Please don't wake me, no.

September 24, 2011


A week of running about here and there, late night's out and meetings with smiles glued to my face rendered me incapable of anything yesterday beyond dressing myself and going to the bathroom.

Sleep was my primary activity of the day.

Even after getting up at 11.30, napping at 4.00, a walk at the farm with the dogs for an hour or so, I was still in bed and sound asleep by 10.15, not stirring, except for a brief interlude at 1.15 am, until 7.14 am, when Frankie's I-have-to-go-pee-whine was so incessant that stumbling downstairs to the coffee pot before taking him and Tikka out was much earlier than I had anticipated.

Relieving bladders always trumps sleeping in, no matter how comfortable you're wrapped in your bed.









I'm not the only one in this house who welcomes comfort.

Last evening, after walking the dogs, before going to bed, I was in my office, watching another episode of Wire in the Blood, pretending that I was organizing work, when I looked to my right, and saw this:

Dibley.

In what has become his favourite sleeping position.

And if you find that belly a scratching temptation, you wouldn't be alone.

However, you'd only do it once.

Because while Dibley may proffer his middle, he doesn't like anyone touching it.

At all.

I have the scratches to prove it.

But can't you just see the peace and comfort in that face?









Not to be outdone, but never one for comfort, is Jasper.

Not yet a year, he is full of the piss and vinegar inherent to all kittens.

Ricocheting off walls, bouncing off furniture, rolling around the floor, chasing anything that moves including Frankie's tail.

Checking out all nooks and crannies.

Snooping into this interesting place or that interesting place.

Hello, camera. What's up?

And isn't he just a handsome little man?

Don't let that little face fool you.

While is loving, adorable, cuddly and has no problem with a belly scratch, he can turn into commando kitty within seconds, leaving the hand that was just scratching his belly sporting Jazz scratches and you wondering when everything went south.

Cats.

Go figure.

Last week, at the market, I bought ten falafel.

Yummy.

However, not having a lot of experience with falafel, I was unaware of the repercussions of eating them.

I am now.

Well versed.

And perhaps in a position where falafel will never pass through my lips again.

Title Lyric: I'm Only Sleeping by The Beatles



Everybody's talkin' bout revolution, evolution

September 22, 2011


I love Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings.

Dropping Em off at school, I head to Starbucks, laptop in hand, no internet connection available, to me, because I can't figure out how to make it work.

A table in the corner, where I can observe all that is going on around me should I choose. . .

. . .and let's be honest. I'm a qualitative sociologist.

I choose to observe in those moments when thoughts seem stuck in neutral.

My visit Wednesday morning was particularly productive.

Thoughts flying from brain to finger tips, showing up in black and white on my laptop screen.

Inevitably, however, I hit a wall.

And that's when, in neutral, I observe.

Stuck in neutral, I look up from my screen and see a pair of four year old eyes looking back at me.

Hair shoulder length, curls wild around her head, dimples framing a engaging and enticing smile.

Dancing eyes.

And then she pulls up a chair at my table and sits across from me.

Well.

I was intrigued.

Who wouldn't be.

Her mother, of course, told her she couldn't sit there.

Mom was waiting for her Starbucks, a younger child happily ensconced in a stroller.

I told her it was fine.

Absolutely fine.

I asked her how old she was.

Four! she replied.

And will you be starting school next year?

Yes! And, she said, I can count to twenty.

And then she did.

I was having a ball.

Most intriguing conversation I had all day to that point.

Of course, Starbucks doesn't take long to prepare their delicious, albeit sugar laden drinks, and within a couple of minutes my conversation partner was waving at me as she exited the coffee shop.

And I was no longer in neutral.

I should talk with four year olds more often.

Lucrative for the writing process.









Inviting others to engage in peace is exhausting work.

Not that I did much of anything, outside of being the official videographer/photographer for yesterday's events.

Stephen and our peace-minded colleagues did all the heavy lifting.

The focal point of our Peace Day celebrations was the unveiling of the STU Peace Pole.

In the upper courtyard, keeping watch over STU activities, casting it's message of peace in four languages to the four points of the compass.

An invitation to all who walk past it, who pause to take in its message, to think about what a peaceful, non-violent world, absent of conflict and war, would look like.





After Stephen unveiled the Peace Pole there were some invited speakers and then a call to all those in the audience who spoke a language other than those held by the Peace Pole, to come forward and share a peaceful message in their language.

Peace messages in Greek, Macedonian, Latin, Czechoslovakian, Dutch, Spanish, are just a few examples of the messages shared with the 130+ crowd gathered to mark this very special occasion.

Afterwards, there was aboriginal drumming, followed by a children's choir, whose young, clear voices sang songs of peace both contemporary and traditional.

A senior's choir sang songs reminding us of conflicts past and how they were overcome, but remain in our collective memory in hopes that the tragedies and traumas will not be
repeated.

Peace really does bring people together.

Peace messages abounding, filling the air, I still had to march onward with my day. After taking pictures and videos until 1.25, I dashed to my office, wolfed down a sandwich in a manner similar to how Frankie eats before my meeting at 1.30.

Followed by my three three hour crime in film class from 2.30-5.30.


Which was about the only break I had that day.

Two hours watching Rod Steiger and Sidney Poiter masterful in In the Heat of the Night was a welcome and necessary pause in what was otherwise turning out to be a chaotic day.

 After class, home for a very quick supper of wild rice, salmon and baby carrots and we were off again,  attending the Peace Cafe from 7.00-9.00. By the time we arrived home, greeted our fur bearing posse, and headed for bed, I was barely able to keep my eyes open long enough to chat with Em while she waited for her laundry to dry.

I don't remember her leaving.




Title Lyric: Give Peace a Chance by John Lennon

Can you practice what you preach?

September 21, 2011


There are few things that can stop me in my tracks.

But walking into my office after my second class of the day, greeted by my son in the big blue chair sporting a wet crotch from just below his breastbone to almost his knees did the trick.

More than a raised eyebrow that caused let me tell you.

For a moment, I truly thought he'd peed himself while sleeping in the chair.

Fortunately, he cleared up any erroneous hypotheses I was developing by informing me that a tussle with a carbonated black cherry water was the reason for his current predicament.

While leaning towards skepticism, there was a half full litre bottle of water sitting on the desk beside him, evidence supporting his claim.

My last class of the day was being held in the Harriet Irving Library, a library tour for my first year class in an attempt to prevent the whinging and whining about not knowing how to use the library.

Although I have second, third and fourth year students who have no clue how to use the library, even when I've bent over backwards to show them.

Part of me is convinced they either don't want to know, or really will just never grasp the intricacies of library research.

Yet they can find their way around the internet, ipods, ipads, etc.

I digress.

So I decided in the interests of time and exhaustion that it would be prudent to drive to the library, heading straight home after the class ended.

I took a bit of a detour and drove Keith to Meredyth's to pick a dvd up for me before he went home.

Because by that time his pants would have been dry enough to prevent chafing.

Wet jeans.

Most uncomfortable those wet jeans.

Although a friend of mine, who would have been a teenager in the early 70s informed me one day that the in thing to do during her youth was to put your jeans on wet so that when they eventually dried they hugged your curves.

And every other part of you in all likelihood.

I rather be baggy thanks very much.





Each year, 21 September marks Peace Day; a day for wide-scale community action, a day for UN agencies and aid organisations to safely carry out life-saving work, a day of global ceasefire and non-violence.

To learn how it all started, see this website, http://www.peaceoneday.org/en/welcome and watch the documentary Peace One Day and The Day After Peace.

Incredibly powerful, moving and really makes you stop, think about what we do in our everyday lives to foster, or not as the case may be, peace.

How can something so straightforward be so difficult to achieve?

St. Thomas is marking this occasion with the unveiling of a Peace Pole on campus with peace messages in English, French and Mi'gmaq and Maliseet.

In the evening the first ever Peace Cafe will be held in MMH 307.

Guest speaker Cathy Holtman will speak to how religious communities address family violence.

All sorts of people who are interested in peace and non-violence will be in attendance.

Including me and my camera.

Stay tuned for lots of pics.


And today, think peace!


Tomorrow, too, if you liked it.




Title Lyric: Where is the Love by The Black Eyed Peas

And I know what you're after. . . .

September 20, 2011

Benedict Cumberbatch back as the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes in the BBC's contemporary take on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's most famous detective, with Martin Freeman as the solid and trustworthy Dr. Watson in 2012.

Good news indeed.

The first three episodes just made available on Netflix. . . .

Made me want to leap from my chair and yell "Hallellujah!" but I didn't think it appropriate while at work.

Even if it was a Friday afternoon. 









4.45 am I'm awakened by flashing lights reminiscent of Speilberg's Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

My aliens, however, were of the four legged, furry kind.

And because Stephen went to bed early last evening (for him. . .normal for the rest of us mere mortals) he was awake when the patter of kitty feet and jingling of kitty bells alerted him to the entrance of Dibley and Jasper into our room.

Resulting in the flashing of lights as he turned his bedroom light on and off over a period of 45 minutes as he attempted to monitor the activities of Dibley and Goblet who have yet to accept each other's presence.

At least when each other is in each other's face.

Making another valiant attempt to outline all the reasons why Goblet and Dibley should get along was no more successful at 5.00 am than it was in the late evening.

After hiding under the pillows, burrowing under the blankets, covering my eyes, falling back to sleep when the lights were turned out, only to be awakened harshly when a flick of Stephen's wrist engaged the light.

Realizing that he was content to continue with his flashing light therapy meaning I wouldn't be sleeping in any more than 15 minute snatches of darkness, I decided to take things into my own hands.

I got up.

Removed Dibs from the room.

Went back to bed.

And informed Stephen of exactly where that light bulb was going if he turned that light on one. more. time.

Good f*****g morning to me.









When I woke up, again, to the dulcet tones of Trevor Doyle from Capital FM 106.9 coming through the air waves, I rolled out of bed.

Rolling as I was so close to the edge putting feet to floor was almost impossible.

Thanks Frankie.

Only to narrowly avoid stepping on Tikka, who has taken to laying so close to my side of the bed that getting up in the wee hours to pee is akin to walking through a midnight maze of broken glass.

All the while, Robbie Dupree's Steal Away is running through my head.

I don't even like the song.

Subconscious renderings of my heart's desire breaking consciousness when my defences are at their early morning weakest.









Simply for Life started the morning. . .only .2 pounds down because I am currently holding more water than the Titanic.

Afterwards, since I was in the area, I stopped into Jinglers.

One of the downsides of losing weight is losing clothes.

Not so much of an issue over the summer, as work clothes were not a necessity.

Just shorts, capris and t-shirts.

But it isn't summer anymore.



Into Jinglers I go looking for clothes that I can wear to work.

Clothes I don't have to spend a fortune on.

As I won't be wearing them for longer than this academic year.

Some trips are less successful than others.

The price you pay for shopping in thirft shops and used clothing stores.

But not this time.

4 button down shirts for Stephen
4 sweaters including a lovely, red cable knit cardy
4 shirts
2 pairs of pants

For $69.00.

Imagine.



Title Lyric: Steal Away by Robbie Dupree

Avoiding the monsters under my bed. . . .

September 18, 2011


As a child, one of the things that terrified me the most were vampires.

I can't remember the specific event that triggered this fear, although I do remember one incident when I inadvertently walked in on my parents watching a film version of Stephen King's Salem's Lot right at the moment when the recently disappeared young boy is floating outside the bedroom window of one of his friends encouraging him to let him in.

I well imagine that had something to do with my fear of vampires.

For years I slept with a giant, stuffed lion beside me, believing it to be all the protection I needed from the creatures of the night.

Until now.

Monsters have taken residence under my bed.

Terrifying monsters.

Hell bent on waking me up in the early hours of the morning as they attempt to scratch and claw their way out of the dark spaces under the bed.

Noisy little things, they are.

Hissing and spitting.

Deep, low growls rumbling from the netherspaces of their being.

Jasper is the ringleader.

Slinking around in the middle of the night.

Tempting the other cats with his need for naughtiness. 

Dibley looks serene, quiet.

He does spend most of the day sleeping.

But during the evening and throughout the night, he, too, prowls about the house.

Unlike Jasper, the excitable new kid on the block who is energized by the desire to create trouble, Dibley is more about letting the others situate themselves and then entering the situation when he is the least expected.

And of course, Goblet.

The site of the night time shenanigans is in our room, under our bed, in Goblet's mind her domain.

Therefore, she feels it is only appropriate that she join into the fray, the fracas.

She is, afterall, the one who engages in the most hissing and spitting.

Quite frustrating when you're desperate for a good night's kip before facing the vagaries of the following day.

I only hope that in the coming days and weeks the monsters under the bed will cease and desist their activities so a good night's sleep can reign again.









As weekends continue to be an element of my everyday life, it occurs to me that the weekdays are less stressful and more relaxing than the weekends.

Em and I had made plans to go to the market yesterday.

Saturday market.

Gorgeous day.

The last Saturday of the Harvest Jazz and Blues Festival.

Sum total: market moving from its usual psychotic to absolutely calamitous.

After noshing on samosas, slurping freshly squeezed orange juice (for me) and banana strawberry non-dairy smoothies (for Em), selecting ten homemade falafels and touring around to see what was new and exciting, we headed to Klub Soda where Em had an appointment for a much needed trim.

After which time we were supposed to head home as I had work to do, people to email, things to take care of, mother's to visit at the nursing home . . . .

And yet, somehow, in spite of all that was awaiting me, I never managed to make it home until almost 4.00 pm.

Sidelined by Em's request to see a movie.

Dirty, dirty tactics, my Em.

She knows how to play her mummy.

Off to the mall to see Straw Dogs.

A colossal waste of time, in spite of the potential.

Don't waste your time or money.

Don't even rent it, order it through television, watch it online.

Time you'll never get back.

Today equally busy.

All day Quaker meeting.

Mum this evening.

Squeezing in grocery shopping.

Hopefully.

Weekends.

Yeah, right.



Title Lyric: Monsters Under the Bed by Eugene MacGuiness