It all started with the big BANG!

October 1, 2011


Happy October!

September and October are my favourite months of the year.

So while I'm happy it's October, I also know that I'm 50% of the way through my favourite time of the year.

If I loved winter, Canada would be Nirvana.









The Ferrell lecture was as amazing as I knew it would be.

Talk about dumpster diving, trash picking, street scavenging, street busking, graffiti artists, agents of social control, and how to reconfigure space and time from a sociological perspective and I'll be all over you like flies to honey.

Of course, I would have had my own pictures had I not forgotten my camera in my excitement to get to the lecture.

Where Stephen and I sat in the third row.

In spite of Stephen's typical unwillingness to sit anywhere below the middle rows.

But I wanted to be up close and hearing everything, so it was the third row.

Would have been the first, but Stephen put his foot down.

Check this link out for a youtube vid of Jeff Ferrell on a dumpster diving expedition.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SNw1q7XOWgA

I tried to upload into my blog, but it wouldn't let me.

Absolutely amazing!

This afternoon's workshop will prove to be equally as stimulating.

6th Annual ACQRA Qualitative Workshop with Dr. Jeff Ferrell

Date: Oct 1, 2011

 

Time: 1:00 PM-4:00 PM

 

Location: Margaret McCain Hall, Room 307, Fredericton, NB, Canada

The Atlantic Centre for Qualitative Research and Analysis is pleased to introduce Dr. Jeff Ferrell, presenter at the 6th Annual Qualitative Workshop. Dr. Ferrell will be discussing Autoethnography.

And dinner this evening?

I already have a list of questions.









Emily has been sick for since Wednesday.

Keeping her contagious little self home was a must.

Unfortunately, I couldn't stay home with her.

Days of 8.00 am - 6.00 pm are the norm around here, and sick kids don't make much of a difference.

I know, I know, I'm a terrible mother.

After supper, then, I come home, tired, exhausted, barely enough energy to put fork to face and eat dinner.

But reserving some for Em.

How this would play out was a mystery.

With no couch downstairs, laying on the couch together watching television was not an option.

Em came into my room Wednesday evening with Keith's laptop, and we watched America's Next Top Model.

And then, she wanted to watch something I had never watched before, had no interest in watching, but being too tired to resist, laid there passively beside her.

The program?

The Big Bang Theory.

Not really being a fan of Johnny Galecki was probably the major reason for not watching it before now.

However, Jim Parsons as Sheldon Cooper?

More than enough to capture my attention beyond one episode.

Enough to keep me in stitches since Wednesday evening, and creating an opportunity for Em and I to curl up on my bed, Frankie at the end of the bed, Dibley in between us, as we systematically make our way through each and every episode available on watchseries.eu.

I haven't been so excited by a comedy since Frasier was available on line.

Niles Crane . . .funniest character on television.

And now, Sheldon Cooper.

Good thing.

Because moving into October usually means  the shiny patina of the new school year has already tarnished.

The realization of the work load is setting in and papers and midterms are now coming due.

Increasing the stress of students.

Who them show up in my office and can occasionally burst into tears.

I'll need all the laughs I can get.









Mer and I had an appointment with Norma yesterday for colors and cuts.

And something called red peekaboos for Mer.

The appointment was made and rescheduled several times, meaning yesterday I had to go.

In part because of my commitment to support small business owners.

But more because I. So. Needed. to get my hair colored.

As I have said before, I'd be happy to have grey hair.

If it was ALL grey.

But having grey hair interspersed throughout my brown hair, with the grey wings on the side for added accentuation is just more than I can handle.

I'm not a vain person, believe me, but I do have my limits.

And my hair is one of them.

Mer's hair was her birthday present from me and Stephen.

She'll be 22 this month.

I can't believe it.

That she'll be 22 and that I'm old enough to have a 22 year old daughter.

A cut and color as a birthday present?

Oh yeah.

When that cut and color is as exceptional was what Norma provides, it is definitely a gift.

Mer was tired.

Meaning Mer was cranky.

She did well keeping everything under wraps.

But just.

There were a couple of moments the mask slipped and Mer's misery emerged.

Spending time with Mer, even with small moments of crankiness, was worth it.

I am trying to spend time with her, just the two of us, at least once a week.

We text everyday, so we do communicate, but nothing beats sitting down face to face.

Even at a salon with your hair piled high atop your head held fast with hair color, foils of color sprinkled here and there.

At the end, all coiffed and smelling pretty, Norma remarked we looked like sisters.

Imagine Mer's response.

But one man, awaiting a head shave from Norma, commented that I did, indeed, look good.

Stroke my ego, please.

I don't mind.




Title Lyric: Big Bang Theory by The Barenaked Ladies

Where does the garbage go?

September 30, 2011


This week brought good news.

I was successful in my request for a year long sabbatical.

Which was supposed to begin July 1, 2012.

However, I've had to request a year long deferral.

I had not taken into account that Em's first year of university would be Keith's last, meaning not one, but TWO university tuitions would be coming out of my pay.

I teach overload in order to manage one tuition.

Two tuitions on a no-overload-pay would be incredibly difficult.

And I'd spend more time stressing over money than actually getting any research accomplished.

So a deferral request was in order.

And I've waited several years for a sabbatical.

One more won't do me in.









Today and tomorrow, I have the privilege of spending time with a criminologist whom I consider to be the rock star of all criminologists.

Jeff Ferrell is giving the annual ACQRA lecture and then facilitating a workshop tomorrow.

He wrote the wonderful ethnography, Empire of Scrounge: Inside the Underground World of Dumpster Driving, Trash Picking and Street Scavenging.

As well as several other riveting books.

And Stephen and I will be going out for dinner with him, and others, tomorrow evening at the Blue Door.

The site of our first date.

I am SO excited!!!!!!!

Imagine meeting a favourite musician, actor, whomever, the one person you always wanted to spend some time with, picking their brains, listening to the words of wisdom they share.

That's how I feel.

I've met him before.

Heard his talks.

All the more reason for me to be excited about seeing him today and tomorrow.

The kids are coming with us.

Even Em, who is sick with a nasty cold.

But I really want her to hear him.

Plus she needs to get out of the house.

Stay tuned for pictures!

Oh, I am so excited!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!









My Pookie is quite the well read and metaphorically gifted young man.

He once described spruce beer as "Christmas in a cup."

And just the other day, after donning sweatpants for a day in classes, he remarked that wearing sweats was like "wearing a hug."

That's my child.



Title Lyric: Where Does the Garbage Go? by The Wind Whistles.

And in the morning I'm short of my identity. . .

September 29, 2011

The return of the school year signals the beginning of the traditional Fall television lineup.

Beginning a new television season.

Another reason to add to my list of how come this is my favourite time of year.

And with the internet, one no longer has to sit in front of the television in the evening when the programs first air.

Meaning I watch very little television on television.

For example, right now I am watching, or rather listening, to the first episode of the tenth season of Spooks, the BBC drama detailing the lives and adventures of MI-5 officers. 

Last evening, whilst lying in my bed, Em beside me wrapped in her jammies, sore throat, itchy ears, stuffy nose, home for the day in a valiant attempt to rid her body of the cold rampaging through her insides, I was treated to a particular girl's night fave.

America's Next Top Model: All Stars.

Initially, I was most reluctant to begin watching the program.

The feminist in me screaming about the subjugation of women both on screen and those who watch and learn that who they are isn't enough.

I still feel that way.

But watching it with Em, spending time with her, is far more important at this point.

Especially when she's been home sick and I've been at work from 8-6.









Last night we watch episodes one and two of cycle 17.

Cycle. . .whatever.

The second one was the make over episode.

Where beautiful women are make, seemingly, more beautiful under the watchful eye of Tyra Banks and her expensive team of hair "experts."

And inevitably, there is the "oh-my-gawd-they're-going-to-cut-my-hair-and-I'll-never-be-the-same-again-in-my-entire-life-and-no-will-ever-know-who-I-am-and-how-great-I-am-supposed-to-be-all-because-they-cut-my-hair" drama.

Please.

It isn't as if they're Sampson.

Watching this lead me to ponder my own hair adventures.

Or misadventures as the case may be.

Hair.

It's the one thing you can change about yourself one day, and then change again the next.

Losing weight takes time.

Plastic surgery is expensive and painful.

It's difficult to permanently change your height, although women are certainly doing their best to intentionally hobble themselves with stilettos.

If women were supposed to spend their days where devices of torture strapped to their feet, they would have been born with wooden feet so they wouldn't feel anything.

Think about it.









So hair is it.

And there isn't much I haven't done to mine.

Until I was about eight, I had long, long, long blond hair that went to the crack of my butt.

Adored by my father, hated by my mother because she was the one who had to take me downstairs to the basement, in the set tub, to wash it because it was far too long and thick for her to wash in the bathtub.

Even today, at 44, I can still remember the feeling that I was going to drown as my mother poured bucket after bucket of water in an attempt to rinse my hair of it's soapy cargo.

Johnson's No More Tears?

A massive lie.

Trust me.

And brushing this mane atop my head?

That's probably where I learned how to cultivate my far reaching voice.

In the 80s, I had it permed.

Much to my mother's dismay.

Only after it was permed did I understand how come she didn't want it done.

I looked like an electrocuted poodle.

My hair was somewhat longer at that point, thick and wavy.

Not prime perming material.

And THAT took forever to grow out.

I also had a rat tail.

Very 80s.

It was long, too.

After a break-up with my first, serious university boyfriend, just before Christmas, I marched into the local salon and asked the confused stylist to cut my hair as she usually did but then, I wanted her to shave the sides, creating a straight line to my rat tail.

What a mess that was to sort out.

I had to wait for the shaved sides to grow out long enough to be able to cut the rest of my hair to match.

And of course, who could be a child of the 80s and NOT have a mullet.

I was no exception.

And at one point I did know all of the words to Achy Breaky Heart.

If I confess a mullet, why not just get rid of all my secrets.







Getting older didn't make me any more mature or intelligent regarding my hair.

One day, for no discernible reason, I marched into a local salon and asked them to shave my head with a number two.

Thinking I would end up looking like this:

Of course, you can see how this wouldn't have worked.

I even included a big ol' pair of hoops.

At one point, I concluded that since I had been blond as a child, being blond as an adult would make perfect sense.

So one evening, after my children were snug in their beds, a friend bleached my hair and cut it short.

In the morning, Keithie comes into my room to wake me, sees a blond head sticking out from under the sheets and immediately gets Mer, whispering, "there's a blond person in Mum's bed!"

Imagine the trauma when he realized the blond person was me.

This hair choice was the launch of a very tumultuous time in my life.

Bleached blond hair was the least of it.

But it was certainly memorable.

And only now am I contemplating how I scarred my children with my inability to maintain a normal looking hair style.

Some therapist is going to make a fortune during my children's adult lives.









After the bleaching phase, I found Norma.

From Klub Soda.

And since then, for at least a decade if not more, she has cut and colored my hair.

Keeping it normal looking.

And me looking more like the adult I am supposedly supposed to be.

The issue now: grey hair.

On the sides and sprinkled throughout my hair.

As I've said before, I don't mind being grey.

But if that is the course of action for my locks, let it all be grey.

And thyroid medication has rendered my hair somewhat thinner than it used to be at the very front.

Causing me far more distress than I would have imagined.

After all the insults and traumas I've subjected my to, you'd think a little payback would be justified.

Perhaps.

But it doesn't mean I have to like it.




Title Lyric: Hair by Lady Gaga

We are the dollars and the cents, and the pounds and pence. . .

September 28,


Teaching three courses on Tuesday and Thursday, and one, three hour class on Wednesday really is a great teaching schedule.

Monday and Friday for writing and research.

But. . .and there is always a but. . .

Tuesday and Thursday, after work, I don't even have the energy to drive.

So Em does.

And supper?

Made in the morning so all I have to do is sit down and eat when I get home.

After greeting our beleaguered canines, forced to stay within the comforting walls of home all day.

Last night, after supper, I was upstairs reading fiction by 7.00 pm.

I have no idea what time I fell asleep.

Or when Stephen came in and removed glasses and book from my grasp.

Imagine my surprise when I woke up to go pee, and it was 3.00 in the morning.

That's tired.









I love Mondays.

I've said it before, plenty.

And I know most people are not fond of Mondays, and I get that.

But for me, Monday means kids returning to school, and alone, writing time for me.

And this Monday was a doozy.

For whatever reason, Keith was C-R-A-N-K-Y.

Really cranky.

Em, the same, but at least she had a reason.

Dentist appointment.

And who loves going to the dentist, let alone at 8.45 on a Monday morning?

Saturday and Sunday had been unusually warm, so Sunday night was uncomfortable.

Sticky and hot.

For all of us.

Including Frankie.

Who had spent prolonged time in the Frankie Hut during the day, a result of Quaker meeting and the family dinner.

Even with a long run at the farm, he was more than perturbed with us.

But he wasn't so upset that he refused to sleep on the bed with us and Sunday evening, he jumped onto the bed with us, as usual.

Stephen and I, even with two fans, were miserable and experiencing difficulties getting comfortable.

Shifting around, turning from side to side, back to belly, and with each twist and turn, we were annoying Frankie, who grumbled each and every time we forced him to adjust his position.

Finally, he was so disgusted with us that he launched himself off the bed in a huff, and threw himself on the hallway floor, just outside our bedroom door, and emitted the most I-am-so-disgusted-with-you sigh.

In reply, Stephen said, "Good!" and finally went to sleep.

So Monday morning Frankie was feeling somewhat repentant for his less than friendly demeanour of the night before and followed me incessantly throughout the early hours of the morning, as I was trying to get ready to take Em to the dentist, get Keith to class, and get the hell out of the house.

But for some reason, in an unprecedented fit of four legged creature solidarity, all of the other fur bearing creatures thought it would be a good idea to also follow me around.

I stumbled and tripped through my foot hugging fur pack during the course of my morning and by the time I was ready to leave, I couldn't get out of the house fast enough.

Once I made my way through the pack.

Enlisting Stephen's help was a necessity.

Someone had to hold on to Dibley and grip Frankie so he didn't bolt out the front door.

Two cranky children, six separation anxiety filled pets, and me.

Happy Monday to me.

By the time everyone was everywhere they were supposed to be, which didn't occur until around noon, I was ready for a little alone time.

More than.









Staying on top of your finances in a culture of materialism, greed and getting what you want without considering the consequences is not easy.

In an effort to live within our means, Stephen and I have made decisions that would be unpopular with lots of people.

No credit cards.

If we can't buy it with cash, we don't.

Tight budgets.

Trying to account for each and every penny that goes in and out of this house.

Yesterday, in my daily assessment of our bank accounts, I noticed I had sixty dollars more in my account than I had earlier that morning.

Additional money in your account, unexpectedly, is never a good thing.

Turns out, it was a cheque that had been returned for insufficient funds.

Hmmmmmm.

That didn't make sense.

I made certain there was enough money in my account to cover that cheque.

Hmmmmmm.

Further inspection of my account revealed that when the cheque went through, I had $59.23 in my account.

Meaning I was .67 cents short.

And the cheque was returned.

Really.

And the bank thought that they would charge me a $42.50 NSF fee for a measly .67 cents???

I.

Don't.

Think.

So.

Calling the bank informed me that cheques are now dealt with electronically, as few human hands coming into contact with them as possible.

So if you're one cent short, the cheque will be returned.

Fair enough.

But I still wasn't paying the NSF fee.

Luckily, the person on the other end of the phone, representing the bank, agreed.

And as a "courtesy" they agreed to remove the fee.

Courtesy, hmmmmmmm.

No wonder the economy is in such a disaster.

Everything can fall apart because of .67 cents.



Title Lyric: Dollars and Cents by Radiohead

Four in the bed and little one said, roll over. . . . .

September 26, 2011


Family dinner last night.

My house.

Mum and Dad, my brother, me and Stephen, Keith and Em.

Mer had to work.

Dijon chicken.

Wild rice.

White rice for the kids.

Bok choy, carrot, almond stir fry.

Squash so there was something during the meal my mum recognized.

Plus it just needed to be cooked.

It was all Simply for Life approved, and turned out rather well if I do say so myself.

Dad was somewhat skeptical.

Not the biggest fan of Dijon mustard.

But throw some mushrooms and onions into something, and he'll try anything.

Maybe even like it.

Imagine.









The meal itself was lovely.

But there was a purpose for this family gathering.

Family talk.

One of the things that doesn't happen as well as it should in our family is communication.

I talk with Mum.

A lot.

My brother. . .not as often as I should.

My dad.

Um.

I have a hard time talking with my dad.

And I am still working through that.

Loving him has nothing to do with it.

I love my father.

But I have never felt comfortable talking with him.

And yesterday was tough because it was the first time I'd seen him since I asked him not to come to the cottage with us.

Because we really needed some time alone.

Just because I asked him not to come doesn't mean I didn't feel guilty about it.

So in addition to everything else we had to discuss as a family, I had to address this with my father.

Finally.

Not easy.

But necessary to ensure further familial harmony.

The rest of the family conversation is in a file called "private and confidential" for now.









Frankie and I were equally tired and cranky by the end of yesterday's events.

Me because family can be exhausting.

Especially when the day started with us hosting Quaker meeting.

Frankie in the crate for the duration.

Plus Quaker meeting confuses him.

He knows people are in the house but because Quakers worship in silence, there is no conversation.

Nothing to actually indicate there are people in the house even when you know there are.

Periodically, he would emit barks in an attempt to stir up some movement.

When my mum comes over, with her walker, we put him in the crate for his safety and hers.

He can get underfoot and caught up in her walker, which could have disastrous results for both of them.

Take all these ingredients, silent Quakers, walker mobile mothers, and add in the 30+ temperatures we had yesterday, hot temperatures, some crate time (and there was a run at the farm afterwards, but this was, in Frankie's mind, too little, too late) mix them together and at the end of the day, you'll have a cranky Frankie.

Even the fan circulating the night air in our room wasn't enough.

Heat rises.

Our room was most warm throughout the night.

Stephen and I struggling for comfortable sleeping positions.

Lead to Frankie jumping off the bed and throwing himself on the cool hallway floor, but not until he released what was most definitely a sigh of absolute disgust with me and Stephen.

All Stephen said was, "good."

At some point during the wee hours of the morning, probably after I had gotten out of bed around 2.00 am and took him our for a piddle, he forgave us our transgressions and rejoined us in our bed.

And by this time, we had a Jasper sleeping between us.

Huge dog at the end.

Itty bitty kitty wedged between us.

Snoring Stephen beside me.

No wonder I'm tired.

Who could sleep in such mayhem???









Someone, and you know who you are, texted me last night at 11.04 pm.

Phone by my bed in case of emergency.

It's always there.

But not for texts at 11.04 pm.

Unless someone is bleeding profusely, there is no reason to text me at 11.04 pm.




Title Lyric: Four in the Bed by Raffi

One step from the perfect living room set. . . .

September 25, 2011

Once the trauma of the summer puddle that turned our house into a renovation ruckus was completed, Stephen and I decided that rather than bring the old furniture back, we would give it to my brother, get a loveseat, haul out our good chairs that are comfortable and never used, and when Mer moved in, use her couch until something came along that interested us.

And then Mer decided that she didn't want to move home.

At least not yet.

I think it was the realization of the freedoms she would be giving up.

Freedoms she'd become very comfortable with.

And upon reflection was loath to lose.

So for now, with her second job on weekends at a Fredericton club, she should be able to manage to live on her own.

Knowing that if anything changes, we are here.

However, it does mean that we are sans couch.

Providing Stephen with all the licence he needed to jump onto Kijiji on the hunt for a couch and a couple of chairs.

There was nothing I could do to stop him, so I just continued on with my day to day living knowing that the time would come when he would approach me with his selections.

And then he did.

A 7 foot couch, burgundy with a tapestry design, a matching u-shaped chair and a green, wing back-like chair.

Very similar to the "parlour set" in the cottage at Murray Corner.

This set, too, spent its formative years in a parlour, and was very, rarely every used.

Meaning it is in excellent condition.

And it will look stunning in our chocolate  brown living room.

Especially since it was purchased by the original owners, in 1944.

For $300.00 we now have new-to-us furniture.

Which won't be delivered until next weekend.

But at least we have furniture.

For now.

Until Stephen decides he wants to give them away.









Quakers are meeting at our house this morning.

This was standard practice for a long time, until it was decided that meeting in a public place would be more welcoming and accessible to those who were interested in attending, and who hadn't previously.

Typically we met at St. Thomas, meaning Stephen and I, as the only ones who had keys, facilitated.

Busy times.

But this fall, there was a decision to return to meeting in people's houses.

Now, we have NO problem with people coming here.

Not at all.

Frankie, on the other hand, is a completely different issue.

In fairness, he is more willing to accept people in the house.

Accept.

Not mingle with.

So while the Quakers are engaging in silent worship in our newly painted but furniture-less living room, I'll be in the kitchen with Frankie, in his crate, and Tikka.

Because silence will reign so long as one of us is in there with them.









Plus someone has to drive Em to work.

At 11.15 am

She was at a friend's house last evening for a little bit.

Keith locked her out of the house.

Meaning she spent the night on Mer's floor.

Why she just didn't call me, I'll never know.

The cell was right beside me, on my bedside table.

Ready for me to answer.

Kids.

Like husbands, I'll never be able to figure them out.



Title Lyric: Furniture by Amy Studt