November 4, 2011
Okay, feeling better.
Somewhat anyway.
Yesterday actually required a nap in my office, around noon, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to make it through to 5.30 pm.
In spite of some one's incessant banging on my door.
Lucky for that person I was simply too tired to get up from the comfort of my chair to do anything about it.
But I wanted to.
And that counts a lot.
Nonetheless, when it was time for me to crawl between my sheets, clad in the warmth of my zebra stripped flannel jammies, Frankie on one side of me, Tikka also on the bed and snug against my feet, I was so happy to be there, thus putting an end to a long, long day.
Not that today appears any better.
First meeting this afternoon of a new committee.
One of the scarier committees on campus.
In fact, I have to go in this morning to read the material for this afternoon's meeting.
Material that does not leave the room in which it is housed.
Meaning I go to it.
Not that even such a thing as finding time to go read some documents has been at all easy to manage.
I had to request a special meeting time, as all the other times to meet with the material coincided with when I was teaching, making it impossible for me to engage with the documents.
So first thing this morning, me, a bottle of water and the documents will have a little sit down together and become acquainted.
Because there is no way I want to sit on this committee in any way unprepared.
After sitting with the material, I have to sort out something that came in the mail yesterday.
A Summons to Witness from the Fredericton City Police.
Okay. Fine. Good thing my brother was here at the moment of my reading this letter in order to explain to me what the hell it was all about.
They want you in court because you witnessed something.
Oh. Alright.
The only problem is I have NO idea what I was witness to.
Unless it was the car accident Keith and I witnessed this summer.
But I can't imagine it was that.
Could it?
Doesn't matter what thoughts ping around inside my head, the office that sent me the letter doesn't open until 9.00 am, so waiting will be endured until I can get someone on the phone who can tell me what this is all about.
Because I'll admit, I am curious.
Secret documents and witness summons are just two of the things I have to address today.
The final task is far more present and important.
Face cream.
For my mother.
Who has called me twice this week to remind me that she needed face cream, because her face was dry and flaky and she really needed face cream and she was worried I was going to forget.
How could I possibly forget when she leaves messages daily to remind me?
Knowing she needs the face cream is not the issue. Finding an opportunity to get to a store and buy it is the real issue.
When you're at work from 8.00 am to 7.00 pm, and crawl into the house in search of furry four legged companionship and sustenance, going to the grocery store in search of face cream is the last thing I want to do.
Last night I was barely able to stay awake for the newest episode of Big Bang Theory.
THAT'S how tired I was.
I haven't even been reading in the evenings. Just crawling into bed and immediately falling asleep.
Perhaps once the Christmas holidays arrive, I'll be more able to, once again, enjoy reading in bed before I fall asleep.
Again, it's the little things.
Title Lyric: Lotion by Greenskeepers
Friday, November 4, 2011
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
I know what you're thinking. . . .
November 2, 2o11
Still home.
Still in more pain than I know what to do with.
I could never forget the unyielding pain of labour, as ever so often I am reminded of exactly what it felt like to have your innards feel like they're becoming your outards.
My film class, my once-a-week film class meets at 2.30 this afternoon, and even if I have to drug myself into almost oblivion, I will be there.
Dirty Harry.
Who wouldn't want to be there???
Plus I can talk about Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry and how this film influenced the development of the cop film genre even if I am in a state of near oblivion.
While not a techno-file, I am always impressed with the advances made in vcr and dvd players, that allowed people the opportunity to watch their favourite films, collect films, find films in almost every corner of the capitalist marketing place, from gas stations and convenience stores to the always enjoyable HMV.
For example, the other day, while in Shopper's Drug Mart loading up on personal lady products, Coke and other sundry items, I spied near the cash a cardboard bin with 2 for $10.00 dvds on the side.
That is ALL the invitation I ever need to step out of line, so to speak, and begin the less-than-ladylike process of rummaging through the bin looking for possible hidden treasures.
And didn't I find one!
The original 1969 Italian Job starring Michael Caine and Noel Howard.
For $5.00.
I was so excited that when it was my turn at the cash I remarked that I couldn't believe there was a copy of this film in a Shopper's dvd bin.
The cashier remarked that "you can find anything at Shopper's" and then asked me if I was Dawne Clarke.
My first response was yes, and then I'm sorry.
Because when people ask that, I never know in what context or what I said to make them remember me.
Apparently, she was a student from many moon ago.
And I had nothing to apologize for.
This time, anyway.
Title Lyric: Don't Speak by No Doubt
Still home.
Still in more pain than I know what to do with.
I could never forget the unyielding pain of labour, as ever so often I am reminded of exactly what it felt like to have your innards feel like they're becoming your outards.
My film class, my once-a-week film class meets at 2.30 this afternoon, and even if I have to drug myself into almost oblivion, I will be there.
Dirty Harry.
Who wouldn't want to be there???
Plus I can talk about Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry and how this film influenced the development of the cop film genre even if I am in a state of near oblivion.
While not a techno-file, I am always impressed with the advances made in vcr and dvd players, that allowed people the opportunity to watch their favourite films, collect films, find films in almost every corner of the capitalist marketing place, from gas stations and convenience stores to the always enjoyable HMV.
For example, the other day, while in Shopper's Drug Mart loading up on personal lady products, Coke and other sundry items, I spied near the cash a cardboard bin with 2 for $10.00 dvds on the side.
That is ALL the invitation I ever need to step out of line, so to speak, and begin the less-than-ladylike process of rummaging through the bin looking for possible hidden treasures.
And didn't I find one!
The original 1969 Italian Job starring Michael Caine and Noel Howard.
For $5.00.
I was so excited that when it was my turn at the cash I remarked that I couldn't believe there was a copy of this film in a Shopper's dvd bin.
The cashier remarked that "you can find anything at Shopper's" and then asked me if I was Dawne Clarke.
My first response was yes, and then I'm sorry.
Because when people ask that, I never know in what context or what I said to make them remember me.
Apparently, she was a student from many moon ago.
And I had nothing to apologize for.
This time, anyway.
Title Lyric: Don't Speak by No Doubt
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Out in that freezing weather. . .that November. . .
November 1, 2011
The oddest transition occurs between midnight October 31st and 12.01 am November 1st.
All of a sudden the hallmarks of fall seem to disappear overnight, replaced with the worst of the worst.
Christmas decorations in the mall.
Not that there haven't been early warning signs that the consumerism that has overtaken Christmas has started the settling in process.
But once November 1st hits, malls, shops, stores, kiosks in every mall across the western world bursts, perhaps spontaneously, into full Christmas plumage.
I detest the mall, shops, stores, kiosks at every time of year.
But during the Christmas season?????
I'd rather rake leaves in a snow storm wearing nothing but shorts and a t-shirt.
This morning I did something I do about once a term.
Get up, get dressed, go through all the motions of the morning, drop Em off, late because everything has to be as it always is, get to my office, settle in my chair, turn on the computer, and realize, at the moment of sitting, alone, while I wait for my computer to get itself moving, that I feel like crap.
Not the feeling-like-crap-but-I-can-still-function, but the feeling-like-crap-and-if-I-am-lucky-I'll-have-enough-energy-to-get-home-without-crashing-the-car-crap.
Like all my energy, drive, desire to do anything more strenuous than sleep was sucked out of me and replaced with lead, held in place by mind blowing pain.
Meaning the computer was on long enough for me to send an email to the vp academic about cancelling my classes before I shut everything down, retraced my steps to the car and return home to happy dogs, a bewildered Stephen and most of all my bed and jammies.
Most of the time I can handle the pain, the cramps, the headaches, even work through it.
Obviously.
Because if I took off days from work every time I felt like this, I'd of been unemployed a long time ago.
But every once in a while, I experience such pain that lying in bed is about all I can manage.
Provided the no one rocks the bed, makes any sudden movements, or jumps on me for kisses and hugs.
That would most likely be Frankie, just to clarify.
I crawled out of bed long enough for some soup and to email one of my classes that was supposed to meet today to give them something to do in preparation for Thursday.
I have one more email to send to my 4.00 class.
Keith looks at me and says, "you're THAT professor. . .the one who gives you something to do even when class is cancelled."
Yes, Pookie, yes I am.
And proud of it.
We had only a few goblins and ghosties last night.
As the kids in the neighbourhood grow up, the numbers of candy seekers at our door dwindles every year.
Last night, I took first distribution shift.
Parked at the kitchen table, journal articles to read in front of me, cats cavorting all over them doing their damnedest to prevent me from doing anything more productive than ministering to their every whim and desire.
Emily beside me, Wuthering Heights in front of her, asking me all sorts of questions in her effort to make sure I didn't manage to read much of anything.
Stephen upstairs with the hounds, our strategy for preventing any mishaps with trick-or-treaters.
We traded off in an hour, Stephen becoming chief distributor, while I worked in the office, Frankie under my desk, Tikka behind my chair.
Which was the only point when I was actually able to get anything accomplished.
Until around 9.00.
When the miseries that I would ignore for 12 hours started.
But were strong enough to convince me to get myself into bed.
So I did.
And now, I'm going back.
At least until Em gets home.
Title Lyric: That November by Carrie Underwood
The oddest transition occurs between midnight October 31st and 12.01 am November 1st.
All of a sudden the hallmarks of fall seem to disappear overnight, replaced with the worst of the worst.
Christmas decorations in the mall.
Not that there haven't been early warning signs that the consumerism that has overtaken Christmas has started the settling in process.
But once November 1st hits, malls, shops, stores, kiosks in every mall across the western world bursts, perhaps spontaneously, into full Christmas plumage.
I detest the mall, shops, stores, kiosks at every time of year.
But during the Christmas season?????
I'd rather rake leaves in a snow storm wearing nothing but shorts and a t-shirt.
This morning I did something I do about once a term.
Get up, get dressed, go through all the motions of the morning, drop Em off, late because everything has to be as it always is, get to my office, settle in my chair, turn on the computer, and realize, at the moment of sitting, alone, while I wait for my computer to get itself moving, that I feel like crap.
Not the feeling-like-crap-but-I-can-still-function, but the feeling-like-crap-and-if-I-am-lucky-I'll-have-enough-energy-to-get-home-without-crashing-the-car-crap.
Like all my energy, drive, desire to do anything more strenuous than sleep was sucked out of me and replaced with lead, held in place by mind blowing pain.
Meaning the computer was on long enough for me to send an email to the vp academic about cancelling my classes before I shut everything down, retraced my steps to the car and return home to happy dogs, a bewildered Stephen and most of all my bed and jammies.
Most of the time I can handle the pain, the cramps, the headaches, even work through it.
Obviously.
Because if I took off days from work every time I felt like this, I'd of been unemployed a long time ago.
But every once in a while, I experience such pain that lying in bed is about all I can manage.
Provided the no one rocks the bed, makes any sudden movements, or jumps on me for kisses and hugs.
That would most likely be Frankie, just to clarify.
I crawled out of bed long enough for some soup and to email one of my classes that was supposed to meet today to give them something to do in preparation for Thursday.
I have one more email to send to my 4.00 class.
Keith looks at me and says, "you're THAT professor. . .the one who gives you something to do even when class is cancelled."
Yes, Pookie, yes I am.
And proud of it.
We had only a few goblins and ghosties last night.
As the kids in the neighbourhood grow up, the numbers of candy seekers at our door dwindles every year.
Last night, I took first distribution shift.
Parked at the kitchen table, journal articles to read in front of me, cats cavorting all over them doing their damnedest to prevent me from doing anything more productive than ministering to their every whim and desire.
Emily beside me, Wuthering Heights in front of her, asking me all sorts of questions in her effort to make sure I didn't manage to read much of anything.
Stephen upstairs with the hounds, our strategy for preventing any mishaps with trick-or-treaters.
We traded off in an hour, Stephen becoming chief distributor, while I worked in the office, Frankie under my desk, Tikka behind my chair.
Which was the only point when I was actually able to get anything accomplished.
Until around 9.00.
When the miseries that I would ignore for 12 hours started.
But were strong enough to convince me to get myself into bed.
So I did.
And now, I'm going back.
At least until Em gets home.
Title Lyric: That November by Carrie Underwood
Monday, October 31, 2011
Don't forget me, I beg. . . .
October 31, 2011
Three years ago, on day that was much like today will be, I was coming back from lunch in the cafeteria with Stephen.
We were holding hands, still talking about whatever had held our attention over lunch, making plans for the weekend.
As we walked into the door leading to the bottom floor of BMH, a colleague stopped us.
She hadn't said anything, but her face told me that something was horribly, horribly wrong.
And when she told me the words that changed everything, I stood there, clutching Stephen's hand, tears streaming down my face, saying NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! over and over and I struggled to gain enough composure to get me to my office.
Today, three years later, Stephen and I still struggle with the loss of our dear friend, Friend and mentor, John McKendy.
Not a day passes that in some way he doesn't cross my mind.
From a classroom I am standing in, to words coming from my mouth, John is very much a part of my everyday life.
And recently, his dear mother, Bernadette passed away.
A woman I wanted to know so much more than I did, because everything I'd been told about her pointed to a remarkable, compassionate, caring, loving woman.
Today, I have an early morning meeting, a lunch meeting downtown.
We need chicken and vegetables from Victory. I'll get those after lunch.
The dogs need food, the leaves still need to be raked.
We didn't get the 20cms of predicted snow.
I have a mountain of papers to read, correct as much as I can, and grade.
Life still goes on.
Whether we feel it should or not.
Whether we understand how it continues, life moves forward.
Taking us with it.
All we can do now is to remember John, his life, his work, and try everyday to be better than who we were yesterday.
Title Lyric: Someone Like You by Adele
Three years ago, on day that was much like today will be, I was coming back from lunch in the cafeteria with Stephen.
We were holding hands, still talking about whatever had held our attention over lunch, making plans for the weekend.
As we walked into the door leading to the bottom floor of BMH, a colleague stopped us.
She hadn't said anything, but her face told me that something was horribly, horribly wrong.
And when she told me the words that changed everything, I stood there, clutching Stephen's hand, tears streaming down my face, saying NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! over and over and I struggled to gain enough composure to get me to my office.
Today, three years later, Stephen and I still struggle with the loss of our dear friend, Friend and mentor, John McKendy.
Not a day passes that in some way he doesn't cross my mind.
From a classroom I am standing in, to words coming from my mouth, John is very much a part of my everyday life.
And recently, his dear mother, Bernadette passed away.
A woman I wanted to know so much more than I did, because everything I'd been told about her pointed to a remarkable, compassionate, caring, loving woman.
Today, I have an early morning meeting, a lunch meeting downtown.
We need chicken and vegetables from Victory. I'll get those after lunch.
The dogs need food, the leaves still need to be raked.
We didn't get the 20cms of predicted snow.
I have a mountain of papers to read, correct as much as I can, and grade.
Life still goes on.
Whether we feel it should or not.
Whether we understand how it continues, life moves forward.
Taking us with it.
All we can do now is to remember John, his life, his work, and try everyday to be better than who we were yesterday.
Title Lyric: Someone Like You by Adele
Sunday, October 30, 2011
You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here???
October 30, 2011
I was sitting in the passenger seat of Em's car yesterday, as she was driving herself to work, she casually remarked that we were supposed to get somewhere around 20 cms of snow today.
Hmmmm.
Knowing that I absolutely detest the first snow storm of the year, she could have been pranking me.
Our Em is known to have a sense of humour.
At times.
So I kept calm on the outside, but inside my brain went into hyperdrive as I thought about all the things that needed to be done before the first flake even contemplated making its groundward journey.
Lawnmower and weedwacker had to be put in the basement. All outdoor plants had to be brought into the warmth of the house. Leaves, oh my gawd. We hadn't even started raking leaves and now we may have to bring out shovels???????? What about the snow tires? Neither car has any on at this moment. Guess I'll be getting groceries this evening instead of waiting for Sunday afternoon, because we're gonna need provisions if we are snowed in? Where is the car wiper-off thingy? Wait! We're hosting Quaker meeting tomorrow morning? I'll proceed as usual until I think someone's in danger. . . . .
But on the outside I was calm.
As soon as she exited the car and I drove home in a panic, ran into the house, threw myself in front of the tv, remote in hand and turned immediately to theweathernetwork.ca to see if Em was indeed teasing me.
Or if we really were getting snow.
I called Stephen into the living room to witness the event that may well indicate the beginning of the winter season.
Em wasn't joking.
20 cms of snow.
Well, f***!
And then I shared my panic with Stephen.
Who assured me that everything would be okay.
An unusual reversal of roles.
And clearly a genetic flaw passed on from my mother to me.
My mother, who hated winter like no one else I'd ever met.
Until me.
It never bothered me until recently.
As I get older, it would seem that my ability and willingness to tolerate winter is decreasing exponentially.
The idea of getting into the car and frolicking with drivers who have no idea how to drive with the roads are brimming with ice and snow, or who think that ice is merely a way of getting to work faster just isn't how I see the joys of winter.
Plus I just really detest being cold.
When I awoke this morning the first thing my still sleep infused body did was check outside to see how bad it was.
Luckily, not too bad at all.
But the radio weather report that we were treated to at 9.00 am when the alarm kicked in announced that we were still under a snowfall warning for 10-15 cms.
So I'll just watch and wait and wonder if at some point the snow is going to come down as if someone turned on a faucet.
Not all was winter panic yesterday.
I was asked to judge the Student Union's Halloween festival events, which included pumpkin carving, costumes and scary story competitions.
Along with two other judges, we engaged in an American Idol like experience.
Except we were much nicer.
The costumes were amazing, the pumpkins were creative and the scary stories had several students in the audience refusing to ever go into Vanier Hall again.
Unfortunately, there weren't many entrants.
Which was too bad because those who were there were phenomenal.
And if more people and pumpkins had of entered, I could have been there much longer than an hour and a half.
As soon as I arrived home I grabbed my gardening gloves and a rake and began the process of raking the mountains of leaves off our lawn and bagging them.
I love raking.
Mindless, quiet, no pressure about how well you're raking and if your piles are bigger than anyone else's piles.
Just rake, bag, tie and repeat the process until the leaves are gone.
I didn't rake until everything was collected.
That would imply time was unlimited.
And as it was a Saturday, that would be an erroneous assumption.
So I raked until 4.00 pm.
At which time it was off to the nursing home for me for my weekly fare of baked beans and brown bread, with a bowl of fruit salad for dessert.
I hadn't seen Mum last weekend because I was sick and while the nursing home is very accommodating, they dislike when you bring your germs, infections, coughing, hacking into their facility to frolic happily in the bodies of their residences.
Meaning I had to go see her yesterday.
Her face is looking a lot better, but still black and blue in several places.
We had a lovely visit, along with my father, but at 6.30 I had to leave for supplies.
By the time Stephen and I arrived home with our car laden with supplies, put everything away and got the house ready for Quaker meeting this morning, I was more than ready to sit down in my chair and fall asleep.
I woke up on my side of the bed this morning, Frankie curled up beside me, not knowing at all how I got there.
I hate starting the day like that.
There's already enough I can't predict or account for.
At least I should know how I got into bed.
Title Lyric: Once in a Lifetime by The Talking Heads
I was sitting in the passenger seat of Em's car yesterday, as she was driving herself to work, she casually remarked that we were supposed to get somewhere around 20 cms of snow today.
Hmmmm.
Knowing that I absolutely detest the first snow storm of the year, she could have been pranking me.
Our Em is known to have a sense of humour.
At times.
So I kept calm on the outside, but inside my brain went into hyperdrive as I thought about all the things that needed to be done before the first flake even contemplated making its groundward journey.
Lawnmower and weedwacker had to be put in the basement. All outdoor plants had to be brought into the warmth of the house. Leaves, oh my gawd. We hadn't even started raking leaves and now we may have to bring out shovels???????? What about the snow tires? Neither car has any on at this moment. Guess I'll be getting groceries this evening instead of waiting for Sunday afternoon, because we're gonna need provisions if we are snowed in? Where is the car wiper-off thingy? Wait! We're hosting Quaker meeting tomorrow morning? I'll proceed as usual until I think someone's in danger. . . . .
But on the outside I was calm.
As soon as she exited the car and I drove home in a panic, ran into the house, threw myself in front of the tv, remote in hand and turned immediately to theweathernetwork.ca to see if Em was indeed teasing me.
Or if we really were getting snow.
I called Stephen into the living room to witness the event that may well indicate the beginning of the winter season.
Em wasn't joking.
20 cms of snow.
Well, f***!
And then I shared my panic with Stephen.
Who assured me that everything would be okay.
An unusual reversal of roles.
And clearly a genetic flaw passed on from my mother to me.
My mother, who hated winter like no one else I'd ever met.
Until me.
It never bothered me until recently.
As I get older, it would seem that my ability and willingness to tolerate winter is decreasing exponentially.
The idea of getting into the car and frolicking with drivers who have no idea how to drive with the roads are brimming with ice and snow, or who think that ice is merely a way of getting to work faster just isn't how I see the joys of winter.
Plus I just really detest being cold.
When I awoke this morning the first thing my still sleep infused body did was check outside to see how bad it was.
Luckily, not too bad at all.
But the radio weather report that we were treated to at 9.00 am when the alarm kicked in announced that we were still under a snowfall warning for 10-15 cms.
So I'll just watch and wait and wonder if at some point the snow is going to come down as if someone turned on a faucet.
Not all was winter panic yesterday.
I was asked to judge the Student Union's Halloween festival events, which included pumpkin carving, costumes and scary story competitions.
Along with two other judges, we engaged in an American Idol like experience.
Except we were much nicer.
The costumes were amazing, the pumpkins were creative and the scary stories had several students in the audience refusing to ever go into Vanier Hall again.
Unfortunately, there weren't many entrants.
Which was too bad because those who were there were phenomenal.
And if more people and pumpkins had of entered, I could have been there much longer than an hour and a half.
As soon as I arrived home I grabbed my gardening gloves and a rake and began the process of raking the mountains of leaves off our lawn and bagging them.
I love raking.
Mindless, quiet, no pressure about how well you're raking and if your piles are bigger than anyone else's piles.
Just rake, bag, tie and repeat the process until the leaves are gone.
I didn't rake until everything was collected.
That would imply time was unlimited.
And as it was a Saturday, that would be an erroneous assumption.
So I raked until 4.00 pm.
At which time it was off to the nursing home for me for my weekly fare of baked beans and brown bread, with a bowl of fruit salad for dessert.
I hadn't seen Mum last weekend because I was sick and while the nursing home is very accommodating, they dislike when you bring your germs, infections, coughing, hacking into their facility to frolic happily in the bodies of their residences.
Meaning I had to go see her yesterday.
Her face is looking a lot better, but still black and blue in several places.
We had a lovely visit, along with my father, but at 6.30 I had to leave for supplies.
By the time Stephen and I arrived home with our car laden with supplies, put everything away and got the house ready for Quaker meeting this morning, I was more than ready to sit down in my chair and fall asleep.
I woke up on my side of the bed this morning, Frankie curled up beside me, not knowing at all how I got there.
I hate starting the day like that.
There's already enough I can't predict or account for.
At least I should know how I got into bed.
Title Lyric: Once in a Lifetime by The Talking Heads
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Because I'm waiting. I am. For someone to come along.
October 29, 2011
All I can do right now is hope that today turns out to be nothing like yesterday.
Which was, simply, a shit show from start to finish.
The entire day was spent waiting for the Aliant people to come and install fiber op cable.
Me sitting at the kitchen table, marking papers (a loosely defined word I'll discuss in more detail momentarily) looking every time a car came around the corner of our little U-shaped slice of the world.
Hoping each and every time that the vehicle shattering the peace and quiet of the day was the Aliant van carrying inside it the Aliant person who would install our fiber op internet and release me from the confining quarters of the kitchen table.
How come the kitchen table, you ask?
What was preventing me from sitting upstairs at the computer which would have made for a less stymied and stunted day?
Frankie.
Because our little Frankie does not like the introduction of new people into our humble abode.
Meaning I needed to see the Aliant van at the same time he did in order to get him inside his Frankie hut before they, yes, Tikka in tow, reached the front door and were treated to a full blown Frankie meltdown.
Hence the sitting at the table.
Thinking that I'd spend the day marking crime and popular films papers while I waited, making the day at least productive in some ways if not in others.
I hadn't accounted for an additional intrusion.
One I couldn't have accounted for simply because it wasn't within my range of experience, as I don't often work at the kitchen table during the day.
Apparently, Dibley and Jasper enjoy my company during the day, when they are all full of desire for love and attention from me, whether I have anything to do or not.
I never realized that they were brimming with such affections.
And it explains how come Jasper would rather bounce off the walls during the evening than sit in my lap for a cuddle.
Regardless, they were determined that I was going to get as little work as possible completed.
And given that I marked one full paper, and two pages of another, I'd say they were pretty successful in their mission to render me ineffective.
In addition to Jasper's insistence on lying against me, his back to my belly, head resting in the crook of my elbow, purring louder than a freight train and periodically lifting his head to request a "nudge," Dibley laid directly in front of Jasper, on top of my papers, also purring but not so much in the mood for the exchanging of physical affections.
Stephen was taking the pictures.
Because if I couldn't mark papers, I certainly wasn't in any position to take pictures.
Moving them was futile.
Because they would just slide back into their default positions, looking at me as if to say I'd lost my mind as they weren't going anywhere.
And clearly they weren't.
I did manage to wrestle free my arm and get the camera from Stephen, giving me the opportunity to take a bit more of an up close and personal of my two little intruders.
Which did nothing to encourage them to consider shifting positions.
And of course Frankie wasn't at all pleased with the turn of events.
Not able to actually get on the table, he has to make his presence known in other ways.
Pawing.
Always a pleasure.
And he is so good at it.
Luckily, Tikka was content to lay on the floor, happy in the knowledge that I was at home, in the kitchen, and not at work, in my office or classroom, far away from her.
We've been working together for a long time.
She knows my routines.
And she doesn't like having her picture take.
Even after all this time.
In addition to waiting for the Aliant person, I was also on pins and needles because I needed to get to my office to complete a SSHRC (Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council) letter of appraisal for a former student who was applying for funding during her doctoral research.
I'm not sure of the actual amount, but it's somewhere around $20,000 dollars.
A lot of money to be sure.
And after reading her proposal, I couldn't think of anyone more deserving.
But she wasn't going to get it if my letter didn't get to her, in southern Ontario by Tuesday morning.
Just when I thought I was starting to become more organized.
Further, these letters are not the kind of letters you could write on letterhead, at your leisure.
There are letters that have to be written and submitted on a specific form, in a specific font, each letter the exact same size as all of the other letters submitted with all of the other applications.
SSHRC is nothing if not organized and perhaps a bit anal.
By 3.30 I couldn't stand the waiting any longer, so I called Aliant, only to be told that my appointment had been changed to the following Friday.
You can imagine what resulted from hearing that.
To say I wasn't pleased is to say that the Titanic took on a little water.
And when I was finished doing what I needed to do to ensure Aliant was well aware of how I felt about their shoddy operation, I left the house, gulping the outside air like a child locked in the house for a week with an illness.
Once I had my fill of nerve calming fresh air, I headed for the high school to get Em.
Next stop, Starbucks for a coffee that was needed if I was to get a well written letter completed at lightening speed.
Nonetheless, it was still 7.30 pm when I arrived home, Em in tow, bearing Subway for my love, an apology for not being home when he arrived, for being cranky and miserable to him when we spoke on the phone, and mostly for being the reason we missed the play we had planned on attending.
At least I was able to get the letter out with a guarantee that it would be where it needed to be by Tuesday morning.
And as I was leaving the postal area located in Shopper's Drug Mart, I noticed a 2 for $10.00 discount dvd bin which held inside it a copy of the original 1969 copy of The Italian Job with Michael Caine and Noel Howard.
A much deserved treat for living through a frenetic and frantic day.
Title Lyric: Waiting for Someone by Jann Arden
All I can do right now is hope that today turns out to be nothing like yesterday.
Which was, simply, a shit show from start to finish.
The entire day was spent waiting for the Aliant people to come and install fiber op cable.
Me sitting at the kitchen table, marking papers (a loosely defined word I'll discuss in more detail momentarily) looking every time a car came around the corner of our little U-shaped slice of the world.
Hoping each and every time that the vehicle shattering the peace and quiet of the day was the Aliant van carrying inside it the Aliant person who would install our fiber op internet and release me from the confining quarters of the kitchen table.
How come the kitchen table, you ask?
What was preventing me from sitting upstairs at the computer which would have made for a less stymied and stunted day?
Frankie.
Because our little Frankie does not like the introduction of new people into our humble abode.
Meaning I needed to see the Aliant van at the same time he did in order to get him inside his Frankie hut before they, yes, Tikka in tow, reached the front door and were treated to a full blown Frankie meltdown.
Hence the sitting at the table.
Thinking that I'd spend the day marking crime and popular films papers while I waited, making the day at least productive in some ways if not in others.
I hadn't accounted for an additional intrusion.
One I couldn't have accounted for simply because it wasn't within my range of experience, as I don't often work at the kitchen table during the day.
Apparently, Dibley and Jasper enjoy my company during the day, when they are all full of desire for love and attention from me, whether I have anything to do or not.
I never realized that they were brimming with such affections.
And it explains how come Jasper would rather bounce off the walls during the evening than sit in my lap for a cuddle.
Regardless, they were determined that I was going to get as little work as possible completed.
And given that I marked one full paper, and two pages of another, I'd say they were pretty successful in their mission to render me ineffective.
In addition to Jasper's insistence on lying against me, his back to my belly, head resting in the crook of my elbow, purring louder than a freight train and periodically lifting his head to request a "nudge," Dibley laid directly in front of Jasper, on top of my papers, also purring but not so much in the mood for the exchanging of physical affections.
Stephen was taking the pictures.
Because if I couldn't mark papers, I certainly wasn't in any position to take pictures.
Moving them was futile.
Because they would just slide back into their default positions, looking at me as if to say I'd lost my mind as they weren't going anywhere.
And clearly they weren't.
I did manage to wrestle free my arm and get the camera from Stephen, giving me the opportunity to take a bit more of an up close and personal of my two little intruders.
Which did nothing to encourage them to consider shifting positions.
And of course Frankie wasn't at all pleased with the turn of events.
Not able to actually get on the table, he has to make his presence known in other ways.
Pawing.
Always a pleasure.
And he is so good at it.
Luckily, Tikka was content to lay on the floor, happy in the knowledge that I was at home, in the kitchen, and not at work, in my office or classroom, far away from her.
We've been working together for a long time.
She knows my routines.
And she doesn't like having her picture take.
Even after all this time.
In addition to waiting for the Aliant person, I was also on pins and needles because I needed to get to my office to complete a SSHRC (Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council) letter of appraisal for a former student who was applying for funding during her doctoral research.
I'm not sure of the actual amount, but it's somewhere around $20,000 dollars.
A lot of money to be sure.
And after reading her proposal, I couldn't think of anyone more deserving.
But she wasn't going to get it if my letter didn't get to her, in southern Ontario by Tuesday morning.
Just when I thought I was starting to become more organized.
Further, these letters are not the kind of letters you could write on letterhead, at your leisure.
There are letters that have to be written and submitted on a specific form, in a specific font, each letter the exact same size as all of the other letters submitted with all of the other applications.
SSHRC is nothing if not organized and perhaps a bit anal.
By 3.30 I couldn't stand the waiting any longer, so I called Aliant, only to be told that my appointment had been changed to the following Friday.
You can imagine what resulted from hearing that.
To say I wasn't pleased is to say that the Titanic took on a little water.
And when I was finished doing what I needed to do to ensure Aliant was well aware of how I felt about their shoddy operation, I left the house, gulping the outside air like a child locked in the house for a week with an illness.
Once I had my fill of nerve calming fresh air, I headed for the high school to get Em.
Next stop, Starbucks for a coffee that was needed if I was to get a well written letter completed at lightening speed.
Nonetheless, it was still 7.30 pm when I arrived home, Em in tow, bearing Subway for my love, an apology for not being home when he arrived, for being cranky and miserable to him when we spoke on the phone, and mostly for being the reason we missed the play we had planned on attending.
At least I was able to get the letter out with a guarantee that it would be where it needed to be by Tuesday morning.
And as I was leaving the postal area located in Shopper's Drug Mart, I noticed a 2 for $10.00 discount dvd bin which held inside it a copy of the original 1969 copy of The Italian Job with Michael Caine and Noel Howard.
A much deserved treat for living through a frenetic and frantic day.
Title Lyric: Waiting for Someone by Jann Arden
Friday, October 28, 2011
I'm writing these letters. . . .
October 28, 2011
Friday morning.
Overslept.
Instead of up at 5.00 am, as set by the alarm clock, I was awakened by the dulcet tones of my loving husband informing me that it is now 7.00 am and was I going to get Em moving for class?
Nice.
My first response was, whaaaaaaaaaaaa???????????
Then, a little more coherently but perhaps in a somewhat whiny tone, "I set the alarm???? What happened?"
Apparently in my haste to set the alarm last evening, I inadvertently set it for 5.15 pm instead of am.
Hence why I was still sleeping at 7.00 am.
I rushed into Em's room to inform her that I'd overslept and her response was, "that's fine. I was up doing homework until late because I had to work."
I wasted all that good panic for nothing.
Instead of jumping in the car to dash off to work this morning, even though I could work at home as I am not teaching, I am grounded to the house.
Me and the dogs.
Waiting for the cable guy.
Stephen has apparently signed us up for fiber op cable.
Even though I'm not convinced he actually knows what he's signed us up for.
It costs a bit more, but a Facebook query has only provided positive results, so we'll go for it.
But if it isn't all I am expecting, we'll be returning to our regular scheduled programming.
As soon as the cable guy is gone, I am off to work to write and send a reference letter that should have been written and sent days ago.
I have no problems agreeing to write reference letters for some students.
But not for all.
If I can't write a letter that is positive, I refuse to write one at all.
This week, I had an email from a student I had 11 years ago asking for a reference.
I had to decline.
Even after looking her up on Facebook I couldn't remember who she was.
And normally, I am good with faces.
Although to be fair, 11 years ago I wasn't exactly performing at my peak.
Peak psychosis maybe. . . .
Agreeing to write them isn't the issue.
Actually writing them is.
I don't use form letters.
Some people do and that's fine, but I prefer to write letters that directly speak to the skills and promise of my students.
Meaning they take time to craft.
And then write and rewrite.
Some years, I have reference forms for countless students.
One year I was at work until after one am writing, printing and enveloping them.
So when I am finally able to get into work, once our house is retrofitted with the latest and greatest in fiber op cable, I'll write and fax the letter.
Just in time.
This evening, we're attending a play downtown, written and produced by a friend of ours.
I can't remember the last time I attended a play.
And on a Friday night no less.
Almost makes me feel like a real grown up!
Title Lyric: Letters to You by Finch
Friday morning.
Overslept.
Instead of up at 5.00 am, as set by the alarm clock, I was awakened by the dulcet tones of my loving husband informing me that it is now 7.00 am and was I going to get Em moving for class?
Nice.
My first response was, whaaaaaaaaaaaa???????????
Then, a little more coherently but perhaps in a somewhat whiny tone, "I set the alarm???? What happened?"
Apparently in my haste to set the alarm last evening, I inadvertently set it for 5.15 pm instead of am.
Hence why I was still sleeping at 7.00 am.
I rushed into Em's room to inform her that I'd overslept and her response was, "that's fine. I was up doing homework until late because I had to work."
I wasted all that good panic for nothing.
Instead of jumping in the car to dash off to work this morning, even though I could work at home as I am not teaching, I am grounded to the house.
Me and the dogs.
Waiting for the cable guy.
Stephen has apparently signed us up for fiber op cable.
Even though I'm not convinced he actually knows what he's signed us up for.
It costs a bit more, but a Facebook query has only provided positive results, so we'll go for it.
But if it isn't all I am expecting, we'll be returning to our regular scheduled programming.
As soon as the cable guy is gone, I am off to work to write and send a reference letter that should have been written and sent days ago.
I have no problems agreeing to write reference letters for some students.
But not for all.
If I can't write a letter that is positive, I refuse to write one at all.
This week, I had an email from a student I had 11 years ago asking for a reference.
I had to decline.
Even after looking her up on Facebook I couldn't remember who she was.
And normally, I am good with faces.
Although to be fair, 11 years ago I wasn't exactly performing at my peak.
Peak psychosis maybe. . . .
Agreeing to write them isn't the issue.
Actually writing them is.
I don't use form letters.
Some people do and that's fine, but I prefer to write letters that directly speak to the skills and promise of my students.
Meaning they take time to craft.
And then write and rewrite.
Some years, I have reference forms for countless students.
One year I was at work until after one am writing, printing and enveloping them.
So when I am finally able to get into work, once our house is retrofitted with the latest and greatest in fiber op cable, I'll write and fax the letter.
Just in time.
This evening, we're attending a play downtown, written and produced by a friend of ours.
I can't remember the last time I attended a play.
And on a Friday night no less.
Almost makes me feel like a real grown up!
Title Lyric: Letters to You by Finch
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