Can you pay my telephone bills?

November 23, 2011


One very special way to wake up and start the day is to open your email than your Telus e-bill to see your balance is $2117.58.

Because if you're not awake by then, you will be as your brain processes exactly how much money that is.

And then as it processes how the hell it happened in the first place.

That's the real question.

What happened?









A few minutes into reading the 22 page e-bill revealed what happened.

And that, thankfully, it had nothing to do with me.

Or any of the other members of my phone plan.

PHEW!!!!!!

When I made the arrangements to have Mer's phone un-suspended, the person on the other end of the phone failed to reinstate Mer's unlimited texting and data usage.

I wish I could say I wasn't surprised.

I really do.

But previous experiences with people whose sole responsibility is troubleshooting issues over the phone day in and day out has resulted in a less than glowing understanding of their abilities to dot the "i"s and cross the "t"s.

In this case that meant that every. single.text. sent to and received by Mer during this time period accrued a charge.

Resulting in about $1400.00 worth of texting.

That's a lot of texting.

Making me wonder about the content and substance of all those texts.

Of course, the real issue is how to ensure Telus saw things my way.

They would, that wasn't an issue.

How long it would take and how loud I'd have to get was the unknown.









Thankfully, they did see things my way.

Removed the charges.

And I didn't even have to raise my voice.

There was one outstanding issue, however.

Mer's continued use of additional minutes.

$230.00 worth to be exact.

And I think that she and I have that sorted out.

I hope.

Because between Telus and Mer, I don't know how much more I can handle.

At least cell phone wise.

I am starting to agree with Stephen that these cell phones are the bane of our existence.









Once the astronomical phone bill started the day there was nothing much I could do but go to work.

At 6.30 in the morning.

All that adrenaline had to be put somewhere.

Into student papers and preparations for classes it went.

But by 4.00 yesterday afternoon, my last class, I was at the end of my reserves.

Making that class one of the longest 75 minutes I had ever taught.

The end of term can't come fast enough.

It really can't.




Title Lyric: Bills, Bills, Bills, Bills by Destiny's Child

A handsome boy in my underwear, if there's a better reason to jump for joy. . . .

November 22, 2011


Last night I dreamed I was a ghost in Norman Bates' house.

Not even going to touch an interpretation of that.









Sunday Stephen and I were in search of a quiet place to mark and write.

We started at the library.

Not one available seat among the bunch, as they were filled with anxious students, books and papers piled high upon the table top, fingers stopping and starting over the computer keys as hazy ideas refuse to come into sharper relief.

The reality of the end of term looming over them like rain clouds on a sunny day.

We thought of setting up shop somewhere else in the HIL however there wasn't an available spot.

So we did what any self respecting professor would do.

Grabbed two venti Starbucks and left the warm embrace of the library for the chaos and mayhem of my office.

The real question is, though, how come we weren't working at home?









Home has beds that tantalize and tempt us.

Household chores that call to Stephen, mercilessly, until he succumbs to his natural proclivities for cleaning and procrastination.

Ringing phones.

Emails.

We thought that leaving the house would provide us the opportunity to get shit done.

Cause the shit needs to be done.

Now.

As in last week.

And it did.

I made headway towards decreasing the pile of intro to crim proposals.

Stephen worked his way through his own proposal, making changes to methodology, citations, losing a bit of his sanity with each and every key stroke.

Even with the chaos and mayhem of my office, it was still quieter than working at home.

Where we are still under siege as the fight for feline owned territory continues to wage in our home.

Not only are the cats running rampant through our house, bouncing off walls, hiding in silver tea sets, launching themselves at us with reckless abandon, but the dogs aren't being friendly allies.

In fact, our settling in to work at the kitchen table seems to be an invitation for Frankie and Tikka to engage in Operation Attention Seeking.

Even rawhide chew toys and double fist sized tartar busters aren't enough to keep them from pawing, nudging, kissing, in an effort to garner our complete, 100% attention.

Further, Frankie has ownership issues with his rawhides.

Repeated attempts to bury them in all sorts of hidey-holes throughout the house.

Until Stephen informed me that he walked in on Frankie trying to bury his bone in my dirty underwear.

At least someone trying to put something in my underwear.




Title Lyric: Underwear by The Magnetic Fields

Just settle down to unwind

November 19, 2011


What a week, what a week, what a week!

A weeks that ended in a finale of tedium nit-picking that prevented decisions from being made and action from being taken. 

As the term draws to an end, work loads, marking, advising, stress (mine and students), meetings exponentially increase.

Students picking their nose in class is the least of my worries.

Although it does provide for some light entertainment.

Unfortunately, not much differs at home.

Except for the nose picking.

Stephen's stress about his dissertation and his teaching load, Em's sociology seminar, Keith's being sick and home for a week. . . .

A student who brought me a rose, Godiva chocolates and a bottle of red wine because he submitted a paper late.

Gifts that Stephen feels are inappropriate and perhaps signal intentions other than just being friendly.

Me agreeing but also thinking that he's harmless and that I can handle it.

All I wanted to do was to take a few minutes break away from the real world.

As I settled in to watch Big Bang Theory, Keith came downstairs with his pint of Canadian Club.

He's had it for at least a week and thought that a hot toddy might help him feel better, as regardless of how he was feeling today, he is going to work.

Cabin fever combined with not working two of his shifts this week and worried about what his pay would be like are pushing him forward to reconnect with the world outside of our house.

The problem: he didn't put any hot in his toddy.

Rather, he drank it from a shot glass.

I admit, I was intrigued.

Canadian Club is not on my very short list of things I've had to drink in my lifetime.

And I was just plain tired.

Worn out.

So I tried a shot.

It wasn't as putrid as I'd expected it would be.

Burning, yes.

But also a warmth was spreading through my being.

And it was nice.

So I had another shot.

And then another.

After three, though, I knew I had reached my limit.

Feeling warm and fuzzy is one thing.

Reliving the drinking behaviours of my past is not something I wish to repeat any time soon.

Or ever, actually.

By 9.15 I was good to go to bed.

As is always the case.

I just went to bed feeling warm and fuzzy.

But not warm and fuzzy enough to make this a regular thing.

Not even close.

One, I can't afford alcohol.

And if I could, I'd buy a nice rose, because neither red or white wine really appeal to me.

But a rose. . .I can handle that.

And two, I drink anything maybe, in a good year, as many times as I have fingers on one hand.

I did enough drinking and humiliating things that resulted from drinking in my youth to last me ten lifetimes.

Hence, while the warm and fuzzies were nice for the hour I experienced them, I won't be inviting them in again for a long time.

I simply have too much to do.









Searching on watchseries.eu a couple of weeks ago netted a compelling documentary out of Britain entitled My Transsexual Summer.

A series of hour long episodes following seven people who are in various stages of transitioning from one sex to the other.

Absolutely fascinating!

I know a couple of people who are engaged in the process themselves.

And they have been very open to my questions.

Imagine what it would be like to spend your life knowing you'd been born into the wrong body.

The pain and misery that comes from not being able to be who you know you are.

Given the tedious psychological assessments, the painful and expensive surgeries and the long legal and social battles that ensue, this is not a decision anyone would take lightly.

An eye opening documentary and I encourage you to watch it.

Because who hasn't felt in their own lives that they weren't themselves?

If you're interested, check out the website: http://www.channel4.com/programmes/my-transsexual-summer/articles/category/behind-the-scenes




Title Lyric: Stress Relief by Trendy

How come I pick my ears but not my nose?

November 18, 2011


Good morning.

It's 5.30 in the morning.

Coffee only partially consumed.

But the dogs have been out and fed, Goblet has been fed, Em has had her first wake up call, and I was able to at least get a bowl of cereal prepared if not eaten.

I love this time of day.

Truly.

Other than the machinations of the pets, no one bothers me.

No requests for this and that, reminders of what I should be doing or what I'm doing that I shouldn't be doing.

Guilt about all the marking I have to do has yet to fully bloom.

Too bad I couldn't somehow contain the peace and quiet for later in the day when I could really, really use it.

Of course there is the odd morning, like yesterday, when I was so tired I accidentally took the pills I take a night in the morning.

Making me a zombie for most of the day.

Nothing like a little zombie-ness to make the day exciting.









My students are beginning to buckle under the pressure of the end of term.

Knowing what awaits them in terms of papers and assignments, exams and remaining lectures is taking a toll on their mental and physical well being.

While lecturing yesterday about the appropriate and inappropriate ways in which to ask interview questions, I directed my gaze to the back row of the small classroom in which were squeezed to notice one of the male students who likes to sit in the back because he thinks that it prevents me from seeing what he's doing.

Which was picking his nose.

Lovely.

Just what you want to see while attempting to engage your students with the material.

Digging for green gold.









The other issue, a bit more serious than nose picking, is the appearance of students who've realized that the end of term is looming.

That their absence in classes, failure to submit assignments, unwillingness to work in groups has caught up with them and they now want to negotiate with me about how to complete the term and get a grade that closely resembles a passing grade.

I have one such meeting next week.

What I don't understand is how students conclude that after not doing anything all term, they should be granted allowances, special compensations to complete the term.

Makes me crazy because meeting with them results in a blank stare as I speak to them about where they are and how they got there and how they've backed me into a corner over how to deal with it.

Maybe I should just stare back.




Title Lyric: Pick Yer Nose by Ani Difranco

It's better than the courtroom. . . .

November 17, 2011


Finally, I was able to get downtown to the police station yesterday morning to pick up my copy of the Summons to a Witness I received in the mail a few days ago.

It WAS the car accident Keith and I witnessed during the summer.

Thank god because I couldn't imagine what else I had witnessed.

But at the same time, it isn't out of the realm of possibility that I could have witnessed something and forgot about it.

So glad that didn't happen.

The person who was attempting to make the left turn at the same time that someone else was going straight through the intersection wants his day in court.

In spite of the fact that by law the person who is turning must yield to the person who is going straight.

Leaving me to wonder what the heck is going to happen in court when he's clearly in the wrong.

That doesn't mean I am not going to continue to hope that he comes to his senses, accepts responsibility for his actions and ensures that I don't have to spend the 21st of December sitting in a court room marking papers until it's my turn to testify.

How come Keith isn't participating in all this fun?

Because as soon as he realized we were stuck for the duration he got of out the car and walked to down the street to run his errands.

That's my boy.









Last evening Stephen and I attended the premiere of a short documentary entitled "My Eyes Don't Lie" Youth Exploring the Perils of Drugs.

Youth from Fredericton flew to Vancouver to understand drug use in East Hastings, Vancouver.

Talking with people on the streets, service providers, recovering addicts about how drug use impacts people's lives.

And then they came to Fredericton and interviewed people at our own tent city and the Community Kitchen.

Highlighting that drug use and social problems associated with drug use are not solely the purview of big cities.

Unfortunately, many of the people interviewed were people, younger and older, who I have served at the kitchen.

Reminding me again of the perils of poverty, street life, and a capitalist, patriarchal society that exists on the misery of others to their own benefit.









We are at the time of the academic term where it feels like the shit just keeps piling higher and higher.

Add to that personal crap and you have just one, great big humongous pile of stinky crap.

And yet again, people seem to think that I have all the control.

That I can just snap my fingers and fix everything.

Or that at the very least I should snap my fingers and fix everything.

Because if I could, I'd let the craziness I experience on a daily basis ride.

Sure.

Why not?

I have nothing else better to do than ensure that the lunacy shrouding my everyday life is maintained and sustained to remain.




Title Lyric: Better Than the Courtroom by Eliot Minor

I know when I'm wanted and I'll leave when you ask me to. . .

November 16, 2011


My days have fallen into a routine revolving around four activities: eating, sleeping, teaching, marking.

If I am not sitting at the table or my office desk providing sustenance to power my being, or in my bed catching the zzzzzzz's required to keep me standing upright during the day, or standing in front of my students sharing with them my knowledge of such things as how to conduct an interview or how to engage in focused coding, then I am squarely immersed in the sky high pile of papers that has literally taken over each second of my life not consumed by the other three activities.

Even sick, I found myself on the weekend propped up with all the pillow, on my side of the bed, papers from two different classes beside me, reading and correcting and grading and reading and correcting and grading and reading and correcting and grading until I feel asleep sitting up.

But at least I was not alone.

Along with the papers, I was accompanied by three canine compadres on the bed with me, as well as one on the floor and the other on the Goblet box.

The three on the bed made me the most nervous, as at any moment their uneasy truce would crumble with the smallest slight or an almost invisible twitch.

Of course the alliance didn't last long, as Jasper concluded that there was something more interesting at the window.

As you can see Goblet wasn't amused.

But then again, she never is.









So in addition to marking I was also feeling like a well pillowed prisoner of war.

And make no mistake, there is a territorial war still waging in our happy home.

Who "owns" what space?

What can be considered public spaces?

Mostly, I just want to know when the war will end so the territorial marking can end.

It's upsetting the equilibrium of our happy home.

And turning Frankie into an 80 pound whiny baby.

Because there aren't enough whiny people around here, right?




Title Lyric: Truce by The Dresden Dolls

I am so sick and tired of being sick. . .

November 13, 2011


I.

Can.

Never.

Get.

A.

Break.

Honestly, whatever cosmic force I've disrupted, maligned, I apologize.

Really.

I am so sorry.

So the punishment can stop at any point.

Because I just have no more time for these games.









Yesterday, I woke up early because I couldn't sleep.

Not early for me, but early because it is Saturday morning and even I can sleep in a little on a Saturday morning.

So when I was awake, coffeed and sitting in my office at 6.30 am, I was puzzled.

I thought it was anxiety over Em, my Mum, work, the usual stuff that I can normally sleep through and deal with when I am awake.

Sleep is not something I willingly let go.

I don't like it tampered with.

Loving sleep is the one thing I can absolutely count on no matter what else is going on in my world.

Puzzled doesn't mean stymied.

It just means that I spent the day wondering what was going on.

As the day progressed, I realized that while I was certainly worried about Mum, Em and work, none of those were the reasons why I wasn't sleeping well.

The day began as every day begins, coffee on, dogs out and fed, eat breakfast of cereal and coffee while perusing the internet, thinking about what to blog about today.

From about 6.30-noon I marked papers, dealt with our family budget (such as it is), thought about what needed to be done during the afternoon before I engaged in my Saturday dinner out with Mum.

However, by noon I needed to lay down.

Thinking again that I was just tired from not sleeping the night before and marking first thing in the morning certainly doesn't do anything to encourage a healthy, happy, active mind.

Or body.

Anyone who thinks that marking exams, papers, etc doesn't exhaust the mind and body hasn't done it.

Trust me.

It does.

Napping is something I am most fond of.

Especially on weekends.

But yesterdays nap wasn't really napping so I eventually gave up, got up, showered and headed to my office before visiting Mum.

And a great epiphany happened while I was in the process of recording the paper grades for Crime in Popular Film.

I realized that I wasn't just tired.

I had a headache, sore throat, I'd been coughing more than usual and my joints were achy.

F***!

Sick.

AGAIN!

Didn't I just go through this?

I think I did.

For reasons I have yet to fathom, my immune system is playing Russian Roulette with me and just when I get rid of one ailment, another pops in to take it's place.

I beg, plead with my students not to come to class when they're reduced to bacteria and germ carriers, malevolent shadows of their former healthy selves, because not only do I not want to or have time to get sick, when I do get sick I can't visit my mother.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, upsets me more than cancelling classes, ignoring the exponentially growing piles of marking, forgetting I have a husband and children while I languish in bed cursing the person who made me sick.

Telling my mother that I am sick, again, trumps all of the above.

But no one listens.

And they bring their festering, infected, germ addled bodies to my classes, my office.

Stephen thinks the papers may have been germ carriers and marking them made me sick.

I agree.

But not necessarily the physical sickness currently plaguing me.

More the marked decrease in brain cells and brain activity.









So hear I sit, again, wondering how I'll get myself through today.

What needs to be done and what I can put off for another day.

Groceries need to be done.

Absolutely.

Nothing more exciting than doing the activity you despise most while in a less than stellar physical and mental state.

As for anything else. . . .that will have to be determined at a later time.

After I've had a nap.




Title Lyric: Candle by The White Tie Affair