U.G.L.Y You ain't got no alibi you ugly eh! Hey! You ugly . . . .

April 1, 2011


Happy First of April!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We're getting a snowstorm today.

30 cms.

Heavy, wet snow.

Blustery winds.

Mother Nature's cruel April Fool's prank.






Or she's having one hell of a hot flash!

We just got home.

One of the worst drives ever.

Cars off the road all over the place.

Fredericton is all hills.

To get to our house, we have to go down a fairly steep hill, and then up another.

We saw no less than a half a dozen cars off the road, or stuck trying to get up the hill.

The result of people mesmerized by the disappearing snow and warmer temperatures, eager to remove their winter tires in celebration of the arrival of Spring.

The roads are slick with ice, lacking both plowing and dirt.


It took us almost 45 minutes to leave the university, pick Em up from school and take her to work.

This is usually a 10 minute drive.

In bad traffic.

But not today.

Radio stations spewing regular warnings about how bad the roads are.

I just don't understand how people could take their snow tires off.

It's New Brunswick, people!

I've seen snow, sleet and hail on Keith's birthday.

May 8th.

And it wouldn't matter how drunk with happiness I was over the arrival of warm weather.

Stephen was not taken in by the allure of the temptress Spring.

He resolutely refused to remove the snow tires until he saw temperatures above 7 degrees Celsius for at least two weeks.

Kaptain Kaution wins again!






April 1st also means there are only 8 class days remaining in this term.

Eight days remaining of oh-my-gawd-the-term-is-coming-to-an-end-I'd-better-get-my-ass-in-gear-and-start-that-paper.

And OH-MY-GAWD-THE-TERM-IS-COMING-TO-AN-END-AND-I-AM-SWAMPED-WITH-WORK-AND-WILL-NEVER-AGAIN-SEE-THE-LIGHT-OF-DAY!!!!!

Or, OH=MY-GAWD-THE-TERM-IS-OVER-AND-I-HAVE-TO-GO-BACK-TO-LIVING-WITH-MY-PARENTS-FOR-THE-SUMMER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I've seen and heard it all this week.

And more.

All I can think of is yeah, classes are over soon and I'll have two weeks of frantic marking to get grades in before I have to start teaching Intersession in May and I have a conference paper yet to write for May so I am going to have my own little panic attack right now if you don't mind.

So forgive me for lacking in sympathy over your finite plight.






The other day, in my Crime and Film class, I reminded them of the increased number of office hours I am having.

Something I do to assist with assignments, papers, anxiety. . . .

And I always say, somewhat jokingly, that I like Fair Trade coffee, two sweetners, once cream if they are thinking of coming by.

I normally drink one, maybe if I am really tired, two cups of coffee a day.

Today, I had four.

Four cups of hot, steamy, luscious caffeine running through my veins.

I couldn't figure out, initially, how come I was so jumpy, on edge, shaky, jittery, unable to sit still, unfocused, unable to concentrate on anything for more than 10 seconds. . . .

More anxious than usual about driving in the bad weather.

Nor did I clue in that perhaps I was experiencing a change in personality.

Perhaps even, as unbelievable as it may seem, slightly difficult to be around.

Stephen suggested that he make dinner and I go upstairs, change and "relax."

I just think he didn't want me wielding knives and being in contact with a hot stove.

Not even then did light bulbs go off that perhaps I was, maybe, perchance, a little "off."

It wasn't until I was changing my clothes that I realized I had four cups of coffee.

Large cups of coffee.

It's gonna be ugly when I crash.

U.G.L.Y. ugly.




Title Lyric: U.G.L.Y by Daphne and Celeste

Where the f*** are my keys????

March 31, 2011


If there is anything that sets my heart aflutter at a pace rivaled only by puppies, it is a newborn baby.

One of my students came by yesterday morning with her newborn son.

Not even a week old.

So tiny, so small.

Yet profound.

I removed him from his carrier contraption with a speed faster than that of sound.

Wrapped him in his absolutely adorable froggie festooned blanket.

And cuddled with him for almost an hour.

Heavenly.

In an instant, the papers that need marking, theses that need reading, emails that need answering, phones that won't stop ringing. . . .none of it mattered.

Because resting in my arms was a bundle of pure joy.

And he had my complete and utter attention.

All I wanted to do at that moment was stare into his little face, eyes shut in a sleep only babies can sleep, fist curled around my finger, me breathing deeply of his sweet baby scent.

Mer called during my baby-fest.

I asked her to have a baby so I could raise it.

A clear sign of the intoxicating power babies have over me.

Stephen called.

He was genuinely nervous when I told him a baby was cradled in my arms.

We have contemplated adoption.

Stephen will be 50 next week, and he's always insisted he's too old for a child.

Another child, that it.

Given how long it takes to adopt a child in this country, he could be 65 before we were blessed with a child.

And with university tuitions, doctoral tuitions, Meredyth, we simply don't have the funds for an overseas adoption.

I may have to resort to drastic measures.

Another dog, perhaps?






Stephen returned home after his one and only class yesterday.

He had errands to run. . .dropping off all our tax information.

And he needed to be home to let the repairman from Capital Safe and Lock in to repair the doorknob on the front door.

Stephen had been commenting on how he thought we needed to replace the doorknob.

It was loose in places it shouldn't be loose.

I so hate living with him when he's right.

Keith called Tuesday afternoon to inform me that in the process of using his key to get into the house, he broke the doorknob.

The details of how this breakage actually occured have not yet been shared with me, however, it did mean that Keith had to consider alternative methods of gaining entry into our humble abode.

I'm also a little fuzzy about how come he just couldn't unlock the deadbolt.

But for some reason he couldn't.

Dogs barking because they could see and hear him, but his physical presence was yet to materialize in the kitchen.

He did the only thing he could think of.

Another climb through the kitchen window.

Sans snowbanks to bar his illegal entry, I was certain one of our neighbours, the "Mayor" perhaps, would have called the police.

He must have put his binoculars in his other pants.

I emailed Stephen, who was at work, asking him to call me.

For some reason, I am unable to locate Stephen's office number and when we're together I forget to ask him for it.

Maybe when he reads this, he'll remember to give it to me.

Of course, Stephen was thrilled he was right.

And not thrilled over Keith's windowed entry.

Meaning he left work to "check things out."

And call the locksmith to arrange an appointment.

As usual, there was nothing worth driving home for.

But he will be who he is.

I'm just jealous that Keith can crawl through the kitchen window.

I couldn't get my head inside it, let alone the rest of my gloriousness.







My belief in the strength of the written word was further reinforced yesterday.

Stephen, once the door and crazed dog debacle had beeen sorted, decided to so some laundry.

Two sets of sheets needed to be washed, and when he called me to confer, I suggested that he put the sheets on the clothesline.

"WHAT?" he exclaimed.

"I don't have time to put laundry on the line."

"I have exams to mark!"

Ever tool I had in my arsenal was pulled out, including the "we'll save money not using the dryer."

He wouldn't budge.

So I left it.

He was clearly suffering the post traumatic-ness of trying to keep Frankie calm in the maelstrom created by the visiting locksmith.

I had so much to do and no car to drive home and hang them up myself, something I would have completely done without question, so as I was between a rock (Stephen) and his iron clad will, I acquiesed.

This time.

Seemingly.

But appearances can be deceiving.

45 minutes later, he called me.

"Well, Miss Blogger, I've decided to hang out the sheets after reading your blog. And you're granny panties."

My response:

"Let my flag size, multi-colored panties dry in the refreshing spring breeze, blowing away all the cobwebs and dust that have accumlated over the winter. PLEASE!"

He should know better than to shame the shameless.

And challenge the power of the written word.



Title Lyric: Ode to a Locksmith by Type O Negative.

Sheets are swaying from an old clothesline. . . .

March 30, 2011



I'm unbalanced.

Keep your comments to yourselves.

This realization dawned on me last evening, during yoga.

We were introduced to the tree pose.

Like so many other things in life, marriage, child rearing, writing an essay, it's a LOT harder than it looks.

The weight on one foot part I can do.

It's the lifting of the leg and standing up part that is challenging.

Especially since I like to do yoga with my eyes closed.

Apparently, looking at a fixed spot helps.

I had an inkling that balance poses would be trying when I tried one the other evening.

Balancing on one knee with the other leg stretched to the side.

I was fine on the left side.

I toppled like a tower of Jenga on the right.

My yoga instructor said that the poses that cause the most difficulty are the ones we need the most.

Meaning I will be spending a lot of time in the next week learning to stand on one foot.

If you hear crashing in my office, it's just me falling over.

And I was so pleased to go to yoga yesterday.

Everything was hunky dorey for most of the day.

I managed another lunch time constitutional, without even a coat or jacket because it was so nice out.

At least in my mind.

Really, the cold just makes me walk faster.

I ran into a student and he asked if he could accompany me.

"No." I replied.

He was quite taken aback, as most people would just assume an affirmative answer to such an inviting invitation.

However, those lunch time airings are the only time I am able to walk at my own pace and listen to dance music on my ipod.

Stephen asked just a few minutes ago if I wanted him to join me for my dance music infused stroll.

Again, a resounding "No."

30 minutes a day isn't too much to ask, in my humble opinion.

And even if it is, I'm taking it.

Back to why I needed yoga.

I can get so off track.

I was home for about an hour before I had to go to yoga.

And that was all the time she needed.

Meredyth.

Pay days can be a time of joy.

For some.

Not Meredyth.

Ergo, no me.

First thing I do on Mer's paydays is go into her account. . . .

. . . .yes, I have access to her account. Her apartment lease is in my name, affecting my credit, so you're damn right I'm going in there when the rent is due.

Of course she has just barely enough to cover her share of her rent, and not enough to cover her share of our Telus bill.

Meaning that payment will have to wait another two weeks.

And last evening she called me and asked for ten dollars.

Gobsmacked.

Simply gobsmacked I was.

She hadn't been paid for even 24 hours and she was already on the hunt for additional funds.

And this is the child who thinks she doesn't need a second job??????

Give me strength, give me strength. 

I'm thinking of declaring her as a dependent on this year's income tax.

There is joy to be found, though.

The temperature today is 7 C and tomorrow it will be 9 C.

That's LAUNDRY HANGING WEATHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Haul out the clothes pins honey because I am gonna be on the back deck, ipod on, singing Glee's version of Misery at the top of my lungs and hanging our granny panties and porno panties on the clothes line to dry in the sun and fresh air.

Don't like it?

Wear dirty clothes.

Walk around naked.

I don't care.

IT'S CLOTHESLINE TIME

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Title Lyric: Welcome Home by Radical Face

You give me puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies in my heart. . . .

March 29, 2011


As the end of term draws near, the time has come for me to set aside time each day to assist my students with the analysis portion of their final papers.

I enjoy this time, as it gives me an opportunity for some one on one with my students.

To poke and prod into their personal lives.

Find out what makes them tick.

In the eternal quest to understand them better.

A to-this-point-failed-quest.

But important nonetheless.

And there are times when they do things that just set my little heart pitter-pattering at a ferocious speed.

For example, when they come bearing gifts.

Babies, for example.

Or puppies.

Yesterday was a puppy day.

A purebred Rottweiler puppy day.

If this little face doesn't melt your heart, you should go to the doctor.

You probably don't have one.

When my student came into my office bearing this bundle of sweet puppy breath, soft puppy fur, and the most delightful puppy kisses, I knew that my capacity for concentration had disappeared.

Because what could I say about analysis that would be more important, more pertinent, more life altering than this little face?????

As usual, the puppy lay content in my arms for the duration of the meeting.

As well as during the rounds to the offices of all the other insatiable dog lovers on our floor.

I may have even suggested a trade:

An A+ for a puppy.

Thankfully, the group had stronger morals and intestinal fortitude than I.

To test the waters of potentially new dog acceptance, I called Stephen while contentedly rocking and cooing to this little bundle of joy.

His reponse?

Vet bills.

Which is Stephen-ese for "NO!"

One look at that face, and even the steadfast and staunch Stephen would have melted.

Furthermore, we both know that if I really wanted to acquire another bearer of unconditional canine love, I'd just do it.

Bring the dog home.

Stephen would adjust.

However, I suspect that if I did indeed bring home another dog, Tikka would pack her bags and hitchhike to my parents.

One puppy in her golden years is more than enough.

But oh how those little puppy kisses and the sweet scent of puppy breath pulled at my heart strings!

Of course, when I arrived home and was subjected to the full body sniff down, I had some 'splainin' to do.

Frankie and Tikka looked at me as if I'd been sleeping around.

The canine version of sleeping around, anyway.

I have added something new to my new lifestyle regime.

The lunch hour promenade.

After eating lunch, which usually is comprised of some variation of chicken breast and vegetables, I pop my headphones into my ears, and to the popular tunes of today, do a 30 minute circut around the university and surrounding areas.

Most invigorating!

And makes those afternoons, the time when my body craves a nap, a little easier to bear.

Today I will don my Skechers Shape Ups and with my lovely linen dress. . . .

. . .because I am not transporting a change of clothes each and every day for a walk. . . .

walk and sing at the same time.

Don't like my rendition of Rhianna's S&M?

Find my belting, "Sticks and stones may break my bones but chains and whips excite me!" offensive?

Walk faster, then.

I learned a valuable lesson last evening.

Just because I've begun the process of mastering a few beginning yoga poses, doesn't mean I'm necessarily ready to branch out on my own.

I located the most informative yoga website and was looking at some of their poses.

Some were variations on things I am doing now.

Others are completely new.

But none of them are necessarily my soft, overweight body friendly.

A fact I was more than aware of last evening.

But if I wasn't, I would be this morning.

Did you know that there are muscles in your groin??????

And when not used very often, and then stretched and pulled by someone who really doesn't know what they're doing, will retailate with a pain not to be contested?

But I forge onward.

This morning, 5.30 am, me and the yoga mat are on the floor.

Together.

Doing the poses and stretches I am most familiar with.

Building up the strength and tolerance to do those poses that require just that little bit more.

Okay, a lot more.

One things for sure:

You can't learn yoga from a few internet pictures.

But you can try!

This is the child's pose.

It's a lot harder than it looks.

I can't quite get my head on the floor.

Or my arse on my knees.

More like my arse sticks up the air.

But I am working on it.

Yes I am!

Title Lyric: Puppies by J Bigga

The truth about fried eggs. . . .

March 28, 2011



For some reason, Spring has decided to take a hiatus.

Mother Nature must be fighting hot flashes again.

-15 C when I took the dogs out yesterday morning.

It was so cold that when Frankie stood still, I could see steam coming from his nose.

And Tikka barely got off the step before she did her business and ran back to the front door.


-13 C this morning.

Yesterday, after meeting and grocery shopping Stephen and I decided to go for a walk downtown.

In scarves, hats, mitts, long johns, three pairs of wool socks, sweaters. . . .

Nonetheless, the brisk, frigid wind coupled with Stephen's I-am-6-foot-4-inches-and-have-legs-at-least-4-feet-long-and-set-a-pace-that-makes-your-little-2-feet-legs-struggle-to-keep-up-taking-three-steps-to-my-one meant an invigorating walk.

And sore muscles today.

Hence a longer, slower yoga session this morning.

While Stephen lounged in bed, snoring.

Seems unfair, doesn't it?






Lifestyle changes are difficult.

When you've been doing something for as long as you can remember it is challenging to just stop.

My biggest challenge with Simply for Life has been carbs.

Cookies, breads, cakes, muffins, pastries. . . .

Anything with flour essentially.

For Stephen, I have come to accept, his nemesis is night time eating.

What I like to refer to as the "fourth meal."

Being a night owl doesn't help.

Most nights, he falls asleep at his desk amid his papers and books.

Chin resting on his chest.

If I wake up to use the facilities, I'll move him from his desk chair to his bed.

The latter is, hopefully, more comfortable.

Some night, however, sleep eludes him.

But his appetite doesn't.

The other night/morning, around 3.00 am, I am dreaming of food.

In particular, fried eggs.

I can't stand fried eggs.

Hardboiled, I'm your girl.

Scrambled with a nice rare steak, call me up.

Fried. . .you can keep them to yourself thank you very much.

The question is, then, how come my dreams are permeated with thoughts of fried eggs?

Because Stephen was in the kitchen, cooking them.

Thinking, erroneously, that because I was in bed, he could get away with it.

I said nothing.

Hid under the duvet, and hoped I could return to slumber sans the stench of fried eggs.

And that the kitchen wouldn't reek when I got up.

But the night eating is proving to be a hurdle.

Perhaps a lock on the fridge?






Saturday we celebrated Earth Hour with yoga-by-candlelight.

But not before we enjoyed a meal of chicken with rice soup and a very delicious homemade pizza at the nursing home.

And then a nice visit with my mother, the highlight of which was watching the 24 hour CTV news channel, which is usually the only time I get to watch the news, and of course there was a rather lengthy story of the upcoming federal election.

My parents, as I may have mentioned before, are die hard Conservatives.

My mother's uncle was Hugh John Flemming, a former premier of our province.

Politics is one of those topics, along with religion, war and the role of the military in contemporary society, that we avoid at all costs.

Nonetheless, after watching this news feature, my mother commented upon who she was going to vote for. . . .

. . .as if we didn't already know. . . .

and how useless the other two candidates were.

She's not entirely wrong.

Except she forgot to include the other useless candidate.

I don't know who I will vote for.

Except that I feel as if I am trying to select the lesser of three evils.

There will be no peace until the election is over.

Because I am positive my right wing conservative parents are still trying to figure out how she ended up with a left wing, feminist daughter.

And I wonder how come Stephen Harper doesn't make them feel as nauseated and scared as he makes me feel.

Parents and politics.

A lethal combination.






Yoga by candlelight. . .right. . .

Very, very nice.

Even more relaxing than yoga by dim lights.

I think we'll try it again.

And just hope that Reilley or Goblet doesn't think it would be fun to hop onto anywhere there is a candle.

Yoga in burning living room doesn't strike me as anywhere near as enjoyable. . . .

Stephen wouldn't be calm for the rest of his natural life.




Title Lyric: Hello in There by Bette Midler