Kites

No, not the kind made from plastic, paper or cloth and wood with string that a person will spend ages putting together (unless it's store bought - then good luck getting it to do what you want) only to have trouble getting it launched into the air, eaten by a tree or hung up on telephone poles, light stands or anything else that makes them hard to recover.  I'm talking about the birds, though I suspect people got the idea of kites from watching birds.  Where I live, kites (the birds) are in abundance.  I was sitting having tea with my elderly neighbour and we watched the birds as they swooped and soared over the river, catching an air current to glide on, occasionally putting some effort in maintaining momentum.  This is not a bird I would see if I were at home.  The birds at home that move the same way are usually hawks or the occasional eagle.  Kites are a relative of those same predators, so it makes sense they would have the same sense of energy efficiency when it comes to hunting.
Which brings me to three other birds that seem to be common in pretty much every part of the world I've lived in - robins, crows and pigeons.  Robins I don't mind, they all sing the same song though they might look slightly different (some have red breasts, some don't), crows are crows.  They scavenge, caw, and are a noisy lot, will eat your veggies before you and are pretty much a nuisance, though at least they will eat roadkill and are garbage machines.  Pigeons I've never got.  They really don't serve any useful purpose that I can see, poop on everything, multiply like dust bunnies and are very hard to get rid of.  They're everywhere doing the same thing in pretty much every part of the world - except the extreme areas like the arctic and antarctic, and I'm sure if there was a way for them to adapt, they'd be there too.  I don't know who the bright bunny was that thought raising pigeons was a good plan, as obviously some got away and have since overpopulated the world.  I'm not sure they'd even be good for eating if anyone was despirate enough to want to eat one, but they are in plentiful supply.
Speaking of eating, I think I need to make some lunch.  NOT pigeon, but a nice roast beef sandwich would go down well right about now.  Hmmmm.  Back to the whole food thing again.

Food

"Food, Glorious food, wonderful food".  This comes from a musical that the elementary school I attended many, many, many years ago (well, it was a long time ago) put on.  It was a version of Hansel and Gretel.  So what made me think about it now?  Well, I confess, I was watching Julia & Julie and of course it's about food.  That, combined with the fact that I have to think up something for supper, got me thinking about food.  All of the really great conversations I have with friends and family revolve around food.  If we aren't eating, we're at least in the kitchen talking, and preparing something to eat.  Conversations with friends and family that aren't even near each other (I skype with my sister often as we are on different sides of the planet) somehow turn to food.  Before the winter break I had people I work with over, and I made dishes that my sons and I used to eat at that time of year.  I spent time explaining the dishes and why I made them.  It added a different flavour (so to speak) to the gathering and made it seem more 'homie' - not to be confused with the slang term. 
Growing up, the best memories I have are all connected to food and the kitchen.  We would spend days preparing for friends and family to come by Christmas eve and for breakfast and supper Christmas day.  When we were little, my sister and I were put to work doing simple things.  As we got older, we were given more complex tasks, like slicing and dicing without including any of ourselves in the effort.  Our grandmothers would come over and there would be much baking and sauteing and saucing and - well you get the picture.  There was also a lot of laughter and chatter that made it all seem like fun, even though it was really a lot of work.  Not only did we all get involved in food preparation, but we also polished silverware (no wonder I have a distinct dislike for fancy silver tea services) which was truly a task and one I personally am glad I no longer do - or ever did as an adult, for that matter.  I can still remember the slimy feel of the purplish-blue silverpolish and how we had to get every little swirly knob and decorative froof absolutely spotless.  A lot of work for something no-one seemed to really pay any attention to.  When Christmas eve came, the table was stretched to its maximum length, the silencer (not the kind you put on a gun - the cloth that went on first - though why it was called that I have no idea), then the table cloth and often a lacy one on top of that (though why we didn't just put a plastic table cloth on instead is beyond me - would have saved all the stain remover and laundry soap mom had to use to get the barbeque sauce and mustard stains out).  No matter, that's what was done.  Then the best china was washed and dried by hand (this is pre-dishwasher we're talking here), and set out along with all the silver knives, forks, spoons, serving utensils and teaspoons.  Finally, came the food.  Salads (at least three kinds), cold cuts of meat, cheeses, mini sausages cooked in barbeque sauce (hence the stains), caseroles (at least two), home made buns, butter, and of course - dessert (my personal favourite).  Friends would come, visit, eat, visit, leave, until usually quite late at night.  There were a few families that ours hung out with once a month, and each family would take turns hosting.  This, of course, involved the kids playing someplace in the house while the adults visited in another and the moms and dads taking turns supervising.  Naturally, food was involved.  Lots of food.  All kinds of food, and we all ate, and ate, and ate (what else can you do with food really?).
Now it's tea or coffee and whatever is at hand (cake, cookies, cinnamon buns ...) and friends or family and sometimes both friends and family.  Gone are the days of the big feasts, and I can't say I'm sorry.  It's much nicer to have a slice of cake and a cup of tea with great conversation than cooking till you drop and then are too tired to eat anyway.  No matter.  Food is still glorious food and conversation is still great conversation - as long as it's in the kitchen (or an equivalent) and shared with good friends.  Now, I have to go poach an egg.

Jet lag

Ever had one of those days where you have no idea what planet you are on, but you know - sort of - that you vaguely have to do something that might be important?  That you have a headache reminiscent of the last big bender you went on, but didn't have a drop of anything that might remotely be described as alcohol related, but you wish it had been so that you'd have an excuse for having such a painful head is the feeling you have at the moment.  Your brain is generally mush when it comes to actually thinking, and you are going on autopilot hoping the horse/car/bus/taxi will find its own way home because you don't believe you can.  Fortunately, many of us manage to wade through the day that feels like heavy sludge and get things done, though how is another matter.  Hopefully no one actually asks you what you did that day or how it turned out because in fact you truly have no idea what the heck they are talking about, and really wished you did in case it was something really good.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is jet lag.  Your body and your brain are not in the same time zone, the same place on the planet or even on this planet.  At least that's how it feels.  Your eyes are puffy and red, your nose is plugged and your head hurts, but it's not the flu or a cold.  I've experienced jet lag a number of times.  Fortunately I've had time to recover, get lots of rest and let my body and my brain get back into sync, but every once in a while I have to go to work the day after I get back from wherever it is I've been and as such am expected to function at the same level as I would if I hadn't travelled.  The only good thing about this combined with any non-thinking job is that a person can do his/her work without having to expend too much energy.  Just don't fall asleep in front of a group of students/board members/politicians and you'll be fine.  Now I need to head off to try to put my brain back together, get mind and body coordinated and then go back to work tomorrow knowing I did something worthwhile - I think.

Speed dating for schools

I haven't been on here for a few days because I've been at a recruiting fair for teachers.  Well, actually it was a recruiting fair for schools looking for teachers, which adds up to about the same thing.  When I described the sign-up process for teachers with schools, one of my sons said it sounded like speed dating, and he's not so very wrong.  It is a lot like the phenomenon.  You get two minutes or less to introduce yourself and hand in a resume, then book an appointment for an interview.  If the school happens to be in a country that is very popular (this year it seemed to be Switzerland), you line up and hopefully all the interview times haven't been taken by the time you actually get to the table.  Then the games begin.
If you think the Olympics are wild and crazy in terms of events, you've never experienced a job fair of this nature.  Think of it, 500 teachers, all in the same boat - so to speak, competing for the gold (or a job depending on how you want to look at it) in a variety of venues (in this case schools).  Some win, some lose, some have personal bests (offers that might interest you but you finally decide not to accept for whatever reason), and in the end you come away with a gold (the job you really want at the school you really want), silver (a job you want in a school that maybe wasn't your first choice) or bronze (a job in a school because by now you are feeling despirate), or just come home (and start the process all over again - somebody must want you - somewhere - please?!).  Now that you've signed up, the next fun event is the interview.  Herein lies the true challenge.  Are you at your top form?  Do you have all the requirements for the job?  Do your references make you glow in the dark as opposed to just glimmering?  To continue the analogy of the Olympics, this is the real test in your event.  The schools, who have half an hour or less to decide your fate, will gush over your resume and references, show a great deal of enthusiasm, and in the end hire someone else.  Why?  It's one of those mysteries much like judging in a skating competition.  Very subjective, very quirky, very mysterious, using some formula that even the best minds in the world would have trouble solving and would give a supercomputer a nervous breakdown.  Which brings us to the next question, why bother?  Why not just go online, apply and have a Skype interview?  Saves everyone time, money and hassle.  Some schools do.  It's a good way to find who they want without all the rush and race, however, many schools prefer - still, to do marathon interviewing.  Candidates are no different, wanting to make contacts - forgetting, of course that in a week or less the directors have forgotten your name, and have seen who knows how many others at who knows how many fairs.  In one day, you literally race from one interview to another and by the time you get to your last interviews you're so exhausted you have no idea what's coming out of your mouth.  So the final question for this blogger is, would I do it again?  The answer has to be no.  It's an experience, but one I think I can firmly say I'll pass on.  Until next time.

Sneezy

Dopey, Sleepy, Grumpy and the rest of the boys in the band have made themselves at home in my body.  It's allergy season still, only right now it's more intense that usual.  Mostly it's because it's very dry here and getting dryer so the dust (you remember the dust) is worse than usual.  Combine it with the pollution and you definitely become at least three of the seven dwarfs all rolled into one.  When I was a child, I thought the names of these short people was something Disney dreamed up to amuse and entertain, never realizing he was actually describing how a person could feel.  Now I know differently - or at least I interpret it differently now that I'm all grown up (or something similar). I was supposed to go out tonight with a couple of people from work to see one of our co-workers perform.  I understand she is an excellent jazz singer.  Unfortunately, by the time I got home and had supper, my eyes look like rivers of red, my nose is itchy and plugged and I'm sneezing all over the place.  Guess I'll have to put off seeing my co-worker for another time.  Instead I'll be putting drops in my eyes, blowing my nose and taking anti-histamines to help with the itchiness and watering.  I wonder if Snow White ever had to deal with all this instead of dancing and singing and whistling her way through things.  What's more, I wonder how long Prince Charming was able to handle all that "cheerfulness".  No wonder her step-mother became such a witch.  I would be too if I had that much merry happy around all day every day - especially feeling the way I do right now.  And what happened when we weren't watching?  Did little miss sunshine continue to sing and dance and whistle when she had PMS or a cold or the flu?  How did the dwarf's handle that? Was Doc able to sort things out, or not?  Did Snow ever lose her temper and burst into tears at the drop of a hat or become a fire-breathing dragon like the Queen?  Did she make Prince's life hell once a month and how would we know?  What about the mirror on the wall?  Did it continue to tell her she was the fairest, or did it finally start telling it like it is, especially when she wasn't at her 'best'?    This inquiring mind doesn't really want to know.

Long vs short

Interesting idea.  A competition between long and short.  The question is:  Long vs Short what?  Are we talking coats, hair, pants, skirts, dresses?  How long is long and how short is short and who should wear them/it (whatever it is that is either long or short)? I've had both of everything listed above.  Short skirts, dresses and pants (aka shorts or capris), short hair, long hair, in-between and Ican'tmakeupmymind hair.  The length of my clothes depended on what era I happened to be in.  When I was so much younger, you know, back in the days of the dinosaurs a century ago, short things were very much in, and I had a very skinny body to wear them on, but time, age and way too many cookies, large meals and children changed my shape and my hemlines accordingly.  Funny how that works.  When I was in school (remember we're talking the days of the dinosaurs here) skirts and dresses could be no shorter than the middle of your knee.  Why this was so, I have no idea.  Either some fashion guru or somebody's mother thought that was the ideal length.  Not too short, not too long - kind of like the inbetween hair.  Then came the "revolution".  Hemlines got higher, thus making skirts and dresses considerably shorter.  School policy, unfortunately, did not keep up with the times and I know a number of girls who were sent home to change because their dresses were too short (actually looking back the skirts were above the knee, but long enough to cover bum and upper leg, so I'm not sure what the real issue was, but there it is).
Guys didn't get off any easier.  No jeans, no shorts to school unless they were below the knee (what's with the knee thing anyway?) short hair, ties, and dress slacks.  Mind you if you happened to go to a school where there was a uniform, it didn't really matter since it was the UNIFORM.  I still see students in uniforms, but the girls wear the skirts so short I'm surprised there is actually any material there.  Which is fine because they are very young and can get away with it, but in the winter I wonder just how warm they are with so little on.  Mind you, when you are young you don't think of those things - well, unless you are my mother and then she was of the opinion that it didn't matter what you wore or how you looked as long as you were warm.  She got my vote on that.  Still does, although these days I live in warm countries, so now it's more a matter of keeping cool.  However, what goes around comes around as the saying goes, and at my age I'm back in fashion.  My skirts and dresses are once again at mid-knee length, though I do wear shorter shorts and jeans, as do many of the people I have worked with.  However, I will balk at wearing very short dresses and don't care if the fashion experts, or somebody's mother says it's the rage.  So the question still remains, long vs short what, and to that I add, who cares?

Flipping houses

So the headline said, "should you flip your house?".  I don't know.  I guess it depends on how strong you are.  Is it like flipping the matress on your bed, or pancakes or crepes?  How about doing a chef-y thing while sauteing your veggies?  Does it work the same way?  Sounds kind of like a bad joke.  You know:  How many people does it take to flip a house?  Well that depends.  Are you flipping it on it's roof? It's side and which one (because sides are much easier to flip a house on to than fronts, backs or roofs)?  or just spinning it around for a change?  I've never actually tried to flip a house.  It might well be because I'm not superman, or superwoman or even Xena Warrior Princess (who can do just about anything so could probably flip the house as well).  I've had students write that a character moved their house, implying that the character actually picked the house up and moved it.  I'd love to see that.  I know houses can be moved - by big trucks, on huge flatbeds, taking up the whole road in the process, but I've never actually seen a person move a house.  Maybe I should have tried that.  I could have folded my house up into a small box like shape, tucked it into a suitcase, and unpacked and unfolded it when I got to wherever I was moving to.  No fuss, no muss.  Everything I need for living all tucked away in a nice carry-all just waiting to be unfolded as soon as I found a big enough space to do so.  All the amenities I was used to with me, instead of belonging to the person that bought my house.  Now, instead, I make due with whatever I get in whatever apartment the school I'm at has rented for me - not always stocked with the standard washing machine, full stove (with a large enough oven to cook a turkey - or at least a big chicken in) or dresser/more than one closet.  When you move as often as I have you learn quickly that if it doesn't fit in a steamer trunk or five suitcases and a plastic bin, it isn't worth taking.  So instead of flexing my muscles flipping a house, or picking it up and carrying it to someplace else, I'll dig out my suitcases and plastic bin and pack up my world to move on to the next adventure in living.  So don't strain any muscles flipping your houses.  Just get a friend to help you turn the matress over instead. 

Irony of cookies

It's one of those facts of life.  If someone talks about cookies, or writes about cookies, or emails you about cookies, and the cookie they happen to talk/write/email you about happens to be one you haven't had in absolutely ages, you suddenly crave that cookie.  My sister did this to me.  Recently.  I haven't had a home made peanut butter cookie in years.  I've had chocolate chip, double chocolate, shortbread, and some of those heinz 57 kind that pass themselves off as being Danish, but in reality I don't expect any self-respecting Dane would ever really eat (and I've been to Denmark so I can actually say that).  I've eaten cookies made in many places in the world, but for whatever reason the idea of a homemade peanut butter cookie never crossed my mind - or my lips for that matter.  Until today.  I just had to do it.  I confess, I broke down and made some.  That's the problem with craving things, you find yourself either getting out a recipe book with the recipe of the particular thing you are craving, only to find you don't have half the ingredients (which isn't such a bad thing, because it's maybe a clue you shouldn't have that particular foody to begin with), and if you really want that particular food item (in this case the said cookies), you end up getting in your car, or on your bicycle, or walking, and making a trip to the store you hadn't planned on to get the ingredients that you wouldn't normally use just so you can go home to make the wretched whatevers.  By the time you've made it to the store, unless you've made a list, you will probably have forgotten half the things you were supposed to get and end up buying things you didn't need instead, and still not have what you need to make what you want to make.  So you are left with two choices.  Either abandon the craving and go for some good old fashioned store bought cookies, or junk food, or go back to the store with the list of the ingredients you do need.  By then you're not sure it's really all worth it, but that little voice in the back of your head is saying ccooookkkies.  Once you get the ingredients home, measure, mix and bake it's probably taken more time and money than it would have done if you had just gone to the bakery and bought the wretched cookies in the first place.  But then they wouldn't have been the same.  They wouldn't have been home made.  At least that's  what you tell yourself.  So you wait until you can haul the cookies out of the oven and let them cool.  The first bite is delicious, the second just as good as the first and before you know it you've eaten three or four, and yes it was all worth it.  Problem is, now you have a couple of dozen cookies that need to either be stored, shared or eaten by you all by yourself.  The irony of it all?  If your favourite person hadn't planted the idea in your mind in the first place, you'd have likely gone along quite nicely without them and stuck with the nearest bag of chips, or pretzels, or popcorn.  However, I now have a dozen peanut butter cookies calling me to join them, so I think I will.  Until the next time.

Time

There is something I have never really understood, and maybe some physicist that wanders in from another dimension or two can enlighten me.  How is it that when you are working a regular week (Monday to Friday, or Sunday to Thursday if you are working in the Middle East) at regular (ok semi-regular) hours the week seems to go by very fast, yet if it's a short work week, the week never seems to end.  It just drags on and on and on.  When you aren't in a rush to get some place, that's when you get there early and way faster than you expected, but when you are in a hurry to get someplace, it seems to take forever.  In fact, if you don't leave early you often arrive late.  Come to think of it, you'll probably end up being late even if you leave early.  Holidays are never long enough, or often enough when you do get them, and seem to go by very fast, but the time between them seems to take forever.  Is this an Einsteinian thingie?  Is it something for the Jungians to analyse?  What about the astrophysicists, and how does Dr. Who and his TARDIS explain this?  Does our universe shrink and expand expotentially based on how much of a rush we are in to get to an extremely important whatever, and how do we know?  Is there a time warp factor involved, and is that why I'm so darned tired at the end of a week, only to have my weekends fly be so fast it hardly feels like I've had one?  If time flies when you are having fun and crawls when you're not, what happens in between?  Are we in suspended animation between the fast fun and the slow drag?  If I talk to my family who live in one time zone on the other side of the planet  and it's noon here and midnight there, are we on the same day?  What about if it's before midnight there and after noon here, am I talking to them in the past?  Are they talking to me in the future?  Am I talking to myself (never mind I do that already)? What happened to the present, does it mean that it doesn't exist and who's past and who's future is it?  These are things I think about when I'm really only half away, or is it half asleep.  Oh dear.  Now I'm bordering on the half-full, half-empty discussion.  Is there a Time Lord out there who can sort this out for me please?  Thanks.

Paperwork

When I was a student, I always assumed teachers taught. Sure, they generated report cards twice a year and marked all my feeble, and occasionally good, work, but that was it. I just figured that lessons just happened, sometimes they had meetings, and if you couldn't find your teacher in the classroom he/she was probably hanging out in the staffroom. That's what teachers do - right? Wrong. Well, ok, not really wrong, just partially informed. What I didn't know at the time, and have since found out is that teachers are usually swamped with paperwork that has very little to do with actual teaching. Yes, teachers mark papers, yes they create lessons and, if we have time on the way to the washroom where we might have two minutes to grab a cup of coffee, that's not the end of things. Not only do teachers have to mark papers, good bad or indifferent, and create report cards that parents proceed to question because "how could my little darling only have a 40 when the child is brilliant", they also have to shovel themselves out from under a mountain of reports, documents, more reports, forms, documents, reports (did I say that already?), that have nothing to do with what goes on in the classroom, but that someone, somewhere thinks is terribly important and must be done immediately so that they can generate more reports and documents that teachers must fill in - again - somemore.
This of course spawns meetings, meetings and even more meetings on top of the weekly staff meeting, department meeting and whole school meetings, parent/teacher conferences official and unofficial, and everyone wants all the paperwork done yesterday when you only got it two minutes ago and really have no idea what you're supposed to do in the first place. Feel out of breath yet? Are you tired of all the work yet? No? Then make sure you add on committee meetings, interdepartmental meetings and student conferences where the teacher explains, for the ninehundredandninetyninth time why the sentence is grammatically incorrect and no one could possible do that no matter how hard they tried (and I'll leave it to your imagination to fill in the activity). Parents, and the public in general, then tell teachers that they really don't need six weeks in the summer, two weeks at christmas and if school is postponed for H1N1, natural disasters or snow/flood/hurricane/earthquake/tsunami days that the school can be open longer, over the weekends and holidays so that their little darlings can catch up, and of course teachers can handle 36 students in a classroom the size of a broomcloset. Wait a minute. That's my classroom! What do you mean I have to share it with the entire Chemistry department and the caretaking staff need a place to store their brooms and buckets?! Oh and don't forget to have your lesson and unit plans done and on the server by 3:30 yesterday. What do you mean you want planning time to do the work? That's what your evenings and weekends are for. Do we have a headache yet folks? No? Well I do and I'm just writing this. Welcome to my world.

Dust

It never ceases to amaze me at how many different kinds of dust there are. Every place I've lived I've encountered a different kind. It's everywhere! Where I come from there seems to generally be two main kinds of dust. The first is the stuff that's blown around every spring, also known as top soil. This blows from one province to another, then back again, every spring. The second kind is the dust that hides under beds and behind anything that isn't flush against a wall. This dust usually accumulates and amalgamates into what are ubiquitously known as dust bunnies. No matter how many times you suck them up with the vacuum cleaner, they reappear, glom together and mulitply like - you guessed it - rabbits (thus the name).
Living in the Middle East, the predominant kind of dust was sand. Some of it was very fine, while some of it was a little coarser. In truth it really didn't matter what kind of sand it was when the wind was up because it all felt like you were being sandblasted - which is fine for really tough to clean buildings, but not so great for faces. I've been told it's called dermabrasion and some people pay a lot of money to have it done. Guess I'll consider myself "lucky" to have had it done for free. Personally I could have lived without it, but there it is. The fine sand always managed to find its way into the apartment, no matter how hard I tried to plug up gaps around windows and doors. In fact, if I wasn't careful I could actually count on having sand dunes in my place (although they were exceptionally tiny compared to the rest of the desert, they could still be seen).
I left the Middle East and the sand for Mexico. I certainly didn't think I'd experience much dust there. Ha! Little did I know that not all of Mexico is jungle. In fact the part I lived in (central Mexico), had no jungle at all and in fact was quite dry. Naturally there was dust. Not the ordinary house dust (though there was that as well), but a fine silty dust that wasn't quite dirt, and wasn't quite sand, but certainly got on everything. It wasn't in great quantities, but it was there. So what did I do next to get away from the dust (or so I thought)? I moved to India. Again everyone - well ok, me- thinks of India as being predominantly jungle. Not so. In fact I currently live on a plateau in the middle of a group of lesser mountains (back home they'd be called foothills). The dust here is different yet again. It comes in a number of varieties and at different times of the year (it's not nearly as dusty during the monsoons - funny how that works). The first kind of dust is a fine, powdery dirt that blows in and sits on everything. A person never gets their place really clean, you mostly push dirt from one place to another and maybe some of it gets up by the vacuum or swept up and thrown out, but an hour later it's back. The second, and much nastier kind is the sootie dirt that clings to everything. This dust is just nasty. It's greasy and sticky and when counters, etc. are washed (and it's the only way to get rid of this particular kind of dust), the rag or papertowel or whatever you are using comes up black. The residue is really hard to get rid of off cloth and often never comes out. Yuck.
Ah well. This summer I'll be moving to a new country. Wonder what kind of dust I'll find there.

Exotic animals

So the article online said that exotic animals should not be kept as pets. I thoroughly agree. After all, men truly are animals and many tend to be exotic, often showing their 'wild' side by doing typically male things (and the list is endless so I won't even start). Some sit around looking lordly like their male counterparts, the lion or the gorilla, while others show their athletic prowess much like the leopard or cheetah, unless they are getting long in the tooth and expect their female counterparts to do all the 'work' of getting food (wait a minute - we do that anyway), but the most exotic male has got to be the tiger (and you can play with that image any way you want). We are told "he" has a tiger in the tank, everything is "Grrrreat" and 'he' sometimes tends to snarl and hiss, with 'his' ears metaphorically laid back, expecially if you change the channel on tv right in the middle of the male-in-question's favourite sports event.
Don't get me wrong. I like males. They can be cuddly, affectionate and often easy to tame, performing all sorts of tricks like jumping through hoops (including fire-y ones when you're not in a particularly good mood) on your command. All it takes is food, belly scratches and a little stroking of their male - egos. Easy. What I don't understand is why we keep trying to domesticate them and expect them to be good house pets. I know. It's nice to have them around, they can keep you warm on a cold night, and often are good to have to snuggle with on the couch when you're watching a movie (unless it's a chic flic, then they manage to go into hiding in plain sight), but let's face it, they also scatter the litter all over the place (figuratively speaking), eat way too much, demand attention when you really don't have time, leave all their "stuff" laying around, and tend to get into fights with any other animal that strays on to "their" turf. This creates a conundrum (which in my Collins Gem dictionary means puzzle). We want to have them, but find after a while they become very expensive and high maintenance, yet we can't turn them loose on the world because they could cause all sorts of problems we hadn't anticipated when we decided to keep them in the first place. Maybe the problem is that the puzzle is missing a piece or two and will never be solved.
There is, of course an even more exotic animal out there - the female, but I think I should leave that for another time, because that will take a lot more room to discuss don't you agree?

Poster child

Interesting phrase that. It has all kinds of connotations and implications, usually of some person or other who has battled huge adversity to overcome the odds and survive - whatever it is that they have survived, thus becoming a shining example for everyone to be compared to. I would never wish to be held up to such high esteme by anyone, simply because I live a pretty ordinary life - usually. No heroic deeds, no major adversity, no real odds, and yet I now find myself through the twisted gods of fate to have become the poster child for our school. Why you ask? Good question. For whatever reason that only the universe knows, I have spent the last six months getting the runaround over a work visa. This hasn't been any ordinary runaround. For something that should have taken one day, I spent money I didn't have to spend on a visa that was of no value because it couldn't be changed, went through a lot of fooforah (don't you just love the sound that word makes?) and fiddlefarting (word courtesy of my best friend) to get the visa I shouldn't have had changed to one I could actually use, and in the meantime found myself stranded in London (great city if you're there for a holiday or are actually working, not so great if you've got no where to go and no money to get there in) for six weeks. On the up side I do know London really well now, and did meet some really great people who became my cheering section. When the dust settled and I was finally able to get back to work, it only took another three months to finally get the visa I should have had in the very beginning.
So why does this make me a poster child for the school. I shall tell you my darlings, because I'm sure you're dying to know - because no matter how much of a headache anyone else will go through in the future over their visas, no one will be able to top my rather bizarre experience. I will say, in all seriousness, that if I hadn't had support from the school and people who were able to make things happen once I got here, I'd probably still be in London - or back in Canada - whichever came first.
All just part of the adventure - or so I'm told

Stuck

Ever have one of those days when some tune you accidentally hear (or maybe you listened to it while playing other tunes you wanted to hear) gets stuck in your brain and won't go away? The only thing to do, well ok two only things to do, are either play the silly piece so that your brain is tricked into abandoning it, or try to replace it with another silly piece so that hopefully tune one will be drowned out by tune two and they'll cancel each other out so you have some mental peace of mind. It doesn't help if the tune in question is one that you heard on an elevator going up or down from someplace you might or might not have wanted to go to (like the dentist's office), or that the said tune is actually playing in the place you might or might not have wanted to go to (like the dentist's office) where you are a captive audience.
The elevator in our building is one of those places where it doesn't matter if you are the one getting on or off or someone else is, the canned version of a classical piece plays every time the elevator door opens and doesn't quit until the door is closed. Which is fine if people get on and off in a hurry, but not so great when someone getting off doesn't close the gates properly. Then the d**** tune plays on and on and on until you are ready to scream for someone to close the d*** door. Eventually someone does. Usually the guard of the building. I'd do it myself but it would mean going up and down every floor to find the elevator in the first place, closing the door and then either riding up or down in said elevator (and thus setting off the tune again), or walking. Great exercise if you're not in your nightshirt, but not so much fun if you have to change back in to clothes (especially in the middle of the night) just to track down the elevator to shut it up.
Speaking of tunes, elevators and getting stuck. This place has timed power outages. Now usually I'm pretty good and doing things around the timed outages, but every once in a while I get caught, usually when I'm trying to nuke something for supper - and I did - in said elevator. On the plus side I didn't have to listen to the music, on the negative side I had to wait until someone came down the stairs and got the guard to come up to flip the latch to let me out. I'd have flipped the latch myself, but didn't happen to have a long screwdriver on me at that moment (memo: remember to either take the stairs just in case, or carry the screwdriver).
For now, I'm stuck in the mind set of pre-back to work thinking, and so I guess I should actually get myself prepared for the next round at work.

Cat-ie things

I live in a neighbourhood that has stray cats and dogs. These animals belong to no one in particular, but everybody feeds and waters them. A good friend of mine calls them little people in fur coats. The other day, while showering, out of the blue I thought about one of the cats that used to own us (remember we're talking cats and you don't own them, they own you). This cat was a very - unique - individual. He was smallish and very wiry, quite athletically built - even for a cat (and we've all seen the long, sleek athletes that run, jump and whatever), and very "tough". So much so that my son - his human (and the cat was a him), often said that if Raoul (yes spanish name for a very macho cat) was human, he'd have tatoos, piercings and a switchblade. Well, maybe. Raoul was certainly the epitome of macho maleness. His fur coat (what respectable cat turned human wouldn't have a fur coat?) had a definite pattern to it, which could - I suppose - pass as tatoos. As for piercings, he'd been in a number of fights staking his territory (how very masculine of him), so I'm sure he had a number of piercings, not to mention scars under his fir coat. The switchblade? Well he had five on each paw, so he had that under control. Unlike his brother, Raoul was very much the acrobat, balancing himself on thin fences walking along like a gymnast on a balance beam. His habits were very punk, tough guy and he was known to break into, and out of, other people's apartments looking for loot in the guise of hamsters, guinea pigs or other four footed rodent types. All this was very much in tune with his overall attitude towards life - his "I'm here, what you gonna do about it?" flare. Above and beyond this was his thing about food. I'm not talking about any ordinary food. I'm talking spicey. He had a real thing about chillie. The spicier the better. Now cats are usually pretty picky about what they eat (including the street cats here), but not Raoul. If the food had snap, he wanted it. The more he got the happier he was, except after he'd digested it. This very small cat could generate the biggest, smelliest farts imaginable. While we all know that humans are renowned for blaming the dog for smelling up the place when in fact it was us, there was no one in the house, human or otherwise, who could stink up the place better than Raoul. It's amazing how much smelly gas can come from such a small creature, but there you have it. What was worse was that not only did he have gas, but he had the temerity to share it with one and all. A great way to impress someone you're dating. Have a gassy cat sit on the furniture next to the potential love-of-your-life and let one loose. The 'visitor' will either stick around or bolt, but there will be no doubt where he/she stands - or sits - when it comes to a farting cat. Unfortunately Raoul came to an untimely, and we suspect violent, end. No surprises there given his very street punk attitude.
Why is all of this important? I have no idea, but it needed to be shared, so there it is.

Nut-free zone

So apparently one of the airlines (which shall remain nameless, though if you are a Canadian, or read news from Canada you'll know which one it is) has been ordered to have a nut-free zone. Now I don't know about you but that leaves things pretty much up in the air - so to speak. Does this mean that anyone with a sense of humour can't sit in that zone? Does it mean that all the monkey's and orangutangs that seem to inhabit the air lately will have to have separate seats? Is it referring to male body parts? What exactly constitutes a nut-free zone. How will you know if you accidentally sit in that zone and you aren't nut free? Do they now scan us for nuts before they let us into THE ZONE. Actually, it sounds kind of like the Twilight Zone where anything strange and, well, just strange can happen. What if you're not nut free? Do they ask you what kind of nuts you have? What if you said "I have Brazil, Macadamian and Walnut nuts." Do they immediately send you to the back of the plane for violation of the nut-free zone? Or are you given certain priviledges based on the kind of nuts you have - or don't have? Doesn't this sound a little like discrimination? Imagine it. The NAACP or one of the Civil Liberties groups sueing an airline for discrimination based on whether you are allowed to sit in the nut-free zone or not. Personally I'd like a cellphone free zone. Actually I'd like a cellphone free plane ride, but can't see that happening in a hurry, so here's a thought. Maybe the airline in question should put nut-free people next to the cellphone free group and bunch everyone else to the back of the bus - er - plane. Actually, I could go for business class for free if I'm nut free and phone free. I think that would be an excellent trade off, don't you?

Ban

Don't you just love that word. It has so many different applications. It's supposed to mean that something is forbidden, but if you change the ending or the beginning, it means so much more. In fact, I did a quick tally of words in my pocket Collins dictionary and found 31 words using ban as their root. Imagine it. 31 things that technically are forbidden, including, by the way the bank, a banquet and a band. So if you fall and scrape your knee, technically you can't put anything on it because a BANdaid is forbidden. What's great for those of us who have weight issues is that all BANquets are BANished, so not only can we not overeat, but there would be nothing to eat when we got there. Which of course, leads us to marriage. In many religions they post the BANns of a couple getting married. This implies that the couple is really forbidden to get married. Maybe that's not such a bad thing given how some marriages turn out. So if you stick something on the end of the word (a suffix) like ban you come up with all kinds of interesting things like the above mentioned band. You can actually listen to a group of people doing something forbidden that you can actually enjoy. Then if you stick something on the beginning (prefix) there is the taliban, a group of notorious criminals bound and determined to make all our lives miserable. Why? I still haven't figured it out, but some day I will. Let's break down their name. Tal has something to do with a body part or something put on a body (talcum powder being a good example), i is i, and ban we've already discussed. So theoretically they are have a body of things forbidden. This creates all sorts of images in this mind, none of them I'd care to find out about, wich raises the question: What are they really like under their clothes? Guess we can all find out now through the handy-dandy body scanners we'll all be subjected to at airports.
Which reminds me, if they are going to scan us for banned objects, can they also perform a mamogram, check prostrates and do vein and artery checks for blockages at the same time? Would make perfect sense to me, save a lot of money in health care/diagnosis and you can get on the plane knowing you are in perfect health as well as safe. On the other hand, I'm not sure about the logic of banning books that you want to take with you for reading material. I can however hear thousands of students cheering because they can't take their school work with them. I can hear the excuses now: "I couldn't get my work done miss because the airport security wouldn't let me on with my textbook." or "I would have had my work done, except security confiscated all my school books." Puts a whole new twist on to the whole dog-ate-my-homework excuse. Welcome to the world of technology.

Spelling

Once upon a time not so terribly long ago on this planet not so very far away, I used to be able to spell. In fact, I was a pretty good speller. Now, since I've become a teacher, my spelling has been flushed right down the toilet. Ok, that's not quite true. I can still spell. I just can't type right (not to be confused with typewrite, which I don't seem to do terribly well these days either). My typing teacher from High School days would be rapping my knuckles over my bad typing habits, if she were here to rap (not to be confused with the "music" though maybe she'd do that too for all I know). Too much speed, not enough accuracy. True. Guilty. And yet I berate my students for failing to proofread when I'm just as guilty. Do as I say, not as I do is definitely the modus operandi for teaching (after all isn't that what it's really all about?).
In any case, I know I'm not the only one guilty of this misdeminor (misdiminor, misdemenor, misdemeanor - you know what I mean). I read, a very long time ago now, that Princess Anne (who we never hear about anywhere - is she still out there somewhere?) fell off hor hearse. Yes, ladies and gentlemen you read correctly and did exactly what I did - say what? She fell from a what? Course it doesn't help when you read things wrong, so I did a double take, and yes it was there in black and white. Now I have been known to misinterpret things and misread things, so certainly didn't need the aid of the Star Phoenix. For example, once upon a time when I was following sports, I thought I read that the New Pork Rangers had lost yet another game. Had to go back and reread that one. No, it wasn't the paper's fault this time, just my speed reading (directly related to rapid typing which is where all this began). Add to that listening with half an ear, and one of my students is now Radish, only because I misheard his name. Come to think of it if a radish were to become human, it could look like him, or if he were to become a cartoon figure I think that's what he'd look like. In the grand scheme of things does it all really matter? No not really, just something to ramble on about - and I apologize to those who tried to find my blogpot. It really doesn't exist - well maybe in my imagination.

Dusty socks

Here's a question or two. How relevant they are to the real world is a matter of conjecture, but I figure what the heck, maybe someone has an opinion or two that might be shared with the masses (or maybe just me, whichever comes first). Since this is all new technology and I'm just learning how, my question is this, is there a guide for blog ettiquete, how does one find it, does it tell you which fork to use first (figuratively speaking of course) and how do you know if you've accidentally said something to offend someone (and I'm sure there will be people out there who will be offended, just because they can be). For example, if I were to ramble on about dirty socks and then mention the Queen, would people assume I'm talking about the Queen's dirty socks? Why? I mean I'm sure the Queen must have dirty socks at some point in time, but why should I want to know about them, never mind comment on this possibility. Does that fall under too much information? According to who, and who besides her maids knows or cares? Would the National Inquirer (or the British equivalent) have headlines screaming about the secret world of the Queen's laundry hamper? I somehow can't imagine it, but anything is possible I suppose.
This inquiring mind really doesn't want to know.