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.