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
Friday, December 24, 2010
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
Sunday, December 19, 2010
We'll save the world with our part-time jobs. . . .
December 19, 2010
Emily had a rough shift at the theaters last evening.
I remember working minimum wage jobs and coming home feeling as if I'd stood underneath a flock of low flying, incontinent birds.
It's inevitable.
The tension between you're-not-paying-me-enough-to-take-this-crap-and-I-know-I'm-being-exploited and you're-a-teenager-suck-it-up-because-there-are-all-sorts-of-other-people-who-would-gladly-take-your-job.
Couple this with the addage "the customer is always right" and you have all the makings of a disaster.
Because in my experience, the customer is actually rarely ever right.
Something anyone in retail or hospitality will be more than willing to tell you.
After they've had a few drinks.
My first paying job was actually working at a day care.
One I had attended until I was too old to go any longer.
At the age of 12.
Wondering what the hell I was going to do during the summer, I figured out a way to be at the day care, with other people, doing something other than sitting at home in rural southern New Brunswick with only 2 tv channels, working parents, and no vehicle.
I volunteered.
From the ages of 12-16 you could find me spending my days in the company of kids between the ages of 2 to 12, coloring, drawing, playing outside, the occasional field trip.
At some point, they started paying me for collecting the garbage and making sure all the doors were locked.
Thus my entry into the world of wage labour.
With my babysitting money, and this job, I usually made enough to prevent me from asking my parents for money all the time.
Just some of the time.
Because at 12 you're financial obligations are few.
But all that changed when I turned 16.
My mother took it upon herself to find me a job.
I can't remember if it's because I might have casually mentioned that I wanted one, or, because all of a sudden my need for money had exponentially increased, or because she was worried where I might end up if I started looking on my own.
Either way, the February of 1984, I found myself behind the cash register of a convenience store.
Located below a middle school, beside the town's recreation center and public library, and just down the street from the only high school, this convenience store saw a lot of business.
At lunch time locust-like swarms of hormonally challenged, pimply faced middle schoolers would decend from on high in search of chips, chocolate bars, pop, ice cream, gum, and the dreaded penny candy.
Because from 1984-1987, you could still get candy that actually only cost a penny.
I know.
I counted every single one of them.
Sour candy, sour keys, green thumbs, red lips, licorice, Nibs, cherry swizzles, blue something I can't remember, chocolate and carmel squares. . .
And every middle schooler with more than a quarter in their pocket crammed themselves into that store.
Not concerned at all about the mayhem, pandemonium and chaos they were bringing with them.
I am more than aware of how those kids felt because when I went to that same middle school, my friends and I were at that store anytime we had money.
Even if it meant pooling it together.
BBQ corn chips, Coke, mint chocolate chip ice cream. . .it didn't matter so long as it meant we weren't eating what our mothers made for us.
We were just too cool.
Standing behind that counter, store bursting at the seams with kids, I'd be counting candy and ringing in scads of sugar, starch and preservative laden goodies for an hour straight.
But my absolute favourite were those kids, usually boys, who tried to buy cigarettes.
Squeaky voiced barely teenagers coming to the counter, standing in front of me trying to look adult with the small bit of just-barly-visible-fuzz thinking about gracing their upper lips thinking they were going to blind me with their masculinity enough to convince me they were old enough to smoke.
And their attempt to manfacture scathing looks of disgust when I asked them for identification was priceless.
Causing me to utter a few witty comments of my own when they were unable to provide said id.
Given that this was a middle school that served a large military community and several smaller rural communities, on the odd occasion you would actually get a 16 year old middle schooler who was old enough, at that time, to purchase cigarettes.
Scary, I know.
Weekend and the summer months provided a regular stream of kids who had been kicked out of the house by their mothers and were wandering aimlessly around town looking for something to do.
Occasionally, we would get some eight year old who thought he was smarter than we were attempting to smuggle goods out of the store, sans payment.
One sticks out in my mind, particularly.
We'll call him Mikey.
Mikey was the youngest child in a family who had believed they weren't going to have anymore children, so he was a bit of a shock.
By this time, Mom and Dad had raised several other children, all boys, and Mom especially was just tired.
So Mikey did pretty much whatever he felt like.
He sort of looked like Rudy's friend Peter from the Cosby Show, so he was cute and this got him far.
One day, he came into the store, and I greeted him with the usual, "Hey Mikey. How's the wife and kids?"
He said what he always said in his eight year old voice, "I don't HAVE a wife and kids!"
Proceeding to the freezer full of popsicles, Oh! Henry ice cream bars, ice cream sandwiches and the ever popular giant freezies, Mikey, who was very short, hauled himself into the freezer.
With nothing but his feet hanging out.
I asked him if he wanted any help.
He said no.
I knew what he was up to.
The minute he walked into that store wearing pants in mid-July, I knew what plans were brewing in his sugar deprived eight year old brain.
I just wanted to see how far he'd go.
Mikey eventually pulled himself out of the freezer and came over to the counter.
And in his pants there was a sight I didn't expect to see from an eight year old boy.
A hard on.
Or rather, a Drumstick hard on.
Because cute little eight year old Mikey was in the freezer stuffing himself full of ice cream goodies, including a Drumstick to the drawers.
His placement wasn't exactly well planned.
I'd never seen a hard on with such a sharp point.
I looked at Mikey.
He looked at me.
I came from around the counter, beckoning him to me with the crook of my finger.
He came to me and over to the freezer we went.
I stood there while he rid himself of his frozen booty, and when he was finished, I squatted down on my knees (I could squat then. If I tried now I'd probably just fall over) so I could look him in the eye.
And I told Mikey that stealing was not okay.
He nodded but I knew he was actually planning his next big heist.
I then pulled out the big guns.
I said to him that I went to school with his big brother.
Aw, something started to tingle in his little boy brain.
Not wanting to take any chances, though, I swooped in with my trump card.
I reminded Mikey that his mother came into the store at least once a day, twice if it was a Bingo night, and I said to him that I'd be very sad if I had to tell her that Mikey was attempting to abscond with frozen goods in his pants.
As far as I know, Mikey never tried to steal anything again.
At least when I was working.
I wonder what Mikey is doing now?
And if he is still trying to stuff Drumsticks in his drawers.
Title Lyric: Part(Y)-Time Jobs by Amari
Emily had a rough shift at the theaters last evening.
I remember working minimum wage jobs and coming home feeling as if I'd stood underneath a flock of low flying, incontinent birds.
It's inevitable.
The tension between you're-not-paying-me-enough-to-take-this-crap-and-I-know-I'm-being-exploited and you're-a-teenager-suck-it-up-because-there-are-all-sorts-of-other-people-who-would-gladly-take-your-job.
Couple this with the addage "the customer is always right" and you have all the makings of a disaster.
Because in my experience, the customer is actually rarely ever right.
Something anyone in retail or hospitality will be more than willing to tell you.
After they've had a few drinks.
My first paying job was actually working at a day care.
One I had attended until I was too old to go any longer.
At the age of 12.
Wondering what the hell I was going to do during the summer, I figured out a way to be at the day care, with other people, doing something other than sitting at home in rural southern New Brunswick with only 2 tv channels, working parents, and no vehicle.
I volunteered.
From the ages of 12-16 you could find me spending my days in the company of kids between the ages of 2 to 12, coloring, drawing, playing outside, the occasional field trip.
At some point, they started paying me for collecting the garbage and making sure all the doors were locked.
Thus my entry into the world of wage labour.
With my babysitting money, and this job, I usually made enough to prevent me from asking my parents for money all the time.
Just some of the time.
Because at 12 you're financial obligations are few.
But all that changed when I turned 16.
My mother took it upon herself to find me a job.
I can't remember if it's because I might have casually mentioned that I wanted one, or, because all of a sudden my need for money had exponentially increased, or because she was worried where I might end up if I started looking on my own.
Either way, the February of 1984, I found myself behind the cash register of a convenience store.
Located below a middle school, beside the town's recreation center and public library, and just down the street from the only high school, this convenience store saw a lot of business.
At lunch time locust-like swarms of hormonally challenged, pimply faced middle schoolers would decend from on high in search of chips, chocolate bars, pop, ice cream, gum, and the dreaded penny candy.
Because from 1984-1987, you could still get candy that actually only cost a penny.
I know.
I counted every single one of them.
Sour candy, sour keys, green thumbs, red lips, licorice, Nibs, cherry swizzles, blue something I can't remember, chocolate and carmel squares. . .
And every middle schooler with more than a quarter in their pocket crammed themselves into that store.
Not concerned at all about the mayhem, pandemonium and chaos they were bringing with them.
I am more than aware of how those kids felt because when I went to that same middle school, my friends and I were at that store anytime we had money.
Even if it meant pooling it together.
BBQ corn chips, Coke, mint chocolate chip ice cream. . .it didn't matter so long as it meant we weren't eating what our mothers made for us.
We were just too cool.
Standing behind that counter, store bursting at the seams with kids, I'd be counting candy and ringing in scads of sugar, starch and preservative laden goodies for an hour straight.
But my absolute favourite were those kids, usually boys, who tried to buy cigarettes.
Squeaky voiced barely teenagers coming to the counter, standing in front of me trying to look adult with the small bit of just-barly-visible-fuzz thinking about gracing their upper lips thinking they were going to blind me with their masculinity enough to convince me they were old enough to smoke.
And their attempt to manfacture scathing looks of disgust when I asked them for identification was priceless.
Causing me to utter a few witty comments of my own when they were unable to provide said id.
Given that this was a middle school that served a large military community and several smaller rural communities, on the odd occasion you would actually get a 16 year old middle schooler who was old enough, at that time, to purchase cigarettes.
Scary, I know.
Weekend and the summer months provided a regular stream of kids who had been kicked out of the house by their mothers and were wandering aimlessly around town looking for something to do.
Occasionally, we would get some eight year old who thought he was smarter than we were attempting to smuggle goods out of the store, sans payment.
One sticks out in my mind, particularly.
We'll call him Mikey.
Mikey was the youngest child in a family who had believed they weren't going to have anymore children, so he was a bit of a shock.
By this time, Mom and Dad had raised several other children, all boys, and Mom especially was just tired.
So Mikey did pretty much whatever he felt like.
He sort of looked like Rudy's friend Peter from the Cosby Show, so he was cute and this got him far.
One day, he came into the store, and I greeted him with the usual, "Hey Mikey. How's the wife and kids?"
He said what he always said in his eight year old voice, "I don't HAVE a wife and kids!"
Proceeding to the freezer full of popsicles, Oh! Henry ice cream bars, ice cream sandwiches and the ever popular giant freezies, Mikey, who was very short, hauled himself into the freezer.
With nothing but his feet hanging out.
I asked him if he wanted any help.
He said no.
I knew what he was up to.
The minute he walked into that store wearing pants in mid-July, I knew what plans were brewing in his sugar deprived eight year old brain.
I just wanted to see how far he'd go.
Mikey eventually pulled himself out of the freezer and came over to the counter.
And in his pants there was a sight I didn't expect to see from an eight year old boy.
A hard on.
Or rather, a Drumstick hard on.
Because cute little eight year old Mikey was in the freezer stuffing himself full of ice cream goodies, including a Drumstick to the drawers.
His placement wasn't exactly well planned.
I'd never seen a hard on with such a sharp point.
I looked at Mikey.
He looked at me.
I came from around the counter, beckoning him to me with the crook of my finger.
He came to me and over to the freezer we went.
I stood there while he rid himself of his frozen booty, and when he was finished, I squatted down on my knees (I could squat then. If I tried now I'd probably just fall over) so I could look him in the eye.
And I told Mikey that stealing was not okay.
He nodded but I knew he was actually planning his next big heist.
I then pulled out the big guns.
I said to him that I went to school with his big brother.
Aw, something started to tingle in his little boy brain.
Not wanting to take any chances, though, I swooped in with my trump card.
I reminded Mikey that his mother came into the store at least once a day, twice if it was a Bingo night, and I said to him that I'd be very sad if I had to tell her that Mikey was attempting to abscond with frozen goods in his pants.
As far as I know, Mikey never tried to steal anything again.
At least when I was working.
I wonder what Mikey is doing now?
And if he is still trying to stuff Drumsticks in his drawers.
Title Lyric: Part(Y)-Time Jobs by Amari
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)