Working with children is always an adventure, but there is a significant difference (to me) between working as a caregiver in a daycare program (which is what I am doing now) and working as a teacher in an actual classroom. As I've worked with the children and other adults at the elementary school, I've noticed that there has been a shift in the way I view myself, as well as shifts in the way other people view me. I have tried reconciling with these different identities, but some of them still weird me out.
1. I am invisible. The teachers at the school (with the exception of the principal and the kindergarten and grade one teachers) don't seem to see me. I often pass them on my way to pick up children from their classrooms, or taking children to their classrooms. I have tried very hard from the beginning to not walk around looking like a grumpus. Part of this behavioral modification attempt on my part requires me to smile at people as I walk past. Not say anything, as I know people are busy and teachers in the hallway are rarely able to stop and chat; I just smile. In return I get blank stares, or worse, cut dead (this is an old-time-y Britishism for when someone makes eye contact with you, then looks away and ignores you as though you were never there). As I have done nothing to offend these teachers, I can only assume it is because they are aware of my non-teacher status and have decided that I do not merit a response (this explanation was offered by the ladies I work with, who get simiar responses, despite having worked at the school for years). This is infuriating, because it makes me want to say, "Look, dude (or lady), I realize that you are a busy teacher with things to do, but you have a small school, with small classes, and your kids with their issues are nothing compared to what I dealt with for four years in California, so don't treat me like some inferior 'help' because I'm not teaching. I'm just trying to be nice." I never actually say it, except in my head (with expletives). I don't think that will help the situation. No, I just continue to smile politely and hope that one day, I won't be invisible to them.
As noted above, there are 3 exceptions to this. The principal is very nice and always says hello and makes small talk. The kindergarten teacher is polite. I have become buddies with the grade one teacher, and she gives me heads up when kids are gone or have head lice. This last is especially important if I have my hair hanging down at all (even in a ponytail), because I can fix it before getting near any children.
2. I am the loud one. I know, shocking, right? But I am. Every other woman I work with is very soft spoken. They can't yell - they are physically incapable of hollering over the din of 50 students in a lunch room. I am not. Often one of them will motion to me to get the kids' attention, because I'm the only one who can raise my voice in a non-yelling fashion loud enough for the kids to hear the cue of "1,2,3 eyes on me". It's weird. I've never been "the loud one" before. That title usually goes to Becca (don't get offended, you know it's true). It's also kind of empowering, because when kids are being rude little brats and ignoring the other teachers, I have the power to get and keep their attention long enough to point out that they are being rude and disrespectful (I leave off the brats part) to an adult. Then they stay quiet because it's still kind of new to them to have a teacher whom they can't tune out. Weird, eh?
3. I am a jailer, a prison warden, the "mean" one. For the most part, I get along fine with the kids. There are a few who try to push the limits on behavior beyond what is acceptable, but very few. There's only one (so far) who I would classify as a completely spoiled brat. This child flips out the second things do not go his way. I know that type of behavior is common in two and three year olds; he is in third grade. Not acceptable in the slightest. Yesterday things came to a head when he threw a temper tantrum at not being dismissed to go out to recess with all of his friends. There was a simple reason for this: we only dismiss half the students, wait five minutes, then dismiss the other half because otherwise their cubby area gets too crowded with everyone trying to get in their snow clothing all at once. I was already tired of his rude comments to the teachers at lunch, so when he threw his tantrum, I'd had enough. He stayed inside with me. I attempted to calmly explain to him why he was being kept inside. I didn't yell at all, but I did rock my "teacher voice". He responded by proclaiming "This is the worst day of my life" to which I responded "You must have a pretty good life". Later it was "I'd rather be in jail, it'd be better than this" to which I responded "You've obviously never seen a real jail." A little immature, but I couldn't help it. There were also proclamations of "I'm going to tell my mom" and "I'm going to tell my dad". I invited him to do so. I wish he had. Oh, I so wish he had. I would love to have a conversation with that child's mother about what constitutes appropriate behavior. Later, while in the midst of a fresh bout of tears (he had several), he tipped his head backwards and began to choke, then grabbed his throat. I told him to tip his head forward, because tipping it back makes you choke. No sympathy from me, the mean one. Once the bell rang, I dismissed him. As a "parting shot" he said "Thanks for the worst time ever." I held my tongue. I can tell this will be a lengthy war, and I'd already won the battle.
4. I am a storyteller. I love to read books aloud to children. My favorite is Skippyjon Jones, but Where the Wild Things Are is a close second. My kinders have figured out that I love reading, and every day at least two of them fight to have me read their books at book time (following lunch). It's great fun :). I like doing voices, reading with great expression, and generally making books enjoyable. And I love that they fight over whose book will get read first, or who gets to sit on my lap while I read.
5. I am a star. The kinders (who I spend the bulk of my time with on Mondays) have this game they play with tinker toys: Show. Catchy title, eh? It's really cute, though, because they all make microphones and cameras out of the toys, then put on a show for one another with singing, or "lifting weights" (also made from tinker toys) or acting. The other day, one of the boys asked me to sing the ABC's. I sang Jackson 5 instead, while the others "filmed" me. Then it was a duet of "Call Me Maybe" with one of the girls, and then a group "Gangnam Style" dance off. I still never want to teach kindergarten - it's way more fun to just play with the kids - but I am not hating my afternoons with them the way I feared I would when I first started working this job.
6. I am Miss Judge-y Pants. That's right. I judge the parents of these kids up and down, all day long. I judge all over them. I tried not to, but y'know what? Some people are crappy parents, and it shows. I understand about difficulties with children who have strong personalities, and I know some kids will always be pushing the limits; although, those kids will often back down when it's made clear to them that they've gone too far. No, the parents I judge are ones like the parents of the child I timed out for lunch yesterday, the tantrum-thrower. Or the mother who often forgets to send her daughter a lunch. Or the mother whose daughter has had lice three times this year. Or the father who allows his grade 5 daughter to dress in a manner more befitting a Ke$ha concert than school. Or the parents who send their children to school in -45 weather without mitts or snowpants. Or the parents who allow their kindergarten daughter to wear strapless sundresses to school in the middle of winter, and complain that she is just stubborn, like, hi, she's five and tiny. You don't have to let her out of the house like that. That's right, I'm Miss Judge-y Pants. I'm sure if/when I have my own children, I will have my own problems to deal with, but I hope I at least have sense enough to a) dress my children appropriately for school, in every sense of the word b) keep my children clean and fed, and c) squash the tendency towards tantrums out of them before they're too large to wrestle.
It's a different experience, working in child care instead of being a teacher (although I still get called "Teacher" every day). While this is not something I will be doing the rest of my life (June, can you get here already?), I am having experiences and "gaining identities" that I never have before. It's kind of fun...although it's still weird to me, being the loud one.
Friday, 1 February 2013
Monday, 19 November 2012
Come Join Me for an Evening of Awkward Conversation
Alternative Title: Why I Am Almost Certainly Doomed to Remain Single
Other Alternative Title: Arrange Marriages are Underrated
Other Other Alternative Title: Say Anything...No Really, Anything At All. Just Spit It Out. Whatever Comes To Mind....Okay, Probably Not That
I have been mulling this post over in my head for the past two weeks. Originally I wasn't going to write anything about it because it requires a lot of, frankly, embarrassing honesty on my part. Also, I didn't want to cause potential embarrassment for other parties involved, but since I don't use the full names of anyone from up here, and the people involved pretty much all know everything already, I don't see how that could really be an issue. In the end, though, this blog is supposed to be about the experiences I have while living up here in Canada, and this is kind of a big one, for me.
I've mentioned before the difficulty I have in carrying on conversations when I am ill at ease in social situations. If I get at all nervous, my brain shuts down and I can't even form a sentence, let alone be witty and spontaneous in what I say. If I'm in the situation long enough, I eventually regain my powers of speech, but still have difficulty getting into a natural flow of discourse with other people. I tend to sound like I'm interrogating the person I'm trying to talk to. This is particularly noticeable when I try to talk to guys. I'm not quite sure when it began, but I do know that it has gotten worse in recent years. I can't talk to boys. Or rather, I can't talk to single, cute boys whom I may be potentially interested in.
I am also woefully inexperienced in dating. Since I'm being candid here, and since I think most people know this about me, I'll admit - I don't date. Not "I don't date often" or "I used to date a lot, but it's tapered off in recent years." I don't date. I don't get asked out on dates, and I don't ask guys out on dates. Both of these would require me to have some sort of conversation with guys in order to lead up to an invitation to dinner, or whatever, and I get brain lock, remember? My first date was when I was 17, and my boss's little brother asked me to go ice skating. I didn't know how to ice skate, and he'd played little league hockey, or whatever it's called. I spent the night inching my way around the rink (and managing to have the MOST spectacular fall in the history of people falling at ice rinks), while he spent the night speed skating in circles around everyone else. There was no second date.
My next date came when I was 18. It was a group date set up by my roommates and me wherein we asked an entire apartment of guys out and everyone went bowling and for ice cream. It was fun, but none of us were really sure who was on a date with whom, except for Dan and Becky, who got married four months later.
And that was it. My entire dating history, in two short paragraphs. Oh, there were other guys that I hung out with whom I could talk to just fine, guys I had crushes on I could hardly talk to, and guys who were my buddies and usually married, but never any more dates.
Until two weeks ago.
See, they do Preference, a.k.a. Sadie Hawkins, as one of the activities for the YSA up here. I had not originally planned to go, but my friends M. and E. told me about a month beforehand we were going to do a group date, so I had to think of who I'd like to ask.
I'll be honest, I immediately had a guy in mind, N. He'd landed on my radar at Institute as one of the (very) few older guys who still went and wasn't creepy. I also though he was kinda cute, which is no bad thing. But it had been months since he'd come to any of the activities, and I was pretty sure he wouldn't remember me if I randomly called him up out of the blue. M. tried to work it so there were opportunities for get togethers beforehand, but that only works if the guy shows up. Finally, with time running out and me having no idea who else I would ask, I turned to the medium of communication that works best for me - writing.
I wrote this forever long message re-introducing myself and detailing why it would be a good idea for him to accept my Preference invitation, then sent it to him over Facebook. And he accepted! I was overjoyed at having successfully asking a guy out...for about five minutes. Then the panic set in.
Because, you know, it was going to be an actual date. With a boy. An actual date with a cute boy that I was interested in getting to know better because I didn't really know him at all. And I was nervous.
Very, very nervous.
And I think it showed.
The date itself, from an overall perspective, was fun. We made pizzas, we went mini-golfing at the world's loudest mini-golf course, we had dessert at Denny's. We never actually made it to the official Preference dance, which was a bit of a bummer because I had my amazing red shoes and the cutest dress to go with them and I was really excited for them, but anyway, the date was fun. But it was fun because of everyone else who was there.
L. and M. in particular are very gregarious and good at keeping conversations going, and their dates B. and B. (they had the same name, it was great fun) also have mad conversing skillz. It really fell to them to keep things going because I suck at small talk and N? Also sucks at small talk - by his own admission, may I add. It was a night of stop and start conversation, a sample of which I have reproduced below:
[Driving to pick up L's date, and my iPod is playing in the background]
N: "So what's this we're listening to?"
Me: "Um, it's my Shreducation playlist."
N:"Your what?"
Me: "Shreducation. It's a bunch of classic rock songs that have awesome guitar parts in them."
N: "Oh. Cool."
[Cue crickets, and SCENE]
[Later, while waiting in the car while L. gets B. AC/DC's "Back in Black" is playing quietly in the background.]
N: "So you're like, into hard rock."
Me: "Well, I like rock music in general. My momma is a classic rocker, so I grew up listening to a lot of this. What kind of music are you into?"
N: "Mostly alternative. I kind of like a bit of everything."
Me: "Yeah, I totally get that. The only thing that I really don't like is rap and hip hop. I think I have, like, three rap songs I like."
N: "Yeah, I'm not a fan of rap either."
Me: "That was one thing I liked about moving up here - 90% of the music on the radio in California is rap or hip hop. Here they play a variety of songs and styles."
[Cue crickets, and SCENE]
[While waiting in line to start mini-golfing, everyone else is ahead of us, and while the loud music drowns most things out, it's becoming more and more uncomfortable to not say anything. I get the near-uncontrollable urge to laugh, and have a somewhat manic expression on my face, I imagine.]
N: "Loud music, hey?"
Me: "Yeah. And I was just reflecting on how much I suck at small talk."
N: "It's okay, I suck at it too."
Me: "Well this should be fun..."
[Crickets are drowned out by loud music, but SCENE]
Seriously, that was how our conversations went almost the entire night. Not the long, winding, tangential discussions that I am so good at with, like, my close friends and siblings. Stilted, awkward, both of us casting around for things to say before eventually giving up the fight. The one "good" conversation that came out of the evening was the one topic that I'd actively tried to avoid mentioning before, because I tend to get weird looks. Yup, once again, zombie-centered conversation ruled the day. Too bad it wasn't until the near tail-end of the date that they were brought up; it might have provided a springboard of conversational topics to last the night. Or not, but now I will never know.
So there you have it. My third "real date" ever. Not a resounding success, but it wasn't an epic failure, either. It was an experience. It has brought to my attention just how important it is that I be able to talk to a guy, to carry on a conversation that doesn't rely on the participation of six other people to keep it going. This is something I am going to have to work on.
This may take a while.
Good thing my parents have Cameron to dote on...
Other Alternative Title: Arrange Marriages are Underrated
Other Other Alternative Title: Say Anything...No Really, Anything At All. Just Spit It Out. Whatever Comes To Mind....Okay, Probably Not That
I have been mulling this post over in my head for the past two weeks. Originally I wasn't going to write anything about it because it requires a lot of, frankly, embarrassing honesty on my part. Also, I didn't want to cause potential embarrassment for other parties involved, but since I don't use the full names of anyone from up here, and the people involved pretty much all know everything already, I don't see how that could really be an issue. In the end, though, this blog is supposed to be about the experiences I have while living up here in Canada, and this is kind of a big one, for me.
I've mentioned before the difficulty I have in carrying on conversations when I am ill at ease in social situations. If I get at all nervous, my brain shuts down and I can't even form a sentence, let alone be witty and spontaneous in what I say. If I'm in the situation long enough, I eventually regain my powers of speech, but still have difficulty getting into a natural flow of discourse with other people. I tend to sound like I'm interrogating the person I'm trying to talk to. This is particularly noticeable when I try to talk to guys. I'm not quite sure when it began, but I do know that it has gotten worse in recent years. I can't talk to boys. Or rather, I can't talk to single, cute boys whom I may be potentially interested in.
I am also woefully inexperienced in dating. Since I'm being candid here, and since I think most people know this about me, I'll admit - I don't date. Not "I don't date often" or "I used to date a lot, but it's tapered off in recent years." I don't date. I don't get asked out on dates, and I don't ask guys out on dates. Both of these would require me to have some sort of conversation with guys in order to lead up to an invitation to dinner, or whatever, and I get brain lock, remember? My first date was when I was 17, and my boss's little brother asked me to go ice skating. I didn't know how to ice skate, and he'd played little league hockey, or whatever it's called. I spent the night inching my way around the rink (and managing to have the MOST spectacular fall in the history of people falling at ice rinks), while he spent the night speed skating in circles around everyone else. There was no second date.
My next date came when I was 18. It was a group date set up by my roommates and me wherein we asked an entire apartment of guys out and everyone went bowling and for ice cream. It was fun, but none of us were really sure who was on a date with whom, except for Dan and Becky, who got married four months later.
And that was it. My entire dating history, in two short paragraphs. Oh, there were other guys that I hung out with whom I could talk to just fine, guys I had crushes on I could hardly talk to, and guys who were my buddies and usually married, but never any more dates.
Until two weeks ago.
See, they do Preference, a.k.a. Sadie Hawkins, as one of the activities for the YSA up here. I had not originally planned to go, but my friends M. and E. told me about a month beforehand we were going to do a group date, so I had to think of who I'd like to ask.
I'll be honest, I immediately had a guy in mind, N. He'd landed on my radar at Institute as one of the (very) few older guys who still went and wasn't creepy. I also though he was kinda cute, which is no bad thing. But it had been months since he'd come to any of the activities, and I was pretty sure he wouldn't remember me if I randomly called him up out of the blue. M. tried to work it so there were opportunities for get togethers beforehand, but that only works if the guy shows up. Finally, with time running out and me having no idea who else I would ask, I turned to the medium of communication that works best for me - writing.
I wrote this forever long message re-introducing myself and detailing why it would be a good idea for him to accept my Preference invitation, then sent it to him over Facebook. And he accepted! I was overjoyed at having successfully asking a guy out...for about five minutes. Then the panic set in.
Because, you know, it was going to be an actual date. With a boy. An actual date with a cute boy that I was interested in getting to know better because I didn't really know him at all. And I was nervous.
Very, very nervous.
And I think it showed.
The date itself, from an overall perspective, was fun. We made pizzas, we went mini-golfing at the world's loudest mini-golf course, we had dessert at Denny's. We never actually made it to the official Preference dance, which was a bit of a bummer because I had my amazing red shoes and the cutest dress to go with them and I was really excited for them, but anyway, the date was fun. But it was fun because of everyone else who was there.
L. and M. in particular are very gregarious and good at keeping conversations going, and their dates B. and B. (they had the same name, it was great fun) also have mad conversing skillz. It really fell to them to keep things going because I suck at small talk and N? Also sucks at small talk - by his own admission, may I add. It was a night of stop and start conversation, a sample of which I have reproduced below:
[Driving to pick up L's date, and my iPod is playing in the background]
N: "So what's this we're listening to?"
Me: "Um, it's my Shreducation playlist."
N:"Your what?"
Me: "Shreducation. It's a bunch of classic rock songs that have awesome guitar parts in them."
N: "Oh. Cool."
[Cue crickets, and SCENE]
[Later, while waiting in the car while L. gets B. AC/DC's "Back in Black" is playing quietly in the background.]
N: "So you're like, into hard rock."
Me: "Well, I like rock music in general. My momma is a classic rocker, so I grew up listening to a lot of this. What kind of music are you into?"
N: "Mostly alternative. I kind of like a bit of everything."
Me: "Yeah, I totally get that. The only thing that I really don't like is rap and hip hop. I think I have, like, three rap songs I like."
N: "Yeah, I'm not a fan of rap either."
Me: "That was one thing I liked about moving up here - 90% of the music on the radio in California is rap or hip hop. Here they play a variety of songs and styles."
[Cue crickets, and SCENE]
[While waiting in line to start mini-golfing, everyone else is ahead of us, and while the loud music drowns most things out, it's becoming more and more uncomfortable to not say anything. I get the near-uncontrollable urge to laugh, and have a somewhat manic expression on my face, I imagine.]
N: "Loud music, hey?"
Me: "Yeah. And I was just reflecting on how much I suck at small talk."
N: "It's okay, I suck at it too."
Me: "Well this should be fun..."
[Crickets are drowned out by loud music, but SCENE]
Seriously, that was how our conversations went almost the entire night. Not the long, winding, tangential discussions that I am so good at with, like, my close friends and siblings. Stilted, awkward, both of us casting around for things to say before eventually giving up the fight. The one "good" conversation that came out of the evening was the one topic that I'd actively tried to avoid mentioning before, because I tend to get weird looks. Yup, once again, zombie-centered conversation ruled the day. Too bad it wasn't until the near tail-end of the date that they were brought up; it might have provided a springboard of conversational topics to last the night. Or not, but now I will never know.
So there you have it. My third "real date" ever. Not a resounding success, but it wasn't an epic failure, either. It was an experience. It has brought to my attention just how important it is that I be able to talk to a guy, to carry on a conversation that doesn't rely on the participation of six other people to keep it going. This is something I am going to have to work on.
This may take a while.
Good thing my parents have Cameron to dote on...
Friday, 9 November 2012
Silver Linings
I think by this time it's no secret that I am not a fan of snow. I dislike it. Greatly.
Unfortunately for me, rumour has it this is an El Nino year, which in CA usually means warmer, wetter winters - lotsa rain, without getting TOO cold. Here, "warmer" is a relative term that means "still below zero, just not quite so far" and "wetter" translates to "so much dang snow you'll be buried by December at the rate we're going". The one benefit of extreme sub-zero temperatures is that it actually gets too cold to snow. It's a small benefit.
But not this year! This year, El Nino has decided to come out and play early. Our first snow came the week of Canadian Thanksgiving (Columbus Day). It didn't last very long, and the snow didn't pile up TOO badly, but it was the beginning of the end of my lovely, sporadically warm and otherwise pleasant Fall. Last week and this week (with the exception of Monday and Tuesday, which were strangely warm and dry, and melted the previous layer of snow) we have had a couple of dumps. Currently, it has been snowing nearly non-stop for the past three days. Perhaps some of you have seen this floating around Facebook:
While tons of snow brings all sorts of problems with it, there are a few silver linings that I have discovered, so in an attempt to help trick myself into liking (or at least not actively loathing) snow, I've decided to enumerate the multiple ways in which snow doesn't actively suck.
1. Drifting in the car when you have no snow tires. Working at 7 in the morning has meant that the idea of taking my car in for snow tires and leaving it there until the next day is unsupportable (I've been reading a lot of Georgette Hayer novels lately). And I needed my car last weekend, so I didn't take it in Saturday. Which means that I have been driving around for the past couple of weeks with no snow tires on. It's been great fun. Going around corners, particularly with the icy roads of today, has meant drifting like a racer in Fast and Furious. Except a lot slower, and with a little less control. But still, as I drifted around the corner on my way to drop my car off for snow tires today, I was a little sad, because it was most likely my last smooth drift of the season.
2. Kids in snow clothing. The students at the daycare all have to wear jackets and snow pants to play outside at recess. Generally, they are required to get themselves in and out of their snow clothing, as we do not have time to help them one on one. Have you ever watched kinders or grade ones get in and out of snow clothes? It's great fun - like watching a bunch of tiny mental patients putting on and taking off their own straitjackets. And of course, there's always that one kid who gets entirely kitted out before discovering they need to pee. Have you ever seen a small child trying to get out of snow pants while doing the pee pee dance? It's hilarious! The dance interferes with the removal of the pants, which makes the need to pee worse - it's a vicious cycle that generally requires adult intervention to break. I'll be honest - I sometimes wait a second or two before jumping in. Hey, they've got to learn to do it themselves, right?
3. Kids in snow. It's like watching a bunch of puppies or piglets rolling around in the mud. They love it! The cold and wet don't bother them in the least. I have one little girl who is from the Philippines. This is her first time experiencing snow, and she throws herself around in it like she's swimming in a pool. It's very cute. I'd take a picture to post, but I'm fairly certain it's against the rules.
4. Making kids walk through the halls with their snow clothes. In the morning, the kids come to our center with all their school stuff. They stay with us until about ten minutes before the bell, at which point we send them outside to line up with their classes. Usually I take the kinders around the outside of the building, but with the amount of snow on the grounds right now, not to mention the issues getting the kids in and out of their snow clothes, it's not worth the effort of getting them ready. So I walk them through the halls instead. They still have to take all their snow clothing, in addition to their school stuff, but since they are all very small, with short little arms, it's a bit difficult for them to carry everything. Since I am not a pack mule, I refuse to carry all their stuff. Instead I have devised an ingenious system for them to haul their junk. It starts with their backpack on their backs, with hats and mittens tucked inside the pack. Then they wear their jackets like capes, with the hood on their head. One boot is carried in each hand, to reduce the amount of weight per hand. But the best part is the snow pants hanging around the neck by the straps. I get all four of my morning kinders kitted out this way, then parade them through the school. It's very cute, and they get a lot of chuckles.
5. Legit cat snuggle time. Gus and Lily seem convinced that going outside is akin to dying and going to heaven. Today I allowed them to test that theory by letting them out in the snow one at a time. Gus seemed down for an adventure, but Lily kept shaking the snow off her paw with each step and meowing irritatedly at me. When we got back inside, she wanted nothing more than to sit on my lap and sleep. They have both also taken to coming and warming my bed up for me, and if I happen to be reading when they come, they'll sit on my feet. They are large cats, and very warm. If I can continue to exploit my animals as heaters, I will be okay with the snow.
6. Snow is pretty. While I don't quite know how I feel about White Christmases (my dreams of them tend to run more to the nightmare side), I will admit that right now, with the snow still falling (and falling, and falling, and falling some more and the weatherman needs to stop telling us it's going to stop tomorrow, because I swear the snow is listening, and then being all "Don't tell me my bidness, devil woman!" and continuing to fall just to spite everyone), it's all Christmas postcard-y gorgeous. Last night I figured I needed to take a picture of it, but in the spirit of true laziness, I decided against actually going outside. This picture is what I got by sticking my arm out the backdoor and using my phone camera.
Pretty, no? The snow hides all the dead flowers nicely, and my snow tires - to the left hand side - look like little hillocks. I don't even mind the snow on the arch, since the clematis was cut back and no longer drops snow on my head every time I come through the gate. I toyed with the idea of going on a walk and taking pictures of the pond, the creek, and the ravine. Except the wind is still being ridiculously whiny, so it was too cold for that today. Perhaps later, but no promises.
So there ya go. The silver linings to the snow clouds that have been hovering over Edmonton the past three days. I am sure we are in for a lot more snow - it will definitely get worse before it gets better. But at least now I have some amusements and diversions that will help me appreciate the snow, even if I still don't like it.
Unfortunately for me, rumour has it this is an El Nino year, which in CA usually means warmer, wetter winters - lotsa rain, without getting TOO cold. Here, "warmer" is a relative term that means "still below zero, just not quite so far" and "wetter" translates to "so much dang snow you'll be buried by December at the rate we're going". The one benefit of extreme sub-zero temperatures is that it actually gets too cold to snow. It's a small benefit.
But not this year! This year, El Nino has decided to come out and play early. Our first snow came the week of Canadian Thanksgiving (Columbus Day). It didn't last very long, and the snow didn't pile up TOO badly, but it was the beginning of the end of my lovely, sporadically warm and otherwise pleasant Fall. Last week and this week (with the exception of Monday and Tuesday, which were strangely warm and dry, and melted the previous layer of snow) we have had a couple of dumps. Currently, it has been snowing nearly non-stop for the past three days. Perhaps some of you have seen this floating around Facebook:
True story.
While tons of snow brings all sorts of problems with it, there are a few silver linings that I have discovered, so in an attempt to help trick myself into liking (or at least not actively loathing) snow, I've decided to enumerate the multiple ways in which snow doesn't actively suck.
1. Drifting in the car when you have no snow tires. Working at 7 in the morning has meant that the idea of taking my car in for snow tires and leaving it there until the next day is unsupportable (I've been reading a lot of Georgette Hayer novels lately). And I needed my car last weekend, so I didn't take it in Saturday. Which means that I have been driving around for the past couple of weeks with no snow tires on. It's been great fun. Going around corners, particularly with the icy roads of today, has meant drifting like a racer in Fast and Furious. Except a lot slower, and with a little less control. But still, as I drifted around the corner on my way to drop my car off for snow tires today, I was a little sad, because it was most likely my last smooth drift of the season.
2. Kids in snow clothing. The students at the daycare all have to wear jackets and snow pants to play outside at recess. Generally, they are required to get themselves in and out of their snow clothing, as we do not have time to help them one on one. Have you ever watched kinders or grade ones get in and out of snow clothes? It's great fun - like watching a bunch of tiny mental patients putting on and taking off their own straitjackets. And of course, there's always that one kid who gets entirely kitted out before discovering they need to pee. Have you ever seen a small child trying to get out of snow pants while doing the pee pee dance? It's hilarious! The dance interferes with the removal of the pants, which makes the need to pee worse - it's a vicious cycle that generally requires adult intervention to break. I'll be honest - I sometimes wait a second or two before jumping in. Hey, they've got to learn to do it themselves, right?
3. Kids in snow. It's like watching a bunch of puppies or piglets rolling around in the mud. They love it! The cold and wet don't bother them in the least. I have one little girl who is from the Philippines. This is her first time experiencing snow, and she throws herself around in it like she's swimming in a pool. It's very cute. I'd take a picture to post, but I'm fairly certain it's against the rules.
4. Making kids walk through the halls with their snow clothes. In the morning, the kids come to our center with all their school stuff. They stay with us until about ten minutes before the bell, at which point we send them outside to line up with their classes. Usually I take the kinders around the outside of the building, but with the amount of snow on the grounds right now, not to mention the issues getting the kids in and out of their snow clothes, it's not worth the effort of getting them ready. So I walk them through the halls instead. They still have to take all their snow clothing, in addition to their school stuff, but since they are all very small, with short little arms, it's a bit difficult for them to carry everything. Since I am not a pack mule, I refuse to carry all their stuff. Instead I have devised an ingenious system for them to haul their junk. It starts with their backpack on their backs, with hats and mittens tucked inside the pack. Then they wear their jackets like capes, with the hood on their head. One boot is carried in each hand, to reduce the amount of weight per hand. But the best part is the snow pants hanging around the neck by the straps. I get all four of my morning kinders kitted out this way, then parade them through the school. It's very cute, and they get a lot of chuckles.
5. Legit cat snuggle time. Gus and Lily seem convinced that going outside is akin to dying and going to heaven. Today I allowed them to test that theory by letting them out in the snow one at a time. Gus seemed down for an adventure, but Lily kept shaking the snow off her paw with each step and meowing irritatedly at me. When we got back inside, she wanted nothing more than to sit on my lap and sleep. They have both also taken to coming and warming my bed up for me, and if I happen to be reading when they come, they'll sit on my feet. They are large cats, and very warm. If I can continue to exploit my animals as heaters, I will be okay with the snow.
6. Snow is pretty. While I don't quite know how I feel about White Christmases (my dreams of them tend to run more to the nightmare side), I will admit that right now, with the snow still falling (and falling, and falling, and falling some more and the weatherman needs to stop telling us it's going to stop tomorrow, because I swear the snow is listening, and then being all "Don't tell me my bidness, devil woman!" and continuing to fall just to spite everyone), it's all Christmas postcard-y gorgeous. Last night I figured I needed to take a picture of it, but in the spirit of true laziness, I decided against actually going outside. This picture is what I got by sticking my arm out the backdoor and using my phone camera.
Pretty, no? The snow hides all the dead flowers nicely, and my snow tires - to the left hand side - look like little hillocks. I don't even mind the snow on the arch, since the clematis was cut back and no longer drops snow on my head every time I come through the gate. I toyed with the idea of going on a walk and taking pictures of the pond, the creek, and the ravine. Except the wind is still being ridiculously whiny, so it was too cold for that today. Perhaps later, but no promises.
So there ya go. The silver linings to the snow clouds that have been hovering over Edmonton the past three days. I am sure we are in for a lot more snow - it will definitely get worse before it gets better. But at least now I have some amusements and diversions that will help me appreciate the snow, even if I still don't like it.
Thursday, 18 October 2012
I Couldn't Come up with a Title about Wind that Didn't Sound Dirty
So right now here in the Great White North, the weather is a little schizophrenic. Over the past two weeks we have had beautiful, warm days, snow, cold grey days, the World's Shortest Thunderstorm (consisting of one lightning strike and a half hearted attempt from the thunder to roll), aaaaaannddd wind. Lots and lots of wind.
Being from Southern California, strong winds are not an entirely foreign concept to me (Hi Santa Anas! Miss you too!). October and March, in particular, stand out in my memory as being "windy" months. I am used to gusts of wind reaching some miles per hour that doesn't sound that bad until you go out and stand in it and then you're like, "Dang!" I am used to the noise that wind makes when it's blowing all crazy and the trees are like, "For Pete's sake, we're already losing our leaves because the sun is going, stop stripping what few remain!" I am used to resigning myself to ponytail hair even on the rare occasions I feel like styling it, because on the one hand we have the "wind-blown model" look that some people get, and then on the other hand we have the "I stepped through a wind tunnel and now Don King is suing me for trademark infringement" look, and I don't think I need to tell you which end of the spectrum I fall on.
But even factoring in all the years of Santa Ana winds that I have experienced back home, I was woefully unprepared for what these past couple of weeks brought in terms of wind. It would have been fine - I don't generally spend a lot of time outside, just moving from car to building, or bus to train - but I have a job (yay!), and part of that job, as I have mentioned before, entails playground supervision.
Oy.
I have gotten better at my supervising skillz - I almost always realize half of the time that the students are doing things that may potentially be not great for them in the long run, or short run if they fall, and I put a stop to it most times right away, and every other time a few seconds later.
This week added a new challenge, which was supervising the playground while looking like this:
Being from Southern California, strong winds are not an entirely foreign concept to me (Hi Santa Anas! Miss you too!). October and March, in particular, stand out in my memory as being "windy" months. I am used to gusts of wind reaching some miles per hour that doesn't sound that bad until you go out and stand in it and then you're like, "Dang!" I am used to the noise that wind makes when it's blowing all crazy and the trees are like, "For Pete's sake, we're already losing our leaves because the sun is going, stop stripping what few remain!" I am used to resigning myself to ponytail hair even on the rare occasions I feel like styling it, because on the one hand we have the "wind-blown model" look that some people get, and then on the other hand we have the "I stepped through a wind tunnel and now Don King is suing me for trademark infringement" look, and I don't think I need to tell you which end of the spectrum I fall on.
But even factoring in all the years of Santa Ana winds that I have experienced back home, I was woefully unprepared for what these past couple of weeks brought in terms of wind. It would have been fine - I don't generally spend a lot of time outside, just moving from car to building, or bus to train - but I have a job (yay!), and part of that job, as I have mentioned before, entails playground supervision.
Oy.
I have gotten better at my supervising skillz - I almost always realize half of the time that the students are doing things that may potentially be not great for them in the long run, or short run if they fall, and I put a stop to it most times right away, and every other time a few seconds later.
This week added a new challenge, which was supervising the playground while looking like this:
Look, Ma, I'm an Eskimo!
With a ridiculously protruberant looking nose, thanks shadows!
You will notice I am wearing my sunglasses. It was necessary, as the sun was shining oh so brightly. Few clouds were in the sky. It should have been lovely.
It wasn't.
Why? The (censored) WIND! Oh my GOSH! I thought I knew all about Wind Chill Factor and whatnot, but experiencing it when running from house to car is totally different than recess duty for half an hour to an hour in the (censored, censored) FREEZING WIND! It's like little tiny knives that reapeatedly stab any unprotected skin, leaving it chapped and numb! It's horrible! In this picture, I am wearing a shirt, a sweatshirt, my polar jacket that's good to -45 F, a scarf, and I even put the stupid fur liner that I swore I would never wear in public, and have in fact been letting the cats use as a toy, back on my hood because I needed it. I have my jacket zipped all the way up and down, including across my face, and I was not being ironic, or goofy. I was COLD! I've been walking around the playground like this for the past three days. I am not the only one - all of us daycare workers have various means of bundling up, and we all laugh at one another, but heck, it's COLD!
Last week I hadn't yet realized the necessity of re-attaching my hood, but all it took was one twenty minute stint outside, where I ended up wrapping my scarf around my head and rockin' the hijab look. Hoods are life. The problem is, they cut off a good percentage of your peripheral vision, which means you have to swivel from side to side in order to see anything not directly in front of you. Some of the little girls had a blast with this and kept coming up being me and poking me, then ducking out of the way when I turned around. I finally stopped turning, just reached back and grabben the arm that was poking. Then I think I scared the crap out of them by intoning "Don't. Poke. Me. EVER." in my deadest, scariest voice, accompanied by lowered sunglasses and Claire's Glare (TM). Have I ever mentioned how much I loathe being poked? Poking me one of the fastest ways of taking my mood from mellow to murderous in less than two seconds. Which could be handy if you need me murderous, but only if you're not the one doing the poking. Anyway, I digress...
What kills me even more that having to do recess duty dressed like I'm starring in a re-make of Nanook of the North, is the kids. They all have jackets, and we require them to be on while the kids are playing, but you wouldn't believe how many of them try to take off their jackets while playing in (literally) sub-zero wind temperatures. They're insane! Every day I have the same argument with one of my first graders. Perhaps if she were wearing long sleeves, I'd allow her to ditch the coat. Perhaps. But she's usually wearing a tank top or short sleeved shirt, and I'm sorry, I don't care how used to the cold she is, when the wind chill factor takes the temperature below zero, you need a coat. Period.
So once again, I am grateful for family members who look out for me, from Lilas pointing out there was a sale on jackets last fall, to my Dad for buying me a very expensive but very warm jacket for my birthday, so I don't freeze. Just one more winter to get through, and then, I swear, I am moving to Texas, or Arizona, or some other ridiculously hot place where I don't have to wrap up like an Arctic explorer just to do playground duty in the fall.
Thursday, 20 September 2012
Vy Don't They Vant My Blood?
I enjoy donating blood. While in college I went faithfully every two months to the clinic to hand over my sorely needed pint of B+, and in return I would get some cookies, a juice box, and the happy knowledge that I had done some small, positive act of service. I think part of it stemmed from being rejected based on my age when they were collecting blood after September 11th. I had a blood donor card from donating in high school, but I was still too young. I'm certain there was a small part of me that thought "Reject me now, but as soon as I'm of age I'm giving as often as I can and YOU CAN'T STOP ME, MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!" A defiant attitude that was beneficial for all.
I have since only donated a couple of times since graduating, mostly because the clinic is no longer an easy five-minute drive away, and I got over my annoyance at being rejected. But this summer there was a blood drive at church, an easy five minute drive away, so my sisters and I decided to jump on the bandwagon and hand over our blood.
Anyone else ever just sit and laugh through all of the awkward background questions they ask you? I usually start giggling at the first question that asks "Have you ever had sex...?" and want to say "Actually, I'm a virgin in every sense of the word, so we could skip all of these". No? Everyone else is a mature and reasonable adult? Okay, then.
Anyway, as I was getting strapped in, the guy drawing my blood had serious difficulty finding a vein. He decided it was because I was dehydrated and made me drink two bottles of water while he took Becca's blood. Okay, no problem. Afterwards, he STILL couldn't find my vein until he called a supervisor (it was my drawer's first day ever), who slid the blood pressure cuff up half an inch on my arm, and my vein popped up like, "Oh he-ey party people!" Problem solved.
I was eligible to donate again by the end of August. On my commute to school, or church, or institute, or the library - basically, any time I go up north on the LRT - I pass the Canadian Blood Services donor clinic. They always have a sign out that says things like "Did you know a cancer patient can need up to 8 units of blood a week?" or "Make donating part of your back-to-school routine!" or "Please give us your blood, we really really need it, please ohplease ohplease ohplease give us some blood!" Okay, maybe not that last one. But that's what I mentally interpreted the signs to mean every time I passed, and I felt guilty every time I rode on by without stopping in to hand over some fresh red stuff.
So this past Tuesday, on the way home from the library, desperate to escape the ridiculously overcrowded LRT car I was riding in (really, clowns the world over were like "Day-um"), I hopped off at the station across the road from the clinic and walked in to do my small part to aid cancer patients and medical researchers.
Well, first off they made me wear a ridiculous "First time donor" sticker, because I had never donated in Canada before, even though I assured them I was fully conversant with the process and did not need everything spelled out to me. The lady at the desk insisted, swearing up and down that donating in Canada was probably different than donating in the States. No, it really isn't.
I still had to read through the donor information pamphlet, where the major changes between here and there are mostly the font and spacing (and the French instead of Spanish). They still confirmed my information at every stage in the process; they still pricked my finger to take a sample and check my rbc count; they still put one of those retarded circle bandages over the prick, rendering my finger useless for my iPod touch; they still had me answer all the health questions on my own, then the embarrassing questions with an interviewer. At every stage, someone would ask me if I had questions; I kept answering honestly "No, this is the same thing I've gone through every other time I've donated. It really is the EXACT SAME PROCESS."
But what really annoyed me was when the person drawing my blood (we'll call her S) started looking for a vein. It was just like hide and seek, with my veins being the master champions of the UNIVERSE. I related my experience from June, explained that I'd just popped in on a whim, so no, I HADN'T drunk extra fluids that day, and I'd be willing to return another time, but also maybe move the cuff up a bit. Oh, hey there veins! Then she took the cuff OFF to sterilize my arm, then slipped it back on, my veins went back into hiding, and after five minutes of squeezing the skooshy heart and having my arm squeezed and slapped in an attempt to coax my veins out of hiding, I was ready to pack it in and made my wishes known. Which, of course, is when she poked the needle in my arm, then started scooting it around to position it in a vein. Blood started coming out, and I'm thinking "Okay, that hurt, but I'll live", but I guess it wasn't coming out fast enough for Miss S, because after a couple of minutes she was like, "Yeah, no, this isn't gonna work today. And since I already got blood from one arm, I can't use the other and you can't donate until November 13th."
I was then made to sit with an icepack on my arm to counteract the bruising that was sure to form as a result of her smacking it and excavating for a vein with a needle. I still got cookies and juice, but it was kind of embarrassing to be sitting there and told repeatedly that I need to drink more fluids before coming in, especially since I had already told her several times that I didn't PLAN to come in - I took the signage outside at its word when it said "Walk-ins welcome".
The poking didn't really bother me. I'm a weirdy who watches when they put the needle in; I find it fascinating rather than disturbing. And I had time to kill that day, so the wasted time didn't bother me. No, what annoyed me about the whole thing was the way I was kind of treated like an idiot the entire way through, from being made to wear a "first time donor" sticker, to having to read all the information pamphlets again, to being asked if I understand everything and do I have any questions, to being ignored when I explained that the cuff has to be higher on my arm to make my veins pop up, and also if I'm too dehydrated to donate I'll leave and come back, no, really, it's cool, okay OW!
I tried to tell her, I really did, but short of ripping the cuff off of my arm and slapping her hand away, there wasn't a whole lot I could do. And since I am not a combative or confrontational person (mostly), I didn't say what was on the tip of my tongue when she told me I'd have to wait, to wit: "So, why couldn't you have just told me to come back another time, or given me something to drink? Why smack me and stick me and dig around in my arm if you weren't going to let me donate, huh?"
I have now learned that proper donation preparation requires consuming copious quantities of fluids before arrival. Fine, I can do that. Spontaneous donation is out. But I swear, next time, if my veins are hiding again, I'm leaving BEFORE they get a chance to stick me, even if it means slapping hands and ripping cuffs. Because dealing with a bruise and poke after donating is one thing - at least you have the gooey good feelings of donating. But having a poke and a bruise when they didn't want your blood? That's just an insult that keeps throbbing and bringing back feelings of annoyance.
And to add insult to injury, I didn't even get a colorful bandage afterwards, just some tape and a cotton ball. So I went home and put a Toy Story band-aid on my finger and a camouflage band-aid on my arm. So there.
I have since only donated a couple of times since graduating, mostly because the clinic is no longer an easy five-minute drive away, and I got over my annoyance at being rejected. But this summer there was a blood drive at church, an easy five minute drive away, so my sisters and I decided to jump on the bandwagon and hand over our blood.
Anyone else ever just sit and laugh through all of the awkward background questions they ask you? I usually start giggling at the first question that asks "Have you ever had sex...?" and want to say "Actually, I'm a virgin in every sense of the word, so we could skip all of these". No? Everyone else is a mature and reasonable adult? Okay, then.
Anyway, as I was getting strapped in, the guy drawing my blood had serious difficulty finding a vein. He decided it was because I was dehydrated and made me drink two bottles of water while he took Becca's blood. Okay, no problem. Afterwards, he STILL couldn't find my vein until he called a supervisor (it was my drawer's first day ever), who slid the blood pressure cuff up half an inch on my arm, and my vein popped up like, "Oh he-ey party people!" Problem solved.
I was eligible to donate again by the end of August. On my commute to school, or church, or institute, or the library - basically, any time I go up north on the LRT - I pass the Canadian Blood Services donor clinic. They always have a sign out that says things like "Did you know a cancer patient can need up to 8 units of blood a week?" or "Make donating part of your back-to-school routine!" or "Please give us your blood, we really really need it, please ohplease ohplease ohplease give us some blood!" Okay, maybe not that last one. But that's what I mentally interpreted the signs to mean every time I passed, and I felt guilty every time I rode on by without stopping in to hand over some fresh red stuff.
So this past Tuesday, on the way home from the library, desperate to escape the ridiculously overcrowded LRT car I was riding in (really, clowns the world over were like "Day-um"), I hopped off at the station across the road from the clinic and walked in to do my small part to aid cancer patients and medical researchers.
Well, first off they made me wear a ridiculous "First time donor" sticker, because I had never donated in Canada before, even though I assured them I was fully conversant with the process and did not need everything spelled out to me. The lady at the desk insisted, swearing up and down that donating in Canada was probably different than donating in the States. No, it really isn't.
I still had to read through the donor information pamphlet, where the major changes between here and there are mostly the font and spacing (and the French instead of Spanish). They still confirmed my information at every stage in the process; they still pricked my finger to take a sample and check my rbc count; they still put one of those retarded circle bandages over the prick, rendering my finger useless for my iPod touch; they still had me answer all the health questions on my own, then the embarrassing questions with an interviewer. At every stage, someone would ask me if I had questions; I kept answering honestly "No, this is the same thing I've gone through every other time I've donated. It really is the EXACT SAME PROCESS."
But what really annoyed me was when the person drawing my blood (we'll call her S) started looking for a vein. It was just like hide and seek, with my veins being the master champions of the UNIVERSE. I related my experience from June, explained that I'd just popped in on a whim, so no, I HADN'T drunk extra fluids that day, and I'd be willing to return another time, but also maybe move the cuff up a bit. Oh, hey there veins! Then she took the cuff OFF to sterilize my arm, then slipped it back on, my veins went back into hiding, and after five minutes of squeezing the skooshy heart and having my arm squeezed and slapped in an attempt to coax my veins out of hiding, I was ready to pack it in and made my wishes known. Which, of course, is when she poked the needle in my arm, then started scooting it around to position it in a vein. Blood started coming out, and I'm thinking "Okay, that hurt, but I'll live", but I guess it wasn't coming out fast enough for Miss S, because after a couple of minutes she was like, "Yeah, no, this isn't gonna work today. And since I already got blood from one arm, I can't use the other and you can't donate until November 13th."
I was then made to sit with an icepack on my arm to counteract the bruising that was sure to form as a result of her smacking it and excavating for a vein with a needle. I still got cookies and juice, but it was kind of embarrassing to be sitting there and told repeatedly that I need to drink more fluids before coming in, especially since I had already told her several times that I didn't PLAN to come in - I took the signage outside at its word when it said "Walk-ins welcome".
The poking didn't really bother me. I'm a weirdy who watches when they put the needle in; I find it fascinating rather than disturbing. And I had time to kill that day, so the wasted time didn't bother me. No, what annoyed me about the whole thing was the way I was kind of treated like an idiot the entire way through, from being made to wear a "first time donor" sticker, to having to read all the information pamphlets again, to being asked if I understand everything and do I have any questions, to being ignored when I explained that the cuff has to be higher on my arm to make my veins pop up, and also if I'm too dehydrated to donate I'll leave and come back, no, really, it's cool, okay OW!
I tried to tell her, I really did, but short of ripping the cuff off of my arm and slapping her hand away, there wasn't a whole lot I could do. And since I am not a combative or confrontational person (mostly), I didn't say what was on the tip of my tongue when she told me I'd have to wait, to wit: "So, why couldn't you have just told me to come back another time, or given me something to drink? Why smack me and stick me and dig around in my arm if you weren't going to let me donate, huh?"
I have now learned that proper donation preparation requires consuming copious quantities of fluids before arrival. Fine, I can do that. Spontaneous donation is out. But I swear, next time, if my veins are hiding again, I'm leaving BEFORE they get a chance to stick me, even if it means slapping hands and ripping cuffs. Because dealing with a bruise and poke after donating is one thing - at least you have the gooey good feelings of donating. But having a poke and a bruise when they didn't want your blood? That's just an insult that keeps throbbing and bringing back feelings of annoyance.
And to add insult to injury, I didn't even get a colorful bandage afterwards, just some tape and a cotton ball. So I went home and put a Toy Story band-aid on my finger and a camouflage band-aid on my arm. So there.
Tuesday, 18 September 2012
Playground Supervision
I got a job. Yay me! It's working as an assistant for an out-of-school care program at one of the local elementary schools, which means I am a well-educated, grossly overpaid, glorified babysitter. There were several things to recommend this job: it's close, it pays well (because I already have an ed degree, I get extra hourly pay - thanks, government!), it's more than I'd make working elsewhere, and for fewer hours. But there are some things that make me wonder how well I can do this job; things that, when I ponder them, make me think "I have a bad feeling about this..."
One of those things is playground supervision.
I am a horrible playground supervisor.
No, really. Horrible.
As a middle school teacher, "playground" supervision required little more than standing around and glowering at the students; for the most part they just walked around and talked; occasionally someone's mouth would write a check their fists couldn't cash, and I'd have to break up a fight. This was very rare, and honestly half the time I forgot it was my turn for supervision duties.
While working as a sub, I was sometimes assigned to take over the teacher's playground supervision duties, but there was usually a whole slew of adults around who knew the playground rules better than I did, and the kids were often so well trained that I didn't really need to do much.
Now, working at the out-of-school program, I am doing playground supervision at least once a day, often with only one other person, for 45 students. The playground at the school is one of the huge, new, colored plastic affairs that are so common down in CA, but a rarity up here (usually it's still the old wooden and metal deals). As far as "safe" structures go, this one is pretty cool: it has four slides, five sets of monkey bars with varying shapes, four or five different ladders/slidey poles, a tire swing, a wobbly bridge, and a zip line. You could play the most AWESOME game of lava monster on it. But the kids who are part of the program often find "unsafe" ways of playing on the structure, which I think is pretty common; the safer the structure is, the more boring it is, the higher the likelihood of kids finding "unsafe" ways to play.
Here's where I have a problem with playground supervision: half the time the kids are playing in "unsafe" ways, I don't even really register that it's "unsafe". Instead, I'm usually thinking "That looks like fun!"
Examples:
--When the kinders are on the tire swing and trying to make it swing as high as possible, I want to go over and show them how to sit so the weight is distributed for maximum momentum, as well as the proper form for "pumping" to get it going. What I should be doing is encouraging them to keep it at a reasonable height, one where if a kid falls out, he doesn't have far to go to hit the ground; after all, the higher you pump a tire swing, the more it tilts on its side. Which is what makes it FUN!
--When the older girls took their shoes off to make a line, then climbed up to the highest platform, then climbed over the railing to jump down and see if they could jump past their shoes, I wanted to tell them that they'd need to stand on the railing in order to make it that far. I didn't, never fear, but I had a momentary struggle with my inner child before the adult took over and told them to put their shoes back on and also stop jumping from the platform, even though I'm sure it was FUN!
--The kids are required to wear shoes at all times. This I understand - after all, many mornings I am in charge of conducting the sweep of the playground for suspicious objects and/or persons. There could be drug users' needles buried in the sand! That being said, I also understand why some of the kids prefer to run around shoeless. I loathe walking through the sand in shoes; it's a pain. The kids end up dumping out a ton of sand from their shoes every time they go inside; I'd want to skip that, too, were I them. I feel a little guilty every time I have to remind them to put their shoes on. Going barefoot is FUN!
--I am tempted to applaud the efforts of students who climb on top of the monkey bars, rather then tell them they are for climbing across only. I mean, heck, I had a first grader who got halfway across, then lifted himself through two bars on to the top of them. Kid's got major upper body strength, which I was impressed with; it pained me to have to chastise him for such a feat. Also, my siblings and I used to play on the tops of our monkey bars at home all the time (remember "cocoon"?), and it was great FUN!
--The zipline is held up by a large crossbar. Often the handle will end up in the center of the line, where it cannot be reached from either end, and I am too short to knock it from the middle. When this occurs, I allow the students to monkey across the support bar (technically a no-no) in order to retrieve the handle. I refuse to jump up and down to retrieve it. That's not FUN!
--Sliding down slides feet first gets boring. I sympathize with the kids who want to climb up the slides, or slide down headfirst, or upside down headfirst, etc. The first few days I supervised the playground, I let them play on the slides however they wanted, until I realized that all the other supervisors would yell at kids who weren't sliding in the appropriate fashion. Duds. Don't they know that climbing slides is FUN?!
I think part of the problem stems from the fact that, as a person with no children of my own, I have yet to acquire the parental "safety monitor" instinct. Instead I must rely on my common sense as an adult, common sense that is in a perpetual struggle with my childish side, which wants to have FUN! and safety be darned. I am slowly picking up cues from the other supervisors on what can be allowed and what should be stopped, but sometimes I wonder if they don't go a little overboard. I want to keep the kids safe, too, but telling them they can't play tag, or run around, or dig in the sand, or make up silly troll games under the bridge? There's a line between keeping kids safe and being an imagination-killing fun-sucker. I'm trying to find the balance, but it's hard when most of my co-workers are firmly on the fun-sucker side. I have a bad feeling about this...
One of those things is playground supervision.
I am a horrible playground supervisor.
No, really. Horrible.
As a middle school teacher, "playground" supervision required little more than standing around and glowering at the students; for the most part they just walked around and talked; occasionally someone's mouth would write a check their fists couldn't cash, and I'd have to break up a fight. This was very rare, and honestly half the time I forgot it was my turn for supervision duties.
While working as a sub, I was sometimes assigned to take over the teacher's playground supervision duties, but there was usually a whole slew of adults around who knew the playground rules better than I did, and the kids were often so well trained that I didn't really need to do much.
Now, working at the out-of-school program, I am doing playground supervision at least once a day, often with only one other person, for 45 students. The playground at the school is one of the huge, new, colored plastic affairs that are so common down in CA, but a rarity up here (usually it's still the old wooden and metal deals). As far as "safe" structures go, this one is pretty cool: it has four slides, five sets of monkey bars with varying shapes, four or five different ladders/slidey poles, a tire swing, a wobbly bridge, and a zip line. You could play the most AWESOME game of lava monster on it. But the kids who are part of the program often find "unsafe" ways of playing on the structure, which I think is pretty common; the safer the structure is, the more boring it is, the higher the likelihood of kids finding "unsafe" ways to play.
Here's where I have a problem with playground supervision: half the time the kids are playing in "unsafe" ways, I don't even really register that it's "unsafe". Instead, I'm usually thinking "That looks like fun!"
Examples:
--When the kinders are on the tire swing and trying to make it swing as high as possible, I want to go over and show them how to sit so the weight is distributed for maximum momentum, as well as the proper form for "pumping" to get it going. What I should be doing is encouraging them to keep it at a reasonable height, one where if a kid falls out, he doesn't have far to go to hit the ground; after all, the higher you pump a tire swing, the more it tilts on its side. Which is what makes it FUN!
--When the older girls took their shoes off to make a line, then climbed up to the highest platform, then climbed over the railing to jump down and see if they could jump past their shoes, I wanted to tell them that they'd need to stand on the railing in order to make it that far. I didn't, never fear, but I had a momentary struggle with my inner child before the adult took over and told them to put their shoes back on and also stop jumping from the platform, even though I'm sure it was FUN!
--The kids are required to wear shoes at all times. This I understand - after all, many mornings I am in charge of conducting the sweep of the playground for suspicious objects and/or persons. There could be drug users' needles buried in the sand! That being said, I also understand why some of the kids prefer to run around shoeless. I loathe walking through the sand in shoes; it's a pain. The kids end up dumping out a ton of sand from their shoes every time they go inside; I'd want to skip that, too, were I them. I feel a little guilty every time I have to remind them to put their shoes on. Going barefoot is FUN!
--I am tempted to applaud the efforts of students who climb on top of the monkey bars, rather then tell them they are for climbing across only. I mean, heck, I had a first grader who got halfway across, then lifted himself through two bars on to the top of them. Kid's got major upper body strength, which I was impressed with; it pained me to have to chastise him for such a feat. Also, my siblings and I used to play on the tops of our monkey bars at home all the time (remember "cocoon"?), and it was great FUN!
--The zipline is held up by a large crossbar. Often the handle will end up in the center of the line, where it cannot be reached from either end, and I am too short to knock it from the middle. When this occurs, I allow the students to monkey across the support bar (technically a no-no) in order to retrieve the handle. I refuse to jump up and down to retrieve it. That's not FUN!
--Sliding down slides feet first gets boring. I sympathize with the kids who want to climb up the slides, or slide down headfirst, or upside down headfirst, etc. The first few days I supervised the playground, I let them play on the slides however they wanted, until I realized that all the other supervisors would yell at kids who weren't sliding in the appropriate fashion. Duds. Don't they know that climbing slides is FUN?!
I think part of the problem stems from the fact that, as a person with no children of my own, I have yet to acquire the parental "safety monitor" instinct. Instead I must rely on my common sense as an adult, common sense that is in a perpetual struggle with my childish side, which wants to have FUN! and safety be darned. I am slowly picking up cues from the other supervisors on what can be allowed and what should be stopped, but sometimes I wonder if they don't go a little overboard. I want to keep the kids safe, too, but telling them they can't play tag, or run around, or dig in the sand, or make up silly troll games under the bridge? There's a line between keeping kids safe and being an imagination-killing fun-sucker. I'm trying to find the balance, but it's hard when most of my co-workers are firmly on the fun-sucker side. I have a bad feeling about this...
Tuesday, 4 September 2012
Well This Is Different (Except the Part Where It's Not)
I have re-entered the ninth circle of bureaucratic hell. Actually, I may have descended to the tenth circle at this point; I can't even talk to a live person face-to-face about my issues because the people in charge are all hiding behind the anonymity of their position and communicating with me strictly through e-mail, despite my attempts engage them in face-to-face or telephonic communications.
Last year, my status in the country was the cause of my hellish ordeal through the U of A's bureaucracy; having been told I had to apply for citizenship instead of getting an international study permit led me through a circular maze of meetings and phone calls that eventually got settled. And I actually talked to the necessary people face-to-face, which was nice.
This year, it's my loan. More specifically, it's the change in my status that has caused extra problems with my loan. See, I'm still an American citizen. I got a loan from the US government last year to pay for school. All was hunky dory. This year, because I am also a Canadian citizen, it's a little more complicated. The university has a (ridiculous, IMO) policy requiring all students with Canadian citizenship who require loans or other financial aid to apply for them through the Canadian government before they can apply for loans from other governments. In other words, I have to apply for a Canadian loan before they will consider me for an American loan. I am not sure if this is strictly the University's policy or if it's part of the US loan program. Inquiries seeking clarification on that point have gone unanswered. Suffice it to say, I have jumped through the necessary hoops to get things going for my loan and if there's a problem further down the road because of all the extra crap I've had to fill out and send in, there will be blood. Not all of it mine.
On a completely different and happier note, I have a job! Yes, ladies and gents, I went out a got me a job working for an out of school care program at one of the local elementary schools. I almost had a job at Chapters, which is like Barnes and Noble, but wanting to take a week off to go home to Cali for Christmas was a deal-breaker there. I'm okay with it.
Today was my first "official" day of work, after going in last week for a couple of orientation days that were kind of silly because the summer program is totally different than the school-time program. Anyway, not only was today my first day of work, it was also the students' first day of school. (Side note: Hey, America? Specifically the districts like MV that start mid-August? Why don't we go to the end of June and start after Labor day like we used to? Hmm? What is the logic behind forcing kids into the classroom in the middle of the hottest month in CA? We could just go two more weeks in June, then start two weeks later AFTER Labor day. Whaddaya say? Think about it?)
I worked a split shift today, fours hours-ish total: 7-9 a.m. and 11:15-1 p.m. Morning and lunch. I have already observed some differences between the elementary schools here and back home; those differences and others stood out to me today as I worked.
The first thing I noticed about ALL the schools here in Edmonton is they are not fenced in. Think about the schools in MV. Every single one has a fence around it, and during the school day the only point of entry (usually) is through the front office once classes have started. The schools do not have fences around them. Perhaps a football field or a section of the parking lot may have a chain link section of fencing at some part of the perimeter, but it looks to be the kind of fencing that is designed to keep sports equipment from escaping.
Another difference that I found odd, but kind of neat, was the fact that the kids usually go home for lunch (which is at the same time for everyone). Yeah, they walk home (or parents walk them home) for lunch, then return for the rest of the school day before lunch is over. The kids who can't go home because they are in out of school care, or whose parents aren't home during the lunch hour, either stay in the very small cafeteria or come to our program. We have a kitchen and lunch area as part of our rooms. This makes it possible for the kids to bring food items that would not normally be found in your average school lunch (brought from home). We have cold storage in the fridge and microwaves for stuff that requires heating. Today I walked around and observed what the kids were eating for lunch. Some things that stood out to me as different:
-sushi
-heat up lasagna and fettuccine
-Campbell's sippin' soup
-pizza pockets
-some noodle/meat combo
-pizza Lunchable that the student assembled, then had us heat
-hamburger pockets
Not your mom's brown bag lunch.
I think the thing that stood out the most to me today was how small the school is. I'd never really paid attention to the dimensions of the school while driving around it to the parking lot. Today I had to follow the kindergartners to their room so I knew where it was to pick them up and walk them to the program room for lunch. Before the students went to their rooms, the whole school lined up outside our room. When I say the whole school, I mean every class was out there. It didn't take up that much space. From what I gathered today there is one class for each grade, and then two extra combo classes, a 3/4 split and a 5/6 split. So altogether there are only nine classes at the school. NINE.
It's not like Edmonton is a small city; it has about a million people, and the school I'm at is not in any way shape or form a rural school. It's right behind the mall, for crying out loud! I just wonder if Edmonton has way more elementary schools - I think I pass three or four on my way to work. I'm just used (having subbed all over MV at many different elementary schools) to there being three or four classes per grade, plus multiple A.M. and P.M Kindergartens.
Oh, and then there's the shoe switching. It has started to make sense, in a weird sort of way, but I still don't get why they're doing it NOW. Each student has to have two pairs of shoes for school: indoor shoes and outdoor shoes. They switch shoes each time they transition from class to recess and back again. I can understand this in the winter, what with the snow and all - I do the same thing for church with my boots and my cute strappy heels. I'm not sure why it's necessary now, but I'm not the teacher, just the assistant.
The last thing that weirded me out a little (okay, a lot) today was the parents. Granted, I have never been in an elementary school on the first day - no, wait, that's a lie. I did those horrific three days of fourth grade at Seneca a couple of years ago. But I seem to recall -oh! I just figured out what the fences are for! It's not to keep the kids in; it's to keep the parents out! Because in MV, parents don't hang out in their Kinder's or first grader's class all day. They kiss them goodbye at the gate and leave them to line up with their class. Today the parents of the kinders and grade ones were allowed, if they so desired, to stay for the day. Many of them did desire, and how the teachers put up with them with such equanimity, I will never know. I had a hard enough time keeping my temper in check when I walked with another program assistant to the kinders' room. The teachers were attempting to show the kids how to line up, come in, and change their shoes. As they were attempting to do this (which would have been difficult with only students present) they also had to compete with parents shoving their way in past students who weren't theirs and so did not merit attention or courtesy. This was usually accomplished with the aid of a behemoth stroller.
Imagine it: A scene of controlled chaos, with four different aged classes all lining up and coming in the same set of doors. The hallway is large enough to accommodate them walking or standing in line, but they are currently in the process of switching shoes which requires sitting on the floor or leaning against the wall. The teachers are trying to keep track of their students, make sure everyone knows where to put their shoes, and then get them lined up again to go in the classrooms. And in the middle of it all, parents. Parents with their cameras, parents with their strollers, parents who are focused solely on their child and do not seem to care about the fourth grader they just shoved aside to get the perfect picture angle. I was a touch annoyed by the end of it all.
There were some things that were more specific to working in the program vs. teaching, which I will probably post in a different entry. This one's a bit long.
Last year, my status in the country was the cause of my hellish ordeal through the U of A's bureaucracy; having been told I had to apply for citizenship instead of getting an international study permit led me through a circular maze of meetings and phone calls that eventually got settled. And I actually talked to the necessary people face-to-face, which was nice.
This year, it's my loan. More specifically, it's the change in my status that has caused extra problems with my loan. See, I'm still an American citizen. I got a loan from the US government last year to pay for school. All was hunky dory. This year, because I am also a Canadian citizen, it's a little more complicated. The university has a (ridiculous, IMO) policy requiring all students with Canadian citizenship who require loans or other financial aid to apply for them through the Canadian government before they can apply for loans from other governments. In other words, I have to apply for a Canadian loan before they will consider me for an American loan. I am not sure if this is strictly the University's policy or if it's part of the US loan program. Inquiries seeking clarification on that point have gone unanswered. Suffice it to say, I have jumped through the necessary hoops to get things going for my loan and if there's a problem further down the road because of all the extra crap I've had to fill out and send in, there will be blood. Not all of it mine.
On a completely different and happier note, I have a job! Yes, ladies and gents, I went out a got me a job working for an out of school care program at one of the local elementary schools. I almost had a job at Chapters, which is like Barnes and Noble, but wanting to take a week off to go home to Cali for Christmas was a deal-breaker there. I'm okay with it.
Today was my first "official" day of work, after going in last week for a couple of orientation days that were kind of silly because the summer program is totally different than the school-time program. Anyway, not only was today my first day of work, it was also the students' first day of school. (Side note: Hey, America? Specifically the districts like MV that start mid-August? Why don't we go to the end of June and start after Labor day like we used to? Hmm? What is the logic behind forcing kids into the classroom in the middle of the hottest month in CA? We could just go two more weeks in June, then start two weeks later AFTER Labor day. Whaddaya say? Think about it?)
I worked a split shift today, fours hours-ish total: 7-9 a.m. and 11:15-1 p.m. Morning and lunch. I have already observed some differences between the elementary schools here and back home; those differences and others stood out to me today as I worked.
The first thing I noticed about ALL the schools here in Edmonton is they are not fenced in. Think about the schools in MV. Every single one has a fence around it, and during the school day the only point of entry (usually) is through the front office once classes have started. The schools do not have fences around them. Perhaps a football field or a section of the parking lot may have a chain link section of fencing at some part of the perimeter, but it looks to be the kind of fencing that is designed to keep sports equipment from escaping.
Another difference that I found odd, but kind of neat, was the fact that the kids usually go home for lunch (which is at the same time for everyone). Yeah, they walk home (or parents walk them home) for lunch, then return for the rest of the school day before lunch is over. The kids who can't go home because they are in out of school care, or whose parents aren't home during the lunch hour, either stay in the very small cafeteria or come to our program. We have a kitchen and lunch area as part of our rooms. This makes it possible for the kids to bring food items that would not normally be found in your average school lunch (brought from home). We have cold storage in the fridge and microwaves for stuff that requires heating. Today I walked around and observed what the kids were eating for lunch. Some things that stood out to me as different:
-sushi
-heat up lasagna and fettuccine
-Campbell's sippin' soup
-pizza pockets
-some noodle/meat combo
-pizza Lunchable that the student assembled, then had us heat
-hamburger pockets
Not your mom's brown bag lunch.
I think the thing that stood out the most to me today was how small the school is. I'd never really paid attention to the dimensions of the school while driving around it to the parking lot. Today I had to follow the kindergartners to their room so I knew where it was to pick them up and walk them to the program room for lunch. Before the students went to their rooms, the whole school lined up outside our room. When I say the whole school, I mean every class was out there. It didn't take up that much space. From what I gathered today there is one class for each grade, and then two extra combo classes, a 3/4 split and a 5/6 split. So altogether there are only nine classes at the school. NINE.
It's not like Edmonton is a small city; it has about a million people, and the school I'm at is not in any way shape or form a rural school. It's right behind the mall, for crying out loud! I just wonder if Edmonton has way more elementary schools - I think I pass three or four on my way to work. I'm just used (having subbed all over MV at many different elementary schools) to there being three or four classes per grade, plus multiple A.M. and P.M Kindergartens.
Oh, and then there's the shoe switching. It has started to make sense, in a weird sort of way, but I still don't get why they're doing it NOW. Each student has to have two pairs of shoes for school: indoor shoes and outdoor shoes. They switch shoes each time they transition from class to recess and back again. I can understand this in the winter, what with the snow and all - I do the same thing for church with my boots and my cute strappy heels. I'm not sure why it's necessary now, but I'm not the teacher, just the assistant.
The last thing that weirded me out a little (okay, a lot) today was the parents. Granted, I have never been in an elementary school on the first day - no, wait, that's a lie. I did those horrific three days of fourth grade at Seneca a couple of years ago. But I seem to recall -oh! I just figured out what the fences are for! It's not to keep the kids in; it's to keep the parents out! Because in MV, parents don't hang out in their Kinder's or first grader's class all day. They kiss them goodbye at the gate and leave them to line up with their class. Today the parents of the kinders and grade ones were allowed, if they so desired, to stay for the day. Many of them did desire, and how the teachers put up with them with such equanimity, I will never know. I had a hard enough time keeping my temper in check when I walked with another program assistant to the kinders' room. The teachers were attempting to show the kids how to line up, come in, and change their shoes. As they were attempting to do this (which would have been difficult with only students present) they also had to compete with parents shoving their way in past students who weren't theirs and so did not merit attention or courtesy. This was usually accomplished with the aid of a behemoth stroller.
Imagine it: A scene of controlled chaos, with four different aged classes all lining up and coming in the same set of doors. The hallway is large enough to accommodate them walking or standing in line, but they are currently in the process of switching shoes which requires sitting on the floor or leaning against the wall. The teachers are trying to keep track of their students, make sure everyone knows where to put their shoes, and then get them lined up again to go in the classrooms. And in the middle of it all, parents. Parents with their cameras, parents with their strollers, parents who are focused solely on their child and do not seem to care about the fourth grader they just shoved aside to get the perfect picture angle. I was a touch annoyed by the end of it all.
There were some things that were more specific to working in the program vs. teaching, which I will probably post in a different entry. This one's a bit long.
Family Fun Tymes at Echo Lake
A.K.A. Why My Family Reunion Was Better Than Yours
(Note: I actually began this entry back in August, a day or so after returning from Echo Lake. I wanted to add in the pictures I knew were coming, so I didn't publish it right away. Then I forgot.)
This year my family (mum's side) held a kind of reunion at Echo Lake, outside Kalispell, Montana. I call it a kind of reunion because not everyone from my mum's side of the family could make it so it doesn't classify as a full-on reunion (in my mind). I'm sure someone in my family will take issue with my classification but family reunions on my dad's side have really skewed my reunion perspective. Anyway.
The last time we did a family reunion with Mum's side was four years ago at Lake of the Woods, Ontario. Before that, family vacations to Winnipeg with camping trips to Rushing River were the norm. Are we sensing a theme? Anyway, this year we scored a sweet cabin on Echo Lake courtesy of old high school friends of Mum (thanks, Northcott family!). For a week we had a prime spot on the lake with a private dock, a couple of boats, and a cabin with space for everyone (shocker, that). About Wednesday night, Becca made a comment in relation to our activity (bonfire and singing) that gave me the idea for this entry, to wit: "And that is why our family reunions are better than yours." I'm sure some things on this list will cause people to sputter and say, "Well, that's just your opinion." That's what people say when confronted by truths they just can't handle. It's okay, I understand. We can still be friends, though, right?
1. We have the best food. I have already written about how my Uncle Walt and Aunt Lilas are cooking ninjas. They were our dinner chefs for the week. I missed out on Monday and Tuesday (I didn't get there til after dinner Tuesday) but from all accounts it was excellent. I'd told my siblings they had to eat everything Walt and Li put in front of them, even if they didn't like the various ingredients, because it would all be delicious. I was right. I wrote this haiku in praise of dinner (I wanted to write a sonnet but I was too busy stuffing my face):
Cooking ninjas make
Food so good I want to cry.
Oops! I ate too much.
I've decided to become a reverse-polygamist, because I'm already married to Walt's biscuits, but I made room in my heart (and my stomach) for his chicken curry salad. Hot dogs and hamburgers just ain't gonna cut it no more.
2. Our kids are cuter. Of course Cameron was there, and I am partial to the little guy, but my cousins Andy and Jamie sent their girls Tamsen (7) and Rowan (4) with Walt and Lilas (the g-parents). There were a couple of times I cursed myself for not having a camera with me at all times because there were some shots that, had I gotten them, could have been used to sell kids' swimsuits, or life vests, or little plastic fishing poles that don't actually catch fish because they have no hooks so the fish just follow them futilely attempting to bite the lures and getting nothing. Anyway, my point is, we had the cutest kids, and since there were only three of them, their cuteness did not greatly diminish in proportion to the amount of noise they made. (Added: Thankfully, Auntie Darci had HER camera and caught some of the cuteness in stills.)
3. My Uncle Wally has the BEST beard. I bet you didn't have a beard like this at your family reunion.
Nice and long and, as JD poetically put it, "Tickled oh-so-gently on my chin as I gave him a hug."
Now, even if you're reading this and thinking, "Sure, sure, you had good food, and everyone thinks the kids in their family are the cutest, and my great-uncle Lorenzo's beard was way better" I KNOW your family reunion can't beat this next one. Really, the main reason my family reunion was better than yours hinges on this guy:
.jpg)
This is my cousin Joe. Joe and his brother Dave are professional musicians (sadly, Dave couldn't make to the reunion it because he was on tour). My Uncle Wally learned his boys to play music, so when we have a campfire and sing songs, we have a campfire and have professional musicians playing rock songs on their guitars and we all sing along. The following conversations were had many times that night:
"Okay, so what next?"
"Can you play ------------?"
"Sure"
or
"Nope, do you have the tabs?"
(All of us had our phones or iPods, which were hooked in to the cabin wireless - hey there 21st century campfires!)
"Yeah, here."
"Okay..." (plinking around for a minute) "Okay, ready?"
And then we'd sing. I bet you didn't have professional musicians for your campfire sing-a-longs. Which is why our family reunions are better than yours.
(Note: I actually began this entry back in August, a day or so after returning from Echo Lake. I wanted to add in the pictures I knew were coming, so I didn't publish it right away. Then I forgot.)
This year my family (mum's side) held a kind of reunion at Echo Lake, outside Kalispell, Montana. I call it a kind of reunion because not everyone from my mum's side of the family could make it so it doesn't classify as a full-on reunion (in my mind). I'm sure someone in my family will take issue with my classification but family reunions on my dad's side have really skewed my reunion perspective. Anyway.
The last time we did a family reunion with Mum's side was four years ago at Lake of the Woods, Ontario. Before that, family vacations to Winnipeg with camping trips to Rushing River were the norm. Are we sensing a theme? Anyway, this year we scored a sweet cabin on Echo Lake courtesy of old high school friends of Mum (thanks, Northcott family!). For a week we had a prime spot on the lake with a private dock, a couple of boats, and a cabin with space for everyone (shocker, that). About Wednesday night, Becca made a comment in relation to our activity (bonfire and singing) that gave me the idea for this entry, to wit: "And that is why our family reunions are better than yours." I'm sure some things on this list will cause people to sputter and say, "Well, that's just your opinion." That's what people say when confronted by truths they just can't handle. It's okay, I understand. We can still be friends, though, right?
1. We have the best food. I have already written about how my Uncle Walt and Aunt Lilas are cooking ninjas. They were our dinner chefs for the week. I missed out on Monday and Tuesday (I didn't get there til after dinner Tuesday) but from all accounts it was excellent. I'd told my siblings they had to eat everything Walt and Li put in front of them, even if they didn't like the various ingredients, because it would all be delicious. I was right. I wrote this haiku in praise of dinner (I wanted to write a sonnet but I was too busy stuffing my face):
Cooking ninjas make
Food so good I want to cry.
Oops! I ate too much.
I've decided to become a reverse-polygamist, because I'm already married to Walt's biscuits, but I made room in my heart (and my stomach) for his chicken curry salad. Hot dogs and hamburgers just ain't gonna cut it no more.
2. Our kids are cuter. Of course Cameron was there, and I am partial to the little guy, but my cousins Andy and Jamie sent their girls Tamsen (7) and Rowan (4) with Walt and Lilas (the g-parents). There were a couple of times I cursed myself for not having a camera with me at all times because there were some shots that, had I gotten them, could have been used to sell kids' swimsuits, or life vests, or little plastic fishing poles that don't actually catch fish because they have no hooks so the fish just follow them futilely attempting to bite the lures and getting nothing. Anyway, my point is, we had the cutest kids, and since there were only three of them, their cuteness did not greatly diminish in proportion to the amount of noise they made. (Added: Thankfully, Auntie Darci had HER camera and caught some of the cuteness in stills.)
Rowan is in the back, cousin Joe in the middle, and Tamsen up front. Wearing my awesome lifejacket from the 80s.
Cameron stoically contemplates the meaning of life while gazing at the water. Or not.
Nice and long and, as JD poetically put it, "Tickled oh-so-gently on my chin as I gave him a hug."
Now, even if you're reading this and thinking, "Sure, sure, you had good food, and everyone thinks the kids in their family are the cutest, and my great-uncle Lorenzo's beard was way better" I KNOW your family reunion can't beat this next one. Really, the main reason my family reunion was better than yours hinges on this guy:
.jpg)
This is my cousin Joe. Joe and his brother Dave are professional musicians (sadly, Dave couldn't make to the reunion it because he was on tour). My Uncle Wally learned his boys to play music, so when we have a campfire and sing songs, we have a campfire and have professional musicians playing rock songs on their guitars and we all sing along. The following conversations were had many times that night:
"Okay, so what next?"
"Can you play ------------?"
"Sure"
or
"Nope, do you have the tabs?"
(All of us had our phones or iPods, which were hooked in to the cabin wireless - hey there 21st century campfires!)
"Yeah, here."
"Okay..." (plinking around for a minute) "Okay, ready?"
And then we'd sing. I bet you didn't have professional musicians for your campfire sing-a-longs. Which is why our family reunions are better than yours.
Monday, 30 July 2012
Academia is Not for Me
I started my second class today: EDSE 504 - Curriculum Inquiry. It's my last required class for my Master's degree; after this it's just my project and one last elective. I realize that the University has their reasons for requiring certain classes. 510 gets you started thinking about your research question and helps you learn to do academic research and write academic papers (APA, people, APA!!). 511 and 512 (depending on whether you're in a thesis or project based program) get you started on actually writing your final thesis/project. What I don't get are the curriculum courses. Or rather, why there are TWO of them that are required.
In my first curriculum course (503, the class from which I posted my final session notes here), we looked at the different ways in which people structure curriculum - kind of a "who's pulling the curricular strings and what's their agenda" coupled with a broad look at the different theoretical lenses through which people interpret curriculum. Sound riveting, right? Well, I didn't actively hate that class, but the only thing I remember from it is the idea of teachers helping students achieve transcendence - and only because that was the topic I chose for my final paper. Basically, teachers have a duty to their vocation to help students leave a class better than they were at the start. Reasonable, and didn't require me to compromise my own personal views to get a good grade, so I could handle it. But that's all I really remember from the class - that, and the distinct buzzing that would sound in my ears when people started talking about modernism, postmodernism, post-colonial perspectives, and psychoanalytical yadda yadda yadda.
I fear the same thing is happening already with this new class, and it scares me. It's only a three week course, three papers (one of which is half my grade), and a presentation. There are only 4 students in the class, and the other three women have just taken 503 this summer. My keen strategy of remaining mum on topics which I, quite frankly, have zero interest in, and making up any deficits the teacher may think I have through my strength in b.s.-ing papers, will not work. The prof. knows my name, dangit! And today, while there were some gems in his lecture that I could glom onto (hey, I know what the difference between modernism and post-modernism (or "pomo" for the cool kids) is!), there were also times when I caught myself thinking, "A lot of this sounds like complete and utter bullsh-tuff." Usually coupled with, "Who, outside of academia, cares?" There were also times when one of the other girls was commenting and throwing out names of famous academes, many of which our prof had cited in his papers we'd had to read for homework (before class even STARTED!), and I kept hearing Ben Stiller's voice in my head: "Don't be a kiss-ass". So mean, but it got to the point where every time this chick dropped another name, that was my first thought.
I didn't have this problem with my last class, but I realized that's because my last class was a.) in my particular research area, b.) taught by my supervising prof., and c.) focused on practical applications of digital technologies in the curriculum - moving from theory to actual use. It focused on HOW the technology should be used; everyone presented on software for classroom use, and put together a unit detailing how the technologies would be used to teach that unit. Actually, it was similar to what I am doing for my project...
(Okay, random sidebar: a storm front just blew in. And by blew in, I mean "The trees on the left side of my view started shaking before the trees on the right side as the storm moved overhead." Neato, but now I'm annoyed at the thunder.)
I'd kind of already figured this out, but today the point was driven home: I am not an academic. I doubt I ever will be. I just don't have the patience for it. I can't get enthused about discussing different theoretical lenses and the ways in which people interpret, well, anything. I. DON'T. CARE. Really, I just want to finish my project and get back to teaching. At this point, I'm not even picky about WHERE I teach, so long as I can be a teacher again.
Don't worry, Mum and Dad, this whole not-caring business isn't going to prevent me from doing everything I can to do well in class. I just get frustrated being forced to spend a lot of time participating in academic navel-gazing. I could be home reading a book.
UPDATE: So, I dropped the class. I will be postponing graduation until next April. It was a choice between total insanity with the distinct possiblity of a nervous breakdown (staying in the class), or mild insanity with a slight chance of jitters round about winter time (dropping it). I chose the latter. I have made my peace with it.
In my first curriculum course (503, the class from which I posted my final session notes here), we looked at the different ways in which people structure curriculum - kind of a "who's pulling the curricular strings and what's their agenda" coupled with a broad look at the different theoretical lenses through which people interpret curriculum. Sound riveting, right? Well, I didn't actively hate that class, but the only thing I remember from it is the idea of teachers helping students achieve transcendence - and only because that was the topic I chose for my final paper. Basically, teachers have a duty to their vocation to help students leave a class better than they were at the start. Reasonable, and didn't require me to compromise my own personal views to get a good grade, so I could handle it. But that's all I really remember from the class - that, and the distinct buzzing that would sound in my ears when people started talking about modernism, postmodernism, post-colonial perspectives, and psychoanalytical yadda yadda yadda.
I fear the same thing is happening already with this new class, and it scares me. It's only a three week course, three papers (one of which is half my grade), and a presentation. There are only 4 students in the class, and the other three women have just taken 503 this summer. My keen strategy of remaining mum on topics which I, quite frankly, have zero interest in, and making up any deficits the teacher may think I have through my strength in b.s.-ing papers, will not work. The prof. knows my name, dangit! And today, while there were some gems in his lecture that I could glom onto (hey, I know what the difference between modernism and post-modernism (or "pomo" for the cool kids) is!), there were also times when I caught myself thinking, "A lot of this sounds like complete and utter bullsh-tuff." Usually coupled with, "Who, outside of academia, cares?" There were also times when one of the other girls was commenting and throwing out names of famous academes, many of which our prof had cited in his papers we'd had to read for homework (before class even STARTED!), and I kept hearing Ben Stiller's voice in my head: "Don't be a kiss-ass". So mean, but it got to the point where every time this chick dropped another name, that was my first thought.
I didn't have this problem with my last class, but I realized that's because my last class was a.) in my particular research area, b.) taught by my supervising prof., and c.) focused on practical applications of digital technologies in the curriculum - moving from theory to actual use. It focused on HOW the technology should be used; everyone presented on software for classroom use, and put together a unit detailing how the technologies would be used to teach that unit. Actually, it was similar to what I am doing for my project...
(Okay, random sidebar: a storm front just blew in. And by blew in, I mean "The trees on the left side of my view started shaking before the trees on the right side as the storm moved overhead." Neato, but now I'm annoyed at the thunder.)
I'd kind of already figured this out, but today the point was driven home: I am not an academic. I doubt I ever will be. I just don't have the patience for it. I can't get enthused about discussing different theoretical lenses and the ways in which people interpret, well, anything. I. DON'T. CARE. Really, I just want to finish my project and get back to teaching. At this point, I'm not even picky about WHERE I teach, so long as I can be a teacher again.
Don't worry, Mum and Dad, this whole not-caring business isn't going to prevent me from doing everything I can to do well in class. I just get frustrated being forced to spend a lot of time participating in academic navel-gazing. I could be home reading a book.
UPDATE: So, I dropped the class. I will be postponing graduation until next April. It was a choice between total insanity with the distinct possiblity of a nervous breakdown (staying in the class), or mild insanity with a slight chance of jitters round about winter time (dropping it). I chose the latter. I have made my peace with it.
Saturday, 28 July 2012
Things I Could Do Without
I can't think of a good or funny intro to this post. The idea for it has been rolling around in my brain for a couple of weeks, but I couldn't muster up the energy to actually write about it since it really boils down to me complaining about things that have either been bugging me, or dumb things I did without pausing to think about the consequences. Anyway, here we go.
1. Thunderstorms. I'm over them. I haven't stopped to count how many thunderstorms we've had since I got back to Edmonton. The one that tried to flood my room was the first of many. I used to love thunderstorms; they gave me the shivers, like when you're reading the scary part of a book or watching a creepy movie, and you're scared but also slightly exhilarated because in the back of your mind you know that the book or movie isn't real so you enjoy being scared because it's just pretend-scared, not actually fearing-for-my-life-scared. Thunderstorms used to make me feel that way.
Now, I just want to smack the thunder and tell it to shut-up already.
I am a light sleeper; I sleep with a fan on to drown out noises that keep me awake: my own snoring, other people snoring, my own breathing, other people breathing, crickets, cars going by, birds (the window has to be closed for this one, otherwise they're too dang loud for the fan), and the weird mewing noise I make when I'm falling asleep laying on my back and start dreaming that I'm talking to someone and the dream talking causes me to attempt talking in my sleep but I'm not a sleep talker like Bec so it comes out as a mew. Anyways...
Thunder refuses to be drowned out by the fan, and my brain can't get used to it. It's too loud and inconsistent. About a week and a half ago a storm started, oh, right about the time I turned my light off for bed. And lasted the next two and a half hours. I couldn't relax because my body kept tensing for the inevitable crash every time I detected a flicker of lightning through my closed eyelids. Perhaps it wouldn't have been so annoying had it not been the night before I had to give a presentation/tutorial on Windows Movie Maker in class. Whatever joy I got from thunderstorms has since evaporated. Now I just get an annoyed feeling, kind of like - okay, you know how sometimes you think back on an unpleasant encounter with someone you dislike and years later you think of all the things you should have said but didn't at the time, so now every time you think about that encounter you get this angry, itchy, I-want-to-punch-someone feeling because you can't go back in time and say all the things you've thought of, and contacting that person to say them now isn't what rational adults do, and you're trying your hardest to be a rational adult even if you don't really like it because that's what society thinks you should be, so you don't contact them but every time you look back at that encounter you get that same feeling? That's me and thunderstorms.
2. Tumbleweed made of cat hair. Today I got one of my crazy cleaning urges. These come upon me every couple of months or so, and I know my mum loves it because I'll do things like clean the entire kitchen (even wiping down the counters) or the rec room. I think it's part boredom, part sporadic OCD/germaphobia that leads to these urges. Well, today I decided it would be a good idea to vacuum the carpets and sweep the floors.
You guys, I almost DIED.
The weather was nice and cool so I decided to open the doors and windows to let air move through the house. Sweeping in the basement wasn't too bad, although Gus decided to let me sweep the entire laundry room floor and dispose of the sprayed kitty litter before taking a dump and spraying more litter everywhere when he covered it up and hopped out. Brat. Then I did the middle floor, which was less fun, but still manageable, and the central vac sucker-up place in the kitchen floor was very helpful.
It was when I got to my room that everything went south. I had been sweeping with the broom, then vacuuming up the tumbleweeds and assorted debris with the hand vac. But I guess it's been a while since I swept or vacuumed under my desk, because there was a colony of dust bunny/tumbleweed hybrids living under it, and they took an exception to my eviction notice. I thought it would be okay. I got everything gathered in a nice little pile in the middle of the hallway, got on my hands and knees to use the hand vac, and then...a breeze blew through my open window, giving the bunnyweeds an opportunity to launch an air assault on my nose and mouth. Only my quick reflexes and the fact that my hand was already on the switch for the hand vac saved me from what would have been an untimely and gruesome demise at the hands of Lilycathairbunnyweeds.
3. Watching "Pitch Black" and other scary movies before bedtime. I should have learned from "Signs". I should have learned from years of watching "Supernatural". I should have learned from watching "Jurassic Park", and "Independence Day" and reading assorted R.L. Stein books back in the day (Fear Street, not Goosebumps). I don't do well with scary material right before bedtime. My imagination is a tiny bit hyperactive when it's dark and I've just watched or read something scary. The other night, "Pitch Black" and "The Chronicles of Riddick" were on AMC, so I DVR'd them to watch later. I have a grudging, almost unwilling attraction to Vin Diesel DON'T JUDGE ME!!
I decided the next evening that "Pitch Black" + nail painting = FUN TYMES!! And for the first little while it was. Vin Diesel's physique strikes a perfect balance between nicely muscled and grotesquely sculpted, which makes up for the deficiencies of his face and acting abilities (ooh, I'm such a meanie). The movie itself didn't scar me for life or anything, but the premise - creatures that are harmed by light, hunt in the dark, and aren't picky about what or whom they eat? Well, it's all entertainment watching people get munched until you're in your room...in the dark...and there are shadows you can't identify because you're nearly blind without your glasses or contact lenses, and your hyperactive imagination is constructing various scenarios in which you are gruesomely devoured by flying sightless beasties because you can't hide in their echolocation blind spot like Riddick because you're lying flat on your bed so they'll find you and eat you unless you can snap the light on quickly enough so you practice your speed light-turning-on abilities, then feel really stupid once the light is back on because, hello, it's a movie, and not even a very good one at that and you are a rational sometimes-adult so start acting like one and go to sleep!
Anyway, I probably shouldn't watch scary movies before bedtime anymore. "Chronicles of Riddick" last night didn't count, because it's not scary, not really, not when Karl Urban has a ridiculous mullet/braid/ponytail hairdo and chews the scenery like a dog that's failed obedience school chews shoes.
4. School. Particularly summer school. Please, family, friends, loved ones of all sorts, please don't ever let me go back for another degree. If I ever start talking about it, remind me of how much I hate school. Remind me of how painful it is to have to go to school every day, and do homework, and get graded on it. Remind me of how much I freak when I get a 6/8 on a blog post where three weeks' worth of posts count as only 10% of my grade. Remind me of how I dislike giving presentations to my classmates where they have the opportunity to grill me on how my activities promote higher-level cognitive strategies through the use of technology, so I stress about it for two weeks to the point where Cathie invites a middle-schooler over to give me her real-live-student feedback on what I have begun to suspect is a crazy person's idea of a good technology-based project. Because I've only been in school for three weeks - I've done one of my two summer courses - and I'm hoping I can squeeze out a little more effort for the next class, but right now I'm so done with school I'm afraid I'll totally slack on this next class.
Also, remind me of how much I dislike professors who e-mail homework assignments that needs to be completed BEFORE the first class session. That's cheating! We haven't even HAD class yet! You can't give me homework!
5. Eating McDonald's french fries right before bed. Too salty. Woke up ridiculously bloated. I could do without a repeat.
Okay, rant over.
1. Thunderstorms. I'm over them. I haven't stopped to count how many thunderstorms we've had since I got back to Edmonton. The one that tried to flood my room was the first of many. I used to love thunderstorms; they gave me the shivers, like when you're reading the scary part of a book or watching a creepy movie, and you're scared but also slightly exhilarated because in the back of your mind you know that the book or movie isn't real so you enjoy being scared because it's just pretend-scared, not actually fearing-for-my-life-scared. Thunderstorms used to make me feel that way.
Now, I just want to smack the thunder and tell it to shut-up already.
I am a light sleeper; I sleep with a fan on to drown out noises that keep me awake: my own snoring, other people snoring, my own breathing, other people breathing, crickets, cars going by, birds (the window has to be closed for this one, otherwise they're too dang loud for the fan), and the weird mewing noise I make when I'm falling asleep laying on my back and start dreaming that I'm talking to someone and the dream talking causes me to attempt talking in my sleep but I'm not a sleep talker like Bec so it comes out as a mew. Anyways...
Thunder refuses to be drowned out by the fan, and my brain can't get used to it. It's too loud and inconsistent. About a week and a half ago a storm started, oh, right about the time I turned my light off for bed. And lasted the next two and a half hours. I couldn't relax because my body kept tensing for the inevitable crash every time I detected a flicker of lightning through my closed eyelids. Perhaps it wouldn't have been so annoying had it not been the night before I had to give a presentation/tutorial on Windows Movie Maker in class. Whatever joy I got from thunderstorms has since evaporated. Now I just get an annoyed feeling, kind of like - okay, you know how sometimes you think back on an unpleasant encounter with someone you dislike and years later you think of all the things you should have said but didn't at the time, so now every time you think about that encounter you get this angry, itchy, I-want-to-punch-someone feeling because you can't go back in time and say all the things you've thought of, and contacting that person to say them now isn't what rational adults do, and you're trying your hardest to be a rational adult even if you don't really like it because that's what society thinks you should be, so you don't contact them but every time you look back at that encounter you get that same feeling? That's me and thunderstorms.
2. Tumbleweed made of cat hair. Today I got one of my crazy cleaning urges. These come upon me every couple of months or so, and I know my mum loves it because I'll do things like clean the entire kitchen (even wiping down the counters) or the rec room. I think it's part boredom, part sporadic OCD/germaphobia that leads to these urges. Well, today I decided it would be a good idea to vacuum the carpets and sweep the floors.
You guys, I almost DIED.
The weather was nice and cool so I decided to open the doors and windows to let air move through the house. Sweeping in the basement wasn't too bad, although Gus decided to let me sweep the entire laundry room floor and dispose of the sprayed kitty litter before taking a dump and spraying more litter everywhere when he covered it up and hopped out. Brat. Then I did the middle floor, which was less fun, but still manageable, and the central vac sucker-up place in the kitchen floor was very helpful.
It was when I got to my room that everything went south. I had been sweeping with the broom, then vacuuming up the tumbleweeds and assorted debris with the hand vac. But I guess it's been a while since I swept or vacuumed under my desk, because there was a colony of dust bunny/tumbleweed hybrids living under it, and they took an exception to my eviction notice. I thought it would be okay. I got everything gathered in a nice little pile in the middle of the hallway, got on my hands and knees to use the hand vac, and then...a breeze blew through my open window, giving the bunnyweeds an opportunity to launch an air assault on my nose and mouth. Only my quick reflexes and the fact that my hand was already on the switch for the hand vac saved me from what would have been an untimely and gruesome demise at the hands of Lilycathairbunnyweeds.
3. Watching "Pitch Black" and other scary movies before bedtime. I should have learned from "Signs". I should have learned from years of watching "Supernatural". I should have learned from watching "Jurassic Park", and "Independence Day" and reading assorted R.L. Stein books back in the day (Fear Street, not Goosebumps). I don't do well with scary material right before bedtime. My imagination is a tiny bit hyperactive when it's dark and I've just watched or read something scary. The other night, "Pitch Black" and "The Chronicles of Riddick" were on AMC, so I DVR'd them to watch later. I have a grudging, almost unwilling attraction to Vin Diesel DON'T JUDGE ME!!
I decided the next evening that "Pitch Black" + nail painting = FUN TYMES!! And for the first little while it was. Vin Diesel's physique strikes a perfect balance between nicely muscled and grotesquely sculpted, which makes up for the deficiencies of his face and acting abilities (ooh, I'm such a meanie). The movie itself didn't scar me for life or anything, but the premise - creatures that are harmed by light, hunt in the dark, and aren't picky about what or whom they eat? Well, it's all entertainment watching people get munched until you're in your room...in the dark...and there are shadows you can't identify because you're nearly blind without your glasses or contact lenses, and your hyperactive imagination is constructing various scenarios in which you are gruesomely devoured by flying sightless beasties because you can't hide in their echolocation blind spot like Riddick because you're lying flat on your bed so they'll find you and eat you unless you can snap the light on quickly enough so you practice your speed light-turning-on abilities, then feel really stupid once the light is back on because, hello, it's a movie, and not even a very good one at that and you are a rational sometimes-adult so start acting like one and go to sleep!
Anyway, I probably shouldn't watch scary movies before bedtime anymore. "Chronicles of Riddick" last night didn't count, because it's not scary, not really, not when Karl Urban has a ridiculous mullet/braid/ponytail hairdo and chews the scenery like a dog that's failed obedience school chews shoes.
4. School. Particularly summer school. Please, family, friends, loved ones of all sorts, please don't ever let me go back for another degree. If I ever start talking about it, remind me of how much I hate school. Remind me of how painful it is to have to go to school every day, and do homework, and get graded on it. Remind me of how much I freak when I get a 6/8 on a blog post where three weeks' worth of posts count as only 10% of my grade. Remind me of how I dislike giving presentations to my classmates where they have the opportunity to grill me on how my activities promote higher-level cognitive strategies through the use of technology, so I stress about it for two weeks to the point where Cathie invites a middle-schooler over to give me her real-live-student feedback on what I have begun to suspect is a crazy person's idea of a good technology-based project. Because I've only been in school for three weeks - I've done one of my two summer courses - and I'm hoping I can squeeze out a little more effort for the next class, but right now I'm so done with school I'm afraid I'll totally slack on this next class.
Also, remind me of how much I dislike professors who e-mail homework assignments that needs to be completed BEFORE the first class session. That's cheating! We haven't even HAD class yet! You can't give me homework!
5. Eating McDonald's french fries right before bed. Too salty. Woke up ridiculously bloated. I could do without a repeat.
Okay, rant over.
Thursday, 12 July 2012
A Ripsnortin' Welcome Back
I have returned to the Great White North. Except right now it would be better labelled the Great Green North. I guess this much beautiful foliage is the payoff for ridiculous winters, eh? My return trip wasn't quite as adventure filled as last time (no fires blocking the highway, accidents, etc.) although I did have an A-MA-ZING Fourth of July. My dear sweet mother bought tickets to Stadium of Fire, so we went with JD and Megan to see the Beach Boys and a fireworks show partially dedicated to celebrating the 50th anniversary of James Bond. Yeah, it was as cool as you think.
Anyways, my return has been relatively uneventful, with the exception of a head cold which developed the day before classes started. But even that's going away now, so no big.
No, the major event that Edmonton threw to welcome me back to the north countries was, in true Canadian form, weather related.
Now, it's not like I've never experienced a thunderstorm before. We don't get a TON of them in Moreno Valley (although apparently a lot more since I've left), and the ones we do get aren't as loud and powerful as they get in, say, Texas (although we did get those tornadoes that one time). They knock the power out, sure, but our power goes out in a high wind, the box is so old, so that may be more wussy-power box related than the strength of the storm.
I've also experienced the "monsoon season" during the summer in Arizona, where a high wind storm kick starts the evening before the thunderstorm begins. I'm still not sure what Jonny and I were thinking, continuing to shoot in the archery range after the power went out. At least we had the sense to call out when one of us went down range to retrieve the arrows.
But last night...oy, last night.
Mum was up here, so I was sleeping on the couch in the basement. Since the cats are used to having their litter box down in the basement (we moved it while I was down there), I kept the door closed. I am not one of those cat owners who allows 24/7 access for my friendly felines. Boundaries, people, boundaries. I also sleep with a fan on every night - I need the white noise to fall asleep.
So imagine my surprise when I awoke early this AM to what sounded at first like...applause? I was dreaming, but I think it had to do with zombies (thanks, Walking Dead black and white series premier!), so...who's applauding? As I became fully conscious, the sound sharpened to water falling. A lot of water falling. My first thought was that a pipe had burst in the basement by the washing machine, and any second I would feel the rush of water move through the room. I got up to check - no water in the basement, but I was definitely hearing pouring water. My next thought was that someone was running the shower upstairs and had the door open, but I checked the time (3:33 - really) and that seemed highly unlikely. So I went upstairs to check.
And walked into a dance club. At least that was my first thought. (I was still a little sleepy, okay?) Then I realized that the strobing effect was due to the lightning flashes outside. Really, I almost wanted to start blasting "Evacuate the Dancefloor" or some other club-worthy song. Once I realized that there was a serious storm happening, and that the noise I was hearing WAS water falling - a LOT of water falling - my brain gradually worked out that the volume wasn't solely due to the amount of rain happening, but also because the windows were open. All over the house.
A quick check of the (south facing) kitchen windows revealed that very little water was coming in - just a little mist, but I closed them anyway. The living room windows (north facing) were a different story - things were definitely getting wet, so those were closed as well. I almost went back down stairs, but was stopped by two thoughts:
1. I should totally get my camera and take some video of this ridiculous storm (it had started hailing by that point) - crap, it's in my room (where Mum was sleeping), and
2. I wonder if Mum and Cathie have realized it's pouring out, and if they've closed the windows.
I went upstairs and saw Cathie looking out her window, so I didn't bother pointing out the obvious. Mum looked like she was asleep, and I tried very hard not to startle her awake (she sleeps with earplugs) - I failed. I explained I was just checking the window, and sure enough, the water was coming in and misting everything on the desk...including my lappy (aah!).
Thankfully, there wasn't enough water to do damage. I wiped my stuff off, said goodnight to Mum, and walked back toward the door...and into a...puddle? On my floor? NOT by the window?
Turns out the reason the water didn't get all over my desk and lappy was because there is a slight tilt to my windowsill. The water collected on the sill, then ran down the wall to the side of my desk and across the floor. Yup. I had a waterfall in my bedroom last night, and a river running through my room. I wanted to take pictures, but I was too worried about my stuff.
This is another time when I'm grateful Heavenly Father is watching out for me, because while it was annoying to have to wipe up the water, nothing was damaged. It went straight down the wall by the desk, under my plastic storage bins (which were easy to wipe), and straight across the floor - missing the power strip with multiple electronics plugged into it by less than two inches.
After cleaning up the minor flood, we joined Cathie in her room to watch the death of her beautiful garden - the hail was going all Red Queen "Off with their heads" to the flowers. It was very tragic - much flora lost its life last night. I did get a couple of pictures, once the hail had calmed down - but for some reason the resolution on them sucks, so I apologize for the blurriness.
Anyways, my return has been relatively uneventful, with the exception of a head cold which developed the day before classes started. But even that's going away now, so no big.
No, the major event that Edmonton threw to welcome me back to the north countries was, in true Canadian form, weather related.
Now, it's not like I've never experienced a thunderstorm before. We don't get a TON of them in Moreno Valley (although apparently a lot more since I've left), and the ones we do get aren't as loud and powerful as they get in, say, Texas (although we did get those tornadoes that one time). They knock the power out, sure, but our power goes out in a high wind, the box is so old, so that may be more wussy-power box related than the strength of the storm.
I've also experienced the "monsoon season" during the summer in Arizona, where a high wind storm kick starts the evening before the thunderstorm begins. I'm still not sure what Jonny and I were thinking, continuing to shoot in the archery range after the power went out. At least we had the sense to call out when one of us went down range to retrieve the arrows.
But last night...oy, last night.
Mum was up here, so I was sleeping on the couch in the basement. Since the cats are used to having their litter box down in the basement (we moved it while I was down there), I kept the door closed. I am not one of those cat owners who allows 24/7 access for my friendly felines. Boundaries, people, boundaries. I also sleep with a fan on every night - I need the white noise to fall asleep.
So imagine my surprise when I awoke early this AM to what sounded at first like...applause? I was dreaming, but I think it had to do with zombies (thanks, Walking Dead black and white series premier!), so...who's applauding? As I became fully conscious, the sound sharpened to water falling. A lot of water falling. My first thought was that a pipe had burst in the basement by the washing machine, and any second I would feel the rush of water move through the room. I got up to check - no water in the basement, but I was definitely hearing pouring water. My next thought was that someone was running the shower upstairs and had the door open, but I checked the time (3:33 - really) and that seemed highly unlikely. So I went upstairs to check.
And walked into a dance club. At least that was my first thought. (I was still a little sleepy, okay?) Then I realized that the strobing effect was due to the lightning flashes outside. Really, I almost wanted to start blasting "Evacuate the Dancefloor" or some other club-worthy song. Once I realized that there was a serious storm happening, and that the noise I was hearing WAS water falling - a LOT of water falling - my brain gradually worked out that the volume wasn't solely due to the amount of rain happening, but also because the windows were open. All over the house.
A quick check of the (south facing) kitchen windows revealed that very little water was coming in - just a little mist, but I closed them anyway. The living room windows (north facing) were a different story - things were definitely getting wet, so those were closed as well. I almost went back down stairs, but was stopped by two thoughts:
1. I should totally get my camera and take some video of this ridiculous storm (it had started hailing by that point) - crap, it's in my room (where Mum was sleeping), and
2. I wonder if Mum and Cathie have realized it's pouring out, and if they've closed the windows.
I went upstairs and saw Cathie looking out her window, so I didn't bother pointing out the obvious. Mum looked like she was asleep, and I tried very hard not to startle her awake (she sleeps with earplugs) - I failed. I explained I was just checking the window, and sure enough, the water was coming in and misting everything on the desk...including my lappy (aah!).
Thankfully, there wasn't enough water to do damage. I wiped my stuff off, said goodnight to Mum, and walked back toward the door...and into a...puddle? On my floor? NOT by the window?
Turns out the reason the water didn't get all over my desk and lappy was because there is a slight tilt to my windowsill. The water collected on the sill, then ran down the wall to the side of my desk and across the floor. Yup. I had a waterfall in my bedroom last night, and a river running through my room. I wanted to take pictures, but I was too worried about my stuff.
This is another time when I'm grateful Heavenly Father is watching out for me, because while it was annoying to have to wipe up the water, nothing was damaged. It went straight down the wall by the desk, under my plastic storage bins (which were easy to wipe), and straight across the floor - missing the power strip with multiple electronics plugged into it by less than two inches.
After cleaning up the minor flood, we joined Cathie in her room to watch the death of her beautiful garden - the hail was going all Red Queen "Off with their heads" to the flowers. It was very tragic - much flora lost its life last night. I did get a couple of pictures, once the hail had calmed down - but for some reason the resolution on them sucks, so I apologize for the blurriness.
Oh, hail.
Um, weather? It's not winter! Stop it with all the white!
I was just looking at the weather forecast...seems we are due for more thunderstorms. They're all the rage this summer, from what I read on Facebook. Stay safe, friends!
Friday, 6 April 2012
Adventures in Sunless Tanning
As many of you already know, I began a regimen of indoor tanning in order to be nice and brown(ish) for JD and Megan's wedding. I didn't want to glow in the dark, especially since everyone else is already naturally darker than me and I've spent winter in Canada. And while we are now getting far more sunlight here than y'all down south, it's snowed twice in the past two weeks, so sunbathing is not an option.
While I have actually enjoyed indoor tanning in a UV bed (once I figured out that, yes, I DO need to wear my swimsuit), I wanted to try the OTHER method of tanning that is all the rage. Yes, yes, I caved and tried the Mystic Spray Tan at my local tanning salon.
Mistake.
First, I am naturally fair skinned. Really fair skinned. Really, REALLY fair skinned, so that when I buy things like powder and foundation for my face, I have to get the color known as "Ivory" - which is make-up speak for "Any paler and we'd be selling you flour in a pocket compact, which would feel immoral, so we'll put the teensiest bit of pale beige in it, and call it good". This means that when I DO get color from sun exposure, it tends to be reddish - not always a sunburn (although that happens more often than not), but a tan color firmly in the "rosy" category. And freckles. LOTS of freckles.
So what does this mean for spray tanning? Well, it means that I have a lovely, golden cast to my skin right now. And it looks weird. It looks weird because even when I am tan, I'm never this color. I don't get golden brown I get reddish brown. I actually wanted to try the spray tanning to see what the effect would be on my legs. Well, they're golden brown. And it looks...bizarre.
Second, my hands also look bizarre. See, after spray tanning you're supposed to wash off your hands and feet, then put on this lotion that stops the fake tan from soaking into your skin, because it looks weird on fingers and toes. I did this. Immediately after the session was done, I washed and wiped my hands, and used the tanner-blocking lotion. It didn't work. My hands, particularly my right hand, have little brownish-orange streaks along my fingers. I look like a smoker with a ten-pack-a-day habit and permanent nicotine stains to go with it. At least my toes are so small (pickle toes, Becca calls them) that, if they are streaked, it's unnoticeable.
Third, I smell funny. (No jokes, FAMILY.) Using sunless tanner from a bottle leaves a smell that goes away after a few hours, and I only ever use it on my legs so it doesn't bother me much. I am currently covered in sunless tanner from a spray pump machine thingy, and it smells like the bottle stuff, times, like, a thousand. And I can't get away from the smell. I have even taken a shower since my spray tanning session (scrubbing violently at my skin), and I still smell like bottle tan. It's horrible. Last night while trying to go to sleep, I kept adjusting my position and then flipping the blanket over me. Every time I did I got a big "whoof" of spray tan smell. Even sitting here at my desk, I feel like there's a cartoon cloud of stink lines wafting around my body.
So, life lessons learned from this experience? 1. Fair complexions and golden spray tanning don't mix well. 2. Spray tanning stinks - literally. I am going to continue normal indoor tanning until I head south for the spring, but I have now sated my curiosity regarding spray tanning. I do not feel the need to try it EVER AGAIN.
Also, my tummy is brown, which is freaking me out.
While I have actually enjoyed indoor tanning in a UV bed (once I figured out that, yes, I DO need to wear my swimsuit), I wanted to try the OTHER method of tanning that is all the rage. Yes, yes, I caved and tried the Mystic Spray Tan at my local tanning salon.
Mistake.
First, I am naturally fair skinned. Really fair skinned. Really, REALLY fair skinned, so that when I buy things like powder and foundation for my face, I have to get the color known as "Ivory" - which is make-up speak for "Any paler and we'd be selling you flour in a pocket compact, which would feel immoral, so we'll put the teensiest bit of pale beige in it, and call it good". This means that when I DO get color from sun exposure, it tends to be reddish - not always a sunburn (although that happens more often than not), but a tan color firmly in the "rosy" category. And freckles. LOTS of freckles.
So what does this mean for spray tanning? Well, it means that I have a lovely, golden cast to my skin right now. And it looks weird. It looks weird because even when I am tan, I'm never this color. I don't get golden brown I get reddish brown. I actually wanted to try the spray tanning to see what the effect would be on my legs. Well, they're golden brown. And it looks...bizarre.
Second, my hands also look bizarre. See, after spray tanning you're supposed to wash off your hands and feet, then put on this lotion that stops the fake tan from soaking into your skin, because it looks weird on fingers and toes. I did this. Immediately after the session was done, I washed and wiped my hands, and used the tanner-blocking lotion. It didn't work. My hands, particularly my right hand, have little brownish-orange streaks along my fingers. I look like a smoker with a ten-pack-a-day habit and permanent nicotine stains to go with it. At least my toes are so small (pickle toes, Becca calls them) that, if they are streaked, it's unnoticeable.
Third, I smell funny. (No jokes, FAMILY.) Using sunless tanner from a bottle leaves a smell that goes away after a few hours, and I only ever use it on my legs so it doesn't bother me much. I am currently covered in sunless tanner from a spray pump machine thingy, and it smells like the bottle stuff, times, like, a thousand. And I can't get away from the smell. I have even taken a shower since my spray tanning session (scrubbing violently at my skin), and I still smell like bottle tan. It's horrible. Last night while trying to go to sleep, I kept adjusting my position and then flipping the blanket over me. Every time I did I got a big "whoof" of spray tan smell. Even sitting here at my desk, I feel like there's a cartoon cloud of stink lines wafting around my body.
So, life lessons learned from this experience? 1. Fair complexions and golden spray tanning don't mix well. 2. Spray tanning stinks - literally. I am going to continue normal indoor tanning until I head south for the spring, but I have now sated my curiosity regarding spray tanning. I do not feel the need to try it EVER AGAIN.
Also, my tummy is brown, which is freaking me out.
Monday, 26 March 2012
Bits and Pieces
I realized today that it's been a while (almost ten days) since I posted anything. This is not in keeping with my goal of writing more. Today's entry is kind of scattershot, and slightly tangential. It may also be kind of, um, nonsensical - I took cold medicine a little while ago and it's starting to work. I can tell, because the room is slightly wobbly. Or maybe I'm wobbly. Possibly both. This should be fun...
Update on tanning: I'm still going, but I have decided it would be in my best interests to wear my bathing suit while tanning. This is because I have developed heat rashes in uncomfortable places. I will say no more on the issue, other than reporting that it's (kind of) working. The parts of me that normally tan (arms, upper chest, shoulders, face) have color, and my legs look less pale than before (they don't qualify as "tan" yet, but they no longer glow in the dark - progress!).
I have "Where is My Mind?" stuck in my head right now. Answer: No idea. None.
It's probably stuck there because I watched a bit of Fight Club the other night. About two minutes after I started watching, Edward Norton and Brad Pitt go raid a liposuction facility for fat to make soap. I lasted until the fat bag snagged on the barbed wire fence, then I had to change the channel. And concentrate on not barfing. I flipped back a few minutes later, just in time to see Brad Pitt dump lye on Edward Norton's hand. I decided to skip that movie for now - especially since I already know the "twist" at the end.
I was supposed to go curling at a mid-singles event last week. I had a presentation the next day though, and I didn't feel entirely prepared for it, so I skipped curling in order to work on the presentation. Turns out I needn't have bothered - I was over-prepared. Lame. Curling would have made a great blog entry. It's the ice sport kind of like darts, but instead of throwing darts you slide stones down a lane of ice and try to get them to stop in a target. You are allowed to broom the ice in order to get the stone to slide where you want it. You can also knock other people's rocks out of the target area. It could have been really fun. Stupid presentation :-(
Our ward choir, for which I am the accompanist, performed yesterday in church for Easter. We did two songs, There is a Green Hill Far Away (the Hymnplicity version) and Long Ago, Within a Garden. I was slightly loopy from lack of sleep (thanks, cold!), and mixed up two pages of There is a Green Hill. Thankfully I realized the mix up right at the end of one verse, so the choir sang the next verse a capella while I switched my pages, and then I joined them on the third verse. You'd almost think we'd planned it that way :-) The second song went better, until the very last four measures, of which I managed to butcher three. B the choir director swears up and down that she didn't even notice, so she's sure nobody else did. I'd have been more embarrassed and annoyed (considering I'd been faithfully practising it for a month and had the ending NAILED the day before), but I was too tired. I even crapped out on cleaning the temple this morning, after ducking out last Friday to go see The Hunger Games. But I'm making it up this Friday, presuming I'm not still plague-ridden.
POSSIBLE SPOILERS!! I really liked The Hunger Games, but there were a >couple< of small details I feel they could have added or changed. The camera work, for one, drove me crazy - I'm over the handheld "technique". Really, if I wanted shaky camera work, I'd watch my family's old home movies. God invented tripods and camera stands for a reason - don't disregard them for the sake of "art". And I think the mutts at the end, which were already CGI'd, should have looked like the dead tributes the way they're described in the book. There's an element of mental screwing that's missing when they're just giant bulldogs. Also, anyone else sad that Peeta wasn't so dying that Katniss freaks out when they take him away on the hovercraft? I think that'd have also sold the whole mind-screwing aspect of the games as well. Otherwise, though, I loved it and I will be seeing it again when the crowds die down but next time I will sit in the BACK of the theater. Shaky camera work viewed up close is barf-inducing.
I have wasted far too much of my life on a wonderful little website entitled Reasoning with Vampires. It's by the lovely Dana, who does a nearly page-by-page analysis of everything that is wrong in the Twilight series. She goes over grammar, spelling, and punctuation issues; she also points out just how screwed up the characters are, and you know what? Bella and Edward are loathsome people. I will confess, I was into Twilight and eagerly read the entire series. Then came the movies, and seeing them acted out...yeah, Bella and Edward are screwed up - particularly Bella. I seem to recall a conversation between Becca and me, after seeing New Moon, in which we agreed that Charlie should have had her committed after finding her in the woods when Edward left. NO BOY is worth going catatonic over, and pursuing dangerous hobbies in order to hear you ex-lover's voice is so monumentally screwed up that I need swear words to accurately describe it, which I won't use because my parents read this. Anyways, so yeah, Reasoning with Vampires = new favy site.
Ooh, the basement is almost totally finished! There's a couch, a TV, a rug, and a fireplace! The fireplace is one of the fake electric heater kinds, so it's cozy without baking you on one side. The rug is SUPER CUTE with giant pink, green, orange, and blue flowers. The couch is a grey sectional that can double as a bed (Gillian, visits? Maybe?), and we got some cute throw blankets to keep the cats from kneading it to death. And the TV is a big ol' LCD. It's a very nice basement. Now I just need to remember to set the PVR to record shows down there. Right now all I have are some episodes of The Walking Dead.
I think I'm gonna have to start reading The Walking Dead graphic novels. I know the show doesn't follow them exactly, or we'd have been rid of Shane long ago, but I am interested in knowing their story. It'll have to wait, though - I am not committed to purchasing them, and the waiting list at the library is over 50 people long. Anybody wanna let me borrow theirs?
Okay, I'm done now. The letters on the screen are starting to wiggle of their own accord. I think I'll go lie down.
Update on tanning: I'm still going, but I have decided it would be in my best interests to wear my bathing suit while tanning. This is because I have developed heat rashes in uncomfortable places. I will say no more on the issue, other than reporting that it's (kind of) working. The parts of me that normally tan (arms, upper chest, shoulders, face) have color, and my legs look less pale than before (they don't qualify as "tan" yet, but they no longer glow in the dark - progress!).
I have "Where is My Mind?" stuck in my head right now. Answer: No idea. None.
It's probably stuck there because I watched a bit of Fight Club the other night. About two minutes after I started watching, Edward Norton and Brad Pitt go raid a liposuction facility for fat to make soap. I lasted until the fat bag snagged on the barbed wire fence, then I had to change the channel. And concentrate on not barfing. I flipped back a few minutes later, just in time to see Brad Pitt dump lye on Edward Norton's hand. I decided to skip that movie for now - especially since I already know the "twist" at the end.
I was supposed to go curling at a mid-singles event last week. I had a presentation the next day though, and I didn't feel entirely prepared for it, so I skipped curling in order to work on the presentation. Turns out I needn't have bothered - I was over-prepared. Lame. Curling would have made a great blog entry. It's the ice sport kind of like darts, but instead of throwing darts you slide stones down a lane of ice and try to get them to stop in a target. You are allowed to broom the ice in order to get the stone to slide where you want it. You can also knock other people's rocks out of the target area. It could have been really fun. Stupid presentation :-(
Our ward choir, for which I am the accompanist, performed yesterday in church for Easter. We did two songs, There is a Green Hill Far Away (the Hymnplicity version) and Long Ago, Within a Garden. I was slightly loopy from lack of sleep (thanks, cold!), and mixed up two pages of There is a Green Hill. Thankfully I realized the mix up right at the end of one verse, so the choir sang the next verse a capella while I switched my pages, and then I joined them on the third verse. You'd almost think we'd planned it that way :-) The second song went better, until the very last four measures, of which I managed to butcher three. B the choir director swears up and down that she didn't even notice, so she's sure nobody else did. I'd have been more embarrassed and annoyed (considering I'd been faithfully practising it for a month and had the ending NAILED the day before), but I was too tired. I even crapped out on cleaning the temple this morning, after ducking out last Friday to go see The Hunger Games. But I'm making it up this Friday, presuming I'm not still plague-ridden.
POSSIBLE SPOILERS!! I really liked The Hunger Games, but there were a >couple< of small details I feel they could have added or changed. The camera work, for one, drove me crazy - I'm over the handheld "technique". Really, if I wanted shaky camera work, I'd watch my family's old home movies. God invented tripods and camera stands for a reason - don't disregard them for the sake of "art". And I think the mutts at the end, which were already CGI'd, should have looked like the dead tributes the way they're described in the book. There's an element of mental screwing that's missing when they're just giant bulldogs. Also, anyone else sad that Peeta wasn't so dying that Katniss freaks out when they take him away on the hovercraft? I think that'd have also sold the whole mind-screwing aspect of the games as well. Otherwise, though, I loved it and I will be seeing it again when the crowds die down but next time I will sit in the BACK of the theater. Shaky camera work viewed up close is barf-inducing.
I have wasted far too much of my life on a wonderful little website entitled Reasoning with Vampires. It's by the lovely Dana, who does a nearly page-by-page analysis of everything that is wrong in the Twilight series. She goes over grammar, spelling, and punctuation issues; she also points out just how screwed up the characters are, and you know what? Bella and Edward are loathsome people. I will confess, I was into Twilight and eagerly read the entire series. Then came the movies, and seeing them acted out...yeah, Bella and Edward are screwed up - particularly Bella. I seem to recall a conversation between Becca and me, after seeing New Moon, in which we agreed that Charlie should have had her committed after finding her in the woods when Edward left. NO BOY is worth going catatonic over, and pursuing dangerous hobbies in order to hear you ex-lover's voice is so monumentally screwed up that I need swear words to accurately describe it, which I won't use because my parents read this. Anyways, so yeah, Reasoning with Vampires = new favy site.
Ooh, the basement is almost totally finished! There's a couch, a TV, a rug, and a fireplace! The fireplace is one of the fake electric heater kinds, so it's cozy without baking you on one side. The rug is SUPER CUTE with giant pink, green, orange, and blue flowers. The couch is a grey sectional that can double as a bed (Gillian, visits? Maybe?), and we got some cute throw blankets to keep the cats from kneading it to death. And the TV is a big ol' LCD. It's a very nice basement. Now I just need to remember to set the PVR to record shows down there. Right now all I have are some episodes of The Walking Dead.
I think I'm gonna have to start reading The Walking Dead graphic novels. I know the show doesn't follow them exactly, or we'd have been rid of Shane long ago, but I am interested in knowing their story. It'll have to wait, though - I am not committed to purchasing them, and the waiting list at the library is over 50 people long. Anybody wanna let me borrow theirs?
Okay, I'm done now. The letters on the screen are starting to wiggle of their own accord. I think I'll go lie down.
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