As I write this, it's storming like crazy, and the slippery roads have deprived me of the daily "pick up milk, get some gas" solo excursion that I have come to rely on. I have firmly decided that I have had it up to here (envision my hand a foot above my head) with winter.
Go ahead, I dare you to call me a sooky baby. I double dare you to give me the "it's Cape Breton, deal with it" speech. Because in my 29 short years on this planet, it may surprise you how much winter I've actually experienced.
I remember being a kid in River Bourgeois and jumping off our roof into the snow, since the only things taller than the snowbanks were houses and utility poles. And I remember walking through four feet of snow, standing at the bus stop while my face was lambasted with ice pellets, and the drive to school was like a scene from "Tokyo Drift." It may not be equal to our grandparents' "walking to school uphill both ways in a blizzard", but some mornings it was close.
But beyond any childhood flashback, or any Nova Scotian winter lament, is the horrible memory of "the North". As many of you know, I spent a few years living and working in the Arctic.
Have you ever seen the movie "The Day After Tomorrow" with Dennis Quaid? That movie showed the earth moving into another Ice Age at -75 degrees, and the planet froze over. Well, I can tell you with absolute certainty that something like that couldn't happen, because the day I left Qikiqtarjuaq (have fun pronouncing that), it was -72 degrees with the windchill. That is not a tall tale or an exaggeration. Absorb that for a moment. Think about people's reaction to -25 degrees, and then imagine having to deal with -72. I can tell you, it's not comfortable. And it's not even the same kind of cold we get in Cape Breton, it's a mind-numbing, bitter, bone-marrow-covered-in-icicles kind of cold that you have to feel to believe.
Here's an example: you know how you go outside in December with wet hair and it freezes and gets hard? Well that happens in Nunavut, too. Only it happens when your hair is DRY, and it also freezes your eyelashes and nose hairs. Word to the wise: never underestimate a 30 second frostbite warning.
In Qikiqtarjuaq, winter was almost year round. There were a few months that weren't AS cold, but even in August, I woke up to a huge, Titanic-calibre iceberg floating in the water near my house. When the "warm" weather came, we were all sporting tshirts and panting and sweating, and it was only about 12 degrees. The day it hit 19 was almost more than we could handle.
Then you have to consider the darkness. At a latitude that high, winter is almost 24 hour a day darkness. There is an hour or so in the afternoon when the sun rises slightly enough to give the horizon the appearance of dusk, but that's it, and for months. I don't know about you, but no amount of Vitamin D capsules can replace a day of sunlight for me. It was depressing. And I didn't just see this once, I was there for a few years.
So now, can we safely say that I've endured more than my fair share of winter? Haven't I made my case for the right to complain a little?
There are others living in the Strait area who have also dealt with many Nunavut winters, and these people, myself included, are the first to scoff at Nova Scotian complainers. Normally, I'm the first one to say "suck it up, it's not that bad", and in comparison, it's not. But still, that doesn't mean I don't get sick of it, especially at this time of year. It's the tease of spring that kills me. One day, it's 15 degrees and the sun is splitting the rocks outside. The next day, like today, my heat is cranked, and I can't even see across the road for the blowing snow. Make up your mind, Mother Nature! Is it over, or isn't it? Can we break out the bicycles or do we need mittens at the ready? I need some consistency here! Haven't I done enough winter already?
My luck, the day this goes to print it will be a balmy 20 degrees and every reader will be wondering why I'm ranting and raving at such nice weather. But don't say I didn't warn you. Cindy Day, with her Shirley Temple ringlets, red lipstick & "I love snow" attitude, is sure to curse us once more before the season is over. And when that happens, you'll all be echoing my sentiments, trust me.
NOTE*** I wrote this last Wednesday when it was storming in Port Hawkesbury...just so you all know, it was bad out a few days after that, again yesterday, and we're supposed to get up to 40cm of snow again in the next few days. It's Cindy Day, I'm telling you. She's a witch.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Helicopter Mom
*Just a note...this is the article that I had published in the Reporter this week, but the idea originally came from a blog by Michelle Symes, who writes "Boularderie Blog" (a link to which is on the side of this page). She actually wrote about this topic more succinctly than I did, but I used her idea to try to get my own point across. Just wanted to give credit where credit was due. Check out her blog, it's really good. And while you're at it, check out the link to Lianne's blog, too. Hers is "Bloggideeblogblog". Lots of laughs on both blogs, a really good read.*
I always thought I'd be the "cool mom". I'd have the house that all the kids wanted to hang out at, and be the mom who threw all the cool birthday parties, who listened to cool music, and who everyone felt they could talk to.
Cut to a few years later, and I am definitely not the cool mom. I'm a helicopter mom. The term "helicopter mom" was coined by my friend and fellow writer Michelle Symes, and she defines it as "a mother who hovers over her children." Maybe it's that I watch the news too often, or maybe it's one too many episodes of "Law & Order", but somewhere along the line, neurotic paranoia took over, coolness was thrown out the window, and the result was this consistent hovering.
Now don't get me wrong, my kids aren't cloaked in veils when we go out, and I haven't made my oldest son start wearing a helmet to school (yet), but I'm more strict than I perceived myself to be. You can judge for yourself, and I'll be interested to hear if I'm on the same page as other parents of an almost-10-year-old.
I'm big on curfews, and my son has to check in with me every hour when he plays outside after school. I have to know who he's with, where he's at, and what he's doing, and these variables have to be approved in advance. Homework and chores have to be done before he goes out to play or watches TV. He's not allowed to go skating or swimming or ride his bike to the mall unless I or my husband are with him, and I don't care if he's the only kid who's not going. He's not allowed to sit in the front seat of the car, watch "The Simpsons", ride a dirt bike, shoot a pellet gun, get sneakers with little wheels on them, listen to 50 Cent, play "God of War", shave his head into a mohawk, or say the word "stupid". And I make him buckle up, dress warm, wear sunscreen, finish all his supper, do his school work over and over until it's done properly, and play with his brother even when he doesn't want to. To top it off, if the rules are broken, the severity of the infraction determines how long he has to say goodbye to his TV, his PS2, toys, playing outside, or maybe all of those things. Period. That's just the way things work around here. And when my other little boy is old enough, those same rules will apply.
These are the reasons why I find it hard to gauge my parenting boundaries. Am I on the strict side? Or am I just like everyone else? Normally I wouldn't question myself, but when I see and hear what other kids his age are doing, it makes me wonder. Most of his friends are allowed to own and watch and do all these things that he's so desperate to take on. He considers it a huge injustice to be the "only one" who doesn't have those same permissions. I don't feel like I'm smothering him, but just hearing the words "motorized scooter" is enough to send my blood pressure soaring and want to lock him away in a tower until he reaches the age of majority. I hate to make him the neighborhood nerd, but I'd rather him come home at night with all his limbs than let him run loose for the sake of being "cool". But how do you know when "fair and firm" turns into "Drill Sergeant Mom"?
That's the problem, you don't know. All I can do is my best. If I let my son do fun things that are safe and age-appropriate, that's just going to have to be good enough. I keep telling myself he'll thank me for it when he's older, because only then will I know if all this discipline and behavior modification has paid off. These days, he can be saucy and defiant, and I think he's attempting the world record for being grounded. I wish I didn't have to be such a party pooper, but if it means that someday I'll have a 25-year-old son who is respectful, street smart, has good manners, a good education, and no criminal record, I'll count my efforts as successful.
Until then, I'm staying true to my directives. "Eat your corn, clean your room, change the channel, put on a sweater, wear your helmet, and be back in an hour, or else."
I always thought I'd be the "cool mom". I'd have the house that all the kids wanted to hang out at, and be the mom who threw all the cool birthday parties, who listened to cool music, and who everyone felt they could talk to.
Cut to a few years later, and I am definitely not the cool mom. I'm a helicopter mom. The term "helicopter mom" was coined by my friend and fellow writer Michelle Symes, and she defines it as "a mother who hovers over her children." Maybe it's that I watch the news too often, or maybe it's one too many episodes of "Law & Order", but somewhere along the line, neurotic paranoia took over, coolness was thrown out the window, and the result was this consistent hovering.
Now don't get me wrong, my kids aren't cloaked in veils when we go out, and I haven't made my oldest son start wearing a helmet to school (yet), but I'm more strict than I perceived myself to be. You can judge for yourself, and I'll be interested to hear if I'm on the same page as other parents of an almost-10-year-old.
I'm big on curfews, and my son has to check in with me every hour when he plays outside after school. I have to know who he's with, where he's at, and what he's doing, and these variables have to be approved in advance. Homework and chores have to be done before he goes out to play or watches TV. He's not allowed to go skating or swimming or ride his bike to the mall unless I or my husband are with him, and I don't care if he's the only kid who's not going. He's not allowed to sit in the front seat of the car, watch "The Simpsons", ride a dirt bike, shoot a pellet gun, get sneakers with little wheels on them, listen to 50 Cent, play "God of War", shave his head into a mohawk, or say the word "stupid". And I make him buckle up, dress warm, wear sunscreen, finish all his supper, do his school work over and over until it's done properly, and play with his brother even when he doesn't want to. To top it off, if the rules are broken, the severity of the infraction determines how long he has to say goodbye to his TV, his PS2, toys, playing outside, or maybe all of those things. Period. That's just the way things work around here. And when my other little boy is old enough, those same rules will apply.
These are the reasons why I find it hard to gauge my parenting boundaries. Am I on the strict side? Or am I just like everyone else? Normally I wouldn't question myself, but when I see and hear what other kids his age are doing, it makes me wonder. Most of his friends are allowed to own and watch and do all these things that he's so desperate to take on. He considers it a huge injustice to be the "only one" who doesn't have those same permissions. I don't feel like I'm smothering him, but just hearing the words "motorized scooter" is enough to send my blood pressure soaring and want to lock him away in a tower until he reaches the age of majority. I hate to make him the neighborhood nerd, but I'd rather him come home at night with all his limbs than let him run loose for the sake of being "cool". But how do you know when "fair and firm" turns into "Drill Sergeant Mom"?
That's the problem, you don't know. All I can do is my best. If I let my son do fun things that are safe and age-appropriate, that's just going to have to be good enough. I keep telling myself he'll thank me for it when he's older, because only then will I know if all this discipline and behavior modification has paid off. These days, he can be saucy and defiant, and I think he's attempting the world record for being grounded. I wish I didn't have to be such a party pooper, but if it means that someday I'll have a 25-year-old son who is respectful, street smart, has good manners, a good education, and no criminal record, I'll count my efforts as successful.
Until then, I'm staying true to my directives. "Eat your corn, clean your room, change the channel, put on a sweater, wear your helmet, and be back in an hour, or else."
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Anger, Sorrow & Perspective
Last week, on an Indian Reserve in Saskatchewan, during a bitter cold spell in the West, two little girls were killed. I say they were killed, not just that they died, because their parents caused their death. Their Mom and Dad had argued that evening and the mother left the two toddlers alone with their drunk father. The father was so intoxicated that he took the girls outside in diapers and t-shirts, somehow dropped them in a field, and forgot all about them. The temperature outside was nearing -50. When the father was being treated at the hospital hours later, he asked where his kids were, and only then were authorities alerted to the horrible events of the night before and the tragic consequences of his actions. The little girls were 1 and 3 years old.
As you might imagine, I could go on for hours about this tragedy. But I won't even start on the gross negligence of people who expose their young children to an environment filled with drugs and alcohol. Or the irresponsibility of a mother who leaves her kids with someone too drunk to care for himself, let alone two babies in diapers. Or a father who would take his kids from their beds at night to roam the streets, drunk, in frigid temperatures. And I won't even begin to go off on someone who would drop their babies in the snow and walk away. Who forgets about them for hours, as they perish in the middle of a field. Nor will I comment on a community so accustomed to abhorrent behavior and substance abuse that these parents were allowed to engage in this kind of activity, at their children's peril, without any intervention. Where this tragedy is not only accepted, but tolerated, and even justified. "It's not his fault, he has a drinking problem. He's very sorry." Couldn't I just snap when I hear that. That excuse would never fly with Children's Aid here in town, nor with the people who live in Port Hawkesbury, or in any other responsible community in the civilized Western world. No, I won't write an article about the parents or the community. My blood is boiling, and once I start ranting, I won't be able to stop. God knows I've lost enough sleep over it already.
Life is unfair when people lacking the character and heart to care for children, are blessed with that privilege and then abuse it. There are people in this world who would have cherished and protected those two little girls, some of which have, through no fault of their own, lost the opportunity to do the same for their own children. It makes me sick to my stomach just thinking about it. When I think about families like that of Karissa Boudreau, the little girl who disappeared in Bridgewater, and all the other people who have lost their own children, it breaks my heart. And then I hear about selfish people who throw it all away? It disgusts and infuriates me.
My kids are noisy and hyper and can be, quite frankly, extremely annoying. I've told them countless times to be more quiet, to stop running. My grandmother always says, "Let them run. If they couldn't move or speak, you'd wish they would." Never before has that wisdom hit home more than this past week. I'll keep the newspaper clipping of the story of those two little Saskatchewan girls on my fridge, to remind us every time we get frustrated, how lost we'd be without that same noise and chaos we complain about.
It can be difficult to see your children's beauty as they're swinging from the light fixtures and dumping boxes of Froot Loops on the living room rug. But let us all have the presence of mind to provide the protection and care that every child deserves, even when life challenges us. Let us all ensure the safety of the kids around us and make changes where necessary, even if it means sticking your nose where you otherwise wouldn't. As parents, let us remember that kids are the light in our lives. And when it gets tough, remember those mothers and fathers who would do anything to hear that yelling and thumping.
"Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you got 'til it's gone...."
As you might imagine, I could go on for hours about this tragedy. But I won't even start on the gross negligence of people who expose their young children to an environment filled with drugs and alcohol. Or the irresponsibility of a mother who leaves her kids with someone too drunk to care for himself, let alone two babies in diapers. Or a father who would take his kids from their beds at night to roam the streets, drunk, in frigid temperatures. And I won't even begin to go off on someone who would drop their babies in the snow and walk away. Who forgets about them for hours, as they perish in the middle of a field. Nor will I comment on a community so accustomed to abhorrent behavior and substance abuse that these parents were allowed to engage in this kind of activity, at their children's peril, without any intervention. Where this tragedy is not only accepted, but tolerated, and even justified. "It's not his fault, he has a drinking problem. He's very sorry." Couldn't I just snap when I hear that. That excuse would never fly with Children's Aid here in town, nor with the people who live in Port Hawkesbury, or in any other responsible community in the civilized Western world. No, I won't write an article about the parents or the community. My blood is boiling, and once I start ranting, I won't be able to stop. God knows I've lost enough sleep over it already.
Life is unfair when people lacking the character and heart to care for children, are blessed with that privilege and then abuse it. There are people in this world who would have cherished and protected those two little girls, some of which have, through no fault of their own, lost the opportunity to do the same for their own children. It makes me sick to my stomach just thinking about it. When I think about families like that of Karissa Boudreau, the little girl who disappeared in Bridgewater, and all the other people who have lost their own children, it breaks my heart. And then I hear about selfish people who throw it all away? It disgusts and infuriates me.
My kids are noisy and hyper and can be, quite frankly, extremely annoying. I've told them countless times to be more quiet, to stop running. My grandmother always says, "Let them run. If they couldn't move or speak, you'd wish they would." Never before has that wisdom hit home more than this past week. I'll keep the newspaper clipping of the story of those two little Saskatchewan girls on my fridge, to remind us every time we get frustrated, how lost we'd be without that same noise and chaos we complain about.
It can be difficult to see your children's beauty as they're swinging from the light fixtures and dumping boxes of Froot Loops on the living room rug. But let us all have the presence of mind to provide the protection and care that every child deserves, even when life challenges us. Let us all ensure the safety of the kids around us and make changes where necessary, even if it means sticking your nose where you otherwise wouldn't. As parents, let us remember that kids are the light in our lives. And when it gets tough, remember those mothers and fathers who would do anything to hear that yelling and thumping.
"Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you got 'til it's gone...."
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Dear Britney
Dear Britney,
Apparently you haven't been keeping up with your correspondence. I wrote to you months ago, but I'll assume, given you had "other things" to do, that you didn't get a chance to read it. Allow me to try again.
It's a shame someone like me has to write this letter, but you're in desperate need of an outside intervention.
Though your music was never really my cup of tea, there was no denying that you were an excellent performer with many talents. Vocal talent? Er, maybe not so much. But so what if you could be the poster girl for pitch correction software? Your trademark lip-syncing techniques, blush-inducing dance moves, and million dollar porcelain veneers, more than made up for the weaknesses in your voice. You might have been the most iconic and famous young girl in the world, and I was rooting for you.
I guess there is truth to the old adage, "nowhere to go but down".
With a huge, savvy public relations machine to shield and spin your various indiscretions, your early slip-ups were cited as "typical young Hollywood". Unfortunately, the speeches doled out by your "people" didn't hold much water as your wild behavior escalated. How you managed to get tangled up with Kevin Federline I'll never quite understand, but next thing I knew, you were buying small dogs together, racing to the alter, and popping out babies like they were going out of style. And still I gave you the benefit of the doubt.
And then came the Fed-Ex fiasco. At the beginning of your relationship, no one would have predicted that Kevin was the stable one, but it didn't take long after your separation for the truth to come out. Within a few weeks of being single, you embraced the partying lifestyle with more enthusiasm than Robert Downey, Jr. By rights, you should still be hungover. To list all your bad behavior would result in a bad case of carpal-tunnel, but let's recap a bit, shall we? Emerging "commando" from a car in full view of the world media, shaving your head, attacking photographers with everything from umbrellas to new Mercedes, binge drinking, half-hearted attempts at rehab in a number of different facilities, bare-footed excursions to gas station bathrooms all over Malibu, missing important court-ordered proceedings, that disastrous VMA "comeback" performance, the newly-acquired British accent, need I continue? On and on it went, until your everyday antics left Mary Hart and Billy Bush foaming at the mouth in anticipation of your next adventure. I just assumed someone would intervene eventually; this very public psychotic break was becoming difficult to watch, especially now that Child Services was breathing down your neck. Surely someone will step in and shake the stupid out of this girl, I thought.
I was wrong.
Britney, you lost custody of your kids. You lost custody of your kids for goodness sake! Let that marinade for a few minutes. Has it sunk in? At all? Your last episode resulted in an internationally televised police showdown, custody dispute, and hospitalization. In recent days, you've had numerous mental breakdowns, all captured by the watchful eye of the paparazzi. Don't you think this has gone far enough? Your antics point to either mind-numbing stupidity, or severe addiction and mental illness. I surmise the latter. For that reason, I suppose it's pointless to try to reason with you at this point.
However, someone has to do something. Dr. Phil was too busy flushing all his rapidly-diminishing credibility down the toilet to actually be of assistance to you. Your mother should have taken you by those nasty extensions and dragged your behind out of the spotlight and back to the Louisiana bayou, but she's too busy selling the story of your 16-year-old sister's recent pregnancy and waiting by the mailbox for her "Mother of the Year" award. The judge in your custody case could have issued an order for the paparazzi to stay away from you and your kids. And with all the assorted "boyfriends", "managers", "assistants", and "cousins", someone from your camp should have sought help for you long before you reached this tragic state. You might never be able to recapture your former glory, but at least with some help, you could overcome your addictions, balance your meds, and possibly be able to see your kids again someday.
You have reached a point where even the tabloids and those who thrive on your misery, aren't interested in making light of your situation anymore. To most of the public, unless you're dead or cured, it's just more of the same. Now is the time to get your act together and get some serious help. Suck it up and admit yourself into a reputable rehab center or psychiatric facility, a strict one. Who knows, a nice long stay in the country, free of photographers and chaos, might be just what the doctor ordered. Feel free to drop by anytime (for a modest fee, of course), as I doubt I'll hear any objections from those living in this house, without mentioning any names.
We're all pulling for you Britney,
Signed,
Gina & everyone I know
Apparently you haven't been keeping up with your correspondence. I wrote to you months ago, but I'll assume, given you had "other things" to do, that you didn't get a chance to read it. Allow me to try again.
It's a shame someone like me has to write this letter, but you're in desperate need of an outside intervention.
Though your music was never really my cup of tea, there was no denying that you were an excellent performer with many talents. Vocal talent? Er, maybe not so much. But so what if you could be the poster girl for pitch correction software? Your trademark lip-syncing techniques, blush-inducing dance moves, and million dollar porcelain veneers, more than made up for the weaknesses in your voice. You might have been the most iconic and famous young girl in the world, and I was rooting for you.
I guess there is truth to the old adage, "nowhere to go but down".
With a huge, savvy public relations machine to shield and spin your various indiscretions, your early slip-ups were cited as "typical young Hollywood". Unfortunately, the speeches doled out by your "people" didn't hold much water as your wild behavior escalated. How you managed to get tangled up with Kevin Federline I'll never quite understand, but next thing I knew, you were buying small dogs together, racing to the alter, and popping out babies like they were going out of style. And still I gave you the benefit of the doubt.
And then came the Fed-Ex fiasco. At the beginning of your relationship, no one would have predicted that Kevin was the stable one, but it didn't take long after your separation for the truth to come out. Within a few weeks of being single, you embraced the partying lifestyle with more enthusiasm than Robert Downey, Jr. By rights, you should still be hungover. To list all your bad behavior would result in a bad case of carpal-tunnel, but let's recap a bit, shall we? Emerging "commando" from a car in full view of the world media, shaving your head, attacking photographers with everything from umbrellas to new Mercedes, binge drinking, half-hearted attempts at rehab in a number of different facilities, bare-footed excursions to gas station bathrooms all over Malibu, missing important court-ordered proceedings, that disastrous VMA "comeback" performance, the newly-acquired British accent, need I continue? On and on it went, until your everyday antics left Mary Hart and Billy Bush foaming at the mouth in anticipation of your next adventure. I just assumed someone would intervene eventually; this very public psychotic break was becoming difficult to watch, especially now that Child Services was breathing down your neck. Surely someone will step in and shake the stupid out of this girl, I thought.
I was wrong.
Britney, you lost custody of your kids. You lost custody of your kids for goodness sake! Let that marinade for a few minutes. Has it sunk in? At all? Your last episode resulted in an internationally televised police showdown, custody dispute, and hospitalization. In recent days, you've had numerous mental breakdowns, all captured by the watchful eye of the paparazzi. Don't you think this has gone far enough? Your antics point to either mind-numbing stupidity, or severe addiction and mental illness. I surmise the latter. For that reason, I suppose it's pointless to try to reason with you at this point.
However, someone has to do something. Dr. Phil was too busy flushing all his rapidly-diminishing credibility down the toilet to actually be of assistance to you. Your mother should have taken you by those nasty extensions and dragged your behind out of the spotlight and back to the Louisiana bayou, but she's too busy selling the story of your 16-year-old sister's recent pregnancy and waiting by the mailbox for her "Mother of the Year" award. The judge in your custody case could have issued an order for the paparazzi to stay away from you and your kids. And with all the assorted "boyfriends", "managers", "assistants", and "cousins", someone from your camp should have sought help for you long before you reached this tragic state. You might never be able to recapture your former glory, but at least with some help, you could overcome your addictions, balance your meds, and possibly be able to see your kids again someday.
You have reached a point where even the tabloids and those who thrive on your misery, aren't interested in making light of your situation anymore. To most of the public, unless you're dead or cured, it's just more of the same. Now is the time to get your act together and get some serious help. Suck it up and admit yourself into a reputable rehab center or psychiatric facility, a strict one. Who knows, a nice long stay in the country, free of photographers and chaos, might be just what the doctor ordered. Feel free to drop by anytime (for a modest fee, of course), as I doubt I'll hear any objections from those living in this house, without mentioning any names.
We're all pulling for you Britney,
Signed,
Gina & everyone I know
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
'Twas the Day After Christmas
'Twas the week after Christmas and all through the Strait, all the parents and shoppers like me celebrate. "Why so late?" you might ask. "Why the lengthy delay? All the good stuff is over. Why, it's Boxing Day!"
Now don't get me wrong, 'cause I'm far from a Grinch. I have kids, so I have to give more than an inch. My village is out, all my Christmas cards sent, and God knows a truckload of money's been spent. The manger scene sits there, as well as the tree; yes, that 'ol Martha Stewart has nothin' on me. While it sounds picturesque, and while some parts were fun, you're looking at one girl who's glad it's all done.
And so why am I so glad the season is over?
Quite simple.
It's because it starts in October.
Not all "big days" hang there like this Christmas loomed. By the time Halloween came, I knew I was doomed. I went to the mall, and much to my chagrin, there were Santas where all of the costumes had been. And what of the candy? Where'd all of that go? Instead there were aisles full of lights and fake snow. And then, to my horror, the loudspeaker hurled a cheery rendition of "Joy to the World". I just wasn't ready, that's all there was to it. I nearly picked up a glass reindeer and threw it! I wanted to ask them, "what's with all the rush?", as the shelf-stockers stocked shelves with stockings of plush. But it was too late, 'cause the ball was now rolling. The shoppers were thrilled with the aisles they were trolling.
And so it began, the hypnosis of cheer, when smart people are turned into zombies each year. It's just like a movie, to watch it take place. Every single thing changes; it's quite a disgrace. Suddenly shopping turns into a job, costing three times as much, in the midst of the mob. We fill up our carts with a big goofy smile, and the big wigs are laughing at us all the while. It's the flip side where things become really quite sad, when we, young and old, start behaving so bad. Sweet little old ladies, so gentle at heart, become monsters who will run you down with their cart. To get the last Bratz doll (for which he'll overpay), a father will hip-check you out of the way. The workers are short, as they look on the shelf, and may very well tell you to "find it yourself". And just when you think that things couldn't get worse, when you're sure you'll end up in the back of a hearse....with your two kids in tow, maybe even your Grandma - you remember you have to go to Dollarama. With that single thought, down your cheek rolls a tear. Is there anywhere worse to be this time of year? If there is, I can tell you that I haven't found it. Whenever we leave there, one of my kids are grounded.
Long gone are the days where the kids want some blocks, or a new Crazy Carpet, or navy-blue Crocs. Instead, when they make it up on Santa's knee, they ask for a laptop and Playstation 3. We buy mine nice presents, both me and my spouse, but nothing requiring us to mortgage our house.
Then how 'bout the grand event of Christmas dinner? That thing should be outlawed, it makes you no thinner. You all get together, your uncles, your brother, the whole bunch, pretending to all like each other. You've gained 15lbs and when meal time has passed, you're still faced with those dirty dishes, en masse.
And let's not forget the big night at the school. Part of me wants it cancelled, there should be a rule, or at least a good system to get us all through it. I really don't know how all those teachers do it. The kids are so cute, as they're singing their song - too bad the whole concert is nine hours long. It might sound quite scroogy, but between you and me, there isn't a parent who doesn't agree.
So here we are now, at the end of the season. If I seem a bit chipper, you now know the reason. I so don't hate Christmas, don't get that impression, I just understand why it leads to depression. As soon as the novelty wears off, we're fine, but while we're in the zone, we're all losing our minds. Once the garland and glitter is out of the stores, once the grandiose visions seep out of our pores, once the great expectations have all came and went, we'll be back to ourselves and preparing for Lent. Please take this short story and try to remember - here's hoping next year it won't start in September.
Now don't get me wrong, 'cause I'm far from a Grinch. I have kids, so I have to give more than an inch. My village is out, all my Christmas cards sent, and God knows a truckload of money's been spent. The manger scene sits there, as well as the tree; yes, that 'ol Martha Stewart has nothin' on me. While it sounds picturesque, and while some parts were fun, you're looking at one girl who's glad it's all done.
And so why am I so glad the season is over?
Quite simple.
It's because it starts in October.
Not all "big days" hang there like this Christmas loomed. By the time Halloween came, I knew I was doomed. I went to the mall, and much to my chagrin, there were Santas where all of the costumes had been. And what of the candy? Where'd all of that go? Instead there were aisles full of lights and fake snow. And then, to my horror, the loudspeaker hurled a cheery rendition of "Joy to the World". I just wasn't ready, that's all there was to it. I nearly picked up a glass reindeer and threw it! I wanted to ask them, "what's with all the rush?", as the shelf-stockers stocked shelves with stockings of plush. But it was too late, 'cause the ball was now rolling. The shoppers were thrilled with the aisles they were trolling.
And so it began, the hypnosis of cheer, when smart people are turned into zombies each year. It's just like a movie, to watch it take place. Every single thing changes; it's quite a disgrace. Suddenly shopping turns into a job, costing three times as much, in the midst of the mob. We fill up our carts with a big goofy smile, and the big wigs are laughing at us all the while. It's the flip side where things become really quite sad, when we, young and old, start behaving so bad. Sweet little old ladies, so gentle at heart, become monsters who will run you down with their cart. To get the last Bratz doll (for which he'll overpay), a father will hip-check you out of the way. The workers are short, as they look on the shelf, and may very well tell you to "find it yourself". And just when you think that things couldn't get worse, when you're sure you'll end up in the back of a hearse....with your two kids in tow, maybe even your Grandma - you remember you have to go to Dollarama. With that single thought, down your cheek rolls a tear. Is there anywhere worse to be this time of year? If there is, I can tell you that I haven't found it. Whenever we leave there, one of my kids are grounded.
Long gone are the days where the kids want some blocks, or a new Crazy Carpet, or navy-blue Crocs. Instead, when they make it up on Santa's knee, they ask for a laptop and Playstation 3. We buy mine nice presents, both me and my spouse, but nothing requiring us to mortgage our house.
Then how 'bout the grand event of Christmas dinner? That thing should be outlawed, it makes you no thinner. You all get together, your uncles, your brother, the whole bunch, pretending to all like each other. You've gained 15lbs and when meal time has passed, you're still faced with those dirty dishes, en masse.
And let's not forget the big night at the school. Part of me wants it cancelled, there should be a rule, or at least a good system to get us all through it. I really don't know how all those teachers do it. The kids are so cute, as they're singing their song - too bad the whole concert is nine hours long. It might sound quite scroogy, but between you and me, there isn't a parent who doesn't agree.
So here we are now, at the end of the season. If I seem a bit chipper, you now know the reason. I so don't hate Christmas, don't get that impression, I just understand why it leads to depression. As soon as the novelty wears off, we're fine, but while we're in the zone, we're all losing our minds. Once the garland and glitter is out of the stores, once the grandiose visions seep out of our pores, once the great expectations have all came and went, we'll be back to ourselves and preparing for Lent. Please take this short story and try to remember - here's hoping next year it won't start in September.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Girlspeak
The universally accepted truth: men and women do not understand each other. We're wired differently. Countless hours and years and lifetimes have been spent trying to figure each other out, to no avail.
Being married, I can discipher a great deal of "male code", but I am in no position to give insight into the mind of someone else's husband. I've got my own live-in male brain to figure out, so ladies, you're on your own. Good luck.
I can, however, throw the guys a bone.
The following is a rough translation of Female English. These translations are approximate, and will vary in detail and intensity from woman to woman.
She says: Nothing is wrong, I'm fine.
She means: There's plenty wrong, I'm anything but fine, and you have about thirty seconds to figure out why and fix it, unless you want my mood to worsen exponentially.
She says: Do you want to watch a movie?
She means: Do you want to watch a movie with characters, a plot, and minimal explosions/gunfighting/female nudity?
She says: Do we have a step ladder?
She means: I'm going to paint the living room tomorrow while you're at work, and even if you don't like the color, it will be too much work for you to change it.
She says: You're blue sweater? It's hanging in your closet, for once.
She means: I found it under the bed, and if you don't start picking up your clothes, I'm going to throw them all away.
She says: Did anyone call while I was out yesterday?
She means: I know Susan called while I was out yesterday, so if you can't take and deliver messages, let the machine pick up.
She says: I don't care, go out tonight if you want to.
She means: I'm not telling you to go out, I'm giving you the opportunity to prefer to stay home with me. I obviously don't want you to go out, and I will make you miserable for days if you do. Choose carefully.
She says: Does this outfit look ok?
She means: I wouldn't be out here modeling for you if I didn't think it looked good, so please tell me it's incredible, or I'll probably tear my closet apart in a rage and end up staying home and pouting all night.
She says: Kate's husband bought her the most beautiful flowers, you should see them, they're blue roses.
She means: I want you to buy me flowers, please. (The "please" part is variable, depending on mood and length of time that has elapsed since she last received a bouquet of flowers)
She says: How was supper?
She means: It took me two hours to cook that, amidst screaming children and chaos, so you'd better say it was delicious or tomorrow we'll be having Kraft Dinner.
She says: Who was that scantily-scad, buxom knock-out you were hugging?
She means: That better have been your long-lost cousin.
She says: I'm going to get my hair done tomorrow.
She means: We'll be $120 poorer tomorrow, and you probably won't even be able to tell what I got done to my hair.
She says: Work was a nightmare today.
She means: I can't wait to tell you the story about the photocopier mishap, how I spilled my coffee, and how Marcy complained about her cramps all day. It's your job to pretend all of this is interesting, the way I do when you talk about power tools being on sale at Canadian Tire.
She says: My friend from high school got engaged.
She means: On July 14th of next year, you'll find yourself wearing uncomfortable clothes and smiling at a room full of people you don't know.
She says: We need to talk.
She means: You need to listen.
Now, in my defense, I do not base these simulated conversations on life experience (well, the majority of them, anyway). My husband doesn't have it nearly that bad, but these examples, however accurate, are an unpleasant reality for many husbands and boyfriends. Take heart, gentlemen; we love you, and we'll go as easy on you as we can. We know you don't understand us but, luckily for you, that doesn't stop us from trying to show you how.
Being married, I can discipher a great deal of "male code", but I am in no position to give insight into the mind of someone else's husband. I've got my own live-in male brain to figure out, so ladies, you're on your own. Good luck.
I can, however, throw the guys a bone.
The following is a rough translation of Female English. These translations are approximate, and will vary in detail and intensity from woman to woman.
She says: Nothing is wrong, I'm fine.
She means: There's plenty wrong, I'm anything but fine, and you have about thirty seconds to figure out why and fix it, unless you want my mood to worsen exponentially.
She says: Do you want to watch a movie?
She means: Do you want to watch a movie with characters, a plot, and minimal explosions/gunfighting/female nudity?
She says: Do we have a step ladder?
She means: I'm going to paint the living room tomorrow while you're at work, and even if you don't like the color, it will be too much work for you to change it.
She says: You're blue sweater? It's hanging in your closet, for once.
She means: I found it under the bed, and if you don't start picking up your clothes, I'm going to throw them all away.
She says: Did anyone call while I was out yesterday?
She means: I know Susan called while I was out yesterday, so if you can't take and deliver messages, let the machine pick up.
She says: I don't care, go out tonight if you want to.
She means: I'm not telling you to go out, I'm giving you the opportunity to prefer to stay home with me. I obviously don't want you to go out, and I will make you miserable for days if you do. Choose carefully.
She says: Does this outfit look ok?
She means: I wouldn't be out here modeling for you if I didn't think it looked good, so please tell me it's incredible, or I'll probably tear my closet apart in a rage and end up staying home and pouting all night.
She says: Kate's husband bought her the most beautiful flowers, you should see them, they're blue roses.
She means: I want you to buy me flowers, please. (The "please" part is variable, depending on mood and length of time that has elapsed since she last received a bouquet of flowers)
She says: How was supper?
She means: It took me two hours to cook that, amidst screaming children and chaos, so you'd better say it was delicious or tomorrow we'll be having Kraft Dinner.
She says: Who was that scantily-scad, buxom knock-out you were hugging?
She means: That better have been your long-lost cousin.
She says: I'm going to get my hair done tomorrow.
She means: We'll be $120 poorer tomorrow, and you probably won't even be able to tell what I got done to my hair.
She says: Work was a nightmare today.
She means: I can't wait to tell you the story about the photocopier mishap, how I spilled my coffee, and how Marcy complained about her cramps all day. It's your job to pretend all of this is interesting, the way I do when you talk about power tools being on sale at Canadian Tire.
She says: My friend from high school got engaged.
She means: On July 14th of next year, you'll find yourself wearing uncomfortable clothes and smiling at a room full of people you don't know.
She says: We need to talk.
She means: You need to listen.
Now, in my defense, I do not base these simulated conversations on life experience (well, the majority of them, anyway). My husband doesn't have it nearly that bad, but these examples, however accurate, are an unpleasant reality for many husbands and boyfriends. Take heart, gentlemen; we love you, and we'll go as easy on you as we can. We know you don't understand us but, luckily for you, that doesn't stop us from trying to show you how.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
"Those Flower Pins"
I got my Remembrance Day poppy a few days ago. There was an older man, dressed in a Legion uniform, giving them out at the grocery store, and he smiled at me when I put a few dollars in his container.
When I was young, Remembrance Day was the day for which we had a big assembly in school. The day our teacher would hand out poppies after lunch. The day men in uniforms would come to our school, show us all their medals, and give a sad speech. The day one student got picked to go lay a wreath at the front of the gymnasium. Once the assembly was over, we went home, had a day off school, and then it was back to business as usual.
Even as I got older, war was just something I studied in Terry Clements' history class. My grandfather was enlisted in World War 2, though, being in communications in Halifax, he was never deployed overseas, so I didn't hear any horror stories. A friend of mine served in Rwanda, but he came home years ago, and without a visible scratch. Like so many others, because my life was never really impacted by war, I viewed war as something that happened long before my time.
As I was putting on my poppy, a little girl behind me asked her mother what "those flower pins" were for, and the lady replied, "to remember the all men and women who died in the war a long time ago." Unfortunately, she's only somewhat correct about the "long time ago" part.
Today we live in a different world. War is no longer something that took place 75 years ago, that we study in history class. It's happening right now.
You don't have to be in support of any current war to be in support of the people who are fighting in it. I'll leave my opinions of George W. Bush and the wars in the Middle East for another day, but I can tell you with certainty that, in no way does my opposition of the "War on Terror" compromise my high regard for the courageous people who risk their lives over there. I think it's a shame that men and women, young and old, have put their faith and trust in leaders who, with ulterior motives, lie their country into war and conflict. But history will show, those leaders will be looked down upon, and not those who followed them.
All over Nova Scotia, on November 11th (and every other day), people will be remembering their recently lost loved ones, and praying for their family members who are fighting abroad as we speak. Maybe also for their great-great-grandfather, who was lost in World War 1, or their mother's uncle who died in World War 2, or their neighbor's late husband who died in Vietnam, but also, and perhaps more immediately, for those soldiers at war right now. The 35-year-old fathers from Greenwood who have left a wife and two small children behind. The 43-year-old brothers from River Bourgeois who have been in Afghanistan for five years. The 29-year-old daughters from Sydney who have spent most of their adult lives in the Middle East. The husbands, sons, fathers, brothers, wives, mothers, daughters, sisters, and friends of people all over our region. War is more than ancient history, it's reality.
This is to take nothing away from the Veterans of WW1 and WW2. These brave men and women did the same kind of fighting that we see on the news every night, and should always be revered and honored, regardless of how long ago it was. When I see a smiling Veteran, handing out poppies at the grocery store, I often think he must be shaking his head at our obliviousness. Everything he went through, the sacrifices he made, the victory he helped win - and some little punk casually leaves a quarter in his jar, grabs a poppy, and walks away. I think we should all make it a point to acknowledge those Legionnaires, out of respect. Say hello. Smile. Talk to them. It doesn't hurt, I promise. Were it not for them, we might not be out buying groceries, we might be chowing down on rations of Hiltler Sticks and Nazi Nuggets.
Remembrance Day is more than just a holiday, a long weekend, a day off work. It's a time for us to contemplate how lucky we are, to honour those who weren't so lucky, and to acknowledge those who have to pray for luck and survival every day. It's so easy for us to forget, but on November 11th, it's our job to Remember.
When I was young, Remembrance Day was the day for which we had a big assembly in school. The day our teacher would hand out poppies after lunch. The day men in uniforms would come to our school, show us all their medals, and give a sad speech. The day one student got picked to go lay a wreath at the front of the gymnasium. Once the assembly was over, we went home, had a day off school, and then it was back to business as usual.
Even as I got older, war was just something I studied in Terry Clements' history class. My grandfather was enlisted in World War 2, though, being in communications in Halifax, he was never deployed overseas, so I didn't hear any horror stories. A friend of mine served in Rwanda, but he came home years ago, and without a visible scratch. Like so many others, because my life was never really impacted by war, I viewed war as something that happened long before my time.
As I was putting on my poppy, a little girl behind me asked her mother what "those flower pins" were for, and the lady replied, "to remember the all men and women who died in the war a long time ago." Unfortunately, she's only somewhat correct about the "long time ago" part.
Today we live in a different world. War is no longer something that took place 75 years ago, that we study in history class. It's happening right now.
You don't have to be in support of any current war to be in support of the people who are fighting in it. I'll leave my opinions of George W. Bush and the wars in the Middle East for another day, but I can tell you with certainty that, in no way does my opposition of the "War on Terror" compromise my high regard for the courageous people who risk their lives over there. I think it's a shame that men and women, young and old, have put their faith and trust in leaders who, with ulterior motives, lie their country into war and conflict. But history will show, those leaders will be looked down upon, and not those who followed them.
All over Nova Scotia, on November 11th (and every other day), people will be remembering their recently lost loved ones, and praying for their family members who are fighting abroad as we speak. Maybe also for their great-great-grandfather, who was lost in World War 1, or their mother's uncle who died in World War 2, or their neighbor's late husband who died in Vietnam, but also, and perhaps more immediately, for those soldiers at war right now. The 35-year-old fathers from Greenwood who have left a wife and two small children behind. The 43-year-old brothers from River Bourgeois who have been in Afghanistan for five years. The 29-year-old daughters from Sydney who have spent most of their adult lives in the Middle East. The husbands, sons, fathers, brothers, wives, mothers, daughters, sisters, and friends of people all over our region. War is more than ancient history, it's reality.
This is to take nothing away from the Veterans of WW1 and WW2. These brave men and women did the same kind of fighting that we see on the news every night, and should always be revered and honored, regardless of how long ago it was. When I see a smiling Veteran, handing out poppies at the grocery store, I often think he must be shaking his head at our obliviousness. Everything he went through, the sacrifices he made, the victory he helped win - and some little punk casually leaves a quarter in his jar, grabs a poppy, and walks away. I think we should all make it a point to acknowledge those Legionnaires, out of respect. Say hello. Smile. Talk to them. It doesn't hurt, I promise. Were it not for them, we might not be out buying groceries, we might be chowing down on rations of Hiltler Sticks and Nazi Nuggets.
Remembrance Day is more than just a holiday, a long weekend, a day off work. It's a time for us to contemplate how lucky we are, to honour those who weren't so lucky, and to acknowledge those who have to pray for luck and survival every day. It's so easy for us to forget, but on November 11th, it's our job to Remember.
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