Wednesday, September 30, 2015


BB entered my name in a draw without telling me.  And I won.  If I could give the prize to BB I would, but it is non-transferrable.  Now I have a $2500 credit to attend an international conference and it needs to happen within this school year.  I am not only looking this gift horse in the mouth, I am counting its teeth.

I do not know where I want to go or what I want to learn.  Shouldn't we all have such terrible prolems.


Monday, September 28, 2015

when you want something and you don't want to pay for it

Adam says I am his spirit guide.  I do not want to be Adam's spirit guide, but perhaps one does not get to choose these things.   I wonder how people used to get in touch with their spirit guides before they could just send them text messages.  Adam wants to know if he should stand up for himself in Department meetings.  He wants to know if people like him.  He wants to know if he will have a job next year.

I want to know why he waxes his silly little moustache into points, but I don't care enough to ask him outright.  Instead I stare at it and try to imagine him using it like cats use their whiskers to determine the size of spaces through which they are small enough to crawl.

My advice to Adam is always to slow down and think about who he needs on his side.  My advice is to respect the crotchety old Department Head who does not, yet, respect him.  Earn your place, boy...  Wait.  Listen.  Learn.

I am a spirit guide.  Breathe in my wisdom.


Friday, September 18, 2015

current conditions

Now that we are done spending this month's mortgage payment on her, Ophelia seems like she is going to be fine after all.  I hope it isn't jinx-y to say so.  The ultrasound turned up nothing remarkable, and right after that she started eating again, satisfied, I suppose, that she has bled as much out of the stone as necessary to prove our love once again.  Facing the inevitability of her death (and everyone's) made it impossible for me to eat for awhile too.  But we have all returned, tentatively, to our dishes of kibble, hoping life will allow us to hang around a bit longer.


My principal asked me to take on a block of Counselling in my schedule this year, after years of claiming it could not be done, it was a bad idea, and so forth.  What changed?  Who knows.  My principal is a woman who is extraordinarily decisive and directive, and equally extraordinarily poor at communicating reasons and collaborating.  She told me I had until Friday (today) to make the decision. Yesterday, when I logged into the computer system to look at which class would be replaced by Counselling, I saw that she had already deleted the class from my schedule and replaced it with the Counselling block.  Asking is never really asking with this one.  Fortunately I had decided to take it, so there was no need for a confrontation.


RW tells me we are probably not going to Europe this year, and I was not really surprised by my own reaction.  Disappointment of course, but also relief.  There are difficulties associated with this tour, and I do not like leaving my husband with all the responsibilities that I must leave when I go.  Of course I love the trip (this year was supposed to be Portugal and Morocco) but the idea of having a couple of weeks at home during Spring Break is pretty wonderful too.


Richard Simmons is always in shorts and a tank top, no matter the season.  I wonder if he gets cold?


Sunday, September 13, 2015


The black ink spot that leaks cancer into the back of my brain is telling me Ophelia is going to die soon.  It has been about two weeks since she has eaten much of anything.  We have been to the vet three times and received a myriad of medications, none of which are doing any good.  She is fading.  It takes too long to get any answers.

We have an ultrasound scheduled for Wednesday, which seems like a year from now.  I want to let her go peacefully but the system makes us wait, triage, wait, rule it out, triage triage triage.


I took her to another vet this afternoon because I couldn't bear doing nothing, knowing these medications are doing nothing to help her.  Knowing she is hungry but cannot eat.  Knowing she is uncomfortable.  How could I do nothing.  How could I just wait and wait?  The vet still has her now.  He is giving her intravenous fluids and nutrition, and will take some X-Rays.  Another set of eyes on her, another round of opinions.  Maybe he can help.  Or at least make her more comfortable.  I just don't want her to suffer.


Thursday, September 03, 2015

last time

The dogs are on strike.  Well, the little ones.  The big boys are fine, the way they always are.  The two little ones are fasting to teach me a lesson.  I assume they are displeased about the disruptions to their normal schedule:  a giant loud party, Shawn out of town, me back to work, roofers crawling around on the shingles during the day….  But of course the dark ink spot on the back of my brain seeps thoughts about cancer and other diseases.  Emory has begun to eat a little bit, resentfully.  Ophelia is still fully on strike.  And of course I am worried about her the most.  She is happiest when I am worried about her and doting on her.


This afternoon is part 2 of my dental work, and I am anticipating another round of dizziness to follow my dentist's refusal to cooperate with my need to remain semi-upright.  Yesterday afternoon I went to meet a new dentist.  Once this work is complete I am switching.  

I like the new dentist.  She is young (my version of young has changed.  She is probably 40) and was wearing high heels, which I immediately called her out on.  Who does a standing-up job in high heels?  She said she's more comfortable in them, which makes her cuckoo, and I like that.  

However, I do not like her office.  In fact I hate it.  It is a renovated old house (which sounds good but it's not, because…); the chairs go around the perimeter of one large room, with small dividers between the chairs, and with a work station in the middle, like a beehive, where all the hygienists buzz in and out gathering honey and carrying it out on silver trays.  The clients can all see into each other's areas with any effort whatsoever. When I arrived at the office the first sight to greet me was a person wearing a plastic mouth stretcher thing that looked a little like a horse and bit.  I could see every single one of his teeth, and I did not want to.  I'm growing increasingly more anxious about dentists as I get older and more and more neurotic.  A computer screen sat visible by my dental chair where I could read all the client's names and conditions, and what type of insurance they had.  Uff.

It was noisy and fast-paced and buzzy, unlike my current dentist's office, which is sleepy and quiet.  But of course there's a reason his office is quiet and this one is busy.  And so I am switching in spite of the fact I hate this office, because the dentist assured me it was no problem to do dental work without tipping me upside down.  And this has come to mean more to me than anything else in this world.  I may become one of those people who has to take Ativan just to get my teeth cleaned.


Work starts in earnest on Tuesday, which is a very late start this year, about which I am grateful in spite of the fact that the Ministry has decided to punish us by adding 10 minutes a day to our work day.  It's worth it.  I would like to believe this year will be less painful than last, but it is unlikely.  Bill 11 looms over us, new battles, new assaults on professional autonomy.  I continue to regret allowing myself to get sucked into helping with union representation.