I try not to be a negative person, really I do. It's more than just being negative or having an attitude problem of some sort; it has do with an increase in intolerable behavior and my growing intolerance of those displaying that behavior (which is code for "people really annoy me").
For some reason, here in Port Hawkesbury, there are a few persisting customer service issues -- big ones. As someone who goes to several of the same stores, sometimes several times a day, these ongoing issues are quickly coming to a head.
An important skill required of any successful employee in the service industry, is communication. That's why I am so baffled that Cashier Mary (which is what I'll call her) has been able to maintain her job. I'm sure she's a lovely woman in a social setting, but when it comes to her job, she seems to be incapable of a spoken word. In as many times as I've been to her cash, she has never once uttered a single syllable, in my direction or anyone else's.
Normally, someone taking your money at a store like that will, at the very least, say hello, tell you how much your order has come to, let you know how much your change is, and tell you to have a nice day. Mary doesn't smile, doesn't talk, doesn't even acknowledge there's a person standing in front of her, let alone acknowledge you've just made a financial transaction.
The most annoying part about the Mary situation is the complete ignorance on her part and the part of her employers. I consider her silence to be rude, as do others I've heard complain. Someone who is timid should at least be polite in a work environment that requires customer interaction, and someone who isn't capable of that should not, I suggest, be working at one of the busiest stores in town. It really gets my goat.
Second on my hit list this week are the storefront smokers. You know who I mean; you're rushing around town, trying to get home to start supper, two kids in the back of your rig (who might just start eating each other is you don't hurry up). You pull up to a business, and an employee is outside smoking a cigarette. This in itself wouldn't be a huge problem, if there were someone else in the store to serve customers. But, when I'm standing at the cash with my milk in one hand, car keys and a twenty in the other, tapping my foot impatiently and glaring like a madwoman at the little punk outside trying to steal one last drag off his Number 7 - that's when it becomes a problem. Have your smoke when there's no one around, not with people waiting inside for service. Those guys get my goat, too.
I'm on a roll.
A year after my first rant on this next subject, I can actually narrow the field and be even more specific this time around. People who are just naturally bad drivers can at least be forgiven to a certain extent; it's the intentionally bad drivers who bring out my road rage.
To give one example, there's a cab driver in town who is seemingly determined to make the roads unsafe. This guy has cut me off three times in the past month, and not in a subtle, oops-it-was-a-mistake kind of way. He'll see the traffic coming right toward him and jut out at the last second, sending every driver close to him into panic mode, with brakes slamming, horns tooting, and fingers flying - all to shave, what? Maybe two seconds off his arrival time? He's a bad driver by choice, which is worse than being a bad driver by accident, not to mention completely ridiculous. You know who you are, pal. And you got my goat, too.
Finally, there's something I need clarified: with violence and crime all over the province, known drug dealers making a fortune, and unsolved murders galore, why do police agencies consider illegal cigarettes to be enemy number one? A large seizure might look impressive to some, but it seems to me that resources might be better spent on catching murderers and stuff like that. I'm not defending those who break the law in any capacity, but crying, broken-hearted families and cops smiling over a table full of illegal smokes are too often seen on the same nightly newscast. I'm not losing much sleep over the government's lost profits, call me crazy.
My goat has officially left the building. It must be a full moon or something.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
H1N1 Panic
Let's keep things in perspective, shall we? Yes, there is a potentially deadly strain of swine flu spreading around the globe. No, it's not necessarily the end of the world.
First, the facts. As of Monday, 26 people are confirmed dead from swine flu according to the World Health Organization (WHO) – 25 in Mexico and one in the United States. Around the world, 985 cases of the flu have been confirmed, including 85 in Canada. Others in Mexico (the reported numbers range from 2,500 to 8,000) are showing flu-like symptoms.
But even if these numbers stand up, they, too, should be seen in context. All influenza is potentially deadly. In a normal year, between 6,500 and 7,500 Mexicans die from pneumonia-like diseases. According to the Canadian Medical Association Journal, the flu kills up to 2,500 Canadians and about 36,000 Americans annually. Worldwide, the number of deaths attributed to the flu each year is between 250,000 and 500,000.
So, yes, there have been deaths from this flu variant, and there will almost certainly be more. But, relatively speaking, we're still in the realm of low numbers. What's more telling still is that most who contracted this strain of the virus have recovered quickly.
A new flu outbreak always raises memories of the epidemic of 1918, when the so-called Spanish flu killed up to 50 million people worldwide, including an estimated 45,000 in Canada. But history provides other examples as well. The most telling comparison, I think, is the great swine flu panic of 1976. That one began when an army recruit died after contracting a mysterious strain of swine flu.
Politicians swung into action. Faced with the possibility of another 1918-style pandemic, then-U.S. President Gerald Ford promised to inoculate every American citizen with vaccine. The Canadian government followed suit, with the condition that, because of the costs involved, it would be able to inoculate only some. Throughout 1976, the swine flu story went from fear to complete farce. The announcement of the country's first swine flu death turned out to be false, based on the coroner's report showing the person had never been infected.
Ontario's government, in the end, decided to offer the vaccine to anyone who wanted it. By December of that year, it was reported that municipal clinics set up to offer free flu shots were shutting down for lack of customers, which perhaps was just as well; when several Americans developed a mysterious and deadly paralysis after being inoculated, swine flu shots were abruptly suspended in both countries.
In the end, the only known death from the 1976 swine flu pandemic was the original army recruit. Everyone else who caught the bug recovered.
Granted, this recent outbreak is more significant than the outbreak of '76 and has affected more people. The governments are calling the virus a cause for concern but not alarm. Unfortunately, people don't listen to the government - they listen to the media, and the thoughts and opinions of "experts" should have been tempered in the media from the outset.
If you look at the big picture of under 1000 total cases worldwide, it doesn't really register as an epidemic to me. Thousands of people die of malaria daily, which seems a whole lot more significant than 26 over a period of a few weeks.
We also have to take into account how Mexico's infrastructure has impacted the death toll. Canadian and American health care systems may have their flaws, but they're far more advanced than what is in place in Mexico.
But, perhaps the most dangerous byproduct of this H1N1 virus is the undue strain all the panic is putting on health care systems all over the world. Just the fact that the name change was required is a great indication of how some people are reacting - assuming they will get sick from eating pork products, the catalyst for the name change. People without symptoms are clogging emergency rooms asking to be screened for swine flu, at the expense of people with real illness. In a CNN interview, the head of the WHO said that the level of fear and panic is unprecedented. "People think if they have a cough or cold, they're going to die."
Bottom line: sure, it's a bad flu. Yes, people will die. By all means, be vigilant and cancel your Mexican vacation. But is this a SARS-scale pandemic? Or something the media has latched onto and is, whether intentionally or not, scaring the world into a frenzy with their sensational headlines?
I've made my decision. And, while I don't plan on boarding a plane until this flu has passed, I also won't be running about town wearing a surgical mask.
First, the facts. As of Monday, 26 people are confirmed dead from swine flu according to the World Health Organization (WHO) – 25 in Mexico and one in the United States. Around the world, 985 cases of the flu have been confirmed, including 85 in Canada. Others in Mexico (the reported numbers range from 2,500 to 8,000) are showing flu-like symptoms.
But even if these numbers stand up, they, too, should be seen in context. All influenza is potentially deadly. In a normal year, between 6,500 and 7,500 Mexicans die from pneumonia-like diseases. According to the Canadian Medical Association Journal, the flu kills up to 2,500 Canadians and about 36,000 Americans annually. Worldwide, the number of deaths attributed to the flu each year is between 250,000 and 500,000.
So, yes, there have been deaths from this flu variant, and there will almost certainly be more. But, relatively speaking, we're still in the realm of low numbers. What's more telling still is that most who contracted this strain of the virus have recovered quickly.
A new flu outbreak always raises memories of the epidemic of 1918, when the so-called Spanish flu killed up to 50 million people worldwide, including an estimated 45,000 in Canada. But history provides other examples as well. The most telling comparison, I think, is the great swine flu panic of 1976. That one began when an army recruit died after contracting a mysterious strain of swine flu.
Politicians swung into action. Faced with the possibility of another 1918-style pandemic, then-U.S. President Gerald Ford promised to inoculate every American citizen with vaccine. The Canadian government followed suit, with the condition that, because of the costs involved, it would be able to inoculate only some. Throughout 1976, the swine flu story went from fear to complete farce. The announcement of the country's first swine flu death turned out to be false, based on the coroner's report showing the person had never been infected.
Ontario's government, in the end, decided to offer the vaccine to anyone who wanted it. By December of that year, it was reported that municipal clinics set up to offer free flu shots were shutting down for lack of customers, which perhaps was just as well; when several Americans developed a mysterious and deadly paralysis after being inoculated, swine flu shots were abruptly suspended in both countries.
In the end, the only known death from the 1976 swine flu pandemic was the original army recruit. Everyone else who caught the bug recovered.
Granted, this recent outbreak is more significant than the outbreak of '76 and has affected more people. The governments are calling the virus a cause for concern but not alarm. Unfortunately, people don't listen to the government - they listen to the media, and the thoughts and opinions of "experts" should have been tempered in the media from the outset.
If you look at the big picture of under 1000 total cases worldwide, it doesn't really register as an epidemic to me. Thousands of people die of malaria daily, which seems a whole lot more significant than 26 over a period of a few weeks.
We also have to take into account how Mexico's infrastructure has impacted the death toll. Canadian and American health care systems may have their flaws, but they're far more advanced than what is in place in Mexico.
But, perhaps the most dangerous byproduct of this H1N1 virus is the undue strain all the panic is putting on health care systems all over the world. Just the fact that the name change was required is a great indication of how some people are reacting - assuming they will get sick from eating pork products, the catalyst for the name change. People without symptoms are clogging emergency rooms asking to be screened for swine flu, at the expense of people with real illness. In a CNN interview, the head of the WHO said that the level of fear and panic is unprecedented. "People think if they have a cough or cold, they're going to die."
Bottom line: sure, it's a bad flu. Yes, people will die. By all means, be vigilant and cancel your Mexican vacation. But is this a SARS-scale pandemic? Or something the media has latched onto and is, whether intentionally or not, scaring the world into a frenzy with their sensational headlines?
I've made my decision. And, while I don't plan on boarding a plane until this flu has passed, I also won't be running about town wearing a surgical mask.
Aunt Ida & The Bucket List
When I was young, my grandparents had an organ in their living room. It was very old and small, only about four octaves of keys on the right side, a few dozen chord keys on a panel on the left, and a pedal that didn't work.
I couldn't have been more than 6 or 7 when I took a sudden interest in this organ. Since no one in the house played an instrument, I had to go it alone, and the first few attempts I made were nothing more than one-finger renditions of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star". I used to watch people play piano on TV, mull over my own playing, and think, "hmm, this is going to be harder than I thought."
One day, Aunt Ida came to visit (she was actually my Grandmother's sister-in-law, but when I was young, I considered every older female family member to be my aunt). At first the visit was no different than an other, but only until Grandma told Aunt Ida about my piano ambitions. She was very pleased and moved to the organ bench to show me how it was done. I don't even remember what she played, but I do remember wondering how she could possibly make such beautiful sound from those few dozen little keys. And then I was on a mission.
I spent the next few months pouring over the books that came with the organ; a difficult task, since I couldn't read music. But, in pestering Grandma half to death with, "how does this one go?", I used her singing and humming to memorize the melodies to a few standards. Before long, I could play "My Wild Irish Rose", "Home on the Range", "Long, Long Ago", and others (the names of which escape me) from these books.
Repetitively banging away at these songs on the organ led me to discover that I could quickly pick up the melodies to other songs, without having any sheet music for them. Over the next few months and years, I taught myself how to play piano by ear. When people would come over to visit, I would always end up putting on a concert in the living room. The favorite was always "The Rose" by Bette Midler.
I'll never forget waking up Christmas morning when I was 10, and seeing a brand new keyboard. It wasn't fancy by today's standards, but back then, it might as well have been made out of solid gold as far as I was concerned. A "real piano", oh, the things I could do! The songs I could play!
For my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary party, I played "Wind Beneath My Wings", my grandmother's favorite song, for the whole crowd. I remember being as proud as a peacock, though looking at myself on the video of that evening all these years later, it's obvious I was scared to death. After all, Donald MacRae and Joe Oram had just played for that same crowd; it was a tough act to follow.
Then came the business of piano lessons. Since I was quite good for my age, without being able to read music, it was decided that formal lessons might do me some good. Mr. Digout made an attempt, as did Ms. Thibeau, Mrs. Garrison, and even the great Henrietta Doary, but to no avail; me, my parents and grandparents, were all told that my self-taught methods would be impossible to break, and that lessons would not do me any good.
In my formative years, I became a fixture at variety and Christmas concerts, pageants, plays, and other amateur venues that allowed myself and others to take the spotlight. Still, as much as I loved the applause, playing piano alone in my bedroom was always my favorite place to shine.
I haven't played the piano in years, and I'm not even sure I could anymore. But, I remember well the pride and satisfaction I felt just from being able to play once upon a time, pride that turned an article about my new venture into an article reminiscing about my piano-playing days.
That being said, my dear departed Aunt Ida would be happy to know that I've again taken her advice. The same woman that encouraged me at the piano had, for years, begged me to take up violin. She assured me I'd be good at it, and even though I had never so much as held a fiddle before, learning to play has been on my bucket list for many years.
I finally got my hands on one last week and the learning process has begun. I may not be able to play like Donald MacRae yet, but I don't let the squealing sound of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" discourage me; after all, it worked last time around.
I couldn't have been more than 6 or 7 when I took a sudden interest in this organ. Since no one in the house played an instrument, I had to go it alone, and the first few attempts I made were nothing more than one-finger renditions of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star". I used to watch people play piano on TV, mull over my own playing, and think, "hmm, this is going to be harder than I thought."
One day, Aunt Ida came to visit (she was actually my Grandmother's sister-in-law, but when I was young, I considered every older female family member to be my aunt). At first the visit was no different than an other, but only until Grandma told Aunt Ida about my piano ambitions. She was very pleased and moved to the organ bench to show me how it was done. I don't even remember what she played, but I do remember wondering how she could possibly make such beautiful sound from those few dozen little keys. And then I was on a mission.
I spent the next few months pouring over the books that came with the organ; a difficult task, since I couldn't read music. But, in pestering Grandma half to death with, "how does this one go?", I used her singing and humming to memorize the melodies to a few standards. Before long, I could play "My Wild Irish Rose", "Home on the Range", "Long, Long Ago", and others (the names of which escape me) from these books.
Repetitively banging away at these songs on the organ led me to discover that I could quickly pick up the melodies to other songs, without having any sheet music for them. Over the next few months and years, I taught myself how to play piano by ear. When people would come over to visit, I would always end up putting on a concert in the living room. The favorite was always "The Rose" by Bette Midler.
I'll never forget waking up Christmas morning when I was 10, and seeing a brand new keyboard. It wasn't fancy by today's standards, but back then, it might as well have been made out of solid gold as far as I was concerned. A "real piano", oh, the things I could do! The songs I could play!
For my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary party, I played "Wind Beneath My Wings", my grandmother's favorite song, for the whole crowd. I remember being as proud as a peacock, though looking at myself on the video of that evening all these years later, it's obvious I was scared to death. After all, Donald MacRae and Joe Oram had just played for that same crowd; it was a tough act to follow.
Then came the business of piano lessons. Since I was quite good for my age, without being able to read music, it was decided that formal lessons might do me some good. Mr. Digout made an attempt, as did Ms. Thibeau, Mrs. Garrison, and even the great Henrietta Doary, but to no avail; me, my parents and grandparents, were all told that my self-taught methods would be impossible to break, and that lessons would not do me any good.
In my formative years, I became a fixture at variety and Christmas concerts, pageants, plays, and other amateur venues that allowed myself and others to take the spotlight. Still, as much as I loved the applause, playing piano alone in my bedroom was always my favorite place to shine.
I haven't played the piano in years, and I'm not even sure I could anymore. But, I remember well the pride and satisfaction I felt just from being able to play once upon a time, pride that turned an article about my new venture into an article reminiscing about my piano-playing days.
That being said, my dear departed Aunt Ida would be happy to know that I've again taken her advice. The same woman that encouraged me at the piano had, for years, begged me to take up violin. She assured me I'd be good at it, and even though I had never so much as held a fiddle before, learning to play has been on my bucket list for many years.
I finally got my hands on one last week and the learning process has begun. I may not be able to play like Donald MacRae yet, but I don't let the squealing sound of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" discourage me; after all, it worked last time around.
A Star is Born
In the world of reality television, few left in the wake of each scandalous (and often pointless) show are left with their dignity. For some reason, millions of people enjoy watching others be humiliated and heartbroken, and the network cyborgs are cashing in on our vanity. But, every now and then, a bright spot appears when I least expect it, and this past week, that bright spot was Susan Boyle.
Susan is a 47-year-old woman from England who appeared as a contestant in the opening heat of Britian's Got Talent. The opening sequence where she is seen showed her obliviously masticating a sandwich; quirky, this-person-is-a-dud music playing over her introduction left little wonder about what kind of contestant the show's producers expected (and wanted the audience to expect).
She was a frumpy looking woman, I'll admit. Her clothes were something like a middle-aged woman would wear to a nephew's wedding, her hair was frazzled and old fashioned, and there wasn't a trace of make-up on her face - far from the glitzy image proudly displayed by most others in competitions of that nature, let alone internationally broadcast ones.
As soon as this lady walked out onto the stage and the judges and audience caught a glimpse of this small, shy woman, so out of place among her competition, they started to smirk. When she said she wanted to be a professional singer, the camera showed audience members rolling their eyes, dismissing the possibility. They scoffed when she told one of the judges how she's reached her 40s without having developed a singing career because she hadn't had the opportunity. Just before she launched into her performance, the audience was laughing and the three judges were suppressing chuckles.
Her song was I Dreamed a Dream from the musical Les Miserables, an admittedly ambitious song for even the most skilled vocalists.
And then she started singing.
I've received e-mails in the hundreds with clips of videos of all sorts. In my thirty years, not a single one has ever made me actually gasp, until Susan Boyle.
Her voice was so beautiful, so powerful, that she had barely sung the opening bars when the applause started. By the middle of the first verse, the entire audience was on it's feet in a standing ovation.
The camera showed the reactions of each judge, as their mouths hung open in disbelief. Susan gave a performance that would rival that of any professional singer I've ever heard, and when she finished - in her naivety - she began to walk off-stage, only to be recalled by the stunned judging panel. Such humility.
Every person she had encountered before her performance was left to eat their words and assumptions afterwards.
One judge said he was reeling with shock. Another, with tears in her eyes, told Susan her performance was the biggest wake-up call ever. Even the relentless Simon Cowell praised her and told her to hold her head high. What a moment that must have been for her; shy Susan had, in an instant, gone from a patronized nobody, to a bankable star. It was one of the few times I have ever truly felt joyous from something I saw on television.
I shudder to think of how Susan would have left the stage if her voice had been anything less than exceptional. She would have been humiliated in front of millions of people, and why? Because rejection in the entertainment industry has become the fate of those without sexual allure who dare to seek opportunity in that field, and through the magic of reality television, a world audience is able to bear witness to the whole spectacle.
This timid, yet brave, woman had the courage to reach for the one hope at having her singing talent recognized, and was met with a communal sneer. Though her nerves could have so easily failed her, she delivered the performance of a lifetime, and now the world has embraced her as a first-class talent. While I'm extremely happy that Susan Boyle has finally found success in her otherwise unglamorous life, the more important and impressive example she has set is that not only should we never, ever judge a book by it's cover, but sometimes the content of the book is so powerful, the cover art shouldn't matter.
Susan is a 47-year-old woman from England who appeared as a contestant in the opening heat of Britian's Got Talent. The opening sequence where she is seen showed her obliviously masticating a sandwich; quirky, this-person-is-a-dud music playing over her introduction left little wonder about what kind of contestant the show's producers expected (and wanted the audience to expect).
She was a frumpy looking woman, I'll admit. Her clothes were something like a middle-aged woman would wear to a nephew's wedding, her hair was frazzled and old fashioned, and there wasn't a trace of make-up on her face - far from the glitzy image proudly displayed by most others in competitions of that nature, let alone internationally broadcast ones.
As soon as this lady walked out onto the stage and the judges and audience caught a glimpse of this small, shy woman, so out of place among her competition, they started to smirk. When she said she wanted to be a professional singer, the camera showed audience members rolling their eyes, dismissing the possibility. They scoffed when she told one of the judges how she's reached her 40s without having developed a singing career because she hadn't had the opportunity. Just before she launched into her performance, the audience was laughing and the three judges were suppressing chuckles.
Her song was I Dreamed a Dream from the musical Les Miserables, an admittedly ambitious song for even the most skilled vocalists.
And then she started singing.
I've received e-mails in the hundreds with clips of videos of all sorts. In my thirty years, not a single one has ever made me actually gasp, until Susan Boyle.
Her voice was so beautiful, so powerful, that she had barely sung the opening bars when the applause started. By the middle of the first verse, the entire audience was on it's feet in a standing ovation.
The camera showed the reactions of each judge, as their mouths hung open in disbelief. Susan gave a performance that would rival that of any professional singer I've ever heard, and when she finished - in her naivety - she began to walk off-stage, only to be recalled by the stunned judging panel. Such humility.
Every person she had encountered before her performance was left to eat their words and assumptions afterwards.
One judge said he was reeling with shock. Another, with tears in her eyes, told Susan her performance was the biggest wake-up call ever. Even the relentless Simon Cowell praised her and told her to hold her head high. What a moment that must have been for her; shy Susan had, in an instant, gone from a patronized nobody, to a bankable star. It was one of the few times I have ever truly felt joyous from something I saw on television.
I shudder to think of how Susan would have left the stage if her voice had been anything less than exceptional. She would have been humiliated in front of millions of people, and why? Because rejection in the entertainment industry has become the fate of those without sexual allure who dare to seek opportunity in that field, and through the magic of reality television, a world audience is able to bear witness to the whole spectacle.
This timid, yet brave, woman had the courage to reach for the one hope at having her singing talent recognized, and was met with a communal sneer. Though her nerves could have so easily failed her, she delivered the performance of a lifetime, and now the world has embraced her as a first-class talent. While I'm extremely happy that Susan Boyle has finally found success in her otherwise unglamorous life, the more important and impressive example she has set is that not only should we never, ever judge a book by it's cover, but sometimes the content of the book is so powerful, the cover art shouldn't matter.
A Dying Breed
Imagine reading this job advertisment in the paper.
At your disposal: big screen television with satellite and surround sound, a movie collection, a Nintendo Wii with American Idol Karaoke and Guitar Hero, Playstation 2, phone with unlimited long distance, laptop with high speed internet, novels and magazines galore, and a refrigerator full of food.
Your duties: keep open ears, use common sense, behave, and let the dog out to pee when he starts dancing in front of the door.
Your qualifications: mature, responsible, reliable, drug-free.
Salary: negotiable.
Any takers? Believe it or not, we haven't had a single one, which begs the question, where have all the babysitters gone?
I babysat from the time I was 13 years old. There are no restaurants or corner stores in River Bourgeois, so if we wanted to work, we had to baby-sit. There wasn't a huge market, but girls usually found one or two people in the community who they regularly sat for.
On an average night, I'd arrive at around 7:00pm, say goodbye to the parents, and play with the kids for awhile before tucking them in bed. Once they were settled, I'd have to clean up (like my mother had instructed me to every time I went to baby-sit. "They're paying you, the least you can do is tidy up and do the dishes.")
I'd spend the rest of the evening doing homework or watching television, unless the kids woke up, which rarely happened. Once the parents arrived home, usually at around 2:00am, they'd thank me, hand me over $25 or $30, and drive me home. As I got older, the only thing that really varied in this scenario was that I'd drive myself there and back.
It may not have been much money (about $5 per hour), but hey, it was money, and since you can bet my parents weren't throwing $30 at me every time I left the house, it was money I cherished. I babysat every weekend night I could, even as I got older, since making money was always more appealing than blowing it on junk food and garbage, like I would if I were out roaming around with my friends.
Cut to years later, and I found myself looking for a babysitter. Even five or six years ago, it wasn't all that difficult to find someone. I had a bevy of young girls waiting by the phone for me to call, since I paid a whopping $40 for a night out.
But now, with two young kids, a home in the middle of Port Hawkesbury, and a desire for a night among adults, a babysitter is harder to find than a four-leaf clover. We've been looking for two full years, and haven't found a single suitable candidate (well, one, but we only found her a month or so before she left for university).
We've been told we're a bit too picky, but this is our children we're talking about. We won't settle for less than absolute trustworthiness and maturity since their well-being is our top priority. Our "no drug users" stipulation has, sadly, limited our pool of candidates, by their own admission. We could easily find someone who is 12 or 13 to watch them, but that's only a year or two older than our oldest son, which, as far as I'm concerned, is too young to baby-sit a three-year-old. If you have a 12-year-old baby-sit your toddlers, that's your decision; it's not a chance that I, personally, am willing to take.
So where are all the high school juniors and seniors? What do they do on the weekend? It has been suggested to us that we're wasting our time, for several reasons.
They have part-time jobs and aren't willing to give up their nights off to work some more. Fair enough, it's good to see young people working. But (and this is just friendly tip), for any teenager who would rather baby-sit than don a visor, I dare say you'd make as much money babysitting as you would working a few shifts a week at a fast food place.
Others have said it's because parents are giving their kids enough spending money that they don't have to work. I can tell you this much, my sons needn't think that, at 16, they'll be getting $20 from me every time they leave the house. A few bucks, whatever - but parents giving their perfectly able-bodied and employable teenagers an endless stream of cash? Wow.
I've heard everything from, "they're out at the bars" to "they're home taking care of their own kids" to explain the elusiveness of good, occasional babysitters in town.
Whatever the reason, it's not making my quest any easier. Do I just not know the right people? Or are there really no babysitters? Drop me a line if you can shed some light.
At your disposal: big screen television with satellite and surround sound, a movie collection, a Nintendo Wii with American Idol Karaoke and Guitar Hero, Playstation 2, phone with unlimited long distance, laptop with high speed internet, novels and magazines galore, and a refrigerator full of food.
Your duties: keep open ears, use common sense, behave, and let the dog out to pee when he starts dancing in front of the door.
Your qualifications: mature, responsible, reliable, drug-free.
Salary: negotiable.
Any takers? Believe it or not, we haven't had a single one, which begs the question, where have all the babysitters gone?
I babysat from the time I was 13 years old. There are no restaurants or corner stores in River Bourgeois, so if we wanted to work, we had to baby-sit. There wasn't a huge market, but girls usually found one or two people in the community who they regularly sat for.
On an average night, I'd arrive at around 7:00pm, say goodbye to the parents, and play with the kids for awhile before tucking them in bed. Once they were settled, I'd have to clean up (like my mother had instructed me to every time I went to baby-sit. "They're paying you, the least you can do is tidy up and do the dishes.")
I'd spend the rest of the evening doing homework or watching television, unless the kids woke up, which rarely happened. Once the parents arrived home, usually at around 2:00am, they'd thank me, hand me over $25 or $30, and drive me home. As I got older, the only thing that really varied in this scenario was that I'd drive myself there and back.
It may not have been much money (about $5 per hour), but hey, it was money, and since you can bet my parents weren't throwing $30 at me every time I left the house, it was money I cherished. I babysat every weekend night I could, even as I got older, since making money was always more appealing than blowing it on junk food and garbage, like I would if I were out roaming around with my friends.
Cut to years later, and I found myself looking for a babysitter. Even five or six years ago, it wasn't all that difficult to find someone. I had a bevy of young girls waiting by the phone for me to call, since I paid a whopping $40 for a night out.
But now, with two young kids, a home in the middle of Port Hawkesbury, and a desire for a night among adults, a babysitter is harder to find than a four-leaf clover. We've been looking for two full years, and haven't found a single suitable candidate (well, one, but we only found her a month or so before she left for university).
We've been told we're a bit too picky, but this is our children we're talking about. We won't settle for less than absolute trustworthiness and maturity since their well-being is our top priority. Our "no drug users" stipulation has, sadly, limited our pool of candidates, by their own admission. We could easily find someone who is 12 or 13 to watch them, but that's only a year or two older than our oldest son, which, as far as I'm concerned, is too young to baby-sit a three-year-old. If you have a 12-year-old baby-sit your toddlers, that's your decision; it's not a chance that I, personally, am willing to take.
So where are all the high school juniors and seniors? What do they do on the weekend? It has been suggested to us that we're wasting our time, for several reasons.
They have part-time jobs and aren't willing to give up their nights off to work some more. Fair enough, it's good to see young people working. But (and this is just friendly tip), for any teenager who would rather baby-sit than don a visor, I dare say you'd make as much money babysitting as you would working a few shifts a week at a fast food place.
Others have said it's because parents are giving their kids enough spending money that they don't have to work. I can tell you this much, my sons needn't think that, at 16, they'll be getting $20 from me every time they leave the house. A few bucks, whatever - but parents giving their perfectly able-bodied and employable teenagers an endless stream of cash? Wow.
I've heard everything from, "they're out at the bars" to "they're home taking care of their own kids" to explain the elusiveness of good, occasional babysitters in town.
Whatever the reason, it's not making my quest any easier. Do I just not know the right people? Or are there really no babysitters? Drop me a line if you can shed some light.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
No Excuses
What the devil is going on down at the Justice Department?
The mistaken release of a prisoner from custody is something that hooks your ear when you hear it on the news. More than once gives you pause, several times leaves people scratching their heads and wondering what the problem is. But hold on to your hats - in Nova Scotia, we're at a whopping ELEVEN mistaken releases!
To make matters worse, these inmates haven't been shoplifters who go back to Mom & Dad's house to wait for the Sheriff to come collect them; while I can't speak to every charge and every criminal, several have been dangerous offenders up on weapons charges, assault, robbery, and even attempted murder.
The government's damage control started shortly after the rash of releases and escapes caught the eye of the provincial media, as was to be expected. But, unfortunately, this problem has reached a point where explanations no longer suffice and action is necessary to ensure the public's confidence and, more importantly, safety.
I don't get paid six figures to fix this problem like the folks at Justice, so I won't even try to analyze the logistics involved in ensuring a functioning chain of custody. I can, however, shed some light on the situation as a whole.
During my time in Nunavut, I was a correctional officer at the prison in Iqaluit. Much of my work, in addition to supervision of inmates within the prison building itself, involved escorts to and from court dates and hospital visits.
Even in the relatively primitive North, there were strict procedures in place to ensure prisoners were safely and securely transported between the institution and an outside location. We knew days in advance when an inmate was to leave, and could even speculate most of the time whether or not that inmate would be returning. It really wasn't that complicated.
Escorts, to court especially, required the involvement (or at least the acknowledgment and approval) of many Corrections and Justice departments staff: the warden, deputy warden, prisoner liaison officers, control officer, on-duty corrections staff (including shift supervisor, staff on the floor, and the guards doing the escort), staff from the Sheriff's office, court officers, clerical staff, and often police officers. By my count, that's at least a dozen people who are responsible for the comings and goings of a prisoner to court.
And not only are these the folks who are technically responsible for the transport; the aforementioned people, especially prison staff, as dictated by the nature of their job, must employ common sense when dealing with moving a dangerous person from one location to the next. If the inmate is remanded for robbery charges, common sense will tell you that a routine court appearance doesn't mean a release from custody. Unless you hear the judge drop all charges, issue a formal apology, and kiss the inmate goodbye, you double, triple, and quadruple check before removing those cuffs.
Then we have this business of not realizing the error until days after the release. Paperwork, schmaperwork - when Joe Blow leaves for a day in court, there are (or at least, there should be) dozens of people expecting him back. The end-day reports to the warden/deputy warden have to account for every inmate. How could it take six whole days for an entire department to realize they were missing someone who had already been found guilty of a serious crime? What, did the justice fairies come to court and give him a "get out of jail free" card? No, it doesn't work that way.
Granted, I'm no expert on Nova Scotia corrections procedures; my knowledge is of the way things were done in Nunavut in 2001-2003, and this province might be completely different in their methods. But, if anything, I would expect Nova Scotia to be even more thorough and effective than Nunavut, and my broad description is only meant to give a general idea of how many people are involved in these situations.
When an organization fails at multiple levels, it's generally accepted that the boss is to blame, and this is no exception. Incidents may have been chalked up to clerical errors and such, but the number of incidents in the past two years, since they were caused more by a faulty system than a careless individual, have to be looked at as a managerial failure. Had you asked me last week, I'd have said Cecil Clarke should offer his resignation; but he already tried, and Premier MacDonald would not accept it. In light of this, one might say that perhaps the resignation should come at level even higher than the Justice Minister. Surely someone can figure out how to keep criminals in jail.
The mistaken release of a prisoner from custody is something that hooks your ear when you hear it on the news. More than once gives you pause, several times leaves people scratching their heads and wondering what the problem is. But hold on to your hats - in Nova Scotia, we're at a whopping ELEVEN mistaken releases!
To make matters worse, these inmates haven't been shoplifters who go back to Mom & Dad's house to wait for the Sheriff to come collect them; while I can't speak to every charge and every criminal, several have been dangerous offenders up on weapons charges, assault, robbery, and even attempted murder.
The government's damage control started shortly after the rash of releases and escapes caught the eye of the provincial media, as was to be expected. But, unfortunately, this problem has reached a point where explanations no longer suffice and action is necessary to ensure the public's confidence and, more importantly, safety.
I don't get paid six figures to fix this problem like the folks at Justice, so I won't even try to analyze the logistics involved in ensuring a functioning chain of custody. I can, however, shed some light on the situation as a whole.
During my time in Nunavut, I was a correctional officer at the prison in Iqaluit. Much of my work, in addition to supervision of inmates within the prison building itself, involved escorts to and from court dates and hospital visits.
Even in the relatively primitive North, there were strict procedures in place to ensure prisoners were safely and securely transported between the institution and an outside location. We knew days in advance when an inmate was to leave, and could even speculate most of the time whether or not that inmate would be returning. It really wasn't that complicated.
Escorts, to court especially, required the involvement (or at least the acknowledgment and approval) of many Corrections and Justice departments staff: the warden, deputy warden, prisoner liaison officers, control officer, on-duty corrections staff (including shift supervisor, staff on the floor, and the guards doing the escort), staff from the Sheriff's office, court officers, clerical staff, and often police officers. By my count, that's at least a dozen people who are responsible for the comings and goings of a prisoner to court.
And not only are these the folks who are technically responsible for the transport; the aforementioned people, especially prison staff, as dictated by the nature of their job, must employ common sense when dealing with moving a dangerous person from one location to the next. If the inmate is remanded for robbery charges, common sense will tell you that a routine court appearance doesn't mean a release from custody. Unless you hear the judge drop all charges, issue a formal apology, and kiss the inmate goodbye, you double, triple, and quadruple check before removing those cuffs.
Then we have this business of not realizing the error until days after the release. Paperwork, schmaperwork - when Joe Blow leaves for a day in court, there are (or at least, there should be) dozens of people expecting him back. The end-day reports to the warden/deputy warden have to account for every inmate. How could it take six whole days for an entire department to realize they were missing someone who had already been found guilty of a serious crime? What, did the justice fairies come to court and give him a "get out of jail free" card? No, it doesn't work that way.
Granted, I'm no expert on Nova Scotia corrections procedures; my knowledge is of the way things were done in Nunavut in 2001-2003, and this province might be completely different in their methods. But, if anything, I would expect Nova Scotia to be even more thorough and effective than Nunavut, and my broad description is only meant to give a general idea of how many people are involved in these situations.
When an organization fails at multiple levels, it's generally accepted that the boss is to blame, and this is no exception. Incidents may have been chalked up to clerical errors and such, but the number of incidents in the past two years, since they were caused more by a faulty system than a careless individual, have to be looked at as a managerial failure. Had you asked me last week, I'd have said Cecil Clarke should offer his resignation; but he already tried, and Premier MacDonald would not accept it. In light of this, one might say that perhaps the resignation should come at level even higher than the Justice Minister. Surely someone can figure out how to keep criminals in jail.
American Idol 2009
I'll ask everyone to bear with me while I indulge again this year. I know not all of you watch American Idol, but it really is my favorite television show of all time, and my weekly analysis of the performances and contestants is an annual tradition, however pathetic and unscientific. I present, AI 2009.
Matt - Have you ever seen that movie "Shallow Hal"? Where the beautiful people under hypnosis are really ugly people without? Well, Matt looks like the version of Justin Timberlake after the trance has worn off. Sorry, but it's true. He's such an incredible singer that I hate to dog him, but I can't get past his whole mangled-version-of-Justin look. And since esthetics are as important in the music industry as actual talent, looks have to factor into the whole equation and play an important part in my analysis. No matter, though, at this point. Matt is a fantastic singer, and I'm confident he'll make the top five.
Kris - Good little singer, that Kris, but he's missing a bit of swagger or something. He reminds me of a guy who might be singing on Spring Garden Road in Halifax, and while I certainly feel inclined to throw a Toonie his way, I'm not sure that's good enough for American Idol. Also, he looks identical to my brother-in-law, which is really distracting (I'm not insulting you, Colin; it just is).
Anoop - While he has a very mellow and nice John Secada-type voice, he's not a star. He could be a hit on the Carnival Princess, but not on MTV. Even sung well, performances like the ones he's been putting out won't take him much farther.
Scott - Let's face facts. Scott is legally blind which, while it certainly does not affect his singing ability, has affected the amount of votes he gets, since the AI producers have used his blindness to market him. His voice, while smooth and mildly enjoyable, is more suited to Sunday matinees at a seniors' center, not to the mainstream national stage. If he were as good as the other contestants, I'd be all for him advancing every week; but, since he's sailing through largely from sympathy votes, I think he should be making his way home soon.
Lil - Lil is a cocky little bugger who, because of the sunshine blown her way Hollywood week, thinks she's a front runner. Bearer of bad news, Lil - you're totally not. Her voice isn't nearly as good as the judges make it out to be, and she sounds like any other of the thousands of R&B singers at Def Jam records. The world does not need another Fantasia Barrino, and I'll be surprised if she makes the top five.
Danny - He's my pick to win, but only if he steps it up and doesn't let Adam get ahead of him. This guy has all the makings of a star, as long as he quits dancing. Seriously, dude, it's atrocious.
Megan - Cringe. Someone has to remind the judges that when something is unique, that means it's different, and since the music industry is full of people who can actually SING, Megan fits the "different and unique" bill to a tee. Her voice makes me want to punch myself in the face, but, quite opposite of Matt, she's so distractingly beautiful it's hard to concentrate on anything other than how she looks on the screen. Put it this way: when she sang last week, my dog, who had been sleeping, sat up and growled. Good call, Bear, I feel the same way. America's Next Top Model, sure, but not American Idol.
Alison - Although she's short on social graces and makes weird faces during her interviews with Ryan Seacrest, this girl can sang. Not sing, saaang. She's better and more commercial than Lil any day of the week, and I hope she makes it farther.
Adam - He's quickly taking the top spot, and it's well deserved - what a voice. Many people are put off by his look and his penchant for "alternative romance", but he can sing, no doubt about it. He's Freddie Mercury mixed with My Chemical Romance mixed with The Cult. I'd like to see him get second, but there's a good chance he's going to win the whole thing.
It's probably strange and abnormal how good it makes me feel to have just written that and shared it with people, regardless of whether or not those same people really care. There is something to be said about the sadness of the life of an armchair critic, but I can live with that. You never know, the Fox network might just come knocking on my door after Paula finally over-medicates and attacks Simon.
Matt - Have you ever seen that movie "Shallow Hal"? Where the beautiful people under hypnosis are really ugly people without? Well, Matt looks like the version of Justin Timberlake after the trance has worn off. Sorry, but it's true. He's such an incredible singer that I hate to dog him, but I can't get past his whole mangled-version-of-Justin look. And since esthetics are as important in the music industry as actual talent, looks have to factor into the whole equation and play an important part in my analysis. No matter, though, at this point. Matt is a fantastic singer, and I'm confident he'll make the top five.
Kris - Good little singer, that Kris, but he's missing a bit of swagger or something. He reminds me of a guy who might be singing on Spring Garden Road in Halifax, and while I certainly feel inclined to throw a Toonie his way, I'm not sure that's good enough for American Idol. Also, he looks identical to my brother-in-law, which is really distracting (I'm not insulting you, Colin; it just is).
Anoop - While he has a very mellow and nice John Secada-type voice, he's not a star. He could be a hit on the Carnival Princess, but not on MTV. Even sung well, performances like the ones he's been putting out won't take him much farther.
Scott - Let's face facts. Scott is legally blind which, while it certainly does not affect his singing ability, has affected the amount of votes he gets, since the AI producers have used his blindness to market him. His voice, while smooth and mildly enjoyable, is more suited to Sunday matinees at a seniors' center, not to the mainstream national stage. If he were as good as the other contestants, I'd be all for him advancing every week; but, since he's sailing through largely from sympathy votes, I think he should be making his way home soon.
Lil - Lil is a cocky little bugger who, because of the sunshine blown her way Hollywood week, thinks she's a front runner. Bearer of bad news, Lil - you're totally not. Her voice isn't nearly as good as the judges make it out to be, and she sounds like any other of the thousands of R&B singers at Def Jam records. The world does not need another Fantasia Barrino, and I'll be surprised if she makes the top five.
Danny - He's my pick to win, but only if he steps it up and doesn't let Adam get ahead of him. This guy has all the makings of a star, as long as he quits dancing. Seriously, dude, it's atrocious.
Megan - Cringe. Someone has to remind the judges that when something is unique, that means it's different, and since the music industry is full of people who can actually SING, Megan fits the "different and unique" bill to a tee. Her voice makes me want to punch myself in the face, but, quite opposite of Matt, she's so distractingly beautiful it's hard to concentrate on anything other than how she looks on the screen. Put it this way: when she sang last week, my dog, who had been sleeping, sat up and growled. Good call, Bear, I feel the same way. America's Next Top Model, sure, but not American Idol.
Alison - Although she's short on social graces and makes weird faces during her interviews with Ryan Seacrest, this girl can sang. Not sing, saaang. She's better and more commercial than Lil any day of the week, and I hope she makes it farther.
Adam - He's quickly taking the top spot, and it's well deserved - what a voice. Many people are put off by his look and his penchant for "alternative romance", but he can sing, no doubt about it. He's Freddie Mercury mixed with My Chemical Romance mixed with The Cult. I'd like to see him get second, but there's a good chance he's going to win the whole thing.
It's probably strange and abnormal how good it makes me feel to have just written that and shared it with people, regardless of whether or not those same people really care. There is something to be said about the sadness of the life of an armchair critic, but I can live with that. You never know, the Fox network might just come knocking on my door after Paula finally over-medicates and attacks Simon.
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