Yesterday’s temperature, with the windchill. was -40. And remember, folks, that’s -40 C, and -40 F.
Today’s forecast high is -12 C. Today’s forecast high for other places, like, oh, I dunno, Tucson, is 20 C, or 68 F.
Merry Christmas, Bruce!
It’s beginning to look a lot like chaos
Dr. T has just ensured our holiday spirit will be well-fueled with holiday spirits. He bravely faced the pre-Xmas crowds to stock up on Yellow Label, amaretto, porto, and various other bottles of Xmas cheer.
This may not seem like such a big deal, but out-of-towners should take note that at the moment, the SAQ is on strike.
The SAQ is the provincial liquor commission, the ‘Societe des alcools de Quebec’ – yes, ‘societe’ – we may drink a lot, but we’re really only social drinkers. We can quit anytime. Taxes and other revenues collected from the SAQ, which is a government body, help fund our educational and health programs. Our children are schooled and our sick are healed, thanks to our passion for porto. We’re saving the world, one merlot at a time.
That said, it’s interesting to note that although the SAQ workers are on strike, there are several outlets that remain open, because let’s face it – providing us with wine and spirits is an essential service. There’s a limit to how pro-union we can be, and clearly, we’re more sympathetic after a bottle or two of a nice Cabernet Sauvignon.
Our blue-collar workers are also on strike, but y’know, like, what else is new? Sure, there’s snow in the streets and ice on the sidewalk. We can handle it! We’re tough! We’re resourceful!
But if we have to navigate streets covered in fresh powder and ice-dance with random strangers on downtown sidewalks, we’re gonna need a stiff drink.
Your sophomoric humour for the day
Bumpass, Virginia.
Now, is that pronounced ‘bum-pass’ or ‘bump-ass’?
Brenda Veccaro, eat your heart out
I have laryngitis.
My colleagues are, shall we say, unsympathetic. I believe Zeffie’s exact words were “I have been waiting for this day for a year and a half.”
😛
Bumper sticker
BOYCOTT SHAMPOO! DEMAND REAL POO!
Welcome to Denial, QC
Why would anyone resist living in denial? In denial, I am tall and thin and my hair always looks great. Also, my nose is just like Nicole Kidman’s, but better.
In denial, the snow fluttering past my office window is not accumulating on my car, and my car will never die (nor will I, for that matter).
In denial, all the coffee I drink is good for me.
In denial, it’s only a matter of time before the American citizenry collectively storms Capitol Hill and drags the Bush League out of the West Wing, unanimously declaring Bill Clinton (or Colin Powell or Oprah Winfrey or Jon Stewart or Big Bird) in charge “at least ’til we figure out what the heck our foreign policy is.”
In denial, all of my students will have epiphanies in their sleep the night before the exam, and awake with fresh, permanent insight that allows them to coherently analyse literature without any comma splices or sentence fragments.
In denial, the approximately 125 papers on my desk were magically marked by the Grammar Gnomes overnight, and this morning I can relax, put on some perfectly legal tunes, and catch up on my reading.
Sigh.
One Monkey over the line
The November monkey is all about borders – so how could I resist? There are two such crossings that bring back fond memories/vivid nightmares for me:
1. The summer I turned 15, my boyfriend’s family spent a week or so in Stowe (yes, it still exists when there’s no snow), and invited me to come down for the weekend. So my boyfriend, our buddy Dean, and I hopped in the car and drove from Quebec to Vermont.
We crossed the border at one of the little tiny crossings, where I guess they just have too much time on their hands.
Now, remember, we’re teenagers on a road trip. And Dean, in all seriousness, wanted to be a mortician when he grew up.* For some reason, Dean chose to pack most of his possessions for a weekend trip, stuffing it all into a rather large hockey bag.
So when the border guard asked us to take our bags out of the trunk, we collectively winced.
It took about five minutes for this guy to go through my bag and my boyfriend’s. He was much more methodical with Dean’s bag, in part because my boyfriend and I were dressed in shorts and t-shirts, whereas Dean was wearing black jeans and a trenchcoat with a large U2 lapel pin. At one point, he actually said “isn’t a U2 a kind of Russian submarine or something?” He went through that hockey bag with some weird determination to find something incriminating – he got very excited about the Hawaian lei, for instance. Eventually, he decided there was no real reason not to let us across, so he let us pack up our bags drive off…
without ever finding the weirdly modified German hunting knife with the lead ball on the handle that Dean decided to bring along, just in case.
2. When I was in my early twenties, my biological father was working as a flight instructor in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. After an unbelieavable amount of paperwork (including a fax that I had to bring to the corner store to have translated), I got a stamp in my passport allowing me to enter Saudi Arabia.
So that winter, I spent Christmas with my father’s family in Ireland, and then the two of us flew to Jeddah. Since he was technically crew, he had to go to a separate building to clear customs – which left me on my own to go through regular customs. Alone. And female. And very obviously Western.
Naturally, one would expect a problem. In fact, it was pretty easy – I think the customs agents were afraid to look in my bags in case they found naughty lingerie or something. Their primary concern was to determine without a doubt that there was, definitely, really, absolutely a MAN on the other side of the frosted glass doors who was willing to claim me, if they let me through. Which they did, eventually, to my great relief.
2a. The return trip was the real killer – because the flight was overbooked, our flight from Jeddah to New York was diverted to Paris to refuel, which made us late into New York, where I had to change airports to get my flight to Montreal. I barely made that flight, and arrived very tired, very airplaney, and very cranky at Dorval, where the customs guy started asking me all about the declarations on my reentry card.
I wish I knew how to recreate the look I must have given him, because he immediately stopped asking questions, bade me welcome home, and sent me on my way!
*Dean did, in fact, become a mortician.
Haiku 2
Last year I wrote a haiku, inspired by the autumn leaves on the road. This year, I give you the following:
One haiku per year
Is all I manage to squeeze
Out, damn syllable.
It was only a matter of time, really
On Sunday my seven-year-old son announced he wanted to know how to make his own web page.
Tada.
The battle of Good vs Evil
Good: the end of the semester is two weeks away.
Bad: I have a pile of marking to do – a pile that is steadily growing, no matter how many students I encourage to take extensions.
Good: the new furnace will be installed this Friday (and not this February, as the phone message we received last week indicated).
Bad: I spent the better part of the daylight hours on Saturday replacing the ballcock assembly in the toilet.
Good (bonus): I get to use the words ‘ballcock assembly’ and watch people struggle against the giggles.
Good: I had dinner with Maher Arar* last night. He was here to give a talk on ‘Human Rights in a Post-9/11 World’ – the Centennial Theatre was packed with students, profs, and locals (who I think I’ll take to calling ‘the Village People.’)
Bad: My inner sceptic is apparently dormant. Arar is a nice guy, and his story is terrifying. I’m finding it very difficult to approach his talk objectively and critically – perhaps it’s the cynic in me, more willing to believe evil on the part of the government – be it the Bush League, the Syrians, or our own Martinettes – than on the part of a nice guy (despite his background in engineering).
Good: Did I mention the end of the semester?
Bad: Did I mention the end of the semester?
So, when all is said and done, the math seems to indicate that Good is currently prevailing against Evil (except, of course, that this calculation requires math, which brings us back to a tie).
*The link above will take you to Arar’s site. You can also find loads of information about his case and related incidents elsewhere on the net, including the substantial coverage provided by the CBC.