Olympic Cheese

I am finding it tough to watch the Olympics in Russia, and it's not only because of the Russian treatment of its own people, the workers who weren't paid for construction, the half-finished, empty venues or the anti-gay Russian sentiment.

It's not entirely because of the entirely plausible cheating scenario in ice dance.

It's also not because of my refusal to pay for television; there are lots of ways to find the games without paying for cable - mothers in law, for example and this year, the Internet has been particularly helpful. What a difference from Vancouver when Bell/CTV wouldn't broadcast anything without your fees paying for it.

It's certainly not the performance of our athletes.

No, it's the commercials.

Now, I've been crying at sappy commercials as long as Bell has been exploiting familial love for profit, but this year's crop is so laced with saccharine, my teeth are aching.

The first time I saw the salute to motherhood, I admit I teared up.

The fifty-first time I saw the salute to motherhood, I was disgusted at the sheer emotional manipulation coming from the advertisers (and I still teared up).

The Coke spots tugging at the heartstrings with Special Olympians while congratulating me on drinking 16 teaspoons of sugar at a time? That one really gets me caffeinated.

Add the sonorous, tinkly-music profiles of the athletes' 'profiles in courage', and I doubt I could carry on a conversation with any of them if I were ever in the same room.

Here's the thing: there's PLENTY of drama on the ice, the snow and the tracks. Must everything be so over-the-top?

We already won.

A bright spot has arrived in what seems to be an unrelenting winter and I'm not talking about the delicious-smelling pot of groundhog stew bubbling away on the stove.

Georgian bay is mostly frozen over, which means any new snow has to come from the south.
We now know there are fewer days of winter ahead of us than behind us.
The sun is still out at six pm.
We're feeling hope.

And now, in tropical Sochi, Russia, Canada's winter athletes are skating, skiing and sliding their little hearts out while we here at home are amazed at their grace and fortitude.

A poll released recently said most Canadians consider the games a success for Canada only if our millionaire hockey players get another gold to add to their basement honour walls.

I think they've already been won, on the tracks: the cross-country ski track, where a Russian racer broke his ski and the Canadian coach came running with the replacement; the long track where a Canadian skating racer felt his teammate had a better shot at a good result and handed over his place at the games which had been earned, fair and square.

Those are the stories that will stick with me. I don't care if Sidney Crosby nets the overtime winner against the US - been there, done that.

It's the humanity in the face of adversity that makes me happy, and you can call me as sappy as the saccharine, tear-jerking commercials all you want.

Haiku for a Refusal to Run in Winter

Oh, I see you there, man
In your goggles and your tights.
I will not join you.

I am not hurting
Not broken, injured or bowed
But merely lazy

Clinging to my girth
Which I earned with carbs and sloth
I refuse the cold.

Minus ten is it.
Colder and I don't leave home
Tough Canuck? Not me!

Springtime please come soon,
I cannot afford new pants.
Shoes await gravel.