Ah, new year, what do you have in store for me?
Another election? Probably.
Oh, and here’s my take on the Ignatieff leadership: Bob Rae and Gerard Kennedy and the rest of the contenders didn’t so much step aside to allow the coronation of Iggy as they did suspend their campaigning for now. By letting Ignatieff take the interim leadership, they’re also letting him be the guy who has to deal with Harper, the economy, the post-prorogue Parliament, and the snow. Then in May, when everything’s warm and sunny, they’ll be back, armed with new ammunition based on Iggy’s mishandling of all of the above.
Of course, this strategy assumes he will, in fact, mishandle things. This is not an altogether preposterous assumption – after all, this is the guy who thinks we can finally deal with the whole constitution crisis thingie once and for all, and move on. Frankly, only a guy who hasn’t lived in the country and hasn’t been paying attention can make a broad statement like that with a straight face.
I’m willing to give Iggy a chance, really, because he scares me less than Harper, and these days Layton comes across as the creepy uncle who keeps asking you to sit on his knee at the family reunion. Having said that, there are several obstacles to overcome:
1. Harper is still, technically, in power
2. No one seems to really like Ignatieff
3. We’re all sick to death of elections and campaigning
4. We’re all more interested in Obama than our own government, and all these crises are a little distracting
5. The media don’t seem to like Iggy, as evidenced by the fact that they keep posting the worst possible photos of him
6. His name – no one seems completely sure how to spell it, and I have yet to hear it pronounced the same way twice
7. His background – we are fine with Russian aristocracy in an abstract way, but do we really want to live through years of headlines about Count Canuck or Czar Iggy?
8. Eyebrows. They didn’t help Dukakis, either.
Blargh
I hate head colds.
I can deal with the flu – sure, there’s a lot of running to the bathroom and some messiness, but it doesn’t usually last long and people are sympathetic. I can handle a chest cold – less messy than the flu, and as an ex-smoker, I’m not all that bothered by the hacking cough.
Head colds SUCK.
I cannot breathe. I spend my days panting like an asthmatic puppy. Wearing my glasses hurts. Blowing my nose hurts. My lips are chapped from all the mouth-breathing. The only way I can sleep is by taking megadoses of Dristan orally AND nasally, with a NeoCitran chaser – which works great in terms of clearing the passages so I don’t suffocate overnight, but leaves my throat and mouth dryer than Stephen Wright’s wit.
At least the flu takes off a few pounds – I think I have gained a few, just from the added weight of all the crap in my sinuses. Seriously, how is this stuff manufactured? What are the raw materials? Was this stuff always in my head, just waiting for an opportune moment to morph into more goop than technically fits in my head?
Blargh. Sniffle. Whimper.
Merry etc., etc.
I’m already stuffed, and it’s not even turkey day yet.
We’re safely ensconced chez Mum for the holidays, having braved rain and snow to get here. Thanks to the miserable bastards who stole our car last week, we braved the elements in a rented Corolla, rather than our beautiful all-wheel drive Subaru.
We’re in the rental for at least another three weeks, unless of course our car turns up somewhere, but apparently that’s not likely. At this point I really hope it’s really gone, because to get it back now means dealing with whatever mess has been perpetrated upon it. If it’s really gone for good, we can get on with our lives and into a new Subaru, perhaps with heated seats this time.
House-wise, we’re finally at the end of the latest renovation phase – there are during and after pix on my flickr page, so you can see just how entirely awesome our new bathroom is. We’ve also discovered that the disadvantage to having a finished basement is that the pipes are now aesthetically hidden away inside the walls, rather than exposed to the ambient air, and therefore much more likely to freeze. Which is why they have. Twice.
Given that the pipes have never – in thirteen years – frozen before, we assume there’s a connection.
So temporarily, there’s a tap running, and a thermal wire attached, and a gaping ventilation hole in the new aesthetic wall.
But, when all is said and done, burst pipes and stolen cars notwithstanding, things could be a lot worse. The fact is, the last couple of weeks have been filled with happy holiday gatherings of friends and family. I’ve wrapped up yet another semester, and after almost four years at this college, I still love my job and my colleagues and my students. My kids are growing and reading and brilliant, and, well, life is good.
At the risk of sounding all sappy and Capra-esque, I love this time of year – and although I suspect that Santa won’t bring me the tropical vacation I put on my list, I am looking forward to tomorrow, with presents and kids and family and food and drink.
I know that we’re really very lucky, and tomorrow is one of those days when we get to revel in it – I hope that you’re all reveling too.
Happy holidays.
An explanation
Two weeks ago, Taylor Mali, who has already made an appearance in these “pages,” was the keynote speaker for our annual ped day. In the afternoon, he led a poetry workshop, and the previous entry is the result of that session. Having had two weeks to digest, I have made a few changes to the lines, and they appear in a different order than that in which they were written.
For many of the lines, Mali gave us a prompt, such as “I remember…”, and our task was to complete the sentence. Many of us shared our work at the end of the workshop, and it was a wonderful experience.
I was a big fan of Mali’s before the ped day, and he did not disappoint.
Poetry?
Once when I was naked I became utterly fascinated by the undulations of my belly as my unborn son moved within me.
You should probably know that I constantly promise myself that I will be a better parent tomorrow, and I constantly let myself down.
I remember when we moved, and I rode in the backseat of the van with my mother driving, and my infant sister strapped into a dresser drawer on the front seat.
Before I knew how to drive, I used to devote a lot of time to figuring out how to get my mother to drive me places she didn’t want to go.
My childhood was an elegant orange ten-speed bike that pinged as stones hit the spokes as I raced down dirt roads that really were better suited to a sturdy mountain bike.
I remember the awful pause after the minister said “as you stand before us, about to be married, think again…”
I’m not interested in how many times you jumped out of a plane before we met; what I want to know is will you still hold my hand, after all these years, as we walk down the street.
I remember the first time I felt a baby move inside me, and the hum he used to make when I fed him.
You should probably know that your commitment to learning will take you a lot further than any one thing you actually learn.
Progress, whether we like it or not
After a month of trudging down to the basement to answer every call of nature, we finally have running water and a fully-installed toilet in the upstairs bathroom. This coming week, the vanity cabinets should be installed, after which the granite counter goes in and we’re done (save for the painting etc., but we’re not expecting that to take us long).
Progress!
We have also managed to reset all the clocks, now that we’ve fallen back, and appreciated the extra hour of sleep, if not the inexorable march of time, even with a step back. It’s officially fall, almost winter – our snow tires are on, the heat is on, even our winter duvet is on…
Progress…
We celebrated Robert’s ninth birthday yesterday (a week and a half late, due to various other engagements), and as I write this, Dr. T is taking Colin shopping for his own deodorant and shower soap. On Friday, he had an interview at Royal West Academy, because he’s starting high school next September. This morning, he got out of bed and made himself a fried egg.
Progress.
Sigh.
I am, despite what the preceding may have implied, inclined to count my blessings:
– We’ve “struggled” with that long walk to the downstairs toilet because we’re lucky enough to live in a beautiful house and can afford to indulge in luxuries like finished basements and second bathrooms.
– We spent ages resetting clocks because our house is filled with appliances and electronics that make our home life easy and entertaining – and in fact it didn’t take all that long, since so many of our devices now reset themselves automatically.
– We have a wonderful new car, which is great, and we were astute enough to get our tires relatively early, thus avoiding the rush that will no doubt occur on December 14th (the day before Quebecers are required by law to have their winter tires installed). Even better, we live in a city with a pretty good, relatively cheap public transport system, which means we can be a one-car family that rarely uses its car.
– We have an efficient heating system that is relatively ‘green’ and keeps us cozy all winter, and we’re spoiled enough to have seasonal bedding!
– We have two amazing sons, who are becoming increasingly interesting people, with very defined and distinct interests, personalities, styles and temperaments. They’re doing well in school, which they both love, and we’re immensely proud of them.
So yes, we like progress.
A hair-razing experience
Today, Dr. T and two of his colleagues Shaved to Save. The company matched their fundraising efforts dollar-for-dollar, and every penny goes to fund breast cancer research.
In other news, we’re right in the middle of another renovation, which means my home office is useless, and my blogging motivation has lagged as a result. I am taking pictures as the project moves forward, so eventually the whole saga will be posted.
Meanwhile, back to the correcting!
My post.*
Throughout history, people have written things down because it was important and crucial to do it. But one has to ask themselves, what kind of things were they writing down? In this post, we will examine closely this question.
Firstival**, there is many different ways to write things down. Pen, pencil, computer, to name a few. Back in the day, people didn’t have computers and sometimes pens, so they were forced to write on walls or parchment. According to the American Heritage Dictionary, parchment is “The skin of a sheep or goat prepared as a material on which to write or paint.” This quote clearly shows that there is many ways to write things down.
Secondly, as I have already mentioned, what kind of things were they writing down? Clearly this is a very important and crucial question to ask, because of it’s answer. George Orwell, the famous author, stated that people wrote for four reasons. The first reason people write is that they are egomaniacs. “Sheer egoism.” As Orwell’s quote shows, people write because of their egos. Also sometimes people write because its beautiful, or because its history or political purpose.
In conclusion, this is a difficult question: why do people write? As we have seen, sometimes they write on parchment, and sometimes they write for four reasons. Whatever the reason, people write, and will continue to write until the end of the world as we know it, or maybe even more. The question remains, what do people read?
*inspired by reading too many essays in one sitting, and the wonderful comments from commiserating friends and colleagues. Oh, and Orwell really did say we write out of a sense of ego, aesthetics, history or politics.
**while this essay as a whole is simply modeled on some of our favourite student habits, this word actually appeared in a student essay. I kid you not.
Class unconscious
I’ve been reading a neat little book called Watching the English, by British anthropologist Kate Fox, whose mission is to describe and analyze English behaviour. The book was a gift from a good friend who gave it all up (“it” being life in Pierrefonds, working for Ikea) to move to the UK (albeit still working for Ikea).
Now, I don’t think this book is for everyone, least of all for people who for some reason don’t find it fascinating to discuss ad nauseam the British tendency to remember last week’s rain fondly. It is an interesting read in that it offers insight not only into the British codes of behaviour, but also the research methods of one team of anthropologists.
I personally am enjoying the book not least because there’s an entire section on class, which my English brother-outlaw insists is a non-issue in 21st century Britain.
Furthermore, according to this book, the fact that my house is messy and none of my furniture matches is, in fact, an indication that I am upper class, and has nothing to do with being disorganized, frantically busy, or hopeless.
I gleefully relayed this information to my mother – we’re upper class! We never have to apologize for the mess again.
“Ah well,” she said, “every once in a while you still have to wipe the shit off the side of the toilet bowl.”
Yes, we’re just oozing class.
Oh, and I made this
…for Colin’s birthday party. More angles available on flickr.