Fat People are Hard to Kidnap

Sage Needs A Family.

2011-01-05T21:02:00.000-08:00

We have an awesome little husky/shiba inu cross at the shelter who is very deserving of a home of her own. She's been with us for far too long, and I simply cannot understand why. She's adorable, sweet, a nice size and smart. Did I mention she was adorable? And sweet?

If anyone is looking for a companion, Sage is ready, willing and able. Please think about adopting a rescue dog, you won't regret it.

It's Snow, People, Get Over It!

2011-01-04T17:41:00.000-08:00

God! It may, or may not, snow in or near Vancouver tonight and/or tomorrow, and one would think the end of the world is upon us. There could be a blizzard warning in the Sahara at high noon in July and there would be less nattering and hand-wringing. This is Canada, it's January, it snows. Helloooooo, snow isn't news, it's weather!

So, drive carefully, try to avoid the half-fat, no foam, triple shot Latte drinkers and the cell phone using and make-up applying or shaving putzes with summer tires on their SUVs who can't drive in the summer or the winter, and enjoy the chaos. Isn't life on the Left Coast fun?

I Hate Being Cold!!

2011-01-03T21:55:00.000-08:00

Okay, so losing weight has few downsides. One is that I'm getting cold. Me, shorts and tee shirt 24/7/365 Dyke, now has goosebumps all the time. I've purchased pants! Ugh! I don't do pants, I feel weird wearing them.

Oh well, the upsides outweigh the one negative. I feel good (especially now that Angelina and I have chosen to follow a vegetarian diet), and I already see many benefits to my physical and mental health, plus, I need new clothes, and it's actually becoming fun to shop!

I know, who the hell is this person, and what has she done with Deb? Don't worry, this will not become My Happy Diet Blog....that would drive even me insane.

Back to my cottage cheese and apricots.

Falling In Love With Kiefer, All Over Again.

2011-01-02T22:49:00.000-08:00

My beautiful Newfoundland dog, Kiefer, has been undergoing a metamorphosis over the past seven or eight months. With the deaths of all of my other "big dogs", Kiefer has become a very central part of my world. Kief has always been a wonderful dog...sweet, loyal, funny and adorable, but he always seemed to let another dog take centre stage. MacKenzie had such a huge personality (and so many difficult issues) that she was almost always the focus of my attention. Tucker was extremely needy and demanding, Kirby was just Kirby, the epicenter of my world, and Madison grew more and more desperate and helpless as she grew old, requiring a great deal of hands-on care. Throughout his entire life with us, Kiefer has not been a dog who asked for much. The normal things, yes, affection, attention, exercise, food, water, vet care, grooming...but he didn't ever seem to yearn for more.

Now that Kiefer is my one and only big dog, he seems to have realized, without me asking it of him, that I need a certain kind of dog in my world. He is nearby almost all the time. He is interactive, more affectionate, totally loyal and very soft and gentle. He is more playful and outgoing, less reserved. He's a stereotypical Newfoundland, his characteristics are the very reason I have always adored this breed. Kiefer would never hurt anyone, is sensitive to the pain of his person, and wants nothing more than to please.

I am so very lucky that my friend Dana brought this stunningly wonderful boy into my life over three years ago. Sharing his life is a true gift, and I appreciate his presence more than words can express. To know Kiefer is to love him, and I love him truly, madly, deeply.

Resolution.

2011-01-01T23:42:00.000-08:00

It's unlike me to make New Years' resolutions. I generally view the activity as simply setting myself up for failure. This year, however; I have made a resolution, well more of a promise to myself really, I am finally taking total responsibility for my own health.

My doctors...all of them, will be happy to see the end of a patient who has been consistently passive in her care. It's simple, it was easy, I just let things happen and then wondered why nothing ever changed. Nothing changed because I didn't care.

Then Multiple Sclerosis happened. Even with that diagnosis I really ignored the ways that self care and patient education could eliminate, or at least minimize, some of the issues that I faced while living with this disease.

I know a lot of people who are suffering with horrific illnesses that are making each day a living hell, or are going to kill them prematurely, often after great suffering. I also know that most of these people are fighting to stay as healthy as possible for as long as possible. They don't sit back and piss and moan. They act, they challenge, they discover.

I've long since known that there are some simple ways I could alleviate many of my symptoms....the fatigue, the pressure on my joints, the aching muscles, the forgetfulness. My body carries far too much weight, punishing my knees, especially. I don't get nearly as much exercise as I should, especially since the dogs in my life started dying....I lost all motivation. My physical health, mental health and spiritual health took a huge hit when our family was decimated, but the truth is I never really took responsibility for my own well being, ever.

Until now. I am losing weight steadily, in a healthy way that feels good for a variety of reasons. About 70 lbs so far, through smarter eating and more exercise, which gets easier and more enjoyable with every pound shed. I have energy, I'm requiring much less sleep, my body is no longer craving rest just to survive. I'm now making lists of chores I want to complete during my extra waking hours, and I'm getting them done.

I'm not on any program, I don't buy pre-made meals, go to weigh-ins or meetings. I'm eating foods that nourish my body, and I eat when I'm hungry and stop when I'm not. It's working for me, I have a built in reward system.

I'm not suggesting anyone else can or should do what I'm doing. This is personal, I'm doing this for me, for my own self care. I'm 46 years old and do not want to waste another day....I am fortunate that my disease has not progressed to a point where I can't do something to help myself.

I wish everyone I know who suffers a chronic or terminal illness could make things more bearable so easily.

Letting Go? I Can't.

2010-12-31T23:34:00.000-08:00

Our family faced five devastating losses between fall 2009 and winter 2010. The pain began with the death of my "wild-child" MacKenzie in October 09, and followed with goofy, happy Tucker, magical, lovely, damaged Gemma-Joy, my sweet, beautiful, gentle Kirby and ending with our sad-eyed, strong-willed, gorgeous Madison.

There really are no words. Our home is not the same. I look for my missing loved ones constantly, sometimes I'm certain I hear MacKenzie crying or Tucker baying. I see shadows and for fleeting, heartbreaking moments I think maybe this has just been the most horrific nightmare I've ever suffered. Then reality takes over and I realize that the nightmare continues.

I am often reminded, by well-meaning but misguided friends (or people who never were and never will be friends, but who believe their opinions mean something) that we still have six dogs who need us. As if I don't know that. All I think about is how much Kiefer, Piper, Molly, Clio, Zoe and Sawyer need us, and how much I need them. What I don't understand is how anyone can believe that the dogs I love can fill the gaping hole left by those loved and lost. Dogs are not interchangeable, they are unique, sentient beings who bring qualities totally their own to relationships. They each leave us with special, priceless memories, but they also rip out distinct parts of our souls, parts that cannot be replaced, not by anyone.

Kenzie-Dog, Tucker-Mucker, Gemmie, Kirbles, Maddie: I hope to God you are all safe, healthy, happy, free from fear, loneliness, and pain, wherever you are. When I find you again, when we are reunited, I'll feel that way,too.

365 Blog Posts In 365 Days. Welcome To 2011.

2010-12-31T00:33:00.000-08:00

I haven't blogged with any consistency for a long time....too long, really; getting thoughts out of my head and into a blog is healthy for me.

There are so many topics to cover, from the ridiculous to the sublime. Hatred, love, peace, war, heartbreak, miracles, acts of great courage, acts of utter cowardice, heroes, villains, hope, despair, strength, weakness, grace, vulgarity, hubris, earnestness, violence, gentleness....all that with which the world spins, seemingly out of control sometimes.

My blog is purposefully provocative most of the time. I attract strong reactions, often very negative, sometimes violent, from those who stumble upon the words I post. That's cool with me....if I want validation, love, respect and support, I'll get it from those who really know me, not random surfers who hide behind anonymity. It's all good, anything that causes people to think is worthwhile.

So, Happy New Year. Check in from time to time, maybe I'll elicit a laugh, a tear, a clenched jaw or fist. Maybe I can make someone act, or at least broaden a narrow belief.

Or maybe I'll just make myself happy by doing something I enjoy. Works for me.

Sometimes There Are Things More Important Than Blogs.

2010-01-22T23:25:00.000-08:00

Sometimes those "things" aren't things at all.

My sweetie has just endured the week from hell. It followed last week, which was also a week from hell. Actually, January hasn't been kind to her at all.

It sucks.

So, instead of blogging, I am going to pull my lover away from her computer and give her a back rub and shoulder massage. This much stress is not good for her physical or mental health, and I can't do much to eliminate the stressors (would that I could), but I can let her know, through the warmth of touch, that I understand how hard things have been, and that we have to try to stay on top of it.

I love you, Babe. I hope things get better soon.

Migraines.

2010-01-21T15:59:00.000-08:00

My cranium feels like it has been used as the ball in a FIFA world cup. One that ended in a kickoff.

I'm awake and upright now (obviously), but I've spent the past two days plus prone and in and out of a state of hazy, painful consciousness. Light hurts, sound hurts, sudden movement hurts, breathing hurts.

My migraines begin with an aura. I see deep red in the area of my peripheral vision. My doctor has no explanation for this phenomenon, most people have auras involving scent or sensation, and although some have visual auras, most are unlike mine.

Lucky me.

It used to be that if I caught it fast enough, and took my prescribed medication, things wouldn't be so bad. Not so much anymore....I think it's time for a stronger med., but that's not the topic of this blog.

Many people, especially women (don't we just get all the breaks?) suffer from migraines....it's really not an uncommon illness. Many more people get headaches, and think they have migraines. Trust me, I don't lose two days work and basically four days of my life over a headache, no matter how bad it is. Migraines have a pathology and must be diagnosed by a medical doctor, there are several conditions that have to be met before the diagnosis is made.

I look like a zombie when I'm fighting a migraine. I bruise, from the inside out. There's no way to mistake this condition, one that interrupts my life, from a headache, which is a speed bump, at most.

The worst of this one is over. I'm feeling more alert, less drugged out. The searing pain inside my skull has abated pretty much, although the actual hurt deep inside the bones won't end for awhile.

If you suffer migraines, you have my sympathy.

If you don't, consider yourself very fortunate.

Why "Normal" Makes Me Cry.

2010-01-19T19:05:00.000-08:00

I have two young friends, a happily married couple, who recently welcomed a baby son to their small family.

I'm sure life is not perfect for them, it never is, but they are healthy, happy, good people, busy with family (human and canine), work and the events of daily life. They are active in their community and volunteer for several worthwhile organizations.

The thing that makes this couple especially important to me is the fact that they adore their baby boy. To many, if not most people, that's a no-brainer. Couples get pregnant, welcome babies, fall in love with them, then raise them to be good, decent adults.

Not always.

My parents adopted children that they didn't want, for reasons known only to them. Childhood is something we survived, and adulthood is something I'm navigating with varying degrees of success on any given day. The scarring is far too deep for me to ever hope for "normal", but "okay" will do.

The sweet, loved, wanted, sheltered, beautiful baby boy with whom I am blessed to share a relationship is being raised by parents who will make sure he always has what he needs, even if he doesn't always have everything he wants. He'll be taught to be confident, but not haughty, he'll have opportunities to see how others live, so that he doesn't assume every child is as fortunate as he is, and it will teach him empathy and compassion. He will learn to respect others, which will also teach him self-respect. He will know that violence and hatred have no place in his family, and that there is a peaceful solution to every problem, even if it seems hard to find.

I hope that my darling "nephew" leads a charmed life. I wish only the very best for him, and will always do what I can to make that happen. May he only know enough disappointment to keep him healthy, and may his victories be many and sweet.

This little guy already has the best start any child can have...parents who love each other and him.

What Kind Of Person Has No Photos Of Her/His Dog?

2010-01-18T17:42:00.000-08:00

Or cat?

This is too weird. Four (count 'em, one, two, three, four) times within the past seven days I have seen lost dog posters on which there is no photograph of the animal, or, even worse, a compilation of pictures that may resemble the general appearance of the lost dog.

Honestly, is that the best an animal guardian can do? Photo-shopped pictures cut from a magazine? One lost ad had four pics of four different breeds, with instructions to take the head of dog one, place it on the body of dog two (I guess the dog has no neck) and imagine the legs of dog three and the fur length and "approximate" colour of dog four. Simple. Oh, and if you see this much-missed, well-loved family member, who, by the way, is intact, has neither tattoo nor microchip, is not licensed, and is not wearing a collar or any means of identification, could you please call (###) ###.#### because the woman of the house feels unsafe without him.

Really, who doesn't take pictures of his/her dog? I realize that I'm nuts, and take more photos of my furkids than most people take of their human children, and I don't expect everyone to have a thousand images to sort through, but one or two? One would think that the poor yard dog to which the lost poster above was referring would have accidentally shown up in a photo of a family barbecue, or a trophy shot of the three cars up on blocks on the cement pad.

A lost dog poster without a current picture of the real deal is useless, and further, a photograph may be the only proof of "ownership' if an animal has no identification whatsoever.

One can only hope that dogs with so little value to their "families" find a much softer and safer place to land, and never have to return to homes where they don't even warrant a single, solitary photograph.

Good luck Prince.

Us And Them, Ours And Yours, It's All Wrong

2010-01-17T19:15:00.000-08:00

I attended a fund-raising event last night night for VAST, the Vancouver Association for Survivors of Torture. It was called "Salsa for Social Change" and was a great evening of dance, good food and great people.

The day before the event, I mentioned at work that I would be acting as MC. A coworker said something along the lines of "It's great what you do for them". "Them" being the clients of VAST, refugees fleeing torture and trying to make a new life in Canada.

Her comment pissed me off (In the interest of full disclosure, most of what comes out of her mouth pisses me off, she's an idiot). In my heart and mind, there is no "them". There are people who, through pure accident of birth, were lucky enough to be born and raised in the safety and relative luxury of Canada, and there are people who were unlucky enough to be born in unsafe, poor, dangerous countries. It's not fair, not fair at all. None of us did anything to deserve the family or country that welcomed us, or refused us, whichever the situation. Pure dumb luck, that's all.

Last night a good, decent, kind man spoke of his experiences, including being adopted and raised in Turkey, starting his professional career, being imprisoned and tortured by his government, then escaping and making his way to Canada as a refugee.

His life has been horrific, and most would say "Well duh, the man was tortured." That's true, but his physical torture is only one part of the cruelty he has endured.

Because my friend was a refugee, he could not work. He could not open a bank account, he could not buy property, apply for credit or get the help he needed to recover from his torture. His treatment by the government was abysmal, just another refugee...until VAST.

Canada is a young country, most of her citizens, unless from a First Nation, are only two or three generations away from being refugees. Still "we" give newcomers a rough ride, treating many of "them" like "they" don't belong here. Why the hell not? Has nothing been learned from the treatment the first immigrants to Canada faced?

Intolerance is an ugly thing. Treating anyone else as "other", whether that person is a refugee, an immigrant, a person with a disability, a non-WASP type, or a member of any ethnic, cultural or sexual minority is wrong.

We all need to think about the words we use so that we can start changing the thoughts we have and the actions we take.

The Real Reason Parliament Has Been Prorogued

2010-01-16T14:50:00.000-08:00

There is no way in hell our "Right Honourable Prime Minister" can seriously believe that the citizens of Canada are stupid enough to buy proroguing as anything more than an excuse for the Harper family to jet off to the Wet Coast for the 2010 Olympics.

Stephen Harper couldn't care less how voters feel about the fact that our military outsources the torture of political prisoners. Public opinion regarding the economy isn't important to him, either. Does he care about our feelings surrounding the justice system? Not so much. Why miss traveling to the Olympics with Laureen, Ben and Rachel, on the country's dime? The legal, ethical and moral questions proroguing brings up are totally irrelevant. Who are we, the people the Prime Minister is charged to serve, to hold him to account anyway?

I think a career in "public service" requires a great deal of ego and a fluid sense of truth to begin with. Our Prime Minister has both, in spades.

Just Because People Don't Want To Hear Things Doesn't Make Those Things Disappear.

2010-01-15T22:59:00.000-08:00

I'm so very weary of hearing people say "Oh I can't stand to hear stories about child abuse, animal abuse, domestic violence, torture, human suffering...." (enter subject matter here). Refraining from talking about or hearing about the harsh realities of life does not make them disappear.

Until every single person capable of making change in the world does so, unimaginable horrors will continue to be visited on the poor, the weak, and the vulnerable. The perpetrators of crimes against marginalized populations are, of course, the most responsible, but everyone who knows those crimes are being committed, and remain silent, are complicit. Guilty of selfishness, weakness, fear, or just plain callousness, it matters little, guilt is guilt.

Many people were aware of the abuse suffered by my siblings and me at the hands of our parents. There were many opportunities for neighbors, teachers, social service providers and others to step in and rescue us from the hell that was our life. Nobody did. There's no excuse for their neglect, and today they would be held criminally responsible...I guess society has evolved a little.

But certainly not enough.

May The Gods And Goddesses Have Mercy On Haiti.

2010-01-14T21:16:00.000-08:00

It's unfortunate it took the horror that has befallen Haiti for the rest of the world to take notice of how desperately the citizens of the western hemisphere's poorest nation need help.

I think most people had at least a casual understanding of the remarkably primitive infrastructure with which Haitians had to survive. One thing the Governor General of Canada, Haitian-born Michaelle Jean has done is raise awareness of her country of origin and the struggles the country faces. Water, sewer and electrical services were spotty at best, with almost nobody living outside of Port-au-Prince having access to those services at all. Grinding poverty, with more than 70% of the population living on a dollar or less a day, plus an unstable government, and proper housing, health care and education out of reach for many, and inadequate for most, made simple survival for all but a very few Haitians almost unbearable.

But they persevered. They survived. Theirs is a strong culture borne of overcoming nearly insurmountable odds. Family, music, art, faith and hope keep Haitians from giving up.

Until now. What happens now?

The world is rushing to provide aid to Haiti during this, its darkest hour. The country lays in ruin, with basically nothing left to repair, which means the entire country will need to be rebuilt, from the ground up. Will the rest of the western hemisphere take this opportunity to give Haitians a brand new start, or will the money, food, supplies and specialized personnel disappear with the next natural or financial meltdown?

My heart goes out to the citizens of Haiti, and to ex-pats and foreigners who choose to call this country home. Godspeed to the victims of this horrific event, and peace to their surviving friends and loved ones.

It is to weep.

Why BC Provincial Court Is Better Than Reality Television.

2010-01-13T21:22:00.000-08:00

I was in court today (from 9:30 a.m. - 4:30 p.m. for a 5 minute voir dire) on a work-related matter. There were all the usual suspects; the speeders, the dudes who don't think the seat belt laws were written with them in mind, the jaywalkers, the guys who think public spaces = urinals, nothing terribly exciting or provocative.

Until the drunken brawler's case was on the docket.

The guy was charged with fighting on a city street and public intoxication. He entered a plea of not guilty to the fighting charge and then proceeded to make a total ass of himself in front of a packed courtroom.

First it was his claim of self-defense. That would be all well and good, and maybe even valid, if not for the fact that the man from whom he was defending himself was on the ground, in the fetal position, trying to protect his face and head as this ape and his friend rained kicks down on his body.

When the Justice looked skeptical about that line, the guy changed tactics. He and his buddy were leaving a bar after he consumed two drinks, when they noticed their victim beating a homeless man. Good citizens that they are, they commanded that he cease and desist, at which point their victim punched the Good Samaritan in the mouth. In return, our guy knocked the alleged homeless-man-abuser out cold with one well aimed right to the jaw. He then put his foot on the chest of the victim to restrain him.

Enter the VPD. Two constables on foot patrol saw the ape and his sidekick (pun intended) putting the boots to a third man who was prone on the sidewalk. They were approximately a third of a block away, on a well lit street. Witnesses told them that the three men had been in altercation, a fight that had spilled out of the club at which they had been partying. The police officers noted that both of the men kicking the shit out of the third guy were heavily intoxicated (our guy is a longshoreman, a strong, burly man; his two drinks, the Crown Prosecutor remarked, must have consisted of eight shots each).

This is where the story gets fuzzy. The two constables said they placed all three men in custody, which means they were face down on the ground with their hands cuffed behind them. Standard operating procedure. They were then placed in the police wagon and taken to the drunk tank.

Our champion-of-the-homeless says that he was beaten by the police officers for thirty minutes. Half an hour. At Davie and Robson, in the heart of the entertainment district, from approximately 3:30 - 4:00 a.m., when bars are closing and there are literally hundreds of patrons on the streets. No video clips, no cell phone photos, no calls to 911 or the media (not necessarily in that order). Two police officers punching and kicking a man with his hands cuffed behind him for half an hour.

When the Crown Prosecutor challenged Ape-Man's version of events, he said that he was lucky he hadn't ended up like Robert Dziekanski. When the Prosecutor said that was the RCMP not the VPD, and that there was an Inquiry being held to determine whether the police acted appropriately, the guy said all cops are the same, and they'll use any excuse to beat up "innocent people trying to do the right thing". He claimed that hundreds (?) of people are assaulted and murdered by the B.C. (again ?) police every year.

I'm truly surprised that this Neanderthal didn't break his shoulder patting himself on the back. Fortunately the Justice saw him for what he is, a goon. There was no evidence (from dozens of voluntary witnesses), that there was a homeless man who had been assaulted. What happened was simple, a drunk was punched (for whatever reason....listening to him piss and moan for an hour made me want to knock him out) in front of his friend, and in a testosterone and alcohol-induced rage beat a guy senseless.

Our guy couldn't believe it when he was found guilty. He stated that if he really was guilty that he should have been charged with assault.

That's the one thing everyone in the courtroom could agree on.

Say Hello To Sawyer.

2010-01-12T21:37:00.000-08:00

Our family has expanded by one. We welcomed Sawyer, a Boston terrier/French bulldog cross puppy after a friend got in over her head on an impulse purchase. It's sad for her, but our world, and mine in particular, has become so much the sweeter because of Sawyer.

Nobody will ever replace MacKenzie in my heart, but this boy is a happy, healthy, loving little ray of sunshine who brings smiles to the faces of everyone he meets. He's cute, that's true, but it's his temperament that makes him such a pleasure.....he wakes up full of joie de vivre and spends his days running, jumping, playing and cuddling. He goes full out and then crashes, a typical baby.

Sawyer is doing well with his raw diet. Chicken legs are a favourite. Bully sticks and Kong toys are a hit, as is his hide-a-squirrel.

Deputy Dawg gets to come to work with me on days that I'm not in court or meetings. That makes the bonding process so much easier, and Sawyer has made a bagillion friends. He's a social little creature, a very special, loving little soul who has made the process of beginning to heal from the heartbreaking, premature loss of my Kenzie dog just a little bit easier.

Terrorism Takes Many Shapes.

2010-01-11T18:12:00.000-08:00

The U.S. "War on Terror" has long been an issue I've regarded as a wholly disingenuous way for the American government to do what it wants, when it wants, to whomever it wants, with no fear of a backlash from the citizens it represents. Ever since George W. Bush, one of the worst war criminals in recent history, made it perfectly legal to torture, rape, and murder civilians and refer to the victims as "casualties of war" and destroy hospitals, schools, homes, villages, towns and the futures of generations not even born yet as "collateral damage", terrorism is no longer something Americans need only fear, it is something in which they are complicit.

The U.S. has enjoyed the role of "the big fish in the small pond" for decades. The flexing of American muscle, whether in Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Korea, Vietnam, Iran, Iraq or Afghanistan has never been called terrorism, but why is it any different than the Al Qaeda attacks on American soil? Hundreds of thousands of innocent people have died at the hands of U.S. troops. Does any rational, reasonable human being not think that American soldiers have terrorized the citizens of which every country they have attacked?

In this new age of heightened security, no-fly lists, terrorist watches, and general American paranoia regarding all persons not WASPish, one has to take a moment to wonder about Karma. Maybe what goes around really does come around.

The Narcissists Shall Inherit The Earth.

2010-01-10T18:07:00.000-08:00

My job has its ups and downs. More downs than ups, unfortunately, but my awareness of the fact that there are thousands of people who would give their right arms for the chance to be a full-time, well-paid, union-protected civic employee with great benefits keeps me from bitching too often, at least publicly. But to those thousands who would give up an appendage for my job; a warning, you'll need that arm to do the work I do.

This week wasn't so bad, although every day I leave for work with a sense of impending doom. I wasn't always this way: quite the opposite, really, I used to go in early and leave late, but that was a different time, and you can't unring the bell.

The one glaring exception to "it wasn't so bad" was a call I had to attend about off-leash dogs being allowed to dig holes in a tiny west side green space. The complainant was upset about a reduction in property values because the grass is being destroyed. Okay, whatever, it's my job to enforce bylaws, and dogs must be leashed while in public places, unless in an area posted as off-leash. Pretty simple, certainly not rocket science.

The complainant (isn't that an awesome word?) wanted the area patrolled at a specific time, because dog owners tend to congregate there during a certain window. Hey, cool, we live to serve.

I arrived at said green space at said time to speak with said dog owners. The area is in Kitsilano, and anyone who knows me understands that traveling anywhere west of Cambie Street gives me hives, but again, I had a mission to fulfill.

What happened when I arrived at the little park-like space reinforced every single reason I am an East-Van-Dyke-In-A-Uniform-Who-Should-Never-Try-To-Play-Nicely-With-Overly-Indulged-West-Side-PITAs.

I understand the west-side sense of entitlement that appears to be okay with everyone who lives in Vancouver. I think it's crap, but I understand everyone treats the Kerrisdale, Kits, Point Grey, Shaughnessy, West End crew like they are as special as they think they are. I don't have to like it, though.

It was apparent as soon as I arrived on scene that the interaction with these people who live in the rarefied air of the West Side would not go well. When I got out of my truck some guy shouted to everyone within hearing distance that the "Dog Gestapo" was there. As a Jew whose grandmother survived the camps during the Holocaust, the flippant use of the word "Gestapo" by some pissant with a toy poodle just doesn't sit well. I didn't even get to speak before I was told that I should get back into my truck and go back to the Downtown Eastside where I belong. I told the assembled group that their dogs where not permitted to be off-leash in this tiny green space. I was told, in return, that I had no fucking right to be there, that "they" paid taxes, and they would let their dogs run wherever they wanted. I asked whether their dogs were licensed, and got a similar response, they all pay taxes, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. A Labrador retriever came close enough to me that I could touch his collar, to check for a license. As I did , his owner, a large, angry man said, "That dog is trained to attack on command, and if you touch him, I'll give the command."

Nice. His mommy must be very proud.

It went downhill from there. I told the dog owners that there had been a complaint, and that the city would continue to patrol the area and issue tickets until the problem was solved. That made me exceptionally popular. People who heard the commotion from inside the condos and apartment buildings surrounding the green space began to come outside to get a closer look. I was reminded, uncomfortably, of the scene in Young Frankenstein, where all the townspeople are chasing "the monster" with torches and shouting "Kill him! Kill him!"

Trying to explain that their dogs were tearing up the grass was answered with "Show us the holes." Hard to do in the dark. When I said the area was not off-leash approved, I got "Show us the signs." By then I was pissy enough to say "There are no signs saying 'Do Not Murder', or 'No Breaking and Entering', either, and absence of a sign is not an excuse to break the law." Oops.

That's when they all got into the "Don't you have anything better to do, like picking up used syringes in playgrounds on the East Side?", or " Why don't you get a real job?", or "Aren't you ashamed of yourself for harassing innocent people?" I made my exit then, there was no point in staying.

As I left, and the crowd was crowing in perceived victory, I said, out of pure spite, "I'll see you all next week when I return with the police."

It should be fun.

Missing MacKenzie

2010-01-09T23:18:00.000-08:00

A sweet bright light in my world was extinguished almost two and a half months ago. MacKenzie has left a giant hole in my life, and although I am trying hard to focus on filling the void with fond memories and the understanding that we gave Mac the best life possible, the hurt is as raw today as it was on October 21st, and it has only been compounded by the loss of Tucker earlier this month as well as my hedgehog Booker two days before Tuck.

I don't think I realized how much real time I spent with MacKenzie. Before she became ill the time was spent managing her behaviours and keeping all of the dogs safe while making sure Kenzie's physical, spiritual and emotional needs were met. After she got sick, I was with her as much as I could be because her levels of fear and anxiety meant she required almost constant reassurance. She cried whenever she was alone, her medications creating a totally terrifying and alien world. Without the meds her body and mind failed her, it was an untenable situation.

Not everyone understood my special girl. She was complicated, difficult and trying sometimes, but she was beautiful, intelligent and loving all the time.

I still hear her cry, and sometimes see her shadow. I can't believe that the force of nature that was MacKenzie will never grace us with her presence again.

I love you baby girl.

This Place Is So Not Ready For The Olympics.

2010-01-08T23:07:00.000-08:00

First I want to make it perfectly clear that I did not vote to bring the Olympic Games to Vancouver. Chris did, so blame her.

We've lived with years of pre-Olympic construction, cost-overruns, controversy, protests and inconveniences large and small. Now, during the final countdown, Whistler is dealing with "Olympic Aversion", the taxpayers of Vancouver are looking at hundreds of street closures, the bright bulbs of VANOC are asking tourists and visitors to the Games to pay for the carbon offsets it had vowed to purchase but now can't afford. I can see it happening....not. Why in the name of God would people visiting the most expensive city in the country for a totally overpriced sporting event, voluntarily shell out more money for such a dubious reason?

Translink is intent on fleecing visitors to this (un)fair city as well. The regular fee of $3.50 for a skytrain ticket from YVR to one of the downtown stations is being jacked up to $8.50. There are ways around this thievery, but unless some kind locals lets the tourists in on the secret, they'll get hosed. Parking prices are being conveniently raised in city-owned lots and parking meters, as are the hours paid parking is in effect.

A cynic might think that the citizens of the Lower Mainland are being screwed by the City of Vancouver.

Hundreds of millions (billions? trillions?) of dollars have been spent by a city on the brink of disaster, a province running a deficit and a country in a recession to host an event where only the most elite athletes in the world are invited. Nobody is naive enough to believe the Olympic Games are about excellence in amateur sport anymore....only professional athletes are welcome in hockey, and other sports boast athletes with huge amounts of money backing them.

Meanwhile, the City of Vancouver is laying off hundreds of employees, cutting services and laying waste to social programs. The province is closing schools, can't see it's way clear to raise the minimum wage to more than $8.00 an hour (the lowest in the entire country, in the province with some of the highest costs of living), is closing hospital wards, the list goes on.

Hey, but it's all good, because Roberto Luongo might actually live up to his hype and not choke during an important hockey game. That's gotta be worth a billion dollars.

British Columbia Liquor Control Board Whores.

2010-01-07T22:04:00.000-08:00

There has been a radio ad getting frequent airplay lately that makes my blood boil. The ad is beseeching people who buy alcohol to do so at government owned liquor stores as opposed to those that are privately owned .

Yes, the ad is paid for by the union representing employees of the government liquor stores, and not the provincial government itself, but the whole idea of plaintiff statements regarding how much hospitals, schools and other publicly-funded institutions rely on the profits of alcohol sales is beyond the pale.

I make no secret of the fact that I hate the use and abuse of alcohol. I know, from first hand experience, the this most lethal and readily available of drugs destroys individuals, families and communities. It's abhorrent to me that governments not only sell this scourge, but are trying to convince its users that by purchasing their poison at a privately run store they are stealing bedpans from hospitals and gym mats from schools.

With the promise of the lowest prices available on booze in British Columbia, the province is basically the Wal-Mart of drug dealers. It would be laughable were it not so pathetic.

I Sleep With a Buzz Saw.

2010-01-06T22:11:00.000-08:00

And it's not Christine.

Zoe is a Shih Tzu. They are an odd little breed by nature, but Zoe takes "unusual" to a whole new level. She is a solid, compact rectangle of a dog....we call her Low Rider, among other things....many other things. She has these short little legs and none of them work in sync when she's running. She has a ball at the park, but she is toast when she gets home, and sleeps for hours. Poor little girl has to take twenty steps for every one of Kirby's or Sienna's. She's blind in one eye, the result of an old injury, and her sighted eye is a fair bit larger than the blind one. When she stares you down with that mutant eye, it's enough to send chills down the spine.

Zoe prefers to watch the world go by from the comfort of the middle of our dining room table. She's too short to see out the window otherwise. She'll spend hours spread out like Miss January. We've never really felt the need to ask her to move....

This dog sleeps in the oddest positions. I personally love it when she is flat on her back with her four legs all akimbo. She can be lifted and carried in that position without waking. It's like packing around a bag of sand with paws.

And speaking of sleep, Zoe snores like a 2-pack-a-day smoker with adenoid problems. Christine's C-Pap machine doesn't keep me awake, but Zo-Zo's snoring does. It's worst when she's dreaming or in a deep sleep, and that's the time one is most likely to be treated to a nice dog-snot shower, too.

Zoe's life used to be shit. She was nothing more than a commodity to some greedy bastard, but she knows she has arrived at the doggy promised land. There are few rules for her here, and none of them are arbitrary. She's not allowed to harass the Guinea pigs who can die of heart failure if badly startled, she's not allowed to fight with Gemma, although they antagonize the hell out of one another, and she has to go outside to do her thing. Not a bad deal. In return for those simple expectations, Zoe gets good food, lots of exercise, vet care (which she would happily do without), warm beds, toys and all the cuddles and love she can handle from her four doting humans.

Zoe is an amazing, loving, vibrant, funny, self-actualizing little buzz saw, and she deserves only the good things in life. That's what we've promised her, that's what she's getting.

The Abortion "Debate". Please Just Make It Stop!

2010-01-05T06:52:00.000-08:00

I passed yet another "vigil for the unborn" in Maple Ridge yesterday. To say I hate the self-serving, narcissistic, egotistical people who are fighting so hard to remove the dominion of the very bodies of all women, is a grave understatement. I detest the female zealots, sheep who have internalized the almost universal misogyny and regular abuse nearly all women face at the hands of men, on a daily basis, and are standing in support of those very purveyors of misery. I wonder how female anti-choice advocates feel about sacrificing their sisters in order to ally themselves with men who have no respect for any woman?

My real disgust, that which makes my blood boil, is the type of spectacle I witnessed yesterday. All of the "loving children of a loving God" were men. There were no women there at all. IF anyone has the right to tell a woman what she "should" or "should not" be doing regarding a pregnancy, a female doctor, nurse practitioner, nurse, or other health care provider ought to be the one doing it. If a woman has made the difficult decision to abort a fetus, women, not men, should be providing factual, useful and practical information to her.

Yesterday's small but vocal little gang of pro-life thugs were uniformly middle to early senior aged, wearing expensive, carefully chosen casual clothing. They were trying hard to look like someone's sweet uncle Bob, but under the genteel masks and the designer clothes were vile, hateful fanatics who are all the more frightening because they believe their own press. These men, all of whom enjoy male privilege simply due to accident of birth, all of whom have horribly overdeveloped senses of their own importance, think that it is their right, no, their calling, to scare women into carrying unwanted children to term . None of these self-righteous bastards give any thought to what becomes of that unwilling mother and her unfortunate child after she has given birth.

These men carried horrific, graphic photographs of abortions in progress, enlarged to poster size. Strategically placed posters of lovely blue-eyed blond babies were in serious competition for all furtive glances.

Why are we still "debating" the right of women to decide what happens to their bodies? If a woman wants to abort, why is it anyone else's concern? There ought not be a "reason" required, ever.

And why in the name of God are men involved in the abortion debate at all ? Until the male of the species can get pregnant and deliver babies, they should shut the fuck up. The argument that abortion is a public policy issue, a moral issue, a community issue, a family issue or any man's issue is bullshit. The choice to abort a fetus belongs to the woman carrying it. Period.

Oh, and the Adoption not Abortion faction fails miserably. My partner and I were both adopted, and in both cases it was an unmitigated disaster. Same for my three siblings. There are hundreds and hundreds of children awaiting permanent homes and families in British Columbia, but the homes just aren't there. When a healthy baby is born with an adoption plan in place, it's the kind of fairy tale ending everyone lives for, but most babies being born into the child welfare system are not healthy infants with ten families desperate to adopt them. Foster care is often their lot.

Abortion is never an easy decision to reach, and women who comes to that choice deserves support.

Best Buy, Your Biggest Asset Is Your Sales Associates.

2010-01-04T19:40:00.000-08:00

This past Christmas at our house included a lot of electronic toys for overgrown kids. Car stereos were the big ticket item for three of the four members of our household. We did some comparison shopping, looking for high quality brands that had all the features important to each of us.

We ended up spending a lot of time at Best Buy. The store is, in a word, unimpressive. Christine and I both wanted a very high end stereo with GPS, that was both blue-tooth and Sirius Satellite-ready. There were none in stock (aside from the demo model) at the store with which we chose to do business, based on its location. We needed two, but no worries, there were more on order, and the shipment would be in well before Christmas. Needless to say, the units that were due to arrive tomorrow, always tomorrow, never did. I managed to find the stereo at another Best Buy, but there was only one.

So skip to January. Chris has her stereo, with all the bells and whistles she wanted, and it's installation day. I have a different stereo, having decided that I didn't really need or want anything that complicated, and Angelina has her unit, which was exactly what she wanted. Chris's installation is belaboured by the need for umpteen "extras" that are not sold with the stereo, and which, of course, are all out of stock. She leaves with the basics in place, only to arrive at home to find that two of three cords are missing and the one cord in place is the wrong one.

Angelina's stereo went in without a hitch, except that she has to wait for her Sirius Satellite add-on, which is, of course, on back order. Mine too. I'm okay with that, I have an i-Phone that gives me thosands of songs from which to choose.

All-in-all, Best Buy was a clusterfuck. There were angry people complaining (rightly) about false advertising...extremely low sale prices with only two or three of the sale items per store. Angry people complaining about the fact that items had been on back order for weeks. Angry people complaining about the lack of selection.

One thing I noticed was the very small number of angry people complaining about customer service from the sales associates. With good reason. These (mostly) young adults were literally run off their feet. We dealt with a young man named Jayke at the Coquitlam Best Buy. He was polite, friendly, knowledgeable and very good at his job. He answered our myriad of questions patiently, he made suggestions, helped us come to decisions and tried as hard as he could to make amends for the fact that his workplace seems intent on frustrating the hell out of consumers.

I also dealt with a young man named Michael at the Cambie Street Best Buy. He was as dedicated to his job as Jayke, and although he couldn't meet all my electronic needs, it certainly wasn't for a lack of trying. Michael was totally frustrated that customers had to wait for long periods and then often couldn't find what they wanted.

So to Jayke and Michael, thanks. And since I know they won't be reading my blog, I have sent thank you letters to them via their respective stores. It's something I always do when I have good experiences with retail sales associates. God knows they are woefully underpaid, and most put up with shit from all sides. I'm not sure why so many people feel it is acceptable to be abusive to those in the service industry, but sadly it's true.

Best Buy, I doubt we'll be shopping at any of your stores in the future, but if we do, it'll be because of people like Jayke and Michael.

Do We Ever Really Move On?

2010-01-03T02:27:00.000-08:00

Recently a friend asked a very fair question, one without an agenda or any reason to cause me pain...it was just a simple question:

"If your brother wanted to reestablish a relationship with you, how would you react?"

Simple question, easy answer, I would welcome him back into my life with open arms.

Of course it isn't nearly as simple as that, nothing ever is. My brother is never going to ask me to "take him back", so I'll never really have to face the possibility of dealing, face to face, with the man who caused me more pain than I ever thought bearable.

My brother and I have a very twisted, complicated history. I haven't actually seen him in more than 15 years. Our childhood experiences were horrific, and he was literally the reason I made it out, because I felt I was responsible for his survival. We did not escape unscathed, however; we both bear the emotional and psychological scars that physical, mental and sexual abuse leaves on victims.

I loved my baby brother more than life. He was beautiful, he was sensitive, he was sweet, he was shy, he was gentle. He was everything my father hated in a boy child. I stepped in front of all manner of weapons to save my brother from harm. I hid him, stole food for him, took beatings for him, lied for him, held him when he cried, picked him up when he fell. We were inseparable.

And then we weren't.

I left home on the day I turned 16. I was going to high school and couldn't take my brother with me. He couldn't deal with being left behind and all that entailed, and he turned to drugs.

We saw one another only sporadically in the ensuing years. I went to university, working several jobs and struggling to finish my four year programme in three years. My brother spiraled downward and ended up on the streets. I tried to help him, but he blamed me for most of his problems, and the only help he wanted from me was financial. I loved my brother, I loved him far too much to feed the habit that was killing him.

My brother eventually found help through a street youth ministry. He got clean and sober, and was encouraged to face his demons. I was one of those demons. He had a love/hate relationship with the person he remembered me to be. It embarrassed him that I had been his protector, it angered him that I made him "dependent" on me and then dumped him, he was furious that I hadn't failed without him.

And he had been convinced that I was evil because I was an admitted lesbian. I say "he had been convinced" because my little brother knew about and understood my sexuality from a very young age. It was a non-issue. The minute he became involved with his new "church", I was no longer a human being deserving of compassion, understanding, respect or love. I was a pariah.

This hurt, naturally. It hurt like hell. This boy, this man-child who I held at night while he sobbed and shivered and wet himself in stark terror now saw me as the enemy. I kept this boy alive, and he ripped my heart out.

I thought nothing could hurt more, but I was wrong. My brother married. He and his partner had three daughters, my nieces. After his first daughter was born, my brother held her up to a plexiglass window and told me to get a good look at her, since I would never see her again. Lesbians are homosexuals, and homosexuals are pedophiles, and his child(ren) were never going to be put at risk.

I never did see my niece again, or her two sisters. I've not seen my brother or sister-in-law, either.

I'm fortunate that there are children in my life. I have a great friendship with a lovely young couple who recently gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. They allow me to be part of his life, and "Auntie" is a role I cherish. They know I would never, ever, upon pain of death, do anything to harm their son.

I would love to have my brother, sister-in-law and nieces in my life, but he's not going to make the move, and I just can't. As much as I would love to begin a relationship with these three young women I don't know, the past has me trapped.

Maybe when they become of age they will search me out. God knows I would welcome them with open arms.

Young People......

2010-01-02T23:17:00.000-08:00

We hear about "today's youth" pretty much 24/7. Television, radio, newspapers, magazines, the net; "kids today" begins many, many sentences.

Tonight I was waiting in line for take-out at a Commercial Drive restaurant. The place was really busy, and the noise level was high. People were laughing, talking, eating, having a good time when this very loud male voice shouted "Shut up, bitch!"

The noise level abated as pretty much every eye in the small room fixed on the table where the yelling had come from. The female half of the couple looked mortified, and scared. She said something to the guy, quietly, and again he yelled, only this time it was "Fuck you!"

The crowd in the restaurant was murmuring, as crowds will do in situations like this one: "jerk", "poor girl", "why does she stay with an asshole like that?", but nobody tried to stop the verbal assault. When the guy stood up and grabbed her arm, saying "we're getting the fuck out of here", though, there was actual movement.

That was the moment when a young person, perhaps 16 or 17 years old, put his hand on the shoulder of the brute who was making his companion wince in pain. The brute was my age, at least, the woman about the same. The young man very politely said "Sir, you're hurting the lady, let her go." The brute didn't take this well, as one might imagine, and shouted a few choice words at the kid, but he let go of the woman and left the restaurant. Then the younger man asked the woman who was old enough to be his mother if she was going to be okay, if there was someone he could call for her, if she needed help.

Young people today.....

NaBloPoMo

2010-01-01T19:34:00.000-08:00

It has been a very long time since I blogged with any regularity, and I'm hoping that blogging religiously once per day for a month will ease me back into an activity that I find enjoyable and stimulating.

The topic for this month is "best", probably meant to be viewed as a "best of" or "most enjoyable" list or group of subjects, products, events or people. In my skewed world, I'm looking at best a little more negatively, as in "is that the best they can do?"

I was hit with inspiration when I heard, umpteen times, a thoroughly disgusting, degrading, revolting radio ad for Virgin Mobile. The scenario is a young man who is signing up and paying for "phone services", and of course it's his "very first time" and he's nervous and doesn't know what to do. The absurdly sex-soaked voice that guides him through his experience is appalling. The ad is beyond provocative, it's voyeuristic.

If this radio spot played only on adult stations, maybe it wouldn't bother me so much, but I heard it on The Beat 94.5, a Top-40 station whose demographics are decidedly not adult-heavy. Kids who want the very product this ad sells are hearing that sex is just a phone call away. The same kids whose parents think their kids need cell phones at 9 or 10 years of age are being subjected to radio porn.

That can't be the best Virgin can do.

Ontario Public School Board Association Gets It Right!

2009-01-16T14:51:00.000-08:00

The Province of Ontario has made the decision to empower its young people by overhauling "Sexual Health Education".

As the result of recommendations by the Ontario Public School Board Association, the province's schools will broaden the scope of Sex. Ed. and start teaching it earlier.

Starting in grade 6, students will learn about gender stereotypes and homophobia. In grade 7, sexually transmitted diseases and preventative measures; grade 8, sexual identity and dating violence; and grade 9, gender-based violence, sexual harassment and more detail about previously covered issues.

This forward-thinking approach will be difficult for those teachers who are uncomfortable with the material, and no doubt many parents and religious groups will be up in arms about schools stepping into areas where families should be teaching their children based on their beliefs.

Too bad, so sad.

What it all boils down to is knowledge. Knowledge is power, and the more children learn about their bodies, their feelings, their rights and the rights of others, the more self-control they will gain, the more good decisions they will be able to make, and the more choices they will discover.

Children and young adults are exceptionally curious and thirsty for facts about all things sexual. They are much better served by curriculum that provides information that is current and age appropriate than they are by images, language, and details that they come by on television or the Internet, in the fashion industry, video games, magazines, song lyrics, or graphic fiction, or in movies.

Some great teachers have always helped their students navigate the difficult years of puberty, and now have the opportunity to discuss further the realities of being a teenager in 2009. Other teachers will balk, but they hold great responsibility in their positions as educators, and the young people they teach need them to put aside their discomfort and do the right thing.

As for parents who want their children to learn about their bodies, feelings and rights at home; if they haven't begun teaching healthy sexuality to their children by the sixth grade, they've already failed, and it's a good thing there's a teacher who can help that child before it's too late.

President-Elect Obama.

2009-01-10T15:17:00.000-08:00

The next president of the sleeping tiger south of us is planning to come north for his first international trip.

It would be much more suitable if Michael Ignatieff were Prime Minister during that visit. Stephen Harper was up to the charisma challenge of George Bush. The bar wasn't set very high. Harper and Bush weren't exactly exciting, or thought provoking, or even the least bit appealing, but President-elect Obama is electrifying, people all over the world are captivated by this history-making man.

Michael Ignatieff would present a cosmopolitan, educated and magnetic personality on the world stage he shared with President Obama. Sadly, it'll be Stephen Harper, with his winning ways, who represents us. Unpleasant much?

I admit to being a supporter of Hilary Clinton, and was disappointed when she failed to win the Democratic nomination. That being said, I also admit that I became a late convert to the cult of Obama. He is everything a President should be: intelligent, articulate bordering on eloquent, honest, strong, and dedicated to his family. To top it all off, he is of mixed race, something that should not be an issue in 2008/2009, but sadly, is.

I never before wished that I could vote in an American election, but I would have been thrilled to vote for Barack Obama.

Now that his January 20 inauguration is looming large, Mr.Obama is facing Hurculean tasks and is viewed by many as the saviour of his people. He has been left a country in ruins, financially and spiritually. How he is supposed to fix everything that is broken in and by the U.S. is the question on everyone's mind, but Mr. Obama, with his "Yes We Can" attitude, exudes confidence.

It is my hope that the new president is given the time and support he'll require to start rebuilding our closest neighbor. What is good for the U.S. is generally good for Canada.

I think Barack Obama will be good for all of us.

Lions And Tigers And.....Cougars! Oh My!

2009-01-09T18:06:00.000-08:00

I'm not afraid of coming upon a black bear, or a bobcat, or a coyote in my travels. I figure if I'm smart and do what experts say to do, I'll come out of the encounter with little more than a racing heart.

Cougars are a whole different story.

Our neighbor told me that a cougar was sighted in a backyard five houses away from ours. There have been sightings in Coquitlam as well. The big cats are hungry and as we take away their natural hunting grounds, they are taking away our false sense of security.

When we moved from Vancouver to the wilds of Maple Ridge, I didn't realize just how "wild" it really is out here. We had a fence erected as soon as we could to keep our dogs safe.

Yeah, 'k. Safe? Not so much. A six foot fence isn't much protection against a bear with a brain, and certainly not against a cougar. Those cats mean business. They rely on silence and stealth, and once they grab their prey by the back of the neck, it's game over.

Apparently cougar attacks on humans are rare, but the most vulnerable are under 16. If they can't find wild prey, they'll eat pets as hourves dourves and continue looking for a llama, or a horse, cow or sheep as the main course.

Cougars are also territorial, so now that this one has been seen in the neighborhood, it's very likely it will be spotted again. Oh good. The bear sitting on or front lawn this summer wasn't enough.

The female cougar has a distinct scream that has been described as "nerve-wracking, demonic, terror-striking and a trilling wail". How nice that this could be the final sound someone were to hear.

No wonder one of the many other names for "cougar" is "Indian Devil".

Celestial Marriage

2009-01-09T15:53:00.000-08:00

B.C. Attorney General Wally Oppal finally has the evidence he requires to lay charges of polygamy against Winston Blackmore and James Oler.

The Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints has, for many years, hidden behind the pretext of "religious freedom" for practicing multiple marriages. Blackmore, 52, has 20 wives at present, but has had 26, many as young as 14 or 15. He has at least 108 children, many of whom are substantially older than some of his younger wives.

Bountiful, B.C., home to the largest community of the FLDS in Canada, has been the subject of several investigations involving allegations of polygamy, sexual abuse and trafficking of teenage brides across the Canada-U.S. border to sister communities in the U.S. Blackmore and Oler are the leaders of two factions of the sect living in Bountiful. Oler, 44, has two wives.

It has taken three Attorneys General, many special prosecutors, millions and millions of tax dollars, and almost nineteen years to arrive at a point where the secretive world of the FLDS can be brought to light. This is not about religious freedom; it's about child abuse, sexual assault, rape and human trafficking.

With any luck, the truth about the horrific lives women, children and young men endure under the guise of "religion" as members of the FLDS will also be exposed. The reality of conditions under which "sister wives" of the first or most favoured wife must survive. The lack of basic education for many children, the fact that teenaged boys of the sect are seen as competition for wives to old goats like Winston Blackmore, and are often forced, as a result, to leave their homes and families, with no education, no skills and no resources. The truth about little girls having to disregard their natural thoughts and feelings in order to "keep sweet" for marriages to men over which they have absolutely no say. The understanding that once a child or young woman is married, she has no protection from her husband, has nowhere to turn if he is abusive, and cannot count on anyone to help her.

Warren Jeffs, "prophet" of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, and the leader of the largest polygamous group in North America, was sentenced to 10 years to life on Tuesday November2, 2007 in a Utah court, on two counts of being an accomplice to rape of a minor. Jeffs was responsible for ex-communicating Winston Blackmore and stripping him of his title of the Bishop of Bountiful in 2006, after Blackmore denounced his role as the "Prophet" of the FLDS, God's representative on earth. Jeffs, Blackmore, Oler and a small handful of men once held total control over a sect that numbered in the thousands. It one time, there were only six surnames in the FLDS.

The courts in the U.S. (and in Utah, of all places) recognized that "religious leaders" were committing rape. The courts of Canada can't let grown men get away with the abuse of children, either.

Stay Away From The Bushes!

2009-01-08T16:38:00.000-08:00

It is to weep.

George H.W. Bush has stated that he thinks his son John Ellis (Jeb) has what it takes to be the third White House Bush.

God help us all.

George H. W. Bush, with his "Thousand Points of Light" speech, which cemented his right wing beliefs about the importance of the Pledge of Allegiance and prayer in schools, his full support of capital punishment and the right to bear arms, and his unwavering opposition to abortion, not to mention his famous "Read my lips, no new taxes" line, the Iran-Contra Affair (as Vice President to "Bedtime for Bonzo" President Ronald Reagan) and the Persian Gulf War, was Vice President for eight years and President for four. Had the United States not suffered enough?

Apparently not, because George Walker Bush (better known as Dubya) wanted to play, and after his machine stole the 200o election, the U.S. became this overgrown frat boy's playground. The horrific events of September 11, 2001 gave Dubya an excuse to ram all kinds of civil rights violations through the various levels of government, and overshadowed his lack of intelligence, grace, diplomacy and honour. When, 9/11 stopped providing him convenient justification for his "policies", Dubya maneuvered a war in Iraq based on non-existent weapons of mass destruction.
His highly creative enemy of the American people, the "axis of evil", was the new reason for any and every atrocity committed under his order as Commander-In Chief. His reign of terror has been responsible for Agu Ghraib and Guantanamo, unwarranted surveillance of individuals under the guise of the NSA, and a serious erosion of the civil rights of many Americans. I truly think this man should be charged with crimes against humanity.

The list of George W. Bush's many (many) sins includes the absolutely abysmal way in which his government dealt with one of the worst natural disasters in American history-Hurricane Katrina. The President made it abundantly clear that he was unwilling or unable to deal with the human tragedy that was occuring in his own backyard.

He shares, of course, the common Bush beliefs: anti-gay marriage, pro-the right to bear arms, anti-abortion, pro-capital punishment, and anti-embryonic stem cell research.

Oh, and he has left his country on the verge of a depression, nearly bankrupt, like many of the oil companies he started and destroyed back when daddy could still fix it all for him.

So now Jeb? He's another pro-life, pro-death penalty (although as Governor of Florida he suspended executions after a botched lethal injection), anti gay rights, give-em-all-a-gun Bushman. I'm wondering how one can be "pro-life" and "pro-death penalty". Oxymoronic, no? Emphasis on the moron.

Please, no more White House Bushes. Maybe some more trees, or shrubs, or hedges.

Out Of Bounds Means: Stop Idiot, There's Danger!

2009-01-05T18:12:00.000-08:00

It's avalanche season on the west coast; it happens every year, and, also every year, people go looking for fresh powder for the perfect ski, snowmobile or snowboard experience.

And every year people are drawn to out-of-bounds areas looking for that virgin snow.

This has been a particularly bad season, and it's only the beginning of January. Young men are dying in astounding numbers because they didn't think about the abject stupidity of risking it all for a few moments of heightened adrenaline. Others are getting lost and barely making it back from the brink.

Rarely does one hear or read about young women risking life and limb for that one perfect run. It seems to be a rite of passage for an irresponsible, indifferent few males who believe that mortality is no more a barrier to them than the ropes they go under or the fences they climb over to get to the big air.

It would be nothing more than suicide by ski or snowboard if these thoughtless people didn't involve others in their brainless pursuits. They do; however, engage many people when it all goes wrong and they require rescue.

Police Officers, Firefighters, Ambulance Attendants and especially Search and Rescue personnel are put in jeopardy every time they have to go out looking for out-of-bounds idiots. When the threat of avalanches is high, Emergency Response staff face the real possibility of death when looking for stranded, out-of-bounds people who knew the risk they took when they broke the rules and made the decision to go anyway.

There's a debate going on about whether skiers and snowboarders rescued out-of-bounds should be forced to pay for their rescues.

I say hell yes. They should have to pay for their rescues, they should be fined, and they should be banned from every ski hill in British Columbia for life. If they can't make good, intelligent decisions about their safety and the safety of others, the decisions should be made for them.

Too bad there's no cure for stupidity.

Alanis Morissette's Battle Of The Bulge.

2009-01-04T14:07:00.000-08:00

No, really, I'm serious.

Alanis Morissette was so "fantastically indulgent" that she packed on a whopping 20 pounds!

By pampering herself with too much salt and too many processed grains, our Jagged Little Pill became a Bloated Little Capsule.

Good God! I nearly choked on my Cheetos when Alanis said she felt like a 12 year old, full of energy, with no aches and pains because she went on a Vegan diet and cut out her beloved sandwiches. Her allergies disappeared, she could dance the night away, as her "curves" faded away, so did all of her problems. She now wants to live to be 120. The porky pre-diet Alanis only wanted to live to be 110.

20 pounds. The woman was already so tiny that she had to jump around in the shower to get wet. Soon she'll just disappear.

Maybe then she'll be okay with who she is.

Piper Is A Slut.

2009-01-03T16:25:00.000-08:00

Our pug, Piper, is now three years old, and has reached sexual maturity.

Done large.

Living with the Punk is similar, I would guess, to living, 24/7, in a striptease bar with very lax rules. Our little Thug is totally into oral stimulation. The dog just cannot get enough.

It's not an unusual sight to see Piper flat on her back, eyes at half-mast, groaning in pleasure as one of her pack mates (usually Tucker, the dirty old man) services her. It doesn't seem to matter much to Pipes who her partner of the moment is, she's there for a good time, not a long time, so basically any dog with a tongue will do. Think Courtney Love. Okay, think Courtney Love with a brain.

It used to be a little disconcerting, watching our wrinkled little curly-tailed cuddle bunny behaving more like one of Hugh Hefner's Playboy Bunnies. She has no shame. She's a total narcissist, and will lay there for long periods of time, waiting for someone to meet her needs, and someone always does. Often there's a queue, and that's just fine with Piper.

It's just another thing that makes Piper the character she is. She's a bold, stubborn, funny, fearless, pushy, loving brat. She's built like a tank and has energy to burn.

And she has the makings of a first rate porn star.

Fat People Eat!

2009-01-02T17:24:00.000-08:00

Chris wanted to go out for dinner last night. Aside from the fact that she wanted to go at 4:30 P.M. (which is closer to lunch time than dinner time, if you ask me) and she wanted to go to the White Spot, which is the most bland, boring, white bread restaurant on this planet, and I really wanted sushi, it was all good.

The three of us were seated, Angelina and I were poring over our menus, trying to find something that looked even vaguely interesting, while Chris was making love to her Shirley Temple, when a couple was given a booth opposite us, and it was game on.

The male half of this couple was staring baldly at us, pointing and whispering to his female companion. When I held his gaze, he at least had the decency to look away, but the animated, half whispered conversation the couple had included us and the fact that we were eating at a restaurant.

And that we were fat.

News flash stick people: FAT PEOPLE EAT! We are just like you, really we are; we love, we work, we pay taxes, we marry, we have children (or we don't), we hate our neighbors, we watch too much television, we are decent humans, we are flawed, and we eat in restaurants. We pay the same amount as you for the insipid food at the White Spot, and we have the right to do it without being the entertainment portion of your dining experience.

I'm not sure whether small and "average" size people have small or average brains to go along with their bodies. I can't come up with any other reason why those people would not figure out that we are aware we are fat. It's not as if it's a surprise every day: wake up, get out of bed, take a look in the mirror and Oh My God I'm Fat, How The Hell Did This Happen??

Sizeism is one of the last acceptable forms of discrimination. People seem to feel they have a right to comment on the weight, contours, height and body shapes of others. Where and how they earned this license to share their observations, and why they feel their opinions are of any value are mysteries.

Sort of like why anyone would want to eat anything but a hamburger at the White Spot.

She's Baaaaack!

2009-01-01T22:13:00.000-08:00

I don't remember the date of my last post, but it was a long time ago. Chris has been pushing me to get back to writing my rants (probably so she doesn't have to listen to so many of them).

I'm not even going to attempt to fill in the events that have occurred between my last post and this, my first of 2009. I'm starting afresh, it's not as if there is a lack of pressing issues. We live in troubled and troubling times, and no matter what's happening, the Mutt has an opinion. Ask anyone who knows me.

Today a friend purchased a Translink 2-zone bus pass. The cost? $99. So a hundred bucks to be permitted to ride overcrowded, often late, always-inconvenient buses. We live in the wilds of Maple Ridge, which adds another level of hellishness, with bus routes sometimes many kilometers from relatively highly-populated areas, but many people have no alternative, and live with outrageous commutes. There's no skytrain service at all out here in the hinterlands.

Many bus riders make the choice to use transit because it's environmentally friendly, but those people often have a personal vehicle as back up in times of necessity. Some people can afford the West Coast Express, but there are a lot of Lower Mainlanders working minimum wage jobs (or several minimum wage jobs) who are dependent upon unreliable transportation, at a premium cost. $136 for a three-zone pass (required to ride from Maple Ridge to Vancouver). $99 for a two -zone pass (Maple Ridge to Surrey). $73 for a one-zone pass (from Maple Ridge to nowhere). Vancouverites get crushed into buses, shoehorned like sardines, lucky if they get onto a bus early enough to actually make it to wherever they hope to be sometime around the time they need to be there. Others stand at marked stops only to watch buses pass by, full to overflowing.

God help the elderly or disabled or anyone with a stroller, small children or packages. God help anyone who has allergies to scents or sensitivities to strong odors. God help anyone who doesn't want to hear cell phone conversations involving the words "Like, oh my God!" at high volume, repeatedly.

The Chairperson of the Translink Board of Directors is paid a flat rate of $100 000 per year. The eight directors are each paid $25 000 plus $1 200 for each meeting they attend. The directors all have "real jobs"; want to bet they don't bus it to work. Want to bet they've never ridden a bus or a skytrain?

It's not hard to understand why people become hostile whenever there is talk of fare hikes. Maybe someone will wave his or her magic wand and fix the embarrassment that is Vancouver's transit system before "the eyes of the world" are focused on the city in 2010. Let's hope.

Where there's hope there might be an empty seat for someone who deals with a 4 hour commute every workday.

We Bought a House!!

2006-09-07T19:54:00.000-07:00

Christine and I are about to become two of the priviledged few! Homeowners!!

In October we will say goodbye to Co-Op living, goodbye to renting, and goodbye to Vancouver. We've purchased a house in "the country", on half an acre, with a ton of space and a lot of character. We feel blessed, and of course we are totally stoked. The dogs will finally have a safe yard, which was of primary importance to both of us. The house is everything we wanted, I know we will be very happy there.

I wish everyone could be so fortunate. Vancouver is a beautiful city, one of the most naturally gifted cities I have ever seen, but there is so much grinding poverty here that seems to get exponentially worse as time goes on. We couldn't afford to buy a house here, and we both have well-paid jobs and financial security. I can't help but think about the scores of homeless adults and children who call Vancouver's streets home. I know so many people classed as "the working poor", who live lives of misery, just barely scraping by. They want more for their children, and themselves, than they will ever have. I don't have a solution, I'm not naive, I don't think there is a quick fix to such a huge social ill, but God, I wish things were different.

Chris and I are very lucky, and we know it.

It Has Been a Long, Long Time.

2006-09-07T19:38:00.000-07:00

I think my long, dry spell is over. So much has happened this summer, mostly good, hell, mostly great, but yesterday will remain in our hearts as the "defining moment" of summer 2006.

Yesterday we said goodbye to our beloved Chunky.

Chunk was many things to many people, she was Christine's faithful and constant companion for more than 10 years. She was the first Shih Tzu with whom I had any kind of real contact, and she taught me, through her actions and her attitude, that "little dogs" have no preconceived ideas about stature, they can be, and are, huge characters in small bodies. Chunkamunk was one of those individuals that waltzed through life to her very own, unique soundtrack. She was an amazingly independent dog who asked for little and gave much. We loved her when she graced us with her presence, we will love her for the rest of our lives. Goodbye, good dog.

One Of Those Days.

2006-07-11T20:59:00.000-07:00

I'm not a "glass is half full" kind of person. I've never looked on the bright side or hoped for the best, I'm more realistic than that. As a little kid I developed two theories, though, and Deb's simple philosophies for a life safely lived were born.

1) Make people laugh, because laughing people will rarely hit you. This isn't 100% effective, of course, there are people who chuckle while they torture babies, but how many psychopaths does one deal with intimately and on a daily basis? If you can keep a tormentor giggling for a few minutes, chances are much higher that less blood will be shed.

2) Make people happy. Period. Do what they want, when they want, regardless of your own needs, wants or desires. You can hate them for your weakness, or just beat up on yourself, either way works. There are some major design flaws with this philosophy, but it is successful, at least most of the time.

Today I asked a health care professional who knows the answers to such questions whether he believed some people were meant to be alone. Hard wired for solitary existances. He said yes, there are people who should be alone. "That was not the question", I said, "But that is my answer." he replied. At least he didn't call me Grasshopper.

I was really wondering whether someone can be so fucked up that being any kind of a partner/lover/spouse, even just a decent friend, is impossible. I wonder whether the essence of real caring can be beaten out of a person, and if it can be restored somehow. I wonder what's left over, whether it is worth salvaging.

I actually learned some ugly truths about myself today. Well, I faced them, or had them shoved in my face, is more accurate, I've always known my faults. What it boils down to is that I'm an angry, selfish bastard who needs to grow up, get over myself, and stop my trademark passive-aggressiveness.

That's easy enough. I'll get right on it. Feminist Counselor, here I come.

A "Binning" Guide? What The Hell?!

2006-07-07T20:00:00.000-07:00

The Vancouver Coastal Health Authority, Van City, The Vancouver Foundation and Simon Fraser University have funded a pamphlet produced by The Grandview-Woodlands Food Connection Coalition to give "tips" to homeless, immigrant and low/no-income Vancouverites as to how they might best feed themselves. By searching through garbage cans.

!*#!*&#*?

Is this for real? Dumpster Diving as a way to access food considered "healthy and nutritious"? This is Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, this is a developed country, we are spending hundreds of millions of dollars on the 2010 Olympics and we are distributing leaflets suggesting the best way to Bin for Breakfast? I don't care that the money for the Olympics doesn't come from the same source as Human Resources or Health Care or Education, people being forced to eat waste is an outrage. The argument that people are not "forced" into the binning lifestyle is as much garbage as the stuff being removed from dumpsters. Nobody, as a little kid, when asked what s(he) wants to do when s(he) grows up, replies "I want to be a Dumpster Diver, just like 'Crazy Larry', the guy in our lane that everyone hates/fears/ignores/berates." This just isn't right. If the food at the Salvation Army, Evelyn Saller Centre and the other organizations that feed the hungry is that bad, if the Food Bank is that unable to help the hungry, then something has to change. There are dozens of organizations in the Downtown Eastside dedicated to helping feed hungry people, can some of them not receive real funding, real dollars to produce real food that will get people out of dumpsters at mealtimes? It may cost a little, it may cost a small fortune, but the lives of our most vulnerable citizens have value. If they don't, we are beyond redemption as a city, as a society.

Will the Vancouver Mayor during the 2010 Games make sure dignitaries get a copy of Better Bins and Dumpsters in their welcome packages?

Steve And Dubya Have A Play Date!!

2006-07-06T18:08:00.000-07:00

Somebody decided that the two boys living next to one another ought to get together for a day of fun. For Dubya, it meant playing with the neighborhood nerd, sort of a mercy play date, but for Stephen, it was almost like being allowed to go to the skate park with his big brother. Dubya and his buddy "Steve", it's almost enough to bring a tear to the eye.

They chatted about the required agenda items, softwood lumber, passports, terrorism. I'm sure Harper talked slowly and used small words; after all, his host seems to be a functional illiterate, and thinking too much might give him a headache. Bush may be a mental midget, but he has power, and power is a huge aphrodisiac, especially to a guy like Harper. It'll never come to him naturally, nor will the respect or confidence of most Canadians, but at least he gets to hang with the big boys.

It's frightening that Stephen Harper sees George Bush as a role model. Bush is the leader of a country steeped in a history of war, a country that buys into its own belief that it is the preferred destination of every human on the planet. The American Dream is a nightmare, but most "folks" don't see it that way. 9/11 happened because of American arrogance and an inability to understand that much of the rest of the world sees the U.S. as a bully and a tyrant. The sad thing is that it will happen again, because the people who need to understand just don't get it.

Canada is not a "superpower", nor are we, as Canadians, targets for abuse and hatred when we travel abroad. Stephen Harper will never be George Bush (as if the world could handle another one, Senior and Junior are enough for one planet) because Canadians hold their leaders to task for their actions. Loose cannons are not normal operating procedure in Canadian politics (although we do have our share of wingnuts....think Hedy Fry, Svend Robinson and provincially, Ralph Klein) and a leader with the sheer disregard Bush shows for the laws of the land, the civil liberties of American citizens, and the rights of non-Americans worldwide is appalling. Americans put up with Dubya's "good old boy" crap.

Canadians never would.

The Cat Hates Me.

2006-07-05T20:42:00.000-07:00

We adopted a retired breeding Maine Coon cat a few years ago. Her registered name paid homage to Madonna (the singer, not the saint) and that should have been a warning. Reckless, we threw caution to the wind, and brought home the bride of Satan devil cat from hell.

She hated me on sight.

Renamed Bella (because it suits her outer packaging, she is a beautiful looking cat, but sadly the lovely vessel contains the feline equivalent of toxic waste ) she quickly decided that Christine was to be her human, and I was nothing but a road block between her and her indentured servant. Not even a road block so much as a lump or an irritation to be excised. I tried to win her over, I bought her trinkets, treats, toys. I kept her litter box fresh and as sweet smelling as a cat toilet can smell. I made sure her dog-free zone was a fortress that no canine could breach. Like the scrawny, geeky kid who turns herself inside out to make the bully pick on someone else, I tried to make Bella see that I was not the enemy, but a friend she just hadn't yet discovered.

Still she hated me.

I brushed her gorgeous, long fur (to which I am so allergic ) because she is a very large cat, and can't groom herself in some hard-to-reach places. Did I mind the asthma attacks and blue tinge my face took on? No, of course not.

I rubbed her ears, and, hearing a low rumble, thought she was purring. Turned out she was growling and about to turn teeth and nails on my offending fingers.

I brought her cat trees, cat beds, cat shelves, real ostrich feathers, all the comforts and amusements money could buy. She snubbed the objects of my affection, and started watching me, following my movements with her eyes. She would appear, suddenly, out of nowhere, spectre-like, just to let me know that she was keeping me in her line of fire.

Still hates me.

So last night I am trying to have a quiet, relaxed conversation with Bella's maidservant, on what I thought was one of her breaks. Bella is a demanding boss, think Donald Trump without the charm and with better hair, and when Chris is summoned, she is expected to attend. Now. Her breaks are infrequent, we try to make the most of them.

Every time I opened my mouth to speak, Bella meowed. Loud. For a long time, and the look! One could have sustained hypothermia from that withering glare.

I fear that eventually she will figure out how to get rid of me, and she's clever enough to make it look like an "accident". One day I'll just have disappeared, and nobody will suspect Bella, nobody will ever know.

And she'll finally have Christine all to herself.......

The Devil Wears Prada - Nada.

2006-07-04T20:58:00.001-07:00

We thought, "Meryl Streep, the movie's gotta be great."

Yeah, 'k. Think again.

I can't believe we wasted hours precious hours (15 minutes of ads, don't get me started) of life sitting through such stupefyingly wretched crap.

The critics who said this film was "witty", "intelligent", and/or "relevent" must be on crack. It was pointless, had no social value, no message, no excuse for being made except to give Meryl Streep a reason to be embarrassed when she cashed her seven figure cheque, and to push even more young women to become anorexic and/or bulemic ("zero is the new two"). It did give a great diet tip, though, one should eat absolutely nothing at all, and then, when one is about to faint, eat a cheese cube.

Anne Hathaway is beautiful, and she made every designer outfit she wore look good, but that's not enough on which to base a movie. Her character had a little more humanity than Streep's, but when one is aping Cruella DeVille, that's not hard. By the time Andi's "aha" moment came, nobody cared, because nobody cared from moment one of this vapid mess.

The writers hit every stereotype with a sledge hammer. Tragic gay lap dog, innocent and earnest young journalist wannabe, selfless boyfriend, bitch boss from hell. Stanley Tucci (why does Hollywood insist on using str8 actors in gay parts?) was painfully one-dimensional as Nigel.

If this movie truly was based on Lauren Weisberger's year as Anna Wintours' assistant, and she stayed, she deserved every indignity played out on the screen. This adaptation is more like a Road Runner cartoon than anything any thinking adult might wish to watch.

The movie sucked.

"That's all."

Abortion: Woman's Body, Woman's Choice.

2006-07-04T20:22:00.000-07:00

The Americans are scaring me again. It's bad enough that there are states in which a woman cannot get a legal abortion in 2006, but what's worse is that some states are trying to claw back the rights of women to terminate unwanted pregnancies years after women were granted those rights.

Dubya is sending troops all over the globe to ensure the rights of people who don't want U.S. interference, in countries that (correctly) see him as a war criminal, while in his own little kingdom, the basic civil liberties of thousands of Americans are trampled daily. Can you say double standard, Mr. President?

Roe V Wade was decided on January 22, 1973, and the vocal, obnoxious, fanatical, frightening far left seems no less fervent now than it did 33 years ago. The anti-choice extremists haven't changed much, but society has. Equality is the norm in most states ( but we all know that there are a hell of a lot of places in the U.S. where some are more equal than others) and women have a great deal more power, stronger representation, louder voices....

And yet, some women, lots of women, are forced to give birth against their wills.

Any woman, in any situation, for any reason, should be able to get a safe abortion. The only place for argument is at what stage is an abortion not safe for a woman. This medical procedure should be of no concern to anyone but the pregnant woman and her physician. Why can anti-choice zealots not get that? It is not the "right" of the sperm supplier, government, religious groups or society to tell a woman that she must carry a fetus in her body if she chooses not to. Tell some guy that an unwanted article is going to be implanted in his body and he's going to be forced to carry it for 9 months against his will, and see what happens.

Americans have many issues about which they should be concerned. This isn't one of them.

Nova Scotia, WAKE UP, It's The Year Of Our Lord Two Thousand And Six!

2006-07-04T19:57:00.000-07:00

Note to the people of Nova Scotia:

You, collectively, are a laughingstock.

This "Sunday Shopping" thing has got to be resolved already! RCMP Officers armed with measuring tapes at the local Sobey's store? What the hell are you thinking?

Get over it, the whole "day of rest" obsession makes your province look like a throwback to the Puritans. And guess what? Most Nova Scotians may say they are Christians, but how many have entered a church for a regular service in the last month, year, decade? And guess what else? Sunday is not the Sabbath for the large majority of religions in the world. Believe it or not, people, there are those who are not WASPs in Nova Scotia. Shocking, isn't it?

One can get drunk in a bar on Sundays, gamble in any of a dozen or so ways, go to moving picture shows, the track, but buy a litre of milk at Superstore? Sacrilege!

Try to remember that most Canadians west of Quebec already believe the country ends at La Belle Province. This stupid, arcane law against Sunday shopping only proves the point that parts of Atlantic Canada are so backward and out of step that the region will never catch up and be a part of Canada.

This law isn't quaint, it doesn't make Nova Scotians look charming, it makes you look like fools.

Why The Space Shuttle Discovery Should Not Launch.

2006-07-03T22:35:00.000-07:00

Crew members of the doomed Space Shuttle Columbia, 1 February 2003:

- Rick D. Husband, Commander
- William C. McCool, Pilot
- Michael P. Anderson
- David M. Brown
- Kalpana Chawla
- Laurel Clark
- Ilan Ramon - the first Israeli in space

May they all rest in peace.

The Discovery is due to launch tomorrow, the fourth of July (the Americans do subscribe to go big or stay home, don't they) regardless of the fact that there is a crack in the shuttle's external fuel tank.

I hope the Discovery crew makes it back alive.

Godspeed to the STS-121 crew:

-Stephanie Wilson
-Michael Fossum
-Steve Lindsey, Commander
-Piers Sellers
-Mark Kelly, Pilot
-Thomas Reiter
-Lisa M. Nowak

Is It Time To Decommission CBC Television?

2006-07-03T19:15:00.000-07:00

The CBC National News is being bumped for "reality" television. Somebody do the right thing and pronounce the Canadian Broadcasting Company dead.

It wasn't so many years ago that many Canadians had two television channels from which to choose. The CBC or CTV. Maybe people watched the CBC because it was relevant or informative or entertaining, or maybe it was because Hockey Night In Canada was more bearable than The Littlest Hobo. There are now hundreds of channels, thousands of options, and really, aside from news and Rick Mercer, why would anyone watch the CBC in 2006?

CBC Radio is an entirely different matter. Still significant to the Canadian landscape, still connecting the country from coast to coast, and still the only station to which some Canadians have access. CBC Radio doesn't interrupt special reports to bring us Casey Kasem's Top 40, nor does it dumb down hard news.

If the seventeen Canadians who can't live without Rita MacNeil's Christmas Special (filmed before Ashley MacIsaac became Canada's RuPaul, and repeated every year since) want to keep CBC television on life-support, the government should turn the Corporation into a true public broadcasting station and let the Board of Directors beg and plead for donations to bring quality television to the great unwashed, a la PBS. How long would Hockey Night in Canada last if people actually had to pay to view?

Does your watch have a second hand?

Canada IS An Awesome Country. We Are Lucky to Be Here.

2006-07-01T17:56:00.000-07:00

It's our collective birthday. Three cheers for a country that is, while not perfect, pretty damn amazing. Of course there is the gorgeous geography, the healthy economy, the quality of life (for some, that's where the imperfection starts to creep in) and all the "normal" stuff about which most developed countries tend to brag.

What I'm most proud of is our diversity. Canada is not a "melting pot", she is a rainbow. Any given city can be home to hundreds of ethnicities and cultures, and it makes for a vibrant, intelligent, exciting landscape.

What other country can celebrate the fact that 40 Members of Parliament were born outside of Canada?

Diane Ablonczy, United States
Omar Alghabra, Saudi Arabia
Vivian Barbot, Haiti
Susan Barnes, Malta
Maurizio Bevilacqua, Italy
John Cannis, Greece
Raymond Chan, China
Chris Charlton, Germany
Olivia Chow, Hong Kong
Tony Clement, England
Libby Davies, England
Sukh Dhaliwal, India
Ujjal Dosanjh, India
Steven Fletcher, Brazil
Joe Fontana, Italy
Hedy Fry, Trinidad
Nina Grewal, Japan
Albina Guarnieri, Italy
Rahim Jaffer, Uganda
Jim Karygiannis, Greece
Wajid Khan, Pakistan
Maka Kotto, Cameroon
Gurbax Malhi, India
Inky Mark, China
Keith Martin, England
Tony Martin, Ireland
Maria Minna, Italy
Maria Mourani, Ivory Coast
Deepak Obhrai, Tanzania
Daniel Petit, Belgium
Yasmin Ratansi, Tanzania
Pablo Rodriguez, Argentina
Michael Savage, Northern Ireland
Mario Silva, Portugal
Peter Stoffer, Netherlands
Andrew Telegdi, Hungary
Lui Temelkovski, Macedonia
Myron Thompson, United States
Vic Toews, Paraguay
Joe Volpe, Italy
John Williams, Scotland

And our talented, intelligent, free-spirited and feminist Governor General, Her Excellency the Right Honourable Michaëlle Jean, Haitian by birth, is another example of why this country is becoming stronger, more relevent on the international stage, respected by other countries. Everyone has a chance to do amazing things in this country, and amazing things are being done every day.

I'm proud to be a Canadian, not just today, but especially today.

Happy Birthday Canada.

How Can A Parent Hate Her Child?

2006-07-01T00:41:00.000-07:00

I recently said something to the effect of "my mother didn't love me, or care about my safety, occassionally beat me senseless, and basically had no respect for any female, herself or me included, but she hated my little brother with a passion"

I was then asked "Why did she hate him so much?"

I've given this a lot of thought. It has been taking up a lot of the limited space in my brain, and I felt the need to examine it. I can't have too many negative queries banging around in there all at once, no good can come from that.

Dugger was sweet. Dugger, of course, was a nickname. His other nicknames were vile and varied, and were sometimes as effective as a blow to his body when used cruelly.

He was a small baby, cute and cuddly and needy, like new babies are. I was three when he arrived with the "social worker", whom I now regard as more a dealer or a pimp, and he instantly became "mine".

He was slow to talk (he didn't need to talk, I knew what he wanted before he did, and made damn sure he had it before he cried for it, because he was beaten early and often when he expressed needs, wants or desires). He was slow to walk. Slow to tie his shoes, dress himself, potty train (God, the physical scars that little boy has carried to manhood because he couldn't get the concept of toilet training). He wasn't challenged, had no learning disabilities, he just sort of wandered through like at his own pace.

My mother detested him. She routinely beat him black and blue. He cried, as little boys will when they are being brutalized, which sent her over the edge. That's where I stepped in, since she didn't really recognize at that point who she was pounding, only that someone was hurting, and it wasn't her. It went on for years and years, through belts, canes, riding crops, broom handles, to a tire iron, a rolling pin, a cast iron frying pan and a table leg. Her abuse made me hard, but it made him soft. I hated her with every ounce of strength I had, but Dugger wanted to earn her love. It was pathetic....this wee sweet boy, only wanting his mommy to love him, this drunk, hatred filled, violent anti-mommy wanting this "pussy boy" to become a man.

Like who? Her violent, drunken, unpredictable tyrant husband? This poster child for birth control or retroactive abortion?

We were beaten, pretty much daily, "beaten" being one of those quaint words that really means battered, brutalized and dehumanized. We learned not to scream, no matter how much it hurt, we learned not to cry, to whimper, to make a sound. We learned not to beg, plead or run. I got tougher, Dugger got softer, sometimes almost catatonic. I would provoke a beating to give him time to escape. Sometimes he did, more often he did not, which made it bad for both of us, but for me it was hell, because he was always first, and I always had to watch, and wait....

They hated him. He was a beautiful, perfect baby with the most angelic smile and a giggle like fairy music. She beat it out of him and eventually made him into her "perfect man" a substance abuser, a hate filled tyrant who chose to fill his life with a mysogynistic, homophobic, racist "church". I bled for him, and would again, willingly, I would do anything to make my baby brother whole again, but he is gone.

I'm so sorry, Dugger. I wanted to save you. I failed.

7 % Or 6%, The Grab/Snatch Tax Is Still Legalized Theft.

2006-07-01T00:13:00.000-07:00

Harpo and his cronies have fulfilled their promise of dropping the Goods and Services Tax by one whopping percent.

Woo Hoo, now all those people who can't afford to buy fresh fruit and vegetables for their children, and clothing, transportation or any other basic needs for themselves or their children, can only dream of owning a home, taking a family vacation, providing a decent education for their children, finding a way out of grinding, soul crushing poverty, well now all their problems should be over! Last week every family was promised $100 per child under six per month, if the family applied for this child credit. Now 1% less tax! Look out Kitsalano, all the newly wealthy families from Strathcona will be moving in to your 'hood because of Mister Harper's largesse.

Jerk.

Our little Bush-wannabe sees himself as decisive, hard-nosed and "out there". His recent "gifts" of stolen taxpayer monies is very similar to Bush's returning stolen liberties to prisoners at Gitmo. It wasn't theirs to take (in Harper's defense, one of his distinguished mentors, Brian Mulroney, is to blame) but they act as if they are Santa and God mixed together when they make their ponderous announcements.

Stephen Harper is a nasty little troll who has proven he feels superior to the press, feels that his Ministers and MPs are his puppets, and they will follow the party line, his party line, or find themselves in purgatory. The electorate who caused his status as Prime Minister of the moment is beneath his contempt. God, Pierre Trudeau has returned, but without his style, class, grace and intelligence.

Spring election, anyone. The three billygoats gruff need their bridge keeper back.

Canine News

2006-06-23T13:03:00.000-07:00

We have sadly discovered that our beloved Piper (the Punk), is not as perfect as we thought she was when she joined our family. We now know that she has a serious disability, and we are, of course, heartbroken that Pipes is not "normal" in society's terms, but we will love her and care for her as if she were like any other dog who looks like an alien baby, smells like she lives on a diet of beans, cabbage and broccoli, snores like a drunken sailor and thinks she is a Pugtreiver.

The Punk can't bark.

Every once in a while I'm in another part of our three level townhouse and hear, from the first floor, the sound of a gerbil being strangled (or, more accurately, the sound I think a strangling gerbil would make, never having heard a gerbil strangle). The sound is pathetic, very heart-wrenching, and it always catches me off-guard.

It's Piper, trying to bark. Like a dog. The alien baby is so determined to be seen as a real canine that she steadfastly pretends to be disability-free, but the sad truth is that the Punk squeaks.

Yes, she plays fetch, yes she loves bones, yes she loves her stuffies (and has a very disconcerting obsession with tree limbs and leaves), but she is more rodent than dog. Actually, no self-respecting rat would make a noise that lame.

The other dogs are fine. Madison lost 10 pounds, Kirby found them. Chunky hates Piper with a passion. MacKenzie-the-Shark is plotting a coup, Clio is Clio, sweet and simple. The dogs have us, beaches and one another, life is good.

Except for the defective Pug.

The Guilty, All Of Them, Need To Be Held Accountable.

2006-06-22T22:51:00.000-07:00

It's 2006, and little children, babies, are still being murdered by members of their "families" or people responsible for their care and protection. Thousands of kids are being brutalized in their own homes, with no hope of escape. Foster care is a joke, and a bad one, living on the streets is life-limiting, and though lots of lip service is paid to the plight of abused and neglected children, nobody is making any real moves towards societal change.

And somebody knows. Somebody is always aware, we do not exist in vacuums, and battered children are not invisible. People who are alert to the fact that abuse is taking place and choose to do nothing, say nothing, for whatever pathetic excuse they conjure up, are complicit. Not quite as guilty as the abusers themselves, perhaps, but still as guilty as hell.

Child abuse, in all its insidious forms, has to be made abhorrent to every member of society, regardless of race, ethnicity, religious or cultural beliefs, or history. Until child abusers, and those who shield them by not reporting abuse, are reviled for being the cowards and bullies they are, children will be bruised and broken every single day. Some will die, some will live and grow up to be bruised and broken adults.

I know that there were several people in my small childhood community who knew what was happening behind the walls of my house. They knew, and chose to ignore the torture of small children. That's sub-human, repulsive behaviour, and I wish those people suffered with the pain of guilt. They don't though. Guilt requires an understanding of right and wrong, and people who allow the abuse of children are not burdened with conscience.

I'll see you all in hell.

Blue Eyes. Black Heart.

2006-06-20T20:43:00.000-07:00

Has anyone ever touched you with the intent to inflict grievous bodily harm, with the absolute disregard for your health and welfare that can only come from someone who just couldn't care less whether you lived or died, as long as he wasn't held responsible? I'm not talking a slap here or a punch there, I'm talking a 1'x2' coming, in the dark, from nowhere, with no warning and no sound until wood finds flesh.

If you haven't, stop reading, you can't understand, and won't be made to understand by reading further, it'll just be heartbreaking or titillating, depending on whether you are compassionate or totally insensitive.

I've been coming to terms with a lot of my less pleasing characteristics lately. Part of my disposition is hard wired, but mostly, my temperament is the direct result of fist on flesh, or some weapon chosen for versatility, watching siblings being pounded, waiting for the next attack (and there was always a next attack), and knowing, being reminded every day, and many nights, that the bastard could do whatever he wanted to me, whenever he wanted, and I was only going to stop him by escaping or dying.

Not that I didn't fantasize. My body was battered, but my imagination ran riot. I planned a hundred, maybe a thousand ways to stop him, hurt him, kill him. I knew that I could never get away with any of my vicious daydreams, but they allowed me some vengeance, at least in my soul. My fantasies were vile, and had I mentioned them to anyone, I'm sure I would have been labelled a troubled child and not just "trouble".

I am a violent person masquerading as a pacifist. My father taught me to suck it up, put all feelings aside, but I also learned that brutality is the ultimate power. I will never be the victim of any man again. I know how to defend myself now, and may Goddess help anyone who tries anything. I'm just afraid that once started, I'd never stop.

Retribution became a big deal to me as a very small child. I couldn't stop my father (or my mother) but there were other wrongs to be righted. I settled scores for any unfairness I witnessed, regardless of whether I was involved. I brought myself a whole world of hurt doling out reprisals for stuff that was none of my business. One teacher actually broke her pointer on my leg, and screamed at me, "What are you, inhuman? Do you not feel pain? Do you like pain?" I remember thinking "pointer, amateur".

I learned to nurse a grudge, forgetting no slight, regardless how insignificant. One was my ally or my enemy. I became the anti-bully, protecting the small from the big, the weak from the powerful. I fought like a tiger to protect my little brother from threats, both real and imagined, and I have the scars to prove that I won the battle of wills with years worth of teachers to keep my brother safe. They had no weapons in their arsenals scarier than my father's hands. I had no weapons at all.

I developed into an angry young woman, embracing rabid, uncompromising feminism. I went from identifying as a Lesbian to acting and reacting as I believed a Dyke should. As an adult woman, I am still angry and full of hatred, but my rages are fewer and more centred. I don't go looking for physical altercations anymore, but I am a sarcastic bitch who storms through life with balled fists and clenched teeth all the time.

I hate. My anger is not distaste, it is violent abhorrence of many things: child abuse, child poverty, child sexual abuse, violence against women, systemic racism, homophobia, religious intolerance. I have overblown, fierce reactions to being questioned about my actions, although those reactions are generally delayed, and I blow up over something stupid and unrelated hours or days later.Just like almost every other humam being I also get pissed at traffic, stupid people, empty milk cartons left in the fridge, dirty dishes in the sink, someone saying "sorry, I didn't hear you" for the umpteenth time. I get angry when I'm scared, I get angry when I'm tired. Am I going to beat someone into unconsciousness with a belt or a broom handle because I'm angry? No, I'm not. Am I going to watch another part of my heart blacken and die?

Yes, yes am.

Nature vs Nurture

2006-06-05T15:17:00.000-07:00

It is said, by people who are supposed experts, that two of the most important aspects determining who we become are nature and nurture. Obviously heredity is an important factor, and it comforts me to realize that my birth mother provided me with enough positive traits to help my nature overcome the total lack of nurturing I received.

I've never really given much thought to searching for my birth mother. I occassionally give in to the "what-ifs", but not in any serious way, certainly not in any formal manner. I've given zero thought to finding my birth father, which seems to be the norm for most of my adopted friends and aquaintances. I grew up being told that my birth mother was 17, and I was born as the result of a rape. This could be true, and I certainly believed it when I was a child, which caused me no end of self-hatred, but as an adult, I have come to doubt the "facts" of my conception. She probably was 17, and as a Jewish teenager in Newfoundland in the mid sixties, being 17 must have been hard. She may have been raped, but she may also have just had casual sex with some boy she knew. In a "good" Jewish family, in Newfoundland ( seems oxymoronic, I know) in the sixties, being raped was far more acceptable than screwing with some local and getting "knocked up". He must have been a Gentile (like 99 % of Newfoundlanders were at that time) because I have brilliant blue eyes, unlike any of my siblings (all Jewish, all adopted) or any of my adoptive mother's people (all "pure", as I was often reminded, unlike me).

She hasn't tried to find me, I haven't tried to find her, and I can live with that. My sister found her "real" mother, and it was an unmitigated disaster that nearly destroyed my sister's fragile psyche. I have questions, of course.....health related, history, the usual stuff, but what I really want to know, what would really fill the empty spaces, is "why?" She would never be able to give me a satisfactory answer of course, and no response would truly make a difference, except for maybe a measure of comfort, knowing that it wasn't my fault I ended up where I did. I have to believe she felt she was doing the right thing, although in reality she probably had no voice in the decision to give me away. I have to believe that she hoped my life would be better, easier, bigger than hers. I have to believe, in order to protect my own sanity, that she had no idea she was sending her newborn into hell, or she would have found a way to stop it. I don't so much need to know if she loved me at all, but I do need to know that she didn't hate me.

The mother I ended up with should never have been given a child to raise. She couldn't take care of herself, and being burdened with other womens' unwanted offspring just made her problems deeper, darker and more acute. My brother once considered launching a lawsuit against the agencies that gave several babies to a couple who were woefully, obviously and horribly ill-equipped to care for them. They gave a sexual predator trapped victims, they gave two survivors of vicious childhood abuse, two people who never got help, never thought there was any other way of life, helpless babies who became the means for them to carry on the cycle of victims becoming perpetrators.

It stops here. I would no more harm a child than I would suddenly sprout wings and fly. There is no excuse for victims who become abusers, and I have no tolerance, no empathy, nothing but disgust for any survivor who harms children. Judgemental? Yeah, so? Child abusers are scum, they deserve to be judged, and until every member of society demands that abusers be stopped, more and more terrorized kids will grow up to be disfunctional adults.

Until every child is a wanted child, a loved child, a protected child, we must all take responsibility.

I Can't Let Go.

2006-06-04T14:56:00.000-07:00

I get fixated on subjects sometimes, and letting go is a process of perseveration followed by an almost physical separation of my thoughts from my brain.

Right now my family of origin is wedged, tight, into my psyche. If I could verbalize my thoughts, I suppose it might not take so long for the natural progression from thought to obsession then on to something manageable, but I can't speak with the ease of writing, and I'm a two-finger typist (guess which two fingers I use).

We were an almost silent family. Nobody spoke unless spoken to, and the lack of sound was deafening. When I was young, my mother was a screamer, but as we got older, and her alchoholism became complete, she stopped yelling, and communicated with her fists, belts, brooms, and in at least one case, a fireplace poker. She'd wreak havoc, then sleep, her rage spent, while we tried to make sense of a totally nonsensical world.

My father never raised his voice. He spoke in calm, clear, accented sentences. When he got mad, his voice lowered, and lowered again, until it was nearly impossible to hear what he was saying. It never really mattered what he was saying anyway, my father never believed in talking things through. Actions speak far, far louder than words, and there is no language that comes close to fist, leather, wood or metal on flesh.

We were not permitted to cry. We did, of course, when we were too young to know how to make the tears stop. Sometimes I think the psychological torture was far worse than the physical. I learned fast, my brother much more slowly, to remove all feeling from my body. That was the easy part. Cutting off feelings is literally a double-edged sword, the pain is deferred, but feeling anything at all becomes hard, sometimes impossible. I still almost never feel hunger, I ignore most pain, or only acknowledge it when things are dire, I have inappropriate responses to some situations, and as awful as they can be (laughing when someone is hurt, getting angry when someone is crying) I truly cannot change those reactions. For years I simply denied my own need for sleep, and now I take medication to supply me with the ability to get six hours of real rest. I spent so many years forcing myself to stay awake to protect my brother and myself that it became a habit to be awake for days and nights) at a time.

There was never enough of anything in our house, heat, food, money, love. If my mother cooked something, and there was too little to feed everyone, somebody didn't eat. That person was never one of my parents, and whomever went hungry on any given day was not allowed to leave the table until everyone else finished. My sister, brothers and I knew the rules, and followed them, to do otherwise was unthinkable. My brother was a skinny, scrawny little kid, whose head seemed far too large for his body. He was always hungry, he woke up every day and went to sleep every night with an ache in his belly. Trying to share food, save food or steal food could result in broken bones, but we both tried anyway.

To say that food and issues around food and eating still plague me is a gross understatement. I don't think I will ever have a normal, healthy relationship with food.

Chanukah, birthdays, any special occassions meant that someone would be left out. I am still far more comfortable with giving gifts than receiving them. There can never be too many gifts for those I love, it becomes critically important for me to not only find the right present, but enough presents.

It will get easier, I have faith in my partner, my family of choice and my doctor. I've already survived childhood, it can't get worse than that.

Can it?

Stephen Harper. Socially Inept And Arrogant. Who Knew?

2006-06-04T12:19:00.000-07:00

What an interesting man our current Prime Minister is turning out to be.

Everyone knew that Mr Harper had his God's private cell phone number, e-mail address and they were closerthanthis in Harper's rabidly religious little mind, but St. Stephen seems to feel he's in line to take over from St. Peter as God's right hand man. He's already proving that he's a decisive resolution maker. No more flying the flag at half staff when members of Canada's military are killed in action in some part of the world that resents our presence and will fight to the death to get our sadly under-funded, under-equipped and under-staffed troops back on Canadian soil, alive or dead. You tell 'em Mr. Harper, that's the way to lead a divided country.

Lester B. Pearson must be weeping in whatever plane he inhabits.

Harper hates the press, does not believe in free speech, has a short fuse, a shorter memory, and is distainful of anyone who isn't, well, him. Or George W. Bush, who is the only other mortal that Harper seems to believe is worthy of his time and energy. Like Dubya, Harper is a marginally intelligent, socially clumsy, egomaniacal and power hungry politician. The difference between Bush and Harper is that Dubya stole the presidency fair and square, and unless the U.N. gets smart and charges him with crimes against humanity, he'll go down in America's dubious history as a legitimate two-termer. Harper is the basically by-default leader of a minority government in a country that can be fickle. There are not enough dyed-in-the-wool far (far) right conservatives in Canada to save him and his little band of throwbacks should he piss off enough people.....and he will. The fifth estate is a powerful force in a large, far flung country. When the press finally decides that this obnoxious, narcissistic, Dubya-wannabe has to go, they will ensure that even the most die-hard Bible-thumping, freedom-hating, fire-and-brimstone Albertans sees Harper for what he is. A bogus, shallow man who got lucky for a while, and was allowed to perform the role of Prime Minister of Canada.

Uh-Oh. Poetry.

2006-06-04T11:56:00.000-07:00

i learned to be a girl child
at the knees
of women
brutalized
made harsh and distant
generation after generation
each one more filled
with self loathing
by their mothers before them
in a world made
foreign
heartless
frightening
by their own fear
i learned to be a woman
at the fists of men
brutal
harsh and distant
hate filled
made violent
generation after generation
by their fathers before them
in a world made for
conquering
dominating
terrorizing
and now i am an alien
unprepared for adulthood
personhood
womanhood
in a world made for
affection
compassion
tenderness
pain and fear i understand
learned through the blood of foremothers
the violence of forefathers
i do not question hurt
it is love i dread

Laying Demons To Rest

2006-06-03T12:04:00.000-07:00

I'm in the inenviable position of finally coming to terms with the things that make me tick. I have great respect for womyn (and men) who successfully fight their internal battles early in their adulthoods, giving themselves the permission to live the balance of their lives on their own terms.

I tried, as a much younger adult, to work through the traumas of my childhood. I failed, at that time, quite miserably, and gave up healing as a lost cause. So I crashed through life, bull-in-a china-shop style, never feeling "okay", never feeling "real", allowing myself to do stupid things, dangerous, thoughtless and sometimes awful things, and justifying my bad behaviour, my carelessness, my lack of responsibility by blaming everything on the abuse.

Not to diminish the effects of the abuse. It was horrific, and I can now look back at my child self and say, with absolute truthfulness, that I could not survive that level of violence, terror, pain and cruelty now. I was a much tougher kid than the adult I grew to become. That I escaped my childhood at all amazes me, to have escaped with my intellect intact, and to have accomplished any meaningful and healthy goals is a small miracle.

Our house had no interior doors. There was no privacy, no place to hide. My father was a functioning alchoholic who was given to flying into fits of rage with little or no warning. He was an angry, deeply unhappy man who blamed everyone but himself for the life he led. Nobody in "his" house was safe from him. My mother, my siblings and I were at his mercy. Except that there was no mercy.

My mother grew up being battered, emotionally, physically and verbally, by her mother. Her father was a happy drunk, seemingly oblivious to the torture endured by my mother and her sisters. In reality, he chose to abdicate any responsibility for the safety and well-being of his children, and my mother, in turn, chose to hide in a bottle and let my father brutalize his children. We were violated in every way that one human being can be violated by another, often in full view of other family members. My father seemed to enjoy finding new ways to cause pain, ours was a world of hurt.

The difference between my mother and her father is that my mother was not a happy drunk. She slept a lot, but when she was awake, she was almost as vicious as my father. She hated my younger brother with a passion. There was something about him that caused her to lose any control she ever had of her temper. I spent years trying to defend my brother from her, and from my father, with various degrees of success. Sometimes he escaped, most times he didn't. I deflected their violence when I could, but more often than not, we were both left bruised and bleeding, clinging to one another, bound by our shared misery.

My brother hasn't spoken to me in many, many years. I'm a Lesbian, and regardless of the number of times we spent long nights hiding outside together, regardless of the number of times I intercepted blows that were meant for him, regardless of the number of times I held him while he cried, I no longer exist to him because I love womyn, and to him that is unforgiveable. I stood by him during his self-destructive years of drug and alchohol abuse. I bailed him out of jail, lied for him, cried for him and almost died for him, and his last words to me were "I hate you." Too bad I still love him as much as I did when he was five, too bad I would still give my life to save his, too bad I can't turn my back on someone who no longer exists.

I developed into an angry, fearful, defensive, reckless and scary adult. I don't drink, I don't do illegal drugs, I'm not a sexual predator and I don't hit people, but other than that, I am a lot like my father. I'm passive-aggressive, I blame others for my failures and shortcomings, my temper can be violent and I often hurt the people to whom I am closest. I use words, or silence, or emotional blackmail instead of my fists, but abuse is abuse, and I'm as guilty as he was of throwing my weight around.

The biggest difference between me and my father is that I don't want to live this way. I know there is help, I understand my thoughts and my behaviours are not acceptable, and I'm choosing to do something about it. He self-medicated and fed his hatred. I'm following the advice of a medical professional and trying to extinguish the hatred.

Wish me luck.

When Memories Hurt.

2006-05-04T22:28:00.000-07:00

Christine and I are sort of in the process of house-hunting.The dream of finding the "perfect" home for our family in East Vancouver, a community we have embraced as our own, is slowly morphing into a nightmare of affordable houses being totally awful to downright frightening.

Chris found a house in the Republic of East Van that, while not fitting any of the preconceived ideas we had, was priced affordably. It sported zero of our "must haves", none of our " wish list" items, but its greatest sin was that it looks chillingly like the house in which I survived childhood. Ever experienced a viceral reaction to a house you have not entered? Without ever setting foot in that little shack, I was unable to breath, as my heart was racing out of control, felt instantly vulnerable and in great danger. Not fun, not at all.

There are several similar houses in Vancouver to which I react badly, but I've never contemplated entering any of them for any reason. Since they are what we can afford to buy in our chosen neighborhood, while being financially secure and at least a little mature, it looks as if we must say goodbye to our beloved East Van, and hello to PoCo or Port Moody. I'm sure hell houses, full of debilitating memories exist there, too......but ours won't we one of them.

Christine And Deborah, Up A Tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

2006-05-02T18:05:00.000-07:00

We are an odd combination, Christine and me. I've never loved anyone the way I love her, she makes me want to be a better person, I'm a lucky woman.

At night, I'm also a cold woman, because my sweet Chris is a dedicated and accomplished blanket hog. She denies it, just like she denies she takes her half of the bed out of the middle, but goosebumps don't lie.

She can't fold laundry. How a well educated, intelligent, talented woman made it to 40 not knowing how to fold a pair of drawers is beyond me. She is banned (happily, of course) from doing the laundry, because when she tries, my clothes come back in worse shape than they were when she started.

I can see us as a "little" (it's all relative, y'know) old couple. She'll have a selection of aprons to wear around her neck when she eats, because food never goes directly from her fork to her mouth, there has to be a detour to her shirt. Hopefully the aprons will be multi-pocketed. She'll then have easy access to her kleenex, her lip balm, and her hand cream. It'll be better that way, because God help anyone who comes between Chris and her lip balm.

She'll spend her days drinking Tetley tea, watching reruns of "her" Kiefer on 24. (I wonder whether Jack will have finally broken down and taken a bathroom break, or changed his cell phone battery by the time Chris is 80?). She'll have her remotes, telephone, iPod, salt shaker and back-up lip balm laid out beside her chair. There will be a small breed dog in either arm, although I doubt she'll be doing the "Pee Piper, pee Piper, Piper go pee, good peeing Piper" routine by herself then.

She'll still yell at me from five rooms away, and get frustrated when I don't respond because I don't hear her. She'll also continue to point out that I do the exact same thing.

Will she still laugh when I need an audience? Will she still carry on inane conversations with me just because we like the sound of one anothers' voices? Will she still tell me I'm strong and smart and beautiful, and be able to make me believe it?

No doubt she'll still be putting her cup in the sink right after I've finished the dishes. She'll still get all bent about whether the toilet paper goes over or under, and I'll still never get it right. She'll still leave time on the microwave, and refuse to wear a watch, choosing instead to ask me the time 200 times a day.

Will she still love "hens and chicks"? Milk served partially frozen? The Walrus magazine? Will she still be a computer whiz? Will she still dance like Elaine from Seinfeld?

Will she still order Shirley Temples at high-end restaurants?

What will Angelina and I call her when "Gamma" is no longer a joke? We'll come up with something, I'm sure.

Will she still prefer screechy, atonal, angry female singers and schmaltzy, folky, oh-so-earnest male singers? Will she still be cold when everyone else is hot, and hot whenever everyone else is cold? Will she still want every electronic "toy" on the market, the very moment it becomes available?

Will hers still be the only opinion that really matters? Will it still be her voice that grounds me, her touch that comforts me, her eyes that see straight into my soul?

I am a lucky woman.

Mamas Don't Let Your Girls Grow Up To Be Vicious.

2006-05-01T19:25:00.000-07:00

I know a little girl who is 10 (although she may be 11, and if she knew I got her age wrong, she might be unimpressed, a year makes a lot of difference). She's not a "little girl" in the sense that she plays with dolls or wears pink ribbons in her hair, but to me she's a child, a normal, healthy, above-average kid, not a 40 year old sociopath in a 10 (or 11) year old's body.

Last month police charged a 12-year-old girl with three counts of first-degree murder in connection with the deaths of her mother, father, and 8 year old brother. Apparently her accomplice was her 23 year old "boyfriend". The fact that this child was into goth, punk and death-metal music, was being sexually abused by an adult who professed to be a 300 year old vampire, and had access to guns begs the question "Who the hell was responsible for this kid?" Why was this little kid allowed to be so vulnerable?

My thought, though, is when did this girl's wiring get so screwed up that she could actually go through with the massacre of her family? She murdered her baby brother. Her mother. Her father. In cold blood, with what is now believed to be calculated and meticulous planning.

Lots of kids seek out "alternative" scenes. Tattoos, piercings, the whole "punk" lifestyle. They see a much larger world via the internet, and have access to a big and dangerous, and mostly uncharted space that can eat them alive if someone isn't watching out for them.

There is a giant leap between a kid getting a tattoo to piss off mom, and beating mom to death. Lots of kids are angry, lots of kids hate their families, hate the world, hate themselves, but they don't commit murder.

Another 12 year old girl has been charged with aggravated assault after she burned a woman with a torch and left her to die behind a video store. The victim survived, but not because the kid wanted her to, strangers saved her life.

So back to my young friend. She is the kind of child I (maybe naively) think of as "normal". Smart, creative, sensitive to the needs of her fellow humans and a lover of animals. She has two parents who love and support her. She likes her scooter, loves to swim, hang out with her friends and play video games. She was born perfect, just like every baby, just like the kid who murdered her family, just like the kid who tortured another human being with a torch.

What went wrong?

What If We Have To Move To The SubSubSuburbs?

2006-05-01T10:21:00.000-07:00

We are in the market for a house. This, of course, is exciting, wonderful, a very big step. We are extremely lucky to have been put into a position where home ownership is possible. For some it is a dream that will never come true.

Especially in Vancouver!

The MLS pages are our new reading material. I must say "you have got to be kidding" fifty times a day. Cracker boxes on a miniscule plot wedged between two other cracker boxes on similar plots are being listed for $600 000! And they are selling! Forget character, forget charm, forget space, privacy or even pride of ownership. Basically for a half a million dollars in East Van, one gets either a really ugly Vancouver special, or a dump built in 1921, and renovated in 1950.

I've found some gorgeous properties for upwards of $800 000. In Nova Scotia, where grew up, a million bucks would buy a relative mansion on twenty acres, with manicured lawns, mature trees, maybe a pond, outbuildings, and space!

So we have faced the frightening fact that our dollars will go much, much further out in the suburbs. **Shudder**. This is what we get for saying we will never leave East Van, that we are urban Dykes, and you would never catch us living in the burbs.

Yeah 'k. Never say never. Port Moody, Port Coquitlam....they are looking more like realistic locations all the time. Poor Angelina may develop hives. The subs are so not ready for a family like ours.

I guess this means in future I could be blogging about Kirby's PoCo Harem.

The Liberal Leadership Race

2006-04-24T00:01:00.000-07:00

Actually "race" is far too animated a term. It's more like the Liberal Leadership Potato Sack Competition.

Scott Brison, the token openly-gay Conservative-cum-Liberal MP from the Annapolis Valley has thrown his name into the stew. Finally a little colour! It's about time, this non-event is only interesting by virtue of the fact that all the potentially clear front-runners decided they did not to become the leader of a party that could lose to a guy like Stephen Harper. It is admirable for a captain to go down with a sinking ship, but to report for duty when the ship is resting on the ocean floor is just stupid.

I thought Frank McKenna had a lock on the job. Chris was sure it would be Brian Tobin. Allan Rock? Lloyd Axeworthy? Beaker (aka John Manley, who bears a remarkable, frightening resemblance to Dr Bunson Honeydew's faithful assistant on the Muppet Show)? Squealing Sheila Copps? Hedy (short for Headcase?) Fry? Nope, not a one. They all ran screaming into the night.Belinda Stronach decided not to run because her mastery of the french language n'est pas si grand. Sure Belinda, it had nothing to do with the fact that you want nothing to do with riding a dead horse.....

So now we have political heavyweights like Joe Volpe, Michael Ignatieff (the "celebrity" candidate), Maurizio Beviacqua, Martha Hall Findlay, Stephane Dion, and as of Monday 24 April, maybe Carolyn Bennett, and Bob Rae, just for comedic relief. Y-A-W-N.

Stephen Harper must be thinking God is smiling at him.....this motley crew is making him look competent. Pierre Trudeau, where are you when Canada needs some drama? Even dead, you are more likely to challenge the Harpies.Thank God for the NDP. Go Jack go!!

Depression Is A Family Illness.

2006-04-23T21:24:00.000-07:00

I refer to Clinical Depression a lot. To some it may appear as if that's all there is of interest in my life. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I have a very full, rich and rewarding life, and on good days, I realize how blessed I am. I have a life partner who stands by me through the good, the bad, and the ugly. I have chosen family that brings me joy. I have good friends, a great career, and, of course, I have the Goonies, my furry kids, six beautiful reasons to get up every day, six souls who love me with every ounce of passion they can muster.

Some days it is fairly easy to be positive, other days it feels as though the blackness could swallow me whole if I were to stop fighting with all my strength for just a millisecond. Most days it takes a lot of energy just to behave the way I think "normal" people are expected to behave. Even before I was finally diagnosed with Depression, I was the anti Little Mary Sunshine. I was more like her lesser-known cousin, Little Bitchy Rainstorm.

Chris is the person most affected by my mood disorder, and she is the reason I am willing and able to battle my demons. It has not been easy for her. I'm a difficult person to live with, and it can't all be blamed on Depression. Chris gives me the strength I don't always have to carry on. She also gives me unconditional love and support. Most importantly, though, she will deliver a swift kick in the ass when one is required, and she makes her needs clearly known. She doesn't put up with a lot of bullshit, and I love her for that.

Medications have come a long way in the treatment of Depression and Anxiety Disorders, but drugs alone can't "cure" these illnesses. I'm fortunate that the resources I need are available, and that I have supportive family and friends. So many people don't, and lose their battles with the darkness. I tried, several times, to find a permanent solution to end the psychic pain. I'm lucky, I failed, many don't.

The highs and lows of my daily life may someday change from Mount Everest and the Grand Canyon to something a little less dramatic. One can hope. As it is now, life is not boring. Scary, yes. Unpredictable, yes. Boring, never.

Today, The World Is A Sadder Place.

2006-04-23T17:12:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Angelina, my friend Alexa and I sat with a sweet, beautiful, elderly Pit Bull and cuddled her, brushed her, hugged her, whispered sweet nothings in her ear, fed her sirloin and cried bitter tears into her soft blonde fur as she died.

Her name was Lacey.

Lacey died surrounded by a wall of love that protected her from the reality of being euthanized in a shelter. She had friends holding her head, her paws, keeping her warm and safe as she left a world that offered her nothing but pain.

Lacey was dumped in the gutter, literally. Left on the side of a busy street by an uncaring bastard who decided he (or she) no longer wanted the responsibility of an old, sick, hurting dog. She had a fused spine (the result of an untreated or poorly treated massive injury), untreated arthritis that made any and all movement painful, fleas, was underweight, had been skunked, and had a mouth full of rotten teeth.

In spite of all her pain and suffering, Lacey maintained her spirit. She was a loving dog, loyal to those who took the time to show her affection. She was playful, fun-loving and smart. Lacey was loved for her strength, her spunk and her beautiful soul. The abuse, neglect and abandonment she suffered did not destroy her, it made her a survivor.

In the end, Lacey's body failed her, and the pain became too much for medication to combat successfully. The decision to help her die was made with compassion and love for Lacey, but it still hurts. We searched long and hard to find a home for Lacey, a place where she could die quietly, peacefully and with dignity. We failed. Lacey died in a shelter.

May her "family" rot in hell.

You are loved, Lacey. You will always be my Loverdog.

Giving Birth To An 11 Pound Head.

2006-04-16T13:22:00.000-07:00

Okay, so it was all a dream, but it was such a vivid dream that the first thing I did when I woke up was to look for a Caesarean Section scar.

A kick ass new combination of medications has allowed me, after literally years of interrupted, fractured or non-existant sleep, to get 8 hours of quality sleep pretty much every night. Woo Hoo. The caveat is that I now dream, and unlike before, when "sleep" meant exhausted wakefullness, I can't wake myself up from dreams I'd like to escape.

I found myself hugely pregnant, about to deliver, and on the phone with Christine, who said she had to stop by Starbucks before she came to the hospital. When I tried to explain why that course of action was unacceptable to me, my beloved; the other mother of this child, my rock, turned off her cell phone.

Things quickly went downhill from there. Angelina scared the nurses. My doctor (40 + and pregnant with twins) told me to suck it up. Labour was a bitch, and when Chris finally arrived to start her coaching duties, she used all the ice chips for her Pepsi. She forgot to bring the CD I had chosen to create a warm, comfortable atmosphere, so she ran out to her car and grabbed the first disc she could find. Tori Amos. Oh nice. "I'm atonal, my songs make no sense, only 11 people even know I exist, but my tractor loves me and I love her, too" I swore that if my daughter grew up listening to "my husband died, my lover, too, my dog hates me and I'm so bluuuuue" I'd have to kill someone.

The baby (probably scared by the Tori Amos "music") was in no rush to come out. Hours went by, Chris remembered that she had to get to BlockBuster before it closed, and left.

The baby ended up being an 11 pound head. Oh, there was a tiny baby body, with 8 fingers, two thumbs, 10 toes, but her head was 11 pounds. Labour was getting us nowhere, and I had visions of giving birth to a triangle with arms and legs. That's when my doctor decided to do a C Section.

All of a sudden there are 20 people in the room. None of them is Christine, but I recognized a bunch of her friends. The head was delivered just as Chris arrived (she had to stop at Cob's), and the doctor asked whether she wanted to cut the umbilical cord. She said she didn't want to get her hands dirty. The doc said she'd need to wear gloves anyway, but Chris complained that she didn't have any hand cream.

The 11 pound head was born healthy, with huge blue eyes. I wanted to breast feed her immediately, but got vetoed. I actually got shoved into the hallway while everyone else in the room had a party. The 11 pound head didn't make a sound, she just gave me this deer-caught-in-the-headlights look, poor baby.

I woke up totally pissed off at Chris. I've forgiven her now.

The Ramblings Of A Tired Brain.

2006-04-02T05:18:00.000-07:00

Getting into a deeply contemplative state of mind at 4:00 A.M., with no sleep while in a nasty mood is not great for the soul. That's when one might start doubting whether one even has a soul, and if one does have a soul, does it more resemble that of Nelson Mandela or Saddam Hussein?

I'm funny, ask anyone. I keep people laughing, have always tried to, sometimes more successfully than others. Laughing people don't generally want to hurt the person making them laugh. At least not at the moment they are laughing. It appears that "being funny" comes naturally to me. Not so much.

What I am is a sarcastic bitch who gets lucky. People seem to be drawn to entertainers, regardless of real talent. Loud, outgoing people get attention, and people want to be a part of that energy. I'm not so much funny as observant, not so much comical as caustic. People put up with my brand of "humour" because it appears to be cloaked in cotton, iron fist in velvet glove style. I'm short, fat and harmless-looking, those almost mean things I say must be funny. Nobody wants to be a killjoy, everyone wants to be seen as having a sense of humour, right?

During healthier, brighter times, I do tend to see the potential for humour in almost every situation I encounter. That's not necessarily a good thing, because good day or bad, my fine-tuned sarcastic wit is just a way of being "acceptably" aggressive.

I know this is a problem, but there is little I can do to change this behaviour, short of becoming an elective mute. I've tried, but sarcasm is second nature, and people laugh which is very rewarding.

I've reached the conclusion that I'm not a terribly likeable human being. Not a bolt of self-awareness that is especially welcome as I hit middle age.....

King Ralph Is No More.

2006-04-01T11:20:00.000-08:00

Alberta Premier Ralph Klein, "King Ralph" to his court jesters, has been dealt a crushing defeat at the Alberta Conservative Convention (isn't that a lot like calling the ocean "really wet water"?). He received only 55% support from the rednecks, I mean delegates in attendance.

At the last meeting of the good old boy club, he received 97% support. The wild and crazy people who made up the three percent that kept King Ralph from garnering 100% were hanged from trees in Red Deer as a warning to the townsfolk about what happens to traitors.

Poor Ralph. Never was there a person so sure he could do a job for which he was so ill-suited. Reality wasn't a hindrence to "The Teflon Premier". He thought he was Matt Dillon, we knew he was Barney Fife. He thought he was Donald Trump, we knew he was Jed Clampett. King Ralph's jesters let him do whatever his alchohol-pickled little brain wanted to do, and watched the dollars roll in through the oil patch. Ralph Klein might be an obscene, spousal-abusive, racist, homophobic, alchoholic, gambling-addicted, anger-fuelled buffoon, but he could seemingly create more cash flow than Enron, and in Alberta, money is the only thing that really matters.

When the dust settles, and King Ralph goes back to private life, (I can just hear all the members of the best Calgarian enclaves saying "he's not moving here, we have bylaws, fences and guns to keep him out) maybe he'll find another career calls out to him. He'd make a great used car salesman, or he could run a perpetual yard sale on his front lawn.

What a bitter disappointment for a nasty little man who defied the odds and the laws of nature to become premier, and then mooned his critics by winning four majority governments. We all know bad things happen to good people. In this case bad things are finally happening to a bad person.

My only fear is "who's next?"

What The Hell Is Wrong With The Richmond Fire Department?

2006-03-29T18:50:00.000-08:00

Richmond has had seven female firefighters since women were integrated into the fire service in 1995. Seven. Out of 200+ firefighters.

There are currently four female firefighters in this charming little city. None of them are on active duty. Pregnancy? No. Educational leave? No. World travel, entered a convent, got lost in Delta? No.

Try human feces placed in their boots and smeared on their coats and lockers. Try threats to their physical safety, both veiled and overt. Try pornography streamed into their stations via satellite. Try a culture of misogyny, sexual harrassment, human rights abuses and pure hatred.

This is not a case of "the boys' club" not wanting "girls" to enter their fort. This is a case of criminal behaviour by adult men who are sworn to protect their community. What's really horrifying is that many of these men are fathers of daughters, husbands, partners. What is going on behind the closed doors of their homes if they believe this barbarism is appropriate for a public work environment. What are these idiots teaching their sons? And why have they been able to get away with this behaviour for years?

Two of the female firefighters have filed formal complaints; one with the B.C. Human Rights Tribunal, the other with the B.C. Supreme Court. The other two women are on medical leave, and both have filed harassment grievances with their union.

"Those are terrible optics," says Fire Chief Jim Hancock. Really? Ya think?

It is my most fervent hope that every one of the firefighters found to be guilty of this grotesque behaviour loses his job, his pension, and the respect given to firefighters, most of whom are heroes.

2006....right?

When Bad Things Happen To Good People.

2006-03-27T20:58:00.000-08:00

I have a friend who is experiencing one devastating event after another, and has been for many months. I don't understand it, karma isn't supposed to work this way. She's smart, generous, kind-hearted and hard-working, she tries to do the right thing, respects the earth, leads by example.....she's one of the good guys. What the hell gives?

There are so many jerks and assholes out there, people who are basically a waste of skin, people who drive drunk, abuse their children, rip off everyone they can, people who can't figure out how to work and play well with others. They seem to lead charmed lives (listening Mr Premier?) stumbling through life climbing over, stepping on, and using anyone and everyone for their own selfish gain. Then there's my friend, who has never knowingly hurt anyone, and who is being battered and bruised from all sides.

She's strong, and she will suvive. It just breaks my heart to watch someone I care about, someone I respect, suffering so many body blows.

Keep your chin up, D. Living well is the best revenge.

Loving An Easy Dog Is Easy. Loving A Hard Dog Is Hard.

2006-03-26T11:05:00.000-08:00

My MacKenzie is an enigma. She is a beautiful, comical, overgrown puppy clown. She has been my faithful and loyal companion for six years, ever since she was rescued from a hellish existence as a battered backyard dog.

MacKenzie; however, has a dark side.

Perhaps, as we believe, my sweet girl was kicked in the head once too often as a puppy. It may be natural prey drive. It may just be that she's like everyone else in the world, and has pissy days when she forgets to be the sweetheart I know and love.

MacKenzie, aka "the Shark", has a hate on for dogs smaller than she is. Not always, but too frequently for a multi-dog family, and a family whose life revolves around dogs of all ages, sizes and breeds. MacKenzie has attacked and injured other dogs, on more than one occassion, and will certainly do it again if given the opportunity.

It is my job, as Kenzie's guardian, to ensure that she is safe, and that others are safe around her. We accomplish this with the use of muzzles, baby gates and careful supervision. MacKenzie is on medication to lessen her anxiety, gets plenty of love, attention, exercise, and is fed a raw diet. 90% of the time things are fine.

Until they are not.

This has been a tough week, emotionally, for a lot of reasons. As with most people who live with others, either human, canine or feline, I am sometimes guilty of taking my frustration out on those I love the most. MacKenzie lunged at a smaller dog, and I snapped, telling her that she was going down if she did anything like this one more time.

I have no intention of giving up on my beautiful, damaged girl. She is 90% wonderful, and brings me countless blessings. I was hurt, angry, frustrated and not coping well at all, which is, as it sounds, an excuse for my bad behaviour. I yelled at this loving, trusting animal, scaring her, myself and my family.

I'm sorry, Kenz.

Sir Paul, Go Home.

2006-03-26T00:21:00.000-08:00

I hate the seal hunt. It is a gruesome, archaic and revolting practice that turns my stomach. I don't buy into the rhetoric spewed by the East Coast Fishers or the politicians who are required to keep the voters happy, regardless of the stupidity of the statements they make. Nothing will convince me that battering baby seals to death will resurrect the cod fishery. That ship has sailed, me byes, you'll have to find another way to rape the earth in order to make a living.

That being said, I wish Paul McCartney, his child bride, Brigitte Bardot and all their hangers-on would go the hell back to their glass houses. As if there is nothing worth protesting in England or France....I guess race riots aren't worth "celebrity" involvement, if there are no big snowy babies with impossibly large, liquid eyes to harass on camera, there's no point in sticking noses accustomed to rarified air where they are not wanted, needed or welcomed.

Canadians have to take a stand and have this barbaric "hunt" abolished. Note to Sir Paul: We're good, thanks, we don't need your help."

It's 3:00 A.M., Do You Know Where Your Eye Lids Are?

2006-03-26T00:16:00.000-08:00

Depression is a bitch.

I'm, of course, not referring to the "oh damn, 24 is a repeat this week" kind of depression. I mean the ugly, all-premeating, I want-to-hurt-someone-mostly-myself-but-I don't-even-have-enough-motivation-to-do-that depression that affects everyone in a depressive's life.

There are days (many, many days) that it takes sheer force of will to get out of bed. I do it because, as much as my dogs love me, they can't "hold it" forever, and they need to get regular exercise, which is my responsibility to provide. I do it because I love my family, because I have a job, because that's what "normal" people do.

"Normal" is a loaded word. I know it isn't normal to have black thoughts 24/7, to be awake for days at a time, feel totally out of step with the world, and work what seems like 100 times harder to accomplish things that others seem to do without effort. Like "playing nice". Like being social. Like not flying into internalized rage/hatred/self-doubt/fear over minor annoyances.

I come from a place where put up and shut up meant survival.It didn't matter whether wounds were visible or invisible, nobody was allowed to know. I was considered "moody" and "difficult", two qualities that brought me a world of hurt. I hated that I couldn't give my family what they wanted, and that they couldn't understand that I was trying, but it was hopeless. Eight year old children should not attempt suicide. Enough said.

Now there are "wonder drugs" that even out those with Bi-Polar disorder, animate those of us with depression, calm the anxiety ridden, and provide us with that all-important facade of normal. Except they only go so far. I still can't sleep without what I consider heavy medication. I'm tired all the time. I have friends who don't sleep, don't eat, sleep all the time, eat non-stop, overcompensate, engage in risky behaviours, self harm, disengage from reality, abdicate responsibility, shut out the world, scare their families, lose their jobs, try hard to kill themselves.....

I'm off to the Shrink this week to deal with the cesspool that is my depression. I'm tired of living the way I do, I'm tired of being tired. I love my partner with everything I am, but there are ways that I can't express that love. I want to get a handle on the multi-faceted demons in my head. I want to find out which of my "issues" are illness, and which are me just being a jerk.

And I want off Wellbutrin! Anti-depressents with smiley faces on them make me feel homocidal. Which mental midget decided to add insult to injury?

Shalom.

Piper is Pissed.

2006-03-25T23:45:00.000-08:00

What?! Finally getting back to the blogging habit, and my first "new" post wasn't about "the Pug"? Heads will roll.

Our newest family member is a now-almost-four-month-old Pug named Piper (or "little Pugger", "Pipes", "Puglet", or "Peanut"). She's a fawn and black hellion, the canine bride of Satan. She fits in perfectly.

Pipes is a funny little dog. She's very adept at helping me undress, especially with removing my socks. The only fly in the ointment is that she wants to undress my feet while I am trying to get the socks on. Piper also has a thing for dish towels.....I'd hate to label it a fetish at her tender age, but if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and has feathers like a duck.....well....She's as full of joy as any puppy I have ever met, and she brings smiles to even the most dedicated dog-hating cat person. She's afraid of loud noises, balloons and nothing else. She is the new bane of Chunky's existance, drags poor Clio around the floor by her tail, makes Madison even more determined to slit her paws, but Kirby adores her. This is not a case of a well-socialized adult dog putting up with a puppy. This is love. Kirby plays with Piper, cuddles her, lets her take toys and food from him. As if we needed another reason to love Kirby.....

MacKenzie wants to eat the baby, but that's another blog topic.

I now get to come home from work to a nine pound dynamo with a permanent case of the zoomies. She races around so fast that she (regularly) loses her footing (would that be 'pawing'?) and wipes out, then starts all over again. Cute doesn't even begin to describe it.

Christine is in absolute love with this cuddly, inquisitive, mischievious little chicken slut (she is one of our dogs after all). They play this dopey game called "shark attack"; one has to see it to appreciate it, and I think Piper pretends to enjoy it to make sure Chris' feelings don't get hurt. They are very much in tune with one another, the love they share is palpable.

She's a force of nature, our wee Puglet.

Long Time, No Words.

2006-03-24T23:43:00.000-08:00

What a difference a few months can make in the complacent little world of a blogger. Death of a beloved family member, injury, illness....sometimes the earth seems to shift on its axis, shaking up all that we know to be true and right.

We lost our Jasmine on January 8, 2006. To say that we were, and remain devastated is a gross understatement. She was a Shih Tzu among Shih Tzus, our Rottweiler in a Shihthead's body. She was magical and she was adored, and our hearts have been rendered by her death.

I sustained a nasty injury to my knee a week before Christmas, and thanks to a health care system that is neither healthful nor caring, I have yet to see the surgeon. I need to see him before I can become number 11 989 on the provincial orthopedic surgery wait list. I fully understand why those with the financial ability to do so become queue jumpers and go to private clinics. Would that I could.I have been wearing a very expensive, very uncomfortable brace for months. I call it my bionic leg, it is the reason I am still mobile.

The stress of our loss, the injury, illnesses being suffered by the two people who mean most to me, job stress, anxiety, sleeplessness, depression and a total lack of motivation have kept me from the keyboard, but I see the shrink next Friday, Christine and I are going on our first real vacation ever, and there is far too much crap going on in the world to remain silent any longer.

Stephen and the Harpies won the federal election, after a fashion. The country has gone from Mr. Dithers to Ned Flanders. We're doom diddly doomed girls and boys.

I'm baaaaaaaaaack. Duck!

A Righteous Act Of Civil Disobedience. The BC Teachers' Strike.

2005-10-13T19:59:00.000-07:00

Educators in British Columbia do not provide essential service, under current government guidelines.

So why the heavy-handed and tyrannical behaviour of the BC Liberal Party, Justice Brenda Brown, and the B.C. Public School Employers' Association?

Girls and boys , can you say collusion?

Teachers were found guilty of contempt-of-court last weekend, after the union went on strike Friday, ignoring the B.C. Labour Relations Board's order to return to work when the provincial legislature passed a law extending the teachers' current contract until next June with no wage increase, and no significant changes in class sizes, funding, or special education support. Gee, can't imagine why the teachers of British Columbia wouldn't want to rush back to their overcrowded, under-funded, aging classrooms after being told to put up and shut up.

Now Justice Brown has essentially taken control of the B.C. Teachers' Federation's assets and cash for 30 days to ensure neither union funds nor third-party donations can be used to pay strikers their $50-a-day picket allowance.

Boys and girls, can you say dictatorial?

Premier Gordon Campbell said the court's ruling means all members of society have to respect the law. Like Gordo respected the laws against drinking and driving....?

If the most vocal mommies and daddies (at least those without nannies or children in the private school system) were not being inconvenienced by having to find alternative sources of daycare for their little darlings, this job action would not have ended up in court so quickly. The lock-outs at the CBC and Telus were settled through bargaining, and the teacher's of B.C. are asking for nothing more than that.

If British Columbians feel that teachers provide an essential service (as they, of course, do) then they should be fully prepared to compensate them accordingly. If teachers are to be treated as the professionals they are, if their contribution to the province is to be recognized, great! At this point in time, the reality in this province is far removed.....to many, teachers are glorified babysitters. They are frustrated and angry and have the fortitude to stand up to a ham-fisted government and its oppressive henchmen, the Court and the B.C. Public School Employers' Association.

Good on them!

Girls and boys, can you say Machiavelli ?

A Hero Died Today.

2005-10-13T16:57:00.000-07:00

Beverly Parent, a 50 year old Surrey, British Columbia woman, died today as the result of catastrophic injuries she received while trying to save her 70 rescued cats from a house fire on Wednesday.

Beverly Parent dedicated her life to unwanted and forgotten cats. Young, old, sick, injured throwaways, runaways and ferals were loved and nursed back to health. Every cat in Beverly's care got needed medical attention, shelter, food and, most importantly, respect. Every cat had a name, every cat was loved.

Even before Beverly Parent succumbed to her injuries there were people rushing to label her a "hoarder", a "collector", a "crazy cat lady". Those are the same people who talk a lot about problems like cat overpopoulation, but do little or nothing to help. They are quick to judge others who act, but are slow to come up with better solutions. They know who they are, and they are despicable human beings.

The only people who should be judged, and judged harshly, are those responsible for 70 cats being hungry, homeless, sick, injured, and helpless in the first place. People who see cats as "disposable" pets, people who refused to spay/neuter their cats, resulting in unwanted kittens, people who let their cats roam, people who buy kittens from pet stores. Those are the people responsible for the deaths of 59 cats who could not escape the fire, even though Beverly Parent, a true hero, gave her life trying to bring them to safety.

Beverly Parent is now beyond pain. Her work here is far from done, but with any luck, her selflessness will spur others on to take up her fight for unwanted and abused cats.

Anyone who chooses to ignore the problem of homeless cats is as guilty as those who are the cause of the problem.

Rest in peace Bevely Parent, and the 59 feline souls who accompanied you.

Know-It-Alls Are Such A PITA!

2005-10-13T16:12:00.000-07:00

First things first, I'm opinionated. I know this, I accept this, I'm all good with this. There are few issues/events/situations/beliefs about which I do not have a fully formed opinion (ask Christine and Angelina, they both would love to talk about just how dogmatic I am) but I do not impose my beliefs on everyone, nor do I generally give unsolicited advise.

There are people who make the spaces around them toxic with their behaviours. Whiners, blamers, cling-ons, drama queens, loafers, everyone knows someone in the workplace, at school, at the gym, on a sports team, at church, who makes it really difficult to be civil.

The know-it-alls get me.

Usually self-educated about a variety of topics, these people spew their knowledge regardless of whether anyone wants, needs or cares about the information being "shared". They see themselves as "helpful" when in fact obnoxious is closer to the truth. Asking the advice of a professional is one thing, having the views of an amateur presented as fact and then given, unbidden, is totally another.

I have an acquaintance who feels the need to make her opinions known in spite of the fact that she is rarely ever asked, and her behaviour is unwelcome by some and resented by others, myself included. She often finds herself "on the outside, looking in" because people prefer to avoid her, or, in some cases, dislike her so intensely that being near her is not an option. She knows that people dislike her, but does she understand why?

Of course not.

In her mind, people are "cliquish", or they are envious, or they are somehow at fault and it can't possibly be her responsibility. Of course, her brutal honesty (emphasis on the brutal), and unwanted advice, are offered "because she cares".

Yeah whatever. Busybodies, know-it-alls and self-important people often find themselves alone, lonely and bitter. Too bad they often never realize that they are their own worst enemies.

I Beat Anorexia!

2005-10-03T13:53:00.000-07:00

Okay, so obesity is a scourge, the reason for every evil in the world.

Fat, to some, is a synonym for "ugly", "stupid", "lazy", "weak-willed", and fat-bashing is not only one of the last acceptable prejudices, overweight people are encouraged to be self-haters.

Here's a message to my beanpole friends, my calorie counting, iron pumping, splenda addicted co-dwellers of the planet. I'm sick of "well-intentioned" (read pushy and unwelcomed) hints that I need to lose a few pounds. I don't, I need to lose many dozens of pounds, but getting snide remarks and backhanded compliments will not push me to diet, although it may push me to push the person speaking off the nearest cliff.

I'm fat. I'm not "heavy", "fluffy", "plump" or "stout". I'm short, wide and not likely to change anytime soon. I will never morph into a Barbie doll, I do not wish to look like a supermodel. I am reasonably fit, very strong, pretty healthy, and, horror of horrors to the slaves to low-carb regimens, learning to love the body I'm in.

I have not used or abused our local emergency department in all the years we have lived in Vancouver. I see my doctor maybe three or four times in a bad year, use very little sick time at work, and have enough energy, stamina and strength to keep up with my herd of high-needs dogs. I'm fat, but not unhealthy.

I do not smoke, drink alcohol, use illegal drugs or engage in risky behaviours. I do not cheat on my spouse or my taxes. I try hard to be a decent, responsible member of society and a good friend. If I take up a little more space than my skinny neighbours, so be it.

As long as I pay my own grocery bills and am not a drain on the public health care system, I'm asking the willowy masses with superiority complexes and the slender citizens with perfect BMIs and the overwhelming need to preach moderation to their heavier associates to get over themselves.

Better yet, go eat a chocolate bar.

Bubba And Uncle Dad Are Keeping The United States Safe From Canadians.

2005-10-02T19:58:00.000-07:00

The Minuteman Civil Defence Corps are on watch from their cars and lawn chairs, with binoculars at the ready, in eight northern U.S. states bordering seven Canadian provinces.

The volunteer group will have observers in Washington, Idaho, Montana, North Dakota, Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire and New York every day and night in October. Some posts will be on border watch 24/7, while others will allow for beer breaks and the occasional shotgun wedding.

Yee-Haw! The Rednecks Are Coming, The Rednecks Are Coming, Run For Your Lives!

Reportedly, this Militia-type group is concerned about the (seriously under-reported) influx of Canadians crossing over the U.S. border with bombs in their pockets, and they are prepared to sit in their pickup trucks, with Miller or Coors on ice, just waiting to pick off every illegal immigrant from the north that they see. They might also get lucky and nail the occassional deer or moose.

Just what the world needs, a bunch of inbred, trigger happy soldier-boy-wannabes with conspiracy theories jamming their little brains. Chances are they will only take out light poles and scarecrows, but the very thought that frontier-saving throwbacks have been allowed to organize is frightening.

I'm sure Dubya must be cackling with glee. His paranoia is contagious, and spreading rapidly.

Boxing: Is This Brutality A "Sport"?

2005-10-02T18:52:00.000-07:00

Canadian women recently won a gold, a silver, and two bronze medals at the World Womens' Boxing Championships , held in Podolsk, Russia. Mary Spencer, a 20 year old from Windsor, Ontario, took gold in the 66 kg class, and was named the tournament's top boxer. Ariane Fortin of Quebec City won a silver medal in the 57 kg final. Sandra Bizier of Montreal and Katie Dunn of Windsor, Ont., both won bronze.

While I'm happy that these young women were successful doing something they love, I have a hard time celebrating an event that glorifies violence.

This was an amateur boxing tournament, and the rules are more stringent, the level of aggression less obvious, the health and safety of participants much more important to the organizers than in a professional boxing match, but this is still a "sport" that draws on humanity's most primal nature and encourages one of society's basest qualities: bloodlust.

Boxer Leavander Johnson died five days after he was seriously injured in a lightweight title fight in September. He suffered a fatal brain injury during the bout, and never regained consciousness after he slipped into a coma minutes after the referee stopped the fight. His death was the sixth in the ring in Las Vegas since 1994. In the last four months, two boxers have died and two others had severe, debilitating brain injuries.

How long can society condone one person beating another to death in the name of sport? Even those boxers who survive are much more likely to suffer long term negative effects. Conditions such as post-traumatic dementia, dementia pugilistica, Parkinson's disease, and Alzheimer's disease are far more prevalent in retired boxers than the rest of the population. Muhammad Ali was diagnosed with pugilistic Parkinson's syndrome in 1982, following which his motor functions began a slow decline. Mike Tyson can barely string together a cohesive sentence, although, in all fairness, even before he began his boxing career he was never known as a great orator.

Maybe I'm missing something, but the thought of two healthy human beings beating one another until one gives in, or dies, holds absolutely no allure for me. There is more than enough pain, suffering and bloodshed in day-to-day life, watching sanctioned matches dedicated to pain and domination seems obscene.

Rest in peace, Leavander Johnson.

The Nazi Hunter Has Died. Simon Wiesenthal, 1908-2005

2005-09-20T18:24:00.000-07:00

This year, which sees the 60th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, will also mark the year the world lost a Jewish hero and a humanitarian of epic proportions.

The Nazi Hunter, Simon Wiesenthal, has died at the age of 96.

He brought Adolph Eichmann to justice, spent years trying to capture Josef Mengele, and was instrumental in bringing 1100 Nazi war criminals to trial. Mr. Wiesenthal fought anti-Semitism on the world stage, and worked tirelessly to expose neo-Nazism and all forms of racism at all levels.

One of Simon Wiesenthal's most passionate beliefs was that the word "holocaust" is being trivialized, thus making the extermination of more than six million Jews less horrific to each new generation. He spoke to countless groups of children and young adults about his experiences in surviving 12 Nazi camps, losing 89 family members and finally being liberated from Mauthausen in 1945, at 37 years of age, weighing 89 pounds. Mr. Wiesenthal made it his life's work to become the permanent voice for the six million Jewish victims of the Holocaust.

"When history looks back, I want people to know the Nazis weren't able to kill millions of people and get away with it," he once said.

The 'Conscience of the Holocaust’ has left us, but Simon Wiesenthal's legacy will live on through the many organizations with which he worked so tirelessly; first and foremost, the Simon Wiesenthal Center in Los Angeles and the soon-to-open Center for Human Dignity, Museum of Tolerance in Jerusalem.

Shalom uv'racha B'Mashiach Yeshua.

Our Cat Is Making Me Crazy!

2005-09-19T16:28:00.000-07:00

Ever wonder what C-A-T stands for?

Completely Accomplished Terrorist!

We moved recently, from a small apartment to a three level townhouse. Bella (the Terrorist) used to have a utility closet that was rigged to allow her easy access, while keeping the dogs out, thus providing her a safe haven, and preventing us from having to deal with the "joy" of "kitty crunchies", those yummy little morsels found only in cat litter boxes, and coveted by dogs everywhere. Nuff said. She slept in "her" closet at night, and all was good.

When we relocated, Bella (the Terrorist) lost her utility closet, but gained a storage room that is hers alone, meaning she no longer has to share her space with the vacuum cleaner, luggage and cleaning supplies. She has two beds, a cat tree, toys, her food, water and treat dished, her litter box....a virtual Shangri-La for felines. Is Bella (the Terrorist) happy with her new digs?

Hell no.

Bella's (the Terrorist) new "room" is at the far end of Christine's office. We decided that we would no longer close and bar her door at night, we would, instead, give her access to the office (and her newest, most favourite cat tree) and just close the office door at night.

Sounded great....in theory. In reality, Bella (the Terrorist) is not interested in staying in her room, with her specially designed cat furniture, her toys, food, and treats. No, Bella (the Terrorist) is much more interested in pushing me to the edge of total insanity.

The Cat (Completely Accomplished Terrorist) can, and does, open the office door, easily and almost faster than I can close it. After making her escape, she comes looking for revenge.

A word to the wise: never piss off a Completely Accomplished Terrorist.

I'm not sure which is worse, the stealth with which she stalks her victim (me) or the self-satisfied little "mmmmph" she emits when she lands, all 28 pounds of Maine Coon massiveness, on my bony shin, as a lay in bed, teetering between wakefulness and sleep. Then the kneading starts, and the licking, the "love nips" and the grande finale, the "let's see if I can suffocate the furless ape by sleeping on her face".

I'm not a cat (Completely Accomplished Terrorist) person, never have been, never pretended to be. Bella (the Terrorist) is a beautiful, albeit frightening creature, and I respect her, mostly out of hope for self-preservation, but I am completely aware of the fact that she regards me as below contempt. I exist to feed her, clean up after her, and provide entertainment for her. The Marquis de Sade would be proud of this feline, since entertainment, to Bella's (the Terrorist) way of thinking, means that someone must end up shrieking and/or bleeding.

The sad fact is that I'm engaged in a battle of wits with a cat (Completely Accomplished Terrorist) and I'm losing.

Ouch.

Terry Fox Still Makes Me Cry.

2005-09-17T00:21:00.000-07:00

All day people have been talking about the fact that this is the 25th "anniversary" of the moment Terry Fox was forced to end his Marathon of Hope in Thunder Bay, Ontario.

All day I have fought a losing battle with the lump in my throat, and the tears that threaten to fall at any moment.

Terry Fox was a true hero to countless Canadians, but especially to members of my generation, who were just coming of age when this unassuming, selfless young man began the journey that would make him a legend. I clearly remember the day Terry appeared on television, barely able to control his emotions, telling his fellow Canadians that cancer had returned to attack his body yet again and he could not go on. I also remember where I was and what I was doing when the terrible news of Terry Fox's death, at just 22 years of age, was announced. I have never again experienced the complete and utter sadness I did that day. Everyone around me also felt a devastating personal loss on June 28, 1981. It was heartbreaking to witness the depth of despair caused by his passing. Terry Fox took small pieces of the hearts of everyone he touched with his raw courage and total determination. He thought he would beat cancer and finish his run, and when he couldn't, hope and faith took a body blow.

The sad truth is that, had Terry Fox been diagnosed with cancer today, he might well have survived, thanks in great part to the millions of dollars that have been raised in his name for cancer research.

This man, so approachable, so much like thousands of typical Canadian sons and brothers, so larger-than-life after his death, once said "Somewhere the hurting must stop."

It will, but not today.

William Hubbs Rehnquist.

2005-09-06T18:33:00.000-07:00

One of the most repulsive of the United States of America's Supreme Court Justices, William Hubbs Rehnquist, has died at the age of 80.

May his soul, if he had one, never find a moment's peace.

Negatively affecting society in the U.S. since the Nixon era, Rehnquist was appointed Supreme Court Justice in 1986 by bad actor turned worse President Ronald Reagan. Maybe Ronnie suffered from dementia earlier than everyone thought.

To label Rehnquist an arch-conservative is a huge understatement. He believed in law and order, and the harsher and swifter "justice" prevailed, the better. A 1969 speech in which he referred to Anti-war demonstrators as the "new barbarians", who should be stopped by "whatever means necessary" made Rehnquist a hero to the facist element in the U.S.

Rehnquist was not shy about his racist beliefs, and took many opportunities to speak out about his disgust with equality and affirmative action. His 1954 speech extolling the virtue of "separate but equal" as written 1n the Plessy v. Ferguson decision in 1896 fought against inclusion during the Brown v. The Board of Education hearing. In 1983 Rehnquist voted to allow Bob Jones University (Bob Jones University?????) to exclude blacks from its campus. In 1964, Rehnquist was one of three people to testify against a proposed ordinance to ban discrimination in public accommodations in Phoenix. When it passed, he wrote a letter to the editor of the local paper saying that "it is, I believe, impossible to justify the sacrifice of even a portion of our historic individual liberty for a purpose such as this." As Rehnquist read it, the Constitution lets states outlaw abortion and sponsor prayers in public schools but bars them from giving special, affirmative-action preferences to racial minorities and women.

Obviously believing that equality between the sexes was as immoral as equality between races, Rehnquist voted against Roe v. Wade in 1973. He wrote: " even today, when society's views on abortion are changing, the very existence of the debate is evidence that the 'right' to an abortion is not so universally accepted as Roe v. Wade would have us believe."

In 2003, the Supreme Court preserved affirmative action in college admissions and issued a landmark gay rights ruling that struck down laws criminalizing gay sex, both over Rehnquist's objections. In 2004, Rehnquist disagreed when the court ruled that the government cannot indefinitely detain terrorism suspects and deny them access to legal representation.

This horrible human being was not interested in representing the views of "average Americans", he had no respect for the little people, and felt no need to understand the realities facing his fellow citizens. However the accolades will no doubt pour in and this hate-filled, self-important bigot will be remembered as a great American, at least by some.

Hopefully, history will not be kind to William Rehnquist. There are many American heroes, past and present, this ghastly man is not one of them.

Welcome To Wal-Mart, Please Leave Your Brain and Your Wallet At The Door.

2005-09-05T19:00:00.000-07:00

Christine let me go to Wal-Mart on the weekend. Without her. Uh-oh!

Angelina and I left for North Van (nothing good can ever come from a trip to North Van) with a list and a plan, which included sticking to a budget. Good intentions are a wonderful thing.....

I swear Wally World is the Evil Empire. Once I get past the front doors, I'm no longer in control of myself. I wander the aisles seeing tons of merchandise I simply must have, even though I wasn't aware we needed it.

How does one spend $314 and change and come home with virtually nothing? Do the powers that be at Wal-Mart pump mind-altering drugs through the ventilation system? Are the Wal-Mart Greeters all Voodoo Priests and Priestesses? That I even want to shop at Wal-Mart, an organization that flies in the face of my far-left-of-centre belief in fair employment practices, boggles my mind.

Yet I go, I spend, then I wonder what the hell happened.

Christine wants me to go the self-banning route, like gambling addicts who ar voluntarily tossed out of casinos. It's a thought.

Thank God I still have London Drugs......

Dubya's Head Is In The Sand(bag).

2005-09-03T22:32:00.000-07:00

My heart is with the residents of New Orleans during this horrible moment in history. The magnitude of utter devastation is almost too huge to contemplate, so I guess I understand the inaction of the leader of the United States of America, President George W. Bush. Dubya does have a short attention span, and y'all know he has other priorities. Besides, this catastrophe happened in Louisiana, not Connecticut or New York, and the poor black folks who are most affected by this disaster probably vote for Democrats anyway.

Dubya has a made up war to fight, so the distraction caused by the monumental human tragedy in the deep, dark south has to wait in line for his attention. How is the Leader of the Free World supposed to find the money, time and expertise to keep New Orleans from sinking when he is busy trying to ensure that not a single building is left standing in Iraq?

What's a good old boy to do? He tells the National Guard they should "Shoot to Kill" if they see blacks looting. Whites finding goods and taking them away are fine, though.

Having all but decimated the agencies whose very reason for existence was to act in emergency situations such as the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, in order to funnel money into his "War on Terror", Dubya has totally forsaken his duty to protect his own citizens from harm. Ask any of the displaced, sick, hungry and frightened thousands of victims of this natural disaster about terror. They don't need to worry about the twin bogeymen of weapons of mass destruction and an oil shortage, mass destruction has been visited upon them by Mother Nature, the terrors they face are real: starvation, sickness, death.

Days after the devastation in New Orleans and surrounding areas, the neediest, poorest and most vulnerable citizens were left to watch their lives disintegrate before their eyes. Had these Americans ever felt they mattered, they were disabused of the notion that Uncle Sam gives a tinker's damn about the poor relations.

The United States of America will never be the same. After September 11, 2001, when Americans showed courage in tragic circumstances, proving they were good neighbors, they could come together in a crisis, they did take care of their own, and the world saw Americans as human beings with the capacity to show compassion and empathy. Even Dubya looked like a decent man. Now the world sees those same Americans ignoring the immense suffering of an entire city, blaming the people of New Orleans for not being prepared, hemming and hawing over aid, rescue missions and providing relief. Instead of acting like a strong leader, Dubya is showing his true colours, he's protecting his interests, and he's basically told Louisianans that they are on their own. He's got bigger fish to fry. He was handed the opportunity to do the right thing, and he failed. He'll leave American soldiers in Iraq, where they have systematically destroyed a country that was already weakened from years of living under in a brutal dictatorship. He'll continue to spend obscene amounts of money to annihilate a culture he views as substandard. He'll fight to the bloody end to protect his image as a president proud to be tough on terror; he'll keep sacrificing American lives to bolster his fantasies, his belief that America has the God-given right to bully any other country into submission.

Nobody will ever again accuse George W. Bush of being a decent man.

I'm Not Smart, But I Can Lift Heavy Things.

2005-09-02T22:11:00.000-07:00

Spatial relations mystify me.

Christine loves to tell the story of my attempt to impress her with my skills as a dyklie Dyke soon after we had moved into our first home together.

We bought an Ikea TV stand, and I was putting it together. I said that I needed a drill. Given that Ikea furniture requires only an Allen key for assembly, Chris asked why I needed a drill. I told her that the holes were on the wrong side.

Had I meant it as a joke, we would have had a nice chuckle and moved on. I was dead serious.

Some people can visualize huge projects in their heads. My friend Angelina could seemingly find a way to fit a camel through the eye of a needle, and make it look easy. That's why she put together our new dining room table, after I tried to attach a leg backwards, and then assembled two bookshelves and my desk. Christine constructed six chairs.

I made sure the womenly women had cold drinks.

I'm not allowed to have power tools. The last time I tried to install hardware for blinds, I drilled 12 sets of holes before I got lucky. I'm permitted a hammer, but only to hang pictures, because Chris sucks at interior decorating. If we could afford to hire a designer, I'm sure I'd lose hammer privileges, too.

It's hard to maintain the hard-earned reputation of "butch" when I'm not allowed to wear a tool belt, and I'm known for baking, not building stuff. Fortunately I'm short, wide, nearly bald and drive a Suburban, generally with four dogs in the back. Not many people mistake me for a yummy mummy from Kits.

But man, do I wish I could tear apart a motor or build a shed.....

Kathy, I Wish You Were Here.

2005-08-27T00:30:00.000-07:00

When I was 14 my world shifted on its axis.

Life up until that point had been more about survival than growth. Every day was a challenge, and although I sincerely doubt I could withstand the fear, pain and stress now that I did then, I'm a stronger and better person for having perservered.

I had help.

Kathy and I met, so the story was always told, when we were about 18 months old. Photographs told me that Kathy was a blue-eyed ringleted blonde princess. I was a dark haired tomboy, even as a baby. She was tiny, I was not. She was "good" (as all blue eyed blonde babies are meant to be), I was "difficult". Kathy loved dolls and stuffed bunnies. I liked dump trucks and real bunnies. We were, as my grandmother always said, "chalk and cheese."

From the time I understood the concept of love I adored her. I protected her, defended her, took the blame for her mistakes, and happily let her get us into one mess after another.

As we got older, Kathy became a witness to the horrors my brothers and I endured. She also became a victim, but that is another blog entry.....

By the age of six I knew that someday I would marry Kathy. I never waivered in my belief that we would grow up together, stay together, live together, die together. Kathy was not in agreement; she loved me, but figured she would marry a boy named Paul or one of the six or seven Josephs who adored her and tried to win her affection with candy and boquets featuring wilted wildflowers and dandelions.

The fact that I loved her and insisted that she would eventually come around to my way of thinking never fazed Kathy. She indulged me, and if she ever grew tired of my obsession, she didn't tell me.

We were inseperable. Even after my family moved to a community two hours away from Kathy's home, we maintained our relationship. I needed her like I needed oxygen, she kept the reality of my life just far enough removed so as to prevent it from crushing me.

When we were fourteen, my beautiful best friend was killed by a drunk driver.

Kathy and her sister Barbara were en route to my house for our monthly visit. A drunk ran a light, t-boned Barbie's car, crushing Kathy and severely injuring Barbara. Kathy died at the scene. She was decapitated by the force of the crash, her head was found about 15 feet from the car. Barbie suffered, among other injuries, a broken neck and devastating head trauma. She is a quadraplegic who uses breaths to maneuver her wheelchair and her eyes to communicate.

The bastard drunk who killed Kathy and all but killed Barbara walked away from the crash. Stumbled, really, his blood alcohol level was four times the legal limit.

My Kathy has been dead for almost twice as long as she was alive. Not a day goes by that I don't think about her and miss her terribly. Death does not cause love to cease. I often wonder how my life would have progressed had Kathy not been murdered by the useless waste of space who destroyed an entire family with his selfish, stupid, inexcuseable behaviour.

I miss you, Kathy. I miss you big.

This Can't Be Happening. The Pit Bull Ban In Ontario.

2005-08-24T23:21:00.000-07:00

Irate dog breeders in Ontario are mounting a legal challenge to Ontario's controversial "Pit Bull" ban on the grounds that the law, which takes effect on Monday, violates the Charter of Rights and Freedoms.

Dog breeders, many of whom are money-hungry amateurs with little knowledge and less interest in breed enhancement, are not likely to garner much sympathy from the public or from government officials, but Pitties certainly deserve protection.

The plaintiffs and their supporters argue that the provincial law is so vague and unscientific that it's bound to affect many animals that have no "bully breed" blood in them at all.

The legislation has amped up an already heated debate across Canada about the dangers of Pit Bulls, as passionate and faithful owners square off against uneducated neighbours and critics who consider the breed a dangerous weapon.

As of Monday, it will be illegal for a Pit Bull to be imported into Ontario. Puppies born in Ontario before Nov. 27 will be allowed to stay on a restricted basis (sterilized and leashed and muzzled in public places), but dogs born after that date must be shipped out of the province, sent to "research facilities" or euthanized.

What the hell is going on? This travesty would be laughable if it were not so fucking obscene.

Under the new regulations, four breeds are defined as "Pit Bulls": Bull Terriers, Staffordshire Bull Terriers, American Staffordshire Terriers and American Bull terriers. The legislation also bans dogs with physical characteristics that are "substantially similar to those dogs."

Does this mean American Bulldogs, Boxers, some Lab crosses and certain Mastiff breeds will be banned, too?

Damn straight.

There is no scientific way to prove a dog's breeding. DNA cannot distinguish breeds, so the public relies on "professionals" to determine an animal's background. Some people see every muscular 40-60 lb dog as a "Pit Bull", especially when they are frightened or anxious about the dog. There are dozens of variables at play when determining any given dog's breeding, and even Veterinarians and dog experts can make a wrong guess.

None of the debate over "what is a Pit Bull?" touches the other issue in this fiasco. Breed Specific Legislation is fundamentally wrong.

All puppies are born equal. Clean slates, blank canvasses, pick a cliche. Dogs are made into whatever type of animal their guardians choose to create. A Cocker Spaniel can be made into a killer, so can a Labrador Retriever, a Sheepdog or a Dalmation. Temperament and instinct do influence a dog's behaviour, but humans are responsible for most dog aggression. Simply put, bad owners make bad dogs.

Bull breed dogs are bred to be loyal and loving companions to humans. They are smart, playful and loving dogs who have been nanny-like guardians of children for decades. The breed has been corrupted by amoral people who choose to capitalize on the strength and tenacity of Pitties, by perverting positive attributes. Yes, some Pitties have been molded into vicious attack dogs, so have some Doberman Pinchers, some German Shepherd Dogs, some Rottweilers, some Akitas, some Chows and some Great Danes.

Pit Bulls attract certain "types" of people who want a powerful and "scary" dog. They also attract families who want loyal and reliable pets. To ban a breed because some people exploit it is the height of victim blaming. Any and all people who use animals as weapons should be prosecuted for their crimes, no doubt about that, but the dogs have no voice in their exploitation, they simply do what they are trained and conditioned to do.

Blame the deed, not the breed.

Why Civilized Countries Reject Capital Punishment

2005-08-24T22:23:00.000-07:00

The Quebec government is about to compensate the family of a mentally challenged man who has been cleared of sexual assault after spending five years in prison. Simon Marshall was sentenced to serve 62 months after he confessed to committing six sexual assaults in the 1990s.

When a police investigation later revealed Marshall's DNA did not match that found on any of the assault survivors, he was aquitted.

Had this sad situation happened in Texas, Florida, or any other death penalty state in the U.S., Simon Marshall may well have died by lethal injection for crimes he did not commit. The fact that he confessed means nothing, there are hundreds of documented cases in both Canada and the U.S., of people making false confessions. Some do it out of some mental-illness-driven or attention seeking motivation, but others do it just to end soul-destroying interrogations. In a state that considers sexual assault a capital crime, a challenged man, innocent of any crime, might have died because of a tragic error. Were Mr. Marshall black or hispanic, his chances of losing his life over a false confession would be greatly multiplied.

There is no way to eliminate human error, racism, classism, sexism or stupidity from the judicial system, and since it is far from failsafe, there is no place for capital punishment. Enlightened countries understand this simple concept. Others do not.

Manon Beaudoin, Simon Marshall's mother and legal guardian, has said the money offered as compensation will be used to ensure her son is cared for over the course of his life. The government of Quebes cannot give Mr. Marshall the past five years of his life back, it cannot erase the doubtless horrors he has witnessed as a vulnerable man in an environment designed to destroy the weak.

If Mr. Marshall had been convicted in a bloodthirsty death penalty state, his mother might be choosing a headstone for her son's grave.

PETA. The Ends Do Not Justify The Means.

2005-08-23T11:04:00.000-07:00

People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) has made another huge, ugly, stupid move.

Surprise!

PETA subscribes to a philosophy that animals are not ours to eat, wear, experiment on, or use for entertainment. That mission statement seems pretty innocuous, but PETA considers keeping pets "human entertainment" and in some cases has euthanized dogs to keep them from becoming "prisoners" in loving homes. To PETA, my well loved, raw fed, bed-sleeping, socialized, regularly exercised, healthy, happy dogs, my cherished family members are abused simply because they "belong" to me. News flash, Skippy, I belong to them!

PETA uses guerrilla tactics to raise awareness. Throwing blood (or red paint) on people wearing fur. "Liberating" animals used for experimentation. Erecting billboards with grotesque images of factory farms. Producing cartoons about fat, acne scarred, inactive kids destroyed by drinking milk. The organization believes in veganism, and whereas Vegetarians do not eat meat, fish, or poultry, Vegans, in addition to being vegetarian, do not use other animal products and by-products such as eggs, dairy products, honey, leather, fur, silk, wool, cosmetics, and soaps derived from animal products. For health, environmental and ethical reasons, Vegans eschew any and all animal products, but PETA has gone a step further and condemns humans having pets.

True to their revolutionary methods of garnering attention, PETA has launched a new campaign aimed at discouraging pet ownership. "Are Animals the New Slaves?" involves a tour of the United States and features a display in which comparisons are drawn between various human uses of animals, and the suffering endured by black slaves during the Colonial era in North America. The campaign has drawn the ire of the NAACP, much like that of the Anti-Defamation League when PETA ran the "Holocaust on Your Plate" campaign, which drew parallels between the treatment of farm animals confined and slaughtered for food production and the treatment of Jews and other victims of the Holocaust.

Opinions about PETA vary greatly. Its supporters say that the organization has brought greater attention to animal-rights issues, and has encouraged many people to become vegan. They also claim that critics fail to address their fundamental belief that animals deserve moral consideration.

Critics frequently point out that PETA has made financial contributions to "Eco-Terrorist" groups such as the Animal Liberation Front and the Earth Liberation Front. Critics also point to a statement from Alex Pacheco, one of PETA's founders, that "arson, property destruction, burglary, and theft are acceptable crimes when used for the animal cause."

Animal cruelty is a sad fact of life, and society must bring to justice those individuals and companies that treat animals inhumanely, but PETA's insensitive, thoughtless comparison of keeping pets to the brutalization of human beings does nothing to help the cause.

If PETA is looking for attention, they got it, if they are looking for results, they have failed, miserably.

The Lockout, Or, Mayhem At The Mothercorp.

2005-08-22T19:39:00.000-07:00

The lockout at the CBC may turn into a long and ugly drama. Unfortunately, the CBC is known for producing long and ugly dramas.

Right now, it appears as if the only people interested in the problems plaguing Canada's network are news junkies, those engrossed in labour relations and/or political maneuvering and the faithful fans of CBC Radio.

Wait until hockey season starts.

In a little over a month, when Canadians who can't even spell CBC settle in to watch goons on skates and to listen to Don Cherry make an ass of himself over and over again, but instead get goons on skates with no commentary, or worse, play-by-play provided by Chester M. Gumby, Manager of Paper Clip Procurement in Lower Hooperville, New Brunswick, there will be bloodshed. Unfortunately, for many Hockey Night in Canada IS the CBC.

Meanwhile, more than 5500 employees of the Canadian Broadcasting Company are being kept from making a living. People in far flung areas of the country are without the only channel their televisions receive. People searching for an alternative to Shock Jock, Crap Talk, Top 40 or Hip Hop or ,God save us, Country Radio stations are cast adrift. Many people count on CBC Radio for news, information, entertainment and intellectual stimulation. As one particularly pathetic person, who shall remain nameless, but whose initials are C.I.T., recently moaned "I miss my friends..."

Some very important news stories, such as the removal-by-force of Jewish settlers from Gaza, are not being covered by the CBC. For those of us who gather information from various sources while trying to understand the realities of "news", the loss of the CBC perspective is tough. As a Canadian, I appreciate a Canadian point of view, and the CBC has a reputation for fair, balanced coverage of current events. Try finding clear, concise, unbiased reporting on other Canadian networks, or, for an impossible challenge, look to the American networks. Good luck with that....

Aside from the fact that the CBC is an institution in Canada, the fact is that the powers-that-be have shut unionized employees out of their workplaces and are not willing to negotiate. That's not acceptable.

"Focus On The Family" Is Obscene.

2005-08-20T00:21:00.000-07:00

The "Focus on the Family" drones, (you know who they are, the members of the cult of personality run by James Dobson who think they, and only they, have God's private cell number), are dispensing advice to parents whose children might be gay. Yes ho-mo-sex-u-al, *gasp*! The horror, the horror!

Dobson believes, basically, that homosexuality is a "disease", and often refers to it as a "condition" ( like stupidity and arrogance, both of which afflict him?). As a disease, it can be prevented, and in Dobson's view, prevention means that boys must be raised in such a way that they grow to adulthood as manly men, and girls must be raised to be ladylike.

Golly Wally, gosh Beaver, if my mom had worn pearls while she vacuumed in her high heels, maybe I'd be straight! Jeepers Creepers, am I ever steamed!

Focus on the Family, whom I shall hereafter refer to as FUCK (Fundamentally Useless Christian Kooks) counsels parents to discourage "effeminate" character traits in their sons. There is a laundry list of "gay-encouraging" qualities that must be avoided if fathers want their sons to become masculine, macho men. Among the taboo behaviours: being "unaggressive", "uninterested in rough and tumble play", and "unathletic". Boys who are "artistically talented", sensitive and "overly careful" need more time with dad, less time with mom, and maybe a psychiatrist.

"Prehomosexual" effeminate boys and "masculinized" girls can be "helped", according to FUCK. If their families and churches can make them fully understand the fact that heaven will be out of reach because God won't accept them as practicing homosexuals, they'll willingly accept whatever "treatment" is necessary to put them back on the straight and narrow.

FUCK believes that girls who are forced to wear skirts and dresses, emulate their perfect mommies by cooking, cleaning and waiting on their brothers and daddies, maintaining good grades in Home Economics, the soft sciences and humanities, attending church regularly (daily where possible) and refraining from dating until their wedding days will grow up to be respectable straight women.

Boys who wear their fair hair short (but not too short), their pants long (but not baggy), play team sports (especially football), save themselves for marriage while making girls swoon over them, keep their blue eyes on the heavenly prize of meeting God upon death, all while acting like stereotypical Neanderthals by hunting, fishing and lifting heavy stuff, will grow up to be respectable straight men.

Focus on the Family's chauvenistic, homophobic, bigoted, self-serving swill would be laughable if it were not so damned obscene.

I Think I Understand The Term"Crime Of Passion" Now.

2005-08-15T09:07:00.000-07:00

First things first. This is a rant, a vent, I do not intend to take action or follow through on threats, I just need to get this vitriol out of my system. I need to spew venom.

The construction project at our Co-Op is going to be the end of me.

I don't care that the crews here are "just doing their jobs", I hate them. It is true that saws don't cut stuff, people with saws cut stuff, and they have finally cut my last tie with civility.

I really, truly want the earth to open up and swallow every one of the carpenters, roofers, jackhammerers, tradespersons and gofers employed by the contractor who has decided to destroy not only this summer, but next summer and the connecting year for every poor inmate who is unfortunate enough to live here.

They are destroying my sanity, but what is far worse is that they are making my dogs' lives a walking nightmare. Poor Clio is terrified from 7:30 AM until 4:00 PM daily, and no longer has a yard in which to "do her thing". Kirby is losing fur in clumps, and will soon resemble a very large Mexican Hairless dog.

Intellectually I understand that the building is not safe and needs these huge repairs, and, as Christine often states, we did know this project would be happening before we moved in. I don't care, I don't give a flying fuck, they are making everyone miserable and it sucks.

I want the scaffolding gone. I want the stupid bridges made of plywood and planks gone. I want the piles of sand and rubble gone. I want to shove each and every hammer, rip saw, jackhammer and drill so far down the throat of the nearest tormentor, I don't care who he or she is.

I keep saying we should file a class action suit against whoever the criminals were that conspired to allow this place to be built so badly. I really do believe we deserve compensation for the 18 months of hell this will end up being. Every weekday is the same God damned unending litany of unbearable noise, dirt, inconvenience and people in our space. Eventually it will end, but the simmering hostility caused by this assault on our membership is growing daily. We have Members crawling catwalks to get to their homes, we have Members with no access to their own patio doors, who have to settle for whatever air circulates through their windows. We have Members who have lost all privacy, and whose homes have been stripped down to plywood.

I understand how people are driven to kill, I really do.

Proactive Missing Persons Reports

2005-08-14T23:32:00.000-07:00

This is what the Downtown Eastside has come to. Just when one thinks it is as bad as it can ever possibly get, it gets worse.

A group called the Society for the Advancement of Marginalized Persons has begun a new initiative. The Self-Monitoring Program registers women who are considered at-risk, have those women fill out a missing persons report, have their photographs taken, and have the women provide a lock of hair to provide a DNA sample. Then the women are contracted to call in several times daily to let organizers know they are alive and well, or at least alive. Any and all women who feel they fit the profile of potential victim are encouraged to register.

All to provide these women with some reassurance that, in the event that they go missing, someone will actually notice and take steps to find them.

This is one of the saddest projects about which I have ever heard.

It is absolutely appalling that some women are so totally dehumanized that they have come to accept the fact that the only people who can and will look out for them are themselves. The disappearances of sixty-three women from the little piece of hell these women call home proved to them that they are on their own.

Every person with an IQ in the double digits knows that Robert Pickton did not act alone in the serial murders of the 23 women he stands accused of killing. The man hasn't got the brains God gave a turnip, he had help with this atrocity, or he was the "help". That means the women of the Downtown Eastside are still vulnerable, not only to the daily violence that is part of their reality, but to the threat of horrible, senseless death at the hands of a monster.

That these women are forced to check in with strangers in order to get searchers out looking for them in the event of a disappearance is monumentally tragic. If a women is "reliable" with her call-ins, a search will be launched the evening of her disappearance (after the final call-in time has lapsed). If a woman has proven herself to be "unreliable", the search will not begin until the next day.

Of course there should be no lapse in time for the search to begin for a missing human being, but the fact that there are no mothers, fathers, siblings, friends or lovers raising the alarm over the disappearances of these women is heartbreaking.

As if anyone needed further proof that the Downtown Eastside is a cesspool. Goddess forgive us.

Will Dubya Blink?

2005-08-13T00:52:00.000-07:00

Sadly no, it's not likely.

Cindy Sheehan, a California mother whose 24 year old son Casey died in Sadr City, Baghdad on his fifth day fighting George Bush's battle for bragging rights, is camping out at Dubya's ranch in Crawford, Texas. She wants to talk to her President about his war games, and the fact that he is using and ending the lives of young Americans in what is really no more than a pissing contest run amok.

Richard Nixon is infamous for his "I am not a crook" speech. Dubya seems intent on saying "I am not a wuss."

He's not much of a human being either. War criminals so seldom are.

The Commander in Chief of the United States of America has taken to avoiding Ms Sheehan by flying in and out of the ranch in a helicopter. Nice use of public funds, and the actions of a coward. He hasn't got the balls to speak with this grieving mother, because, he says, he cannot tell her what she wants to hear, that the war in Iraq will end, that no more young American lives will be sacrificed to this "noble cause".

Ms Sheehan lost her son over oil and ego, and she will not give up her vigil until Dubya talks to her about the reality of losing a child in a military action that never should have started. She wants to ask him why his daughters, twin party girls Barbara and Jenna, are not facing death in Baghdad. She wants to know how this bloody war will usher in peace "in the long run".

The President has sent lackeys to, at first, humour Ms Sheehan, then to plead with her, bully her and threaten her. They warned her she could be considered a threat to national security if she didn't end her peaceful protest. Bruising Dubya's pride is not exactly the same as levelling the World Trade Centre, but with an ego as big as his, it comes close.

The only way the President can come out of this public relations disaster with any shred of integrity intact is to meet with Ms Sheehan.

He won't. The man has no conscience. That's why Casey Sheehan is dead.

Religion Is An Institution, Just Like Prisons, Just Like Psychiatric Hospitals.

2005-08-10T18:53:00.000-07:00

They are still at it! The religious right is still trying to bully, harass and piss off anyone that takes exception to their limited, narrow, self-serving veiwpoints about any number of subjects.

Get over yourselves, people! You are not only annoying, your beliefs are totally immaterial to the reality of life in Canada in 2005.

It is my belief that religion, be it organized, unorganized, or disorganized should be given no more power in a democratic society than any other club or association.

People attend temples, mosques, synagogues, and churches to be with other people who share a common passion, just like sports clubs, book clubs, glee clubs and motorcycle clubs. Religious groups just have more protection and more perks, all unearned. People should have the right to do whatever they like, as long as it is legal, while with members of their organization, but there should be no doubt as to the fact that their club rules are for their members only, and they have no right (or standing) to push their agendas, whatever those agendas might entail.

If we, as a society, refuse to bow to their attempts to influence our world, maybe religious nuts of every persuasian will eventually get the message and leave the running of the countries in which they live to the people chosen to do so. Over the past several centuries, "The Church" has lost a great deal of respect, support, power and relevance, all because intelligence has overtaken superstition, fact has overtaken fallacy, and power imbalances have been identified as unfair, unjust and something to be rectified.

It is time to put religious minorities into perspective. Adults who worship whatever diety they choose have the right to live in the manner they choose, as long as they break no laws that apply to all citizens. Those who feel they are "religious" are in a minority in Canada, according to recent polls. They do not represent the views or opinions of the majority and they need to understand that their beliefs, although significant to themselves and their fellow believers (of whatever) mean nothing to the rest of us.

So, devout and pious members of every denomination, sect, and holy order, go nuts! Be fruitful, multiply, make joyful noises, cast stones, keep track of your shalts, shalt nots, honour, obey, do whtever the hell makes you feel the spirit.

Just leave me and every other secular Canadian off your list of "people to save". We're fine on our own, thanks.