had fallen into some small crack or crevice heretofore unknown to us.
Tires tossed on the rain saturated front lawn.
Engine torn apart, parts scattered hither and yon.
Birds and small woodland creatures snug on the front and back seats.
I think a couple of squirrels were rolling the steering wheel down our court.
But alas, no cell phone materialized.
We even went back to the highschool, in monsoon like weather conditions to search for her phone.
Attached to the top of our car, a spot light powerful enough to alert alien life forms of our presence on Earth.
And completely drying out the sopping sidewalks and rain permeated pavement.
Still no cell phone.
Hope: some kind hearted highschooler found her phone and took it to the office.
Reality: some smart ass highschooler has Em's phone and is wracking up charges that will break the bank.
Or a bus ran over it.
And what's left of my small, almost invisible, thread of sanity.
My cell phone shit storm has now been extended to include my children.
In spite of having two stressful weeks, weeks that could have resulted in me not falling off the wagon but hurling myself off it with reckless abandon into a vat of peanut butter M&Ms, I managed to lose another 5.4 pounds, bringing the total to 22 pounds lost, never to return again.
Ever.
Christmas will be a carrot walk compared to the past two weeks.
Between students, kids, husbands, I could have easily consumed enough sugar and carbs to sink a battle ship.
But I didn't.
I am, however, working on how to make grapefruits taste like pb M&Ms.
I think it'll be a best seller.
Title Lyric: Storm by Fleetwood Mac
Monday, December 13, 2010
Get your motor runnin', head out on the highway, lookin' for adventure. . .
December 13, 2010
Management apologies for the unscheduled pre-emption of this programming for the creation of the World Music project: Bollywood: Music, Dance and Film. Regular scheduled programming will resume immediately.
In fairness, Em's Bollywood project was not the sole reason for my bloglessness this weekend.
There have been forces beyond my control working diligently to prevent me from blogging.
Functionally illiterate students.
Functionally illiterate students who hand in essays.
Functionally illiterate students who hand in essays and then expect me to read them.
Functionally illiterate students who hand in essays and then expect me to read them AND hold on to my sanity.
I am in for a long slog through these essays and assignments.
Not to mention the 2103 final exam scheduled for tomorrow morning at 9.00 am.
And the hopefully soon to be over book edits.
Luckily, I have conveniently "forgotten" when the grades are due so as to not create unnecessary stress on my already fragile person.
But that doesn't mean the mistress of stress and insanity isn't continuing to work her magic upon me.
Yesterday Stephen and I spent part of the afternoon visiting with my sister-in-law Kathryn, who was rushed to the hospital Friday morning at one am.
She has been diagnosed with an incredibly rare illness, Neuro-Behcets.
For more info:
http://www.ninds.nih.gov/disorders/behcet/behcet.htm
My brother, who has perhaps the worst luck of anyone I have ever encountered, called to ask if we would pick him up Sunday on our way to the hospital.
The transmission in his car had decided to pick now for an extended vacation.
Of course I am going to pick up my brother on the way to the hospital to see his wife.
And off we went.
This was a drive we have taken many, many times.
We know how to get there.
On a good day, it'll take about an hour.
My brother lives in a very remote and rural area. . unless you know where you're going, a sherpa guide is practically a must.
Early in this journey, we are confronted with the proverbial fork in the road.
Moncton, or Saint John?
Why Moncton, of course.
Which is the reason we, for some reason unfathomable to either Stephen or myself, went to Saint John.
Stephen argues it is because we inadvertently assumed we were going directly to the hospital in Saint John.
He was just trying to be kind.
The road to Saint John is one of the few one way each way highways (say THAT ten times as fast as you can!) in this area.
The road to Moncton is your standard, two lane each way highways.
I suspect the only reason it even dawned on us that we were headed in the wrong direction was because at one point, I thought to myself,
"If we were on the two lane highway to Moncton, we wouldn't be stuck behind this boob!"
Suddenly, the lights came on.
I sat in the passenger seat of the car for at least a full minute, stunned by the knowledge that we were going in the wrong direction.
Finally, knowing I was going to have to share my newfound information with Stephen, I said,
"We're going in the wrong direction."
SJP: What do you mean?
Me: We're supposed to be going to Cambridge Narrows first.
SJP: Aw Shit!
He actually made other profane pronouncements, but I am trying to keep it clean.
Then we both sat in the front seat, staring out the window, stunned by the fact that we simply forgot where we were going during a journey we had taken many, many times.
I don't even think there's a word for that level of stupid.
We stop at the Irving in Wellsford, and ask the young Irving employee if he knows how to get to Cambridge Narrows from Wellsford.
"I've never heard of Cambridge Narrows."
I just looked at him.
Apparently, it was Stupid All Around Day.
I wish someone had told me before I left the house.
I asked him if he could direct me to a map.
He managed to find those.
Back in the car, Stephen and I look at the map, and realize that we either turn around and go back to the proverbial fork in the road, or. . .
. . .call my brother and tell him where we were and what we did.
Somehow, he didn't sound as surprised as I thought he would.
He said to drive to Saint John, stay on the Number 1 until we get to the Bloomfield exit.
And then call him back so he can direct us through the backroads of rural southern New Brunswick.
Lovely.
A drive through the remotest regions of rural NB.
Where did I put that sherpa?
What he didn't tell us was that the Bloomfield exit was a 35 minute drive from the Saint John toll bridge.
So, the one hour drive to my brother's house, and the 30 minute drive to the hospital from there turned into a three hour drive.
And then, we had to return my brother to his nesting place, and then head back home.
Instead of arriving back in Fredericton in time to retrieve Em from her subservience to Empire Theaters at 5.00, we arrived home at 8.30.
I missed my Sunday evening Antiques Roadshow/Creatures fix.
Instead, I came home, poured myself a rather large brandy and ginger ale, ate some of the chicken cacciatore I had made for what was supposed to be our Sunday family dinner together and then went to bed.
Exhausted.
And still stunned by our collective, combined stupidity.
Now, not all was a disaster.
We were privy to the beautiful vestige of a recent snowfall in that area, a snowfall we certainly did not get here.
Trees bent forward with the weight of their snowy baggage. . .evergreens, birches. . .there were no houses so we felt that we were driving through a hidden passage few travellers ever have the privilege of experiencing.
Absolutely breathtaking.
A moment of pure appreciation for the wonders of Mother Nature, broken by Stephen uttering,
"I feel like I'm in Narnia."
So remote was this area that we actually had to negotiate our way through not one, but two, one lane only covered bridges.
Stephen practically peed his pants he was so excited about driving over these one lane covered bridges with planks, not cement, holding up our car.
I covered my eyes and hoped we had enough life insurance to cover both our funerals.
We had a lovely visit with Kathryn, who is managing as best as any one could under the circumstances.
We were able to spend time with Jerry, something we don't get to do as often as we would want to.
The kids were all busy elsewhere, so it was, for most of the day, time for Stephen and me.
And because I felt bad about taking the wrong fork, and that Stephen did all the driving, I forced myself to stay awake the entire drive, there and back.
As opposed to giving into the temptations of my automotive narcalepsy, that happens within 10 minutes of me being in a car, and not driving.
If I'm driving, there is no fear of falling asleep.
How come Stephen did all the driving?
Because the roads to my brother's house, once off the highway, are indeed the roads less travelled. . .
By us and by all road workers, snow plows, etc.
People who live where my brother lives often have pick ups and/or 4 wheel drives.
But not usually 2006 Ford Focus station wagons with a dog gate and wonky mud guard.
Nonetheless, sometimes it may happen that if I am behind the wheel of our car whilst we travel these roads less travelled, I may, perchance, revert to the rural road driving of my youth and forget that our 2006 Ford Focus station wagon isn't a pick up truck.
And on more than one occasion, I may have, perhaps, caused Stephen a small increment of concern as I speedily negotiate and maneuver my way through the winding and narrow roads of really rural southern New Brunswick.
I once may have actually become airborne traversing these roads while driving my mother's Hyundai Elantra.
I only know this because Stephen was driving our car, behind me, and claims he saw the entire thing.
Thus, Stephen insists now on being the road captain of any adventures leading us in the direction of my brother's house.
But, you can't repress the rural road driving diva forever.
She will ride again.
Because she is born to be wild. . .
At least when driving through the really rural roads of southern New Brunswick. . . .
Title Lyrics: Born to be Wild by Steppenwolf
Management apologies for the unscheduled pre-emption of this programming for the creation of the World Music project: Bollywood: Music, Dance and Film. Regular scheduled programming will resume immediately.
In fairness, Em's Bollywood project was not the sole reason for my bloglessness this weekend.
There have been forces beyond my control working diligently to prevent me from blogging.
Functionally illiterate students.
Functionally illiterate students who hand in essays.
Functionally illiterate students who hand in essays and then expect me to read them.
Functionally illiterate students who hand in essays and then expect me to read them AND hold on to my sanity.
I am in for a long slog through these essays and assignments.
Not to mention the 2103 final exam scheduled for tomorrow morning at 9.00 am.
And the hopefully soon to be over book edits.
Luckily, I have conveniently "forgotten" when the grades are due so as to not create unnecessary stress on my already fragile person.
But that doesn't mean the mistress of stress and insanity isn't continuing to work her magic upon me.
Yesterday Stephen and I spent part of the afternoon visiting with my sister-in-law Kathryn, who was rushed to the hospital Friday morning at one am.
She has been diagnosed with an incredibly rare illness, Neuro-Behcets.
For more info:
http://www.ninds.nih.gov/disorders/behcet/behcet.htm
My brother, who has perhaps the worst luck of anyone I have ever encountered, called to ask if we would pick him up Sunday on our way to the hospital.
The transmission in his car had decided to pick now for an extended vacation.
Of course I am going to pick up my brother on the way to the hospital to see his wife.
And off we went.
This was a drive we have taken many, many times.
We know how to get there.
On a good day, it'll take about an hour.
My brother lives in a very remote and rural area. . unless you know where you're going, a sherpa guide is practically a must.
Early in this journey, we are confronted with the proverbial fork in the road.
Moncton, or Saint John?
Why Moncton, of course.
Which is the reason we, for some reason unfathomable to either Stephen or myself, went to Saint John.
Stephen argues it is because we inadvertently assumed we were going directly to the hospital in Saint John.
He was just trying to be kind.
The road to Saint John is one of the few one way each way highways (say THAT ten times as fast as you can!) in this area.
The road to Moncton is your standard, two lane each way highways.
I suspect the only reason it even dawned on us that we were headed in the wrong direction was because at one point, I thought to myself,
"If we were on the two lane highway to Moncton, we wouldn't be stuck behind this boob!"
Suddenly, the lights came on.
I sat in the passenger seat of the car for at least a full minute, stunned by the knowledge that we were going in the wrong direction.
Finally, knowing I was going to have to share my newfound information with Stephen, I said,
"We're going in the wrong direction."
SJP: What do you mean?
Me: We're supposed to be going to Cambridge Narrows first.
SJP: Aw Shit!
He actually made other profane pronouncements, but I am trying to keep it clean.
Then we both sat in the front seat, staring out the window, stunned by the fact that we simply forgot where we were going during a journey we had taken many, many times.
I don't even think there's a word for that level of stupid.
We stop at the Irving in Wellsford, and ask the young Irving employee if he knows how to get to Cambridge Narrows from Wellsford.
"I've never heard of Cambridge Narrows."
I just looked at him.
Apparently, it was Stupid All Around Day.
I wish someone had told me before I left the house.
I asked him if he could direct me to a map.
He managed to find those.
Back in the car, Stephen and I look at the map, and realize that we either turn around and go back to the proverbial fork in the road, or. . .
. . .call my brother and tell him where we were and what we did.
Somehow, he didn't sound as surprised as I thought he would.
He said to drive to Saint John, stay on the Number 1 until we get to the Bloomfield exit.
And then call him back so he can direct us through the backroads of rural southern New Brunswick.
Lovely.
A drive through the remotest regions of rural NB.
Where did I put that sherpa?
What he didn't tell us was that the Bloomfield exit was a 35 minute drive from the Saint John toll bridge.
So, the one hour drive to my brother's house, and the 30 minute drive to the hospital from there turned into a three hour drive.
And then, we had to return my brother to his nesting place, and then head back home.
Instead of arriving back in Fredericton in time to retrieve Em from her subservience to Empire Theaters at 5.00, we arrived home at 8.30.
I missed my Sunday evening Antiques Roadshow/Creatures fix.
Instead, I came home, poured myself a rather large brandy and ginger ale, ate some of the chicken cacciatore I had made for what was supposed to be our Sunday family dinner together and then went to bed.
Exhausted.
And still stunned by our collective, combined stupidity.
Now, not all was a disaster.
We were privy to the beautiful vestige of a recent snowfall in that area, a snowfall we certainly did not get here.
Trees bent forward with the weight of their snowy baggage. . .evergreens, birches. . .there were no houses so we felt that we were driving through a hidden passage few travellers ever have the privilege of experiencing.
Absolutely breathtaking.
A moment of pure appreciation for the wonders of Mother Nature, broken by Stephen uttering,
"I feel like I'm in Narnia."
So remote was this area that we actually had to negotiate our way through not one, but two, one lane only covered bridges.
Stephen practically peed his pants he was so excited about driving over these one lane covered bridges with planks, not cement, holding up our car.
I covered my eyes and hoped we had enough life insurance to cover both our funerals.
We had a lovely visit with Kathryn, who is managing as best as any one could under the circumstances.
We were able to spend time with Jerry, something we don't get to do as often as we would want to.
The kids were all busy elsewhere, so it was, for most of the day, time for Stephen and me.
And because I felt bad about taking the wrong fork, and that Stephen did all the driving, I forced myself to stay awake the entire drive, there and back.
As opposed to giving into the temptations of my automotive narcalepsy, that happens within 10 minutes of me being in a car, and not driving.
If I'm driving, there is no fear of falling asleep.
How come Stephen did all the driving?
Because the roads to my brother's house, once off the highway, are indeed the roads less travelled. . .
By us and by all road workers, snow plows, etc.
People who live where my brother lives often have pick ups and/or 4 wheel drives.
But not usually 2006 Ford Focus station wagons with a dog gate and wonky mud guard.
Nonetheless, sometimes it may happen that if I am behind the wheel of our car whilst we travel these roads less travelled, I may, perchance, revert to the rural road driving of my youth and forget that our 2006 Ford Focus station wagon isn't a pick up truck.
And on more than one occasion, I may have, perhaps, caused Stephen a small increment of concern as I speedily negotiate and maneuver my way through the winding and narrow roads of really rural southern New Brunswick.
I once may have actually become airborne traversing these roads while driving my mother's Hyundai Elantra.
I only know this because Stephen was driving our car, behind me, and claims he saw the entire thing.
Thus, Stephen insists now on being the road captain of any adventures leading us in the direction of my brother's house.
But, you can't repress the rural road driving diva forever.
She will ride again.
Because she is born to be wild. . .
At least when driving through the really rural roads of southern New Brunswick. . . .
Title Lyrics: Born to be Wild by Steppenwolf
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