Dear Mr. Haagen-Daas,
I regret to inform you that I will no longer be purchasing your fine selection of ice cream products.
Normally a notification like this wouldn't be necessary, but seeing as I'm such a loyal customer, I am fairly certain my abstinence will reflect in your future sales figures, and I wanted to give you a head's up. You should expect to see a decline in the sales of, most notably: chocolate peanut butter, cherry vanilla, and rocky road.
If it's any consolation, the same effects will be felt by the folks at Dairy Queen, Scotsburn, Farmers, Ben & Jerrys, and every student ice cream barn in the Quad County area, to whom this letter has also been forwarded.
Trust me, it's not that I have any desire to stop consuming your delicious creations. Given the opportunity, I would gladly eat nothing but ice cream three meals a day for the rest of my life. Nothing gives me more pleasure than to open my freezer and see a pint of your wonderful diary goodness gazing back at me. To eat it is like a sweet, frozen kiss on the lips, and my taste buds covet every pecan, marshmallow & caramel swirl.
Many a death threat has been uttered to members of my household in an effort to sanctify and sustain your product, and I am both proud and joyless to report that my efforts have been met with much success. My husband isn't a big fan of ice cream, period, so he wasn't a big threat to begin with. My kids love it, but they're easily distracted, and I have been able to tempt them with other treats and keep the majority of the ice cream for myself. While this has been a wonderful reality for me to enjoy, I am now paying the price.
You see, I could have swore your packaging labels read "fat free" or "ideal for diets" or something along those lines, but I guess I was mistaken. And here I was, eating Cherry Garcia almost as if it were going out of style, not giving a second thought to the caloric repercussions of my actions. The result, to put it mildly, is not physically ideal.
First, I noticed my pants were fitting more snugly than usual. Soon after, I found I had a bit of extra padding when I would sit down. Coming on the end, I noticed an extra chin was forming. But the biggest wake up call came the other night, when I was startled at pictures I found; my husband has, at some point, married another woman! Sure, she looks a lot like me, and mysteriously she even wore my wedding dress...and had all the same guests...and was holding my children in a few shots. But that couldn't be me, I don't look like that! I may not have the same pre-babies bod I once did, but I couldn't have changed that much, could I? In any event, since my clothes have recently been rejecting my body, I feel it's in the best interest of everyone involved if I stop eating ice cream and begin a new diet regimen. Especially since, if you listen very closely, you can actually hear my arteries clogging.
So, allow me, if you will, to offer a few suggestions as to how to improve your products and make them more suitable for people like me.
First, each label should include a disclaimer, written in big, bold letters. Your advertising staff should have final copy, but I advise it should say something like, "WARNING: Consumption of this product, while providing instant and powerful gratification, may lead to obesity, with side effects including self-consciousness, denial, guilt, frustration, and lack of clothes-shopping enjoyment. Crying jags, hissy-fits, and temper tantrums are more infrequent, but have been reported in some cases." You may need a bigger container to fit all that, but I think you can afford it, considering you charge over $5 for as much ice cream as one could fit on a single large cone.
As the more expensive, yet more rewarding, alternative, you could invest millions of dollars in the research and development of a fat-free, calorie-free, organic and health-smart ice cream. Imagine being the brain behind that! Your profits would compensate one hundred fold for the initial investment, and you could win back faithful customers like me. Run with it, trust me. You're welcome.
In closing, I want to again express my regret concerning my new-found temperance, and I apologize for any negative effect it might have on your bottom line. Should you happen to take action on that idea we talked about, let me know and I'll be the first in line.
With fond memories & admiration,
A new & improved Gina MacDonald
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Game Over
I heard on the news the other night that 80% of adults in Nova Scotia gamble in some form at least four times per month, whether it be buying lotto tickets or taking a trip to the casino. That's a much higher number than I would have guessed.
I've never been much of a gambler. I never to go bingo, I don't buy lottery tickets, scratch tickets, or pull tickets, and I've only been to a casino twice. Another thing I don't do is play those VLTs.
Don't get me wrong, I have before. I've thrown in a few loonies here and there, but never much more than that. And I've always cashed out if my winnings reached more than ten dollars or so. I've just never been very liberal when it comes to those poker machines. I might walk away with lots of money, but only if I risk losing a great deal of it too, something I'm not willing to chance.
Unfortunately, much the same way as alcoholics have a hard time staying away from alcohol, compulsive gamblers can't stay away from VLTs. Addiction is a powerful thing, it seems. Even in the absence of any ingested chemical, people get addicted to playing poker machines as other people do to hard drugs, and I would venture to say that, in this province, it ruins just as many lives.
We all know someone who, while they can't afford to make their car payment, can be found on payday pumping cash into a machine at the tavern. Or someone who has blown their whole paycheque and now can't afford to buy groceries. Or, even worse, the person who asks you to borrow twenty bucks under the guise of buying diapers, only to blow it in five minutes in an attempt to win more. I feel bad for a great majority of these people, who meet a VLT at every corner, and who have been falsely led to believe that great riches will come their way, if they just put in one more dollar.
Because, you see, that's the problem with VLTs. At bingo, when the night is over, it's over. But with VLTs, the promise of a big jackpot may be just a few dollars away, as indicated on the screen right in front of you. As soon as the "sorry, game over" message flashes, the row of 7s, the straight flush, or whatever the big winner might be, immediately follows it on the screen. It says, even if only subliminally, "you may have lost that time, but look at what could happen if you play again."
Problem gamblers account for more than half of net VLT revenues, according to Statistics Nova Scotia. Those same statistics show that these machines account for 75% of the Atlantic Lotto Corporation's net revenue, and that they have generated more than three hundred million dollars in revenue for the Atlantic provinces. So what is more likely, that the government is going to do all it can to prevent people from developing an addiction to gambling, starting with reducing the number of machines available to these gambling addicts? Or that the government is too dependant on gaming revenues to be proactive in doing anything that discourages people from handing their money over to the coffers? Constituents are gambling their paycheques and their lives away, and the government is not aggressively addressing one of the main problems, the presence of these machines at every turn.
The Nova Scotia government currently licenses over 2300 VLTs to taverns and bars, not including another 500 licensed to First Nations communities, and countless others in the casinos. If this government actually wants problem gambling to decrease, they'll significantly reduce this number, and I mean very significantly. However, I'm not going to hold my breath.
For those of you playing devil's advocate, I agree that a gambling addiction is the responsibility of the person who has it, and not completely the fault of the government. An adult is charged with being accountable and solving personal problems as they arise, without passing blame. But it's not enough to say, "just don't play them" when a person has a physiological compulsion and sees a row of 20 machines while they're having lunch at a local tavern. Occasional gamblers will not take issue with a decrease in the number of available machines, and profits, whether it be to merchants or government, should be a lower priority than the well being of people who live here. A small sticker with the number to a gambling hotline isn't enough, and until opportunity is decreased, problem gambling in Nova Scotia will continue to the same extent as it is today.
I've never been much of a gambler. I never to go bingo, I don't buy lottery tickets, scratch tickets, or pull tickets, and I've only been to a casino twice. Another thing I don't do is play those VLTs.
Don't get me wrong, I have before. I've thrown in a few loonies here and there, but never much more than that. And I've always cashed out if my winnings reached more than ten dollars or so. I've just never been very liberal when it comes to those poker machines. I might walk away with lots of money, but only if I risk losing a great deal of it too, something I'm not willing to chance.
Unfortunately, much the same way as alcoholics have a hard time staying away from alcohol, compulsive gamblers can't stay away from VLTs. Addiction is a powerful thing, it seems. Even in the absence of any ingested chemical, people get addicted to playing poker machines as other people do to hard drugs, and I would venture to say that, in this province, it ruins just as many lives.
We all know someone who, while they can't afford to make their car payment, can be found on payday pumping cash into a machine at the tavern. Or someone who has blown their whole paycheque and now can't afford to buy groceries. Or, even worse, the person who asks you to borrow twenty bucks under the guise of buying diapers, only to blow it in five minutes in an attempt to win more. I feel bad for a great majority of these people, who meet a VLT at every corner, and who have been falsely led to believe that great riches will come their way, if they just put in one more dollar.
Because, you see, that's the problem with VLTs. At bingo, when the night is over, it's over. But with VLTs, the promise of a big jackpot may be just a few dollars away, as indicated on the screen right in front of you. As soon as the "sorry, game over" message flashes, the row of 7s, the straight flush, or whatever the big winner might be, immediately follows it on the screen. It says, even if only subliminally, "you may have lost that time, but look at what could happen if you play again."
Problem gamblers account for more than half of net VLT revenues, according to Statistics Nova Scotia. Those same statistics show that these machines account for 75% of the Atlantic Lotto Corporation's net revenue, and that they have generated more than three hundred million dollars in revenue for the Atlantic provinces. So what is more likely, that the government is going to do all it can to prevent people from developing an addiction to gambling, starting with reducing the number of machines available to these gambling addicts? Or that the government is too dependant on gaming revenues to be proactive in doing anything that discourages people from handing their money over to the coffers? Constituents are gambling their paycheques and their lives away, and the government is not aggressively addressing one of the main problems, the presence of these machines at every turn.
The Nova Scotia government currently licenses over 2300 VLTs to taverns and bars, not including another 500 licensed to First Nations communities, and countless others in the casinos. If this government actually wants problem gambling to decrease, they'll significantly reduce this number, and I mean very significantly. However, I'm not going to hold my breath.
For those of you playing devil's advocate, I agree that a gambling addiction is the responsibility of the person who has it, and not completely the fault of the government. An adult is charged with being accountable and solving personal problems as they arise, without passing blame. But it's not enough to say, "just don't play them" when a person has a physiological compulsion and sees a row of 20 machines while they're having lunch at a local tavern. Occasional gamblers will not take issue with a decrease in the number of available machines, and profits, whether it be to merchants or government, should be a lower priority than the well being of people who live here. A small sticker with the number to a gambling hotline isn't enough, and until opportunity is decreased, problem gambling in Nova Scotia will continue to the same extent as it is today.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Serenity Now
George Costanza said it best when he bellowed, "Serenity Now!" That is a mantra, almost a prayer, for when things get to be too much. When a situation is so overwhelming and stressful that you throw your hands up and want to scream. And never could it be more appropriate than when you're in the throes of home renovation.
Tearing your house apart in an effort to beautify seems like a good idea at the time, but it's a lot like baking a cheesecake; the visions of the end result override common sense and practicality, and before you know it you're covered in flour (or drywall residue) and wondering what ever possessed you to get started with this nonsense in the first place. Especially when you want Oreo cheesecake and your husband wants pina colada. Or in my case, when I want "Martha Stewart Living" and my husband's taste gravitates more toward "set of Miami Vice".
Luckily, many of the big things were already done when we moved in. The kitchen was complete (with the exception of a Polmolive-green tile backsplash which I'm currently negotiating. Trust me, it will be spectacular.), as was the dining room, and the flooring in the living room and hallway. The kids' rooms were a snap decision-wise, since Lightning McQueen reigns supreme in our lives, and army decor was the obvious choice for our older boy. But even though we didn't spend much time pondering the theme for each room, that didn't make the work any easier.
It was decided that I would take the kids out for the day while he completed room number one. God knows, I didn't want little three year old fingers to find their way around a tile cutting saw, and with a kid who constantly wants to be with his daddy, leaving the house altogether made the whole thing easier on all of us. Room number two required the same evacuation, only this time my husband came to find the carpet had been nailed to the floor, thanks to the infinite genius of previous contractors. Over three hundred nails, two nights of a wormy toddler sleeping in our bed, and plenty of colorful language later, the kids rooms were done. Now we were onto our main battlegrounds, which were the living room and master bedroom.
Round 1: The living room. Flooring excluded, the entire space had to be changed cosmetically. There is nothing more frustrating than explaining the subtle differences between burnt almond and chocolate milkshake taupe to someone who really and truly only sees beige. At the same time, I'm about as qualified to roam unsupervised around a hardware store as he would be at a makeup counter. So somewhere between my need for symmetry, clean lines, and faux-suede drapes with grommets, and his leaning toward vertical blinds, curio cabinets, and "I don't care, just hurry up and decide", we reached a compromise including dark brown panels with valances for the windows, baseboards and crown moldings, some well placed accessories, and a few plants, without a bit of scalloped lace to be found. Don't get me wrong, it looks absolutely beautiful and I love it, but the process wasn't without it's many outbursts of "Serenity Now."
Round 2: The master bedroom. This project was not a priority for me, not only because we're the only people who see it, but also because it was so far gone, I didn't quite know where to start. But apparently my complaining about how much I loathed our out-of-date room wore him down, and a bedroom makeover was my husband's wonderful birthday surprise. And by wonderful, I mean appreciated yet tedious and painful for him. I should mention, our entire room was covered with layer after layer of 75 thousand year old wallpaper. You may shudder and gasp, because I know he did. From 8:00 Saturday morning, he and the kids (and me, sporadically) ripped and soaked and scrubbed and scraped and wished death upon the people who put up the wallpaper, and all wallpaper makers in general. Of course considering the mess we were making, our massive Victorian style wooden headboard, along with the boxspring and mattress from our queen sized bed, had to be moved into the hallway, where it sat for two days obstructing traffic, while the smaller contents of our room bled into every other room in the house, making the MacDonald residence look alarmingly like Ground Zero. By Sunday night, the wallpaper was but a distant and horrible memory, and I had a brand new bedroom. My husband chose expressions other than "Serenity Now", and I can't say I blame him.
I'll leave you with this advice: don't renovate unless and until you absolutely have to. I say this as I prepare to tackle our biggest project, the bathroom.
Serenity now.
Tearing your house apart in an effort to beautify seems like a good idea at the time, but it's a lot like baking a cheesecake; the visions of the end result override common sense and practicality, and before you know it you're covered in flour (or drywall residue) and wondering what ever possessed you to get started with this nonsense in the first place. Especially when you want Oreo cheesecake and your husband wants pina colada. Or in my case, when I want "Martha Stewart Living" and my husband's taste gravitates more toward "set of Miami Vice".
Luckily, many of the big things were already done when we moved in. The kitchen was complete (with the exception of a Polmolive-green tile backsplash which I'm currently negotiating. Trust me, it will be spectacular.), as was the dining room, and the flooring in the living room and hallway. The kids' rooms were a snap decision-wise, since Lightning McQueen reigns supreme in our lives, and army decor was the obvious choice for our older boy. But even though we didn't spend much time pondering the theme for each room, that didn't make the work any easier.
It was decided that I would take the kids out for the day while he completed room number one. God knows, I didn't want little three year old fingers to find their way around a tile cutting saw, and with a kid who constantly wants to be with his daddy, leaving the house altogether made the whole thing easier on all of us. Room number two required the same evacuation, only this time my husband came to find the carpet had been nailed to the floor, thanks to the infinite genius of previous contractors. Over three hundred nails, two nights of a wormy toddler sleeping in our bed, and plenty of colorful language later, the kids rooms were done. Now we were onto our main battlegrounds, which were the living room and master bedroom.
Round 1: The living room. Flooring excluded, the entire space had to be changed cosmetically. There is nothing more frustrating than explaining the subtle differences between burnt almond and chocolate milkshake taupe to someone who really and truly only sees beige. At the same time, I'm about as qualified to roam unsupervised around a hardware store as he would be at a makeup counter. So somewhere between my need for symmetry, clean lines, and faux-suede drapes with grommets, and his leaning toward vertical blinds, curio cabinets, and "I don't care, just hurry up and decide", we reached a compromise including dark brown panels with valances for the windows, baseboards and crown moldings, some well placed accessories, and a few plants, without a bit of scalloped lace to be found. Don't get me wrong, it looks absolutely beautiful and I love it, but the process wasn't without it's many outbursts of "Serenity Now."
Round 2: The master bedroom. This project was not a priority for me, not only because we're the only people who see it, but also because it was so far gone, I didn't quite know where to start. But apparently my complaining about how much I loathed our out-of-date room wore him down, and a bedroom makeover was my husband's wonderful birthday surprise. And by wonderful, I mean appreciated yet tedious and painful for him. I should mention, our entire room was covered with layer after layer of 75 thousand year old wallpaper. You may shudder and gasp, because I know he did. From 8:00 Saturday morning, he and the kids (and me, sporadically) ripped and soaked and scrubbed and scraped and wished death upon the people who put up the wallpaper, and all wallpaper makers in general. Of course considering the mess we were making, our massive Victorian style wooden headboard, along with the boxspring and mattress from our queen sized bed, had to be moved into the hallway, where it sat for two days obstructing traffic, while the smaller contents of our room bled into every other room in the house, making the MacDonald residence look alarmingly like Ground Zero. By Sunday night, the wallpaper was but a distant and horrible memory, and I had a brand new bedroom. My husband chose expressions other than "Serenity Now", and I can't say I blame him.
I'll leave you with this advice: don't renovate unless and until you absolutely have to. I say this as I prepare to tackle our biggest project, the bathroom.
Serenity now.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Enough Already
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.
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.
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)