Boxing Day Brunch

It seems all we do at the holidays is eat. Usually on the 27th we do a big family brunch with a Brie wheel and stollen and smoked salmon and whatnot. We used to do it on Boxing Day, but, frankly, quickly discovered that we simply could not take a lot of food that soon after the Christmas nosh. This year the 27th Brunch is not to be, since we must spend the day in an airplane, but the DH made a lovely breakfast for the three of us this morning -- Grand Marnier crepes and bacon, with sparkling methode-champagnoise wine and orange juice (in the UK they used to call this Bucks Fizz, I recall). He's an excellent wife, my husband!

Ungggghhh (read: Merry Christmas)

Five-thirty. The DD woke us up at 5:30. I tried to plead that I was a coma victim, but eventually got dragged downstairs. On the bright side, we were done unwrapping by 7:20. It wasn't even dawn yet. The child is still spinning; as I clutch my mug of tea, I am waiting for her to drop. I myself am barely sentient, having already been awake in the middle of the night for an hour (which I spent watching bits of Underworld: Evolution). Then went back to sleep and dreamt a complicated dream about vampire overlords and archaeology. Very Christmassy. Though, sadly, no Marcus in the dream. Of course, being visited by a vampire would have explained my undead state this morning.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night...tonight!

Current reading: Sue Townsend's Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction (2004)

Reveillon

That's French for Christmas Eve. So, despite nary a Quebecois drop of blood in my veins (we are of solid Anglo-Scots-Welsh-diluted-Irish-Dutch stock), I am making my traditional tourtiere for Christmas Eve dinner. (I ditched it for the party as yet one more thing I might mess up on the night. Less is, after all, more.) I use the Canadian Living Christmas book recipe and it's the best tourtiere I've ever had. Even I can't screw it up, though I have taken a devil-may-care attitude with the cloves and cinnamon over the years and added more to suit our tastes. This year, on the heels of my Martha-like party success, I am going all nouvelle cuisine and experimenting by tossing in a few cranberries. If it fails, I reckon folks can pick them out of the pie. If it succeeds, my daughter will have nostalgic memories of "Mum's unique tortiere".

Given our Scots ethnic heritage, I still wish we could incorporate some Scottish traditions into our New Year -- apart from the obvious one of getting completely legless on alcohol, that is. I am unlikely to be able to foist haggis on my loved ones and bonfires in Regina probably get you a citation from the fire department as a nuisance. We'll probably have to make do with pulling out the good whiskey and scarfing down a few glasses. Mel Gibson's so unfashionable this year I doubt we'll want to watch Braveheart, though it could do with a second viewing as my mother talked all through it last time we watched it, asking questions like: "Who are the guys with the blue faces?" and "Now, why exactly doesn't Mel like the English?" A. Probably Picts. B. They're whingeing Pommy bastards.

The DD is a spinning top of excitement. I fear this may be the last, or next-to-last, year in which the magic of Santa is entirely real for her. Already she has begun to ask pointed questions about time zones and how they affect Santa's arrival time. She has already figured out the shopping mall Santa conspiracy. The other day she asked me if I believed in Santa. I cunningly replied, "Do you?" I was greeted with a resounding, "Yes!" to which the only response was, "So do I."

We are skiving off Christmas Eve service for probably the first, last and only time. I said to the DD, "That means I will definitely be reading the Christmas story to you tonight before bed." This is where my world fell apart. "What Christmas story?" she said brightly. "'Twas the Night Before Christmas?" I hung my head in my hands and said to my husband, "All those years of churchgoing undone by one and a half years away -- we have raised a heathen!" I pointed to the creche figures she had lovingly arranged just days ago. (Admittedly, it's a little peculiar as we have two sets, resulting in five wise men and a spare holy family... And, no, we probably don't help by referring to it as Jesus and his brother Bob -- with reference to the Arrogant Worms' classic song "Jesus' Brother Bob".)

"Remember them?" I said, pointing helpfully at the creche.

"Oh, yeah, the wise men." (At least she didn't say the wise guys.)

"And the baby?"

"Jesus."

"The son ooooooof...?"

I was praying she didn't say Joseph, but fortunately she piped up, "God!" Whew. We're safe at home plate. For now...

I pulled out my great-grandmother's bible, given her Christmas day 1940. We have many bibles around our house, but this one was closest to hand. I felt a very real frisson of guilt. If Nan G. could hear our conversation she'd be turning over in her grave. She was a tireless member of the Canadian Bible Society. I proceeded to read the DD the story from both Matthew and Luke. She listened attentively, pausing only to add, "Like in The Little Drummer Boy!" and to remind me that they also use the word "tidings" in the Christmas carol "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen" ("tidings of comfort and joy"). OK, close enough. She's not a hopeless case, but more than tourtiere is going to be needed this Christmas Eve to keep Christmas Day from being about "tidings of comfort and toys".

To Martha I Say "Pfffft"!

Move over, Martha -- I am the hostess with the mostest!

The party was faaabulous, dahrlings....The tree was gorgeous, the food was gobbled up, people liked my lemon bread... Everything went off well. Even the 20-somethings whom I thought would be too hip to stay long amongst the baby-boomers stayed for ages. (One of my favourite moments was when one of them said, "Is this Radiohead? You listen to Radiohead?" I'm 44, but I'm not dead, I thought. "Yes, I do," said I, adding, "Not bad for someone 150 years old!") I didn't get to bed until well after 2 am. I even managed to keep the cats off the dining room table. Which is a good thing, because it would have been a one way ticket to Vet City for them on the Euthanasia Special if they had managed to disgrace themselves like that. (It was hard though -- I could see their little snouts sniffing longingly from the floor. They can sense cheese.)

I had a new wine-red table runner on the sideboard, on which I placed lit candles and martini glasses containing colourfully wrapped chocolates. The table had a red tablecloth and small silver snowflakes strewn around the plates of nibblies -- and more candles. In the living room, folks sat around the red and gold Christmas tree, surrounded by more martini glasses filled with chocolates, while they sipped red wine. It was just what I had hoped for. All that hard work paid off.

Today is for wrapping presents, maybe picking up a few more things, and going to a matinee of Happy Feet with the DD and the DH. I am heaving a warm, happy sigh.

Clean & Clean & Shop & Shop

Just got back from the grocery store where I was buying goodies for our party tomorrow night. (You didn't think I was doing all this cleaning for nothing, did you?) The car was full and creaking with ingredients for making tourtiere, which I make every Christmas Eve, but will also serve at the party this year; cupcakes and cookies (I've got enough to do without baking a lot as well); lemons, oranges, and pomegranates; six or seven kinds of cheese (mmm... Wensleydale with apricots and Stilton with cranberries...); egg nog; chocolates; smoked salmon; nuts; Stollen....I even got some glittery branches, an idea for which is percolating in the portion of my brain marked "hopeless design ambitions".

I'm leaving the kitchen and baking lemon loaf and tortiere until tomorrow, so this evening is devoted to cleaning up the dining room and pulling out the decorations. I hope we'll get the tree decorated tonight, because tomorrow will be awfully busy.

Current music: Level 42's Running in the Family ("The Sleepwalkers")
Current reading: Sue Townsend's Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years (1999)

To the Tune of Jingle Bells

Clean, clean, clean
Clean, clean, clean --
Cleaning all the day --
Oh, what fun it is to find
The stuff I lost last May!
Oh!
Clean, clean, clean
Clean, clean, clean --
Who knew I'd so much sh*t?
I could have so much more room
If I'd get rid of it...
Scrubbing up a storm,
Making toilets bright,
Making up a list,
And shopping 'til I cry...
Having Christmas cheer
Isn't such a task.
All you need is chocolate
And brandy in a flask --
Oh!
Clean, clean, clean
Clean, clean, clean --
People coming over
If I'm still alive by then...

It'll be a bloody miracle.

Current music: John Coltrane's Live from the Village Vanguard ("Spiritual")

Weekly Weigh-in

Weekly weigh-in: 158.5

Yay! Back down below 160, which is my new "evil" number. This new weight is not a product of exercise (unless housework counts), but rather the fact that there is nothing in Mother Hubbard's cupboard these days. I really need to buy food.

The study and bedroom are sparkly and tidy now. I excavated a library table in the bedroom that I hadn't seen in months. After cleaning out the dust-wombats from beneath the bed, I discovered sandals and the DD's "diamond" ring. Not a real one, sadly. We have decided to take the Nordictrack, bought in 1995 and used very little and either stow it in the basement or sell it. We just don't have room for it. It has remained in our bedroom as a failed attempt to "remind" us to use it. Unfortunately, if you wear a red string on your finger to remind you of something for long enough, eventually you will no longer notice the red string. Nordictracks are quite good for drying damp clothes, however.

Our house has no shower upstairs, only a tub, and while we have renovated the basement bathroom (put in a new shower, drywalled, put beadboard up to chair-rail height, repainted, retiled the floor -- it looks great), the upstairs bathroom looks dreadfully worn out. The tub was badly enamelled by a former occupant and both peels and stains badly. The wallpaper by the tub is peeling -- a process that has been helped by my daughter attempting to reset the decorating agenda. I am going to attempt to glue the wallpaper back down, but the tub is a disaster. Last night I got one of my bright (read: asinine) ideas, and filled the tub, then added most of a bottle of bleach. Proceeded to let it soak all night. Presto, one partially yellow tub, right up to the waterline. Eck. I am going to get busy with a can of Comet later and see what further damage I can do. With any luck, any guests who use the upstairs bathroom will be too drunk to notice.

Still At It

I am spending the day cleaning out my study/office. My word, I have a lot of crap in there. Piles of books (mostly Swedish language texts and travel books) are migrating to the basement. Magazine clippings and extra copies of assignments and exams are migrating into a big green garbage bag. I have trouble throwing out letters and cards, but I went through a few and tossed less sentimental ones. (Kept all the soppy anniversaryand birthday cards from my husband, and all the cards from the DD, of course.) Now comes the other awful task: what to do with the things I am keeping? I know, if I don't know where to put it, then it doesn't get used in daily life; therefore, I should toss it. But I tossed a huge bagful of stuff already! I'm a recovering pack rat. I can only deal with my compulsion to keep things in stages... Heck, I even threw out my Master and Commander poster of Russell Crowe! Russell, alas, has been replaced long since by another imaginary admirer. (Notice I said admirer, not love object -- essential to my egotistical imagination is that they adore me.) But I digress... Back to shovelling shit out of my study.

Casino Royale

Casino Royale was a blast. And I mean that sincerely. I have thought for quite a long time that Daniel Craig is a wonderful actor, so I was very pleased to hear he'd become the new James Bond. The DH is a big Bond fan, and I suppose I am too -- though Sir Sean will always be the ne plus ultra in the Bond franchise. That said, Daniel Craig is giving him a run for his money.

The film is gritty and action-packed -- none of this skidooing down snow-slopes and Roger Moore ponce-ishness. I reeled at the stunts and things going boom in the opening sequence alone. This Bond is determined to blow up, destroy, smash and obliterate practically every building he comes in contact with. No wonder they thanked the construction crews so profusely in the credits. No wonder M isn't sure whether to promote him or lock him up. But he looks like a fellow to get the job done. This is the first Bond in a long while who looks like he won't actually need all the cool spy gizmos. But I bet he'll cost MI-6 a fortune in damages.

The DH and I had a good giggle when this Bond drove up to a hotel in a Ford. Even I, who am less canny about Bond details, gasped, "WTF is he doing in a Ford?????" Clever segue later to the '64 Aston Martin signature wheels. Plus, Craig is the only guy I've ever seen wear one of those dorky short sleeved dress shirts and not look like a ... well, a dork. Fabulous piercing blue eyes don't hurt either. Anyway, all in all a very promising start to the re-visioning of the Bond franchise.

Cinderelly Stewart

The house needs cleaning desperately. I am an all or nothing housecleaner. Either I do it in a big way or not at all. Usually the latter. I would love to be organised and tidy, but that just isn't going to ever happen for me. I long for a bigger house, because then I would have a room devoted to "shit I don't know what to do with".

So I started my week of cleaning woe with sweeping and washing the stairs. They need repainting and refinishing so they still look like hell, but at least they're clean. Given that one of our cats has a remarkable tendency to freak out and run away from his own puke, and then keep puking, only to repeat the process half way up the stairs, I felt a particular desire to do this. He's not very bright. Cute, but not bright. Kind of like me. Though I hasten to point out I'm really kind of lacking in the fur department.

I am the slob-child of a nurse. I don't know what kind of slides or films about germs they showed those chicks in the '50s, but they certainly scared the crap out of them. My mother-in-law and my mother both trained at the Victoria General in Halifax (universally known as the "VG") in the '50s and both of them are germaphobe cleanaholics. My mother-in-law once gassed herself trying to make the bleach she was washing her walls with more "effective". I'm just guessing here, but perhaps chemistry class wasn't a requirement... My own mother keeps her house so spotless you could do surgery on her floors. This is, needless to say, unnatural. It created an environment in which I was neither trained to clean (since I didn't do as good a job as she did) nor were my efforts appreciated (so I gave up). Unless it involved Dettol or equivalent, it was "filthy". I might add that both mothers were stay-at-home mums in the '60s and '70s, both decades which were fairly dedicated to the notion of the Spic 'n' Span housewife image. Nevertheless, it did nothing to convert me and I can always think of several million things I would rather do than houseclean. The only time I want to clean -- and this is pertinent and telling, it seems to me -- is when I'm feeling hyper and freaked out about something. Most of the time, I'm building my daughter's immune system. That's my theory and I'm sticking to it.

None the less, one of the things that does make me want to clean is watching my house devolve slowly over the semester -- at a particularly frightening speed as the last weeks close in. My home becomes The House of Entropy. The downside is that I start to have visions of looking through interior design magazines with bylines like "Christmas Dazzle -- Make Your House Festive for the Holidays" and "Last-Minute Decor Glitz". They have articles on 50 ways to decorate fashionably with cranberries, or how to make chocolate fondue, all accompanied by photo shoots of impossibly beautiful fruit in elegant dishes I don't own. I don't have a beautiful glass bowl in which to display shiny tree ornaments. I don't have a glue gun. Nope, no crunchy cellophane. Pillar candles? Zip. Even if I had wire baskets, I don't think I have the manual dexterity to make a tiered fruit arrangement for the dining room table.

I had a brief moment of Martha-like insanity last winter when I bought a variety of faux cranberry/holly thingies at a craft store. They were intended to make (can you hear the magazine talking here?) an interesting winter window-box display. I forgot, however, that in Saskatchewan, unless you divest your window-box of all plants in, say, August, you are pretty much guaranteed to find your window-box is filled with a mass of enough solid frozen earth to clog-dance on. Here, an "interesting winter window-box display" is a pile of snow behind which a house is barely visible for several months. Maybe I can resurrect them and make them into something creative and Martha-ish for my dining room? With crunchy cellophane and attractive, treasured objets from around my house? (Insert laughter bordering on hysteria.) Why I'm sure I can stick my head on a pike to make an attractive fruit arrangement! And then glue gun my intestines to the wall for an interesting post-modern twist on traditional garland!!!! Mwa ha ha ha ha ha... "It's alive! It's ali-i-ive!"

Whew. I think I'm going to have to consider upping the old medication...

Current music: Mozart's overture from The Marriage of Figaro

Recovering

Head's fine today, but my back is still killing me. Despite my intentions to go to church this Sunday -- no, not because I did something in my drunken state that was sending me off to take communion in a state of angst, I'm a boring drunk, I just laugh a lot -- my back is still so sore that I think I will be in a Robaxacet haze most of the day. So much for going for a run too.

In a way, I enjoyed yesterday. Yes, I was tired and desperately hungover, but that pretty much dictated that I just spend the day in bed sleeping and reading Fitzgerald, so it was as good an end of semester as I could imagine.

Eight Glasses a-Clinking

Today has been quiet. Very quiet. In fact I slept most of the day.

Because last night we were at a Christmas party. And I had five glasses of red wine,two of white wine, half a Jack Daniels & Coke.... and a partridge in a pear tree. Well, not the last one really. There are no pear trees in Saskatchewan. And the partridges are all dead on the side of the highway.

The snow is deep and mucky, thanks to a few warmer days. My shoulder and neck are very painful from having to get out periodically last night and push the car out of the snow on our unploughed city streets. That, I would say, is a quintessential Canadian experience. Meet your neighbours, bond with strangers, 1-2-3 Push!

Done Like Dinner (or is that Donne Like Dinner?)

Woo hoo! Yay! Hurrah! Yippee! Couch-jumping, cartwheels, and congo lines! I have finally handed in all my grades! Zippity-doo-dah!

Christmas may now commence. Cleaning the house may commence. But first, a nap.

Current music: C.W. Gluck's ballet pantomime Semiramis (1765). Surprisingly calm music, given ol' Semi is dreaming about the husband she assassinated coming back for revenge. Whatever works...

If You See A Deleted Comment....

By the way, I've been plagued recently by some cybercreature from the black lagoon who keeps adding comments about ways to make more money, some sort of cyberbot advertising nonsense. I delete the comments immediately, because not only are they rudely annoying, they are (the greater evil) BORING as shit. However, I wouldn't want to give the impression that I am blithely clicking away and deleting anyone who comments on my blog by saying, "Dear Bluenosegirl, I couldn't help noticing that you are full of shit and deeply solipsistic...", or "I find your puerile attempts at literary criticism and general commentary both ineffectual and mind-numbing. Please desist as you are giving me a brain tumour", etc. So, deleted posts are merely the nasty little burrs and ticks of the cyberworld. Click.

Un Certain Age

"Une femme d'un certain age". Loosely translated this means: old enough to get passed over in favour of the young girls, young enough to still get pissed off about it...

When I look in the mirror these past weeks, the wreck of the Hesperus looks back at me. My skin is pale and blotchy, my eyes tired, my expression sags (like lots of other bits of me). There isn't enough foundation in the world to hide my bad skin. My hands are drying up from constantly being in contact with paper, with hangnails aplenty to go with it.

Whatever muscle I've gained these past six months from running is depleting rapidly in the face of sitting most of the day grading exams. (I will run tomorrow, though I did nothing today, and only some yoga stretches yesterday...)

They don't really pay me enough to feel this crappy every four months. It's at this time of year I always ask my husband, "Should I just quit?" He says, "You always say that in December and April. You love being in the classroom." I should get that tattooed somewhere: "I love being in the classroom." Maybe in Latin. Somewhere it won't sag.

Current music: Canadiana: Maritime Celtic Traditions ("She's Like the Swallow")

Weekly weigh-in

Weekly weigh-in: 160.5

Marking and stress and PMS do some ugly things to a girl...Better luck next week. I think I've put on about 4 pounds in the last few weeks.
The Diva is having her school Christmas concert tonight. She's overtired, getting over a cold and grumpy as hell. They'd better be singing "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer", their big hit from last year...

Current music: Robbie Williams' Greatest Hits ("Feel")

Update: 11 pm. My wee darling was wonderful, standing up there in the bleachers with her classmates. They sang "Silver and Gold", and I couldn't have enjoyed it more if Burl Ives himself sang it. I beam and clap. My little diva kicks ass! Christ, this is how those obnoxious stage mothers get started, isn't it?

A Partay again

Tonight we were at our neighbours the doctors' for a little holiday soiree. They are lovely people with fantastic children (mostly grown now). Huge house. Two dogs. I know their life isn't perfect, but I admit to envying them. Especially the day I was in their beautifully appointed home and C. mentioned her "interior designer". Insert weeping smiley here. My own house is done in Early Modern 7-year-old. I am going for that fresh, modern, "happening" look -- like something just exploded in my house... so much for interior design...

I could swear I bought a coffee table last summer. It's under there somewhere. I don't know whether to hire a cleaning person or an archaeologist. And sadly, I can't blame it all on the all the DD. The books and paper that encroach in every room like an underground resistance movement are mine. I am hopelessly forgetful and often put things down in the wrong spot. Or try to do two things at once, meaning I shove something in a closet with one free hand while I carry something else to another place in the other. I always think I should have a St Bernard with a flask with me when I pull anything out of the linen closet lest I should end up buried under the avalanche of towels and sheets. Said items are a strange compulsion of mine which I keep under control with difficulty. Some women buy shoes -- I would buy endless sheets and towels. Don't ask. I think it's genetic. My mother has the same compulsion.

Anyway, after an evening with Dr & Dr Perfect (who are the sweetest people alive) in their perfect home with their perfect teenage son and their perfect stockbroker/doctor/political bigwig friends, I am feeling less than perfect. Sigh. And thanks to exam brain drain, every time I opened up my mouth to speak, I couldn't say my words clearly, practically stammered. The perfect thin stockbroker/mother of two I was attempting to converse with looked at me as I babbled and I'm sure she was thinking, "Who is this stammering twit?" My brain and my mouth refused to get into gear. So I excused myself and headed for the food -- headed to the cheese tray like it was a homing beacon and practically crawled under the table to sit with one of their dogs. Really, I would be quite happy at any party with a glass of wine, a dog to talk to, and a plate of cheese. No stammering, no crashingly stupid attempts at making small talk. I might even enjoy myself. The DH was in a corner with the politicos, the king of schmooze in his element.

News from the Home Front

My mother just phoned to inform me that, when my father was having the tumour in his bronchial tube removed last week, they found another on the outside of the tube about which they can do very little. Because of its fragile location, it cannot be removed. They will treat both sites with radiation sometime after Christmas, but no longer are using the word "cure" in discussions with my parents. Both of my parents have been on an emotional roller coaster these past few weeks, and now have gone from a sense of optimism post-surgery to being very shaken up by this new news. Especially since in the fall he had a battery of tests and everything looked good. However, because my father's cancer began in his colon nine years ago, it is more slow-growing than many lung cancers, so this is in his favour.

I feel less shocked by this than I might have thought I'd be. We'll know more later in the week when they speak with another oncologist. Any tears that come to my eyes feel more as thought they are for the thought of my father facing his own mortality and regrets than for myself.

Run Run Run Run Away

Just got back from the track -- I ran 2.19 miles doing 10 and 1 and didn't kill myself. Yippee! That's almost a quarter mile more than usual!!!! I'm feeling quite pleased. It might make me less cranky while I mark exams this afternoon... I'm trying to get back into doing some exercise after weeks of relative inactivity.

Current music: Oleta Adams' Evolution ("My Heart Won't Lie")

Thanks for Playing...Now, Why are You Here?

Yesterday I gave my last exam and ended up turning away two students who hadn't handed in their final essays. A requirement of the course, since it's a first-year one, is that all the work must be completed. The looks on their faces... I felt completely gutted doing it, of course, but I didn't let them know that. I reckon in first year there are valuable life lessons to be learned, like, "get your shit together or accept the consequences". Could they get a doctor's note, I asked? No. Why didn't they get it done? (I'm searching here, I'm trying to find a reason not to fail you ...). "I just didn't do it." Well, he got points for honesty. The girl said, "I've been having problems for the past two months." Sorry, I think to myself, we all do, sweetie. Ask me about my dad having cancer and my dying cat and my mounting debt and my husband's stressful job and my workload and my hole of a house and parental angst and ... (or, of course, you can just fuck off and tell someone who cares...). Then she, who has missed most of the course, asks, "Can I have a copy of the exam anyway?" Uh, no, it's not available for light reading. Am I bitch for doing this? Probably. Did I enjoy it? No. Did I feel I had to? Absolutely. One-third of the students in your average first year course will not go on to complete their degree. Let's cut out the middle-man. Do not waste the university's time and your money (though most universities will gladly rob you of your hard-earned cash if you are so inclined) until you figure out why you are here.

Most kids are on a middle-class treadmill. Mummy and Daddy send them off to university without a thought that other options might make them happier. We live in a society where the only really valued jobs are ones that involve either making a lot of money or pushing a pencil/using a computer etc. I personally could not survive without people who collect my garbage, clean my street, fix my toilet, wire my house, cut and dye my hair, etc. I couldn't begin to do what they do. Because I am a useless university lecturer. There was a reason why during most revolutions they shot us first! We have no life skills! (My husband is overeducated too, but he at least can build furniture. I have trouble making rice for dinner.)

Yes, I will probably encourage my daughter to give university a try (one year mandatory). But if she turns to me and says, "Mum, I really want to be a hairdresser/arc welder/circus animal poop cleaner-upper, " I will say, "Be the best damned hairdresser/arc welder/circus animal poop cleaner-upper the world has ever seen and be happy doing it!"

Current reading: F. Scott Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night (1933).

Faulkner and Fitzgerald

Yes, I'm into the "F"'s on my personal reading list now. Just finished As I Lay Dying this morning, and started The Great Gatsby, both of which I've read before, but not for a few years.

I have had a strange relationship with this Faulkner novel, or perhaps Faulkner in general. My first encounter with As I Lay Dying was in a first year modern literature class at the University of Toronto in the early '80s. At the time I don't think I was a terribly patient or forgiving reader, so I felt virtually nothing but contempt for this alien, strangely-constructed book about a family carting a corpse around. The southern world it presented was completely foreign to me. I mean, if I wanted to read about these type of folks, there was always Li'l Abner, for fuck's sake. Then our professor asked us to write a passage in the style of one of the characters in the book. I simply rolled my eyes, thinking, "If I could write like William Faulkner I wouldn't be sitting in your class, Professor Chambers, now, would I?" I ended up writing a passage from Vardaman's point of view, and, looking back, I am fairly sure I missed the point of the exercise entirely. My apologies, Prof. Chambers (25 years later). It was a good exercise in learning about style, although imitation has its limits, admittedly.

Years pass. I am in J.M. Heath's Modern Fiction class in third year. We are supposed to read Go Down, Moses. I have been traumatised by Faulkner already, I reckon, and don't want to repeat the experience, so I skip that one (on a fairly lengthy syllabus, as I recall). I suppose I really ought to read Go Down, Moses someday. You can tell the guilt I feel by the fact that I remember it all these years later as a failing on my part. The only other set text at university that I didn't read at the time was Tom Jones, but I've made up for that a couple of times since. Still Faulkner remains, like a piece of grit, worrying away at me. A few more years pass. I am in England and decide to read The Soldier. It had one or two passages I liked, but didn't make much of an impression on me. My general feeling about Faulkner: nice tune, you can dance to it, but I wouldn't give it more than a 75, Dick.

Years pass. I am teaching here at the university and something is still bothering me about As I Lay Dying. I make the decision to teach it in my first year lit class, scratching my head as to my motivations as I do so. As I expect, it fries their brains a little (I can smell that scorched egg smell in my class periodically so I know it's working), but the experience of teaching the book is good for me. To teach something you must, in effect, become a kind of advocate for it. At the end of the semester I come away with a new, albeit awkward, respect for Mr Faulkner.

More years pass. I decide to read it again, just for the hell of it. And, you know, it's one hell of a book. I cringe as I read the passage about pouring cement on Cash's broken leg, I want to kill Anse Bundren for his ignorance and egotism, and ... I can almost smell Addie Bundren's rotten corpse on her journey to Jefferson. All in all, a strange journey. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't think I'm ever going to adore Faulkner the way I do some other writers, but I have patience on my side now and I'm glad I gave the book another chance.

Ironically, it was in Douglas Chambers' Introduction to Modern Literature class that I also read The Great Gatsby for the first time (along with Tender is the Night, Brideshead Revisited and Yeats and T.S. Eliot -- all of which I loved). I look forward to reading it again a quarter of a century later with whatever new insights age and time will bring.

Post Party Depression

We just returned from the Chaplain's Children's Christmas Party and the DD is having a major crying fit. I like to think of it as the children's version of a post-Christmas party hangover... I am marking exams. And drinking a lot of Diet Coke.

Managed a 2.11 mile run this morning -- and, man, are my thighs killing me. I don't think I've run for a couple of weeks now.

Current reading: F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby (1925)
Current music: Ralph Vaughan Williams' Orchestral Works ("Fantasia on Greensleeves")

Holly Cole - A Night Before Christmas

The DH and I went to see Holly Cole last night at the Casino. Wonderful show, though the audience seemed to take a while to warm up. She didn't appear to mind; she was just having a happy time up on stage with her fantastic musicians. I was thrilled to see Aaron Davis, her pianist, with her still. He was part of the Holly Cole Trio when she started out and is an exceptionally fine musician. We used to live on the same street as him in Toronto so I'd see him occasionally around the neighbourhood. Being me, I never said anything to him (that would be un-Canadian), but I thought he was brilliant.

The first (and last) time we saw Holly Cole perform was Valentine's Day, 1993. I was dating my husband's friend at the time, but the DH was there with us too. When I saw that Holly Cole was coming here, I told the DH we had to go: I wanted to go with him this time!

Great show. I totally want a shiny copper suit like she wore.

Houdini Cat Liberates Self!

My first marking free morning! I say that laughingly since it will all start up again tomorrow. I put the marks on the papers from last night only just now. I like to give myself overnight to see if any doubts about my marks percolate in my subconscious. Upstairs now to write the second exam.

Exercise plan: do some nice gentle forward bends to stretch my cramped up back. Hoping to run on Sunday.

We are going to see Holly Cole tonight, a Canadian jazz/pop singer. I last saw her years ago in Toronto -- with the DH, but ...with my boyfriend of the time!!!! LOL The DH and I weren't hooked up back then and I was dating a friend of his. Silly me! I really pushed for us to get tickets to see Holly Cole this time so I can say I went with him! It's a nice end-of-semester treat.

Stumpy Cat Update: Our cat houdini'd himself out of his splint yesterday! I don't know how he did it, but it may have been a surprise to him because he took off for the basement when it came off. (Maybe it was guilt!) I think the paw is OK, given he was going to get it taken off next week anyway. He's not walking quite normally yet, but that may have as much to do with walking awkwardly with a splint for five weeks as anything else. I'll keep an eye on him. I will kind of miss making fun of him: "Arrrr, Cap'n Pegleg -- did ye lose yer leg in the wars?"

Essays Done/Anchoress

Ha! Just finished marking the last of the pile of essays! Yahoo! I had hoped to watch Ken Loach's Sweet Sixteen tonight, but it is too late, and I'm bagged.

I did manage to get a walk in at the fitness centre today. I only managed 3 miles due to time constraints as I had a meeting to get to. Boy, are the old hip joints feeling it tonight.

I called my father this evening and was surprised to hear him answer the phone. His voice was slightly raspy, quite understandably since they'd been sticking things down his throat this morning, but he was in good spirits. He said he slept better last night before the surgery than he has in months, and had a good three-hour nap this afternoon. That tells me he's relieved to get something done. He has a battery of doctors' appointments over the next week, so I'll be waiting to hear when he's scheduled for radiation and chemo. I'm relieved too. Waiting is the hardest part in many ways.

This afternoon I treated myself between essays to a few minutes at a time of Chris Newby's 1993 black-and-white film, Anchoress, a feminist fable for the middle ages. A young girl decides to become an "anchoress", immured in an enclosed, small room off a chapel, when she has visions of the Virgin. Trouble arises when it becomes apparent that her mystical visions don't coincide with those of the established church, represented by Christopher Eccleston's smug, dogmatic priest. Her mother, played by Toyah Willcox, has no love for the church. She is practical and earthy, plucking chickens, making tonics for the locals and dispensing acid comments. At the beginning of the film one suspects Christine, the main character, wants to enclose herself in solitude to get away from her mother, but as time goes on we realise she has inherited her mother's tactile, earthy view of the world -- though it shows itself in her in a sensual delight in the simple beauties of the world. The scent of a loaf of bread or the music of birdsong brings her closer to the virgin than preaching and dogma. Why will she insist that in her visions the Virgin's robes are crimson red, when, as the priest argues, everyone knows they are sky blue? Her attempts at embroidery turn into a mockery of dry intellectualism (read: masculine) as she creates an image of the Virgin fondling herself in a way no church could advocate. The film is slow-moving, trying to convey the mystic beauty in simple objects -- newly threshed wheat, flowers floating in water -- even as it presents a vision of women in tune with mystical nature and men obsessed with dogma and confining authority. The self-indulgent camera work makes its point a little too lengthily, but the story raises some interesting ideas. However, you have to get over Natalie Morse, the lead actress, and her endless staring into space and wordless responses. My version was unrated, but it should say: "Caution: Patience Required".

Slothful

I'm going to haul my ass over to the fitness centre today and do a 4-mile walk, which should take me nearly an hour. I feel like a sludgy, bloated three-toed sloth with all this sitting and marking. We are eating badly every night (cheese fondue last night -- good, yet so bad) because I haven't had time to actually shop for real food. I will have to seriously get back on the diet and eat healthily next week. This week all I can do is try to get a little exercise.

My dad is having his surgery today. I'll phone this evening to see how it went.

Currently listening to: John Lennon's Working Class Hero: The Definitive Lennon ("Cold Turkey").

Weekly Weigh in (shut your eyes)

Weekly weigh-in: 161.5

We went out for an end-of-term meal last night and I gorged on Tortellini Alfredo. Waddled home and went to bed before 9:30. Not even a trip to the gym yesterday (close to 4 miles on a recumbant stationary bike) helped this one. I know these next couple of weeks while I'm sitting marking are not going to be good. I am going to do some sit ups today. I have to do something.

On another note, we have booked flights to visit my parents (at enormous cost), and my father sounded very pleased on the phone. I dread travelling at Christmas time, but I think he really needs me.

Currently listening to: The Bee Gees' Number Ones ("Lonely Days"). I have never figured out why I like them. Their voices should be really annoying, but I find them strangely compelling. :shrugs:

Church Defections

We went on Saturday to an open house at some friends' from the DH's work. Interestingly, I met there some folks we knew slightly from our old church, from which we defected in spring of '05 because it had become terribly conservative and disturbingly achtung. I thought it was that way for us because we were younger than the average demographic at our church and left-wing gay-lovin' pinko-commies. It turns out that a number of the more elderly parishioners have left as well -- for much the same reasons! I felt just a little bit more justified. It was good to hear someone else express disbelief at the amount of time spent fretting over the use of the BAS (Book of Alternative Services) versus the BCP (Book of Common Prayer). Ah, Anglicans, ya gotta love 'em -- God's frozen people... Apparently our former parish has very low attendance now, and is badly in debt. I wonder if that's an indication that folks are weary of the profoundly conservative hardline.

Also at the party was a good friend of ours who also teaches at the university, G., a well-known Canadian mystery writer, and her husband, as well as a number of other people (the folks from our former parish among them) from the downtown cathedral, and they have convinced me that we really would like it there -- where there is "more than a whiff of liberalism", as G put it laughingly. I took it as a sign that I really ought to get off my duff and make the move to another parish rather than remain churchless.

Can it really be Advent already? I am drowning in marking -- barely able to consider planning or decorating for Christmas. Christmas cards are staring at me accusingly, waiting to be written for two weeks now. On another note, today was the last day of classes !!!! Hurrah!!! I am still mired in marking, but I can now do it (for the most part) without going into the office -- that is, in my jammies all day if I want to!

Current Reading: William Faulkner's As I Lay Dying (1930).

Graham Greene

The End of the Affair is simply gutting me. I have not read a book that I found so emotional or heart-wrenching for a very long time. I think part of the reason why I'm finding it so affecting has to do with the fact that I am going through a period of spiritual questioning myself, so I find Sarah's search for faith all the more powerful. There's such a sense of honesty and truthfulness about the book -- even the sections which are Sarah's diary feel like they are written by a woman. I am two-thirds of the way through and I am fairly sure this will be one of those books I won't want to reach the end of.

Update on Dad

My father will be having laser surgery on his bronchial tube to remove a small tumour next week. In a way I was relieved to hear a diagnosis and a course of action -- that is always better than not knowing and waiting. This will be much less hard on him than the surgery he had last time which removed part of a lung. It's quite incredible to think this will be day-surgery. Inevitably there will be a course of radiation and chemo, and those are the parts of this that brought me to tears yesterday: the endless rounds of treatment, followed by all the awful symptoms which he now can anticipate from experience.

During and after his first round of cancer, my father was exceptionally good-spirited and optimistic. The second bout took away any hope that he would never have to deal with cancer again, and he never recovered the positive outlook that might have sustained him emotionally. He has suffered badly from depression ever since -- something he has always been prone to. No one who has not suffered from a life-threatening illness can begin to imagine the change in outlook that must come from the knowledge of one's own mortality. Even the simplest things are coloured by the understanding that one's time is limited. I have thought about this so much since C.'s death last month, and I can hear it in my father's voice when he tells me the latest news about his treatment, when he adds the phrase "if I survive this". I asked my parents how they were doing emotionally on the phone last night, but they were both on at the same time and I imagine neither would confess to the other at this stage that they weren't doing well.

I am left feeling saddened occasionally, numb and tired much of the time. I have a lot of work to do at this time of the year at the university -- piles of essays which demand my focussed attention. I don't think I can give them 100% of my concentration just now. We will undoubtedly be heading off to see them some time this month.