School.

     Today I am going back to school.  I'm not literally going anywhere, as I'm sitting here in my jammies in front of the computer, but today I am starting a new online Additional Qualification  course for teachers in the area of Special Education.  Anyone who's been following might remember a few weeks ago I was debating what I wanted to be when I grow up (see Jan 17th's post titled Jobs.).  I continue to meet with employment counsellors to see if teaching is maybe not the only thing I'm good at, but I do know I love teaching so want to maintain and upgrade those skills in my time away from the profession.  I also really love school, so the chance to go back, even online, is really exciting for me.

My $150 investment...

     

     So last week, because I'm a keener, I went out to buy the textbook.  A bit shocked to see the $150 price tag, but a justifiable expense, nonetheless. I suppose. I tried not to let it daunt me, or make a loud gasping noise when I saw the price at any rate.  Then today I woke up early (who doesn't, on the first day of school?), did NOT have to think about what I would wear (they should list this in the benefits of online education), and sat down at the computer.  I got logged in, but the command I was instructed to look for did not appear on my screen.  A quick call to the IT department determined that I was a special case. (SIDE NOTE: I have noticed that I frequently AM a special case in matters like these.  One time, at my first teaching job, the marks program kept refusing to accept my name as a login.  It even baffled the IT director and office manager.  Turns out my last name, which I choose not to share with you at this point, even though most of my readers know who I am and are related to me, is a computer-related word and was not an acceptable login due to its implications.  I had to go with 'Smith' instead.) The 'specialness' in today's case was due to the fact that I was RE-enrolling at Trent (after graduating in 1996!) and that made me 'complicated'.  Now, I've been called 'complicated' before, but not for this reason.  In 1993, when I first enrolled at Trent, there was barely intenet let alone online course delivery, so I'm not sure what the difficulty was, but regardless, they told me to try again in an hour and an hour later it worked.  I was logged in and ready to begin!

     If you haven't taken an online course before (this is my second), they are generally set up in weekly modules - a certain amount of work to be done over the course of the week to allow for flexibility.  Module 1 for my new course consists of an introduction, commenting on someone else's introduction, and completing a web-based search for information.  I've finished the first two parts, and am excited to work on the third, but I need to pace myself - don't want to be seen as "the keener" because even adults don't appreciate that trait in classmates - at least, I don't.  So the web search will happen tomorrow.

This is me in Grade 9, baby!

     All of this has me hearkening back to my earlier school days.  Recently I was looking at old yearbooks with Havoc and Maman, our next-door friends, who are about 15 years younger than I am.  They were laughing at the 1985ness of it all, but it reminded me of who I am as a student, after thinking of myself as a teacher for so long.  (I think teachers make the WORST students.  We're used to being listened to, rather than listening.  This is what makes most PD so painful.)  And interestingly, I got a Linkedin message just this morning from the girl who was my best friend in the universe from grades 9-11, and who I have not heard from in literally 20 years.  I'm glad to know she's not a heroin-addicted prostitute, which is what I worried she'd become after our last visit in 1991.  Instead she's a bookkeeper.  People can sure surprise you!

     ANYWAY, I'm pretty excited about this new course.  I'm going to continue to pursue teaching as an area of employment, along with surveying the rest of my options with my employment counsellor, to 'keep my options open', but in the meantime, I'm hittin' the books - or, errr, the web?  Hope we get to use the textbook enough to validate its $150 price tag!  Now leave me alone.  I'm doing homework.

 

Mortality.

     Today's post is, I suppose, a bit more serious than the last few.  (As much as I love shoes, I also have a deeper side...)  Today I'm thinking about mortality - not mine, necessarily, but mortality in general.  There are, as always, a few reasons as to why I'm thinking about this topic today.  I have received some sad news in the last little while.  One piece of news is that my Nana is in hospital, and while she is stable, it's still scary to know someone you love (even one who might frustrate you sometimes) is hurting and scared.  Her husband, my Papa, is also living with cancer and although he is doing fairly well, 'fairly well' is a relative term when it comes to lung cancer.

     I also learned yesterday that my parents' friends' 17 year old grandson was killed yesterday in a car accident.  He and some buddies were cruising around after finishing their final exams and ran a stop sign and he was killed instantly.  I don't know the details, but assume there might have been alcohol or drugs involved in the post-exam celebration.  As a high school teacher, I often woke up fearful (especially post-exams and post-last day of school) that one of my students had made a poor choice the night before resulting in death.  It has happened to me only once - one of my grade 11 students was killed in a car accident the night his hockey team won provincial finals.  His empty chair in my classroom the next morning has haunted me since.

My "GG" - Ethel Mae 

     I've been quite lucky in my life.  I have lost very few of the people close to me.  My GG (short for great-grandmother) was the first of my older relatives to pass on.  She died at the age of 91 in 1999, when I was in my late 20s.  I was sad to lose her, but it was not unexpected.  My real sadness came in the fact that I couldn't attend her funeral as I was living on the east coast and was scheduled to be moving home a few days later and it didn't make sense to pay to change the ticket.  GG was quite a character, and she lived a long, full life.  She is remembered by me for her collection of Red Rose figurines, her candy dish, the smell of her apartment, her nanaimo bars, her hatred of photos (the one at left is the only one I have), and her pride in her appearance.  GG wore a wig, but I only saw her once without it, and even when she moved into the nursing home, she always wore a blouse and skirt (with a hankie tucked up the sleeve of her blouse).

My Nanny - Hannah Jean

     My Nanny was the next to go.  She passed away on December 22, 2007 after a series of illnesses that left her physically and mentally frustrated.  Her death definitely had a greater impact on me, as my Nanny and I had had a very special relationship.  I was her first grandchild, and she loved me best (my sisters and cousins might dispute that, but Nanny and I know it's true).  In preparation for this post I went back through old emails and found a series of memories my middle sister (Sis) and I shared back and forth when Nanny died.  Here are some of my favourites:

• Making chocolate chip cookies (and being allowed to make a super giant “big Fred” cookie with the last remaining batter)
• Drying our hair by the vent on the kitchen floor so we wouldn’t go to bed with wet hair
• Playing dress-up with the old clothes in the attic
• Using the grinder to make homemade breadcrumbs
• Planting and picking pansies in her backyard garden
• Listening to Nanny ask if everyone had a drink and if the potatoes were on as she was on the stretcher going into to heart surgery
• Nanny arriving to the hospital with pink bunny ears on the day her 1^st  great grandchild was born
• spinning in the chair in her back room 'til we wanted to throw up
• Nanny teaching me to use her sewing machine so I could taper my jeans to within an inch of their lives 
• watching her take out her teeth to brush them, and the toothpaste roller in her bathroom
• Nanny giving backrubs and falling asleep at the foot of one of our beds when she was waiting for US to fall asleep
• sitting on the front porch in the summer
• the way she'd always pour the apple juice from the tin into a pitcher
• the way her basement smelled

I miss my Nanny, but know she is in a better place than she was in her last months on earth.   She is now with her god, and both of the husbands she lost while she was alive, and I believe she has been able to resume both the physical and mental strength that had abandoned her towards the end.  I know we'll meet again. 

Me and my friend David

  

     The first time I lost someone who wasn't an aging relative I was in my early 30s.  I was teaching in Muskoka and was very good friends with one of my co-workers, an incredibly smart and funny man named David.  David and I were both single, but never dated (he was too short for me and my ass was too small for his liking, we'd joke).  Working at a small boarding school in a rural environment meant that we didn't have a lot of social outlets, but we spent many evenings and weekend afternoons hanging out, debating politics and books, drinkin' and smokin' and debriefin' from our crazy jobs, and talking about the love of his life - his sailboat - and all of the wonderful trips during which he had sailed her.  One spring, upon return from a March Break trip to Cuba, David was complaining that his liver hurt.  He chalked it up to the amount of rum he'd drunk while he was away, but went to get it checked anyway.  He very quickly learned that he had secondary liver cancer (he actually learned this news the same day as the funeral for the student I referred to in the first paragraph), and the doctors couldn't find the primary source, making treatment very difficult.  David lived through that summer, but died just as it was turning to fall.  Here is the email I sent to notify my friends and family of his passing:

Most of you knew, or at least had heard of, my friend David.
David died this morning.  It was not unexpected, as he's been battling cancer and of late the cancer was winning.
I am trying not to fall apart over the loss of my best friend.  
Last week he was really scared and struggling with how he wanted to spend his remaining time - taking the drugs that might keep him alive, or enjoying the time he had left.  When I asked David what he wanted to do, he replied "I want to get on my boat and sail away". 
I wish you great winds, clear skies, and happy sails, David.  I love you.

David's sailboat on
Georgian Bay

David was my first friend to die.  He was a bit older than me, but not so much so that I did not feel the echo of my own mortality.  This was fascinating for me.  I was facing the fact that not only did old people die, but young people did too, and tragically, and millions of lives were affected daily by death and yet the world just keeps on spinning.  I would die, my sisters would die, my parents (gasp!) would die, and everyone I knew and loved and didn't love would one day die.  An obvious statement, I know, and one that many people realize when they are much younger than I was, but I think this recognition of mortality is one of the things that make us "grow up" - regardless of when it happens.

     So I didn't intend to bum anyone out today (that is, if anyone is still reading - I know this post is a long one), but this is what I was thinking about and I wanted to share my thoughts.  So to GG and Nanny and David - I miss and love you and you're always in my thoughts. To my Nana and Papa - take good care, be strong, and know you're surrounded by those who love you. And to John and Heather who lost their grandson this week and to anyone else who has lost someone recently or has a critically ill friend or family member - my heart is with you.

Shoes.

I wanna be a cowgirl...

     Today's post is about shoes.  Not for any real reason, other than the fact that, like many females, I have a thing about shoes.  What got me thinking about this topic is actually the very changeable weather we're having this winter.  Every day when I'm getting dressed, I start with the shoes (that is not to say that I put them on first, as that would make getting dressed very awkward).  I look outside, check the weather, think about what I have to do that day and what method of transportation I need to use to get there, and make my shoe decision first.  That then determines what type of pants I'll be wearing, which in turn assists me in choosing what I will wear on my upper body.  An example goes something like this:


Earl: What do you want to do today?

"The big guns"

Me: Why don't we walk downtown and do some errands - maybe head to the library as well?
Earl:  Great!  (Earl heads to the bedroom to get dressed.  He emerges 25 seconds later, fully dressed.  If it's cold/snowing he wears boots.  If it's not he wears slip-ons.  Simple.)
Me: (in my head) Okay, so it snowed last night but not a lot, so I need something slightly practical on my feet, but don't need to pull out the big guns - they're hard to walk in for longer distances.  I need something with traction, but it's not too wet so I don't need waterproof.  Maybe one of my pairs of cowboy boots?  What pants do I want to wear?  It's not cold enough to require long johns, so I can get away with skinny jeans - they work well with cowboy boots.  And then I need a longer sweater to hide my muffin top.  Okay, I think I can start to get dressed now.
Earl:  It's been five minutes and you're still wearing trackpants.  Are we going downtown or what?

I'm a really big fan of
boots, as you can see.

     My love of shoes can be seen as soon as you walk in our door.  We have a six-shelf bookshelf devoted to shoes.  One and a half shelves contain Earl's shoes and boots.  The rest are full of my shoes, some of which are double-piled, and my "fancy" shoes aren't even kept there - they're stored in shoe boxes in the closet.  (To be fair, Earl's one pair of dress shoes are also stored in the closet.)  But it's important to have a lot of shoes - every occasion calls for something different, in terms of both style and practicality.  Like most people, I have shoe categories.  I'll try to keep this simple for you.

Lazy shoes - not good for walking,
but as comfortable as slippers.

Summer shoes: In the summer I really hate wearing shoes, so try to get away with as little as possible.  Flip-flops are a favourite, but they're not good for walking long distances.  For that I have Birkenstocks, or Mary-jane crocs - not overly stylish, but very comfortable.  If I need some summer style, it's all about ballet flats, but they stink after a while, so if the shoes need to come off at my eventual destination, it's back to the Mary-jane crocs (what DO they put in the plastic to make them not stink?  It's amazing.)


Lazy shoes: These shoes are totally comfortable and require little effort in terms of putting them on, can be worn for long periods of time, but are a bit sloppy and not very "pulled together", and don't provide any foot support so aren't great for walking.  They include moccasins, UGGs (don't judge me but I have 4 pairs - okay, judge me.), and most slip-ons.

This is about as sporty
as I get.

Practical shoes: This is a fairly broad category, and encompasses shoes worn for a particular purpose.  In this category I include running shoes (I use the term loosely - I don't actually have any shoes I could 'go running' in.  That's because I don't like running.) which I should really call 'shoes verging on sporty' - Converse hi-tops, Vans, and an old pair of court shoes I used when I used to coach volleyball at my first teaching job. I also include rainboots, winter boots and hiking shoes in this group.


Work shoes:  I almost forgot this category, because I haven't had to wear them recently.  As a teacher, one is always running around, standing for long periods of time, and yet needs to look nice and pulled-together.  And we all know teenagers judge harshly, so there needs to be some semblance of fashionability as well.  My work shoes include ballet flats for warm weather, and generally low-heeled boots for cooler weather, with a few pairs of low-heeled shoes for the rare skirt or dress-wearing occasion.

My favourite fancy shoes
(rarely worn but loved nonetheless)

Fancy shoes:  I never get dressed up, and I'm not overly girly, but nonetheless I love fancy shoes.  And I have more of them than I will ever need.  (Actually, I recently donated a few pairs to a local thrift store, because I feel badly they never get worn and these type of shoes have a bit of time-sensitivity - I believe dress shoe styles come in and out of fashion faster than most other types of shoes.)  Fancy boots also fall into this category.


     Now, with all of these shoes, you must think I spend a ridiculous amount of money in shoe stores.  I don't.  (Primarily because I don't HAVE a ridiculous amount of money.)  I am blessed/cursed with the most average foot size a woman can have.  This means that often shoe stores are sold out of my size, but I am very lucky in my ability to find second-hand shoes and boots in my size.  The cowboy boots at the top of this post were purchased for $4 in a thrift store - perfectly worked in and comfortable, but still with lots of life left in them.  I also tend to ask for shoes/boots for Christmas and my birthday ("the big guns" were this year's birthday gift).  As well, I find having lots of shoes means extended life for those shoes, as they don't get worn out very quickly.  I still have shoes I bought 15 years ago (Birkenstocks never go out of style, right?).


     I'd love to know if others go through this intense morning pressure - please share your thoughts on shoes and your relationship with them in the comments.  Now I'd better get going - I have to go out in two hours and haven't yet decided on my footwear for today...  

Animals.

This is Josie!

     This morning, and every Wednesday morning, I head up the road to Lakefield to volunteer at the Lakefield Animal Welfare Society.  From 8ish until 11ish I clean kitty condos, empty litterboxes, re-make kitty beds, clean floors, dole out dry and wet food and fresh water, and generally surround myself with kitty love for a few hours.  Teams of three or four people do this every morning - not for pay, but for the love of animals.  

And here's Julian!
Good luck in your new
 home, old buddy.

     Some days we finish quickly and have enough time to actually play with the cats - particularly the kittens.  There's nothing like having a tiny kitten purring against your chest, or playing with your hair.  One of my kitty-friends, Josie, likes to jump on your back when you bend over to pick things up off the floor.  Another friend, Audi, is almost too big to hold but he still loves to be picked up and cuddled.  Today when I went in I looked for big Julian - a huge, white, fluffy cat who had lost the tips of his ears and tail to frostbite, and a favourite of the volunteers - to find he'd found a forever home since last week.  I was sad, but so glad for him!


     I have always had pets.  When I was about 6 we got our first cat - Tippy (so named either for the way she walked on her tippy-toes, or because she had rings on the tip of her tail - it depends who you ask).  Tippy lived with us until I was in my late teens, at which point she got sick and we had to put her to sleep.  Tippy was replaced by Buddy, a grey tabby, and then Penny was added to the menagerie - our first ginger kitty.  Penny was so small and young when we got him that we couldn't tell if he was male or female, and he had to be lifted into and out of the litterbox because he was too little to get in himself.  Then when Buddy ran away, we got Toby to keep Penny company.  Toby was such a slug that he would allow himself to be carried in the pocket of a bathrobe, or draped around one's shoulders.  Unfortunately Toby was not well and he only lived for a few years.  Penny, on the other hand, lived to the ripe old age of 18, and only passed away a year ago last fall.  By that point, Penny had become my cat and he lived with Earl and I in our 14th floor apartment in Toronto - quite a change from his earlier years as King of the Hunt when we lived in Muskoka!  

The incredibly handsome (and well-loved)
Turkey and Monkey.

  When we lost Penny, Earl and I knew we wouldn't be long without a new kitty friend or two - the house was just too empty.  We began searching, and within a week we found the perfect pair - twin brothers who were rescued from a house overrun by cats in Kitchener.  They were 8 weeks old, and the most beautiful and friendly little things we'd ever seen.  They were not the first cats we met on our search, but after we met them we knew they needed to come home with us.  We named them Monkey and Turkey, and they are the loves of our lives.  Monkey is thin, anxious, smart, and ever-alert.  He prefers whatever we're eating to his cat food, and rarely sleeps for more than an hour at a time.  He is Earl's special buddy.  Turkey likes to snuggle, sleep and eat.  He has a roly-poly belly and the softest fur I've ever felt.  He's my special friend.

This is not Colby, but looks just like he
did as a puppy.  Awwwwww...

Cats are not the only pets I've had, but they obviously have a special place in my heart.  I have also had fish (too many to name), hamsters (one of whom gave birth to several more the day after I got her for Christmas!), rats (which are almost as nice as cats, which I know might be disputed by some, but they're smart and develop their own personalities) and mice.  I've never had a dog, unless you count Max, a bassett hound my Mom and Dad got when I was little and Mom was pregnant with my sister.  I guess paper-training a puppy, potty-training a child and being preggers was too much for my poor Mom, because she told my Dad one of those things had to go.  I guess I'm glad she chose Max...
     Now I have a nephew-dog, Colby, who belongs to Mamacita and OPPete (my sister and brother-in-law).  He's a golden retriever, and he's lovely.  Sometimes I find dogs too stinky and licky, but I do love my nephew-dog, even when he's just gotten out of the water and does his shaky-dance.


     It's not surprising that people love animals - they give us unconditional love, listen to our woes, and keep us company.  I'm not too proud to admit I've cried into Turkey's soft belly and he puts up with it.  He is the best snuggler I know, and my favourite way to wake up is to look over and see his little face and big eyes peering over the side of the bed.  When he sees I'm awake he jumps right up and gets cozy with me and purrs and I can pet his belly while I transition into being awake.
     Recently at a family dinner someone asked the question "If you could be any animal which would you be and why?".  I answered I'd like to be Turkey so I could spend all day sleeping and eating.  Turned out, this was a question asked at a recent job interview - I'm not sure my answer would have gotten me the job!  But it is interesting to see the difference between cat people and dog people... the animals to which we're most attracted inevitably say something about our personalities.  Not loving animals says something too, but I don't want to offend anyone (particularly my Dad, who would happily live his life without pets but fortunately loved his kids enough to put up with the menagerie).
     So to all of the animals in my life - present, past and future - thanks for making my life better by being a part of it.  Today's post is in your honour.  (And now for a shameless plug - if you live in the Ptbo area, consider making a trip to the Lakefield Animal Welfare Society - there are many cats, kittens and dogs looking for homes, and LAWS can always use volunteers!  Check out their website here:http://www.lakefieldanimalwelfare.org/ )

Weekends.

     I feel badly that I haven't posted since Thursday, so I thought I'd justify my lack of blogging by talking about how I spent my weekend.  (Even unemployed people know when it's the weekend!)  Also, to make it up to the 4 or 5 people who read my blog, I'm trying to redeem myself by making my posts more exciting - guess who learned to import images?

     It's been a very exciting last few days.  Friday brought some great news for Earl; we stopped by the Art Gallery of Peterborough to drop off a few of his pieces that have been accepted for display in their upcoming Triennial exhibition, and we learned that one of his pieces, Pour Man (shown on the left) has been chosen as the promotional image for the show! (Check out http://www.agp.on.ca/future.php)  This was very cool to learn, as it's Earl's first show.  He was a bit overwhelmed, and I loved seeing him so proud of himself.  Then we got a chance to meet the curator of the gallery as well, Carla Garnet, and that was a real treat.  
     From there we came home to wait to hear whether or not Earl had been accepted into a second juried show, this one happening at a gallery in Midland.  We had learned earlier in the day that someone else who had entered had not been accepted and had been notified via email but Earl had yet to hear anything by mid-afternoon.  You know when you're waiting for news, and every moment is endless?  We tried to watch Cocktail but Earl's attention was quite split as he kept looking at his inbox to see if he'd been notified.  Finally, just before 5pm, knowing that's when the gallery closed and knowing we couldn't wait all weekend for news, I finally put on my Earl-wranglin' hat and called the gallery to see if he'd made it.  
     Aaaaaaand he did!  Both of the pieces he entered were accepted!  This was super-exciting news, as only 37 pieces out of the nearly 200 submitted were accepted.  Earl breaks into a new market!  We celebrated by ordering pizza, and then all of the nerves, anxiety, excitement and exhilaration of the day caught up to us and we called it an early night.


     Saturday started with a trip to the Farmer's Market, and then we headed to Oshawa to visit Earl's grandparents.  We spent a full day with them, and came home sleepy - no blogging for me.


     Sunday dawned, and we wanted to do something special to celebrate Earl's acceptances and budding art career.  We decided to head to the McMichael Gallery in Kleinburg to see their Group of Seven collection.  As it turned out, they were also having an exhibit on Norval Morriseau and Woodland artists - another house favourite - so it was a great time to go.  I especially liked the Shaman and Disciple piece shown on the right.  The coolest part of the visit for me was seeing Tom Thompson's shack.  He lived in this shack in a Toronto ravine during the winters when he was not in Algonquin Park and it has since been moved onto the McMichael grounds.  It really is the coolest place - everything one would need to be cozy and make art through a cold winter.  It really captivated me.  A woodstove for cooking and warmth, a tiny desk and bed set up in a loft above, a big table and lots of natural light - I wanted to move in!

     When we finally got home again on Sunday night, dinner consisted of the leftover pizza from Friday and another early night.  Earl suggested I blog while he slept, but the urge to sleep myself was too great, so I have failed in my attempt to write five times a week, but I'm sticking with it, and I thank those of you who are sticking with the reading of it!  I hope it keeps getting better... and I really appreciate your comments!
     

     So that was my weekend.  How was yours?  Just before I sign off for today, I've had some news I've been DYING to share for a few weeks but didn't get the go-ahead until today, so I can finally go public with he news that my baby sister is preggers!  (She's not really a baby, in fact, she's nearly 30, but she's the first person I know who I held as a newborn who is now having a baby of her own.)  Congratulations to my Baby Boo, known from now on as Mamacita! Congratulations should also go out to OPPete and Colby-dog.  Good luck putting up with her while she's expecting!  
     Stay tuned for updates on this one, as I'm a super-proud auntie-to-be!  The new babe will join my nieces T and C in a very special spot in my heart. Can't wait for July 20.  I love you already, little one.  Can't wait to meet you!




   

Hair.

     Earlier this week I started asking around on Twitter to see if anyone had recommendations regarding 'curly hair competent' hairdressers. I've been growing my hair, but it's just getting too long to do anything with, so I needed some help.  There were a few suggestions sent to me, and so my next step was to go in to show my hair to a stylist to see what she thought she could do with it.  Vanessa at Bloodline Parlour in Ptbo thought she could handle it, so today I went in for the big cut.  My first professional cut in about five years.
     Now, if you don't have curly hair, this all might seem silly to you.  But curly hair is not like regular hair.  It is forgiving in the sense that you don't need a ruler to cut it, because curly hair don't care - it never looks even, even when it is.  This was how I justified cutting my own hair most of the time.  But some other curly hair qualities include being really dry and easily frizzed, having a mind of its own (meaning you can do the exact same things to style it two days in a row, but can come out with quite different results each time), and generally curly hair is very thick, which means a lot of time in the shower, and even more time under the hairdryer (and don't forget the diffuser - if you don't know what that is you must have straight hair).
     The other thing about curly hair is that, if given the wrong cut, it inevitably looks like a triangle, which is not very flattering for most people.  This delightful isoscelean shape generally is the result of no layers cut into the hair - but we all know layers can also be scary if done incorrectly.


     I have had many, MANY bad haircuts over the years.  When I was little, my Mom generally would try to brush my hair (I believe the first time I heard her swear was while she was attempting to brush it the morning after she forgot to use conditioner in my hair at bathtime.  The first time I heard my Dad swear he was putting together a Barbie camper.  Both were scarring experiences.), and would pull it into pony tails, which I would then twist in class so by the end of the day I had two perfect ringlets - a bit like Pollyanna.  When she grew tired of the brush fight, she'd take me to the hairdressers where I'd get most of it cut off, resulting in wonky bangs (they'd be cut straight, but my hair wouldn't co-operate!) and wingy bits all over my head.  I was a terrifically good-looking child, as I'm sure you can imagine.
     When I got to high school I met a girl named Tami who had perfectly straight, blonde, pageboy hair.  I wanted it - badly.  I would try and try with a brush and blowdryer to get my hair to look like hers, which, of course, it never did. (This was before flatirons became common household implements).  It would puff up and be bumpy and flip up on one side and under on the other and between that, my lack of breasts, freakish height and poor fashion sense, I was not the most popular girl in school.
     In Grade 10, in all of my infinite wisdom, I thought maybe short hair was the key to my success.  It wasn't.  Two words - mushroom head.
     By the time I got to university, I was beginning to embrace my curly hair.  Wild, curly hair was in fashion, and so I  was able to be comfortable with what was on my head for the first time since I started caring about my appearance.  Then, as a dare, I decided to shave my head (number 2 guard - not totally bald).  I LOVED it!  So easy, so free, so light, so much less time, effort, and the all-important 'product' was no longer necessary.  I wore it that way, or slightly longer in a more pixie cut, for most of my 20s. Now and then people would assume I was either a lesbian or a chemo patient, but I was okay with that.  Girls and women complimented me all the time.  "You are so brave!" they would say.  "I could never do that!".  When I asked them why, the responses fell into one of two camps, either "my husband/boyfriend would hate it" or "I think my head would look funny".  True, not everyone has the right head shape for short hair, but if you want short hair, cut it.  Men will always tell you they love long hair, but they also love big tits, and not everyone is rushing out for boob jobs.
     I know the men in my life (my Papa, Dad and Earl) all love my long hair and tell me how beautiful it is, and I do appreciate their compliments.  In fact, when I learned that my Papa was diagnosed with cancer, I vowed I wouldn't do any drastic cutting for the duration of his life.  He doesn't know that, but that's why I've allowed my hair to grow.  So I guess I'm a bit of a hypocrite, keeping my long hair for a man, but I've started to take real pride in my hair, and don't really wish to go back to my super-short cut.


     So this all leads me to today.  I headed out with my requisite knit cap (which hides all hair evils), ready to run home to re-wash and re-style whatever was done to me.  I sat in the chair, showed Vanessa a few photos of layered curly haircuts, and put myself in her hands.  An hour later (I told you, I have A LOT of hair!) she had transformed my head.  Totally.  It was still long in back, but fell in natural-looking layers to frame my face.  The triangle was gone!  I looked, well, pretty and pulled-together!  Even the encroaching grey is somewhat camoflaged.  Not only did I not need to put on my hat, I didn't even feel the need to run home and "fix" it.  (Although I did wash and style it when I got home, because I was excited to see how much less time it took to dry, and wanted to play with it a bit.)  Earl showered me with compliments when I got home, and I am a bit embarrassed to say, every time I walk by a reflective surface, I look for my reflection and throw my head around a bit.  It's really fun to be excited by my hair, and to feel good about the way it looks.  Wish I'd done this before my sister's wedding last fall!  It's nice that this story has a happy ending, and I will definitely go back to Vanessa the next time I need a cut.  Saving money by doing it myself just won't "cut" it anymore.

Jobs.

     So I've been thinking about what I want to be when I grow up.  Now, anyone who has read my blog regularly (Hi Earl!) knows that I'm 40 - theoretically a grownup already.  But this is a joke I like to make a lot.  I used to tell my classes that I wanted to be a truck driver when I grow up.  They would think it was funny because I was old as dirt in their eyes, and obviously already had a job - nay, a profession, as their English teacher.  But I always dreamed of a life different from the one I was living.  I love driving, I love long distance road trips, I love truckstops (anyone been to the biggest one in the US?  I think it's in Nebraska).  Therefore, I thought truck driving was my ideal profession.
     When I lost my job last spring, I immediately started looking for another teaching job.  And I've continued to do that for the past six months.  But yesterday I started thinking about WHY I was looking for a teaching job.  Earl said something strange to me - I said, "I just want to teach" and he said, "I don't think you do", and that got me thinking.  Earl is very perceptive - did he know something I didn't even know myself?
     Don't get me wrong.  I love teaching.  I think I'm a really good teacher, and over a decade of students have echoed that back at me.  I always look for new ways to do things in the classroom, I embrace educational technology, and am getting ready to start an AQ course at the end of this month to keep up my professional development in my "off teaching" time.  And I've wanted to be a teacher for as long as I can remember.  In my Grade 9 English journal I stated that I wanted to be an English teacher at a private school, which is exactly what I spent the last 11 years doing.
     But I keep coming back to the idea that maybe, just maybe, now is the time to look at spending the next half of my working life in a different profession.  Especially if I can get some partial funding to do it.


     So today I started my day in the Service Canada office.  (Not something I recommend as a day-starter, despite how nice the ladies working at the Peterborough office are.)  They directed me to a different office where I met with a woman who asked me, "If you could hold any job, what would it be?".  This is just the beginning.  I have to go back later in the week to take some aptitude tests (the last time I did that was in high school and I got two answers - English teacher and advertising copywriter.  I now hold a diploma in advertising specializing in strategy and copywriting, and a B.Ed.  Where to go from here?) and talk in more detail about what funding might be available to me.
     So I've been thinking... if I could hold any job, what WOULD it be?  And the answer coming back to me is a really strange one.  I think I'd like to do something with babies.  I'm sure I've shared my child-free status on this blog before, but it was a conscious decision on my part not to have children.  I've lost romantic partners, and the respect of a few new Moms and random Christians as a result of my decision, but I see myself as too selfish (or perhaps self-involved?) too give up the freedoms I enjoy as a non-breeder.  But I love babies.  I'm fascinated by pregnancy.  I know I'll never become an OB/GYN at this stage in my life, but I think I'd like to look into midwifery/obstetrical nursing/doula work.  When I shared this with my employment counsellor, she said, "I KNEW you were going to say that!  You have that vibe.", which I also thought was interesting.
     I know this would be a lot of work, and a lot of money (which I'm not exactly rolling in...), and a lot of schooling, but I'd like to look further in to it to see what it would take.  I'm not sure why I'm sharing this with the world - it's kind-of a secret, but writing helps me process thoughts.  (shhhh, keep my thoughts to yourself!)


     So here are my questions for anyone reading.
1.  What is your job?  Do you love it?  Would you recommend it to a stranger?
2.  What job do you want when you grow up?
3.  Anyone working in the baby-related fields mentioned above, what do you love and hate about your job?  Are you glad that you do what you do?  What training was involved?
     I'd appreciate hearing responses from anyone out there - to any or all of the questions.  And interestingly enough, when I peruse the Peterborough job ads, one of the most commonly-found seems to be for truck drivers...  hmmmmmmm.

Judgement.

     I've been having a lot of fun on Twitter this morning describing the "Peterborough uniform" with a few other Petertweeters (none of whom I know in person, but most of whom I'd love to meet, based on our similar senses of humour).
     Soooo to bring you up to speed, the average Ptbo female is described as follows: pyjama bottoms, a Nightmare Before Christmas hoodie, crocs or beat-down salt-stained fake Uggs (somewhat weather dependent, but not as much as you'd think), a puffy, midriff-bearing jacket, no mitts as they interfere with smoking and texting, several piercings and tattoos, a cigarette, an XL Timmies coffee, a $500 cell phone and a stroller.  In the stroller is a baby eating Doritos and drinking pop - or, for the more concerned moms, Gatorade because it's juice, right?  I do believe we forgot to mention the requisite two-inch roots of a vastly different colour from the rest of the hair.
     I'm not sure what started this discussion, but it's been ongoing for a few hours now, and it's been keeping me in fits of giggles (in between trying to do some actual work).  The final post on the subject stated that we might be going too far - and that got me thinking...  maybe we're being "mean girls" (even though some of the contributors have been male).  Why do we find it so enjoyable to make fun of other people?  


     When I was in high school and university (and sometimes still, even though I'm not proud of it), my favourite way to spend a social evening was to sit in a corner making fun of other people.  I embrace this type of nastiness in my friends (and usually resent it in others).  Am I better than the Ptbo girls in their pjs in public?  No.  I suspect I've made some smarter life choices (use of birth control, for example), but I certainly judge them, and others, on a regular basis.  Which leads me to the title of this post.
     Judgement.  We all live in fear of it, yet do it on a daily basis.  I'm not going to get preachy here (how can I, without coming off as a hypocrite?)  It's just something interesting to think about.
     When I was teaching, I used to try to explain to my Grade 11s and 12s why English is the only mandatory subject at that level.  My main argument was that people judge others based on their oral and written communication, perhaps even more than on appearance, and asked them how much time they spend proofreading written work compared to how long they spend getting ready to face the day every morning.  The answer was usually not nearly as long.  And yet when we apply for a job through resumes and cover letters, or look for love online, or even send an email to request information, we are judged based on what we say and how we say it. Not that a misplaced comma or misspelled word is the end of the world, but if all other elements are equal, it could be the difference between getting an interview or a response on a dating website - or not.  That seemed to make sense to them, and sometimes even caused them to buy in for the first couple of classes!  (Sometimes that's all a teacher can ask for...)
     
     I think the important question to ask is why we judge, and that's dependent on the situation.  But there's no question that negative judgement implies feelings of superiority over those being judged, whether rightly or wrongly.  So do I feel badly about judging the young ladies of Ptbo this morning over Twitter?  Not really.  Sometimes there's truth in stereotypes.  But I will tell you that while I was doing it, I was wearing dirty sweatpants from a school I haven't taught at for years over too-short purple leggings, a stretched-out WalMart sweater, mismatched socks, and hadn't washed my hair in a few days.  Don't judge me. 

Food.

     Today the kitchen has been a busy place at Whimzy & Earl's.  Actually, the kitchen is usually a busy place in our house.  It's probably the biggest room with the most seating, and unlike the EOS studio, which is otherwise a great place to hang out with it's HUGE TV and HUGER VHS collection, it's always warm.  We frequently have our neighbours over (let's call them Havoc and Maman - I don't know how they'd feel about being publicly outed as our friends!) and rarely move from the kitchen.  I like the coziness of a kitchen, with its close proximity to tea and snacks and cans of soda, (I have a minor ginger ale addiction, but I'm working on it.  No I'm not.) and the kitties seem to enjoy the kitchen as well.  Turkey loves to sleep on top of the microwave and Monkey prowls the counters and floor in search of delicious tidbits.  Today I caught him licking up flour.  Weirdo.


     Anyway, today the kitchen has been extra-busy because we've been making delicious food.  Earl whipped up a crockpot stew this morning (with fresh steak beef cubes from King Street Market, our local butcher, and a half bottle of red wine I got for Christmas - neither of us drink alcohol, so it was nice to find a use for the wine!).  The stew has been smelling delicious since about 11am.  And I got inspired to make peanut butter cookies this afternoon.  Earl loves peanut butter, especially Jif which he gets from his sister every time she goes to the States, and he was kind enough to let me use some for cookies.  
     I know making cookies is no big thing, but I never cook.  Never.  When Earl met me he laughed at me because I did most of my grocery shopping at a gas station near my house.  They sold soup and frozen pizzas and TV dinners - what more does a girl need?  Actually, my favourite single-girl supper was cheese (at least two kinds, preferably parmesan and an old cheddar), crackers, some form of fruit (grapes, pears or apples are the best), and maybe some spicy salami.  Food groups covered!
     Now that I have an Earl, my kitchen role is reduced to hanger-outer, and possibly sous-chef on a special occasion.  I also make salads (and by 'make', I mean open the bags of ready-made salads) and pizza.  But today I wanted cookies and we didn't have any so it got me thinking about how easy cookies are to make, and how much better they are home-made.  I had to head out into the Arctic weather to buy some brown sugar (ours had solidified into something that might be construed as a weapon), Crisco (what IS shortening anyway?  Actually, wait, I'm pretty sure I have an idea and don't need to know for sure) and chocolate chips.  Earl wasn't keen on the latter, so I opted to make a 1/2 batch with them and a 1/2 batch plain.
     Then I had to do the dishes.  Although our kitchen is huge, our counter space is limited and I wanted to start with a clean deck.  Earl decided to take a nap while all of this mayhem was going on.  I think he thought I might hurt myself and didn't want to be a witness.  By the time he woke up, the cookies were just going in the oven.  After waiting the requisite cooking time (8-9 minutes - a duration I remember as an eternity when I used to bake cookies with my Nanny as a child), the cookies came out and they were PERFECT if I do say so!  Delicious, melt-in-your-mouth, I-need-another-one goodness.  I managed to resist eating more than two (one plain, one chocolate chip) so I have lots of room for YUMMY STEW!


     Food is an interesting topic.  People generally have very strong opinions about it.  I mean, even aside from weight and health implications.  (People who talk too much about those things are even more boring than people who talk too much about sports I care nothing about).  When I was a kid, I ate very little.  My list of 'likes' included grilled cheese, pizza (with the most basic toppings), some pastas (with red sauce only), chicken fingers, fruit, tuna from a can (because I didn't know it was fish), and "cheese dreams" - a piece of white bread under the broiler with a cheese slice and a hot dog cut into pieces making a happy face. My 'dislikes' included everything else. I'm no foodie these days, but I've managed to expand my eating repertoire considerably.  For example, I now eat most meats, and many vegetables (including green beans which were the bane of my existance as a child - my Mom would literally chase me around the house with a bean on a fork asking me to 'just try it').  
     This summer when we moved to Ptbo Earl and I discovered the Farmer's Market and that has gone a long way to getting me to try new veggies, beans and beets among them.  At Thanksgiving this year I shovelled in a forkful of green beans and opened my mouth proudly for my Mom to show her I did more than "try" them - I actually love them now!  And beets - I had never had beets before, but find them delicious and think they taste like corn.  I asked my Mom why she hadn't tried to feed me beets as a child, and she responded that SHE hated beets so never made them.  Interesting.  It's probably for the best that I don't have children, as they'd be dietarily deprived unless Earl did the grocery shopping.
     The one thing I haven't been able to come around to is fish and seafood.  DO NOT LIKE.  In any form.  (Except for ol' tuna in the can!)  Actually, once when I was in the British Virgin Islands with my family we ate at a beach shack that only offered fish, and I discovered when covered with Carribbean spices, a mild fish isn't too bad.  But sadly, fish is Earl's favourite, and he doesn't get to eat it enough, so I might keep trying on that one.
     Anyway, all of this talk about food is making my tumbly a bit rumbly.  Maybe one more cookie before dinner?

Age.

     Several things have conspired recently to gently remind me that I'm getting old.
     I suppose the first of these things is turning "that age".  Yup, rolled over to the big 4-0 very recently.  Remarkably, I'm totally okay with it.  35 was tough.  That's when you move from the 18-34 demographic into the 35-49 demographic.  That move, from being grouped with teenagers to being grouped with empty-nesters, freaked me out far more than turning 40 did.  But the really interesting thing is feeling wiser and more comfortable with myself as I grow older - I wouldn't go back to being a teenager for a million dollars.  The years I spent in high school were not the best years of my life, and if yours were, I feel really sorry for you.
     Now, this is not to say that I look better, or am in better shape than I was then (80s hairstyles not withstanding).  But I worry so much less about those things now.  In fact, my early 30s weight gain actually gave me decent boobs for the first time in my life, so I consider my squishy tummy the price I needed to pay for those - better than going without a soul, which I'm sure I offered to the devil in exchange for boobs when I was younger.  I'm even contemplating ceasing dying my hair, which is pure grey on top, in an embrace of the age that I am.


     When I was in university my favourite T-shirt said, "You are all of the ages you have ever been".  I liked it then because I lived in fear of adult culture, and wanted to hold on to my younger self.  I wish I still had that shirt (I think I left it behind when I called off an engagement in my late 20s), but what I like about it now is very different from what I liked about it then.  I now look back at my younger self, sometimes in awe and sometimes in fits of giggles and sometimes in tears, and it's interesting to think about all of the things that shape us into our eventual selves - which I feel we only truly become at the moment of our deaths.  Until then we are growing and learning and changing and anyone who thinks they are "all growed up" by 16 or 21 or even 30 is CRAZY.  Why would you want to stop moving forward and remain static?
     And speaking of my university days reminds me of a few of the other things that prove to me me that I'm getting up there in age.  Yesterday it was announced that Peterborough's Trasheteria (a bar) is closing after 18 years in operation.  I was a student at Trent when it opened.  I was probably one of the first 100 people through its doors.  If I had gotten pregnant when the Trash first opened I would now have a child graduating from high school.  (As a sidenote, I wonder how many people HAVE gotten pregnant after a night at the Trash?)
     Another reminder came when I saw my old Resident Don in downtown Ptbo recently.  She recognized me (much to my "I've gained 35lbs and have totally different hair" surprise!) and we had a quick catch-up.  I remember babysitting this woman's first son, Jordi, while she was giving birth to her second, Scott.  To contextualize, The Lion King had just come out on VHS and 2 1/2 year-old Jordi and I watched it about 3 times that night.  I remember it so vividly.  Jordi is now in his first year of university and Scott is in Grade 11.  Holy crow, time flies.  I still have shoes I wore then!  (Is this where I make a bad joke about things coming back into fashion?)
     And something else that serves to remind me that time is a continuously-moving river are the announcements being made by record labels - This past spring was the 20th anniversary of the release of Nirvana's Nevermind.  Today is the 20th anniversary of Tori Amos' Little Earthquakes.  I still listen to and enjoy these albums!  Does this make them "classic rock"?  Sigh.


     At any rate, I think as long as one lives a fulfilling life, finds love in some form, holds on to family, continually strives for new experiences and challenges, and is constantly learning, (to quote a bad T-shirt I see far too frequently) age is just a number, and if you let it hold you back, or it causes you to make judgements, then it's your problem, and your loss.

Busy.

     Ironically, I started this post yesterday but got too 'busy' to finish it and when I came back to it today it hadn't saved properly and I don't know what happened to it so I'm going to start again.


     The concept of 'busy' is very relative.
     Yesterday when I woke up I said to Earl, "Today is going to be a busy day." and he giggled.  I suppose that waking up at 7 instead of 5 like I did in my employed life was already reason for his laughter, but it got me thinking about the relativity of the term.
     When I made the statement I was thinking ahead to my day: volunteering at the cat shelter in the morning; coming home to a photo shoot of Earl's work, already underway in the middle of the kitchen; working on Earl's upcoming art show submissions; blogging (aaaannnd maybe getting a bit lost in Twitterville); preparing for my tutoring sessions; actually tutoring for two hours; a bit of grocery shopping; and more art show submissions (why are they all due at once?  My job as Earl-wrangler has been busier than usual this week, for sure).  Then there was the unexpected excitement of the power pole that came down - fortunately we didn't lose power like some.
     In my employed life, I would have been much 'busier' - teaching at least three classes, prepping for the next day, maybe getting coverage thrown at me in my one prep period, coaching or running extra-curricular activities before and/or after school, lunch and/or hall duty, organizing school activities or field trips, marking student work, conferencing with other teachers or parents, attending PD sessions, providing extra help to students, mentoring new staff - sometimes all in one day!  (Did you know that teachers are more prone to UTIs than any other profession?  It's because there's never time to go pee.)


     Time seems to go just as fast this year, but the way I spend it is very different.  I thought I would have all the time in the world to read and write when I became unemployed, but I still never seem to have enough time, because I seem to be busy all day.  
     I've known people (one woman in particular with whom I worked for the past few years) who do more in a day than I ever have in a week.  And I don't think I'm a lazy person - I enjoy being 'busy'.  I think our bodies and minds will work as hard as we push them to, but that different people have different capabilities in this regard, and there's a difference between being physically busy (such as running a lot of errands) or mentally busy (such as multi-tasking on different projects while sitting in front of a computer).  I don't know if it has to do with intelligence, or stamina, or stubbornness, or what.  And I think we easily adapt to a slower pace of life, but it's not always as easy to gear up to a faster one (witness Monday mornings, post-vacation performance, etc.).
     So while being fairly busy myself over the past two days (yup, today was another busy one!  But I got to see my uncle today, and the art show submissions are all in, and the house is clean, and the laundry's done, and today's blog is almost written, and dinner is, well, in the freezer in the form of frozen pizza, but at least there's a salad to go with it...), I've also spent time contemplating the concept of busy, and my final conclusion on the subject is that it depends on our expectations of ourself more than anything.  And hoping tomorrow is less busy so I can read a book.
       

Books. (Pt. 2)

     A few days ago I blogged about books, but didn't really get into the topic so today I'm revisiting it.


     I love books.  LOVE them.  I also love reading.  Not surprising from an English teacher, I know.    But I must confess, I don't read nearly as often as I would like.  If left to my own devices, I would lie on the couch (or in the backyard if the weather obliged) reading book after book, day after day.  I can honestly say I have never gotten bored of reading.  When I was younger, I would go to the library once a week and get as many books as I was allowed.  I was so excited to 'graduate' from the children's section to the adult section, because then there was no limitation on the number of books I could take out at any given time (the children's library, for practical reasons, I'm sure, limited patrons to 15 books at once).
     When I started school I was so excited to get my first reader, that I read it all at home before we even cracked its spine in the classroom.  Novel distribution classes were some of my favourite times at school - a whole fresh book that I could read and call it homework!  Another favourite school momoent was being the first class to get to use a set of textbooks - fresh pages, unbent corners, no scribbles - what a treat!


     I would like to differentiate here between loving reading and loving books.  This is an interesting discussion in the age of e-readers.  Some will say, "What's the difference?  You're still reading.".  But the difference is the lack of book.  You can't SMELL an e-reader. (My Mom likes to tell stories about my childhood self choosing library books based on their smell!  True story.  And between you and me, I still smell my library books.  I know I'm weird.  I'm okay with it.) You can't appreciate the feel of the pages.  Reading is a sensory experience for me because although I love reading, I LOVE books.  Just being surrounded by them makes me feel cozy and good.  I have many books that I purchased years ago that I've yet to read, and their promise excites me just as much as reading them is sure to.

Names.

     I've been thinking a lot about names lately.  I think this is for a few reasons; one is my recent Twitter sign-up.  It's really interesting to see how, when people get the chance to give themselves their own names rather than the ones they're born with, they choose to identify themselves.  And the second is because I know a few newly-pregnant women, and I'm always fascinated to see how people go about thinking of names for their new offspring.  I guess what has inspired me to go with this topic today are the births of two little girls (who I've never met, and will never know) and the public response to their names.


     I've had a lot of nicknames myself.  Many have been variations on my actual name.  When I was younger my little sister was unable to say either of our names correctly, and renamed us Mimi (me) and Sissy (her).  The names stuck, and are often still used internally by our family.  In university I was friends with our Resident Don and she and her partner had a young son who also couldn't pronounce my name and re-named me Minnie.  My university friends still call me by this name.  My Earl has called me by a few nicknames in our time together, but it was he who named me Whimzy, and that is what I've decided to use as my online name for both Twitter and this blog, obviously.
     When I was trying to set up my Twitter account I was frustrated to learn that every decent combination of my actual name had already been used (how many of us ARE there?), so I had to go with the long form of my name instead.  
     The name I was born with is Kimberley.  I have made an interesting observation about this name.  Whenever I meet a woman who shares it, I always ask her the year of her birth.  In my very unofficial research, I have learned that most Kims walking the earth today (with the exception of a certain Kardashian) were born between 1969 and 1973.  I have no idea why this is.  When I was in grade 9, there were at least 10 Kims in my grade, six of whom were in my phys-ed class.  It made for chaos when trying to get the attention of one of us!  (I always knew the teacher was talking to me when the name was proceeded by a hefty sigh of impatience and displeasure - phys-ed was not my strong suit.)
     As a teacher, I have come to see first hand that names go through cycles.  When I was younger I worked in a daycare in a small, blue-collar town. We had so many Ashleys and Crystals, Britneys and Kaitlins, Chrisses and Michaels and Marks that we had to come up with creative nicknames to differentiate between them.  Then I got older and began teaching at private school.  This brought in a whole new batch of names - Fionas and Hannahs and Katies and Emmas, Tylers and Liams and Maxes and Harrys.  "Classy", old-fashioned, Anglo family names.  I have realized that I have expectations based on names.  This puts a lot of pressure on parents!  
     And speaking of parents, back to my expectant Mamacitas.  As previously stated, I know a few young couples who are expecting their first children this summer.  My favourite question to ask of expectant parents is "what are you thinking for names?".  Some won't tell you, wanting to save the name as a surprise or fearing someone else will nab their perfect baby name before babe comes into the world to claim it for him/herself.  Others have a name chosen and proclaim it to the world before the first blood tests have come back.  Having no children of my own, I'm not sure which class I would fall into.  
     I know whenever I've had the privilege of naming a pet, I like to meet them and see some characteristics before bestowing their permanent label.  My last cat was named Penny.  He was named after one of my favourite literary characters, the little girl from Disney's The Rescuers.  I got Penny when he was so young that we didn't know if he was a boy or girl, so he was stuck with a 'girl' name for the rest of his life.  (Fortunately he was a ginger kitty, so I could cover by saying he was almost the colour of a Penny.)  When Pennerman passed away last year, Earl and I got our current boys - Monkey and Turkey.  I don't know where those names came from, but they were the result of a long conversation during which we tried and discarded LOTS of other choices.  And most of the time I don't even use their real names, preferring Mookah and Boobah when talking to them.


     There is power in a name, and a greater power in bestowing a name on someone, knowing it will be the way he/she will be known for the rest of its life.  There are all kinds of studies backing this up - individuals with certain names are likely to be more successful in life.  Alexander happens to be one of these names, but I can't remember any others off the top of my head.
     And the inspiration for this post are two little girls, both born in the past week.  One is Solace Huxley Layton Campbell, and the other is Ivy Blue Carter. Have you heard of them? The first was born to the daughter of newly-deceased leader of Canada's NDP party, Jack Layton.  The second was born to Beyonce Knowles and Jay-Z.  I love both of these names.  Solace - such a lovely word on its own, because the meaning is so peaceful, but when combined with knowing that this baby has come as a solace to her grieving family, it almost gives me goosebumps.  And the celeb gossip pages are all chock-a-block with folks weighing in on the name given to the offspring of Hip-Hop royalty - opinions are mixed, with several people saying the name is so weird and why do celebrities saddle their children with such names.  I disagree.    Maybe because I happen to know an Ivy Rose, I think it's quite a nice name.  'Blue' is unusual, but pretty, and it's no "Marijuana Pepsi" (the name of an American lawyer) or "No.6 bus-stop" (a name given to a child in the UK which then provoked a legal battle over whether or not the name was child abuse).
     So those are a few of my thoughts on names.  I'd be interested to know, if anyone happens to actually be reading, how you feel about YOUR name, and if you've had the honour of naming another human being, how you went about doing it.  Please share your thoughts in the comments below (using whatever name you want!). 


UPDATE:  Check out this link regarding crazy baby names from around the world!
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/01/13/daemon-baby-named_n_1205469.html?ncid=edlinkusaolp00000003#s611693&title=New_Zealand_Talula