September 14, 2011
September 14, 2011
Today I teach the first of the term's Crime in Popular Film class.
My favourite class.
An opportunity to take young minds and move them from thinking of film as nothing more than a source of entertainment, to film as an opportunity to critically comment about the world around us.
In particular, about crime, criminals, agents of social control. . . .
Further, any class where watching Dirty Harry is critical to success has to be a good class.
I wish I could say I was as excited with my intro methods class this morning.
Except for a select few, most of them arrived yesterday unprepared to discuss how qualitative research can explore the mundane, making us realize how the mundane is anything but mundane.
A short article.
That was all I asked them to read.
And yet, seemed too much for them.
Taxing even.
I was prepared.
Everything outlined on a separate piece of paper, so I don't forget anything.
(Another step in my sad attempt to remain organized. . .)
Even going so far as to show them an episode of All in the Family, "Everybody Tells the Truth" and a means of introducing them to the foundations of qualitative research via the philosophizing of Archie Bunker.
Who wouldn't enjoy that?
And at 11.00, when it was time for them to step up and give a little. . . .
About 8 people of 45 had read the article and were prepared to participate.
So I did what any reasonable person would do.
Let them know what I thought of their being unprepared, gave them additional work because they were unprepared and left.
In ten years that's only the second time I've had to do that.
Hopefully it'll be the last.
Because at this stage, my willingness to tolerate such asinine behaviour has almost disappeared.
On the homefront, the war over territory in our humble abode continues.
Goblet fiercely protecting her space on my dresser, on top of her box, under the window, manning it at all hours of the day and night against any and all intruders.
Specifically Dibbles and Jazz.
She's even taken to fighting with them in other rooms, particularly Emily's, if she feels the situation necessitates such punitive actions.
And her wrath isn't just directed towards our not-so-newcomers.
Last evening, after a very long teaching day which was then capped off with filling both cars with gas and getting much needed groceries, I finally drag my very tired self upstairs, exhaustedly excited about donning jammies and curling up under the sheets with my latest Val McDermid book featuring Dr. Tony Hill and DCI Carol Jordan.
At the top of the stairs, if you turn right, you can see into our bedroom before you actually get our bedroom.
Well, you can see Goblet on her box under the window anyway.
She looked smug.
Red flag alerts shoot up like rockets into the night sky.
Crossing the threshold into our room, I realized how come she looked so smug.
Satisfied.
Proud of herself with a smattering of insouciance.
A wall of cat piss scent flooded my olfactory nerves like waves on the shore during a hurricane.
Fixing a stare on Goblet that would have felled a lesser cat, I began the hunt for the source of the stench.
Joined almost immediately by Stephen, who had come to see his Goblet.
And whose joy at seeing her little, smug face was shattered when the foul odor permeating our boudoir enveloped him like a warm blanket.
GOBLET!!!!!!! he pronounced.
She looked at him, almost bored, as if to reply, yes?
He then turned to me wondering about the source of the offensive malodour.
Because clearly I should know.
He half-heartedly checked around the room for ground zero, but was unsuccessful.
I suspect it was because he was still trying to fathom what had lead her to engage in such harsh tactics, even if she did think she was at war.
After he left, I checked the one spot he didn't.
The dog pillow.
Where Tikka spends the night with us, listening to our harmonious snoring, talking in our sleep and, most importantly, where she is well out of the way during our drunken-like stumbling to the bathroom at 2.16 am.
It wasn't just damp with Goblet pee.
Slathered, it was.
When I grabbed the pillow between my thumb and forefinger, I could feel the sheen of piss transferring itself to my hands.
Clearly, she'd been planning this counter measure and had been storing her liquid stink for just such an occasion.
In her mind, she probably thought she'd been tolerant enough, waiting for us to remove the intruders from her domain.
Obviously we were not quick enough to suit her.
So she's moved on to more drastic measures.
We've even noticed an alliance forming between her and Reilley.
Pre-intruders, if they crossed paths with one another, nothing more than a perfunctory, "hey" was shared as they moved in opposite directions.
Now. . . .
They are side by side on top of Stephen's bureau.
Sleeping companionably on the bed.
Survivor Kitties: Veterans Against Newcomers.
I expect commentary from Jeff Probst while we're sleeping and being filmed by night vision cameras will be next.
After months and months of paying off her obnoxious phone bill, Mer is now in possession of a working cell phone.
It was with trepidation that I called Telus and asked them to unsuspend her phone.
With an additional 200 LOCAL minutes a month, at her expense, I am hoping that she has learned her lesson.
Because if there is a next time, and I am hoping with my heart, soul and all other body parts that there won't be, not only will she not have a cell phone, she won't have one on a family plan with me and she will be left to her own devices to get herself a plan.
Anyone interested in placing bets?
Title Lyric: Vengeance by Dropkick Murphys
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