November 12, 2o11
Awake at 4.00 am.
On a long weekend.
Imagine that.
Thursday night spent worrying about my mother, tossing and turning in my bed as she spent the night in the ER.
Dulse refusing to move from it's place in her throat.
Not knowing until the next day where she was or how she was doing.
Me wondering when I became the worrier.
Friday night was spent alone with Stephen.
Weird, I know.
Neither of us knowing what to do without the kids to tell us.
Full fledged access to the couch and the remote.
And both of us in bed by 10.00 pm, lights out by 10.45 pm.
I tossed and turned all night.
Worried, worried, worried.
Not having your chicks in the nest when you're awake and able to enjoy the nest is one thing.
Not having your chicks in their subnests when you're in bed is something entirely different.
It isn't the first time, to be sure.
Coupled with the years you've spent cultivating honest and open relationships with your children, to the point where they confide in you and tell you things and you think you're all that because you're kids actually TALK with you.
Which also includes them telling you things that maybe you don't want to hear.
Kids not home and you know what they're doing.
Every parent's dream right?
Such is my relationship with Em.
She tells me everything and we talk things out.
Most of the time it's stuff I can deal with, know how to negotiate, circumvent the rough and dangerous terrain of being an-almost-18-year-old young woman.
Normal teenage stuff.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Stuff you did yourself and shared with them, hoping I guess that if you were honest they would make more adult and mature decisions than you did at their age.
Forgetting, of course, about the power of youth, the newness of experiences and the desire to want to try them, older siblings who seem to have a wealth of experience you don't.
Knowing that you have raised a responsible, intelligent, mature child whose desire to be honest leads you to be equally honest so all the cards are on the table and everyone knows where everyone else stands helps to sooth the pains of raising your children and watching them go off into a world where you can't always protect them.
But it doesn't mean that I won't lay awake at night, toss and turn, and feel as if the world is a little off kilter under that chick returns to the nest.
One night your aging mother.
The next your teenage daughter.
Such is the stuff of the sandwich generation.
And people wonder why I am always tired!
Stephen and I took some time out yesterday.
Time out for us, anyway.
Taking our dissertation stuff and our marking stuff, we headed to one of my favourite places to enjoy a work enhanced, pet free, childless, computerless-should-you-want environment.
That's right.
The university library.
Sharing a table, his dissertation stuff spread out before him, the last remnants of the crime and film papers in front of me, we settled in for a couple of hours of quiet work time, punctuated so often with "what do you think of this?" and the odd bathroom break.
Starbucks was even open.
Stephen made substantial headway to the revisions of his proposal and I soldiered on through the papers, still unsure about how to combine critical, substance related comments with spelling and grammatical comments because there is only so much I can do.
Sentences don't end with commas.
Or prepositions.
Commas should be used sparingly and if you don't know how to use them look it up.
Incomplete sentences are not appropriate
There is a difference between there, they're and their.
Just as there is a difference in the formation between in text quotations and quotations longer than 3 lines or 40 words.
Using "on" when you mean "about" makes me want to stand up and scream (so it was a good thing I was in the library.)
Contractions are not used in formal papers.
And that doesn't even touch the substantial stuff.
If I have to read through this material, I can at least do it in an environment that's peaceful, welcoming and provides a coffee with one of the highest caffeine percentages of any coffee.
Me and Stephen.
In the words of Amy Farrah Fowler, we can get CA-RAZY!
Title Lyric: Wake Up by Arcade Fire
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
You're gonna be in the emergency room. . . .
November 11, 2011
HAPPY 72ND BIRTHDAY MUM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
She is currently celebrating her most recent milestone in room 14 in the Emergency Room at the DECH.
How you ask?
She was enjoying a pre-bedtime snack of dulse when a piece lodged itself in her throat and decided that it was such a nice place that why move forward.
Not so that she was choking, thankfully.
But enough that she wasn't able to drink any water.
And you don't want to know the ramifications of not being able to swallow.
Meaning how I gleaned the consequences.
Enough said.
Consequently, as I was just enjoying the end of Big Bang Theory when Stephen informed me there was a phone message from the nursing home.
Phone message. Nursing home. After 9.00 pm.
Nothing good was going to come of checking into this.
And in a likelihood, I was going to have to change from my pjs into yoga pants.
Sure enough, she was taken by ambulance to the hospital.
Oddly enough, I find this somewhat disconcerting.
The woman fell a month ago and bruised and bashed her face so harshly that she is still sporting bruises, blurred vision, and complains of pain in her head and the nursing home thought a trip to the ER wasn't necessary.
But a stuck piece of dulse warrants an ambulance ride and an overnight in the ER.
I just don't understand medicine.
My father was going to come into Fredericton (again, but that's another story) but I called him and told him to stay put.
Rain was falling faster than water over the rim of Niagara Falls, it was dark, my dad is in his 70s and his night driving isn't what it used to be.
You can imagine how quickly my guilt kicked in when my brain processed all the facts.
And the relief in his voice when I said he didn't need to come in, that I was going in.
I get to the hospital and there's my mother sitting up in the middle of the bed, hospital johnny shirt on instead of her pj top, looking like a petulant child.
Honestly.
No joke.
In fact at one point, she facial expression garnered the attention of a busy nurse who came in just because she was glaring at him with such intensity and ferocity.
I think she was trying to intimidate him into getting the doctor in to see her sooner rather than later.
Plus she had already taken her all her meds and was struggling to stay awake.
Over and over I asked her to just close her eyes and go to sleep, but she was determined that nothing was going to be missed by her falling asleep.
She never did like to miss anything.
Luckily for us, the ER wasn't overly busy, so the doctor actually came in to see her about an hour after we had arrived.
And after examining her, his verdict was that she was going to have a sleep over in the ER, and if the dulse continued its vigil in her throat she'd have to have a scope to remove it.
A scope requires numbing her throat and her gag reflex and the skills of a surgeon to remove the dulse.
So not the most complex procedure but invasive nonetheless.
She had been after me to leave since I had arrived and knowing she was going to spend the night in the ER she was determined that I wasn't going to spend the night with her.
I went home.
Reluctantly.
It was very late for a woman who has been going to bed every night this week by 8.30 pm.
In bed after one am is not a completely new experience for me, but one I haven't had in a significantly long time.
Waking up at 7.30 am wasn't exciting either.
A slave, yet again, to the whimsy of Frankie and Tikka's bladders.
Also an opportunity to call the hospital and see how Mum was doing.
Did she need a scope?
And the verdict. . . .
She had been sent back to the nursing home at 4.30 am, the medication she was given helped to relax her esophagus enough for the dulse to continue it's journey.
The lesson here: my mother can no longer go the bathroom or eat dulse after she's had her medication.
What next?
And this was after her birthday dinner at the Diplomat.
Which is another story for another time.
Because right now I am going back to bed.
Title Lyric: Emergency Room by Rhianna
HAPPY 72ND BIRTHDAY MUM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
She is currently celebrating her most recent milestone in room 14 in the Emergency Room at the DECH.
How you ask?
She was enjoying a pre-bedtime snack of dulse when a piece lodged itself in her throat and decided that it was such a nice place that why move forward.
Not so that she was choking, thankfully.
But enough that she wasn't able to drink any water.
And you don't want to know the ramifications of not being able to swallow.
Meaning how I gleaned the consequences.
Enough said.
Consequently, as I was just enjoying the end of Big Bang Theory when Stephen informed me there was a phone message from the nursing home.
Phone message. Nursing home. After 9.00 pm.
Nothing good was going to come of checking into this.
And in a likelihood, I was going to have to change from my pjs into yoga pants.
Sure enough, she was taken by ambulance to the hospital.
Oddly enough, I find this somewhat disconcerting.
The woman fell a month ago and bruised and bashed her face so harshly that she is still sporting bruises, blurred vision, and complains of pain in her head and the nursing home thought a trip to the ER wasn't necessary.
But a stuck piece of dulse warrants an ambulance ride and an overnight in the ER.
I just don't understand medicine.
My father was going to come into Fredericton (again, but that's another story) but I called him and told him to stay put.
Rain was falling faster than water over the rim of Niagara Falls, it was dark, my dad is in his 70s and his night driving isn't what it used to be.
You can imagine how quickly my guilt kicked in when my brain processed all the facts.
And the relief in his voice when I said he didn't need to come in, that I was going in.
I get to the hospital and there's my mother sitting up in the middle of the bed, hospital johnny shirt on instead of her pj top, looking like a petulant child.
No joke.
In fact at one point, she facial expression garnered the attention of a busy nurse who came in just because she was glaring at him with such intensity and ferocity.
I think she was trying to intimidate him into getting the doctor in to see her sooner rather than later.
Plus she had already taken her all her meds and was struggling to stay awake.
Over and over I asked her to just close her eyes and go to sleep, but she was determined that nothing was going to be missed by her falling asleep.
She never did like to miss anything.
Luckily for us, the ER wasn't overly busy, so the doctor actually came in to see her about an hour after we had arrived.
And after examining her, his verdict was that she was going to have a sleep over in the ER, and if the dulse continued its vigil in her throat she'd have to have a scope to remove it.
A scope requires numbing her throat and her gag reflex and the skills of a surgeon to remove the dulse.
So not the most complex procedure but invasive nonetheless.
She had been after me to leave since I had arrived and knowing she was going to spend the night in the ER she was determined that I wasn't going to spend the night with her.
I went home.
Reluctantly.
It was very late for a woman who has been going to bed every night this week by 8.30 pm.
In bed after one am is not a completely new experience for me, but one I haven't had in a significantly long time.
Waking up at 7.30 am wasn't exciting either.
A slave, yet again, to the whimsy of Frankie and Tikka's bladders.
Also an opportunity to call the hospital and see how Mum was doing.
Did she need a scope?
And the verdict. . . .
She had been sent back to the nursing home at 4.30 am, the medication she was given helped to relax her esophagus enough for the dulse to continue it's journey.
The lesson here: my mother can no longer go the bathroom or eat dulse after she's had her medication.
What next?
And this was after her birthday dinner at the Diplomat.
Which is another story for another time.
Because right now I am going back to bed.
Title Lyric: Emergency Room by Rhianna
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Gimme peace, gimme peace, gimme peace. . . .
November 10, 2011
We've decided to postpone our trip to Montreal.
I am so, so sad about this. I was looking forward to a few days away, spending time with Stephen's parents, spending time with Stephen.
Alas, in this instance Stephen was the adult and took into consideration our work loads, his dissertation demands, and while guilty made the decision that we'd postpone for now with hopes of being in Montreal the first week of the new year.
In time for Ukrainian Christmas.
Provided the weather co-operates.
Of course.
There is less than one month remaining of this term.
Inconceivable!
(Hmmmm. . . .maybe I'll watch The Princess Bride this weekend.)
Stephen was certainly correct when he presented within his argument for not going to Montreal that we both were functioning under the weight of a significantly heavy workloads.
I currently have close to 50 intro crim classes proposals to mark before Tuesday.
Because if I want them to write a decent paper (at least that was the idea when I conceived of this idea in the fall) I need to have those proposals back as quickly as possible.
Otherwise, what's the point of a proposal?
I am down to the final few crime and popular film papers.
Yeah me!
But there are a stack of second interviews and research question rewrites that are waiting to be examined, graded and returned to their rightful owners.
A pile of emails from my crime and film class, attached to which are the answers to questions 4-6 of the film autobiography assignment.
That need to be added to questions 1-3.
Trust me, it makes sense to me.
And a set of participant observation assignments coming in today.
Now you can understand why I was so desperate for the long, quiet drive to Montreal, a ribbon of highway stretching before me, freedom from the trials and tribulations of my everyday life.
Just for a few days.
But the very reasons I want to escape are the ones pinning me down like a highschool wrestler on a mat.
Sometimes responsibility feels like a burden best ignored.
Today is the last teaching day of a long week.
A week of 5 am mornings to mark assignments and prepare lectures in an attempt to showcase some semblance of organization.
Tomorrow morning, the 5 am wake up will not be mandatory, but you can bet your sweet bippy that my finely attuned to routine body will ensure my eyes open at the same moment the clock strikes 5.00.
The only difference is that I'll at least think I have the choice to stay in bed.
I won't, of course, as our equally finely attuned canines will being their morning romping in an effort to remind me that it may be a sleep in morning for some people, but certainly not for me or them.
Their bowels rule this roost.
Don't ever think otherwise.
November 11 is a day I struggle with every year.
I grew up in a military family, just outside a military base.
Went to school with military kids.
Briefly married a military man.
But in the years between then and now my understandings of war and violence, senseless death and the use of the mass populace as expendable puppets by small minded politician puppet masters has made me question the ideals and principles upon which I was raised.
Making my current quest and belief in non-violence unpopular with many people.
My father included.
Unpopular ideas however does not mean that you supress those ideas.
The feelings I have when I drive through Oromocto, home of CFB Gagetown, are always conflicting, uncomfortable as I see giant ribbons bedecking the businesses who existence solely depends upon the custom of military members, a sea of red t-shirts in support of violence.
Offensive bumper stickers adorning people's vehicles that state:
. . .make me sad that we've been reduced to a society where divisions are determined by whether or not you think violence is a viable means to resolving conflict.
How is such a bumper sticker a representation of what it means to be Canadian?
Students in my classes who are in some way connected with the military often disagree with my position, my arguments against sending people into war zones where their risk of death increases exponentially at the whim of politicians who wouldn't fight in a war zone if their lives depended upon it.
So no, I don't agree with war, with soldiering, with spending a day remembering violence and chaos.
I don't agree with military action, with ceremonies that glorify death and loss.
I prefer to spend the day contemplating peace and use my time and energy engaging in ways to ensure that no one ever feels they have "fight for peace."
Isn't that an oxymoron?
Title Lyric: Gimme Peace by Tom T. Hall
We've decided to postpone our trip to Montreal.
I am so, so sad about this. I was looking forward to a few days away, spending time with Stephen's parents, spending time with Stephen.
Alas, in this instance Stephen was the adult and took into consideration our work loads, his dissertation demands, and while guilty made the decision that we'd postpone for now with hopes of being in Montreal the first week of the new year.
In time for Ukrainian Christmas.
Provided the weather co-operates.
Of course.
There is less than one month remaining of this term.
Inconceivable!
(Hmmmm. . . .maybe I'll watch The Princess Bride this weekend.)
Stephen was certainly correct when he presented within his argument for not going to Montreal that we both were functioning under the weight of a significantly heavy workloads.
I currently have close to 50 intro crim classes proposals to mark before Tuesday.
Because if I want them to write a decent paper (at least that was the idea when I conceived of this idea in the fall) I need to have those proposals back as quickly as possible.
Otherwise, what's the point of a proposal?
I am down to the final few crime and popular film papers.
Yeah me!
But there are a stack of second interviews and research question rewrites that are waiting to be examined, graded and returned to their rightful owners.
A pile of emails from my crime and film class, attached to which are the answers to questions 4-6 of the film autobiography assignment.
That need to be added to questions 1-3.
Trust me, it makes sense to me.
And a set of participant observation assignments coming in today.
Now you can understand why I was so desperate for the long, quiet drive to Montreal, a ribbon of highway stretching before me, freedom from the trials and tribulations of my everyday life.
Just for a few days.
But the very reasons I want to escape are the ones pinning me down like a highschool wrestler on a mat.
Sometimes responsibility feels like a burden best ignored.
Today is the last teaching day of a long week.
A week of 5 am mornings to mark assignments and prepare lectures in an attempt to showcase some semblance of organization.
Tomorrow morning, the 5 am wake up will not be mandatory, but you can bet your sweet bippy that my finely attuned to routine body will ensure my eyes open at the same moment the clock strikes 5.00.
The only difference is that I'll at least think I have the choice to stay in bed.
I won't, of course, as our equally finely attuned canines will being their morning romping in an effort to remind me that it may be a sleep in morning for some people, but certainly not for me or them.
Their bowels rule this roost.
Don't ever think otherwise.
November 11 is a day I struggle with every year.
I grew up in a military family, just outside a military base.
Went to school with military kids.
Briefly married a military man.
But in the years between then and now my understandings of war and violence, senseless death and the use of the mass populace as expendable puppets by small minded politician puppet masters has made me question the ideals and principles upon which I was raised.
Making my current quest and belief in non-violence unpopular with many people.
My father included.
Unpopular ideas however does not mean that you supress those ideas.
The feelings I have when I drive through Oromocto, home of CFB Gagetown, are always conflicting, uncomfortable as I see giant ribbons bedecking the businesses who existence solely depends upon the custom of military members, a sea of red t-shirts in support of violence.
Offensive bumper stickers adorning people's vehicles that state:
. . .make me sad that we've been reduced to a society where divisions are determined by whether or not you think violence is a viable means to resolving conflict.
How is such a bumper sticker a representation of what it means to be Canadian?
Students in my classes who are in some way connected with the military often disagree with my position, my arguments against sending people into war zones where their risk of death increases exponentially at the whim of politicians who wouldn't fight in a war zone if their lives depended upon it.
So no, I don't agree with war, with soldiering, with spending a day remembering violence and chaos.
I don't agree with military action, with ceremonies that glorify death and loss.
I prefer to spend the day contemplating peace and use my time and energy engaging in ways to ensure that no one ever feels they have "fight for peace."
Isn't that an oxymoron?
Title Lyric: Gimme Peace by Tom T. Hall
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
So I spend the day at Wong's buffet and eat till I explode
November 8, 2011
I relish my Saturday evening visits with Mum.
The nursing home is one of the few places where I know I won't have to deal with the trials and tribulations of my everyday life.
Actually, more often than not my mother is my sounding board.
My venting repository.
She sits in her chair, listens to me, rarely says anything.
She knows I'm not looking for her to solve my problems, figure things out for me.
I just need someone to listen to me.
She's really good for that.
Which is a good thing because I certainly need it.
Yesterday was one of those days.
Beginning with a meeting at the high school with one of the four Vice Principals about Em's struggles with getting to school on time.
Which, as it turns out, isn't so much about her not wanting to get to school on time as it is physical illness.
I am going to request that our doctor test her for celiac disease.
Because all signs are pointing to it as the reasons for her physical unwellness.
But until our end of November appointment, I had to smooth things over with the school, and request that her homeroom teacher call off her dogs and leave Em alone.
Cause she isn't helping.
At all.
After four years with the same students you'd think her homeroom teacher would have figured Em out.
Okay.
Maybe that's a bit unfair.
It's been almost 18 years for me and I still haven't figured Em out.
But still.
I've tried to be polite, share relevant and pertinent information with her in an attempt to forge solidarity.
But to no avail.
And last week she sent me an email implying that soon I would be called into the Principal's office.
Choosing proactive measures as opposed to reactive measures, I got to the Principal first.
Or Vice Principal anyway.
Either way, beating her to the punch and sorting things out before hand.
Always so much easier than waiting for them to come to you.
Stephen and I are heading to Montreal this weekend.
We haven't been to visit his parents since the spring, and not wanting to chance another hair raising drive over the winter, we thought this weekend would be as good a weekend as any to go.
Remembrance Day is Friday, so it's a long weekend.
I don't teach Mondays and Stephen has made arrangements for his one class at 4.00 pm.
So off to Montreal we go.
Sans enfants.
Even if they wanted to go, the theater scheduled them to work, and they all need the money, so it's me and Stephen.
ROADTRIP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And the first one with our camera.
Who knows what I'll be coming home with.
Picture wise anyway.
As for what we actually come home with, that is entirely up to Stephen's mother, who is already moving through the house collecting things up that she wants us to bring home.
I just know it.
Unfortunately, Friday, Remembrance Day is also my mother's 72nd birthday.
As I've said before, when I was much younger I was certain that my mother's birthday was so important that everyone got the day off.
Ah. . .the vagaries of youth.
In an effort to celebrate Mum's birthday and go to Montreal, we'll be celebrating at the Dipolmat, her favourite dining haunt, as well as my Dad's.
Probably because of the sodium rich, deep fried, fat enriched Chinese buffet.
Even the kids are already salivating.
Stephen's planning his Caesar salad plates.
And me, it'll be the garden salad all the way.
Because if we're eating in Montreal for the weekend, there's no way I am blowing my appetite on the Dip.
Which in no way compares to Stephen's mother's cooking.
Ever.
Remembrance Day.
As I have said before, I have real issues with Remembrance Day.
Not because I am in any way disrespectful of those who have passed away.
I am not.
What I do disrespect, despise, abhor is violence and war that leads to the deaths of people who didn't need to die.
War is unnecessary.
Bottom line.
So while I won't wear a red poppy, I have no trouble sporting the white peace poppy.
Peace.
That is something worth working for.
Title Lyric: Wong's Chinese Buffet by the Arrogant Worms
I relish my Saturday evening visits with Mum.
The nursing home is one of the few places where I know I won't have to deal with the trials and tribulations of my everyday life.
Actually, more often than not my mother is my sounding board.
My venting repository.
She sits in her chair, listens to me, rarely says anything.
She knows I'm not looking for her to solve my problems, figure things out for me.
I just need someone to listen to me.
She's really good for that.
Which is a good thing because I certainly need it.
Yesterday was one of those days.
Beginning with a meeting at the high school with one of the four Vice Principals about Em's struggles with getting to school on time.
Which, as it turns out, isn't so much about her not wanting to get to school on time as it is physical illness.
I am going to request that our doctor test her for celiac disease.
Because all signs are pointing to it as the reasons for her physical unwellness.
But until our end of November appointment, I had to smooth things over with the school, and request that her homeroom teacher call off her dogs and leave Em alone.
Cause she isn't helping.
At all.
After four years with the same students you'd think her homeroom teacher would have figured Em out.
Okay.
Maybe that's a bit unfair.
It's been almost 18 years for me and I still haven't figured Em out.
But still.
I've tried to be polite, share relevant and pertinent information with her in an attempt to forge solidarity.
But to no avail.
And last week she sent me an email implying that soon I would be called into the Principal's office.
Choosing proactive measures as opposed to reactive measures, I got to the Principal first.
Or Vice Principal anyway.
Either way, beating her to the punch and sorting things out before hand.
Always so much easier than waiting for them to come to you.
Stephen and I are heading to Montreal this weekend.
We haven't been to visit his parents since the spring, and not wanting to chance another hair raising drive over the winter, we thought this weekend would be as good a weekend as any to go.
Remembrance Day is Friday, so it's a long weekend.
I don't teach Mondays and Stephen has made arrangements for his one class at 4.00 pm.
So off to Montreal we go.
Sans enfants.
Even if they wanted to go, the theater scheduled them to work, and they all need the money, so it's me and Stephen.
ROADTRIP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And the first one with our camera.
Who knows what I'll be coming home with.
Picture wise anyway.
As for what we actually come home with, that is entirely up to Stephen's mother, who is already moving through the house collecting things up that she wants us to bring home.
I just know it.
Unfortunately, Friday, Remembrance Day is also my mother's 72nd birthday.
As I've said before, when I was much younger I was certain that my mother's birthday was so important that everyone got the day off.
Ah. . .the vagaries of youth.
In an effort to celebrate Mum's birthday and go to Montreal, we'll be celebrating at the Dipolmat, her favourite dining haunt, as well as my Dad's.
Probably because of the sodium rich, deep fried, fat enriched Chinese buffet.
Even the kids are already salivating.
Stephen's planning his Caesar salad plates.
And me, it'll be the garden salad all the way.
Because if we're eating in Montreal for the weekend, there's no way I am blowing my appetite on the Dip.
Which in no way compares to Stephen's mother's cooking.
Ever.
Remembrance Day.
As I have said before, I have real issues with Remembrance Day.
Not because I am in any way disrespectful of those who have passed away.
I am not.
What I do disrespect, despise, abhor is violence and war that leads to the deaths of people who didn't need to die.
War is unnecessary.
Bottom line.
So while I won't wear a red poppy, I have no trouble sporting the white peace poppy.
Peace.
That is something worth working for.
Title Lyric: Wong's Chinese Buffet by the Arrogant Worms
Monday, November 7, 2011
Put me in a room, distraction less
November 7, 2011
Custer's Last Stand took place yesterday.
My innards engaging in a last ditch effort battle for control before the inevitable end of the cycle rendered them dormant for another 28 days.
But they fought hard.
Hard enough to ensure that I spent most of the day in a Pamprin induced haze, complete with heating pad on high and pillows comfortably stacked behind me.
Frankie at my feet.
Jasper by my side.
Goblet on the Goblet box, which is now buckling under the weight of her always increasing girth.
Tikka on the floor at my side of the bed.
Laying there, wondering what I ever did to deserve such a painful punishment.
Oh wait, I know.
I'm female.
Silly me.
In spite of the agony, I did manage some marking of papers before things got so bad that I couldn't sit up any more.
I set up a lovely system: mark a paper, continue the process of making dinner.
Pot roast in the slow cooker, potatoes, beets, broccoli and squash.
All put together in a rhythm dictated by how long it took me to read through papers where people thing commas are the correct means of ending a sentence and spelling is apparently optional.
Meaning dinner took a long time to prepare.
Good thing I started early.
As in 11.00 am.
Just after driving Em to work.
And I had company.
Stephen had been procrastinating with his own marking, finding every conceivable, and even some inconceivable means of avoiding marking at all costs.
Most professors despise marking.
But they do it because they have to.
Stephen despises it and waits until he is forced, by a guilty conscience or by me, to sit himself down and get things done.
He did.
At the kitchen table.
Him and me and some cats made four.
Because marking is only enhanced when you have a cat laying on your papers, another sunning himself by stretching across the table and essentially shoving you off the table as the sunbeams lengthen.
But the marking, well, his marking, was finished.
And now one of his classes, I don't know which one, will be getting their midterms back today.
Lucky them.
Saturday afternoon, after the Faculty Fair, the Empire Theater staff meeting and the spontaneous cleaning of the office, I picked up Em, returned home for some lunch and then headed back to the theater to see a movie with Em.
Tower Heist.
An entertaining heist film.
Old school Eddie Murphy. . .like Beverly Hills Cop. . .the first one.
Alan Alda's character loosely based on Bernie Madoff.
Even an homage to Steve McQueen.
A pleasant means of spending an afternoon where I should have been doing anything but sitting in a theater.
Saw Mum in the evening.
She's looking a bit better, but even three weeks after falling, her face is still black and blue around her eye, green and yellow across the bridge of her nose and around her cheeks.
She's now saying the vision in her left eye is blurry.
I knew there was going to be residual effects.
Hence why I think she needed an Xray.
Seems I am going to have to push harder as an advocate for my mum.
Boo-yah!
And many thanks to my cousin Sara for sorting out the face cream conundrum.
Some things are just harder to handle than they appear.
Title Lyric: Procrastination by Amy Winehouse
Custer's Last Stand took place yesterday.
My innards engaging in a last ditch effort battle for control before the inevitable end of the cycle rendered them dormant for another 28 days.
But they fought hard.
Hard enough to ensure that I spent most of the day in a Pamprin induced haze, complete with heating pad on high and pillows comfortably stacked behind me.
Frankie at my feet.
Jasper by my side.
Goblet on the Goblet box, which is now buckling under the weight of her always increasing girth.
Tikka on the floor at my side of the bed.
Laying there, wondering what I ever did to deserve such a painful punishment.
Oh wait, I know.
I'm female.
Silly me.
In spite of the agony, I did manage some marking of papers before things got so bad that I couldn't sit up any more.
I set up a lovely system: mark a paper, continue the process of making dinner.
Pot roast in the slow cooker, potatoes, beets, broccoli and squash.
All put together in a rhythm dictated by how long it took me to read through papers where people thing commas are the correct means of ending a sentence and spelling is apparently optional.
Meaning dinner took a long time to prepare.
Good thing I started early.
As in 11.00 am.
Just after driving Em to work.
And I had company.
Stephen had been procrastinating with his own marking, finding every conceivable, and even some inconceivable means of avoiding marking at all costs.
Most professors despise marking.
But they do it because they have to.
Stephen despises it and waits until he is forced, by a guilty conscience or by me, to sit himself down and get things done.
He did.
At the kitchen table.
Him and me and some cats made four.
Because marking is only enhanced when you have a cat laying on your papers, another sunning himself by stretching across the table and essentially shoving you off the table as the sunbeams lengthen.
But the marking, well, his marking, was finished.
And now one of his classes, I don't know which one, will be getting their midterms back today.
Lucky them.
Saturday afternoon, after the Faculty Fair, the Empire Theater staff meeting and the spontaneous cleaning of the office, I picked up Em, returned home for some lunch and then headed back to the theater to see a movie with Em.
Tower Heist.
An entertaining heist film.
Old school Eddie Murphy. . .like Beverly Hills Cop. . .the first one.
Alan Alda's character loosely based on Bernie Madoff.
Even an homage to Steve McQueen.
A pleasant means of spending an afternoon where I should have been doing anything but sitting in a theater.
Saw Mum in the evening.
She's looking a bit better, but even three weeks after falling, her face is still black and blue around her eye, green and yellow across the bridge of her nose and around her cheeks.
She's now saying the vision in her left eye is blurry.
I knew there was going to be residual effects.
Hence why I think she needed an Xray.
Seems I am going to have to push harder as an advocate for my mum.
Boo-yah!
And many thanks to my cousin Sara for sorting out the face cream conundrum.
Some things are just harder to handle than they appear.
Title Lyric: Procrastination by Amy Winehouse
Sunday, November 6, 2011
When the new day's a dawning. . . .
November 6, 2011
Last night I dreamed Sophia Loren charged me $600.00 to color my hair.
I didn't pay.
Saturday mornings are often, at least around here, scheduled for sleeping in.
Even if the kids have to work, there is no shift that starts so early that at 5.00 am wake up call is required.
Nor is Stephen ever required to consider the possibility of opening his eyes to greet the rising of the sun.
Until yesterday.
A never-before-experienced convergence of events occurred yesterday morning that required all of my children, including Mer, and Stephen to be awake and out of the house by 7.30 am and 8.30 am respectively.
I know.
I was shocked too!
As the one who had to facilitate getting Stephen up and mobile, I was more than shocked.
I was scared.
All three kids had to attend the oh-so-often Empire Theater staff meeting.
And since they are paid for their attendance, the meetings have to be a minimum of 3 hours long.
And since it was so early, breakfast was provided.
Thankfully, because there was food and getting paid involved, all three kids were actually up and ready to go when I managed to straggle out of bed in my zebra striped jammies to drive them to their meeting.
And even though it was early, early in the morning, Mer managed to insult Em within 15 seconds of her getting into the car, after we waited for her for several minutes because some co-worker called in crisis over pants.
I don't ask.
I just listen and record.
So the drive to the theater, a short drive to be sure, was nonetheless clouded with tension as Em's really good mood quickly shifted to feeling bad about herself.
Again.
All this and then I had to go home and see if Stephen was anywhere near ready for his morning.
And it wasn't even 8.00 am.
Luckily, when he walked outside into the early morning sunshine, he didn't experience any burning or tingling sensations.
He had to attend the St. Thomas University Open House, an annual event to introduce potential students to the campus, their professors, etc.
And the Faculty Fair was scheduled for between 9.00-10.00 am.
The opportunity for departments to set up their stalls and peddle their intellectual wares to the masses.
In the past, during my tenure as our department's Undergraduate Advisor, I attended several such events.
In a lovely room, with excited and nervous students milling about, unsure of what they want to do, parents with them telling them what they want to do.
Within 20 minutes of the convergence of bodies in room the temperature of the room skyrockets and while the November wind is blowing and blustering outside, people inside are wondering when to expect heat stroke and sun burn.
This year, however, I was not required to participate so I went over long enough to fill my travel mug with coffee, snag some of the smallest muffins I've ever seen, and head back to my office to get some work done.
I was most peeved at the bookstore as they had sent an email stating I hadn't sent in my book requests for the coming winter term.
Which, for once, wasn't true.
Nonetheless, it was Saturday, it was early, I wasn't anywhere near caffeinated enough to tackle any major issues, so I simply filled in the proper forms and prepared to fax them.
And as I was writing all the necessary info on the designated line, it occurred to me that this could be an opportunity to make some changes in what was becoming a rather tedious book line up.
Not that the books themselves were tedious.
I like all of them.
But teaching the same books over and over and over and over can become wearing after a while.
Some books I'd never change.
Like Laud Humphrey's Tearoom Trade or Rafter's Shots in the Mirror.
But in other instances, there are multiple choices I can make and if that's the case, then why not make some changes?
So I decided to take this opportunity to shake things up.
Just one thing.
Because new books mean preparation on my part.
Instead of reading The Rebels in my intro methods class next term, we'll be reading something different.
And I've already started reading it and let me tell you, so far, I know I have made the right decision.
If for nothing other than my sanity.
My intro crim class will also be treated to an interesting and critical book: Sex Workers in the Maritimes Talk Back.
A book that never disappoints in generating class discussions and misinformation and misperceptions crash faster than the Berlin Wall.
In the process of selecting a new book for my intro methods class, I realized I had piles of books stacked in "Keith's Korner" that may be of interest to my classes.
However, there were so many stacks it was impossible to make any informed decision.
So I started going through these stacks.
Organizing them.
Sorting them.
Shelving them!!!!!
OHMYGAWD I WAS CLEANING MY OFFICE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
At this point Stephen had returned from his heat inducing session at the Faculty Fair, and was more than ready to lend his love for cleaning and his six foot four frame to the efforts.
He's been looking forward to this for a looooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggg time.
We tossed things in recycling.
Moved things off one shelf to another.
Put things I don't use often on higher shelves.
It was so productive.
And my office looks just a little bit better.
But I am soon going to need more bookshelves.
Where to put them is an entirely different matter.
I'll figure it out later on.
And for now, I'll bask in the knowledge that books are shelved, and some table space is, momentarily anyway, cleared.
There's more to do to be sure.
It is my office after all.
Finally. . . . .
Happy 46th Birthday Kathryn. I miss you so much every single day.
Title Lyric: Early in the Morning by Peter, Paul and Mary
Last night I dreamed Sophia Loren charged me $600.00 to color my hair.
I didn't pay.
Saturday mornings are often, at least around here, scheduled for sleeping in.
Even if the kids have to work, there is no shift that starts so early that at 5.00 am wake up call is required.
Nor is Stephen ever required to consider the possibility of opening his eyes to greet the rising of the sun.
Until yesterday.
A never-before-experienced convergence of events occurred yesterday morning that required all of my children, including Mer, and Stephen to be awake and out of the house by 7.30 am and 8.30 am respectively.
I know.
I was shocked too!
As the one who had to facilitate getting Stephen up and mobile, I was more than shocked.
I was scared.
All three kids had to attend the oh-so-often Empire Theater staff meeting.
And since they are paid for their attendance, the meetings have to be a minimum of 3 hours long.
And since it was so early, breakfast was provided.
Thankfully, because there was food and getting paid involved, all three kids were actually up and ready to go when I managed to straggle out of bed in my zebra striped jammies to drive them to their meeting.
And even though it was early, early in the morning, Mer managed to insult Em within 15 seconds of her getting into the car, after we waited for her for several minutes because some co-worker called in crisis over pants.
I don't ask.
I just listen and record.
So the drive to the theater, a short drive to be sure, was nonetheless clouded with tension as Em's really good mood quickly shifted to feeling bad about herself.
Again.
All this and then I had to go home and see if Stephen was anywhere near ready for his morning.
And it wasn't even 8.00 am.
Luckily, when he walked outside into the early morning sunshine, he didn't experience any burning or tingling sensations.
He had to attend the St. Thomas University Open House, an annual event to introduce potential students to the campus, their professors, etc.
And the Faculty Fair was scheduled for between 9.00-10.00 am.
The opportunity for departments to set up their stalls and peddle their intellectual wares to the masses.
In the past, during my tenure as our department's Undergraduate Advisor, I attended several such events.
In a lovely room, with excited and nervous students milling about, unsure of what they want to do, parents with them telling them what they want to do.
Within 20 minutes of the convergence of bodies in room the temperature of the room skyrockets and while the November wind is blowing and blustering outside, people inside are wondering when to expect heat stroke and sun burn.
This year, however, I was not required to participate so I went over long enough to fill my travel mug with coffee, snag some of the smallest muffins I've ever seen, and head back to my office to get some work done.
I was most peeved at the bookstore as they had sent an email stating I hadn't sent in my book requests for the coming winter term.
Which, for once, wasn't true.
Nonetheless, it was Saturday, it was early, I wasn't anywhere near caffeinated enough to tackle any major issues, so I simply filled in the proper forms and prepared to fax them.
And as I was writing all the necessary info on the designated line, it occurred to me that this could be an opportunity to make some changes in what was becoming a rather tedious book line up.
Not that the books themselves were tedious.
I like all of them.
But teaching the same books over and over and over and over can become wearing after a while.
Some books I'd never change.
Like Laud Humphrey's Tearoom Trade or Rafter's Shots in the Mirror.
But in other instances, there are multiple choices I can make and if that's the case, then why not make some changes?
So I decided to take this opportunity to shake things up.
Just one thing.
Because new books mean preparation on my part.
Instead of reading The Rebels in my intro methods class next term, we'll be reading something different.
And I've already started reading it and let me tell you, so far, I know I have made the right decision.
If for nothing other than my sanity.
My intro crim class will also be treated to an interesting and critical book: Sex Workers in the Maritimes Talk Back.
A book that never disappoints in generating class discussions and misinformation and misperceptions crash faster than the Berlin Wall.
In the process of selecting a new book for my intro methods class, I realized I had piles of books stacked in "Keith's Korner" that may be of interest to my classes.
However, there were so many stacks it was impossible to make any informed decision.
So I started going through these stacks.
Organizing them.
Sorting them.
Shelving them!!!!!
OHMYGAWD I WAS CLEANING MY OFFICE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
At this point Stephen had returned from his heat inducing session at the Faculty Fair, and was more than ready to lend his love for cleaning and his six foot four frame to the efforts.
He's been looking forward to this for a looooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggg time.
We tossed things in recycling.
Moved things off one shelf to another.
Put things I don't use often on higher shelves.
It was so productive.
And my office looks just a little bit better.
But I am soon going to need more bookshelves.
Where to put them is an entirely different matter.
I'll figure it out later on.
And for now, I'll bask in the knowledge that books are shelved, and some table space is, momentarily anyway, cleared.
There's more to do to be sure.
It is my office after all.
Finally. . . . .
Happy 46th Birthday Kathryn. I miss you so much every single day.
Title Lyric: Early in the Morning by Peter, Paul and Mary
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