Dear Mrs. Claus,
In case you're wondering why I addressed this letter to you instead of Santa, I'm assuming the North Pole works much the same as the rest of the world, and that the wife gets the final say in the decision-making process.
I have tried my hardest to be a good wife and mother this year. I have wiped 142 runny noses, attended 73 baseball/soccer/football games, done 451 loads of laundry, prepared over 1000 meals/snacks/lunches, watched Disney movies in steady rotation, and cleaned the toilet more times than I care to count, among other things.
I would not be deserving of anything were I not to first ask for health, happiness, and prosperity for all my family and friends. I want everyone I love to have a great holiday and get everything on their list.
I've already spent a ridiculous amount of money on presents for my kids, so I don't have to worry about them on Christmas morning; besides, I'm sure your husband will be getting their long and detailed letters any day now. I've decided instead to make a few requests for myself.
To save us both a lot of time, you could simply leave a money tree, a fleet of nannies, and a magic, self-replenishing bottle of patience under the tree. However, I realize that's a bit unrealistic, so I'll give you a few more suggestions.
First, I'd like a pre-planned, delicious, nutritionally-balanced meal plan for all 365 days of the year. Breakfast and lunch menus are optional, but instructions for supper are in great demand. Please keep in mind that easy and fast is always preferred, and you're more than welcome to bring me any groceries required to prepare the recipes. Also, the fewer ingredients the better. I should also mention, this meal plan should cover all four members of my household: myself, the one who doesn't like chicken, the one with the seafood allergy, and the one who currently won't eat anything but Spongebob noodles and Lucky Charms. Good luck.
Secondly, even if only for 24 hours, since this is my last Christmas as a woman in my 20s, I'd like the body of a Brazillian super model, a one-week vacation to the tropics, a professional photographer, and about eight dozen rolls of film.
I'd also like the patent for a fabric that is soft and practical (like cotton), yet wipe-able (like vinyl). It also must be completely resistant to the following types of stains: grass, mustard, blood, greasy fingerprints, every type of paint, and Spongebob noodles.
Next, I'd like a mobile, ergonomically designed, multi-purpose capsule, for the purposes of completing tasks in the presence of my children which are, at the present time, pretty much impossible. This capsule would, ideally, be soundproof, to allow me to finally have a phone conversation without the constant plea, "MOM!" ringing in my ear. It might also include a "bathing feature", since my only times to shower in peace are the six or so minutes at the beginning of "Toy Story 2" and the moments immediately preceding my passing out from exhaustion at bedtime.
Speaking of bathrooms, not only could I use a giant bulls-eye painted at the bottom of the toilet bowl, but I'd also like a fingerprint-activated, password-protected shampoo dispenser, so my more-expensive-than-is-necessary-for-boys shampoo might last more than a week, and not be used as "look Mommy, bubbles".
Onto the kitchen; please, Mrs. Claus, if you have any mercy, you'll bring me a dishwasher. STAT. While you're at it, you might as well get me the Swiffer family again. It's not as if they won't need replacing soon, anyway.
If possible, I'd like you to rid the world of a few cartoon television programs, namely Caillou, The Mole Sisters, and Pokoyo. And, while I'm not suggesting anything violent, the world would be no worse off without those weird and annoying spandex people from Four Squared. Especially the one with the braces. I'm just saying.
As long as I'm pushing my luck, I also ask that you wave a wand of some sort to ensure I don't burn my Christmas turkey or drop a pie or something. Things like that tend to happen in this house.
Should you find my list to be a little too unreasonable, I'll settle for Colin Farrell in a big, red bow under the tree. I'm flexible like that.
Well, Mrs. Claus, I guess that's it for this year. I promise to leave some milk and cookies for Santa and a few carrots for the reindeer. There will be a package on the table addressed to you; it may be breakable and feel a lot like a case of wine, but you can assure Santa that it's just a harmless token of my appreciation for your help.
Merry Christmas
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Keeping Up with the Clauses
While chatting with my friend a few weeks ago, I asked her what her son (who is the same age as mine) is getting for Christmas. I won't repeat what my verbal reaction was to her response of, "a laptop. That's his big gift". Good grief, I should certainly hope so.
Every evening we listen to "Letters from Santa" on the radio, and it astounds me what children are asking for this year. Instead of dolls and trucks, the kids wanted digital cameras, four-wheelers, cell phones, and "a Wii". A Nintendo Wii is a video gaming system that costs almost $400, and that's not including games or extra controllers, which are also very pricey.
Another friend of mine was supposed to come over for lunch last week since she was going to be in town shopping. She called that morning to cancel, and said she wasn't coming after all, since her loan wouldn't be processed until the following day. Huh? I came to find out the woman was borrowing $2000 from the bank in order to buy presents.
Yesterday I was picking up a lay-away, and there was a young woman in line ahead of me. When the sales associate emerged from the back room, she and two other workers were carrying more boxes than I could shake a stick at. It was a sea of pink - all toys for little girls, from Easy Bake Ovens to Barbies to Hanna Montana swag. I couldn't help but be curious as to how much this woman's order was going to cost, especially when she needed three carts to hold it all. I'll cop to bending my ear slightly to hear the cashier tally up the toys, and I'll also cop to nearly wetting my pants when she said $948. Be still my heart. At this point I couldn't resist; "How many kids do you have," I asked her. Her answer: two. In case you're interested, that's $474 per. And that's just from one store.
The breaking point for me was last night, when I found myself wrapping presents for my dog, Bear MacDonald. Me! Wrapping dog presents! What has happened to us?
Many years ago, kids were thrilled to wake up Christmas morning to see a present under the tree. Present, singular. I doubt in the days of the Great Depression that folks were spending the equivalent of a mortgage payment on their children.
As a matter of fact, Christmas, as a holiday, has undergone a complete transformation in the years since our grandparents were young. It used to be a time for celebrating the religious aspects of December 25th, of being with family, and enjoying a nice meal if you were lucky. Gifts have always been part of the deal, I suppose, but back in the day they were of secondary importance to attending mass and celebrating family.
I'm not suggesting you should burn your tree and head to church, but one thing I have realized, after years of trying to "keep up with the Clauses", is that the best parts of Christmas have nothing to do with presents. When I walk into the mall the third week in October and see holly and chocolates everywhere, it automatically makes me cranky. Shopping has turned into hysteria, and the stress involved in making a list, roaming the stores for hours, people bumping into your cart, kids screaming - that's not fun or festive. Neither is having kids tear open wrapping paper, glance at a toy, and toss it aside to get to the next one.
I like to watch Christmas Daddies on television. I enjoy decorating my house and putting up the Christmas tree (in December, not the day after Halloween). I love to see my kids' excitement when they open their gifts, like anyone else.
However, I refuse to put myself in the hole for the sake of being able to tell my friends about the insane amount of money I spent on gifts. When the wrapping paper is cleaned up and the turkey is gone, the bills still roll in. Does it mean I love my kids any less because I don't spend as much as other parents do? No, not at all. The kids are just as happy to open something that cost $5 as they would be to open something that cost $40.
It's parents who take Christmas to the point of excess, not children. We're setting a dangerous precedent by trying to outdo one another and make each Christmas bigger and better than the one before.
I should mention, the presents for Bear MacDonald were a bone, a ball, and a bag of Snausages, purchased for about $6, at the repeated request of my children. I consider it proof that Christmas doesn't have to cost a fortune to make kids happy.
Every evening we listen to "Letters from Santa" on the radio, and it astounds me what children are asking for this year. Instead of dolls and trucks, the kids wanted digital cameras, four-wheelers, cell phones, and "a Wii". A Nintendo Wii is a video gaming system that costs almost $400, and that's not including games or extra controllers, which are also very pricey.
Another friend of mine was supposed to come over for lunch last week since she was going to be in town shopping. She called that morning to cancel, and said she wasn't coming after all, since her loan wouldn't be processed until the following day. Huh? I came to find out the woman was borrowing $2000 from the bank in order to buy presents.
Yesterday I was picking up a lay-away, and there was a young woman in line ahead of me. When the sales associate emerged from the back room, she and two other workers were carrying more boxes than I could shake a stick at. It was a sea of pink - all toys for little girls, from Easy Bake Ovens to Barbies to Hanna Montana swag. I couldn't help but be curious as to how much this woman's order was going to cost, especially when she needed three carts to hold it all. I'll cop to bending my ear slightly to hear the cashier tally up the toys, and I'll also cop to nearly wetting my pants when she said $948. Be still my heart. At this point I couldn't resist; "How many kids do you have," I asked her. Her answer: two. In case you're interested, that's $474 per. And that's just from one store.
The breaking point for me was last night, when I found myself wrapping presents for my dog, Bear MacDonald. Me! Wrapping dog presents! What has happened to us?
Many years ago, kids were thrilled to wake up Christmas morning to see a present under the tree. Present, singular. I doubt in the days of the Great Depression that folks were spending the equivalent of a mortgage payment on their children.
As a matter of fact, Christmas, as a holiday, has undergone a complete transformation in the years since our grandparents were young. It used to be a time for celebrating the religious aspects of December 25th, of being with family, and enjoying a nice meal if you were lucky. Gifts have always been part of the deal, I suppose, but back in the day they were of secondary importance to attending mass and celebrating family.
I'm not suggesting you should burn your tree and head to church, but one thing I have realized, after years of trying to "keep up with the Clauses", is that the best parts of Christmas have nothing to do with presents. When I walk into the mall the third week in October and see holly and chocolates everywhere, it automatically makes me cranky. Shopping has turned into hysteria, and the stress involved in making a list, roaming the stores for hours, people bumping into your cart, kids screaming - that's not fun or festive. Neither is having kids tear open wrapping paper, glance at a toy, and toss it aside to get to the next one.
I like to watch Christmas Daddies on television. I enjoy decorating my house and putting up the Christmas tree (in December, not the day after Halloween). I love to see my kids' excitement when they open their gifts, like anyone else.
However, I refuse to put myself in the hole for the sake of being able to tell my friends about the insane amount of money I spent on gifts. When the wrapping paper is cleaned up and the turkey is gone, the bills still roll in. Does it mean I love my kids any less because I don't spend as much as other parents do? No, not at all. The kids are just as happy to open something that cost $5 as they would be to open something that cost $40.
It's parents who take Christmas to the point of excess, not children. We're setting a dangerous precedent by trying to outdo one another and make each Christmas bigger and better than the one before.
I should mention, the presents for Bear MacDonald were a bone, a ball, and a bag of Snausages, purchased for about $6, at the repeated request of my children. I consider it proof that Christmas doesn't have to cost a fortune to make kids happy.
Friday, December 5, 2008
How To Live With a Woman
Talking to my other married friends, conversations about our husbands crop up pretty often. On a good day, these conversations probably include praise, and on a bad day, they probably don't.
We all love our husbands, don't get me wrong. They're great men, even acceptable roommates at times. However, there are several very common, very specific habits and behaviors with which most men seem to need a bit of guidance.
(Notice how I said most men, not all men; if the Great October Doggy Debacle has taught me anything, it's that certain groups can be extremely sensitive with generalizations, no matter how humorous my intention. Save your, "I hate you and I hope your dog eats you" mail this time, it's supposed to be funny. Jeez.)
Anyway, if a manual existed, written by wives to help their husbands peacefully cohabitate as married men, I suggest it might contain some of the following passages:
Article 9 - Wives will inevitably spend time on the phone, and certain components of these conversations you must learn to live with. These components include, but are not limited to: call duration, which is under your wife's sole discretion; due to female propensity for conversation, the half-hour long gab-fest your wife had with the same friend already this morning, is not relevant to the current phone call; your wife's index finger sticking up in the air can be translated as "please wait one minute before again inquiring as to the current location of the potato chips, unless you want me to switch fingers."
Article 22a (i)- In a recent study, it was proven that the amount of physical human energy required to lift the lid on a laundry hamper is .0035kW, roughly the same amount of energy exerted when blinking. Since the release of this data, the World Coalition of Wives (WCW) has unanimously decided that dirty laundry left ON TOP of or BESIDE the hamper, instead of IN the hamper, can, without consequence, be burned in a hole in the back yard.
22a (ii) - There shall be no return guarantee should any of the following items be left in the pocket of previously-worn jeans: paper money, coins, tissue, receipts, bank cards, screws/washers/bolts of any kind.
22b - Since exertion data is similar to that of hamper lids, cupboard doors shall be taken off the hinges and placed on the kitchen floor should they regularly be left open, hopefully serving as a reminder that simply closing them when you're done is much less tedious than reinstalling them.
Article 35a - While you will be attracted to other women, as is only natural, the following subjects should not be included in spousal conversations about this issue: Angelina Jolie, Christina Aguilera, sister-in-law, wife's best friend, any woman you work with. The following women are acceptable alternatives: Sandra Bullock, Julia Roberts, any 80s super model, Cindy Day.
35b - The following men are to be acknowledged as subjects women worldwide are allowed to drool over without recourse: Richard Gere, Brad Pitt, George Clooney, brooding British/Irish/Australian men, anyone who used to be/is/might someday become a Calvin Klein underwear model, former teen heartthrobs, professional athletes, selected persons in uniform.
Article 41 - It is never a good idea to discuss your wife's weight. There is no wiggle room in this clause and it is the only area of a relationship where honesty has no value. Unless a forklift is required to transport her to the grocery store or it has become necessary to physically cut her out of the house, the issue of weight should be ignored at all costs. (Note about the theory that suggests women gain 15lbs once they become comfortable and secure in a relationship. While the WCW acknowledges the validity of this theory, it is relative to the theory whereby men not only gain a few pounds themselves, but also cease performing any romantic or spontaneous gesture, usually at the same point in said relationship; hence, both are cancelled out and should not be issues of contention.)
Article 50 - The number of pairs of shoes required by any wife can be calculated according to the following formula: divide the number of pairs by the square root of the number of delicious meals you've consumed in the past year, add 14, subtract the number of recent unprovoked crying jags, multiply by the hypotenuse of her happiness, and there's your answer. Or you could just trust that she needs more than one pair for work and one pair for church, and leave well enough alone. The latter might be a wiser option, especially since you've yet to explain why you need 16 hammers.
There you go ladies, I've done my part. You might want to keep an eye out for excerpts from the rebuttal manual, though.
**Note**
I feel it necessary to give credit to my friend Lianne for the "hypontenuse/square root" stuff. Though her formula was different and for another topic entirely, I stole the idea and the words and the comedic mathematics from her. I don't think she'll mind too much, since now I'm going to refer you to her very excellent and hilarious blog, the link for which can be found on the left of this page. It's the bloggideeblogblog one. Good reading.
We all love our husbands, don't get me wrong. They're great men, even acceptable roommates at times. However, there are several very common, very specific habits and behaviors with which most men seem to need a bit of guidance.
(Notice how I said most men, not all men; if the Great October Doggy Debacle has taught me anything, it's that certain groups can be extremely sensitive with generalizations, no matter how humorous my intention. Save your, "I hate you and I hope your dog eats you" mail this time, it's supposed to be funny. Jeez.)
Anyway, if a manual existed, written by wives to help their husbands peacefully cohabitate as married men, I suggest it might contain some of the following passages:
Article 9 - Wives will inevitably spend time on the phone, and certain components of these conversations you must learn to live with. These components include, but are not limited to: call duration, which is under your wife's sole discretion; due to female propensity for conversation, the half-hour long gab-fest your wife had with the same friend already this morning, is not relevant to the current phone call; your wife's index finger sticking up in the air can be translated as "please wait one minute before again inquiring as to the current location of the potato chips, unless you want me to switch fingers."
Article 22a (i)- In a recent study, it was proven that the amount of physical human energy required to lift the lid on a laundry hamper is .0035kW, roughly the same amount of energy exerted when blinking. Since the release of this data, the World Coalition of Wives (WCW) has unanimously decided that dirty laundry left ON TOP of or BESIDE the hamper, instead of IN the hamper, can, without consequence, be burned in a hole in the back yard.
22a (ii) - There shall be no return guarantee should any of the following items be left in the pocket of previously-worn jeans: paper money, coins, tissue, receipts, bank cards, screws/washers/bolts of any kind.
22b - Since exertion data is similar to that of hamper lids, cupboard doors shall be taken off the hinges and placed on the kitchen floor should they regularly be left open, hopefully serving as a reminder that simply closing them when you're done is much less tedious than reinstalling them.
Article 35a - While you will be attracted to other women, as is only natural, the following subjects should not be included in spousal conversations about this issue: Angelina Jolie, Christina Aguilera, sister-in-law, wife's best friend, any woman you work with. The following women are acceptable alternatives: Sandra Bullock, Julia Roberts, any 80s super model, Cindy Day.
35b - The following men are to be acknowledged as subjects women worldwide are allowed to drool over without recourse: Richard Gere, Brad Pitt, George Clooney, brooding British/Irish/Australian men, anyone who used to be/is/might someday become a Calvin Klein underwear model, former teen heartthrobs, professional athletes, selected persons in uniform.
Article 41 - It is never a good idea to discuss your wife's weight. There is no wiggle room in this clause and it is the only area of a relationship where honesty has no value. Unless a forklift is required to transport her to the grocery store or it has become necessary to physically cut her out of the house, the issue of weight should be ignored at all costs. (Note about the theory that suggests women gain 15lbs once they become comfortable and secure in a relationship. While the WCW acknowledges the validity of this theory, it is relative to the theory whereby men not only gain a few pounds themselves, but also cease performing any romantic or spontaneous gesture, usually at the same point in said relationship; hence, both are cancelled out and should not be issues of contention.)
Article 50 - The number of pairs of shoes required by any wife can be calculated according to the following formula: divide the number of pairs by the square root of the number of delicious meals you've consumed in the past year, add 14, subtract the number of recent unprovoked crying jags, multiply by the hypotenuse of her happiness, and there's your answer. Or you could just trust that she needs more than one pair for work and one pair for church, and leave well enough alone. The latter might be a wiser option, especially since you've yet to explain why you need 16 hammers.
There you go ladies, I've done my part. You might want to keep an eye out for excerpts from the rebuttal manual, though.
**Note**
I feel it necessary to give credit to my friend Lianne for the "hypontenuse/square root" stuff. Though her formula was different and for another topic entirely, I stole the idea and the words and the comedic mathematics from her. I don't think she'll mind too much, since now I'm going to refer you to her very excellent and hilarious blog, the link for which can be found on the left of this page. It's the bloggideeblogblog one. Good reading.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Still Dwelling
The Christmas decorations everywhere might indicate that it's too late for an article about Halloween, but I'm sorry, I just can't stop dwelling. Let me explain why.
Once upon a time, what seems simultaneously like yesterday and like one hundred years ago, October 31 was a special and exciting day. For weeks, children would plan their Halloween costumes, taking care to consider every detail and accessory. We'd discuss it amongst our friends, talk it over with our parents, and the anticipation was almost too much.
The school costume parade was so much fun! It was always after lunch, so our entire lunch hour was spent putting on make-up or masks, or, if we were lucky, that colored hair spray that cost way too much before the days of dollar stores. We'd all line up in the gym, and prizes were awarded to the most creative costumes.
Once we arrived home, it was all our parents could do to keep us in the house for long enough to have supper, since we were so anxious to go trick-or-treating. This part of the night was also well planned; our routes had been mapped for days, and we were intent on achieving maximum candy acquisition with minimal transit time. Because, at the end of the day, it was all about the treats.
We lived in a rural community, which meant after we had done most of our immediate area on foot, one of our parents had to drive us around, while the other stayed behind to pass out treats. We we knew the spots where all the "rich people" (those who passed out full-size chocolate bars or cans of pop) lived, who gave you fudge, and who would keep you inside talking for 10 minutes. Everybody was home, and every house passed out treats.
I don't think we ever arrived home with less than a full garbage bag of loot, and while some things disappeared quickly, there were always bags of chips and those gross molasses candies remaining weeks after.
What you just read is a true story, kids. It happened to me, every year.
My awesome Halloween memories have translated from excitement about going out, to excitement about being a person who passes out treats. This year, in addition to the severed heads, ghosts, and bats hanging about my yard, I created a small cemetery. It took me a long time to cut tombstones out of styrofoam, carve words and designs onto them, paint them, mount them, and set them up. I put fake blood dripping down some, rats and spiders sitting on others, and even a zombie crawling out of the ground. With all the decorations and lights, I thought my house was just the kind of house we'd have flocked to as kids.
And in preparation for that, since I live in a neighborhood with lots of children, I went out and bought enough treats for 120 kids. I had chips, bars, candies, suckers, everything you can imagine stuffed into treat bags and waiting to be given out. I lit up the Halloween village on the table by my entrance, saw my little Buzz Lightyear and Scream Ghost off with their dad, and waited for the crowds to arrive.
In 3 hours I saw 12 kids. Of those 12, only about half were wearing costumes. One was a 6'4" tall ninja with a deeper voice than my husband, who arrived with a goblin-masked friend smoking a cigarette, and a pirate who drove the car they pulled up in.
Kids, you have to realize when you go to houses on Halloween night, people give you free candy! Just for showing up! Has that fact become unknown in recent years? Because if I was shorter and more selfish, I'd be throwing on some She-Ra garb and making a killing.
It's very sad for me to see such a special tradition from my past become so unceremonious to this generation of kids. With the mass retail bombardment that's common for every "holiday", I would have expected Halloween to be bigger and better than ever. But it seems that kids aren't all that interested anymore, and what a shame that is.
When did 11-year-olds start finding more enjoyment in smashing pumpkins than going door to door for treats? When did a school sweatshirt, jeans, a baseball hat and a face with a few black make-up streaks become a costume? And, most importantly, where have all the kids gone? Are they home playing X-box? Did they not get the memo about free candy?
I don't care. I'll still decorate my house like the crazy Halloween lady every year in hopes that someday things will get back to the way they used to be.
Until then, I'm stuck with 100 bags of Cheetos and a Christmas tree to put up.
Once upon a time, what seems simultaneously like yesterday and like one hundred years ago, October 31 was a special and exciting day. For weeks, children would plan their Halloween costumes, taking care to consider every detail and accessory. We'd discuss it amongst our friends, talk it over with our parents, and the anticipation was almost too much.
The school costume parade was so much fun! It was always after lunch, so our entire lunch hour was spent putting on make-up or masks, or, if we were lucky, that colored hair spray that cost way too much before the days of dollar stores. We'd all line up in the gym, and prizes were awarded to the most creative costumes.
Once we arrived home, it was all our parents could do to keep us in the house for long enough to have supper, since we were so anxious to go trick-or-treating. This part of the night was also well planned; our routes had been mapped for days, and we were intent on achieving maximum candy acquisition with minimal transit time. Because, at the end of the day, it was all about the treats.
We lived in a rural community, which meant after we had done most of our immediate area on foot, one of our parents had to drive us around, while the other stayed behind to pass out treats. We we knew the spots where all the "rich people" (those who passed out full-size chocolate bars or cans of pop) lived, who gave you fudge, and who would keep you inside talking for 10 minutes. Everybody was home, and every house passed out treats.
I don't think we ever arrived home with less than a full garbage bag of loot, and while some things disappeared quickly, there were always bags of chips and those gross molasses candies remaining weeks after.
What you just read is a true story, kids. It happened to me, every year.
My awesome Halloween memories have translated from excitement about going out, to excitement about being a person who passes out treats. This year, in addition to the severed heads, ghosts, and bats hanging about my yard, I created a small cemetery. It took me a long time to cut tombstones out of styrofoam, carve words and designs onto them, paint them, mount them, and set them up. I put fake blood dripping down some, rats and spiders sitting on others, and even a zombie crawling out of the ground. With all the decorations and lights, I thought my house was just the kind of house we'd have flocked to as kids.
And in preparation for that, since I live in a neighborhood with lots of children, I went out and bought enough treats for 120 kids. I had chips, bars, candies, suckers, everything you can imagine stuffed into treat bags and waiting to be given out. I lit up the Halloween village on the table by my entrance, saw my little Buzz Lightyear and Scream Ghost off with their dad, and waited for the crowds to arrive.
In 3 hours I saw 12 kids. Of those 12, only about half were wearing costumes. One was a 6'4" tall ninja with a deeper voice than my husband, who arrived with a goblin-masked friend smoking a cigarette, and a pirate who drove the car they pulled up in.
Kids, you have to realize when you go to houses on Halloween night, people give you free candy! Just for showing up! Has that fact become unknown in recent years? Because if I was shorter and more selfish, I'd be throwing on some She-Ra garb and making a killing.
It's very sad for me to see such a special tradition from my past become so unceremonious to this generation of kids. With the mass retail bombardment that's common for every "holiday", I would have expected Halloween to be bigger and better than ever. But it seems that kids aren't all that interested anymore, and what a shame that is.
When did 11-year-olds start finding more enjoyment in smashing pumpkins than going door to door for treats? When did a school sweatshirt, jeans, a baseball hat and a face with a few black make-up streaks become a costume? And, most importantly, where have all the kids gone? Are they home playing X-box? Did they not get the memo about free candy?
I don't care. I'll still decorate my house like the crazy Halloween lady every year in hopes that someday things will get back to the way they used to be.
Until then, I'm stuck with 100 bags of Cheetos and a Christmas tree to put up.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Invitation - To Celebrate Paula Gallant
All are welcome to this celebration.
"You are invited……
On Friday December 5th, 2008, at the BLT Elementary school in Timberlea, Paula Gallant’s family will extend thanks to the community of Beechville-Lakeside-Timberlea for their ongoing support, prayers and love since Paula’s tragic murder on December 27th, 2005. Please join us for a special commemoration to the BLT Rails to Trails Association in Paula’s memory. As an outdoor enthusiast and avid user of the trail, Paula would be very pleased with this gesture of gratitude being extended to such a worthwhile association in her community. Many kilometers of stories and laughter were shared between Paula and her friends on the trail and both her daughter Anna and her dog Coady could be found enjoying a walk with their mom on many occasions!
As we come to thank the community and remember Paula on what would have been her “39” birthday, we will also distribute purple ribbons marking December 6th which recognizes the National Day of Remembrance and Action on Violence Against Women in Canada.
The event, which starts at 6pm, will feature two time ECMA winner Audra Raulyns. We are thrilled to have Ms. Raulyns share her beautiful voice with us on this special remembrance.
MLA Bill Estabrooks, members of the RCMP, Halifax Major Crime Unit, and representatives from the BLT Rails to Trails board will also be in attendance along with Cape Breton piper Karen MacLean.
Our night will conclude with a birthday cake to celebrate Paula’s life and a short walk on the BLT trail for a ribbon cutting ceremony marking the area for the dedication.
This is an open event and all are welcome. We hope to see you there.
Thank you,
Friends of Paula
I am only one,
But still I am one.
I cannot do everything,
But still I can do something;
And because I cannot do everything
I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.
Edward Everett Hale"
"You are invited……
On Friday December 5th, 2008, at the BLT Elementary school in Timberlea, Paula Gallant’s family will extend thanks to the community of Beechville-Lakeside-Timberlea for their ongoing support, prayers and love since Paula’s tragic murder on December 27th, 2005. Please join us for a special commemoration to the BLT Rails to Trails Association in Paula’s memory. As an outdoor enthusiast and avid user of the trail, Paula would be very pleased with this gesture of gratitude being extended to such a worthwhile association in her community. Many kilometers of stories and laughter were shared between Paula and her friends on the trail and both her daughter Anna and her dog Coady could be found enjoying a walk with their mom on many occasions!
As we come to thank the community and remember Paula on what would have been her “39” birthday, we will also distribute purple ribbons marking December 6th which recognizes the National Day of Remembrance and Action on Violence Against Women in Canada.
The event, which starts at 6pm, will feature two time ECMA winner Audra Raulyns. We are thrilled to have Ms. Raulyns share her beautiful voice with us on this special remembrance.
MLA Bill Estabrooks, members of the RCMP, Halifax Major Crime Unit, and representatives from the BLT Rails to Trails board will also be in attendance along with Cape Breton piper Karen MacLean.
Our night will conclude with a birthday cake to celebrate Paula’s life and a short walk on the BLT trail for a ribbon cutting ceremony marking the area for the dedication.
This is an open event and all are welcome. We hope to see you there.
Thank you,
Friends of Paula
I am only one,
But still I am one.
I cannot do everything,
But still I can do something;
And because I cannot do everything
I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.
Edward Everett Hale"
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Murphygate
This article ran in the paper weeks ago...but better late than never, says the slacker who hasn't been keeping up with her blog...
************************************************************************
What a mess. A seemingly simple question turns into a national election scandal, how very American of us Canadians.
Here is a short play-by-play. Steve Murphy began a taped interview with Liberal leader Stephane Dion with a bit of preamble and then asked Dion a question. Dion began to answer, but then asked if he could start over because he didn't understand the question. Take two, and apparently Dion still did not understand the re-explained question, so an aide proceeded to explain it to him. Appearing a bit flustered, it took another two takes to get it right.
I was watching the CTV news on the night the interview aired. Murphy's opening statement about how the Dion campaign had asked the station not to air the false starts, was ever so delicious; anyone bored with the prospect of another political interview was likely piqued with interest after an opening line like that.
The interview was embarrassing to watch, and my husband and I found ourselves cringing throughout. One muck-up would have been bad enough, two even worse, but three false starts? Not good.
After the interview was over, almost as if he knew what a brew-ha-ha he had just stirred up, Steve again stated the justification and intent of the network for airing the entire exchange without edit.
It wasn't a confusing question. Steve was referencing comments Dion himself had made to suggest the current Prime Minister has done nothing to ease the minds of Canadians during these recent economic problems. The question went, and I quote, "If you were Prime Minister now, what would you have done that Mr. Harper has not done?" . He wasn't asking the answer to the quadratic equation, he was giving Dion an opportunity to cite where Harper had failed as a leader.
Had I asked that same question to someone walking through the mall, I'm quite sure I would have heard an acceptable response without having to clarify anything.
Now that the Conservatives are back in power and the Liberals faltered in many areas, they seem to be using the airing of this botched interview as a scapegoat for their failure.
Two weeks later, I've heard every excuse in the book to explain the false starts: that the question was poorly worded; that the use of more than one tense was impossible to understand; that Mr. Dion had trouble because his first language is French; even that he has a hearing impairment.
What ever happened to accountability?
English may not be Mr. Dion's first language, but an excellent working knowledge of the language spoken primarily by more than three-quarters of the residents of the country he is trying to represent, should be a prerequisite, shouldn't it? That is not a reflection of any kind of prejudice on my part toward people of French decent; I am French myself. It is, however, a relevant point regarding his effectiveness as a national and world leader. English is "the global language", used most often by governments worldwide in communications with each other, and especially by the majority of the countries with which Canada has it's closest relationships.
If it was only a language barrier issue, that might be less serious than if Mr. Dion just plain didn't understand the question, which certainly seemed (at least to me) to be the case. Of the many questions and problems a national leader must respond to, the degree of difficulty of Murphy's question doesn't even register in comparison. If Mr. Dion had that much trouble answering what seemed to me to be a question elementary in nature, I'd be scared to see his response to a difficult query.
Since losing so many seats in the election, this topic was bound to be brought up as a possible contributor, and it may very well have been. But isn't that Dion's fault? The editing process would clearly be a network decision, but some have even gone as far as to call for Steve Murphy's resignation as news anchor for airing the embarrassing footage. Why should he have to take the fall?
It was a "damned if you do, damned if you don't" situation for CTV. Some suggest the network is Conservative leaning, which is why they chose to air the interview in its entirety. Yet, had they not aired it and word of the mishap got out, they would have been accused of Liberal bias for covering Dion's tracks. (I myself tend to think CTV sucks up to every party, politician, and guest that appears on the network, equally and without shame. Steve Murphy especially.)
Regardless, I think I had a right to see that entire interview, and I'm glad I did. Did it change my vote? No, not really. But that was my decision, and that's the whole point.
************************************************************************
What a mess. A seemingly simple question turns into a national election scandal, how very American of us Canadians.
Here is a short play-by-play. Steve Murphy began a taped interview with Liberal leader Stephane Dion with a bit of preamble and then asked Dion a question. Dion began to answer, but then asked if he could start over because he didn't understand the question. Take two, and apparently Dion still did not understand the re-explained question, so an aide proceeded to explain it to him. Appearing a bit flustered, it took another two takes to get it right.
I was watching the CTV news on the night the interview aired. Murphy's opening statement about how the Dion campaign had asked the station not to air the false starts, was ever so delicious; anyone bored with the prospect of another political interview was likely piqued with interest after an opening line like that.
The interview was embarrassing to watch, and my husband and I found ourselves cringing throughout. One muck-up would have been bad enough, two even worse, but three false starts? Not good.
After the interview was over, almost as if he knew what a brew-ha-ha he had just stirred up, Steve again stated the justification and intent of the network for airing the entire exchange without edit.
It wasn't a confusing question. Steve was referencing comments Dion himself had made to suggest the current Prime Minister has done nothing to ease the minds of Canadians during these recent economic problems. The question went, and I quote, "If you were Prime Minister now, what would you have done that Mr. Harper has not done?" . He wasn't asking the answer to the quadratic equation, he was giving Dion an opportunity to cite where Harper had failed as a leader.
Had I asked that same question to someone walking through the mall, I'm quite sure I would have heard an acceptable response without having to clarify anything.
Now that the Conservatives are back in power and the Liberals faltered in many areas, they seem to be using the airing of this botched interview as a scapegoat for their failure.
Two weeks later, I've heard every excuse in the book to explain the false starts: that the question was poorly worded; that the use of more than one tense was impossible to understand; that Mr. Dion had trouble because his first language is French; even that he has a hearing impairment.
What ever happened to accountability?
English may not be Mr. Dion's first language, but an excellent working knowledge of the language spoken primarily by more than three-quarters of the residents of the country he is trying to represent, should be a prerequisite, shouldn't it? That is not a reflection of any kind of prejudice on my part toward people of French decent; I am French myself. It is, however, a relevant point regarding his effectiveness as a national and world leader. English is "the global language", used most often by governments worldwide in communications with each other, and especially by the majority of the countries with which Canada has it's closest relationships.
If it was only a language barrier issue, that might be less serious than if Mr. Dion just plain didn't understand the question, which certainly seemed (at least to me) to be the case. Of the many questions and problems a national leader must respond to, the degree of difficulty of Murphy's question doesn't even register in comparison. If Mr. Dion had that much trouble answering what seemed to me to be a question elementary in nature, I'd be scared to see his response to a difficult query.
Since losing so many seats in the election, this topic was bound to be brought up as a possible contributor, and it may very well have been. But isn't that Dion's fault? The editing process would clearly be a network decision, but some have even gone as far as to call for Steve Murphy's resignation as news anchor for airing the embarrassing footage. Why should he have to take the fall?
It was a "damned if you do, damned if you don't" situation for CTV. Some suggest the network is Conservative leaning, which is why they chose to air the interview in its entirety. Yet, had they not aired it and word of the mishap got out, they would have been accused of Liberal bias for covering Dion's tracks. (I myself tend to think CTV sucks up to every party, politician, and guest that appears on the network, equally and without shame. Steve Murphy especially.)
Regardless, I think I had a right to see that entire interview, and I'm glad I did. Did it change my vote? No, not really. But that was my decision, and that's the whole point.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Dear Mrs. Claus
Dear Mrs. Claus,
In case you're wondering why I addressed this letter to you instead of Santa, I'm assuming the North Pole works much the same as the rest of the world, and that the wife gets the final say in the decision-making process.
I have tried my hardest to be a good wife and mother this year. I have wiped 142 runny noses, attended 73 baseball/soccer/football games, done 451 loads of laundry, prepared over 1000 meals/snacks/lunches, watched Disney movies in steady rotation, and cleaned the toilet more times than I care to count, among other things.
I would not be deserving of anything were I not to first ask for health, happiness, and prosperity for all my family and friends. I want everyone I love to have a great holiday and get everything on their list.
I've already spent a ridiculous amount of money on presents for my kids, so I don't have to worry about them on Christmas morning; besides, I'm sure your husband will be getting their long and detailed letters any day now. I've decided instead to make a few requests for myself.
To save us both a lot of time, you could simply leave a money tree, a fleet of nannies, and a magic, self-replenishing bottle of patience under the tree. However, I realize that's a bit unrealistic, so I'll give you a few more suggestions.
First, I'd like a pre-planned, delicious, nutritionally-balanced meal plan for all 365 days of the year. Breakfast and lunch menus are optional, but instructions for supper are in great demand. Please keep in mind that easy and fast is always preferred, and you're more than welcome to bring me any groceries required to prepare the recipes. Also, the fewer ingredients the better. I should also mention, this meal plan should cover all four members of my household: myself, the one who doesn't like chicken, the one with the seafood allergy, and the one who currently won't eat anything but Spongebob noodles and Lucky Charms. Good luck.
Secondly, even if only for 24 hours, since this is my last Christmas as a woman in my 20s, I'd like the body of a Brazillian super model, a one-week vacation to the tropics, a professional photographer, and about eight dozen rolls of film.
I'd also like the patent for a fabric that is soft and practical (like cotton), yet wipe-able (like vinyl). It also must be completely resistant to the following types of stains: grass, mustard, blood, greasy fingerprints, every type of paint, and Spongebob noodles.
Next, I'd like a mobile, ergonomically designed, multi-purpose capsule, for the purposes of completing tasks in the presence of my children which are, at the present time, pretty much impossible. This capsule would, ideally, be soundproof, to allow me to finally have a phone conversation without the constant plea, "MOM!" ringing in my ear. It might also include a "bathing feature", since my only times to shower in peace are the six or so minutes at the beginning of "Toy Story 2" and the moments immediately preceding my passing out from exhaustion at bedtime.
Speaking of bathrooms, not only could I use a giant bulls-eye painted at the bottom of the toilet bowl, but I'd also like a fingerprint-activated, password-protected shampoo dispenser, so my more-expensive-than-is-necessary-for-boys shampoo might last more than a week, and not be used as "look Mommy, bubbles".
Onto the kitchen; please, Mrs. Claus, if you have any mercy, you'll bring me a dishwasher. STAT. While you're at it, you might as well get me the Swiffer family again. It's not as if they won't need replacing soon, anyway.
If possible, I'd like you to rid the world of a few cartoon television programs, namely Caillou, The Mole Sisters, and Pokoyo. And, while I'm not suggesting anything violent, the world would be no worse off without those weird and annoying spandex people from Four Squared. Especially the one with the braces. I'm just saying.
As long as I'm pushing my luck, I also ask that you wave a wand of some sort to ensure I don't burn my Christmas turkey or drop a pie or something. Things like that tend to happen in this house.
Should you find my list to be a little too unreasonable, I'll settle for Colin Farrell in a big, red bow under the tree. I'm flexible like that.
Well, Mrs. Claus, I guess that's it for this year. I promise to leave some milk and cookies for Santa and a few carrots for the reindeer. There will be a package on the table addressed to you; it may be breakable and feel a lot like a case of wine, but you can assure Santa that it's just a harmless token of my appreciation for your help.
Merry Christmas
In case you're wondering why I addressed this letter to you instead of Santa, I'm assuming the North Pole works much the same as the rest of the world, and that the wife gets the final say in the decision-making process.
I have tried my hardest to be a good wife and mother this year. I have wiped 142 runny noses, attended 73 baseball/soccer/football games, done 451 loads of laundry, prepared over 1000 meals/snacks/lunches, watched Disney movies in steady rotation, and cleaned the toilet more times than I care to count, among other things.
I would not be deserving of anything were I not to first ask for health, happiness, and prosperity for all my family and friends. I want everyone I love to have a great holiday and get everything on their list.
I've already spent a ridiculous amount of money on presents for my kids, so I don't have to worry about them on Christmas morning; besides, I'm sure your husband will be getting their long and detailed letters any day now. I've decided instead to make a few requests for myself.
To save us both a lot of time, you could simply leave a money tree, a fleet of nannies, and a magic, self-replenishing bottle of patience under the tree. However, I realize that's a bit unrealistic, so I'll give you a few more suggestions.
First, I'd like a pre-planned, delicious, nutritionally-balanced meal plan for all 365 days of the year. Breakfast and lunch menus are optional, but instructions for supper are in great demand. Please keep in mind that easy and fast is always preferred, and you're more than welcome to bring me any groceries required to prepare the recipes. Also, the fewer ingredients the better. I should also mention, this meal plan should cover all four members of my household: myself, the one who doesn't like chicken, the one with the seafood allergy, and the one who currently won't eat anything but Spongebob noodles and Lucky Charms. Good luck.
Secondly, even if only for 24 hours, since this is my last Christmas as a woman in my 20s, I'd like the body of a Brazillian super model, a one-week vacation to the tropics, a professional photographer, and about eight dozen rolls of film.
I'd also like the patent for a fabric that is soft and practical (like cotton), yet wipe-able (like vinyl). It also must be completely resistant to the following types of stains: grass, mustard, blood, greasy fingerprints, every type of paint, and Spongebob noodles.
Next, I'd like a mobile, ergonomically designed, multi-purpose capsule, for the purposes of completing tasks in the presence of my children which are, at the present time, pretty much impossible. This capsule would, ideally, be soundproof, to allow me to finally have a phone conversation without the constant plea, "MOM!" ringing in my ear. It might also include a "bathing feature", since my only times to shower in peace are the six or so minutes at the beginning of "Toy Story 2" and the moments immediately preceding my passing out from exhaustion at bedtime.
Speaking of bathrooms, not only could I use a giant bulls-eye painted at the bottom of the toilet bowl, but I'd also like a fingerprint-activated, password-protected shampoo dispenser, so my more-expensive-than-is-necessary-for-boys shampoo might last more than a week, and not be used as "look Mommy, bubbles".
Onto the kitchen; please, Mrs. Claus, if you have any mercy, you'll bring me a dishwasher. STAT. While you're at it, you might as well get me the Swiffer family again. It's not as if they won't need replacing soon, anyway.
If possible, I'd like you to rid the world of a few cartoon television programs, namely Caillou, The Mole Sisters, and Pokoyo. And, while I'm not suggesting anything violent, the world would be no worse off without those weird and annoying spandex people from Four Squared. Especially the one with the braces. I'm just saying.
As long as I'm pushing my luck, I also ask that you wave a wand of some sort to ensure I don't burn my Christmas turkey or drop a pie or something. Things like that tend to happen in this house.
Should you find my list to be a little too unreasonable, I'll settle for Colin Farrell in a big, red bow under the tree. I'm flexible like that.
Well, Mrs. Claus, I guess that's it for this year. I promise to leave some milk and cookies for Santa and a few carrots for the reindeer. There will be a package on the table addressed to you; it may be breakable and feel a lot like a case of wine, but you can assure Santa that it's just a harmless token of my appreciation for your help.
Merry Christmas
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Prop 8
While Americans are basking in the joy of an exciting and historical election and anticipating a new Presidential administration, other election-night results aren't quite so hopeful.
Residents of California were asked on their Tuesday ballots to vote on Proposition 8, a Constitutional amendment governing the legality of gay marriage. Each side of the issue campaigned vigorously over the pastfew weeks. As I'm writing this, two days after the election, it looks as though Prop 8 has passed in California, making same-sex marriage illegal. (I should note, Arizona and Florida, in their own Propositions, voted the same way.)
Even though Nova Scotia is far ahead of it's time in matters of same-sex marriage and benefit equality, homosexuality is an uncomfortable topic for many people, especially in small, rural areas. You may disagree with homosexuality; you may think it's immoral or wrong or against your religion. You may not have ever been exposed to gay culture and just don't understand it. Regardless of why you don't look positively at homosexuality, in today's society it doesn't really matter. There are gay people in St. Peter's, Port Hawkesbury, Cregnish, Mabou, Little Anse, Guysborough, Canso, Chapel Island, and everywhere in between, and no individual's or group's moral self- righteousness is going to change that. I'm not here to debate morality. Gay people are here, they're not going away, and everyone has to either accept that or move to the moon, where, to my knowledge, there aren't any gay people. Yet.
The problem with Prop 8 is the civil rights violation associated with its passing.
Gay people are people, in the same way as white people are people, ugly people are people, racist people are people, and people who eat their own boogers are people. Is every person the kind of person we want to be? No. Some aren't even the type of people we'd want to be in the same room with. But there's no denying that they are indeed people, all with the same rights as human beings as I have.
Just because someone is Asian, should they not be entitled to a fair trial in a court of law? Just because someone is disabled, should they not be able to bear children if they so choose? Just because someone is gay, should they not be able to get married? Some say "apples and oranges". I say making same-sex marriage illegal is no different than squashing a woman's right to vote.
Proponents of Prop 8 will argue, "our Constitution says that marriage is a union between a man and a woman, and that's the way it should stay." Really? The same Constitution written 158 years ago? The one that's had to be amended over 500 times? The one that, up until a few decades ago, still recognized women as inferior citizens by "modern moral standards"?
Change is necessary as civilization evolves, and this Proposition is a perfect example of small-minded people being resistant to change.
There is no reason that a definition of marriage can't be between one consenting adult citizen and another consenting adult citizen. No reason, that is, except arbitrary notions of morality and religion which are debatable from a theological standpoint and irrelevant from a legislative one.
What makes this issue even more discriminatory is that, as of June 17 of this year, the California Supreme Court ruled that same-sex marriage is perfectly legal, and almost 20,000 same-sex couples have married since. The passing of Prop 8 calls into question whether these marriages will be retroactively annulled by the constitutional change. Imagine finally marrying the person you love and then having the government tell you it was all a farce, because other people don't agree with your choice. Talk about inequality.
I take the institution of marriage very seriously. It is very important to me that I am a wife, that the man I live with is my husband, and that we're recognized that way in both a legal and societal context. But it seems to me that people are ignoring the integral fundamentals of the concept of marriage and misguidedly concentrating on the language used to define it. Anyone in a marriage can tell you that two people's physical ability to produce children has little to do with their ability to sustain a productive and loving union. Marriage is about love, commitment and partnership, not anatomy. There are heterosexual couples the world over who cheat on each other and otherwise destroy the sanctity of marriage, while there are same-sex couples who are model examples of what a good relationship should be.
Who are we to dictate the extent of someone else's happiness, especially when that happiness harms nothing more than the status quo?
With Prop 8's passage, people in California might have lost the same-sex equality battle, but I have a feeling they will, rightly, win the war.
Residents of California were asked on their Tuesday ballots to vote on Proposition 8, a Constitutional amendment governing the legality of gay marriage. Each side of the issue campaigned vigorously over the pastfew weeks. As I'm writing this, two days after the election, it looks as though Prop 8 has passed in California, making same-sex marriage illegal. (I should note, Arizona and Florida, in their own Propositions, voted the same way.)
Even though Nova Scotia is far ahead of it's time in matters of same-sex marriage and benefit equality, homosexuality is an uncomfortable topic for many people, especially in small, rural areas. You may disagree with homosexuality; you may think it's immoral or wrong or against your religion. You may not have ever been exposed to gay culture and just don't understand it. Regardless of why you don't look positively at homosexuality, in today's society it doesn't really matter. There are gay people in St. Peter's, Port Hawkesbury, Cregnish, Mabou, Little Anse, Guysborough, Canso, Chapel Island, and everywhere in between, and no individual's or group's moral self- righteousness is going to change that. I'm not here to debate morality. Gay people are here, they're not going away, and everyone has to either accept that or move to the moon, where, to my knowledge, there aren't any gay people. Yet.
The problem with Prop 8 is the civil rights violation associated with its passing.
Gay people are people, in the same way as white people are people, ugly people are people, racist people are people, and people who eat their own boogers are people. Is every person the kind of person we want to be? No. Some aren't even the type of people we'd want to be in the same room with. But there's no denying that they are indeed people, all with the same rights as human beings as I have.
Just because someone is Asian, should they not be entitled to a fair trial in a court of law? Just because someone is disabled, should they not be able to bear children if they so choose? Just because someone is gay, should they not be able to get married? Some say "apples and oranges". I say making same-sex marriage illegal is no different than squashing a woman's right to vote.
Proponents of Prop 8 will argue, "our Constitution says that marriage is a union between a man and a woman, and that's the way it should stay." Really? The same Constitution written 158 years ago? The one that's had to be amended over 500 times? The one that, up until a few decades ago, still recognized women as inferior citizens by "modern moral standards"?
Change is necessary as civilization evolves, and this Proposition is a perfect example of small-minded people being resistant to change.
There is no reason that a definition of marriage can't be between one consenting adult citizen and another consenting adult citizen. No reason, that is, except arbitrary notions of morality and religion which are debatable from a theological standpoint and irrelevant from a legislative one.
What makes this issue even more discriminatory is that, as of June 17 of this year, the California Supreme Court ruled that same-sex marriage is perfectly legal, and almost 20,000 same-sex couples have married since. The passing of Prop 8 calls into question whether these marriages will be retroactively annulled by the constitutional change. Imagine finally marrying the person you love and then having the government tell you it was all a farce, because other people don't agree with your choice. Talk about inequality.
I take the institution of marriage very seriously. It is very important to me that I am a wife, that the man I live with is my husband, and that we're recognized that way in both a legal and societal context. But it seems to me that people are ignoring the integral fundamentals of the concept of marriage and misguidedly concentrating on the language used to define it. Anyone in a marriage can tell you that two people's physical ability to produce children has little to do with their ability to sustain a productive and loving union. Marriage is about love, commitment and partnership, not anatomy. There are heterosexual couples the world over who cheat on each other and otherwise destroy the sanctity of marriage, while there are same-sex couples who are model examples of what a good relationship should be.
Who are we to dictate the extent of someone else's happiness, especially when that happiness harms nothing more than the status quo?
With Prop 8's passage, people in California might have lost the same-sex equality battle, but I have a feeling they will, rightly, win the war.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Late Night Obama-ing
A few thoughts...
After 18 months of close observation and many late nights spent with Anderson Cooper, I just watched a black man become President of the United States. Pretty important stuff.
Not only did he win, he won by a greater margin than any President since Lyndon Johnson.
That's a big step for Americans.
And while the black commentator from CNN was so emotional and over-dramatic that I was almost peeing my pants, that is not the reason I'm up at 1am.
As far as the world has come tonight and as much as it's going to change, I'm up to watch Obama's acceptance speech to be sure he's not assassinated. Scary, but sadly not out of the question.
I am quite confident in a few things:
1) Hillbillies, rednecks and racists from West Virginia to Tennesee, are probably running around in circles, pulling their hair out and shooting each other for lack of a better outlet for their rage.
2) Old people are probably upping their meds, likely incredulous that "one of those negroes" is the leader of their country.
3) Religous types are probably planning a mass suicide because the next President is "muslim".
4) Elisabeth Hasselbeck is teetering on the edge of the George Washington bridge.
Slight exaggerations, but I'm overtired and not entirely off the mark.
We need to let Barack Obama be a President and not just a black President. He's a smart and inspirational visionary with loads of potential, and it is my hope that he gets the fair and full opportunity to show that to the world. Let the small minded people be left to stew while the rest of us prosper.
I'm going to bed now, and Obama better be alive and well when I wake up in the morning. If he isn't, the skeptical faith I have had restored by the American people will disappear.
After 18 months of close observation and many late nights spent with Anderson Cooper, I just watched a black man become President of the United States. Pretty important stuff.
Not only did he win, he won by a greater margin than any President since Lyndon Johnson.
That's a big step for Americans.
And while the black commentator from CNN was so emotional and over-dramatic that I was almost peeing my pants, that is not the reason I'm up at 1am.
As far as the world has come tonight and as much as it's going to change, I'm up to watch Obama's acceptance speech to be sure he's not assassinated. Scary, but sadly not out of the question.
I am quite confident in a few things:
1) Hillbillies, rednecks and racists from West Virginia to Tennesee, are probably running around in circles, pulling their hair out and shooting each other for lack of a better outlet for their rage.
2) Old people are probably upping their meds, likely incredulous that "one of those negroes" is the leader of their country.
3) Religous types are probably planning a mass suicide because the next President is "muslim".
4) Elisabeth Hasselbeck is teetering on the edge of the George Washington bridge.
Slight exaggerations, but I'm overtired and not entirely off the mark.
We need to let Barack Obama be a President and not just a black President. He's a smart and inspirational visionary with loads of potential, and it is my hope that he gets the fair and full opportunity to show that to the world. Let the small minded people be left to stew while the rest of us prosper.
I'm going to bed now, and Obama better be alive and well when I wake up in the morning. If he isn't, the skeptical faith I have had restored by the American people will disappear.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
To the Dog People
Dear Dog People,
This has been a very interesting week for me. I've written about political scandal, racism, crime, and lots of other important topics. Some I expected to be controversial and unpopular, and I've received a few letters to that affect. But never....NEVER....have I seen such an unbelievable stink as with that dog article. Not only the comments you see here, but in a letter to the editor and in personal emails.
To be clear, I have a dog. I've had a few dogs, all of which were loved and very well taken care of. I think it's mean and cruel when people DON'T take care of their dogs, and I would never suggest compromising proper care for your pet. If it's cold, make sure they're inside. If their nails are too long, get them clipped. If they're pacing around the door, yes, they're communicating by making known their desire to go outside and pee.
But these "soundbites" about my being ignorant and uncaring, in comparison with the statements I made in my article, are apples and oranges.
Apples and oranges.
I did not criticize people for grooming their pet, but there is a big difference between getting a dog's nails clipped to ensure his comfort and health, and spending $30 on a Ruby Red paint job so that all your friends can gush about how Muffy the Poodle's claws are the envy of pooches up and down the block. Don't you see a difference?
I did not criticize people for buying their dog a sweater for the purposes of warmth and comfort, but there is a big difference between buying a dog sweater as outerwear to keep your pup warm, and making sure he's in his best Marc Jacobs jacket for a trip to the mall in the middle of May.
I did not criticize people for communicating and relating with their pets, but there is a big difference between tail-wagging and face-licking, and "I love you, Mommy."
Many of the criticisms that have come my way over the past week have been based on statements in my article taken completely and intentionally out of context, for the purposes of making me out to be a dog-hater, in order to distract from the validity of my arguements.
"Why are you complaining about the dog birthday party? It didn't affect you, you should just mind your own business." Not completely true, since I choose to live in a society that does not advocate people holding pets to a higher standard of consideration and treatment than the people around them. It is my business when people around me start to develop an attitude and behavior that dictates their dogs deserve a birthday party as much as a little girl down the street who's parents can't afford to throw her one. And it became my business to criticize a dogs-are-as-important-as-children mind set when it's sitting in my living room.
You are free to think of me as an imbicile if you wish, but by the same rule, I am just as free to think of many dog lunatics as crazy dog lunatics. There is something to be said of excess and perspective (and humor, for that matter) that is lost on far too many, and that completely validates the content and intention of my article.
I trust this matter is now closed. We'll just have to agree to disagree. Jeez, people; learn how to take a joke and tolerate satire. If you can't, at least be honest in your own ignorance and resentment.
This has been a very interesting week for me. I've written about political scandal, racism, crime, and lots of other important topics. Some I expected to be controversial and unpopular, and I've received a few letters to that affect. But never....NEVER....have I seen such an unbelievable stink as with that dog article. Not only the comments you see here, but in a letter to the editor and in personal emails.
To be clear, I have a dog. I've had a few dogs, all of which were loved and very well taken care of. I think it's mean and cruel when people DON'T take care of their dogs, and I would never suggest compromising proper care for your pet. If it's cold, make sure they're inside. If their nails are too long, get them clipped. If they're pacing around the door, yes, they're communicating by making known their desire to go outside and pee.
But these "soundbites" about my being ignorant and uncaring, in comparison with the statements I made in my article, are apples and oranges.
Apples and oranges.
I did not criticize people for grooming their pet, but there is a big difference between getting a dog's nails clipped to ensure his comfort and health, and spending $30 on a Ruby Red paint job so that all your friends can gush about how Muffy the Poodle's claws are the envy of pooches up and down the block. Don't you see a difference?
I did not criticize people for buying their dog a sweater for the purposes of warmth and comfort, but there is a big difference between buying a dog sweater as outerwear to keep your pup warm, and making sure he's in his best Marc Jacobs jacket for a trip to the mall in the middle of May.
I did not criticize people for communicating and relating with their pets, but there is a big difference between tail-wagging and face-licking, and "I love you, Mommy."
Many of the criticisms that have come my way over the past week have been based on statements in my article taken completely and intentionally out of context, for the purposes of making me out to be a dog-hater, in order to distract from the validity of my arguements.
"Why are you complaining about the dog birthday party? It didn't affect you, you should just mind your own business." Not completely true, since I choose to live in a society that does not advocate people holding pets to a higher standard of consideration and treatment than the people around them. It is my business when people around me start to develop an attitude and behavior that dictates their dogs deserve a birthday party as much as a little girl down the street who's parents can't afford to throw her one. And it became my business to criticize a dogs-are-as-important-as-children mind set when it's sitting in my living room.
You are free to think of me as an imbicile if you wish, but by the same rule, I am just as free to think of many dog lunatics as crazy dog lunatics. There is something to be said of excess and perspective (and humor, for that matter) that is lost on far too many, and that completely validates the content and intention of my article.
I trust this matter is now closed. We'll just have to agree to disagree. Jeez, people; learn how to take a joke and tolerate satire. If you can't, at least be honest in your own ignorance and resentment.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
A "Ruff" Reality Check
Quite an elaborate event it was, this party for Winston, my sister's baby. Let me give you the highlights.
The house was decorated with balloons, banners, and streamers. My sister had made individual cakes for every guest, sparing no expense and leaving out no detail. The guests arrived with their gifts in tow, the girls dressed in pretty pink dresses and the boys donning special birthday hats, and they all played together and posed for pictures. By all accounts, this birthday extravaganza was a great success.
Due to a prior engagement, my MacDonald clan was unable to attend Winston's first birthday celebration, but fortunately for everyone, pictures of the entire grand affair were posted on Facebook within hours.
At this point I'll mention, Winston is a dog.
The extent of this insanity almost has me at a loss for words. Almost.
I''m not a dog-hater. When I was about a year old, my parents got me a dog, a Retriever-Collie mix, who was the most gentle and mild-mannered pet in the world. Poor old Sherry lived until I was 12, and when she got sick and we had to put her down, I remember being upset that whole day. I don't recall needing Ativan or therapy, though.
Now our family has a medium-sized white dog named Bear MacDonald (not just Bear, but Bear MacDonald, as my youngest is quick to point out in any discussion). We're not sure exactly what kind of dog he is, but for reasons it would take too long to explain, we call him a Glace Bay Shih-Tzu. He's generally well behaved, and definitely a great dog to have with kids. I like our dog for the most part, although I could do without the shedding and necessity of hiring a dog-sitter every time we go away for the night. I mean really, a dog-sitter? One of the annoyances of pet ownership, I guess.
Would I be sad if something bad happened to Bear MacDonald? Yes, I would. I'd probably miss the sight of him playing with the kids and how happy he looks when we pull up in the car.
But would I need to be hospitalized to deal with my grief? Probably not.
What is it with people and their dogs? I'm not trying to generate nasty e-mails for myself, because I know a lot of people have great affection for their pets, but somewhere along the line people have forgotten that there is a difference between dogs and humans.
My sister is a maniacal example. She takes Winston for manicures and pedicures and fluffing and quaffing appointments on a very regular basis, and considers this pampering to be just a regular budgetary expense. Are you kidding me? I haven't had a manicure in years! When I have the extra money and time set aside, you can be sure I won't pile Bear MacDonald into the car to make sure he gets the royal treatment first. Dogs lived for thousands of years without esthetic services; I doubt this generation of pooches would be any worse off without them.
Now let's move on to clothes. "Dog" does not belong in the same sentence as the word "sweater", people. It just doesn't, period. It's always the people who claim to love their dog the most, who insist on dressing it up as a witch for Halloween, or something just as cruel and ridiculous, all for the sake of laughing at it and taking a picture. Animals aren't meant to wear clothes, and certainly not any that cost more than the ones I'm wearing right now. Sheesh.
Lastly, I'll tell you about the experience that led up to me writing this article. The whole buy-a-small-dog-and-carry-it-around-like-a-purse thing, and every Paris Hilton-esque habit that goes along with that, has been annoying me for quite some time, but recently one of these delusional dog-people said something that really insulted me. This person actually sat in my living room, tickling her pooch's belly and coochie-coochi-coo-ing with such obliviousness and ignorance that only a young 20-something could muster, and told me that my kids were no more special than her dog. And she meant it sincerely. Imagine.
To those people, I can only say: wake up. Your dog is cute. Your DOG. That you bought. That can't speak to you. That licks his privates when he's bored. That sniffs other dog's bums.
Sorry to all the dog lovers, but I'm hoping most of you realize that children are in a different league. If you disagree, please never have children. Just get another dog - a small one named Daughter of Nutcase with red-painted claws and wearing a Burberry jacket.
The house was decorated with balloons, banners, and streamers. My sister had made individual cakes for every guest, sparing no expense and leaving out no detail. The guests arrived with their gifts in tow, the girls dressed in pretty pink dresses and the boys donning special birthday hats, and they all played together and posed for pictures. By all accounts, this birthday extravaganza was a great success.
Due to a prior engagement, my MacDonald clan was unable to attend Winston's first birthday celebration, but fortunately for everyone, pictures of the entire grand affair were posted on Facebook within hours.
At this point I'll mention, Winston is a dog.
The extent of this insanity almost has me at a loss for words. Almost.
I''m not a dog-hater. When I was about a year old, my parents got me a dog, a Retriever-Collie mix, who was the most gentle and mild-mannered pet in the world. Poor old Sherry lived until I was 12, and when she got sick and we had to put her down, I remember being upset that whole day. I don't recall needing Ativan or therapy, though.
Now our family has a medium-sized white dog named Bear MacDonald (not just Bear, but Bear MacDonald, as my youngest is quick to point out in any discussion). We're not sure exactly what kind of dog he is, but for reasons it would take too long to explain, we call him a Glace Bay Shih-Tzu. He's generally well behaved, and definitely a great dog to have with kids. I like our dog for the most part, although I could do without the shedding and necessity of hiring a dog-sitter every time we go away for the night. I mean really, a dog-sitter? One of the annoyances of pet ownership, I guess.
Would I be sad if something bad happened to Bear MacDonald? Yes, I would. I'd probably miss the sight of him playing with the kids and how happy he looks when we pull up in the car.
But would I need to be hospitalized to deal with my grief? Probably not.
What is it with people and their dogs? I'm not trying to generate nasty e-mails for myself, because I know a lot of people have great affection for their pets, but somewhere along the line people have forgotten that there is a difference between dogs and humans.
My sister is a maniacal example. She takes Winston for manicures and pedicures and fluffing and quaffing appointments on a very regular basis, and considers this pampering to be just a regular budgetary expense. Are you kidding me? I haven't had a manicure in years! When I have the extra money and time set aside, you can be sure I won't pile Bear MacDonald into the car to make sure he gets the royal treatment first. Dogs lived for thousands of years without esthetic services; I doubt this generation of pooches would be any worse off without them.
Now let's move on to clothes. "Dog" does not belong in the same sentence as the word "sweater", people. It just doesn't, period. It's always the people who claim to love their dog the most, who insist on dressing it up as a witch for Halloween, or something just as cruel and ridiculous, all for the sake of laughing at it and taking a picture. Animals aren't meant to wear clothes, and certainly not any that cost more than the ones I'm wearing right now. Sheesh.
Lastly, I'll tell you about the experience that led up to me writing this article. The whole buy-a-small-dog-and-carry-it-around-like-a-purse thing, and every Paris Hilton-esque habit that goes along with that, has been annoying me for quite some time, but recently one of these delusional dog-people said something that really insulted me. This person actually sat in my living room, tickling her pooch's belly and coochie-coochi-coo-ing with such obliviousness and ignorance that only a young 20-something could muster, and told me that my kids were no more special than her dog. And she meant it sincerely. Imagine.
To those people, I can only say: wake up. Your dog is cute. Your DOG. That you bought. That can't speak to you. That licks his privates when he's bored. That sniffs other dog's bums.
Sorry to all the dog lovers, but I'm hoping most of you realize that children are in a different league. If you disagree, please never have children. Just get another dog - a small one named Daughter of Nutcase with red-painted claws and wearing a Burberry jacket.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Tasers - Unpopular Opinion?
When the topic of tasers comes up in conversation, most times there is no middle ground. Either people are completely opposed to their use, or completely for it.
I like to analyze most social issues, but this one seems pretty cut and dry to me.
I'm the type of person who doesn't get into trouble. As my friends and family know, I'm law abiding to a fault (I've been told my pestering can be annoying); sure, I may be guilty of going over the speed limit from time to time, but other than that, I'm the buckle-up, dope-is-for-losers, no-fighting, take-a-cab-if-you're-drinking, I'm-calling-the-cops girl, and proud of it.
That's why it's easy for me to be completely pro-taser - I don't have any fear of them.
Last I checked, no innocent person who is behaving themselves and minding their own business has been tased while out for a jog or at the grocery store. Even criminals under arrest aren't in any danger if they're co-operative.
I can, however, cite many examples of unarmed or under-armed police officers all over the world being injured or killed by violent offenders, both before, during and after an arrest.
My point is, police officers need to be armed, but if you keep your nose clean and stay out of trouble, tasers should be of no concern to your personal safety. You reap what you sow.
Because we live in a part of the world where violent crime isn't as common as in other places, it's easy for us to forget that being a cop is a dangerous job. They may not face confrontation on a regular basis, but when they have to, most of the time it is at their physical peril. The police encounter people in a different set of circumstances and a different mind set than most of us.
They have to pull cars over, respond to domestic incidents, and deal with many other unpredictable situations that, often times, pose a serious threat of harm. A person who gets pulled over for speeding might be just a soccer mom in a rush to make the game. But it could just as easily be a drug dealer with ten pounds of cocaine in his back seat, and who is more likely to take measures to get out of the situation, than he is to face the consequences and be arrested.
What's preferred? For an assailant to be tasered, or shot?
But critics disagree with me. There have been instances where people who have been tased have died after being shocked, and the families of these people have cried foul, causing the Justice Department to call for tests and studies and analysis of tasers, to determine whether or not they're "safe".
Well, guess what - they're not supposed to be safe. They're not supposed to shoot rainbows and play soft music. They're supposed to circumvent the use of lethal force (like guns) and debilitate an individual, neutralizing a potentially violent or out-of-control situation. Sure, there are people who react badly to the shock, but the same can be said of pepper spray and peanut butter, and you don't see Stockwell Day and the national media in a tizzy over that.
I'll give you some numbers. In a study conducted by a doctor at prominent North Carolina medical center (a study which has been used by Amnesty International in determining the health effects of conducted energy weapons), of 1000 people subjected to taser use, 99.7% had either minor injuries, such as scrapes or bruises, or no injuries at all. Three received injuries listed as "more serious". Two of the subjects died, but the autopsy concluded that neither death was related to the use of the taser, but rather to pre-existing medical conditions.
Those are acceptable odds in my books.
So I look at it like this: we can arm trained and experienced officers with weapons that will resolve a situation with minimal fatalities, minimal permanent injury, and maximum effectiveness; or, we can punish an entire workforce for a few rare occurrences involving death or irresponsible usage, by banning these devices and making firearms the only employable weapon available for them to use in an extreme situation.
It makes more sense to me to let the taser-worthy be tased; if you have a condition that you think will be adversely affected by an electric shock (or even if you don't), don't resist arrest, or, better yet, don't get arrested.
Maybe you disagree, and that's all right with me. Feel free to fight the power and challenge the status quo. But until they're banned entirely based on very compelling evidence, I will continue to support the authority of the RCMP, their judgement, and the use of tasers.
I like to analyze most social issues, but this one seems pretty cut and dry to me.
I'm the type of person who doesn't get into trouble. As my friends and family know, I'm law abiding to a fault (I've been told my pestering can be annoying); sure, I may be guilty of going over the speed limit from time to time, but other than that, I'm the buckle-up, dope-is-for-losers, no-fighting, take-a-cab-if-you're-drinking, I'm-calling-the-cops girl, and proud of it.
That's why it's easy for me to be completely pro-taser - I don't have any fear of them.
Last I checked, no innocent person who is behaving themselves and minding their own business has been tased while out for a jog or at the grocery store. Even criminals under arrest aren't in any danger if they're co-operative.
I can, however, cite many examples of unarmed or under-armed police officers all over the world being injured or killed by violent offenders, both before, during and after an arrest.
My point is, police officers need to be armed, but if you keep your nose clean and stay out of trouble, tasers should be of no concern to your personal safety. You reap what you sow.
Because we live in a part of the world where violent crime isn't as common as in other places, it's easy for us to forget that being a cop is a dangerous job. They may not face confrontation on a regular basis, but when they have to, most of the time it is at their physical peril. The police encounter people in a different set of circumstances and a different mind set than most of us.
They have to pull cars over, respond to domestic incidents, and deal with many other unpredictable situations that, often times, pose a serious threat of harm. A person who gets pulled over for speeding might be just a soccer mom in a rush to make the game. But it could just as easily be a drug dealer with ten pounds of cocaine in his back seat, and who is more likely to take measures to get out of the situation, than he is to face the consequences and be arrested.
What's preferred? For an assailant to be tasered, or shot?
But critics disagree with me. There have been instances where people who have been tased have died after being shocked, and the families of these people have cried foul, causing the Justice Department to call for tests and studies and analysis of tasers, to determine whether or not they're "safe".
Well, guess what - they're not supposed to be safe. They're not supposed to shoot rainbows and play soft music. They're supposed to circumvent the use of lethal force (like guns) and debilitate an individual, neutralizing a potentially violent or out-of-control situation. Sure, there are people who react badly to the shock, but the same can be said of pepper spray and peanut butter, and you don't see Stockwell Day and the national media in a tizzy over that.
I'll give you some numbers. In a study conducted by a doctor at prominent North Carolina medical center (a study which has been used by Amnesty International in determining the health effects of conducted energy weapons), of 1000 people subjected to taser use, 99.7% had either minor injuries, such as scrapes or bruises, or no injuries at all. Three received injuries listed as "more serious". Two of the subjects died, but the autopsy concluded that neither death was related to the use of the taser, but rather to pre-existing medical conditions.
Those are acceptable odds in my books.
So I look at it like this: we can arm trained and experienced officers with weapons that will resolve a situation with minimal fatalities, minimal permanent injury, and maximum effectiveness; or, we can punish an entire workforce for a few rare occurrences involving death or irresponsible usage, by banning these devices and making firearms the only employable weapon available for them to use in an extreme situation.
It makes more sense to me to let the taser-worthy be tased; if you have a condition that you think will be adversely affected by an electric shock (or even if you don't), don't resist arrest, or, better yet, don't get arrested.
Maybe you disagree, and that's all right with me. Feel free to fight the power and challenge the status quo. But until they're banned entirely based on very compelling evidence, I will continue to support the authority of the RCMP, their judgement, and the use of tasers.
Where Were You?
In the fall of 2001, I was sent to Yellowknife, Northwest Territories for a work conference. The prospect of traffic and crowds and noise, after being stuck in Nunavut for over a year with none of those things, was exciting indeed.
Meetings and training occupied most of my days over the course of the week-long conference. My evenings were spent shopping, dining, and walking around the city. I bought almost an entire new wardrobe, I ate at beautiful restaurants, I saw trees, and I acted every bit the tourist that I was.
After full days of working and spending money, I'd retire to my plush hotel room to watch television and get a good night's sleep. The hotel, meals, cabs - the whole shot - was paid by my employer, and I was loving every minute of my all-expense-paid vacation.
The night before I was scheduled to leave, I was in my room, packing and organizing my things, eating Chinese take-out, and watching music videos. I considered how lucky I was to be laying on a king-size bed in a terry bathrobe and slippers, with nothing to do but relax. Though I could have used a few more days of civilization, I was satisfied with my trip and anxious to return to Iqaluit. The time away had done me plenty of good, but now it was time to head back to the real world. I re-checked my plane ticket, ordered a wake-up call, and fell asleep soundly. Life was good.
My flight was scheduled to leave at 8:40am on Tuesday, September 11, 2001.
I woke up early that morning, at around 5:30am, so I'd have plenty of time to check out and get to the airport. After my shower, I turned on the television for some background noise and began getting ready. I barely noticed that the music videos had stopped and two people were speaking live, but a few unusual words caught my attention. Events in New York...urging everyone to turn on the news...pray for us all...what? What are they talking about?
I flipped through the channels without knowing what I was looking for, unaware of how many thoughts could swirl around in a person's head in just a few seconds. It didn't take me long to find live feed of the Twin Towers. Had I not received that ominous forewarning, I'd have thought I was watching a movie.
Two planes? That can't be a coincidence, can it? Wait, what time is it in New York? 9:20am. Wouldn't most people have been at work when this happened? How many people work in those buildings? How many per floor? How many floors would be taken out by a direct hit from a commercial airline? Were there passengers on these planes? How many people are already dead?
There were so many questions and so many frightening possible answers.
At some point, a room service lady had come into the room with my breakfast and noticed what was on the television. She sat beside me at the end of the bed and we both watched in silent astonishment. I doubt it was common for hotel staff to invite themselves into an occupied room, or for the occupant to not notice or care, but it was a unique circumstance. We never even spoke to each other.
And then the Pentagon.
What's going on here? Was it another plane? Isn't the Pentagon one of the most secure buildings in the world? There were already two crashes, why isn't anyone stopping these people? For God's sake, who are these people? Who would do something like this?
I was informed by someone that all flights in North America, mine included, had been grounded, so I was glued to the television without distraction. Maybe I was just too terrified to move. After the Pentagon, I watched news unfold of the other plane crashing in Pennsylvania. I watched the towers fall, two iconic pieces of New York landscape reduced to rubble in a matter of seconds. I heard panic and fear in the voices of firefighters, news anchors and families missing loved ones. Was this attack over? Or is this the beginning of Armageddon?
Many questions from that day remain unanswered more than seven years later. We can put the memory of that day behind us, but only until we relive the panic of the early hours, and our pulse starts to increase. And why shouldn't it? That's the morning the world, our lives, changed forever.
I don't why it's so important for people to share their story, but it seems to be important to just about everyone. Feel free to tell me yours.
Meetings and training occupied most of my days over the course of the week-long conference. My evenings were spent shopping, dining, and walking around the city. I bought almost an entire new wardrobe, I ate at beautiful restaurants, I saw trees, and I acted every bit the tourist that I was.
After full days of working and spending money, I'd retire to my plush hotel room to watch television and get a good night's sleep. The hotel, meals, cabs - the whole shot - was paid by my employer, and I was loving every minute of my all-expense-paid vacation.
The night before I was scheduled to leave, I was in my room, packing and organizing my things, eating Chinese take-out, and watching music videos. I considered how lucky I was to be laying on a king-size bed in a terry bathrobe and slippers, with nothing to do but relax. Though I could have used a few more days of civilization, I was satisfied with my trip and anxious to return to Iqaluit. The time away had done me plenty of good, but now it was time to head back to the real world. I re-checked my plane ticket, ordered a wake-up call, and fell asleep soundly. Life was good.
My flight was scheduled to leave at 8:40am on Tuesday, September 11, 2001.
I woke up early that morning, at around 5:30am, so I'd have plenty of time to check out and get to the airport. After my shower, I turned on the television for some background noise and began getting ready. I barely noticed that the music videos had stopped and two people were speaking live, but a few unusual words caught my attention. Events in New York...urging everyone to turn on the news...pray for us all...what? What are they talking about?
I flipped through the channels without knowing what I was looking for, unaware of how many thoughts could swirl around in a person's head in just a few seconds. It didn't take me long to find live feed of the Twin Towers. Had I not received that ominous forewarning, I'd have thought I was watching a movie.
Two planes? That can't be a coincidence, can it? Wait, what time is it in New York? 9:20am. Wouldn't most people have been at work when this happened? How many people work in those buildings? How many per floor? How many floors would be taken out by a direct hit from a commercial airline? Were there passengers on these planes? How many people are already dead?
There were so many questions and so many frightening possible answers.
At some point, a room service lady had come into the room with my breakfast and noticed what was on the television. She sat beside me at the end of the bed and we both watched in silent astonishment. I doubt it was common for hotel staff to invite themselves into an occupied room, or for the occupant to not notice or care, but it was a unique circumstance. We never even spoke to each other.
And then the Pentagon.
What's going on here? Was it another plane? Isn't the Pentagon one of the most secure buildings in the world? There were already two crashes, why isn't anyone stopping these people? For God's sake, who are these people? Who would do something like this?
I was informed by someone that all flights in North America, mine included, had been grounded, so I was glued to the television without distraction. Maybe I was just too terrified to move. After the Pentagon, I watched news unfold of the other plane crashing in Pennsylvania. I watched the towers fall, two iconic pieces of New York landscape reduced to rubble in a matter of seconds. I heard panic and fear in the voices of firefighters, news anchors and families missing loved ones. Was this attack over? Or is this the beginning of Armageddon?
Many questions from that day remain unanswered more than seven years later. We can put the memory of that day behind us, but only until we relive the panic of the early hours, and our pulse starts to increase. And why shouldn't it? That's the morning the world, our lives, changed forever.
I don't why it's so important for people to share their story, but it seems to be important to just about everyone. Feel free to tell me yours.
Political Potpourri
I enjoy politics, I can't help it. If you can bear with me for one more week of ranting, I promise to drop it once and for all. Probably.
Just a few words about the U.S. Vice Presidential debate, if I may.
Joe Biden and Sarah Palin threw down and entertained us all with a few hours of sound bites, as the world media waited with baited breath for Palin to make as much of a mockery of herself as she did in her interview with Katie Curic. However, much to the shock and disbelief of hundreds of thousands of people, she actually held her own. Kind of.
I think it's more accurate to say she didn't embarrass herself as badly as she was expected to. But whatever, potato-pototto.
Even I was surprised at how she was able to string sentences together, though I didn't let my short-lived tolerance distract me from the real issue.
Matt Damon said it best when he described Sarah Palin's candidacy as a really bad Disney movie; a nice looking hockey mom from the back woods of Alaska inexplicably finds herself in the middle of the race for the Vice Presidency (I'm sure the screenplays are rolling in already).
Part of me still can't grasp the reality that she's really there. How is it possible? John McCain took a huge risk and chose a less-than-mediocre running mate in what is arguably the most important election in the history of the United States.
But there she is, I have to deal with it. She just makes it so darn difficult!
"Ya no, doggone it, Jo - I'm jest wundrin' haw yer feancy peants ecka-nawmick pleans are gonna affect all the saccer mams up thare in little ol' Wassilly-a, ya no, whare I was the mayer fer a spell."
Ok, maybe that wasn't a direct quote, but I bet I could have convinced you it was.
I get the whole "trying-to-relate-to-regular-people" concept that all the candidates are trying so desperately to capture, but Palin is way too over the top. Based on her statements up to this point, she's already got a long road to hoe in terms of convincing the American public that the fate of their nation is safe in her hands, but I don't think dumbing herself down with this "folksy" routine is doing her any favors in the long run, either. Not only are the people of Alaska rolling their eyes every time she opens her mouth, but it's uncomfortable to watch for the rest of us, too. It's great comedy, but it's funnier to see a skit about her being an unqualified hillbilly on Saturday Night Live, than it is to watch her prove it in real time on CNN. Scary stuff.
She's pretty foxy, though. You never know - if this whole White House thing doesn't work out, maybe Larry Flynt...oh, nevermind.
On to local beefs.
This will be my first election as a citizen of Port Hawkesbury, and I was so looking forward to hearing from the candidates running for Council here in town. A pamphlet, a phone call, something.
The only person to have communicated with me in any capacity is a man who left a "sorry I missed you" card, even though I was looking at him through my kitchen window. How's that for effective campaigning?
Where were the campaigns? Is it me being out of the loop, or a serious lack of visibility by the people running for municipal council? I'm ready, willing and anxious for a politician to ask for my support, but at this point I have no idea who to vote for. Were it not for information in this newspaper, I wouldn't even know who is running. I need a candidate to tell me what they stand for, what they plan to do, and why I should vote for them instead of someone else.
I invite the candidates to send me an e-mail outlining why they're the best person for the job, so I'll know who to vote for.
Finally, I'll dole out a little advice.
While I didn't see any municipal hopefuls at my door, I did have the pleasure of welcoming two of the federal candidates, whose names I will not mention.
Here's a few tips for your future campaigning endeavors: first, gross, white pasty things in the corners of your mouth tend to distract from any conversation about economic policy. And second, don't expect to be met with a lot of enthusiastic support when you show up at someone's door after 9pm on a Tuesday, especially when all the lights are off because everyone was in bed.
Happy elections!
Just a few words about the U.S. Vice Presidential debate, if I may.
Joe Biden and Sarah Palin threw down and entertained us all with a few hours of sound bites, as the world media waited with baited breath for Palin to make as much of a mockery of herself as she did in her interview with Katie Curic. However, much to the shock and disbelief of hundreds of thousands of people, she actually held her own. Kind of.
I think it's more accurate to say she didn't embarrass herself as badly as she was expected to. But whatever, potato-pototto.
Even I was surprised at how she was able to string sentences together, though I didn't let my short-lived tolerance distract me from the real issue.
Matt Damon said it best when he described Sarah Palin's candidacy as a really bad Disney movie; a nice looking hockey mom from the back woods of Alaska inexplicably finds herself in the middle of the race for the Vice Presidency (I'm sure the screenplays are rolling in already).
Part of me still can't grasp the reality that she's really there. How is it possible? John McCain took a huge risk and chose a less-than-mediocre running mate in what is arguably the most important election in the history of the United States.
But there she is, I have to deal with it. She just makes it so darn difficult!
"Ya no, doggone it, Jo - I'm jest wundrin' haw yer feancy peants ecka-nawmick pleans are gonna affect all the saccer mams up thare in little ol' Wassilly-a, ya no, whare I was the mayer fer a spell."
Ok, maybe that wasn't a direct quote, but I bet I could have convinced you it was.
I get the whole "trying-to-relate-to-regular-people" concept that all the candidates are trying so desperately to capture, but Palin is way too over the top. Based on her statements up to this point, she's already got a long road to hoe in terms of convincing the American public that the fate of their nation is safe in her hands, but I don't think dumbing herself down with this "folksy" routine is doing her any favors in the long run, either. Not only are the people of Alaska rolling their eyes every time she opens her mouth, but it's uncomfortable to watch for the rest of us, too. It's great comedy, but it's funnier to see a skit about her being an unqualified hillbilly on Saturday Night Live, than it is to watch her prove it in real time on CNN. Scary stuff.
She's pretty foxy, though. You never know - if this whole White House thing doesn't work out, maybe Larry Flynt...oh, nevermind.
On to local beefs.
This will be my first election as a citizen of Port Hawkesbury, and I was so looking forward to hearing from the candidates running for Council here in town. A pamphlet, a phone call, something.
The only person to have communicated with me in any capacity is a man who left a "sorry I missed you" card, even though I was looking at him through my kitchen window. How's that for effective campaigning?
Where were the campaigns? Is it me being out of the loop, or a serious lack of visibility by the people running for municipal council? I'm ready, willing and anxious for a politician to ask for my support, but at this point I have no idea who to vote for. Were it not for information in this newspaper, I wouldn't even know who is running. I need a candidate to tell me what they stand for, what they plan to do, and why I should vote for them instead of someone else.
I invite the candidates to send me an e-mail outlining why they're the best person for the job, so I'll know who to vote for.
Finally, I'll dole out a little advice.
While I didn't see any municipal hopefuls at my door, I did have the pleasure of welcoming two of the federal candidates, whose names I will not mention.
Here's a few tips for your future campaigning endeavors: first, gross, white pasty things in the corners of your mouth tend to distract from any conversation about economic policy. And second, don't expect to be met with a lot of enthusiastic support when you show up at someone's door after 9pm on a Tuesday, especially when all the lights are off because everyone was in bed.
Happy elections!
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Praising My Pedagogues
With the new school year upon us, I thought I'd devote an article to something I think is very important: teachers.
My success in school is thanks in large part to a few outstanding teachers I was lucky enough to be placed with. Folks talk about the value of teachers all the time, but not many receive the appreciation they deserve. I'd like to give shout-outs to a few of my favorites.
My very first teacher was Mrs. Tena Touesnard from River Bourgeois. I came home from school every day and told my dad a new story about the famous "Mrs. Twa-nore", so much so that a variation of the word "Twa-nore" is his nickname for me to this very day. Had I had any other teacher my first day, I might never have had a positive attitude about school like I did. So thank you, Mrs. Touesnard.
In grade one, and in later grades as well, I had Mme. Madeline Boudreau. She is largely responsible for the successful formation and promotion of a dance group I was in with two friends, called "The Awesome Threesome" (insert snicker here, but being 11 we didn't know any better). We danced to popular mid-90's music, even travelling to other schools in the area to perform. We wore black stirrup pants and neon t-shirts, on purpose. I'll give you a moment to regain your composure.
Done laughing yet? Good, thanks.
As I was saying, Mme. Boudreau was a great advocate for girls in our school, and she encouraged us to use every skill we had, be it essay writing or dancing, to better ourselves. Thank you for that, Mme. Boudreau.
One of my favorite teachers ever was Mr. Marcel LeBlanc in grade four. He wasn't big on homework for the sake of homework, especially if you knew how to do it already. His class was fun, and he even gave us gum sometimes, which is a big deal in grade four. I got my first 'B' in Mr. LeBlanc's class, and I remember him trying not to laugh when I stood bawling at his desk in anguish. He "reworked" the numbers and bumped it up to an A-. I've never forgotten than, Mr. LeBlanc.
Since Language Arts was always my favorite subject, Mrs. Leona Campbell & Mrs. Lynn Wambolt were probably the two most influential teachers I ever had. Both decided early on that they would not settle for less than I was capable of, and when I got lazy with my work, they called me on it and quickly put me back in gear. They fostered my love of books and writing, and made me believe I was smart. For this, I will be eternally grateful.
Also on my favorites list from elementary school is a rather dry fellow by the name of Mr. Joe Cooke. At 13, we weren't old enough to appreciate his unique brand of sarcasm and humor, but looking back, he was quite funny. All I can do to thank you, Sir, is to apologize for being so terrible in math. It just never took.
High school, as it was for most people, was less about education and more about socializing for me. My record isn't quite as stellar from my time at SPDH, but there were still a few very patient teachers who kept me on track.
Shout out to Mr. Dave Fraser, who I know is reading this. Hi, Dave! We all loved his computer class, probably much more than it loved us. But thanks.
Mr. Hilary Campbell was everyone's favorite. He worked you hard and didn't put up with much baloney, but man, he was good for a laugh. Every day he had a joke to tell us, and when we got too rowdy, he'd say, "you guys be quiet, it sounds like Wal-Mart in here!" My friends and I talk about you often, Mr. Campbell.
Last but not least, Mr. Keith MacDonald, my grade twelve English teacher. He had little patience for people who didn't apply themselves, but what an amazing mentor for those of us who enjoyed writing and being nerds. I could have conversations with Keith that were at once educational, practical, and inspirational. More than anyone else, he made me want to succeed in whichever field I chose. In fact, when I first started writing for The Reporter, Mr. MacDonald is one of the first people I contacted to share the news. It's amazing the clarity and motivation that comes with having pieces of chalk thrown at you until you get an answer right. Thanks, Keith.
Next time you see a former teacher, it's worth your time and energy to stop and say hello, I'm sure they'd appreciate it. And God knows, having put up with us, they deserve it.
My success in school is thanks in large part to a few outstanding teachers I was lucky enough to be placed with. Folks talk about the value of teachers all the time, but not many receive the appreciation they deserve. I'd like to give shout-outs to a few of my favorites.
My very first teacher was Mrs. Tena Touesnard from River Bourgeois. I came home from school every day and told my dad a new story about the famous "Mrs. Twa-nore", so much so that a variation of the word "Twa-nore" is his nickname for me to this very day. Had I had any other teacher my first day, I might never have had a positive attitude about school like I did. So thank you, Mrs. Touesnard.
In grade one, and in later grades as well, I had Mme. Madeline Boudreau. She is largely responsible for the successful formation and promotion of a dance group I was in with two friends, called "The Awesome Threesome" (insert snicker here, but being 11 we didn't know any better). We danced to popular mid-90's music, even travelling to other schools in the area to perform. We wore black stirrup pants and neon t-shirts, on purpose. I'll give you a moment to regain your composure.
Done laughing yet? Good, thanks.
As I was saying, Mme. Boudreau was a great advocate for girls in our school, and she encouraged us to use every skill we had, be it essay writing or dancing, to better ourselves. Thank you for that, Mme. Boudreau.
One of my favorite teachers ever was Mr. Marcel LeBlanc in grade four. He wasn't big on homework for the sake of homework, especially if you knew how to do it already. His class was fun, and he even gave us gum sometimes, which is a big deal in grade four. I got my first 'B' in Mr. LeBlanc's class, and I remember him trying not to laugh when I stood bawling at his desk in anguish. He "reworked" the numbers and bumped it up to an A-. I've never forgotten than, Mr. LeBlanc.
Since Language Arts was always my favorite subject, Mrs. Leona Campbell & Mrs. Lynn Wambolt were probably the two most influential teachers I ever had. Both decided early on that they would not settle for less than I was capable of, and when I got lazy with my work, they called me on it and quickly put me back in gear. They fostered my love of books and writing, and made me believe I was smart. For this, I will be eternally grateful.
Also on my favorites list from elementary school is a rather dry fellow by the name of Mr. Joe Cooke. At 13, we weren't old enough to appreciate his unique brand of sarcasm and humor, but looking back, he was quite funny. All I can do to thank you, Sir, is to apologize for being so terrible in math. It just never took.
High school, as it was for most people, was less about education and more about socializing for me. My record isn't quite as stellar from my time at SPDH, but there were still a few very patient teachers who kept me on track.
Shout out to Mr. Dave Fraser, who I know is reading this. Hi, Dave! We all loved his computer class, probably much more than it loved us. But thanks.
Mr. Hilary Campbell was everyone's favorite. He worked you hard and didn't put up with much baloney, but man, he was good for a laugh. Every day he had a joke to tell us, and when we got too rowdy, he'd say, "you guys be quiet, it sounds like Wal-Mart in here!" My friends and I talk about you often, Mr. Campbell.
Last but not least, Mr. Keith MacDonald, my grade twelve English teacher. He had little patience for people who didn't apply themselves, but what an amazing mentor for those of us who enjoyed writing and being nerds. I could have conversations with Keith that were at once educational, practical, and inspirational. More than anyone else, he made me want to succeed in whichever field I chose. In fact, when I first started writing for The Reporter, Mr. MacDonald is one of the first people I contacted to share the news. It's amazing the clarity and motivation that comes with having pieces of chalk thrown at you until you get an answer right. Thanks, Keith.
Next time you see a former teacher, it's worth your time and energy to stop and say hello, I'm sure they'd appreciate it. And God knows, having put up with us, they deserve it.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
The Palin Problem
Is it just me, or has the U.S. Presidential election become a big chick-fest?
First, it was Hilary and her historical campaign. Next, the media shone the spotlight on Michelle Obama. Cindy McCain got her fifteen minutes too, but now we're barraged with the newest girl on the block, Republican Vice Presidential nominee Sarah Palin.
As I mentioned in a previous article, I'm not 100% in favor of a woman in the White House, and the election coverage from the past few weeks is a perfect example of why.
All of the above-mentioned women are smart, to say the least. They have Master's Degrees, Doctorates, proven leadership abilities, skills in countless areas, and years of work and life experience.
They have run businesses, organizations, and even towns. They have established charities, relief efforts, and legislation. They have managed finances, employees & families.
Are they any less capable than their male counterparts? Generally speaking, no. But will they ever be taken as seriously? Probably not.
Somewhere between Pat Benetar and Miley Cyrus, the women's movement regressed significantly. The image of power and dominance in the workplace has, in many circumstances, been replaced with an irrelevance of sorts, an embarrassing, demeaning, no-girls-allowed-in-the-boys'-club type of stigma.
Senators Obama & McCain are synonymous with issues, law & policy, while the women, no matter how hard they try to be serious, will always be talked about in the context of frivolity and ''politics lite''. It's as if the pundits & public alike still imagine these accomplished women settling debates by way of pillow fighting, followed by a cup of tea and a good cry.
In the same issue of a prominent newspaper, articles about the Senators talked about their positions on health care reform, while an article about Hilary Clinton contained a detailed breakdown of the cost of the outfit she wore at the Democratic Convention. Similarly, there was an article about Joe Biden's take on Iran, and a story about Gov. Palin's possible affair with her husband's business partner. Why? You don't see, "Obama: Boxers or Briefs?" making headlines.
Now consider the Republican Party for a moment. John McCain, among others, has spent the past year criticizing Obama's lack of experience; as a matter of fact, I would fairly say that is their main point of contention with Obama's candidacy.
Then McCain announces, in a much-anticipated, make-or-break campaign move, out of the dozens of qualified and suitable candidates for Vice President, he's chosen Sarah Palin.
Palin is the Governor of Alaska. Before that she was a sportscaster, city council member, Mayor of her town for two years, and led the State Energy Commission. Not exactly a glowing resume for someone who could potentially, considering John McCain's age and health, be in charge of running one of the largest and most influential nations on Earth.
Without making this a job-by-job comparison, I'll say that Obama's experience is considerably more impressive, especially on a national level.
What a perfect example of the pot calling the kettle black. The biggest case the GOP has against Obama is inexperience, and McCain chooses someone even greener to be his running mate. Classic.
Maybe he thought she'd attract Democratic defectors, acting as a replacement for Hilary. Perhaps he thought a fresh face would be better for the campaign than a Washington regular. Either way, his choice for V.P. was intentional, and (one would think) well thought out by many a campaign advisor. I'm sure there is some intelligent method to his madness, isn't there?
Or did he just choose her because he needed an attention-grabbing figure? Someone the press could and would talk about, who's wardrobe they could scrutinize, whose marriage they could investigate, who's family they could criticize, and who's life they could pick apart. Someone who's professional relevance they could ignore in favor of concentrating on the more sensational aspects of their life.
Maybe John could sense that he's too boring. That his wife, Stepford personified, isn't terribly exciting either. And that Obama is too far ahead for him to rely on conventional methods to catch up. After all, he'd be doing all the work, who cares what experience the Vice President has? He just needs a star to join his team so the media can usher him into the White House.
The point is, if Sarah Palin was a man, John McCain would have passed over his credentials with a laugh. His motive was to take advantage of the public's appetite for esthetic and style and scandal, while half-heartedly trying to convince us all that he picked "the best candidate for the job". Yeah right.
I hope the day comes when leadership is genderless, but Sarah Palin's nomination isn't bringing us any closer to that day.
First, it was Hilary and her historical campaign. Next, the media shone the spotlight on Michelle Obama. Cindy McCain got her fifteen minutes too, but now we're barraged with the newest girl on the block, Republican Vice Presidential nominee Sarah Palin.
As I mentioned in a previous article, I'm not 100% in favor of a woman in the White House, and the election coverage from the past few weeks is a perfect example of why.
All of the above-mentioned women are smart, to say the least. They have Master's Degrees, Doctorates, proven leadership abilities, skills in countless areas, and years of work and life experience.
They have run businesses, organizations, and even towns. They have established charities, relief efforts, and legislation. They have managed finances, employees & families.
Are they any less capable than their male counterparts? Generally speaking, no. But will they ever be taken as seriously? Probably not.
Somewhere between Pat Benetar and Miley Cyrus, the women's movement regressed significantly. The image of power and dominance in the workplace has, in many circumstances, been replaced with an irrelevance of sorts, an embarrassing, demeaning, no-girls-allowed-in-the-boys'-club type of stigma.
Senators Obama & McCain are synonymous with issues, law & policy, while the women, no matter how hard they try to be serious, will always be talked about in the context of frivolity and ''politics lite''. It's as if the pundits & public alike still imagine these accomplished women settling debates by way of pillow fighting, followed by a cup of tea and a good cry.
In the same issue of a prominent newspaper, articles about the Senators talked about their positions on health care reform, while an article about Hilary Clinton contained a detailed breakdown of the cost of the outfit she wore at the Democratic Convention. Similarly, there was an article about Joe Biden's take on Iran, and a story about Gov. Palin's possible affair with her husband's business partner. Why? You don't see, "Obama: Boxers or Briefs?" making headlines.
Now consider the Republican Party for a moment. John McCain, among others, has spent the past year criticizing Obama's lack of experience; as a matter of fact, I would fairly say that is their main point of contention with Obama's candidacy.
Then McCain announces, in a much-anticipated, make-or-break campaign move, out of the dozens of qualified and suitable candidates for Vice President, he's chosen Sarah Palin.
Palin is the Governor of Alaska. Before that she was a sportscaster, city council member, Mayor of her town for two years, and led the State Energy Commission. Not exactly a glowing resume for someone who could potentially, considering John McCain's age and health, be in charge of running one of the largest and most influential nations on Earth.
Without making this a job-by-job comparison, I'll say that Obama's experience is considerably more impressive, especially on a national level.
What a perfect example of the pot calling the kettle black. The biggest case the GOP has against Obama is inexperience, and McCain chooses someone even greener to be his running mate. Classic.
Maybe he thought she'd attract Democratic defectors, acting as a replacement for Hilary. Perhaps he thought a fresh face would be better for the campaign than a Washington regular. Either way, his choice for V.P. was intentional, and (one would think) well thought out by many a campaign advisor. I'm sure there is some intelligent method to his madness, isn't there?
Or did he just choose her because he needed an attention-grabbing figure? Someone the press could and would talk about, who's wardrobe they could scrutinize, whose marriage they could investigate, who's family they could criticize, and who's life they could pick apart. Someone who's professional relevance they could ignore in favor of concentrating on the more sensational aspects of their life.
Maybe John could sense that he's too boring. That his wife, Stepford personified, isn't terribly exciting either. And that Obama is too far ahead for him to rely on conventional methods to catch up. After all, he'd be doing all the work, who cares what experience the Vice President has? He just needs a star to join his team so the media can usher him into the White House.
The point is, if Sarah Palin was a man, John McCain would have passed over his credentials with a laugh. His motive was to take advantage of the public's appetite for esthetic and style and scandal, while half-heartedly trying to convince us all that he picked "the best candidate for the job". Yeah right.
I hope the day comes when leadership is genderless, but Sarah Palin's nomination isn't bringing us any closer to that day.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
The Dreaded Nunavut Articles, Part 2
In my last blog, I outlined my lonely 10-month stay in Qikiqtarjuaq on Baffin Island.
As I mentioned, I was very optimistic about my move to Iqaluit. I had been hired for a job so very out of my league, that I almost couldn't believe my good fortune. While I did have some experience in the legal field, the position of Executive Director of the Law Society (the Nunavut equivalent to the Nova Scotia Barrister's Society) was a job professionals in "the South" aspired to after many years of education and experience. Here I was, now a 22-year-old, never having made more than $10 per hour or so as a waitress, earning a salary higher than most people who work at NewPage.
That probably sounds great, doesn't it? On paper, it sure seemed to be. It was only when I actually got to know Iqaluit a little better that I realized the cost of making close to six figures.
When I first moved to town, I lived in a place called "White Row", and it was about as glamorous as it sounds. It was a bargain at $800 per month, but it required me to have two roommates, and there was no room to be choosy in that department. The result was me living with a girl around my age, and a much older woman with severe personal hygiene issues.
Since Iqaluit's population was 60% white, I didn't have to deal with a fraction of the racial harassment in the city as I did further North, but the underlying tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. And it was easy to imagine why the native people would harbor such resentment; people living off the land for centuries were suddenly thrust into a completely different lifestyle, and forced to deal with the by-products of that change, many of which were understandably difficult for them to adjust to. I sympathized with the Inuit, and I still do.
The landscape, both in terms of geography and infrastructure, was bleak. Iqaluit is a very barren place. The land itself is always one of two things: white when there's snow, and brown when it melts. There was not even a single tree. You'll never realize how beautiful trees and plants and grass are until you make your home in a place with none.
As far as amenities went, the view wasn't much better. There were a few stores, a bank, a post office, a small movie theatre...necessities, but not many luxuries. When Subway set up camp, a foot-long would set you back an easy $15, but the high cost was welcome considering the frightening local restaurant practices.
Nightlife, while easily a novel in itself, consisted of a bar and the local Legion. So much chaos, misery, destruction, crime, death, and trouble of every variety was generated as a result of alcohol consumption in that city, I can't even begin to describe it to you. Trust me when I tell you, even Cape Breton (with it's reputation for turning out epic partiers) doesn't hold a candle.
I can tell I'm running out of words, and I haven't even made a dent in the story of Iqaluit.
The Arctic is much like a diorama - a world within a world. You can tell people stories about it until you're blue in the face, but no quantity of information can make a person understand life there unless they've lived it themselves.
It's amazing to me, in hindsight, the things we all take advantage of.
Sometimes I find myself just staring outside in the spring. Green is a beautiful color.
To be able to jump in your car and drive somewhere is freedom. I've heard people who live in Fort McMurray complain about isolation, when in fact they have no idea what isolation really is. Isolation is living on an island in the Arctic where there are no roads out. Isolation is having no access to the civilized world unless and until the finances are in place, plans are made, and the weather cooperates. Isolation is having a death in your family in Nova Scotia, and not being able to make it to the funeral on Tuesday because of fog, or because the next flight out only leaves on Wednesday.
To close, I'll tell you there are three very important things I took with me from Iqaluit.
First, I can better appreciate lovely and serene Cape Breton Island.
Second, I have a comaraderie with other "troops who have made it through the war", whether or not we like each other.
Lastly, and most importantly, money can not buy happiness, and don't let anyone convince you otherwise.
I'd love to have Iqaluit's money, but the cost of wealth is greater than I'm willing to pay.
As I mentioned, I was very optimistic about my move to Iqaluit. I had been hired for a job so very out of my league, that I almost couldn't believe my good fortune. While I did have some experience in the legal field, the position of Executive Director of the Law Society (the Nunavut equivalent to the Nova Scotia Barrister's Society) was a job professionals in "the South" aspired to after many years of education and experience. Here I was, now a 22-year-old, never having made more than $10 per hour or so as a waitress, earning a salary higher than most people who work at NewPage.
That probably sounds great, doesn't it? On paper, it sure seemed to be. It was only when I actually got to know Iqaluit a little better that I realized the cost of making close to six figures.
When I first moved to town, I lived in a place called "White Row", and it was about as glamorous as it sounds. It was a bargain at $800 per month, but it required me to have two roommates, and there was no room to be choosy in that department. The result was me living with a girl around my age, and a much older woman with severe personal hygiene issues.
Since Iqaluit's population was 60% white, I didn't have to deal with a fraction of the racial harassment in the city as I did further North, but the underlying tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. And it was easy to imagine why the native people would harbor such resentment; people living off the land for centuries were suddenly thrust into a completely different lifestyle, and forced to deal with the by-products of that change, many of which were understandably difficult for them to adjust to. I sympathized with the Inuit, and I still do.
The landscape, both in terms of geography and infrastructure, was bleak. Iqaluit is a very barren place. The land itself is always one of two things: white when there's snow, and brown when it melts. There was not even a single tree. You'll never realize how beautiful trees and plants and grass are until you make your home in a place with none.
As far as amenities went, the view wasn't much better. There were a few stores, a bank, a post office, a small movie theatre...necessities, but not many luxuries. When Subway set up camp, a foot-long would set you back an easy $15, but the high cost was welcome considering the frightening local restaurant practices.
Nightlife, while easily a novel in itself, consisted of a bar and the local Legion. So much chaos, misery, destruction, crime, death, and trouble of every variety was generated as a result of alcohol consumption in that city, I can't even begin to describe it to you. Trust me when I tell you, even Cape Breton (with it's reputation for turning out epic partiers) doesn't hold a candle.
I can tell I'm running out of words, and I haven't even made a dent in the story of Iqaluit.
The Arctic is much like a diorama - a world within a world. You can tell people stories about it until you're blue in the face, but no quantity of information can make a person understand life there unless they've lived it themselves.
It's amazing to me, in hindsight, the things we all take advantage of.
Sometimes I find myself just staring outside in the spring. Green is a beautiful color.
To be able to jump in your car and drive somewhere is freedom. I've heard people who live in Fort McMurray complain about isolation, when in fact they have no idea what isolation really is. Isolation is living on an island in the Arctic where there are no roads out. Isolation is having no access to the civilized world unless and until the finances are in place, plans are made, and the weather cooperates. Isolation is having a death in your family in Nova Scotia, and not being able to make it to the funeral on Tuesday because of fog, or because the next flight out only leaves on Wednesday.
To close, I'll tell you there are three very important things I took with me from Iqaluit.
First, I can better appreciate lovely and serene Cape Breton Island.
Second, I have a comaraderie with other "troops who have made it through the war", whether or not we like each other.
Lastly, and most importantly, money can not buy happiness, and don't let anyone convince you otherwise.
I'd love to have Iqaluit's money, but the cost of wealth is greater than I'm willing to pay.
The Dreaded Nunavut Articles, Part 1
I've been asked numerous times to write an article about living in the North. I've been avoiding it like the plague, partly because I don't enjoy reminiscing about my time there, and partly because I know I'll never be able to explain it properly in a single newspaper article.
I've decided to tell you about the Arctic by describing life in the two communities which I called home.
To be clear, in 2000, I moved to a very small town (pop. circa 300) called Qikitarjuaq, a tiny hamlet on the eastern coast of Baffin Island. You'll spend a day trying to figure out how to pronounce it, so let me help: kick-kick-tar-jou-ack.
My record of employment described me as "college professor". I worked at the satellite campus of Nunavut Arctic College, and I was hired to teach an English foundation program for the Inuit students in the community. My lesson plans included Law, Human Relations, Math, and Accounting.
Now I'll tell you what I really did. That "college professor" was just a 21-year-old from Nova Scotia with no Education degree or teaching experience. The satellite campus was a building roughly the size of my living room. The students were random adults who would get a monthly Co-op grocery credit if they enrolled in post-secondary studies. And my lesson plans ended up being scrapped in favor of "this is the letter 'L'. It sounds like 'l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l'."
I was paid almost $50 per hour to teach phonics to non-English-speaking students who had no interest in listening to a single word I had to say.
It's a good thing the money was so over the top. Since there was only one store (the grocery store, with a very limited selection of food and a bit of giftware), I was able to save almost every dollar I made and pay off my astronomical student loans. Thank you, Government of Nunavut.
However, had I been paid even a dollar less, I would have said goodbye to Qikiqtarjuaq long before I actually did. So miserable was my experience there, it couldn't even be thoroughly described in my first, 1800 word draft of this article. I've left out the parts about suicide rates, nail polish remover under lock and key due to substance abuse problems in the community, liquor bans, polar bears, crime, and $70 cans of expired lobster meat. There are bigger issues to tell you about.
Like how, for the first time in my life, I was a very visible minority.
I was one of only a handful of white people who lived in the community. There were only five other women, and none under 40.
You can imagine how much I was liked by the local female 20-something crowd.
My term lasted ten months, and those were the longest, loneliest ten months of my life. I didn't have a single friend. I never left my house once, aside from going to work or the grocery store, mostly because people would call me vile names, accuse me of "stealing their jobs", and throw rocks at me from the open windows of their houses. The only way out was by plane, a once-weekly flight on a five-seater plane that would take you to Iqaluit, from which there wasn't any escape either. It was isolation the likes of which I could never have imagined.
Adding to my experience was the weather. North of 60 degrees latitude, winters cloaked the land 23 hours of darkness. In summer, the opposite, and garbage bags had to be taped to windows since the sun streaming into your bedroom at three in the morning made it too hard to sleep.
I'm sure I don't have to describe the cold, the many days of -50 degrees and icebergs in August. It was misery.
Needless to say, I spent a lot of time reading and missing home.
But what was my alternative? I could come home to toil for minimum wage in Cape Breton, spending almost $2000 on my trip home and never getting ahead; or, I could suck it up, make a mint, and then leave when I was finished. I chose the latter, and at times, I'm glad I did.
After nine months or so, I started applying for jobs in Iqlauit. At the time, a city of a few thousand seemed like a huge metropolis, and I dreamed about the possibility of career success, a great salary, some shopping (finally!), and even some friends. I was hired to be the Executive Director of the Law Society of Nunavut, and after finding an apartment, I booked my flight, packed my things, and left with a big ol' smile on my face knowing I'd never have to set foot in Qikiqtarjuaq again.
Stay tuned for Part 2....
I've decided to tell you about the Arctic by describing life in the two communities which I called home.
To be clear, in 2000, I moved to a very small town (pop. circa 300) called Qikitarjuaq, a tiny hamlet on the eastern coast of Baffin Island. You'll spend a day trying to figure out how to pronounce it, so let me help: kick-kick-tar-jou-ack.
My record of employment described me as "college professor". I worked at the satellite campus of Nunavut Arctic College, and I was hired to teach an English foundation program for the Inuit students in the community. My lesson plans included Law, Human Relations, Math, and Accounting.
Now I'll tell you what I really did. That "college professor" was just a 21-year-old from Nova Scotia with no Education degree or teaching experience. The satellite campus was a building roughly the size of my living room. The students were random adults who would get a monthly Co-op grocery credit if they enrolled in post-secondary studies. And my lesson plans ended up being scrapped in favor of "this is the letter 'L'. It sounds like 'l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l'."
I was paid almost $50 per hour to teach phonics to non-English-speaking students who had no interest in listening to a single word I had to say.
It's a good thing the money was so over the top. Since there was only one store (the grocery store, with a very limited selection of food and a bit of giftware), I was able to save almost every dollar I made and pay off my astronomical student loans. Thank you, Government of Nunavut.
However, had I been paid even a dollar less, I would have said goodbye to Qikiqtarjuaq long before I actually did. So miserable was my experience there, it couldn't even be thoroughly described in my first, 1800 word draft of this article. I've left out the parts about suicide rates, nail polish remover under lock and key due to substance abuse problems in the community, liquor bans, polar bears, crime, and $70 cans of expired lobster meat. There are bigger issues to tell you about.
Like how, for the first time in my life, I was a very visible minority.
I was one of only a handful of white people who lived in the community. There were only five other women, and none under 40.
You can imagine how much I was liked by the local female 20-something crowd.
My term lasted ten months, and those were the longest, loneliest ten months of my life. I didn't have a single friend. I never left my house once, aside from going to work or the grocery store, mostly because people would call me vile names, accuse me of "stealing their jobs", and throw rocks at me from the open windows of their houses. The only way out was by plane, a once-weekly flight on a five-seater plane that would take you to Iqaluit, from which there wasn't any escape either. It was isolation the likes of which I could never have imagined.
Adding to my experience was the weather. North of 60 degrees latitude, winters cloaked the land 23 hours of darkness. In summer, the opposite, and garbage bags had to be taped to windows since the sun streaming into your bedroom at three in the morning made it too hard to sleep.
I'm sure I don't have to describe the cold, the many days of -50 degrees and icebergs in August. It was misery.
Needless to say, I spent a lot of time reading and missing home.
But what was my alternative? I could come home to toil for minimum wage in Cape Breton, spending almost $2000 on my trip home and never getting ahead; or, I could suck it up, make a mint, and then leave when I was finished. I chose the latter, and at times, I'm glad I did.
After nine months or so, I started applying for jobs in Iqlauit. At the time, a city of a few thousand seemed like a huge metropolis, and I dreamed about the possibility of career success, a great salary, some shopping (finally!), and even some friends. I was hired to be the Executive Director of the Law Society of Nunavut, and after finding an apartment, I booked my flight, packed my things, and left with a big ol' smile on my face knowing I'd never have to set foot in Qikiqtarjuaq again.
Stay tuned for Part 2....
eBay
It started with a particular dress I had been looking for. Over the next few weeks, it grew to a few pair of pants and one or two shirts. Three months later, it has escalated into full wardrobes, literally.
Friends, I'm talking about eBay.
I blame the whole thing on my friend Tracey. Should a full-scale intervention ever become necessary, I expect her to be at the core of the rehabilitation efforts.
I had never ordered from eBay before Tracey, like a paid promoter, filled me in on the benefits of shopping on the site. As a huge fan of instant gratification, I wasn't sure that waiting a few weeks for a sweater to be shipped from Kalamazoo was the right move for me, but she assured me it would be well worth the wait.
And she was right. To see the, "Congratulations! You're the winning bidder!" announcement pop up on my screen was pure online bliss. Soon I found myself seeing it more, and more, and more...you get the picture.
Once I had already sold my soul to the eBay demons and was officially addicted, she managed to make things even worse. "Type in 'lot of Old Navy size 10' and watch what comes up," she said. It seemed innocent enough at the time, but little did I know what a massive can of worms I was opening.
Had I known I could buy clothes in lots for my rapidly-growing, notoriously-unconscientious children (who go though clothes as if there are Gap trees growing in our front yard), I would have jumped on that bandwagon long ago.
I won't tell you how many hours I've spent searching that web site for deals on clothes. I won't tell you how many lots I've bid on and lost. Nor will I tell you how many I've won, you'd be disgusted. However, I will tell you that neither of my kids will require new frocks until at least the end of the century.
It's not that they didn't need new clothes; on the contrary, especially with school starting in a few weeks and shorts season winding to a close. But normally fall involves a few new pairs of pants, a few new shirts, a jacket, and a pair of sneakers. This year, some of those items will number in the dozens, which is grossly excessive for a penny pincher like me.
But really, how could I leave it there? Someone is going to make off with a bunch of brand name clothes, most of which aren't even available for purchase in Cape Breton, and sometimes for less than what you'd pay for gas to get to the mall and back. Why shouldn't that person be me?
At least that's what I tell myself to justify my actions. I know how ridiculous it is.
After all, it's not only clothes I buy. A simple conversation about teeth whitening strips, which are available in at least four stores in Port Hawkesbury, turned into a wild eBay goose-chase, in an attempt to find them for cheaper. Thirty mintues and 10cc's of dentist-strength, 65% potent whitening gel later, I had saved myself $25 and a trip to the drug store. Waste of time and energy, when I could have just gone out to buy them that afternoon? Maybe. Waste of money? No way. I'm all about a bargain, waiting or no waiting.
It's actually quite a thrill to go to the post office these days. Will I have a package? Perhaps an envelope? The drive to Pitt Street is filled with the anticipation of finding a little white parcel card in my mailbox. It even feels good when it's jammed in between two bills.
It was at that very place last week when I realized my eBay habit might be a bit much. The woman behind the counter actually commented on how many packages I receive, so after assuring her that the customs declarations were proof of the legality of my transactions (one can ever be too careful in matters of suspicion when it comes to Canada Post), I decided I might need to re-evaluate my shopping situation.
I have vowed to not search for or buy anything else from eBay at least until the rest of my shipments come in. I know that doesn't sound very impressive an act of restraint, but if you were home all day with a laptop, you'd understand. And the way I see it, once I receive all the jerseys, video games, cosmetics, books, Halloween costumes, electronics, kitchen decor, computer software, and action figures, that will probably hold me over for awhile.
In the meantime, I'm going to ask Tracey to help me organize a really successful yard sale. It's all her fault, you know.
Friends, I'm talking about eBay.
I blame the whole thing on my friend Tracey. Should a full-scale intervention ever become necessary, I expect her to be at the core of the rehabilitation efforts.
I had never ordered from eBay before Tracey, like a paid promoter, filled me in on the benefits of shopping on the site. As a huge fan of instant gratification, I wasn't sure that waiting a few weeks for a sweater to be shipped from Kalamazoo was the right move for me, but she assured me it would be well worth the wait.
And she was right. To see the, "Congratulations! You're the winning bidder!" announcement pop up on my screen was pure online bliss. Soon I found myself seeing it more, and more, and more...you get the picture.
Once I had already sold my soul to the eBay demons and was officially addicted, she managed to make things even worse. "Type in 'lot of Old Navy size 10' and watch what comes up," she said. It seemed innocent enough at the time, but little did I know what a massive can of worms I was opening.
Had I known I could buy clothes in lots for my rapidly-growing, notoriously-unconscientious children (who go though clothes as if there are Gap trees growing in our front yard), I would have jumped on that bandwagon long ago.
I won't tell you how many hours I've spent searching that web site for deals on clothes. I won't tell you how many lots I've bid on and lost. Nor will I tell you how many I've won, you'd be disgusted. However, I will tell you that neither of my kids will require new frocks until at least the end of the century.
It's not that they didn't need new clothes; on the contrary, especially with school starting in a few weeks and shorts season winding to a close. But normally fall involves a few new pairs of pants, a few new shirts, a jacket, and a pair of sneakers. This year, some of those items will number in the dozens, which is grossly excessive for a penny pincher like me.
But really, how could I leave it there? Someone is going to make off with a bunch of brand name clothes, most of which aren't even available for purchase in Cape Breton, and sometimes for less than what you'd pay for gas to get to the mall and back. Why shouldn't that person be me?
At least that's what I tell myself to justify my actions. I know how ridiculous it is.
After all, it's not only clothes I buy. A simple conversation about teeth whitening strips, which are available in at least four stores in Port Hawkesbury, turned into a wild eBay goose-chase, in an attempt to find them for cheaper. Thirty mintues and 10cc's of dentist-strength, 65% potent whitening gel later, I had saved myself $25 and a trip to the drug store. Waste of time and energy, when I could have just gone out to buy them that afternoon? Maybe. Waste of money? No way. I'm all about a bargain, waiting or no waiting.
It's actually quite a thrill to go to the post office these days. Will I have a package? Perhaps an envelope? The drive to Pitt Street is filled with the anticipation of finding a little white parcel card in my mailbox. It even feels good when it's jammed in between two bills.
It was at that very place last week when I realized my eBay habit might be a bit much. The woman behind the counter actually commented on how many packages I receive, so after assuring her that the customs declarations were proof of the legality of my transactions (one can ever be too careful in matters of suspicion when it comes to Canada Post), I decided I might need to re-evaluate my shopping situation.
I have vowed to not search for or buy anything else from eBay at least until the rest of my shipments come in. I know that doesn't sound very impressive an act of restraint, but if you were home all day with a laptop, you'd understand. And the way I see it, once I receive all the jerseys, video games, cosmetics, books, Halloween costumes, electronics, kitchen decor, computer software, and action figures, that will probably hold me over for awhile.
In the meantime, I'm going to ask Tracey to help me organize a really successful yard sale. It's all her fault, you know.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Snowbird, Schmoebird
(I haven't blogged about reality television in awhile, have I?
This one's for you, Johnny.)
Question One
Anne Murray is:
a - a hit songwriter & vocalist
b - a former shill for "The Bay"
c - a masculin, mediocre, has-been, pants-suit wearing leader of the Canadian Idol Mentoring Gestapo.
If you said "all of the above", you'd be mostly right.
Betcha you didn't remember she was in commercials for The Bay, did ya? Just a bit of trivia.
You're welcome.
As we were watching the contestants' performances on Monday night, my husband commented on how many fantastic Anne Murray songs they had to choose from. For a moment I thought, "he's right, she is quite a hitmaker." Then I came to my senses and realized that he's old and has bad taste and doesn't know what he's talking about.
It doesn't matter, becuase I didn't hear any of them sing an Anne Murray song anyway. I heard The Pride of Port Hood sing a Gordon Lightfoot song (incidentally, about an unfashionable pluz-size clothing store...weird). I heard Earl sing a Fugees jam, and Theo destroyed a Ray Charles classic.
So, what was.......
Huh? What did you say?
What do you mean there's another contestant?
Oh yeah, that guy. He's cute, but too 'S Club 7' and not enough 'Jim Cuddy'.
Moving on.
If Anne Murray was so iconic and gush-worthy, not only would we have all recognized the tunes as Anne Murray tunes, but the Idol people would have devoted the entire show to her work. Instead, they had the four guys withstand her nationally-televised verbal siege against their singing skills, stumble through a song to appease her, and then change the subject entirely. Classic!
But whatever, like it or not, she graced the stage this Tuesday evening. And did she sing one of her famous hits? Nope, she sang a Monkees song. How fitting. Anne Murray week and scarcely an Anne Murray song in sight.
Taking a page out of the middle school choreography handbook, Anne, apparent master of the Grade Seven Shuffle, moved drone-like about the stage, looking one unfortunate hip replacement away from retirement. Though she does have pretty good skin for a 97 year old woman, her gobble-gobble thingy distracted from her alto-rendition of "Daydream Believer". But what's not to like about the catholic-church-choir-ish warbling of a woman who sounds like she's either in the thick of purberty or trying unsuccessfully to dislodge her testicles from someone's steadfast grip.
A few end notes.
I'm glad Earl went home. He made my living room smell like marijuana and stupidity.
I'm surprised Mitch has made it this far. He's talented, but I didn't think he had enough national appeal. I was wrong.
Theo is going to win whether Cape Bretoners like it or not. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it's true, and he deserves it. But look on the bright side: within six months you'll be able to catch Mitch playing at Shindigs in Port Hawkesbury for $7.
And lastly, Zack Werner is the biggest loser who has ever appeared on television, even when you count Elizabeth Chiu and Howard Stern. He thinks he's so much funnier and wittier and everything-else-ier than he actually is, and it's obnoxious. The only reason it doesn't bother me much is because I have a husband and family life, and he goes home to his hamster, plays Warcraft on the computer, and cries himself to sleep.
On that note....
FIN
This one's for you, Johnny.)
Question One
Anne Murray is:
a - a hit songwriter & vocalist
b - a former shill for "The Bay"
c - a masculin, mediocre, has-been, pants-suit wearing leader of the Canadian Idol Mentoring Gestapo.
If you said "all of the above", you'd be mostly right.
Betcha you didn't remember she was in commercials for The Bay, did ya? Just a bit of trivia.
You're welcome.
As we were watching the contestants' performances on Monday night, my husband commented on how many fantastic Anne Murray songs they had to choose from. For a moment I thought, "he's right, she is quite a hitmaker." Then I came to my senses and realized that he's old and has bad taste and doesn't know what he's talking about.
It doesn't matter, becuase I didn't hear any of them sing an Anne Murray song anyway. I heard The Pride of Port Hood sing a Gordon Lightfoot song (incidentally, about an unfashionable pluz-size clothing store...weird). I heard Earl sing a Fugees jam, and Theo destroyed a Ray Charles classic.
So, what was.......
Huh? What did you say?
What do you mean there's another contestant?
Oh yeah, that guy. He's cute, but too 'S Club 7' and not enough 'Jim Cuddy'.
Moving on.
If Anne Murray was so iconic and gush-worthy, not only would we have all recognized the tunes as Anne Murray tunes, but the Idol people would have devoted the entire show to her work. Instead, they had the four guys withstand her nationally-televised verbal siege against their singing skills, stumble through a song to appease her, and then change the subject entirely. Classic!
But whatever, like it or not, she graced the stage this Tuesday evening. And did she sing one of her famous hits? Nope, she sang a Monkees song. How fitting. Anne Murray week and scarcely an Anne Murray song in sight.
Taking a page out of the middle school choreography handbook, Anne, apparent master of the Grade Seven Shuffle, moved drone-like about the stage, looking one unfortunate hip replacement away from retirement. Though she does have pretty good skin for a 97 year old woman, her gobble-gobble thingy distracted from her alto-rendition of "Daydream Believer". But what's not to like about the catholic-church-choir-ish warbling of a woman who sounds like she's either in the thick of purberty or trying unsuccessfully to dislodge her testicles from someone's steadfast grip.
A few end notes.
I'm glad Earl went home. He made my living room smell like marijuana and stupidity.
I'm surprised Mitch has made it this far. He's talented, but I didn't think he had enough national appeal. I was wrong.
Theo is going to win whether Cape Bretoners like it or not. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it's true, and he deserves it. But look on the bright side: within six months you'll be able to catch Mitch playing at Shindigs in Port Hawkesbury for $7.
And lastly, Zack Werner is the biggest loser who has ever appeared on television, even when you count Elizabeth Chiu and Howard Stern. He thinks he's so much funnier and wittier and everything-else-ier than he actually is, and it's obnoxious. The only reason it doesn't bother me much is because I have a husband and family life, and he goes home to his hamster, plays Warcraft on the computer, and cries himself to sleep.
On that note....
FIN
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Chatterbox
There's a line from the movie Shrek that really struck a chord with me. When Princess Fiona shockingly exclaims that Donkey can talk, Shrek says, "yeah, it's getting him to shut up that's the trick." Whoever wrote that line definitely has kids.
My oldest son was a very early and sudden talker. I have video of him taken at Christmas of 1999, and he was only blurting single words like the usual "mom" and "ba-ba". In a video taken just two weeks later, he was speaking in full sentences, and he was only about a year and a half old.
My friends used to get such a kick out of how much he liked to talk, and the things he was capable of saying. My memory isn't great, and I don't remember a lot of examples of his lingo, but I remember how articulate and witty he was. Older ladies used to approach him in the grocery store and gush over him, "oh, look at the cute little baby! Yes you are! Yes you are! A-pffffftt. A-pffffftt," while poking his belly. Much to their surprise, he'd usually reply with something like, "I don't know you, you are not a-sposed to touch me." He still looked like a baby, but talking to him was like talking to a five year old.
Here we are ten years later, and I promise you he hasn't stopped talking since 1999. The cute factor might have lessened considerably, but that hasn't affected the frequency. I often think he could be used by some police agency to crack criminals into cooperating, because this child could talk someone right to death. And ask questions? Either he's on the world's most epic quest for knowledge, or he just likes the sound of his own voice. Maybe a bit of both.
Some might say he gets it honestly, but that's besides the point.
In the past few weeks I've relived the "just learning to talk" scenario all over again, with my younger son. He's a late talker; he just turned three and only recently has he begun speaking in full sentences. And what sentences they are.
There is nothing funnier than a child finally being able to verbally express what they have probably been dying to get out for months and months.
Fits of frustration and screaming "no!" at the television and the fridge, have been replaced with, "Mom, want to watch Scooby Doo", or "not banana, want some cheese".
Better still, he's been absorbing the same songs and movies and phrases since he was a baby, so to hear him start singing the theme song from The Backyardigans word for word, is great for a laugh. He's nothing if not a fan of repetition, and the movies Cars and A Bug's Life (among many others) have played on a loop in this house for a long time. Now he can quote lines from these movies verbatim.
Unfortunately, my younger son isn't nearly as friendly as the other one was at his age. My older son would have talked to anyone, and usually did. The baby isn't as much of a people person, and strangers don't always get a great reception from him.
For example, the other day at the mall our cart was blocked by someone chatting in the middle of the aisle. My son had no bones about telling the shoppers, "you're in the way! Move your stuff, right now!" Some parents would be embarrassed by an outburst like this, but really, what can you do? They're kids, and they call it like they see it. As much as I hate to say it, I'm used to his abrupt proclamations in the middle of the dollar store; hey, at least he's paying attention.
And it's easier to forgive a few painful moments when they're normally so polite. My kids might regularly speak out of turn, but they have excellent manners. Even the three year old says "pweeze" and "fank you" and "skuze me", and my older son holds doors for people and knows how to give a proper apology.
When you're a stay-at-home mom with small kids, the funny stuff is what gets you through the day. Somehow or another, my youngest has just adopted a British accent, and greets me every morning with a "Hello, Roger!" as if he's straight from the heart of London. You'd have to hear it, but believe me when I say it's hilarious. Also, the vocabulary variations can be quite funny, and I've enjoyed many stories about "bunglebees", "chuckamilk", and how "peckeroni pizza smells like dog poop."
I suppose these years are called "the best years" for a reason, and when the constant chirping in my ear is almost too much to bear, I try to remember how lost we'd be in silence.
My oldest son was a very early and sudden talker. I have video of him taken at Christmas of 1999, and he was only blurting single words like the usual "mom" and "ba-ba". In a video taken just two weeks later, he was speaking in full sentences, and he was only about a year and a half old.
My friends used to get such a kick out of how much he liked to talk, and the things he was capable of saying. My memory isn't great, and I don't remember a lot of examples of his lingo, but I remember how articulate and witty he was. Older ladies used to approach him in the grocery store and gush over him, "oh, look at the cute little baby! Yes you are! Yes you are! A-pffffftt. A-pffffftt," while poking his belly. Much to their surprise, he'd usually reply with something like, "I don't know you, you are not a-sposed to touch me." He still looked like a baby, but talking to him was like talking to a five year old.
Here we are ten years later, and I promise you he hasn't stopped talking since 1999. The cute factor might have lessened considerably, but that hasn't affected the frequency. I often think he could be used by some police agency to crack criminals into cooperating, because this child could talk someone right to death. And ask questions? Either he's on the world's most epic quest for knowledge, or he just likes the sound of his own voice. Maybe a bit of both.
Some might say he gets it honestly, but that's besides the point.
In the past few weeks I've relived the "just learning to talk" scenario all over again, with my younger son. He's a late talker; he just turned three and only recently has he begun speaking in full sentences. And what sentences they are.
There is nothing funnier than a child finally being able to verbally express what they have probably been dying to get out for months and months.
Fits of frustration and screaming "no!" at the television and the fridge, have been replaced with, "Mom, want to watch Scooby Doo", or "not banana, want some cheese".
Better still, he's been absorbing the same songs and movies and phrases since he was a baby, so to hear him start singing the theme song from The Backyardigans word for word, is great for a laugh. He's nothing if not a fan of repetition, and the movies Cars and A Bug's Life (among many others) have played on a loop in this house for a long time. Now he can quote lines from these movies verbatim.
Unfortunately, my younger son isn't nearly as friendly as the other one was at his age. My older son would have talked to anyone, and usually did. The baby isn't as much of a people person, and strangers don't always get a great reception from him.
For example, the other day at the mall our cart was blocked by someone chatting in the middle of the aisle. My son had no bones about telling the shoppers, "you're in the way! Move your stuff, right now!" Some parents would be embarrassed by an outburst like this, but really, what can you do? They're kids, and they call it like they see it. As much as I hate to say it, I'm used to his abrupt proclamations in the middle of the dollar store; hey, at least he's paying attention.
And it's easier to forgive a few painful moments when they're normally so polite. My kids might regularly speak out of turn, but they have excellent manners. Even the three year old says "pweeze" and "fank you" and "skuze me", and my older son holds doors for people and knows how to give a proper apology.
When you're a stay-at-home mom with small kids, the funny stuff is what gets you through the day. Somehow or another, my youngest has just adopted a British accent, and greets me every morning with a "Hello, Roger!" as if he's straight from the heart of London. You'd have to hear it, but believe me when I say it's hilarious. Also, the vocabulary variations can be quite funny, and I've enjoyed many stories about "bunglebees", "chuckamilk", and how "peckeroni pizza smells like dog poop."
I suppose these years are called "the best years" for a reason, and when the constant chirping in my ear is almost too much to bear, I try to remember how lost we'd be in silence.
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Pleasures of Few
I'm not an outdoor girl at all, so ATV riding isn't my thing. I don't take pleasure in the thought of donning a camouflage unitard and rubber boots, rip-roaring through the mud at 70km per hour (in fact, I might have night terrors after just writing about it). However, to each his own, and if that's what you like to do, far be it from me to interfere with the lawful enjoyment of others.
Unfortunately for some, that won't stop me from complaining about it.
There are good reasons why kids aren't allowed to drive cars until they're 16, and kids might be better served by having those reasons more closely examined and applied to the laws pertaining to riding ATVs. I know lots of people say there's a vast difference between cars and ATVs, but in my opinion these people are fooling themselves. They're gas-powered vehicles capable of high speed and requiring coordination, skill, foresight, and instinct that is not yet developed in children. If you don't believe me, ask the vice-president of medicine at the IWK Children's hospital in Halifax, who's statements I borrowed from.
But whatever. If you want to allow your child to ride one, that's your business. Maybe the thought of proper training is enough to help you sleep at night, but the statistics on injuries and fatalities involving kids on ATVs make a pretty good argument to refute any justification as far as I'm concerned.
Also worth mentioning is the damage these all-terrain vehicles do to terrain. The cause and severity of much of the destruction is debated, but anyone who has ever walked through the woods and seen huge tire tracks that have torn up a bog a million times over should be able to admit that they are causing damage, at least to some extent.
I found dozens of websites that cite the irreparable damage ATV usage has caused, and the rebuttals aren't very convincing. I even read this explanation by a self-proclaimed ATV enthusiast and promoter: "We're not damaging anything, creatures actually live in the ruts left by our machines, and they know to jump out of the way when they hear us coming. The ones who don't make a great snack for the raccoons. It's like the circle of life." Uh-huh. That's just what Elton John was singing about.
But let's pretend I have no problem with ATVs whatsoever. Why should I be expected to pay for others to ride them?
A few weeks ago, our government, and ultimately the taxpayers of Nova Scotia, had to foot the bill for a fleet of 66 child-sized all-terrain vehicles. That bill wasn't chump change - it totaled $230,000, not counting the extra $40,000 Premier MacDonald threw in for a training program and a study on the health benefits of riding. After imposing new restrictions on ATV-ers in 2006, I guess Rodney felt the need to make it up to them.
Here's a little list for everyone to consider, especially those who are stewing in disgust over the decision to back out of the purchase: roughly 11,500 textbooks, 3 teacher's salaries for one year, 460 home heating rebates in the amount of $500, equipment for rural and out-of-date firehouses all over the province, a few dozen daycare subsidies.
Those are just a few things that could be purchased with the almost quarter-million dollars those machines cost us, and hopefully the importance of people's ATV hobby pales in comparison to the importance of the examples I have listed. Premier MacDonald must have thought we had more pressing priorities, since he decided to get refunds for all the equipment purchased.
All-terrain vehicle riding can be a dangerous hobby, especially when a participant isn't properly trained or using the right equipment. The same thing can be said of hockey and of bicycle riding. Last time I checked, the government wasn't doling out cheques for helmets or shin pads, nor were they buying a truckload of BMXs or funding a pricey bicycle training program (even though a far greater majority of children in Nova Scotia ride bicycles than ATVs).
As parents, we decide which activities our children participate in, and we are expected to incur the expenses that go along with it. If for some inexplicable reason you want your child to be an expert ATV rider, make your own arrangements. You shouldn't expect the whole venture to be paid for by taxpayers, most of which don't even indulge in your same extra curricular activity. Unless of course you want to start paying for my son's football gear and future driver's education classes. That wouldn't seem fair, would it?
Our province doesn't have money to waste on the pleasures of few.
Unfortunately for some, that won't stop me from complaining about it.
There are good reasons why kids aren't allowed to drive cars until they're 16, and kids might be better served by having those reasons more closely examined and applied to the laws pertaining to riding ATVs. I know lots of people say there's a vast difference between cars and ATVs, but in my opinion these people are fooling themselves. They're gas-powered vehicles capable of high speed and requiring coordination, skill, foresight, and instinct that is not yet developed in children. If you don't believe me, ask the vice-president of medicine at the IWK Children's hospital in Halifax, who's statements I borrowed from.
But whatever. If you want to allow your child to ride one, that's your business. Maybe the thought of proper training is enough to help you sleep at night, but the statistics on injuries and fatalities involving kids on ATVs make a pretty good argument to refute any justification as far as I'm concerned.
Also worth mentioning is the damage these all-terrain vehicles do to terrain. The cause and severity of much of the destruction is debated, but anyone who has ever walked through the woods and seen huge tire tracks that have torn up a bog a million times over should be able to admit that they are causing damage, at least to some extent.
I found dozens of websites that cite the irreparable damage ATV usage has caused, and the rebuttals aren't very convincing. I even read this explanation by a self-proclaimed ATV enthusiast and promoter: "We're not damaging anything, creatures actually live in the ruts left by our machines, and they know to jump out of the way when they hear us coming. The ones who don't make a great snack for the raccoons. It's like the circle of life." Uh-huh. That's just what Elton John was singing about.
But let's pretend I have no problem with ATVs whatsoever. Why should I be expected to pay for others to ride them?
A few weeks ago, our government, and ultimately the taxpayers of Nova Scotia, had to foot the bill for a fleet of 66 child-sized all-terrain vehicles. That bill wasn't chump change - it totaled $230,000, not counting the extra $40,000 Premier MacDonald threw in for a training program and a study on the health benefits of riding. After imposing new restrictions on ATV-ers in 2006, I guess Rodney felt the need to make it up to them.
Here's a little list for everyone to consider, especially those who are stewing in disgust over the decision to back out of the purchase: roughly 11,500 textbooks, 3 teacher's salaries for one year, 460 home heating rebates in the amount of $500, equipment for rural and out-of-date firehouses all over the province, a few dozen daycare subsidies.
Those are just a few things that could be purchased with the almost quarter-million dollars those machines cost us, and hopefully the importance of people's ATV hobby pales in comparison to the importance of the examples I have listed. Premier MacDonald must have thought we had more pressing priorities, since he decided to get refunds for all the equipment purchased.
All-terrain vehicle riding can be a dangerous hobby, especially when a participant isn't properly trained or using the right equipment. The same thing can be said of hockey and of bicycle riding. Last time I checked, the government wasn't doling out cheques for helmets or shin pads, nor were they buying a truckload of BMXs or funding a pricey bicycle training program (even though a far greater majority of children in Nova Scotia ride bicycles than ATVs).
As parents, we decide which activities our children participate in, and we are expected to incur the expenses that go along with it. If for some inexplicable reason you want your child to be an expert ATV rider, make your own arrangements. You shouldn't expect the whole venture to be paid for by taxpayers, most of which don't even indulge in your same extra curricular activity. Unless of course you want to start paying for my son's football gear and future driver's education classes. That wouldn't seem fair, would it?
Our province doesn't have money to waste on the pleasures of few.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Criminal Negligence
I watch a lot of news from around the world, but few stories have caused my blood to boil like the case of Paddy Brogan.
Mr. Brogan was charged with criminal negligence and impaired driving causing death following an incident just outside of North Sydney, where he hit and killed a six-year-old boy with his vehicle. He had been drinking, and his blood alcohol level was well over the legal limit.
Mr. Brogan was acquitted of causing the boy’s death after pleading guilty to driving drunk.
If you’re anything like me, you’re probably astounded and baffled that this scenario is even possible. How can you be drunk behind the wheel and kill someone, yet still skate on criminal charges? It’s unheard of.
That is, unless you have connections.
Paddy Brogan’s brother is Nash Brogan, one of the most well known lawyers in Cape Breton. The defense team consisted of Nash and Derrick Kimball. It must be nice to have clout.
The arguments made in this case are almost inconceivable to the average person. The defense claimed that even though Brogan was under the influence, he was not driving drunk. Such an argument seems redundant to me, but they suggest that his blood alcohol level was not high enough to constitute his being labeled as drunk, and they claim there is a very important distinction between “drunk” and “impaired”.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve never heard of another instance of a court of law making or recognizing that distinction. As far as the law is concerned, when you’re over the limit, you’re over, and splitting hairs over terminology won’t help you.
Were the tables turned, the Kimball-Brogan crew would be spewing precedent and screaming, “drunk is drunk,” and any suggestion to the contrary would be laughed out of court in minutes. I guess it’s easier to be hypocritical when you’re defending one of your own.
Another argument states, and experts testified, that even a sober and alert driver would have been unable to avoid this accident (and I use the word accident very reluctantly). According to testimony, Brogan only had a little more than a second to react, and any driver is incapable of averting disaster with so little time.
While there may be some accuracy to that from a mathematical perspective, it’s pushing the boundaries of the truth when you look at the big picture. If you’re sober driving through a residential area, you’re expecting to see kids roaming around, and you adjust your driving accordingly. If you were to see a boy on a bike up ahead and moments later he disappeared, you’d automatically become more alert and slow down, wondering where he went and slowing down in case he popped out of nowhere. It happens, and when sober, you’d make allowances for that.
A man who has been drinking is likely not thinking about little boys on bikes when he’s behind the wheel. He’s thinking about driving straight and not swerving, whether there’s a cop around the next turn, and whether he smells like booze.
Regardless of the testimony, you could never convince me that the driver’s impairment didn’t affect his reaction time. Even assuming the experts are correct, it can easily be said that his impairment did in fact contribute to the occurrence of the incident overall, and that should be significant enough to warrant punishment.
But the most infuriating aspect of this case were the statements made by defense attorney Kimball on the CTV news the day after the verdict. For an otherwise intelligent and educated man to appear on television and make ridiculous statements was embarrassing to watch, as I heard him suggest that this little boy’s parents were somehow responsible for his death.
Can you imagine? He said that accidents like this might be avoided if parents kept a closer eye on their kids. Maybe that’s not exactly pointing the finger, but it translates into blame as far as I’m concerned. It’s hard to fathom the amount of nerve and insensitivity necessary to make statements like that.
Sure, we’re responsible for watching our kids, but it’s unreasonable to expect parents to run around holding on to the back of their son’s bicycle seat. No fancy law degree should be able to convince parents that responsibility for a vehicular fatality involving alcohol should be blamed on anyone other than the driver of the car. Period. And it’s reckless to infer otherwise.
People all over Cape Breton are outraged at the result of this verdict, as well they should be. Not only because it defies logic, but because if it were anyone else, they’d already be in jail.
Mr. Brogan was charged with criminal negligence and impaired driving causing death following an incident just outside of North Sydney, where he hit and killed a six-year-old boy with his vehicle. He had been drinking, and his blood alcohol level was well over the legal limit.
Mr. Brogan was acquitted of causing the boy’s death after pleading guilty to driving drunk.
If you’re anything like me, you’re probably astounded and baffled that this scenario is even possible. How can you be drunk behind the wheel and kill someone, yet still skate on criminal charges? It’s unheard of.
That is, unless you have connections.
Paddy Brogan’s brother is Nash Brogan, one of the most well known lawyers in Cape Breton. The defense team consisted of Nash and Derrick Kimball. It must be nice to have clout.
The arguments made in this case are almost inconceivable to the average person. The defense claimed that even though Brogan was under the influence, he was not driving drunk. Such an argument seems redundant to me, but they suggest that his blood alcohol level was not high enough to constitute his being labeled as drunk, and they claim there is a very important distinction between “drunk” and “impaired”.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve never heard of another instance of a court of law making or recognizing that distinction. As far as the law is concerned, when you’re over the limit, you’re over, and splitting hairs over terminology won’t help you.
Were the tables turned, the Kimball-Brogan crew would be spewing precedent and screaming, “drunk is drunk,” and any suggestion to the contrary would be laughed out of court in minutes. I guess it’s easier to be hypocritical when you’re defending one of your own.
Another argument states, and experts testified, that even a sober and alert driver would have been unable to avoid this accident (and I use the word accident very reluctantly). According to testimony, Brogan only had a little more than a second to react, and any driver is incapable of averting disaster with so little time.
While there may be some accuracy to that from a mathematical perspective, it’s pushing the boundaries of the truth when you look at the big picture. If you’re sober driving through a residential area, you’re expecting to see kids roaming around, and you adjust your driving accordingly. If you were to see a boy on a bike up ahead and moments later he disappeared, you’d automatically become more alert and slow down, wondering where he went and slowing down in case he popped out of nowhere. It happens, and when sober, you’d make allowances for that.
A man who has been drinking is likely not thinking about little boys on bikes when he’s behind the wheel. He’s thinking about driving straight and not swerving, whether there’s a cop around the next turn, and whether he smells like booze.
Regardless of the testimony, you could never convince me that the driver’s impairment didn’t affect his reaction time. Even assuming the experts are correct, it can easily be said that his impairment did in fact contribute to the occurrence of the incident overall, and that should be significant enough to warrant punishment.
But the most infuriating aspect of this case were the statements made by defense attorney Kimball on the CTV news the day after the verdict. For an otherwise intelligent and educated man to appear on television and make ridiculous statements was embarrassing to watch, as I heard him suggest that this little boy’s parents were somehow responsible for his death.
Can you imagine? He said that accidents like this might be avoided if parents kept a closer eye on their kids. Maybe that’s not exactly pointing the finger, but it translates into blame as far as I’m concerned. It’s hard to fathom the amount of nerve and insensitivity necessary to make statements like that.
Sure, we’re responsible for watching our kids, but it’s unreasonable to expect parents to run around holding on to the back of their son’s bicycle seat. No fancy law degree should be able to convince parents that responsibility for a vehicular fatality involving alcohol should be blamed on anyone other than the driver of the car. Period. And it’s reckless to infer otherwise.
People all over Cape Breton are outraged at the result of this verdict, as well they should be. Not only because it defies logic, but because if it were anyone else, they’d already be in jail.
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