Temper Tantrums, Hissyfits and Other Child-Like Behaviour

Being stranded on a mountain top, that’ll do it. But you know what works better? Bad roommates.

You know one time I screamed at a roommate because she threw away my cookie tray without asking permission to do so? Yep. Granted, we had been using the cookie tray to catch the drips from a disgusting leak in our disgusting crack-den of a bathroom, but still I was thinking ‘How am I going to make French fries for chrissakes?!’ So I screamed at her. Shame on me.

Shame on me and shame on them. Sharing space with people is tough. You never know exactly what about them will work or what will get on your nerves more than bamboo shoots under your fingernails. It’s a delicate balance between doing the dishes on a regular schedule and trying not to overdose by spending every waking minute with them. Advice I have often not heeded: “Just because you’re friends, doesn’t mean you’ll be good roommates.” Of course, just because you’re not friends doesn’t mean you’ll be good roommates either. So picking and choosing who you can share your space with can be hazardous to your health, and there really isn’t a rule book to follow. But sometimes you can get a really good story out of a really bad living situation. The following is a selection of bad roommate stories I have gathered over the years. It’s amazing the behaviour that comes out when you’re really freakin’ tired of looking at the same person day after day.

The Ice Storm hit Kingston in January of 1998. Most people decided to empty out their fridges, have a big old barbeque and lots of beer. Most people had fun. My roommate and I, however, decided to give each other the cold shoulder. (Literally, since it was that cold out.) The climax of that fight was awesome, though, I’d just like to mention, because it involved me calling roommate’s parent to try and help me coax roommate out of a locked bedroom in a house with no electricity or heat. And it worked. Sort of. Heh.

Of course, nothing unites better than a common enemy. After over a year of some tough times with roommate above, we decided that our mutual hatred of new crazy roommate was even stronger than our discomfort around each other. New crazy roommate was horrible. She made loud sex noises with someone who was most definitely not her boyfriend of eight years. She stumbled home at four in the morning, drunk, and vomited in the living room garbage pail. And then left it by the radiator in the kitchen. (!) And then left for home for the Easter Long Weekend. (!!) Ewwwwww. When old crazy roommate and I decided that we were moving out at the end of the school year to leave new crazy roommate to her own devices, well, we didn’t want to be nasty. So we weren’t. We didn’t leave the place a mess or anything. We just left it absolutely empty. It was a complete void. No curtains. No lightbulbs. No garbage pails for new crazy roommate to puke in. Nothing but an empty tube on the toilet paper roll. Heh.

In my last year of university I decided it was time for a whole new set of roommates. Unfortunately, I chose them to be Sloth, Scattered and Sickly. Sickly was uptight and didn’t like messes, it made her sick, and I sympathized. Sloth was, well, self-explanatory. He had also never done a load of laundry in his life and kind of missed his mommy. Scattered was alternately over-organized or in the middle of a breakdown. (And she’s always like this, I have driven in a car with her and it’s the kind of fingernails-dug-deep-into-the-door-handle-praying-for-your-life experience that you don’t want to duplicate, often.) One day, I lost my head with all of them and turned into some sort of militant dictator, supervising them while they cleaned out all the rotten vegetables in the fridge and set mouse traps to get rid of our resident rodents. I might as well have put on Prince Harry’s favourite costume. I’m surprised any of them ever talked to me again.

All this to say I’m getting a new roommate in the near future. Thank goodness I know she is both patient and tolerant. I’ve lived with her before, incident free. Which is good, because apparently, I’m not that easy to live with.

Birthday Inventory

Well, so far it's been a pretty good day, this "Golden" birthday of mine.

• I woke up and went downstairs to find a birthday card waiting for my from my mostly absentee roommate. It was cheeky. He'll be punished for it later.
• After my shower I went back up to my room to find that the other roommate had left a present for me on my bed. This morning was quite like an Easter Egg hunt when you think about it.
• Someone called me to sing "Happy Birthday" to me. She has a lovely voice, and I laughed at the thought of her trying to keep her singing volume to "low" so as not to attract to much attention in the middle of the trade desk.
• My favourite coffee barista told me that my morning order was on the house. I am in love with him.
• Everyone in the office seemed to know that it was my birthday, though I hadn't mentioned it to anyone except my closest colleagues. That was nice.
• Email wishes came in from lots of friends. Thanks to all of them!
• France sent a beautiful email, an excerpt of which made me giggle. Lots of these things I need and cherish. Others, not so much. I shall loosely translate: "That this year, which brings us closer each time to our thirties, shall bring you happiness, health, prosperity, lovers by the tens, love, glory, beauty, gasoline, fake silicone breasts and many other amusing things." France also pointed out that today is her half-birthday, and so I returned in kind with many Happy Half-Birthday Wishes for her.
• Mr. Grumpy-pants and my Mom popped up on messenger to say hello and give me birthday wishes. Grumpy-pants would also like to officially protest his nickname. As you can see, I considered the request and then denied it.
• And a Hilarious e-card came in from a best friend that featured a topless animated stud that could perform seven different dance moves (including the running man, the hokey pokey, and a wicked back flip,) to three different styles of music, on a flashing dance floor complete with disco ball and laser show. I'm not sure what could possibly top that.

So here it is. 28 on the 28th. The number is not a big deal because I've been telling myself that I'm 28 for months now. Last year bothered me, for some strange reason. 27 officially felt like I had entered my late twenties. I gotta tell you, 28, not so bad. Of course, last year at this time I was unemployed and still living at home, wrecked by indecision and filled with a loss of faith in myself. This year I have 5-pin bowling to fill up my soul. How far I have journeyed in one year!

Lots of love to everyone from,

The birthday girl.

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Who thinks I'm being drastically underestimated here?

People - doesn't my nickname tell you all you need to know?

Welcome to Snubville. Population: You.

They're out, they're out, they're out! Oh, and the Adjudicator appropriately started the trash talking last night when he emailed the ballot of nominees to me. Yeah, like I hadn't already printed four copies of my own out already!

Notable Snubs:

Paul Giamatti for Best Actor in Sideways. Oh no, seriously. This guy was robbed. The film is a character driven drama, in which he drives all of the action and is far and away the most compelling character. And he plays it note for note perfectly. Everyone is saying that Eastwood stole his nomination, but I'm going to have to jump in here and say that Depp stole it this year. Because Eastwood was awesome. Of course, in general, Depp is awesome, but not so much as awesome this year in Neverland as he was last year while impersonating Keith Richards. (Hee.) I'm sorry, Paul. Maybe you can go over to Bill Murray's on Oscar night. I think he holds a party for these sorts of things.

Garden State for Original Screenplay. Yes, yes, it's a conversation film and they don't normally get nominations. That excuse might fly if they hadn't given Garden State's nomination away to Before Sunset, which is ENTIRELY a conversation film. Perhaps Zach Braff has to wait ten years and write a sequel and then they'll pay attention to him. I'm sorry Zach. If it helps, I still think you're very cute.

Tea Leoni for Best Supporting Actress in Spanglish. Come on folks. I understand that this category usually has more than enough performances to choose from, but Leoni was a sputtering, raving mess of a woman in this movie and she was just GREAT at it. I'm sorry Tea.

Hotel Rwanda for Best Picture. I know I haven't seen the film yet, but I'm going to assume that it holds a lot more weight than say, oh, Finding Neverland. I'll give you one guess as to which studio was behind Neverland. Yep, it's that evil genius Weinstein over at Miramax. Boo. I'm sorry Hotel Rwanda.

Things I'm not that upset about:

No nomination for Fahrenheit 9/11 in the Best Picture category. Like who did Michael Moore think he was kidding?

No nomination for Jim Carrey in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I love you Jim Carrey. I think you are mad talented and Eternal Sunshine was just an awesome film. But if I have to be upset about someone not making the Best Actor cut this year, well, I think Paul Giamatti had you beat.

No nomination for House of Flying Daggers in Foreign Language Film. It's a pretty film, but that's about it. And there's no "Best Eye Candy" category. Well, there sort of is, in cinematography, and House got the nomination there. Deservedly.

Things that make me very, very happy:

Alan Alda's nomination for Best Supporting Actor in The Aviator. Way to go, Hawkeye!

Leo finally getting an Oscar nomination. Sweet. Dude can act. Say what you will about his bratty tendencies and his elite clique of friends and his leggy super-model girlfriend. Dude can act.

The Incredibles got a nod for Original Screenplay. Brad Bird = Genius. YAY!

Things I think are just plain weird:

Leo and Kate Winslet are each up in the Best Lead categories. Iceberg, right ahead!

Finding Neverland has the same number of nominations as Million Dollar Baby. Guess which one's going to get snubbed. Suck it, Miramax.

Bening vs. Swank, Round 2. Yeah, I think this one's getting over-blown.

Hilary Swank may get her second Best Actress Oscar. Can we all just pause and remember that this woman used to be on Beverly Hills: 90210? And in just over a month she may very well be in the same league as Katherine Hepburn and Meryl Streep? Now that's just weird.

The Gai-jin Superstar Complex

So I found this today on Tomato Nation's Vine.

And I just had the following to say.

Eeeek!

I truly sympathized with the sweet Australian girl with the great job and the boyfriend far away in Japan today. I really did. And I'm torn about the advice Sars gave her, because I left my great paying job that I didn't so much love to go and have the adventure of my young life over in Japan as an English teacher. And I loved Japan! I really did. The 15 months there was the experience of a lifetime. Totally wouldn't take it back. Ever.

But going for the boyfriend. To Japan? Eeeek. I've got warning bells going off in my head that sound like air-raid sirens. As an experienced female Gai-jin, I feel I have to let the Magic 8-ball in on a few secrets of the Land of the Rising Sun.

#1. Japan is AWESOME but it takes some getting used to. Everything seems weird for the first few months. Culture shock is not easy to handle. You can't read the signs - which hurts the ego like hell. The language is not all that easy to learn (and you can be lazy, like me, and just learn how to gesture things really well.) The culture is fascinating but it can be cryptic and you can find yourself saying "But why do they DO THAT? It doesn't MAKE SENSE!" And, if you're a Western girl with height or curves, shopping becomes ridiculously hard on the ego.

Me: "Excuse me? Do you have this in Extra-Extra-Large? I swear, I'm a Small where I come from."

Clerk: "Really? But you're so BIG!"

(I'm 5'4", and like just over 125lbs.)

Me: (under my breath) And you're a dickhead.

#2. Something weird happens to Western guys after the first few months there. We call it the Gai-jin Superstar Complex. They arrive in Japan all normal and humble. And a few months later, something snaps and they think they are God's-Gift-to-Women! They say they have their pick of Japanese girls. They become addicts. (And from this Western girl's point of view, they can become highly obnoxious.) Perhaps it'sthe scads of really pretty Japanese girls, with their almond eyes and their faces and hair made up just so, paying them all the attention in the world. Because if there's anything more fashionable than a Prada handbag, it's a Western boyfriend. I know Magic 8-ball said that her boyfriend is urging her strongly to go over there and join him, but I'm saying Sister, think it over. Because I have heard that story a few dozen times before and it doesn't always have a happy ending. Sometimes it works out lovely - although usually the happy couples I knew over there had planned to come together and arrived at the same time. I'm perhaps being a little bit of a cynic (and really, who wants to listen to a cynic?) but 8-ball might find herself in the same place as the boyfriend while being in a completely different headspace from him. And if she feels like she has sacrificed just to be with him - disaster looms.

#3. Coming home is haaaaaaard. After a year of easy 20-hour work weeks at a job that required absolutely no conscious effort and paid me great money, I forgot how hard "the real world" was. I came home quickly and without a plan, and then spent the better part of two years fending off bankruptcy and wallowing in self-defeat before I figured out what the hell I was doing again. Yes, she will get another job. But she should have her exit strategy planned out well in advance of actually getting on the plane and coming home. Japan is easy. Going home is hard. But if you don't go home, you end up one of those Older English Sensei's and the new teachers at the school all kind of pity you.

I'm not saying 8-ball shouldn't go. Like I said, it was the experience of a lifetime for me and I wouldn't take it back. I just think that she should know why she's going. If she wants to go to Japan to learn Japanese, then great. If she has this strong urge to up and travel and Japan just happens to be her ichi-ban destination, even better. If she's just going so she can shack up with the boy, maybe think again. And she should know how long she's going for and exactly what she's going to do when she gets back. You can never plan ahead enough.

The One Where the Ultrasound Giggles

I think it was in August sometime. I know that it was a sunny day. I was sitting at my old workstation, right by the window, and it was that time of day (you know, those whole twenty minutes,) when the sun comes blaring right down the centre of Bay Street, blinding me and making it impossible for me to see my computer screen. So I drew the shades and continued working on this, that or the other, when up on my newly visible computer screen my brother, Mr. Grumpy-pants, logs on to messenger.

Brother: Hey Kid.

Me: Hey. What’s up?

Brother: Not too much. Got something for you.

(This brother is a scintillating conversationalist. And a slow typer.)

Me: What?

Brother: (Starts file transfer.)

Me: (Accepts file transfer.)

Tick, tick, tick. Blah, blah, blah. Multitasking away.

Then the file transfer completed and I clicked open.

And then I screamed. And then I jumped up and down. And then I told everyone in the trading room. But it was clear they were not nearly as excited as I was. I pity them.

On the screen was a shot of a thirteen week ultrasound. My brother and his wife were having a baby!

The conversation continued with the requisite question and answer period. Due date? Beginning of February. Boy or girl? They’re not 100% positive, but it looks like a boy. (A boy! My brother is a sports fanatic. A little boy is his dream. A boy!) How’s S_____? She’s great. Have you told Mom? No, she’s not home yet. Heh, I beat her. Sweet. They sent her an email entitled “Hi Grandma” with the ultrasound attached. Hee. What a weird age we live in. Then he had to log off and call Quebec so I said congratulations and sort of wrote, all awe-stricken, “I’m going to be an aunt.”

To which he replied, “Yeah, I’m going to be a dad.”

And then I burst into happy tears. Because the amount of awe I had in my head when I realized I was going to be an aunt is just a drop in the bucket compared to what he must have felt.

There’s a cute little anecdote that follows the pregnancy announcement. I got so excited that I left a message on my mom’s answering machine saying “Check your email and then call me second.” What I meant was check your email, call Grumpy-pants first and then call me second. But I didn’t want to give away the surprise, so I left out the part about Grumpy-pants and assumed that my mom would figure it out. She checked her email and then immediately picked up the phone to call me – as instructed. She was all over-the-top, spinny excited and asking me all these questions that I had already asked my brother. So, confused, I asked her what he had told her.

Mom: Well, I haven’t talked to him yet.

Me: What? Are you nuts? What are you doing on the phone with me??

Mom: You said check your email FIRST and then call you SECOND.

Me: Geez Mom. Hang up the phone and call you son!

Silly Mommy.

Anyway, that is not the point of this entry. Nor is the point of the entry to announce the birth of my nephew. He’s still cooking, but he’s just about done.

My brother and his wife tried really hard to get pregnant. I’m not sure how hard. They’re very private people. In fact, my brother will probably read this entry and ask me to remove it. (Too bad Grumpy, eat it.) I just know it took a while and I assume that they probably had moments where they didn’t know if it would ever happen. And they probably had moments where they were disappointed. And they felt like giving up. And they resigned themselves to perhaps looking for a new dog instead of going through all this trouble. But then it happened, and I know that it makes my brother tremendously pleased to be at this point in his life, with this woman that he loves, to be able to raise a family.

I’m not so much the most domestic woman in the world. I don’t know if I’ll ever be at the point where I’m ready for children (despite what my hips look like. No fat-ass jokes, brother.) But every time I have thought about my brother since that day in August when he announced he was going to be a father, I feel really good inside. Happy. Proud. Of him. For him. Grumpy and I have a good relationship. It’s based on a lot of sibling rivalry, a decent amount of rough-housing, and a lot of love disguised as snarky comments. I tell him he’s boring and safe. He asks me if I’m ever going to grow up. I make fun of his premature grey hair. He tells me my ass has its own weather system. (Which it DOESN’T!) I say “Ha ha. You are soooooo mature! Dork!” He says “I know you are but what am I?” Then he tries to noogie me and I try to head-butt his shoulder and we end up punching each other, and then the dog starts barking for us to stop and then mom has to yell and holler that she’s tired of us acting like children and she’s too bloody old for this. Sigh. Good times. Did I mention that he’s thirty-five and I’m twenty-eight this week?

And I love him very much. It occurs to me that Grumpy already has quite a bit of parenting experience. The eight year age difference between us meant that he was a ready-made babysitter for most of my childhood. Mr. Grumpy-Pants is the one who spent countless Sundays trying to teach me to pitch, hit and catch a flyball (wishful thinking, significant improvement, and never gonna happen, respectively.) He’s the one who supervised me the first time I got drunk. And he is the one who oh-so-generously offered to pay for my university leather jacket, when I was crying on the phone terrified that I wouldn’t be able to afford it on my own. For four years, I wore that jacket almost daily and treated it with a kind of holy reverence. And every time I put it on and got a whiff of that heavy mixed-up scent of leather, lanolin, gentian violet and beer, I said a small thanks to him internally. He saw me through break-ups and moves across the ocean and country. He protected me and stood up for me through some significant family conflict. He was there for me for every celebration along the way: each graduation, my first greasepole at Queen’s, my ring ceremony.

He’s going to be a great dad. And his son will probably be able to catch those fly balls that I never could. Good luck Grumpy!

Oscar's the Best Birthday Gift Ever

So I wasn't sure how big a fan I was when the Academy decided to move the awards show up about a month last year. I panicked and thought it would give me less time to prepare for the annual showdown with the Adjudicator. And true to form, last year I totally choked and did not pick Lord of the Rings in the Best Adapted Screenplay category (I picked City of God. Was I ON CRACK?) And I ended up tying my pompous ass of a brother (but I say that lovingly,) instead of thumping him like I should have. I blame not enough prep time. Yes, that's what I said.

But I realize this year that the new schedule brings with it a sweet little reward. The nominations come out on my birthday week. YAY! That gives me fodder to talk about the whole week! (Well, what are you complaining about - hit the "Next" button if you don't like the Oscars. No wait! I kid! Come back! I'll be clever, I promise!)

Here's how the annual bet works. For the first year the Adjudicator and I just picked our favourites in every category and let the chips fall as they may. Unforunately, this ended up with us picking essentially the same person and film in just about every category, except where I got all maudlin and picked sentimental favourites. Snoozefest. Plus, the Adjudicator did some research in the documentary and shorts categories and he trounced me there. So I lost. The next year, I called for some reforms and we removed the obscure short film categories. That was the year I decided to go on a blitzkreig and see as many of the nominated films as possible before making my picks. And I got punished and lost again.

The following year we completely revamped the system. And I'd like to think that I got a clean slate, but you know, whatever. The Adjudicator came up with an ingenious "serve and volley" system, whereby the contestants cannot choose the same nominee. So the loser of the previous year (me, *sigh*,) gets to choose first. They get to choose the category and their first pick. So then the other contestant is, presumably, forced to choose their second pick. The second contestant then gets to continue and choose the next category and their first pick. Serve, volley and repeat until all categories are accounted for.

What's ingenious about this system is its hidden complexities. Now, not only do you have to have a first pick for each category, but you also have to have a back-up in case your competitor beats you to the punch. AND, you now need to know which are the clear-cut races because you want to rush to pick them like the plum swing on the playground. But you also need to be aware of the dark horse races so that you can trap your opponent into picking them so that you can screw them in the end. (Damn you Adrian Brody! Damn you to hell! No, actually, I kind of think you've got that somethin' somethin'.)

The first year of the serve-and-volley system I instituted the "Math Rules" system, or the "Numbers Don't Lie" system and I totally nerded my brother out. I researched my picks thoroughly and finalized them based on a cute little statistical analysis I devised myself. (I'm so plucky.) My brother came to the table with a series of chicken-scratch notes on dog-eared paper. I snickered and knew I had him beat. It was also, sweetly, the only year we have ever been able to watch the awards together, since that was the year we were both living in Japan. That was the year that I bit my nails until almost the end of the night, when Denzel Washington took home the Best Actor trophy for playing a bad guy and I finally took down Brother Adjudicator in a round that played out with sweet, sweet eloquence. Ask anyone what category I dread the most, it's Best Actor. If I'm going to get killed, this is the one that kills me every time. So I won that year and I love the serve-and-volley system.

Okay, so the next year I lost again. Royally. Soundly. Thumped. Sure, I used the same numbers system against brother's chicken-scratch, but I blame that loss on Calgary. Stupid Calgary.

And then last year we tied, because I choked on the whole LOTR sweep. I didn't think the sweep was possible, so I over-thought the numbers. Never, never, never overthink the numbers. The numbers DO NOT LIE.

The nominations come out tomorrow and I'll be gushing over them profusely, but I won't be giving away any hints or sources, just in case the powers that be decides to Google me and catch me in my own game. He's going down this year. I have the fire in my belly.

No Uterus, No Vote

Growing up in public school I was in French Immersion, and starting at the age of 11 every year every kid in the class had to get up in front of the class and give a speech, in French, no less. I was a twitchy little ball of energy at no more than 40 lbs. I spoke too quickly, let my eyes dart all over the classroom instead of keeping them steady, and flipped through my cue cards distractingly. But I was ambitious! The topic I chose for my first public speech: abortion. After sitting down with my mother to do some research (she’s a nurse,) I decided to write out the speech from both points of view of the argument: life and choice. And then I wrote the speech and delivered it to a class of thirty-two students as quickly as possible, concluding that, in my opinion, choice was the more understanding alternative. It was, in essence, my first five-minute Op-Ed piece ever. And I was proud of it, despite the poor delivery. But when I sat back down at my desk, the little boy next to me gave me a disgusted sideways look and said, “Baby-killer.”

The next year, I decided I would give a speech on Golden Retrievers instead.

So now Roe is hoping to overturn Roe vs. Wade and there is a push to debunk three abortion myths – these myths being:

1) Abortion is a woman’s issue.
2) Repealing Roe would take us back to women dying from back alley abortions.
3) Legalized abortion means safe abortion.

You know what? I’m not an eleven year old anymore. I’m approaching twenty-eight. I have a firmer grasp on public speaking and the art and craft of debate. I’m not nearly as easily wounded by the black-label of baby-killer as I was way back then. And I am still decidedly Pro-Choice. So let’s begin.

1. Abortion is a woman’s issue. Yes it is. YES IT IS! If you don’t have a uterus, then you will never know what it’s like for something to live and grow inside you. You will never have to give birth. You will never have to breastfeed. You just won’t! Last time I checked, men didn’t have wombs. They may have a point of view on the subject, but they don’t have a uterus, so at best it is only an opinion based on second-hand reports, not first-hand experience. Too bad. That’s the way the biology works. Abortion, like birth-control, is a woman’s issue.

Heterosexual copulation in its simplest form, for men, can be brief and can bear no consequences whatsoever to the rest of their lives. For women, not so much. At its best, sex can be exhilarating, pleasurable and addicting, even. At its worst, it is awkward, uncomfortable, intimidating and physically violent. And only the woman bears the risk of pregnancy following the act. And so, the true responsibility for contraception will always come back to the woman. And when the act of sex has been physically imposed upon the woman, well then the fear she experiences while waiting to see if her egg has been unwillingly fertilized is a terror all her own.

Abortion is a woman’s issue. Do men get to have a say in the matter? Sure they do – I’m a Canadian, but I sure as hell have my opinion about American politics. I just don’t get a vote. The same principle ought hold true here.

2/3. I’m tackling “myths” two and three in one shot here, because if you look at it, three is really a corollary of two and not all that distinctly different. Repealing Roe would make abortion illegal but it would in no way affect the need out there for abortion. There would still be young, confused pregnant women out there needing information and choices and some of them would still choose abortion. Repealing Roe would make the procedure a black-market commodity. That there is an argument out there that statistics of back-alley abortion deaths were inflated or even fabricated is irrelevant.

Making abortion illegal does not make it go away, just like making drugs illegal does not make them go away, or making prostitution illegal does not make it go away. It simply creates a counter-culture that needs to be policed instead of regulated. And that counter-culture will inevitably be more dangerous than a legal alternative would. Legalized abortion doesn’t necessarily mean safe abortion. It’s a medical procedure and carries with it some risks of lasting damage to the body and infection. But a medical doctor will presumably go through these risks with the patient in detail, and a medical doctor will presumably be more familiar with these risks than a black-market dealer. Making the procedure legal means that those who perform it would have to be trained, educated and regulated. And when it comes to your health, that is so much more preferable to the alternative.

Choice means exactly that. It means you have a choice between options. It means you have the opportunity to educate yourself. It means you get to look at both sides of the equation and figure out what’s best for you. It doesn’t advocate abortion. It doesn’t use the slogan “Abortion is the new birth control.” It says nothing about promiscuity, or whether all life is welcome, or heaven and hell. Pro-life, in sharp contrast, is a black-and-white condemnation of an often frightened pregnant woman looking for understanding and options. Taking the right to choose away from the woman assumes that she does not have the capacity to make the right decision for herself and an unborn fetus. And that does no one any good.

Taking Stock

Hey look at this:

http://www.blogshares.com/blogs.php?blog=http%3A%2F%2Fdonttouchthefeet.blogspot.com%2F

My "blogshare" is rising. It's such a bizarre concept. Like my art and my work are fusing into this electronic hybrid. Like a monkephant. Or a sharphin. Or a platypotamus.

Drama Comes to Dinner

Drama Queen: I am not a Drama Queen.

Me: Dude, you totally are.

DQ: No, I'm not. I swear I'm not.

Me: Okay... Only, here's the thing...

DQ: What?

Me: You are.

DQ: I swear. I've never had this much drama in my life.

Me: Okay, but still, saying you're not a drama queen, and saying you don't like drama, that's just, well...

DQ: What?

Me: ...

DQ: Say it.

Me: Well, it's just bullshit, dude. Here's the thing...

DQ: Oh dear.

Me: You invited it.

DQ: Drama?

Me: Yeah.

DQ: But it was my dinner party. I could invite anyone I wanted.

Me: I'm not saying you couldn't. I'm just saying that you chose to invite DRAMA to dinner.

DQ: How so?

Me: Dude, it was like Dicken's Christmas Carol in there! What with the ghosts of exes past, present and future! And you were like Tiny Tim, wandering around all "God bless us everyone of us."

DQ: Hunh. Well, they could have refused the invitation. You know, like "Regrets Only."

Me: Wow. I'm not going to even bother going into that - like which one of them wanted to be labeled the snobby bitch. It's beside the point. The point is...

DQ: I know, I know. I invited Drama to dinner, apparently.

Me: That we don't live in a vacuum! I mean, you invited Drama to dinner.

DQ: So I've heard.

Me: It was like this: Drama shows up at your doorstep, all "Let me in, I'm hungry!" And you open the door and Drama dumps its coat on you and asks what's to eat. And you say "Uh, mussels." And Drama's all like "Mmmmm. Excellent choice." And then your guests are all like, "Mmmmm. Indigestion." And then you hang up Drama's coat and then you show Drama to its chair, which is at the Head of the Table.

DQ: Really? At the Head? You think?

Me: Yes, definitely at the Head.

DQ: I thought I was at the head.

Me: No way, Tiny Tim. Unfortunately, you were but Drama's hand servant for the evening.

DQ: Rrrrriiiiiiiiggggghhhhhttttt.... (long pause.)

Me: Right. So where was I?

DQ: Mussels.

Me: Yeah, Hand Servant, not so good a choice there. Because Drama's there, sitting at the Head of Your Table, mowing down on mussels, and everyone's all looking side-to-side, and adjusting their napkins and shit. And that's when it happens.

DQ: What happens?

Me: That's when Drama barfs all over your guests.

DQ: Ewww.

Me: Totally.

DQ: Ahhhh, so you're saying the problem was the mussels?

Me: No! I'm saying the problem was inviting all the drama! And then, dude, listen to me, because this shit is important.

DQ: Ugh, (sigh), I'm listening.

Me: Because then pretending like you don't like the Drama, pretending that you're not even just a little bit of a Drama Queen, well that's just a shoddy acting job. Because if you didn't like it, then you wouldn't invite everybody over, only to let them get barfed on!

DQ: I gotcha. No more mussels.

Me: No more dinner parties.

DQ: All right Scrooge, no more Tiny Tim act.

Me: Exactly. Thank you.

The Scariest Game of Peak-A-Boo

I love my Dad, but sometimes I do feel shame when I know how he votes. He votes to the right, consistently. I suppose I shouldn’t blame him. He went to military college and served in the Canadian Air Force, as did his father before him. The militaristic point of view has been impinged upon his frontal lobe and he seems incapable of questioning its righteousness. Sometimes he looks down at me lovingly, while I am ranting about lies fronting as justifications for the loss of human life in Iraq, and he says things like, “You just see things so simplistically, Jenn, is all.” Like I don’t understand that it’s a big old bad world, and that the decisions a world leader makes are complicated and require taking in a picture greater than one I have perhaps ever even contemplated. But, geez, Dad, wouldn’t my simple love-is-all-you-need philosophy make you proud that you had had a hand in raising a human being so pure in thought? Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do?

I’ve heard that something mysterious happens to people when they have children. I’ve heard that you become so desperate to protect your children that you begin to see dangers all around you – real or imagined, it is not clear. And that these dangers and the desire to protect the offspring warp your mind into voting to the right, for protection. I should note that my mother, my hero, has rarely been a victim of this phenomenon. She does believe in capital punishment, because, as she puts it “if someone ever hurt my children, I would never want mercy for them.” But mostly, she is more rational than that. She sometimes votes Liberal, she sometimes votes NDP, but she always knows that Stephen Harper does not hold the rights of the many as being more important than the rights of those with the deepest pockets.

It’s not that I believe my Dad is irrational, and I’m sure he doesn’t believe that I am either. And though we don’t see eye-to-eye on issues of the public welfare, foreign policy, or justifiable reasons for war, I do appeciate the fact that the discussion is always open between us.

I told him more than a year ago that the public campaign used to justify the American war in Iraq was blatant lies and target-shifting. First WMDs, then the freedom of the Iraqi people from an oppressive regime, then the terror link to Al-Qaeda, Zarqawi. The list goes on. It’s like the American administration is playing peek-a-boo with the public, feeding the story to the media, which they have to cover, and so they do. Some media coverage is done with a teeny-tiny grain of salt, some is done with trumpets and fanfare and the drums of war beating soundly. (FOX “News,” I’m looking at you.) I don’t think it’s the media’s fault that they are covering the story. The ever-changing tagline of the American government isn’t created by the media; it’s created by the government. When one tagline fails, the government finds another one to rally the troops behind. It’s dishonest. It’s wrong. It’s condescending beyond belief. But when I point this out, Dad gives me that look, like I am too much of an idealist for believing any other course of action should even be a topic for discussion.

Me: Doesn’t it even bother you that they can’t seem to keep their story straight?

Dad: No.

Me: Why not?

Dad: Because, no matter what, I believe the people of Iraq will be all the better for it in the long run.

Me: Who’s the idealist now?

Dad: (Glancing knowingly at me. Apparently, it’s still me.)

Me: But what about other people in oppressed regimes? Don’t they deserve saving, too? Perhaps even more so than the Iraqis did?

Dad: You have to pick the battles that you can win.

Me: But it’s not a game of Risk for crying out loud!

Dad: I never said it was.

Me: What about not picking any battles? Isn’t that an option?

Dad: No. Because they were threatened.

Me: By who?

Dad: (generic rebuttal)

Me: (more probing questions trying to point out how evil I think Republicans are)

Lather, rinse and repeat. My Dad is resolutely calm and steadfast. It would be admirable if it wasn’t so darn infuriating. He only falters when I bring up one little secret weapon: President Bush’s faith. My dad is an atheist. And while I know Dad believes in his heart of hearts that President Bush is really weighing out all the options, before painstakingly choosing the course of action, sometimes I don’t think he is. Sometimes I think that Bush’s advisors are certainly weighing out all the options. But the President himself? Yeah, from what I’ve seen, I think I could outwit the man. And I just don’t think that I should be able to outwit the leader of the free world. Sometimes I think that President Bush is just putting his hands together and letting a little voice whisper in his ear. Funny how the voice of God sounds an awful lot like Rumsfeld and Cheney.

Me: Doesn’t it bother you that President Bush seems to base all of his decisions on his belief that Jesus is telling him that America is the righteous?

Dad: Yes, it does.

He sighs. I sigh. We close the books on the discussion once again. There will be more time to discuss it later. I wonder if Dad has a threshold. I wonder if there is a point at which he will think “Now that’s going too far.” Would it be a certain number of civilians dead? (Somewhere between fifteen and eighteen thousand Iraqis at this time.) Would it be the mishandling of a public election at the end of this month? (The candidates have yet to be technically publicly announced, for fear of assassination.) Would it be egregious misuse of force? (Beyond, say, the most advanced army fighting, essentially, against sticks and stones?) Would it be a continued campaign of pre-emptive strikes against other perceived threats without legitimate intelligence? (The U.S. is now looking into Iran’s nuclear capabilities.) What would it have to be for my Dad and me to agree that this whole situation was tragic? Nuclear winter?

There were no WMDs. It was all a lie. A puppet show. Piece by piece, the U.S. government admits to a charade, but still tells its own citizens and those of Iraq, “have hope, we are a liberating force.”

There is a difference between a revolution and an occupation. Real change wells up from within the human spirit. Real change starts as a whisper throughout the basements of a society. And then the whisper grows louder and it multiplies and it reaches out until it is so powerful that it organizes, manifests and takes to the street. It is not parceled out in gracious democratic bite sizes from the hatch of an oppressive tank.

Take That Old Habits!

Friday night was a CD release party for “The Greater Good.” The lead singer is a friend of a friend’s best friend. Or, simpler, he is The Ex’s best friend. (Capital T, capital E. As opposed to The One We Don’t Speak Of, or The One Who Was Like Heroin, or The One I Suspect Was Gay. My repertoire ain’t that large.) TEbf is tall, lanky, perpetually morose and thinks he’s very clever. Sometimes he is. He has a sort of androgynous appeal, but it would benefit him to smile more often.

The opening act was called “Run With the Kittens.” Hee. Probably because that’s what the lead singer does in his spare time. The kid looked 12 – not a word of a lie. He looked like Davey Jones from the Monkees. But I can’t imagine Davey Jones having such a foul mouth. The kid was funny, wailing out songs like “Let’s Make Fuck!” with a lot of energy considering that he was hobbling around on crutches. (He said it was from an unfortunate face meets sidewalk incident.) While he’s singing I think “Wow, he’s kind of cute, in a kind of paedophilic way. Uh, ewww.” I think the band overplayed their set because Davey Jones just kept going and going until finally the rhythm guitarist just unplugged his guitar at the end of a song and took the mic away from Davey. I laughed: it seemed like a schtick. Overall, very entertaining. I don’t know if I enjoyed the music, so much as I laughed the whole way through it.

Meanwhile, TEbf is pacing around the back of the room, waiting for his moment. He was wearing a striped wool sweater to keep warm. It looked like David Bowie was trapped in a Weezer video. The time arrived and he doffed the Cosby sweater to reveal a ruffled dress shirt. A starker contrast between him and Davey Jones, I cannot imagine. He’s up there on stage, with his non-melodic words dripping with importance. TEbf doesn’t sing for the pleasure of the song. He sings as if he feels it necessary to convey to the world just what weighty things he is going through. There’s nothing wrong with this and there’s certainly a market for it. I just don’t know if it’s the best product placement after the comedic stylings of a band that ended their set with a medley that included “The Theme From Ghostbusters” and “The Phantom of the Opera” – rock-stylin’. I left before the end of TEbf’s set. Sorry dude.

During TEbf’s set, The Ex and my friend E____ are talking about the music together, because they are already familiar with it. TEbf starts singing track 7 from his new CD, and the two at the table start a philosophic discussion about how track 7 is always the best track on a CD, throwing out examples left and right. I pipe up with a disagreement. “It’s track 6 that’s always the best.” (Sarah Mclachlan, Surfacing, Witness. R.E.M., Automatic for the People, Sweetness Follows. Peter Gabriel, So, Mercy Street.) The Ex smiles at me knowingly and says, “Yeah, that’s right, you were all about the sixes.” And then he leans over and tries to put his hand on my thigh. And I bat it away. Ha! Take that old habits!

I Am So Being Stood Up

Let me tell you what a big fan of this whole internet dating service thing I am. Snerk. In a year, I have had two internet dates.

In the first place, boy was: 1) not as good looking as photo, duh, and 2) bizarrely needy. Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure he had good reason – blah, blah, 26 and already separated, blah, blah, both parents passed away, blah, blah, fueding with family over the will. Okay, so I am so outta there. Really nice guy, but only 20 kg of baggage is allowed on this flight, and you’re well over the limit.

In the second play, boy was: 1) not as good looking as photo, hmm, pattern? And 2) a recovering arsonist. No, seriously. No, seriously. Boy suggests we meet up at restaurant for dinner after work. Boy insists that we have secluded spot on patio, which waitress has specifically said is reserved for meal service only. Boy orders water. And nothing else. Boy then tells me that as a troubled youth in Eastern Europe, he liked to set fires to old warehouses. Uh, cheque please! Oh, and he would like to be a firefighter because he feels he has a good understanding of fire. Hmmm, yeah, there’s something here about the irony of how boy only ordered water. I’m gone in under an hour.

A third date with a third potential suitor is supposed to be tonight. Boy drives a fancy car. And I’m pretty sure that most would find this impressive, but I am a cynic and I’m afraid he is “materialistic.” Well, I guess I’ll find out tonight. Only, I probably won’t. Because boy has not called or emailed since casually setting up this date early in the week. So, I’m pretty sure I’m being stood up. At least, that’s what this familiar intuition thing I’ve got going on is telling me. That would make it the third time this year.

Yep. Twice by two different nuclear men. And now internet boy #3. I tell you, their mothers must be so proud of them.

Oh, but wait, as I’m writing this journal of righteous indignation, my email beeps and it is internet boy #3. Rescheduling, due to work conflicts. Okay, maybe his mother is proud of him. We’ll see.

Celebrity Fodder

• Prince Harry was photographed wearing a Nazi costume. This is what happens when you let children dress themselves.
• George Clooney and Bill O'Reilly are fighting about a tsunami celebrity telethon. Clooney wants the proceeds to go to the tsunami victims, while O'Reilly thinks they are better spent on President Bush's inaugural ball.
• American Idol's telephone voting system is staying the same. They're just never, ever, ever holding auditions in Hawaii again.
• One of the teams on the new Domestic Diva search reality show Wickedly Perfect is named "Crafty Beavers." Seriously. What's the other one named? "Pretentious Clams?"

Oh I'm Such a Wannabe

I just put up a link to M. Giant's Velcrometer in the "Other People's Feet" section. Could I be any more desperate for attention? Why don't I just go and put up everybody's site from Damn Hell Ass Kings - rendering my own site completely redundant? Why don't I just paint an "I Love Television Without Pity and hope that one day you hire me because I'm ever so smart and I try to be funny, and gosh darnit, I love TV too" sign on me for good measure?

Can't help it. Totally addicted. Funny stuff, folks. Not a word of a lie.

But What Does That Make Them Experts Of?

If you take a look to the left sidebar you will notice that I have some favourite internet personalities – namely Wing Chun and Sars – and I visit their sites often (and I think you should too.) Yesterday I got a look at their Tara vs. Sarah column on MSNBC, where they banter back and forth about the latest celebrity. Funny, cute, classic stuff that I seem to have a never-ending appetite for. I love these two writers. So after reading the most current article on Jennifer Garner, I decided to wade through the archives to look at the older ones.

But here’s what I notice: at the end of each article, Sarah and Tara are credited thusly “Tara Ariano and Sarah D. Bunting are co-creators and co-editors of Television Without Pity”. Television, folks. Television. These two are credited as being television experts. (Which, there is no doubt about it, they are.)

Now let’s take a look at their subjects from the archives:

Steven Soderbergh
Chick Flicks
Ben Affleck
Reese Witherspoon
Matt Damon
Jude Law
Johnny Depp
Gwyneth Paltrow
M. Night Shyamalan
Ben Stiller

With the exception of the current article on Jennifer Garner, there’s nary a TV star in the bunch. Okay, okay, Damon had a guest-appearance on an episode of Will & Grace, Stiller did have a TV show of his own at one point, and we all know and love Johnny Depp from his Jump Street days. Regardless, overall Sarah and Tara are not debating their merits as television stars, they’re talking about the movies. Movies, not television. And that’s a completely different medium! It’s like having an expert in clay sculptor give their opinion of water-colours. Or it’s like having Jon Stewart go on Crossfire just to send that dick Tucker Carlson sailing through the uprights. (Okay, bad example to prove my point, but good example for how it can be done properly.)

I don’t doubt that these two are movie experts or pop culture experts in addition to being television experts. In fact, if you take a look at good old Fametracker (again, see left,) you’ll find that Tara is the co-creator of that site, which is specifically about the trappings of fame in all its forms. So clearly, they are definitely qualified to be doing what they are doing. I just don’t think crediting them with Television Without Pity is the tagline they should be going with for these MSNBC columns. Why not give the shout-out to Fametracker, which is the smaller site probably needing the exposure more, and which has far more to do with what they are talking about anyway? Just something they might want to consider.

Beep, boop, beep, boop.

Gack! (officially my favourite sound effect, for anyone keeping track.) I went and did something last night that I shouldn’t have done. That I promised myself I wouldn’t do. That I told other people I was promising myself not to do. And that I told them they should physically prevent me from doing. I watched the premiere of 24. And now, I’m in for the whole season. Sigh. I have really got to stop doing this to myself.

I HATE 24 with the hate of a thousand burning suns.

I hate the way the phones ring, all ‘bip, bip – beeeeooooop.” I hate the way a flight to Mexico will take an hour on the first leg, but will miraculously only take 20 minutes on the return trip. I hate how the President of the United States seems to have no allies besides Jack Bauer. Groan. I hate how they kept trying to work Nina and Sherry into the subsequent seasons just because they worked in the first season. I hate, hate, hate Kim and the cougar howling in the woods and how I was supposed to believe she would actually want to work for CTU. Wtf was up with that?? I hate tangents and unresolved plot lines and stories dropped just for the hell of it because the writers have no clue how to build a coherent arc, and I hate the darting eyes overlaid with the suspicious music. Hate it. I think that’s all. No, wait, I also hate Chloe. I think her character is annoying as hell and a big old turd.

But the problem with 24 is that it’s like a roller-coaster ride. Once you get on, you can’t get off halfway through the ride. So now that I got sucked into watching the premiere, I know that I’m in for the season. I’m in for 22 more hours of yelling at the television about how absurd it is being. (Because it’s the television’s fault. Actually, I know whose fault it is, it’s the writers of the show and I’m hoping that they can hear me as I try to communicate through the pixels.) Why, oh why am I doing this to myself? Four weeks from now I know I’m going to be rolling my eyes, throwing things at the television, and threatening (emptily,) never to watch the show again if they want me to believe that Jack Bauer is capable of reviving his partner using CPR after said partner has been flat-lined for a good five minutes (beep, boop, beep, boop…) and after Jack has:

a) survived a car bomb,
b) been administered truth serum in a terrorist inquisition,
c) hijacked a helicopter by jumping from the window ledge of an 80-story building, or
d) all three of the above, in any mind-bogglingly unrealistic order.

Here’s the problem with 24. I’ve heard that the first season was fantastic. I haven’t actually ever seen it, because I was in Japan watching eighty-eight year old Japanese grandmas compete in quiz shows. I’ve also heard that the writers of the first season wrote the whole 24 hours (or at least plotted them out,) before the series went into shooting. But since the success of the first season, they haven’t bothered to keep up that good practice, perhaps because they’re worried about plotlines leaking, I don’t know. So now, the writers are just, you know, winging it. And this has led to some serious jumping of the shark as the pacing becomes uneven, the characters become caricatures of themselves and the suspension of reality has reached such fantastic proportions that it’s not really even possible anymore. There are physical constraints to the universe people, please, at the very least try to abide by the laws of thermodynamics and gravity! I don’t think that’s asking too much.

But there’s good news for me this season. The President is no longer in office. There’s no Nina, no Sherry, and no Kim! (Which, hopefully, means no cougars.) Hallelujah! They have completely cleaned house with the cast. Thank god! And Shawn Doyle showed up in the premiere! I love him! He was the reason I watched The Eleventh Hour – and he’s very capable. I’m hoping they didn’t actually kill him off in the first two hours of the day, because if they did, what a shame, what a waste. Maybe he’s too busy playing Gabrielle and Carlos’s lawyer on Desperate Housewives. Of course, there’s still Chloe, and there’s still darting eyes all over the place, but one can’t expect miracles. So I’m on the roller-coaster, again, for better or for worse. I’ll let you know if it’s a good ride.

Please Come Back

You have an after work function. A co-worker is leaving tomorrow for paternity leave. You will miss him dearly and know you have to go. But it is Tuesday - race night, and you promise yourself that you will be home in time to catch a beloved TV show. And also, to save money. But it's at a sports bar. And tonight is the World Junior Hockey Championships. Gold medal game. Canada versus Russia. But you're going home early. It's a promise.

The puck drops and something takes over. Somewhere in the first period, with a score of 2 to 1, even though you know that Canada is far outplaying the Russians and by the end it will not matter if you saw the end or not. Something takes over. A memory. Something you have not felt in a while.

The Russians are playing poorly. The Canadians masterfully. You say to yourself, they have an amazing defense, it cannot be penetrated. The refs are clearly American and calling everything for the Russians. You mock spit at them. A pass, an open net, a beautiful shot. It brings you to your feet. Gretzky is there - playing the good luck charm. What player wouldn't play his best knowing that Gretzky was in the crowd? Good hussle brings your man all the way from centre back behind the net and slamming into a Russian opponent, lifting him off his feet. You find yourself cheering "Good hit! Good hit!" (Something you would never say under ordinary circumstances.) You say to yourself, the defense doesn't matter, look at their offense! Television is gone, forgotten, abandoned. This is hockey night and you are staying. It may be your only chance this year.

And you know now, that you miss hockey more than any Molson commercial - with its house-husbands singing to Culture Club - could ever tell you to. You miss it because it is primal. Because it is part of you.

You are no expert. These boys are under 20. You don't know their names, their positions, or who they were drafted to. You don't know every single rule of the game. You just know that you miss the game dearly. Because it is a part of you.

And it has been a part of you ever since the day in 1993 when you mastered the look of utter disdain when someone asked you if Gilmour would change his jersey number at the coming of the new year. It has been a part of you since you dialed your brother long-distance to Japan during the playoffs: one ring for Leafs goal, two rings for Kings goal. It has been a part of you for longer than that still. It is in the glow of the television set - your mother gathered round it as a child to watch the black disc fly across a fuzzy grey screen. It is in the hum of sports radio - your grandfather sat listening intently on a Sunday afternoon. It's the CBC and all that was playing in generations of your past. Third period. 6 to 1. Gold for Canada!

You know this. God exists somewhere between ice and skate.

Hockey, please come back.

The TTC: A Polite User’s Guide

The first official workday of the new year brought back with it all the joys and spoils of public transport. I had been indulged, I admit, by the quiet days of work in between Christmas and New Year’s. No high school kids making out in front of the doors. No public servants with their briefcases jammed into my kidneys. No brokers with four different financial newspapers strewn across three seats, leaving no room for the poor little old lady with the sad look in her eyes. In between Christmas and New Year’s I got a seat all to myself on both legs of my commute. I got to sit quietly and read my book and no one snacked loudly on Doritos beside me, or shoved a backpack in my face, or tried to board the train before I had finished exiting it. Sigh. Those were the days. Now all those offenders are back with a vengeance, and so I would like to present them with this tiny little tip sheet. Learn it, live it, love it. (Please, for the love of god!)

Tip #1. It is not polite to wear your backpack on the subway. Take it off and hold it in your hands. Backpacks are the worst offenders on the subway. They are weapons of face-destruction. It seems that something about wearing a backpack makes the wearer inherently indecisive. Should I turn left? Yes? No. Maybe I should turn right. Yes? No. It was definitely left. And so the backpack swings first right, then left, then right again, leaving a wake of destruction, knocking children in the face, short women in the chests and tall men in the belly or groin area. The last thing I want in the morning is to come face-to-pack with a student’s tassles, requisite Canada flag or the phrase “Bob Marley Lives” written in whiteout and adorned with a hand-drawn marijuana leaf smack in the face. Trust me, you’ll know better where the back of your pack is if it’s safely hanging out by your knees and not suffocating the little eight year old behind you.

Tip #2. Knees in folks. I hate the seat arrangement of the TTC. It’s set up so that some seats face forward and backward, and some seats are bench-style. I would much prefer the whole train to be bench-style. It leaves more room to sit – unexpected, but I guarantee you it’s true. And it also clears up the floor of the train for more organized standing space. However, over the layouts of the train I have no control, so I’ll just say this: if your seat back intends you to sit forwards or backwards, please sit that way! Don’t mess with it. Don’t, under any circumstances, attempt to sit sideways, using the person behind you as a back-rest and sticking your knees way, way, way out into the aisle, taking up my standing room. Gack! If you sit that way, not only will you tick off the person sitting on the inside track, but you will reduce the standing room during rush hour by at least two people. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but trust me it is. Tall men with newspapers seem to be the worst offenders here. I can see that they think they can’t fit their ginormous knees into the cramped space, but I think they should give it a try. You know, to do their part towards world peace. And if the knees really don’t fit in that small space, well, then they should just stand up. Because I’m tired of tripping over their knees, attempting to get a handle on a bar to brace myself as the train swings wildly around corners, knocking me off balance. So stand up, you lazy fool, and stop taking up more room than you should.

Tip #3. Passengers exit before passengers enter. This one should be self-explanatory. It’s like an elevator folks. You can’t get on before people get off. And, no, the train will not leave without you. And no, you will not lose your spot on the subway to anyone else if you don’t get on immediately as the doors open. Stop being so impatient. Trains run every minute. Actually, in rush hour, they run every thirty seconds or so. Take advantage of that and remember to breathe in and out, and let the people off first! If you don’t, you’ll get my big old hand in your face, pushing you back onto the platform, because this rudeness, really, I cannot tolerate. Nothing irks me more than having twelve people swarm me and shove me back into the aisle while I’m trying to make it to the platform. Except maybe backpacks. I hate backpacks.

My first commuting experience was so much more pleasant than the good old TTC. When I took the subway to work in Japan everything was so much more orderly and routine, despite the fact that it was much, much more crammed with people. The trains ran to schedule. There were markers on the platform indicating where the doors would be when the train stopped. There were plenty of rings for people to hold onto. The passengers folded their newspapers in a civilized manner instead opening them up wide across other people’s faces. And people seemed to flow into the train cars with ease – no elbows in the face, no crowding around the doors making it impossible to get to the centre aisle for some breathing room. Everything seemed to run like a well-oiled machine. Perfect and in sync. The TTC is such a mishmash of crappy logistics and the passengers who use it seem to forget that they are sharing the space with others. It’s not that difficult folks. Read the tips and think before you move. Breathe in and out and relax a little. No making out. (ew.) No chomping on food loudly. (ew.) Consider giving up your seat for the elderly or infirm, or a pregnant woman. And, dear sweet merciful crap, please take off the backpack!

Perfectly Developed

If you're not already watching Arrested Development (Sundays at 8:30 on FOX)

then start watching Arrested Development (Sundays at 8:30 on FOX or Global, in Canada.)

Because I just can't say enough good things about Arrested Development (Sundays at 8:30 on FOX or Global, In Canada)

And I can't believe that the ratings for this extremely funny, extremely high quality show are as low as they are, so please start watching ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT (SUNDAYS AT 8:30 ON FOX OR GLOBAL, IN CANADA.)

All right, I'm going to stop being obnoxious now. But really, the point is that this show has got to start registering with people on a conscious level. I haven't been a fan of the show since it started, I had to be told to watch it. I had to read a few critic's articles about it. And then I had to see that it had been nominated for a whole bunch of Emmy's. And then I had to hear that it had actually won a whole bunch of Emmy's. And then I had to casually notice the advertising for the show in the subway station. And then I had to accidentally be sitting in front of my television on a Sunday night (at 8:30 on FOX or Global) before I realized that this stuff was goofy, zany, laugh out loud funny! And the great thing was, I was the one that was laughing, not a can of pre-recorded guffaws from a studio audience, but ME! Out loud! And often!

So, let this show seep into your consciousness. Let all the little references to it slowly build up over time until you can no longer contain yourself and you feel simply obligated to see what the fuss is all about. Because it really is worth every good piece of press and every good word of mouth that it gets. So start watching.

ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT ON SUNDAYS AT 8:30 ON FOX (OR GLOBAL IN CANADA.)

Seriously.