A 9-Year-Old’s Guide to Love

Could a 9-year-old boy from Colorado have all the answers about how to get a girl? Alec Greven thinks he does.

After watching how boys and girls interacted at recess, he wrote a brochure entitled How To Talk to Girls, aiming to help some of those inexperienced third-graders get some play. His suggestions are much more innocent that a dating manual like The Game, but are they valid in an adult world? Well, let’s just say I’ve field-tested a few in my lifetime.

(All quotes have been taken from Zosia Bielski's article the Globe and Mail.)


“Class clowns: Turn normal. Less jokes, no jokes during class. Then you might get a girl.”

FALSE. This is the best way to get a girl. Make her laugh and you’re 38% cuter. A friend of mine was into this really cute boy, but then she got to know him and her jokes fell flat on him and he had no comebacks. Boring.

“The shy guy? They probably want to copy someone that they think is cool except it can't be a class clown or somebody that's power hungry.”

FALSE. We can spot a fake a mile off. We usually refer to them as “slimy” or “trying too hard.” A friend of mine, who I dated for, like, a minute, is like this. He has an idea of how he wants the world to see him. If he’d just relax into himself, he’d be fabulous.

"You also have to be aware that girls win most of the arguments and have most of the power. If you know that now, things might be easier."

FALSE. I may be alone on this one, but I think the age-old assumption by brow-beaten men that there’s no point in arguing with a woman and cow-towing to whatever she says (“Yes, dear”) is slightly misogynistic. It implies that there is no need to enter into a dialogue and listen to her reasoning. It’s just easier to shut her out and do what she says, because what she actually thinks doesn’t matter. I want my actions and motives questioned and I want to arrive at a mutually desirable conclusion.

"If you like a girl, comb your hair and don't wear sweats. You don't have to try too hard, but just try to look kind of clean."

TRUE and FALSE. You have to look good for the first date or two, true. And you should shower on a daily basis. But then it just doesn’t matter after that if she likes you. One guy I dated spent 90% of his time with me in sweats and once arrived at my house after the gym sans shower.

“[Pretty girls are mean because they] think they're all important and proud and they're worth more than other girls.”

TRUE. Unfortunately. We are a society obsessed with beauty – a society made up of biologically driven individuals out to get the best genes for our offspring. Pretty girls are treated differently by people and some come to act like they’re worth more than other girls.

Sorry, Alec. Despite a publishing deal and a movie deal, it looks like your advice doesn’t quite cross to those of us able to vote. But hey – this kid’s got another 25 – 30 years before he achieves male maturity. We’ll see how well his theories apply then.

A PARLIAMENTARY CAROL

With thanks to Gary Mason and apologies to Charles Dickens.

STAVE ONE

Parliament was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The prorogation order was signed by Ms. Jean, who was a little put out at being called home early from her European trip, after a lengthy discussion in her oak-panelled study. Stephen’s name was on it, too. Parliament was as dead as a door-nail. Until January 26th.

Stephen was curled up in bed, awaiting Laureen to finish in the ensuite. This was going to be the first night in a very long time that he would be able to sleep without worrying about the economy, about slips of the tongue (addressing someone else as Prime Minister, why? Why’d he do that?), or about that nasty coalition forming like a pay equity case, across the floor from him.

Stephen drifted into sweet slumber, not even noticing Laureen as she crawled in beside him without a thought to possible suspension of her right to legal recourse for pay equity issues.

But alas, his sleep did not last long and he awoke in the middle of the night, thirsty and slightly peckish. Swinging his legs out of bed, he shuffled to his bedroom door. Reaching out his hand for the handle, he immediately pulled back. He no longer saw a door handle, but Stephane Dion’s face.

Closing his eyes and shaking his head, Stephen thought he must be dreaming. He opened his eyes and looked again at the handle. It was just a handle. He trudged downstairs and peered in the fridge, hoping that some of those PC Wild Pacific Salmon Mini Wellingtons that Galen Weston had sent over were still in the fridge.

“Monsieur Har-per.”

Stephen spun around to see Stephane Dion standing before him, clutching the parliamentary mace, completely transparent.

“Mercy!” said Stephen, his hand at his chest. “What are you doing troubling me at this hour?”

“You will be haunted by three spirits,” said M. Dion, without any attempt at anger or passion.

“Oh no!” said Stephen. “You, Layton and Duceppe!”

Dion smiled. “I am on my way out. Without their visits, you cannot hope to shun the path I follow.”

And with that, Dion was gone. Stephen popped a salmon wellington in his mouth and headed for the couch. He was soon fast asleep.

STAVE TWO

Stephen awoke with a start to find Belinda Stronach kneeling beside him on the couch. Her hair was soft and blonde, her skin dewy and glowing in the dark Ottawa night. She wore a blue pantsuit and fire engine red lipstick.

“Hello, Stephen,” she whispered.

“Belinda! What are you doing here?”

“I’m the Ghost of Parliament Past.”

“Long Past? Like back in 1926 when Mackenzie King asked Lord Byng to prorogue Parliament to avoid a motion of censure?”

“No. Your past. Walk with me.”

Belinda offered Stephen her hand and led him out the door of 24 Sussex Dr., down the road and along Wellington towards the Parliament buildings. They climbed the stairs to the public gallery. Stephen looked to his chair in the House, but instead of him sitting there, it was Paul Martin. He looked across the floor to where his party sat and watched a parliamentary session that was all too familiar to Stephen.

“I remember this,” whispered Stephen. “It was right around the time of the Gomery Commission so I knew I had more of the public on my side. I think the Liberals were presenting the federal budget?”

“That’s right,” purred Belinda.

“We were going to vote against an amendment the Liberals had made in order to….” Stephen’s voice trailed off.

“…bring down the government.” Belinda finished his thought.

“Didn’t you…”

“..cross the floor? I did. I didn’t agree with you forcing an early election. And I’d come to my senses about that Peter MacKay fellow. Come. We have a press conference to see.”

Belinda led Stephen out of the public gallery and down to where a woman had cameras and microphones surrounding her. She was talking about national unity and how it was being jeopardized by an alliance between “him” and the Bloc Quebecois, only because “he” wanted to bring down the current government.

“Is that you?” asked Stephen.

“Yes,” replied Belinda. “And do you know who I’m talking about?”

Stephen hung his head as he remembered how fervently had had railed against the coalition for courting Bloc Quebecois support.

“But it’s just politics,” he said.

“I must go now,” said Belinda. “Sweet dreams.”

Stephen watched as Belinda melted into the background of the press conference that was still going on. He sat down on the stairs and leant his head against the banister. Soon, he was fast asleep again.

STAVE THREE

Stephen awoke in an uncomfortable position inside the parliament buildings. Still feeling quite peckish, he headed down to the cafeteria to see if it was open. Arriving at the entrance, he was shocked to find Jean Chretien lounging in an easy chair, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand.

“Bonsoir,” he said smiling.

“What are you doing here?” asked Stephen.

Jean leaned forward in his chair, cupping the whiskey glass in both his hands. “I am the Ghost of Parliament Present, “ he smiled, arching an eyebrow.

“But you left office five years ago!” exclaimed Stephen.

“I’m back consulting,” said Jean, rising and heading into the cafeteria. “Follow me.”

They entered the cafeteria and stopped beside a table of men and women, their faces downcast.

“I can’t believe it’s finally happened,” said one of the women, swirling around the coffee in her mug. “I always knew AbitibiBowater was in a bit of trouble, but I didn’t think it would actually close its doors. I guess my kids are getting a helluva lot less from Santa this year.”

“Keep moving,” said Jean, guiding Stephen towards another table of people.

“They’re temporary only because they think the government’s going to step in,” said one of the men, a GM baseball cap atop his head.

“At least we’ll get through Christmas,” said a woman, eyes downcast.

“Yeah, but all the bills from Christmas come in early January, right when we’re scheduled to be temporarily laid off!” chimed in a grey-haired man with a chubby face.

“You think the government will give us a bailout?” asked the woman.

“What government?” answered another woman. “They’ve taken a seven week holiday during the economic crisis, leaving us with no stimulus package. All the other countries are busy trying to figure out how to get their citizens out of financial trouble and ours is on holiday!”

“Bloody Conservatives,” mumbled the man with the GM hat.

“Bloody Harper,” mumbled the first woman.

“But…I…” Stephen stumbled over his words, “It’s just politics.”

“I must go,” said Jean, swigging the last of his whiskey.

Stephen followed Jean out of the cafeteria and watched him fade into the background. He sat down on the chair that Jean had been sitting on and let his head fall to the side.

“I wanted to cut the political party subsidies,” he said to himself, “That would have saved some money.” And with that, he fell into a deep sleep.

STAVE FOUR

Stephen was awoken by the sound of wind. He opened one eye and saw a phantom approaching him. It was shrouded in a dark robe and did not speak as it stood before him.

“Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Parliament Yet To Come?” he asked.

The spectre did not answer, but beckoned with its hand. Stephen rose and followed the ghost through the halls of parliament.

They came upon a scene of Brent Butt, cellphone in hand.

“Yeah. Yeah. No – we just don’t think he’s topical right now,” he paused. “Yeah, I know he did a great job last time he was on. Well, I wouldn’t say natural ability, but he got a few laughs. Yeah, no – I think I’m going to pass.”

The ghost beckoned again for Stephen to follow him to another scene, this time of Rick Mercer on a cellphone.

“No, he says he won’t do the skinny-dipping again. He says his new post is much too serious to resort to humourous nudity. Yeah, I told him that, but the man’s got quite a bit on his plate, undoing all the damage, you know. Maybe we can get Harper to do the Polar Bear swim. Make a joke about losing his cahones. I don’t know – we’ll give it to the writers. Yeah – let me know. Okay. Okay. Bye.”

“Spirit! What is he talking about?”

The ghost did not answer, but pointed to the Office of the Prime Minister, a place with which Stephen was very familiar. The ghost gestured for Stephen to enter. Slowly, Stephen pushed the heavy door open. The room was empty. He turned to look at the Ghost of Parliament Yet To Come. The ghost floated across the floor, behind the desk and took a seat in the Prime Minister’s chair.

“What are you doing?” whispered Stephen.

Again, the phantom was silent, but slowly moved its hands to its hood and began to draw back the cloak.

Stephen’s eyes filled with terror as the ghost in the chair removed the hood. There he was, smiling with his grey wispy hair slightly askew: Bob Rae.

“No!” shouted Stephen. “No! This cannot happen! I must do something! Something to stop this horrible future! I won’t be vindictive with political party subsidies! I’ll give civil servants back the right to strike! I’ll work with the opposition! I’ll act like I’m in a minority government! Anything!”

STAVE FIVE

Two men sat in an Ottawa pub, enjoying an early February beer. One sported a graying mustache, the other, dark heavy eyebrows. The mood was sombre.

“Well,” said Jack, “the guy’s a weasel, that’s for sure. I can’t believe Canadians were okay with his backtracking. That fiscal update was a huge mistake, but everyone seems to have forgiven him.”

“I can’t believe the political ads over the Christmas season!” said Michael. “I mean, I thought those Galen Weston salmon wellington ads were annoying, but come on!”

“If only Michaelle had denied him, we could have taken over back in December and sorted out this economic mess,” said Jack.

“If only we’d had a better leader back in October, we could have avoided this mess in the first place, “ said Michael.

“I guess he’s got a lot more than just his platform under his sweater,” said Jack.

Michael raised his glass in the air and Jack followed suit.

“Stephen Harper remains as Prime Minister,” said Michael with a sigh. “God help us, everyone.”

Steph’s Guide to the Coalition

You know, my Canada used to include Quebec. But now I’m thinking, let them separate.

Tonight, Stephen Harper (has he coloured his hair in an attempt to avoid the stuffy-sweater-wearing image that hounded him during this past election?) was pretty heavy handed about the Bloc Quebecois’s support of the coalition, trying to scare Canadians with the prospect of Gilles Duceppe and his nefarious plans to separate. I say, who cares? Let them go. Quebec could be like Lesotho, but without the absolute monarch and annual virgin marriages. Or like Azerbaijan, with its little property on the other side of Armenia. We could travel abroad on a 5 hour train ride from Toronto without the hassle of an American boder – how fabulously European.

But to the matter at hand: the coalition (of the willing; ‘cos there’s a hell of a lot of people out west who are certainly not willing – isn’t it fabulous to watch them squirm and shout the word “undemocratic” as they claw to keep their beloved Conservatives in power?). Does Stephane Dion have the cahones? He’s got to have a hell of a lot of politicians propping him up and telling him everything is going to be alright as he steps back into the political limelight he thought he’d left back in October. He’s trying: his speech tonight was an attempt at an impassioned address. And ideologically, I’m with him (as is the constitution – take that, you wimpering righties!) But really, I think Jack Layton and his porn mustache would certainly make a better candidate for prime minister (his desire for that post is palpable, especially in recent months, I've found).

So it is all up to Michaelle Jean, who was probably having a lovely European time in Prague before she was yanked back to this Canadian reality. She meets with Stephen Harper tomorrow when he will request a prorogation of parliament. Will she suspend parliament, or refuse Harper’s request and allow a vote of non-confidence on Monday? Will she allow for an historical change in Canada’s history? Will she comment on Harper’s dye-job?

To quote my brother, who knew Canadian politics could be so sexy?

Steph’s Guide to Surviving the Current Financial Crisis

1. Get a job in the public sector.

I find it laughable that all those business types have their knickers in a knot over the tabled 12% over 4 years salary increase for elementary teachers. They complain that those of us getting paid by the government shouldn’t expect such an increase during an economic downturn. In the booming years when my Bay Street counterparts were making six figures and charging their entertainment expenses to the company, I never expected bonuses at the end of the year for any professional successes with students and I have no expense account to entertain the parents of my students. Public servants take the middle road: job security, but never making a huge amount of money. That’s the gamble of business – you stand to make a ridiculous amount of money in the fat years, but you have to accept that lean years are always a possibility.

2. Five months prior to collapse, buy property.

This will allow you to practise a more modest way of spending. All of a sudden your monthly expenses go up, so your disposable income goes down and you have to make cuts in spending. It also serves as a good excuse when turning down offers of a weekend in New York or a night on the tiles.

3. Vote in a left-leaning government.

Oh…shit… Well, we may be solving that one right now.

4. Dispense with any significant others before Christmas.

Just make sure it’s far enough ahead that you can’t be accused of ruining the holiday for them. Without a romantic partner to buy for and to attend a whole other set of parties with, your spending will plummet. It also cuts down on incidental expenses like the extra groceries you had to buy to feed them and restocking beer supplies.

5. Suggest a more modest family Christmas.

Out with materialism and in with environmentalism and altruism. Instead of buying heaps of things that no one needs or wants, suggest donating money to charities instead. Or buy consumables like, say…enough bottles of alcohol to replenish drying up liquor cabinets (hint, hint - ed.).

6. Break your foot. (This is key.)

You are now housebound and can’t go out. All little expenditures like that four dollar latte and those cute bowls at Pier 1 that hop into your shopping bag unexpectedly have been cut out. So have those last minute, unnecessary purchases in the checkout line of places like Shopper's Drug Mart, IKEA and Roots.

You also can’t pop up the road for a pint – way too tiring on crutches (and slightly dangerous to the healing process should that one pint turn into four, interfering with balance and judgment). Getting to and from any kind of social engagement must be elaborately planned, therefore many will have to be declined. Never mind the fact that any kind of holiday outfit will have to be accessorized by a big, grey aircast and crutches, immediately downgrading your attractiveness by at least 30%. This should also help to maintain your single (and therefore parsimonious) status into the new year.

And people feel sorry for you, so they’ll go out and buy you a four-dollar latte and refuse reimbursement. They'll also drive you places, so you save on gas (you can't drive your stick-shift car, anyway).

Spend you days at home, reading stories on the internet about how people are dealing with the credit crunch by having dinner parties at home, recycling key pieces in their closet and having martinis on their couches.

Now only if I could somehow get that liquor cabinet restocked...

Two Roads Diverged in a Yellow Wood...

I must say, I have been surprised at the people chosen to lead political parties of late. I really think the Liberals have shot themselves in the foot with Dion – and I thought that before all these election polls pointing towards a majority government. The dude has zero charisma. When he tries to make fired-up speeches about his plans for Canada, he just ends up resembling a Quebecois version of the Swedish chef on the Muppets. I don’t feel his fire. And neither do a lot of other Canadians.

But it’s Sarah Palin upon which I wish to parley. I was a little surprised when John McCain chose a woman as his running partner, but then I thought I obviously don’t have my finger on the pulse of Republican America, so there must be other reasons (her anti-abortion stance or deftness at hunting moose, perhaps). But then Heather Mallick said what I had been thinking: “It's possible that Republican men, sexual inadequates that they are, really believe that women will vote for a woman just because she's a woman.”

Did the Republicans see the tight race for the Democratic nomination between a black man and a woman and figure they’d get all those lady-votes because of Sarah? Are we that much of a tabula rasa that we blindly vote based on gender and not politics (even saying it sounds so stupid)?

Mallick thinks we woman are too resentful of each other to vote for a woman because she’s a woman. I don't know if it's resentment or just a refusal to look past a female's looks: a large amount of the media attention on Palin has centred around her appearance. And they’re not resentful of her dimpled Miss America beauty or her practical Alaskan physique. They make fun of her piled-on-top hair and take-me-seriously glasses. Forget about voting for her – they can’t even get past their male gaze to give a good analysis of her politics and suitability to run the country.

I wrote about this emphasis on women’s outward appearance when Barbara Walters caught herself about to compliment Barack Obama on his attractiveness. She did compliment him, but it was probably one of the few times Obama’s appearance has been discussed.

And over in Afghanistan, where under the Taleban the appearance of a woman was not discussed because it was hidden under swathes of cloth, the head of Kandahar's department of crimes against women, Lt-Col Malalai Kakar, was shot by Taleban rebels. She wasn’t criticized for her hair style or her dress sense or because one of her six children had screwed up. She was shot because she was a woman and women shouldn’t work.

Okay, next time I promise to write about Canadian politics.

Gas Is Not Food, People

I loved watching all the outraged drivers on the news last night react to the 13 cent jump in gas prices. There were accusations of price-gouging and calls for the government to cut taxes to help out the drivers of Toronto who, generally unaccompanied, negotiate over-sized, gas-guzzling vehicles through the plodding lanes of our city. Maybe I don’t fully understand their plight, as my car (a small, fuel-efficient Tercel) spends most of its time parked behind my building: I walk to work, bike for groceries and take public transport downtown the majority of the time.

But come on – these drivers are relying on a finite resource, the burning of which has contributed to the climate change of our earth. You should be paying more.

In Britain, the price of gas is approximately twice what it is here (and has been for the last ten years I’ve been keeping track). And most Britons drive small, fuel-efficient cars. And way more of them rely on public transport (I know – Britain is better serviced by trains and such, but it is because there is demand for it). Europeans seem much more willing to change their habits if something is expensive.

North Americans don’t want to consider any alternative to sitting alone in a comfortable car for 2 hours a day to get to and from work.

Sometimes driving makes more sense than other forms of transport. I get that. I drive if it’s raining or to a friend’s house if it's not well serviced by the TTC. But each time I get in that car, it is a conscious decision where I have weighed the other transport options.

UN Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon commuted to work in a solar-powered taxi this past week to raise awareness about alternatives to fossil fuels. That’s all I’m asking. Think about alternatives. The old vehicular standby is not our only option.

Blue Box Blues

Is the city of Toronto really this stingy?

City officials are planning to crack down on people scavenging recyclables from blue bins. According to Toronto's Solid Waste Department, once the blue bin and its contents are curbside, the whole kit and caboodle is city property and they don't want anyone sorting through it.

You see, the city makes quite a bit of money off our aluminum cans ($2000 per tonne). Fair enough, but are these scavengers nicking empty pop cans? Anecdotal evidence (in the form of a couple of neighbourhood characters armed with shopping carts of varying constructions) shows that the scavengers are looking for wine and beer bottles. A cartful of finished Merlots and Tempranillos can net a tidy sum, especially in affluent neighbourhoods like mine where homeowners spend a lot on alcohol and can’t be bothered to make the trip to the Beer Store to return bottles.

(In the Beach, where I live, there are two LCBOs within walking distance of a large number of residents, including myself; however the Beer Store is a farther trek and therefore requires a bit more forethought than my usual, “Am I out of rosé? I think I’m out of rosé… I’ll just duck in for a bottle of rosé.” If the Liquor Store took back bottles, I could employ the empty one in, full one out method, based on the cold beer out, warm beer in method of university bar fridge drinking. But of course, the rosé bottles add up and require a large, strong bag in which to carry them, and a vehicle in which to transport them when there are too many in my kitchen cupboard not to be ashamed about.)

Why shouldn’t we let the enterprising unemployed continue with the sifting? Clifford Orwin compares it to the “biblical practice of gleaning”:

Leviticus 19.9 commands leaving the corners of one's fields unreaped so the poor can harvest them: One should never enjoy one's abundance to their exclusion. Similarly, I leave for the poor 20 cents of the value of every bottle of wine I buy. Collecting the bottle is their form of gleaning, and like gleaning in biblical days, it takes considerable labour.

There was a time when a city councillor wanted to ban panhandling: they found it somehow offensive, the homeless and unemployed sitting and begging for money. It annoyed people to be asked for money, to be reminded that we live in a many-tiered society, despite our many social nets. Why can't they get a job, asked some rather unempathetic citizens of our city.

Well, some have found jobs – jobs that don’t bother anyone (someone complained about the noise of scavengers, but give me a break – the industrial lawnmowers that rage at 8 o’clock in the morning outside my window are way worse) and help to support the province’s bottle return programme.

The City needs to stop worrying about who is returning my empty bottles of rosé and start worrying about more pressing issues.

Dangerous Trend Alert

What's going on with Katie Holmes?

I know there's the whole being married to a wingnut thing, and she's trying to keep up with her new friend, Posh Spice, but these jeans have got to be the final indication that signals a team of mental health professionals to swoop in and save her denimed ass.

There are trends that we try for the sake of the trends (I have a black fedora sitting on my hall table). There are trends we avoid, because there's no way it can look good (those short, high-waisted shorts were all over London while I was there this summer and like, two girls could actually rock them). And then some people seem to make an attempt to start a trend - is this what Katie is doing? Baggy jeans cinched just above the ankle that accentuates a heaviness in the hips, extending into the upper thighs?

I remember when Katie was the cute girl from Dawson's Creek that my brother had a crush on...

Battle of the Single Broads: Elaine vs. Carrie vs. Bridget

Three iconic singletons have emerged in popular culture over the past 15 years: Elaine Benes from the sitcom Seinfeld was the first. She kept up with her male friends, dating as many men as Jerry dated women; never placed too much importance on whatever man she was with; and entered (and lost) The Contest. She was intelligent, self-sufficient and witty. When Seinfeld ended in 1998, it paved the way for Carrie Bradshaw, the fictional sex columnist (based on real sex columnist Candice Bushnell) in the HBO series Sex and the City. Carrie dated far and wide, placing importance on finding a good man, but even more importance on a great pair of shoes. And across the pond in Britain, Helen Fielding was creating her heroine (and coining the term “singleton”), Bridget Jones, through a series of columns appearing in The Independent, which were fictionalized into the 1996 novel Bridget Jones’s Diary. Bridget Jones was a fumbling London thirtysomething trying to navigate her way through the dating scene, avoiding all "fuckwittage" and losing a few pounds along the way.

But how do these three women compare when lined up against each other? How do the major arenas of their lives measure up?

JOB:

Elaine: Writer for J. Peterman catalogue (after a turn at Pendant Publishing and personal assistant to Mr. Pitt), which she clinched just after meeting Peterman in the rain and describing her shirt: “This innocent looking shirt has something which isn't innocent at all. Touchability. Heavy, silky Italian cotton, with a fine almost terrycloth like feeling. Five button placket, relaxed fit, innocence and mayhem at once.”

Carrie: Sex columnist for New York Times, sometime freelancer at Vogue; lives her fabulous life and gets paid to write about it.

Bridget: In the first book, Bridget has an office job at a publishing house where she sends flirty emails to her boss, Daniel Cleaver (see Significant Relationships, below). In the second book, Bridget Jones The Edge of Reason, she becomes an on-air personality who attempts such stunts as parachuting into a pig sty and sliding down a firehouse pole, ass-to-camera.

FRIENDS:

Elaine: Apart from the obvious Jerry, George and Kramer, Elaine has some girlfriends out in Long Island who keep entreating her to “come and see the baaayyy-bee”.

Carrie: Solid as a set of Manolo wedges in bright summer colours; Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte have been by Carrie’s side since the beginning.

Bridget: Sharon (Shazzer), Jude and Tom are always happy to drop everything and meet Bridget in the pub for more than 14 units of alcohol and several cigarettes, despite any New Year’s resolutions.

SIGNIFICANT RELATIONSHIPS:

Elaine: Puddy, the face-painting, eightball-jacket wearing lug who Elaine is constantly breaking up and getting back together with – one time, both events happened on a single plane trip; another time Elaine got back together because she needed a bureau moved.

Carrie: Mr. Big is the one man that Carrie keeps coming back to, even when she’s committed to a live-in relationship with Aidan (who we all know is just too simple and too easy for Carrie). At the end of the series, Carrie ends up with Mr. Big. In the big screen version, after two painful hours of breaking up, she ends up with him. (Seriously, in real life, girlfriends would never let their friends go back this many times to such a waffle-weave man.)

Bridget: The first book starts out with Mark Darcy, in a cheesy Christmas jumper, being a bit rude to old Bridget. Then she gets caught up in the romance of bad boy Daniel Cleaver (who also happens to be her boss). As is to be expected, Bridget makes nice with the dashing Mark Darcy by the time he’s ready to wear his cheesy Christmas jumper again.

LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION:

Elaine: She is always in search of the perfect apartment in Manhattan, even considering Jerry’s apartment.

Carrie: She rented her apartment in New York for years, choosing to spend 40 grand on shoes instead of a down payment. She eventually buys her place, with a little help from her friends, after breaking up with Aidan.

Bridget: Lives by herself in a small flat in London, well-stocked with granny-pants and by the end of it, Mark Darcy.

CATCHPHRASE:

Elaine: “Get out!” (followed by a voracious push)

Carrie: Any age old question that attempts to understand men.

Bridget: “Fuckwit.”

Pretty Things

It was a repeat episode of The View today (I could tell by the mugs) and Barack Obama was the guest. As would be expected, conservative Elisabeth Hasselbeck grilled the Democrat candidate about his relationship with his pastor, Jeremiah Wright, who once made “incendiary” (Obama’s word) comments about the September 11th attacks:

We have supported state terrorism against the Palestinians and black South Africans, and now we are indignant because the stuff we have done overseas is now brought right back to our own front yards. (For a clip, click here)

These comments, which I completely agree with, were seen as unpatriotic and therefore Obama, whom I suspect secretly agrees with Wright, had to distance himself from Wright or face irrevocably damaging his campaign. The problem with American politics is that they place patriotism above all else: above rational thought, historical mistakes and personal freedoms. It’s that mentality of you are either with us or against us; there is no in between and certainly no room for debate. Obama, who represents (or at least, at one time represented) so much hope for the future of American foreign policy, cannot publicly agree with the idea that Americans can commit whatever atrocities they see fit in other countries, but absolutely can’t understand why others would want (and indeed plan and execute) to do the same.

But I digress. What struck me was that one of the women (I think it was Barbara Walters) stumbled a bit over paying Obama a compliment: she wasn’t sure if she should say how attractive he was. But she did, he accepted it with laughter, and the discussion moved to politics, which was Obama’s reason for being there.

Feminism has made some impact on separating women’s looks from what makes up their personality in that the women of The View were afraid to comment on Obama’s attractiveness (surely this is good, showing that there is no double standard?). Making any kind of comment on Hillary Clinton’s appearance would be seen as offside – but is that because she is not an overly attractive individual, therefore we can easily concentrate on her areas of expertise?

Julie Couillard, whom Heather Mallick describes as “the beautiful woman who had the bad judgment to date the ex-foreign affairs minister Maxime Bernier,” spent a lot of time in the news - not just for exposing Monsieur Bernier, but for exposing the top swell of one of her breasts. The Canadian press couldn’t get past it, as Mallick points out later in her column: “a trio of female Globe and Mail columnists…attacked Couillard for her breasts, her fragrant beauty and her insistence on defending her dignity as a woman.”

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: someone’s attractiveness is a big part of who they are. Sometimes it's what they're known for (models come to mind), sometimes it's part of what they're known for (Belinda Stronach, some might say). It's easy to see attractiveness as part of a man: Obama is a great orator, he seems to be quite good at the political game and he’ll already have a passport if he makes it to the White House (Georgie Boy did not. In fact, only something like 10% of Americans have a valid passport). But Obama is also pretty good-looking. The women of The View could pay him the compliment and then move on to what he was there for.

But when it comes to women, it’s a bit sketchier. Couillard (and indeed, other attractive women who have other things going for them) was not given the same courtesy that the women of The View gave Obama. Her beauty and sexuality were what was focused on in the media, instead of her reason for making headlines. It's silly to assume we do not notice (or judge) a person by their attractiveness: many psychological studies have proven otherwise and at the end of the day, we just want to procreate with genetically superior people. But someone's attractiveness is only a part of what they have to offer.

A Few Things

I’ve been away – both literally and figuratively. And this step back into bloggery may be brief, and for that I apologize – I just can’t seem to kick my writer’s arse these days…

Cheese, Please

Last week, Quebec announced it will allow its fromagers to produce raw-milk cheese, aged under 60 days, breaking from a continent-wide ban on unpasteurized cheese. It's something to do with harmful bacteria that the New World sees as a health risk in cheese ripened in under two months, even though many gastronomes maintain some cheeses reach their peak within a month, those pesky bacteria actually contributing to the taste and texture of the cheese.

The French (and other Europeans) have been enjoying these unpasteurized cheeses for centuries with no ill effects. In fact, pregnant French women have no restrictions on these types of cheeses, unlike us hyper-sensitive North Americans who ban brie and other foodstuffs like sushi from expectant mothers (despite the identical argument that Japanese mums-to-be have eaten raw fish for centuries). North Americans freak out during pregnancy (just recently I witnessed a pregnant woman hiding the fact she was drinking Coke from her husband), yet once these precious packages are born, they allow them to ride in big yellow school buses on the highway with no seatbelts (another WTF?!?! of mine, but that’s another post).

And A Four-Day Work Week, Too

In a bid to save energy, Nova Scotia Energy Minister Richard Hurlburt has suggested that government employees work only four days a week. Employees would work four 10-hour days and have a three day weekend, reducing the number of vehicles on the road and possibly the amount of power used in government buildings. The set up is about to be test-driven in Utah, starting on Monday. Although this seems like a good idea to a holiday-loving, easily-adaptable singleton like yours truly, there are issues arising in Utah around childcare, second jobs and night school.

All of this is untroubling to me, as I sit in the middle of my zero-day work week, annoyed that the Liquor Store will be closed tomorrow and the beach will be overrun with hard-bodied and flabby tanners alike. I also await the second round of my long-weekend-pot-smoking neighbour whose fumes waft through my flat only when the rest of the world has Monday off. While the workaday world looks forward to these summer long weekends, us teachers just wish they'd be over. Thank god those Americans will be starting their four day work week tomorrow and there will be a new episode of The View.

Street Meat, Diversified

Saying street food vendor to any Torontonian will conjure images of drunk and hungry club-goers, huddled over their hot dog at 3 in the morning; or Bay Street types grabbing a quick lunch between meetings. Say it to a New Yorker and the smells of pretzels and roasted peanuts fill their olfactory memory, the confluence of the foods' aromas contributing to that signature New York scent. Say street food vendor to a Parisian, and they will tell you about crepes, frites, tartiflette, baguettes - the list goes on - all available should you find yourself peckish on the banks of the Seine one sunny apres-midi.

But in Toronto, we're stuck with hot dogs, the only variability being offered through the vinegary toppings at the side of the cart.

Even England, once famous for its lack of imagination (and taste in general) when it came to food, is home to one of the best little creperies I've ever been to. Located in Hampstead Heath, I twice waited over half and hour in line for a chocolate and banana crepe, and each collation was well worth every minute in that queue.

Now the city of Toronto is considering allowing a greater variety of food to be sold from street vendors, so we can compete on the world stage of street meat. Cleverly titled Toronto A La Cart, the city is asking you what you'd like to be able to buy whilst eating on the run.

Take the survey and vote for everything from crepes and corn on the cob to roti and samosas.

And when this all goes through city council, I'll see you on the corner of Adelaide and John at 3 in the morning, bleary-eyed, but happily eating a chocolate and banana crepe.

Single Self-Importance

I am often asked why I don’t have a husband/boyfriend and, when my answer is not satisfactory, the asker subsequently makes a list of possible men with whom to set me up. Of the few set ups I have actually agreed to, they have only served to illustrate the very reasons why these men are still on the market.

My singleness makes people slightly nervous, worried that they are missing something truly horrific about me, not immediately visible, that precludes my settling down with anyone (something they have obviously missed in their single male friends). They figure there must be something wrong for me not to be attached by this point – perhaps a deep-seated psychological neurosis that I have never dealt with, or an innate bitchiness and inflexibility that only comes out behind closed relationship doors. I obviously have some serious self-help to undertake before I am able to enter into a healthy partnership.

Years of Oprah, self-help books and popular psychology have taught us single women that we cannot find love until we really love ourselves. We won’t be able to be with someone else until we are happy with being by ourselves. And we should expect and demand a person who is up to the high standards that we set for ourselves.

But is it possible that some of us have gone too far? Do we think so highly of ourselves that no one can measure up to the inflated vision we have of ourselves? Do we love ourselves so much that there is just not enough love to go around another person? In the immortal words of Elaine Benes: “Is it possible I’m not as attractive as I think I am?”

We don’t want to share ourselves with just one guy – who would be worth it? We have so much to offer, with our superior intellect, preternatural beauty, and mastery of sports, cooking and carpentry. All of this greatness would be wasted on a guy that probably is not even capable of fathoming the extent of our amazingness. Only Leonardo da Vinci would start to figure out that there was something unbelievable about us, and he’s been dead for ages; plus we would probably get annoyed with his backwards notes scribbled on the back of invention blueprints: klim teg ot enog.

So where does this leave us narcissistic, over-confident girls in search of a free-loving polyandrous society? It leaves us with friends who scratch their heads as they try and think of a suitable match for us, trying to figure out what exactly it is that is wrong, all the while never realizing that the fatal flaw is our refusal to settle for anyone that isn’t as goddamn wonderful as we are.

(Thank you to Sarah, the inspiration for this piece, who suggested that perhaps we lean toward arrogance in our dealings with the mere mortal males in today’s dating scene.)

Roll On, Spring...

To celebrate the arrival of spring last Thursday, I donned my winter parka, had a drink at Allen’s, then promptly got my car stuck in a snowbank which necessitated a call to my parents to come and help push me out (helpful strangers are apparently somewhat of a rarity around the Danforth). Whilst waiting for them, my feet actually began to freeze.

Now I know Easter is early this year (so early that those wily Irish priests changed St. Patrick’s Day to the Saturday before under the pretense that there shouldn’t be carousing on the Monday before Good Friday – drunken revelry was conveniently relocated to a day of the week followed by one that provided a lie-in), but I avoided the annual Beaches Easter Parade yesterday because the forecast was for a temperature below zero.

I know we live in Canada, and we should be used to snow and cold; but it’s bloody southern Canada, almost the southernmost point of Canada – so where the hell is spring?

I didn’t believe old Wiarton Willy on that cloudy day, 7 weeks ago.

However, around the world, others are celebrating the coming of spring; a time of rebirth, new beginnings and awakening from the sleep of winter. Here are a few highlights:

Hanami



In Japan, many cherry blossom viewing parties and festivals are held around this time of year. The Japanese watch the Cherry Blossom Forecast on television stations to know when the blooms are expected to come out in different parts of the country.

Holi



Known as the festival of colour, Holi marks the victory of good over evil. Hindus around the world light bonfires on the first night and throw coloured powder and water at each other the following day.

Vernal Equinox



Thousands of people celebrate the spring equinox by climbing to the top of the Sun Pyramid in Teotihuacan, Mexico, built by the Aztecs. It is thought that the first day of spring brings a special energy to the place.

Easter



Easter is based on the story of Jesus being resurrected from the dead. Non-religious symbols of the holiday, eggs and bunnies, denote symbols of rebirth and fecundity, both markers of spring.










Nowruz

Translated from Farsi, Nowruz means “new day” and is an ancient Persian festival celebrating the new solar year and the beginning of Iran’s calendar year. This year, Iran’s government has given its citizens a special Nowruz gift: strict gas rations have been loosened over the holiday period.

My own personal celebration comes with that first day that you can smell mud in the air - when the last bits of snow are trickling away in rivulets, revealing the dormant earth that lay hidden for so long. When the air is heavier and scented with growth. However you choose to celebrate... happy spring!

Baby, You Can Drive (in) My Car

A few weeks ago on CBC’s Metro Morning, Andy Barrie interviewed Rajat Suri, a university student who came up with an application for the social networking site Facebook which matched people up into carpools. Suri said he got the idea while driving in Toronto and looking at the thousands of cars carrying only one person.

Barrie noted that despite government funding, public awareness campaigns and carpool lanes, “I nevertheless find it difficult to get people – maybe your generation is changing – to give up the private space the car represents to them.”

I'm not sure that generation is changing, and the value of that private space is only increasing, especially as our cars become more and more like our living rooms, traditionally spaces for relaxation and socializing.

It started with cup holders – cars began to double as kitchen counters where we could multitask by eating and travelling at once. Then the suspension had to be improved so the drinks in the cup holders wouldn’t spill as you sailed over potholes and rumble strips. Vehicles got bigger: SUVs, their size marketed as essential for transporting all your sports equipment, were never really used for ferrying about surfboards and crampons over rough terrain. So all that cargo space was replaced with more heated, captain’s chair-style seats (no doubt with cup holders in the armrests) throughout the vehicle.

Then came the TV/DVD player to complete the transformation from means of transport to space of complete comfort. Who needs a living room now? Just transplant the family into the car, stick in Over The Hedge and set the car’s climate control to whatever temperature suits you.

And how often do you invite random strangers into your actual living room in the name of traffic reduction and environmentalism?

Maybe it’s time to start. There are still a few wrinkles to iron out with carpooling – timing can be an issue for some people – they may leave the house at a specific time in the morning, but can’t commit to a set time for the way home. Women especially will incorporate errands into their drive home (one stat has women making 4 stops to men’s one while out in the car), so some people may not want to sit in the car outside while their driver pops into the grocery store, post office, daycare and LCBO.

Despite many people’s misgivings and lack of flexibility around their cars, Suri’s idea seems to be working. His Facebook application has been used by over 300 000 people, whether they want to get downtown to work every morning, or travel to Montreal for the weekend.

Yet Another Reason Not To Pick Your Nose In Public

Big Brother is watching, and he's watching from a panoramic camera positioned atop a VW Beetle, driving around the big cities of America, filming the quotidian goings-on: this according to an piece in the Times Online about Google's latest map feature, Street View.

Not only will Google show you a map of where you're searching for, directions how to get there, and an aerial view; they'll now give you a snapshot at street level (providing the punchbuggy has driven past), displaying scenes like the one below, taken in San Francisco.



Has the human race always been so interested in what other people are doing? Is this Street View feature just another way to satisfy our voyeuristic urges (which somehow are not being satisfied by the myriad reality shows out there)?

Or are we surprised (and charmed) by the unexpected scenes that greet us on otherwise nondescript American streets, playing to the human brain's desire for novelty?

Either way, just think twice about sticking a finger up your nose anywhere outside your own home...

Fringe Benefits or, Bangs Away!

Being on holiday, I have a chance to practise my tabloid headline writing skills as well as comment on some less weightier topics (than, like, daytime television).


Here's a trend you can trace on the foreheads of fashionistas: the fringe. Kate Moss started it last fall, chopping her post-Pete Doherty locks into a 70s-inspired cut.


Model Heidi Klum soon followed suit, keeping up with the trends she might see on her show Project Runway.


After a few months, we see the trend trickle down from models to mere celebrities - Kate Hudson has been sporting some cute bangs while cavorting around Miami with Owen Wilson (who I was convinced tried to kill himself over her, but there you go).


And finally, our Friend next door, Jennifer Aniston was spotted sporting the shaggy bangs on the set of her latest movie.

Kate Moss started the skinny jean phase ages ago, and it took that style a good two years to hit the streets of North America (they were a bit quicker in London). My prediction? Fall 2010, we're all going to look suspiciously like our grade 3 bowl-cut bangs school photo...

Daytime TV

And so begins the March Break, that week approaching spring that sees Pearson’s passenger numbers rise dramatically, parents scrambling to find childcare for a week and those lazy teachers claiming one week is just not enough. (It isn’t.)

For those of us who were lucky enough not to be sitting on the floor of Terminal 3 on Saturday, watching the snow fall and the flights fail to leave, we get the sinful indulgence of daytime TV.

Back in the day, daytime TV used to mean soap operas and game shows (I remember many a March Break spent as a student in my parents’ basement, shouting “Big Money!” at contestants on the Price Is Right as they spun that massive wheel just before Showcase Showdown). Later on, audiences saw an endless string of trashy talkshows with similar themes (My sister is pregnant with my transvestite husband’s baby etc.) and different straight-talking hosts (Montel, Sally Jesse, Maury etc.).

Nowadays our channel lineup has increased and so has the spectrum of daytime television. It seems that home-based shows have been all over the place for a while now: everything from home renovations to selling property to managing debt are the foci of shows.

And it seems we’re following Britain's lead, a country which, if the daytime lineup of BBC Canada is to be taken as a representation of television interest, is really into buying, renovating, decorating and selling property (and then rummaging through the attic to find things to sell).

Canada is even seeing the import of a few Brits to host Canadian-produced shows. Colin and Justin’s Home Heist premiered on HGTV back in October, transplanting the flamboyant duo from a variety of “flipping” shows in the UK (including Colin and Justin On The Estate, where they attempted to revitalize a dire council housing estate) to a show focusing on our national crisis of ugly basements.

The latest British import is Kim Woodburn who presented How Clean Is Your House?, a show revealing the grimy state of some UK households. This past Tuesday, Woodburn hosted the first episode of Kim’s Rude Awakenings, where she gets down to the dirty in Toronto homes.

How do homes get to this state, one wonders? Especially homes of those lazy teachers who have an entire week off to spring clean (which happens to be my goal for this week)?

Well, we get so drawn into the soap operas, game shows, talkshows and home and design shows that we can’t possibly find the time to do any work on our own houses.

(I should have left the dust, braved the airport, and gone to Cuba.)

Remember Los Alamos

I just have to share with you a couple bits of ridiculousness that I learned the other day while listening to Harvey Daniels, an American educator who was speaking at a Reading conference I attended. It builds onto my argument in Notions of the Nano, a recent post on this blog where I compared Europe's and North America's outraged reaction to a company targeting India with an affordable car. I compared it to America's desire to hold all the cards in the nuclear weapons game of Texas Hold 'Em.

Well, it ain't Texas that's holding them, it's New Mexico, where Harvey Daniels now resides.

Mr. Daniels lives close to Los Alamos, a government facility that spends - get this - $100 million per day on maintaining US nuclear weapons. Los Alamos also features the only museum in the world celebrating the atomic bomb.

Flowers in February

A boy displaced by recent violence in Kenya smells a rose at a refugee camp in Nairobi's Mathare slum (from news.bbc.co.uk)

Around this time two years ago, I listened to David Suzuki speak about the state of our world. To make a point about the massive carbon footprint that humans make, he deconstructed the act of ordering pizza from room service in a North American hotel room: where the anchovies came from and how they got there; where the cheese and flour were made and how they were transported to the hotel; where the copper in the telephone wires used in placing the room service call was mined and how it was transported; where the electricity came from to power the elevator that the room service waiter used to deliver the pizza. He forced his listeners to think about the massive global impact of a simple action that we do without thinking about.

I often think about where food comes from and what its environmental impact has been. Last year I read The 100 Mile Diet, a book about a couple who ate food from within 100 miles of their home for a year. Reading that book caused me to stand in the grocery store one day, for a good 5 minutes looking quite lost, trying to decide between a pint of organic New Zealand blueberries and a pint of regular Nova Scotian blueberries. (I went with the maritime variety.)

I wonder where the wood from the Ikea bedframe I like comes from. I wonder where the materials in the new mattress I should buy soon come from. I wonder where my futon mattress will go when I finally retire it.

And on today, Valentine’s Day, I'll add another product for us to think about. Where did the flowers you bought for your valentine come from? How did they get to you? One-quarter of the flowers that Europe* imports come from Kenya, a country mired in violence ever since the disputed elections in December. This year, roadblocks and street barricades have made it much more difficult to transport flowers throughout the country. I wonder where that bloom got stopped, perhaps at gunpoint, on its way to someone’s paramour.

*Canada gets over half of its flower imports from Colombia, which is quite the carbon emissions when you consider the plane ride from Bogota to Toronto.

The Africentric School Debate

This past Tuesday, I tuned into the Toronto District School Board’s meeting where Trustees and the public debated four strategies that a TDSB committee had come up with to address to needs of black students, 40% of whom are dropping out of Toronto schools. Of the four strategies, the one that stirred up the most debate (and passed by a much smaller margin than the others) was the one recommending a Program Area Review Team be formed to propose the program and operational model for an Africentric Alternative school, slated to open in September 2009.

One argument against an Africentric school is that it harkens back to segregation: the separation of blacks and whites in American society between 1876 and 1965, after the abolition of slavery and introduction of Jim Crow laws. The argument is invalid in our current context since the separation of the races in antebellum Dixie was legally enforced, whereas an Africentric school in Toronto is non-mandatory and open to all.

The fundamental idea behind this school is diametrically opposed to black schools in the Southern States during the Jim Crow era: African-Americans were put in their own schools so whites wouldn’t have to interact with them. There was an overt value put on a person based on the colour of their skin: Rosa Parks had to sit at the back of the bus, moving further back if a white needed a seat. The Toronto Africentric school is focused on a disadvantaged group whom the TDSB is somehow failing and through curriculum, culture and African-Canadian role models, the school hopes to improve the success of this group.

In his article in Saturday’s Globe and Mail, Jeffrey Simpson questions how well Ontarians will receive a black-focused school when the Conservatives campaigned on their platform of funding for religious-based schools and fell flat on their faces:

Ontarians did not favour the Conservatives’ arguments because most voters instinctively or explicitly believed that in an increasingly multicultural and pluralistic society, schools should be one of those places for community, or what has become known as “inclusiveness.”

Yes, that is what schools should be, but not necessarily what they are. And while faith-based schools would focus on the teachings of a specific religion, there is no evidence to indicate that the educational needs of Jewish or Islamic or Buddhist students are not being met. We do, however, have a glaring statistic of 40% that points to a need in the black community, a need that members of that community have asked for.

But is it fair, you ask? I refer you to a quote from Richard Lavoie, a famous American Learning Disabilities expert: “Fair does not mean that everyone gets the same thing; it means that everyone gets what they need.” Is it fair that my brother gets to wear glasses and I don’t? Of course it is – he gets what he needs to be a productive member of society (who doesn’t bump into chairs and walk into walls).

It may sound radical, but why not give this demographic what they need in order to be successful at school, regardless of whether or not it is “fair” to other groups. Black students do not see themselves reflected in the curriculum or in the people that stand at the front of the classroom. The Toronto District School Board already has other Alternative Schools aimed at students who cannot function in the regular school system. There is also the First Nations School of Toronto, serving a perhaps the most disadvantaged group in Canada.

Trustee Sheila Ward got quite uppity at criticisms of the First Nations School, saying it was wonderful and they were making great gains, when in reality this is not quite the case. (I speak from experience, having shared a building with the school). The school has some dedicated people working really hard to make positive change for students, but it is also working against so many social and institutional factors that are constantly getting in the way.

And this is where we have to see an Africentric school as only part of the solution. Trustee Stephnie Payne made the salient point that schools are only part of a student’s life and that good parenting is what is really needed (she, incidentally, voted against the Africentric school). Jeffrey Simpson makes the same point in his piece:

The much more frequent explanations for poor student achievement, for blacks or any other group, have much less to do with curriculum than factors over which schools have little control: dysfunctional families, troubled neighbourhoods, few roles models (absent fathers), poverty, gangs or, in a few immigrant communities, attitudes toward education (especially for females) that are not easily reconciled with mainstream Canadian ones.

With only six hours in a schoolday to remedy social inequities, teach empathy and respect of others, fix general societal problems, tend to the pastoral care of our students, and - oh yeah - teach them stuff, schools can’t offer the only solution.

But we can offer part of the solution, so why not try it? The status quo is not working. Schools need to do whatever they can to foster the success of all students. Let’s see what happens with this Africentric school. Let’s hope it helps someone in that 40%.

Notions of the Nano

Much has been made recently over the Tata Nano: a car which is compact, cheap (costing only $2500), and available to citizens of the developing world. Although it’s size and horsepower must make it quite fuel efficient, the mere fact that cars are now available to vast swaths of the world’s non-vehicle owning population means a huge output in carbon emissions during a time in history when the need for reduction is so prevalent (perhaps only to the general population, though – the politicians don’t seem to be worried about signing on to any kind of agreement to reduce our carbon emissions as nations, shame on you Stephen Harper and George Bush).

We affluent North Americans and Europeans tsk at the car manufacturers for providing this option for the working poor of our world, discussing with our friends the environmental catastrophe this will herald from the comfort of our over-sized cars, idling outside Starbucks.

Why shouldn’t Indians be given a chance to drive to their outsourced jobs at call-centres, spending their American dollars on the mighty (yet mini) car?

This is an issue at which my social and environmental beliefs clash. We are so haughty in our dismissal of the underclasses of the world trying to reach our standard of living. It’s like the Americans freaking out over Pakistan and Iran manufacturing nuclear weapons, all the while cataloguing their own stash, cozy in their self-appointed position of global protector, independently making decisions on who gets invaded or ousted. But with all that we know about carbon emissions, are we not insane to put millions more cars on the roads? That huge spike at the end of Al Gore’s climate graph is about to be blown off his Powerpoint screen.

So what do you do? You live by the smallest carbon footprint as you can. You use reusable containers and recycle what you can (even the annoying things like batteries). You drive less, live and shop closer to work, use less electricity. You buy local produce when you can, and find products with little or no packaging.

And you can think about what it must be like for a family of four, living in a 2 room apartment on the east side of Delhi, to finally be able to own a thing that to us represents freedom, convenience and status.

Backpacking Blues

This past Friday morning, I loaded up my backpack with a few essentials in preparation for my trip to Montreal to visit a friend who has recently moved there. Putting the backpack on my back and fastening the waist and chest bands around my parka gave me an unexpected sense of exhilaration on the unusually bright January morning.

(It’s been a particularly hard slog this January, hasn’t it? I am reminded of a line in The Cowboy Junkies’ song Seven Years: “Haven’t see the sun for seven days, November’s got her nails dug in deep.” Well January has meat hooks and they have settled gangreneously into my flesh.)

Where had this emotional thrill come from? I theorize it was the rucksack on my back and the train ticket in my hand.

I spent a few years in my twenties overseas with a backpack as my only baggage and a train as my mode of transport. I deciphered the 24-hour clock (18:20 translates slowly when your train is leaving in mere minutes) and squinted at train destinations in foreign languages in a variety of European countries (I spent 3 days in Paris trying to figure out this place called Benelux). That beat-up red backpack and my Eurail pass represented a freedom of will and a richness of learning.

I knew the weight of a real Munich beer stein. I felt the heat of a Roman noon outside the Coliseum, with its bored Italian youths dressed up as Gladiators. I saw the light that Cezanne saw in the south of France, blanching the rock and Cyprus trees over the Mediterranean. I felt an incomparable peace while drifting through the glowworm caves in Te Anau, the dark space above me lit up with tiny specks of eerie light. I swam just above the proliferation of sea creatures on the Great Barrier Reef, avoiding the grey and deadened coral nearby, killed by an increase of a single degree in sea temperature. I hiked the foothills of the Himalayas, and spun prayer wheels of the Dalai Lama.

But I also lost my nerve at the sharp end of a knife, wielded by four boys in Cape Town who were insistent at taking my purse. It was there, after only four hours on South African soil, that I lost my nerve.

Perhaps symbolically, I bought one of those wheelie suitcases, stopped staying in youth hostels and rarely travelled longer than a few days by myself. My world adventures were confined to friends and relatives in the U.K. and, more recently, the North American-friendly Cayman Islands .

But the weight of my backpack that Friday morning brought back the thrill I get of going somewhere new. Of getting on a train at one end and getting off in a totally different life. So I started with Montreal – somewhere I have been before, albeit 17 years ago. Where next? Somewhere new, somewhere different. Somewhere that will give me that familiar sense of exhilaration on a bright January morning.

I hear Brazil calling my name…

Some Things

I have just finished reading Heather Mallick’s Pearls in Vinegar, written in the style of a Japanese Pillow Book, a form which appears to be a few paragraphs on a variety of sometimes-connected topics. Inspired by the short, non-committal bursts of writing commenting on everyday life, I thought I might take another stab at blogging. I was getting quite sick of seeing that tomato zombie guy every time I forlornly returned to my blog, only to remain witless and wordless.

On Reading

At school these days, we teach children when to abandon books (as part of a larger plan of teaching reading behaviours). While reviewing the reasons we might not finish a book (words are too hard, topic is not interesting, you don’t like the author’s style of writing), I realized that I rarely abandoned books. I would plough through novels, intent on finishing them, but missing large sections as I read the words on the page, but really didn’t take in what was going on.

And so I abandoned several books: Sister Crazy by Emma Richler, On Beauty by Zadie Smith (however I do plan to come back to this one), Snow Falling on Cedars by Joseph Guterson (okay, I abandoned this one awhile ago) and The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins (although this was a forced abandon, as it was due back at the library and unrenewable). I was beginning to worry that I had lost my taste for fiction (and that non-fiction was just a repetition of the same facts and ideas about teapots in space, extended to 400-odd pages) and that being drawn into a good book was out of reach.

Luckily good old Ian McEwan stepped up in the form of a phone call from the library saying that it was my turn to read On Chesil Beach, which I’d put a hold on back in July. Wanting to keep up a run of good books, I went out and bought Anil’s Ghost by Michael Ondaatje, an author I can always rely on to bring a density of thoughts, images and meaning to a single sentence. The ending, which I read on a terrace in the Cayman Islands, had me gazing out to sea for a good ten minutes after I closed the book.

Cayman Americanization

I spent the week after Christmas in the Cayman Islands with my cousin and his girlfriend who now live out there. Having visited several Caribbean Islands in the past (and having not been out of the province for a year and a half), I was looking forward to a change of scenery, some fried plantains with rice and peas, and a whole lot of sun.

And while I got these wishes, I also got a lesson in Americanization. Though a British territory (and populated by many ex-pat Brits), the main port of George Town is set up for foreign workers as well as the daily onslaught of Cruise Shippers, who must line up like cattle to get on and off their ships. There are several Burger King and Wendy’s outlets as well as higher end restaurants (with higher end pricing) offering middle of the road Italian and seafood options. It took a trip into West Bay, where many locals live, to find a place that would actually serve me rice and peas.

And the bars along the main drag, though frequented by some Caymanians and some Jamaicans (who make up about 20% of the island’s population), were staffed and patronized by Australians, Kiwis, Canadians Americans and Brits, all playing the likes of Bon Jovi and Prince, with an NFL game on TV in the background. It felt like my undergrad years, with the heat turned up.

Getting asked out via email

I’m trying to figure out if this is a new low or high in my dating career. The uncle of a kid in my class asked me out via email. His sister-in-law (the kid's mom) suggested it, saying I was a lovely person (possible high); however, going on just this recommendation, I wonder about his standards (possible low). A fellow teacher did some detective work (by asking the sister of the kid in my class) and determined that the uncle is getting a bit chubby and lives in a messy house. I declined politely. He could have been that tomato zombie guy.