Moms need their morning coffee too.

Mother’s Day is depressing me this year.

Nothing to do with my own mother (hi mum!) or any inclinations of my own (or lack thereof) to become one.  But what it seems to be saying about motherhood in general.

I can’t say how many status messages, tweets, facebook notes etc I have seen this weekend that are from mothers who are grateful for the ‘coffee all to themselves’ they are getting for Mother’s Day.  Or how spoilt they feel they are if they are getting *gasp* two!

W. T. F. say I.

I have no illusions about how your life changes when you have little bitty people to care for.  (One of the reasons for my own lack of maternal aspirations).  But if it is a Momentous Occasion that you are getting the time to have a cup of coffee once on your weekend, something needs to be renegotiated — the bar for fairness is set way too low.

Because I don’t see many Father’s Day status messages that read “thanks for the cup of coffee this morning!” or “so nice to finally get to read a paper!”

Man muffin top

A peeve.

What is up with unattractive men laying down judgment on beautiful women?This happens all the time and it drives me batshit crazy.  The most average looking man (or group of men) will survey an empirically incredibly attractive woman and critique her.  E.g. “I’d hit that”. Or worse, “I wouldn’t hit that and here’s why”.

Y’know what buddy?  You can’t hit that.  Why?  Because you have a big fat ass and a man muffin top.  There, I’ve said it.  You is fugly.  And men who live in glass pants shouldn’t throw stones.  Yet they do.  And they do so with back hair, bad skin, and a strut.  Secure in the firm, unyielding belief that they are hot shit.

Really, truly, without-a-doubt gorgeous women I know don’t see how beautiful they are.  In fact, do an informal survey, and find out how many women feel good about how they look.  The results are so sad.

Yet Captain Studly wakes up in the morning, thinks to himself “yeah, I’m hawesome”, throws on his generi-brand too-short flannel pants that strain and pull across his butt and heads out for another day of getting his swagger on.

So, Mr. ManMuffins, it’s okay that you’re fugly.  Lots of people are attracted to lots of different things, so your prince/ss is out there.  I’m just saying that before you start grading the people around you, take a look in the mirror.  Where would your ass fall, rated out of 10?

The Position of “Matthew” is filled.

Canadiana analogy:  So you know in Anne of Green Gables when Anne asks the matron at the orphanage if there are any twins?  As twins are her “lot in life” (<-not said with love)?

Well Matthews are my lot in life.

And it’s only getting worse.  The thing about something being your ‘lot in life’ is that you just acquire more of them as time goes by.  So the longer your life, the larger your lot.

It’s at the point now where when I start a sentence to the husband with “So Matthew…”, that’s as far as I can get before he interrupts with “wait, which Matthew?”

Because you see, I might be referring to my brother, or his husband, or one of two Matthews (at different companies) I currently work with, or more than one additional friend.  There are approximately six Matthews I am /presently/ in regular contact with.

It’s close to the point where I think of them by colour.  Based on the Gmail labels I have associated with them.  There’s light blue Matthew, and sea blue Matthew, and purple Matthew …

BAH!

Dear Fashion

I know that we don’t always get along.  And that I have a lot of hateful things to say about you.

(And they’re all true.)

But the point is, when someone does a good thing, you should tell them.  You should say “you’ve done a good thing (someone)”.

And so, Fashion, I would like to thank you for making tops longer.

After a scant few decades of having everything be just *ugh* a little bit too short, just a couple of inches, just long enough to fit, just short enough to drive you mad tugging at it all day, you are now cutting everything long.  And for that, I thank you.

I know you’re not doing this for me.  I know you’re doing this so that teenagers can wear a sweater and call it a dress.  So that those young things can pull on a tshirt, belt it, and say “I’m ready to go now”.

But you should know that the rest of us, being all gauche in our shirts /and/ pants, appreciate these tshirts and sweaters and cardigans that reach not just to, but past our belt buckles.

I’m sorry… I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

Anyways, thanks Fashion.  Keep up the good work.

Best wishes,

me.

Buy a razor, save a vote.

Jack Layton’s mustache is one of the worst political gaffes ever.

Seriously.  That wodge of lip caterpillar actually interferes with my ability to vote NDP.  It’s. so. damn. ugly.

I won’t even say what it makes him look like.  More colourful analogies than I can think of are already made every day.  So I’ll just say it plain.

It’s ugly.

It’s so ugly it burns my eyes.  It’s not flattering, or charming, and it doesn’t suit him.  Blah dee blah blah superficial.  Yes, I know.  But there’s a line.  If he had a big scar on his face, I would overlook that.  If he had a funny mole, or a birthmark, again, overlookable.  Because those are not his fault.  But an unsightly pile of hair is well within your control.  As leader of a political party, you owe it to your supporters to look the part.  And that part is not as a greased-up extra in a low-budget German scheiße film.  (okay, just one analogy)

Stop hurting the NDP Jack.

The Current makes me angry. No one is surprised.

We wake up every morning to some combination of CBC’s Metro Morning and The Current (depending on how ambitious we are about getting up). Which just about every other day means I wake up angry. Because between Andy Barrie’s brash old-fashioned ego and the often-surprisingly-uninsightful The Current, someone’s going to say something that makes my eye twitch.

This morning it was The Current. Which is disappointing, because on Monday I actually learned something from them (Turkish hazelnuts, check it out) . But this morning… sweet Oprah.

The story was about a 28-year old woman, who became addicted to and then overdosed on painkillers. Rooted in conversations with her mother and father, they discuss “and why no one she encountered in Canada’s health care system managed to prevent it from happening.”

The point                      The Current-->

Like many episodes of The Current, there could have been a story there. There is a system in place to track prescriptions of certain drugs, to detect if someone is manipulating the system to get an unsafe amount — as this woman was (she had prescriptions from 5 physicians). The reason it didn’t register here was because that system involves manually logging the prescriptions, and with a full-time staff of 6 people, they are currently backlogged months worth of work.*

But that wasn’t really what this story was about, and why it made me angry. The story was mostly about the parents being upset that no one had told them. Their daughter was addicted to painkillers, why hadn’t a doctor contacted them? How were they not told she was taking these medications? She was so beautiful, look at this picture, they were going to play Ave Maria at her wedding and instead played it at her funeral. Maybe we should revisit patient confidentiality, and here’s a doctor who has often thought when the patient had a problem that he would like to be able to tell their family.

Teeth grinding.

She was twenty-eight years old. Well past being a minor, and well into being responsible for herself. We aren’t even given extenuating circumstances (other than that she was diabetic). I have exactly no time for this. If a capable grown woman gets hooked on painkillers and works out a way to get enough meds to overdose, that’s something a grown woman might do. I’m certainly not going to be more upset about it because she was pretty and her parents say if only they’d known (“how did she get this past me”), and in this case I’m certainly not going to get worked up about it being someone else’s fault.

What this story almost completely lacked was any discussion of personal responsibility. Any hint that just maybe, this 28-year old fully independent and capable adult woman was culpable for her actions. The parents describe a 28-year old as a “young girl”, who should have been stopped in her gaming of the system by the doctors, the doctors are blamed for not being sufficiently well-trained in spotting a potential addict, the Triplicate Prescription Program (TPP) is blamed for not being efficient enough, the province is blamed for making doctors go too fast.

Absolutely, the health care system shouldn’t support these situations, and there should be checks in place (like the TPP) to try and prevent them from happening. A social welfare state should provide resources for mental health and addictions recovery. Doctors should be well-trained in watching for and recognizing the symptoms of addiction (and manipulation). I believe absolutely in a culture where we help each other out. We are all responsible for putting social supports in place, and doing the best job we can to make them available to the people who need them. As adults however, we are also all responsible for not abusing social services like public health care, so sometimes, if we make stupid decisions, bad things are going to happen to us. A social welfare state is different than a nanny state, or a babysitter state, or an “I don’t agree with your decisions so I’m calling your mother” state.

Patient confidentiality is in place because it recognizes that individuals over the age of majority should be treated as autonomous adults responsible for the consequences of their actions. I won’t see that jeopardized because these people want the system to support them infantalizing their grown children.

Listen to the segment here (it starts around min 4:30).

* And briefly on the sort of issues they could have discussed

The question The Current should have asked is not whether they needed to have 12 people working full-time at the TPP to get rid of the backlog (they did ask this), or even whether this process should be automated (asked that too), but possibly, just possibly, they could have looked at how it is that these ‘flagged’ medications are prescribed so frequently that 6 full-time staff are insufficient to stay on top of registering all the prescriptions for these drugs (just in Alberta). Maybe we could talk about how so many of us are trying to solve physical and mental ailments with a magic combination of pharmaceuticals?

One interviewed doctor briefly touched on something related to this, saying that as physicians are under pressure to see so many patients so quickly, it leads them to not be able to pay as much attention or give the situation the consideration it needs. I absolutely have a problem with a public health care system pressuring doctors to respond to overload by giving revolving-door patient care. But that is not a carte blanche excuse for physicians to go along with it. There are opportunities to take responsibility at many different points along the line, and one of them is the quality of job that you are doing. Pressure from above is not a get-out-of-professional-integrity-free card.

“God?”

I’m walking down the street, and a minivan pulls up beside me. A young mum pops her head out the driver’s window and, looking harassed, asks if I can tell her where Dufferin is. Sure, no problem. I give her directions that will take her down to Dufferin, and as she’s repeating them back to me we are suddenly interrupted by a condescending voice from above.

“The easiest way to get to Dufferin is just to go up to Dundas and across!”

Um, what the? Ruling out deities, I realize that this is a man on a balcony who is: a) listening to our conversation, and b) /correcting/ me.

Now I ain’t too proud to have my directions corrected. I often appreciate it if a second stranger standing nearby pipes in and takes over navigation so I can be on my merry. Often, because I get asked for directions several times a week. But to be sternly corrected, by someone who is listening to us from their balcony two houses over and three floors up? That’s just weird.

Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to reply “Not if she’s heading south”. Which is true. And which shut him up. Since, according to his directions, she would suddenly run out of Dufferin at Queen (and given where she was going, that would have been a significant problem). Stick that in your nosy exasperated pipe and smork it.

“You kids quit all that exercising!”

President’s Choice is clearly not on board with the whole “healthy kids” fad. They’re running a commercial right now where a mother is in a hammock reading a book beside a pool full of kids. The kids are playing Marco Polo, and when the ad starts up, the mother is smiling serenely enjoying her book, and a sunny summer afternoon.

But then the cries of “Marco!” “Polo!” begin to wear on her. Rambuctious little brats, and their loud active games. And her ingenious solution?

“Who wants ice cream?”

And so the commercial closes, happily ever after, with her getting the peace and quiet she needs to enjoy her book, with the kids all silenced at the edge of the pool eating their big bowls of chocolate peanut butter ice cream.

I understand the “hook” of this commercial. As someone who enjoys kids in moderation, but finds the magical sounds of the playground grate on her like so many nails on a chalkboard, a dozen little darlings shouting “MARCO! POLO!” would indeed, break my summer bubble.

But in real life I would never go tell a group of kids to stop playing (and by extension, exercising) because I was having trouble focusing on my “M is for Murder” serial (unless they were on my lawn, in which case they might get a round of “get offa my lawn!” and possibly a fist-shaking).

And in real life, it seems not only ignorant but irresponsible of a food company to, even playfully, suggest getting kids to be quiet by feeding them large servings of sugary treats.

Although, in real life, that tactic would also backfire on the paperback parent, who in about 15 minutes is going to feel, see, and hear the hyperactive repercussions of their short-sighted solution.

Ur in my laundry room, usin’ my quarterz.

Communal laundry machines are no one’s friend. Well, possibly the environment’s friend. And possibly the friend of the inconsiderate goon who gets to parasite his way to cleanliness.

We share our laundry facilities with a number of other apartments. One washer. One dryer. The machines take only loonies and quarters (1 loonie, 2 quarters to wash; 1 loonie to dry). Fairly reasonable cost, but very /specific/ coin requirements. We also don’t live on the same floor as the laundry machines. In fact we are a number of flights of stairs away. And I have knee issues which make extra trips up and down stairs actually pretty unpleasant.

So I, rather obviously but brilliantly I thought, left a little stash of loonies and quarters down in the basement, so that I would never again get all the way down there and then realize I hadn’t brought the right change. Obvious. Brilliant.

/Unless/…

…you have neighbours who ‘steal’. To be fair, at least one neighbour who uses my stash of coins replaces them with twonies and dimes and such. But I have no doubt that there is somebody(s) else who use the stash but do not do a 1:1 swap. Actually, I rather suspect that they do a 1:0 swap.

Fekkers.

All that to gloss right past the point that they have no compunctions just using the coins which /suddenly appeared one day in a little container and which they know are not theirs/. Who does that? I mean, I could see doing it once, if I was desperate or… and I would most certainly replace the money I had taken. But this is becoming constant — to the point where there is almost ne’er a loonie or quarter to be seen (though a weird quantity of pennies).

Maybe I should start random laundry-related tithing. Sneak downstairs mid-cycle and sneak a sock or two off the top of their folding…

Since when did almost being hit by a car become mundane?

“I almost got hit by a car today” has become a regular phrase in our house. I say it, my everlovin’ fiance (EF) says it, our friends who live(d) in the building say it, friends who don’t live anywhere near me say it.

And so, with regards to that, I say:

W. T. F.

I mean, really. I am a careful pedestrian. The EF might say overly careful (“Sweetie, that car is stopped at a red light, five blocks away. I /think/ we can make it…”). I look both ways. I get eye contact. I move quickly and directly across the street. I respect traffic signals (even annoying, inconvenient, or ungodly slow ones).

So why in sweet flaming heck do I almost get hit by a car /at least/ once a week?

I’m not exaggerating the ‘almost’ of that either. I’m only talking about the “bumper-slappers” — the ones where the car catches itself within a foot or two of your leg. Or where you actually do end up smacking the car with your hand because they’ve almost slowly driven into you. Or where you flip a guy off as he almost nips off your toes, as he rips through a crosswalk.

I will be ever so pissed if I die because some jackass didn’t look right before making a right. Or didn’t check for pedestrians before making a left. Or had his head too far up his arse to notice the lights flashing at a crosswalk.

Ever. so.

So drivers are on notice. If you do manage to take me out one of these days, buckle up, cuz you’re in for a sumbitch of a haunting.