Last week, I laid down the basic rules of a positive and successful Facebook experience. This week, I'll discuss a few rules and guidelines that target more specific problem areas, ones even veteran Facebookers might not be aware of.
To start with, while the very existence of Facebook encourages sharing personal information, airing grievances is best saved for private phone calls and personal confrontations. Starting a "Jane Finch is a dirty hoser" group is not the way to go about things. Likewise, I don't need to see a bunch of four-letter words in your status, or pictures of your best girlfriend pretend-spanking you at a pub crawl. Neither does your boss.
Of my research into the topic of Facebook pet peeves, this one earned a landslide victory: STOP TAKING QUIZZES. Nobody cares what Twilight character or literary time period you are. No one cares which Spice Girl you resemble or what color your aura is. Really - stop. And anyway, why would you want to know that? What purpose does having that information serve in your life? And what purpose do you think it will serve in my News Feed, cluttering up all the important stuff with sparkly ponies and astrological signs?? (In case you couldn't tell, that was a direct quote from a friend of mine. It was too succinct to modify.)
On a related note, the "when will I get married/how many babies will I have/how will I die" calculators are not scientifically accurate, just so you know.
Joining too many groups cheapens the value of your membership in the ones you actually care about, so think twice before becoming a member of "Please bring back Tart n' Tinys, Wonka company". (I know Tart n' Tinys rocked your socks off - mine, too. But, at least save your confectionery loyalty for a far superior candy like Punkys.) (Wow, talk about digressing.) What I mean is, no one will value the opinion of a "CTV Atlantic Newstalk" contributor if they're also a member of "Eminems new album sux, and no I'm not a hater it just does".
Don't invite people to events if they don't live in the same province. I, a resident of Cape Breton, will not be attending your poetry recital in Saskatoon next Tuesday night, girl I went to elementary school with. Did you really think I would?
STOP YELLING AT ME LIKE THIS.
A unilateral relationship status change, on top of being immature and unfair, will only result in confusion for everyone. Make it a mutual decision, especially before you announce you're in a new relationship or informing someone you're filing for divorce. If you handle your relationship status with grace and poise, people will say, "Hey, that person is pretty responsible with his/her use of Facebook in a relationship setting", increasing your odds of finding another potential mate.
FYI: if you have somehow gained access to the Facebook profile of an ex/ex's new flame/other person in whom you should have no interest anyway, you're a creeper. If you return more than twice, you're a stalker, so stop. Facebook stalkers are not cool.
I am not even remotely interested in zombie/bumper sticker/graffiti/pet-raising/friend-buying/game-playing/green patch/gift-giving applications, and one would think that preference would be clear after me ignoring your invitation fifteen times.
Growing a baby in a virtual clay pot is all kinds of wrong.
Speaking of babies (and this rule also applies to pets and cars), posting 56 pictures of your sleeping, immobile newborn might fill your heart with parental pride, but it does nothing for most others. One would have been fine, two perfectly acceptable, even three if you're really worked up. But an album full? C'mon. Wait until the baby is at least capable of an expression.
Also, probably not a great idea to post pictures of your baby in the bathtub. You don't know what kind of weirdos might be scoping out your pictures, even if you think your privacy settings are iron-clad.
Try to comment selectively on your friends' pictures. The one-two-three picture-posting rule loosely applies to this as well. If you have something notable to say about a particular picture, by all means, leave your two cents. But, there's nothing worse than seeing 34 notifications, clicking on the little red flag, and seeing that Aunt Mary Lou has committed the mortal Facebook sin of severe over-commenting. Not only is it a buzz kill (ooh!! ooh! I wonder who left comments on my.....Oh. Aunt Mary Lou. Again.), but then I have to read "wow" and "cute" and "looks like fun" a tedious 34 times.
When I started writing about Facebook etiquette, little did I know that the material would span not one, not two, but three whole articles. I'll conclude next week.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Facebook Etiquette, Part 1
Why didn't I think of this before?
I'm an enthusiastic Facebook participant, as are most of the people I know. To date, there are more than two hundred thousand registered users on the site - making it a breeding ground for social and behavioral faux-pas, especially with numerous format changes feeding the fire.
One would think, with such a huge population, Facebook would by now have some formal etiquette in place: cue Gina, along with some of her more vocal and opinionated Facebook friends, to deliver the goods. To be fair, these rules aren't necessarily all mine, remember that. The last thing I need are dozens of people throwing sheep at me.
Let's begin.
First of all, it's not Question-mark-book, it's Facebook. Get a picture. Assuming you're an established Facebooker and have already have pictures of yourself on your profile, then a shot of your puppy or your toes on the beach in Cuba will do. Something to differentiate yourself from the other question marks, if you please. An avatar, anything.
Unless you have no actual interaction with anyone on your friend list, your profile picture should actually look like you. I know, I looked skinnier and younger ten years ago, too - but putting up a good picture from 1999 isn't fooling anyone, and it creates suspicion and, ultimately, disappointment.
Put a little effort into building your profile. “I don’t read” is not a favorite book, just as “NEthing but country” isn’t favorite music.
A few words about friending (which is only a word in Facebook world. In every other circumstance, the correct verb would be "befriending". If you didn't know that already, we're probably not friends).
Knowing "of" a person (or even having met them) is not the equivilent of knowing them, and is not a susbstantial enough reason to friend them . For example: I hear Heidi Saarloos on the radio every day and have even met her briefly on one occasion, but since I do not know her, I have not sent her a friend request, even though we have friends in common. Get my drift? (Just using you as an example, Heidi. I'm sure you're lovely.)
Friending those who aren't your actual friends is a matter of personal choice, though it is generally frowned upon in the Facebook community, and fairly earns you to the title of "creeper" and the description of either "nosy" or "desperate to win the very lame 'I-have-the-most-Facebook-friends' competition".
If you must friend someone you don't know well, include a message explaining why you are doing so. For example, "Hi, I'm your roommate's cousin!" would suffice. (But wait, why would you want to be friends with your roommate's cousin? Weird...)
Friending someone you don't particularly like is also tacky. They know you only want to scrutinize their pictures, so maintain your dignity and don't bother. If you ignore this rule and they accept, fully expect them to do the same thing to you.
Never friend an ex-boyfriend/girlfriend unless you're prepared to see status updates and pictures that you probably don't want to see.
Writing on your own wall is somewhat of a "faux pas". People will look at the post with pity and think, "aw, she must be new."
Poking is the lowest form of Facebook communication and should be done sparingly and in moderation. There is absolutely no reason to body slam or throw a sheep at anyone.
If someone has sent you a message to which a reply is appropriate, do so in a timely fashion. Never read the message and decide to write back at a later time; that person will see your post-message Facebook activity, and your not making their message a priority might cause them tremendous insecurity. And then they might call you crying and ask if you're mad at them, which is at once ridiculous, terribly awkward, and a good reason to terminate the friendship (both on-line and in real-life).
Some messages are wall-appropriate, and some aren't, so know the difference. "Hey girl, I had a great time last weekend!" is a perfectly acceptable wall post. "Hey man, you were sooooo drunk when we left the strip club...who bailed you out?" - that's more message fare.
When posting pictures, make sure they're rotated in the right direction. If they aren't, no one will look at them, which completely defeats the purpose.
And by the way, it's cheating if you un-tag yourself in a picture just because you look bad. They got you fair and square, so be a good sport and let everyone else laugh. You'll have your chance, even if it doesn't involve the same person.
These are the more broad, sweeping rules that even beginners should know. Next week, we're really going to crack the whip.
I'm an enthusiastic Facebook participant, as are most of the people I know. To date, there are more than two hundred thousand registered users on the site - making it a breeding ground for social and behavioral faux-pas, especially with numerous format changes feeding the fire.
One would think, with such a huge population, Facebook would by now have some formal etiquette in place: cue Gina, along with some of her more vocal and opinionated Facebook friends, to deliver the goods. To be fair, these rules aren't necessarily all mine, remember that. The last thing I need are dozens of people throwing sheep at me.
Let's begin.
First of all, it's not Question-mark-book, it's Facebook. Get a picture. Assuming you're an established Facebooker and have already have pictures of yourself on your profile, then a shot of your puppy or your toes on the beach in Cuba will do. Something to differentiate yourself from the other question marks, if you please. An avatar, anything.
Unless you have no actual interaction with anyone on your friend list, your profile picture should actually look like you. I know, I looked skinnier and younger ten years ago, too - but putting up a good picture from 1999 isn't fooling anyone, and it creates suspicion and, ultimately, disappointment.
Put a little effort into building your profile. “I don’t read” is not a favorite book, just as “NEthing but country” isn’t favorite music.
A few words about friending (which is only a word in Facebook world. In every other circumstance, the correct verb would be "befriending". If you didn't know that already, we're probably not friends).
Knowing "of" a person (or even having met them) is not the equivilent of knowing them, and is not a susbstantial enough reason to friend them . For example: I hear Heidi Saarloos on the radio every day and have even met her briefly on one occasion, but since I do not know her, I have not sent her a friend request, even though we have friends in common. Get my drift? (Just using you as an example, Heidi. I'm sure you're lovely.)
Friending those who aren't your actual friends is a matter of personal choice, though it is generally frowned upon in the Facebook community, and fairly earns you to the title of "creeper" and the description of either "nosy" or "desperate to win the very lame 'I-have-the-most-Facebook-friends' competition".
If you must friend someone you don't know well, include a message explaining why you are doing so. For example, "Hi, I'm your roommate's cousin!" would suffice. (But wait, why would you want to be friends with your roommate's cousin? Weird...)
Friending someone you don't particularly like is also tacky. They know you only want to scrutinize their pictures, so maintain your dignity and don't bother. If you ignore this rule and they accept, fully expect them to do the same thing to you.
Never friend an ex-boyfriend/girlfriend unless you're prepared to see status updates and pictures that you probably don't want to see.
Writing on your own wall is somewhat of a "faux pas". People will look at the post with pity and think, "aw, she must be new."
Poking is the lowest form of Facebook communication and should be done sparingly and in moderation. There is absolutely no reason to body slam or throw a sheep at anyone.
If someone has sent you a message to which a reply is appropriate, do so in a timely fashion. Never read the message and decide to write back at a later time; that person will see your post-message Facebook activity, and your not making their message a priority might cause them tremendous insecurity. And then they might call you crying and ask if you're mad at them, which is at once ridiculous, terribly awkward, and a good reason to terminate the friendship (both on-line and in real-life).
Some messages are wall-appropriate, and some aren't, so know the difference. "Hey girl, I had a great time last weekend!" is a perfectly acceptable wall post. "Hey man, you were sooooo drunk when we left the strip club...who bailed you out?" - that's more message fare.
When posting pictures, make sure they're rotated in the right direction. If they aren't, no one will look at them, which completely defeats the purpose.
And by the way, it's cheating if you un-tag yourself in a picture just because you look bad. They got you fair and square, so be a good sport and let everyone else laugh. You'll have your chance, even if it doesn't involve the same person.
These are the more broad, sweeping rules that even beginners should know. Next week, we're really going to crack the whip.
Nova Scotia Election 2009 - By the Numbers
Number of little campaign signs littering the Strait area for the past month: a zillion.
Average number of dollars each party could potentially save if one large sign was erected in the place of six dozen tiny ones on a row: a zillion.
Number of babies kissed by all party leaders during the campaign: 196.
Rear-ends that enjoyed the same treatment: 7633.
Number of voter registration cards sent to my house by mail and left on top of the fridge in preparation for election day: 2.
Voter registration cards in my house on election day (even after pulling out the fridge and looking for them all morning): 0.
Facebook friends who used their election day status line to encourage their friends to vote: about 30.
Number who specified who their voting preference: 2.
Number who, apparently, didn't realize that voting "against" Rodney MacDonald wasn't an option: 7.
Number of Fort McMurray Facebook friends glued to the computer to get updates from home: 15.
Locations I drove to, stopped at, and drug my uncooperative 4-year-old into, which, as it turned out, were not polling stations at all: 3.
Expletives uttered within that 20 or so minutes, before I found the right place: 78.
Number of people also casting their vote at St. Mark's United Church while I was there: 0.
Number of friends who also reported their polling station was empty at the time they voted: about 20.
Total number of minutes I spent doubting Rodney MacDonald's landslide victory in the Inverness riding: less than 5.
Total number of minutes I spent doubting Rodney MacDonald's eventual, sooner-than-later descension into employment with the Strait regional school board: also less than 5.
Volume, in decibels, of the laughter coming from Karen Casey if she read that: 165.
Percentage of chance that Karen Casey will ever read that: 10%.
Percentage of chance that Karen Casey has ever laughed: 2%.
Number of minutes it took me to fall asleep at around 7:30pm on election night: about 2.
Number of expletives I uttered when I woke up at 9pm to discover I had missed all the television coverage, since any election day is like my own personal Christmas: 25.
Number of times I have since searched on-line, unsuccessfully, for Rodney MacDonald's concession speech: about 500.
Number of years Darrell Dexter served as NDP leader before finally becoming Premier: 8.
Number of times he has done the Balki Bartokomous "Dance of Joy" since June 9: 1539.
Percentage of Nova Scotians who voted: 58.8%.
Percentage of Nova Scotians who will moan and complain about the government, whether or not they bothered to contribute to the process of choosing it: 100%.
Number of MLAs who have law degrees: at least 4, including the new Premier.
Number who are professional actresses: 1.
Number who are teachers: 11.
Number who are teachers that can simultaneously play the fiddle, step dance, address David Letterman, and lead our province: 0 (to my knowledge, at least).
By my count, the number of cabinet ministers who were defeated in their riding: 9.
By the NDP: 8.
By the Liberals: 1.
By the track record of their own government: 9.
Number of people I know in Richmond County who did not vote for Michel Samson: 0.
Number of female members of the new legislative assembly, a record in Nova Scotia: 12.
Number of those who are eligible for a cabinet appointment: 9.
Number of those who have appeared topless on television: 1.
Combined, the number of times Carolyn Bolivar-Getson and Judy Streach will consider auditioning for "The "L" Word" before the next election, potentially: at least 10.
Number of races where the winner was decided by less than 200 votes: 3.
Number of votes separating the two top contenders in Cape Breton North: 164.
Number of beads on the abacus Cecil Clark used to count his lucky stars when the other guy decided not to bother with a recount: approximately 16 million.
Amount of money, in dollars, that Ernie Fage will receive in severance pay since losing his seat: 67,000.
Amount of money, in dollars, that Ernie Fage will receive annually for his pension: 52,000.
Number of times I threw up after reading those figures: 6.
Number of minutes it took me to figure out where Mr. Fage would likely spend a nice chunk of that money: less than 2.
Of three, the number of party leaders who admitted to watching the hockey game election night: 3.
Number of Nova Scotians who cared more about game 6 than the election: most, based on voting numbers.
Number of people who would probably vote Sidney Crosby for Premier if he let them touch the Stanley Cup: too many.
Number of times I'll steal a format done so beautifully by Adam Cooke: 1, and you're looking at it.
Average number of dollars each party could potentially save if one large sign was erected in the place of six dozen tiny ones on a row: a zillion.
Number of babies kissed by all party leaders during the campaign: 196.
Rear-ends that enjoyed the same treatment: 7633.
Number of voter registration cards sent to my house by mail and left on top of the fridge in preparation for election day: 2.
Voter registration cards in my house on election day (even after pulling out the fridge and looking for them all morning): 0.
Facebook friends who used their election day status line to encourage their friends to vote: about 30.
Number who specified who their voting preference: 2.
Number who, apparently, didn't realize that voting "against" Rodney MacDonald wasn't an option: 7.
Number of Fort McMurray Facebook friends glued to the computer to get updates from home: 15.
Locations I drove to, stopped at, and drug my uncooperative 4-year-old into, which, as it turned out, were not polling stations at all: 3.
Expletives uttered within that 20 or so minutes, before I found the right place: 78.
Number of people also casting their vote at St. Mark's United Church while I was there: 0.
Number of friends who also reported their polling station was empty at the time they voted: about 20.
Total number of minutes I spent doubting Rodney MacDonald's landslide victory in the Inverness riding: less than 5.
Total number of minutes I spent doubting Rodney MacDonald's eventual, sooner-than-later descension into employment with the Strait regional school board: also less than 5.
Volume, in decibels, of the laughter coming from Karen Casey if she read that: 165.
Percentage of chance that Karen Casey will ever read that: 10%.
Percentage of chance that Karen Casey has ever laughed: 2%.
Number of minutes it took me to fall asleep at around 7:30pm on election night: about 2.
Number of expletives I uttered when I woke up at 9pm to discover I had missed all the television coverage, since any election day is like my own personal Christmas: 25.
Number of times I have since searched on-line, unsuccessfully, for Rodney MacDonald's concession speech: about 500.
Number of years Darrell Dexter served as NDP leader before finally becoming Premier: 8.
Number of times he has done the Balki Bartokomous "Dance of Joy" since June 9: 1539.
Percentage of Nova Scotians who voted: 58.8%.
Percentage of Nova Scotians who will moan and complain about the government, whether or not they bothered to contribute to the process of choosing it: 100%.
Number of MLAs who have law degrees: at least 4, including the new Premier.
Number who are professional actresses: 1.
Number who are teachers: 11.
Number who are teachers that can simultaneously play the fiddle, step dance, address David Letterman, and lead our province: 0 (to my knowledge, at least).
By my count, the number of cabinet ministers who were defeated in their riding: 9.
By the NDP: 8.
By the Liberals: 1.
By the track record of their own government: 9.
Number of people I know in Richmond County who did not vote for Michel Samson: 0.
Number of female members of the new legislative assembly, a record in Nova Scotia: 12.
Number of those who are eligible for a cabinet appointment: 9.
Number of those who have appeared topless on television: 1.
Combined, the number of times Carolyn Bolivar-Getson and Judy Streach will consider auditioning for "The "L" Word" before the next election, potentially: at least 10.
Number of races where the winner was decided by less than 200 votes: 3.
Number of votes separating the two top contenders in Cape Breton North: 164.
Number of beads on the abacus Cecil Clark used to count his lucky stars when the other guy decided not to bother with a recount: approximately 16 million.
Amount of money, in dollars, that Ernie Fage will receive in severance pay since losing his seat: 67,000.
Amount of money, in dollars, that Ernie Fage will receive annually for his pension: 52,000.
Number of times I threw up after reading those figures: 6.
Number of minutes it took me to figure out where Mr. Fage would likely spend a nice chunk of that money: less than 2.
Of three, the number of party leaders who admitted to watching the hockey game election night: 3.
Number of Nova Scotians who cared more about game 6 than the election: most, based on voting numbers.
Number of people who would probably vote Sidney Crosby for Premier if he let them touch the Stanley Cup: too many.
Number of times I'll steal a format done so beautifully by Adam Cooke: 1, and you're looking at it.
Monday, June 15, 2009
For Limba's Sake
This isn't Halifax or Toronto; it's not as if there are big events going on every weekend. So when parents hear that a circus is coming to town, it seems like a great opportunity to get the kids out for a few hours of classic family fun.
I still remember going to the circus here in Port Hawkesbury a great many years ago, when it was at the old arena. Something tells me that, even as a kid, I was able to appreciate how lame the performances were, and yet I left feeling totally complete. The highlight - elephant rides at the very end of the show - made up for anything the rest of the evening may have lacked. And I don't think there's a kid who attended that circus who doesn't have memories of the elephants stinking up the place, and the handlers rushing to their rear-ends with buckets bigger than cars.
My kids (especially the younger one) love animals, and a close-up view of an exotic animal would thrill them to no end. I figured it would be money well spent to have them experience the clowns, stunts, and atmosphere of a real-life circus.
I had every intention of buying tickets to the Louisdale show, for all four of us. When I heard the afternoon would set me back over $70, I could barely believe it! A bit steep for my taste, but I figured hey, when will the kids get to see a show like this again? I was going to suck it up and buy the tickets on Friday afternoon.
It was Friday morning, creeping around Facebook, that I saw a friend of mine, a huge animal lover and (dare I say) advocate, had posted something about boycotting this circus. Never much of a bleeding heart, I would normally skip over a sentence like that without giving it a second thought. But, for some reason I decided to see what she was talking about, since it involved something I was about to support.
What I read disgusted me, and I'm pretty sure it'll disgust you, too.
The majority of the information I found came directly from a press release issued by the SPCA. They have officially taken a position against this circus' use of an elephant named "Limba", and have provided very compelling details as to why the public should consider doing the same.
Limba is a 45-year-old Asiatic elephant that was taken from the wild in the mid-60s, and has been forced to perform ever since. Not only does the SPCA not support the removal of exotic animals from the wild for the purposes of entertainment or profit, period, but they suggest that this particular elephant has earned her keep, and should be retired. While I tend to agree, there is even more reason why I won't be supporting this circus.
The fact that this elephant is the only one in the show, directly contravenes the policies regarding circuses in Nova Scotia set out by the Department of Natural Resources, the body that issued the permit.
A DNR document called "Standards Exhibiting Circus Animals in Nova Scotia", lays out the following provisions, all of which are violated by this particular circus.
Social species shall not be exhibited as single specimens unless compelling reasons can be shown...Elephants are intelligent, inquisitive and social creatures, and therefore circuses must not maintain single elephants. Elephants kept in circuses must be supplied with social contact with other elephants...As elephants are social herd animals, they must always be able to see and touch other elephants [emphasis added].
Limba the elephant is alone. While I don't think that being alone is as serious as being beaten or neglected, it is in the biological nature of these animals to interact with others of it's kind, and being deprived of that interaction, not to mention being drug around from town to town and paraded about for more than 40 years, is, in combination, the equivalent of abuse in my books.
I'm not sure why the almighty dollar causes to many people to show a complete disregard for the welfare of others, whether those others be human or pachyderm. Nor am I sure why the DNR chose to defy it's own policies and grant this circus a permit to operate in Nova Scotia. I suppose there really isn't much I can do about it, either - except not go. And before you lay down your $70, perhaps you might want to consider if you want to support an organization that puts money before kindness.
I still remember going to the circus here in Port Hawkesbury a great many years ago, when it was at the old arena. Something tells me that, even as a kid, I was able to appreciate how lame the performances were, and yet I left feeling totally complete. The highlight - elephant rides at the very end of the show - made up for anything the rest of the evening may have lacked. And I don't think there's a kid who attended that circus who doesn't have memories of the elephants stinking up the place, and the handlers rushing to their rear-ends with buckets bigger than cars.
My kids (especially the younger one) love animals, and a close-up view of an exotic animal would thrill them to no end. I figured it would be money well spent to have them experience the clowns, stunts, and atmosphere of a real-life circus.
I had every intention of buying tickets to the Louisdale show, for all four of us. When I heard the afternoon would set me back over $70, I could barely believe it! A bit steep for my taste, but I figured hey, when will the kids get to see a show like this again? I was going to suck it up and buy the tickets on Friday afternoon.
It was Friday morning, creeping around Facebook, that I saw a friend of mine, a huge animal lover and (dare I say) advocate, had posted something about boycotting this circus. Never much of a bleeding heart, I would normally skip over a sentence like that without giving it a second thought. But, for some reason I decided to see what she was talking about, since it involved something I was about to support.
What I read disgusted me, and I'm pretty sure it'll disgust you, too.
The majority of the information I found came directly from a press release issued by the SPCA. They have officially taken a position against this circus' use of an elephant named "Limba", and have provided very compelling details as to why the public should consider doing the same.
Limba is a 45-year-old Asiatic elephant that was taken from the wild in the mid-60s, and has been forced to perform ever since. Not only does the SPCA not support the removal of exotic animals from the wild for the purposes of entertainment or profit, period, but they suggest that this particular elephant has earned her keep, and should be retired. While I tend to agree, there is even more reason why I won't be supporting this circus.
The fact that this elephant is the only one in the show, directly contravenes the policies regarding circuses in Nova Scotia set out by the Department of Natural Resources, the body that issued the permit.
A DNR document called "Standards Exhibiting Circus Animals in Nova Scotia", lays out the following provisions, all of which are violated by this particular circus.
Social species shall not be exhibited as single specimens unless compelling reasons can be shown...Elephants are intelligent, inquisitive and social creatures, and therefore circuses must not maintain single elephants. Elephants kept in circuses must be supplied with social contact with other elephants...As elephants are social herd animals, they must always be able to see and touch other elephants [emphasis added].
Limba the elephant is alone. While I don't think that being alone is as serious as being beaten or neglected, it is in the biological nature of these animals to interact with others of it's kind, and being deprived of that interaction, not to mention being drug around from town to town and paraded about for more than 40 years, is, in combination, the equivalent of abuse in my books.
I'm not sure why the almighty dollar causes to many people to show a complete disregard for the welfare of others, whether those others be human or pachyderm. Nor am I sure why the DNR chose to defy it's own policies and grant this circus a permit to operate in Nova Scotia. I suppose there really isn't much I can do about it, either - except not go. And before you lay down your $70, perhaps you might want to consider if you want to support an organization that puts money before kindness.
Stay Where You're From and You'll Lead Where You're To
First, let me say that I am neither for nor against the Liberal party. I have no party affiliation, and in all honesty, I still have no idea who I'm going to vote for on June 9th.
In fact, I'd write this same article about any Prime Ministerial candidate from any party, if he or she had been living in another country for the past 34 years.
The first time I saw the "Michael Ignatieff: Just Visiting" ad on television, my first thought was, "Wow, whatever low-level Tory researcher dug up that little nugget must have just got a HUGE raise." I am of course talking about the C-Span clip of Ignatieff calling himself American.
Political attack ads are interesting. Each party will say they're ineffective, yet each party will run them. Analysts will say they don't work, yet they often do (if in no other way than putting people off to the extent that they decide not to vote). I tend to think that the public has such a negative view of politics overall, that we dwell on the negative and end up choosing the lesser of all evils, but maybe that's just me.
Regardless of what I think, the Progressive Conservatives came up with this television ad to try to portray Ignatieff as somehow "un-Canadian", and really, how can someone un-Canadian be the Prime Minister of Canada, right? At least that's what the intention was.
The question is, do the Tories have a point?
You have to give it to Ignatieff, he's a charismatic type of guy. He's educated and intelligent, family oriented and friendly, and he talks a very good game. He was born in Canada and spent the first 31 years of his life here, making him as Canadian as anyone else. His recent residency does not call any of that into question.
It's gets a little stickier, though, when you start talking about whether or not he's right for PM. Can a Canadian-born citizen become less qualified to represent our country by being absent for so long?
There's no doubt, when you're Canadian, you're Canadian. You were born here, went to school here, your family lives here, you understand the way things work. Being gone for a period of time does not take away your birthright, but only living amongst other Canadians on Canadian soil can you understand the way things work here.
It's a bit like education versus work experience. You were a child yourself once upon a time, so you decide to be a teacher. You could study children for years and years, reading every book about them, learning all there is to learn about development and behavior and the like. You watch videos of them playing and hear testimonials from teachers who have worked with them. But, does all of this education make you qualified to be thrust in front of a classroom of a few dozen children? Did all the books and videos and your own childhood really prepare you to deal with the real thing?
Or, would you rather trust your children to someone who, while they may not have a Harvard diploma hanging on their wall, has worked with children on a daily basis for the past thirty years? Isn't experience more valuable than education in some instances?
I tend to think so. While I have respect for Ignatieff's professional credentials and political chops, I have my doubts as to how well he could possibly understand the 2009 Canada, since it's much different than the 1978 Canada he left behind. A lot has happened in 34 years, and no amount of watching C-Pac could have brought him up to speed on the realities of everyday Canadian issues. Everything is different now than it was when he last lived here, from business and the economy, to infrastructure, to common values and beliefs.
He wasn't here to share the past quarter-century with the people he hopes to speak for, and I think that makes him unqualified to speak for them at all. He chose to leave, to call himself American, and now he should have to deal with the consequences of choosing to stay gone. Hopping back on board doesn't mean he should become captain, so to speak.
Perhaps if he spent the next few years getting to know his homeland again, catching up on all he has missed, talking to the people, and re-examining the Canadian experience, he'd find himself in a much more favorable position. But, at this point, he's an outsider to me.
In fact, I'd write this same article about any Prime Ministerial candidate from any party, if he or she had been living in another country for the past 34 years.
The first time I saw the "Michael Ignatieff: Just Visiting" ad on television, my first thought was, "Wow, whatever low-level Tory researcher dug up that little nugget must have just got a HUGE raise." I am of course talking about the C-Span clip of Ignatieff calling himself American.
Political attack ads are interesting. Each party will say they're ineffective, yet each party will run them. Analysts will say they don't work, yet they often do (if in no other way than putting people off to the extent that they decide not to vote). I tend to think that the public has such a negative view of politics overall, that we dwell on the negative and end up choosing the lesser of all evils, but maybe that's just me.
Regardless of what I think, the Progressive Conservatives came up with this television ad to try to portray Ignatieff as somehow "un-Canadian", and really, how can someone un-Canadian be the Prime Minister of Canada, right? At least that's what the intention was.
The question is, do the Tories have a point?
You have to give it to Ignatieff, he's a charismatic type of guy. He's educated and intelligent, family oriented and friendly, and he talks a very good game. He was born in Canada and spent the first 31 years of his life here, making him as Canadian as anyone else. His recent residency does not call any of that into question.
It's gets a little stickier, though, when you start talking about whether or not he's right for PM. Can a Canadian-born citizen become less qualified to represent our country by being absent for so long?
There's no doubt, when you're Canadian, you're Canadian. You were born here, went to school here, your family lives here, you understand the way things work. Being gone for a period of time does not take away your birthright, but only living amongst other Canadians on Canadian soil can you understand the way things work here.
It's a bit like education versus work experience. You were a child yourself once upon a time, so you decide to be a teacher. You could study children for years and years, reading every book about them, learning all there is to learn about development and behavior and the like. You watch videos of them playing and hear testimonials from teachers who have worked with them. But, does all of this education make you qualified to be thrust in front of a classroom of a few dozen children? Did all the books and videos and your own childhood really prepare you to deal with the real thing?
Or, would you rather trust your children to someone who, while they may not have a Harvard diploma hanging on their wall, has worked with children on a daily basis for the past thirty years? Isn't experience more valuable than education in some instances?
I tend to think so. While I have respect for Ignatieff's professional credentials and political chops, I have my doubts as to how well he could possibly understand the 2009 Canada, since it's much different than the 1978 Canada he left behind. A lot has happened in 34 years, and no amount of watching C-Pac could have brought him up to speed on the realities of everyday Canadian issues. Everything is different now than it was when he last lived here, from business and the economy, to infrastructure, to common values and beliefs.
He wasn't here to share the past quarter-century with the people he hopes to speak for, and I think that makes him unqualified to speak for them at all. He chose to leave, to call himself American, and now he should have to deal with the consequences of choosing to stay gone. Hopping back on board doesn't mean he should become captain, so to speak.
Perhaps if he spent the next few years getting to know his homeland again, catching up on all he has missed, talking to the people, and re-examining the Canadian experience, he'd find himself in a much more favorable position. But, at this point, he's an outsider to me.
They Come in the Night
This Thursday evening past, I was sitting in my living room, plugging away at an article for this week's paper. Having just celebrated my wedding anniversary on Wednesday, I decided to write about what I've learned about marriage over the last few years, and indeed it was coming along nicely.
I had almost finished when my dog started doing his "let me out to pee" dance in front of the door. I put my laptop down, opened the main door, put him on his leash, and grabbed the handle of the outside door.
You will not be reading an article about the rules of marriage this week, due to events that occurred when I looked out the glass pane of my door.
There, clinging to the screen, exactly at my eye level, was a June bug the size of an albatross. Not a finch, not even a quail, but an albatross. He knocked on my door and asked to borrow a sweater. And it fit.
I suppose it didn't exactly happen that way, but those with a fear of June bugs will understand why I'm exaggerating. They are, after all, a present threat.
I'm a tall, hefty girl without a lot of fear. It's not like one of those old phobia episodes of Maury Povich, that I'm scared of hair or tomatoes or people named Bernie. The things I'm afraid of are, in my mind, legitimate and justifiable.
Like tornadoes. I can't imagine why people choose to live in Kansas, Oklahoma, or anywhere else defined as "Tornado Alley" (hello? would you live in a place called "City of Torrential Floods"?), but I guess that's their choice, and they're willing to take that chance. I, on the other hand, will never visit any of those places, let alone park my mobile home in the middle of the potential melee. I am terrified of tornadoes, and the shock of seeing one would kill me before the funnel cloud ever could. But tornadoes, while a legitimate fear, aren't a present threat.
Same with rats. Wet rats, specifically. I had the occasion to see a giant, wet wharf rat when I was young (thanks for taking that picture to school, Mitchell Burke), and the horrifying image has been seared into my mind for over 20 years. To make matters worse, shortly after seeing that picture, a rat darted out from under our shed, ran up my leg, and jumped off my shoulder. By rights, I should still be in intensive therapy. But, while rats are a legitimate fear, I don't live near enough to any notoriously rat-prone areas to consider it a present threat.
Sharks, too. Though I would never go past my ankles in the Caribbean (ask my travel mates), I don't loose sleep over an impending Cape Breton shark attack. You get the point, I'm sure.
June bugs are different, they're a present threat. They arrive in late May, like clockwork, and there isn't a single thing I can do about it. There's nothing I can spray and nowhere I can hide, unless I want to leave North America all together.
A friend said to me, "They say there's a purpose to everything under God, but I haven't found a single good reason why June bugs exist", so I decided to research exactly what they contribute to our ecosystem.
I found out the, ahem, phyllophaga is a New World scarab beetle with three sets of legs and a penchant for deciduous trees. Not only do they attack the roots of garden vegetables, causing poor and stunted growth, but since they live underground, they've been known to cause lawns to turn yellow and die, with such severe damage to the grass from their subterraneous munching that said grass can be rolled up like a carpet.
In as much reading as I've done about June bugs over the past few days, nowhere have I found a single useful characteristic or positive attribute, unless you count "medically harmless" (which you shouldn't, since it's not true, if you consider heart attacks caused by one unexpectedly flying into someone's hood).
All the reading and venting in the world won't do me a bit of good, since these hateful, hard-backed creatures will still be infesting the Strait Area for the next month. Hitting the side of my house with the force of a meteor; flying around my porch light like a possessed swarm of locusts; stomping around my patio at night, waiting for an unsuspecting Gina to wander outside, all for them to leap forward into my long hair and lay eggs...heaven help me, I'm going to have nightmares just from writing this article.
June bugs were put here to scare us, people. Get used to it, and may the force (or the heavy shoe) be with you.
I had almost finished when my dog started doing his "let me out to pee" dance in front of the door. I put my laptop down, opened the main door, put him on his leash, and grabbed the handle of the outside door.
You will not be reading an article about the rules of marriage this week, due to events that occurred when I looked out the glass pane of my door.
There, clinging to the screen, exactly at my eye level, was a June bug the size of an albatross. Not a finch, not even a quail, but an albatross. He knocked on my door and asked to borrow a sweater. And it fit.
I suppose it didn't exactly happen that way, but those with a fear of June bugs will understand why I'm exaggerating. They are, after all, a present threat.
I'm a tall, hefty girl without a lot of fear. It's not like one of those old phobia episodes of Maury Povich, that I'm scared of hair or tomatoes or people named Bernie. The things I'm afraid of are, in my mind, legitimate and justifiable.
Like tornadoes. I can't imagine why people choose to live in Kansas, Oklahoma, or anywhere else defined as "Tornado Alley" (hello? would you live in a place called "City of Torrential Floods"?), but I guess that's their choice, and they're willing to take that chance. I, on the other hand, will never visit any of those places, let alone park my mobile home in the middle of the potential melee. I am terrified of tornadoes, and the shock of seeing one would kill me before the funnel cloud ever could. But tornadoes, while a legitimate fear, aren't a present threat.
Same with rats. Wet rats, specifically. I had the occasion to see a giant, wet wharf rat when I was young (thanks for taking that picture to school, Mitchell Burke), and the horrifying image has been seared into my mind for over 20 years. To make matters worse, shortly after seeing that picture, a rat darted out from under our shed, ran up my leg, and jumped off my shoulder. By rights, I should still be in intensive therapy. But, while rats are a legitimate fear, I don't live near enough to any notoriously rat-prone areas to consider it a present threat.
Sharks, too. Though I would never go past my ankles in the Caribbean (ask my travel mates), I don't loose sleep over an impending Cape Breton shark attack. You get the point, I'm sure.
June bugs are different, they're a present threat. They arrive in late May, like clockwork, and there isn't a single thing I can do about it. There's nothing I can spray and nowhere I can hide, unless I want to leave North America all together.
A friend said to me, "They say there's a purpose to everything under God, but I haven't found a single good reason why June bugs exist", so I decided to research exactly what they contribute to our ecosystem.
I found out the, ahem, phyllophaga is a New World scarab beetle with three sets of legs and a penchant for deciduous trees. Not only do they attack the roots of garden vegetables, causing poor and stunted growth, but since they live underground, they've been known to cause lawns to turn yellow and die, with such severe damage to the grass from their subterraneous munching that said grass can be rolled up like a carpet.
In as much reading as I've done about June bugs over the past few days, nowhere have I found a single useful characteristic or positive attribute, unless you count "medically harmless" (which you shouldn't, since it's not true, if you consider heart attacks caused by one unexpectedly flying into someone's hood).
All the reading and venting in the world won't do me a bit of good, since these hateful, hard-backed creatures will still be infesting the Strait Area for the next month. Hitting the side of my house with the force of a meteor; flying around my porch light like a possessed swarm of locusts; stomping around my patio at night, waiting for an unsuspecting Gina to wander outside, all for them to leap forward into my long hair and lay eggs...heaven help me, I'm going to have nightmares just from writing this article.
June bugs were put here to scare us, people. Get used to it, and may the force (or the heavy shoe) be with you.
Eleven Down
My oldest son just turned eleven this past week - I know, where does the time go? How is it possible that I am old enough to have an eleven-year-old child?
I could write a book about the lessons I've learned and facts I have gathered since his birth, but this is a short list of more recent revelations.
One, boys have their own little world that I'm not completely welcome in. There are no more playdates as boys get older; now, I hear a knock, I see a figure bolt by me, I hear a door slam, and they're gone. As long as they're behaving, I suppose I don't need to know exactly what they're doing, but it's reached a point where my daily inquisition is met with eye-rolling and "I dunno, just stuff. Skateboarding, whatever." Whatever indeed.
Two, boys' hygiene is a complete contradiction. The same kid who will flat out refuse to wear the "lame" shirt I just bought him, will walk around with a four-inch wide mustard stain on the front of one he likes. He'll beg me to let his hair grow out to a certain style, but would go to school with epic bed-head if I didn't thrust a brush in his direction every morning. He saves his money for cool sneakers, only to let them disintegrate on his feet without the least bit of concern. I can't comprehend how someone so picky about their appearance in some areas, can be so unconscientious about it in others.
Three, as he gets braver, I get more scared. The first day he strapped on his bike helmet for a solo spin around the block, I wanted to chain him to the house. Frantic questions screech through my mind every time he wants to push the boundaries of his current permissions: will he remember the hidden driveway? does he know my cell phone number? what if something happens? Most of his new ventures leave me swallowing my fear, giving him the chance to prove himself and earn my trust, and then holding my breath until he walks back through the door.
Four, I will most definitely be a monster-in-law. With girls entering the picture as of late, I'm fairly certain he can see the terror in my eyes every time I see "her" (whoever "her" might be that particular day) number come up on the call display. I used to think it was so cute when girls would be around, the ones he claimed, with genuine disgust, were "gross". Now, girls are the enemy, but only to me. The future does not look bright in that department, and I'm afraid I might have to search around for those chains I mentioned, from the bicycle days.
Five, he's a child and a teen in equal parts. While he makes his own toast, prefers a shower over a bath, and watches pg-13 movies, he's also mommy's baby when he's sick. He loves to give hugs and play, yet he's quickly closing in on the height of his dad. Pretty soon he won't have a bedtime on the weekend, but I can always be sure he's going to tell his little brother "I love you" before sleep. (I'll have to try to remember that when they're wrestling each other into submission.)
Six, in some cases he knows more than I do. At his birthday party, we had decided some Wii and a movie would occupy most of the night's agenda. I took the liberty of popping a DVD into the player, only to see a blank screen remain on the television. In my defense, the electronics in my living room would, for most, require a Harvard degree in Information Technology and Engineering, but to my surprise, he had the movie up and running in mere minutes. Those darned kids and all their fancy doo-hickeys. Tarnation.
And finally, seven, drugs are the scariest things in the world. All you can do is talk and talk and talk and hope something you say sticks, but when it comes down to it, they're going to do what they're going to do. The worst part: short of holding their hand in the halls of the high school, there isn't much you can do about "the drug situation" except pray that your stories and explanations have led them in the direction of saying no. I have been having the drug conversation for years with my son, and I think I have him convinced that drugs are for the kids who don't have the confidence to be themselves, and that sooner than later, they'll be the stoners who all the cool kids make fun of. Keep your fingers crossed that my brainwashing will pay off.
Wish me luck. I hear the next eleven are even harder.
I could write a book about the lessons I've learned and facts I have gathered since his birth, but this is a short list of more recent revelations.
One, boys have their own little world that I'm not completely welcome in. There are no more playdates as boys get older; now, I hear a knock, I see a figure bolt by me, I hear a door slam, and they're gone. As long as they're behaving, I suppose I don't need to know exactly what they're doing, but it's reached a point where my daily inquisition is met with eye-rolling and "I dunno, just stuff. Skateboarding, whatever." Whatever indeed.
Two, boys' hygiene is a complete contradiction. The same kid who will flat out refuse to wear the "lame" shirt I just bought him, will walk around with a four-inch wide mustard stain on the front of one he likes. He'll beg me to let his hair grow out to a certain style, but would go to school with epic bed-head if I didn't thrust a brush in his direction every morning. He saves his money for cool sneakers, only to let them disintegrate on his feet without the least bit of concern. I can't comprehend how someone so picky about their appearance in some areas, can be so unconscientious about it in others.
Three, as he gets braver, I get more scared. The first day he strapped on his bike helmet for a solo spin around the block, I wanted to chain him to the house. Frantic questions screech through my mind every time he wants to push the boundaries of his current permissions: will he remember the hidden driveway? does he know my cell phone number? what if something happens? Most of his new ventures leave me swallowing my fear, giving him the chance to prove himself and earn my trust, and then holding my breath until he walks back through the door.
Four, I will most definitely be a monster-in-law. With girls entering the picture as of late, I'm fairly certain he can see the terror in my eyes every time I see "her" (whoever "her" might be that particular day) number come up on the call display. I used to think it was so cute when girls would be around, the ones he claimed, with genuine disgust, were "gross". Now, girls are the enemy, but only to me. The future does not look bright in that department, and I'm afraid I might have to search around for those chains I mentioned, from the bicycle days.
Five, he's a child and a teen in equal parts. While he makes his own toast, prefers a shower over a bath, and watches pg-13 movies, he's also mommy's baby when he's sick. He loves to give hugs and play, yet he's quickly closing in on the height of his dad. Pretty soon he won't have a bedtime on the weekend, but I can always be sure he's going to tell his little brother "I love you" before sleep. (I'll have to try to remember that when they're wrestling each other into submission.)
Six, in some cases he knows more than I do. At his birthday party, we had decided some Wii and a movie would occupy most of the night's agenda. I took the liberty of popping a DVD into the player, only to see a blank screen remain on the television. In my defense, the electronics in my living room would, for most, require a Harvard degree in Information Technology and Engineering, but to my surprise, he had the movie up and running in mere minutes. Those darned kids and all their fancy doo-hickeys. Tarnation.
And finally, seven, drugs are the scariest things in the world. All you can do is talk and talk and talk and hope something you say sticks, but when it comes down to it, they're going to do what they're going to do. The worst part: short of holding their hand in the halls of the high school, there isn't much you can do about "the drug situation" except pray that your stories and explanations have led them in the direction of saying no. I have been having the drug conversation for years with my son, and I think I have him convinced that drugs are for the kids who don't have the confidence to be themselves, and that sooner than later, they'll be the stoners who all the cool kids make fun of. Keep your fingers crossed that my brainwashing will pay off.
Wish me luck. I hear the next eleven are even harder.
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