Music

Flipping through a girl's CD collection is like reading her diary. Music tells much more than is written in the lyrics.

Irritating.

My oldest brother has this great habit. He likes to say, "No offense, but [insert highly offensive phrase here]." "No offense, but the Catholic Church is stupid and all priests are child abusers." "No offense, Mom, but this soup [that you spent hours making for Christmas dinner] sucks." Do people really think that saying "no offense" makes what follows inoffensive? That this little clause instantly voids the rules of politeness and charity? That it's a free ticket to say whatever you want, no matter how hurtful, because hey, you said "no offense" first? Sheesh. Next time he bashes Catholics, instead of vaguely protesting while trying not to tick off anti-Catholic Dad, maybe I'll ask him what Pastor Bob says about certain of his life choices. "No offense, E, but does being Evangelical mean you get to pick and choose which bits of Christ's teachings you want to follow?" "No offense, E, but it's patently obvious that the only reason you're the sole white male parishioner of the Chinese Evangelical Church of Canada is that you dig Asian girls." "No offense, E, but smuggling guns across the border in Mom and Dad's van and selling them to drug dealers was stupid and wrong." This could be fun. Bitchy, but fun. On the other hand, he gave me $5 in a red-and-gold envelope for Kung Hei Fat Choy, so maybe I should hold off. And as Wavelet says, don't feed the monsters. Good advice.

Addendum to beer story

Just to clarify, I realize that buying beer and not sharing is a selfish thing to do. However, the reason I was so depressed in the first place is because I was so sick of being broke and unemployed and living off my parents. I've always been pretty independent; had my own bank account from the age of five, because when I was a kid we worked whether we wanted to or not, but at least Dad paid us. From the age of nine we paid half for any furniture for our bedrooms, and from thirteen on we paid for all our own clothing. I turned fourteen in boarding school, and only called home once every month or three. My parents contributed to my first year of college but that is all. Last year, on a pretty crummy wage, I paid rent on a house shared four ways, bought my own food, bought my own car, made student loan payments, and paid for any flights home. And I was happy. So last week, all I wanted was MY OWN six-pack, paid for with MY OWN MONEY, to enjoy BY MYSELF once in a while when I needed a drink. And that is why I wanted to wring little brother's neck. A fourteen-year-old should know better, even one so infantile it sometimes surprises me that he eats oatmeal in the mornings instead of breastfeeding. The kid ties his shoelaces with the bunny-and-loop method, by gosh.
To sum up: yes I am selfish sometimes; M****l is a huge baby and needs to go to military school; being dependent at 25 sucks; and I am not an alcoholic, I was exaggerating because exaggeration makes for a better story.

The perfect way to end a really s****y day is to, step one, spend some of your very few last dollars on a six-pack of beer, and instruct your younger brother in the importance of not telling everyone you bought it. Then - step two - when Mom returns home, have him tell her that you bought beer and didn't want him to tell anyone. Great. Step three; as they sit drinking my beer, my parents are discussing what to do about their unemployed, selfish, alcoholic failure of a daughter.

That's it. I'm stealing the family nissan and moving to Calgary.

Window on the Storm

One of the reasons I want to live in Quebec City.

OUR NEW PRIME MINISTER

(Cute baby. But Mr. Harper has a very nice face too.)

Stephen Harper just gave THE BEST speech I have ever heard. The man spoke clearly, simply, thoughtfully, and genuinely. If he accomplishes a quarter of what he hopes to, he will have been the best thing ever to happen to Canada.
Never before have I been so proud of my country.

(If I can find a copy of his speech online tomorrow, I'm putting it up on this blog. Not that any of you, my American readers, will care. You probably didn't even know we were having elections today. I'm STILL going to post it.)

Election Night in Canada

The voting stations are closed, and while some ridings are still sending in their results, it looks to be a minority Conservative government. This is good. What would have been better is a majority Conservative government, but one reporter's on-air questioning of Harper on his abortion views (he's pro-life, as well as anti-gay-marriage) a week ago drove away a large chunk of the female vote.
This has been the most exciting election campaign season that I can remember, and for a variety of reasons: a candidate I really like for once; the fact that he had a very good chance of winning; the Liberals' ridiculous and pathetic campaign, which consisted almost entirely of trying to scare people off Harper; and that nice young reporter Ben O'Hara-Byrne, who I think is hott. (I don't know what his political views are, but he has really good lips. They look like Scarlett Johansson's lips, but manly.)
The fallen Liberals are giving their farewell speeches right now. I don't care too much what Paul Martin says, as long as he's out. Catholic, my ass; a Catholic doesn't push abortion and gay marriage rights.
Speaking of gay, that good-looking, prayer-in-schools-banning Svend Robinson lost his Vancouver riding tonight. He gave a gracious little speech moments ago that went something like this: "Thank you. [Wild clapping and cheering.] Mm-hmm. Thank you. [Wild clapping and cheering.] Mm-hmm. Thank you. [Wild clapping and cheering.] Mm-hmm. I want to thank all of you from the bottom of my heart (which is located somewhere near my bum). Mm-hmm. [Wild clapping and cheering] Thank you." Pity he got caught stealing a $21,500 ring for his boyfriend last year, he might have won without that little incident. At least the bf (hey, those initials just struck me as funny for a whole new reason) knows Svenny loves him. Sorry. I don't hate gay people per se, just this guy - and mostly for his accidenses.
So, to sum up: Conservatives sort of in at 124 seats in Parliament; Liberals mostly out at 103; NDPers firmly entrenched in the background with 29; Bloc Quebecois swept Quebec as usual, winning 51; and one seat goes to Other, whoever they are. (I think the Rhino Party dissolved a few years back when the Red River flooded and the leader guy had to flee his house with little more than his famous sombrero and skateboard. Cannabis Party probably forgot to campaign. Green Party, maybe, or just some independents.)
Ah, Canada, how I do love thee.
Right. Back to Ben's commentary. You know, he doesn't really love his girlfriend, he's only living with her...

Hooray for Pro-Life!

The doctor who writes a weekly column in The Province, the most widely read Vancouver newspaper, wrote today's article on his pro-life views. I cannot express how heartening it was to read this, and to know that the liberal press actually printed it:

"When I Was a Fetus, I Loved Dill Pickle Ice Cream"
I recently attended a conference of the Canadian Physicians for Life because... well, I'm Canadian, I enjoy Life and I play a Physician on Thursdays between 9 and 11.
I was impressed with the dignity, concern and thoughfulness that was evident at the conference, at least prior to my arrival.
For some doctors, the issue of abortion is simple. Their response to this ethical dilemma is to send every girl who believes she wants an abortion to the local abortionist and let them work it out. Easy case. Others wrestle with each case individually and set up a counselling process. Others still are uncomfortable being involved in the abortion process for any reason other than the most dire. It is in that latter pool that I have come to swim and possibly drown.
Given the back and forth from assorted lobby groups, it may be difficult to develop an informed opinion on this sensitive issue but, given the unexpectedness with which your opinion may be required, it is important that you form your own opinion and that it be exactly the same as mine.
Q: Shouldn't, as Morgentaler says, every child be a wanted child?
A: Every child is wanted. Every pregnancy is not. Thousands of couples spend thousands of dollars to adopt thousands of children from East Yaopingyanski. Doctors constantly receive requests from those who would love the opportunity to raise a child. Every child is wanted... by someone.
Q: What about a woman's right to do with her body as she pleases?
A: It is against the law for a woman to try to sell her body or do certain things to or with it. But a growing fetus is, in fact, not her body. It has its own distinct DNA, it has its own genomic character. An appendix or a toenail is part of our body but a fetus is a distinct society. My mother likes rutabaga and tofu but as a young fetus (don't we all miss those halcyon days) I rejected that stuff being rammed through my belly button and made it known I needed dill pickle ice cream and peanut buster parfaits with ketchup. We were and are different, genomically and gastronomically speaking.
Q: But a fetus is not a fully developed human being.
A: Fetus is Latin for "young child." After 12 weeks, nothing new develops in a fetus. It has everything in place; from there it simply matures. Two-year-olds are no less human beings than the more developed five-year-olds. They are just meaner.
Q: But being pregnant can be an inconvenience that causes stretch marks, and personally I just spent thousands of dollars for breast implants so it isn't a good time for me to...
A: Listen, Q, I remember you before implants, when you were just a little q. You were OK, er... ok. But yes, this is among the many reasons we hear why a woman wants an abortion.
Q: What is a partial birth abortion? Is this for real?
A: I would suggest that if you want to know how you really feel about abortion, go to any website that describes partial birth abortion. If that doesn't put goosebumps on your goosebumps, then nothing in this column will make any difference to you.
As many doctors wrestle with our stewardship to the expectant mother, I can't help but be concerned with the lack of concern for the unborn child that has too often turned an ethical decision into a mere gynecological inconvenience. What's the answer? I don't know - but I suspect it must involve dill pickle ice cream.

Travel Bug

Tonight I set fare watchers on Travelocity for anything flying out of YVR to Los Angeles, Burbank, Nashville, and Geneva. Keeping fingers crossed for ridiculously low fare to Geneva, because someday I going to spend a week here. In the summer or autumn, or maybe spring...

Other places to be: here, because I dig lighthouses and big rocks; here, where you can have dinner with people carrying on one conversation in four languages (Italian, German, French, and English), be introduced to grappa (vile, but potent), and stand on a turret - the real deal, with crenellations and a trapdoor - at midnight; here, because Dinkel Acker is great and they serve you half a chicken and warm rolls with it, and every fourth song is "Wahnsinn" and you have to stand up on your bench and sing along to it and raise your krug of beer at the chorus, and everyone loves everyone else; here - second and third photos from the top - because last time I was there I was too broke for the 30 kroner to actually go inside the church, and anyway I've always wanted to see if I'd like Denmark better without having 4 bickering family members, one (little brother) constipated, along; and here (story here, more photos here) because it's just so odd and... cool.

I temped at Master Machinists the last two days, and am therefore well on my way to attaining the affluence requisite for extensive travel. Will send you postcards.

More photos

In the same 2-hour rainless break yesterday, I went on a little jaunt around the back roads to photograph some old houses and barns I'd noticed recently.

I love how this one is slowly-but-surely being reclaimed by nature. To dust you shall return...

This is my dream house. I have never been inside, but am sure it has old, amber-toned hardwood floors, a goodly fireplace, cozy attic rooms, and an inconvenient-but-charming kitchen. When it is mine, I will plant magnolia and Japanese cherry trees in the yard. Photo is slightly askew because I took it while driving and the guy behind me wasn't keen on waiting.

I was fascinated by the toll time and gravity were taking on the front of this barn...

Il Pleut.

It has rained every day for the last 28 days. (Photo of the mighty Nicomekl River taken yesterday in 2-hour sunny gap before raining resumed.) The river is supposed to run between those trees and the berm-like banks to the left, and should be some several feet lower.

Call Me Martha. Or, Shameless Self-Promotion.

I cleaned my room, finally, and a clean room deserves flowers. However, it is winter in Canada and everything in the garden is dormant and/or dead. Solution: (smaller, cuter vase shown here; larger specimen on desk) lichen-coated magnolia branches with shiny fuzzy bud-things, thin weepy twigs off unidentified weepy tree, and, for colour, rose hips. I think it looks pretty.

Also: just because they're burned CDs, doesn't mean they have to have boring covers: (sneak preview for Draj)


I'm so artistic - that, or bored - I kind of amaze myself sometimes. The music's even better than the covers, though. I think you'll like them, Drajykins.

You Freak.

Alrighty. Portia tagged me to list five weird habits, ones that make me a Highly Eccentric Person. Like Miss Bates in Emma, I'm tempted to say that the difficulty lies in limiting to so few, but here goes:
1) Fear of appearing partially clad in public. Every single morning in college, as I walked out of my dorm, I'd take two or three steps before pausing to do a little check. The check went like this: (applying quick pat to upper thighs, then lower rib area) "Skirt - shirt - OhThankGod!", after performance of which I could go on my merry way in peace of mind. I couldn't help it. I knew I'd gotten dressed, but had to check anyway. This probably stems from a nightmare of sitting through class naked or something, but other than that I really can't explain it.
2) I constantly play with words in my head. I have done this as long as I have been able to read, which is about 20 years now. Some random word will get stuck in my head and will spend the next several hours being absentmindedly taken apart, rearranged into other words, having its letters put into alphabetical order and/or given numerical values which are in turn played with every way possible, and finally put back together and dismissed in favour of new word-food. This happens every single day. Again - pointless, inexplicable habit, whose only merit thus far has been to give me a bit of an edge at Scrabble. Portia. Port. Pair. Rip. Tarp. Airport. AIOPRT, TRPOIA. 79. 16. 7...
3) I have difficulty saying my own name without stuttering, and therefore dread being asked. Seriously. I'll try to say it clearly when meeting someone new, or leaving a phone message, but all the five syllables run together and trip over each other and end up sounding like some sort of minor verbal seizure. If I do manage to say it clearly, it sounds like I'm not used to saying it (true) and am probably making it up.
4) Bellybuttons, navels, what you will, horrify me. They are so nasty. My biggest fear concerning future possible pregnancy is caused by the knowledge that most women's navels pop outwards in the later stages of pregnancy, and I don't think I could handle that. Ergh. Getting gag reflex just typing this.
5) For lack of better nomenclature, Need for sensory symmetry. If my left knee itches and I scratch it, I have to scratch my right knee in the corresponding spot as well. If I flex my right wrist, I have to flex my left. If I whack my right shin into the couch and rub it to ease the pain, I have to rub the left one too, even though it doesn't hurt. I can control this impulse if I really try, but it's like trying not to yawn during the rosary when the person two spots down has just yawned.

So. Wondering if I should be embarrassed, but realizing that most of us are secretly proud of our little quirks, so what the hey. Scrabble, anyone?

Tagging: Jedno, Nomikkh, and Wavelet. (Woo-hoo! I just learned how to link!)

There there

I am such a Canadian. Our hockey team just beat the Russians 5-0 for the gold medal in the final game of the world junior championships - and in the tradition of the most apologetic country in the world, I felt so bad about our beating them so completely, that I spent the last 5 minutes of the game praying that the Russians would score at least one goal to soften the blow. I mean, the poor boys were sobbing after the horn blew...

Fun and Games

We have a family friend who, for certain good reasons, is raising her nine children on her own. I've got to say the woman is doing an amazing job; the children are as good as they are beautiful, and they're really beautiful. Anyway, since every mom needs an evening to herself sometimes, and the four older ones were gone to ski camp for a few days, she readily accepted our offer to have the five youngest come to our house one afternoon and sleep over. It was a lot of fun: Emma, the youngest at 4, is a dark-eyed and fearless little thing who asks a lot of questions; the smile on Brendan's face when his mother talked to him on the phone almost made me cry; Michael trotted around radiating Irish benevolence; Bernadette found fun wherever she went; and Jane looked angelic and played piano but loosened up enough to giggle at the funny parts in the movie.

We had some great conversations with Emma:
1.
Emma: What are you drinking?
Mom: Beer.
Emma: I like beer.
Mom: Oh. Would you like some?
Emma: Yes, please.
Mom poured an inch into a glass and handed it to the child, who drank it down without batting an eye.
Emma: That was good. What kind of beer is that?
Mom: Rickard's Red. What kind of beer do you usually drink?
Emma: Guinness beer. But that was very good too.
2.
Emma: There's kissing in that movie.
Me: There is?
Emma: Yes. (Pauses) If you get married, you have to kiss like that.
Me: Yes, I suppose you do.
Emma: Are you married?
Me: Me? No, I'm not.
Emma: Oh. You should marry Jason. (She points)
Me: Um, his name is Robin, not Jason, and he's my brother.
Emma: Ewww!
Me: Yeah tell me about it.
3.
Emma: Can you show me your room?
Me: I'd rather not, Emma, it's quite a mess.
Emma. Please?
Me: No. It's so messy, it's embarrassing. I hope your room isn't that messy.
Emma: (Grabs my hand and heads for the stairs) Show me anyway.
Me: This is it.
Emma: It's not very messy. (Pauses) Guess what? I have pig pajamas. Do you want to see?
Me: Sure. Show me your pig pajamas.
4.
Emma: (to Maria, Robin's girlfriend) Why do you want to marry this guy?
Maria: (laughs, doesn't answer)
Robin: We're not getting into that right now.
5.
Emma: Shooting the can is fun!
Robin: Yeah. Hold the pelletgun higher, Emma.
Emma: What are those things on the pond?
Robin: Those are the ducks.
Emma: Can we shoot the ducks?

The kids were also lots of fun to photograph:

Clockwise from left: Michael, Brendan, and Emma

Brendan shoots, and I cut off Robin's head:

Emma swings :

Emma does photography:

Emma swings again:

Brendan swings:

Final Fantasy

8) It is a sunny California day and I am sitting on the trunk of the old red Stangster, which is parked at the end of a road which meets the beach. In my hand is a hot In N Out burger (double-double, skip the onions and tomato, add ketchup), and resting on the trunk lid at my side are a tray of crispy fries, a couple of paper napkins, and cool glass of water leaving a dark ring on the otherwise faded paint. A light wind blows, the ocean sparkles, and I enjoy my meal.
Goodness how I miss those times. And what I wouldn't do for an In N Out burger right now...