With the forthcoming release of the report on reconciliation for residential schools, Canadians are effed. It will be all about money, trust me. They marched through the streets of Ottawa today -- some wearing Gucci sunglasses, by the way -- bemoaning what happened a hundred years ago. Can we not move on?
Not when there is money involved. With apologies to my aboriginal great-grandmother and other friends, I am sick of it. Where's the reconciliation? Natives in this country receive more than $8.5 billion every year, yet they hold the rest of us hostage when it comes to getting resources to market. For what are they accountable? Nothing. Not a penny. Not a protest. Not a disruption.
They continue to promote a "victim" mentality, while getting whatever they want. Off-reserve they are treated like every other Canadian -- except they can come and go as they like. But don't let a Canadian try to live on-reserve. They'll be hounded off.
Without being able to move oil and gas to markets, Canada will get poorer and poorer because, like it or not, we are still hewers-of-wood-and-drawers-of water. And if Canada is poorer, so will be natives. I feel sorry for my grandchildren, the poor saps who will have to pay for this mess.
Please, move on!
Sunday, May 31, 2015
First date
Watching a Beach Boys' special last night, hosted by Brian Wilson himself, I was transported back to my first date with Brian Smith, the late CTV sports broadcaster and 13-year NHLer, brutally murdered by a madman in 1995 in the parking lot of Ottawa's CJOH TV. I was at our cottage in The Gatineau's when the news came over the radio. So stunned and sad, I had to sit down to absorb it. Even though I had not seen Brian for a number of years, my mind immediately went back to the summer of 1967, when he and I dated. We had a ball.
Handsome and charming, Brian unexpectedly asked me out. Why, I don't have a clue because he was a professional hockey player and I didn't have long, blonde hair and big.....you-know-whats? (Note: Watch 'Hockey Wives' for this important clue.) Never mind, that summer was magical, as Brian and I and various other professional hockey players and hangers-on haunted Hull's seedier watering holes such as "The Chaud", The Ottawa House, The Chamberlain and The British Hotel. We spent many weekends at his family cottage and I was so impressed by his gentlemanly behaviour -- especially when he gallantly protected me from flying beer bottles at The Chaud during "disagreements" among patrons. We actually dove under tables until the fracas dissipated!
The late Gerry Barber was the bouncer, a guy who could toss huge, black, American, Ottawa Rough Rider football players into the parking lot with one fell upper cut. Amazing! Later, between marriages, I ran into Brian again and we picked it up for a time. But it didn't last; he had begun dating his future wife, Alana Kainz, and I had met my future (and present) husband.
But on our first date, Brian had invited me to a Beach Boys' concert at Landsdowne Park. How romantic and cool! Looking back, I don't know what it was with me and professional hockey players, but I dated another in 1968, Bryan Watson. Again, that didn't last because, while it's fun dating professional hockey players, one doesn't actually marry one. Although, with Brian Smith.....??? Who knows because he wasn't your average, garden-variety hockey thug.
Note: Watch 'Hockey Wives' for this important clue.
Handsome and charming, Brian unexpectedly asked me out. Why, I don't have a clue because he was a professional hockey player and I didn't have long, blonde hair and big.....you-know-whats? (Note: Watch 'Hockey Wives' for this important clue.) Never mind, that summer was magical, as Brian and I and various other professional hockey players and hangers-on haunted Hull's seedier watering holes such as "The Chaud", The Ottawa House, The Chamberlain and The British Hotel. We spent many weekends at his family cottage and I was so impressed by his gentlemanly behaviour -- especially when he gallantly protected me from flying beer bottles at The Chaud during "disagreements" among patrons. We actually dove under tables until the fracas dissipated!
The late Gerry Barber was the bouncer, a guy who could toss huge, black, American, Ottawa Rough Rider football players into the parking lot with one fell upper cut. Amazing! Later, between marriages, I ran into Brian again and we picked it up for a time. But it didn't last; he had begun dating his future wife, Alana Kainz, and I had met my future (and present) husband.
But on our first date, Brian had invited me to a Beach Boys' concert at Landsdowne Park. How romantic and cool! Looking back, I don't know what it was with me and professional hockey players, but I dated another in 1968, Bryan Watson. Again, that didn't last because, while it's fun dating professional hockey players, one doesn't actually marry one. Although, with Brian Smith.....??? Who knows because he wasn't your average, garden-variety hockey thug.
Note: Watch 'Hockey Wives' for this important clue.
Friday, May 29, 2015
Must hate women
How much do you have to hate women to force one to stride down a haute couture runway in Paris in this outfit? Jean Paul Gauliano must really hate them. Here's the outfit:
 |
| She has a stack of hair rollers on her head! |
Shame
Had one of my children been taken into care, I'd have hidden in the basement for the rest of my life. But not another Winnipeg mother, whose 15-year-old daughter was beaten while in care in that sad jurisdiction. There was the mother, face blacked out, berating "the system" on national television about the fact that her daughter had been assaulted and left for dead.
It's another sorry case like those of Phoenix Sinclair and Rinelle Harper, two other children whose own incompetent parents had been declared unfit to take care of them. Do you know how bad a Canadian parent and home have to be for the state to remove children? Pretty effing bad. We are a country of bleeding hearts. For some reason, Manitoba is the worst, with 90% of all children in care native.
But how the parents of these victims can hold press conferences and blame others for their sorry lives is completely beyond me. To top it off, the ineffectual Manitoba Minister of Social Services was actually crying on TV, while blubbering and beating her chest about what went wrong.
It's all so pathetic. Gag me.
It's another sorry case like those of Phoenix Sinclair and Rinelle Harper, two other children whose own incompetent parents had been declared unfit to take care of them. Do you know how bad a Canadian parent and home have to be for the state to remove children? Pretty effing bad. We are a country of bleeding hearts. For some reason, Manitoba is the worst, with 90% of all children in care native.
But how the parents of these victims can hold press conferences and blame others for their sorry lives is completely beyond me. To top it off, the ineffectual Manitoba Minister of Social Services was actually crying on TV, while blubbering and beating her chest about what went wrong.
It's all so pathetic. Gag me.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Pass the hat, but don't put anything in it
St. Luke's in Calgary distributed its financial statement for 2014 this morning. It was disgusting. I know I have blogged before about how pissed off I get when the basket is passed and so many people move it along without adding a farthing -- not even a loonie!
Well, the chickens came home to roost when I read the statement. We have 5,000 family members at St. Luke's, but of the $1,091,750 donated in the collection plate, a whopping 3,200 only gave $180,000. And I'm not talking about members of one family, I'm talking about the whole effing family. That works out to about fifty-six bucks a year per family, never mind member -- a little more than a dollar a week for families of maybe five or six. Disgusting.
The rest of the money -- all $911,750 of it -- was given by only 1,800 families. That means the rest of us gave $506. So folks, we give about ten times what everyone else gives. Disgusting.
And don't bang on about these people having no money. They all drive new cars (never seen one older than five years in the parking lot), have expensive watches and clothes and partake enthusiastically of the coffee and donuts provided regularly. All that, plus the fact they hit the Starbucks across the street and pay......I don't even know what?!........for a café whatever. More disgusting.
Where do they think the money to run the parish they frequent comes from? Do they think it comes from the diocese? From Rome? We have many ethnic families in our parish who aggressively don't give, but we also have a lot of young, white trash who don't either. Yet, they make a big splash getting their children baptised and confirmed -- white dresses and all -- using the considerable resources these sacraments demand.
Father David should have dedicated his entire homily to this disgusting (sorry to say it again) state of affairs. But he is a kind shepherd of lost sheep, a nice man, a beatific redeemer of all. Never says an accusatory word against anyone.
Disgusting.
Well, the chickens came home to roost when I read the statement. We have 5,000 family members at St. Luke's, but of the $1,091,750 donated in the collection plate, a whopping 3,200 only gave $180,000. And I'm not talking about members of one family, I'm talking about the whole effing family. That works out to about fifty-six bucks a year per family, never mind member -- a little more than a dollar a week for families of maybe five or six. Disgusting.
The rest of the money -- all $911,750 of it -- was given by only 1,800 families. That means the rest of us gave $506. So folks, we give about ten times what everyone else gives. Disgusting.
And don't bang on about these people having no money. They all drive new cars (never seen one older than five years in the parking lot), have expensive watches and clothes and partake enthusiastically of the coffee and donuts provided regularly. All that, plus the fact they hit the Starbucks across the street and pay......I don't even know what?!........for a café whatever. More disgusting.
Where do they think the money to run the parish they frequent comes from? Do they think it comes from the diocese? From Rome? We have many ethnic families in our parish who aggressively don't give, but we also have a lot of young, white trash who don't either. Yet, they make a big splash getting their children baptised and confirmed -- white dresses and all -- using the considerable resources these sacraments demand.
Father David should have dedicated his entire homily to this disgusting (sorry to say it again) state of affairs. But he is a kind shepherd of lost sheep, a nice man, a beatific redeemer of all. Never says an accusatory word against anyone.
Disgusting.
Friday, May 22, 2015
A word, please
I'd like to have another quiet word about grammar. Listening to 'As it Happens' most nights, I have to bear Carol Off who always says, "I appreciate you speaking with us," to her guests.
No, Carol. It's "I appreciate your speaking with us." She is appreciating a thing, an act, not a person. It's the same as, "I was moved by your talking with me." Etc. Now, if she had said, "I appreciate 'you'." Period. That would have been correct. So effing annoying.
She also mangles things such as, "A trio of.....whatever......were." No, it's, "A trio was....." She also says, "fertography". Please.
Can't the CBC educate its employees? Bad grammar continues to kill me.
No, Carol. It's "I appreciate your speaking with us." She is appreciating a thing, an act, not a person. It's the same as, "I was moved by your talking with me." Etc. Now, if she had said, "I appreciate 'you'." Period. That would have been correct. So effing annoying.
She also mangles things such as, "A trio of.....whatever......were." No, it's, "A trio was....." She also says, "fertography". Please.
Can't the CBC educate its employees? Bad grammar continues to kill me.
A pig
I looked over and he had five! We were at a reception and talk on the magnificent bronze sculptures scattered throughout The Ranchmen's Club last evening. Housed on three floors of the magnificent old edifice, directly across from Lougheed House, the sculptures are dotted at many locations in the building, but this was the first opportunity we've had to learn their history. I have long admired these beauties -- several by Remington himself!
As we moved from floor to floor, we were treated to hors d'oeuvres, but they weren't limitless. This guy didn't seem to get that. First in line, he jammed five bacon-wrapped shrimp onto his plate; the rest of us sampled one. Naturally, those at the back of the line got none. Did that bother him? Not on your life. It really sickened me because at the next appetizer station, he had stacked his plate with four beef shish kabobs, among other delicacies. Hey buddy, it's not dinner! Wouldn't one be sufficient!?
What a pig. The fact that I turned and stared at his plate a couple of time didn't make a dent. Some people's naturally-polite fairness instincts kick in; otherpeople's don't.
Enough of that.
Bought my bedding plants today -- Calgary is at least two weeks behind central and eastern Canada -- and put a few in. Working outside on my back deck, I ran smack into cigarette smoke wafting from my neighbour's. Living in a townhouse, we are separated only by a half-fence which does not block the hideous smoke. Hard to know what to do about it, except run into the house every time they light up.
I hate smokers. As B's Houston grandson said, "Smoking is yucky."
As we moved from floor to floor, we were treated to hors d'oeuvres, but they weren't limitless. This guy didn't seem to get that. First in line, he jammed five bacon-wrapped shrimp onto his plate; the rest of us sampled one. Naturally, those at the back of the line got none. Did that bother him? Not on your life. It really sickened me because at the next appetizer station, he had stacked his plate with four beef shish kabobs, among other delicacies. Hey buddy, it's not dinner! Wouldn't one be sufficient!?
What a pig. The fact that I turned and stared at his plate a couple of time didn't make a dent. Some people's naturally-polite fairness instincts kick in; otherpeople's don't.
Enough of that.
Bought my bedding plants today -- Calgary is at least two weeks behind central and eastern Canada -- and put a few in. Working outside on my back deck, I ran smack into cigarette smoke wafting from my neighbour's. Living in a townhouse, we are separated only by a half-fence which does not block the hideous smoke. Hard to know what to do about it, except run into the house every time they light up.
I hate smokers. As B's Houston grandson said, "Smoking is yucky."
Sunday, May 17, 2015
Brilliant
"Her self-absorption defeated him at every turn." How absolutely brilliant! Author Kate Atkinson wrote this in her latest book 'God in Ruins'. Haven't read it yet, but I will.
How many people do we know like that? I know hundreds.
How many people do we know like that? I know hundreds.
Saturday, May 16, 2015
Complicated
"Swimming is so complicated, let alone a flip turn," said the best swimmer in the pool, a woman I have come to know. I had just told her I was bound and determined to do a proper flip turn before I died. "Well, let's work on it now," she said this morning.
You have to remember that this forty-something woman is a magnificent swimmer, someone all the pumped up young men fawn upon to discuss strokes, etc. The fact that she always stops to talk to me is a mystery, but one I look forward to. "OK, let's work on that," said 'E', as she abandoned her swim set to help me with my pathetic flip.
Turns out I had been trying to complete a somersault and then turn over and swim up. No, you just do a half somersault, then kick off. Oh!!! That's all?! Took me about 15 tries to get it right, because my brain wanted my body to go the other way, but eventually I actually completed a bonefida flip turn! Was I happy? You betcha! Now, along with my 50 laps a morning, I can actually complete a proper flip turn at every lap. If you are a swimmer, you know how big a deal that is. In fact, my daughter had told me the same thing last evening, "It's not actually a turn, Mum, more of a flip of your legs" she had said. But since we never get to swim together, I was lucky to get hands-on coaching from 'E'.
Thank you so much, my pool friend.
You have to remember that this forty-something woman is a magnificent swimmer, someone all the pumped up young men fawn upon to discuss strokes, etc. The fact that she always stops to talk to me is a mystery, but one I look forward to. "OK, let's work on that," said 'E', as she abandoned her swim set to help me with my pathetic flip.
Turns out I had been trying to complete a somersault and then turn over and swim up. No, you just do a half somersault, then kick off. Oh!!! That's all?! Took me about 15 tries to get it right, because my brain wanted my body to go the other way, but eventually I actually completed a bonefida flip turn! Was I happy? You betcha! Now, along with my 50 laps a morning, I can actually complete a proper flip turn at every lap. If you are a swimmer, you know how big a deal that is. In fact, my daughter had told me the same thing last evening, "It's not actually a turn, Mum, more of a flip of your legs" she had said. But since we never get to swim together, I was lucky to get hands-on coaching from 'E'.
Thank you so much, my pool friend.
Sunday, May 10, 2015
What was she thinking?
David Cameron's wife has no taste.....whatsoever. I would not meet The Queen in this hideous outfit:
It looks as if she had spilt ink in the middle of it. Sad.
It looks as if she had spilt ink in the middle of it. Sad.
Seventeen
That's how many years I ignored them. For years we used to plunk ourselves into the most glorious Muskoka chairs in the screened-in porch or on the dock at our cottage. Big, broad, sturdy and made of wood, these wonderful chairs had ample arms scientifically designed to hold a drink, balance a dinner plate or play cards. I loved these beasts; to me they said "the cottage".
When we stopped going to the Gatineau Fish & Game Club in 1998, I missed my intimate wooden friends. Driving by Gabriel Blais' home in Kenneyville one morning (he was the Mayor of that hamlet and we were up for a day party), I spotted four newly-constructed Muskoka beauties on his lawn. We stopped. I had to have them. We bought four, but how to get them to Ottawa? M. Blais' nephew agreed to drive them into town. (Can you believe this had been the first time "young Gabriel" had visited Ottawa? Believe it.) Anyway, the Muskoka chairs arrived, but they were "au naturel". To preserve them, they had to be either stained or painted. I opted for stain because painting would have necessitated "more painting". Forever. The handyman readily agreed, but a week later delivered four painted Muskoka chairs. "Eff," I exclaimed. "What happened" "My girlfriend thought paint would be better," he offered. Man, some guys will agree to anything for a f....!
As pissed off as I was, I paid that dumb handyman anyway and we started to enjoy our Muskoka chairs. This went on for many years. After giving two chairs to my stepson and his then-fiance -- against my better judgement -- we were left with two. OK, that worked. We enjoyed our remaining two on the balcony of our Ottawa condo and moved them to Calgary in 2011. But seriously, after 17 years they needed painting.
Lazy me, last year I bought two cans of spray paint and fully intended to do them. But I didn't. The thought of sanding left me paralyzed. And I also secretly knew that spraying would not do. I knew I had to brush-paint them -- all thirty pieces of each chair. So, yesterday was the day. As I breezed out for lunch with one of my swimming friends I tossed the sand paper to B and said, "Oh, here's the sanding paper and I've put the Muskoka's on a drop sheet in the backyard. See ya!" When I returned, he had prepped both. Wow! I was impressed.
Today is Sunday and they now have two coats. Can't wait to enjoy them 'cause you can't buy wooden chairs in Calgary.
When we stopped going to the Gatineau Fish & Game Club in 1998, I missed my intimate wooden friends. Driving by Gabriel Blais' home in Kenneyville one morning (he was the Mayor of that hamlet and we were up for a day party), I spotted four newly-constructed Muskoka beauties on his lawn. We stopped. I had to have them. We bought four, but how to get them to Ottawa? M. Blais' nephew agreed to drive them into town. (Can you believe this had been the first time "young Gabriel" had visited Ottawa? Believe it.) Anyway, the Muskoka chairs arrived, but they were "au naturel". To preserve them, they had to be either stained or painted. I opted for stain because painting would have necessitated "more painting". Forever. The handyman readily agreed, but a week later delivered four painted Muskoka chairs. "Eff," I exclaimed. "What happened" "My girlfriend thought paint would be better," he offered. Man, some guys will agree to anything for a f....!
As pissed off as I was, I paid that dumb handyman anyway and we started to enjoy our Muskoka chairs. This went on for many years. After giving two chairs to my stepson and his then-fiance -- against my better judgement -- we were left with two. OK, that worked. We enjoyed our remaining two on the balcony of our Ottawa condo and moved them to Calgary in 2011. But seriously, after 17 years they needed painting.
Lazy me, last year I bought two cans of spray paint and fully intended to do them. But I didn't. The thought of sanding left me paralyzed. And I also secretly knew that spraying would not do. I knew I had to brush-paint them -- all thirty pieces of each chair. So, yesterday was the day. As I breezed out for lunch with one of my swimming friends I tossed the sand paper to B and said, "Oh, here's the sanding paper and I've put the Muskoka's on a drop sheet in the backyard. See ya!" When I returned, he had prepped both. Wow! I was impressed.
Today is Sunday and they now have two coats. Can't wait to enjoy them 'cause you can't buy wooden chairs in Calgary.
Friday, May 8, 2015
Us versus the real deal
BBC coverage of the British national election last evening was mesmerizing. Unlike the CBC's, it was full of intelligent insight from actual experts -- not just the predictable droning by the same old, know-nothing journalists the Mother Corp. always trots out. Amid a lot of teeth-sucking by those going down to defeat, the BBC interspersed its coverage with charming and useful computer charts and fun floor maps which explained things such as the swing in votes from the last election, what had happened this time and what it all actually meant.
I am soooooooo tired of Pastor Mansbridge I could stick a fork in both eyes and hold pillows to my ears whenever he appears. And his "experts"?! Please. I can't stand vacuous dyed-blonde interviewers as much as the next guy, but Chantal Hebert? It's painful to see how much more unkempt she manages to be from her last dreadful appearance. And try as she might, poor old Chantal just can't hide the fact that she is a separatist through-and-through. As for Bruce Anderson, look up the definition of gobble-dee-gook and you'll find his name in bold. Now and then I vow to listen intently to what he is saying to try and understand his point, but every time I say to B, "What did he say?" No clue, is the usual response. Anderson's favourite fall-back is, "That being said," after which he lamely makes the completely opposite point.
What is he doing there? I could offer as much insight.
And don't get me started on Andrew Coyne! What an oxymoron, emphasis on the "moron". The most cynically-ignorant know-it-all on public view in modern time. By contrast, the BBC had professors of constitutional democracy and the like from London's St. Paul's university, explaining the historical significance of this and that, and learned historians who knew what had happened all the way back to the sixteen hundreds. Mansbridge et co. couldn't tell you what happened in the last 16 minutes. The whole evening put the CBC to shame. They all need to travel to London to take a clinic from the real experts.
___________________________________
Still on politics, Alberta's election was a shocker, but the real shame of it all was the disgraceful behaviour of Jim Prentice who, upon losing, promptly resigned the seat he had just won, giving the arrogant finger to the poor saps who had just elected him to Calgary Foothills. -- for the second time, by the way, in as many months. Off he drove in his antique, vintage Thunderbird convertible (watch that coif, Jimbo) down the road to political oblivion all the way to private-sector cash. It was pure cowardice.
Jim Prentice: a phonier guy you could not meet. Desperate to lead, but never to serve. Shame on you.
I am soooooooo tired of Pastor Mansbridge I could stick a fork in both eyes and hold pillows to my ears whenever he appears. And his "experts"?! Please. I can't stand vacuous dyed-blonde interviewers as much as the next guy, but Chantal Hebert? It's painful to see how much more unkempt she manages to be from her last dreadful appearance. And try as she might, poor old Chantal just can't hide the fact that she is a separatist through-and-through. As for Bruce Anderson, look up the definition of gobble-dee-gook and you'll find his name in bold. Now and then I vow to listen intently to what he is saying to try and understand his point, but every time I say to B, "What did he say?" No clue, is the usual response. Anderson's favourite fall-back is, "That being said," after which he lamely makes the completely opposite point.
What is he doing there? I could offer as much insight.
And don't get me started on Andrew Coyne! What an oxymoron, emphasis on the "moron". The most cynically-ignorant know-it-all on public view in modern time. By contrast, the BBC had professors of constitutional democracy and the like from London's St. Paul's university, explaining the historical significance of this and that, and learned historians who knew what had happened all the way back to the sixteen hundreds. Mansbridge et co. couldn't tell you what happened in the last 16 minutes. The whole evening put the CBC to shame. They all need to travel to London to take a clinic from the real experts.
___________________________________
Still on politics, Alberta's election was a shocker, but the real shame of it all was the disgraceful behaviour of Jim Prentice who, upon losing, promptly resigned the seat he had just won, giving the arrogant finger to the poor saps who had just elected him to Calgary Foothills. -- for the second time, by the way, in as many months. Off he drove in his antique, vintage Thunderbird convertible (watch that coif, Jimbo) down the road to political oblivion all the way to private-sector cash. It was pure cowardice.
Jim Prentice: a phonier guy you could not meet. Desperate to lead, but never to serve. Shame on you.
Sunday, May 3, 2015
That's what happens
"Of course you don't pay for anything on your birthday," said Nolan, our waiter the other evening when he brought the bill. "Nancy is here", he had told the bartender and another waiter when we arrived and both had left their posts for a time and come over to chat.....and chat.....and chat. I am thrilled that young people find us "chattable", but I wonder why?
Is it because no one -- either their age or ours -- tells it "like it is"? Is it because the life experiences of their peers are so limited they have nothing to say? Is it because so many other patrons are just plain rude and ignore wait staff? We never do. We talk to them and ask them all about themselves and we all know how people love to talk about themselves. Nolan? He's studying medicine and has already agreed to take me as a geriatric patient when the time comes. Joel? He's off to backpack through Asia. Brittany? She's studying to be a speech therapist. All extremely bright kids and very charming.
So it was on Friday evening when B and I went out to celebrate my birthday. But the biggest gift was hearing from all four of my kids and grandkids. That's priceless. For everything else, there's mastercard. No, seriously, I am very blessed.
Is it because no one -- either their age or ours -- tells it "like it is"? Is it because the life experiences of their peers are so limited they have nothing to say? Is it because so many other patrons are just plain rude and ignore wait staff? We never do. We talk to them and ask them all about themselves and we all know how people love to talk about themselves. Nolan? He's studying medicine and has already agreed to take me as a geriatric patient when the time comes. Joel? He's off to backpack through Asia. Brittany? She's studying to be a speech therapist. All extremely bright kids and very charming.
So it was on Friday evening when B and I went out to celebrate my birthday. But the biggest gift was hearing from all four of my kids and grandkids. That's priceless. For everything else, there's mastercard. No, seriously, I am very blessed.
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