Lessons from My Dog and Bill Murray

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

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...

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!

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

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.

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

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…