Chop, chop, we love to chop. . .

December 24, 2011




It is done.


All done.


At least everything I need to be involved with.


Stephen has outstanding purchases, but those are all to be accomplished sans moi.


Today, of course, I am completely exhausted.


All I have to do is cook the 30 pound turkey.


Have dinner with Mum later today.


Finish the Christmas cards. 


Offer still stands: anyone who wants a card, just let me know.


















My plan to go to the Superstore to beat the crowds was a plan shared by several, several, several other people.


Making me wonder if the Superstore was this crowded at 8.15 am, what was it going to be like later in the afternoon.


And you know what?


I'll never know because I didn't have to go.


Home, unloaded the groceries and then right back out again to take Keith to work, Em to school for a few minutes so she could hand in that last assignment, and then off downtown to make a purchase and, realizing my blood sugar was dropping at an alarming rate, stop for lunch at M&T Deli with Ms. Emily for some much needed sustenance.


Home again.


Stephen STILL not ready to go so we could finish our Christmas shopping.


He did put all the groceries away.


Not a light feat, given how much I spent and how much I brought home.


But STILL. 


I wanted to get the shopping over with and back home again knowing I have done everything I had to do and was now in a moral position to remove myself from the hurly burly of the insane Christmas shoppers. 


Nope.


He was having nothing to do with my plans.


Such insubordination will be punished.


So while he finally started taking the necessary steps to move from his unshaven-jammie state to a version of himself that was somewhat more presentable to the public, I did the only thing I could do.


Had a nap.


With Frankie and Jasper.


I must have been tired.


Because I didn't even realize Stephen had showered, shaved, dressed, left the house for the BMO, returned and was gently shaking me awake to participate in the next item on our we've-left-everything-to-the-last-minute-day-before-the-day-before-Christmas-extravaganza.


The tree.


Oh, the tree.


















Stephen located a Christmas tree farm on the Northside, about 15 minutes from our house.


We had an address.


A phone number.


And a working knowledge of the Northside.


None of that was enough.


We found ourselves driving on a gravel path which was apparently just for walking.


At a Christmas tree farm which, due to development, is now the backyard to Fredericton's latest subdivision.


Nice back yard.


Lovely trees.


Immediate argument over which tree to get, which resulted in me sitting in the car upon the arrival of the man who actually owned the tree farm.


He was carrying a saw.


Because Stephen wasn't aware that he was in charge of chopping the tree.


Stephen with a saw.


The last time Stephen had a saw, a chainsaw,  he was teetering precariously on top of an unstable boulder swinging the electric chainsaw over his head in an attempt to sever a rogue branch.


So you can imagine my excitement at the thought of him engaging in further sawing activities.


But he did it.


As far as I know.


I didn't watch.


But the wet patches on his knees, caused from kneeling in the snow to cut said tree, was empirical evidence that he did, indeed, cut the tree on his own.


And this was the result:


Not as big as I wanted.


But not as small as he wanted.





Compromise, thou art the glue holding together marriages all across the globe.


And he wasn't happy about the picture.


Can you tell?


















After the tree, home again, drop off tree, pick up Mer, gas up the car and then, finally, at 5.00 pm, to the mall.


The place I had been trying to get to since the moment I returned from the grocery store at 10.30 that morning.


It wasn't as crazy as I had anticipated. 


Not that I'm complaining.


First order, eating.


No shopping on an empty stomach.


It took us about two hours to do all that we had to do.


Details of which must remain secret until after Christmas.


I was home in time to watch Big Bang Theory.


Meaning the mission was a success.


And now, I get to stay home, perhaps mark a few papers, cook the turkey, finish Christmas cards and maybe even decorate the tree.


Nap, perhaps?


I am living large, people.


Living large.






Title Lyric: Axes Swinging by Violent J

Every Christmas card I write, every Christmas card I write, has been stolen, has been stolen. . . .

December 23, 2011


Ah. . .a December 23rd in true Dawne fashion.


Marking not done.


Christmas shopping, not done.


Grocery shopping, also not done.


Wrapping, you're kidding, right?


No tree as of this moment.


Christmas cards? Okay, now you're left sane and are dancing in the world of fairies and unicorns.


We've received so many lovely Christmas cards.


And I am planning on sending one to each and every person to whom I usually send Christmas cards, to those people who are new senders to me this year, and to any of my faithful readers who would like a Christmas card from the exciting city of Fredericton.


Send me your address.


I'll send you a card.


You may not get it until after New Years but you'll get it. 


Eventually.


















Fredericton is a city.


I'll accept that premise.


However, it is certainly not a city on the same scale as Montreal, Vancouver and Toronto.


I'll never forgot the first time I walked into a three story Chapters in downtown Montreal and encountered entire sections of books written in Greek, German. Italian. . . .


We have books here in French, so I should have made the assumption that book stores in bigger cities would cater to their population.


But I am a social scientist. 


We don't make assumptions. 


We observe and draw conclusions.


Imagine what happened, then, when in our Fredericton Superstore, on the south side of the city, Stephen encountered a Ukrainian Christmas card.


Whose next door neighbours were Polish and Russian Christmas cards.


He bought it, duh.


Sending it to his parents was one of the greatest delights of this holiday season.


Because one, getting a card from us only a couple of days after Christmas is one thing.


Getting one in Ukrainian?


THAT is something special.


Who knows what'll show up next year in the card racks of our fair city????!!!!!!!


















Today will be a long day.


First item, leaving the house as soon as I've posted this blog and dressed (because NO ONE outside of my immediate family wants to see me scooting through the aisles of the Superstore in my zebra stripped flannel jammies) to dash to the grocery store as it opens in an attempt (hopefully not vain) to beat the maddening crowds.


Most people have to work at least a half day today, so I am hedging my bets that I'll encounter significantly fewer people than if I wait until this afternoon.


Plus it means I can grocery shop alone, as NO ONE in THIS house is even remotely contemplating open their eyes, let alone getting dressed and being cogent enough to maneuver the grocery store before 8.00 am.


Home, put groceries away, and then turn around and run to the mall to drop Keith off for work and finish our Christmas shopping.


This time with Stephen, because he can sleep through groceries, but if I have to bob and weave through the crowds of almost-last-minute-Christmas-shoppers, so. does. he.


Home again, toss our booty in the bedroom and then at 3.00 we are off again to the north side to pick up our hobbit size Christmas tree.


And if that doesn't exhaust every single store of energy I have, it'll be back to marking for me later today.


Which may well be the only peace and quiet I experience today.


















And speaking of hobbits, a treat to look forward to for next December. 


One of my favourite books.


I can't wait!

Title Lyric: Christmas Cards by They Might Be Giants

Of all the trees most lovely. . . .

December 22, 2011




Schools are cancelled today because of slippery, icy, unsafe roads.


Good thing.


I didn't get to bed until late and overslept.


Meaning Em was getting to school until after lunch.


I guess this is the district's way of saying Merry Christmas!


















Three down.


One to go.


One with an exam and essays.


But still one to go.


















But stuff to mark or no, tomorrow I must take the day off to finish Christmas shopping, get groceries and finally, finally pick up a tree.


The tree has been a bone of contention this season.


Me wanting the usual oversized tree.


The kind where the top scrapes the top of the ceiling.


As a result of our construction calamity this summer, the scrape from last year's tree has been removed.


Providing the opportunity for a new scrape.


Except for one factor.


Stephen.


Who, as usual, is erring on the side of caution.


The cause of all this concern?


Jasper.


Of course.


Past experience, particularly with Goblet, has lead us to conclude that Kitty's First Christmas tends to be all about the tree.


As plaything.


Smashed ornaments.


Kitty hiding in the tree ready to ambush whoever has the misfortune to walk near it while he was playing Commando.


Smacking at the dogs when they have the audacity to think that drinking from the water nestled in the tree stand is available to quench their thirst.

Imagine.


Looking on Kijiji, Stephen has made contact with someone on the North Side about their smallish trees available at a reasonable price.


And across the bridge we shall go tomorrow in search of said tree.


It's not unusual that we wait this long to put up the tree.


Given that Stephen celebrates Ukrainian Christmas, which is celebrated January 6th, we keep the tree up at least that long before we take it down.


So putting it up on the 24th isn't all that out of the ordinary for us.


Putting everything off isn't out of the ordinary for us, to be completely honest.


Imagine.


Doesn't matter at what point we put up the tree.


Jasper is going to think that it's Christmas, his birthday and every other major holiday rolled into one when he first claps eyes on that tree.


Poor tree.


It has no idea what kind of feline shit storm awaits it.






Title Lyric: Oh Christmas Tree

My court dates comin'. . .

December 21, 2011




When people say they want their day in court, they mean it.


What I anticipated would be a brief proceeding lasted the entire afternoon.


Not that it wasn't entertaining.


Because it was.


Just had I known it was going to be an afternoon long event, I would have taken some marking with me.


And snacks.


















The Summons to Witness indicated that I had to be at Courtroom 1 by 1.00 pm.


I was.


But only after calling once and asking in person when I arrived if this proceeding was going forward.


Me, of course, hoping that it wasn't.


I even contemplated not showing up.


But apparently, this results in the judge issuing a warrant for your arrest, two nights in jail and a $100.00 fine.


This knowledge was shared via the judge when another individual was hauled into court for just that reason.


Followed by the judge informing her, and the rest of the court that she had, of late, been incarcerating people who hadn't answered the summons to witness.


But being that it was Christmas, and this young woman had three children, the judge let her off with the $100.00 fine.


Stephen turned to me with the Stephen-smug look he gets when he knows he's right.


Like so many other things that bother me, I chose to ignore it.


In spite of arriving, for once, on time, I was informed that the issue that had dragged me downtown on a Wednesday afternoon when I should have been marking wasn't slated to being until 2.00.


Resulting in me asking why I had to be there for 1.00.


That wasn't received as well as I had anticipated.


Imagine.


In the intervening hour, we were treated to several issues.


An assault, presumably a husband assaulting his wife, a break and enter just a couple doors down from Mer's apartment building, and a DWI.


That was interesting.


This 24 year old community college student was found in his motor vehicle, while it was still running, in the middle of an intersection just a few minutes walk from here. . .


. . .and as an aside, we don't live in a crime riddled neighbourhood. It just seemed like it today. . . .


. . .asleep behind the wheel of his car.


So asleep he had the foresight to put his seat all the way back.


At 1.30 in the morning, this kind of thing can draw attention in a suburban neighbourhood.


It did.


And neighbours turned the car off and called the police.


His blood alcohol level was 190 something per 100 milliliters of blood.


Or in the everyday vernacular, really intoxicated.


The judge called him an alcoholic.


He disagreed.

She asked him how often he drank.


Around five night a week, he replied.


You're an alcoholic she repeated.


She gave him a $2000.00 fine, 15 months suspended licence, 18 months probation and demanded he seek counselling for alcoholism.


The suspended licence upset him the most.


At least from what I could tell.


















And then it was us.


Or me to be more precise.


I admit, I was nervous.


I've never testified in a court of law before.


No idea how things worked apart from what I watched on television and thankfully I have the intellectual acuity to know that I wasn't going to be reduced to tears, or confess to a crime.


At least not over a $172.50 ticket for failing to yield to oncoming traffic.


Which was at the heart of this entire debacle.


More entertaining, was the defendant.


Who chose to represent himself.


And not very well.


After being called to the stand twice, point out to the defendant that there was an error in his drawing of the intersection and listening to the prosecution tell him how he was supposed to be doing things, the judge gave her ruling.


Finding him not guilty.


I think she found him convincing, to be sure.


But I also think she thought that anyone with the cojones to defend themselves so vociferously, while ignorant of the process of defending oneself, who clearly took "everyone deserves their day in court" very seriously, and in doing so had provided an afternoon of entertainment, deserved to be found not guilty.


And save the cost of the fine, $172.50.


I felt badly for the other witness.


A stock person at Costco, who at the end of the entertainment asked if he would be compensated by the court for his days worth of lost wages.


Making me realize that civic duty or not, it costs to go to court. 


Some more than others.








Title Lyric: Court Date by Young Buck

Well I'm so hard to handle, I'm selfish and I'm sad. . .

December 21, 2011




Two down, two to go.


I'll have another done by the end of this morning, hopefully, as they are exams and I can mark exams much faster than essays.


Leaving the intro papers and exams.


But I'll celebrate my achievements as they happen.


Because they aren't happening as quickly as I'd like.


In fact, the reason the crime and film grades are in is because I couldn't sleep, in spite of the absolute exhaustion running rampant through my being.


Meaning I was up at 3.00 am to finish marking, computing and final grading.


And here I am again, 8.00 am, waiting for Em to complete her morning routine so I can drive her to school, drop off papers, pick up exams and begin all over again.


You know you've been marking too much when the idea of moving from papers to exams is almost exciting. 


















I spent several hours in Starbucks last evening.


Marking.


Of course.


Em, Christmas shopping while I sat at a table with papers scattered around me, thoughts 
dribbling out of my brain in an attempt to provide a sense of cogent feedback on the papers.


(This just in. Don't take a swig of coffee just as you're about to be pounced upon by a Dibley, as it will cause coffee to scoot up your nose. A runny nose is one thing. A coffee running nose is a completely different beast.)


Marking aside, what was interesting was watching the people around me.


While every other place is brimming with people running all over the place like chickens with their heads cut off, Starbucks is unusually calm.


Empty tables waiting for someone to make use of them.


Even the Starbucks line up wasn't all the way past the magazine rack.


Apparently, people don't need coffee to fuel up for shopping.


I would.


I will.


On Friday when I tackle the mall first thing in the morning to finish my Christmas shopping.


I still espouse the absence of credit cards.


But it does mean taking one for the team, on occasion.


Such as Christmas shopping on the 23rd.


Only to be outdone by shopping on the 24th.


And even I am not that crazy.


Back to Starbucks.


Or avoiding marking by paying more attention to those around you than what's in front of you.


Small children screaming and crying because their parents continue to drag them all over the mall in search of the "perfect Christmas gift" when all these little tots want is to be at home.


Micheal Buble piped through the speakers singing about how we should be willing to let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.


Until someone has to shovel all that snow, and you can bet Michael Buble doesn't shovel his driveway.


Probably doesn't live anywhere it snows, anyway.


And then later, a version of River, not by Sarah MacLachlan, whose rendition is the best.


Unlike Joni Mitchell, whose singing is akin to nails on a chalkboard.


For me anyway.


Stephen is enthralled with her voice.


The young woman across from me who chose to share her entire phone conversation, as one-sided as it was, with everyone around her.


Catching bits and pieces of her conversation, because who couldn't.


Something about someone dropping out of university and hadn't told his parents yet; his mom would be understanding, his dad not so much, and moving into the apartment building where Mer currently lives.


And the two guys across from me paging through a magazine about the interiors of period houses.


And the other two guys beside me whose conversation was two-sided but still didn't make any sense to me, as they talked about ripping game consoles from walls during some relationship frustration frenzy.


Across from me, however, is a kindred spirit.


A woman filling out referee forms for grad school applications.


She looked at me, I looked at her.


We gave each other the "I-know-your-pain" look.


Me thinking I'd still take marking over writing reference letters or filling out grad school referee form.


ANY DAY. 


The Pentecostal woman who walked by with knee high stiletto boots.


Oxymoron anyone?


And then, Mer.


Who heard from Em that I was marking in Starbucks and decided to nip over for a minute to say hello.


Which was nice.

Especially since, when she went home and came back to the mall for reasons I have yet to fathom, she was going to bring some Gravol.


A futile effort for me to sleep.


Which reminded me of the time I sent Stephen to the Superstore for Gravol and instead of bring back actual swallow-with-liquid Gravol, brought me Gravol suppositories.


You can imagine where I wanted to shove those.


















Stephen's parents were very generous this year.


As they are every year.


So Stephen and I decided that it was time to FINALLY get curtains for the front picture window.


Same as the ones we put in the back.

When Stephen was hanging the newly purchased drapes, he realized the previously purchased drapes were hung upside down.


Me, I would have left them.


They worked.


But Stephen.


NOT in this lifetime.


Ever.


Before I even returned home, he'd taken the previously hung drapes down and fixed them.


Because he's Stephen.


















Today is the court day.


I was SO hoping someone would come to their senses and realize that this entire thing is a waste of time.


No such luck.


At 1.00 I'll be in the courtroom ready to give testimony regarding what I saw that fateful day.


Lucky me.


I'll have to hold back my scathing comments regarding how I really feel about this process, especially when I have marking to do.


Maybe I'll take the marking with me.








Title Lyric: River by Sarah MacLachlan

Are you ready blowtorch?????

December 19, 2011




TIME OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


One of the sad things about becoming an adult is that there's no one to force you into a time out. 


You have to take them on your own volition.


Make the adult decision that it is time for you to step out of the real world that is yours and bask in the peace and quiet of an alternate reality that doesn't include the mayhem and chaos of your own every day life. 


No marking.


No phone calls.


No emails.


No requests for drives to or from.


No nagging guilt over the tree not up, cookies not baked, presents not yet purchased.


No cavorting, incessant kitties jumping all over my keyboard, changing settings and moving toolbars.


After our amazing Quaker potluck, when all the dishes were done, put back into the special places where the "good" dishes sit until called out for duty.


The dishwasher brimming to full with everything that didn't need to be washed by hand.


The very few remaining leftovers contained and nestling in the fridge awaiting the moment they'll be pulled out and consumed.


In this house that won't be a very long wait.


I looked at Stephen and said I think, I need, we should absolutely take the dogs to the Thatch Road for a run.


Because they certainly needed it after their forced confinement in our bedroom during the potluck.


And if I didn't get out for some physical activity, fresh air, free of all modern technologies and time traps, I was going to snap.


Mentally.


Not physically.


That would be messy.


At the precise moment that we made this decision, the synapses present in Frankie and Tikka were firing at warp speed and the dancing and frolicking, whining and whooping started. 


Meaning I snapped on their leashes and put them in the back of the car until I could get my coat and sneakers on.


Because once those two start their OH-MY-GAWD-WE'RE-GOING-FOR-A-WALK dance it becomes virtually impossible to get anything on. 


Hence slipping on my Birks and just containing them in the car until we can get ourselves ready.


Which happened in record time.


The ten minute drive to the Thatch Road needed no musical accompaniment, as Tikka and Frankie provided the ambient whining we've become accustomed to hearing during our time in the car together.


Ah, the signifiers of a time out. 


And it was a lovely time out.


The second we were across the little bridge to the Road, I could literally feel the stress and tension disappear. 


Dogs running around, sniffing every thing that caught their fancy.


Stephen walking beside me.


Sometimes talking with me, sometimes not.


Frankie had several encounters with chipmunks who were not the least bit interested in playing with him, much to his chagrin.


He tried so hard.


Running back to the chipmunk inhabited trees repeatedly in a futile attempt to encourage them to come down and just play.


No go.


They were not convinced by the sweet brown eyes and pleading barking.


Imagine.


















90 minutes.


We were out for 90 minutes of heart pumping, leg moving exercise and fresh air. 


By the end of our ramble, the dogs were sufficiently worn out and rewarded for their earlier bedroom confinement.


I was so much more relaxed. 


Calm.


To the point of returning home and stretching my time out to include a nap.


A long, lovely nap.


Me and Frankie.


Jasper.


All snuggled together for as long as we wanted to continue checking out of the real world.


And when I finally awoke and was forced out of bed by hunger, I knew the time out had come to an end.


But the several hours of break time were absolutely and unequivocally fantastic. 


I'll have to hold on to them for the next several days while I continue to slog through the piles of paper in front of me. 


A blowtorch seems like a pretty good option right now.






Title Lyric: Betty Blowtorch Anthem by Betty Blowtorch

I am a turkey. I am a turkey. I can see you're quite surprised!

December 18, 2011




One week until Christmas. 


Which means one week and one day before Boxing Day.


I have my priorities straight.


















Marking continues.


With help.

I am actually contemplating making potato stamps with letters on them, taking them to the nursing home, plunking papers in front of my mother, and saying read the first page, make a decision, stamp it, and let's move on.

She's probably do a much better job than I am.






















As soon as I opened my eyes yesterday I knew I was going to spend the entire day slogging through each and every second until I was able to crawl back into bed.


Exhausted.


I did make my lunch with my TA. 


Lovely, it was.


Uber yummy.


Great company.


It was the most awake I was the entire day.


Marking, marking, marking at my office until it was time to see mum for dinner.


Visits with my mother are always relaxing. 


Calming.


Usually my one opportunity in a week to re-orient myself. 


Mum is the great stabilizer.


And she knows exactly what I need when I visit.


Not much.


A meal, some conversation, just watching television, like Hoarders if we're lucky.


Mum likes Hoarders. A guilty pleasure, I suspect.  


Last night, however, my mother's room was transformed into Ground Zero and she was the center of attention, just as she likes to be.


First, her oldest and dearest friend, who lives an hour a way from here, had her Christmas present dropped off by her daughter-in-law.


Married to her son.


Who I hadn't seen since I was a teenager.


And didn't want to come in because of some long term mental health issues. 

So I went to him.


He certainly looks different than I last saw him.


So did I.


I was thrilled to see him, but sad at the same time.


One of the reasons for his feeling the way he does is rooted in something he knows, but isn't willing to accept.


Nothing I can do about it.


But it doesn't mean I can't be sad about it.


Back to Mum's room, pleased with the quick visit.


And while washing the feet of Mum's stockings, their neighbour-from-across-the-street-whose-wife-and-my-friend-works-at-the-nursing-home appeared.


Mum thrilled again.


And Dad.


Who was also there.


Me stressed about marking, and honestly, really stressed.


I try not to become stressed by it, knowing I'll get it done, albeit not on time, but it will be done.


But, burdened by a conscience, I am overcome with guilt about how long it takes me to get through these papers.


All the excitement of people visiting my mother.


Mum's room warmer than usual.


Dad there.


I had to go.


Exhausted, warm, stressed all I wanted to do was take myself home, crawl into my jammies and sit at the kitchen table and mark papers.


All of which I was able to do, while surrounded by the glorious scent of brewing borscht.


Prepared by Stephen for today's Quaker potluck.


And almost quiet.


Cooking with Stephen automatically means listening to the oldies.


As luck would have it, Saturday nights, from 6-midnight, is Retro Saturday Night on 106.9.


Stephen wearing my apron, wooden spoon in hand, detritus of the cooking process littering the kitchen counters, cats cavorting amid the bits and pieces of shredded beets and carrots, all the while dancing and singing to whatever golden oldie was wafting through the air waves. 


I did say almost quiet.


















Tired or not, I am always on the watch for a new Simon's Cat video.


Finally, my patience was rewarded yesterday and a new one appeared. 


Just what I needed. 


A laugh.

Because who doesn't? 


And it reminded me of a scene from one of my favourite Christmas clips.


Mr. Bean.


Wearing the turkey.

Right now, our radio is blasting some pop tune, in a futile effort to wake Stephen from his deepest of deep slumbers to continue our preparations for Quaker Christmas potluck.

Emphasis on futile.

How could he possibly hear it over the clamour of his own snoring?

Title Lyric: Turkey by Lemon Demon