Did you feel you were tricked? By the future you picked?

March 26, 2011



Keith had an 8.30 meeting this morning at work.

Rather than drive back home and back to the mall to collect him, I'm sitting in my office, catching up on things I've been trying to get to but can't seem to during the weekdays.

And listening to British comedy.

Sadly, I finished Little Britain.

I STRONGLY recommend you watch it, if you already haven't.

Lou and Andy are favourites.

As is brash Vicky Pollard.

In an effort to fill the Little Britain void, I've turned to The Catherine Tate Show.

Recommenced by my friend Josh.

So far, Nan is my favourite.

I'm likin' it. . .yes I am!








Even if I was so completely oblivious to all around me, I would still know that the end of the term is drawing near.

How, you ask?

Because students begin flocking to my door, to discuss the obvious: assignments.

Realizing that there are three weeks left of term, and all of those assignments that they've known about since January are soon due.

And the not so obvious: life in general.

Sometimes they come in to talk about assignments, and end up talking about life in general.

Even at the tender ages of eighteen, nineteen, twenty, many of my young students believe that where they are is where they are and there is no way to make changes they need to make.

Working toward agendas not their own.

Rather those of well meaning parents who only want the best for their children.

I understand this.

I feel the same way about my children.

Years, however, of listening to students agonize over not wanting to be here, but feel they have to be here because it's what their parents want, has lead me to conclude that unless you're attending university, or college, or getting a trade because you want to, it's just not a good idea.

I tend to think that at the cost of tuition for an undergraduate liberal arts degree, around $40,000 over four years when all is said and done, it only makes sense that you spend that money because YOU want to.

Because YOU'RE ready.

Parents aren't sitting in classes, writing papers, studying for mid-terms and finals.

They may be paying for it, but it isn't much of an investment if you're not doing the best you can do.

A hard lesson for parents.

One I've had to face myself this year.

Who knows what Keith will be doing next year, or where he'll be doing it.

But if I believe what I believe, I have to be willing to practice what I preach when it comes to my own children.

I had such a conversation with a lovely and incredibly intelligent student yesterday.

Feeling stuck.

I hope that by the end of our conversation, some of the hardened glue had softened just a little.

And will continue to.

Because no one is so stuck that they can't sort things out with a little time and patience.






One student came by yesterday afternoon, friend from rival university in tow, to pick up the printed version of my PowerPoint presentation about open and focused coding.

Keith was lounging in the big, blue chair, his favourite perch when forced to remain on campus when he's not attending his classes.

During the course of the conversation, my students turned to Keith and said,

"Your mum is really down to earth and easy going Keith, You're so lucky!"

Keith smiled.

Nodded his head in agreement.

And then when the student and friend left, Keith sat up, looked me in the eye, grin on his face and said,

"WHAT are you saying in your classes to make them thing your down to earth and easy going?????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"



Title Lyric: Down to Earth by Peter Gabriel

Cup of chowder, corn, cake, or creamed cauliflower cause I'm waiting for the dinner bell to do the bell thing. . . .

March 25, 2011


Early morning yoga was completely and utterly worth it!

The entire day I felt energized.

Refreshed.

Able to handle whatever the day tossed at me.

Which is important, as often, my days are nothing but dealing with things flying around me.

Last night, yoga with Stephen.

Teaching him how to self-relax may be the best thing he ever learns.

Because I can't be there all the time.

Can I?






If one person doing yoga at 5.30 in the morning confuses the dogs, two people doing it at 7.30 at night makes them almost apoplectic.

Including Daddy in the stretching and breathing to the really weird music was just about more than they could handle.

When we did laying down poses, our faces were assaulted with wet tongues.

Not each others, unfortunately.
Tikka even pawed me a couple of times.

Probably to check to see if I was still living.

More likely she was signalling for me to get my ass off the floor because she needed to poop because didn't I notice she ate all her supper like a good girl and that always means going outside so why the hell was I lying on the floor when the outside and her bowels were calling her???????

Frankie took a if-you-can't-beat'em-join'em attitude, and rolled over onto his back, feet in the air, his favourite don't-I-look-absolutely-adorable-so-why-aren't-you-rushing-too-coo-and-cuddle-with-me position.

Standing up poses were a catalyst for canine frolicking.

Stephen and in front of one other, the space between us became the battleground for our attention.

Frankie trying to pull Tikka's collar off.

Tikka trying to keep Frankie from taking her collar off, because once it is off, she is loath to let you put it back on her.

And here's me trying to teach Stephen to center, relax and ignore.

But if can achieve all three amid cavorting canines, he can do it anywhere.






Meredyth FINALLY had one day off in a stretch of eight, so she came over for dinner last evening.

Keith and Em were both working.

It was very nice to spend some time with her, although I will admit, somewhat ashamedly but not without cause, that I was waiting for her to drop some bomb or other.

Some issue that needs addressing.

Something she's done . . . . 

or not done that needs intervening.

She isn't always that keen about spending time with just me and Stephen.

I can't imagine why.

We're always so calm and well balanced.

But all was well.

She fed the dogs, helped with dinner and afterwards, while Stephen and I were doing our yoga, she disappeared into Keith's room to interface with his Mac.

I wanted her to yoga with us.

Other than Stephen, I can't think of another person who needs to learn how to self-relax.

Sans herbs.

But she was more interested in checking to see if a certain person of the male persuasion sent her a message on Facebook.

So Stephen and I yoga-ed alone.

Well, alone with the dogs.

I'd like to have her over again, soon.

On her own, without her brother to add fuel to her always burning flames of energy, and lacking Em's "I-can't-believe-she-just-did/said-that-stare". . . .

. . . .which can happen frequently throught dinner. . .

. . . .so much so that I worry her face will freeze like that. . . .

. . . .spending time with  Mer was a very pleasant experience.



Title Lyric: Dinner Bell by They Might be Giants

We've stopped and fought like cats and dogs. . .

March 24, 2011


Tuesday evening a member of our yoga class asked our instructor when she did yoga. At what point in the day did she enjoy it most?

She replied she did yoga in the morning and in the evening.

Morning helps her wake up.

Evening helps her sleep well.

My mind jumped at the possibilities!

I'm up at 5.30 every morning.

Why not try some morning yoga?

So I did.







Rather than remove the dogs from the yoga picture, causing them distress and agony because they can't understand how come I'm locking them out of the bedroom, I decided to switch tack.

Let them in.

See what's going on.

Participate in any manner, assuming it's appropriate of course, they chose.

Hoping that eventually, they'll see this as a part of my everyday routine.

Meaning this morning's yoga session was me centering and concentrating while having my face licked because I was sitting on the floor.

Mummy never sits on the floor.

That is the canine domain.

My feet and toes were bathed while I did the breathing exercises.

By Frankie.

Tikka claimed my face and neck as her territory.

The entire scenario felt almost pornographic.

Nonetheless, I persevered and eventually the novelty of me being on the floor wore off.

But not before I was licked head to toe.

And not in a way I necessarily envisioned.






Goblet has also found the yoga experience inviting.

Last evening while Stephen and the dogs were out for a run, I was doing yoga.

I have found it really helps me get rid of the stress of the day.

Goblet has a bell on her collar.

So I know when she's around.

Not that I wouldn't anyway, as she walks as if her feet are clad in cement booties.

This time I am working on the standing poses, and she is weaving in and out of my legs.

Purring loudly.

Bell ringing.

When I reached for my yoga belt to do some shoulder and arm work, she leaped on the bed and started reaching for the belt.

Seems anything that vaguely resembles a string or is string-like is solely her purview.

And when I finished with the belt and put it on the bed, she pounced on it as if it were a choice bit of tenderloin.

Sniffing, pawing, tasting. . .

I put a stop to that.

During the "corpse pose" she wandered back and forth in a semi-circle around my head, purring very loudly.

I knew what scheming she was cooking up in her little feline mind.

Ear sucking.

Because if I'm lying down, I must be inviting her to latch on to my ear lobe for a relaxing suckle for her.

And increasing the possibility that I may fall asleep on the floor.

So. . . .no.

I took command and refused to allow Stephen's feline harlot to latch on to me.

She wants earlobes, she can wait for Stephen.

But she was not deterred from other pursuits as easily.

When I put the yoga belt back in my yoga bag, at the bottom, under the pillow, yoga mat and my socks, she marched over to the bag and started nosing things out of the way.

Searching for THE BELT.

Goblet yoga.

Who knew?






I had thought out what morning yoga would mean.

Cavorting canines and feisty felines?

Check.

Centering to the blissful, relaxing yoga music.

Check.

Centering to the blissful, relaxing yoga music that was punctuated with Stephen's ungodly, horrific, loud and always vexing snoring.

Check.

If I can sleep through it, most of the time anyway, I can yoga to it.

What I hadn't counted on, however, because there is always something you don't remember, is Stephen's early morning bathroom dash.

And sure enough, this morning, face down on my yoga mat doing the starfish pose, he returns from the bathroom.

The getting out of bed and going to the bathroom wasn't an issue.

I was sitting in the lotus position. . . .

. . .okay, MY version of the lotus position. . .more like the ladybug position. . . .

so my risk of being trampled was non existent.

But. . .

His return coincided with the one position that has me face down on the floor.

All sorts of scenarios ran through my head.

Most of which involved him tripping and falling on me in some way, causing permanent bodily harm to at least one, but most likely both of us.

If I said anything, I'd startle him.

His early morning startle reflex is legendary.

Actually, his startle reflex period, is legendary.

If I didn't say anything, he may trip over me.

Even if I laid there quiet as a mouse, he may well trip over me.

His early morning co-ordination is the direct opposite of his early morning startle reflex.

Low.

Very low.

One morning he's going to do a header down the stairs.

It's inevitable.

I did the only thing I could do.

Raised my feet and kept my mouth shut.

Lessening the chance of trampling and falling.

It worked.

He shuffled back to bed without incident.

I don't even think he knew I was there.






Em and I watched Sister Wives last evening.

Stephen said the same thing he always says,

"Why would any man in his right mind want more than one wife??????"

It goes both ways, honey.



Title Lyric:  Cats and Dogs by Social Code

Films and drills and safety illustrations, The crushed cars of driver education.

March 23, 2011


Feeling the yoga burn this morning!

Last evening's session proved to be as invigorating and inventive as last week.

New poses introduced.

More muscles proclaiming their discontent with this new, active regime.

A carpet burned elbow still smarting from yesterday's early morning misadventures. 

Oh well.

I lost another 5 pounds, bringing the total weight loss to 56.2 pounds.

I'll live with the burn and minor, irritating pain thank you very much.

I live with the kids and Stephen, so compared to that pain, a little yoga is nothing. 






This morning, after depositing a grumpy Emily at school, we were leaving the school grounds and hit the red light at Regent and Prospect, in front of the high school.

While sitting in the car, listening to Stephen grumble about how he would NEVER go left at this intersection because there is too much traffic. . . .

. . . .causing me to respond that if he didn't like it he could drive first thing in the morning. . . .

. . .we were watching the "smokers" at the very edge of the boundary between the smoking and non-smoking sections of the school. . . 

. . .an issue I will address at a later date. . . 

. . .when we witnessed one of these early morning nicotine junkies toss her large Timmie's Roll Up the Win cup. . .





. . .to the ground.

Not in the garbage.

Not in a recycle bin.

Not even in her bag to be deposited in an appropriate trash receptacle at a later time.

To the ground.

All for a 1 in 6 chance to win a cup of very, very, very bad coffee, carb-laden bagels smothered with an ice cream scoop worth of cream cheese, sugar and fat infested donut?

Simultaneously, we destroy our bodies and the environment.

Consider the increasing garbage in our landfills!

http://www.ctvbc.ctv.ca/servlet/an/local/CTVNews/20110313/bc_tim_hortons_contest_boycott_110313/20110313?hub=BritishColumbiaHome

Stunned.

We were stunned.

At least our kids, for all their faults, have the common sense to put their garbage in the garbage can.

Or their recyclables in the appropriate bin.

Because if I ever saw them toss garbage on the ground, or heard they had been tossing garbage on the ground, they would become armless, hence no need to toss anything, anymore.

Today it's garbage tossing.






Tomorrow: fracking.






Emily officially begins Driver's Education in April.

YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Because she has become obsessed with getting a driver's licence, while I am equally obsessed about not being the one to teach her.

For eight weeks, 3.45-7.15, she will learn the ins and outs of driving.

It's worth the cost to have someone else teach her.

Of my three children, I think she'd be the easiest to teach to drive.

But I don't want that responsibility.

Nor do I think parents should teach their children to drive.

Leave it to the professionals.

I didn't get a driver's licence until I was in my early thirties.

Which should not be confused with whether or not I actually operated a motor vehicle.

My father had spent more than once summer teaching cadets to drive, so it seemed reasonable that he could teach me the one thing I couldn't do.

And still can't really do, if I am to be honest.

Parallel park.

If I am in a position where I think I may have to engage in parallel parking, I'll make Stephen drive.

On the odd occasion where he is unavailable. . . .

. . . .because I have noticed that Stephen will often have the car on his own, but I almost never do. . . .

and parallel parking is the difference between getting to where I have to be on time, or arriving 45 minutes late because I've had to park in the next city over. . . .

I will parallel park.

Providing oodles of entertainment for those unfortunate souls who have to watch me attempt to get the car as close to the curb while ensuring it is straight, at the same time.

Another instance where I think passing the hat may be a viable option.

What really puts my panties in a twist is that now, if you have the means, you can purchase a car that will parallel park for you.

Now THAT is my idea of parallel parking.






Em will be the first of our children to get a driver's licence.

In spite of the fact that she is the youngest of the kids.

Keith abjectly refuses to even consider getting a driver's licence.

And Mer?

She has to learn how to hold on to her purse and id before I'd trust her with a motor vehicle.



Title Lyric: Driver Education by Amy Ray

With the wind in your hair and the sand in your shoes. . . .

March 22, 2011


A new dance was invented by me this morning.

The 5.30 FreeFall.

You, too, can learn this dance!

First, you have to get up very early, and made certain you are blurry eyed, still asleep, and moving on auto-pilot.

Next, make certain a very large dog has co-opted the space between the end of the bed and the bedroom door, making it difficult, if not impossible to pass through this space while under the blurry-eyed-still-asleep-autopilot-combo.

Then, while attempted to maneuver around the large-space-hogging-dog, insert the big toe of your left foot into the right cuff of your pajamas-that-are-too-big-but-you-love-them-and-can't-give-them-up-plus-they-are-zebra-striped-flannel-so-who-would-want-to-give-them-away.

Once toe is nicely caught in the pajama pant, make certain to fall forward, falling squarely on the right knee (the really bad knee) and skin your elbow on the 1970s goldenrod colored carpet.

Your partner should, upon hearing the colossal BANG! of your body hitting the bedroom floor, sit straight up, turn the light on, and ask you what you're doing on the floor, while at the same time your two year old puppy is happily kissing you all over the face because you are now shorter than he is.

And the dog who refused to move? The catalyst for this cataclysmic event?

Make certain you're sitting on her.

But just a little because she has bad hips.

And now you have to steps to the 5.30 FreeFall!

Carpet burn on my elbow.

There is so much I could say about that.

But I am trying to keep this blog PG.






Last evening, after supper and while the kids were doing the dishes, Stephen and I went out for a walk.

This time we parked in the first UNB parking lot off Windsor and did a loop from Waterloo Row and up University Avenue, incorporating paved trails along the way.

Perfect walking weather.

Not to cold, but cold enough for mittens.

The melting of the snow has resulted in the carpet of sidewalk dirt, remnants of City attempts to prevent bi-pedal slippage, that always makes it appearance this time of year.

Little grains of which inevitably end up in the shoes.

Enough of them require me to stop, take my shoes off and dump the offending particles out.

Stephen theorizes that the reason they get into my shoes is because my shoes aren't tight enough.

And he can fix this.

Creating a disturbing yet entertaining tableau for all drivers-by.

The almost 50 year old man bending down to tie his still overweight wife's shoes.

He was right.

No dirt.

But, within 15 minutes of his wundercure, no circulation in Dawne's feet.

Just a sense of moving blocks of flesh below me.

Hence, another stop.

And the retying of the shoes.

Again making a public spectacle of ourselves.

Because he was the one who put the double knots in the laces, and had I tried to bend over and untie them, I would have passed out from depriving my body the necessary blood in all of its other parts.

Whoever said walking was simple never went with Stephen on sand carpeted sidewalks.






And I really had to pee by the time we got back to the car.

No problem.

We had to go to the Superstore for the vinegar we had forgotten during our Sunday visit.

Also, it would seem Stephen needed to replace a bag of PC Buffalo Wing and Blue Cheese chips.

Em's bag of PC Buffalo Wing and Blue Cheese Chips.

Why this was necessary is something I won't get into here.

But words were said.

Believe me.

I didn't know PC Buffalo Wing and Blue Cheese Chips were a part of the Simply for Life Menu.

As soon as we entered the store we went straight to the bathrooms.

Apparently, Stephen's bladder was singing Ave Maria as well.

And because it was me, and I had to pee, I am greeted with this when I reach the women's bathroom:

Bathroom closed for cleaning.

We apologize for the inconvenience.

You will be if you don't get the hell out of there.

Stephen was in and out in seconds.

Me, I stood there waiting for the male bathroom cleaner to finish his cleaning ablutions so I could go in and relieve my bladder.

Sending Stephen off to get what was needed was a strategy to prevent me from going psycho on his butt.

Consequently, while I am standing on the upper deck of the Superstore, looking down on the shoppers below, crossing my legs in a valiant attempt to not pee all over the floor, I see my soon to be 50 year old husband in the housewares aisle, waving his arms at me as if communicating in some bastardized version of flag semaphore.

I know he was just being his loving self, but he made me laugh, which made me dribble, which added to my already increasing annoyance.

FINALLY the cleaning guy comes out and tells me I can go in.

Relief is really spelled p-e-e-i-n-g.

Title Lyric: Sand in Your Shoes by This Providence

GPS, GPS, GPS, she can be located. . . .

March 20, 2011



Friday, in spite of being sick, congested, headachy, I had my bi-monthly visit with Norma, the greatest hairdresser in the world, at Klub Soda.

And this time, I took everyone with me.

It was the only time when everyone had the opportunity to finally get, as my Dad would say, "their ears lowered."

Keith, believe it or not, has a face.

Underneath the thick, curly, coarse, white man's afro that surrounds his head like a follically steroid-enhanced halo, exists a head.

And a face.

Elation filled me when, for the first time in months, I realized he did indeed still have a forehead. 

So much so that he, along with me to ensure that the grey wings have a short existence, will see Norma in two months.

Already planned.

In "the book."






With the clippers poised at the base of Keith's neck, ready to made another upwards sweep through the thick and tangled bird's nest claiming residence atop Keith's head, she turned to me and asked if I'd like to take a turn.

OH HELL YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Granted, I like running my fingers through his hair, especially when I'm feeling particular stressed and in need of something tactile.

But it was nothing compared to the satisfaction of running those clippers upwards and watching the mass of tangles fall away.

It isn't that I don't like Keith's hair.

I do.

A lot.

However, it has a growth rate akin to that of Facebook.

So visits to Norma are a must.

At one point, with the back of his hair cut, the front wild and crazy, he looked, briefly, like a member of a 90s boy band.

He didn't find that as funny as I did, for some reason.

He is a handsome young man.

Even moreso when you can see his face.






After spending all of the morning and most of the afternoon in the dimly lit, unwindowed classrooms of James Dunn Hall, listening to the crim honours students present about their research at the Annual Student Research and Ideas Fair. . .

. . . and each and every one of them did the most amazing job. . . .I was so proud of them. . . .

I was in desperate, desperate need of fresh air.

Outside.

Sunshine.

I went home long enough to get Stephen and put on my Skecher Shape Ups.

I felt the burn, I felt the burn.

Completely in a good way, of course.

Plus they absorb more, so my knees are not hurting as much.

And most important. . .

. . . they made me taller.

Definitely worth the price of admission.






The challenge of walking on Saturday's is that shops are open.

Shops we particularly enjoy, like Cultures, a fair trade boutique located in downtown Fredericton. . .

http://www.ymcafredericton.nb.ca/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=124&Itemid=234

Westminster Books, http://www.westminsterbooks.com/ where I stopped to purchase Amphibian written by my friend Carla Gunn.

While in Quebec City with Donna and Andrij, Donna and I had a lengthy conversation about books, and I realized she would LOVE Amphibian.

Stephen wasn't all that willing to let me browse for books *I* might be interested in.

Almost aggressive about it actually.

Perhaps he just wanted to get his walk on after lounging in bed most of the day.

Shopping when you want to be out walking downtown are not necessarily compatible activites. . .

. . .or maybe they could be depending on with whom you are walking. . . . .

but it's fun, nonetheless.

I just have to remember to leave my cell phone in the car.

Under x-ray, I would be willing to bet money that a child implanted GPS would reveal itself.

Everytime we are out walking, the cell phone rings.

Everytime it is Meredyth.

"Where are you?"

I reply, "What do you want?"

If you have children, make an appontment for an x-ray.

GPS.

It's in you.

Title Lyric: GPS by Antelope