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Our river valley in Edmonton is particularly amazing during the fall.
Hey folks, just contemplating on the gradual change in the weather here. Summer has had her last gasp and now the parade of crisp mornings and cool afternoons has begun. Autumn is my favourite season, especially once we’ve had a killing frost or two, as it cleans the damn mosquitoes right up.
Now begins the ritual of trying to ascertain whether it too cold for to go out in shorts or not each morning. My reasoning is thus – we here in Alberta have the potential for a very long winter season from October to March most years and that, dear friends, is entirely to long a spell to exclusively wearing pants.
I do have limits, usually -5 centigrade is the lowest I’ll go before I shelf the shorts and bring up the long pants for the 
winter. The other wardrobe factor, of course is the hated closed toe shoes (we won’t mention the socks either :P). We hates them and will put off the transition for as long as safely possible. The Birkenstocks stay on till there is more than a centimetre of snow that stays on the ground (stuff that falls and melts doesn’t count:) ), till then, the sweet freedom of sandals reign supreme.
Other concerns include getting the back to school work schedule down, making time for piano and voice practice and getting the yard and car ready for the long dark cold ahead. This year though, I think we’re going to add lights to our backyard fence that will really brighten the winter nights. :) It should be all good, and as an added benefit more light to see the frozen dog poo that needs collecting. :)
“I don’t want to see penis when I go to the washroom; he just stands there with the stall open and it makes me uncomfortable.“.
That was the quotable bit from a conversation I had with a female student I happened to be teaching at an elementary school this week. We were walking in from recess and Jaina brought this to my attention. I couldn’t detect any hate or malice in her statement, as she had just been playing convivially with Dakota (Male to Trans) minutes before. I told her that she had every right to feel uncomfortable as the situation she described was not appropriate in terms of what was happening in the bathroom… Jaina was surprised that a teacher agreed with her and her feelings of discomfort. I was going to suggest that she remind Dakota to shut the door but the conversation ended as we entered the school.
I hope that by listening to Jaina and supporting her statement she will talk with her teacher and her Dakota to sort that issue out.
The conversation caught me by surprise (as with most occurrences while teaching behaviour classes) and in the moment I had to negotiate between the child’s feelings and the official school board policy on gender and washrooms.
Review of the policy in question came down to these points –
Indicators of this best practice in action (pg.9)
• Students are able to access washrooms that are congruent with their gender identity.
• A student who objects to sharing a washroom or change-room with a student who is trans or gender-diverse is offered an alternative facility (this scenario also applies when a parent or other caregiver objects to shared washroom or change-room facilities on behalf of their child).
I certainly hope that Jaina’s concerns are heard and action is taken as traditionally the concerns of girls, and females in general, are all to often thrown under the bus.
On May 15, 2012, Arb and I took possession of the house we now live in.
Back in early April 2012, literally the same day we closed on the house, I started looking on Petfinder for a dog. We were going to have a fenced yard, and I had always wanted a dog. Arb grew up with dogs, but I had never had one. Arb wanted a Sheltie. I wanted a senior, because I love older dogs, and because they often have trouble finding homes. My search for a senior Sheltie brought up exactly one result. I wrote the rescue right away, explaining that we were interested but we couldn’t bring her home until we actually had the home to bring her to. The rescue took a loooong time to write back, but eventually, the week before move-in, we were invited to meet up with her foster mum at the local Petsmart.
It wasn’t quite love at first sight – Shadow was kindof a mess, with mats the size of golfballs in the fur behind her ears and behind her armpits. And she was a little bit shy. But then she stuck that adorable pointy nose under our hands and demanded pettins, and our hearts went poof, and we decided she had to be our dog.
Arb meeting Shadow for the first time
We brought her home four years ago today. She has absolutely blossomed in confidence and happiness – and beauty, once we took her to the groomer and got her mats shaved off. (No more mats since then due to Arb’s rigorous program to teach her to accept brushing (which involves a lot of high-value treats)).
She has mastered the herding dog stare when she wants you to do something:
And somewhere along the line, I accidentally trained her that if she did a nice down-stay, I would give her just about anything she wants:
They told us she was 10-ish when we got her, but there’s no way she’s 14 now; she still zooms around the yard barking her fool head off like a puppy.
Thank you for being our dog, Shadow, and happy GotchaVersairy!
I used to be indifferent to falling back. The extra hour of sleep on the one day is nice but whatever. The choice of driving to work in the dark, or driving home in the dark, isn’t that material to me, and once December comes, it’s in the dark both ways regardless of Daylight time or Standard time.
Then I got into horses. And maybe Daylight time is great if you have horses on your property and getting up to do early morning chores isn’t quite as dreadful if the sun is up. I, however, am a city girl and I get my horsey time in the evenings. Which are now pitch black. It could be worse; the place I ride has a well-lit, semi-heated arena for lessons.
I’ve been sick and missed lessons; yesterday was my first time out since the time change. And it is worse: I had to go catch my assigned horse, in the dark. This presented a number of problems: Read the rest of this entry »
I (almost) never wear makeup to work. A whole lot of it is that I simply can’t be arsed, but it’s also a specifically political decision: men don’t have to, so why should I. I recognize that, as a knowledge worker who’s valued for my brainz, I’m honestly privileged not to have to focus on my looks, which even in 2015 is often an expectation for women in management, client-facing positions, and in the service industry. For many working women, presenting a “polished” appearance is a condition of employment, and just being clean and clean-shaven doesn’t cut it; you have to present with just the appropriate level of femininity, no more and no less, and among other things that means makeup. But not fun, self-expressive makeup. Makeup that pretends it’s not there, makeup that tries to naturalize your role as decorative object without calling attention to all the work you put into it – because working on looking good means you’re vain, right?
So much fucking bullshit.
So the other day a colleague commented on my lack of makeup. I told her Read the rest of this entry »
Almost every knitter or crocheter’s taste in yarn goes through a similar evolution as their skill progresses. When you’re just starting, everything takes forever, so thick yarns seem like a good idea – yay, fewer stitches makes more fabric! And you buy yarn based on how pretty the ball looks, without much concept of what it might look like once it’s worked up. Low-end yarn manufacturers, I’m sure, are aware of n00b yarn buyers’ purchasing habits, and pander accordingly. Which is why the yarn aisle at Michael’s is full of stuff like this:
What on earth could go wrong? I mean, it’s so cheerful, right? Unfortunately, the length of each coloured segment is such that when you knit or crochet it, you don’t get a pretty rainbow, you get a wild splatter effect that looks like a clown exploded. Hence the term, in the crafty circles in which I travel (not the mild-mannered granny circle!), “clown barf”. And here’s the thing: I have a tendency to buy yarn faster than I crochet it, so when I was a n00b and had not yet become a yarn snob, I unknowingly bought a lot of clown barf, before I had a chance to learn my lesson. And now that clown barf is languishing in a box in the basement, because I can’t possibly throw it out, but why would I want to work with it, when I also have Icelandic wool brought home from Iceland, and cashmere and silk blends?
Fortunately for the size of my stash, the Arbourist occasionally asks me to make something where fancee yarn would be inappropriate. Like this tea cozy (we recently Got Civilization and started using a teapot!). As you can see, cute on the ball (above); garish and splattery when made up. Read the rest of this entry »
Back in 2012, Arb and I got married, bought a house, and adopted a dog, all within the space of three months. When we took possession of the house, there really wasn’t time to paint. Which was a shame, because the previous owners had done the place in a very tasteful, marketable, beigey earth-tone scheme. It was so not us. Last week, we made our beach-head against beige, and redid the bedroom! Before, it was a sickly grey-green colour:
Originally, I wanted to change it to a soft, greyish lavender.
Arb vetoed that: “We’re not going to all that work, to change one boring neutral into another!”
Well. Go big or go home then. How about the purplest purple that ever purpled?
Arb was all over that idea! We decided on “Purplicious” from Benjamin Moore. So last week I took some vacation time, and we made our bedroom, really ours!
We painted:
We finally got the nice bed we’d been pining for:
And it was promptly colonized by the White Cat:
And we got doors for our wardrobe! No more cat nests in our dress slacks! Here’s a selfie from our cozy bed, in the wardrobe mirrored doors, showing the cozy purple walls.
OMG the wardrobe doors, gentle readers. When you assemble Ikea furniture, the screws have to line up with the pre-drilled holes. These didn’t quite. And the doors were heavy and awkward and fragile and had to be held just so to be able to get any holes to line up – which of course put other holes out of alignment… I got so angry trying to get the screws into the mismatched holes, that I said words I never say. And of course, on the last door (there are four), we figured out an easier way of maneuvering that didn’t require any anger or aggression at all.
Our marriage has now survived the Assembling Ikea Furniture Test, and the Picking a Bedroom Colour Test!
bleatmop
Mystro
The Arbourist
Dead Wild Roses 
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