November 4, 2010
Stephen is very much an outdoors person.
Or at least he was until we got married and he traded the outdoors for the couch and after dinner meals at midnight.
When we first got together, I had *no idea* what fate befell me each and everytime he said,
"I have something fun planned for us!"
On the outside, my face was beaming with anticipation.
On the inside I wondered what natured-themed torture was waiting for me.
Because while I like the outdoors, raking, walking, shoveling snow, weed wacking, my idea of "something fun" doesn't seem to resonate with Stephen as much as it, perhaps, could.
Shortly after Stephen and I got together, Meredyth and Keith headed to Ontario for their father's third wedding.
He's had so many, it's hard to keep track.
Stephen and I took this opportunity to engage in some bonding with Em.
We decided it would be fun to go hiking on a lovely trail at Mactaquac.
This is one of our favourite trails. . . at the midpoint, there is a lean to, brook, benches. . .the dogs and Stephen can muck around in the brook as much as they want, and the rest of the hike is a heart beat increasing promenade with Frankie covering at least three times the trail with his running back and forth to make sure his entire pack is still moving.
After our first constitutional around this trail, however, there was strong objection to ever going again.
At least with Stephen.
It was a lovely spring day, breeze blowing, Tikka excited to be going on a new adventure, me wearing Mer's sneakers, Em with sandles cradling her feet.
Stephen was in hiking boots.
That should have been our first sign that all was not right in Denmark.
We made it to the lean-to, enjoying our rest, respite and Tikka and Em frolicking in the brook.
All was lovely. Even Em, who likes the outdoors as much as a bamboo splinter under her fingernail, was enjoying herself.
And everything went downhill from there.
After the lean-to, we zigged when we should have zagged.
At least we know that now.
But then, Em and I followed Stephen and Tikka like ducklings following their mother.
Blindly.
After about 50 minutes, we found ourselves ankle deep in swamp, and Em tugged on my sleeve and asked,
"Do you think we're lost, Mummy?"
"Oh no, honey, Stephen knows where we're going."
But my head was steadily nudging me to the conclusion that this man we'd been blindly following had no idea where we were, where we were going and he didn't know how to tell me.
So, I asked him.
And he sheepishly admitted that he thought he might have taken a wrong turn.
I did the only thing I could.
I took charge.
And we eventually found ourselves at a road.
But we knew not where this road went, or how close we were to our starting point.
We finally flagged a car, and the driver pointed us in the right direction.
After walking for another 45 minutes, I knew where we were.
And it was NO where near our starting place.
Just before you pass the gas station on the way to the park entrance, there is a road.
Scotch Lake Road.
And that is where we were.
How did I know this?
Because a couple of summers before this traumatic trek, the kids and I had attended a bbq at the then vice-president academic's house.
And I was standing at the top of his very long driveway.
Imagine how happy I was with Stephen at this point.
Imagine.
We kept walking, Tikka and Stephen ahead of me and Em.
Em literally winding down like a clock, she was so tired.
And both of us had to pee very badly, and unlike Stephen and Tikka, we couldn't pee anywhere we wanted outside.
Eventually, we make it to the gas station.
Emily refuses point blank to walk one.step.further.
We use the bathroom, buy something to drink, and park ourselves outside the gas station, and wait while Stephen and Tikka stalwardly continue onward towards the car.
Emily has never worn an expression of such an intense relief when she saw our burgundy Sonata pull into the parking lot of the gas station.
She and Tikka passed out in the living room as soon as we had finished supper.
It took months to convince Em to walk that trail again with Stephen.
And she only went because I had packed provisions and made sure she wore sneakers.
Insanity is defined as doing the same thing over and over again hoping for a different result.
A couple of summers after our traipsing the Mactaquac trail, all the kids were away in Ontario for a couple of weeks, so Stephen and I decided to drive to Fundy Park for the day.
And because I was obviously insane, I allowed Stephen to plan the day.
Hence we ended up on the Coastal Trail.
Stephen indicated when we arrived that it may be a "little steep" at the beginning, but after that, we would engage in a leisurely stroll, enjoying the ocean breeze on our faces, the smell of salt air, and the gorgeous scenery.
He was 60% right.
The ocean breeze was on our faces.
Gorgeous scenery.
Salt in the air.
But "leisurely stroll" was way off.
I imagine this hike of epic proportions was similar to the Von Trapps traversing the Alps in their bid for freedom.
And we only did half of it, because it was three hours in, which meant it'd be a three hour walk out. . .at least.
On the way back, we had to walk over a small platform, presumably covering swamp too mucky to walk through.
Stephen, after walking the length of this platform, stood at the end and for a reason he still can't provide, started jumping up and down.
And then he asked me how come the grass was so prickly, stingy almost.
Well, that would be because in his cavorting at the end of the platform, he managed to raise the ire of a nest of hornets.
Who were not, in the least, pleased with Stephen's capricious cavorting.
Rebelling against this ferocious force threatening their peace and serenity, the hornets attacked, stinging Stephen's legs.
He moved off the end of that platform faster than Wile E. Coyote after the Roadrunner.
Yeah, right?
No.
Because while he was creating conniptions among the hornets, I was at the other end of the platform.
With two choices: trudge through the swampy sludge covered by the platform, or, wait for the raging hornets to settle down.
Option B it was.
Stephen at one end, nursing his wounds, me at the other, fuming about being held captive by the hornets and Stephen's stupidity.
Finally, it would seem the nest of voracious vipers had calmed down and I began my slow and perilous passage over the platform to the freedom awaiting me on the other side.
I suppose I should be thankful that Stephen wasn't allergic to the stings, otherwise, I would have had to haul his sorry butt of the trail and I can tell you it would have been an unusually bumpy ride.
These things were tolerable because the humiliation that was suffered by all stayed within the tight confines of our family.
Our adventures, however, took a turn south when Stephen decided we should include our friends in his woods and water wackiness.
He arranged an outing at the Bucket Club with our friends C and C.
Canoeing.
I have never canoed in my life.
Ever.
And my only experiences on boats, period, was with large boats powered by engines.
Not paddling.
And definitely not my paddling.
From the onset, I knew this was not going to be an enjoyable encounter.
The canoes were small, and my bootie was not.
C and C were in their canoe and happily paddling within minutes of our arrival.
Stephen and I were still on the dock, negotiating how I was going to get into the canoe, let alone manage to stay afloat in it.
Somehow, some way, we managed to get into the canoe, and started our journey up the Saint John River.
Within ten minutes of paddling as close to the shore as possible, we unexpectedly found ourselves unhappily splashing in the muddy waters.
The canoe was small, tippy.
Stephen sat at the front of the canoe, and bravely attempted to paddle us alone, because all my paddling efforts resulted in us going in circles.
So we decided it was better if I just sat there and did nothing.
But even that wasn't enough to keep us out of the drink.
Meanwhile, C and C had paddled over to a little island and were enjoying the entertainment Stephen and I were providing.
Within an hour, we had managed to fall into the river five times.
And each and every time was unquestionably, unequivocally my fault.
On the way back to the dock, both of us soaked to the skin, a lone Stephen soak floated by us, going in the other direction.
Stephen asked me to lean over and get it.
But I was stock and statue still, now at the front of the canoe, and there was no way I was going to risk another dunking for the sake of one, lone, wool sock.
The next day, I presented Stephen with a dozen pairs of wool socks, and a promise that he would never, ever, in the entirety of our lives together ever ask me to get into a canoe with him or anyone else for any reason short of a life threatening flood, again.
I could have thrown myself into the Saint John River five times for free and saved myself the cost of renting a canoe.
Plus, the cost of replacing Stephen's socks.
And the long term damage to my self-esteem.
Because the humiliation I experienced in the Saint John River in front of C and C was nothing compared to the irritating banter, the exasperating mocking, the plaguing provocation I had to endure at the hands of my loving, caring children.
Title Lyric: Boy and Girl in a Little Canoe by Children.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Maybe when I'm all grown up, I'll learn to get it through. . .
November 3, 2010
Hi.
My name is Dawne.
And I'm a procrastinator.
[Chorus] Hi Dawne!
As far back as I can remember, I have always put off doing things.
Studying for exams, for example, usually took place the night before, with me trying to cram in four months of course work, readings, etc., into a couple of hours.
All while trying to write the papers I didn't start when I should have.
This intense immersion into academic work would often lead to mini-breakdowns, where, upon something happening, breaking a finger nail, stubbing my toe, being asked to dry a few dishes, I would have a full scale breakdown.
Wailing, crying, throwing myself on the floor curled into a fetal position around my books, I'd lament my tragic fate, bellyache about the unfairness of my life, whine away my responsibility, blame my troubles on all the hours of paid work I was forced to do, object to obviously unjust treatment, denouce the suggestion that perhaps using class time to snog with my boyfriend, or play cards in the caf was not the best use of my time, oppose what was clearly criminal treatment at the hand of my evil professors, who certainly all got together when hatching their maniacal plans, otherwise known as syllabi, to ensure that all MY exams happened one right after another, and all MY papers were due on exactly the same day.
Whatever the reason, *I* was not to blame.
My mother, who I am sure had about as much sympathy for me as I do my own children when they engage in the same hystrionics, would take my books away and hide them.
She'd then look at me and say,
"If you don't know it now, you won't, and you couldn't learn anything anyway with the way you're carrying on!"
In spite of the years between then and now, I am still a procrastinator.
The only difference now?
I own it.
I am a procrastinator, yes I am.
There are some things I don't like to do, or don't want to do, that nonetheless have to be done and procrastination is not an option.
Taking the dogs out, for example.
When they start their milling around the front door, hopping from one foot to other preparing for their I-have-to-go-pee-dance, I have no choice but to stop whatever it is I'm doing and take them out.
Or, if such an opportunity is present, tell one of the kids to do it.
"Keith! I know your working on the pile of schoolwork that has taken over your life, threatening to reduce you to a quivering mass of tears, but, would you please take the dogs out because I'm lying on the couch watching Billy the Exterminator, and I don't want to get up."
I have been known to even procrastinate my own going to the bathroom.
If I am in the throes of something exciting, preparing for a favourite lecture topic, reading a really great journal article, watching an episode of All in the Family, I will feel the clarion call of the commode, but refuse to be held hostage to my body's lavatory entreaties.
Consequently, you can frequently witness my madcap dash to the bathroom; out the door, down the hall to the elevator (because I don't dare try to walk the stairs, too much unnecessary movement could lead to spontaneous sprinklings), hit the button, stand there hopping from one foot to the other, until the door slowly opens, bolt into the elevator, hit the 3rd floor button, watch the doors close with painfully agonizing indifference to my pee plight, then stand in the elevator, hoping that there are no cameras, while I clutch my knees together while snging "La, la, la" to distract my brain from releasing a flood of epic proportions until the door opens, sluggishly, and I emerge from the elevator, trying to look normal while walking the few feet to the bathroom door with my brain counting down with a robotic voice, "Deluge approaching. Countdown begins.
10 (My hand is on the door handle). . .
9 (I'm inside the bathroom). . .
8 (Scanning for an empty stall). . .
7 (No empty stall. Must wait. No time to make it to the second floor). . .
6 (Stall opens. Person comes out. "Hi Dawne! How are you?". . . "Just fine" I answer through clenched teeth). .
5 (Gracelessly enter stall while person insists on talking to me, all the while inside my head I'm screaming I DON'T WANT TO CONVERSE! MUST PEE!) . . . .
4 (Attempt to undo pants, which of course means I can't get them undone because I have to pee so badly) . . . .
3 (Get pants undone, almost ripped them off, who cares if, for the rest of the day I flash my lemon yellow "I LOVE YOU" panties to all my students.). . .
2 (Aim for the toilet seat and hope I don't miss it because if I do I'll have to ask one of the cleaning staff for a mop and how would I explain THAT). . .
1 (Sweet, glorious relief, while the person still washing their hands, or fixing their makeup or whatever still wants to converse with me while my obvious sigh of relief provides the background music). . .
And how come, outside of being a procrastinator, I must engage in such lunatic liveliness?
Because on the fourth floor of my building, there is no bathroom.
Don't ask me why because it will only result in a rant about mysoginistic male architects who pee standing up and can therefore pee anywhere they want.
The only other thing worse than not having a bathroom on the same floor as your office is to walk into the bathroom at the same time as one of your students.
Empty stalls, you each get one, and then you sit there waiting for the other person to go first.
Because while I am open about my life and the things I do, I don't necessarily want my students overhearing me engage in my IBS encouraged, inspired, faciliated number 2's.
Anyone who has IBS knows EXACTLY what I'm talking about.
At the very least, it's noisy.
Very noisy.
Not fit to be overheard by students.
So I wait as long as I can, because you can only hold off IBS for so long, when I am forced to succumb and try to make things as quiet as possible.
And then, as soon as the student has the common sense to leave because they realize that hearing your professor fart is not something you want to remember for any length of time, I am able to open the hatch and let nature take its course.
IBS is no fun.
On top of the toilet traumas mentioned above, there have been incidents where I have had to "pass gas" and possess absolutely no ability to prevent it.
For whatever reason this often happens to me in elevators.
I'm seeing a pattern with me, bathroom issues and elevators. . .
One time, all alone in the elevator from the fourth floor to the first, I had accidentally (because I would NEVER allow something like that to happen on purpose) let out a most obnoxious "fluff."
I've often been thankful that methane, while definitely not odorless, is colorless, or I'd be perpertually surrounded by a Pig Pen inspired cloud of putridness.
The elevator door open.
And standing there is a colleague.
Who then gets into the elevator.
And while I am walking towards the outside doors, I hear a *cough, cough* and I KNOW it isn't because said colleague had a frog in his throat.
No.
He just inhaled.
I may have actually turned purple with embarrasment.
And to this day, I have difficulty looking this colleague in the eye without wanting to burst into an apology for something they have (hopefully) forgotten.
So where was I before I was sidetracked. . .
Oh yes, procrastination.
The one thing I happily, willingly, cheerfully, freely, absolutely procrastinate on purpose?
Marking.
Grading.
The constant, never-ending decision making about what something is worth.
When I was first teaching, marking was even more painful than it is now.
Prior to handing back assignments, you could find me paying homage to the porcelain gods, a reverence inspired by the inevitable handing back of assignments to students who were not going to be happy with my decision making about their paper, exam, whatever.
I do not suffer from such indignities now.
I hand things back with a do-you-really-want-to-go-there attitude.
If you don't like the grade you got, then next time you should listen and do what I ask.
I have a 48 hour rule, which means don't even contemplate the possibility of talking with me about your grade until 48 hours have passed.
Don't give me the stink eye either.
Right now, I have a pile of first year papers addressing how sex and gender informs people's experiences with the criminal justice system.
5 pages long.
Multiplied by 50 students.
And no matter how well I plan. . .you know, I'll do eight papers every day for the next week, I never get them done on time.
Leaving me in my office, hiding from the hoard of first year students who HAVE to know how well they did on their paper because if they don't get a good grade, or my favourite, the grade they THINK they deserve, their entire academic career, life's work, will be tossed to wolves leaving them with no option but to sell pencils on Younge Street.
And you thought I was a drama queen. . . .
Until someone comes up with something better than writing papers, or developing websites, or doing group projects, or writing exams, I'm stuck marking.
And you're stuck writing.
Title Lyric: Procrastination by Amy Winehouse
Hi.
My name is Dawne.
And I'm a procrastinator.
[Chorus] Hi Dawne!
As far back as I can remember, I have always put off doing things.
Studying for exams, for example, usually took place the night before, with me trying to cram in four months of course work, readings, etc., into a couple of hours.
All while trying to write the papers I didn't start when I should have.
This intense immersion into academic work would often lead to mini-breakdowns, where, upon something happening, breaking a finger nail, stubbing my toe, being asked to dry a few dishes, I would have a full scale breakdown.
Wailing, crying, throwing myself on the floor curled into a fetal position around my books, I'd lament my tragic fate, bellyache about the unfairness of my life, whine away my responsibility, blame my troubles on all the hours of paid work I was forced to do, object to obviously unjust treatment, denouce the suggestion that perhaps using class time to snog with my boyfriend, or play cards in the caf was not the best use of my time, oppose what was clearly criminal treatment at the hand of my evil professors, who certainly all got together when hatching their maniacal plans, otherwise known as syllabi, to ensure that all MY exams happened one right after another, and all MY papers were due on exactly the same day.
Whatever the reason, *I* was not to blame.
My mother, who I am sure had about as much sympathy for me as I do my own children when they engage in the same hystrionics, would take my books away and hide them.
She'd then look at me and say,
"If you don't know it now, you won't, and you couldn't learn anything anyway with the way you're carrying on!"
In spite of the years between then and now, I am still a procrastinator.
The only difference now?
I own it.
I am a procrastinator, yes I am.
There are some things I don't like to do, or don't want to do, that nonetheless have to be done and procrastination is not an option.
Taking the dogs out, for example.
When they start their milling around the front door, hopping from one foot to other preparing for their I-have-to-go-pee-dance, I have no choice but to stop whatever it is I'm doing and take them out.
Or, if such an opportunity is present, tell one of the kids to do it.
"Keith! I know your working on the pile of schoolwork that has taken over your life, threatening to reduce you to a quivering mass of tears, but, would you please take the dogs out because I'm lying on the couch watching Billy the Exterminator, and I don't want to get up."
I have been known to even procrastinate my own going to the bathroom.
If I am in the throes of something exciting, preparing for a favourite lecture topic, reading a really great journal article, watching an episode of All in the Family, I will feel the clarion call of the commode, but refuse to be held hostage to my body's lavatory entreaties.
Consequently, you can frequently witness my madcap dash to the bathroom; out the door, down the hall to the elevator (because I don't dare try to walk the stairs, too much unnecessary movement could lead to spontaneous sprinklings), hit the button, stand there hopping from one foot to the other, until the door slowly opens, bolt into the elevator, hit the 3rd floor button, watch the doors close with painfully agonizing indifference to my pee plight, then stand in the elevator, hoping that there are no cameras, while I clutch my knees together while snging "La, la, la" to distract my brain from releasing a flood of epic proportions until the door opens, sluggishly, and I emerge from the elevator, trying to look normal while walking the few feet to the bathroom door with my brain counting down with a robotic voice, "Deluge approaching. Countdown begins.
10 (My hand is on the door handle). . .
9 (I'm inside the bathroom). . .
8 (Scanning for an empty stall). . .
7 (No empty stall. Must wait. No time to make it to the second floor). . .
6 (Stall opens. Person comes out. "Hi Dawne! How are you?". . . "Just fine" I answer through clenched teeth). .
5 (Gracelessly enter stall while person insists on talking to me, all the while inside my head I'm screaming I DON'T WANT TO CONVERSE! MUST PEE!) . . . .
4 (Attempt to undo pants, which of course means I can't get them undone because I have to pee so badly) . . . .
3 (Get pants undone, almost ripped them off, who cares if, for the rest of the day I flash my lemon yellow "I LOVE YOU" panties to all my students.). . .
2 (Aim for the toilet seat and hope I don't miss it because if I do I'll have to ask one of the cleaning staff for a mop and how would I explain THAT). . .
1 (Sweet, glorious relief, while the person still washing their hands, or fixing their makeup or whatever still wants to converse with me while my obvious sigh of relief provides the background music). . .
And how come, outside of being a procrastinator, I must engage in such lunatic liveliness?
Because on the fourth floor of my building, there is no bathroom.
Don't ask me why because it will only result in a rant about mysoginistic male architects who pee standing up and can therefore pee anywhere they want.
The only other thing worse than not having a bathroom on the same floor as your office is to walk into the bathroom at the same time as one of your students.
Empty stalls, you each get one, and then you sit there waiting for the other person to go first.
Because while I am open about my life and the things I do, I don't necessarily want my students overhearing me engage in my IBS encouraged, inspired, faciliated number 2's.
Anyone who has IBS knows EXACTLY what I'm talking about.
At the very least, it's noisy.
Very noisy.
Not fit to be overheard by students.
So I wait as long as I can, because you can only hold off IBS for so long, when I am forced to succumb and try to make things as quiet as possible.
And then, as soon as the student has the common sense to leave because they realize that hearing your professor fart is not something you want to remember for any length of time, I am able to open the hatch and let nature take its course.
IBS is no fun.
On top of the toilet traumas mentioned above, there have been incidents where I have had to "pass gas" and possess absolutely no ability to prevent it.
For whatever reason this often happens to me in elevators.
I'm seeing a pattern with me, bathroom issues and elevators. . .
One time, all alone in the elevator from the fourth floor to the first, I had accidentally (because I would NEVER allow something like that to happen on purpose) let out a most obnoxious "fluff."
I've often been thankful that methane, while definitely not odorless, is colorless, or I'd be perpertually surrounded by a Pig Pen inspired cloud of putridness.
The elevator door open.
And standing there is a colleague.
Who then gets into the elevator.
And while I am walking towards the outside doors, I hear a *cough, cough* and I KNOW it isn't because said colleague had a frog in his throat.
No.
He just inhaled.
I may have actually turned purple with embarrasment.
And to this day, I have difficulty looking this colleague in the eye without wanting to burst into an apology for something they have (hopefully) forgotten.
So where was I before I was sidetracked. . .
Oh yes, procrastination.
The one thing I happily, willingly, cheerfully, freely, absolutely procrastinate on purpose?
Marking.
Grading.
The constant, never-ending decision making about what something is worth.
When I was first teaching, marking was even more painful than it is now.
Prior to handing back assignments, you could find me paying homage to the porcelain gods, a reverence inspired by the inevitable handing back of assignments to students who were not going to be happy with my decision making about their paper, exam, whatever.
I do not suffer from such indignities now.
I hand things back with a do-you-really-want-to-go-there attitude.
If you don't like the grade you got, then next time you should listen and do what I ask.
I have a 48 hour rule, which means don't even contemplate the possibility of talking with me about your grade until 48 hours have passed.
Don't give me the stink eye either.
Right now, I have a pile of first year papers addressing how sex and gender informs people's experiences with the criminal justice system.
5 pages long.
Multiplied by 50 students.
And no matter how well I plan. . .you know, I'll do eight papers every day for the next week, I never get them done on time.
Leaving me in my office, hiding from the hoard of first year students who HAVE to know how well they did on their paper because if they don't get a good grade, or my favourite, the grade they THINK they deserve, their entire academic career, life's work, will be tossed to wolves leaving them with no option but to sell pencils on Younge Street.
And you thought I was a drama queen. . . .
Until someone comes up with something better than writing papers, or developing websites, or doing group projects, or writing exams, I'm stuck marking.
And you're stuck writing.
Title Lyric: Procrastination by Amy Winehouse
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Salt, sweat, sugar on the asphalt
November 2, 2010
Yesterday was my weekly visit to Simply For Life.
Down six pounds.
YEAH!!!!!
At first, when I was weighed, he said, six pounds.
Shocked and dismayed, angry and annoyed, I said, "I gained six pounds!!!!!?????"
Which really was a possibility, as last Wednesday and Thursday were a chocolate coma revival of epic proportions.
So when he said, no, you've lost six pounds, I did a happy dance.
Well, at least as much of a dance as my knees will currently allow me.
Soon, I could be breakdancing.
What a scary thought.
I was probably happier, though, when he said I could still have my one, coveted cup of coffee per day.
Some people drink coffee because they need it to wake up, or get them through the next class or whatever.
Not me.
I love coffee.
The taste, the smell, the look. . .everything about coffee entices me at each and every sensory level.
I started drinking coffee when I was sixteen.
My best friend lived literally across the street from our high school, and we would go over to her place every lunch time to eat, watch soaps, and drink instant coffee.
We were just too cool.
It got to the point where, if we didn't get there for some reason, I was miserable and crabby all afternoon, suffering from a caffeine withdrawl so intense my teachers probably thought I was suffering from some sort of drug inspired event.
But no, it was just my body wanting the that caffeine bliss coursing through it, bringing me peace, joy and the attention desperately needed to get through my last period, grade 12 history class.
An iv of coffee was needed for that.
I had an interesting history teacher.
He was near retirement, short, and used his body as a chalkboard eraser.
Rather than just pick up the erasers that were littered all over the edge of the chalk board, he would just use his hands.
And wipe them on himself afterwards.
By the time I had him for the last class of the day, the man looked like he'd been dipped in a vat of yellow chalk dust.
Unevenly.
Because the parts of himself that were the most covered in chalk dust provided imaginative fodder for the entire class, allowing me to sit at the very back, by the window and wonder exactly what he'd been up to the entire day to get chalk dust in that place.
Starbucks, STU fair trade coffee, PC Great Canadian coffee, I love it all.
Clutching my Winnie-the-Pooh coffee mug, filled with coffee, warm coffee aroma permeating my senses is THE only way I want to start my day.
I'll change everthing else, even learn to like tomatoes, all for the sake of maintaining the right, that's right, the right, to have my morning coffee.
So back off and leave me alone until I'm finished my sweet liquid of the morning!
I have come to realize, over the course of this weekend in particular, that there are some side effects to my new and improved eating regime.
Crankiness.
How could a woman who is giving herself a complete and utter lifestyle change, resulting in weight loss, better health, improved motor skills (at least we can hope, anyway) who has already lost six pounds and knows that in all likilihood the weight loss will slow down because this week was the result of the drastic changes, be cranky?
Withdrawl.
My body is pissed off.
Where is the sugar? salt? fat? preservatives?
How come the daily PC chocolate chip cookies have been replaced with 19 paltry almonds?
Where is the Great Canadian bagel with lite, that's right, lite dill cream cheese, and what the hell is this spelt that tastes like a cow's cud?
Has the oh-so-tasty carrot muffin that usually accompanies an afternoon coffee been discontinued?
PC Sweet and Salty granola bars, have they left the country?
Red tea, green tea have thou replaced the Diet Coke?
Oh afternoon chocolate bar, have you foresaken me for a, ugh, banana?
Kolach bun sandwiches, with mayo, mustard, lemon pepper turkey from the deli and provolone cheese, why did you leave and for your substitute provide, of all things, a salad without even a frickin' crouton to make it more palpable?
Ice cream, Rolo, mint chocolate chip, hell, no name chocolate in the 4 liter container, where for art thou?
My body is outraged that such a cruel, senseless, militant regime has replaced the salt, sugar, preservative loving leader has been deposed, displaced and otherwise hiding in exile until a return is on the horizon.
But it isn't.
Like any major life change, this one has left me on an emotional rollercoaster.
One minute, laughing, being my usual jovial self.
The next, looking at Stephen while he drives me hither and yon, and barking, "Why the hell are you going this way?"
Again, happy, cheerful, amiable, funny even.
And then, snapping at the kids, with an "I don't know! Look for it! If you put your stuff away you'd know where the hell it was when you needed it!"
Happily dancing around the kitchen, ipod on, singing Glee's rendition of "Fire" at the top of my lungs, stopping periodically to pet the dogs and kiss their sweet little faces.
But to the shoulder tapping child who interrupts me to ask what's for dinner, I shrilly reply, "Why do you ask? You always get dinner. Nothing's different today!"
Finally, Stephen looks at me, gently, approaches me the way one might approach an angry dog, and asks in an ever so soft, genial, kind voice,
"Dawne Ardith, are you feeling okay?"
To which I reply, "Of course I do. Why do you ask?"
"Well, honey, you seem a bit not yourself today. A little bit cranky."
Me, "Really? I didn't notice."
Knowing how hard it was for Stephen to approach me in my Sybil state, I paused and reflected upon my actions and words during the last couple of days.
And concluded that I was acting, not out of malice, hatred for my fellow man, vengefulness, but rather out and out withdrawl from those life sustaining forces, sugar, salt and preservatives.
And carbs.
Don't forget the carbs.
I miss carbs.
They are my food foundation.
Give me my crumpets, muffins, homemade bread.
Lay down in front of me platters of scones, cinnamon buns, cream cheese and cherry danishes.
Bring on the cookies, cakes and squares that send shockwaves of sumptuous sugar through my bloodstream, causing my pupils to dialate and my heart to beat faster.
Pizza with extra cheese and pineapple, souvlakis with extra tzatiki, McDonald's french fries, a godly, potato concoction that simply cannot be replicated.
No more.
So, my body is pissed off and taking it out on my moods, leaving me to be as predictable as a toddler with a bowl of chocolate pudding.
I just keep telling my family that this is a transition.
A change.
Yes, things are discumbobulated, but they will return to normal.
But for now, they just circle around me, in fear, wondering when the sugar, fat and preservative deprived cobra of calorielessness will strike next.
Someone call Billy the Exterminator.
Title Lyric: Salt, Sweat, Sugar by Jimmy Eat World
Yesterday was my weekly visit to Simply For Life.
Down six pounds.
YEAH!!!!!
At first, when I was weighed, he said, six pounds.
Shocked and dismayed, angry and annoyed, I said, "I gained six pounds!!!!!?????"
Which really was a possibility, as last Wednesday and Thursday were a chocolate coma revival of epic proportions.
So when he said, no, you've lost six pounds, I did a happy dance.
Well, at least as much of a dance as my knees will currently allow me.
Soon, I could be breakdancing.
What a scary thought.
I was probably happier, though, when he said I could still have my one, coveted cup of coffee per day.
Some people drink coffee because they need it to wake up, or get them through the next class or whatever.
Not me.
I love coffee.
The taste, the smell, the look. . .everything about coffee entices me at each and every sensory level.
I started drinking coffee when I was sixteen.
My best friend lived literally across the street from our high school, and we would go over to her place every lunch time to eat, watch soaps, and drink instant coffee.
We were just too cool.
It got to the point where, if we didn't get there for some reason, I was miserable and crabby all afternoon, suffering from a caffeine withdrawl so intense my teachers probably thought I was suffering from some sort of drug inspired event.
But no, it was just my body wanting the that caffeine bliss coursing through it, bringing me peace, joy and the attention desperately needed to get through my last period, grade 12 history class.
An iv of coffee was needed for that.
I had an interesting history teacher.
He was near retirement, short, and used his body as a chalkboard eraser.
Rather than just pick up the erasers that were littered all over the edge of the chalk board, he would just use his hands.
And wipe them on himself afterwards.
By the time I had him for the last class of the day, the man looked like he'd been dipped in a vat of yellow chalk dust.
Unevenly.
Because the parts of himself that were the most covered in chalk dust provided imaginative fodder for the entire class, allowing me to sit at the very back, by the window and wonder exactly what he'd been up to the entire day to get chalk dust in that place.
Starbucks, STU fair trade coffee, PC Great Canadian coffee, I love it all.
Clutching my Winnie-the-Pooh coffee mug, filled with coffee, warm coffee aroma permeating my senses is THE only way I want to start my day.
I'll change everthing else, even learn to like tomatoes, all for the sake of maintaining the right, that's right, the right, to have my morning coffee.
So back off and leave me alone until I'm finished my sweet liquid of the morning!
I have come to realize, over the course of this weekend in particular, that there are some side effects to my new and improved eating regime.
Crankiness.
How could a woman who is giving herself a complete and utter lifestyle change, resulting in weight loss, better health, improved motor skills (at least we can hope, anyway) who has already lost six pounds and knows that in all likilihood the weight loss will slow down because this week was the result of the drastic changes, be cranky?
Withdrawl.
My body is pissed off.
Where is the sugar? salt? fat? preservatives?
How come the daily PC chocolate chip cookies have been replaced with 19 paltry almonds?
Where is the Great Canadian bagel with lite, that's right, lite dill cream cheese, and what the hell is this spelt that tastes like a cow's cud?
Has the oh-so-tasty carrot muffin that usually accompanies an afternoon coffee been discontinued?
PC Sweet and Salty granola bars, have they left the country?
Red tea, green tea have thou replaced the Diet Coke?
Oh afternoon chocolate bar, have you foresaken me for a, ugh, banana?
Kolach bun sandwiches, with mayo, mustard, lemon pepper turkey from the deli and provolone cheese, why did you leave and for your substitute provide, of all things, a salad without even a frickin' crouton to make it more palpable?
Ice cream, Rolo, mint chocolate chip, hell, no name chocolate in the 4 liter container, where for art thou?
My body is outraged that such a cruel, senseless, militant regime has replaced the salt, sugar, preservative loving leader has been deposed, displaced and otherwise hiding in exile until a return is on the horizon.
But it isn't.
Like any major life change, this one has left me on an emotional rollercoaster.
One minute, laughing, being my usual jovial self.
The next, looking at Stephen while he drives me hither and yon, and barking, "Why the hell are you going this way?"
Again, happy, cheerful, amiable, funny even.
And then, snapping at the kids, with an "I don't know! Look for it! If you put your stuff away you'd know where the hell it was when you needed it!"
Happily dancing around the kitchen, ipod on, singing Glee's rendition of "Fire" at the top of my lungs, stopping periodically to pet the dogs and kiss their sweet little faces.
But to the shoulder tapping child who interrupts me to ask what's for dinner, I shrilly reply, "Why do you ask? You always get dinner. Nothing's different today!"
Finally, Stephen looks at me, gently, approaches me the way one might approach an angry dog, and asks in an ever so soft, genial, kind voice,
"Dawne Ardith, are you feeling okay?"
To which I reply, "Of course I do. Why do you ask?"
"Well, honey, you seem a bit not yourself today. A little bit cranky."
Me, "Really? I didn't notice."
Knowing how hard it was for Stephen to approach me in my Sybil state, I paused and reflected upon my actions and words during the last couple of days.
And concluded that I was acting, not out of malice, hatred for my fellow man, vengefulness, but rather out and out withdrawl from those life sustaining forces, sugar, salt and preservatives.
And carbs.
Don't forget the carbs.
I miss carbs.
They are my food foundation.
Give me my crumpets, muffins, homemade bread.
Lay down in front of me platters of scones, cinnamon buns, cream cheese and cherry danishes.
Bring on the cookies, cakes and squares that send shockwaves of sumptuous sugar through my bloodstream, causing my pupils to dialate and my heart to beat faster.
Pizza with extra cheese and pineapple, souvlakis with extra tzatiki, McDonald's french fries, a godly, potato concoction that simply cannot be replicated.
No more.
So, my body is pissed off and taking it out on my moods, leaving me to be as predictable as a toddler with a bowl of chocolate pudding.
I just keep telling my family that this is a transition.
A change.
Yes, things are discumbobulated, but they will return to normal.
But for now, they just circle around me, in fear, wondering when the sugar, fat and preservative deprived cobra of calorielessness will strike next.
Someone call Billy the Exterminator.
Title Lyric: Salt, Sweat, Sugar by Jimmy Eat World
Monday, November 1, 2010
You studyin' hard and hopin' to pass, workin' your fingers right down to the bone. . .
November 1, 2010
Our neighbour, who lived behind us, is moving to Toronto.
I was very sad to hear this. . .I liked her. She was fun, neighbourly, and had two little shih tzus who provided me with lots of entertainment while I would hang laundry.
Last week, when she was packing things up and getting things ready, I noticed two ginormous plants on her back deck.
And I happened to wonder aloud, in front of Stephen, whether or not she was taking these plants with her.
Stephen responded that whether or not she was, didn't matter, because they wouldn't be inhabiting casa de van every-pidwysocky-clarke.
According to Stephen, one more plant in this house and we'll qualify for a licence to sell plants.
Drama queen, young and sweet, almost 50. . .ewwww, ewwwww. . . .
So, yesterday, in the middle of Stephen getting ready for Quaker meeting, and me supposed to be getting ready for Quaker meeting but marking instead, I see our neighbour walk in front of our kitchen window.
So did Frankie.
Which meant I had to intercept him before he intercepted her at the front door, grabbing him the way a football player would grab at a football before it hit the ground.
Frankie in his crate, barking away thinking that was going to make a difference, and Tikka playing her, "I'm pretty, I'm good, and therefore I am better than Frankie" role, I run to the front door.
Because our neighbour, knowing how much I loved plants, and wanting these two very large, very heavy plants to have a good home, offered them to me.
Stephen could hear her, but he was indisposed, so he couldn't come downstairs fast enough to say NO before I said YES!
And once he did manange to get himself suitably arranged, meaning he came downstairs with his pjs on and hair standing on end, but with a clean shaven face, it was too late.
I was dancing with joy because she had given me the plants.
She was dancing with joy because her plants had a good home.
And there was no way Stephen was going to rain on the parade of two dancing women.
Because he's smarter than that.
These were heavy plants in heavy pots.
And I was perfectly willing to help carry them in.
Except that the minute my help was required, my cleansing diet started cleansing, leaving me to sit dans la salle de bain, listening to Stephen and our neighbour try to get these plants in the house, while perusing the latest Canadian Living magazine.
So now, our living room is a veritable cornucopia of greenery, including an 8 foot tall plant I couldn't identify if I had to, and another plant that looks sort of like a palm tree but isn't.
We don't even have to get a Christmas tree now. We can just put lights on the 8 foot plant and call it a day.
Goblet is fascinated with these new plants.
She's fascinated with anything new that comes into the house.
She keeps hauling out the tinfoil pie plates that rest underneath the plants to prevent water from getting on the laminate floor.
Because I have been known to be a tad bit over zealous when it comes to watering plants.
A character flaw that makes Stephen crazy, leaving him no choice but to run around after me while I water plants, with tea towels in hand ready to clean up any potential leakage.
You'd have to see it to believe it.
I can't believe its November already.
Turning back the clocks.
My sister-in-law's birthday.
My mother's birthday, which happens to fall on Rememberance Day.
Giving my sarcoptic hounds their next dose of Revolution.
Yeah November. Bug free dogs.
Emily spent this evening at the kitchen table, working away on her latest school project.
Em is incredibly creative.
I don't know where she gets it, because it isn't from me.
Two year olds can draw better stick figures than me.
This particular school project?
Oh no, she said, we're out of that.
Reilley, her 16 year old cat, wants to play with the string, frolic in the remnants, wanting all the attention she is giving this pan pipe, to be diverted to him.
Our neighbour, who lived behind us, is moving to Toronto.
I was very sad to hear this. . .I liked her. She was fun, neighbourly, and had two little shih tzus who provided me with lots of entertainment while I would hang laundry.
Last week, when she was packing things up and getting things ready, I noticed two ginormous plants on her back deck.
And I happened to wonder aloud, in front of Stephen, whether or not she was taking these plants with her.
Stephen responded that whether or not she was, didn't matter, because they wouldn't be inhabiting casa de van every-pidwysocky-clarke.
According to Stephen, one more plant in this house and we'll qualify for a licence to sell plants.
So, yesterday, in the middle of Stephen getting ready for Quaker meeting, and me supposed to be getting ready for Quaker meeting but marking instead, I see our neighbour walk in front of our kitchen window.
So did Frankie.
Which meant I had to intercept him before he intercepted her at the front door, grabbing him the way a football player would grab at a football before it hit the ground.
Frankie in his crate, barking away thinking that was going to make a difference, and Tikka playing her, "I'm pretty, I'm good, and therefore I am better than Frankie" role, I run to the front door.
Because our neighbour, knowing how much I loved plants, and wanting these two very large, very heavy plants to have a good home, offered them to me.
Stephen could hear her, but he was indisposed, so he couldn't come downstairs fast enough to say NO before I said YES!
And once he did manange to get himself suitably arranged, meaning he came downstairs with his pjs on and hair standing on end, but with a clean shaven face, it was too late.
I was dancing with joy because she had given me the plants.
She was dancing with joy because her plants had a good home.
And there was no way Stephen was going to rain on the parade of two dancing women.
Because he's smarter than that.
These were heavy plants in heavy pots.
And I was perfectly willing to help carry them in.
Except that the minute my help was required, my cleansing diet started cleansing, leaving me to sit dans la salle de bain, listening to Stephen and our neighbour try to get these plants in the house, while perusing the latest Canadian Living magazine.
So now, our living room is a veritable cornucopia of greenery, including an 8 foot tall plant I couldn't identify if I had to, and another plant that looks sort of like a palm tree but isn't.
We don't even have to get a Christmas tree now. We can just put lights on the 8 foot plant and call it a day.
Goblet is fascinated with these new plants.
She's fascinated with anything new that comes into the house.
She keeps hauling out the tinfoil pie plates that rest underneath the plants to prevent water from getting on the laminate floor.
Because I have been known to be a tad bit over zealous when it comes to watering plants.
A character flaw that makes Stephen crazy, leaving him no choice but to run around after me while I water plants, with tea towels in hand ready to clean up any potential leakage.
You'd have to see it to believe it.
I can't believe its November already.
Turning back the clocks.
My sister-in-law's birthday.
My mother's birthday, which happens to fall on Rememberance Day.
Giving my sarcoptic hounds their next dose of Revolution.
Yeah November. Bug free dogs.
Emily spent this evening at the kitchen table, working away on her latest school project.
Em is incredibly creative.
I don't know where she gets it, because it isn't from me.
Two year olds can draw better stick figures than me.
This particular school project?
Pan pipes.
Think Zamphir.
As soon as she told me what she wanted to do, panic set it.
Pan pipes are made of bamboo.
Not the little plant thingies everyone has. . . the green things with the leaves, but honest to goodness bamboo.
The kind koala's eat.
There are many things we're able to get in Fredericton: potatoes, corn, dog food, samosas, souvlakis, an education, liquor. . . .
But bamboo?
Saturday afternoon, prepared for the absolute worst, because school projects always bring out the absolute worst, Stephen, Emily and I got into the car and headed to the local nursery.
The one that didn't go out of business.
I asked the woman who was working the greenhouse if they had bamboo.
She assumed I meant the plant.
Oh no, she said, we're out of that.
And then, as if led by the goddess who protects parents from psychosis caused by school projects, I found myself saying,
"Not the bamboo with the leaves and things. Real bamboo."
Her face lit up.
My heart started to beat faster.
She walks over to a little used part of the room, where I'd never have thought to look, and there, leaning against the wall was a 10 foot bamboo pole.
Problem #1 solved. Apparently, you can get bamboo in Fredericton.
The came problem #2.
Cost.
Because school projects usually means spending money I don't have.
And 10 feet of anything usually isn't cheap.
Along side the goddess who protects parents from psychosis caused by school projects, was the goddess of things that appear expensive but are not.
$2.99.
Two for two.
I couldn't believe it.
I still can't.
Getting the pole in the car was something else.
We had to open the trunk and push it through until the end was nestled against the windshield.
Honestly, one more millimeter of bamboo, and we wouldn't of been able to close the trunk of our little Ford Focus station wagon.
That's how close it was.
Stephen drove us back to Fredericton, where we dropped Em off at the mall, and then me at the nursing home, with this bamboo pole separating us the entire drive similar to the way Catholic nuns used to (and maybe still do) separate hormonal teenager boys and girls on the dance floor with a ruler in an effort to prevent the crotch grabbing gyrations that automatically ensued when "Lady in Red" started to play during high school dances.
Now, the third problem was taking the ten foot bamboo pole and turning it into 12 peices of bamboo into little bamboo steps.
Emily, the brave little soul that she is, managed to get the bamboo pole into the basement, and armed with a saw I didn't even know we had, she made a valiant effort to cut this pole into the required peices.
She's even marked off on the pole where it needed to be cut.
Bamboo is strong.
So is Em.
But the bamboo trumped Em's determination to do it "all by herself" and we knew that reinforcements were going to be necessary.
Our neighbour.
Peter.
Apparently, it takes a neighbourhood to manufacture a homemade pan pipe for a high school World Music class.
Emily wanted to have everything done and over with by the end of the weekend, but with Halloween and other duties, she wasn't able to get over to ask Peter if he would saw the pole until this evening.
So, just before supper, my shy, quiet, reserved but determined Emily, with Stephen in tow, walked across the street to ask Peter if he would saw her bamboo pole.
And he did.
She returned with 12 perfectly sized peices of bamboo from which to fashion her pan pipe.
So far, she has voiced her frustrations at least three times, has a bamboo splinter underneath her finger nail that she refuses to allow me to remove, and she is up to her eyeballs in hemp string, wood glue, gold play-doh (don't ask) and cross stitch thread.
She is threading hemp string and cross stitch thread through the dozen pipes in effort to ensure functionality and artisitic appreciation.
Sweat glistens on her brow as she pushed back a strand of hair that's in her eyes.
Reilley, her 16 year old cat, wants to play with the string, frolic in the remnants, wanting all the attention she is giving this pan pipe, to be diverted to him.
All for a pan pipe that she can't play because we don't live in a high enough altitude.
Watching Em brings back a flood of school project memories.
Memories doesn't necessarily mean fond.
It just means memories.
The school project I remember the most wasn't even mine.
It was my little brother's.
He had to make newspaper.
All the sections.
Pas de problem.
Until my mother found out that ALL the sections meant ALL the sections.
Including an obituary.
More specifically, my brother's obituary.
My mother was never afraid of speaking her mind.
But she did so sparingly.
Only when really necessary.
Like the time, when she was 50, she blew a gasket at a grocery store employee who assumed she was over 65 and therefore deserved the senior's discount.
Or the time I was driving her car, we were cut off, and she gave the person who cut us off the finger.
My mother has finger nails that are considered lethal weapons in some countries. If she points one of those things at you, you better move it.
Fast.
I used to watch in fascination as she would file them into sharp points, and then lacquer them up for improved strength.
And if she pointed on at you, and raised her left eyebrow, you may as well just shut up, sit down and take whatever shit bomb was coming your way.
Cause it was coming.
Anyway, to say she was enraged when she heard that her 12 year old son had to write his own obituary was like saying when volcanos blow, they make a little mess.
I don't think I have ever seen her so angry.
Well, maybe one other time, but that story must wait until January.
She got on the phone to the school, Geary Elementary School, to be exact, and she got a hold of the principal.
I'm willing to bet that to this day, he wishes he had never taken that call.
And then, when she had reduced him to a blathering mass of tears, she turned on my brother's teacher.
She needed a year long sabbatical and six months therapy after my mother finished with her.
I can't remember if Jer wrote that obituary.
I'll have to ask him.
But you can bet that his teacher never asked anyone to write their own obituary ever again.
And if Em's teacher doesn't appreciate the effort she's put into making these pan pipes.
Plus the writing of the essay.
In addition to creating a powerpoint, I may have to channel the spirit of Janet.
Either that or release her from the nursing home long enough to deal with Em's World Music teacher.
Title Lyric: School Days by Chuck Berry
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Weep not for the memories . . . .
October 31, 2010
At the beginning of this month, I shared how much I loved October.
All sorts of thing about October fill my heart with absolute joy.
Meredyth's birthday.
Thanksgiving.
Mum and Dad's wedding anniversary.
I reflect about my life in October. . .where I've been and where I want to be.
Meredyth's birthday.
The anniversary of my first marriage.
October, however, marks another event in my life. One I am still reeling from, still trying to figure out.
October 30th, 2008, my dear friend, Quaker Friend, mentor, colleague, John McKendy, died.
His life was taken away unexpectedly, at the hands of a very sick young man, his son-in-law, who then committed suicide.
In many ways, I've dreaded today. I thought about not posting at all today, letting the day pass, to begin again tomorrow.
But I can't.
If I can do anything today, it's to share some of my warmest memories of John.
To remember how much he inspired me, cared for me and my family, loved me for who I was, inspite of all my flaws.
And believe me, there are lots of flaws.
When I returned to St. Thomas in the fall of 1993, I had few options available to me. I had maxed out the number of credits I could have for English, 60, and was warned by Larry Batt, the affable Registar at STU, that I could possibly consider completing my major in sociology, as I had a few soc courses on my transcript.
At this point, I had no real plans about what I would do with the remaining time I had at STU, I just knew that I needed an undergrad degree, I needed to finish something in my life, I guess I liked sociology, although you would have never known that from my grades at the time, so I negotiated with Larry.
Let me take the two English courses I'm really interested in, and I'll take soc courses.
Little did he know the results of his negotiation.
I had John when I was in university the first time.
But all I can remember from my half term in his theory course is the room where we met.
You can see how dedicated a student I was at that time in my life.
So, when I came back, five years later, Mer and Keith in tow, and a bellyful of Emily, all I knew was that soc courses were on the menu.
Whether or not I liked them, or did well in them, that remained to be seen.
I found myself back in John's class.
No longer sitting in the back, hoping to not be noticed, I was upfront, engaged, and feeling a lot older and wiser than my classroom compadres.
After two months in my sociology classes, my fate was sealed.
And with a bigger bellyful of Emily, I went to John and asked him what was required for graduate school.
Me.
Graduate School.
Whodda thunk it.
John looked at me, smiled his smile, and said,
"No one here is surprised you want to go to graduate school, Dawne."
John and my dear friend Debbie van den Hoonaard supervised my fourth year undergraduate honours thesis.
The three of us spent many hours together talking about my interviews with single parent fathers, looking at the findings, the process. . .
This collaboration, the talking with me and not at me, the overwhelming feeling that scholarship was something you worked on together regardless of whether or not you were the teacher or the student. . .
Those hours with John and Debbie solidified not only that I wanted to be an academic, but the kind of academic I wanted to be.
Some days I think I manage this better than others.
My three all time favourite John memories, though, don't have anything to do with academia.
They're all about family.
Emily was born January 21st, 1994.
Janurary 20th, 1994, I was in Modern Sociological Theory.
Trying ever so hard to squeeze my ever burgeoning bulk into the most definitely not made for pregnant women desks of in a classroom in the basement of Edmund Casey Hall.
I was scheduled for a c-section the following day.
But Em didn't care.
And during this class, I started to feel those oh-so-wonderful-tugs in my back.
Having been through a version of labour twice before, I knew what those feelings were.
And I knew Em was arriving the next day via c-section.
So I just sat there, listening to John share his passion for sociological theory.
At the end of class, he came over to me and asked me if I was okay.
Again, unable to mask my feelings from my face, I was apparently visually sharing my pain.
I said I thought I was having a few labour pains, but no worries, because my sister-in-law (at that time) was picking me up to take me to the hospital.
He was completely and utterly delighted that this baby was on her way.
But I like to think that had I waited, Em could have potentially been born in Edmund Casey Hall.
With John as the midwife.
Ten days after Em's appearance, I was sitting back in the basement of Edmund Casey Hall, fitting a little bit easier into the seats.
However, I had company.
Miss Em.
Em will tell you that outside of her immediate family, John has been the constant person in her life.
Picture me, sitting at a desk, one of the ones with the seat attached to the miniscule table top upon which you're supposed to put everything you need to pay attention in class, with a pen in my right hand, resting on paper, taking notes, while in my left arm is cradled a tiny, newborn baby, an armful of Em, feeding from her bottle.
I know how to multitask.
Really well.
But even I find it challening to grasp modern sociological theory enough to take notes on a postage stamp sized desk, while balancing a hungry newborn in my arms.
And without hesitation, John walked over to my desk, scooped up the hungry Emily and her bottle, and fed her.
All while continuing to talk about modern sociological theory.
No one else, during that time of my life, would have ever been allowed to even think about getting their hands on my newborn infant.
John was, other than my father and brother, the only man on the globe who I trusted.
A lot, as he was allowed to hold and feed and coo to my newborn baby girl.
When Stephen and I first got together, our newly blossoming relationship may have caused a small, seismic ripple through our university community.
John was very protective of Stephen.
And there was good reason for that.
I'm still trying to save Stephen from himself.
He arrived at my office one day, asking if he could speak with me.
Knowing both Stephen and I individually, he was somewhat concerned for Stephen.
John knew all about my checkered-relationship past, and I suspect he didn't want Stephen caught in the web of weirdness that had been the dominant theme in all of my previous relationships.
John also knew all about Stephen's not so checkered relationship past. . .in fact, to be honest, there wasn't much of a relationship past in Stephen's life.
Hence John's concern.
I suspect that in addition to our pasts, he also knew our present, in particularly, just how different our personalities were.
Are.
Still.
He was worried, I imagine, that Stephen was going to come out a relationship with me scarred, traumatized, sporting a therapy-requiring case of PTSD.
For some reason, he didn't seem to be as concerned about me.
Although, believe me, he should have.
When we announced that we were getting married, we knew we wanted a Quaker marriage.
This meant we had a "Clearness Committee," and in selecting the members of our Committee, we knew we wanted John to be with us as we started this next stage of our lives together.
As an aside, Stephen thought the group was called our Clearance Committee.
Like we were two on-special items that needed to be sold at the lowest price as soon as possible, and were in such a desperate state that we needed a committee to get rid of us.
During our wedding, after we exchanged our vows, with no minister or other religious official with us (I'll tell more about this later) there was a time, in the silence, where anyone who wanted to say something about us, to us, good wishes, etc. could stand up and say something.
John stood up and spoke the most beautiful words for us, about us. He was honest in saying how he sort of doubted this relationship, was concerned, somewhat for Stephen, but what he saw since we got together, what he has witnessed together with the two of us, made him realize how wonderful we are together and how blessed our being together has been for him and for our families, especially the kids.
There are days when I have to REALLY remember those words.
Believe me.
The way John died was horrific, something that happens to someone you don't know.
I don't presume to know what John what would want, but, I do think he would be deeply saddened to think that he was remembered for how he died.
And not remembered for how he lived.
So, I am choosing to remember John for how he lived.
(This is a picture of John, with Kweti, a young man he met when he spent several weeks in Burundi helping build an AIDS clinic.)
And because John was such an important part of both my life, and Stephen's, I asked Stephen to write something for this blog entry, an opportunity for him to share his thoughts, feelings and insights about John's life.
Read it carefully.
Enjoy it.
Cause the likelihood of Stephen collaborating in another blog entry with me is slim.
As in none.
There is a greater chance of me becoming impregnated by three toed, four headed, 9 armed aliens from the planet Ksnart, than Stephen contributing to my blog, again.
A day ago, Dawne asked me if I would consider contributing to her daily blog. I have to admit, I am not a big fan of blogs. I admire Dawne for her humorous and descriptive blog writing and read her postings faithfully, but I shy away from blog writing myself. For me, blogs are simply too uncomfortable. I often wonder who exactly is reading them. It seems somewhat like a smidgen of an invasion of privacy. I don’t need or want Billy or Sally or Bobby Sue reading about me or about my life thank you very much. I have ALWAYS been a private person. The late Erving Goffman (a Canadian born sociologist who excelled as an academic at the University of Chicago and died too soon) was correct. All of us are actors. We have a front stage (a public face) and a back stage (a private face). I have always preferred to guard my private stage/face as much as possible.
Having just shared my thoughts on maintaining privacy, Dawne has been teaching me something through her blog entries. What she has been teaching me is that it is perfectly okay and even wonderful to let other individuals get close to you by sharing some of your life stories with them. Who knows, they may even share some of their life stories with you.
Today was a kind of rough day. Why so? Once again, I am remembering my friend, mentor, surrogate brother, John McKendy on the anniversary of his death. Two years have passed and I still cannot figure-out what happened. Time goes by all too quickly. I keep trying to force myself to remember the good times instead of dwelling on how his life was cut short as a result of an act of violence. Accepting the death of loved ones is never easy, but having to live through a death that occurred because of violence is especially difficult. I’ve been down the “what if I had done that” or “how come I did not do this” road way too many times already. At some point, you have to put up a barricade and say “the old road is permanently closed and now I am going to choose a new road and take that road regularly.”
After John died, dwelling on how he died was my primary focus. I needed to know precisely what had happened. At that time, there was much gossip floating around. I heard many tales. Dawne and myself would reflect on these tales – often late at night - and would talk with one another and cry. We both hoped and prayed that he had not suffered. We also shared our life experiences with John with one another with the hope that we would experience some immediate healing. Immediate healing did not happen. We are both still trying to become whole people who had a good friend who died before he should have.
Reflecting back on the good, I experienced many joyous times with John and his family that I now feel comfortable enough to share. Thanksgiving with all too tasty food. At Christmas gatherings again we would eat too much (John cooked a very tasty sweet and sour soup) but we would also have a Yankee swap and play board games. I also remember a family celebration after his oldest daughter completed her undergraduate studies. All of those times I remember very well. John and his family always welcomed me into their homes. I never once felt like I was a stranger. He really did treat me as if I was his younger brother. (All you need to do is to ask Dawne about the day that he showed-up at her office to very gently inquire about whether it was true that she and I were dating.)
For several years, John and I ran together. I would meet him around 4:30 in the afternoon at the Lady Beaverbrook Gym three to four times each week. Sometimes we would run “the loop” – southside from the gym over to the northside Marysville bridge and back – while other times we would run on the Lincoln Road trail almost to the Fredericton Airport and then back again. While running we would talk about his family, my family, Quaker “stuff”, his research, my doctoral studies, and academia in general. We also both shared and spoke about our own personal shortcomings.
Although much has changed, I continue to hold on to the teachings that John shared with me. I continue to hear wonderful stories about John that I have not heard before. These stories make me happy. I now realize that even after when someone dies, he or she will continue to live on in those who knew and loved them or knew someone who knew them even if it was only for a brief period of time.
I miss your insight and selfless caring John.
Stephen
At the beginning of this month, I shared how much I loved October.
All sorts of thing about October fill my heart with absolute joy.
Meredyth's birthday.
Thanksgiving.
Mum and Dad's wedding anniversary.
I reflect about my life in October. . .where I've been and where I want to be.
Meredyth's birthday.
The anniversary of my first marriage.
October, however, marks another event in my life. One I am still reeling from, still trying to figure out.
October 30th, 2008, my dear friend, Quaker Friend, mentor, colleague, John McKendy, died.
His life was taken away unexpectedly, at the hands of a very sick young man, his son-in-law, who then committed suicide.
In many ways, I've dreaded today. I thought about not posting at all today, letting the day pass, to begin again tomorrow.
But I can't.
If I can do anything today, it's to share some of my warmest memories of John.
To remember how much he inspired me, cared for me and my family, loved me for who I was, inspite of all my flaws.
And believe me, there are lots of flaws.
When I returned to St. Thomas in the fall of 1993, I had few options available to me. I had maxed out the number of credits I could have for English, 60, and was warned by Larry Batt, the affable Registar at STU, that I could possibly consider completing my major in sociology, as I had a few soc courses on my transcript.
At this point, I had no real plans about what I would do with the remaining time I had at STU, I just knew that I needed an undergrad degree, I needed to finish something in my life, I guess I liked sociology, although you would have never known that from my grades at the time, so I negotiated with Larry.
Let me take the two English courses I'm really interested in, and I'll take soc courses.
Little did he know the results of his negotiation.
I had John when I was in university the first time.
But all I can remember from my half term in his theory course is the room where we met.
You can see how dedicated a student I was at that time in my life.
So, when I came back, five years later, Mer and Keith in tow, and a bellyful of Emily, all I knew was that soc courses were on the menu.
Whether or not I liked them, or did well in them, that remained to be seen.
I found myself back in John's class.
No longer sitting in the back, hoping to not be noticed, I was upfront, engaged, and feeling a lot older and wiser than my classroom compadres.
After two months in my sociology classes, my fate was sealed.
And with a bigger bellyful of Emily, I went to John and asked him what was required for graduate school.
Me.
Graduate School.
Whodda thunk it.
John looked at me, smiled his smile, and said,
"No one here is surprised you want to go to graduate school, Dawne."
John and my dear friend Debbie van den Hoonaard supervised my fourth year undergraduate honours thesis.
The three of us spent many hours together talking about my interviews with single parent fathers, looking at the findings, the process. . .
This collaboration, the talking with me and not at me, the overwhelming feeling that scholarship was something you worked on together regardless of whether or not you were the teacher or the student. . .
Those hours with John and Debbie solidified not only that I wanted to be an academic, but the kind of academic I wanted to be.
Some days I think I manage this better than others.
My three all time favourite John memories, though, don't have anything to do with academia.
They're all about family.
Emily was born January 21st, 1994.
Janurary 20th, 1994, I was in Modern Sociological Theory.
Trying ever so hard to squeeze my ever burgeoning bulk into the most definitely not made for pregnant women desks of in a classroom in the basement of Edmund Casey Hall.
I was scheduled for a c-section the following day.
But Em didn't care.
And during this class, I started to feel those oh-so-wonderful-tugs in my back.
Having been through a version of labour twice before, I knew what those feelings were.
And I knew Em was arriving the next day via c-section.
So I just sat there, listening to John share his passion for sociological theory.
At the end of class, he came over to me and asked me if I was okay.
Again, unable to mask my feelings from my face, I was apparently visually sharing my pain.
I said I thought I was having a few labour pains, but no worries, because my sister-in-law (at that time) was picking me up to take me to the hospital.
He was completely and utterly delighted that this baby was on her way.
But I like to think that had I waited, Em could have potentially been born in Edmund Casey Hall.
With John as the midwife.
Ten days after Em's appearance, I was sitting back in the basement of Edmund Casey Hall, fitting a little bit easier into the seats.
However, I had company.
Miss Em.
Em will tell you that outside of her immediate family, John has been the constant person in her life.
Picture me, sitting at a desk, one of the ones with the seat attached to the miniscule table top upon which you're supposed to put everything you need to pay attention in class, with a pen in my right hand, resting on paper, taking notes, while in my left arm is cradled a tiny, newborn baby, an armful of Em, feeding from her bottle.
I know how to multitask.
Really well.
But even I find it challening to grasp modern sociological theory enough to take notes on a postage stamp sized desk, while balancing a hungry newborn in my arms.
And without hesitation, John walked over to my desk, scooped up the hungry Emily and her bottle, and fed her.
All while continuing to talk about modern sociological theory.
No one else, during that time of my life, would have ever been allowed to even think about getting their hands on my newborn infant.
John was, other than my father and brother, the only man on the globe who I trusted.
A lot, as he was allowed to hold and feed and coo to my newborn baby girl.
When Stephen and I first got together, our newly blossoming relationship may have caused a small, seismic ripple through our university community.
John was very protective of Stephen.
And there was good reason for that.
I'm still trying to save Stephen from himself.
He arrived at my office one day, asking if he could speak with me.
Knowing both Stephen and I individually, he was somewhat concerned for Stephen.
John knew all about my checkered-relationship past, and I suspect he didn't want Stephen caught in the web of weirdness that had been the dominant theme in all of my previous relationships.
John also knew all about Stephen's not so checkered relationship past. . .in fact, to be honest, there wasn't much of a relationship past in Stephen's life.
Hence John's concern.
I suspect that in addition to our pasts, he also knew our present, in particularly, just how different our personalities were.
Are.
Still.
He was worried, I imagine, that Stephen was going to come out a relationship with me scarred, traumatized, sporting a therapy-requiring case of PTSD.
For some reason, he didn't seem to be as concerned about me.
Although, believe me, he should have.
When we announced that we were getting married, we knew we wanted a Quaker marriage.
This meant we had a "Clearness Committee," and in selecting the members of our Committee, we knew we wanted John to be with us as we started this next stage of our lives together.
As an aside, Stephen thought the group was called our Clearance Committee.
Like we were two on-special items that needed to be sold at the lowest price as soon as possible, and were in such a desperate state that we needed a committee to get rid of us.
During our wedding, after we exchanged our vows, with no minister or other religious official with us (I'll tell more about this later) there was a time, in the silence, where anyone who wanted to say something about us, to us, good wishes, etc. could stand up and say something.
John stood up and spoke the most beautiful words for us, about us. He was honest in saying how he sort of doubted this relationship, was concerned, somewhat for Stephen, but what he saw since we got together, what he has witnessed together with the two of us, made him realize how wonderful we are together and how blessed our being together has been for him and for our families, especially the kids.
There are days when I have to REALLY remember those words.
Believe me.
The way John died was horrific, something that happens to someone you don't know.
I don't presume to know what John what would want, but, I do think he would be deeply saddened to think that he was remembered for how he died.
And not remembered for how he lived.
So, I am choosing to remember John for how he lived.
And because John was such an important part of both my life, and Stephen's, I asked Stephen to write something for this blog entry, an opportunity for him to share his thoughts, feelings and insights about John's life.
Read it carefully.
Enjoy it.
Cause the likelihood of Stephen collaborating in another blog entry with me is slim.
As in none.
There is a greater chance of me becoming impregnated by three toed, four headed, 9 armed aliens from the planet Ksnart, than Stephen contributing to my blog, again.
FROM THE DESK OF STEPHEN JOHN
A day ago, Dawne asked me if I would consider contributing to her daily blog. I have to admit, I am not a big fan of blogs. I admire Dawne for her humorous and descriptive blog writing and read her postings faithfully, but I shy away from blog writing myself. For me, blogs are simply too uncomfortable. I often wonder who exactly is reading them. It seems somewhat like a smidgen of an invasion of privacy. I don’t need or want Billy or Sally or Bobby Sue reading about me or about my life thank you very much. I have ALWAYS been a private person. The late Erving Goffman (a Canadian born sociologist who excelled as an academic at the University of Chicago and died too soon) was correct. All of us are actors. We have a front stage (a public face) and a back stage (a private face). I have always preferred to guard my private stage/face as much as possible.
Having just shared my thoughts on maintaining privacy, Dawne has been teaching me something through her blog entries. What she has been teaching me is that it is perfectly okay and even wonderful to let other individuals get close to you by sharing some of your life stories with them. Who knows, they may even share some of their life stories with you.
Today was a kind of rough day. Why so? Once again, I am remembering my friend, mentor, surrogate brother, John McKendy on the anniversary of his death. Two years have passed and I still cannot figure-out what happened. Time goes by all too quickly. I keep trying to force myself to remember the good times instead of dwelling on how his life was cut short as a result of an act of violence. Accepting the death of loved ones is never easy, but having to live through a death that occurred because of violence is especially difficult. I’ve been down the “what if I had done that” or “how come I did not do this” road way too many times already. At some point, you have to put up a barricade and say “the old road is permanently closed and now I am going to choose a new road and take that road regularly.”
After John died, dwelling on how he died was my primary focus. I needed to know precisely what had happened. At that time, there was much gossip floating around. I heard many tales. Dawne and myself would reflect on these tales – often late at night - and would talk with one another and cry. We both hoped and prayed that he had not suffered. We also shared our life experiences with John with one another with the hope that we would experience some immediate healing. Immediate healing did not happen. We are both still trying to become whole people who had a good friend who died before he should have.
Reflecting back on the good, I experienced many joyous times with John and his family that I now feel comfortable enough to share. Thanksgiving with all too tasty food. At Christmas gatherings again we would eat too much (John cooked a very tasty sweet and sour soup) but we would also have a Yankee swap and play board games. I also remember a family celebration after his oldest daughter completed her undergraduate studies. All of those times I remember very well. John and his family always welcomed me into their homes. I never once felt like I was a stranger. He really did treat me as if I was his younger brother. (All you need to do is to ask Dawne about the day that he showed-up at her office to very gently inquire about whether it was true that she and I were dating.)
For several years, John and I ran together. I would meet him around 4:30 in the afternoon at the Lady Beaverbrook Gym three to four times each week. Sometimes we would run “the loop” – southside from the gym over to the northside Marysville bridge and back – while other times we would run on the Lincoln Road trail almost to the Fredericton Airport and then back again. While running we would talk about his family, my family, Quaker “stuff”, his research, my doctoral studies, and academia in general. We also both shared and spoke about our own personal shortcomings.
Although much has changed, I continue to hold on to the teachings that John shared with me. I continue to hear wonderful stories about John that I have not heard before. These stories make me happy. I now realize that even after when someone dies, he or she will continue to live on in those who knew and loved them or knew someone who knew them even if it was only for a brief period of time.
I miss your insight and selfless caring John.
Stephen
Title Lyric: I Will Remember You by Sarah MacLachlan
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