Me and Jacob Watson having a moment.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Around the Bay
I registered for the Around the Bay 30k road race in Hamilton on March 25th, 2007. I’ve never run 30 kilometres before. I can safely say that the furthest distance my legs have ever taken me in one consecutive journey is 21.1 kilometres.
It feels good, though, despite the uncertainty.
One of the girls who has joined my Learn to Run Club at school (we’re running a 5k race this weekend), said to me today, “Miss Loftus, I can’t believe you’re going to run 30 kilometres.”
I replied, “I’m having trouble believing it myself.”
Then I came across a really fitting quote, by T.S. Eliot:
“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go”
Let’s find out, shall we?
I registered for the Around the Bay 30k road race in Hamilton on March 25th, 2007. I’ve never run 30 kilometres before. I can safely say that the furthest distance my legs have ever taken me in one consecutive journey is 21.1 kilometres.
It feels good, though, despite the uncertainty.
One of the girls who has joined my Learn to Run Club at school (we’re running a 5k race this weekend), said to me today, “Miss Loftus, I can’t believe you’re going to run 30 kilometres.”
I replied, “I’m having trouble believing it myself.”
Then I came across a really fitting quote, by T.S. Eliot:
“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go”
Let’s find out, shall we?
Simply Run
Running is simple.
That is part of the seduction of the sport.
People always say that they love how you can just pick up your shoes and go. No extra equipment necessary. Just two feet and a heartbeat.
And the shoes are actually quite important. They can fix an incorrect gait, they can cushion a falling arch, they can protect a misaligned knee or hip or cushion an complaining Achilles tendon. So I guess shoes are the quintessential piece of equipment for running. And if you want the barefoot feeling, you can even buy $200 Nike shoes that simulate bare feet. No matter which pair you choose, you’ll need to replace them every 500 to 800 kilometres, which can be as often as every 5 months. In fact, it’s best to buy two pair and rotate them so as to allow each pair to regain its peak cushioning properties between runs.
And of course, if you’re a woman, you need to cushion the floppy parts – two in particular. And you can buy a cheap sports bra at Walmart, but when trying to defy gravity, I find it’s best to aim for the quality squeezy-squashy material that wicks sweat and solidifies gooey bits and rubs-not and chafes-not and perhaps even folds into an origami airplane if you pay enough. Of course, for my fellow women who are well-endowed with desirable curves, you may need to double up. So if you run several times a week, you’ll need about 10 pair.
And for clothing, you need anti-chafing pants with special invisible seams. And they should have reflective material so cars can see you. And they should be stylish and in the latest lime-green or soft-pink colour craze. And, of course, wicking ability and breathability and be warm and cool simultaneously. You need three layers of clothes for winter running – the under layer, the thermal layer and the wind-resistant, water-resistant layer.
You need specially designed double-lined socks to help prevent blisters.
Oh, yes, and since hydration is so important, you’ll have to buy a water belt. But not just any water belt, the kind with specially spaced out bottles to reduce bottle-bouncage. In fact, water’s SO YESTERDAY! To keep up electrolytes, all the races serve Gatorade. And there are even special drinks like E-load with extra tablets of salt you can add if you sweat excessively.
And for those long, long distances, you’ll need extra calories when your glycogen stores get depleted, so you must bring gels and maybe even gummy Sharkies to boost your energy.
And, ah yes, you’ll need to get yourself a stopwatch. Or you could upgrade to the kind that counts 10 minute and 1 minute intervals and beeps at you so you can run and walk the correct ratio. You can even get one with a GPS system that tells you precisely how far you ran, your current speed, your average speed, and graphs the results of several runs over time. I’m fairly sure the newer models also make espresso and take out the trash.
This is all you need to get yourself into the simple sport of running. These things, as well as a few hundred books on the subject of training and injury prevention and proper nutrition and stretching and tapering and negative splits and how rewarding and simple running is.
Then you’ll need to join a clinic to reaffirm all of the information you learned in the books and to make other friends who enjoy running purely for its simplicity.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
The Diamond in the Rough
Mark and I went to a wedding in Owen Sound this past weekend. I was faced with the surprisingly difficult task of selecting a lodging for us for the evening. When I showed obvious distress over the choices, Mark said, “Didn’t you live in Owen Sound for years?” I did. However, I never EVER had to stay at a hotel or motel let alone pick one.
Some hotels in Owen Sound were a bit on the expensive side – the safe choices, like The Days Inn and the Travelodge. Some were a bit too cheap, like the Springmount Motel that was only $40 a night. I thought I was going fairly middle-of-the-road (the economic sweet spot, if you will) by choosing The Diamond Motel.
When we pulled into the parking lot yesterday though, and saw that part of the property was quarantined off with police caution tape, I knew we had landed somewhere other than a sweet spot. The owner was fairly nice; he showed me how to work the heater (you have to turn on the fan for a while before turning on the heat). The bathroom door was a tiny bit too large for the frame, so escaping was a bit tricky. There was a kitchenette reminiscent of a 70’s era when puke-yellow was hip, as well as a set of dishes and a very shallow kitchen sink. But my favourite quirk was this morning when I heard a yelp from Mark as he got into the shower. When he came out, I expected his explanation to be a water temperature issue, instead I got, “Don’t adjust the shower head. It falls off.”
A diamond in the rough indeed.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Culinary Personality
You can tell a lot about a person by the way they cook.
Well, no, not really. You can tell how a person cooks by the way they cook. But I STILL think the differences in cooking styles is interesting enough to warrant a short blog.
For instance, my friend Hilary grew up in a very proper family. Whenever I had an etiquette question, I always asked Jane (Hilary’s mom). For instance, when do you bring a gift to a party and when do you need to write a thank you card and what can you get away with wearing to a funeral. These are all things that Hilary’s mother can answer, because she is very socially savvy as well as proper. Hilary’s family in general, is very by-the-book when it comes to cooking. They measure flour and sugar, like the rest of us. But I will never forget learning that some people actually measure out things like peanut butter for cookies or soft butter. I always figured everyone thought it was too much hassle to get the gooey stuff into the measuring cup, let alone back out again and just eye-balled it.
My family was big on eye-balling things. We would have had particular difficulty getting the peanut butter back out of the measuring cup (assuming it ever crossed our minds to put it into the cup in the first place) since we never owned a spatula. We called pancake flippers – spatulas. (We also called twist ties “tie bags” and juice boxes “boxed drinks”). I thought everyone measured salt by pouring it into the palm of their hand then tossing it into the bowl. And I thought the only way to tell how much water needed to go into the rice cooker, was to sink my palm flat to the bottom and pour water in until it was mid-way up the back of my hand. That’s the measurement used for measuring rice water. “Fill it to here”. I can see how it would be confusing for some people. How could we be so imprecise?
Well, it has it’s pros and cons.
One pro is that some of my mom’s cooking is phenomenal because it has continued to evolve, similar to a living thing, over the years. She learned to bake pie from my grandma, yet somehow her pie has now become THE PIE to have at a holiday. It’s all about Alice’s apple pie.
Here’s the con though…. it’s hard to replicate her genius. For instance, she has no idea WHY her pie has become so delicious.
Once she tried to teach Hilary’s mom a recipe. It was a disaster that still dumbfounds Jane to this day. And I finally got a taste of what it’s like when I asked my mother for her famous wonton recipe.
My mother makes crazy wonderful wontons. My father, who hasn’t lived with my mother in ten years, still craves them sometimes. And one day, I decided I should learn how to make them. So my mother and I set aside a day of wonton-making (it takes a whole day – my mother is a very go-big-or-go-home kind of a gal). We cut up the cha-sew (Chinese barbecue pork) and cooked chicken and shrimp. We shredded ginger and julienned green onions. We soaked dried shitake mushrooms. But all of the volumes seemed arbitrary. Whatever size package the ingredient came in, that’s what was added. And when it came time for the sauces, well she moved so quickly that I couldn’t see how much of each thing she added…two shakes of oyster sauce….a quick dash of soy sauce….teaspoon of sugar….maybe one more shake of oyster sauce….some corn starch….and a mention about how tapioca starch could be used too….and I’m completed muddled. I would not want to venture on this journey alone, I very quickly decided.
So my mother is something of a culinary genius.
And I make a sorry-ass apple pie from a frozen pastry and mediocre wontons from a recipe I learned from my cousin.
You can tell a lot about a person by the way they cook.
Well, no, not really. You can tell how a person cooks by the way they cook. But I STILL think the differences in cooking styles is interesting enough to warrant a short blog.
For instance, my friend Hilary grew up in a very proper family. Whenever I had an etiquette question, I always asked Jane (Hilary’s mom). For instance, when do you bring a gift to a party and when do you need to write a thank you card and what can you get away with wearing to a funeral. These are all things that Hilary’s mother can answer, because she is very socially savvy as well as proper. Hilary’s family in general, is very by-the-book when it comes to cooking. They measure flour and sugar, like the rest of us. But I will never forget learning that some people actually measure out things like peanut butter for cookies or soft butter. I always figured everyone thought it was too much hassle to get the gooey stuff into the measuring cup, let alone back out again and just eye-balled it.
My family was big on eye-balling things. We would have had particular difficulty getting the peanut butter back out of the measuring cup (assuming it ever crossed our minds to put it into the cup in the first place) since we never owned a spatula. We called pancake flippers – spatulas. (We also called twist ties “tie bags” and juice boxes “boxed drinks”). I thought everyone measured salt by pouring it into the palm of their hand then tossing it into the bowl. And I thought the only way to tell how much water needed to go into the rice cooker, was to sink my palm flat to the bottom and pour water in until it was mid-way up the back of my hand. That’s the measurement used for measuring rice water. “Fill it to here”. I can see how it would be confusing for some people. How could we be so imprecise?
Well, it has it’s pros and cons.
One pro is that some of my mom’s cooking is phenomenal because it has continued to evolve, similar to a living thing, over the years. She learned to bake pie from my grandma, yet somehow her pie has now become THE PIE to have at a holiday. It’s all about Alice’s apple pie.
Here’s the con though…. it’s hard to replicate her genius. For instance, she has no idea WHY her pie has become so delicious.
Once she tried to teach Hilary’s mom a recipe. It was a disaster that still dumbfounds Jane to this day. And I finally got a taste of what it’s like when I asked my mother for her famous wonton recipe.
My mother makes crazy wonderful wontons. My father, who hasn’t lived with my mother in ten years, still craves them sometimes. And one day, I decided I should learn how to make them. So my mother and I set aside a day of wonton-making (it takes a whole day – my mother is a very go-big-or-go-home kind of a gal). We cut up the cha-sew (Chinese barbecue pork) and cooked chicken and shrimp. We shredded ginger and julienned green onions. We soaked dried shitake mushrooms. But all of the volumes seemed arbitrary. Whatever size package the ingredient came in, that’s what was added. And when it came time for the sauces, well she moved so quickly that I couldn’t see how much of each thing she added…two shakes of oyster sauce….a quick dash of soy sauce….teaspoon of sugar….maybe one more shake of oyster sauce….some corn starch….and a mention about how tapioca starch could be used too….and I’m completed muddled. I would not want to venture on this journey alone, I very quickly decided.
So my mother is something of a culinary genius.
And I make a sorry-ass apple pie from a frozen pastry and mediocre wontons from a recipe I learned from my cousin.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Verbosity (and a tangent about childhood fears)
I find very little drives me to the brink of insanity faster than someone who speaks a lot but says nothing.
I used to a have an Introduction to Computers professor who did this. It wasn’t just that he had a lot of filler words, such as “um” and “okay”. It was the downright circular nature of his thought processes and his absolute lack of direction and focus. It’s like he just started to speak without giving any thought to how he was going to finish the thought. And consequently, no clear thought emerged.
Now imagine paying thousands of dollars in tuition and being forced to sit and listen to this man for hours on end. One ceases to try to decipher the key ideas. One ceases to even try to follow the leaps from topic to topic and the interjections of clauses within clauses with imaginary parentheses and coma after coma after coma. It’s not just confusing. It’s not just baffling. It’s downright infuriating.
The best one can do, similar to being on a stand-up roller coaster, is close one’s eyes and pray to god it will be over soon.
It reminds me of a thing my friend Hilary admitted to me a long time ago. We were talking about strange unfounded childhood beliefs.
I told her that I used to believe there were robbers hiding behind my dresser. I was really scared of robbers. I was sure they would come out at night when my parents were asleep and that I would be the person unfortunate enough to encounter them in a midnight stand-off. So I devised a plan. I decided that I would convince the robbers that I was actually a robber too. And I was simply POSING as an innocent child to earn the trust of the family living here. Then I planned to rob them when they least expected it. However, this meant that this house was my turf and so, Mr. Robber, you will have to keep moving and find another house. It was brilliant. And it helped me sleep at night.
Hilary had a fear too. She confided that, when she was much younger, she had somehow come to the conclusion that she would only be able to say a word for every blade of grass she ever passed by. She constantly worried that one day, she would use them all up and be struck dumb! And without the ability to speak, she would somehow have to convince her parents that they needed to go out for a walk or car ride, anything so she could pass by more blades of grass and suddenly be granted the ability to speak again.
Perhaps I need to invest in a weed-wacker.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
United Wii Stand
It’s Tickle-Me-Elmo all over again.
Or the era of the Cabbage Patch Kid.
Today marked the release of the newest gaming system, the Nintendo Wii.
Normally I would sleep through the excitement and hub-bub, especially after a late night of dancing. However, this morning, I woke up with one thing on my mind. I was going to hunt down this intensely coveted thing and bring it home for Mark for his birthday in two days.
Now, a student of mine, (we’ll call him Jack), told me this week that all the stores were ordering TONNES of Nintendi Wii’s and that I shouldn’t worry about pre-ordering them. They wouldn’t sell out.
Then yesterday, I phoned Best Buy at noon and they ALREADY had people waiting in line to buy a game system. So I knew Best Buy would be a competitive place to look.
On the website, it said Zellers opened at 10am. So when I woke up at 10:30, I rushed to have a shower and drove off. I remember saying to Mark, “If I can get two, should I get one for Matt too?” I laugh now at my own naivety.
Zellers was not open at 10:30. The sign said the mall opened at noon. A few people were standing outside of The Source, in the same mall as Zellers, but they were uncertain about whether the store would even be open on a Sunday, let alone when. So I phoned Mark, who was still in bed, and he said he thought I should try Canadian Tire.
Canadian Tire does not cell the Nintendo Wii, I soon found out.
So I drove to Best Buy. I arrived six minutes after they opened, and they were already sold out. I didn’t even bother to go inside.
I drove to Zellers again. They were now open, but all sold out too. In fact, there were 32 people on the waiting list who apparently wouldn’t all get a Wii in the next shipment.
I walked to The Source. They don’t sell the Wii.
I phoned Mark again. He said Rogers was selling the systems too.
I went to Rogers. They don’t sell the Wii.
I went to EB games. There was a line up about 40 people long. They were letting people in one at a time. It was there that I actually got within ten feet of one, as someone exited the store carrying their prize. They’d probably been in line since six in the morning, so they deserved it. I felt slightly jealous just the same.
I went to the end of the line and who should I see there but Jack. Jack and I and his family stood for a few minutes and chatted about the silliness of it all. Neither Jack nor I had pre-ordered a Nintendo Wii. Neither Jack nor I had a coat on. Neither Jack nor I stood a chance in hell of getting our hands on a game system today. After a minute or two, I forfeited, said a casual good-bye and went home.
I wonder what I ever did with my cabbage patch kid.
It’s Tickle-Me-Elmo all over again.
Or the era of the Cabbage Patch Kid.
Today marked the release of the newest gaming system, the Nintendo Wii.
Normally I would sleep through the excitement and hub-bub, especially after a late night of dancing. However, this morning, I woke up with one thing on my mind. I was going to hunt down this intensely coveted thing and bring it home for Mark for his birthday in two days.
Now, a student of mine, (we’ll call him Jack), told me this week that all the stores were ordering TONNES of Nintendi Wii’s and that I shouldn’t worry about pre-ordering them. They wouldn’t sell out.
Then yesterday, I phoned Best Buy at noon and they ALREADY had people waiting in line to buy a game system. So I knew Best Buy would be a competitive place to look.
On the website, it said Zellers opened at 10am. So when I woke up at 10:30, I rushed to have a shower and drove off. I remember saying to Mark, “If I can get two, should I get one for Matt too?” I laugh now at my own naivety.
Zellers was not open at 10:30. The sign said the mall opened at noon. A few people were standing outside of The Source, in the same mall as Zellers, but they were uncertain about whether the store would even be open on a Sunday, let alone when. So I phoned Mark, who was still in bed, and he said he thought I should try Canadian Tire.
Canadian Tire does not cell the Nintendo Wii, I soon found out.
So I drove to Best Buy. I arrived six minutes after they opened, and they were already sold out. I didn’t even bother to go inside.
I drove to Zellers again. They were now open, but all sold out too. In fact, there were 32 people on the waiting list who apparently wouldn’t all get a Wii in the next shipment.
I walked to The Source. They don’t sell the Wii.
I phoned Mark again. He said Rogers was selling the systems too.
I went to Rogers. They don’t sell the Wii.
I went to EB games. There was a line up about 40 people long. They were letting people in one at a time. It was there that I actually got within ten feet of one, as someone exited the store carrying their prize. They’d probably been in line since six in the morning, so they deserved it. I felt slightly jealous just the same.
I went to the end of the line and who should I see there but Jack. Jack and I and his family stood for a few minutes and chatted about the silliness of it all. Neither Jack nor I had pre-ordered a Nintendo Wii. Neither Jack nor I had a coat on. Neither Jack nor I stood a chance in hell of getting our hands on a game system today. After a minute or two, I forfeited, said a casual good-bye and went home.
I wonder what I ever did with my cabbage patch kid.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
In the spotlight
You would think that a department store, wanting to sell you their clothes, would want you to feel breathtaking when trying on garments. Yet somehow, I always feel my most garish when getting undressed in a department store change room.
It must be the lights.
Or it might just be that I’m not usually examining myself so closely when I’m undressing. Their blazing fluorescent spotlights shining down from the ceiling are blinding. They cast bloated shadows on the floor beneath you.
And if you leave the socks on when trying on the evening gown, well, you’re wearing socks with an evening gown. And if you take them off, you’ve got those awesome sock-crater anklets up around your mid-calf.
The belly also seems to jiggle more under fluorescent light. The muffin tops are more prominent, and so are the chicken wings. (Muffin tops – see skin happily protruding above waist band of pants; chicken wings – see skin happily poking out from under armpits)
And then you’re twisting and distorting your shoulders and body trying to squeeze a hopeful size smaller than you should have up over your baby-bearing hips and being careful not to get makeup or deodorant scuffs on the outfit and half wondering if someone is watching all this over a security camera tucked away carefully in the ceiling fixtures when you realize…. the door wasn’t quite latched behind you.
These are the days of our lives.
You would think that a department store, wanting to sell you their clothes, would want you to feel breathtaking when trying on garments. Yet somehow, I always feel my most garish when getting undressed in a department store change room.
It must be the lights.
Or it might just be that I’m not usually examining myself so closely when I’m undressing. Their blazing fluorescent spotlights shining down from the ceiling are blinding. They cast bloated shadows on the floor beneath you.
And if you leave the socks on when trying on the evening gown, well, you’re wearing socks with an evening gown. And if you take them off, you’ve got those awesome sock-crater anklets up around your mid-calf.
The belly also seems to jiggle more under fluorescent light. The muffin tops are more prominent, and so are the chicken wings. (Muffin tops – see skin happily protruding above waist band of pants; chicken wings – see skin happily poking out from under armpits)
And then you’re twisting and distorting your shoulders and body trying to squeeze a hopeful size smaller than you should have up over your baby-bearing hips and being careful not to get makeup or deodorant scuffs on the outfit and half wondering if someone is watching all this over a security camera tucked away carefully in the ceiling fixtures when you realize…. the door wasn’t quite latched behind you.
These are the days of our lives.
Monday, November 13, 2006
What Happens in the Classroom Stays in the Classroom: Buttockal Breezes
So one day I was wearing these snazzy black capris at school. They were a teensy weensy bit on the snug side, and it so happened that as I was sitting down on my stool at the beginning of a class, I felt a quiet ripping sound and immediately there was a draft in the vicinity of my buttockal junction.
In situations like this, one immediately asks herself whether the rip will be noticeable. For instance, if the under garments would blend nicely with the surrounding pants, a person might safely buy herself some time. In this case, no such luck. The undergarments were not of the full-bottom variety, and so the situation jumped up a crisis level.
I tried to do what I could about teaching from a seated position facing the class and quickly assigned the students some work to do. Then I sort of side-stepped to a door that led to the science storage room. I darted inside and rummaged around until I found my old lab coat. Genius! I wrapped it around me and it hung down to my knees.
I proudly emerged - the gaping pant-wound concealed - my confidence restored. The students looked at my quizzically and then suddenly became very excited. “Are we doing an experiment?” they asked, “Why are you wearing a lab coat?”
“Well,” I said matter-of-factly, “I was just feeling particularly scienc-y today.”
So one day I was wearing these snazzy black capris at school. They were a teensy weensy bit on the snug side, and it so happened that as I was sitting down on my stool at the beginning of a class, I felt a quiet ripping sound and immediately there was a draft in the vicinity of my buttockal junction.
In situations like this, one immediately asks herself whether the rip will be noticeable. For instance, if the under garments would blend nicely with the surrounding pants, a person might safely buy herself some time. In this case, no such luck. The undergarments were not of the full-bottom variety, and so the situation jumped up a crisis level.
I tried to do what I could about teaching from a seated position facing the class and quickly assigned the students some work to do. Then I sort of side-stepped to a door that led to the science storage room. I darted inside and rummaged around until I found my old lab coat. Genius! I wrapped it around me and it hung down to my knees.
I proudly emerged - the gaping pant-wound concealed - my confidence restored. The students looked at my quizzically and then suddenly became very excited. “Are we doing an experiment?” they asked, “Why are you wearing a lab coat?”
“Well,” I said matter-of-factly, “I was just feeling particularly scienc-y today.”
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Fred
My mom’s dear friend Fred passed away a few days ago.
The memories that will come to my mind when I think of Fred are:
* his passion for playing the violin and exchanging cassettes of his violin playing with a man who lived in Florida and who also enjoyed sharing his violin playing
* how he’d do mechanical work on our car in exchange for Mom spending the afternoon accompanying him with her piano playing while he played violin
* how he loved to make sweet dandelion wine
* the enormous Czech meals he’d share so jubilantly
* that he let my brother drive his BMW
Here is a poem that I’d like to dedicate to Fred and the friends and family who will miss him.
SOME TIME AT EVE (by Elizabeth Clark Hardy)
Some time at eve when the tide is low,
I shall slip my mooring and sail away,
With no response to the friendly hail
Of kindred craft in the busy bay.
In the silent hush of the twilight place,
When the night stoops down to embrace the day,
And the voices call in the waters’ flow –
Some time at eve when the tide is low,
I shall slip my mooring and sail away.
Through the purpling shadows that darkly trail
O’er the ebbing tide of the Unknown Sea,
I shall fare me away, with a dip of sail
And a ripple of waters to tell the tale
Of a lonely voyager, sailing away
To the Mystic Isles where at anchor lay
The crafts of those who have sailed before
O’er the Unknown Sea to the Unseen Shore.
A few who have watched me sail away
Will miss my craft from the busy bay;
Some friendly barks that were anchored near,
Some loving souls that my heart held dear,
In silent sorrow will drop a tear –
But I shall have peacefully furled my sail
In moorings sheltered from storm or gale,
And greeted the friends who have sailed before
O’er the Unknown Sea to the Unseen Shore.
My mom’s dear friend Fred passed away a few days ago.
The memories that will come to my mind when I think of Fred are:
* his passion for playing the violin and exchanging cassettes of his violin playing with a man who lived in Florida and who also enjoyed sharing his violin playing
* how he’d do mechanical work on our car in exchange for Mom spending the afternoon accompanying him with her piano playing while he played violin
* how he loved to make sweet dandelion wine
* the enormous Czech meals he’d share so jubilantly
* that he let my brother drive his BMW
Here is a poem that I’d like to dedicate to Fred and the friends and family who will miss him.
SOME TIME AT EVE (by Elizabeth Clark Hardy)
Some time at eve when the tide is low,
I shall slip my mooring and sail away,
With no response to the friendly hail
Of kindred craft in the busy bay.
In the silent hush of the twilight place,
When the night stoops down to embrace the day,
And the voices call in the waters’ flow –
Some time at eve when the tide is low,
I shall slip my mooring and sail away.
Through the purpling shadows that darkly trail
O’er the ebbing tide of the Unknown Sea,
I shall fare me away, with a dip of sail
And a ripple of waters to tell the tale
Of a lonely voyager, sailing away
To the Mystic Isles where at anchor lay
The crafts of those who have sailed before
O’er the Unknown Sea to the Unseen Shore.
A few who have watched me sail away
Will miss my craft from the busy bay;
Some friendly barks that were anchored near,
Some loving souls that my heart held dear,
In silent sorrow will drop a tear –
But I shall have peacefully furled my sail
In moorings sheltered from storm or gale,
And greeted the friends who have sailed before
O’er the Unknown Sea to the Unseen Shore.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Day Off
I took the day off today…. to work.
It’s ironic, I know.
Yet, even though my to-do list is no shorter than a regular day in the classroom, it’s filled with more fun things. And isn’t happiness all about the little things?
For instance, I woke up at 7:00 instead of 6:15. Luxurious! And I made myself eggs and toast and drank juice instead of diet coke (‘cause I didn’t need the caffeine). And I phoned my Mom (who is panicking about her teaching evaluation) and volunteered to help her with her lesson plans if she e-mailed them to me. Then I phoned my Dad and we chatted for a while. This, of course, is all before 7:35.
I also plan on making muffins today. And watching A Baby Story on The Learning Channel.
I will NOT ask kids to put their rulers back where they found them. I won’t tell them to please not talk while I am talking. I will not eat on the run. I won’t start my day with a volleyball practice, teach every period, do bus duty and then end it with the Learn to Run Club and a nasty e-mail from an argumentative parent.
Maybe I will rake some leaves. Maybe I will tidy up the kitchen. Maybe I will have a nap in the middle of the day. Certainly I will check my e-mail seventeen times before lunch.
It is going to be a great day.
I took the day off today…. to work.
It’s ironic, I know.
Yet, even though my to-do list is no shorter than a regular day in the classroom, it’s filled with more fun things. And isn’t happiness all about the little things?
For instance, I woke up at 7:00 instead of 6:15. Luxurious! And I made myself eggs and toast and drank juice instead of diet coke (‘cause I didn’t need the caffeine). And I phoned my Mom (who is panicking about her teaching evaluation) and volunteered to help her with her lesson plans if she e-mailed them to me. Then I phoned my Dad and we chatted for a while. This, of course, is all before 7:35.
I also plan on making muffins today. And watching A Baby Story on The Learning Channel.
I will NOT ask kids to put their rulers back where they found them. I won’t tell them to please not talk while I am talking. I will not eat on the run. I won’t start my day with a volleyball practice, teach every period, do bus duty and then end it with the Learn to Run Club and a nasty e-mail from an argumentative parent.
Maybe I will rake some leaves. Maybe I will tidy up the kitchen. Maybe I will have a nap in the middle of the day. Certainly I will check my e-mail seventeen times before lunch.
It is going to be a great day.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Mommy Mode – The Top-Secret Super Sonic Gear
Sometimes there is just a lot to do and a very short time in which to do it all. For instance, when my mother was grocery shopping with three young children and there was a neurotic dog at home with separation anxiety and an affinity for jumping through screen windows and chewing on door frames. Or when she was teaching piano, while watching her kids, while entertaining the clients’ parents and half-babysitting the clients’ siblings. Or while she was making a batch of wontons whilst doing the dishes, as well as entertaining a neighbourhood singing group and simultaneously acting as a piano accompanist for their feature number “The Rose”.
My grandma used to tell tales about how the day my mother returned from the hospital after having her third child, my youngest brother, she went immediately grocery shopping. It baffles most people to think that someone could have so much energy after squeezing forth life from their loins, but my mother just shrugs at the story and explains, “We needed groceries.”
My mother is a miraculous woman who can multi-task like it’s nobody’s business. And my sister and I used to secretly joke about how she’d get into a trance-like state when there was a lot to accomplish, she’d get tunnel vision and there wasn’t a force in the world that could stop our mother when she got efficient like that. We called it “Mommy Mode”.
For instance, when we occasionally stopped at the grocery store to “just pick up some eggs”, we had two choices. The first choice involved sitting in the car while mom ran inside to “just pick up some eggs”. We’d bet on how many bags of groceries she’d have when she returned, literally, HOURS later. The second choice wasn’t a lot better. We could go inside the grocery store, and RUN next to our mother as she dashed here and there in a seemingly haphazard pattern. Whenever I think Mommy Mode, this is what I envision: the grocery store.
So Mary and I joked about it. However, as we grew older, we’d find ourselves occasionally falling into that crazy mystical super-sonic gear in which the rest of the world seemed to slip into slow motion and we whirred around accomplishing many great feats at lightning speed. It was funny to suddenly realize that we were so much like our mother. But it was also glorious. We realized that we reveled in this new-found efficiency. Suddenly we appreciated the demands a woman has on her and how Mommy Mode is sometimes the most logical and safe answer.
I admit that I am not as good, yet, as my mom. I can go fast (good GOD can I ever go FAST), but I’m not truly convinced that I’m being efficient. For instance, say it’s Saturday and I’m trying to clean the house. I start one task, like clearing off my desk, and get distracted, say, by all the paperwork that needs filing. Then I’ll leave my unfinished desk to file paperwork, only to notice, as I’m sitting on the carpet, that I need to vacuum. So I’ll begin to vacuum and arrive in the living room and notice that the dishes in the kitchen need cleaning. I’ll leave the vacuum cleaner, begin to do the dishes and see a pair of scissors that belongs in my room, on my desk……
It seems completely ridiculous unless you’re there at the end of the day when I can kick it into high gear just long enough to quickly finish all the little tasks I’ve begun earlier, in quick succession. It’s a satisfaction like no other. (Well, it ranks pretty high anyway).
It’s during those moments that I feel like I am imitating my mother’s admired efficiency. And admire her I do. She might just be Wonder Woman.
Disclaimer: The preceding blog is meant to gently tease my mother but mostly to poke fun at my own idiosyncrasies. I am proud to have learned the things I have from my mom, I love her dearly and mean her no disrespect.
COMMENTS -- Please feel free to share your Mommy Mode Moments.
Sometimes there is just a lot to do and a very short time in which to do it all. For instance, when my mother was grocery shopping with three young children and there was a neurotic dog at home with separation anxiety and an affinity for jumping through screen windows and chewing on door frames. Or when she was teaching piano, while watching her kids, while entertaining the clients’ parents and half-babysitting the clients’ siblings. Or while she was making a batch of wontons whilst doing the dishes, as well as entertaining a neighbourhood singing group and simultaneously acting as a piano accompanist for their feature number “The Rose”.
My grandma used to tell tales about how the day my mother returned from the hospital after having her third child, my youngest brother, she went immediately grocery shopping. It baffles most people to think that someone could have so much energy after squeezing forth life from their loins, but my mother just shrugs at the story and explains, “We needed groceries.”
My mother is a miraculous woman who can multi-task like it’s nobody’s business. And my sister and I used to secretly joke about how she’d get into a trance-like state when there was a lot to accomplish, she’d get tunnel vision and there wasn’t a force in the world that could stop our mother when she got efficient like that. We called it “Mommy Mode”.
For instance, when we occasionally stopped at the grocery store to “just pick up some eggs”, we had two choices. The first choice involved sitting in the car while mom ran inside to “just pick up some eggs”. We’d bet on how many bags of groceries she’d have when she returned, literally, HOURS later. The second choice wasn’t a lot better. We could go inside the grocery store, and RUN next to our mother as she dashed here and there in a seemingly haphazard pattern. Whenever I think Mommy Mode, this is what I envision: the grocery store.
So Mary and I joked about it. However, as we grew older, we’d find ourselves occasionally falling into that crazy mystical super-sonic gear in which the rest of the world seemed to slip into slow motion and we whirred around accomplishing many great feats at lightning speed. It was funny to suddenly realize that we were so much like our mother. But it was also glorious. We realized that we reveled in this new-found efficiency. Suddenly we appreciated the demands a woman has on her and how Mommy Mode is sometimes the most logical and safe answer.
I admit that I am not as good, yet, as my mom. I can go fast (good GOD can I ever go FAST), but I’m not truly convinced that I’m being efficient. For instance, say it’s Saturday and I’m trying to clean the house. I start one task, like clearing off my desk, and get distracted, say, by all the paperwork that needs filing. Then I’ll leave my unfinished desk to file paperwork, only to notice, as I’m sitting on the carpet, that I need to vacuum. So I’ll begin to vacuum and arrive in the living room and notice that the dishes in the kitchen need cleaning. I’ll leave the vacuum cleaner, begin to do the dishes and see a pair of scissors that belongs in my room, on my desk……
It seems completely ridiculous unless you’re there at the end of the day when I can kick it into high gear just long enough to quickly finish all the little tasks I’ve begun earlier, in quick succession. It’s a satisfaction like no other. (Well, it ranks pretty high anyway).
It’s during those moments that I feel like I am imitating my mother’s admired efficiency. And admire her I do. She might just be Wonder Woman.
Disclaimer: The preceding blog is meant to gently tease my mother but mostly to poke fun at my own idiosyncrasies. I am proud to have learned the things I have from my mom, I love her dearly and mean her no disrespect.
COMMENTS -- Please feel free to share your Mommy Mode Moments.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
When is a person not quite a person?
I’m planning a wedding. What a wonderful and festive time in my life!
Just lately, I’ve been asked if children are invited, a detail you think about more when you actually HAVE children, I guess. When planning most large to-do’s, one doesn’t even consider this question. It’s usually a decision that is made for you.
You know, a birthday party – kids? Yes.
A bachelorette – kids? No.
I’ve never had an event where inviting kids was optional. And I’ve never been faced with the prospect of having to write on an invitation: No Kids Allowed. It strikes me as rude. Very 10-year-old-girls-only-treehouse, if you will. And more than slightly judgmental. If for no other reason than that I was a kid once. And I hated having to sit at a smaller version of the adult table at Thanksgiving, or being banished to from “adult” board games like Risk, even if I would find them boring.
I know, I know…. Maybe kids wouldn’t enjoy a room full of inebriated Thunderbay-ites and Owen Sounders. Then again, maybe they would. So I have decided that children deserve to be part of the cupcake eating and rice-tossing and chicken dancing and glass clink-clinking and all the other wonderful frills that come with a wedding celebration.
This led me to my next puzzle. We sit down with our catering manager and tabulate the cost of the meal on a per person basis. So is a kid a person? I can’t imagine they would be! At least not a whole one. Perhaps a fifth or a half of a person. If I invite my 5 year old neice, do I pay $50 for her meal? (Granted, the kid can really pack it back! She finished 5 whole pink boiled eggs at Tristan’s one-month celebration in addition to all the regular food.) And what about Tristan? He’ll be one and a half by next summer, but do they eat real person food? I’m sure they just eat mush until they’re one, but I’ve noticed two year olds can eat fruit. Surely I wouldn’t have to pay $50 for the kid to pick peas off his mother’s plate.
Or maybe we’re paying for the chair? Which begs the question….. does a one and a half year old need his own chair? Or does he just sit on his dad’s lap? Maybe it depends on how heavy he is. A heavy little kid could put a nasty cramp in his dad’s legs if he had to sit there all night.
But I’ve made my decision.
Kids, you can come to my wedding. Because, if we’re being honest, by the end of the night, there may be many, many people who require assistance with walking, who can’t eat without making a mess and who speak in unintelligible dribble. And they won’t be nearly as cute as you!
I’m planning a wedding. What a wonderful and festive time in my life!
Just lately, I’ve been asked if children are invited, a detail you think about more when you actually HAVE children, I guess. When planning most large to-do’s, one doesn’t even consider this question. It’s usually a decision that is made for you.
You know, a birthday party – kids? Yes.
A bachelorette – kids? No.
I’ve never had an event where inviting kids was optional. And I’ve never been faced with the prospect of having to write on an invitation: No Kids Allowed. It strikes me as rude. Very 10-year-old-girls-only-treehouse, if you will. And more than slightly judgmental. If for no other reason than that I was a kid once. And I hated having to sit at a smaller version of the adult table at Thanksgiving, or being banished to from “adult” board games like Risk, even if I would find them boring.
I know, I know…. Maybe kids wouldn’t enjoy a room full of inebriated Thunderbay-ites and Owen Sounders. Then again, maybe they would. So I have decided that children deserve to be part of the cupcake eating and rice-tossing and chicken dancing and glass clink-clinking and all the other wonderful frills that come with a wedding celebration.
This led me to my next puzzle. We sit down with our catering manager and tabulate the cost of the meal on a per person basis. So is a kid a person? I can’t imagine they would be! At least not a whole one. Perhaps a fifth or a half of a person. If I invite my 5 year old neice, do I pay $50 for her meal? (Granted, the kid can really pack it back! She finished 5 whole pink boiled eggs at Tristan’s one-month celebration in addition to all the regular food.) And what about Tristan? He’ll be one and a half by next summer, but do they eat real person food? I’m sure they just eat mush until they’re one, but I’ve noticed two year olds can eat fruit. Surely I wouldn’t have to pay $50 for the kid to pick peas off his mother’s plate.
Or maybe we’re paying for the chair? Which begs the question….. does a one and a half year old need his own chair? Or does he just sit on his dad’s lap? Maybe it depends on how heavy he is. A heavy little kid could put a nasty cramp in his dad’s legs if he had to sit there all night.
But I’ve made my decision.
Kids, you can come to my wedding. Because, if we’re being honest, by the end of the night, there may be many, many people who require assistance with walking, who can’t eat without making a mess and who speak in unintelligible dribble. And they won’t be nearly as cute as you!
Friday, November 03, 2006
Hair-Busters!
Last night, Mark and I were being silly (not the kind of silly you’re thinking of) and he fell off the side of the bed. While he was lying on the floor, he caught a glimpse of the badlands of beneath the bed and the creatures and ecosystems that had begun to develop there. It disturbed him so much, he had to go immediately to get the Swiffer Sweeper. When he lifted the ugly ball of fuzz interwoven with enough hair to create a small cat, it was hard to deny that the hair had probably come from me. (Mark is beautifully bald.)
Today I was reflecting on the gargantuan dust bunny nestled beneath our haven-of-rest and I began to feel dismayed. It inspired me into a cleaning fit, of sorts. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Mary Poppins, it’s that with every job that must be done there is an element of fun, you find the fun and SNAP the job’s a game…. So I decided to approach the carpets and floors in my house as a Hair-Buster. You know…
When there’s something strange….
underneath the bed…..
who ya gonna call….
Hair-Busters…..da da da dah da.
There was hair to bust EVERYWHERE. I don’t know how I generated so much of it. I could go into business as a sheep and get sheared several times a year to make beautiful afghans. It’s in the corners of the kitchen and behind the garbage can. It’s stuck to the sink and to the bathroom scale and to the rugs and the carpets. It’s stuck to my pants and shirts if I forget to put a fabric softener Bounce sheet into the dryer. It’s absolutely everywhere. It’s on the pillows and the blankets and it’s in the nooks and crannies where it’s hard to vacuum because there are electrical cords there. Today, I busted it all, baby. Stoically armed with Vacuum, Swiffer and broom, I came, saw and conquered!
At least until next week.
Last night, Mark and I were being silly (not the kind of silly you’re thinking of) and he fell off the side of the bed. While he was lying on the floor, he caught a glimpse of the badlands of beneath the bed and the creatures and ecosystems that had begun to develop there. It disturbed him so much, he had to go immediately to get the Swiffer Sweeper. When he lifted the ugly ball of fuzz interwoven with enough hair to create a small cat, it was hard to deny that the hair had probably come from me. (Mark is beautifully bald.)
Today I was reflecting on the gargantuan dust bunny nestled beneath our haven-of-rest and I began to feel dismayed. It inspired me into a cleaning fit, of sorts. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Mary Poppins, it’s that with every job that must be done there is an element of fun, you find the fun and SNAP the job’s a game…. So I decided to approach the carpets and floors in my house as a Hair-Buster. You know…
When there’s something strange….
underneath the bed…..
who ya gonna call….
Hair-Busters…..da da da dah da.
There was hair to bust EVERYWHERE. I don’t know how I generated so much of it. I could go into business as a sheep and get sheared several times a year to make beautiful afghans. It’s in the corners of the kitchen and behind the garbage can. It’s stuck to the sink and to the bathroom scale and to the rugs and the carpets. It’s stuck to my pants and shirts if I forget to put a fabric softener Bounce sheet into the dryer. It’s absolutely everywhere. It’s on the pillows and the blankets and it’s in the nooks and crannies where it’s hard to vacuum because there are electrical cords there. Today, I busted it all, baby. Stoically armed with Vacuum, Swiffer and broom, I came, saw and conquered!
At least until next week.
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