Brody is a fan of "stupid" gifts and, if we had the budget for it, his pals would get a stund gift along with a real one. Brody even manages to come up with awesome gift ideas for those not on his nice list. He has a special gift when it comes to picking self-help book titles, matching them up with folks we know in the most comical of ways. We (for the good and/or bad of it) share the same sense of humour and I'm usually right there with him as he makes his off the wall gift suggestions. But, like most. we're on a budget. So, Nathan was the only "odd" gift recipient over the last two years. Last year he received a Jesus action figure Brody picked up at the X-Store in town. It was pretty funny. There were other Jesus-things Brody wanted to get him but Jesus was an expensive item for a 10 year-old's budget so one it was.
This year Brody knew what he wanted, and threw a full salami into my grocery cart announcing it was Nathan's present. Well, the salami was second choice. Brody was actually looking for a dildo (the kids have been fascinated with them since they realized they 'Dildo' is more than a place you pass going to visit Nan in Hearts Content) and since there were none on our travels he placated himself with the real-meat substitute. I'm sure there's a male-joke in there somewhere but I was wise and didn't ask, especially when Brody asked if I had a dildo around anywhere he could use for his gift-assuring me I would get it back. As if. I thought it best not to ask.
Nathan got Brody back though, or I suppose he did. Nathan gave Brody a two-pack of baby soothers.
Best not to ask.
In the list below I would like to receive the dog-poop calendar. That would make me smile.
Enjoy these what not to gets...
Web site Stupid.com, which claims finding a truly stupid gift is an art form, on Tuesday unveiled its second annual list of the top 10 "stupidest" holiday gifts for 2008.
"2008 might have been a bad year for the economy, but it was a great year for stupidity," said Stupid.com's founder Gary Apple. "Weird products seemed to come out of the woodwork this year. There was almost too much stupidity to choose from!"
Last year the list featured a Hillary Clinton nutcracker, a Mother Teresa breath spray, and portable mistletoe with a suction cup to attach to your forehead.
Here is New York-based stupid.com's top 10 list for 2008 (http://www.stupid.com/fun) which is not endorsed by Reuters:
1. Screaming Chicken, The World's Most Annoying Toy:
This rubber chicken doesn't squeak or squawk. It screams.
2. Wealth Redistribution 2008 Holiday Ornament:
This tree ornament announces that the ornament that used to be there has been removed and given to someone who needs it more. The Redistribution Holiday Ornament will let everyone know you're spreading the wealth whether you want to or not.
3. Mini Guitar Hero:
This miniature version of that mega-hit game is barely 6-inches long but you can still rock out to songs by Queen, Cheap Trick, Nirvana, and The Police.
4. Potty Putter:
Why waste time on the toilet, when you can use it to get ready for the fairway? Potty Putter contains everything you need for an exciting round of golf without leaving your seat including a putting green for around the toilet, mini putter, flag stick and two golf balls.
5. Wasabi Flavored Gumballs:
These potent little green confections offer an intense explosion of wasabi. Strangely, the gum is actually delicious.
6. Men's Underwear Repair Kit:
In this troubled economy, don't throw away your old underwear but repair it with the Men's Underwear Repair Kit. This handy, inexpensive kit provides everything you need to get your unsightly undershorts back into presentable shape.
7. Obama "Yes We Can" Opener:
Every election spawns some interesting products, but this has to be one of the stupidest. To Obama fans, the "Yes, We Can" opener, seizing on his campaign refrain, could be a treasure.
8. "How To Tie A Tie" Tie:
Still struggle with your tie? This stylish tie has simple knot-tying instructions printed right on the front. Just follow the six step-by-step diagrams and you'll look as dashing as George Clooney in seconds.
9. 2009 Dog Poop Calendar:
Each month features a spectacular landscape or breathtaking tableau, but somewhere in every shot there's a pile of dog poop. Distasteful? You bet it is, but the contrast between the beautiful photography and dog poop is remarkable.
10. Pole Dancer Alarm Clock:
When the alarm goes off, dance music plays and disco lights flash. At the same time, a buxom blond dancer gyrates around a pole under the spinning disco ball.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Times they are a changin'
TORONTO (Reuters) - Prime Minister Stephen Harper, in perhaps his bleakest comments yet on the global economy, said the future has become increasingly hard to read and conceded a depression could occur.
The Prime Minister, in an interview with CTV News in Halifax, Nova Scotia, also confirmed that his Conservative government's January budget would push Canada into a deficit, while including billions of dollars in spending.
The government is set to release its budget on January 27.
"The truth is, I've never seen such uncertainty ...," the Globe and Mail quoted Harper as saying in the interview. "I'm very worried about the Canadian economy."
The Prime Minister also raised the possibility that a depression -- loosely defined as prolonged recession where output declines more than 10 percent -- might be possible.
"It could be, but I think we've learned enough from the 1930s to avoid some of the mistakes that caused a recession in 1929 to become a depression in the 1930s."
Talk of a deficit signals an about-face for Harper's government. The party's fiscal update in November was widely criticized by economists for striving too hard to show balanced budgets in coming years at a time when most experts argued that temporary deficits would help pull Canada through a recession.
The opposition parties refused to endorse it, leading Prime Minister Stephen Harper to request Parliament be shut down to January 26, rather than face a confidence vote.
Seems we are in for a rough ride and no one is more nervous than rural folks who depend on the Alberta oil boom to make ends meet. Most I know have either abandoned the fishery altogether or have cut back on their dependence on it to join the wave of western workers. Many found the costs associated with the catch-especially the not so long ago high cost of gas-prohibitive. Men who have never worked at anything else have already worked a few Alberta shifts-only now they are sent home, no return ticket in hand.
In September Blair turned down no less than six lucrative job offers so he could attend school in October, now, he can't seem to find anything promising outside of a full time stay-in-Alberta offer.
He was supposed to start back on January 3rd. Not now. My, how quickly things have changed.
The Prime Minister, in an interview with CTV News in Halifax, Nova Scotia, also confirmed that his Conservative government's January budget would push Canada into a deficit, while including billions of dollars in spending.
The government is set to release its budget on January 27.
"The truth is, I've never seen such uncertainty ...," the Globe and Mail quoted Harper as saying in the interview. "I'm very worried about the Canadian economy."
The Prime Minister also raised the possibility that a depression -- loosely defined as prolonged recession where output declines more than 10 percent -- might be possible.
"It could be, but I think we've learned enough from the 1930s to avoid some of the mistakes that caused a recession in 1929 to become a depression in the 1930s."
Talk of a deficit signals an about-face for Harper's government. The party's fiscal update in November was widely criticized by economists for striving too hard to show balanced budgets in coming years at a time when most experts argued that temporary deficits would help pull Canada through a recession.
The opposition parties refused to endorse it, leading Prime Minister Stephen Harper to request Parliament be shut down to January 26, rather than face a confidence vote.
Seems we are in for a rough ride and no one is more nervous than rural folks who depend on the Alberta oil boom to make ends meet. Most I know have either abandoned the fishery altogether or have cut back on their dependence on it to join the wave of western workers. Many found the costs associated with the catch-especially the not so long ago high cost of gas-prohibitive. Men who have never worked at anything else have already worked a few Alberta shifts-only now they are sent home, no return ticket in hand.
In September Blair turned down no less than six lucrative job offers so he could attend school in October, now, he can't seem to find anything promising outside of a full time stay-in-Alberta offer.
He was supposed to start back on January 3rd. Not now. My, how quickly things have changed.
Put you in the mood-Dec 06 Indy Column
It’s Christmas card time. I got that funny feeling in my stomach when I received the first one November 19th. What are they, sick? Trying to make me feel bad perhaps? I know there is still time, and I should be prepared, but these past few years I just haven’t gotten around to sending many out. Am I busy? Sure, but no more than most I know, and they all manage to get their cards out. When I lived in Ontario my job included many “critical” teleconferences. If the call was long and boring I would break the Christmas card box out of my drawer and work my way down the list. I always sent my cards out early, everyone got a personal greeting and I was never rushed. My life has changed since returning to Newfoundland and whenever I am on the phone now I either am writing notes, folding laundry or cooking supper. (Thank God for cordless phones.)Two years ago I began a nasty practice. I sent cards out only as I received them. One in, one out. The bad thing is that there are others out there who do the same, and because I didn’t send one, I didn’t get one back. There are also those (you know who you are) who mail their greetings just in time, so you get them the last mail day before the holidays. They received our card back in January. I tried to convince my mother to add "& the Ghents,” to the end of her card salutations, but she scowled and gave me "the look."So, this year I will be creative. I have a forum to reach the masses, do I not? So, if you live in the province, and you know me, keep reading because this is your Christmas card. If you don’t know me, you can still keep reading and be thankful I’m not on your card list. If this doesn’t shame you into finishing your own cards and getting them mailed, nothing will.Dear (insert your name here)The holiday’s are just around the corner and I’m writing you to wish you and your family (if you don’t have a family, just stop at “you”) the best for the season and the New Year to come. I hope 2006 was good to you and yours. (If you had any tragedy that I know about, please insert condolences here. If you had any monumental successes or any new additions to your family then please add your own version of what I might say at this point to make you feel that I care.)We had a great year here in Harbour Mille. Dad and I are still partners in the shop, though he punches in more time that I do. When I work I’m lucky I remember how to cut the cheese, but dad is an expert. Dad’s health has improved overall. He feels sick when he wants time off, and I usually concede and give him a few hours to nap or see a doctor. I tried going on his behalf. I do, after all, know his symptoms since he whines about them so much. It didn’t work. Doctors apparently need to have a look at the “baddies” to fix them. Oh well, I tried to save him a trip. Mom and Dad got a new dog. A “Shi Tzu.” This dog has created quite a stir. They spent more on P.J. than they did on my wedding and education combined, and the beast isn’t even a pure breed. A drawn out battle resulted in them getting half their money back, which is a good thing because I guarantee the cost of braces for this mutt will cost me my inheritance. He has queer looking teeth, but they do work because he has eaten two pairs of my sneakers and has bitten my arse on more than one occasion.Mom is doing great. She loves to travel and has been around a bit this year. Mom, Kim, Reneta, Kelly and I took off for a week in Nashville in June. No kids, no spouses, just honky tonks, touring, wine and laughter. I got hit by a car while there, but the good news is Kim and I did get away from those muggers. I wasn’t hurt, physically anyway. This years plan is for “the girls” to visit Bob Barker and “come on down,” though the jury is still out on if we can “come on up” with the cash. Mom spent some time with Roo and visited her kids. Kelly was down for a week and we met her new man. We tried to have something bad to say about him, but the only thing we could come up with is that he is frugal with money. Kelly’s ex-husband was generous and would buy us sisters rounds. We shall miss her ex, but Tim, welcome to the family. You seem like a great guy and Kelly has never been happier.Kim and family are great. Tracy still does all the shopping. If you see him at Wal Mart or Dominion, say hello. Reneta’s husband, Mr. Elixir, is doing well. We aren’t sure what concoction he is taking at the moment, but he is even you-know-what while doing dishes, so keep “up” the good work Don. Mike has started a new job, has a girlfriend we all like and has lost weight, though I’m sure you’ll still recognize him.From what I hear, the Ghent side of our clan are fine. My in-laws are still the out-laws, but I can’t elaborate because my darling husband will string me up with the Christmas lights. (Love you guys, save me some turkey.)Speaking of my beloved, Blair and I had an interesting year. Yes, we were separated, and I don’t just mean because he was working in Alberta. We thought we were a done deal after 16 years of marriage, but we found something worth saving (no, not just money for lawyers) and are actually like a couple of newly weds. Must be something in the water and I'm liking it. He has changed, I have changed, and we both like the new “we’s.” Wish us a happily ever after.Brody is doing great. He earned his purple belt in karate. He has dabbled in piano and guitar lessons and loves to sing. He is doing well in school, adores life in outport Newfoundland and is thrilled his dad is home from Alberta for Christmas.I’m well, thanks for asking. I’m busy with the store, my writing and school. I’m the provincial council rep and one of the regional rep’s on the Rural Secretariate and do my part for the community whenever I can. I taught the confirmation class and proudly saw my group of 7 take their first communion. I started doing promotional work for Dynamic Air Shelters, a Calgary based company, and am thrilled to be involved with the corporate world again. I did some travel around the island, I met some amazing new friends (insert your name here if it applies) and I have enjoyed absolutely every day since returning home.I hope this letter finds things well with you there in (insert place name here) and please know how honored I am to consider you a friend (or relative, or co-worker, or whatever you happen to be) this Christmas season.
All the best,Pam, Blair, Brody and Jack (the dog)
P.S. if you are mailing a card to someone I know (or even might know) who happens to live outside Newfoundland, just cut this out once you are finished reading and mail it to them, with love, from me. It will save me the hassle, and the stamp.
God bless, and Merry Christmas.
All the best,Pam, Blair, Brody and Jack (the dog)
P.S. if you are mailing a card to someone I know (or even might know) who happens to live outside Newfoundland, just cut this out once you are finished reading and mail it to them, with love, from me. It will save me the hassle, and the stamp.
God bless, and Merry Christmas.
An Old Indy Column; Some Jesus Size
When someone tells you that you are getting “some Jesus big,” and they aren’t referring to your fame, that ain’t good.I dropped in to visit an elderly couple in the community recently. Skipper Roy was “out b’ the door,” his wife said, as she excused herself to call him in from the garden to visit with me a while. Roy first proved his eye sight to be quite good when he read aloud from the upside down newspaper his son had spread out before him on the kitchen table. “My goodness,” I said to the almost eighty year old, “your in some fine shape.”He looked me up, then down, nodded, and answered, “yup. And your getting some Jesus big.” Well now. How does one answer that, I wondered. He was right, I did need to loose a few pounds. I am not really that bad, but I am certainly big for me. Why? Too much grub, too little exercise and too much time spent on me arse in front of the computer writing, I suppose. I am not good at dieting. If I’m not bad enough already, depriving myself of food makes me even more wickedly contrary than I am on my best worst day, and I am not alone it seems. A good girlfriend is on a diet now and the poor thing is starving herself to the point of insanity, in fact, the gal is downright surly. We took the kids to a show in town and on our way back home I passed a car that was driving much too slowly- except for the times we approached a passing lane that is. For those, he would speed up. Typical idiot of a driver, right, but nothing about that bothered me and my fully satisfied self. Well, just as we were finally passing the fella, Little- Miss-Salad-Muncher shot up with her dainty middle finger and gave buddy an unfriendly salute-complete with a matching mouthed explicit.I was shocked, even more so when the fella pulled up along side us at our local community gas station an hour later. Diet-Lady was just about to give it to him again when I held her hand down and speed away. See, while dieting may make you look good, it doesn’t do much for ones disposition. Speaking of dispositions, it was Blair’s turn to have a bit of a bad one last week. He was flying home on his turn around and what should have been a quick trip down turned into a nightmare when a medical emergency caused his flight to be redirected to Pearson in Toronto. After sitting for over an hour on the runway, they took off for Halifax. Conditions in Halifax were too bad for landing so, two hours of circling later, they headed for Montreal. Four hours in a line up left Blair with a flight that departed the next evening. A sour face and a sympathetic ear got him the last seat on an earlier flight-if he was fast enough to make it to the gate. He hustled that scrawny arse of his and miraculously made it. Just after we picked him up at the airport I started to feel slightly off. His first night home I kept that man up all night-with my very unattractive hack of a cough. I had the flu. Blair, either for compassionate or self preservation purposes, took Brody to his folks for the next few nights. That way we could all get some rest-him especially I figure. Thankfully, with my strong will to live and one healthy immune system, I was back in fine form a few days later. One good thing that comes out of being ill is that I figured I had probably lost a few pounds. I excitedly jumped into my jean shorts and burst the zipper out of the damn things as I was hauling them over my hips.I saw it as a sign summer was over and gave them a toss.I’ll worry about dieting after Blair goes back to work, after all, I wouldn’t want to be contrary-or more so than usual anyway-as well as being “some Jesus big.” Blair told me not to worry about it. I am, he swore, just perfect. “Really?” I smiled, thinking him to be just about the sweetest man alive. “Sure,” he answered, as he headed for the door, “cowboy’s love fat calves.”If only I could have caught him. Now there’s motivation for me. I think I’ll take up running
Sibling Savages
We had rules growing up. Us girls were ignored when we fought but not when we pushed each other. Pushing was never allowed. That made fighting interesting-pulling someone to the ground is more challenging than having the law of physics and gravity work in your favour. We weren’t allowed to throw things either. My mother’s rationalization was that we might toss something that would be harmless if it hit the back of an unsuspecting head, but dangerous if the intended victim suddenly turned around and took a smuck in the eye. The last rule wasn’t about fighting, though I think it was made to prevent it- never date your sister’s ex.The baby in our family of five kids was male and our rules didn’t apply to him. He wasn’t the fighting kind for one thing. For another, my mother figured there was no chance of him dating one his siblings old flames. Except for a scatter poke or pinch from the youngest girl, he was generally spared our wrath.We were never told we couldn’t get dirty or wet either-and often we were both. We played in the gully and on the tracks by our home and regularly fell (or were pulled-not pushed) to the ground or into the pond, yet my mother says we were all precious darlings growing up. I suppose we were-at times. We knew how to behave in public. When my parents took us to church or out visiting we could be puffed, ribboned and frilled up-but when we were home we played hard and were hard on each other.My older sister and I fought like proverbial cats and dogs. Since we couldn’t throw things we hit one another with what ever we could get our hands on. One Christmas we each received a sewing machine. The only time I used mine was when I was smacking my sister with it. I still can’t sew a button on a shirt without flinching. There was more than one door torn off hinges in the midst of some battle and the glass panes leading to our rec room had a few body parts put through them as we tried to get at one other through some saucily locked door.While we were pretty bad we weren’t the only female scrappers in our clan. Two of my cousins fought so bad over the one window in their shared room that my aunt stormed in one day with an axe and an attitude. They thought they were gonners, they told me later. Instead of maiming the young warriors, my aunt took aim at the wall and didn’t stop until both girls had their very own window-kind of. A contractor was called and since he had to fix the wall anyway, he turned their big room into two smaller ones. They still fought-just not over a window.Clothing and foot ware was an area of non-constructive contention in our home. We were always wearing-or trying to wear-something that wasn’t ours.Many mornings one of us would sneak out to the bus stop wearing a forbidden item. If caught, the stolen clothing would be ripped off- right there in the yard. If you were sly enough to make it on the bus, you were safe- once we made it off our property we knew to behave. The rush of an ambush was part of the fun and I sometimes let a sister make it out of the house only to pounce on the front steps. Despite such mayhem, we were all quite close. Having siblings meant you always had a playmate as well as a rival- and we valued both. We rarely told on one other since we were all guilty of something. We never held grudges and no one ever really won.The fighting lessened as we aged-though I admit we fell into old patterns a time or two long after we had stopped brawling regularly.Two sisters almost beheaded one another over a pair of old, smelly sneakers long after both had graduated from high school. I smacked one sister so hard with the phone she flunked on the floor and I thought I had her killed. We had boyfriends waiting outside at the time and were much too old to be battling. I never fought (physically) with any sister after that. We can’t believe how rough we were with one another back then. While I have an only child, my sisters all have a few kids each and we get a kick out of how much the rules have changed. Fighting is forbidden altogether in this new generation-though I have witnessed a few slaps, pinches and pokes as my nieces and nephews explore the wild, wild world of siblings.The last time us girls got together we reminisced about those rough survival-of-the-fittest days and courteously agreed it was a bit much. We concluded we were trying to find our place in the world and left it at that.It wasn’t that bad I suppose, after all, we knew-and followed- the rules. Sort of. No one was pushed, (usually) no one had anything thrown at them (mostly) and as for that last rule-these lips are forever sealed.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Man Made and Willing to Share
The youngsters had their Christmas Concert last week and I swear it was one of the best I’ve been to. Of course, I say that every year. This years Brody’s class did a piece called Fred’s False Teeth-what made this piece a true classic was the fact that Fred actually had a pair of false teeth, borrowed from someone in the audience I heard. No matter, there were enough false teeth to go around. One lady in the hallway informed me the kids were welcomed to hers if they found it hard coming up with a pair. In Ontario the only thing false the other mothers had were boobs. Like my teeth, I had my own God-given set that suited me just fine thank-you very much.
Elia enjoyed the show and behaved herself until the last of it. She even had a little nap while she waited for her brother to take the stage. Lovin’ all the firsts as a new (again) mom.
Elia enjoyed the show and behaved herself until the last of it. She even had a little nap while she waited for her brother to take the stage. Lovin’ all the firsts as a new (again) mom.
Nope at Albian
Blair finally got word that his January 3rd start up date might be moved to April. I wasn’t impressed. Living on EI isn’t our idea of living. While the Albian Sands project might be delayed there are others he hopes might continue. We shall see.
Overshadowed
This years parade was overshadowed a little by the news that a local man, Ches Tibbo, had just survived a plane crash on his way home from working in Resolute Bay. Word was still out on the extent of his injuries. That he had survived was a certainty, but there was little else known at the time. His daughter, a little girl in Brody’s grade, was at the party, but her mother was home by the phone waiting for word.
This type of thing affects everyone in a small community like this. Everyone has, or knows someone who has, worked away at some point and with the frequency of the recent fly-in/fly-out programs many a wife/parent/partner worries about the safety of the ones who go away so others might stay behind in this tiny Harbour.
I spoke to a few of the wives affected by this crash as they waited for word on their husbands. That feature will be in an upcoming edition of The Newfoundland Herald.
This type of thing affects everyone in a small community like this. Everyone has, or knows someone who has, worked away at some point and with the frequency of the recent fly-in/fly-out programs many a wife/parent/partner worries about the safety of the ones who go away so others might stay behind in this tiny Harbour.
I spoke to a few of the wives affected by this crash as they waited for word on their husbands. That feature will be in an upcoming edition of The Newfoundland Herald.
Santa
Santa came to our outport this past weekend. A scrawny one, but a Santa nonetheless. Each year this community celebrates Christmas with the children by having a parade (thanks to the firehall-with Santa riding high and bringing up the rear atop a plastic orange chair swiped from the floor of the hall) and a party (thanks to the Lodge) with presents donated by family and friends of the local children.
This was a first of Elia, though Brody has enjoyed this event immensely over the past few years. Though, he might be getting a tad too big for our puny Santa to handle. Santa might need a few more meals to keep up with our growing lads.
This was a first of Elia, though Brody has enjoyed this event immensely over the past few years. Though, he might be getting a tad too big for our puny Santa to handle. Santa might need a few more meals to keep up with our growing lads.
Blowin’ the arse off ’er
What a storm of wind blew through here the other night. Truth be told we’ve been having many storms ‘round the entire province lately but the winds that have been hitting our region have been unlike any other. Even the old farts have been saying t’s so.
Old Roy up the road has been telling me that the top of ol’ St. Mary’s is gonna fall right down on top of me one night and pin me to me bed. I’d answer that it would be the most pinnin’ done in my bed for a while. Despite my tormenting and yeah, yeahing of his predictions, Roy’s kept right on forecasting the fall of the church, right down on whomever’s below her, since we moved here. That almost happened last Wednesday night. The wind howled and it roared. It banged, and it shook the house, but besides knocking the flag pole down across the road from me on the fire hall steps and unhooking some of my Christmas lights, all seemed in tack. That was until my father knocked on my door Thursday morning to see if I was alright. I must have looked a little confused, wondering why I wouldn’t be safe and sound. He pointed towards the roof of the church. Roy’s prediction had come true at last. There, looking tragic and somehow sad, if painted wood could possible manage a look of sorrow that is, was the cross from the top of St. Mary’s church hanging on for dear life by a nail, a splinter and a prayer.
Old Roy up the road has been telling me that the top of ol’ St. Mary’s is gonna fall right down on top of me one night and pin me to me bed. I’d answer that it would be the most pinnin’ done in my bed for a while. Despite my tormenting and yeah, yeahing of his predictions, Roy’s kept right on forecasting the fall of the church, right down on whomever’s below her, since we moved here. That almost happened last Wednesday night. The wind howled and it roared. It banged, and it shook the house, but besides knocking the flag pole down across the road from me on the fire hall steps and unhooking some of my Christmas lights, all seemed in tack. That was until my father knocked on my door Thursday morning to see if I was alright. I must have looked a little confused, wondering why I wouldn’t be safe and sound. He pointed towards the roof of the church. Roy’s prediction had come true at last. There, looking tragic and somehow sad, if painted wood could possible manage a look of sorrow that is, was the cross from the top of St. Mary’s church hanging on for dear life by a nail, a splinter and a prayer.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The Amazing South East Bight
I meet the most amazing people writing my Inspirational pieces for The Newfoundland Herald and quite often the most inspiring isn’t what I called them for in the first place. Take the folks in South East Bight. I received a copy of a news release talking about how successful the Rice Day was at the school there. Great, sez I, a nice inspirational about students at a small school raising money for children on the other side of the world. Nice, right? I called the principal at St. Anne’s, one Elena Whyte, and discovered some amazing things. First of all I’m ashamed I didn’t know how remote South East Bight is, even though it isn’t far from my own community of Hr. Mille.
To get to South East Bight you have to travel by ferry and, from what I understand, it only travels once a day, weather permitting of course, except on Tuesdays when it doesn‘t cross at all . This community of 35 homes housing 100 people has a school with 13 children in it ranging from kindergarten to level one. When children get old enough to enter grade ten they must leave this little tight knit community in order to finish their education in another community with more resources. While some cross the ferry and are billeted out in homes in nearby Rushoon others travel further, live with relatives and attend school wherever these family members happen to live. I was in shock. Why in the world would anyone ever want to live in such a place?
Well, Whyte isn’t from South East Bight yet she says she could never imagine leaving. She arrived there to teach; for one year only, back in 1990 and never left. Whyte married a man from there and they have two sons. Besides being the principal, she is also the mayor. No, she couldn’t imagine leaving, she says, even as she faces the reality of having her own boys leave to attend school elsewhere.
South Easy Bight seems like an amazing place. Besides the regular fundraisers, like Rice Day which I will cover in my Herald piece, the folks in South East Bight-a place where most everyone is a modest, hard working fisher-support their community and beyond like no place I have heard tell of before. When members of the community found out someone who used to live there was fighting cancer they had a local fundraiser and raised over $1,200- in one week. But beyond these one of’s there is the yearly tradition of supporting Coats for kids and the Happy Tree. They get so many things for both drives that an RCMP boat has to come just before Christmas to collect all the goodies these giving people have to offer to others outside their little outport.
Of course they get a little in return. On the day these RCMP officer show up to collect the gifts and coats, Santa comes with them and the community has their local Santa Clause parade; starting from the wharf naturally, and winds through the community. The event ends with a little celebration and the children-all 13 of them-get a little gift from Santa before the boat has to head out again, taking Santa with him for another year.
I don’t know about the community you live in but I think most would be hard pressed to compete with the spirit of giving that comes from the little community of South East Bight.
I’ll be writing more about them in an upcoming edition of The Newfoundland Herald.
To get to South East Bight you have to travel by ferry and, from what I understand, it only travels once a day, weather permitting of course, except on Tuesdays when it doesn‘t cross at all . This community of 35 homes housing 100 people has a school with 13 children in it ranging from kindergarten to level one. When children get old enough to enter grade ten they must leave this little tight knit community in order to finish their education in another community with more resources. While some cross the ferry and are billeted out in homes in nearby Rushoon others travel further, live with relatives and attend school wherever these family members happen to live. I was in shock. Why in the world would anyone ever want to live in such a place?
Well, Whyte isn’t from South East Bight yet she says she could never imagine leaving. She arrived there to teach; for one year only, back in 1990 and never left. Whyte married a man from there and they have two sons. Besides being the principal, she is also the mayor. No, she couldn’t imagine leaving, she says, even as she faces the reality of having her own boys leave to attend school elsewhere.
South Easy Bight seems like an amazing place. Besides the regular fundraisers, like Rice Day which I will cover in my Herald piece, the folks in South East Bight-a place where most everyone is a modest, hard working fisher-support their community and beyond like no place I have heard tell of before. When members of the community found out someone who used to live there was fighting cancer they had a local fundraiser and raised over $1,200- in one week. But beyond these one of’s there is the yearly tradition of supporting Coats for kids and the Happy Tree. They get so many things for both drives that an RCMP boat has to come just before Christmas to collect all the goodies these giving people have to offer to others outside their little outport.
Of course they get a little in return. On the day these RCMP officer show up to collect the gifts and coats, Santa comes with them and the community has their local Santa Clause parade; starting from the wharf naturally, and winds through the community. The event ends with a little celebration and the children-all 13 of them-get a little gift from Santa before the boat has to head out again, taking Santa with him for another year.
I don’t know about the community you live in but I think most would be hard pressed to compete with the spirit of giving that comes from the little community of South East Bight.
I’ll be writing more about them in an upcoming edition of The Newfoundland Herald.
To find out more on Rice Day visit www.twovilliages.org
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Another Indy Fav (I'm my biggest fan)
The forecast said rain for Sunday. Drizzle to start the day. High of 10. Winds. And fog. Lots of fog. I sent Brody outside early with the dogs, fearing a drizzly day might mean there would be no other opportunity for them to have a romp. Brody grumbled his protests but I insisted, holding firm for once. Breakfast would be ready when he returned, I told him, using a tone made famous by exasperated mothers everywhere. He could spend the rest of the day bunkered down inside if he wished, I offered as he headed for the door, just give the dogs a good walk. I hated being the heavy. I hated having to negotiate with an 11 year-old so early in the morning. I hated a lot of things, I thought as I looked out at the gloomy morning. It had rained most of last week and the coming week would bring more of the same. It was going to be one of those days.
The bologna, eggs and toast were growing cold. No sign of my kid. I stepped outside. No rain yet. I listened. The sounds of boys, the whole lot of them it seemed, in the centre of the harbour. Other like minded mothers had sent their young out early before the rains fell, I thought to myself. Good, I wasn’t the only wickedly cruel mother.
Since the rains were holding off I stuck my rugs on the fence and swept the floors.
The dogs and boy returned, breakfast was reheated then scoffed down by a lad no longer surly, his plans for a day spent inside forgotten. There were soft air guns to be loaded and secret missions to be completed. My porch was packed with boys who, this time last year, seemed to fit perfectly in my tiny landing. They now left little room to maneuver past. Little brothers, too young or too annoying to tag along last year, pushed their way inside, fearful they would miss something. “Outside,” I said to anyone who had a body part in a place that kept my door from closing. I wasn’t trying to be mean, just practical. I was prepared for a miserable day and I felt chilled from the inside out. I didn’t want the door left hanging. Not today.
But the door refused to listen. The boys weaved in and out. Extra amo was kept on a chair in my hallway and the lads kept popping in to reload. “Can’t you leave that outside,” I moaned, motioning to the multi-colored bb’s that completely hid my cushions. “Or use your pockets, ” I scolded all within ear shot. I was talking to myself.
The young gangsters retrieved butter knives, plastic drinking glasses and things I was best off not knowing about on their quick pit stops inside. I gave up, turned off the furnace and put on a sweater.
The shoot ‘em up lasted all morning. Everyone survived. Somewhat. One youngster took a direct hit, (accidentally on purpose I believe; I know what its like to have a younger sibling) but his older brother told him Nan would be mad if he told. She would take the pistol away. For good. No more gun games. The lad bravely wiped his tears-and his nose- onto the sleeve of his jean jacket. No doubt thoughts of his no-nonsensical grandmother helping to speed up the drying process. I thought-briefly- about making a phone call to the woman myself, but recalled how good it felt not be told on- even when you should be. Since the battle seemed to be winding down I decided to forget about it- unless asked. Besides, I had only walked to the window to check for rain. It was only chance that I spied the near maiming.
I looked at the sky. Still no rain. But it couldn’t be far off. With the lads now off on another outport adventure, (sans guns) I cuddled down for a nap.
The rain would make for a restful afternoon snooze.
Or so I thought. It was too hot to get comfortable. At first I blamed the pregnancy, but a quick glance outside proved that wasn’t it at all. Sun. Full on sun. I walked outside and felt the heat on my face. I took off my sweater and shed the attitude. I couldn’t spend anymore time waiting for this rain. I checked the outside temperature. 21 degrees. The rest of the day had to be enjoyed. Brody and I loaded up the dogs and the rubber dingy and headed for the pond. We explored a beavers dam and Brody went for a late afternoon swim. I thought about getting in myself, but worried that the spring chill still in the pond might not be great for the baby in my tummy. But I wanted to get in. Badly.
We stayed by the pond till the flies grew thick. Sure sign of rain, I thought. We headed home. My rugs were still out.
The other boys were waiting as we pulled into the drive. Guns drawn.
I didn’t see my boy again till dusk, chased in, he said, by rain. I stood in the doorway to see for myself. Only drizzle really. I tried to send him back out to end the day as it had begun, with a romp in the playground with the dogs. He started to protest, so I slipped on my sandals. I would do it myself, I told him. It was still warm, though the winds had certainly picked up. The light drops felt refreshing, like salt water spray on a pleasant afternoon boating trek. The door opened behind me. Brody. “I’ll do it mom,” he said, reaching for the youngest pup.
We walked the dogs together that Sunday night, enjoying those light, late spring rains. What I had been waiting for all day had finally arrived. I just had no idea that when it finally came it would be so pleasant.
The bologna, eggs and toast were growing cold. No sign of my kid. I stepped outside. No rain yet. I listened. The sounds of boys, the whole lot of them it seemed, in the centre of the harbour. Other like minded mothers had sent their young out early before the rains fell, I thought to myself. Good, I wasn’t the only wickedly cruel mother.
Since the rains were holding off I stuck my rugs on the fence and swept the floors.
The dogs and boy returned, breakfast was reheated then scoffed down by a lad no longer surly, his plans for a day spent inside forgotten. There were soft air guns to be loaded and secret missions to be completed. My porch was packed with boys who, this time last year, seemed to fit perfectly in my tiny landing. They now left little room to maneuver past. Little brothers, too young or too annoying to tag along last year, pushed their way inside, fearful they would miss something. “Outside,” I said to anyone who had a body part in a place that kept my door from closing. I wasn’t trying to be mean, just practical. I was prepared for a miserable day and I felt chilled from the inside out. I didn’t want the door left hanging. Not today.
But the door refused to listen. The boys weaved in and out. Extra amo was kept on a chair in my hallway and the lads kept popping in to reload. “Can’t you leave that outside,” I moaned, motioning to the multi-colored bb’s that completely hid my cushions. “Or use your pockets, ” I scolded all within ear shot. I was talking to myself.
The young gangsters retrieved butter knives, plastic drinking glasses and things I was best off not knowing about on their quick pit stops inside. I gave up, turned off the furnace and put on a sweater.
The shoot ‘em up lasted all morning. Everyone survived. Somewhat. One youngster took a direct hit, (accidentally on purpose I believe; I know what its like to have a younger sibling) but his older brother told him Nan would be mad if he told. She would take the pistol away. For good. No more gun games. The lad bravely wiped his tears-and his nose- onto the sleeve of his jean jacket. No doubt thoughts of his no-nonsensical grandmother helping to speed up the drying process. I thought-briefly- about making a phone call to the woman myself, but recalled how good it felt not be told on- even when you should be. Since the battle seemed to be winding down I decided to forget about it- unless asked. Besides, I had only walked to the window to check for rain. It was only chance that I spied the near maiming.
I looked at the sky. Still no rain. But it couldn’t be far off. With the lads now off on another outport adventure, (sans guns) I cuddled down for a nap.
The rain would make for a restful afternoon snooze.
Or so I thought. It was too hot to get comfortable. At first I blamed the pregnancy, but a quick glance outside proved that wasn’t it at all. Sun. Full on sun. I walked outside and felt the heat on my face. I took off my sweater and shed the attitude. I couldn’t spend anymore time waiting for this rain. I checked the outside temperature. 21 degrees. The rest of the day had to be enjoyed. Brody and I loaded up the dogs and the rubber dingy and headed for the pond. We explored a beavers dam and Brody went for a late afternoon swim. I thought about getting in myself, but worried that the spring chill still in the pond might not be great for the baby in my tummy. But I wanted to get in. Badly.
We stayed by the pond till the flies grew thick. Sure sign of rain, I thought. We headed home. My rugs were still out.
The other boys were waiting as we pulled into the drive. Guns drawn.
I didn’t see my boy again till dusk, chased in, he said, by rain. I stood in the doorway to see for myself. Only drizzle really. I tried to send him back out to end the day as it had begun, with a romp in the playground with the dogs. He started to protest, so I slipped on my sandals. I would do it myself, I told him. It was still warm, though the winds had certainly picked up. The light drops felt refreshing, like salt water spray on a pleasant afternoon boating trek. The door opened behind me. Brody. “I’ll do it mom,” he said, reaching for the youngest pup.
We walked the dogs together that Sunday night, enjoying those light, late spring rains. What I had been waiting for all day had finally arrived. I just had no idea that when it finally came it would be so pleasant.
And I thought I was too old to be at it
OK, so this missus in New Delhi gets pregnant and has a baby girl. The headline mentions she might be a tad old to be at it., but hey, no big deal, sez I to meself. Figuring as she and I had something in common, I read on. But wait, she isn’t no almost 40-something mamma, oh no. This woman’s been married longer than I’ve been on this earth. Yes me dears, this woman has been married-yes MARRIED-for 50 years. This new mother is-wait for it-70 years-old. That’s all interesting enough but the father is no spring chicken his own self-he (my dears) is 72.
So none of this was natural, at least not in the beginning and the couple used IVF. Of course that’s not saying they don’t bump uglies from time to time, but not for procreation. And, get this, the child is for them, not for some much younger family member who couldn’t have kids of their own. And the icing on the cake? This is their first child.
OK, to each their own, but I’d be quite interested in seeing a follow-up to this story about six months into this. I had a kid 11 years-ago at 27 and now having a second as I’m nearing 40 just ain’t quite as pretty. Somehow I used to be able to make harried look sexy but now harried just makes me look haggard and horrid. I look tired all the time-which I am. I spend most days in my pj’s because I haven’t yet made it back in my pre-pregnancy clothing and I’m too stubborn to buy crap that fits. Now I do have some stuff, things I save for my Marystown runs or when I need to actually see people-beyond the locals that is, they have long since become accustomed to my stripped pajama pants-they make me look thin.
So, good luck my dear and don’t worry about not getting much sleep. Considering your age I’m sure you’ll be resting in peace long before that baby of yours is sleeping through the night.
I wonder if she’s breast feeding?
Now there’s a thought.
So none of this was natural, at least not in the beginning and the couple used IVF. Of course that’s not saying they don’t bump uglies from time to time, but not for procreation. And, get this, the child is for them, not for some much younger family member who couldn’t have kids of their own. And the icing on the cake? This is their first child.
OK, to each their own, but I’d be quite interested in seeing a follow-up to this story about six months into this. I had a kid 11 years-ago at 27 and now having a second as I’m nearing 40 just ain’t quite as pretty. Somehow I used to be able to make harried look sexy but now harried just makes me look haggard and horrid. I look tired all the time-which I am. I spend most days in my pj’s because I haven’t yet made it back in my pre-pregnancy clothing and I’m too stubborn to buy crap that fits. Now I do have some stuff, things I save for my Marystown runs or when I need to actually see people-beyond the locals that is, they have long since become accustomed to my stripped pajama pants-they make me look thin.
So, good luck my dear and don’t worry about not getting much sleep. Considering your age I’m sure you’ll be resting in peace long before that baby of yours is sleeping through the night.
I wonder if she’s breast feeding?
Now there’s a thought.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Bad, Bad Dolly
I have one of these dolls for Elia for Christmas and I can't hear that message but then I have the ability to block out the unpleasant- why I've been married so long
Woman objects to doll's alleged Islam message
ctvbc.ca
A woman thought she was buying the latest must-have Christmas toy for her granddaughters -- but found a shock at the toy store instead.
When Bonnie Goldstone purchased two Little Mommy dolls at a Langley Toys R Us, she was following the advice of a friend.
"One of the mums was telling me about it -- it's the best doll ever, their daughter doesn't want to put it down. So its like, it's sold, I gotta get it!" she said.
Goldstone went home and told my daughter about buying the cooing dolls, and her daughter told her to listen to the message.
So she did, and what she heard shocked her. Goldstone is certain the doll says "Islam is the light."
"I think it's not right," she said.
"A cooing baby saying Islam is the light. This is not cool... Who's doing this, someone in the factory? A secret message? What is this? I'm gonna return the doll. I don't want it."
When CTV asked shoppers what they thought, some at first couldn't hear the words until they were told what it was meant to say.
"She does, too! It is too! Holy!" said one woman.
After Goldstone returned the dolls to the Toys R Us, she said the store's manager was surprised.
"He was shocked. He didn't realize it -- he said 'oh my gosh. I'm gonna call head office -- e-mail head office and see if they can get them taken off the shelves.' That's good -- what I wanted," she said.
As for the fuss over the talking dolls themselves, Goldstone has made a different decision in terms of what to get for her granddaughters.
"I'm gonna get a doll that doesn't speak, maybe crawls," she said.
With a report from CTV British Columbia's Shannon Paterson
Woman objects to doll's alleged Islam message
ctvbc.ca
A woman thought she was buying the latest must-have Christmas toy for her granddaughters -- but found a shock at the toy store instead.
When Bonnie Goldstone purchased two Little Mommy dolls at a Langley Toys R Us, she was following the advice of a friend.
"One of the mums was telling me about it -- it's the best doll ever, their daughter doesn't want to put it down. So its like, it's sold, I gotta get it!" she said.
Goldstone went home and told my daughter about buying the cooing dolls, and her daughter told her to listen to the message.
So she did, and what she heard shocked her. Goldstone is certain the doll says "Islam is the light."
"I think it's not right," she said.
"A cooing baby saying Islam is the light. This is not cool... Who's doing this, someone in the factory? A secret message? What is this? I'm gonna return the doll. I don't want it."
When CTV asked shoppers what they thought, some at first couldn't hear the words until they were told what it was meant to say.
"She does, too! It is too! Holy!" said one woman.
After Goldstone returned the dolls to the Toys R Us, she said the store's manager was surprised.
"He was shocked. He didn't realize it -- he said 'oh my gosh. I'm gonna call head office -- e-mail head office and see if they can get them taken off the shelves.' That's good -- what I wanted," she said.
As for the fuss over the talking dolls themselves, Goldstone has made a different decision in terms of what to get for her granddaughters.
"I'm gonna get a doll that doesn't speak, maybe crawls," she said.
With a report from CTV British Columbia's Shannon Paterson
Santa Says...
http://portablenorthpole.sympatico.msn.ca/watch/011e99b571b26ca43af6d487e1dbc4ef
Want to receive a personalized message from Santa? Then have a look.
Want to receive a personalized message from Santa? Then have a look.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Anne Marie Hagan's Website http://www.annemariehagan.com/
I think about Anne Marie Hagan from time to time. I am thinking of her today. The first time I met her was under less than ideal circumstances though meeting her changed my life. My brother-in-law Brian was killed suddenly and tragically in a car crash near Air Port Heights and we were down from Mississauga for the funeral. As I sat stunned and angry in the kitchen at the funeral home a woman reached out, touched my hand and spoke the most comforting words.
That woman was Anne Marie Hagan, a relative of the Brian's girlfriend. She comforted me in my grief and then shared her own stunning story of tragedy and forgiveness. Her experiences moved me greatly. Shortly after we returned to Ontario we began planning our potential journey back home- for good. While many things have not turned out as planned, other things have turned out better than we could have ever imagined. Blair's family is near and dear and unyielding supportive, our son is doing amazingly well and has loved his Newfoundland outport life and we now have a new baby girl.
While none of these things can be solely contributed to Anne Marie, one thing can. The story of her and I was the very first piece I wrote for The Newfoundland Herald. That piece gave me the confidence to pen a few yarns for The Telegrams and before long I met Ryan Cleary and began writing for The Independent full time.
As I watch the first snow fall of the year out this way I can't help but think of Anne Marie and reflect on how her story not only helped me accept a loss, but gave me the confidence to learn and grow from that pain.
Thinking of you today.
I think about Anne Marie Hagan from time to time. I am thinking of her today. The first time I met her was under less than ideal circumstances though meeting her changed my life. My brother-in-law Brian was killed suddenly and tragically in a car crash near Air Port Heights and we were down from Mississauga for the funeral. As I sat stunned and angry in the kitchen at the funeral home a woman reached out, touched my hand and spoke the most comforting words.
That woman was Anne Marie Hagan, a relative of the Brian's girlfriend. She comforted me in my grief and then shared her own stunning story of tragedy and forgiveness. Her experiences moved me greatly. Shortly after we returned to Ontario we began planning our potential journey back home- for good. While many things have not turned out as planned, other things have turned out better than we could have ever imagined. Blair's family is near and dear and unyielding supportive, our son is doing amazingly well and has loved his Newfoundland outport life and we now have a new baby girl.
While none of these things can be solely contributed to Anne Marie, one thing can. The story of her and I was the very first piece I wrote for The Newfoundland Herald. That piece gave me the confidence to pen a few yarns for The Telegrams and before long I met Ryan Cleary and began writing for The Independent full time.
As I watch the first snow fall of the year out this way I can't help but think of Anne Marie and reflect on how her story not only helped me accept a loss, but gave me the confidence to learn and grow from that pain.
Thinking of you today.
Come On
This story is funny. Reminds me of the time I was pulled over for making a left in front of the court house in St. John's (no, I wasn't in jail-not then anyway)
I told the officer I wasn't from town and that I get all confused and flustered. He believed me (it was quite true, in that case anyway. You should see me try to find my way in to The Rooms each and every time I go) and he let me off with it. Thank goodness I didn't need to prove my stundness like this lady had to prove her pregnancy. What could I have done? A road-side spelling test?
BOSTON - A man in Massachusetts is appealing a $100 ticket he got for driving to a hospital in the breakdown lane of a gridlocked Boston highway while his wife was in labour.
The Boston Globe reports that a state trooper pulled over John Davis and his wife Jennifer for using the breakdown lane Nov. 18.
The man says his wife's contractions were three minutes apart.
The couple says the trooper made them wait five to 10 minutes while he wrote a ticket for another car on Route 2, asked to see Jennifer's belly to prove her pregnancy, then issued them a ticket.
The couple made it to Mount Auburn Hospital in Cambridge.
Their daughter was born five hours later.
I told the officer I wasn't from town and that I get all confused and flustered. He believed me (it was quite true, in that case anyway. You should see me try to find my way in to The Rooms each and every time I go) and he let me off with it. Thank goodness I didn't need to prove my stundness like this lady had to prove her pregnancy. What could I have done? A road-side spelling test?
BOSTON - A man in Massachusetts is appealing a $100 ticket he got for driving to a hospital in the breakdown lane of a gridlocked Boston highway while his wife was in labour.
The Boston Globe reports that a state trooper pulled over John Davis and his wife Jennifer for using the breakdown lane Nov. 18.
The man says his wife's contractions were three minutes apart.
The couple says the trooper made them wait five to 10 minutes while he wrote a ticket for another car on Route 2, asked to see Jennifer's belly to prove her pregnancy, then issued them a ticket.
The couple made it to Mount Auburn Hospital in Cambridge.
Their daughter was born five hours later.
An Old Indy Column; Oil Patch Wives Club
From time to time I'll post some of my favorite Indy Columns like this one;
Pam Pardy Ghent March 2008 The Independent
I’m gonna start a new club. I’ll call it the Oil Patch Wives Club.
The first order of business will be deciding how to go about debunking the age-old tradition of treating our men-and the fact that they work away-as the only thing of interest to talk about when you meet us on the street. Each time we head outside the door and run into anyone the first question we’re all asked-after we’re finished discussing the weather of course-is, “when’s your man coming home?”
These social chats proceed from that one point-all geared towards our work-away men. “How’s he doing?” and “He must find it cold this time of year,” are followed by “Much work up there?” and “You and (insert children’s names here) must really miss him, eh?”
While there’s nothing wrong about inquiring about those slugging away to earn a living up-a-long, what is always ignored is the fact that standing right in front of your eyes is a woman working hard to hold it all together.
Our club will educate the masses that talking only about the well-being of the away is like lauding the dead while ignoring the living. Tossing in a scatter, “how have things been for you these days?” or “what an amazing job you’ve been doing on your own with (insert children’s names here),” simply wouldn’t kill anyone now, would it?
Of course, in order to change others we have to first change ourselves. I’m guilty of running around like a headless chicken for a full week before my husband comes home on his own turnaround. I run up to Tilley’s hair salon in Marystown to colour the hair I want to keep and painfully wax off the stuff I want to get rid of. The gals up there know my six week cycle, and all conversation is geared towards that “joyful” reunion, and I gleefully play right along. Why? Because I’m falling into the trap with all the others out there in our province.
I too talk non-stop about my hubby-home-soon preparations. The hubby-grub I must pick up, the hubby-cleaning I must do, the up coming trip to town to pick up my other half, the rush involved getting everything work related done and all the mundane chores completed and out of the way so we can relax while hes home. I'm exhausted just writing all that down. I’m hoping group therapy in this new club can help ease some of that unhealthy fixation.
Us Oil Patch Wives need sympathy from others who get the let down we inevitably feel once our men are finally home. We need a safe place to vent our pissed-offishness at the raw reality we face each time our men return. Besides being treated like God’s by their mothers and other family members (at a recent visit my mother-in-law snatched a tea out of Blair’s hands, claiming that the cup it was in “wasn’t fit” to drink out of. She made him a fresh one, pouring it into a “fit” cup. I went to get a cup for myself and she thoughtfully told me that she would make me one, since she was already up and all. I got one alright- in the non-fit mug she had snatched from Blair’s paws only moments before) they are treated like celebrities by everyone else. Folks we haven’t laid eyes on since the last turn around suddenly show up for a chat and each time hubby wanders out into the daylight he is accosted by neighbours, ones who usually rush right by on a regular day, who want to hear how he’s been. Instead of screaming like some mad-banshee and wildly chasing such people up our rural roads, we can vent our frustrations (screaming and running optional) during an accepting and understanding Oil Patch Wives Club meeting.
The challenge of dealing with an often anticlimactically return of a work-away partner needs some thought. Us women get so excited about this homecoming that we’re often left dazed and confused when we find these men treating us exactly how they treated us when they lived at home full time.
Sadly, just because ones spouse has been away from home for a while doesn’t mean they have magically morphed into anything different than they were before they left. They didn’t return from the land of Oz my dears, they were merely in Alberta. So, if they were crooked before, odds are they’re still crooked now. If they were lazy around the house before they left, they will be lazy each time they return and if they got on your Jesus nerves six weeks or 20 days ago, well, you get the picture. Mark my words, there will be no surprising personality changes-none for the better anyway.
The Oil Patch Wives Club will offer creative solutions to deal with such disappointment. I have a few tried and true methods of my own that might help others in this situation. Well, my methods may be more along the seek-revenge and make him pay dearly lines than actually being able to help anyone deal with the reality of the situation-but I’m always willing to share what I know. Oops. That can’t be good now, can it? See? I desperately need a healthy place to vent, and I know I’m not alone. The Oil Patch Wives Club sounds like just the ticket now, doesn’t it?
If you want to join just shoot me an email. Who knows, this might be fun as well as therapeutic. Gotta be better than shock treatments.
Pam Pardy Ghent March 2008 The Independent
I’m gonna start a new club. I’ll call it the Oil Patch Wives Club.
The first order of business will be deciding how to go about debunking the age-old tradition of treating our men-and the fact that they work away-as the only thing of interest to talk about when you meet us on the street. Each time we head outside the door and run into anyone the first question we’re all asked-after we’re finished discussing the weather of course-is, “when’s your man coming home?”
These social chats proceed from that one point-all geared towards our work-away men. “How’s he doing?” and “He must find it cold this time of year,” are followed by “Much work up there?” and “You and (insert children’s names here) must really miss him, eh?”
While there’s nothing wrong about inquiring about those slugging away to earn a living up-a-long, what is always ignored is the fact that standing right in front of your eyes is a woman working hard to hold it all together.
Our club will educate the masses that talking only about the well-being of the away is like lauding the dead while ignoring the living. Tossing in a scatter, “how have things been for you these days?” or “what an amazing job you’ve been doing on your own with (insert children’s names here),” simply wouldn’t kill anyone now, would it?
Of course, in order to change others we have to first change ourselves. I’m guilty of running around like a headless chicken for a full week before my husband comes home on his own turnaround. I run up to Tilley’s hair salon in Marystown to colour the hair I want to keep and painfully wax off the stuff I want to get rid of. The gals up there know my six week cycle, and all conversation is geared towards that “joyful” reunion, and I gleefully play right along. Why? Because I’m falling into the trap with all the others out there in our province.
I too talk non-stop about my hubby-home-soon preparations. The hubby-grub I must pick up, the hubby-cleaning I must do, the up coming trip to town to pick up my other half, the rush involved getting everything work related done and all the mundane chores completed and out of the way so we can relax while hes home. I'm exhausted just writing all that down. I’m hoping group therapy in this new club can help ease some of that unhealthy fixation.
Us Oil Patch Wives need sympathy from others who get the let down we inevitably feel once our men are finally home. We need a safe place to vent our pissed-offishness at the raw reality we face each time our men return. Besides being treated like God’s by their mothers and other family members (at a recent visit my mother-in-law snatched a tea out of Blair’s hands, claiming that the cup it was in “wasn’t fit” to drink out of. She made him a fresh one, pouring it into a “fit” cup. I went to get a cup for myself and she thoughtfully told me that she would make me one, since she was already up and all. I got one alright- in the non-fit mug she had snatched from Blair’s paws only moments before) they are treated like celebrities by everyone else. Folks we haven’t laid eyes on since the last turn around suddenly show up for a chat and each time hubby wanders out into the daylight he is accosted by neighbours, ones who usually rush right by on a regular day, who want to hear how he’s been. Instead of screaming like some mad-banshee and wildly chasing such people up our rural roads, we can vent our frustrations (screaming and running optional) during an accepting and understanding Oil Patch Wives Club meeting.
The challenge of dealing with an often anticlimactically return of a work-away partner needs some thought. Us women get so excited about this homecoming that we’re often left dazed and confused when we find these men treating us exactly how they treated us when they lived at home full time.
Sadly, just because ones spouse has been away from home for a while doesn’t mean they have magically morphed into anything different than they were before they left. They didn’t return from the land of Oz my dears, they were merely in Alberta. So, if they were crooked before, odds are they’re still crooked now. If they were lazy around the house before they left, they will be lazy each time they return and if they got on your Jesus nerves six weeks or 20 days ago, well, you get the picture. Mark my words, there will be no surprising personality changes-none for the better anyway.
The Oil Patch Wives Club will offer creative solutions to deal with such disappointment. I have a few tried and true methods of my own that might help others in this situation. Well, my methods may be more along the seek-revenge and make him pay dearly lines than actually being able to help anyone deal with the reality of the situation-but I’m always willing to share what I know. Oops. That can’t be good now, can it? See? I desperately need a healthy place to vent, and I know I’m not alone. The Oil Patch Wives Club sounds like just the ticket now, doesn’t it?
If you want to join just shoot me an email. Who knows, this might be fun as well as therapeutic. Gotta be better than shock treatments.
Old Times
Levi's was the place everyone went to hang out back in the day. The Best Buy’s are at Levi's, the radio adds claimed. While I’m not certain if that was true or not, judging from the masses that milled around his shop he sure seemed to be doing something right.
There were other choices back then. If memory serves me correct we had at least three other places to shop in this little outport community. While Levi’s was the largest store in town, I believe there were other reasons to shop and hang around.
It was where the men were. On any given day fathers, son’s, brother’s and husband’s could be found just hanging out, yarning and enjoying a beer-yes a beer. In public. Imagine? Worked great for us youngsters for there was no better time or place to hit your old man up for a few bucks than while he enjoyed a cold one with the lively crew at Levi's. Father’s were always in good spirits- leaning on the counter, foot on a beer box, laughing, and lying-at Levis shop. Dad’s-be it the booze or the company they kept-were easily parted with coins for the pinball machine or for a bag of ketchup chips and a birch beer.
As a teen I used to announce to my townie friends that the best b'ys soon stopped by Levis. You didn’t stand alone long before someone to hang with popped in and in no time there were a slew of us laughing and joking or just hanging around the freezers along the side wall. Levi never kicked us out. Perhaps he saw dollar signs, figuring before long our pockets would be empty and out gullets full of candy and our gobs full of frozen bubblegum scooped from the bottom of a Screwball ice cream cup. But it was more than that. Levi was nice. He always had a smile for us youngsters. We always felt welcome. I never heard him complain about the scuffmarks we left on his deep fridges nor did he bark at us when we would chase one another either in, or out of his store.
Women liked Levi's also, for there seemed to be miles and miles of back isle treasures. I explored back there once-sneakers, shoe laces, jeans, work boots, fishing twine, knives, cutlery, clocks, towels, dish clothes, cups, plates and saucers-whatever you could be looking for was there. Somewhere.
My very first experience with the delights of a surprise punch board was at Levi’s shop. You could punch a circled numbered spot on the box and get a gift for a quarter. Once, I got a haircutting kit. I proudly brought it to my aunt who proceeded to try and tame the frizzy locks on the head of her eldest son. It worked-kind of.
As time passed and times grew tough, other stores began to close. Levi held in there, but before long the building was too run down and the locals had dwindled in numbers. I believe his daughter ran it for a while but soon It wasn’t worth the time or money to fix it up. Levi's closed its doors for good.
As I enjoyed my own days here as a local shopkeeper I tried to keep the memory of Levi alive by welcoming the youngsters, but my father-and business partner- felt a little differently. Perhaps lost to him were the memories of Levi and his fiscally smart welcoming of local children and their often loose spending habits or maybe he just didn't have the patience. One evening while I was working my son and his buddies hung out in the store. The sight of a Lifestyle condom box behind the counter got them in the fits. I finally hid the package from view to calm them down a little. “What’s the big deal?!” one young fella challenged me- hand on hip, chin jutted out in youthful defiance. “I sees that kinda stuff ALL the time. My dad has those Lifesavers at our house, you know!”
I didn’t give in. (Though I did have a good ‘ole chuckle.)
With one silly-stimulant removed from view, the boys soon focused on another- the feminine hygiene product shelf. While some of them perched on the deep fridges along the back wall, others tried to reach the somewhat highly hidden boxes of mysterious strangeness.
I couldn’t help but think to my Levi days-back when such products were kept hidden behind the counter and were (questionably) discretely passed out over the counter in a waxy brown paper sack. We would all get the giggles. Couldn’t help ourselves-the same way these young fellas couldn’t control their own case of the sillies.
One customer who visited that evening found it necessary to inform my father of “the goin's on” upon his return. My father was a tad contrary. “Shouldn’t be permitted,” he barked. “Kids don’t belong in a place of business,” he stated. I reminded him of the days when times were different, back in Levi’s day. But he was having none of it.
The same father that used to laugh at the shenanigans of the local youngsters-his own five included-from the other side of the counter- no longer felt a local shop was the place for such foolishness.
Times had changed, he told me a little more kindly. They sure had.
Like so many things in childhood that seemed so much sweeter then than now, hanging out around a local outport store was simply one more thing to add to the list.
I had some things to accept.
The best buys, the best b’ys- and the best times- were at Levi’s.
There were other choices back then. If memory serves me correct we had at least three other places to shop in this little outport community. While Levi’s was the largest store in town, I believe there were other reasons to shop and hang around.
It was where the men were. On any given day fathers, son’s, brother’s and husband’s could be found just hanging out, yarning and enjoying a beer-yes a beer. In public. Imagine? Worked great for us youngsters for there was no better time or place to hit your old man up for a few bucks than while he enjoyed a cold one with the lively crew at Levi's. Father’s were always in good spirits- leaning on the counter, foot on a beer box, laughing, and lying-at Levis shop. Dad’s-be it the booze or the company they kept-were easily parted with coins for the pinball machine or for a bag of ketchup chips and a birch beer.
As a teen I used to announce to my townie friends that the best b'ys soon stopped by Levis. You didn’t stand alone long before someone to hang with popped in and in no time there were a slew of us laughing and joking or just hanging around the freezers along the side wall. Levi never kicked us out. Perhaps he saw dollar signs, figuring before long our pockets would be empty and out gullets full of candy and our gobs full of frozen bubblegum scooped from the bottom of a Screwball ice cream cup. But it was more than that. Levi was nice. He always had a smile for us youngsters. We always felt welcome. I never heard him complain about the scuffmarks we left on his deep fridges nor did he bark at us when we would chase one another either in, or out of his store.
Women liked Levi's also, for there seemed to be miles and miles of back isle treasures. I explored back there once-sneakers, shoe laces, jeans, work boots, fishing twine, knives, cutlery, clocks, towels, dish clothes, cups, plates and saucers-whatever you could be looking for was there. Somewhere.
My very first experience with the delights of a surprise punch board was at Levi’s shop. You could punch a circled numbered spot on the box and get a gift for a quarter. Once, I got a haircutting kit. I proudly brought it to my aunt who proceeded to try and tame the frizzy locks on the head of her eldest son. It worked-kind of.
As time passed and times grew tough, other stores began to close. Levi held in there, but before long the building was too run down and the locals had dwindled in numbers. I believe his daughter ran it for a while but soon It wasn’t worth the time or money to fix it up. Levi's closed its doors for good.
As I enjoyed my own days here as a local shopkeeper I tried to keep the memory of Levi alive by welcoming the youngsters, but my father-and business partner- felt a little differently. Perhaps lost to him were the memories of Levi and his fiscally smart welcoming of local children and their often loose spending habits or maybe he just didn't have the patience. One evening while I was working my son and his buddies hung out in the store. The sight of a Lifestyle condom box behind the counter got them in the fits. I finally hid the package from view to calm them down a little. “What’s the big deal?!” one young fella challenged me- hand on hip, chin jutted out in youthful defiance. “I sees that kinda stuff ALL the time. My dad has those Lifesavers at our house, you know!”
I didn’t give in. (Though I did have a good ‘ole chuckle.)
With one silly-stimulant removed from view, the boys soon focused on another- the feminine hygiene product shelf. While some of them perched on the deep fridges along the back wall, others tried to reach the somewhat highly hidden boxes of mysterious strangeness.
I couldn’t help but think to my Levi days-back when such products were kept hidden behind the counter and were (questionably) discretely passed out over the counter in a waxy brown paper sack. We would all get the giggles. Couldn’t help ourselves-the same way these young fellas couldn’t control their own case of the sillies.
One customer who visited that evening found it necessary to inform my father of “the goin's on” upon his return. My father was a tad contrary. “Shouldn’t be permitted,” he barked. “Kids don’t belong in a place of business,” he stated. I reminded him of the days when times were different, back in Levi’s day. But he was having none of it.
The same father that used to laugh at the shenanigans of the local youngsters-his own five included-from the other side of the counter- no longer felt a local shop was the place for such foolishness.
Times had changed, he told me a little more kindly. They sure had.
Like so many things in childhood that seemed so much sweeter then than now, hanging out around a local outport store was simply one more thing to add to the list.
I had some things to accept.
The best buys, the best b’ys- and the best times- were at Levi’s.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
All Things Elia
Since the Independent has folded the question I have been asked the most, outside of 1) when will/will it, start up again, and 2) can I find your column anywhere else, is; how are things with the new baby.
I never mind pausing to fill old Indy readers in on the latest regarding my family. I love chatting about my kids. Who doesn't? About the other two questions? I often tell them I'm looking into it.
Our daughter Elia Blair (or Elliot, as my mother-in-law has called her when the name temporarily escapes her name-cluttered mind) was born three days early, via cesarean section, on July 16th . Weighing in at 8pds 60z she seemed so tiny, especially when compared to our first born who had weighed almost 11pds at birth and was ready to push up and roll over from the get go.
We weren’t sure if Blair would make the early delivery time as he wasn’t scheduled to return from Alberta until the 18th-the day I was originally scheduled for surgery-but the baby kept registering a low heart rate and my doctor wasn’t prepared to wait. Blair arrived at our outport home just as I was heading out to drive myself to the hospital. The surgery wasn’t until the next morning but because of the low heart rate and my distance from the hospital I had to go the day before and spend the night.
Blair and Brody were in the hospital room as I was wheeled out for surgery the next morning. Blair left to scrub-up so he could accompany me in the O.R. and Brody stayed back in the room, immersed in the many breast-feeding videos-especially the one titled Breast is Best. We knew he would be contentedly occupied.
Tragically (or not) I had forgotten all about the horror that accompanies a spinal. By the time I reached the C-Section stage on Brody 11 years ago I had been given every drug imaginable, a week had passed and I had simply been through so much that recalling the details of something so close to the end of the process was impossible. I seemed to remember it being a needle in the back, but it seemed so minor at the time in comparison to everything else. I was rolled into OR stone cold sober this time around and lets just say I damn near died when I realized what the doctor was doing. To the hospitals credit the anesthesiologist (God love him, he was a doll and a half and a half again over) had tried to tell me about the process the evening before the surgery but I, being Little Miss I-Know-Everything-Been-Here-Before, told him I had no questions and we didn’t need to go there. He had me sign some papers, gave me a hug and a kiss (yes, he was that sweet) and left.
I gave him a bit of a hard time in the OR but he-and the very firm, forceful-you ain’t getting’-no-kisses-from-us-til-you-cooperate nurses finally calmed me down enough for him to insert the needle. I was drugged and before long, quite comfortable numb.
At 9:11 our daughter was delivered. She was poked in front of my face for a few moments then rushed off-with Blair tight behind, to meet her big brother.
Things were great right from the start. Elia took right to the breast, and (thank God) she slept well. Blair had to return to Alberta a week later so the fact that she went down for the night at seven and didn’t stir until around 3:30 was a blessing. She never slept much in the day, but that worked out quite well and before long I was back into our summer routine. Brody didn’t miss much in the way of beach days. I think she was the youngest to ever grace the beaches of both Salmon Cove in Trinity Bay and Golden Sands in Fortune Bay.
Elia remained a doll until November 10th. I was in town doing interviews for a piece I was working on for The Herald and my sister-in-law and brother-in-law were babysitting for a few hours. She gave them a bit of a hard time, which was odd for her as she usually settled quite comfortable with family. The next morning we realized why-she had two teeth where only gums had been. Nights haven’t been that great since and while she has (on occasion) gone back to her old schedule, she usually wakes for a feed and a cuddle about every three hours throughout the night. She still doesn’t sleep much throughout the day. She is usually quite pleasant and easy going or as I like to say, pleasantly plump. And plump she is. At her four month check-up she weighed in at a whopping 21 pounds.
Life is certainly different yet delightful. Being covered in baby droll and the occasional milky spit-up hasn’t been that hard to adjust to and Blair, when he’s home, is quite an involved father. If he had a set of tits he’d feed her but beyond that there isn’t anything he won’t do. And Brody has taken to being a big brother with amazing ease. He loves his little sister and only stresses out when she cries and fusses during the occasional car ride. It’s funny-she can only handle a one-way drive. If we drive three hours to the city she’s fine the entire time, but we better be staying put once we get there-or else! The ride to Marystown (an hour) is always pleasant but the ride back is usually a nightmare and dealing with a fussy infant in a confined space is rather hard on even the most steady nerved individual. “If we get her nutered will she be any better?” Brody asked on one particularly challenging car ride home, referring to the imminent de-nutting of his quite hyper and sometime difficult to control puppy.
I told him I’d look into it.
I never mind pausing to fill old Indy readers in on the latest regarding my family. I love chatting about my kids. Who doesn't? About the other two questions? I often tell them I'm looking into it.
Our daughter Elia Blair (or Elliot, as my mother-in-law has called her when the name temporarily escapes her name-cluttered mind) was born three days early, via cesarean section, on July 16th . Weighing in at 8pds 60z she seemed so tiny, especially when compared to our first born who had weighed almost 11pds at birth and was ready to push up and roll over from the get go.
We weren’t sure if Blair would make the early delivery time as he wasn’t scheduled to return from Alberta until the 18th-the day I was originally scheduled for surgery-but the baby kept registering a low heart rate and my doctor wasn’t prepared to wait. Blair arrived at our outport home just as I was heading out to drive myself to the hospital. The surgery wasn’t until the next morning but because of the low heart rate and my distance from the hospital I had to go the day before and spend the night.
Blair and Brody were in the hospital room as I was wheeled out for surgery the next morning. Blair left to scrub-up so he could accompany me in the O.R. and Brody stayed back in the room, immersed in the many breast-feeding videos-especially the one titled Breast is Best. We knew he would be contentedly occupied.
Tragically (or not) I had forgotten all about the horror that accompanies a spinal. By the time I reached the C-Section stage on Brody 11 years ago I had been given every drug imaginable, a week had passed and I had simply been through so much that recalling the details of something so close to the end of the process was impossible. I seemed to remember it being a needle in the back, but it seemed so minor at the time in comparison to everything else. I was rolled into OR stone cold sober this time around and lets just say I damn near died when I realized what the doctor was doing. To the hospitals credit the anesthesiologist (God love him, he was a doll and a half and a half again over) had tried to tell me about the process the evening before the surgery but I, being Little Miss I-Know-Everything-Been-Here-Before, told him I had no questions and we didn’t need to go there. He had me sign some papers, gave me a hug and a kiss (yes, he was that sweet) and left.
I gave him a bit of a hard time in the OR but he-and the very firm, forceful-you ain’t getting’-no-kisses-from-us-til-you-cooperate nurses finally calmed me down enough for him to insert the needle. I was drugged and before long, quite comfortable numb.
At 9:11 our daughter was delivered. She was poked in front of my face for a few moments then rushed off-with Blair tight behind, to meet her big brother.
Things were great right from the start. Elia took right to the breast, and (thank God) she slept well. Blair had to return to Alberta a week later so the fact that she went down for the night at seven and didn’t stir until around 3:30 was a blessing. She never slept much in the day, but that worked out quite well and before long I was back into our summer routine. Brody didn’t miss much in the way of beach days. I think she was the youngest to ever grace the beaches of both Salmon Cove in Trinity Bay and Golden Sands in Fortune Bay.
Elia remained a doll until November 10th. I was in town doing interviews for a piece I was working on for The Herald and my sister-in-law and brother-in-law were babysitting for a few hours. She gave them a bit of a hard time, which was odd for her as she usually settled quite comfortable with family. The next morning we realized why-she had two teeth where only gums had been. Nights haven’t been that great since and while she has (on occasion) gone back to her old schedule, she usually wakes for a feed and a cuddle about every three hours throughout the night. She still doesn’t sleep much throughout the day. She is usually quite pleasant and easy going or as I like to say, pleasantly plump. And plump she is. At her four month check-up she weighed in at a whopping 21 pounds.
Life is certainly different yet delightful. Being covered in baby droll and the occasional milky spit-up hasn’t been that hard to adjust to and Blair, when he’s home, is quite an involved father. If he had a set of tits he’d feed her but beyond that there isn’t anything he won’t do. And Brody has taken to being a big brother with amazing ease. He loves his little sister and only stresses out when she cries and fusses during the occasional car ride. It’s funny-she can only handle a one-way drive. If we drive three hours to the city she’s fine the entire time, but we better be staying put once we get there-or else! The ride to Marystown (an hour) is always pleasant but the ride back is usually a nightmare and dealing with a fussy infant in a confined space is rather hard on even the most steady nerved individual. “If we get her nutered will she be any better?” Brody asked on one particularly challenging car ride home, referring to the imminent de-nutting of his quite hyper and sometime difficult to control puppy.
I told him I’d look into it.
EI EI Owe
It ain’t looking-or feeling-much like Christmas around our house this year. At least not yet. Hubby returned home from out west just in time to start school on October 18th. The day he arrived I went online and filed for his EI. I wasn’t taking any chances. Blair is part of an apprenticeship program which means most school costs are covered and he is eligible to receive EI while in school. The intensive program lasts eight weeks and he has to leave home-during the week at least-to participate. While hubby has been on EI before, we have never had the nightmare with it we are having now. As of today we have not receive one red cent -or one greenish/brown cheque. The problem? The US-based company hubby worked for can’t seem to grasp the concept of a ROE. While we certainly aren’t ain’t-got-no-pot-to-piss-in broke, it sure would be nice to have some cash flow around this time of year. While I do have most of the necessities purchased I have to admit that waiting is awfully stressful. About two weeks ago hubby finally took things into his own hands and faxed each and every pay stub he’s had since March into the Employment Insurance office. Each and every day he would call into that 1-800 number to hear that a decision had not yet been made on his claim. In the meantime he is traveling back and forth-over six hours round trip-each week, leaving his family to attend school. Thank God gas prices are low right now.
Finally this week the message stated that a decision would be made by December 5th but low and behold, on the 5th the message was changed again. They now needed even more time to process his claim.
Hubby left school and headed directly to the EI office in town (mainly because I had a major bitch-fit and threatened to slaughter him if he didn’t finally get this straightened out) to see what the hell was on the go now. By the way, if anyone has ever used the 1-800 number to get any type of an answer beyond what the recorded message says let me know because we got nowhere.
So, down he goes and is getting nowhere (again) until he utters the magic words, “financial hardship.” Blair was escorted in to see a manager who took a look at everything and assured him he would have his cheques-all of them, each and every glorious one owed to him-by early next week.
We’ll see.
Having very little in the way of cash flow in a year we have committed to go credit-free at Christmas has been a challenge. We only cheated once (ok twice) so far. Once on my winter tires (if that counts) and another on an item I ordered from eBay.
I can only imagine that this has happened to other people and I wonder what you do? Blair was told that uttering “financial hardship,“ would get the ball rolling so I’m passing that tip on to others. If there are any other tips or tricks-or horror stories, feel free to share your own. By the way, hubby received a copy of his ROE from his company just this week. EI still hasn’t received it.
And me? I’m waiting for the cash to come in and then look out for a flash. That will be me heading out to pay bills and finish up my holiday shopping.
Finally this week the message stated that a decision would be made by December 5th but low and behold, on the 5th the message was changed again. They now needed even more time to process his claim.
Hubby left school and headed directly to the EI office in town (mainly because I had a major bitch-fit and threatened to slaughter him if he didn’t finally get this straightened out) to see what the hell was on the go now. By the way, if anyone has ever used the 1-800 number to get any type of an answer beyond what the recorded message says let me know because we got nowhere.
So, down he goes and is getting nowhere (again) until he utters the magic words, “financial hardship.” Blair was escorted in to see a manager who took a look at everything and assured him he would have his cheques-all of them, each and every glorious one owed to him-by early next week.
We’ll see.
Having very little in the way of cash flow in a year we have committed to go credit-free at Christmas has been a challenge. We only cheated once (ok twice) so far. Once on my winter tires (if that counts) and another on an item I ordered from eBay.
I can only imagine that this has happened to other people and I wonder what you do? Blair was told that uttering “financial hardship,“ would get the ball rolling so I’m passing that tip on to others. If there are any other tips or tricks-or horror stories, feel free to share your own. By the way, hubby received a copy of his ROE from his company just this week. EI still hasn’t received it.
And me? I’m waiting for the cash to come in and then look out for a flash. That will be me heading out to pay bills and finish up my holiday shopping.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Stuff
VOCM is now providing Fort McMurray news updates-just heard it today. Have I missed it before or is that new?
More from VOCM:
The Great Big GiveDecember 5, 2008A group of Newfoundlanders and Labradorians living in Toronto are holding a benefit concert for Daffodil Place this weekend. The Great Big Give on Saturday night will be hosted by Mary Walsh and will feature Great Big Sea, along with a silent auction and dance. The event is organized by the Smiling Land Foundation. Great Big Sea Band Member and Daffodil Place spokesperson Alan Doyle says the response has been overwhelming and he expects it to be a big night in T-O.
Our Divas Do BroadwayDecember 5, 2008The premiere performance of this season's Our Divas Do Broadway hits the stage at Mile One Centre this evening. The fifth annual show is being staged in support of Daffodil Place and Co-Producer Sheilagh Guy Murphy says Broadway fans will enjoy polished performances of their musical favorites. Murphy says the show takes about a year to put together and it is much like the Radio City Music Hall shows. She says it is a huge undertaking. Featured in the show, which runs all this weekend, are songs from Phantom of the Opera, Chicago, Cats, Rent and more. Tickets are available at the Mile One Box Office.
***Go Cousin Clint B! Will miss you this year with baby and all but I will be back looking for you next year.
Elderly Woman RobbedDecember 5, 2008Police are investigating a purse-snatching near a strip mall on Kenmount Road in St. John's. RNC say two teenagers ran up behind an elderly woman and grabbed her purse during supper hour last night. The purse contained an undisclosed amount of cash. The woman was not hurt.
***I can't believe that happens here. I was chased by would-be robbers while I was in Nashville a few years back. I escape them a novel way-I got myself hit by a car. Not the best option, but it worked.
More from VOCM:
The Great Big GiveDecember 5, 2008A group of Newfoundlanders and Labradorians living in Toronto are holding a benefit concert for Daffodil Place this weekend. The Great Big Give on Saturday night will be hosted by Mary Walsh and will feature Great Big Sea, along with a silent auction and dance. The event is organized by the Smiling Land Foundation. Great Big Sea Band Member and Daffodil Place spokesperson Alan Doyle says the response has been overwhelming and he expects it to be a big night in T-O.
Our Divas Do BroadwayDecember 5, 2008The premiere performance of this season's Our Divas Do Broadway hits the stage at Mile One Centre this evening. The fifth annual show is being staged in support of Daffodil Place and Co-Producer Sheilagh Guy Murphy says Broadway fans will enjoy polished performances of their musical favorites. Murphy says the show takes about a year to put together and it is much like the Radio City Music Hall shows. She says it is a huge undertaking. Featured in the show, which runs all this weekend, are songs from Phantom of the Opera, Chicago, Cats, Rent and more. Tickets are available at the Mile One Box Office.
***Go Cousin Clint B! Will miss you this year with baby and all but I will be back looking for you next year.
Elderly Woman RobbedDecember 5, 2008Police are investigating a purse-snatching near a strip mall on Kenmount Road in St. John's. RNC say two teenagers ran up behind an elderly woman and grabbed her purse during supper hour last night. The purse contained an undisclosed amount of cash. The woman was not hurt.
***I can't believe that happens here. I was chased by would-be robbers while I was in Nashville a few years back. I escape them a novel way-I got myself hit by a car. Not the best option, but it worked.
Have Job? Will Travel
Blair is supposed to go back to work in Alberta January 3rd, but I really wonder if that will happen;
(Gawd I hate EI living)
Canadian Press: Canada loses 70,600 jobs in a month, most since 1982: unemployment 6.3 per cent
http://www.google.com/hostednews/canadianpress/article/ALeqM5h36Jc4MqN976wSOaAcKitw3j3T5g
Swelling ranks of Canadian workers fell victim to the slowing economy last month as the country chopped 70,600 employees - 66,000 in Ontario - the most since the deep recession of 1982. Statistics Canada said Friday the job losses lifted the official unemployment rate to 6.3 per cent, from 6.2 per cent in October. The labour force had been holding out against the deteriorating economy - which many believe has entered a recession - but November's rout came as somewhat of a surprise.
The consensus among economists had been for a 20,000 labour force retreat, and even the most pessimistic had put the losses in the 40,000 range. November's result cut deeply in the job creation record for the year, bringing the accumulated gain to 133,000, well below's last year's 361,000 January-through-November improvement. The battered manufacturing sector was mostly responsible for the job bleeding in Ontario with a decline of 42,000. That took the factory sector's share of employment in the province to 13 per cent - down from 18.2 per cent six years ago. Overall, there were 38,000 fewer factory workers in Canada, as there was a slight net gain in the category in other provinces.
But then some local news in the trades;
Education Minister Joan Burke says recent changes to the journeyperson to apprentice ratio in the province will give greater flexibility to employers, and will increase the number of people able to gain valuable worksite training. Burke says government has accepted the recommendation of the Provincial Apprenticeship and Certification Board to allow for a final year apprentice to be hired. That's in addition to each journeyperson apprentice ratio an employer currently has. Burke says if the current ratio is already with a final year apprentice, the employer can hire a first, second or third year apprentice. She says this further adds to the province's initiatives for skilled labour enhancement which has seen a 15 per cent increase in the number of apprentices since 2007 and 35 per cent increase in the number of women involved in non traditional trades since 2004. The Official Opposition and the NDP both applaud the decision as recognition of the need for training in the province.
Further to this: http://www.releases.gov.nl.ca/releases/2008/edu/1203n08.htm
(Gawd I hate EI living)
Canadian Press: Canada loses 70,600 jobs in a month, most since 1982: unemployment 6.3 per cent
http://www.google.com/hostednews/canadianpress/article/ALeqM5h36Jc4MqN976wSOaAcKitw3j3T5g
Swelling ranks of Canadian workers fell victim to the slowing economy last month as the country chopped 70,600 employees - 66,000 in Ontario - the most since the deep recession of 1982. Statistics Canada said Friday the job losses lifted the official unemployment rate to 6.3 per cent, from 6.2 per cent in October. The labour force had been holding out against the deteriorating economy - which many believe has entered a recession - but November's rout came as somewhat of a surprise.
The consensus among economists had been for a 20,000 labour force retreat, and even the most pessimistic had put the losses in the 40,000 range. November's result cut deeply in the job creation record for the year, bringing the accumulated gain to 133,000, well below's last year's 361,000 January-through-November improvement. The battered manufacturing sector was mostly responsible for the job bleeding in Ontario with a decline of 42,000. That took the factory sector's share of employment in the province to 13 per cent - down from 18.2 per cent six years ago. Overall, there were 38,000 fewer factory workers in Canada, as there was a slight net gain in the category in other provinces.
But then some local news in the trades;
Education Minister Joan Burke says recent changes to the journeyperson to apprentice ratio in the province will give greater flexibility to employers, and will increase the number of people able to gain valuable worksite training. Burke says government has accepted the recommendation of the Provincial Apprenticeship and Certification Board to allow for a final year apprentice to be hired. That's in addition to each journeyperson apprentice ratio an employer currently has. Burke says if the current ratio is already with a final year apprentice, the employer can hire a first, second or third year apprentice. She says this further adds to the province's initiatives for skilled labour enhancement which has seen a 15 per cent increase in the number of apprentices since 2007 and 35 per cent increase in the number of women involved in non traditional trades since 2004. The Official Opposition and the NDP both applaud the decision as recognition of the need for training in the province.
Further to this: http://www.releases.gov.nl.ca/releases/2008/edu/1203n08.htm
On the Pill
My husband forgot my birthday this year. Well, he didn’t so much forget it-confused the Friday it fell on is more like it and I do take some of the blame. I thought my birthday fell the Friday before the St. John’s Santa Claus Parade and we had big plans for that weekend as Blair and Brody were going to be clowns this year. About a week before the 21st (my birthday) I realized the parade was going to be held the weekend after, and not the weekend of, my birthday. I made the plan changes and I didn’t make a big deal about it. I figured I knew, that was good enough, right? Blair was too busy with school to pay too much attention anyway and the only change for him was that he would be coming home to the Harbour instead of me going into town to meet him on my birthday weekend. Clear as mud, right? Well, those plan changes triggered something in his brain that led him to believe he had an entire week longer than he actual had to pick me up a little something for my birthday.
He didn’t realize his blunder until he picked up the paper later that afternoon and noticed the date. He was already in Goobies and, besides grabbing a bottle of wine, had nothing for me.
When my son came home from school and realized what had happened he bared himself in his room and made me a card. Using items he has picked up on our many beach walks, he constructed a card covered in shells and whores eggs (hope that wasn’t a hint of some sort-but that’s a blog for another day) and wrote the sweetest words;
Mom, you are my greatest treasure
The day was saved.
Naturally, I told everyone I knew about my precious card. I even posted the details on my Facebook site. My son wasn’t thrilled with that. His friends began to ask him about the card and, to save face, he informed them that they were mistaken. Yes, he had made that card for me on my birthday, he admitted, only the event hadn’t happened this year, but five years ago, when he was in grade 1.
Brody gave me a heads up. “Mom,” he said, “if anyone asks you about it again say it happened back then, ok?”
I wasn’t pleased.
I already told everyone it was this year, I told him, adding that my friends would think me nuts talking about a card I received so many years ago and passing it off as this years gift.
“It’s ok mom, I got that covered,” he told me with a smirk.
I looked at him, waiting.
“I told all my friends your on pills and get confused sometimes,” he said.
He figured it wouldn’t take long for word of my pill use/confusion to get around thus helping him save face.
Smart kid.
Though I did get back at him in my own special way later that week. I sent him into our local drug store when it was filled with people looking for something special for me, something I knew he would have to ask for help to find. I needed some Midol.
He wasn’t too happy to discover I had sent him in to buy “vagina pills.” That’ll teach him.
He didn’t realize his blunder until he picked up the paper later that afternoon and noticed the date. He was already in Goobies and, besides grabbing a bottle of wine, had nothing for me.
When my son came home from school and realized what had happened he bared himself in his room and made me a card. Using items he has picked up on our many beach walks, he constructed a card covered in shells and whores eggs (hope that wasn’t a hint of some sort-but that’s a blog for another day) and wrote the sweetest words;
Mom, you are my greatest treasure
The day was saved.
Naturally, I told everyone I knew about my precious card. I even posted the details on my Facebook site. My son wasn’t thrilled with that. His friends began to ask him about the card and, to save face, he informed them that they were mistaken. Yes, he had made that card for me on my birthday, he admitted, only the event hadn’t happened this year, but five years ago, when he was in grade 1.
Brody gave me a heads up. “Mom,” he said, “if anyone asks you about it again say it happened back then, ok?”
I wasn’t pleased.
I already told everyone it was this year, I told him, adding that my friends would think me nuts talking about a card I received so many years ago and passing it off as this years gift.
“It’s ok mom, I got that covered,” he told me with a smirk.
I looked at him, waiting.
“I told all my friends your on pills and get confused sometimes,” he said.
He figured it wouldn’t take long for word of my pill use/confusion to get around thus helping him save face.
Smart kid.
Though I did get back at him in my own special way later that week. I sent him into our local drug store when it was filled with people looking for something special for me, something I knew he would have to ask for help to find. I needed some Midol.
He wasn’t too happy to discover I had sent him in to buy “vagina pills.” That’ll teach him.
Lost Wa??
I have a friend who left her new born home alone. No lie. She was behind me in the line up at Wal-Mart when she made this startling confession. This friend, who has two older children as well, had been in a panic to get out the door. With one child in school and another at grandmas she was rushing around trying to get organized before she left for the day. Baby was supposed to accompany her on errands that day but never quite made it. My friend remembered her purse, her list and her head. She just forgot the baby.
Well, she more than forgot him tragic truth be told. The baby didn’t merely slip her mind for one fleeting instant. She scarcely remembered she had one at all, not until she ran into someone who inquired about the new baby that is. By then she was a few stops into her errands and in a wild panic. I can’t remember who she said she called to go get the forgotten baby, but it was someone who didn’t judge her too badly-most likely another mother. Baby was sleeping soundly when found and was none the worse for being left alone.
She isn’t the only person I know who did something like this. Another couple were sitting around on a Friday night and got it into their heads to go out for a movie. Only problem was they had a baby girl they had brought home from the hospital a few evenings before. Baby had gone to bed easily and early for once and they had the evening to themselves. This couple got ready, climbed into their car and were out of the drive before remembering they had a baby at home asleep.
Now that I have a new baby myself I’ve become quite concerned I might actually slip up and forget her. On crazy days I write “baby” on my calendar-and often my hand-just in case. Silly? Maybe, but there’s a name for such parental lapses- Momnesia. Momnesia- when you are standing in the shower and have absolutely no idea how long you've been in there and what you've washed. Momnesia-when you finally finish that morning shower and accidentally put your pajamas back on.
Dr. Louann Brizendine, author of the book “The Female Brain,” says the condition is brought on by the wildly fluctuating flood of hormones that accompanies pregnancy, childbirth and breast-feeding.
All that stuff alters brain chemistry, she writes, modifying the way the brain works.
Makes sense. I’ve missed so many formerly familiar turn offs that going anywhere can now take me twice as long. I’ve gotten my son up for school on a Sunday- twice. I forgot to pick my husband up at the airport the last time he flew in on a turn around-and that’s why I was in St. John’s in the first place. Just this morning I tossed a load of clothes from the dryer back into the washing machine. Momnesia at its finest.
Since giving birth this time around-and quite possibly during pregnancy, only I can’t seem to remember back that far-I’ve generally been a mindless wreck. A case of authentic Momnesia or is it more than that? Ever hear the phrase; having children makes you stupid? If not then you either don’t have children or you have them and are too stupid to remember that you heard that saying before. Sometimes I think stupid describes my actions (or lack thereof) better than the more water down label of Momnesia.
Or maybe stund is more appropriate. Yes, stund. Like the stundness I felt sitting down to write this column.
It’s been a little over three months since I wrote my last column for The Independent (may she rest in piece) and I swear on all that is holy that I didn’t have a clue how to go about beginning. It isn’t just the time lag, trust me. It goes well beyond that.
I looked up some research on the brain and memory for this column. Besides the stuff on Momnesia I found something else of interest. Researchers at the University of Lausanne discovered a downside to being smart-thus, by default, an advantage to being dumb.
Flies were divided into two groups. Half were left in a natural state while the other half had their intelligence boosted using Pavlovian-like methods.
Over a few generations they found these flies actually began to learn things and seemed to remember things longer. Imagine? Smarter flies. But there was a downside; these smart flies died off quicker than their simple-brained relates with the stund outliving the brainy by some 30 days-quite significant, if your a fly.
To put it simply, (for Momnesia/stund moms like me) stupid flies live longer.
Somehow I feel a little better. Though I hardly remember why I felt bad in the first place. Now, where did I put that baby?
Well, she more than forgot him tragic truth be told. The baby didn’t merely slip her mind for one fleeting instant. She scarcely remembered she had one at all, not until she ran into someone who inquired about the new baby that is. By then she was a few stops into her errands and in a wild panic. I can’t remember who she said she called to go get the forgotten baby, but it was someone who didn’t judge her too badly-most likely another mother. Baby was sleeping soundly when found and was none the worse for being left alone.
She isn’t the only person I know who did something like this. Another couple were sitting around on a Friday night and got it into their heads to go out for a movie. Only problem was they had a baby girl they had brought home from the hospital a few evenings before. Baby had gone to bed easily and early for once and they had the evening to themselves. This couple got ready, climbed into their car and were out of the drive before remembering they had a baby at home asleep.
Now that I have a new baby myself I’ve become quite concerned I might actually slip up and forget her. On crazy days I write “baby” on my calendar-and often my hand-just in case. Silly? Maybe, but there’s a name for such parental lapses- Momnesia. Momnesia- when you are standing in the shower and have absolutely no idea how long you've been in there and what you've washed. Momnesia-when you finally finish that morning shower and accidentally put your pajamas back on.
Dr. Louann Brizendine, author of the book “The Female Brain,” says the condition is brought on by the wildly fluctuating flood of hormones that accompanies pregnancy, childbirth and breast-feeding.
All that stuff alters brain chemistry, she writes, modifying the way the brain works.
Makes sense. I’ve missed so many formerly familiar turn offs that going anywhere can now take me twice as long. I’ve gotten my son up for school on a Sunday- twice. I forgot to pick my husband up at the airport the last time he flew in on a turn around-and that’s why I was in St. John’s in the first place. Just this morning I tossed a load of clothes from the dryer back into the washing machine. Momnesia at its finest.
Since giving birth this time around-and quite possibly during pregnancy, only I can’t seem to remember back that far-I’ve generally been a mindless wreck. A case of authentic Momnesia or is it more than that? Ever hear the phrase; having children makes you stupid? If not then you either don’t have children or you have them and are too stupid to remember that you heard that saying before. Sometimes I think stupid describes my actions (or lack thereof) better than the more water down label of Momnesia.
Or maybe stund is more appropriate. Yes, stund. Like the stundness I felt sitting down to write this column.
It’s been a little over three months since I wrote my last column for The Independent (may she rest in piece) and I swear on all that is holy that I didn’t have a clue how to go about beginning. It isn’t just the time lag, trust me. It goes well beyond that.
I looked up some research on the brain and memory for this column. Besides the stuff on Momnesia I found something else of interest. Researchers at the University of Lausanne discovered a downside to being smart-thus, by default, an advantage to being dumb.
Flies were divided into two groups. Half were left in a natural state while the other half had their intelligence boosted using Pavlovian-like methods.
Over a few generations they found these flies actually began to learn things and seemed to remember things longer. Imagine? Smarter flies. But there was a downside; these smart flies died off quicker than their simple-brained relates with the stund outliving the brainy by some 30 days-quite significant, if your a fly.
To put it simply, (for Momnesia/stund moms like me) stupid flies live longer.
Somehow I feel a little better. Though I hardly remember why I felt bad in the first place. Now, where did I put that baby?
When ya just gotta go
Got Brody’s report card the other day and go figure-the kid needs help with language. Like the bakers son having no bread, the writers kid can’t write. I figured a good way to help him out would be to make him write something each and every evening. “Keep a journal,” I told him. I reminded him that while he was free to write whatever he wanted; I wouldn’t punish him or be hurt if he wrote something that was less that flattering to me, for instance; I did have to read it in order to correct it. So, it was a non-private, private journal.
The first night he struggled with what to write about. I tried to help by encouraging him to write about the best or most interesting part of his day. That shouldn’t be too difficult, I told him, since most days ends with me asking him that very same question. Instead telling me, he had to write it out instead. The first journal entry was about music class, he is learning to play guitar. Innocent enough, right? Somewhat, though he did manage to get in a few digs in the writing process. One of his guitar strings is broken and I keep forgetting to pick it up from school to get it fixed. “…there are guitars for kids who don’t have one and I used one of them because one of my strings is broken.” Fair enough. I made arrangements to have the string fixed the next day.
Yesterday’s journal entry was much more entertaining. I knew I was in for a chuckle when I read the first line; “Today at Wal-Mart I had to shit really bad…”
To frame the situation a little let me start by saying that while Blair is home from away he is actually only here on weekends; he is on the Avalon at school during the week . So, as things are tough with a 18 week-old baby I do tend to rely on my 11 year-old son from time to time. One of the times I call on him is while I am in therapy for my arm and shoulder. I am usually there for about an hour and it isn’t far from Wal-Mart so once a week I drop the two of them off-or they walk if the weather is nice, while I get poked and prodded. Brody is given financial compensation for a job well done and Elia usually sleeps as soon as he walks her around a bit. There have been no problems-up to now anyway.
Here is yesterdays journal entry;
Today at Wal-Mart had to shit really bad but I couldn’t because I had my annoying baby sister Elia with me. After a half hour it was coming out of my ass as fast as a train coming out of a tunnel so I had no choice but to go into the boys washroom!?! I went to check to see if anyone was in there, the coast was clear so I ran in, opened the stall door, looked in, dropped my pants and dropped my nuclear bomb on Japan. I pulled Elia facing my way. As soon as I did that someone came in the bathroom and Elia started making bubble and coughing noises. I had to keep her quiet by making funny faces and clicking noises. She kept that up for like ten times. I was finally done, I opened the door as fast as I could and went out and bought myself a Lego Indiana Jones set . Well, that was the most interesting part of my day. How was yours?
The first night he struggled with what to write about. I tried to help by encouraging him to write about the best or most interesting part of his day. That shouldn’t be too difficult, I told him, since most days ends with me asking him that very same question. Instead telling me, he had to write it out instead. The first journal entry was about music class, he is learning to play guitar. Innocent enough, right? Somewhat, though he did manage to get in a few digs in the writing process. One of his guitar strings is broken and I keep forgetting to pick it up from school to get it fixed. “…there are guitars for kids who don’t have one and I used one of them because one of my strings is broken.” Fair enough. I made arrangements to have the string fixed the next day.
Yesterday’s journal entry was much more entertaining. I knew I was in for a chuckle when I read the first line; “Today at Wal-Mart I had to shit really bad…”
To frame the situation a little let me start by saying that while Blair is home from away he is actually only here on weekends; he is on the Avalon at school during the week . So, as things are tough with a 18 week-old baby I do tend to rely on my 11 year-old son from time to time. One of the times I call on him is while I am in therapy for my arm and shoulder. I am usually there for about an hour and it isn’t far from Wal-Mart so once a week I drop the two of them off-or they walk if the weather is nice, while I get poked and prodded. Brody is given financial compensation for a job well done and Elia usually sleeps as soon as he walks her around a bit. There have been no problems-up to now anyway.
Here is yesterdays journal entry;
Today at Wal-Mart had to shit really bad but I couldn’t because I had my annoying baby sister Elia with me. After a half hour it was coming out of my ass as fast as a train coming out of a tunnel so I had no choice but to go into the boys washroom!?! I went to check to see if anyone was in there, the coast was clear so I ran in, opened the stall door, looked in, dropped my pants and dropped my nuclear bomb on Japan. I pulled Elia facing my way. As soon as I did that someone came in the bathroom and Elia started making bubble and coughing noises. I had to keep her quiet by making funny faces and clicking noises. She kept that up for like ten times. I was finally done, I opened the door as fast as I could and went out and bought myself a Lego Indiana Jones set . Well, that was the most interesting part of my day. How was yours?
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