November 8, 2010
Another quiet, uneventful day.
My favourite kind.
Kids in school, Stephen at the university, me at home with a nice, hot cup of tea, a Reilley sitting on my arms to prevent working, and a stack of 50 intro papers about discrimination based on sex and gender, as it occurs in the criminal justice system.
Oh.
Happy.
Day.
I hate marking.
Deplore it.
Abhor making decisions about the "value" of one paper compared to the value of another.
The A papers are easy.
The F papers are easy.
Its the in-between ones.
The B's.
What is the difference between a B+ and B?
Really challenging are those in the C range.
Which is where most of the papers will land.
Whether the students feel the same way or not.
I have a policy.
A 48 hour policy.
Don't even think, contemplate, ponder, assume, consider, envisage, suppose that it is in your best interest to approach me about your grade before 48 hours has passed between the time you get the paper and the time you consider that maybe now, possibly, is the time to approach me about your grade.
And if the 48 hours happens to end on a weekend, well then, you're just gonna have to wait until Monday.
Ten years of teaching has taught me that students are emotional after they get a paper back.
And research indicates they even have a variety of strategies to either hide or share their grade.
Students, I have learned, don't always necessarily understand the gap between what they think they should get. . .
. . .and what their work suggests that they should get.
And this is a big gap.
Like, Grand Canyon.
No matter how long or how many comments I labour over, how much of the paper I cover in red or purple or green ink, the spelling and grammar corrections I point out, the hours I spend marking, there are those students who believe, feel, have convinced themselves that they deserve a better grade.
These students were the impetus behind the 48 hour policy.
The catalyst, as it were.
One time having an angry, disgruntled, annoyed, bellyaching, crabby, petulant, sulky student charge AT you, violently waving their paper at you, proclaiming loudly that YOU will be THE reason for THEIR not getting into graduate school, leaving them no choice but to sell pencils on Younge Street is too many times.
So, to avoid students from saying things they don't mean. . .
. . .and to prevent me from saying this I probably would mean. . .
I established the 48 hour rule.
Safety first!
There's and mine.
As a student, I can remember the anxiety, fear, concern I would experience when anticipating the return of a paper or exam.
Not so much if I knew I had done well.
High school English.
Canadian Literature.
Modern Novel.
Irish Literature.
I knew I'd do well.
Math.
Science.
Biology.
Political Science.
French.
Not so much.
During those times, I could wear a case of Secret Anti-Perspirant, coupled with two maxi pads under each arm and I would still sweat buckets wondering if whether or not I'd just passed or barely failed.
Math was excrutiatingly difficult for me.
I can remember as far back as grade two how hard I struggled with math.
Greater or less than.
I was in my thirties before I realized the less than sign was shaped like this: <.
Sort of like an L.
I would randomly put < or > in the yellow colored circle.
Make designs.
Patterns.
I figured I had a 50/50 chance of being right.
By the time I finished grade six I had convinced my elementary school teachers that I understood math.
Or at least that's what they let me think.
Junior High was a completely different story.
I had the worst grade seven math teacher to ever receive a B.Ed.
Rather than teach math, she was more interested in sharing fashion ideas.
She was actually my first encounter with stilettos.
Everyday, she would come in teetering and tottering on the tinest pair of high heels.
In retrospect, I think that she was a poor math teacher because she had to use all her energy and skill to keep herself from falling over.
And substitutes.
I hated substitutes.
As soon as they started checking attendance, I'd begin to fidget.
Perspire.
Swelter.
My heart would race.
Hands shaking.
How come?
My name.
DawnE ClarkE.
For some reason I have yet to be able to figure out, if you put an E at the end of something, no one knows how to pronounce it.
So in addition to being overweight and bright in some subjects, I'd have to suffer through the indignity, and the chuckles of my classmates as the substitute would inquire:
Dwayne Clerk.
So, no good at math, hating every minute I had to sit through slopes, quadratic equations, algebra.
I could live with that.
Until I would walk into my math class and see behind the desk the substitute of all detrimental, deletirious, vicious, vile, wicked substitutes.
We'll call her Mrs. Many.
And Mrs. Many was retired.
Very retired. Very old school.
Where my grade seven math teacher, Mrs. Pylon would teach us everything but math and treated most of us with indifference (unless you were the same size as her sister, which meant you could try on clothes to see if they would fit her). . .
Mrs. Many would drill, beat, hammer, pound, scare frighten, terrorize, intimidate math into you.
Especially if you were not arithmatically accomplished.
When Mrs. Many was manning the desk, I knew math class was going to be akin to having the Titanic captained by Attila the Hun.
One day I tried sitting in the front, thinking if I was up front, she would ignore me.
Didn't work.
And Mrs. Many was well endowed.
Like many well endowed women of her generation, Mrs. Many wore a bra that was the span of my hands on the size, straps the width of napkins, cups shaped like missles and everything reinforced, with steel, I think.
As it happened, she happened to ask me a question.
Leaning in while she asked it.
And two buttons of her striped blouse were gaping.
Open.
Wide.
Yawning.
At eye level.
Revealing the level of reinforcements required to keep her all in.
I laughed.
I couldn't help it.
What happened next I don't remember.
Except the beady eyes of Mrs. Many boring into my wide, oh-shit-I-probably-shouldn't-have-done-that-deer-in-headlights-look.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, trying to shake the memory of those eyes, which occasionally haunt me in my dreams.
Or nightmares.
Usually brought on from marking.
Let the circle be unbroken.
Title Lyric: The Math by Hilary Duff.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Mum and Dad are not at home, it's party time, I'm all alone. . .
November 7, 2010
It's a weekend the coming together of occurences so rare that to have several in the same weekend is almost unheard of.
Almost.
One, the time change.
Fall back.
One hour.
I purposely change the clocks slowly.
Sometimes it will take me all day.
How come?
Because by changing them at different points during the day, I get to experience the thrill, the excitement, the fluttery feeling in my tummy each and every time I put the clock back one hour.
Tricking my simplistic self into believing that I gain not one hour from turning the clock back, but multiple hours.
I can gain an hour 5 different times a day.
I know.
It's a delusion.
Chicanery.
Deceptiveness.
A hoax; an illusion of more time that I play on myself.
And it works.
So don't bother trying to tell me that I am beguiling myself.
I already know that.
And I don't care.
Two, a Sunday afternoon all alone.
All.
Alone.
I will occasionally have child free evenings, the result of forcing my children into the harsh work world, but Stephen is almost always home with me.
So while I can achieve child free status, completely-alone-because-the-kids-AND-Stephen-aren't-home-status is something I don't remember happening more than once or twice.
This is a rare day, indeed.
Keith and Emily are both working, the same shift (another rarity), so from 11-5 they will be selling their labour power to Empire Theaters for the afternoon.
Meredyth typically uses Sunday to a) recover, and b) clean her apartment. She will most likely break bread with us later today, but she certainly won't spend her Sunday afternoon here.
And Stephen?
Where is he traversing on this bleak Sunday morning in November?
St. Andrews.
He and some of the Quakers from our meeting are enjoying the lovely drive to St. Andrews to participate in meeting with the St. Andrew's Quakers; a meeting of 3 people.
Apparently, although I don't know the details, there is some strife among the group members, and because they are so small, it's hard to ignore.
So, the Meetings around St. Andrews are visiting on Sunday's to bolster their membership, and hopefully their morale.
Food is involved.
Meaning I was up at 8.00 am making homemade biscuits for Stephen to take with him.
He offered to make them himself, but, there are just some things I am not willing to share with others.
My biscuit recipe.
And my shortbread cookie recipe.
Further, while Stephen has made inroads in his cooking of meals and such, baking is entirely different, and quite frankly, I'm not willing to give up my Queen Bee Baker status.
So the biscuits were made by me.
Just enough for him to take with him and two each for Keith and Em.
Because if you bake them . . .
I will come.
With butter and strawberry jam as company.
And how come I am not joining Stephen on this adventure?
The car.
Given its outlaw status this week, the fact that it had the audacity to require a new alternator to the tune of $600.00, not including the cab fares to ferry everyone hither and yon in the 24 hours we were vehicle-less, Stephen and I decided that it would be financially more feasible for him to go and me to stay.
Both kids working and no buses in this city on Sunday meant that I would have had to provide even more cab fare to get them to work, plus the cost of tank of gas, meaning that for us, a trip to St. Andrews would have cost about $60.00.
Money we have, but, could use for other things.
Groceries, for instance.
While most people have credit cards, we don't.
We have.
But, our lives have become, for the most part, far less complex as a result of not worrying about credit card payments.
So, while we sometimes have to make executive decisions about things such as whether or not both of us can go to St. Andrews, we are also spared the debilitating anxiety that accompanies the use of credit cards.
We just don't want them.
We've managed quite well without them.
Stephen, therefore, is car-pooling with Friends from Fredericton, while I am forced to spend a Sunday afternoon, at home, alone.
Oh woe is me.
Whatever shall I do?
Work probably.
Three, work without feeling guilty.
Another rarity.
Tomorrow is my next weigh in.
It's been a challenging week.
The car sent me into such a tailspin that it took everything I had to fight my natural instinct to throw myself into a vat of dark chocolate, with little islands of chocolate cheese cake and Dairy Queen Pumpkin Pie Blizzards, plates of Swiss Chalet french fries, sweet potato fries, nachoes with extra sour cream floating around me.
But I didn't not succumb, and instead ate celery.
Friday evening, while engaging in my weekly volunteering at the Fredericton Community Kitchen (http://www.frederictoncommunitykitchen.ca/) I was asked to cut, into eight slices each, 30 homemade, church-lady-baked apple pies.
Pie crusts so flaky I couldn't comprehend what was holding them together. Apples covered in a sugar-nutmeg-cinnamon-concoction sweetly beckoned me to just take.one.taste.
Other volunteers were enjoying small slices of this heavenly delight.
Me, I cut those pies and plated them with lightening speed.
I didn't even lick my fingers when they happened to come into contact with the sticky sweetness.
Four, an effort of such colossal willpower, devoted self-discipline, rigorous resolve, gigantic grit that a tickertape parade wouldn't have been enough to acknowledge my unfettered self-restraint.
I had to suffice with my mother's "I'm so proud of you."
And really, that was enough.
Really.
It was.
Me, the hounds and the two cats.
All alone on a Sunday.
Wow.
But to be completely honest, by the time everyone trickles back, I will be more than ready to welcome them into the warmth of my sanctuary.
Because too much of a good thing can be dangerous for your health.
And for the most part, I enjoy the subtle sounds of people in my house.
Okay, maybe not so subtle, but I like knowing that the kids are hiding upstairs or stretched out in the living room watching old movies or Family Guy; that Stephen is wiling away his life on kijiji looking for the affordable classic car that he knows will one day be his even if he has to sell a kidney to get it; that the dogs are lying under my feet, groaning and yipping in response to their canine dreams, and that at any moment, cats will cavort all over the kitchen table, hindering my marking progress.
I admit to being happily enslaved to my routine, my comforts.
But a little break away. . . . . .
Title Lyric: Home Alone by Special D
It's a weekend the coming together of occurences so rare that to have several in the same weekend is almost unheard of.
Almost.
One, the time change.
Fall back.
One hour.
I purposely change the clocks slowly.
Sometimes it will take me all day.
How come?
Because by changing them at different points during the day, I get to experience the thrill, the excitement, the fluttery feeling in my tummy each and every time I put the clock back one hour.
Tricking my simplistic self into believing that I gain not one hour from turning the clock back, but multiple hours.
I can gain an hour 5 different times a day.
I know.
It's a delusion.
Chicanery.
Deceptiveness.
A hoax; an illusion of more time that I play on myself.
And it works.
So don't bother trying to tell me that I am beguiling myself.
I already know that.
And I don't care.
Two, a Sunday afternoon all alone.
All.
Alone.
I will occasionally have child free evenings, the result of forcing my children into the harsh work world, but Stephen is almost always home with me.
So while I can achieve child free status, completely-alone-because-the-kids-AND-Stephen-aren't-home-status is something I don't remember happening more than once or twice.
This is a rare day, indeed.
Keith and Emily are both working, the same shift (another rarity), so from 11-5 they will be selling their labour power to Empire Theaters for the afternoon.
Meredyth typically uses Sunday to a) recover, and b) clean her apartment. She will most likely break bread with us later today, but she certainly won't spend her Sunday afternoon here.
And Stephen?
Where is he traversing on this bleak Sunday morning in November?
St. Andrews.
He and some of the Quakers from our meeting are enjoying the lovely drive to St. Andrews to participate in meeting with the St. Andrew's Quakers; a meeting of 3 people.
Apparently, although I don't know the details, there is some strife among the group members, and because they are so small, it's hard to ignore.
So, the Meetings around St. Andrews are visiting on Sunday's to bolster their membership, and hopefully their morale.
Food is involved.
Meaning I was up at 8.00 am making homemade biscuits for Stephen to take with him.
He offered to make them himself, but, there are just some things I am not willing to share with others.
My biscuit recipe.
And my shortbread cookie recipe.
Further, while Stephen has made inroads in his cooking of meals and such, baking is entirely different, and quite frankly, I'm not willing to give up my Queen Bee Baker status.
So the biscuits were made by me.
Just enough for him to take with him and two each for Keith and Em.
Because if you bake them . . .
I will come.
With butter and strawberry jam as company.
And how come I am not joining Stephen on this adventure?
The car.
Given its outlaw status this week, the fact that it had the audacity to require a new alternator to the tune of $600.00, not including the cab fares to ferry everyone hither and yon in the 24 hours we were vehicle-less, Stephen and I decided that it would be financially more feasible for him to go and me to stay.
Both kids working and no buses in this city on Sunday meant that I would have had to provide even more cab fare to get them to work, plus the cost of tank of gas, meaning that for us, a trip to St. Andrews would have cost about $60.00.
Money we have, but, could use for other things.
Groceries, for instance.
While most people have credit cards, we don't.
We have.
But, our lives have become, for the most part, far less complex as a result of not worrying about credit card payments.
So, while we sometimes have to make executive decisions about things such as whether or not both of us can go to St. Andrews, we are also spared the debilitating anxiety that accompanies the use of credit cards.
We just don't want them.
We've managed quite well without them.
Stephen, therefore, is car-pooling with Friends from Fredericton, while I am forced to spend a Sunday afternoon, at home, alone.
Oh woe is me.
Whatever shall I do?
Work probably.
Three, work without feeling guilty.
Another rarity.
Tomorrow is my next weigh in.
It's been a challenging week.
The car sent me into such a tailspin that it took everything I had to fight my natural instinct to throw myself into a vat of dark chocolate, with little islands of chocolate cheese cake and Dairy Queen Pumpkin Pie Blizzards, plates of Swiss Chalet french fries, sweet potato fries, nachoes with extra sour cream floating around me.
But I didn't not succumb, and instead ate celery.
Friday evening, while engaging in my weekly volunteering at the Fredericton Community Kitchen (http://www.frederictoncommunitykitchen.ca/) I was asked to cut, into eight slices each, 30 homemade, church-lady-baked apple pies.
Pie crusts so flaky I couldn't comprehend what was holding them together. Apples covered in a sugar-nutmeg-cinnamon-concoction sweetly beckoned me to just take.one.taste.
Other volunteers were enjoying small slices of this heavenly delight.
Me, I cut those pies and plated them with lightening speed.
I didn't even lick my fingers when they happened to come into contact with the sticky sweetness.
Four, an effort of such colossal willpower, devoted self-discipline, rigorous resolve, gigantic grit that a tickertape parade wouldn't have been enough to acknowledge my unfettered self-restraint.
I had to suffice with my mother's "I'm so proud of you."
And really, that was enough.
Really.
It was.
Me, the hounds and the two cats.
All alone on a Sunday.
Wow.
But to be completely honest, by the time everyone trickles back, I will be more than ready to welcome them into the warmth of my sanctuary.
Because too much of a good thing can be dangerous for your health.
And for the most part, I enjoy the subtle sounds of people in my house.
Okay, maybe not so subtle, but I like knowing that the kids are hiding upstairs or stretched out in the living room watching old movies or Family Guy; that Stephen is wiling away his life on kijiji looking for the affordable classic car that he knows will one day be his even if he has to sell a kidney to get it; that the dogs are lying under my feet, groaning and yipping in response to their canine dreams, and that at any moment, cats will cavort all over the kitchen table, hindering my marking progress.
I admit to being happily enslaved to my routine, my comforts.
But a little break away. . . . . .
Title Lyric: Home Alone by Special D
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Way down south where nobody goes, there's a wishy washy washer women washing her clothes . . .
November 6, 2010
The car is nestled in its coveted driveway spot.
But. . .
. . .the dryer door is refusing to close.
At this moment, Stephen has held it shut with a broom handle and a bottle of bleach.
Ingenious.
I love my dryer.
Or, rather, I love having a dryer.
I abhor actually using the dryer which is the reason we still have it.
Hanging laundry on the line has extended the life of our dryer (and maintained the hydro bill to an almost reasonable level).
My sanity hangs from gossamer threads because I hang laundry.
Sadly, the washer that accompanied the dryer is no longer with us.
It was replaced a couple of years ago.
Because there was no way I wash washing laundry outside, by hand, to spare the washer.
Besides, hanging my granny panties, Stephen's red leather man thongs, Keith's weed loving logoed shirts, and Em's never ending parade of multi colored sockettes bearing the label "Janet Clarke" is one thing.
Cleaning all the clothing in this house in a tin wash tub, with a wooden washer dohickey and a bar of lye soap is an experience I'd rather not have, thank you very much.
This new wrinkle in the already overly corrugagted fabric of our lives was certainly unexpected.
Unwanted.
Unnecessary.
At least we can close the dryer.
What we close it with will depend upon whatever we can get our hands on at the time.
Broom handles.
Bleach.
Chaining and padlocking Stephen to the front of the dryer, Goblet affixed to his chest with a smaller, but matching set of chains.
Because there is no reason to not match while working together to ensure my granny panties are fresh and dry.
When I left my first husband, I took all the kid's things, some of my things, and the washer and dryer.
I waited a long time for my own washer and dryer.
Prior to my own laundry machines, laundry was done at my former mother-in-law's house.
Once a week, usually on a Sunday, we'd collect up all the dirty laundry, and with two small children there was a lot of dirty laundry, and off we'd go.
And because I was environmentally conscious even then, when the kids were just babies, I used cloth diapers.
The pail of cloth diapers was always the first thing in the house.
We had our dirty diaper dispensation down to a science.
In the driveway of my in laws, we'd open the car, kids still buckled inside their car seats, and I'd hand the bucket to my father-in-law, who'd hand it to my ex husband, who'd hand it to his mother, who would then make the mad dash to the basement to unload the stinky, stewed mess into the washer, slam it shut, rush out of the basement, dashing upstairs to put the putrid pail outside to air out.
After a week of holding pee soaked and poop stained cloth diaper, the diaper pail was pungent.
Rank.
Fetid.
Loathsome.
Steaming in its putrescence.
We would drive with the car windows down when the weather was nice.
And suffer amid the noxious foulness when it wasn't.
The kids don't seem to have suffered any long term effects from exposure to the malodour.
Or at least that's what I keep telling myself.
After a month or more of suffering with sarcoptic hounds, we were able to have a sorely needed visit with Annette, the-best-dog-trainer-in-the-world (http://www.barkbusters.ca/).
Not only does Annette train us, with all her skills and knowledge, to the best of her abilities, in spite of the stubbornness of one member of Team Clarke-Pidwysocky, therefore any and all failures are the result of said stubborn member and not Annette. . .
. . .she is just plain wonderful to talk with.
I LOVE it when Annette comes over.
And not seeing her for several weeks was very stressful for me.
So her return this morning should have occured amid a wash of confetti with "Hail to the Chief" piping from our stereo speakers.
Instead of me standing in the living room trying to make it look like we hadn't regressed while in the throes of medicated, mangy canines, while Stephen stood on the bottom stair, disheveled and angry because I wouldn't let him sit at the kitchen table in his pjs, manning the front door until Frankie stopped baring his teeth.
Separating that man from his pajamas is becoming a significant issue.
I may have to do something about that.
One issue with Frankie, one of his MANY issues, is letting people in the house.
Once you're in here, he's fine.
And consistency is the key.
Consistency and balance.
The bane of my existence.
And carbs. Chocolate. Sugar. Fat. Preservatives.
Prior to our mange-enforced-Annette-hiatus, she could come to the door, and Frank would be fine.
No bared teeth.
No growling.
But, he seems to have a short people memory, so her arrival this morning didn't inspire the here-comes-the-lady-with-the-treats response she usually gets from Frank.
So we started at the beginning, again.
Calming him down.
Making him sit.
Until we felt it was safe for her to come in.
Once he caught her scent, all was well in the frantic, frenetic world of Frankie.
For the rest of the visit, he was fine.
Happy.
Thrilled she had returned.
I think one of the best things about Annette is that she doesn't come in with a TO DO list.
She asks for a CAN DO list.
What can you do, in the month of November, when the term is starting its descent into final papers and final exams, and you're surrounded by tottering, teetering piles of papers that must be marked and never seem to get marked in spite of my best planning efforts, while raising children, chauffering, managing malicious applicances and capricious cars, and equally capricious aging parents. . .
I like that.
Our CAN DO list this month is short.
Hinder the hot spots.
Meaning, keep Frankie was blowing blood vessels every time someone walks by, or pulls into our driveway.
Prevent him from leaping through closed doors when a leaf has the audacity to blow in front of the neighbours yard.
Anticipate his arbitrary actions when a feline or canine neighbour passes within 100 meters of our house.
And train Stephen to not fear the harness.
Frankie will allow it. He may not like it, but that is neither here nor there.
After all, its not like the harness is for Stephen.
Although that may be an interesting, and entertaining, possibility. . . .
Title Lyric: Wishy Washy Washer Woman, artist unknown
The car is nestled in its coveted driveway spot.
But. . .
. . .the dryer door is refusing to close.
At this moment, Stephen has held it shut with a broom handle and a bottle of bleach.
Ingenious.
I love my dryer.
Or, rather, I love having a dryer.
I abhor actually using the dryer which is the reason we still have it.
Hanging laundry on the line has extended the life of our dryer (and maintained the hydro bill to an almost reasonable level).
My sanity hangs from gossamer threads because I hang laundry.
Sadly, the washer that accompanied the dryer is no longer with us.
It was replaced a couple of years ago.
Because there was no way I wash washing laundry outside, by hand, to spare the washer.
Besides, hanging my granny panties, Stephen's red leather man thongs, Keith's weed loving logoed shirts, and Em's never ending parade of multi colored sockettes bearing the label "Janet Clarke" is one thing.
Cleaning all the clothing in this house in a tin wash tub, with a wooden washer dohickey and a bar of lye soap is an experience I'd rather not have, thank you very much.
This new wrinkle in the already overly corrugagted fabric of our lives was certainly unexpected.
Unwanted.
Unnecessary.
At least we can close the dryer.
What we close it with will depend upon whatever we can get our hands on at the time.
Broom handles.
Bleach.
Chaining and padlocking Stephen to the front of the dryer, Goblet affixed to his chest with a smaller, but matching set of chains.
Because there is no reason to not match while working together to ensure my granny panties are fresh and dry.
When I left my first husband, I took all the kid's things, some of my things, and the washer and dryer.
I waited a long time for my own washer and dryer.
Prior to my own laundry machines, laundry was done at my former mother-in-law's house.
Once a week, usually on a Sunday, we'd collect up all the dirty laundry, and with two small children there was a lot of dirty laundry, and off we'd go.
And because I was environmentally conscious even then, when the kids were just babies, I used cloth diapers.
The pail of cloth diapers was always the first thing in the house.
We had our dirty diaper dispensation down to a science.
In the driveway of my in laws, we'd open the car, kids still buckled inside their car seats, and I'd hand the bucket to my father-in-law, who'd hand it to my ex husband, who'd hand it to his mother, who would then make the mad dash to the basement to unload the stinky, stewed mess into the washer, slam it shut, rush out of the basement, dashing upstairs to put the putrid pail outside to air out.
After a week of holding pee soaked and poop stained cloth diaper, the diaper pail was pungent.
Rank.
Fetid.
Loathsome.
Steaming in its putrescence.
We would drive with the car windows down when the weather was nice.
And suffer amid the noxious foulness when it wasn't.
The kids don't seem to have suffered any long term effects from exposure to the malodour.
Or at least that's what I keep telling myself.
After a month or more of suffering with sarcoptic hounds, we were able to have a sorely needed visit with Annette, the-best-dog-trainer-in-the-world (http://www.barkbusters.ca/).
Not only does Annette train us, with all her skills and knowledge, to the best of her abilities, in spite of the stubbornness of one member of Team Clarke-Pidwysocky, therefore any and all failures are the result of said stubborn member and not Annette. . .
. . .she is just plain wonderful to talk with.
I LOVE it when Annette comes over.
And not seeing her for several weeks was very stressful for me.
So her return this morning should have occured amid a wash of confetti with "Hail to the Chief" piping from our stereo speakers.
Instead of me standing in the living room trying to make it look like we hadn't regressed while in the throes of medicated, mangy canines, while Stephen stood on the bottom stair, disheveled and angry because I wouldn't let him sit at the kitchen table in his pjs, manning the front door until Frankie stopped baring his teeth.
Separating that man from his pajamas is becoming a significant issue.
I may have to do something about that.
One issue with Frankie, one of his MANY issues, is letting people in the house.
Once you're in here, he's fine.
And consistency is the key.
Consistency and balance.
The bane of my existence.
And carbs. Chocolate. Sugar. Fat. Preservatives.
Prior to our mange-enforced-Annette-hiatus, she could come to the door, and Frank would be fine.
No bared teeth.
No growling.
But, he seems to have a short people memory, so her arrival this morning didn't inspire the here-comes-the-lady-with-the-treats response she usually gets from Frank.
So we started at the beginning, again.
Calming him down.
Making him sit.
Until we felt it was safe for her to come in.
Once he caught her scent, all was well in the frantic, frenetic world of Frankie.
For the rest of the visit, he was fine.
Happy.
Thrilled she had returned.
I think one of the best things about Annette is that she doesn't come in with a TO DO list.
She asks for a CAN DO list.
What can you do, in the month of November, when the term is starting its descent into final papers and final exams, and you're surrounded by tottering, teetering piles of papers that must be marked and never seem to get marked in spite of my best planning efforts, while raising children, chauffering, managing malicious applicances and capricious cars, and equally capricious aging parents. . .
I like that.
Our CAN DO list this month is short.
Hinder the hot spots.
Meaning, keep Frankie was blowing blood vessels every time someone walks by, or pulls into our driveway.
Prevent him from leaping through closed doors when a leaf has the audacity to blow in front of the neighbours yard.
Anticipate his arbitrary actions when a feline or canine neighbour passes within 100 meters of our house.
And train Stephen to not fear the harness.
Frankie will allow it. He may not like it, but that is neither here nor there.
After all, its not like the harness is for Stephen.
Although that may be an interesting, and entertaining, possibility. . . .
Title Lyric: Wishy Washy Washer Woman, artist unknown
Friday, November 5, 2010
Who told you you're allowed to rain on my parade. . .
November 5, 2010
Yesterday morning, upon getting into our car, my spidey senses started tingling.
The clock displayed the wrong time and all our preset radio stations had disappeared.
Something was up.
Something car related.
Out of my domain of responsibility.
What that something was fell out of my purview of understanding.
During our hectic morning drive, the drive-that-is-always-more-hectic-on-Tuesday/Thursday-because-Keith-has-an-8.30-class, the battery light came on.
Wonky time, country radio stations and now the battery.
Definitely something up.
I sat in the front seat, kids in the back, Stephen in his pjs cause he never learns, fiercely hoping that whatever was wrong, I arrived at my destination before it ocurred.
Dropped Em off, no problem.
Keith and I unload the university.
All good.
And Stephen made it home and then to the dealer without any problems.
But. . .
$520.00 and a 24 hour hold over.
Something to do with an alternator.
Whatever that is.
And unlike most of the challenges that come my way, I can't do anything about this one.
Except wait.
Not one of my strongest attributes.
The entire day I was out of sorts.
Irritated.
Discombobulated.
Aggravated.
Chafing.
How come?
Dependency.
Inability to function properly because the car is unavailable.
Recognition of such a weakness threw me into a state of anomie.
Normlessness.
Acceptance of this weakness was something altogether different.
I pondered how I, who didn't even have a car until I was 32, had managed in 11 short years to annihilate my former walking self.
Became soft.
Vulnerable.
Clinging to the environment-and-bank-account depleting mechanical mainstay overtaking my existence.
How disappointed I was in myself.
How pissed off I am at the inconvenience.
Does the car not know how much I had to do to yesterday?
Today?
The accumulation of demands, the stockpile of responsibilities, the number of needs I have in one single day, let alone two!
Keith working at 5.00 pm.
Emily working at 6.00 pm.
Me at the university.
Em with no work uniform.
School in the morning.
Em working Friday evening.
Community Kitchen volunteerting.
Could I be any more inconvenienced!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Annoyed?
Aggravated?
Some cab company is gonna be very, very happy!
I'm just thankful we have milk.
And dog food.
We can survive on both if necessary.
Keith and Em were most accomodating when they were informed of our plight.
Keith actually walked home to collect Em's uniform and cell phone.
Because of course, on the one day I actually need to reach her, she has conveniently left her cell phone at home.
On her bed.
Who she is calling in the wee hours of the morning, when everyone else is happily visiting the Land of Nod, I do not want to know.
Maybe it Reilley.
He sleeps at the top of her bed, resting royally on a specially made grouping of pillows and blankets.
Perhaps in the dead of night, he is using his additional paw to dial his faculty of feline females, arranging daytime rendezvous to fill his day in our absence.
Nothing would surprise me when it comes to Reilley.
It's obvious how demanding he is, the control he exerts over Em.
Meredyth, on the other hand, calls us last evening, temporarily forgetting, I have to believe, that we were temporarily grounded.
Carless.
Without a vehicle.
As soon as I answered the phone, she says,
"Shit."
Well hello to you to Mer!
"I forgot you didn't have the car. I wanted a drive. It's raining and I have no bus tickets left."
She calls back an hour later.
Around 9 pm.
Perhaps she thought that because we were so special, the mechanic stayed overtime JUST to repair our car, meaning we were in possession of our vehicle and were able and willling to pick her up.
No.
Such.
Luck.
She wanted to know if I would put money in her account so she could take a cab.
I love this child.
I really do.
But this was one of those times when, if I could have reached through the phone to strangle her, I may have.
Oh Mer, my dear, I am so sorry that we have inconvenienced you with the mechanical and electrical failure of our vehicle to the point where you may have to walk home in the rain, while we sit here $600.00 in the hole and are unable to come and get you.
But,
Snaps for trying!
This is not the first time an alternator in a car I have owned has decided that enough is enough and quit on me.
Our 2001 Sonata, my car before Stephen came into my life, was doing acting very oddly one morning when I was driving Keith to school. Power shorting, actually fading in and out, Keith, aka Captain Cautious, panicking in the front.
He practically shot out of the car when we finally arrived at the high school parking lot.
Off to the dealer I went, because I knew that whatever was wrong, it couldn't wait.
And I was really pissed off because I had just had the car in for a repair the frickin' day before.
This, along with a couple of other things, effectively ended my association with Hyundai.
The alternator, the flickering lights, these were annoying.
But I had a much bigger problem.
She was in the backseat.
Came along for the drive.
Tikka.
So in addition to having to sit at the dealer's, unexpectedly, all morning, I had to do this with my 80 pound Belgian Shepherd.
You can imagine how much fun *that* morning was.
A dog in the dealer.
Me in clothes not necessarily intended for public consumption.
Stephen at home worried because my little knowledge of cars could have resulted in the replacement of just about anything.
Whether we needed it or not.
So now, I am on the verge of completing my morning ablutions, Em has been told that under no circumstances can she be late this morning because the cab driver and my wallet are out of patience and Keith has to determine if he wants to come with us. . .
. . .or walk in the 60 mm of rain we will receive today.
Because when it rains on MY parade. . . .
It.
Rains.
Hard.
Title Lyric: Rain on My Parade by Fanny Brice
Yesterday morning, upon getting into our car, my spidey senses started tingling.
The clock displayed the wrong time and all our preset radio stations had disappeared.
Something was up.
Something car related.
Out of my domain of responsibility.
What that something was fell out of my purview of understanding.
During our hectic morning drive, the drive-that-is-always-more-hectic-on-Tuesday/Thursday-because-Keith-has-an-8.30-class, the battery light came on.
Wonky time, country radio stations and now the battery.
Definitely something up.
I sat in the front seat, kids in the back, Stephen in his pjs cause he never learns, fiercely hoping that whatever was wrong, I arrived at my destination before it ocurred.
Dropped Em off, no problem.
Keith and I unload the university.
All good.
And Stephen made it home and then to the dealer without any problems.
But. . .
$520.00 and a 24 hour hold over.
Something to do with an alternator.
Whatever that is.
And unlike most of the challenges that come my way, I can't do anything about this one.
Except wait.
Not one of my strongest attributes.
The entire day I was out of sorts.
Irritated.
Discombobulated.
Aggravated.
Chafing.
How come?
Dependency.
Inability to function properly because the car is unavailable.
Recognition of such a weakness threw me into a state of anomie.
Normlessness.
Acceptance of this weakness was something altogether different.
I pondered how I, who didn't even have a car until I was 32, had managed in 11 short years to annihilate my former walking self.
Became soft.
Vulnerable.
Clinging to the environment-and-bank-account depleting mechanical mainstay overtaking my existence.
How disappointed I was in myself.
How pissed off I am at the inconvenience.
Does the car not know how much I had to do to yesterday?
Today?
The accumulation of demands, the stockpile of responsibilities, the number of needs I have in one single day, let alone two!
Keith working at 5.00 pm.
Emily working at 6.00 pm.
Me at the university.
Em with no work uniform.
School in the morning.
Em working Friday evening.
Community Kitchen volunteerting.
Could I be any more inconvenienced!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Annoyed?
Aggravated?
Some cab company is gonna be very, very happy!
I'm just thankful we have milk.
And dog food.
We can survive on both if necessary.
Keith and Em were most accomodating when they were informed of our plight.
Keith actually walked home to collect Em's uniform and cell phone.
Because of course, on the one day I actually need to reach her, she has conveniently left her cell phone at home.
On her bed.
Who she is calling in the wee hours of the morning, when everyone else is happily visiting the Land of Nod, I do not want to know.
Maybe it Reilley.
He sleeps at the top of her bed, resting royally on a specially made grouping of pillows and blankets.
Perhaps in the dead of night, he is using his additional paw to dial his faculty of feline females, arranging daytime rendezvous to fill his day in our absence.
Nothing would surprise me when it comes to Reilley.
Meredyth, on the other hand, calls us last evening, temporarily forgetting, I have to believe, that we were temporarily grounded.
Carless.
Without a vehicle.
As soon as I answered the phone, she says,
"Shit."
Well hello to you to Mer!
"I forgot you didn't have the car. I wanted a drive. It's raining and I have no bus tickets left."
She calls back an hour later.
Around 9 pm.
Perhaps she thought that because we were so special, the mechanic stayed overtime JUST to repair our car, meaning we were in possession of our vehicle and were able and willling to pick her up.
No.
Such.
Luck.
She wanted to know if I would put money in her account so she could take a cab.
I love this child.
I really do.
But this was one of those times when, if I could have reached through the phone to strangle her, I may have.
Oh Mer, my dear, I am so sorry that we have inconvenienced you with the mechanical and electrical failure of our vehicle to the point where you may have to walk home in the rain, while we sit here $600.00 in the hole and are unable to come and get you.
But,
Snaps for trying!
This is not the first time an alternator in a car I have owned has decided that enough is enough and quit on me.
Our 2001 Sonata, my car before Stephen came into my life, was doing acting very oddly one morning when I was driving Keith to school. Power shorting, actually fading in and out, Keith, aka Captain Cautious, panicking in the front.
He practically shot out of the car when we finally arrived at the high school parking lot.
Off to the dealer I went, because I knew that whatever was wrong, it couldn't wait.
And I was really pissed off because I had just had the car in for a repair the frickin' day before.
This, along with a couple of other things, effectively ended my association with Hyundai.
The alternator, the flickering lights, these were annoying.
But I had a much bigger problem.
She was in the backseat.
Came along for the drive.
Tikka.
So in addition to having to sit at the dealer's, unexpectedly, all morning, I had to do this with my 80 pound Belgian Shepherd.
You can imagine how much fun *that* morning was.
A dog in the dealer.
Me in clothes not necessarily intended for public consumption.
Stephen at home worried because my little knowledge of cars could have resulted in the replacement of just about anything.
Whether we needed it or not.
So now, I am on the verge of completing my morning ablutions, Em has been told that under no circumstances can she be late this morning because the cab driver and my wallet are out of patience and Keith has to determine if he wants to come with us. . .
. . .or walk in the 60 mm of rain we will receive today.
Because when it rains on MY parade. . . .
It.
Rains.
Hard.
Title Lyric: Rain on My Parade by Fanny Brice
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Me and you in a little canoe. . . .
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.
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.
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)