other people's words

As you know, my resolution for 2009 is to reclaim my house. From the clutter. From the memories of my parents (this is the house I grew up in and inherited.) For myself, and for my boyfriend. It's been a very long process, learning to let go of stuff, stuff with memories and stuff my parents bought, held, and cherished, clothes they wore and stuff they used. All over my home. And I've never been really good at expressing the conflicting feelings this stuff can bring up.

Over the holidays, I stumbled upon FlyLady, an organization-come-sisterhood to help people get, well, organized. Anyone who knows me knows my sink certainly isn't shiny yet (hell, it may be the last thing I do!), but the daily emails prompting decluttering and instilling the importance of routines to organize your time, if nothing else, have been useful.

We get bombarded by quite a few daily emails, including testimonials from other participants. The one from Monday really struck a nerve; in it, Kathryn describes lugging the sewing machine her mother bought her as a teenager as she left for college and across the country over several moves. Mind you, I've never moved in my whole life, but her words resonated:

I felt guilty -- not only because I was leaving projects undone but because, by not sewing, it felt like I was rejecting something important that my mother had shared with me. (...)

Every time I moved, I felt guilty about having it, about not using it, about abandoning my mother. (...) I de-cluttered around it, each time feeling worse when I saw it. Still, I couldn't get myself to put it in the car for Good Will. It felt like I was packing up my mother and taking her away. Never mind that my mother is still safe and happy in Wisconsin, that we now share a love of knitting, that she knows I don't sew anymore and that she's perfectly okay with that.

That's it, that's exactly it! Somehow, letting things go is a betrayal of people and their love. Now, my mother passed in 1994, so you can imagine how I've felt some of the things she describes, maybe worse, since mom wasn't around to tell me it was okay to let go (not that she would have - she was a pack rat herself.) I was stunned; I've read it several times over the past few days, and it still blows my mind how she figured me out and described it so succinctly.

I've added a list in the right hand column of things I have decluttered or given away, Freecycled or otherwise gotten rid of. (By the way, I'm aiming for 250 "items", which is a huge amount, considering a garbage bag full of clothes, or a box full of books, is one "item". I'm already behind, but that's OK.) One of those bags of clothes was part of my mother's wardrobe. Read back: she died in 1994. My father never went through her stuff before he died in 1998. I've been even worse. *sigh* But somehow, somewhere deep inside, something has clicked, and the sentimental attachment has started to fade, to slough off, to shed, like leaves in the fall. And somewhere, I've found the pleasure of giving things away that I know will be of use to someone else.

A box of mom's French books are leaving with a lady on Friday; when I spoke to her on the phone, she was just so excited at the idea of getting her hands on the three volumes of "La dynastie des Forsyte". I remember my mom reading those books, and now, someone else will get to enjoy them. And that, to quote a domestic goddess whose housekeeping and culinary skills I will never attain, is a good thing. Not to mention I get the cheap thrill of crossing out items in my OYS posts. YAY!

Edit, 30/01/09: Oddly enough, the lady and/or her daughter never showed. The box of books went to the next person who had inquired about them. She picked them up the day after I contacted her. I love it when a freecycle plan comes together.

inner democratic turmoil

Yesterday was the federal elections. I pondered long and hard about this particular vote, something I hadn't done often before. I live in a town that is fairly split along linguistic and federalist/separatist lines, with a slowly growing franco side as the city develops. However, we are but a drop in the bucket in a riding that is overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the neighbouring town. A town who has historically voted yes/Parti Québécois/Bloc Québécois. But also a town whose mayor, incidentally, was running for office as a member of the Conservative party.

Which is what got me thinking. Would their healthy support for their longtime mayor mean enough of a shift that we would be represented by a Conservative? Hmm, hard to say for someone who tends to hold her nose in the general arena that is politics. A coworker of mine was/is a diehard supporter of said mayor was convinced that victory was not only within reach, but almost a given.

So, what to do? I considered taking part in that vote-swapping facebook group, but then my unhealthy levels of cynicism wondered whether that was putting too much faith in the honesty of fellow participants. Then, I did what I thought I would never do: for a moment, and I can't even say it was a brief moment, for it took up part of election day, I considered, I mean gave serious thought, to the idea of voting for the Bloc representative. If that isn't a significant indicator of just how terrifying I find the prospect of a majority Conservative government, I don't know what is. And yet, there it was, a singular prospect for my perusal.

Then, my cynical side took a nap, and I had a moment of glorious honesty, if somewhat tinged by merciless optimism. I figured that voting negatively or preemptively was disgracing the honor and duty it was as a member of a democratic society. That, in fact, voting for the candidate whose ideals I admire and who I would truly want to see lead the country was the only honourable thing to do. So, as I crossed the lawn of a local grade school I once attended, I resolved to actually put an X next to the person who best represented my admittedly limited political views.

After having been dutifully carded by the two ladies at my polling booth (it really was like being carded at a bar. Notwithstanding the fact you just handed over a voter card and your driver's license, can you actually recite your address by heart? Really, just like old times. But I digress.), I walked to the gloriously unceremonious foldout cardboard “booth” meant to afford me some level of privacy as I performed by basic civic duty. Same old #2 pencils like you find at golf courses. My hand trembled for a second, as paranoia from the last referendum meant an X could never be quite perfectly centered or even. Nonetheless, I marked by ballot as cleanly as I could, folded it back, and proudly marched back to the two ladies at the table. Alea jacta est. The die, or in this case the vote, was cast. I could no more add or subtract from it without spoiling the ballot, which would have been for naught. Instead, my federally-allocated amount of (oh, I forget how much it is) will be allotted to the party of my choice. The elder of the two, the one with graying roots, cleanly ripped off the tear-off numbered portion of my ballot and ceremoniously removed the sheet of paper covering the ballot box slot before solemnly proclaiming I could officially deposit my ballot in the box.

After completing the ritual, I turned on my heels and walked out into the autumn air, heavy with smokers who crowded the door, even on a warm sunny afternoon. On my way home, looking up at the coroplast signs lining the streets, I wondered whether I had made the right decision. Time would tell.

Time did, in fact, tell. Early in the evening, the CBC announced that the Bloc candidate in our riding was elected. Looking at the number of polls returning, I wondered whether they hadn't gotten ahead of themselves. After all, even with an early commanding lead, did they know whether any of those results were coming from his home turf? If not, a massive groundswell of support could easily shift numbers back to the Conservatives' advantage. In the end, though, the trend was maintained and ou neighbouring mayor was soundly defeated, much to my coworker's chagrin, I would assume. I actually cheered when I saw the numbers. So mark the date of October 14, 2008 on your calendars, because such things, I hope, will not occur again. Although, if yesterday's elections are any indication, history will be repeating itself.

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adrift (bis)

OKm in my last post I stated that a mostly "miss" blog had yielded one interesting link. But crazy lazy me kept reading, and the further back I dug, the more stuff I uncovered. So I wish to publicly retract my "miss" and call attention to said blog, A cup of Jo. I'll admit, I didn't give it too much credit because I feared it would be too fashionista for my taste. Fortunately, I am mistaken; the author has a keen eye for design as a whole, and has sent me on quite a number of side adventures, including:

• The 100 most common English words quiz (I must sit to discuss this longer.)
• Stranger photos have happened (I must tell my colleagues on trois choses about this...)
• Ideas for sale
• For you (This is another that deserves further pondering.)

Now I know what I should be doing instead of being carried by web currents: SLEEPING! But like I posted as my Facebook status, Carpe noctem - seize the night.

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web drifting

I can't even call it surfing - it's not directional enough. The pace is also slower, as I stop to find delightful details where I wouldn't expect anything mind-boggling.

So here we go, somewhat randomly:

From Word Ferret (a usual haunt), a quote from Gustave Flaubert: I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within.

Or rather, in the original French:

(...) j'ai si peu l'habitude d'écrire et je deviens si hargneux là-dessus, surtout vis-à-vis de moi-même, qu'il ne laisse pas que de me donner assez de souci. C'est comme un homme qui a l'oreille juste et qui joue faux du violon ; ses doigts se refusent à reproduire juste le son dont il a conscience. Alors les larmes coulent des yeux du pauvre racleur et l'archet lui tombe des doigts...

Looking for the original quote, I stumbled upon another too-true thought of his:

Pour qu'une chose soit intéressante, il suffit de la regarder longtemps.

Moving along, I laughed until I cried while discovering a recent blog of note, Cake Wrecks. The tartan wedding-cake fiasco is absolutely priceless. This is one blog that I read from front to back in its entirety.

Which then led me to Cakelava, cake decorators in Hawaii, whose work is completely at the other end of the spectrum. Pat thought the Tiki cakes were really cool, but then, who wouldn't?

On the main blogger page, you can see the names of blogs flash by as they are updated. Sometimes I click on one when the title appears promising. It's a hit or miss process, but in a relatively "miss" click, I found a link to a book whose concept is so insanely appealing I may just order it: A Field Guide to Weeds, by Kim Beck. Once again, my fondness for dandelions shines through.

What does this show? That I'm procrastinating again. I should be doing something more productive (it's been fairly quiet lately on the freelancing front, so I actually have my evenings to myself...W00t!) but then, isn't this what summer is for? And for my sake, please don't mention that September is just around the corner!

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procrastination is a sleazy one-night-stand

(Note: I have nothing against one-night-stands per se, as long as both parties are aware and have no expectations beyond the next day.)

You go out looking for her. Not any her in particular, just a her. Any one will do, really, anyone to take your mind off things and lose yourself for a while. You latch on to the first that shows any sign of interest, any spark that this might be fun. You get things going ASAP; the bad moments shock you into wondering what exactly you're doing, while the good ones lull you into thinking this might be more, at least until you shake yourself back to reality.

The next morning, you're hung over and looking for your clothes. And your life is still there, patiently waiting for you, exactly how you left it last night. Procrastination afforded you a few hours of wasted entertainment, but life beckons. Back to the keyboard.

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other people's words

I came across a few tidbits that, for a variety of reasons, really struck a chord deep within me.

First, Jean-Marc Parent, whose career as a stand-up comic in Quebec took him waaaayy up, then waaayy down, then back again, and seems to have stabilized as a grizzled veteran of the scene. His latest show, Urgence de vivre, was partially inspired by his heart problems. This is what he had to say about life:

J'ai toujours aimé la vie, mais j'ai jamais eu confiance en elle. De toute façon, personne ne devrait avoir confiance en la vie. La vie, elle t'avale, c'est tout.

Then, a coworker lent me Shopgirl, the novel by Steve Martin. She said that there was something in the way he wrote that she thought would appeal to me, and she was right. I found him a keen observer of human quirkiness, taking a simple little story and weaving it into something unique.

A few things really leapt off the page at me:

However, Jeremy does have one outstanding quality. He likes her. And this quality in a person makes them infinitely interesting to the person who is being liked.

---

Her penalty is that the men she attracts with her current package see her only from a primitive part of their brains, the childish part that likes shiny objects that make noise when rattled.

I can only hope that somewhere down the road, I'll be able to string together words like that. Not because they are these great exercises in eloquence, simply because of the basic truths they allow to shine through their simple word sequences.

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I wrote a long expanse of text today

...on paper, and I'm not entirely sure I want to publish it to the world. At least, not yet.

It's about my plans for completing the tattoo on my back, and for another one after that. I'm not completely paranoid; it's simply that the topic is so intimate, I really want to take the time to get it down right. They're predicting rain this weekend; maybe I'll get a chance to work on it some more.

Today in seven: Find the words, find your wings. Imperfect.

And on to the dog watch update: no sightings today either, so I think she may have gone on to greener pastures. And I double-checked those signs: the missing springer spaniel is a male, so unless my colleague mistook a well-hung dog for a lactating bitch, we're not talking about the same pooch. Not that that settles my mind much about it.

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seven days to choose

The deadline for applying to the graduate diploma is June 1, which means I have seven days left to decide whether I want to go for it. I think I'm going to need them.

It was my dad's birthday yesterday. My father was always pushing me to learn; he didn't really mind what I chose, as long as I kept going. He thought I was a smart girl, and wanted me to do something with my life. I guess he wanted me to make sure to keep as many doors open as possible until I chose what was right for me.

In that sense, I partially failed him, in that in finding myself I started and stopped along a number of paths before figuring out my place, and he didn't get to see that. But I'm pretty sure he'd be proud now, and I'm sure he'd see it as fitting that I finally stumbled back to something my mother had herself once studied. I always did remind him of her.

I'm also sure he would have no doubt that I should apply. Unfortunately, doubt is all I have right now. I'm really starting to feel exhausted from coming home at ten o'clock twice a week; I also have to consider the cost, and the strain it puts on my relationship with Pat just never being there, or available...

My gut tells me to wait. Besides, I already work as a translator, and I freelance, so it's not like I'm wanting for work. But given the issues with this last class I'm taking, is my gut really reliable, or is it just my instinct of self-preservation saying I shouldn't sign up for more (even though this teacher does not teach at the graduate level)?

I have a few more days to think about it.

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the toughest call

This time, I can't identify my teacher or the migraine I had this weekend as the cause of my silence. This time, it's grief. A friend of mine asked last week when it was time to have a dog put down. Her eleven year old German Shepherd mix had been having greater and greater difficulty navigating the stairs. It was fast becoming apparent that arthritis, that bane of large dogs everywhere, was winning the war. All kinds of things had been tried to ease her pain, and until recently, she fought valiantly, yelping only when her stiffened limbs missed a step, sending her tumbling awkwardly downstairs, or planting her muzzle into the stairs going up. But she would recover bravely, hoping no one had noticed. This past week, however, had seen her whimpering before even attempting the stairs, coaxing her owners back to her level. Just rising from a nap was laboured. And so the hardest call stood before them, silent, unavoidable.

I well up at the thought of making such a decision, before even putting a face to the subject. Life has been good to me, in that I have never been confronted with the prospect. My first cat ran away while we were away on vacation; there was no miracle reunion for us. The cat I received for my seventh birthday lived a good sixteen years, but I was at work when the time came, and it was my father who bore that burden. The rodents and reptiles and birds who left us over the years did so on their own terms, usually silently in the night. Everyone else, save for Lita, is still with us.

So, today was going to be the day. Then she bounded into the SUV, just like in the good old days, and instantly won a reprieve. So they sit, enjoying each other's company, for another evening, acutely aware of the ticking clock and of the toughest call, still sitting, waiting. I salute the courage of those who, when the time comes, for the right reasons, can stand beside their loved ones one last time, and make the call. I hope I have that strength when the day comes for me.

In six, then: Learning to let go - cruel fate.

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a life ruined?

There was some brouhaha this week when it was discovered that the ex-girlfriend of the Conservative federal minister of foreign affairs had previously been involved with two Hells Angels, one of whom had been murdered. Once identified, she was quoted in the paper as saying that the media had ruined her life.

Her life is ruined because her affairs with three past boyfriends have been made public? I'm confused. It does not appear she is still involved with the biker world, and in any case, she has no criminal record. At this point, I will also refrain from making comment as to whether she has really stopped cavorting with members of organized crime, or just moved on to better dressed ones.

But has this really ruined her life? I'm thinking she's a little thin-skinned. She might have a tough time finding a date for a few weeks, or longer among the "Google your new girlfriend" crowd, but otherwise, the world will have forgotten about her quickly enough.

As for me, I pondered whether revealing my past relationships would "ruin my life." I thought back, and I Googled, since I'm no longer in contact with any of them. Let's see:

Throughout my teenage years, I was involved on and off with R, a young rebel who dropped out of school, played in a punk band and did and sold drugs. Not the kind to bring home to daddy. I eventually grew up enough to walk away unscathed. Something I'm proud of? Absolutely not. Ruin my life? Not in a million years. And today? Surprisingly, still alive. Not so surprisingly, still rebelling, still in a nowhere punk band.

Moving on to S, whom I met in cegep. Well-mannered, clean cut, slight mama's boy tendencies (but don't tell him that.) Lasted a bit over a year, ended because, well, we were still teenagers and I was having a hard time dealing with his jealous streak. Ruin my life? Nope. Today? Masters in geology, working as an analyst. Sounds square enough.

Then C, one of the kindest souls I've met. Still not entirely sure why I broke up with him, apart from maybe sheer boredom, needing to explore the world some more. He's got a terribly common name which makes him hard to track down online; in fact, I never found him. I did stay in touch with him for a few years afterwards, so by my count, he is probably some kind of entrepreneur, like his dad, and living in the house he built with his wife in suburbia. Maybe a kid or two. Ruin my life? No way. Made it better, in fact.

Then G, which may have been an attempt to recapture what was lost with R. Best body I ever dated, though. Found him on Facebook; he's still in contact with quite a few of his high school buddies. My guess is he still jams on weekends with his pals, and he works some nondescript job that pays the bills. He was never the ambitious type. Ruin my life? Don't think so.

Then L, the most conventional guy I ever dated. I still can't figure out how our relationship ever got off the ground. Only time I ever got dumped. After a SF (sympathy @#$%) too, which I still haven't forgiven (him or me.) Another one with a common name; couldn't find him online, which is odd, 'cause he used to work in computer systems. Ruin my life? Nope. Today? Probably the ex-wife, house, kid every other weekend. Standard suburbia again.

And lastly Pat, with whom I have been for ten years. I believe my current relationship deserves more privacy than my past, so I won't go on about us too much, except to say he's had my back through a lot, for which I am grateful.

All of this to say that I can't imagine how past relationships can ruin your life. Break your heart, yup, make you stronger, for sure, but to ruin your life requires your consent. Live and learn.

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feeling much better now

It would appear that my recent upset and frustration and general yuckiness is actually quite widespread amongst my peers. So I can now take a deep breath and at least find solace in the fact that we all share the same pain.

Unfortunately, I still haven't had time to sit down and really pull together the material for that post that's been simmering on my back burner; since I really want to do the subject justice, it will have to wait a little bit longer.

Funny how frustration, in this case, really dried the well up.

Wednesday in six, then: Margaritas and friends make things better.

Thursday, in eight: At least we're good for a laugh.

more art

I've been perusing the "blogs of note" archive, and I've found two more that struck my fancy. Both are art-based. They also sent me scrambling back to the Sketchbook Month blog, too. Mmmmmmm, yummy graphic goodness.

The Post-It Project

Papiers Collés

They also make me think my blog, even though it was started as a tool to help me develop discipline in writing, could stand a little more of my own art. I tend to be a really jill-of-all-trades-kinda-have-my-nose-in-all-kinds-of-different-things kind of person, and my blog doesn't really reflect that. Yet.

Something I have learned from the Post-It Project, though, is that I do actually suffer from "blank page syndrome"...not in writing, but in graphic arts. (I do mostly drawing, with some painting/multimedia stuff thrown in for variety.) And I am convinced it is a question of confidence. My drawings, when they do escape my brain, are small and timid. Now that that has reached my conscious mind, though, I'll try to work on it. Post-Its beware :D

As with my bio, more to come.

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participation vs. commitment

I once worked for a Vice President who loved motivational speeches and PowerPoint presentations, particularly those that made abundant use of clip art and animations. In trying to initiate change, he often recited the old maxim that “Insanity is doing things the same way and expecting different results.” Perhaps, but (and this is my own quote,) “Ugliness is using every imaginable option in PowerPoint and expecting people to be impressed.”

Another of his tidbits of corporate wisdom still haunts me to this day. He showed it off proudly at one such meeting; on the slide, titled “Participation vs. commitment” was clip art of a chicken and a pig. On the next slide, there was a plate with bacon and eggs.

So let me get this straight: what you’re really saying is that instead of taking the best work I can offer on an ongoing basis and profiting in the long run, you would prefer to cook my hide for your immediate gratification. Nice.

I don’t work there anymore, but then, neither does he. He was fired almost a year before I quit.

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pick a topic, any topic

It seems my Thursday six words exercise (Words don't always come so easily) is well-established in my mind. I just don't feel the desire to write this week; it seems I have finally come to understand what writers mean when they say that they have to force themselves to write. Up until last week, I couldn't figure out these brainstorming/word association/freewriting exercises were for. I mean, you just had to pick a topic and go. Except there doesn't seem to be any go to be had...

So I'll pick a topic. Any topic. Because one of the neat things about my original writing journal was that since topics often occurred to me, say, one station before the end of the commute, or just as class was about to start, I created a page of "topics to be discussed at a later date". Now, some of these really are stories I want to put down in writing, some of these are books, movies, music I want to share, and some are issues that I want to use writing as a crutch to my thinking process.

One such topic is whether disgraced athletes should have their professional accomplishments recognized. This topic came about after Patrick Roy, possibly the greatest goaltender in Habs history, as a coach encouraged his players, particularly his son, also a goaltender, to take part in a bench-clearing on-ice brawl. His son complied, and skated across the entire rink to beat up the other goaltender, who refused to fight, staying in his semi-circle, and merely defended himself against the rain of blows.

Disgraceful? Sure. Enough not to retire Roy's number or bar him from the Hall of Fame? I don't know.

Same argument for Michael Vick. Chris Benoit. The list goes on.

It's been almost ten months since Chris Benoit killed his wife and son before hanging himself off a piece of fitness equipment in his home. I taped that week's Raw and Smackdown (as I always do) onto the hard disk of my DVD recorder. I still haven't erased them, but I still haven't transferred them onto DVD. I don't even want to deal with it yet.

Getting back to Roy, should he be inducted?

Well, the criteria, according to the Hockey Hall of Fame, is "Playing ability, sportsmanship, character and their contribution to the team or teams and to the game of hockey in general."

Playing ability? Check.

Contribution to the team or teams and to the game of hockey in general? Check.

Sportsmanship? As a player, he was, as we say in French, "baveux". His intense competitive streak is well-known. Heck, how many other players do you know have called for a trade mid-game like he did? As a coach, well...Unfortunately, I gotta say no on this one.

Character? I'm not sure where to draw the line between sportsmanship and character, to be honest...I think back to the time he's been investigated for domestic abuse. I think back again to his exit from Montreal. And now, this instigation to his son, which was clearly over the line.

If anything, though, his competitiveness might be what allowed him to reach the greatest heights as a player, but it is also his downfall.

So, in the end, score is tied. So which is more important? The player, or the person?

Is it more of a disgrace to sport to recognize people who have done bad things, or to preclude sport-related exploits because people have done bad things? Talk about records with asterisks, man...I wonder how many current inductees have skeletons in their closets, their only saving grace being that they played before the current days of media frenzy?

I wish I had an answer. I really do.

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animal bonding

There was a book review in Saturday's Gazette for "Dog Man: An Uncommon Life on a Faraway Mountain", by Martha Sherrill, which relates the story of Morie Sawataishi, who reestablished the Akita breed after WWII (at which point there were no more than 16 dogs left.)

What blew my mind was this bit:

When his dogs die, he preserves their pelts as totems - a primal, primitive
connection to an object of love.

"I touch he pelts," he says, 'and I remember everything."

His commitment is such that he has never sold a dog, not once. He gives
puppies away as gifts, or barters one for services, but to take money for a dog
strikes him as a violation of the proper, mutually selfless relationship between
man an dog, where you feel "honoured to even possess such an incredible animal,
much less be loved by him."

Wow. If only all animal breeders felt that way, maybe shelters wouldn't be overflowing, the expression "puppy mill" would cease to exist...and pigs would fly, I know. Still, it's an incredibly noble sentiment, one that people need to hear.

Friday in six: Paid to prepare words for others.

Saturday: Carrefour Laval, more for him again.

Sunday: Snowflakes like styrofoam mean further hibernation.

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shutting up with the Buddha

Once upon a time, Pat found something at the Club.

(For those who know him, that comes as no surprise. Over the years, Pat has found litterally hundreds of things at the Club…as well as a couple of people, including me! But seriously, the guy is like a crow; anything shiny or unusual will catch his eye. Watches, earrings, cell phones, money, drugs, Paul’s engagement ring – the list goes on and on…)

As I was saying, then, once upon a time, Pat found something at the Club. Something unique, something I wouldn’t expect to find on the floor of a club at three in the morning: a small figurine of the Buddha, seated, belly bulging, laughing, with a fan in his right hand. The kind you find in Oriental knick-knack shops. Go figure. I’ve kept him over the years, and I call upon his contemplative, meditative nature in times of need. He’s seen better days, which is to be expected considering his background, and the fact he is usually bouncing around at the bottom of my purse, so I repaint the bits where the colour has rubbed off with a Sharpie – mostly the tip of his nose. I put him in my pocket whenever I speak in public, be it in class or at work. And there’s a little nook in the stand of my new monitor that seems just made for him. So there he sits, particularly on days when I need to put into practice my “shut up” exercises (see yesterday’s interminable post, somewhere near the bottom.)

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a little a' everything

One small eco-friendly step I have taken and of which I am proud of is my purchase of wooden cutlery from J'Ustenbois. I bought them last year at the Salon des Métiers d’Art expo. It’s one of those “If I pay for it, I’ll care for it” deals. Yes, they are more expensive than just any random set of stainless steel cutlery. BUT, I’m not tempted to put them in the dishwasher, thus losing them to the eternal cycle of utensil consumption in the workplace (do spoons disappear where you work, too?) And I always keep them in my purse, so even when I pick up food on my way to class, I save on plastic forks too. It isn’t much, really, when you consider what it saves me, but I think their greatest success is the discussion that invariably starts up when I pull them out. Yes, I really can cut through pizza with a wooden knife. Maybe their eco-friendliness lies in spreading the word. TAG! Pass it on…

---

I’ve accelerated the pace just a touch, with 6,400 words in just shy of a month. Let’s say that by the weekend, I’ll be at 7,000. Instead of the 50,000 I’ll need to be in November. So instead of ten times faster/more, I’m now at nine times faster/more. Hmm.

I just don’t have confidence in my writing, though. I keep looking at my blog and think it doesn’t have enough pictures. But dammit, it’s supposed to be a writing blog! It’s supposed to be filled with words! Go figure.

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I really enjoyed Pierre Foglia’s article on cyberpresse this morning concerning the death of four sealers in Îles de la Madeleine. I wholeheartedly agree with him. OK, the loss of four men looking to make a living is a sad event, and not a reason to rejoice. That being said, Canada’s position on seal hunting remains pigheaded at best. Seals are NOT responsible for the collapse of cod stocks, no matter how convenient that would be. People are, particularly the Canadian government for not imposing and policing quotas until it was too late anyways. The seal industry is a public relations disaster, and an industry on life support at that. It is time to let it go.

Some people who know me will wonder why I don’t share the opinion of those who think that the loss of those four sealers is a win for the seals. In this case, I’m holding out hope that these guys come from little villages, where there are few options to make a living. As well, they were killed when the tow they were getting from the coast guard went awry and their boat toppled over. Had they been attacked and killed by seals, I would have had a good laugh and enjoyed seeing karma at work. This was a stupid and preventable accident, no more, no less.

However, I do reserve the right to laugh at every matador/bull runner/rodeo rider who gets bested by a beast. If you’re willing to play, you gotta be willing to lose. It really got my goat when Bodacious was retired, simply because he was too dangerous. Hell, he had figured out that if you buck just a certain way, riders break their faces on his back, and they get off. Problem solved. Of course, they've now retired him to stud. I guess his problem is otherwise solved now. As well, I hope his innumerable offspring have the same knack for problem-solving.

As for Hispanic bull events, they should cease to exist. No bull-fighting, no Pamplona. Not all traditions are worth keeping.

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Afternoon wisdom in the workplace:
Goodness, I need to learn to shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Sometimes, silence really is golden. You are more keenly aware of the blissfully insane things that get said when you just…shut…up.

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In six: One class until two weeks' vacation.

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