Why didn't I think of this before?
I'm an enthusiastic Facebook participant, as are most of the people I know. To date, there are more than two hundred thousand registered users on the site - making it a breeding ground for social and behavioral faux-pas, especially with numerous format changes feeding the fire.
One would think, with such a huge population, Facebook would by now have some formal etiquette in place: cue Gina, along with some of her more vocal and opinionated Facebook friends, to deliver the goods. To be fair, these rules aren't necessarily all mine, remember that. The last thing I need are dozens of people throwing sheep at me.
Let's begin.
First of all, it's not Question-mark-book, it's Facebook. Get a picture. Assuming you're an established Facebooker and have already have pictures of yourself on your profile, then a shot of your puppy or your toes on the beach in Cuba will do. Something to differentiate yourself from the other question marks, if you please. An avatar, anything.
Unless you have no actual interaction with anyone on your friend list, your profile picture should actually look like you. I know, I looked skinnier and younger ten years ago, too - but putting up a good picture from 1999 isn't fooling anyone, and it creates suspicion and, ultimately, disappointment.
Put a little effort into building your profile. “I don’t read” is not a favorite book, just as “NEthing but country” isn’t favorite music.
A few words about friending (which is only a word in Facebook world. In every other circumstance, the correct verb would be "befriending". If you didn't know that already, we're probably not friends).
Knowing "of" a person (or even having met them) is not the equivilent of knowing them, and is not a susbstantial enough reason to friend them . For example: I hear Heidi Saarloos on the radio every day and have even met her briefly on one occasion, but since I do not know her, I have not sent her a friend request, even though we have friends in common. Get my drift? (Just using you as an example, Heidi. I'm sure you're lovely.)
Friending those who aren't your actual friends is a matter of personal choice, though it is generally frowned upon in the Facebook community, and fairly earns you to the title of "creeper" and the description of either "nosy" or "desperate to win the very lame 'I-have-the-most-Facebook-friends' competition".
If you must friend someone you don't know well, include a message explaining why you are doing so. For example, "Hi, I'm your roommate's cousin!" would suffice. (But wait, why would you want to be friends with your roommate's cousin? Weird...)
Friending someone you don't particularly like is also tacky. They know you only want to scrutinize their pictures, so maintain your dignity and don't bother. If you ignore this rule and they accept, fully expect them to do the same thing to you.
Never friend an ex-boyfriend/girlfriend unless you're prepared to see status updates and pictures that you probably don't want to see.
Writing on your own wall is somewhat of a "faux pas". People will look at the post with pity and think, "aw, she must be new."
Poking is the lowest form of Facebook communication and should be done sparingly and in moderation. There is absolutely no reason to body slam or throw a sheep at anyone.
If someone has sent you a message to which a reply is appropriate, do so in a timely fashion. Never read the message and decide to write back at a later time; that person will see your post-message Facebook activity, and your not making their message a priority might cause them tremendous insecurity. And then they might call you crying and ask if you're mad at them, which is at once ridiculous, terribly awkward, and a good reason to terminate the friendship (both on-line and in real-life).
Some messages are wall-appropriate, and some aren't, so know the difference. "Hey girl, I had a great time last weekend!" is a perfectly acceptable wall post. "Hey man, you were sooooo drunk when we left the strip club...who bailed you out?" - that's more message fare.
When posting pictures, make sure they're rotated in the right direction. If they aren't, no one will look at them, which completely defeats the purpose.
And by the way, it's cheating if you un-tag yourself in a picture just because you look bad. They got you fair and square, so be a good sport and let everyone else laugh. You'll have your chance, even if it doesn't involve the same person.
These are the more broad, sweeping rules that even beginners should know. Next week, we're really going to crack the whip.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
They Come in the Night
This Thursday evening past, I was sitting in my living room, plugging away at an article for this week's paper. Having just celebrated my wedding anniversary on Wednesday, I decided to write about what I've learned about marriage over the last few years, and indeed it was coming along nicely.
I had almost finished when my dog started doing his "let me out to pee" dance in front of the door. I put my laptop down, opened the main door, put him on his leash, and grabbed the handle of the outside door.
You will not be reading an article about the rules of marriage this week, due to events that occurred when I looked out the glass pane of my door.
There, clinging to the screen, exactly at my eye level, was a June bug the size of an albatross. Not a finch, not even a quail, but an albatross. He knocked on my door and asked to borrow a sweater. And it fit.
I suppose it didn't exactly happen that way, but those with a fear of June bugs will understand why I'm exaggerating. They are, after all, a present threat.
I'm a tall, hefty girl without a lot of fear. It's not like one of those old phobia episodes of Maury Povich, that I'm scared of hair or tomatoes or people named Bernie. The things I'm afraid of are, in my mind, legitimate and justifiable.
Like tornadoes. I can't imagine why people choose to live in Kansas, Oklahoma, or anywhere else defined as "Tornado Alley" (hello? would you live in a place called "City of Torrential Floods"?), but I guess that's their choice, and they're willing to take that chance. I, on the other hand, will never visit any of those places, let alone park my mobile home in the middle of the potential melee. I am terrified of tornadoes, and the shock of seeing one would kill me before the funnel cloud ever could. But tornadoes, while a legitimate fear, aren't a present threat.
Same with rats. Wet rats, specifically. I had the occasion to see a giant, wet wharf rat when I was young (thanks for taking that picture to school, Mitchell Burke), and the horrifying image has been seared into my mind for over 20 years. To make matters worse, shortly after seeing that picture, a rat darted out from under our shed, ran up my leg, and jumped off my shoulder. By rights, I should still be in intensive therapy. But, while rats are a legitimate fear, I don't live near enough to any notoriously rat-prone areas to consider it a present threat.
Sharks, too. Though I would never go past my ankles in the Caribbean (ask my travel mates), I don't loose sleep over an impending Cape Breton shark attack. You get the point, I'm sure.
June bugs are different, they're a present threat. They arrive in late May, like clockwork, and there isn't a single thing I can do about it. There's nothing I can spray and nowhere I can hide, unless I want to leave North America all together.
A friend said to me, "They say there's a purpose to everything under God, but I haven't found a single good reason why June bugs exist", so I decided to research exactly what they contribute to our ecosystem.
I found out the, ahem, phyllophaga is a New World scarab beetle with three sets of legs and a penchant for deciduous trees. Not only do they attack the roots of garden vegetables, causing poor and stunted growth, but since they live underground, they've been known to cause lawns to turn yellow and die, with such severe damage to the grass from their subterraneous munching that said grass can be rolled up like a carpet.
In as much reading as I've done about June bugs over the past few days, nowhere have I found a single useful characteristic or positive attribute, unless you count "medically harmless" (which you shouldn't, since it's not true, if you consider heart attacks caused by one unexpectedly flying into someone's hood).
All the reading and venting in the world won't do me a bit of good, since these hateful, hard-backed creatures will still be infesting the Strait Area for the next month. Hitting the side of my house with the force of a meteor; flying around my porch light like a possessed swarm of locusts; stomping around my patio at night, waiting for an unsuspecting Gina to wander outside, all for them to leap forward into my long hair and lay eggs...heaven help me, I'm going to have nightmares just from writing this article.
June bugs were put here to scare us, people. Get used to it, and may the force (or the heavy shoe) be with you.
I had almost finished when my dog started doing his "let me out to pee" dance in front of the door. I put my laptop down, opened the main door, put him on his leash, and grabbed the handle of the outside door.
You will not be reading an article about the rules of marriage this week, due to events that occurred when I looked out the glass pane of my door.
There, clinging to the screen, exactly at my eye level, was a June bug the size of an albatross. Not a finch, not even a quail, but an albatross. He knocked on my door and asked to borrow a sweater. And it fit.
I suppose it didn't exactly happen that way, but those with a fear of June bugs will understand why I'm exaggerating. They are, after all, a present threat.
I'm a tall, hefty girl without a lot of fear. It's not like one of those old phobia episodes of Maury Povich, that I'm scared of hair or tomatoes or people named Bernie. The things I'm afraid of are, in my mind, legitimate and justifiable.
Like tornadoes. I can't imagine why people choose to live in Kansas, Oklahoma, or anywhere else defined as "Tornado Alley" (hello? would you live in a place called "City of Torrential Floods"?), but I guess that's their choice, and they're willing to take that chance. I, on the other hand, will never visit any of those places, let alone park my mobile home in the middle of the potential melee. I am terrified of tornadoes, and the shock of seeing one would kill me before the funnel cloud ever could. But tornadoes, while a legitimate fear, aren't a present threat.
Same with rats. Wet rats, specifically. I had the occasion to see a giant, wet wharf rat when I was young (thanks for taking that picture to school, Mitchell Burke), and the horrifying image has been seared into my mind for over 20 years. To make matters worse, shortly after seeing that picture, a rat darted out from under our shed, ran up my leg, and jumped off my shoulder. By rights, I should still be in intensive therapy. But, while rats are a legitimate fear, I don't live near enough to any notoriously rat-prone areas to consider it a present threat.
Sharks, too. Though I would never go past my ankles in the Caribbean (ask my travel mates), I don't loose sleep over an impending Cape Breton shark attack. You get the point, I'm sure.
June bugs are different, they're a present threat. They arrive in late May, like clockwork, and there isn't a single thing I can do about it. There's nothing I can spray and nowhere I can hide, unless I want to leave North America all together.
A friend said to me, "They say there's a purpose to everything under God, but I haven't found a single good reason why June bugs exist", so I decided to research exactly what they contribute to our ecosystem.
I found out the, ahem, phyllophaga is a New World scarab beetle with three sets of legs and a penchant for deciduous trees. Not only do they attack the roots of garden vegetables, causing poor and stunted growth, but since they live underground, they've been known to cause lawns to turn yellow and die, with such severe damage to the grass from their subterraneous munching that said grass can be rolled up like a carpet.
In as much reading as I've done about June bugs over the past few days, nowhere have I found a single useful characteristic or positive attribute, unless you count "medically harmless" (which you shouldn't, since it's not true, if you consider heart attacks caused by one unexpectedly flying into someone's hood).
All the reading and venting in the world won't do me a bit of good, since these hateful, hard-backed creatures will still be infesting the Strait Area for the next month. Hitting the side of my house with the force of a meteor; flying around my porch light like a possessed swarm of locusts; stomping around my patio at night, waiting for an unsuspecting Gina to wander outside, all for them to leap forward into my long hair and lay eggs...heaven help me, I'm going to have nightmares just from writing this article.
June bugs were put here to scare us, people. Get used to it, and may the force (or the heavy shoe) be with you.
Eleven Down
My oldest son just turned eleven this past week - I know, where does the time go? How is it possible that I am old enough to have an eleven-year-old child?
I could write a book about the lessons I've learned and facts I have gathered since his birth, but this is a short list of more recent revelations.
One, boys have their own little world that I'm not completely welcome in. There are no more playdates as boys get older; now, I hear a knock, I see a figure bolt by me, I hear a door slam, and they're gone. As long as they're behaving, I suppose I don't need to know exactly what they're doing, but it's reached a point where my daily inquisition is met with eye-rolling and "I dunno, just stuff. Skateboarding, whatever." Whatever indeed.
Two, boys' hygiene is a complete contradiction. The same kid who will flat out refuse to wear the "lame" shirt I just bought him, will walk around with a four-inch wide mustard stain on the front of one he likes. He'll beg me to let his hair grow out to a certain style, but would go to school with epic bed-head if I didn't thrust a brush in his direction every morning. He saves his money for cool sneakers, only to let them disintegrate on his feet without the least bit of concern. I can't comprehend how someone so picky about their appearance in some areas, can be so unconscientious about it in others.
Three, as he gets braver, I get more scared. The first day he strapped on his bike helmet for a solo spin around the block, I wanted to chain him to the house. Frantic questions screech through my mind every time he wants to push the boundaries of his current permissions: will he remember the hidden driveway? does he know my cell phone number? what if something happens? Most of his new ventures leave me swallowing my fear, giving him the chance to prove himself and earn my trust, and then holding my breath until he walks back through the door.
Four, I will most definitely be a monster-in-law. With girls entering the picture as of late, I'm fairly certain he can see the terror in my eyes every time I see "her" (whoever "her" might be that particular day) number come up on the call display. I used to think it was so cute when girls would be around, the ones he claimed, with genuine disgust, were "gross". Now, girls are the enemy, but only to me. The future does not look bright in that department, and I'm afraid I might have to search around for those chains I mentioned, from the bicycle days.
Five, he's a child and a teen in equal parts. While he makes his own toast, prefers a shower over a bath, and watches pg-13 movies, he's also mommy's baby when he's sick. He loves to give hugs and play, yet he's quickly closing in on the height of his dad. Pretty soon he won't have a bedtime on the weekend, but I can always be sure he's going to tell his little brother "I love you" before sleep. (I'll have to try to remember that when they're wrestling each other into submission.)
Six, in some cases he knows more than I do. At his birthday party, we had decided some Wii and a movie would occupy most of the night's agenda. I took the liberty of popping a DVD into the player, only to see a blank screen remain on the television. In my defense, the electronics in my living room would, for most, require a Harvard degree in Information Technology and Engineering, but to my surprise, he had the movie up and running in mere minutes. Those darned kids and all their fancy doo-hickeys. Tarnation.
And finally, seven, drugs are the scariest things in the world. All you can do is talk and talk and talk and hope something you say sticks, but when it comes down to it, they're going to do what they're going to do. The worst part: short of holding their hand in the halls of the high school, there isn't much you can do about "the drug situation" except pray that your stories and explanations have led them in the direction of saying no. I have been having the drug conversation for years with my son, and I think I have him convinced that drugs are for the kids who don't have the confidence to be themselves, and that sooner than later, they'll be the stoners who all the cool kids make fun of. Keep your fingers crossed that my brainwashing will pay off.
Wish me luck. I hear the next eleven are even harder.
I could write a book about the lessons I've learned and facts I have gathered since his birth, but this is a short list of more recent revelations.
One, boys have their own little world that I'm not completely welcome in. There are no more playdates as boys get older; now, I hear a knock, I see a figure bolt by me, I hear a door slam, and they're gone. As long as they're behaving, I suppose I don't need to know exactly what they're doing, but it's reached a point where my daily inquisition is met with eye-rolling and "I dunno, just stuff. Skateboarding, whatever." Whatever indeed.
Two, boys' hygiene is a complete contradiction. The same kid who will flat out refuse to wear the "lame" shirt I just bought him, will walk around with a four-inch wide mustard stain on the front of one he likes. He'll beg me to let his hair grow out to a certain style, but would go to school with epic bed-head if I didn't thrust a brush in his direction every morning. He saves his money for cool sneakers, only to let them disintegrate on his feet without the least bit of concern. I can't comprehend how someone so picky about their appearance in some areas, can be so unconscientious about it in others.
Three, as he gets braver, I get more scared. The first day he strapped on his bike helmet for a solo spin around the block, I wanted to chain him to the house. Frantic questions screech through my mind every time he wants to push the boundaries of his current permissions: will he remember the hidden driveway? does he know my cell phone number? what if something happens? Most of his new ventures leave me swallowing my fear, giving him the chance to prove himself and earn my trust, and then holding my breath until he walks back through the door.
Four, I will most definitely be a monster-in-law. With girls entering the picture as of late, I'm fairly certain he can see the terror in my eyes every time I see "her" (whoever "her" might be that particular day) number come up on the call display. I used to think it was so cute when girls would be around, the ones he claimed, with genuine disgust, were "gross". Now, girls are the enemy, but only to me. The future does not look bright in that department, and I'm afraid I might have to search around for those chains I mentioned, from the bicycle days.
Five, he's a child and a teen in equal parts. While he makes his own toast, prefers a shower over a bath, and watches pg-13 movies, he's also mommy's baby when he's sick. He loves to give hugs and play, yet he's quickly closing in on the height of his dad. Pretty soon he won't have a bedtime on the weekend, but I can always be sure he's going to tell his little brother "I love you" before sleep. (I'll have to try to remember that when they're wrestling each other into submission.)
Six, in some cases he knows more than I do. At his birthday party, we had decided some Wii and a movie would occupy most of the night's agenda. I took the liberty of popping a DVD into the player, only to see a blank screen remain on the television. In my defense, the electronics in my living room would, for most, require a Harvard degree in Information Technology and Engineering, but to my surprise, he had the movie up and running in mere minutes. Those darned kids and all their fancy doo-hickeys. Tarnation.
And finally, seven, drugs are the scariest things in the world. All you can do is talk and talk and talk and hope something you say sticks, but when it comes down to it, they're going to do what they're going to do. The worst part: short of holding their hand in the halls of the high school, there isn't much you can do about "the drug situation" except pray that your stories and explanations have led them in the direction of saying no. I have been having the drug conversation for years with my son, and I think I have him convinced that drugs are for the kids who don't have the confidence to be themselves, and that sooner than later, they'll be the stoners who all the cool kids make fun of. Keep your fingers crossed that my brainwashing will pay off.
Wish me luck. I hear the next eleven are even harder.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Aunt Ida & The Bucket List
When I was young, my grandparents had an organ in their living room. It was very old and small, only about four octaves of keys on the right side, a few dozen chord keys on a panel on the left, and a pedal that didn't work.
I couldn't have been more than 6 or 7 when I took a sudden interest in this organ. Since no one in the house played an instrument, I had to go it alone, and the first few attempts I made were nothing more than one-finger renditions of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star". I used to watch people play piano on TV, mull over my own playing, and think, "hmm, this is going to be harder than I thought."
One day, Aunt Ida came to visit (she was actually my Grandmother's sister-in-law, but when I was young, I considered every older female family member to be my aunt). At first the visit was no different than an other, but only until Grandma told Aunt Ida about my piano ambitions. She was very pleased and moved to the organ bench to show me how it was done. I don't even remember what she played, but I do remember wondering how she could possibly make such beautiful sound from those few dozen little keys. And then I was on a mission.
I spent the next few months pouring over the books that came with the organ; a difficult task, since I couldn't read music. But, in pestering Grandma half to death with, "how does this one go?", I used her singing and humming to memorize the melodies to a few standards. Before long, I could play "My Wild Irish Rose", "Home on the Range", "Long, Long Ago", and others (the names of which escape me) from these books.
Repetitively banging away at these songs on the organ led me to discover that I could quickly pick up the melodies to other songs, without having any sheet music for them. Over the next few months and years, I taught myself how to play piano by ear. When people would come over to visit, I would always end up putting on a concert in the living room. The favorite was always "The Rose" by Bette Midler.
I'll never forget waking up Christmas morning when I was 10, and seeing a brand new keyboard. It wasn't fancy by today's standards, but back then, it might as well have been made out of solid gold as far as I was concerned. A "real piano", oh, the things I could do! The songs I could play!
For my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary party, I played "Wind Beneath My Wings", my grandmother's favorite song, for the whole crowd. I remember being as proud as a peacock, though looking at myself on the video of that evening all these years later, it's obvious I was scared to death. After all, Donald MacRae and Joe Oram had just played for that same crowd; it was a tough act to follow.
Then came the business of piano lessons. Since I was quite good for my age, without being able to read music, it was decided that formal lessons might do me some good. Mr. Digout made an attempt, as did Ms. Thibeau, Mrs. Garrison, and even the great Henrietta Doary, but to no avail; me, my parents and grandparents, were all told that my self-taught methods would be impossible to break, and that lessons would not do me any good.
In my formative years, I became a fixture at variety and Christmas concerts, pageants, plays, and other amateur venues that allowed myself and others to take the spotlight. Still, as much as I loved the applause, playing piano alone in my bedroom was always my favorite place to shine.
I haven't played the piano in years, and I'm not even sure I could anymore. But, I remember well the pride and satisfaction I felt just from being able to play once upon a time, pride that turned an article about my new venture into an article reminiscing about my piano-playing days.
That being said, my dear departed Aunt Ida would be happy to know that I've again taken her advice. The same woman that encouraged me at the piano had, for years, begged me to take up violin. She assured me I'd be good at it, and even though I had never so much as held a fiddle before, learning to play has been on my bucket list for many years.
I finally got my hands on one last week and the learning process has begun. I may not be able to play like Donald MacRae yet, but I don't let the squealing sound of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" discourage me; after all, it worked last time around.
I couldn't have been more than 6 or 7 when I took a sudden interest in this organ. Since no one in the house played an instrument, I had to go it alone, and the first few attempts I made were nothing more than one-finger renditions of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star". I used to watch people play piano on TV, mull over my own playing, and think, "hmm, this is going to be harder than I thought."
One day, Aunt Ida came to visit (she was actually my Grandmother's sister-in-law, but when I was young, I considered every older female family member to be my aunt). At first the visit was no different than an other, but only until Grandma told Aunt Ida about my piano ambitions. She was very pleased and moved to the organ bench to show me how it was done. I don't even remember what she played, but I do remember wondering how she could possibly make such beautiful sound from those few dozen little keys. And then I was on a mission.
I spent the next few months pouring over the books that came with the organ; a difficult task, since I couldn't read music. But, in pestering Grandma half to death with, "how does this one go?", I used her singing and humming to memorize the melodies to a few standards. Before long, I could play "My Wild Irish Rose", "Home on the Range", "Long, Long Ago", and others (the names of which escape me) from these books.
Repetitively banging away at these songs on the organ led me to discover that I could quickly pick up the melodies to other songs, without having any sheet music for them. Over the next few months and years, I taught myself how to play piano by ear. When people would come over to visit, I would always end up putting on a concert in the living room. The favorite was always "The Rose" by Bette Midler.
I'll never forget waking up Christmas morning when I was 10, and seeing a brand new keyboard. It wasn't fancy by today's standards, but back then, it might as well have been made out of solid gold as far as I was concerned. A "real piano", oh, the things I could do! The songs I could play!
For my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary party, I played "Wind Beneath My Wings", my grandmother's favorite song, for the whole crowd. I remember being as proud as a peacock, though looking at myself on the video of that evening all these years later, it's obvious I was scared to death. After all, Donald MacRae and Joe Oram had just played for that same crowd; it was a tough act to follow.
Then came the business of piano lessons. Since I was quite good for my age, without being able to read music, it was decided that formal lessons might do me some good. Mr. Digout made an attempt, as did Ms. Thibeau, Mrs. Garrison, and even the great Henrietta Doary, but to no avail; me, my parents and grandparents, were all told that my self-taught methods would be impossible to break, and that lessons would not do me any good.
In my formative years, I became a fixture at variety and Christmas concerts, pageants, plays, and other amateur venues that allowed myself and others to take the spotlight. Still, as much as I loved the applause, playing piano alone in my bedroom was always my favorite place to shine.
I haven't played the piano in years, and I'm not even sure I could anymore. But, I remember well the pride and satisfaction I felt just from being able to play once upon a time, pride that turned an article about my new venture into an article reminiscing about my piano-playing days.
That being said, my dear departed Aunt Ida would be happy to know that I've again taken her advice. The same woman that encouraged me at the piano had, for years, begged me to take up violin. She assured me I'd be good at it, and even though I had never so much as held a fiddle before, learning to play has been on my bucket list for many years.
I finally got my hands on one last week and the learning process has begun. I may not be able to play like Donald MacRae yet, but I don't let the squealing sound of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" discourage me; after all, it worked last time around.
A Dying Breed
Imagine reading this job advertisment in the paper.
At your disposal: big screen television with satellite and surround sound, a movie collection, a Nintendo Wii with American Idol Karaoke and Guitar Hero, Playstation 2, phone with unlimited long distance, laptop with high speed internet, novels and magazines galore, and a refrigerator full of food.
Your duties: keep open ears, use common sense, behave, and let the dog out to pee when he starts dancing in front of the door.
Your qualifications: mature, responsible, reliable, drug-free.
Salary: negotiable.
Any takers? Believe it or not, we haven't had a single one, which begs the question, where have all the babysitters gone?
I babysat from the time I was 13 years old. There are no restaurants or corner stores in River Bourgeois, so if we wanted to work, we had to baby-sit. There wasn't a huge market, but girls usually found one or two people in the community who they regularly sat for.
On an average night, I'd arrive at around 7:00pm, say goodbye to the parents, and play with the kids for awhile before tucking them in bed. Once they were settled, I'd have to clean up (like my mother had instructed me to every time I went to baby-sit. "They're paying you, the least you can do is tidy up and do the dishes.")
I'd spend the rest of the evening doing homework or watching television, unless the kids woke up, which rarely happened. Once the parents arrived home, usually at around 2:00am, they'd thank me, hand me over $25 or $30, and drive me home. As I got older, the only thing that really varied in this scenario was that I'd drive myself there and back.
It may not have been much money (about $5 per hour), but hey, it was money, and since you can bet my parents weren't throwing $30 at me every time I left the house, it was money I cherished. I babysat every weekend night I could, even as I got older, since making money was always more appealing than blowing it on junk food and garbage, like I would if I were out roaming around with my friends.
Cut to years later, and I found myself looking for a babysitter. Even five or six years ago, it wasn't all that difficult to find someone. I had a bevy of young girls waiting by the phone for me to call, since I paid a whopping $40 for a night out.
But now, with two young kids, a home in the middle of Port Hawkesbury, and a desire for a night among adults, a babysitter is harder to find than a four-leaf clover. We've been looking for two full years, and haven't found a single suitable candidate (well, one, but we only found her a month or so before she left for university).
We've been told we're a bit too picky, but this is our children we're talking about. We won't settle for less than absolute trustworthiness and maturity since their well-being is our top priority. Our "no drug users" stipulation has, sadly, limited our pool of candidates, by their own admission. We could easily find someone who is 12 or 13 to watch them, but that's only a year or two older than our oldest son, which, as far as I'm concerned, is too young to baby-sit a three-year-old. If you have a 12-year-old baby-sit your toddlers, that's your decision; it's not a chance that I, personally, am willing to take.
So where are all the high school juniors and seniors? What do they do on the weekend? It has been suggested to us that we're wasting our time, for several reasons.
They have part-time jobs and aren't willing to give up their nights off to work some more. Fair enough, it's good to see young people working. But (and this is just friendly tip), for any teenager who would rather baby-sit than don a visor, I dare say you'd make as much money babysitting as you would working a few shifts a week at a fast food place.
Others have said it's because parents are giving their kids enough spending money that they don't have to work. I can tell you this much, my sons needn't think that, at 16, they'll be getting $20 from me every time they leave the house. A few bucks, whatever - but parents giving their perfectly able-bodied and employable teenagers an endless stream of cash? Wow.
I've heard everything from, "they're out at the bars" to "they're home taking care of their own kids" to explain the elusiveness of good, occasional babysitters in town.
Whatever the reason, it's not making my quest any easier. Do I just not know the right people? Or are there really no babysitters? Drop me a line if you can shed some light.
At your disposal: big screen television with satellite and surround sound, a movie collection, a Nintendo Wii with American Idol Karaoke and Guitar Hero, Playstation 2, phone with unlimited long distance, laptop with high speed internet, novels and magazines galore, and a refrigerator full of food.
Your duties: keep open ears, use common sense, behave, and let the dog out to pee when he starts dancing in front of the door.
Your qualifications: mature, responsible, reliable, drug-free.
Salary: negotiable.
Any takers? Believe it or not, we haven't had a single one, which begs the question, where have all the babysitters gone?
I babysat from the time I was 13 years old. There are no restaurants or corner stores in River Bourgeois, so if we wanted to work, we had to baby-sit. There wasn't a huge market, but girls usually found one or two people in the community who they regularly sat for.
On an average night, I'd arrive at around 7:00pm, say goodbye to the parents, and play with the kids for awhile before tucking them in bed. Once they were settled, I'd have to clean up (like my mother had instructed me to every time I went to baby-sit. "They're paying you, the least you can do is tidy up and do the dishes.")
I'd spend the rest of the evening doing homework or watching television, unless the kids woke up, which rarely happened. Once the parents arrived home, usually at around 2:00am, they'd thank me, hand me over $25 or $30, and drive me home. As I got older, the only thing that really varied in this scenario was that I'd drive myself there and back.
It may not have been much money (about $5 per hour), but hey, it was money, and since you can bet my parents weren't throwing $30 at me every time I left the house, it was money I cherished. I babysat every weekend night I could, even as I got older, since making money was always more appealing than blowing it on junk food and garbage, like I would if I were out roaming around with my friends.
Cut to years later, and I found myself looking for a babysitter. Even five or six years ago, it wasn't all that difficult to find someone. I had a bevy of young girls waiting by the phone for me to call, since I paid a whopping $40 for a night out.
But now, with two young kids, a home in the middle of Port Hawkesbury, and a desire for a night among adults, a babysitter is harder to find than a four-leaf clover. We've been looking for two full years, and haven't found a single suitable candidate (well, one, but we only found her a month or so before she left for university).
We've been told we're a bit too picky, but this is our children we're talking about. We won't settle for less than absolute trustworthiness and maturity since their well-being is our top priority. Our "no drug users" stipulation has, sadly, limited our pool of candidates, by their own admission. We could easily find someone who is 12 or 13 to watch them, but that's only a year or two older than our oldest son, which, as far as I'm concerned, is too young to baby-sit a three-year-old. If you have a 12-year-old baby-sit your toddlers, that's your decision; it's not a chance that I, personally, am willing to take.
So where are all the high school juniors and seniors? What do they do on the weekend? It has been suggested to us that we're wasting our time, for several reasons.
They have part-time jobs and aren't willing to give up their nights off to work some more. Fair enough, it's good to see young people working. But (and this is just friendly tip), for any teenager who would rather baby-sit than don a visor, I dare say you'd make as much money babysitting as you would working a few shifts a week at a fast food place.
Others have said it's because parents are giving their kids enough spending money that they don't have to work. I can tell you this much, my sons needn't think that, at 16, they'll be getting $20 from me every time they leave the house. A few bucks, whatever - but parents giving their perfectly able-bodied and employable teenagers an endless stream of cash? Wow.
I've heard everything from, "they're out at the bars" to "they're home taking care of their own kids" to explain the elusiveness of good, occasional babysitters in town.
Whatever the reason, it's not making my quest any easier. Do I just not know the right people? Or are there really no babysitters? Drop me a line if you can shed some light.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Stagette Chronicles
November, 2008: I, as hostess, commit to throw my sister's bachelorette party in mid-March. Plans are put on the back burner because, really, who needs more than a week to plan a party?
December, 2008: Party planning officially begins. An extensive search of eBay commences after seeing the meager selection of stagette supplies in the Strait area. I place my orders.
January, 2009: An entertainment company from Halifax is consulted. Due to the apparently strenuous nature of dancing in a g-string for seven minutes, the best negotiated price I could land was $750. Upon hearing that news, I thanked the company for their time.
Later that day: A second entertainment company is consulted, with similar results. I let loose an angry tirade about children in Sri Lankan sweatshops doing twenty times the work for a fraction of the money those half (and sadly, because of new "labour laws", only half) naked grease-bags are demanding. They're ugly and old anyway, a pathetic novelty, I remind myself. Time for plan B.
Later still: A third, more PG-13 form of entertainment is consulted, booked, and sent a deposit. A conference room is booked at a local hotel to accommodate the upcoming antics.
February, 2009: Invitations are sent via Facebook. Over 20 people confirm. I start considering which small home improvement projects can be started and finished in four weeks. My husband immediately dreads the coming four weeks.
The day after: Local businesses thrive, especially those selling home decor items. Purchased: paint and painting supplies, a new bedroom comforter set, various picture frames, vases, plants, candles, assorted other unnecessary junk that matches and compliments. (At present, I'm still negotiating a new dinette set.)
Late February: Our entertainment cancels, citing, "someone booked us in Halifax that night, and it's much cheaper for us to just do a party here." After pointing out the extra charge I had agreed to pay for travel expenses, I expresses disappointment (read - fly off the handle in blind rage) and demand a deposit refund, like, yesterday. The lady says to keep them in mind for our next gathering. I suggest that her and her troupe hold their collective breath and sit by the phone waiting for my call.
Two days later: My eBay order arrives. I find an incorrect color scheme on four items. What else will go wrong?
Early March, 2009: I decide to tackle a painting project far beyond my experience and capability. Reinforcements are called in and painting of the long-anticipated kitchen backsplash begins. The task of measuring and taping the applicable area proves much more difficult than we originally thought. Several unplanned snack and chat breaks are taken to avoid frustration and "mission abort". Task successfully completed.
Two hours later: A shock of Sesame Street green infiltrates my lovely taupe universe. Panic button is officially slapped. My reinforcement serves up encouragement and tall glass of merlot. Crisis averted.
T-minus 4 days: One of four iron-on t-shirt transfers is defective. Discovery of this fact is made while I attempted to transfer the patch onto my own t-shirt. T-shirt ruined. Adding insult to injury, I burn my finger on the iron. Wonderful.
T-minus 3 days: I try not to contemplate egg salad vs. ham sandwiches and where people are going to park and mental to-do lists, as I complete tax returns for three different people. The tax returns then have to be re-done for fear of careless mistakes I might have made because I wasn't concentrating. I say goodbye to two wasted hours of my life I'll never get back and finally get to bed at 1:30am.
T-minus 2 days: I order a banner from a printing company. Not realizing the cost of paper has seemingly gone up about 7000% since I last purchased some (a month ago), I reluctantly lay down $25 for this blessed accessory. It's four feet long and a little over three inches wide. It has a total of twenty letters printed on it. It's made of paper. Twenty-five dollars.
T-minus 1 day: I begin the hunt for last-minute items. The shelves I want are gone from the store, and another store has sold out of the martini glasses I need. Upon my arrival home, the dog gets excited and pees on the welcome mat. My new room spray smells like Play-Doh. I burn my finger while boiling the water for Jell-O shooters. Like clockwork, I cut my other finger (the third digital injury as many days) while chopping celery for the veggie tray. I chalk it up to it being Friday the 13th.
Day of the party: It's now 12:10am on Saturday, March 14th. I'm on my way to bed, seeing as I've completely exhausted myself over the past few days. The thought of acting out and staying up late is almost more than I can bear. My sister better appreciate this party.
December, 2008: Party planning officially begins. An extensive search of eBay commences after seeing the meager selection of stagette supplies in the Strait area. I place my orders.
January, 2009: An entertainment company from Halifax is consulted. Due to the apparently strenuous nature of dancing in a g-string for seven minutes, the best negotiated price I could land was $750. Upon hearing that news, I thanked the company for their time.
Later that day: A second entertainment company is consulted, with similar results. I let loose an angry tirade about children in Sri Lankan sweatshops doing twenty times the work for a fraction of the money those half (and sadly, because of new "labour laws", only half) naked grease-bags are demanding. They're ugly and old anyway, a pathetic novelty, I remind myself. Time for plan B.
Later still: A third, more PG-13 form of entertainment is consulted, booked, and sent a deposit. A conference room is booked at a local hotel to accommodate the upcoming antics.
February, 2009: Invitations are sent via Facebook. Over 20 people confirm. I start considering which small home improvement projects can be started and finished in four weeks. My husband immediately dreads the coming four weeks.
The day after: Local businesses thrive, especially those selling home decor items. Purchased: paint and painting supplies, a new bedroom comforter set, various picture frames, vases, plants, candles, assorted other unnecessary junk that matches and compliments. (At present, I'm still negotiating a new dinette set.)
Late February: Our entertainment cancels, citing, "someone booked us in Halifax that night, and it's much cheaper for us to just do a party here." After pointing out the extra charge I had agreed to pay for travel expenses, I expresses disappointment (read - fly off the handle in blind rage) and demand a deposit refund, like, yesterday. The lady says to keep them in mind for our next gathering. I suggest that her and her troupe hold their collective breath and sit by the phone waiting for my call.
Two days later: My eBay order arrives. I find an incorrect color scheme on four items. What else will go wrong?
Early March, 2009: I decide to tackle a painting project far beyond my experience and capability. Reinforcements are called in and painting of the long-anticipated kitchen backsplash begins. The task of measuring and taping the applicable area proves much more difficult than we originally thought. Several unplanned snack and chat breaks are taken to avoid frustration and "mission abort". Task successfully completed.
Two hours later: A shock of Sesame Street green infiltrates my lovely taupe universe. Panic button is officially slapped. My reinforcement serves up encouragement and tall glass of merlot. Crisis averted.
T-minus 4 days: One of four iron-on t-shirt transfers is defective. Discovery of this fact is made while I attempted to transfer the patch onto my own t-shirt. T-shirt ruined. Adding insult to injury, I burn my finger on the iron. Wonderful.
T-minus 3 days: I try not to contemplate egg salad vs. ham sandwiches and where people are going to park and mental to-do lists, as I complete tax returns for three different people. The tax returns then have to be re-done for fear of careless mistakes I might have made because I wasn't concentrating. I say goodbye to two wasted hours of my life I'll never get back and finally get to bed at 1:30am.
T-minus 2 days: I order a banner from a printing company. Not realizing the cost of paper has seemingly gone up about 7000% since I last purchased some (a month ago), I reluctantly lay down $25 for this blessed accessory. It's four feet long and a little over three inches wide. It has a total of twenty letters printed on it. It's made of paper. Twenty-five dollars.
T-minus 1 day: I begin the hunt for last-minute items. The shelves I want are gone from the store, and another store has sold out of the martini glasses I need. Upon my arrival home, the dog gets excited and pees on the welcome mat. My new room spray smells like Play-Doh. I burn my finger while boiling the water for Jell-O shooters. Like clockwork, I cut my other finger (the third digital injury as many days) while chopping celery for the veggie tray. I chalk it up to it being Friday the 13th.
Day of the party: It's now 12:10am on Saturday, March 14th. I'm on my way to bed, seeing as I've completely exhausted myself over the past few days. The thought of acting out and staying up late is almost more than I can bear. My sister better appreciate this party.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Not Buying It
I didn't plan on writing this article, but I feel it incumbent upon me to speak for a small, yet (in my opinion) sensible, group of women.
When I was young - who am I kidding, up until...well, not so many years ago - Valentine's Day was a big deal. It was the day when us single ladies cursed the woman in the cubicle beside ours when a huge bouquet of red roses was delivered to her desk. It was the day that we completely ignored those red roses like they weren't a big deal, when really we wanted them more than we wanted oxygen pumping into our lungs. February 14th was the day we pretended all the fuss was ridiculous, when we rolled our eyes and made fun of the squealing girlfriend whose boyfriend just sent her a diamond bracelet. Then we went home and watched Jay Leno, ate a big bowl of ice cream, and cried about being single and not having Valentine's Day presents.
Maybe not every single gal, but quite a few.
Ten years later, I have seen the light. I now have a husband who understands the significance of Valentine's Day. Even though he has no use for it personally, he knows his spousal responsibilities as have been set out in the "V-Day Code of Conduct", if you will. He knows what he's expected to buy and what he's expected to do. And, like the wonderful husband he is, he sucks it up with a smile and acts a sport through it all.
Now, I know some of you wives are going to gasp reading this: my husband loves to buy me jewellery. Imagine that People's flyer arriving in your mailbox the first week of February, and picking out whatever you want! He also lives by the motto "spare no expense" when it comes to these matters, and left by himself to decide, I'm sure there would be flowers, jewellery, candy, stuffed mammals of every variety, and more pink and red than anyone needs to see in a lifetime.
Luckily for him, I don't want it. As a matter of fact, I have forbid him from buying any of it. Now that I'm in a position to celebrate the perfect Valentine's Day, we choose not to celebrate it at all. Let me explain why.
When I was single, I wasn't jealous of those squealing gaggles of girlfriends because I loved flowers so much; it was because they had someone to give them those flowers in the first place. That's all we bitter hens desired, was someone to publicly proclaim their love for us.
I had someone proclaim their love for me in a church in front of all our family and friends, and that's a pretty big deal, better than any singing telegram or vase full of carnations. Once that happened, the novelty of gushing romanticism wore off for me, since I had seen what a real proclamation was all about.
V-Day is the most contrived "holiday" in history. There isn't any real significance behind it, except that the 1870s British tradition of exchanging homemade cards with people you cared about, has been turned into the most genius mass-marketing scam ever masterminded. And sorry, I'm not buying.
I'm not trying to get down on all you lovebirds out there - and I know you're out there. It's great that you turn all romantical and stuff on 'the big day'. If that's what you want to spend your money on, far be it from me to stop you.
However, you might want to contemplate, if Valentine's Day is the day you celebrate your love for each other, what are the other 364 days for? I think it's important to be in love all year round, especially after you're married for awhile with a few kids running laps around your house. But even if you're supposed to pick one special day to celebrate, isn't that what your anniversary is for? I don't know about you, but with bills to pay and kids to feed, I'd sleep better at night knowing money was used for these things, rather than on overpriced chocolates or flowers that will be 50% off the following morning.
Ladies, if you agree, put your man out of his misery and let him know. He might think you're trying to trick him at first, since he's been pretty much brow-beaten since birth to appreciate the significance women place on February 14th, but a sincere explanation might make your Valentine's Day a whole lot lighter.
But guys, unless your lady really gives a convincing "don't bother buying me anything" speech, you better err on the side of caution and scoop something up, just in case. She might just be trying to trick you.
We do that sometimes.
When I was young - who am I kidding, up until...well, not so many years ago - Valentine's Day was a big deal. It was the day when us single ladies cursed the woman in the cubicle beside ours when a huge bouquet of red roses was delivered to her desk. It was the day that we completely ignored those red roses like they weren't a big deal, when really we wanted them more than we wanted oxygen pumping into our lungs. February 14th was the day we pretended all the fuss was ridiculous, when we rolled our eyes and made fun of the squealing girlfriend whose boyfriend just sent her a diamond bracelet. Then we went home and watched Jay Leno, ate a big bowl of ice cream, and cried about being single and not having Valentine's Day presents.
Maybe not every single gal, but quite a few.
Ten years later, I have seen the light. I now have a husband who understands the significance of Valentine's Day. Even though he has no use for it personally, he knows his spousal responsibilities as have been set out in the "V-Day Code of Conduct", if you will. He knows what he's expected to buy and what he's expected to do. And, like the wonderful husband he is, he sucks it up with a smile and acts a sport through it all.
Now, I know some of you wives are going to gasp reading this: my husband loves to buy me jewellery. Imagine that People's flyer arriving in your mailbox the first week of February, and picking out whatever you want! He also lives by the motto "spare no expense" when it comes to these matters, and left by himself to decide, I'm sure there would be flowers, jewellery, candy, stuffed mammals of every variety, and more pink and red than anyone needs to see in a lifetime.
Luckily for him, I don't want it. As a matter of fact, I have forbid him from buying any of it. Now that I'm in a position to celebrate the perfect Valentine's Day, we choose not to celebrate it at all. Let me explain why.
When I was single, I wasn't jealous of those squealing gaggles of girlfriends because I loved flowers so much; it was because they had someone to give them those flowers in the first place. That's all we bitter hens desired, was someone to publicly proclaim their love for us.
I had someone proclaim their love for me in a church in front of all our family and friends, and that's a pretty big deal, better than any singing telegram or vase full of carnations. Once that happened, the novelty of gushing romanticism wore off for me, since I had seen what a real proclamation was all about.
V-Day is the most contrived "holiday" in history. There isn't any real significance behind it, except that the 1870s British tradition of exchanging homemade cards with people you cared about, has been turned into the most genius mass-marketing scam ever masterminded. And sorry, I'm not buying.
I'm not trying to get down on all you lovebirds out there - and I know you're out there. It's great that you turn all romantical and stuff on 'the big day'. If that's what you want to spend your money on, far be it from me to stop you.
However, you might want to contemplate, if Valentine's Day is the day you celebrate your love for each other, what are the other 364 days for? I think it's important to be in love all year round, especially after you're married for awhile with a few kids running laps around your house. But even if you're supposed to pick one special day to celebrate, isn't that what your anniversary is for? I don't know about you, but with bills to pay and kids to feed, I'd sleep better at night knowing money was used for these things, rather than on overpriced chocolates or flowers that will be 50% off the following morning.
Ladies, if you agree, put your man out of his misery and let him know. He might think you're trying to trick him at first, since he's been pretty much brow-beaten since birth to appreciate the significance women place on February 14th, but a sincere explanation might make your Valentine's Day a whole lot lighter.
But guys, unless your lady really gives a convincing "don't bother buying me anything" speech, you better err on the side of caution and scoop something up, just in case. She might just be trying to trick you.
We do that sometimes.
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