The other day, I overheard my oldest son telling his friend, "When I turn 16, Dad is getting me a car."
Not likely, if Mom has anything to say about it, but that's besides the point of my story.
Like any other devil's advocate, I began to badger him about the costs associated with owning a vehicle, and it occurred to me how staggeringly expensive a luxury it is in this day and age. I laid it out for him to absorb.
"It's not exactly cheap to get your driver's license," I told him. "Not only do you have to pay to take a beginners' test, but the road test, the licensing itself and the defensive driving course all cost money, too." I looked it up on the Service Nova Scotia on-line schedule of fees, and to legally get behind the wheel is going to cost a minimum of $144, not counting the renewals.
Be it brand new or used, in most cases you're going to pay dearly for a car. According to Google, the average price of a mid-sized family sedan is $20,000, and the average monthly car payment is $300 per family. "That's just to own it and park it in your driveway!" I told him, but he was quick to remind me that his father would be covering that part of the tab. I wasn't about to argue, I had too much left to cover before he lost interest.
Now, insurance. Let's say, conservatively, that a policy for full coverage, which is necessary most times to be approved for financing, costs about $1200 per year. "Oh, that's right! Since you'll be a newly licensed male driver under 25, you might as well double that. While you're at it, stay alert and cross your fingers that you'll have no fender benders or problems with your driving record, because the price of that policy won't take long to skyrocket."
I would be remiss not to mention Service Nova Scotia (herein referred to as the DMV, since I'm from the old-ish school) as it's own vehicular consequence. Any driver can speak of the impatience and frustration thick in the air at most DMV waiting areas, and I felt it only right to warn my son. "You take a number and wait for what seems like days amongst the heat, the smells, the lady tapping her fingernails on the chair, the recycled air, even the occasional man who's been waiting so long that he's fallen asleep and now snores like a bear in the corner. I would be scared to tally up the hours of my life that have been wasted in line at the DMV, but that's what happens when you own a car. You've been warned."
"But, it's once you get to the counter that the real pain starts. First, fork over the money to register the vehicle ($11.50, last I checked). Then, get yourself a license plate at a whopping $159, not counting the renewals every two years."
"Before you hop in your new ride and drive away, you have to make sure it's inspected, somewhere in the neighborhood of $150, unless you need repairs to pass the inspection, at which point your poor bank card will surely be screaming for mercy. Now you're ready to roll! Unless you need new tires, which you usually do with a used car. Then you can tack on another $500 or so, assuming you find a good deal."
"So, let's assume for story's sake that Dad will indeed buy you a car and even make the car payment." (I wish you could have heard me laughing). "Do you still think a part-time job will make up the difference?" I added it up for him: he'll need $500 for his first trip to the DMV (plus the cash to cover tax on the purchase price if it's a used vehicle). After that, it will cost at least $100 every month for insurance (probably much more), and then it's the business of gas, oil changes, wiper fluid, and any other maintenance.
And I made sure to remind him to pay attention: his license, those plates, and the inspection all have to be renewed regularly, so he'll be as big a fixture at the DMV as anyone else.
I like to think I taught him a lesson in the cost of living, responsibilities of a car owner, and how money doesn't go far. I wanted all my preaching to sink in and have him say, "You're right, Mom. I'll never be able to afford a car and I don't need one anyway. I'll stay home forever. Three cheers for bicycles!!!"
Who was I kidding. He wasn't even phased and spent that afternoon at Canadian Tire looking at cool floor mats and stereos.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Make a Difference This Christmas
This is the time of year when I start thinking about Christmas. Not the tree and garland kind of thinking, but the necessary, time-sensitive stuff.
Every year, my kids are lucky to have a great Christmas. I'm not rich, don't make that assumption; I'm proud to say I can be pretty cheap, and access toys/clothes/extras make me twitch a little, knowing how wasteful it is. I just mean considering the state of the world today, they're very lucky children to enjoy this extent of comfort and plenty.
What is very important to me is that my kids not take advantage of those things. They're aged 4 and 11 so, of course, they're not going to appreciate the gravity of an adult conversation about poverty and homelessness, but I still try to impress upon them how fortunate they are.
It's so easy to forget, while shopping and wrapping and baking, how many, many people don't have a home. A bed. A hat. Breakfast. So many things we take for granted every day, and especially around the holidays.
That is why I started a little tradition a few years ago, before my youngest was even born. Every year at this time, we do something for a person or family to try to make their Christmas better. While the kids might translate my intention as "do something nice or Santa won't come", I'm hoping in the years to come that our yearly practice will have a lasting effect.
We started with making a donation to Christmas Daddies, even if we couldn't afford it. It might not have amounted to much, but taking it from our pocket and putting it in someone else's was the point, not how much the gift was.
Then myself and my oldest son and I would each fill a shoe box with everyday items like toothbrushes and soap, for shipment to kids overseas in developing countries. One year we even sent boxes to soldiers in Afghanistan.
In more recent years, we've changed things to make the process of gift-giving more hands-on for the kids. Every year we save our Canadian Tire money (and we have lots of it, from filling up our gas tank) and use it to buy children's toys. The boys each pick out a toy for a kid their age, and we then drop them (the gifts, not our kids) in a donation bin to be distributed to children around the Strait area.
Another simple gesture is to donate to the food bank. Every grocery day starting the beginning of November, each of the kids picks up one or two non-perishable food items to put in the cart, and when we get home it goes in a box in the kitchen. Around the middle of December, we go through our own cupboards and add to the box, and then deliver the box to a local food bank. It doesn't cost a great deal, but it could make a big difference to someone who needs it.
Something that has proven the most rewarding for the kids is organizing their toys, which we'll be doing next weekend. In order to make room for new Christmas presents, I clean out every toy box, drawer, and closet, and keep only what the kids play with on a regular basis. Everything else in good shape (regardless of how new it is) goes in a box and is taken to a church or similar organization for distribution to less fortunate children. The most important part of this process, however, isn't giving away the unwanted toys; they also have to pick one toy that they really like to put in the box, based on the idea that they're making a personal sacrifice, no matter how small, in order to benefit someone else.
I'm not trying to be boastful. We're not the patron saints of generosity and I'm not looking for a "you're so giving" award. We do small things in order to teach our kids it's important to pay it forward, in hopes that if we ever find ourselves without, there will be others willing to help us.
If you have children, I encourage you to teach them the true meaning of Christmas by giving of themselves in some small way. It will fill their hearts with true joy, the way no present ever could.
If you are an individual in need, submit your name to the church, or to some other charitable organization. There are many people willing to share their good fortune until you get your's back.
If you are involved with an organization that accepts donations for people and families in need, please advertise that need and people in this area are sure to come through.
If we all work together, this Christmas can be plentiful for everyone.
Every year, my kids are lucky to have a great Christmas. I'm not rich, don't make that assumption; I'm proud to say I can be pretty cheap, and access toys/clothes/extras make me twitch a little, knowing how wasteful it is. I just mean considering the state of the world today, they're very lucky children to enjoy this extent of comfort and plenty.
What is very important to me is that my kids not take advantage of those things. They're aged 4 and 11 so, of course, they're not going to appreciate the gravity of an adult conversation about poverty and homelessness, but I still try to impress upon them how fortunate they are.
It's so easy to forget, while shopping and wrapping and baking, how many, many people don't have a home. A bed. A hat. Breakfast. So many things we take for granted every day, and especially around the holidays.
That is why I started a little tradition a few years ago, before my youngest was even born. Every year at this time, we do something for a person or family to try to make their Christmas better. While the kids might translate my intention as "do something nice or Santa won't come", I'm hoping in the years to come that our yearly practice will have a lasting effect.
We started with making a donation to Christmas Daddies, even if we couldn't afford it. It might not have amounted to much, but taking it from our pocket and putting it in someone else's was the point, not how much the gift was.
Then myself and my oldest son and I would each fill a shoe box with everyday items like toothbrushes and soap, for shipment to kids overseas in developing countries. One year we even sent boxes to soldiers in Afghanistan.
In more recent years, we've changed things to make the process of gift-giving more hands-on for the kids. Every year we save our Canadian Tire money (and we have lots of it, from filling up our gas tank) and use it to buy children's toys. The boys each pick out a toy for a kid their age, and we then drop them (the gifts, not our kids) in a donation bin to be distributed to children around the Strait area.
Another simple gesture is to donate to the food bank. Every grocery day starting the beginning of November, each of the kids picks up one or two non-perishable food items to put in the cart, and when we get home it goes in a box in the kitchen. Around the middle of December, we go through our own cupboards and add to the box, and then deliver the box to a local food bank. It doesn't cost a great deal, but it could make a big difference to someone who needs it.
Something that has proven the most rewarding for the kids is organizing their toys, which we'll be doing next weekend. In order to make room for new Christmas presents, I clean out every toy box, drawer, and closet, and keep only what the kids play with on a regular basis. Everything else in good shape (regardless of how new it is) goes in a box and is taken to a church or similar organization for distribution to less fortunate children. The most important part of this process, however, isn't giving away the unwanted toys; they also have to pick one toy that they really like to put in the box, based on the idea that they're making a personal sacrifice, no matter how small, in order to benefit someone else.
I'm not trying to be boastful. We're not the patron saints of generosity and I'm not looking for a "you're so giving" award. We do small things in order to teach our kids it's important to pay it forward, in hopes that if we ever find ourselves without, there will be others willing to help us.
If you have children, I encourage you to teach them the true meaning of Christmas by giving of themselves in some small way. It will fill their hearts with true joy, the way no present ever could.
If you are an individual in need, submit your name to the church, or to some other charitable organization. There are many people willing to share their good fortune until you get your's back.
If you are involved with an organization that accepts donations for people and families in need, please advertise that need and people in this area are sure to come through.
If we all work together, this Christmas can be plentiful for everyone.
The TV War Rages On
There is, for all intents and purposes, an active campaign taking place in Canada. Maybe not a political one, but it's a hard-fought, divisive, choose-a-side campaign to be sure.
Let's see if I get this right.
One minute, a commercial airs talking about rich cable providers stealing local TV signals like CTV and CBC and paying nothing. Please support local TV, it says. Brought to you by the folks at the TV stations.
The next minute, another commercial airs talking about greedy local stations wanting to charge us consumers a monthly $10 TV tax even though they made lots of profits already. Say no to the TV tax, it says. Brought to you by the cable providers.
The purpose of each commercial is to discredit the claims of the other, and it's becoming a sticky situation: both commercials make excellent points, but don't give all the necessary information one would need to generate an informed opinion one way or the other. Taking information from the "fact sheets" on the respective web sites, I'll try to explain it a bit further.
I'll begin with the local stations, since they drew first blood in the campaign, and I'll use CTV as an example. Their argument is relatively simple; CTV broadcasts our local news from affiliate stations all over the country. When you subscribe to cable or satellite (I'll use Eastlink as an example), you're paying for all the channels included in your package, which always includes CTV.
The point of contention is that Eastlink doesn't have to pay CTV anything for airing their channel, even though many people might be subscribing to that package specifically to get CTV. CTV argues that they should be able to negotiate appropriate compensation from the cable and satellite companies for the distribution of the local stations' signal. They just want to be paid for their product by the people who use and re-sell it.
On the other side of the coin, cable and satellite companies point out that CTV is available for free (remember a bunny-ears antenna on top of your television set? That still works, even though few people go that route). How can you be accused of stealing something that is not only free, but that Eastlink is obligated by law to carry?
Also, the carriage of CTV by Eastlink allows broadcasting in a higher quality format and to a far larger number of customers than would be possible through over-the-air transmitting. This enables CTV to charge more for ad minutes and make more money, which cable companies argue is compensation enough. If CTV keeps pushing the CRTC to amend the current policies, a tax will likely be implemented, which would be absorbed by the customers.
See the problem?
CTV is right. If cable companies are using their signal and re-selling it to us, CTV should see some of those profits. While I don't agree with local stations using the "save local television, we're going bankrupt" speech (together the big television companies boasted a $400 million dollar profit last year alone, between local stations and specialty channels), they make a good point: if you're charging for something we provide, we should get a cut. If Eastlink was airing CTV for free, fine; but since cable bills have risen to more than four times the cost of living in the past five years, I'd say shelling over a few bucks to CTV might only be fair.
But, Eastlink is right, too. If everyone decides to revert back to rabbit-ears tomorrow, they'll get CTV for free. Cable and satellite companies are merely redistributing the signal because the CRTC gives them no choice, so why should they have to pay for something that has always been, and likely always will be, free? Especially since it is of great benefit to CTV for Eastlink to carry their signal, as far as advertising and distribution is concerned?
Fact is, neither side is wrong; if Eastlink wasn't legally required to carry CTV and is was dealt with just like a specialty channel (like TSN and The Food Network), Eastlink could offer CTV only to those customers who wanted it, and charge accordingly. That way, Eastlink and CTV would both make money and the product used would be paid for fairly.
Unfortunately, just about any solution to this problem will pass an additional cost onto us, the viewers. Whether it be this mystery "TV Tax" or some other imposed fee, what doesn't seem fair is that it will be shouldered by people who do not post yearly profits in the millions of dollars.
As for me, I think Steve Murphy should just take a pay-cut. Problem solved!
(You can visit www.localtvmatters.com and www.stopthetvtax.com for more information on the debate.)
Let's see if I get this right.
One minute, a commercial airs talking about rich cable providers stealing local TV signals like CTV and CBC and paying nothing. Please support local TV, it says. Brought to you by the folks at the TV stations.
The next minute, another commercial airs talking about greedy local stations wanting to charge us consumers a monthly $10 TV tax even though they made lots of profits already. Say no to the TV tax, it says. Brought to you by the cable providers.
The purpose of each commercial is to discredit the claims of the other, and it's becoming a sticky situation: both commercials make excellent points, but don't give all the necessary information one would need to generate an informed opinion one way or the other. Taking information from the "fact sheets" on the respective web sites, I'll try to explain it a bit further.
I'll begin with the local stations, since they drew first blood in the campaign, and I'll use CTV as an example. Their argument is relatively simple; CTV broadcasts our local news from affiliate stations all over the country. When you subscribe to cable or satellite (I'll use Eastlink as an example), you're paying for all the channels included in your package, which always includes CTV.
The point of contention is that Eastlink doesn't have to pay CTV anything for airing their channel, even though many people might be subscribing to that package specifically to get CTV. CTV argues that they should be able to negotiate appropriate compensation from the cable and satellite companies for the distribution of the local stations' signal. They just want to be paid for their product by the people who use and re-sell it.
On the other side of the coin, cable and satellite companies point out that CTV is available for free (remember a bunny-ears antenna on top of your television set? That still works, even though few people go that route). How can you be accused of stealing something that is not only free, but that Eastlink is obligated by law to carry?
Also, the carriage of CTV by Eastlink allows broadcasting in a higher quality format and to a far larger number of customers than would be possible through over-the-air transmitting. This enables CTV to charge more for ad minutes and make more money, which cable companies argue is compensation enough. If CTV keeps pushing the CRTC to amend the current policies, a tax will likely be implemented, which would be absorbed by the customers.
See the problem?
CTV is right. If cable companies are using their signal and re-selling it to us, CTV should see some of those profits. While I don't agree with local stations using the "save local television, we're going bankrupt" speech (together the big television companies boasted a $400 million dollar profit last year alone, between local stations and specialty channels), they make a good point: if you're charging for something we provide, we should get a cut. If Eastlink was airing CTV for free, fine; but since cable bills have risen to more than four times the cost of living in the past five years, I'd say shelling over a few bucks to CTV might only be fair.
But, Eastlink is right, too. If everyone decides to revert back to rabbit-ears tomorrow, they'll get CTV for free. Cable and satellite companies are merely redistributing the signal because the CRTC gives them no choice, so why should they have to pay for something that has always been, and likely always will be, free? Especially since it is of great benefit to CTV for Eastlink to carry their signal, as far as advertising and distribution is concerned?
Fact is, neither side is wrong; if Eastlink wasn't legally required to carry CTV and is was dealt with just like a specialty channel (like TSN and The Food Network), Eastlink could offer CTV only to those customers who wanted it, and charge accordingly. That way, Eastlink and CTV would both make money and the product used would be paid for fairly.
Unfortunately, just about any solution to this problem will pass an additional cost onto us, the viewers. Whether it be this mystery "TV Tax" or some other imposed fee, what doesn't seem fair is that it will be shouldered by people who do not post yearly profits in the millions of dollars.
As for me, I think Steve Murphy should just take a pay-cut. Problem solved!
(You can visit www.localtvmatters.com and www.stopthetvtax.com for more information on the debate.)
Words from the Costume Connoisseur
Halloween is my Christmas. Not because of the demonic overtones and all that stuff, but because it's the one day a year even adults get to play dress-up.
Ever since I was a kid, I have spent the weeks leading up to October 31st dreaming up the best costumes I could think of. While I may not have always had the time or resources to bring these costumes to life, I can surely appreciate a great effort when I see it.
Vampires and witches, punk rockers and rubber masks, there are always the old reliables. But when you really, and I mean REALLY, want a memorable costume, you have to dig deeper than your run-of-the-mill Halloween garb. A good costume isn't necessarily a character, sometimes it's a concept.
Over the years and in many cities and venues, I've encountered some pretty mind-blowing costumes, and I'm sharing some of those in hopes someone will arrive at my door wearing one.
First, I'd like to pay tribute to the best of the best, my high school and university friend, Amanda Mombourquette. She has a long-standing history of epic costumes she created herself from scratch, and any Halloween connoisseur could learn a thing or two from her ideas. The consummate professional, she always keeps her costume a secret until she shows up at the party.
A few years ago, she came dressed as the Operation board game. On a huge box draped over her shoulders, she had drawn a replica of the human body with labeled parts as seen on the game itself. She wore a blinking red nose and affixed a massive pair of tweezers to her side. That, boys and girls, goes beyond the realm of witches and ghosts.
Another year, she dressed as...no, sorry - she embodied Ms. Swan, the Mad TV character. Not only did she have the clothes and the make-up, she spent the evening in character, which made the esthetic aspects that much more believable. I'm not sure what she's got cooked up for this year, but I can't wait to see the pictures.
When I was 20, I went to the masquerade party at the Liquor Dome in Halifax. Anyone who was ever there on a Saturday night roughly ten years ago knows how packed that place used to get, so imagine my surprise when I walked past a bed. Some guy had constructed a bed, complete with pillows, sheets, blankets, teddy bears, the whole works, out of a refrigerator box (I know because I asked him). His head was situated to make it look like he was laying in the bed, even though he was walking around beneath it, and the form of a body had been stuffed under the blankets. It was cumbersome to say the least, and he won best costume of the night, which based on commitment and discomfort alone was well deserved.
Last year, a grown man came to my door (don't get me started) wearing regular clothes, and nothing of note except for a wide-brimmed hat with a leaf hanging from the front. When I asked him what he was supposed to be, he said, "a leaf blower", and proceeded to blow on the leaf dangling in front of his face. As disconcerting as it was to see someone close to my age trick-or-treating, I had to have a laugh at his choice of costume. It may not have been elaborate, but it was great all the same.
Here are a few simple ideas that I've heard about or thought of, but never had the chance to try out.
Dress in black, stick yellow or white tape in two lines up and down your body, and go as a highway. You can even pin dinkies and toy road signs to your clothes.
Dress in grey, and sew strings in various lengths all over your outfit. Attach little cars, houses, people, animals, whatever you can find, to the strings. When people ask what you are, spin around and tell them you're a tornado.
Dress in black, wear a black hat or ski mask, carry a flashlight and a bag with stuffed kittens sticking out, and go out as a cat burglar.
Dress in all pink, tie a sneaker to your head, and be gum under someone's shoe.
Attach cotton balls to a hat and to your clothing to make clouds. When people ask what you are, tell them you're, "cloudy, with a chance of showers" and squirt them with a water gun.
One last idea: if you don't feel like dressing up at all but don't want to be the party-pooper, wear normal clothes and put a sign around your neck that says, "Nudist on Strike."
See? Anyone can enjoy Halloween as much as I do.
Ever since I was a kid, I have spent the weeks leading up to October 31st dreaming up the best costumes I could think of. While I may not have always had the time or resources to bring these costumes to life, I can surely appreciate a great effort when I see it.
Vampires and witches, punk rockers and rubber masks, there are always the old reliables. But when you really, and I mean REALLY, want a memorable costume, you have to dig deeper than your run-of-the-mill Halloween garb. A good costume isn't necessarily a character, sometimes it's a concept.
Over the years and in many cities and venues, I've encountered some pretty mind-blowing costumes, and I'm sharing some of those in hopes someone will arrive at my door wearing one.
First, I'd like to pay tribute to the best of the best, my high school and university friend, Amanda Mombourquette. She has a long-standing history of epic costumes she created herself from scratch, and any Halloween connoisseur could learn a thing or two from her ideas. The consummate professional, she always keeps her costume a secret until she shows up at the party.
A few years ago, she came dressed as the Operation board game. On a huge box draped over her shoulders, she had drawn a replica of the human body with labeled parts as seen on the game itself. She wore a blinking red nose and affixed a massive pair of tweezers to her side. That, boys and girls, goes beyond the realm of witches and ghosts.
Another year, she dressed as...no, sorry - she embodied Ms. Swan, the Mad TV character. Not only did she have the clothes and the make-up, she spent the evening in character, which made the esthetic aspects that much more believable. I'm not sure what she's got cooked up for this year, but I can't wait to see the pictures.
When I was 20, I went to the masquerade party at the Liquor Dome in Halifax. Anyone who was ever there on a Saturday night roughly ten years ago knows how packed that place used to get, so imagine my surprise when I walked past a bed. Some guy had constructed a bed, complete with pillows, sheets, blankets, teddy bears, the whole works, out of a refrigerator box (I know because I asked him). His head was situated to make it look like he was laying in the bed, even though he was walking around beneath it, and the form of a body had been stuffed under the blankets. It was cumbersome to say the least, and he won best costume of the night, which based on commitment and discomfort alone was well deserved.
Last year, a grown man came to my door (don't get me started) wearing regular clothes, and nothing of note except for a wide-brimmed hat with a leaf hanging from the front. When I asked him what he was supposed to be, he said, "a leaf blower", and proceeded to blow on the leaf dangling in front of his face. As disconcerting as it was to see someone close to my age trick-or-treating, I had to have a laugh at his choice of costume. It may not have been elaborate, but it was great all the same.
Here are a few simple ideas that I've heard about or thought of, but never had the chance to try out.
Dress in black, stick yellow or white tape in two lines up and down your body, and go as a highway. You can even pin dinkies and toy road signs to your clothes.
Dress in grey, and sew strings in various lengths all over your outfit. Attach little cars, houses, people, animals, whatever you can find, to the strings. When people ask what you are, spin around and tell them you're a tornado.
Dress in black, wear a black hat or ski mask, carry a flashlight and a bag with stuffed kittens sticking out, and go out as a cat burglar.
Dress in all pink, tie a sneaker to your head, and be gum under someone's shoe.
Attach cotton balls to a hat and to your clothing to make clouds. When people ask what you are, tell them you're, "cloudy, with a chance of showers" and squirt them with a water gun.
One last idea: if you don't feel like dressing up at all but don't want to be the party-pooper, wear normal clothes and put a sign around your neck that says, "Nudist on Strike."
See? Anyone can enjoy Halloween as much as I do.
Thankful
Thanksgiving is the most under-appreciated holiday. No one really decorates, there isn't a big lead-up, and when it's over, people are too busy talking about Halloween and Christmas to reminisce about the day that just passed.
I'm guilty myself. The meaning of Thanksgiving has often become lost in the naps and the turkey and the long weekend. This year, I'm making a point to say what I'm thankful for.
I'm thankful for my health. While it may not be perfect, I could be much worse off, and in the grand scheme of things I don't have any room to complain. I'm able to walk, to play with my kids, to watch the world around me, and to spend time at home instead of in a hospital. There are people with cancer and ALS and hundreds of other ailments who remind me how lucky I am to have my health.
I'm thankful for a husband who not only got up early Sunday morning to put the turkey in the oven, but who also peeled, cooked, and prepared all the vegetables and side dishes while I visited with my family in River Bourgeois, and even did the dishes afterward. We get to spend all our time together, enjoy the present, and talk about the future. We're best friends, and I'm thankful that he chose me to be his wife. There are women who have become widows, or who spend holidays alone, who remind me how lucky I am to have my husband.
I'm thankful for two smart, happy and healthy boys who breathe life into our house. They might also destroy said house in the process, but it's when they're gone and the house is quiet that we remember how important all that noise and chaos is to our continued happiness. There are people who have lost a child, or who can't conceive, who remind me how lucky I am to have my kids.
I'm thankful for my house. It might be modest, but it's where I am the most comfortable and it's mine. We have heat, water, and electricity, along with a million non-essential services, and considering the state of the world, that's about all a person can ask for. There are homeless people, and people living in deplorable conditions, who remind me how lucky I am to have a home.
I am thankful that my husband has a good job. We might not own a yacht or summer in Greece, but we get by without having to worry too much about how. Not only that, his job is at home, which means he doesn't have to go away for months at a time in order to provide for his family. There are people who have to sell their most valuable belongings to buy groceries, and men working away from their families all year long, who remind me how lucky I am that my husband has a good job.
I am thankful for my car. It may be a very material thing, but I haven't always had one, and I know what a challenge and a hassle it can be to live your life when you have to rely on others to drive you from place to place. Being able to jump in a reliable, comfortable vehicle and go where I need to go is a luxury I appreciate. There are single mothers who walk all over town and people who miss doctor's appointments because they have no transportation, who make me realize how lucky I am to have a car.
I am thankful for my extended family. My dad, who is always ready with sound advice when I need it; my siblings, who are some of my oldest friends; my grandparents, who after over 93 birthdays apiece and 69 years of marriage, continue to set a great example of how life is meant to be lived; my friends, many of whom I consider to be family, and for good reason; and to all of my other extended family members who contribute to my life in so many positive ways. There are World Vision commercials and episodes of Oprah to remind me how lucky I am to have my family.
Lastly, I am thankful for Cape Breton. Of all the places I have lived, nowhere compares to the way of life lived in this beautiful little island. I am so glad to be able to raise my kids in a town where everyone knows everyone else (whether they always want to or not) and everyone looks out for everyone else (whether or not they even realize they're doing it). There are news reports out of Detroit and Toronto that remind me how lucky I am to have Cape Breton.
I hope everyone takes the time to remember what they're thankful for.
I'm guilty myself. The meaning of Thanksgiving has often become lost in the naps and the turkey and the long weekend. This year, I'm making a point to say what I'm thankful for.
I'm thankful for my health. While it may not be perfect, I could be much worse off, and in the grand scheme of things I don't have any room to complain. I'm able to walk, to play with my kids, to watch the world around me, and to spend time at home instead of in a hospital. There are people with cancer and ALS and hundreds of other ailments who remind me how lucky I am to have my health.
I'm thankful for a husband who not only got up early Sunday morning to put the turkey in the oven, but who also peeled, cooked, and prepared all the vegetables and side dishes while I visited with my family in River Bourgeois, and even did the dishes afterward. We get to spend all our time together, enjoy the present, and talk about the future. We're best friends, and I'm thankful that he chose me to be his wife. There are women who have become widows, or who spend holidays alone, who remind me how lucky I am to have my husband.
I'm thankful for two smart, happy and healthy boys who breathe life into our house. They might also destroy said house in the process, but it's when they're gone and the house is quiet that we remember how important all that noise and chaos is to our continued happiness. There are people who have lost a child, or who can't conceive, who remind me how lucky I am to have my kids.
I'm thankful for my house. It might be modest, but it's where I am the most comfortable and it's mine. We have heat, water, and electricity, along with a million non-essential services, and considering the state of the world, that's about all a person can ask for. There are homeless people, and people living in deplorable conditions, who remind me how lucky I am to have a home.
I am thankful that my husband has a good job. We might not own a yacht or summer in Greece, but we get by without having to worry too much about how. Not only that, his job is at home, which means he doesn't have to go away for months at a time in order to provide for his family. There are people who have to sell their most valuable belongings to buy groceries, and men working away from their families all year long, who remind me how lucky I am that my husband has a good job.
I am thankful for my car. It may be a very material thing, but I haven't always had one, and I know what a challenge and a hassle it can be to live your life when you have to rely on others to drive you from place to place. Being able to jump in a reliable, comfortable vehicle and go where I need to go is a luxury I appreciate. There are single mothers who walk all over town and people who miss doctor's appointments because they have no transportation, who make me realize how lucky I am to have a car.
I am thankful for my extended family. My dad, who is always ready with sound advice when I need it; my siblings, who are some of my oldest friends; my grandparents, who after over 93 birthdays apiece and 69 years of marriage, continue to set a great example of how life is meant to be lived; my friends, many of whom I consider to be family, and for good reason; and to all of my other extended family members who contribute to my life in so many positive ways. There are World Vision commercials and episodes of Oprah to remind me how lucky I am to have my family.
Lastly, I am thankful for Cape Breton. Of all the places I have lived, nowhere compares to the way of life lived in this beautiful little island. I am so glad to be able to raise my kids in a town where everyone knows everyone else (whether they always want to or not) and everyone looks out for everyone else (whether or not they even realize they're doing it). There are news reports out of Detroit and Toronto that remind me how lucky I am to have Cape Breton.
I hope everyone takes the time to remember what they're thankful for.
Keeping the Faith
I went to church every weekend from the time I was about five years old, until I graduated from high school. I don't mean usually, I mean every weekend without exception. When I was younger, around the time I made my First Communion, I'd even go with my grandfather once or twice during the week. At the River Bourgeois School, the first hour of every Thursday was set aside for religion class.
I was an alter server from the time I was old enough to be until I was nearly the height of the priest, and I was always in Youth Group. I may not have been the most devout parishioner (that title would be hard to earn considering the competition), but to say I was a God-fearing, faithful church-goer is a fair statement. I'm not just a big-mouth with a bone to pick; I feel strongly that I have experience and knowledge to guide my words on this subject.
As a young girl, I believed that the church was above the law and would have defended just about any aspect of the Catholic religion. Even if someone made a valid point about an inconsistency or negative point within Catholicism, I was quick to point out that Catholics were only responsible for following the rules, not making or enforcing them. Don't lie, cheat, steal, swear, or kill, or else you go to Hell. It didn't have to make sense, necessarily; belief in what I had been taught trumped everything.
And this Hell business isn't an exaggeration. I had a priest in junior high school tell a girl in our grade 7-8 religion class that she would go to Hell if she lied to her parents or kissed a boy before she was married. I was in the room when he said it, and I remember her running to the bathroom in tears. And, even though I was old enough to know that was wrong, I stayed loyal to the Catholic Church, no questions asked.
I was unmarried when I had my first son in 1998. Like everyone else from River Bourgeois, I expected to have him baptized at St. John the Baptist Church. Imagine my confusion when the priest in the community at the time, told me he wouldn't baptize my son because he was conceived out of wedlock. That was very difficult for me to accept, and it deeply upset and embarrassed me. Luckily, Fr. Hughie D. MacDonald, in my estimation the greatest priest in the entire world, baptized him in Isle Madame without hesitation, and my faith was renewed.
When my second son was born, I still wasn't married yet. And, when we attempted to have him baptized in the community to which we had just moved, we were told it couldn't be done unless we had proof that we had regularly attended Mass somewhere for at least two years. Again, we found a way, and still, I didn't lose faith.
I tried to enroll my oldest son in religion classes a few years ago. The person I encountered was so rude and dismissive of me and my "lack of commitment to the Church", that I left abruptly and never took him back. While I had to wonder how the church, inclusive and accepting as it claimed to be, could again make me feel like I didn't belong, I STILL didn't lose faith.
Faith isn't something people are questioning in light of what has happened recently within the Catholic church. My beliefs are unwavering, and little that could happen in the news is capable of changing that. However, Catholics all over the country are questioning the church - maybe not you in particular, but many people are. To those calling this questioning a "lack of faith", understand that it has less to do with God than with the men who claim to represent him.
It's that same feeling you'd have, for lack of a better analogy, if you heard of a police officer injuring someone while drinking and driving. It's a terrible and dangerous thing for the average person to do, but for the very person and institution that vocally admonishes such behavior to be responsible for such a horrendous act, is blatant hypocrisy.
I have had my share of run-ins with my church, but it took an incident like the one last week for a decades-long lapse of accountability to translate into serious uncertainty on my part. How can the religious establishment break rules they're so strict about enforcing on me? And how long are we, the faithful, expected to keep our backs turned to modern-day justice in favor of contributing with well-intentioned ignorance to a corrupt structure of resistance?
For me? No longer. And God understands my point of view, just as He does yours.
I was an alter server from the time I was old enough to be until I was nearly the height of the priest, and I was always in Youth Group. I may not have been the most devout parishioner (that title would be hard to earn considering the competition), but to say I was a God-fearing, faithful church-goer is a fair statement. I'm not just a big-mouth with a bone to pick; I feel strongly that I have experience and knowledge to guide my words on this subject.
As a young girl, I believed that the church was above the law and would have defended just about any aspect of the Catholic religion. Even if someone made a valid point about an inconsistency or negative point within Catholicism, I was quick to point out that Catholics were only responsible for following the rules, not making or enforcing them. Don't lie, cheat, steal, swear, or kill, or else you go to Hell. It didn't have to make sense, necessarily; belief in what I had been taught trumped everything.
And this Hell business isn't an exaggeration. I had a priest in junior high school tell a girl in our grade 7-8 religion class that she would go to Hell if she lied to her parents or kissed a boy before she was married. I was in the room when he said it, and I remember her running to the bathroom in tears. And, even though I was old enough to know that was wrong, I stayed loyal to the Catholic Church, no questions asked.
I was unmarried when I had my first son in 1998. Like everyone else from River Bourgeois, I expected to have him baptized at St. John the Baptist Church. Imagine my confusion when the priest in the community at the time, told me he wouldn't baptize my son because he was conceived out of wedlock. That was very difficult for me to accept, and it deeply upset and embarrassed me. Luckily, Fr. Hughie D. MacDonald, in my estimation the greatest priest in the entire world, baptized him in Isle Madame without hesitation, and my faith was renewed.
When my second son was born, I still wasn't married yet. And, when we attempted to have him baptized in the community to which we had just moved, we were told it couldn't be done unless we had proof that we had regularly attended Mass somewhere for at least two years. Again, we found a way, and still, I didn't lose faith.
I tried to enroll my oldest son in religion classes a few years ago. The person I encountered was so rude and dismissive of me and my "lack of commitment to the Church", that I left abruptly and never took him back. While I had to wonder how the church, inclusive and accepting as it claimed to be, could again make me feel like I didn't belong, I STILL didn't lose faith.
Faith isn't something people are questioning in light of what has happened recently within the Catholic church. My beliefs are unwavering, and little that could happen in the news is capable of changing that. However, Catholics all over the country are questioning the church - maybe not you in particular, but many people are. To those calling this questioning a "lack of faith", understand that it has less to do with God than with the men who claim to represent him.
It's that same feeling you'd have, for lack of a better analogy, if you heard of a police officer injuring someone while drinking and driving. It's a terrible and dangerous thing for the average person to do, but for the very person and institution that vocally admonishes such behavior to be responsible for such a horrendous act, is blatant hypocrisy.
I have had my share of run-ins with my church, but it took an incident like the one last week for a decades-long lapse of accountability to translate into serious uncertainty on my part. How can the religious establishment break rules they're so strict about enforcing on me? And how long are we, the faithful, expected to keep our backs turned to modern-day justice in favor of contributing with well-intentioned ignorance to a corrupt structure of resistance?
For me? No longer. And God understands my point of view, just as He does yours.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
"Does This Look OK?"
Can we establish that men will never understand women, and vice versa? Perfect, thanks.
Wait a minute, let me revise that. Women understand men just fine, only we don't like what we've found and spend our lives trying to change them to suit our emotional requirements. And men understand women a lot of the time, they just can't be bothered analyzing our emotional instability.
Having recently attended a wedding with most of my high school and college friends, the majority of whom are married as well, husbands and wives and all their psychoses were a frequent topic of conversation. And, while many aspects of marriage and partnership were discussed, one dilemma in particular cropped up several times. After much serious thought, a panel discussion, and even a few drunken sobs, my friends and I compiled some ideas, with which I have constructed this quasi-thesis. Hey, it's worth a try.
The question: What am I supposed to say if the wife asks, "Does this look OK," and I don't think it does?
The answer: Lie. No, seriously, just lie (in most cases; I explain below).
She has just spent the past hour getting ready, picking something out, doing her hair, putting on make-up and jewelry, and slipping into heels. At this point, she's not looking for your opinion; if she wasn't sure it looked good, she wouldn't be modelling it for you. She's just looking for validation. And, since confidence looks better than any name brand, it's in everyone's best interests to do your best validating and move on. She thinks she looks good, now it's your job to reinforce that.
If you hate the style or color, that's irrelevant. You're a guy, after all, and probably know less about women's fashion than she does. If there's something you think might look better on her, too bad. Cross your fingers and hope she wears it next time around, but never suggest alternates after she's already made her decision. That black dress she pours herself into that you happen to love, will look terrible if she's not comfortable in it or doesn't believe she looks her best.
Now, having said all that, there is an exception to this rule that is crucial. You don't want to be insulting, but sometimes it's necessary to hand out a little tough love. You're her husband, and the only person who is permitted to dole out the brutal honesty she'll sometimes need. I suppose there are underlying body-dysmorphia issues simmering somewhere beneath the surface of this circumstance, but that makes it no less your problem than it is hers, since you're the one who has to be the bearer of bad news.
Sometimes when she sees an outfit, she loves it so much that the common sense screaming "don't buy it!" is drowned out by the flood of endorphins created at the sight of such a beautiful outfit. Even after she gets it on at home and sees that it's very obviously too small, comfort, practicality, and resignation are thrown out the window in favor of primal spite. She will wear that dress if it kills her, and there is little you can do to change her mind.
Little, but not nothing. This is the only circumstance when telling her she looks bad is acceptable. Trust me, despite her resistance to reason, she doesn't actually want to be seen out among other women with even a miniscule muffin top hanging over her belt. She doesn't want to be "that woman", the one other women are laughing at because of her ill-fitting outfit. So, tell her you're saving her from that, and that she'll thank you in the morning (she won't, but tell her that anyway).
This is no time for an unsteady hand, husband. Be assertive and be clear, without being hurtful or using descriptive terms you don't understand. "You can't wear that, dear, that silky stuff makes your butt look like a hot air balloon," is not what she wants to hear, but, "Honey, every time you see a woman in a dress that tight, you make fun of her," might be a better start.
Women are not like you when it comes to getting dressed, guys. We don't smell our clothes to see if they're clean, and we don't have to ask you whether or not something matches. We know how to use an iron, when an outfit needs a scarf, and where to buy the perfect t-shirt. What we do not want, being the brimming encyclopedias of fashion that we are, is a misplaced two-cents from someone who dressed like Kurt Cobain before we came along. For the most part, we know best. You guys get power tools, we get clothes, so don't burst our bubble unless it's absolutely necessary.
Wait a minute, let me revise that. Women understand men just fine, only we don't like what we've found and spend our lives trying to change them to suit our emotional requirements. And men understand women a lot of the time, they just can't be bothered analyzing our emotional instability.
Having recently attended a wedding with most of my high school and college friends, the majority of whom are married as well, husbands and wives and all their psychoses were a frequent topic of conversation. And, while many aspects of marriage and partnership were discussed, one dilemma in particular cropped up several times. After much serious thought, a panel discussion, and even a few drunken sobs, my friends and I compiled some ideas, with which I have constructed this quasi-thesis. Hey, it's worth a try.
The question: What am I supposed to say if the wife asks, "Does this look OK," and I don't think it does?
The answer: Lie. No, seriously, just lie (in most cases; I explain below).
She has just spent the past hour getting ready, picking something out, doing her hair, putting on make-up and jewelry, and slipping into heels. At this point, she's not looking for your opinion; if she wasn't sure it looked good, she wouldn't be modelling it for you. She's just looking for validation. And, since confidence looks better than any name brand, it's in everyone's best interests to do your best validating and move on. She thinks she looks good, now it's your job to reinforce that.
If you hate the style or color, that's irrelevant. You're a guy, after all, and probably know less about women's fashion than she does. If there's something you think might look better on her, too bad. Cross your fingers and hope she wears it next time around, but never suggest alternates after she's already made her decision. That black dress she pours herself into that you happen to love, will look terrible if she's not comfortable in it or doesn't believe she looks her best.
Now, having said all that, there is an exception to this rule that is crucial. You don't want to be insulting, but sometimes it's necessary to hand out a little tough love. You're her husband, and the only person who is permitted to dole out the brutal honesty she'll sometimes need. I suppose there are underlying body-dysmorphia issues simmering somewhere beneath the surface of this circumstance, but that makes it no less your problem than it is hers, since you're the one who has to be the bearer of bad news.
Sometimes when she sees an outfit, she loves it so much that the common sense screaming "don't buy it!" is drowned out by the flood of endorphins created at the sight of such a beautiful outfit. Even after she gets it on at home and sees that it's very obviously too small, comfort, practicality, and resignation are thrown out the window in favor of primal spite. She will wear that dress if it kills her, and there is little you can do to change her mind.
Little, but not nothing. This is the only circumstance when telling her she looks bad is acceptable. Trust me, despite her resistance to reason, she doesn't actually want to be seen out among other women with even a miniscule muffin top hanging over her belt. She doesn't want to be "that woman", the one other women are laughing at because of her ill-fitting outfit. So, tell her you're saving her from that, and that she'll thank you in the morning (she won't, but tell her that anyway).
This is no time for an unsteady hand, husband. Be assertive and be clear, without being hurtful or using descriptive terms you don't understand. "You can't wear that, dear, that silky stuff makes your butt look like a hot air balloon," is not what she wants to hear, but, "Honey, every time you see a woman in a dress that tight, you make fun of her," might be a better start.
Women are not like you when it comes to getting dressed, guys. We don't smell our clothes to see if they're clean, and we don't have to ask you whether or not something matches. We know how to use an iron, when an outfit needs a scarf, and where to buy the perfect t-shirt. What we do not want, being the brimming encyclopedias of fashion that we are, is a misplaced two-cents from someone who dressed like Kurt Cobain before we came along. For the most part, we know best. You guys get power tools, we get clothes, so don't burst our bubble unless it's absolutely necessary.
A New Adventure
If you hear wailing sirens in the Tamarac area after lunch on Wednesday afternoon, don't be alarmed - I'm sure they're only coming for me. September 9 is my baby's first day of pre-school.
How does this happen? I know it's a cliched question, but it truly feels like he's too young to be going anywhere without Mommy. However, I'm very aware of the real story within the story: he's perfectly ready; it's Mommy who's got the cold feet. And, thankfully, his first independent foray into the world is being facilitated by the very best person for the job.
Last year at this time, when I had a busy three-year-old, someone suggested I enroll him at Fun Time Kindergarten. I definitely wasn't ready to let him go that early, but I started asking around to find out what the place was like in preparation for the following year. I've talked to dozens of parents, and every single one of them has repeatedly sung the praises of Fun Time.
And not just, "yeah, it's a good pre-school" praises; kids who have spent a year or two with Miss Tammy have never forgotten her. They send her Christmas and birthday cards, they drop in to visit, and some even cry to go back to her class when starting Grade Primary. Imagine what a force you'd have to be in a child's life to account for that kind of admiration years after the fact! Stories like those I've been told are what gave me the confidence to send him this September.
Every night before bed, we tell him a story, and since I secured his spot in June, that story has had to be about school, as per his instructions. He's nothing if not a fan of repetition, so the story is basically the same every night.
"We'll get up in the morning and have breakfast, and then..."
"But Mom, what's for breakfast?"
"Lucky Charms, maybe. And then we'll put on a new shirt and new..."
"But Mom, what shirt?"
"Maybe the one with Mickey Mouse on it. So, after that we'll put on some new..."
"No, the one with Buzz Lightyear on it."
"Buzz Lightyear it is. So your new Buzz shirt, some new pants, new sneakers, and we have to remember your school bag."
"And we have to remember to put some extra clothes in my school bag 'cause in case I get dirty."
"Yes, we do. And then we'll get in the car..."
"No, I'm going on the bus!"
"No, honey, you can't go on the bus. Mommy has to drive you."
"NO!! I WANT TO GO ON THE BUS!! DAD SAID!!"
"Your father is dead meat when he gets home. Anyway, we'll talk about the bus later, ok?"
"Ok."
"So, we'll get to the school and who's going to be there?"
"Miss Tammy."
"And who else?"
"Miss Tina."
"And who else?"
"Lots of kids who are gonna be my new friends."
"Right. And then what do we do when we get to the school?"
"First, I have to hang my jacket up and my school bag, on the hook that has my name on it. Then I have to give you a big hug and a big kiss and go in the class and see everybody."
"Right, and where is Mommy going to be?"
"At the grocery store waiting to come pick me up."
"Right."
Every night for the past three months we've had that conversation. And as of Wednesday, it will be something he actually gets to do.
I know I should only be happy about his new adventure. He's going to learn so much this year, from socialization to songs to writing his name. He's going to go on field trips, make crafts, and get progress reports. I'll even get to see the cutest graduation ceremony ever at the end of the year. What makes me nervous is being without him.
We play a lot. We crank the music and dance around the house when it's time for me to clean up. We make a huge mess baking cookies and he helps me dry the dishes when we're done. We go to the park and the mall, we play super heroes and cars, and sometimes we just watch TV. But, whatever I'm doing on any given day during the week, I'm used to doing it with him.
It's going to be really difficult to get used to him going on an adventure without me, but I'm leaving him in good hands. My baby's not a baby anymore.
How does this happen? I know it's a cliched question, but it truly feels like he's too young to be going anywhere without Mommy. However, I'm very aware of the real story within the story: he's perfectly ready; it's Mommy who's got the cold feet. And, thankfully, his first independent foray into the world is being facilitated by the very best person for the job.
Last year at this time, when I had a busy three-year-old, someone suggested I enroll him at Fun Time Kindergarten. I definitely wasn't ready to let him go that early, but I started asking around to find out what the place was like in preparation for the following year. I've talked to dozens of parents, and every single one of them has repeatedly sung the praises of Fun Time.
And not just, "yeah, it's a good pre-school" praises; kids who have spent a year or two with Miss Tammy have never forgotten her. They send her Christmas and birthday cards, they drop in to visit, and some even cry to go back to her class when starting Grade Primary. Imagine what a force you'd have to be in a child's life to account for that kind of admiration years after the fact! Stories like those I've been told are what gave me the confidence to send him this September.
Every night before bed, we tell him a story, and since I secured his spot in June, that story has had to be about school, as per his instructions. He's nothing if not a fan of repetition, so the story is basically the same every night.
"We'll get up in the morning and have breakfast, and then..."
"But Mom, what's for breakfast?"
"Lucky Charms, maybe. And then we'll put on a new shirt and new..."
"But Mom, what shirt?"
"Maybe the one with Mickey Mouse on it. So, after that we'll put on some new..."
"No, the one with Buzz Lightyear on it."
"Buzz Lightyear it is. So your new Buzz shirt, some new pants, new sneakers, and we have to remember your school bag."
"And we have to remember to put some extra clothes in my school bag 'cause in case I get dirty."
"Yes, we do. And then we'll get in the car..."
"No, I'm going on the bus!"
"No, honey, you can't go on the bus. Mommy has to drive you."
"NO!! I WANT TO GO ON THE BUS!! DAD SAID!!"
"Your father is dead meat when he gets home. Anyway, we'll talk about the bus later, ok?"
"Ok."
"So, we'll get to the school and who's going to be there?"
"Miss Tammy."
"And who else?"
"Miss Tina."
"And who else?"
"Lots of kids who are gonna be my new friends."
"Right. And then what do we do when we get to the school?"
"First, I have to hang my jacket up and my school bag, on the hook that has my name on it. Then I have to give you a big hug and a big kiss and go in the class and see everybody."
"Right, and where is Mommy going to be?"
"At the grocery store waiting to come pick me up."
"Right."
Every night for the past three months we've had that conversation. And as of Wednesday, it will be something he actually gets to do.
I know I should only be happy about his new adventure. He's going to learn so much this year, from socialization to songs to writing his name. He's going to go on field trips, make crafts, and get progress reports. I'll even get to see the cutest graduation ceremony ever at the end of the year. What makes me nervous is being without him.
We play a lot. We crank the music and dance around the house when it's time for me to clean up. We make a huge mess baking cookies and he helps me dry the dishes when we're done. We go to the park and the mall, we play super heroes and cars, and sometimes we just watch TV. But, whatever I'm doing on any given day during the week, I'm used to doing it with him.
It's going to be really difficult to get used to him going on an adventure without me, but I'm leaving him in good hands. My baby's not a baby anymore.
Retail Therapy
I'm stranded in the purgatory of "in between" sizing. You know, when regular sizes are just a bit too tight and plus sizes are always miles too big.
Shopping for clothes is tough for people of all sizes, from what I understand. (That's not true; I can't recall ever hearing my size 0-6 lady friends complaining about lack of options or incorrect sizing. I'm just trying to be inclusive here.) (And yes, there are people in the world who are size 0, for those who might be wondering. They're a bit like unicorns in these parts, but Halifax is full of them.)
Anyhow, back to the point. Shopping for clothes when you're overweight is the most frustrating thing in the world. You know what you want to look like. You know what type of clothes to look for, and what type to avoid. You might even walk into a store with a certain amount of confidence: "I have money, I can buy anything in the store, and today I'm going to find something that looks great on me!"
Forty-five minutes of trying on clothes, sucking in, sweating, throwing pants, cursing, snapping at the poor sales clerk who's trying to help you, getting red in the face, and perhaps even a few angry tears later, you leave the store with three pairs of sale underwear and a scarf you'll never wear.
How does that sound, size 0-6 girls? Believe it.
I've gone through this song and dance too many times to count. Sometimes you'll even find an outfit that fits great, only to look in those unforgiving mirrors and see an image that's about 50 pounds heavier than what you just pictured. "But wait a minute," you think, "this is NOT how it looked on the mannequin." FYI - that's because stores put size 22 clothes on size 8 mannequins and discreetly gather the access fabric in the back, to make you think that's how it'll look on you. It won't.
What clothing manufacturers should (but apparently don't) realize, is that there are an entire subset of curvy, fashionable women who fall between the slim fit duds in regular sizes and the shapeless, plus size fare. Why would they ignore us when the national average dress size is 14? And, if they're going to spend less time constructing clothes that fit us properly, why still would they assume we want to dress like Bea Arthur? I'm only 30 - I want a dress, not a mu-mu!
Are there any aspiring clothing designers reading this? You know, someone who can make retail therapy something I do instead of something I need? Probably not, but I'll vent anyway.
Among other things, I need to buy a shirt. This shirt needs to fit over my larger-than-Kate-Moss-but-smaller-than-Kirsty-Alley-sized body.
I do not want this shirt to cling to me so snugly that it looks painted on, nor do I want the sleeves to be tight enough that they cut off blood circulation to my arms. Also, notice how I made specific use of the word "shirt" as opposed to "crop top", in an effort to express my desire for a garment that will cover my entire abdomen and lower back, even when I bend slightly at the waist or lift my arms.
Now, let's clarify for the other camp.
I do not want this shirt to hang off me like a Sam Moon costume, nor do I want the sleeve openings to be big enough for me to fit my head through. Also, notice my intentional use of the word "shirt" as opposed to "dress", in an effort to express my desire for a garment that will cover my abdomen, not my thighs and knees. While I'm at it, I should also mention the deal-breaker: it can't be purple, teal green, or pink.
While I'm at it, I'm looking for pants, too. Not elastic waisted slacks with pleats like Jane Fonda wears, a pair of jeans. Denim ones. Blue denim, not white or black. These elusive pants will fit me in the seat, hips, legs AND waist - though I might die of shock if that actually happened. They will not have studs, Bedazzle jewels, embroidery of any kind, or a neon, screen-printed "COOL!" logo running down the thigh.
Just a few more gripes of note: We hate polyester. At no time do we have the desire to buy a jeanskirt longer than a prom dress. And cotton Betty Boop/Care Bears nightshirts do not equal lingerie.
Is anyone out there feeling me? I don't even have to ask, really. The proof is in the pudding, in that the XL and 1X sizes are always the first to sell out, leaving the XS and 4X on the rack months after the fact. Keep the faith, girls. Someday.
Shopping for clothes is tough for people of all sizes, from what I understand. (That's not true; I can't recall ever hearing my size 0-6 lady friends complaining about lack of options or incorrect sizing. I'm just trying to be inclusive here.) (And yes, there are people in the world who are size 0, for those who might be wondering. They're a bit like unicorns in these parts, but Halifax is full of them.)
Anyhow, back to the point. Shopping for clothes when you're overweight is the most frustrating thing in the world. You know what you want to look like. You know what type of clothes to look for, and what type to avoid. You might even walk into a store with a certain amount of confidence: "I have money, I can buy anything in the store, and today I'm going to find something that looks great on me!"
Forty-five minutes of trying on clothes, sucking in, sweating, throwing pants, cursing, snapping at the poor sales clerk who's trying to help you, getting red in the face, and perhaps even a few angry tears later, you leave the store with three pairs of sale underwear and a scarf you'll never wear.
How does that sound, size 0-6 girls? Believe it.
I've gone through this song and dance too many times to count. Sometimes you'll even find an outfit that fits great, only to look in those unforgiving mirrors and see an image that's about 50 pounds heavier than what you just pictured. "But wait a minute," you think, "this is NOT how it looked on the mannequin." FYI - that's because stores put size 22 clothes on size 8 mannequins and discreetly gather the access fabric in the back, to make you think that's how it'll look on you. It won't.
What clothing manufacturers should (but apparently don't) realize, is that there are an entire subset of curvy, fashionable women who fall between the slim fit duds in regular sizes and the shapeless, plus size fare. Why would they ignore us when the national average dress size is 14? And, if they're going to spend less time constructing clothes that fit us properly, why still would they assume we want to dress like Bea Arthur? I'm only 30 - I want a dress, not a mu-mu!
Are there any aspiring clothing designers reading this? You know, someone who can make retail therapy something I do instead of something I need? Probably not, but I'll vent anyway.
Among other things, I need to buy a shirt. This shirt needs to fit over my larger-than-Kate-Moss-but-smaller-than-Kirsty-Alley-sized body.
I do not want this shirt to cling to me so snugly that it looks painted on, nor do I want the sleeves to be tight enough that they cut off blood circulation to my arms. Also, notice how I made specific use of the word "shirt" as opposed to "crop top", in an effort to express my desire for a garment that will cover my entire abdomen and lower back, even when I bend slightly at the waist or lift my arms.
Now, let's clarify for the other camp.
I do not want this shirt to hang off me like a Sam Moon costume, nor do I want the sleeve openings to be big enough for me to fit my head through. Also, notice my intentional use of the word "shirt" as opposed to "dress", in an effort to express my desire for a garment that will cover my abdomen, not my thighs and knees. While I'm at it, I should also mention the deal-breaker: it can't be purple, teal green, or pink.
While I'm at it, I'm looking for pants, too. Not elastic waisted slacks with pleats like Jane Fonda wears, a pair of jeans. Denim ones. Blue denim, not white or black. These elusive pants will fit me in the seat, hips, legs AND waist - though I might die of shock if that actually happened. They will not have studs, Bedazzle jewels, embroidery of any kind, or a neon, screen-printed "COOL!" logo running down the thigh.
Just a few more gripes of note: We hate polyester. At no time do we have the desire to buy a jeanskirt longer than a prom dress. And cotton Betty Boop/Care Bears nightshirts do not equal lingerie.
Is anyone out there feeling me? I don't even have to ask, really. The proof is in the pudding, in that the XL and 1X sizes are always the first to sell out, leaving the XS and 4X on the rack months after the fact. Keep the faith, girls. Someday.
The Common Goal
In Canada, when someone decides to have a baby, it's a often a complex decision. Aside from the various social factors that have to be considered, the big question always comes up: "Can we afford it?" Food, diapers, child care, clothing, college - all those things add up fast. But, luckily, one thing we never have to wonder or worry about is the actual up-front cost of pregnancy and childbirth.
If I had been living in Maine four years ago, here's roughly what it would have cost me to have my son: $1400 for pre-natal appointments, $6200 for the birth itself, another $2400 for a 2 day hospital stay, $600 for ultrasounds, and $250 for a post-natal check-up. The total is $10,850, and that's for a run-of-the-mill pregnancy. Any mother or baby complications or health issues make that number skyrocket.
Arrangements can usually be made to pay the bill over time, and the average cost of a monthly post-partum hospital bill is $800. Imagine that. On top of stress, pain, discomfort, sleep deprivation, and the sometimes staggering everyday cost of this new human in your house, you're also faced with an extra $800 bill every month.
Health care is absurdly expensive in the United States, and childbirth is only one example. If you have a broken ankle, it's going to cost you, from the doctor's treatment, to the X-ray, to the cast. If you need stitches, that's going to cost you. Even if you go see a doctor and there turns out to be nothing wrong, that's going to cost you, too. If you go to the emergency room without health insurance, they can (and often will) refuse to treat you.
Living in Nova Scotia, it's hard for us to wrap our heads around paying for health care. This isn't to say we take advantage of our system (for the most part), only that we can't imagine a world where anyone is sick because they can't afford to make themselves well. That's not the kind of people we are around here. We have fundraising benefits to help those who have fallen on hard times, and often put ourselves out, if only temporarily and on a small scale, for the sake of someone else.
So, is that the root of the U.S. health care crisis? That American citizens are so selfish they'd see their neighbors suffer before giving up an ounce of personal comfort and security? Or, are they so fearful of government control that they're willing to settle for health industry corruption for the sake of avoiding some perceived socialism?
I'm don't subscribe to Michael Moore's politics in most cases, and I usually disagree with his method of delivery, but his movie "SICKO" is one of the most compelling films I've ever seen. It examines health care models in Canada, France, Mexico, and other countries, and compares them to the United States. It shows us milling in and out of doctor's offices and emergency rooms without paying a cent. It shows the French enjoying their paid, mandatory 8-week illness recuperation time. And between the personal accounts of poverty causing death and bankruptcy due to sickness in the U.S., there was a noticeable tone and attitude among American taxpayers throughout the movie: they want and need things to change.
That's why I am annoyed at the opposition to President Obama's proposed health care plan. The same people who crave change are preventing it for reasons that, quite frankly, are petty and just plain not good enough.
Sure, maybe it's a good idea for health care to be regulated on a state level. Maybe a government run, tax-exempt system would damage the private sector irreparably. There are probably dozens of provisions in the proposed Bill which need to be tweaked and even a few that have to be completely re-written.
The point is, for the first time in a very long time, someone in power is trying to put in place a system which would help the most unfortunate Americans and avoid negatively impacting the others. Obama is not perfect, but his intentions are clear - health care for all, so as to eliminate the current, long-standing crisis. And what does he get for his efforts? Resistance from Conservatives at every turn, bad press, and even heckling in an open session of Congress.
It's time for Americans to forget about partisan politics for long enough to look at the big picture. Representatives from both sides of the aisle are capable of putting a system in place that will truly help people, and it's about time they get their acts together and do it, with Obama leading the way. No one should be sick just because they're broke.
If I had been living in Maine four years ago, here's roughly what it would have cost me to have my son: $1400 for pre-natal appointments, $6200 for the birth itself, another $2400 for a 2 day hospital stay, $600 for ultrasounds, and $250 for a post-natal check-up. The total is $10,850, and that's for a run-of-the-mill pregnancy. Any mother or baby complications or health issues make that number skyrocket.
Arrangements can usually be made to pay the bill over time, and the average cost of a monthly post-partum hospital bill is $800. Imagine that. On top of stress, pain, discomfort, sleep deprivation, and the sometimes staggering everyday cost of this new human in your house, you're also faced with an extra $800 bill every month.
Health care is absurdly expensive in the United States, and childbirth is only one example. If you have a broken ankle, it's going to cost you, from the doctor's treatment, to the X-ray, to the cast. If you need stitches, that's going to cost you. Even if you go see a doctor and there turns out to be nothing wrong, that's going to cost you, too. If you go to the emergency room without health insurance, they can (and often will) refuse to treat you.
Living in Nova Scotia, it's hard for us to wrap our heads around paying for health care. This isn't to say we take advantage of our system (for the most part), only that we can't imagine a world where anyone is sick because they can't afford to make themselves well. That's not the kind of people we are around here. We have fundraising benefits to help those who have fallen on hard times, and often put ourselves out, if only temporarily and on a small scale, for the sake of someone else.
So, is that the root of the U.S. health care crisis? That American citizens are so selfish they'd see their neighbors suffer before giving up an ounce of personal comfort and security? Or, are they so fearful of government control that they're willing to settle for health industry corruption for the sake of avoiding some perceived socialism?
I'm don't subscribe to Michael Moore's politics in most cases, and I usually disagree with his method of delivery, but his movie "SICKO" is one of the most compelling films I've ever seen. It examines health care models in Canada, France, Mexico, and other countries, and compares them to the United States. It shows us milling in and out of doctor's offices and emergency rooms without paying a cent. It shows the French enjoying their paid, mandatory 8-week illness recuperation time. And between the personal accounts of poverty causing death and bankruptcy due to sickness in the U.S., there was a noticeable tone and attitude among American taxpayers throughout the movie: they want and need things to change.
That's why I am annoyed at the opposition to President Obama's proposed health care plan. The same people who crave change are preventing it for reasons that, quite frankly, are petty and just plain not good enough.
Sure, maybe it's a good idea for health care to be regulated on a state level. Maybe a government run, tax-exempt system would damage the private sector irreparably. There are probably dozens of provisions in the proposed Bill which need to be tweaked and even a few that have to be completely re-written.
The point is, for the first time in a very long time, someone in power is trying to put in place a system which would help the most unfortunate Americans and avoid negatively impacting the others. Obama is not perfect, but his intentions are clear - health care for all, so as to eliminate the current, long-standing crisis. And what does he get for his efforts? Resistance from Conservatives at every turn, bad press, and even heckling in an open session of Congress.
It's time for Americans to forget about partisan politics for long enough to look at the big picture. Representatives from both sides of the aisle are capable of putting a system in place that will truly help people, and it's about time they get their acts together and do it, with Obama leading the way. No one should be sick just because they're broke.
Things I Learned on Twitter
Twitter. It hasn't really caught on here, but it's huge in the States.
Twitter is yet another social networking web site, like Facebook. And like a Facebook status update, Twitter's premise is to have users type what's on their mind or what they're doing, in 140 characters or less. The message you type is called a "tweet".
Once you set up your account, you can "follow" other "tweeters" and read their tweets. Then, when you log in, you can read a scroll of recent tweets posted by those you are following. If I wrote "gina_macdonald is waiting for Hurricane Bill," all the people who follow my updates would be able to see it in real time.
Those are the basics. Have I explained it properly? In a nutshell, I can instantly be made aware of the activities and neuroses of anyone I follow, all day, every day. Talk about literally having the world at your fingertips.
So, upon discovering Twitter a few months ago, I quickly came to find that celebrities were using the site as their own little diary and sounding board; because, you see, unlike Facebook, where you can adjust privacy settings to control who sees what information, your tweets are visible to anyone who follows your account. The result is, celebrities find themselves with hundreds of thousands of followers who hang on their every word. Interesting indeed.
I decided that, since very few of my personal friends have Twitter accounts, I would follow a bunch of famous people and entities, just to see what they're really like. An important note, perhaps better explaining why I chose to do this: every celebrity tweeter I've encountered does the typing themselves, instead of having an agent, publicist or manager filtering what they put out for public consumption. It makes for some entertaining discoveries.
First of all, I've come to find that most people who have opened a Twitter account, tweet once and then forget about it. Either that, or there are months between tweets, which makes it a bit futile to follow them at all.
On the flip side, there are people who have millions of followers and seem to tweet as often as they breath. Here are some observations and a bit of trivia about a few people on my list.
Demi Moore has way too much time on her hands.
Ashton Kutcher, her husband, has more followers than anyone in the world (literally, over 3 million; it's a fact).
Rainn Wilson (Dwight from The Office) tries and fails to be as funny as his television character.
John Mayer is absurdly intelligent and witty.
Donnie Wahlberg (of New Kids on the Block) and Ice-T have both turned their Twitter followers into a cult whose members will fly cross-country to compete in ridiculous contests to win an autograph.
Alyssa Milano knows more about Iran than Stephen Harper, one might argue.
If you read Regis Philbin's tweets aloud, it's extremely difficult not to do so in a Regis voice.
People who have been eliminated from Big Brother don't realize that, once they're not on the show, no one cares that they're even still alive unless they're in the jury house.
People who have been eliminated from American Idol don't realize that, even years after the fact, people love them.
Justin Timberlake and Nick Carter, while quite possibly the two best-looking men alive, are also, based on many months of mindless tweets, the two biggest losers on the planet.
Christina Applegate completes the New York Times crossword every single morning.
Pete Wentz and Nicole Ritchie have insomnia.
Ryan Seacrest just doesn't have time to sleep.
Eminem isn't nearly as ignorant as he tries to be. He's really very smart and charming.
Jordan Knight ignores that his prime was over twenty years ago, and that he's basically the new Donny Osmond.
Jesse Jane eats more than any person I've ever heard of.
Adam Lambert only needed a few months on American Idol to develop a really obnoxious sense of entitlement that other celebrities call him on daily.
Sarah Silverman needs someone to wash her mouth out with soap.
Martha Stewart, very surprisingly, has the worst spelling, grammar, and punctuation I've ever seen.
Weird Al Yankovic is, not surprisingly, extremely delightful and smart.
Paris Hilton is happy and optimistic all the time, and who can blame her.
Lindsay Lohan tries to make herself seem philanthropic, but no one is buying it.
Miley Cyrus tries to be very grown-up, but no one is buying that, either.
And, last but not least, Russell Brand is the funniest man alive.
If anyone is interested, you can follow me on Twitter by searching for "gina_macdonald". Stop by, tweet hi, and give me someone normal to follow. God knows I've had enough of reading about celebrities.
Twitter is yet another social networking web site, like Facebook. And like a Facebook status update, Twitter's premise is to have users type what's on their mind or what they're doing, in 140 characters or less. The message you type is called a "tweet".
Once you set up your account, you can "follow" other "tweeters" and read their tweets. Then, when you log in, you can read a scroll of recent tweets posted by those you are following. If I wrote "gina_macdonald is waiting for Hurricane Bill," all the people who follow my updates would be able to see it in real time.
Those are the basics. Have I explained it properly? In a nutshell, I can instantly be made aware of the activities and neuroses of anyone I follow, all day, every day. Talk about literally having the world at your fingertips.
So, upon discovering Twitter a few months ago, I quickly came to find that celebrities were using the site as their own little diary and sounding board; because, you see, unlike Facebook, where you can adjust privacy settings to control who sees what information, your tweets are visible to anyone who follows your account. The result is, celebrities find themselves with hundreds of thousands of followers who hang on their every word. Interesting indeed.
I decided that, since very few of my personal friends have Twitter accounts, I would follow a bunch of famous people and entities, just to see what they're really like. An important note, perhaps better explaining why I chose to do this: every celebrity tweeter I've encountered does the typing themselves, instead of having an agent, publicist or manager filtering what they put out for public consumption. It makes for some entertaining discoveries.
First of all, I've come to find that most people who have opened a Twitter account, tweet once and then forget about it. Either that, or there are months between tweets, which makes it a bit futile to follow them at all.
On the flip side, there are people who have millions of followers and seem to tweet as often as they breath. Here are some observations and a bit of trivia about a few people on my list.
Demi Moore has way too much time on her hands.
Ashton Kutcher, her husband, has more followers than anyone in the world (literally, over 3 million; it's a fact).
Rainn Wilson (Dwight from The Office) tries and fails to be as funny as his television character.
John Mayer is absurdly intelligent and witty.
Donnie Wahlberg (of New Kids on the Block) and Ice-T have both turned their Twitter followers into a cult whose members will fly cross-country to compete in ridiculous contests to win an autograph.
Alyssa Milano knows more about Iran than Stephen Harper, one might argue.
If you read Regis Philbin's tweets aloud, it's extremely difficult not to do so in a Regis voice.
People who have been eliminated from Big Brother don't realize that, once they're not on the show, no one cares that they're even still alive unless they're in the jury house.
People who have been eliminated from American Idol don't realize that, even years after the fact, people love them.
Justin Timberlake and Nick Carter, while quite possibly the two best-looking men alive, are also, based on many months of mindless tweets, the two biggest losers on the planet.
Christina Applegate completes the New York Times crossword every single morning.
Pete Wentz and Nicole Ritchie have insomnia.
Ryan Seacrest just doesn't have time to sleep.
Eminem isn't nearly as ignorant as he tries to be. He's really very smart and charming.
Jordan Knight ignores that his prime was over twenty years ago, and that he's basically the new Donny Osmond.
Jesse Jane eats more than any person I've ever heard of.
Adam Lambert only needed a few months on American Idol to develop a really obnoxious sense of entitlement that other celebrities call him on daily.
Sarah Silverman needs someone to wash her mouth out with soap.
Martha Stewart, very surprisingly, has the worst spelling, grammar, and punctuation I've ever seen.
Weird Al Yankovic is, not surprisingly, extremely delightful and smart.
Paris Hilton is happy and optimistic all the time, and who can blame her.
Lindsay Lohan tries to make herself seem philanthropic, but no one is buying it.
Miley Cyrus tries to be very grown-up, but no one is buying that, either.
And, last but not least, Russell Brand is the funniest man alive.
If anyone is interested, you can follow me on Twitter by searching for "gina_macdonald". Stop by, tweet hi, and give me someone normal to follow. God knows I've had enough of reading about celebrities.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
The Other Man
A few weeks ago, I heard Kelly Atchison make a brave admission on The Hawk's Drive at Five. Her unabashed honesty has prompted me to stand up and confess to the same thing.
I have had a relationship with a man named Perez for about three years, and though not many people knew about it at first, I have come to learn that lots of others have become infatuated with him as well. Millions, in fact.
You see, Perez is Perez Hilton. He's a formerly-chubby (now remarkably svelt), sometimes-pink-haired, sometimes-green-haired, flamboyant, trouble-making, no-holds-barred gossip-monger. His online blog started about four years ago, and since has become one of the most visited sites on the internet. Literally. I think he averages about seven million hits per day.
That is why I'm no longer ashamed to admit that I take his information as gospel truth, whether I should or not; I'm certainly not the only one who does. He's got moles all over Hollywood, much to the chagrin of the celebrities he blogs about, and a movie star can't make a move, steal a kiss, buy a car, or get arrested, without Perez finding out in minutes and posting it online minutes later.
And not just the things you'll hear about on Access Hollywood later that evening. No, no, I'm talking about the indiscretions most celebrity-types really want to keep private. Things he calls "Not-so-blind" items, like which celebrity was seen canoodling in first class on a flight from New York to Los Angeles with a tennis instructor who looked nothing like her well-known husband. And which recently-rehabbed actor was downing scotch alone in the back of his limo after a night of toting a water bottle for show.
It's things like that which set Perez apart from the mainstream entertainment reports. Of course he'll post a play-by-play of last night's Dancing With the Stars, but he's also got the inside track that Mark Steines would give his firstborn to have. He has reliable spies who are willing to spill, based on guaranteed anonymity, little required corroboration, and absolutely no recourse. When actor A and actress B, who have been denying their relationship for months, take a vacation to remote parts of Utah, the waitress who served them lunch can email Perez and tell her story, without a 6-person camera crew from ET showing up and making her sign an exclusivity contract. Or it could be the cleaner at a high-end Malibu obstetrics clinic who confirms the pregnancy of a popular singer. There really isn't any way of validating the information you read, but it's entertaining nonetheless.
Why it's entertaining is something I can't really explain. It's human nature to gossip, and maybe it's easier to gossip about millionaires you'll never meet, than it is to talk about your neighbors and friends. Maybe you thrive on the misery of others. Maybe you're convinced Justin Timberlake is destined to marry you and you're waiting for news about his break-up with Jessica Biel and scheduled flight to Nova Scotia (hypothetically, of course). Everyone has their own reasons, I guess. I think the biggest one for me is the humanity.
Whether or not you're interested in celebrities, chances are, if you watch any television or read any newspapers, you're inundated with information about them anyway. With expensive publicists and PR firms spinning their every action, the seemingly-charmed lives of stars sometimes make me want to throw up (6 million dollars to work on a bad movie for 4 months? Crazy!). But to hear of a big star getting peed on by a dog at the park, or quietly donating a large sum of money to a food bank, or losing their brother to cancer, makes these people seem more human, and reminds people that, though they may be rich and beautiful, they're just regular folks like us.
So chances are, I'm going to continue my relationship with Perez. Where else will I learn such pertinent information as sales figures for Lindsay Lohan's clothing line, Madonna's new relationship, and Mischa Barton's latest rehab stint? Oh that's right, on the national news. Claim you haven't uttered the name Britney Spears in the past 18 months, and I'll call you a liar. A great number of you are just as bad as I am, only Kelly and I have the guts to admit it.
Sure, a large portion of the content on Perez's site is salacious and juvenile. It could also be fairly described as a waste of normally-useful brain cells, I suppose. But you can't convince me it's any worse than a few minutes of X-Box 360, an episode of "My Name is Earl", or any Will Farrell movie. We all have our guilty pleasures.
I have had a relationship with a man named Perez for about three years, and though not many people knew about it at first, I have come to learn that lots of others have become infatuated with him as well. Millions, in fact.
You see, Perez is Perez Hilton. He's a formerly-chubby (now remarkably svelt), sometimes-pink-haired, sometimes-green-haired, flamboyant, trouble-making, no-holds-barred gossip-monger. His online blog started about four years ago, and since has become one of the most visited sites on the internet. Literally. I think he averages about seven million hits per day.
That is why I'm no longer ashamed to admit that I take his information as gospel truth, whether I should or not; I'm certainly not the only one who does. He's got moles all over Hollywood, much to the chagrin of the celebrities he blogs about, and a movie star can't make a move, steal a kiss, buy a car, or get arrested, without Perez finding out in minutes and posting it online minutes later.
And not just the things you'll hear about on Access Hollywood later that evening. No, no, I'm talking about the indiscretions most celebrity-types really want to keep private. Things he calls "Not-so-blind" items, like which celebrity was seen canoodling in first class on a flight from New York to Los Angeles with a tennis instructor who looked nothing like her well-known husband. And which recently-rehabbed actor was downing scotch alone in the back of his limo after a night of toting a water bottle for show.
It's things like that which set Perez apart from the mainstream entertainment reports. Of course he'll post a play-by-play of last night's Dancing With the Stars, but he's also got the inside track that Mark Steines would give his firstborn to have. He has reliable spies who are willing to spill, based on guaranteed anonymity, little required corroboration, and absolutely no recourse. When actor A and actress B, who have been denying their relationship for months, take a vacation to remote parts of Utah, the waitress who served them lunch can email Perez and tell her story, without a 6-person camera crew from ET showing up and making her sign an exclusivity contract. Or it could be the cleaner at a high-end Malibu obstetrics clinic who confirms the pregnancy of a popular singer. There really isn't any way of validating the information you read, but it's entertaining nonetheless.
Why it's entertaining is something I can't really explain. It's human nature to gossip, and maybe it's easier to gossip about millionaires you'll never meet, than it is to talk about your neighbors and friends. Maybe you thrive on the misery of others. Maybe you're convinced Justin Timberlake is destined to marry you and you're waiting for news about his break-up with Jessica Biel and scheduled flight to Nova Scotia (hypothetically, of course). Everyone has their own reasons, I guess. I think the biggest one for me is the humanity.
Whether or not you're interested in celebrities, chances are, if you watch any television or read any newspapers, you're inundated with information about them anyway. With expensive publicists and PR firms spinning their every action, the seemingly-charmed lives of stars sometimes make me want to throw up (6 million dollars to work on a bad movie for 4 months? Crazy!). But to hear of a big star getting peed on by a dog at the park, or quietly donating a large sum of money to a food bank, or losing their brother to cancer, makes these people seem more human, and reminds people that, though they may be rich and beautiful, they're just regular folks like us.
So chances are, I'm going to continue my relationship with Perez. Where else will I learn such pertinent information as sales figures for Lindsay Lohan's clothing line, Madonna's new relationship, and Mischa Barton's latest rehab stint? Oh that's right, on the national news. Claim you haven't uttered the name Britney Spears in the past 18 months, and I'll call you a liar. A great number of you are just as bad as I am, only Kelly and I have the guts to admit it.
Sure, a large portion of the content on Perez's site is salacious and juvenile. It could also be fairly described as a waste of normally-useful brain cells, I suppose. But you can't convince me it's any worse than a few minutes of X-Box 360, an episode of "My Name is Earl", or any Will Farrell movie. We all have our guilty pleasures.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Winning the Battle
There comes a time in every overweight person's life when enough is enough.
When you realize you're not getting any younger, and you don't want to be fat and inactive and useless throughout your thirties, nor do you want to be riddled with weight-related health problems by the time you hit the big 4-0.
When you acknowledge that all your previous weight-loss "attempts" weren't really attempts at all, since going on that worthless soup diet or eating nothing for days to fit into that dress for your friend's wedding, was just a quick fix and not really a commitment.
When you stop making excuses about exercising and realize that your hour-long Big Brother watch-a-thon could be just as easily spent walking in place in your living room as it is sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn.
When you figure out that body-slimming undergarments don't actually make you smaller, they just redistribute fat to places it wasn't before.
When watching televised accounts of incredible weight loss becomes less about drowning your "why can't that be me" sorrows in a Big Mac and throwing the remote at the finale of The Biggest Loser, and more about motivation and inspiration.
When you can no longer call it "baby weight", especially since your baby is able to tell you that, "Mommy, you have too much chubbs on your butt."
When you resign yourself to not having a "cheat day", since people with as little discipline as you do have become the size they are because of willy-nilly cheat days that spiral into cheat months.
When you stop blaming your thyroid problem for the way you look and realize your weight is of your own doing (I have a serious thyroid problem - in fact, I'm guilty of using the excuse myself - and I can tell you with certainty that a thyroid problem, even one as out-of-whack as mine, does not cause a 50lb weight gain. You can't eat deep-fried wings and laze around your house and still blame your weight on your thyroid.).
When you reach the conclusion that losing weight is a simple formula of burning more calories than you take in, and that even the fancy and expensive "miracle pill/supplement/concoction" isn't going to solve your problems for the long term.
When you finally admit that french fries aren't vegetables just because they're made from potatoes.
When enough is just enough, plain and simple. I've reached that point.
Being fat sucks. I've spent that past 12 years complaining about how much it sucks, yet I've failed to sincerely try to do anything about it. I've even written about it with the best of intentions of losing weight, but my words never concretely translated into actions.
I quit pop in mid-January, my biggest hurdle, and haven't touched a drop since. And, though I did see minimal results, I didn't change my eating habits. I went on a diet at the end of April, but through the chaos of kids' birthdays, the end of school, vacations, and many excuses, I fell off the wagon a month later.
Then I got on the scale. Yikes. That was "the point", and I haven't looked back since. All I had to change was my attitude.
I no longer feel a bitterness toward skinny people, food, or exercise. I don't harbour feelings of deprivation and resentment because I can't get a Blizzard, instead I feel strong and proud how I'm able to resist the temptation. I don't curse my husband's late night snack, I look at it with relief that it's not entering my stomach and disrupting my steady course.
I put a sign on my fridge that says, "you're only cheating yourself", along with two pictures: one of myself and one of Jessica Simpson.
Aside from the occasional glass of milk or juice, the only thing I drink is water. I have completely (and unbelievably) cut ice cream out of my life. Other junk food and sweets are cut to an absolute minimum, though not eliminated entirely. I make sure to eat breakfast every morning. I have a filling supper without stuffing myself up to the eyeballs. And I never eat anything after supper is over - not a carrot stick, not a cracker, nothing. Those are my changes, and it's working.
I've lost 35lbs because of those very do-able and realistic changes. The point I'm trying to make is, if I can do it, anyone reading this can do it, too. I was the best of the best excuse makers; the thyroid patient; the busy mom; the "did you hear about that new pill" queen; the chronic complainer. Not anymore, no more excuses.
And I've never felt better.
When you realize you're not getting any younger, and you don't want to be fat and inactive and useless throughout your thirties, nor do you want to be riddled with weight-related health problems by the time you hit the big 4-0.
When you acknowledge that all your previous weight-loss "attempts" weren't really attempts at all, since going on that worthless soup diet or eating nothing for days to fit into that dress for your friend's wedding, was just a quick fix and not really a commitment.
When you stop making excuses about exercising and realize that your hour-long Big Brother watch-a-thon could be just as easily spent walking in place in your living room as it is sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn.
When you figure out that body-slimming undergarments don't actually make you smaller, they just redistribute fat to places it wasn't before.
When watching televised accounts of incredible weight loss becomes less about drowning your "why can't that be me" sorrows in a Big Mac and throwing the remote at the finale of The Biggest Loser, and more about motivation and inspiration.
When you can no longer call it "baby weight", especially since your baby is able to tell you that, "Mommy, you have too much chubbs on your butt."
When you resign yourself to not having a "cheat day", since people with as little discipline as you do have become the size they are because of willy-nilly cheat days that spiral into cheat months.
When you stop blaming your thyroid problem for the way you look and realize your weight is of your own doing (I have a serious thyroid problem - in fact, I'm guilty of using the excuse myself - and I can tell you with certainty that a thyroid problem, even one as out-of-whack as mine, does not cause a 50lb weight gain. You can't eat deep-fried wings and laze around your house and still blame your weight on your thyroid.).
When you reach the conclusion that losing weight is a simple formula of burning more calories than you take in, and that even the fancy and expensive "miracle pill/supplement/concoction" isn't going to solve your problems for the long term.
When you finally admit that french fries aren't vegetables just because they're made from potatoes.
When enough is just enough, plain and simple. I've reached that point.
Being fat sucks. I've spent that past 12 years complaining about how much it sucks, yet I've failed to sincerely try to do anything about it. I've even written about it with the best of intentions of losing weight, but my words never concretely translated into actions.
I quit pop in mid-January, my biggest hurdle, and haven't touched a drop since. And, though I did see minimal results, I didn't change my eating habits. I went on a diet at the end of April, but through the chaos of kids' birthdays, the end of school, vacations, and many excuses, I fell off the wagon a month later.
Then I got on the scale. Yikes. That was "the point", and I haven't looked back since. All I had to change was my attitude.
I no longer feel a bitterness toward skinny people, food, or exercise. I don't harbour feelings of deprivation and resentment because I can't get a Blizzard, instead I feel strong and proud how I'm able to resist the temptation. I don't curse my husband's late night snack, I look at it with relief that it's not entering my stomach and disrupting my steady course.
I put a sign on my fridge that says, "you're only cheating yourself", along with two pictures: one of myself and one of Jessica Simpson.
Aside from the occasional glass of milk or juice, the only thing I drink is water. I have completely (and unbelievably) cut ice cream out of my life. Other junk food and sweets are cut to an absolute minimum, though not eliminated entirely. I make sure to eat breakfast every morning. I have a filling supper without stuffing myself up to the eyeballs. And I never eat anything after supper is over - not a carrot stick, not a cracker, nothing. Those are my changes, and it's working.
I've lost 35lbs because of those very do-able and realistic changes. The point I'm trying to make is, if I can do it, anyone reading this can do it, too. I was the best of the best excuse makers; the thyroid patient; the busy mom; the "did you hear about that new pill" queen; the chronic complainer. Not anymore, no more excuses.
And I've never felt better.
Passing the Torch
My husband's aunt just got some big news: she's been chosen to carry the Olympic torch in North Sydney during the official torch relay.
Over the course of my life, my attitude has been "Olympics, Schmalympics". But, it truly is more interesting than I thought.
The modern Olympic flame and relay take their origins from the ancient Games of Olympia, in Greece. At that time, torch and relay races were an important part of the cultural festivities during the Games, symbolizing peace and goodwill. Official messengers would travel the country, declaring a sacred truce for the duration of the Games, and that same spirit of peace continues in the modern day relay.
The torch relay itself, however, only became an official Olympic tradition in 1936, at the Summer Games in Berlin, Germany. Carl Diem, who Hitler reluctantly allowed to head up the Games, has historical credit for turning the abstract Greek philosophy into an ongoing Olympic tradition.
While Diem's brainchild was based on the purity of ancient Greek beliefs, Adolph Hitler, who had come to power in the time since Berlin's winning bid for the games, saw a greater purpose for the proposed relay. He believed that classical Greece superiorities were an Aryan forerunner to his German Reich, and thought a torch relay not only illustrated a link between ancient Greece and his philosophies, but also added a bit of myth and mystique to his regime (or, at least that's what the Nazi propaganda machine intended).
As a matter of fact, Fritz Schligen, the first torch runner to light the stadium flame, wasn't even a competitor in those 1936 Olympics; he was chosen by the Nazis for this graceful appearance and running style, which they felt would enhance the public's positive view of the "new" ceremony.
The torch relay has come a long way since the early days. Though it is normally carried by runners, through the years it has been transported in many different ways. The fire travelled across the English Channel by boat in 1948 en route to the London Summer Games. It travelled by airplane for the first time in 1952 when it went to Helsinki Games, and even by horseback for the duration of the 1956 relay to the Stockholm Games.
As years go by, even technology is impacting the variations of the torch and relay. In 1976, the flame was transformed to an electronic pulse, which was transmitted by satellite from Athens to Montreal. The signal was then used to trigger a laser beam to re-light the cauldron at the stadium. Pretty cool, wouldn't you say? Another specially manufactured torch saw the Great Barrier Reef in 2000, as divers transported it to the Games in Sydney.
The first global torch relay, in celebration of the 2004 Athens Summer Games, lasted for 142 days and almost 12,000 torchbearers carried the flame more than 78,000km. An even more ambitious relay was undertaken for the Beijing Olympics in 2008, when the torch was taken by over 20,000 carriers a distance of 137,000km, and visited the majority of the Orient, in addition to many other countries worldwide.
The transfer of the flame from torch to cauldron at the host stadium marks the official beginning of the Games. In a phenomenal ceremony at the 1992 Barcelona Olympics, a Paralympic archer ignited the cauldron by shooting a burning arrow over a stream of natural gas above it to activate the flame. (Look it up on YouTube, it's amazing.) In Lillehammer, the final torch was delivered by a ski jumper. Over the years it has become tradition to have the final fire lit by a famous athlete or someone else symbolic of Olympic ideals. Everyone from Mohammad Ali to the 1980 U.S. Olympic Gold Men's hockey team, along with many other notable athletes, has held this honor.
Most people who want to be involved in the relay for the 2010 Vancouver Games have a series of applications to fill out to be eligible for consideration. Official Olympic sponsors each have an allotted number of positions to fill, usually with a theme (like this year's "Pledge" theme by the Royal Bank; each applicant has to write a pledge to Canada, demonstrating how their pledge is relevant to their journey with the torch, the Olympics, and Canada overall). While most spots have already been filled, information is available online as to how to apply for future years (although, you're responsible for your own transportation to and from your relay position, something that might not be practical for someone in Nova Scotia applying for the 2012 London Summer Games).
The whole relay experience (the Olympics in general, to tell you the truth) isn't something I've ever given much though to. It is only after hearing the account of someone personally involved that I looked into the history and came to find how symbolic and extraordinary a journey it is.
Over the course of my life, my attitude has been "Olympics, Schmalympics". But, it truly is more interesting than I thought.
The modern Olympic flame and relay take their origins from the ancient Games of Olympia, in Greece. At that time, torch and relay races were an important part of the cultural festivities during the Games, symbolizing peace and goodwill. Official messengers would travel the country, declaring a sacred truce for the duration of the Games, and that same spirit of peace continues in the modern day relay.
The torch relay itself, however, only became an official Olympic tradition in 1936, at the Summer Games in Berlin, Germany. Carl Diem, who Hitler reluctantly allowed to head up the Games, has historical credit for turning the abstract Greek philosophy into an ongoing Olympic tradition.
While Diem's brainchild was based on the purity of ancient Greek beliefs, Adolph Hitler, who had come to power in the time since Berlin's winning bid for the games, saw a greater purpose for the proposed relay. He believed that classical Greece superiorities were an Aryan forerunner to his German Reich, and thought a torch relay not only illustrated a link between ancient Greece and his philosophies, but also added a bit of myth and mystique to his regime (or, at least that's what the Nazi propaganda machine intended).
As a matter of fact, Fritz Schligen, the first torch runner to light the stadium flame, wasn't even a competitor in those 1936 Olympics; he was chosen by the Nazis for this graceful appearance and running style, which they felt would enhance the public's positive view of the "new" ceremony.
The torch relay has come a long way since the early days. Though it is normally carried by runners, through the years it has been transported in many different ways. The fire travelled across the English Channel by boat in 1948 en route to the London Summer Games. It travelled by airplane for the first time in 1952 when it went to Helsinki Games, and even by horseback for the duration of the 1956 relay to the Stockholm Games.
As years go by, even technology is impacting the variations of the torch and relay. In 1976, the flame was transformed to an electronic pulse, which was transmitted by satellite from Athens to Montreal. The signal was then used to trigger a laser beam to re-light the cauldron at the stadium. Pretty cool, wouldn't you say? Another specially manufactured torch saw the Great Barrier Reef in 2000, as divers transported it to the Games in Sydney.
The first global torch relay, in celebration of the 2004 Athens Summer Games, lasted for 142 days and almost 12,000 torchbearers carried the flame more than 78,000km. An even more ambitious relay was undertaken for the Beijing Olympics in 2008, when the torch was taken by over 20,000 carriers a distance of 137,000km, and visited the majority of the Orient, in addition to many other countries worldwide.
The transfer of the flame from torch to cauldron at the host stadium marks the official beginning of the Games. In a phenomenal ceremony at the 1992 Barcelona Olympics, a Paralympic archer ignited the cauldron by shooting a burning arrow over a stream of natural gas above it to activate the flame. (Look it up on YouTube, it's amazing.) In Lillehammer, the final torch was delivered by a ski jumper. Over the years it has become tradition to have the final fire lit by a famous athlete or someone else symbolic of Olympic ideals. Everyone from Mohammad Ali to the 1980 U.S. Olympic Gold Men's hockey team, along with many other notable athletes, has held this honor.
Most people who want to be involved in the relay for the 2010 Vancouver Games have a series of applications to fill out to be eligible for consideration. Official Olympic sponsors each have an allotted number of positions to fill, usually with a theme (like this year's "Pledge" theme by the Royal Bank; each applicant has to write a pledge to Canada, demonstrating how their pledge is relevant to their journey with the torch, the Olympics, and Canada overall). While most spots have already been filled, information is available online as to how to apply for future years (although, you're responsible for your own transportation to and from your relay position, something that might not be practical for someone in Nova Scotia applying for the 2012 London Summer Games).
The whole relay experience (the Olympics in general, to tell you the truth) isn't something I've ever given much though to. It is only after hearing the account of someone personally involved that I looked into the history and came to find how symbolic and extraordinary a journey it is.
Pale is the New Tan
From the Associated Press (via Perez Hilton, but no matter): After years of describing tanning beds and other sources of ultraviolet radiation as "probable carcinogens", cancer experts have now moved both into the top cancer risk category, deeming them as deadly as arsenic and mustard gas. The new classification means tanning beds and other sources of ultraviolet radiation are definite causes of cancer, alongside tobacco, the hepatitis B virus and chimney sweeping, among others.
The classification of tanning beds as carcinogenic was disputed by a big wig from The Sunbed Association (of course). "The fact that is continuously ignored is that there is no proven link between the responsible use of sunbeds and skin cancer," the big wig said in a statement. She said most users of tanning beds use them less than 20 times a year.
But as use of tanning beds has increased among people under 30, doctors have seen a parallel rise in the numbers of young people with skin cancer. A new analysis of about 20 studies concludes the risk of skin cancer jumps by 75 percent when people start using tanning beds before age 30. In Great Britain, melanoma, the deadliest kind of skin cancer, is now the leading cancer diagnosed in women in their 20s. Normally, skin cancer rates are highest in people over 75.
Previous studies found younger people who regularly use tanning beds are eight times more likely to get melanoma than people who have never used them. In the past, World Health Organization has warned people younger than 18 to stay away from tanning beds.
Scary stuff, eh?
And it's true, more people are using "fake bake" than ever before, and it's starting at a younger age. It's the girls preparing to graduate from high school who spend hours working on their tan for the prom. It's the special event tanners, who get a package before a wedding or a trip down South. It's tanning addicts whose skin is now an eerie shade of burnt orange and looks a bit like a leather boot, but who feel the need to get darker and darker. I've even heard of doctors recommending tanning sessions to patients with bad acne.
I'm guilty of it myself, as I said last week. First it was for my sister's wedding, then it was trying to get ready for summer, but for people who think tanned skin looks better than untanned skin, there will always be an excuse. I regret encouraging anyone to do it, so I thought I'd present an alternative.
A few months ago, I found a lady in the area who does "spray tanning", a sugar based dye that is airbrushed onto the skin to simulate the perfect tan. This method is widely available in larger cities and I've known several people who have had it done, but it's not something you can get around every corner in Port Hawkesbury. I've heard both horror stories and glowing testimonials about spray tanning, but I decided to be a sport and give it a try.
It's really quite simple. Shower before you leave, but don't use any moisturizers or lotions, as the spray solution won't adhere as well. You stand on a towel in the middle of a private room (in your bathing suit, birthday suit, or whatever will allow the coverage you want), and she sprays you with this fine mist. You can get a few more coats on your legs, a few less on your face, whichever combination you feel looks best. You stand in this room for a few minutes afterwards to dry thoroughly, and voila: you're tanned for up to ten days.
No, it didn't come off on my clothes or drip or fade or turn orange, none of the terrible tales I had heard. It develops slightly over a few hours, but only a shade or two darker than you were when you left the salon. It looks just as natural as any tan other method I've tried, perhaps even more so.
But, not only are you tanned with a completely harmless sugar solution and no harsh chemicals, you've avoided the cancerous rays, you've saved countless hours of time at a tanning salon, and it costs about half the price of a package of tanning sessions.
Statistics and medical research are hard to argue with. It's fine for us to forge ahead with our vanity thinking "it won't happen to me", but evidence suggests otherwise and it's about time we take our health into account before superficial nonsense like tanning. Magazines and television shows make us think that only select, flawless beauties look good with pale skin, and that the rest of us should darken things up. True or false, is any measure of beauty worth getting cancer for? Not for me, thanks. Pale or spray, and that's it.
The classification of tanning beds as carcinogenic was disputed by a big wig from The Sunbed Association (of course). "The fact that is continuously ignored is that there is no proven link between the responsible use of sunbeds and skin cancer," the big wig said in a statement. She said most users of tanning beds use them less than 20 times a year.
But as use of tanning beds has increased among people under 30, doctors have seen a parallel rise in the numbers of young people with skin cancer. A new analysis of about 20 studies concludes the risk of skin cancer jumps by 75 percent when people start using tanning beds before age 30. In Great Britain, melanoma, the deadliest kind of skin cancer, is now the leading cancer diagnosed in women in their 20s. Normally, skin cancer rates are highest in people over 75.
Previous studies found younger people who regularly use tanning beds are eight times more likely to get melanoma than people who have never used them. In the past, World Health Organization has warned people younger than 18 to stay away from tanning beds.
Scary stuff, eh?
And it's true, more people are using "fake bake" than ever before, and it's starting at a younger age. It's the girls preparing to graduate from high school who spend hours working on their tan for the prom. It's the special event tanners, who get a package before a wedding or a trip down South. It's tanning addicts whose skin is now an eerie shade of burnt orange and looks a bit like a leather boot, but who feel the need to get darker and darker. I've even heard of doctors recommending tanning sessions to patients with bad acne.
I'm guilty of it myself, as I said last week. First it was for my sister's wedding, then it was trying to get ready for summer, but for people who think tanned skin looks better than untanned skin, there will always be an excuse. I regret encouraging anyone to do it, so I thought I'd present an alternative.
A few months ago, I found a lady in the area who does "spray tanning", a sugar based dye that is airbrushed onto the skin to simulate the perfect tan. This method is widely available in larger cities and I've known several people who have had it done, but it's not something you can get around every corner in Port Hawkesbury. I've heard both horror stories and glowing testimonials about spray tanning, but I decided to be a sport and give it a try.
It's really quite simple. Shower before you leave, but don't use any moisturizers or lotions, as the spray solution won't adhere as well. You stand on a towel in the middle of a private room (in your bathing suit, birthday suit, or whatever will allow the coverage you want), and she sprays you with this fine mist. You can get a few more coats on your legs, a few less on your face, whichever combination you feel looks best. You stand in this room for a few minutes afterwards to dry thoroughly, and voila: you're tanned for up to ten days.
No, it didn't come off on my clothes or drip or fade or turn orange, none of the terrible tales I had heard. It develops slightly over a few hours, but only a shade or two darker than you were when you left the salon. It looks just as natural as any tan other method I've tried, perhaps even more so.
But, not only are you tanned with a completely harmless sugar solution and no harsh chemicals, you've avoided the cancerous rays, you've saved countless hours of time at a tanning salon, and it costs about half the price of a package of tanning sessions.
Statistics and medical research are hard to argue with. It's fine for us to forge ahead with our vanity thinking "it won't happen to me", but evidence suggests otherwise and it's about time we take our health into account before superficial nonsense like tanning. Magazines and television shows make us think that only select, flawless beauties look good with pale skin, and that the rest of us should darken things up. True or false, is any measure of beauty worth getting cancer for? Not for me, thanks. Pale or spray, and that's it.
Summer Woes
Last year, I wrote an article about the best things about summer. This year I'm going to do the opposite. Make no mistake, I'd take July over February any day of the week. But, like everything else, there are a few aspects that I could do without.
For starters, mosquitoes. Bugs in general, and how their population multiples exponentially this time of year, but especially mosquitos. A perfect summer evening on the patio or around a campfire is instantly made less enjoyable by swarms of relentless, humming mini-buzzards. You get cramps in your arms from constantly flailing them around like helicopter blades. The fabric-softener-tucked-into-your-hat trick doesn't work, no matter how much you want it to, and all the tiki torches in the world aren't going to get rid of them. You can douse yourself in deet and light expensive mosquito candles all you want, they're still going to get you. It's how they're programmed.
And, relate with me here, is there anything worse than a mosquito in your room at night? I think not. Just the other night, I was awoken abruptly by that familiar hum in my ear - you know the one, at first you think it's just your ears ringing, until it gets closer and closer. I leapt out of the bed on the attack, crazed and flustered. Mr. Mosquito and I spent the next hour playing Mantracker in the early morning darkness of my house. I had turned on every light, creeping around like a trained assassin, sandal in one hand and book in the other. I have to give it to him, he was pretty stealthy. It took me longer than I thought, but eventually I found him sitting innocently on the wall in the hallway, and I introduced him to my sandal. I slept like a baby after that.
Next on my list is humidity. I certainly don't mind heat, especially in contrast to bitter winter temperatures, but here's the thing: when it's cold, you can put on a sweater or grab a blanket to warm up. When it's hot and humid, there's really no escape. Sure, you can all crowd around an air conditioner, but that's not practical or even possible sometimes. For those of us with naturally curly hair, a humid day turns our 40 minutes of hair-straightening work into wasted time, morphing "Winnie Cooper sleek" into "Diana Ross in concert". Or, what about heat in cars? The heat that welcomes you after an hour at the mall, is enough to choke you. A sunny day with a nice breeze is perfect, but windless, dead heat is not my cup of tea.
And, what about sunburn? Almost everyone I know has been careless with sunscreen at some point and ended up with a scorching burn. However, getting a bit red on the shoulders is nothing compared to failing miserably at the art of the summer tan.
Getting a tan is much harder than it seems. As soon as the sun starts to shine and school ends, we're expected to pack away our neon-white bodies and turn into golden sun goddesses (a wise woman once said, brown fat looks better than white fat). We all make big plans to ease into it by cheating and heading to the tanning booth, but few irregular tanners (those of us who aren't brown all year round) make the commitment and get a solid primer coat before hitting the beach.
I didn't make the same mistake I did last summer, by coating myself in dark tanning oil on Canada Day and laying out in Port Hood, and I actually put some thought into how to accomplish this elusive tan. I laid the groundwork early (tanning booth occasionally since April), I was diligent (no skinny straps in the sun, sunscreen an inch thick when I wore t-shirts to avoid the dreaded "farmer's tan"), and I was hopeful. I came to find that getting a good tan is much like baking a souffle; not everyone can do it right, no matter how hard they try. It's either going to turn out or completely flop, and no amount of trying can ever fix it once that happens. Let's put it this way, I won't be making a career in souffles any time soon.
I was hesitant to moan at all about this time of year that we spend the rest of the year waiting for. After all, in a few short weeks we'll reluctantly welcome autumn, my favorite season, and we'll all be more than willing to put up with the mosquitoes and sunburn for just a brief dose of that same miserable heat.
For starters, mosquitoes. Bugs in general, and how their population multiples exponentially this time of year, but especially mosquitos. A perfect summer evening on the patio or around a campfire is instantly made less enjoyable by swarms of relentless, humming mini-buzzards. You get cramps in your arms from constantly flailing them around like helicopter blades. The fabric-softener-tucked-into-your-hat trick doesn't work, no matter how much you want it to, and all the tiki torches in the world aren't going to get rid of them. You can douse yourself in deet and light expensive mosquito candles all you want, they're still going to get you. It's how they're programmed.
And, relate with me here, is there anything worse than a mosquito in your room at night? I think not. Just the other night, I was awoken abruptly by that familiar hum in my ear - you know the one, at first you think it's just your ears ringing, until it gets closer and closer. I leapt out of the bed on the attack, crazed and flustered. Mr. Mosquito and I spent the next hour playing Mantracker in the early morning darkness of my house. I had turned on every light, creeping around like a trained assassin, sandal in one hand and book in the other. I have to give it to him, he was pretty stealthy. It took me longer than I thought, but eventually I found him sitting innocently on the wall in the hallway, and I introduced him to my sandal. I slept like a baby after that.
Next on my list is humidity. I certainly don't mind heat, especially in contrast to bitter winter temperatures, but here's the thing: when it's cold, you can put on a sweater or grab a blanket to warm up. When it's hot and humid, there's really no escape. Sure, you can all crowd around an air conditioner, but that's not practical or even possible sometimes. For those of us with naturally curly hair, a humid day turns our 40 minutes of hair-straightening work into wasted time, morphing "Winnie Cooper sleek" into "Diana Ross in concert". Or, what about heat in cars? The heat that welcomes you after an hour at the mall, is enough to choke you. A sunny day with a nice breeze is perfect, but windless, dead heat is not my cup of tea.
And, what about sunburn? Almost everyone I know has been careless with sunscreen at some point and ended up with a scorching burn. However, getting a bit red on the shoulders is nothing compared to failing miserably at the art of the summer tan.
Getting a tan is much harder than it seems. As soon as the sun starts to shine and school ends, we're expected to pack away our neon-white bodies and turn into golden sun goddesses (a wise woman once said, brown fat looks better than white fat). We all make big plans to ease into it by cheating and heading to the tanning booth, but few irregular tanners (those of us who aren't brown all year round) make the commitment and get a solid primer coat before hitting the beach.
I didn't make the same mistake I did last summer, by coating myself in dark tanning oil on Canada Day and laying out in Port Hood, and I actually put some thought into how to accomplish this elusive tan. I laid the groundwork early (tanning booth occasionally since April), I was diligent (no skinny straps in the sun, sunscreen an inch thick when I wore t-shirts to avoid the dreaded "farmer's tan"), and I was hopeful. I came to find that getting a good tan is much like baking a souffle; not everyone can do it right, no matter how hard they try. It's either going to turn out or completely flop, and no amount of trying can ever fix it once that happens. Let's put it this way, I won't be making a career in souffles any time soon.
I was hesitant to moan at all about this time of year that we spend the rest of the year waiting for. After all, in a few short weeks we'll reluctantly welcome autumn, my favorite season, and we'll all be more than willing to put up with the mosquitoes and sunburn for just a brief dose of that same miserable heat.
And the Winner is....
On Thursday evening, I attended the Festival of the Strait Princess Pageant at the mall. Great job, girls!
I miss the days when pageants were the centerpiece of a summer festival. Picture the Scooby-Doo dream-sequence effects, and bear with me.
The annual River Bourgeois community festival used to be a really big deal, and every year it began with the princess pageant.
Those in attendance for the packed-house Saturday night affair were probably oblivious to the meticulous preparation required for the show to go on. The contestants had, by this time, found sponsors (businesses and organizations to donate money for the girl's sash and other pageant-y things). They had already posed for the all-important Reporter photo shoot, where their picture would appear in a full-page spread opposite the festival schedule, noting their name, sponsor, and parents' names (so all the older women could say, "you know Lisa, at Joe-Jim's"). They had even attended a "tea", where they practiced their best smiles and manners at a get-together with the judges. It was all very serious business, especially to the girls who, like me, were too young to participate.
When the lights dimmed, a Master of Ceremonies announced the procession and the hall filled with more chiffon and frills than I care to remember, as was the style of "teenager fancy dress" back then. The girls, usually more than a dozen of them, filed up the center aisle, introduced themselves briefly ("Hi, I'm Lisa Smith and my sponsor is J&C Take-Out!"), and took their place on stage.
Once the judges had been introduced, it was time to get down to business. Each girl would give a more thorough introduction, telling everyone their age, grade, perhaps what they liked to do, what career they intended to pursue, things like that.
After the introductions came speeches. The topic was up in the air, completely up to each contestant, and it was always interesting to hear what the girls chose to talk about (even though the delivery mattered more than the content).
When the speech portion was complete, the girls would head downstairs to prepare for the talent competition. There were usually singers, dancers and piano players, but every year had a wild card - whether it be demonstrating a cadet Drill Team routine, or teaching the crowd how to cross-stitch. After everyone had shown their talent, the girls went to sweat it out downstairs while the judges made their decisions and the audience mingled and chowed down on coffee, tea and sweets. (For the record, River Bourgeois hall sweets are still in my top five favorite foods of all time.)
Eventually, the MC would inform the masses to be seated, the results were in. The crowd buzzed in anticipation every time and you could cut the tension with a knife; well not really, but I want to make it clear how intense a scene it was. The contestants nervously took the stage, the previous year's Queen took her mark in the wings after her swan-walk, and the envelope was handed over.
Miss Friendship, decided by the girls earlier in the evening by secret ballot, was announced first, followed by the expected squeals and hugs, and awarding of the trophies, flowers, and other pageant swag. The first winner was followed by 2nd Runner-Up, 1st Runner-Up, and finally Queen. It was all very climactic and wonderful, and I'll never forget it.
The very first pageant I attended was in 1984, where I met my future-best friend, Amy Doary, for the very first time. We were both very impressed with the pomp and circumstance of the whole thing, and our 5-year-old heads were just about spinning. We swore we'd be in it one day, and we would have - if only pageants hadn't become pretty much obsolete sometime after 1995.
Someone must have decided that being a teenager in a pageant was uncool, and that's a shame. Not only are they great confidence builders for girls at a crucial age, but they're a showcase of talent, a platform to experience public speaking and an excuse to dress up like a princess for a day other than prom.
Most of all, it's an excellent opportunity to bring a community together. Everyone is busier these days, and our local festivals are visibly suffering, with attendance, participation and volunteer numbers lower than they've been in years.
I'd love to see a big pageant in every festival, and a rightful Queen take her seat at the front of a parade float. It's something I'll always miss watching, and I hope someday they become "cool" again. (If there are any girls between 14-18 interested in participating next year, get in touch with me and I'll certainly be willing to help put it together.)
I miss the days when pageants were the centerpiece of a summer festival. Picture the Scooby-Doo dream-sequence effects, and bear with me.
The annual River Bourgeois community festival used to be a really big deal, and every year it began with the princess pageant.
Those in attendance for the packed-house Saturday night affair were probably oblivious to the meticulous preparation required for the show to go on. The contestants had, by this time, found sponsors (businesses and organizations to donate money for the girl's sash and other pageant-y things). They had already posed for the all-important Reporter photo shoot, where their picture would appear in a full-page spread opposite the festival schedule, noting their name, sponsor, and parents' names (so all the older women could say, "you know Lisa, at Joe-Jim's"). They had even attended a "tea", where they practiced their best smiles and manners at a get-together with the judges. It was all very serious business, especially to the girls who, like me, were too young to participate.
When the lights dimmed, a Master of Ceremonies announced the procession and the hall filled with more chiffon and frills than I care to remember, as was the style of "teenager fancy dress" back then. The girls, usually more than a dozen of them, filed up the center aisle, introduced themselves briefly ("Hi, I'm Lisa Smith and my sponsor is J&C Take-Out!"), and took their place on stage.
Once the judges had been introduced, it was time to get down to business. Each girl would give a more thorough introduction, telling everyone their age, grade, perhaps what they liked to do, what career they intended to pursue, things like that.
After the introductions came speeches. The topic was up in the air, completely up to each contestant, and it was always interesting to hear what the girls chose to talk about (even though the delivery mattered more than the content).
When the speech portion was complete, the girls would head downstairs to prepare for the talent competition. There were usually singers, dancers and piano players, but every year had a wild card - whether it be demonstrating a cadet Drill Team routine, or teaching the crowd how to cross-stitch. After everyone had shown their talent, the girls went to sweat it out downstairs while the judges made their decisions and the audience mingled and chowed down on coffee, tea and sweets. (For the record, River Bourgeois hall sweets are still in my top five favorite foods of all time.)
Eventually, the MC would inform the masses to be seated, the results were in. The crowd buzzed in anticipation every time and you could cut the tension with a knife; well not really, but I want to make it clear how intense a scene it was. The contestants nervously took the stage, the previous year's Queen took her mark in the wings after her swan-walk, and the envelope was handed over.
Miss Friendship, decided by the girls earlier in the evening by secret ballot, was announced first, followed by the expected squeals and hugs, and awarding of the trophies, flowers, and other pageant swag. The first winner was followed by 2nd Runner-Up, 1st Runner-Up, and finally Queen. It was all very climactic and wonderful, and I'll never forget it.
The very first pageant I attended was in 1984, where I met my future-best friend, Amy Doary, for the very first time. We were both very impressed with the pomp and circumstance of the whole thing, and our 5-year-old heads were just about spinning. We swore we'd be in it one day, and we would have - if only pageants hadn't become pretty much obsolete sometime after 1995.
Someone must have decided that being a teenager in a pageant was uncool, and that's a shame. Not only are they great confidence builders for girls at a crucial age, but they're a showcase of talent, a platform to experience public speaking and an excuse to dress up like a princess for a day other than prom.
Most of all, it's an excellent opportunity to bring a community together. Everyone is busier these days, and our local festivals are visibly suffering, with attendance, participation and volunteer numbers lower than they've been in years.
I'd love to see a big pageant in every festival, and a rightful Queen take her seat at the front of a parade float. It's something I'll always miss watching, and I hope someday they become "cool" again. (If there are any girls between 14-18 interested in participating next year, get in touch with me and I'll certainly be willing to help put it together.)
Monday, July 13, 2009
Facebook Etiquette, Part 3
Welcome to the final installment of Facebook 101.
Pictures are a huge component of this site we love so dearly, so if you're going to partake, make an honest effort at doing it properly. Labelling your photos is always nice. A simple "Sam & Me in the delivery room" might seem obvious to you, but it could mean all the difference to someone dying to congratulate you, but who can't for the life of them remember your husband's name. And, that gelatinous pink blob might look like an exotic jellyfish to you, but without a label, it looks like sea junk to me.
For those of you who have so few friends (family members, acquaintances, other nearby humans capable of operating a camera) that you must resort to taking your own picture, please heed these warnings: Do not hold the camera in front of the bathroom mirror. Why the bathroom?? It's always in the bathroom! (Very astute observation, Kelly.) Also, don't make the pouty face. The "I'm-giving-you-a-kiss-through-my-low-end-model-flip-phone" face. And whatever you do, NEVER combine the two.
A few words about statuses. There is really no need to update your status more than a few times per day, even on an extrordinarily eventful day.
Furthermore, cryptic status updates like, "Sue wonders if her secret will get out," and "Timmy will get through this," do not make you seem mysterious. They point to desperation and attention-seeking.
Finally, never "like" and comment on the same status. The act of commenting alone indicates your interest in that status, so "liking" it is redundant and just sends an unnecessary notification.
Perhaps the most complicated Facebook situation one might face, for both parties, is the issue of "defriending". For starters, let it be said that it's perfectly acceptable to pare down your friend list from time to time; sometimes it becomes necessary, especially after a rush of ill-considered friend requests. There are people who belong on your list and people who don't, and that's just the way it is.
There are people who, unless they've been inappropriate in some way, you're obligated to keep on your list. People like relatives, spouse's relatives, and co-workers. Even if they send you some annoying gift with every message ("Here, friend, please enjoy this virtual chocolate teddy bear at the bottom of my inbox greeting").
This, however, is where loyalty and obligation pretty much stops and people start to become expendable. There are definite circumstances that necessitate a friend's removal, like consistent inappropriate language or information being posted on your wall. Another reason might be lack of communication. If, for example, you become friends with someone who has never responded to any direct message, post, comment, status, or anything else, you can justifiably eliminate that person from your list after a reasonable period.
Don't be tempted to clean house, though. It may seem appealing to rid your list of anyone you haven't spoken to on a regular basis or who doesn't have a lot of Facebook activity, but you don't know when you might need that girl in order to gain access to pictures of her really cool and unique wedding pictures, or to catch a glimpse of her sister's tremendous weight gain that everyone is telling you about. Weed, but don't tear up the whole garden.
Now, what to do in the terribly awkward situation of post-defriending run-ins, you might ask. Before you defriend, be prepared to never have the occasion to speak to that person face to face again. You've banished them from your Facebook world, and always assume they've already noticed. You now have no choice but to avoid them like the plague when you see them at the grocery store, and here's a tip: if you should happen to accidentally bump into them, the old, "oh really? yeah, there's something wrong with my Facebook account, a bunch of my friends just disappeared" excuse doesn't work anymore. People know better.
One day, you might find that you've been defriended by someone as well. Make no mistake, it was no accident, and re-adding that person is an insult to your integrity. You must swallow your pride and move on, and don't even bother wondering why. NEVER send them a message asking them.
And there you have it, three whole articles to help you navigate Facebook with the confidence of knowing you're doing it right. Take each suggestion with a grain of salt, though, since contributors to the Facebook series have all been guilty of their own faux-pas, I'm sure.
If I can leave you with one final piece of advice, it is this: never drunk-Facebook. You're just asking for trouble.
Pictures are a huge component of this site we love so dearly, so if you're going to partake, make an honest effort at doing it properly. Labelling your photos is always nice. A simple "Sam & Me in the delivery room" might seem obvious to you, but it could mean all the difference to someone dying to congratulate you, but who can't for the life of them remember your husband's name. And, that gelatinous pink blob might look like an exotic jellyfish to you, but without a label, it looks like sea junk to me.
For those of you who have so few friends (family members, acquaintances, other nearby humans capable of operating a camera) that you must resort to taking your own picture, please heed these warnings: Do not hold the camera in front of the bathroom mirror. Why the bathroom?? It's always in the bathroom! (Very astute observation, Kelly.) Also, don't make the pouty face. The "I'm-giving-you-a-kiss-through-my-low-end-model-flip-phone" face. And whatever you do, NEVER combine the two.
A few words about statuses. There is really no need to update your status more than a few times per day, even on an extrordinarily eventful day.
Furthermore, cryptic status updates like, "Sue wonders if her secret will get out," and "Timmy will get through this," do not make you seem mysterious. They point to desperation and attention-seeking.
Finally, never "like" and comment on the same status. The act of commenting alone indicates your interest in that status, so "liking" it is redundant and just sends an unnecessary notification.
Perhaps the most complicated Facebook situation one might face, for both parties, is the issue of "defriending". For starters, let it be said that it's perfectly acceptable to pare down your friend list from time to time; sometimes it becomes necessary, especially after a rush of ill-considered friend requests. There are people who belong on your list and people who don't, and that's just the way it is.
There are people who, unless they've been inappropriate in some way, you're obligated to keep on your list. People like relatives, spouse's relatives, and co-workers. Even if they send you some annoying gift with every message ("Here, friend, please enjoy this virtual chocolate teddy bear at the bottom of my inbox greeting").
This, however, is where loyalty and obligation pretty much stops and people start to become expendable. There are definite circumstances that necessitate a friend's removal, like consistent inappropriate language or information being posted on your wall. Another reason might be lack of communication. If, for example, you become friends with someone who has never responded to any direct message, post, comment, status, or anything else, you can justifiably eliminate that person from your list after a reasonable period.
Don't be tempted to clean house, though. It may seem appealing to rid your list of anyone you haven't spoken to on a regular basis or who doesn't have a lot of Facebook activity, but you don't know when you might need that girl in order to gain access to pictures of her really cool and unique wedding pictures, or to catch a glimpse of her sister's tremendous weight gain that everyone is telling you about. Weed, but don't tear up the whole garden.
Now, what to do in the terribly awkward situation of post-defriending run-ins, you might ask. Before you defriend, be prepared to never have the occasion to speak to that person face to face again. You've banished them from your Facebook world, and always assume they've already noticed. You now have no choice but to avoid them like the plague when you see them at the grocery store, and here's a tip: if you should happen to accidentally bump into them, the old, "oh really? yeah, there's something wrong with my Facebook account, a bunch of my friends just disappeared" excuse doesn't work anymore. People know better.
One day, you might find that you've been defriended by someone as well. Make no mistake, it was no accident, and re-adding that person is an insult to your integrity. You must swallow your pride and move on, and don't even bother wondering why. NEVER send them a message asking them.
And there you have it, three whole articles to help you navigate Facebook with the confidence of knowing you're doing it right. Take each suggestion with a grain of salt, though, since contributors to the Facebook series have all been guilty of their own faux-pas, I'm sure.
If I can leave you with one final piece of advice, it is this: never drunk-Facebook. You're just asking for trouble.
Facebook Etiquette, Part 2
Last week, I laid down the basic rules of a positive and successful Facebook experience. This week, I'll discuss a few rules and guidelines that target more specific problem areas, ones even veteran Facebookers might not be aware of.
To start with, while the very existence of Facebook encourages sharing personal information, airing grievances is best saved for private phone calls and personal confrontations. Starting a "Jane Finch is a dirty hoser" group is not the way to go about things. Likewise, I don't need to see a bunch of four-letter words in your status, or pictures of your best girlfriend pretend-spanking you at a pub crawl. Neither does your boss.
Of my research into the topic of Facebook pet peeves, this one earned a landslide victory: STOP TAKING QUIZZES. Nobody cares what Twilight character or literary time period you are. No one cares which Spice Girl you resemble or what color your aura is. Really - stop. And anyway, why would you want to know that? What purpose does having that information serve in your life? And what purpose do you think it will serve in my News Feed, cluttering up all the important stuff with sparkly ponies and astrological signs?? (In case you couldn't tell, that was a direct quote from a friend of mine. It was too succinct to modify.)
On a related note, the "when will I get married/how many babies will I have/how will I die" calculators are not scientifically accurate, just so you know.
Joining too many groups cheapens the value of your membership in the ones you actually care about, so think twice before becoming a member of "Please bring back Tart n' Tinys, Wonka company". (I know Tart n' Tinys rocked your socks off - mine, too. But, at least save your confectionery loyalty for a far superior candy like Punkys.) (Wow, talk about digressing.) What I mean is, no one will value the opinion of a "CTV Atlantic Newstalk" contributor if they're also a member of "Eminems new album sux, and no I'm not a hater it just does".
Don't invite people to events if they don't live in the same province. I, a resident of Cape Breton, will not be attending your poetry recital in Saskatoon next Tuesday night, girl I went to elementary school with. Did you really think I would?
STOP YELLING AT ME LIKE THIS.
A unilateral relationship status change, on top of being immature and unfair, will only result in confusion for everyone. Make it a mutual decision, especially before you announce you're in a new relationship or informing someone you're filing for divorce. If you handle your relationship status with grace and poise, people will say, "Hey, that person is pretty responsible with his/her use of Facebook in a relationship setting", increasing your odds of finding another potential mate.
FYI: if you have somehow gained access to the Facebook profile of an ex/ex's new flame/other person in whom you should have no interest anyway, you're a creeper. If you return more than twice, you're a stalker, so stop. Facebook stalkers are not cool.
I am not even remotely interested in zombie/bumper sticker/graffiti/pet-raising/friend-buying/game-playing/green patch/gift-giving applications, and one would think that preference would be clear after me ignoring your invitation fifteen times.
Growing a baby in a virtual clay pot is all kinds of wrong.
Speaking of babies (and this rule also applies to pets and cars), posting 56 pictures of your sleeping, immobile newborn might fill your heart with parental pride, but it does nothing for most others. One would have been fine, two perfectly acceptable, even three if you're really worked up. But an album full? C'mon. Wait until the baby is at least capable of an expression.
Also, probably not a great idea to post pictures of your baby in the bathtub. You don't know what kind of weirdos might be scoping out your pictures, even if you think your privacy settings are iron-clad.
Try to comment selectively on your friends' pictures. The one-two-three picture-posting rule loosely applies to this as well. If you have something notable to say about a particular picture, by all means, leave your two cents. But, there's nothing worse than seeing 34 notifications, clicking on the little red flag, and seeing that Aunt Mary Lou has committed the mortal Facebook sin of severe over-commenting. Not only is it a buzz kill (ooh!! ooh! I wonder who left comments on my.....Oh. Aunt Mary Lou. Again.), but then I have to read "wow" and "cute" and "looks like fun" a tedious 34 times.
When I started writing about Facebook etiquette, little did I know that the material would span not one, not two, but three whole articles. I'll conclude next week.
To start with, while the very existence of Facebook encourages sharing personal information, airing grievances is best saved for private phone calls and personal confrontations. Starting a "Jane Finch is a dirty hoser" group is not the way to go about things. Likewise, I don't need to see a bunch of four-letter words in your status, or pictures of your best girlfriend pretend-spanking you at a pub crawl. Neither does your boss.
Of my research into the topic of Facebook pet peeves, this one earned a landslide victory: STOP TAKING QUIZZES. Nobody cares what Twilight character or literary time period you are. No one cares which Spice Girl you resemble or what color your aura is. Really - stop. And anyway, why would you want to know that? What purpose does having that information serve in your life? And what purpose do you think it will serve in my News Feed, cluttering up all the important stuff with sparkly ponies and astrological signs?? (In case you couldn't tell, that was a direct quote from a friend of mine. It was too succinct to modify.)
On a related note, the "when will I get married/how many babies will I have/how will I die" calculators are not scientifically accurate, just so you know.
Joining too many groups cheapens the value of your membership in the ones you actually care about, so think twice before becoming a member of "Please bring back Tart n' Tinys, Wonka company". (I know Tart n' Tinys rocked your socks off - mine, too. But, at least save your confectionery loyalty for a far superior candy like Punkys.) (Wow, talk about digressing.) What I mean is, no one will value the opinion of a "CTV Atlantic Newstalk" contributor if they're also a member of "Eminems new album sux, and no I'm not a hater it just does".
Don't invite people to events if they don't live in the same province. I, a resident of Cape Breton, will not be attending your poetry recital in Saskatoon next Tuesday night, girl I went to elementary school with. Did you really think I would?
STOP YELLING AT ME LIKE THIS.
A unilateral relationship status change, on top of being immature and unfair, will only result in confusion for everyone. Make it a mutual decision, especially before you announce you're in a new relationship or informing someone you're filing for divorce. If you handle your relationship status with grace and poise, people will say, "Hey, that person is pretty responsible with his/her use of Facebook in a relationship setting", increasing your odds of finding another potential mate.
FYI: if you have somehow gained access to the Facebook profile of an ex/ex's new flame/other person in whom you should have no interest anyway, you're a creeper. If you return more than twice, you're a stalker, so stop. Facebook stalkers are not cool.
I am not even remotely interested in zombie/bumper sticker/graffiti/pet-raising/friend-buying/game-playing/green patch/gift-giving applications, and one would think that preference would be clear after me ignoring your invitation fifteen times.
Growing a baby in a virtual clay pot is all kinds of wrong.
Speaking of babies (and this rule also applies to pets and cars), posting 56 pictures of your sleeping, immobile newborn might fill your heart with parental pride, but it does nothing for most others. One would have been fine, two perfectly acceptable, even three if you're really worked up. But an album full? C'mon. Wait until the baby is at least capable of an expression.
Also, probably not a great idea to post pictures of your baby in the bathtub. You don't know what kind of weirdos might be scoping out your pictures, even if you think your privacy settings are iron-clad.
Try to comment selectively on your friends' pictures. The one-two-three picture-posting rule loosely applies to this as well. If you have something notable to say about a particular picture, by all means, leave your two cents. But, there's nothing worse than seeing 34 notifications, clicking on the little red flag, and seeing that Aunt Mary Lou has committed the mortal Facebook sin of severe over-commenting. Not only is it a buzz kill (ooh!! ooh! I wonder who left comments on my.....Oh. Aunt Mary Lou. Again.), but then I have to read "wow" and "cute" and "looks like fun" a tedious 34 times.
When I started writing about Facebook etiquette, little did I know that the material would span not one, not two, but three whole articles. I'll conclude next week.
Facebook Etiquette, Part 1
Why didn't I think of this before?
I'm an enthusiastic Facebook participant, as are most of the people I know. To date, there are more than two hundred thousand registered users on the site - making it a breeding ground for social and behavioral faux-pas, especially with numerous format changes feeding the fire.
One would think, with such a huge population, Facebook would by now have some formal etiquette in place: cue Gina, along with some of her more vocal and opinionated Facebook friends, to deliver the goods. To be fair, these rules aren't necessarily all mine, remember that. The last thing I need are dozens of people throwing sheep at me.
Let's begin.
First of all, it's not Question-mark-book, it's Facebook. Get a picture. Assuming you're an established Facebooker and have already have pictures of yourself on your profile, then a shot of your puppy or your toes on the beach in Cuba will do. Something to differentiate yourself from the other question marks, if you please. An avatar, anything.
Unless you have no actual interaction with anyone on your friend list, your profile picture should actually look like you. I know, I looked skinnier and younger ten years ago, too - but putting up a good picture from 1999 isn't fooling anyone, and it creates suspicion and, ultimately, disappointment.
Put a little effort into building your profile. “I don’t read” is not a favorite book, just as “NEthing but country” isn’t favorite music.
A few words about friending (which is only a word in Facebook world. In every other circumstance, the correct verb would be "befriending". If you didn't know that already, we're probably not friends).
Knowing "of" a person (or even having met them) is not the equivilent of knowing them, and is not a susbstantial enough reason to friend them . For example: I hear Heidi Saarloos on the radio every day and have even met her briefly on one occasion, but since I do not know her, I have not sent her a friend request, even though we have friends in common. Get my drift? (Just using you as an example, Heidi. I'm sure you're lovely.)
Friending those who aren't your actual friends is a matter of personal choice, though it is generally frowned upon in the Facebook community, and fairly earns you to the title of "creeper" and the description of either "nosy" or "desperate to win the very lame 'I-have-the-most-Facebook-friends' competition".
If you must friend someone you don't know well, include a message explaining why you are doing so. For example, "Hi, I'm your roommate's cousin!" would suffice. (But wait, why would you want to be friends with your roommate's cousin? Weird...)
Friending someone you don't particularly like is also tacky. They know you only want to scrutinize their pictures, so maintain your dignity and don't bother. If you ignore this rule and they accept, fully expect them to do the same thing to you.
Never friend an ex-boyfriend/girlfriend unless you're prepared to see status updates and pictures that you probably don't want to see.
Writing on your own wall is somewhat of a "faux pas". People will look at the post with pity and think, "aw, she must be new."
Poking is the lowest form of Facebook communication and should be done sparingly and in moderation. There is absolutely no reason to body slam or throw a sheep at anyone.
If someone has sent you a message to which a reply is appropriate, do so in a timely fashion. Never read the message and decide to write back at a later time; that person will see your post-message Facebook activity, and your not making their message a priority might cause them tremendous insecurity. And then they might call you crying and ask if you're mad at them, which is at once ridiculous, terribly awkward, and a good reason to terminate the friendship (both on-line and in real-life).
Some messages are wall-appropriate, and some aren't, so know the difference. "Hey girl, I had a great time last weekend!" is a perfectly acceptable wall post. "Hey man, you were sooooo drunk when we left the strip club...who bailed you out?" - that's more message fare.
When posting pictures, make sure they're rotated in the right direction. If they aren't, no one will look at them, which completely defeats the purpose.
And by the way, it's cheating if you un-tag yourself in a picture just because you look bad. They got you fair and square, so be a good sport and let everyone else laugh. You'll have your chance, even if it doesn't involve the same person.
These are the more broad, sweeping rules that even beginners should know. Next week, we're really going to crack the whip.
I'm an enthusiastic Facebook participant, as are most of the people I know. To date, there are more than two hundred thousand registered users on the site - making it a breeding ground for social and behavioral faux-pas, especially with numerous format changes feeding the fire.
One would think, with such a huge population, Facebook would by now have some formal etiquette in place: cue Gina, along with some of her more vocal and opinionated Facebook friends, to deliver the goods. To be fair, these rules aren't necessarily all mine, remember that. The last thing I need are dozens of people throwing sheep at me.
Let's begin.
First of all, it's not Question-mark-book, it's Facebook. Get a picture. Assuming you're an established Facebooker and have already have pictures of yourself on your profile, then a shot of your puppy or your toes on the beach in Cuba will do. Something to differentiate yourself from the other question marks, if you please. An avatar, anything.
Unless you have no actual interaction with anyone on your friend list, your profile picture should actually look like you. I know, I looked skinnier and younger ten years ago, too - but putting up a good picture from 1999 isn't fooling anyone, and it creates suspicion and, ultimately, disappointment.
Put a little effort into building your profile. “I don’t read” is not a favorite book, just as “NEthing but country” isn’t favorite music.
A few words about friending (which is only a word in Facebook world. In every other circumstance, the correct verb would be "befriending". If you didn't know that already, we're probably not friends).
Knowing "of" a person (or even having met them) is not the equivilent of knowing them, and is not a susbstantial enough reason to friend them . For example: I hear Heidi Saarloos on the radio every day and have even met her briefly on one occasion, but since I do not know her, I have not sent her a friend request, even though we have friends in common. Get my drift? (Just using you as an example, Heidi. I'm sure you're lovely.)
Friending those who aren't your actual friends is a matter of personal choice, though it is generally frowned upon in the Facebook community, and fairly earns you to the title of "creeper" and the description of either "nosy" or "desperate to win the very lame 'I-have-the-most-Facebook-friends' competition".
If you must friend someone you don't know well, include a message explaining why you are doing so. For example, "Hi, I'm your roommate's cousin!" would suffice. (But wait, why would you want to be friends with your roommate's cousin? Weird...)
Friending someone you don't particularly like is also tacky. They know you only want to scrutinize their pictures, so maintain your dignity and don't bother. If you ignore this rule and they accept, fully expect them to do the same thing to you.
Never friend an ex-boyfriend/girlfriend unless you're prepared to see status updates and pictures that you probably don't want to see.
Writing on your own wall is somewhat of a "faux pas". People will look at the post with pity and think, "aw, she must be new."
Poking is the lowest form of Facebook communication and should be done sparingly and in moderation. There is absolutely no reason to body slam or throw a sheep at anyone.
If someone has sent you a message to which a reply is appropriate, do so in a timely fashion. Never read the message and decide to write back at a later time; that person will see your post-message Facebook activity, and your not making their message a priority might cause them tremendous insecurity. And then they might call you crying and ask if you're mad at them, which is at once ridiculous, terribly awkward, and a good reason to terminate the friendship (both on-line and in real-life).
Some messages are wall-appropriate, and some aren't, so know the difference. "Hey girl, I had a great time last weekend!" is a perfectly acceptable wall post. "Hey man, you were sooooo drunk when we left the strip club...who bailed you out?" - that's more message fare.
When posting pictures, make sure they're rotated in the right direction. If they aren't, no one will look at them, which completely defeats the purpose.
And by the way, it's cheating if you un-tag yourself in a picture just because you look bad. They got you fair and square, so be a good sport and let everyone else laugh. You'll have your chance, even if it doesn't involve the same person.
These are the more broad, sweeping rules that even beginners should know. Next week, we're really going to crack the whip.
Nova Scotia Election 2009 - By the Numbers
Number of little campaign signs littering the Strait area for the past month: a zillion.
Average number of dollars each party could potentially save if one large sign was erected in the place of six dozen tiny ones on a row: a zillion.
Number of babies kissed by all party leaders during the campaign: 196.
Rear-ends that enjoyed the same treatment: 7633.
Number of voter registration cards sent to my house by mail and left on top of the fridge in preparation for election day: 2.
Voter registration cards in my house on election day (even after pulling out the fridge and looking for them all morning): 0.
Facebook friends who used their election day status line to encourage their friends to vote: about 30.
Number who specified who their voting preference: 2.
Number who, apparently, didn't realize that voting "against" Rodney MacDonald wasn't an option: 7.
Number of Fort McMurray Facebook friends glued to the computer to get updates from home: 15.
Locations I drove to, stopped at, and drug my uncooperative 4-year-old into, which, as it turned out, were not polling stations at all: 3.
Expletives uttered within that 20 or so minutes, before I found the right place: 78.
Number of people also casting their vote at St. Mark's United Church while I was there: 0.
Number of friends who also reported their polling station was empty at the time they voted: about 20.
Total number of minutes I spent doubting Rodney MacDonald's landslide victory in the Inverness riding: less than 5.
Total number of minutes I spent doubting Rodney MacDonald's eventual, sooner-than-later descension into employment with the Strait regional school board: also less than 5.
Volume, in decibels, of the laughter coming from Karen Casey if she read that: 165.
Percentage of chance that Karen Casey will ever read that: 10%.
Percentage of chance that Karen Casey has ever laughed: 2%.
Number of minutes it took me to fall asleep at around 7:30pm on election night: about 2.
Number of expletives I uttered when I woke up at 9pm to discover I had missed all the television coverage, since any election day is like my own personal Christmas: 25.
Number of times I have since searched on-line, unsuccessfully, for Rodney MacDonald's concession speech: about 500.
Number of years Darrell Dexter served as NDP leader before finally becoming Premier: 8.
Number of times he has done the Balki Bartokomous "Dance of Joy" since June 9: 1539.
Percentage of Nova Scotians who voted: 58.8%.
Percentage of Nova Scotians who will moan and complain about the government, whether or not they bothered to contribute to the process of choosing it: 100%.
Number of MLAs who have law degrees: at least 4, including the new Premier.
Number who are professional actresses: 1.
Number who are teachers: 11.
Number who are teachers that can simultaneously play the fiddle, step dance, address David Letterman, and lead our province: 0 (to my knowledge, at least).
By my count, the number of cabinet ministers who were defeated in their riding: 9.
By the NDP: 8.
By the Liberals: 1.
By the track record of their own government: 9.
Number of people I know in Richmond County who did not vote for Michel Samson: 0.
Number of female members of the new legislative assembly, a record in Nova Scotia: 12.
Number of those who are eligible for a cabinet appointment: 9.
Number of those who have appeared topless on television: 1.
Combined, the number of times Carolyn Bolivar-Getson and Judy Streach will consider auditioning for "The "L" Word" before the next election, potentially: at least 10.
Number of races where the winner was decided by less than 200 votes: 3.
Number of votes separating the two top contenders in Cape Breton North: 164.
Number of beads on the abacus Cecil Clark used to count his lucky stars when the other guy decided not to bother with a recount: approximately 16 million.
Amount of money, in dollars, that Ernie Fage will receive in severance pay since losing his seat: 67,000.
Amount of money, in dollars, that Ernie Fage will receive annually for his pension: 52,000.
Number of times I threw up after reading those figures: 6.
Number of minutes it took me to figure out where Mr. Fage would likely spend a nice chunk of that money: less than 2.
Of three, the number of party leaders who admitted to watching the hockey game election night: 3.
Number of Nova Scotians who cared more about game 6 than the election: most, based on voting numbers.
Number of people who would probably vote Sidney Crosby for Premier if he let them touch the Stanley Cup: too many.
Number of times I'll steal a format done so beautifully by Adam Cooke: 1, and you're looking at it.
Average number of dollars each party could potentially save if one large sign was erected in the place of six dozen tiny ones on a row: a zillion.
Number of babies kissed by all party leaders during the campaign: 196.
Rear-ends that enjoyed the same treatment: 7633.
Number of voter registration cards sent to my house by mail and left on top of the fridge in preparation for election day: 2.
Voter registration cards in my house on election day (even after pulling out the fridge and looking for them all morning): 0.
Facebook friends who used their election day status line to encourage their friends to vote: about 30.
Number who specified who their voting preference: 2.
Number who, apparently, didn't realize that voting "against" Rodney MacDonald wasn't an option: 7.
Number of Fort McMurray Facebook friends glued to the computer to get updates from home: 15.
Locations I drove to, stopped at, and drug my uncooperative 4-year-old into, which, as it turned out, were not polling stations at all: 3.
Expletives uttered within that 20 or so minutes, before I found the right place: 78.
Number of people also casting their vote at St. Mark's United Church while I was there: 0.
Number of friends who also reported their polling station was empty at the time they voted: about 20.
Total number of minutes I spent doubting Rodney MacDonald's landslide victory in the Inverness riding: less than 5.
Total number of minutes I spent doubting Rodney MacDonald's eventual, sooner-than-later descension into employment with the Strait regional school board: also less than 5.
Volume, in decibels, of the laughter coming from Karen Casey if she read that: 165.
Percentage of chance that Karen Casey will ever read that: 10%.
Percentage of chance that Karen Casey has ever laughed: 2%.
Number of minutes it took me to fall asleep at around 7:30pm on election night: about 2.
Number of expletives I uttered when I woke up at 9pm to discover I had missed all the television coverage, since any election day is like my own personal Christmas: 25.
Number of times I have since searched on-line, unsuccessfully, for Rodney MacDonald's concession speech: about 500.
Number of years Darrell Dexter served as NDP leader before finally becoming Premier: 8.
Number of times he has done the Balki Bartokomous "Dance of Joy" since June 9: 1539.
Percentage of Nova Scotians who voted: 58.8%.
Percentage of Nova Scotians who will moan and complain about the government, whether or not they bothered to contribute to the process of choosing it: 100%.
Number of MLAs who have law degrees: at least 4, including the new Premier.
Number who are professional actresses: 1.
Number who are teachers: 11.
Number who are teachers that can simultaneously play the fiddle, step dance, address David Letterman, and lead our province: 0 (to my knowledge, at least).
By my count, the number of cabinet ministers who were defeated in their riding: 9.
By the NDP: 8.
By the Liberals: 1.
By the track record of their own government: 9.
Number of people I know in Richmond County who did not vote for Michel Samson: 0.
Number of female members of the new legislative assembly, a record in Nova Scotia: 12.
Number of those who are eligible for a cabinet appointment: 9.
Number of those who have appeared topless on television: 1.
Combined, the number of times Carolyn Bolivar-Getson and Judy Streach will consider auditioning for "The "L" Word" before the next election, potentially: at least 10.
Number of races where the winner was decided by less than 200 votes: 3.
Number of votes separating the two top contenders in Cape Breton North: 164.
Number of beads on the abacus Cecil Clark used to count his lucky stars when the other guy decided not to bother with a recount: approximately 16 million.
Amount of money, in dollars, that Ernie Fage will receive in severance pay since losing his seat: 67,000.
Amount of money, in dollars, that Ernie Fage will receive annually for his pension: 52,000.
Number of times I threw up after reading those figures: 6.
Number of minutes it took me to figure out where Mr. Fage would likely spend a nice chunk of that money: less than 2.
Of three, the number of party leaders who admitted to watching the hockey game election night: 3.
Number of Nova Scotians who cared more about game 6 than the election: most, based on voting numbers.
Number of people who would probably vote Sidney Crosby for Premier if he let them touch the Stanley Cup: too many.
Number of times I'll steal a format done so beautifully by Adam Cooke: 1, and you're looking at it.
Monday, June 15, 2009
For Limba's Sake
This isn't Halifax or Toronto; it's not as if there are big events going on every weekend. So when parents hear that a circus is coming to town, it seems like a great opportunity to get the kids out for a few hours of classic family fun.
I still remember going to the circus here in Port Hawkesbury a great many years ago, when it was at the old arena. Something tells me that, even as a kid, I was able to appreciate how lame the performances were, and yet I left feeling totally complete. The highlight - elephant rides at the very end of the show - made up for anything the rest of the evening may have lacked. And I don't think there's a kid who attended that circus who doesn't have memories of the elephants stinking up the place, and the handlers rushing to their rear-ends with buckets bigger than cars.
My kids (especially the younger one) love animals, and a close-up view of an exotic animal would thrill them to no end. I figured it would be money well spent to have them experience the clowns, stunts, and atmosphere of a real-life circus.
I had every intention of buying tickets to the Louisdale show, for all four of us. When I heard the afternoon would set me back over $70, I could barely believe it! A bit steep for my taste, but I figured hey, when will the kids get to see a show like this again? I was going to suck it up and buy the tickets on Friday afternoon.
It was Friday morning, creeping around Facebook, that I saw a friend of mine, a huge animal lover and (dare I say) advocate, had posted something about boycotting this circus. Never much of a bleeding heart, I would normally skip over a sentence like that without giving it a second thought. But, for some reason I decided to see what she was talking about, since it involved something I was about to support.
What I read disgusted me, and I'm pretty sure it'll disgust you, too.
The majority of the information I found came directly from a press release issued by the SPCA. They have officially taken a position against this circus' use of an elephant named "Limba", and have provided very compelling details as to why the public should consider doing the same.
Limba is a 45-year-old Asiatic elephant that was taken from the wild in the mid-60s, and has been forced to perform ever since. Not only does the SPCA not support the removal of exotic animals from the wild for the purposes of entertainment or profit, period, but they suggest that this particular elephant has earned her keep, and should be retired. While I tend to agree, there is even more reason why I won't be supporting this circus.
The fact that this elephant is the only one in the show, directly contravenes the policies regarding circuses in Nova Scotia set out by the Department of Natural Resources, the body that issued the permit.
A DNR document called "Standards Exhibiting Circus Animals in Nova Scotia", lays out the following provisions, all of which are violated by this particular circus.
Social species shall not be exhibited as single specimens unless compelling reasons can be shown...Elephants are intelligent, inquisitive and social creatures, and therefore circuses must not maintain single elephants. Elephants kept in circuses must be supplied with social contact with other elephants...As elephants are social herd animals, they must always be able to see and touch other elephants [emphasis added].
Limba the elephant is alone. While I don't think that being alone is as serious as being beaten or neglected, it is in the biological nature of these animals to interact with others of it's kind, and being deprived of that interaction, not to mention being drug around from town to town and paraded about for more than 40 years, is, in combination, the equivalent of abuse in my books.
I'm not sure why the almighty dollar causes to many people to show a complete disregard for the welfare of others, whether those others be human or pachyderm. Nor am I sure why the DNR chose to defy it's own policies and grant this circus a permit to operate in Nova Scotia. I suppose there really isn't much I can do about it, either - except not go. And before you lay down your $70, perhaps you might want to consider if you want to support an organization that puts money before kindness.
I still remember going to the circus here in Port Hawkesbury a great many years ago, when it was at the old arena. Something tells me that, even as a kid, I was able to appreciate how lame the performances were, and yet I left feeling totally complete. The highlight - elephant rides at the very end of the show - made up for anything the rest of the evening may have lacked. And I don't think there's a kid who attended that circus who doesn't have memories of the elephants stinking up the place, and the handlers rushing to their rear-ends with buckets bigger than cars.
My kids (especially the younger one) love animals, and a close-up view of an exotic animal would thrill them to no end. I figured it would be money well spent to have them experience the clowns, stunts, and atmosphere of a real-life circus.
I had every intention of buying tickets to the Louisdale show, for all four of us. When I heard the afternoon would set me back over $70, I could barely believe it! A bit steep for my taste, but I figured hey, when will the kids get to see a show like this again? I was going to suck it up and buy the tickets on Friday afternoon.
It was Friday morning, creeping around Facebook, that I saw a friend of mine, a huge animal lover and (dare I say) advocate, had posted something about boycotting this circus. Never much of a bleeding heart, I would normally skip over a sentence like that without giving it a second thought. But, for some reason I decided to see what she was talking about, since it involved something I was about to support.
What I read disgusted me, and I'm pretty sure it'll disgust you, too.
The majority of the information I found came directly from a press release issued by the SPCA. They have officially taken a position against this circus' use of an elephant named "Limba", and have provided very compelling details as to why the public should consider doing the same.
Limba is a 45-year-old Asiatic elephant that was taken from the wild in the mid-60s, and has been forced to perform ever since. Not only does the SPCA not support the removal of exotic animals from the wild for the purposes of entertainment or profit, period, but they suggest that this particular elephant has earned her keep, and should be retired. While I tend to agree, there is even more reason why I won't be supporting this circus.
The fact that this elephant is the only one in the show, directly contravenes the policies regarding circuses in Nova Scotia set out by the Department of Natural Resources, the body that issued the permit.
A DNR document called "Standards Exhibiting Circus Animals in Nova Scotia", lays out the following provisions, all of which are violated by this particular circus.
Social species shall not be exhibited as single specimens unless compelling reasons can be shown...Elephants are intelligent, inquisitive and social creatures, and therefore circuses must not maintain single elephants. Elephants kept in circuses must be supplied with social contact with other elephants...As elephants are social herd animals, they must always be able to see and touch other elephants [emphasis added].
Limba the elephant is alone. While I don't think that being alone is as serious as being beaten or neglected, it is in the biological nature of these animals to interact with others of it's kind, and being deprived of that interaction, not to mention being drug around from town to town and paraded about for more than 40 years, is, in combination, the equivalent of abuse in my books.
I'm not sure why the almighty dollar causes to many people to show a complete disregard for the welfare of others, whether those others be human or pachyderm. Nor am I sure why the DNR chose to defy it's own policies and grant this circus a permit to operate in Nova Scotia. I suppose there really isn't much I can do about it, either - except not go. And before you lay down your $70, perhaps you might want to consider if you want to support an organization that puts money before kindness.
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