October 7, 2011
October 7, 2011
Tired.
This morning I am tired.
And it's all Frankie's fault.
Last weekend, I bought a lovely, whole chicken from Victory.
I love chicken, and nothing is better than roast chicken and baked potatoes when the high for the day is hovering around 10 degrees.
Fresh, yellow beans as a delicious accompanying side.
Of course, any woman worth her salt knows that taking the rack of the chicken, post-consumption, and boiling it for chicken soup is the only decent thing to do when such a situation presents itself.
So I did.
A medley of carrots, celery, onions, chicken and alphabet shaped pasta.
And the result was a warm, delicious homemade chicken soup enough for one supper and several lunches.
I love my dogs.
And they love a ladle full of Mummy's homemade chicken soup mixed in with their kibble.
Unfortunately, the ladle full of soup, while a wonderful means of bringing the dogs into our soup filled world, didn't have the desired outcome.
But it did have an outcome.
Because out came a pile of warm, soft dog shit on my bedroom floor just beside the litter box.
Another foot to the right and it would have been in there ready for the pooper scooper.
Rather than me getting out of bed at 2.20 in the morning to the most putrid stench permeating the previously clean, cool air inhabiting our room.
Putrid actually doesn't even come close.
Before I could even clean it up I had to take the two of them out, because you can't take one out without the other, in order to ensure that there wasn't any more bowel detritus lying in wait for me.
Returning into the house to be greeted by an equally tired Stephen bearing a biodegradable poop bag and a container of Lysol wipes.
I did the best I could with what I had, and ended the cleaning process with piling Lysol wipes onto the remnants of the pile in an effort to mute the mild stench that continued to linger in the air.
While Stephen opened the window thinking the frigid night air would help.
All it did was suspend the stench particles.
So he turned the fan on and dispersed the suspended stench particles.
At that point, I didn't care.
I was tired enough to sleep through the lingering stench.
As was Stephen.
Although he could sleep through just about anything.
And has.
After observing Frankie during his breakfast shenanigans, I came to the conclusion that it may not have been my soup that caused Frankie to become such a loosie goosie.
Apparently, he has developed an ingenious and creative system for getting into the garbage.
Using his snout, he lifts the lid of the garbage can and inserts his head into the garbage can to enjoy whatever treats he figures are in there, waiting for him.
And from what I can see, he's been doing this undetected for quite some time.
Which explains incidents like last night.
I hope.
Because I am running out of explanations for his need to dump in my bedroom in the middle of the night.
Emily called me at lunch time yesterday, as she always does.
However, it was the first time she ever called to say that after I was finished teaching my last class, meaning 5.30, could we take a few minutes and go to Jinglers.
The used clothing store.
The one I frequent as it is one of the few places I can purchase affordable clothing.
Not that there aren't other places I could shop for clothing.
I just can't afford them.
So for Emily, who shops exclusively at expensive boutique clothing stores, this was quite a shock.
And then she explained the reasoning behind her request.
Denim day at the high school.
And she needed a denim shirt to wear with denim pants.
So off we went.
I found three shirts, a sweater and a pair of jeans.
For $11.00.
Who couldn't be excited by that.
Really.
Title Lyric: The Soup by Regina Spektor
Friday, October 7, 2011
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Everyone's crawling around on all fours. . . .cos they're shutting all the doors. . . .
October 6, 2011
As a social scientist, I am trained to observe, record and analyze.
Recently, I have noted a correlation between my ability to mediate feline malcontent and time of day.
Morning, I'm your girl. Call on me to separate your frantic felines from their hissing, spitting, general growling and smacking at one another.
Yesterday my reflexes were lightening quick creating a formidable, non-injurious block against Dibley's chasing Goblet up the stairs after one of her infrequent visits to the lower regions of the house.
Admittedly, she is venturing out more often, however, not often enough for Stephen who worries that she is becoming even more anti-social than she's already demonstrated.
And the exercise she experienced, also infrequent, was more than beneficial to her overall physical well being.
In fact, Stephen's worry for her has resulted in our not only moving a litter box into our room, but also her food.
Her not eating causes much concern for someone in our happy home.
While I think she could stand to lose a few pounds.
Me and the vet.
Back to negotiating.
Supper time, I am less engaged in the actual process of negotiating and lean more toward time outs in separate corners.
With sometimes less-than-friendly movements spurned by my exponentially increasing exhaustion from teaching three classes, meetings with students who just can't seem to understand what it is I want them to do no matter how well I think I explain it, or how much sense it makes to me, and the always present familial responsibilities that follow me where ever I go thanks to the horrific and completely unnecessary act of texting.
Meaning I am tired when I come home.
And even the happy faces of loving puppies and adorable felines aren't enough to sustain me through an entire evening.
Even though "evening" is a lose term that encompasses the time period from 7-9 pm as I am usually sound asleep by 9.30 pm.
Including weekends.
Especially weekends.
Late night-early morning I am a completely useless negotiator.
Dibley has taken to late night visiting with Goblet.
Whether or not Goblet wants late night visits is a moot point.
He still makes them.
In the wee hours of the morning, I am awakened by a growling, unhappy, generally pissed-off-that-no-matter-what-she-does-this-keeps-happening Goblet.
Staring beady-eyed at Dibley, who, non-plussed, is sitting in front of her wondering why she's so consistently so hostile.
I realized the other night, after hauling myself from under the warmth of my sheets, blankey and duvet, Stephen snoring beside me oblivious to the cacophony of an irate Goblet, that Dibley is non-plussed because he can't hear her growling and is apparently unable to read her facial expressions of body language, rendering him the feline embodiment of Sheldon Cooper.
And Goblet has yet to understand this about him.
Provided she would even care if she did.
In fact, caring that Dibley is unable to hear them or read them is of little concern to Goblet or or any of the other cats and dogs in this animal infested loony bin I call home.
And if I want to return to any semblance of sleep, and I always do unless I am plagued by some thought that pops into my head while I crawl from the depths of my bed, rendering me unable to return to slumber which happens more frequently than you would think, there is only one appropriate course of action.
Toss, gently, Dibley out of the room and shut the door, effectively calming Goblet enough that she'll settle down and go back to sleep allowing the rest of us who actually awaken when sensing distress in the force to do the same.
Rude, elemental and primal though it may be, sometime just shutting the door on your problems is the only effective solution.
Especially when desperately needed and wanted sleep is involved.
Unfortunately, this has never been a viable course of action when dealing with the kids or Stephen.
Undaunted by continued failure, I am going to keep trying.
Observe and refine.
That's the social scientists model.
Title Lyric: Shutting the Doors by Kirsty MacColl
As a social scientist, I am trained to observe, record and analyze.
Recently, I have noted a correlation between my ability to mediate feline malcontent and time of day.
Morning, I'm your girl. Call on me to separate your frantic felines from their hissing, spitting, general growling and smacking at one another.
Yesterday my reflexes were lightening quick creating a formidable, non-injurious block against Dibley's chasing Goblet up the stairs after one of her infrequent visits to the lower regions of the house.
Admittedly, she is venturing out more often, however, not often enough for Stephen who worries that she is becoming even more anti-social than she's already demonstrated.
And the exercise she experienced, also infrequent, was more than beneficial to her overall physical well being.
In fact, Stephen's worry for her has resulted in our not only moving a litter box into our room, but also her food.
Her not eating causes much concern for someone in our happy home.
While I think she could stand to lose a few pounds.
Me and the vet.
Back to negotiating.
Supper time, I am less engaged in the actual process of negotiating and lean more toward time outs in separate corners.
With sometimes less-than-friendly movements spurned by my exponentially increasing exhaustion from teaching three classes, meetings with students who just can't seem to understand what it is I want them to do no matter how well I think I explain it, or how much sense it makes to me, and the always present familial responsibilities that follow me where ever I go thanks to the horrific and completely unnecessary act of texting.
Meaning I am tired when I come home.
And even the happy faces of loving puppies and adorable felines aren't enough to sustain me through an entire evening.
Even though "evening" is a lose term that encompasses the time period from 7-9 pm as I am usually sound asleep by 9.30 pm.
Including weekends.
Especially weekends.
Late night-early morning I am a completely useless negotiator.
Dibley has taken to late night visiting with Goblet.
Whether or not Goblet wants late night visits is a moot point.
He still makes them.
In the wee hours of the morning, I am awakened by a growling, unhappy, generally pissed-off-that-no-matter-what-she-does-this-keeps-happening Goblet.
Staring beady-eyed at Dibley, who, non-plussed, is sitting in front of her wondering why she's so consistently so hostile.
I realized the other night, after hauling myself from under the warmth of my sheets, blankey and duvet, Stephen snoring beside me oblivious to the cacophony of an irate Goblet, that Dibley is non-plussed because he can't hear her growling and is apparently unable to read her facial expressions of body language, rendering him the feline embodiment of Sheldon Cooper.
And Goblet has yet to understand this about him.
Provided she would even care if she did.
In fact, caring that Dibley is unable to hear them or read them is of little concern to Goblet or or any of the other cats and dogs in this animal infested loony bin I call home.
And if I want to return to any semblance of sleep, and I always do unless I am plagued by some thought that pops into my head while I crawl from the depths of my bed, rendering me unable to return to slumber which happens more frequently than you would think, there is only one appropriate course of action.
Toss, gently, Dibley out of the room and shut the door, effectively calming Goblet enough that she'll settle down and go back to sleep allowing the rest of us who actually awaken when sensing distress in the force to do the same.
Rude, elemental and primal though it may be, sometime just shutting the door on your problems is the only effective solution.
Especially when desperately needed and wanted sleep is involved.
Unfortunately, this has never been a viable course of action when dealing with the kids or Stephen.
Undaunted by continued failure, I am going to keep trying.
Observe and refine.
That's the social scientists model.
Title Lyric: Shutting the Doors by Kirsty MacColl
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
They give me cat scratch fever. . ..
October 4, 2011
Today, finally, after almost a week of being home Em is returning to school.
Most reluctantly.
If she could swing it, she'd squeeze another day at home, under the guise of caring for Reilley.
But Reilley is fine as long as he is left in peace.
And Em has close to a week's worth of school to catch up on.
Now, given the education system in this province, that may not be as much as you'd think, but the bottom line is she's behind.
In addition, it's Safe Schools Week.
For Em, even more dreaded than exams.
Jumping out of buses, evacuations, Red Alerts.
At the end of the day more about fear mongering, fearing terrorists attacks on the school, bomb scares, etc.
Creating a more-than-anxious-even-though-she-is-already-anxious-Emily
Week nights of working through the traumas, hearing about how much she hates this week and perhaps celebrating the knowledge that this will, indeed, be her last foray into Safe Schools Week.
Plus, even more than the trauma of Safe Schools Week, she just really needs to return to the real world.
Whether she wants to or not.
But because I really need her to.
Really, really.
Reilley.
Survived his trip to the vet without too much long term suffering, agony, strain, anguish or stress.
At least for him.
Em on the other hand was more than a little distressed.
Reilley was suffering from an infected wound.
A wound created by Jasper or Dibley.
Jasper because he wanted to play.
Dibley because he was trying to assert his dominance.
It wasn't a big wound. . .more just a scratch. Well, a deep scratch.
We didn't even know there was a scratch until the vet cut away the fur covering the scratch and the wound started to ooze.
Em was not impressed.
She turned about as green as the ooze.
The pain was a result of the scratch being located on his paw in an area with little skin, just more bone.
The resulting infection caused swelling, which caused stretching of the skin, the locus of the pain.
At least it wasn't something related to his joints or muscles.
He'll spend his next couple of days resting and relaxing in Em's room, food, water, litter box all within his immediate vicinity.
Radio playing for him while Em is away at school.
No other cats or dogs allowed in her room for the duration of time it takes him to heal.
Ten days worth of antibiotics should do the trick.
Emotional scarring. . .that may take a little longer.
For Reilley and Emily.
Most of yesterday was spent working on my latest journal article project.
Which is turning out, as usual, to be more than I anticipated.
But not bad more, just more.
While writing, I was listening to episodes of, of course, Big Bang Theory.
I can't work in silence.
I can work at Starbucks or the library because neither of them are silent.
But there are benefits to working at home.
Because how I respond to writing and watching Big Bang Theory would certainly get me kicked out of the library, and in all probability, Starbucks.
As it is, Stephen shuts the bedroom door and puts the fan on for white noise.
As Big Bang Theory results in laughing, laughing, laughing until my right side protested by sending sharp pains throughout my body because I did, indeed, continue to laugh.
Who couldn't.
In a moment of sharing, I posted some of my Sheldon lines as my facebook status.
One of my colleagues thinks I've developed an alter ego.
Why not?
He's funny and has an IQ of 187.
Who wouldn't want such an alter ego?
Title Lyric: Cat Scratch Fever by Ted Nugent
Today, finally, after almost a week of being home Em is returning to school.
Most reluctantly.
If she could swing it, she'd squeeze another day at home, under the guise of caring for Reilley.
But Reilley is fine as long as he is left in peace.
And Em has close to a week's worth of school to catch up on.
Now, given the education system in this province, that may not be as much as you'd think, but the bottom line is she's behind.
In addition, it's Safe Schools Week.
For Em, even more dreaded than exams.
Jumping out of buses, evacuations, Red Alerts.
At the end of the day more about fear mongering, fearing terrorists attacks on the school, bomb scares, etc.
Creating a more-than-anxious-even-though-she-is-already-anxious-Emily
Week nights of working through the traumas, hearing about how much she hates this week and perhaps celebrating the knowledge that this will, indeed, be her last foray into Safe Schools Week.
Plus, even more than the trauma of Safe Schools Week, she just really needs to return to the real world.
Whether she wants to or not.
But because I really need her to.
Really, really.
Reilley.
Survived his trip to the vet without too much long term suffering, agony, strain, anguish or stress.
At least for him.
Em on the other hand was more than a little distressed.
Reilley was suffering from an infected wound.
A wound created by Jasper or Dibley.
Jasper because he wanted to play.
Dibley because he was trying to assert his dominance.
It wasn't a big wound. . .more just a scratch. Well, a deep scratch.
We didn't even know there was a scratch until the vet cut away the fur covering the scratch and the wound started to ooze.
Em was not impressed.
She turned about as green as the ooze.
The pain was a result of the scratch being located on his paw in an area with little skin, just more bone.
The resulting infection caused swelling, which caused stretching of the skin, the locus of the pain.
At least it wasn't something related to his joints or muscles.
He'll spend his next couple of days resting and relaxing in Em's room, food, water, litter box all within his immediate vicinity.
Radio playing for him while Em is away at school.
No other cats or dogs allowed in her room for the duration of time it takes him to heal.
Ten days worth of antibiotics should do the trick.
Emotional scarring. . .that may take a little longer.
For Reilley and Emily.
Most of yesterday was spent working on my latest journal article project.
Which is turning out, as usual, to be more than I anticipated.
But not bad more, just more.
While writing, I was listening to episodes of, of course, Big Bang Theory.
I can't work in silence.
I can work at Starbucks or the library because neither of them are silent.
But there are benefits to working at home.
Because how I respond to writing and watching Big Bang Theory would certainly get me kicked out of the library, and in all probability, Starbucks.
As it is, Stephen shuts the bedroom door and puts the fan on for white noise.
As Big Bang Theory results in laughing, laughing, laughing until my right side protested by sending sharp pains throughout my body because I did, indeed, continue to laugh.
Who couldn't.
In a moment of sharing, I posted some of my Sheldon lines as my facebook status.
One of my colleagues thinks I've developed an alter ego.
Why not?
He's funny and has an IQ of 187.
Who wouldn't want such an alter ego?
Title Lyric: Cat Scratch Fever by Ted Nugent
Monday, October 3, 2011
Drive me, keep on driving me. . . .
October 3, 2011
Emily has been home from school since last Wednesday.
Whatever she has, a cold I suspect, has taken up residence in her immune weak corpus and rendered her almost completely incapable of anything beyond drinking ginger ale, munching soda crackers, and complaining about being sick thinking I was in a position to do something about it.
Again, unfair assumptions about the extent of my superpowers.
And believe me, if I had superpowers enough to magic her well, I'd do it.
In fact, I would have done it last week.
About five minutes after she announced she wasn't feeling well.
For the last five days, between the extended periods of laying in her bed, or Keith's as he has a cable tv in his room, she's been wandering around the house in her housecoat, clutching whichever cat she was able to lay her hands on, occasionally breaking long enough for a bath.
Being home sick has proven to be less entertaining than you would think.
However, it did enable her to observe what was going on around us.
Or the cats to be more specific.
While our cats are becoming more comfortable with one another, there are still some pockets of discomfort and distress among our feline companions.
In particular, between Dibley and Reilley.
Dibley and Goblet.
Jasper is still a kitten so he is completely immune to whether or not the other pets actually like him.
He really just doesn't care.
Which is probably good for him in the long run.
Friday evening, when the monsters-under-the-bed relocated to Em's room, there was some kerfuffle from the monsters about squatter's rights, rendering Reilley with a swollen joint just above one of his front paws.
Over the course of the weekend, he's just not been himself.
No chatting.
No running into my room to join girl time with me and Em, adding his two cents to our conversations as he has done since as long as I can remember.
Em moving him from bed to litter box to food bowl to water to coffee cream container.
Meaning this morning, at 7.00 am I was on the phone with the vet begging and pleading for an appointment today.
I can't take watching him in misery any longer.
Viewing a shadow of his former self in each and every encounter we have.
Plus, Em hasn't exactly been her usual, miserable self while sick.
She's been a hyper-focused of her usual miserable self while sick because she's in a frantic state about Reilley's misery.
In thirty minutes, Reilley warmly ensconced in his cat carrier complete with Emily-smelling old shirts, crate resting comfortably on Em's lap, Keith in the backseat for dropping-off-at-the-university purposes.
I am hoping that it's just sprained.
Not like when Tikka shattered all the bones in her front foot and had to have a cast for six weeks.
Six weeks wherein her cast covered paw was covered with an IV bag and she wasn't supposed to go outside for anything other than relieving herself.
It was a very, very long six weeks with Stephen and Tikka trapped in the house.
Both lasted about three weeks.
And then Tikka and the IV bag, along with Stephen, were taking walks each and everyday.
Good thing.
Otherwise I may have had to force them outside for playtime.
Reilley needs painkillers and time.
Only one of which we can provide without the exorbitant financial intervention of the vet.
Boo Haa.
Who needs groceries.
Em will indeed be returning to school tomorrow.
For no other reason than I need to protect whatever sanity I have left.
Which, admittedly, isn't much.
To ease her, slowly, into re-engaging with the mass public, she is attending her driver's ed, in-car instruction this evening.
From 3.45 to 6.45 she'll be behind the wheel of someone else's car, learning to reconnect with the world outside of the confines of our home.
I'll be at home.
Stephen at work, Keith at work, Em behind the wheel of someone's car.
And me. . .
Wallowing in the blissful silence of our happy home.
Outside of the monsters-who-will-probably-come-out-from-under-the-bed to cavort in the expanse of the house, it'll be a lovely, Dawne-only, incredibly rare, time.
All the time while I nurse the pain-addled Reilley back to his former self.
At least until Em returns home and take control.
Because she will.
He is her cat afterall.
Maternal instinct.
It's a powerful thing.
Title Lyric: Home Sick Home by Faith No More
Emily has been home from school since last Wednesday.
Whatever she has, a cold I suspect, has taken up residence in her immune weak corpus and rendered her almost completely incapable of anything beyond drinking ginger ale, munching soda crackers, and complaining about being sick thinking I was in a position to do something about it.
Again, unfair assumptions about the extent of my superpowers.
And believe me, if I had superpowers enough to magic her well, I'd do it.
In fact, I would have done it last week.
About five minutes after she announced she wasn't feeling well.
For the last five days, between the extended periods of laying in her bed, or Keith's as he has a cable tv in his room, she's been wandering around the house in her housecoat, clutching whichever cat she was able to lay her hands on, occasionally breaking long enough for a bath.
Being home sick has proven to be less entertaining than you would think.
However, it did enable her to observe what was going on around us.
Or the cats to be more specific.
While our cats are becoming more comfortable with one another, there are still some pockets of discomfort and distress among our feline companions.
In particular, between Dibley and Reilley.
Dibley and Goblet.
Jasper is still a kitten so he is completely immune to whether or not the other pets actually like him.
He really just doesn't care.
Which is probably good for him in the long run.
Friday evening, when the monsters-under-the-bed relocated to Em's room, there was some kerfuffle from the monsters about squatter's rights, rendering Reilley with a swollen joint just above one of his front paws.
Over the course of the weekend, he's just not been himself.
No chatting.
No running into my room to join girl time with me and Em, adding his two cents to our conversations as he has done since as long as I can remember.
Em moving him from bed to litter box to food bowl to water to coffee cream container.
Meaning this morning, at 7.00 am I was on the phone with the vet begging and pleading for an appointment today.
I can't take watching him in misery any longer.
Viewing a shadow of his former self in each and every encounter we have.
Plus, Em hasn't exactly been her usual, miserable self while sick.
She's been a hyper-focused of her usual miserable self while sick because she's in a frantic state about Reilley's misery.
In thirty minutes, Reilley warmly ensconced in his cat carrier complete with Emily-smelling old shirts, crate resting comfortably on Em's lap, Keith in the backseat for dropping-off-at-the-university purposes.
I am hoping that it's just sprained.
Not like when Tikka shattered all the bones in her front foot and had to have a cast for six weeks.
Six weeks wherein her cast covered paw was covered with an IV bag and she wasn't supposed to go outside for anything other than relieving herself.
It was a very, very long six weeks with Stephen and Tikka trapped in the house.
Both lasted about three weeks.
And then Tikka and the IV bag, along with Stephen, were taking walks each and everyday.
Good thing.
Otherwise I may have had to force them outside for playtime.
Reilley needs painkillers and time.
Only one of which we can provide without the exorbitant financial intervention of the vet.
Boo Haa.
Who needs groceries.
Em will indeed be returning to school tomorrow.
For no other reason than I need to protect whatever sanity I have left.
Which, admittedly, isn't much.
To ease her, slowly, into re-engaging with the mass public, she is attending her driver's ed, in-car instruction this evening.
From 3.45 to 6.45 she'll be behind the wheel of someone else's car, learning to reconnect with the world outside of the confines of our home.
I'll be at home.
Stephen at work, Keith at work, Em behind the wheel of someone's car.
And me. . .
Wallowing in the blissful silence of our happy home.
Outside of the monsters-who-will-probably-come-out-from-under-the-bed to cavort in the expanse of the house, it'll be a lovely, Dawne-only, incredibly rare, time.
All the time while I nurse the pain-addled Reilley back to his former self.
At least until Em returns home and take control.
Because she will.
He is her cat afterall.
Maternal instinct.
It's a powerful thing.
Title Lyric: Home Sick Home by Faith No More
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Are your shoes too tight?
October 2, 2011
I am satisfyingly tired this morning.
The kind of tired resulting from having my brain stimulated with exciting new thoughts and ideas.
From being with like minded people, interested in the same things I am.
And ending the day with a sumptuous meal at The Blue Door?
Well that was just the icing on the cake.
The day started with the driving of Keith to work and the delivery of our new-to-us living room furniture.
We now have a seven foot couch and two matching chairs.
All of which has made Keith and Em very, very happy.
Because apparently, the watching of television is enhanced by the position in which one watches television.
Imagine.
Of course, I was almost late for Jeff Ferrell's workshop.
Stephen, who was supposed to attend with me, had to shift his plans to attend another function.
The installation of St. Thomas' first female president.
Which was scheduled for the same day as the workshop.
Stephen was asked by his MA Alma Mater, the University of Manitoba, to present their Welcome to the World of Presidentdom to President Russell.
Not an uncommon practice.
Universities will determine if there is a faculty member who can stand in for them in the event that the president of their university is unable to attend.
And for Manitoba, that's Stephen.
So while I was getting into my workshop comfy clothes, Stephen was putting on his white shirt, tie, dress pants, suit jacket, and very-uncomfortable-and-not-worn-often dress shoes.
Stephen despises dressing up.
Even though he looks very, very handsome when he does, let me tell you.
And because he despises it, he drags his feet.
Which made me almost late, because I had to stop at my office before the workshop to get my copy of Ferrell's Empire of Scrounge so he could sign it for me.
Yes.
I am that person.
Wants signed books whenever she can get one.
Imagine my frustration driving with Stephen to the university, knowing I was going to be late, and for once actually caring that I was going to be late.
Not the most pleasant drive we've ever had.
Rushing up the stairs, I get to the third floor, and for whatever reason they hadn't started so I wasn't technically late.
And then a CBC Radio person wanted to interview me.
Hear the opening discussion of the lecture.
Hear the sound of my own voice coming over CBC airwaves.
Guess which one I picked?
Who doesn't want to hear the sound of their own voice saying things that seem remotely intelligent?
Plus, it was a five minute interview.
And so long as it's radio and not television, I will listen.
Because tv really does make you look heavier.
And in my case, a LOT heavier.
The workshop was amazing!
So many new ideas and thoughts running around in my head right now.
New directions for previously collected data and stuff I've just recently started working on.
Pages and pages of notes to transcribe and expand upon.
I could have sat there for another three hours.
Honestly.
And then afterwards, dinner at The Blue Door.
A bit more than we could afford, but, we'll manage if only for the opportunity for further great conversation.
And it was.
The food was fabulous. . .I had butter chicken. . .OH. MY. GAWD.
Around 8.30, though, my maternal conscience started singly loudly and I accepted that it was probably time to head home.
Em had been home all day by herself, as Keith worked from 10.00 am to 12.30 am the next day.
I was home for about an hour in between the end of the workshop and the beginning of dinner.
And we came home to a cranky Em, a limping Reilley and no discernible means of comforting either one.
So I went to bed and started reading the 1957 novel, Cape Fear.
Even my superpowers have a limit.
Title Lyric: Are Your Shoes Too Tight by The Storm
I am satisfyingly tired this morning.
The kind of tired resulting from having my brain stimulated with exciting new thoughts and ideas.
From being with like minded people, interested in the same things I am.
And ending the day with a sumptuous meal at The Blue Door?
Well that was just the icing on the cake.
The day started with the driving of Keith to work and the delivery of our new-to-us living room furniture.
We now have a seven foot couch and two matching chairs.
All of which has made Keith and Em very, very happy.
Because apparently, the watching of television is enhanced by the position in which one watches television.
Imagine.
Of course, I was almost late for Jeff Ferrell's workshop.
Stephen, who was supposed to attend with me, had to shift his plans to attend another function.
The installation of St. Thomas' first female president.
Which was scheduled for the same day as the workshop.
Stephen was asked by his MA Alma Mater, the University of Manitoba, to present their Welcome to the World of Presidentdom to President Russell.
Not an uncommon practice.
Universities will determine if there is a faculty member who can stand in for them in the event that the president of their university is unable to attend.
And for Manitoba, that's Stephen.
So while I was getting into my workshop comfy clothes, Stephen was putting on his white shirt, tie, dress pants, suit jacket, and very-uncomfortable-and-not-worn-often dress shoes.
Stephen despises dressing up.
Even though he looks very, very handsome when he does, let me tell you.
And because he despises it, he drags his feet.
Which made me almost late, because I had to stop at my office before the workshop to get my copy of Ferrell's Empire of Scrounge so he could sign it for me.
Yes.
I am that person.
Wants signed books whenever she can get one.
Imagine my frustration driving with Stephen to the university, knowing I was going to be late, and for once actually caring that I was going to be late.
Not the most pleasant drive we've ever had.
Rushing up the stairs, I get to the third floor, and for whatever reason they hadn't started so I wasn't technically late.
And then a CBC Radio person wanted to interview me.
Hear the opening discussion of the lecture.
Hear the sound of my own voice coming over CBC airwaves.
Guess which one I picked?
Who doesn't want to hear the sound of their own voice saying things that seem remotely intelligent?
Plus, it was a five minute interview.
And so long as it's radio and not television, I will listen.
Because tv really does make you look heavier.
And in my case, a LOT heavier.
The workshop was amazing!
So many new ideas and thoughts running around in my head right now.
New directions for previously collected data and stuff I've just recently started working on.
Pages and pages of notes to transcribe and expand upon.
I could have sat there for another three hours.
Honestly.
And then afterwards, dinner at The Blue Door.
A bit more than we could afford, but, we'll manage if only for the opportunity for further great conversation.
And it was.
The food was fabulous. . .I had butter chicken. . .OH. MY. GAWD.
Around 8.30, though, my maternal conscience started singly loudly and I accepted that it was probably time to head home.
Em had been home all day by herself, as Keith worked from 10.00 am to 12.30 am the next day.
I was home for about an hour in between the end of the workshop and the beginning of dinner.
And we came home to a cranky Em, a limping Reilley and no discernible means of comforting either one.
So I went to bed and started reading the 1957 novel, Cape Fear.
Even my superpowers have a limit.
Title Lyric: Are Your Shoes Too Tight by The Storm
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