Everybody's talkin' bout revolution, evolution

September 22, 2011


I love Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings.

Dropping Em off at school, I head to Starbucks, laptop in hand, no internet connection available, to me, because I can't figure out how to make it work.

A table in the corner, where I can observe all that is going on around me should I choose. . .

. . .and let's be honest. I'm a qualitative sociologist.

I choose to observe in those moments when thoughts seem stuck in neutral.

My visit Wednesday morning was particularly productive.

Thoughts flying from brain to finger tips, showing up in black and white on my laptop screen.

Inevitably, however, I hit a wall.

And that's when, in neutral, I observe.

Stuck in neutral, I look up from my screen and see a pair of four year old eyes looking back at me.

Hair shoulder length, curls wild around her head, dimples framing a engaging and enticing smile.

Dancing eyes.

And then she pulls up a chair at my table and sits across from me.

Well.

I was intrigued.

Who wouldn't be.

Her mother, of course, told her she couldn't sit there.

Mom was waiting for her Starbucks, a younger child happily ensconced in a stroller.

I told her it was fine.

Absolutely fine.

I asked her how old she was.

Four! she replied.

And will you be starting school next year?

Yes! And, she said, I can count to twenty.

And then she did.

I was having a ball.

Most intriguing conversation I had all day to that point.

Of course, Starbucks doesn't take long to prepare their delicious, albeit sugar laden drinks, and within a couple of minutes my conversation partner was waving at me as she exited the coffee shop.

And I was no longer in neutral.

I should talk with four year olds more often.

Lucrative for the writing process.









Inviting others to engage in peace is exhausting work.

Not that I did much of anything, outside of being the official videographer/photographer for yesterday's events.

Stephen and our peace-minded colleagues did all the heavy lifting.

The focal point of our Peace Day celebrations was the unveiling of the STU Peace Pole.

In the upper courtyard, keeping watch over STU activities, casting it's message of peace in four languages to the four points of the compass.

An invitation to all who walk past it, who pause to take in its message, to think about what a peaceful, non-violent world, absent of conflict and war, would look like.





After Stephen unveiled the Peace Pole there were some invited speakers and then a call to all those in the audience who spoke a language other than those held by the Peace Pole, to come forward and share a peaceful message in their language.

Peace messages in Greek, Macedonian, Latin, Czechoslovakian, Dutch, Spanish, are just a few examples of the messages shared with the 130+ crowd gathered to mark this very special occasion.

Afterwards, there was aboriginal drumming, followed by a children's choir, whose young, clear voices sang songs of peace both contemporary and traditional.

A senior's choir sang songs reminding us of conflicts past and how they were overcome, but remain in our collective memory in hopes that the tragedies and traumas will not be
repeated.

Peace really does bring people together.

Peace messages abounding, filling the air, I still had to march onward with my day. After taking pictures and videos until 1.25, I dashed to my office, wolfed down a sandwich in a manner similar to how Frankie eats before my meeting at 1.30.

Followed by my three three hour crime in film class from 2.30-5.30.


Which was about the only break I had that day.

Two hours watching Rod Steiger and Sidney Poiter masterful in In the Heat of the Night was a welcome and necessary pause in what was otherwise turning out to be a chaotic day.

 After class, home for a very quick supper of wild rice, salmon and baby carrots and we were off again,  attending the Peace Cafe from 7.00-9.00. By the time we arrived home, greeted our fur bearing posse, and headed for bed, I was barely able to keep my eyes open long enough to chat with Em while she waited for her laundry to dry.

I don't remember her leaving.




Title Lyric: Give Peace a Chance by John Lennon

Can you practice what you preach?

September 21, 2011


There are few things that can stop me in my tracks.

But walking into my office after my second class of the day, greeted by my son in the big blue chair sporting a wet crotch from just below his breastbone to almost his knees did the trick.

More than a raised eyebrow that caused let me tell you.

For a moment, I truly thought he'd peed himself while sleeping in the chair.

Fortunately, he cleared up any erroneous hypotheses I was developing by informing me that a tussle with a carbonated black cherry water was the reason for his current predicament.

While leaning towards skepticism, there was a half full litre bottle of water sitting on the desk beside him, evidence supporting his claim.

My last class of the day was being held in the Harriet Irving Library, a library tour for my first year class in an attempt to prevent the whinging and whining about not knowing how to use the library.

Although I have second, third and fourth year students who have no clue how to use the library, even when I've bent over backwards to show them.

Part of me is convinced they either don't want to know, or really will just never grasp the intricacies of library research.

Yet they can find their way around the internet, ipods, ipads, etc.

I digress.

So I decided in the interests of time and exhaustion that it would be prudent to drive to the library, heading straight home after the class ended.

I took a bit of a detour and drove Keith to Meredyth's to pick a dvd up for me before he went home.

Because by that time his pants would have been dry enough to prevent chafing.

Wet jeans.

Most uncomfortable those wet jeans.

Although a friend of mine, who would have been a teenager in the early 70s informed me one day that the in thing to do during her youth was to put your jeans on wet so that when they eventually dried they hugged your curves.

And every other part of you in all likelihood.

I rather be baggy thanks very much.





Each year, 21 September marks Peace Day; a day for wide-scale community action, a day for UN agencies and aid organisations to safely carry out life-saving work, a day of global ceasefire and non-violence.

To learn how it all started, see this website, http://www.peaceoneday.org/en/welcome and watch the documentary Peace One Day and The Day After Peace.

Incredibly powerful, moving and really makes you stop, think about what we do in our everyday lives to foster, or not as the case may be, peace.

How can something so straightforward be so difficult to achieve?

St. Thomas is marking this occasion with the unveiling of a Peace Pole on campus with peace messages in English, French and Mi'gmaq and Maliseet.

In the evening the first ever Peace Cafe will be held in MMH 307.

Guest speaker Cathy Holtman will speak to how religious communities address family violence.

All sorts of people who are interested in peace and non-violence will be in attendance.

Including me and my camera.

Stay tuned for lots of pics.


And today, think peace!


Tomorrow, too, if you liked it.




Title Lyric: Where is the Love by The Black Eyed Peas

And I know what you're after. . . .

September 20, 2011

Benedict Cumberbatch back as the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes in the BBC's contemporary take on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's most famous detective, with Martin Freeman as the solid and trustworthy Dr. Watson in 2012.

Good news indeed.

The first three episodes just made available on Netflix. . . .

Made me want to leap from my chair and yell "Hallellujah!" but I didn't think it appropriate while at work.

Even if it was a Friday afternoon. 









4.45 am I'm awakened by flashing lights reminiscent of Speilberg's Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

My aliens, however, were of the four legged, furry kind.

And because Stephen went to bed early last evening (for him. . .normal for the rest of us mere mortals) he was awake when the patter of kitty feet and jingling of kitty bells alerted him to the entrance of Dibley and Jasper into our room.

Resulting in the flashing of lights as he turned his bedroom light on and off over a period of 45 minutes as he attempted to monitor the activities of Dibley and Goblet who have yet to accept each other's presence.

At least when each other is in each other's face.

Making another valiant attempt to outline all the reasons why Goblet and Dibley should get along was no more successful at 5.00 am than it was in the late evening.

After hiding under the pillows, burrowing under the blankets, covering my eyes, falling back to sleep when the lights were turned out, only to be awakened harshly when a flick of Stephen's wrist engaged the light.

Realizing that he was content to continue with his flashing light therapy meaning I wouldn't be sleeping in any more than 15 minute snatches of darkness, I decided to take things into my own hands.

I got up.

Removed Dibs from the room.

Went back to bed.

And informed Stephen of exactly where that light bulb was going if he turned that light on one. more. time.

Good f*****g morning to me.









When I woke up, again, to the dulcet tones of Trevor Doyle from Capital FM 106.9 coming through the air waves, I rolled out of bed.

Rolling as I was so close to the edge putting feet to floor was almost impossible.

Thanks Frankie.

Only to narrowly avoid stepping on Tikka, who has taken to laying so close to my side of the bed that getting up in the wee hours to pee is akin to walking through a midnight maze of broken glass.

All the while, Robbie Dupree's Steal Away is running through my head.

I don't even like the song.

Subconscious renderings of my heart's desire breaking consciousness when my defences are at their early morning weakest.









Simply for Life started the morning. . .only .2 pounds down because I am currently holding more water than the Titanic.

Afterwards, since I was in the area, I stopped into Jinglers.

One of the downsides of losing weight is losing clothes.

Not so much of an issue over the summer, as work clothes were not a necessity.

Just shorts, capris and t-shirts.

But it isn't summer anymore.



Into Jinglers I go looking for clothes that I can wear to work.

Clothes I don't have to spend a fortune on.

As I won't be wearing them for longer than this academic year.

Some trips are less successful than others.

The price you pay for shopping in thirft shops and used clothing stores.

But not this time.

4 button down shirts for Stephen
4 sweaters including a lovely, red cable knit cardy
4 shirts
2 pairs of pants

For $69.00.

Imagine.



Title Lyric: Steal Away by Robbie Dupree

Avoiding the monsters under my bed. . . .

September 18, 2011


As a child, one of the things that terrified me the most were vampires.

I can't remember the specific event that triggered this fear, although I do remember one incident when I inadvertently walked in on my parents watching a film version of Stephen King's Salem's Lot right at the moment when the recently disappeared young boy is floating outside the bedroom window of one of his friends encouraging him to let him in.

I well imagine that had something to do with my fear of vampires.

For years I slept with a giant, stuffed lion beside me, believing it to be all the protection I needed from the creatures of the night.

Until now.

Monsters have taken residence under my bed.

Terrifying monsters.

Hell bent on waking me up in the early hours of the morning as they attempt to scratch and claw their way out of the dark spaces under the bed.

Noisy little things, they are.

Hissing and spitting.

Deep, low growls rumbling from the netherspaces of their being.

Jasper is the ringleader.

Slinking around in the middle of the night.

Tempting the other cats with his need for naughtiness. 

Dibley looks serene, quiet.

He does spend most of the day sleeping.

But during the evening and throughout the night, he, too, prowls about the house.

Unlike Jasper, the excitable new kid on the block who is energized by the desire to create trouble, Dibley is more about letting the others situate themselves and then entering the situation when he is the least expected.

And of course, Goblet.

The site of the night time shenanigans is in our room, under our bed, in Goblet's mind her domain.

Therefore, she feels it is only appropriate that she join into the fray, the fracas.

She is, afterall, the one who engages in the most hissing and spitting.

Quite frustrating when you're desperate for a good night's kip before facing the vagaries of the following day.

I only hope that in the coming days and weeks the monsters under the bed will cease and desist their activities so a good night's sleep can reign again.









As weekends continue to be an element of my everyday life, it occurs to me that the weekdays are less stressful and more relaxing than the weekends.

Em and I had made plans to go to the market yesterday.

Saturday market.

Gorgeous day.

The last Saturday of the Harvest Jazz and Blues Festival.

Sum total: market moving from its usual psychotic to absolutely calamitous.

After noshing on samosas, slurping freshly squeezed orange juice (for me) and banana strawberry non-dairy smoothies (for Em), selecting ten homemade falafels and touring around to see what was new and exciting, we headed to Klub Soda where Em had an appointment for a much needed trim.

After which time we were supposed to head home as I had work to do, people to email, things to take care of, mother's to visit at the nursing home . . . .

And yet, somehow, in spite of all that was awaiting me, I never managed to make it home until almost 4.00 pm.

Sidelined by Em's request to see a movie.

Dirty, dirty tactics, my Em.

She knows how to play her mummy.

Off to the mall to see Straw Dogs.

A colossal waste of time, in spite of the potential.

Don't waste your time or money.

Don't even rent it, order it through television, watch it online.

Time you'll never get back.

Today equally busy.

All day Quaker meeting.

Mum this evening.

Squeezing in grocery shopping.

Hopefully.

Weekends.

Yeah, right.



Title Lyric: Monsters Under the Bed by Eugene MacGuiness

Better to sit back and go with the flow. . . .

September 17, 2011


The days of Stephen and I sharing a cell phone have passed.

When we first got our plan, the idea of sharing a cell phone was most appealing.

What happens in our lives that we would each need a phone? we thought as there were attempts to cajole us into succumbing to a phone, each.

Stalwartly we stood our ground against the tide of customer service whose sole purpose is to coax and convince us into purchasing products we don't need or want.

Oh how the times have changed in the past year.

The last two weeks alone have provided enough evidence that the time has come for Stephen to have a phone of his own.

Not a new phone.

No interest in that.

Just sole proprietorship of the phone we've been sharing for the past year.

He likes the phone.

Knows how to use it.

Buttons are big enough for his man sized hands.

So the hour at Telus necessary to add a new phone to our plan fell to me.

And we all know how much I love spending time at Telus.

I have, however, cultivated a friendship with one of the Telus employees, meaning I trust him.

He's never steered me wrong.

And when I say no, I don't need that additional feature, or that extra insurance, he listens.

Besides, any person who puts up with our family's cell phone controversies and constant matters needing attention has to be a stand up guy.

So now I'm in possession of an IPhone 3.

Sort of like a toddler driving a Lamborghini.









One of the commitments I made to myself over the summer was to make sure I spend three days a week writing.

Academic writing.

Even if it's only an hour.

And as much as I love writing my blog, it doesn't count towards promotion and publication.

But it does keep me writing, which has spurned a desire to write in other venues, other forums.

I have a lot I want to say.

Imagine.

Yesterday morning, after dropping Em off to school, I headed to Starbucks.

Good lighting.

Electrical outlets, albeit not enough but at 8.30 am that doesn't seem to be much of a concern.

Most importantly.

Venti mild coffee.

Perhaps a blueberry scone. . . .just once a week, though.

Second most important. . .no internet connection.

Lots of people get internet connections in Starbucks.

For me, however, this seems to be a significant issue.

I have no idea what to do to engage my wireless outside of the house.

A good thing, really, that I'm so technologically challenged.

The end result was three single spaced pages that will form a framework that will eventually morph into a full fledged, ready-to-submit-to-a-journal article.

Other than blogging, I can't remember the last time I wrote three pages in a morning.

Writing is challenging for me.

At least academic writing.

And in my profession, for promotion purposes, it's the only writing that counts.

If blogging was the road to full professorship, I'd have been there long before now.











Em and I are off to the market this morning.

She was unable to attend last week's festivities as she was working, so I promised her that we'd go this morning.

Just the two of us.

Stephen can manage about one market visit every few months.

Keith is working.

So I may have another market visit with him next week to make up for his inability to attend today.

Mer worked until 3.30 this morning.

I may not see her again until sometime next week.

And it's 6 degrees outside right now.

PERFECT market conditions.

I really, really love fall!









Our first full week of the new term has ended.

Everyone is still in one piece.

Em in school every day.

Stephen and I getting through each lecture.

Me almost convincing my students I know what I'm talking about.

Acting always was a passion, you know.

No major bumps, unless you count the-class-that-refused-to-read, but other than that, there were no significant traumas, no tragic issues. . .

But it is only the first week.

Twelve more to go.



Title Lyric: These are the Days of Our Lives by Queen 

Why talk about tattoos?

September 15, 2011


Nothing smacks the fun out of a Wednesday faster than being confronted with the realization that you made a huge mistake.

The decision was made in May.

I really, really hoped I wasn't going to experience any regret.

And that's what I get for listening to my conscience instead of my gut instincts that were screaming louder than a seagulls at a wharf, NO! DON'T!

Throughout the summer did things that I thought would circumvent potential problems.

Delegating tasks, organizing activities, setting targets for the fall to make the process easier throughout the year.

In vain.

All in vain.

By the end of yesterday, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I had made a big mistake.

Gargantuan more like it.

Now all I can do is sit back and watch things unfold, do the best I can with my little thimble to dump the water from this sinking boat until the time comes that I can take the necessary steps to end the pain and suffering for all of those involved. 

And no, it has NOTHING to do with kids or husbands or pets or family of any kind.

For once.









Em got her first tattoo yesterday.

I was along for the ride, which was hard because I so desperately want another tattoo. . .or want to fix one I should never have gotten in the first place.

Alas, my conscience, the one that insists that the responsible adult pays bills before getting tattoos reared it's ugly, reasonable head, so all I did was sign the consent form.

And then went to the library to work while Em got her tattoo.

Because accepting that I had to be the adult is one thing.

Watching Em get the tattoo was another.

I can only take so much.

And nothing soothes a frayed ego like a trip to the library.

Not only was I able to pluck from the shelves the only book in the Tony Hill/Carol Jordan series I hadn't read, I was also able to get a prime table for four by the window, enabling me to enjoy the river vista while I read an article about the film Fatal Attraction and waited for Em.

I think I may have found another quiet, no-computer-allowed work space.

Could it be?









Unlike my first tattoo, Em's tattoo was very tasteful and meaningful.

No Pooh bears or butterflies for my baby girl.

And if I ever get my camera out of incarceration, pictures will abound.

The previous evening she corralled Reilley, her 17 year old cat, and submitted him to a purple watercolor stamp of his front, six toed paw.

Her tattoo.

His name underneath in calligraphy.

A relationship going on 15 years with no discernible end in sight?

People have tattooed themselves for far less.

Ex-boyfriend's birth dates, for example.

Who would do something like that?

Tattoos make me think of this Lauren Cooper snafu. . .

Ta-oo anyone?









Afterwards, we noshed at M&T Deli before rejoining the real world of work and school.

Me with a Crime in Popular Film class to prepare for.

More print out the syllabus and decide which of my 300+ films would be viewed on the big screen, but that's preparation, believe me.

For every one film on my 13 week syllabus, there are five others I could have shown.

I so wish this was a full year class.

Fatal Attraction was the choice of the day.

Reading the article in the morning made me realize how long it had been since I'd seen the 1987 film, a blockbuster at the time it was released.

In fact, the actions of Alex (Glenn Close) proved to be the one thing that was able to unite radical feminists and rednecks alike.

And provided another film on a very short list of films at that time where the female characters were considerably stronger than the males.

Michael Douglas was a downright wimp throughout the film.

Because you can kill all the men you want, honey, but don't think you can get away with boiling pet bunnies.

Returning to work meant meetings filled with needs and demands from people who just.won't.listen. making me regret decisions previously made.

Right back at the beginning and still not a whiff of resolution in sight.

Sigh.




Title Lyrics: Talk About, Tattoos by Caesar 

I want vengeance and I want it now!

September 14, 2011


September 14, 2011


Today I teach the first of the term's Crime in Popular Film class.

My favourite class.

An opportunity to take young minds and move them from thinking of film as nothing more than a source of entertainment, to film as an opportunity to critically comment about the world around us.

In particular, about crime, criminals, agents of social control. . . .

Further, any class where watching Dirty Harry is critical to success has to be a good class.









I wish I could say I was as excited with my intro methods class this morning.

Except for a select few, most of them arrived yesterday unprepared to discuss how qualitative research can explore the mundane, making us realize how the mundane is anything but mundane.

A short article.

That was all I asked them to read.

And yet, seemed too much for them.

Taxing even.

I was prepared.

Everything outlined on a separate piece of paper, so I don't forget anything.

(Another step in my sad attempt to remain organized. . .)

Even going so far as to show them an episode of All in the Family, "Everybody Tells the Truth" and a means of introducing them to the foundations of qualitative research via the philosophizing of Archie Bunker.

Who wouldn't enjoy that?

And at 11.00, when it was time for them to step up and give a little. . . .

About 8 people of 45 had read the article and were prepared to participate.

So I did what any reasonable person would do.

Let them know what I thought of their being unprepared, gave them additional work because they were unprepared and left.

In ten years that's only the second time I've had to do that.

Hopefully it'll be the last.

Because at this stage, my willingness to tolerate such asinine behaviour has almost disappeared.









On the homefront, the war over territory in our humble abode continues.

Goblet fiercely protecting her space on my dresser, on top of her box, under the window, manning it at all hours of the day and night against any and all intruders.

Specifically Dibbles and Jazz.

She's even taken to fighting with them in other rooms, particularly Emily's, if she feels the situation necessitates such punitive actions.

And her wrath isn't just directed towards our not-so-newcomers.

Last evening, after a very long teaching day which was then capped off with filling both cars with gas and getting much needed groceries, I finally drag my very tired self upstairs, exhaustedly excited about donning jammies and curling up under the sheets with my latest Val McDermid book featuring Dr. Tony Hill and DCI Carol Jordan.

At the top of the stairs, if you turn right, you can see into our bedroom before you actually get our bedroom.

Well, you can see Goblet on her box under the window anyway.

She looked smug.

Red flag alerts shoot up like rockets into the night sky.

Crossing the threshold into our room, I realized how come she looked so smug.

Satisfied.

Proud of herself with a smattering of insouciance.

A wall of cat piss scent flooded my olfactory nerves like waves on the shore during a hurricane.

Fixing a stare on Goblet that would have felled a lesser cat, I began the hunt for the source of the stench.

Joined almost immediately by Stephen, who had come to see his Goblet.

And whose joy at seeing her little, smug face was shattered when the foul odor permeating our boudoir enveloped him like a warm blanket.

GOBLET!!!!!!! he pronounced.

She looked at him, almost bored, as if to reply, yes?

He then turned to me wondering about the source of the offensive malodour.

Because clearly I should know.

He half-heartedly checked around the room for ground zero, but was unsuccessful.

I suspect it was because he was still trying to fathom what had lead her to engage in such harsh tactics, even if she did think she was at war.

After he left, I checked the one spot he didn't.

The dog pillow.

Where Tikka spends the night with us, listening to our harmonious snoring, talking in our sleep and, most importantly, where she is well out of the way during our drunken-like stumbling to the bathroom at 2.16 am.

It wasn't just damp with Goblet pee.

Slathered, it was.

When I grabbed the pillow between my thumb and forefinger, I could feel the sheen of piss transferring itself to my hands.

Clearly, she'd been planning this counter measure and had been storing her liquid stink for just such an occasion.

In her mind, she probably thought she'd been tolerant enough, waiting for us to remove the intruders from her domain.

Obviously we were not quick enough to suit her.

So she's moved on to more drastic measures.

We've even noticed an alliance forming between her and Reilley.

Pre-intruders, if they crossed paths with one another, nothing more than a perfunctory, "hey" was shared as they moved in opposite directions.

Now. . . .

They are side by side on top of Stephen's bureau.

Sleeping companionably on the bed.

Survivor Kitties: Veterans Against Newcomers.

I expect commentary from Jeff Probst while we're sleeping and being filmed by night vision cameras will be next.









After months and months of paying off her obnoxious phone bill, Mer is now in possession of a working cell phone.

It was with trepidation that I called Telus and asked them to unsuspend her phone.

With an additional 200 LOCAL minutes a month, at her expense, I am hoping that she has learned her lesson.

Because if there is a next time, and I am hoping with my heart, soul and all other body parts that there won't be, not only will she not have a cell phone, she won't have one on a family plan with me and she will be left to her own devices to get herself a plan.

Anyone interested in placing bets?





Title Lyric: Vengeance by Dropkick Murphys