May 4, 2011
I survived Monday's chaos.
And Tuesday's decisions, decisions, decisions.
Some of which were much harder than others.
And others that will have real repercussions if people can't be honest with me.
We'll have to see what happens in the very near future.
Times like this I wish I had ultimate control over the universe.
Settling into the Intersession routine has happened without too much difficulty.
At least for me.
Stephen and the kids. . .well, that's another story.
The day is packed, and there are not enough hours for me to get done what needs to be done, or see who has to be seen.
9.00-11.20 in the morning.
1.00-4.00 in the afternoon.
Sometimes meetings during the 11.30-12.50 break between classes.
Meetings with students at the end of the day.
Home.
By 6.00 if it's a good day.
Husbands, kids, dogs, dinner. . .
Maybe, just maybe a half hour to watch the news or just sit on the couch and do nothing before going to bed, reading for a bit and then falling asleep usually before finishing the first page.
I always forget how demanding intersession is. . .both physically and emotionally.
I don't even have the energy for yoga.
Shocking, I know.
Maybe tonight if I can get home before 5.00.
Because, of course, I am still marking my 1006 papers and exams.
Of course I am.
Plus I insist on reading through my honours student's thesis one more time before it goes for binding.
Or maybe get Stephen to do it.
Hmmmm. . . . .fresh eyes. . .
That may be a plan.
Bottom line. . . .I am holding on until June.
With my finger nails.
Crime and Film this afternoon.
The Postman Always Rings Twice.
John Garfiled and Lana Turner.
Yesterday was Sidney Poitier and Rod Steiger in In the Heat of the Night.
I do love this class.
No matter how tired I am at the end of the day.
Title Lyric: It's Already Wednesday by Freya
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Now let me untie these knots. . .
May 3, 2011
And it starts.
The inevitable.
Unavoidable.
Intensely frustrating.
Grade grubbing.
Students who feel that they have been wrongly evaluated.
Students who feel that they deserve an A grade for C work.
I typically don't get a lot of this, so when I do, I find it intensely irritating.
Not everyone is an A student.
Simple as that.
And no one should expect grades that do not accurately reflect the quality of their work.
Yes, I am a hard marker.
But, I am a fair marker.
There is a definite sense of entitlement among students.
The idea that they should get high grades "just because."
Just because they put themselves in a group with people who don't work and then they get upset with me, expecting that I can or am willing to do something about it.
I love teaching.
I really like my students.
But don't grade grub.
Because there is always the chance that instead of getting better, the grade could change for the worse.
And it is just ugly.
One of our fallen computers has returned home.
Whole and ready for work.
It was very, very stressful, on the one hand, not having an at home working computer this weekend.
I certainly didn't enjoy being at work from 10-5 on Saturday, and 10-3 and 7-10 on Sunday.
But there were positives to our state of internetlessness.
Especially noteworthy was that Stephen actually came to bed with me Saturday and Sunday night.
Normally, I go to be several hours before he does, as he stays up tooling around on the internet.
Much of which, granted, is work.
But much of which is also listening to and watching youtube videos of music from the 60s and 70s.
He was getting up early in the morning, awake, refreshed and ready to greet the day.
This alone is enough to make me contemplate getting rid of the internet at home.
But then there are the kids to contend with.
Maybe when they've all moved out.
I'll get rid of the cable and the internet.
Muuuaaaaahhhhhhhaaaaahhhhaaaaawwwwwwww!
Yesterday was crazy.
Morning class from 9-11.20.
Which had it's share of issues.
The lamp in the projector wasn't working, so we were forced to move classrooms.
And then the network went down, which meant no access to any of my word documents, powerpoints, etc, meaning class was interrupted again when I had to dash back to my office to retreive my jump drive hoping that my powerpoint slides were saved on it somewhere.
Queen of Organization, I am.
Right after class, home to meet with Annette-the-most-amazing-dog-trainer-in-the-world (http://www.barkbusters.ca/) in an effort to kickstart our flagging attention towards the atrocious and unacceptable behavour of the always formidable Frankie.
Frankie who almost ate our neighbour Sunday evening, as I was out, Stephen fell asleep on the couch and in his dazed and confused state didn't put Frankie in his crate before answering the door.
Frankie doesn't like the door.
Especially when there are people on the other side of it whom he does not recognize.
Our meeting with Annette was an opportunity for Stephen to vent his well founded frustrations with Frankie.
Frankie's incessant need to bark at every single thing that blows by, walks in front of, drives past our house.
His explosive reactions to any dog, cat, person, child, box, garbage bag, he encounters while watching the world go by from behind his dog gate in the back of the car.
Something must be done.
We have strategies.
Back to the university for my afternoon class, which thankfully suffered none of the technological difficulties of my morning class.
In fact, my Crime in Popular Film class went very well.
The day's feature was a little known 2005 film, Keeping Mum with Rowan Atkinson, Maggie Smith and Patrick Swayze as the greasy American golf pro.
If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend it.
Highly.
Immediately leave my afternoon class to pick up my laptop from the repair shop.
Home to change for yoga, collect Stephen and head downtown for a much needed hour and a half of stretching and bending and breathing.
Then off to Victory for meat and veggies, up the hill to pick Em up from Driver's Ed, and then to the polls to vote in yet another Federal election.
It was 9.00 before supper was over, the dishes done, dogs out and our bottoms were able to plant themselves on the loveseat.
I managed to watch the nauseating election coverage for 30 minutes before I had to leave the room.
Oh, Canada, what have you done?
A Harper majority government?
Don't come crying to me when it all goes to hell in a handbasket.
Title Lyric: Frustration by The Mamas and The Papas.
And it starts.
The inevitable.
Unavoidable.
Intensely frustrating.
Grade grubbing.
Students who feel that they have been wrongly evaluated.
Students who feel that they deserve an A grade for C work.
I typically don't get a lot of this, so when I do, I find it intensely irritating.
Not everyone is an A student.
Simple as that.
And no one should expect grades that do not accurately reflect the quality of their work.
Yes, I am a hard marker.
But, I am a fair marker.
There is a definite sense of entitlement among students.
The idea that they should get high grades "just because."
Just because they put themselves in a group with people who don't work and then they get upset with me, expecting that I can or am willing to do something about it.
I love teaching.
I really like my students.
But don't grade grub.
Because there is always the chance that instead of getting better, the grade could change for the worse.
And it is just ugly.
One of our fallen computers has returned home.
Whole and ready for work.
It was very, very stressful, on the one hand, not having an at home working computer this weekend.
I certainly didn't enjoy being at work from 10-5 on Saturday, and 10-3 and 7-10 on Sunday.
But there were positives to our state of internetlessness.
Especially noteworthy was that Stephen actually came to bed with me Saturday and Sunday night.
Normally, I go to be several hours before he does, as he stays up tooling around on the internet.
Much of which, granted, is work.
But much of which is also listening to and watching youtube videos of music from the 60s and 70s.
He was getting up early in the morning, awake, refreshed and ready to greet the day.
This alone is enough to make me contemplate getting rid of the internet at home.
But then there are the kids to contend with.
Maybe when they've all moved out.
I'll get rid of the cable and the internet.
Muuuaaaaahhhhhhhaaaaahhhhaaaaawwwwwwww!
Yesterday was crazy.
Morning class from 9-11.20.
Which had it's share of issues.
The lamp in the projector wasn't working, so we were forced to move classrooms.
And then the network went down, which meant no access to any of my word documents, powerpoints, etc, meaning class was interrupted again when I had to dash back to my office to retreive my jump drive hoping that my powerpoint slides were saved on it somewhere.
Queen of Organization, I am.
Right after class, home to meet with Annette-the-most-amazing-dog-trainer-in-the-world (http://www.barkbusters.ca/) in an effort to kickstart our flagging attention towards the atrocious and unacceptable behavour of the always formidable Frankie.
Frankie who almost ate our neighbour Sunday evening, as I was out, Stephen fell asleep on the couch and in his dazed and confused state didn't put Frankie in his crate before answering the door.
Frankie doesn't like the door.
Especially when there are people on the other side of it whom he does not recognize.
Our meeting with Annette was an opportunity for Stephen to vent his well founded frustrations with Frankie.
Frankie's incessant need to bark at every single thing that blows by, walks in front of, drives past our house.
His explosive reactions to any dog, cat, person, child, box, garbage bag, he encounters while watching the world go by from behind his dog gate in the back of the car.
Something must be done.
We have strategies.
Back to the university for my afternoon class, which thankfully suffered none of the technological difficulties of my morning class.
In fact, my Crime in Popular Film class went very well.
The day's feature was a little known 2005 film, Keeping Mum with Rowan Atkinson, Maggie Smith and Patrick Swayze as the greasy American golf pro.
If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend it.
Highly.
Immediately leave my afternoon class to pick up my laptop from the repair shop.
Home to change for yoga, collect Stephen and head downtown for a much needed hour and a half of stretching and bending and breathing.
Then off to Victory for meat and veggies, up the hill to pick Em up from Driver's Ed, and then to the polls to vote in yet another Federal election.
It was 9.00 before supper was over, the dishes done, dogs out and our bottoms were able to plant themselves on the loveseat.
I managed to watch the nauseating election coverage for 30 minutes before I had to leave the room.
Oh, Canada, what have you done?
A Harper majority government?
Don't come crying to me when it all goes to hell in a handbasket.
Title Lyric: Frustration by The Mamas and The Papas.
Monday, May 2, 2011
As I crawl out of the abyss. . .
May 2, 2011
I am still in the process of clawing my way out of the abyss.
The marking abyss.
Friday evening, sitting on the love seat, making my way through the group papers of my advanced methods class.
All weekend, in my office Saturday and Sunday by ten am, leaving only to eat and get groceries before the kids started eating one another.
In addition to my valiant efforts to end one term, was the preparations for the next term.
Beginning in 13 minutes.
Because the weight and strength of all the marking just isn't enough in my life, we had to deal with a major catastrophe.
BOTH computers in our house, at least the ones Stephen and I use, decided that they'd had enough of our increasing demands and our insistence on neglecting their needs, and both just quit.
Okay, Stephen's quit several weeks ago, and we had been making due by sharing my laptop.
And then Saturday morning, while waiting for Keith and Em to get ready for work, planning my next blog posting, my little laptop that could started refusing me access to the internet.
THE only page I could get insisted that I pay $60.00 for an anti-virus program.
And when I didn't, it just stopped working.
Now, the irony in all of this is that Stephen had been using the laptop far more than I had.
Stephen used his own desktop far more than I ever did.
See a pattern?
Consequently, my laptop is, right now, on its way to be diagnosed and repaired.
Hence why I had to spend all weekend at work.
Because grades can only be submitted electronically at this university.
Also, because when things are in chaos, what's a little more added to the boiling pot, Em had a paper due Monday.
A paper that needed to be researched, typed, printed.
All things requiring a computer.
So, Saturday, after she finished work, I dropped her off at my office to work on her paper while I was with Mum.
Sunday, after grocery shopping and supper, she and I returned to my office so she could finish her paper and I could finish my syllabi for today.
Intersession is a necessary evil at this point in my life.
However, the benefit of it is that I can test out new material, try out new films, in preparation for the September term.
Which is why I was in here last evening until ten pm.
But, Em's paper was completed and printed.
My syllabi were completed, printed and copied.
June.
I am holding on until June.
I did manage to get to the nursing home Saturday evening.
Not in time for supper, but at least for a visit.
I took marking with me.
At this moment, I have one set of exams and papers, for my intro crim last, remaining.
Meaning that tomorrow evening, I will be marking, marking, marking, and every other evening this week until it is all done and the grades are in.
Just in time to collect the first set of assignments from the intersession classes.
June.
I am hanging on by my fingernails until June.
Or at least until yoga at 5.15 pm.
Title Lyric: I Am the Plague by Pest
I am still in the process of clawing my way out of the abyss.
The marking abyss.
Friday evening, sitting on the love seat, making my way through the group papers of my advanced methods class.
All weekend, in my office Saturday and Sunday by ten am, leaving only to eat and get groceries before the kids started eating one another.
In addition to my valiant efforts to end one term, was the preparations for the next term.
Beginning in 13 minutes.
Because the weight and strength of all the marking just isn't enough in my life, we had to deal with a major catastrophe.
BOTH computers in our house, at least the ones Stephen and I use, decided that they'd had enough of our increasing demands and our insistence on neglecting their needs, and both just quit.
Okay, Stephen's quit several weeks ago, and we had been making due by sharing my laptop.
And then Saturday morning, while waiting for Keith and Em to get ready for work, planning my next blog posting, my little laptop that could started refusing me access to the internet.
THE only page I could get insisted that I pay $60.00 for an anti-virus program.
And when I didn't, it just stopped working.
Now, the irony in all of this is that Stephen had been using the laptop far more than I had.
Stephen used his own desktop far more than I ever did.
See a pattern?
Consequently, my laptop is, right now, on its way to be diagnosed and repaired.
Hence why I had to spend all weekend at work.
Because grades can only be submitted electronically at this university.
Also, because when things are in chaos, what's a little more added to the boiling pot, Em had a paper due Monday.
A paper that needed to be researched, typed, printed.
All things requiring a computer.
So, Saturday, after she finished work, I dropped her off at my office to work on her paper while I was with Mum.
Sunday, after grocery shopping and supper, she and I returned to my office so she could finish her paper and I could finish my syllabi for today.
Intersession is a necessary evil at this point in my life.
However, the benefit of it is that I can test out new material, try out new films, in preparation for the September term.
Which is why I was in here last evening until ten pm.
But, Em's paper was completed and printed.
My syllabi were completed, printed and copied.
June.
I am holding on until June.
I did manage to get to the nursing home Saturday evening.
Not in time for supper, but at least for a visit.
I took marking with me.
At this moment, I have one set of exams and papers, for my intro crim last, remaining.
Meaning that tomorrow evening, I will be marking, marking, marking, and every other evening this week until it is all done and the grades are in.
Just in time to collect the first set of assignments from the intersession classes.
June.
I am hanging on by my fingernails until June.
Or at least until yoga at 5.15 pm.
Title Lyric: I Am the Plague by Pest
Thursday, April 28, 2011
I hope this journey won't take long. . .Everybody needs a helping hand. . .
April 28, 2011
I won't lie.
A warm glow is spreading through me at the thought of the end of April.
Although that glow is struggling under the wet and soggy conditions we've endured this month in New Brunswick.
The Weather Network is predicting sunshine and warm temps tomorrow.
I hope so.
I need to dry out before Monday.
Monday brings Intersession.
Since beginning teaching in 1999, I have taught Intersession.
Not necessarily because I want to, but more because I have to.
Sort of the same deal with overload teaching during the standard academic year.
This May, Introduction to Qualitative Research Methods is on my dance card for the morning, 9.00-11.20, and Crime and Popular Film, 1.00-4.00 will round out my afternoons.
From Monday to Thursday.
Fridays. . .who knows what I'll do Friday.
Sleep?
Garden?
Nothing?
My bet is on the third option.
Intersession means we'll get through the summer as comfortably as possible.
Normally Stephen teaches, too.
But this year, I put my foot down. . .
. . .but not in a bully like manner, mind you. . . .
and said his energies were needed elsewhere.
For his doctoral proposal and subsequent doctoral research.
He was VERY reluctant about this.
In spite of being an intelligent, for the most part well-rounded kind of guy, he is a man.
And feels if he isn't teaching, if he's drawing Employment Insurance, he is less of a man because he's living from the avails of my teaching.
Bullsh**!
Completing his doctorate is THE most important task Stephen has before him.
Even more important that making sure every will and desire I have is fulfilled.
It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.
And it shall be done.
Believe me.
Hence, no teaching for Stephen.
He argues he isn't "contributing."
Money.
This irks me: the man does all the house work around here and he thinks money is the only way to contribute?
If I made ten times the money I make now, which would be nice, it wouldn't compare to what Stephen does around the house.
And housework is another item on my agenda of Things Dawne Needs to Do To Free Stephen To Work on his Doctoral Proposal and Subsequent Dissertation.
This will most definitely prove to be the most challenging shift in how our house works.
As we already know, housework and I mutually dislike one another.
While housework and Stephen are very intimate.
Couple this with Stephen's deeply embedded, and probably accurate belief that he does housework better than I do, and you have a recipe for disaster.
Or compromise.
I don't know which is harder to achieve around here.
But I suspect it's the latter.
I have to suck it up and do for Stephen what he did for me during the final stages of my doctorate.
And he has to let me.
Infinitely harder.
Starting Monday morning, when I arise to get Em up for school, and prepare myself for Intersession, Stephen will also get up and head to campus to thrash out a draft of his proposal.
It'll be ugly until he gets into the swing of things.
Until his brains realizes it can function before noon.
But I will persevere.
Because I love him and know how important this is for him.
And because I am planning on taking a sabbatical and then dropping to a standard teaching load afterwards.
Just givin' him the heads up.
Title Lyric: Helping Hand by Amy Grant
I won't lie.
A warm glow is spreading through me at the thought of the end of April.
Although that glow is struggling under the wet and soggy conditions we've endured this month in New Brunswick.
The Weather Network is predicting sunshine and warm temps tomorrow.
I hope so.
I need to dry out before Monday.
Monday brings Intersession.
Since beginning teaching in 1999, I have taught Intersession.
Not necessarily because I want to, but more because I have to.
Sort of the same deal with overload teaching during the standard academic year.
This May, Introduction to Qualitative Research Methods is on my dance card for the morning, 9.00-11.20, and Crime and Popular Film, 1.00-4.00 will round out my afternoons.
From Monday to Thursday.
Fridays. . .who knows what I'll do Friday.
Sleep?
Garden?
Nothing?
My bet is on the third option.
Intersession means we'll get through the summer as comfortably as possible.
Normally Stephen teaches, too.
But this year, I put my foot down. . .
. . .but not in a bully like manner, mind you. . . .
and said his energies were needed elsewhere.
For his doctoral proposal and subsequent doctoral research.
He was VERY reluctant about this.
In spite of being an intelligent, for the most part well-rounded kind of guy, he is a man.
And feels if he isn't teaching, if he's drawing Employment Insurance, he is less of a man because he's living from the avails of my teaching.
Bullsh**!
Completing his doctorate is THE most important task Stephen has before him.
Even more important that making sure every will and desire I have is fulfilled.
It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.
And it shall be done.
Believe me.
Hence, no teaching for Stephen.
He argues he isn't "contributing."
Money.
This irks me: the man does all the house work around here and he thinks money is the only way to contribute?
If I made ten times the money I make now, which would be nice, it wouldn't compare to what Stephen does around the house.
And housework is another item on my agenda of Things Dawne Needs to Do To Free Stephen To Work on his Doctoral Proposal and Subsequent Dissertation.
This will most definitely prove to be the most challenging shift in how our house works.
As we already know, housework and I mutually dislike one another.
While housework and Stephen are very intimate.
Couple this with Stephen's deeply embedded, and probably accurate belief that he does housework better than I do, and you have a recipe for disaster.
Or compromise.
I don't know which is harder to achieve around here.
But I suspect it's the latter.
I have to suck it up and do for Stephen what he did for me during the final stages of my doctorate.
And he has to let me.
Infinitely harder.
Starting Monday morning, when I arise to get Em up for school, and prepare myself for Intersession, Stephen will also get up and head to campus to thrash out a draft of his proposal.
It'll be ugly until he gets into the swing of things.
Until his brains realizes it can function before noon.
But I will persevere.
Because I love him and know how important this is for him.
And because I am planning on taking a sabbatical and then dropping to a standard teaching load afterwards.
Just givin' him the heads up.
Title Lyric: Helping Hand by Amy Grant
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
I KNOW this game. . .let's put an end to this once and for all. . . .
April 27, 2011
In spite of what you may think, I'm not a fan of conflict.
At the same time, I equally dislike lacking accountability.
Which means it's inevitable that there will be times when conflict occurs because of a lack of accountability.
Yesterday was one of those times.
Without divulging details that could potentially make my life very miserable, I had words yesterday with someone I work with regarding something they had asked me to do.
At the last minute.
And I did it.
Early on doing what I was doing, it was very apparent to me that it was going to take some time.
A lot of time.
Because the person who asked me to do what I was doing did not do what they were supposed to do.
And because this is academia, everything has a deadline.
So there was much pressure to do this and do it well.
I open my email yesterday, and find an email from this person, send Good Friday. . . .
. . . .because apparently I am expected to check my email on religious holidays, wish I had of received that memo. . . .
. . .informing me that the person who was originally supposed to do what I was doing had finally been contacted and therefore what I was doing wasn't necessary but thanks anyway.
Really.
Well.
You can imagine how I felt.
And in fairness to all involved, I broke a rule I have tried very hard not to break.
Emailing when I am angry.
I responded immediately.
I responded clearly.
Translation: blunt.
At no time did I use profanity.
But I laid out the issues as I saw them, in light of spending hours numbering in the double digits doing what this person should have done all along.
And I sent said email.
It only got worse from there.
Let's just say that when this person demanded to speak with me. . . .
. . . something I didn't want to do because I also try not to discuss things when I'm angry, preferring to let some time pass to allow calm to return at which time I am more than willing to talk about what's going on. . .
. . .things escalated.
Quickly.
Voices were not raised.
But things were said that, in spite of an hour and half of vigorous yoga last evening and much reflection, I am still very upset about.
Particularly, that this person, rather than accepting accountability for what they didn't do, chose to lay the responsibility at the feet of a student.
I believe that, above anything else, has me the most upset.
Why?
Because in my mind, in my opinion, it is just plain wrong.
Simple as that.
The day wasn't all bad, though.
Later in the afternoon, a student came by with something I had asked her to do for me.
Like most of us, this talented young woman is unsure about where her life is going, where it should be going. . .
But she is exceptional.
She will find her way.
Her talents, you ask?
Too numerous to mention here.
But one, her artistic abilities, caught my attention.
Artistic abilities that had stagnated a little.
So, I asked her to draw me a tattoo.
I've wanted a new tattoo for a long time. . it's been about ten years since I got my last one.
Stephen is not a fan.
But it is my body thank you very much.
And when I reach my goal weight, I am celebrating by getting a tattoo.
The one she drew for me.
A vine with four leaves, each leaf containing the name and birthdate of Stephen, Meredyth, Keith and Emily.
Took my breath away, it did, when I saw it for the first time.
When I'm longing for chocolate, or strawberry mousse cake from the Happy Baker, I am going to look at this tattoo as a reminder of what I am working for.
Today, I am hoping, will be a better day.
Granted, we are in for another day of rain, I have marking, marking, marking and more marking to do, grades to calculate for students anxious to graduate. . . .
But hopefully there will be no conflict.
At least at work.
At home?
Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Title Lyric: The Conflict by The Ghost Inside
In spite of what you may think, I'm not a fan of conflict.
At the same time, I equally dislike lacking accountability.
Which means it's inevitable that there will be times when conflict occurs because of a lack of accountability.
Yesterday was one of those times.
Without divulging details that could potentially make my life very miserable, I had words yesterday with someone I work with regarding something they had asked me to do.
At the last minute.
And I did it.
Early on doing what I was doing, it was very apparent to me that it was going to take some time.
A lot of time.
Because the person who asked me to do what I was doing did not do what they were supposed to do.
And because this is academia, everything has a deadline.
So there was much pressure to do this and do it well.
I open my email yesterday, and find an email from this person, send Good Friday. . . .
. . . .because apparently I am expected to check my email on religious holidays, wish I had of received that memo. . . .
. . .informing me that the person who was originally supposed to do what I was doing had finally been contacted and therefore what I was doing wasn't necessary but thanks anyway.
Really.
Well.
You can imagine how I felt.
And in fairness to all involved, I broke a rule I have tried very hard not to break.
Emailing when I am angry.
I responded immediately.
I responded clearly.
Translation: blunt.
At no time did I use profanity.
But I laid out the issues as I saw them, in light of spending hours numbering in the double digits doing what this person should have done all along.
And I sent said email.
It only got worse from there.
Let's just say that when this person demanded to speak with me. . . .
. . . something I didn't want to do because I also try not to discuss things when I'm angry, preferring to let some time pass to allow calm to return at which time I am more than willing to talk about what's going on. . .
. . .things escalated.
Quickly.
Voices were not raised.
But things were said that, in spite of an hour and half of vigorous yoga last evening and much reflection, I am still very upset about.
Particularly, that this person, rather than accepting accountability for what they didn't do, chose to lay the responsibility at the feet of a student.
I believe that, above anything else, has me the most upset.
Why?
Because in my mind, in my opinion, it is just plain wrong.
Simple as that.
The day wasn't all bad, though.
Later in the afternoon, a student came by with something I had asked her to do for me.
Like most of us, this talented young woman is unsure about where her life is going, where it should be going. . .
But she is exceptional.
She will find her way.
Her talents, you ask?
Too numerous to mention here.
But one, her artistic abilities, caught my attention.
Artistic abilities that had stagnated a little.
So, I asked her to draw me a tattoo.
I've wanted a new tattoo for a long time. . it's been about ten years since I got my last one.
Stephen is not a fan.
But it is my body thank you very much.
And when I reach my goal weight, I am celebrating by getting a tattoo.
The one she drew for me.
A vine with four leaves, each leaf containing the name and birthdate of Stephen, Meredyth, Keith and Emily.
Took my breath away, it did, when I saw it for the first time.
When I'm longing for chocolate, or strawberry mousse cake from the Happy Baker, I am going to look at this tattoo as a reminder of what I am working for.
Today, I am hoping, will be a better day.
Granted, we are in for another day of rain, I have marking, marking, marking and more marking to do, grades to calculate for students anxious to graduate. . . .
But hopefully there will be no conflict.
At least at work.
At home?
Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Title Lyric: The Conflict by The Ghost Inside
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Cos' everybody loves a circus show. . .
April 26, 2011
Last evening Emily and I went to the movies.
Water for Elephants.
As soon as she mentioned wanting to see it, I started my internal struggle.
Always ready and willing to see movies with my Em. . . .
. . . but not wanting to see a movie where animal abuse is part of the story.
When I was younger, my father loved to watch westerns.
I would watch with him, and if, in the process of a gunfight, a cowboy was shot and his horse happened to fall over. . .fall over mind you, not die. . .I was inconsolable.
And if an animal did die, I was apoplectic.
Growing older, I managed to develop a sense of self control.
Not much, but enough that I wouldn't need to be taken to the hospital if I saw something happen to an animal in a film or on tv.
But I would need to leave the room.
And crying was definitely involved.
My Dog Skip had exactly one viewing in my house, me and the kids, before it was thrown in the garbage, never to be seen again.
It took hours to calm everyone down.
So, having read Water for Elephants, and skipping over the parts where Rosie is victim to August's sadism, I knew what was coming.
In a film, however, you're less certain when because of course, the book and the film are NEVER exactly the same.
Resulting in me leaving the theater, coming back, and hiding by the door until I was convinced that the worst was over.
Couple this anxiety with Em's foul mood for most of yesterday, and you have a recipe for a movie experience that probably won't be in my top five.
Animal abuse aside, it wasn't a bad film.
Christoph Waltz is a brilliant actor.
Evidenced by my hatred of his character, August.
Robert Pattinson, so, so easy on the eyes, helped me get through my trauma.
Reese Witherspoon. . .every time I see her, all I can think is that she needs braces.
Hal Holbrook.
Need I say more.
And Rosie, the elephant.
Who is now my hero.
In spite of the fact that for some, this long weekend pays homage to the goddesses and gods of chocolate, I managed to prevent myself from gorging on candy coated chocolate eggs, peanut M&Ms, solid Easter bunnies, popcorn treats at the movies. . . .
But that isn't to say that I didn't indulge in a few candies, garnered when no one was looking.
Yes, sneaking.
Taking candy from my babies.
A few here and there from the kid's stash.
The few sacrificing for the many.
Meaning if I eat a few now, I won't go to the Superstore and buy twice as many bags as they are on sale, thus I can get more for the same price as I would have before Easter.
And I could eat all of them.
Believe me.
And then want more.
But I didn't.
Yeah me.
Hence fruit salad for Easter dessert.
The much better choice.
Tasty, tasty.
I am reminded of childhood Easters, sitting at the kitchen table, eating all my chocolate while devouring the latest Nancy Drew book that accompanied my Easter fare.
Which is probably what got me where I was today.
Damn Nancy Drew!
Title Lyric: The Circus by Take That.
Last evening Emily and I went to the movies.
Water for Elephants.
As soon as she mentioned wanting to see it, I started my internal struggle.
Always ready and willing to see movies with my Em. . . .
. . . but not wanting to see a movie where animal abuse is part of the story.
When I was younger, my father loved to watch westerns.
I would watch with him, and if, in the process of a gunfight, a cowboy was shot and his horse happened to fall over. . .fall over mind you, not die. . .I was inconsolable.
And if an animal did die, I was apoplectic.
Growing older, I managed to develop a sense of self control.
Not much, but enough that I wouldn't need to be taken to the hospital if I saw something happen to an animal in a film or on tv.
But I would need to leave the room.
And crying was definitely involved.
My Dog Skip had exactly one viewing in my house, me and the kids, before it was thrown in the garbage, never to be seen again.
It took hours to calm everyone down.
So, having read Water for Elephants, and skipping over the parts where Rosie is victim to August's sadism, I knew what was coming.
In a film, however, you're less certain when because of course, the book and the film are NEVER exactly the same.
Resulting in me leaving the theater, coming back, and hiding by the door until I was convinced that the worst was over.
Couple this anxiety with Em's foul mood for most of yesterday, and you have a recipe for a movie experience that probably won't be in my top five.
Animal abuse aside, it wasn't a bad film.
Christoph Waltz is a brilliant actor.
Evidenced by my hatred of his character, August.
Robert Pattinson, so, so easy on the eyes, helped me get through my trauma.
Reese Witherspoon. . .every time I see her, all I can think is that she needs braces.
Hal Holbrook.
Need I say more.
And Rosie, the elephant.
Who is now my hero.
In spite of the fact that for some, this long weekend pays homage to the goddesses and gods of chocolate, I managed to prevent myself from gorging on candy coated chocolate eggs, peanut M&Ms, solid Easter bunnies, popcorn treats at the movies. . . .
But that isn't to say that I didn't indulge in a few candies, garnered when no one was looking.
Yes, sneaking.
Taking candy from my babies.
A few here and there from the kid's stash.
The few sacrificing for the many.
Meaning if I eat a few now, I won't go to the Superstore and buy twice as many bags as they are on sale, thus I can get more for the same price as I would have before Easter.
And I could eat all of them.
Believe me.
And then want more.
But I didn't.
Yeah me.
Hence fruit salad for Easter dessert.
The much better choice.
Tasty, tasty.
I am reminded of childhood Easters, sitting at the kitchen table, eating all my chocolate while devouring the latest Nancy Drew book that accompanied my Easter fare.
Which is probably what got me where I was today.
Damn Nancy Drew!
Title Lyric: The Circus by Take That.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Hey! Hey! I need some strong coffee!
April 25, 2011
I didn't have to get up before the sun this morning.
No one had to go to work.
No one had to go to school, because it's a holiday.
Meaning my eyes did not open until 8.45 am.
And only then because Frankie and Tikka's bladders were belting out Ave Maria.
Yesterday started with Quaker meeting.
In the afternoon, I continued reading the thesis-I-was-asked-to-read-as-second-reader-at- the-last-minute.
And then I began the preparations for Easter dinner.
At least my end of the preparations.
My father brought the ham.
My cousin brought the most glorious fresh fruit salad, AND shared a tidbit of knowledge for any one interested in keeping their fruit salad fresh and crisp as the day it was made.
Diet 7-Up.
Once you're salad is made, pour Diet 7-Up over it.
The flavour stays the same. The soda keeps it fresh.
I was so excited to learn this!
Because summer = fresh fruit salad in this house.
Especially this summer.
The Summer of Simply for Life.
Dinner . . .right. . . .
I was in charge of venue and vegetables.
New potatoes, green salad, steamed broccoli, brown sugar carrots rounded out a wonderful, sumptuous Easter dinner.
Meredyth, who never misses a family dinner, more for the food and less for the company I should add, was in attendance.
Alas, Keith and Em were both working.
My cousin and her husband, along with my dad and Mum meant a full table and lots of wonderful conversation before, during and after dinner.
My other cousin, from the US called, and my mother was absolutely thrilled to talk with her.
She was more excited by hearing her niece's voice than anything else that day.
I love my family. . . .I am truly blessed.
Stephen and my father were in charge of collecting Mum from the Nursing home.
I was in charge of returning her.
The one thing I wish for more than anything during these dinners is that my mother would just relax and enjoy herself.
I'm sure she does enjoy herself to the extent that she's able.
But once the meal is over, dessert and coffee have been served, my mother begins her campaign to go back to the nursing home.
Especially if dinner has taken us anywhere near seven pm.
In spite of the nurses telling her to relax and have a good time, in spite of me reminding her that the nurses have told her to relax and have a good time, my mother is convinced that if she doesn't get back to the nursing home by 7.30 at the absolute latest, the nurses will withhold her pills.
Don't even ask me how she ever came to that conclusion.
Last evening, at 6.50 she turned to me, and mouthed, "Take me back to the Grove."
She always, always, always sits beside me at our family get togethers, so she didn't have far to turn, nor did she actually have to engage her vocal cords, as I have become somewhat adept at my-mother-lip-reading.
She's mouthed these same words to me from inside the car.
She's inside the car. I'm in the kitchen looking out the window.
She was angry because I didn't go and pick and her up, sending Keith and Stephen so I could finish preparing dinner.
I mouthed back NO!
Two can play at that game.
Knowing she had stayed as long as she was going to stay, I began the preparations for her leaving.
Which mostly consists of getting Stephen and my Dad to help me get her out of the house.
My mother has, among many other things, spinal stenosis.
Very, very painful.
It means that she walks at almost a 90 degree angle, and her back is shaped like a leaning-to-the-left-S.
I can help her if all we have to negotiate are flat surfaces, because she can walk with the assistance of her walker, for short periods of time.
However, we, of course, have three steps leading to our front door, a cement block walkway with a wonky block that has started to tip downwards into the three steps that lead to the driveway.
Six steps we walk or run or are dragged by the dogs everyday without a second thought.
But for my mother, those steps are the equivalent of Mt. Everest.
And she can't use her walker to negotiate them.
So it's me on one side, Stephen on the other and Mer moving the walker to all it's appointed places.
Mer?
Not Dad?
He was in the bathroom.
Getting her out of the house and to the car is only the first step.
Next is getting her in the car and buckled in.
When we first started taking her out, way back when she was still in the hospital, getting her into the car was absolutely the most challenging task.
But now, we've done it so often, that we actually have a routine.
Like dancers, we know the next move the other will make, thus ensuring a smooth and hopefully comfortable sitting in the seat.
And then, finally, we are ready to go "back to the Grove" where everything begins again.
But in reverse.
Minus the steps.
And with the wheelchair, which waits patiently for Mum in the nursing home foyer.
Once we were back, she gives me a list of directives:
Then, I check the TV for her the end of Antiques Roadshow and the following All Creatures Great and Small only to find out it's a PBS Membership Drive, meaning her shows are not on.
Once she was settled, everything done, her wanting for absolutely nothing other than her pills, which were something I simply was not getting for her.
One Sunday evening, just a few weeks ago, the medication nurse had the audacity, in my mother's mind, to start the medication at the other end of the hallway.
8.15 and my mother still hadn't had her pills.
I had to go to the bathroom and when I returned, I saw my mother wheeling furiously to the med cart, and demanded the nurse give her her pills because she normally gets them at 7.30 and now it's 8.15.
My mother has become institutionalized.
But I was not, under any circumstances, harassing the nurse for Mum's meds.
She can do that all on her own, as she has demonstrated more than once.
I said I was going to return home because if I didn't, Stephen would end up doing the dishes alone.
And there were a lot of dishes.
She was fine with this.
And I was able to return home to a few hours of conversation with my cousin, her husband and Stephen.
Where no one wanted a warm blanket or their stockings rinsed out.
Stephen is a wonderful man.
We know this.
But, he has a small challenge with the concept of moderation.
A challenge that was made even clearer twice yesterday.
After Quaker meeting, we have a coffee and nibblies.
Stephen brought tzatziki and his own homemade pita chips.
The tzatziki was store bought, and in my humble opinion, very tasty.
But Stephen thought it was lacking and he informed me that he added "a couple of cloves of garlic to it."
Given the size of the container, two cloves of garlic was more than reasonable.
After meeting, I took the tzaztiki out of the fridge, removed the lid, grabbed a spoon and took a taste.
Only to be met with the fiery taste of TOO MUCH garlic.
I should know by now.
This is not a road I haven't travelled before.
"A couple of cloves of garlic" translated into FOUR cloves of garlic.
Information I ascertained when I went back to where we were meeting, tonge on fire, steam pouring from my ears, and asked him EXACTLY how many cloves of garlic did you put into this SMALL container of tzatziki.
One of our Quaker friends had a terrible cold when he came to meeting.
When he left, after a couple of bites of Stephen's doctored tzatziki, he was cured.
But tzatziki was just the beginning.
Stephen also made coffee for everyone both during and after dinner.
Our coffee maker isn't used often, at least by us.
I'm the only one who drinks coffee, so I just use a filter thingy that sits on top of my cup and brews me a nice, hot cup of coffee every morning.
Last night, Stephen took charge of the coffee maker.
One tablespoon of coffee for every cup of water.
12 cups of water then, should equal 12 tablespoons of coffee.
I have no idea how much coffee Stephen added.
Somewhere around 24 tablespoons is my closest estimation.
But I do know that when I poured some for my cousin's husband, it was as thick and dark as over used motor oil.
It had to be halved with addition water added to make it palpable.
My cousin and my mother loved it.
Neither one of them will sleep for a week, but they loved it.
Moderation, Stephen, moderation.
Title Lyric: Strong Coffee by Cat Empire
I didn't have to get up before the sun this morning.
No one had to go to work.
No one had to go to school, because it's a holiday.
Meaning my eyes did not open until 8.45 am.
And only then because Frankie and Tikka's bladders were belting out Ave Maria.
Yesterday started with Quaker meeting.
In the afternoon, I continued reading the thesis-I-was-asked-to-read-as-second-reader-at- the-last-minute.
And then I began the preparations for Easter dinner.
At least my end of the preparations.
My father brought the ham.
My cousin brought the most glorious fresh fruit salad, AND shared a tidbit of knowledge for any one interested in keeping their fruit salad fresh and crisp as the day it was made.
Diet 7-Up.
Once you're salad is made, pour Diet 7-Up over it.
The flavour stays the same. The soda keeps it fresh.
I was so excited to learn this!
Because summer = fresh fruit salad in this house.
Especially this summer.
The Summer of Simply for Life.
Dinner . . .right. . . .
I was in charge of venue and vegetables.
New potatoes, green salad, steamed broccoli, brown sugar carrots rounded out a wonderful, sumptuous Easter dinner.
Meredyth, who never misses a family dinner, more for the food and less for the company I should add, was in attendance.
Alas, Keith and Em were both working.
My cousin and her husband, along with my dad and Mum meant a full table and lots of wonderful conversation before, during and after dinner.
My other cousin, from the US called, and my mother was absolutely thrilled to talk with her.
She was more excited by hearing her niece's voice than anything else that day.
I love my family. . . .I am truly blessed.
Stephen and my father were in charge of collecting Mum from the Nursing home.
I was in charge of returning her.
The one thing I wish for more than anything during these dinners is that my mother would just relax and enjoy herself.
I'm sure she does enjoy herself to the extent that she's able.
But once the meal is over, dessert and coffee have been served, my mother begins her campaign to go back to the nursing home.
Especially if dinner has taken us anywhere near seven pm.
In spite of the nurses telling her to relax and have a good time, in spite of me reminding her that the nurses have told her to relax and have a good time, my mother is convinced that if she doesn't get back to the nursing home by 7.30 at the absolute latest, the nurses will withhold her pills.
Don't even ask me how she ever came to that conclusion.
Last evening, at 6.50 she turned to me, and mouthed, "Take me back to the Grove."
She always, always, always sits beside me at our family get togethers, so she didn't have far to turn, nor did she actually have to engage her vocal cords, as I have become somewhat adept at my-mother-lip-reading.
She's mouthed these same words to me from inside the car.
She's inside the car. I'm in the kitchen looking out the window.
She was angry because I didn't go and pick and her up, sending Keith and Stephen so I could finish preparing dinner.
I mouthed back NO!
Two can play at that game.
Knowing she had stayed as long as she was going to stay, I began the preparations for her leaving.
Which mostly consists of getting Stephen and my Dad to help me get her out of the house.
My mother has, among many other things, spinal stenosis.
Very, very painful.
It means that she walks at almost a 90 degree angle, and her back is shaped like a leaning-to-the-left-S.
I can help her if all we have to negotiate are flat surfaces, because she can walk with the assistance of her walker, for short periods of time.
However, we, of course, have three steps leading to our front door, a cement block walkway with a wonky block that has started to tip downwards into the three steps that lead to the driveway.
Six steps we walk or run or are dragged by the dogs everyday without a second thought.
But for my mother, those steps are the equivalent of Mt. Everest.
And she can't use her walker to negotiate them.
So it's me on one side, Stephen on the other and Mer moving the walker to all it's appointed places.
Mer?
Not Dad?
He was in the bathroom.
Getting her out of the house and to the car is only the first step.
Next is getting her in the car and buckled in.
When we first started taking her out, way back when she was still in the hospital, getting her into the car was absolutely the most challenging task.
But now, we've done it so often, that we actually have a routine.
Like dancers, we know the next move the other will make, thus ensuring a smooth and hopefully comfortable sitting in the seat.
And then, finally, we are ready to go "back to the Grove" where everything begins again.
But in reverse.
Minus the steps.
And with the wheelchair, which waits patiently for Mum in the nursing home foyer.
Once we were back, she gives me a list of directives:
Light over bed on.
Bathroom curtain drawn back.
PJs on.
Clothes laid out for tomorrow.
Stocking feet only rinsed with warm water and hung to dry in preparation for tomorrow.
Medication nurse informed she has returned, and if possible, cajole, bully or otherwise force said nurse to bring Mum her medications RIGHT NOW.
Cup filled with cranberry juice only to her Sharpie drawn line on the side of the cup.
Warm blanket from the blanket over to wrap around her shoulders, as her always 30 degree Celsius room is too cold.
Then, I check the TV for her the end of Antiques Roadshow and the following All Creatures Great and Small only to find out it's a PBS Membership Drive, meaning her shows are not on.
Once she was settled, everything done, her wanting for absolutely nothing other than her pills, which were something I simply was not getting for her.
One Sunday evening, just a few weeks ago, the medication nurse had the audacity, in my mother's mind, to start the medication at the other end of the hallway.
8.15 and my mother still hadn't had her pills.
I had to go to the bathroom and when I returned, I saw my mother wheeling furiously to the med cart, and demanded the nurse give her her pills because she normally gets them at 7.30 and now it's 8.15.
My mother has become institutionalized.
But I was not, under any circumstances, harassing the nurse for Mum's meds.
She can do that all on her own, as she has demonstrated more than once.
I said I was going to return home because if I didn't, Stephen would end up doing the dishes alone.
And there were a lot of dishes.
She was fine with this.
And I was able to return home to a few hours of conversation with my cousin, her husband and Stephen.
Where no one wanted a warm blanket or their stockings rinsed out.
Stephen is a wonderful man.
We know this.
But, he has a small challenge with the concept of moderation.
A challenge that was made even clearer twice yesterday.
After Quaker meeting, we have a coffee and nibblies.
Stephen brought tzatziki and his own homemade pita chips.
The tzatziki was store bought, and in my humble opinion, very tasty.
But Stephen thought it was lacking and he informed me that he added "a couple of cloves of garlic to it."
Given the size of the container, two cloves of garlic was more than reasonable.
After meeting, I took the tzaztiki out of the fridge, removed the lid, grabbed a spoon and took a taste.
Only to be met with the fiery taste of TOO MUCH garlic.
I should know by now.
This is not a road I haven't travelled before.
"A couple of cloves of garlic" translated into FOUR cloves of garlic.
Information I ascertained when I went back to where we were meeting, tonge on fire, steam pouring from my ears, and asked him EXACTLY how many cloves of garlic did you put into this SMALL container of tzatziki.
One of our Quaker friends had a terrible cold when he came to meeting.
When he left, after a couple of bites of Stephen's doctored tzatziki, he was cured.
But tzatziki was just the beginning.
Stephen also made coffee for everyone both during and after dinner.
Our coffee maker isn't used often, at least by us.
I'm the only one who drinks coffee, so I just use a filter thingy that sits on top of my cup and brews me a nice, hot cup of coffee every morning.
Last night, Stephen took charge of the coffee maker.
One tablespoon of coffee for every cup of water.
12 cups of water then, should equal 12 tablespoons of coffee.
I have no idea how much coffee Stephen added.
Somewhere around 24 tablespoons is my closest estimation.
But I do know that when I poured some for my cousin's husband, it was as thick and dark as over used motor oil.
It had to be halved with addition water added to make it palpable.
My cousin and my mother loved it.
Neither one of them will sleep for a week, but they loved it.
Moderation, Stephen, moderation.
Title Lyric: Strong Coffee by Cat Empire
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