Faux news

You may think the comments made by Donald Trump this week about Muslims came out of left field, but they really came straight off Fox news.

Not a lot us up here see that channel regularly; maybe you've seen clips on John Stewart or a parody on 22 minutes, but it's not included in basic cable or satellite. If you get a chance to watch it the next time you're in the US, I recommend it, not for anything like news, since it certainly is not, but for the study in how the US really is a 'whole nother country' and becoming more divided by the minute.

I notice precious little news on Fox news; it's mostly commentary about the news, commentary that is small minded and vicious, uttered by white folk who appear to think things were pretty good under Jim Crow, and whose every sentence is crafted to insidiously undermine the ideas of those with whom he host disagrees. There's no straight-up 'US foreign policy' mentioned on Fox news, only 'Obama's failed foreign policy' - it's subtle, but it never stops, a never-ending drip of acidic disdain for that black (and possibly muslim) fella elected twice to the White House.

The first time I switched to the channel on vacation recently, my sweetheart suggested he was seeing a comedy special then fell into a state of shocked incredulity when he realized the trolling, angry, entitled, racist rants and gotcha not-really-interviews he was watching, were real, with massive ratings. Within a few hours of the shootings in California last week, one talking head was already positing that the attack was part of the 'war on Christmas', since it took place at a Christmas party, after all.

That guy who shot up a women's health clinic two weeks ago in Colorado? A Fox viewer, taking in a deadly, daily dose of anti-abortion rhetoric until he did exactly what could be expected of a brainwashed loser with easy access to guns.

It's not rocket science, it's hatred served up 24/7 on a flatscreen near you.

Lucky, lucky

My dear Dad used to say, with a twist of his thin lips, "If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all." On the other side of the flipped coin, I have a friend whose favourite phrase is, "The harder I work, the luckier I get!"

I've been thinking about luck a lot lately, after hearing from another friend about the big inheritance she has coming. She was lucky enough to be born into a wealthy family. The money's not coming any time soon, but someday, and she figures there's enough of it that she doesn't have to worry about paying off her line of credit or her mortgage while she takes trips all over the world.

I think about her and then I think about the thousands of people moving to Canada from refugee camps in Turkey and Lebanon over the next month - the lucky ones.

The people in the refugee camps were lucky enough to be able and know how to pay the necessary bribes to get to those camps when the bombs came raining down on their homes and their neighbours and relatives were murdered.

They were lucky enough to survive years in the camp; lucky to have a metabolism that can survive on about 500 calories a day, and now, they have won the lottery and get to come to Canada.

They are lucky to have the chance to come to a safe but cold country where they don't speak the language and the food will be very, very weird. They have lost their families, their homes, everything, likely including any inheritance, and definitely their dignity, but they're the lucky ones, the ones who survived, who got out and get a lucky chance to start again.

All from the luck of where and to whom they were born.

Merit, Shmerit: fooling no one

I must admit to a certain amount of confusion and upset concerning the federal cabinet unveiled this week in Ottawa.

I'm heartened so many people gave some thought to the choices made, but discouraged how many people say gender parity automatically means less-qualified people running the joint.

Where was all this concern about merit in the last cabinet?
Or the one before that?
Or the one before that?
Not a peep about merit when Julian Fantino and Pierre Pollievre were added to the cabinet and we saw how that turned out. Or consider the meritorious Helena Guergis and her equally awesome cabinet-sitting husband. I don't recall anyone asking questions about merit when those two were close to power. Until they weren't.

Merit is another dog whistle for closeted racists and sexists. They know darn well they cannot say out loud, "I'm afraid of women running things," so they hide behind the word 'merit', ignoring the fact of masses of unqualified white guys getting most of the good stuff in our society for centuries.

If you worry about the qualified white boys losing out on what you see as their god-given right to better opportunities than other people, perhaps you can seek some counsel from the parents of qualified brown and black and yellow girls denied their fair share of chances for, well, forever. They might have some coping strategies you can employ.

And take heart, the finance minister is a white Bay Street insider who's sitting on an estimated personal fortune of 26 million dollars, so even if there were some broads in skirts sworn in this week, nothing at Parliament Hill has really changed.

Election Why

The complaints from my Conservative buddies at the return of a Trudeau to 24 Sussex Drive are pretty loud, ranging from 'we're screwed' to 'whhhhhyyyyyy??'
I understand their concerns, but I am baffled at how they didn't see Monday Night coming.

Maybe they're confused because their party was endorsed by a majority of the mainstream media outlets that do such things, (National Post, Toronto Sun, Globe and Mail) and they still lost, and lost big.

Even though Stephen Harper did the stuff conservatives feel should be done like cutting taxes and trade deals, they were sent packing this week in spectacular fashion and it's for the very same reason the PCs in Ontario were shut out in their last effort: you can be right, but most of us think you shouldn't be mean about it. You especially shouldn't be a mean, rude, racist bully (several other words deleted here) about it.

Americans think of themselves as exceptional and Brits think of themselves as self-effacing, but Canadians are known around the world for being polite; we say sorry to each other when we accidentally collide, for heavenssakes! Most of us not only like to think of ourselves as nice, we relish thinking that the rest of the world shares that view.

Former Ontario PC leader Tim Hudak was probably correct to say that the provincial public service could use about a hundred thousand fewer workers. But he came off like a jerk when he said it, and so now, a nice lady is paying ransom to teachers to stay on the job.

Looking back, you can see the mean streak from the beginning of Stephen Harper's tenure as PM with the early unleashing of those attack ads, but we all know it didn't stop there. It ended with his desperate move on the niqab, which is when finally, the nice people of Canada had had it with the meanness. We figure the ladies who wear niqabs have enough trouble on their plates and don't need any opprobrium.

At the end of the day, most of us want our leaders to reflect our values and I don't think most of us want to look in the mirror and see a big blue meanie.

That said, we don't want to see a moron, either. So, for now, unless and until he proves himself to be something else, we've picked a tall, slim, long-lashed fella with cut abs, some retro baggage, and a groovy wife.

About Betty

Today is a very big day for many of us: not just election day, not just a must-win game for our beloved Toronto Blue Jays, for about five hundred people in our area, it's the start of the curling season. The Collingwood Curling Club opens its season tonight.

Personally, I'm going to be playing four days a week and teaching on Sundays for the next 20 weeks, hoping to win back the women's championship.

The season will be different because one of my fellow skips will be missing from the club.

I was really looking forward to seeing Betty Rinaldo tonight. She has been one of the skips in the women's competitive league right from its first year. I've won against her and I've certainly lost to her, and every one of those games was a fun time, thanks to Betty's fun ways.

Betty is one of those people who you just can't NOT look forward to seeing again. She is one of those tiny women who get a lot done but who always look great doing it and seem to have an inner strength that propels them forward into the world with positivity and grace. I liked and admired her.

I found out yesterday that Betty died earlier this month.

I knew her well enough to ask her to be on my Friday night date-night curling team, but not enough to know that she was not well.
August 30th, she said yes to being on the team with Sweetie and me. September 9th, Betty sent me an email saying she wouldn't be able to be on Sweetie's and my team after all. She didn't supply a reason, and I didn't ask. I wrote back, "Rats, that's too bad, but we'll figure something out." I did not ask if everything was all right; it simply didn't dawn on me that there could be anything wrong with someone so vital and so alive. I just figured she had gotten a better offer, perhaps from a better team.

I should not have 'just figured'.

October 7th, Betty died at the Campbell House hospice. I was shocked yesterday when I found out she had been 79 - she seemed so much younger. I knew her well enough to know I wanted to spend my Friday nights with her all winter at the curling club, but somehow not well enough to know that she was sick.

I regret not saying goodbye to her; I would have told her how much I admired her fierce enthusiasm for life. She was fun and funny. She had awesome draw weight. She had a terrific laugh. She was what some people call "a pistol".

I will miss her. I already do.

Something this way comes - but what?

Something is afoot at the polling stations.

Beyond the story of who wins the federal election on Monday, the story of this campaign could well be the turnaround in the number of people bothering to exercise their franchise.

For years, democracy-watchers have bemoaned Canada's ever-lowering voter turnout.

In 2011, a mere 61 percent of eligible voters cast their ballots in the federal election.
Since 36 percent of those people voted Conservative, the Conservatives have had a majority of seats in the House of Commons the last four years.

This year, voter so far turnout is up. Way up.

Across the country, there was an increase of about 71 percent at the advance polls. The increase was 16 percent in Simcoe Grey, 54 percent in Bruce Grey Owen Sound, more than 30 percent in Simcoe North. Those are huge swings.

If the trend holds on October 19th, we could see turnout higher than 70 percent. It hasn't hit the 80s since the 1960s.

Generally, a big turnout is not great news for incumbent governments.
Not not always, but usually, increased turnout is actually pretty terrible news for an incumbent government. That said, the Harper Government is nothing like any other government Canada has ever seen. It might be that their base is so very, very motivated, they voted early so they could spend voting day making sure the rest of the base manages to get to the polls.

Or it might be that a long list of perceived infractions will bring a much reduced Conservative presence to the House, although no one is willing to bet on the caucus being as small as Kim Campbell's who suffered from the country's loathing of Brian Mulroney.

Strap on your surfboards, kids. There's a wave of some sort coming your way Monday night, and the evening will be a long and wild one.

Poking holes in a Paper Bag

It's not a dog whistle, it's an air horn, calling to the worst instincts we have.

Boy, I really hope this niqab thing is not going to be what makes or breaks this election, because if it is, I might have to start wearing a face covering of my own, out of sheer embarrassment for our country, like Leafs fans in the stands did late last year.

In Canada, you and I are guaranteed the right to believe any damn fool thing we want about our religion.

Head coverings, homeschooling, the golden rule, vaccinations: it's not up to me to decide what you believe about your religion, even if I'm not comfortable with it.

Our judges have said so, not once, not twice, three times now, and I'm hoping the Supreme Court of Canada will not even deign to hear this stupid argument about citizenship ceremonies - everyone identifies themselves beforehand-- there's no concern about identity at these things.

There are plenty of reasons to choose or dismiss any and all of the parties on offer in this election, but please, please don't let the niqab have anything to do with it. And don't be fooled by any politician who says they're concerned the face covering is against women; if they're so concerned about women, they might have done something to find out where thousands of female Canadian citizens have disappeared to, snatched from the streets while various parties were in power all these years.

Banning some offensive religious practices may seem sensible when it comes to the niqab, because the niqab is odious and awful. But this is the thin edge of an ugly wedge. Are the curls and hats of Orthodox Jews next to be banned? Maybe Catholics' trans-substantiated communion wafers make them cannibals?

Be careful what you wish for because it might be your faith that falls out of favour next time.

Adventures on the lawn

You know those days when you go past angry, take a right turn at crazy and force yourself to land on laughter so that no one gets murdered?

That was my yesterday, mowing my mother's massive lawn, or more accurately, trying to mow the lawn. I go there on Thursdays in the summer, so the lawn's done for the weekend. The last few weeks, my Moppets have been visiting; nieces and nephew tearing around the farm on a tiny tractor. A camera just can't capture the delight on their faces at the wheel.

Have you ever had that feeling when you're closing the door of your car and you suddenly realize, deep in your bowels, that your keys are inside? That's the frisson I had as I sat on the seat of the lawn tractor and put my hand on the key, the key that was NOT in the off position.

Yes, some little twerp, or possibly my mother, had left the key on, the life draining from the battery since it was parked.

"No problem," I thought to myself, "I'll just roll the tractor backwards, out of the shed, use my trusty jumper cables to boost the battery, and we'll be in business!"

Not so much.

Now, I'm generally a fan of safety features; my car doesn't move without the seatbelts being done up, I wear a helmet to ride my bike. But I'm not sure a safety feature that means a lawn tractor can't be rolled either forwards or backwards when the battery is dead makes much sense. There was a lot of grunting and groaning as I tried to depress the clutch/brake with one hand and push the tractor backwards out of the shed. Yes, I fell down. Twice.

So, a dead battery, the tractor deep in the shed, facing away from the door and no way to move it out. Into the shed I bring my car, open the hood and... where is the battery? I got a new car a year ago and have yet to need to boost it or use it for boosting.

There is no battery visible under the hood of my car. There's a fan-type thing, a place to put the washer fluid, many other things I don't understand and lots of heat, but no battery. It's a European car, same as my neighbour's, so I decide to look in the trunk, where his was when we boosted him a few weeks ago.

To get to the boot, I remove grocery bags, emergency equipment, a jack, washer fluid, mittens a blanket and snow brush, (see? Safety first...) only to discover the blessed battery is not in there, either!

The owner's manual is not of much assistance, but I finally figure out the battery is tucked inside a case behind a doored panel just below the windshield, on the passenger side, a lucky break because my jumper cables are not very long. I maneuver the car into the shed, as close as possible to the stupid tractor, hook up the cables, and voila, the tractor starts! It's like magic!

I figure I can leave the machine running while I remove the car, and get on with the job at hand, but safety got in the way again. There's a switch of some sort in the seat of the lawn tractor, which shuts down the engine if there's not enough weight on it. It's quite frustrating for my niece, who's not quite heavy enough yet to keep the motor running.

Two large chunks of wood wrestled from a far corner of the shed were not enough to do the trick, sadly, so I sat on that seat, bored silly, for as long as I thought it might take for the engine to restart once it was turned off. I even gave it a try after removing the jumper cables and before moving the car out of the shed, and it worked.

Once the car moved out, the stupid tractor wouldn't start, though, giving a little tiny and pathetic grinding noise before lapsing back into a sulky silence.

At this point, I'm thinking long grass might not be such a bad thing, and since I've been mowing all these years, surely Mom can deal with a scraggly lawn for a few days. She can just call the company that services the blessed vehicle.

Instead, I persevere, bring the car back in, re-hook up the cables, smash my thigh into a random piece of farm equipment nearby, curse like a sailor and sit bored and in pain for an interminable amount of time in the hope that this time, it will be enough to re-start the ding-dang lawnmower.

It worked, finally; I got out there to mow, and the tractor ran for nearly 10 minutes before it sputtered to a halt, out of gas.

sigh.
Of course.

I trudge to the garage, where my mother keeps not one, but two large portable containers of gasoline for this express purpose. Both of which are, as you might have predicted, empty, without gas, useless and as they say, 'drier than a popcorn fart.'

And that's when the zen kicked in. Up to this juncture, I had been alternately determined, annoyed, bemused and angry, but I found myself, with a bruised leg, broken fingernail and an hour behind schedule, bursting into laughter. What else is there to do, really, but load the Jerrycans into the car and fill 'em up? For fifty dollars, I might add, at the nearby farm supply store where the gas is never cheap, of course.

I managed to finish the lawn and it goes without saying that when I looked in the fridge, there was not even one single solitary cold beer waiting for me as a reward.

Burn, babes, burn

I plan to have a good laugh or two this weekend, at my own expense.

Each summer, I spend a weekend with a group of my best girlie buddies at a cottage in Muskoka, solving the world's problems and discussing earthy matters. Oh, who am I kidding, we drink and dance and swim and suntan and read garbage entertainment magazines on the dock.

A few years ago, one of my friends brought with her the diaries she kept as a teenager. We had a few belly laughs as she read out some of the sillier passages before putting the books into the fire.

This year, there will also be reading, and it will be much sillier. I have challenged my girlyfriends to bring along any old love notes, letters and assorted detritus from their youthful romances. We will read them aloud before depositing them into the flames.

I will bring shoeboxes, the ones stuffed with the letters (yes, on paper, with stamps and everything) from the admittedly very few sweethearts of my past.

I now know why I've kept these things all these years: it's for the comedy!

I'm not exactly sure of the contents of all the letters, but I know there's a poem about my beautiful "blue eyes that sparkle in darkness". Dude, my eyes are green. No wonder we broke up. Another guy's letters tended toward the porny, the 1990s version of sexting, I guess.

I also know somewhere in there is a long lovely tome from a biker dude I went out with twice, but upon whom I clearly made an impression. All I can think of when I think of that guy is my poor, poor father who was so very worried when a scary looking man showed up at the farm to take away his beloved 20 year old daughter, to who knows where. Looking back, I imagine my dad must have been so torn, wanting to give me wings but hoping I did not return with tattoos and a nose ring and who knows what kind of carnal knowledge.

I will not, of course, get rid of the letters written by my high school sweetheart, who is now my husband. Those stay forever. Not just for the comedy. They're for blackmail. Sweetie turns 50 later this year, and there may be another public reading to come.
Insert evil laugh here.

On Tidying Up

If you see me barefoot on the streets or in a yellow pair of overalls in the next little while, blame it on a Japanese lady whose ideas about homekeeping are taking over the first world.

The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up has sold more than two million copies even though it's still in hardcover. It's been on the New York Times bestseller list for about two years now.

The theory Marie Kondo posits in her slim book is not about how to make the stuff you have fit more nicely into well-arranged boxes and bags. It's about owning only things that make you happy.

I have taken to heart some of the more practical advice, but I'm having a lot of trouble with the big gesture she recommends. What she says about how best to fold and store clothing in armoires and dressers is indeed life-altering. (why did I never think of this? It's SO perfect!), but I have so far only slightly embraced her ethos of, "gather everything up and throw it all out - except the things that 'spark joy' in you".

That's what she saying: throw out EVERYTHING except those things which make you happy. And: don't buy new stuff unless it thrills you. Kondo suggests gathering up each and every item of clothing from every single closet and cranny, and then choosing what to keep. There's no limit on what to keep except whether the item sparks joy when you touch it. Items to go receive audible thanks for what they brought to your life, and then are shoved into bags and ushered out of your world.

Earlier this year, I did get rid of bags and bags of my 'fat clothes'. More recently, I started getting rid of clothes I no longer like, or which don't make me feel happy. However, as I purge I'm keeping clothes that don't make me unhappy.

The white jeans I loved but which fit well for about five minutes before stretching out to give me what my sweetie calls 'satchel ass': gone. A pink linen suit my mother so lovingly made at my request but which looks exactly like the year it was sewed: 1998: gone. Ill-fitting but expensive suits given by a former friend's mother when I had a 'corporate' job: gone, gone, gone.

The problem is this: my closets are tidier now but they're nearly empty. Seriously, there's just about nothing left. I am keeping three pairs of jeans, three skirts from FIG, two blouses, (also from FIG) one shirt and four dresses (two from FIG - sensing a theme here?) along with my running gear because I know for sure those items make me happy. Nearly everything else I own is on probation. If I continue along this vein, I will have to put my wedding dress into regular rotation, worn with an aging pair of Blundstones, because they are among the very few items which 'spark joy' in me.

The wedding dress and boots are a pretty good look. Just not very practical for mowing the lawn.

Well, That didn't take long

There's a bit of tempest in feminist and social justice circles these days following the introduction to the world of one Caitlyn Jenner, formerly Bruce. There has been a flurry of opinion pieces including one in last weekend's New York Times that has garnered a lot of response. Elinor Burkett's piece about Jenner mused about the implications for feminism of Jenner's coming out, wondering about how one defines womanhood, and whether the new Jenner's arrival on the scene should have been done with scanty clothes and less-scanty makeup and what that says about the state of women's equality or lack thereof.

I note with interest there were very few comments about the lushness of Chaz Bono's beard when the former Chastity Bono came out as a man. There was also little comment on the cut of the suit worn in Bono's official photos.

Now, shortly after the Jenner reveal, a woman in Spokane, Washington is revealed to have been pretending to be black as she led the local chapter of the NAACP. Both of her parents are white, of Czech and Polish descent.

Jenner has been universally applauded for courage and valour in the face of adversity, but Rachel Doelzal? Well, not so much.

The argument being put forward in the Jenner case is that we should call Caitlin a woman and use the pronouns, 'she' or 'her' because she believes herself to be a woman. If you agree with calling Jenner a woman because Jenner feels like a woman, it would follow that you'd have to back Doelzal being black because perhaps she believes herself to be black.

Really, can't everyone just be who they want to be, and it be no skin off anyone else's nose? (pun intended)

Contrary to the view held by Elinor Burkett in the New York Times, I think there IS room for people born male who wish to be known as women, to be known as women. Having more women around doesn't diminish anyone else's womanhood. That said, it saddens me to see Jenner's rather narrow take on femininity: all fluffy hair and fake eyelashes and honestly, was it really necessary to strip down to skivvies for the very first photo?

Taking the he/she argument to the next step, if we're all to present to the world who we really are on the inside, regardless of the circumstances of our birth, what are the implications for race? Be honest with yourself and think it through. Check to see where you land - it might reveal to you some uncomfortable truths about your own prejudices when it comes to race, gender, power and politics.

Unintended Truth

"It's not about you!"

Those were the most chilling words from the CITYnews report that has gone viral this week.

Two of the twerps who were harassing Shauna Hunt as she reported on the Toronto FC game told her, even while they were preparing to shout into her microphone a particularly vulgar phrase about things to do to a woman, it wasn't about her, particularly.

They may have revealed more than they intended, since their shout-out is yet more proof that men and women live in different countries, even in this great country of ours.

The goal of the shout is to take away the woman's power, all women's power, to take away the woman's, all women's, right to be in public, doing her job, any job.

And yes, I've heard that the yells of, "f her right in the p" are also aimed at male reporters sometimes, in a 'bubba boey' kind of frat boy stupidity, but I bet the male reporters take it vastly differently than the female ones do.

If you sat these guys down at a nice dining table to have a real conversation about what they mean when they shout such things in their drunken post-game frenzy, the probably couldn't articulate the fact that deep down, they just really hate women. But in those shouts, they say it loud and clear for all women to hear, live on TV. Unchecked, they tell men it's OK to feel the same way, to put women 'in their place', which is not in the public realm.

It's not just guys being funny. If it were, they wouldn't make reference to the female anatomy.

I'm proud of Hydro One for firing this lout from his 106-thousand dollar job, and I'm proud of Shauna Hunt for finally speaking up to the abusers who harass her as she works even while denying her right to be upset about it.

It's gonna stick

I took a chance on myself this week and it felt really, really good.

I finally got rid of about forty pounds of clothes that no longer fit. And yes, I'm bragging a little when I say, they're all too big.

When I took up running a few years ago, it wasn't very long at all long before most of my clothes started to hang and sag. I'll never forget slipping off what my husband called my, 'good ass pants' without undoing the buttons or zipper, just a few months after buying my first pair of running shoes.

I have now run through two pairs of shoes, and have settled and stayed at about 30 pounds lighter than when I started. However, instead of getting rid of the the clothes, I stored my too-big items in one of those big bins, in a back corner of our jam-packed basement.

Yesterday, finally, prompted by the search for spring sheets and jammies, I sorted through the bin and bags with a girlfriend and what she didn't want was delivered to the Sally Anns.

I don't know that I can accurately describe the feeling of driving away, leaving behind those clothes. I sort of felt like I was leaving behind a version of myself, one that didn't know the joy of such solid legs, a jutting collarbone or donning a bikini without feeling bad.

There was a lightness, a sense of accomplishment and a satisfaction in knowing that not only had I taken control of my weight and health, I have managed to stay where I want to be for all this time, which means I feel capable of staying here as long as I choose to.

For me, getting closer to having the body I want came down to deciding I wanted it more than I wanted certain other things, then deciding to take the steps (for me, strides) to get there.

If you're not happy with your body, it might be that you aren't willing to make the necessary trades to get it. In our busy, connected world, you might not want to trade a few extra minutes playing with your kids or a precious few minutes sleeping in, for exercise. With so many fabulous food choices available to us, you may not want to trade in those tasty tasty burgers or beer for salads or smaller portions. That's perfectly OK; get on with what you would rather do, but do yourself a favour and admit that you have made this trade-off. You'll be happier for it.

Fools for Love

I call her our lifesaver and she was.

I don't pretend that Sweetie and I got a dog for any other reason than to soothe our broken hearts. Early in our marriage, we were the victims in a horrible case of parental alienation, losing contact with a beloved young girl who was bullied, browbeaten and bribed into hating us, particularly me.

I couldn't stand the thought of my sweet man suffering through Christmas without his child, especially after we discovered that the rest of her family had moved, leaving no forwarding address.

We had talked about a dog, fought about what breed would be best (Lab versus Poodle: is there really a question?) and December 4th, 2004, a darling little Weimaraner chose us as we sat cross-legged, surrounded by nine other puppies at a home in Coldwater. She curled up in our respective laps and generally let us know that we were the ones she was prepared to love.

Sweetie said, "Honey, they're all so cute!"

"This one's nice...." I said as I stroked the grey-nose beauty whose drain chain collar had a bead in the shape of a purple flower. Purple Flower it was, and we brought her home that very day, forgetting that we had committed to attend not one, but two Christmas parties that night. We didn't have a bowl, leash or food, a nest or even a plan except an edict from me that there would be, "No dogs in the bed!"

Well, 'no dogs on the bed' lasted about four sleeps, and for the last ten and a half years, Emma Doodles would curl up on top of the covers until I would turn out my light, whereupon she would rise, circle, and we would lift the sheets for her to slip underneath. Most nights, she would rest her chin on my ankles or waist as we drifted off. Many mornings, I would find her tucked along the length of my sweetie's back, her toes touching his and her head on the pillow.

Tuesday afternoon, in our living room, surrounded by her favourite stuffed bunnies and covered in my tears, our friend slipped away after losing the battle with Wobbler's Syndrome, a degenerative disease more common in horses than dogs.

Starting about two years ago, she started to lose her grip on the floor. She was like Bambi on that frozen river with Thumper, feet splaying on the hardwood. We put carpet down the front stairs, got dozens of throw rugs to help keep her feet beneath her and found her a chiropractor. Anti-inflammatories also helped, but did not stop the progression of the dysfunction. We took apart our bed and moved our mattress to the floor when she could no longer jump up onto it.

Wobbler's robbed Emma of her mobility, but not her gentle, sweet spirit. Even the day she left us, she was still rubbing her head against me in a loving greeting when I came home and rushed over to nuzzle her neck. But she could no longer walk or stand after a fall while trying to climb into her favourite chair last Thursday. For five days, we lugged her 70-pound failing body to the backyard a dozen times a day, but she got weaker and weaker and we finally let her go.

Today, all those throw rugs are in a heap in the laundry room, we've taken our mattress back upstairs, the toys are put away and I can leave my tights on the bedroom floor if I want to with no fear they will be chewed up and barfed out. We will reassemble the bed sometime in the days to come. I can now leave the lid up on the toilet and food on the counter and Sweetie doesn't have to put puppy pads at the front door.

I also realize I no longer have an excuse for talking to myself, "I'm really talking to the dog, you know..." Sweetie and I are cuddling each other instead of the doggie and we burst spontaneously into ugly-cry tears more often than we would like to admit. I will need a new running partner and I will never change our answering machine message which features our lovely Emma's voice.

I will have to cut down on the amount of popcorn I pop and Sweetie will have to reduce his morning toast, since we have no one to 'share' it with. Sweetie's shirtsleeves will remain dry at the dining table, and there will once again be room for both of us on the couch.

Emma survived two pounds of dark chocolate, two cancerous tumours, a bowel obstruction caused by a pair of my apparently delicious tights, blue water from the toilet and a cross-town solo adventure when a contractor accidentally left the back gate open.

We feel as though we might not survive her death. We were fools for her.

We pampered and loved her and tried to teach her good manners, just like we would have done for another little girl who was also ripped from us at about 11 years of age.


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Thank you so much to everyone who has sent notes and flowers and been kind and generally awesome through this ordeal. Thanks also, to those friends and relatives who held their tongue about how much we spoiled our girl and made our lives revolve around her; we had a lot of pent-up love to give.

Mother Nature is a Rat. A wet rat.

I know my next-door neighbours a little better, and I've learned a little bit about plumbing, too, thanks to good old Mother Nature.

You might not be able to tell this from what's been going on around here since Christmas, but 2014 was is actually the warmest year in the history of humanity. Apparently. What a cruel trick of nature, that the very place with such tough winters is getting the worst part of global climate change. I kindof had been hoping we'd become the next Florida as Florida was swallowed by the sea, but oh, no, we have to get the polar vortexes instead of the warm jet stream.

But back to the neighbours, whose water pipes froze up somewhere underground in the middle of the night on Tuesday. There's really no way to thaw them, and so, they came to us to ask if they might be able to twin their water to our water.

Of course they can.

When the water utility sent me a note to confirm it was OK, I asked if anyone ever says no. Apparently, they're hearing a lot of nasty neighbour horror stories at the water utility these days.

My sweetie spent most of the night Wednesday trying to get the neighbours hooked up to our water, but we didn't have the right fitting for the hose, and things were freezing up even as we hooked them up.

Yesterday, a friend of the neighbours spent the afternoon thawing things out and hooking up a hose, which gave the neighbours two solid hours of water before it, too froze solid.

We spent last evening re-thawing the faucets and switching out the hose, which ran for another two hours before it, yup, froze up. Again.

So, one of our taps is running non-stop, our laundry room is scattered with three very long lengths of thawing hoses, and my poor neighbours still can't get the water to flow.

If this is what we can expect from climate change, send me my electric car and wind turbine right now.

What they're learning

My heart goes out to the teachers in the recent furor over sex education in Ontario.

I simply cannot imagine having to add vulva to the "head and shoulders, knees and toes" song.

It will be difficult and it will be embarrassing.
Also difficult: Chemistry, Trigonometry, metaphors and syntax.

Difficult is what school is for. We send our kids to school so they will learn the hard stuff we don't have time or inclination to teach them. And let's be honest here, we also hope our public education system will teach some kids, the kids of "those people" stuff their parents don't want to teach them at home: work ethic, getting a job, respect for others, and maybe just maybe, some kindness.

In all the uproar about the updated curriculum, you may want to think about your kids' access to the Internet at school, McDonald's, Starbucks and Tims with that 'phone you provided to be sure where they are at all times. Do you have an idea what they might be seeing there?

I listened to a fascinating documentary about boys, sex and the internet a while ago that left me very worried, and pretty quick to back very serious very early education for our very young kids.

The guy who was the subject of the documentary wasn't able to get or keep a girlfriend because his ideas about sex and sexuality had come from the porn he started accessing online at home when he was about 10 years old. He started off looking at boobies, but kept watching online and eventually was seeing girls who seemed to be fond of men ejaculating in their faces, drinking champagne glasses full of semen, and having anal sex with three guys on a first date. He began to see the on-screen behaviour as normal. The more he watched, the more he needed to watch to get off into the socks he brought with him into the computer room.

Your kids don't have a computer room. They have a phone. Under their covers, and dear parent, when was the last time you saw their browsing history? Oh, right, you can't.

Teaching your thirteen year old that transsexuals exist isn't teaching them how to become one, but it might prevent your trans nephew from killing himself.
Teaching your seven year old to listen to the voice in their head that tells them something isn't quite right with that too-smoochy uncle might prevent your niece from being abused.
Telling 15 year olds about the legalities of gay marriage and divorce won't "turn them gay" which seems to me to be what the protesters at Queen's Park were saying yesterday.

Click here to read the curriculum for yourself and see what you think. There's a lot in there about respect for self and others. If, after reading it, you really, really think your kid should not know that it's a bad idea to take a naked picture of themselves and send it over the web, then by all means, keep them at home. Just be sure to take away their phone, for the sake of their future, and their future dates.

Banishing Blues

Here are a few random things that have helped me today as we struggle with the Coldest. February. Ever.

1. Chicadees have warm feet. I know this because I fed several of them from my hand on Saturday at the Wye Marsh and all their little feet were just a teeny bit warmer than my hands.

2. Scotland's National Animal is a unicorn. Seriously. It seems like a giant FU to the world, honestly, which would be typical Scots now, wouldn't it?

3. There are still more public libraries in the world than McDonald's restaurants. (Whew!)

4. A group of flamingoes is called a FLAMBOYANCE! (Now, to get somewhere where I can see one...)

5. Most of the dust in your house is actually stardust mixed with little pieces of you. Remember this from the famous book by Robert Fulghum: "The majority of Stuff comes from just two sources: people—exfoliated skin and hair; and meteorites—disintegrated as they hit the earth’s atmosphere. (No kidding—it’s true—tons of it fall every day.) In other words, what’s behind my bed and bookcase and dresser and chest is mostly me AND STARDUST."

Holding Fast

My family motto is "hold fast", which is what I am attempting to do during this month of self-imposed sobriety.

19 days in, I have learned a lot about myself and also about our society's love of 'the drink'.

Like many families, my family's relationship with alcohol is a jumbled one. Three of my uncles have had a very tough time with booze: one's an admitted recovering alcoholic who told me when I was younger that he was "interrupted by God' as he used an axe to chop down the door of his own house during a booze-fuelled fight with his wife. He hasn't had a drop ever since that day. Another uncle died of drinking and smoking; he had cancer of the esophagus, stomach and lungs. Still another is estranged from the family, living off the grid in a single-wide in the woods somewhere in BC. We haven't seen him in decades, but I'm told he has struggled with the bottle since his teens.

On the other side, my father's parents had a bottle of something or other in the house, somewhere deep in a closet, and it lasted at least 20 years, since they weren't sick all that often. It was for medicinal purposes only, and I don't know what was in it. Rye, probably.

We don't have get-togethers with one side of my first family, and we don't serve alcohol at gatherings on the other side. One of my cousins says the lack of 'truth serum' is why we still manage to have those family parties, and she might be right. Although, I think there might be a secret beer or two swilled near the fire at the corn roast some years.

With my in-laws, Sweetie's mother is banned from making my drinks at his family functions, because, as she puts it, she, "doesn't like wasting the mix". I make my own, to prevent, as I put it, 'being shitfaced at Thanksgiving dinner." I'll never forget being offered 'moose milk' at Christmas when I was 17 as Sweetie and I had just started dating. There were certainly no drinks offered to underage girls at our weeknight dinners at the farm.

Over the years, my relationship with alcohol has become quite close. A cocktail before dinner. Wine with dinner. Port or something afterwards. Prosecco and OJ in the tub, Bailey's in coffee on weekends. Two drinks after curling four nights a week, boozy dancing at a bar, membership in a Scotch Society for Sweetie. Thinking it over, it's... a lot.

Which is why this month of sobriety proposed by the Health Unit was so intriguing to me. Somewhere, I was wondering if I was really in charge.

It turns out, I am cut from the bolt of my Dad's teetotalling parents. This not-drinking thing has actually been a bit of a breeze. I'm 19 days in and have had exactly one time when oh, boy, I really, really wanted that drink. Pizza Friday and Moosehead are simply made for each other, and the desire was very strong that first Friday of the month. But, just like when I have quit other habits, I acknowledged my craving and watched as it passed by.

What I have discovered is that I use booze as a treat. I know because I am replacing my glasses of wine and my vodka/Frescas with extra food and food-type treats. I'm downing chocolate bars at work, making chelsea buns at home, taking an extra portion of last night's pasta and some afternoons, I'm having chips while watching Netflix even though I just munched through a big bowl of butter-laced popcorn. So far, the switch from booze to food has shown up as three unwanted pounds on the scale. Three pounds in two weeks is about the amount of weight a 4-H beef calf is supposed to gain. Silly me for thinking I might actually lose some weight during this exercise!

Speaking of exercise, there is clearly more of it in my future, plus a bit more of that McLeod-style, jaw-clenched motto. I'll hold fast, just not to the martini, wine or beer glass. And I should definitely let go of the fork, too.

An Ounce at a Time

"Daddy always says an ounce of pretension is worth a pound of manure." - Julia Roberts as Shelby in Steel Magnolias

I'm can't wait to hear the first 'born-again' reference from my family during my upcoming month of alcohol abstinence. It will definitely be a clue to shut the hell up about it.

The born-again reference is the code my family uses to describe someone who's taken up something new and just. can't. stop. talking. about. it.

It happened for me with running, and don't even get me started on my farm-fresh food. (Seriously, don't. You'll be stuck with me for hours and I'll send you home with several soups and stews and we'll end up talking about terroir and nuances of grass-fed versus corn and you'll want to poke your eyes out with a stick rather than hear me blather on...)

Have you noticed it's the very rare person who has simply stopped eating gluten, saying nothing about it? It can be very entertaining to observe; if you ask even one or two casual questions, you can sometimes get a full 20 mintues out of them, especially if it's a very new discovery, their allergy or sensitivity. No one seems to just... go on a Paleo diet and quietly make the Paleo-appropriate choice at the restaurant without any discussion of their improved sleep and strength. The Crossfitters are the most entertaining of all in their very own special circle of born-againness, far more prepared to talk at length about their choices than even an organic, gluten-free vegan with a multi-level marketing scheme they're hoping to drag you into.

I'm not criticizing (OK, maybe a little...) - I do love the passion people exhibit for new habits and discoveries, even if I somehow suspect the passion is not going to last.

And now, I get to join them all!

I'll be booze-free for the month of February as part of the Simcoe County Health Unit's Ready to be Thirsty Campaign.

Hopefully. I do love to party and play, and alcohol is such a big part of that in our society.

If I'm successful, you'll be so tired of hearing about it, you're going to want to buy me a drink and shove it down my sanctimonious throat. If I fail, you're off the hook!

Challenges

I don't talk about challenges in the mealy-mouthed PR way, which is code for screwups.

I mean an actual challenge; a goal, an event, a tough thing I'm doing. I started my first one yesterday after much hemming and hawing, and I'll start the second one on Super Bowl Sunday.

The Super Bowl one, I'm expecting, will be the easier of the two.

I accepted a challenge from the Health Unit to quit drinking for a month. Yup. An entire month. Albeit a short one.

I am not alcoholic, and I don't think I drink too much, but I suspect I will find out that I drink a whole lot more than I think I do. The challenge is more about being aware of the role alcohol plays in my life. I'm interested because there are/were some alcoholics in my family, and also, having gotten into shape a few years ago, I'm kind of loving that feeling of being in control.

That said, I'm already staring down a tough weekend when a group of my friends is slated to visit for a ski weekend. Apres ski, I will nurse lemon water while they whoop it up. It should be ... interesting.

My other challenge is within the four walls of my American Foursquare home.

A few years ago, I discovered that if I make a look-ahead to-do list, I can find a way to stick to it. But, if my goals are hazy and nebulous, I'll sit on the couch and watch Archer on Netflix.

Like the booze thing, I don't have a problem; I can get from room to room and there are no stalactites of mould nor dog poop on the floor or anything. My house is tidy, and I can usually find what I'm looking for, but I've noticed in the last few months that I am seeing a wee layer of what can only be called grime, pretty much everywhere. At my Christmas party, I was aghast to see a large cobweb dangling over one of my guests.

While I have been noticing, I have not found the motivation or the plan that might work, short of hiring someone to clean for me, which I would love but the Presbyterian in me won't let me. At least, not yet.

One of the magazines I read suggested a 15 minutes a day cleaning routine, right down to how many seconds should be allotted to wipe down a bathroom sink veers a kitchen sink. That article spurred something in me, and I came up with my own, home grown challenge: 30 cleaning minutes a day, one room or zone in the house. Yes, I even created a chart. Yes, there are spaces on that chart for dates and check marks. (Have I ever mentioned I'm a Virgo?)

Yesterday was Day One. I figured I'd start in the kitchen. I set a timer for 30 minutes and put on an interesting podcast, and settled in to make the grime, go. Three hours later when my sweetheart came home, I had worked my way through two pairs of rubber gloves, three kettles of boiling water, killed an old toothbrush and nearly an entire bottle of Murphy's oil soap, and I wasn't even close to done.

I was shocked to find I can actually move the fridge. There was some gross crap under there, man! Also, did you know it's possible to pull that 'warming' drawer out from under the oven? Lots of gross crap there, too.

Although my nails are a mess and my wrists and hands are sore, when I left for work this morning, I took an enormous amount of satisfaction from the faint whiff of Murphy's lingering in the kitchen in spite of the curry we had for dinner last night.

All I need for today, when I tackle the home office, is new gloves and more downloads.

Confused Thinking

They call it cognitive dissonance.

It's when the things you see and hear and experience don't match what you believe is possible or real.

For example, if more than 20 women were to publicly claim the same man had drugged and raped them, it wouldn't be possible for that man to receive a standing ovation at a public performance.

If someone put their name on a social media post outlining the illegal and brutal things they'd like to do to their fellow dentistry students, it's not possible the university would protect their name.

But there is nothing to be confused about in yesterday's terrorist attack in France. It was entirely expected that Muslim fundamentalists would attack the writers and artists who have been saying out loud and for a long time that religion does not trump freedom in France.

There were police guarding the doors of the magazine Charlie Hebdo in Paris, because there had already been an attack over the magazine's publications. Those officers didn't prevent the deadly shootings, but everyone knew this could happen.

And yet, the cartoonists kept drawing, right up until they were murdered by the people who couldn't agree with them. The cartoonists were not confused about what they were doing, and the shooters weren't either. Each was completely convinced they are correct, and were in the business of righting a wrong.
There is no cognitive dissonance in this case.

The question is, are you still confused?