September 10, 2011
Jasper is now completely comfortable in our fur friendly abode.
Weaving in and out of Frankie's feet.
Playing with Dibley, which apparently warranted a scratch of Jazz's snout. . . .
Stomping, for even though he is still a lean, mean feline machine of less than a year old, he has the heaviest paw steps. . .
Only to be out done by her-lady-of-hardship, Goblet.
He's still a bit leery of Tikka, but this may be a result of Tikka's incessant, genetically bred need to herd all the pets into one spot when they happen to be co-habitating in a room.
Cats don't like to be herded.
Tikka is stubborn and refusing to accept this is the case.
Hence the continuation of hissing and spitting when Tikka vainly attempt to do what nature intended her to do.
I harbour no delusions that Tikka will eventually get it.
She'll just keep trying.
The Dory of dogs. . . .
Goblet continues her protest against the adding of new pets to our family.
Maintaining her vigil on the Goblet box on my dresser, she sits and waits for Jazz or Dibbles to enter her boudoir.
Eyes dilated like a junkie, she watches them march into her space, sniff, explore, wander without impunity as they continue their quest to know each and every nook and crannie of their new home.
All remains peaceful until they try to see what is happening outside from the spot of supreme viewing.
The top of the Goblet box.
Niceties are tossed aside like dirty undies as Goblet does what she deems essential to keep her box HER box.
Her private island in a house of insanity.
Dibbles hasn't ventured another attempt on Gob's Island since Wednesday's debacle which resulted in flying hairbrushes, aerodynamic hair elastics and panti-liners gone wild.
Jazz hasn't gotten up on our bed yet and is, still, wandering around unawares of the terror laying in wait for him should he decide to see what exists above the floor.
Being under a year old kitten will do him no good with Goblet.
She's an equal opportunity attacker.
Meaning there are still more shits and giggles in the very near future as Feline Frenzy 2011 continues.
We are not immune to the intensity and continuity of her anger.
Her protest extended to the bathroom yesterday.
She peed in the bathtub.
Before Stephen used it.
Imagine what happened when the full-head-of-hair version of Mr. Clean encountered cat piss in his bathtub.
I will say having a deaf cat has made me realize how much we rely upon sound in usually futile attempts to garner the attention of our kitties.
And yet I still continue to clap, making kissy noises, Stephen continues to try reasoning with him, "Dibley's live inside the house!" as we use tried and not so much true methods to
to assert our dominance over the indomitable felines cohabiting with us.
My opinion: a deaf cat is probably going to be the happiest cat in this house.
The happiest pet.
Overall, the happiest inhabitor of our humble abode.
First day of classes went off without a hitch thanks to my staying-at-work-Wednesday-until-9.00-pm stint.
Multiple, double sided copies of the syllabus stacked in their own pile according to class.
Required textbooks on top of them.
The entire pile topped with the at-this-moment class list.
An ever changing list as people will shift courses as they continue to shop until they get the course, prof, time they want.
I fumbled through these lists, warning the students that,
A. Remembering their names will be as likely as me convincing Stephen we should get a third dog.
B. Saying their name properly will be just as likely.
I try very hard not to mis-pronounce my student's names, having lived through the nightmarish experiences of my youth brought forth by my mother's insistence of spelling a very common name in an uncommon way.
My name bears an E at the end of both the first and last name.
As if I needed another reason to stand out.
Because being fat and smart wasn't enough.
Nothing like an additional letter that serves no purpose to confuse people.
Each time I go through a class list, I am transported back to my own school experiences, sweat popping on my brow and under my arms, bowels cramping and the inevitable stumbling over and/or mispronouncing of my name that would spew from the mouths of substitute teachers and student interns.
So terrified by these encounters, I would usually yell my name at them just as they were ready to attempt it's pronunciation.
Terror also ensured that instead of just saying my name for them, I would yell it.
DAWNE CLARKE!!!!
In some instances, there was some inadvertent scaring of the teacher.
But I didn't care.
Rather them momentarily caught off guard by the lunatic yelling out their name than me pooping in my pants while they made a mockery of my name.
Most of yesterday was spent with Meredyth as we continue to make progress in our continuing efforts to get her into the NBCC GED program.
She called NBCC to inquire about getting into the September 12th class, and they immediately set her an appointment with a case manager.
Case manager set red flags a-flying in my head, but I wasn't about to say anything.
She was excited, willing to talk to whoever she needed to talk to, so I wasn't about to do anything to dampen her enthusiasm.
Going along, not just for my car driving capabilities, but moral support, our meeting turned out to be a waste of time for us and the case manager.
He thought Mer was on Employment Insurance and wanted her GED through the department of post-secondary education.
I knew something was up when he kept asking her questions about her employment history, how many hours a week she worked, etc.
Finally, I butted in and said that Mer had no need to quit her job to take the class.
And that's when he finally clued in that she was not like the other people already enrolled in the course.
He did suggest that she could take the GED in modules at the Adult Learning Center.
For free.
But even free comes at a cost.
No teachers, per se.
Just people to collect and give out booklet modules as they completed.
And that doesn't work with our Mer.
Because she's tried it before.
Distraught, disinclined, disheartened, I tried to maintain a positive outlook as we left the meeting, Mer tearful that she wasn't going to be able to get her GED, me already plotting alternatives.
Could she do the booklets at home with me?
Would NBCC take her into their class if she paid tuition?
What was the tuition?
Later that afternoon Mer, Stephen and I walked into the literally-just-built-NBCC campus on the UNB campus and asked the critical question.
The $1875.00 question as it turned out because this is the cost of the 10 week GED tuition.
YEAH!!!!!!!
But Mer can't start until November 21st, because she needs to complete math and reading comprehension tests in order for them to assess what she needs in order to complete the GED.
No yeahs there.
As we left, we again covered the positives of the newly determined start date.
She seemed okay with everything.
Which was good because our Mer is known for a number of stellar qualities.
Patience not being among them.
Keith and Em have experienced relatively uneventful starts of the school year.
Em did have some concerns over a seemingly OCD English teacher who was more focused on the students have the exact same sized binders, with the exact number of dividers, with exact same lined paper, the exact number of sheets of paper in each section, a personal dictionary on them at all times, and whose intensity literally overwhelmed our Emily.
So much so that her TMJ rendered her almost unable to open her mouth after just one class with this woman.
Kudos to Em for recognizing how physically and mentally ill this teacher was going to make her, and taking the situation into her own hands.
Thursday evening as I struggled to keep my eyes open at 9.00 pm, Em was sitting on our bed making a list of all the reasons why she felt she should be moved into another English class.
At the time we were not aware of the necessity of Em's homeroom teacher in this process.
And Em and her homeroom teacher have a bit o'history together, so it was probably better she didn't know she'd have to ask her homeroom teacher for some assistance with this matter.
But at the end of the day, Em called to inform me that the change had occurred, she was in another English class and life was again joyful, joyful.
For now.
I've been in this family far too long to think that such joy can sustain itself.
So I'll enjoy it while it's here.
Fleetingly.
Title Lyric: Happy Being Me by Angie Stone
September 8, 2011
First day of classes today.
Students looking younger and younger while you feel older and older, less in touch with their world.
Less in touch with your own world, to be completely honest.
Awake at 5.00 am.
Even now, teaching for twelve years, the first day of classes causes me some nervousness.
First day jitters.
Giving up on the idea of falling back to sleep for another hour, I laid there contemplating what the day was going to be like.
Until Frankie had enough of my being awake and immobile, and "encouraged" me to get up.
I don't know why he was in such a hurry.
To lead me to the pile of cold dog poo he deposited on the front door carpet, perhaps?
Yesterday was not a happy day for my Frankie Doodle.
One, he had gotten into something that didn't agree with him.
He has learned how to open the kitchen garbage can with his snout.
Causing all sorts of opportunities for misadventures and malfeasance.
Soon, we'll have to invest in garbage boxes, complete with lock or coded entry.
His tummy troubles were exacerbated by the knowledge that his mummy was leaving for work.
Not the casual let's-get-up-and-take-our-time-as-we-leisurely-contemplate-what-we'll-do-today morning he has come to expect.
But the Em-has-to-get-to-school-and-I-need-to-get-to-work-asap morning.
He doesn't like change, our Frankie.
Especially change that gets his mummy out of bed while it's still dark, has her gone for the entire day, and if he's really lucky, she comes home long enough for supper only to go back to work again.
I knew he wasn't happy when I left yesterday morning.
He was following me all over the house, right behind me.
I lost count of the number of times I stepped on him.
Or came close to it.
And when it came time for me to actually walk out the door, he had such a sad, pitiful, oh-mummy-please-don't-go look on his face that I thought about how I could arrange my day to remain home with him just one more day, avoiding the unavoidable, prolonging the moment of separation.
Within seconds that option was discarded as I realized that there was no way I was going to be able to rearrange anything.
So with yet another kiss on his head, another rubbing of his face, another putting his little face in my hands and telling him I would return, I left.
And in response to this, coupled with his upset tummy, there were two incidents of pooping in unsanctioned areas.
Both times in the kitchen.
And then again this morning.
Stephen was so shocked that he left a pile of steaming poop on the kitchen floor that he actually called me at my office.
You're not going to believe what Frank did.
I would believe just about anything Frankie did.
He pooped on the kitchen floor. I had to clean it up, retching the entire time.
Made me glad I was in the office, thank you very much.
After we hang up, the person I was meeting with said,
Did he call just to tell you the dog pooped in the kitchen?
Yes, I replied.
He did.
Here's hoping Frankie and Stephen have a better, no-poop-in-the-kitchen-day.
Yesterday I left home at 8.20 am.
Returning for 40 minutes at supper time, around 5.15 pm long enough to scarf down roast turkey, carrots and wild rice prepared by Pookie and Stephen.
And then back to work until I dragged myself through the front door at 9.00 pm.
Welcome back to work, Dawne Ardith.
I had ONE meeting yesterday.
ONE.
But for some reason, someone had replaced my office door with a revolving door and no one had the foresight or decency to tell me.
I did take my time to get to my office, stopping at Starbucks for a couple of hours of organizing my term over a cup of coffee and a celebratory blueberry scone.
More avoiding the inevitable, but I'll call it what I like.
I had no intentions of going to Starbucks, however, a quick scan of the before-the-first-day parking lot by my building indicated there was nary a parking space to be found and not feeling like playing the parking game before the term even started, I just drove off into the sun rise looking for a quiet table and some good coffee.
No parking and the term hasn't started.
Not a good omen.
Around 11.00 am the invisible cord connecting my conscience to my office started tugging rather hard, not pleased with being ignored, so I packed my things and went to my office.
For my ONE meeting.
I wasn't on campus for five minutes before there was a knock at my door.
Colleague.
Hadn't seen her in a while so we were catching up on our summer adventures when Hurricane Meredyth blew into my office full of excitement over starting her own classes on Monday.
Moving forward, my girl.
Fingers crossed the excitement and commitment is maintained.
Colleague leaves.
Mer and her friend stay until I boot them out citing that I really did have to work.
Shortly afterwards, my one, scheduled meeting showed up.
How many phone calls did I get while she was there?
At least five.
All family related.
First day back and they're already suffering separation anxiety.
Hopefully none of them poop on the kitchen floor or front door carpet.
Meeting ends and I settle down for an afternoon of working.
Wanting to finish those syllabi.
But the tenor of the day was already set and the phone calls and door knocking just kept happening.
By the time Em arrived at 4.30, I knew I was going to have to return to the confines of my office and computer after supper.
Accepting and liking should never be confused.
And it isn't as if I'm invaluable.
Indispensable.
I'm not.
It was just one of those days where it would appear that I was.
The last visitor was my brother.
I was thrilled to see his six foot self filling the threshold of my office door.
And he came bearing gifts.
Birthday gifts.
A gorgeous necklace and matching earrings.
I so wish I had a working camera.
As soon as I do, I'll take pictures.
Because it's so beautiful I don't think I possess the vocabulary to describe it.
Classes at 10.00 am, 1.00 pm and 4.00 pm.
Long day indeed.
Little sleep last night, up early.
Long, long day.
Title Lyric: Tik Tok Kesha
September 7, 2011
6.00 am.
Radio turns on.
Flo Rida and someone blaring through the speakers with the kind of music that should only be played after noon and even then, preferably in the dark of night under flashing lights.
Frankie taking over the bed in his stretched out all over the place fashion.
Cramps in my legs resulting.
Stephen snoring beside me, not even the shock of dance music in the early morning able to penetrate his sleep barrier.
Me hauling myself out of bed, reluctantly, knowing that this was the official beginning of my school year, whether I am ready or not.
I'm not.
Em's first morning of her final year of high school.
Grade 12.
Last of the trio to attend grade school.
I never thought I'd see the day.
Ever.
And now I wonder how it went by so quickly.
At least I won't be waiting in fear of her return with the budget blowing school supply list.
It's the small things.
And what a morning it's been so far.
In my office, listening to the BBC's Wire in the Blood, desperate to kick start myself with my first cup of 20 ounce coffee and all of a sudden such a calamitous cacophony emerges from my bedroom I had to go in and investigate.
Hissing.
Spitting.
Yowling.
Followed by crashing, banging, collapsing of things.
Goblet and Dibley.
Dibley entering into Goblet's domain, wanting nothing more than a peek out of the second floor bedroom window to see what shenanigans the birds were creating this late summer morning.
Goblet was not in a sharing mood.
Not at all welcoming of the addition of another four legged, furry being into her three feet of personal space.
On my bureau is a two tiered basket containing all my bits and bobs. . .deodorant, hair elastics, creams, lotions, brushes, combs, cat toys, dog treats, barettes, plastic doodaddies to keep my hair out of my face on hot summer days. . .
All of it flying through the air, bolstered by the venom and fury of cats fighting for purchase and territory in a two storey, four bedroom house with more than enough room for everyone.
So why does everyone want to be in the same, small spaces?
Instead of enjoying my first, and usually quiet, cup of coffee, I'm in my bedroom picking up the detritus of my dodad basket.
Stephen lying in bed.
Not moving.
Knowing full well what happened, having had a front row seat as the entire diva drama unfolded.
And wanting nothing to do with it, because I was up and it was my basket o' crap that went bottoms up.
All of this amid dealing with Em's first morning back to school jitters and nerves over the critical question, the $64,000 question:
What should I wear?????
And in typical Dawne fashion, with three classes premiering tomorrow, I have yet to finish those pesky syllabi.
Meaning after dropping Em off for her half day I'll be heading to my office to hopefully finish what I've been avoiding like the plague.
Now I have no choice.
Classes tomorrow at 10.00, 1.00 and 4.00 mean that I have to sit myself down and force myself to finish them.
Put all the assignment due dates in my daytimer in a futile attempt to avoid having papers and proposals come in on the same days.
Looking at how September has filled up faster than an hour glass with the sands of time flowing though it.
Marking the days of my life. . .until Christmas break anyway.
Actually, I am just holding on until Thanksgiving.
The first long weekend of the term.
When I'll be able to take a breather and check in with myself.
Until then, it's just a free for all.
Title Lyric: Early in the Morning by B.B.King
September 6, 2011
I've never rented an apartment from anyone other than a private homeowner.
So dealing with the company that owns Mer's apartment has been an entirely new experience for me.
And not one I've enjoyed so far.
At all.
If not dealing with the incompetence of the person who claims to manage Mer's building, I am running back and forth to the city "headquarters" of the company trying to figure out how come the left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing.
Last week, amid my numerous visits to their office about the incompetent building manager, I asked what, in exact numbers, her rent would be for September 1st.
Exact numbers.
I was told $725.00.
Hence, I made sure that was what was in my account.
Even a bit more.
But not enough, apparently.
Because they tried to take out $750.00.
Ergo, an NSF fee in my account.
A $42.50 NSF fee.
And then another from the rental agency for $25.00.
Oh, I so don't think so.
So this morning, I am going to get a money order for the rent, for $682.50.
Which is, for those of you who can do math, $725.00 - $42.50.
Because I am not absorbing an NSF fee that wasn't my fault.
And they can reverse their NSF $25.00.
There may be fireworks this morning over on Parkside Drive.
In fact, I imagine there will be, as I will not be leaving without I want.
Imagine that.
Part of yesterday was spent in my office in an attempt to prepare for the beginning of the term.
As in beginning Thursday.
I have one syllabus all done, another almost done except for the final read over, the third almost there, and the fourth, the class where I've assigned a new book for me and them, not even close.
Meaning after my tete-a-tete with the rental agency, I will be heading back to the computer to hammer out the details, the minutaie, that will shape how my students experience their time with me this term.
And how I experience them.
A little bit later. . . .
My dealings with the rental agency went a lot smoother than I anticipated.
There were no recriminations, no arguments, no refusals.
Good thing.
Because I routinely harbour enough frustration to blow at any given moment.
Now, as a result of my visit, the rental agency regional director will be making a visit to Mer's apartment.
Tomorrow.
Just enough time for Mer to get her apartment cleaned up and looking more like a place someone would like to rent and less like a cave inhabited by Neanderthals.
I was over there yesterday, but never got past the door.
Not unusual for Mer to not want me to see how much like a tip her apartment looks like.
Our vacuum was waiting for us in the hallway outside her apartment.
My first sign she didn't want me in there.
Her meeting me at the threshold of the door was sign number two.
Blocking me from entering and only speaking with me in the hallway, sign number three.
At which point I just accepted that I was not going to be admitted into Chez Mer, so we collected the vacuum, Jasper and left.
Bet I'd be allowed in today.
Jasper seems to be adjusting well.
Last night was better than I had expected.
Meaning no furry friends lost any blood or are sporting any scratches today.
At this moment, Jasper is laying on one side of Stephen, Dibley on the other, as Stephen watches the news.
Frankie attempted to go over and say a hello to Jasper, but was rebuked with such hissing and arching of the back that Frankie immediately returned to my side, giving me a plaintive look, trying to understand how come his friendly overtures weren't welcomed.
Tikka just walked over, barked at Jazz and walked away.
Apparently, she doesn't seem to feel the need to make friends.
Em begins her driver's ed road training this evening, 6.00 pm.
Other than a lead foot and being a bit harsh on the brake, she doesn't really have any driving issues.
Well, perhaps a bit of an attitude.
But chances are the driving instructors won't be able to do anything about that.
Too bad.
I'd pay extra for that.
Title Lyric: Clean by Depeche Mode
September 5, 2011
Labour Day.
Last long weekend before the beginning of the new school year.
As hard as this is for me to say, because I am incredulous myself, I am thrilled to be returning to teaching.
Thrilled.
I'm sure that'll change by the end of next week, but right now I am thrilled.
After the summer I've had, which includes all the things I shared and all the things I didn't, I am looking forward to the routine and order that comes to my world with the introduction of an overload, four course each term teaching schedule.
Routine and order.
The two things I crave and for reasons I have yet to fathom, the hardest to attain.
Lots of things happen to young people when they hit puberty.
And from some of the kids I've seen lately, that can be as young as nine, which really freaks me out when I consider what I was like at nine.
But I digress.
I started puberty at twelve.
And at thirteen, puberty gave me an extra special "welcome to the world of adult women."
Migraine headaches.
From 13 to about 18, I was routinely absent from school, suffering from yet another panic inducing, complete loss of vision in my right eye making it look like snow on a tv screen, head in a vice being tightened by faceless, malicious people, lock me in my room with the blinds down, a bucket for spew, and for the love of god don't breathe because it causes even more exruciating pain migraine headaches.
My mother would be at home, a rare morning off, when the school would call asking her to come and get me before I curled into the fetal position on the office floor, bellowing in pain and agony.
They could last for one day, two if I was really lucky.
Leaving me, afterwards, exhausted, nauseous and thankful it had left.
For now.
Nothing helped.
Nothing.
And I had it all.
Even CAT scans and MRIs.
The cause was never identified.
For whatever reason, around 18 they stopped.
Appearing once, in my mid twenties, for a week solid as I prepared to leave my first husband.
That was a week I'll never forget, no matter how badly I want to.
Every once in a while, I'll get a glimmer that one may be on it's way.
A spot in my right eye, my own personal migraine early warning system.
During our vacation, this happened twice.
Which didn't surprise me too much given the unbelievable week we had before we left.
Most of which I didn't share in here.
Some things have to remain private.
I am beginning to suspect that my body is trying to tell me that in spite of my belief that I can handle anything, I actually may have a limit.
And when that limit is reached, when I can mentally, physically, emotionally take no more, the migraines appear as a sign that the system known as Dawne is on the brink of complete malfunction.
Destruction is probably more accurate.
Saturday morning, I woke up with the tell tale spot in my right eye.
And it was big.
That's not good.
I popped some Tylenol with codeine and went back to bed and pretty much stayed there for the day.
Getting up only to have dinner with Mum at the nursing home and followed by grocery shopping, tolerable because almost no one goes for their groceries on a Saturday evening.
Groceries were a must before the kids started fighting with the dogs over food.
Once home, groceries put away, Em reminded me of my promise to see the Empire Theater Regent Mall's Fan Favourites showing of The Breakfast Club.
An all time Dawne fave.
So after groceries and before out 11.15 pm departure time, I laid in bed, quietly, Frankie beside me for unconditional love and support, and by the time we were ready to go, the spot had gone.
Not the pain.
Just the spot.
Same thing on Sunday.
But things have to be done, migraines or not, so it was off to Quaker meeting and then to Costco.
Costco.
I'll have to talk about that later.
Only because I am still trying to figure it out for myself.
When I went to bed last evening, around 9.30, to read before falling asleep, the pain had abatted to a faint ache.
A reminder that unless I somehow destress my life, more will follow.
As if I didn't know that already.
A weekend of pain or not, it was also a weekend of discoveries.
Chiefly that our new cat, whose name has been changed from Houdini to Dibley (yes, as in Vicar of. . .) is calm and peaceful for a reason unlike any other we have encountered before.
He's deaf.
Which so explains why, the first time the dogs ever laid eyes on him as he rolled around our front yard and purred in my arms, he never flinched at the canine clamour spewing forth from behind our kitchen window.
Or why he didn't bat an eye when down in the basement with Em, who accidentally let go of the washer lid resulting in a slam-bam I heard two floors up in my room, while I nursed my migraine.
Or why we can literally sneak up on him, especially the dogs, which always results in a hiss and if they're really lucky, a scratch.
It's miraculous that a deaf cat survived as long as he did outside on his own.
He's a pretty special guy.
For the rest of the pets, the novelty of the new cat has worn off, and they now treat him the same as they treat each other.
Except, of course, for Goblet.
Who remains completely and utterly inhospitable.
Other than forcing herself downstairs for the litter box and some chow, she has resolutely refused to leave our bedroom.
In protest.
Not to the point of a hunger strike, I mean, let's remember about whom we are speaking, but a protest nonetheless.
A Goblet protest.
Like things are crazy enough around here as it is.
This morning, Stephen and I are heading into work to prepare for the beginning of classes before the faculty onslaught begins.
Afterwards, we're seeing The Debt with Em.
And then we're bringing Jasper over to introduce the final feline to our family of cavorting canines and ferocious felines.
No wonder I have migraines.
Title Lyric: Migraine Headache by Esham
