A “Melissa” Moment: Wireless Internet
I have these moments. I’m not a ditz. I’m a fairly well-educated person. But sometimes things are just a little too obvious, so no one tells me, and I go on not knowing….until one day when I have a “Melissa” moment.
I bought a laptop in March and I love it. It’s my first new computer. It was state of the art for about four seconds, but I don’t care. And the most fun part is how convenient it is to have a laptop. I can go into the living room or into the bedroom or, if I wanted, into the bathroom, and my laptop will pick up the wireless signal from Mark’s computer to connect me to the internet.
Occasionally, I go outside of our home with my computer. For instance, I began to take my laptop to school. It was so nice to be able to work on a file at home and then be able to continue my work at school without having to send an e-mail to myself or download the file to a memory key. Here’s the one inconvenience that I surrendered to though. I couldn’t latch on to a wireless internet signal at school. So, if I was making a powerpoint presentation on my laptop and I wanted a picture off the internet. I would go to the classroom desktop computer, search for a picture, save it to my memory key, then walk a few feet to my laptop, insert the memory key and retrieve the picture. In the back of my mind I thought….there MUST be an easier way.
Last weekend I was at my father’s new house. My brother had just gotten Dad’s internet service working and he suggested I could check my on-line coursework. I told Jay that, alas, I could not if my father did not have a wireless signal because my computer wouldn’t hook up to the internet with a wire.
Jay looked at me like I was crazy.
Apparently all computers come with that little slot for plugging in internet cables.
This will sure make my life easier from now on!
Friday, July 28, 2006
Today I shall blog, she said.
I’m tired of waiting for inspiration to hit. This morning I will just sit down and write.
I have not been sleeping well. It’s been about four weeks since I had a sound, fitful sleep. Sometimes I blame it on the fact that the air conditioner automatically turns off every night and I wake up in a panicked, sweaty tangle of sheets and Mark. Sometimes I blame it on the stress. There’s the stress of moving – we’re moving in two days. There’s the stress of the packing and cleaning I haven’t yet done. There’s the stress of the course I’ve been taking and the 32 page research paper that has developed a mind of its own. There’s the stress of planning a vacation on a tight budget.
But hold on!
Am I creating this stress or is it real? That’s what I sometimes wonder. I’ve been told that if there was nothing to worry about, I’d find something. So let me just take a moment to examine the full part of the cup.
I get the summer off. I am done my course – well, if I work hard – by the end of today. We have the keys to our new apartment, so we’ve been able to move things over slowly already. We’ll have a new home in a few days. And moving is always a good chance to re-organize your stuff and purge of the junk. We have no dishes in our cupboards, so the packing can’t be going that bad. And we have apples in our fridge, so we sure won’t starve. The 32 page research paper that developed a mind of its own is done. Amen! And we’re going to New Foundland!
I feel better already.
I’m going to bed!
I’m tired of waiting for inspiration to hit. This morning I will just sit down and write.
I have not been sleeping well. It’s been about four weeks since I had a sound, fitful sleep. Sometimes I blame it on the fact that the air conditioner automatically turns off every night and I wake up in a panicked, sweaty tangle of sheets and Mark. Sometimes I blame it on the stress. There’s the stress of moving – we’re moving in two days. There’s the stress of the packing and cleaning I haven’t yet done. There’s the stress of the course I’ve been taking and the 32 page research paper that has developed a mind of its own. There’s the stress of planning a vacation on a tight budget.
But hold on!
Am I creating this stress or is it real? That’s what I sometimes wonder. I’ve been told that if there was nothing to worry about, I’d find something. So let me just take a moment to examine the full part of the cup.
I get the summer off. I am done my course – well, if I work hard – by the end of today. We have the keys to our new apartment, so we’ve been able to move things over slowly already. We’ll have a new home in a few days. And moving is always a good chance to re-organize your stuff and purge of the junk. We have no dishes in our cupboards, so the packing can’t be going that bad. And we have apples in our fridge, so we sure won’t starve. The 32 page research paper that developed a mind of its own is done. Amen! And we’re going to New Foundland!
I feel better already.
I’m going to bed!
Monday, July 17, 2006
Back to the Elephant’s Tail
I was invited to a friend’s cottage this past weekend. My friends, D and Alpha, were driving and I was just riding along in the backseat – perhaps this is why I didn’t pay that close attention to the details.
I assumed the cottage was in Muskoka. So when we turned west at the top of highway 10 in Brampton, I was a bit confused. I wanted to be polite – perhaps Alpha, being a cop, knew a secret way to beat the Muskoka traffic. When we passed Orangeville though, I had to comment, “Um, this isn’t the way to Muskoka.” D laughed. “The cottage is up near Wiarton” she replied pulling out the directions. I was instantly excited. Heading to Wiarton would take us past my old stomping-grounds in Owen Sound and Shallow Lake. My family had spent nearly 10 years there and between the ages of 10 and 19, I’d done a lot of growing up there.
It was ridiculously thrilling. Simply to drive the familiar strip of highway through the towns of Markdale, Flesherton, Shelburne, and Holland Center brought back a wave of memories. I had to teach D and Alpha the horse and dog game that my grandma and my dad had taught us. We had to stop at Superburger to eat. We had to take pictures by the little white chapel and sign the visitor’s book. I couldn’t help but skim it for names I’d recognize, of course, seeing none. All the local friends I’d had, if still around, wouldn’t be signing a guestbook in a tourist attraction like the little chapel. I felt like a tour-guide revealing a mystical culture as I explained why some farms had tiny outhouse-like shelters at the end of their driveways for kids to stand in as they waited for their buses. We even stopped to take a picture of the round house – the one that Bev and Dorothy Cruickshank owned – the place where I first saw a border collie at work herding sheep.
We turned down Keppel 15/16 and stopped in front of our old house. According to the mailboxes, the Anderson’s still live across the road. The maple tree in the front yard is tall and happy next to the familiar rock by the driveway (or should I say “laneway”). The doors have been carefully painted dark blue to complement the paler blue siding. The decorative screen door my father crafted and painted white is still there welcoming visitors into the home. I couldn’t see into the back yard. But there is a camping trailer nestled and tucked in beside the house. The lawn is healthy and green. A few green muskoka chairs along the other side of the house hint of its occupants stealing moments of reflection and appreciation of the beautiful outdoors, the quiet neighbourhood and perhaps this beautiful home.
I had to tell D and Alpha about playing baseball in the front yard and how, if we hit the ball across the road into what was then the Maynard’s yard, it was automatically a homerun. But I couldn’t even begin to recount all the other memories – how Phil and and his oldest daughter Carla would walk together every night, how I’d bike my entire summer away with the neighbourhood kids (Alicia, Tracy, Travis, Trevor, Josh, etc.), about dirt-biking with the Bakers, about riding on the back of the Cunliffe’s riding lawn-mower while Travis mowed the lawn, about walking through the “crick” up to our waists in water, about my hamsters buried beneath the Elm tree in the back yard, about Silvey’s old run built along the side of the house, about Silvey on the roof with Dad, about thunderstorms, about the finches who would visit our feeder, about hanging up laundry on a sunny summer day and pausing to admire this piece of heaven that was ours, about planting rose bushes, about building teepees and having campfires, about tenting it in the backyard, about exploring through the forest, about crazy birthday sleepover parties and my father’s scary-hand story, about sleeping in the Johnston’s treehouse, about waiting for the bus with the big kids, about biking into town in the summer or to Allan’s store for ice-cream.
These were all lovely and comforting memories. Yet they didn’t make me long for the place. Even as I looked around, I was astonished at how isolated and barren the surroundings of Shallow Lake seemed to me. They weren’t at all the way I had remembered them. I knew I would never again want to live in the place where I grew up. I realized how you can always come back, just to rekindle those memories, but everything changes. The place will have changed. And you will have changed.
I was invited to a friend’s cottage this past weekend. My friends, D and Alpha, were driving and I was just riding along in the backseat – perhaps this is why I didn’t pay that close attention to the details.
I assumed the cottage was in Muskoka. So when we turned west at the top of highway 10 in Brampton, I was a bit confused. I wanted to be polite – perhaps Alpha, being a cop, knew a secret way to beat the Muskoka traffic. When we passed Orangeville though, I had to comment, “Um, this isn’t the way to Muskoka.” D laughed. “The cottage is up near Wiarton” she replied pulling out the directions. I was instantly excited. Heading to Wiarton would take us past my old stomping-grounds in Owen Sound and Shallow Lake. My family had spent nearly 10 years there and between the ages of 10 and 19, I’d done a lot of growing up there.
It was ridiculously thrilling. Simply to drive the familiar strip of highway through the towns of Markdale, Flesherton, Shelburne, and Holland Center brought back a wave of memories. I had to teach D and Alpha the horse and dog game that my grandma and my dad had taught us. We had to stop at Superburger to eat. We had to take pictures by the little white chapel and sign the visitor’s book. I couldn’t help but skim it for names I’d recognize, of course, seeing none. All the local friends I’d had, if still around, wouldn’t be signing a guestbook in a tourist attraction like the little chapel. I felt like a tour-guide revealing a mystical culture as I explained why some farms had tiny outhouse-like shelters at the end of their driveways for kids to stand in as they waited for their buses. We even stopped to take a picture of the round house – the one that Bev and Dorothy Cruickshank owned – the place where I first saw a border collie at work herding sheep.
We turned down Keppel 15/16 and stopped in front of our old house. According to the mailboxes, the Anderson’s still live across the road. The maple tree in the front yard is tall and happy next to the familiar rock by the driveway (or should I say “laneway”). The doors have been carefully painted dark blue to complement the paler blue siding. The decorative screen door my father crafted and painted white is still there welcoming visitors into the home. I couldn’t see into the back yard. But there is a camping trailer nestled and tucked in beside the house. The lawn is healthy and green. A few green muskoka chairs along the other side of the house hint of its occupants stealing moments of reflection and appreciation of the beautiful outdoors, the quiet neighbourhood and perhaps this beautiful home.
I had to tell D and Alpha about playing baseball in the front yard and how, if we hit the ball across the road into what was then the Maynard’s yard, it was automatically a homerun. But I couldn’t even begin to recount all the other memories – how Phil and and his oldest daughter Carla would walk together every night, how I’d bike my entire summer away with the neighbourhood kids (Alicia, Tracy, Travis, Trevor, Josh, etc.), about dirt-biking with the Bakers, about riding on the back of the Cunliffe’s riding lawn-mower while Travis mowed the lawn, about walking through the “crick” up to our waists in water, about my hamsters buried beneath the Elm tree in the back yard, about Silvey’s old run built along the side of the house, about Silvey on the roof with Dad, about thunderstorms, about the finches who would visit our feeder, about hanging up laundry on a sunny summer day and pausing to admire this piece of heaven that was ours, about planting rose bushes, about building teepees and having campfires, about tenting it in the backyard, about exploring through the forest, about crazy birthday sleepover parties and my father’s scary-hand story, about sleeping in the Johnston’s treehouse, about waiting for the bus with the big kids, about biking into town in the summer or to Allan’s store for ice-cream.
These were all lovely and comforting memories. Yet they didn’t make me long for the place. Even as I looked around, I was astonished at how isolated and barren the surroundings of Shallow Lake seemed to me. They weren’t at all the way I had remembered them. I knew I would never again want to live in the place where I grew up. I realized how you can always come back, just to rekindle those memories, but everything changes. The place will have changed. And you will have changed.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Butt Sweat and Beyond
Disclaimer: I hesitated before writing this entry into my blog, not primarily for the embarrassment I might feel (my threshold is quite high), but more for the embarrassment my friends, family and loving boyfriend might feel “by association”. So to those people, I apologize in advance.
Motorcyclists wave at each other on the road as they pass. It is an unwritten rule – the greeting to acknowledge that we share a passion, a lifestyle or, at the very least, a pass-time. Runners do this also. I find that we keep our eyes fixed on the pavement or steadily in front of us until we’ve calculated that the eye contact between ourselves and the person we are passing will be of a socially comfortable duration, and then we smile politely, lift a tired hand or nod our head.
Runners will agree that this happens, but they will be less quick to admit that a judgment also passes between runners crossing paths. However, we all do it. We think, “Is she running faster than me?”. And if she is, we wonder if she is perhaps younger or maybe she is only on her first kilometer and we are on our seventeenth. If she is wearing a Garmin (watch, GPS system and heart rate monitor), we automatically assume she is hard-core or very technologically savvy. Perhaps she doesn’t have a water belt, or maybe she’s got Gatorade AND water AND gels attached to her middle. All this information tells us a bit about her journey, as well as her running status.
Now don’t you shake your head at me – even if you won’t admit it, there IS a running hierarchy. Not exactly a caste system, but everyone glances at someone else during a run and ascertains in his or her mind whether that other runner is a new runner, a 10k runner, an age-category winner, a veteran, a marathoner, a half-marathoner, an ultra-marathoner, a triathlete etc. Whether we could out run them or whether we could out last them. We all wonder.
Last week, I was running with a friend. We passed an older runner who was coming from the other direction. He was wearing light gray shorts and he had the MOST glaring butt-sweat I have ever laid eyes on. Now sweat is just a natural part of running – unavoidable, something to be proud of even. However, this butt-sweat was truly awe-inspiring. It formed a V of dark gray from his waist band downwards, but even more hypnotizing was the crotch sweat which formed a V upwards from, well, you know…
My friend giggled quietly as we passed and as soon as we were out of earshot, we marveled together. How on earth does a person not realize they’ve bought shorts that will highlight to such a magnitude their crotchal area? Don’t running stores test their technical fabrics for wicking abilities? Aren’t these the types of incidents that are to be avoided through the evolution of the technology of running equipment? How DO you end up with clothing that DOES this to you?
“Was it cotton?” my friend speculated. But no, it seemed to me to be legitimate technical wicking fabric. “I guess gray is not the best colour to buy,” my friend concluded.
This morning, I woke up early to go for a long run along Lakeshore in Oakville. I dressed quietly in the dark so as not to wake up my boyfriend. It was going to be a hot day, so I grabbed my pink shorts from the drawer. They were a gift from a couple of friends of mine for my birthday. I love them because they are made of very light material and they hardly feel like I am wearing anything.
I ran for an hour and fifteen minutes. I came back exhausted and hot. The day had heated up and I’d neglected to bring water with me. I stretched in my back yard then went inside for a shower. In the bathroom I peeled off my running clothes and then something caught my eye.
I slowly bent down and lifted my pink shorts off the tile floor.
I held them up to the light and turned them around.
“Well, how about that.”
Disclaimer: I hesitated before writing this entry into my blog, not primarily for the embarrassment I might feel (my threshold is quite high), but more for the embarrassment my friends, family and loving boyfriend might feel “by association”. So to those people, I apologize in advance.
Motorcyclists wave at each other on the road as they pass. It is an unwritten rule – the greeting to acknowledge that we share a passion, a lifestyle or, at the very least, a pass-time. Runners do this also. I find that we keep our eyes fixed on the pavement or steadily in front of us until we’ve calculated that the eye contact between ourselves and the person we are passing will be of a socially comfortable duration, and then we smile politely, lift a tired hand or nod our head.
Runners will agree that this happens, but they will be less quick to admit that a judgment also passes between runners crossing paths. However, we all do it. We think, “Is she running faster than me?”. And if she is, we wonder if she is perhaps younger or maybe she is only on her first kilometer and we are on our seventeenth. If she is wearing a Garmin (watch, GPS system and heart rate monitor), we automatically assume she is hard-core or very technologically savvy. Perhaps she doesn’t have a water belt, or maybe she’s got Gatorade AND water AND gels attached to her middle. All this information tells us a bit about her journey, as well as her running status.
Now don’t you shake your head at me – even if you won’t admit it, there IS a running hierarchy. Not exactly a caste system, but everyone glances at someone else during a run and ascertains in his or her mind whether that other runner is a new runner, a 10k runner, an age-category winner, a veteran, a marathoner, a half-marathoner, an ultra-marathoner, a triathlete etc. Whether we could out run them or whether we could out last them. We all wonder.
Last week, I was running with a friend. We passed an older runner who was coming from the other direction. He was wearing light gray shorts and he had the MOST glaring butt-sweat I have ever laid eyes on. Now sweat is just a natural part of running – unavoidable, something to be proud of even. However, this butt-sweat was truly awe-inspiring. It formed a V of dark gray from his waist band downwards, but even more hypnotizing was the crotch sweat which formed a V upwards from, well, you know…
My friend giggled quietly as we passed and as soon as we were out of earshot, we marveled together. How on earth does a person not realize they’ve bought shorts that will highlight to such a magnitude their crotchal area? Don’t running stores test their technical fabrics for wicking abilities? Aren’t these the types of incidents that are to be avoided through the evolution of the technology of running equipment? How DO you end up with clothing that DOES this to you?
“Was it cotton?” my friend speculated. But no, it seemed to me to be legitimate technical wicking fabric. “I guess gray is not the best colour to buy,” my friend concluded.
This morning, I woke up early to go for a long run along Lakeshore in Oakville. I dressed quietly in the dark so as not to wake up my boyfriend. It was going to be a hot day, so I grabbed my pink shorts from the drawer. They were a gift from a couple of friends of mine for my birthday. I love them because they are made of very light material and they hardly feel like I am wearing anything.
I ran for an hour and fifteen minutes. I came back exhausted and hot. The day had heated up and I’d neglected to bring water with me. I stretched in my back yard then went inside for a shower. In the bathroom I peeled off my running clothes and then something caught my eye.
I slowly bent down and lifted my pink shorts off the tile floor.
I held them up to the light and turned them around.
“Well, how about that.”
Friday, July 07, 2006
Juxtaposition of Jealousy and Love
I had coffee with an old friend last night. Actually, it was my ex-boyfriend (or ex-fiancé), the infamous Mij from an earlier post.
A few days earlier, when he e-mailed me asking to meet for coffee, my stomach turned into one giant knot. I had ended our engagement three and a half years earlier and truly broken his heart. I knew that a reunion would be emotionally difficult for both of us, but that in the end, some greater sense of closure might be attained. I wasn’t sure if I had closure yet – I knew being forgiven would make me feel more peace – but even if I had, I owed him closure for the pain I had put him through.
I could not help but worry (as I AM a Loftus) in the days that led up to our appointed meeting time. And I could not help but think about the difficult and troubled times during our relationship’s decline. I thought a lot about why Mij and I were incompatible (see earlier blog entry) and when the “red flags” went up, so to speak.
Jealousy was one of the things about the Mij/Melissa relationship that I felt poisoned it. Whether Mij was right in feeling insecure (since I did end up leaving him – as he feared I might do), I still don’t think jealousy in the degree that it lived in him during our relationship can exist in a healthy union.
I remember I had a male friend whom I will call Ttam. Ttam was not a threatening personality. I had met him while working in a science lab at the University of Guelph and then we had been surprised to meet again at the Faculty of Education in London. He was a nervous, twitchy, friendly, but almost affeminite guy. When we finished teacher’s college, he moved to Brampton (where I lived at the time with Mij) to move back in with his Mom. He got a summer job teaching chemistry at a local catholic school. We spoke on the phone one day about how difficult he was finding it (being burnt out and attempting to pull a program together during the summer for kids who don’t really want to be in school at that time). I remembered that I had a good binder of chemistry resources. I offered them to him. We arranged for him to pick them up once he was done school that day.
Around 4pm, he arrived at the apartment building. He buzzed and I let him up to our 21st storey apartment. He walked into the apartment, I gave him a very brief tour of the apartment to be friendly, then I gave him the binder and he left. His visit’s duration could have not been more than 5 minutes.
When Mij came home and I told him that I had had another guy in the apartment “unsupervised”, he was livid. He told me that that was inappropriate and wrong. I was dumbfounded. Surely I could have friends who were males and I could use my own judgment to decide when situations were inappropriate.
Most of the friends that I made in the GTA during my first year living here were my teacher friends at the school where I worked. In particular, I befriended another male teacher whom I will cleverly call Mattie-O. We were the two new teachers at the school. The pain and struggling of a first year of teaching automatically brings two people together. We became friends for this reason in particular. Also, we both knew the above-mentioned Ttam.
One day, Mattie-O and I decided to go out for lunch – to escape from the drudgery and monotony of work to the local Subway. None of the other teachers were up to coming out that day – usually the “lunch escape” day of choice is Fridays and teachers are creatures of habit as a rule. We entered the local subway, ordered our meals, and sat and chatted as we ate. A multitude of our students came and went. We returned to school.
This time, when Mij heard that I had had lunch with another male friend, he was furious. He went so far as to phone the pastor who was guiding us through our pre-marriage counseling (a woman, actually), and he had her tell me how it was not condonable for a married or soon-to-be married woman to be out alone with another man. It tempted situations that are best unavoided. It was not advisable.
I remember this conversation. For some reason, I remember staring at a receipt for $865 dollars while this conversation happens – my receipt for the summer FSL part 1 course I had just enrolled myself into. I can STILL see that one object while I recall this conversation. I then realized that, not only did I not have the same ideas about marriage as this pastor, but I did not have the same ideas about marriage as Mij. Not only marriage – but a committed, long-term relationship. Selfishly, I would NOT give up the multitude of male friends that I cherished in order to get married. I thought I should not have to. I knew this would be a very unpopular point of view.
I realized that I had ALWAYS thought of myself as growing into a strong, independent and free-spirited woman. I took for granted that I would be successful and happy and loved. But my mother had emphasized and internalized the value of independence in me from a young age. And I suddenly felt myself slipping down a road that is not where I envisioned myself. I did not want to be lead by inertia and then wake up one day not loving and being proud of the woman I had become.
So I ended the relationship. Most of you already know, at least in parts, how that went. I will not re-hash it, as I would have to re-live it more than I already have.
Just before receiving Mij’s e-mail this past Monday, I was just having a “happy moment” in my life. One of those revelations that I truly try to savour, when I realize that all is well in my world. I am so truly blessed and lucky and it suddenly strikes me. Mij’s e-mail startled me. My initial worry was that I did not want to jeapordize my relationship with Kram in any possible way.
So I talked with him about the Mij’s request for coffee and he was completely understanding. He was relaxed and did not in any way question my intentions. At one point I asked, “Does it worry you?”
He looked at me and said, “Should it?”
I said, “No.”
And he shrugged and said, “Okay. Nope, it doesn’t worry me.”
It is one thing to be indifferent and not jealous. But what truly struck a chord with me was last night, just before going to meet Mij. I came out into the kitchen (I was feeling sick to my stomach) where Kram sat reading a textbook. He stood up and walked to me. He took me into his arms and just hugged me tightly and said, “Are you okay?”
This kind of support, I could never have fathomed four years ago. Support for me, in my personal and emotional growth, despite the fact that it means I was about to have coffee with my ex-fiancé, is the kind of incredible blessing that I carry with me in my life right now. To have someone love and trust you so deeply, to have someone care so much about you that they support you even when it must surely make them uncomfortable – that is true love.
I am so lucky to know it.
I had coffee with an old friend last night. Actually, it was my ex-boyfriend (or ex-fiancé), the infamous Mij from an earlier post.
A few days earlier, when he e-mailed me asking to meet for coffee, my stomach turned into one giant knot. I had ended our engagement three and a half years earlier and truly broken his heart. I knew that a reunion would be emotionally difficult for both of us, but that in the end, some greater sense of closure might be attained. I wasn’t sure if I had closure yet – I knew being forgiven would make me feel more peace – but even if I had, I owed him closure for the pain I had put him through.
I could not help but worry (as I AM a Loftus) in the days that led up to our appointed meeting time. And I could not help but think about the difficult and troubled times during our relationship’s decline. I thought a lot about why Mij and I were incompatible (see earlier blog entry) and when the “red flags” went up, so to speak.
Jealousy was one of the things about the Mij/Melissa relationship that I felt poisoned it. Whether Mij was right in feeling insecure (since I did end up leaving him – as he feared I might do), I still don’t think jealousy in the degree that it lived in him during our relationship can exist in a healthy union.
I remember I had a male friend whom I will call Ttam. Ttam was not a threatening personality. I had met him while working in a science lab at the University of Guelph and then we had been surprised to meet again at the Faculty of Education in London. He was a nervous, twitchy, friendly, but almost affeminite guy. When we finished teacher’s college, he moved to Brampton (where I lived at the time with Mij) to move back in with his Mom. He got a summer job teaching chemistry at a local catholic school. We spoke on the phone one day about how difficult he was finding it (being burnt out and attempting to pull a program together during the summer for kids who don’t really want to be in school at that time). I remembered that I had a good binder of chemistry resources. I offered them to him. We arranged for him to pick them up once he was done school that day.
Around 4pm, he arrived at the apartment building. He buzzed and I let him up to our 21st storey apartment. He walked into the apartment, I gave him a very brief tour of the apartment to be friendly, then I gave him the binder and he left. His visit’s duration could have not been more than 5 minutes.
When Mij came home and I told him that I had had another guy in the apartment “unsupervised”, he was livid. He told me that that was inappropriate and wrong. I was dumbfounded. Surely I could have friends who were males and I could use my own judgment to decide when situations were inappropriate.
Most of the friends that I made in the GTA during my first year living here were my teacher friends at the school where I worked. In particular, I befriended another male teacher whom I will cleverly call Mattie-O. We were the two new teachers at the school. The pain and struggling of a first year of teaching automatically brings two people together. We became friends for this reason in particular. Also, we both knew the above-mentioned Ttam.
One day, Mattie-O and I decided to go out for lunch – to escape from the drudgery and monotony of work to the local Subway. None of the other teachers were up to coming out that day – usually the “lunch escape” day of choice is Fridays and teachers are creatures of habit as a rule. We entered the local subway, ordered our meals, and sat and chatted as we ate. A multitude of our students came and went. We returned to school.
This time, when Mij heard that I had had lunch with another male friend, he was furious. He went so far as to phone the pastor who was guiding us through our pre-marriage counseling (a woman, actually), and he had her tell me how it was not condonable for a married or soon-to-be married woman to be out alone with another man. It tempted situations that are best unavoided. It was not advisable.
I remember this conversation. For some reason, I remember staring at a receipt for $865 dollars while this conversation happens – my receipt for the summer FSL part 1 course I had just enrolled myself into. I can STILL see that one object while I recall this conversation. I then realized that, not only did I not have the same ideas about marriage as this pastor, but I did not have the same ideas about marriage as Mij. Not only marriage – but a committed, long-term relationship. Selfishly, I would NOT give up the multitude of male friends that I cherished in order to get married. I thought I should not have to. I knew this would be a very unpopular point of view.
I realized that I had ALWAYS thought of myself as growing into a strong, independent and free-spirited woman. I took for granted that I would be successful and happy and loved. But my mother had emphasized and internalized the value of independence in me from a young age. And I suddenly felt myself slipping down a road that is not where I envisioned myself. I did not want to be lead by inertia and then wake up one day not loving and being proud of the woman I had become.
So I ended the relationship. Most of you already know, at least in parts, how that went. I will not re-hash it, as I would have to re-live it more than I already have.
Just before receiving Mij’s e-mail this past Monday, I was just having a “happy moment” in my life. One of those revelations that I truly try to savour, when I realize that all is well in my world. I am so truly blessed and lucky and it suddenly strikes me. Mij’s e-mail startled me. My initial worry was that I did not want to jeapordize my relationship with Kram in any possible way.
So I talked with him about the Mij’s request for coffee and he was completely understanding. He was relaxed and did not in any way question my intentions. At one point I asked, “Does it worry you?”
He looked at me and said, “Should it?”
I said, “No.”
And he shrugged and said, “Okay. Nope, it doesn’t worry me.”
It is one thing to be indifferent and not jealous. But what truly struck a chord with me was last night, just before going to meet Mij. I came out into the kitchen (I was feeling sick to my stomach) where Kram sat reading a textbook. He stood up and walked to me. He took me into his arms and just hugged me tightly and said, “Are you okay?”
This kind of support, I could never have fathomed four years ago. Support for me, in my personal and emotional growth, despite the fact that it means I was about to have coffee with my ex-fiancé, is the kind of incredible blessing that I carry with me in my life right now. To have someone love and trust you so deeply, to have someone care so much about you that they support you even when it must surely make them uncomfortable – that is true love.
I am so lucky to know it.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Cindy XXX
(From the series:: What happens in class, stays in class)
Have you ever unwittingly had an embarrassing pop-up appear on your computer screen? The kind that solicits pornography (even if you are not a big fan)? Under normal circumstances, these pop-ups are annoying. In a classroom, they push beyond annoyance.
Two years ago, at the school where I teach, pop-ups were becoming quite an impedance. They were distracting and disturbing kids by popping-up during word processing or during powerpoint presentation-making or during internet research. The school board’s firewall was either not stringent enough, perhaps it had holes – I don’t pretend to be technologically savvy enough to even have the slightest clue how this could have been prevented or what went wrong. All I know is that for a while, inappropriate pictures could appear on-screen seemingly without prompting.
On the computer in my classroom, there was one pop-up in particular that kept appearing. Her name was Cindy XXX. I will not tell you what she claimed to like or what she wanted me to do to her. I will tell you she was quite beautiful, she appeared on an instantly-recognizable pink backdrop and she did not abide by the school’s dress code.
I put in what is known as a Heat Web call to have Cindy removed from my computer. I assumed she was somehow trapped and confined to my computer since she seemed to be there so much more frequently than anywhere else. I was shocked and appalled that this could happen in a SCHOOL where CHILDREN work every day. I was righteous and judgmental in my statement – insulted, even!
Well, one late afternoon, I was sitting alone in my large science classroom after all the students had gone home. My back was facing the main door, as I typed away at my computer. I was checking my e-mail and working away. I heard voices in the hall. Twisting my body around, I saw it was my vice-principal (I will call her Ainigriv) and a couple of prospective parents. Ainigriv was bubbly and enthusiastically acting as a tour guide, introducing the couple to the best parts of our school. She invited them into the classroom to show them the spacious environs. She brought them over to me; I stood and shook their hands and smiled encouragingly. I told them a bit about my program – the cow eyeball dissection that the kids love the best, the mechanical arm project we build in May, the microscopes we use, etc. (Were they looking at me or were they looking distractedly over my shouder?) Ainigriv showed them the panoramic view of the back schoolyard from my classroom windows and then they all shuffled on to the next classroom.
I turned around – pleased with myself. I certainly had sold the school as warm and friendly. The science program I had built seemed solid and engaging.
Then I saw it….
…not the blue of hotmail on the computer screen.
But the pink of….
CINDY XXX.
With her taunting, teasing eyes and enormous breasts falling out of her shirt.
My face went as pink as the computer screen.
I must have cried out in horror. I thought I would die of embarrassment. What was worse was never KNOWING if these perfect strangers had seen the incriminating Cindy or not. And if they had, never being able to explain myself. And perfect strangers are one thing, but my highly respected vice-principal, Ainigriv, was quite another.
So, when I had collected my wits about me (I now truly understand what this saying means – for mine were strewn about on the ground around me) I walked on shaky feet down to the office. I must have waited a few minutes, for the parents were gone.
Ainigriv was there behind the secretary’s desk.
She looked up and our eyes met.
And before I could say anything, she burst into hysterical laughter.
The explanation flooded from my mouth unintelligibly and soon I was laughing too. These are some of the unforeseen war-scars of a technologically-advanced society, I suppose. These sorts of mishaps will happen.
And we will live to tell about them.
The End
Epilogue: What prompted this blog was a moment last night, when my mother was visiting. I wanted to show her some pictures my Aunt had sent me in an e-mail. So, of course, I had to open my hotmail. This is a long process. It is faster to just double-click on my msn messenger and then click on a message. I did it quickly and automatically, clicking on the bolded title of the only yet-unopened message in my hotmail. Only once the window was opened, did I read the subject: AlienMegaPenises
These are the days of our lives.
(From the series:: What happens in class, stays in class)
Have you ever unwittingly had an embarrassing pop-up appear on your computer screen? The kind that solicits pornography (even if you are not a big fan)? Under normal circumstances, these pop-ups are annoying. In a classroom, they push beyond annoyance.
Two years ago, at the school where I teach, pop-ups were becoming quite an impedance. They were distracting and disturbing kids by popping-up during word processing or during powerpoint presentation-making or during internet research. The school board’s firewall was either not stringent enough, perhaps it had holes – I don’t pretend to be technologically savvy enough to even have the slightest clue how this could have been prevented or what went wrong. All I know is that for a while, inappropriate pictures could appear on-screen seemingly without prompting.
On the computer in my classroom, there was one pop-up in particular that kept appearing. Her name was Cindy XXX. I will not tell you what she claimed to like or what she wanted me to do to her. I will tell you she was quite beautiful, she appeared on an instantly-recognizable pink backdrop and she did not abide by the school’s dress code.
I put in what is known as a Heat Web call to have Cindy removed from my computer. I assumed she was somehow trapped and confined to my computer since she seemed to be there so much more frequently than anywhere else. I was shocked and appalled that this could happen in a SCHOOL where CHILDREN work every day. I was righteous and judgmental in my statement – insulted, even!
Well, one late afternoon, I was sitting alone in my large science classroom after all the students had gone home. My back was facing the main door, as I typed away at my computer. I was checking my e-mail and working away. I heard voices in the hall. Twisting my body around, I saw it was my vice-principal (I will call her Ainigriv) and a couple of prospective parents. Ainigriv was bubbly and enthusiastically acting as a tour guide, introducing the couple to the best parts of our school. She invited them into the classroom to show them the spacious environs. She brought them over to me; I stood and shook their hands and smiled encouragingly. I told them a bit about my program – the cow eyeball dissection that the kids love the best, the mechanical arm project we build in May, the microscopes we use, etc. (Were they looking at me or were they looking distractedly over my shouder?) Ainigriv showed them the panoramic view of the back schoolyard from my classroom windows and then they all shuffled on to the next classroom.
I turned around – pleased with myself. I certainly had sold the school as warm and friendly. The science program I had built seemed solid and engaging.
Then I saw it….
…not the blue of hotmail on the computer screen.
But the pink of….
CINDY XXX.
With her taunting, teasing eyes and enormous breasts falling out of her shirt.
My face went as pink as the computer screen.
I must have cried out in horror. I thought I would die of embarrassment. What was worse was never KNOWING if these perfect strangers had seen the incriminating Cindy or not. And if they had, never being able to explain myself. And perfect strangers are one thing, but my highly respected vice-principal, Ainigriv, was quite another.
So, when I had collected my wits about me (I now truly understand what this saying means – for mine were strewn about on the ground around me) I walked on shaky feet down to the office. I must have waited a few minutes, for the parents were gone.
Ainigriv was there behind the secretary’s desk.
She looked up and our eyes met.
And before I could say anything, she burst into hysterical laughter.
The explanation flooded from my mouth unintelligibly and soon I was laughing too. These are some of the unforeseen war-scars of a technologically-advanced society, I suppose. These sorts of mishaps will happen.
And we will live to tell about them.
The End
Epilogue: What prompted this blog was a moment last night, when my mother was visiting. I wanted to show her some pictures my Aunt had sent me in an e-mail. So, of course, I had to open my hotmail. This is a long process. It is faster to just double-click on my msn messenger and then click on a message. I did it quickly and automatically, clicking on the bolded title of the only yet-unopened message in my hotmail. Only once the window was opened, did I read the subject: AlienMegaPenises
These are the days of our lives.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Superman is Jesus?
I had a teacher of grade 10 English, whose name escapes me. She had long scraggledy blonde hair, liked to suck on lollipops all day and began every class with a discussion about Melrose Place.
This teacher, let’s call her Ms. M, loved to find biblical allusions and symbolism in stories. For instance, when we read Lord of the Flies, she decided that the island was like the garden of Eden (I can buy that). And that Piggy was being sacrified like Jesus (hmmmmm). And that if you counted the twins, Sam and Eric, as one person, there were exactly twelve children on that island – like the number of disciples Jesus had.
Ever since Ms. M, I feel I am acutely primed to pick up any biblical references in books, movies, poetry, advertising, you name it! Well, last night, I went to see Superman Returns.
This movie was slightly confusing for me because I have never seen the movie prequels. Also, I kept asking Kram if there were movies that preceded this one, and he said no. Also, movies just are confusing for me sometimes.
What I couldn’t miss though, was the blaring parallels between the story of Jesus and Legendary Film’s interpretation of the story of Superman. It begins with a booming, ominous voice, which is the voice of Superman’s deceased father, passing on to Superman his strength and wisdom (from the father to the son – that they will be one). He talks about how people are essentially good and want to follow their hearts, but they just need to be shown the way, so he has sent his oldest son to them as a beacon of light. The looming question of the film is – does the world need a saviour?
Nearer to the end, there is even a moment when Superman hurls an enormous, island-sized chunk of alien-crystal that has been morphed with Kryptonite towards space (this is so we will avoid it growing into a continent-sized piece of alien crystal which could displace all the water and drown all of North America). Kryptonite is very bad for Superman, so this task is quite difficult. (I’m not even sure how he did it, since just moments before he was being beat up because the Kryptonite made him so weak he couldn’t walk – I guess a little sunshine does the body good). Anyway, he hurls the piece of Kryptonite towards space and at that moment you see the huge sacrifice he has made. The effort has left him balancing perilously close to death’s door. He falls back, arms out, legs together, in the stance of crucifixion, then plunges to the earth like a meteor.
I won’t give the rest away. It was a lovely story, if a bit cheeseball.
The moral is that we do in fact need Superman – we need a Saviour.
I had a teacher of grade 10 English, whose name escapes me. She had long scraggledy blonde hair, liked to suck on lollipops all day and began every class with a discussion about Melrose Place.
This teacher, let’s call her Ms. M, loved to find biblical allusions and symbolism in stories. For instance, when we read Lord of the Flies, she decided that the island was like the garden of Eden (I can buy that). And that Piggy was being sacrified like Jesus (hmmmmm). And that if you counted the twins, Sam and Eric, as one person, there were exactly twelve children on that island – like the number of disciples Jesus had.
Ever since Ms. M, I feel I am acutely primed to pick up any biblical references in books, movies, poetry, advertising, you name it! Well, last night, I went to see Superman Returns.
This movie was slightly confusing for me because I have never seen the movie prequels. Also, I kept asking Kram if there were movies that preceded this one, and he said no. Also, movies just are confusing for me sometimes.
What I couldn’t miss though, was the blaring parallels between the story of Jesus and Legendary Film’s interpretation of the story of Superman. It begins with a booming, ominous voice, which is the voice of Superman’s deceased father, passing on to Superman his strength and wisdom (from the father to the son – that they will be one). He talks about how people are essentially good and want to follow their hearts, but they just need to be shown the way, so he has sent his oldest son to them as a beacon of light. The looming question of the film is – does the world need a saviour?
Nearer to the end, there is even a moment when Superman hurls an enormous, island-sized chunk of alien-crystal that has been morphed with Kryptonite towards space (this is so we will avoid it growing into a continent-sized piece of alien crystal which could displace all the water and drown all of North America). Kryptonite is very bad for Superman, so this task is quite difficult. (I’m not even sure how he did it, since just moments before he was being beat up because the Kryptonite made him so weak he couldn’t walk – I guess a little sunshine does the body good). Anyway, he hurls the piece of Kryptonite towards space and at that moment you see the huge sacrifice he has made. The effort has left him balancing perilously close to death’s door. He falls back, arms out, legs together, in the stance of crucifixion, then plunges to the earth like a meteor.
I won’t give the rest away. It was a lovely story, if a bit cheeseball.
The moral is that we do in fact need Superman – we need a Saviour.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
What happens in Class, stays in class: Lockdown Procedure
This series “What happens in class, stays in class” will be a collection of embarrassing and, if you’re lucky, funny situations that have happened during my short but lively teaching career to date. I am an intermediate science teacher and when you’re interacting with kids every day, strange things can happen. Overall, I find kids are kind, understanding and empathetic… thank god.
A lockdown is a scary event that a school hopes to never have to perform. When an intruder enters the school in a rage, aggressively seeking to find a student or teacher, we initiate a lockdown procedure.
My school has never, in the time that I have been there, had to perform a real lockdown. However, we are legally obligated to practice a lockdown every year. This is what happens: A bell begins to go off in about 10 second segments with pauses in between. Our principal comes onto the PA system and announces, “Initiate Lockdown Procedure!” At that point, we need to make it seem like no one is in the classroom. So, I close the doors to the classroom and turn off the lights. The students and the teacher all get on the floor flat on our stomachs. We scrunch up close to the wall nearest the school hallways so that if an intruder was to peek into our class through the little window in the door, he would see no one. It is an intense exercise. Kids giggle a bit because they’re nervous and they’re on the floor and their faces are pressed up against other children’s thighs, etc. When the exercise is over, about five to ten minutes later, the principal turns off the bell and comes on the PA system to announce that the lockdown procedure is terminated.
Well.
As a teacher, I am notified when a lockdown drill will occur.
On the day I am remembering, the lockdown was to happen at 2:30 during the last period of the day. As the time approached, I became less and less able to concentrate on the lesson I was teaching. The tension was building and I couldn’t help but glance at the clock more and more frequently. I was trying, in my mind, to remember if my classroom clock was still five minutes fast or not. I was wondering if I could get a head start and nonchalantly close the door, or if that would defeat the purpose of the drill. Had I reviewed the lockdown procedures with the particular class of students who was in my room right now? Would they behave? Would Paul giggle? Had I worn clothes that would get covered in dust if I lay down on my stomach? Perhaps I could get away with a little mini crouch instead.
Then it happened.
2:25.
The bell rang and my heart skipped a beat.
I dove. It was a spectacular dive.
It was dramatic and it was quick. As if we were being shot at.
I said nothing, and I leapt to the ground beneath a table.
The students’ eyes shot to me and they were immediately on the ground with me.
It was fast. It was silent…..
It was not a lockdown. No announcement came on the PA system. The bell stopped ringing and didn’t continue in short bursts. Then I realized what this was.
I realized why it was still five minutes early.
This was the recess bell.
I was more than a little embarrassed as I stood up. But I was also more than a little impressed. In an emergency, or a perceived emergency, I could lead my kids. They would do what I needed them to do.
In five minutes, we did a true lockdown drill. My students couldn’t stop giggling. That’s okay. I know they can turn it on when it really counts.
This series “What happens in class, stays in class” will be a collection of embarrassing and, if you’re lucky, funny situations that have happened during my short but lively teaching career to date. I am an intermediate science teacher and when you’re interacting with kids every day, strange things can happen. Overall, I find kids are kind, understanding and empathetic… thank god.
A lockdown is a scary event that a school hopes to never have to perform. When an intruder enters the school in a rage, aggressively seeking to find a student or teacher, we initiate a lockdown procedure.
My school has never, in the time that I have been there, had to perform a real lockdown. However, we are legally obligated to practice a lockdown every year. This is what happens: A bell begins to go off in about 10 second segments with pauses in between. Our principal comes onto the PA system and announces, “Initiate Lockdown Procedure!” At that point, we need to make it seem like no one is in the classroom. So, I close the doors to the classroom and turn off the lights. The students and the teacher all get on the floor flat on our stomachs. We scrunch up close to the wall nearest the school hallways so that if an intruder was to peek into our class through the little window in the door, he would see no one. It is an intense exercise. Kids giggle a bit because they’re nervous and they’re on the floor and their faces are pressed up against other children’s thighs, etc. When the exercise is over, about five to ten minutes later, the principal turns off the bell and comes on the PA system to announce that the lockdown procedure is terminated.
Well.
As a teacher, I am notified when a lockdown drill will occur.
On the day I am remembering, the lockdown was to happen at 2:30 during the last period of the day. As the time approached, I became less and less able to concentrate on the lesson I was teaching. The tension was building and I couldn’t help but glance at the clock more and more frequently. I was trying, in my mind, to remember if my classroom clock was still five minutes fast or not. I was wondering if I could get a head start and nonchalantly close the door, or if that would defeat the purpose of the drill. Had I reviewed the lockdown procedures with the particular class of students who was in my room right now? Would they behave? Would Paul giggle? Had I worn clothes that would get covered in dust if I lay down on my stomach? Perhaps I could get away with a little mini crouch instead.
Then it happened.
2:25.
The bell rang and my heart skipped a beat.
I dove. It was a spectacular dive.
It was dramatic and it was quick. As if we were being shot at.
I said nothing, and I leapt to the ground beneath a table.
The students’ eyes shot to me and they were immediately on the ground with me.
It was fast. It was silent…..
It was not a lockdown. No announcement came on the PA system. The bell stopped ringing and didn’t continue in short bursts. Then I realized what this was.
I realized why it was still five minutes early.
This was the recess bell.
I was more than a little embarrassed as I stood up. But I was also more than a little impressed. In an emergency, or a perceived emergency, I could lead my kids. They would do what I needed them to do.
In five minutes, we did a true lockdown drill. My students couldn’t stop giggling. That’s okay. I know they can turn it on when it really counts.
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