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I’ve been reading a neat little book called Watching the English, by British anthropologist Kate Fox, whose mission is to describe and analyze English behaviour. The book was a gift from a good friend who gave it all up (“it” being life in Pierrefonds, working for Ikea) to move to the UK (albeit still working for Ikea).
Now, I don’t think this book is for everyone, least of all for people who for some reason don’t find it fascinating to discuss ad nauseam the British tendency to remember last week’s rain fondly. It is an interesting read in that it offers insight not only into the British codes of behaviour, but also the research methods of one team of anthropologists.
I personally am enjoying the book not least because there’s an entire section on class, which my English brother-outlaw insists is a non-issue in 21st century Britain.
Furthermore, according to this book, the fact that my house is messy and none of my furniture matches is, in fact, an indication that I am upper class, and has nothing to do with being disorganized, frantically busy, or hopeless.
I gleefully relayed this information to my mother – we’re upper class! We never have to apologize for the mess again.
“Ah well,” she said, “every once in a while you still have to wipe the shit off the side of the toilet bowl.”
Yes, we’re just oozing class.

We’re having a fantastic time on our second annual UK holiday, although it would be nice if Dr. T were able to spend more than a week with us. He’s already been and gone, and I won’t see him again until the 4th of August. In the meantime, I’ve been quite happy to completely ignore my computer for most of the trip so far, but I did want to share the following, lest I forget* the incident in the coming weeks.
My lovely sister-in-law and brother-outlaw have been living in this idyllic Cotswolds location for ten years now, and this coming week, their son Marley will be a year old. To celebrate these two landmarks, we had a very nice open house-style party on Saturday, with people popping in and out over the course of the day to have a drink and a chat. One of these visitors was a nice man named Colin, who came with his two-year-old, Joey, and no one else.
Colin and Joey stayed for a few hours, and during that time Colin and I chatted as we watched my sons entertain his son. When he and Joey finally set off, it was quite late, and Joey had developed an attachment to one of Marley’s toys. Rather than get into a tug of war and subsequent screaming fit, Colin very intelligently pretended that the toy was leaving, too. I went with them to the car so I could retrieve the toy when Colin “put it in the trunk.”
My own Colin came along, and as he and I were waiting for the grown-up Colin to strap Joey into his seat, ten-year-old Colin asked me whether or not the other Colin was married. I said that I didn’t know…
…so Colin went around to the other side of the car to ask Colin if he was married…
…while his apparently unescorted mum, who had followed them to the car under what now seemed like the flimsiest of pretexts, died of embarrassment.
What is the etiquette in this situation? Do I say “I know this sounds unlikely, but I did not get my kid to ask about your marital status.”?
Furthermore, as it turns out, small Colin had already asked big Colin this question earlier, making it look even more like a set-up.
“Look, I don’t really care whether or not you’re married”?
Personally, I dealt with the situation by quietly deserting my post as toy catcher, returning to the house, and finding the nearest bottle of wine. My next step will be to leave the country.
*not bloody likely

I am beginning to think I have two personalities (at least): one is all about size and power, and the other is a minimalist.
The first clue was the teeny little Sony camera I bought. I already have a big sexy Nikon, complete with filters and hoods and a camera case that’s bigger than my head. I love my Nikon, really I do, but it’s big. Heavy. Cumbersome. And this is fine if I’m headed out to take pictures, and want to (a) get some really great shots and (b) look like an intimidating semi-pro photographer. But when the photo-taking is not the actual point of the expedition – when we’re out with the family, for instance, or sightseeing, or what have you – then the Nikon is a little more camera than is strictly necessary, and I find myself either not taking it and thus missing photo ops, or taking it and resenting it.
So I bought the teeny Sony. It fits in my pocket, for goodness sake. It’s smaller than the cigarette packs I used to carry everywhere, so it certainly doesn’t get in the way. And it’s still a pretty decent camera (the photo above was taken with it).
One might argue that two cameras does not a psycho make.
To which I would respond, ah yes, but two laptops?
My sexy new laptop is wonderful (bluescreen issues notwithstanding, but that’s another post). It’s big and sexy and powerful and chocolate brown, and the screen is massive. I can see people’s pores in their facebook profile pictures. And I love having a computer at work that is my computer – I don’t have to surreptitiously download stuff, I can control which programs I use for which applications, and so on. But the SNL, like the Nikon camera, is big and heavy and cumbersome – it barely fits in my backpack, which is only a few months old but is starting to show signs of strain on the zipper. I have a good, ergonomic pack, but my back still aches by the end of a week of toting the SNL back and forth.
So I bought an Asus Eee PC.
Or, rather, one of me did.

In the past 24 hours, another 30 cm of snow (about a foot, for the non-metrically minded) fell, fast and furious, on our fair city. This was a true blizzard, with high winds turning the snow into a blinding sheet of white that hurt when it hit your face.
Yesterday was also, coincidentally, International Women’s Day.
In our house, this convergence of events played out as follows:
~ As Dr. T relaxed on the couch, watching a testosterone-fuelled Indiana Jones battle evil-doers and rescue the incessantly-shrieking Kate Capshaw, the doorbell rang and I raced downstairs to open the door, and find two women, obviously mother and daughter, on our front porch. The mother explained that she and her two daughters had been trying for ages to get their car out of a snowbank on our street, and had given up, and ours was the first house to answer the door. They were hoping to find something to put under their tires so they could drive out of the snow.
~ I turned around and called for Dr. T – at which point the woman’s face lit up and she exclaimed “A man! Yes, that’s what we need!”
(to clarify, she meant that he could help, not that she needed a man to put under her tires)
~ Dr. T threw on his boots and jacket, grabbed a shovel, and headed out; he was back within minutes, having successfully and manfully extricated the damsels in distress from their snowy metaphor.
~ Less than an hour later, the bell rang again. This time, a young couple were stuck in the snow in the middle of the street, and once again, Dr. T braved the elements and helped them out. This particular operation took a little longer, so the wife took refuge in our house, where we chatted for the half hour or so that it took the men to solve the problem.
~ Apparently in an attempt to add to my bemusement, the young woman told me all about her coming to Canada from Bangladesh to marry the young man based on the recommendation of her sister’s husband, who had met him once and thought he was suitable. A year and a half later, she, a physiotherapist, and her husband, an engineer, were both working at a restaurant to support themselves while they went back to school to take courses to become, respectively, a physiotherapist and an engineer.
~ We took the fact that two sets of complete strangers had now called on us to help them navigate our snowy street as a sign that our plans to drive the kids to the babysitter’s and then head out to a much-anticipated party were perhaps less than realistic. I called our erstwhile hostess and regretfully sent our regrets, he called the babysitter and did the same, then we settled in with our supper (made by me) and a nice bottle of red, and enjoyed family time (including the final scenes of the Indiana Jones flick) instead.
On the other hand, the soft, buttery dinner rolls were made by my son, so I guess that balances everything out, right?

Once upon a time, you had to be nice to Ma Bell, because she was the only game in town. The national phone company had a coast-to-coast monopoly, and you paid the going rate for basic service (which was all there was). If you had a falling out with the Bell behemoth, you were screwed – Bell didn’t care if they “lost” your business, because there were several million other people who obediently paid their bills on time, every time. (Aside: this monopoly was the incentive for several of my friends to live under one or more assumed names when we were living our salad days in university.)
But lo, there was a revolution, and Ma Bell had no choice to become competitive, and actually work to keep you. Gone were the days of taking customers for granted; these days, the old girl has to seduce you with sexy lingerie and phone/cel/video/internet packages. So, good, the customer wins, obviously. All these companies are working the bottom line to keep us coming back for more, lest we hook up with some one else, some one younger and cheaper. Right?
So why, in the fine print under the big Bell ad for home service for $14.95 a month, does it turn out we’re getting screwed to the tune of $2.80 for touch tone service? Touch tone!
I’m sorry, but given that my kids – and probably my college students – have never used a rotary dial, why are we paying over $33 a year for touch tone service? Does non-touch tone service even exist anymore?
Oh, and we’re paying 19 cents a month for 911 service, but I’m going to give that one the benefit of the doubt and assume that this money covers actual service, i.e., people answering emergency calls, updated equipment, and the like.
Grumble.

And so begins yet another “so sorry I haven’t posted for so long” post. Personally, I blame Facebook (along with work and children and the need for sleep). Once upon a time, when random thoughts crossed my mind, I would inflict them on you, dear reader. Now, I update my Facebook status, instead.
For instance, rather than posting a few paragraphs today on just how weird it is that the whole continent sits around on February 2nd waiting for a rodent, I simply updated my status to “Maggie hasn’t seen her shadow, but she’s pretty sure it’s around here somewhere.”
simple.
tidy.
Also, it’s always interesting to write about oneself in the third person.
Anyway, to make a long story bulleted, this is what’s been going on, other than Facebook:
~ my three evening courses turned into three day courses, which is awesome;
~ because I have day courses instead of evening courses, my semester started a week earlier than anticipated, which is less awesome;
~ because I have day courses instead of evening courses, I get to eat supper at home with my family, and Dr. T. can continue his long journey to Carnegie Hall*;
~ I’m teaching an ‘advanced’ Intro course, which is awesome;
~ my picture** was in the paper, along with several direct quotes, none of which were completely out of context; again, awesome;
~ my car, the one that was, let’s face it, the deal of the century (and not just because we’re only a few years into the century), went to the big garage in the sky; anti-awesome.
Other than that, life around here these days is pretty much good – everyone (except the car) is healthy, I still love my job (particularly now that the initial panic of starting early has passed), and it’s February – groundhogs and stupid icy windy snowy weather notwithstanding, winter is zipping by.
I’m sure I’ll find something to rant about one of these days – after all, essay season’s looming.
*more on the Carnegie Hall thing another time, I promise
**unfortunately, the on-line version of the story does not feature the photo. But you should read it anyway.

So, this is 2008. Which begs the question, what the heck happened to 2007?
The past year has been a good one for me, and this is no doubt why it flew by. The following may be an exercise in cliche and/or narcissism, but hey, no one’s holding a gun to your head (I hope). Read on at your own discretion.

Continue reading “Reflections and Predictions”

…or that time-turner thing Hermione wears that allows her to be in three places at once.
I have finished grading!
*and there was much rejoicing*
I still have a handful of essays to comment on for a few students that are still interested in my feedback, but the marks are done, and the commenting can wait until after the holidays. The distance-learning interview was Tuesday morning, and went very well, but since I won’t hear anything about it until mid-January, I can put that item away for the moment, too.
I still have my own final papers to write for the MEd course, and I have officially been given a full load for the winter semester, which means revamping my course plans and course texts for three courses, but I’m feeling a lot more relaxed about this stuff since my grades are done.
The kids are home as of noon today, and Dr. T. is off from today until the 7th, so we have a good long family time ahead of us; we have two final shopping stops to make, and lots of wrapping to do, not to mention baking and cooking for the feast, but again, all good business*. We even survived the “Mum, I need cookies for tomorrow‘s class party” scenario.
So, perhaps not the peace that passes understanding, but at least we’re no longer in total panic mode. Happy holidays everyone!

*the shopping is only good business in the sense that we’re heading out as soon as the stores open this morning, which means even with ridiculous lines and crowds, we’ll be home by noon and the whole damn thing will be behind us for another year.

Classes are over, which means I’ve entered the pyjama phase of the semester, characterized by towering stacks of essays and test booklets, red-ink-stained fingers, neck cramps, and frequent disbelieving glances at the calendar (December 14th? Really?!?). The silver lining is that, as the name implies, the pyjama phase is also characterized by not having to leave the house at all, which manifests itself as not getting dressed until about five minutes before the kids get home from school.
The pyjama phase is also, I think, the part of my job that is overlooked when people (not you, obviously) make statements to the effect that teachers are spoiled, what with the great hours and ultra-long vacations. Yes, it’s true that I’m not teaching now – but does that mean I can now relax, play in the snow with my kids, get all the holiday baking done, and finish my Christmas shopping? Ha.
Before I can get to any of that, I have to correct:
~ approximately 100 final essays
~ 25 grammar tests
~ 150 journal entries
~ 100 self-evaluations
~ 10 web pages
~ several rewritten essays from earlier in the semester
~ other stuff I have no doubt conveniently forgotten
Oh, and I have to write two final project papers for the MEd course I’m taking. Also, I have an interview with a committee that wants to put together an on-line genre course.
In May, when we get to the pyjama phase of the winter semester, things are pretty relaxed despite the mountains of corrections, because at least that’s all there is. In December, however, there’s the whole holiday thing. I have no decorations up. No presents bought. No cookies baked. What I do have is somewhere to be just about every night – last night and the night before it was Robert’s Nutcracker performance, tonight it’s Aurora’s Cheeseball, tomorrow it’s Susana’s Swedish sing-a-long, Sunday it’s the Montreal Welsh Male Choir, for which I’m taking photos, etc., etc. I think the only night we’re not going somewhere is next Friday, when Terence, Irene, Dave and Kate are coming here. Aurora’s right – teachers need an extension for all the Christmas stuff.
Having said all that, let me say this, too: I love it. I love that I had a full teaching load this semester, with very few dropouts, which is why the piles are so towering; I love that the piles will take time because so many of my students asked for my feedback; I love that the MEd courses provide such opportunity for exploration and learning; I love that we are so active and have so many friends that we have invitations to juggle.
And the pyjamas. I love that, too.

We awoke this morning to a veritable winter wonderland, made all the more wonderful by the announcement that all schools in our area were closed. Unfortunately, this edict did not extend to colleges, but betting on the improbability of any of my students braving the blizzard just for a few more pearls of wisdom, I canceled my classes. It’s week 15 – twist my arm.
The one apparent downside to this unexpectedly leisurely morning was that the paper was not on the porch – which, let’s be fair, was not a big surprise. To our delivery person’s credit, the paper was only about an hour late, which I’m sure was not the case for many subscribers this blustery morning.
So I poured myself a cup of coffee and went back to bed, not with the usual reams of newsprint, but with the sexy new laptop (really, any excuse to get it into bed ~ it’s just that sexy) and downloaded the digital edition of The Gazette. In the past I have avoided this because at heart I am a traditionalist – are you really ‘reading’ the paper if it’s not strewn across the bed, falling onto the floor, suffocating your sleeping spouse, and generally being awkward?
As it turns out, yes.
So as soon as the sales office opened, I called in, canceled my print subscription, and subscribed to the digital edition. Think of me the next time you’re admiring a tree – I saved it.
And in other news…
Not surprisingly, Heidi has gone into winter mode, which consists mainly of sleeping, punctuated by the occasional 4 a.m. yowl, and increasingly intermittent trips to the front/back door to see if winter’s over yet. New this year, however, are the two top choices for sleeping – under the bed and under the bathtub. How is this news, you wonder (particularly if you’re not a cat person)?
Heidi snores.
Now, granted, according to the experts, when your cat snores it’s a sign that the cat trusts you. Well, apparently Heidi thinks of us as the Swiss bankers of the cat world, because she snores louder than any of the humans on the premises.
Which can be disorienting, when the snores are coming from under the tub.
Even more so when you walk into your bedroom and find your sleeping spouse* is apparently a somno-ventriloquist.
*Dr. T really does do more than sleep, these two anecdotes notwithstanding.