British Book Covers

I have always known the British to be wily creatures, but their strongest efforts I believe, are all poured into the book industry. More specifically, in the covers of said books. Book covers here seem to be more of an art form than they are back home, at least certainly when I lived in Canada. I go into W.H. Smith just to look at their book chart and all I see is eye-catching masterpieces. I want to read everything, even books that are titled "A Touch of Crimson" and other rubbish reads that only my Grandma would desire to pour over in the wee hours with a flashlight. On more than one occasion, I have purchased books that I have not and will not ever read because the cover was so epic but the first chapter was absolute crap. To illustrate my point, I have uploaded a few book covers for you to pleasure your eyes with. Feel free to shade your peepers from the Canadian womp womp covers.

Harry Potter books - the whole set. Gee thanks Canada for your third-rate cartoon drawings, especially the Deathly Hallows cover. The last cover, considered to be the most compelling and serious of the books, has Hermione vomiting out lava with two fat red squirrel cheeks, Ron's face so sallow he looks like he is recovering from a drinking problem, and Harry is a 45 year old man. Where is the quality control on that baby? Also, is the most important aspect of that book the 15 page section where they are in the vault with jewels? No. Thanks for illustrating the most insignificant of storylines.




















Next we have the Hunger Games Trilogy. Although quite similar, I think you can see sometimes less really is more. Poor font choice and cheesy added background graphics make the Canadian versions not only less appealing but a repellent to the reader. Luckily this book had decent writing, otherwise Suzanne Collins might have only had a purely British (and Canadian immigrant) fan base. The black background of the British versions, link all the books together but also sets them apart with their striking singular image and colour scheme.

Finally, the Game of Thrones book aka Song of Fire and Ice series. Although very similar again, one book looks like it was made by me in 9th grade computers class and the other by a gifted marketing guru. The plain orange background reminds me of hospital walls, with the white strip of light guiding me into the afterlife. And thanks for terrible font choice once again. Is this 1970? If not, clean up your act and get with it. Also, the entirely wrong image is chosen to be the focal point of the cover, especially with art skills as bad as this one. Figure it out. The British cover has a textured background which is epic because of the plain colouring, and again a great text choice and colouring. The dragon symbol has advanced with the times (unlike the wolf circa 1998....before common era) and all the colours blend together. Winner winner chicken dinner.

So hopefully you have a little more insight as to the number of reasons I am staying in this country besides occupation, love, and travelling - book covers.

Child Rejection

The worst kind.


In my class I have ONE child who does not like me one bit. No matter what I do, this kid is not having it. He seems pretty serious and not one for theatrics, which is where I think the problem lies. I tend to do a lot of gestures and voices when telling stories or singing songs, and all the other children fall into wild giggles. BUT not this one. I spotted him on the first day when everyone was laughing and joining in and through the slew of children I saw one still one. My eyes were met with a deadpan, unimpressed glare as one might see in a horror film. I called on him to join in and went over to help him do the actions. He confidently moved away and made it clear he will have nothing to do with my pathetic attempts to please him.

This has led me into a down-spiral of sadness as my exertions were always turned into failures. I pick him first for activities, I praise every dot he makes on paper, and I try to put out activities I know he will like. He runs over to the set out area to play with his favourite things and when I join him, he just looks at me with a smug little scowl and says "no" so firmly that I know there is no negotiation to be had. The worst is that usually the "no" is accompanied by an arm bar so he can keep me at arm's length. One time I was praising how well he coloured in a picture (I was lying) and he stopped drawing, looked up, put his crayon down and pushed himself away from the table. He walked away shaking his head. The shame.

On Friday, things were going pretty well (he could tolerate my presence). We even had to hold hands because he was at the front of the line when we walked to the play area. I thought I was in, so I presumptuously asked, "_____ do you like Ms. Thomas?" He looked up with cute brown eyes so full of thought...then furrowed his brow and asserted "no" and scampered off. Devastation.

I will conquer this task even if it kills me and it just might as Monday I am planning a series of acrobatics and tricks to gain his favour.

Do You See What I See? I Doubt It.

I have always been blind. I remember getting my first pair of glasses when I was in grade 1 and knowing that I definitely needed them. I can't remember how it came about that people realized I needed them, but I am sure it was something ridiculous like squinting to see my own hand when counting on my fingers. Looking back on my style, I went from being insanely Suri Cruise cute, to being an ultra dork with the purchase of pink-tortoiseshell glasses AND to top my humiliation off, I chose a Mario Brothers glasses case. In case anyone was wondering what my destiny would be in terms of favourite literature/movies, that single purchase sealed the deal. Sure some children would have chosen a Northern Getaway-type case with a cute pattern, but no, I chose Mario. Thanks younger conscious, you were a great help to my social status as a child...not.

Everyone I meet, who finds out I am blind and wear contacts, begins the series of very predictable questions and outrageous requests as if I hit my head, and they are determining if I have permanent brain damage. "How far can you see?? Take your glasses off, how many fingers am I holding up? Can you see me now?? How about from here??" I understand that it is hard to fathom if you never had a sight problem, to then wrap your head around someone who can't see their hand in front of their face, but really? Come on. If someone said they had trouble hearing, would you then start whispering to see how little they could hear? Or if someone was in a wheelchair, would you demand them to just try to stand a little?

I used to not understand how the people in comics couldn't guess who the superhero was. How did people not know Clark Kent was Superman, when he was just wearing a different outfit? At least I thought that until one day last year I had to wear my glasses instead of my contacts to school. Everyone's reactions were actually appalling. "Whoa! I didn't know you wore glasses! Wow you look so different!" Really? I have a small, mostly transparent item across my face, do I really look that wildly different? Perhaps I should fight crime, but only in my glasses so no one will be able to guess who I am. 

I have also always wanted someone to do a research study linking extreme nearsightedness to being afraid of the dark or what I like to call "shadow fear." When in bed, the moment those glasses come off for me to sleep, my room changes from a fun-loving ikea model, to Dante's 9 circles of Hell. The coats handing behind the door become the latest badies from Criminal Minds and even Pinkball gives a horrifying death stare. Someone needs to legally and undeniably prove that my cowardice is related to my physical disability, rather than a weak mental state.

One day I will probably get laser eye surgery to help with my sight, but I think I'll give it a few more years until they get out all the kinks. If I lose my eyes, I will be seriously bummed. Which is probably similar to when they started doing appendectomies, no one wanted to be the first person to just get their appendix out. I would hate my eye surgery to be something like Tom Cruise's in Minority Report and knowing our house, Bond would leave a rotting sandwich next to my new lunch, for me to mistakenly munch on. Until then, I might apply for a golden retriever to fetch me my glasses in the morning when I can't ever find them directly beside my bed or to help me sniff out a dropped contact lens in that awkward transition between putting my glasses down and placing my first contact in when I am completely blind for 15 seconds. 

I have typed this entire blog without contacts/glasses and it has taken me 3 days. This is why I haven't posted in so long. Sorry.

Exciting posts.

Well, I guess I am pretty settled in England. The thing with moving to another country is eventually you establish a life there and all your routines return to you. I have been seriously thinking hard about what to post in the blog lately, however I find it difficult to create material. Here is why,

Schedule:

5:00 am - wake up
6:00 am - catch train
7:05 am - arrive at school
8:00 am - 2:30 pm - teach
6:00 pm - arrive at home
8:30 pm - fall into bed exhausted
9:30 pm - zzz

Where do funny things come from? I wrote a recent post and it was about our boiler breaking.
"Oooo great fun. Hilarious insights! What funny anecdotes" - said no one ever.

Here it was:

Hot, hot, heat.


Our boiler broke. To be exact, we believe someone broke it. We were on holiday (which was lovely) when we discovered our flat had been broken into but remarkable, nothing was stolen. However, when we went to turn on the hot water and heating, it was kaputt. 

After nearly a week of no heat/hot water, and many a gym trip to shower... the boiler man was able to get the heat working but only if we kept it running. 

This would be ok if we had some sort of thermostat. We do not. We have heat on, or off. No regulation of temperature whatsoever. We either live in the Arctic, or the Sahara.

Once we left the heat on for almost a solid two days. Mistake. I would shower at night, and wake up with hair still wet, only to discover the water had been replaced with pure sweat.

I will never go back to that. We turned it off, and of course it stopped working. Since then, someone has fixed the boiler again but only temporarily, and they don't know when it won't turn on again.

It is alright though, because I find when sitting in the humid flat, I find my complexion quite fetching. The heat brings about a flush I cannot achieve with cosmetic blushes.

After reading this post, I thought, can I even post this? I want to die reading this and it is MY life. I actually had to live this to write about it. I think I have to make a more conscious effort to find the funny in the mundane. I find I usually think life is at it's funniest when I am into watching ridiculous tv shows like Seinfeld or Arrested Development. However, right now HBO and AMC are making golden dramas. I can't get enough of the heavy material. It is trickling into my worldview though, and I need to break free. Yesterday, I saw someone wearing a dark hoodie and I started to tear up, thinking that they were like Jesse from Breaking Bad and likely addicted to crystal meth, having a soul mate who OD'd, and had no relationship with his parents. Then he stood up, and I realized the hoodie was Burberry and he was probably doing jussstttt fine.

Life needs more laughter. I will try my best.

New Meaning of Limp Wrist

This is not to be offensive at all, but just as some terms need reclaiming...I'm cracking this one out. I was trying to describe what happens to me at work and could not manage to give an accurate depiction without using the two words "limp" and "wrist" together at once. Some of you may be familiar with this ridiculous urban dictionary descriptor, however today I am using limp wrist or I use "limp-wristing" to describe what a child does when not wanting to join an activity.

Some of you know I started a new job last Monday. It was an end of a era for me, but am excited about a new beginning. Now I am working with very young children, and often times, they do not want to do things they have to do.

For safety reasons, children have to come inside/outside once in a while, or join carpet activities and cannot be left unsupervised. Some children decline. Not even politely.

I bring out all my bag of tricks to bend them to my will. Often times it reminds me of trying to get Freckles (the world's worst trained but best furry friend) back inside after escaping out the front door to the park across the street. "Come on cutie! Come on! Do you want a treat? How about you chase me back? Come catch me! No? Ok..." In a voice that is often high-pitched enough to break glass. After running through a course of teacher tricks to curve behaviour, you inevitable make that ONE wrong step in their direction, which brings about a resulting reaction what I call the "chase instinct." Again, like puppies, suddenly they crouch down with their bottom waging, ready to bolt in either direction, because of course you are only playing and WANT to chase them around the playground. I draw the line at running. If I run, I am chasing, if I walk around a tree to catch, I am collecting - see the difference? They don't either.

Minutes pass and I pull out another trick, distraction. "Look at that beautiful flower, come with me to water it" *hand snag. For children deemed as "runners" I have admittedly even used the "oohhh ouch! Miss Thomas twisted her ankle and needs help to come inside. Will you help me get ice on my foot and be a helper?" *limping inside with children "supporting" me to get to a chair and thus where I actually want them.

However their is the odd time when children then perform what I now have coined as limp-wristing. It is the act of holding a child's hand to guide them to the desired location, and their body becomes limp at the wrist. This inevitably ends up with you thrown off balance, trying to recover, all while attempting to make your actions look completely safe and kind. Limp-wristing occurs with even the softest touch of a hand and they make the dropping as dramatic as possible. It is like you are holding spaghetti that had some ends sticking out of the pot. Their body is noodle-ish, but their hand is still holding you like Jack from the Titanic.

Limp-wristing, I believe, is the most difficult thing a teacher will have to face during the day. Forget lessons, physical activity, singing, or crying. Once limp-wristed, you are in impossible territory. No efficient method has been decided yet, as we would never lift a child in school, where a limp-body is irrelevant when it is entirely elevated. So it is somewhat of the child's ultimate trump card. They know they will be joining you in the next activity...exactly when they want to.

Well done children, you have defeated me for now.

Magic Mike

OK so it might be a good movie - who knows. Maybe it will be like a Boogie Nights and expose a side to an industry we don't normally see BUT what I seem to be seeing is equally weird and creepy girls posting links to the trailer on facebook or commenting on youtube making disgusting remarks or giving shout outs like,"calling all girls!!"

If suddenly there was a movie about strippers OR a movie like Show Girls resurfaced and AS many guys were posting it to their walls writing comments like "OH YA, must see!!" I would think they are creeps, in fact I believe many women would. In particular, I think the demographic who would be the first to strike or make a fuss about it would be the same who are posting now about Magic Mike.

I do believe in equal rights and I think even more so now that I have met someone who respects me for a woman not just a partner. Since being with him I have seen that equal doesn't mean being equally sleazy. It doesn't mean wearing trashy clothes or "playing the game" that some guys do, so it is fair. It means calling for more respect and demanding the opposite sex to rise up to our standard.

Not only does it make you seem like a scuzzball for so publicly drooling over a movie about male strippers, but you are also showing your limitations of gender roles and sexual orientations. What about males who want to see the movie? Why are you "calling all ladies!"? I am a lady and I don't want to see that. What about my male counterpart who might be interested? Do you expect a hoard of women to come flocking to the cinema with you to snail trail over some B actors taking their clothes off? (I'm looking at you Channing Tatum - or sometimes as I remember Tanning Chatum, as he is not even important enough to get his name straight and Channing is a nonsensical name anyway) What's sad is I don't even doubt that probably this movie will be worked into a so-called ladies night, where I picture groups of single-something women eating at Boston Pizza, having a few too many Cosmos, then ending the night hollering at the cinema screen. Again I pose, if a group of males were to create a guys night of this and then all slinking off to watch female strippers - oh wait, some do that, and usually they are the kind that wear camouflage pants, Ed Hardy t-shirts, and greasy hair and what do we call them??? CREEPS! Point made.

On Friday, I saw women who were working for a company and paid to walk Covent Garden (a classy area of London) in lingerie. A crowd of males had formed, especially older men, who were cat-calling and taking pictures on their phones. Some women looked offended while walking by. At first I was thinking, ew dirty old men then I had to shake myself and think about WHAT I was looking at. Why are these women in their underwear on the streets? I think both sexes had let themselves down that day but what would "make us equal" doesn't mean I want a bunch of guys in speedos for me to whistle at. How about everyone puts on their damn clothes?!

Now I know some people who are posting are just trying to be funny or play at the male stereotype, but enough now. The things I am seeing are the female equivalents of when we would call a guy a douchebag (which in itself undermines the feminist stance and underscores some of the argument but it sums up with urban dictionary this behaviour). So if you don't want to be a douchebagette - lay off and go back to posting youtube clips about people tripping in public so we can all equally laugh at another. Thanks.

Mouth O' Flames

I enjoy a good mouthwash because, especially now living with Mr. Bond, I like to keep my mouth minty fresh in case of spontaneous smooches.

Anyway, I tend to stick to Listerine because I feel it is a challenge - one I have never conquered. If you have ever purchased Listerine, you may already know what I am hinting at. If you have ever bought Listerine and been bored whilst stuck on the toilet, you definitely know what I am hinting at. I am talking about the Listerine directions of usage on the bottle and their website.

I have included them for your background knowledge.

 Adults and children 6 years of age and older:

• Use twice daily after brushing your teeth with a
  toothpaste
• Vigorously swish 10 ml (2 teaspoonfuls) of rinse 
  between your teeth for 1 minute and then spit out
• Do not swallow the rinse
• Do not eat or drink for 30 minutes after rinsing
• Supervise children as necessary until capable of 
  using without supervision

I don't think so Listerine, or should I say...Johnson & Johnson Healthcare Products Division of McNeil-PPC Inc.

Sure swishing around in your mouth sounds easy enough, but they don't tell you 10ml soon becomes 225ml with a chemical agent that produces copious amounts of foam. How can I swish something that becomes infinitely larger with every swish? Whenever I use it, I feel like I am in grade 10 science, calculating the doubling life of a protozoa.

Also, 1 minute isn't a very long time considering how long it takes me to get my hair did in the morning but it is a LONG 1 minute if you are gargling flames. Listerine is not rinsing your mouth with water - it is bathing your gums in bleach, mixed with ammonia, with a dash of jalapenos, and a side of draino. Within seconds of the liquid entering my mouth, I feel my flesh peel back on my cheeks. Any company can boast killing 99.9% of germs when they also kill 99.9% of healthy tissue. Using twice a day would leave me looking like Harvey Dent post Joker incident.

Lastly, no eating or drinking for 30 minutes after is simply torture. Eating or drinking would be the only thing to soothe the pain. My dentist told me once that rinsing my mouth out with water after completely negated me using Listerine. Is this medical fact? I have never known a substance's chemical nature to be altered entirely by a quick gulp of water. Isn't water one of the most neutral substances on earth? That's how they get you though, more times you attempt to withstand and cave, the more new gulps you take - steadily decreasing your supplies.

I will keep trying to meet this challenge head on, twice daily. And when I do - I will let them know!

Old Gray Mare

So I turned 25. Yuck.

I used to think I would be married to Brian Littrell of the Backstreet Boys by the age of 21 and would have my first child by 23 because any older than that would be gross.

As I got older, my daydreaming continued but my dream ages steadily increased. "Oh ya, 25 is a good age to get married, ya, that's JUST as good as 21. It's also definitely still doable."

Well here I am, content with my life which is good but I am starting to see some definite signs of aging. My test of youth really came to me whilst I was on holiday with Mr. Bond in Paris. I say holiday, but if I had blinked, I would have missed the entire trip...and believe me I wish I had a second to blink/slumber.

The weeks prior to our two week break, Mr. Bond and I pondered over some activities we could do. Having both seen an add on the tube for Megabus - trips to Paris for £1 - we looked it up. Oh what a great idea! We can travel on the bus overnight so we can get a full day in Paris and our accommodation is covered! Oh and here's a fun adventure, let's just make it a day trip to save even more money!! Let's come back on the same bus THAT night. I can not express enough how big of a mistake this evolution of ideas was. As many of you are probably already thinking, yup we didn't get any sleep. Just as I was getting comfortable and slightly snoozing, the bus stops and we have to get off for border control. Then back on - get off for the ferry ride - stay on a boat for over an hour - get back on bus - adjust - then try to rest. So awful. After a long while, and many adjustments to my posture so now I look like a proud falcon perched on a trainer's leather arm guard, I drift into sleep. What feels like minutes later, I awake in the Sahara desert, oh wait... it's just the broken heating system on the bus. I felt this odd sensation and experienced something I never had before. A pool of sweat had collected on my neck/upper chest. How does this happen? This is not a crevice. That was how hot the bus was, sweat collected on flat surfaces, joining to other sweat to try to cool down.

Anyway we arrive, near death. Zombie-ing around Paris is not as much fun as one would think. However, we did find a cosy nook to slumber in for a while in the Louvre. That's socially acceptable, right?

Then we return, exhausted and hours early to catch our bus. The only problem is, we were told on the way TO Paris, that we did not have to check in while IN Paris to return home. So after waiting 3.5 hours in a bus station, we get turned away at the bus by the driver because we need a plastic tag on top of our actual boarding passes to say we have a soul or something. Needless to say, when we manage to get back on, there are no seats for Bond and I to sit together. Except 1. At the back. Squashed together. Above the heater. Beside another couple in a row of 5. At this point my emotions have been put in a bag, dropped from the Eiffel Tower, punched by the Mona Lisa, and have eaten way too much rich food. I am a dairy-dump of disaster. Bond sees my unbridled rage and tries his best to adjust his body so I am sitting next to a memory foam pillow, however it doesn't work. There is not even enough room to cross my legs.

When we managed to traipse back into our flat, we slept 7 hours. This is how I know I am old. This entire story shows age. I used to sleep for 2 hours a night during exams, then after they were done, smash some beers to celebrate. Now if I am awake 2 hours, my eyes hurt looking at a computer screen.

In case you didn't believe that I was getting older, I have compiled a list of pathetic tendencies that prove my near-death. You're welcome:

- deciding to start separating laundry - After Bond's white v-necks continue to get noticeably more gray with every laundry load, I have decided to separate. I have never before. My black pantyhose, tights, bras, and dresses will just have to steer clear.
- grey hairs - I used to have 2 maybe 3, so they were easy to pluck. Now if I plucked all my gray hairs out, I would only HAVE 2 or 3 normal hairs. My hair catches sunlight and blinds the children with its silver rays. Back to the hairdresser.
- mishearing book/movie titles and repeating them incorrectly in front of many people. I have REALLY wanted to read/watch Crown of Thorns...Crown of Games...Game of Crowns...Games of Throne Crowns for a while now.
- needing at least 8 hours of sleep but only managing to force my body to sleep 6 at most (as long as those 6 hours start between 10pm - 11pm, anything after that still leaves me exhausted all day). This bullet can be completely disregarded though if my sleeping will go passed 9am. Like clockwork, at 6am I get up to go pee, then can fall back asleep until 9 only. At which point, I lay in bed exhausted by can't even manage to close my eyes. Nothing will bring sleep to me. Well...almost nothing...
- this brings me to a show. The above point can be disregarded if there are any episodes of Blue Planet in the house. If I slap on some David Attenborough it doesn't matter if I have woken up from a 12 hour uninterrupted slumber, I can always go into a coma with his soothing man voice. This point was included because although it removes proof of my oldness based on sleeping patterns, it proves I am getting older by falling asleep to an episode of a tv show.
- getting drunk off of 1 glass of wine (I used to have to sneak away at parties to quickly drink in the bathroom so they didn't see me gag down my first few drinks fast and thus party harder) but now one glass is enough to get me to have me singing Cher at the top of my lungs. Only point of pride: my wallet is much fuller after a night out.
- having to pee 4 times before bed - WHY DOES MY BODY DO THIS?? Nothing comes out the third time!! Why even go a fourth?? But I can never talk my mind out of it - I might have to get up in the middle of the night to go!
- calculating how much water I have to drink in a day so those 4 pees at night won't burn coming out
- thoroughly enjoying crosswords. Not a single event gives me more contentedness.

I am sure there are more, but I think this is enough proof to convince you I am as old as dirt. Now, it is getting late (8:40 pm) I must be off to get ready for bed.

Heart of Slumbers

Just a quick update:

I never finished Heart of Darkness nor would I recommend anyone to read it in this day in age. I give myself a gold star on my fridge for trying. I made it to page 60 yet only managed to grasp the most superficial and vague idea of what the plot may or may not be about.

Embarrassing part:

I was reporting my failure back to my mother and Sean and in a passing comment about the book I saw their faces freeze. They then approached the conversation carefully. I simply said that the book reminded me too much of Apocalypse Now and how silly that this Kurtz man is so sought after and mysterious EXACTLY like Marlon Brando.

Fact:

Apocalypse Now was based on the novella Heart of Darkness. They are so similar because they are the same story. The movie has just been set in an more recent war.

Result:

Sean thought I was using incredible wit to create a very dry humor joke. His shame was all that remained when he realized the truth. Mum sheepishly corrected me - thanks Tips.

Near disaster:

If I had gone to book club and mentioned this silly "link" on Tuesday, I would have definitely been asked to leave and never return. Maggie would have cut up my library card then lit it on fire in front of me.

Crisis averted.

Return of the Mack or...Mr. Bond

Tomorrow is the long-anticipated and most-exciting return of Mr. Bond. You will all be happy to know I survived my week of abandonment independence with style and maturity-ish. I have become devishly addicted to the Hunger Games trilogy and spent many a free minute whizzing through the books. I have also spent the time working. Not as much fun, but still a worthwhile experience. That and worrying.

Worrying is in my blood. I am at several intersections of heritage that have led me to this life and if you look at where I came from, it's not hard to see why I spend much of my life worrying. Not that I have had a stressful life but I have been surrounded by worriers. My life has still been pleasant with my family, however I find most of my relatives are worriers and also Hungarians, which naturally brings them into mental loops of worry. Glenn Turner once said "worry is like a rocking chair, it gives you something to do but it gets you no where." How true it is, as I have worried about everything in the past week and I am still exactly where I was before. Worrying is so common in my family that when I told my stepdad that I was writing a post on worrying, he emailed the quote that has been stuck to our family fridge since as long as I can remember. Worrying is somewhat similar to my high expectations - outlandish and unfounded. I don't worry that Bond won't have a warm enough jumper for the week, I worry that while swimming in the Sea, he somehow managed to be consumed by a shark.

Anyway, I anticipation of his return, I had to make sure my schedule would be clear tomorrow so I have had to complete all my lesson planning today. I spent all day working, yet have managed to not complete my lessons. I have been distracted by the hair on the carpet (THAT needed to be vacuumed), dust floating in a sunbeam (how beautiful and wonderful! I wonder, is the dust always floating like that or only in this beam of the sun...), the state of my eyebrows (this sunlight picks up the hairs on my face too), and obviously this blog. Now I must get back to devising a scheme for teaching 2-dimensional symmetry, maybe I will worry about how my distracted lesson planning will impact the future educational studies of my children...

Here is the family quote:

When you worry, you go over the same ground endlessly and come out the same place you started. Thinking makes progress from one place to another; worry remains static.
Walker, Harold B

My Heart of Darkness

I have made it another day! Although today was altogether uneventful. I have begun Heart of Darkness for my book club which meets next week and I am not sure why I have agreed to this torture. I sadly left the novel to the last minute so reading it coupled with my isolation is enough to make me start to rock in a corner.

As a teacher, I push my children to focus, be better, learn more, and cram as much knowledge into them as I can before they fly off into the world of...year 3. However sometimes, I catch myself becoming one of them and I wonder why I am so demanding of their little minds. As adults we forget what it is like to read, write, or do anything that is beyond our capabilities. It is not like anyone is currently forcing me to complete an algebraic calculation or solve for x. Adults choose what they succeed at to continue doing for the rest of their lives. For books, if we don't like a novel for whatever reason, we put it down and choose another one. I find more often than not, I put down a book because it is out of my grasp, not because it is bad writing. I will read any poorly written book (Twilight) as long as it has a gripping storyline (Twilight), and an intense love affair (Twilight) usually between an immortal and a human (Twilight). However, throw me a copy of...well...Heart of Darkness, and I approach the book with resentment, boredom, and mind-wandering.

Children don't have the luxury adults have. I make them read nonfiction. I make them jump to the nearest ten before continuing to add the units. I make them research on sharks, light and dark, and insects. I of course don't have an issue with exposing them to things they might not be interested in or good at, I am all for that because you won't know what you like or what you are good at until you try it and practice makes perfect...there is also no I in team and absence makes the heart grow fonder, and any other cliche you want to throw in there.

I am just stating that sometimes we forget that a child might not be perfectly engaged when listening to the BFG because they don't friggen care. They may find Roald Dahl's made up words hard to decode and inaccessible. But it is adults that demand them to stay focused and try harder when it is something they would not expect of themselves. I am obviously not going to change what I teach the children because they drift off, but this new found awareness will make me call in to question how I teach certain topics and allow for some mental drifting without the harsh snap-out-of-its.

I do also now sympathize greatly with my teachers from the past and present and mostly my parents and my partner. I certainly wasn't and am not the easiest pupil but I am trying and isn't that what we also hope from our children? So back to the book. I read it because I know it is a significant piece of literature, but I do it with great turmoil. Averaging one page a fortnight isn't all that bad but it will be come Tuesday when Maggie asks my input on the author's take on good versus evil and the destructive nature of colonialism. Because after all, I may be a new generation of teacher but I guarantee Maggie is plain old school and I am sure I will get my knuckles rapped if I don't come up with the answer or if it starts to look like I am off with the fairies.

Here goes nothing. Zzzzzzzzzz

Peaks and Valleys

Anyone who knows me, knows my emotions tend to peak and valley more than Frodo's route to Mordor. With age I have gained the wisdomosity to recognise when they will be valleying, which is of course a great step. They always say the first step is admitting you have a problem. Well done. Now what to do with that information.

First of all things that I now know set me off:
- loud noises
- bad smells
- crowded spaces
- disappointment
- shattered expectations (which goes hand-in-hand with my "problem" of setting extraordinary expectations, leading to my hopes always being shattered. For example a typical night out would result in a daydream of starting the dancing on the dancefloor, being watched while I complete an outrageous routine in a circle - usually involving several others joining in to my steps, being signed to a dance team, and as a result hosting SNL...it could happen.)
- douchebaggery
- snarky comments - from others, never my own
- hunger
- not being able to get a hold of someone by either phone, text, email
- negative feedback

That is a small list considering some people are set off by women in the work force...right?

One of my moment's of revelation was when I worked at a call centre and boss made all the supervisors take a personality test as a part of team building. We all found our results dead ringers of who we were and I was quite pleased with mine until I got to the second last comment "often plagued by dark thoughts, if you hear 99 positive comments and 1 negative, the 1 will stick in your head to fester." The test was overall positive and things I happily related to, but this one seemed to just stay in my mind. I turned it over and over in my mind and made a list of my so-called "dark thoughts." What a bullshit test.

Anyway, I have come up with several coping mechanisms to overcome my mini-rages such as

- watching episodes of Seinfeld (this is interesting to mention that this is opposite for my mother. In fact, this could be added to her list of things that set her off. One day I was home sick on a day that coincided with one of her mornings off. Just as my mum was about to sit down - cheeks centimetres hovering over the couch, I flicked to an episode of Seinfeld and she sprang back up like a Jack in the Box. She unleashed a slew of curses and refused to watch such "infuriating garbage" and if I didn't turn it she would withhold love from me from the rest of the morning. My mother feels very similar to South Park)
- reading - fiction, non-fiction can never break me from a funk, who wants to get out of their mood by reading about other people's struggles? Not me.
- writing
- dancing to Whitney Houston's I wanna dance with somebody...RIP
- looking at pictures of baby animals particularly kittens, puppies, pandas, piglets, and rodents (odd choice, I know, but have you seen a baby mouse? You are dead inside if you don't at least let out a sigh)
- speaking to my family and Mr. Bond - obv

I have recently been put to the ultimate test of emotional strength and positivity. My partner in crime, Mr. Bond has ventured to the lovely Mauritius for a work trip. Now before you start to groan, I want to clarify I am a fiercely independent person - I live in England away from all my family and friends for Christmas sake, so give me some credit. As I look out the window of my London flat, I think I recognise one of the emotions at play - jealousy. Bond has already messaged that he is starting to tan while I am here with my British tan (white as snow) and looking at a Spring grey sky.

I am also nearly in complete isolation this weekend. I spent a lovely Friday night with my closest friends in London and had a fabulous time but I needed to return to the flat to lesson plan and get back to life. The weather and workload are keeping me from exploring the city but now I know why solitary confinement is a severe punishment in prisons. I have begun to scratch out a daily tally chart on the wall with my fingernails and I swear Pinkball is following me with her eyes. I will play a game of monopoly with her later to make sure she stays happy enough to not kill me in my sleep.

Coupled with my beginning insanity, I do generally miss Mr. Bond as he is very fit. And funny. Oh and I do generally love him. Also, I am beginning to starve as he does cook the majority of the meals to ensure my bones don't crumble by the age of 30, my teeth stay in my skull, and I have something called an "immune system" to fight "sickness". I have begun to boil and chew my shoe leather as I saw it in an episode of Due South once.

I have begun to notice a slight shift in my positivity and I believe I might, just might, be heading for a valley. In preparation I have made my desktop a picture of a baby piglet, purchased the Hunger Games trilogy, made a Whitney playlist consisting of I wanna dance with somebody, and planned out a rigorous skype schedule. I am also writing this blog daily to see how I do. Check back daily to see if Pinkball has locked me in the bathroom and supplied me with only my wellies for a meal.

Now for a cheer-you-up, take a gander at what I mean:

Baby badger. Awww

Payback

Well there have been no further mouse spottings or deaths in the Haus of Mousie. so this is a different kind of payback.

I love to read. I need to read everyday and before bed or I can't sleep. I have stacks of books on my bedside table and reading lists from 2009 that always seem to carry over to the next year. One problem great thing with London is that there are bookshops everywhere and every station I go into has a bookstall close by for me to creep through. This inevitably leads to me purchasing new books and expanding my reading list. Sadly, the moment I feel I have control over the books I am going to read, WH Smith has a book sale (buy 1 book, get 6 free) and I have another huge stack to get through. I have been meaning to read Wuthering Heights for months now, but a new We Need to Talk About Kevin comes out and I have to snatch it up.

 

Why I read.

My book club doesn't help this sick addiction either, because 80-something year old ladies refer to me all these life-changing books that I just HAVE to read. This also brings with it their movie adaptations that I must see because it-is-nothing-like-the-book-but-just-as-poignant-and-life-altering-as-its-literary-match. Book club also messes up the order of the reading list, because there is a time pressure that comes with it. I have to read and research my latest book before our next meet, otherwise I will look like a chimp when Maggie (the 70-something year old retired English professor) says "the book has sweeping metaphors and symbolism similar, but not equal to that of Poe. Don't you agree Katie?" leaving me blank-faced and awe-inspired over these brilliant and revolutionary women. Something in their British accent also gives them an authority that makes my North American twang sound Neanderthal, "I think dem der books are mighty fine reads ma'am and I likes de looks of dem pages with all thurr words on it." So I am left to read book review after book review, and wikipedia pages of authors, publishers, print dates, etc.

One anthology we read in October had the ladies referencing the time periods the short stories were written in and they were comparing their previous works to this snippet. The women had of course NOT read the book in order from start to finish, but instead read by author according to those they liked the most to the least. They also referenced printing presses, cultural influences, and the authors' pets who undoubtedly shaped the entire text. I was baffled. I had read the book from start to middle and begrudgingly so as the stories used too many words like whilst and henceforth and I couldn't make out if the main character was happy or sad most of the time because the subtext was too coded.

Anyway, the point is, I have a lot of books and I search out only really classic, literary novels to read that will shape me as a person or entertain whole-heartedly. This is why I am deeply disappointed, if not disgusted, if a book misleads me. If I pick a shit book because I am in a hurry and don't put in the time, then it is my own fault. However, if I put in a solid 20 minutes into selecting your book, it better damn well be worth it. The last book I read had this on the front "Winner of the 2011 COSTA Novel Award" and "'Irresistibly compelling' - Daily Telegraph" "'Gripping' - The Times" and on the back a blurb of

Paris, 1785. A year of bones, of grave-dirt, relentless work. Of mummified corpses and chanting priests. A year of rape, suicide, sudden death. Of friendship too. Of desire. Of love.. A year unlike any other he has lived.

I think...win. This will at least be a thrilling novel, something like a Dan Brown to occupy my mind and rip me from my rut of non-fiction texts. The front of the book even has gold shiny bits! GOLD! The front-illustration is enough to draw me and many a ferret in. 

So when I get halfway through the book I am enraged. Halfway is about when you know, just know, this book won't pick up. It isn't getting any better and you have resigned yourself to boredom. Now, I am not as near death as some older readers, who might say "you don't have long to live, put it down and choose another." I still feel I have endless time so I NEED to finish a book. If I don't it's blasphemy AND it might turn into a Life of Pi, having a huge twist at the end, which completes my life. So I, of course, read a few book reviews and get a resounding womp womp from fellow readers. It is as boring as it is long. I express to Bond my boredom and how I am dragging through it just to finish and be rid of it. 

Now here comes my payback. In 1999 Mom and Sean gave me, A Book Lover's Diary which I have written in since. The front is inscribed, "Merry Christmas Katie! Keep on reading!" which I can't help but read in a Southern accent with intense twang, so it turns into a "keep onnnnnnnn readin!" It is here where I harbour my vengeance. I give the book half a star (can you believe it!), with a malicious review and undoubtedly tearing the author a new one. Ranting about pointless words, and plots that never amount to anything; unable to draw the reader in if it had my own name woven into it. I know it might seem small to you, but I give a maniacal laugh after I place my last full stop on the page, writing something like "Who should read this book? No one." MUAHAHAHA! Revenge at last. Eat that boring authors! I will recommend your book to no one! MUAHAHAHA! It is the ultimate shame to be placed in this part of my book diary. They WILL never know my rage!

2011 Fall 2012 Spring Booklist

Mousecapades

The time for sentiment is over. I purchased a second box of After Eights to replace my the mouse's first and left it on our desk in the living room. This morning I found this:

They have managed to crawl up a table leg onto the desk, sort through the papers, find the After Eights and nibble the chocolate off from the mint.

Rage has led to retaliation...
and here it is.





Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice...

Sadness - warning for the animal lover

Unfortunately and very sadly, war means murder. Not death, murder. I was saddened today that one of the mice was found in our traps that we set. In the B & Q store (our Home Depot) Bond and I stood in the aisle staring at the various ways you can rid your house of pets. We looked for humane traps, things to deter them from entering, and unfortunately we had the tough decision to make about how to kill them. Bond was very sensitive to me, seeing my eyes with tears most of the trip. Why are mice made so damn fluffy? Why do they have the most adorable whiskers that twitch when you speak to them and they sniff your hand? Having owned mice for three years, the thought of trying to actively kill them was tragic. I wish our house was invaded by creepy crawlies, which I have no problem removing having Bond remove. However, even then, I ask Bond to move the creature outside instead of squashing in a tissue.

It didn't help that at the moment we decide for a mousetrap, that a crazy old lady starts spinning a tale of how she caught them with just a few tools from Poundland. Her graphic description of their capture and inevitable torture was enough to and did, send me over the edge. I think she got the message when Bond just about stabbed her in the throat with his eyes.

To appease me, we bought copious amounts of mouse deterrent such as sound sonars to irritate them, but we did have to buy several traps.

This morning, first one up because my bladder is the size of a walnut with the elasticity of skinny jeans (none), I saw the little friend dead on the carpet with a shining silver necklace. I know this is a First-World problem, but I do feel really saddened by its death and I have cried several times. I guess this is why Britain started the plague in the first place, a bunch of genuinely kind-hearted animal lovers refused to kill the fuzzy rodents and instead shared some bread with them (and skin cells). We have reset the traps and I fear the worst. Also, to add to my sadness, the poor fellow left a stain on the carpet which will haunt me much like Lady Macbeth.

Out, out damned spot.

This is war

It's 11:45am and I want chocolate. I know, don't judge. I remember that I just purchased a fresh box of After Eights and they are sitting in my purse. I go into the bag, see some of the chocolate scraped away from the sides but without a worry plop it into my mouth. Seconds later, while the chocolate is still dissolving, I see nibble marks all over the side of the box and funny...all the tops of the chocolates! MIIIICCCEEEEE!!!! I spit out what's left in my mouth and scream. Mice were in MY purse, eating MY chocolates! I continue to dig through after cursing to Bond for several minutes, only to find dozens of mini-poops and pee! I know it is pee because it is yellow on the ball of kleenex I have stuffed in their for my cold.
No animal comes between me and my morning pick-me-up. No one.









I would also like to add that there had been no sightings of mice until I brought home THIS from Canada after my Christmas visit, a mouse doorstop. This must have been a BIG welcome into our home, having such a false idol laid at their feet. Similar to a light in the window of the Underground Railway, all mice welcome here. Something must be done.

The Great Mouse Detective

So as usual, I promise to blog more only to do my usual one post per month. Get in and get out. It's a shame because I have great ideas to write about during my day, however after the commute home in pitch-black London fog, I lose my gusto to write. So again, I am losing my fan base faster than a Lost-J.J. Abrams hiatus. For that I am sorry.

I guess I just need to be truly inspired or compelled to write something and here it is...a sweet nugget of a tale that just popped up in my life.

I got a text from Mr. Bond on Thursday that read something like, "hey darling hope you have a great day, can't wait to see you tonight. By the way, some bad news, we have mice. Talk later." Oh ok, we have mice. Thanks Bond. Is that a British term for dust bunnies? Are the mice frozen because you have purchased a larger reptile that needs mice to eat to survive? Are we in the business of mice? I, of course call to clarify only to hear Bond confirm a terrible fear that we in fact have mice infesting the house as evidenced by a chewed-through bin bag on the floor and a pretend sighting of the mouse scampering across the kitchen. (Bond swears he saw the mouse, however stories keep changing under pressure and I am certain the sighting was created to add credibility to a shady encounter).

I have now reached THE greatest dilemma of my adult life which intersects my beliefs in a germ-free living space and an animals-have-souls philosophy. Let me remind you of an earlier post where I apologize to my old and decrepit stuffed animal when he/she falls onto the floor in the night. I still have dreams that Strawberry is just hiding in the closet and I will open it to be reunited with that sweet smell of old cat dander. Of course I realize that if something isn't done, our flat will become something like Apocalypse Now where I enter the room only to find Bond huddled on the tile kitchen floor surrounded by rows of mice on the countertops, fridge, and cupboards - all sporting red bandanas and bows and arrows made from toenail clippings and staples. So I ask around the workplace and hear of this fantastic option to simply buy a high-pitched noisemaker that emits a whistle sound, out of range for human ears, the mice don't like so they kindly pack their cheese and go.

So when I get home before Bond, I inspect the area and do in fact find evidence of critters (small bag nibbles) but no droppings or fur. I have deduced that they have only taken residence in the last 24 hours as we left the bag on the floor the day before to leave more room for rubbish. (This should be an entirely other blog entry where I comment that bin bags are made to hold 3 times the amount of waste that a can holds and what a waste of a earth-destroying plastic only for a few items). Bond comes home and decides to spend our Friday night cleaning from top to bottom with bleach (appreciated, but having owned mice I am not too bothered, and would rather them join us on the couch for a few episodes of Modern Family and a bottle of wine).

Anyway, there have been no further sightings of mice and I have now deemed in my head (not in Bond's) that a high-pitched noise-maker would be equally as cruel as we do not know how painful this will be for said critters. Having removed all sources of mouse attraction, I am certain they will not return. However, last night around 3am I woke up worrying whether or not the mice would have enough food to last the winter. It is snowing here in London now, and they might not have anywhere to go outside of our humble yet welcoming flat. I had to stop myself from leaving a small sliver of cheese in the crack of our wall. Again guilt plays on my mind as my childhood flashbacks of Muppets Christmas Carol enters my conscious; "No cheeses for us meeses."

Possible other sources of this guilt:
- reading books such as School Mouse, Mouse and the Motorcycle, the Witches, and Desperaux during critical growth periods
- owning mice - three beautiful bundles of piss, Toonce, Magillicutty, and Johnson
- watching a documentary on mice brains waves in university (they THINK like US)
- definitely reading above-mentioned books

All I can picture now are a family of mice wearing tiny hats, with over-sized ears popping out from under them, riding around on my electric toothbrush, and typing emails to their friends on my mac when I am at work. Who could kill/pierce their ears with noise?

House mice - friend or foe...you be the judge.

Liquid Glow

Well a two week visit at home flies by so quickly. I spent as much time as I could with people but it still wasn't enough. I didn't get to spend as much time with family and friends (especially bffs) as I wanted and there are some important people I didn't even get a chance to see. All I can say is blame time not my heart.

While sitting in the airport I realize it's not the country, open spaces, family, or friends I will miss the most but instead...the water. Yes, I will miss the tri-city area's water the most. We complain about it's quality and people are still lobbying to take certain things out or put more chemicals in but quite frankly, shut up. My skin has never been more fab than it is now when returning from London. London water is like bathing in a swamp. I swear I have seen algae squirt out of my tap and I have washed my make up off with a lily pad. I am dreading the first wash when I touch down in the New World, so I have decided to prolong much to Mr. Bond's disappointment. I just can't risk the red flare up that will surely ensue. There is also the threshold point of prolonged wash - to - grease factor. If I wait too long, perchance I will make my skin situation worse. Either way, I know I won't be seeing this Canadian glow for a long time.

It was good to be back. I missed everyone and the little things like hearing my accent everywhere. I hope to be back soon to visit. Good bye Canada, and thank you for the water.