January 13, 2012
Snow day!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
At least for the grade school kids.
Which includes Emily.
Thanks to the machinations of Mother Nature, the Kraken will remain asleep until it sees fit to wake on it's own accord.
Kraken Junior anyway.
Kraken Senior, aka Stephen, has a 9.00 am class.
I've already started the prolonged process of gently bringing him to a state of early morning wakefulness.
A process so careful, so gentle, that it resembles any one of a number of movie scenes where the lead actor is handling a fatal substance that, if mishandled in any way, could result in the annihilation of all mankind.
Yeah.
It's that dangerous.
So upset by Tikka's passing, looming workloads, the beginning of the term, I managed to forget (okay, purposefully block from my consciousness) that Stephen is teaching a 9.00 am class this term.
Imagine my internal reaction, carefully covered by my calm, external visage, when I realized an entire term of fighting with him two mornings a week to get up and get ready for his class.
This is a road that has been traveled in the past.
Not one I enjoy.
Em and Stephen in the mornings are not the pleasant people you see later in the day.
Not even close.
But both of them?
I'd like to think that I haven't done anything to insult the cosmos so dramatically that I deserved such a horrific and torturous punishment.
Whatever it was, it must have been a doozy.
Nonetheless, this week has been ca-razy.
Preparation for the first class.
Dealing with the fall out from the changes in our curriculum.
Changes that have no impact whatsoever on how this term is played out.
But thanks to Facebook, student panic, and a plethora of misinformation floating around the information highway, there have been little fires all over the place that have taken more time than I wanted to spend putting them out.
Last night when I finally walked through the front door, drawing upon all of my energy reserves in hopes that there would be enough to just. make. dinner., I see my Stephen standing in the kitchen, apron on, dinner preparations well in hand.
He says,"I have this all under control. You just go upstairs and put on your jammies,"
Because, if I am to believe the empirical evidence presented to me from my children and Stephen, I morph into the Kraken by the end of the day.
Cranky.
Crabby.
Exhausted.
Wondering if this will be the night I fall asleep at the table with my fork in my mouth.
And it would appear that Stephen knows how to handle his Kraken in the same way I know how to handle mine.
Gently.
With care.
Hoping that it doesn't turn on you.
Now THAT'S a loving husband.
Title Lyric: Apron Strings by Nothing but the Girl
Friday, January 13, 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
At the end of the day, you've just got to say, it's all right.
January 12, 2012
Introductions are over.
My students know who I am , what I look like, what we're going to be working on over the course of the term.
Honeymoon period has now ended.
Let the coursework commence!
Not even the end of the first week and I have six reference letters to write.
Graduate school letters.
Bachelor of Social Work letters.
None for education.
At least not yet.
I hate writing reference letters.
I won't write them for just anyone.
Some criteria must be met.
Each letter I craft is as unique as the individual who asked for the letter to be crafted.
It takes time to write a good reference letter.
Time.
My nemesis.
Always.
Coming home from a long, long day at work, I come upstairs to change from my work clothes to my jammies.
One of the favourite parts of my day.
In the process of hanging up my work clothes, I notice that the 1970s goldenrod carpet is literally slathered with cat litter.
Clean.
Not so clean.
The cat litter on the carpet isn't so much the issue.
We have a litter box in our room.
Goblet's en suite.
No.
The issue was how come there was a small mountain of cat litter in the corner of my room.
Nestled up against my closet door.
And me too tired to care until I had some supper and regained enough energy to haul the vacuum upstairs to clean it up.
Clearly my exhaustion negated the thought processes that would have automatically lead me to conclude that Stephen would find out long before I did how come there was a small mountain of shitty kitty in my bedroom.
He did.
Of course.
Frankie.
Frankie has, or at least had, a rawhide bone.
Unlike Tikka, who always chewed, gnawed, consumed her rawhide bones with gusto, Frankie insists on carting his around the house, dropping it here, there and everywhere.
I'll find it under my desk.
In the gift wrap piled in the corner of the office closet.
Stock pots.
The toilet.
But burying it in Goblet's en suite was an entirely new one for even Frankie.
Stephen shares with me that a litter coated rawhide bone that previously belonged to Frankie was now moving into it's final resting place.
The garbage can.
Poor Frankie.
He loved that bone.
But a shitty kitty bone is just not something I'm willing to allow him to continue carting around the house.
And Goblet?
Her defiled en suite will never be the same again.
Best of all: the return of Republic of Doyle.
Season 3.
With a guest appearance by Russell Crowe!
The lead singer from Great Big Sea. . .who happens to be friends with Russell Crowe.
The red headed guy from Grey's Anatomy.
Now that's something to wake up for, bye!
Introductions are over.
My students know who I am , what I look like, what we're going to be working on over the course of the term.
Honeymoon period has now ended.
Let the coursework commence!
Not even the end of the first week and I have six reference letters to write.
Graduate school letters.
Bachelor of Social Work letters.
None for education.
At least not yet.
I hate writing reference letters.
I won't write them for just anyone.
Some criteria must be met.
Each letter I craft is as unique as the individual who asked for the letter to be crafted.
It takes time to write a good reference letter.
Time.
My nemesis.
Always.
Coming home from a long, long day at work, I come upstairs to change from my work clothes to my jammies.
One of the favourite parts of my day.
In the process of hanging up my work clothes, I notice that the 1970s goldenrod carpet is literally slathered with cat litter.
Clean.
Not so clean.
The cat litter on the carpet isn't so much the issue.
We have a litter box in our room.
Goblet's en suite.
No.
The issue was how come there was a small mountain of cat litter in the corner of my room.
Nestled up against my closet door.
And me too tired to care until I had some supper and regained enough energy to haul the vacuum upstairs to clean it up.
Clearly my exhaustion negated the thought processes that would have automatically lead me to conclude that Stephen would find out long before I did how come there was a small mountain of shitty kitty in my bedroom.
He did.
Of course.
Frankie.
Frankie has, or at least had, a rawhide bone.
Unlike Tikka, who always chewed, gnawed, consumed her rawhide bones with gusto, Frankie insists on carting his around the house, dropping it here, there and everywhere.
I'll find it under my desk.
In the gift wrap piled in the corner of the office closet.
Stock pots.
The toilet.
But burying it in Goblet's en suite was an entirely new one for even Frankie.
Stephen shares with me that a litter coated rawhide bone that previously belonged to Frankie was now moving into it's final resting place.
The garbage can.
Poor Frankie.
He loved that bone.
But a shitty kitty bone is just not something I'm willing to allow him to continue carting around the house.
And Goblet?
Her defiled en suite will never be the same again.
Best of all: the return of Republic of Doyle.
Season 3.
With a guest appearance by Russell Crowe!
The lead singer from Great Big Sea. . .who happens to be friends with Russell Crowe.
The red headed guy from Grey's Anatomy.
Now that's something to wake up for, bye!
Title Lyric: Ordinary Day by Great Big Sea
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Sometimes the system goes on the blink. . .
January 10, 2012
How do I know it's the first day of classes?
Hmmmm. . . .
1. Stephen was dead to the world this morning because he was up late working and therefore unable to wake up to drive Em to school so I couldn't leave the house early, thus nullifying my desire to come into the office by 7.00 am to ensure enough time to prepare for today's classes, as was previously planned.
2. I was almost sideswiped on my way to Starbucks, after dropping Em off at school, or as she refers to it, "the rotting hell that consumes my life."
3. At the Starbucks counter I happen to glance in my purse and am struck with the realization that I don't have my office keys because Em was working on a project in my office last evening and upon her return home, forgot to put them back in my purse, prompting a phone call to her inquiring about my keys and a drive back to the "rotting hell" to collect them from her.
4. So preoccupied with getting my keys, I leave Starbucks without putting the requisite cream and two sweeteners into my coffee, thus forcing me to steal someone's coffee cream from the 3rd floor fridge, and replace the sweetener with actual sugar, so now I can feel my heart racing and I am worried about how this excess energy may manifest itself in my ten am class.
5. In my office, I am confronted with an 8x11 purple piece of paper upon which Em has written in bold, black marker, "Mum, read my unfinished essay -- psych phobias. It sucks, just so you know. Feel free to ADD anything. Love you, Em :)" Because I have time to rewrite Em's paper.
6. I read on People's website that Kevin Bacon's dog died which reduces me to a sobbing mess ten minutes before my class begins.
And it's not yet 10.00 am.
Good thing supper is already prepared.
I don't know if I would trust myself near any heat sources.
Title Lyric: Bad Day by Daniel Powter
How do I know it's the first day of classes?
Hmmmm. . . .
1. Stephen was dead to the world this morning because he was up late working and therefore unable to wake up to drive Em to school so I couldn't leave the house early, thus nullifying my desire to come into the office by 7.00 am to ensure enough time to prepare for today's classes, as was previously planned.
2. I was almost sideswiped on my way to Starbucks, after dropping Em off at school, or as she refers to it, "the rotting hell that consumes my life."
3. At the Starbucks counter I happen to glance in my purse and am struck with the realization that I don't have my office keys because Em was working on a project in my office last evening and upon her return home, forgot to put them back in my purse, prompting a phone call to her inquiring about my keys and a drive back to the "rotting hell" to collect them from her.
4. So preoccupied with getting my keys, I leave Starbucks without putting the requisite cream and two sweeteners into my coffee, thus forcing me to steal someone's coffee cream from the 3rd floor fridge, and replace the sweetener with actual sugar, so now I can feel my heart racing and I am worried about how this excess energy may manifest itself in my ten am class.
5. In my office, I am confronted with an 8x11 purple piece of paper upon which Em has written in bold, black marker, "Mum, read my unfinished essay -- psych phobias. It sucks, just so you know. Feel free to ADD anything. Love you, Em :)" Because I have time to rewrite Em's paper.
6. I read on People's website that Kevin Bacon's dog died which reduces me to a sobbing mess ten minutes before my class begins.
And it's not yet 10.00 am.
Good thing supper is already prepared.
I don't know if I would trust myself near any heat sources.
Title Lyric: Bad Day by Daniel Powter
Monday, January 9, 2012
The angel says what would you want her to do, if she was in your position?
January 9, 2012
Sick.
Insomnia.
Anxiety over syllabi not yet completed.
Up at 3.30 am to finish reading through grant applications only to drag my sick and weary self to a meeting where others had not even finished reading the applications let alone make a decision about who should receive a grant.
Ask me how thrilled I was.
Come on.
Ask me.
Frankie and I took a time out yesterday morning.
Stephen at Quaker meeting.
Kids both in bed.
I should have been sleeping, but as sleep seems to be playing hide and go seek with me, and Frankie was staring at me with those big brown eyes, I decided to take an hour for just him and me.
Packed him into the back seat of Em's car and off we went to the farm for some r and r.
Pulling out of the driveway, wondering if Mr. Man was going to park himself in the passenger front seat, I realized it was the first time I had ever gone anywhere with just Frankie.
And cried the entire drive to the farm.
Fortunately for both of us, I was saved from a tear-filled walk by the arrival of another car, complete with driver and two dogs, all of whom were in the mood for some of their own r and r.
Meaning I spent an hour talking dogs with a total stranger while Frankie frolicked and romped with a two year old weinheimer and a mixed breed.
Who really was a mix of everything.
Frankie had such a good time.
Even though the weinheimer was more aggressive than he was used to.
Leading Frankie, toward the end of the walk, to stay beside me, worn out from the running, chasing, to rest his snout in the palm of my hand, reassurance that I wasn't going to go anywhere without him.
Sometimes, you just need to step out for a while, talk with strangers and enjoy watching your dog romp on a Sunday morning.
Maybe if I did this more often I would suffer less from anxiety caused insomnia.
One of the things bouncing around my brain over the past two weeks has to do with power.
Ironically, if I was on my deathbed, I would not have the right to decide whether or not the quality of my life was sufficient enough to warrant continue living.
Think Sue Rodriguez.
Tracey Latimer.
But, I do have the power to make that decision for another living creature.
I don't anticipate coming to any sort of resolution, at least not one I'm comfortable with.
Over and over I go around this conundrum in my mind.
If I can make life and death decisions for one living being, how come I cannot make them for myself?
Something to think about.
Last evening, tired from hours of reading grant applications. . .
. . ."is this a working supper?" Stephen inquired last evening. . . .
I sat down in my spot, to watch a couple episodes of Big Bang Theory.
Frankie on the couch.
Sleeping.
Dreaming.
Until he farted.
Not one of his silent-yet-stinky farts.
No.
This one was loud, obnoxious and scared the shit (no pun intended) out of Frankie.
Jumping off the couch, he looks at where he had been lying peacefully just a minute before, and then to me as if I could explain what interrupted his peaceful slumber.
Aggressive methane, little man.
Happens to all of us.
Title Lyric: Decisions by Ne-Yo
Sick.
Insomnia.
Anxiety over syllabi not yet completed.
Up at 3.30 am to finish reading through grant applications only to drag my sick and weary self to a meeting where others had not even finished reading the applications let alone make a decision about who should receive a grant.
Ask me how thrilled I was.
Come on.
Ask me.
Frankie and I took a time out yesterday morning.
Stephen at Quaker meeting.
Kids both in bed.
I should have been sleeping, but as sleep seems to be playing hide and go seek with me, and Frankie was staring at me with those big brown eyes, I decided to take an hour for just him and me.
Packed him into the back seat of Em's car and off we went to the farm for some r and r.
Pulling out of the driveway, wondering if Mr. Man was going to park himself in the passenger front seat, I realized it was the first time I had ever gone anywhere with just Frankie.
And cried the entire drive to the farm.
Fortunately for both of us, I was saved from a tear-filled walk by the arrival of another car, complete with driver and two dogs, all of whom were in the mood for some of their own r and r.
Meaning I spent an hour talking dogs with a total stranger while Frankie frolicked and romped with a two year old weinheimer and a mixed breed.
Who really was a mix of everything.
Frankie had such a good time.
Even though the weinheimer was more aggressive than he was used to.
Leading Frankie, toward the end of the walk, to stay beside me, worn out from the running, chasing, to rest his snout in the palm of my hand, reassurance that I wasn't going to go anywhere without him.
Sometimes, you just need to step out for a while, talk with strangers and enjoy watching your dog romp on a Sunday morning.
Maybe if I did this more often I would suffer less from anxiety caused insomnia.
One of the things bouncing around my brain over the past two weeks has to do with power.
Ironically, if I was on my deathbed, I would not have the right to decide whether or not the quality of my life was sufficient enough to warrant continue living.
Think Sue Rodriguez.
Tracey Latimer.
But, I do have the power to make that decision for another living creature.
I don't anticipate coming to any sort of resolution, at least not one I'm comfortable with.
Over and over I go around this conundrum in my mind.
If I can make life and death decisions for one living being, how come I cannot make them for myself?
Something to think about.
Last evening, tired from hours of reading grant applications. . .
. . ."is this a working supper?" Stephen inquired last evening. . . .
I sat down in my spot, to watch a couple episodes of Big Bang Theory.
Frankie on the couch.
Sleeping.
Dreaming.
Until he farted.
Not one of his silent-yet-stinky farts.
No.
This one was loud, obnoxious and scared the shit (no pun intended) out of Frankie.
Jumping off the couch, he looks at where he had been lying peacefully just a minute before, and then to me as if I could explain what interrupted his peaceful slumber.
Aggressive methane, little man.
Happens to all of us.
Title Lyric: Decisions by Ne-Yo
Sunday, January 8, 2012
I'm guilty for that, I'm guilty
January 8, 2012
I just don't want to work this morning.
Really.
What I want to do is crawl back in bed, Frankie by my side, Jasper curled up beside me, and sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.
Fitfully.
Not the I'm-sick-and-not-sleeping-well-sleep.
I hate that sleep.
Awake at 1.30 am playing Bejeweled Blitz on my cell phone because I'm too tired to do anything else, but apparently not tired enough to sleep.
Regardless of how crappy I feel, I must, I MUST go for groceries.
We haven't gone since before Christmas.
Goblet is looking more like a plump, juicy roast and less like the 20+ pound cat she is, in all her glory.
Stephen off to Quaker meeting, while I either sleep or work.
And when he returns, drag myself out of the house for the horrors of the Superstore on a Sunday afternoon -- the Sunday afternoon before classes resume both at the university and the high school.
Pushy shoppers who are convinced their mission is more important than the mission of anyone else perusing the aisles.
Or those shoppers who use the grocery store as their social meeting place, clogging the aisles preventing the rest of us who have better things to do, other things to do, wanting to get the hell out of there before we go postal and start taking people out.
Or Stephen, who meanders through the aisles, pointing out this and that, glancing at the sodium content of this new item, or that new item.
Provided he has remembered to bring along his glasses.
In which case I have to stand there and impatiently read the sodium content to him.
Before he'll hustle himself along until the next shiny object catches his eye.
I loathe grocery shopping.
What I didn't do yesterday was visit my mother.
No matter how committed I am to visiting her, how much I want to have the Saturday evening beans and brown bread fare, the nursing home is less than accepting of people coming in to their sterilized environment bringing with them their germs.
Coughing.
Hacking.
And not even my mother's disappointment is worth facing the glaring stares of the nurses once they realize I've come in bearing germs and bacteria which could infect their residents and increase their workload.
Still, I feel guilty when I don't go.
Even if I have a legitimate reason.
Women's guilt has nothing to do with logic.
In fact, women's guilt is the exact opposite.
Illogical.
Doesn't matter what the reason, overcoming guilt is something that is simply beyond my abilities to challenge.
More energy than I have to dedicate to eradicating it from my being.
Other things to do.
Besides, if I didn't feel guilt, I worry I wouldn't feel anything at all.
Title Lyric: Guilty by Usher
I just don't want to work this morning.
Really.
What I want to do is crawl back in bed, Frankie by my side, Jasper curled up beside me, and sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.
Fitfully.
Not the I'm-sick-and-not-sleeping-well-sleep.
I hate that sleep.
Awake at 1.30 am playing Bejeweled Blitz on my cell phone because I'm too tired to do anything else, but apparently not tired enough to sleep.
Regardless of how crappy I feel, I must, I MUST go for groceries.
We haven't gone since before Christmas.
Goblet is looking more like a plump, juicy roast and less like the 20+ pound cat she is, in all her glory.
Stephen off to Quaker meeting, while I either sleep or work.
And when he returns, drag myself out of the house for the horrors of the Superstore on a Sunday afternoon -- the Sunday afternoon before classes resume both at the university and the high school.
Pushy shoppers who are convinced their mission is more important than the mission of anyone else perusing the aisles.
Or those shoppers who use the grocery store as their social meeting place, clogging the aisles preventing the rest of us who have better things to do, other things to do, wanting to get the hell out of there before we go postal and start taking people out.
Or Stephen, who meanders through the aisles, pointing out this and that, glancing at the sodium content of this new item, or that new item.
Provided he has remembered to bring along his glasses.
In which case I have to stand there and impatiently read the sodium content to him.
Before he'll hustle himself along until the next shiny object catches his eye.
I loathe grocery shopping.
What I didn't do yesterday was visit my mother.
No matter how committed I am to visiting her, how much I want to have the Saturday evening beans and brown bread fare, the nursing home is less than accepting of people coming in to their sterilized environment bringing with them their germs.
Coughing.
Hacking.
And not even my mother's disappointment is worth facing the glaring stares of the nurses once they realize I've come in bearing germs and bacteria which could infect their residents and increase their workload.
Still, I feel guilty when I don't go.
Even if I have a legitimate reason.
Women's guilt has nothing to do with logic.
In fact, women's guilt is the exact opposite.
Illogical.
Doesn't matter what the reason, overcoming guilt is something that is simply beyond my abilities to challenge.
More energy than I have to dedicate to eradicating it from my being.
Other things to do.
Besides, if I didn't feel guilt, I worry I wouldn't feel anything at all.
Title Lyric: Guilty by Usher
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