December 31, 2010
HAPPY LAST DAY OF 2010!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Here we are, at the end of the year.
Again.
The older I get, the faster it seems time goes by.
Either that, or I'm getting slower.
So on this last day of 2010, I will be working on my crime and film project, perhaps seeing a movie with Mer if she remembers our conversation last evening, volunteering at the Community Kitchen and then watching something on television with Stephen.
Perhaps A Christmas Carol with Jim Carrey.
We weren't always this much fun.
Really.
There were years, in my youth, when I was a lot less wild and crazy.
For example, the New Year's where I was supposed to babysit across the road, and my mother went in my place so my brother and I could host a small soiree.
My brother, who had his licence at this time, was the designated driver.
So he drove everyone to our house, and then back to theirs.
Consequently, he engaged in his New Year's festivities after the fact.
By sticking a straw in a pint of rum, and sucking it down faster than a water down a drain.
Imagine how he felt the next day.
Other years, especially after I turned legal age we're also less than exciting.
Bar hopping.
Perhaps excessive consumption of alcohol.
And then trying to wake up the next morning in order to go to work and serve the citizens of Oromocto their post-New Year's fare of chips, pop and cigarettes.
Memories of getting home at four in the morning to have to get up and be to work for eight am abounded as I woke my son at 10.10 am to work for 10.30 am.
Me: Keith! Keith! KEITH!
Keith: What?
Me: It's 10.10.
Keith: JUST LET ME GET DRESSED I'LL BE RIGHT THERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And then he said something so funny, while I was driving him to work, that I almost drove off the road.
I don't think I'll be going out tonight. I'm sleepy. I may just stay home and go to bed.
THIS from the boy who has not spent ONE entire evening at home since the holidays started.
Not even Christmas Eve or Christmas Day evening.
And he is trying to tell me that he's going to miss New Year's Eve with his friends to sit at home and watch movies while eating low fat, low sodium snacks, if any snacks at all with his mother, step-father and sister who has to work until 10.30.
Um.
Who wants to take bets on this?
I could use some spare cash.
The most memorable New Year's, however, was the one where I decided it was time for me to move on.
And leave my first husband.
I made the decision in literally as 1992 ended and 1993 began.
And as with all good things, I had to wait.
It took me until May to actually leave Hamilton.
And while I was happy in some ways to leave, I was sad in others.
But it was the best decision, I think.
And it would seem that making major life decisions on New Year's Eve became a bit of a thing for me.
Another New Year's Eve, while supping with Stephen at The Dipolmat, we decided that perhaps we should get married.
No down-on-one-knee-three-piece-chamber-ensemble-playing-in-the-background-while-Stephen-professes-his-undying-love-and-affection-for-me-for-eternity-while-flashing-a-diamond-ring-that-made-the-Hope-Diamond-look-like-a-dime-store-knick-knack.
Instead it was more of a I-think-we-should-get-married-what-do-you-think?-okay-while-we-sat-across-from-one-another-in-a-booth-eating-egg-rolls-and-chicken-balls-and-ribs-and-whatever-else-was-on-the-buffet-that-evening.
Because we are such a wild and madcap couple.
And again, it took us 18 months to actually get married.
Everytime we thought we'd managed to arrange everything, something happened.
Until the summer where Stephen's sister and brother-in-law and my daughter were going to be on the same coast at the same time.
And thus we did get married in 2007.
This New Years, as far as I know, I'm not making any life altering decisions.
But, you never know.
Stranger things have happened.
Like Keith staying home on New Years.
So, 2010.
What happened?
Plenty.
The biggie of course: Mer moving home from Ontario.
That one we're still reeling from.
And I suspect it will follow us into 2011.
An event which provided the impetus for this blog.
Of course, another event, I did get tenure.
This was important. Job security. A working life doing what I love.
Most of the time.
Our trip to Montreal-Toronto-Mississauga-Hamilton-Brantford and then back again in May.
I love visiting family.
Mer was still living in Mississauga at the time.
Little did we know that a mere eight weeks later she'd move back home.
Stephen's father turned 80, prompting a lovely trip to Montreal, sans children but not cell phones.
I think that was the weekend I really learned how to text.
Volunteering every Friday at the Community Kitchen http://www.frederictoncommunitykitchen.ca/.
THAT has been rewarding.
And provided the opportunity to make new friends.
I started Simply for Life, http://www.simplyforlife.com/canada.html and have thus far lost 25 pounds.
The book that may eventually be published was submitted, again, for publication.
With the intense hope that there will be no further revisions and it will actually be published.
Some events straddled the fence between good and bad.
My sister-in-law was diagnosed with an incredibly rare disease.
Bad.
But at least she was diagnosed and now there is some sense of what needs to be done to treat her.
Good.
Frankie was hit by a car.
Bad.
But this prompted connecting with Annette from Barkbusters (http://www.barkbusters.ca/)
Good.
And Frankie has made much progress.
Except that he does seem to have some short term memory issues.
He's fine when you're here.
But if he happens to go out in the car with Stephen, upon coming back he may not remember who you are or that he was fine with you being here in the first place.
We learned that last night.
Who said you can't learn new things right to the end of the year?
There was the horrific-holiday-at-Hilda's-House.
We're still working through the post traumatic trauma of that event.
Definitely bad.
But, we did spend some time away from Fredericton.
I got a sun tan.
That was good.
Right?
However, as it is the end of the year, I am most pleased that those I love are still with me.
Mum and Dad.
My brother and his wife.
Stephen's parents.
His sister and brother-in-law.
My friends.
That means, as far as I'm concerned, that the year was a total success.
And I hope for you my faithful reader, that 2011 brings you nothing but health and happiness.
And continued reading, of course, of my blog.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Title Lyric: New Year's Eve by The Eagles
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
When I'm in my sledding gear. . .
December 30, 2010
To prove that I could work at Starbucks, I spent several hours yesterday morning, after dropping off the kids to work, sitting at my own little table, headphones snug in my ears, and worked away.
Coding data.
My project: I am attempting to follow the lead of a very famous symbolic interactionist, Herbert Blumer. In the 1930s he published the results of an extensive study examining movies, crime and delinquency, specifically: How do motion pictures influence people's decisions to commit crime?
They don't.
That was his primary result.
Blumer used multiple tools to collect his data with a large number of participants.
Including the "film autobiography."
THAT is the part I have modified into an assignment for my Crime and Popular Film class.
And after 5 years of teaching this course, I have amassed almost 4000 pages of undergraduate student responses to a series of questions they answer over a period of six weeks during the course.
They analyze their responses and write a final paper.
I have kept the responses.
Not sure, initially, what I was going to do with them, but not willing to recycle them, either.
Which is the story of my life.
I don't throw away anything.
But that's for another time.
I am working on analyzing only one of the six questions, where I asked the students to write several pages about how they understood gender in the context of crime films.
Instead of 4000 pages of data, I am only looking at 356 pages.
Which is what I was trying to do Tuesday evening before we were hijacked by the woman who was compelled to tell us her life story in two hours.
Hence why I was sitting in Starbucks, coffee beside me, listening to music, coding data.
And then *I* was distracted.
By the only thing, short of a puppy or dog, that could distract me.
Since, as far as I know, puppies and dogs aren't allowed in Starbucks.
A baby.
More specifically, a twenty-six day old baby girl.
I love babies.
For the longest time after Stephen and I got together, I wanted another baby.
And most of the time I still do want another baby.
But I have resigned myself to waiting for grandchildren.
Which I don't want right away, thank you very much.
But certainly within the next ten years, provided any one of my own children are able to look after an infant.
At this point, I'm doubtful.
This little bundle was so cute, sleeping her portable car seat, snug, content, with the cutest little pink cap covering her head.
I tried to resist.
I really did.
I turned my music up.
Turned my chair in such a way that I couldn't see this little angel out of my peripheral vision.
Buried myself in the at-that-second-not-so-stimulating-data.
All to no avail.
The pull, the power, the strength of the sweetness of that little bundle was too strong.
And I, too weak to resist.
The music was paused.
The headphones came out.
The chair turned around.
The inevitable question, "How old is she?" asked.
The conversation started.
The mother of this adorable child was also quite lovely.
Plus, she had a look I recognized from my own early days of motherhood.
The look that results from waking up one morning and realizing the only person you talk with for most of your day doesn't talk back.
The I-would-really-love-if-some-sane-and-normal-looking-mother-would-talk-with-me-for-just-a-few-minutes-so-I-don't-forget-what-adult-conversation-sounds-like.
But instead she got me.
I tried my best.
We talked for a half hour or so about babies while I stared longingly into the sleeping face of her newborn babe.
Her husband flitted here and there, looking at books, sitting long enough to join briefly in our conversation.
Once comfortable with me, she shared the other reason she was in Starbucks and avoiding returning home.
Her in-laws had arrived two days after the baby was born and were staying until mid-January.
I have been blessed with wonderful in-laws, but I have heard horror stories from others about their in-law experiences.
So I could, to some extent, sympathize.
Escaping the "love" daughters-in-law experience from their mothers-in-law has even provided fodder for reality tv programs.
So who was I to judge her need to get away for a couple of hours, and then attempt to prolong the return home with a stop at Starbucks?
Unfortunately, as all good things do, our time ended when the little baby opened her eyes and signaled that feeding would soon be required, leaving Mum to pack everything up and go in search of her husband.
And leaving me to return to work and wonder,
"I hope I didn't do to her what the crazy woman from last night did to me!"
The kids have been working everyday since Boxing Day.
And will continue to do so right up until they go back to school.
Em is on day 5 of a ten day stretch.
Keith may have a day off next week, but I'm not sure.
And Mer has worked so many doubles this week that she may as well move her bed into the theater.
Not that I'm complaining.
But it has meant that I'm not seeing them as much as I normally do over the holidays.
Last night, tricked into thinking they would all be here for dinner, I prepared a feast of Dijon chicken, white rice, sweet potatoes and a veggie stir fry.
Only to be informed that Mer had picked up another double and Em was staying after work to see a movie with her friends.
Leaving Keith, alone, to fill the void created by working children.
And even he wasn't willing to give up too much of his time to spend with his child-lonely mother who just wanted to be surrounded by the love of her three children.
At least long enough to eat dinner, anyway.
Keith graced us with his presence at dinner last evening, in between finishing work and drunken sledding with his friends last night.
Yes.
Drunken sledding.
Because apparently, sober sledding, that is, flying down hill at sound breaking speeds is fun . . . .
. . . .flying down hill at sound breaking speeds is MORE fun if you have managed to compromise your speech and motor skills and obliterate hundreds of thousands of brain cells at the same time.
My son, who clearly does NOT want to show off his intelligence, thought this would be fun and in the process of hurling down ice laden hills on a piece of plastic while inebriated, broke the arm on his glasses.
Requiring, for the time being, tape to keep them together and on his face.
It isn't bad enough that he does this, but then, because he is my son, he feels the burning need, the tug of the mother-son bond, to share with me his midnight inebriated escapades.
These tales usually begin with, "Guess what happened last night, Mum."
Even I am not that creative, and have to wait for him to regale me with his sordid tales.
And occasionally those of his older sister.
Who apparently, had some adventures of her own last evening.
If I had of ever felt the need to share any of my own youthful larks with my mother, or, worse, actually shared them with her, I'd be the one in a nursing home right now.
With bones that would never heal properly.
Ever.
Given his hair, had he kept his mouth shut, I would have never noticed the Scotch tape holding his glasses together.
But now, because I have been armed with knowledge, I feel obligated to do something about it.
Meaning next week, at some point, I'll have to take him to the optometrist and get them fixed.
Or rather, I will drive him to the optometrist .
He can tell them any story he wants.
But I would caution him to leave out the drunk part.
He is home now, wandering around in his housecoat.
Popping in and out of the kitchen sharing stories with me about other escapades last evening.
And availing himself of the comforts of home.
Food.
Heat.
Laundry machines.
Chugging just below me, attempting to rid his clothes of the remnants of Keith's adventures.
Last evening, just after eating supper and before departing for the madcap mayhem of the evening he said to me,
"You know that once the term starts, I'll stop having so much fun, right?"
Just how am I supposed to respond to that???
Title Lyric: Sledding Gear by Hold Tight!
To prove that I could work at Starbucks, I spent several hours yesterday morning, after dropping off the kids to work, sitting at my own little table, headphones snug in my ears, and worked away.
Coding data.
My project: I am attempting to follow the lead of a very famous symbolic interactionist, Herbert Blumer. In the 1930s he published the results of an extensive study examining movies, crime and delinquency, specifically: How do motion pictures influence people's decisions to commit crime?
They don't.
That was his primary result.
Blumer used multiple tools to collect his data with a large number of participants.
Including the "film autobiography."
THAT is the part I have modified into an assignment for my Crime and Popular Film class.
And after 5 years of teaching this course, I have amassed almost 4000 pages of undergraduate student responses to a series of questions they answer over a period of six weeks during the course.
They analyze their responses and write a final paper.
I have kept the responses.
Not sure, initially, what I was going to do with them, but not willing to recycle them, either.
Which is the story of my life.
I don't throw away anything.
But that's for another time.
I am working on analyzing only one of the six questions, where I asked the students to write several pages about how they understood gender in the context of crime films.
Instead of 4000 pages of data, I am only looking at 356 pages.
Which is what I was trying to do Tuesday evening before we were hijacked by the woman who was compelled to tell us her life story in two hours.
Hence why I was sitting in Starbucks, coffee beside me, listening to music, coding data.
And then *I* was distracted.
By the only thing, short of a puppy or dog, that could distract me.
Since, as far as I know, puppies and dogs aren't allowed in Starbucks.
A baby.
More specifically, a twenty-six day old baby girl.
I love babies.
For the longest time after Stephen and I got together, I wanted another baby.
And most of the time I still do want another baby.
But I have resigned myself to waiting for grandchildren.
Which I don't want right away, thank you very much.
But certainly within the next ten years, provided any one of my own children are able to look after an infant.
At this point, I'm doubtful.
This little bundle was so cute, sleeping her portable car seat, snug, content, with the cutest little pink cap covering her head.
I tried to resist.
I really did.
I turned my music up.
Turned my chair in such a way that I couldn't see this little angel out of my peripheral vision.
Buried myself in the at-that-second-not-so-stimulating-data.
All to no avail.
The pull, the power, the strength of the sweetness of that little bundle was too strong.
And I, too weak to resist.
The music was paused.
The headphones came out.
The chair turned around.
The inevitable question, "How old is she?" asked.
The conversation started.
The mother of this adorable child was also quite lovely.
Plus, she had a look I recognized from my own early days of motherhood.
The look that results from waking up one morning and realizing the only person you talk with for most of your day doesn't talk back.
The I-would-really-love-if-some-sane-and-normal-looking-mother-would-talk-with-me-for-just-a-few-minutes-so-I-don't-forget-what-adult-conversation-sounds-like.
But instead she got me.
I tried my best.
We talked for a half hour or so about babies while I stared longingly into the sleeping face of her newborn babe.
Her husband flitted here and there, looking at books, sitting long enough to join briefly in our conversation.
Once comfortable with me, she shared the other reason she was in Starbucks and avoiding returning home.
Her in-laws had arrived two days after the baby was born and were staying until mid-January.
I have been blessed with wonderful in-laws, but I have heard horror stories from others about their in-law experiences.
So I could, to some extent, sympathize.
Escaping the "love" daughters-in-law experience from their mothers-in-law has even provided fodder for reality tv programs.
So who was I to judge her need to get away for a couple of hours, and then attempt to prolong the return home with a stop at Starbucks?
Unfortunately, as all good things do, our time ended when the little baby opened her eyes and signaled that feeding would soon be required, leaving Mum to pack everything up and go in search of her husband.
And leaving me to return to work and wonder,
"I hope I didn't do to her what the crazy woman from last night did to me!"
The kids have been working everyday since Boxing Day.
And will continue to do so right up until they go back to school.
Em is on day 5 of a ten day stretch.
Keith may have a day off next week, but I'm not sure.
And Mer has worked so many doubles this week that she may as well move her bed into the theater.
Not that I'm complaining.
But it has meant that I'm not seeing them as much as I normally do over the holidays.
Last night, tricked into thinking they would all be here for dinner, I prepared a feast of Dijon chicken, white rice, sweet potatoes and a veggie stir fry.
Only to be informed that Mer had picked up another double and Em was staying after work to see a movie with her friends.
Leaving Keith, alone, to fill the void created by working children.
And even he wasn't willing to give up too much of his time to spend with his child-lonely mother who just wanted to be surrounded by the love of her three children.
At least long enough to eat dinner, anyway.
Keith graced us with his presence at dinner last evening, in between finishing work and drunken sledding with his friends last night.
Yes.
Drunken sledding.
Because apparently, sober sledding, that is, flying down hill at sound breaking speeds is fun . . . .
. . . .flying down hill at sound breaking speeds is MORE fun if you have managed to compromise your speech and motor skills and obliterate hundreds of thousands of brain cells at the same time.
My son, who clearly does NOT want to show off his intelligence, thought this would be fun and in the process of hurling down ice laden hills on a piece of plastic while inebriated, broke the arm on his glasses.
Requiring, for the time being, tape to keep them together and on his face.
It isn't bad enough that he does this, but then, because he is my son, he feels the burning need, the tug of the mother-son bond, to share with me his midnight inebriated escapades.
These tales usually begin with, "Guess what happened last night, Mum."
Even I am not that creative, and have to wait for him to regale me with his sordid tales.
And occasionally those of his older sister.
Who apparently, had some adventures of her own last evening.
If I had of ever felt the need to share any of my own youthful larks with my mother, or, worse, actually shared them with her, I'd be the one in a nursing home right now.
With bones that would never heal properly.
Ever.
Given his hair, had he kept his mouth shut, I would have never noticed the Scotch tape holding his glasses together.
But now, because I have been armed with knowledge, I feel obligated to do something about it.
Meaning next week, at some point, I'll have to take him to the optometrist and get them fixed.
Or rather, I will drive him to the optometrist .
He can tell them any story he wants.
But I would caution him to leave out the drunk part.
He is home now, wandering around in his housecoat.
Popping in and out of the kitchen sharing stories with me about other escapades last evening.
And availing himself of the comforts of home.
Food.
Heat.
Laundry machines.
Chugging just below me, attempting to rid his clothes of the remnants of Keith's adventures.
Last evening, just after eating supper and before departing for the madcap mayhem of the evening he said to me,
"You know that once the term starts, I'll stop having so much fun, right?"
Just how am I supposed to respond to that???
Title Lyric: Sledding Gear by Hold Tight!
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Don't you get tired. . .
December 29, 2010
THAT was some snowstorm!
Certainly not the worst I've ever seen, but bad enough.
Especially when you have to schlepp three kids to work and back.
But we survived.
I kept mentioning to Stephen that, perhaps, we should go outside and shovel the driveway, as Em had to be to work the next morning for 11.00 am, and I didn't particularly relish the idea of crawling out of bed at 8.00 am to shovel.
"Oh no. It'll be fine. And I'll get up and help."
Red flags didn't fly, then swooped.
So while Stephen was outside, in the dark, shoveling the back deck and the front step, I put down my work and put on my longjohns.
And warm pants.
And a long sleeve v-neck shirt.
And a long sleeve sweater.
And two pairs of socks.
A scarf.
Winter boots.
Winter coat.
Gloves.
And then took off my glasses because a. snowshoveling doesn't exactly require minute precision, and b. they just fog up anyway.
Out I went.
And started shoveling the driveway.
Because I knew that there was no way Stephen would go back into the house while I was outside, alone, in the dark, shoveling on a cold, snowy, blustery, wind-blowing-your-panties-off-but-leaving-your-pants-on night.
Why such shameless trickery?
Seven years together, three of them married, has provided more than enough empiricial evidence to support the claim that there are two Stephen's in my life.
Because one just isn't enough, apparently.
Evening Stephen will make all sorts of grand claims and promises regarding such things as getting out of bed to shovel snow, meeting those early morning car appointments, drive someone somewhere, get the mall to avoid the psychotic Christmas rush. . . .
Morning Stephen is a whole other kettle of fish. He feels no obligation to honour the promises made by his arch-nemesis, Evening Stephen.
He doesn't even like him.
Calls him all sorts of names, uses profanities, generally becomes enraged enough to stomp around the house pulling his hair out when he hears of the completely irrational and unfair promises made by Evening Stephen.
Morning Stephen refuses to get out of bed to shovel snow, leaving me to do it on my own.
Morning Stephen reschedules those early morning car appointments.
Morning Stephen pokes me to get out of bed and drive *my* kids to work.
Morning Stephen has us arriving at the mall three hours later than originally planned, and then grumbles and complains about the crowds.
So no.
I do not take the promises of Evening Stephen to heart.
And therefore must resort to deception and artifice to ensure that what I want done in the evening is, indeed, done in the evening.
Not put off only to leave me dealing with that boneheaded cretin Morning Stephen.
As it is, I have to deal with him when the term begins, 4 mornings out of 5, trying to get him out of bed and amiable enough not to eat the heads off small birds while getting ready to teach his 9.00 am class.
I have nightmares about this coming term.
I really do.
Last evening, Emily, who is as far as I know this very minute, on Day 4 of 10 day stretch of alientated labour to Empire Theaters, wanted to go shopping with her Christmas money while the sales were still happening.
If she had of waited much longer, the only things left on sale would have been sail size granny panties and orthopedic shoes.
I thought it would be nice if Stephen and I met her after work, had dinner with her at Teriyaki, the only place in the mall foodcourt where I don't risk violating my new eating lifestyle, or, having a cardiac arrest as soon as I've finished eating.
Stephen was salivating for Taco Bell.
Not in front of me, thank you very much.
And then while Em shopped her little heart out and spent her riches, we could sit in Starbucks and work.
Me on my new project.
Stephen on his dissertation proposal.
You know what they say about the best laid plans.
All was well until we had settled in to work.
Sitting at our little dime sized table, both sets of books and papers teetering precariously because Stephen refused to use two tables.
Coffees hot and steaming beside us, tantalizing us with their aromas.
It was quite lovely.
Until the woman beside-sort-of-behind-us dropped her glasses.
Being polite, I moved the chair upon which were our coats, bags, scarves, etc. so she could ascertain whether or not her glasses were under the chair.
Sometimes it just doesn't pay to be polite.
TWO HOURS later, she has told us all about her legal blindness, her dogs, that she woke THAT morning wanting to take criminology, her 90+ neighbour who doesn't remember where he was born, but may be some sort of 21st Century prophet, her age, her kids, her partner, trips to the south shore of Nova Scotia, Quakerism, shed building in a commune in BC in the 1970s, anthropology, repeated queries, "Do you know so and so. . .?" gardening, spirituality, light in her home, former and current partners, previous drug use, education in NB. . . .
Stephen packed his books up after the first hour.
I kept on trucking, determined to continue working.
Stephen went to the bathroom.
I don't think she even noticed he left.
He came back.
She kept talking.
I went to the bathroom.
While doing my thing and minding my business, I hear a voice SING out,
"Is there a Dawne in here?" and then she continued to talk with me oblivious to the fact that I was on the toilet.
The only thing that saved me from an embarrasing toilet conversation with a complete stranger was an embarrasing toilet conversation with Emily, who happened to call me at that very moment.
NEVER again will I be so happy to talk on the phone while sitting on the toilet.
She eventually left.
And when I emerged from the bathroom, she had moved over to our table, my seat, and was still talking to Stephen and an acquaintance who'd had the misfortune to stop by and wish Stephen a Happy New Year.
When Stephen saw me, his eyes pleaded, silently screamed, "HELP!"
The two teenagers accompanying this woman were getting to the point where they were ready to take the car keys and leave without her.
I LOVE talking with people.
I really do.
Anyone who knows me knows this is true.
However, there is something to be said about subtle social cues, such as noticing the work we have laid out on the table before us, and not-so-subtle social cues, such as, "I think you're kids are getting restless."
By the time she finally left, Stephen had a headache and just wanted to go home.
He has vowed never to work again at Starbucks.
Me, I am always willing to give it another go.
Hence, after depositing all of my children at Empire Theaters this morning, I will retire to Starbucks to work.
With my ipod and headphones in tow.
Not making eye contact with anyone.
And not even God will be able to help the person who thinks it may be nice to start up a conversation with me.
Title Lyric: It Won't Go Away by Crosby, Stills and Nash
THAT was some snowstorm!
Certainly not the worst I've ever seen, but bad enough.
Especially when you have to schlepp three kids to work and back.
But we survived.
I kept mentioning to Stephen that, perhaps, we should go outside and shovel the driveway, as Em had to be to work the next morning for 11.00 am, and I didn't particularly relish the idea of crawling out of bed at 8.00 am to shovel.
"Oh no. It'll be fine. And I'll get up and help."
Red flags didn't fly, then swooped.
So while Stephen was outside, in the dark, shoveling the back deck and the front step, I put down my work and put on my longjohns.
And warm pants.
And a long sleeve v-neck shirt.
And a long sleeve sweater.
And two pairs of socks.
A scarf.
Winter boots.
Winter coat.
Gloves.
And then took off my glasses because a. snowshoveling doesn't exactly require minute precision, and b. they just fog up anyway.
Out I went.
And started shoveling the driveway.
Because I knew that there was no way Stephen would go back into the house while I was outside, alone, in the dark, shoveling on a cold, snowy, blustery, wind-blowing-your-panties-off-but-leaving-your-pants-on night.
Why such shameless trickery?
Seven years together, three of them married, has provided more than enough empiricial evidence to support the claim that there are two Stephen's in my life.
Because one just isn't enough, apparently.
Evening Stephen will make all sorts of grand claims and promises regarding such things as getting out of bed to shovel snow, meeting those early morning car appointments, drive someone somewhere, get the mall to avoid the psychotic Christmas rush. . . .
Morning Stephen is a whole other kettle of fish. He feels no obligation to honour the promises made by his arch-nemesis, Evening Stephen.
He doesn't even like him.
Calls him all sorts of names, uses profanities, generally becomes enraged enough to stomp around the house pulling his hair out when he hears of the completely irrational and unfair promises made by Evening Stephen.
Morning Stephen refuses to get out of bed to shovel snow, leaving me to do it on my own.
Morning Stephen reschedules those early morning car appointments.
Morning Stephen pokes me to get out of bed and drive *my* kids to work.
Morning Stephen has us arriving at the mall three hours later than originally planned, and then grumbles and complains about the crowds.
So no.
I do not take the promises of Evening Stephen to heart.
And therefore must resort to deception and artifice to ensure that what I want done in the evening is, indeed, done in the evening.
Not put off only to leave me dealing with that boneheaded cretin Morning Stephen.
As it is, I have to deal with him when the term begins, 4 mornings out of 5, trying to get him out of bed and amiable enough not to eat the heads off small birds while getting ready to teach his 9.00 am class.
I have nightmares about this coming term.
I really do.
Last evening, Emily, who is as far as I know this very minute, on Day 4 of 10 day stretch of alientated labour to Empire Theaters, wanted to go shopping with her Christmas money while the sales were still happening.
If she had of waited much longer, the only things left on sale would have been sail size granny panties and orthopedic shoes.
I thought it would be nice if Stephen and I met her after work, had dinner with her at Teriyaki, the only place in the mall foodcourt where I don't risk violating my new eating lifestyle, or, having a cardiac arrest as soon as I've finished eating.
Stephen was salivating for Taco Bell.
Not in front of me, thank you very much.
And then while Em shopped her little heart out and spent her riches, we could sit in Starbucks and work.
Me on my new project.
Stephen on his dissertation proposal.
You know what they say about the best laid plans.
All was well until we had settled in to work.
Sitting at our little dime sized table, both sets of books and papers teetering precariously because Stephen refused to use two tables.
Coffees hot and steaming beside us, tantalizing us with their aromas.
It was quite lovely.
Until the woman beside-sort-of-behind-us dropped her glasses.
Being polite, I moved the chair upon which were our coats, bags, scarves, etc. so she could ascertain whether or not her glasses were under the chair.
Sometimes it just doesn't pay to be polite.
TWO HOURS later, she has told us all about her legal blindness, her dogs, that she woke THAT morning wanting to take criminology, her 90+ neighbour who doesn't remember where he was born, but may be some sort of 21st Century prophet, her age, her kids, her partner, trips to the south shore of Nova Scotia, Quakerism, shed building in a commune in BC in the 1970s, anthropology, repeated queries, "Do you know so and so. . .?" gardening, spirituality, light in her home, former and current partners, previous drug use, education in NB. . . .
Stephen packed his books up after the first hour.
I kept on trucking, determined to continue working.
Stephen went to the bathroom.
I don't think she even noticed he left.
He came back.
She kept talking.
I went to the bathroom.
While doing my thing and minding my business, I hear a voice SING out,
"Is there a Dawne in here?" and then she continued to talk with me oblivious to the fact that I was on the toilet.
The only thing that saved me from an embarrasing toilet conversation with a complete stranger was an embarrasing toilet conversation with Emily, who happened to call me at that very moment.
NEVER again will I be so happy to talk on the phone while sitting on the toilet.
She eventually left.
And when I emerged from the bathroom, she had moved over to our table, my seat, and was still talking to Stephen and an acquaintance who'd had the misfortune to stop by and wish Stephen a Happy New Year.
When Stephen saw me, his eyes pleaded, silently screamed, "HELP!"
The two teenagers accompanying this woman were getting to the point where they were ready to take the car keys and leave without her.
I LOVE talking with people.
I really do.
Anyone who knows me knows this is true.
However, there is something to be said about subtle social cues, such as noticing the work we have laid out on the table before us, and not-so-subtle social cues, such as, "I think you're kids are getting restless."
By the time she finally left, Stephen had a headache and just wanted to go home.
He has vowed never to work again at Starbucks.
Me, I am always willing to give it another go.
Hence, after depositing all of my children at Empire Theaters this morning, I will retire to Starbucks to work.
With my ipod and headphones in tow.
Not making eye contact with anyone.
And not even God will be able to help the person who thinks it may be nice to start up a conversation with me.
Title Lyric: It Won't Go Away by Crosby, Stills and Nash
Monday, December 27, 2010
Would you share with me Christmas dinner?
December 27, 2010
All of you who wished for snow. . . .
. . . .I expect you here, by 10.00 THIS morning to shovel my driveway.
Keith and Mer work at 11.00, Em at 5.00.
Be on time.
Or the penalties will be harsh.
Yesterday, I did something that MAYBE happens once a year.
If I'm lucky.
Outside of getting up to finish my posting, I spent the ENTIRE day in bed.
Yup.
Stephen drove Keith and Em to work for 11.00.
He drove Mer to work for 2.30.
He made two honey cakes, vacuumed, and did who knows what else.
Me, I slept.
All day.
THE only reason I even got out of bed at all was guilt.
The kids had finished work at 5.00, and I couldn't assume Stephen was going to pick them up.
At 4.45 I hauled myself out of bed, got dressed and picked them up.
And I would have gone straight back to bed, too, if we hadn't had been invited to dinner at our friends, Sylvia and Malcolm's house.
It was a lovely, adult dinner.
Punctated with the gentle nudgings from their two black labs for some love and affection.
Which, of course, I was more than happy to provide.
As soon as we returned home, I was back in bed.
Asleep by 10.30.
Until the obnoxious sound of roaring wind woke me up at 5.00am.
The dogs misinterprested my wakefulness as an indication that I wanted to take them out.
I normally take them out in whatever I've got on.
Not this morning.
Boots, coat, mitts, scarf just to walk down three steps.
It's not the journey that's the problem.
It's the waiting.
Frankie and Tikka just presume that as their beloved ground is now covered in snow, they must assess if everything beneath the cold, wet blanket smells the same.
In spite of me asking, then pleading, then demanding that they hustle it up cause Mama is cold.
Plus, the snow itself makes the two of them crazy.
Tikka lives for this weather.
It reminds her that all she suffered during the hot, hazy days of summer wasn't for naught.
She leaps and frolicks like she was a puppy again.
And I am so okay with this.
Just not at 5.00 in the morning during a snowstorm.
Call me crazy.
Speaking of crazy.
The Nursing Home prepares a wonderful Christmas dinner.
Which is no mean feat when you're feeding the 173 people who live there, plus their relatives.
They sell 50 tickets to their dinner, maximum two guests each.
They just don't have the room for any more.
Off Dad and I go.
Me all dressed up and looking pretty, because my mother always insisted that we dress nicely for Christmas dinner.
Dad looking like Dad.
The grumbling starts when my father, after getting the seat he wanted, right at the end closest to the kitchen to ensure early food service because he slept in, didn't get his breakfast or his tea (which is as close to a national incident as my father gets), is asked to move over smitch to allow enough room for one of the wheelchair bound residents, who had no family come for the dinner (but they did come and get her afterwards for the remainder of the day).
At first he didn't budge.
I not-so-gently nudged him and said, "Dad. Move over to make room for Bessie" (a pseudonym).
"I'm already at the end of the table."
"DAD. Move over just a little bit. No one is asking you to relocate to the kitchen."
He did.
And complained about being cramped for the remainder of the meal.
And announcing when he was finished and got up,
"Oh my legs are so cramped from being forced up against that table leg."
And people wonder where I get my penchant for dramaqueenness.
Next was the tea trauma.
My father has lived on his own for essentially the last three and a half years, give or take a couple of weeks.
And like his father, and his father's father, there is a predilection towards hermitism.
A trait they welcome.
He does what he wants, when he wants.
Just the way he's always wanted it.
Including ensuring his 7 liter mug of tea, made just the way he likes it, each and every morning.
Continuing, of course, throughout the day.
So the fact that he had overslept, missing his tea and his breakfast, did not make for a happy dad.
Add to that the cups at the nursing home do not resemble his 7 liter mug, and are more like those you would find in civilized dining establishments, because what nursing home wants their already bathroom frequenting residents to have access to 7 liters of anything liquid at one time.
He sits at the end of the table, ready to pounce when the already-running-off-her-feet-but- for-some-reason-still-cheerful kitchen staff member, Daisy (again, a pseudonym) comes out of the kitchen bearing the tea pot.
He drank that tea like he'd been stranded on a desert island for 20 years.
And then, like an overgrown and crotchety Oliver Twist, he holds his cup up and asks, "Please, ma'am, can I have some more???"
I thought just leaving him the pot would have made for a far easier meal.
At least on the tea front.
He practically tackled the woman with coffee pot for my mother, who was starting to launch her own stream of objections over the emptyness of her cup.
After this, you can imagine what I did when they came around with the trays of red and white wine.
Once they'd been caffeinated, they were ready to start on the next issue.
Food.
Luckily, there was a basket of homemade rolls on the table.
And like I used to do with my own children when they were smaller and complaining because things weren't moving fast enough to suit them, I buttered each of them a roll, and gave it to them.
That kept them quiet for a few minutes.
And allowed my dad to state upon consuming said roll,
"There. Now I've had breakfast. I'm ready for dinner."
They were only outdone by the resident sitting next to my mother.
When they brought her to the table, my mother rolled her eyes and curled her lip in disgust.
Merry Christmas to you too, Mum.
Upon pushing this resident, we'll call her Ingrid, to the table, the staff member leans in and says,
"Now Ingrid remember it's Christmas and you're going to have to wait your turn for dinner. You can't yell and scream to be served right away."
So when I was passing rolls to Mum and Dad, I heard a screech that just about knocked me out of my chair,
"GIMME ONE!"
You know I did.
Ingrid consumed that roll in a matter of seconds in spite on not having any teeth.
She has dentures, but she pops them out and puts them on the table when she eats.
I guess the staff didn't think this would go over well with the guests.
After dealing with Mum and Dad, dentures on the table would have been a holiday.
Finally, the meal was served.
Roast turkey, gravy, stuffing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, peas, squash. . .
It was lovely.
But of course, my mother sent her plate back when they had the audacity to forget she didn't want potatoes.
And my father praised the food, I'll give him that.
But he complained about the portions.
When they came around with the four kinds of homemade pie, apple, lemon meringue, pumpkin, and raisin, I was so stressed it was all I could do not to just ask for one of each.
Twice over.
All I could think of was that I had to go through this all over again at my house.
And I did.
Once dinner was over, Dad went outside for his after dinner cigarette and to put Mum's birdfeeder back in the tree, because, much to my mother's outrage, the squirrels knocked it off the branch.
And Mum and I waited for Stephen and the kids to arrive.
Because at this point, my mother hadn't made up her mind whether or not she was indeed coming to my house for dinner.
What she was really doing was trying to come up with a plausible reason not to come and her favourite, "there is snow on the ground" wasn't going to fly as outside, the weather resembled October more than December.
And we waited and waited and waited for Stephen and the kids.
They finally arrive, we exchange gifts, Mer grumbles under her breath about having to go to work and its already 2.15 and she needs at least two hours to get ready and we really have to go.
Family resemblance between Mer and Dad?????
Mum eventually agrees to come to dinner.
Only because she can't come up with an excuse not to.
By the time she makes up her mind, I have about an hour to get home, get everything else ready for dinner before I come back to pick her up and take her to my house.
And how come my father doesn't do this?
THAT is definitely a story for another time.
At home I bark orders like a 5 star general.
EVERYONE, including my father is put to work.
Well, Dad actually had to sit at the kitchen table with his 7 liter mug of tea first.
Because Frankie doesn't remember Dad from our horrific summer farmhouse visit, therefore he needs time to adjust to this stranger among us.
Meaning Frankie is in the crate and Dad is sitting at the kitchen table, in the corner because the sun is too bright inspite of my drawing the curtains as tight as they would go, not making any eye contact with Frankie.
Eventually Frankie lays down in his crate.
His signal that Dad could at least get up and move around with explosive barking emerging from my Frankie.
My father is one of those people where no matter waht you're doing, he has a better way of doing it.
I used to rail internally everytime he would do this.
Now, I just step aside and let him do it.
It saves both of us a lot of stress.
Besides, I still had to get my mother.
I left dad in the kitchen with the broccoli and cauliflower happily doing his thing.
Stephen was doing his favourite thing, running around the house with the vacuum.
And I left Keith in charge with explicit instructions to not let anyone touch anything until I got back.
Em, thankfully, came with me to collect my mother.
This is no easy feat.
When I arrived back at the nursing home to get her, she was ready.
Her winter coat, two sizes too big for her, was wrapped around her, with the zipper as high up as she could get it.
Em grabs the walker, I push Mum in the wheelchair out to the car.
We have done this many, many times before.
So getting her in and out of the car isn't the problem.
Getting her in the house. . .that's another matter.
She doesn't negotiate stairs very well.
Plus, since she fell and broke her hip, she has an acute fear of falling.
We arrive at my house and she sighs.
A sigh of determination that she will get into my house in one peice.
She refers to this process as "Stephen and Dawne dragging Janet!"
I park our car as close to the three steps leading to our walkway as possible.
Me on one side, Stephen on the other, Em behind us with walker.
We proceed.
And my mother, with her talon-like finger nails, reminds me of how much this walk into our house is costing her.
We get her up the first three steps, she negotiates her walker along the walkway to the next set of three steps, and somehow, someway, she gets into the house, and uses her walker to get to the kitchen table, where she sits in her chair with triumph, pride and exhaustion.
First order of business: coffee.
My mother likes her coffee.
Growing up, I don't remember her without a cup of coffee in front of her and the pot brewing from morn til night.
She is the only person I know who could drink an entire pot of coffee and still go to bed and sleep soundly.
It has to scalding hot and strong enough to peel paint.
I've seen grown men cry over trying to drink my mother's coffee.
Next: dinner.
What.
A.
Fiasco.
Trying to herd everyone to the table while the food is still hot is a challenge not unlike that of Perseus in Clash of the Titans.
The biggest challenge, however, is getting Stephen to stay at the table.
As I have said before, eating with Stephen is like trying to eat with a jack in the box that is plagued with ants in its pants.
I try to block him in by making him sit beside me, with Mum on my other side.
Because I have to be there in case she needs anything.
Like the bathroom.
My ill-equipped for the mobility challenged bathroom.
My dad took her the first time.
The only time.
And of course, it came to pass that there was no toilet paper in the bathroom, information my father is only too willing to pass on to me.
I ask Keith to get more toilet paper from upstairs.
Which would have been fine if Keith wasn't indisposed in the upstairs bathroom.
Eventually, toilet paper was procured.
And Mum grabs me and pleads that I take her to the bathroom if she has to go again.
We manage to get through dinner without me throwing myself off the back deck.
Everyone was unusually well behaved.
Only because we had company.
Josh.
Thank God he was there.
No dirty jokes from my dad, which always begin with an elbow to Keith's ribs and the "Hey Keith, I've got a joke for ya" or my mother complaining, loudly, that my father doesn't come to see her enough, or Mer (who was at work) feeling the need to share her evening escapades with my parents, or Em looking like she wants the floor to open up and swallow her, taking her anywhere but where she is . . .
Just Stephen jumping up and down from the table like he had a bad case of crabs.
It was almost civilized.
I owe Josh.
Big time.
Dinner ends with happily satiated family and friends.
Sweet potatoes, garlic mashed potatoes, parsnips in a tarragon cream sauce, brown sugar carrots, two roast turkeys, stuffing, steamed broccoli and cauliflower, homemade cranberry sauce, mincemeat and pumpkin pie with whipping cream. . . .
Lots of leftovers to give to our guests.
As soon as the last morsel had been consumed, and my mother had her next trip to the bathroom, she started on about leaving to get back to the nursing home in time for her pills.
The journey from car to house is no where near as traumatic as the journey from house to car.
Because for my mother, it's downhill.
There are no steps or hills at the nursing home.
Stephen and I, again on either side of her, manage to get her back into the car, while my father watches from the window.
Of course.
She was so exhausted from her outing she didn't even complain about my driving.
She just asked me if I would help her into her pajamas.
Which I did, of course.
And I wanted to stay with her a while.
Not just because I love her and want to spend time with her.
But also because it would mean I would arrive home after the dishes were done.
Alas, there was one errand left to run.
Mer.
Who had to work and missed all the excitement, and food, associated with Christmas dinner.
I made her a care package, and after settling my mother in for the night, I drove to the theater to give Mer her dinner.
And listen to her complain about not wanting to work and her boyfriend.
Who is no longer her boyfriend as of yesterday.
And you wonder why I spent all day in bed yesterday.
I.
Was.
Recovering.
In fact, just writing about it has exhausted me all over again.
It's only 7.07 am.
I think I'll go back to bed.
Until its time to get up again, and take the kids to work.
Which will be no trouble because the snow lovers will have been here to shovel me out.
Title Lyric: Christmas Dinner by Peter, Paul and Mary
All of you who wished for snow. . . .
. . . .I expect you here, by 10.00 THIS morning to shovel my driveway.
Keith and Mer work at 11.00, Em at 5.00.
Be on time.
Or the penalties will be harsh.
Yesterday, I did something that MAYBE happens once a year.
If I'm lucky.
Outside of getting up to finish my posting, I spent the ENTIRE day in bed.
Yup.
Stephen drove Keith and Em to work for 11.00.
He drove Mer to work for 2.30.
He made two honey cakes, vacuumed, and did who knows what else.
Me, I slept.
All day.
THE only reason I even got out of bed at all was guilt.
The kids had finished work at 5.00, and I couldn't assume Stephen was going to pick them up.
At 4.45 I hauled myself out of bed, got dressed and picked them up.
And I would have gone straight back to bed, too, if we hadn't had been invited to dinner at our friends, Sylvia and Malcolm's house.
It was a lovely, adult dinner.
Punctated with the gentle nudgings from their two black labs for some love and affection.
Which, of course, I was more than happy to provide.
As soon as we returned home, I was back in bed.
Asleep by 10.30.
Until the obnoxious sound of roaring wind woke me up at 5.00am.
The dogs misinterprested my wakefulness as an indication that I wanted to take them out.
I normally take them out in whatever I've got on.
Not this morning.
Boots, coat, mitts, scarf just to walk down three steps.
It's not the journey that's the problem.
It's the waiting.
Frankie and Tikka just presume that as their beloved ground is now covered in snow, they must assess if everything beneath the cold, wet blanket smells the same.
In spite of me asking, then pleading, then demanding that they hustle it up cause Mama is cold.
Plus, the snow itself makes the two of them crazy.
Tikka lives for this weather.
It reminds her that all she suffered during the hot, hazy days of summer wasn't for naught.
She leaps and frolicks like she was a puppy again.
And I am so okay with this.
Just not at 5.00 in the morning during a snowstorm.
Call me crazy.
Speaking of crazy.
The Nursing Home prepares a wonderful Christmas dinner.
Which is no mean feat when you're feeding the 173 people who live there, plus their relatives.
They sell 50 tickets to their dinner, maximum two guests each.
They just don't have the room for any more.
Off Dad and I go.
Me all dressed up and looking pretty, because my mother always insisted that we dress nicely for Christmas dinner.
Dad looking like Dad.
The grumbling starts when my father, after getting the seat he wanted, right at the end closest to the kitchen to ensure early food service because he slept in, didn't get his breakfast or his tea (which is as close to a national incident as my father gets), is asked to move over smitch to allow enough room for one of the wheelchair bound residents, who had no family come for the dinner (but they did come and get her afterwards for the remainder of the day).
At first he didn't budge.
I not-so-gently nudged him and said, "Dad. Move over to make room for Bessie" (a pseudonym).
"I'm already at the end of the table."
"DAD. Move over just a little bit. No one is asking you to relocate to the kitchen."
He did.
And complained about being cramped for the remainder of the meal.
And announcing when he was finished and got up,
"Oh my legs are so cramped from being forced up against that table leg."
And people wonder where I get my penchant for dramaqueenness.
Next was the tea trauma.
My father has lived on his own for essentially the last three and a half years, give or take a couple of weeks.
And like his father, and his father's father, there is a predilection towards hermitism.
A trait they welcome.
He does what he wants, when he wants.
Just the way he's always wanted it.
Including ensuring his 7 liter mug of tea, made just the way he likes it, each and every morning.
Continuing, of course, throughout the day.
So the fact that he had overslept, missing his tea and his breakfast, did not make for a happy dad.
Add to that the cups at the nursing home do not resemble his 7 liter mug, and are more like those you would find in civilized dining establishments, because what nursing home wants their already bathroom frequenting residents to have access to 7 liters of anything liquid at one time.
He sits at the end of the table, ready to pounce when the already-running-off-her-feet-but- for-some-reason-still-cheerful kitchen staff member, Daisy (again, a pseudonym) comes out of the kitchen bearing the tea pot.
He drank that tea like he'd been stranded on a desert island for 20 years.
And then, like an overgrown and crotchety Oliver Twist, he holds his cup up and asks, "Please, ma'am, can I have some more???"
I thought just leaving him the pot would have made for a far easier meal.
At least on the tea front.
He practically tackled the woman with coffee pot for my mother, who was starting to launch her own stream of objections over the emptyness of her cup.
After this, you can imagine what I did when they came around with the trays of red and white wine.
Once they'd been caffeinated, they were ready to start on the next issue.
Food.
Luckily, there was a basket of homemade rolls on the table.
And like I used to do with my own children when they were smaller and complaining because things weren't moving fast enough to suit them, I buttered each of them a roll, and gave it to them.
That kept them quiet for a few minutes.
And allowed my dad to state upon consuming said roll,
"There. Now I've had breakfast. I'm ready for dinner."
They were only outdone by the resident sitting next to my mother.
When they brought her to the table, my mother rolled her eyes and curled her lip in disgust.
Merry Christmas to you too, Mum.
Upon pushing this resident, we'll call her Ingrid, to the table, the staff member leans in and says,
"Now Ingrid remember it's Christmas and you're going to have to wait your turn for dinner. You can't yell and scream to be served right away."
So when I was passing rolls to Mum and Dad, I heard a screech that just about knocked me out of my chair,
"GIMME ONE!"
You know I did.
Ingrid consumed that roll in a matter of seconds in spite on not having any teeth.
She has dentures, but she pops them out and puts them on the table when she eats.
I guess the staff didn't think this would go over well with the guests.
After dealing with Mum and Dad, dentures on the table would have been a holiday.
Finally, the meal was served.
Roast turkey, gravy, stuffing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, peas, squash. . .
It was lovely.
But of course, my mother sent her plate back when they had the audacity to forget she didn't want potatoes.
And my father praised the food, I'll give him that.
But he complained about the portions.
When they came around with the four kinds of homemade pie, apple, lemon meringue, pumpkin, and raisin, I was so stressed it was all I could do not to just ask for one of each.
Twice over.
All I could think of was that I had to go through this all over again at my house.
And I did.
Once dinner was over, Dad went outside for his after dinner cigarette and to put Mum's birdfeeder back in the tree, because, much to my mother's outrage, the squirrels knocked it off the branch.
And Mum and I waited for Stephen and the kids to arrive.
Because at this point, my mother hadn't made up her mind whether or not she was indeed coming to my house for dinner.
What she was really doing was trying to come up with a plausible reason not to come and her favourite, "there is snow on the ground" wasn't going to fly as outside, the weather resembled October more than December.
And we waited and waited and waited for Stephen and the kids.
They finally arrive, we exchange gifts, Mer grumbles under her breath about having to go to work and its already 2.15 and she needs at least two hours to get ready and we really have to go.
Family resemblance between Mer and Dad?????
Mum eventually agrees to come to dinner.
Only because she can't come up with an excuse not to.
By the time she makes up her mind, I have about an hour to get home, get everything else ready for dinner before I come back to pick her up and take her to my house.
And how come my father doesn't do this?
THAT is definitely a story for another time.
At home I bark orders like a 5 star general.
EVERYONE, including my father is put to work.
Well, Dad actually had to sit at the kitchen table with his 7 liter mug of tea first.
Because Frankie doesn't remember Dad from our horrific summer farmhouse visit, therefore he needs time to adjust to this stranger among us.
Meaning Frankie is in the crate and Dad is sitting at the kitchen table, in the corner because the sun is too bright inspite of my drawing the curtains as tight as they would go, not making any eye contact with Frankie.
Eventually Frankie lays down in his crate.
His signal that Dad could at least get up and move around with explosive barking emerging from my Frankie.
My father is one of those people where no matter waht you're doing, he has a better way of doing it.
I used to rail internally everytime he would do this.
Now, I just step aside and let him do it.
It saves both of us a lot of stress.
Besides, I still had to get my mother.
I left dad in the kitchen with the broccoli and cauliflower happily doing his thing.
Stephen was doing his favourite thing, running around the house with the vacuum.
And I left Keith in charge with explicit instructions to not let anyone touch anything until I got back.
Em, thankfully, came with me to collect my mother.
This is no easy feat.
When I arrived back at the nursing home to get her, she was ready.
Her winter coat, two sizes too big for her, was wrapped around her, with the zipper as high up as she could get it.
Em grabs the walker, I push Mum in the wheelchair out to the car.
We have done this many, many times before.
So getting her in and out of the car isn't the problem.
Getting her in the house. . .that's another matter.
She doesn't negotiate stairs very well.
Plus, since she fell and broke her hip, she has an acute fear of falling.
We arrive at my house and she sighs.
A sigh of determination that she will get into my house in one peice.
She refers to this process as "Stephen and Dawne dragging Janet!"
I park our car as close to the three steps leading to our walkway as possible.
Me on one side, Stephen on the other, Em behind us with walker.
We proceed.
And my mother, with her talon-like finger nails, reminds me of how much this walk into our house is costing her.
We get her up the first three steps, she negotiates her walker along the walkway to the next set of three steps, and somehow, someway, she gets into the house, and uses her walker to get to the kitchen table, where she sits in her chair with triumph, pride and exhaustion.
First order of business: coffee.
My mother likes her coffee.
Growing up, I don't remember her without a cup of coffee in front of her and the pot brewing from morn til night.
She is the only person I know who could drink an entire pot of coffee and still go to bed and sleep soundly.
It has to scalding hot and strong enough to peel paint.
I've seen grown men cry over trying to drink my mother's coffee.
Next: dinner.
What.
A.
Fiasco.
Trying to herd everyone to the table while the food is still hot is a challenge not unlike that of Perseus in Clash of the Titans.
The biggest challenge, however, is getting Stephen to stay at the table.
As I have said before, eating with Stephen is like trying to eat with a jack in the box that is plagued with ants in its pants.
I try to block him in by making him sit beside me, with Mum on my other side.
Because I have to be there in case she needs anything.
Like the bathroom.
My ill-equipped for the mobility challenged bathroom.
My dad took her the first time.
The only time.
And of course, it came to pass that there was no toilet paper in the bathroom, information my father is only too willing to pass on to me.
I ask Keith to get more toilet paper from upstairs.
Which would have been fine if Keith wasn't indisposed in the upstairs bathroom.
Eventually, toilet paper was procured.
And Mum grabs me and pleads that I take her to the bathroom if she has to go again.
We manage to get through dinner without me throwing myself off the back deck.
Everyone was unusually well behaved.
Only because we had company.
Josh.
Thank God he was there.
No dirty jokes from my dad, which always begin with an elbow to Keith's ribs and the "Hey Keith, I've got a joke for ya" or my mother complaining, loudly, that my father doesn't come to see her enough, or Mer (who was at work) feeling the need to share her evening escapades with my parents, or Em looking like she wants the floor to open up and swallow her, taking her anywhere but where she is . . .
Just Stephen jumping up and down from the table like he had a bad case of crabs.
It was almost civilized.
I owe Josh.
Big time.
Dinner ends with happily satiated family and friends.
Sweet potatoes, garlic mashed potatoes, parsnips in a tarragon cream sauce, brown sugar carrots, two roast turkeys, stuffing, steamed broccoli and cauliflower, homemade cranberry sauce, mincemeat and pumpkin pie with whipping cream. . . .
Lots of leftovers to give to our guests.
As soon as the last morsel had been consumed, and my mother had her next trip to the bathroom, she started on about leaving to get back to the nursing home in time for her pills.
The journey from car to house is no where near as traumatic as the journey from house to car.
Because for my mother, it's downhill.
There are no steps or hills at the nursing home.
Stephen and I, again on either side of her, manage to get her back into the car, while my father watches from the window.
Of course.
She was so exhausted from her outing she didn't even complain about my driving.
She just asked me if I would help her into her pajamas.
Which I did, of course.
And I wanted to stay with her a while.
Not just because I love her and want to spend time with her.
But also because it would mean I would arrive home after the dishes were done.
Alas, there was one errand left to run.
Mer.
Who had to work and missed all the excitement, and food, associated with Christmas dinner.
I made her a care package, and after settling my mother in for the night, I drove to the theater to give Mer her dinner.
And listen to her complain about not wanting to work and her boyfriend.
Who is no longer her boyfriend as of yesterday.
And you wonder why I spent all day in bed yesterday.
I.
Was.
Recovering.
In fact, just writing about it has exhausted me all over again.
It's only 7.07 am.
I think I'll go back to bed.
Until its time to get up again, and take the kids to work.
Which will be no trouble because the snow lovers will have been here to shovel me out.
Title Lyric: Christmas Dinner by Peter, Paul and Mary
Sunday, December 26, 2010
It's Boxing Day again my dear. . .
December 25, 2010
Mer fell asleep on the couch so while walking down the stairs, I resumed my holiday regaling.
MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I hope where ever you are, you're spending the day with people you love, and who love you.
Right now, we are experiencing the Christmas cone of silence.
That period of limbo, where the gifts have been opened, and there isn't much to do before I come back from the Nursing Home and starting panicking about dinner.
Not much to do for Stephen and the kids.
I have plenty to do.
Which is why I'm writing.
Since my mother has been in the nursing home, we just never know.
Meaning I don't know who will actually be here.
My parents are a crap shoot.
You just never know until the very last minute if my mother is going to make it.
And my father. . . .?????
This morning marked another rite de passage in our family.
*I* was the first one up.
Not a creature was stirring, not even the dogs.
I had set the alarm for 8.30 because I knew I needed to get up, showered, and start preparing things for dinner later today, as I will be dining at the Nursing Home at noon.
Like the sweet potatoes.
They take time, and inevitably, I'll need the oven for something.
Christmas is the only time of year I wish for two ovens.
And where I actually have to plan the meal ahead of time.
Hence why the turkeys were stuffed and cooked yesterday.
After I emerged from the shower and made myself presentable, I went into Keith's room and started singing,
"MERRY CHRISTMAS, MERRY CHRISTMAS, MERRY CHRISTMAS, MEEERRRRRYYYY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" to the tune to Alleljuah.
He peeked out from under his covers, eyes still shut, and muttered,
"Well. This is a reversal isn't it."
I went back to my room and regaled Stephen with the same melodious greeting only to hear,
"I'm coming back to bed when we're finished!"
Mer fell asleep on the couch so while walking down the stairs, I resumed my holiday regaling.
I walked over to the couch, to see just the top of Mer's treetop hair arrangment sticking out from underneath the blankets.
I sang at her while she continued to pretend to sleep and ignore me.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Happiness just can't be bought and boxed up. . .
December 24, 2010
Now where did I put those elves????
Lazy mugs are probably in the basement liquored up on egg nog thinking they're done for the year.
So, so wrong.
Today is turkey roasting time, and not one turkey but two, because leftovers seem to be more important to my brood than the actual Christmas dinner it takes me an entire day to prepare.
Garlic roasting in the crock pot. Yes. The crock pot. If anyone wants the recipe, send me a comment with your email and it's yours.
Groceries need to be procured, as soon as Stephen can get himself out of his pjs.
He may well be in the grocery store with his pj flood pants and full-of-holes sleep shirt if he doesn't hustle it up.
Christmas cards to be mailed. . .finally
Chicken bones to be discovered somewhere in this city. . .
Why do I feel a visit to Scoop and Save in my day?
Stephen loves Scoop and Save.
Really loves it.
One, because its overpriced and two because it has things no other store in Fredericton has.
Meaning I'll have to remember my electric cattle prod with remote collar for the particularly challenging.
Food donations to take to the Community Kitchen when we do our usual Friday volunteering.
In addition to the almost 250 shortbread cookies I made and am taking along to the Kitchen.
Gifts purchased yet to be wrapped.
Supper to make.
And I have committed to watching It's A Wonderful Life with Em at 9.00pm.
I actually don't mind doing that.
But you can just imagine how excited I am about going to the grocery store and Victory Meat Market on Christmas Eve.
No longer able to put off Christmas shopping any longer, Stephen and I made our way to the Regent Mall yesterday around 5.00 pm.
Not on purpose but because all three children were working.
It seemed as good a time as any.
Oddly enough, the mall wasn't as psychotic and chaotic as I had anticipated.
But it was bad enough.
First we started with food.
Cause Dawne does not shop well, ever, but even less so on an empty stomach.
And my stomach was empty.
This new eating lifestyle makes many things easy.
But eating out isn't one of them.
The choices were limited: Mrs. Vanellis, Taco Bell, A&W, Manchu Wok, KFC, Subway, Teriyaki or New York Fries.
I wanted New York Fries, the biggest container I could get, slathered in ketchup and salt with malt vinegar.
I got Teriyaki. . .chicken with brown rice, no sauce and a Diet Coke.
In solidarity Stephen, who wanted Taco Bell the way a salivating dog wants cheese, had shrimp and noodles.
At least neither of us got what we wanted.
We then buckled down and started shopping.
In an unusual burst of organization, I asked the kids to make lists.
Which made the process infinitely easier, but no less tiring.
We managed some of the things on their lists.
Nothing short of Loto 649 winnings could have managed the rest.
And we got my parent's gifts.
Stephen, who INSISTS on pushing the cart, only left it on its own a half dozen times, with my purse, money, all our Christmas gifts, and most importantly my jump drive
But the most eventful part of the evening had nothing to do with shopping. . . .
I had to go to the bathroom.
For some reason, perhaps marking and grading stress, family issues, Christmas pressures, I had a flare up of my IBS.
Leading me to move as quickly as appropriately possible to the new bathrooms at the mall.
In the stall, doing my thing, looking over the kid's lists (because I will read anything in the bathroom) I am sitting there minding my business and thinking about how loud this bathroom is, when the door to my stall opens.
With lightening reflexes I didn't even knew I possessed, I leaned forward and SLAMMED that door, yelling "It's occupied!"
I thought I locked that door.
But when you're in the throes of an IBS attack, who knows?
I waited, obviously, for the stall stalker to leave the bathroom before I emerged.
Because I have waited all my life to go to the bathroom alone.
It rarely happens at home.
For some reason, our dogs think that Mummy in the bathroom = Lots o'lovin.
Stephen inevitably wants something, and wanders around the house asking the kids, "Where's your mother????"
Or the kids figure they should grab me while I'm sitting still.
Either way, in public,
I.
Go.
Alone.
Most people love Christmas Day.
Mother's love Christmas night.
How come?
Everything.
Is.
Done.
Gifts are unwrapped and nestled under the tree.
Christmas Dinner at the Nursing Home is over.
Christmas Dinner at Dawne's Home has been prepared and consumed.
Leftovers contained.
Dishes washed.
And washed.
And washed.
Parents are on their way home or back to the nursing home.
Finally, mothers get to do what every one else has done since they got out of bed and opened their booty.
Rest.
Tomorrow evening I know exactly what I'll be doing.
NOTHING.
The first NOTHING since September.
Jammies on, under a blanket on the couch, a cat perhaps resting on my hip, I will watch The Polar Express with Stephen if he so desires.
And if he doesn't, I'll be upstairs, in my jammies, under a blanket in my bed reading The Birth House by Ami McKay, and dreaming of all the books I'm going to buy should Santa be kind enough to direct any Chapter's gift cards to me.
But between now and then???
Let's just say those lazy elves lounging in the basement are in for one hell of a surprise.
Title Lyric: Next Christmas Eve Alex Goot
Now where did I put those elves????
Lazy mugs are probably in the basement liquored up on egg nog thinking they're done for the year.
So, so wrong.
Today is turkey roasting time, and not one turkey but two, because leftovers seem to be more important to my brood than the actual Christmas dinner it takes me an entire day to prepare.
Garlic roasting in the crock pot. Yes. The crock pot. If anyone wants the recipe, send me a comment with your email and it's yours.
Groceries need to be procured, as soon as Stephen can get himself out of his pjs.
He may well be in the grocery store with his pj flood pants and full-of-holes sleep shirt if he doesn't hustle it up.
Christmas cards to be mailed. . .finally
Chicken bones to be discovered somewhere in this city. . .
Why do I feel a visit to Scoop and Save in my day?
Stephen loves Scoop and Save.
Really loves it.
One, because its overpriced and two because it has things no other store in Fredericton has.
Meaning I'll have to remember my electric cattle prod with remote collar for the particularly challenging.
Food donations to take to the Community Kitchen when we do our usual Friday volunteering.
In addition to the almost 250 shortbread cookies I made and am taking along to the Kitchen.
Gifts purchased yet to be wrapped.
Supper to make.
And I have committed to watching It's A Wonderful Life with Em at 9.00pm.
I actually don't mind doing that.
But you can just imagine how excited I am about going to the grocery store and Victory Meat Market on Christmas Eve.
No longer able to put off Christmas shopping any longer, Stephen and I made our way to the Regent Mall yesterday around 5.00 pm.
Not on purpose but because all three children were working.
It seemed as good a time as any.
Oddly enough, the mall wasn't as psychotic and chaotic as I had anticipated.
But it was bad enough.
First we started with food.
Cause Dawne does not shop well, ever, but even less so on an empty stomach.
And my stomach was empty.
This new eating lifestyle makes many things easy.
But eating out isn't one of them.
The choices were limited: Mrs. Vanellis, Taco Bell, A&W, Manchu Wok, KFC, Subway, Teriyaki or New York Fries.
I wanted New York Fries, the biggest container I could get, slathered in ketchup and salt with malt vinegar.
I got Teriyaki. . .chicken with brown rice, no sauce and a Diet Coke.
In solidarity Stephen, who wanted Taco Bell the way a salivating dog wants cheese, had shrimp and noodles.
At least neither of us got what we wanted.
We then buckled down and started shopping.
In an unusual burst of organization, I asked the kids to make lists.
Which made the process infinitely easier, but no less tiring.
We managed some of the things on their lists.
Nothing short of Loto 649 winnings could have managed the rest.
And we got my parent's gifts.
Stephen, who INSISTS on pushing the cart, only left it on its own a half dozen times, with my purse, money, all our Christmas gifts, and most importantly my jump drive
But the most eventful part of the evening had nothing to do with shopping. . . .
I had to go to the bathroom.
For some reason, perhaps marking and grading stress, family issues, Christmas pressures, I had a flare up of my IBS.
Leading me to move as quickly as appropriately possible to the new bathrooms at the mall.
In the stall, doing my thing, looking over the kid's lists (because I will read anything in the bathroom) I am sitting there minding my business and thinking about how loud this bathroom is, when the door to my stall opens.
With lightening reflexes I didn't even knew I possessed, I leaned forward and SLAMMED that door, yelling "It's occupied!"
I thought I locked that door.
But when you're in the throes of an IBS attack, who knows?
I waited, obviously, for the stall stalker to leave the bathroom before I emerged.
Because I have waited all my life to go to the bathroom alone.
It rarely happens at home.
For some reason, our dogs think that Mummy in the bathroom = Lots o'lovin.
Stephen inevitably wants something, and wanders around the house asking the kids, "Where's your mother????"
Or the kids figure they should grab me while I'm sitting still.
Either way, in public,
I.
Go.
Alone.
Most people love Christmas Day.
Mother's love Christmas night.
How come?
Everything.
Is.
Done.
Gifts are unwrapped and nestled under the tree.
Christmas Dinner at the Nursing Home is over.
Christmas Dinner at Dawne's Home has been prepared and consumed.
Leftovers contained.
Dishes washed.
And washed.
And washed.
Parents are on their way home or back to the nursing home.
Finally, mothers get to do what every one else has done since they got out of bed and opened their booty.
Rest.
Tomorrow evening I know exactly what I'll be doing.
NOTHING.
The first NOTHING since September.
Jammies on, under a blanket on the couch, a cat perhaps resting on my hip, I will watch The Polar Express with Stephen if he so desires.
And if he doesn't, I'll be upstairs, in my jammies, under a blanket in my bed reading The Birth House by Ami McKay, and dreaming of all the books I'm going to buy should Santa be kind enough to direct any Chapter's gift cards to me.
But between now and then???
Let's just say those lazy elves lounging in the basement are in for one hell of a surprise.
Title Lyric: Next Christmas Eve Alex Goot
Thursday, December 23, 2010
The only place you'll want to be is underneath my Christmas tree. . . .
December 23, 2010
Pinch me.
I may be experiencing nothing as simple as a dream.
More like a hallucination.
All my marking is finished, and the grades are in.
All the book edits (for now at least. . .why do I think they're will be more?) are complete.
And I have 1.75 days to get ready for Christmas.
I really hope I'm not hallucinating.
Even yesterday started well.
At least for me.
Stephen, not so much.
For reasons we have yet to comprehend, Frankie spent Tuesday night whining.
While standing in the threshold of our door.
Thankfully, I was so exhausted from two, that's right, TWO nights of being up until after midnight marking, that I was completely oblivious to Frankie's midnight moanings.
Stephen, not so much.
Apparently, he was up every hour to hour and a half, engaging in vain attempts to discern what was vexing our beleagured puppy.
And even now, we have yet to ascertain what caused the early morning Wednesday whines.
Subsequently, around 5.30, Stephen just gave up, came down stairs and finished his marking.
Emily comes into my room to kiss me goodbye, as she is on her way to school, and I awaken with a start, yelling, "I just have to put my coat on!"
Like a mother soothing a frightened child, Em whispers, "It's alright Mum. Stephen's driving me to school."
Clearly, this hallucination began earlier than I thought.
I didn't wake up yesterday until 10.00am.
No dogs to take out at 6.00, nor child to prod awake.
I have had all I need for Christmas.
Of course, when I did get up, Stephen was proudly marching up the stairs, exams and papers in hand, and he cheerfully remarked,
"I'm done all my marking!"
I considered tripping him.
Marking essays is frustrating.
Students don't seem to possess the skills necessary to put together a sentence that makes sense.
Organize a paragraph around one thought.
Understand the apparently convoluted logic of APA.
Grasp how to reference in the text so as to avoid having their professor wonder if they plagairized the entire paper.
But exams. . . .
That is an entirely new set of ugly.
And even more frustrating.
Why?
Because exams, at least mine, are designed to ascertain what they are already SUPPOSED to know.
I don't put things on my exams that have never been covered in class.
Or in the textbook.
My exams are made from 100% grade A in-class-discussed-and-even-practiced material.
I'm starting to think the students in my class where experiencing their own masss hallucination.
I marked those exams, all of them, wondering the same thing: where the hell were these people all term?
FYI: it takes me a hell of a lot longer to mark a poorly done exam than a well written one.
And, positivism is NOT having a positive outlook on life, or while you're doing your research.
But to the student who drew all the nice pictures at the end of each section his exam: thank you.
My husband thinks you have a crush on me.
He's concerned.
In the midst of the maniacal marking, I did take one break.
Finally, the guilt of not yet procuring a Christmas tree had graduated from a small voice in the back of my mind to a screaming Christmas choir of four-year olds who had taken up permanent residence in my frontal lobe.
And Em was giving me the stink eye every time she looked at me.
After picking up Em from school, dropping Keith off at work laden down with a bag full of supper items for Mer, Stephen, Em and I went in search of a tree.
Every year, we approach the corraling of the Christmas tree with one goal in mind: keep it small.
And like every other year, we have failed.
The sign in on the makeshift Christmas tree shack housed within the confines of the Superstore parking lot indicated that 4 foot trees were $20.00.
Excitement sparked within me.
I am 5 foot 4 inches, so this tree would be smaller than me.
And I wasn't willing to pay more than $20.00.
Leaping out of the car, to be greeted by a kindly, somewhat older man who oddly enough reminded me a bit of Santa Claus, I said,
"I want a 4 foot tree."
He replied,
"You and everyone else. We had 50. Now we have none."
So, what does the disappointed, frustrated, still marking professor, who is theoretically supposed to possess a modicum of intelligence do?
Points to a tree, LYING DOWN and says,
"I'll give you twenty bucks for that one."
His eyes lit up.
That should have been my first sign something was wrong.
Remember, I am spatially challenged.
And have no ability to measure length.
If someone says, "that's 12 feet" I mentally calculate according to Stephens.
Stephen is 6 foot 4 inches tall, so that means. . . .
And meters. . .
I just don't bother.
Once Stephen and Santa managed to get the tree on top of our car, I realized the tree was a little longer than the car.
That was the second, and also completely ignored, sign that something was wrong.
We get the tree home without incident.
Stephen lashed that tree to the roof of our car with such ferocity that he had to make sure to get it untied while there was still some daylight remaining.
He then prepared the spot in our living room where this tree would spend the next couple of weeks.
And this is an ordeal, believe me.
There is NO way even a droplet of misguided moisture will find its way onto our newly installed laminate floor.
We'll be lucky if we can get past the barricades, flashing lights, and security guards Stephen has posted, to rescue any presents.
Let alone water the poor tree.
When the tree ablutions have been completed to Stephen's satisfaction, he gets the tree.
I hold the door open.
Sign number three something was wrong was when we had difficulty getting the tree in the door and down the hall.
Sign number four was when Stephen had to get out his pruning shears and cut a foot off the top of this tree.
Just enough for me to guide the base of the tree into the bucket type thing attached to the tree stand.
There is a wood smudge on our ceiling.
Don't tell Stephen.
PLEASE don't tell Stephen.
Once we managed to get the tree standing up in the bucket, Em remarks,
"It isn't straight in the black thing."
Not having a single clue WHAT she was talking about, I pressed onward, wanting to get this behemoth in the stand so I could go back to marking.
And away from Stephen.
Like pretty much every man I know, Stephen approaches things like putting up trees and clotheslines with much the same attitude.
Combative.
It is him versus the tree and he insists upon winning.
I'm holding the tree by the trunk. Stephen is belly down on the floor trying to secure into the bucket. MuchMusic's top 50 songs of 2010 is blaring in the background, and all the four legged critters are milling around Stephen because if he is bellydown on the floor, their territory, he must want something from them. It sounds something like this:
DAWNE! YOU'RE NOT HOLDING THE TREE STRAIGHT. WHY ISN'T THIS SCREW THING GOING IN THE WAY IT SHOULD BE! TIKKA. AND. FRANKIE. GO INTO THE KITCHEN! DAWNE, HOW COME THEY AREN'T BARRICADED IN THE KITCHEN????? GOBLET, GET OUT OF THE TREE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! NO, REILLEY, JUST BECAUSE I AM LAYING ON THE FLOOR DOESN'T MEAN YOU CAN LAY ON MY ASS. . .EM CAN YOU GET HIM OFF ME!!!!!????!!!! FRANKIE!
GET.
OUT.
OF.
THERE!!!!!
DAWNE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
HOLD THE DAMN TREE STRAIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The result: our at-least-7-foot-tree is NOT sitting straight in the bucket.
That-black-thing Em mentioned was the bucket.
Had she said bucket, I might have known what she was referring to.
It looks like it was assembled by a bunch of drunken first years.
Leaving Stephen to remark upon looking at it for the first time,
"Keith'll help me fix this tomorrow."
Leaving me to think, but NEVER say aloud,
"Stephen, you know where you can put your tree."
And if mobilizing the monstrous Christmas tree that wasn't enough Christmas joy and merriment for one evening, Stephen decided he was going to write the already addressed Christmas cards because he was feeling guilty over all the one's we had received.
And he delights in writing a Christmas Letter to include in these cards.
A behemoth similar to the tree.
Inevitably, I end up editing said letter.
Which has been known to cause words between us.
Finally we settled on a letter and made copies.
Thus leading Stephen to sit across from me at the kitchen table.
A space that was formerly known as Stephen's Marking Niche.
And had been rechristened Christmas Card Central.
Still harbouring some ill-will over the Christmas tree, Stephen sat there, tounge between his teeth, writing cards.
But he wasn't enjoying it.
And if you insist on writing Christmas cards in front of me while I am still marking, you WILL enjoy it.
Or at least pretend to.
In an effort to lighten the mood, I tossed the bag that held the exams at him.
Causing him to yell,
"STOP BEING URINATING!
THAT lightened the mood.
Title Lyric: Christmas Tree by Lady Gaga
Pinch me.
I may be experiencing nothing as simple as a dream.
More like a hallucination.
All my marking is finished, and the grades are in.
All the book edits (for now at least. . .why do I think they're will be more?) are complete.
And I have 1.75 days to get ready for Christmas.
I really hope I'm not hallucinating.
Even yesterday started well.
At least for me.
Stephen, not so much.
For reasons we have yet to comprehend, Frankie spent Tuesday night whining.
While standing in the threshold of our door.
Thankfully, I was so exhausted from two, that's right, TWO nights of being up until after midnight marking, that I was completely oblivious to Frankie's midnight moanings.
Stephen, not so much.
Apparently, he was up every hour to hour and a half, engaging in vain attempts to discern what was vexing our beleagured puppy.
And even now, we have yet to ascertain what caused the early morning Wednesday whines.
Subsequently, around 5.30, Stephen just gave up, came down stairs and finished his marking.
Emily comes into my room to kiss me goodbye, as she is on her way to school, and I awaken with a start, yelling, "I just have to put my coat on!"
Like a mother soothing a frightened child, Em whispers, "It's alright Mum. Stephen's driving me to school."
Clearly, this hallucination began earlier than I thought.
I didn't wake up yesterday until 10.00am.
No dogs to take out at 6.00, nor child to prod awake.
I have had all I need for Christmas.
Of course, when I did get up, Stephen was proudly marching up the stairs, exams and papers in hand, and he cheerfully remarked,
"I'm done all my marking!"
I considered tripping him.
Marking essays is frustrating.
Students don't seem to possess the skills necessary to put together a sentence that makes sense.
Organize a paragraph around one thought.
Understand the apparently convoluted logic of APA.
Grasp how to reference in the text so as to avoid having their professor wonder if they plagairized the entire paper.
But exams. . . .
That is an entirely new set of ugly.
And even more frustrating.
Why?
Because exams, at least mine, are designed to ascertain what they are already SUPPOSED to know.
I don't put things on my exams that have never been covered in class.
Or in the textbook.
My exams are made from 100% grade A in-class-discussed-and-even-practiced material.
I'm starting to think the students in my class where experiencing their own masss hallucination.
I marked those exams, all of them, wondering the same thing: where the hell were these people all term?
FYI: it takes me a hell of a lot longer to mark a poorly done exam than a well written one.
And, positivism is NOT having a positive outlook on life, or while you're doing your research.
But to the student who drew all the nice pictures at the end of each section his exam: thank you.
My husband thinks you have a crush on me.
He's concerned.
In the midst of the maniacal marking, I did take one break.
Finally, the guilt of not yet procuring a Christmas tree had graduated from a small voice in the back of my mind to a screaming Christmas choir of four-year olds who had taken up permanent residence in my frontal lobe.
And Em was giving me the stink eye every time she looked at me.
After picking up Em from school, dropping Keith off at work laden down with a bag full of supper items for Mer, Stephen, Em and I went in search of a tree.
Every year, we approach the corraling of the Christmas tree with one goal in mind: keep it small.
And like every other year, we have failed.
The sign in on the makeshift Christmas tree shack housed within the confines of the Superstore parking lot indicated that 4 foot trees were $20.00.
Excitement sparked within me.
I am 5 foot 4 inches, so this tree would be smaller than me.
And I wasn't willing to pay more than $20.00.
Leaping out of the car, to be greeted by a kindly, somewhat older man who oddly enough reminded me a bit of Santa Claus, I said,
"I want a 4 foot tree."
He replied,
"You and everyone else. We had 50. Now we have none."
So, what does the disappointed, frustrated, still marking professor, who is theoretically supposed to possess a modicum of intelligence do?
Points to a tree, LYING DOWN and says,
"I'll give you twenty bucks for that one."
His eyes lit up.
That should have been my first sign something was wrong.
Remember, I am spatially challenged.
And have no ability to measure length.
If someone says, "that's 12 feet" I mentally calculate according to Stephens.
Stephen is 6 foot 4 inches tall, so that means. . . .
And meters. . .
I just don't bother.
Once Stephen and Santa managed to get the tree on top of our car, I realized the tree was a little longer than the car.
That was the second, and also completely ignored, sign that something was wrong.
We get the tree home without incident.
Stephen lashed that tree to the roof of our car with such ferocity that he had to make sure to get it untied while there was still some daylight remaining.
He then prepared the spot in our living room where this tree would spend the next couple of weeks.
And this is an ordeal, believe me.
There is NO way even a droplet of misguided moisture will find its way onto our newly installed laminate floor.
We'll be lucky if we can get past the barricades, flashing lights, and security guards Stephen has posted, to rescue any presents.
Let alone water the poor tree.
When the tree ablutions have been completed to Stephen's satisfaction, he gets the tree.
I hold the door open.
Sign number three something was wrong was when we had difficulty getting the tree in the door and down the hall.
Sign number four was when Stephen had to get out his pruning shears and cut a foot off the top of this tree.
Just enough for me to guide the base of the tree into the bucket type thing attached to the tree stand.
There is a wood smudge on our ceiling.
Don't tell Stephen.
PLEASE don't tell Stephen.
Once we managed to get the tree standing up in the bucket, Em remarks,
"It isn't straight in the black thing."
Not having a single clue WHAT she was talking about, I pressed onward, wanting to get this behemoth in the stand so I could go back to marking.
And away from Stephen.
Like pretty much every man I know, Stephen approaches things like putting up trees and clotheslines with much the same attitude.
Combative.
It is him versus the tree and he insists upon winning.
I'm holding the tree by the trunk. Stephen is belly down on the floor trying to secure into the bucket. MuchMusic's top 50 songs of 2010 is blaring in the background, and all the four legged critters are milling around Stephen because if he is bellydown on the floor, their territory, he must want something from them. It sounds something like this:
DAWNE! YOU'RE NOT HOLDING THE TREE STRAIGHT. WHY ISN'T THIS SCREW THING GOING IN THE WAY IT SHOULD BE! TIKKA. AND. FRANKIE. GO INTO THE KITCHEN! DAWNE, HOW COME THEY AREN'T BARRICADED IN THE KITCHEN????? GOBLET, GET OUT OF THE TREE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! NO, REILLEY, JUST BECAUSE I AM LAYING ON THE FLOOR DOESN'T MEAN YOU CAN LAY ON MY ASS. . .EM CAN YOU GET HIM OFF ME!!!!!????!!!! FRANKIE!
GET.
OUT.
OF.
THERE!!!!!
DAWNE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
HOLD THE DAMN TREE STRAIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The result: our at-least-7-foot-tree is NOT sitting straight in the bucket.
That-black-thing Em mentioned was the bucket.
Had she said bucket, I might have known what she was referring to.
It looks like it was assembled by a bunch of drunken first years.
Leaving Stephen to remark upon looking at it for the first time,
"Keith'll help me fix this tomorrow."
Leaving me to think, but NEVER say aloud,
"Stephen, you know where you can put your tree."
And if mobilizing the monstrous Christmas tree that wasn't enough Christmas joy and merriment for one evening, Stephen decided he was going to write the already addressed Christmas cards because he was feeling guilty over all the one's we had received.
And he delights in writing a Christmas Letter to include in these cards.
A behemoth similar to the tree.
Inevitably, I end up editing said letter.
Which has been known to cause words between us.
Finally we settled on a letter and made copies.
Thus leading Stephen to sit across from me at the kitchen table.
A space that was formerly known as Stephen's Marking Niche.
And had been rechristened Christmas Card Central.
Still harbouring some ill-will over the Christmas tree, Stephen sat there, tounge between his teeth, writing cards.
But he wasn't enjoying it.
And if you insist on writing Christmas cards in front of me while I am still marking, you WILL enjoy it.
Or at least pretend to.
In an effort to lighten the mood, I tossed the bag that held the exams at him.
Causing him to yell,
"STOP BEING URINATING!
THAT lightened the mood.
Title Lyric: Christmas Tree by Lady Gaga
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Frayed ends of sanity, hear them calling me, hear them calling meeeeeee. . . .
December 21, 2010
So, I am still marking.
Surprise, surprise.
There has, however, been some progress.
Two courses have had grades entered, so they are fini.
The manuscript has been submitted to the publisher.
In my email to my contact, (we have been emailing a lot these past few weeks), I said a nervous breakdown may result if more edits are necessary.
And finally, 25 pounds have been eliminated from my Reubenesque figure.
Moving me away from Reuben and closer to Twiggy.
Okay, maybe not Twiggy. . .Rita McNeil perhaps.
The book edits were completed only because I stayed up all hours Monday morning, facilitated by waiting for Keith to get off work.
Sunday was a rough night for Keith.
He was very late finishing at the theater.
I sat here, exhausted, waiting for the phone call that would indicate my Pookie was finished and ready to come home.
By the time he got home, and I finished as much editing as I could, it was late.
Very late.
At least for the woman who likes to be in bed by 9.30 so she can ready until 10.00 before she falls asleep with her glasses still on her face.
Accompanied by the book.
If Stephen didn't intervene, I expect I would have perished by now.
The cause?
Death by smothering fiction.
Keith, who has finished his exams and had two days off from work, was in an unusually jovial mood yesterday.
Bolstered by being able to sleep in, he decided that he wanted to make a batch of shortbread cookies for his friends.
Not wanting to stifle his creativity, nor his good mood, I said sure.
What could be the harm in a 19 year old young man making cookies?
I showed him where the kitchen was, and then sat down to continue marking the intro to crim papers, or the less than reasonable facsimilie version of them, anyway.
He then realized he didn't know the recipe by heart. Would I write it down for him.
Remember, this is the young man who will not cook something if each and every single ingredient listed in the recipe is not in our house.
Substitutions are not his forte.
I wrote out the recipe, and returned to my marking.
He is listening to his ipod, headphones snug in his ears, so every time he asks me something, it sounded not like the duclet tones of my adorable son, but more like we were separated by a dance floor covered with drunk dancers listening to music with the bass turned up high, and he was bellowing into a microphone.
He reads through the recipe, which was lacking, apparently, because I only included the ingredients and not the steps needed to combine said ingredients.
I didn't think I had to.
He's been making these cookies with me since he was able to restrain himself from eating the raw dough, or shoving it into his nose and ears.
I stupidly assumed he understood the process of putting the cookies together.
My first sign of what was in store for me while he made these cookies came while he was gathering his cooking utensils.
Keith: MUM! HOW DO I GET THESE DAMN MEASURING CUPS APART?
When I was able to get myself off the floor, only brought back to life because the dogs were hovering over me, licking my face and preventing the cats from feasting on my prostrate body, I crawled over to Keith and separated the measuring cups.
Keith, always concerned, asks: MUM, HOW COME YOU'RE CRAWLING?
Once I was able to get myself back in my chair, and was able to recoup enough motor skills to pick up my pencil, I attempted to resume marking.
While listening to Keith dig out mixing bowls, and other baking related paraphernalia.
Secure in the belief I was going to be left to mark in peace, I was again shaken out of my reverie.
Keith: MUM, HOW DO I CUT THIS BUTTER? IT'S REALLY HARD!
When I was eventually able to regain the strength in my legs, and lift myself, again, from the floor, wiping away the blood from the laceration on my scalp from when I hit the edge of the table, I was able to, through sign language because my ability to speak was temporarily compromised.
Again, I assumed this would be the last time he tried to to take.me.out. via baking, and when my faculties came back on line, I started marking again, determined to get through marking at least half of the papers piled beside me.
But alas, my peace was shattered with the panicked bark,
Keith: MUM! I CAN'T FIND THE FLOUR!
Once I wiped up the floor from my petrified-induced incontinence, and used the defibulator to restart my heart, I was able to inform my son that the flour was right at his feet, in a reusable Sobey's bag to make carting it around easier.
I took this opportunity to ask him if there was anything else he was going to need help with, because I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to sustain another ipod induced assault.
In hindsight, I should have just asked him to turn his ipod down.
Or make the cookies myself.
But I just didn't want to stifle his creativity, or spoil his good mood.
Besides, what's a little incontinence. . .we have linoleum.
Keith managed to make his cookies without much further difficulty.
Except for when I intervened to prevent him from making cookies the size of platters.
Because he was getting bored.
But, his cookies were good, AND, more importantly, he did his dishes.
Shortly after, he comes back into the kitchen.
Delivering a message.
He's a regular go-to guy for Mer.
She texted him, asking him to ask me if she could come over and do her laundry.
Yes, Mer, and you could have asked me yourself.
I don't want you running around in putrid panties and soiled socks any more than you do.
And while you're at it, stay for dinner.
I love meals where all my chicks are present and accounted for.
And as I have said before, with five conflicting work schedules, those meals where we gather around the table are fewer than I would like.
The Christmas shopping chaos has made getting together even more difficult than usual.
Making last night a rarity.
My kids are nothing if not entertaining when they are all together.
Keith and Em together are funny but calm.
Keith and Mer together are funny and the harbingers of complete and utter chaos.
Keith, Em and Mer together leads to chaos infused with scorn.
Scorn on Em's part.
I think she sometimes find Mer and Keith a little overwhelming.
I know that after sitting at the table for dinner with all the kids, Stephen usually needs to scurry to his office for a little bit of "down time."
Last night was no different.
Over my dinner of pot roast, mashed potatoes (for the kids), carrots (for me and Stephen) and a medley of stir fried veggies, we were treated with the Van Clan Floor Show.
The highlight of the festivities was when Mer looked at Tikka and said she was becoming cross-eyed with old age, perhaps because she was getting cadillacs.
It all fell apart after that.
And just when I thought that perhaps peace would reign after dinner Mer mentioned she, too, wanted to make shortbread cookies, and she wanted Keith and Em to help.
Em just walked out of the kitchen, in spite of Mer's pleading to PLEASE come and help.
Keith was more than happy to help.
Of course he was.
He knew where everything was.
But, Mer said, we need music.
Keith agreed.
Instead of an ipod, I was treated to the cd player scream fest they referred to as music.
Remember, I am trying to mark.
When they started making body parts out of the shortbread dough, I decided it was time to join Em in the livingroom.
All that was on was Man Versus Food.
But that was okay.
It was better for than Mer V Shortbread Dough.
Because I didn't want to know jsut how creative she could be with her cookie dough.
But I didn't want to stifle her creativity.
I just wanted to hold on to what was left of my severely depleted sanity.
Who said cookies only bring joy?
Title Lyric: Frayed Ends of Sanity by Metallica
So, I am still marking.
Surprise, surprise.
There has, however, been some progress.
Two courses have had grades entered, so they are fini.
The manuscript has been submitted to the publisher.
In my email to my contact, (we have been emailing a lot these past few weeks), I said a nervous breakdown may result if more edits are necessary.
And finally, 25 pounds have been eliminated from my Reubenesque figure.
Moving me away from Reuben and closer to Twiggy.
Okay, maybe not Twiggy. . .Rita McNeil perhaps.
The book edits were completed only because I stayed up all hours Monday morning, facilitated by waiting for Keith to get off work.
Sunday was a rough night for Keith.
He was very late finishing at the theater.
I sat here, exhausted, waiting for the phone call that would indicate my Pookie was finished and ready to come home.
By the time he got home, and I finished as much editing as I could, it was late.
Very late.
At least for the woman who likes to be in bed by 9.30 so she can ready until 10.00 before she falls asleep with her glasses still on her face.
Accompanied by the book.
If Stephen didn't intervene, I expect I would have perished by now.
The cause?
Death by smothering fiction.
Keith, who has finished his exams and had two days off from work, was in an unusually jovial mood yesterday.
Bolstered by being able to sleep in, he decided that he wanted to make a batch of shortbread cookies for his friends.
Not wanting to stifle his creativity, nor his good mood, I said sure.
What could be the harm in a 19 year old young man making cookies?
I showed him where the kitchen was, and then sat down to continue marking the intro to crim papers, or the less than reasonable facsimilie version of them, anyway.
He then realized he didn't know the recipe by heart. Would I write it down for him.
Remember, this is the young man who will not cook something if each and every single ingredient listed in the recipe is not in our house.
Substitutions are not his forte.
I wrote out the recipe, and returned to my marking.
He is listening to his ipod, headphones snug in his ears, so every time he asks me something, it sounded not like the duclet tones of my adorable son, but more like we were separated by a dance floor covered with drunk dancers listening to music with the bass turned up high, and he was bellowing into a microphone.
He reads through the recipe, which was lacking, apparently, because I only included the ingredients and not the steps needed to combine said ingredients.
I didn't think I had to.
He's been making these cookies with me since he was able to restrain himself from eating the raw dough, or shoving it into his nose and ears.
I stupidly assumed he understood the process of putting the cookies together.
My first sign of what was in store for me while he made these cookies came while he was gathering his cooking utensils.
Keith: MUM! HOW DO I GET THESE DAMN MEASURING CUPS APART?
When I was able to get myself off the floor, only brought back to life because the dogs were hovering over me, licking my face and preventing the cats from feasting on my prostrate body, I crawled over to Keith and separated the measuring cups.
Keith, always concerned, asks: MUM, HOW COME YOU'RE CRAWLING?
Once I was able to get myself back in my chair, and was able to recoup enough motor skills to pick up my pencil, I attempted to resume marking.
While listening to Keith dig out mixing bowls, and other baking related paraphernalia.
Secure in the belief I was going to be left to mark in peace, I was again shaken out of my reverie.
Keith: MUM, HOW DO I CUT THIS BUTTER? IT'S REALLY HARD!
When I was eventually able to regain the strength in my legs, and lift myself, again, from the floor, wiping away the blood from the laceration on my scalp from when I hit the edge of the table, I was able to, through sign language because my ability to speak was temporarily compromised.
Again, I assumed this would be the last time he tried to to take.me.out. via baking, and when my faculties came back on line, I started marking again, determined to get through marking at least half of the papers piled beside me.
But alas, my peace was shattered with the panicked bark,
Keith: MUM! I CAN'T FIND THE FLOUR!
Once I wiped up the floor from my petrified-induced incontinence, and used the defibulator to restart my heart, I was able to inform my son that the flour was right at his feet, in a reusable Sobey's bag to make carting it around easier.
I took this opportunity to ask him if there was anything else he was going to need help with, because I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to sustain another ipod induced assault.
In hindsight, I should have just asked him to turn his ipod down.
Or make the cookies myself.
But I just didn't want to stifle his creativity, or spoil his good mood.
Besides, what's a little incontinence. . .we have linoleum.
Keith managed to make his cookies without much further difficulty.
Except for when I intervened to prevent him from making cookies the size of platters.
Because he was getting bored.
But, his cookies were good, AND, more importantly, he did his dishes.
Shortly after, he comes back into the kitchen.
Delivering a message.
He's a regular go-to guy for Mer.
She texted him, asking him to ask me if she could come over and do her laundry.
Yes, Mer, and you could have asked me yourself.
I don't want you running around in putrid panties and soiled socks any more than you do.
And while you're at it, stay for dinner.
I love meals where all my chicks are present and accounted for.
And as I have said before, with five conflicting work schedules, those meals where we gather around the table are fewer than I would like.
The Christmas shopping chaos has made getting together even more difficult than usual.
Making last night a rarity.
My kids are nothing if not entertaining when they are all together.
Keith and Em together are funny but calm.
Keith and Mer together are funny and the harbingers of complete and utter chaos.
Keith, Em and Mer together leads to chaos infused with scorn.
Scorn on Em's part.
I think she sometimes find Mer and Keith a little overwhelming.
I know that after sitting at the table for dinner with all the kids, Stephen usually needs to scurry to his office for a little bit of "down time."
Last night was no different.
Over my dinner of pot roast, mashed potatoes (for the kids), carrots (for me and Stephen) and a medley of stir fried veggies, we were treated with the Van Clan Floor Show.
The highlight of the festivities was when Mer looked at Tikka and said she was becoming cross-eyed with old age, perhaps because she was getting cadillacs.
It all fell apart after that.
And just when I thought that perhaps peace would reign after dinner Mer mentioned she, too, wanted to make shortbread cookies, and she wanted Keith and Em to help.
Em just walked out of the kitchen, in spite of Mer's pleading to PLEASE come and help.
Keith was more than happy to help.
Of course he was.
He knew where everything was.
But, Mer said, we need music.
Keith agreed.
Instead of an ipod, I was treated to the cd player scream fest they referred to as music.
Remember, I am trying to mark.
When they started making body parts out of the shortbread dough, I decided it was time to join Em in the livingroom.
All that was on was Man Versus Food.
But that was okay.
It was better for than Mer V Shortbread Dough.
Because I didn't want to know jsut how creative she could be with her cookie dough.
But I didn't want to stifle her creativity.
I just wanted to hold on to what was left of my severely depleted sanity.
Who said cookies only bring joy?
Title Lyric: Frayed Ends of Sanity by Metallica
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