Category: Uncategorized

1. Perfume, from Dr. T., proving that he does listen occasionally;
2. A g-mail account from Bill (and inspiration from blork – the address is gmaggie[at]gmail[dot]com. Gthanks, gblork.);
3. Mystic River from Steve ‘n’ Dina;
4. Incense and scented candles;
5. Half a Caesar salad from my buddy who only discovered it was my birthday halfway through lunch;
6. A tree from the world’s greatest mother-in-law, albeit sans partridge; once the massive, horrible, dangerous current (not currant) tree is removed, a new, lovely, flowery crab apple will take its place and all will be right in the world;
7. A Stone Angel, from Mum:

She’s real stone, too. None of this resin crap. Well done, Mum!
Dina believes this means that my mother wants to be buried in my garden.

For years I have been spelling my name for people. In fact, when asked for my last name, I immediately start spelling, because if I say “McDonnell,” the other person invariably writes/hears “McDonald.”
My uncle, whose last name is MacNamara, has similar problems, especially with people whose first language is not English.
For instance…
Last week he and my aunt went to their favourite Chinese take-away. The procedure is this: you make your order, leave your name, and sit and wait until they call your name. My aunt and uncle have been doing this for ages, and everytime, the counterperson has difficulty with the family name. It takes longer to get the name issue resolved than it does to place the order in the first place.
So, last week, my uncle tried to make things easier. When the counterperson asked him for his last name, he said “It’s too long. Just call me John.”
Then he and my aunt sat waiting for ages, wondering why “Mr. Tulong” wasn’t picking up his order…

It seems that my mother is throwing me a birthday party this evening.
I wonder if there will be a balloon animal-making clown.

I say, it’s my birthday.
And, may I add, all I want for my birthday is a %^#$*& blog that doesn’t %^#$*& disappear every %^#$*& time the %^#$*& cat rubs up against the %^#$*& phone jack, %^#$*&.
Thanks, Dr. T. (K)

, Dina.

According to G.W. Bush:
“Like the Second World War, our present conflict [Iraq] began with a ruthless surprise attack on the United States. We will not forget that treachery and we will accept nothing less than victory over the enemy.”
Oh, where do I start?
1. The second world war started on Sept. 3, 1939, when Britain, France, Australia and New Zealand declared war on Germany. WWII did not start two years later on Dec. 7, 1941, when Pearl Harbor was attacked.
2. Ruthless surprise attack?
3. Bush himself is on record as saying there is no link between Iraq and the 9/11 attack. So how did the ‘present conflict’ begin with an unrelated attack?
Harumph.

Test your Canadian-ness!

My four year old son is a cuddler. He loves to cuddle his mummy, his daddy, and just about any adult who sits still long enough. (We’re not talking complete strangers – just grownups he knows, friends and family and teachers.)
When do we get to that point where we can’t cuddle random people anymore?
We hug, we even, in my neck of the woods at least, do the one or two or three kisses to greet each other. We say tender things like “take care.” Some of us do arm touches. But somewhere along the line, we adults have decided that certain intimate gestures, such as cuddling or holding hands, are off-limits. Why?
What is it about hand-holding, for instance, that makes it so intimate that it can only be between couples? Is it simply a question of appearances? Or is there some underlying message that we’re not supposed to be sending to people with whom we’re not sexual? What is the fundamental difference between a hug and a snuggle? A kiss on the cheek and holding hands while walking through the park? Perhaps it’s the prolongation involved – a quick kiss is okay, but a lengthy cuddle is tabu.
Well, last night I wanted a cuddle, and I’m miles away from anyone it’s okay for me to cuddle. I demand a rule change!
Sniff.

Things are verdant and lovely out here in the middle of nowhere.
Apple trees and lilac bushes in glorious, odorific bloom…
Blue skies, warm sun…
Classes on the grass, under a magnificent oak…
Half-naked football players doing crunches on the field outside my office window…
I love my job.

Lately, this blog has come to resemble nothing more than a showcase for my quiz results – it seems I am a coffee-flavoured, spiralling, stormy super-heroine. My apologies.
My only excuse is procrastination. I can’t speak for all procrastinators (most of them haven’t filled in the survey yet) but for me, the nature of procrastination dictates that I cannot expend brain power on creating content, because that’s exactly the kind of brain power I should be devoting to course content. Lesson plans. Reading lists. For my summer course. Which begins in less than three hours.
Under normal circumstances, a new course wouldn’t be a big deal. But under normal circumstances, the 60 course hours are distributed over 15 weeks – so classes meet twice a week for two hours each session.
The summer session is three weeks long. Total.
So we meet five days a week, for four hours at a time. Eep.
Not only do I have to have enough material for each session, I have to present in such a way that no one falls asleep, including me.
On the other hand, the course is Detective Fiction, which (for me) is like teaching a course about Buffy or The Flintstones. Conan Doyle! Christie! Chesterton! James (P.D., that is)! Etc.!
Anyway, I know I’m going to have a blast teaching this course. But that first four hour block is looming rather ominously. How apropos.