March 19, 2011
Thursday evening, I just couldn't come home and face the inevitable, "what's for dinner?"
In my valiant, yet vain attempts to fight off this cold. . .the cold that makes my throat feel as a repository for phlegm saturated cut glass I noticed I was quite tired.
Sitting in my office, waiting for Stephen to finish his 4.00-5.20 class, the realization of how tired I really was hit me like a wrecking ball tearing down a building.
Leaving me capable of doing nothing more than watching the latest episode of Glee with Em.
Clearly not capable of manipulating and maneuvering knives and stove tops.
Out for dinner it was.
The other inevitable question: Where?
Swiss Chalet closed until the last week in March.
And downtown a complete and utter no go unless we all wanted to get our St. Patrick's Day drink on.
I didn't.
Stephen, maybe.
Em. . .not even the opportunity to contemplate.
While Fredericton has many charms, many attributes, reasons for tourists to flock to our fair city during the summer and fall months, we do lack in the variety of restaurants you would find in larger city centers.
Certainly, in the last decade, things have improved.
We have Caribbean, Indian, Mexican restaurants.
Your standard Chinese, English pub style restaurants.
And the sodium and fat inducing fast food fare, such as McDonald's, KFC, Burger King, etc.
However, most of the good, non-chain or nicer places are located downtown.
Add our Simply For Life restrictions, and eating out can be a hazardous affair.
Stephen, always ready to take on a challenge, called our SFL counsellor and asked about the places we could go.
And because we wanted to avoid the drunken St. Paddy's Day revelers, this left us with two choices:
The Lincoln Big Stop, which is a lovely place, however, I just didn't feel like driving to Lincoln and back for a meal.
Or. . . .
Jungle Jim's.
I have to admit to being a bit of a restaurant snob.
There are some places I'm not all that thrilled about patronizing.
I had been to a Jungle Jim's with my dad a couple of years ago.
It wasn't bad.
But I didn't leave with the burning desire to go back.
Last night, however, it was eat at Jungle Jim's or go home and root through the fridge for leftovers I could throw together.
And everyone was excited about going out for dinner and going to Jungle Jim's.
I didn't want to be, as Em likes to say, the "Debbie-downer."
Hello, Jungle Jim's.
Thursday is Buy One Steak, Get the Other Half Price Night.
New York Strip Loin.
I was skeptical.
Again?
Still?
But, steak was one of the SFL choices, so steak it was.
Ordering with Stephen is ALWAYS a challenge.
Inevitably, as soon as we are seated, I hear the, "Oh crap! I forgot my glasses in the car!"
And if he isn't feeling the need to retrieve his spectacles, I have to read the menu for him.
I used to have to read the menu for the kids.
Occasionally, I have to read it for my mother.
Reading it for my soon-to-be-50-year-old-husband is something I would prefer to do much less of.
I did use it to my advantage, however.
Having decided on steak, the next challenge, always the challenge, with Stephen, is to veer him away from ordering it well done.
Eat the bottom of your shoes.
It's less expensive.
And probably tastes better.
However, I wasn't able to bring him around to having it rare, either.
Compromise lead us to medium well, meaning the steak didn't have the juices cooked completely out of it, retaining some flavour, and not looking like someone's old boot.
I had mine rare.
I wanted blue.
Unfortunately, Stephen made it very clear, supported by the Peanut Gallery (aka Emily) that I'd be sitting alone if I ordered a blue steak.
The "just-bring-me-the-cow-and-I'll-bite-off-my-own-steak", steak.
Rare it was then.
But it was somewhat overcooked.
I didn't send it back, however, because it took long enough to get it in the first place.
Nonetheless, for someone with a BBQ. . . .
. . .a gross error that WILL be rectified shortly. . .
. . .any steak, even a slightly overdone rare steak is better than no steak at all.
Last weekend we went for our first the-sidewalks-are-clear-walk.
And if memory serves, I did so in Birkenstocks because I didn't want to wear my boots, and, alas, my sneakers were MIA.
How come, you ask?
Because Stephen gave them away to the Salvation Army.
I've noticed a trend, pattern in Stephen's approach to my stuff.
Give it away.
Cookie sheets for example.
My sneakers.
One day I expect to wake up at the Salvation Army with a price tag on my forehead.
Hopefully for more than. . .
. . .or at the very least. . .
.99 cents.
With tax.
Hence, he had to replace them.
My logic is that if he actually has to pay for them, to carry in his conscious brain how much they put him out, he'll think twice before giving them away.
Or if I'm really lucky, he'll think once.
I had just gotten them where I wanted them, too.
Off to The Shoe Company for a pair of Skechers Shape-Ups.
Pink Skecher Shape-Ups
I've heard some people say they loved them.
Others did not even remotely like them.
Me?
I like to figure such things out for myself.
And I've wanted a pair from the first time I saw the advertisements.
Apparently, I will be able to work out just by walking around in them.
I don't consider myself that gullible, but, I like a challenge.
Coupled with the yoga, I may actually be able to stand straight and touch my knees before I'm 65.
Title Lyric: S.T.E.A.K by Peelander
March 18, 2011
Yesterday was an odd day.
Good in some ways.
Stressful, ergo normal, in others.
Em didn't want to go to school.
SURPRISE!
She's been home since the Friday before March Break.
Granted, she has been sick since last Sunday.
But yesterday was Thursday, she was feeling better, not perfect, not 100%, not completely better, but better enough to go to school.
A fact she was not at all happy about.
And made perfectly clear to me.
Mer rails, rants, yells, stomps, tantrums. . . .
And then she's done, like a firework running out of steam.
Keith contemplates.
Sometimes he talks about what's bothering him.
Sometimes he doesn't.
But if he's really upset about something, feels he's been grossly wronged, or is really frustrated (usually by one of his sisters), he'll certainly tell you.
Without any hesitation.
Em.
She's a whole different category all on her own.
Cold.
Icy.
She says nothing.
Just stares at you.
And then, when you least expect it, she says one line.
Sometimes one word.
Proving the addage, "less is more" has great merit.
She was miserable yesterday morning.
I knew that.
Because I'm feeling miserable, too.
We're all suffering, again, from a new strain of virus running rampant through our family.
This would be round three for the viruses.
Or, viruses: 3. Us: 0
Sore, scratchy throats.
Coughing.
Sneezing.
And you can imagine the rest.
But I didn't stay home for three days.
I had to go to work.
And it seemed to me it was time for Em to return to school.
There are other issues compounding how she's feeling.
And we're dealing with those, too.
But this all requires patience.
On her part as well.
Meeting me halfway.
Like going to school and staying there for the day.
Without making me feel like Satan's mother.
The good stuff.
Three times in the span of an hour, I was told that I am looking really good.
Unrecognizable.
Which I took in a good way, thank you very much.
That what I'm doing is working.
Much better than feeling like Satan's mother.
And affirming that avoiding the Montreal bagels, the kolach, the stainless steel, gelato filled containers at Adonis, I am making positive changes.
Good changes.
Good things for my health in the long term.
Even though there are days, like yesterday when the stressors are high, surrounding me like snow during a blizzard.
All the effort and changes are worth it.
With time.
And. . . .
Patience.
And. . . .
Yoga.
I like students because you can never predict what they're going to do.
What they'll say.
How they'll dress.
Or accessorize.
For example, I walked into my Introduction to Qualitative Methods class Tuesday, and while talking about their group presentations for Daniel Wolf's ethnography, The Rebels: A Brotherhood of Outlaw Bikers, I saw a flash of pink my peripheral vision.
Once the students were put into their groups, I went in search of the flash of pink.
And found it.
On the arm of a student, who happily consented to the use of his name: Andrew Lockerby.
The vision of pink?
A bracelet in support of finding a cure for breast cancer, purchased from Boathouse.
A bracelet that proclaims, "I LOVE BOOBIES"
A couple of minutes on Google has confirmed what I suspected once I was able to comprehend the flash of pink.
This must be causing a sh** storm.
It's been banned in some places, particularly schools.
I don't know how I feel about it.
On the one hand, I want breast cancer eradicated just as much as the next person.
Stephen's mum is breast cancer survivor.
Who wouldn't want a disease that has taken the lives of countless women eradicated?
And I think we need to move beyond the oppressive right wing conservativeness that still seems to characterize how we talk about sex in the Western world.
But there is something about seeing a pink plastic, I LOVE BOOBIES wristband that makes me feel icky.
I just need to figure out how come.
Title Lyric: Hooray for Boobies by Gang Bloodhound
March 17, 2011
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
The only day, no matter what your nationality, everyone across the Western world is Irish.
Until tomorrow morning, when they wonder what the hell they were thinking.
One of my lifelong dreams is to travel to Ireland, on an exchange where I teach one course in a term, give a couple of public lectures and then spend the rest of the time travelling around Ireland.
Perhaps even celebrating St. Patrick's Day while there.
It'll happen one day.
I just have to get everyone here sorted out enough to allow me to go farther than Montreal.
I slept so well last night.
Once dinner was over, a dinner Emily made so that when I walked through the door instead of hearing, "MUM! What's for dinner!" I heard, "Mum. Dinner's on the table."
I want to walk into the house and hear this every. single. evening.
At least from Monday to Friday.
Likelihood?
Nil.
After this wonderful meal I didn't have to make, I went upstairs, donned yoga appropriate clothing, and did some of the relaxation stretching exercises from the night before.
I even had Stephen doing them.
Sans yoga mat, but still. . .you work with what you have.
We weren't on the floor doing warm-ups five minutes when we realized we had a much bigger problem than a missing yoga mat and a too small space.
Two problems, actually.
Frankie and Tikka.
Neither of whom could understand, grasp, contemplate any logical reason for why we would lock them out of the bedroom.
Refuse them entrance.
Engage in any kind of activity that would warrant their exclusion.
So instead of warming-up, we had to barricade Tikka in the kitchen, and put Frankie in his hut.
You can imagine their response.
Tough.
Suck it up.
Everyone deserves some alone time.
Even me.
Once we had wrangled the wild, we were able to resume our warm ups and begin the stretching exercises.
In no way did I manage to do everything right.
I know because it didn't feel exactly the same as it did Tuesday evening.
But it still felt good.
Which was the point.
Between not having to make dinner and the time spent doing my modified version of yoga, I had a very nice sleep indeed.
Much needed.
Well deserved, in my humble opinion.
During the end phase of yoga, the "corpse pose" Stephen released the hounds.
Instead of laying on the floor, palms up, listening to the soothing and relaxing yoga music piping from my little cd player. . .
. . .I was assaulted by happy puppies with wagging tails and wet tongues.
Just as welcomed and relaxing as the corpse pose.
Well, almost.
I had to get off the floor quickly, or risk some trampling by said excited puppies.
After my first class was over yesterday, we hopped into the Fiesta, dashed over the bridge to the Northside and picked up my baby from Dana's Collision.
We pulled into the parking lot, and there she was, shining, whole. . . .
I was so happy.
I ran over and told her how much I missed her, how good she looked. . .
I may have kissed her. . .
Getting behind the wheel, sitting high enough off the ground that I didn't feel I was driving while lying down. . . .
Normal.
It felt normal.
First thing after rescuing my girl was to take the Fiesta back to the rental agency.
After we filled both gas tanks.
Standing in front of the rental agent, Fiesta keys on the counter, turning heel to walk out the door, the rental agent says,
"Your insurance only authorized the rental up to $900.00. The rental cost is $1400.00. I guess I'd better call the insurance company."
I guess you'd better.
Luckily for the insurance agent, she authorized the complete payment.
The $900.00 limit was in the event that the accident was our fault.
It was most certainly not.
And even if it had of been, I wouldn't have paid the addition $500.00.
THAT is what I pay insurance for.
Now, I am so tempted to take the total cost of the repair and the rental. $5500.00, march into Mer's apartment building, find the apartment of the woman who hit us, and remind her of the consequences of trying to get in between someone and school bus.
Driving behind school buses isn't the worst thing in the world.
Not even close.
Title Lyric: Charming Life by Joan Armatrading
March 16, 2011
Just when I think that there may be some peace in the valley. . . .
. . . a tornado of epic proportions hits.
Creating a wake of destruction and frustration in it's midst.
One full night into morning getting ready with peace and quiet, tranquility and patience.
One.
All I'm asking.
Or at least wait until I've had my first cup of coffee.
Really.
It's not too much to ask.
Yoga was wonderful!
If peace and tranquility cannot reign in this house, then I will ensure it reigns in me.
I thought I'd be really sore this morning, but so far, I was able to get up and go to the bathroom without feeling my muscles scream at me like the shrieking violins in Psycho.
Not to say there isn't the potential for some pain tomorrow.
Apparently, there is.
But I am going to err on the side of positive and just bask in the feeling-goodness I'm experiencing right now.
And it did bring peace and tranquility to mind and body!
At the same time, I did move my body in ways it hasn't moved in a long time.
If ever.
Stretching muscles that have never been stretched.
Moving in ways that made my body sit up and say, "WTF??"
But the relaxed feeling I had afterwards. . . . .
I may have to do yoga several times a day at the rate things are going.
I admit, I was a bit nervous.
Not knowing what to expect can do that.
I wasn't even certain I'd be able to get up and down off the floor.
And this one pose, where you plant your hands on the mat, and then stand, creating a V. . .
. . .my ghetto bootay in the air, looking more like a U. . . .thankfully no one could see as a result of having their own asses stuck up in the air. . . .
I was certain this would be the pose where my body would would resolutely cross arms and say uh-uh, like a petulant toddler.
But, I was wrong.
My body complied.
Although I know it was thinking if we tip over there is gonna be some damage done in here!
I now possess a heightened awareness of just how poor my posture is.
And that the warrior pose is my favourite.
We moved to the sitting poses, and I was thinking, yeah! Sitting!
I know how to do that.
I have never sat like that before.
But again, to my surprise, I did it.
Not as well or as graceful as the yoga instructor, but it was done nonetheless.
I cannot wait for next week.
Really.
I can't.
I may have to do some poses here.
Where no one has to witness by butt in the air, and I don't have to worry if I accidentally fart.
And. . . . . .
WE ARE GETTING OUR CAR BACK THIS MORNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
As soon as we have finished teaching our 9.00 am classes, we are off to Dana's Collision to pick up our 2006 Ford Focus station wagon with dog gate.
I.
Can't.
Wait.
Stephen vacuumed the Fiesta Monday, attempting to rid it of all the dog hair.
Dog hair = $100.00 charge we have to cover as opposed to the insurance company.
Dog hair on car fibre is like newspaper to paper mache glue.
Sticks.
Fiercely.
A full hour of Ellie the 1987 Electrolux's services were required in order to rid the car of it's furry fare.
Since then, there have been no unleashed promenades for the dogs.
As no one wanted to spend another hour vacuuming the car.
Least of all Ellie.
Consequently, there was another symbol of the dog's displeasure with our no-unleashed-walks-policy-until-we-get-our-car-back.
More a symbol of Frankie's displeasure.
Another cold pile of dog sh** on the mat this morning.
Which was the catalyst for the morose and miserable morning we've had so far.
Frankie.
He knows how to wield his power.
But today, when I FINALLY get home from work. . . .
. . . because it is going to be a long day. . . .
I am packing the hounds into the Ford, behind the dog gate where there is enough hair to build a couple of shih tzus, and taking them for a run.
Hopefully.
Footwear may be an issue.
Stephen gave away my sneakers to the Salvation Army.
A nasty habit he's developed.
If it isn't used in a week, it's gone.
Lucky for me yoga is done barefoot.
Title Lyric: Yoga by Bjork
March 15, 2011
Sleepless night number four.
There is just so much going on, so much to do weighing me down like an anchor that no matter how tired I am. . .
. . .and believe me I AM tired. . .
I can't sleep.
I just lay there.
Wanting to sleep.
Needing to sleep.
Staring at the ceiling.
Trying not to look at the clock, because it creates more stress as I watch the minutes turn to hours.
I was hoping once the trip to our family doctor was said and done that I would be able to relax a little.
Apparently not so.
Nothing is drastically wrong.
But genetics is rearing its ugly head, causing some problems.
Luckily, however, these are issues that can be dealt with.
So long as I keep on hand a large supply of patience.
I think I can do that.
And accept that things take time to work out.
Time.
Hmmmmmm.
A bit of a nemesis, I'm afraid.
Although not sleeping certainly provides me with a lot more of it.
I truly believed I had a chance at sleep last night.
Until the latest Meredyth-inspired calamity created chaos and dissention in the ranks.
She supposedly had two job interviews yesterday.
Hence the ringing-of-the-cell-phone-during-our-Sunday-promenade as she needed bus fare.
Naturally (???) we gave her bus fare.
But, naturally, she didn't go to the interviews.
A tidbit of info we heard from Keith when we asked him if she had told him how her interviews went.
I hate feeling like a chump.
Taken for a ride.
Being had.
And Mer can do it better than anyone else I know.
The real question is how come I can't say no.
And believe me when I say I've spent more time than I should have looking for an answer to that question.
Guilt is a part of it.
But guilt is wearing thin.
Practically non-existent after Mer's shenanigans of the last several months.
We may be at a point where the only thing I do to help her financially is continue paying my agreed upon share of her rent.
In fact, we are at that point.
Action.
Decision making.
Strangely, it feels good.
Of course, Stephen was less than pleased when he heard about this.
Especially since the bus fare money came from him.
The issue with Stephen is his belief that because I gave birth to these people, I must have control over them.
A vulcan mind meld sort of thing.
If. Only.
Perhaps when they were smaller.
Okay.
When Keith and Em were smaller.
But never Mer.
From birth, come hell or high water, that child has always gone in her own direction, consequences be damned.
She especially ran opposite of any direction she thought I supported.
She is now 21.
Keith will be 20 in May.
Em just turned 17.
No mind melding here.
Most times, I'm not even allowed in.
A fact that, for some reason, eludes Stephen.
This is when it is very hard for him to be a step-parent.
A highly reactive step-parent.
Nuclear even.
I've had years of training in keeping my emotions under the surface, not reacting in an atomic bomb sort of way.
Which Stephen interprets as my not being aware or not caring or simply wanting it all to just go away.
That last part may have some validity.
But I am only too aware of what is going on.
And how powerless I am to do much about it.
That child will have to continue to fall until the time comes when she falls hard enough that sense is knocked into her head.
And until then, I have to sit on the sidelines, trying to provide some guidance, what she will allow.
It's hard.
Understatement of the millenium.
It's hard to watch your child do things you know will only serve to make her life more difficult.
Knowing, if just for this one time only, she would listen, things may not be so hard.
Wishing you weren't the one who was going to have to teach her one of those harsh life lessons.
And I wonder why I can't sleep??????
Onto something good.
Positive.
Downright selfish, almost.
Yoga.
I am starting yoga tonight.
How excited am I about this?????????
For a long time I've been intrigued by yoga.
A body and mind activity.
Something that will calm, perhaps, the torrential seas of my mind, allowing me some solace and peace.
I'm not all that flexible.
Pliable.
Bendable.
But this will help, a lot, I hope.
After my classes today, I'll be off to purchase a yoga mat and pillow to begin my journey into body and mind peacefulness.
And maybe even, should I be so fortunate, sleep.
Title Lyric: Life's Lessons by Lynyrd Skynyrd
March 14, 2011
Another sleepless night.
Another cranky Dawne.
I suspect part of it is the end-of-March-Break-returning-to-classes anxiety I have always experienced.
Even as a kid.
That lingering fear, concern that there was something I was supposed to do and forgot to do it.
Except this time it's the outright knowledge that I had a list of things a mile long to do that didn't get done meaning this week is going to be out and out chaos.
Also hovering around my brain is Emily's doctor's appointment this morning.
For MONTHS Em has been suffering from a list of ailments.
Causing missed school.
Not all are physical.
In fact, I don't know if any are actually physical.
Or, the physical pain is a manifestation borne from anxiety and stress.
So, after waiting two months, it's off to the doctor.
My fear?
I'm wrong.
And there is something physically wrong with her.
Mental stuff I can handle.
My mother is bi-polar.
My mother's sister dealt with severe mental health issues.
As did their mother.
And it would seem such things have been passed down the line.
I've battled my own depressive demons.
The 90s was, for me, fighting and conquering those demons.
If this is what's up with Em, I am well prepared.
My arsenal is well stocked with knowledge and strength.
But anything else and I am so far out of my element I can't even see it.
As I do every morning, I got up, put on my slippers, walked over, around, through dogs, and began my trek down the stairs.
And what to my wondrous eyes did appear?
A big, smelly, cold pile of dog shit.
Compliments of Frankie.
I've been expecting this.
While we were away, there was no canine cavorting, and little canine consumption of canine chow.
Once we returned, so did their appetites.
Throwing their waste management systems into complete and utter chaos.
And we are now dealing with the repercussions.
Smelly repercussions at that.
Stephen doesn't deal well with this kind of stuff at any time.
But first thing in the morning?
When he is awakened against his will, kvetching that it is simply inhumane to ask anyone to rise from their slumber before noon?
You have the intellectual capacity to figure out how well he responds to such early morning mayhem.
After spending the morning and afternoon thesis reading and midterm marking, I decided it was time for a break.
Keith had to be to work for 4.45 pm and Em didn't finish until 6.00 pm, leaving me with an hour and fifteen minutes in between the dropping off and collecting of the chicks.
So Stephen and I went for a walk.
Downtown.
It was glorious!
Sidewalks free of snow and life endangering ice.
No winter boots covering my tootsies.
No sneakers either, unfortunately, as when I went to retrieve mine from the basement, they were not to be found.
I suspect they were another casualty of Stephen's let's-give-everything-we-haven't-used-for-the-last-two-weeks-to-the-Salvation-Army.
Although he vehemently denies this.
Funny how he always suffers from memory loss when such things happen.
Not to be swayed from my desire to be outside, I put on my Birkenstocks.
I LOVE my Birks.
With a pair of wool socks, they were just as comfy and warm as sneakers.
A new pair of which will be coming my way this weekend when Stephen replaces the ones have donated to a cause greater than my need to walk outside.
We parked on Queen Street, in front of East Side Board something or other, and began our promenade.
The sidewalks were free of ice and snow, however, the melting of both revealed what lay beneath.
A LOT of sand.
And assorted winter debris.
The contents of someone's over-imbibed stomach outside the club, BOOM!
And given that this is Fredericton, you can bet those streets will be cleaned up faster than you can say supercalafragalisticexpialidocious.
Various downtown shop windows provided more than enough distraction from the littered streets.
Rubber boots, covered with flowers for me.
I've always wanted a pair of rubber boots.
I don't like walking in the rain because inevitably, I end up with wet feet.
Wet hair, wet clothes. . .those things I can live with.
But wet feet are in a category of don't-go-there all on their own.
Furniture, in particular two lovely chairs and a dresser, tantalized me, even though they knew, as did I, that my budget in no way could stretch that far.
But looking is free.
Prom dresses.
No comment.
Jewellery, in particular a pewter and emerald-looking stones necklace at Aiken's Pewter, was particularly lovely.
Books.
ALWAYS books.
Lucky for Stephen, the shops closed at 5.00, if they had even been open at all.
Otherwise it would have been more book browsing than walking.
Downtown Fredericton is lovely, but not large, so within a half hour of beginning our trek we were traversing through residential areas, admiring the Victorian homes, the homes-we-could-never-afford, looking at windows and doors, paint colors and more.
We were transported into a world bereft of marking and dogs, duties and responsibilities.
But alas, all good things must come to an end.
And ours did as we were walking back to the car.
For some reason, habit perhaps, I had taken along my cell phone.
It's ring blasted through my semi-serene state to remind me that I have duties and responsibilities, just in case I had the audacity to momentarily toss such things into the far recesses of my mind.
Meredyth.
Who else would shatter my serenity?
Crisis again.
Crisis dealt with.
Money to be dropped off on our way home.
Shortly after talking with Mer, Em called.
She finished early.
15 minutes early.
She just wanted us to know.
Translation: she-is-finished-and-tired-because-she-didn't-get-home-from-the-staff-showing-until-4.30am-because-of-the-stupid-time-change-and-then-she-had-to-work-at-noon-so-now-she-is-tired-so-will-I-PLEASE-come-and-get-her-asap!
The remainder of the evening, after a delicious dinner of moist, juicy boneless, skinless, chicken breast, broccoli, and a medley of stir fried veggies with just a tiny dab of chili garlic sauce, was spent marking midterms.
Making me wonder if these students were actually in the same classroom I was and if not how come I am having such grand hallucinations twice a week for 80 minutes?
And then bed, to finish, sadly, the latest Alan Bradley book, A Red Herring Without Mustard, an artful crafting of the most interesting latest adventure of eleven year old Flavia Sabina de Luce.
Only to lay awake and toss and turn the rest of the night.
Hopefully, hopefully, once doctor's visits and thesis meetings happen, and maybe even another walk as we have more daylight at the end of the day, I will sleep.
Well.
Fitfully.
Without dreams of clocks that stay at 9.00 am while trying to wrangle teenagers out of an oval shaped pool and calling Ontario when I mean to call Oromocto.
Title Lyric: These Boots Were Made for Walking by Nancy Sinatra
March 13, 2011
Since returning from Montreal, I haven't been sleeping well.
Odd.
Usually it's the other way around.
I don't sleep well when we're in Montreal.
To be honest, I don't sleep well anytime I'm not in my own bed.
Unless I am thoroughly, completely, absolutely exhausted.
In fact, I am so aware of my inability to sleep well anywhere other than my own bed, I take a fan with me each time I am out overnight.
Causing all sorts of odd looks from hotel employees.
And all sorts of comments from Stephen's mother the first time I walked into her house carrying my own fan.
This visit, she remarked how funny it was that while she was trying to keep the house warm, I was doing my best to keep it cold.
Not true.
I need the white noise to ensure I can sleep.
The silence is deafening.
Don't you think?
For some reason, I can't sleep through the night.
I wake up at some point in the middle of the night.
2.30 am.
3.42 am.
Laying there, I contemplate what I should be doing, what I could be doing, what I have to do.
Like Mount Marking -- which has taken up residence in my office.
And gets bigger by the second.
I love my sleep.
Having it disturbed regularly makes me a very unhappy woman.
I need my sleep.
Crave it.
Look forward to donning my jammies, crawling into bed, reading for a little bit, and then falling asleep with my glasses askew on my face and the book laying beside me on the sheets.
All of which is happening.
Except I'm not staying asleep.
Ergo the problem.
Last night, just to keep things fresh and exciting, I played an unfortunately well-known game of let's-doze-a-bit-and-have-bad-dreams-in-the-few-minutes-that-we-do-sleep.
Dreams that include my father saying politically incorrect things in public, which causes a huge row between the two of us, where my father starts talking about free speech and how we live under the constitution, while I am looking through a crim textbook to find the specific reference to hate speech as several of my students happen to witness this tete-a-tete, causing me to turn to them and ask if I should pass the hat for the free entertainment because most people have to pay for cable.
And I wonder how come I can't sleep.
I also know that the constitution is American, not Canadian.
In case anyone wanted to correct me about that.
As an aside, two of the things in that dream have happened on more than one occasion.
I'll leave it to you to figure out which two.
In addition, I was lulled awake by the snorting, snuffling, wheezing and all around boisterous, cacophonous, deafening, emphatic, obstreperous, vehement and vociferous snoring of my loving husband.
Snoring Stephen + dozing inspired bad dreams = a very, very poor sleep for Dawne.
And a poorly slept Dawne means a crabby, cranky, stay out of my way Dawne reigns supreme until her sleep tank is filled.
Happy Sunday to me!
The kids, however, will have no problems spending the day sleeping.
Last evening, after they finished working, there was a staff showing of the latest alien- invasion-of-L.A. film.
Couple that with the time change, and you have kids coming home at 4.30 in the morning.
I am staying away from the two of them as much as possible today.
Until I have to feed them before they go to work this evening.
Much like yesterday, today will be filled with work, work and more work.
I have to finish reading the first draft of my honours student's thesis.
30 pages.
Not bad for a first draft.
And then after I finish reading and editing it, I will move on to the intro midterms.
Happy.
Sunday.
To.
Me.
Title Lyric: Sleep by Azure Ray
