I can feel it coming. It's like a big, thick, ominous fog rolling in from sea, and it's got it's GPS set on a spot right over my head. In just about a month, I will be thirty years old.
Thirty years old. Ten years shy of the big 4-0, half way to 60. How does this happen? I remember being in high school and thinking of thirty-year-olds as old fogies. Is that what kids in that age bracket think of me? It couldn't be, I'm only young, right?
I suppose that depends on who you are. If you're in your 50s, I'm just a spring chicken and you're probably annoyed at how old I'm making YOU feel by complaining about turning thirty.
If you're in your teens, you're probably glued to Facebook and not reading the newspaper. Carry on.
This whole "milestone birthday" thing comes at the worst time, too. As if the reality of sprouting grey hairs and stiff muscles weren't enough, I'm faced with a far more worrisome problem.
I guess I should have seen it coming, as the mother of two sons. Both of them are gorgeous, for starters. I don't mean cute, I'm talking stop-in-your-tracks, striking good looks. They have warm hearts, good manners, and quick wit. Not to mention, they can be saucy and miserable when they want to be, which is the perfect icing on the eligible bachelor cake. That's why I shouldn't be surprised about the girl factor.
In the past few months, my oldest son has started talking about a girlfriend. She's a little girl from his class, I'll call her Britney. At first I thought he was making it up to impress his father, since he was always too busy playing a sport to worry about girls. But then talk of Britney became more frequent, and more detailed. Conversations about everything from television shows to sawdust eventually become laden with "Britney this" and "Britney that" and "Chicken noodle? That's what Britney had for lunch today."
I should probably explain what a Grade 5 "boyfriend-girlfriend" relationship involves, so as not to alarm anyone. According to the moles I have planted throughout the neighborhood (sneaky, yet reliable), these relationship arrangements are made soon after the school year begins. The selection process isn't very complex, and from what I understand, the females are in control of boyfriend assignments. A boyfriend seems to be more of a ceremonial role than anything else, and I'm told there isn't even hand-holding. However, based on the phone activity in my house lately, you'd swear I was keeping two newlyweds apart.
Grade five courting is carried out largely through a series of networks. Britney will call her friend, Suzie. Suzie will call my son's friend, Bobby, who will call my son. The message? Call Britney. In the meantime, should Bobby not get this message to my son quickly enough, Suzie will then call our house to get the "calling Britney" process moving more quickly. In the course of five minutes, the phone will ring twice, I'll get two call waiting beeps, and there will be about sixteen messages on my answering machine, all of which are hang-ups. In case you're wondering, yes - this is exactly what I want happening amidst after-school chaos.
I could handle the calls if the girlfriend situation would stop at that, but it doesn't. Now the problem has escalated with the approach of Valentine's Day. I actually thought it was cute when my son suggested buying Britney a present, and I imagined him giving her a special card, a chocolate rose, and maybe a few dollars worth of candy. Imagine my disbelief to see him scoping out the display cases at the jewellery store looking for something that "doesn't look cheap". He said, and I quote: "She said she wants a bracelet, but only if it has diamonds, she said pearls are ugly. I think I'll get her that ring, it's only $79.99."
I have officially become old when my child wants to buy his (apparently high-maintenance) lady friend a ring that is more expensive than anything even I, a married woman, expect to receive for Valentine's Day. I suppose a marriage proposal is just around the corner, or at least that's what it feels like.
Where does the time go? One minute we're high school graduates, and the next minute we're Martha Stewart's key demographic. I still find myself referring to 1997 as "a few years ago", and now the kid I call my "baby" is analyzing the plot holes in episodes of Clifford and spelling his own name. I'm not sure how comfortable I am with how quickly life seems to be flying by.
Here's hoping there's still something to be said for the young at heart.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Gina the Writer
My writing quasi-career began not as a job, but as a blogger. And not even as a my-opinion-is-more-important-than-yours-type of blogger; I had written dozens of articles before I ever gave anyone the web address, and even then, it was by request. I really and truly wrote only for myself.
Now that I write for the paper, I have to generate at least one article per week. Normally, I pick through the hundred things in the news, or the thousand things that bounce around in my mind, and write about whichever one happens to be the most newsworthy, the most controversial, or sometimes just the easiest to pen 800 words about.
There have been weeks when I can't stop writing. Suddenly there seem to be a myriad of interesting and important topics, and I'll pump out five or six articles in a matter of days. I'll see something on the news or in the paper, and it consumes my thoughts to the extent that I've actually gotten out of bed to write a piece while the words were still fresh in my mind.
Here we are more than two years after I started blogging, and everything I write, while it may go through a more complex editing process than before, is much the same. I am very fortunate to be in a position where I choose the subject matter of my articles, and I have fantastically open-minded and tolerant employers to thank for that.
How strange that, even after more than 60 published articles, I still feel like a fraud calling myself a writer. I've never been to journalism school, nor have I take a single writing course. I wasn't pursued as a writer by any publication, I took a leap of faith and hoped someone would find promise in my work. Even though I am able to say I get paid for the things I write, I would never be so bold as to describe my occupation as "writer".
This train of thought has cropped up for a very obvious (at least to me), Freudian reason: lately I've had to go over my own work and choose which articles from the past year are the best. Not the funniest, not the most newsworthy, but the best in a technical sense. And this task of choosing puts me and my ego in a difficult position.
I don't know if my idea of funny was funny to someone else. Maybe the most hilarious moment of my week, which I wrote about in detail and with great flourish, soared over the heads of most others and fell flat.
I don't know if my explanation of an issue adequately told the story I was trying to tell. Maybe I had false expectations of the public's familiarity with a subject, didn't use enough back story, and people were wondering what in the world I was talking about.
I don't know if my work is good enough. Maybe, even though I know lots of big words and roughly where to place my commas, my writing is just a bunch of partially incoherent, irrelevant nonsense, by someone with too many opinions and not enough writing chops to properly construct a print-worthy article.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. I don't know. What I'm assuming are words uttered often among writers of my experience,and perhaps even occasionally by seasoned ones from time to time.
I'm reluctant to admit, this is the one area of my life where I have sufficient self-doubt. Not so much in the validity of my opinions, or the sincerity behind what I write, but in the cogency of my arguments, the clarity of my points, and the style from a technical perspective.
It is during these moments of self-doubt that, while I simultaneously end up turning them into an article for this week's paper, I have to remember that I do this for myself, just like I did in the beginning. I might have an audience larger than one, but that hasn't changed my purpose or my goal. And since my goal is to use the skills I have to rid my swirling brain of some of it's overwhelming content, I have accomplished what I set out to do before a single issue of the paper is purchased.
So I'm sitting here, for what has to be the fiftieth time, looking over my work from the past year and wondering which articles are fit to be judged by a trained eye. I still haven't even figured out which are those of Gina, the wife, the mother of two, the university drop-out and frequent windbag, and which are those of Gina the professional writer. I haven't even decided if those are the same people. But I have decided neither of them are going to stop.
Now that I write for the paper, I have to generate at least one article per week. Normally, I pick through the hundred things in the news, or the thousand things that bounce around in my mind, and write about whichever one happens to be the most newsworthy, the most controversial, or sometimes just the easiest to pen 800 words about.
There have been weeks when I can't stop writing. Suddenly there seem to be a myriad of interesting and important topics, and I'll pump out five or six articles in a matter of days. I'll see something on the news or in the paper, and it consumes my thoughts to the extent that I've actually gotten out of bed to write a piece while the words were still fresh in my mind.
Here we are more than two years after I started blogging, and everything I write, while it may go through a more complex editing process than before, is much the same. I am very fortunate to be in a position where I choose the subject matter of my articles, and I have fantastically open-minded and tolerant employers to thank for that.
How strange that, even after more than 60 published articles, I still feel like a fraud calling myself a writer. I've never been to journalism school, nor have I take a single writing course. I wasn't pursued as a writer by any publication, I took a leap of faith and hoped someone would find promise in my work. Even though I am able to say I get paid for the things I write, I would never be so bold as to describe my occupation as "writer".
This train of thought has cropped up for a very obvious (at least to me), Freudian reason: lately I've had to go over my own work and choose which articles from the past year are the best. Not the funniest, not the most newsworthy, but the best in a technical sense. And this task of choosing puts me and my ego in a difficult position.
I don't know if my idea of funny was funny to someone else. Maybe the most hilarious moment of my week, which I wrote about in detail and with great flourish, soared over the heads of most others and fell flat.
I don't know if my explanation of an issue adequately told the story I was trying to tell. Maybe I had false expectations of the public's familiarity with a subject, didn't use enough back story, and people were wondering what in the world I was talking about.
I don't know if my work is good enough. Maybe, even though I know lots of big words and roughly where to place my commas, my writing is just a bunch of partially incoherent, irrelevant nonsense, by someone with too many opinions and not enough writing chops to properly construct a print-worthy article.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. I don't know. What I'm assuming are words uttered often among writers of my experience,and perhaps even occasionally by seasoned ones from time to time.
I'm reluctant to admit, this is the one area of my life where I have sufficient self-doubt. Not so much in the validity of my opinions, or the sincerity behind what I write, but in the cogency of my arguments, the clarity of my points, and the style from a technical perspective.
It is during these moments of self-doubt that, while I simultaneously end up turning them into an article for this week's paper, I have to remember that I do this for myself, just like I did in the beginning. I might have an audience larger than one, but that hasn't changed my purpose or my goal. And since my goal is to use the skills I have to rid my swirling brain of some of it's overwhelming content, I have accomplished what I set out to do before a single issue of the paper is purchased.
So I'm sitting here, for what has to be the fiftieth time, looking over my work from the past year and wondering which articles are fit to be judged by a trained eye. I still haven't even figured out which are those of Gina, the wife, the mother of two, the university drop-out and frequent windbag, and which are those of Gina the professional writer. I haven't even decided if those are the same people. But I have decided neither of them are going to stop.
The Battle of the Bulge, Part 3
I stand (well, actually, I sit) before you a changed woman. Through trials and tribulations, frustration and near death, I have beaten down the demons and tackled the powerful beast that has had a hold on me for so long.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have finally quit pop.
I use pop almost as a verb because, to me, it was never just a thing, it was a habit. I can say this now since I don't do it anymore: the first thing I would do when I got up in the morning was pour and drink a nice glass of pop. Isn't that disgusting? Coffee and tea are universally accepted as morning beverages, but I don't drink either of them, and pop gave me that jolt that I needed to face the day.
What's even more disgusting is that I didn't stop all day. I was lost without a glass beside me, not because I was thirsty, but because it had become a habit. Not to mention, I was addicted to the constant steam of caffeine. There were days when I would drink more than a full 2-litre bottle by myself. As of today, I haven't had a single drink of pop in two weeks, and that's like an eternity in pop-addict years.
What I didn't realize is how quickly I would see a change. The first few days I panicked when I found myself eating more, but only until I noticed that the food I craved had gone from chocolate bars and popcorn, to cereal and fruit. Not only that, the times I was eating had changed, too. My old routine was, fill up on pop all day, let the caffeine suppress my appetite, and then snack the night away. Now, I have a big breakfast, I eat smaller meals throughout the day, and snacks just don't seem appealing without my Big 8, so they've been reduced to a minimum .
Another big difference in my routine is water. By replacing pop with water. while I may have to parade to the bathroom every ten minutes, I've found a way to stave off a snack-attack and get my eight recommended glasses per day. Drinking a whole lot of water might not seem like a life-altering activity for most, especially for those who do it already, but for someone who lived and breathed cola and nothing else, it's a big deal. You'll just have to take my word for it.
And the best part about quitting pop: incentive. I haven't dropped 50-pounds or anything, but my favorite jeans are now too big, my grandmother told me I lost weight, and better still, I feel much better. All this in two weeks? What will I feel and look like after one year? I can't wait to find out.
My one remaining obstacle is exercise. It's not that I don't like to exercise...no, wait, that's exactly what it is. I get that some people enjoy it, and that it makes some people feel better, but I'm just not one of those people. I've joined the gym before, and no matter how long I go or how many different machines I try, it's just not for me.
I'll admit that I make way too many excuses about exercising. I suppose I could manage to find an hour to go for a walk, but I won't, since the thought of leaving these screaming kids with their dad after he's spent 10 hours at work just seems unfair. So what's a girl to do?
I've narrowed the field to two options (not counting gastric bypass surgery, which seems very appealing at times). First is the Wii Fit. This little balance board comes with games that help you lose weight by shifting your body around in ways that it probably wasn't meant to shift. No matter, if it works, I don't care much about defying the laws of physics. I've heard tales of people having lost almost 30 pounds since Christmas, and that sounds pretty promising to me.
The second option is Zumba. Zumba is a 30 minute class that combined disguises cardio fitness with fun little salsa-like dance moves. I know a few people who have gone, had a great time, and whose legs burned like a bugger the next day.
Convenience is making me lean toward Wii Fit, but I'm open to suggestions.
In any case, I'm hoping to be about 60 pounds lighter by the time my friend's September wedding rolls around. You can start praying for me right about.....now.
In case you're wondering, I normally wouldn't chronicle my personal weight-loss efforts with a bunch of strangers, but I figure it's a good way to be accountable. Knowing I've told readers about my goals will give me more motivation to reach them.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have finally quit pop.
I use pop almost as a verb because, to me, it was never just a thing, it was a habit. I can say this now since I don't do it anymore: the first thing I would do when I got up in the morning was pour and drink a nice glass of pop. Isn't that disgusting? Coffee and tea are universally accepted as morning beverages, but I don't drink either of them, and pop gave me that jolt that I needed to face the day.
What's even more disgusting is that I didn't stop all day. I was lost without a glass beside me, not because I was thirsty, but because it had become a habit. Not to mention, I was addicted to the constant steam of caffeine. There were days when I would drink more than a full 2-litre bottle by myself. As of today, I haven't had a single drink of pop in two weeks, and that's like an eternity in pop-addict years.
What I didn't realize is how quickly I would see a change. The first few days I panicked when I found myself eating more, but only until I noticed that the food I craved had gone from chocolate bars and popcorn, to cereal and fruit. Not only that, the times I was eating had changed, too. My old routine was, fill up on pop all day, let the caffeine suppress my appetite, and then snack the night away. Now, I have a big breakfast, I eat smaller meals throughout the day, and snacks just don't seem appealing without my Big 8, so they've been reduced to a minimum .
Another big difference in my routine is water. By replacing pop with water. while I may have to parade to the bathroom every ten minutes, I've found a way to stave off a snack-attack and get my eight recommended glasses per day. Drinking a whole lot of water might not seem like a life-altering activity for most, especially for those who do it already, but for someone who lived and breathed cola and nothing else, it's a big deal. You'll just have to take my word for it.
And the best part about quitting pop: incentive. I haven't dropped 50-pounds or anything, but my favorite jeans are now too big, my grandmother told me I lost weight, and better still, I feel much better. All this in two weeks? What will I feel and look like after one year? I can't wait to find out.
My one remaining obstacle is exercise. It's not that I don't like to exercise...no, wait, that's exactly what it is. I get that some people enjoy it, and that it makes some people feel better, but I'm just not one of those people. I've joined the gym before, and no matter how long I go or how many different machines I try, it's just not for me.
I'll admit that I make way too many excuses about exercising. I suppose I could manage to find an hour to go for a walk, but I won't, since the thought of leaving these screaming kids with their dad after he's spent 10 hours at work just seems unfair. So what's a girl to do?
I've narrowed the field to two options (not counting gastric bypass surgery, which seems very appealing at times). First is the Wii Fit. This little balance board comes with games that help you lose weight by shifting your body around in ways that it probably wasn't meant to shift. No matter, if it works, I don't care much about defying the laws of physics. I've heard tales of people having lost almost 30 pounds since Christmas, and that sounds pretty promising to me.
The second option is Zumba. Zumba is a 30 minute class that combined disguises cardio fitness with fun little salsa-like dance moves. I know a few people who have gone, had a great time, and whose legs burned like a bugger the next day.
Convenience is making me lean toward Wii Fit, but I'm open to suggestions.
In any case, I'm hoping to be about 60 pounds lighter by the time my friend's September wedding rolls around. You can start praying for me right about.....now.
In case you're wondering, I normally wouldn't chronicle my personal weight-loss efforts with a bunch of strangers, but I figure it's a good way to be accountable. Knowing I've told readers about my goals will give me more motivation to reach them.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Powerless
So, how has your 2009 been so far? Good I hope. Here's a little taste of mine.
"You have reached Nova Scotia Power's outage line. To report an outage, or for outage updates, press one." BEEP
"To report a complete loss of power, please press one." BEEP
Happy New Year.
We first lost power a little before 3pm on Thursday. Not a big deal, we thought. We're right in the middle of town, I'm sure it won't be off for long.
Within about an hour, our generator-less house, completely reliant on electric heat, was getting pretty chilly. We all put on an extra sweater, gathered in the living room, and hoped the French doors would keep some warmth in until the power was restored.
We were wrong.
At a little after 4pm, with grumbling tummies and no means to cook, we bundled up and braved the blizzard, making our way to the only open restaurant in Port Hawkesbury. Half a kilometer later, we knew our efforts were in vain, since there was about four feet of snow on Reeves Street. Home we went, where we dined on cheese, cereal, and cookies. Yummy.
By 6pm (which was, by the way, the time NSP had originally forecast the power to be restored), our house was freezing. We would have gone to stay with someone who had heat, but the roads were impassable and the weather didn't look to be improving. We broke out the comforters and candles, turned on the radio, and hunkered down.
We waited. And waited and waited. The novelty of, "there's no lights and no TV, let's play with flashlights" wore off rather quickly, and soon we were two cranky adults and two bored children, all freezing to death in the dark.
Approximate restoration time went from 6pm, to 11:30pm, to 5am Friday. The flames of anger raging inside us did not, unfortunately, keep us warm at all.
The evening hours were spent mostly in silence. I cursed the power company, plotted murder on half a dozen people, tried to visualize a beach in Mexico, re-evaluated my thoughts about homeless people, explained the difference between candles and "decorative candles", planned the purchase of alternate heating sources, snapped at my husband, and swore to donate money and blankets to Social Services first thing in the morning.
We had to resign ourselves to the inevitability of bedtime, and wondered how we would make it through the night in a house with an internal temperature hovering around two degrees. With no hope of power restoration in sight, we called it a night. The sleeping arrangements were finalized and I found myself in bed with the two kids, both in layers and layers of socks and sweaters, our rib cages partly crushed by the seven comforters required to keep us semi-warm. My husband, ever the martyr, held his own in another bed with what blankets remained. It was a long, cold night.
Imagine our surprise to wake up and still have no power. We waited, most impatiently, for a few hours, but gave up when we could see our breath. To the in-laws we went, until the power was restored at 4pm on Friday.
We returned home and cranked every heater we had. By about 7:30pm, we were finally comfortable enough to remove a layer of clothing and start living again.
And at 7:47pm, the power went out.
The expletive-laced tirades that followed are not repeatable in this fine family newspaper.
What little heat had returned to our house was gone in no time flat, and like the worst case of deja-vu ever, we huddled in the living room, under blankets, listening to the radio.
I swore to keep calling the power company, and I did repeatedly until I thought their phone might explode. Let it explode, I thought; this is ridiculous. I'll call every fifteen minutes until they get so tired of hearing my voice, the person answering will drive to Port Hawkesbury and climb the pole to fix it themselves, just for the sake of shutting me up.
Maybe it worked, or maybe it was sheer coincidence, but regardless, the lights came on at 10:30pm. By 11:00, thanks to a few powerful space heaters, the kids were warm and sleeping in their beds.
I could easily write an entire article about Nova Scotia Power, but I won't. Intelligent, professional journalists have (and will continue to have) a field day writing about a huge corporation with mind-blowing profits and constant rate hikes, who still have not adjusted their equipment and practices to Nova Scotian weather conditions, even though those conditions have existed since the dawn of electricity. I'll leave it to them to sort out. My fingers are still too numb to type it all.
"You have reached Nova Scotia Power's outage line. To report an outage, or for outage updates, press one." BEEP
"To report a complete loss of power, please press one." BEEP
Happy New Year.
We first lost power a little before 3pm on Thursday. Not a big deal, we thought. We're right in the middle of town, I'm sure it won't be off for long.
Within about an hour, our generator-less house, completely reliant on electric heat, was getting pretty chilly. We all put on an extra sweater, gathered in the living room, and hoped the French doors would keep some warmth in until the power was restored.
We were wrong.
At a little after 4pm, with grumbling tummies and no means to cook, we bundled up and braved the blizzard, making our way to the only open restaurant in Port Hawkesbury. Half a kilometer later, we knew our efforts were in vain, since there was about four feet of snow on Reeves Street. Home we went, where we dined on cheese, cereal, and cookies. Yummy.
By 6pm (which was, by the way, the time NSP had originally forecast the power to be restored), our house was freezing. We would have gone to stay with someone who had heat, but the roads were impassable and the weather didn't look to be improving. We broke out the comforters and candles, turned on the radio, and hunkered down.
We waited. And waited and waited. The novelty of, "there's no lights and no TV, let's play with flashlights" wore off rather quickly, and soon we were two cranky adults and two bored children, all freezing to death in the dark.
Approximate restoration time went from 6pm, to 11:30pm, to 5am Friday. The flames of anger raging inside us did not, unfortunately, keep us warm at all.
The evening hours were spent mostly in silence. I cursed the power company, plotted murder on half a dozen people, tried to visualize a beach in Mexico, re-evaluated my thoughts about homeless people, explained the difference between candles and "decorative candles", planned the purchase of alternate heating sources, snapped at my husband, and swore to donate money and blankets to Social Services first thing in the morning.
We had to resign ourselves to the inevitability of bedtime, and wondered how we would make it through the night in a house with an internal temperature hovering around two degrees. With no hope of power restoration in sight, we called it a night. The sleeping arrangements were finalized and I found myself in bed with the two kids, both in layers and layers of socks and sweaters, our rib cages partly crushed by the seven comforters required to keep us semi-warm. My husband, ever the martyr, held his own in another bed with what blankets remained. It was a long, cold night.
Imagine our surprise to wake up and still have no power. We waited, most impatiently, for a few hours, but gave up when we could see our breath. To the in-laws we went, until the power was restored at 4pm on Friday.
We returned home and cranked every heater we had. By about 7:30pm, we were finally comfortable enough to remove a layer of clothing and start living again.
And at 7:47pm, the power went out.
The expletive-laced tirades that followed are not repeatable in this fine family newspaper.
What little heat had returned to our house was gone in no time flat, and like the worst case of deja-vu ever, we huddled in the living room, under blankets, listening to the radio.
I swore to keep calling the power company, and I did repeatedly until I thought their phone might explode. Let it explode, I thought; this is ridiculous. I'll call every fifteen minutes until they get so tired of hearing my voice, the person answering will drive to Port Hawkesbury and climb the pole to fix it themselves, just for the sake of shutting me up.
Maybe it worked, or maybe it was sheer coincidence, but regardless, the lights came on at 10:30pm. By 11:00, thanks to a few powerful space heaters, the kids were warm and sleeping in their beds.
I could easily write an entire article about Nova Scotia Power, but I won't. Intelligent, professional journalists have (and will continue to have) a field day writing about a huge corporation with mind-blowing profits and constant rate hikes, who still have not adjusted their equipment and practices to Nova Scotian weather conditions, even though those conditions have existed since the dawn of electricity. I'll leave it to them to sort out. My fingers are still too numb to type it all.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
2008 - A Year in Quotes
Quotes are great, aren't they? I've taken my favorites from this past year and compiled them here, to take you into 2009 with a bit of a chuckle (and occasionally, a nod of agreement).
The world is filled with irony, and here is proof: "I think the results last night prove the wisdom of my investment." -- Hilary Clinton, after winning an early primary, on lending $5m of her own money to her presidential campaign. I'm sure it seemed like a good idea at the time, Hilary.
"We have no business qualifications, we don't understand marketing, and we're not very good at anything." -- Michael and Xochi Birch, who are set to make in excess of $850 million from the sale of the Bebo social networking site to AOL. Meanwhile, there are as many "X-rings" at Tim Horton's as there are double-doubles.
"I live to play hockey. I like to go camping and hang out with the boys, do some fishing. I don't want kids. I'm a redneck." -- Levi Johnston, boyfriend of Bristol Palin, and father of the baby she had a few weeks ago. Hindsight sure is 20/20. Quotes coming out of Hollywood are always good for a laugh: "I feel like I am 20 again, but with arthritis." -- Sylvester Stallone, 61, on his return as as Rambo. No word, however, on whether arthritis was the purpose of the massive amounts of injected anabolic steroids.
"There's always someone younger and prettier." -- Actress Gwyneth Paltrow, 35. She should really have a talk with Demi Moore.
"If I see something sagging, bagging and dragging, I'm going to nip it, tuck it and suck it." -- Dolly Parton reveals her anti-aging procedure. At least she's honest about it, right?
"What is the difference between God and Bono? God doesn't wander down Grafton Street thinking he's Bono." -- Irish TV personality Louis Walsh. Now THAT was funny.
"They are steeped in sin and, if eaten long enough or in quantity, will almost certainly kill you." -- Actress Emma Thompson on the scourge of potato chips. I think that description comes from Keira Knightly's diet book, "I've Been Starving Since 1992: An Actress' Guide to Deprivation and Anorexia".
"Everyone over 50 should be issued every week with a wet fish in a plastic bag by the Post Office so that, whenever you see someone young and happy, you can hit them as hard as you can across the face." -- Richard Griffiths, the 61-year-old actor. He might be bitter, but I bet he eats chips without shame.
"I go three, maybe four times a year to get tested for sexually transmitted infections and most of the time I don't even need to." -- Kelly Osborne. If you didn't laugh at that, you need to read it again.
One of the most interesting figures of 2008 was Sarah "Caribou Barbie" Palin. There are so many fantastic quotes by and about her, that I had a hard time picking out my favorites. Here are a few gems: "If BS were currency, Palin could bail out Wall Street herself. If Palin were a man, we'd all be guffawing... But because she's a woman — and the first ever on a Republican presidential ticket — we are reluctant to say what is painfully true." ―conservative columnist Kathleen Parker, writing in National Review. Thank you, Kathleen, my thoughts exactly.
"According to expense reports, Sarah Palin charged the state of Alaska over $21,000 for her children to travel with her on official business. In fairness to Gov. Palin, when she leaves them home alone, they get pregnant." ―Seth Meyers on Saturday Night Live's "Weekend Update". That one might be mean, but it's so funny I couldn't resist.
"I'm like, OK, God, if there is an open door for me somewhere, this is what I always pray, I'm like, don't let me miss the open door. Show me where the open door is." -- Sarah Palin. And to think, Americans nearly ushered that level of Paris Hilton-esque eloquence right into the White House. Yikes.
On the bright side, President Elect Barack Obama let fly a few funny, sometimes inspirational, quotes of his own, like: "Washington is a place where good ideas go to die." Excellent point.
He also said, in his victory speech on November 4, "If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer." Those lines will be quoted for years to come.
Finally, what would a list of memorable quotes be without a zinger from the outgoing George W. Bush: "I'll be long gone before some smart person ever figures out what happened inside this Oval Office." Goodbye and good luck, Mr. Bush.
Happy new year, everyone!
The world is filled with irony, and here is proof: "I think the results last night prove the wisdom of my investment." -- Hilary Clinton, after winning an early primary, on lending $5m of her own money to her presidential campaign. I'm sure it seemed like a good idea at the time, Hilary.
"We have no business qualifications, we don't understand marketing, and we're not very good at anything." -- Michael and Xochi Birch, who are set to make in excess of $850 million from the sale of the Bebo social networking site to AOL. Meanwhile, there are as many "X-rings" at Tim Horton's as there are double-doubles.
"I live to play hockey. I like to go camping and hang out with the boys, do some fishing. I don't want kids. I'm a redneck." -- Levi Johnston, boyfriend of Bristol Palin, and father of the baby she had a few weeks ago. Hindsight sure is 20/20. Quotes coming out of Hollywood are always good for a laugh: "I feel like I am 20 again, but with arthritis." -- Sylvester Stallone, 61, on his return as as Rambo. No word, however, on whether arthritis was the purpose of the massive amounts of injected anabolic steroids.
"There's always someone younger and prettier." -- Actress Gwyneth Paltrow, 35. She should really have a talk with Demi Moore.
"If I see something sagging, bagging and dragging, I'm going to nip it, tuck it and suck it." -- Dolly Parton reveals her anti-aging procedure. At least she's honest about it, right?
"What is the difference between God and Bono? God doesn't wander down Grafton Street thinking he's Bono." -- Irish TV personality Louis Walsh. Now THAT was funny.
"They are steeped in sin and, if eaten long enough or in quantity, will almost certainly kill you." -- Actress Emma Thompson on the scourge of potato chips. I think that description comes from Keira Knightly's diet book, "I've Been Starving Since 1992: An Actress' Guide to Deprivation and Anorexia".
"Everyone over 50 should be issued every week with a wet fish in a plastic bag by the Post Office so that, whenever you see someone young and happy, you can hit them as hard as you can across the face." -- Richard Griffiths, the 61-year-old actor. He might be bitter, but I bet he eats chips without shame.
"I go three, maybe four times a year to get tested for sexually transmitted infections and most of the time I don't even need to." -- Kelly Osborne. If you didn't laugh at that, you need to read it again.
One of the most interesting figures of 2008 was Sarah "Caribou Barbie" Palin. There are so many fantastic quotes by and about her, that I had a hard time picking out my favorites. Here are a few gems: "If BS were currency, Palin could bail out Wall Street herself. If Palin were a man, we'd all be guffawing... But because she's a woman — and the first ever on a Republican presidential ticket — we are reluctant to say what is painfully true." ―conservative columnist Kathleen Parker, writing in National Review. Thank you, Kathleen, my thoughts exactly.
"According to expense reports, Sarah Palin charged the state of Alaska over $21,000 for her children to travel with her on official business. In fairness to Gov. Palin, when she leaves them home alone, they get pregnant." ―Seth Meyers on Saturday Night Live's "Weekend Update". That one might be mean, but it's so funny I couldn't resist.
"I'm like, OK, God, if there is an open door for me somewhere, this is what I always pray, I'm like, don't let me miss the open door. Show me where the open door is." -- Sarah Palin. And to think, Americans nearly ushered that level of Paris Hilton-esque eloquence right into the White House. Yikes.
On the bright side, President Elect Barack Obama let fly a few funny, sometimes inspirational, quotes of his own, like: "Washington is a place where good ideas go to die." Excellent point.
He also said, in his victory speech on November 4, "If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer." Those lines will be quoted for years to come.
Finally, what would a list of memorable quotes be without a zinger from the outgoing George W. Bush: "I'll be long gone before some smart person ever figures out what happened inside this Oval Office." Goodbye and good luck, Mr. Bush.
Happy new year, everyone!
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Keeping Up with the Clauses
While chatting with my friend a few weeks ago, I asked her what her son (who is the same age as mine) is getting for Christmas. I won't repeat what my verbal reaction was to her response of, "a laptop. That's his big gift". Good grief, I should certainly hope so.
Every evening we listen to "Letters from Santa" on the radio, and it astounds me what children are asking for this year. Instead of dolls and trucks, the kids wanted digital cameras, four-wheelers, cell phones, and "a Wii". A Nintendo Wii is a video gaming system that costs almost $400, and that's not including games or extra controllers, which are also very pricey.
Another friend of mine was supposed to come over for lunch last week since she was going to be in town shopping. She called that morning to cancel, and said she wasn't coming after all, since her loan wouldn't be processed until the following day. Huh? I came to find out the woman was borrowing $2000 from the bank in order to buy presents.
Yesterday I was picking up a lay-away, and there was a young woman in line ahead of me. When the sales associate emerged from the back room, she and two other workers were carrying more boxes than I could shake a stick at. It was a sea of pink - all toys for little girls, from Easy Bake Ovens to Barbies to Hanna Montana swag. I couldn't help but be curious as to how much this woman's order was going to cost, especially when she needed three carts to hold it all. I'll cop to bending my ear slightly to hear the cashier tally up the toys, and I'll also cop to nearly wetting my pants when she said $948. Be still my heart. At this point I couldn't resist; "How many kids do you have," I asked her. Her answer: two. In case you're interested, that's $474 per. And that's just from one store.
The breaking point for me was last night, when I found myself wrapping presents for my dog, Bear MacDonald. Me! Wrapping dog presents! What has happened to us?
Many years ago, kids were thrilled to wake up Christmas morning to see a present under the tree. Present, singular. I doubt in the days of the Great Depression that folks were spending the equivalent of a mortgage payment on their children.
As a matter of fact, Christmas, as a holiday, has undergone a complete transformation in the years since our grandparents were young. It used to be a time for celebrating the religious aspects of December 25th, of being with family, and enjoying a nice meal if you were lucky. Gifts have always been part of the deal, I suppose, but back in the day they were of secondary importance to attending mass and celebrating family.
I'm not suggesting you should burn your tree and head to church, but one thing I have realized, after years of trying to "keep up with the Clauses", is that the best parts of Christmas have nothing to do with presents. When I walk into the mall the third week in October and see holly and chocolates everywhere, it automatically makes me cranky. Shopping has turned into hysteria, and the stress involved in making a list, roaming the stores for hours, people bumping into your cart, kids screaming - that's not fun or festive. Neither is having kids tear open wrapping paper, glance at a toy, and toss it aside to get to the next one.
I like to watch Christmas Daddies on television. I enjoy decorating my house and putting up the Christmas tree (in December, not the day after Halloween). I love to see my kids' excitement when they open their gifts, like anyone else.
However, I refuse to put myself in the hole for the sake of being able to tell my friends about the insane amount of money I spent on gifts. When the wrapping paper is cleaned up and the turkey is gone, the bills still roll in. Does it mean I love my kids any less because I don't spend as much as other parents do? No, not at all. The kids are just as happy to open something that cost $5 as they would be to open something that cost $40.
It's parents who take Christmas to the point of excess, not children. We're setting a dangerous precedent by trying to outdo one another and make each Christmas bigger and better than the one before.
I should mention, the presents for Bear MacDonald were a bone, a ball, and a bag of Snausages, purchased for about $6, at the repeated request of my children. I consider it proof that Christmas doesn't have to cost a fortune to make kids happy.
Every evening we listen to "Letters from Santa" on the radio, and it astounds me what children are asking for this year. Instead of dolls and trucks, the kids wanted digital cameras, four-wheelers, cell phones, and "a Wii". A Nintendo Wii is a video gaming system that costs almost $400, and that's not including games or extra controllers, which are also very pricey.
Another friend of mine was supposed to come over for lunch last week since she was going to be in town shopping. She called that morning to cancel, and said she wasn't coming after all, since her loan wouldn't be processed until the following day. Huh? I came to find out the woman was borrowing $2000 from the bank in order to buy presents.
Yesterday I was picking up a lay-away, and there was a young woman in line ahead of me. When the sales associate emerged from the back room, she and two other workers were carrying more boxes than I could shake a stick at. It was a sea of pink - all toys for little girls, from Easy Bake Ovens to Barbies to Hanna Montana swag. I couldn't help but be curious as to how much this woman's order was going to cost, especially when she needed three carts to hold it all. I'll cop to bending my ear slightly to hear the cashier tally up the toys, and I'll also cop to nearly wetting my pants when she said $948. Be still my heart. At this point I couldn't resist; "How many kids do you have," I asked her. Her answer: two. In case you're interested, that's $474 per. And that's just from one store.
The breaking point for me was last night, when I found myself wrapping presents for my dog, Bear MacDonald. Me! Wrapping dog presents! What has happened to us?
Many years ago, kids were thrilled to wake up Christmas morning to see a present under the tree. Present, singular. I doubt in the days of the Great Depression that folks were spending the equivalent of a mortgage payment on their children.
As a matter of fact, Christmas, as a holiday, has undergone a complete transformation in the years since our grandparents were young. It used to be a time for celebrating the religious aspects of December 25th, of being with family, and enjoying a nice meal if you were lucky. Gifts have always been part of the deal, I suppose, but back in the day they were of secondary importance to attending mass and celebrating family.
I'm not suggesting you should burn your tree and head to church, but one thing I have realized, after years of trying to "keep up with the Clauses", is that the best parts of Christmas have nothing to do with presents. When I walk into the mall the third week in October and see holly and chocolates everywhere, it automatically makes me cranky. Shopping has turned into hysteria, and the stress involved in making a list, roaming the stores for hours, people bumping into your cart, kids screaming - that's not fun or festive. Neither is having kids tear open wrapping paper, glance at a toy, and toss it aside to get to the next one.
I like to watch Christmas Daddies on television. I enjoy decorating my house and putting up the Christmas tree (in December, not the day after Halloween). I love to see my kids' excitement when they open their gifts, like anyone else.
However, I refuse to put myself in the hole for the sake of being able to tell my friends about the insane amount of money I spent on gifts. When the wrapping paper is cleaned up and the turkey is gone, the bills still roll in. Does it mean I love my kids any less because I don't spend as much as other parents do? No, not at all. The kids are just as happy to open something that cost $5 as they would be to open something that cost $40.
It's parents who take Christmas to the point of excess, not children. We're setting a dangerous precedent by trying to outdo one another and make each Christmas bigger and better than the one before.
I should mention, the presents for Bear MacDonald were a bone, a ball, and a bag of Snausages, purchased for about $6, at the repeated request of my children. I consider it proof that Christmas doesn't have to cost a fortune to make kids happy.
Friday, December 5, 2008
How To Live With a Woman
Talking to my other married friends, conversations about our husbands crop up pretty often. On a good day, these conversations probably include praise, and on a bad day, they probably don't.
We all love our husbands, don't get me wrong. They're great men, even acceptable roommates at times. However, there are several very common, very specific habits and behaviors with which most men seem to need a bit of guidance.
(Notice how I said most men, not all men; if the Great October Doggy Debacle has taught me anything, it's that certain groups can be extremely sensitive with generalizations, no matter how humorous my intention. Save your, "I hate you and I hope your dog eats you" mail this time, it's supposed to be funny. Jeez.)
Anyway, if a manual existed, written by wives to help their husbands peacefully cohabitate as married men, I suggest it might contain some of the following passages:
Article 9 - Wives will inevitably spend time on the phone, and certain components of these conversations you must learn to live with. These components include, but are not limited to: call duration, which is under your wife's sole discretion; due to female propensity for conversation, the half-hour long gab-fest your wife had with the same friend already this morning, is not relevant to the current phone call; your wife's index finger sticking up in the air can be translated as "please wait one minute before again inquiring as to the current location of the potato chips, unless you want me to switch fingers."
Article 22a (i)- In a recent study, it was proven that the amount of physical human energy required to lift the lid on a laundry hamper is .0035kW, roughly the same amount of energy exerted when blinking. Since the release of this data, the World Coalition of Wives (WCW) has unanimously decided that dirty laundry left ON TOP of or BESIDE the hamper, instead of IN the hamper, can, without consequence, be burned in a hole in the back yard.
22a (ii) - There shall be no return guarantee should any of the following items be left in the pocket of previously-worn jeans: paper money, coins, tissue, receipts, bank cards, screws/washers/bolts of any kind.
22b - Since exertion data is similar to that of hamper lids, cupboard doors shall be taken off the hinges and placed on the kitchen floor should they regularly be left open, hopefully serving as a reminder that simply closing them when you're done is much less tedious than reinstalling them.
Article 35a - While you will be attracted to other women, as is only natural, the following subjects should not be included in spousal conversations about this issue: Angelina Jolie, Christina Aguilera, sister-in-law, wife's best friend, any woman you work with. The following women are acceptable alternatives: Sandra Bullock, Julia Roberts, any 80s super model, Cindy Day.
35b - The following men are to be acknowledged as subjects women worldwide are allowed to drool over without recourse: Richard Gere, Brad Pitt, George Clooney, brooding British/Irish/Australian men, anyone who used to be/is/might someday become a Calvin Klein underwear model, former teen heartthrobs, professional athletes, selected persons in uniform.
Article 41 - It is never a good idea to discuss your wife's weight. There is no wiggle room in this clause and it is the only area of a relationship where honesty has no value. Unless a forklift is required to transport her to the grocery store or it has become necessary to physically cut her out of the house, the issue of weight should be ignored at all costs. (Note about the theory that suggests women gain 15lbs once they become comfortable and secure in a relationship. While the WCW acknowledges the validity of this theory, it is relative to the theory whereby men not only gain a few pounds themselves, but also cease performing any romantic or spontaneous gesture, usually at the same point in said relationship; hence, both are cancelled out and should not be issues of contention.)
Article 50 - The number of pairs of shoes required by any wife can be calculated according to the following formula: divide the number of pairs by the square root of the number of delicious meals you've consumed in the past year, add 14, subtract the number of recent unprovoked crying jags, multiply by the hypotenuse of her happiness, and there's your answer. Or you could just trust that she needs more than one pair for work and one pair for church, and leave well enough alone. The latter might be a wiser option, especially since you've yet to explain why you need 16 hammers.
There you go ladies, I've done my part. You might want to keep an eye out for excerpts from the rebuttal manual, though.
**Note**
I feel it necessary to give credit to my friend Lianne for the "hypontenuse/square root" stuff. Though her formula was different and for another topic entirely, I stole the idea and the words and the comedic mathematics from her. I don't think she'll mind too much, since now I'm going to refer you to her very excellent and hilarious blog, the link for which can be found on the left of this page. It's the bloggideeblogblog one. Good reading.
We all love our husbands, don't get me wrong. They're great men, even acceptable roommates at times. However, there are several very common, very specific habits and behaviors with which most men seem to need a bit of guidance.
(Notice how I said most men, not all men; if the Great October Doggy Debacle has taught me anything, it's that certain groups can be extremely sensitive with generalizations, no matter how humorous my intention. Save your, "I hate you and I hope your dog eats you" mail this time, it's supposed to be funny. Jeez.)
Anyway, if a manual existed, written by wives to help their husbands peacefully cohabitate as married men, I suggest it might contain some of the following passages:
Article 9 - Wives will inevitably spend time on the phone, and certain components of these conversations you must learn to live with. These components include, but are not limited to: call duration, which is under your wife's sole discretion; due to female propensity for conversation, the half-hour long gab-fest your wife had with the same friend already this morning, is not relevant to the current phone call; your wife's index finger sticking up in the air can be translated as "please wait one minute before again inquiring as to the current location of the potato chips, unless you want me to switch fingers."
Article 22a (i)- In a recent study, it was proven that the amount of physical human energy required to lift the lid on a laundry hamper is .0035kW, roughly the same amount of energy exerted when blinking. Since the release of this data, the World Coalition of Wives (WCW) has unanimously decided that dirty laundry left ON TOP of or BESIDE the hamper, instead of IN the hamper, can, without consequence, be burned in a hole in the back yard.
22a (ii) - There shall be no return guarantee should any of the following items be left in the pocket of previously-worn jeans: paper money, coins, tissue, receipts, bank cards, screws/washers/bolts of any kind.
22b - Since exertion data is similar to that of hamper lids, cupboard doors shall be taken off the hinges and placed on the kitchen floor should they regularly be left open, hopefully serving as a reminder that simply closing them when you're done is much less tedious than reinstalling them.
Article 35a - While you will be attracted to other women, as is only natural, the following subjects should not be included in spousal conversations about this issue: Angelina Jolie, Christina Aguilera, sister-in-law, wife's best friend, any woman you work with. The following women are acceptable alternatives: Sandra Bullock, Julia Roberts, any 80s super model, Cindy Day.
35b - The following men are to be acknowledged as subjects women worldwide are allowed to drool over without recourse: Richard Gere, Brad Pitt, George Clooney, brooding British/Irish/Australian men, anyone who used to be/is/might someday become a Calvin Klein underwear model, former teen heartthrobs, professional athletes, selected persons in uniform.
Article 41 - It is never a good idea to discuss your wife's weight. There is no wiggle room in this clause and it is the only area of a relationship where honesty has no value. Unless a forklift is required to transport her to the grocery store or it has become necessary to physically cut her out of the house, the issue of weight should be ignored at all costs. (Note about the theory that suggests women gain 15lbs once they become comfortable and secure in a relationship. While the WCW acknowledges the validity of this theory, it is relative to the theory whereby men not only gain a few pounds themselves, but also cease performing any romantic or spontaneous gesture, usually at the same point in said relationship; hence, both are cancelled out and should not be issues of contention.)
Article 50 - The number of pairs of shoes required by any wife can be calculated according to the following formula: divide the number of pairs by the square root of the number of delicious meals you've consumed in the past year, add 14, subtract the number of recent unprovoked crying jags, multiply by the hypotenuse of her happiness, and there's your answer. Or you could just trust that she needs more than one pair for work and one pair for church, and leave well enough alone. The latter might be a wiser option, especially since you've yet to explain why you need 16 hammers.
There you go ladies, I've done my part. You might want to keep an eye out for excerpts from the rebuttal manual, though.
**Note**
I feel it necessary to give credit to my friend Lianne for the "hypontenuse/square root" stuff. Though her formula was different and for another topic entirely, I stole the idea and the words and the comedic mathematics from her. I don't think she'll mind too much, since now I'm going to refer you to her very excellent and hilarious blog, the link for which can be found on the left of this page. It's the bloggideeblogblog one. Good reading.
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