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
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