November, 2008: I, as hostess, commit to throw my sister's bachelorette party in mid-March. Plans are put on the back burner because, really, who needs more than a week to plan a party?
December, 2008: Party planning officially begins. An extensive search of eBay commences after seeing the meager selection of stagette supplies in the Strait area. I place my orders.
January, 2009: An entertainment company from Halifax is consulted. Due to the apparently strenuous nature of dancing in a g-string for seven minutes, the best negotiated price I could land was $750. Upon hearing that news, I thanked the company for their time.
Later that day: A second entertainment company is consulted, with similar results. I let loose an angry tirade about children in Sri Lankan sweatshops doing twenty times the work for a fraction of the money those half (and sadly, because of new "labour laws", only half) naked grease-bags are demanding. They're ugly and old anyway, a pathetic novelty, I remind myself. Time for plan B.
Later still: A third, more PG-13 form of entertainment is consulted, booked, and sent a deposit. A conference room is booked at a local hotel to accommodate the upcoming antics.
February, 2009: Invitations are sent via Facebook. Over 20 people confirm. I start considering which small home improvement projects can be started and finished in four weeks. My husband immediately dreads the coming four weeks.
The day after: Local businesses thrive, especially those selling home decor items. Purchased: paint and painting supplies, a new bedroom comforter set, various picture frames, vases, plants, candles, assorted other unnecessary junk that matches and compliments. (At present, I'm still negotiating a new dinette set.)
Late February: Our entertainment cancels, citing, "someone booked us in Halifax that night, and it's much cheaper for us to just do a party here." After pointing out the extra charge I had agreed to pay for travel expenses, I expresses disappointment (read - fly off the handle in blind rage) and demand a deposit refund, like, yesterday. The lady says to keep them in mind for our next gathering. I suggest that her and her troupe hold their collective breath and sit by the phone waiting for my call.
Two days later: My eBay order arrives. I find an incorrect color scheme on four items. What else will go wrong?
Early March, 2009: I decide to tackle a painting project far beyond my experience and capability. Reinforcements are called in and painting of the long-anticipated kitchen backsplash begins. The task of measuring and taping the applicable area proves much more difficult than we originally thought. Several unplanned snack and chat breaks are taken to avoid frustration and "mission abort". Task successfully completed.
Two hours later: A shock of Sesame Street green infiltrates my lovely taupe universe. Panic button is officially slapped. My reinforcement serves up encouragement and tall glass of merlot. Crisis averted.
T-minus 4 days: One of four iron-on t-shirt transfers is defective. Discovery of this fact is made while I attempted to transfer the patch onto my own t-shirt. T-shirt ruined. Adding insult to injury, I burn my finger on the iron. Wonderful.
T-minus 3 days: I try not to contemplate egg salad vs. ham sandwiches and where people are going to park and mental to-do lists, as I complete tax returns for three different people. The tax returns then have to be re-done for fear of careless mistakes I might have made because I wasn't concentrating. I say goodbye to two wasted hours of my life I'll never get back and finally get to bed at 1:30am.
T-minus 2 days: I order a banner from a printing company. Not realizing the cost of paper has seemingly gone up about 7000% since I last purchased some (a month ago), I reluctantly lay down $25 for this blessed accessory. It's four feet long and a little over three inches wide. It has a total of twenty letters printed on it. It's made of paper. Twenty-five dollars.
T-minus 1 day: I begin the hunt for last-minute items. The shelves I want are gone from the store, and another store has sold out of the martini glasses I need. Upon my arrival home, the dog gets excited and pees on the welcome mat. My new room spray smells like Play-Doh. I burn my finger while boiling the water for Jell-O shooters. Like clockwork, I cut my other finger (the third digital injury as many days) while chopping celery for the veggie tray. I chalk it up to it being Friday the 13th.
Day of the party: It's now 12:10am on Saturday, March 14th. I'm on my way to bed, seeing as I've completely exhausted myself over the past few days. The thought of acting out and staying up late is almost more than I can bear. My sister better appreciate this party.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Setting a Bad Example
I promised myself that I wouldn't spend my life caring about celebrities, but considering how bombarded we are with their movements, it's hard to not take notice when something "big" happens.
In the past few weeks, all talk has been about Rihanna and Chris Brown. Were it the release of a new video or a salacious yarn, I wouldn't waste my time or yours. However, this bit of gossip is much more serious.
Rihanna and Brown have been an item for some time, and like any young couple, they always appeared to be happy and content when they were together. On the night of the Grammy Awards, where both were set to perform, news broke that neither would be attending. Before long, buzz on the internet pointed toward an "incident" between the two, and news sources had the scoop within hours.
In the early morning hours the night before the Grammys, Rihanna and Brown got in an argument in their car on the way home from a party. The argument quickly escalated into a violent altercation between the two. While initial reports didn't specify the details or seriousness of the incident, documents released yesterday told a very sad and shocking tale. (While he has been charged, he has not yet been found guilty, so consider all statements to be prefaced with "allegedly".)
"...(He) took his right hand and shoved her head against the passenger window of the vehicle causing a raised circular contusion.
(He) punched her in the left eye with his right hand. He then drove away in the vehicle and continued to punch her in the face with his right hand while steering the vehicle with his left hand. The assault caused (her) mouth to fill with blood and blood to splatter all over her clothing and the interior of the vehicle."
These assaults, directly quoted from the notes of the detective in charge of the case, are, unfortunately, only the tip of the iceberg. Brown bit, kicked, punched, and choked Rihanna until she almost lost consciousness. The leaked photo of her injuries, taken within hours of the brawl, was horrifying to see. The otherwise drop-dead-gorgeous superstar was almost unrecognizable with all the cuts and swelling on her face. What a terrible beating she must have taken.
Of course, both Rihanna and Brown disappeared into seclusion immediately. Hearts were bleeding the world over for the charming and talented young singer who had suffered so publicly at the hand of her abusive boyfriend. Soon the history of violence in their relationship was uncovered and Brown was charged with felony assault and uttering threats.
I couldn't have been more bewildered to hear a few days ago that the couple had recently reconciled.
What in the flippity flip did you say, Anderson Cooper? Can that be true? No! She's got to be smarter than that, isn't she?
This is a girl with the world at her feet. She's got money coming out of her ears, a huge support system, and every resource imaginable is available to her. How can this happen?
Rihanna has millions of fans all over the globe, plenty of whom are female, and plenty of whom are young, impressionable girls in relationships. What kind of message is she sending to her fans when she reconciles with the man who, only weeks earlier, beat her so badly? It's an irresponsible and shameful example to set.
Domestic violence is something I don't fully understand, since I've never seen it for myself. I've been lucky enough to know people who think hitting their wives and girlfriends is wrong, and the one or two assaults I have been made aware of within my lifetime have been met with complete friendship eradication, if you will.
But, there is one thing I understand perfectly: regardless of the circumstances, domestic abuse is inexcusable. Everyone gets mad and loses their temper; sometimes we push each other's buttons; other times, we might do something so implorable it calls for divorce; but never, NEVER, is behavior or emotion cause for violence toward the person you're supposed to love the most.
It angers me to such poor judgment and disregard from a woman looked to by so many as an idol, especially since she has a team of savvy publicists who should have prevented it from happening.
Brown has lost all his endorsements, the respect of the music industry, and pretty much his whole career. For all intents and purposes, he's a lost cause; however, Rihanna had the opportunity to show everyone what a strong woman would do in the face of domestic violence, and she failed miserably at that job.
Somewhere, Susan B. Anthony is rolling over in her grave.
In the past few weeks, all talk has been about Rihanna and Chris Brown. Were it the release of a new video or a salacious yarn, I wouldn't waste my time or yours. However, this bit of gossip is much more serious.
Rihanna and Brown have been an item for some time, and like any young couple, they always appeared to be happy and content when they were together. On the night of the Grammy Awards, where both were set to perform, news broke that neither would be attending. Before long, buzz on the internet pointed toward an "incident" between the two, and news sources had the scoop within hours.
In the early morning hours the night before the Grammys, Rihanna and Brown got in an argument in their car on the way home from a party. The argument quickly escalated into a violent altercation between the two. While initial reports didn't specify the details or seriousness of the incident, documents released yesterday told a very sad and shocking tale. (While he has been charged, he has not yet been found guilty, so consider all statements to be prefaced with "allegedly".)
"...(He) took his right hand and shoved her head against the passenger window of the vehicle causing a raised circular contusion.
(He) punched her in the left eye with his right hand. He then drove away in the vehicle and continued to punch her in the face with his right hand while steering the vehicle with his left hand. The assault caused (her) mouth to fill with blood and blood to splatter all over her clothing and the interior of the vehicle."
These assaults, directly quoted from the notes of the detective in charge of the case, are, unfortunately, only the tip of the iceberg. Brown bit, kicked, punched, and choked Rihanna until she almost lost consciousness. The leaked photo of her injuries, taken within hours of the brawl, was horrifying to see. The otherwise drop-dead-gorgeous superstar was almost unrecognizable with all the cuts and swelling on her face. What a terrible beating she must have taken.
Of course, both Rihanna and Brown disappeared into seclusion immediately. Hearts were bleeding the world over for the charming and talented young singer who had suffered so publicly at the hand of her abusive boyfriend. Soon the history of violence in their relationship was uncovered and Brown was charged with felony assault and uttering threats.
I couldn't have been more bewildered to hear a few days ago that the couple had recently reconciled.
What in the flippity flip did you say, Anderson Cooper? Can that be true? No! She's got to be smarter than that, isn't she?
This is a girl with the world at her feet. She's got money coming out of her ears, a huge support system, and every resource imaginable is available to her. How can this happen?
Rihanna has millions of fans all over the globe, plenty of whom are female, and plenty of whom are young, impressionable girls in relationships. What kind of message is she sending to her fans when she reconciles with the man who, only weeks earlier, beat her so badly? It's an irresponsible and shameful example to set.
Domestic violence is something I don't fully understand, since I've never seen it for myself. I've been lucky enough to know people who think hitting their wives and girlfriends is wrong, and the one or two assaults I have been made aware of within my lifetime have been met with complete friendship eradication, if you will.
But, there is one thing I understand perfectly: regardless of the circumstances, domestic abuse is inexcusable. Everyone gets mad and loses their temper; sometimes we push each other's buttons; other times, we might do something so implorable it calls for divorce; but never, NEVER, is behavior or emotion cause for violence toward the person you're supposed to love the most.
It angers me to such poor judgment and disregard from a woman looked to by so many as an idol, especially since she has a team of savvy publicists who should have prevented it from happening.
Brown has lost all his endorsements, the respect of the music industry, and pretty much his whole career. For all intents and purposes, he's a lost cause; however, Rihanna had the opportunity to show everyone what a strong woman would do in the face of domestic violence, and she failed miserably at that job.
Somewhere, Susan B. Anthony is rolling over in her grave.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Not Buying It
I didn't plan on writing this article, but I feel it incumbent upon me to speak for a small, yet (in my opinion) sensible, group of women.
When I was young - who am I kidding, up until...well, not so many years ago - Valentine's Day was a big deal. It was the day when us single ladies cursed the woman in the cubicle beside ours when a huge bouquet of red roses was delivered to her desk. It was the day that we completely ignored those red roses like they weren't a big deal, when really we wanted them more than we wanted oxygen pumping into our lungs. February 14th was the day we pretended all the fuss was ridiculous, when we rolled our eyes and made fun of the squealing girlfriend whose boyfriend just sent her a diamond bracelet. Then we went home and watched Jay Leno, ate a big bowl of ice cream, and cried about being single and not having Valentine's Day presents.
Maybe not every single gal, but quite a few.
Ten years later, I have seen the light. I now have a husband who understands the significance of Valentine's Day. Even though he has no use for it personally, he knows his spousal responsibilities as have been set out in the "V-Day Code of Conduct", if you will. He knows what he's expected to buy and what he's expected to do. And, like the wonderful husband he is, he sucks it up with a smile and acts a sport through it all.
Now, I know some of you wives are going to gasp reading this: my husband loves to buy me jewellery. Imagine that People's flyer arriving in your mailbox the first week of February, and picking out whatever you want! He also lives by the motto "spare no expense" when it comes to these matters, and left by himself to decide, I'm sure there would be flowers, jewellery, candy, stuffed mammals of every variety, and more pink and red than anyone needs to see in a lifetime.
Luckily for him, I don't want it. As a matter of fact, I have forbid him from buying any of it. Now that I'm in a position to celebrate the perfect Valentine's Day, we choose not to celebrate it at all. Let me explain why.
When I was single, I wasn't jealous of those squealing gaggles of girlfriends because I loved flowers so much; it was because they had someone to give them those flowers in the first place. That's all we bitter hens desired, was someone to publicly proclaim their love for us.
I had someone proclaim their love for me in a church in front of all our family and friends, and that's a pretty big deal, better than any singing telegram or vase full of carnations. Once that happened, the novelty of gushing romanticism wore off for me, since I had seen what a real proclamation was all about.
V-Day is the most contrived "holiday" in history. There isn't any real significance behind it, except that the 1870s British tradition of exchanging homemade cards with people you cared about, has been turned into the most genius mass-marketing scam ever masterminded. And sorry, I'm not buying.
I'm not trying to get down on all you lovebirds out there - and I know you're out there. It's great that you turn all romantical and stuff on 'the big day'. If that's what you want to spend your money on, far be it from me to stop you.
However, you might want to contemplate, if Valentine's Day is the day you celebrate your love for each other, what are the other 364 days for? I think it's important to be in love all year round, especially after you're married for awhile with a few kids running laps around your house. But even if you're supposed to pick one special day to celebrate, isn't that what your anniversary is for? I don't know about you, but with bills to pay and kids to feed, I'd sleep better at night knowing money was used for these things, rather than on overpriced chocolates or flowers that will be 50% off the following morning.
Ladies, if you agree, put your man out of his misery and let him know. He might think you're trying to trick him at first, since he's been pretty much brow-beaten since birth to appreciate the significance women place on February 14th, but a sincere explanation might make your Valentine's Day a whole lot lighter.
But guys, unless your lady really gives a convincing "don't bother buying me anything" speech, you better err on the side of caution and scoop something up, just in case. She might just be trying to trick you.
We do that sometimes.
When I was young - who am I kidding, up until...well, not so many years ago - Valentine's Day was a big deal. It was the day when us single ladies cursed the woman in the cubicle beside ours when a huge bouquet of red roses was delivered to her desk. It was the day that we completely ignored those red roses like they weren't a big deal, when really we wanted them more than we wanted oxygen pumping into our lungs. February 14th was the day we pretended all the fuss was ridiculous, when we rolled our eyes and made fun of the squealing girlfriend whose boyfriend just sent her a diamond bracelet. Then we went home and watched Jay Leno, ate a big bowl of ice cream, and cried about being single and not having Valentine's Day presents.
Maybe not every single gal, but quite a few.
Ten years later, I have seen the light. I now have a husband who understands the significance of Valentine's Day. Even though he has no use for it personally, he knows his spousal responsibilities as have been set out in the "V-Day Code of Conduct", if you will. He knows what he's expected to buy and what he's expected to do. And, like the wonderful husband he is, he sucks it up with a smile and acts a sport through it all.
Now, I know some of you wives are going to gasp reading this: my husband loves to buy me jewellery. Imagine that People's flyer arriving in your mailbox the first week of February, and picking out whatever you want! He also lives by the motto "spare no expense" when it comes to these matters, and left by himself to decide, I'm sure there would be flowers, jewellery, candy, stuffed mammals of every variety, and more pink and red than anyone needs to see in a lifetime.
Luckily for him, I don't want it. As a matter of fact, I have forbid him from buying any of it. Now that I'm in a position to celebrate the perfect Valentine's Day, we choose not to celebrate it at all. Let me explain why.
When I was single, I wasn't jealous of those squealing gaggles of girlfriends because I loved flowers so much; it was because they had someone to give them those flowers in the first place. That's all we bitter hens desired, was someone to publicly proclaim their love for us.
I had someone proclaim their love for me in a church in front of all our family and friends, and that's a pretty big deal, better than any singing telegram or vase full of carnations. Once that happened, the novelty of gushing romanticism wore off for me, since I had seen what a real proclamation was all about.
V-Day is the most contrived "holiday" in history. There isn't any real significance behind it, except that the 1870s British tradition of exchanging homemade cards with people you cared about, has been turned into the most genius mass-marketing scam ever masterminded. And sorry, I'm not buying.
I'm not trying to get down on all you lovebirds out there - and I know you're out there. It's great that you turn all romantical and stuff on 'the big day'. If that's what you want to spend your money on, far be it from me to stop you.
However, you might want to contemplate, if Valentine's Day is the day you celebrate your love for each other, what are the other 364 days for? I think it's important to be in love all year round, especially after you're married for awhile with a few kids running laps around your house. But even if you're supposed to pick one special day to celebrate, isn't that what your anniversary is for? I don't know about you, but with bills to pay and kids to feed, I'd sleep better at night knowing money was used for these things, rather than on overpriced chocolates or flowers that will be 50% off the following morning.
Ladies, if you agree, put your man out of his misery and let him know. He might think you're trying to trick him at first, since he's been pretty much brow-beaten since birth to appreciate the significance women place on February 14th, but a sincere explanation might make your Valentine's Day a whole lot lighter.
But guys, unless your lady really gives a convincing "don't bother buying me anything" speech, you better err on the side of caution and scoop something up, just in case. She might just be trying to trick you.
We do that sometimes.
Better Safe Than Sorry
January and February have not been kind to the quad counties. The weather since Christmas has been nothing short of miserable and, as a consequence, school has been cancelled many times. Though we've only had two more storm days than we had this time last year, since the majority have been within the last few weeks (and with all the vacation and in-service days thrown in for good measure), it seems like our kids have spent as many days at home as they've spent at school. People don't have anyone to blame, and unfortunately the lament often falls on the shoulders of the Strait Regional School Board.
Over the past several weeks, I have received a number of e-mails from people questioning the policies surrounding school closures, and asking me to write an article about the "problems with inconsistency" concerning some of the school board's decisions. Between these e-mails, rumors of flooding the school board office switchboard with complaints, and listening to frustrated parents playing "shoot the messenger" on-air with Scottie-O, I thought it might be helpful if I explain the school cancellation procedures.
I talked to Deanna Gilles from public relations, head of operations Terry Doyle, and superintendent Jack Beaton of the Strait Regional School Board, all of whom were very knowledgeable, cooperative, and anxious to share any information that would be helpful to parents. I should also note, most of the information herein can be found under "Document Depot" on the school board web site for future reference.
The choice to cancel classes is never a rash or impulsive one; it is a comprehensive and consistent process carried out by numerous individuals within our region.
When weather is in question, the team is on the road by 5am, and the work of surveying the situation begins. Many different parties are consulted to assess conditions, including dispatchers and snow plow drivers with the Department of Transportation, Environment Canada, bus drivers, and other contacts throughout the 12 zones that together comprise the SRSB. Once information has been collected from all the appropriate contacts, a decision is made about school closures and an announcement is made by about 6:30am in most cases. Cancellations might apply to individual schools, a particular area, an entire county, or every school under the umbrella of the SRSB.
In the event of weather conditions deteriorating during the day, a similar process is undergone. Principals, bus drivers, zone contacts, and school board personnel closely monitor conditions and make a decision for early dismissal if the situation warrants.
"What? My road is completely clear!", is a common complaint. But, even with dozens of contacts and "eyes on the ground", the SRSB area encompasses over 11,000 square kilometers, and that's a large span to have to assess under the best of conditions. As we all know, your road might be a glib of ice, while that might not be the case for your neighbours two doors down. Classes are cancelled to protect those whose road ISN'T clear.
Similarly, parents seem to complain just as much when school is not cancelled; when the view from your front window isn't great, and you wait for a cancellation announcement that doesn't come.
Sending students to school in less-than-ideal weather is a matter of risk assessment. If the people in charge monitored the road conditions and found the risk to be too high, classes would be cancelled in the appropriate areas. No reasonable group of adults would put yours, mine, or their children at risk, much less the group who are legally liable for the safety of the students as soon as they board a bus.
As much as we might not like to hear it, there's a simple solution to this problem: you're the parent, and if you don't feel the weather is fit for your children to go to school, don't send them. Keep them home, and let your mind be at ease. It's your choice.
It all boils down to this: we live in Cape Breton, folks. Our weather is unpredictable and ever-changing, and there's nothing anyone can do about that. Even though the forecast says flurries, we might get freezing rain, and vice versa.
Having to make necessary arrangements in the wake of a school closure can be difficult, I get it, but there is no evil louse in a bunker at SRSB headquarters, itching to infuriate parents, deciding on school closures with a Magic 8 Ball.
During bad weather, we might not get the news we want, but that's no reason for perfectly reasonable people to morph into soap-box-perching dictators because of something that, while maybe not immediately apparent to everyone, is a rational and preventative precautionary measure for all involved. Better safe than sorry, don't you think?
Over the past several weeks, I have received a number of e-mails from people questioning the policies surrounding school closures, and asking me to write an article about the "problems with inconsistency" concerning some of the school board's decisions. Between these e-mails, rumors of flooding the school board office switchboard with complaints, and listening to frustrated parents playing "shoot the messenger" on-air with Scottie-O, I thought it might be helpful if I explain the school cancellation procedures.
I talked to Deanna Gilles from public relations, head of operations Terry Doyle, and superintendent Jack Beaton of the Strait Regional School Board, all of whom were very knowledgeable, cooperative, and anxious to share any information that would be helpful to parents. I should also note, most of the information herein can be found under "Document Depot" on the school board web site for future reference.
The choice to cancel classes is never a rash or impulsive one; it is a comprehensive and consistent process carried out by numerous individuals within our region.
When weather is in question, the team is on the road by 5am, and the work of surveying the situation begins. Many different parties are consulted to assess conditions, including dispatchers and snow plow drivers with the Department of Transportation, Environment Canada, bus drivers, and other contacts throughout the 12 zones that together comprise the SRSB. Once information has been collected from all the appropriate contacts, a decision is made about school closures and an announcement is made by about 6:30am in most cases. Cancellations might apply to individual schools, a particular area, an entire county, or every school under the umbrella of the SRSB.
In the event of weather conditions deteriorating during the day, a similar process is undergone. Principals, bus drivers, zone contacts, and school board personnel closely monitor conditions and make a decision for early dismissal if the situation warrants.
"What? My road is completely clear!", is a common complaint. But, even with dozens of contacts and "eyes on the ground", the SRSB area encompasses over 11,000 square kilometers, and that's a large span to have to assess under the best of conditions. As we all know, your road might be a glib of ice, while that might not be the case for your neighbours two doors down. Classes are cancelled to protect those whose road ISN'T clear.
Similarly, parents seem to complain just as much when school is not cancelled; when the view from your front window isn't great, and you wait for a cancellation announcement that doesn't come.
Sending students to school in less-than-ideal weather is a matter of risk assessment. If the people in charge monitored the road conditions and found the risk to be too high, classes would be cancelled in the appropriate areas. No reasonable group of adults would put yours, mine, or their children at risk, much less the group who are legally liable for the safety of the students as soon as they board a bus.
As much as we might not like to hear it, there's a simple solution to this problem: you're the parent, and if you don't feel the weather is fit for your children to go to school, don't send them. Keep them home, and let your mind be at ease. It's your choice.
It all boils down to this: we live in Cape Breton, folks. Our weather is unpredictable and ever-changing, and there's nothing anyone can do about that. Even though the forecast says flurries, we might get freezing rain, and vice versa.
Having to make necessary arrangements in the wake of a school closure can be difficult, I get it, but there is no evil louse in a bunker at SRSB headquarters, itching to infuriate parents, deciding on school closures with a Magic 8 Ball.
During bad weather, we might not get the news we want, but that's no reason for perfectly reasonable people to morph into soap-box-perching dictators because of something that, while maybe not immediately apparent to everyone, is a rational and preventative precautionary measure for all involved. Better safe than sorry, don't you think?
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Growing Up
I can feel it coming. It's like a big, thick, ominous fog rolling in from sea, and it's got it's GPS set on a spot right over my head. In just about a month, I will be thirty years old.
Thirty years old. Ten years shy of the big 4-0, half way to 60. How does this happen? I remember being in high school and thinking of thirty-year-olds as old fogies. Is that what kids in that age bracket think of me? It couldn't be, I'm only young, right?
I suppose that depends on who you are. If you're in your 50s, I'm just a spring chicken and you're probably annoyed at how old I'm making YOU feel by complaining about turning thirty.
If you're in your teens, you're probably glued to Facebook and not reading the newspaper. Carry on.
This whole "milestone birthday" thing comes at the worst time, too. As if the reality of sprouting grey hairs and stiff muscles weren't enough, I'm faced with a far more worrisome problem.
I guess I should have seen it coming, as the mother of two sons. Both of them are gorgeous, for starters. I don't mean cute, I'm talking stop-in-your-tracks, striking good looks. They have warm hearts, good manners, and quick wit. Not to mention, they can be saucy and miserable when they want to be, which is the perfect icing on the eligible bachelor cake. That's why I shouldn't be surprised about the girl factor.
In the past few months, my oldest son has started talking about a girlfriend. She's a little girl from his class, I'll call her Britney. At first I thought he was making it up to impress his father, since he was always too busy playing a sport to worry about girls. But then talk of Britney became more frequent, and more detailed. Conversations about everything from television shows to sawdust eventually become laden with "Britney this" and "Britney that" and "Chicken noodle? That's what Britney had for lunch today."
I should probably explain what a Grade 5 "boyfriend-girlfriend" relationship involves, so as not to alarm anyone. According to the moles I have planted throughout the neighborhood (sneaky, yet reliable), these relationship arrangements are made soon after the school year begins. The selection process isn't very complex, and from what I understand, the females are in control of boyfriend assignments. A boyfriend seems to be more of a ceremonial role than anything else, and I'm told there isn't even hand-holding. However, based on the phone activity in my house lately, you'd swear I was keeping two newlyweds apart.
Grade five courting is carried out largely through a series of networks. Britney will call her friend, Suzie. Suzie will call my son's friend, Bobby, who will call my son. The message? Call Britney. In the meantime, should Bobby not get this message to my son quickly enough, Suzie will then call our house to get the "calling Britney" process moving more quickly. In the course of five minutes, the phone will ring twice, I'll get two call waiting beeps, and there will be about sixteen messages on my answering machine, all of which are hang-ups. In case you're wondering, yes - this is exactly what I want happening amidst after-school chaos.
I could handle the calls if the girlfriend situation would stop at that, but it doesn't. Now the problem has escalated with the approach of Valentine's Day. I actually thought it was cute when my son suggested buying Britney a present, and I imagined him giving her a special card, a chocolate rose, and maybe a few dollars worth of candy. Imagine my disbelief to see him scoping out the display cases at the jewellery store looking for something that "doesn't look cheap". He said, and I quote: "She said she wants a bracelet, but only if it has diamonds, she said pearls are ugly. I think I'll get her that ring, it's only $79.99."
I have officially become old when my child wants to buy his (apparently high-maintenance) lady friend a ring that is more expensive than anything even I, a married woman, expect to receive for Valentine's Day. I suppose a marriage proposal is just around the corner, or at least that's what it feels like.
Where does the time go? One minute we're high school graduates, and the next minute we're Martha Stewart's key demographic. I still find myself referring to 1997 as "a few years ago", and now the kid I call my "baby" is analyzing the plot holes in episodes of Clifford and spelling his own name. I'm not sure how comfortable I am with how quickly life seems to be flying by.
Here's hoping there's still something to be said for the young at heart.
Thirty years old. Ten years shy of the big 4-0, half way to 60. How does this happen? I remember being in high school and thinking of thirty-year-olds as old fogies. Is that what kids in that age bracket think of me? It couldn't be, I'm only young, right?
I suppose that depends on who you are. If you're in your 50s, I'm just a spring chicken and you're probably annoyed at how old I'm making YOU feel by complaining about turning thirty.
If you're in your teens, you're probably glued to Facebook and not reading the newspaper. Carry on.
This whole "milestone birthday" thing comes at the worst time, too. As if the reality of sprouting grey hairs and stiff muscles weren't enough, I'm faced with a far more worrisome problem.
I guess I should have seen it coming, as the mother of two sons. Both of them are gorgeous, for starters. I don't mean cute, I'm talking stop-in-your-tracks, striking good looks. They have warm hearts, good manners, and quick wit. Not to mention, they can be saucy and miserable when they want to be, which is the perfect icing on the eligible bachelor cake. That's why I shouldn't be surprised about the girl factor.
In the past few months, my oldest son has started talking about a girlfriend. She's a little girl from his class, I'll call her Britney. At first I thought he was making it up to impress his father, since he was always too busy playing a sport to worry about girls. But then talk of Britney became more frequent, and more detailed. Conversations about everything from television shows to sawdust eventually become laden with "Britney this" and "Britney that" and "Chicken noodle? That's what Britney had for lunch today."
I should probably explain what a Grade 5 "boyfriend-girlfriend" relationship involves, so as not to alarm anyone. According to the moles I have planted throughout the neighborhood (sneaky, yet reliable), these relationship arrangements are made soon after the school year begins. The selection process isn't very complex, and from what I understand, the females are in control of boyfriend assignments. A boyfriend seems to be more of a ceremonial role than anything else, and I'm told there isn't even hand-holding. However, based on the phone activity in my house lately, you'd swear I was keeping two newlyweds apart.
Grade five courting is carried out largely through a series of networks. Britney will call her friend, Suzie. Suzie will call my son's friend, Bobby, who will call my son. The message? Call Britney. In the meantime, should Bobby not get this message to my son quickly enough, Suzie will then call our house to get the "calling Britney" process moving more quickly. In the course of five minutes, the phone will ring twice, I'll get two call waiting beeps, and there will be about sixteen messages on my answering machine, all of which are hang-ups. In case you're wondering, yes - this is exactly what I want happening amidst after-school chaos.
I could handle the calls if the girlfriend situation would stop at that, but it doesn't. Now the problem has escalated with the approach of Valentine's Day. I actually thought it was cute when my son suggested buying Britney a present, and I imagined him giving her a special card, a chocolate rose, and maybe a few dollars worth of candy. Imagine my disbelief to see him scoping out the display cases at the jewellery store looking for something that "doesn't look cheap". He said, and I quote: "She said she wants a bracelet, but only if it has diamonds, she said pearls are ugly. I think I'll get her that ring, it's only $79.99."
I have officially become old when my child wants to buy his (apparently high-maintenance) lady friend a ring that is more expensive than anything even I, a married woman, expect to receive for Valentine's Day. I suppose a marriage proposal is just around the corner, or at least that's what it feels like.
Where does the time go? One minute we're high school graduates, and the next minute we're Martha Stewart's key demographic. I still find myself referring to 1997 as "a few years ago", and now the kid I call my "baby" is analyzing the plot holes in episodes of Clifford and spelling his own name. I'm not sure how comfortable I am with how quickly life seems to be flying by.
Here's hoping there's still something to be said for the young at heart.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Passing the Buck
Dear Premier MacDonald,
I have a few hours to kill, so I thought I'd ask for your thoughts about a problem I'm having.
After a few years of my husband running the family finances, I have, in more recent years, taken the reins. Unfortunately, our roof is leaking, and my husband is demanding we get a new one right away.
We both agree that it has to be fixed, but I maintain that there are more important things to be done with our money. The problems with the roof have existed since he was in control of the finances, and if HE didn't make it a priority, that's his problem. He'll just have to wait until I buy the things I need, and then, in a few years, if we have the extra cash laying around, I'll see about that pesky roof.
The kids have to live in this house, too, but they can blame him for the problem since he didn't take care of it when he had the chance. And besides, this is a good chance to punish them for siding with their father all the time. Maybe if I put the blame on him, next time they'll come over to my team instead.
What do you think, Premier MacDonald? Do I have a point? Or am I passing the buck?
This is, in essence, the same argument you made recently about the Route 4 project between St. Peter's and Sydney. You said the Liberals had the opportunity to "make investments" to that road during their time in power and didn't, then you refused to make a firm commitment as to when the work would be done under your reign.
You're right, the Liberals could have done more while they were in office in the 90s. But as long as we're going back one full decade to pass blame, why don't we go back a little bit further still.
The road in question has needed work as long as I can remember, and I was born in 1979. Unless your government web site is wrong, the party in power in Nova Scotia from 1978 right up until 1993 was the Progressive Conservatives.
That span of Conservative power was 15 years, which seems to me to be plenty of time to make improvements to the roads in Cape Breton. If we want to be more specific, that's a full nine years more than the Liberals were in power. When you also take into account the almost 10 years your party has been in power since then, your Conservatives have had over 20 years of balancing the books without being able to pencil in all the work needed on Route 4. That's considerably more time than the Liberals, who you have been so quick to blame for their negligence.
Don't get me wrong, I'm aware that both parties have done some road work. However, both parties are also responsible for neglecting that particular road in the contentious spots, and since these spots have worsened over time, one might say the blame falls more on your shoulders than the Liberals before you. After all, Route 4 is in worse shape now than in 1999, wouldn't you agree?
Making matters worse, your comments last week pointed, however unintentionally, to a condescending attitude. Is it a coincidence that the ridings along Route 4 are Liberal? Probably. Were you insinuating that the work is not being done because those ridings aren't PC loyal? Probably not. Were you suggesting that, should those ridings vote Conservative next time around, the work might become a priority? Not likely. But, to folks in an area that is so regularly ignored politically on provincial and federal levels, that's kind of how it sounded.
The thing is, Mr. Premier, you have to go back to your days before party politics and remember what it's like to be a guy from Mabou. When you didn't care who in power should have done road work ten years previous, but who was going to do the work now to make sure you didn't tear the muffler off your Honda Civic on the way to work. Then again, considering you had the pristine Highway 105 at your disposal, I suppose you can't really relate.
The bottom line is, putting shovels in the ground will get you farther than reminding voters who didn't.
I should sign off now, as the mechanic has just finished doing the necessary work to my car, which was damaged on the highway between Port Hawkesbury and St. Peter's by the huge, gouging holes and missing pavement. I don't expect you to understand that either, though; as I understand it, you're partial to travelling by helicopter to our little corner of Cape Breton. Considering the state of the roads, I can't say I blame you.
I have a few hours to kill, so I thought I'd ask for your thoughts about a problem I'm having.
After a few years of my husband running the family finances, I have, in more recent years, taken the reins. Unfortunately, our roof is leaking, and my husband is demanding we get a new one right away.
We both agree that it has to be fixed, but I maintain that there are more important things to be done with our money. The problems with the roof have existed since he was in control of the finances, and if HE didn't make it a priority, that's his problem. He'll just have to wait until I buy the things I need, and then, in a few years, if we have the extra cash laying around, I'll see about that pesky roof.
The kids have to live in this house, too, but they can blame him for the problem since he didn't take care of it when he had the chance. And besides, this is a good chance to punish them for siding with their father all the time. Maybe if I put the blame on him, next time they'll come over to my team instead.
What do you think, Premier MacDonald? Do I have a point? Or am I passing the buck?
This is, in essence, the same argument you made recently about the Route 4 project between St. Peter's and Sydney. You said the Liberals had the opportunity to "make investments" to that road during their time in power and didn't, then you refused to make a firm commitment as to when the work would be done under your reign.
You're right, the Liberals could have done more while they were in office in the 90s. But as long as we're going back one full decade to pass blame, why don't we go back a little bit further still.
The road in question has needed work as long as I can remember, and I was born in 1979. Unless your government web site is wrong, the party in power in Nova Scotia from 1978 right up until 1993 was the Progressive Conservatives.
That span of Conservative power was 15 years, which seems to me to be plenty of time to make improvements to the roads in Cape Breton. If we want to be more specific, that's a full nine years more than the Liberals were in power. When you also take into account the almost 10 years your party has been in power since then, your Conservatives have had over 20 years of balancing the books without being able to pencil in all the work needed on Route 4. That's considerably more time than the Liberals, who you have been so quick to blame for their negligence.
Don't get me wrong, I'm aware that both parties have done some road work. However, both parties are also responsible for neglecting that particular road in the contentious spots, and since these spots have worsened over time, one might say the blame falls more on your shoulders than the Liberals before you. After all, Route 4 is in worse shape now than in 1999, wouldn't you agree?
Making matters worse, your comments last week pointed, however unintentionally, to a condescending attitude. Is it a coincidence that the ridings along Route 4 are Liberal? Probably. Were you insinuating that the work is not being done because those ridings aren't PC loyal? Probably not. Were you suggesting that, should those ridings vote Conservative next time around, the work might become a priority? Not likely. But, to folks in an area that is so regularly ignored politically on provincial and federal levels, that's kind of how it sounded.
The thing is, Mr. Premier, you have to go back to your days before party politics and remember what it's like to be a guy from Mabou. When you didn't care who in power should have done road work ten years previous, but who was going to do the work now to make sure you didn't tear the muffler off your Honda Civic on the way to work. Then again, considering you had the pristine Highway 105 at your disposal, I suppose you can't really relate.
The bottom line is, putting shovels in the ground will get you farther than reminding voters who didn't.
I should sign off now, as the mechanic has just finished doing the necessary work to my car, which was damaged on the highway between Port Hawkesbury and St. Peter's by the huge, gouging holes and missing pavement. I don't expect you to understand that either, though; as I understand it, you're partial to travelling by helicopter to our little corner of Cape Breton. Considering the state of the roads, I can't say I blame you.
Gina the Writer
My writing quasi-career began not as a job, but as a blogger. And not even as a my-opinion-is-more-important-than-yours-type of blogger; I had written dozens of articles before I ever gave anyone the web address, and even then, it was by request. I really and truly wrote only for myself.
Now that I write for the paper, I have to generate at least one article per week. Normally, I pick through the hundred things in the news, or the thousand things that bounce around in my mind, and write about whichever one happens to be the most newsworthy, the most controversial, or sometimes just the easiest to pen 800 words about.
There have been weeks when I can't stop writing. Suddenly there seem to be a myriad of interesting and important topics, and I'll pump out five or six articles in a matter of days. I'll see something on the news or in the paper, and it consumes my thoughts to the extent that I've actually gotten out of bed to write a piece while the words were still fresh in my mind.
Here we are more than two years after I started blogging, and everything I write, while it may go through a more complex editing process than before, is much the same. I am very fortunate to be in a position where I choose the subject matter of my articles, and I have fantastically open-minded and tolerant employers to thank for that.
How strange that, even after more than 60 published articles, I still feel like a fraud calling myself a writer. I've never been to journalism school, nor have I take a single writing course. I wasn't pursued as a writer by any publication, I took a leap of faith and hoped someone would find promise in my work. Even though I am able to say I get paid for the things I write, I would never be so bold as to describe my occupation as "writer".
This train of thought has cropped up for a very obvious (at least to me), Freudian reason: lately I've had to go over my own work and choose which articles from the past year are the best. Not the funniest, not the most newsworthy, but the best in a technical sense. And this task of choosing puts me and my ego in a difficult position.
I don't know if my idea of funny was funny to someone else. Maybe the most hilarious moment of my week, which I wrote about in detail and with great flourish, soared over the heads of most others and fell flat.
I don't know if my explanation of an issue adequately told the story I was trying to tell. Maybe I had false expectations of the public's familiarity with a subject, didn't use enough back story, and people were wondering what in the world I was talking about.
I don't know if my work is good enough. Maybe, even though I know lots of big words and roughly where to place my commas, my writing is just a bunch of partially incoherent, irrelevant nonsense, by someone with too many opinions and not enough writing chops to properly construct a print-worthy article.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. I don't know. What I'm assuming are words uttered often among writers of my experience,and perhaps even occasionally by seasoned ones from time to time.
I'm reluctant to admit, this is the one area of my life where I have sufficient self-doubt. Not so much in the validity of my opinions, or the sincerity behind what I write, but in the cogency of my arguments, the clarity of my points, and the style from a technical perspective.
It is during these moments of self-doubt that, while I simultaneously end up turning them into an article for this week's paper, I have to remember that I do this for myself, just like I did in the beginning. I might have an audience larger than one, but that hasn't changed my purpose or my goal. And since my goal is to use the skills I have to rid my swirling brain of some of it's overwhelming content, I have accomplished what I set out to do before a single issue of the paper is purchased.
So I'm sitting here, for what has to be the fiftieth time, looking over my work from the past year and wondering which articles are fit to be judged by a trained eye. I still haven't even figured out which are those of Gina, the wife, the mother of two, the university drop-out and frequent windbag, and which are those of Gina the professional writer. I haven't even decided if those are the same people. But I have decided neither of them are going to stop.
Now that I write for the paper, I have to generate at least one article per week. Normally, I pick through the hundred things in the news, or the thousand things that bounce around in my mind, and write about whichever one happens to be the most newsworthy, the most controversial, or sometimes just the easiest to pen 800 words about.
There have been weeks when I can't stop writing. Suddenly there seem to be a myriad of interesting and important topics, and I'll pump out five or six articles in a matter of days. I'll see something on the news or in the paper, and it consumes my thoughts to the extent that I've actually gotten out of bed to write a piece while the words were still fresh in my mind.
Here we are more than two years after I started blogging, and everything I write, while it may go through a more complex editing process than before, is much the same. I am very fortunate to be in a position where I choose the subject matter of my articles, and I have fantastically open-minded and tolerant employers to thank for that.
How strange that, even after more than 60 published articles, I still feel like a fraud calling myself a writer. I've never been to journalism school, nor have I take a single writing course. I wasn't pursued as a writer by any publication, I took a leap of faith and hoped someone would find promise in my work. Even though I am able to say I get paid for the things I write, I would never be so bold as to describe my occupation as "writer".
This train of thought has cropped up for a very obvious (at least to me), Freudian reason: lately I've had to go over my own work and choose which articles from the past year are the best. Not the funniest, not the most newsworthy, but the best in a technical sense. And this task of choosing puts me and my ego in a difficult position.
I don't know if my idea of funny was funny to someone else. Maybe the most hilarious moment of my week, which I wrote about in detail and with great flourish, soared over the heads of most others and fell flat.
I don't know if my explanation of an issue adequately told the story I was trying to tell. Maybe I had false expectations of the public's familiarity with a subject, didn't use enough back story, and people were wondering what in the world I was talking about.
I don't know if my work is good enough. Maybe, even though I know lots of big words and roughly where to place my commas, my writing is just a bunch of partially incoherent, irrelevant nonsense, by someone with too many opinions and not enough writing chops to properly construct a print-worthy article.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. I don't know. What I'm assuming are words uttered often among writers of my experience,and perhaps even occasionally by seasoned ones from time to time.
I'm reluctant to admit, this is the one area of my life where I have sufficient self-doubt. Not so much in the validity of my opinions, or the sincerity behind what I write, but in the cogency of my arguments, the clarity of my points, and the style from a technical perspective.
It is during these moments of self-doubt that, while I simultaneously end up turning them into an article for this week's paper, I have to remember that I do this for myself, just like I did in the beginning. I might have an audience larger than one, but that hasn't changed my purpose or my goal. And since my goal is to use the skills I have to rid my swirling brain of some of it's overwhelming content, I have accomplished what I set out to do before a single issue of the paper is purchased.
So I'm sitting here, for what has to be the fiftieth time, looking over my work from the past year and wondering which articles are fit to be judged by a trained eye. I still haven't even figured out which are those of Gina, the wife, the mother of two, the university drop-out and frequent windbag, and which are those of Gina the professional writer. I haven't even decided if those are the same people. But I have decided neither of them are going to stop.
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