Parsnips. Again.

I want to blog about my job SO MUCH. It's the only thing I do or think about anymore and everyday something happens that could be a blog entry. Or six. I know that I can't talk about *any* of it, I know this, but some days the temptation is so strong that I just can't blog about anything for fear that suddenly all the job-related cray-cray will come barreling out. It really is a recipe for disaster even if everything I type is exactly 100% true to my knowledge. The truth isn't the point. And really, it probably isn't even that interesting - I refer you back to the statement where I said my job is the only thing I do and think about so, by default, it is the best and worst part of my day.

Suffice it to say: it isn't a fall semester if I don't have some exhausting autistic kid with a crush on me. In movies, it's always the smarmy playa lit Prof with the turtleneck and fancy car (?!) that gets all the "Love Yous" written on the eyelids. Or the outrageously attractive blonde-woman-genius prof who is fatally romanced by some hunky undergrad who turns out to be a serial killer and the whole plot is really just a made-for-TV tale of how women are in danger if they leave the private sphere. Or the TAs get all the action (with impunity). Or the students sleep with all the TAs and profs with complete impunity because everyone is cool with it and that's just how it is in Cool Workplace - except for the obligatory prenancy scare/harassment lawsuit during sweeps months. But I think the usual story is this: lonely, freakish 20-something bugs the shit out of fav prof because s/he mistakes friendly customer service for some kind of epic connection. The title of this episode is called, "Please just get the fuck out of my office so I can write the lecture for tomorrow."

Sycophants are at least easy to manage, but autistic kid thinks its fun (? or whatever fun is in his world) to challenge fav prof on EVERYTHING. Finally, in latest sitting duck office hour marathon session I mentioned that there might be a gender-and-authority angle to this need to test the prof and he responded: "Oh no, I've done this with lots of profs. I had one professor who said to me: if you're not challenging me, why are you sitting beside me at the front of the room wearing a blazer with elbow pads and pretending to smoke a pipe? So don't worry, it's not about gender. I mean, there might be some gender stuff because I do notice that you are female but I have this problem with lots of classroom situations." So for sure I'm not worried now. Autistic kid is in all my classes this semester.

And I've already said too much.

The vegetables continue to get delivered. That is not code for anything - I am not referring to my students or my lectures or my colleagues as vegetables. I refer to actual vegetables. This was in the latest batch:
They are 10,000 useless, dirty, sandy carrots about the size of a pinky. Wtf. Not only do they give me the willies, they are an actual representation of The Willies. Along with these beauties came 7 parsnips, which is just mean. Vegetable gods, are we really at the parsnip stage already? Am I going to be eating a steady stream of beets and parsnips and shitty carrots now until the spring? I will have to buy a goat.

Everyone has those moments when you find yourself in a situation and suddenly the camera angle changes to wideangle god-shot and you look down on creation and realize every single thing is completely absurd. These are usually welcome parts of my day but they can also be dangerous: once, in Genetics class in the '90s, I had a moment of crazy when I realized that everyone in the 300+ lecture hall had one of those clicky 4-colour ball-point pens (remember those?) and everytime the prof would change colours on the overhead projector sheets he was writing on (remember that?) everyone else in the lecture hall would change colours with a resounding CLICK. He was the conductor to a 300-person orchestra of clicky pens. I flipped out for exactly a year and half after that. There were other circumstances surrounding the flip-out, to be sure, but that was the Archduke Ferdinand. But, bygones. That's what your early '20s are for, right?

Instead of talking more about my job, I bring you the following: things that reliably cause a Moment like what I'm talking about above.

1. Every time I flip by a French channel and its showing an American movie or TV show that is dubbed in French. Like, Californication or Field of Dreams. For fans of Californication, it was the "stinky pinky" scene that I came across and I wish to hell that I could remember how they translated all that. Also, perhaps this scene is making me hate my carrots more.

2. Every time I see a Friends rerun. A Friends rerun in French will probably cause a clicky-pen-like breakdown but I haven't come across that perfect storm just yet.

3. Invigilating exams in the big gyms where I walk down a massive row of students, turn around to walk back, and realize that I can see all of their ass cracks coming out of their pants. Rows and rows and rows of crack.

4. Every time I see groups of woo-girl students greet each other with, "Hey, Bra!" I guess it's like the ubiquitous use of the word, "Dude" but also recalls that movie North Shore where I, like Sarah Vowell, was introduced to key Hawaiian surfer-gang slang.

5. Every time I give a lecture and hear nothing but "Shit, fuck, cock, balls," as my inner monologue during said lecture. Which is to say: every time.

S.N.A.F.U.

Remember when I said that I was anxious for classes to start? Well I was a fucking idiot. The semester is now in full swing and all I can report is Situation Normal: All Fucked Up. There's no point getting into the details of the textbook orders gone missing, the amazing computer illiteracy of the so-called techno-generation, the room-switch shenanigans, the dozens of emails sent to Ms. K-sley, the umpteen awkward welcoming meet-and-greets, the offensive things said in class that have to be tactfully policed (97% said by students, 3% probably said by me), the Sudden New Rules that make no sense but have to be followed to the letter, the new material that I have no business lecturing on but do so anyway, the wonky powerpoint presentations, the suddenly-changed passcodes, the unfixable funding proposals, the marathon faculty meetings, the palpable waves of hatred sent in my direction every time I say, "Now, let's get into groups and discuss-"... All of these things are just the things that happen every year, every time any one teaches anything. They are the rats that gnaw on the edifice you build erect when you write a beautiful, pristine, optimistic syllabus and imagine yourself rocking it out each and every class, Dead Poet's Society-style. I have to get better at dealing with the rats or at least not sweating them so much. I'm trying. My borderline-autism helps.

Things I've learned:
1) Turns out that the early modern period is seriously, like, it's own special thing that you have to go to grad school for for, like, a decade before any of it can make any sense. Early Modernists, I have not properly appreciated you enough and I know that I could never, ever, ever do the work that you do. One more mid-lecture question about the Pope and I'm going to scream. The modern and early modern historiographies are wayyyyy too disconnected and a class on, say, comparative empires where some dumbass 19th century British historian starts with the Spanish conquest can easily showcase the blackhole in my training in about 30 seconds into the lecture. I can't get to 1763 fast enough. I blame the division of labor within the discipline but really, I know, I should blame self. Note to self: read a fucking book.

2) (This may be a repeat of knowledge I've learned and shared before, but I've found out that it's still true): Going "off-script" is only rewarding when there is a script in the first place. Otherwise you're just being an asshole. Stream-of-consciousness might work for stand-up comedians but really doesn't for anyone else.

3) Really, really expensive pants are UNBELIEVABLY AWESOME. Over the summer, I decided to get a better, more-professorial wardrobe. I saved up, I made it happen. I was thinking of breaking the bank for a couple of blazer-jackety things and then buying reasonable shirts and pants to go with the jackets. So, in search of the jackets, I found myself at a high-end women's professional wear store in Calgary (! yes! They have them!) and of course the salespeople always inundate you with other shit to try on with the special jackets. That's when I met My Pants. I won't lie to you, they were grotesquely expensive. They represent two fairly decent trips to the grocery store or two installed winter tires or half the cost of flying to Baltimore for the weekend or two phone+internet bills. They were a pretty penny - especially for black pants made in Macedonia probably by Macedonian children. Of course, I put them on and they were ill-fitting in all kinds of ways but here's when the miracle happened: from out of nowhere appeared seamstresses who grabbed and measured and pinned and made promises that everything would be fine. It was like a scene from a gangster movie where I was the newly-initiated mobster getting measured for my shiny new suit. The salesclerk kept talking about how wonderful these pants were and how they'd go with everything, everywhere, in every way and I just let myself be taken in.

I felt guilty about it for a while but now the guilt is gone because, seriously, these pants are fucking amazing. In ways that defy explanation, somehow these pants fit me perfectly everywhere and make the parts that should be slim look slim and the parts that should be curvy look curvy. They are magic pants. They are made out of a wholly unnatural material (some kind of polyester-like polymer, so still organic, I guess) that deflects dirt, moisture, wrinkles, and bad vibes of any kind. They are neither warm nor cold, neither too heavy nor too light. The way I feel about My Pants is the way I imagine Batman feels about the Batsuit. Everyone should have a pair of pants that makes them feel this way!!! Go, go! Have pants tailored to your very self and feel the freedom!!! They fit me perfectly as is - I am under no obligation to suck in anything or lose any weight, alternatively I don't have to wear a belt and nothing sags or bags. They are a revelation.

Sure, I have no idea what other people think of My Pants - I imagine that they look like every other pair of black pants in the world. But that is exactly the point of prof-wear, to give your students absolutely nothing to talk about re: your appearance while still looking professional and pleasing-enough to the eye. So as not to distract from the web of made-up bullshit wisdom I weave in my lectures. . .

Whatever, my pants are awesome. They are giving me power this semester and I need power. Yes, I actually did just write 500 words on the subject of My Pants.

In other news, leaving for Baltimore in 6 days!!!!!!!! Can't hardly wait SO MUCH.

Announcing Tao the News

Dear all,

I am excited. D-Hug has just launched a blog certain to brighten your day:

TAO THE NEWS

I want my news Tao'd. I need it Tao'd. You will too.

D No Match For Own Mind

With 4 days to go before class starts, I awoke at 5am in a cold sweat remembering that I had only submitted textbook requests for one class and not the other!!!!! For some reason my brain had only now allowed something to bubble to the surface with crystal clarity: I perfectly recalled an email wherein I listed the textbooks I would need and it was only for one class!! OF COURSE. I had been rushed to send in the orders, probably my mother was hovering over me when I did it, probably she was saying, "Are you done yet? Are you done yet?" like a 4-year old on a playback loop of "Wha' doooing?" and I had submitted the one class thinking I would do the other one later. So like me! I almost vomited. I ran to my computer, waited the 17 years it takes for my 2003 e-Machine (yeah, I bought a $300 e-Machine back in the day, I know, sophomore error. But I will say this: even though it takes its sweet time to open up anything and approximates the noise of a table saw, it has never crapped out on me like every other computer I've owned, and I've dragged it through many states and provinces now) to boot up. The computer asked me if I wanted to update Quicktime and I almost put my fist through the monitor. Slowly Firefox came up, slowly I typed in my login info, slowly my "sent mail" folder came up, slowly it searched for keyword "textbooks." I could taste bile. And then I found the email I had remembered so well and... .... I had submitted the order for both classes all along. Fuck you, Mind!!! Fuck you and your false stupid memories. Perhaps Mind wants me to admit that, yes, I am quite nervous about this upcoming semester and, yes, I am experiencing a lot of anxiety because of it. There, are you happy, Mind? Semester needs to start already so I can get this shooting gallery over with. I feel like Arnold in the Running Man (yep, that's who I've chosen to identify with) waiting for the gongshow to start.

Whoops! Wrong Schwartzenegger Dystopia. Here we go:

Man, Richard Dawson was good in that role. Oh, look! The sun's coming up! Perhaps I need to stop and embrace this quiet insanity before the storm and take stock of where things are now, a year into The 'Twa Period. Things are definitely better than this time last year, for sure. This is something to be thankful for. Montoya is autumning in Balto this semester - that's not necessarily a good thing because I miss him so (along with E!!! I miss E, too!!!) but it's different to not have him around. For example, it turns out Monty does work! Underappreciated, he's been making sure my kitchen floor is free from rogue cheese and vegetable slices and other edible kitchen debris that happens in the course of cooking for years now! I dropped a bunch of couscous on the floor yesterday and really, really missed him then. My messiness might be the secret to his weight gain. This time last year I was excited about my vegetable deliveries and I'm still excited about them! See this week's below:

I had this fantasy that in late summer the basket would be full of peaches and berries and giant tomatoes and large, strange, heirloom vegetables but turns out it's pretty much the usual. The carrots are a little disturbing this time.

This might be genius or absolute crazy but in order to pretend like we still kind of live together, E is going to try to buy the same vegetables as my delivery items and then we can deal with the weekly beet problem together! Hurricane Irene fucked it up the first week because it caused her power to go out for 5 days or something and she couldn't cook and had to throw away most of her fridge and freezer contents but we'll get back on track. She's already trying to wiggle out of the weekly beet and 6-corn-for-one-person! problem but I'm going to stick to my guns. Stay tuned for updates and transnational Chopped battles, etc. Update on this ethical consumption thing: This will shock only the soft-headed but it turns out that special earth-friendly, non-toxic deodorant/antiperspirant really isn't as effective as you want it to be. Given that it doesn't suppress B.O. and I still sweat like a pig (?) with it on, it is akin to putting citrus-infused vegetable oil on your underarms every morning (do not recommend). I made a bargain with self that I would wear the high-test evil stuff on days when I teach and the kind, gentle stuff on days when I'm at home alone but then the lightening bolt struck - when I'm home alone isn't it more ethical to just go au naturel anyway?! Am still using the greenie beaver or whateverthefuck shampoo and conditioner but the price for that was to suffer through a planned intervention staged by my mother and sister re: my need for hair product. Which I now use (on days when I leave my house). So, ethical consumption fail all around. You really need to be living off the grid or in a granola community of only granolas for this to work, I think.

Nothing lost in translation

Oh, Agrestic, is it that time again?



Is it wrong to hope that an opportunistic criminal (is there another kind?) will see this and plan their breaking-and-entering/theft spree accordingly? Probably.

Because passiveaggressivenotes.com and my mother have trained me to spot this bullshit a mile away, I can translate this all for you, babblefish style. Translation: "I don't know if you know this but we're kind of a big deal. I guess you can hang with us but fucking pay for it, alright? We love everyone and alls but we're tired of freeloaders. Also, clean up your shit. Prepare for the shakedown; don't make us hurt you. Be there or be the transient stranger we know you are, Management."

Maybe it's just being back in CanEHda, maybe it's just the start of the semester, but I'm beginning to really appreciate the people out there who will just stab you in the face. I respect them.

Example: When my sister was at the ashram in India, they had a party one day and a co-worker's wife approached her and said, "What happened to you that your breasts are so small and sickly?" That's what I'm talking about. Nothing but respect.

Random is Awesome

mfree just called and said, "Stop what you're doing and google 'cats with short legs.' That is all." And I did.



Turns out it's a real breed. She thought the type might be called Midget Cat but that didn't seem politically correct so then maybe Dwarf but that was so 2003. Little Cat? Didn't seem right. But google had the answer:
Munchkin. Who doesn't love a little bit of random in their lives?

Dead Tree Cut Down!

As Hurricane Irene rushes towards loved ones E and Montoya, I will attempt to take my mind off the situation by blogging. But what to blog about. I need to concentrate. concentrate. concentrate. Concentrate! concentrate. concentrate. Echo! echo. echo.

Update on my extended family: it seems that Cousin Jeff - who I thought was in prison - was let out of prison about 4 months ago but now there's a national APB out on his ass due to several arrest warrants for things like grand theft auto, cheque forgery, fraud, drug trafficking, and a whole lotta failure to appear. Everyone is terrified that he will show up on their doorstep and the usual question at teatime is: if he rang your doorbell, would you turn him in? 95% of respondents answer "HELLS, YES!!!" The one holdout is my Auntie Mic, Jeff's grandmother, who everyone knows is in frequent contact with him and knows where he is and has been the chief Enabler in his life since forever, but who also swears up and down that she knows nothing about nothing. Cousin Allison (of being-left-out-of-Boulter-family-history-due-to-adopted-status fame) wants to begin proceedings to have the 84-year old Mic declared incompetent thus freezing Mic's assets and choking off Jeff's gravy train. Half of the family is with Allison, the other half (possibly the half that doesn't stand to inherent anything from Mic when she kicks it) is taking a wait-and-see attitude. The last time I actually spoke to Jeff had to be in the early 90s when we were both mid-teenish. I didn't like him then but thinking back on it no one liked him then and I wonder: did the fact that no one liked him lead him into his criminal life or did no one like him because we all knew he was a punkass punk? Also, I remember he ate an extraordinary amount of pancakes in one sitting and I thought that was strange for such a lanky person. We used to ride our bikes off of the barn roof into piles of hay. In retrospect, that seems dangerous but at the time it was really fun. Will keep you abreast of any updates.

In other news, have been contacted out of the blue by my Grade 5 teacher (being googlable sux). Topics of convo include: what happened to X-former-classmate-I-cannot-recall, remember that time the class played ukuleles, and which English monarch is your favorite? I can send her an email at any time of the day or night and will receive a long and detailed reply within 20 minutes. She just retired. I think all of this is related. I post this pic she sent me solely for your entertainment, so be entertained effers! It kind of looks like my head is detached from my body in the above. I have no explanation.

What else... I am becoming a cultured connoisseur of culture! Have acquired one painting by an actual artist:
Is a depiction of the Uruguayan Desfile de Llamadas (Parade of Calls) during Carnivale. Am I a neo-imperialist/neo-liberal/neo-whatever asshole by selecting such a scene? Maybe but I like the colours and what are you going to do? The jig of my non-neo-asshole-ishness is up by virtue of the fact that I maintain a blog and I'm shopping for art. Here's how the painting acquisition came about: my parents wanted to give me a gift for (finally) finishing grad school. This was very sweet of them! Ideas of special pens, brief cases, T-bills, etc were floated, but all of this didn't seem like stuff I'd want and then my mother suggested art! Skip ahead to days and days of shopping for art in Calgary post-Stampede. We saw about six trillion life-sized paintings of horses, bronze cowboys, aboriginal art (from the aboriginal art section), and more effing paintings of mountains than there are mountains. Also, I said hells to the no re: sweeping prairie landscapes complete with granaries, hay bales, big skies, and grasslands. That left few options. This series is done by an artist from Alberta, Linda Craddock (http://www.lindacraddock.ca, friend of my mother's actually) and somehow this one just seemed like the right choice.

Also! I really like Port. This one is my favorite so far:


To finish off this kinda boring post is a kinda boring story about a tree. The day after E and I got back to the 'Twa, the city cut down this tree that - to hear the community folk talk - gave birth to the community, Ottawa, and all that was good in the world through its very own oak-vagina. The day before the tree was cut down, there was a Community Gathering where people hugged the tree and took pictures with it and at the end of the night there was a big group photo to commemorate love, peace, and Sunnyside. Everyone cried their eyes out about the tree-cutting injustice the city foisted on our community, a community that rarely faces injustice or tension of any kind (except when rogue children try to skate on private rinks, dogs shit in inappropriate places, etc). We all held hands and sang while the nasty city workers sawed the glorious branches off the tree and we knew we were witnessing something momentous. It even made the CBC! Then we got back into our LuluLemon yogawear, took the kiddies to school, and started preparing for the annual Clambake.

In truth, somewhere between 200 and 300 years old, the Oak was deader than a doornail, was home to all kinds of mammalian and non-mammalian vermin, and was probably a fire or falling hazard. I don't say this bitterly, it's just how it is. Here's a couple of pics I took of it last winter.


For sure it was an awesome tree and definitely had its moments and in its last years it probably scared the shit out of more than one Halloweener because it could be giant and creepy. It reminded me of the tree in Pan's Labyrinth :
One of the city politicians wants to use a cross-section of the trunk to plot the tree-rings against super-special local Ottawa history! I can hear the CBC heritage moment coverage now. But he'll have a difficult time bringing this dream to fruition because when they cut 'er down, they found this:

Hollow! What does that say about Ottawa history?

Don't worry. A local artist has been commissioned to make Art out of the wood so the soul of the tree will live on! Am I going to buy some tree art? Stay tuned.



Also, I finally just watched The Social Network. It was okay but also - academy award nomination calibre? Must have been a slow year.