prompt: what is your life motto? December 7, 2010
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I always know where I’m going, but I don’t always know where I am.
This isn’t supposed to be deep. I simply have a terrible sense of direction.
The Worst Teacher I Ever Had July 22, 2010
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Ooohhh…my. I’ve had some terrible teachers. Some really terrible teachers.
(I’ve also had some great teachers, but that’s not the question of the day, now is it?)
First, there was my Grade 5 teacher, Mrs. B. Mrs. B should have stayed in the nursery school where she came from because children who were starting to be able to reason and think were way too much for her. Certainly she would have been better with kids who didn’t have the capacity to talk back. Poor Mrs. B. She finally lost her mind in the middle of an English class, hurling her purse across the room at my friend D. He was sort of our resident class clown, loud mouth and, looking back on it as an adult, scapegoat for everything that went wrong. Fortunately for D, Mrs. B had terrible aim and missed him by a foot. UNfortunately for E, another student in my class, she was the one sitting about a foot away from him.
After throwing her purse and screaming, “DAMN YOU ROTTEN KIDS!!” she ran out of the classroom sobbing, leaving 25 ten year old children unsupervised in their portable. “What should we do?” None of us knew. We were all too shocked to wreck any more havoc. A lost opportunity, really.
Eventually our principal showed up, avec Mrs. B, and announced that she had something to say. We received a very quiet, very forced apology. Then she left. We never saw her again.
Years later, I found out she was fired from another elementary school for smoking in the closet. I don’t mean this an a euphemism. She was literally smoking in the classroom closet. This woman was a superstar.
And then there was Grade 6 and Mr. McM. Aside from giving us lessons that might have been required reading for admission to NASA, Mr. McM was clueless about most things of any importance to 11 year olds. He had no concept that our bodies were changing, we were discovering that members of the opposite gender didn’t have cooties, girls were getting their periods, hormones were raging and we were all, as least a little bit, self-conscious about the whole thing. We were also all age appropriately crazy.
Every year in my small country school, we had a gymnastics unit. Because Mr. McM was clueless and thought the only reason we weren’t Olympic athletes at this point in our lives was because we were slackers, decided it was a good idea to ask me to demonstrate how to hoist myself high up on a bar and then swing back and forth, let go, flip 360 degrees in the air, and then land on my feet.
It was a really dumb thing to ask.
Why? Because next to my friend S, I was the single klutziest kid in the entire class. Oh, and I had zero gymnastics training. I could barely pull off a cartwheel.
“Mr. McM, I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can. T will spot you.”
Great. The klutziest kid in the class being spotted by the smallest kid in the class. Brilliant. I could see about 213 ways for this to end poorly.
In the end it was #124. I landed straight on my head (but without injuring T…I was thankful for that) and into a heap. I was also pretty sure I had a concussion, but that would have been too much paper work.
I’ve just done a search for Mr. McM online and have no idea where he is now. I’m not sure if that’s because he hasn’t done much with himself, or because I’m so old that almost all of my elementary school days predate the interwebs.
Then high school:
Mr. W told the boys in my class I had a “nice ass” and that they should “try and get a piece of it.” Classy.
Mr. X could never have a conversation with a girl while looking her straight in the eye. He didn’t understand how a girl in my brother’s class could be suffering from depression when she “you know…has a body like THIS!” And, in his capacity as a staff advisor, thought it was completely appropriate to allow lingerie to be modeled at the annual fashion show. Where is he now? Not teaching at my high school. Rumour (and I stress it is a rumour) has it he was fired for sleeping with one of his students. One of my younger brothers has informed me Mr. X is (or was as of last year) dating one of his friends in her early 20s after leaving his wife and children. Oh yeah, and he never had any of us do any sort of work in his class, but with everything else in this list, it doesn’t really seem to matter.
Mr. XX told me I was a “black spot on the school community” after writing an article discussing why you can’t fix something you don’t acknowledge is broken. The thing that was broken was our sense of safety. There had been guns in our school. Drug trafficking had increased significantly during the time I had been in attendance. The issue was that the people in charge wouldn’t admit we had a problem. It would have caused too much bad publicity for our school. So I wrote an article for the city paper. It made Mr. XX really, really angry. Angry enough to call me a “black spot”. Angry enough to infer I might not get any awards or scholarships when I graduated.
All this being said, it was actually a little bit tricky to write this piece. I really did have so many amazing teachers while I was in school and their contributions to my development far outshine these few negative examples.
As S (yes, my klutzy friend from Grade 6) wrote on Facebook as I was asking for help with this post:
Thank goodness it’s the teachers that influenced you the most that you remember.
Yes, S. I couldn’t have said it better myself.
But that might just be because I was dropped on my head.
mark wahlberg talks to little people July 20, 2010
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I’ve been spending the past few days in Montreal visiting my friend Abbie and her son, A.
A. is four years old. He takes notions. It’s in his job description.
While his mother was trying to make dinner last night, I suggested to A. that we play a game. No go. I suggested we read a story. Stories are for suckers. I asked him if he’d like to watch a video on my computer.
“On your compooter? Can I press the buttons?”
*sigh*
We had exhausted all of the Veggie Tales and They Might Be Giants clips. I was trying to think about what else I could show him. I don’t have kids myself, so I don’t have a ready made list in my head as Abbie does.
So, this was the first thing that came into my head:
Showing Saturday Night Live to my friend’s four year old. Perhaps an indication of my unfitness (hunh?) as a mother? We have now watched this clip a total of 10 times.
Thank you SNL, Andy Sandberg, Dog, Donkey, Chicken and Goat for allowing us the time to fix dinner. It was delicious.
And say ‘hi’ to your mother for me, okay?
meet the new member of my family! July 19, 2010
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Isn’t she beautiful??
never trust a man who can’t contract July 13, 2010
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Do ya ever get that feeling where your legs are so tired they feel more like semi-congealed gelatin than actual muscle and bone? That’s me right now. I’m currently reclined in my zero gravity chair, consoling my weary back after a long day of – visiting!
Yes, visiting.
Actually, it wasn’t the visiting that felt long. The visiting was quite lovely. It was getting to the visiting that was the issue. My dear friend Andrea lives way across town and I decided, in an overly ambitious, Olivia Newton John inspired fit of psychosis, that riding my bike to The Beaches and back, via The Rosedale Ravine, was a great idea.
[**You can find a report about another recent lapse in judgment regarding my physical ability here**]
Going down the ravine was a piece of cake, but that nagging how-the-hell-am-I-going-to-get-up-this-sucker? feeling kinda killed the fun.
After arriving (safely – a feat!) at the bottom of the ravine, I realized I was a bit lost. Actually, that’s not true. I wasn’t lost. I just didn’t know I wasn’t lost. Had I kept going the way I thought I should be going, I’d have been fine. Instead, I wandered around looking lost for almost 10 minutes. So, the problem wasn’t being lost. It was looking lost. Understand?
This is where the entire trip fell apart.
“Hey babe! You look lost!” I turned around and saw I was being addressed by an untidy man sitting on the corner of a 4 lane thoroughfare, holding a battered cardboard sign which read:
CHANGE? YOUR THE BEST! *smiley face*
“Um. I might be lost.”
“Where do ya wanna to get to?”
“Gerrard Street.”
“Well” he spat – no, hoarked – onto the pavement, “Gerrard Street is right there. But ya can’t go down that way. Nope. This street is waaay too busy. Whatcha wanna do is go up through the park, over through the hobby farm, and then down that hill again.”
I was a bit skeptical. I was pretty sure I could handle being on a busy road for two blocks, but I also didn’t want to become a pancake en route to afternoon tea. I’m pretty sure mud and blood are not part of the usual social etiquette. Besides, just because the guy couldn’t handle his contractions didn’t mean he wasn’t good with directions. Thinking that would have just been rude.
So, I thanked the nice man, backtracked and made my way up (ugh!) through the park where I was promptly presented with the SIX (ack!) flights of stairs I would need to get me and my not-so-feather-light-bicycle up and over before carrying on with my journey.
I got up the stairs with my bike, but not before doing something awful to my back, screaming something akin to the Hindenburg disaster and bashing myself so hard that a bruise the shape (and size) of the former Soviet Union has started appearing on my right leg.
Maybe it’s like Harry Potter’s lighting scar?
“The Boy Who Lived”
“The Girl Who Didn’t Didn’t Pass Out”
Maybe? No? *sigh*
At any rate, I made it the entire 24km there and back. Next time, though, I think I’d rather Apparate. Or take a Port Key. Heck, I’d even take a Broom.
Western Canadian Concert Tour : : Day Four : : Ukranian for a Day March 22, 2010
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I went to a Ukranian Catholic service this morning. I sang with the choir in Ukranian. I ate borscht. I spent the rest of the day recovering from last night. Oh…and I walked around Lake Wascana and checked out the Saskatchewan Legislature. Regina is actually sorta pretty if you know where to look.
Western Canadian Tour : : Day Three : : Bri-anne + Blues Brothers = BFFs. March 21, 2010
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REGINA
I usually try to pick my venues carefully. The people at McNally’s were so lovely to me. Jason on sound was awesome. Rick, the owner was cool. The crowd though…well…let’s just say I wasn’t what they were looking for. There’s only so much a girl with a guitar can sing over and sometimes, it doesn’t matter what you do, if people are there to smash beer glasses and shout at the person on stage, that’s what’s gonna happen.
I wish I knew Rawhide. Dammit…I wish I knew the Blue Brothers. My whole life would be way cooler if I knew the Blues Brothers.
Western Canadian Tour : : Day Two : : Watch out for Turtles! March 20, 2010
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I’m really, really exhausted right now. Maybe I’m still on Ontario time. Maybe the craziness of yesterday didn’t catch up with me until today. At any rate, this is just a short post of the highlights of today. There was no show tonight. I’m playing next tomorrow night in Regina.
1. This afternoon, Harvey (see previous post) came home from a meeting at his church and couldn’t get into the house because I had locked the door. “I see you think you’re still in Toronto.” Much like the area where I grew up, people in Brandon don’t lock their doors.
2. On the way to a church dinner that Harvey had bought tickets for, I asked him whether it was a fundraiser for the church or for an international relief effort (as is common with church dinners). He said the dinner was a fundraiser for the Icelandic people. I was very concerned that something had happened to the poor people in Iceland that I didn’t know about, until Harvey laughed at me and explained that a lot of people from Iceland settled in Western Manitoba and this was a fundraiser for the Icelandic Cultural Association. So don’t worry, everybody…the people in Iceland are fine. We ate the traditional Icelandic meal of fish and chips.
3. Upon arriving at the dinner: Me – Harvey, I don’t think we can park here. The sign says “No Parking”. Harvey – Ha! It’s okay. This is Brandon. Me – Oooookkkkkk.
4. On a whim, Harvey decided we should drive an hour south to the Peace Gardens on the border of Manitoba and North Dakota. Not thinking we were going anywhere after dinner I didn’t bring my camera with me. I stopped at the Zellers and asked one of the employees, who couldn’t have been more than 17 years old, where the disposable cameras were. He had no idea what I was talking about. I tried to explain to him what they were.”Oh, you mean one of those super old school cameras with, like, film and stuff in it?”
“Yeah. Like film. And stuff. But this camera in particular is designed so you only use it once.”
“Oh man, I think they’re over here. I thought they were, like, for little kids or something. You mean, you can actually get pictures ou
t of these?”
Somebody please tell me exactly when it was that I got old…
5. In order to get to the Peace Gardens we had to drive through Boissevain, a pretty little town with not one, but two grain elevators! Boissevain is in an area known as the Turtle Mountains, so named because of the large numbers of snappy turtles in the area. Like many small towns, Boissevain struggles to attract people and their money. And like many small towns, they have tried to come up with interesting ways to make a name for themselves. Coldwater (where I grew up) has the White Swan Swim. Moonbeam (a little town in Northern Ontario) has a flying saucer. Boissevain had, until recently, a world class Turtle Derby. People from all over North America would train their turtles and enter them into this turtle race. This guy in the photo is Tommy the Turtle.
Western Canadian Tour : : Day One : : Dude, Where’s My Guitar? March 19, 2010
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WINNIPEG / BRANDON, MANITOBA
As I was saying goodbye to Jason before boarding my flight for Winnipeg, I promised I would be open to whatever adventures came my way. I knew this wasn’t going to be difficult – “adventures” (trouble?) seem to find me no matter where I am or what I do. It’s not my fault. I come by it honestly. We have so many “adventures” that most people either don’t believe so much insanity can surround one family, or they suggest we get our own reality show. I knew since I am traveling alone and for quite a distance, some “adventure” would find me…eventually. I just wasn’t counting on it happening before I set foot outside of the airport.
The flight was wonderful. We left early(!) We arrived early(!) The flight attendants had me in stitches as they did the macarena in the aisles. When I landed I was reminded of how friendly Winnipeg is with their fabulous yellow-vested airport volunteers who can spot a lost soul in need of coffee and a hug from across two runways. I was greeted by my friend Joyce. [I met Joyce and her husband, Harvey, the last time I played in Winnipeg. Joyce is dog sitting in Winnipeg, but Harvey has been my gracious host here in Brandon. I hadn't seen Joyce since I played in here three years ago.] Things were looking good…even though the weather was 23 degrees cooler than what I left in Toronto.
However, things started to look not so good when I realized my guitar wasn’t coming out with the rest of the oversized and fragile luggage. I went to the counter and I checked with the woman in charge. There was no guitar. She called Pearson International Airport in Toronto. They didn’t know where my guitar was either. I had 30 minutes before I had to catch my Greyhound bus to Brandon – a two and a half hour drive from Winnipeg. And I had a gig. An early gig. To be completely honest, I was pretty proud of myself for not outwardly losing my mind. But really, all I wanted to sit on a chair and start sobbing. I mean, I brought my ukulele, but I didn’t think it would be fair to inflict an entire show of that upon the patrons at Lady of the Lake. Besides, I bought the ukulele because it has a pineapple on the top, not for its quality as an instrument. That’s just how I roll.
I filled out a form and the nice woman at the counter said she’d call when she heard something. As I scrambled to catch my bus to Brandon I received a phone call: there was a guitar at Pearson with no luggage tag, but they needed to know what colour it was before they would send it along. It didn’t matter that it was the only guitar left behind a flight outbound to Winnipeg that morning. They still needed verification. I was a grumpy muppet.
After verifying that the guitar was indeed mine, there was still the issue of how they were going to get it to me in time for my show. The guitar was still in Toronto and I was on the bus to Brandon. WestJet decided to fly the guitar to Winnipeg on the next flight and then courier it out to Brandon as soon as it got there. I received a call at 4:00pm letting me know the guitar made it to Winnipeg and it was on its way. Philip, who is my new hero in addition to being the courier driver assigned my case, pushed the speed limit the entire way in order to get me my instrument in time. And he did…with less than 5 minutes to spare before show time. I gave him a hug and a CD, and then ran up on stage to do the show.
After the drama of the day, the show itself seemed pretty mellow and anti-climactic.
