Sunday, September 30, 2007

uncharitable thoughts

I’ve heard that as people mature, they often exhibit traits that were previously uncharacteristic of them; for example, those who are high-strung mellow out, and those who were mellow to begin with become more excitable. Well, it doesn’t seem to be working for me. In general, I would rank myself much closer to the high-strung end of the spectrum than the footloose and fancy-free pole. Until Friday, I was under the illusion that perhaps I had reached that point where I had loosened up and learned to appreciate a little spontaneity. Hah.

I was vacuuming the living room on Friday afternoon when I heard the doorbell. I couldn’t see anybody at the front door, so I suspected it was my little neighbors at the back door. I decided to ignore them. That lasted only a short time, since I soon heard unusual noises coming from the deck, and via the living room windows, I could see a neighbor watching through her patio door, fully absorbed in what was transpiring in her line of vision. I decided to satisfy my curiosity. Don’t you think I found Lina and Ferris happily coloring with their bucketful of sidewalk chalk on the floorboards of the deck, not a care in the world. Maybe if I had children of my own, I would have found this terribly amusing, creative, clever, or resourceful; however, I found it none of the above. I reacted exactly the way you’d expect someone high-strung to react.

Me (flinging open the patio door): What are you doing?
Lina (calmly): Coloring. I did this, too. (pointing to her handiwork, four or five stripes on the screen door)

At which point I really lost it.

Me (voice raising an octave): Noooooo!!!! You DO NOT color on my house! Go home! Go home right now! Go home and color on your own house, if your mom lets you! You take your chalk and you go home!

Lina (unfazed): But can we pet the kitties?
Me: No. I’m busy vacuuming. Go home. Do NOT color on my house!

What nerve! What gall! What cheek!

After reflecting on it, I am beginning to think that maybe I overreacted. I mean, it is only sidewalk chalk. I haven’t washed it off yet, thinking that it might mark my house as part of Lina’s turf, and thereby dissuade the hordes of other young hoodlums in the area from leaving their calling cards. Naw, actually, it just hasn’t been a priority. I’m sure it will wash off the next time it rains--or the pervasive construction dust will cover it in a week’s time. Oh, well, I’m sure I’ve now firmly established my reputation as the Chapman Mills grumpy cat lady. On second thought, I feel justified. If they’d got away with chalk this time, they might have tried markers next, and before you know it, they’d be working their way up to the spray paint.

And so ends September...

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Life, the Universe, and Everything: Part 3

OK, so you get three-for-one today. I feel I owe you a hat trick. I’m trying to make up for lost time, since I’ve had a few people fear I’ve dropped off the blogwagon. (Plus the title--shamelessly borrowed from Douglas Adams--is misleading, and I’m not feeling particularly witty so the content strikes me as sub-par. Better luck next time!)

Remember how I expressed, in an earlier post, my uncertainty about what Ontario’s provincial symbol was? Well, I’m happy to report that I did a little Internet sleuthing subsequent to that post and learned that the triangular thing represents a trillium flower. I’m including a few links below, in case you’re curious. Essentially, Ontario went through a logo rebranding process last year that left quite a few citizens in a huff. Sound familiar? Maybe all the provinces underwent a similar costly and unnecessary (in my opinion) rebranding in 2006. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a conspiracy: distract everyone with a highly controversial big ticket item, and then slip a bunch of smaller ticket items right past them. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t turned all political just because I pass by Parliament Hill on a regular basis—not that there’s anything wrong with that (nod to Seinfeld).

Trillium logo sites:

Life, the Universe, and Everything: Part 2

Regardez moi, je parle français!

To be quite honest, I should say, “Je parle seulement un petit peu de français.” Since knowing French (supposedly) can open a lot of doors in this region, I’ve enrolled in a twice-a-week beginner class at Algonquin College. I had an introduction to French way back in 1990-1992, but never sought out opportunities to use it. I remember picking it up relatively quickly back then; hopefully I can do the same again, provided my mental acuity hasn’t atrophied to the point of no return. I’ve secretly been going about day-to-day activities while chanting (not aloud) the conjugation of the verb être (je suis, tu es, il est, elle est, on est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sont, elles sont) and formulating in my head a couple of sentences with which to astound my instructor and classmates. (I'll let you know if it works; I'm guessing I'll chicken out at the last minute.)

Too bad I didn’t know then what I know now, i.e., too bad I didn’t know in the early 1990s that I would eventually end up living in Ottawa, or I would have kept up my French lessons. Another thing: too bad that when the federal? provincial? government rolled out their bilingual agenda, it was met with resistance in my local community. I calculate it was back in my grade 4 days that every student got a bilingual kit to take home, complete with one of those 45 rpm records. There was a book of some sort in primary colors featuring comics-style Canadian children conversing in both official languages, and the record contained songs meant to facilitate fluency. I want to say that a beaver character figured prominently in the book—but the whole memory is really hazy, as if I had repressed it. I dutifully listened to the soundtrack. Why I thought it was my duty I don’t know: the kits were distributed with little fanfare, and there was certainly no promise of any immediate, tangible academic reward. As I search back in my memory, I am tempted to say that I recall an expression of displeasure or distaste on my teacher’s face as she handed out the kits. (Mind you, this might be another unreliable memory. It’s difficult to say, for this particular teacher’s countenance seemed oft given to that same downturn of the mouth; she did not appear to possess a naturally sunny disposition.) In truth, living as we did in southern Manitoba, staunch Progressive Conservatives with strong anti-Trudeau sentiments, the bilingualism campaign stung: it was perceived as a slight against Low German- and German-speaking communities everywhere. All part of that “Western alienation” phenomenon.

Of course, these are only impressions that I’ve formed. I don’t recollect that I’ve ever mentioned it to anyone before. I believe I discarded the kit soon after receiving it, thinking I would never need to know French anyway, and almost ashamed for having kept it as long as I had. I have a suspicion that the kits were perceived as propaganda, part of the fallout of the Official Languages Act. In any event, there was pushback on the push for French to be taught in our school. Fortunately, the German we studied instead did help me better understand some aspects of French grammar when I got to it. Yet every once in a while over the years, I’ve found that the tune and chiasmic lyrics “Bonjour, my friend, how are you, mon ami?” jostle their way from some far recess of gray matter to assert themselves in my consciousness. Just think if I'd memorized the entire song! I coulda' been a contender.

Life, the Universe, and Everything: Part 1

I cannot believe there’s only one more week left in September. I have not posted for ages, although I have thought about it many times. Where have I been? Bidding a fond farewell to dear departing summer. Adjusting to the madness that autumn brings. Questing after a balance of work and life. Trying to figure out some semblance of routine and failing miserably. I keep hoping that somehow—by osmosis, I suppose (since something in the very core of me rejects the notion of reading The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People and other books of that ilk that strike me as well-intentioned, perhaps, but a little too naïve in their assumptions that all can be solved by a formulaic approach)—I will acquire the secrets of time management. Since that hasn’t happened yet, let me catch you up on what has been goin’ down in centre-town.

I’ve applied to various postings over the summer, and since nothing had come of them (despite my follow-up efforts) by mid-August, I started as a contractor with the University of Ottawa’s Access Service at the beginning of term. U of O calls me a “written interpreter,” although in Winnipeg I learned to think of myself in this capacity as a “computerized notetaker.” Essentially, I capture lectures and any questions and answers on a laptop for hard of hearing students. This availability of this kind of work can vary greatly from year to year, and even from term to term. Not only does it depend upon how many students have requested the service, but also the first two weeks of any term can be chaotic: students might add or drop classes up until a pre-determined date that’s usually fixed somewhere in the third week of classes. During that time, the administrative powers that be usually reschedule the location of a few classes. To give them the benefit of the doubt, it must come to their attention that Professor X’s Physics class of 150 students cannot possibly be crammed into Room 012 of Building A, which holds only 60, and must subsequently be switched with Professor Y’s Macroeconomics class of 50 students in Room 345 of Building Z, which seats 150. To be fair, I believe students are warned that administration reserves the right to change classrooms, and that they (students) are responsible for confirming the location of their classes. Yet these changes tend to cause moments of anxiety and upheaval—not for the student alone, but also for me, the interpreter, who must then try to keep up to the student charging all the way across campus, my laptop bag bumping against my thigh, my sandals slapping the pavement as I make an effort to run, but end up in more of a lop-sided lurch. There's nothing like entering a classroom dishevelled and breathing heavily.

While the job itself is the same in Ottawa as in Winnipeg, that is, keyboarding/typing verbal utterances, there are quite a few differences in terms of staffing, equipment, and financial remuneration. For example, in Winnipeg, the post-secondary institutions supply the laptops; here, the notetaker or student supplies one. Whether these differences are due to policies and procedures at the institutional or provincial level, I haven’t yet deduced.

Up until this term, I’ve managed to avoid notetaking for any Math or Science classes. It’s a much greater challenge to accurately capture the key concepts of a subject about which I know practically nothing. Even reviewing the professors’ online notes does little to prepare me other than providing me with vocabulary, which I can then enter as autocorrect shortcuts. But I’m very happy to have this work, and I’m getting a bit of transcription work here and there, too. It’s all about building a (satisfied) clientele base and extending outward from there!