Dear readers:
While those who cared about justice for Paula are passionate people who, today of all days, are bound to be expressing relief and satisfaction at the news of an arrest, I ask that you have patience with me publishing comments; I would love nothing more than to sit by the computer all day and watch things unfold, but I'll be out after lunch and probably won't be able to publish for at least a few hours.
I also want to point out that, though news of an arrest is encouraging and long-awaited news indeed, there hasn't yet been a conviction, and we have to be mindful of that. I have no interest in protecting those who don't deserve any sort of regard, but I won't publish any comments for which I might be liable from a legal standpoint.
The news is bittersweet in many ways, but let's pray this is the beginning of some resolution.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Spring Cleaning
Please, friends, join me for a bit of spring cleaning. Also, since I know how much better it feels to let your gripes loose, even if it’s only on a Facebook status or on the phone with your sister, I encourage you to find an outlet to do some spring cleaning of your own.
To the little punk with the multi-colored Civic: a few years ago, I had a car with a hole in the muffler, and it made the most obnoxious sound. A buzzing, mechanical, groaning sound which caused me both migraines and embarrassment. I guess that’s why I can’t comprehend why you’d intentionally modify your car in a way to make an even louder, more obnoxious noise. In case there is any confusion, let me clarify for you.
No one is looking at your car and saying, “Wow, that car is so cool. I wish mine made noise like that. That guy is my hero.” Don’t kid yourself, they’re saying, “What kind of moron strives to draw more attention to a multi-colored Civic? And why are my ears bleeding? I wish that guy would move away.” This example applies particularly to when you’re driving down my street at 11pm, only imagine it being muttered through clenched teeth and laden with colorful language and possibly even the mention of forks being plunged into tires (theoretically, of course).
To the people who can’t control their dogs: I have a dog. Every once in awhile (meaning, a handful of times per year), my dog will take advantage of some unforeseen window of opportunity to sneak out of the house sans leash. He’ll run around the neighborhood for 30 minutes or so, visiting other dogs, exploring some places he doesn’t ever get to see (since he’s NEVER allowed to roam), and being free. I can neither confirm nor deny that he pees in my neighbors’ yard or on their garbage box, but if he does, I truly apologize.
But, what say you, people who let their dog roam around town? What is your defense? I can completely understand if your dog hatches an escape plan and infrequently skips out, but there are a few dogs in particular whose owners just plain don’t care what the rules are, apparently. I’m not sure why these people all seem to live in puppy-roaming-distance from my house, but it’s out of control. And yes, I’m naming names.
Brutus is my most frequent guest, and on one occasion, as I was trying to rescue my own dog from his “advances”, he forced his way into my kitchen. Then he marked his territory on my welcome mat. He’s lucky to be alive today, if you catch my drift. I should also mention the pitiful, scraggily grey dog who is always hungry, and the playful but massive Burmese-looking black puppy who practically lives on my deck and scares the heck out of my 4-year-old. If these descriptions ring a bell, consider yourself warned.
To the people at the drive-thru: if I don’t ask for something, I have no right to complain about not getting it (not entirely true, especially in the case of fast food places where desired acquisition of certain condiments is implied based on the items ordered – like if you order pancakes, it’s only natural to expect syrup to be in the bag without having to ask - but for sake of argument I’ll cut some slack for now).
However, if I ask for sauce, I expect it to be in the bag without having to hold up the drive-thru by rifling through the bags to check. Similarly, if you ask me if I want sauce, it is only natural that I would expect to find said sauce in the bag when I arrive home to my ravenous, impatient children. By the time I drive back to get the sauce, absorb the attitude and stink eye (because YOUR omission is obviously MY fault, right?), and drive back home, all the food is cold and my entire family’s supper is ruined. So, thanks for that.
While I’m at it, to the coffee people: why don’t we all just call a spade a spade and rename it “roll up the rim to please play again”?
And finally, to the woman responsible for the most horrifying dining experience of my life: while I cannot identify you without offending the sensibilities of many, I would be remiss if I didn’t at least mention the disgusting spectacle you made at my favorite restaurant last week. I’m sure you felt my eyes boring holes into the back of your head, and I can only hope your disgusting, inconsiderate, unsanitary eating habits were scared away by my icy glare.
There. Now I feel a bit better.
To the little punk with the multi-colored Civic: a few years ago, I had a car with a hole in the muffler, and it made the most obnoxious sound. A buzzing, mechanical, groaning sound which caused me both migraines and embarrassment. I guess that’s why I can’t comprehend why you’d intentionally modify your car in a way to make an even louder, more obnoxious noise. In case there is any confusion, let me clarify for you.
No one is looking at your car and saying, “Wow, that car is so cool. I wish mine made noise like that. That guy is my hero.” Don’t kid yourself, they’re saying, “What kind of moron strives to draw more attention to a multi-colored Civic? And why are my ears bleeding? I wish that guy would move away.” This example applies particularly to when you’re driving down my street at 11pm, only imagine it being muttered through clenched teeth and laden with colorful language and possibly even the mention of forks being plunged into tires (theoretically, of course).
To the people who can’t control their dogs: I have a dog. Every once in awhile (meaning, a handful of times per year), my dog will take advantage of some unforeseen window of opportunity to sneak out of the house sans leash. He’ll run around the neighborhood for 30 minutes or so, visiting other dogs, exploring some places he doesn’t ever get to see (since he’s NEVER allowed to roam), and being free. I can neither confirm nor deny that he pees in my neighbors’ yard or on their garbage box, but if he does, I truly apologize.
But, what say you, people who let their dog roam around town? What is your defense? I can completely understand if your dog hatches an escape plan and infrequently skips out, but there are a few dogs in particular whose owners just plain don’t care what the rules are, apparently. I’m not sure why these people all seem to live in puppy-roaming-distance from my house, but it’s out of control. And yes, I’m naming names.
Brutus is my most frequent guest, and on one occasion, as I was trying to rescue my own dog from his “advances”, he forced his way into my kitchen. Then he marked his territory on my welcome mat. He’s lucky to be alive today, if you catch my drift. I should also mention the pitiful, scraggily grey dog who is always hungry, and the playful but massive Burmese-looking black puppy who practically lives on my deck and scares the heck out of my 4-year-old. If these descriptions ring a bell, consider yourself warned.
To the people at the drive-thru: if I don’t ask for something, I have no right to complain about not getting it (not entirely true, especially in the case of fast food places where desired acquisition of certain condiments is implied based on the items ordered – like if you order pancakes, it’s only natural to expect syrup to be in the bag without having to ask - but for sake of argument I’ll cut some slack for now).
However, if I ask for sauce, I expect it to be in the bag without having to hold up the drive-thru by rifling through the bags to check. Similarly, if you ask me if I want sauce, it is only natural that I would expect to find said sauce in the bag when I arrive home to my ravenous, impatient children. By the time I drive back to get the sauce, absorb the attitude and stink eye (because YOUR omission is obviously MY fault, right?), and drive back home, all the food is cold and my entire family’s supper is ruined. So, thanks for that.
While I’m at it, to the coffee people: why don’t we all just call a spade a spade and rename it “roll up the rim to please play again”?
And finally, to the woman responsible for the most horrifying dining experience of my life: while I cannot identify you without offending the sensibilities of many, I would be remiss if I didn’t at least mention the disgusting spectacle you made at my favorite restaurant last week. I’m sure you felt my eyes boring holes into the back of your head, and I can only hope your disgusting, inconsiderate, unsanitary eating habits were scared away by my icy glare.
There. Now I feel a bit better.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Sometimes, It Just Works
I just read a Center for Disease Control and Prevention report about marriage. Now, I’m not sure why the CDCP is concerning itself with marriage instead of, you know, disease prevention, but regardless – there’s a report, and I read it because the findings were interesting. It shows that couples who live together before marriage are more likely to break-up than those who don't.
I was very surprised to hear this, as the practical part of me wholeheartedly disagreed with the conclusion of the report. Gone are the days of couples living apart until they’re married; in fact, off the top of my head, I can’t even think of any one couple, in my circle of friends or otherwise, who does not live together.
And, in my opinion, right or wrong, living together before marriage just plain makes sense from a logistical standpoint. (Please don’t send me hate mail about how living in sin is un-Catholic. I’ve read the Bible, I know the rules, and it’s not for me to advise couples on their course of action. It’s only a point of view, folks. )
I have been married for almost four years, but I have lived with my husband for far longer than that, and I can’t imagine it having been any other way. There are habitual things, behaviors and methods, which are good to find out about before you have pledged to spend the rest of your days putting up with them, don’t you think?
If you’re a clean freak, you will find it difficult to live with someone who has cleaned up for your visits for the past three years but secretly lives in filth when you’re not there. Once the two lives meld, conflict is sure to arise if a compromise isn’t reached before moving day.
Maybe tidiness isn’t a make-or-break caliber conflict, but when a marriage begins, I would be inclined to think the fewer problems a couple is faced with, the better.
Not to mention, it can go deeper than tidy vs. not. There are a thousand “little” issues that might turn out to be big issues once two lives are riding on it, especially in the midst of a completely unfamiliar and often very trying chapter in someone’s life.
Some might say that as long as a couple loves each other and is on the same page as far as their morals and values are concerned, the rest is inconsequential and can be worked out with some time and patience. In an ideal world, sure, all you need is love. In reality, learning to successfully live together is a massive, humongous, gigantic part of married life. After all, the ultimate goal is not just to make a marriage work; lots of people can do that whether or not they’re meant to. The real mission, as far as I’m concerned, is to spend the rest of my life in a happy marriage. And - like it or not, experts – that required me knowing about his morning routine and thrice-daily showers and aversion to heat BEFORE I had vowed to embrace and put up with all of it.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m too liberal-minded and the whole “living in sin” thing wasn’t as relevant to me as it should have been. I didn’t consciously decide that I was going to defy what is proper in society’s eyes; all I knew was that I wanted to spend every moment with my partner and truly get to know him and his life before I made a lifetime commitment, and I can tell you with certainty that I was in a much more confident position to make that commitment because we lived together. But, I suppose that may not be the case, or the best idea, for everyone. I’m no one’s moral compass, that’s for sure, so to each his own.
The more I read, the more the rest of me disagreed with the report, too. While it was at times thought-provoking, I tend to think that if two people are compatible and truly love each other, with some hard work and mutual respect, you can have a happy and long-lasting marriage. There may be some truth to the numbers involved in all these studies and statistics, but they’re broad statements to be sure. I like to think I fly in the face of the theories the CDCP have presented, and those of you who have managed to make it work should feel good about doing the same.
This probably explains why I always preferred sociology to math.
I was very surprised to hear this, as the practical part of me wholeheartedly disagreed with the conclusion of the report. Gone are the days of couples living apart until they’re married; in fact, off the top of my head, I can’t even think of any one couple, in my circle of friends or otherwise, who does not live together.
And, in my opinion, right or wrong, living together before marriage just plain makes sense from a logistical standpoint. (Please don’t send me hate mail about how living in sin is un-Catholic. I’ve read the Bible, I know the rules, and it’s not for me to advise couples on their course of action. It’s only a point of view, folks. )
I have been married for almost four years, but I have lived with my husband for far longer than that, and I can’t imagine it having been any other way. There are habitual things, behaviors and methods, which are good to find out about before you have pledged to spend the rest of your days putting up with them, don’t you think?
If you’re a clean freak, you will find it difficult to live with someone who has cleaned up for your visits for the past three years but secretly lives in filth when you’re not there. Once the two lives meld, conflict is sure to arise if a compromise isn’t reached before moving day.
Maybe tidiness isn’t a make-or-break caliber conflict, but when a marriage begins, I would be inclined to think the fewer problems a couple is faced with, the better.
Not to mention, it can go deeper than tidy vs. not. There are a thousand “little” issues that might turn out to be big issues once two lives are riding on it, especially in the midst of a completely unfamiliar and often very trying chapter in someone’s life.
Some might say that as long as a couple loves each other and is on the same page as far as their morals and values are concerned, the rest is inconsequential and can be worked out with some time and patience. In an ideal world, sure, all you need is love. In reality, learning to successfully live together is a massive, humongous, gigantic part of married life. After all, the ultimate goal is not just to make a marriage work; lots of people can do that whether or not they’re meant to. The real mission, as far as I’m concerned, is to spend the rest of my life in a happy marriage. And - like it or not, experts – that required me knowing about his morning routine and thrice-daily showers and aversion to heat BEFORE I had vowed to embrace and put up with all of it.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m too liberal-minded and the whole “living in sin” thing wasn’t as relevant to me as it should have been. I didn’t consciously decide that I was going to defy what is proper in society’s eyes; all I knew was that I wanted to spend every moment with my partner and truly get to know him and his life before I made a lifetime commitment, and I can tell you with certainty that I was in a much more confident position to make that commitment because we lived together. But, I suppose that may not be the case, or the best idea, for everyone. I’m no one’s moral compass, that’s for sure, so to each his own.
The more I read, the more the rest of me disagreed with the report, too. While it was at times thought-provoking, I tend to think that if two people are compatible and truly love each other, with some hard work and mutual respect, you can have a happy and long-lasting marriage. There may be some truth to the numbers involved in all these studies and statistics, but they’re broad statements to be sure. I like to think I fly in the face of the theories the CDCP have presented, and those of you who have managed to make it work should feel good about doing the same.
This probably explains why I always preferred sociology to math.
More OMG Facts
By popular demand, I give you more random facts. In case you’re wondering, all the facts I’ve listed have been verified by the OMG Facts staff (which is probably iron-clad, since everything you read on the internet is true, right?).
Anyway, enjoy!
When flying from London to New York by Concord, due to the time zones crossed, you landed 2 hours before you left.
Farmville players on Facebook outnumber real farmers in the US by a ratio of 60 to 1.
The cost of the halftime commercials during the Superbowl could feed the world's entire refugee population - twice.
Car airbags kill 1 person for every 22 lives that they save.
Every three minutes someone in the world reports a UFO.
Vending machines kill four times more people each year than sharks do.
Ernest Vincent Wright wrote a 50,000 word novel, "Gadsby", which doesn't contain the letter E.
'Typewriter' is the longest English word that can be made by using only one row of a keyboard.
Human thigh bones are stronger than concrete.
'Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia' is the fear of long words.
“Almost" is the longest word in the English language with all the letters in alphabetical order.
Eating a bag of chips a day is the equivalent of drinking five liters of cooking oil a year.
Women speak about 7000 words a day. The average man? 2000.
The Bible is the number one most shoplifted book of all time.
Over 2500 left-handed people a year are killed from using equipment made for right-handed people.
Rain contains vitamin B12.
Almost 100,000 kids in the United States bring guns to school DAILY.
Eagles mate in mid air.
All swans in England are the property of the queen or king.
The MGM Grand Hotel of Las Vegas washes 15,000 pillowcases per day.
The can opener was invented 48 years after the can.
In Albania, nodding your head means 'no' and shaking your head means 'yes'.
In Venezuela, fuel costs around $0.02 per gallon.
The 7-Eleven Extreme Gulp is 50% bigger than the volume of the human stomach.
A 100-pound person on Earth would weigh 38 pounds on Mars.
Of all things, Andrew Jackson's tombstone does not mention that he served as the president of the United States.
Every U.S. president with a beard has been a Republican.
Women end up digesting most of the lipstick they apply.
The average American eats at McDonalds more than 1,800 times in their life.
People who are lying to you tend to look up and to their left.
Malaysians protect their babies from disease by bathing them in beer.
Only 1 out of 700 identity thieves gets caught.
Walmart generates approximately $3,000,000.00 in revenues every 7 minutes.
There was no punctuation until the 15th century.
There are more telephones than people in Washington, D.C.
The cruise liner, Queen Elizabeth 2, moves only six inches for each gallon of diesel that it burns.
About 8 million toothpicks can be made from a cord of wood.
The combined weight of all the ants in the world is about the same or slightly greater than the weight of all humans.
American car horns beep in the tone of F.
There is an average of 178 sesame seeds on a Big Mac bun.
You would need to stack 11 Empire State Buildings one on top of the other to measure the Gulf of Mexico at its deepest point.
There are more cars in Los Angeles than people.
Most heart attacks happen on Mondays.
The Pope’s official barber earns an annual salary equivalent to $250,000 USD.
Eighty percent of all pictures on the internet are nude women.
Studies have proven that bees can count.
Human hair, while seemingly fragile, is almost indestructible.
Eating celery is technically an exercise, since chewing it burns more calories than it contains.
Married men tip better than unmarried men, by about 10%.
If you lined up your blood vessels from end to end, they could circle the globe, and then some.
In the winter of 1932, Niagara Falls froze completely solid.
In the average lifetime, a person will walk the equivalent of 5 times around the equator.
According to the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, Shakespeare wrote about one-tenth of the most quotable quotations ever written or spoken in English.
Nearly 22,000 cheques will be deducted somewhere in the world from the wrong account in the next hour.
The venom of the king cobra is so deadly that one gram can kill 150 people.
By recycling just one glass bottle, the amount of energy that is being saved is enough to light a 100 watt bulb for four hours.
The average person spends about three years of their life on a toilet.
Food for thought!
Anyway, enjoy!
When flying from London to New York by Concord, due to the time zones crossed, you landed 2 hours before you left.
Farmville players on Facebook outnumber real farmers in the US by a ratio of 60 to 1.
The cost of the halftime commercials during the Superbowl could feed the world's entire refugee population - twice.
Car airbags kill 1 person for every 22 lives that they save.
Every three minutes someone in the world reports a UFO.
Vending machines kill four times more people each year than sharks do.
Ernest Vincent Wright wrote a 50,000 word novel, "Gadsby", which doesn't contain the letter E.
'Typewriter' is the longest English word that can be made by using only one row of a keyboard.
Human thigh bones are stronger than concrete.
'Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia' is the fear of long words.
“Almost" is the longest word in the English language with all the letters in alphabetical order.
Eating a bag of chips a day is the equivalent of drinking five liters of cooking oil a year.
Women speak about 7000 words a day. The average man? 2000.
The Bible is the number one most shoplifted book of all time.
Over 2500 left-handed people a year are killed from using equipment made for right-handed people.
Rain contains vitamin B12.
Almost 100,000 kids in the United States bring guns to school DAILY.
Eagles mate in mid air.
All swans in England are the property of the queen or king.
The MGM Grand Hotel of Las Vegas washes 15,000 pillowcases per day.
The can opener was invented 48 years after the can.
In Albania, nodding your head means 'no' and shaking your head means 'yes'.
In Venezuela, fuel costs around $0.02 per gallon.
The 7-Eleven Extreme Gulp is 50% bigger than the volume of the human stomach.
A 100-pound person on Earth would weigh 38 pounds on Mars.
Of all things, Andrew Jackson's tombstone does not mention that he served as the president of the United States.
Every U.S. president with a beard has been a Republican.
Women end up digesting most of the lipstick they apply.
The average American eats at McDonalds more than 1,800 times in their life.
People who are lying to you tend to look up and to their left.
Malaysians protect their babies from disease by bathing them in beer.
Only 1 out of 700 identity thieves gets caught.
Walmart generates approximately $3,000,000.00 in revenues every 7 minutes.
There was no punctuation until the 15th century.
There are more telephones than people in Washington, D.C.
The cruise liner, Queen Elizabeth 2, moves only six inches for each gallon of diesel that it burns.
About 8 million toothpicks can be made from a cord of wood.
The combined weight of all the ants in the world is about the same or slightly greater than the weight of all humans.
American car horns beep in the tone of F.
There is an average of 178 sesame seeds on a Big Mac bun.
You would need to stack 11 Empire State Buildings one on top of the other to measure the Gulf of Mexico at its deepest point.
There are more cars in Los Angeles than people.
Most heart attacks happen on Mondays.
The Pope’s official barber earns an annual salary equivalent to $250,000 USD.
Eighty percent of all pictures on the internet are nude women.
Studies have proven that bees can count.
Human hair, while seemingly fragile, is almost indestructible.
Eating celery is technically an exercise, since chewing it burns more calories than it contains.
Married men tip better than unmarried men, by about 10%.
If you lined up your blood vessels from end to end, they could circle the globe, and then some.
In the winter of 1932, Niagara Falls froze completely solid.
In the average lifetime, a person will walk the equivalent of 5 times around the equator.
According to the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, Shakespeare wrote about one-tenth of the most quotable quotations ever written or spoken in English.
Nearly 22,000 cheques will be deducted somewhere in the world from the wrong account in the next hour.
The venom of the king cobra is so deadly that one gram can kill 150 people.
By recycling just one glass bottle, the amount of energy that is being saved is enough to light a 100 watt bulb for four hours.
The average person spends about three years of their life on a toilet.
Food for thought!
OMG Facts
I had a hard time making use of Twitter for the first few months. I didn’t care what Alyssa Milano was eating for breakfast, and I found myself questioning why I joined the site in the first place. I’ll spare you the drawn-out story of my coming around, but let me say this: the best use I’ve found for Twitter is the exchange of very interesting information.
There are a few people/companies I follow who share articles and pieces of work that are much more useful than your average “which celebrity is doing what” offering. There are articles on technology, psychology, parenting, politics, and every other conceivable topic. One of my favorites is an account called “OMG Facts”. If you’re on Twitter, follow them. If you’re not on Twitter, allow me to share some of their interesting little tidbits with you.
There are more bacteria in your mouth than there are people in the world.
The trucking company Elvis Presley worked at as a young man was owned by Frank Sinatra.
A car travelling at 100mph would take more than 29 million years to reach the sun.
On average, 100 people choke on ballpoint pens every year.
It’s estimated that millions of trees are accidentally planted by squirrels who bury nuts and then forget where they hid them.
All the gold ever mined in the world could be molded into a cube 60 feet high and 60 feet wide.
Until President Kennedy was killed, it wasn’t a federal crime to assassinate the President.
The Dallas/Ft. Worth Airport is larger than New York City’s Manhattan Island.
Albert Einstein was offered the presidency of Israel in 1952, but he declined.
Disney World generates about 120,000 pounds of garbage every day.
Canada has more lakes that the rest of the world combined.
The weight of a blue whale's tongue is greater than most elephants.
Every single US president has worn glasses.
The owl is the only bird to drop its upper eyelid to wink. All other birds raise
their lower eyelids.
Vultures can fly for 6 hours without flapping their wings.
If you put a drop of liquor on a scorpion, it will instantly go mad and sting itself to death.
J.K. Rowling is wealthier then the Queen of England.
There are 293 different ways to make change for a dollar.
You're 3 times more likely to be killed in a car accident while driving to buy a lottery ticket than you are to win the jackpot.
It took radio 38 years to hit 50 million users. The internet took 5 years.
India has a Bill of Rights for cows.
John Wilkes Booth, who assassinated Abraham Lincoln, had a brother who once saved the life of Lincoln’s son.
Literate adults can usually udnretsnad any msseed up stnecene as lnog as the frsit and lsat lteetrs of wdros are in the crrcoet plaecs!
On the old Canadian two dollar bill, there was an American flag flying over the Parliament building.
There are no clocks in Las Vegas gambling casinos.
In Tokyo, a bicycle is faster than a car for most trips of less than 50 minutes.
Dueling is legal in Paraguay as long as both parties are registered blood donors.
A female platypus sweats milk.
A first class (parlor suite) ticket on to the Titanic cost $4,350, which translates into $90,000 in 2009 USD.
Fred and Wilma Flintstone were the first couple to be shown in bed together on television, and it wasn't until 1960.
Baseball player Richie Ashburn, in August 1957, hit a fan with a foul ball. A few minutes later, he hit the same fan with another foul ball as she was being taken out on a stretcher.
Your stomach has to produce a new layer of mucus every two weeks; otherwise it will digest itself.
If the population of China walked past you in single file, the line would never end because of the rate of reproduction.
In 1945, a rooster by the name of Mike lived 18 months without a head.
Author Mark Twain was born on the day of the appearance of Halley's Comet in 1835. The comet is only visible to Earth every 76 years, and he vowed that he would not die until he saw the famous comet. He died the day after its next appearance in 1910.
American Airlines saved $40,000 in 1987 by eliminating one olive from each salad served in first class.
It takes 12 bees their entire lifetime to make one tablespoon of honey.
And lastly, here’s a funny one: in Hong Kong, the wife of a husband who commits adultery is legally entitled to murder the mistress in any manner she sees fit.
You’re welcome, fellow trivia nerds!
There are a few people/companies I follow who share articles and pieces of work that are much more useful than your average “which celebrity is doing what” offering. There are articles on technology, psychology, parenting, politics, and every other conceivable topic. One of my favorites is an account called “OMG Facts”. If you’re on Twitter, follow them. If you’re not on Twitter, allow me to share some of their interesting little tidbits with you.
There are more bacteria in your mouth than there are people in the world.
The trucking company Elvis Presley worked at as a young man was owned by Frank Sinatra.
A car travelling at 100mph would take more than 29 million years to reach the sun.
On average, 100 people choke on ballpoint pens every year.
It’s estimated that millions of trees are accidentally planted by squirrels who bury nuts and then forget where they hid them.
All the gold ever mined in the world could be molded into a cube 60 feet high and 60 feet wide.
Until President Kennedy was killed, it wasn’t a federal crime to assassinate the President.
The Dallas/Ft. Worth Airport is larger than New York City’s Manhattan Island.
Albert Einstein was offered the presidency of Israel in 1952, but he declined.
Disney World generates about 120,000 pounds of garbage every day.
Canada has more lakes that the rest of the world combined.
The weight of a blue whale's tongue is greater than most elephants.
Every single US president has worn glasses.
The owl is the only bird to drop its upper eyelid to wink. All other birds raise
their lower eyelids.
Vultures can fly for 6 hours without flapping their wings.
If you put a drop of liquor on a scorpion, it will instantly go mad and sting itself to death.
J.K. Rowling is wealthier then the Queen of England.
There are 293 different ways to make change for a dollar.
You're 3 times more likely to be killed in a car accident while driving to buy a lottery ticket than you are to win the jackpot.
It took radio 38 years to hit 50 million users. The internet took 5 years.
India has a Bill of Rights for cows.
John Wilkes Booth, who assassinated Abraham Lincoln, had a brother who once saved the life of Lincoln’s son.
Literate adults can usually udnretsnad any msseed up stnecene as lnog as the frsit and lsat lteetrs of wdros are in the crrcoet plaecs!
On the old Canadian two dollar bill, there was an American flag flying over the Parliament building.
There are no clocks in Las Vegas gambling casinos.
In Tokyo, a bicycle is faster than a car for most trips of less than 50 minutes.
Dueling is legal in Paraguay as long as both parties are registered blood donors.
A female platypus sweats milk.
A first class (parlor suite) ticket on to the Titanic cost $4,350, which translates into $90,000 in 2009 USD.
Fred and Wilma Flintstone were the first couple to be shown in bed together on television, and it wasn't until 1960.
Baseball player Richie Ashburn, in August 1957, hit a fan with a foul ball. A few minutes later, he hit the same fan with another foul ball as she was being taken out on a stretcher.
Your stomach has to produce a new layer of mucus every two weeks; otherwise it will digest itself.
If the population of China walked past you in single file, the line would never end because of the rate of reproduction.
In 1945, a rooster by the name of Mike lived 18 months without a head.
Author Mark Twain was born on the day of the appearance of Halley's Comet in 1835. The comet is only visible to Earth every 76 years, and he vowed that he would not die until he saw the famous comet. He died the day after its next appearance in 1910.
American Airlines saved $40,000 in 1987 by eliminating one olive from each salad served in first class.
It takes 12 bees their entire lifetime to make one tablespoon of honey.
And lastly, here’s a funny one: in Hong Kong, the wife of a husband who commits adultery is legally entitled to murder the mistress in any manner she sees fit.
You’re welcome, fellow trivia nerds!
We Scored
My personal interest in hockey has been fleeting, I’ll admit.
My earliest memory of the game is lying on the couch at my grandparents’ house, eating cinnamon toast and eggnog, and watching Hockey Night in Canada with Grandma after the Tommy Hunter Show. It was a weekly tradition for us, while Grandpa was at the card game. She rooted for the Montreal Canadiens, but I only knew to go for “the red shirts”.
In elementary school, the girls in my class became fans of the Calgary Flames; not because we really liked the team or knew anything about hockey, but because Craig Boudreau was a fan and what Craig Boudreau liked, you could pretty much count on the girls liking, too. I remember tuning into the evening news one night, specifically to see a massive Calgary brawl from the night before. I paid special attention to detail so I would be able to informatively discuss the fight at recess the next day.
While in university, I took a job at the Halifax Metro Center, where I became friends with several players from the Halifax Mooseheads. Because I was working for all their home games, I soon became a fan of Major Junior hockey. When one player, Alex Tanguay, got drafted to the Colorado Avalanche, I took to watching their games and I was hooked. Now that was hockey, when the Sakic-Forseberg-Tanguay line was on the ice.
When my favorite team all but dissolved after the glory days of Colorado’s Northwestern Conference titles and Stanley Cup victories, I didn’t really pay attention to the NHL anymore, or any hockey, period. There have been a few tournaments whose hype had me looking over my shoulder and considering a return to fandom, but never enough to follow through.
Then, the 2010 Vancouver Olympics.
I hadn’t planned to watch any Olympic events, to tell you the truth. I was put off by the technical glitch that made the climactic moment of the opening ceremonies an awkward spectacle, and after the first few days of less-than-expected success by the Canadian athletes, I was more embarrassed for Canada than eager to tune in to the hoopla.
Still, I was curious. Everyone was so excited for the men’s hockey competition – “Canada is bringing home the gold!” people claimed – that I couldn’t resist. I took over remote control duties and decided we’d watch the Canada vs. USA game. The hockey was less than stellar, but what got me was the crowd. The chanting and screaming, the sea of flag-waving red – it was like no other hockey game I had watched before.
I hadn’t put enough stock in these Olympics on Canadian turf. In the preceding weeks, it brought to mind an overplayed theme song and seemingly never-ending torch relay coverage on the nightly news. But, when push came to shove, I think it ended up meaning more to us than we could have anticipated.
The majority of Canada anxiously watched the gold medal game on Sunday. It was the ultimate match-up: our home-grown athletes, good ol’ boys proudly representing small-town Canada, up against Team USA, who had already beat us the first time around and who stood practically unchallenged in the overall medal standings. This was it, for the broccoli bouquets (not to digress but, um…what was up with those?), the gold, and the glory.
A gold medal game couldn’t have been written more perfectly. Last minute tie, overtime period winner-takes-all, every element was present for the most memorable Olympic hockey final of our lifetime.
And they did it. They could easily have choked and been made to stand with the same heartbroken faces the Americans were sporting with their silver. It could so easily have gone the other way.
But it didn’t. And what a moment it was.
I doubt those boys realize the depth of what they accomplished in Vancouver. I’m sure they’re happy with their medals and proud of their accomplishments, but it was more than that.
That game was not about medal count or perfect play execution, or even about sport, when you really think about it. It was about providing an opportunity for all Canadians to express our national pride. To stand up and wave our flag (while calling ‘nanny-nanny-poo-poo’ at the Americans if we felt like it), without being overly polite or apologizing for our free health care. It was very liberating to give a damn, to be proud of where we live, not just discreetly this time, but with the entire world watching.
I probably won’t start watching hockey again, but I don’t have to. Everything I could have asked for from a hockey experience was fulfilled Sunday night, and it’s a moment I’m thankful for.
My earliest memory of the game is lying on the couch at my grandparents’ house, eating cinnamon toast and eggnog, and watching Hockey Night in Canada with Grandma after the Tommy Hunter Show. It was a weekly tradition for us, while Grandpa was at the card game. She rooted for the Montreal Canadiens, but I only knew to go for “the red shirts”.
In elementary school, the girls in my class became fans of the Calgary Flames; not because we really liked the team or knew anything about hockey, but because Craig Boudreau was a fan and what Craig Boudreau liked, you could pretty much count on the girls liking, too. I remember tuning into the evening news one night, specifically to see a massive Calgary brawl from the night before. I paid special attention to detail so I would be able to informatively discuss the fight at recess the next day.
While in university, I took a job at the Halifax Metro Center, where I became friends with several players from the Halifax Mooseheads. Because I was working for all their home games, I soon became a fan of Major Junior hockey. When one player, Alex Tanguay, got drafted to the Colorado Avalanche, I took to watching their games and I was hooked. Now that was hockey, when the Sakic-Forseberg-Tanguay line was on the ice.
When my favorite team all but dissolved after the glory days of Colorado’s Northwestern Conference titles and Stanley Cup victories, I didn’t really pay attention to the NHL anymore, or any hockey, period. There have been a few tournaments whose hype had me looking over my shoulder and considering a return to fandom, but never enough to follow through.
Then, the 2010 Vancouver Olympics.
I hadn’t planned to watch any Olympic events, to tell you the truth. I was put off by the technical glitch that made the climactic moment of the opening ceremonies an awkward spectacle, and after the first few days of less-than-expected success by the Canadian athletes, I was more embarrassed for Canada than eager to tune in to the hoopla.
Still, I was curious. Everyone was so excited for the men’s hockey competition – “Canada is bringing home the gold!” people claimed – that I couldn’t resist. I took over remote control duties and decided we’d watch the Canada vs. USA game. The hockey was less than stellar, but what got me was the crowd. The chanting and screaming, the sea of flag-waving red – it was like no other hockey game I had watched before.
I hadn’t put enough stock in these Olympics on Canadian turf. In the preceding weeks, it brought to mind an overplayed theme song and seemingly never-ending torch relay coverage on the nightly news. But, when push came to shove, I think it ended up meaning more to us than we could have anticipated.
The majority of Canada anxiously watched the gold medal game on Sunday. It was the ultimate match-up: our home-grown athletes, good ol’ boys proudly representing small-town Canada, up against Team USA, who had already beat us the first time around and who stood practically unchallenged in the overall medal standings. This was it, for the broccoli bouquets (not to digress but, um…what was up with those?), the gold, and the glory.
A gold medal game couldn’t have been written more perfectly. Last minute tie, overtime period winner-takes-all, every element was present for the most memorable Olympic hockey final of our lifetime.
And they did it. They could easily have choked and been made to stand with the same heartbroken faces the Americans were sporting with their silver. It could so easily have gone the other way.
But it didn’t. And what a moment it was.
I doubt those boys realize the depth of what they accomplished in Vancouver. I’m sure they’re happy with their medals and proud of their accomplishments, but it was more than that.
That game was not about medal count or perfect play execution, or even about sport, when you really think about it. It was about providing an opportunity for all Canadians to express our national pride. To stand up and wave our flag (while calling ‘nanny-nanny-poo-poo’ at the Americans if we felt like it), without being overly polite or apologizing for our free health care. It was very liberating to give a damn, to be proud of where we live, not just discreetly this time, but with the entire world watching.
I probably won’t start watching hockey again, but I don’t have to. Everything I could have asked for from a hockey experience was fulfilled Sunday night, and it’s a moment I’m thankful for.
Common Sense Questions, Part 2
What a difference a week makes.
One minute, MLAs involved in this spending scandal are steadfast that they did nothing wrong, and the next minute they’re loading up trucks with electronics to return to the province in light of the announced forensic audit.
But, before I start spouting off, I feel like I should give credit where credit is due.
Former premier Rodney MacDonald was flagged in the Auditor General’s report for a projector screen and accessories. While many electronics strike me as being extravagant and unnecessary, I wouldn’t say the same about a projector screen, which MacDonald says was used for business presentations. While speaking to a room of 200 people, a Powerpoint presentation pro.bably wouldn’t be all that effective if shown on a 17” laptop screen.
Not only that, but if the projector is still in use by community members, as he claims, instead of collecting dust in his basement or showing midnight screenings of “The Notebook” in his living room, it seems that would qualify as a legitimate expense. Rodney spent far less than most other MLAs, so he gets a pass this time around.
Now, Michel Samson. While I’m not exactly thrilled with one or two of the expenses listed in the report under his name (almost $600 for Bluetooth?), his claim for internet services seemed odd for the AG to have listed as inappropriate. He’s a public servant who needs to keep in touch with constituents and colleagues while in Halifax, so I don’t blame him for claiming his internet service, since it’s not something he would have required if not for his job. As a matter of fact, I don’t even think he should have had to pay that money back.
While I’m at it, I want to give a big shout-out to Bill Estabrooks, our most frugal MLA with a total of less than $2500 spent over the course of the applicable 3-year period examined. His tastes are very bare-bones, by his own admission, as well they should be, considering the state of our province’s economy. Bill Estabrooks is a hard working, accomplished, highly respected MLA; if he can get by with a second-hand desk and filing cabinets from an army surplus store, how necessary is a $650 Mocha chair is to the successful operation of a constituency office? (I’m looking at you, Karen Casey.)
Enough with the kudos.
What’s all this about former MLA Ron Chisolm buying a $750 GPS system? Sure, they’re dandy little accessories to have – if you’re a Geotracker or plan to drive alone to Napa Valley. But Chisolm says he needed one to assist him in finding his way around his constituency. Lamest. Justification. Ever. Someone needs to remind him that his constituency was Guysborough, which I think translates in Gaelic to “place with only two roads”. I’ll give you a shiny quarter if you can find one person from Guysborough who has EVER got lost there.
Unbelievably, even shadier deals went down. Jamie Muir, former cabinet minister from Truro-Bible Hill, claimed a December 31, 2008 invoice for a $1050 television. That was two days after he announced he wouldn’t run in the next election. He says he’s reimbursed taxpayers and plans to keep the TV.
Huh? Is he serious? Did he or did he not take our money and buy himself a TV? I don’t care if he paid the money back. I once got a loan from the Nova Scotia government, and not only did I have to go through an exhaustive application process, but I paid the student loans back in full and was charged hefty interest. Had I stolen the premier’s cheque book to pay Saint Mary’s my tuition, I’d be in jail right now, whether or not I paid the money back.
I find myself wading through the many dozens of examples of inappropriate and excessive spending without any real direction. There are so many angles, so many examples, so many excuses, that it’s become tiresome and frustrating to chronicle any more of them. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the $113 Xbox Dance Dance Revolution game that Len Goucher bought and refuses to explain, but that’s it, I’m done.
I’d like to end this series with quotes from issue 579 of Frank Magazine, since they so eloquently summed up my thoughts better than even I could myself: “Seems after years and years of piling on one expense perk after another… our MLAs never, ever thought they’d get found out.” “…The finger-pointing…the almost Nuremburgesque defense by our three political leaders was pitiful and embarrassing.” “They deserve everything that is coming their way, yes, even handcuffs, if they’re included.”
One minute, MLAs involved in this spending scandal are steadfast that they did nothing wrong, and the next minute they’re loading up trucks with electronics to return to the province in light of the announced forensic audit.
But, before I start spouting off, I feel like I should give credit where credit is due.
Former premier Rodney MacDonald was flagged in the Auditor General’s report for a projector screen and accessories. While many electronics strike me as being extravagant and unnecessary, I wouldn’t say the same about a projector screen, which MacDonald says was used for business presentations. While speaking to a room of 200 people, a Powerpoint presentation pro.bably wouldn’t be all that effective if shown on a 17” laptop screen.
Not only that, but if the projector is still in use by community members, as he claims, instead of collecting dust in his basement or showing midnight screenings of “The Notebook” in his living room, it seems that would qualify as a legitimate expense. Rodney spent far less than most other MLAs, so he gets a pass this time around.
Now, Michel Samson. While I’m not exactly thrilled with one or two of the expenses listed in the report under his name (almost $600 for Bluetooth?), his claim for internet services seemed odd for the AG to have listed as inappropriate. He’s a public servant who needs to keep in touch with constituents and colleagues while in Halifax, so I don’t blame him for claiming his internet service, since it’s not something he would have required if not for his job. As a matter of fact, I don’t even think he should have had to pay that money back.
While I’m at it, I want to give a big shout-out to Bill Estabrooks, our most frugal MLA with a total of less than $2500 spent over the course of the applicable 3-year period examined. His tastes are very bare-bones, by his own admission, as well they should be, considering the state of our province’s economy. Bill Estabrooks is a hard working, accomplished, highly respected MLA; if he can get by with a second-hand desk and filing cabinets from an army surplus store, how necessary is a $650 Mocha chair is to the successful operation of a constituency office? (I’m looking at you, Karen Casey.)
Enough with the kudos.
What’s all this about former MLA Ron Chisolm buying a $750 GPS system? Sure, they’re dandy little accessories to have – if you’re a Geotracker or plan to drive alone to Napa Valley. But Chisolm says he needed one to assist him in finding his way around his constituency. Lamest. Justification. Ever. Someone needs to remind him that his constituency was Guysborough, which I think translates in Gaelic to “place with only two roads”. I’ll give you a shiny quarter if you can find one person from Guysborough who has EVER got lost there.
Unbelievably, even shadier deals went down. Jamie Muir, former cabinet minister from Truro-Bible Hill, claimed a December 31, 2008 invoice for a $1050 television. That was two days after he announced he wouldn’t run in the next election. He says he’s reimbursed taxpayers and plans to keep the TV.
Huh? Is he serious? Did he or did he not take our money and buy himself a TV? I don’t care if he paid the money back. I once got a loan from the Nova Scotia government, and not only did I have to go through an exhaustive application process, but I paid the student loans back in full and was charged hefty interest. Had I stolen the premier’s cheque book to pay Saint Mary’s my tuition, I’d be in jail right now, whether or not I paid the money back.
I find myself wading through the many dozens of examples of inappropriate and excessive spending without any real direction. There are so many angles, so many examples, so many excuses, that it’s become tiresome and frustrating to chronicle any more of them. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the $113 Xbox Dance Dance Revolution game that Len Goucher bought and refuses to explain, but that’s it, I’m done.
I’d like to end this series with quotes from issue 579 of Frank Magazine, since they so eloquently summed up my thoughts better than even I could myself: “Seems after years and years of piling on one expense perk after another… our MLAs never, ever thought they’d get found out.” “…The finger-pointing…the almost Nuremburgesque defense by our three political leaders was pitiful and embarrassing.” “They deserve everything that is coming their way, yes, even handcuffs, if they’re included.”
Common Sense Questions, Part 1
I don’t want to beat a dead horse, but c’mon. They’re making it necessary.
When the comprehensive list of MLAs expense claims was released this past Wednesday, I read through every last extravagant detail with such incredulity and disbelief that I could barely process it all. I spent many hours trying to figure out how to put my thoughts into words in a way that would succinctly address the new developments and still make my point.
I failed. There is such a hornet’s nest of backpedalling and blatant gall at the heart of this situation that a regular person like me, always a voter and news-watcher more so than writer-of-things-political, is too blinded by the abuses of the system to have any regard for the preposterously unsound rules that the people in government are using to justify their actions. “The Speaker’s office approved it,” is not enough to make it all go away, at least not for me.
So, in the wake of this scandal, I’m going to ask a few questions. I understand the answers might not ever come, but I need to put them, the reasons for asking them, and a few general statements, out into the universe. As a citizen, not a writer.
First, when an MLA leaves office, where does their furniture and office equipment go? To give an example of what I’m talking about, I’ll use Judy Streatch. She was elected in 2005 to fill a vacant seat and then again in the June 2006 provincial election. In January of 2007, she claimed approximately $3000 for a desk, a loveseat, and a chair, not to mention another $6400 in furnishings before she was defeated in 2009. So my question is – what was she using for furniture in the office from 2005 until she bought all the new stuff? Did it disappear? And if so, where did it go? Do MLAs completely refurnish offices after every election? Are there no inventory procedures?
The reason I ask is because the report indicates the MLAs have free reign over how they design their office space. There exist claims for furniture that I couldn’t fathom, as someone who has not only furnished a home, but who has also equipped an office from scratch. Is there no cap on what they can spend on furniture and décor?
Because Karen Casey thought a $300 fireplace might look nice in her office, does that mean she can run to out and buy one? If she thinks a marble credenza would be nice, does she get to bill us for that, too?
Did John MacDonell get a $900 vacuum because it has magical powers? I’ve had the same $100 vacuum for the better part of eight years and it does the job. What is it about the floors in his office that renders a standard vacuum useless? Or did he buy it simply because he had the opportunity?
After Clarrie MacKinnon is gone from office, what will happen to the six monogrammed armchairs he purchased for over $2000? Do they go home with him, or are they kept in storage until someone else with the initials “CM” is elected?
I don’t want to harp all day on furniture, but give me a break. A comfortable chair, a desk, filing cabinets – those are all reasonable political office expenses. Fireplaces, $900 vacuums, and monogrammed armchairs are not, in my opinion. Not reasonable for people preaching to Nova Scotians about how times are so tough.
Next, what is this business with the generators? Richard Hurlburt resigned after reports of his having one installed at his house were criticized (don’t get me started), but what about the other two? These are big ticket items, not a box of pens. In one example, Carolyn Bolivar-Getson said she was the minister in charge of emergency management and was setting an example at her constituency office. That’s one expensive example.
“We need to realize that you do need equipment to run a constituency (office),” she says. I completely agree, but can the ministers (who, you have to remember, are mere regular Joes before they decide to put their hat in the political ring and attach “The Honorable” to the front of their names) just decide willy-nilly what’s necessary? Because I don’t know about you, but I have, and surely could again, effectively run an office without a big screen plasma television, a generator, an iPod, and plenty of the other ridiculous purchases listed on the report. Someone needs to step in, set and enforce strict guidelines as to what is necessary equipment and what is excessive, let’s-load-up-while-we-can shopping on my tax dime. It should not be the MLAs distinction to make.
I have plenty more questions for next week.
When the comprehensive list of MLAs expense claims was released this past Wednesday, I read through every last extravagant detail with such incredulity and disbelief that I could barely process it all. I spent many hours trying to figure out how to put my thoughts into words in a way that would succinctly address the new developments and still make my point.
I failed. There is such a hornet’s nest of backpedalling and blatant gall at the heart of this situation that a regular person like me, always a voter and news-watcher more so than writer-of-things-political, is too blinded by the abuses of the system to have any regard for the preposterously unsound rules that the people in government are using to justify their actions. “The Speaker’s office approved it,” is not enough to make it all go away, at least not for me.
So, in the wake of this scandal, I’m going to ask a few questions. I understand the answers might not ever come, but I need to put them, the reasons for asking them, and a few general statements, out into the universe. As a citizen, not a writer.
First, when an MLA leaves office, where does their furniture and office equipment go? To give an example of what I’m talking about, I’ll use Judy Streatch. She was elected in 2005 to fill a vacant seat and then again in the June 2006 provincial election. In January of 2007, she claimed approximately $3000 for a desk, a loveseat, and a chair, not to mention another $6400 in furnishings before she was defeated in 2009. So my question is – what was she using for furniture in the office from 2005 until she bought all the new stuff? Did it disappear? And if so, where did it go? Do MLAs completely refurnish offices after every election? Are there no inventory procedures?
The reason I ask is because the report indicates the MLAs have free reign over how they design their office space. There exist claims for furniture that I couldn’t fathom, as someone who has not only furnished a home, but who has also equipped an office from scratch. Is there no cap on what they can spend on furniture and décor?
Because Karen Casey thought a $300 fireplace might look nice in her office, does that mean she can run to out and buy one? If she thinks a marble credenza would be nice, does she get to bill us for that, too?
Did John MacDonell get a $900 vacuum because it has magical powers? I’ve had the same $100 vacuum for the better part of eight years and it does the job. What is it about the floors in his office that renders a standard vacuum useless? Or did he buy it simply because he had the opportunity?
After Clarrie MacKinnon is gone from office, what will happen to the six monogrammed armchairs he purchased for over $2000? Do they go home with him, or are they kept in storage until someone else with the initials “CM” is elected?
I don’t want to harp all day on furniture, but give me a break. A comfortable chair, a desk, filing cabinets – those are all reasonable political office expenses. Fireplaces, $900 vacuums, and monogrammed armchairs are not, in my opinion. Not reasonable for people preaching to Nova Scotians about how times are so tough.
Next, what is this business with the generators? Richard Hurlburt resigned after reports of his having one installed at his house were criticized (don’t get me started), but what about the other two? These are big ticket items, not a box of pens. In one example, Carolyn Bolivar-Getson said she was the minister in charge of emergency management and was setting an example at her constituency office. That’s one expensive example.
“We need to realize that you do need equipment to run a constituency (office),” she says. I completely agree, but can the ministers (who, you have to remember, are mere regular Joes before they decide to put their hat in the political ring and attach “The Honorable” to the front of their names) just decide willy-nilly what’s necessary? Because I don’t know about you, but I have, and surely could again, effectively run an office without a big screen plasma television, a generator, an iPod, and plenty of the other ridiculous purchases listed on the report. Someone needs to step in, set and enforce strict guidelines as to what is necessary equipment and what is excessive, let’s-load-up-while-we-can shopping on my tax dime. It should not be the MLAs distinction to make.
I have plenty more questions for next week.
Big Spenders
Sometimes they make it too easy, those MLAs. This week in the news has been like Mardi Gras for writers and reporters.
Do we get furious and pull our hair out? Do we protest and demand change? Or do we just laugh as they try desperately to do damage control? I haven’t decided yet; maybe all of the above.
In case you’ve been buried in a hole for the past week and haven’t heard, the Auditor General reported last Wednesday that MLAs province-wide have claimed excessive or inappropriate expenses over the past 3 years. Since the public generally regards the government as “a bunch of crooks” I don’t think the A-Gs report comes as much of a surprise to anyone, but the details – the confirmation, if you will – are still enough to disgust voters.
I mean, where do you even start? How does one begin to outline everything that’s wrong with the situation that was exposed by the Auditor General? Perhaps I’ll start with the A-G himself.
Mr. Lapointe has simultaneously done us a great service and a great disservice. While he has called attention to the “weaknesses” (his word) in the funding system relating to members’ expenditures, opened the lid on particular incidents of inappropriate spending, and even requested repayment for certain claims, he’s as complicit as any one of the guilty parties by virtue of his refusal to release the names of the people involved.
Sure, most members have come forward to admit their “mistakes” (and I use that word very loosely), but it’s only because they knew that, eventually, the papers would find out anyway. The names of the big spenders should have been released with the rest of the details. If it were a single party responsible, the other parties would be scrounging for info like ravenous vultures and relentlessly demanding that “the public has a right to know the truth”. But, since in this situation one party is as guilty as the other, there was instead a wall of silence and various colorful speeches about “rights to privacy”. Had Lapointe worried less about embarrassing his buddies in the boys’ club and more about keeping individuals accountable to their constituents, the public might have been afforded some real transparency.
And, speaking of accountability, when do the Mounties come in? When do we see news footage of these MLAs’ unceremonious dismissals from office? They did, after all, bilk the public out of tens of thousands of dollars. Every now and then, a regular office employee uses company cash to invest or vacation, whatever the vice, and Steve Murphy chronicles the entire saga from arrest to verdict. No one lets them off the hook just because they claim it was an honest mistake and offer to pay the money back. It brings to mind a bit of 80s Nova Scotia government déjà vu, but in this case (apparently), an appropriate punishment applies only to the goose, while all the ganders get off scot free. It’s unacceptable.
Are we expected to believe that a functioning adult could ever mistakenly believe that 11 laptop computers is a legitimate constituency expense? Mr. Lapointe says, “(the rules) around expenses simply aren’t clear. (They are) so ambiguous, it’s hard to tell what’s right and what’s wrong.” Really? It’s hard? Maybe I’m over-simplifying, but if you can’t establish whether or not buying a 40” big screen television with taxpayer dollars is wrong, I doubt you could be considered qualified to chew gum and walk at the same time, let alone serve as MLA.
Granted, maybe some MLAs didn’t use their time in office to intentionally milk the province for all it was worth. But, since admittedly there hadn’t been a review of expense claims in over 15 years, there was nothing stopping people from claiming these ludicrous expenses and getting away with it.
If you had taken pens from work for 15 years and no one told you not to, you’d probably continue to take them. After awhile, you might even convince yourself it’s okay, no one’s getting hurt and no one even knows the difference. But, when you get caught, you can’t claim it was an innocent mistake. Especially if they’re $7000 pens.
Guess what, Province House: we’re wise to the “oh really? I thought I was allowed to claim that” charade; have been for years, actually. You’re not fooling anyone with fancily-worded accounts of innocent mistakes. Lapointe opened Pandora’s box, and you can be confident that this time the province’s purse-strings will be tightened if we have anything to say about it.
Best of luck come election time, by the way.
Do we get furious and pull our hair out? Do we protest and demand change? Or do we just laugh as they try desperately to do damage control? I haven’t decided yet; maybe all of the above.
In case you’ve been buried in a hole for the past week and haven’t heard, the Auditor General reported last Wednesday that MLAs province-wide have claimed excessive or inappropriate expenses over the past 3 years. Since the public generally regards the government as “a bunch of crooks” I don’t think the A-Gs report comes as much of a surprise to anyone, but the details – the confirmation, if you will – are still enough to disgust voters.
I mean, where do you even start? How does one begin to outline everything that’s wrong with the situation that was exposed by the Auditor General? Perhaps I’ll start with the A-G himself.
Mr. Lapointe has simultaneously done us a great service and a great disservice. While he has called attention to the “weaknesses” (his word) in the funding system relating to members’ expenditures, opened the lid on particular incidents of inappropriate spending, and even requested repayment for certain claims, he’s as complicit as any one of the guilty parties by virtue of his refusal to release the names of the people involved.
Sure, most members have come forward to admit their “mistakes” (and I use that word very loosely), but it’s only because they knew that, eventually, the papers would find out anyway. The names of the big spenders should have been released with the rest of the details. If it were a single party responsible, the other parties would be scrounging for info like ravenous vultures and relentlessly demanding that “the public has a right to know the truth”. But, since in this situation one party is as guilty as the other, there was instead a wall of silence and various colorful speeches about “rights to privacy”. Had Lapointe worried less about embarrassing his buddies in the boys’ club and more about keeping individuals accountable to their constituents, the public might have been afforded some real transparency.
And, speaking of accountability, when do the Mounties come in? When do we see news footage of these MLAs’ unceremonious dismissals from office? They did, after all, bilk the public out of tens of thousands of dollars. Every now and then, a regular office employee uses company cash to invest or vacation, whatever the vice, and Steve Murphy chronicles the entire saga from arrest to verdict. No one lets them off the hook just because they claim it was an honest mistake and offer to pay the money back. It brings to mind a bit of 80s Nova Scotia government déjà vu, but in this case (apparently), an appropriate punishment applies only to the goose, while all the ganders get off scot free. It’s unacceptable.
Are we expected to believe that a functioning adult could ever mistakenly believe that 11 laptop computers is a legitimate constituency expense? Mr. Lapointe says, “(the rules) around expenses simply aren’t clear. (They are) so ambiguous, it’s hard to tell what’s right and what’s wrong.” Really? It’s hard? Maybe I’m over-simplifying, but if you can’t establish whether or not buying a 40” big screen television with taxpayer dollars is wrong, I doubt you could be considered qualified to chew gum and walk at the same time, let alone serve as MLA.
Granted, maybe some MLAs didn’t use their time in office to intentionally milk the province for all it was worth. But, since admittedly there hadn’t been a review of expense claims in over 15 years, there was nothing stopping people from claiming these ludicrous expenses and getting away with it.
If you had taken pens from work for 15 years and no one told you not to, you’d probably continue to take them. After awhile, you might even convince yourself it’s okay, no one’s getting hurt and no one even knows the difference. But, when you get caught, you can’t claim it was an innocent mistake. Especially if they’re $7000 pens.
Guess what, Province House: we’re wise to the “oh really? I thought I was allowed to claim that” charade; have been for years, actually. You’re not fooling anyone with fancily-worded accounts of innocent mistakes. Lapointe opened Pandora’s box, and you can be confident that this time the province’s purse-strings will be tightened if we have anything to say about it.
Best of luck come election time, by the way.
The Glory Days of Television
I think it’s about time television gets a much-needed programming overhaul, don’t you?
I get that people love reality TV. My favorite show is American Idol, and it doesn’t get much more “reality” than that. As a matter of fact, Idol and Survivor have many times been blamed for the rise of reality TV and the downfall of scripted television.
The real explosion in unscripted fare came in the early 2000s, and has only grown since then. Seldom can you channel-surf during prime time without passing a reality show (that, and the 16 versions of Law & Order shows, the 24 NCISs, and the 408 CSIs).
Gone are the days of sitcoms, dramas, character-driven shows. Incredibly, even long-running soap operas are being cancelled in favor of short-lived talk shows and game show repeats. Instead of characters, we now have contestants, and instead of plots, we have challenges. It’s a shame, really.
I had some favorite shows growing up, during my generation’s glory days of television. They might not have been scandalous or high-octane, but they were excellent in their own rite. Every show brings me back to a time when we knew nothing about the shows’ actors and didn’t care, either, as long as they showed up on our living room once a week.
On the top of my list was Degrassi Jr. High. If you are a girl between the ages of 28-35, and claim to have never taken your teasing comb and hottest outfit (a.k.a., the outfit your parents had forbid you from wearing outside the house) in your backpack to change in the school bathroom, I will probably call you a liar. Every girl I knew tried to be Stephanie Kay, if only once.
Even guys loved that show, however reluctant they’ll be to admit it. I can’t really speak to the tendencies of Port Hawkesbury, but I know River Bourgeois and St. Peter’s were flooded with Joey Jeremiah wannabes and mixed tapes with The Zit Remedy.
Is anyone, let alone a majority of a generation, going to so easily recall those kind of details about America’s Next Top Model in fifteen years? I doubt it.
Another great one was Danger Bay. Doc Roberts, Nicole, and Jonah, on CBC - anyone? It was taped in Vancouver and heavily featured the Vancouver Aquarium in most episodes. I can still quote that show, which is at once sad and fabulous. There was always some sort of big environmental or marine emergency that Doc and his two teenaged kids would race to in the family speedboat.
What is the greatest game show in the history of broadcasting, you might be wondering? The answer is quite simple if you ask me – Funhouse. If you think people would give anything to be on shows these days, multiply that desire by about a trillion, and that’s how much I wanted to be a contestant in the slime-covered obstacle course, hosted by J.D. Roth. If the television gods were going to bring back any show, this is the one I’d pick.
Another sentimental favorite is Up Home Tonight, a kitchen party masquerading as a variety show on ATV. Grandma and I used to watch it when I’d stay overnight; it was on after The Tommy Hunter Show. It might not have had a lot of production value, and I’m sure I’d have no use for it today, but I can still remember the popular performers like Sugartime, The Boys in the Band, and The Diamond Trio, so at the very least, it was memorable.
Nothing reminds me of my childhood more than Sunday mornings and Switchback. Stan “The Man” was a fixture at our house, like everyone else’s, but I had a connection to the show that few others could brag about. Do you remember the gorilla? He was Stan’s “assistant”, if you will, passing The Man props and such from off camera. Nothing but the gorilla’s arm was ever shown, but I can tell you what was behind the scenes: the gorilla’s arm was none other than Paul Cormier, an employee of CBC.
I’m not sure exactly what Paul’s official role was on the show, other than serving as the gorilla, but that wasn’t important at the time. What mattered was, Paul had a summer home right next to my house and would bring that hairy arm to River Bourgeois every summer for me to see. I’m sure it sounds ridiculous now, but trust me – in grade 3, I was a class celebrity by virtue of my “close ties” to a TV star.
Those were the glory days of television. There will never be another Degrassi or Switchback, but I’d sooner see a hundred situational comedies try and fail than endure one more reality show.
I get that people love reality TV. My favorite show is American Idol, and it doesn’t get much more “reality” than that. As a matter of fact, Idol and Survivor have many times been blamed for the rise of reality TV and the downfall of scripted television.
The real explosion in unscripted fare came in the early 2000s, and has only grown since then. Seldom can you channel-surf during prime time without passing a reality show (that, and the 16 versions of Law & Order shows, the 24 NCISs, and the 408 CSIs).
Gone are the days of sitcoms, dramas, character-driven shows. Incredibly, even long-running soap operas are being cancelled in favor of short-lived talk shows and game show repeats. Instead of characters, we now have contestants, and instead of plots, we have challenges. It’s a shame, really.
I had some favorite shows growing up, during my generation’s glory days of television. They might not have been scandalous or high-octane, but they were excellent in their own rite. Every show brings me back to a time when we knew nothing about the shows’ actors and didn’t care, either, as long as they showed up on our living room once a week.
On the top of my list was Degrassi Jr. High. If you are a girl between the ages of 28-35, and claim to have never taken your teasing comb and hottest outfit (a.k.a., the outfit your parents had forbid you from wearing outside the house) in your backpack to change in the school bathroom, I will probably call you a liar. Every girl I knew tried to be Stephanie Kay, if only once.
Even guys loved that show, however reluctant they’ll be to admit it. I can’t really speak to the tendencies of Port Hawkesbury, but I know River Bourgeois and St. Peter’s were flooded with Joey Jeremiah wannabes and mixed tapes with The Zit Remedy.
Is anyone, let alone a majority of a generation, going to so easily recall those kind of details about America’s Next Top Model in fifteen years? I doubt it.
Another great one was Danger Bay. Doc Roberts, Nicole, and Jonah, on CBC - anyone? It was taped in Vancouver and heavily featured the Vancouver Aquarium in most episodes. I can still quote that show, which is at once sad and fabulous. There was always some sort of big environmental or marine emergency that Doc and his two teenaged kids would race to in the family speedboat.
What is the greatest game show in the history of broadcasting, you might be wondering? The answer is quite simple if you ask me – Funhouse. If you think people would give anything to be on shows these days, multiply that desire by about a trillion, and that’s how much I wanted to be a contestant in the slime-covered obstacle course, hosted by J.D. Roth. If the television gods were going to bring back any show, this is the one I’d pick.
Another sentimental favorite is Up Home Tonight, a kitchen party masquerading as a variety show on ATV. Grandma and I used to watch it when I’d stay overnight; it was on after The Tommy Hunter Show. It might not have had a lot of production value, and I’m sure I’d have no use for it today, but I can still remember the popular performers like Sugartime, The Boys in the Band, and The Diamond Trio, so at the very least, it was memorable.
Nothing reminds me of my childhood more than Sunday mornings and Switchback. Stan “The Man” was a fixture at our house, like everyone else’s, but I had a connection to the show that few others could brag about. Do you remember the gorilla? He was Stan’s “assistant”, if you will, passing The Man props and such from off camera. Nothing but the gorilla’s arm was ever shown, but I can tell you what was behind the scenes: the gorilla’s arm was none other than Paul Cormier, an employee of CBC.
I’m not sure exactly what Paul’s official role was on the show, other than serving as the gorilla, but that wasn’t important at the time. What mattered was, Paul had a summer home right next to my house and would bring that hairy arm to River Bourgeois every summer for me to see. I’m sure it sounds ridiculous now, but trust me – in grade 3, I was a class celebrity by virtue of my “close ties” to a TV star.
Those were the glory days of television. There will never be another Degrassi or Switchback, but I’d sooner see a hundred situational comedies try and fail than endure one more reality show.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
The Situation at TEC
I understand that working at an elementary school must be challenging. That said, I am very concerned with the situation at Tamarac Education Center.
Three times per week, I go to the school to drop my youngest off at Fun Time Pre-School, which is located in a classroom in the same wing as the younger classes. The pre-school doesn’t open its doors until 1pm, so the Fun Time crew waits in the hallway while students are milling about.
At TEC, assuming it isn’t too cold out, all kids are expected to go outside to play after they’re done eating lunch. By the time I get there, most kids are finished eating and in the process of getting their snow gear on.
Since the beginning of the year, I have spent a great many lunch hours helping kids, especially the younger ones, get dressed properly. There are supervisors (grossly outnumbered and overworked supervisors) and teachers who do their best to help as many students as possible, but since these people have to make their way outside to watch the kids on the playground, they can’t stay inside to attend to the kids who aren’t ready yet. And there are a lot of kids.
When I look at the students, I’m sometimes can’t believe they’re old enough to be in school. They look so small, so bewildered with all the chaos. Some of these kids are only 5 years old, and are now required to take on an unrealistic level of independence. They’re used to having Mommy or Daddy help them get dressed, or at the very least make sure they did it right themselves so that they’re fit to be out in -10 degree temperatures.
What they’re not used to is having grown-ups hollering for them to hurry up and get outside. And I’m sure they’re not used to having to search through mountains of belongings to find that other mitten, only to ask for help and be told, “too bad, you’ll have to go out with just one.” (That’s not an example; that’s something I heard a TEC teacher tell a young student last Wednesday. It was -8 degrees outside that day.)
A lot of the time, I spend my wait time zippering jackets, finding renegade mittens, and fixing ski pants. Other times, I’m asked by students to go get someone from the office, to find some toilet paper, or even to check why a little girl is crying in a classroom. I don’t mind at all, but I wonder who they would ask if I (or another Fun Time parent) wasn’t there. After the first rush, there usually isn’t anyone around to ask for help. Most times, there is seldom an adult to be seen until the bells rings at 1pm.
My little boy is scheduled to start grade primary in September, and I planned to start a full-time job while he was in school. After seeing the lack of supervision and assistance these young kids receive, I have decided to put off work for awhile so I can go help him (and others) at the school. This decision is forced; I’m not exaggerating the state of affairs for the sake of doling out criticism, and I’m not one of those crazy mothers who are at TEC every two minutes to complain about something.
What I am is a mother who, had I not been there to see the problems first hand, would have sent her little boy to school and assumed he’d be well taken care of, like I’m sure most parents do. I am also a mother who has reasonable standards for appropriate supervision and student assistance, which are not being met in that wing as far as myself and many others are concerned.
To be clear, it seems as though most of the current staff is doing their best in a difficult-to-manage situation. I don’t know whose problem this is to solve; do we need an on-site reassessment of staff-to-student ratios based on the needs of younger students? A funding increase from the Department of Education, to allow for hiring of more supervisory staff? Recruitment of volunteers to ensure the students’ needs are being met?
As a parent, I don’t have the tools to solve the existing problems. What I have is the luxury of being able to go to the school every day to make sure my own child is getting the help he needs, and helping as many other kids as I can in the process. I also have a voice, and I’ll use it to call attention to the problems at TEC until they are solved, on behalf of other parents who don’t have that same luxury.
Three times per week, I go to the school to drop my youngest off at Fun Time Pre-School, which is located in a classroom in the same wing as the younger classes. The pre-school doesn’t open its doors until 1pm, so the Fun Time crew waits in the hallway while students are milling about.
At TEC, assuming it isn’t too cold out, all kids are expected to go outside to play after they’re done eating lunch. By the time I get there, most kids are finished eating and in the process of getting their snow gear on.
Since the beginning of the year, I have spent a great many lunch hours helping kids, especially the younger ones, get dressed properly. There are supervisors (grossly outnumbered and overworked supervisors) and teachers who do their best to help as many students as possible, but since these people have to make their way outside to watch the kids on the playground, they can’t stay inside to attend to the kids who aren’t ready yet. And there are a lot of kids.
When I look at the students, I’m sometimes can’t believe they’re old enough to be in school. They look so small, so bewildered with all the chaos. Some of these kids are only 5 years old, and are now required to take on an unrealistic level of independence. They’re used to having Mommy or Daddy help them get dressed, or at the very least make sure they did it right themselves so that they’re fit to be out in -10 degree temperatures.
What they’re not used to is having grown-ups hollering for them to hurry up and get outside. And I’m sure they’re not used to having to search through mountains of belongings to find that other mitten, only to ask for help and be told, “too bad, you’ll have to go out with just one.” (That’s not an example; that’s something I heard a TEC teacher tell a young student last Wednesday. It was -8 degrees outside that day.)
A lot of the time, I spend my wait time zippering jackets, finding renegade mittens, and fixing ski pants. Other times, I’m asked by students to go get someone from the office, to find some toilet paper, or even to check why a little girl is crying in a classroom. I don’t mind at all, but I wonder who they would ask if I (or another Fun Time parent) wasn’t there. After the first rush, there usually isn’t anyone around to ask for help. Most times, there is seldom an adult to be seen until the bells rings at 1pm.
My little boy is scheduled to start grade primary in September, and I planned to start a full-time job while he was in school. After seeing the lack of supervision and assistance these young kids receive, I have decided to put off work for awhile so I can go help him (and others) at the school. This decision is forced; I’m not exaggerating the state of affairs for the sake of doling out criticism, and I’m not one of those crazy mothers who are at TEC every two minutes to complain about something.
What I am is a mother who, had I not been there to see the problems first hand, would have sent her little boy to school and assumed he’d be well taken care of, like I’m sure most parents do. I am also a mother who has reasonable standards for appropriate supervision and student assistance, which are not being met in that wing as far as myself and many others are concerned.
To be clear, it seems as though most of the current staff is doing their best in a difficult-to-manage situation. I don’t know whose problem this is to solve; do we need an on-site reassessment of staff-to-student ratios based on the needs of younger students? A funding increase from the Department of Education, to allow for hiring of more supervisory staff? Recruitment of volunteers to ensure the students’ needs are being met?
As a parent, I don’t have the tools to solve the existing problems. What I have is the luxury of being able to go to the school every day to make sure my own child is getting the help he needs, and helping as many other kids as I can in the process. I also have a voice, and I’ll use it to call attention to the problems at TEC until they are solved, on behalf of other parents who don’t have that same luxury.
The Only One Dreading June
In case I haven’t mentioned it before (ha!), I’m in love with American Idol. When most people are praying for a speedy winter and lingering summer, I wait all year for January and the promise of 80s music, cracking under pressure, and Simon Cowell. Some people make fun of me for enjoying such a contrived reality show, but I don’t care; I’ve been a faithful, perhaps even obsessive, viewer since the very beginning, and that isn’t about to change despite a bit of mocking.
That said, I think I’ve earned the right to put in my two cents about the recent goings-on in the American Idol sphere, and since I don’t make it a habit of talking about specific television shows (once a year isn’t overkill, is it?), I’m getting it out of the way now seeing as the premiere was this week. If you watch it, great, I love to talk to other fans about the different dynamics. If you despise it, bear with me while I get a few things off my chest.
First of all, I’m growing very tired of the blooper episodes. While I agree that Idol is as much about crushing dreams as it is about finding talent, I would much rather watch good and less-than-good auditions, rather than have to sit through hours of try-outs that waste everyone’s time with horrible singing that obviously and knowingly will never make the cut.
We get that bad singers who think they’re good can sometimes be funny, but bad singers who KNOW they’re ridiculous make for fruitless auditions and episodes that bore people to death, since the humor of their attempts disappeared many seasons ago. One blooper episode would be enough for me, and at that I might not even watch it. Idol is supposed to be about singing, not intentionally making a complete fool of yourself. (That’s what The Bachelor is for. Snap!).
By far my biggest issue with the show is the toss-up at the judges’ table. As we all know, everyone’s favorite mumbling, incoherent singing expert, Paula Abdul, failed to reach a contract agreement with the show and left for good. This development made me a little sad, not because I was going to miss the pearls of wisdom she’d give the contestants, but because she was both the comic relief and the softy over at the judging table.
When Randy bored me with his robotic evaluation and Simon was unnecessarily harsh, you could always count on Paula to tell the poor, sobbing mess on stage that she looked beautiful. At the very least, she could ease tensions in a heartbeat with one of her slurred diatribes that even Ryan Seacrest couldn’t help but snicker at.
(I haven’t mentioned the other judge, Kara Dio-whatever-her-name-is, because I haven’t yet accepted that she’s a judge on my favorite show. Since her arrival I’ve been in a state of denial that she’s an actual fixture and I keep waiting for the night when she’s just not there anymore. She doesn’t belong.)
To add insult to injury, not only did one of television’s Holy Trinity bite the dust, but TPTB (the powers that be, a common term for the wizards behind the Idol curtain) brought in someone to replace her. Had it been some other washed up pop star I might not have complained as much, but the replacement is Ellen Degeneres.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy Ellen as much as the next person. I think she has a fantastic show and does great philanthropic work, and she is even well-versed and knowledgeable about American Idol. I just can’t imagine what she’ll be like as a judge. While Paula’s “funny” was unintentional and spontaneous, I’m not sure there’s room for Ellen’s stand-up routine on the judges panel.
This is a show that people take somewhat seriously (well, at least some people), and we don’t want it turned into Yuk Yuk’s with karaoke. I’m hoping she proves me wrong and turns out to be a compliment to the whole production, but I foresee some really bad jokes, uncomfortable laughter, and a whole lot of eye-rolling from Simon’s chair.
Lastly, a bit of breaking news: this will be Simon’s last year on American Idol. He will be announcing his departure at the end of the season in favor of bringing his British show, The X Factor, to American television. And the kicker? Rumor has it that Paula Abdul will be judging along side of him. Chances are, I’ll be going where the talent is and leaving Randy and Ellen to enjoy the end of an era.
Until then, you can find me in front of the television Tuesday and Wednesday nights, dreading June.
That said, I think I’ve earned the right to put in my two cents about the recent goings-on in the American Idol sphere, and since I don’t make it a habit of talking about specific television shows (once a year isn’t overkill, is it?), I’m getting it out of the way now seeing as the premiere was this week. If you watch it, great, I love to talk to other fans about the different dynamics. If you despise it, bear with me while I get a few things off my chest.
First of all, I’m growing very tired of the blooper episodes. While I agree that Idol is as much about crushing dreams as it is about finding talent, I would much rather watch good and less-than-good auditions, rather than have to sit through hours of try-outs that waste everyone’s time with horrible singing that obviously and knowingly will never make the cut.
We get that bad singers who think they’re good can sometimes be funny, but bad singers who KNOW they’re ridiculous make for fruitless auditions and episodes that bore people to death, since the humor of their attempts disappeared many seasons ago. One blooper episode would be enough for me, and at that I might not even watch it. Idol is supposed to be about singing, not intentionally making a complete fool of yourself. (That’s what The Bachelor is for. Snap!).
By far my biggest issue with the show is the toss-up at the judges’ table. As we all know, everyone’s favorite mumbling, incoherent singing expert, Paula Abdul, failed to reach a contract agreement with the show and left for good. This development made me a little sad, not because I was going to miss the pearls of wisdom she’d give the contestants, but because she was both the comic relief and the softy over at the judging table.
When Randy bored me with his robotic evaluation and Simon was unnecessarily harsh, you could always count on Paula to tell the poor, sobbing mess on stage that she looked beautiful. At the very least, she could ease tensions in a heartbeat with one of her slurred diatribes that even Ryan Seacrest couldn’t help but snicker at.
(I haven’t mentioned the other judge, Kara Dio-whatever-her-name-is, because I haven’t yet accepted that she’s a judge on my favorite show. Since her arrival I’ve been in a state of denial that she’s an actual fixture and I keep waiting for the night when she’s just not there anymore. She doesn’t belong.)
To add insult to injury, not only did one of television’s Holy Trinity bite the dust, but TPTB (the powers that be, a common term for the wizards behind the Idol curtain) brought in someone to replace her. Had it been some other washed up pop star I might not have complained as much, but the replacement is Ellen Degeneres.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy Ellen as much as the next person. I think she has a fantastic show and does great philanthropic work, and she is even well-versed and knowledgeable about American Idol. I just can’t imagine what she’ll be like as a judge. While Paula’s “funny” was unintentional and spontaneous, I’m not sure there’s room for Ellen’s stand-up routine on the judges panel.
This is a show that people take somewhat seriously (well, at least some people), and we don’t want it turned into Yuk Yuk’s with karaoke. I’m hoping she proves me wrong and turns out to be a compliment to the whole production, but I foresee some really bad jokes, uncomfortable laughter, and a whole lot of eye-rolling from Simon’s chair.
Lastly, a bit of breaking news: this will be Simon’s last year on American Idol. He will be announcing his departure at the end of the season in favor of bringing his British show, The X Factor, to American television. And the kicker? Rumor has it that Paula Abdul will be judging along side of him. Chances are, I’ll be going where the talent is and leaving Randy and Ellen to enjoy the end of an era.
Until then, you can find me in front of the television Tuesday and Wednesday nights, dreading June.
To Bed, I Said
Last year I resolved to quit pop, and quit I did (it’s the first resolution I’ve ever kept, truth be told). Because I kept my promise in 2009, this year I’m giving myself a break as far as resolutions go, for the most part. Instead, I’m going to suggest a few for those people who haven’t yet thought of a good one (my crafty way of calling out a few annoyances). There are things that should be put to bed along with 2009.
Maybe it’s nit-picky of me, but I think there needs to be an overhaul in the human communication department. I can be a stickler about grammar and spelling; not because I’m perfect at it, but because I’m a firm believer that we’ve become so accustomed to seeing horrendous writing habits that we put up with it (and sometimes even adopt them ourselves).
You’d never say, “bulldog is there soup roughly”, would you? No, because, though every word in that sentence is definitely a word, together they create a sentence that makes no sense. “Your” is a different word than “you’re” and has a completely different meaning. Just because words sound the same phonetically doesn’t mean they’re interchangeable.
Though I realize how snooty this complaint might sound, there is an epidemic that needs to be addressed, and people like me get hives and stuff when we think about it. So, repeat after me: “I will attempt to make proper use of the English language when communicating with others, even if it means having to proofread.” My Facebook wall thanks you in advance.
I get that we live in the age of shortcuts and efficiency and all that, but come on, no one could possibly be so rushed that “whatever” (an already overused word, by the way) has been shortened to “whatevs”. It only has one less letter than the actual word. ONE LESS LETTER!
Has it really come to this? Do we believe our time is so valuable that typing a few extra letters will significantly delay our plans for the day? There is a fine line between shorthand and plain laziness, and unlimited mobile texting packages seem to have blurred that line. So, repeat after me: “This year, I will not reduce myself or my intelligence to a sentence, typed, texted or otherwise, that reads similar to, ‘Come str8 home n I’ll talk 2 U @ wrk 2day.’”
I’m not Martha Stewart; I use slang like everyone else, usually without even knowing it, which is why I thought of this next resolution. I find myself, on a regular basis, employing the most unrefined and fabricated slang word in the history of slang words. Are you ready for it? “You’s’ll.” Read it again and you might discover you’re guilty of using it yourself.
Pronounced “Yoozzle”, it is a double-contraction (there is such thing, but this one isn’t on any list of proper ones, and I’ve searched) and serves as a short way to say “you guys will”. What makes the word even more offensive is how it seems to be an expression exclusive to this area, and nothing says “backwoods” quite like pretend lazy-words. In rural Kentucky you might hear, “Y’all’ll have bushels of fun at the tractor pull.” Doesn’t sound too sophisticated, does it? Bad news is, “You’s’ll have to stop over next time you’re down,” is the Cape Breton equivalent. Say it with me: “I hereby eliminate ‘you’s’ll’ and other similar made-up words from my vocabulary.”
I’m on a roll and running out of space, so the rest will have to be short and sweet.
“I will never pester anyone to join Farmville, nor will I try to explain it incessantly.” Believe it or not, there is an entire world of people who don’t make-believe they’re on farm. They’re okay with you and your preference, they’re just not interested in it themselves. Carry on.
“I will not judge people for wearing second-hand clothes.” Whoever decided that consignment shops are for poor people should be ashamed. They’re for thrifty shoppers, rich or poor, and no kid should ever be made to feel embarrassed that their shirt didn’t cost as much as someone else’s. Newsflash: with the exception of VERY few things, all of which could not be purchased at a consignment shop for one reason or another, I haven’t made a retail clothing purchase in close to five years.
Speaking of clothes, I’ll sign off with this resolution: “I, being an established individual over the age of 15, promise to never enter a grocery store wearing what are quite obviously pajama pants.” Tell your friends.
Here’s to a fantastic, grammatically-correct, judgement-free, pajama pants-less 2010!
Maybe it’s nit-picky of me, but I think there needs to be an overhaul in the human communication department. I can be a stickler about grammar and spelling; not because I’m perfect at it, but because I’m a firm believer that we’ve become so accustomed to seeing horrendous writing habits that we put up with it (and sometimes even adopt them ourselves).
You’d never say, “bulldog is there soup roughly”, would you? No, because, though every word in that sentence is definitely a word, together they create a sentence that makes no sense. “Your” is a different word than “you’re” and has a completely different meaning. Just because words sound the same phonetically doesn’t mean they’re interchangeable.
Though I realize how snooty this complaint might sound, there is an epidemic that needs to be addressed, and people like me get hives and stuff when we think about it. So, repeat after me: “I will attempt to make proper use of the English language when communicating with others, even if it means having to proofread.” My Facebook wall thanks you in advance.
I get that we live in the age of shortcuts and efficiency and all that, but come on, no one could possibly be so rushed that “whatever” (an already overused word, by the way) has been shortened to “whatevs”. It only has one less letter than the actual word. ONE LESS LETTER!
Has it really come to this? Do we believe our time is so valuable that typing a few extra letters will significantly delay our plans for the day? There is a fine line between shorthand and plain laziness, and unlimited mobile texting packages seem to have blurred that line. So, repeat after me: “This year, I will not reduce myself or my intelligence to a sentence, typed, texted or otherwise, that reads similar to, ‘Come str8 home n I’ll talk 2 U @ wrk 2day.’”
I’m not Martha Stewart; I use slang like everyone else, usually without even knowing it, which is why I thought of this next resolution. I find myself, on a regular basis, employing the most unrefined and fabricated slang word in the history of slang words. Are you ready for it? “You’s’ll.” Read it again and you might discover you’re guilty of using it yourself.
Pronounced “Yoozzle”, it is a double-contraction (there is such thing, but this one isn’t on any list of proper ones, and I’ve searched) and serves as a short way to say “you guys will”. What makes the word even more offensive is how it seems to be an expression exclusive to this area, and nothing says “backwoods” quite like pretend lazy-words. In rural Kentucky you might hear, “Y’all’ll have bushels of fun at the tractor pull.” Doesn’t sound too sophisticated, does it? Bad news is, “You’s’ll have to stop over next time you’re down,” is the Cape Breton equivalent. Say it with me: “I hereby eliminate ‘you’s’ll’ and other similar made-up words from my vocabulary.”
I’m on a roll and running out of space, so the rest will have to be short and sweet.
“I will never pester anyone to join Farmville, nor will I try to explain it incessantly.” Believe it or not, there is an entire world of people who don’t make-believe they’re on farm. They’re okay with you and your preference, they’re just not interested in it themselves. Carry on.
“I will not judge people for wearing second-hand clothes.” Whoever decided that consignment shops are for poor people should be ashamed. They’re for thrifty shoppers, rich or poor, and no kid should ever be made to feel embarrassed that their shirt didn’t cost as much as someone else’s. Newsflash: with the exception of VERY few things, all of which could not be purchased at a consignment shop for one reason or another, I haven’t made a retail clothing purchase in close to five years.
Speaking of clothes, I’ll sign off with this resolution: “I, being an established individual over the age of 15, promise to never enter a grocery store wearing what are quite obviously pajama pants.” Tell your friends.
Here’s to a fantastic, grammatically-correct, judgement-free, pajama pants-less 2010!
A Visit With Amy
In August of 1984, I was at the River Bourgeois community hall with my mother, watching the festival princess pageant. During the intermission, a man asked my age, and I replied that I was five years old. He said he had a little girl who was also five, and that she would be in my class when school started the next week. He brought her over to say hello, and that was that.
That man was Arthur Doary, a man who’s house I would spend countless hours and days at over the next decade. And that little girl was his daughter Amy, the girl who would be my very best childhood friend.
Amy and I were pretty much inseparable all through elementary school. We were in every class together, sat beside each other, and played outside every recess. On weekends, our rendezvous point was usually church; either I had already spent the day at her house and went home after Mass with my grandparents, or I arrived at the church with Grandma & Grandpa but left with Amy since I was spending the night.
We spent so many afternoons and evenings eating her mother’s cooking, I’m getting fat just thinking about it.
Henrietta’s specialties weren’t just special , they were something I looked forward to and, later, something I missed. She’d make us vanilla sundaes with homemade chocolate sauce and brownies you’d be wise to trade your pancreas for. Make no mistake, for a skinny gal, that Amy could put away a fistful of peanut butter cups that would scare you to death.
One of the best parts of being friends with Amy all those years ago was the fun we’d make. We were girly-girls, but not your run-of-the-mill ones exactly. Instead of playing Barbies, we’d make up our own secret language, or maybe write acceptance speeches for awards we planned to win when we grew up, or even start a dance group.
Yeah, that’s right – the Amy I speak of was none other than one-third of the community-renowned Awesome Threesome, a travelling dance trio we founded when we were 11 years old. I can’t tell you how many hours we spent in her basement planning dance routines, lip-syncing to Bananarama, and memorizing Janet Jackson videos. We were going to be stars. Skinny, kind of awkward-looking ones with unfortunate taste in performance costumes, but stars nonetheless.
It was hard to imagine, back in the day, that Amy and I would ever be anything less than the very best of friends. We never had a falling out of any kind, but, as isn’t unusual, we started running with different crowds once high school started. We both made good marks, participated in lots of extra-curricular activities, and were even on the student council together, but we just weren’t in the same clique. I suppose it’s normal for people to drift apart somewhat as they get older.
It wasn’t a clean break, to be sure. As I grew up, I thought of Amy often and always wondered what she was doing, sending her good thoughts in the process. She was the friend that, even though I had gone away to school and trampled through the house with a million friends since, my grandparents would ask about on a regular basis, and who I would always be happy to hear news of through the grapevine.
It’s been over 25 years since I first met Amy, and I’m happy to say, I just got home from a nice visit at her house.
The best thing about Facebook is how I’ve gotten back in touch with old friends, her specifically. It’s so easy to get lost in the chaos of life, and good intentions of staying in touch can be lost to the changes in your own world. Yet here it is almost 2010, and earlier today I was greeted at one of my favorite houses by a blonde-haired 30-year-old wearing a chic Argentinian shawl, smiling that same smile, serving me some of those same peanut butter cups, and chatting with me as though we were back in 1987.
We’ve made it a habit to get together for one of those chats every time she comes to Cape Breton on vacation from her fancy-schmancy job in Toronto. We talk about careers, marriage, kids, old friends, and we laugh – a lot.
I’m so glad we’re still capable of that after all these years, and I can assure you that, Facebook or no Facebook, I’ll make it a point to stay in touch with Amy. Many have come and gone over the years, but this one’s a keeper.
See you next Christmas, friend.
That man was Arthur Doary, a man who’s house I would spend countless hours and days at over the next decade. And that little girl was his daughter Amy, the girl who would be my very best childhood friend.
Amy and I were pretty much inseparable all through elementary school. We were in every class together, sat beside each other, and played outside every recess. On weekends, our rendezvous point was usually church; either I had already spent the day at her house and went home after Mass with my grandparents, or I arrived at the church with Grandma & Grandpa but left with Amy since I was spending the night.
We spent so many afternoons and evenings eating her mother’s cooking, I’m getting fat just thinking about it.
Henrietta’s specialties weren’t just special , they were something I looked forward to and, later, something I missed. She’d make us vanilla sundaes with homemade chocolate sauce and brownies you’d be wise to trade your pancreas for. Make no mistake, for a skinny gal, that Amy could put away a fistful of peanut butter cups that would scare you to death.
One of the best parts of being friends with Amy all those years ago was the fun we’d make. We were girly-girls, but not your run-of-the-mill ones exactly. Instead of playing Barbies, we’d make up our own secret language, or maybe write acceptance speeches for awards we planned to win when we grew up, or even start a dance group.
Yeah, that’s right – the Amy I speak of was none other than one-third of the community-renowned Awesome Threesome, a travelling dance trio we founded when we were 11 years old. I can’t tell you how many hours we spent in her basement planning dance routines, lip-syncing to Bananarama, and memorizing Janet Jackson videos. We were going to be stars. Skinny, kind of awkward-looking ones with unfortunate taste in performance costumes, but stars nonetheless.
It was hard to imagine, back in the day, that Amy and I would ever be anything less than the very best of friends. We never had a falling out of any kind, but, as isn’t unusual, we started running with different crowds once high school started. We both made good marks, participated in lots of extra-curricular activities, and were even on the student council together, but we just weren’t in the same clique. I suppose it’s normal for people to drift apart somewhat as they get older.
It wasn’t a clean break, to be sure. As I grew up, I thought of Amy often and always wondered what she was doing, sending her good thoughts in the process. She was the friend that, even though I had gone away to school and trampled through the house with a million friends since, my grandparents would ask about on a regular basis, and who I would always be happy to hear news of through the grapevine.
It’s been over 25 years since I first met Amy, and I’m happy to say, I just got home from a nice visit at her house.
The best thing about Facebook is how I’ve gotten back in touch with old friends, her specifically. It’s so easy to get lost in the chaos of life, and good intentions of staying in touch can be lost to the changes in your own world. Yet here it is almost 2010, and earlier today I was greeted at one of my favorite houses by a blonde-haired 30-year-old wearing a chic Argentinian shawl, smiling that same smile, serving me some of those same peanut butter cups, and chatting with me as though we were back in 1987.
We’ve made it a habit to get together for one of those chats every time she comes to Cape Breton on vacation from her fancy-schmancy job in Toronto. We talk about careers, marriage, kids, old friends, and we laugh – a lot.
I’m so glad we’re still capable of that after all these years, and I can assure you that, Facebook or no Facebook, I’ll make it a point to stay in touch with Amy. Many have come and gone over the years, but this one’s a keeper.
See you next Christmas, friend.
We Always Pull it Off
When Christmas rolls around (as it tends to every year without fail, regardless of opposition), the spotlight falls not only on carols and presents, but also on the outstanding ability of heads of household (most often women) to plan and prepare.
I should probably mention right off the bat that neither I nor my husband are the subjects of each example I'll cite. He's a wonderful, generous, considerate kind of guy who puts thought into the many gifts he buys, almost all the time. (Almost. He is a man, after all.) At the same time, I’m no June Cleaver; I forget stuff and get somewhat disorganized, too.
For us coordinators, pretty often, Christmas starts November 1st, if not earlier. It's partially the fault of stores, since they start stocking the shelves with Christmas loot before the Halloween decorations are even put away. Not only that, but planning for an event as big and complex as the biggest gift-giving holiday of the year, is not to be taken lightly or left until the last minute.
By the time early November marks the calendar, only a handful of paycheques remain before the big day. A sensible person will remember, even through the chaos, that Christmas is merely one day, and that bills still roll in the week after; parents normally dismiss this well-known fact and spend money as though this year is the last Christmas ever. In history. A wise man once said, “Christmas is the season when you buy this year’s presents with next year’s money.” I try not to do that, honestly, but it gets away from me the same way as it does from others.
In any event, women seem to be more mindful of the looming free-for-all than men. We start making up lists (if only in our head) of people to buy for, items to get, menus, even itineraries. Some will attempt a short brainstorming session (“honey, do you have any idea what we should get the kids for Christmas this year?), which is usually met with a lot of, “Have you lost your mind? Do you realize it’s not for another two months?”
Persistent buggers though we are, husbands are usually better at the abstract ideas (“no more remote control anything and nothing with a bunch of parts”) than at concrete gift ideas. We may have hinted about a beautiful snowflake pendant or DVD box set, but hints aren’t something these guys are on the lookout for. Women, on the other hand, will latch onto his most casual mention of a desired item and search every store in the province and beyond. We actually enjoy it, the satisfaction of finding that perfect gift and the anticipation of watching the reaction to it.
Only when that reaction is an unenthusiastic, “cool, thanks,” does anything hit the royal fan.
We’ve got this whole holiday under control, don’t we, ladies? From making budgets, to Web-store delivery deadlines, to hot items that’ll need to be scooped up before the masses get to them. We remember to buy small tokens for the teachers and have them ready for the last day of school before vacation. We make it our business to know that the nieces are no longer fans of Hanna Montana and have moved on to Wizards of Waverly Place. We’ve already been briefed on which Edward Cullen swag to avoid and whether so-and-so has a Wii or an xBox.
We schedule appointments well in advance for kids’ pictures, to make sure there’s ample time to include them in our Christmas cards, which have to be mailed in time for people to send one back. We make sure each kid has a nice outfit in the closet for the concert at school, and each adult has appropriate attire for the party at work.
We know when turkeys will be on sale, and not to buy that radio at one store for $50 when it’s only $32.99 down the street. When company starts showing up around the 20th, we’ve already made sure to whip up some shortbread cookies and pick up a box of chocolates for our guests. Not to mention the kids have received written replies from Santa, since we helped them write their letters weeks ago.
Even the little things we can manage to remember. We buy lots of batteries for the toys, extra garbage bags for the Christmas morning mess, and even a few double-doubles for the one day of the year you can’t run out and get them. Every base is covered, with few exceptions.
Give yourselves a hand, planners; your work really is impressive.
I hope you all have a wonderful, safe, and well-coordinated holiday.
I should probably mention right off the bat that neither I nor my husband are the subjects of each example I'll cite. He's a wonderful, generous, considerate kind of guy who puts thought into the many gifts he buys, almost all the time. (Almost. He is a man, after all.) At the same time, I’m no June Cleaver; I forget stuff and get somewhat disorganized, too.
For us coordinators, pretty often, Christmas starts November 1st, if not earlier. It's partially the fault of stores, since they start stocking the shelves with Christmas loot before the Halloween decorations are even put away. Not only that, but planning for an event as big and complex as the biggest gift-giving holiday of the year, is not to be taken lightly or left until the last minute.
By the time early November marks the calendar, only a handful of paycheques remain before the big day. A sensible person will remember, even through the chaos, that Christmas is merely one day, and that bills still roll in the week after; parents normally dismiss this well-known fact and spend money as though this year is the last Christmas ever. In history. A wise man once said, “Christmas is the season when you buy this year’s presents with next year’s money.” I try not to do that, honestly, but it gets away from me the same way as it does from others.
In any event, women seem to be more mindful of the looming free-for-all than men. We start making up lists (if only in our head) of people to buy for, items to get, menus, even itineraries. Some will attempt a short brainstorming session (“honey, do you have any idea what we should get the kids for Christmas this year?), which is usually met with a lot of, “Have you lost your mind? Do you realize it’s not for another two months?”
Persistent buggers though we are, husbands are usually better at the abstract ideas (“no more remote control anything and nothing with a bunch of parts”) than at concrete gift ideas. We may have hinted about a beautiful snowflake pendant or DVD box set, but hints aren’t something these guys are on the lookout for. Women, on the other hand, will latch onto his most casual mention of a desired item and search every store in the province and beyond. We actually enjoy it, the satisfaction of finding that perfect gift and the anticipation of watching the reaction to it.
Only when that reaction is an unenthusiastic, “cool, thanks,” does anything hit the royal fan.
We’ve got this whole holiday under control, don’t we, ladies? From making budgets, to Web-store delivery deadlines, to hot items that’ll need to be scooped up before the masses get to them. We remember to buy small tokens for the teachers and have them ready for the last day of school before vacation. We make it our business to know that the nieces are no longer fans of Hanna Montana and have moved on to Wizards of Waverly Place. We’ve already been briefed on which Edward Cullen swag to avoid and whether so-and-so has a Wii or an xBox.
We schedule appointments well in advance for kids’ pictures, to make sure there’s ample time to include them in our Christmas cards, which have to be mailed in time for people to send one back. We make sure each kid has a nice outfit in the closet for the concert at school, and each adult has appropriate attire for the party at work.
We know when turkeys will be on sale, and not to buy that radio at one store for $50 when it’s only $32.99 down the street. When company starts showing up around the 20th, we’ve already made sure to whip up some shortbread cookies and pick up a box of chocolates for our guests. Not to mention the kids have received written replies from Santa, since we helped them write their letters weeks ago.
Even the little things we can manage to remember. We buy lots of batteries for the toys, extra garbage bags for the Christmas morning mess, and even a few double-doubles for the one day of the year you can’t run out and get them. Every base is covered, with few exceptions.
Give yourselves a hand, planners; your work really is impressive.
I hope you all have a wonderful, safe, and well-coordinated holiday.
The Usual Suspects
You either sing or you don't, and nothing separates the men from the mice, so to speak, like a good night of karaoke (singing along to an instrumental track, for those not in the know).
Participation is key, and it's not that only good singers should take part, or that terrible singers should stay away; quite the contrary, actually. Sometimes the superstars bomb and the most tone-deaf bring down the house. I consider myself to be somewhere in the middle, which is probably why I enjoy the karaoke experience so much. I'm neither facing the pressure of being the best nor worried about being the worst.
Just like every classroom, family, and movie has a cast of characters, so does the karaoke club scene have it's own set of recognizable personalities.
For those of you who have never partaken in an evening of this sort (and for the regulars who might get a chuckle), I'll briefly introduce these characters.
The Teacher's Pet - It won't take long to spot this person during a night of karaoke. They're often first up to sing, strutting onto the stage with a cool confidence only found in someone who has either already signed to a seven-figure, major-label recording contract, or who has graced that same stage countless times before. Often, the KJ (karaoke jockey) doesn't even have to ask which song to put on for them. He or she will adjust the microphone with ease and sing with incredible volume (however incredible their skill). Likely song choice: something by Melissa Etheridge. Count on a low- to mid- tempo power ballad, and count on it to be sung relatively well.
The Bait & Switch-er (otherwise known as "The Susan Boyle") - This is perhaps the most entertaining person at karaoke night. A quiet, unassuming girl, sitting with a few friends, not looking for any attention. You're almost feeling sorry for her as she takes the stage and awkwardly holds the mike with both hands, and you prepare to hear something from the Hannah Montana soundtrack. Instead, the speakers thump, Hannah flashes some sort of gang sign and yells, "Yo VIP, let's kick it!" Say what? SAY WHAT?! The crowd is astounded, but by the time she gets to, "Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it, " the audience is singing along as though "Ice, Ice Baby" was the national anthem. This, ladies and gentlemen, is what karaoke is all about. Song choice: something seemingly antithetical; think "Genie in a Bottle" by Christina Aguilera for a hefty, 40-something guy.
The Diva - Not to be confused with the Teacher's Pet, who is usually a competent singer (though sometimes they are one in the same), this regular must have been propped up by a generous but insincere compliment at some point in the past and now spends Friday nights waiting to be plucked from obscurity by a rep from Jive Records. The Diva will almost always be overdressed, sing a top-10 hit by an incomparable female artist, and make ridiculous arm/hand movements for effect. During high notes he/she (unsuccessfully) attempts to hit, it's common for he/she to raise an index finger to the sky, almost as though that finger's directional rise will help that note reach a level it is just never going to reach. Song choice: "Vision of Love" by Mariah Carey.
The Shocker - There's always one, whether it be a regular or a guest who's only in town for the night. This character is always drunk. Not just "had a few drinks" drunk, I'm talking "just functioning" drunk. Who knows what possessed this individual to think singing in public would be a good idea in that state, but there they stand on the stage, swaying unintentionally, eyes droopy, lazy smile, looking helplessly at the monitor. The first verse comes and goes with only a few mumbled words being spoken into the mike, and the crowd has already lost interest. And then, out of nowhere, like a sudden jolt of sobriety, the chorus comes on and The Shocker leaps enthusiastically into action, forcefully belting out the familiar words and mumbling only those pesky pronouns. And sometimes the conjunctions. Who are we kidding, only the main words are intelligible, but darn it if it's not an enthusiastic delivery. Once the chorus is over the stammering starts all over again, and at the end of the song, the Shocker might get tangled in the microphone cord and trip over a straw. Song choice: Sweet Home Alabama.
I'll be in the finals of a karaoke competition here in Port Hawkesbury on December 18th, and I hope everyone comes out for some great entertainment. Perhaps not courtesy of MY voice, but certainly from someone's.
Participation is key, and it's not that only good singers should take part, or that terrible singers should stay away; quite the contrary, actually. Sometimes the superstars bomb and the most tone-deaf bring down the house. I consider myself to be somewhere in the middle, which is probably why I enjoy the karaoke experience so much. I'm neither facing the pressure of being the best nor worried about being the worst.
Just like every classroom, family, and movie has a cast of characters, so does the karaoke club scene have it's own set of recognizable personalities.
For those of you who have never partaken in an evening of this sort (and for the regulars who might get a chuckle), I'll briefly introduce these characters.
The Teacher's Pet - It won't take long to spot this person during a night of karaoke. They're often first up to sing, strutting onto the stage with a cool confidence only found in someone who has either already signed to a seven-figure, major-label recording contract, or who has graced that same stage countless times before. Often, the KJ (karaoke jockey) doesn't even have to ask which song to put on for them. He or she will adjust the microphone with ease and sing with incredible volume (however incredible their skill). Likely song choice: something by Melissa Etheridge. Count on a low- to mid- tempo power ballad, and count on it to be sung relatively well.
The Bait & Switch-er (otherwise known as "The Susan Boyle") - This is perhaps the most entertaining person at karaoke night. A quiet, unassuming girl, sitting with a few friends, not looking for any attention. You're almost feeling sorry for her as she takes the stage and awkwardly holds the mike with both hands, and you prepare to hear something from the Hannah Montana soundtrack. Instead, the speakers thump, Hannah flashes some sort of gang sign and yells, "Yo VIP, let's kick it!" Say what? SAY WHAT?! The crowd is astounded, but by the time she gets to, "Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it, " the audience is singing along as though "Ice, Ice Baby" was the national anthem. This, ladies and gentlemen, is what karaoke is all about. Song choice: something seemingly antithetical; think "Genie in a Bottle" by Christina Aguilera for a hefty, 40-something guy.
The Diva - Not to be confused with the Teacher's Pet, who is usually a competent singer (though sometimes they are one in the same), this regular must have been propped up by a generous but insincere compliment at some point in the past and now spends Friday nights waiting to be plucked from obscurity by a rep from Jive Records. The Diva will almost always be overdressed, sing a top-10 hit by an incomparable female artist, and make ridiculous arm/hand movements for effect. During high notes he/she (unsuccessfully) attempts to hit, it's common for he/she to raise an index finger to the sky, almost as though that finger's directional rise will help that note reach a level it is just never going to reach. Song choice: "Vision of Love" by Mariah Carey.
The Shocker - There's always one, whether it be a regular or a guest who's only in town for the night. This character is always drunk. Not just "had a few drinks" drunk, I'm talking "just functioning" drunk. Who knows what possessed this individual to think singing in public would be a good idea in that state, but there they stand on the stage, swaying unintentionally, eyes droopy, lazy smile, looking helplessly at the monitor. The first verse comes and goes with only a few mumbled words being spoken into the mike, and the crowd has already lost interest. And then, out of nowhere, like a sudden jolt of sobriety, the chorus comes on and The Shocker leaps enthusiastically into action, forcefully belting out the familiar words and mumbling only those pesky pronouns. And sometimes the conjunctions. Who are we kidding, only the main words are intelligible, but darn it if it's not an enthusiastic delivery. Once the chorus is over the stammering starts all over again, and at the end of the song, the Shocker might get tangled in the microphone cord and trip over a straw. Song choice: Sweet Home Alabama.
I'll be in the finals of a karaoke competition here in Port Hawkesbury on December 18th, and I hope everyone comes out for some great entertainment. Perhaps not courtesy of MY voice, but certainly from someone's.
Twi-Hard
I'm a little late to the Twilight party. When everyone else was gushing and non-stop-chattering about the movies and books, I stuck my nose in the air and sniffed at the whole idea. (Sometimes I'll do that - ignore a fad based not on it's actual worthiness or lack thereof, but just out of spite and resistance to conformity. Lame, I know. But, I was totally justified with snubs of Lou Bega/Mambo #5, Star Wars Ep. 1-3, and that Heroes show.)
Anyway, one night months ago we put Twilight on the DVD player since there was nothing on television and, much to my surprise, I enjoyed it. I didn't salivate or palpitate or any of those typical reactions, but it was more entertaining than watching repeats of King of Queens. I still had no interest in reading the books, which, since I'm an avid reader, annoyed quite a few of my Twi-Hard friends.
Two weeks ago I found myself with nothing to read, and I started looking pretty hard at the Twilight book sitting on my son's bureau. "No, you won't read that. 'Cause then you'll have to read the whole series and you might like them and that would not be in keeping with your whole resistance movement," I told myself.
It's a fantasy novel, not my style. I won't even read Anne Rice, the undisputed queen of the undead, let alone some street-cred-less author who pulled an entire series of books out of the clear blue sky. It's about vampires, for crying out loud! I knew I wouldn't like it.
But what's a girl to do? How many times per year can I read the same John Grisham novels, or the Nicholas Sparks tear-jerkers, or the entire chronicles of Sherlock Holmes? It's only a book, it's not like I'd be taken in like everyone else. Robert Pattinson looks unshowered and doesn't do anything for me, anyway.
If you could have seen me, in a trance, walking around my house, ignoring everything, with a 4lb book permanently perched inches from my nose, you other Twilight-resistors would have been so disappointed. I was completely immersed.
Since I have a million Christmas projects and commitments, besides being a wife and mother of two, I couldn't very well drop everything and start on a Twilight catch-up mission. It took me a few days, not hours, to re-read the 498-page book, re-watch the original movie, and see New Moon - twice. Only after these tasks were finished could I start on New Moon the novel (which is a Christmas present for my son and will contain no dog-ears, thanks to the Edward Cullen bookmark I bought last week. Shhhh.). I'm about 300 pages in.
Now, because I'm me, of course I'm critical of the movies and books in some respects. As is the case with most adapted screenplays, the Twilight movie was nothing - NOTHING - compared to the book. In fact, watching the movie was almost like reading the Amazon summary, in hindsight.
As much as I hate to say it, since it undoubtedly comes off as jealous, lucky-witch hating, the girl who plays Bella in the movies has about as much acting range as a throw pillow. She's staggeringly beautiful, though, and it's a good thing - at least she has that to distract from her complete lack of facial expression, monotone voice, and inability to smile (even in the face of Edward Cullen! Imagine!).
The flip side is that Stephenie Meyer did a brilliant job on this series (I'll assume the last two are similar in quality to the first two). Though the adjective-heavy prose is ripe for ridicule (Edward's eyes are butterscotch. Topaz. Golden. Amber. WE GET IT, they're yellowish), and the female lead character is very obviously autobiographical, the story she spins is so consuming and forbidden that it draws you in. Somehow, you can feel the electricity between Bella and her blood-drinking soul mate, almost as though you had fallen in love with a vampire in grade eleven biology class, too.
I'm not enjoying New Moon as much as Twilight, partly because of the addition of the werewolf characters; it's just not interesting to me. I will finish it (because I started it), but I will need some assurances before I ever pick up a copy of Eclipse. Assurances of the Edward variety. You see, Robert Pattinson, once an unkept, overrated, awkward Londoner in my eyes, is now a brooding, sensitive heartthrob who secretly watches me sleep. (Probably.) (Yeah, he does.) Team Edward for life!
That's how good it is.
If you're a book lover who hasn't read the Twilight series yet, pick it up, even if only for the first installment. You'll be pleasantly surprised.
Anyway, one night months ago we put Twilight on the DVD player since there was nothing on television and, much to my surprise, I enjoyed it. I didn't salivate or palpitate or any of those typical reactions, but it was more entertaining than watching repeats of King of Queens. I still had no interest in reading the books, which, since I'm an avid reader, annoyed quite a few of my Twi-Hard friends.
Two weeks ago I found myself with nothing to read, and I started looking pretty hard at the Twilight book sitting on my son's bureau. "No, you won't read that. 'Cause then you'll have to read the whole series and you might like them and that would not be in keeping with your whole resistance movement," I told myself.
It's a fantasy novel, not my style. I won't even read Anne Rice, the undisputed queen of the undead, let alone some street-cred-less author who pulled an entire series of books out of the clear blue sky. It's about vampires, for crying out loud! I knew I wouldn't like it.
But what's a girl to do? How many times per year can I read the same John Grisham novels, or the Nicholas Sparks tear-jerkers, or the entire chronicles of Sherlock Holmes? It's only a book, it's not like I'd be taken in like everyone else. Robert Pattinson looks unshowered and doesn't do anything for me, anyway.
If you could have seen me, in a trance, walking around my house, ignoring everything, with a 4lb book permanently perched inches from my nose, you other Twilight-resistors would have been so disappointed. I was completely immersed.
Since I have a million Christmas projects and commitments, besides being a wife and mother of two, I couldn't very well drop everything and start on a Twilight catch-up mission. It took me a few days, not hours, to re-read the 498-page book, re-watch the original movie, and see New Moon - twice. Only after these tasks were finished could I start on New Moon the novel (which is a Christmas present for my son and will contain no dog-ears, thanks to the Edward Cullen bookmark I bought last week. Shhhh.). I'm about 300 pages in.
Now, because I'm me, of course I'm critical of the movies and books in some respects. As is the case with most adapted screenplays, the Twilight movie was nothing - NOTHING - compared to the book. In fact, watching the movie was almost like reading the Amazon summary, in hindsight.
As much as I hate to say it, since it undoubtedly comes off as jealous, lucky-witch hating, the girl who plays Bella in the movies has about as much acting range as a throw pillow. She's staggeringly beautiful, though, and it's a good thing - at least she has that to distract from her complete lack of facial expression, monotone voice, and inability to smile (even in the face of Edward Cullen! Imagine!).
The flip side is that Stephenie Meyer did a brilliant job on this series (I'll assume the last two are similar in quality to the first two). Though the adjective-heavy prose is ripe for ridicule (Edward's eyes are butterscotch. Topaz. Golden. Amber. WE GET IT, they're yellowish), and the female lead character is very obviously autobiographical, the story she spins is so consuming and forbidden that it draws you in. Somehow, you can feel the electricity between Bella and her blood-drinking soul mate, almost as though you had fallen in love with a vampire in grade eleven biology class, too.
I'm not enjoying New Moon as much as Twilight, partly because of the addition of the werewolf characters; it's just not interesting to me. I will finish it (because I started it), but I will need some assurances before I ever pick up a copy of Eclipse. Assurances of the Edward variety. You see, Robert Pattinson, once an unkept, overrated, awkward Londoner in my eyes, is now a brooding, sensitive heartthrob who secretly watches me sleep. (Probably.) (Yeah, he does.) Team Edward for life!
That's how good it is.
If you're a book lover who hasn't read the Twilight series yet, pick it up, even if only for the first installment. You'll be pleasantly surprised.
Parenting Perspective
Last week, I got news that an old friend of mine is expecting her first child. I sent a note to congratulate her, and we ended up speaking for awhile on the phone. At one point in the conversation, she asked, "do you have any advice?"
Talk about a loaded question. Where does one even start when asked to advise about matters of child-rearing? I'm certainly not an expert ( as is evident in my quickly-greying hair). I tried to remember which pieces of advice were given to me when I was pregnant, and which of those actually helped, when it occurred to me how silly it all is. Similac or breast? Bouncy chair or Exersaucer? Or both? Or neither?! It's all so much to take in.
My son was born the first Friday in May, and I knew nothing about parenting that day. I had held an infant only once before he was born, and never changed a diaper. I’d read lots of books, yes, but the real learning can't happen until you do it yourself. So, what did I learn?
That it's basically impossible to “sleep when they sleep.”
That the things you swore you would NEVER do - for me it was carry snacks everywhere (“they can eat at mealtime,” I sniffed) - are the things that save your sanity.
That you can never watch the news, or hear about a hurting child, the same way ever again. That there really is no need for things like electric diaper-wipe warmers or $600 strollers. On the other hand, you can never have enough spit-up cloths.
That they don't care what they're wearing and expensive, designer baby clothes are not made for them; they're made for mothers trying to impress other mothers.
That some days you might never figure out why they are crying. Sometimes they cry because they’re babies.
That you will do things for your children (ask favors, risk embarrassment) that you would never do for yourself.
That it is harder watching your kids navigate middle school than it was navigating middle school yourself.
That sleep deprivation really is a form of torture.
That paying a babysitter every couple of Saturday nights is cheaper than paying a marriage counselor.
That when your gut tells you they are sick, or something’s wrong, they are and it is.
That many battles are not worth fighting, but others definitely are, and sometimes one kind masquerades as the other.
That you’d better have a Plan B when you Count To Three.
That it’s okay to surrender to the mess. You can clean it up when they move out.
That there are things that love can’t fix.
That an otherwise healthy child, if food is made available, will not starve to death because they won't eat their supper - so chill out.
That a teenager (the classification of which should also include pre-teen) is like something out of a horror movie — their real self is somewhere within that new and scary shell, and the trick is to keep talking to the person you know is in there. They will hear you. It just might take a few years before they acknowledge that they’ve heard.
What I have learned most recently is that it all goes too fast. And if I could change anything I would have spent less time worrying that I was doing it wrong and much more time reveling in all that was right. Eighteen years of our lives and theirs are spent under the same roof (well, unless they come back…). Eighteen years, give or take, against a lifetime that spans many times that length. It is a blink. A moment. Then they move on.
Eighteen is an arbitrary line. By law and custom my sons somehow become adults at midnight. They can serve in the military and vote and sign their own consent forms on their birthday, even though the day before they were too young. It is hardly a finite line; most adults have parents who "parent” them, and I don’t plan to stop guiding my boys the morning of their birthday. But, it is also a bright and important milestone. They will be ready to head off into the world, and hopefully I'll be ready to let them.
So, to my pregnant friend, I say the important things to learn can't be found in a book. Only when you're driving your 5'2"-tall son to his first dance will you laugh at how much you agonized over which brand of diapers to use. And, if history is any indication, dropping him off at that dance will be a welcome memory the day I leave him at college.
And that's about the best I can do.
Talk about a loaded question. Where does one even start when asked to advise about matters of child-rearing? I'm certainly not an expert ( as is evident in my quickly-greying hair). I tried to remember which pieces of advice were given to me when I was pregnant, and which of those actually helped, when it occurred to me how silly it all is. Similac or breast? Bouncy chair or Exersaucer? Or both? Or neither?! It's all so much to take in.
My son was born the first Friday in May, and I knew nothing about parenting that day. I had held an infant only once before he was born, and never changed a diaper. I’d read lots of books, yes, but the real learning can't happen until you do it yourself. So, what did I learn?
That it's basically impossible to “sleep when they sleep.”
That the things you swore you would NEVER do - for me it was carry snacks everywhere (“they can eat at mealtime,” I sniffed) - are the things that save your sanity.
That you can never watch the news, or hear about a hurting child, the same way ever again. That there really is no need for things like electric diaper-wipe warmers or $600 strollers. On the other hand, you can never have enough spit-up cloths.
That they don't care what they're wearing and expensive, designer baby clothes are not made for them; they're made for mothers trying to impress other mothers.
That some days you might never figure out why they are crying. Sometimes they cry because they’re babies.
That you will do things for your children (ask favors, risk embarrassment) that you would never do for yourself.
That it is harder watching your kids navigate middle school than it was navigating middle school yourself.
That sleep deprivation really is a form of torture.
That paying a babysitter every couple of Saturday nights is cheaper than paying a marriage counselor.
That when your gut tells you they are sick, or something’s wrong, they are and it is.
That many battles are not worth fighting, but others definitely are, and sometimes one kind masquerades as the other.
That you’d better have a Plan B when you Count To Three.
That it’s okay to surrender to the mess. You can clean it up when they move out.
That there are things that love can’t fix.
That an otherwise healthy child, if food is made available, will not starve to death because they won't eat their supper - so chill out.
That a teenager (the classification of which should also include pre-teen) is like something out of a horror movie — their real self is somewhere within that new and scary shell, and the trick is to keep talking to the person you know is in there. They will hear you. It just might take a few years before they acknowledge that they’ve heard.
What I have learned most recently is that it all goes too fast. And if I could change anything I would have spent less time worrying that I was doing it wrong and much more time reveling in all that was right. Eighteen years of our lives and theirs are spent under the same roof (well, unless they come back…). Eighteen years, give or take, against a lifetime that spans many times that length. It is a blink. A moment. Then they move on.
Eighteen is an arbitrary line. By law and custom my sons somehow become adults at midnight. They can serve in the military and vote and sign their own consent forms on their birthday, even though the day before they were too young. It is hardly a finite line; most adults have parents who "parent” them, and I don’t plan to stop guiding my boys the morning of their birthday. But, it is also a bright and important milestone. They will be ready to head off into the world, and hopefully I'll be ready to let them.
So, to my pregnant friend, I say the important things to learn can't be found in a book. Only when you're driving your 5'2"-tall son to his first dance will you laugh at how much you agonized over which brand of diapers to use. And, if history is any indication, dropping him off at that dance will be a welcome memory the day I leave him at college.
And that's about the best I can do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
