You studyin' hard and hopin' to pass, workin' your fingers right down to the bone. . .

November 1, 2010


Our neighbour, who lived behind us, is moving to Toronto.

I was very sad to hear this. . .I liked her.  She was fun, neighbourly, and had two little shih tzus who provided me with lots of entertainment while I would hang laundry.

Last week, when she was packing things up and getting things ready, I noticed two ginormous plants on her back deck.

And I happened to wonder aloud, in front of Stephen, whether or not she was taking these plants with her.

Stephen responded that whether or not she was, didn't matter, because they wouldn't be inhabiting casa de van every-pidwysocky-clarke.

According to Stephen, one more plant in this house and we'll qualify for a licence to sell plants.

Drama queen, young and sweet, almost 50. . .ewwww, ewwwww. . . .

So, yesterday, in the middle of Stephen getting ready for Quaker meeting, and me supposed to be getting ready for Quaker meeting but marking instead, I see our neighbour walk in front of our kitchen window.

So did Frankie.

Which meant I had to intercept him before he intercepted her at the front door, grabbing him the way a football player would grab at a football before it hit the ground.

Frankie in his crate, barking away thinking that was going to make a difference, and Tikka playing her, "I'm pretty, I'm good, and therefore I am better than Frankie" role, I run to the front door.

Because our neighbour, knowing how much I loved plants, and wanting these two very large, very heavy plants to have a good home, offered them to me.

Stephen could hear her, but he was indisposed, so he couldn't come downstairs fast enough to say NO before I said YES!

And once he did manange to get himself suitably arranged, meaning he came downstairs with his pjs on and hair standing on end, but with a clean shaven face, it was too late.

I was dancing with joy because she had given me the plants.

She was dancing with joy because her plants had a good home.

And there was no way Stephen was going to rain on the parade of two dancing women.

Because he's smarter than that.

These were heavy plants in heavy pots.

And I was perfectly willing to help carry them in.

Except that the minute my help was required, my cleansing diet started cleansing, leaving me to sit dans la salle de bain, listening to Stephen and our neighbour try to get these plants in the house, while perusing the latest Canadian Living magazine.

So now, our living room is a veritable cornucopia of greenery, including an 8 foot tall plant I couldn't identify if I had to, and another plant that looks sort of like a palm tree but isn't.

We don't even have to get a Christmas tree now.  We can just put lights on the 8 foot plant and call it a day.

Goblet is fascinated with these new plants.

She's fascinated with anything new that comes into the house.

She keeps hauling out the tinfoil pie plates that rest underneath the plants to prevent water from getting on the laminate floor.

Because I have been known to be a tad bit over zealous when it comes to watering plants.

A character flaw that makes Stephen crazy, leaving him no choice but to run around after me while I water plants, with tea towels in hand ready to clean up any potential leakage.

You'd have to see it to believe it.




I can't believe its November already.

Turning back the clocks.

My sister-in-law's birthday.

My mother's birthday, which happens to fall on Rememberance Day.

Giving my sarcoptic hounds their next dose of Revolution.

Yeah November.  Bug free dogs.




Emily spent this evening at the kitchen table, working away on her latest school project.

Em is incredibly creative.

I don't know where she gets it, because it isn't from me.

Two year olds can draw better stick figures than me.

This particular school project?

Pan pipes.

Think Zamphir.

As soon as she told me what she wanted to do, panic set it.

Pan pipes are made of bamboo.

Not the little plant thingies everyone has.  .  . the green things with the leaves, but honest to goodness bamboo.

The kind koala's eat.

There are many things we're able to get in Fredericton: potatoes, corn, dog food, samosas, souvlakis, an education, liquor. . . .

But bamboo?

Saturday afternoon, prepared for the absolute worst, because school projects always bring out the absolute worst, Stephen, Emily and I got into the car and headed to the local nursery.

The one that didn't go out of business. 

I asked the woman who was working the greenhouse if they had bamboo.

She assumed I meant the plant. 

Oh no, she said, we're out of that. 

And then, as if led by the goddess who protects parents from psychosis caused by school projects, I found myself saying, 

"Not the bamboo with the leaves and things.  Real bamboo."

Her face lit up.

My heart started to beat faster.

She walks over to a little used part of the room, where I'd never have thought to look, and there, leaning against the wall was a 10 foot bamboo pole. 

Problem #1 solved.  Apparently, you can get bamboo in Fredericton.

The came problem #2.

Cost.

Because school projects usually means spending money I don't have.

And 10 feet of anything usually isn't cheap.

Along side the goddess who protects parents from psychosis caused by school projects, was the goddess of things that appear expensive but are not.

$2.99.

Two for two.

I couldn't believe it.

I still can't.

Getting the pole in the car was something else.

We had to open the trunk and push it through until the end was nestled against the windshield.

Honestly, one more millimeter of bamboo, and we wouldn't of been able to close the trunk of our little Ford Focus station wagon.

That's how close it was.

Stephen drove us back to Fredericton, where we dropped Em off at the mall, and then me at the nursing home, with this bamboo pole separating us the entire drive similar to the way Catholic nuns used to (and maybe still do) separate hormonal teenager boys and girls on the dance floor with a ruler in an effort to prevent the crotch grabbing gyrations that automatically ensued when "Lady in Red" started to play during high school dances. 

Now, the third problem was taking the ten foot bamboo pole and turning it into 12 peices of bamboo into little bamboo steps.

Emily, the brave little soul that she is, managed to get the bamboo pole into the basement, and armed with a saw I didn't even know we had, she made a valiant effort to cut this pole into the required peices.

She's even marked off on the pole where it needed to be cut.

Bamboo is strong.

So is Em.

But the bamboo trumped Em's determination to do it "all by herself" and we knew that reinforcements were going to be necessary.

Our neighbour.

Peter.

Apparently, it takes a neighbourhood to manufacture a homemade pan pipe for a high school World Music class.

Emily wanted to have everything done and over with by the end of the weekend, but with Halloween and other duties, she wasn't able to get over to ask Peter if he would saw the pole until this evening.

So, just before supper, my shy, quiet, reserved but determined Emily, with Stephen in tow, walked across the street to ask Peter if he would saw her bamboo pole.

And he did.

She returned with 12 perfectly sized peices of bamboo from which to fashion her pan pipe.

So far, she has voiced her frustrations at least three times, has a bamboo splinter underneath her finger nail that she refuses to allow me to remove, and she is up to her eyeballs in hemp string, wood glue, gold play-doh (don't ask) and cross stitch thread.

She is threading hemp string and cross stitch thread through the dozen pipes in effort to ensure functionality and artisitic appreciation.

Sweat glistens on her brow as she pushed back a strand of hair that's in her eyes.

Reilley, her 16 year old cat, wants to play with the string, frolic in the remnants, wanting all the attention she is giving this pan pipe, to be diverted to him.

All for a pan pipe that she can't play because we don't live in a high enough altitude.

Watching Em brings back a flood of school project memories.

Memories doesn't necessarily mean fond. 

It just means memories.

The school project I remember the most wasn't even mine.

It was my little brother's.

He had to make newspaper.

All the sections.

Pas de problem.

Until my mother found out that ALL the sections meant ALL the sections.

Including an obituary.

More specifically, my brother's obituary.

My mother was never afraid of speaking her mind.

But she did so sparingly.

Only when really necessary.

Like the time, when she was 50, she blew a gasket at a grocery store employee who assumed she was over 65 and therefore deserved the senior's discount.

Or the time I was driving her car, we were cut off, and she gave the person who cut us off the finger.

My mother has finger nails that are considered lethal weapons in some countries.  If she points one of those things at you, you better move it.

Fast.

I used to watch in fascination as she would file them into sharp points, and then lacquer them up for improved strength.

And if she pointed on at you, and raised her left eyebrow, you may as well just shut up, sit down and take whatever shit bomb was coming your way.

Cause it was coming.

Anyway, to say she was enraged when she heard that her 12 year old son had to write his own obituary was like saying when volcanos blow, they make a little mess.

I don't think I have ever seen her so angry.

Well, maybe one other time, but that story must wait until January.

She got on the phone to the school, Geary Elementary School, to be exact, and she got a hold of the principal.

I'm willing to bet that to this day, he wishes he had never taken that call.

And then, when she had reduced him to a blathering mass of tears, she turned on my brother's teacher.

She needed a year long sabbatical and six months therapy after my mother finished with her.

I can't remember if Jer wrote that obituary.

I'll have to ask him.

But you can bet that his teacher never asked anyone to write their own obituary ever again.

And if Em's teacher doesn't appreciate the effort she's put into making these pan pipes.

Plus the writing of the essay.

In addition to creating a powerpoint, I may have to channel the spirit of Janet. 

Either that or release her from the nursing home long enough to deal with Em's World Music teacher.

Title Lyric:  School Days by Chuck Berry

 

Weep not for the memories . . . .

October 31, 2010

At the beginning of this month, I shared how much I loved October.

All sorts of thing about October fill my heart with absolute joy.

Meredyth's birthday.

Thanksgiving.

Mum and Dad's wedding anniversary.

I reflect about my life in October. . .where I've been and where I want to be. 

Meredyth's birthday.

The anniversary of my first marriage. 

October, however, marks another event in my life.  One I am still reeling from, still trying to figure out.

October 30th, 2008, my dear friend, Quaker Friend, mentor, colleague, John McKendy, died.

His life was taken away unexpectedly, at the hands of a very sick young man, his son-in-law, who then committed suicide.

In many ways, I've dreaded today.  I thought about not posting at all today, letting the day pass, to begin again tomorrow.

But I can't.

If I can do anything today, it's to share some of my warmest memories of John. 

To remember how much he inspired me, cared for me and my family, loved me for who I was, inspite of all my flaws.

And believe me, there are lots of flaws.





When I returned to St. Thomas in the fall of 1993, I had few options available to me.  I had maxed out the number of credits I could have for English, 60, and was warned by Larry Batt, the affable Registar at STU, that I could possibly consider completing my major in sociology, as I had a few soc courses on my transcript.

At this point, I had no real plans about what I would do with the remaining time I had at STU, I just knew that I needed an undergrad degree, I needed to finish something in my life, I guess I liked sociology, although you would have never known that from my grades at the time, so I negotiated with Larry.

Let me take the two English courses I'm really interested in, and I'll take soc courses.

Little did he know the results of his negotiation. 

I had John when I was in university the first time.

But all I can remember from my half term in his theory course is the room where we met. 

You can see how dedicated a student I was at that time in my life.

So, when I came back, five years later, Mer and Keith in tow, and a bellyful of Emily, all I knew was that soc courses were on the menu.

Whether or not I liked them, or did well in them, that remained to be seen. 

I found myself back in John's class.

No longer sitting in the back, hoping to not be noticed, I was upfront, engaged, and feeling a lot older and wiser than my classroom compadres. 

After two months in my sociology classes, my fate was sealed.

And with a bigger bellyful of Emily, I went to John and asked him what was required for graduate school. 

Me. 

Graduate School.

Whodda thunk it. 

John looked at me, smiled his smile, and said, 

"No one here is surprised you want to go to graduate school, Dawne."

John and my dear friend Debbie van den Hoonaard supervised my fourth year undergraduate honours thesis. 

The three of us spent many hours together talking about my interviews with single parent fathers, looking at the findings, the process. . . 

This collaboration, the talking with me and not at me, the overwhelming feeling that scholarship was something you worked on together regardless of whether or not you were the teacher or the student. . . 

Those hours with John and Debbie solidified not only that I wanted to be an academic, but the kind of academic I wanted to be. 

Some days I think I manage this better than others. 



My three all time favourite John memories, though, don't have anything to do with academia.

They're all about family. 

Emily was born January 21st, 1994.

Janurary 20th, 1994, I was in Modern Sociological Theory.

Trying ever so hard to squeeze my ever burgeoning bulk into the most definitely not made for pregnant women desks of in a classroom in the basement of Edmund Casey Hall.

I was scheduled for a c-section the following day.

But Em didn't care.

And during this class, I started to feel those oh-so-wonderful-tugs in my back.

Having been through a version of labour twice before, I knew what those feelings were. 

And I knew Em was arriving the next day via c-section.

So I just sat there, listening to John share his passion for sociological theory. 

At the end of class, he came over to me and asked me if I was okay.

Again, unable to mask my feelings from my face, I was apparently visually sharing my pain.

I said I thought I was having a few labour pains, but no worries, because my sister-in-law (at that time) was picking me up to take me to the hospital. 

He was completely and utterly delighted that this baby was on her way.

But I like to think that had I waited, Em could have potentially been born in Edmund Casey Hall. 

With John as the midwife. 



Ten days after Em's appearance, I was sitting back in the basement of Edmund Casey Hall, fitting a little bit easier into the seats.

However, I had company.

Miss Em.

Em will tell you that outside of her immediate family, John has been the constant person in her life.

Picture me, sitting at a desk, one of the ones with the seat attached to the miniscule table top upon which you're supposed to put everything you need to pay attention in class, with a pen in my right hand, resting on paper, taking notes, while in my left arm is cradled a tiny, newborn baby, an armful of Em, feeding from her bottle.

I know how to multitask.

Really well.

But even I find it challening to grasp modern sociological theory enough to take notes on a postage stamp sized desk, while balancing a hungry newborn in my arms.

And without hesitation, John walked over to my desk, scooped up the hungry Emily and her bottle, and fed her.

All while continuing to talk about modern sociological theory.

No one else, during that time of my life, would have ever been allowed to even think about getting their hands on my newborn infant.

John was, other than my father and brother, the only man on the globe who I trusted.

A lot, as he was allowed to hold and feed and coo to my newborn baby girl.



When Stephen and I first got together, our newly blossoming relationship may have caused a small, seismic ripple through our university community.

John was very protective of Stephen.

And there was good reason for that.

I'm still trying to save Stephen from himself.

He arrived at my office one day, asking if he could speak with me.

Knowing both Stephen and I individually, he was somewhat concerned for Stephen.

John knew all about my checkered-relationship past, and I suspect he didn't want Stephen caught in the web of weirdness that had been the dominant theme in all of my previous relationships.

John also knew all about Stephen's not so checkered relationship past. . .in fact, to be honest, there wasn't much of a relationship past in Stephen's life.

Hence John's concern.

I suspect that in addition to our pasts, he also knew our present, in particularly, just how different our personalities were.

Are.

Still.

He was worried, I imagine, that Stephen was going to come out a relationship with me scarred, traumatized, sporting a therapy-requiring case of PTSD.

For some reason, he didn't seem to be as concerned about me.

Although, believe me, he should have.

When we announced that we were getting married, we knew we wanted a Quaker marriage.

This meant we had a "Clearness Committee," and in selecting the members of our Committee, we knew we wanted John to be with us as we started this next stage of our lives together.

As an aside, Stephen thought the group was called our Clearance Committee.

Like we were two on-special items that needed to be sold at the lowest price as soon as possible, and were in such a desperate state that we needed a committee to get rid of us.

During our wedding, after we exchanged our vows, with no minister or other religious official with us (I'll tell more about this later) there was a time, in the silence, where anyone who wanted to say something about us, to us, good wishes, etc. could stand up and say something.

John stood up and spoke the most beautiful words for us, about us.  He was honest in saying how he sort of doubted this relationship, was concerned, somewhat for Stephen, but what he saw since we got together, what he has witnessed together with the two of us, made him realize how wonderful we are together and how blessed our being together has been for him and for our families, especially the kids.

There are days when I have to REALLY remember those words.

Believe me.



The way John died was horrific, something that happens to someone you don't know.

I don't presume to know what John what would want, but, I do think he would be deeply saddened to think that he was remembered for how he died.

And not remembered for how he lived.

So, I am choosing to remember John for how he lived.

(This is a picture of John, with Kweti, a young man he met when he spent several weeks in Burundi helping build an AIDS clinic.)
And because John was such an important part of both my life, and Stephen's, I asked Stephen to write something for this blog entry, an opportunity for him to share his thoughts, feelings and insights about John's life.

Read it carefully.

Enjoy it.

Cause the likelihood of Stephen collaborating in another blog entry with me is slim.

As in none.

There is a greater chance of me becoming impregnated by three toed, four headed, 9 armed aliens from the planet Ksnart, than Stephen contributing to my blog, again.

FROM THE DESK OF STEPHEN JOHN

A day ago, Dawne asked me if I would consider contributing to her daily blog. I have to admit, I am not a big fan of blogs. I admire Dawne for her humorous and descriptive blog writing and read her postings faithfully, but I shy away from blog writing myself. For me, blogs are simply too uncomfortable. I often wonder who exactly is reading them. It seems somewhat like a smidgen of an invasion of privacy. I don’t need or want Billy or Sally or Bobby Sue reading about me or about my life thank you very much. I have ALWAYS been a private person. The late Erving Goffman (a Canadian born sociologist who excelled as an academic at the University of Chicago and died too soon) was correct. All of us are actors. We have a front stage (a public face) and a back stage (a private face). I have always preferred to guard my private stage/face as much as possible.


Having just shared my thoughts on maintaining privacy, Dawne has been teaching me something through her blog entries. What she has been teaching me is that it is perfectly okay and even wonderful to let other individuals get close to you by sharing some of your life stories with them. Who knows, they may even share some of their life stories with you.

Today was a kind of rough day. Why so? Once again, I am remembering my friend, mentor, surrogate brother, John McKendy on the anniversary of his death. Two years have passed and I still cannot figure-out what happened. Time goes by all too quickly. I keep trying to force myself to remember the good times instead of dwelling on how his life was cut short as a result of an act of violence. Accepting the death of loved ones is never easy, but having to live through a death that occurred because of violence is especially difficult. I’ve been down the “what if I had done that” or “how come I did not do this” road way too many times already. At some point, you have to put up a barricade and say “the old road is permanently closed and now I am going to choose a new road and take that road regularly.”

After John died, dwelling on how he died was my primary focus. I needed to know precisely what had happened. At that time, there was much gossip floating around. I heard many tales. Dawne and myself would reflect on these tales – often late at night - and would talk with one another and cry. We both hoped and prayed that he had not suffered. We also shared our life experiences with John with one another with the hope that we would experience some immediate healing. Immediate healing did not happen. We are both still trying to become whole people who had a good friend who died before he should have.

Reflecting back on the good, I experienced many joyous times with John and his family that I now feel comfortable enough to share. Thanksgiving with all too tasty food. At Christmas gatherings again we would eat too much (John cooked a very tasty sweet and sour soup) but we would also have a Yankee swap and play board games. I also remember a family celebration after his oldest daughter completed her undergraduate studies. All of those times I remember very well. John and his family always welcomed me into their homes. I never once felt like I was a stranger. He really did treat me as if I was his younger brother. (All you need to do is to ask Dawne about the day that he showed-up at her office to very gently inquire about whether it was true that she and I were dating.)

For several years, John and I ran together. I would meet him around 4:30 in the afternoon at the Lady Beaverbrook Gym three to four times each week. Sometimes we would run “the loop” – southside from the gym over to the northside Marysville bridge and back – while other times we would run on the Lincoln Road trail almost to the Fredericton Airport and then back again. While running we would talk about his family, my family, Quaker “stuff”, his research, my doctoral studies, and academia in general. We also both shared and spoke about our own personal shortcomings.

Although much has changed, I continue to hold on to the teachings that John shared with me. I continue to hear wonderful stories about John that I have not heard before. These stories make me happy. I now realize that even after when someone dies, he or she will continue to live on in those who knew and loved them or knew someone who knew them even if it was only for a brief period of time.


I miss your insight and selfless caring John.

Stephen

Title Lyric: I Will Remember You by Sarah MacLachlan

This is Halloween, this is Halloween, pumpkins scream in the dead of night. . .

October 30, 2010


Halloween has always been my least favourite "holiday."

I can't wrap my head around the idea of dressing up children to go door to door begging strangers for food.

Nonetheless, I always made sure the kids were well costumed, usually with whatever we had around the house, but there was always the mad rush after school to get home and bolt down their supper so they could get outside as soon as possible.

Emily LOVES Halloween. 

She plans on going out until people actually refuse to give her candy on the grounds that she is simply too old to go out trick or treating.

One year, with the help of a good friend, Em went out as a suitcase.

Which was a great idea until she had to sit down for reasons little girls have to sit down.

Em's second Halloween was a most confusing time for her.

She understood that you went to people's door and they gave you things.

What she didn't seem to understand was that you couldn't actually take anything you wanted.

Hence, upon coming to the front door of a lovely house at the bottom of Smythe Street, we were greeted by a lovely older woman.

And Em, who up to that point, was only interested in the candy, spied a cat. 

And with a speed only exhibited in two years olds super-charged with Halloween candy, she dashes into the house, and grabs the cat.

The next few minutes were a mad cap cacophany reminiscent of a Benny Hill skit, minus the half dressed young girls and the oggling Benny Hill. A giggling two year old, a wailing, hissing, really pissed off cat, an older woman yelling, "Oh! Oh! Oh!" and me racing around this woman's house trying to capture Em, who saw my chasing her as an added bonus to an already exciting evening.

When I finally managed to grab her, she clutched the hissing, wailing, pissed off cat close to her little chest and yelled, "MY KITTY!"

The home/cat owner was in a state of utter panic, worried that my feline loving two year old was going to abscond with her cat, tucked in Em's candy bag among the chocolate bars, chips, suckers, gum, etc.

Em was NOT happy when I removed the poor, traumatized cat from her hot little hands, apologized to the shocked and flabbergasted older woman and hoisted Em under my arm for a less than graceful exit. 

Clutching her candy bag, Em kept insisting the kitty was hers, while I combed the neighbourhood looking for Meredyth and Keith who saw this as an opportunity to backtrack and revisit houses looking to acquire some additional booty. 

When the kids informed me that my escorting services were no longer required on Halloween night, I saw it as a mixed blessing.

On the one hand, I didn't have to go with them, wandering around in the dark pilfering candy from strangers.

On the other hand, they were going out with their friends.

And the only thing more terrifying than having your kids go to other people's house is having other people's kids come to yours.

Sugar gorged horomonal teenagers travelling in packs. 

Ummmm. . . .




Careful reflection and analysis have revealed two possible reasons for my dislike of Halloween.

One, my mother was about as excited about Halloween as I am.

She worked long days as a nurse, catering to the needs of her patients, listening to doctors, dealing with kvetching family members.

By the time she got home, got dinner ready and the dishes done, the last thing she wanted to worry about was Halloween.

In fact, I argue there was one Halloween where she actually forgot it was Halloween, although she would deny it with her dying breath.

Consequently, she pushed me out the back door wearing a pink sheet with freshly cut eyeholes, accessorized with a green glow stick.

Two, I lived in a rural area.

Meaning Halloween was nothing more than a forced route march.

Houses were so far apart, you actually didn't know if you were coming to a house until you caught the faintest glimmer of a low wattage porch light.

You'd walk and walk and walk and walk, only to be rewarded with a paltry chocolate bar given to you by a crusty, unshaven man, annoyed that he had to move out of his Laz-y-Boy recliner for the third time that evening, therefore missing the crucial denoument to Miami Vice, only to have to answer the door for a pink-sheeted ghost with a glow stick wrapped around its neck.

While walking on the dirt shoulder of the highway on which our humble abode was housed, drivers actually slowed down to double check that they weren't seeing the result of an alien invasion but rather a poorly put together vision in pink with neon green trim.

THAT was it.

The next Halloween, I revolted.

Either my parent's drove me to Oromocto, to go door-to-door begging among military neighbourhoods full of houses so close to one another you weren't sure whether or not they were actually separated.

Or they bought me the equivalent of all the candy I would have scored if they had driven me to Oromocto.

Because I was no longer willing to traipse around our rural hamlet for a chocolate bar that wouldn't provide enough sustenance to get me back to my parent's house.

Oromocto was a mecca for rural kids who, like my brother and me, boycotted the long nights journey into more night in search of an airfilled bag of chips.

Four miles for a bag of air with one chip inside.

I don't think so, thank you very much.

The loot we scored.

While my rural loving parents were passing out candy at the rate of one chocolate bar every 90 minutes, the military families in Oromocto were privy to a frenzy of candy loving, sugar hyped kids attacking their houses like sharks after chum.

We came home with so much candy, my father actually confiscated some of it.

I'm positive it was recycled as stocking stuffers at Christmas time.

About the only warm memory I have of Halloween is the thrill of coming home, turning your loot bag upside down and through the mound of goodies.

We always made piles, while shoving chocolate into our mouths.

There was the don't-touch-this-or-I'll-cut-your-lips-off-pile, the I'll-eat-this-when-there-is-nothing-else-left-pile, and the I-think-these-people-were-on-crack-pile.

And finally, the cut portioned out for my father, out of respect.

My dad, paid off, given tribute, with a portion of the loot garnered from the publically sanctioned door to door freeloading of his children.

I wonder what they would call this in the old country.



Now, I spend Halloween walking from the kitchen to the front door and back to the kitchen again, while trying to mark papers and keep the dogs calm.

Tikka is always more than willing to greet the candy cadging critters.

Frankie is always more than willing to chase them off our property.

The cats are always locked upstairs.

Caterwauling, meowing, hissing and spitting ensue until they are released from their prisons and allowed to cavort through the house.

Stephen and I manage to eat far more candy than is necessary, an issue I raised during my first visit at Simply for Life.

I asked what we were supposed to do to prevent the usual face stuffing food fest we have come to look forward to and loath in equal parts.

And this is when I was, yet again, reminded that having 8 university degrees between the two of us is actually not much of a sign of intelligence.

The SFL advice.

The golden nugget of knowledge that will prevent Stephen and I from eating our body weight in candy.

Buy something you don't like.

ALL THESE YEARS we've been buying Halloween candy we liked.

Not because we wanted to give it away.

But because we wanted to simply spend the evening eating said candy with reckless abandon until we reached a candy coma and were subsequently buried under the weight of all the discarded wrappers. 

Buy something you don't like. 

Gum then it is. 

D'OH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 



Title Lyric:  This is Halloween from the Nightmare Before Christmas Soundtrack

I've gained an ounce, I've gained a pound. . . .

October 29, 2010


There is an elephant in the room.

Me.

Always there.

Always present and accounted for.

Okay, "me" specifically may be a bit harsh.

My weight.

More to the point, the fact that there is so much of it.

And now, I am engaged in a battle that may well be the most challening battle thus far in my life.

More challenging than completing three university degrees while raising three children on my own.

More challenging than my mother's two year hospitalization and subsequent move into a nursing home.

More challening than being married to Stephen.

And yes, even more challenging than raising Meredyth.

Weight loss.

Cause the "it's baby fat" excuse isn't all that valid anymore, considering the kids are 21, 19 and 16.

The weight seems to want to stay with me, rent free, so it's definitely time for an eviction.

Hence, this past Monday, I did something my doctor told me to do three months ago.

I had my first appointment at Simply for Life.

Let the battle end!





Oh the weight stories I have.

A regular tell all repository of every single humiliation, embarrassment, wanting to instantaneously disappear and never show my face again play-by-play accounts of a life long war between me and food.

There are lots of reasons for how come I have gotten to this place.

I often wonder what would of happened had my parents actually spoke to one another before they began to reproduce.

Mum: Well, Jerry, what do you think our children will look like?

Dad: Good question Janet.  If we take into consideration that overweight people exist on both sides of our family, specifically, my mother, Dora, struggled with weight her entire life.  She was a big woman.  And on your side of the family, tree trunk thighs tend to be a visible pattern.  What do you think will be the outcome of our reproductive activities?

Mum: Excellent points Jerry.  And, if we couple those physical characteristics with a genetic predisposition towards depression, which often causes people to eat when they are stressed, upset or experiencing any myriad of emotions, we could conclude that we may have children with weight issues.

Dad: We should still reproduce, though.  We may be completely off in our assessments and have two children who have no weight or mental health issues.  They will be perfect.

Mum: They will be.  And we will be so lucky.

Instead of perfect, thin children, my parents created two children who have spent their entire lives battling the caloric evil all around them.

I know they didn't plan it that way.

Because if they did, I'd be quite upset.





Emotional eating.

If there was ever a poster child for emotional eating, it's me.

Get me upset, and be prepared to see me trawling through the aisles of the Superstore or the Bulk Barn looking for as much chocolate and sugar as I can get until I start to feel guilty.

In a pinch, there's a vending machine in our building.

Oh Henry! has gotten me through a number of job stress related issues.

And if I'm REALLY lucky, my students will hook.me.up.

Yesterday, for example, a group of students was doing a presentation in one of my classes.  The presentation included an activity, and there were prizes for those students who paid attention during the presentation.

A box of 90 Halloween sized Hershey bars. . .milk chocolate, cookies and cream, and caramel filled.

The instant I saw that box, my pupils dialated, by heart beat quickened, and all I could think of was just how good those chocolate bars were going to be.

My student opened the box and leaned it towards me in a gesture reminiscent of a flasher whipping open his trenchcoat to unleash his goodies.

I was powerless to resist.

My hands reached inside the box and withdrew an overflowing handful of chocolately wrapped goodness enticing me to partake, to "come on, try it, you know you want to."

And I did.

After the presentation and activity, another handful of temptation came my way, sitting beside the growing pile of empty wrappers, the remnants of the candy bars already called to duty. 

Coupled with the large pile of Peanut Butter M&Ms I procured from a student, magnificence in a candy coated covering, sublime, heavenly, each little button of chocolate and peanut butter crunchiness filling my stressed, frustrated soul with a temporary, euphoric peace that lastest just until I was able to get another one in touch with my tantalized taste buds.

Crack.

Peanut Butter M&Ms are the crack of the candy world.

And I the biggest user.

Of course, like any addict, I felt like crap afterwards.

Sitting in my office, convincing myself I would never indulge like that again.

Unfortunately, stress eating doesn't include thinking in the long term.

Obviously, or I wouldn't be where I am right now.

And because I am an equal opportunity eater, I can derive as much pleasure from a mound of steaming whipped potatoes, with the petit pat of butter nestled on top like a cherry on an ice cream sundae.

Macaroni and cheese, homemade of course, with just the right amount of salt, pepper and ketchup will shoo away my slump.

A steak, rare, with sauteed mushrooms on top can made even most horrific of days melt away like a popcicle on a hot summer's day.

Sometimes, all I need is a pile of PC Decadent Chocolate Chip cookies and a nice, hot cup of coffee to drive the doldrums away.

Bags of Empire Theater popcorn peppered with any kind M&Ms (save pretzel. . .not feeling the love for Pretzel M&Ms) is enough to transport me to a place of unfettered bliss.

Even oatmeal, yes oatmeal, homemade with apples, raisins and cinnamon, surrounded like an island with warm milk, and topped with a generous sprinkling of brown sugar can chase away the crankiness with almost lightening speed.

Food and stress, a deadly, but oh-so-delicious combination.




A love for food that almost surpasses my love for the kids.

I.

Love.

Food.

Food is not just fuel for the body.

It is art.

Food can inspire joy and anticipation, sadness and frustration.

Holidays are, in part, built on food.

Christmas turkey, Easter ham, Thanksgiving pumpkin pie.

If I thought of everything with the fervour and zest in which I think about food, I'd have five PhD's by now.

The amount of time I spend thinking about food, anticipating what I will eat when I get home, what I will have for lunch, how much I will bake and cook over the weekend. . . .

I could have cured cancer, become the first legitimate Prime Minister of Canada, written the great Canadian novel and figured out how to stop the global destruction of the environment.

Yes. That much time.



So, what has prompted the sudden end of my life long food fiesta?

Guilt?

Sort of.

Jealousy?

Um, perhaps.  My brother, my long time companion of conspicuous caloric consumption has lost a lot of weight.

Not necessarily in the best way, but when you're me, you don't think of reason, you think results.

Health?

Gottcha!

At 43, I am more tired than I should be.  There are so many things I want to do, but can't because I am just too tired.

Which makes perfect sense when you carry the load I carry every day.

I have the knees of a 69 year old.

Over the summer, tired of dealing with debilitating knee pain, sometimes so painful it would literally wake me up during the night, I made an appointment to see my doctor, who sent me for x-rays and then informed me of the results of said x-rays.

It wasn't pretty.

I've had knee pain since I was 16, when I started working in a convenience store and was on my feet for 8 hours at a time. 

And its only gotten worse as I've gotten older and heavier.

More importantly, after going through all I went through as a result of my mother's health, I simply didn't want to put my kids through all I've been through.

And that means getting my health in order.




Which brings us to today.

No more piles of potatoes, mouthwatering steaks, sumptuous stews, colossal cakes. . .

Goodbye, for now, to squash, peas, corn. . .

I LOVE squash.

We currently have 25 pounds of it in our basement.

Cookies, chips and dip, guacamole, squares, I bid you adieu.

Swiss Chalet, McDonalds, Subway, Yassou, I say aurevoir.

And welcome to spelt, walnuts, fish, chicken breast, apples, almonds, brown rice. . .

The cleansing diet.

Which will presumably pave the way towards teaching me that food does not have to be an obsession, a comfort, a crutch.

A lifestyle change.

What will ultimately be a good change.

For all of us.

Because I am the Queen Bee of this Hive, and I'm bringing everyone with me whether they want to come along for the ride or not.

Cause if Mama can't eat chocolate, nobody can eat chocolate.


Title Lyric: Instant Weight Loss by Sparks

I've got my pajamas on. . . .

October 28, 2010


The novelty of the new term has now completely disappeared. 

Students who lamented how much they missed university while working at their minimum wage jobs, or jobs that paid more than minimum wage because if they didn't no one in their right mind would even contemplate doing them . . .

Ie: tree planting.

. . . who missed their stimulating classes, pined for the camaraderie of far flung friends, missed the fraternization with sports teams or clubs, students reminiscing about games won or joyous moments coming together with like-minded people. . . .

. . . .just wanting nothing more than to return to the hallowed halls of higher learning.

Most likely, they are just bloody sick and tired of being back under the same roof with their parents, chafing at obeying the "house rules" when they have just finished living for eight months "on their own" making their own rules, living within their own guidelines and essentially doing whatever the hell they wanted. 

By July, Keith had started to comment about how he was missing school.

Em, on the other hand, had just finished school and when Keith said this, she looked at him like he'd grown another head.

But now, he's starting to feel the weight of the work expected in second year.

Weight that leads to panic that leads to him looking like a deer in headlights trying to figure out how the hell he got to this place and more importantly how can he leave it.

My own students are currently sporting the same alarmed and confused look on their kissers.

In most of my classes assignments are due this week.

The upper level classes are comprised of students who have had the pleasure of my company in previous classes, so they are accustomed to my expectations.

But my first year students, who have probably heard maliciously fabricated rumours regarding my standards can't look at me without a montage of emotions crossing their faces.

Most of them are contemplating, I suspect, whether they should throw themselves at my feet, or run as fast as they can, as far as they can, and never darken my door again.

One student was so anxious to see me this afternoon, he walked into my office when I was meeting with another student.

I asked him to wait, so he proceeded to sit in the only other empty chair in my office.

I then said, no, that chair, pointing to the one in the hallway.

Obligingly, he walked into the hall, picked up the chair and started to carry it into my office.

I was stunned.

Finally, I broke what I wanted down to its most basic form.

 "You sit in the chair while it stays in the hallway until I'm finished here."

"Then I will call for you."

"Then you come in."

The fourth year student in my office found the entire thing entertaining.

Although I wish she could have seen the look on her face when he initially burst into my office, paper in hand, breathless, saying, "I NEED you to look at this. . ."

First year students are delightful.

Entertaining.

And terrified of writing a paper for me because I told them I like to read books about punctuation for fun.




Unlike many of my students, who thrive on being away from the nest, I lived at home while attending university.

The first time.

When I returned to university, I had roommates, but they never paid rent, helped with the utilities, or cooked their own meals.

Some of them still live with me today.

So, I don't quite consider it the same thing.

In retrospect, living on my own may have significantly changed my life's trajectory. 

But I lived at home because I was a VERY young 18 year old when I first walked through the doors of St. Thomas University. 

Very young, very naive. 

There were people in my classes who were living on their own, or, even more astounding, with boyfriends or roommates, who drove their own cars, worked part time and managed to go to university.

I could barely manage to get to Oromocto and on the bus, which at that time cost a whopping $2.00, and brought you all the way from Oromocto to Fredericton.

But I didn't live in Oromocto.

I lived in Geary.

And I didn't have a driver's licence.

In 1985, getting from Geary to Fredericton was a journey as complex and perilious as Frodo's trek to rid himself of the ring.

 Every morning my mother would haul herself out of bed, get herself suitably dressed in case she happened to get stopped by the police, or get into an accident, and drive me into Oromocto so I could catch the bus into Fredericton.

Unless I was working in Oromocto that evening, the same routine would occur, just in reverse. 

Meaning if my mother was working, I waited for my brother, or worse, my father, who was perpetually angry with me from the time I was 16 until I left home at 20 because I wouldn't get a driver's licence, but I wanted to drive.

I even half-owned a car, with my brother. 

But more about that later.

I would then go to my friend's house and we would walk to the bus stop together.

The bus would eventually arrive, and we'd hop on.

This leg of the journey meant traversing through the back roads of southern New Brunswick, picking up everyone and anyone who wanted an inexpensive ride to Fredericton.

Meaning it took a while.

The bus was old, creaky, smelly, and always-too-hot.

My friends and I would sit along the bench seat at the back. 

The heat, coupled with the gentle swaying back and forth of the bus would inevitably put us to sleep. 

Only the jolt of the brakes and the blast of cool air pushing through the stagnant heat was enough to wake us from our restful slumber.

We were then faced with the realization that we had arrived at our destination, and were  facing the next phase of our perilious journey.

St. Thomas University is at the top of a VERY steep hill. 

In fact, much of Fredericton is on a very steep hill. 

Just ask anyone who has ever walked from downtown Fredericton (such as it is) to uptown Fredericton. 

Our $2.00 bus dropped us off at the very bottom of the hill. 

We would gather our things together, look at one another, sigh, and then begin the very long walk up the very steep hill. 

The last leg of the journey.

And on many occasions I thought I'd have no legs left at the end of it.

I swore at every.single.car with their easily.breathing drivers who drove past us.

And by the time we managed to get to the top of the hill, we were sweaty, cranky and usually late for class.

I don't know many 8.30 French classes with John Rahn I sat through sweating like a hockey player just coming off the ice. 

The entire journey, from start to finish took 90 minutes.

More time than I spent in most of my classes.

Those were the days.




Now I have a car.

I no longer have to spend 90 minutes taking a patchwork journey to get myself to where I need to be.

But there are some striking similarities between the journey of then and the journey of now.

Instead of trying to get my mother up, I fight to get Em up.

Instead of waiting for my friend to get ready so we could catch the bus, I wait in the car, contemplating how many times I could honk the horn before anyone would get themselves out of the house.

Rather than fall asleep on the too-hot bus, I become enslaved to Stephen's body temperature, which wreaks havoc with his hot and cold, leaving him mostly hot. . .

. . . . and me mostly cold.

Morning drives with my brood are anything but boring.

In fact, sometimes they are more entertaining than I would either want or need.

One January, the first day of the new winter term, I managed to wrangle everyone into the car.

No one wanted to be there, because it meant accepting that Christmas vacation was over and it was time to go back to the real world. 

No one was happy.

In the back seat, Em and Keith are wrapped in their new winter wear, sour faced and cranky.

Stephen was in the passenger seat, fiddling around with the heater, complaining about "how hot and stifling" it was in the car. 

All while half asleep

We drop the kids at FHS, pull out of the parking lot, and having the green light, glide through the intersection. 

Tickety boo.

And then, on Prospect Street, just past through the lights in front of Tim Horton's, in the left lane, meant for those drivers who wish to make the left hand turn, eventually, onto Regent Street.

Perhaps the. busiest. intersection on the South side. 

At 8.15 on the first day of the new winter term.

Our car just stops. 

Stephen, in his stupor, asks, "What's wrong?"

Me: "The car stopped."

SJP: "How come?"

Me: "How the hell would I know???????"

No car, no heat, windows open, a line of cars behind us, drivers wondering how come nothing is moving, and whose fault it is, and how can things start moving again.

Meaning, they were getting pissed off.

And my half asleep husband is asking stupid questions.

I put those lights on that flash at people, and the line of disgruntled drivers starts moving around us like water around a rock just tossed into a shallow stream.

Me, I was looking straight ahead, because if I made eye contact with any one of those pissed off pilgrim of the morning commute, I may have done something I would not have regretted later.

Meanwhile, Stephen is sitting beside me, barking orders.

Try this, try that, do this, do that.

With each demand he was getting more and more agitated.

As was I.

Now, the logical person would have inquired about how come we didn't simply get out of the car, walk to the Irving gas station, literally a stone's throw away from us, and call a tow truck?

What a logical question.

And we were having that conversation.

It shouldn't have been an issue really, because I know nothing about cars.

Nor do I know about what is necessary to deal with a car related debacle.

I thought Stephen should go.

But he wouldn't.

Unusual for my usually easy-going, sort of mellow, almost always willing to do what is asked of him husband.

So, the real question is, how come Stephen didn't want to walk to the gas station and call the tow truck?

Because.

He was wearing his pajamas.

No socks.

"Special boy" hat.

And he didn't want to be seen in public.

Translation: he wasn't willing to become the morning's merrymaker, dressed like a pj'd jester in the middle of the Prospect Street's court of cranky commuters.

Rather than take a couple of extra minutes to throw on a pair of socks and pants, my husband, who could only think of getting back into the warm, embracing nest of his bed to go back to sleep, just shoves his feet into his boots and staggers to the car like a student coming home from a night at Nicky Zees.

He had more important things, then, on his mind than such insignificant things as socks and pants.

And underwear.

Stephen slides over the thingy in the car that makes it go, and reverse, because he still won't get his freshly frozen pappies out of the car, and I go the Irving, call the tow truck and then call our departmental assistant.

Because not only was it the first day back after Christmas vacation, I had a 9.00 am class.

Of course I did.

I get back to the car to see an RCMP officer directing traffic around our temporarily annihilated automobile.

Stephen, who was content to anger me, wasn't willing to piss off the police, had NO choice but to get out of the car, knowing his flimsy excuses and flimsier accoutrements were not going to sway the dutiful officer who just wanted to clear up traffic and get his timmies.

By some miracle, we manage to get the car moved to the Zeller's parking lot with only one instance of harshly spoken words, on Stephen's part, about the quality of my backing up skills, where Stephen and I, who by this time were not sharing terms of endearment with each other, stood in the very cold morning air waiting for the tow truck.

You should have seen the look on the truck driver's face when he sees Stephen is in his pjs.

It was outdone only by the look on Stephen's face when he realized he was going to have to walk into the dealer's service office wearing his pajamas.

And stay there, all morning, no socks, no pants, no underwear, and only his cottom pj bottoms to keep him company.

Now, he makes certain he's dressed, at least dressed enough before he leaves the house.

Cause there is no way he's going to bare his bottom to entertain the morning cranky commuters.

Again.



Title Lyric: Pajamas by Livingston Taylor