Noun: An institution for educating children, or a large group of fish or sea mammals
Personally, I’m in favour of the fish. Fish are quiet. You don’t have to worry about hurting a fish’s feelings. Fish don’t have parents that whine and complain about the treatment of their offspring. (Not to imply that all fish are bastards, just that the parental units have bigger things to fry). Oh, and you can eat a fish.
Most importantly, a fisherman can’t be suspended for fishing, (unless of course, he’s unlicensed and/or fishing for an endangered species or something). Whereas, if you’re a teacher working for the Edmonton School Board, you can actually be suspended for teaching.
In a bitter twist of irony, a teacher at Ross Sheppard High School was suspended last week for trying to teach his students that their actions have consequences.
Unlike when my Aunt got the strap for writing with her left hand, (the consequence of a sore palm outweighing the consequence of being burned at the stake), Mr. Lynden Dorval had the gall to give a failing grade to students who did not complete assignments.
I’ll repeat, more slowly and using smaller words. Students that did not do their work were given a zero.
A travesty, to be sure!
According to the school board, penalizing students for not completing their work is against policy. Read on
There’s definitely something to be said for the validation of strangers. Creepy, could be one way of putting it. Perhaps a tad stalker-ish. Unfortunately I haven’t been able to find out whether a restraining order is applicable online. I have put a motion forward to have it addressed at my next town hall meeting.
Of course, I jest.
This is my plaque. There are many others like it, but this one is mine.
It’s the awesomest thing ever!
I have been presented with an award. There wasn’t really a red carpet or a ceremony or anything, which is just as well because my gown is at the cleaners). But there is a plaque! See?
The Liebster Blog Award is a completely fictitious but no less awesome award bestowed upon bloggers with less than 200 followers, (why do I feel like I’m one of the unpopular kids all over again), by their fellow bloggers. And I am one of its recipients.
In other words, “You like me. Right now, you like me!” And there is much rejoicing.
There are also rules. This goes against my anarchist upbringing, but I shall make an exception in this case so as not to appear ungrateful.
Here they are: The anticipation is killing me!
Is there anything more tragic than a singer who has passed away?
I just threw up in my mouth a little.
For years, or at least a few weeks on the Billboard Hot 100, we danced and sang along and illegally downloaded their music, and then all of a sudden, (after a 5-year-long battle with Ebola), they are taken from us. Gone to the big amphitheatre in the sky, or the mosh pit down below. Either way, they will be sorely missed.
Honestly, whenever I hear the news that a singer has had their final curtain call, I cringe. I dread the weeks, months, even years to come where every other song on the radio is sung by the dearly departed, even if they haven’t had a hit single since the Bronze Age. Continue reading
I cried my first day of school. Not because I wanted my Mommy or my blankie or my teddy. That is the stuff of pansies. No, my tears were reserved for something much more traumatizing. An event that has scarred me for life.
I was young. Naïve. Completely unprepared was I for the terrors that awaited me at this thing called school.
Now I’m not sure how much research went into potential educational institutions before my parent’s decided to ship me off to Helga’s Boarding School for Wicked Little Children, but I can assure you, it was not enough.
And so began my first day. After a detestable snack of apple slices, cheese, and a glass of milk, we children were then forced to take a nap, with only the promise of a movie to buoy our spirits. Upon waking, we were told to sit cross-legged on the carpet, thus condemning us to require lower lumbar support in our latter days. But true to their word, there was a movie. Little did we know the unimaginable horror contained therein.
To this day I couldn’t tell you the plot. Something about a mamma kangaroo and her fatherless baby, Joey. I seem to recall an abusive, alcoholic stepfather kangaroo as well, but that could just be from watching too many episodes of Dr. Phil. I can however, recall the ending in vivid detail. The horror. The horror.
Is that a club in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?
I would have made a terrible feminist. I couldn’t bear to part with my bra, let alone burn it. Do you have any idea how expensive those things are? Victoria’s got a secret all right, and it’s damn well going to cost you. And even if I were tempted to jump on the flaming brassiere train, going free bird could be disastrous. Sure, it’s all fun and games until somebody loses an eye, namely me, and I can’t afford to take that kind of time off work. Besides, we’ve made significant strides over the years. Hell, we can even vote now.
So no, I’m not a feminist. However, I couldn’t help but get my g-string in a knot when I learned that CBC had partnered with “While the Men Watch”, and will offer their online broadcast during the final series of the Stanley Cup Playoffs.
Described as “Sex in the City meets ESPN”, (which if you ask me should be about horse racing), this talk-show allegedly offers “alternative” sports commentary geared toward women. With topics such as “Love me like Lundqvist: 5 Sex Games for Hockey Season” and “6 Things NOT to Say if His Team Loses”, how could any woman not tune in? Quite easily, I assure you. I kid you not, dear reader
A conversation between two friends while unpacking…
Me: That’s the wrong cupboard.
Friend: What do you mean?
Me: That’s not where the glasses should go.
Friend: What difference does it make? They’re in the kitchen. It’s not like I’m unpacking them in the laundry room.
Me: It makes all the difference. The glasses belong in the cupboard beside the fridge. That way, when I’m thirsty, the proximity of the glasses to the frosty beverages is within optimum range. I don’t want to have to traipse through the kitchen to get a glass and then traipse back to the fridge. It’s logical.
Friend: How thirsty do you anticipate being?
Me: You’ll thank me the next time you come over.
Friend: You’re anal.
Can you believe that? She actually called me anal! My superior organizational skills blatantly disregarded as the ramblings of a crazy person. (It’s a good thing I didn’t tell her that I like all of the cans of food in the cupboard turned out so that the English side of the label, and not the French, is showing; (I know, very Sleeping with the Enemy.) She probably would have had me committed. Or at least brought me a helmet to wear the next time she came over.) Continue reading
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…
Ok, it was only a few years ago in an airport fairly close by, but I was on a mission. Not quite the kind that required a lightsaber, just a corporate card (which can be just as dangerous) and a passport.
Our company was converting financial systems, and ironically enough, I work in the Finance department, so I was asked to join the team of “experts” that would develop and test the new program. To this day I still haven’t quite figured out if I was chosen because they wanted to get rid of me, (not without reason), or because they couldn’t afford to lose one of their valued employees for any length of time, making me the only other choice. I didn’t care either way. I was more than willing to go. Goodbye menial number’s slave; hello CFO! (I dream big.)
Is it just me or do they look like giant glowing wishbones?
Little ol’ me would be flying back and forth to Boston for the next 6 months, to represent Canada. Yes that’s right, all of Canada. I’ve actually been on conference calls where the introductions go something like this: “Hi everyone, thanks for joining me. This is Cathy in the Boston office. Also on the line are Neil and Bob from our San Francisco office, John in the New York office, and Jenn from Canada”. Not only do I represent an entire country, I apparently don’t work out of an office. (Dammit, my igloo’s melting all over my spreadsheets again!)
So there I am, ready to do my duty for Queen and country, waiting in line to go through airport security. My pockets are empty; my feet bare. My purse and laptop bag are awaiting the Total Recall X-ray machine crammed into one of those plastic bins that are designed to fit neither purses nor laptop bags. Finally, I am called forth into the metal detector. Here’s what happened