Amy's Anomalies

Coming Soon To A Bookshelf Near You

2011-02-12T14:03:00.001-08:00

“Thinkaboutit: Philosophy for Kids”, a series of books for young thinkers, including snappy discussions, interviews with history’s coolest thinkers, try-it-yourself experiments, and nifty activity pages. Stay tuned to our website (www.kidsthinkaboutit.com) for more information, or contact us (amy@enabletc.com) to be added to our email bulletin.

Milton Mompreneur Showcase

2010-10-08T08:07:00.000-07:00

I'll be joining my fellow business moms at the Milton Mompreneur Showcase. Join us for demonstrations, raffles, samples and lots of other goodies.

Saturday October 16th, 12-4 pm
Milton Sports Centre
605 Santa Maria Blvd., Milton
www.mompreneurshowcase.webs.com

Baby Talk: My New Second Language

2010-08-09T09:28:00.000-07:00

A couple of months ago, I was listening to an interview with award-winning novelist Yann Martel. A new father, he was commenting on his recent overuse of the word "cute". He mused at how strange it was that while he made his living stringing together elegant phrases, he couldn't help but resort to "cute". His infant son's complete and overwhelming cuteness demanded that he regress.

Before I became a parent, I swore I'd never use baby babble. I feared that it would not only inhibit the intellectual development of my child, but would stunt my own progress. I vowed I would never refer to myself in third person. I swore I'd avoid using a squeaky voice to sing the praises of someone's teeny little toes. I hoped I would be able to hang onto some degree of eloquence.

Like Martel, I've fallen into a new, goofy mindset. I coo over chubby legs and fluffy toys. I ask ridiculous, rhetorical questions like "Who's a pretty baby?" I make pop and squeak noises with my face and change song lyrics to include my little one's name. It's completely involuntary.

Linguistically, I've turned into a complete dork. What's even worse is that I'm actually loving it. There is absolutely no need to put on a show for my daughter. She couldn't care less if I lose my composure, or if I refuse to act my age. She's given me leave to be a complete idiot, and instead of being demeaning, it's a relief. She and I will both have plenty of time to stumble over big words and fancy imagery later on.

The Real Miracle

2010-06-26T07:55:00.000-07:00

Well, the cat's out of the bag. A little less than six weeks ago, after nine months of fanfare, I reproduced. The good news is, my fears about not bonding with my daughter were unfounded (don't laugh, sometimes it really doesn't happen). She's only as big as a roasting chicken, and she's managed to make sloppy, grinning morons out of everyone who crosses her path. Pretty impressive really, considering she can scream in pitches only dogs can hear, and is capable of producing her weight in projectile filth every few hours. A little fuzz of hair, a set of tiny fingernails, and the ability to make little squeak noises go a long, long way.

Okay, dare I say it, the cheesy overstatement that everyone makes that I swore I'd avoid as a parent? Yup, she's a miracle. A year ago she wasn't, and now she is- ex nihilo personified. First babies are miracles, and they dumbfound their adoring parents on a daily basis.

The real miracle, however, are the children who come next. I'm sleep deprived, sore, and figurative language fails me miserably on this one. This job is hard. Damn hard. As much as I'm overwhelmed with awe at the little squirming thing I've produced, I'm positively gobsmacked that after all of this, anyone else ever chooses to have a second child. All babies are miracles, but the ones that get let into the house after all the bedlam of the inaugural baby are truly spectacular. Anyone who sneaks in after number two should be seen with even greater wonderment. Just a little reminder to any parents who've lost their sense of amazement after a few kids, from someone on the other side of the fence.

An Old Ritual Remembered

2010-04-10T07:14:00.000-07:00

It's my sister's wedding day today. Somewhere, about twenty minutes away from me, she's probably rushing around, going over her lists of things to do. She's picked a fantastic partner, and I think the event this evening is going to be just like her- fun, friendly and colourful. I'm ready to celebrate every aspect of this marriage.

However, as I do my own rushing around, getting ready, I'm reminded of another ritual, one that used to take place almost thirty years ago. I'm staring at myself in the mirror, hair chock-full of rollers, and all of the sudden, I'm seven years old again. My grandmother, who died when I was twelve, is twisting my stubborn little locks around tubes of pink foam with her soft, wrinkly hands. In an hour or two, she'll take them out, and coo praises, even though I look like Shirley Temple in a wind tunnel.

Today, we're having a wedding, the pinnacle of tradition. There will be vows and rings and speeches, a big dinner and lots of dancing. As I said, I'm elated to be part of it, but I'm also humbled and surprised at the tiny ritual that's caught my attention, and thankful that even those who aren't with us can still attend the big event.

Attack of the Little Fish

2010-03-24T12:43:00.000-07:00

We've become addicted to hyperbole.

Reality shows (I know, the name is ironic) feature participants whose every emotional drama and bodily function is the stuff of Greek tragedy. Every new invention is set to change our entire way of life. The common person on the street is ready, willing and able to speak volumes about subjects he or she knows nothing about. Bloggers like me spend hours firing our musings into the ethos, hoping someone will notice.

While I'm relieved that the world is changing in such a way that everyone can have their say, I'm a little concerned at our collective insistence that we're all entitled to be important, all of the time. It seems that the same mechanisms that allow us to get up on our soap boxes and be heard could be the same one that makes us feel small in the first place. Let's face it, our global village is getting considerably more populated. It could be that we're all now acutely aware of the size of our "pond", not to mention the fact that all of the rest of the little fishes out there can now swim right in our faces.

I'm confident that this pendulum, like many before it, will someday swing the other way. We'll gain confidence in our own individual "specialness" and get over the need to scream it from rooftops at every opportunity. As a wise person once mused, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Until then, I'm not ashamed to admit that this little fish, like her contemporaries, is willing to wait until everyone else acknowledges her awesomeness. Hey, I'm only human.

Business, With Two X Chromosomes

2010-03-19T08:03:00.000-07:00

Becoming an entrepreneur was a little intimidating. When I began, I had absolutely no experience in the business world. I knew nothing of keeping books, balancing budgets, devising marketing strategies or conducting meetings. I was a confirmed "artsy", and until then, I'd been quite content to let someone else sweat over profits. It was my role to be creative and dynamic, to inspire and delight.

When we (my husband and I) decided to give small business a go, I did what I thought a person was supposed to do. I read books, dusted off my stodgy pantsuits and prepared to get aggressive with our competition. I braced myself for phones that rang incessantly, and memos to be written. I bought into the Donald Trump, Hollywood-ized version of business, the one full of predators and life-or-death situations.

Four years later, I'm happy to report that my experience of small business ownership has been completely redefined. For one thing, I've found that there is still room for creativity. Indeed, our success as a company has depended on us thinking in wacky new ways. It also isn't as fiercely competitive as I had feared. Perhaps it's the recession, or just a new social trend, but collaboration seems to be as popular as corporate head-butting.

My greatest relief was to find that business wasn't the "boys' club" I had feared (I use gender stereotypes only when necessary). Perhaps it was because I actively sought other successful women, or because I happened to fall in with the right group at the right time. Whatever the reason, time and time again, I've found myself in the company of female entrepreneurs who've managed to represent our half of the population with style and grace. Moreover, they've done so on their own terms, making their living by doing what they truly love. Happily (and perhaps not surprisingly), they've also attracted male business partners who seem relieved at the chance to earn a living while still having a life.

Tonight, I'm attending an open house full of successful women. They come at business from a variety of angles- baker, counselor, artist, designer, but they all bring a different brand of fantastic to their business. Perhaps someone should write Donald Trump and let him know...

March Break Workshops for Kids!

2010-02-22T13:03:00.001-08:00

Food and Philosophy Fun for March Break!
Don't Let Good Ideas Go To Waste!

Calling all thinkers aged 8-18! Join us for a Think-A-Thon on Tuesday, March 16 at 87 Up in Georgetown (87 Main St. South).

Thinkers aged 8-12 will be discussing the wonders of robots (and their human friends) from 1:30-3:30 pm. Thinkers aged 13-18 will take a look at the wonders of modern media (yes, even the infamous Facebook and Twitter) from 3:30-5 pm. For those interested in tempting their taste buds as well as their minds, there will also be a variety of fantastic cooking workshops offered during the week.

Think-A-Thon workshops are $10 per thinker, per topic (prices vary for cooking classes). Register by calling Foodstuffs at (905) 877-6569. For more information, see the attached brochure, or call Amy Leask at (905) 864-1858 x2 (email amy@enabletc.com).

Brochure Link:

http://www.foodstuffs.ca/classes/march-break-cooking-classes

An Ode to P.K. Page

2010-01-25T09:20:00.000-08:00

I was a bewildered, second-year Canadian literature student, and I had been offered an extension on my assignment in exchange for my attendance at a local reading by P.K. Page. Good little procrastinator that I was, I climbed into the back of a classmate's sub-compact and agreed to put in my time. Don't get me wrong, I had done my reading, and liked Page's work as well as anything else. I was, however, weary of the practice of chopping perfectly good poetry into tiny, nasty, academic morsels. I wanted to read and enjoy, without having to explain or dissect. Oh well, an extension was an extension, and a night away from residence did seem appealing.

Page was a gentle, grandmotherly figure who read her work patiently, reverently, and made witty comments between pieces. Crunched into the back corner with my peers, I was actually enjoying myself, until an eager pilgrim at the front stood up and offered her own dissertation-length analysis. I rolled my eyes and sighed. Was it really necessary to fluff one's own feathers like this, in public, and in front of the poet herself? Could a person just listen and enjoy, without having to pick the poem apart like a pithed laboratory frog?

In addition to being a driving force in Canadian poetry, P.K. must have been psychic, or else had hearing keen enough to pick up my grunts of disapproval. She refused to participate in scholarly ego-stroking, and told the audience member something like "Why should I tell you if you're right or wrong? It's not my job to approve or disapprove your views. Just take from it whatever you want to take from it. "

With a lash of her tongue, P.K. Page had reclaimed poetry for me. I no longer felt guilty for saying things like "I like it." and "It's good." I was free to read in bed and let things wash over me, without having to justify my enjoyment. Now a writer myself, I expect nothing less from my own readers.

Cheers to you, P.K.!

Peace on Earth Through the Internet

2009-11-30T09:27:00.000-08:00

All I wanted were a few extra lights. I figured since it wasn't even December yet, hitting the local hardware store wouldn't be too much of an ordeal. However, a month before Christmas, the aisles were already teaming with cranky, overtired holiday shoppers, and the shelves were mostly picked-over. Even the parking lot was depressing, a zig-zag ballet of distracted drivers.

When I got home, there were reports on television about tramplings at department stores, and frantic pilgrims shooting each other over the last Tickle Me Elmo. The tumult was such that it had been declared "Black Friday". Ugh.

I decided I could make due with what we already had, and more importantly, that I would avoid shopping malls and big box centres like the plague until well after Boxing Day. For the next month, there would be lots of baking sessions, and tree trimming, and listening to Jimmy Buffett's version of "Christmas Island". There would not, I vowed, be any unnecessary contact with nasty vibes. I didn't want to have to stoop to doing anything that might get me on the naughty list.

At that point, I uttered a prayer of thanks for the Internet for making it possible for me to remain in my happy little holiday bubble. I could do my gift shopping online, and have goodies show up at my house, as if left by magical invisible elves. I could donate to charities while sipping cider and eating cookies. I could send greetings around the world without unnecessary paper waste and postage. Cyber-cynics could gripe all they wanted about a lack of human contact, and the downfall of social relations. Perhaps they were right, but at this point in the calendar, I was happy to stay away from other people, to wish them well from afar, and to not be part of the tinsel-trimmed insanity.

Declaration of the Picky Foodie

2009-10-16T08:19:00.000-07:00

One of the highlights of my recent trip to Chicago was a food tour. We walked, we chatted, we admired the architecture, and we nibbled liberally on all sorts of delicious tidbits. I had had my very first Ruben sandwich, followed by samples of imported tea, exotic spices, handmade chocolate, and a slab of the miraculous, deep-dish pizza for which the city is famous. While exploring the city on our own, we noticed that literally every third building was some sort of market or eating establishment. Here, sustenance was serious business, and it came in every shape, form, size and flavour imaginable. This was a city that took its palate seriously.

Keen to get in on the action, we found a nearby Gastro-Pub, a place which was supposed to serve down-to-earth, comforting fare with a gourmet twist. Our hearts sunk as we read the menu, which boasted inflated prices, and options that looked like the chefs were trying entirely too hard. Evidently, using young (aka small) chickens, pureed liver and a few sprinkles of exotic pink salt was all that was needed to elevate their cuisine to a higher level. We left the restaurant hungry and discouraged.

Hope returned the next day in a tiny Thai cafe, with a plate of steaming, spicy noodles. We gobbled as fast as our chopsticks would allow us to. Later in the week, we tucked hungrily into a savoury steak sandwich so greasy that the bun disintegrated before we could eat all of it. I decided one morning to have fresh mini donuts and hot chocolate for breakfast. Heaven.

I think I've given up on the notion of fancy food. Intellectually, I get the subtle nuances of adding a wee sprig of this or that rare herb, or essence of something or other, or stuffing this food with that food. I appreciate when things taste different, or when someone has gone to the trouble of inventing an entirely new dish. Haute cuisine has indeed become a modern art and for this, I praise it. I just don't like eating it.

When I think back on Chicago, I'm going to remember that slice of pizza. When I think Austin, Texas, giant gingerbread pancakes from Magnolia Cafe will spring to mind. Honolulu will conjure images of Cocoa Puffs from Lilha Bakery. Barcelona will be about Churros con chocolate, and Paris will be about lemon tarts, and Tokyo will be about humble buckwheat noodles with soy sauce. The most memorable things I've ever eaten have been on park benches, or while hovering over the kitchen sink. I may be a right little cretin, as far as my culinary aspirations go, but I'm a cretin with a satisfied stomach.

Death By Pollen: A Note on the Superiority of the Human Species

2009-09-07T09:19:00.000-07:00

Shakespeare once wrote, "Why man, he doth bestride the narrow world like a Colossus" to describe the human tendency to stomp around like we own the place. The bard was smart that way, and was courageous enough to be brutally honest about our flaws. We really do take for granted that we're secure in our spot at the top of the food chain. We're stupid that way- really, really stupid.

If you want to look at the bigger picture, you can read up on swine flu, killer bees, or tidal waves. On a regular basis, Mother Nature makes it very clear that she could take or leave us. This time of year, in my particular corner of the universe, I get a polite, but firm reminder of my own cosmic insignificance. I get this reminder shoved right up my nose, as I'm taught humility by a mangy little weed in the backyard. Actually, I'm schooled by the stuff that blows off the mangy little weed.

My hay fever isn't really even that bad. I am however, suitably impressed that a handful of spores, invisible to the naked eye, can leave a giant sack of meat like me mouth-breathing and clammy for two weeks. It brings to mind the work of another literary giant, Dr. Seuss. My hat's off to the universe for helping me to remember that I am more of a "Who" than a "Horton".

Behind Every Great Author...

2009-08-10T08:50:00.000-07:00

I just saw "Julie and Julia". It was one of those evenings during which I got to see bits and pieces of my life flash before me. No, I'm not a gifted chef (yet) or a best-seller (yet), but I am a writer, and like both Julie and Julia, I spend a lot of time being neurotic and cranky about the stuff I'm working on. Like both women, I also have a husband who has to put up with me being neurotic and cranky. Mine watched the film eagerly, with a knowing smile on his face, occasionally squeezing my hand when the episodes on screen seemed a little too familiar.

It's occurred to me on a number of occasions that having a writer as a partner is probably a lot like being married to someone with a parasitic twin. There's a third person in the relationship, one that takes up considerable space, time and energy. This grouchy squatter doesn't pay rent, do laundry, or make nice with the neighbours. Worst of all, getting rid of it would likely kill the writer.

I'm not sure if literary "better halves" get the recognition or praise they deserve. True, life with one of us creative types is rarely dull. There may be some sort of thrill in knowing that the manuscripts being mashed and bashed beneath your own roof could be read for centuries to come. If you're lucky, your angst-ridden paramour may turn out to be the next J.K. Rowling, and you'll be fiscally rewarded for your patience. Still, one has to wonder if Shakespeare's move to London without his family was instigated by a fed-up wife, or if Virginia Woolf's husband longed for the day when she would take up plumbing.

I'd like to raise a glass to all of our co-vivants. Here's to the dutiful and loyal souls that know when to back slowly out of a room full of crumpled up papers! Hooray for those who bring us tea and cookies as we struggle with yet another draft! Long-live all of the partners who become in-house proofreaders and amateur therapists! We may not be able to promise you peace, quiet, or even sanity, but chances are, when we write you into our next great masterpiece as a character, you won't be killed off.

Yet Another Farewell to Michael Jackson

2009-07-15T14:31:00.000-07:00

This is probably a little late in the game. The shocking news has been announced, the memorial services have been held, and Entertainment Tonight has almost run out of things to talk about. Perhaps now that the dust is starting to settle, I'll throw in my two cents and pay my respects.

Although Michael Jackson and I have fallen out of communication over the past decade or so, I did admire him once. Nine-year-old Amy had a Michael Jackson doll, a Michael Jackson t-shirt, and Thriller on vinyl. I spent hours sewing crooked silver sequins onto one of my grandmother's old white cocktail gloves, and I endured teasing when I wore a black and red pleather ensemble to school. I grilled my parents for details about his career with The Jackson Five. As an adult, it hurt to look at photos of his latest plastic surgery adventure, but I still bought his music on CD and admired his ability to put together funky beats and interesting lyrics.

The most poignant lesson Michael Jackson has taught me doesn't really pertain to his music. It has to do with our inability to let an artist's work stand for itself. I wonder if it's possible, in 2009, to just step back and say "Great song!" without wondering who put it out, what they were wearing, and how many times they've been photographed without underwear. Do we really need to know how much of a weirdo someone is in order to enjoy (or condemn) what they create?

Historically speaking, a lot of great creative minds have been perverts, hooligans, recluses, drunks and all-around creeps. Jeremy Bentham, proponent of utilitarianism, insisted on having his remains stuffed and put on display at a London library. Shakespeare was a player in more than one way. Virginia Woolf was chronically suicidal. The list is endless, but in most cases, we still admire their work. As far as I can tell, very few great artists ever ask the general public to walk in their shoes. They just want us to pay attention to their stuff.

I'm not prepared to forget Michael Jackson's fall from grace. I don't know if he was really a pedophile, or if he was guilty of any of the sins of which he was accused. I do know, however, that when played at a party, "Billy Jean" will get people on their feet. I know that I still occasionally catch myself trying to moonwalk. If you need an example of the wonderful ways in which his music (and not his life) have inspired people, go to Youtube and look up the ABC scene from "Clerks 2". Trust me.

Change in Schedule for Children's Workshop

2009-07-14T18:17:00.001-07:00

"What Are We Really?", our workshop for children interested in philosophy and the environment, has been moved to Thursday, July 23 from 10-11:30 am. Young thinkers ages 7-12 are welcome, and this is a free event. There will be discussions about critters of all shapes and sizes (including humans), fun activities, as well as take-home resources for parents. Space is limited. To reserve a spot, please contact POWER Halton Hills at info@powerhalton.ca, or at (905) 873-1820. If you'd like to know more about the workshop itself, feel free to contact Amy Leask at amy@enabletc.com, or at (905) 864-1858 x3. Hope to see you there!

Three Grandmothers, Two Decades and A Bunch of Ugly Scarves Later, I Get it.

2009-06-18T22:00:00.000-07:00

They were incredibly patient with me. I was a geeky, awkward kid who just wanted to eat Oreos and watch cartoons, but they dutifully sat and instructed me. I dutifully poked the needles around in the wool, looped and stitched and pearled the raw materials into monstrosities that looked positively lopsided and moth-eaten. I clunked my way through two grandmothers, both of whom had the awe-inspiring ability to knit without even looking at their work, to churn out sweaters and blankets and pillows in record time. In the end, I waved the white flag, decided that I didn’t need to know how to do stuff like this. When I grew up and found my true love, I had to tell yet another doting and knit-talented grandmother that while I admired her work, I wasn’t interested in producing my own.

And so it went for about twenty years, with me reading Sartre and listening to jazz and watching art films. I fed my head twenty-four-seven, and my impatient, itchy little fingers only got to feel useful when I decided to bake a birthday cake or hem a pair of pants. I worried about all the things I hadn’t had time to do in the past, and all of the things I needed to do in the future, and occasionally, when I had a spare moment, I might enjoy the present.

About a year and a half ago, some very wise people introduced me to the idea of being “grounded”, of sticking my feet in the dirt and getting out of my head once in a while. There are all kinds of ways to do this, most of which are a challenge to a type-A cliché like me. Eventually, however, I found my way back to the needles, and in the process, I found a way to anchor myself to myself again.

It started with a book of patterns for amigurumi, little yarn dolls in all manner of shapes and sizes. The ones I had my eye on were zombies and sea monsters, not your average craft projects. The end products looked so cool and quirky that I resolved to get over my childhood aversion to traditional handicrafts. I might not be able to sew, or knit, or do needlepoint, but I knew that if I really tried, I could deal with a simple crochet pattern.

Somewhere between a three-inch-tall ninja, and a tennis ball-sized frog, I entered the zone. I was no longer buzzing about my next writing project, or unpaid invoices, or office politics. All I could think was “Chain stitch. Chain stitch. Chain stitch.” I was there, on the couch. All of me. No exceptions. The tranquility I sought, I found with an aluminum hook and a bucket of polyester yarn.

Coming Events!

2009-05-25T13:43:00.001-07:00

Diversity matters! Learn about the many species that share our planet, and discuss ways to keep them happy and healthy. Visit Amy and POWER at the Georgetown Market place on Friday, May 29 from 4-8 for demonstrations and information.
Adults need philosophy too! Step into big ideas and discuss our place in the ecosystem at POWER Halton Hills on Thursday, June 25 from 7 to 9 pm. Email amy@enabletc.com or call (905) 864-1858 x3 for details.
Kids care about the environment! Join us for a children's eco-philosophy workshop at POWER Halton Hills on July 16 from 10-11:30 am. Email amy@enabletc.com or call (905) 864-1858 x3 for more details.

My New-Aged Ipod

2009-05-13T20:12:00.000-07:00

When I bought my Ipod, it was with great chagrin. I was teaching at the time, and I competed with the little electronic beasts for my students’ attention on a daily basis. I did the “pull out your earphones” gesture about as often as I turned a page. I wanted one so that I could keep alert and relaxed while slogging my way through my very large pile of marking, and it worked. Within weeks, I was so smitten that I purchased a colourful sticker to disguise its bland, silver exterior, and I hungrily downloaded anything funky enough to capture my interest. It was cute as a button, and it seemed that whenever I needed a lift, the perfect song title would dance across its tiny screen.

It didn’t take long to notice that my new musical friend played favourites. Songs and artists tended to repeat themselves. One week, my Ipod had a thing for Blondie, and the next, it was preoccupied with George Clinton. I turned it over and over in my hand, wondering how musical taste could be built into something the size of a credit card. It occurred to me that my Ipod’s predilection for choosing certain songs could be put to good use. One day, when I was contemplating the mysteries of the universe, I set the little gadget to shuffle, took some cleansing breaths and asked a few key questions.

I wondered “What should I do about this manuscript I’ve been working on?” and hit play. Bob Marley reassured me with “Don’t let them change ya! Or even rearrange ya!” Interesting.

Then I inquired about another project that wasn’t getting the reception I had hoped for. The answer came from The Doors, who reassured me that “People are strange, when you’re a stranger.” Whoa.

When I asked how my friend in a different province was feeling, Neil Young responded with “I need you.” I called her later on that evening.

No, I didn’t start thinking that my Ipod was possessed, or that helpful little house elves were sending me messages through something I bought at a big box store. I like to think that the universe has better things to do than speak to me through my stereo equipment (that’s what grilled cheese sandwiches and sweat stained t-shirts are for). It wasn’t fool-proof either. I’m still trying to figure out what spiritual lessons can be learned from “The Macarena” or “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”.

The entire exercise did, however, demonstrate that in some bizarre, Jungian way, one can use the songs in a playlist to help clear one's head and get some much-needed perspective. Even a beginner model Ipod like mine can hold enough tunes to a keep person surprised. An eclectic music collection helps too, as wisdom and clarity often come in unexpected forms. If one listens with one’s right brain, “Baby Got Back” becomes a lesson in positive body image, and “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” encourages one to lighten up a little. Songs like “Shiny Happy People” and “We Are the Champions” are fairly self-explanatory.

Music has always been used to “soothe the savage beast”. Apparently, with the help of a hand-held MP3 player, and a willingness to listen to just about anything, it can also serve the same function as a deck of tarot cards, or a magic 8 ball. Life, the universe, and everything are much easier to decipher while singing off-key and dancing around the living room.

Chivalry Isn't Dead. It just got shorter.

2009-04-21T15:25:00.000-07:00

Reaffirmation of one's faith in humanity is found in strange places. Mine got a little kick start last week, at a technical competition in an enormous conference centre, surrounded by robots of various sizes and functions. The machines themselves were impressive (though they didn't resemble anything from The Jetsons or Terminator movies), but the young people designing and driving them were nothing short of admirable. It wasn't their technical skill or mechanical know-how either. I was surrounded by thousands of them, aged six through eighteen, and with almost no exception, they were...well, they were nice.

To begin with, they were actually excited to be there. Wifi didn't really work in the convention centre, and there were very few laptops without actual code on the screens. The lack of the usual brand of stimulus didn't seem to phase them. They made and distributed buttons with team logos, danced around in costumes, and high-fived other teams as they made their way into the arena. Even more shocking was their unrelenting politeness. I actually heard please and thank you, and when one team had a piece of broken machinery, another gladly gave them their spares. When one of the robots failed to ship, the teams nearby offered to help build a last-minute replacement.

I was a little confused. Where was the attitude, the abject nastiness this generation was supposed to dish out? Where were the sneers and the indifference? Why were they cheering each other on, jumping up and down in the stands and praising complete strangers? I asked one of the coaches to explain this bizarre phenomenon and his answer explained everything.

"Only the grown ups involved get grouchy and competitive."

An “Adult” Relationship

2009-03-30T17:15:00.000-07:00

It was a great anniversary, although a fairly no-frills one. We were on our way home from a business trip, and had the better part of the day free. We had a great lunch in a small, but charming bistro. We walked in the park, sat in the sun, and got caught up on each other’s lives. At one point, my sweetheart paused and remarked “You realize our relationship is old enough to vote.”

Yup, it’s now been eighteen years, really good years. Our first years together were spent flirting across the room during band practice. At university, when I’d been up all night studying, he’d wake me around noon with a sub sandwich and a cup of tea. We’ve been through four degrees, three houses, four continents, and a dog. We’ve crammed as much wonderful relationship stuff into eighteen years as two people can. Our relationship has definitely grown up.

It’s ironic that what’s got us here is our habit of being distinctly immature. Eighteen years has taught us that it’s okay to admit to being hooked on cartoons and cheesy talk shows. We’ve learned that bed heads and wrinkled pyjamas can be charming. We still hold hands and tell stupid jokes. We’ve found that an argument is officially over when one of us starts giggling. Our couplehood may have reached adulthood, but we as individuals have fought hard to remain the same dorky teenagers that we were when we hooked up.

A long time ago, we danced together for the first time. The song was “Forever Young” by Alphaville. Hmmmm…good advice.

Putting Barbie in Her Place

2009-03-10T08:43:00.000-07:00

I had to suppress my gag reflex as they raised a glass of cheer in honour of her 50th. Words like "style icon" and "beloved" were rolled around as I rolled my eyes. Thankfully, I ran across this article http://www.thestar.com/living/article/599343.

I'll admit, I had a collection of Barbies as a kid (feminists like me don't like to fess up to that). Despite my mother's best efforts, the little plastic terror snuck into the house, along with her pink sports car, her prized plastic poodle, and her crew of factory-extruded friends. My sister soon added her own horde to the collection. In time, an entire Barbie compound occupied a sizeable chunk of the basement.

Barbie's life in our house, however, was less than fabulous. In the commercials, she cruised the strip with Ken, bought stylish knee-high boots and giggled on the phone. Our crew waged hostile take overs, got into in fist fights, and routinely lost limbs. We put Barbie through Darwinesque dramas, not to mention some goulish haircuts. Even as children, we saw through the carefully-moulded perfection that came with her in the box. Just as we kicked over lego buildings and purposefully dried (and ate) play-doh, we deconstructed Barbie, found out what really made her tick. If the manufacturers didn't want us to know her head was empty, they shouldn't have made it so easy to remove. According to my husband, it was just the right size to fit into her patented pink dryer.

Happy Birthday, old girl! Here's to fifty more years of little girls who aren't afraid to kick some plastic toy ass.

Lessons from My Dog and Bill Murray

2009-02-20T09:16:00.000-08:00

He's flopped out in the middle of the floor, sporting bald patches and a handful of big, ugly stitches. There's a plastic cone around his neck that smacks of a bad episode of The Jetsons. In the past week and a half, he's been stoned from anesthetic, had his teeth cleened, had three lumps removed, and hasn't been able to do anything more than lift his leg without one of us checking on him. None of this has stopped him from wagging at the sound of his name, or draping his sixty-pound frame over my legs while I'm trying to sleep. A few years ago, when he cut his foot on some zebra mussels, he spent three weeks flying around the house in a permanent pirhouette, as if his fourth leg was, and had always been, completely superfluous. This is a creature who has taught himself to undo zippers so he may get to the granola bars at the bottom of our school bags, the same one who is happy to drink from a mud puddle or a toilet bowl when there's nothing else that's cool enough. When it comes to rolling with the ups and downs life sends, there is no one nearly as adept as my dog.

Recently, a very wise person pointed out that life goes in waves, like the rise and fall of the tides. Being happy when the tide comes in is easy. Knowing what to do with oneself when it recedes is the tricky part. For a control freak like myself, it's a bit like torture to be stuck on the proverbial sand, surrounded by nothing but flotsam and jetsam. But I'm learning a great deal from Zen masters such as the furry one sleeping on the floor, snoring with all four legs stuck in the air. I'm learning that there's peace to be found when life, the universe and everything tells me "Sit. Stay."

When I need an extra nudge to knock my out of my Sisyphusian rut, there's always Bill Murray's speech from the movie "Meatballs". http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g3S_k1dRbXY

Things I Tell Myself As I Shovel

2009-01-19T12:15:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I do the same thing that anyone does when faced with an obscene hill of white crud. I pull muscles trying to get the driveway cleared before my feet freeze. I forget to lift with my legs. I get a runny nose, and I curse my ancestors for ever leaving the homeland (even though the homeland isn't a whole lot warmer). I threaten to defect to somewhere tropical, even if it means putting up with a dictator and chronic sunburn. And then I finish, I go back inside, and I get philosophical about the whole exercise.

First of all, it's only snow. Instead of shovelling meteorological slop, I could be pushing a scoop through manure, entrails, or any manner of unspeakable goo. It's a neutral colour, it doesn't stain, and it doesn't stink.

From a cultural perspective, I'm a Canadian, and part of my identity hinges on this beastly ritual. This, along with taxes, is the price I pay for free healthcare, safe streets, Tim Hortons and excellent comedians. Moreover, if it weren't for winter, I'd have far fewer impressive horror stories to tell people in other countries.

Metaphysically speaking, it's important to remember that without evil, there can be no good. Without darkness, there can be no light. Without months of this depressing, chilly purgatory, there can be no appreciation of the bliss that comes with spring. In six months, the BBQ will taste better, the flowers will seem more colourful, and the popsicles will seem that much more refreshing because I had to wait for them.

When it comes down to it, this is Mother Nature's way of reminding me of how very little control I have. I may be master of my own destiny in many ways, but every so often, it's healthy to be humbled like this. Some mornings, it's actually nice to be told "Sit. Stay."

All I Want for Christmas...

2008-12-03T13:15:00.000-08:00

Dear Santa,
I’m writing to inform you that you can skip over my house this year. It’s not that I don’t believe in you, or that I have anything against toy-making elves or airborne, cloven-hooved creatures. It’s not a comment on your cookie belly, or the nose that makes you look like you visit the liquor cabinet at every stop. It’s really nothing personal at all.

A few days ago, it was decided that we wouldn’t do stockings this year. My poor mother, a very generous soul, has spent more than thirty years running around like a wind up toy on crack, trying to find enough cute little things to appease all of us, and she’s pooped. I don’t blame her. I also heard that someone had been trampled to death by shoppers in a fit of holiday-induced mayhem. And then I heard about people shooting each other at a toy store.

I think we’re all pooped. We’re all pooped from tearing all over town to find gifts that will ultimately get shelved in other people’s closets. We’re pooped from making seven kinds of cookies and three kinds of potatoes and ten batches of eggnog. We’re pooped from untangling lights and screaming carols and walking around with holly-jolly fake smiles on our faces. It’s cold outside, and we’re all a little low on cash, and I think we all just need to sit still and have a nap.

So this year, Santa, I’m doing research. I’m looking through travel guides to find somewhere that people don’t turn into angry apes in red and green toques, and get drunk at office parties. I’m looking for a place where people don’t hate themselves for gaining five pounds here and there, and they don’t inflict lead fruitcake on each other. I’m going to spend a little while there, figuring out the true meaning of “peace on earth” and “silent night”. If you’d like to join me, you’re welcome to. I’ll keep a seat warm for you, and I’ll put on some hot chocolate. You don’t even need to bring presents.

Hugs to Mrs. Clause,
Amy

Hooray for Gross!

2008-11-07T12:50:00.000-08:00

I’m on my third book by Mary Roach and I’m riveted. It’s called Bonk, and it’s a very graphic account of the anatomy of sex. Having taught gender studies, I’m not easily rattled, but I have to admit this makes me slightly queasy. I keep looking over at my dearest love, imagining his reaction to such medical monstrosities (in one section, Roach apologizes to her male readers for the shock and revulsion they’ll likely feel). This is my third book by Mary Roach in a month. For each one, I’ve stayed up late reading, my dreams filled with all manner of depravity.

Okay, I’m a sick person. I’m exactly the type of deranged, but harmless reader to whom Mary Roach and her contemporaries cater. I love this stuff, not the Hollywood fake blood and guts brand of horror, but the revolting wonders that only the human body can provide. I’ve passed thirty and I still love potty humour and playing the “which would you rather…” game. Whatever part of my brain controls propriety never grew in properly.

Perhaps it’s because I come from a family that doesn’t stand on ceremony. Perhaps it’s because I have friends with small children that leak (as small children do). Perhaps it’s because I have a dog, and have been the target of projectile everything.

What I’ve realized over the years is that “gross” is the great uniting factor for human kind. At the end of the day, we are six billion runny noses, and six billion rumbling stomachs. We can disagree over world politics, or environmental issues, but we’re irrevocably linked by the fact that most of our feet stink. Our cultures and histories are vast and varied, but we’re all familiar with pimples and sweaty pits. We can sleep tight knowing that on the other side of the world, someone else is sneezing and shedding skin flakes and carting around entire villages of microscopic organisms. Taro Gomi summed it up nicely with her literary masterpiece, Everyone Poops. Ah, the humanity of it all!

Velvet, Feathers and the Next Generation

2008-11-03T11:45:00.000-08:00

I’m crazy about Halloween. Every year, I dress up, I perch myself on the front porch with a stack of processed sugar, and I wait for the crowds to descend. This year didn’t disappoint. There were witches and wizards, an entire zoo of furry creatures, things with wings and things with fangs. One kid even made herself into a pink Cadillac and toted around a bulky, cumbersome contraption with sincere commitment and dedication. Parents showed up as Captain Jack Sparrow, hockey heroes and other colourful characters.

Stuck in amongst the crowds were a handful of pint-sized pimps. Yup, boys too young to stay alone at home were dressed up in full pimp get-up, complete with purple fur jackets, feathered hats and platform shoes. One of them, ironically, was tailed by his little sister, who was dressed as a princess and sporting as much pink tulle and rhinestones as her little frame could carry. Trick or treat took on a different meaning.

It’s old-fashioned, I know, but I always saw Halloween as an opportunity to indulge in a bit of wish fulfillment. It was an occasion on which the phrase “I’ve always wondered what it might be like to be a…” was taken seriously. Over the years, I’ve tried on gypsy, punk rocker, rabbit, wizard, cupid, Captain Hook, fairy, pumpkin, and this year, Rosie the Riveter. I never really counted on “I’ve always wondered what it might be like to participate in the sex trade” being part of the dialogue. I didn’t realize there were parents comfortable with the idea of their sons becoming involved in the selling of other humans.

The whole notion of “monster” is being redefined. Creatures oozing pus and sporting six-inch claws are so passé. No one trembles at the idea of things that go bump in the night. The most terrifying entities by far are the ones that turn up on the news, and on dark street corners.

We Don’t Care What You Think…Most of the Time.

2008-10-13T16:06:00.000-07:00

It seems to be very popular for news websites to open up a forum so that visitors can comment on just about anything they read. It’s not just for editorials either. This weekend, I saw a variety of rants and raves sitting below a simple list of stores and attractions that would be open on Thanksgiving. A degree in journalism is no longer required in order to see one’s thoughts in print (or online). A cheeky username and a crummy dial-up connection are all that’s needed in order to air your dirty laundry for the entire world to see, spelling mistakes and all.

And I’m fine with that, for a variety of reasons. First of all, I’m thrilled that at least a small portion of the general population is literate, and is indeed reading something. Second, I’m tickled pink that the idea of freedom of expression has become so cliché in Canada that people will sound off without even thinking twice. In some parts of the world, failing to keep your pie hole shut is a good way to get dead.

What really disturbs me is that tomorrow, when all of us will be asked for our opinion on a variety of issues of national importance, a good chunk of would-be editorialists will curl up into a little ball and fail to leave the house. More Canadians will know what happened on 90210 than what happened in the federal election. And then on Wednesday, when the media waxes philosophical about all the evils the new government is about to commit, they’ll be back on the net, shoving their two cents down everyone’s throats

Most non-voters fail to realize that an election is just the act of asking a lot of people for their opinions. Okay, it stinks that the ballot box isn’t a magic hole into which we throw wishes. Checking off a bubble on a piece of paper does not guarantee that when we wake up the next day the Blue Fairy will have fixed everything just the way we like it. When was democracy ever a matter of simple cause and effect? Nonetheless, the rest of my country is asking me what I think, about money, about other people, and about myself. They’re spending a non-trivial chunk of our taxes to ask me, and it will take less time for me to tell them than it will for me to take a shower. If I don’t vote, then I’ll be a big fat hypocrite. I’d like to spend those years feeling good about indulging in the same self-righteous ranting as the rest of the online commentators.

Yet Another Thing to Hate About Computers

2008-09-18T12:32:00.000-07:00

Let’s play a game. Everyone think of something that really bugs you about computers and shout it out loud. I hear rants about auto-formatting, random crashes, the blue screen of death and slow start-up time. Some of you will cite pop-up ads and viruses, or the whole “should have saved more often” diatribe. Others will gripe that spell checkers are useless, and that memory keys have a way of becoming lost more often than car keys. I sympathize. And I have a new reason to despise our electronic side-kicks.

Computers don’t swear. How did I come across this new knowledge? What has led me to believe that my machine is a big ole’ prude? Presently, I’m in the process of dictating a bunch of stories into the word processor, using a magical piece of software that “understands” English and converts my squeaky recitations into printable documents. For the most part, it works, and I’ve managed to save myself from carpal tunnel hell.

However, it seems to have no knowledge of profanity, and being the saucy lass that I am, I need a few choice expletives in order to express myself in writing. I’ve typed them in manually, and repeatedly “trained” the software to respond to my voice when I say them. The computer stubbornly refuses to acknowledge. It will accept words like “Churros” and “Geisha” and “Gloopy”, but puts its fingers in its ears as soon as I tell it to type anything of the four-letter variety. This, in turn, makes me yell even more disgusting things into the microphone. The computer then warps them into acceptable, but inaccurate phrases.

I’m not stupid or naïve. I know computers don’t feel or think at all, which makes the not swearing part seem pretty reasonable. However, mine doesn’t want me to swear either, and if I’m to avoid picking it up and using it as a tennis racket every time something frustrates me, I need a machine that tolerates and supports my potty-mouth. If anyone at Microsoft is listening…

Not So Super. Get Used To It.

2008-08-14T22:19:00.000-07:00

This has been a summer of movie superheroes. We’ve been introduced to ultra-rich and ultra-clever Ironman, and reunited with dark and mysterious Batman. Yeah, there’s been a do-over for that enormous green guy as well. Sure, they’re human, but also endowed with such power, such talent that they can’t help but serve the world. It’s entertaining, but also somewhat disappointing. Nowhere in the bunch (except for maybe the uber-crusty Hancock), are there super-losers, individuals with flaws that can save humanity from itself. If like cures like, and the best way to fight fire is with fire, shouldn’t we be brandishing bad habits as weapons? Wouldn’t it be more productive (not to mention convenient) to use our all-too-ready weaknesses? If to err is human, then wouldn’t a complete screw-up be the best candidate for superhuman status?

Surely, there has to be room in the pantheon for poor saps who can’t parallel park. Might two left feet count as deadly weapons? When will human kind make proper use of the tone deaf, the stinky and those who can’t seem to find matching socks? We’re sitting on a veritable goldmine of super-human capital here, and we’re looking to well-sculpted aliens in tights to save us.

I’m currently cultivating my own superhero identity, based solely on my shortcomings. Henceforth, I shall be known as “The Nerve”, capable of channelling the nervous vigour that makes me bite my nails and check the stove three times, into more productive activities. I will spend my sleepless nights monitoring the weak and vulnerable. Instead of reorganizing my Tupperware when I have ants in my pants, I will incapacitate evil-doers with my mile-high stack of “to do” lists. My anxious giggle will serve as a primal call to others of my ilk. I will be clumsy and forgetful and decidedly human, and that will be more than enough to save the planet.

But I won’t wear tights. Seriously.

How to Make Food with Your Back Porch

2008-06-30T18:15:00.000-07:00

It ain’t no hanging garden of Babylon. It’s a few cheapo rectangular planters, a couple of bags of dirt, and a handful of spindly, but determined little plants. In a few weeks, if the weather cooperates, and the gods smile kindly on me, it will yield enough fancy-schmancy tomatoes to feed two people for a few weeks. Maybe there will be enough basil to make a few tablespoons of pesto. Maybe we’ll get a handful of apples and grapes before the birds and the bugs decide to chow down.

This shouldn’t excite me this much, but it does. Learning that your house is not only good for shelter, warmth and the occasional video game, but can also be used to grow food is a revelation. A few years ago, while the real estate agent nodded and smiled, and the previous owner spoke of the recently-replaced water heater, I stared out of the back window and envisioned my own personal produce aisle. There would be fresh herbs, edible flowers and a respectable crop of wild strawberries amongst the shrubs. I would float out the sliding door, like Donna Reed in yoga pants, and gather bundles of fragrant fauna in my arms. All of this from a kid who grew up in the country, and whose parents were “green thumbs”…it’s almost enough to make a gal break into verses of “This Land is Your Land”.

This unruly cornucopia is my pride and joy. Perhaps I’m not yet ready for a chicken coop, or my own chevre-producing goat, but peeking out at the tiny wannabe vegetables makes me feel like a regular Jenny Appleseed. E-I-E-I-O!

For George

2008-06-24T07:45:00.000-07:00

As a kid, I used to sit up late on Sunday night and listen to comedy skits on the radio (yes, kiddies, I used a radio, and my pet dinosaur loved it too). When I was supposed to be finishing my homework or, God forbid, sleeping, I was filling my head with the words of modern philosophers, off-coloured sages who saw society with a critical eye and a sharp tongue. Of course George Carlin was among them (no self-respecting DJ would leave him out). I think, even twenty years later, if someone played George’s “Wonderful WINO” bit for me, I could probably still sing along. With his boundless energy, his general appreciation for silliness, and his beard, I think he reminded me a little of my dad…if my dad was the type to rant and swear in front of millions.

George’s wisdom followed me into my adulthood. I can remember watching his piece on acquiring “Stuff” while unpacking in a new house. I applauded when he appeared in Kevin Smith films, as an overly-ambitious Cardinal, then a hitchhiker with a plan, and then a grandfather willing to do even surrealist theatre for the love of his family. George’s mantra “I’m just looking for a little consistency, that’s all” stuck in my head as I tried to teach students about logical fallacies and forming decent arguments. Like most people, I still think of his list of things you can’t say in the media, and wonder why we’re so hung up on mere words. After spending a great deal of my life studying some of the greatest thinkers in the world, an old man with a grade nine education and a potty mouth seems to have proven what I’ve always thought- that good ideas and the ability to pull things apart don’t come with a fancy piece of paper. They come through a genuine desire to see things as they are, and what they could be.

And so, I raise a glass (or perhaps a middle finger) to George. Here’s hoping there’s such a thing as reincarnation.

Power of the Pigtails

2008-06-13T09:28:00.000-07:00

When I was five, they were crooked. My poor mother would straighten and adjust them, wetting my hair, tightening the elastics, but they stubbornly refused to be symmetrical. I would learn, years later, that my head was actually crooked. No matter. Balanced or not, I loved having them. I loved the array of plastic do-dads one could stick on them. I loved the way they swung and jiggled of their own volition. I loved the way my head had suddenly become a little more interesting, as if some wee landscaper had carved topiaries or stuck in a water feature. The pigtails had power.

I’m not sure when or where I lost them. Probably around the same time the word “cool” took on the same heavy significance as words like “entropy” or “fiscal responsibility”. Probably around the same time as I shot up six inches in six months, and felt like enough of a sideshow freak without things sticking out of my lumpy cranium, pointing to my mismatched body parts like flashing arrows. They made a brief appearance here and there, usually as a more sophisticated pony tail in the back, the same one my now-husband used to flick with a pencil in grade 11 math (flirting was so much simpler then). For the most part, I let them sag around my shoulders, a limp reflection of my teenage angst.

The final nail in the coffin came after my first year of university, when it was time to join the sensible ranks of the adults. Uncelebrated for years, they met their fate on the linoleum floor of a salon, and to avoid feeling guilty, I kept telling people to cut shorter and shorter. I traded my bobbled elastics for something as bleak as “hair product”.

A few weeks ago, ignoring my advanced age, they reappeared. They took advantage of my new, “Why not?” approach to my hair. It was mostly intended to get them out of my face while I worked, to make sure they didn’t wind up in someone’s dinner. There was a familiar pull, a feeling of lightness as they were lifted off my neck and into small rubber bands. I’m not sure if it was the cool breeze on my exposed skin, or perhaps the increased blood flow to my scalp, but the effect was euphoric. They were much shorter than they had been 30 years ago, and despite the help of modern cosmetic chemistry, there were a few wiry, silver ones mixed in. Nonetheless, we recognized each other immediately. They still bounced when I walked, and pointed to my face. Happily, they were still a little crooked too.

Chicks Rule: Then and Now

2008-06-10T19:22:00.000-07:00

Well, Hillary’s conceded defeat (for now), there are still fewer women PhDs than men, and the ruling female class in Hollywood seem to prefer pink cell phones and bite-sized doggies to the ability to speak polysyllabically. Some weeks, things just don’t look good for the X chromosome. When I feel myself sinking into despair, I do several things. First, I engage in a rousing round of Wii boxing. Then, I find excuses to use power tools. Finally, I look into the annals of history and dig for women who knew how to fling their weight around long before it became fashionable (and then apparently became unfashionable again).

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Wu Zetian, otherwise known as Empress Wu. She walked, or rather shoved her way onto the scene during China’s Tang dynasty (618-906 AD), during which women were not required to bind their feet, or be entirely submissive, but were nonetheless far from achieving any sort of equality. Confucianism, the religion of choice at the time, deemed it unnatural and unthinkable for women to assume positions of power. One may envy of her reputation as a “good catch”, achieved by the tender age of thirteen. One may sympathize with the loss of her first husband, the emperor, and puzzle over her agreement to enter a convent following his passing. What really grabs the attention, however, are the events that followed. With her knowledge of music, literature and art, she charmed her late husband’s son, the new emperor, and began an ambitious ascent to power that would rival any cut-throat corporate takeover. Wu was a concubine at first, but managed to claw her way to first wife, a feat that involved framing the current empress for the murder of a child that Wu herself had orchestrated. Finding that she had outlived and outlasted both father and son, she boosted herself to the top of the imperial ladder, outranking even her own children, the direct heirs to the throne. Her most impressive act as empress was to change the national religion from Confucianism to Buddhism, a daunting task, but for obvious reasons, a wise and necessary one. Wu’s special brand of tough love yielded years of cultural growth, military success and economic prosperity. With only will, determination, and a generous helping of cold-blooded nastiness, Wu transformed herself from just another poor little rich girl into the ruler of one of the most powerful and paternalistic cultures of its time.

Whew. Now I feel better.

Taking One for the Team: How Starving Artists Support the Economy

2008-05-15T12:26:00.000-07:00

Bashing the “artsy” set is nothing new. More than two thousand years ago, Plato took a swing, accusing art in general of being distracting, deceptive, and responsible for encouraging would-be philosopher kings to engage their lower passions. In the eras that followed, those armed with pen, paintbrush or pipes continued to be kicked in the proverbial stones, deemed pariahs during their lifetimes, dying penniless, and then having friends and family make millions from their work thereafter. Hundreds of years after that, there lived a certain student of the Humanities who was unfortunate enough to have her “Intro to Shakespeare” class in the engineering building. A semester was spent trying to make a twenty-pound anthology look inconspicuous as she tried to fly through the halls unnoticed.

Let’s face it: we live in a culture that defines the value of art by how well it matches the sofa, or how many pairs of sneakers it sells. It’s not a well-funded venture, and in many circles, isn’t even considered a “real job”. But I can’t abide people accusing us of failing to contribute to the fiduciary well-being of the country. What many nay-sayers fail to realize, is the significant contribution that artists of all shapes and sizes make to the economy, despite the lack of steady income (or any income, for that matter). Here are but a few of the many ways in which we shoulder our financial burden:

Caffeine. Creativity does not follow a nine-to-five schedule, and as such, it requires a significant amount of supplementary brain juice. In many cases, artists work both sides of the coffee counter. I once met an architectural designer who could create non-stop for two days at a time (not a wink of sleep), with the aid of a 24 of Red Bull. At two bucks a can, that ain’t chump change. Don’t even get me started on how much chocolate goes into the production of a manuscript.

Supplies. You can’t get someone to buy a pair of jeans that doesn’t make their butt look great. You can’t sell a car that has a reputation for stalling at red lights. You can, however, get a writer to pay ten dollars for a pen that doesn’t give them hand cramps. You can also sell a painter very expensive tubes of goo that might never amount to anything special. You can squeeze a small fortune out of vocalists for sheet music that’s way out of their range. Add in guitar picks, cake make-up, head shots, etc…you do the math. There’s really no such thing as discount ballet slippers or 2-for-1 trombones.

Postage. Sad to say that most of the arts have not yet moved into the internet age. Submissions and communications are usually done the old fashioned way, using trucks, sorting machines, and brave people in uniform. You can run out of deodorant, or ramen noodles, or even laundry detergent, and your life as an artist need not cease. Run out of stamps, however, and you’re screwed. Every time I hear someone say that old-fashioned letters are going the way of the dinosaur, I smile knowingly and inform them that they probably have a ten or twenty year buffer from the publishing industry.

Not bad, for a bunch of people who live off Kraft dinner, and routinely search the couch for spare change. Vive l’economie boheme!

God Is In The Details: Mysticism for the Cosmically Clueless

2008-05-02T11:53:00.000-07:00

I’ll admit that spiritually speaking, I’m still groping my way through the universe. My soul may have been around the block a few times, but with respect to its understanding of the how and what and why of my existence, it still has a great deal of homework to do. I’ve always taken comfort in the philosophy of William James, who created a very long laundry list of characteristics for mystical experience, but who also insisted that contact with the divine was not reserved for the high and mighty. In his view, normal, every day folks had equal access to the great hereafter, and being human and curious were sufficient conditions for finding it.

I regard those looking to “prove” all of this with great scepticism. I’m convinced that whatever else is “out there”, It wouldn’t be foolish enough to make Itself detectable through our pathetic Radio Shack gadgets. I’m fairly certain that if orbs and light streaks in photographs prove anything, it’s that the spiritual world likes to pull faces and moon us. If the state of our universe proves anything, it’s that whatever or whoever is in charge has an incredible capacity for humour, and a keen sense of irony.

So I don’t look for the almighty (whoever he/she/they/it may be) in burning bushes, or statues that cry, or in strangely shaped pit stains on my shirt. The cement Buddha in the garden, the likeness of Ganesha in the living room and the Menorah in with the holiday decorations are hopeful declarations of my desire to learn, but they’re not the basis of my faith.

I let myself off the hook and try to see connections to the universe all of the little things over which I stumble on a daily basis. I feel a connection to my ancestors when I bite into a butter tart (my paternal grandmother’s signature dish). I’m sure someone is watching my back whenever “Putting on the Ritz” comes on the radio (another benevolent late relative’s favourite). I smile when the dog stares at nothing in particular on the other side of the room and wags. I read “true” ghost stories with the same vigour with which others grant celebrity tabloids.

I’m not looking for certainty, or tangible evidence, or even profound revelatory experience. What I crave, and what I treasure, are the same things that make-up James’ checklist: small moments of clarity and connection, and the sense that I’m not alone in the universe. I felt this one afternoon in the subway, on my way home from a job I despised, in the midst of a quarter-life crisis. A violinist and keyboard player were filling the station with a respectable rendition of Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major. It may have been the echo, or the warm summer breeze, or the nagging persistence of twenty-something angst looking to relieve itself, but something happened. I had a fleeting, but very clear sense that this wasn’t it. There was so much more to come, and I wasn’t the only being frustrated by the long search. The most comforting aspect of the experience was that revelation wasn’t beyond me. Order and balance, wherever it came from, would find me eventually. And all I had to do was go about my business.

My Six-Word Memoir

2008-04-25T19:20:00.000-07:00

My Childhood: better late than never.

(as posted on http://www.smithmag.net/sixwords/archive.php)

Saving the World Through Cookies

2008-04-16T21:01:00.000-07:00

I bake…a lot. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. For me baking serves as stress release, meditation and cardiovascular exercise all at once (you should see me go). Everything about baking is cathartic. I pour over nearly-pornographic photos of pastries in cookbooks. I use the dry goods section of Bulk Barn to indulge in the fantasy that I’m a spice merchant exploring the Far East for undiscovered flavours. I emerge, warrior-like, from double-batches of this or that, covered in flour, hair tousled and voice hoarse from screaming along to Zydeco music. Given that I’ve a sweet tooth and am determined to leave this world without any insulin in my body, I’m also partial to stuffing myself like a mummy with whatever is hot from the oven.

In recent years, however, I’ve found that baking also serves a social function. It’s one of the few vestiges of human kindness that hasn’t been sullied by the media, or wracked by political correctness, or slime-coated by ingratitude. Compliment someone on their outfit, and they’ll probably think you’re hitting on them (or secretly mocking them). Put change in an expired parking meter, and you’ll get a nifty fine. Give a choking soul the Heimlich, and they’re likely to sue you for bruising their ribs. Offer someone a free something or other, and they’ll berate you for charging them a fair price thereafter.

In the land of cookies, and tarts, and various puffs and mousses, things work differently. Even the most macho, gladiatorial men can be brought to tears if you reproduce the cake their Granny used to make for their birthday. The snooty co-worker who won’t speak to you will smile (in spite of themselves), if you present them with a steaming, fresh cinnamon bun. Hell, even dogs know the difference between bland kibble and something homemade in the shape of a bone.

Blood sugar can scare off hypothermia. Chocolate produces happy chemicals in the brain. Berries keep you young (in more ways than one). We were biologically destined to eat dessert. It’s truly amazing, the way that warm, gooey treats turn us from snarling miscreants into big purple dinosaurs. Everyone’s got their button to be pushed, and if you really want to see the grace that lies within all people, you’ll do what I do. You’ll worship at an altar occupied by a Kitchenaide mixer and a convection oven. You’ll make certain that your hands are always anointed with butter and the scent of vanilla. You’ll greet your fellow carbon-based life forms, not with harsh words and a scowl, but with something sticky and brimming with confectionary benediction. You’ll feel human again when they shut up and eat, and smile, like nice people are supposed to.

An Ode to Bootsy Collins

2008-04-13T08:22:00.000-07:00

Anyone old enough to remember “Ally McBeal”, anyone who’s gone through sufficient therapy to block that disturbing dancing baby, probably remembers her “pips”. On the advice of her own therapist, Ally envisions an entourage of soulful supporters, complete with Motown-smooth rhythm, and messages of comfort and support. As she makes her way through her oh-so-dramatic daily life, she is trailed by her very own built-in support posse, a crew of yeah-sayers ready with reassurance and some old-school soul. Her skirt may have been obscenely short, and her ribcage all-too-apparent, but Ally did know the value of the Greek chorus.

Well, things have changed since the age of the single, female lawyer, and I daresay, life in the big city has become even more trying. Pips, as fabulous as they are, don’t seem adequate back-up for these trying times. Multi-part harmony, powder blue tuxedos and synchronized side-stepping just don’t seem to cut it anymore. We need to call in the big guns, the heavy hitter, the imaginary sidekick who can alleviate the doldrums integrally linked to the twenty-first century.

I nominate Bootsy Collins. I vote for an invisible support system worthy of the likes of George Clinton. I opt for a Jiminy Cricket bold enough to sport giant glitter sunglasses and a sequin-spotted mad hatter top hat. My anxieties will be quelled only by phrases like “Shizle my izle, kazizle!” As I walk through this cruel world, I will hold my head high and avoid despair, just as long as I can hear the faint clunk of obscene platform shoes and the funky wa-wa of a star-shaped guitar. Long live the funk!

Apple Say, Monkey Do: Confessions of an Itunes Harlot

2008-04-02T23:31:00.000-07:00

The black and white photo of Friedrich Nietzsche in my front hallway is mocking me. He won’t even turn his head to acknowledge me when I come in the door. Okay, in the picture he’s turned sideways, doing his signature hair-pulling, moustache-twitching, brow-furrowing, bitter misanthrope pose, but there’s a nasty new vibe coming from him. Good Old Freddy is pissed at me because I’ve become a sheep. After years of resisting convention, reading Shakespeare for fun, refusing to buy impractical footwear or watch any movie entitled “Jackass”, I’ve tragically fallen in line.

Worse than a sheep, I’ve become a tramp. Months ago, I purchased a tiny little musical, metal square thing, hoping it would help me focus while I worked, and now I’m a first-rate trollop. I’ll download anything the media passes in front of me. Stuff I hear in the background of sitcoms. Stuff I hear in the car on the way to work. Hell, I download stuff I hear being used to sell odour eaters.

A year ago, I was one of those “I only listen to quality music.” jerks who scoffed at anyone who was a fan of pre-fab stuff. Okay, I listened to crap then too, but I didn’t make it public knowledge. A few weeks ago, I heard the Spice Girls would never reunite again, and I felt myself compelled to click a couple of buttons. I’m now the proud owner of an electronic version of “Wannabe”. Hadn’t I already freed myself from these shackles eons ago when I gave my copy of that CD away (when not even a second-hand place would buy it)? Hadn’t I risen above all of this and become my own, spice-free individual? BAAAA!

My inner Uberfrau is silenced every time I sell the space between my ears for the low, low price of a buck. For less than the cost of a cup of tea, they can have me listening to just about anything. My new cultural identity is tied to a device smaller than my credit card, which, incidentally, has also been dragged into this sad perversion of human individuality. Well, Freddy my friend, you can shove it in your Will to Power. George Michael’s greatest hits is coming out soon, and my mouse finger is itchy.

I Believe!

2008-04-01T08:39:00.000-07:00

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and today, he was hanging out in a humble cafeteria. I’ll admit, he looked like he was on vacation. In lieu of the red suit with the stylish black patent belt and matching boots, he was sporting baggy jeans and a flannel shirt. He did, however, have the long white beard and an impressive mane to match, along with the trademark spectacles.

What really gave him away, however, was what he did for the woman in line behind me, the one with the very sensible, nutritious lunch who was digging desperately in her bag for a wallet that just didn’t want to materialize. With more subtlety than jollity, he put his cup of black coffee down next to her tray and offered to pay for her lunch. Her incredulous, but grateful look was met with “It’s okay, I just got paid. (giggle, giggle) You can pay me back if and when you see me again. (giggle, giggle).” A hungry, overworked woman got to tuck into her salad, a noted saint got to retain his halo, and along with my banana bread, I had a side of human kindness (a rare delicacy these days). Bon appetit!

The Roller Monologues

2008-03-12T10:05:00.000-07:00

Women are supposed to shop together. We’re encouraged to go to the bathroom en masse. We’re expected to group-quilt, and clamour in hordes around Tupperware. In times gone by, women could be found chasing after small animals (or small humans) together, and chanting to the moon. Last weekend, the women of my tribe engaged in a long-standing ritual. We painted.

By painted, I don’t mean in any artistic sense (I’m a weak link where visual talent is concerned). Our gathering was not marked by circles of easels, bowls of shiny fruit and smears of vermillion and burnt umber. There was an apartment to be tamed, an unruly set of grey walls, and we came together to make it feel like home. In a ballet of grubby clothes and latex-acrylic, we danced, a trio of weird sisters. My mother governed the heavens, standing tip-toed on a chair and occasionally chiming “Shit, I dripped again.” My sister muscled the middle, wielding her roller pole like a javelin. Plumbing the depths behind furniture, I crawled along the trim on the floor.

All the while, we called to each other from opposite corners of each room:

“Damn, this colour looks good!”

“Did you watch John Stewart the other night?”

“Who do you have to kill to get a raise these days?”

And at some point, my mother made an astute observation. This is what we do. Some kinswomen knit, or have brunch, or watch the latest movie. We paint. Even when we don’t do it together, we still eagerly share battle stories. The shade of green that made my sister nauseated. My sponge-paint job that looked like blood spatters at a crime scene. My mother’s discovery that magic marker bleeds through every layer of paint that’s slopped on top of it. The rooms that do turn out are shown off as badges of honour, and garner appreciative “ooohs” and “aaaahs”.

One could blame this long-standing tradition on our fickle decorating tastes, or our collective need to move things around our dens. Maybe it’s our waspish need to avoid idle hands (the work of the devil), or our genetic predisposition to organize. Maybe all three of us were chameleons in a former life. Not one of us expected to wake up the next day without dried, crusty paint between her fingers, or without sore muscles. We did, however, leave my sister’s apartment confident that there would be a future call to arms, and we would follow the brush-shaped signal back to the coven. Probably as soon as my sister decided what colour the kitchen should be.

Somewhere in Paris, a short existentialist rolls over in his grave.

2008-03-08T13:05:00.000-08:00

Last week, the Toronto Star published an article entitled “A Nation of Cheaters”, outlining our general refusal to prioritize honest, hard work over the Darwinian drive to “get ahead”. Reporter David Graham gives example after example of what Jean Paul Sartre would term bad faith, the cowardly and metaphysically unfounded practice of saddling anything and anyone else with the burden of one’s own actions. Point by point, the article describes our communal allergy to personal responsibility.

Coincidentally, I was having a week riddled with bad faith. A customer service rep on the phone followed the phrase “The part you need for your stove won’t be in until April” with “What do you expect us to do about it?” A drycleaner who made a perfectly good shirt vanish into the ether substituted a twenty-dollar bill for an apology. I was dealing with my regular onslaught of students claiming I was ruining their academic and professional future by not accepting their work three weeks late. In my head, I could picture Sartre, with his bad eye and his ever-present halo of cigarette smoke, shaking his head. There are weeks when I feel like an incredible sap for assuming that I’m responsible for my own actions, and an even bigger sap for hoping that others will share my views.

Graham’s article proposes that while outbreaks of irresponsibility are recurrent, they’re generally short-lived. I’m hopeful, but not all that optimistic. It’s really very comforting to put our responsibilities in a cute little bubble, float it away, and wait for it to explode (messily) over someone else’s head. Moreover, rewards for self-determination aren’t very tempting. Being willing to accept responsibility puts us at the bottom of the hill, the same steep climb down which the proverbial brown stuff rolls. Being at the receiving end of bad faith, having all of the non-believers taking numbers and lining up to pin their woes on you makes it difficult to avoid the temptation to utter “It’s not my fault either”.

Does this blog make by butt look big?

2008-02-19T23:17:00.000-08:00

Nothing is as bothersome as a blank page, so in an effort to claim this blog as my own, and to get this freakish, Frankenstinian creature on its feet, I humbly offer this inaugural post. Smash imaginary bottle of champagne here.