September 17, 2011
The days of Stephen and I sharing a cell phone have passed.
When we first got our plan, the idea of sharing a cell phone was most appealing.
What happens in our lives that we would each need a phone? we thought as there were attempts to cajole us into succumbing to a phone, each.
Stalwartly we stood our ground against the tide of customer service whose sole purpose is to coax and convince us into purchasing products we don't need or want.
Oh how the times have changed in the past year.
The last two weeks alone have provided enough evidence that the time has come for Stephen to have a phone of his own.
Not a new phone.
No interest in that.
Just sole proprietorship of the phone we've been sharing for the past year.
He likes the phone.
Knows how to use it.
Buttons are big enough for his man sized hands.
So the hour at Telus necessary to add a new phone to our plan fell to me.
And we all know how much I love spending time at Telus.
I have, however, cultivated a friendship with one of the Telus employees, meaning I trust him.
He's never steered me wrong.
And when I say no, I don't need that additional feature, or that extra insurance, he listens.
Besides, any person who puts up with our family's cell phone controversies and constant matters needing attention has to be a stand up guy.
So now I'm in possession of an IPhone 3.
Sort of like a toddler driving a Lamborghini.
One of the commitments I made to myself over the summer was to make sure I spend three days a week writing.
Academic writing.
Even if it's only an hour.
And as much as I love writing my blog, it doesn't count towards promotion and publication.
But it does keep me writing, which has spurned a desire to write in other venues, other forums.
I have a lot I want to say.
Imagine.
Yesterday morning, after dropping Em off to school, I headed to Starbucks.
Good lighting.
Electrical outlets, albeit not enough but at 8.30 am that doesn't seem to be much of a concern.
Most importantly.
Venti mild coffee.
Perhaps a blueberry scone. . . .just once a week, though.
Second most important. . .no internet connection.
Lots of people get internet connections in Starbucks.
For me, however, this seems to be a significant issue.
I have no idea what to do to engage my wireless outside of the house.
A good thing, really, that I'm so technologically challenged.
The end result was three single spaced pages that will form a framework that will eventually morph into a full fledged, ready-to-submit-to-a-journal article.
Other than blogging, I can't remember the last time I wrote three pages in a morning.
Writing is challenging for me.
At least academic writing.
And in my profession, for promotion purposes, it's the only writing that counts.
If blogging was the road to full professorship, I'd have been there long before now.
Em and I are off to the market this morning.
She was unable to attend last week's festivities as she was working, so I promised her that we'd go this morning.
Just the two of us.
Stephen can manage about one market visit every few months.
Keith is working.
So I may have another market visit with him next week to make up for his inability to attend today.
Mer worked until 3.30 this morning.
I may not see her again until sometime next week.
And it's 6 degrees outside right now.
PERFECT market conditions.
I really, really love fall!
Our first full week of the new term has ended.
Everyone is still in one piece.
Em in school every day.
Stephen and I getting through each lecture.
Me almost convincing my students I know what I'm talking about.
Acting always was a passion, you know.
No major bumps, unless you count the-class-that-refused-to-read, but other than that, there were no significant traumas, no tragic issues. . .
But it is only the first week.
Twelve more to go.
Title Lyric: These are the Days of Our Lives by Queen
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Why talk about tattoos?
September 15, 2011
Nothing smacks the fun out of a Wednesday faster than being confronted with the realization that you made a huge mistake.
The decision was made in May.
I really, really hoped I wasn't going to experience any regret.
And that's what I get for listening to my conscience instead of my gut instincts that were screaming louder than a seagulls at a wharf, NO! DON'T!
Throughout the summer did things that I thought would circumvent potential problems.
Delegating tasks, organizing activities, setting targets for the fall to make the process easier throughout the year.
In vain.
All in vain.
By the end of yesterday, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I had made a big mistake.
Gargantuan more like it.
Now all I can do is sit back and watch things unfold, do the best I can with my little thimble to dump the water from this sinking boat until the time comes that I can take the necessary steps to end the pain and suffering for all of those involved.
And no, it has NOTHING to do with kids or husbands or pets or family of any kind.
For once.
Em got her first tattoo yesterday.
I was along for the ride, which was hard because I so desperately want another tattoo. . .or want to fix one I should never have gotten in the first place.
Alas, my conscience, the one that insists that the responsible adult pays bills before getting tattoos reared it's ugly, reasonable head, so all I did was sign the consent form.
And then went to the library to work while Em got her tattoo.
Because accepting that I had to be the adult is one thing.
Watching Em get the tattoo was another.
I can only take so much.
And nothing soothes a frayed ego like a trip to the library.
Not only was I able to pluck from the shelves the only book in the Tony Hill/Carol Jordan series I hadn't read, I was also able to get a prime table for four by the window, enabling me to enjoy the river vista while I read an article about the film Fatal Attraction and waited for Em.
I think I may have found another quiet, no-computer-allowed work space.
Could it be?
Unlike my first tattoo, Em's tattoo was very tasteful and meaningful.
No Pooh bears or butterflies for my baby girl.
And if I ever get my camera out of incarceration, pictures will abound.
The previous evening she corralled Reilley, her 17 year old cat, and submitted him to a purple watercolor stamp of his front, six toed paw.
Her tattoo.
His name underneath in calligraphy.
A relationship going on 15 years with no discernible end in sight?
People have tattooed themselves for far less.
Ex-boyfriend's birth dates, for example.
Who would do something like that?
Tattoos make me think of this Lauren Cooper snafu. . .
Ta-oo anyone?
Afterwards, we noshed at M&T Deli before rejoining the real world of work and school.
Me with a Crime in Popular Film class to prepare for.
More print out the syllabus and decide which of my 300+ films would be viewed on the big screen, but that's preparation, believe me.
For every one film on my 13 week syllabus, there are five others I could have shown.
I so wish this was a full year class.
Fatal Attraction was the choice of the day.
Reading the article in the morning made me realize how long it had been since I'd seen the 1987 film, a blockbuster at the time it was released.
In fact, the actions of Alex (Glenn Close) proved to be the one thing that was able to unite radical feminists and rednecks alike.
And provided another film on a very short list of films at that time where the female characters were considerably stronger than the males.
Michael Douglas was a downright wimp throughout the film.
Because you can kill all the men you want, honey, but don't think you can get away with boiling pet bunnies.
Returning to work meant meetings filled with needs and demands from people who just.won't.listen. making me regret decisions previously made.
Right back at the beginning and still not a whiff of resolution in sight.
Sigh.
Title Lyrics: Talk About, Tattoos by Caesar
Nothing smacks the fun out of a Wednesday faster than being confronted with the realization that you made a huge mistake.
The decision was made in May.
I really, really hoped I wasn't going to experience any regret.
And that's what I get for listening to my conscience instead of my gut instincts that were screaming louder than a seagulls at a wharf, NO! DON'T!
Throughout the summer did things that I thought would circumvent potential problems.
Delegating tasks, organizing activities, setting targets for the fall to make the process easier throughout the year.
In vain.
All in vain.
By the end of yesterday, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I had made a big mistake.
Gargantuan more like it.
Now all I can do is sit back and watch things unfold, do the best I can with my little thimble to dump the water from this sinking boat until the time comes that I can take the necessary steps to end the pain and suffering for all of those involved.
And no, it has NOTHING to do with kids or husbands or pets or family of any kind.
For once.
Em got her first tattoo yesterday.
I was along for the ride, which was hard because I so desperately want another tattoo. . .or want to fix one I should never have gotten in the first place.
Alas, my conscience, the one that insists that the responsible adult pays bills before getting tattoos reared it's ugly, reasonable head, so all I did was sign the consent form.
And then went to the library to work while Em got her tattoo.
Because accepting that I had to be the adult is one thing.
Watching Em get the tattoo was another.
I can only take so much.
And nothing soothes a frayed ego like a trip to the library.
Not only was I able to pluck from the shelves the only book in the Tony Hill/Carol Jordan series I hadn't read, I was also able to get a prime table for four by the window, enabling me to enjoy the river vista while I read an article about the film Fatal Attraction and waited for Em.
I think I may have found another quiet, no-computer-allowed work space.
Could it be?
Unlike my first tattoo, Em's tattoo was very tasteful and meaningful.
No Pooh bears or butterflies for my baby girl.
And if I ever get my camera out of incarceration, pictures will abound.
The previous evening she corralled Reilley, her 17 year old cat, and submitted him to a purple watercolor stamp of his front, six toed paw.
Her tattoo.
His name underneath in calligraphy.
A relationship going on 15 years with no discernible end in sight?
People have tattooed themselves for far less.
Ex-boyfriend's birth dates, for example.
Who would do something like that?
Tattoos make me think of this Lauren Cooper snafu. . .
Ta-oo anyone?
Afterwards, we noshed at M&T Deli before rejoining the real world of work and school.
Me with a Crime in Popular Film class to prepare for.
More print out the syllabus and decide which of my 300+ films would be viewed on the big screen, but that's preparation, believe me.
For every one film on my 13 week syllabus, there are five others I could have shown.
I so wish this was a full year class.
Fatal Attraction was the choice of the day.
Reading the article in the morning made me realize how long it had been since I'd seen the 1987 film, a blockbuster at the time it was released.
In fact, the actions of Alex (Glenn Close) proved to be the one thing that was able to unite radical feminists and rednecks alike.
And provided another film on a very short list of films at that time where the female characters were considerably stronger than the males.
Michael Douglas was a downright wimp throughout the film.
Because you can kill all the men you want, honey, but don't think you can get away with boiling pet bunnies.
Returning to work meant meetings filled with needs and demands from people who just.won't.listen. making me regret decisions previously made.
Right back at the beginning and still not a whiff of resolution in sight.
Sigh.
Title Lyrics: Talk About, Tattoos by Caesar
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
I want vengeance and I want it now!
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
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
Monday, September 12, 2011
Just when I'm feeling chipper as you please. . . .
September 12, 2011
The best laid plans. . . .
Fall to pieces when sideswiped by an unwanted and unexpected migraine.
Sunday was just a shit show from start to finish.
But not until after Quaker meeting.
At least I was allowed to have that.
But as soon as the fifteen of us were finished silent worship, the tell tale spots in my right eye appeared.
Internally, I was muttering curses that were in no way appropriate for a Sunday morning, especially after just completing a worship meeting.
Externally, I was fine.
Coffee and muffins and conversation abounded until I could no longer ignore the increasing pounding in my head and had to grab Stephen requesting that we head for home.
Where I promptly headed for the bathroom, to the Tylenol with codeine, and then the comfort of my darkened bedroom, complete with canine sidekick Frankie and his unconditional love and support.
But not before doing a check in with Keith and Em.
Because not even a migraine can keep me from ensuring that what needs to be done on a we're-not-working-Sunday will be done.
Keith: remember that the grass needs to be cut today. All of it. During the same session.
Em: time to begin the more intense preparations for the moving in of Mer. Cull the stuffed toys, furniture and anything deemed not being used or needed for the time she'll be your roommate.
The end goal: ripping up the carpet in that room.
Which should have been done a long time ago.
Stephen is more than capable of finding things to occupy his time, so I didn't think there was anything I needed do on that front.
Except ask him to call my Mum and tell her that I wasn't able to take her out for our planned walk and coffee time.
That made me cry, which did nothing but exacerbate the pain, but I had to release my frustrations and anger somehow.
And taking my pain addled head off to toss to the side in hopes that another pain free head with better hair would magically appear didn't seem to be a viable option.
The time I spent in bed, head under the covers in an effort to make the room even darker were not necessarily poorly spent.
I did come up with, I think, a reason for the reintroduction of the migraine headache to my life's adventures.
Wracking my pain filled brain for reasons, I started with the obvious.
What did I eat yesterday that was not part of my normal eating routine?
Followed by expanding the parameters to include our week at Murray Corner, where they made their initial reappearance.
There were several things, while we vacationed, that I did partake of that normally would never pass through my lips.
But only ONE of things was consumed by me Saturday evening while I spent some time hanging out on Em's bed, catching up with her over a bag of. . . .
Swedish berries.
Maynard's Swedish Berries to be exact.
Using my deductive powers, it was clear this was the culprit.
Something in the making of this delicious, soft chewy candy doesn't agree with me at all, and results in migraines that seriously impede my ability to do the things I do.
And no candy is worth that much pain.
Plus I shouldn't be eating them in the first place.
Although I did get that tingle in my tummy when I hit upon the reason for my recent malady.
Small reward for hours worth of pain.
But I'll take what I can get.
Knowing the cause of my misery didn't eliminate the need to spend the afternoon wrapped in the pain that only comes from migraines.
Frankie abandoned me at some point, perhaps thinking Stephen had something better on tap.
Wretched turncoat.
Around four I dared to open my eyes and assess if the pain was still present and accounted for, or, fingers crossed, the Tylenol and nap had pushed it away, with a promise never to return.
Pain free at that moment.
But a bit woozy and nauseous.
Still. . .I'll take whatever I can get.
Feeling less pain and a lot of guilt for blowing off a gorgeous Sunday afternoon with Mum, I set out to make things right in my little universe.
Beginning with salad preparations for dinner, sandwich making for Monday's lunches, cleaning the turkey rack of any useable meat before boiling it for soup, taking Mer to work, stopping at Victory for baby carrots and soy milk because Stephen didn't know we needed either when he and Keith headed to the Superstore while I was wrapped in pain.
Stephen made spaghetti for dinner, having purchased an illegal garlic bread during his jaunt at the Superstore.
He knows Monday is SFL day, so I can only think that his need for carb laden white bread complete with a fake garlic butter topping trumped anything related to weight loss and calorie reduction.
Plus it was 50% off.
That was his defence. The glaring neon pink 50% off sticker.
After I washed the dishes and started the dishwasher I joined Stephen and the whiny twins for a walk at the experimental farm.
Foolishly thinking that since I had managed all of the above, I could claim migraine free status.
Foolish indeed.
We had no sooner put the car in park, stopped the engine and opened our doors that the tell tale spots appeared again.
Stephen asked if I wanted to go back home.
As if that was a possibility with two sets of doe eyes staring at me, knowing full well that there chance for running and frolicking lay at my feet.
That I could be the one thing standing between them and an hour of leg stretching, lung filling freedom.
I do have a heart.
And I knew what would happen if we returned home sans walk.
Which would ultimately be much, much worse than a migraine headache.
Onward, onward we went into the deep field and gentle breezes.
Me trying not to trip over rocks because seeing out of one eye only is somewhat challenging for those of us who already have difficulties staying upright when all of our systems are functioning the way they should be.
By the time we arrived home I was in a full blown migraine episode, again.
And this time I took all sorts of things that would take away pain and bring forth sleep.
But it was a restless sleep, punctuated with frequent waking up and wondering if I should take more things to help me sleep and then remembering that I needed to be awake before sometime next week.
By 5.30 am I was awake.
Stephen snoring beside me.
Dogs dancing the full bladder dance.
Me with just the faintest trace of pain in the right side of my head.
Nowhere near enough to slow me down.
Things to do today.
Places to go.
Movies to see with the kids tonight while Stephen roadtrips to Moncton.
No time for naps.
Fingers crossed my head agrees.
Title Lyric: Headaches by Sherman Allen
The best laid plans. . . .
Fall to pieces when sideswiped by an unwanted and unexpected migraine.
Sunday was just a shit show from start to finish.
But not until after Quaker meeting.
At least I was allowed to have that.
But as soon as the fifteen of us were finished silent worship, the tell tale spots in my right eye appeared.
Internally, I was muttering curses that were in no way appropriate for a Sunday morning, especially after just completing a worship meeting.
Externally, I was fine.
Coffee and muffins and conversation abounded until I could no longer ignore the increasing pounding in my head and had to grab Stephen requesting that we head for home.
Where I promptly headed for the bathroom, to the Tylenol with codeine, and then the comfort of my darkened bedroom, complete with canine sidekick Frankie and his unconditional love and support.
But not before doing a check in with Keith and Em.
Because not even a migraine can keep me from ensuring that what needs to be done on a we're-not-working-Sunday will be done.
Keith: remember that the grass needs to be cut today. All of it. During the same session.
Em: time to begin the more intense preparations for the moving in of Mer. Cull the stuffed toys, furniture and anything deemed not being used or needed for the time she'll be your roommate.
The end goal: ripping up the carpet in that room.
Which should have been done a long time ago.
Stephen is more than capable of finding things to occupy his time, so I didn't think there was anything I needed do on that front.
Except ask him to call my Mum and tell her that I wasn't able to take her out for our planned walk and coffee time.
That made me cry, which did nothing but exacerbate the pain, but I had to release my frustrations and anger somehow.
And taking my pain addled head off to toss to the side in hopes that another pain free head with better hair would magically appear didn't seem to be a viable option.
The time I spent in bed, head under the covers in an effort to make the room even darker were not necessarily poorly spent.
I did come up with, I think, a reason for the reintroduction of the migraine headache to my life's adventures.
Wracking my pain filled brain for reasons, I started with the obvious.
What did I eat yesterday that was not part of my normal eating routine?
Followed by expanding the parameters to include our week at Murray Corner, where they made their initial reappearance.
There were several things, while we vacationed, that I did partake of that normally would never pass through my lips.
But only ONE of things was consumed by me Saturday evening while I spent some time hanging out on Em's bed, catching up with her over a bag of. . . .
Swedish berries.
Maynard's Swedish Berries to be exact.
Using my deductive powers, it was clear this was the culprit.
Something in the making of this delicious, soft chewy candy doesn't agree with me at all, and results in migraines that seriously impede my ability to do the things I do.
And no candy is worth that much pain.
Plus I shouldn't be eating them in the first place.
Although I did get that tingle in my tummy when I hit upon the reason for my recent malady.
Small reward for hours worth of pain.
But I'll take what I can get.
Knowing the cause of my misery didn't eliminate the need to spend the afternoon wrapped in the pain that only comes from migraines.
Frankie abandoned me at some point, perhaps thinking Stephen had something better on tap.
Wretched turncoat.
Around four I dared to open my eyes and assess if the pain was still present and accounted for, or, fingers crossed, the Tylenol and nap had pushed it away, with a promise never to return.
Pain free at that moment.
But a bit woozy and nauseous.
Still. . .I'll take whatever I can get.
Feeling less pain and a lot of guilt for blowing off a gorgeous Sunday afternoon with Mum, I set out to make things right in my little universe.
Beginning with salad preparations for dinner, sandwich making for Monday's lunches, cleaning the turkey rack of any useable meat before boiling it for soup, taking Mer to work, stopping at Victory for baby carrots and soy milk because Stephen didn't know we needed either when he and Keith headed to the Superstore while I was wrapped in pain.
Stephen made spaghetti for dinner, having purchased an illegal garlic bread during his jaunt at the Superstore.
He knows Monday is SFL day, so I can only think that his need for carb laden white bread complete with a fake garlic butter topping trumped anything related to weight loss and calorie reduction.
Plus it was 50% off.
That was his defence. The glaring neon pink 50% off sticker.
After I washed the dishes and started the dishwasher I joined Stephen and the whiny twins for a walk at the experimental farm.
Foolishly thinking that since I had managed all of the above, I could claim migraine free status.
Foolish indeed.
We had no sooner put the car in park, stopped the engine and opened our doors that the tell tale spots appeared again.
Stephen asked if I wanted to go back home.
As if that was a possibility with two sets of doe eyes staring at me, knowing full well that there chance for running and frolicking lay at my feet.
That I could be the one thing standing between them and an hour of leg stretching, lung filling freedom.
I do have a heart.
And I knew what would happen if we returned home sans walk.
Which would ultimately be much, much worse than a migraine headache.
Onward, onward we went into the deep field and gentle breezes.
Me trying not to trip over rocks because seeing out of one eye only is somewhat challenging for those of us who already have difficulties staying upright when all of our systems are functioning the way they should be.
By the time we arrived home I was in a full blown migraine episode, again.
And this time I took all sorts of things that would take away pain and bring forth sleep.
But it was a restless sleep, punctuated with frequent waking up and wondering if I should take more things to help me sleep and then remembering that I needed to be awake before sometime next week.
By 5.30 am I was awake.
Stephen snoring beside me.
Dogs dancing the full bladder dance.
Me with just the faintest trace of pain in the right side of my head.
Nowhere near enough to slow me down.
Things to do today.
Places to go.
Movies to see with the kids tonight while Stephen roadtrips to Moncton.
No time for naps.
Fingers crossed my head agrees.
Title Lyric: Headaches by Sherman Allen
I love, I love, I love my calendar girl. . . .
September 11, 2011
In yet another futile undertaking at organizing my life and the lives of those who live with under the same roof, I've put one of those massive "Mom" calendars on the fridge.
That it was magnetic was just the gravy.
Because Stephen is less than fond of putting holes in the wall.
If he were just as concerned about the gaping holes he's drilling into my ever shrinking sanity.
Huge blocks for each date, ripe for filling with the bits and bobs of our everyday, boring, mundane lives.
Boring and mundane our lives may be, there are things that are perpetually forgotten, wrong times assumed, showing up for things on the wrong days. . .
Stephen and I both possess day planners.
For our work lives.
Which provides us with a modicum of organization, but is by no means a fool proof methods.
My issue: remembering to actually write things down.
But our home activities have always been a mish mash of relying on our fading abilities to remember things, and our children's telling-us-once-as-they-rush-out-of-the-car thinking that such poor and hurried modes of communication are sufficient.
Not even close.
So, the giant Mom calendar it was.
September already looks like a train wreck.
Our teaching schedules, Keith's course schedule, three kids' work schedules, vet appts for six fur bearing creatures, hair appts, doctor's appts, high school open houses, meetings in Moncton. . . . .
Boring, yes.
Chaotic, definitely.
Organized. . .we're trying.
As a result of my most recent blood tests, my thyroid medication has been doubled.
Increases have been non existent in the last several years, so I was harbouring the delusion that the gland in my throat was FINALLY settling down, no longer interested in taking me on any further psychotic roller coaster rides that went from me having full blown Grave's Disease, to radiation treatments that virtually rendered by thyroid null and void, causing me to take thyroid replacements.
Tricky things, those thyroids.
Hearing that mon thyroid was slowing down even further was, to some extent, welcome news because it explains how come I've been feeling more tired than usual these past few months.
I thought my body was just trying to catch up on some much wanted rest and relaxation as I finished teaching at the end of May.
For some reason, I was needing to nap almost every afternoon.
And to be honest, I. LOVE. NAPPING.
With the under producing thyroid, I could nap in the afternoon and still be tired enough to head for bed at 9.00 pm.
As relaxing as this sleep enhanced routine may be, it seriously impinges on getting any productive accomplished.
I can't imagine any of my afternoon classes being thrilled with me cancelling because I need a nap.
The other explanation for my increased tiredness was that the depression that plagues the people in my family, coming primarily from my mother's side, was rearing it's ugly head.
Wanting to sleep all the time is one of the red flags for depression.
And with a bipolar mother, and other relatives who suffered from a host of mental illnesses, I do not play with depression.
I have in the past and the results have been less than enjoyable.
Something was up.
Obviously something had to be done.
Under producing thyroids are far more appealing than increasing depression.
Both require meds.
But only one requires therapy.
And I just don't think there's room on the giant Mom calendar for any therapy sessions.
At the beginning of the fall term, sleep is usually elusive as I come to grips with the end of summer and the busyness-bordering-on-psychotic-ness of the first semester.
Of course, sleep may be somewhat easier to come by if I wasn't awakened in the late hours of the day to Stephen trying to garner a peace treaty among the cats.
More specifically, between Goblet and the two new cats.
While she is now venturing downstairs in the wee hours of the morning for food and the litter box, our Goblet is still most reluctant, actually downright determined to not spend any time socializing with the Jazz and Dibbles.
Resulting in my being pulled from the warmth and comfort of fleeting slumber by my husband's voice, as he sits in our upstairs hallways attempting to broker a peace agreement with Goblet.
Holding her, he sits at the top of the stairs, outlining all the reasons why she should be more welcoming of our new residents.
Reasons that are good for her and good for Jazz and Dibs.
I listened him for about five minutes, before I asked him, in less than a loving wife tone of voice, to cease and desist his feline peacemaking activities because some of us were actually trying to sleep.
But it didn't take me that may words.
Believe me.
If you insist upon trying to reason with the unreasonable, at least do it on your own time, during daylight hours.
Title Lyric: Calendar Girl by Neil Sedaka
In yet another futile undertaking at organizing my life and the lives of those who live with under the same roof, I've put one of those massive "Mom" calendars on the fridge.
That it was magnetic was just the gravy.
Because Stephen is less than fond of putting holes in the wall.
If he were just as concerned about the gaping holes he's drilling into my ever shrinking sanity.
Boring and mundane our lives may be, there are things that are perpetually forgotten, wrong times assumed, showing up for things on the wrong days. . .
Stephen and I both possess day planners.
For our work lives.
Which provides us with a modicum of organization, but is by no means a fool proof methods.
My issue: remembering to actually write things down.
But our home activities have always been a mish mash of relying on our fading abilities to remember things, and our children's telling-us-once-as-they-rush-out-of-the-car thinking that such poor and hurried modes of communication are sufficient.
Not even close.
So, the giant Mom calendar it was.
September already looks like a train wreck.
Our teaching schedules, Keith's course schedule, three kids' work schedules, vet appts for six fur bearing creatures, hair appts, doctor's appts, high school open houses, meetings in Moncton. . . . .
Boring, yes.
Chaotic, definitely.
Organized. . .we're trying.
As a result of my most recent blood tests, my thyroid medication has been doubled.
Increases have been non existent in the last several years, so I was harbouring the delusion that the gland in my throat was FINALLY settling down, no longer interested in taking me on any further psychotic roller coaster rides that went from me having full blown Grave's Disease, to radiation treatments that virtually rendered by thyroid null and void, causing me to take thyroid replacements.
Tricky things, those thyroids.
Hearing that mon thyroid was slowing down even further was, to some extent, welcome news because it explains how come I've been feeling more tired than usual these past few months.
I thought my body was just trying to catch up on some much wanted rest and relaxation as I finished teaching at the end of May.
For some reason, I was needing to nap almost every afternoon.
And to be honest, I. LOVE. NAPPING.
With the under producing thyroid, I could nap in the afternoon and still be tired enough to head for bed at 9.00 pm.
As relaxing as this sleep enhanced routine may be, it seriously impinges on getting any productive accomplished.
I can't imagine any of my afternoon classes being thrilled with me cancelling because I need a nap.
The other explanation for my increased tiredness was that the depression that plagues the people in my family, coming primarily from my mother's side, was rearing it's ugly head.
Wanting to sleep all the time is one of the red flags for depression.
And with a bipolar mother, and other relatives who suffered from a host of mental illnesses, I do not play with depression.
I have in the past and the results have been less than enjoyable.
Something was up.
Obviously something had to be done.
Under producing thyroids are far more appealing than increasing depression.
Both require meds.
But only one requires therapy.
And I just don't think there's room on the giant Mom calendar for any therapy sessions.
At the beginning of the fall term, sleep is usually elusive as I come to grips with the end of summer and the busyness-bordering-on-psychotic-ness of the first semester.
Of course, sleep may be somewhat easier to come by if I wasn't awakened in the late hours of the day to Stephen trying to garner a peace treaty among the cats.
More specifically, between Goblet and the two new cats.
While she is now venturing downstairs in the wee hours of the morning for food and the litter box, our Goblet is still most reluctant, actually downright determined to not spend any time socializing with the Jazz and Dibbles.
Resulting in my being pulled from the warmth and comfort of fleeting slumber by my husband's voice, as he sits in our upstairs hallways attempting to broker a peace agreement with Goblet.
Holding her, he sits at the top of the stairs, outlining all the reasons why she should be more welcoming of our new residents.
Reasons that are good for her and good for Jazz and Dibs.
I listened him for about five minutes, before I asked him, in less than a loving wife tone of voice, to cease and desist his feline peacemaking activities because some of us were actually trying to sleep.
But it didn't take me that may words.
Believe me.
If you insist upon trying to reason with the unreasonable, at least do it on your own time, during daylight hours.
Title Lyric: Calendar Girl by Neil Sedaka
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