Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Putting the fun in dysfunctional

I originally posted this about four years ago, but I think it bears repeating.

Let’s face it, Norman Rockwell wasn’t a documentarian, Martha Stewart likely dines alone over the sink, and Hallmark makes it all up. So, if you, like me, have a family gathering coming up in the next while in honour of Christmas, I offer the following tips (some of them tongue in cheek,) for getting through a day or a meal with some of your more… interesting relatives:

1. Focus on the children.
They have not yet been completely messed up by their messed-up parents so there’s actually hope for a decent conversation if they’re old enough to speak. Don’t ask a lot of questions- just get down there and play with them. Be the fun auntie or uncle who really takes time for them. Be warned, they might not realize that you’re using them as a diversion and may take to clinging to your leg. This also can be helpful, as it takes up tons of time that would otherwise be spent hearing from their parents about how marvelous or disappointing they are.

2. Focus on the food.
Being busy preparing things is an awesome way of not having to hear about how evolution doesn’t really exist, or how auntie so-and-so did cousin such-and-such wrong this year. Prepare complicated and difficult dishes so you’ll look like you’re putting a lot of effort into the family rather than avoiding them.

3. Have a project.
Bring a notebook or some paper and ask everyone for recipes or favourite memories of Christmases past or something like that. It provides a natural talking point and can help you avoid hearing the stories about this year’s surgeries and other disgusting medical issues.

4. Drink heavily.
Kind of goes without saying, doesn’t it? Plus, it might have the added benefit of providing a distraction if your two uncles look like they’re actually going to have that long-threatened fistfight; you could provide a way for everyone to think about something else.

5. Be an anthropologist.
This one is handy only if you’re in the right mood, but it can extremely useful for the particularly difficult family. Pretend you’ve been dropped on foreign soil and must report back to your mother country on the attitudes and mores of the inhabitants with an eye to beginning trade talks or an invasion. Ask lots of questions, and do what you can to remember the answers as though you really were writing a report, because you are. When you’re telling your friends about the craziness you experienced at the Christmas dinner table, you’ll want to be well prepared with the inevitable details they’ll ask for.

6. Have some fun with it.

This is a tip only for the very, very brave or those who have taken tip #4 a little too seriously. Ask the crazy conservative about Sarah Palin, talk to the atheist about the vast void of nothingness that follows death, or even question the closeted about their love life. While asking the obviously closeted about romance might seem odd, it does the triple duty of a)providing a timekiller, b)giving the relative the chance to use the stories they’ve been making up for just such a situation and c)(bonus) provides assurance their secret remains safe.)

Here’s hoping your Christmas dinner is delicious and entertaining.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Vitamins and Hope

Goodbye, Ginko; see ya, C and it's a denoument for D.

Researchers at Johns Hopkins University have said formally and with research what I have believed for a long time: vitamins and other supplements are a waste of time and money. They do nothing for your health. Nothing. Actually, some of them have been proven to hurt your health, according to the researchers.

What a relief! I own vitamins, but I very rarely take them, not only because my memory is poor, but I have always just somehow figured they didn't really do anything. My sweetie faithfully puts an effervescent Vitamin C pill into his water each morning and while I wonder about it and I generally don't join him, I don't say much about it because his mom swears by it and who am I to argue?

We want to believe vitamins work, because it's so much easier in our minds to take a pill than to eat right, which is more veggies, less fast food, less fat and generally fewer calories. Many of us feel like we're OK to pig out on the burgers and chips: we're covered because we took a multi-vitamin this morning.

I don't exactly know why, but I was never convinced. Now I can feel safe throwing them out and I don't have to waste money buying new ones; the researchers have proven there's just no point.

But don't worry about the companies involved in the 20 billion dollar vitamin and supplement business. The people who believe in vitamins won't believe this news, no matter what pedigree of scientist says they're useless. After all, Mom said so.

And I vow to say nothing, except maybe under my breath.

Friday, December 13, 2013

Oprah and Me

It's not often I find myself in league with Oprah Winfrey, but today's one of those rare occasions.

In an interview with the Hollywood Reporter, Oprah Winfrey, who single-handedly changed the broadcasting and publishing industry, who consistently makes the Forbes list of highest paid people, who is, well, OPRAH, still has to answer questions about why she doesn't have children.

Graciously, she deigns to answer those questions. But why should she have to? Why must a woman have reproduced to be considered whole? It's certainly not a question men get.

Many of the people like me, people without our own children, glory in our nieces and nephews, cousins and others and have plenty of love to give without feeling the burning need to bring another person into this crazy, mixed-up world. And yet, those among us who remain child-free continually get asked why we didn't get on the Mommy Train.

Somehow, people don't think it's rude to ask why I haven't given birth, but somehow I know it is not acceptable to ask a woman why on earth she -did- give birth: 'You know your husband is nasty, right? You don't have a job, you're emotionally a mess, you're not, um, very good at it...'

It's OK to admit it - there are actually crappy mothers out there, and you have met them.

Why can't we ask those tough questions of the mothers, but childless me is left stammering and red-faced at family gatherings trying to come up with a gracious answer to a rude question?

Just once, I would like to reply to a Judgy Questioner, "I love my children too much to put them in a playgroup with yours." But that would just get me into trouble, wouldn't it?

Monday, December 2, 2013

A Fall of Gratitude

I have been having a rather magical autumn filled with travel and some guilt-free self-indulgence.

My sweetheart and I took a sunshine getaway the first week of November, to a resort that was quiet but lovely with terrific food and a beautiful beach. Last week, I spent four nights with my best girlfriends in Jamaica, on a spur-of-the-moment trip so one of us could use up her (very generous) vacation time for the year. Tonight, I have a rather expensive ticket to a concert in Toronto. I think the last big concert I went to was The Grateful Dead in Hamilton in 1993, so I may not quite know how to 'do' a concert properly, especially since P!nk will take the stage well after my usual bed-time.

No, we didn't win a lottery, at least not in the way one usually thinks of it.

In the last seven or eight months, I have received pieces of news about friends and acquaintances that have led me to make some changes in my life. I'm being more careful about my time, and less worried about lot of other things.

First off, I looked up an old friend from my days in Toronto, only to find out he is going through a terrifying and horrible ordeal; his wife diagnosed with cancer as she gave birth to their first child. Imagine, the joy of a healthy baby and fifteen seconds later, whap! a five-year survival rate of about 20 percent.

Secondly, a woman I was friends with but with whom I had lost touch recently passed away at less than 50 years old. This girl was funny and fun and had survived some very serious health issues. Her marriage didn't survive, though, and some of the people I've been talking to say she died of a broken heart.

More recently, one of the most talented craftsmen I know, a man who saved my sanity when I was in big, big trouble a few years ago, was diagnosed with ALS. It's devastating to see him lose the use of his amazing hands and heartbreaking to imagine the conversations he is being forced to have with his wife and kids and the rest of his family.

And so, when I walk my dog, when I am stirring the sauce, when I am discussing my plans for Christmas, no matter what I'm doing, these people are nearby, their stories silently keeping me aware of how quickly time passes, how important it is to cherish the people you love. Their situations remind me to be sure I make the most of every day, to say YES (and NO), to give back, to be aware, to take the vacation. Because (and yes, I know this is a cliche...) you just never know what's next and you only get one turn in the game of life; best not to miss it.

Monday, November 18, 2013

Monday morning questions

I'm so torn on this whole Rob Ford thing: I feel a great deal of sorrow about the whole mess. It's 'fashionable' to feel sorry about it, according to one of many columnists I read this weekend, as though honest upset is impossible. That same columnist said it appeared as though Ford's 'catty' comments on Thursday had been rehearsed and Ford was pretty pleased to have said them, at the time at least. I thought the same thing upon my first watching, but dismissed my impression because really, who would be proud of such an utterance in front of a phalanx of reporters? The answer is, no one who would use the words utterance or phalanx.

Therein lies the great divide: Rob Ford won in Toronto on the politics of division, pitting the car-driving suburbanites against the subway-taking downtowners. Tim's versus Starbucks, and he's a Tim's guy, just like you!

But -is- he just like you? Yeah, you have a few hangovers in your history and a few things you're not particularly proud of, but how many of your friends are in jail?

Sure, you have some stories on the wild side, but have you ever been in a house that police characterize as a crack den? How often?

Do you know anyone who has been shot in a drug deal? Killed in gang activity?

Did you get yourself into a drunken stupor this weekend and accidentally take a drag on a crack pipe that just happened to be available? Were you at the kind of party that has crack?

Did you have a few drinks and get behind the wheel?

Has your spouse ever called 911 with an allegation of spousal assault?

Have you been arrested in possession of pot? How about for DUI?

Were you ever asked by a major organization not to appear at a public event like a football game or parade?

No? Well, clearly you're one of the snooty downtowners, you snob.

Personally, I don't pick who I vote for based on whether I want to hang out with them or whether their exploits are more or less embarrassing than mine. I try to vote for the smartest person on the ticket because the job they're doing is a complex one. I vote for the candidate I think is honest, because I want honest people handling my tax dollars. When I fill out my ballot, I don't feel that attending the same high school automatically earns a candidate my vote. When possible, I pick the person who's the smartest, the most honest and here's one more thing: the kindest. Kind with my money, and also kind, as in thoughtful and, for want of a better term, good. If a potential representative seems smart but also mean, I hesitate.

Maybe I'm alone in this, but whether I could down a beer (or ten) with a candidate, or where they buy their coffee just never,ever comes into consideration.

Thursday, November 14, 2013

The cat's out of the bag

Just when I thought it simply could not get any worse for Canadian politics, it gets a little worse each day, and that was months ago.

Did you see today's scrum at City Hall in Toronto? All of it? Unedited?

Well, if you're a voter in Toronto, you should.

So Proud I Think My Heart Might Burst

I was away on a cheapy sunshine holiday when last week's round of revelations came surrounding Rob Ford. We didn't turn our in-room television on until about day three, and there was good ole Toronto, front and centre on the BBC and CNN. It's been kind of funny the last few months, watching a loudmouth get his comeuppance, but watching Ford's humiliation was kind of squirm-inducing, actually. I was embarrassed to have lived in Toronto at one point, to see one of my favourite places turned into an international laughingstock.

During the trip, we made friends with a group of lovely people who had been to our resort more than a dozen times and who self-identified as members of Ford Nation. The admission from Ford that he had smoked crack was cracking their resolve to continue supporting him. One of the women said she was done with Ford although her husband remained unmoved. He was definitely buying into the 'Who among us hasn't sinned?' argument being put forward, sticking to his guns that it doesn't matter what Ford does on his off-hours since he's watching the cash and 'stopping the gravy train'.

I'd be interested to hear what Steve has to say today, with allegations in the newly-unredacted court documents that the 'gravy train' actually appears to have a fully furnished stop in Rob Ford's office. Ford is said to have given big raises (yes, in tax dollars) to staff members who stayed after the mass exodus in June. He's said to have sent workers to do chores at his house during work hours and also to have sent workers, during work hours, to the liquor store on his behalf. He's said to have been drunk at work and also to have brought prostitutes to his office.

Most of us have done things we're not proud of, and I think that's why Ford has sustained his support this long; people see a bit of themselves in him. However, I suspect most of Ford Nation has also had an abusive boss somewhere along the line, someone who has different expectations of their workers than of themselves, who asks for stuff he shouldn't and who bullies berates and bribes underlings.

I'm guessing that Ford is starting to look less like the colleague who has a few 'too many pops' once in a while and more like a mean, out-of-control boss unafraid to put his hand in the cookie jar. Then again, loyalty is a funny thing, and many of us can find ways to explain away even the worst behaviour in the people we have chosen to support.

Just look at Leafs Nation if you need an example.

Thursday, October 24, 2013

The Tell

I see no victims whatsoever in the ongoing senate expense scandal that's taking up so much of the newscasts these days. While it appears the Conservatives are worried about their 'base' (read: staying in power) more than loyalty or pretty much anything else, it also appears the senators in question are a bunch of greedy graspers.

It's high-stakes poker, and as in most poker games, players have 'tells', which are a clue to what's really going on in their hand, or in this case, their head.

The tells I'm seeing here:

1. The snooty voiced, "I already told you that!". As soon as anyone uses that one, or says something to the effect of, "We have already addressed this issue...", I become confident they have neither told me nor addressed it, and they're going to do their damnedest not to.

2. Clarity. As soon as anyone busts out the phrase, "Let me be clear..." I am fairly certain clarity is not what's on offer. I have a pretty good idea I'm about to hear a lie.

A few of my random thoughts:

When a person is about to lose a high-paying job which requires of them pretty much nothing, I expect they might do whatever might be required to keep it. $90,000 may be mere pocket change to Nigel Wright, but I expect it's a lot of cash to Mike Duffy and Pam Wallin and Patrick Braseau. Hell, it's a lot of money to pretty much anyone, isn't it?
Keep in mind, each of these Senators have spent time over the years highlighting their modest roots.

I believe Mike Duffy when he says he was told right off the hop that it didn't matter where he really lived, or that he doesn't see the inside of his so-called 'primary residence' in PEI except once in a blue moon. I believe his actual residence didn't matter much at the time of his appointment because at that time, it seemed to be accepted that Senators don't do much and don't really have to live where they say they live, because the Senate is a gift you give friends who have been loyal or people who can do stuff for you. Wallin and Duffy and Braseau fit that bill perfectly.

This government promised transparency and accountability, and appears to have been surprised that 'THE BASE' might actually have believed the promise or might demand the promise be kept.

While I don't feel sorry for the PMO for being 'hoist on its own petard' I also feel no outrage that these particular three Senators might be getting the boot after being so greedy.

See? No victims!
Well, just two. Us and our tax dollars.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Lemon Pie Chronicles


I completed a long and complex journey this weekend, a journey that started about fifteen years ago and led me through several kitchens, some tears and the briefest of brushes with internet pornography.

I hold a deeply-cherished belief that homemade food is almost always superior to store-bought, or as we called it when I was a kid, 'boughten'. The one exception of course, is the Oreo, which is a 'boughten' food with its very own special category of deliciousness.

I expounded on this belief in a heated discussion one day way back in the 90s, holding forth that surely, somewhere, there must be a recipe that would rival the old standby for lemon pie, the one that comes in a box. My co-arguers were not moved despite my passion, which is how I ended up on this decades-long quest for a perfect lemon pie from lemons and not from a box.

My first stop was the then-nascent Internet. Keep in mind, it was the 90s. There were no parental controls, and only the very nerdiest of the science dweebs knew what a googol was or that it might become Google. I'll never forget my father's laugh when I told him about the porn I was blasted with after I typed into the search engine, "lemon pie". The women were all outfitted in yellow bikinis on the opening pages. "Cherry pie", by the way, at the time, would get you ladies in red bikinis. I'm so happy the 'net has progressed.

This weekend, four kitchens and nearly two dozen recipes later, I believe I may have finally nailed it. I have tried many, many variations and permutations of lemon pie filling over the years, some too runny, some too stiff, some not lemony enough, some with flat meringue, I was starting to think I had been wrong in that long-ago discussion and "the crap from the box" might actually be as good as it gets.

But I finally turned to a book from the 80s, and I believe I have won my self-imposed challenge.

For my two Thanksgiving dinners this weekend, I made pies from a book my mother had given me when I was 16 and not prone to listening to her advice in the kitchen or anywhere else. The recipe from Better Homes and Gardens calls for a teaspoon of lemon zest and 1/3 cup of fresh-squeezed lemon juice. I doubled both while reducing amount of water called for and used the pastry recipe from Joy of Cooking. Three whites in the meringue.

Here's how I know it was a success: after each dinner, I was banned from taking my leftovers home. Oh, I was welcome to take home the pan, but as we cleaned up after the meal in each house, there was no question that final slice was going anywhere but into my hosts' tummy.

Fifteen or sixteen years, probably about 20 recipes and finally, I win. I wasn't up against anything but my personal lemon pie beliefs, and you can call me tenacious, stubborn or willful, I don't care because I was right: there is indeed, a homemade lemon pie much, much better than boughten.

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Compare and Contrast

So, let me get this straight:

Monday night, a group which collects and talks about public opinion on a serious issue manages to pack Collingwood's town hall with people.

The head dude appears to be the sole spokesperson for the citizens' group, but claims there is a massive stand of other people also interested in the issues he's talking about. The massive group of people talk about the issue through a website, share information and take part in surveys, which are also online. The group has no headquarters, no bricks and mortar; its presence is online. It does, however, take out advertising to draw people to its important message, which is that there needs to be more talk about its issue.

The dude who makes the presentation says things he's been saying for a while, things about public pressure being brought to bear on the issue that affects a lot of people. He says there's something broken in our world and needs to be fixed. He says if enough people affected by the issue join the movement and speak out, change can happen.

Dude is warmly welcomed and indeed thanked by council members for the efforts he is making at making the world a better place.

Later that very same night, a councillor provides notice of a motion he wants discussed and voted on by fellow councillors.

This councillor wants a private citizen called onto the carpet at town hall to explain himself and his citizens' group, the methodology of his online research, and the very public calls he's making that pressure be brought to bear on an issue that affects a lot of people.

Two groups: Stop the Drop and Better Together Collingwood.
Stop is about water levels in the the bay, Better is about governance at town hall. One gets a warm reception for its online work, the other gets...well, we don't really know yet.

My innocent, always-hopeful heart hopes that somehow, Kevin Lloyd's motion is designed to bring Brian Saunderson to council so he, too, can be praised for the advocacy work that's being done on issues that are important to a lot of people.

What do you think are the chances my hope is a correct reading of the situation?

Friday, September 20, 2013

Hope for the Human Race?

There can be days when being in the news business wears a person down.

I was on air Monday-Friday during the middle of the day in Toronto during the Paul Bernardo trial. There was no escaping the horrible details, since I had to say them out loud four times an hour for the six weeks of that trial. It was tough every day, although not as tough for me as it was on our reporters who were in the court room. One of our two reporters took a stress leave immediately after the trial and as far as I know, never did go back to work.

These days, it's the disgusting details of the Jeffery Baldwin case that make me cry when I get home.

But every once in a while, there comes a day when there are good-news stories to energize and lift my spirits.

Today, I have at least three reasons for hope for the human race:

The Pope has said what many people have been thinking for a long time, suggesting Christians spend a lot less time dwelling on abortion and contraception and homosexuality, and a lot more time living the central tenants of Christianity; you know, the love and mercy stuff that guy, Jesus, was talking about.

In Boston, a homeless man found a backpack full of 42-thousand dollars in cash and traveller's cheques. After no doubt asking who the hell uses traveller's cheques any more, the guy found a cop and handed the bag over.

Cops in Boston told the story of the homeless guy and the money, and a total stranger in Virginia started a crowdsourcing fundraiser for the homeless guy on gofundme.com. As of this morning, it has more than a hundred thousand dollars donated to it.

The homeless guy's name is Glen James. The guy who started the fund is Ethan Whittington. I want to remember their names, not the names of the monsters in the news.

Friday, September 13, 2013

10 years and still eating mushrooms

One of my father's favourite jokes (and there were many), was about a woman widowed three times. It was told as part of a conversation between two old ladies and went like this:

"Three husbands, all dead and buried?"
"Yes."
"What happened to the first one?"
"Poison mushrooms."
"Oh, my! What happened to the second one?"
"Sadly, he, too died of eating poison mushrooms."
"And the third?"
"Fractured skull."
"How did that happen?"
"He wouldn't eat the mushroom stew."

My dad would tell this joke in response to my Sweetie and I waxing eloquent about the amazing mushroom soup at the place we go every year to celebrate our wedding anniversary. This will be year ten. Mrs. Mitchell's in Primrose never, ever fails to delight. I am starving myself all day to save room for tonight's terrific meal.

I plan to try on my wedding dress again today, too, just to see whether I've eaten myself out of it in the last few months. Even if I can't, it will not be a huge tragedy. Ten years in, one gets a bit more sanguine about these things.

Sweetie and I have been through quite a lot in the last 3653 days, and we both have chosen to stay, no matter what the crisis; to find a way to the other side. I'm looking forward to a calm and happy second decade of wedded near-bliss.

Thursday, September 12, 2013

On Social Media Etiquette

Facebook, Twitter and a blog are as far as I've gone so far with my social media connectedness, but I must confess to feeling as though I might be missing the boat on new cool sites. I have no instagram or Tumblr account, I distrust Linkdin and I'm not even sure what Vine is, but it's the latest 'it' thing, apparently. (I suspect the very fact I would call something an 'it' thing would instantly disqualify me.)

You're not still on myspace, are you? ewww. Although, I bet myspace will be seen as hip and retro before long; I hear vinyl is making a comeback, too. I keep waiting for calligraphy to also become cool again, but no such luck.

If you have a love/hate relationship with social media, come sit by me. While we love knowing stuff about people we don't see often, let's admit that much of what we all post is tedious, torturous personal PR. We all know it's a rare person indeed who will post unpleasant or unflattering information about themselves on facebook. It should really be called bragbook. A couple of my friends staunchly refuse to join because they consider it to be a never-ending high school. They have a point.

The first thing I did when I signed up for facebook was to block a couple of people with whom I had unfortunate dealings, including a former boss, a former boyfriend and the worst of his odious friends.

This week, almost by accident, I discovered to my chagrin that unfriending can go both ways. Usually if someone overshares or if their posts are badly spelled and annoying, it's easy to avoid seeing those posts by simply removing the person from my facebook news feed. (Rest assured, it's only for other people, I would never remove YOU from my feed!) The removed overposter is none the wiser and I don't have to see the latest pictures of their obese cats; it's win-win. Now, if a removed person drifts across my consciousness, I can still look them up and know what's going on in their lives. This week, I did happen to look up two women whose feeds I had removed, and discovered to my surprise, I was no longer 'friends' with either of them! Clearly, I've offended or hurt them in some serious way. Or maybe they don't know the trick of removal without the drastic step of 'unfriending'?

Here's where it's high school: I'm somewhat hurt that these women took me off their friend list even though I had basically done the same thing to them. So why are we using the word, friend, exactly?

And really, how soon can curling season start? I clearly need a life off the Internet.

Thursday, September 5, 2013

Chilling Words

A comment I overheard while at work a few years ago has stayed with me to this day, and every time I think of it, I feel a little scared and a little sad. Scared because I fear this is how a lot of people in positions of power think. Sad because I now know this is how a lot of people in positions of power think.

The person said the following:

"The Board will make the decision I want them to make because I will give them the information they require to come to that decision."

Just let that sit for a minute. They'll make the decision I want made, because of the information I will provide. This wasn't at town hall and has no connection to some of the stuff people have been reading about when it comes to politics in Collingwood, but it reveals a certain mindset, one that puts putative decision-makers in a position they don't even know they're in. It's the thinking that landed US soldiers in Iraq. (Weapons of Mass Destruction, anyone?) It's I fear, Standard Operating Procedure.

After you've thought about the thought process it takes to come out with such a statement, take a few minutes to read Ian Adams' very interesting piece in the Enterprise Bulletin about how decisions were made about recreation facilities in Collingwood.
Click here to read it.





Friday, August 23, 2013

Are You Tired of the Pot Wink?

Nearly all of my friends smoke pot once in a while.

I never do, of course, because my mother reads this blog.

But I've certainly been around it plenty of times. Wink, wink.

Justin Trudeau may be playing a dangerous game, coming out as someone who has not only been around marijuana, but actually took a drag or two off a joint. More than once. He inhaled. I think what he and his advisors are betting on, is that a lot of us are tired of the hypocrisy that surrounds this drug.

Yes, my police officer friends, I am fully aware that pot is illegal. That's why my friends who indulge keep their stash and their accoutrements hidden away in rafters or back closets. And yes, there are big scary men connected to trafficking who booby trap lovely farmers' fields and yaddda yadda yadda.

Here's what I also know: if I wanted to get high this afternoon, this pie-baking, church-going, mortgage-paying, middle-aged lady could have my hands on some marijuana in, oh, about five minutes. So, clearly, what we're doing now regarding the criminals etc., isn't really working.

Trudeau knows this, and he knows that you and I know it. He also knows that most people in this country have, at some point, smoked some pot and they didn't become wild addicts or go on killing sprees or whatever thing is being said now to dissuade the kids from trying it. They giggled. They ate a lot of chips. They slept well, and that's about it. Nearly all of us would rather be around someone quite high than someone quite drunk. The high guy doesn't get belligerent, or make a pass at your sweetheart. They giggle, make no sense for a while and then they go to bed.

Furthermore, when we encounter someone who says they've never, ever smoked pot, we expect we're being lied to. Well, we're being lied to or we're talking with someone really boring or backward, or maybe a religious nut who's about to give us a lecture on abortion and evolution. We wonder how they ended up at the same party as us.

It's the sentiment about the boring and backward that Trudeau is trying to tap into, since I suspect he knows he's never going to appeal to the anti-abortion, questioning-of-evolution crowd.

Trudeau is looking for votes from people like me, people who are tired of what we see as the boatloads of bullshit that have surrounded conversations about pot all our lives. We're also people who don't quite trust anyone so dull, so incurious, so non-rebellious or so ideological as to never to have touched the stuff.

Will the strategy work? I guess we'll find out in about two years.

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Questioning the Fan

OK, so let me get this straight:

The Toronto Maple Leafs have not won their league for 47 years, and yet they are the most profitable team in the NHL.

They also have the most expensive tickets.

This week, the Leafs increased their prices for this year's games and introduced tiered pricing whereby tickets to 'desirable' games will be even pricier. You will pay extra for say, the Canadiens, or Pittsburgh.

The Toronto Maple Leafs did not make the playoffs in the 10 years prior to 2013.
They fell spectacularly apart in game 7 of the first series this winter, blowing a several-goal lead in the final few minutes of the game.

So, Leafs fans, tell me this, and I mean no disrespect; I am genuinely curious: Why on earth are you fans of this team? Can you explain your loyalty? Because I just don't get it.

Friday, August 16, 2013

Frogs and Locusts Next?


As I arrived at my Mom's kitchen door Thursday, I stopped for a few minutes to listen for the sound of hoof beats from the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

There at her table sat my mother with her laptop, reading facebook. My mother. On the Internet.

As I drove onto the property, I noticed the flowers growing on both sides of the barn door. Flowers. At the barn.

But the biggest sign that something has drastically changed in our world was the trip to the farm on the former County 62, also known as the 8th line. There was pavement. Real pavement. Not that cold-rolled stuff that lasted about five minutes before the first pothole ten years ago. Not the gravel that preceded it, not even calcium-coated gravel. Asphalt. Pavement. The real stuff that they put down on real roads. Sometimes with lines painted on it.

People in Hell, this is your warning: put on your parkas!!

Saturday, August 10, 2013

Review: Orange is the New Black

Don't take the time to read this whole post before you sign yourself up for Netflix and watch Orange is the new Black.

But be prepared to have a messy house and hungry family, because you'll sit down for the first episode and find yourself five hours later, still mesmerized. I was.

I cannot stress enough how unbelievably amazing this made-for-Internet TV show is.

The writing, the character development, the production values, the acting (oh, the acting!), it's supremely superb, easily the Very Best Thing I have ever watched on television, ever. Better than Mad Men, better than the Sopranos. Seriously.

The cast is mostly women, the plot follows a privileged New Yorker sent to prison for a year ten years after she was a money mule for her then-girlfriend's drug cartel. The rest of the cast is also women, also locked up, and their stories are told with a mixture of flashback and narrative, but thankfully, no narration. It's funny and scary and sad and angry-making, all at the same time. In a four-second closeup, the lead actor, Taylor Schilling can convey betrayal, lust and the develop of her own revenge plot, without so much as an eyebrow raise. The rest of the performances, including those of Kate Mulgrew as a Russian mob worker who now runs the prison kitchen, are truly amazing.

I don't know how the writers managed to put so much comedy in the midst of so much drama and angst, social commentary and people behaving badly; I can only marvel at the supremacy of their work. The layers, the references are truly magnificent.

SO good. You will not regret one minute of the 13 episodes. You'll only regret that season two just started production last week, which means it will be a while before you find out what happens to Piper next.

Friday, August 9, 2013

One Year Later

I did something today I haven't done in just under a year.

I walked out my front door on the way to work.

My very own front door.

It was 51 weeks ago this weekend a hoodlum in a stolen car smashed into my house, destroying the porch attached to my century home.

Yesterday, the contractor put the plywood down on the new roof. By the time the project is finished, it will be fully a year since the crash. I suspect the hoodlum, who pleaded guilty to five charges, has already served his time and is getting ready to do some more.

I don't think it's normal for a project like ours to take a full year. But the crash happened in August, it took until Christmas for the insurance company to figure out what the ancient porch was worth, and a while to get approvals to build. Plus, my sweetie and I changed our minds on a few things.

It's been a tough year, explaining why the front door is inaccessible, giving directions down the driveway, cringing every time someone comes into my home through a laundry room that somehow, is always, always messy.

Really, we weren't hurt and we lost nothing. But my tiny project and small inconvenience has given me more sympathy for our neighbours in Calgary flooded out this year, and in Lac Megantic, victims of criminal negligence where so much has been lost and it's going to take far more than a year for most people to walk out their front doors again.

Thursday, August 8, 2013

REAL Rude

Did a socially conservative women's group just 'out' a federal cabinet minister?

The group, REAL women, which advocates for restrictions on abortion and which says it's for equality for "women in the home", has put out a news release bashing John Baird.

The release says in denouncing Russia's new homophobic laws and offering Canadian cash to gay-rights groups in Kenya, the Foreign Affairs Minister is trying to "further his own perspective on homosexuality."

The group goes on to say, "It is a fact, that homosexual activists in Canada are intolerant of any resistance to their demands, and, as such have become a tyrannical minority."

I guess the brand of 'equality' REAL women advocates for, doesn't extend to gay women.

I wonder what Baird's colleagues in the federal cabinet would have to say about that.

Friday, July 19, 2013

Word Nerd Joy

I got an amazing amount of joy this week from a video posted on Youtube that is long, long overdue.

I think it was about 17 years ago Alanis Morisette had a huge hit with her song, Ironic, which many people complained contained no descriptions of irony. A pair of girls has posted a new version of the song, amending the lyrics to make it actually ironic. Click here to watch it.

I also had an online conversation this week with a childhood schoolmate about the proper spelling of cell phone and why I will sometimes write celphone instead (no good reason).

Later in the week, another friend put up a facebook post including one of the best neologisms ever, which got me to thinking about my very favourite words, and lately, these top my list:

asshat
fuckwit
nerdery
underwhelming

Don't ask me to define them, or explain why, but every single time I have the chance to employ these terms, or hear someone else use them, it makes me giggle.

Thursday, July 18, 2013

No Comment

I used to think I was one of those people who really could get behind the sentiment in the old adage, "I may not agree with what you're saying but I'll die for your right to say it." I'm not so sure any more.

I believe the free exchange of ideas to be a good thing, but in practice, what the comments sections in newspapers and elsewhere has become is a repository for meanness and ill-disguised ill humour.

I've noticed the first comment on a newspaper article is usually somewhat well thought out and reasoned, but it generally takes only until the third or fourth comment for a commenter to call either the author or another commenter a jerk or a racist or a commie, or, more often, a commie racist jerk. It's depressing and the spelling errors just make it worse.

Other methods of feedback appear to be equally open for abuse. I have a listener who sends me regular email notes complaining about the radio station where I work. His notes may or may not contain a piece of truth, but I can't tell because they're so dripping with sarcasm and filled with snarly asides, it hurts to read them. I dread seeing his name in my inbox, but I feel I have to reply with professionalism and it galls me to thank him for the missive. What I want to do is tell this guy he should stop listening if I offend him so. OK, what I really want to write is, "SAY SOMETHING NICE you unhappy wretch!"

That said, at least he's brave enough to sign his own name.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Byng Rides Again

Thirteen years ago this summer, I made a new best friend. Byng the Bug is my little green 1998 Volkswagen Beetle and I love him so much, I can hardly describe it.

When the 'new beetles' were first introduced, I fell for them hard and fast, but I didn't think I would be able to get one right away. I was a recent grad with huge student loans, single, living in the big city on a young journalist's salary, a taste for dinners out and a shoe habit. My boyfriend at the time even bought me a glow-in-the-dark beetle from a toy store and used a sharpie to put a VW symbol on its back, saying it was the only bug I'd ever own. Well, if that wasn't an incentive to get my financial act together, what would be?

Two years later, at Weir's of Collingwood, Byng and I made our acquaintance and we've been together ever since. He and I took a trip to the east coast almost right away and we've been back and forth from Toronto more times than I can count. He has taken me to Provincetown and the Florida Keys, New Hampshire and Michigan. He's heard me weep and rail over broken hearts and bruised friendships and has carried me through snow and rain and hail in style for more than a decade.

This weekend, though, was nearly the end for us.

On the way to my annual Girls' Cottage Weekend, a light I had never seen before lit up on the dashboard, and the steering wheel suddenly seemed very tough to turn.

I made it to the cottage with a bit of worry at the back of my mind, but since Sweetie was also out of town, I decided there wasn't much that could be done about the situation, and I would just wait to see what would be.

Pulling out from the cottage on Sunday afternoon, the stiffness was still in the steering wheel, and that odd light was still on, but I made it down the 400 without too many worries, all the way to Penetanguishene Road. That's when the fan cut out, and the radio suddenly quit, but came back on again after a few seconds. When the speedometer started doing wonky things and the airbag light came on, I started to think that I was actually in really, really big trouble.

I sent a text to my sweetie asking where he was, and then sent another saying my car was acting funny. Just as I hit 'send' on the second note, Byng started not to respond to the gas pedal. I only barely managed to steer to the side of Horseshoe Valley Road and park before he just... quit. The windows were down, there wasn't even a click when I turned the key. The clock was still working, but that was it. My journey had ended for the day.

Happily, my mobile was charged enough to allow a flurry of texts and phone calls, and within two hours, Byng was parked at a garage in Collingwood courtesy of the CAA.

By five o'clock Monday, 25 hours after what I thought was a death rattle, I was driving my sweet little rusted ride home again, good as not-new.

I'm thrilled because I've been saving up for a new car and I don't quite have all the money I need just yet, (yes, Dad, I should have started saving as soon as I finished paying for Byng, I know....) but I'm also a little disappointed. I saw quite a few cool looking Minis for sale online in my desperation yesterday. I hope Byng doesn't find out I was contemplating cheating on him.

Thank you to Import Auto in Collingwood for prompt, friendly and reasonably-priced repairs, and to Fraser at B&B towing for being such a fun guy on a horribly hot day. Also to Sweetie for his roadside rescue and ride home.

Monday, July 8, 2013

They come in threes

News stories that caught my eye this morning:

1) Nigella Lawson's husband is filing for divorce.
Not she, he. The man who was photographed last month with his hands around his crying wife's throat in a fancy restaurant is the one who wants the divorce, because, he says, she wasn't supportive of him when the scandal about the throttling made the news. She moved their children from their home and didn't speak up on behalf of him, so he's divorcing her.

2) Eliot Spitzer is running for office in New York City.
He's the former attorney general and governor who vowed to get tough on sex crimes, and then was outed as the client of a brothel and forced to resign. He's running to be comptroller for the city. Another candidate for the same job is Kristin Davis. She's the former madam who provided Spitzer's sex services. She called him client number 9.

3) Soccer violence in Brazil
A ref was quartered by the crowd watching a game late last month after the ref stabbed to death a player when the player refused to leave the pitch. It seems the crowd didn't know the player was dead; he had been taken away in an ambulance, but exacted revenge on the ref regardless. He was beheaded and belimbed. And you thought hockey parents were crazy. Brazil, by the way, is slated to host the World Cup next year.

Wow. You couldn't make this stuff up.

Friday, July 5, 2013

Of Cheques and Elects

There's a worn-out joke about a conversation between a man and woman at a bar:

"Would you sleep with me for a million dollars?"
"Sure!"
"Would you sleep with me for ten dollars?"
"What kind of woman do you think I am?!"
"We've established that. Now we're negotiating."

On Parliament Hill, $30,000 dollars, subsidized by taxpayers, was OK with the Conservative Party of Canada to pay back the senate for Mike Duffy's trough-slurping. But $90,000 was too much.

At Queen's Park, $20,000,000 to cancel the unpopular electricity plants and buy five seats for the Liberals in the Toronto area appears to be just fine with voters, if the polls are to be believed, but $585,000,000 might be too much.

And closer to home, well, you've no doubt heard what's alleged, and who might be benefiting from deals made with your money. The OPP investigation into possible corruption is under way.

It's enough to make you wonder whether the world's oldest profession isn't what you think it is.

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Country Mouse Run, City Slicker Trot

This whole Running Thing is giving me more than just an opportunity at smaller pants; I'm getting a look at a culture I didn't know existed before, and its wide variety of events.

In May, three friends and I took part in the massive Sporting Life 10k in Toronto, along with 27,000 other people. Our bibs contained a chip, we paid $45 to run and along with the other racers, raised about $3,000,000 to fund a camp for kids diagnosed with cancer.

Yesterday, I finished 62nd out of 67 runners in the Duntroon to Stayner Road Race, a free event started in 1967 to promote fitness.

In the Toronto race, we passed iconic buildings and had the CN tower in our sights the whole time. Duntroon to Stayner, there was a roadkill skunk at kilometre 4 and a very ripe pig barn at kilometre 5.

At Sporting Life, we had to be ready to run more than an hour before the race, because the crowds were so huge. In Duntroon, it was, "show up when you're ready, and we'll take off sometime around 8:30..."

Back in May, there was a sea of people in front of and behind me on Yonge Street, and my running buddy beside me. Yesterday, the crowd thinned out pretty quickly, and I found myself alone on the road, so far behind, I thought was going to be 'lapped' by the other racers (an impossibility, since it was a point-to-point race). In that sea of people in Toronto, I knew only my friends and ran with them. In Duntroon, I knew nearly every face in the crowd, but still ran alone.

At the end, at Fort York, runners were offered bananas, apples, bagels and cream cheese and a medal. At the Stayner Community Centre, popsicles were distributed by the Lions Club and we were each given a crest to show we had taken part.

Both races were a good time, different, but equally good in their own way.

Thanks to Dayn Leyshon and Pam Jeffrey for organising the race yesterday. I hope you continue it for years to come. I'll be there!

Monday, June 24, 2013

Jealous of Cowtown

In the midst of the watery mess in Calgary the last few days, have you had a chance to witness the city's mayor in action?

Naheed Nenshi has been well-informed, articulate, intelligent, calming, reassuring, clever, funny and warm. It seems to me like he would pick up a shovel to help move mud from your flooded house if he happened by.

Compare and contrast this with the mayor of your town. I'm talking to you, my friends in Toronto, but elsewhere, too. Imagine a massive natural disaster, and what you might hear from your leaders. Now, stop crying.

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

The Circle of Blog

A flattering thing happened today.

I expect to double my readership, at least, and I have to say, it was kind of weird being the one who was answering the questions: Click here for Steve Berman's blog interview.


Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Innocent Question

Why do men talking about violence invariably use language that separates the violent act from the man?

A study released by the US Defense Department two weeks ago estimated that reports of unwanted sexual contact in the military, from groping to rape, rose 37 percent in 2012, to about 26,000 cases.

It's turned into a bit of a scandal, so much so, that at the graduation ceremonies for the military elite at West Point on the weekend, the US Defence Secretary said, "The scourge of sexual assault must be stamped out"

Two days earlier, at the Naval Academy, Barack Obama said, "Those who commit sexual assault are not only committing a crime, they threaten the trust and discipline that makes our military strong"

Why couldn't Obama have said something more like, "Men, you will not under any circumstances have sex with a woman against her will. You will not grab a woman's body parts. This counts for women in the countries in which you serve and for women you're serving with. It applies to all women. It also applies to all men. You may not attack anyone sexually. This is a direct order from your Commander in Chief. From Me to You. Seriously, stop it."

It might not work, but it would certainly send a stronger message than mealy-mouthed, distancing phrases and the passive, 'must be stamped out.'

Monday, May 27, 2013

Shifting Sands? Yes and No.

They weren't kidding, those folks who told us the world would change in ways we couldn't even imagine with the advent of the Internet.

Certainly no one could have predicted how the media could change in 20 years. I'm not just talking about how the news is gathered and presented, I'm talking about who gets paid and how media companies fund their work, not to mention the world of online citizen journalism.

An example: at my first 'real' job, in the radio newsroom in Orangeville in 1994, we didn't have the 'net. Our word processor was an electric typewriter. Installing a dowel so we could use a roll of paper effectively was an innovation I came up with.

Today, in our area, there are still two newspapers and a TV station, but we have a second radio station, several websites promoting local businesses and in Collingwood, at least four blogs written by people following and digging away at stories in local politics.

A lot of us still get our information from newspapers, but very few of us are paying for it. Since radio has always been a medium provided to its consumers for free, it's been interesting to watch newspapers struggle to adapt to the funding model our sales force has been using forever.

Worldwide, spending on advertising is up. But with so many media platforms, the market is fragmented and the budgets of newsrooms in radio, TV and elsewhere continue to shrink. It's ironic that Google is making a killing, since the ads it sells go right next to the content provided by newspapers, even while those very papers have trouble getting advertisers to buy space.

Add to shrinking revenue, the traditional media's need to be part of new media, and you've got a recipe for big changes as reporters scramble to find ways of getting the job done.

'There used to be standards!' cry some, 'There used to be credibility!' say others.

Well, it seems to me, the 'doing more with less' thing applies to traditional media more than to any other group.

As for those long-lost standards, do you remember the name of the guy with the information about Watergate? Me, neither. He was anonymous for about 30 years after the scandal broke. Just one guy, unnamed, and the information he had, ended a presidency. The Globe and Mail says it has ten sources for the shocking story it published in Saturday's edition. Ten.

Thursday, May 23, 2013

Oops, I did it again

The first time I interviewed Mike McCluskey, I thought he was a tiny bit crazy, but I'm starting to understand him.

Mike is from Wasaga Beach and is a runner. Big time. He has taken part in the Boston marathon a bunch of times. (note: to run the Boston marathon, you have to qualify at some Other marathon. I think you have to qualify each and every time. So, for my friend Nancy, who's run Boston more than a dozen times, that's what, five million miles?) The latest time we talked, Mike was preparing for the 30k Around the Bay in Hamilton. He was using the race to raise money for the YMCA in Wasaga Beach. Did I mention Mike's in his 60s?

I freely admit I took up running at the tender age of 41 because my pants were getting too tight. There was more to it, too, but preparing for and running my first 5k forced me to buy the shoes and hit the trails. I ran the sporting life 10k a few weeks ago as a way of keeping off the 25 pounds I lost in that first effort.

But I have no explanation for this latest race. No explanation other than I kind of love having a race in my future. January to Mother's Day, when I was training for Sporting Life, I felt a sense of purpose that is sometimes missing from my everyday routine. One of the girls who ran that race with me apparently feels the same way. She started started running even later in life than I, but it appears she's hooked, too. Today, she's on the streets of Barrie, sweating out her kilometres, while I lumber and lope down the trails in Collingwood, both of us planning for the next race.

On Father's Day, our sweethearts will be in Michele's garage, puffing away on Cuban cigars while we pant our way around the Barrie Waterfront.

They say once you have three of a thing, you're a collector. I will have a third 'race shirt' after Barrie. Boston's a very, very long way off, but I can see the path which opens toward it.

Random

So, today, a woman leaps to her death on the subway tracks in Toronto and someone steals her purse, which prevents police from getting the woman's ID to notify her family.

Yesterday, two guys in London run down a soldier in a car, then get out and chop him up with machetes and a cleaver.

Earlier this month, a man from Hamilton vanishes from a test drive while trying to sell his truck online. He turns up dead, his body 'burned beyond recognition'.

A five year old boy in the US shoots his two year old sister to death with the gun he received from his parents as a birthday gift last year.


I'm seriously starting to see the appeal of cat videos.

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Tuesday Morning Allegory

Well, if Michael Enright can create a fable about the political escapades, I figure I can write my own fan piece. With apologies to the Sunday Edition:

I lost a girlfriend a couple of years ago. She and I had been very close companions for quite some time, sharing laughs and good times and, as girls are wont to do, some of our deepest thoughts and fears and hopes. I trusted her with my secrets and she shared hers with me.

Over time, there were small things about my friend that annoyed and irritated me, but for a long time, they were not annoying or irritating enough to threaten the friendship. However, the irritations and annoyances eventually began to pile up.

Gradually, as she departed my home or I left hers, I became less and less eager to make our next plans. I still considered her a good friend, and always included her on my dinner party list, but there was a subtle shift in what had once been terra firma. Then, The Incident took place. It wasn't a huge thing; I didn't catch her slagging me to a mutual friend, stealing my jewels or making a pass at Sweetie, but The Incident sure was a big thing when added to the pile of smaller troubles that had been accumulating.

Suddenly, I found myself asking whether my girlfriend was really a friend at all. Each memory of a good time together suddenly seemed to come with a, 'but..' and a secondary, less pleasant memory attached. Sure, we have fun when I invite her to dinner, but why is the meal always at my place, with me doing the cooking and cleanup? Sure, we have a lot of laughs at lunch, but why is it I who has to make the call to plan it? There was that joke, told at my expense, a cutting remark,'You look almost... cool in that outfit,' and I feeling less than great about myself and my choice of pals. As my Sweetheart put it, my friend started making more withdrawals than deposits in our mutual emotional bank account.

Little things all seem too small to mention but when the One Big Thing happens, the friendship, already faltering, can not be saved. Or can it?

I wonder whether the massive collection of not-so-little things are now enough for to be a final straw for fans of Rob Ford. I wonder whether the Senate stuff will be a flag on the top of the steaming pile of control freakishness in the PMO.

It will be very fun to watch and see whether Ford Nation will come apart, and whether 'The Conservative Base' will be compromised after seven years in power, which is, if you follow politics, usually about when the rot sets in.

Monday, May 13, 2013

Run Results: sore legs and no embarrassment

It's my blog, so my results from the Sporting Life 10K go first (they're the only first I achieved) I'm pretty proud of completing my first 10k, mostly because I left the race on my feet rather than in an ambulance. Also, as my running companions pointed out, each of us set a PB (personal best)!

Here are my results, and the age categories and finish times of as many other runners from around here as I could find. If you see someone you know, give 'em some props for health and fitness, won't you?

Me: 40-44 1:10:10

From Wasaga Beach:
LYDIA BAKSH 60-64 58:40
SHELLEY HYLAND 35-39 56:34
ZACH HYLAND -19 56:38
RICHARD LOWE 65-69 1:09:57

ANGELA GERVASE 35-39 52:46 Stayner
CAITLYN COE 20-24 1:09:06 Creemore

From Collingwood:

---->JOHN GIFFEN 60-64 (3rd in his age category) 40:42 Note--the overall winner of the race finished in 30:30. Zoikes!!

FREDERIQUE NOLIN -19 48:34
SUSAN BRINDISI 50-54 1:04:16
JANET CLARKE 45-49 54:31
JASMINE CUFF 25-29 49:14
DERRICK CUMMINS 20-24 57:26
KAYLIE DANKEVY 20-24 1:04:30
WALTER DEVOS 65-69 1:34:19
KATIE DEVOS 25-29 1:34:20
JOEL EPPINGHAUS 20-24 56:49
KARIN EULER 45-49 54:34
JENNIFER GEORGAS 25-29 1:04:08
JIM GEORGAS 35-39 1:04:07
TORY GORDON 40-44 1:10:51
TRACEY HAMMOND 35-39 56:34
JOHN HENDERSON 50-54 55:52
ADELAIDE JENSEN -19 55:10
GINTER KAROSAS 50-54 54:49
JACOB KOEMAN -19 1:31:39
SIMON KOEMAN -19 1:31:38
AGATHA KORNACKA 20-24 57:42
ANGELA KOSOVIC 35-39 1:06:32
JULIE KUJALA 35-39 56:15
KEN KUJALA 40-44 53:21
ANDREA LEWIN 35-39 53:04
KIM LIMOGES 40-44 1:01:06
SUSAN MCDOUGALL 60-64 1:25:34
JOHN MEYER 45-49 1:01:37
ANN NICHOLLS 40-44 1:10:52
ANIA NOWAKOWSKI 35-39 1:31:39
KRYSTINA PISANI 25-29 1:03:43
MEG PRATT 25-29 57:00
BARB SIEGMAN 50-55 1:03:22
HILLARY STEIN 25-29 1:00:08
MARJORIE THOMSON 45-49 1:18:52
KEVIN TUDHOPE 25-29 54:37
LORNA VISSER 55-59 55:39
CHRISTINE WEEKS 25-29 1:05:47
GREG WEEKS 25-29 1:05:48
DICKON WORSLEY 45-49 53:33
PAIGE YOUNG 40-44 1:00:21

CRYSTAL O'NEILL 30-34 47:14 New Lowell

ENNIFER PARKER 40-44 1:04:09 Blue Mountains
DAVID TAIT 50-54 59:15 Blue Mountains

Well done, folks. I plan on being a bit quicker in my next race. And maybe bringing along additional friends. Although, the four of us made for a nice group.
And BIG thanks to John and Susan for loaning me their pied a terre for the weekend. There are many home-baked goods in your future!

Thursday, May 9, 2013

Ready to Run

A 4am alarm weekday mornings is a strange thing that you never really get used to. I am told Buddist and Christian monks keep hours similar to mine in morning radio, but I am no monk, so a week of 'real' wakeup times (read: 7am or 8am) is a treat. This has been one of those weeks. I've been on a 'staycation', using up last year's vacation time, which had been saved up in the hope of a trip to Australia. Unattainable this year, but perhaps not next year, or maybe the year after.

I have spent a great deal of this week running, preparing to run, thinking about the run I'm about to make and making plans with my running partners for when and where we will meet up in advance of the race.

In January, two girlfriends and I signed up for this Sunday's race down Yonge Street courtesy of the folks at Sporting Life. We're not planning to set any records. We're in the group that aspires to complete the 10k in 60-75 minutes. I'm finishing my training runs (water tower to the Batteau sideroad and back) in 1:09, so I figure at least I won't be the Very Final person to cross the line at Fort York Sunday morning.

As far as I'm concerned, the race is already won, because it forced me back onto the trails. I ran a shorter race in the fall of 2011 for various reasons, one of which was to lose some of the pounds I packed on in the first few years of marriage. Just a few extra snacks on the couch each evening really adds up. Starting last fall, some of that weight crept back, and I figured another race might be in order. While the number on the scale each morning hasn't moved since the start of this year, I'm certain there have been other benefits. I feel stronger and somehow more... useful.

Wish us luck elbowing our way through the 27,000 people who are planning to run in the chilly weather expected on Sunday in Toronto. Each of us will have our own reason for being there. Some, like me, are doing it to stay in our smaller pants. Some are raising money, others are on a journey I may never understand. I'm not going to offer any deep thoughts about distance running, marathoning, the bombings in Boston or crazy people in general; so much has been said so much more eloquently than I could ever devise.

But I will say this: running changes more than the shape of legs and shoulders and the readout on the scale. Two years into my journey in fitness, I now measure my days by which ones I Get to run, not by which ones I Have to run.


Monday, April 29, 2013

Tent versus Taj

I definitely vote for the term hockey tent to describe the new facility being built at Central Park in Collingwood. Maybe it will be gorgeous and wonderful when it is finally finished, and maybe I will spend many a happy hour gliding on its ice. Maybe I'll even finish up my Silver dances, like I planned back in the late 80s before breaking my wrist on a complicated turn. Maybe.

But I will continue to think of it as merely a tent, impermanent and fragile, especially after I saw what another community has managed to create instead.

I had the great pleasure of spending a spontaneous Saturday with a girlfriend and her family in Whitby. Part of our itinerary was taking her two kids to their lacrosse practices, indoors on one of the - ready for it-- SIX hockey rinks in the same building. That's right. Six. One building. Six rinks.

Every single rink was in use, all day. In winter, my friends tell me, they're all outfitted with ice. "Whitby's a big hockey town," they explained. This weekend, three surfaces were dry and warm and the site of lacrosse practices for little kids, (you have not lived until you've seen a five year old girl in shoulder pads, rushing the coach, learning to crosscheck - hilarious!) the rest were still covered in ice. There must have been some sort of tournament, because some hockey players appeared to be arriving in costume.

Outside the rinks, four baseball diamonds. I didn't go looking for a pool, but there is one, 25 metres, plus a wading area. Six tennis courts, a soccer pitch and a 400-seat restaurant. All owned by the town. Inside the arena - concessions are rented to the chain restaurants and there's free wifi.

Of course, Whitby is a much bigger place than Collingwood. With a population of 122,000, it's about six times bigger. And yet, this facility, at least 10 years old, has six rinks, attached with a central hall. At two other facilities, there are four additional ice surfaces. None of them is covered by a tent.

Monday, April 15, 2013

Fur Baby

Sweetie and I are big believers in compromise. We also believe in the veto. When we decided to bring a doggie into our home, I wanted a big black standard poodle and Sweetie wanted a chocolate lab. He felt poodles were too yappy, and I think labs shed enough fur to knit yourself a new dog pretty much every day. So, we got our Weimaraner. Not much fur, whipsmart, loyal, gorgeous.

For the last eight years, Emma has been a constant source of delight, laughter and cuddles. She sleeps under the covers, between us. I admit she has terrible table manners and is an awful bed hog, but she's never going to have to go out in the world to navigate the complexities of dorm life or a workplace. If you don't like her chin on your elbow, don't come to dinner.

Emma's only complaint in life is that the three of us are not together every single minute of every day. Today, she's at home alone wearing The Cone of Shame. Her right shoulder and left haunch look like she has been mauled by a tiger. The incisions from the removal of two suspicious lumps last week are gruesome - running from the dog equivalent of collarbone to elbow on one side and hip to bellybutton on the other.

We moved our mattress down to the living room so she doesn't have to take the stairs and rip the stitches. We are staying home and not letting anyone come by for fear she'll leap to her feet in her usual ecstatic greeting and rip the stitches. We are giving her massive doses of antibiotics to prevent infection. Painkillers, the whole routine. But mostly we're trying to keep her from moving so much, so she doesn't rip the stitches.

For a dog who seems to say, "That's all you got?!" after a 10k run, it's asking a lot for her to lie still for ten days. This is day four.

I'm praying for a speedy recovery, oh, and if anyone has a dose of patience to share, I'll take it.

Monday, April 8, 2013

My Price Point

Many of us have little phrases we use to remind us of things we've learned in the past, in the hope of avoiding a repeat of our mistakes. On my curling team, for example, my vice and I will often say to each other, "Get greedy, get sorry...." when we're considering what shot to play. We have learned from hard experience to try the low-risk shot rather than the high-reward one.

My new phrase when it comes to grocery shopping will be, "Fifteen Dollar Bacon", which for me is the price at which sanctimonious self-righteousness will be defeated by my Scottish wallet.

Yes, I bought a pound of bacon for fifteen dollars.

It was an accident. Please don't tell my mom or my brothers.

You see, my Sweetie and I are, well, 'into' food. What we're especially into is talking about food. We are quick to tell anyone who will listen that we get our beef from a farmer in Adjala, and our lamb from a farmer in Clearview. I can go on and on about how I grow and preserve my own tomatoes, and don't get us started on the fact that we have a chicken guy, so we meet the chickens before we eat the chickens and they live outdoors, pecking in the grass and devouring bugs. Remember, I grew up on a farm and so if I still drank milk, I would want it to be raw, if possible, harvested with my own little hands. We're invested in our food, we cook from scratch as much as possible, and so on and so on.

I suspect some people avoid us.

As we were having one of our favourite couples in the world over for the weekend, on Thursday, with a very long grocery list and a bit of time on my hands, I went (finally) to the newly-opened food co-operative in Collngwood, thinking to myself, "If they have anything that's on my list, I'll pick it up there, and go to the supermarket afterwards." A win-win, or so I thought.

I didn't know I was overspending so hideously because I was lost in the vision of myself buying my earth-friendly, eco-friendly, animal-friendly, fair-trade stuff. "Look at me," I thought to myself, "Doggie in the car at the curb, cloth bags at the ready, why, my real name could be MoonbeamMotherEarth SavetheWhales.

Later, at home, I told Sweetie about my day, showed him the beautiful, thick-cut bacon, and when he asked how much it was, I told him I didn't know; there had been no price on the package. There in my wallet was the incriminating evidence of my navel-gazing: I had paid $14.97 for one pound of bacon.

To its credit, it was Organic Bacon. For fifteen bucks a pound, it had damn well better be organic.

For fifteen bucks a pound, it had better be organic, grass-fed, diapered, homeschooled and tucked into bed with a kiss!

And herein lies the problem with clean, organic, local, kiss-on-the-head food: most of us can't afford it, and those of us who can, won't pay ridiculous prices for it more than once.

Friday, March 22, 2013

No local politics today, sorry.

Just two random things that make me go, 'hmmmm'.

I am (in theory, anyway) disgusted that gossip from the set of the TV show, Mad Men, about the apparent tremendousness of lead actor John Hamm's -ahem- package made some front pages. At the same time, it gives me a certain degree of satisfaction to know there might perhaps finally be some gender parity when it comes to public purience.

On a somewhat similar note, it's disturbing that Justin Trudeau used his dad's iconic line, 'just watch me' already. I had been waiting for him to use it at his coronation, er, victory, in the federal Liberal leadership. I fear it may be a case of premature evocation.

Friday, March 15, 2013

Don't follow me - I don't know where I'm going!

So, I did it, and I feel as though I might regret it. Yup. I joined Twitter.

I have 14 followers since Tuesday.

Of course, I heard about Twitter years ago, and when I'm at work, I keep track of several feeds from the traffic cops and other news agencies.

I avoided joining, but this week I was feeling out of step with the world, especially since my 70 year old mother has become a prolific poster on facebook. I felt I had to do something to keep the digital divide wide enough that I can feel at least the teensiest bit young and cool.

Although, the way I figure it, if I've joined up, Twitter is probably just about over. Justin Bieber's rant yesterday was posted on Instagram, not to his 35 million Twitter followers, so maybe the social media action is all about Instagram now, and as with so many innovations, I find myself behind the curve yet again.

I've read that Twitter has one of the highest attrition rates in social media, and I can see why as I try to figure it out. I've already dumped one of the sites I was following for its sheer over-posting. Seriously, Huffington Post, I don't have time to scroll through all your stuff! But with 2,793,000 followers, you must be doing something right.

Chris Hadfield (526,000 followers) is certainly very interesting, but I don't know that I need quite as much material as he posts. Furthermore, doesn't he have work to do as Commander of the space station? He sometimes posts twice an hour!

One of my first followers, after some friends and fellow media-types, is Sandra Cooper, Mayor of Collingwood (13 followers, including me) whose three posts so far have been about where she is, like at which meeting. She joined Twitter at the end of February, and like me, doesn't yet have a photo associated with her feed. With all the upset surrounding town council, maybe opening a Twitter feed was seen as a way to demonstrate that ephemeral quality, 'openness' that many people are demanding. Or, maybe she, too, wanted to be cooler than her mother. It also could be a way to keep an eye on us in the media. Whatever the motivation, I'm guessing she's still trying to figure it all out, just like I am.

Maybe the town needs a Communications person or a consultant of some sort to help burnish its image and write those feeds. Then again, maybe not, since it was a consultant that led to those questions about 'conflict' issues last week, wasn't it?

Monday, March 11, 2013

the friend, the leader, his employer and her brother

Ok, my title isn't quite as catchy as the 80s cult movie, The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover, but it was the best I could come with in the absence of some of the more pithy writers in our local scene. The allusion just might work since it seems our town is figuratively eating some of its own, and that's what happens in the movie, although with Helen Mirren, it's not figurative. The movie was French, it was the late 80s; need I say more?

(Disclaimer: please know I am not trying to imply that any of the characters in the news story out of Collingwood last Friday is playing a role similar to any character named in the title of the aforementioned motion picture. I do not imply in any way that I consider or that I think you should consider any of the people named in the CBC story to be a chef or involved in cookery or theiving or cannibalism or, for that matter, loving. I use this particular movie title as a joke because the movie title features four characters and so does the CBC story. Plus, I got a giggle writing 'lover'. Also, brother and lover sort of rhyme.)

My, my, what an interesting weekend! Nearly every person I spoke with in town had an opinion about what they perceive as a scandal bursting forth over Collingwood.

Boiled down, the story that came from the CBC Friday was this: people have complained to police. Seriously, that's it so far, because the OPP won't even confirm there's an investigation underway. After this afternoon's rally, the story will become about how many people showed up at a pre-council pro-openness rally. Oh, and what they said while rallying, of course.

As I explained to a listener a couple of weeks ago, "People being angry and upset is not news. People being angry and upset and doing something about it? That's news." Three separate prongs of complaint made it a triple word score for the CBC. I'm sad at not breaking this story, but I assure you, I tried.

So the news is the complaints, and also confirmation from the parties mentioned that the mayor's brother has done business with businesses which were doing business or trying to do business with the town.

The optics are not good. The brother of the mayor consulting for companies that have dealings with the town is not against the letter of the law. Is it against the spirit of the Conflict of Interest laws? That will be up to The People to decide.

But aren't there some missing pieces to this tale? If this thing's really going to have what we in the news biz call 'legs', the private school soccer bubble mess needs to be connected somehow to the membrane covers for the old pool and new rink, the not-really proposed casino within an as-yet-unplanned resort and also, somehow, the newly demolished Mountain View Hotel, not to mention the developments stalled and restarted and stalled again. Now, that's a story I would have fun reading, and it would be good enough for a movie, French or not.

(disclaimer: the above paragraph is intended soley as satire and in no way reflects any knowledge, rumour or any other thing on my part except an attempt at humour.)

Completely Expected and yet, Disappointing

I don't know why I'm surprised and oh-so-disappointed at the reaction to Friday's news.

Oh, I'm not talking about Collingwood-gate.(Waterwood? If only Ian Adams were still blogging, he would surely have come up with a pithy name for the maybe-scandal. But last I checked, the blog connected to the Enterprise Bulletin is marked private, and the one he's been writing under his own name for the last several years has disappeared, including the archives.)

No, my disappointment is with what one of the Toronto papers is calling Tuchus-gate. Rob Ford may or may not have grabbed the butt of Sara Thomson at a fundraiser Thursday night, I really don't care.

But in 2013, is it really necessary to call a woman who claims to have been assaulted, crazy or a whore? Seriously, people, just because a woman makes an allegation against a man, must she necessarily be nuts, or a prostitute? Must she have nine witnesses for the story to be true? Must she be an opportunist or furthering some agenda? Really?

I guess I'm naive enough to think that somehow, we had grown, y'know, as a society. 30 years after 'free to be you and me', and with all the 'character' programs that are taught in our schools, I thought we somehow could maybe, maybe have come to a place where we could say things like, "I don't believe it" and that would be enough, without 'you stoopid psycho bitch' added by many of the online commenters and on-air callers.

Silly me.

Friday, March 8, 2013

Critical Masses

If I tell you a story and you tell it to a friend, and that friend tells several other people, some of whom know me and eventually, someone tells me the very same story that I told you, does that make it news?

Does it make it true?

Maybe not, but it doesn't necessarily make it untrue, either.

How many times do you have to hear the same story for you to believe it? Are there some stories you will never believe?

I'm sure some educator out there can tell me how many times a teacher has to drill something into a kid's head before they learn it.

How many times do you have to hear the same story of something-something going on in your neighbour's home before you believe it?

I bet whether you believe has to do with your relationship with the neighbour.

All this speculation comes from this, the CBC's report on allegations of possible shenanigans at town hall.

I've been hearing stories for years. What have you heard, and what do you believe?

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Modest Proposals

I spend my Monday evenings at the curling rink instead of at town hall, but I send a reporter, and some of the stuff she hears there is very interesting indeed.

I looked back over the stories in the last year about casinos and to catch you up, here's the briefest of thumbnail sketches of what has happened so far:

-Province offers consideration for gaming in our neighbourhood.
-Clearview says no
-Springwater says no
-Collingwood says no
-Wasaga leaps at the chance.
-Collingwood councillors defer saying whether they approve of casinos for the neighbourhood in general.
-Presentation last night will lead to a vote on approval in principle for a casino within a resort.

*sound of screeching tires*

Was this presentation actually an announcement of a massive new resort development in Collingwood?

If so, I hope it goes better than the massive resort development announced for the waterfront in Wasaga Beach a few years ago. You haven't stayed at that hotel yet? Me, neither.

Cast your mind back to the 'vision' presented to Wasaga in 2007. It was going to be massive. A resort, with an indoor ski hill and hotel rooms and a conference centre with views of the lake. It was going to cost $50 million to build and reveal Wasaga as the jewel it really is! The court cases involving the bankruptcy and fire continue.

If I heard correctly last night from Collingwood, an 'integrated resort' would be massive, too. This one would cost $200 million to build, have a thousand employees, each of whom would be paid more than $40,000 a year. All it needs is 30 acres and support from the town. Is there a 30-acre parcel of land within town limits that could hold such a thing? If so, where?

Here's my modest proposal: put it on top of the terminal building!

Friday, February 15, 2013

How I Met Your Something

If you're a fan of the TV show How I Met Your Mother, you will be familiar with one of their running gags where the characters go around the table making puns and jokes at another character's expense until one of them can't complete their thought and shouts out, "Something about...." and they leave their joke half-told.

I feel like one of the characters today, trying really hard to make a connection with some sort of wit and subtlety after I heard a really really juicy rumour yesterday. But I just can't seem to put it together.

"...something about tennis, bubbles, roofs and rackets... " as Barney might say and then, "Yeah, I dunno.."


P.S.
Thanks to everyone who sent me notes or comments about whether to continue blogging.
I appreciate your input, and as you can see with this post, I'm still here!
.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Bloggity Bloggerson

I have a confession to make: My blog has not always been my own. Oh, the words are written entirely by me and the events and my reactions really happened, but I have been paid to write it. Eight columns a month.

More than five years ago, I was approached by an online business and asked to become a contributor to its website. In exchange for a small honorarium, I was to write about my life, experiences and observations of living in Collingwood.

The company I wrote for had only one request: that I avoid local politics. The owners felt no matter what side of any issue I took, the result would be divisive and unhelpful to the work they were doing. I was to be light and funny and thoughtful, but not political.

I imposed a limit of my own, too, figuring it is just smart to avoid trashing any businesses represented on the site where my writing would appear.

For the most part, I have avoided politics and trashing. I have tried in my musings to be witty when possible, and when I couldn't come up with witty, I tried to be self-deprecating. When I can't manage witty or self-deprecating, I have aimed for gently thought-provoking.

At the end of last year, my deal with the business came to an end, which leaves me with a conundrum: do I keep writing when I'm not being paid to do it?

I have developed two lists:

Reasons to Quit Blogging:

I would never ever have started a blog were it not for the money. Like many women, I keep a journal wherein I can and do pour my complaints about my sometimes fractious family and any disappointments in my spouse (hardly any, honey, honest!), so if I'm writing for free, I can do it there.

I have a strong aversion to narcissists and blowhards, both traits which seem rather prevalent in the blogosphere, (local examples excepted, of course!) and I try not to become that which I despise.

I already have a perfectly good outlet for public self-expression in the form of a weekday morning radio show.

Reasons to Continue Blogging:

I am a better writer and a clearer thinker after five years of trying to be succinct in my observations.

I enjoy knowing there are people who seek out what I write. Some of you aren't even related to me! (OK, so that anti-narcissism thing might not be working out as well as I had hoped...)

Now that the writing is my own, I can perhaps write more often and less gently about local politics, which would be a relief, as I have opinions to spare.

Now that the writing is solely my own, I can spill any stories of crappy service and inflated prices at local stores and address why I will never darken the door of some local establishments ever again.

What to do, what to do...

My sweetheart says as long as I don't get us sued and avoid getting us kicked out of restaurants, he has no opinion on the matter.

I read somewhere that the mark of a true writer is that they can't not write; that a true artist can't not produce art, paycheque notwithstanding. I guess I'll soon find out whether I'm the real thing.

Addendum:
I guess I might have mentioned the no politics proviso in my defence during a very short enounter with a town councillor some time ago, but I never got the chance.

After introducing myself, shaking his hand and saying what media outlet I work for, I said, "We have something in common, you and I. I write a blog, too."
"Yes, but mine is about politics." and he walked away.

Since this guy is a self-professed expert in media relations, and this was the first (and so far only) time he had met this particular member of the local media, I remain confused at his sneering brush-off. I don't expect to be fawned over, but there is something to be said for basic courtesy. If nothing else, perhaps in hopes of a vote.

Thursday, February 7, 2013

Book Review: When Bad Things Happen to Good People

I clearly remember the pain on my brother's face when his father in law died of prostate cancer in the mid-nineties.

The pain was not just from the loss of a man he liked and admired, but it appeared to me, he was also angry at losing his faith. He said at the time there couldn't possibly be a God if He would, "...do stuff like this to a good man like that."

There are a lot of reasons to be an atheist, but Harold Kushner argued in this book published in 1978 that the visiting of illness and devastation on undeserving people isn't one of them.

I first read When Bad Things Happen to Good People a few years after my brother's pain, and I have briefly owned copies of it several times since. I always end up giving them away. I found one at the used bookstore on the main street in Collingwood this week and wondered if it was still relevant.

Sometimes when I re-read a piece that touched or moved me a long time ago, the book or article doesn't hold up. Bad Things refers to 'retarded' children, so there definitely is a bit of dating there, but the book remains as powerful a defence of belief as I have ever read. It talks about free will and evil and who's in charge of what. I remember asking a very faithful woman I know whether she questioned her faith after a horrible accident her husband was involved in. She seemed genuinely surprised at the question and told me she simply couldn't imagine going through what she was going through, alone.

I might send this copy of Bad Things to my brother, although I somehow think he has lost his belief in reading. Being good Presbyterians, we have never discussed whether he ever regained his faith.

UPDATE: Brother says he's not exactly an atheist, but he can't believe in any diety which would concern itself with the outcome of an NFL game.

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Collingwood Kerfuffle


There's an interesting piece in the National Post today about Sun News, which got me thinking about the current upset gripping Collingwood with regard to the recreation facilities and privately owned soccer dome.

You can read it for yourself here

I'm not going to weigh in on whether Sun News belongs on basic cable, but Johnathan Kay sums up what's on the channel pretty well. He's also right when he suggests personal animosity can be a great motivator in a search for 'truth'. Matt Drudge + Bill Clinton = Monica Lewinsky, for example. Which brings me to Collingwood, and the current kerfuffle.

A lot of people I have spoken with firmly believe there is something strange about the way decisions have been made when it comes to the new recreation facilities in town. They don't know what, they don't know why, if anyone benefitted or how, but many of my friends believe something, somehow, is amiss. Many people I've talked to also don't know what to make of the weirdness in the case of Pretty River Academy's soccer dome. You might remember the last mass mailing about a town of Collingwood issue was a strange rant about dealings with the ethanol plant.

Having already been threatened with a lawsuit for a series of stories I wrote a couple of years ago, I am ashamed to say I have not pursued these issues very hard. The suit didn't make it to court, but the legal bill was still large, and I would rather not test my company's patience or pocketbook again. Yes, libel chill is alive and well. Which is why when a local blogger decided to look a little more closely at town hall doings, including an FOI request (not cheap) and publication of excerpts from town hall emails, I watched with interest.

I don't know Steve Berman. I have not met him. But based on the name of his blog, (Enough is Enough) I suspect the motivation for his journalism might have something to do with animosity, and I'm OK with that. As in the Sun's case against David Suzuki, if hostility is what it takes to shine some light on actions that might be inappropriate or inept, bring it on. I'm not saying there is anything wrong going on, only that I'm glad someone is watching.

They say it's tough to watch democracy or sausage being made. I'd add journalism to the list.

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

One Handed Typist

Because I'm holding tight to the desk with the other one!

A weird thing developed Saturday evening, and it's been plaguing me ever since. If you've had vertigo in any of its incarnations, my condolences; if you haven't, count your blessings.

I will likely have to repaint my walls this spring because they are marked up from my hands holding desperately to them whenever I walk around. I'm dizzy and lightheaded and the world stops spinning only when I sit very, very still. I seriously was holding on to the desk at work yesterday when I wasn't on air.

Sunday morning, the dizzyness made me nauseated and I lost my breakfast. During a church service. One of the congregants asked afterwards if I had some good news to share. I told him there was plenty of "good news" in the gospels, thank you very much. Well, I would have said that if I'd thought of it at the time, but my witty repartee has departed along with my balance.

My GP has given me a diagnosis, but sadly, there's no treatment save for sitting still when possible for the next 7-14 days. I am proud to say I have now caught up on all the TED talks and Mad Men episodes on Netflix.

As for exercise, I shuffle around the house like an old man in a nursing home, so I suspect I will provide plenty of comic relief to my fellow runners in the next while.

Oh, well, if you can't be witty, you might as well be funny!


Friday, January 25, 2013

The Return

A world traveller returns to my life this week, and I have some mixed emotions about it.

My mother has spent the last six weeks out of the country, five of them visiting with my brother and his family in Brisbane, and the last few days in Hawaii, taking tours and having a look around.

When I pick her up, I will give her several hugs, a bottle of Melatonin to combat jet lag and reluctantly, the keys to her vehicle.

She drives a truck, a big one, with snow tires and four wheel drive.

When I dropped her off at the airport for the start of the journey, she told me to use the truck while she was gone. I took her up on the offer, knowing my aging VW Beetle is great on gas, but in the snow, not so much. It hardly snowed over Christmas, so my only 'benefit' from the truck was the enormous bill every time I filled its tank. These last few days, however, my gratitude for those big wheels has grown.

To be fair to Byng the Bug, there has been exactly one time I haven't made it where I was going in the snow these last 13 years. The first weekend I brought Byng to my parents' farm from Weirs, back in the winter of 1999, my dad refused to blow out the driveway to let me get to the Mountain View. I tried and failed to get out after the Leafs game, although I was so angry, I might have melted some of the snow that was up past Byng's doors. Since then, with front wheel drive and no snow tires, there have been a lot of gasps and worries during my wanders. I like to say 'It's not the tires, it's the driver,", but I admit it: I'm simply too cheap to buy snow tires when there are shoes I don't own yet!

Byng is on his last legs; he's 15 years old and I have loved him desperately, but soon, he will have to go. I haven't decided with what to replace him, but I'm thinking it might have to be something with four-by. And maybe something more up to date than a cassette player. Maybe.

Oh, I didn't like paying the bill for the gas on the Ridgeline, but I sure did enjoy never once wondering if I could make a turn or whether I might get into my driveway, piled high by the snow plows.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Hibernation

I will not run in the rain.
I will run in snow, but not in a snowstorm.
I will not run when it's below -10C.
Period.

Yes, I love the results of daily vigorous exercise, but I don't think it's necessary to be a Spartan about it. Oh, you "Spartan Race" people, you go have fun with that.

So, the forecast tells me I will be taking part only in indoor activities for the next few weeks, but I have not yet invested in the rowing machine I have coveted for several years now. What's a girl to do? Well, I sometimes use a yoga DVD that leaves me sweaty and out of breath, even while focusing and centring, and of course, there's the curling.

Before you laugh, I, too don't always consider curling to be the most strenuous of exercises. But yesterday, 15 rocks into my practice, I removed my jacket to find the sweater underneath wet from the exertion. Yes, it's anaerobic, but it still counts. 32 thrown rocks plus skipping a game, and I'm pretty sure I have found a non-rain, non-snowing way to avoid running outdoors in the frigid weather. (my team played very well, me, not so much...)

Now, if only I could find a way to get baking classified as exercise, all would be well.

Friday, January 18, 2013

Cheating on my Inner Bitter Ender

Seriously, it's time to do some reading.

I thought I might have forgotten how, thanks to Hilary Mantel and her massive Henry the VIII tome, Wolf Hall. The first three hundred pages were gripping, but sometime in September around page 410, it started to drag, and I haven't been able to get through it. Because I'm a 'bitter ender', I have not read anything but magazine articles while the tome sits accusingly on my bedside table. I play bejewelled or read Canadian Running, Real Simple or the Walrus, but I just can't pick up another novel. It feels like cheating; I have to finish reading what I'm reading even if it every page is like poison to me (full disclosure: I stole that line from Linda Holmes of Pop Culture Happy Hour).

And then, I found something worse than Wolf Hall and broke the spell. I thought, "I'll find something as different as possible, and I'll be fine not being a bitter ender any more..." Well, what I found for five bucks in the second hand store on Second street couldn't be more different and yet somehow managed to be worse.

How did Carrie Fisher's memoir, Wishful Drinking even get published, I ask you?
The only nice thing I have to say about the poorly written, badly punctuated non-revelatory revelations are they were mostly spelled correctly, and even that leaves a bitter taste. However it did break the Mantel Spell. I'm free, free at last!

Someone, anyone, recommend something, anything!
Please don't let that piece of crap be the last thing I ever read...

Monday, January 14, 2013

Movie Review: Django Unchained

The D is silent.

The movie is not.

Here's how much I liked it, Spike Lee's protests notwithstanding: When my sweetheart and I finally managed to purchase our tickets for Saturday's 7 o'clock show, there were six seats left in the theatre. ("Saturday night when the skiing is crappy in Collingwood - how busy can it be?" We asked ourselves...) None of those seats were together, so I put hubby in the last remaining aisle seat and perched next to him on the stairs. Someone kindly directed me to a seat a few rows back, but I saved a stranger from my obnoxious asides and stayed where I was. (Before you think him unchivalrous, Sweetie offered several times to switch spots with me.) Three hours later, I was still on the edge of the stair, never having noticed I wasn't in a chair. No numb-bum, no sore back, no nothing. I was mesmerised: totally engrossed in the story, the action, the dialogue, all of it superb.

Favourite bits: the sendup of the KKK, the exploding blood and every scene in which Christoph Waltz appears.

Yes it's brutal. Yes, it's funny, yes, it's snappy and witty and everything you would expect from Quentin Tarantino, and yet it's more, too.

At one point, I found myself nearly praying, "Please don't let this be the one where he goes for an unhappy ending - I couldn't stand it!" I was not disappointed. The ending has more than enough revenge to be satisfying, and the whole thing does something Tarantino has not attempted before - he's made us think.

I have no problem at all with the word so many people are upset is whipped out a hundred times. It's the word people used plenty in the antebellum south, and which plenty still use in the privacy of their homes and minds. I actually wish people would use that word a bit more often. Five years worth of ridiculous 'birther' arguments might have been avoided if the racists were just free to say they don't want one in the White House.