That's the only word that describes a moving and breathtaking documentary I watched last evening. Of course it was on TVO and if course it was a British production, which explains its stark and riveting reality. It was about sexual abuse of boys in an English prep school in the sixties and seventies. Checking the listings, I realized I would have to forego the regular 9 p.m. intellectual challenges of Hannah Montana, Fear Factor, Degrassi, Hoarding, The Simpsons, Property Brothers..........and other such mind-expanding emissions, but TVO won out.
For two hours I was transfixed. Instead of the usual Canadian or American look at this atrocity -- featuring interviews with anesthetized "experts", bone-headed intellectuals (is there any other kind!), delusional counsellors, or well-meaning teachers -- this film gave you raw, painful head-shot accounts of three of the victims. And that was all. There were no other characters featured, just ordinary, now middle-aged, married men talking about how it had all happened.
The scene was set by a few captions indicating the years the boys had been at the school, but they then proceeded to tell their stories unedited. Neither the interviewer nor the questions were heard, just the ghastly telling of their tales -- how they had been chosen, then groomed over a number of months to feel "special" and "honoured" and finally invited into the master's rooms for these criminal encounters. And these were children of 11 who had absolutely no idea about sex whatsoever. Their parents had never discussed anything with them and in the thoroughly British tradition, saw no evil, heard no evil and spoke no evil. All the men told their tales with calm frankness and each was extremely articulate. Repulsively, they spoke of how they knew they had no choice, knew it would continue, knew it would escalate into the worst possible atocities, but knew there was absolutely no way they could have told anyone. To have told would have been to betray and destroy their parents. To have told would have meant they had been very, very evil themselves.
Every hideous moment was recalled, but mercifully not described in detail too wretched for the viewer. Nevermind. You got it. In spades. It was riveting and so very sad. All were now married with families, but for years they thought they must have been homosexual, or else why would these masters have chosen them? (Made me wonder about whether one is born gay? Afterall, if your first sexual encounters are with the same sex, might you decide to continue down that path? But that's another story.) The interviews were interspersed with old black-and-white photos of the boys at home with their parents, smiling on the rugby pitch, singing in the choir -- images which made their tales of horror frighteningly lurid and graphic.
The actual pedophiles were identified by name and a myriad of photos of their evil, smiling faces featured throughout -- many showing them smiling and chatting with the victims' parents at civilized tea parties on the grounds. Until their parents had died, none of the men had come forward and although charges were laid after 30 years, they pretty much went no where. And so it continues. But the courage and bravery these men showed was heroic. If you ever get a chance, watch it. It will change your view of pedophilia forever.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
It's work, don't kid yourself
It always amazes me how people expect others to be entertaining. Forgive me if I have blogged about this before, but mastering the intricacies and rules of "conversation" is not art; it is very hard work. This always hits me when I walk into a cocktail or dinner party and am forced to mix and mingle with people who shirk this work. There they stand, mute, waiting for someone else to do all the blabbing. That person usually ends of being me because that is the way we were brought up. And usually I am at a gathering of people I don't really know that well, making the whole ordeal even harder.
Although considerably more lax, the rules of conversation in our society remain firmly fixed. Nothing too intimate, nothing politically incorrect, nothing blasphemous......nothing that would shock the listener. These rules make conversing a serious challenge for someone like me, but it was even more difficult when I was young because the list of taboo subjects was downright daunting: no religion, no money, no politics and no sex. Yep, you could not talk about any of those subjects. While these regulations limited your chances of descending into the social abyss, they forced you to work really, really hard to keep a conversation going. But in those days, you weren't the only one doing the work; everyone at the gathering knew the rules and we all joined in with wholehearted enthusiasm to make the event as endurable as possible. Not any more.
One of the first things I remember about my mother was walking into a gathering of old biddies at an old-age home when I was about four. I was holding her hand and as we entered, she squeezed it pretty hard and said, "speak to a person dear". For some reason, I knew exactly what she meant. It meant I had to say hello, how are you, tell them my name, where I went to kindergarten, how old my little brother was, did I have a pet...........and all with a big smile on my face. Never mind the terror and downright horror these old ladies held for me -- with their rolls of flesh, their smells, their knarled fingers, their drooling and their hairy chins. No, it was very clear that I had to push through all that and "entertain" them. Still a toddler, I had to earn my keep and it never let up.
Here's a rule of thumb: when you walk into a party, before you gulp a drink or a swallow a canape, you have to talk to at least five people. Of course, I don't follow this myself, but we all should. That's how you earn your keep at a gathering. You are not there because you are entitled to be there. You are not there because you are riveting, talented and fabulous. No, you are there to hold your own and engage others. As children, we were not permitted to be "shy". Shy was rude, period. I was always amazed when I met another child who was described as "shy". Hey, I'd like to be allowed to be shy too, but I still have to do all this stuff!
Looking back, I am very grateful to my mother because she gave me the skills I needed to be a journalist in the business world. Knowing how to "speak to a person" gave me the wherewithall as a 22-year-old to stride confidently into a convention of 500 carpet retailers (or some other such group) and walk up to complete strangers and interview them. Mastering the art of conversation morphed into a pretty cool job. To this day if you want to be thought a "great gal", just interview someone at a social gathering. Nothing beats talking about oneself. One of my daughters told me she had met a woman I had had dinner with and the woman had said, "Oh, Nancy was great, we had a fabulous time." Thing was, it was a business dinner and I interviewed the woman the whole time. Not once did she ask a thing about me, it was all about her, so she thought the encounter thoroughly wonderful. I did not enter into it.
Having had to travel extensively during my series of jobs, I was obliged to interact with many colleagues with whom I would never have done so, had it been left up to me. Anyone with me? You have to go across the country with a guy or woman with whom you have zero in common. And that means breakfast, lunch and dinner a deux. Ugh. Last time I did this it was with a woman 30 years my junior and during yet another boring dinner I finally said, "You know, you make me work waaaaaaaaaay too hard!" She looked up from her pizza and uttered, "Whaaaat?" I then proceeded to inform her that a conversation involved at least two people. Here's how it works: I say something and then you think about what I said and you say something that relates to what I have just said. Then I go back to you with another thing that relates to what you have said, but strays into new territory and then you pick up on the new subject and mention something about what you have been through on that file. Then I pick up on what you have said and I add something extra. And on it goes. You don't just sit there and grunt whenever I try to converse. I told her this was the very last meal I would be eating with her unless she actually made an effort. Too much work. Next meal she actually made the effort and thanked me for calling her on it.
I remember fondly two people I loved travelling with: Angele Menard, a remarkable woman I met when we both worked for EXPO 86, and Phil, a fabulous guy I met at Revenue Canada. Travelling with Angele was a real education because no one quite cut it like she did. She had --and still has -- more pizzaz than any woman I know. We used to do things like wear mink coats in Vancouver just to annoy the animal rights activists. She taught me how to exude confidence, even before we had sealed the deal with the provinces -- even if we had no idea what we were doing! Still a friend after 25 years, I bow to her on just about every level. Phil was a true gentleman and made me laugh. Another guy who knew how to "speak to a person". So, there you have my two cents on what a conversation is all about.
Although considerably more lax, the rules of conversation in our society remain firmly fixed. Nothing too intimate, nothing politically incorrect, nothing blasphemous......nothing that would shock the listener. These rules make conversing a serious challenge for someone like me, but it was even more difficult when I was young because the list of taboo subjects was downright daunting: no religion, no money, no politics and no sex. Yep, you could not talk about any of those subjects. While these regulations limited your chances of descending into the social abyss, they forced you to work really, really hard to keep a conversation going. But in those days, you weren't the only one doing the work; everyone at the gathering knew the rules and we all joined in with wholehearted enthusiasm to make the event as endurable as possible. Not any more.
One of the first things I remember about my mother was walking into a gathering of old biddies at an old-age home when I was about four. I was holding her hand and as we entered, she squeezed it pretty hard and said, "speak to a person dear". For some reason, I knew exactly what she meant. It meant I had to say hello, how are you, tell them my name, where I went to kindergarten, how old my little brother was, did I have a pet...........and all with a big smile on my face. Never mind the terror and downright horror these old ladies held for me -- with their rolls of flesh, their smells, their knarled fingers, their drooling and their hairy chins. No, it was very clear that I had to push through all that and "entertain" them. Still a toddler, I had to earn my keep and it never let up.
Here's a rule of thumb: when you walk into a party, before you gulp a drink or a swallow a canape, you have to talk to at least five people. Of course, I don't follow this myself, but we all should. That's how you earn your keep at a gathering. You are not there because you are entitled to be there. You are not there because you are riveting, talented and fabulous. No, you are there to hold your own and engage others. As children, we were not permitted to be "shy". Shy was rude, period. I was always amazed when I met another child who was described as "shy". Hey, I'd like to be allowed to be shy too, but I still have to do all this stuff!
Looking back, I am very grateful to my mother because she gave me the skills I needed to be a journalist in the business world. Knowing how to "speak to a person" gave me the wherewithall as a 22-year-old to stride confidently into a convention of 500 carpet retailers (or some other such group) and walk up to complete strangers and interview them. Mastering the art of conversation morphed into a pretty cool job. To this day if you want to be thought a "great gal", just interview someone at a social gathering. Nothing beats talking about oneself. One of my daughters told me she had met a woman I had had dinner with and the woman had said, "Oh, Nancy was great, we had a fabulous time." Thing was, it was a business dinner and I interviewed the woman the whole time. Not once did she ask a thing about me, it was all about her, so she thought the encounter thoroughly wonderful. I did not enter into it.
Having had to travel extensively during my series of jobs, I was obliged to interact with many colleagues with whom I would never have done so, had it been left up to me. Anyone with me? You have to go across the country with a guy or woman with whom you have zero in common. And that means breakfast, lunch and dinner a deux. Ugh. Last time I did this it was with a woman 30 years my junior and during yet another boring dinner I finally said, "You know, you make me work waaaaaaaaaay too hard!" She looked up from her pizza and uttered, "Whaaaat?" I then proceeded to inform her that a conversation involved at least two people. Here's how it works: I say something and then you think about what I said and you say something that relates to what I have just said. Then I go back to you with another thing that relates to what you have said, but strays into new territory and then you pick up on the new subject and mention something about what you have been through on that file. Then I pick up on what you have said and I add something extra. And on it goes. You don't just sit there and grunt whenever I try to converse. I told her this was the very last meal I would be eating with her unless she actually made an effort. Too much work. Next meal she actually made the effort and thanked me for calling her on it.
I remember fondly two people I loved travelling with: Angele Menard, a remarkable woman I met when we both worked for EXPO 86, and Phil, a fabulous guy I met at Revenue Canada. Travelling with Angele was a real education because no one quite cut it like she did. She had --and still has -- more pizzaz than any woman I know. We used to do things like wear mink coats in Vancouver just to annoy the animal rights activists. She taught me how to exude confidence, even before we had sealed the deal with the provinces -- even if we had no idea what we were doing! Still a friend after 25 years, I bow to her on just about every level. Phil was a true gentleman and made me laugh. Another guy who knew how to "speak to a person". So, there you have my two cents on what a conversation is all about.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Beauty
Was there anyone ever as beautiful as Elizabeth Taylor? No. I think I chose "Elizabeth" as my daughter's second name because of her. Elizabeth. The name evokes beauty and beauty without peer. She is gone, but it has been a joy to indulge in the coverage of her in her magnificent and radiant youth. She was breathtaking.
With today's beauty being defined exclusively by blondes, it was refreshing to remember how brunettes used to be considered beautiful. If you had brown hair, you had brown hair. You didn't streak it blonde or outright dye it that flat, plastic yellow. No, you enhanced it and enjoyed it because of women like Elizabeth Taylor or Audrey Hepburn. And Jackie Kennedy, let's not forget her. These women actually had to be beautiful because they did not have the blonde tresses framing their faces to distract the observer. I don't know how many times I have analyzed the face of a blonde only to discover she was really pretty ordinary looking. I mean, take away the hair and you have..........uh.........not much to look at (or listen to).
TCM is filled with glamorous brunettes, but I think Farah Fawcett changed all that. When that poster hit the streets, suddenly every woman had to be a blonde. It was no longer just glasses that made a woman dowdy, it was brown hair. Brown hair abruptly became "mousy" (when have you ever heard "brown" without "mousy" preceeding it) and those of us with locks of that luckless and calamitous shade just didn't measure up. It's still that way.
But something happens when a woman dyes her hair blonde. She suddenly has a "blonde" persona. She thinks she may actually now be Farah Fawcett or Cheryl Tiegs or Sandra Dee or Cybil Sheppard or.......... you name it........... and the rest of us start to look at her in a different way. Even Hilary Clinton has now fallen prey to the blonde highjacking phenomenon. I catch the secretary of state on TV and find myself concentrating not on what she is saying, but on her hair and wondering, "what can the woman possibly be thinking?"
The woman beneath yellow hair dye now conjurs up "the blonde"..........starts to imagine she is actually dazzling and desirable, starts to feel enchanting and facinating. It's all such a laugh because most dyed blondes I know are pretty ordinary. Sorry girls, but it's the truth. And why would you want to look like everyone else? Every dyed blonde looks like every dyed blonde looks like every dyed blonde.........hockey players' Stepford wives come to mind.
If you dye your hair blonde you are telegraphing that you think you are a blonde. You telegraph that you are like the other dyed blondes at the party. Know what I mean? I know it sounds complicated, but as I have said before, we are our hair. When I was at university, hair was so complicated I couldn't figure it out. I had curly hair, but straight was in, so I found myself actually contorted on the ironing board pressing it into submission! After a few of these humiliations -- sharpened by being caught frizzled-headed a few times at a cottage party or out in the rain -- I cut it all off in defiance of convention. Later, when going grey, I started to dye it, but soon realized this was a losing game because the roots never quit. Ah roots, the moment of truth! These determined little power houses led me to throw away the dye and let it all grow out. Whew! Now my hair is my hair and it has its own power. My logic is that grey hair gives a woman licence in how she dresses because she can never be accused of trying to look younger with those pink high heels. Afterall, look at all that grey hair!
With today's beauty being defined exclusively by blondes, it was refreshing to remember how brunettes used to be considered beautiful. If you had brown hair, you had brown hair. You didn't streak it blonde or outright dye it that flat, plastic yellow. No, you enhanced it and enjoyed it because of women like Elizabeth Taylor or Audrey Hepburn. And Jackie Kennedy, let's not forget her. These women actually had to be beautiful because they did not have the blonde tresses framing their faces to distract the observer. I don't know how many times I have analyzed the face of a blonde only to discover she was really pretty ordinary looking. I mean, take away the hair and you have..........uh.........not much to look at (or listen to).
TCM is filled with glamorous brunettes, but I think Farah Fawcett changed all that. When that poster hit the streets, suddenly every woman had to be a blonde. It was no longer just glasses that made a woman dowdy, it was brown hair. Brown hair abruptly became "mousy" (when have you ever heard "brown" without "mousy" preceeding it) and those of us with locks of that luckless and calamitous shade just didn't measure up. It's still that way.
But something happens when a woman dyes her hair blonde. She suddenly has a "blonde" persona. She thinks she may actually now be Farah Fawcett or Cheryl Tiegs or Sandra Dee or Cybil Sheppard or.......... you name it........... and the rest of us start to look at her in a different way. Even Hilary Clinton has now fallen prey to the blonde highjacking phenomenon. I catch the secretary of state on TV and find myself concentrating not on what she is saying, but on her hair and wondering, "what can the woman possibly be thinking?"
The woman beneath yellow hair dye now conjurs up "the blonde"..........starts to imagine she is actually dazzling and desirable, starts to feel enchanting and facinating. It's all such a laugh because most dyed blondes I know are pretty ordinary. Sorry girls, but it's the truth. And why would you want to look like everyone else? Every dyed blonde looks like every dyed blonde looks like every dyed blonde.........hockey players' Stepford wives come to mind.
If you dye your hair blonde you are telegraphing that you think you are a blonde. You telegraph that you are like the other dyed blondes at the party. Know what I mean? I know it sounds complicated, but as I have said before, we are our hair. When I was at university, hair was so complicated I couldn't figure it out. I had curly hair, but straight was in, so I found myself actually contorted on the ironing board pressing it into submission! After a few of these humiliations -- sharpened by being caught frizzled-headed a few times at a cottage party or out in the rain -- I cut it all off in defiance of convention. Later, when going grey, I started to dye it, but soon realized this was a losing game because the roots never quit. Ah roots, the moment of truth! These determined little power houses led me to throw away the dye and let it all grow out. Whew! Now my hair is my hair and it has its own power. My logic is that grey hair gives a woman licence in how she dresses because she can never be accused of trying to look younger with those pink high heels. Afterall, look at all that grey hair!
Friday, March 18, 2011
900
That's the number of close asteroids a kilometer or more in diameter that might hit the earth. 900. Just one would be a "dinosaur" moment; the earth would be toast -- literally. Who knew that observatories with dedicated scientists are out there doing nothing but tracking these asteroids 24 hours a day?! TVO provides these gorgeous but scary tidbits of information all the time. Oh, and there are also 15,000 or so small asteroids within range that would destroy a city the size of New York in a milli-second. But there are 900 objects out there rolling around that could potentially destroy all life on earth in a nano second. Oh yeah, and I forgot to mention all the comets and meteroites -- also orbiting with menacing regularity. Silly me! All I seem to worry about are eyelashes!
The impact of one hit would make Hiroshima and Nagasaki look like local fireworks. That's what the program I watched last evening said. Why do I watch? The good thing is that these realities make what I worry about all day long so insignificant.
The usual happened on St. Patrick's Day. A murder. Drunken to be sure. Every year the airwaves are filled with charming coverage of green festivities -- people in stupid hats, drinking green beer -- and every year the morning-after papers are filled with the wreckage of the night before. This year two life-long friends got into a fight and an 18-year-old stabbed a 22-year-old to death. When I think of my own two sons and the "hilarious" tales they tell of their antics, I could easily have been a mother waking up to that nightmare. As B says, "Nothing good ever happens after midnight."
The impact of one hit would make Hiroshima and Nagasaki look like local fireworks. That's what the program I watched last evening said. Why do I watch? The good thing is that these realities make what I worry about all day long so insignificant.
The usual happened on St. Patrick's Day. A murder. Drunken to be sure. Every year the airwaves are filled with charming coverage of green festivities -- people in stupid hats, drinking green beer -- and every year the morning-after papers are filled with the wreckage of the night before. This year two life-long friends got into a fight and an 18-year-old stabbed a 22-year-old to death. When I think of my own two sons and the "hilarious" tales they tell of their antics, I could easily have been a mother waking up to that nightmare. As B says, "Nothing good ever happens after midnight."
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Commonwealth Day and false eyelashes
They have sat patiently in my bathroom "vanity" (descriptive word for where they live) for more than two years, but I finally hauled them out, determined to conquer. I remember wearing them all the time when I was in my late teens and early twenties, but now they seemed so daunting and imposing. Do you put the makeup on first and then the lashes, or the other way 'round? What the heck, I plunged in and to my amazement, on they went. I felt as if I had two cardboard flaps above my eyes, but when I examined them in the mirror, they looked, well, kind'a normal -- albeit a bit flashy.
Watched a great documentary the other day called 'High Heel Confidential' and the eyelashes fitted comfortably -- or should I say "uncomfortably" -- into that same category: empowering. It was reassuring to watch women taking the viewer on a tour of closets jammed to the rafters with rows and rows of high heels. I am not alone and certainly not the only over-the-hill woman who adores them. Not having much discretionary fashion moola in my youth was the reason I had to get creative and inventive about footwear. That and earrings. I figured if you got the top and bottom right, you could just wear the same black outfit in between. That's basically how I dress to this day. Need a new outfit? Buy a pair of earrings, make a snazzy shawl, grab a wild scarf or get your a-- into a shoe store.
I knew I was taking a chance, wearing the lashes to an ultra-conservative event like the Commonwealth Day reception on Parliament Hill. On the other hand, when you get to be my age, who cares?! And no one did. But the whole thing felt like a new outfit -- and all for a few bucks at the cosmetic counter in Shoppers.
So anyway, there we were enjoying a marvelous evening on the Hill, in a beautiful and elaborate reception room, greeted by the Speaker of the House of Commons, the Speaker of the Senate and crowded with MPs, high commissioners and....the rest of us. As usual, the food was delicious, with hot serving stations in every corner, servers circulating with deletable and luscious morsels and a live quartet. The government does go all out and those of us in the Royal Commonwealth Society appreciate it.
But listening to the speeches, I had a moment. This occurred during one delivered entirely in French by the deputy speaker of the Senate (at least I think that's who she was, but don't quote me). Huh??!! French? This was Commonwealth Day and last time I checked, the common language of the Commonwealth was English. Period. To boot, her theme was exclusively about women. Hey, you missed that day, it was last week. I tried to conjur a similar scene at a Francophonie reception -- you know, someone speaking exclusively in English. Hello! Would. Never. Ever. Ever. Happen. This is the kind of thing that gets one's back up for no reason. Linguistic sensitivies need to work both ways. Seriously.
Watched a great documentary the other day called 'High Heel Confidential' and the eyelashes fitted comfortably -- or should I say "uncomfortably" -- into that same category: empowering. It was reassuring to watch women taking the viewer on a tour of closets jammed to the rafters with rows and rows of high heels. I am not alone and certainly not the only over-the-hill woman who adores them. Not having much discretionary fashion moola in my youth was the reason I had to get creative and inventive about footwear. That and earrings. I figured if you got the top and bottom right, you could just wear the same black outfit in between. That's basically how I dress to this day. Need a new outfit? Buy a pair of earrings, make a snazzy shawl, grab a wild scarf or get your a-- into a shoe store.
I knew I was taking a chance, wearing the lashes to an ultra-conservative event like the Commonwealth Day reception on Parliament Hill. On the other hand, when you get to be my age, who cares?! And no one did. But the whole thing felt like a new outfit -- and all for a few bucks at the cosmetic counter in Shoppers.
So anyway, there we were enjoying a marvelous evening on the Hill, in a beautiful and elaborate reception room, greeted by the Speaker of the House of Commons, the Speaker of the Senate and crowded with MPs, high commissioners and....the rest of us. As usual, the food was delicious, with hot serving stations in every corner, servers circulating with deletable and luscious morsels and a live quartet. The government does go all out and those of us in the Royal Commonwealth Society appreciate it.
But listening to the speeches, I had a moment. This occurred during one delivered entirely in French by the deputy speaker of the Senate (at least I think that's who she was, but don't quote me). Huh??!! French? This was Commonwealth Day and last time I checked, the common language of the Commonwealth was English. Period. To boot, her theme was exclusively about women. Hey, you missed that day, it was last week. I tried to conjur a similar scene at a Francophonie reception -- you know, someone speaking exclusively in English. Hello! Would. Never. Ever. Ever. Happen. This is the kind of thing that gets one's back up for no reason. Linguistic sensitivies need to work both ways. Seriously.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Reality TV
Yesterday's calamity was proof we are but nothing in the scheme of things. Watching cities wash away, I was awe-struck by the power of mother nature, by that I mean God. It was sort of like standing between two mirrors and watching yourself in infinity.........it goes on and on into forever.
Clutching the converter, I had to click away every now and then for sheer relief. That's when it smacked me. We are so completely ridiculous. Flipped to a show about plastic surgery. I guess I could stop right now and you'd get it, but I just have to get into it. Here was a woman who looked, well, normal. About 40, not unattractive, but obviously very troubled. Talking into the camera, she revealed that all her problems were caused by....wait for it.....her uneven nostrils. Whaaaaaaat??!!&(^*^!! She could not get a man and had paralysing family and personal relationship issues because, seriously, one of her nostrils was not exactly the same shape as the other. Seriously. That and, oh yes, one of her breasts was slightly larger than the other. Unhappily, we were treated to unpleasant zoom-in close-ups of both the underside of her nose and her boobs. Duh, every woman has one breast slightly larger than the other, usually the one on the heart side. I could not tell the difference, but apparently her narcissism demanded plastic surgery. Clicked back to the tsunami. Now there's an issue.
What is wrong with people? Put me in mind of a documentary I unfortunately watched a while ago (why do I do it?) about teenaged girls in Britain who were getting boob jobs. And their demented parents thought it was a great idea!! Here were mum and dad, sitting around the kitchen table saying what a great idea is was for 14-year-old Jenny to be getting her boobs done. It was sick..........back to Toddlers and Tiaras.
Clutching the converter, I had to click away every now and then for sheer relief. That's when it smacked me. We are so completely ridiculous. Flipped to a show about plastic surgery. I guess I could stop right now and you'd get it, but I just have to get into it. Here was a woman who looked, well, normal. About 40, not unattractive, but obviously very troubled. Talking into the camera, she revealed that all her problems were caused by....wait for it.....her uneven nostrils. Whaaaaaaat??!!&(^*^!! She could not get a man and had paralysing family and personal relationship issues because, seriously, one of her nostrils was not exactly the same shape as the other. Seriously. That and, oh yes, one of her breasts was slightly larger than the other. Unhappily, we were treated to unpleasant zoom-in close-ups of both the underside of her nose and her boobs. Duh, every woman has one breast slightly larger than the other, usually the one on the heart side. I could not tell the difference, but apparently her narcissism demanded plastic surgery. Clicked back to the tsunami. Now there's an issue.
What is wrong with people? Put me in mind of a documentary I unfortunately watched a while ago (why do I do it?) about teenaged girls in Britain who were getting boob jobs. And their demented parents thought it was a great idea!! Here were mum and dad, sitting around the kitchen table saying what a great idea is was for 14-year-old Jenny to be getting her boobs done. It was sick..........back to Toddlers and Tiaras.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Women
International Women's Day has come and gone. Lots of articles were written about this and that ....and this and that.... and this and that.... and this and that. Mostly about how women are hard done by. In first-world countries, no less. Please. Happily, a few more enlightened columnists wrote about the myriad of choices Canadian women enjoy. We can:
1. Have a career,
2. Have a career and a family,
3. Have children with no father,
4. Have children with no father and be supported by the state,
5. Whimsically deny a father access,
6. All of the above.
Canadian men, on the other hand, can:
1. Have a career,
2. Not birth children,
3. Not have children without the mother around,
4. Have a grim time with access,
5. Have their salaries garnisheed,
6. All of the above.
In Canada women are very privileged because we have a cornucopia of choice. While the biological realities of reproduction pose impediments to careers, the gift of having children far outweighs the few years we may miss (by choice) in the workplace. Nonetheless having children remains the most important contribution many of us make. As women, we are given this huge gift. And as if that weren't enough, some of us are also given other gifts.
Yesterday I remembered three women who changed my life:
1. Miss Anderson, my grade eight English teacher who taught me everthing I love about writing, grammar and the bliss of great literature;
2. Miss Bishop, my grade eleven English teacher who hurled chalk with deadly accuracy in an attempt to teach me to write essays and love great writers; and
3. Miss Portugal, my pitiless boss at Maclean-Hunter who mercilessly edited my copy, thereby teaching me to write.
These three unsung women changed not only my life, but that of countless others who arbitrarily crossed their paths.
Opening the local paper yesterday morning, these heroines came to mind, but in vivid contrast to what I was reading. The hype was all about International Women's Day and the star-studded luncheon that heralded it. Attended by the pm's wife, this MP and that, this minister and that and numerous famous female celebrities, the gathering was reported not in the news pages, not in the financial section, but in the women's social section. Yes, of course, why not. No matter what women have achieved, we are still featured in the women's section. There they were, all dressed up and no where to go.
Yes, female ghettos remain alive and festering.
1. Have a career,
2. Have a career and a family,
3. Have children with no father,
4. Have children with no father and be supported by the state,
5. Whimsically deny a father access,
6. All of the above.
Canadian men, on the other hand, can:
1. Have a career,
2. Not birth children,
3. Not have children without the mother around,
4. Have a grim time with access,
5. Have their salaries garnisheed,
6. All of the above.
In Canada women are very privileged because we have a cornucopia of choice. While the biological realities of reproduction pose impediments to careers, the gift of having children far outweighs the few years we may miss (by choice) in the workplace. Nonetheless having children remains the most important contribution many of us make. As women, we are given this huge gift. And as if that weren't enough, some of us are also given other gifts.
Yesterday I remembered three women who changed my life:
1. Miss Anderson, my grade eight English teacher who taught me everthing I love about writing, grammar and the bliss of great literature;
2. Miss Bishop, my grade eleven English teacher who hurled chalk with deadly accuracy in an attempt to teach me to write essays and love great writers; and
3. Miss Portugal, my pitiless boss at Maclean-Hunter who mercilessly edited my copy, thereby teaching me to write.
These three unsung women changed not only my life, but that of countless others who arbitrarily crossed their paths.
Opening the local paper yesterday morning, these heroines came to mind, but in vivid contrast to what I was reading. The hype was all about International Women's Day and the star-studded luncheon that heralded it. Attended by the pm's wife, this MP and that, this minister and that and numerous famous female celebrities, the gathering was reported not in the news pages, not in the financial section, but in the women's social section. Yes, of course, why not. No matter what women have achieved, we are still featured in the women's section. There they were, all dressed up and no where to go.
Yes, female ghettos remain alive and festering.
Monday, March 7, 2011
OK, wait a minute?!?
Visiting my son in the T dot (as some refer to Toronto) this past weekend, he mentioned that many Canadian-born children of immigrant parents can't speak English. I scoffed and didn't buy it. Driving out this morning I heard the reality on CBC radio. Roughly one third of Canadian-born kids in Peel, for example, where the study had been conducted, have to avail themselves of ESL classes. Whaaaaaaaaat?!??!!$%^&*? Apparently, this is because another language is spoken exclusively in the home. That, coupled with the fact that the parents' satelite dish beams only native-tongue tv programs and news stations into the living room, means that these kids DON'T LEARN ENGLISH. In Canada. No English. In Canada. Bottom line is that you and I are paying for ESL for Canadian-born children to learn...............English! There is something very wrong about this.
I remember when new kids were introduced into the classroom back in the '50s. We were thrilled that "Otto" or "Maria" had arrived, but couldn't speak English. That meant one of us would be chosen to help them become "Canadian". The competition was fierce when the teacher would ask for a student to volunteer over the lunch hour or after school. All hands went up, jabbing and screaming to be chosen. We were filled with bursting pride when we were picked to take on the newcomer and help them learn to be "Canadian".
What a great solution. We were so proud to be Canadian and we were so proud to show these newcomers what a great life Canada offered. We didn't know this was what we were doing, of course. But the very fact we were sharing skipping ropes, jacks, marbles, hopscotch, bicycles and other joys meant we were introducing these kids to Canadian life. The child felt special and welcomed and we felt honoured to be helping them. No need for special teachers, no cost, no ghettos, nothing. In a few months, these kids were fluent and getting better marks than we. We looked up to them and were simply overjoyed to get to know someone from a "foreign" country. I remember one girl under my charge in grade seven. She was beautiful and when I went to her house after school, I discovered the joys of perogies and exotic soups conjured by her wonderful and mysterious mother. In fact, it was in one of those visist that I discovered garlic -- something my own mother would not use. Too "foreign" for her. Feature it.
Multi-culturalism is a booming failure.
I remember when new kids were introduced into the classroom back in the '50s. We were thrilled that "Otto" or "Maria" had arrived, but couldn't speak English. That meant one of us would be chosen to help them become "Canadian". The competition was fierce when the teacher would ask for a student to volunteer over the lunch hour or after school. All hands went up, jabbing and screaming to be chosen. We were filled with bursting pride when we were picked to take on the newcomer and help them learn to be "Canadian".
What a great solution. We were so proud to be Canadian and we were so proud to show these newcomers what a great life Canada offered. We didn't know this was what we were doing, of course. But the very fact we were sharing skipping ropes, jacks, marbles, hopscotch, bicycles and other joys meant we were introducing these kids to Canadian life. The child felt special and welcomed and we felt honoured to be helping them. No need for special teachers, no cost, no ghettos, nothing. In a few months, these kids were fluent and getting better marks than we. We looked up to them and were simply overjoyed to get to know someone from a "foreign" country. I remember one girl under my charge in grade seven. She was beautiful and when I went to her house after school, I discovered the joys of perogies and exotic soups conjured by her wonderful and mysterious mother. In fact, it was in one of those visist that I discovered garlic -- something my own mother would not use. Too "foreign" for her. Feature it.
Multi-culturalism is a booming failure.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
In case you thought it was just me..........
It's not. Turns out I am not the only one who can't figure out what the h-ll Canadians are doing paying for people to get out of the latest war zone: Libya. Read an excellent and factual article in today's paper by David B. Harris, a guy with 30 years' experience in the intelligence world, including CSIS by the way. He reminded us that all the "Canadians of convenience" (what did I tell you a while ago about people coming here because it's easy to get a passport) now screaming to get out were there by choice, making lots of dough. Ya pays yer money and ya takes yer chances, or in the case of everyone over there enjoying whatever they are enjoying, Ya makes lots of money and ya takes yer chances. Mr. Harris notes:
"Is it unfair to suggest that Canadians there on business -- including the oil business -- were making generous salaries in part because of the risks of being in Libya?" No it's not. "Libya has been a notoriously brutal, torturing and terr0r-supporting dictatorship. As for any tourists: could they really have failed to realize that they were swanning through a country-sized prison camp and torture chamber?" Get real people. If you want to work in dangerous places and get danger pay, foot your own exit bill.
Remember Lebanon a few years ago? Canadians paid..........wait for it.........here it comes...........$85 million to haul 15,000 "Lebanese" Canadians (with the emphasis on the "Lebanese") back to Canada. And..........wait for it again..........more than half of them all rushed back when the crisis subsided! I guess we should be grateful they didn't ask us to pay for their return flights! Not only does Canada protect its citizens while we live here, it also has to protect them when they choose to live in war zones. Whaaaaaa??!%$??^?
What's wrong with us??
"Is it unfair to suggest that Canadians there on business -- including the oil business -- were making generous salaries in part because of the risks of being in Libya?" No it's not. "Libya has been a notoriously brutal, torturing and terr0r-supporting dictatorship. As for any tourists: could they really have failed to realize that they were swanning through a country-sized prison camp and torture chamber?" Get real people. If you want to work in dangerous places and get danger pay, foot your own exit bill.
Remember Lebanon a few years ago? Canadians paid..........wait for it.........here it comes...........$85 million to haul 15,000 "Lebanese" Canadians (with the emphasis on the "Lebanese") back to Canada. And..........wait for it again..........more than half of them all rushed back when the crisis subsided! I guess we should be grateful they didn't ask us to pay for their return flights! Not only does Canada protect its citizens while we live here, it also has to protect them when they choose to live in war zones. Whaaaaaa??!%$??^?
What's wrong with us??
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