It has been a long semester. Two deaths in the family this year (albeit people far away from me) and one diagnosis of re-curring cancer have nevertheless taken their toll. My course this semester just about did me in. (In fact, it still may...) My knee is better, but my spirit feels broken.
I need a break from blogging, but I didn't want to just disappear, so I thought I'd put up a post letting you know that you may not see me around for a while.
In case I haven't mentioned it lately, I'm grateful for the new "blogger buddies" this medium has allowed me to connect with. Wonderful, inspirational people you are!
For my friends and family who check in (and never leave comments - you lurkers! ;-), I'll try to call over the holidays.
Happy holidays to you and yours. Peace and joy for 2007.
- Sarah
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Friday, December 15, 2006
Just past meltdown
I'm marginally past the meltdown point, it seems. It's funny how these things take time to pass when really, you just want it to be over.
The final exam for the course I'm teaching happened this week. Now I just have to correct them and submit the final grades. There were a few issues with students, but they sorted themselves out. In one case, a student went to see the Department Head. He, bless his tough little heart, thought the student was a lunatic and sided with me 100%. There are times when I truly appreciate my superiors. That was one of them.
Speaking of which, my Ph.D. supervisor has also been a fountain of support for me this week. We met on Thursday and I handed in the outline for my thesis proposal that was due. When I got to his office, there were two small cups set out with a bottle of my favorite beverage on the table (a gift from a visiting Mexican professor, which my supervisor felt it was appropriate to crack open, given my meltdown.) I sat there thinking, "I am truly lucky. At this particular moment, I do believe I have the coolest supervisor on campus."
We had a good meeting. He told me not to worry and that whatever happens, we'll deal with it. But still... not to worry.
I will not rest until I know if I have passed the Stats class. At this point though, there's not much I can do about it, so I try to think of other things.
I actually got a few Christmas cards written and presents bought this week, which felt great, too. Most of the cards are off in the mail, though the parcels may be a bit late. Oh well... They'll get there eventually.
What has been keeping me more or less sane is getting regular activity. Running three times a week and doing weights on the off days has kept me from going completely over the edge. I am happy to report that my knees are happy and I'm adding a few minutes of time each week to my runs.
Last Saturday I got outside for the first time in a few weeks. I did a total of 6.5 km. I know that for some of you ultra runners, that is a mere warm-up, but for me, it's pretty much a personal record (well, except for the running I did in high school, but that was 20 years ago - literally!) I'm so very glad to be back running. It has been my salvation and my sanity. God bless my chiropractor!
All in all, I'm still fairly overwhelmed, but in general, life is better this week. Amen to that.
The final exam for the course I'm teaching happened this week. Now I just have to correct them and submit the final grades. There were a few issues with students, but they sorted themselves out. In one case, a student went to see the Department Head. He, bless his tough little heart, thought the student was a lunatic and sided with me 100%. There are times when I truly appreciate my superiors. That was one of them.
Speaking of which, my Ph.D. supervisor has also been a fountain of support for me this week. We met on Thursday and I handed in the outline for my thesis proposal that was due. When I got to his office, there were two small cups set out with a bottle of my favorite beverage on the table (a gift from a visiting Mexican professor, which my supervisor felt it was appropriate to crack open, given my meltdown.) I sat there thinking, "I am truly lucky. At this particular moment, I do believe I have the coolest supervisor on campus."
We had a good meeting. He told me not to worry and that whatever happens, we'll deal with it. But still... not to worry.
I will not rest until I know if I have passed the Stats class. At this point though, there's not much I can do about it, so I try to think of other things.
I actually got a few Christmas cards written and presents bought this week, which felt great, too. Most of the cards are off in the mail, though the parcels may be a bit late. Oh well... They'll get there eventually.
What has been keeping me more or less sane is getting regular activity. Running three times a week and doing weights on the off days has kept me from going completely over the edge. I am happy to report that my knees are happy and I'm adding a few minutes of time each week to my runs.
Last Saturday I got outside for the first time in a few weeks. I did a total of 6.5 km. I know that for some of you ultra runners, that is a mere warm-up, but for me, it's pretty much a personal record (well, except for the running I did in high school, but that was 20 years ago - literally!) I'm so very glad to be back running. It has been my salvation and my sanity. God bless my chiropractor!
All in all, I'm still fairly overwhelmed, but in general, life is better this week. Amen to that.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Meltdown
Hey folks, sorry I've been away from Blogland for a while. I had sort of a meltdown this week.
The Stats course nearly got the better of me. It came to the final paper and I thought, " I can't. I just... can't. I don't have it in me. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm going to fail..."
Asked for an extension. Didn't get it.
And the meltdown began.
I was going to withdraw from the course. Take it next semester again. (Next semester is the last semester I am allowed to take classes, according to my program's timeline. And this is a required course for me.) All sections of Stats for next semester are full.
I thought about my options:
I consulted with my Ph.D. supervisor who basically forbid me to withdraw from the course. "Do the paper... You'll likely end up more or less intact."
I thought about withdrawing the whole time I was writing the paper, trying to turn the endless internal recording of "I'm too stupid for this!" to happier, positive thoughts.
Didn't really work. But I tried anyway.
After 3 nights of not sleeping and not being able to turn my brain off all night (punctuated only by tears, and waking up crying after I did get to sleep), last night I downed four shots of tequila and finally got some sleep.
Oh yeah, and it just makes matters so much better when people you know look at you and say, "Gosh, you look like hell!"
Thanks. Now, bugger off!
The time limit to withdraw from courses was today at 4:00 p.m. I e-mailed my paper (31 pages) to the prof at 3:55, a few minutes before the deadline to hand that in, too.
So, the paper is in. I am not hopeful about passing.
But at least it is out of my hands.
The Stats course nearly got the better of me. It came to the final paper and I thought, " I can't. I just... can't. I don't have it in me. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm going to fail..."
Asked for an extension. Didn't get it.
And the meltdown began.
I was going to withdraw from the course. Take it next semester again. (Next semester is the last semester I am allowed to take classes, according to my program's timeline. And this is a required course for me.) All sections of Stats for next semester are full.
I thought about my options:
- Withdraw from both the course and the Ph.D. program.
- Try to pass Stats.
- Avoid failure and shame by ending my life.
I consulted with my Ph.D. supervisor who basically forbid me to withdraw from the course. "Do the paper... You'll likely end up more or less intact."
I thought about withdrawing the whole time I was writing the paper, trying to turn the endless internal recording of "I'm too stupid for this!" to happier, positive thoughts.
Didn't really work. But I tried anyway.
After 3 nights of not sleeping and not being able to turn my brain off all night (punctuated only by tears, and waking up crying after I did get to sleep), last night I downed four shots of tequila and finally got some sleep.
Oh yeah, and it just makes matters so much better when people you know look at you and say, "Gosh, you look like hell!"
Thanks. Now, bugger off!
The time limit to withdraw from courses was today at 4:00 p.m. I e-mailed my paper (31 pages) to the prof at 3:55, a few minutes before the deadline to hand that in, too.
So, the paper is in. I am not hopeful about passing.
But at least it is out of my hands.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Hello, goodbye ... and life in between
Life is moving at lightening pace around here.
Gord moved in on Thursday. I've seen him twice since he moved in... and only to pass by to say hello and wave. I've dubbed him the "Stealth Roommate". I come in. I see boots at the door and a closed bedroom door. I get up in the morning. I see a bedroom door that is slightly ajar and no boots at the door. Nary a sound or sight in between.
Today, Leah told me she's moving out at the end of the month. She knows I'm thinking of selling and became pro-active in finding a new home. So, it'll be hello to one new (temporary) roommate this month, and good-bye to another.
So in the meantime, the house is a bit chaotic, but we'll survive. I will continue with my own downsizing and sprucing up of the place once school is over for the semester. Can't wait to get rid of more stuff! (Hey, I was serious when I said that all I wanted for Christmas was my two front teeth! Really, don't need more than that...)
The next two weeks are Hell on Wheels. I have oral exams to give, compositions and projects to mark, a test to give on Wednesday and the final exam to give the following Tuesday. I so wish Those in Power wouldn't require us to do so much correcting at the end of the semester. I hate correcting. Most teachers hate correcting... Uggghhh...
If I take off my teacher hat and put on my student hat, the next two weeks are still Hell on Wheels... My final paper for my Statistics course, and another smaller assignment are also due in the next ten days. I believe I will pass the course, but I am not hopeful about getting a good mark. Sometimes, passing is the best you can do.
And coming from a Type-A, goal-driven, pathological perfectionist, that should tell you how desperately I have struggled with this course over these past four months. One word: gruelling.
I just keep telling myself, "This is your last course EVER. Just get through it... Last course EVER!"
A week after I've handed in my final paper for the class, I have to submit my thesis proposal outline so my committee can read it over the holidays. (Yeah, like they have nothing better to do...!) Anyway... that is the idea.
On a happy note, my thesis committee is officially "signed on". The paperwork is done and so, that's one less hoop to jump through. One of my committee members is someone I regularly see at the gym. At this time of the semester, neither of us likes to miss our work outs as they function mostly as stress relief, more than anything else. (But he's much smarter than me. He doesn't try to stand on squishy balls. No wonder I admire him...)
Another happy note... Three (count 'em: 1, 2, 3!) successful 30-minute runs last week! Yaayy! Now if it would just warm up a wee bit, I'd get outside with my handy dandy Garmin and get some REAL statistics!
Gord moved in on Thursday. I've seen him twice since he moved in... and only to pass by to say hello and wave. I've dubbed him the "Stealth Roommate". I come in. I see boots at the door and a closed bedroom door. I get up in the morning. I see a bedroom door that is slightly ajar and no boots at the door. Nary a sound or sight in between.
Today, Leah told me she's moving out at the end of the month. She knows I'm thinking of selling and became pro-active in finding a new home. So, it'll be hello to one new (temporary) roommate this month, and good-bye to another.
So in the meantime, the house is a bit chaotic, but we'll survive. I will continue with my own downsizing and sprucing up of the place once school is over for the semester. Can't wait to get rid of more stuff! (Hey, I was serious when I said that all I wanted for Christmas was my two front teeth! Really, don't need more than that...)
The next two weeks are Hell on Wheels. I have oral exams to give, compositions and projects to mark, a test to give on Wednesday and the final exam to give the following Tuesday. I so wish Those in Power wouldn't require us to do so much correcting at the end of the semester. I hate correcting. Most teachers hate correcting... Uggghhh...
If I take off my teacher hat and put on my student hat, the next two weeks are still Hell on Wheels... My final paper for my Statistics course, and another smaller assignment are also due in the next ten days. I believe I will pass the course, but I am not hopeful about getting a good mark. Sometimes, passing is the best you can do.
And coming from a Type-A, goal-driven, pathological perfectionist, that should tell you how desperately I have struggled with this course over these past four months. One word: gruelling.
I just keep telling myself, "This is your last course EVER. Just get through it... Last course EVER!"
A week after I've handed in my final paper for the class, I have to submit my thesis proposal outline so my committee can read it over the holidays. (Yeah, like they have nothing better to do...!) Anyway... that is the idea.
On a happy note, my thesis committee is officially "signed on". The paperwork is done and so, that's one less hoop to jump through. One of my committee members is someone I regularly see at the gym. At this time of the semester, neither of us likes to miss our work outs as they function mostly as stress relief, more than anything else. (But he's much smarter than me. He doesn't try to stand on squishy balls. No wonder I admire him...)
Another happy note... Three (count 'em: 1, 2, 3!) successful 30-minute runs last week! Yaayy! Now if it would just warm up a wee bit, I'd get outside with my handy dandy Garmin and get some REAL statistics!
Thursday, November 30, 2006
All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth
Part of my lower body training days involve standing on a physio ball. The one I use is pretty big: 65cm in diameter (don't ask me what that is in inches. My brain can't convert it.)
After taking a few weeks to actually learn how the devil to stand on the thing, my objective was to get up on the ball, stand up straight, and then slowly lower myself down and get off the ball. Five times.
So far, I've been doing OK with this.
Until today.
Before I go any further in this story, let me just say that when A. heard I was standing on a big ball as part of my program she made a funny face and said, "That's nuts! My trainer won't LET me stand on a ball. There's a guy in our gym who does it... and does squats on the ball... I kneel on the ball, but no standing. She says it's just too risky. If you fall, you totally wipe out. "
Today, I proved that to be the case, as I nearly undid thousands of dollars of dental work when I got up on the ball, only to have it lurch out from under me, as I landed on my face, with arms and legs splayed in all directions.
Imagine a cat on its belly, with limbs outstretched, sliding wildly down a hill of ice, yowling.
If you can get that picture in your head, you may have a pretty good idea of what I looked like.
I was Not Entirely Happy, as the ball in question (IMHO) felt a bit flat, but it was better than the other one of the same size, which felt even squisher. So, I took the Lesser of Two Evils and proceeded to try my "Ball Get Ups", as my trainer calls them.
Did I mention that at the precise moment I landed on my face, an absolutely stunning specimen of a male human form running on the track just happened to cross my path? Of course, he saw the entire wipe out.
Naturally, I would have to go "SPLAT!" right in front of a G.Q. cover candidate. I hadn't even noticed him until I saw him glide by, demonstrating a gracefulness that was galaxies removed from my world at that particular moment.
Mind you, I later decided that while he may have been nearly an Adonis, he was most certainly Not A Gentleman. A Gentleman would have, at the very least, hollered from the track to see if I was OK.
That all happened on my fourth Ball Get Up. I have to do five.
So of course, I got up and dusted myself off, checking my neck and head. (Thank God I see the chiropractor tomorrow...) Then, I proceeded to do the last one.
On the last one, I always try to stand on the ball as long as I can before I get down. I'm lucky if I get 30 seconds on it. Nevertheless, the goal is always to have a nice, smooth dismount, which I managed for that last one, at least.
It happened that Mr. G.Q. made another lap around the track one more time as I was busy standing on the ball. That time, he looked at me as if to say, "What the hell kind of freak are you, anyway?" (Definitely Not a Gentleman!)
I think I should make a point to "Live Close To the Earth" for the remainder of this year's training season, or I may not have my two front teeth for Christmas after all. (Mind you, you don't necessarily need teeth to run, do you?)
After taking a few weeks to actually learn how the devil to stand on the thing, my objective was to get up on the ball, stand up straight, and then slowly lower myself down and get off the ball. Five times.
So far, I've been doing OK with this.
Until today.
Before I go any further in this story, let me just say that when A. heard I was standing on a big ball as part of my program she made a funny face and said, "That's nuts! My trainer won't LET me stand on a ball. There's a guy in our gym who does it... and does squats on the ball... I kneel on the ball, but no standing. She says it's just too risky. If you fall, you totally wipe out. "
Today, I proved that to be the case, as I nearly undid thousands of dollars of dental work when I got up on the ball, only to have it lurch out from under me, as I landed on my face, with arms and legs splayed in all directions.
Imagine a cat on its belly, with limbs outstretched, sliding wildly down a hill of ice, yowling.
If you can get that picture in your head, you may have a pretty good idea of what I looked like.
I was Not Entirely Happy, as the ball in question (IMHO) felt a bit flat, but it was better than the other one of the same size, which felt even squisher. So, I took the Lesser of Two Evils and proceeded to try my "Ball Get Ups", as my trainer calls them.
Did I mention that at the precise moment I landed on my face, an absolutely stunning specimen of a male human form running on the track just happened to cross my path? Of course, he saw the entire wipe out.
Naturally, I would have to go "SPLAT!" right in front of a G.Q. cover candidate. I hadn't even noticed him until I saw him glide by, demonstrating a gracefulness that was galaxies removed from my world at that particular moment.
Mind you, I later decided that while he may have been nearly an Adonis, he was most certainly Not A Gentleman. A Gentleman would have, at the very least, hollered from the track to see if I was OK.
That all happened on my fourth Ball Get Up. I have to do five.
So of course, I got up and dusted myself off, checking my neck and head. (Thank God I see the chiropractor tomorrow...) Then, I proceeded to do the last one.
On the last one, I always try to stand on the ball as long as I can before I get down. I'm lucky if I get 30 seconds on it. Nevertheless, the goal is always to have a nice, smooth dismount, which I managed for that last one, at least.
It happened that Mr. G.Q. made another lap around the track one more time as I was busy standing on the ball. That time, he looked at me as if to say, "What the hell kind of freak are you, anyway?" (Definitely Not a Gentleman!)
I think I should make a point to "Live Close To the Earth" for the remainder of this year's training season, or I may not have my two front teeth for Christmas after all. (Mind you, you don't necessarily need teeth to run, do you?)
Monday, November 27, 2006
Today I ran
I’ve been holding back blogging about the walk/run program. In fact, I’ve been holding back even talking about it, unless someone asks about it directly. After re-injuring twice, and being told by the physiotherapist (whom I later fired) that I would likely not run again, I was scared.
Terrified, actually.
So, for the most part I just tried to keep my terror to myself, occasionally sharing bits with the chiropractor, the trainer or a select few people who would ask me how things were progressing.
It's time for an update. A big one!
Today I ran. 30 minutes, without stopping. I warmed up for 15-minutes by walking and cooled down with another 5 minute walk.
But the important part is the middle bit.
I ran.
It’s been a year and 17 days since I first noted in my training log that my knee hurt. Not that I’m counting. Well, I was, actually… to the extent that A. rolled her eyes at me and said, “Now, Sarah, you wouldn’t want to obsess about keeping track of things, would you?”
What? Who? Me? Never!
That conversation happened a few weeks back when she was asking how things were going. “Good,” I said. “With any luck, three weeks from Monday, I’ll do a full 30-minute run.”
I could see the wheels turning in her head and then she looked at me and said, “That’s your birthday!”
“Yup,” I said.
“Did you plan it that way?” She said with that half-chiding, half-twinkly look in her eye that only a good friend can give you.
“No,” I replied, honestly. “I set up the training program, decreasing the walking by 30 seconds and replacing it with 30 seconds of running every week. Had it checked by the chiropractor and the trainer, both of whom said it looked OK. It just happened that the first full 30-minute run would fall on my birthday. So no… I did not plan it that way… But I did take it as a sign,” I said, returning the twinkly look.
It’s hideously cold here today… about -25 Celcius (which is about -11 F, I think?), so I was inside. I warmed up on the indoor track and then did the run and cool down on the treadmill, so I don’t really know how far I went, to be honest. (I’ve figured out that the machines at the gym are not always reliable for the info they give, so I try not to pay much attention.) I’ll post real stats once it warms up again and I get outside with my Garmin.
Terrified, actually.
So, for the most part I just tried to keep my terror to myself, occasionally sharing bits with the chiropractor, the trainer or a select few people who would ask me how things were progressing.
It's time for an update. A big one!
Today I ran. 30 minutes, without stopping. I warmed up for 15-minutes by walking and cooled down with another 5 minute walk.
But the important part is the middle bit.
I ran.
It’s been a year and 17 days since I first noted in my training log that my knee hurt. Not that I’m counting. Well, I was, actually… to the extent that A. rolled her eyes at me and said, “Now, Sarah, you wouldn’t want to obsess about keeping track of things, would you?”
What? Who? Me? Never!
That conversation happened a few weeks back when she was asking how things were going. “Good,” I said. “With any luck, three weeks from Monday, I’ll do a full 30-minute run.”
I could see the wheels turning in her head and then she looked at me and said, “That’s your birthday!”
“Yup,” I said.
“Did you plan it that way?” She said with that half-chiding, half-twinkly look in her eye that only a good friend can give you.
“No,” I replied, honestly. “I set up the training program, decreasing the walking by 30 seconds and replacing it with 30 seconds of running every week. Had it checked by the chiropractor and the trainer, both of whom said it looked OK. It just happened that the first full 30-minute run would fall on my birthday. So no… I did not plan it that way… But I did take it as a sign,” I said, returning the twinkly look.
It’s hideously cold here today… about -25 Celcius (which is about -11 F, I think?), so I was inside. I warmed up on the indoor track and then did the run and cool down on the treadmill, so I don’t really know how far I went, to be honest. (I’ve figured out that the machines at the gym are not always reliable for the info they give, so I try not to pay much attention.) I’ll post real stats once it warms up again and I get outside with my Garmin.
What I can say for certain was that it was a full 30-minute run. And I felt fantastic!
It was not a perfect run. The plantar fasciitis threatens to come back. I spend a good deal of time every day stretching and icing my right heel. The knee is not 100%, but I have accepted that it may always be a Slightly Grumpy Knee. I’ve learned to work with it, and the pain, if it comes, is only minimal… and it seems to come and go. I’ve noticed that if I focus on my posture and alignment, it seems to lessen, so I spend most of my time trying to listen to my body, make adjustments along the way and gently nudge it forward.
I am trying not to get too excited about this. I know that there are no guarantees… Injury could happen again at any time. And the validity of an experiment is in its repeatability. So, I have two other 30 minute runs scheduled this week. Let’s see if we can get the same (or better!) results more than once. If I can do it, I'm a going to have a lot of people to thank for helping me get there and sticking by me, but that's a post for another day.
On this day when I turn 36 years old and am officially now closer to 40 than 30 (sigh), I take heart in the fact that while I may not have a young, buff body, I'm in better shape and healthier than I've ever been. And today, I am a runner.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Heathen girl hits gym (uhhh... that would be me)
There I was in the gym today, doing my workout... 45 minutes of cardio, followed by an upper body workout.
It was later in the day than I usually work out and I found myself a bit tuckered out, with a tummy rumbling because it was supper time, not exercise time.
I climbed up onto the assisted pull up machine for my last set, psyching myself up because I was seriously bonking... low blood sugar levels and the whole bit.
"You are GOING to do this!" said my Inside Voice, as I hoisted myself up.
One. Two. Three. Four.
"Gggg-yaa-aahhhhhh!!!"
There it was. My first (and I do mean first EVER) audible (make that, really loud) gym grunt. Well, to be fair, it was more like a cross between a grunt and a gasp.
I couldn't believe the sound that escaped my mouth. I even heard it over my iPod, which was blasting Eminem so loud I couldn't hear anything else... except my screeching grunt.
I think I was more surprised than anything. It was completely involuntary... I daresay I've never made a sound anything like that before in my entire life.
Well, at least.... not in public! (Details are not going to follow. Use your imagination if you must.)
I looked around to see if anyone was staring. They weren't. Or at least, they were keeping their eyes averted and muttering discreetly amongst themselves.
But they must have heard it. Gawd! It was brutal. Raw. Primal. Like some kind of animal.
I have a British background you know. I was raised to be stoic and at all costs, dignified. One doesn't wallow in one's pain or effort. One keeps a stiff upper lip and does not embarrass oneself.
How did that noise make its way out of my body?
I swear I could see my mother roll her eyes from the grave and hear her say, "REALLY, child! Have you NO sense of decorum? You were not raised to be a heathen!!!"
I have this feeling Mum just wouldn't understand her daughter's almost daily pilrimage to the weight room, especially considering that said daughter does not "glow", but rather sweats; isn't graceful, but rather flails around at times and is totally uncoordinated; she almost certainly smells disgusting after working out and now, apparently... she grunts, too.
Disgraceful!
And with that, I really need to go make myself a cup of Earl Grey.
It was later in the day than I usually work out and I found myself a bit tuckered out, with a tummy rumbling because it was supper time, not exercise time.
I climbed up onto the assisted pull up machine for my last set, psyching myself up because I was seriously bonking... low blood sugar levels and the whole bit.
"You are GOING to do this!" said my Inside Voice, as I hoisted myself up.
One. Two. Three. Four.
"Gggg-yaa-aahhhhhh!!!"
There it was. My first (and I do mean first EVER) audible (make that, really loud) gym grunt. Well, to be fair, it was more like a cross between a grunt and a gasp.
I couldn't believe the sound that escaped my mouth. I even heard it over my iPod, which was blasting Eminem so loud I couldn't hear anything else... except my screeching grunt.
I think I was more surprised than anything. It was completely involuntary... I daresay I've never made a sound anything like that before in my entire life.
Well, at least.... not in public! (Details are not going to follow. Use your imagination if you must.)
I looked around to see if anyone was staring. They weren't. Or at least, they were keeping their eyes averted and muttering discreetly amongst themselves.
But they must have heard it. Gawd! It was brutal. Raw. Primal. Like some kind of animal.
I have a British background you know. I was raised to be stoic and at all costs, dignified. One doesn't wallow in one's pain or effort. One keeps a stiff upper lip and does not embarrass oneself.
How did that noise make its way out of my body?
I swear I could see my mother roll her eyes from the grave and hear her say, "REALLY, child! Have you NO sense of decorum? You were not raised to be a heathen!!!"
I have this feeling Mum just wouldn't understand her daughter's almost daily pilrimage to the weight room, especially considering that said daughter does not "glow", but rather sweats; isn't graceful, but rather flails around at times and is totally uncoordinated; she almost certainly smells disgusting after working out and now, apparently... she grunts, too.
Disgraceful!
And with that, I really need to go make myself a cup of Earl Grey.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
I have this bad habit, you see...
When I started in my current job (almost 3 years ago now – my how time flies!) I started nudging for an assistant.
Naturally, there was no money... I had to get creative.
A year later, I made a petition to work with a non-profit program that has a placement program for under-employed immigrant youth. The government pays most of the salary for a year and you can top up if you want. We got an intern (I’ll call her “O.” for short) and at my urging, we were able to top up her salary so it was above minimum wage (though only slightly so). So, we got our assistant, and it didn't cost us very much. Life was good.
After a year, her internship was up. I made a plea to keep O. part time. The plea was heard. I negotiated to have her part-time salary match what her full-time salary had been before, so she wouldn’t be short on money. That worked out, too.
This year, after further negotiations, we got O. hired on a one-year full-time contract. It’s been a win-win situation all the way along.
Prior to working with us, O. had been working as a junior janitor at an office tower downtown, cleaning toilets during the night shift. She’s fluent in 3 languages and was 6 months away from having a degree in Education when she left her native Russia to immigrate to Canada with her husband. She’s a bright and capable young lady.
The two main things I noticed right away when she came to us were that her English needed improvement and her confidence levels were pitifully low, despite being capable and an absolute wizard with office computer applications.
So, we got her into an English class and covered the costs for her. The confidence levels were slow to develop and she’s still not always entirely sure of herself, but she’s come a long way in two years.
At one point she started talking about how she was sorry to have left Russia before she finished her degree. She was almost done, and to start a degree in Canada again would take forever… even if she could pass the necessary English tests.
So, go finish it, I told her.
What? Go back to Moscow? For six months? Give up job? Was I crazy? What about husband?
Your marriage is strong, I told her. It will be hard, but you can do it. If you go, I promise we’ll keep your job for you. It will be here waiting for you when you’ve graduated. Besides, I told her, we are working at a university here. We would be hypocrites if we held you back from pursuing your education!
She hummed and hawed. She talked to her husband about it. She talked to her family back in Moscow, and her supervisor at the university there. Finally, she went.
She returned six months later (in July of this year), showing us her completed diploma in what we would call Early Childhood Education. She has a secondary specialization in working with hearing impaired children. (One of her 3 languages is Russian sign language.) We were so very proud of her! And I kept my promise to her. She came back to her job – and a small raise.
I can’t believe how much she’s grown. She started talking a few weeks ago about maybe taking a course or two at the university here. She finally believes she can do it. (She’s still taking advanced English classes, even though her English is excellent now.)
Today, I walked with her over to the Education faculty, where I’m studying as a Ph.D. student. We took her original degree, and the certified translation, to see about getting her into a course or a program here. She thinks she might want to teach one day… but she is not sure.
Turns out that her qualifications need to be assessed by the provincial teachers’ union here, before she can take any courses. They determine which courses, if any, she would need to take in order to teach in Canada. So, we got information on how to do that.
She hesitates to dream… but I nudge (even push) her forward.
I have this bad habit you see… I can’t help but look at a person and often, I see almost unlimited potential. I have told O. that I’d be thrilled for her if she outgrew her job as a front desk assistant and realized her dream of becoming a teacher… that so many people come to this country and never use their education, because they can’t due to circumstances or language barriers… that she’s working in the ideal situation (at a university) and has people around to support her every step of the way.
This is a very bad habit I have… of seeing the potential in others. I do it with my students, too. I feel compelled to say, “Go on! Be better than you are right now! Show me! Get so good that you surpass your wildest dreams and my expectations.”
A very few of my Spanish students have gone on to teach the language themselves. When I find this out, I am quietly smug. I think, “Yeah! That’s the ticket! I was YOUR teacher and now look at you! YOU are the one teaching now. Good on ya!”
I have this feeling that I’m going to be losing my very capable assistant not so long from now… and at least some of that will be my own fault! Though my life might suffer because she’s so darned good at her job (and really, she bends over backwards to help me... where do you find that these days?) I suspect she’ll be touching the lives of a great many more people.
Really, I need a new bad habit… If I keep this one, I’ll never be able to keep future staff pinned down under my thumb, will I??
Naturally, there was no money... I had to get creative.
A year later, I made a petition to work with a non-profit program that has a placement program for under-employed immigrant youth. The government pays most of the salary for a year and you can top up if you want. We got an intern (I’ll call her “O.” for short) and at my urging, we were able to top up her salary so it was above minimum wage (though only slightly so). So, we got our assistant, and it didn't cost us very much. Life was good.
After a year, her internship was up. I made a plea to keep O. part time. The plea was heard. I negotiated to have her part-time salary match what her full-time salary had been before, so she wouldn’t be short on money. That worked out, too.
This year, after further negotiations, we got O. hired on a one-year full-time contract. It’s been a win-win situation all the way along.
Prior to working with us, O. had been working as a junior janitor at an office tower downtown, cleaning toilets during the night shift. She’s fluent in 3 languages and was 6 months away from having a degree in Education when she left her native Russia to immigrate to Canada with her husband. She’s a bright and capable young lady.
The two main things I noticed right away when she came to us were that her English needed improvement and her confidence levels were pitifully low, despite being capable and an absolute wizard with office computer applications.
So, we got her into an English class and covered the costs for her. The confidence levels were slow to develop and she’s still not always entirely sure of herself, but she’s come a long way in two years.
At one point she started talking about how she was sorry to have left Russia before she finished her degree. She was almost done, and to start a degree in Canada again would take forever… even if she could pass the necessary English tests.
So, go finish it, I told her.
What? Go back to Moscow? For six months? Give up job? Was I crazy? What about husband?
Your marriage is strong, I told her. It will be hard, but you can do it. If you go, I promise we’ll keep your job for you. It will be here waiting for you when you’ve graduated. Besides, I told her, we are working at a university here. We would be hypocrites if we held you back from pursuing your education!
She hummed and hawed. She talked to her husband about it. She talked to her family back in Moscow, and her supervisor at the university there. Finally, she went.
She returned six months later (in July of this year), showing us her completed diploma in what we would call Early Childhood Education. She has a secondary specialization in working with hearing impaired children. (One of her 3 languages is Russian sign language.) We were so very proud of her! And I kept my promise to her. She came back to her job – and a small raise.
I can’t believe how much she’s grown. She started talking a few weeks ago about maybe taking a course or two at the university here. She finally believes she can do it. (She’s still taking advanced English classes, even though her English is excellent now.)
Today, I walked with her over to the Education faculty, where I’m studying as a Ph.D. student. We took her original degree, and the certified translation, to see about getting her into a course or a program here. She thinks she might want to teach one day… but she is not sure.
Turns out that her qualifications need to be assessed by the provincial teachers’ union here, before she can take any courses. They determine which courses, if any, she would need to take in order to teach in Canada. So, we got information on how to do that.
She hesitates to dream… but I nudge (even push) her forward.
I have this bad habit you see… I can’t help but look at a person and often, I see almost unlimited potential. I have told O. that I’d be thrilled for her if she outgrew her job as a front desk assistant and realized her dream of becoming a teacher… that so many people come to this country and never use their education, because they can’t due to circumstances or language barriers… that she’s working in the ideal situation (at a university) and has people around to support her every step of the way.
This is a very bad habit I have… of seeing the potential in others. I do it with my students, too. I feel compelled to say, “Go on! Be better than you are right now! Show me! Get so good that you surpass your wildest dreams and my expectations.”
A very few of my Spanish students have gone on to teach the language themselves. When I find this out, I am quietly smug. I think, “Yeah! That’s the ticket! I was YOUR teacher and now look at you! YOU are the one teaching now. Good on ya!”
I have this feeling that I’m going to be losing my very capable assistant not so long from now… and at least some of that will be my own fault! Though my life might suffer because she’s so darned good at her job (and really, she bends over backwards to help me... where do you find that these days?) I suspect she’ll be touching the lives of a great many more people.
Really, I need a new bad habit… If I keep this one, I’ll never be able to keep future staff pinned down under my thumb, will I??
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Damsel or Dynamo?
Well congratulations to Robb (who knows his Maritime women too well!) and others who also guessed right.
I did not bat my eyelashes and look all helpless. I imagine that if I had done that, it would have come across as so fake that the gentelmen offering their help would have seen right through it, snorted and walked away.
Instead, I did what many of you expected. When I was (repeatedly) offered help, I looked up from my position crouched in my LBD (little black dress) over the bin of cupboard handles, then smiled and gently said, "I found what I need. Thanks, though!"
After all, the attire did require at least an attempt at being gracious. :-)
I do like Ginger's idea of dressing opposite of what might be expected in a certain situation, just to see what the reaction would be. That could provide some interesting blog fodder for a while, eh? But then again, it doesn't surprise me that Ginger would say that... given the photos I've seen of some interesting race attire that cookie has been known to wear! ;-)
Thanks for your guesses! I'll be around to visit some blogs over the next few days...
I did not bat my eyelashes and look all helpless. I imagine that if I had done that, it would have come across as so fake that the gentelmen offering their help would have seen right through it, snorted and walked away.
Instead, I did what many of you expected. When I was (repeatedly) offered help, I looked up from my position crouched in my LBD (little black dress) over the bin of cupboard handles, then smiled and gently said, "I found what I need. Thanks, though!"
After all, the attire did require at least an attempt at being gracious. :-)
I do like Ginger's idea of dressing opposite of what might be expected in a certain situation, just to see what the reaction would be. That could provide some interesting blog fodder for a while, eh? But then again, it doesn't surprise me that Ginger would say that... given the photos I've seen of some interesting race attire that cookie has been known to wear! ;-)
Thanks for your guesses! I'll be around to visit some blogs over the next few days...
Thursday, November 16, 2006
A funny thing happened on the way to the opera...
I went to the opera tonight. It was Rossini's "Cinderella".
On the way there, I stopped at the Home Depot that is close to the Jubilee Auditorium, where I was headed. You see, I'm changing the hardware on my cupboards to update their look a bit. (Part of the preparations to get the house ready to sell...)
Anyway, I picked out these new handles last weekend. They're nice, sleek, and look like brushed steel. Much more modern than what was on there before.
Turns out, when I got them home, some fit, but some were longer than the rest. Exact same style and look, just longer. It wasn't by much, maybe half an inch or so. But it was enough that they wouldn't fit my cupboard doors. And naturally, they were all in the same bin together at the store... and their codes were one number off (a fact I did not notice until later).
So, I took the wrong ones back tonight, to exchange them for the correct size.
Me being the pragmatic type I am thought it was perfectly natural to stop by the hardware store on the way to the opera.
But, it's funny the things that happen when you get a person "out of context".
I've been to that hardware store many times. Often, I have to hunt someone down to help me.
But not tonight!
Did I need help with anything? Was I finding everything OK? Did I need a hand?
Offers of help seemed to come from nowhere... and everywhere!
I was a bit flabbergasted, actually.
Then I figured it out... There didn't appear to be anyone else in the store in a fitted black dress, a pair of heels and lipstick.
At the opera, I simply blended in with everyone else. At the hardware store, I was "out of context". Same person in both places of course... That's the irony of it!
Anyway, the opera was delightful, with very clever staging and sets.
I came home a bit too tuckered to change the rest of the cupboard handles out, but I'll get to it on the weekend, I'm sure.
On the way there, I stopped at the Home Depot that is close to the Jubilee Auditorium, where I was headed. You see, I'm changing the hardware on my cupboards to update their look a bit. (Part of the preparations to get the house ready to sell...)
Anyway, I picked out these new handles last weekend. They're nice, sleek, and look like brushed steel. Much more modern than what was on there before.
Turns out, when I got them home, some fit, but some were longer than the rest. Exact same style and look, just longer. It wasn't by much, maybe half an inch or so. But it was enough that they wouldn't fit my cupboard doors. And naturally, they were all in the same bin together at the store... and their codes were one number off (a fact I did not notice until later).
So, I took the wrong ones back tonight, to exchange them for the correct size.
Me being the pragmatic type I am thought it was perfectly natural to stop by the hardware store on the way to the opera.
But, it's funny the things that happen when you get a person "out of context".
I've been to that hardware store many times. Often, I have to hunt someone down to help me.
But not tonight!
Did I need help with anything? Was I finding everything OK? Did I need a hand?
Offers of help seemed to come from nowhere... and everywhere!
I was a bit flabbergasted, actually.
Then I figured it out... There didn't appear to be anyone else in the store in a fitted black dress, a pair of heels and lipstick.
At the opera, I simply blended in with everyone else. At the hardware store, I was "out of context". Same person in both places of course... That's the irony of it!
Anyway, the opera was delightful, with very clever staging and sets.
I came home a bit too tuckered to change the rest of the cupboard handles out, but I'll get to it on the weekend, I'm sure.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
General update on a Sunday night
I continue to clean, purge and organize things around the house. I feel like it's just time to let go of stuff.
They say things go in seven year cycles, don't they? This year marks seven years since my Mum died. At this time seven years ago, she was in hospital with the cancer that had been diagnosed in late October. Five weeks later she died.
Her passing has become a marker in time of sorts. I am finding things around the house and thinking to myself, "Gosh, I've had this since before Mum died... And I never use it!" And so, many things are being sorted, donated and ditched. It is mentally and emotionally draining work -- and it feels great!
I'm especially happy becausemy basement is now neater and more organized than it has been since I moved in! I still have a ways to go on it, but I'm thrilled to go down there and see it looking so spacious.
I am realizing how very little one actually needs.
And I am becoming more comfortable with scaling down in a major way. The less, the better.
I'm still thinking about selling the house. Still not sure... But am leaning towards it at this point. Will keep you updated.
At school, everything is ticking along. The class I am teaching is going OK, but they are not the most stellar group I've ever had. They are not the worst, but I've also had better.
As for school work, I'm currently drafting my final paper for my stats class and getting together an outline for my thesis proposal. My thesis committee (comprised of my supervisor, and two other professors) has officially been set, so the next step is to get the outline for the proposal done and hand it in to them. With any luck, that will be in January.
And stay tuned for an update on the walk/run program. So far, it is progressing as planned. Now, if I can just keep this plantar fasciitis at bay...
Only 4 more weeks until the end of term!
They say things go in seven year cycles, don't they? This year marks seven years since my Mum died. At this time seven years ago, she was in hospital with the cancer that had been diagnosed in late October. Five weeks later she died.
Her passing has become a marker in time of sorts. I am finding things around the house and thinking to myself, "Gosh, I've had this since before Mum died... And I never use it!" And so, many things are being sorted, donated and ditched. It is mentally and emotionally draining work -- and it feels great!
I'm especially happy becausemy basement is now neater and more organized than it has been since I moved in! I still have a ways to go on it, but I'm thrilled to go down there and see it looking so spacious.
I am realizing how very little one actually needs.
And I am becoming more comfortable with scaling down in a major way. The less, the better.
I'm still thinking about selling the house. Still not sure... But am leaning towards it at this point. Will keep you updated.
At school, everything is ticking along. The class I am teaching is going OK, but they are not the most stellar group I've ever had. They are not the worst, but I've also had better.
As for school work, I'm currently drafting my final paper for my stats class and getting together an outline for my thesis proposal. My thesis committee (comprised of my supervisor, and two other professors) has officially been set, so the next step is to get the outline for the proposal done and hand it in to them. With any luck, that will be in January.
And stay tuned for an update on the walk/run program. So far, it is progressing as planned. Now, if I can just keep this plantar fasciitis at bay...
Only 4 more weeks until the end of term!
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Dispassionate Non-Attachment - Part Two
Dispassionate Non-Attachment has taken a new twist.
I'm thinking of selling my townhouse.
Now, before you think I've gone totally nuts, let me just say that when I bought it 2.5 years ago, I was in a relationship and the place was for "us".
The boy is long since gone (and a horrible mistake was narrowly missed -- she says, wiping sweat off brow, as she remembers taking off the ring that graced her finger...) In fact, we'd been here only a few months when things ended.
I haven't had much attachment to the place I call "home" in a long time. I do, however, resist change. And I hate moving.
But maybe it is time to downsize as I move into thesis-writing mode...
Hhhmmm... must think on it more... Dispassionately, of course.
I'm thinking of selling my townhouse.
Now, before you think I've gone totally nuts, let me just say that when I bought it 2.5 years ago, I was in a relationship and the place was for "us".
The boy is long since gone (and a horrible mistake was narrowly missed -- she says, wiping sweat off brow, as she remembers taking off the ring that graced her finger...) In fact, we'd been here only a few months when things ended.
I haven't had much attachment to the place I call "home" in a long time. I do, however, resist change. And I hate moving.
But maybe it is time to downsize as I move into thesis-writing mode...
Hhhmmm... must think on it more... Dispassionately, of course.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Dispassionate Non-Attachment
That's what my yoga teacher calls it. This week, he started class by reading from a little book he brings sometimes that gives tidbits about yogic philosophy.
No doubt that various events of late (and I've only blogged about some of them.. I can't find the energy to blog about all of them) and the fact that as usual, I have taken on too much and find myself teetering on the brink of exhaustion, have left me wondering about the meaning of life...and death. Mind you, I'm a Sagittarius and by nature we're supposed to feel an incessant need to know "Why?!" All the time. About everything.
After a while, your brain starts to hurt. Even mine.
So, this week, I listened to Michael talk about "Dispassionate Non-Attachment". It goes along with earlier blog posts (and heck, a life mission!) to "Do Less" and "Be More".
I've felt an insatiable desire to become less "attached" this week... to things, to people, to just about everything.
The irony of that last sentence should not be lost on you... Dispassionate Non-Attachment is about not having any kind of Insatiable Desire at all.
Oh boy. Do I have a long way to go! So, I have even tried to let go of wanting that too much...
I have been busying myself (as if I don't already have enough to do!) doing things like going through old clothes, sorting what fits and what doesn't. What doesn't has gone into bags, ready to be donated.
I've been cleaning out drawers, organizing the contents inside them, tossing things I was keeping for no good reason.
I've been making trips to the recycling depot, ridding the house of excess paper, cardboard and whatever else I can get my hands on to recycle.
I've been re-organizing the kitchen cupboards and pantry, too. This re-organizing is part of the preparations on the home front to welcome Roommate #2 in a few weeks. Gord moves in December 1. We need to make room for him.
Part of my mission to Have Less By Choice and be Dispassionately Non-attached, has included letting the food supply run a bit low. (Mind you, that's relative. There's enough food in this house to feed a small village, though not all of it is mine.) Lunches this past week included several small containers of "mystery food" that I tucked away in the freezer ages ago, before I got smart enough to label and date what I put in there. Thank God I am a good cook. Even though I had no idea what it was when it was frozen, it all made for good lunches.
Heck, I've even been working on cleaning out my e-mail accounts. I'm proud to say that I got one Inbox (I have several e-mail accounts) down from over 600 messages to 45. Some messages dated as far back as 2002.
No doubt that various events of late (and I've only blogged about some of them.. I can't find the energy to blog about all of them) and the fact that as usual, I have taken on too much and find myself teetering on the brink of exhaustion, have left me wondering about the meaning of life...and death. Mind you, I'm a Sagittarius and by nature we're supposed to feel an incessant need to know "Why?!" All the time. About everything.
After a while, your brain starts to hurt. Even mine.
So, this week, I listened to Michael talk about "Dispassionate Non-Attachment". It goes along with earlier blog posts (and heck, a life mission!) to "Do Less" and "Be More".
I've felt an insatiable desire to become less "attached" this week... to things, to people, to just about everything.
The irony of that last sentence should not be lost on you... Dispassionate Non-Attachment is about not having any kind of Insatiable Desire at all.
Oh boy. Do I have a long way to go! So, I have even tried to let go of wanting that too much...
I have been busying myself (as if I don't already have enough to do!) doing things like going through old clothes, sorting what fits and what doesn't. What doesn't has gone into bags, ready to be donated.
I've been cleaning out drawers, organizing the contents inside them, tossing things I was keeping for no good reason.
I've been making trips to the recycling depot, ridding the house of excess paper, cardboard and whatever else I can get my hands on to recycle.
I've been re-organizing the kitchen cupboards and pantry, too. This re-organizing is part of the preparations on the home front to welcome Roommate #2 in a few weeks. Gord moves in December 1. We need to make room for him.
Part of my mission to Have Less By Choice and be Dispassionately Non-attached, has included letting the food supply run a bit low. (Mind you, that's relative. There's enough food in this house to feed a small village, though not all of it is mine.) Lunches this past week included several small containers of "mystery food" that I tucked away in the freezer ages ago, before I got smart enough to label and date what I put in there. Thank God I am a good cook. Even though I had no idea what it was when it was frozen, it all made for good lunches.
Heck, I've even been working on cleaning out my e-mail accounts. I'm proud to say that I got one Inbox (I have several e-mail accounts) down from over 600 messages to 45. Some messages dated as far back as 2002.
I shake my head. I'm a horrible pack rat. Less than I used to be, but still...
I remember that in 1997 my friend M. (with whom I have since lost contact... I should look her up) gave me some beautiful writing paper with explicit instructions, "You musn't hoard! Use it! You write lots of letters... Don't keep this paper, no matter how much you want to save it!"
I still have most of that paper.
Somewhere.
Now is a good time to find it. And use it.
Some of you may be getting letters soon! ;-) And if you do... enjoy the paper, OK?
And if you don't... Not to worry... I'm probably still just as attached to you as I have always been. ;-)
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Sudden death
I only wish the title were referring to hockey.
But it's not.
A few months back I posted about my cousin, Gary, on my Dad's side, who took his life earlier this year.
Today, on my Mum's side, there was another unexpected passing. My cousin (by marriage), Alan, fell ill and went into cardiac arrest at home. Paramedics revived him and took him to hospital, where he stabilized, only to go downhill again rather quickly and then arrested again for a second and final time.
Alan's wife (or I guess I should say "widow" now, though it feels odd to say that...) was diagnosed with cancer again just a few weeks ago. She's a 14-year survivor of breast cancer. Except that now it's back. And it's in her bones.
That news hit us all fairly hard. The cousin in question is one of my favorite people in the whole world. In fact, pretty much everyone in the family thinks she's pretty amazing.
As she recovers from her first round of cancer treatment, which she said was "horrible", she finds herself a widow rather suddenly. It's a bit shocking, really.
I was grateful that one of my other cousins phoned me as soon as possible to tell me, though I was as surprised as all of them to hear the news. It fell to me to tell everyone on the Canadian side, which was OK with me. I understand this is my role and I take it as both a privilege and a duty. I lived in England for a year as a child, and have been back to visit many times. Though we all try to maintain family connections, I think because of the time I've spent with them personally and through written correspondence (which, if you totalled it all up over the years, would come to thousands of pages, I could say with some certainty), I would be the primary contact in situations like this.
So, I spent the day on the phone to family members across the country and "across the pond", as we like to say, so the Atlantic doesn't seem quite so big.
It's been six years since I've been over to see any of them. Last time was in 2000, when my sister and I went over to see that our Mum's ashes were scattered in her homeland, thus ensuring that her final wishes were honoured.
Too long... far too long, indeed.
I was thinking of going over next spring. Even started saving for it a while back, actually. Now, there's no question... Ph.D. program (and the corresponding student budget!) or not, a visit next year is definitely in order.
Won't write any more for the moment, or I'll likely just get upset...
May take a few days away from Blog Land, as my head is full of many thoughts at the moment and truth be told, my heart is a bit heavy. I'll be back soon though... promise.
But it's not.
A few months back I posted about my cousin, Gary, on my Dad's side, who took his life earlier this year.
Today, on my Mum's side, there was another unexpected passing. My cousin (by marriage), Alan, fell ill and went into cardiac arrest at home. Paramedics revived him and took him to hospital, where he stabilized, only to go downhill again rather quickly and then arrested again for a second and final time.
Alan's wife (or I guess I should say "widow" now, though it feels odd to say that...) was diagnosed with cancer again just a few weeks ago. She's a 14-year survivor of breast cancer. Except that now it's back. And it's in her bones.
That news hit us all fairly hard. The cousin in question is one of my favorite people in the whole world. In fact, pretty much everyone in the family thinks she's pretty amazing.
As she recovers from her first round of cancer treatment, which she said was "horrible", she finds herself a widow rather suddenly. It's a bit shocking, really.
I was grateful that one of my other cousins phoned me as soon as possible to tell me, though I was as surprised as all of them to hear the news. It fell to me to tell everyone on the Canadian side, which was OK with me. I understand this is my role and I take it as both a privilege and a duty. I lived in England for a year as a child, and have been back to visit many times. Though we all try to maintain family connections, I think because of the time I've spent with them personally and through written correspondence (which, if you totalled it all up over the years, would come to thousands of pages, I could say with some certainty), I would be the primary contact in situations like this.
So, I spent the day on the phone to family members across the country and "across the pond", as we like to say, so the Atlantic doesn't seem quite so big.
It's been six years since I've been over to see any of them. Last time was in 2000, when my sister and I went over to see that our Mum's ashes were scattered in her homeland, thus ensuring that her final wishes were honoured.
Too long... far too long, indeed.
I was thinking of going over next spring. Even started saving for it a while back, actually. Now, there's no question... Ph.D. program (and the corresponding student budget!) or not, a visit next year is definitely in order.
Won't write any more for the moment, or I'll likely just get upset...
May take a few days away from Blog Land, as my head is full of many thoughts at the moment and truth be told, my heart is a bit heavy. I'll be back soon though... promise.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Chinook
Yesterday I looked at the sky, searching for the telltale signs of a chinook: the arch of cloud to the west that covers the sky. I didn't see it, but today the secretary of our department told me that I didn't look far enough. She saw it over the Rocky Mountains, but it was far away. This morning the clouds were undeniable. Today, we definitely had chinook conditions.
I should have known.
I did know, in fact. My head told me so.
No, it's not that I heard voices telling there were warm westerly winds coming over the Rockies. It's the incredible headaches I get which precede the chinook. It's not just me. Lots of people here get them.
When I first moved to Alberta, I wondered what the hell was wrong with me. I remember it well. It was in January sometime... the first semester I'd ever taught. My class was from 4:00 p.m. By noon, I was holding on to the wall as I walked down the hallway of Craigie Hall, the building that houses the foreign language departments. Holding on to the wall was the only way I could stand up. My head felt like it was going to explode and I was seeing black blotches everywhere.
I don't remember how I got through teaching that day, or how I made it home, which was about a 20 minute walk at the time. I remember waking up the next day wondering what had happened.
A few weeks later, the whole thing repeated itself. I couldn't figure it out... Probably the stress of my first year of grad school, I told myself. But it didn't make sense. I'd never felt anything like it before.
I told a few people about it and someone said, "Chinook headache."
"What?" I asked. I thought the person was out of his mind. Weather can cause a headache? You're nuts, I thought.
I was told, "Not just a headache. A chinook headache. It's a kind of migraine."
That was even more unbelievable. I don't get migraines. Ever.
But I do get chinook headaches. And they wipe me out like nobody's business.
Different people get them in different ways. For me, the headache usually comes before the chinook itself. By the time the chinook arrives in Calgary, my headache has subsided, as mine did by today.
Since I don't consider myself a migraine sufferer, I don't have meds for it. Tylenol is useless. Once I took about 15 Tylenol over the course of the day when I had a chinook headache. Nothing.
A friend who suffers with them told me that he swears by aspirin... something about the physical effect it has on blood vessels... Opens them up, I think? Anyway, he was right. They help. Somewhat. They get me to a point where I can stand up and function, without nausea or blacking out, which is good. But you have to catch it early. Otherwise, they don't do anything.
I hate that. I refuse to lose time at work or allow a headache to get the better of me. On days like that, I force myself forward... doing whatever was scheduled in my daytimer, regardless of how I feel.
Lemme tell ya... yestday's "walk/run" was not exactly enjoyable. Pounding feet. Pounding head. Not fun.
It's no wonder that I was home and in bed by about 8:30 p.m. last night. Sleep also helps... mostly because you wake up the next day and the weather has gone from "pre-chinook conditions" to full on "chinook", which for me, spells relief.
Today the chinook is here. Thank the gods and winds and whatever else is out there that it has finally arrived!!
I should have known.
I did know, in fact. My head told me so.
No, it's not that I heard voices telling there were warm westerly winds coming over the Rockies. It's the incredible headaches I get which precede the chinook. It's not just me. Lots of people here get them.
When I first moved to Alberta, I wondered what the hell was wrong with me. I remember it well. It was in January sometime... the first semester I'd ever taught. My class was from 4:00 p.m. By noon, I was holding on to the wall as I walked down the hallway of Craigie Hall, the building that houses the foreign language departments. Holding on to the wall was the only way I could stand up. My head felt like it was going to explode and I was seeing black blotches everywhere.
I don't remember how I got through teaching that day, or how I made it home, which was about a 20 minute walk at the time. I remember waking up the next day wondering what had happened.
A few weeks later, the whole thing repeated itself. I couldn't figure it out... Probably the stress of my first year of grad school, I told myself. But it didn't make sense. I'd never felt anything like it before.
I told a few people about it and someone said, "Chinook headache."
"What?" I asked. I thought the person was out of his mind. Weather can cause a headache? You're nuts, I thought.
I was told, "Not just a headache. A chinook headache. It's a kind of migraine."
That was even more unbelievable. I don't get migraines. Ever.
But I do get chinook headaches. And they wipe me out like nobody's business.
Different people get them in different ways. For me, the headache usually comes before the chinook itself. By the time the chinook arrives in Calgary, my headache has subsided, as mine did by today.
Since I don't consider myself a migraine sufferer, I don't have meds for it. Tylenol is useless. Once I took about 15 Tylenol over the course of the day when I had a chinook headache. Nothing.
A friend who suffers with them told me that he swears by aspirin... something about the physical effect it has on blood vessels... Opens them up, I think? Anyway, he was right. They help. Somewhat. They get me to a point where I can stand up and function, without nausea or blacking out, which is good. But you have to catch it early. Otherwise, they don't do anything.
I hate that. I refuse to lose time at work or allow a headache to get the better of me. On days like that, I force myself forward... doing whatever was scheduled in my daytimer, regardless of how I feel.
Lemme tell ya... yestday's "walk/run" was not exactly enjoyable. Pounding feet. Pounding head. Not fun.
It's no wonder that I was home and in bed by about 8:30 p.m. last night. Sleep also helps... mostly because you wake up the next day and the weather has gone from "pre-chinook conditions" to full on "chinook", which for me, spells relief.
Today the chinook is here. Thank the gods and winds and whatever else is out there that it has finally arrived!!
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Do you know where your popliteus is?
Popliteus.
That's my new word for today. My chiropractor taught it to me.
Actually, he poked and prodded my popliteus as part of my treatment today. First time anyone ever has, as far as I can recall.
I laughed. He got a puzzled look on his face and asked, "That doesn't tickle, does it?"
"No," I said. "It hurts!"
After six months, he is still sometimes unsure when I break out laughing whether it is due to tickling or pain. He should know by now... It's pain. He's never tickled me, not even unintentionally. It's always pain. It's a reflex reaction ... one I have grown accustomed to over these months of physical treatments of various sorts on my knee.
"What is that?" I asked, immediately following it up with, "I mean, what's it called?"
"It's your popliteus."
"Sounds Greek," I mused, trying to distract my brain from the pain it was registering by partaking in one of my favorite sports: guessing the origins of new words.
"It may be... I took a Latin and Greek medical terminology course as part of my degree. I think you might be right. I don't think it's Latin." He replied back, as he actively released the popliteus itself.
He noticed that the distraction was useful though and continued, "In the U.S. they say it 'pop-lit-EE-us'. But in England, they would say 'pop-LIT-ee-us'. I guess in Canada, we would go either way."
As my brain was focussing on the placement of the word stress, he quickly finished up.
So let me ask you this: Do you know where YOUR popliteus is today?
I for one, am well aware exactly where mine is...
That's my new word for today. My chiropractor taught it to me.
Actually, he poked and prodded my popliteus as part of my treatment today. First time anyone ever has, as far as I can recall.
I laughed. He got a puzzled look on his face and asked, "That doesn't tickle, does it?"
"No," I said. "It hurts!"
After six months, he is still sometimes unsure when I break out laughing whether it is due to tickling or pain. He should know by now... It's pain. He's never tickled me, not even unintentionally. It's always pain. It's a reflex reaction ... one I have grown accustomed to over these months of physical treatments of various sorts on my knee.
"What is that?" I asked, immediately following it up with, "I mean, what's it called?"
"It's your popliteus."
"Sounds Greek," I mused, trying to distract my brain from the pain it was registering by partaking in one of my favorite sports: guessing the origins of new words.
"It may be... I took a Latin and Greek medical terminology course as part of my degree. I think you might be right. I don't think it's Latin." He replied back, as he actively released the popliteus itself.
He noticed that the distraction was useful though and continued, "In the U.S. they say it 'pop-lit-EE-us'. But in England, they would say 'pop-LIT-ee-us'. I guess in Canada, we would go either way."
As my brain was focussing on the placement of the word stress, he quickly finished up.
So let me ask you this: Do you know where YOUR popliteus is today?
I for one, am well aware exactly where mine is...
Thursday, October 19, 2006
In awe
A few posts ago I wrote about a challenging situation I was in with regards to a translation I was asked to do. I said, "For those of you who have not studied languages before, the nature of such a request may be lost on you. It would be like saying to someone, 'Oh, would you mind doing an Ironman while wearing snowshoes, oven mitts and a blindfold? Oh, and just for fun… can you tie yourself to a Hummer and pull it behind you through each of the 3 sports?'"
I was reminded of that today when my massage therapist sent me this as an inspiration:
http://cjcphoto.com/can/
I almost did not believe the story. Then I saw the video at the end of the page. And got kind of choked up.
But still... the skeptic in me wondered. (The writing on that web page was so bad it really made me wonder if the story was true!) So, I Googled them. Apparently, they are for real: http://www.teamhoyt.com/
CNN even picked up the story: http://www.cnn.com/US/9911/29/hoyt.family/index.html
Just goes to show how sometimes, the impossible isn't really that way at all.
I was reminded of that today when my massage therapist sent me this as an inspiration:
http://cjcphoto.com/can/
I almost did not believe the story. Then I saw the video at the end of the page. And got kind of choked up.
But still... the skeptic in me wondered. (The writing on that web page was so bad it really made me wonder if the story was true!) So, I Googled them. Apparently, they are for real: http://www.teamhoyt.com/
CNN even picked up the story: http://www.cnn.com/US/9911/29/hoyt.family/index.html
Just goes to show how sometimes, the impossible isn't really that way at all.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
That'll teach 'em!
I admit it. Sometimes, I am a bad person.
Remember those three young men who cheated on their first homework assignment? I promised them after our little episode that the next two assignments (and there are only a total of 3 in the course) would be designed to promote individual work and it would be difficult to cheat.
It took me a couple of weeks, but I came up with an assignment.
Usually, first year language classes involve assignments with lots of fill in the blank, short answer and some multiple choice.
But not this time.
This time, they got a "critical thinking assignment": Construct a portfolio on your experiences with the Spanish language and culture outside this classroom. Include written journal entries that show a critical reflection of how your experiences of this class have impacted your life. Show me how you have grown as a human being through taking this course.
I gave them a full list of instructions, but that is the basic gist of the project.
It is true that this assignment does not review basic language skills. They have a practice workbook for that, so they have lots of chances to do "drills", so to speak.
In fact, I told them, "This assignment can be done in English. Part of the point of taking a Humanities course is to develop your critical thinking skills. Activities that focus on filling in the blank don't do that. The purpose of this assignment is to show me you can think and express yourself eloquently. It is an individual assignment. Originality and creativity count. If you expect an A, you need to show me that you have paid attention to detail, thought it through in depth and dedicated yourself to the task of creating an original project. The results should speak for themselves."
I figured words like "creativity", "critical thinking skills" and "reflective journal writing" would make a few jaws drop. And it did. There are numerous students from other faculties in the course who are taking this as an option (including the 3 who cheated). Most of them will be unaccustomed to doing projects where they are marked on their critical thinking skills. But developing such skills is, after all, part of a complete university undergraduate experience.
They even have to pass in a first draft (part one) and then a final version (part two). Each part is worth marks. This will help ensure that they don't just slap something together at the very last minute.
As we say in Spanish, "No hay nada mas dulce que la venganza"... Revenge is sweet.
Remember those three young men who cheated on their first homework assignment? I promised them after our little episode that the next two assignments (and there are only a total of 3 in the course) would be designed to promote individual work and it would be difficult to cheat.
It took me a couple of weeks, but I came up with an assignment.
Usually, first year language classes involve assignments with lots of fill in the blank, short answer and some multiple choice.
But not this time.
This time, they got a "critical thinking assignment": Construct a portfolio on your experiences with the Spanish language and culture outside this classroom. Include written journal entries that show a critical reflection of how your experiences of this class have impacted your life. Show me how you have grown as a human being through taking this course.
I gave them a full list of instructions, but that is the basic gist of the project.
It is true that this assignment does not review basic language skills. They have a practice workbook for that, so they have lots of chances to do "drills", so to speak.
In fact, I told them, "This assignment can be done in English. Part of the point of taking a Humanities course is to develop your critical thinking skills. Activities that focus on filling in the blank don't do that. The purpose of this assignment is to show me you can think and express yourself eloquently. It is an individual assignment. Originality and creativity count. If you expect an A, you need to show me that you have paid attention to detail, thought it through in depth and dedicated yourself to the task of creating an original project. The results should speak for themselves."
I figured words like "creativity", "critical thinking skills" and "reflective journal writing" would make a few jaws drop. And it did. There are numerous students from other faculties in the course who are taking this as an option (including the 3 who cheated). Most of them will be unaccustomed to doing projects where they are marked on their critical thinking skills. But developing such skills is, after all, part of a complete university undergraduate experience.
They even have to pass in a first draft (part one) and then a final version (part two). Each part is worth marks. This will help ensure that they don't just slap something together at the very last minute.
As we say in Spanish, "No hay nada mas dulce que la venganza"... Revenge is sweet.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Tofu or not tofu?
So, the Wild Rose De-tox cleanse is over. I feel great! Would highly recommend it, if you're into that sort of thing.
I did discover something new in the process. My body doesn't like soy. Since there's no dairy allowed on the cleanse, I was using soy milk. Then, around the middle of the cleanse, for the first time in years I bought some tofu.
At first, I thought my stuffiness was just the cleanse doing its thing. I did not correlate it with the soy milk I was drinking every day. Then I ate the tofu. Not only did I get stuffy, but also it got hard to breathe (but just a wee bit). I thought nothing of it... Maybe my resistance was down and I was getting a cold.
Everything cleared up after a few hours. The next day, I had the same tofu dish for lunch. Within a few minutes, I was stuffy and it was hard to breathe again. I thought to myself, "Ah! It's not a cold. My throat is partially closing. Interesting... This has never happened before."
Sure enough, it took about 3 hours, but it cleared itself up.
Just to test the theory, I tried again the next day. Same thing.
Don't get me wrong, it wasn't bad enough that I felt I was in any danger. It was rather curious actually, since as far as I know, I'm not allergic to anything... The closest thing is probably anaesthetic... My experiences with that have led to me to choose not to have it whenever possible.
Anyway, after three tries with the tofu which resulted in same reaction each time, I stopped eating it. Ditched the soy milk too, and got some rice milk instead. The cold-like symptoms did not reappear after that. (And I also discovered that I quite like rice milk!)
My roommate is deathly allergic to shrimp and told me her allergy started in much the same way as my recent experience with tofu / soy, and progressively got worse until one day, she actually could not breathe after eating something that had touched shrimp.
Someone else told me that soy products can affect your hormone levels. I don't know much about that, but for whatever reason, my body seems happier when I don't feed it soy. I won't go so far as to call this an allergy, but I will say that it was an unexpected discovery about a food that I've only ever been ambivalent about, at best.
And so once again, I'm back onto my normal diet... Enjoying bananas and yogurt more than ever!
I did discover something new in the process. My body doesn't like soy. Since there's no dairy allowed on the cleanse, I was using soy milk. Then, around the middle of the cleanse, for the first time in years I bought some tofu.
At first, I thought my stuffiness was just the cleanse doing its thing. I did not correlate it with the soy milk I was drinking every day. Then I ate the tofu. Not only did I get stuffy, but also it got hard to breathe (but just a wee bit). I thought nothing of it... Maybe my resistance was down and I was getting a cold.
Everything cleared up after a few hours. The next day, I had the same tofu dish for lunch. Within a few minutes, I was stuffy and it was hard to breathe again. I thought to myself, "Ah! It's not a cold. My throat is partially closing. Interesting... This has never happened before."
Sure enough, it took about 3 hours, but it cleared itself up.
Just to test the theory, I tried again the next day. Same thing.
Don't get me wrong, it wasn't bad enough that I felt I was in any danger. It was rather curious actually, since as far as I know, I'm not allergic to anything... The closest thing is probably anaesthetic... My experiences with that have led to me to choose not to have it whenever possible.
Anyway, after three tries with the tofu which resulted in same reaction each time, I stopped eating it. Ditched the soy milk too, and got some rice milk instead. The cold-like symptoms did not reappear after that. (And I also discovered that I quite like rice milk!)
My roommate is deathly allergic to shrimp and told me her allergy started in much the same way as my recent experience with tofu / soy, and progressively got worse until one day, she actually could not breathe after eating something that had touched shrimp.
Someone else told me that soy products can affect your hormone levels. I don't know much about that, but for whatever reason, my body seems happier when I don't feed it soy. I won't go so far as to call this an allergy, but I will say that it was an unexpected discovery about a food that I've only ever been ambivalent about, at best.
And so once again, I'm back onto my normal diet... Enjoying bananas and yogurt more than ever!
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Tale of Translation Torture...
A couple of days ago a colleague came and asked me to help him at a special event on campus that is part of a larger literary festival in town. They brought in a couple of Mexican writers to do readings from their work… He needed to introduce one of them. Would I be willing to interpret from Spanish into English for him? He’d give me a written text of the introduction to translate before hand… Only 2 or 3 minutes… for those in the audience who don’t speak Spanish.
Considering that the event was held in the building where I work, and it was short, I said, "Sure." I have done some oral interpretation, but not much… Nevertheless, I felt I could handle a simple introduction. And besides it would not be simultaneous interpretation, but rather, he’d say a sentence and then I’d translate it from the prepared written text. Easy!
Umm… yeah... not so much.
He’s a bit of a poet this one… the Introduction was 3 double-spaced typed pages and had some of the most poetic and florid language I’ve seen in a long time. I actually had to look words up in my bilingual dictionary!
So, I spent almost an hour translating the introduction… but that was OK. I did agree to it after all.
Then we get there and the author whose work is being featured decides that she’s going to read her poetry in Spanish.
Would I mind interpreting into English?
I thought, "You want me to do simultaneous interpretation – in front of an audience of about 50 people – of poetry?!... In fact, a poem I have never read before in my entire life?"
For those of you who have not studied languages before, the nature of such a request may be lost on you. It would be like saying to someone, “Oh, would you mind doing an Ironman while wearing snowshoes, oven mitts and a blindfold? Oh, and just for fun… can you tie yourself to a Hummer and pull it behind you through each of the 3 sports?”
In other words… pretty much humanly impossible except for some kind of genetically gifted linguistic freak – which I am not.
I did not admit to the author that I had not read her poem, but I’m sure the look on my face said it all.
She quickly said (and I translate), “No, no, the book of poetry is bilingual… See? There’s a page in English and a page in Spanish. I’ll read it in Spanish and then you read the English.”
Whew!
OK, that I could do… Reading a text that you have never seen before aloud in front of an audience is not particularly easy, but thanks to training in public speaking and those 2 years I spent at the student radio station in my undergrad, I was able to manage. The years I spent as an English major and closet poet myself helped with pacing the reading (yes… poetry must be paced as you read it aloud), the cadence and general flow. But it was a heck of a lot better than having to do a simeltaneous interpretation of it!
Needless to say, the “2 or 3 minutes” turned into a full 2 hours because there was a question and answer period afterwards and lots of discussion. It was a full-blown bilingual literary event… and some kind of warped translation torture that I’m sure Stephen King could write a good short story about….
Considering that the event was held in the building where I work, and it was short, I said, "Sure." I have done some oral interpretation, but not much… Nevertheless, I felt I could handle a simple introduction. And besides it would not be simultaneous interpretation, but rather, he’d say a sentence and then I’d translate it from the prepared written text. Easy!
Umm… yeah... not so much.
He’s a bit of a poet this one… the Introduction was 3 double-spaced typed pages and had some of the most poetic and florid language I’ve seen in a long time. I actually had to look words up in my bilingual dictionary!
So, I spent almost an hour translating the introduction… but that was OK. I did agree to it after all.
Then we get there and the author whose work is being featured decides that she’s going to read her poetry in Spanish.
Would I mind interpreting into English?
I thought, "You want me to do simultaneous interpretation – in front of an audience of about 50 people – of poetry?!... In fact, a poem I have never read before in my entire life?"
For those of you who have not studied languages before, the nature of such a request may be lost on you. It would be like saying to someone, “Oh, would you mind doing an Ironman while wearing snowshoes, oven mitts and a blindfold? Oh, and just for fun… can you tie yourself to a Hummer and pull it behind you through each of the 3 sports?”
In other words… pretty much humanly impossible except for some kind of genetically gifted linguistic freak – which I am not.
I did not admit to the author that I had not read her poem, but I’m sure the look on my face said it all.
She quickly said (and I translate), “No, no, the book of poetry is bilingual… See? There’s a page in English and a page in Spanish. I’ll read it in Spanish and then you read the English.”
Whew!
OK, that I could do… Reading a text that you have never seen before aloud in front of an audience is not particularly easy, but thanks to training in public speaking and those 2 years I spent at the student radio station in my undergrad, I was able to manage. The years I spent as an English major and closet poet myself helped with pacing the reading (yes… poetry must be paced as you read it aloud), the cadence and general flow. But it was a heck of a lot better than having to do a simeltaneous interpretation of it!
Needless to say, the “2 or 3 minutes” turned into a full 2 hours because there was a question and answer period afterwards and lots of discussion. It was a full-blown bilingual literary event… and some kind of warped translation torture that I’m sure Stephen King could write a good short story about….
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