But I better be quiet now, I'm tired of wasting my breath. . . .

October 27, 2010


5.30 am.

That's when I got up this morning.

Dressed in complete darkness so as to not wake my fitfully sleeping husband.

Tried to keep the dogs quiet so they, too, would not wake my fitfully sleeping husband.

I just couldn't sleep.

How come?

Because all night, and I mean ALL NIGHT I fought with my fitfully sleeping husband to roll off his back and onto his stomach so the gawd awful, never ending snorning from hell that shakes the house and rattles the rafters would just, simply,

STOP!

Stephen sleeps with an state of deep unconscious that I have never encountered.

Perhaps its years of being awake at the hint of a cough, sneeze, footstep, creaking floor board, opening refridgerator door, but I can wake up at the drop of a pin.

It's MOST annoying.

Usually, Stephen's snorning doesn't bother me.  After seven years together, I have developed an immunity to his snorning, a wall I've built around myself to prevent the obnoxious turbulence coming out of his face from shattering my peaceful slumber.

But every once in a while, regardless of the Herculean strength of my immunty, no matter how exhausted I am, how much melatonin I've injested, or how high I have built my walls, Stephen's snorning will occasioanlly prevent somnolence.

He is SUCH a deep sleeper that even the persistent blaring of the smoke alarm, caused by Stephen making cookies, putting them in the oven, and then going to bed because he was so tired he wasn't even aware he was making cookies in the first place, forced me out of bed with a speed I didn't even know I possessed when the smoke alarm went off, run downstairs (yes, run) to a kitchen filled with smoke from the charred remains of what I think were supposed to be chocolate chip cookies.

Dogs howling, kids pounding downstairs, cats clinging to the ceiling from the second the smoke alarm went off, little hearts pounding, while they watched their fur fall off in large patches from the smoke alarm inspired fear.

It took every fan we had in the house to even begin clearing out the burnt cookies smoke.

We smacked the smoke detector with a broom to stop its incessent screaming.

Every downstairs door and window was opened, encouraging, begging, pleading with the night air to take away the stink of chocolate chip cookies.

And while the kids and I were running around trying to rid the house of its black cloud, Stephen was sound asleep, oblivious to the complete and utter chaos he had initiated.

I tried to wake him up.

Nothing.

Yelling.

Throwing water on his face.

Dogs leaping on and off the bed with the same intensity exhibited by those Saturday morning exercise programs where the nauseatingly fit women jump on and off those step thingies.

Not even a twitch of his baby finger to indicate he was traversing the road to consciousness.

You can imagine what kind of conversation we had when he finally did wake up, wondering how come all the doors and windows were open, the fans blaring, and how come the house smelled like burnt cookies?

At least a week passed before we could walk into the house and not be greeted with the lingering odour of charred chocolate.

And at least two weeks before I could look at Stephen without the urge to throttle him.




It's now 6.22 pm.

I've just gotten home from work.

I enjoyed getting to work early. 

If I didn't need to chauffer children hither and yon, I'd be at work every morning by 6.30 am.

That's when I work best. . . first thing in the morning.

No worrying about whether or not there would be an available parking space anywhere with a 10 km radius of the building that houses my office.

Things I hadn't dealt with, okay, things I had actively avoided because I was too tired to deal with them after teaching were finally dealt with.

300 emails reduced to 33. 

"Delete" is my new favourite key.

An article read that I wanted to read prior to today was finally read.

It was a lovely way to start the day.

Quiet.

Peaceful.

Drinking coffee without fear of splashing it all over myself in response to the unanticipated, spontaneous, uncontrollable barking of my hounds.

Unfortunately, I was unable to sustain this peace.

Forces beyond my control colluded to ensure that my peace was shattered before lunch was even over.



However, the eternal optimist that I am, I've decided to see today as a learning experience. 

About professionalism.

This is something I struggle with in some respects.

I don't see myself as a conventional professor.

As I have said many times before, I truly believe I was meant to be a stand up comedienne, however, this wasn't in the cards for me, so I turned to teaching instead, for reasons I have outlined before.

Because I'm not a traditional professor and see events and people in my life as a means of illustrating complex, abstract ideas, I can sometimes day things, and occasionally do things that, if they were taken out of context, could be construed as. . . . .

Odd.

That's the word I choose.

I believe you can teach using humour and have students take in more than if you stood there and lectured at them.

Understanding the importance of lecturing, I think its important to provide as many diverse means of teaching as you can. 

I love storytelling. . .I know, I know, you've just fallen off your chair in shock and amazement.

Television programs from the 1970s, particularly All in the Family, are valuable sources of information.

And necessary for a good laugh.

There isn't anything that can't be fixed by watching Archie and Edith, Meathead and Gloria.

Robin Williams Weapons of Self Destruction can be a teaching tool, especially when trying to unravel the complexities of sex and gender.

And there isn't anything that can be made better with a good film clip, especially abstract theories.

Chicken Run, I contend, is the best Marxist film I've ever seen.

And you don't want to know what I can do with an empty red wine bottle and a loaf of white bread.



So I've had my challenges with understanding professionalism.

I had a particular image of academia as a student that wasn't borne out when I became a professor.

And it took me a while to reconcile my romanticized image of the academy with the harsh reality of being a university professor. 

But the good of academia, at least for me, outweighs the bad. 

Most of the time.

And today was one of those days when I the uglier side of academia reared its head.

Normally, if I know something particularly nasty is coming my way, I'll prepare myself for battle, equipping myself with the necessary armaments.

Which translates to adding to my vocabulary to ensure maximum scathingness and causticity.

And I'm not sure scathingness and causticity are words, but they're working for me right now.

But this time, I was caught completely off guard. 

Absolutely no where near prepared for the unexpected shit storm.

With three children, two teenagers and one young adult, I've weathered many a shit storm.

It takes a lot to flabbergast and stupefy me.

But every once in a while, I find myself in a situation where I am utterly perplexed.

Like today.

Completely stunned to the point that I have no idea what I'm supposed to do.

Adrenaline was coursing through my veins.

Blood pounding through my veins toward my head.

Jaw lying on the floor.

I was trying to think of ways to prevent myself from doing something I would most assuredly regret later. 

And my some miracle, I managed to keep my outer self reasonably calm.

Although I'm willing to guess people around me knew that I was dealing with off the rails inner turmoil.

This is where, I suspect, Mer gets it.

The difference between Mer and I, other than 21 years, is that I have learned when it's okay to get angry outwardly, and when it isn't.

Even when she lived in Ontario, if someone she loved had been maligned, Mer's first response would be,

"Who do I need to deal with?"

I have had my moments; there was the time I made a computer store clerk cry.

My computer needed fixin'.

They had to remove my files to do so.

Whether or not they really had to is moot.  I wouldn't have known either way.

When I went to pick up my computer, the young man behind the desk informed me that it would cost an additional $75.00 to have MY information, that was removed from MY computer, reinstalled to MY computer.

Really.

My information.  Already on my computer when I brought it to them to be repaired.

And they wanted money to put what was mine in the first place, back.

Even know it doesn't make any sense to me.

By the time I left, my stuff was back on at no additional charge.

And the computer clerk would think hard and fast about whether to tangle with an overextended single parent PhD candidate with three kids who were running around the store looking for electronic doodads they just HAD to have.  

Shortly after, this store went out of business.

With practices like that, I'm not suprised.




But I have learned since then that sometimes, it's better to keep quiet.

Which is what I did.

Because there is a difference between airing opinions and being professional.

And this time I chose professional.

This time.

Who knows if the next time, and in academia there is ALWAYS a next time, I'll have the temerity to keep myself under control.

We can hope.

Cause there's always hope.

Now, where did I put that king size bag of Peanut Butter M&Ms, Ripple chips and the extra large container of dill pickle dip?????

Cause keeping my mouth shut has a cost.



Title Lyric: Better Be Quiet Now by Elliot Smith