I will not accept hate in my country. I WILL NOT.

Last night a swastika was painted onto a Rabbi's front door in my city, my Capital of Canada.

The story is here.













This shit has happened before, and I've always been dismayed. But, unfortunately, I've never been as fucking livid as I am right now.

So I decided to do something. I wrote a letter to my elected representatives, at the municipal, provincial and federal levels. I encourage you to do the same.  In fact, your can copy and paste my text if it appeals to you.

I don't know what I will do next, but I will do something. I will.

*****

To my elected representatives and candidates:

As you know, a hate crime was committed today against a Rabbi in Ottawa. I suspect you agree, a swastika is not only a revolting violation, it is a distinct threat. I have a hard time believing this hatred wasn't incited by the horrendous, racist, misogynist, bigoted rhetoric being normalized by the recent US election.

This type of hate is not unprecedented in Ottawa or Canada, but it is perhaps often considered an isolated incident - an incident that we "condemn" but actually do very little to prevent.

However, in the rude awakening of the US election, I sense that some Canadians are becoming aware of how easily things can go awry; how quickly hatred that spawns in cold, dark places can find strength.

So today I want us to do something.

I can no longer accept my own or others' apathy. Empty "stances against" can no longer be the go-to response. This cannot continue; it cannot be shrugged off. In this country, in this community, in this national capital - or anywhere - hatred cannot stand.

And so, I need your help:

Could you describe how you extinguish the spread of hate in Canada? What specific actions will you take to support minorities, to educate and build cultural competency, to bring communities together, and to foster a dialogue that will strengthen multiculturalism in Canada? What organizations do you fund or support? How can constituents build on what you're doing? How can constituents get involved?

Sickness is catching / Oh were favour so.

But favour can catch. I implore you to use your voice, your platform. I implore you to speak loudly and with pride to those you represent and those you work with; to communicate widely about how we, as a collective, can fundamentally and consistently reject hatred in Canada.

Thank you sincerely for your time and consideration,

****

Two days later

Two days past, and a hazy sadness lingers.

The Tragically Hip's 30 years of music is still playing on a desperate loop in my house /in my heart /it's in my pockets and in my eyes /in my blood.  The poignant conclusion to their final tour on Saturday - culminating in their (and my) hometown of Kingston, Ontario - has brought with it a sweeping sense of grief.

"I understand now how you feel about them.  I hadn't paid any attention before. I'm a fan! The whole thing is really hard to put into words." -- My mother-in-law, emailing to see how it all went.  She has captured the crux of this particular beast, hasn't she.  This idea that we all get it, even if you didn't before.

Try watching commentators and journalists grasp at thin straws of what this has meant, this swan song tour and its final show.  Yes, The Tragically Hip is quintessentially Canadian.  Yes, there is a simple pleasure in the mention of our hometowns in a lyric. Yes, the band has been around for 30 years. And yes, Gord Downie is a poet, and a nice guy. And yes, he is dying.

But it's more than that, isn't it.

It's pride. And I suppose a form of awkward, indefinable patriotism (as patriotism often is). There's new appreciation for the band and their accomplishments, even though they have, until recently, been avoided or gently ignored by many and sometimes considered inadequate by others.  Now, The Tragically Hip is hoarded and held closely to our collective heart in a "you can't have them, they're ours" kind of way. Now we all finally get it. Now we all endear them, as we should. (Although, those who always did will happily prove it.)

It's talent. True, impressive, undeniable talent. The uncommon kind of talent that can be legitimately referred to as art in its uniqueness, its composition, its performance, and its literary prowess. A conscientious, intentional, intelligent - while imperfect - talent that often goes unnoticed until all of a sudden we notice it.

It's longevity.  Thirty years, the same five guys, consistently touring the country with our favourite soundtrack and a few new tunes tossed in.  The reliability of "Well, I saw them last time, so maybe I'll skip this one and see them next year." Each song and show with its own story to tell, and a dedicated crowd competing for who knows them better.  Songs that everyone knows, even if they don't, and with an endurance that most artists work their entire lives to achieve.

Add to all of that the profound sadness that our glorious, always recognizable frontman is dying.  He's dying, and somehow, as some unbelievable gift, he has offered us the opportunity to reflect on what he and his band have meant to us - and we've finally caught on. We've followed their biggest tour yet and then watched across the country with 11.7 million tv, radio, and internet feeds, of course on nothing other than the CBC.  He, and we, have been given the chance to /bask in the golden light/ one more time.

And this is the most intensely heartbreaking part: That Gord Downie's cancer will take his /world possessed by the human mind/ away.  And that it took this for us to really consider how much he and his band meant to us - even if we already knew it meant, well, a lot.  But he hasn't left us yet.  Not before we sang with him, collectively, simultaneously across the country, one last time.  Not before we figured it out.

Ultimately, it's this series of contradictions that ruin me.

It's the irony.  

It's the irony of our patriotism for a self-described non-nationalist, our new or revived appreciation for his talent, the end of what seemed like an endless loop across our country, and the dripping, cascading empathy for his diagnosis.

I can see now why it hurts so much - because irony is the surely the fiercest and sharpest ache in anything so definitively tragic.

We all know Gord Downie

This morning I woke at 6:30 to the sound of my new baby stirring in his bassinet.  When I brought him downstairs, I looked at my phone.  There was a single notification.  It was an email from @TheHipDotCom announcing Gord Downie's diagnosis with terminal brain cancer.

It took only a single breath before my mind flooded with the weight of this news; the weight of Gord Downie's voice in my life.  I was overwhelmed with how much I love this music, these lyrics, this band.  I'm what you call a true admirer... I'm a fan.

One look at twitter today and it's obvious that the rest of Canada feels exactly the same way.  The Tragically Hip is an emblem of our nation, a worthy representation of our pride.  Even if you're not a "fan" you hear this music wherever you are.  Gord's Downie's lyrics and unmistakable voice float in your consciousness.

Everyone who was struck by this news today - kicked in the stomach by it - knows Gord Downie.  He's our comrade.  We have followed him and his band for 30 years.  We have been to his shows and have sung alongside him.  He has written elaborate, honest, enduring stories about our hometowns, and we have walked with him on our streets.  We have heard these songs on our radios every single day, some of us for our entire lives.  Gord and his bandmates have driven across the country with us, they've strummed with us by the cottage campfire, they've lulled our babies to sleep and hyped them up for living room dance parties.  These songs are quoted at our kitchen tables.  These lyrics have become a national narrative, a collection of lore.  They literally tell the stories of our lives.

I have seen six Hip shows, including four in my Hometown, which is also their Hometown; two benefit concerts for someone else's cause; two in an arena perched on a street named for them; three standing in the grass on warm summer days; one at the National Arts Centre in fancy theatre seats that nobody sat in and that Gord walked across the backs of into he crowd; and one standing all by myself when Hubby got lost looking for beer.

These musicians are my neighbours. I have seen them at my movie theatre and been too shy to say hello. They have sat in the halls of my high school.  They have been awarded honourary degrees from my university. I danced the last dance of my wedding, in our Hometown, to their song.

Gord Downie's voice plays in my mind as a backdrop to my life.  His music is coming home. I feel like I know him, as we all do, and I am so, so sorry this is happening to him.

But let's not act like he's already dead.  His voice is still singing on every radio station and in every house in this country, and soon on as many stages as he can manage.  I intend to hear it.  I intend to add to my collection of powerful memories set to the tune of his music, with renewed appreciation; with will and determination, and grace, too.

A photo on my fridge for almost a decade.  

I'm on the #BanBossy bandwagon

For those who don't know what this whole "Ban Bossy" thing is, in a nutshell:

Ban Bossy is a campaign.  Its aim, according to its website, is to encourage girls to lead - without calling them "bossy."  It was launched by LeanIn.org, a nonprofit founded by Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg to "empower all women to achieve their ambitions."  Sandberg is building on her book's message with partners like the Girl Scouts and Beyoncé to, well, #BanBossy.

"I'm not bossy.  I'm the boss."

)

Now that we're all caught up, I want to be clear:  I LIKE this campaign.

True, no campaign is perfect.  No campaign reaches all the right people in all the right ways.  True, there are things to be said about the appropriateness of any role model/spokesperson (including Beyoncé, whose recent Grammy performance was incredibly impressive but also very sexual).

However, this is a message that makes sense.  It's a message about empowering women and girls, about strengthening our confidence and our leadership skills, and about making it ok for us to be assertive and successful.  At its core, this is a good message, and I'm on board.

Unfortunately, (and this is where I jump up on the #BanBossy bandwagon like a squirrel on peanut butter; or like me on peanut butter), there are those making arguments against this campaign that in my opinion are fundamentally flawed.

Primarily, there's an editorial by Margaret Wente in the Globe and Mail entitled "Ban 'bossy'? Suck it up, girls".  I've also had some thoughtful exchanges with friends and other twitterers on the subject.  None of these opinions are wrong - I just have a sincere and significant opposition to them.

Critique #1: The word "bossy" isn't a problem.

Wente writes that the word bossy destroys a girl's "fragile self-esteem."  Only, she writes it sarcastically, as if it is the stupidest thing she's ever heard.  Well newsflash Margaret: any term that insults a child's personality shouldn't be uttered in his or her direction.  And yes, SELF-ESTEEM IS FRAGILE.

Yes, Margaret, we could also ban the term tattletale.  Perhaps also B*tch, Sl*t, Wh*re, N*igger, Pr*ck, R*tard, Fagg*t, and P*ssy while we're at it.  Those other words, though, are known "curse" words and have their own debate raging about context and reclamation (see below).

Words like bossy (or even tattletale, although it's fair to say that is not a uniquely male or female word) slip into the vernacular and contribute to a broader socialization of our children. Even if more girls are entering law and medical schools, as Wente points out, does that excuse discouraging girls from the get-go?  I should hope not.

These are not just words, they mean something.  A campaign that raises awareness, encourages critical thinking, and challenges the social construction is not the wrong approach.

Critique #2: Teach girls to live with the word and "overcome adversity"

Wente writes that being called bossy didn't get in Beyoncé's way, so isn't that what we should be teaching our girls? To soldier on, "overcome adversity and suck it up."

I tell you what, Margaret.  When your peers are hurling insults at you, you can suck it up.  You can overcome adversity and be better... 20 years later.  I, on the other hand, when insulted as a child would have judged myself and tried to be more likable.  Even as an adult I'm among those who work damn hard not to judge themselves but often take it personally when other people do.

For my daughter, I will under no circumstances tell her to suck it up.  I will tell her lots of things, but to ignore her feelings or dismiss the power of words? I don't intend to do that. Likewise, as Margaret seems to argue, I won't ban bossy as an idea. Fraggle will be strong and assertive, I've no doubt.  But the term as an insult?  Banned.  It's a good place to start.

There is no harm in being aware of the words we use and the social idea beyond their dictionary definition.  Words are symbols - like the American Flag or the middle finger - each having an implied/emotional meaning in the background.

Critique #3: Reclaim the word

This argument is an interesting one, made by a friend this morning.  I adore this friend and her perspective, but...

A couple months ago I said something stupid like "I'm a candy sl*t."  I didn't mean anything by it, except to be funny.  I do eat whatever candy crosses my path, I don't discriminate, and it can't be good for me... but what about the word?  My initial reaction was "It's all context!" or "I don't mean it like that!" And then I called bullshit on myself.

If years ago I banned the C word from my vocabulary, and then banned "that's gay!" followed by "how retarded!", why should sl*t be any different? No. These words have a meaning and I have no place invoking it.

This morning my dear friend made a fair point: she may not use a word but she wants to give others the space to reclaim it if they so choose.  Ok, good.  Except I have yet to think of a word that has been "reclaimed."  Even people who ironically or critically use words have not managed to undo the damage caused under other circumstances.

Further, I have no idea where the line is drawn regarding who can use a word and who can't.  Your grandfather is black so you could use the N word. Her Aunt has Down's Syndrome, so she can use the R word.  I am Depressed and Anxious so I can say "Crazy."

Sure, I'm all about context.  When I call myself Crazy I do it in an ironic and self-deprecating (hopefully humourous) way, essentially aiming to bring mental illness into the socially-acceptable forefront.  But it's still self-deprecating.  If I constantly called myself fat (in front of my daughter?) an impact is undeniable.

It comes down to using one's judgement and tact, walking an informed and critical line.  So yeah, I'll give others space to "reclaim" their words, but I have no idea if they're reclaiming them right.

Critique #4: She's going to hear it anyway

"People aren't going to read the article, and they don't have the internet, and they won't stop saying it."

Oy vey.  That's the point of an awareness campaign, no? Can we remember my first point? I LIKE this campaign, for the exact reasons you're noting.  #BanBossy is just a slogan.  The root of the word's use and its potential impact is now entering the discourse BECAUSE of that slogan.

True.  My daughter will hear it anyway.  And very true, she'll hear and see lots of things that I will discuss with her (The Little Mermaid included) - but raising awareness about the potential harm behind bossy as an insult is not a fruitless effort.  

In the end, let's get personal...

As a kid, I directed the neighbourhood plays, I edited the yearbook, I went to leadership camp.  I grew up successful and relatively well-adjusted, despite (or perhaps in spite of) the fact that I was called bossy.  My confidence (or lack thereof) and Type-Aer style evolved from a world of influence, not one word or one personality trait.  I still ended up Depressed and Anxious (aka Crazy) due at least in part to that leader-ness and to my drive to "overcome adversity."

None of that changes the fact that when I was called "bossy" as a young girl, it fucking hurt.  It was an insult, a sting.  It was something I didn't want to be.

We have lots of things to teach our girls, but to "suck it up" is NOT one of them. Neither is to skip an attempt to make a change because it probably won't have an impact so who cares.  We need to foster leadership in those who are socially and systemically deterred from it, minus the judgement.  A campaign that jolts the conversation is a perfect place to start.  

Hey Canada Post - could you also feed me grapes?

Canada Post announced yesterday that it's going to phase out home mail delivery in urban areas within the next five years, and jack-up the cost of stamps.

From what I understand, this means that Princes and Princesses who receive mail delivered to their front doors on a daily basis are going to have to walk 30 seconds to a neighbourhood group mailbox.  I also understand that some people are feeling pretty upset about the whole thing.

Clearly, I am not one of those people - for about a dozen reasons.

First, the obvious:  It's cheaper.  I think we can all agree, for a business that's been losing money for years this seems a little late.  It makes perfect sense given the move toward electronic everything and the related decrease in snail mail.

There are other reasons I like the idea, though.

The environment, for one.  It's about time individuals and businesses set up online billing, which will save trees, trash, and cash.  Who isn't sick of getting nothing but bills and flyers in the mail - each filled with 23 useless coupons.

It's a hard job, for another.  Although I hope most postal workers won't lose their jobs (through attritian), this must be a very difficult and fairly thankless job.  Hiking through Canadian weather, facing crazy dogs, avoiding reckless drivers - all for a few bills and flyers and some greeting cards at Christmas. Can't be easy.

But the primary reason I support the change?  I don't care.  Sorry, I just don't.

I've been a self-retriever of my mail from a community mailbox since high school (in five separate homes).  Sure, it can be annoying, but I obviously don't have the life-long emotional attachment to home delivery that some seem to have.

In fact, I very much enjoy my little jaunt to the mailbox.  It is literally a 35-second walk (I counted).  Yesterday I plopped Baby Fraggle into her snowsuit and wandered us both to the mailbox and back.  It was exactly the two minutes of fresh air that we needed.

What about the magic of receiving mail at my front door, you ask. Honestly, there's more fun in going to check the happy little box.  What treasures await me in there? How big will the haul be today?  Did anyone send me any money?

As for big packages, sometimes there's a slip in my mailbox and I have to go pick up my parcel.  But other times, there's a special key in my mailbox that opens another larger mailbox to the left of mine.  It's basically a miniature scavenger hunt. And who doesn't like a scavenger hunt.

Look.  I appreciate the romanticism and nostalgia of home mail delivery.  Like e-book versus "real book" or internet vs newspaper.  But guys.  C'mon.  This is a natural progression.  We're already quite spoiled (anyone wanna take their own garbage and recycling to a local depot?) and I think our society can handle this momentous change.

More importantly, we can find fun and romance in something new.  We just have to look for it.

Three reasons you should vote (for Obama)

As most of you probably know, I am not an American.  However, up here in Canada we do happen to follow American politics, American economics, and, most importantly, American vampire and zombie television shows. 

We North Americans aren't that different from each other - many of our values, laws, and ongoing debates are quite similar.  Our cultural influences are much the same.  We like to visit each other.  We're often lumped together when traveling to other parts of the world.  We're two very developed, very democratic, and perhaps very ego-centric, countries.  (And I can see Alaska from my hoWse!)

But, having visited the US several times and with some very close friends living there, I can safely say that there are several things I adore about Canada that are seemingly lacking in large pockets of the grand ol' US of A. 

There are countless reasons that I insist that you vote tomorrow.  But there are specifically three main reasons that I politely suggest you vote for Barack Obama. Like three genie wishes.  Or three magic beans. 

*******

Number 1 - Abortion is legal in Canada. 

Abortion is legal, and will likely stay that way for the foreseeable future, if not forever.  We are not reopening the abortion debate, despite some regular and recent attempts. 

Now.  Depending on the person and how he or she presents the argument, I can in some cases tolerate an opinion different from mine on this.  

I cannot, however, over-state the importance, in my opinion, of allowing a woman to make FREE choices that are best for her and her body.  I mean, we make adoptive parents jump through a shit-ton of hoops, and even bio parents do an awful lot of planning and soul searching before making a decision to grow tiny humans.  I would like to trust women (and their partners, and their doctors) to make good decisions, even when I know many of them can't or won't.  That's what being FREE is about. 

Even if we took this abortion choice away, I cannot even begin to fathom how the fuck we would regulate it.  Would a judge decide for me? Would there be a list of criteria?  Would I have to prove I was raped?  Would there be a scale of "rape legitimacy"?  Would there be a binder full of women representing a series of case studies and indicating who is abortion-worthy and who is not?

This is a fundamental paradigm about woman that ties into all sorts of questionable policies and approaches that I simply do not support.  Birth control.  Equal wages and career ambitions coupled with flexible work hours (for men AND women).  Parental leave (which is a full 12 months up here).  Support in the workplace.  Support at home.  Politicians talk a lot about support for families, but they talk little about support for the parents that lead them. 

Number 2 - Gay marriage is legal in Canada. 

The government does not attempt to pass judgement on our relationships.  Well, sometimes I'm sure it does, but legally, if I love someone, I can marry that person and I am offered all the rights and privileges and responsibilities that go along with that. 

Hubby and I didn't think we needed marriage, but we wanted it, and we love it.  It makes me want to cry heavy, ugly tears that a country as apparently progressive and innovative as the United States (a country that allowed SLAVERY not many generations ago - from which black Americans escaped to Canada) could possibly withhold this right from all its people.  Let alone that everyone sits in judgement on the issue. 

I support you, and whomever you love, no matter who you are.  To be honest, I'm not even opposed to polygamy if everyone is a willing partner and there's no observable harm to the children.  Call me out if you wish, but it's really where I stand.   People deserve to be happy. Just let people be happy.

Isn't that what marriage is about? Isn't that the "sanctity" we should be protecting?  The sanctity of a happy marriage and caring families and a supportive society that loves thy neighbour? In fact, maybe I have a problem with those sham "I'm pregnant so I better get married" marriages that end in pain and suffering and broken homes for kids that potentially were never wanted in the first place.  Where's the sanctity in that?   

Number 3 - Health care is free in Canada.

Ok, so free is a tricky word.  We have high taxes here, and in some provinces people pay a "premium" to support their health care system.  We all pay for it, and it ain't perfect, but at least anyone who needs to can go to the friggin emergency room or receive radiation for their cancer without some ridiculous fee.  And hell, people can even get cancer and not be kicked out of the system or denied.  SHOCKER.  We may wait, but patience is a virtue and good medical care is worth it.  Trust me. 

Some of you might call that - gulp - socialism.  Well, guess what?  I'm  not only a dirty liberal but I'm a crazy socialist too. 

Tax me all you want if it means that when I go to the doctor I don't get an invoice afterward (nor a statement from my asshole insurance company telling me the exact price of every goddam nurse and every fucking tube they stuck into my orifices). 

Tax me all you want if it means that groups of inter-generationally and socially disadvantaged people with whom I share this country need some fucking support. 

Tax me all you want if it means I get TWELVE FULL MONTHS OF PARENTAL LEAVE. 

Tax me all you want if it means I can have full-day kindergarten/preschool in Ontario, or $6 a day daycare in Quebec for my kids. 

Tax me.  I will live within my means and I will contribute.  And I will sleep better at night because of it. 

*******

Now.   Please don't mistake me here - if you're an American I value and appreciate you, and your opinion.   And I don't know everything there is to know. 

But if you refuse to vote tomorrow - no matter who for - I will hunt you down and kick you in the shin with my "poke-the-eye-out-of-a-snake" boots.

And if you're undecided, consider voting for your current president, who, despite his faults, has the drive and determination to accomplish something great for your country - and who has a vision for your future that is actually quite revolutionary and entirely well-intentioned. 

Or consider moving to Canada.  We'd love to have you. 

Meet my friend Sinkhole

Remember when I told you about Tuesday's sinkhole? 

This sinkhole:

Well, that sinkhole has become quite the running gag around here. 

On Wednesday morning, more people talked about that sinkhole than talked about the several serious news stories impacting our city, including a provincial election and even a tragic shooting.  Unlike the other legitimate news stories, the sinkhole was novel; it was tangible; it was impacting thousands of commuters.  It was the talk of the town. 

Then the sinkhole got bigger, which just fueled its news-worthiness.  It became the size of an Olympic pool (Michael Phelps style), which meant the whole east-bound highway would be closed for TWO WEEKS for repairs - including the expensive special order of GIANT sewer pipes. 

This is HIGHWAY, you guys.  A real highway that is packed with commuters every day before and after work, linking my eastern suburb to centretown.  So I'm sure you can imagine the commuter chaos that ensued. 

Cars were backed up for hours upon hours across the city.  Of course I was thrilled to take the bus.  Our city transpo services got their shit together on this one.  They fully screwed over highway drivers by maintaining the dedicated bus lane.  BOOYAW. 

And then things got ridiculous, because that's when the sinkhole got itself a twitter account. 

The sinkhole tweets, you guys. 

Par example:

And then I died with laughter. 

People all over town are tweeting the sinkhole.  News stations are interviewing it.  It sends messages to the mayor. 

Folks are joking about the likelihood that the sinkhole was the attempt of our suburb to separate itself from the city. (Which, if you're Canadian and just watched the Quebec election, you can appreciate the humour.)

Somebody made a hilarious ecard. 

Bus drivers are thanking the sinkhole for allowing them to re-route onto the wrong side of the highway.  Because it's fun. 


The whole city is laughing at the disaster of a car pulled from the sinkhole's mouth. 

And then, every time I assume this whole thing will blow over, it gets even better. 

Yesterday, ANOTHER SINKHOLE (no joke) fell through on the French side of the river, and of course it started tweeting too...  

 

...making the whole ordeal so priceless that I simply cannot get enough.

We're all going to fall to our deaths. Basically.

For Christsakes.

It's been fairly discouraging at work lately. We're working on a big project and everywhere we turn there's a new fucking pothole in our way. "Can't go over it, can't go under it, gotta go through it."

So we patch up the potholes, or we find a way around, or we curse until we feel better and try to move on.

But sometimes they aren't just potholes. Sometimes they are giant fucking caverns and caves and mystery mad hatter rabbit holes that lead us to hell in a goddam coffin masquerading as a hand basket.

So it's frustrating.

To say the least.

And then tonight, I was pretty pleased with myself. I tolerated my day and managed to work EXACTLY eight hours. I arrived at 9:40 and then I was perfectly ready to leave at 5:40.

So I did.

I walked in the rain to the bus stop, waited, got onto a damp and smelly bus, opened my book, and tried to tune out the world for my next 45 to 50 minutes of peace.

And then, 5 minutes from my last stop, the bus just. stopped. moving. It just stopped.

Now. In a city of expert bus designers, our buses never just stop. There are bus lanes and terminals and all forms of this-isn't-a-subway-but-it's-almost-the-same-we-swear tactics that keep our buses running smoothly.

Sometimes.

Kind of.

Probably.

So when my bus came to a dead halt in the highway bus lane, my confusion slowly turned to frustration, which in my case usually leads to homicidal tendencies.

As you can surely imagine, my murderous rage didn't improve much as we sat there FOR 25 MINUTES. 

And do you care to know WHY this injustice was brought upon me?

Behold:

POTHOLE.

It was a fucking pothole, people.

No. Not a pothole. A SINKHOLE.

That's a car. IN A SINKHOLE.

That car there - the one with its ass end sticking out of the highway - is not hunting for buried treasure; it is not pretending it is a cartoon ostrich; it is not digging a fort.

No.

That car GOT SUCKED INTO THE EARTH BY THE COMMUTING DEMON WHO IS SET ON RUINING MY LIFE.

Don't worry. The guy got out ok. He just crawled out (wtf) and now he has a great story for dinner parties. 

As for me, not only did I get home an hour late, but now I'm terrified that the ground is just going to open up randomly under my feet like those apocalypse movies when the earth cracks and all the people try to run but the crack spreads and they all get sucked in and I'm obviously going to fall miles and miles to my eventual painful demise.

Or worse, I might get trapped in a muddy pit.

Either way, it ain't pretty.

Long weekend movie mayhem

I've watched a couple of movies this weekend.  Ok, like, several movies. 

I think movies were specifically designed for long weekends - because with one extra day, it's easier to justify two-hour increments of sitting in front of a screen. 

As we speak, I'm watching Inception.  It hurts my brain to follow the detailed plot of dreams, within dreams, within dreams... but the cast is pretty awesome.  And Leo is so delicious that I barely care about the plot.

I'm actually a very skilled dreamer.  Or a bad sleeper.  I'm not sure which.  In any case, I seem to be able to direct my dreams like they were movies.  Sometimes they have elaborate characters and story lines.  I think I'm some sort of supernatural dream wizard.  Or I'm psychotic.  It isn't clear.  Of course, if I were a dream wizard, I think Leo would appear more often. 

Speaking of Leo, last night's movie choice was a good one.  Hubby and I watched The Departed.

I like this movie.  It's damn violent, but Jack Nicholson, Martin Sheen, and Alec Baldwin are pretty excellent. I don't love Matt Damon's performance, but that's ok. He's still cute. And his Boston accent reminds me of Good Will Hunting, which can never be a bad thing.  But I dare say, Marky Mark is the highlight:  "Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe fuck yourself."






Yesterday was also a day for love stories. 

First I watched Cold Mountain.  This is certainly one of the most beautiful movies ever made.  I've loved it for years.  Since before Jude Law became a bit of a wiener. 

I also watched The Lucky One.

Although I generally dislike Nicholas Sparks, I have read a few of his books (hoping for something romantic). Sadly, they're all mediocre. I've since decided to stick to his movies, because the books are not only a bit blah, but they're lacking certain gorgeous men such as my boyfriend Ryan Gosling, the handsome Channing Tatum, and the surprisingly yummy adult Zac Efron.

The last on my list of recently watched is Jurassic Park. 

Now.  Please do me a favour and acknowledge that this film represents one of the most terrifying concepts of all time.  I mean, LARGE, SCARY LIZARDS ARE CHASING AND BITING PEOPLE.  A circumstance of which I'm quite certain none of you can deny the sheer terror.   


Naturally, when it ended, I was happy to see that Jurassic Park 2 The Lost World was set to follow.  Which I watched in full, despite the fact that I think Jeff Goldblum puts on a pretty rough performance.  I have to admit though, his whole style is pretty hilarious.  I'll always like his appearance in Friends the best. 

I think the glowing bird bikes were the highlight

I think there might be some sports on tv or something. 

Like, a LOT of sports.  A whole bunch of different kinds of sports.  On tv.  ALL THE TIME. 

I don't really like sports.  I don't really like playing them, nor do I really care to observe them.  I guess I like the sentiment, and I respect the athletes, but sports in general?  Meh. 

Except for these particular sports.  These Olympic sports?  I like these sports.  I like the international competition.  And the patriotism.  And the muscles.  The male swimmers' muscles, mostly.

It's a pretty safe bet that I'll spend my entire week's vacation watching the Olympics.  Constantly.  Probably. 

Of course the whole event was kicked off on Friday with the Opening Ceremonies.  To which I had some reactions.  So here are my thoughts.  Because I know you're dying to hear them. 

Then I took a nap.

 

The end. 

I caught a fever

I caught a fever.  I woke up this morning feeling pretty normal, but then, when I was watching the Today Show, something funny started to happen inside me.  I felt kinda tingly and giddy... off kilter. 

And that's when I realized. 

I caught it. 

I caught Bieber Fever. 

Godammit. 

I was minding my own business!  I wasn't exposing myself to dangerous contagions!  I was clean!

But then Matt Lauer was interviewing The Biebs and everything got a bit goofy.  It turns out that Matt just joined the twitter, and he made the mistake of asking The Biebs to help him with his first tweet. 

True to form, the little dude genius took Matt's phone, and tweeted this:

HAHAHAHahahahahahahaha!

What a sucker.  He totally handed over his phone - and his first ever tweet - to an 18 year old pop star with 25 million twitter followers.  GOOD IDEA MATT. 

And then I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. 

But afterward, I began to get sucked in...  Not only is he an 18 year old genius, but that Boyfriend song is actually really catchy.  And he's a good little dancer, isn't he?  And Canadian.  We can't forget Canadian.  Be still my heart. 

There's no hope for me.  I'm lost.  This fever will consume me and I will forever be wandering the wasteland of what was once my adult life, wondering where all my responsible friends and family members have gone...

Sure, Hubby may stick by me for a while, but for how long?  How long can he deal with a tragically and hopelessly ill Wifey?  Not long.  He may have stood by me through Asshole Depression and Bastard Anxiety, but not this.  This is too much.  Now he knows I've truly gone insane. 

There's no going back. Farewell, cruel world.  Farewell. 

Baby, baby, baby, Ohhhhhhh...

One thing after another

I'm sorry I've been MIA this week.  It's been a pretty bad week.  It didn't start out that way, but it just seemed to go down hill from Tuesday night onward.  Although I did have to go back to work after a week off, which meant I wasn't really in a good mood to begin with. 

Sadly, I've lost another loved one.  A pseudo-grandfather that has been a loving part of my life for many years died this week.  And I haven't been able to see him in a long while.  To be honest, I'm pretty devastated.  And, to be even more honest (and cryptic at the same time) there are some other complications that make it difficult for me to go to the service. 

So. 

Here I am.  Feeling sad and guilty and DAMN tired. 

And I'm supposed to go have "fun" at a friend's birthday cottage party this weekend, but I haven't quite figured out how to accomplish that yet.

All this just when my therapist said she thought I was turning a corner.  Turns out there's a giant bus coming straight at me on the other side.  

Enough about that, though.  

There are other things that have upset me this week, and it only makes sense that I share them with you too. 

First, this:

I can't even talk about it.

And then, this:

Really? MILLIONS of people watch this? REALLY?

And finally, this:

Bert and Ernie should damn well be allowed to get married. What year is this?

_

I heart you all - and a warning from the future

Bloggy Bloggy! 

I love my blogger friends.  Every last one.  Sure, they're fucking crazy, most of them, but I heart them just the same. 

They make me laugh, even when I've forgotten what laughing feels like.  And they help me feel less disastrous and pathetic better when I post about how disastrous and pathetic depressed I've been. 

Basically, they make my day.  Every day.  

And lately they've been kind enough to bestow upon me some lovely blogging awards!  Awards that I certainly do not deserve, but will greedily hoard anyway.   

First came the Versatile Blogger Award.  I got a few of them, and I greatly appreciated it each time.

Then came the dreaded coveted STD.  From the hilarious genius Handflapper.  I don't claim to be talented, but I am DAMN SEXY.

Originated by Miss Lady Estrogen

And now I'm even a Stylish Blogger!  Not really in the least, but I'll take what I can get.  I got one of these generous awards from a more recent friend jacqui at chicktuition, and another from one of my very first blogger friends, Angela at Begging The Answer. 

You gals are awesome! 

Now.  As you know, accepting awards usually comes with a requirement on my part.  I'd like to think the "random things you don't already know about me" are covered in the Versatility post.  If not, call me on it, and I might do more.  Or not.  Try me.  

But I also have to re-write a movie with myself as a character.  I've been thinking about it for a while now.  I'll get to it.  Don't boss me! 

In the meantime, check out some of my fav posts from my bloggy bloggy friends here.  And in addition, here are two more, just because.  

Fetch My Flying Monkeys - The only thing I like about grammar is that there are not any rules, just suggestions. Right?

Handflapper - Houseguests, housecoats, and hoof and mouth disease. What are you worried about today?


PS

Happy long weekend to my American pals! (Insert waving red, white and blue here.) 

We had a long weekend here last week for Victoria Day - as in Queen Victoria, not Mrs. Beckham. 

So.  As someone speaking to you from the future - the Sunday night the week AFTER the long weekend - I implore you to enjoy your third magical day off to your heart's content.  Have a wine party.  Eat Fountain Funnel Cake.  Experiment sexually. 

Because when it's all said and done you'll be wishing you had.

_

Tina Fey may save your life

So.  In the wake of the last few days' pathetic little reality check, I feel a bit better today. 

It truly is #HappyISuckLessThanYesterdayDay (Thank you Miss Jenny, The Bloggess and master of all things interwebs.) 

I even woke up on my own accord, and yes, I even got out of bed. 

Then I went to one of my most favourite happy places - my back deck in the morning - and sat in the sun for a couple of hours.  I soaked up the rays (sprayed with sunscreen thankyouverymuch) and listened to a squirrel scream weird noises in what I can only assume was part of a freaky deaky mating dance.  (Either that or he was mad that I ate his peanuts.)

Then I ate a kiwi and four two slices of cinnamon toast.  And I rolled up my pajama pants too far up my thighs until they cut of the circulation to my lower legs, and parked myself in the patio chair, leaning back until my ass went numb.   

And then I finished my book.  Not a book I wrote, a book I read. 

Bossypants, by Tina Fey. 



Tiny Fey's new biography-style collection that every single one of you should read.


My friend lent it to me.  She said I HAVE to read it - it will save my life.  Then she said she may have over-sold it. 

Turns out, she was nearly spot-on.  I'm not sure if Tina Fey saved my life, but she certainly did improve it. 

She writes in a similar style to all the great blogs I read.  Short and clever, funny and sarcastic, light but meaningful.  Pure gold. 

Tina highlgihted all her best stories... From being a quirky drama-kid during childhood, to doing improv with Amy Poehler (and other geniuses) at Chicago's Second City, to becoming head writer and star of Saturday Night Live, and then producing, writing, and lead acting in her show 30 Rock. 

"I can see Russia from my how-se"

Not to mention, offering several words of wisdom for attempting motherhood, working in a Dick Pickle-dominated universe, and generally surviving day-to-day life. 

I've always loved Tina Fey.  Hhilarious and smart and one of those self-made women we all wish we could be.  Impressive.  And even though I hate Lindsey Lohan, Mean Girls was genius.  And Baby Mama was an effing riot. 

So, thanks Tina.  You are my newest hero. 

PS - I wish you were on Twitter. 

_

Be a better person, damn it.

Do y'all know what tomorrow is? 

Yeah, so I think it's Jesus Day or something, but do you know what else it is?

Earth Day!  Yay for the Earth!

At first I thought this was a pretty picture, but now I think it looks radioactive. 

Now.  I want to tell you a bit about Earth Day.  I've done some research. 

Earth Day was founded by a wicked-cool US Senator named Gaylord on April 22, 1970.  It was first focused in the US, but it launched internationally in 1990, in 141 nations. 

I actually remember when the rest of the world got all up in Earth Day's bid-nas.  I remember my school teaching us to "reduce, reuse and recycle!" and to pick up our litter, and to cut it out with those pesky CFCs.

You know what else I remember?  I remember being scared shitless that the effing ozone layer was going to burn off and we were all going to spontaneously combust - or worse, very slowly and painfully MELT when the sun's raw rays hit us. 

Imagine a class of first graders out there picking up trash in their school yard, and unexpectedly melting into a hot ball of steaming flesh and MC Hammer pants. 

*shudder*

Oh yeah.  Back to my research. 

I read that Earth Day is now coordinated globally by the Earth Day Network (duh?), and is celebrated in more than 175 countries every year.

(Please bear with me, my American friends, as I am a proud Canadian - true, north, strong, and free - and while I would have liked to have done some International research, I stuck with my home and native land. )

The first Canadian Earth Day was held in 1980, and was organized by a grad student at Queen's University (my Alma Mater!). 

AND, a woman named Flora, the federal government rep for Kingston (Hometown!) officially kicked things off with a ceremonial tree planting and naked rain dance.  (Just kidding about the naked rain dance.)

Nowadays, more than 6 million Canadians join 1 billion people in over 170 countries to take part in Earth Day projects, activities, and other rabble-rousing.   

So this year, I want to actively join that group of 1 billion people.  And I want YOU, my loyal readers, to join in too.  Bringing the grand total up to about 1,000,000,030.  

SO here's what I plan to do:

First, I am going to drive 200 kilometres to Hometown with Hubby in his 13 year old pickup truck. 

BUT THEN, then, I'm going to do something green. 

I already clean with vinegar.  And I already take the bus to work.  And I already use reusable bags.  Yes, I'm already a goddam SAINT. 

But starting tomorrow (not tonight, 'cause I'm lazy) I'm going to use that effing compost bin more often.  Even though it's inconvenient.  And even though it's messy.  And even though it stinks worse than bum's dirty nutsack. 

Starting now tomorrow, I'm a goddam better person.  Join me, won't you?

Check this out:  A Billion Acts Of Green

* * *

PS!

My blogger friend jacqui, of ChickTuition asked me when the next game of Pictionary will be.  Excellent question!

I like this idea, so on Monday I shall post another example of my artistry (with the help of Painter), and you all will have the pleasure of guessing what I have very skillfully represented.

Good luck!

_

Flexible, resourceful, adaptable? Hardly.

Watch out!  Versatility is spreading across the interwebs!  Duck! 

No, wait.  Don't duck.  That's unnecessary. 

Instead, maybe you should cheer and begin a rockus round of applause. 

My blogger friend Angela (@BeggingTheAnswer) has nominated me for The Versatile Blogger Award.  Yaaaay! 

Thanks Angela!  For sharing this honour, and for being the clever and charming blogger that you are.  

Now.  I've heard that with great success comes the great responsibility of nominating others.  But I couldn't narrow it down.  (Typical skirter of responsibility.) 

So instead, I encourage you to click each Bloggy Bloggy on the right side of my page.  Each of those bloggers are infinitely more worthy of awards than I am.  Consider yourselves official nominees! 

Here are some of my fav posts.   

Begging The Answer
Why Use The Coat Closet When You Have A Perfectly Good Banister Available?

Musings of a Sarcastic Mind
Who Doesn't *Love* a Math Lesson from a Toothless Man at a Gas Pump?   

Fetch My Flying Monkeys
Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Seriously?? Reeeally? Seriously?
F-cked Up Letters: Walmart Edition

I also apparently have the responsibility of sharing some things that you may not already know about me. 

Here goes.  I'll try to make them "versatile."

1) I'm a pretend gardener.  Every Spring I make the yard look pretty and spend too much money on plants and dirt and mulch, and then eventually revert to ignoring it all for the rest of the Summer.  See?  Pretend. 

2) When I was a senior kindergartner I stole a handful of lego pieces from the classroom.  Yep.  Then I felt so guilty that I snuck them back into the classroom the next day and almost got caught putting them back into the toy bin. 

3) There are several movies that I can watch over and over again without ever getting sick of them.  City of Angels.  Dirty Dancing.  The Notebook.  Just to name a few.  And that's just the non-Christmas ones. (Home Alone.  Christmas Vacation.  Elf.)

4) I don't know how to play chess.  I understand the concept, but nobody has ever offered to teach me.  Not even Hubby.  Especially not Hubby - he knows the lesson would end up with me jamming a pawn in his ear.

5) I shave the hair off my bananas.  Seriously.  When I eat a banana, I peel it, and then use the back of the knife to shave the fuzzy layer off.  Then I slice it into pieces and eat it with a fork.  Sometimes with a side of peanut butter.


You're not judging me, are you?

_

Never let your sperm out of your sight

I heard an effed-up story today.   

I heard that some guy - a fertility doctor here in my safe, rational, and normal Canadian city - was unexpectedly revealed as the father of several children. 

I say unexpectedly, because this doctor apparently took it upon himself to impregnate his clients with his own sperm instead of the sperm of men he was supposed to be breeding. 

Yeah. 

My friends and I were trying to figure out how this happened. 

First of all, wouldn't that be kind of tricky?  I mean, all those little bottles of sperm must be monitored, right?  There isn't just some big bingo spinner full of sperm cups.  "Ok, close your eyes, reach in, and pick one!" 

Or maybe one of those evening lottery ball machines.  

I'm Yolaaaan-da Vaaay-ga!
The first ball up... is John.
The next, is Bill.
And the last... is Alberto!
Thank you and goodnight!

I'd like to think not. 

And second of all, how do you think he came to the decision to commit this travesty?  Was it just an experiment?  Do you think he thought he'd give it a go and see if it worked, just for fun? 

And then, when it proved successful, and nobody seemed the wiser, so he thought he'd just keep trying until... until... well, I don't know what.  Until he got bored?

I doubt it.  I think he had to be more calculating about the whole thing.  You know, like a diabolical plan to take over the world or something.  One Canadian baby at a time. 

That sounds like the tag line from a CBC mini series. 

I don't even know how they caught him.  They must have found his giant wall tally.  

215 done.  3,555,223,556 left to go. 

Or maybe some babies just popped out with random red curly hair and freckles or something.  There were probably several fathers out there wondering who their wives slept with.

"Honey?  Why do you think little Johnny looks so much like a cartoon character?"

Friggin creepy. 



Ok, just so you know, it seems that barely one word of this post is true, as far as I can tell.  It appears to be a combination of fact and urban myth.  I don't care though.  I'm all about spreading rumours.  And I think writing a psychologically thrilling TV mini series is my purpose on this Earth. 

_