What did the Dali Lama say to the hot dog vendor?
"Make me one with everything..."
Typepad ate my post from last night. This is what you get instead. Too bad about the post. It was going to change the blogosphere -- in that 'take the red pill kind of way'.
Also looking for a Target near downtown Philly (we're staying on Chestnut street.) Anyone know their way around?
The Man is off conferencing in the big T dot until Wednesday. For Father's Day (nope we don't do this one either), my dad (GP) invited The Boy over for sleepover. They stayed up late watching The Golden Compass and had ice cream for breakfast. Ok, it may have been somewhat healthier but I am sure that at some point chocolate was involved. If it involves my dad, you have to know that at some point chocolate will be involved.
This meant instead of having a boy wake us up at 7:30 a.m. with the (surprisingly) loud pitter patter of little feet, we woke up at 7:35 a.m. and made coffee. We're both a little lost without him. Sort makes the day a little off. I go for a short run combined with a long walk. I come home smelly. The Man was more than happy go get him at 10:30. I think we all feel a bit better when every one is near.
I'd also purchased Lego Indiana Jones for The Boy as a finishing Grade 2 presents. In a contemporary Norman Rockwell moment, I come down from my shower, and find both boys are sitting on the couch avoiding poisonous darts being shot at Lego characters by other Lego characters. (fucking brilliant, the Lego series is.) "How do I change weapons?" It's really rather cute. I've tried to bond with The Boy over Wii games but honestly, I suck at them and I don't have the patience.
I love that they connect in a way that is unique to them. It occurs to me that there is probably nowhere else these two would rather be at this precise moment. Just the two of them -- on the couch. I love what a hands on parent he is. I love that he's here so much more than he was. (Totally worth the cut in pay. Makes life so much better for everyone.)
I'm one lucky lady to have such beautiful fun and yes, rather silly people in my life.
No ifs ands or buts about it. There is nothing and I say nothing that excuses the residential schools for First Nations peoples. Nothing. And Stephen Harper did the right thing by apologizing. The apology should have happened long ago. Residential schools never should have happened in the first place.
Not to say this even comes close to setting things right. As we all remember from childhood, saying you're sorry just doesn't undo the hurt and the damage. Fact is we've done is so wrong. And when you are wrong you should apologize and try to make restitution somehow. But like setting the house on fire, somethings you can't undo with an "I'm sorry."
I think you know how much it pains me to say that Stephen Harper did the right thing. For a moment, I thought maybe just maybe the Tories of my youth might be hiding deep within their GWB rhetoric. There may be a glint of something humane in there somewhere. Like Mr. Obama winning the democratic nomination, for a moment I had hope.
Alas -- it only lasted a moment.
But Stevie has his issues and just when we start to see a light and we think "This time, it can't be a train" turns out it's the Right-Wing Wacko Express out of control and it's going to take out a small town. In this case in the shape of ultra-conservative, ultra-young right-winger Pierre Poilievre, who never met a media opportunity he didn't like. Gets on radio one hour before the apology and says:
Now along with this apology comes another $4 billion in compensation for those who partook in the residential schools over those years."Now, you know, some of us are starting to ask: 'Are we really getting value for all of this money, and is more money really going to solve the problem?'
"My view is that we need to engender the values of hard work and independence and self reliance. That's the solution in the long run - more money will not solve it.
Never mind the dollar figure is inflated by a mere $2 billion. Never mind that you don’t partake when the government takes your kids away. Never mind that the children were taken from their families, their homes, and their culture. (I get teary just thinking about it.) Never mind that many of these kids were abused in ways we can't imagine, and dehumanized. Lacking in every thing they knew. Never mind that many of the problems the First Nations people face today is due to this.. never mind all that. Never mind Pete is perpetuating stereotypes.
On the day of this historic apology -- this manchild sees fit to quash it all in a few word and show his ignorance, his prejudice, his racism.
On the day of an apology that was a long time coming. Pete saw fit to shine a light on what many left leanings Canadian fear most. The ugly Conservative. Today he apologized and "took responsibility" for his comment. (Note he didn't say he was wrong.) Sometimes saying you’re sorry isn’t good enough.
Fuckin' Whitey.
About six weeks ago, The Man and I decided that we would cancel all our newspaper subscription. As I explained 95 per cent of the time the papers were ending up, unread, in the recycle been. Now we get any number of news feed. (I still get the Ottawa Sun at home but it's a work copy. It gets delivered here because they can't figure out how to deliver it inside the office without it getting lost. Yeah, I don't understand either.)
We cancelled three papers. The Globe and Mail, The Ottawa Citizen, and Le Droit. The cancellation process was easy enough. I call, tell them I'd like to cancel my subscription. They ask why (because it's expensive and we aren't reading them, we get news from the Internet and we are senselessly killing trees.) They give a resigned sigh. Thank you for your patronage. And the deed is done.
Or so you think.
They have only begun toying with you.
Honestly the folks at the Citizen should be ashamed. We stopped receiving the paper on May 4 (or there abouts) -- we got the first call asking if we want to subscribe on May the 5th. And the guy was pushy and rude. I hung up on him.
Last week, they called again. This is a joke right? (No Ma'am, what about weekend service only.) No, no no no and no. Take me off your phone list. Don't ever call me again. Then I hung up.
Tonight, some guy showed up at the door. Free subscription. NO. Just weekends? NO. NO. NO. NO. Go away. We don't want your newspaper.
Now if you'll excuse me I am going to drop an email or four to the publisher.
It's been a really hot pre-summer summer weekend. Dumb hot. The kind of hot that makes me miss winter. (I think I have polar bear in my blood.) But I must admit my new guilty pleasure is blogging from my deck (by candlelight no less). Wireless internet is better than sliced bread.
The deck is like my perch on the world. The house is really three storeys. It's a half basement which gives out into the backyard. Then there is a deck off the kitchen. The result is that the deck is raised up over the world and I can see into the other neighbours' yards (good to have a chat that's for sure). And I can watch the sky. Right now, the clouds are rolling in big fluffy cotton ball clouds. It's supposed to rain tonight. (I'm not entirely convinced it will.) It's 10 p.m. and there is still some residual sunlight -- but it's mostly dark now.
But it's been a good weekend though, a lazy summer weekend. The Original Milo's fourth birthday party on Saturday turned into Drink Club for the four hardcore moms who straggled on (The men kindly handled the brunt of the post party parenting solo, while we finished up the beer and the munchies.) I feel like I made some new friends. Kindred spirits of sorts.
I must admit crawling into bed past-midnight made morning a tad harsh. (Not as bad as I thought though.) But I suppose if you spread the booze over eight hours the first one is pretty much out of your system by midnight. Still feeling a bit green around the gills today. The heat, well, it's really not helping. But back to the women.
One of the women was Milo's aunt K. She lives in a haunted house. It's just up the hill from here. A few years ago, there was a massive house fire. The family was asleep when their 16 year old came home (he was supposed to be staying at a friend's house overnight.) As 16 year old boys do, he started fixing himself something to eat. He then fell asleep with food still on the burner. That's how the fire started. Mom and the other child (a girl I believe) got out of the house with no problem. And when the firemen asked her if anyone else was in the house, she said no. They found him in his room in the attic, where he died from smoke inhalation. (That poor woman, how do you live with that.)
K and her family a girl 15 and a boy 12 toured the house. Living in a town this size, they were well aware of the history. But it's a rental, and it's completely remodeled. Spacious. But she brought the kids by to make sure they weren't freaked out. Her boy picked the attic room. But she said she feels him in the house. The toilet flushes by itself. Drawers open. He's just hanging out she said. It's never malevolent, but something is there. If just hangs around. As if at 16, maybe the spirit needs to wander in the place he called home. Could she have a ghost? I must say the idea is appealing.
I guess it's a spiritual question of sorts. When asked to define my spiritual beliefs, I just don't know what to say. I don't believe in a creator-God (a la Christianity) but the idea of a greater cosmic consciousness is rather appealing. To leave behind some sort of footprint that people can pick up on. The cynic in me thinks it's just our wishful thinking that the departed aren't really ever gone. But part of me really wants to believe. What do you think?
All medical issues all the time over here this week.
On Tuesday, after The Man announced he was bone tired and going to bed. He'd fallen asleep on the couch for a bit. I heard a massive crash in the bathroom. Running to check it out, I found him pass out on the floor. Freaked me the fuck out.
He comes too, decides he's fine. I am convinced that he has any combination of the following and needs medical attention pronto or he might die before his life insurance is paid up:
-- epilepsy
-- cold
-- stroke
-- halitosis
-- low sperm count (oh wait, we paid for that)
-- tuberculosis
-- consumption
-- pink eye
-- red eye
-- tennis elbow
-- the plague
-- rabies
-- severe okapi
-- leprosy
-- seborrhoea
and feline leukemia
After I give my scare list, he agrees to call the local Telehealth line. (Re-enacment of every conversation at telehealth: "Hi, my name is Nat I just gave myself a paper cut and it's bleeding a bit." "does it hurt?" "yes.""could be flesh eating disease go your nearest emergency department.")
However, they seem to be a bit more urging of The Man going to get checked. (Question: "Nat, how's my colour?"
"ummm well you were pasty white... now you're more your normal white Canadian guy in May skin tone.")
They told him to go to Emerg.
Off he went, where they did an emergency ECG determined he was not, in fact, having a cardiac/brain hemorhage issue and made him wait for the cardiologist (who was with a patient actually having a heart attack -- the nerve.) Four hours later, The Man gives up waiting for the doc. (He reckon if it was really emergent they'd have followed up by now.) And he comes home.
He saw his GP today. Every thing seems ok, his Blood Pressure is a little low (low normal.)
Low blood pressure. Wow. On this side of the gene pool, Low and blood pressure are not words the happen in the same clause unless death is imminent. (Seriously I run 15-20 miles a week -- still it's high-normal. Which at 37 is not a bad thing in my family.) It's like a Jack Spratt situation. Just hope when we're old and grey in front of the medicine cabinet that we don't pop the wrong pills. ("Well, at least they went together... too bad Nat's head exploded.")
Stay healthy.
I got some very sad news from a dear friend of mine today, after two and a half years of trying they were finally expecting. On Monday she got news, that she'd lost the baby. So if you could spare a moment in your thoughts for her and her family, I know she'd appreciate the well wishes.
I was reading Rude Cactus's weeklies and learned of Harvey Korman's death. Perhpas best known at the part of the crew on the Carole Burnett show.
Carole Burnett, Sonny and Cher and even The Osmonds were popular fodder at my house. My dad being a big fan of the variety show. (He still is really, his latest thing is with French-Canadian entertainer Gregory Charles who does a show complete with impressions. Not my thing but I have to respect it.) I remember being allowed to stay up late and watch Sonny and Cher and our favourite Carole Burnett. Maybe Mr Korman's passage has me reminiscing a little bit tonight about all that. (Go check out the dentist sketch. That stuff is gold.) Seriously. I must say that I do enjoy sketch comedy though very little has ever lived up to the Carol Burnet show. It made me fussy. And I'm ok with that.
Comedy sure isn't what it used to be that's for sure.
I have read all over the place about the cash grab new Sex and the City feature film. I was never a Sex in the City fan. I watch the show once staying at friends house, I thought it wasn't bad, which is to say I didn't think it was good and it certainly didn't blow my mind. So I'm a bit shocked at the to-do about the movie. Given the number of women who are out there doing cocktails and a movie, I'd say it's a big deal to them for sure. I just don't get why. Shoes, clothing and skinny self-obsessed women seeking men who will be as obsessed with them as they are with themselves-- I know, just like me right?
But it got me thinking. I spent a lot of time escorting a photographer for our annual report last week. I have been trying to pin point what it is about him. But I can't quite figure him out (not good or bad, maybe a bit too into himself in that artsy kind of way). In the scheme of things, I suppose it doesn't matter. Still he intrigues me -- the way many artists do. (Although, I was shocked how many people came up and claimed they were photographers. Standing next to him, I am pretty sure I just take pictures. I'm not even sure I'd call myself an amateur photographer. The man understands light.)
I suppose we are fundamentally fascinated by the same thing. The need to tell a story. My way just takes a lot of words, it's a painful arduous drawn out process at times. He does it with his images, and is far braver than I will ever be. Maybe it's the bravery in making a complete ass of yourself in comedy, or taking the perfect shot, there's a bravery there, think of any number of striking images you've seen, the Art. The perfectly executed sentence. Think art that speaks to you. (Even if it doesn't connect with everyone.) In my mind, great art, television, books should rise above and confront -- you may not like what you see, but it's there. It's not a comfortable place. I think to a certain extent both Korman and the photog share this.
Perhaps it's my problem with SATC. It doesn't do that. It's just four chicks in high heels getting laid. Been there, done that (in much more comfortable shoes.) I understand that's it's not suppose to be high art, but maybe I'd like it to make a bit more of a statement about the world I live in. The conspicuous consumption fashion at all cost somehow selling it as right. And well, I think it's this lack of decent real narrative that bugs me about the show. It's glamour with no substance.
While I can, on the surface see the appeal, I am just not sure it's worth the fuss.
Now Ms. Sugarpants (who rocks) is hoping to encourage Mini Temporarily Me out of the incubator. (Mini T -- it's time to come out Little One. Your mom wants her body back.) In a sort of online shower sort of way, Karen has asked people to share their delivery stories.
Pregnancy and I did not agree. I decided I was going to go on status quo (minus drinking and smoking) and the Pregnancy decided on Hypertension. I swelled up like the GoodYear Blimp and gained 80 lbs.
I remember the last few weeks of the pregnancy well. I'd been hospitalized for hypertension at 36 weeks and was getting regular ultrasounds. I clearly remember looking over and seeing 8 pounds 10 ounces. I'd asked the nurse if that was the projected weight for the baby.
She said no.
She said that was the weight at that moment.
I had four weeks to go. I cried a little. And I worried about my poor vagina.
I decided that Buddy needed out and he needed out right then and there. But the tech, and the nurse and the doc. said no. Buddy wasn't cooked. So every day, when he would roll himself up in to some awkward position, I'd press down gently and say "It's time to come out now." And inside he would laugh and kick and sing "But I'm not cooked yet."
Then I was put on rest. No shopping at Christmas. Amazon was new, but they were all I had. Every body got books. I was sure he was going to come at Christmas. Nope. Then Boxing Day... nope. Then I tried to con The Man into having sex with me. No dice. I would have scrubbed the kitchen floor on all fours. But I was on rest. Damn it. I was depressed and I was anxious. And I worried about my vagina.
To be fair I was worried about breast feeding, swollen feet, stretch marks, being a mom, the next 20 years, and the next 20 days, and I was worried about my vagina too.
Then on the 29th, we were going for a nap. I got up to pee -- then felt a gush. My water broke. No contractions. So I walked around for a bit. Called my doctor. He told me to go to the hospital. But I new given my Strep B status that the would induce. So I took a shower, and I let The Man sleep. We rolled four hours later. Then the nurse and the doc and the techs finally agreed, he was cooked. They started the induction. Sigh.
But Buddy wasn't convinced. We wandered around birthing unit. The lovely nurse gave me the oxytocin and the pitocin and I got contractions and I hated her. Then she gave me the pain meds. And I wanted them all to come live with me... I used to work there. One hell of a good trip if I do say so. With a bit of extreme technological assistance.
The Boy was born 23 hours after my water broke. December 29 at 14:14. He weighed 9lbs 12 oz. It was a difficult birth for me physically (just a bit of a hemorrhage) for The Man emotionally. It was not a good scene. Yes, The Boy was totally worth it.
Now he's a big tall kid, who runs around and does goofy things that make us laugh. He's changed everything. And we are totally ok with that.
I am allergic. Not in a life threatening kind of way. Just in that way that makes you completely irrational and want to poke your eyes out with a fork. The weather network has an allergy report, apparently the issue ATM is spores.
Spore: A microscopic, single-cell body by which ferns, fungi and mosses reproduce.
Allergies are a big issue for me this year. Itchy eyes water, runny nose, sneezing, headache, sore throat and a bad case of Bitchy. (That or it's who I really am.) The meds help the symptoms but make me feel jittery. Right now I'm back on Advil Sinus and Cold, which masks the symptoms. But makey feel like there is a buble in my brain. The headache and overall unhappiness are the big issue. And with Allegra and Claritin off my can take list I am now trying plain old Advil Sinus and Cold ... it works but damn.
The allergies are making me grouchy and just really wanting to be left alone. With the extra dose of bitchy... really you don't want to be near me anyway.
So I am getting even with the spores. I had fiddleheads for supper.
Unrelated items. Well sort of unrelated.
