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.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
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.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Still Dwelling
The Christmas decorations everywhere might indicate that it's too late for an article about Halloween, but I'm sorry, I just can't stop dwelling. Let me explain why.
Once upon a time, what seems simultaneously like yesterday and like one hundred years ago, October 31 was a special and exciting day. For weeks, children would plan their Halloween costumes, taking care to consider every detail and accessory. We'd discuss it amongst our friends, talk it over with our parents, and the anticipation was almost too much.
The school costume parade was so much fun! It was always after lunch, so our entire lunch hour was spent putting on make-up or masks, or, if we were lucky, that colored hair spray that cost way too much before the days of dollar stores. We'd all line up in the gym, and prizes were awarded to the most creative costumes.
Once we arrived home, it was all our parents could do to keep us in the house for long enough to have supper, since we were so anxious to go trick-or-treating. This part of the night was also well planned; our routes had been mapped for days, and we were intent on achieving maximum candy acquisition with minimal transit time. Because, at the end of the day, it was all about the treats.
We lived in a rural community, which meant after we had done most of our immediate area on foot, one of our parents had to drive us around, while the other stayed behind to pass out treats. We we knew the spots where all the "rich people" (those who passed out full-size chocolate bars or cans of pop) lived, who gave you fudge, and who would keep you inside talking for 10 minutes. Everybody was home, and every house passed out treats.
I don't think we ever arrived home with less than a full garbage bag of loot, and while some things disappeared quickly, there were always bags of chips and those gross molasses candies remaining weeks after.
What you just read is a true story, kids. It happened to me, every year.
My awesome Halloween memories have translated from excitement about going out, to excitement about being a person who passes out treats. This year, in addition to the severed heads, ghosts, and bats hanging about my yard, I created a small cemetery. It took me a long time to cut tombstones out of styrofoam, carve words and designs onto them, paint them, mount them, and set them up. I put fake blood dripping down some, rats and spiders sitting on others, and even a zombie crawling out of the ground. With all the decorations and lights, I thought my house was just the kind of house we'd have flocked to as kids.
And in preparation for that, since I live in a neighborhood with lots of children, I went out and bought enough treats for 120 kids. I had chips, bars, candies, suckers, everything you can imagine stuffed into treat bags and waiting to be given out. I lit up the Halloween village on the table by my entrance, saw my little Buzz Lightyear and Scream Ghost off with their dad, and waited for the crowds to arrive.
In 3 hours I saw 12 kids. Of those 12, only about half were wearing costumes. One was a 6'4" tall ninja with a deeper voice than my husband, who arrived with a goblin-masked friend smoking a cigarette, and a pirate who drove the car they pulled up in.
Kids, you have to realize when you go to houses on Halloween night, people give you free candy! Just for showing up! Has that fact become unknown in recent years? Because if I was shorter and more selfish, I'd be throwing on some She-Ra garb and making a killing.
It's very sad for me to see such a special tradition from my past become so unceremonious to this generation of kids. With the mass retail bombardment that's common for every "holiday", I would have expected Halloween to be bigger and better than ever. But it seems that kids aren't all that interested anymore, and what a shame that is.
When did 11-year-olds start finding more enjoyment in smashing pumpkins than going door to door for treats? When did a school sweatshirt, jeans, a baseball hat and a face with a few black make-up streaks become a costume? And, most importantly, where have all the kids gone? Are they home playing X-box? Did they not get the memo about free candy?
I don't care. I'll still decorate my house like the crazy Halloween lady every year in hopes that someday things will get back to the way they used to be.
Until then, I'm stuck with 100 bags of Cheetos and a Christmas tree to put up.
Once upon a time, what seems simultaneously like yesterday and like one hundred years ago, October 31 was a special and exciting day. For weeks, children would plan their Halloween costumes, taking care to consider every detail and accessory. We'd discuss it amongst our friends, talk it over with our parents, and the anticipation was almost too much.
The school costume parade was so much fun! It was always after lunch, so our entire lunch hour was spent putting on make-up or masks, or, if we were lucky, that colored hair spray that cost way too much before the days of dollar stores. We'd all line up in the gym, and prizes were awarded to the most creative costumes.
Once we arrived home, it was all our parents could do to keep us in the house for long enough to have supper, since we were so anxious to go trick-or-treating. This part of the night was also well planned; our routes had been mapped for days, and we were intent on achieving maximum candy acquisition with minimal transit time. Because, at the end of the day, it was all about the treats.
We lived in a rural community, which meant after we had done most of our immediate area on foot, one of our parents had to drive us around, while the other stayed behind to pass out treats. We we knew the spots where all the "rich people" (those who passed out full-size chocolate bars or cans of pop) lived, who gave you fudge, and who would keep you inside talking for 10 minutes. Everybody was home, and every house passed out treats.
I don't think we ever arrived home with less than a full garbage bag of loot, and while some things disappeared quickly, there were always bags of chips and those gross molasses candies remaining weeks after.
What you just read is a true story, kids. It happened to me, every year.
My awesome Halloween memories have translated from excitement about going out, to excitement about being a person who passes out treats. This year, in addition to the severed heads, ghosts, and bats hanging about my yard, I created a small cemetery. It took me a long time to cut tombstones out of styrofoam, carve words and designs onto them, paint them, mount them, and set them up. I put fake blood dripping down some, rats and spiders sitting on others, and even a zombie crawling out of the ground. With all the decorations and lights, I thought my house was just the kind of house we'd have flocked to as kids.
And in preparation for that, since I live in a neighborhood with lots of children, I went out and bought enough treats for 120 kids. I had chips, bars, candies, suckers, everything you can imagine stuffed into treat bags and waiting to be given out. I lit up the Halloween village on the table by my entrance, saw my little Buzz Lightyear and Scream Ghost off with their dad, and waited for the crowds to arrive.
In 3 hours I saw 12 kids. Of those 12, only about half were wearing costumes. One was a 6'4" tall ninja with a deeper voice than my husband, who arrived with a goblin-masked friend smoking a cigarette, and a pirate who drove the car they pulled up in.
Kids, you have to realize when you go to houses on Halloween night, people give you free candy! Just for showing up! Has that fact become unknown in recent years? Because if I was shorter and more selfish, I'd be throwing on some She-Ra garb and making a killing.
It's very sad for me to see such a special tradition from my past become so unceremonious to this generation of kids. With the mass retail bombardment that's common for every "holiday", I would have expected Halloween to be bigger and better than ever. But it seems that kids aren't all that interested anymore, and what a shame that is.
When did 11-year-olds start finding more enjoyment in smashing pumpkins than going door to door for treats? When did a school sweatshirt, jeans, a baseball hat and a face with a few black make-up streaks become a costume? And, most importantly, where have all the kids gone? Are they home playing X-box? Did they not get the memo about free candy?
I don't care. I'll still decorate my house like the crazy Halloween lady every year in hopes that someday things will get back to the way they used to be.
Until then, I'm stuck with 100 bags of Cheetos and a Christmas tree to put up.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Here Kiddie Kiddies
Dear Trick-or-Treaters/their parents:
I'd like to tell you a story.
Once upon a time, what seems simultaneously like yesterday and like one hundred years ago, October 31 was a special and exciting day. For weeks, children would plan their Halloween costumes, taking care to consider every detail and accessory. We'd discuss it amongst our friends, talk it over with our parents, and the anticipation was almost too much.
The school costume parade was so much fun! It was always after lunch, so our entire lunch hour was spent putting on make-up or masks, or, if we were lucky, that colored hair spray that cost way too much before the days of dollar stores. We'd all line up in the gym, and prizes were awarded to the most creative costumes.
Once we arrived home, it was all our parents could do to keep us in the house for long enough to have supper, since we were so anxious to go trick-or-treating. This part of the night was also well planned; our routes had been mapped for days, and we were intent on achieving maximum candy acquisition with minimal transit time. Because, at the end of the day, it was all about the treats.
We lived in a rural area, which meant after we had done most of our immediate area on foot, one of our parents had to drive us around, while the other stayed behind to pass out treats. We we knew the spots where all the "rich people" (those who passed out full-size chocolate bars or cans of pop) lived, who gave you fudge, and who would keep you inside talking for 10 mnutes. Everybody was home, and every house passed out treats.
I don't think we ever arrived home with less than a full garbage bag of loot, and while some things disappeared quickly, there were always bags of chips and those gross molasses candies remaining weeks after.
What you just read is a true story, kids. It happened to me, every year.
My awesome Halloween memories have translated from excitement about going out, to excitement about being a person who passes out treats. This year, in addition to the severed heads, ghosts, and bats hanging about my yard, I created a small cemetery. It took me a long time to cut tombstones out of styrofoam, carve words and designs onto them, paint them, mount them, and set them up. I put fake blood dripping down some, rats and spiders sitting on others, and even a zombie crawling out of the ground. With all the decorations and lights, I thought my house was just the kind of house we'd have flocked to as kids.
And in preparation for that, since I live in a neighborhood with lots of children, I went out and bought enough treats for 120 kids. I had chips, bars, candies, suckers, everything you can imagine stuffed into treat bags and waiting to be given out. I lit up the Halloween village on the table by my entrance, saw my little Buzz Lightyear and Scream Ghost off with their Dad, and waited for the crowds to arrive.
In 3 hours I saw 12 kids. Of those 12, only about half were wearing costumes. One was a 6'4" tall ninja with a deeper voice than my husband, who arrived with a goblin-masked friend smoking a cigarette, and a pirate who drove the car they pulled up in.
Kids, you have to realize when you go to houses on Halloween night, people give you free candy! Just for showing up! Has that fact become unknown in recent years? Because if I was shorter and more selfish, I'd be throwing on some She-Ra garb and making a killing.
It's very sad for me to see such a special tradition from my past become so unceremonious to this generation of kids. With the mass retail bombardment that's common for every "holiday", I would have expected Halloween to be bigger and better than ever. But it seems that kids aren't all that interested anymore, and what a shame that is.
When did 11-year-olds start finding more enjoyment in smashing pumpkins than going door to door for treats? When did a school sweatshirt, jeans, a baseball hat and a face with a few black make-up streaks become a costume? Why are there as many high schoolers at my door as little children? And, most importantly, where have all the kids gone? Are they home playing X-box? Did they not get the Halloween memo? You know, about the free candy and everything?
I don't care. I'll still decorate my house like the crazy Halloween lady every year in hopes that someday things will get back to the way they used to be. Until then, I'm stuck with 100 bags of Cheetos and a yard to clean.
I'd like to tell you a story.
Once upon a time, what seems simultaneously like yesterday and like one hundred years ago, October 31 was a special and exciting day. For weeks, children would plan their Halloween costumes, taking care to consider every detail and accessory. We'd discuss it amongst our friends, talk it over with our parents, and the anticipation was almost too much.
The school costume parade was so much fun! It was always after lunch, so our entire lunch hour was spent putting on make-up or masks, or, if we were lucky, that colored hair spray that cost way too much before the days of dollar stores. We'd all line up in the gym, and prizes were awarded to the most creative costumes.
Once we arrived home, it was all our parents could do to keep us in the house for long enough to have supper, since we were so anxious to go trick-or-treating. This part of the night was also well planned; our routes had been mapped for days, and we were intent on achieving maximum candy acquisition with minimal transit time. Because, at the end of the day, it was all about the treats.
We lived in a rural area, which meant after we had done most of our immediate area on foot, one of our parents had to drive us around, while the other stayed behind to pass out treats. We we knew the spots where all the "rich people" (those who passed out full-size chocolate bars or cans of pop) lived, who gave you fudge, and who would keep you inside talking for 10 mnutes. Everybody was home, and every house passed out treats.
I don't think we ever arrived home with less than a full garbage bag of loot, and while some things disappeared quickly, there were always bags of chips and those gross molasses candies remaining weeks after.
What you just read is a true story, kids. It happened to me, every year.
My awesome Halloween memories have translated from excitement about going out, to excitement about being a person who passes out treats. This year, in addition to the severed heads, ghosts, and bats hanging about my yard, I created a small cemetery. It took me a long time to cut tombstones out of styrofoam, carve words and designs onto them, paint them, mount them, and set them up. I put fake blood dripping down some, rats and spiders sitting on others, and even a zombie crawling out of the ground. With all the decorations and lights, I thought my house was just the kind of house we'd have flocked to as kids.
And in preparation for that, since I live in a neighborhood with lots of children, I went out and bought enough treats for 120 kids. I had chips, bars, candies, suckers, everything you can imagine stuffed into treat bags and waiting to be given out. I lit up the Halloween village on the table by my entrance, saw my little Buzz Lightyear and Scream Ghost off with their Dad, and waited for the crowds to arrive.
In 3 hours I saw 12 kids. Of those 12, only about half were wearing costumes. One was a 6'4" tall ninja with a deeper voice than my husband, who arrived with a goblin-masked friend smoking a cigarette, and a pirate who drove the car they pulled up in.
Kids, you have to realize when you go to houses on Halloween night, people give you free candy! Just for showing up! Has that fact become unknown in recent years? Because if I was shorter and more selfish, I'd be throwing on some She-Ra garb and making a killing.
It's very sad for me to see such a special tradition from my past become so unceremonious to this generation of kids. With the mass retail bombardment that's common for every "holiday", I would have expected Halloween to be bigger and better than ever. But it seems that kids aren't all that interested anymore, and what a shame that is.
When did 11-year-olds start finding more enjoyment in smashing pumpkins than going door to door for treats? When did a school sweatshirt, jeans, a baseball hat and a face with a few black make-up streaks become a costume? Why are there as many high schoolers at my door as little children? And, most importantly, where have all the kids gone? Are they home playing X-box? Did they not get the Halloween memo? You know, about the free candy and everything?
I don't care. I'll still decorate my house like the crazy Halloween lady every year in hopes that someday things will get back to the way they used to be. Until then, I'm stuck with 100 bags of Cheetos and a yard to clean.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Prop 8
While Americans are basking in the joy of an exciting and historical election and anticipating a new Presidential administration, other election-night results aren't quite so hopeful.
Residents of California were asked on their Tuesday ballots to vote on Proposition 8, a Constitutional amendment governing the legality of gay marriage. Each side of the issue campaigned vigorously over the pastfew weeks. As I'm writing this, two days after the election, it looks as though Prop 8 has passed in California, making same-sex marriage illegal. (I should note, Arizona and Florida, in their own Propositions, voted the same way.)
Even though Nova Scotia is far ahead of it's time in matters of same-sex marriage and benefit equality, homosexuality is an uncomfortable topic for many people, especially in small, rural areas. You may disagree with homosexuality; you may think it's immoral or wrong or against your religion. You may not have ever been exposed to gay culture and just don't understand it. Regardless of why you don't look positively at homosexuality, in today's society it doesn't really matter. There are gay people in St. Peter's, Port Hawkesbury, Cregnish, Mabou, Little Anse, Guysborough, Canso, Chapel Island, and everywhere in between, and no individual's or group's moral self- righteousness is going to change that. I'm not here to debate morality. Gay people are here, they're not going away, and everyone has to either accept that or move to the moon, where, to my knowledge, there aren't any gay people. Yet.
The problem with Prop 8 is the civil rights violation associated with its passing.
Gay people are people, in the same way as white people are people, ugly people are people, racist people are people, and people who eat their own boogers are people. Is every person the kind of person we want to be? No. Some aren't even the type of people we'd want to be in the same room with. But there's no denying that they are indeed people, all with the same rights as human beings as I have.
Just because someone is Asian, should they not be entitled to a fair trial in a court of law? Just because someone is disabled, should they not be able to bear children if they so choose? Just because someone is gay, should they not be able to get married? Some say "apples and oranges". I say making same-sex marriage illegal is no different than squashing a woman's right to vote.
Proponents of Prop 8 will argue, "our Constitution says that marriage is a union between a man and a woman, and that's the way it should stay." Really? The same Constitution written 158 years ago? The one that's had to be amended over 500 times? The one that, up until a few decades ago, still recognized women as inferior citizens by "modern moral standards"?
Change is necessary as civilization evolves, and this Proposition is a perfect example of small-minded people being resistant to change.
There is no reason that a definition of marriage can't be between one consenting adult citizen and another consenting adult citizen. No reason, that is, except arbitrary notions of morality and religion which are debatable from a theological standpoint and irrelevant from a legislative one.
What makes this issue even more discriminatory is that, as of June 17 of this year, the California Supreme Court ruled that same-sex marriage is perfectly legal, and almost 20,000 same-sex couples have married since. The passing of Prop 8 calls into question whether these marriages will be retroactively annulled by the constitutional change. Imagine finally marrying the person you love and then having the government tell you it was all a farce, because other people don't agree with your choice. Talk about inequality.
I take the institution of marriage very seriously. It is very important to me that I am a wife, that the man I live with is my husband, and that we're recognized that way in both a legal and societal context. But it seems to me that people are ignoring the integral fundamentals of the concept of marriage and misguidedly concentrating on the language used to define it. Anyone in a marriage can tell you that two people's physical ability to produce children has little to do with their ability to sustain a productive and loving union. Marriage is about love, commitment and partnership, not anatomy. There are heterosexual couples the world over who cheat on each other and otherwise destroy the sanctity of marriage, while there are same-sex couples who are model examples of what a good relationship should be.
Who are we to dictate the extent of someone else's happiness, especially when that happiness harms nothing more than the status quo?
With Prop 8's passage, people in California might have lost the same-sex equality battle, but I have a feeling they will, rightly, win the war.
Residents of California were asked on their Tuesday ballots to vote on Proposition 8, a Constitutional amendment governing the legality of gay marriage. Each side of the issue campaigned vigorously over the pastfew weeks. As I'm writing this, two days after the election, it looks as though Prop 8 has passed in California, making same-sex marriage illegal. (I should note, Arizona and Florida, in their own Propositions, voted the same way.)
Even though Nova Scotia is far ahead of it's time in matters of same-sex marriage and benefit equality, homosexuality is an uncomfortable topic for many people, especially in small, rural areas. You may disagree with homosexuality; you may think it's immoral or wrong or against your religion. You may not have ever been exposed to gay culture and just don't understand it. Regardless of why you don't look positively at homosexuality, in today's society it doesn't really matter. There are gay people in St. Peter's, Port Hawkesbury, Cregnish, Mabou, Little Anse, Guysborough, Canso, Chapel Island, and everywhere in between, and no individual's or group's moral self- righteousness is going to change that. I'm not here to debate morality. Gay people are here, they're not going away, and everyone has to either accept that or move to the moon, where, to my knowledge, there aren't any gay people. Yet.
The problem with Prop 8 is the civil rights violation associated with its passing.
Gay people are people, in the same way as white people are people, ugly people are people, racist people are people, and people who eat their own boogers are people. Is every person the kind of person we want to be? No. Some aren't even the type of people we'd want to be in the same room with. But there's no denying that they are indeed people, all with the same rights as human beings as I have.
Just because someone is Asian, should they not be entitled to a fair trial in a court of law? Just because someone is disabled, should they not be able to bear children if they so choose? Just because someone is gay, should they not be able to get married? Some say "apples and oranges". I say making same-sex marriage illegal is no different than squashing a woman's right to vote.
Proponents of Prop 8 will argue, "our Constitution says that marriage is a union between a man and a woman, and that's the way it should stay." Really? The same Constitution written 158 years ago? The one that's had to be amended over 500 times? The one that, up until a few decades ago, still recognized women as inferior citizens by "modern moral standards"?
Change is necessary as civilization evolves, and this Proposition is a perfect example of small-minded people being resistant to change.
There is no reason that a definition of marriage can't be between one consenting adult citizen and another consenting adult citizen. No reason, that is, except arbitrary notions of morality and religion which are debatable from a theological standpoint and irrelevant from a legislative one.
What makes this issue even more discriminatory is that, as of June 17 of this year, the California Supreme Court ruled that same-sex marriage is perfectly legal, and almost 20,000 same-sex couples have married since. The passing of Prop 8 calls into question whether these marriages will be retroactively annulled by the constitutional change. Imagine finally marrying the person you love and then having the government tell you it was all a farce, because other people don't agree with your choice. Talk about inequality.
I take the institution of marriage very seriously. It is very important to me that I am a wife, that the man I live with is my husband, and that we're recognized that way in both a legal and societal context. But it seems to me that people are ignoring the integral fundamentals of the concept of marriage and misguidedly concentrating on the language used to define it. Anyone in a marriage can tell you that two people's physical ability to produce children has little to do with their ability to sustain a productive and loving union. Marriage is about love, commitment and partnership, not anatomy. There are heterosexual couples the world over who cheat on each other and otherwise destroy the sanctity of marriage, while there are same-sex couples who are model examples of what a good relationship should be.
Who are we to dictate the extent of someone else's happiness, especially when that happiness harms nothing more than the status quo?
With Prop 8's passage, people in California might have lost the same-sex equality battle, but I have a feeling they will, rightly, win the war.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
A "Ruff" Reality Check
Quite an elaborate event it was, this party for Winston, my sister's baby. Let me give you the highlights.
The house was decorated with balloons, banners, and streamers. My sister had made individual cakes for every guest, sparing no expense and leaving out no detail. The guests arrived with their gifts in tow, the girls dressed in pretty pink dresses and the boys donning special birthday hats, and they all played together and posed for pictures. By all accounts, this birthday extravaganza was a great success.
Due to a prior engagement, my MacDonald clan was unable to attend Winston's first birthday celebration, but fortunately for everyone, pictures of the entire grand affair were posted on Facebook within hours.
At this point I'll mention, Winston is a dog.
The extent of this insanity almost has me at a loss for words. Almost.
I''m not a dog-hater. When I was about a year old, my parents got me a dog, a Retriever-Collie mix, who was the most gentle and mild-mannered pet in the world. Poor old Sherry lived until I was 12, and when she got sick and we had to put her down, I remember being upset that whole day. I don't recall needing Ativan or therapy, though.
Now our family has a medium-sized white dog named Bear MacDonald (not just Bear, but Bear MacDonald, as my youngest is quick to point out in any discussion). We're not sure exactly what kind of dog he is, but for reasons it would take too long to explain, we call him a Glace Bay Shih-Tzu. He's generally well behaved, and definitely a great dog to have with kids. I like our dog for the most part, although I could do without the shedding and necessity of hiring a dog-sitter every time we go away for the night. I mean really, a dog-sitter? One of the annoyances of pet ownership, I guess.
Would I be sad if something bad happened to Bear MacDonald? Yes, I would. I'd probably miss the sight of him playing with the kids and how happy he looks when we pull up in the car.
But would I need to be hospitalized to deal with my grief? Probably not.
What is it with people and their dogs? I'm not trying to generate nasty e-mails for myself, because I know a lot of people have great affection for their pets, but somewhere along the line people have forgotten that there is a difference between dogs and humans.
My sister is a maniacal example. She takes Winston for manicures and pedicures and fluffing and quaffing appointments on a very regular basis, and considers this pampering to be just a regular budgetary expense. Are you kidding me? I haven't had a manicure in years! When I have the extra money and time set aside, you can be sure I won't pile Bear MacDonald into the car to make sure he gets the royal treatment first. Dogs lived for thousands of years without esthetic services; I doubt this generation of pooches would be any worse off without them.
Now let's move on to clothes. "Dog" does not belong in the same sentence as the word "sweater", people. It just doesn't, period. It's always the people who claim to love their dog the most, who insist on dressing it up as a witch for Halloween, or something just as cruel and ridiculous, all for the sake of laughing at it and taking a picture. Animals aren't meant to wear clothes, and certainly not any that cost more than the ones I'm wearing right now. Sheesh.
Lastly, I'll tell you about the experience that led up to me writing this article. The whole buy-a-small-dog-and-carry-it-around-like-a-purse thing, and every Paris Hilton-esque habit that goes along with that, has been annoying me for quite some time, but recently one of these delusional dog-people said something that really insulted me. This person actually sat in my living room, tickling her pooch's belly and coochie-coochi-coo-ing with such obliviousness and ignorance that only a young 20-something could muster, and told me that my kids were no more special than her dog. And she meant it sincerely. Imagine.
To those people, I can only say: wake up. Your dog is cute. Your DOG. That you bought. That can't speak to you. That licks his privates when he's bored. That sniffs other dog's bums.
Sorry to all the dog lovers, but I'm hoping most of you realize that children are in a different league. If you disagree, please never have children. Just get another dog - a small one named Daughter of Nutcase with red-painted claws and wearing a Burberry jacket.
The house was decorated with balloons, banners, and streamers. My sister had made individual cakes for every guest, sparing no expense and leaving out no detail. The guests arrived with their gifts in tow, the girls dressed in pretty pink dresses and the boys donning special birthday hats, and they all played together and posed for pictures. By all accounts, this birthday extravaganza was a great success.
Due to a prior engagement, my MacDonald clan was unable to attend Winston's first birthday celebration, but fortunately for everyone, pictures of the entire grand affair were posted on Facebook within hours.
At this point I'll mention, Winston is a dog.
The extent of this insanity almost has me at a loss for words. Almost.
I''m not a dog-hater. When I was about a year old, my parents got me a dog, a Retriever-Collie mix, who was the most gentle and mild-mannered pet in the world. Poor old Sherry lived until I was 12, and when she got sick and we had to put her down, I remember being upset that whole day. I don't recall needing Ativan or therapy, though.
Now our family has a medium-sized white dog named Bear MacDonald (not just Bear, but Bear MacDonald, as my youngest is quick to point out in any discussion). We're not sure exactly what kind of dog he is, but for reasons it would take too long to explain, we call him a Glace Bay Shih-Tzu. He's generally well behaved, and definitely a great dog to have with kids. I like our dog for the most part, although I could do without the shedding and necessity of hiring a dog-sitter every time we go away for the night. I mean really, a dog-sitter? One of the annoyances of pet ownership, I guess.
Would I be sad if something bad happened to Bear MacDonald? Yes, I would. I'd probably miss the sight of him playing with the kids and how happy he looks when we pull up in the car.
But would I need to be hospitalized to deal with my grief? Probably not.
What is it with people and their dogs? I'm not trying to generate nasty e-mails for myself, because I know a lot of people have great affection for their pets, but somewhere along the line people have forgotten that there is a difference between dogs and humans.
My sister is a maniacal example. She takes Winston for manicures and pedicures and fluffing and quaffing appointments on a very regular basis, and considers this pampering to be just a regular budgetary expense. Are you kidding me? I haven't had a manicure in years! When I have the extra money and time set aside, you can be sure I won't pile Bear MacDonald into the car to make sure he gets the royal treatment first. Dogs lived for thousands of years without esthetic services; I doubt this generation of pooches would be any worse off without them.
Now let's move on to clothes. "Dog" does not belong in the same sentence as the word "sweater", people. It just doesn't, period. It's always the people who claim to love their dog the most, who insist on dressing it up as a witch for Halloween, or something just as cruel and ridiculous, all for the sake of laughing at it and taking a picture. Animals aren't meant to wear clothes, and certainly not any that cost more than the ones I'm wearing right now. Sheesh.
Lastly, I'll tell you about the experience that led up to me writing this article. The whole buy-a-small-dog-and-carry-it-around-like-a-purse thing, and every Paris Hilton-esque habit that goes along with that, has been annoying me for quite some time, but recently one of these delusional dog-people said something that really insulted me. This person actually sat in my living room, tickling her pooch's belly and coochie-coochi-coo-ing with such obliviousness and ignorance that only a young 20-something could muster, and told me that my kids were no more special than her dog. And she meant it sincerely. Imagine.
To those people, I can only say: wake up. Your dog is cute. Your DOG. That you bought. That can't speak to you. That licks his privates when he's bored. That sniffs other dog's bums.
Sorry to all the dog lovers, but I'm hoping most of you realize that children are in a different league. If you disagree, please never have children. Just get another dog - a small one named Daughter of Nutcase with red-painted claws and wearing a Burberry jacket.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Where Were You?
In the fall of 2001, I was sent to Yellowknife, Northwest Territories for a work conference. The prospect of traffic and crowds and noise, after being stuck in Nunavut for over a year with none of those things, was exciting indeed.
Meetings and training occupied most of my days over the course of the week-long conference. My evenings were spent shopping, dining, and walking around the city. I bought almost an entire new wardrobe, I ate at beautiful restaurants, I saw trees, and I acted every bit the tourist that I was.
After full days of working and spending money, I'd retire to my plush hotel room to watch television and get a good night's sleep. The hotel, meals, cabs - the whole shot - was paid by my employer, and I was loving every minute of my all-expense-paid vacation.
The night before I was scheduled to leave, I was in my room, packing and organizing my things, eating Chinese take-out, and watching music videos. I considered how lucky I was to be laying on a king-size bed in a terry bathrobe and slippers, with nothing to do but relax. Though I could have used a few more days of civilization, I was satisfied with my trip and anxious to return to Iqaluit. The time away had done me plenty of good, but now it was time to head back to the real world. I re-checked my plane ticket, ordered a wake-up call, and fell asleep soundly. Life was good.
My flight was scheduled to leave at 8:40am on Tuesday, September 11, 2001.
I woke up early that morning, at around 5:30am, so I'd have plenty of time to check out and get to the airport. After my shower, I turned on the television for some background noise and began getting ready. I barely noticed that the music videos had stopped and two people were speaking live, but a few unusual words caught my attention. Events in New York...urging everyone to turn on the news...pray for us all...what? What are they talking about?
I flipped through the channels without knowing what I was looking for, unaware of how many thoughts could swirl around in a person's head in just a few seconds. It didn't take me long to find live feed of the Twin Towers. Had I not received that ominous forewarning, I'd have thought I was watching a movie.
Two planes? That can't be a coincidence, can it? Wait, what time is it in New York? 9:20am. Wouldn't most people have been at work when this happened? How many people work in those buildings? How many per floor? How many floors would be taken out by a direct hit from a commercial airline? Were there passengers on these planes? How many people are already dead?
There were so many questions and so many frightening possible answers.
At some point, a room service lady had come into the room with my breakfast and noticed what was on the television. She sat beside me at the end of the bed and we both watched in silent astonishment. I doubt it was common for hotel staff to invite themselves into an occupied room, or for the occupant to not notice or care, but it was a unique circumstance. We never even spoke to each other.
And then the Pentagon.
What's going on here? Was it another plane? Isn't the Pentagon one of the most secure buildings in the world? There were already two crashes, why isn't anyone stopping these people? For God's sake, who are these people? Who would do something like this?
I was informed by someone that all flights in North America, mine included, had been grounded, so I was glued to the television without distraction. Maybe I was just too terrified to move. After the Pentagon, I watched news unfold of the other plane crashing in Pennsylvania. I watched the towers fall, two iconic pieces of New York landscape reduced to rubble in a matter of seconds. I heard panic and fear in the voices of firefighters, news anchors and families missing loved ones. Was this attack over? Or is this the beginning of Armageddon?
Many questions from that day remain unanswered more than seven years later. We can put the memory of that day behind us, but only until we relive the panic of the early hours, and our pulse starts to increase. And why shouldn't it? That's the morning the world, our lives, changed forever.
I don't why it's so important for people to share their story, but it seems to be important to just about everyone. Feel free to tell me yours.
Meetings and training occupied most of my days over the course of the week-long conference. My evenings were spent shopping, dining, and walking around the city. I bought almost an entire new wardrobe, I ate at beautiful restaurants, I saw trees, and I acted every bit the tourist that I was.
After full days of working and spending money, I'd retire to my plush hotel room to watch television and get a good night's sleep. The hotel, meals, cabs - the whole shot - was paid by my employer, and I was loving every minute of my all-expense-paid vacation.
The night before I was scheduled to leave, I was in my room, packing and organizing my things, eating Chinese take-out, and watching music videos. I considered how lucky I was to be laying on a king-size bed in a terry bathrobe and slippers, with nothing to do but relax. Though I could have used a few more days of civilization, I was satisfied with my trip and anxious to return to Iqaluit. The time away had done me plenty of good, but now it was time to head back to the real world. I re-checked my plane ticket, ordered a wake-up call, and fell asleep soundly. Life was good.
My flight was scheduled to leave at 8:40am on Tuesday, September 11, 2001.
I woke up early that morning, at around 5:30am, so I'd have plenty of time to check out and get to the airport. After my shower, I turned on the television for some background noise and began getting ready. I barely noticed that the music videos had stopped and two people were speaking live, but a few unusual words caught my attention. Events in New York...urging everyone to turn on the news...pray for us all...what? What are they talking about?
I flipped through the channels without knowing what I was looking for, unaware of how many thoughts could swirl around in a person's head in just a few seconds. It didn't take me long to find live feed of the Twin Towers. Had I not received that ominous forewarning, I'd have thought I was watching a movie.
Two planes? That can't be a coincidence, can it? Wait, what time is it in New York? 9:20am. Wouldn't most people have been at work when this happened? How many people work in those buildings? How many per floor? How many floors would be taken out by a direct hit from a commercial airline? Were there passengers on these planes? How many people are already dead?
There were so many questions and so many frightening possible answers.
At some point, a room service lady had come into the room with my breakfast and noticed what was on the television. She sat beside me at the end of the bed and we both watched in silent astonishment. I doubt it was common for hotel staff to invite themselves into an occupied room, or for the occupant to not notice or care, but it was a unique circumstance. We never even spoke to each other.
And then the Pentagon.
What's going on here? Was it another plane? Isn't the Pentagon one of the most secure buildings in the world? There were already two crashes, why isn't anyone stopping these people? For God's sake, who are these people? Who would do something like this?
I was informed by someone that all flights in North America, mine included, had been grounded, so I was glued to the television without distraction. Maybe I was just too terrified to move. After the Pentagon, I watched news unfold of the other plane crashing in Pennsylvania. I watched the towers fall, two iconic pieces of New York landscape reduced to rubble in a matter of seconds. I heard panic and fear in the voices of firefighters, news anchors and families missing loved ones. Was this attack over? Or is this the beginning of Armageddon?
Many questions from that day remain unanswered more than seven years later. We can put the memory of that day behind us, but only until we relive the panic of the early hours, and our pulse starts to increase. And why shouldn't it? That's the morning the world, our lives, changed forever.
I don't why it's so important for people to share their story, but it seems to be important to just about everyone. Feel free to tell me yours.
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