December 1, 2011
The other reason I know it's the end of term: students who I haven't seen for months show up on the second to last day wanting to submit assignments for grading in spite of missing almost all of the course.
And then try and rationalize their absence by comparing their off campus workload to the others in class.
As in, "I worked all these hours in a week" kind of rationalization.
An "I need this class to graduate this spring" rationale.
Then why the hell weren't you in class if you needed this class to graduate???????!!!!!!!!
And then being met with the blank stare, as I am the one with the problem.
Now what the hell am I supposed to do?
What message do I send to the other students about the importance of attendance in a practice based course, how important it is to attend class to understand what it means to write a cogent research question, to conduct a participant observation, engage in an interview, if I let this student pass the course?
Even if they are willing to "take a low grade."
How is that fair to everyone else who showed up to class?
On the other hand, if I don't pass them, and force them to take the course again, I'll have to deal with them, as I am the only one who teaches this class.
And it's required.
And do I really want to deal with this person for another term.
Not that I dealt with them much this term, but you know what I mean.
Do I want to see their face everyday, reminding me of the decision I made.
Knowing that they're there because of me.
I asked what the other profs did.
Apparently, one is just giving a lower grade, and the other two "don't care."
Hmmmmm. . . . .
I HATE being in this position.
I've promised a decision today.
Meaning I'll have to come up with something.
I know what I want to do.
It's what I should do that's causing me all the problems.
Title Lyric: Rock and A Hard Place by The Rolling Stones
Thursday, December 1, 2011
I can hear the bells, well don't you hear 'em chime?
December 1, 2011
Emily has an app on her phone that counts down the days, hours, minutes until Christmas.
Oh goody.
Every once in a while she'll voice a reminder about how much time remains for unfettered consumption of goods, many of which will be under-appreciated, returned, ignored.
There was fascinating article on the cbc.ca/nb website about the use of gift cards, which apparently provide extensive gifts for retail establishments.
http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/new-brunswick/story/2011/11/30/nb-consumers-association-gift-cards.html
I strongly recommend reading it.
And then reconsider the use of gift cards.
Or at least only give them to people you KNOW will actually use them.
If I wasn't already aware that the end of the term is near, yesterday would have provided the eye opening revelation.
Crying students in my office.
Twice.
Personal issues impacting academic performance in both cases.
And me, again with no counselling degree just to reiterate, attempting to sail through the murky, choppy waters of ex-boyfriends who just don't understand "GO AWAY!!" and working to the point of exhaustion to be in school to work to the point of exhaustion.
Resulting in nothing good on both the paid work and school fronts.
I was actually thrilled to escape to my mother's handbell choir performance.
This time, I even remembered to take the camera.
Which I then left in my office amid the rush to get out the door to somewhere for supper before the nursing home.
We walked in at 6.25 pm and the relief on my mother's face was palpable.
As if I wouldn't show up.
I value my life more than that.
She was resplendent in red, as were the other nine members of the ensemble.
Two men and eight women, all with their handbells sitting in front of them, their choir director introducing each piece before directing them with her ruler when it was their turn to ding.
My mother never missed her turn.
My mother is also a stickler for doing things well.
And when others don't do what they're supposed to do, she can get a little perturbed.
Coupled with her inability hide what she's feeling, she is literally an open book.
Consequently, when the woman at the end of the table had to be repeatedly reminded to ding her bell, my mother's countenance reflected what she was feeling inside.
At one point, Em leaned over and asked me why Nanny looked so sour, I replied, "No control over others."
Afterwards, the activities co-ordinator for the nursing home told me that before the performance, my mother was praying to God that Ethyl didn't fall asleep and Bertha didn't announce during the performance that she had to pee.
Although there was one resident in the audience, with a particularly deep voice for a woman, who kept asking the nursing staff if there was someone who was going to be able to help her get ready for bed because she was really worried that being out so late would prevent her for getting such help.
Towards the middle of the performance, a male resident decided that he'd had enough and started to leave, causing an impromptu intermission as the other residents, and some members of the ensemble, had to be moved to make room for him and his wheelchair.
All in all, an enjoyable evening.
I can't wait for next year!
Title Lyric: I Can Hear The Bells by Nikki Blonsky
Emily has an app on her phone that counts down the days, hours, minutes until Christmas.
Oh goody.
Every once in a while she'll voice a reminder about how much time remains for unfettered consumption of goods, many of which will be under-appreciated, returned, ignored.
There was fascinating article on the cbc.ca/nb website about the use of gift cards, which apparently provide extensive gifts for retail establishments.
http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/new-brunswick/story/2011/11/30/nb-consumers-association-gift-cards.html
I strongly recommend reading it.
And then reconsider the use of gift cards.
Or at least only give them to people you KNOW will actually use them.
If I wasn't already aware that the end of the term is near, yesterday would have provided the eye opening revelation.
Crying students in my office.
Twice.
Personal issues impacting academic performance in both cases.
And me, again with no counselling degree just to reiterate, attempting to sail through the murky, choppy waters of ex-boyfriends who just don't understand "GO AWAY!!" and working to the point of exhaustion to be in school to work to the point of exhaustion.
Resulting in nothing good on both the paid work and school fronts.
I was actually thrilled to escape to my mother's handbell choir performance.
This time, I even remembered to take the camera.
Which I then left in my office amid the rush to get out the door to somewhere for supper before the nursing home.
We walked in at 6.25 pm and the relief on my mother's face was palpable.
As if I wouldn't show up.
I value my life more than that.
She was resplendent in red, as were the other nine members of the ensemble.
Two men and eight women, all with their handbells sitting in front of them, their choir director introducing each piece before directing them with her ruler when it was their turn to ding.
My mother never missed her turn.
My mother is also a stickler for doing things well.
And when others don't do what they're supposed to do, she can get a little perturbed.
Coupled with her inability hide what she's feeling, she is literally an open book.
Consequently, when the woman at the end of the table had to be repeatedly reminded to ding her bell, my mother's countenance reflected what she was feeling inside.
At one point, Em leaned over and asked me why Nanny looked so sour, I replied, "No control over others."
Afterwards, the activities co-ordinator for the nursing home told me that before the performance, my mother was praying to God that Ethyl didn't fall asleep and Bertha didn't announce during the performance that she had to pee.
Although there was one resident in the audience, with a particularly deep voice for a woman, who kept asking the nursing staff if there was someone who was going to be able to help her get ready for bed because she was really worried that being out so late would prevent her for getting such help.
Towards the middle of the performance, a male resident decided that he'd had enough and started to leave, causing an impromptu intermission as the other residents, and some members of the ensemble, had to be moved to make room for him and his wheelchair.
All in all, an enjoyable evening.
I can't wait for next year!
Title Lyric: I Can Hear The Bells by Nikki Blonsky
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
So let the children sing. . . .
November 30, 2011
One more week of classes remains.
Next Wednesday at 5.20 pm, I will officially end the last class of the fall term.
Hallelujah.
Not that there won't be any work to do.
There is still the daunting pile o'marking to tackle.
Scrapping together of funds for Christmas gifts.
Baking.
Oh, gawd, baking.
And then the return to preparations for next term's classes.
No film class next term.
But a fourth year seminar, Ethnography and Crime.
The second term of my intro to crim class.
More methods students.
All I want?
Peace and quiet.
So simple to say.
So, so difficult to attain.
As another Christmas season makes it way towards us with the speed of a freight train, I am again reminded of how much I dislike this time of year.
Not the getting together with family stuff.
That I like.
But the grossly indecent marketing and consumption of goods.
People attempting to buy their children's affections.
Rudeness replacing Christmas spirit.
But. . . .
What I do miss are the kid's Christmas concerts.
I genuinely loved attending the school concerts where parents who had just fought with their kids to get ready for school, to wear this dress because you're on stage singing this morning, and yes you have to wear a button down shirt and tie because I said so, are now reduced to waving, smiling lunatics as their children march onto the stage, scanning the audience for their parent's faces and waving arms, cameras clicking like paparazzi trying to catch the latest glimpse of Kim Kardashian unnaturally elongated eye lashes.
Meredyth, of course, LOVED Christmas concert day.
It was the only day of the year I didn't have to fight with her to get ready for school.
She could barely contain the excitement of being on stage, walking onto the stage like a true diva meeting her admirers, smiling her special Meredyth smile as she and her classmates sang the tunes meant to welcome the Christmas spirit into the audience's midst.
And Mer always gave it her all.
She outsang, outgestured, outperformed every child who had the misfortune of being on the stage with her.
Once she even pushed a potential suitor out of her way when he attempted to kiss her following a performance.
He also happened to be the son of one of my professors.
Of course he did.
Keith was not as excited.
Ever.
In fact, he could have done without the being on stage part altogether and it wouldn't have bothered him one iota.
But if he had to be there, he was going to do his best.
Whether wearing his mother's apron to sing about making Christmas cookies, or banging homemade drums, he did do with aplomb.
Emily was the least excited and least willing of my little chicks.
She would stomp on stage, face awash in her patented Emily scowl.
Perhaps thinking of all of the things she would so much rather be doing at the time.
I will say she never shirked her duty to her class to get up on that stage and do what they had been training to do.
She was always aware that this was a non-negotiable task.
But she didn't have to pretend to like it.
And being Em, she didn't.
Arms crossed along her chest, she was there and asking her to enjoy it or be excited about it was just begging for trouble.
Usually by the time everyone had settled into their appointed places, the teacher in front of them waving her arms as if she actually knew what she was doing, Em already noting that I was present and on time, she would relax her arms and sing her song.
Manage a couple of dance moves if they were required.
But never did she ever give the impression she was enjoying herself.
And if I didn't think I'd be arrested, I go to them now.
Each travelling from one school to the next until I was full to the brim of Christmas concerts.
Luckily, I have my mother to fill the void.
Tonight, at 6.30, I will be attending the Pine Grove Handbell Choir Christmas concert.
Just like the kids, my mother will scan the crowd to see if I'm there.
As if I would dare not to be.
I'll have my camera with me, ready to capture for eternity my mother's smiling face as she rings her bell . . .
. . . . .o8777ffffff c7777iu: Dibley looking for love in all the wrong places at the wrong time, 6666666, wanting to make a contribution to my blog and now stomping away in anger and disgust as I have removed him from the keyboard for the umpteenth time. . . .
The cookies and punch afterwards.
And then the eventual coming home.
It's going to be a long, long day.
But if there is an amateur concert in the mix, I am certain I'll survive.
And if you see me at any school concerts don't ask me what I'm doing there.
Title Lyric: The Children Singing by Story of the Year
One more week of classes remains.
Next Wednesday at 5.20 pm, I will officially end the last class of the fall term.
Hallelujah.
Not that there won't be any work to do.
There is still the daunting pile o'marking to tackle.
Scrapping together of funds for Christmas gifts.
Baking.
Oh, gawd, baking.
And then the return to preparations for next term's classes.
No film class next term.
But a fourth year seminar, Ethnography and Crime.
The second term of my intro to crim class.
More methods students.
All I want?
Peace and quiet.
So simple to say.
So, so difficult to attain.
As another Christmas season makes it way towards us with the speed of a freight train, I am again reminded of how much I dislike this time of year.
Not the getting together with family stuff.
That I like.
But the grossly indecent marketing and consumption of goods.
People attempting to buy their children's affections.
Rudeness replacing Christmas spirit.
But. . . .
What I do miss are the kid's Christmas concerts.
I genuinely loved attending the school concerts where parents who had just fought with their kids to get ready for school, to wear this dress because you're on stage singing this morning, and yes you have to wear a button down shirt and tie because I said so, are now reduced to waving, smiling lunatics as their children march onto the stage, scanning the audience for their parent's faces and waving arms, cameras clicking like paparazzi trying to catch the latest glimpse of Kim Kardashian unnaturally elongated eye lashes.
Meredyth, of course, LOVED Christmas concert day.
It was the only day of the year I didn't have to fight with her to get ready for school.
She could barely contain the excitement of being on stage, walking onto the stage like a true diva meeting her admirers, smiling her special Meredyth smile as she and her classmates sang the tunes meant to welcome the Christmas spirit into the audience's midst.
And Mer always gave it her all.
She outsang, outgestured, outperformed every child who had the misfortune of being on the stage with her.
Once she even pushed a potential suitor out of her way when he attempted to kiss her following a performance.
He also happened to be the son of one of my professors.
Of course he did.
Keith was not as excited.
Ever.
In fact, he could have done without the being on stage part altogether and it wouldn't have bothered him one iota.
But if he had to be there, he was going to do his best.
Whether wearing his mother's apron to sing about making Christmas cookies, or banging homemade drums, he did do with aplomb.
Emily was the least excited and least willing of my little chicks.
She would stomp on stage, face awash in her patented Emily scowl.
Perhaps thinking of all of the things she would so much rather be doing at the time.
I will say she never shirked her duty to her class to get up on that stage and do what they had been training to do.
She was always aware that this was a non-negotiable task.
But she didn't have to pretend to like it.
And being Em, she didn't.
Arms crossed along her chest, she was there and asking her to enjoy it or be excited about it was just begging for trouble.
Usually by the time everyone had settled into their appointed places, the teacher in front of them waving her arms as if she actually knew what she was doing, Em already noting that I was present and on time, she would relax her arms and sing her song.
Manage a couple of dance moves if they were required.
But never did she ever give the impression she was enjoying herself.
And if I didn't think I'd be arrested, I go to them now.
Each travelling from one school to the next until I was full to the brim of Christmas concerts.
Luckily, I have my mother to fill the void.
Tonight, at 6.30, I will be attending the Pine Grove Handbell Choir Christmas concert.
Just like the kids, my mother will scan the crowd to see if I'm there.
As if I would dare not to be.
I'll have my camera with me, ready to capture for eternity my mother's smiling face as she rings her bell . . .
. . . . .o8777ffffff c7777iu: Dibley looking for love in all the wrong places at the wrong time, 6666666, wanting to make a contribution to my blog and now stomping away in anger and disgust as I have removed him from the keyboard for the umpteenth time. . . .
The cookies and punch afterwards.
And then the eventual coming home.
It's going to be a long, long day.
But if there is an amateur concert in the mix, I am certain I'll survive.
And if you see me at any school concerts don't ask me what I'm doing there.
Title Lyric: The Children Singing by Story of the Year
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
The sound of a tree falling. . . .
November 29, 2011
Simon's cat.
simonscat.com
My new favourite obsession.
If you haven't yet had an opportunity to partake of the humour that emerges from the day-to-day experiences of living with cats, you should.
Right now, Dibley is re-enacting the activities from the short "Cat and Mouse."
I could be here all day just trying to write a single paragraph, because Dibley makes Simon's cat look agreeable.
And when a kitten enters the mix. . .well, I was so reminded of when we introduced Jasper and Dibley into our happy home.
The Christmas we first had Goblet was just like this.
Over and over and over again.
Because we tried so hard to prevent her from taking the tree as her own booty.
At first, we just tried to keep her out of the tree by spraying her with the water bottle.
But our tree was particularly dense that year, preventing the water from reaching her.
She hid in there, playing peek-a-boo with us and the glittery, shiny, enticing baubles covering the tree.
Every single morning we'd wake up and find the detritus of our tree lying all over the floor.
If we were lucky, they were still intact.
And there were even times when we'd find them in the kitchen, as she would spend the night entertaining herself by rolling them all through the house.
Eventually, as you could predict, the tree had enough of her playful antics with it's insides, as tipped over.
Scattering decorations hither and yon.
Sharp bits and pieces all over the place, just waiting for the soft pads of canine feet to walk over them.
And Goblet blinking those big brown eyes as if to say, "who me?"
Our next attempt to keep the tree upright was to tie it to wall.
Strings of red yarn from tree to wall, looking as if Spiderman had come into the house during the night to give us some assistance.
All that did was entice her further.
It wasn't uncommon to walk into the living room and see her attempting to cling to the string.
Tree and string???
She was in kitty heaven.
This was also the Christmas that we decided to drive to Montreal for a few days, leaving on Boxing Day and returning the day before New Year's Eve.
The trip was an event all on its own.
But when we returned, our tree had given up.
Succumbed to the machinations of a single minded kitten who was determined to make the tree her bitch.
And she did.
Our neighbour from across the street was watching the house while we were gone.
When we returned, our tree was lying on the floor.
If it could have spoken it would have mumbled, "Help!!! I've been attacked by a kitten and I can't get up!"
Our neighbour had collected the yet-to-be-maimed decorations from the floor and tried her best to sweep the remnants of those decorations whose time had passed as a result of their encounter with the little-kitten-who-could-and-did.
Thankfully, her interest in the tree had waned from her first Christmas to her second.
We purchased a steel reinforced tree stand.
A smaller tree.
And now we are awaiting our first Christmas with Jasper.
Who will, in all likelihood, make Goblet look like an amateur.
If his current behaviour is any indication.
Meaning we may need a tree with it's own early warning detection system, secured perimeter and a cadre of guard dogs protecting it.
Even that may not be enough.
Jasper is hell bent.
Just like Simon's cat.
Title Lyric: The Sound of a Tree Falling by The Roches
Simon's cat.
simonscat.com
My new favourite obsession.
If you haven't yet had an opportunity to partake of the humour that emerges from the day-to-day experiences of living with cats, you should.
Right now, Dibley is re-enacting the activities from the short "Cat and Mouse."
I could be here all day just trying to write a single paragraph, because Dibley makes Simon's cat look agreeable.
And when a kitten enters the mix. . .well, I was so reminded of when we introduced Jasper and Dibley into our happy home.
But the short that has most recently caught my attention is Santa Claws.
The Christmas we first had Goblet was just like this.
Over and over and over again.
Because we tried so hard to prevent her from taking the tree as her own booty.
At first, we just tried to keep her out of the tree by spraying her with the water bottle.
But our tree was particularly dense that year, preventing the water from reaching her.
She hid in there, playing peek-a-boo with us and the glittery, shiny, enticing baubles covering the tree.
Every single morning we'd wake up and find the detritus of our tree lying all over the floor.
If we were lucky, they were still intact.
And there were even times when we'd find them in the kitchen, as she would spend the night entertaining herself by rolling them all through the house.
Eventually, as you could predict, the tree had enough of her playful antics with it's insides, as tipped over.
Scattering decorations hither and yon.
Sharp bits and pieces all over the place, just waiting for the soft pads of canine feet to walk over them.
And Goblet blinking those big brown eyes as if to say, "who me?"
Our next attempt to keep the tree upright was to tie it to wall.
Strings of red yarn from tree to wall, looking as if Spiderman had come into the house during the night to give us some assistance.
All that did was entice her further.
It wasn't uncommon to walk into the living room and see her attempting to cling to the string.
Tree and string???
She was in kitty heaven.
This was also the Christmas that we decided to drive to Montreal for a few days, leaving on Boxing Day and returning the day before New Year's Eve.
The trip was an event all on its own.
But when we returned, our tree had given up.
Succumbed to the machinations of a single minded kitten who was determined to make the tree her bitch.
And she did.
Our neighbour from across the street was watching the house while we were gone.
When we returned, our tree was lying on the floor.
If it could have spoken it would have mumbled, "Help!!! I've been attacked by a kitten and I can't get up!"
Our neighbour had collected the yet-to-be-maimed decorations from the floor and tried her best to sweep the remnants of those decorations whose time had passed as a result of their encounter with the little-kitten-who-could-and-did.
Thankfully, her interest in the tree had waned from her first Christmas to her second.
We purchased a steel reinforced tree stand.
A smaller tree.
And now we are awaiting our first Christmas with Jasper.
Who will, in all likelihood, make Goblet look like an amateur.
If his current behaviour is any indication.
Meaning we may need a tree with it's own early warning detection system, secured perimeter and a cadre of guard dogs protecting it.
Even that may not be enough.
Just like Simon's cat.
Title Lyric: The Sound of a Tree Falling by The Roches
Sunday, November 27, 2011
It's three o'clock in the morning. . .
November 27, 2011
Saturday morning.
3.30 am and I'm in the kitchen making coffee, feeding the dogs, coffee creaming the cats.
3.30 in the frickin' morning!
Stephen's snoring in our room like a fleet of freight trains and no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't turn my brain off, or my ears, so I just got up.
Why not?
Who needs sleep?
Mer had yesterday afternoon off.
And she needed a winter coat.
Stephen and I had already decided that one of her gifts from us would be a new winter coat, but I am not stupid enough to think that I'd be in any position to select something she'd like, wear and otherwise be pleased with.
Hence I found myself in the mall, on a Saturday afternoon, less than month before Christmas.
Oh yeah.
And it was bad.
As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, I knew that this was not going to be one of those easy peasy trips.
Not a parking spot available, and when there was, and we signaled for it, someone swooped in from the side and snagged it.
So much for the Christmas spirit.
Eventually, we find a place and head into the mall.
First stop: fuelling up.
Starbucks line up all the way back to the magazine racks, and I don't care.
I was standing there for as long as it took to get my venti mild.
If I had to negotiate and maneuver my way through the mall on a pre-Christmas Saturday afternoon than at the very least I needed caffeine coursing through my veins.
Especially given the negative correlation between Christmas shopping and Christmas spirit.
Now, Mer and I don't have the best shopping experiences.
Temper tantrums where she throws herself full body onto the floor of the shoe section at Sears, arms and legs kicking, screaming. . . .
Nonetheless, she needed a coat, she wasn't working, I wasn't teaching so it seemed as if this was the time that we would be able to get through the mall without incident.
And we did.
No one cried.
No one stomped away in anger and frustration over not being heard.
We only had to go into three stores.
And when she found what she wanted it was on sale, and she had another 20% taken off.
Calculating the difference in what we budgeted and what we spent she then asked if the difference could go towards groceries.
So Saturday evening after dining on pizza while visiting Mum, I then went grocery shopping with Mer.
Who, again, stayed with in her budget.
And me. . . .well let's just say when toilet paper is on sale, the budget goes out the window.
Stephen is all about stockpiling the tp and all I've heard recently is how low the stockpile is getting.
Sunday was an interesting day.
A combination of planned events, like hosting Quaker meeting at our house and then attending a surprise party for our friends.
And then the strangest thing happened.
After the surprise party we returned home, I sat down on the couch, only after changing into my comfy clothes, and then I did. . . . .
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
I sat on the couch and watched episodes of Sister Wives and then back to back episodes of Big Bang Theory and then we went to bed.
Absolutely nothing.
The fact that I did nothing is still astounding to me.
I can't remember the last time I had done nothing.
And didn't want to do anything.
Didn't feel motivated to get up, get moving, and do stuff.
There was plenty of stuff to do, I just didn't want to do any of it.
So I didn't.
I laid on the couch, cell phone in hand to watch episodes of Simon's Cat, troll around on Facebook and watch television.
Salacious debauchery.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. . . . . . . . .
I am almost certain that later this week I'll kick myself in the arse for doing nothing.
When I'm marking, or up at 5.00 am coding data, planning final exams, looking through my daytimer at the list of meetings I am scheduled to attend.
Or Wednesday evening when I'm at the nursing home for the Annual Handbell Choir Performance.
But right now I am so basking in the glow of doing nothingness that ended an otherwise hectic and crazy weekend.
Basking, basking until 1.00 pm when the students start lining up outside the door, carrying with them their end-of-term panic like a monkey on their back.
Better ask Stephen to bring me a box of Kleenex.
I have a feeling I'm gonna need it.
But not until 1.oo pm.
Title Lyric: Three O'Clock by the Andrews Sisters
Saturday morning.
3.30 am and I'm in the kitchen making coffee, feeding the dogs, coffee creaming the cats.
3.30 in the frickin' morning!
Stephen's snoring in our room like a fleet of freight trains and no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't turn my brain off, or my ears, so I just got up.
Why not?
Who needs sleep?
Mer had yesterday afternoon off.
And she needed a winter coat.
Stephen and I had already decided that one of her gifts from us would be a new winter coat, but I am not stupid enough to think that I'd be in any position to select something she'd like, wear and otherwise be pleased with.
Hence I found myself in the mall, on a Saturday afternoon, less than month before Christmas.
Oh yeah.
And it was bad.
As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, I knew that this was not going to be one of those easy peasy trips.
Not a parking spot available, and when there was, and we signaled for it, someone swooped in from the side and snagged it.
So much for the Christmas spirit.
Eventually, we find a place and head into the mall.
First stop: fuelling up.
Starbucks line up all the way back to the magazine racks, and I don't care.
I was standing there for as long as it took to get my venti mild.
If I had to negotiate and maneuver my way through the mall on a pre-Christmas Saturday afternoon than at the very least I needed caffeine coursing through my veins.
Especially given the negative correlation between Christmas shopping and Christmas spirit.
Now, Mer and I don't have the best shopping experiences.
Temper tantrums where she throws herself full body onto the floor of the shoe section at Sears, arms and legs kicking, screaming. . . .
Nonetheless, she needed a coat, she wasn't working, I wasn't teaching so it seemed as if this was the time that we would be able to get through the mall without incident.
And we did.
No one cried.
No one stomped away in anger and frustration over not being heard.
We only had to go into three stores.
And when she found what she wanted it was on sale, and she had another 20% taken off.
Calculating the difference in what we budgeted and what we spent she then asked if the difference could go towards groceries.
So Saturday evening after dining on pizza while visiting Mum, I then went grocery shopping with Mer.
Who, again, stayed with in her budget.
And me. . . .well let's just say when toilet paper is on sale, the budget goes out the window.
Stephen is all about stockpiling the tp and all I've heard recently is how low the stockpile is getting.
Sunday was an interesting day.
A combination of planned events, like hosting Quaker meeting at our house and then attending a surprise party for our friends.
And then the strangest thing happened.
After the surprise party we returned home, I sat down on the couch, only after changing into my comfy clothes, and then I did. . . . .
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
I sat on the couch and watched episodes of Sister Wives and then back to back episodes of Big Bang Theory and then we went to bed.
Absolutely nothing.
The fact that I did nothing is still astounding to me.
I can't remember the last time I had done nothing.
And didn't want to do anything.
Didn't feel motivated to get up, get moving, and do stuff.
There was plenty of stuff to do, I just didn't want to do any of it.
So I didn't.
I laid on the couch, cell phone in hand to watch episodes of Simon's Cat, troll around on Facebook and watch television.
Salacious debauchery.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. . . . . . . . .
I am almost certain that later this week I'll kick myself in the arse for doing nothing.
When I'm marking, or up at 5.00 am coding data, planning final exams, looking through my daytimer at the list of meetings I am scheduled to attend.
Or Wednesday evening when I'm at the nursing home for the Annual Handbell Choir Performance.
But right now I am so basking in the glow of doing nothingness that ended an otherwise hectic and crazy weekend.
Basking, basking until 1.00 pm when the students start lining up outside the door, carrying with them their end-of-term panic like a monkey on their back.
Better ask Stephen to bring me a box of Kleenex.
I have a feeling I'm gonna need it.
But not until 1.oo pm.
Title Lyric: Three O'Clock by the Andrews Sisters
Friday, November 25, 2011
She's always changing the color of her hair. . . .
November 25, 2011
Days are now a blur of paper, ink, email and human contact that only occurs when I'm in class with my students.
Other than that, I'm in my office behind closed doors marking, marking, marking.
Yesterday was productive.
I was able to return the second advanced qualitative interviews.
The intro qual interview guides.
Grade the film classes' film autobiography questions.
Now I just have to let them know their grades.
But that may not be until later this weekend.
I still have to mark the intro qual participant observation assignments.
Unfortunately, this is just the tip of the iceberg.
The rest of it will reveal itself from the depths of the icy waters at the end of the term.
With my ship steering towards it, ready to crash and burn and sink.
Today, however, there will be an opportunity to connect with people I don't teach.
I've been asked to give the introductory remarks this afternoon at the book launch for my mentor's latest book.
An introduction to qualitative research methods book, that I'm currently using, enjoying and hoping, hoping that my students are enjoying too.
Or at the very least have read it.
The remarks I've yet to actually prepare.
Hence while I'll be at my office by 6.30 am.
As my office is about the only quiet place in my life right now.
At least at 6.30 in the morning.
And I'll look good while doing it, as I have an appointment with Norma-the-most-amazing-hairdresser-in-the-world at Klub Soda.
Holding back the grey for another 6 to 8 weeks.
An ever present battle, always waging, and the older I get the more they grey seems to be winning.
An hour of pampering, massaging my scalp, where for a brief moment in time I am someone else's priority.
Instead of the other way around.
I can't wait.
Because while Norma does her magic with my hair, she is attentive.
But in the in between times, when I am slathered with the stuff that keeps the grey away, she leaves me alone.
In peace.
I read, watch the passersby as I sit in front of the big window lost in my thoughts.
Hoping no one recognizes me as I look like an 80s throwback to the "wet look."
Out of touch with my real world for a few minutes.
Ahhhhhhhhhh. . . .
Stephen will be working at the Ten Thousand Villages sale http://www.tenthousandvillages.ca/cgi-bin/category.cgi?template=fullpage-en&item=pageFestivalsTGN this evening but the sale will go on for the weekend, in the gym of the Wilmot United Church, downtown Fredericton.
And it's a pay weekend.
Meaning I'll be perusing the tables laden with jewelry, walls covered in tapestries, little kiosks with hanging planters, Christmas decorations, and all sorts of other goodies just waiting for me and my debit card to show up.
Title Lyrics: She Don't Use Jelly by The Flaming Lips
Days are now a blur of paper, ink, email and human contact that only occurs when I'm in class with my students.
Other than that, I'm in my office behind closed doors marking, marking, marking.
Yesterday was productive.
I was able to return the second advanced qualitative interviews.
The intro qual interview guides.
Grade the film classes' film autobiography questions.
Now I just have to let them know their grades.
But that may not be until later this weekend.
I still have to mark the intro qual participant observation assignments.
Unfortunately, this is just the tip of the iceberg.
The rest of it will reveal itself from the depths of the icy waters at the end of the term.
With my ship steering towards it, ready to crash and burn and sink.
Today, however, there will be an opportunity to connect with people I don't teach.
I've been asked to give the introductory remarks this afternoon at the book launch for my mentor's latest book.
An introduction to qualitative research methods book, that I'm currently using, enjoying and hoping, hoping that my students are enjoying too.
Or at the very least have read it.
The remarks I've yet to actually prepare.
Hence while I'll be at my office by 6.30 am.
As my office is about the only quiet place in my life right now.
At least at 6.30 in the morning.
And I'll look good while doing it, as I have an appointment with Norma-the-most-amazing-hairdresser-in-the-world at Klub Soda.
Holding back the grey for another 6 to 8 weeks.
An ever present battle, always waging, and the older I get the more they grey seems to be winning.
An hour of pampering, massaging my scalp, where for a brief moment in time I am someone else's priority.
Instead of the other way around.
I can't wait.
Because while Norma does her magic with my hair, she is attentive.
But in the in between times, when I am slathered with the stuff that keeps the grey away, she leaves me alone.
In peace.
I read, watch the passersby as I sit in front of the big window lost in my thoughts.
Hoping no one recognizes me as I look like an 80s throwback to the "wet look."
Out of touch with my real world for a few minutes.
Ahhhhhhhhhh. . . .
Stephen will be working at the Ten Thousand Villages sale http://www.tenthousandvillages.ca/cgi-bin/category.cgi?template=fullpage-en&item=pageFestivalsTGN this evening but the sale will go on for the weekend, in the gym of the Wilmot United Church, downtown Fredericton.
And it's a pay weekend.
Meaning I'll be perusing the tables laden with jewelry, walls covered in tapestries, little kiosks with hanging planters, Christmas decorations, and all sorts of other goodies just waiting for me and my debit card to show up.
Title Lyrics: She Don't Use Jelly by The Flaming Lips
Thursday, November 24, 2011
When I go driving, I stay in my lane. . .
November 24, 2011
We live in a country where winter consumes six months of the year.
Snow, ice, cold temperatures are the norm here, not the anomaly.
Nonetheless, yesterday's snowfall, the first significant-stick-to-the-ground snowfall, rendered drivers completely stunned.
Bewildered.
Confounded.
Confused.
Numb.
Dumbfounded.
Because that is the only explanation I can come up with for their complete inability to operate a motor vehicle with a modicum, grain, fraction of common sense during a snowfall.
That, or the snowflakes were really crystallized forms of LSD.
Of course, we have an appointment to get our snowtires on TODAY.
During the first snowfall, Em and I had to schlepp to Oromocto for a doctor's appointment.
While Oromocto is only a 15 minute drive from Fredericton, for some reason, they had a lot more snow than we did.
Meaning having Em drive wasn't as good an idea as I had originally thought.
She was fine until we got off the highway and onto the snow covered ramp and I was telling her as gently as I could muster with panic coursing through my veins that she really needed to slow down.
I love Em.
She has the potential to be a good driver.
Snowing or not, though, she has a tendency to wait significantly longer than I would to apply the brakes.
In any situation.
Meaning when we drive, I am often applying imaginary brakes long before she thinks of using the one right under her foot.
My panic wasn't well contained and she applied the brakes with too much force causing the car to fishtail whilst another car was coming toward us.
Needless to say after that experience, she applied the brakes when I told her and for the first time since she's started driving slowed down when I asked her to and not when she wanted to.
Stephen does the exact same thing.
Makes me equally nervous and overwrought.
And it's taking a damn sight longer to get him to listen.
I have become my mother-the-most-nervous-winter-driver-to-ever-get-behind-the-wheel-of-a-car.
There has to be a medication for that.
Luckily, the weather is turning back to its unusual warmth for this time of year and tomorrow we will treated to a balmy 9 degrees Celsius, which should be warm enough to melt the infernal white grains of cold and misery from the ground.
I used to love winter.
But as each winter passes my tolerance for stupid drivers, poor city snow removal, bitter cold, my fear of falling, inability of the school board to recognize a storm and cancel school for the day, shoveling the driveway or fighting with the kids to shovel the driveway, decreases significantly.
And don't even get me started on Christmas.
That'll come later.
Em presented her sociology seminar yesterday.
She applied symbolic interactionist theory to explain the changing meaning of Holocaust symbols.
The swastika, Star of David, and tattoos.
Apparently, her seminar generated significant discussion among her usually mute class mates and even the teacher had no questions to ask to further the discussion.
I may have my sociologist.
Finger crossed.
Title: Bad Habit by Offspring
We live in a country where winter consumes six months of the year.
Snow, ice, cold temperatures are the norm here, not the anomaly.
Nonetheless, yesterday's snowfall, the first significant-stick-to-the-ground snowfall, rendered drivers completely stunned.
Bewildered.
Confounded.
Confused.
Numb.
Dumbfounded.
Because that is the only explanation I can come up with for their complete inability to operate a motor vehicle with a modicum, grain, fraction of common sense during a snowfall.
That, or the snowflakes were really crystallized forms of LSD.
Of course, we have an appointment to get our snowtires on TODAY.
During the first snowfall, Em and I had to schlepp to Oromocto for a doctor's appointment.
While Oromocto is only a 15 minute drive from Fredericton, for some reason, they had a lot more snow than we did.
Meaning having Em drive wasn't as good an idea as I had originally thought.
She was fine until we got off the highway and onto the snow covered ramp and I was telling her as gently as I could muster with panic coursing through my veins that she really needed to slow down.
I love Em.
She has the potential to be a good driver.
Snowing or not, though, she has a tendency to wait significantly longer than I would to apply the brakes.
In any situation.
Meaning when we drive, I am often applying imaginary brakes long before she thinks of using the one right under her foot.
My panic wasn't well contained and she applied the brakes with too much force causing the car to fishtail whilst another car was coming toward us.
Needless to say after that experience, she applied the brakes when I told her and for the first time since she's started driving slowed down when I asked her to and not when she wanted to.
Stephen does the exact same thing.
Makes me equally nervous and overwrought.
And it's taking a damn sight longer to get him to listen.
I have become my mother-the-most-nervous-winter-driver-to-ever-get-behind-the-wheel-of-a-car.
There has to be a medication for that.
Luckily, the weather is turning back to its unusual warmth for this time of year and tomorrow we will treated to a balmy 9 degrees Celsius, which should be warm enough to melt the infernal white grains of cold and misery from the ground.
I used to love winter.
But as each winter passes my tolerance for stupid drivers, poor city snow removal, bitter cold, my fear of falling, inability of the school board to recognize a storm and cancel school for the day, shoveling the driveway or fighting with the kids to shovel the driveway, decreases significantly.
And don't even get me started on Christmas.
That'll come later.
Em presented her sociology seminar yesterday.
She applied symbolic interactionist theory to explain the changing meaning of Holocaust symbols.
The swastika, Star of David, and tattoos.
Apparently, her seminar generated significant discussion among her usually mute class mates and even the teacher had no questions to ask to further the discussion.
I may have my sociologist.
Finger crossed.
Title: Bad Habit by Offspring
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