Tongue firmly in cheek

Henry's Medal

Sat, 05 Jul 2008 11:18:24 GMT

OTTAWA, ON, July 4, 2008 (LifeSiteNews.com) - Canada's Catholic bishops have followed the lead of Archbishop Thomas Collins of Toronto by taking a unified stance against the Canada Day decision to promote the nation's most prolific killer of the unborn, Henry Morgentaler, to the Order of Canada. Many of Canada's bishops have not only released statements on the "travesty," but have requested Prime Minister Harper and the Governor General to revoke the award.

"I have trouble with Dr. Morgentaler getting the Order of Canada," Father Lucien Larre said. He said giving Morgentaler the honour "degrades" it and for people who are opposed to abortion, "it's nothing, it's a worthless award." Larre was convicted of assault and administering a noxious substance - convictions he said related to the high-risk youth he worked with, and he says he was eventually pardoned for both crimes. And Larre candidly spoke about sexual abuse allegations that arose against him when he worked in Regina many years ago, saying they were false allegations for which he was acquitted.

A spokesperson for the Canadian Conference of Catholic Bishops said that much has changed in the decade since the bishops adopted the recommendations of a 1992 report. The document was commissioned after a scandal at the Mount Cashel orphanage in Newfoundland, where several priests were found guilty of sexually abusing boys. It set out procedures to deal with the sex-abuse problem. Although some survivors say the crisis is worse in Canada than south of the border, Father Kokesch said it is unlikely that this country could see a situation like that in the United States, where the church is facing dozens of criminal and civil suits arising from allegations of sexual misconduct.

Archbishop Terrence Prendergast of Ottawa criticized the divisive nature of the decision and affirmed the duty of all Catholics to defend life at all stages.

"As a Canadian, I am saddened to learn that Henry Morgentaler has been awarded the Order of Canada," said the Archbishop. "As Catholic Christians, we must affirm and defend the gift of life from the moment of conception to natural death. No one, in any circumstance, can claim the right to destroy an innocent human being. Anyone who devotes their energies to promoting abortion is a source of division on the most fundamental questions of life in society. Awarding the Order of Canada to Henry Morgentaler can only be a matter of disunity, offending many Canadians of conscience."

No one knows the extent of the problem in Canada because church records are not public. It would require every diocese to open its files to piece together a total picture of the extent of abuse by priests. Also cloaked in secrecy is information about the number of lawsuits against priests and dioceses. The church routinely imposes a gag order on settlements.

"I have a vision, a dream that all people should be treated in a humane, compassionate way" ~Henry Morgentaler~

Booby Trapped

Sat, 01 Mar 2008 18:09:19 GMT

Karla-Rae Morris is getting an $8,000 boob job for free – and she owes it all to bosom buddies she befriended on a controversial website.
Since the fall of 2005, the petite 26-year-old Fort McMurray mother has been racking up donations on www.MyFreeImplants.com – a California-based site that allows men to invest in breast augmentation surgery for flat-chested women who otherwise wouldn’t be able to afford it. In exchange for donations, the women chat online with the charitable men and send them photos and videos of themselves.
Morris, a married stay-at-home mom with two young children, reached her goal of $8,000 last month. She joins Strathmore mom Candace Leadley, also 26, as the only known Canadians to reach “Hall-of-Fame” status on the site.
The five-foot-six, 98-pound Morris, who initially took some grief from her husband and two of her sisters for her quest for a treasured chest, plans to undergo surgery this spring to expand from a 32AA to 34C cup.
“I’m going to be really super happy,” she told Sun Media. “I always felt like less of a woman and more like a little girl. It’s going to make me more confident wearing a swimsuit. And I won’t have to buy padded bras anymore.”
Morris, who eventually earned her family’s support, has chosen a Vancouver surgeon and is waiting for the website’s operators to transfer the money so she can book her operation.
The hazel-eyed redhead, who holds the unenviable distinction of taking the longest amount of time – nearly three years – to reach her goal of any woman on the site so far, said her donations ranged from $5 to $500 and came mostly from a handful of men.
She said her two biggest contributors – a “happily married American man with money to spare” and an Australian man, who’s “not bad looking” – each donated more than $1,000 in total.
“I became good friends with them, as good as you can over the Internet,” she explained.
Although she admitted she sent out some “naughty” pics and video – which she regrets to this day – Morris insisted most of the men she encountered seemed to be more interested in making a personal connection and helping her out than just getting some racy images.

I won’t even get into the icky-ness factor of her husband being A-OK with the whole scheme, or the fact that she’s sending a message to her kids that screams, “Self-worth and esteem are for sale”. I’m still in shock that she simply put up some pics and a couple of videos, begged online and got $8000 from people she's never even met!!

Of course all of this got me thinking. While I certainly don’t need boobs, there is one thing I’d like bigger. I’m going to set up a website called enlargemycloset.com. I’ll post naughty pictures of me trying to stuff all my clothes into my tiny closet and lonely, wealthy men can send me money to get a bigger one.

And when I get my walk-in closet, I’m going to be really super happy because I’ve always felt less of a homeowner with my tiny one. It seems like all the other hockey moms have walk-ins - you can tell by the way their clothes have no wrinkles. And I’m jealous of the way the hockey dads look at their wives like they’re thinking “You make me so happy with the way you fill your walk-in….”

Naked Newfs

Sat, 15 Dec 2007 16:39:15 GMT

Dozens pose naked for photo shoot along St. John's, N.L., waterfront

THE CANADIAN PRESS

ST. JOHN'S, N.L. - Standing naked facing the North Atlantic in the middle of December may be the last way you'd want to spend the morning.

But about 50 people did just that today along the St. John's, N.L., waterfront as part of a photo shoot organized by actor-director Mary Walsh.

The brave souls, from different walks of life, stood facing Signal Hill with their derrieres cheek to cheek as the sun rose.

The temperature at the time was about -10 degrees C, with the wind chill making it feel like - 15 degrees C.

Walsh says she was inspired by New York photographer Spencer Tunick, who's famous for arranging pictures of people naked around the world.

She is planning to arrange similar photo shoots across Canada.

Funny, the thought of 50 naked newfs has never inspired me. I hope the folks who stripped down for Mary Walsh also realize that she's a comedian.....

Good Behaviour

Sat, 08 Dec 2007 01:35:42 GMT

"Kiefer Sutherland, starting Day 3 of his 48-day sentence for DUI and a probation violation, is a "model prisoner," says a spokesman for the Glendale City Jail.

"He's not happy to be here," Officer John Balian says, "but you can tell from his demeanor that he's sorry and takes responsibility for what's he's done."

Sutherland spent his first full day on Thursday folding jail laundry. He also had cornflakes for breakfast, a turkey sandwich for lunch and chicken a la king for dinner.

The 24 actor, who is housed alone in a cell, has also been assigned to serve meals to the other eight to 10 inmates, one of whom was recently arrested for attempted murder – on four people.

"But we don't put murderers or rapists who are awaiting trial in the same area as a guy convicted of a DUI," Balian explains, adding that Sutherland, as an inmate worker, has access alone to one of three common rooms, each with a television.

The only interaction Sutherland will have with other inmates is when he slides a tray of food through slots in their cell doors.

He also has shower access twice a day.

As of Thursday evening, Sutherland had not had any visitors. However, Balian says that the actor brought several books to keep him busy.

The jail spokesman reiterates that Sutherland will do the full 48 days straight without early release:

"There's no way he's getting out early, unless a judge orders otherwise, which is highly unlikely," he says.".

Hmmm. I realize it can’t be fun and it’s no place to spend your birthday, Christmas, New Year, and well, if you’re Kiefer Sutherland, any weekend. But damn, I’m hard-pressed to find it in my heart to feel too sorry for the man. Let’s go over this again, shall we?

"Sutherland spent his first full day on Thursday folding jail laundry." What a coincidence, I spend Thursday not only folding laundry, but also picking it up off the floor, stuffing it into a basket, dragging it down stairs, sorting it, washing it, drying it, folding it, schlepping it back upstairs, ironing it, and finally, hanging it up. Poor sot, I bet he’s exhausted.

"He also had cornflakes for breakfast, a turkey sandwich for lunch and chicken a la king for dinner." Wow! He won’t be keeping his svelte 150 lbs of leanness very long with that diet. Oh, I forgot – he’s probably burnt off all those calories folding laundry. I had a high-fibre granola bar for breakfast. For lunch I managed time to dump 2 packs of Chicken Noodle Supreme Cup-of-Soup into a cup of lukewarm water. It is 7pm as I write this and I still haven’t had my supper.

"The 24 actor, who is housed alone in a cell, has also been assigned to serve meals to the other eight to 10 inmates, one of whom was recently arrested for attempted murder – on four people." Now that is scary. I hope he’s careful and doesn’t accidentally give that cat a plastic knife or something. I too am assigned to serve meals, but usually it’s only to 2 or 3 people, one of whom was recently grounded for failing his Social Studies test and throwing snowballs at recess.

"The only interaction Sutherland will have with other inmates is when he slides a tray of food through slots in their cell doors." That’s pretty much what happens in our house too, unless you count the ruckus that occurs when someone ‘unauthorized’ takes the remote.

"As of Thursday evening, Sutherland had not had any visitors. However, Balian says that the actor brought several books to keep him busy." Poor Kiefer, I know just how he feels. I haven’t had a visitor since August when my brother-in-law and his wife stayed with us while awaiting eye surgery. I’m glad he can read books though. I hope he can manage to stay awake past the first paragraph. I can’t. Here’s a thought: maybe he can parlay this jail stint into a moneymaker by reading books aloud on CD. I’d certainly manage to stay awake past the first paragraph of that book! I don’t even give a sh*t what book it is.

"Sutherland, as an inmate worker, has access alone to one of three common rooms, each with a television." Well, la-te-dah! I have access to one of two rooms with TV’s in them. But since I’m not ‘authorized’ to use the main TV remote, and can’t for the life of me figure out the other TV’s remote, I’m stuck with a choice of The Simpsons, TSN, or some show starring the spawn of Billy Ray Cyrus. I wonder what TV shows Kiefer will watch. Hey, he can invite Jon to the jail and they can watch the Season 6 DVDs that just came out. Maybe then they’ll understand what all the bitchin’ was about. I wonder if they let them watch Prison Break?

"He also has shower access twice a day." Wow, all that laundry folding, food tray shoving, book reading and TV show watching must make a guy pretty grungy. I notice that they say ‘shower access’. and it’s got me thinking. Well of course it’s got me thinking, but I mean it’s got me wondering, is this like the TV room ‘access alone’ thingy? ‘Cause, well, you know...

...the shit hits the fan

Thu, 22 Nov 2007 22:16:13 GMT

What the hell is wrong with the world when it becomes a contest to see who can get the shortest prison stay for the most outrageous stunt? We’ve got Nicole Ritchie and Lindsay Lohan clocking in at less than 2 hours each for their individual alcohol and drug induced vehicular madness. And the whole Paris Hilton ‘in and out’ fiasco was an entire waste of time, money, and brain matter – everyone involved should be ashamed of themselves! I’ve never been one to wring my hands over custody time for criminals, but one does have to admit there’s an obvious imbalance of jail time when you compare a sentence for ‘Joe Average’ with the shear insanity of celebrity justice – “I do a few lines, hop in my $70,000 vehicle, drive wildly, get caught, spend less than 2 hours in jail and have my name and face in the headlines of gossip rags twice as much as normal.” Big deterrent for an up and coming actor, huh?

This, of course brings me to Kiefer Sutherland. Forty-eight days, eh? It seems kinda reasonable to me. In fact, if pressed, I’d say it’s pretty darn light when you stop to think about what he did! I suspect most fans would agree that given what could have happened (and I shudder just thinking about it), this is almost like a gift to him. I sincerely hope he recognizes it for what it is and goes about helping himself get healthy.

But as I’ve discovered, not all his fans are feeling like Kiefer dodged a bullet. In fact some of them are outraged and have taken their crusade to the airwaves. Gawd luv the Internet!

What is it about the man that drives women crazy? I don’t mean weak in the knees crazy, although that’s been known to happen - I seem to remember this insane urge to grab his ass and lick his ear when we were at the Drake a few years ago. I didn’t do it, although I like to imagine what would have happened if I had. But common sense, respect, and a goodly measure of sanity prevented me from acting on this whim. That, and my left leg wouldn’t stop shaking; I don’t like standing up and falling down in the same breath. Anyway, I’ve been in Kiefer’s presence since the Drake and there was no grabbing or licking. I’m not a crazy fan. I’m crazy, but I’m not a crazy fan. I’ve discovered of late that there is a distinct difference…

We’ve got people claiming to be the only objective voice in all the reams of gossip tales we’re getting fed. That is, if we’re to accept that objectivity takes the form of multiple air quotes and bold font. I’ve found in my Kiefer fandom-site travels that lots and lots of Kiefer experts use air quotes. Some feel the need to stress their qualifications by emailing everyone in the world their results of comparing the number of times their name shows up in a Google search. I’ve Googled myself (that sounds kinda naughty, huh?) and I don’t have a lot of entries, so I guess I’m not an expert. Maybe it’s because I like my world with Kiefer in it, but he’s not my world – does that make any sense? Anyway, I have trouble remembering which day to pack gym shorts for my son, so there’s no way in hell I’m going to even try to remember every line of every movie he’s been in. Nor do I want to – it doesn’t make for lively conversation outside of a fan forum.

Anyway, back to my rant about crazy fans. These people have seriously turned the corner on normal. When they’re not bickering and belaboring every single statement that other people make, they’re holding Kiefer up as some sort of modern day thespian Jesus Christ! I’m not lyin’ - I’ve read that poem about Kiefer that’s been floating around, although I admit I haven’t been able to make it past the first stanza without hiding my head and howling in embarrassment for the author. I shouldn’t have wasted my time - she’s quite possibly the most intensely disturbed person I’ve ever come across in my Kiefer-adventures. One of her letters is a particularly nasty, vindictive and threatening brand of crazy (which includes both air quotes AND bold font, as well as the obligatory Google Seal of Approval) and it ranks pretty high on the list of irrational and asinine rants I’ve read from Kiefer fans who are most certainly old enough to be ashamed of their immature displays. I read her email spam and promptly disassociated myself from the group we both belonged to - there's no way in hell I want my name and hers appearing on a list for anything, even something as benign as an email distribution list. If you have the stomach for it, head on over to American Chronicle and peruse her 'articles' about Kiefer's troubles. I'd be interested to know if I'm the only one who gets the theme from The Twilight Zone running through their head while reading...

I originally intended this entry to be another ‘letter to Kiefer’, but then realized that I didn’t have it in me to be yuk, yuk just yet. But what would I really say to the man if given the chance?

Dear Kiefer, hun; (you don’t mind if I call you Kiefer, do you?)

I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you’ve got yourself into a mess, I’m sorry you’re forced to deal with it (although I’m grateful you are dealing with it), I’m sorry you’re lonely, or at least that’s how you appear to me to be. I’m so very sorry that the people you were with that night didn’t care enough about you to ensure your safety and privacy. And lastly, I’m sorry that those awful men and women who waved photos under your nose to be signed and took that video didn’t have enough respect for you to suggest that perhaps you might want to rethink the whole driving thing. I like to think that you might have been willing to be led to a taxi or limo.

That being said, the fatalist in me wants to believe you got nabbed for a reason. I truly hope you recognize it as a chance to get some real help and not reappear after 2 weeks at a rehab/spa with headlines blaring “I’ve conquered my demons”. You’ve slowly created this mess for yourself and only you can slowly dig yourself out of it.

As I’ve said before, I’m not an expert fan so I don’t have a friggin clue why you’re so hell-bent on drinking yourself to death when you hit a bar (I can guess at a couple of reasons, but I’ll keep them to myself – and it’s really none of my business anyway), but you’re so much better than that drunken ass you become. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a bit of drunken revelry from time to time, in fact at my age, it’s a big event - one to be anticipated for weeks, and regretted for days. But it’s hard for fans like me to look at pictures of you drunk in a bar and relate this to the talented, intelligent, generous, hard working man that you are. Oh I’m not a hypocrite, I’ll be honest and say that pic of you in Toronto with the peony stuck in your jeans really tickled my funny bone. And truthfully Kiefer, if it was one-off things like you letting off steam and getting silly like that – I’d adore you all that much more. But these aren’t one-offs are they? It’s no longer ‘not affecting your work’, as you’ve so defiantly said in interviews. It’s not a joke, it’s not a release, it’s not an excuse, and it’s definitely not an escape. It’s a big ol’ mess that you’ve created and now you’re being forced to deal with it. I’m just sorry it has to be so public. And I’m sorry some of your fans have lost their minds over it.

You just go away and do whatever it is that you have to do for yourself. I’ll be over here waiting for you to get back.

Be healthy, be strong.

Free Hugs - YEAH!!

Fri, 28 Sep 2007 19:42:52 GMT

Who doesn't need a free hug?

Is the Pope Catholic? Betcha ass he is!!

Tue, 17 Jul 2007 20:47:40 GMT

Pope Benedict XVI has ignited controversy across the world by approving a document saying non-Catholic Christian communities are either defective or not true churches, and the Roman Catholic Church provides the only true path to salvation.

A judge on Monday approved a $660 million settlement between the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Los Angeles and more than 500 alleged victims of clergy abuse, the largest payout yet in a nationwide sex abuse scandal.

Local Catholics say that Protestants can be "saved" and go to heaven when they die, contrary to published reports quoting Pope Benedict XIV as saying that only Catholics will go to heaven.

The settlements push the total amount paid out by the U.S. church since 1950 to more than $2 billion, with about a quarter of that coming from the Los Angeles archdiocese.

The document said the Orthodox church suffered from a "wound" because it did not recognize the primacy of the pope, adding the wound was "still more profound" among Protestant denominations.

Carlos Perez-Carillo, 41, a supervisor in the Los Angeles County Department of Social Services, said about the abuse, “We walked around spiritless.”

"These separated churches and communities, though we believe they suffer from defects, are deprived neither of significance nor importance in the mystery of salvation," the document read. "In fact the Spirit of Christ has not refrained from using them as instruments of salvation, whose value derives from that fullness of grace and of truth which has been entrusted to the Catholic Church."

Mr. Perez-Carillo added, “We were told we lied,” and said, “We walked in darkness for many, many years.”

The document, formulated as five questions and answers, repeated sections of a 2000 text the pope wrote when he was prefect of the congregation, "Dominus Iesus," which angered Protestant and other Christian denominations because it said they were not true churches and did not have the "means of salvation."

“I don’t want Mahony going around saying everything is all right, because it’s not,” said Rita Milla, 45, a medical assistant who lives in Carson. “My church acted like it didn’t know what was happening.”

A worldwide meeting of bishops, held at the Vatican in 2005, endorsed the celibacy requirement and Benedict, with the document, embraced their call.

Despite the victory, some victims expressed regret that the Church leaders, who condoned pedophile priests for decades, would escape the public accountability of open court examination.

“Cardinal Mahony and other church leaders would have had to take the witness stand under oath and tell the truth about how much they knew and how little they did with that knowledge to protect the children,” said one prominent victim, according to Reuters.

Benedict wrote that public witness to one's faith is especially required of politicians who decide matters such as abortion, euthanasia, "the family built upon marriage between a man and a woman...and the promotion of the common good in all its values. These values are not negotiable.”

In the courtroom, Mr. Boucher, his voice choking, asked for a moment of silence for victims who had died during the years of negotiations. He said in an interview later that he knew of nine who had committed suicide in the last five years, and several others who had died of drug overdoses.

While Benedict acknowledged "the painful situations'' of those remarried Roman Catholics, he also reiterated the church's stance that they cannot receive Communion because the church views such faithful as living in sin if they remarry and consummate their new marriages.

Lee Bashforth held up a photo of himself as a young boy with the priest he says abused him. He called Mahony's apology "disingenuous" and said the settlement only saved the church from having to face questions before a jury.

The cardinal, who sat silently through the hearing, apologized Sunday to the victims, saying of the abuse, “It should not have happened and should not ever happen again.”

Lucky number seven. Lucky for whom???

Sat, 07 Jul 2007 12:15:17 GMT

Ok, I'll admit it, I just don't 'get' this whole 'luckiest day of the decade' shit that everyone's talking about. Why is it luckier than any other day of the decade because it's got all sevens it in? WhooHooo!! Sorry, don't get it. What makes the number seven so freakin special?

And all these people flocking to the casinos. What the hell for? Hasn't anyone sat down to figure out that if today really and truly is the luckiest day of the decade - it'll be the luckiest day of the decade for EVERYONE. Hell, that just evens everything out, doesn't it?

Not just good - it's good for ya!

Wed, 04 Jul 2007 01:01:38 GMT

My husband has become a yogurt snob. I bring home 3 or 4 cases of various brands and flavors of yogurts, most of which are fat free. Except “the green ones”, he loves “the green ones”. At first I thought it was just the taste of non-fat-free yogurt that he loved, but now he says it’s because of the “Probiotic Cultures”. He informs me I’m not doing myself any favors by eating mere fat-free yogurt. I should be eating “the green ones because they contain Probiotic Cultures”. Uh huh, ok. I was quite satisfied eating my fat-free ‘regular’ yogurt, but he’s now made a somewhat enjoyable treat seem like a crime against nature. I almost feel the same way as I did when I smoked - sneaking open the fridge, grabbing my substandard non-fat yogurt, silently slipping a spoon out of the rack and scurrying down the hall to the computer room to enjoy my not-as-healthy-as-his-snack snack.

Last grocery order I whipped off an email to him asking him what he needed me to pick up on the way home and he responded with “the green stuff – don’t get me any of that shitty non-fat stuff without Probiotic Cultures, that stuff’s loaded with aspartame”. Riiiight. Gottcha. So I got a bit pissy, as I’m wont to do at times. I came home with lots of the ‘green stuff’ chock full of ‘Probiotic Cultures’, in mouth watering selections such as peach and fibre and the drool inducing prune flavor. Heh, take that and eat it, you freakin’ yogurt Nazi! Of course, like all my evil plans, this one backfired. He’s now even more righteous if that’s possible. He looks down in scorn at my raspberry/vanilla non-fat yogurt as he’s eating his ever-so-much-more-healthy ‘green stuff’ with ‘Probiotic Cultures’. Damn him.

So this weekend I vowed to out-righteous him. I was going to find something healthier than the God forsaken Probiotic Culture if it killed me. Imagine my surprise and delight when my Google search found “Kefir - the champagne of fermented dairy products”. *Cackles wildly* How perfect is that? According the site, “Kefir reputation goes beyond just being another dairy product. The Russians believe that the regular consumption of kefir improves overall health, helps fight disease and infection and speeds recovery from illness and injury.” Well, well, well. Take that “Probiotic Cultures”. Do you have any idea how thrilled I was to read the next paragraph? “It has been shown that kefir grains have broad antitumoural, antibacterial and antifungal properties.” Hehehe, this has the makings of some serious fun.

Now I just have to buy kefir at my local health food shop and stock my fridge. And take it to work. And of course I have to let everyone know what the hell I’m eating. I’ll say things like, “I’ve had kefir every day for a week and my crotch feels wonderful” (all those antibacterial and antifungal properties, of course). Or how about “I can’t come to the phone right now, I’m busy enjoying kefir”. Maybe something like, “I just had a wee nibble of kefir this morning, but I’ll have a super-size tonight” Or “Hands off my kefir”

So instead of letting hubby know I’ve found something better than his damned “Probiotic Cultures”, I’ll just let him feel smug. And I’ll continue to sneak down the hall and enjoy kefir in the privacy of my computer room. Hehehe.

Summer Solstice II

Fri, 22 Jun 2007 09:37:31 GMT

The boys have been found. Just so sad. How does a parent even begin to recover from this, or do they ever?

Summer Solstice

Thu, 21 Jun 2007 15:58:29 GMT

Today's the first day of summer. And for a family in the sub-division down the road from us, it's Day 3 in Hell.

On Monday afternoon their son and his buddy apparently took a homemade raft out on the lake in their s/d and haven't been seen since.

I got sick and tired of doing absolutely nothing but listening to the news every half-hour and drove down to the arena where they've got the Search and Rescue command post. I wanted to see if there was anything at all that I could do to help - even if it was as mundane as hand out water bottles or make sandwiches. But these guys are so organized it was amazing to see them in action. Unfortunately they've had lots and lots of experience in this. The Staples call center that's located right across the street from the lake, and a local grocery store have been supplying the rescuers with food and I assume volunteers to man the food trucks as well as cash for the water and stuff. The Red Cross has a hot meal wagon set up and the RCMP and Fire Dept (both are located just a stone's throw away) are looking after the volunteers and suppling support. I'm hard pressed to say what moved me most -- the fact that I'm a mother of a son who is just a couple years younger than the ones gone missing, or how impressed I was with the sheer number and determination of the S&R folks. I spoke with the on-site Coordinator, who is a very nice woman in her mid-fifties (one of the firemen told me her name was Carol). She assured me that they had a lot of fresh rescuers just arrive and that they had everything in running order and were getting prepared to head out again after eating some supper and having a coffee. She thanked me for taking the time to come all the way down to offer assistance - I looked her in the eyes and I think she understood what moved me to venture out. Perhaps it's the same reason why most of these people have been out on the shores of the lake for over 36 straight hours. Because we've all had that "there but for the grace of God, go me" moments upon hearing about someone going missing. As a mother, I can't even begin to imagine life during these hours of not knowing. I know I would want as many people as humanly possible to be out looking for Alex. And that's why I went out, and in some way, I think that's why the search and rescue folks are out there.

The original responders are exhausted and have put the call out to other search and rescue teams around the province to come help them out. And here I sit not being able to do anything but listen to the helicopters circle around . Of course I understand completely why they can't have folks off the street blundering around the woods getting themselves lost, but it's really frustrating knowing that these folks are exhausted and I can't do anything to help them out. Yet. I've gone online and researched the S&R team. I'm going to think seriously about taking the certification courses that they offer and volunteering my time.

Guitar Gods and such

Sun, 10 Jun 2007 20:30:20 GMT

*sigh* You know the world's a much more interesting place for having folks like Rocco DeLuca and John Butler. Kinda make me remember why I believe in God.

Ocean

Swing Low

Guitar Lesson

RDB in Portland

Sun, 27 May 2007 11:00:07 GMT

Finally, I get to see the Burden. Almost 2 years to the day when I got the ITYTKM CD in the mail. I've seen Rocco perform solo at The Drake in Toronto 2 years ago. I went up to him after he was finished and told him how much I enjoyed his music. When I told him I had ordered his CD, he smiled shyly and said I was the first person he'd met who said they'd bought his CD. And of course, I dragged the family to Portland for last summer's solo performance (with Kiefer in tow) at BullMoose.

But this was different. This was a bigger, better performance (with lights and everything). This was with the Burden. The boys. The gang. The full compliment. I was too excited. I'd stopped visiting the STM board because it was just too frustrating hearing about everybody's concert experiences (sometimes for the 4th and 5th time around!). I don't begrudge anyone the opportunity, in fact I'm extremely jealous - if it were me in that position, I'd certainly be at each and every concert as well. It's just that it's hard maintaining excitement and energy about the group when it seems that everyone in the world had a story to share, and I was definitely on the outside looking in.

Anyway, we managed to make the 9 hour trip without any family member being divorced or disowned. And the weather was beautiful for exploring downtown Portland before the concert. We stayed at the Hilton right on the waterfront and enjoyed a nice dinner (with my first Guinness, which will prolly be my last Guinness - I left feeling like I'd inhaled an entire loaf of dark rye bread) at Bull Feeney's, just a couple of blocks from the auditorium.

Finally the time came to get our seats. I was a bit put out because when I ordered the tickets on line over a month ago, we weren't allowed to pick the seats - it was assigned seating. One would think that row C, seats 9,10, and 11 would be excellent. I just assumed row C meant that we were 3 rows back from the front of the stage. Wrong. There's the orchestra pit and then the seats wrap around it. We were off to the side and 3 rows away. So no close up pics for me. Nowhere in any of my pics will you see the sweat on Rocco's brow, or an intense expression on his face (or anyone else's face for that matter!) To the issue of distance, add no flash, no preperation (I forgot to adjust the setting for night), no talent, and extreme distraction - I was too busy enjoying the moment, and you've got a recipe for some 'interesting' pictures. Let's just say that they're very atmospheric. Yeah, that's it....atmospheric. It's intentional.

Whoops. Almost forgot the set list. They played Gift, Colorful, Swing Low, Bus Ride, Dope, and ITYTKM. For 2 days I had every body part crossed that they'd play Swing Low. I was so excited when I heard them start it up. Anyway, carry on..

Sick of pics yet? Here's some other type to break it up a bit. Avert your eyes from that chin thing I've got going. I swear to Gawd, I didn't have that extra chin when I left Halifax the day before!

And yeah, I didn't get to meet Dave, Greg or Ryan. Don't know if they turned up later or not. Actually I did get a chance to wish Ryan good luck. As we were finding our seats I noticed Ryan playing with a video camera. As he walked past us I called out "Good luck tonight, Ryan". He looked over like "What the hell? You talkin' to me??" I suppose he didn't expect anyone in Portland, Maine to give him a shout out. I gave him a thumbs up sign and he kinda waved, smiled and said "thanks". I wanted Alex to meet Dave because Dave reminds me of Alex. Alex didn't want to meet Dave because "Dave scares me, mom." I don't have a clue why Dave scares him, but there ya have it. Maybe Alex had a run in with a bass player in a previous life or sumtin. I do know that along with Jon Cassar, Greg has what Alex classifies as "the perfect job". He now wants me to buy him some bongos because he can't take congas on the school bus. We had to listen to 9 hours of bongo/conga practicing on the drive home to Halifax.

Anyway, we're halfway done the concert shots...

Ok, here's some really pretty 'Colorful' ones coming up. Yes, they're still blurry - but they're different colors of blur for your viewing pleasure..

There, we're all done the concert pics. I'll wait right here while you run and take a couple of tylenol for your headache.

Here's a couple more other pics. Again, ignore the chins. Had I thought about it, I would have assured Rocco that they were pretty well behaved (hell, I didn't even know they were there) and that they weren't going to harm him in any way.

So, are y'all still with me? I hope so, cause I've got a treat for you. Because I made you sit through my horrid picture show with blurry lights, extra chins, and unfocused faces, the very least I could do is give you a taste of how wonderful the guys sounded. Well, actually I have to qualify that. They sounded wonderful live. Keep in mind this recording was taken from my camera. Yes, the same camera that produced the breathtaking shots above *snort*. It's actually not bad. The only complaint I've got is that it only takes videos in 1 minute chunks. So I kept having to restart the shooting which means I missed some stuff. But I've tried to fit it together in a fashion that (hopefully) does the guys justice. Because they were outstanding!

Giv'er!

Tue, 15 May 2007 22:03:44 GMT

So I've decided to enter the Bluenose marathon this weekend. My very first one. I've always wanted to do one but never had the guts. I'm so excited I could burst.

Turk says he'll cheer for me, take lots of pics a/o videos, and scrape me off the road at the finish line.

Here's some pics of last years marathon. Doesn't it look like fun??

My perception, or yours?

Mon, 07 May 2007 15:18:56 GMT

I found this little article on one of my fitness sites...

When exercising, it's important to monitor your intensity to make sure you're working at a pace that is challenging enough to help you reach your goals, but not so hard that you blow a lung. One way to do that is to use a Perceived Exertion Scale. The standard is the Borg Scale of Perceived Exertion, which ranges from 0-20. Because I'm a math-idiot, I made up my own scale (see below) that's a little easier to remember. In general, for most workouts you want to be at around Level 5-6. If you're doing interval training, you want your recovery to be around a 4-5 and your intensity blasts to be at around 8-9. As you'll see below, working at a level 10 isn't recommended for most workouts. For longer, slower workouts, keep your PE at Level 5 or lower.

* Level 1: I'm watching TV and eating bon bons
* Level 2: I'm comfortable and could maintain this pace all day long
* Level 3: I'm still comfortable, but am breathing a bit harder
* Level 4: I'm sweating a little, but feel good and can carry on a conversation effortlessly
* Level 5: I'm just above comfortable, am sweating more and can still talk easily
* Level 6: I can still talk, but am slightly breathless
* Level 7: I can still talk, but I don't really want to. I'm sweating like a pig
* Level 8: I can grunt in response to your questions and can only keep this pace for a short time period
* Level 9: I am probably going to die
* Level 10: I am dead

Damn - where's the "I'm on the elliptical and eating bon bons level"?

How much for the Barbie in the window

Sat, 28 Apr 2007 18:13:05 GMT

Oh. My. God.

CHERFREAKINBARBIE!!!!!

and just in time for Mother's Day...

Can someone give my metabolism a smoke?

Fri, 27 Apr 2007 12:52:15 GMT

My metabolism sucks.

If I thought I could live without one (which I believe I'm doing anyway) I would gladly go under the knife and have it removed. I'd sell it on eBay, donate it to starving people, or ship it off to Harvard for study. At the risk of sounding like my ten-year old, "I hate my metabolism, I hate it, I hate it, I HATE IT!!!" *stomps feet and plops in chair pouting*

Fifteen years ago when I first quit smoking, I ended up gaining 50lbs. Yeah, it's not all my metabolisms fault, I know that. I ate way too much because I allowed my self the luxury of eating guilt free. I tried to eat healthy and think I succeeded, but I just ate too much healthy. I let myself be coddled by everyone who said "don't worry about the weight, it'll come off later - the important thing is you're not smoking".   So between my guilt free binging, the stress of not only starting a new job, but moving to a new province, building a new house, and having a baby, I racked up a lot of excess weight. So I took up smoking again. I figured since quitting was the reason why I started gaining, then smoking would help me to lose the weight. I didn't know then that my metabolism had left the building. No considerable weight was lost, and I just ended up hooked again.

Then I got sick. I spent Boxing Day in the emergency room of the hospital back home while we were visiting over Christmas. That was 3 years ago. For whatever reason they couldn't do an ultrasound on me, so the emergency doctor told me when I got back to Halifax to make an appt with my doctor and tell her that I had probably had a gall bladder attack. This nice man then went on to tell me that I fit the profile of a gall bladder attackee. They call it the 5 f's: female, fair, forty, fertile, and fat. I'm sure he went on to tell me a whole bunch of other things -- I know I walked out of there with drugs in my hand. But truthfully, I didn't hear anything after 'fat'. So, someone said it out loud. Said what I'd been thinking every time I had to look in a mirror (which I tended to avoid like the plaque). How did a one-time aerobics instructor, weight lifter and all-round hot chick become this thirty-something, frizzled haired, baggy-eyed, lump in elastic waist pants???

That's when I realized my metabolism had turned on me. Sometime back about 10 years ago after I quit smoking, the thing just pulled the covers up over its head and went to sleep. And for 10 years, it kept hitting the snooze button. It took the 'gall-bladder incident' to make me sit up and realize I had to do something because my damn metabolism wasn't going to be waking up anytime soon. So I went online and found some gall-bladder diets. Because the wait time for surgeons is months and months, my doctor had advised me to cut back on fats to avoid having another attack while I was waiting to be seen. That was all I needed as inspiration - because I was never, ever going to go through pain like I did that day.

Thus began my 3 year long journey into the land of no fats. I mean no fats. If a food item contained over 4 grams of fat in a serving, it was avoided. I can't honestly say how much fat I was intaking in a day, but I'm willing to bet it was consistently under 15 grams - for 3 years. Of course, cutting fats from your diet, and never being much of a big meat eater meant that most of my calories came from carbs. Which apparently was fine for me. I only had mild twinges during the 3 years that I practiced my fat avoidance diet. I managed to get from 220lbs to 145lbs and felt wonderful. Really, I felt fantastic. But then my stomach/bowels started bothering me again. So I hauled ass to a doctor to see what was wrong. Turns out I have the nicest, healthiest gall bladder the technician had ever seen. Of course I do - the damn thing hasn't seen fat in 3 years - it should be gleaming!

I have a general distaste for tests and x-rays and all that stuff so I've never followed up on that visit. According to the doctor they think I've either got a peptic ulcer or IBS. I'm leaning towards IBS from what I've read about it. But since nothing is broke, I'm not going to fix it just yet. I'm afraid if someone puts a name to whatever it is that's bothering me, then I instantly become a statistic. I'll have 'something'. I don't want to have 'something', I just want to be a healthy, active person who occasionally suffers from stomach pain and the like. Besides, I'm busy trying to pawn the blame off on my metabolism. I'm sure it's all my metabolisms fault.

So, after finding out that my gall-bladder is perfect, I decide to try cheese again. I missed cheese so very much. It was like getting a glimpse of heaven the first day I let myself have cheese after 3 years. So now we're coming to the end. I've gone back to eating like a normal person again, sort of. I still get those little twinges if I eat too much fat, so I'm still watching what goes in my mouth. And truthfully, a lot of fat isn't healthy anyway. I avoid fast food like the plague and only allow myself a couple pieces of cheddar every couple of days.   So after eating healthy, dropping a ton of weight and getting a clean bill of health (ssshhh. I like to think I've got a clean bill of health), I've now quit smoking again. I won't go into the horror that was Zyban - that's a whole 'nother story, but I figured since I was fit, eating right, working out, and so very very aware of my eating habits, that quitting smoking was the right choice. After all, my metabolism had finally kicked in nicely and I know the traps I got into last time and will avoid them. Hmmm

So in October I quit. It's now April. I'm now 180lbs. I don't have scales in the house because I don't believe in 'weight'. I believe in how I feel and how clothes feel on me - that's my barometer, not the scales. However, at the very height of my weight loss, before I started heavily weightlifting, my mother talked me into getting on the scales and I was 145. That was in July, three months before I quit smoking. So I figure I was probably closer to 150 when I quit. Thirty pounds later, here I sit. And I'm so damned discouraged I could just put my head down and cry. I've gone up 2 clothing sizes and despite my best efforts, there doesn't appear to be any end in sight. And when someone says "don't worry about the weight, it'll come off later - you're not smoking, that's what counts", I could run them over, back up and run them over again. Now I realize the weightlifting does have something to do with my increased poundage, and I'm not totally displeased with my body. I have an ass again. When I lost all the 'no-fat' weight, I lost my ass. And a goodly amount of boob. Now I've got my Scarlett Johannson boobs back and thanks to the multitude of squats done 3 times a week, I can crack walnuts with my J-Lo ass. And I've got a killer 6-pack just waiting for me to shed the 20 or 25 lbs of body fat thats sitting on top of them

I record everything that goes in my mouth on fitday. I only record my big calorie expenditures such as weightlifting and whatever aerobic exercise I do that day. I also record my lifestyle activities. And according to the damn software program, I'm burning 3000 calories per day, yet I only take in an average of 1400 calories per day.   So how come I don't look like Nicole Ritchie's tinier sister? (not that I would ever want to look like Nicole Ritchie or her tinier sister). It's all my metabolisms fault. I've figured it out. See, it's hooked on smokes. It loves smoking and it's punishing me for quitting. It's hibernating until I break down and start smoking again. How do I know this? Because it's playing tricks on me. For the past month I've been on a very strict diet. I've monitored everything that goes into my mouth and I've switched my weightlifting strategy from bulking to cutting. I've been faithfully going to the gym everyday and check my weight the same time every day.

Wanna know what's happened this month?

I've gained 3lbs.

And I've gone down 1 1/2 shoe sizes.

Damn metabolism.

Muking about

Sun, 22 Apr 2007 19:56:35 GMT

Today I buried my baby boy. Not the love of my life and the air that I breathe, but my other baby boy. My little red tomcat, who for almost 6 years before Alex came along, was my only baby boy.

I remember the day we got him. Our other 2 year old cat was acting weird and we thought she might benefit from having another cat to keep her company while we were at work all day. Truthfully, I didn’t think much of him at first, all alone in this large cage, just a little red and white striped kitten. He certainly didn’t have the cuteness factor of the fluffy grey and white kittens with their big blue eyes. I wanted something cute and cuddly, not something that looked like it would be more at home in a barn. But hub apparently had always wanted a little red tomcat and kept coming back to his cage. This little guy was so determined to get our attention that he clawed his way to the top of the cage and was turning himself inside out trying to rub against our fingers. I think he picked us, and not the other way around.

It wasn’t until we got him home that I realized our little red tomcat was a polydactyl. Actually, he was a poly-polydactyl. He had 2 extra dewclaws on both front paws, and an extra claw on each back paw. His feet were bigger than he was. I’ve since done some reading on polydactyl cats and have discovered that most owners find these cats have much more character than ‘normal’ cats. And our cat was most certainly a character. He outshone poor Moog from the moment we brought him home. Moog, being the diva that she was, promptly declared him unfit and refused to acknowledge his existence for the next 10 years.

Despite the novelty of his feet, I still didn’t think this scruffy thing was the best choice, and kept the note from the rescue league saying we could bring him back within 10 days if it didn’t work out. I was determined to take him back and exchange him for a ‘real’ kitten. Four or five days into his stay with us, he got pink eye. We took him to the vet, paid an outrageous fee for the emergency visit and medicine, and decided since we’d spent so much money on him, we’d have to keep him. The cat, up until this point, didn’t have a name because I was so sure he wasn’t going to be living with us. Once it was determined he was sticking around, we both remembered the comment the vet had made about the cat’s feet looking like mukluks. So Mukluk became a permanent member of the family and showed his gratitude by continually entertaining us. He’d run after balls and bring them back; sleep curled up in the bathroom sink, or dryer, and generally follow both of us around until we sat down. He won both of us over by being such a dog of a cat.

While Moog never really forgave us for bringing the red monster into her world, she went completely over the deep edge when Alex came home from the hospital. She had the same reaction to a crawling Alex as she did to vacuum cleaners. As soon as she knew either was out and about, she tore upstairs and hid, refusing to make an appearance for hours after. Muk on the other hand, adored Alex from the get-go. It was completely mutual. I suspect Alex bonded with Muk in the womb – every night the cat would curl up beside my belly and purr himself to sleep. Muck was so enamored of Alex that Dave had to fashion a screen door for Alex’s room when he was an infant. I was terrified that Muk would get into the crib and assume his favorite sleeping position – right across the neck of the unsuspecting sleeper.

So Muk and Alex became constant companions. Every night, about 10 minutes before Alex went to bed, Muk would climb upstairs and settle in on one of Alex’s two pillows, and the two of them would sleep soundly, at least in the summer. Winter was another matter. Muk hated to be cold, and would fight his way into our bed during the early hours of the morning. Muk had an ungodly loud purr, and he was never happier than when he was curled up with one or more of his humans, so Muk spent a lot of time getting thrown off our bed at 3 or 4 am. It didn’t take him long to figure out that Alex didn’t like to stay in his own bed when he woke up, so on particularly cold mornings, when Alex’s body heat wouldn’t suffice, he’d purr loudly in Alex’s ear and flop about his face in order to wake him up. Then the two of them would toddle down the hall to our bed and crawl in with us. As Muk got older he came into our beds less and less. He liked his couch and his privacy. But he always made sure to come in and wake us up a few minutes before the alarm went off, sometimes by sitting and yowling in our bedroom doorway, or by waking Alex up first.

Then this winter he got sick. Suddenly this healthy, happy cat started falling over and losing weight. The vet diagnosed a thyroid problem and said that Muk was one of the sickest cats she’d ever seen. We all steeled ourselves for the worst, but the vet wanted to treat him before taking drastic measures. Unfortunately, when it comes to cats, the treatment is oftentimes worse than the disease. We tried to force this weak, sick, frail animal to swallow the pills, but he always outsmarted us. And it seemed so cruel to put him through so much stress. We stopped the pills, concentrated on getting his weight back up, and decided we’d let nature take it’s course. Dave, prepared for the worst, took advantage of some mild temperatures and dug a grave before the ground froze.

Muk managed to get some weight back on, and started to bounce back when we noticed he was bumping into things. He’d lost his sight as well as his hearing. We talked about taking him to the vet and having it done with, but Alex and Dave were in full-fledged denial. He was making it to his litter and he had a voracious appetite, so they both felt it wasn’t necessary to have him put down. I disagreed, but coward that I am, let them talk me into leaving it alone. I watched this poor cat bang around for a couple of months before I decided I’d be the bad guy and put an end to it. And to be fair, neither Dave nor Alex put up too much of a fight, we all knew it was time. So today, we buried our little red tomcat with the big feet and a bigger heart. He’s beside a birch tree near the cherry patch and there’s a sign nailed to the tree that Alex made for him last night.

I made sure I had lots of Kleenex, open arms, and plenty of time for hugs, but aside from some sniffles in the car, he was quite stoic. Hours later when he was taking a shower, I heard him sobbing his little heart out. When I came to the door and asked if he was alright, he pretended nothing was wrong. That was when I realized he wasn’t being all that brave; he just didn’t want to cry in front of his mother. So today was a bit of a double hit to the heart. Today I lost both of my baby boys.

Running with scissors

Sun, 22 Apr 2007 19:54:23 GMT

We’ve all done it. You know, when your mother says “Don’t do whateverthehellitisyourthinkingofdoing because you’ll put an eye out”, it’s like waving a red cape in front of a bull. You’re gonna do it. You know you are. You don’t even want to do it anymore, you’re just doing it because your mother says you shouldn’t. Like when you’re 3 or 4 years old and running with scissors. But that’s what mothers are for. They gained 50lbs, endured agonizing pain not to mention sagging breasts, because their sole purpose in life is to remind you that everything you do that’s even somewhat enjoyable will cause you grevious pain. And they’re right. It’s taken me 40 years to accept this. But damn them, mother’s are always right.

Obviously there comes a point when a mother has to just open the door, let the kid out, and hope to God at least something that they said made it through their thick skulls. (see mom, I was listening). And to be fair, mothers can’t prepare their charges for every possible event. For instance, I don’t ever recall my mother warning me about puking off the side of a car ferry in a hurricane. But I’m certain, had she known I’d be in a car ferry in the middle of the bay in a hurricane – she would have warned me about puking off the side.

I have a thing for weird news. I’m a news junkie and after reading all the doom and gloom in the ‘real’ news section, I head straight for the weirdos. I just love weirdos. I often think of their mothers and how proud of them they must be…

Salt Lake City high school student Travis Williams was bitten by a baby rattlesnake in May, even though a companion had warned him to avoid it. Said Williams, "Even though she told me not to ... I picked it up anyway. I'm not too bright that way."

******************************************

Chesterton, Ind., high school student Michael Morris was hospitalized in May with a broken leg and broken arm after being run into by a friend driving an Acura at about 25 mph, but it was consensual. The friend described Morris as an adrenaline junkie who had had the friend run over him before, but Morris told the Times of Northwest Indiana , "I won't do this no more”.

******************************************

News of the Weird reported in 2001 that a bulimic woman in Toyoda, Japan, had been caught illegally dumping about 60 pounds a week of her own vomit in remote locations and, in 2003, that another bulimic woman had been caught discarding similar quantities near Madison, Wis. (perhaps, say health professionals, to assist their denial process by keeping their own homes untainted). In April 2006, sheriff's deputies reported a similar spree, ironically near an Iowa town called Mount Pleasant , that has now totaled about 50 bags' worth over a three-year period, but at press time, the vomiter was still at large.

*******************************************

From New York comes the story of a 24-yr-old man who was arrested for bashing his mother with a sharp weapon during a disagreement on whether Katharine McPhee would have much of a career after American Idol .

*******************************************

SAN FRANCISCO — The Center for Sex and Culture will hold its 5th Annual Masturbate-a-thon May 27. Supported by porn stars and online adult companies alike, organizers hope to prove that masturbation is not an entirely selfish act by raising sexual awareness around the world.

With the slogan “Come for a cause,” the event will feature porn stars Nina Hartley and Michael Soldier, who will be on hand to lend their support. And those who want to watch or participate from home can do so either through the Masturbate-a-thon site or Bondage.com, which will provide web hosting for the event.

“We expect everyone from gays to straights,” Queen said. “Some people will be out-and-out exhibitionists; others may be a little more shy. We expect more men than women, but not overwhelming so.”

To provide for the range of interests and comfort levels of the attendees, organizers plan to section off different areas of the space, with single-sex, semi-private and gay-friendly zones.

To date, the event has raised more than $25,000 from attendees and their sponsors. Sponsors can pledge to support participants based on duration of time spent masturbating. In 2004 a male set the record for time at 6 and ½ hours.

“People assume that male masturbation is all about speed,” Queen said. “But what can be driven fast, can be driven slowly. That’s the secret to breaking the record.”

Not to be left out, a woman set the record in 2004 for most orgasm with 36.

A team of 20 volunteers and judges will be present to insure accuracy.

**************************************************

That last one takes the cake, doesn’t it? Check out the last sentence. Accuracy? How does one measure accuracy in a contest of this type? Call me niave, but I just assumed the accuracy of the contestant would be pretty self-evident. And I have to admit, I get a chuckle out of the fact that some folks have such performance anxiety when they have sex with their partners – what kind of hit to the self-esteem are they going to take when there’s a judge standing over you saying “No, no, you’re not even close. You need to be more accurate.” *cackles madly*

I read these stories just to reaffirm my belief that I am perfectly fucking normal....no matter what the man with the chart says!

The politics of religion.

Sun, 22 Apr 2007 19:50:37 GMT

Being Anglican means never having to say “I’m sorry”.

Catholic’s take such an active part in their religion that they have to account for every act of God. They’re in touch with her more, so folks look to them for the answers. Much like the relative or friend that loses it one day and goes shopping at the 7-11 in their underwear or something. “Well, you knew her best, did you have any idea she would take everything off but a thong and go out to buy lottery tickets?”

Being an Anglican means you get to justify everything you do. I suspect God treats the Anglican religion like house league hockey. We’ve tried out for the rep teams, but just don’t have the talent or the wherewithal to run with the big dogs. God’s up in heaven watching us Anglicans and saying things like “Good try”, and “You hardly fell down during the whole game”, and “It doesn’t matter that you lost – as long as you had fun”. We’re like the NDP of religion. When things go bad, we get to shrug our shoulders and say, “Don’t look at us – we had nothing to do with it, nobody listens to us anyway.”

Nobody listens to us cause we don’t talk as much. Catholics love talking to God. They love getting messages from God. Anglican’s are quite content to carry on with their business until it’s absolutely necessary to request an audience. I guess that’s why I, as an Anglican am quite fatalistic about world events. I don’t have a pipeline to God so I just accept our fate without too much complaint. It’s kind of like American Idol. The people who phone in their votes get to determine the outcome of the contest. That’s what Catholics do best. Phone in their votes. They’re pros at that. Anglican’s are busy watching Desperate Housewives. We have the phone number scratched down on an old cheque stub at the bottom of the junk drawer, but really, what’s one more vote in the whole scheme of things. Maybe we’ll call in during the commercial break.

That’s not to say that I don’t have conversations with God. I do. And never more so than in the last 9 years since Alex was born. In fact, the day he was born, I phoned in my vote lots of times. I’ve been known to have conversations with God while driving to work in a snowstorm, when Alex is late coming home from the park, and when I’m leaning over the toilet with the flu – virally or self-induced.

It’s just that as a player in the house league of religions, I figure God’s not keeping a close eye on the player’s stats. Not like the rep teams. I’m sure she makes time for me when I call, but I’ve a picture in my head of her busily running around her office, with elves coming in and out advising her of this or that crisis. Yes, you read right – elves. See that’s another thing about being Anglican. I usually only went to Church during Christmas. So God’s assistants are elves. What’s wrong with that?

If you’re thinking of emailing me with a response to this story, don’t. There are two things I refuse to debate – religion and politics. I guess you could call me a New Democratic Anglican.

Pet cemetery

Sun, 22 Apr 2007 19:48:02 GMT

I love animals. In fact, I love animals so much; I toyed around with the idea of going to veterinarian school when I was younger. Then I figured that I’d have to put animals down when necessary, and the thoughts of killing an animal, even as a kindness upset me too much.

But that was then. This is now. I find myself lying awake at night, fantasizing about the death of our pets. How wonderful life would be without having to clean the algae-filled fish tank, or worrying about the hamster getting loose and the cat killing it – on my carpet. Because everything the cat does that requires cleaning takes place on carpets. Not downstairs in the laundry room, or the furnace room floor. Not even on the ceramic tile that could easily be rinsed away. Muk is a house cat and used to his creature comforts. If he’s going to hack up a hairball, it’s going to be on a nice soft couch or carpet not cold tile or dusty concrete.

Since Muk is 14 years old, I assume he’s not going to change his ways any time soon. In fact, we’ve had to adjust our habits around his advanced age. He doesn’t hear very well anymore, so we have to bang the patio door when we want him to come in from the deck. We don’t fling him off the bed in the middle of the night like we used to. And we’ve taken to buying ‘senior’s’ cat food for him. Or what we thought was senior’s cat food. I was looking for another flavor for him to try when I noticed the senior’s brand was the only one with a pull top. All the other cans required a can opener to get at the food. It was then I realized the cat food wasn’t for senior cats – but for senior people to open them easier. So now I’m confused as to what to do when I get to the check-out. Do I explain to the bagger that we have a picky cat and that’s the only type he’ll eat, do I say “Oh, I’m buying these for my mother’s cat – and my mother’s a senior”. Or do I just let the woman think that I’m in remarkably good condition for an old crock.

We used to have 2 cats. Muk; the little red tomcat and the ‘baby’ of the family, and Moog; the poster cat for divas. Dave bought Moog for me before we set up housekeeping. We named her after the Bruin’s goalie Andy Moog. She was black and gold, and as a kitten she used to swat at the puck when we watched Hockey Night in Canada. Moog discovered her inner diva when we brought Muk home. It took her roughly 2 years to forgive us for that offence. About that time we packed both cats up and moved to Halifax. She was just starting to warm up to us again and then Alex showed up. She got sick a week before Alex’s 5 th birthday. She still hadn’t forgiven us at that point. She started losing weight so we kept a close eye on her to make sure she wasn’t in pain. We had decided we would give her another week to bounce back, and then we’d take her to the vet. Dave had to go out of town that week, so I was in a panic about coming home after work and being greeted with a dead cat. When I asked Dave what I should do if this happened, he looked at me liked I’d gone mad and said “Bury her, what the frig else would you do?” He figured Alex and I could have a cat funeral, dump her in a hole and fill it in. But I knew better. I estimated it would take approximately 2 days for Alex to gather ‘the swarm’ together and perform an exhumation on the poor animal. They’d already been hunting for dead birds and mice in the woods. When I mentioned it to Dave, he calmly said “Well then, put her in the deep freeze and I’ll bury her when I get home.” The deep freeze. Sure. I explained to him that there’s such a thing as being too practical. Besides, I’m pretty sure there are no ‘dead cat’ size freezer bags on the market. Luckily Moog held on long enough for Dave to take her to the vet and have her put down in the dignified manner I’m sure she appreciated. And I can open the deep freeze without grimacing.

Because Moog chose the day before Alex’s birthday party to die (I’m sure she took great pleasure in this little hit to his psyche), I decided to let Alex get a fish. Dave protested and swore that he wouldn’t lift a finger to clean the fishbowl. He hates fish and cleaning fish tanks with a passion. I volunteered for this chore and off we went to pick up a fish. Alex was reading Dr. Seuss’ story about Otto the growing fish, so the beautiful blue and purple Siamese fighting fish was baptized Otto. We got a fighting fish because I had heard that they live quite a long time. And to Otto’s credit, he lived for almost 7 months. Then I noticed he was swimming sideways – when he swam at all. Then he would simply float along the top of the water. But he always righted himself and started swimming around when you tapped on the tank, or sprinkled food in the water. After a few weeks of this, I noticed he seemed to be floating on the top more than usual. In fact, he didn’t move when I tapped on the tank or sprinkled food. I decided if he was still floating when we got home that night we would have a fish funeral for Otto.

So Otto got flushed down the toilet with minimal wailing and gnashing of teeth. And we went off to the pet store to get another fish. This time it was a scarlet fighting fish named Sebastian. I’m not sure if Otto was such a remarkable fish that none other could compare, or that Sebastian was simply an under-achiever. But whatever it was, Sebastian just didn’t have the style that Otto had. Poor Sebastian had to swim around in a dirty fish tank longer than Otto did because I just couldn’t care less about cleaning it, and Alex lost interest in him after a few weeks. Poor loveless Sebastian died after only a few months, and we took a break between fish. After a few months, Alex started talking about getting a new fish, so on Easter weekend, I let him get another one and I dusted out the fish tank. I’m ashamed to say I can’t remember the name of this fish. Alex lost interest in it the moment it was transported from the plastic bag into the fish tank. I think it was a blue fighting fish, but don’t hold me to that. He didn’t last to see summer vacation. Otto 2 and Otto3 followed in rapid succession. I didn’t even wait for Alex to attend the funeral of Otto 2. When Otto 3 passed, Alex decided he wanted to conduct the funeral – after all, he knew the drill. So I passed him the fish scooper and we solemnly marched to the bathroom. He scooped Otto3 up and flicked him in the toilet bowl. And then the miracle happened. The minute the damn fish hit the cold water, he started swimming. Alex yelled “he’s not dead!” But I’d had my fill of fish and there was no way in hell I was scooping out Otto 3 from the toilet. I quickly pushed the flush handle and said “he’s dead; it was just the current in the toilet”. Alex looked at me skeptically and said “I think he was still alive”. “Well”, I said “that’ll be our little secret”.

That night, we were over at the neighbors and I was telling them the story of “Miracle of the Fishes”. Our neighbor starts howling and says “don’t you know, Siamese fighting fish go dormant after a few months?” Apparently they hibernate for awhile and then wake up and start swimming again. This would explain why I’d always heard that they live for a long time; I just never heard the hibernating part. I’ve never told Alex about the hibernation phenomenon, but Alex has never asked for another fish. In fact, he put his aquarium in the yard sale box. I think he suspects his mother is a serial fish-killer and wants to keep temptation away from me.

Alex got money for his 9 th birthday and announced that he wanted to buy a hamster. I countered by telling him he would have to live the rest of his life motherless because I would not live in a house with a mouse. I got sighs and eye-rolls for my effort. Apparently there is a HUGE difference between mice and hamsters, and Dad doesn’t think it’s such a bad idea to get a hamster. I realize I’m about to be outnumbered and quickly remind them that we still have a cat. And the cat doesn’t know there’s a HUGE difference between mice and hamsters. Of course, I’m ignoring the fact that Muk’s so old he lays on the deck and lets the squirrels scamper about unimpeded. It’s two against two in the hamster war, and Muk’s not the best ally. Off we go to the pet store for a hamster.

We look at the wide assortment of hamsters on display – all of them with those awful tails. UGH. I hate those horrid scaly tails. The thoughts of that thing in my house at night just give me the creeps. But then we spy the teddy bear hamsters. And they’re fluffy and cute, and best of all - tailless. My kinda rodent. I try desperately to talk Alex into getting the teddy bear hamster, but he’s determined to get the one that looks like a mouse. Then I see a cage full of ones that look like mice, but don’t have tails. A compromise is reached and he picks out this tiny little orange one. So the $8.00 hamster that’s such a deal ends up costing us $94.65. Who knew hamsters came with such baggage? We’re told that they need a certain kind of covering for the bottom of the cage, a certain kind of fluffy ‘duvet’ for them to build a nest of. A certain kind of food and vitamin drops. And of course, no self-respecting hamster would be caught dead in a ‘starter’ house, so we have to buy the rodent equivalent of a 2 story cape cod in a nice subdivision. Moog would have loved it.

We brought the hamster home and set up his house. The kit we bought promises a ‘silent’ fly wheel. The last thing I wanted was this noisy wheel waking Alex up during the night. I put Muk out on the deck while we prepare the hamster to move into his house. Alex is afraid to squeeze him too hard and the damn thing scampers out of his hand and runs off. I sit in the living room, feet planted firmly on the floor, struggling against my natural inclination to jump on the couch and screech. It took about 15 minutes to capture him and get him safely in his new house. Alex decides on Bullet for the hamster’s name. When I asked him why Bullet, he says “’Cause when he poops, they shoot out of his butt like bullets!” Nice.

So Bullet is the newest addition to the family. I’ve even gotten used to hearing the noise of the ‘silent’ fly wheel in the middle of the night. A week back, Bullet took all the duvet fluff he’s supposed to use for his nest and industriously stuffed it into his flywheel. So he didn’t get any exercise for a few days until he un-stuffed it. Now he’s taken to gnawing on the hard plastic flower-like water dish that was custom designed for his house. I suspect he’s having some sort of mental breakdown, but I have neither the resources nor the desire to help him thru it.

Last week, I woke up at 4:00am to the sounds of plastic. It wasn’t the silent fly-wheel, and it wasn’t the gnawing on the water dish sound. It was vaguely familiar, but at 4:00am, I just couldn’t reach the memory bank where sounds are stored. I stayed in bed for a bit and then it came to me. It was the sound of Lego pieces being shuffled around in the big metal tin that Alex keeps under his bed. I lifted my head up, and could tell that Alex’s light wasn’t on. Alex is still afraid of the dark, so I knew there was no way he was up at 4:00am playing Lego in the dark. I shuffled down the dark hall and stood in his doorway for a bit. I didn’t want to turn his light on, for fear of waking him up. And there was no way in hell I was wandering anywhere near that Lego bin without first figuring out why the pieces were making noise. As I was standing there in the dark, Alex whispers “Mom, my Lego’s moving”. I flicked on the light by the doorway and here was my poor, terrified little boy scrunched up in a ball, as far away from the end of the bed as he could get. I looked down and the tin was half under his bed and half out. And there was the undulating mass of Lego pieces. Poor Alex, expecting his mom to rescue him from the moving Lego, and I’m standing frozen in the doorway with a look of horror on my face. All I could think of is, “holy crap, there really is a monster under the bed!” Then Bullet’s hind quarters popped up thru the Lego. Seems he must have climbed up his bars, pried open the lock on his cage, took the time to ensure the cage door was all the way open and made his escape. I think Alex forgot to close the cage door. Either way, the damn thing did a header into the tin of Lego and decided to take up residence. It took an intense 20 min rescue mission to get him back in his cage. I’m not sure who was more frightened: me, Alex or Muk, who watched the whole thing from the safety of Alex’s pillow.

After that experience, I vowed to march the hamster back to the pet store and get a refund. When I looked at the receipt the clerk gave me, I noticed in pen above the price, he had written: 10-day exchange only, no sex guarantee. What does that mean? I can only get an exchange? Excuse me, but I’d like to trade this hamster in for one that doesn’t like Lego. Do I get to exchange my hamster for sex? And who gets to have the sex – me or the hamster? Or maybe the clerk thought I was flirting with him.

Now that the novelty of Bullet has worn off, Alex is busy making plans for when Muk’s no longer with us. “Can we get a dog when Muk dies” seems to be his favorite plan of attack right now. Dave’s plan includes another cat. I told them they could have all the animals they want in this house. ‘Cause my plan includes a 2 storey cape cod in a nice subdivision.

Ad nauseum

Sun, 22 Apr 2007 19:43:46 GMT

Hubby went away for a week a while back and I actually got to watch commercials for the first time in a long time. Which reminded me why we don’t watch commercials.

There’s the ad for Pepto Bismol. I will never ever again buy Pepto. Not sure what the alternative is for it – but that’s what I’m buying. I don’t even care if it works. I refuse to give money to a company that puts out a commercial like that. If I’m suddenly struck with diarrhea at work, I’m not about to rush into the nearest photocopier room and dance around for my co-workers. I certainly wouldn’t appreciate it if I walked into the photocopier room and met up with someone doing some gastrointestinal version of the Macarana. Especially if they wanted me to dance along with them. I figure if you’re sick enough to take Pepto – you really shouldn’t be hopping around and shaking your butt.

And what’s up with those men singing “My Way” in the shower?? Ok, so you took Viagra and had a great night. Notice you don’t see any women in these commercials? They’re not in the shower singing with you. Why? Because they’re under the covers with a pillow over their heads to drown out your wailing. Makes me wonder – did these men ever sing in the shower before they couldn’t do it?? And then there’s the one for anti-depressants. Have you ever listened to the side effects of this drug? If you take this drug, expect weight gain, irritability, flatulence, mild cramping and increased perspiration. Good - you’ll be fat, cranky, uncomfortable and sweating. That otta do wonders for your depression.

And for out and out weirdness, how about that Burger King commercial? This guys wakes up, rolls over and there’s this really strange man sitting in bed with him wearing tights and a crown on his head. Smiling and nodding -nothing more. That’s just wrong on so many levels. Who are they appealing to in this ad? What do they want me to buy? A burger? A chicken salad? A breakfast bagel?? I just don’t get it. Although it appears that the unsuspecting sleeper did.

But there are a few shining moments in advertising. Like the HP PhotoLab ad and the guy at his desk with the picture frames and the Kinks song. Truly awesome commercial. First time I saw it, I had to pick my jaw up from the floor.

Then there’s my favorite – the Ford commercials, featuring the awesomely wicked voice of my hero, Kiefer Sutherland. Who, by the way, wants me, and me only to drive a Ford. Funny, I have no idea what any of those cars/trucks/SUVs/minivans look like. I shut my eyes the second I hear his voice. The first few times I kinda freaked the family out when I froze in mid-stride and stood there with my eyes shut and a goofy grin on my face. I hear the ads on the radio in the morning on the drive into work, but doing 110kms on the #101 with my eyes shut pretty much guarantees me I’ll never get that Ford that Kiefer wants so badly for me to drive.

So hub came home and I relinquished my rights to the clicker. I’ll have to wait another year to discover the new brands of beer and cars. I’ll never know if I could look years younger by using the latest skin cream, and I could take some new medication without ever knowing that I’ll sweat like a pig while I’m on it. But all in all, it’s not such a bad thing, ‘cause if I don’t know about these products, I can’t run out and buy them. I have to save money for my new Ford.

Rapist beware

Sun, 22 Apr 2007 19:17:27 GMT

Someone sent me an email the other day about how to avoid being raped. I'm not sure why they felt the need to send this to me. While I was reading it, I was thinking "I'm a forty year old hockey mom who's lived this long without even the slightest hint of danger from a rapist, why am I reading this?"

Well, I got to point number 5 on the list of things and places rapists need to know and realized that I could vey well have been in danger - perhaps as frequently as every other week! It's just that the poor unfortunate rapist has picked the worst place to try to attack me - the grocery store parking lot.

Anyone who's spent any time with me knows how much I hate and despise grocery shopping. It ranks right up there with dental surgery and cleaning the cat litter. I used to make neat little lists with items that we needed in the hopes that it would make it a less stressfull outing. But I kept leaving these lists on the countertop at home, or at my desk at work. So I'd stand in the middle of the grocery store even more stressed; thinking about all the time I wasted writing up the damn list and how stupid I was to forget it and just what the hell did I need to pick up anyway??

So I'm a rapist and this hot looking hockey mom sashays by me with her cart filled with Midol, recess treats, toilet paper and Tylenol - a real turn on. (Hey, I'm a rapist - I can think what I want) So I stake her out as she boogies to her car. But wait! She's talking to someone - I can hear her. Good, that's number 3 on my list of things to make sure they're doing before I rape them. Talking on the cell is distracting and she won't hear me approach. But both her hands are on the cart. Possible because she's struggling to steer the damn thing downhill, past potholes and being buffeted by a 100km/hour wind; all the while kicking the toilet paper back under her cart and jamming on knee up against the water jug dangling precariously over the edge.

So who's she talking to? I edge closer. She's not talking, she's growling! No wait, she's muttering. "Last GD time I do this when it's this cold out they want food let 'em go get it themselves who hired that cashier she's got all the friggin cans on top of the bread no GD way this is all gonna fit in that little trunk why didn't we buy a van probably forgot two dozen things 'n I'll have to schlep all the way back here again and spend more money...."

It's at this point the rapist wisely decides he'll go stake out the lingerie store's parking lot.

The list of things to do to avoid being attacked goes on to say that if you're approached by a man you don't know - yell "I HAVE PEPPER SPRAY!" If I were approached by a strange man in the grocery store parking lot, I'd be holding my hands up, yelling like the crazed woman I am "I HAVE TOO MANY FRIGGIN' BAGS!!" I know for a fact that would work just as well. After all, if he's smart - he'd run as far and as fast away from groceries as I wish I could.

Channeling Andy Rooney

Sun, 22 Apr 2007 19:14:21 GMT

I read a news article the other day about a store in Madison, Maine called The Heavenly Angels Coffee Shop. Seems there's not a lot to do in Madison *gasp*, and the proprietor has decided to "perk" up his customers and hire topless waitresses. Repeat after me: "That's just wrong!" I don't know about his customers, but if I were one of his waitresses; I think I'd be enrolling in night classes in a hell of a hurry.

I wonder if this owner has forgotten the MacDonald's lawsuit of a few years ago. If a woman who was stupid enough to shove a cup of steaming hot coffee between her legs can get millions of dollars in a lawsuit, what about the poor girl who gets splashed by coffee while topless. I wonder how many job applications he'll receive. I've a suspicion he's very sexist, and to make this an equal opportunity working environment; he should hire male chefs to fry bacon in the nude.

We had a huge blizzard last week which dumped a whole honkin' lot of snow. After 2 1/2 days of shoveling we still couldn't get out because the plow hadn't come by our street yet. Seems everyone gets a bit crazy when they can't get in their cars and drive someplace, especially men in pickups - but that's another story. Some people were so happy to see the plow, they did incredibly queer things. Well, not all of them. Some folks quickly got in their cars, drove to the nearest Tim Horton's and brought back coffee and doughnuts for the plow operators. Some, however, went a bit over the top in their appreciation of being plowed out.

According to the newspaper, one homeowner was so happy to finally see the plow operator round the corner of her street that she walked down to greet him - in a bikini and with a drink in hand. Say it with me: "That's just wrong!". What possesses a person to look out her window in the middle of February, see a plow coming down the street and think "I'll just slip into this here bikini and grab a couple of beers to go"?

There's a very, very weird show on Bravo on Friday nights. It's called Kink. Of course it's a show that highlights some very, very weird people. If you watch this show you get the impression that everyone who is into kinky sex is very ugly, very fat, and very hairy. I've watched it a few times, though I really can't understand why I do. I guess it's like the proverbial train wreck. You want to turn away, but there's this weird fascination with these people. There's so very much that's just wrong.

First thing - who the hell thinks up this idea? Secondly, how does he convince these people to be on this show? Buddy goes up to this person and says "I've got a great show and I want your big, ugly butt to be the star!". Now I happen to know my good points and my bad ones and can only assume if this person has a big, ugly butt - they probably know they do. And at some point shouldn't they think "Hmmm, I've seen my big ugly butt, and maybe this isn't such a good idea"

That aside, how does this producer get buy-in from the network? I would love to be in the board room when this guy pitches his show. "I've got this great idea for a show?" "It'll feature close-ups of big ugly butts". Does everyone in the room look amazed and exclaim "Great idea, how soon can you get it on!!" At some point in this whole process shouldn't at least one person think to themselves, "This is just wrong"?

Why do I watch CSI?

Sun, 22 Apr 2007 19:08:08 GMT

Is it just me, or has anyone else noticed there's an overabundance of boobs on the CSI shows? Up until recently I've just had to deal with Catherine's boobs. Annoying, but hey, as long as the entire plot doesn't revolve around her boobs, I'm ok with it. But now I'm forced to look at not only Los Vegas boobs, but Miami boobs and now New York boobs.

I'm continually amazed at the outfits these chicks wear to work. And these gals ain't sittin' at a desk pounding away at the keyboards. I'm watching away and all of a sudden I'm thinking "yeah, you and your boobs and your tight pencil skirt are just going to slide under that there car and get an oil sample". I've been known to wear a tight blouse or skirt to work on occasion, and if I drop a pencil - I'll sit at my desk and wait till everyone's gone home before I'll crawl under to retrieve it! Not these gals. I'm wondering how many crime scene shots have gone bad because there's a stray boob or two in the pic.

I used to stay up and watch CSI, but hubby gets too annoyed at me now. See, I usually end up screaming at the TV about 10 minutes into the show. I can't help it. If I walked into a room filled with blood splatters and a dead body stretched out on the floor - the first thing I'm not going to do is reach for my penlight! So hubby gets a bit disturbed when I start jumping up and down screaming "TURN THE JESUS LIGHTS ON!!!"

After all, the show takes place in Las Vegas where there's more neon lights than people. So how come at 3:00 in the afternoon, these poor CSI people have to roam around with penlights? You would think there's enough light - natural, or neon - to be able to see properly. Drives me absolutely mad.

So you see, between the boobs, the lighting issue, and the fact that I suspect William Peterson is morphing into William Shatner - I prefer to save myself some aggravation and just go to bed.