Warrior Monkey: Ms. Fitz's Miraculous Melange of Miscellany

Abandoning one blog for another...

2010-04-14T17:47:00.002-06:00

Haven't posted in a few weeks. Online ideas have been regularly exhausted by constant posting on a group project blog for my PR design class. Apparently, part of design is blogging (don't ask me, I think my old prof's starting to go senile...) so our group of five has had to design a blog, figure out what we're going to write about, and start blogging, reciprocal-linking and commenting like mad in order to get our full grades.

The blog is about public relations from a student's perspective, including classwork, job opportunities, organizations and random, fun stuff. If you're eager to read my words, visit us at PeR Se (get it?)

Regularly scheduled blogging to return when all this madness is behind me.

Ode to a rim

2010-03-23T14:11:00.004-06:00

Rolling up the rim to win,
sore fingers building callouses.
Greed and gluttony my top sins;
But I can't stop the losses.

Damn you, coffee cup!
When's my turn to win?
Three words choke me up:
"Please Play Again."

Who sets the odds to win this game?
Has Vegas reached this low?
One in nine a shameful claim
as I'm now 12 and 0.

I won! I won!...a lousy doughnut.
I think I'll take a pass.
Take this flaccid crueller, Tim's
and stick it up your ass.

A wee character study

2010-03-22T10:30:00.002-06:00

In a mixture of boredom and lack of proper sleep, I found myself creating word doodles beside my regular old graphic doodles at last week's convention. My goal was to create a mental image that was crisp, succint and evocative. This is in no way related to anything or anyone in my life. It's more of a character study.

See, I've come to realize that one of my biggest issues with writing is the pressure I put on myself to create something complete, as though it could emerge, fully-formed from my mind (nice little classical mythology reference in there for you. You're welcome.) Of course, having fully-formed anything is a challenge, let alone a fully-formed masterpiece of writing. So I'm taking it upon myself to cobble together bits and pieces of writing as they come to me, compile them, and save them for future dates when they can be assembled to make my very own literary Frankenstein.

There is no real setting or plot development. This is a descriptive paragraph. We're just assuming in medias res and hoping for the best. oh, and one more thing before I begin: this is a first for me, this sharing of creative writing talents. I've never displayed my poetry or shared any short stories. Ever. My shared writing is strictly non-fiction and usually critiques, analyses or incorporates secondary research or another's writing. So from nothing, here is something. My brain baby--ugly, swollen and bleating its way into the world.

I won't say enjoy, as you aren't required to. In fact, if you don't enjoy it, please feel free to tell me. Your role is to witness. To read and give meaning to the words by interpolating them in your own mind. Thanks in advance.

Ew.

With one quick glance it is apparent that his douche nozzle is turned on full blast. The hose sprays a fine mist of arrogant machismo that is carried, weightless, and deposited in small droplets on unsuspecting bystanders. Covered in a film of creepy discomfort, they shiver--trying to shake off the offending particles. Cloying, sticky particles. Spicy, but not alluring or exotic. Spice that stings the nostrils and forces tongues to the roofs of mouths in an effort to plug the stench from entering their throats. Not dirty--in fact, quite the opposite. Clean, but not soapy clean. Clean and overly perfumed, as if the various concoctions on a drugstore shelf have found their way into a horrible, stagnant witch's brew. The lotions and creams have left his skin gleaming with an oily slick. Their foul odor leads passers-by to offer a wide berth, their actions completely missed by the narcissist at its centre. Missing among his myriad potions, apparently, is an astringent, for underneath his skin's superficial glow are thousands of misshapen craters, dutifully spackled in an attempt to camouflage the unhealthy texture of his cheekbones. The monochromatic finish his facepaint supplies creeps from his throat up to his receding hairline. Even the faint shadow of artful stubble on his chin betrays blunt, foundation-smeared follicles. The other hairs on his head stand at attention, resistant to gale-force winds thanks to the liberal application of a product best described as the green mucus coughed up by a particularly phlegmy consumptive. His grin is a self-satisfied sneer, as if, aware of his grotesquerie, he is daring those around him to say something about his offensiveness.

As he stands regarding the world with dumb cruelty, he sees me standing awkwardly several paces away. Shit. There's no getting out of this now. This is the last, I repeat last, time I allow myself to be fixed up by an Internet dating service. At the very least, I'm getting my money back. And if this dickbag even thinks about invading my personal space, he's getting a faceful of half-inch gel nails. I quickly curse myself for spending twenty bucks on getting my nails done for this asshole.

He approaches. A wave of nausea flips my guts, and I bite my lip to contain it.

"Hey. Drink?"

"Please."

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Bebe Squirrel Monkey

2010-03-18T13:11:00.001-06:00

Baby squirrel monkey at the Edmonton Zoo!

So, our zoo's pretty sad and lame. There's been a lot more press recently about the state of Lucy, our much-troubled and ballyhooed elephant, than on anything good happening there. It's not a great zoo, but there are some decent exhibits available. The monkeys are particularly nice. And the squirrel monkeys are the cutest. See?

Click here to read the story at the Edmonton Journal.

It's the simple things that make life worth living

2010-03-10T15:26:00.002-07:00

It's been a hard week, and it's only going to get harder, with our big work convention coming up on the 15th and looming overtime for the weekend. With that, it's important to make time for little things that make me smile.

Thank god(s) for College Humour. And yes, just for the record, I will be going home and attempting this on my cat. Once I go to the dollar store and purchase some balloons, of course.

Blogging 101

2010-03-07T17:07:00.003-07:00

I'm nearing the end of my PR diploma program, and one of the last classes I need to graduate is advanced digital publishing, which includes such fun fare as PhotoShop and InDesign. My instructor is a particularly virulent form of grumpy old man mixed with a dash of hard ass, which means that despite most students in my evening class having full-time jobs on top of classes, we're expected to publish (write, edit and design) a full magazine and create our own blog.

To that end, we've had to read an insightful book about blog publishing for businesses, which, while similar to what I do here, obviously has different goals, like building a brand and marketing products. Though I've ben doing this for a few years now there are still things the book taught me, and other things I knew already but have shrugged off.

Among the top items is that good blogs, once begun, must be updated regularly. The minimum is 2-3 times a week, but optimum blogging (if you want to actually make a name for yourself as a blogger) is to write something interesting, pertinent and link-worthy 2-3 times a DAY. I'm all for building my little blog past the "peek into the diary of Ms. Fitz this week and see what neurosis she's adopted today", but, honestly, I just can't muster the effort.

To get the creative juices aflowin', writers are instructed, the best things to do are 1) read and 2) write. Just do it. Like Nike, only way less athletically able or inclined. But damn, does my brain feel exhausted after a day of writing at work, only to come home and dedicate 1-2 hours (the suggested time allotted to a daily blog update) to writing blather. Maybe I'm not giving myself enough credit for what I write, but I figure that the miscellaneous collection of thoughts gives me one of two options to really be a success: narrow my scope to focus on one particular field of interest or become a much better, more engaging writer than I am today. Self-indulgence is part of the genesis of blogs online, but to succeed, a blogger needs an audience. And while I like to share things that I hope people will smirk at or at least get 30 seconds of enjoyment out of, if it doesn't interest me, I'm probably not going to be motivated enough to talk about it. I wish I had a passion. Perhaps if I were passionate about anything (other than the sound of my own voice or the clickity-clacking of my fingers putting out my own words) the writing would be easier.

Or I could continue writing what I know. Unfortunately for you, dear follower, that means expounding the virtues of cereal for dinner or 46 ways to entertain your cat instead of watching TV (as you're too cheap for cable). Maybe an expose on the contents of my fridge? Though if I haven't mustered the energy to toss the fuzzy green colony that was once a block of cheddar, I probably won't muster the energy to become the next HuffPo. (One side benefit, were I to become the next HuffPo, is that I would promise to never, ever, give Jenny McCarthy her own column.)

But hey! The Oscars are on!

Cheers.

Frenetic

2010-02-26T09:06:00.004-07:00

(adj. wildly active, hectic)

Apt description of my daily routine's current pace. I'm aware that my more recent posts have been few and far between and filled with half-hearted jabs at coherence and apologies. Right now, I'm too tired for either of those, so I'll simply chalk it up to being busy and exhausted and leave it be.

The February long weekend passed nearly two weeks ago, and it was a glorious mini-break for my mind and body. Watched the Olympics with friends, had a Valentine's staycation with LS and spent ungodly amounts of time relaxing in a jacuzzi without a care in the world. I emerged the happiest prune in the galaxy.

Back in the real world a fortnight has passed and I've been ill (bodied and tempered), busy with homework and the frantic preparations that preceed my work's spring convention. Have spent little time with friends or family, and have become increasingly grumpy over the lack of quality time available with my sweetie.

When we're not working or in school, one or the other of us is busy with a project or getting shit sorted. I miss him, even though I've seen him twice this week, most recently when I dropped him off at home this morning after a run to Tim's. You gotta make the most of the time you have, I get it, but getting together after a 14-hour day, sitting on the couch and promptly falling asleep after a half-uttered, "how was your...zzzz..zz...." is not ideal.

I suppose I can appreciate the irony of griping over my single status for so long, only to get into a relationship and spend most of the time doing the same shit I was doing when I was single. There's no requirement for clinginess, as we are both--with nary a trace of doubt--highly independent people with a strong need for personal time and space. That said, it's difficult to finally find that level of intimacy and comfort with someone and not be able to live it for more than a five-minute goodnight phone call every evening.

I know, whine, whine. Find something good and inevitably you'll find a flaw. Well, I will. Because I'm built to see the cynical side of things. As negatives go, however, dealing with the dissatisfaction of not having enough time together is far easier than, say, dealing with someone who has the time but doesn't want to spend it with you, or that you aren't happy with when you spend time together. That cliche about love as a drug is true. And like any fix, I want it in an immediate, urgent way that leaves me feeling down if I don't get it. it's the simple things: an embrace, a smile, that firm shoulder squeeze as you lean together on a walk. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. But if you finally see the object of your fondness after a long week of crap, and anticipate that moment, you aggrandize it until the moment seems insufficient to quench the thirst for time and attention you've been building up.

I think I need to reprioritize. Sit down and make some actual time, a carved-out niche, where I can devote my whole time allotted to the moment and the person, instead of spending the short hour together between work and my night class worrying about that assignment. Why be there if you're thinking of the millions of other things? Being with LS is one of the few things that makes my heart rate slow and calms my nerves when I feel like I'm going to twitch myself to pieces. Why ruin that with worry? Oh, if only I could turn that part of my brain off.

Falling for someone the first time was so much easier. We were 22. We were in university. I only worked part time and we practically lived together in his basement. I know. I'm selfish and wistful and have to be a grown up and recognize that with grown up responsibilities comes less time to indulge in camping out for days, when reading a book and drinking a cup of coffee while lazing in bed was what life was made for. Two weeks since our staycation, and already I need another. No, wait, I need an actual, full-blown vacation.

In other relationship news, I hit another milestone: I met the parents. First time since I was 19 that I've met a boy's parents. (MJ didn't have any, which is another interesting relationship conversation altogether). They were nice, lovely. I wanted them to like me. I believe they did. I wanted them to confirm that I was a positive person to have in their son's life. I believe they did that, too. And they paid for dinner, to boot.

I'm tired and I need some tea. Work to do. Pay to earn. You know, the usual.

The hamster fell off the wheel.

2010-02-01T11:04:00.003-07:00

You ever have those days?

You know, the ones where the incessant whirring in your head abruptly stops and you're left with nought but an empty staccato echoing through your brain cavity?

I'm having one of those.

It's not that I'm unable to think, it's just that, well, the volume of good ideas or "aha!" moments has shrunk to undiscernable levels. Being a person who is generally unable to sleep properly because the thoughts in her head tend to buzz too loudly, it's off-putting to feel like a wrung-out sponge. Am I not supposed to be endlessly clever and charming and creative? If I am boring myself, what must I be doing to those around me? Sure, overthinking sucks sometimes, but underthinking makes me feel like I can't hold up my end of a conversation or that my inane neuroses will escape in garbled bursts of nonsense between moments of robotic inflection and mute head nodding.

So I have no biting sarcasm or torrential downpour of opinions upon any particular subject at the moment. All my subjects are moldering inside my mind along with the dimestore rodent who kicked it. I need a brain re-energize. An outlet for something creative or daring or brilliant, that will make me feel both a sense of accomplishment and pride in having put my internal think tank to some purpose other than keeping my forehead protrusive.

Bad Blogger.

2010-01-20T08:04:00.004-07:00

Sorry folk(s)--[not sure if the one/handful of you who read this actually care or not, but I'll address you in the spirit of a shepherd who has neglected her flock. Or at least a border collie whose dereliction of duties has left no one to nip annoyingly at your heels as you bleat and attempt to nibble on your grass...ok...the metaphor has been stretched past silly into ludicrous. Let's move along.]--life has gotten in the way of regular blogging activities. Since last we met up with our ~~dynamic duo~~ beloved blogger, she's returned to school two days a week, has been working on a magazine and convention for her employer and has spent a full weekend indulging in the kind of schmoopy couplehood that would make you yak if you weren't one of the persons involved.

This consisted mostly of accompanying the LS to various activities in a show of goodwill and girlfriendy support. Admittedly, I enjoy being in the cheering section for this particular team. It brings out the good feelings that typically present themselves only in saccharine Lifetime films or an over-indulgence of hallucinogens.

I digress.

LS and I share many qualities (nerdiness, short attention spans, facial hair (jk)...) among them a very open, liberal political mindset. A number of his friends are involved in left-wing/anarchist/hippy pursuits, particularly at the organizational level. So we attended his friend's anti-tar sands speakers panel (which was quite interesting, filled with enlightened, well-spoken individuals) and an anti-Olympics preparation meeting prior to the torch relay through Edmonton (For the duration of which I held my tongue.) Not that I don't believe that First Nations or homeless advocates have a good case against the Olympics--they do. It's just that, well, the tactic of beating someone over the head with your self-righteousness when all they want to do is feel a sense of community and celebration is kind of like taking a dump on their coffee table during a party to protest their choosing the two-ply toilet paper over a more environmentally-friendly bidet. It just gets everyone down and doesn't really get the message across in the best possible way. You know?

On a better track, I got my first-ever chance to play groupie to a real-live rock band when LS and his merry band of punks played their inaugural gig at Brixx downtown. There was a fair-sized bar crowd and they brought the right combination of attitude and silliness to ensure that everyone had fun and didn't get caught up in their own self-importance.

In health update news, I've made a concerted effort to eat healthy this week, going so far as to purchase veggies and salad for work to snack on, instead of my normal Starbucks run. Still don't have a kitchen to cook in (my renovations are taking longer than expected. Bother.) but the progress is being made and soon I'll be able to create magnificent, healthy meals in my newfangled cooking space. Celebratory dinner party TBA.

It's 8:30am. My coffee's run out and the emails are stacking up in my work inbox. Until we meet again.

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Chunky Monkey

2010-01-08T13:25:00.006-07:00

Mmmm...ice cream. I love ice cream. And chocolate. Cakes. Warm bread. Food in general, really. I'll admit at the outset that this post is more chunky than monkey, chunk being a personal bane for the past several years.

Our lives are defined by the relationships we foster within them. Just because food doesn't love us back doesn't mean we don't have a relationship with it. It's how we nourish ourselves, excite our tastebuds, indulge in a treat or seek refuge in the memories it evokes.

I've never had a bad relationship with food. Ok, so I have a sweet tooth. A MEGA sweet tooth. As a youth, as long as tooth decay wasn't an issue, I felt free to indulge. As I get older and more sedentary (the proof is in the ass-groove I create daily at my desk) however, I have been forced to reevaluate my relationship and decide whether it's really mutually-beneficial or if someone's getting the caloric shaft.

Several months ago, I was working really diligently to get myself back into shape, participating in 8 weeks of bootcamp. Very proud. Didn't quite match it with the diet, particularly when Christmas came around and the urge to indulge grew too great. Several weeks later, I'm worried about reverting to my pre-fit state, and am trying to grow conscientous of my food intake, not only for my health, but for my pants size. It's a battle I've spent most of my time ignoring, until of course I realized that I was unhappy with how I looked and wanted to improve by losing the belly that had developed over years of over-imbibing and still eating like a university student.

My sort-of resolution this New Year's (not a true one, just more of a timely "now's as good a time as any" decision) is to wean my body off the daily doses of christmas cookies, chocolates and rum-infused eggnog and reintroduce myself to carrots and broccoli. My biggest issue is trying to make that seem appealing and interesting, because I am at pains to feel that way naturally. Keeping up my fitness is also important, as it will compliment the diet and help me not feel bad about all that effort wasted.

By the end of my bootcamp, I could do 30 burpees in a row. I started off with barely 10. I don't want to go back to that place where I'd rather die than do a pushup. But encouraging myself to make it a full lifestyle change, as opposed to a weeklong fast or 6-week workout session, will be the true challenge.

Sigh. Hand me the rice cakes.

A huge, steaming pile of doofus

2010-01-06T15:31:00.002-07:00

So PC MLA Rob Anderson was one of two government MLAs who crossed the floor yesterday to the upstart Wildrose Alliance party. Since then, the rookie MLA has been shooting his mouth off left and right (mostly right) about his issues with Ed Stelmach's government. While this action in and of itself is telling of his inexperience, it's his bright-eyed naivety that really hits it home for me. When interviewed about what disillusioned him about the whole thing, the Calgary Herald reports:

"It's a total lack of commitment to democratic values," he insists, adding that as a rookie politician he's been disillusioned by life inside the government.

"It's totally shocking as a new MLA. A lot of these people I really looked up to. I'd see them at the annual party meetings and admire them. Then they'd stand up and say these things in caucus. You kind of want to throw up afterward."

Yeesh. I want to throw up, too. More at your statement than at the realization that Alberta is run by a surfeit of assholes. I mean, if I wanted to throw up every time I was disappointed in the lack of democratic processes and citizen-oriented policymaking in this province, I'd be walking around with a bucket and a crash helmet.

Seriously, dude? What sort of politician ARE you? You admired all the warm fuzzies they gave you while they kissed your baby and pinched your cheeks at the rah-rah lovefests? But then the wolves doffed the sheep's clothing and you could see them for what they really were? Well golly-gee-willikers, sir! What a revelation. These comments leave one wondering not so much how deep absolute power has corrupted the government, but more how you manage not to get mugged every time you leave the house. Having faith in people is a wonderful thing. And even some politicians are deserving of it. But seriously, dude? SERIOUSLY? Get your head out of the sand. I am gobsmacked at the idea of an Alberta PC MLA fleeing because the idealist shangri-la wasn't in caucus as promised. What ideals? Where have you been? What rock are you under, and is there room for me in there so I don't have to smack myself in the head everytime I read this tripe?

Ick.

What I want to be when I die

2010-01-05T12:52:00.003-07:00

I am finishing up this great book I picked up over the Christmas holidays: "Stiff: the Curious Lives of Human Cadavers" by Mary Roach.

While I admit to a penchant for the macabre and eccentric, this was a strangely charming, and oft-hilarious, read. Ms. Roach goes through the history of death and dying and what purposes dead bodies serve after going on to their great repose. Besides the usual anatomy labs and organ donations, corpses also serve as crash-test dummies, gruesome scientific experiments, fuel and--in some cultures still--medicine (salves, edible bits of skin, etc.) The book also details the processes behind death and the ways in which humans try to prolong their bodies' existence with chemicals or mummification.

Most interesting for me are the eco-friendly ways to die that are being offered in many parts of Europe and gaining in popularity worldwide. There's composting, or dissolving bodies in lye, after which the remant goo will swirl down the drain--a sterile, pH-neutral people-syrup.

I've never been one to romanticize my death or what will become of me afterwards. I don't believe I'd feel particularly violated or disrespected to serve a useful purpose as an organ donor or research tool. Besides, even if I became a bit of mellified man, it's not like I'd get too upset: I wouldn't be there to feel pain or indignity, now would I?

Death can be scary: the unknown always is. But without a cultural or religious background to dictate what I'll do with my own, I'd be quite happy to shuffle off this mortal coil allowing others to make the most use out of me before chopping me up and using my bits to grow flowers. I don't need a sealed casket, headstone or urn sitting on someone's fireplace. I find that kind of creepy. My time here is brief, and so I must make the most of it before I return to what I once was: just some random motes assembled into a person.

Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2009-12-31T10:56:00.003-07:00

2009:

The year started off with a job hunt that brought back nothing for the first few weeks. Several interviews and no jobs later, I was getting frustrated. Bettsy called me with an opportunity to interview with her workplace--a not-for-profit rural organization out in Nisku--around the same time that I got a callback from the Art Gallery of Alberta. Both interviews went well and were for very similar positions in communications. Both were a step in the right direction for my career, and an opportunity to take the reins in creating and promoting the communications department for either organization. While the AGA appealed to my pretentious creative side and was closer to home, it just couldn't offer the growth and salary potential of the other position, which I took and began in mid-March.

Around that time, I also started reconnecting with online personals, after a year-and-a-bit hiatus from men. A couple of dates here, a few there, then met BV, whom I dated for the next six months. He was unlike anyone I'd ever dated before, and was a personal challenge to myself, to test my judgements, needs and relationship quibbles. He had a...how do I put this...alternative lifestyle, to say the least. Though I did enjoy the tattoos, the rest was hard to reconcile. Fortunately, I only semi-invested in him, and so waited it out until it became less than enjoyable for me.

In the meantime, I immersed myself in my new role, creating newsletters, working on websites, creating communications plans and even publishing several magazines (!) Within three months, I'd become a permanent employee AND received a hefty bump in pay. I treated myself to a new car (a wee Yaris--more economical and fuel-efficient for getting to and from work daily) and a trip to NYC, where I spent 10 days getting cultured, drunk and clothed in finery.

My job agreed to help me pay for school, which helped immensely as I entered my second-to-last semester of the PR program.

I began blogging again, after a long absence, finally recovering a small bit of my voice.

In October, I went on a fantastic date with a new and intriguing young man with interesting facial hair: LS. Two months later, I am smitten in a way I have not been in years, with a person who meshes with me far better than my previous, long-term relationship even did. I am thrilled to spend tonight, New Year's eve at the close of the decade, with someone who holds such promise for me. I am in a good place in many respects, and all through my own ingenuity and of my own volition. While I still need to ensure that I don't start holding myself back with my own neuroses and insecurities, the rest of life doesn't seem to be stopping me. I am grateful and glad. LS: I can't wait to ring in the New Year with a kiss from you tonight.

To all the rest: much love and smooches under your special fireworks tonight.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2009-12-31T09:49:00.004-07:00

2008:

Work closed as soon as an election was called in the early new year. Dusted off the old C.V. and papered the town with it. After many frustrating weeks of prospects going nowhere or calls going unreturned, I finally got an interview with a west-end car company that was looking for a copywriter for its marketing department. Though I had limited marketing experience (ok, none) I had good writing experience, which managed to secure the job for me. While it wasn't my ideal, it was a new opportunity to expand my skills and, more importantly, a chance to get the hell away from the Legislature job that had turned south.

Got a pay raise and an opportunity to get out of dodge, but otherwise, the job became fairly monotonous fairly quickly, and wasn't the challenge I'd hoped for. Still, it gave me an opportunity to improve my marketing skills and teach myself (with the help from our graphic designer) how to do internet and basic design, both skills I've developed further and used with greater success in current endeavours.

Around May, I started getting the idea in my head that I'd really like to get my own place, now that I was working full-time and was a relatively successful, upwardly-mobile type. Plus, with rental rates skyrocketing, I figured if I could somehow find a mortgage that would allow me to pay similar monthly amounts to what I was paying to my landlord, then I could both have property to call my own and still be able to afford the rest of my life. What started as an investigative session quickly evolved into a mission to find the perfect place. Amazingly, I managed to find a bank that would give me a mortgage, and started looking to make an offer. It was a modest amount, and I only had limited funds for a deposit, but I manged to find a recently renovated, large and most-importantly inexpensive one-bedroom in a terrific neighbourhood. I remember shaking as I signed the papers with the lawyer (I had a lawyer?...wow...) at taking such a big step in my life. I don't think I'd ever felt so grown up, or so much like a lost child conning her way into making the adults think she was more precocious and clever than she really was. Either way, it was mine. I moved in at the beginning of August, painted the walls bright colours and proudly surveyed my own, 750 sq. ft. realm.

I didn't do any travelling in 2008, as it was THE YEAR OF THE WEDDING in Ms. Fitz's world. Brother got hitched on May 2nd, in a modest, beautiful, super-fun wedding. Jenna and Sean were a month later, on June 14, and Lindsay and Rick had their lucky half-Chinese 8-8-8 wedding in August. As maid of honour, I expected a lot more responsibility than I was ultimately given. Having a mom and a wedding planner helped Lindsay take the pressure off and ensured that our biggest responsibilities were getting ready and having fun.

The rest of the summer involved fun marketing gigs with work, such as hanging out with local celebrity types (i.e. Oilers) at golf tournaments and at a super-sweet suite at the Indy. The job had pretty much run its course by the end of the year, however, and I started to look for opportunities to expand my horizons.

In October, I finally added a much-wanted member to my family by adopting (and later renaming) a stray named Marshmallow from the Humane Society. She became my Olivia (Ollie) Oliver Oxenfree, and has spent the past year both annoying and charming me--often simultaneously.

Rocked out on New Year's with a GOB concert and a close group of buds. Dancing, sweating and drinking in a mosh pit was a great send off to a solid year.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2009-12-31T09:20:00.002-07:00

2007:

With the encouragement of dear Bettsy, I decided to hop back onto the relationship pony and signed up for several online dating sites. While a little self-loathing and embarrassment was inevitable, the chance to "get back out there" in the cliched sense was good. Had some good, bad and plain old awful dates, none of which went anywhere until about May/June, when I had a 2-week relationship that ended in kaleidoscopic flames. *shudder*

In the summer I went back to Quebec to visit my family for the first time since 2003. It was different being all growed up, without a grandmother (who'd passed months earlier) or grandfather to welcome me to the cottage. The place had changed: old trees that had previously towered over the cottage had fallen down in a storm or been torn down out of fear of them crushing the tiny house below. The tree fort my cousins and I had played in as children was taken down, having fallen into disuse and rotted. I guess I really couldn't go home again. It wasn't all bad, however. I still managed to appreciate the beauty of the place and the memories it evoked around every corner, on every smooth stone and bright wildflower.

Returned to work and started my new job within the caucus: my second promotion within a year, this time to an event coordinator under a new boss. New boss was grossly unlike the old boss. By the end of the fall session, several staff members had quit, the place was in shambles and the remaining staff held together by sheer force of will and a shared sense of disillusionment. By November, I was looking for new work. It would take several months before I'd find it, however.

During this dim period, a bright light was my return to school, in the form of an after-degree diploma program in Public Relations at MacEwan college (now university). My previous education, current work and classes all benefitted each other, helping me firm up my career path.

New Year's with my friends was laid-back: time with Bettsy and her then-new beau, Brett, their friends and Mr. and Mrs. P. Fireworks, drinks and board games. Definitely a more adult approach to the celebrations.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2009-12-31T08:12:00.003-07:00

2006:

I was brought pretty low by my relationship issues, which were made worse by my lack of career direction or even a steady source of income. Was living back at home with mum, curled up in the foetal position for much of the first few months.

In March, my temp agency got me an interview with the Liberal caucus at the Legislature, working as an admin assistant. Though I was way over-qualified, I had no job experience to speak of, and it sounded like a good place to move up, should I be given the opportunity to get hired on permanently. Interviewed with my soon-to-be favourite boss ever, darling Leigh, who would not only inspire and encourage me at work, but restore my confidence and become a dear friend. (she called me "smuggles" since I am, well, quite proud of my wit betimes. OK, at all times.)

The weekend before I was to start my new job, MJ and I had a talk about the "break" we were on and decided that a break-up was a better choice. That evening, I went out for drinks to welcome Ms. Coco D. back from two years teaching in Japan. Travel, relationships and work all converged on the 6th of March that year. It was a turning point for the good, however.

I loved my new job. While it was easy and used few of my more marketable skills, I was earning a regular paycheque, surrounded by young, well-educated, involved people helping the opposition politicians when they were in session at the Legislature. It was great to work with a close-knit group, going out for beers every Thursday at the now-razed Globe pub.

I saved my pennies and packed my bags in anticipation of getting my own place, which I did on Canada Day. Great first apartment: a large, clean, inexpensive one-bedroom basement suite on 99th street and 90th Ave. I was within walking distance of Whyte Avenue, hip little cafes and the beautiful river valley--through which I could walk to work in the morning.

Enjoyed a rather debauched summer and relearned how to flirt with boys as my heart mended itself. In the fall, determined to travel again, this time on a three-week jaunt to London, Paris and Munich (for Oktoberfest...or so we thought) with my brother and his then-girlfriend.

Had a terrific time in Europe, making some fantastic new friends (love you, Mr. PM) and indulging in the sort of international romping I was unable to do as a taken woman in Ireland.

When I returned to Canada, I received a promotion at work: a new position was created just for me as a correspondence writer for caucus.

I celebrated my first Christmas in my own home, with my own little tree, and rang in the new year with friends.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2009-12-30T11:43:00.004-07:00

2005:

Started the year off by getting my work visa and plane ticket together, picking a date to leave for Ireland (March 15, how historically significant.) I was very excited. Well...mostly excited. Also stressed at leaving my boyfriend at home for six months, which led to fights, tears and a heart-stopping breakup. No, really. I think my heart literally stopped for the first time. Like Ralph Wiggum in slo-mo. Awful. Painful. And definitely not the ideal way to embark on the travel experience of a lifetime.

The last month I was a ball of nerves, not wanting to leave MJ behind, not wanting to breakup, but most of all not wanting to give up my lifelong dream of independent travel for anything or anyone. So I left home, hugged MJ and my mom in the airport, hopped on the plane and had a total emotional breakdown. Once I got over my jet-laggedness and initial overload, I set out to prove to myself that I could make it on my own from scratch and find enjoyment, travel and experience to boot.

I moved in with two girls, an American and a fellow Canuck, and got a job at a hotel. On days off, I'd make day trips, or try to get a few days off in a row so I could see the coast or various touristy destinations across Ireland. I travelled to Belgium, Scotland and England. Journaled daily about my experiences. Noticed that the misery and loneliness of my bouts of homesickness and MJ sickness actually benefitted me more than the good times. In growth as a person, at least.

I returned home at the end of August, a few weeks shy of my 6-month term. Changed my ticket and surprised my friends by arriving home early. Nearly gave my mom a heart attack when I showed up at her work. Made my sister a puddle of tears in Tim Horton's. Ok, so that one was meaner than I'd intended.

Getting used to being home again was dizzying, particularly as I was without job, career prospects or a sure footing as to which particular direction my life was going. I worked as a temp and made awkward attempts to mend my relationship with MJ, which crumbled away just in time for our second anniversary. Decided to take a break while he sorted out his shit, and spent the last weeks of 2005 alone.

I remember going to Lindsay's for New Year's and being so devastated that I couldn't feign happiness or joy at the thought of a party. Instead, my darling Kelly brought me over to her place for movies, snuggles and talk. Finishing up the year with a shoulder to cry on. Sad as I was, it was good to know I had one.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2009-12-30T11:29:00.004-07:00

2004:

First few months were honeymoon period with MJ, acting nauseatingly cute and in love as only 21-/22-year-0lds can. Until, of course, I started feeling unwell in March and started stressing about my last term of school.

Last few classes of university were all English. I was reading up to 1,000 pages a week, on average, and getting great marks to go along with my hard work. I stopped writing for the Gateway, which was a difficult decision, but again, I put school as the priority. Particularly during the last semester, when I would write my honours thesis--a crucial part of my program.

I am never one to balk at a challenge. In fact, I tend to seek the challenge then, upon not finding it challenging enough, I add another level of difficulty to make it extra stress-inducing. I think it's the adrenaline rush. Or the misery. Perhaps they fuel my creativity in combination. Who knows? Anyway: my thesis was on literary theory. Particularly, the theory behind a two-page story by Franz Kafka, a strange, difficult writer par excellence. By why not go big in your final semester? Well, no big deal, I guess. Unless, of course, you come down with Mono.

Yep. Mononucleosis. My last month of school, with final papers, final exams and a thesis due, I came down with a debilitating illness that left me out of school for the remainder of the term, asleep 22 hours a day, and with rising piles of homework and stress to complete during my two lucid hours each day. Somehow, I slogged through. Ended up finishing my thesis in May and graduating in November. No big deal, in retrospect, but it crushed me at the time. All my big plans to make my BA my bitch, out the window. Did get an A on the thesis, though...

The next 6 months were a huge transition period. Mono has a long recovery time, and the stress I put myself under created terrible tummy pains that made me vomit regularly and drink pepto bismol by the gallon. I figured I'd created an ulcer, but after months of testing, finally determined it was acid reflux. Doesn't sound as bad, though it felt just as painful as an ulcer. Add to this my post-graduate feelings of both completion and anticipation made me anxious to know: "What's next?!"

I worked several jobs, each as forgettable and awful as the last. Decided to save my money and take time off to travel, as I had always hoped to do upon graduation. So every penny earned went towards getting a work visa, a plane ticket and some money to Europe. Decided to move to Ireland, and got excited for my trip.

MJ and I did our own things on New Year's after a Christmas together exchanging awesome gifts and celebrating our first anniversary together. Partied at Lindsay's parents' place like a foolio and rang in the good ol' aught-five.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2009-12-30T11:13:00.002-07:00

2003:

Great year for exploration, travel, fun, friends and amour. Decided on my path in school after realizing that every second class I took was an English class. So I entered honours English and spent hours with my essays, novels and literary theory texts. Loved it. Kept writing for the Gateway, including features and reviews, but mostly stuck to my favourite: opinion pieces.

In the winter, Bettsy and I decided to get a leg up on the competition for summer jobs by applying really, really early for good positions. As we looked through books of summer internships and tree planting opportunities, I came across a three-month student work exchange program to Quebec, where I could work for the government, practice my French and have a grand old time. So, of course, I applied. Didn't think I would get an interview. Well, not only did I get an interview: I was chosen for the exchange.

Moved to Montreal in May and stayed with ma belle cousine, Emma, until August. Best summer of my life, and more fun crammed into three short months than I had in the previous three years combined. I came home with no money, tons of clothes and 10 lbs. of weight put on by excessive drinking and eating out in expensive restaurants. But damn: that was good. Had a tight-knit group of friends that to this day I keep in touch with. Buds for life, one of whom I caught up with this summer, and another I drove down to Calgary to visit just this Christmas.

Came home in time to help my friend Scotty celebrate his marriage to (my future hetero-soulmate) Alex. First marriage amongst my friends. They did it in style, whisking away to Hawaii and throwing an after-party for the well-wishers. Which is where I met MJ, my first great love and longest relationship to-date. Totally not the type I thought I'd go for: big jock with a shaved head. However, the travel tales and lost puppyness won me over in the end. By December it was official, and it was the young love you always know young love to be. Of course, older, wiser and more embittered know better, but 21, footloose and fancy-free: that's a special moment in time. Can't take it back, nor would I want to, as I learned so much, not just about love, but about myself in relationships, my quibbles, hangups, dealbreakers and absolute necessities.

Spent New Year's in style with my Montreal crew, partying it up in Banff and calling MJ at midnight to wish him a happy New Year. Never did spend a New Year's together, despite dating for two years. Nothing telling. Just...is.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2009-12-30T08:50:00.004-07:00

2002:

The year began with a funeral. The first funeral for many of my friends. The only funeral I've ever had for a friend. The most difficult funeral to attend. I would dream a lot of Steph P. in the following weeks and months. Hell, to this day, I still dream of her. In my dreams, she forgave me my sins against her and I was able to stop blaming myself somehow for her death. Some days it worked. Some days? Not so much.

After a year from hell, I started seeing a therapist at the university, who helped me try to sort out the psychological beating I'd taken. Talking helped. Meds helped. Being in school, finding a routine and partying as hard as I could also helped.

Started hanging out with a group of fratboys my then-friend Zach belonged to. Started dating one--a freshman named James. It's funny now to look back at your relationship choices and ask yourself what you were thinking. I'll delve no further into that. Suffice that it was a brief, rather...ridiculous situation.

Luckily, 2002 was a crazy year for getting involved and getting over myself and the problems in my head. I wrote constantly for the Gateway and hung out with the crowd there. They were a complete opposite group from the fratboys, and I loved the dichotomy between the social circles I ran in.

I didn't do as well in school this year, but I was having too much fun to care. Two friends, Bettsy and Jane, came back from trips abroad in 2001-02, and I was stoked to have my friends back with me and having fun. Jane and I stopped being friends in that same year, but it was good to have her back for that while it lasted.

In the summer, I quit my longest-term job ever at the library (3 years, baby!) and started my favourite-ever job working at Jax Bean Stop, a coffee shop in Sherwood Park. It paid shit and was exhausting, but I loved every minute of it. My Kelly and her boyfriend, Gord, would come visit and pick me up after work, after which we'd go hang out, do summer stuff, the usual.

In the fall I traveled to Vancouver with the Gateway and had an opportunity to apply for a position that opened up. I made the choice to focus on school rather than apply to work for the student paper. This would become a turning point for me, making a deliberate choice to pursue my academic writing over journalism. Even now, I vacillate and wonder if perhaps I should have pursued newspaper writing further. And maybe I will. But my life wouldn't be what it is had I made that choice. And I like the way things went for me. Without those choices, I would never have had the 2003 I had--perhaps my favourite year of the decade.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2009-12-29T16:27:00.006-07:00

2001:

Met my first serious boyfriend. Clarkie. Well, Mike, actually. He was two years older and lived in residence with Heather. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Geology student. After nine months together, discovered I liked his family way more than him. First serious breakup ensued.

2001 was a rough year, full of personal turmoil and tragedy. What started wonderfully ended fitfully, particularly when my best friend--Steph P.--and Mike determined they didn't care for each other and I became a battlefield for their petty competitions and jealousies. Didn't want to lose my best friend or my boyfriend, so I didn't choose. Steph and I stopped speaking in the summertime, which I can now admit was a more heartrending breakup than the one that came later with Mike. It was silly and juvenile and was something we would have gotten over. Had we had time. Sadly, that was all the time we'd have.

2001 for me was the onset of the Great Depression. Not a sparse desertification of my self, but rather a descent into the depths of misery. It was a combination of many compounding factors that have left a legacy I still feel to this day. I had several near-rock bottoms, but not until September did I truly hit it.

In June I awoke one day to excruciating pain in my back and abdomen. After several days of hospital visits and agony, I was diagnosed with gallstones and had my second organ (after my appendix) removed. The recovery time was long and painful, and I spent the summer indoors, watching movies and wishing I could be out with my friends. My boyfriend came to visit, but there was resentment after losing my friend and sadness at missing the socializing I was used to.

It came to a head just before school started again. I woke up one day and couldn't get out of bed. My stomach was in knots and I wanted to sink into a hole and never get out. Mike and I broke up. Both my grandfathers died within several months. Then Steph went into the hospital in November. I visited her once, where we had an awkward conversation, skirting around the obviously stupid feud and trying to open the doors of communication, if briefly.

She died at the end of December.

Guilt, depression and stress made for dark times, but there were moments of levity and promise. I started writing for the Gateway, the campus newspaper, with encouragement from my dear friend Leah. This opened up an outlet for expression and an opportunity to meet new people and gain new experiences I never otherwise would have had.

New Year's Eve ended with a big shebang at Bettsy's. Mandy and I shared a bottle of Absinthe and we toasted to Steph's memory. It was a hell of a party. A hell of a year.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2009-12-29T09:59:00.013-07:00

While one could argue that every second of one's existence brings change, this decade spelled enormous change in Ms. Fitz's life. The 2000s is the decade where I reached adulthood, discovered who I was and who I wanted to be.

I got an education. Got a job. Got laid. Got drunk. Had my heart broken, my mind expanded and my self brought both low and high. I got a life and learned how to live it. I enjoyed the good, learned from the bad and slogged through the ugly. I explored, experimented and evolved.

Here I am, with both successes and failures, the many-layered, metamorphosed Ms. Fitz. More success than failure, I'd say, though which benefitted me greater only time will tell.

***

2000:

Rang in the new millennium with my high school girlfriends at a basement party with a six-pack of coolers and passed out on the couch, safe in a Y2K-free world. By the end of the year, I would no longer be friends with most of these people. Nothing terrible or dramatic--just a big year of transitions and changes.

I looked forward to playing my final year of rugby for the school team. Instead, I tore my ACL in the first game and required knee surgery that ended any small sports inclination that I had.

Turned 18 and enjoyed both my first drunken night out at a dive bar and my first lapdance in the same evening.

Began my birthday May Long camping tradition: a half-dozen friends, a couple of tents and a whole lot of drinking. Drinking would play a large part of the next few years. My liver will thank me later, I'm sure.

I finished high school. Had a fantastic grad afterparty at Bettsy's, from what I can (fuzzily) remember. Loved my grad gown. Still wish I fit it. Don't think I still even own it.

Spent my last summer at the family cottage with my grandparents, who celebrated their 50th anniversary. Was the last time I would have my whole family together for a huge, festive occasion. Wouldn't see them again for three years. Wouldn't see my grandpa again, as he passed away the next year.

In September, started my first year of university at the U of A. At this point, knew I was going to be an Arts student, but still had it in my head that I was going to major in Anthropology. University was a place where I felt I belonged for the first time in my life. Lightyears beyond high school. Surrounded by people with whom I could share and discuss ideas. Participating in intelligent conversations in the day, and getting blind drunk on pubcrawls in the night, while still managing to pull off nearly straight A's in every class.

My social butterfly spread its wings; I couldn't get enough of meeting new people in class, in extra-curricular activities and at the PowerPlant (RIP).

My first-ever class was an English course on the study of the British novel. That class and the professor who taught it would change the course of my future studies, building upon my love of reading and creating the writer who lives today.

While most people got chubbier eating and drinking through the university lifestyle, I got super-skinny. Thought I'd hit the metabolism jackpot. Would learn later that in fact I had gallstones and a gall bladder infection that would lead to serious pain and surgery later on. But at the time, I just dug fitting all the small and kid-sized clothes I could. Belly shirts. With oversized yellow modrobes pants (shit, remember those?) and candy-kid bracelets. Died my hair black-red then black-blue, and had the energy to put contacts in every morning, so I never wore glasses. (Today I hardly take them off.)

Ended the year with friends and fireworks, and a tinsel-y headband in my hair. Remember dancing in my kitchen with Steph P., Erin, Corine, Heather and Kelly to Moby's 'Play' Album. Snuggled together in my basement, watching movies and made brunch on New Year's Day.

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Christmas Monkey

2009-12-25T08:49:00.004-07:00

It's important to count my blessings this Christmas, as I have so many:

A great job with a good organization that lets me do the kind of work I enjoy and am good at. (and pays well, too!)
A home of my own, with my very own kitty to terrorize me and try to tear the home apart
A family that loves me and supports me in everything I do
Ditto friends
My health, particularly now that I'm starting to work out regularly again
A new man who makes me happier than I thought I could be, and better than I thought I deserved
An education that's almost done, and with nearly straight A's (and with help paying from work, another bonus to my job)
The privilege to live in a place where I can do, say and think what I want, when I want

and perhaps most importantly:

A Christmas tree that hasn't yet fallen down, thanks to the miracle of fishing wire and a handy mum.

Merry Christmas, everybody!

Random holiday mumblings to self...

2009-12-23T10:11:00.005-07:00

Been rather uninspired the past few days to write anything, and am slowly sinking into festive sugar-induced coma, so my apologies for the blather, but blather it be.

Not much planned for the holidays, for the first time in recent memory. Situations aligned themselves to leave me alone on Christmas day, so I'm planning my first Christmas Day movie trip with dad and sister. Will probably see Sherlock Holmes, as nothing with RDJr. and Guy Ritchie can be bad, now can it? Was going to do volunteering, maybe deliver some Santas Anonymous gifts or serve dinner, but dad wasn't up for that--this time of year being a particularly difficult and dour one for him. So movie it is.

LS and I celebrated our first holiday season together by exchanging gifts, which is difficult when you're in such a new relationship and yet already the commitment level and closeness make it feel like forever. I made him a badass toque with a argyll-inspired skull pattern, matching mittens (still in the works) and added a book I'm certain he'll love. He bought me tickets to a really cool performance of Cirque Eloise--a branch-off of Cirque de Soleil with all the acrobatics without the Vegas spectacle. Looks amazing. And yes, we exchanged gifts early, as neither of us is the patient type. This does not bode well for future secret gift-exchanges. But ah well, them's the breaks...

LS is now on his way south to visit the family, while I stay here and chill out. Mom's gone to BC, brother's back in town but busy with the SiL, and sister's free but also committed to activities with the boyfriend. So I've saved up a bunch of episodes of Dexter, Season 4 I've downloaded and will enjoy some Bailey's, leftover Chinese food and serial killing for the holidays.

...While my tree looks like a demented, ADHD-afflicted, mildly retarded four-year-old decorated it, the cat has still not managed to knock it down this year. Picking up random bulbs and placing them back on the tree is the reason behind its current appearance, but I can't be bothered to redecorate. She's particularly fond of the sparkly snowflakes, which tend to be scattered across the living room, through the kitchen and down the hallway when I get home. Try as she might, she's not yet figured out the fishing wire holding the tree upright. The frustration is palpable, however. I expect a look of sneaky triumph if (ok, when) she finally deduces the trick or, by sheer force of will, knocks my liebe tannenbaum over.

Since I'm not volunteering this Christmas, I thought I might make a donation to charity. Unfortunately, there are so many good options out there, it's difficult to choose. I'd like to do something local, though the outcome of Copenhagen has left me angry with our useless government. Particularly when I open the newspaper and read that, while Canadians aren't happy with the results of the conference, it won't change the way they vote in the next election. Gah! Fucking imbecilic citizenry...how you throw a big wet blanket on top of my cheer...So yeah...I might be donating to a green eco-fund. If you have any suggestions, let me know.

...very cheering, and totally un-climate related: my dearest Bettsy and her Brett got engaged over the weekend! I am so thrilled at the news and excited for them. They're both very lucky to have each other, and I couldn't wish them greater happiness.

Merry Christmas everyone. Eat, drink, be merry and safe. And don't forget about the holiday classics:

Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer
The Grinch Who Stole Christmas

National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation

Scrooged

Die Hard (what? It happens at Christmas!)

Love, Actually

It could be worse...

2009-12-18T08:41:00.006-07:00

**warning: This is a post about sex and birth control. So you can stop right there if you're a big weenie and don't want to read anything "inappropriate". Elsewise, carry on.**

At the ripe old age of 27, I'm trying a new form of birth control for the first time in nearly 10 years. As a woman, birth control is not something I take lightly. While there have been amazing achievements in female forms of birth control, unlike the most common (and easy-to-use) male forms, they tend to be inconvenient, come with side effects or are downright painful. While the birth control pill was a tiny miracle of science that allowed women freedom to express and explore their own sexualities without worrying about the consequences of pregnancy, it isn't for everyone. Like me.

I've tried many forms of chemical/hormonal birth control in my sexual lifetime, with varying degrees of success. Ok, let me clarify: they were successful in preventing pregnancy. However, the impact on my body from hormones and the number they did on my brain made them the wrong choice for me.

Luckily, I've got other choices out there, unlike many women in the world, who find themselves pregnant because of their lack of access to proper female birth control or because their partners are unwilling to use the easier male birth control. And so, in developing countries and even in some less accessible or just downright less educated parts of developed countries, abortion becomes the last-resort form of birth control. This adds a whole new set of complications, such as infection or even death, especially where clinical abortions are restricted or illegal. I'm so fortunate to have a literal smorgasboard of options, particularly when I have such a picky body for these types of things. Otherwise I might--like some of my forebears--resort to animal dung and rusty metal instruments of torture. Yikes.

And now, a little history of birth control, courtesy of Newsweek magazine. Check out those condoms with the little ribbons. How dainty.

http://www.newsweek.com/id/220089

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: The Monkees

2009-12-11T10:40:00.003-07:00

"Here we come walkin' down the street/we get the funniest looks from everyone we meet...

HEY HEY WE'RE THE MONKEES!!!"

...and people say they monkey around.

The 60s Beatles knock-off, pushing 50 years old now (holy crap!) may have been more manufactured than the New Kids, but had some rather catchy songs. The only musically talented one was Mike, and he was the least popular. I was always a Davey Jones fan when I watched this as a kid. I think it was the British accent and the dimples. So adorable.

Fave Monkees song? Hmm....I'd probably choose "Daydream Believer." Might have been "I'm a Believer", but I think the Smash Mouth cover ruined it for me. Damn you, Shrek soundtrack!

Climate Change and Copenhagen.

2009-12-10T08:46:00.003-07:00

I tend to mock and jeer politics, yet keep my own personal activism out of it. Since the Copenhagen climate talks are underway and will set the precedent for--without exaggeration--the likely future of the human race on this planet, I figure it's fair to urge people to write their local, provincial and federal politicians to get their voices heard. I'm willing to pay for the world to get better. I'm willing to stop filling my gas tank so often and to have to take the bus to the store if it means that Canada stops polluting so much. And I'd like to let my government know, before they go and walk out of negotioations if the numbers seem too "high" for our northern sensibilities to tolerate. I hope you'll do the same.

You can fill out a letter here to write about the parliamentary bill C-311

The Canadian Federation of University Women (CFUW) also has letter templates here.

Find your MLA.

Environment Minister Rob Renner

#425 Legislature Building10800 - 97 AvenueEdmonton, ABCanada T5K 2B6

620 - 3rd Street SEMedicine Hat, ABCanada T1A 0H5

Premier Ed Stelmach

307 Legislature Building10800 97 AvenueEdmonton, ABCanada T5K 2B6

Box 4514945 - 51 AvenueVegreville, ABCanada T9C 1R6

Find your MP.

Environment Minister Jim Prentice

House of Commons
Ottawa, Ontario
K1A 0A6

105-1318 Centre St NE
Calgary, Alberta
T2E 2R7

Prime Minister Stephen Harper

House of Commons
Ottawa, Ontario
K1A 0A6

1600 - 90th Avenue SW, Suite A-203
Calgary, Alberta
T2V 5A8

Climate Action Network Canada

The Pembina Institute's Climate Change site

Add your name to the climate change list at TckTckTck

How to answer anti-climate change arguments, from the BBC.

SATAN!!!.....(for kids)

2009-12-09T13:37:00.005-07:00

I know I shouldn't have guffawed when I read this, since I'm fairly certain it's not intended in jest...but it's so horrible and ludicrous, it's hard to stiffle a giggle.

Bettsy sent this my way and I had to share it. If shit like THIS can get published, there really is no stopping me from becoming a bestselling author, now is there?

PS - for Mr. S, my SIL and other teachers I know, here may be the perfect "behave or else" book for kids.

Scene:

"What? You don't want to do your homework? Well let me tell you a story about little Billy here, who didn't do his homework, fell in with a bad crowd and woke up in a circle chanting in tongues....buhuhuwahahahahaha!" (the evil cackle at the end is a must.)

Dear Awful Library Books, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways...

"Don't Make Me Go Back, Mommy."

(Thanks bunches, Bettsy, this is a joy to behold.)

Dummy Bunnies.

2009-12-08T21:45:00.004-07:00

Ah, PETA. You attention-whoring, animal rights wingnuts are up to your old antics again. This time in the nude, in -25 on an Edmonton street. Because only animals should wear fur. Great. We get it. You are against fur. And jackets, apparently.

This sort of stunt by protesters drives my cynical side into overdrive. Wow, nothing will get attention for our cause better than subjecting ourselves to dangerously cold temperatures while being photographed by opportunistic fratboys who will later post them far and wide on the interwebs. And trust me, their friends won't be jacking it to the thought of your selfless devotion to the wee bunnies of the world. However, when you do succumb to pneumonia or--heaven forbid--one of your nipples snaps off due to freezing from exposure, please don't tax our already overburdened health system by going to the hospital or using publicly-funded institutions. Since you're such renegades, you can warm yourselves snug in your self-righteousness and thoughtless indignation. There are lots of problems with how the world treats animals. Stunting on Jasper Avenue? Not the way to fix those problems. Though the earmuffs looked swank.

Compare this to the equally silly stunt on Parliament hill, and you'll notice a strange disconnect between the issues--important, meaningful issues that society ought to pay attention to, like global warming and the humane treatment of animals--and the jackasses garnering all this attention. Sure, you're on the news. Now if only someone would stop staring at your white cotton ~~panties~~ tail long enough to listen to your message.

Snowed in.

2009-12-07T14:21:00.003-07:00

Friday is when the snow started. Twenty centimetres in the first 24 hours. By Sunday there were two feet of snow and the temperature had plummeted to -30 celcius. My car nearly skidded off the road and I helped three cars out of the snow over the course of the weekend.

Crummy as it sounds, it was one of the most truly delightful weekends I've had in a while.

Granted, the snow was a nightmare to drive in, but once out of my little steel box on wheels, I began to relax and enjoy the delightful winter powder all around me (and inside my boots). Even going to Starbucks two blocks away became a 20 minute trek with legs calf-deep in snowbanks and hopping over embankments to cross the street. And it was radness.

Mum and I spent Saturday digging out our cars and shopping for Xmas decorations, which she kindly put up around my apartment the rest of the weekend. I spent the rest of my day with Mr. S, toodling about the Strathcona Farmer's Market, shopping along Whyte Ave and snuggling in front of a movie, warm and cozy, insulated in our snowed-in cave.

On Sunday, I got to share some of my most vivid snow-related memories on air with Mr. S and his merry band of listeners on CJSR. Then I sat and knit contentedly and watched National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation as Ollie oggled the tree with eyes aglisten.

I imagine there will be a few bulbs on the floor by the time I get home tonight. And strangely enough...I look forward to it with a smile.

People give me a headache...

2009-12-04T10:44:00.003-07:00

I deal with shit like this all the time. It's shameful when a member of my own profession (fledging as my career may be) doesn't get it. Doesn't understand his role. Doesn't think--and in the process makes us all look bad.

I've struggled internally with the concept of working in communications and performing public relations tasks as opposed to going into journalism. A lot of that has to do with job security, and some of it has to do with wanting to succeed in communications on my own terms. But the best way for me to do my job is to work with the media, let them know that my job is to help them do their job because, let's face it: my job is the other side of the coin.

Journalists don't get access to business CEOs and government ministers without first going through communications people. In return for access, the communications staff gets to put the organization front and centre and get third-party endorsement for its cause/initiative/whathaveyou. Basic media relations 101. It's so fundamental to communications that the purpose. of. communications. is. to. communicate. And yet so many communicators don't get it. They start acting like politicians, being evasive and offering "no comment" or cockblocking the press. What are you? A fucking press agent? No. No you're not. You're a goddamned public relations professional. Emphasis on professional. And you're giving my kind the reputation as dismissive spin doctors, when I work my butt off to get my story out there and provide the best kind of information I can to journalists who call me.

Stop being a tool and do your job. No organization's ideas are so secret they need to be kept completely confidential, unless those secrets happen to be nuclear missile codes. Otherwise, you're just being an ass and aggrandizing yourself to no good end. Oh, you get press, alright: bad press. And while some may argue that any press is good press, undoing the damage you caused will take a long time, and the media will never fully trust you again. Good job. Way to shoot yourself in the foot. now if you don't mind limping off in that direction, I've got ethical, responsible media relations to conduct.

In the News: Western Producer

2009-11-30T16:21:00.003-07:00

Look, ma! I'm in a national publication!

Ok, so I ghost-wrote it for the president of our board, but it's my words under his name. That counts, right?

Allow me my moment. It's wee, but special.

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Aba Daba Honeymoon

2009-11-27T08:10:00.004-07:00

If you weren't born a hundred years ago, you may not be familiar with this song, which was written in 1914 and is best known for a 1950 Debbie Reynolds movie I have never seen.

Which begs the question: how in the hell do I know this song?

From my childhood, of course. It's one of those ridiculously catchy nonsensical tunes my mom used to sing to me, as her mom used to sing it to her when she was a child growing up in the '50s.

It's a cute ditty about two monkeys in love. What's not to like?

"And the big baboon one night in June, he married them and very soon they went upon their aba dabba honeymoon!"

Classic.

Hear the song

Read the lyrics

Happy Birthday, On the Origin of Species

2009-11-25T10:32:00.007-07:00

This is for all the monkeys, and their uncles.

Yep, ol' Darwin sure knew how to write 'em, and keep them in the public consciousness long after his own trip on that Beagle in the sky. Or something.

The funny thing, of course, is that it's STILL as controversial as ever, with fundamentalist sorts taking offence to being related to apes (I'm sure, in all fairness, that the gorilla isn't altogether thrilled to be related to you either, bub) and decrying OOS as atheist blather or--worse--the work of the devil.

Since I don't believe in a personal god, myself, I'm free to believe in this evolution stuff without wrestling over what it says about my faith. That said, I don't think that understanding evolution and having faith in god(s) are incongruent. You can believe that since God made monkeys and you, that it's just a big happy family situation that the Bible left out in favour of golden calves and other fun stuff.

Or, you know, you could get all bent out of sorts about it and rail on about it to Fox news. Although I find that a mite silly...

Here's what P.Z. Meyers has to say.

Article on the Scopes Monkey Trial in the Edmonton Journal.

Feature article on the book.

Everybody's working for the weekend

2009-11-14T16:21:00.004-07:00

Yep, ode to Loverboy on a Saturday afternoon. It don't get much radder, now do it?

Nothing makes the long work week seem more unpleasant than having to come in on a Saturday afternoon. For three and a half hours. To work on 160 pages of speaking notes for a convention. Blecch.

On a positive note, coming in on a Saturday is a good way to focus on the task at hand, since the place is empty, you can crank bad music on your computer if you want to and can wear clothes only a step above pajamas.

My poor preggers coworker, Mrs. Van B., joined me in the task of proofing and printing 16 copies of the blasted speaking notes for individual podium binders. I pegged her chocolate mood exactly and showed up with a Starbucks brownie waiting on her desk when she arrived an hour later. I figure that buys me at least another ten Karmic points. I'm probably at dung beetle, now. I'm working up to dirty pigeon, but I'll settle for naked mole rat.

Now it's time for home and squeezing in a few hours of real weekend before homework inevitably begins.

"you wanna piece of my heart? You gotta start from the start. WHOOOOAAA!" *air guitar*

hehehe...

Secret self online? Not so much.

2009-11-10T13:48:00.007-07:00

I've been oft-criticized for my online dating habits. While I tend to think of myself as fairly open-minded in terms of giving slack on looks, height, hair colour, etc, there are certain traits--of course--that I tend to gravitate to. As I said in a previous post, my dear, lovely friend, Mrs. P, who wants only the best for me, has stated that I should not base my first impression by a mere handful of photos , since they're not an accurate reflection of who the person is.

According to this Newsweek article I just found, however...they are.

"The findings from this study and other research on personality suggest that the photos you post online provide a wealth of information about who you are—whether you like it or not."

Studies were conducted with Facebook and online dating sites, where people of both genders were asked to evaluate strangers based on a list of personality criteria, such as extroversion, likability and even religiosity (!) The results were that most strangers pegged those they'd never met nine times out of ten. Apparently, the only trait that was difficult to predict was neuroticism. Hehehe, lucky me. Poor, unlucky bastard who decides to take a chance on my silly neurotic self.

So good luck trying to pass yourself off as the coolest dude ever on match.com or making yourself the centre of the party on Facebook. The truth will out, even online.

Sweet. My pickiness seems less bitchy now and more the product of good, old-fashioned unconscious sociological detective work. hehehe.

Writing hero of the moment: Matt Taibbi

2009-11-10T10:30:00.000-07:00

Matt Taibbi is an award-winning writer and blogger whom I first discovered while reading his scathingly excellent political articles in Rolling Stone. His words are the precision cutting tools of an expert surgeon and his rage against the machine is palpable.

Here's a great example of his style, which is one part Hunter S. Gonzo and one part "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore". This excerpt's from a blog piece about former governor and Tina Fey-impersonator Sarah Palin:

"...Just as she had during the campaign last fall, Palin defied rational analysis by making a primal connection with the subterranean resentments of white middle America, which is apparently so pissed off now at the rest of the planet for not coddling its hurt feelings in the multicultural age that it is willing to embrace any politician who validates its insane sense of fucked-overness."

Now those are words that grab your throat and screech what's what while flecking your terrified mug with spittle, no?

Rolling Stone is the one magazine I still have a subscription to, and while I'd like to say it's because I'm such a music connoisseur, the truth is I find their political writing incisive and engrossing. Particularly Taibbi, my new writing hero. Check him out:

http://trueslant.com/matttaibbi/
www.rollingstone.com

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Australopithecus

2009-11-05T18:00:00.003-07:00

My first year of university--back when I was a young naif intent on becoming the next Indiana Jones--I took several anthropology courses. While the introductory course was intended to be a survey of all anthropology subjects, the largest focus was on physical anthroplogy and evolutionary genera of homonids, from monkeys to apes to humans.

I took this class with two of my favourite people, Stephanie and Leah, who spent most of the class giggling with me at our Polish professor's butchering of the English name pronunciations. (example: Leah became "Lee-a-MURR", because he always referred to the adorable Malagasy as such.)

The class became "an-throw-PAUL-o-GEEEEAYYY" and we spent a good month studying the evolution of "the MAUN-KEEAYYS". My favourite was Australopithecus bosei, which became a 40-syllable word in his delightful struggle with my native tongue.

Anyway, back to Australopithecus. The genus Australopithecus is closely related to our Homo ancestors, and may in fact be our predecessors (sorry, no Garden of Eden here). They're therefore not technically "monkeys" in the true sense, but as we all share common ancestors and swing from the same evolutionary branch, I'm not going to split ape hairs on this.

Although they were likely no more sophisticated than modern apes, they were bipeds (translation: they walked upright).

The most famous Australopithecis is "Lucy", the A. afarensis speciment discovered in Ethiopia who recently celebrated her 3.2 millionth birthday (the cake was visible from space). Her skeleton shows evidence that bipedalism preceded increase in brain size in human evolution.

So, while you may not be a monkey's uncle, a monkey was certainly yours.

I am so fucked.

2009-11-05T16:13:00.003-07:00

Vanity Fair just came out with this article, which analyzes the grotesque lengths to which "cute culture" has taken our otherwise sane, serious society. It's therapeutic, in a way, since I myself am drawn to many of the websites referenced in the article. As the article explains:

"To some degree, we can’t help ourselves. In the 1940s, ethologist Konrad Lorenz proposed—correctly, as it turns out—that we instinctively want to nurture any creature that has a cute appearance...[E]vidence that human beings undergo a chemical reaction deep in their brains when they look at babies....[T]he act of looking at baby pictures stirs up an ancient part of the brain called the nucleus accumbens."

Well, shit. I'd capitalize on this finding, but I think http://www.fupenguin.com/ has already cornered the market. There's something to be said, though, about relieving the stress of a bad day by taking a five minute "cute break" at work. Maybe our society's become so rabid about it in correlation to our overworked, undersocialized, lonely modern existences? It's a recipe to cure the sads.

Hey, look! A puppy!

Creepy hobby: Graving.

2009-11-03T13:44:00.000-07:00

Read about gravers.

I've always been drawn to cemeteries. Not in a "digging up the undead to create a monster the likes of which the world has never seen" way, nor in a "can't wait to pick my plot next to aunt Janie" way. I just find them beautiful and fascinating.

There's a calmness to a place where people go to their final repose. The landscaped gardens and old granite slabs make for a picturesque scene. There's a sense of shared history when you look at the tombstones and monuments--finding the oldest gravesite or comparing naming trends over the past few decades or centuries. It's like an archaeological study in the most fundamental of human experiences. Wherever I travel, I always try to see a local cemetery. Some are breathtakingly beautiful, others eerie. I've been to a few over a thousand years old, with stones so weathered you can't read anything, and must only imagine the words once engraved.

More than anything, though, I appreciate what cemeteries say about humanity. The fact that we honour our dead and make space for them amongst the living is a comfort. It makes me feel privileged to be among the race of bipedal hairless apes. It's hard to be sad in a cemetery, when you know that the people in them were loved or at the very least thought of enough to have testaments to their existence and memory erected. And even when the last person who knew them passes on, they live in the collective unconscious and in the deliberate efforts of funky folk like gravers, who make a hobby out of amateur cemetery sleuthing. Fascinating. If there's a local chapter, I may have to join. If not, perhaps I'll need to start one?

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: the Infinite Monkey Theorum

2009-10-28T21:37:00.000-06:00

"'It was the best of times, it was the blurst of times?' You stupid monkey!"

-"Last Exit to Springfield", The Simpsons

From Wikipedia.org:

"The infinite monkey theorem states that a monkey hitting keys at random on a typewriter keyboard for an infinite amount of time will almost surely type a given text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare."

In this case, the monkey's a mathematical metaphor. While the probability of a monkey exactly typing a complete work such as Shakespeare's Hamlet is minuscule, it is not an impossibility.

The Infinite Monkey idea has a long history that can be traced back to Aristotle, though, obviously, without typewriters.

In 2003, an experiment was performed with six Celebes Crested Macaques, but their literary contribution was five pages consisting largely of the letter 'S'. This, of course, is a greater contribution to literature than the last Twilight book. Hey-yo!

Getting my ass kicked

2009-10-26T22:00:00.003-06:00

For the past few weeks I've been attending twice-weekly Bootcamp sessions on the south side.

After a good year and a half of watching my ass slowly meld to my office chair and eating crap, I decided to do something about it and get back into shape. My biggest issue with working out is the motivating factor. It's difficult for me to find the motivation on my own, especially when I'm so out of shape that I can't remember how to do a pushup, let alone perform the feat.

So I signed up for Survivor Bootcamp, one of several in the city, for four weeks of hour-long cardio, weight training and calisthenics. Fun, right? Well...sure. If your idea of fun involves feeling your arteries chugging along and wishing your calf muscles would stop their screaming so you could hear your iPod better.

Ok. So it's not that bad. The classes are fairly short and consist of changing patterns of cardio and training, so you're never doing any one thing long enough to get too exhausted from it before you're onto another exercise.

I haven't noticed any physical differences yet, though my heavy panting at walking up a flight of stairs has somewhat diminished.

I'm most impressed with my ability to actually show up to class. The first class was in the middle of a snowstorm, and my instructor didn't even show. But I stayed for the whole hour while more experienced girls showed me the ropes: and by ropes, I mean endless sets of lunges. Since then, I've done situps in the pouring rain and worn a toque and mittens to every class, but there is something to be said about the open air.

How in shape I'll be by the end of this is debatable, but the purpose of the class is to get me motivated to start doing more workouts on my own and feel slightly more confident on a treadmill than a month ago.

Although I'll have to dress more appropriately for future endeavours. While changing before class today, I realized that I'd forgotten my expensive Lululemon sports bra, and had to wear an underwire for the duration of the class. For those of you sans breasts, let me put it thusly: ouch. While even small-chested girls have issues running without support--bruises, stretching, bouncing--I spent my run trying to hold mine down to keep from knocking myself in the eye. Serious discomfort. Next time, I'm packing duck tape in my trunk, just in case. Otherwise, I'm liable to throw myself off balance and go tumbling into the street in front of a moving vehicle.

PS - If there is such a place as Hell, and if I am indeed destined to serve an eternity there, my most dreaded punishment would be an endless set of burpees. How I loathe burpees.

dealbreaker

2009-10-25T21:52:00.006-06:00

So I started up with the PoF again. I've had a profile on and off for the past 3 years and have had mild to moderate success with the dating game. I have had some friends find great success and love online, and others, like me, with mixed results somewhere between terrific and horrific.

Most are 'meh'. My greatest bane is a man who is 'meh'. There is always a coaxing of the inner line where the deal's off. Where you must balance your needs with your wants and figure out how to get those needs fulfilled and still get a deal of your wants in there, too, without coming off as some grotesque real-life Seinfeld episode who breaks up with someone for having turned-out feet.

My married friend and close confident, Mrs. P, is always devil's advocate. She's looking out for my best interests and pushes me to question my preconceived notions in an effort to better me and better my chances of snagging someone truly noteworthy. She pokes at me for my snap judgments and criteria for dismissal of potential suitors. I've countered that there must be SOME criteria, lest I date every single person online, which is neither feasible nor desired.

I know I am attracted to a particular 'type', and that some aspects of this may benefit me, while other aspects may leave certain needs unfulfilled. These aspects may, in turn, simultaneously satisfy some of the pettier wants on the list. Does this mean that I should broaden my scope? Sure. Does it mean that I should give up my preferences completely? No. I am aware of what I go for and make a concerted effort to assess my needs and what sort of person could fulfill those. At the end of the day, though, my inner romantic wants the 'spark!' and places her bets on the horses that might provide said 'spark!' more readily.

At times I've taken risks on men that didn't seem to fit, and was pleasantly surprised. Conversely, I've had terrible dates with men who seemed a perfect fit to my preconceived mold. So sure, sometimes they sneak in past my more judgmental filters.

For the most part, however, when all you have to go on is the covers, you have to judge books on the most readily-available criteria. And those criteria aren't always fair or logical. Most seem picked at random or through trial and error (ie: many, many dates).

Photo attractive enough to suit? Check. Interests align to a degree? Check. Semi-literate articulation of self? Aye--there's the rub. My dealbreaker.

The profile. The chance to wear that heart out on your sleeve. To pour your soul into a haiku or demonstrate your ability to turn a well-crafted phrase. I have a high standard for self-description and look for particular elements to determine if someone's worth my time. It's not a matter of trying to be a snob or too picky or pretentious. It's a matter of gauging who might be compatible.

Spelling is one area of contention that gets me eyebrow raises from Mrs. P and other "you're being a pretentious c**t" looks from my friends and loved ones. But hear me out.

Ok, boy who messaged me: so you can't spell. Hmm...well, you could be really great and amazing and what the fuck does spelling matter in the long run? Nothing, really. It could even put my English snobbery under the microscope and challenge me to look beyond such surface notions. Will a man's use of 'your' in place of 'you're' really matter on a day-to-day basis? Of course not. However, the fact that you don't bother to proofread your entry or at least have a go with an automated grammar tool available anywhere on the interwebs means you're either willfully lazy or too stupid to manage it.

Saying something is important. I get bored easily, am intelligent, and communicate for a living. Sorry, buddy, but you'll have to keep up at least some portion of the time. You're basically pitching yourself. And if I don't like the concept, I'm not going to invite you to play the role of boyfriend in the movie of my life. You don't have to be boastful or make shit up (the truth will out in the end, so honesty is always best) but put your best self forward. Would you show up to a job interview and half-ass it, then expect to land the gig?

Charming? Ok, lay it on. Like to laugh? Give me joke, even if it's a groaner. As we writers like to say "show, don't tell."

And no, being a bad writer is not an excuse. You're talking about the one subject even a four-year old can give a short presentation on: yourself. You know you, inside and out. You can't string two sentences together on the subject? Seriously? If you can't sell yourself, then why should I buy it? There are too many people out there to bother with the mediocre or the well-intentioned. Because I too have good intentions. And I actually have put forth the effort to showcase myself and my interests. I could care less if you've got blonde hair or brown. If you've got a six pack or a bit of a belly. Because personality will trump belly, any day of the week. And has with a number of men I've chosen to see. But you've got to show it.

Yes, it's hard to do online. And that's why they have nifty tips for those who don't come by the gift of communication naturally. Take a look around you and see the zillion other profiles available. Take your cue from your peers and apply it to your own self. It's not fucking rocket science. Well, I hope.

Oh, and another thing: for baby kittens' sake, stop posing with your car. Wow. You can drive. Congrats. Stop embarrassing yourself and just do a straightforward headshot like everyone else.

I would apologize for being shallow and going for the arty over the athletic, the pretentious over the precious. Maybe my soulmate's the bass fisherman who loves red label and Jebus. But unless he can make a compelling case for it, then I'm going to go for what attracts me: smarts, sass and a dash of nerdy/artiness. I don't care if you drink merlot or margaritas. But you have to hold your end of the conversation up. I have nothing against shy guys or quiet guys. I know some wonderful men who are just those types. But that doesn't make them the ones I want to take home. Because I would gnaw my own hand off to get away from a lifetime of quiet reflection. I don't want antics over security. I think I can find both in some sort of balance. I just choose to seek the comfortable and low-key in the creative and extroverted, rather than try to tease extroversion out of an adorable mute.

But then I second guess myself and ask...well...is this premise flawed? Am I going about it all wrong. And if so...how can I make it right?

Tasty, tasty pain.

2009-10-24T17:03:00.004-06:00

Fuck, my neck hurts. My shoulders hurt. Through those connected muscles and tissues runs a thin, tight wire straight to the back of my skull, which throbs and pulses in time with my heartbeat. The wire wraps around my ears and pulls at my temples, until even the tiny follicles of my hairline are taut. My eyeballs are going to squeeze out of their sockets and roll under the couch, where they'll be safe collecting lint, far away from the dull ache they're currently enduring.

Tension headache. Not nearly a migraine, but nauseatingly painful nonetheless. The kind of pain you could nearly chew. A slow, taffy-like gnawing that flexes your jaw and grinds your teeth. You'd bite something, but it'd be the inside of your cheek or tongue. And that won't be pleasant the next morning.

Some people take physical risks for their lifestyles. They break bones pursuing 360s or malnourish themselves and go into hyper sleep-deprivation to endure med school. Me? I write. Constantly. Ceaselessly. Even when I'm not writing for the 8 hours I'm at work, I'm reading something online or on a printed page. Then I'm typing at home. Words are many exquisite things, but for now, they are literally a pain in my neck. Fortunately, they still leave me the ability to describe my discomfort and try to lessen it in the recounting. My pleasure is my poison. God, I'd make myself sick with all this tedious meandering, if I wasn't feeling physically ill already.

Advil would help. Or a chiropractor. The latter is unavailable. The former, unwanted. I'm going to be sucking those babies down for the rest of my life if I keep this up. Maybe I need a dictaphone, so I can stop working on my hunchback while I'm sifting through sentence structures.

It's not old-timey romantic like an impressionist painter dying of heavy metal poisoning from licking brush tips. Fuck, it's not even a sexy typewriter-induced injury, like a sprained wrist or a broken toe from knocking the damned thing on my foot in a fit of writer's block. Nope. It's a 21st century repetitive stress injury from poor posture and a lifestyle that has me staring at words day in day out. They say you hurt the ones you love the most. But I've never hurt the words. Why are they now hurting me? I need less squinting at the screen and more downtime on a feather pillow.

Ok. Fine. I'm taking a muscle relaxant. Maybe some alcohol. What? It'll help. And hey, that sounds like just the kind of dangerous drink lifestyle my fellow wordsmiths adopt to lubricate the creative fervor. Hemmingway did it. And look where he...oh. I see. Ahem. Bad example.

Ow.

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Clotheshanger Gorilla

2009-10-22T10:40:00.003-06:00

Who knew the remnants of drycleaning could look so...imposing?

This is artist David Mach's Coathanger Gorilla. It's made from thousands of welded-together coathangers placed over a plastic base. As you can see, it's quite impressive in size. Mr. Mach is also known for sculpting teddies gone bad art with plush toys. I'm not sure what Freud would have to say about it. But it looks neat. See the freaky stuff online.

Sniffle.

2009-10-22T08:39:00.003-06:00

86 year-old Republican WWII veteran makes impassioned speech at marriage rights rally in Maine...in favour of gay rights. Touching.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GrEbJBFWIPk&feature=player_embedded

Ayn rand popular in new delhi

2009-10-20T14:13:00.003-06:00

Found this super-fascinating article on Foreign Policy's website that explores the takeoff of Objectivism in the world's most populous democracy.

For those unfamiliar with Objectivism, it is a philosophy created by Russian-American writer and thinker Ayn Rand back in the earlier part of the 20th century. Her two most famous works, The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged, put the Objectivist philosophy into practice, and have had an enormous impact on Western culture in the past half-century.

Back in high school I read some Objectivist philosophy and found the idea of self-centered idealism rather distasteful. However, in my early 20s I read the Fountainhead and loved it. While I don't enjoy Atlas Shrugged as much (too much beating you about the head with her philosophy--and you may as well skip the last 200 pages) the book has sold more copies than pretty much any book other than the Bible.

Choice quote from FP article:

"Rand's celebration of independence and personal autonomy has proven to be powerfully subversive in a culture that places great emphasis on conforming to the dictates of family, religion, and tradition...Rand's theory of the supremacy of reason and the virtue of selfishness adds up to "the antithesis" of Indian culture, which explains the attraction for...many rebellious Indian teens today."

In recent years, Rand has fallen out of favour as the economic monolith of the US has collapsed upon itself. In burgeoning democracies like India, however, this newly-discovered philosophy is a runaway hit. It's interesting to see the progression of capitalist ideas in society so completely different than ours in North America. Its impact on future world events could be interesting, especially since 1/6 of the world's population is involved.

And hey, if nothing else, maybe we'll get a really great, musical number-filled Bollywood version of John Galt's speech. Rousing.

More immunization yakkity yak

2009-10-20T10:52:00.003-06:00

I know I keep coming back to this vaccination topic, but really, I am so concerned about our desire to do the right thing overcoming our better judgement that I'm going to publish every rational, fact-based bit of information I can find that puts the Jenny McCarthys in a corner.

This is an article from a parent in the US whose immuno-compromised child (Cancer--much more serious than a vaccine.) couldn't go to daycare because other parents had decided not to innoculate their children on "religious or moral" grounds.

Quote:
"I realize that anti-vaccine sentiment has been around as long as the vaccines themselves. People who choose not to immunize their children may do so out of the best possible motives: They believe those vaccines endanger their children. But I wonder whether they have fully considered that the herd immunity, of which they are taking advantage, is designed to protect those who cannot be vaccinated."

EXACTLY. Because the more kids are immunized, the better off the rest of the kids will be. People need to stop taking disease for granted and weigh the real pros and cons. And just for the record, no, this does not apply to kids with severe egg allergies, as, obviously, the higher risk of dying from a severe reaction is worse than dying from mumps. But that is a separate (and PROVEN) reason against compared to the autism or "I don't believe in immunizing my kids" argument.

Anthropologist to modern men: ‘You’re the worst’

2009-10-20T08:16:00.000-06:00

Another book to add to my ever-growing reading list. I think I'm at about 150 titles this year. Better get on it.

***

Manthropology: The Science of the Inadequate Modern Male by Peter McAllister.

The National Post published an article by this prominent anthropologist, explaining all the ways in which our bodies suck compared to our ancestors. For those who would use Darwin as means of explaining our superiority to what came before, Mr. McAllister would beg to differ. For all our longevity, nutrition and disease prevention, we're not quite on par with the Olympic-calibre athletes of the past.

See, as our brains get bigger, our bodies get punier and less able to succeed out in the jungle. Kind of makes you wonder what'll happen when the apocalypse is nigh. We'll have mighty strong thumbs from all that video game playing, but otherwise, our soft underbellies will be ripe for the disembowelling.

Take it from someone who's just entered week two of a strenuous bootcamp exercise class: our physical prowess is pathetic. (Also: burpees are the worst form of torture in existence.)

Even fit people aren't as fit as a lazy one-legged cro magnon. We seem to be exercising only one muscle. And while we've succeeded with that muscle beyond any scope our ancestors could have imagined, ignoring the rest of our muscles seems like it could spell trouble for us in our future.

Although, being a head floating in a jar of fluid aboard a spaceship has its perks, I'm sure. If I remember my Futurama correctly, however, things tended to go awry when the heads couldn't get around and were stuck sloshing about in saline.

“We are so inactive these days and have been since the Industrial Revolution really kicked into gear. These people were much more robust than we were." - Peter McAllister

Time to get off the couch and back to being chased across the Serengeti by a pack of lions?

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Doting monkey mum

2009-10-16T10:15:00.002-06:00

The Daily Mail ran this anthropomorphizing article over the Thanksgiving weekend. Seems that monkey mums go just a gooey over their cute little monkey babehs as human mums do. Reason #3,425,972 why monkeys are the radness.

HPV Vaccine for Boys

2009-10-15T09:32:00.002-06:00

An interesting article that takes a different tack from most: why not innoculate boys against HPV, not just girls? It relates to the sexual determinacy aspect of my previous post. Thoughts?

http://www.slate.com/id/2232537/

France returns egyptian artifacts

2009-10-09T09:44:00.004-06:00

Back in the days before I became a word ho, pimpin' out my grammatical flash for cold, hard cash--I yearned to be and studied at being an anthro/archaeologist. Yeah, I'm one of those Indiana Jones, "this should be in a museum!" types. So this caught my eye.

See, the French are preparing to return a hoard to the country of its origin. Yes, the article's from a Sun paper (*ptooie*) but bear with me.

'Cuz wow. This is huge. It could set a precedent for other European countries, or at least shame those (*cough* England *cough*) that are home to thousands of historical artifacts from around the world.

Museums loan a lot of items to display things from other cultures they might otherwise not have access to. But the pillaging of late 19th and early 20th centuries has led to decades of bickering about who owns priceless treasures like the Pantheon friezes and King Tut's tomb contents.

Good on the French for returning some of these artifacts. I know the issue is deeper (would some of these items be in danger if returned to their home countries? I mean, no offence, but the site of ancient Babylon isn't exactly a safe place for people, let alone artifacts, right now.) but the principle is sound. I'm sure the British Museum wouldn't like to see its tourist dollars drop, but if the artifacts could be safely returned to Greece and displayed in a safe, secure setting, then shouldn't they be? It seems silly to travel the world to see the sights, only to be redirected to Berlin or London or Paris because that's where the actual artifacts from these sites are being kept.

Cultural imperialism has now given way to the "possession is 9/10ths of the law" philosophy all the way to "neener neener"-hood. Well, my ancestors stole it, not me, so I don't owe you anything. Well, we pay reparations to the descendants of enslaved and mistreated peoples, so why wouldn't we do the same with items that represent those peoples? Because Western culture's so much better? Because absconding with another's civilization makes us all the more civilized? Hmm...

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Brass Monkey

2009-10-09T09:03:00.005-06:00

Origins: from the Oxford Dictionary online:

"The story goes that cannonballs used to be stored aboard ship in piles, on a brass frame or tray called a 'monkey'. In very cold weather the brass would contract, spilling the cannonballs: hence very cold weather is 'cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey'. There are several problems with this story. The first is that the term 'monkey' is not otherwise recorded as the name for such an object. The second is that the rate of contraction of brass in cold temperatures is unlikely to be sufficient to cause the reputed effect. The third is that the phrase is actually first recorded as 'freeze the tail off a brass monkey', which removes any essential connection with balls. It therefore seems most likely that the phrase is simply a ribald allusion to the fact that metal figures will become very cold to the touch in cold weather (and some materials will become brittle)."

Brass Monkey in Popular Culture:

Beastie Boys: "Brass Monkey", License to Ill
"Brass Monkey that funky Monkey
Brass Monkey - junkie
That funky Monkey

Brass Monkey:
A cocktail consisting of equal parts beer, and orange juice, or to a mixture of gin, triple sec, tequila, orange juice, sour mix and grapefruit juice, or to a mixture of rum, vodka and orange juice (with or without galliano).

Is there anything they can't do?

2009-10-09T08:42:00.003-06:00

Pets rule.

Here's the latest example: a reading program set up by the Edmonton Public Library to encourage literacy in kids six to 12. The Paws for a Story program has volunteers who bring their pets along to read to kids.

Kids reading aloud to an animal develop greater confidence than reading in front of classmates or parents.

"When a child reads to a dog or a cat along with their trained volunteer, they don't have to worry about being judged or corrected based on their skills.It makes learning and practicing reading an enjoyable experience, instead of an intimidating one."

Reading = good. Pets = good. Pets and reading = amazing.

Good boy!

PS - the program mascot's a volunteer's pet Papillon. Just like my Colby. Well...he's a half-Papillon. But a brilliant dog, nonetheless.

Pfft. Whatever.

2009-10-08T15:35:00.002-06:00

The New York Times published the results of a telephone survey (American, of course) that discovered the most annoying word in the English language.

"Whatever" won, beating out "it is what it is" and "you know"? Not to be a stickler, or anything, but those other terms are phrases, not words. I know, I know: whatever. Right?

I'd personally vote to have "irregardless" taken out of the lexicon, given that it's a conflation of two completely separate words: regardless and irrespective. Both are far superior to irregardless, no?

Also, I'd venture that "like" ranks up there. However taking it out of our vocabulary would leave many young people (me included) tongue-tied whenever we tried to describe a line of dialogue.

He was all like...and then I was like...erm...I mean, he said, and then I replied.

Eh. Whatever.

Pawns on a political chessboard.

2009-10-06T14:54:00.003-06:00

Paula Simons really hit it out of the park today with her article on the Alberta Hospital shutdown. Invisible fist bump for Paula.

"On average, according to Alberta Health Services's own figures, two mentally ill patients arrive at an Edmonton emergency department every hour. That number will surely grow without Alberta Hospital's beds and services in the mix. Every metro ER will feel the consequences, and so will every shelter. For a provincial government that claims to be committed to ending homelessness and keeping communities safe, the shutdown of most of Alberta Hospital seems a grotesque step backward. Nor could the timing be worse, given that the province is just about to implement long-awaited legislation to make it easier to commit chronic psychiatric patients for care."

Not to sound too 14-year-old here, but "duh."

I have readers?

2009-10-05T20:11:00.006-06:00

Wow. My last post won the "most comments" award at the Ms. Fitz bloggies. It's mostly me gifting myself with cheap trinkets and shiny bits of foil until I'm distracted and forget what I was typing.

...what was I saying?

Oh, yes.

I like the debate and thinkatude that has resulted from said post. It was done in a whirlwind moment: I just found something that twigged my brain, and I typed it. Perhaps this is the key to longevity and presence online? Interesting. I like having readers. Though with enlarged fan base comes great responsibility.

It pleases me to have people pay attention to me online without me having to take my clothes off or say something racist/sexist/hateful.

Ok. Sometimes I say slightly hateful things. But it's justified, so I won't apologize. Twilight really does suck that bad.

Aw, shit.

2009-10-04T08:53:00.005-06:00

**new: found this Monday morning: http://www.cdc.gov/vaccinesafety/vaers/gardasil.htm

http://www.phac-aspc.gc.ca/im/iyc-vve/fiction-eng.php#a

British girl dies after HPV vaccine

As if the anti-vaccine nutjobs needed any more reason to deny girls a lifesaving shot.

Not only do anti-vaccination people grate on me (the Jenny McCarthy types who refuse to inoculate their kids and encourage others to do so based on the completely unfounded assumption that booster shots lead to autism) but the anti-HPV crowd have to go and throw sex in the way.

See, according to these silly folk (who could have used a few more hugs as children...or maybe a few more smacks upside the head. Maybe a combo.) young teenaged girls shouldn't get these shots, because it's only the fear of dying from horrible cervical cancer that keeps them in check and ensures that they keep their naughty bits in their pants.

Once young girls get vaccinated against HPV, it's like society is giving them license to spread their legs at will and contribute to our moral decay. So basically, HPV is the new AIDS. Well, at least what AIDS was in the 80s. Oh? A gay man got AIDS? Well, that's too bad, but really, his lifestyle choice was a sin against God, so the bum-lover deserved it. What? A woman died of cervical cancer? Well, it's probably because she was a promiscuous tart and this is her comeuppance.

Like abortion and birth control before it, the HPV vaccine threatens society's assumed right to control women's sexuality. What? You want to control your own body? Nay. The patriarchal overtones inherent in even the most progressive Western societies dictate that women's bodies are proprietary, and thus a threat to our civilization entire if left uncontrolled.

Now, a young girl dies from a vaccination. This is a statistical reality: some people react to shots. It's tragic, yes. But does that mean that girls should stop getting vaccinated? Hell no. Trust me, if there was a magical testicular cancer vaccine on the market, there would be no arguments on any side. Because it would be about men's health and vitality. Sure, testes are sexual organs, but it's men's lives we're talking about. Cervical cancer, though? Well, women's sexuality is always everyone's business, so if she develops cancer from HPV, it's most likely because she was a slut and deserved it. We can make assumptions about her because of an illness, no matter how unfounded. And what message would be sending to young girls if we encouraged them to get vaccinated? Either way, apparently, they'll end up dead.

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Nazca Monkey

2009-10-01T20:43:00.000-06:00

The Nazca Lines are nifty geoglyphs (geo = rock, glyph = shape/carving) in my "before I die" travel destination of Peru. High on a desert plateau, hundred of these shapes--including spiders, birds and simple lines--were carved by the Nazca people over 1,000 years ago. They can be seen from space!

The geoglyph combines two of my favourite things: archaelogy and monkeys. There are more around the world, though none quite as cool. Go ahead, offer him a giant banana.

The Twitternator.

2009-09-30T09:00:00.002-06:00

I came into work this morning and opened up my email to check what had come in during the evening/early morning. Since I recently started a Twitter feed for my organization, I've had alerts sent to me to let me know when new people follow me, so I can track which journalists, bloggers and others are interested.

I opened up my inbox, and THIS is what I found.

My first thought was, "No. Freaking. Way." But then I checked it out and it's legit. Sure, it's probably his "people" following us, and it seems weird that the most populous state in the union would be interested in a rural Alberta organization...but who am I to argue?

My brush with fame. It tingles. Heh heh heh.

Amen.

2009-09-29T10:09:00.004-06:00

I live in a very conservative place. Socially and politically, Alberta runs the gamut from right of centre to right wing to right off its rocker. Typically, that means villifying government "interference" in business and extolling the virtues of privatized versus socialized public institutions, such as health care, education, etc.

While slash-and-burn has been a way of life as far back as I can remember during my lifetime, recent events have left me disppointed and sickened to the point of near numbness.

The GOA started by merging all regional health boards into a massive superboard. Then it decided to close down Alberta Hospital--the largest intensive mental institution in the province--and send its residents into "community care" centres, where they could be looked after in a home-like setting. My view on setting a schizophrenic into an unsupervised and unfamliar setting is that shuffling people off the grid doesn't make them disappear. There are some that require 24-hour, live-in care. And if they don't get it, their health fails and they end up picking cans out of the dumpster behind my apartment, mumbling to themselves and being preyed upon by people who recognize them as victims. It's disgusting and utterly irresponsible.

Now, the government is closing long-term care beds across the province. Now, at a time when our population is aging and living longer, we're going to close long-term care beds and fob these people off on their families? For what? So they can suffer in silence or sell off a kidney to get a decent bed at a private clinic? What a joke.

Social services are just that: social. Which means that society as a whole takes responsibility for those who need it. Without judgement. Without antagonism. Without holding a grudge. We live in one of the world's wealthiest places. We're a fucking oil fiefdom, yet seem to feel that putting it into our own pockets will allow us to make society better? How? By "inspiring" the weak, lowly and impoverished to try to become us? Impossible. All it does is increase the disparity between sectors of society, where the haves can surround themselves with shiny toys, hookers and blow, and the others can scrape the remains and hope to live long enough to see the inside of a hospital once they're diagnosed with an illness.

I don't often like Paula Simons's articles. I find her a little soft and puffball on a lot of issues. But I think she was dead right on this one. So kudos to her. Please read.

Gov't idea of 'home' downloads burden of care on relatives (Paula Simons, The Edmonton Journal, September 29, 2009)

"...when we demonize and shutter institutions, instead of improving them, when we make a policy fetish out of moving people into community homes, whether those homes are suitable or not, we put ideology ahead of reality, and financial considerations ahead of humanity."

Amen.

lack of "gh"

2009-09-28T12:45:00.003-06:00

Grammar lesson: in defence of "ight."

In a culture of short attention spans and advertising-driven communications, you see a lot of abbreviated words. One of the most grating is the use of "ite" to replace "ight." Like lite beer, tonite only, etc.

The part that gets to me is that people see the words in print and from that incorrectly assume that this is the correct spelling.

Sure, maybe in a hundred years or so it WILL be the correct spelling, as our language evolves and spellings change. However, for the time being, it's NOT correct, and it MUST be stopped, lest I be forced to pull my leg hairs out one-by-one with a rusty pair of pliers. Ugh. (erm, I mean "U".)

Wondering why there are so many silent GH's in English?

Well, according to Dr. Goodword's Language Blog:

"The sound represented by the silent GH in English was once a [k] in Proto-Indo-European (PIE—as mentally nutritious as it is delicious). That sound became [kh] over the course of the development of ancient Germanic languages like Old English. We still find this sound, as mentioned before, in Dutch, German, and Scots English. In most dialects of English, however, it reduced itself to [h], a sound so slight that has disappeared altogether from English everywhere except at the beginning of words. However, although the sound has disappeared, we continue spelling it.

So words in English containing the Silent GH mark the spot where a real sound once stood. While English speakers are not at all resistent to changing their ways, we are very reluctant to change the way we spell our words..."

It's the same reason we have a silent k at the beginning of knight and knife. Because once upon a time, they were "K-niggict" and "k-niff". And doesn't that make for a more interesting word? By keeping the letters in, you learn something about the history of the word, which makes you appreciate the evolution of language as words wax and wane in popularity and usage.

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Cymbal Monkey

2009-09-25T08:30:00.006-06:00

Holy f*cking Christ that is terrifying.

I'm not sure what possesses adults to think of the most bedwetter-creating ideas to entertain children. This twitchy, unstable little critter is merely one more in a long list of inappropriate toys and images for kids. And you thought clowns were scary.

Think these things are harmless? Sure they are. Except when they wake you up in the middle of the night, crashing their cymbals and chattering without you having touched their windup key. Stephen King wrote a short story about one once. Picture 'IT' but with these bulging red orbs eyeballing you in the dark.

Tweeters not Necessarily Bad Spellers

2009-09-23T15:06:00.003-06:00

So, according to this article, kids who OMG and ROTFL can LOL at all the h8trs (yours truly) who bewail the death knell of proper English spelling and grammar. According to this, teens who are good spellers can switch into and out of web mode and retain their lexical prowess. Poor spellers are going to be poor spellers, online or offline. Sorry, kids. Maybe you can OLO or LLO? Or you could just go, "ha, ha!" and leave it at that.

A little clever goes a long way

2009-09-22T14:39:00.003-06:00

I am not a fan of most protests. Having been to a few during my student years and having observed even more during my working-for-the-legislature days, I'm pretty blase about the whole exercise. Not that protest isn't meaningful. Just that, well...for the most part, the average protest is more about making angry remarks and less about getting the message across. This is why I like irony, satire and the like. They make protest subtle, stabbing the heart of the matter like a swift blade, rather than bludgeoning observers over the head with it like an anvil.

Remember Kanye West's horrible mic-snatch from Taylor Swift at the MVAs? Here's someone's Kanye-take on US healthcare. Brilliant.

ps - a plug for my homeland never goes unappreciated.

A new book to add to my collection

2009-09-22T08:39:00.003-06:00

Behold a masterpiece of mockery:

"The Quotable Douchebag: The 500 Douchiest Things Ever Said" by Margaret McGuire. I require a copy for my shelf.

Choice quotes straight from the egos' mouths:

Gene Simmons: “[I] don’t believe there’s any difference between a monogamous and a polygamous relationship. Those are all just big words, like gymnasium.”

I actually find this one kind of funny. Maybe because I don't take it seriously:

Eminem: "I'm a t-shirt guy now. But wifebeaters won't go out of style, not as long as bitches keep mouthing off."

Ms. Fitz's Monkey(brains) of the Week

2009-09-21T10:01:00.001-06:00

***Note: I forgot to post this on Friday. Sorry, Alex.***

Among my top ten films of all time are the Indiana Jones trilogy. Yes, I'm aware that they made a fourth one a few years ago, but for all intents and purposes--since it reflects neither my childhood dream of one day becoming an archaeologist nor my undying love for Harrison Ford in a fedora--I'm giving it a pass.

One of the most famous scenes in the second film, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, is a feast with the maharaja and his entourage, where eyeballs, live snakes ("snake surprise") and monkeys are on the menu.

I love monkeys. I would never actually consume them. But then I got to wondering:

Do people actually EAT chilled monkey brains?

According to Wikipedia (here's your grain of salt to go with that brain meal), they actually DO. That seems almost...cannibalistic, no? Though I'm a meatatarian, I could never eat something that I had an emotional connection to (like a dog or cat) or something intelligent enough to see it coming. I mean, if the damned thing can use sign language, it's off the menu, you know?

Anyway, here's the clip if you'd like to see it (in LEGO-vision!) Forgive Mrs. Spielberg her acting. She married a billionaire director, so either way, she got the last laugh, right?

Twit or Tweet

2009-09-17T14:52:00.003-06:00

I'm now Tweeting along the ol' interwebs. Lest you say my zeal for hearing my own voice (digital or otherwise) has overrun my good sense, please note that the Twitter is actually for my work. I am, however, in charge of all the Tweets. Check it out.

Politicians are silly...

2009-09-17T08:58:00.004-06:00

...and making fun of them is akin to shooting fish in a barrel, taking candy from a baby, or any number of effortless cliches.

When done well, however, you can't help but snicker and applaud.

I've worked in and around politics, politicians and policy hacks for a few years now. While I don't consider myself a staunchly political person, I am engaged and have developed into a wary cynic, rather than any sort of commentator. That said, I rub shoulders with and socialize with a broad spectrum of politically-minded folk. I worked with Dave Cournoyer briefly and went to school with Adam Rozenhart. They're both clever and quick, ideal qualities for handling the slippery subject of politics. Kudos to both for their ingenuity.

Sometimes, politicians don't need their asses handed to them. Sometimes, they serve it to you on a silver platter. Schadenfreude, baby.

Ok, that's my dose of real-world for the day. Tomorrow: monkeys!

Rubber Ducky Goodwill Mission

2009-09-15T09:22:00.002-06:00

Dutch artist Florentijn Hofman (yeah, I can't pronounce that first name, either) has crafted a massive rubber duck and sent it afloat throughout various cities.

His website states:

"The Rubber Duck knows no frontiers, it doesn't discriminate people and doesn't have a political connotation. The friendly, floating Rubber Duck has healing properties: it can relieve mondial tensions as well as define them. The rubber duck is soft, friendly and suitable for all ages!"

I couldn't have said it better myself.

Man, I could really use a bubble bath right now. Or an episode of Sesame Street.

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Barrel of Monkeys

2009-09-11T09:34:00.005-06:00

I love this game. I still own a glow-in-the-dark set that sits on my bookshelf. I don't really play with it, but it's got a pride of place right next to my miniature Etch-a-Sketch. What? My inner child needs an outlet sometimes, people.

Could you make a full monkey chain? My hands are too unsteady to get all of them to last much longer than a few seconds before they start to fall off. It's more of a skill than a game in that sense.

Nostalgia.

Appalling.

2009-09-10T12:55:00.002-06:00

I'm usually very proud to say that I'm a Canadian. We've got a lot of great things going for us (besides the weather) such as universal healthcare, personal freedoms, etc. But sometimes, this makes us complacent and makes it easier for us to ignore dodgy things going on in this country.

Among countries that accept people caught up in human trafficking, Canada is one of the worst. This article calls us "an international embarrassment." Yikes. You don't hear about it, or see it, as long as you stay away from the shadier parts of cities and towns. Even in Edmonton, people probably assume that "well, that happens in a big city like Toronto or Vancouver, not here."

What they don't realize is that in a boom town with a transient worker population, this place is the perfect location for human traffic.

Most women taken internationally are used in the sex trade. And Edmonton's finest just busted their first (and certainly not last) rub and tug using imported Chinese ladies as sex slaves.

There's always a dark undercurrent running far closer to the surface "niceness" of a place than anyone wants to admit, to themselves or others. Until it slaps you in the face like this, and you're forced to look at it. Reprehensible. We can't just sit back and let this happen. If we allow this in our own home, how can we possibly say, "for shame!" to others? There are no politicians yelling about this, even though it's a big issue. Something ought to be done. Read the Future Group's estimation here.

Whenever you start to feel like the centre of the universe...

2009-09-10T10:11:00.005-06:00

...stop and take a look at these.

They're the newest photos from the Hubble Space Telescope, and they're spectacular.

Makes you reconsider your significance as a teeny speck, now doesn't it? I also found an interesting explanation for how they get those photos to look so beautiful. Yep. Lots of Photoshop and a little bit of science, too.

This one's my personal favourite:

Amazing to see the way light is manipulated, when so much that we manipulate is with our hands (the word comes from latin for "hand", so yeah, I guess that might have a little something to do with it). Making the intangible tangible. It gives me the tinglies. And no, it doesn't make me feel closer to God. In fact, it doesn't give me a hankering for god(s) in the slightest. The reality of the universe is so stunning and incapacitatingly god-like on its own, there's no need for something beyond it. To me, that is "god": the weightless, seemingly purposeless yet wholly purposeful expanse of...existence. Wow.

09.09.09: A Day Without Cats

2009-09-09T08:22:00.005-06:00

A meme has swept the interwebs today, according to Urlesque. The powers that be (robots? dogs? Allergy sufferers?) have declared September 9, 2009 "A Day Without Cats."

At 4am today, I would have agreed wholeheartedly and handed my cat over without a second thought. Take her, damn it! Just let me f*cking SLEEP!

But then I catch myself and realize that I wuv my snuggly wittle kitty witty. Ugh. Wait. Did I just go all kooky about cats? Oh...I get it now.

Help save worldwide sanity and avoid the following websites today:

http://www.icanhascheezburger.com/

http://www.cuteoverload.com/

http://www.fupenguin.com/

These are just a few of the worst feline offenders. Perhaps coming to terms with the oversaturation of pussy cats online will help us get back to the real issues that matter. Like otters. And monkeys.

Ms. Fitz's Blob of the Week

2009-09-04T13:01:00.004-06:00

...UHH...I think it's a monkey. Or, perhaps, a totem head from some long-lost tribe?

Isn't it strange...

2009-09-04T10:11:00.005-06:00

...the things that jog your memory? Scientists say smell is the strongest trigger sense. Even if I think of a memory through a flash of colour or a snippet of a song, inevitably, the lingering smell of that memory is the last and most stubborn recollection of all.

Thinking about this after spending the past few days helping my Bettsy and her man renovate their first home. I've been stopping over after work, munching on snacks and listening to music as we roll paint on the walls and tape baseboards.

I volunteered to putty in all the holes and dents along the walls, which were many. (Apparently, a band of wild apes wrestled with each other wearing steel-toed boots. There's no accounting for the sheer volume of damage, otherwise.) As I spent the hours scanning the walls and digging my trowel into the plaster, I couldn't help but be reminded of my maternal grandfather, and how my simple actions mirrored his--long ago as they were.

My grandfather was an incredible man, about whom I plan to one day write more than a simple blog entry. My favourite childhood memories relate to the time I spent with him and my grandmother in Quebec.

But I digress.

Grandpa Williams was a plasterer who built his own home and ran his own company, building many homes throughout Montreal. This was the East, before sheetrock walls made home renovations a cinch. This was a time of laths, crown mouldings and decorative flourishes around ceilings. My grandfather was an artist, not only in his work, but in his life. Filling nail holes at my friends' place suddenly became an image of my grandfather, the artisan, deftly creating something clean and beautiful with the same tools.

Even though he retired during my lifetime, I never remember him wearing a shirt that wasn't flecked with plaster. I remember his strong, dark fingers, stained with paint, as he doodled on the newspaper he always read at the breakfast table. I would sit quietly in or near his lap, nibbling on my toast. I'd inhale the scent of plaster and Colt cigarellos (wine-tipped) in silent worship.

As I finished helping last night and made my way home, my mind smelled faint cigar smoke with a hint of sweet wine. And as I drove home, I smiled.

My first magazine.

2009-09-03T12:30:00.004-06:00

I published my first magazine as managing editor for my organization. It's a 3x-yearly publication for members and politicians on rural issues (are you falling asleep yet?...) but I'm proud of it. More times for my name in print, and professional, at that. I wrote three features and edited the entire content, chose photos, etc. One more for the portfolio.

Rural Routes Magazine, Summer 2009.

Why Twilight sucks. Pun intented.

2009-09-02T10:41:00.006-06:00

I am on the last book of the series, Breaking Dawn, and still feel a strange combination of fascination and self-loathing every time I turn a page. Curious to see if others shared my repulsive compulsion, I Googled "Why I hate Twilight." A flurry of clicks later, I've amalgamated a series of essays, theories and top 10 lists that helped explain this odd love/loathe experience.

Here are a few that adroitly convey some serious issues that I have with the book:

From Vulpeslibris:

"I had always felt deeply uncomfortable about the way this book portrayed Bella. At the start of the book she seemed pretty clued up, a normal teenage girl. By the end she was a lying, pathetic, characterless stooge and all thorough the actions of one man…Edward Cullen."

Comparison to Harry Potter (the far superior series):
"To put it simply, dear reader, I was horrified. Not just by the sickeningly purple prose or the lack of general writing quality, but the books themselves are insulting on every level--as a woman, as a teenager, as a literature student, and as a graduate of the Harry Potter craze. What’s worse is that so few seem to realize it."

From Blast Magazine: "It is important to note that the heroine should not have to sacrifice anything besides her ambition. If you think she SHOULD sacrifice something, make sure that she’s only giving up her family and friends so that the she can devote her entire life and purpose of being to the hero. She should NOT have any kind of hobbies, interests, etc. outside of the hero, and if he leaves her she should become suicidal."

Wikipedia entry about "Mary Sue", the literary cliche of an author inserting him/herself into a piece of writing by making the main character a transparent version of him/herself.

Last--but not least:

From Cracked's hilarious sendup of the movie "If Twilight was 10 times shorter and 100 times more honest":

KRISTEN STEWART: Me? Oh, no. I'm just a hollow placeholder for all of the teenage girls in the audience to project their personalities onto. I have none of my own whatsoever.

ROBERT PATTINSON: So, the next generation of young women are currently flocking to see a female lead starring in a movie by a female director based on a bestselling book by a female author, and in this movie the main character wants to become completely submissive and self-sacrificing for a male.

KRISTEN STEWART: I love you. Put a baby in me.

ROBERT PATTINSON: At least the other three books can't possibly be more misogynistic and depressing.

They ARE.
END

How to be a Good Girl

2009-09-01T13:56:00.002-06:00

"Girls collect achievements by the handful, but often don't have the confidence to own them." Sure, we may outpace the guys around us in school, but by the time we enter college, we'll have given up our leadership roles. We'll make up just a third of business-school students and barely a quarter of law-firm partners. We invalidate ourselves through speech, body language, and weak handshakes. And we still earn less—77 cents to every dollar—and ask for raises less frequently."

Found this article today on how our current generation, while capable, competent and available, aren't willing to grab onto what they want in life. For all my staunch ideas and ability to flap my yap on any subject, I get that paralyzing fear of not succeeding. Do I start to excuse my behaviour, thereby weakening my position? I believe that I very well do. Perhaps recognizing it is the first step towards correcting the behaviour? Let's hope so.

Self-imposed Glass Ceilings

Choice Quote:

"Asked to write down how society expects a "good girl" to behave, [a group of surveyed middle-school girls'] responses ranged from "perfect" and "kind," "intelligent" with "tons of friends" to "no opinions on things" and "doesn't get mad." A bad girl, on the other hand, was described as a "proud" "rule breaker" who "speaks her mind" and likes being the "center of attention." Or, to put it simply, all of the things that make somebody a good leader. "

Yikes. Time to strap those feminist stompin' boots back on, ladies. We've got more work to do, it seems. And we'll have to start with ourselves.

Finally made it to the beach!

2009-08-31T10:12:00.003-06:00

Summer's nearly over, the weather's been for shit, and I've hardly gotten out, other than to leave for NYC in June. Can't remember the last time I was in a bathing suit. Pathetic.

Cohorts and divine artsters Jillayne and Sarah C. invited me on a road trip to Lesser Slave Lake for a weekend of sunning, slothing and sipping cocktails. I was in.

Arrived Saturday and hit the beach, which was deliciously warm and sunny. Even went and got our feet wet, though I didn't actually go all the way in. Snacked and enjoyed the weekend cocktail: Amaretto on ice with OJ. Yum.

Had a fire and roasted hot dogs, then made our way back to the Holiday Inn to soak in the hot tub, shower off the sand and sleep like babies on soft duvets. Sunday, back to the beach, then home for a little R & R before it was back to work on Monday. Delicious and delightful and the perfect way to perk me up after a shit week of breakups and car breakins.

Awesome Trifecta.

2009-08-28T08:36:00.004-06:00

There are no words to describe the sheer kickass nature of this collaboration. I don't care if they play one chord on a ukelele for 45 minutes straight.

Them Crooked Vultures:

Dave Grohl (Nirvana, Foo Fighters, QOTSA)
Josh Homme (QOTSA, Kyuss, Eagles of Death Metal)
John Paul Jones (Led FREAKIN' Zeppelin)

!!!

They took several of my favourite rock bands and amalgamated them into a superhero group, ready to save the world from pop drivel hell. I thought I was an atheist. But this is proof positive: there IS a god. And He/She is merciful. Click on the photo for more.

Eee hee hee hee! *clap clap clap*

Cubed.

2009-08-26T10:56:00.004-06:00

Have you seen the Nissan Cube? It's quickly becoming the hit vehicle of the summer; I've noticed a few putting around town. I took a poll of coworkers just now, and several--to my shock and alarm--think it's cute. THIS is cute?! It's like something the Soviet bloc came up with 40 years ago with a weird name like the Kruschto. I'll admit it's kind of interesting and looks like it'd be fun to drive...if you lived in LEGOland.

My preferences are for small and sporty. Cute. Like the Smart. The Mini. The Miata.

This car is the equivalent of the dumb, lunky kid in kindergarten who ate paste in the corner and gave you the creeps with his walleye. It's the Ralph Wiggum of cars. I choo-choo-choose you? I think not.

Imaginary Dates.

2009-08-25T11:58:00.015-06:00

Just split with my boy. Not happy to end it. Not wanting to end it. But end it I did. Just not enough. Needs not being met. Maybe one day? Maybe. But only if shit gets sorted out. Want to be there for someone else, but you gotta have them be there for you, too. Right? Right.

So I'm thinking about men I'd like to go on a fictional date with. Maybe it'd be fun. Maybe it'd be a disaster. But it's all pretend, so who cares, right? Let me have my fantasies.

George Strombolopoulos. Long-time crush for probably every female aged 15-40 in Canada. Smart. Witty. Punk. Political. Has his own news show where he comfortably hosts world leaders as easily as Hollywood starlets. And so humble. And gracious. And has delicious facial piercings. Yum.

Caleb Followill. He could use someone like me (snicker). Soulful and beautiful to look at. Talented and that southern accent's probably a killer. And he's got two hot brothers, too. So maybe if it didn't work out, Jared'd be free?

Dexter Morgan. Yes. He's a fictional psychopath. But dayum. When I first saw Michael C. Hall in Six Feet Under, I thought he was "meh." But then suddenly he's got that dorky haircut and the abs with the leather gloves? Hellooooo. And no, I'm not into the killer thing. But that's a great character role. How good of an actor do you have to be to make a bad guy sympathetic? Pretty darn good.

Jon Stewart. I'd laugh so hard. And he's such an adorable mensch. And he stands up for himself and his ideals, not willing to back down on something just for the sake of being nice. See YouTube to watch him bitchslap Tucker Carlson. Swoon.

Colin Farrell. Swarthy Irish bad boy. Not a good influence in any way. But would be so much fun.

Ewan MacGregor. Had a crush on him since "Trainspotting" and he's only gotten better. Can sing and isn't afraid to get nekkid in his movies. Great smile. Better accent. And I hear he's a bit of a kink/swinger in real life. Growl.

Josh Homme. Normally redheads aren't the type I'd find particularly attractive. But QOTSA is one of my favourites. And he guests in or joins new bands every second week. Like Jack White, only without the albinism. He's tall. And tatooed. And is married to punk goddess Brody Dalle. Giant slab of rock n' roll. Mmm.

Fuck you, Penguin.

2009-08-25T08:20:00.003-06:00

I love stupid websites with cute, furry creatures on them. Got a YouTube video of a dog going down a waterslide? Sold. Adorable kittens riding a Roomba? Done. I've got CuteOverload and icanhascheezburger on regular rotation every time I logon. I get it. I'm a cute freak. But I also recognize the slightly disturbing, off-balance adorableness of my ways. Which is why I laughed when I found this website:

http://www.fupenguin.com/

Yeah. That's right. Screw the cute animals. They think they're so clever. But we're onto them, cynical bastards that we are!

heh heh.

Squirrelizer!

2009-08-21T14:11:00.003-06:00

Lest you've been living under a rock for the past few weeks, you've no doubt seen this gem of a photograph on websites ranging from National Geographic to the NY Times to the London Daily Telegraph. It's of a delighful, adorable ground squirrel (or prairie dog, as we Albertans know them) in Banff, dropping a swift, devastating photobomb upon an unsuspecting American couple.

Squirrelmania has reached a fevered pitch, and I came across this website a few days ago that allows you to insert famous Mr. Squirrely Pants into your favourite photo. I've been mucking about with it ever since, inserting him into staff photos, then emailing my coworkers. Hee.

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Cartman's Drumming Monkey

2009-08-21T10:15:00.005-06:00

One of my favourite South Park gags was a season three episode in which Cartman gets a monkey with a miniature drumkit who follows him around and does drumrolls to help him learn to spell. It's a WORD MONKEY!!!!

The Hooked on Monkey Fonics monkey would build him up with a little *tsst tit tsst tsst tit tsst tit tsst tsst* and I loved it. Every time I talk to someone who seems like they have their own little soundtrack going on while they blab, I picture the little drumming South Park monkey. That, or the Oompah band episode from Kids in the Hall. Ah...pop culture. How could I define my life without you?

Facebook to become the Ministry of Information?

2009-08-19T08:26:00.002-06:00

Scary article from Slate.com on the merging of the Huffington Post (online shitrag of questionable journalistic integrity) and Facebook. Read what your friends are reading! Make news a social event! Have everything you read online tracked!

Selected quote from the article:

"Making Facebook the aggregator of the future has all sorts of implications about how news penetrates certain social groups. Will demographics become even more hermetic in their thinking and news-gathering than they already are? How will folks get information from outside their social group if all news becomes social? ...A Facebook-led journalistic future is fraught with just as much uncertainty as one led by the mainstream media."

Hmm...

Art vs. the Artist

2009-08-18T08:59:00.006-06:00

Unlike science, with its hard facts, measurables and logic, art and creative pursuits are subjective. Not that it means an interpretation of a piece of art can't be wrong: it's not an "anything goes" policy, no, no. It is, however, a lot more flexible and filled with minute shades of grey. As one of my university professors explained it:

Interpreting and critiquing the value of a work of art (whether that be a painting or a poem) is like shining a flashlight on a wall. The concentrated beam in the middle represents the realm of possible interpretations, none more or less correct than any other. The closer to the middle you are, the more correct you are. Then as you reach the periphery, it gets fuzzier, until you end up, sometimes inperceptibly, in the dark.

I like that.

In school, I learned many theories and ways to interpret works of art: aesthetic, psychological, personal, historical, etc. One often-contested means of interpretation was to judge a work in relationship to its author/creator.

This makes sense, since a person will inevitably put their influence into a work and will choose subject matter based on their personality, hopes, fears, dreams and dark desires. What comes up for debate, however, is whether you can judge the quality of the work based on the quality of its creator. Does the work stand alone, or does our judgement of it have its basis in our understanding of the artist?

Personally, I'm of the school that says that, regardless of how autobiographical or self-involved a work, a piece of writing or music or art can be judged on its own merit, separate from the creator. Which is important, I believe, when you consider how many artists are also fuck ups and assholes. The creative process is often linked to mental instability and self-involvement. It's what allows the artist to contemplate his soul, dig out a piece and put it on display. It also means, however, that many are addicts, crazies or just, well...bad people.

The artist is not irrelevant to the finished product. However, viewing the end result separately means basing judgement on the merits of the story it tells and how it is told. I mean, Picasso was a misogynist, Charlie Parker a heroin addict and Lewis Carroll loved his 10-year-old neighbour. So you would probably not want to have these guys over for tea and scones. But does that make their art worth less than if they were more staid and virtuous?

These thoughts swirled through my head as I read this article, which details a new book on William Golding, the author of Lord of the Flies. Through research, the biographer discovered that Golding was a rapist. This discovery has shocked readers everywhere and has provoked a call for the book to be removed from junior high school reading lists. Slate's sister website, XX, includes feminist reactions here.

While I find this revelation apalling, I can't say that it changes my mind about Lord of the Flies. Whatever its flaws, I find it to be a tremendous, powerful book that explores the denegration of society through the parable of a group of feral schoolboys. But many others may not be able to look past it. And that's fine for them, I suppose. Though missing out on literature, in my opinion, is sad and, I think, more detrimental to the state of our culture than the fact that this dead author was a bad man.

Thoughts?

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Curious George

2009-08-14T08:13:00.004-06:00

George's got it all: monkey-ness, cuteness, cartoon-y-ness and a warm fuzzy part of my chilhood...ness.

Yes, he tested the Man in the Yellow Hat's patience, and sometimes I wondered why the Man in the Yellow Hat didn't just take him to the zoo and be done with his monkeying around. But he was just so insatiably curious and adorable, how could he say no?

I'm curious, like George, always getting into mischief. We're kindred that way.

Clever little monkey, he is.

Hooked on Purpose

2009-08-13T10:26:00.004-06:00

You know that buzz you get from constantly checking texts, updating Facebook and reloading your Google searches? Seems that it's the same buzz lab rats get from pressing 'the button' incessantly in research. This article gives it a name: seeking. And apparently, seeking is the most fundamental mammalian drive--more than sex, food or shelter. And not just seeking out physical stimulation, but mental stimulation as well. In that case, I think I'm a dope (amine) addict. And you are, too.

Highlights:

"[Seeking] is the mammalian motivational engine that each day gets us out of the bed, or den, or hole to venture forth into the world."

"The dopamine circuits 'promote states of eagerness and directed purpose'...It's a state humans love to be in. So good does it feel that we seek out activities, or substances, that keep this system aroused—cocaine and amphetamines, drugs of stimulation, are particularly effective at stirring it."

"our constant Internet scrolling is remodeling our brains to make it nearly impossible for us to give sustained attention to a long piece of writing. Like the lab rats, we keep hitting "enter" to get our next fix."

"our brains are designed to more easily be stimulated than satisfied..."

"Since we're restless, easily bored creatures, our gadgets give us in abundance qualities the seeking/wanting system finds particularly exciting. Novelty is one."

Suddenly, my short attention span and constant need for new! different! exciting! doesn't seem like such a character flaw anymore. Not that I shouldn't try to up my pleasure factor and just relax...but at least I know there's a biological impetus behind it.

Hipster Douchebags.

2009-08-13T08:13:00.005-06:00

Hipster (n.)

Listens to bands that you have never heard of. Has hairstyle that can only be described as "complicated." ... Probably tattooed. Maybe gay. Definitely cooler than you. Complains. Always denies being a hipster. Hates the word. Probably living off parents' money - and spends a great deal of it to look like they don't have any. Has friends and/or self cut hair. Dyes it frequently (black, white-blonde, etc. and until scalp bleeds). Has a closet full of clothing but usually wears same three things OVER AND OVER (most likely very tight black pants, scarf, and ironic tee-shirt). Chips off nail polish artfully after $50 manicure. Sleeps with everyone and talks about it at great volume in crowded coffee shops. Addicted to coffee, cigarettes (Parliaments, Kamel Reds, Lucky Strikes, etc.), and possibly cocaine. Claims to be in a band. Rehearsals consist of choosing outfits for next show and drinking PBR. Always on the list. Majors or majored in art, writing, or queer studies. Name-drops.

Urban Dictionary

I've been accused of being overly-hipsterish. Though I will admit to certain pretentious young person tendencies, I am in no way, shape or form even on the same planet as these folks. The only parts of that definition that apply to me would be my small (like, three shirts) collection of ironic tees, tattoos and scarves. And coffee shops. And majored in English at university. Am not drug-addled or cooler-than-thou. Mostly because I don't spend enough hours downloading music to care. I do own sweatpants and have worn them out of the house to buy milk on occasion. Sue me.

The flack's been more vocal, lately, though I'm not sure how I inspired it. I wear pantsuits to work every day and get my hair cut at a salon.

Regardless...

Two of my favourite marrieds, A&S, live in a downtown loft. In their elevator the other day, they ran into a young man wearing this Threadless tee. S snickered and remarked to A that, "oh, I didn't know K's boyfriend lived in the building." Har, har.

Of course, what makes the comment actually funny is that I OWN said shirt, along with several items of skull & crossbone and other pirate-y paraphernelia. Not sure that makes me a hipster. Just makes me someone who likes clever language and men in eyepatches. Right?

The Boy also mocks me for being a pretentious hipster, though I think he overestimates my suave, urban cool. So I wore a scarf on a few dates: it was cold outside. He's pretty anti-hipster, though. Anti-hippy, too. He's a little more rock n' roll, which I like. I'd consider myself more rock n' roll, too, if others weren't so quick to pass me into the hipster category.

I like irony. I do. I read a lot of literature and enjoy the use of thought-provoking language. I like good music and art but I don't feel the need to like those things just to be cool. And yes...ok...I WOULD go to this workout class, but only because I'd be laughing so hard my abs would be rock-hard by the end.

So there.

Something Serious: Esquire Interview with Abortion Doctor

2009-08-12T11:04:00.005-06:00

No, this post isn't about monkeys or barf-inducing vampires. It's about a fantastically-written and heartbreaking interview in Esquire magazine with the last late-term abortion doctor left in the US.

People who read the news (both of you) may remember a few months ago when a Wichita, KS doctor was shot in his church by a pro-life wingnut. This interview's with his friend and colleague in Colorado. It's a fascinating read, though not easy.

What this doctor does daily is heroic and his words pretty much sum up my own personal views on the subject matter. I'm ardently in favour of people having the right to make their own damned decisions about their lives, difficult or not, and would challenge anyone to discount the necessity and importance of this doctor's work.

Abortion is a very delicate subject in popular culture. Most movies, TV shows and books simply gloss over it or wuss out at the last second, rather than dealing with the confluence of psychology, physiology, feminism, patriarchy, history, politics, religion, etc., ad nauseum abortion implies.

If you're looking for a trite view of abortion, see the scenes in Knocked Up or Juno, when the pregnant characters take the 30-second consideration route, before deciding to keep their babies.

Phenomenal book, one of my all-time favourites, is John Irving's The Cider House Rules. Don't bother with the movie, because Tobey Maguire's little boy voice cracking will take away from the better story, which is about Dr. Larch's work at the orphanage. A great movie about the implications of abortion is the British film Vera Drake. Both of these are great pieces of artistic expression that don't pass moral judgement on the act itself, but rather portray abortion in all its complexity.

Anyways, back to the article: it's long, but riveting, and definitely worth thinking about. Read here.

The Cat Did it.

2009-08-11T15:25:00.006-06:00

hee hee hee.

This dude in Florida turned on his pet after he was arrested for 10 counts of possession of child pornography on his home computer.

"According to a sheriff's report Friday, [Keith] Griffin told investigators that his cat jumped on the computer keyboard while he was downloading music. He said he had left the room and found "strange things" on his computer when he returned." - Associated Press

Wow. That's a new one. I've had my cat accidentally type in "agarzzzzdfdfqwet" on my computer. And I think she's probably sent a few wrong emails while I was in the loo. But 1,000 pieces of child pornography? Erm...yeah, she may be bad...but she's not evil.

See the great thing about pets is that, even if you're a dirtbag, they still love you. Even if you're some pervert who throws your pet under a bus the second the popo arrive, they'll still think you're the cat's pyjamas.

Poor kitty. I hope he finds a nice home where the owners won't blame him for pedophilia. Ok, Ok...so maybe the man's innocent. If that's the case, though, I hope this kitty gets the help he needs and stays at least 100m away from all kittens, petstores and kindergartens.

But hey, now I have a nifty excuse for all that kinky stuff that ever ends up on my hard drive. Not that there would be, mind you. But if there were, it's completely the cat's fault. Little sex addict.

And erm, if any naked pictures of me ever end up somewhere on the 'net, that was totally the cat's fault. It just so happens that I was dancing around naked and left the lens cap off my camera and "click!" the cat jumped on the table and took my photo. And then uploaded it. And posted it. She so did.

Also, I think my cat filed my income tax improperly and was caught doing 120 on the highway and got that $200 ticket. Improbable as it may seem, I saw her working the stick shift the other day when she thought I wasn't looking. No, really.

Bad kitty.

I need a shower.

2009-08-10T12:51:00.003-06:00

Must...get...clean...

So this weekend, a friend lent me the first two books of the Twilight "saga". Yes, "saga" goes in quotes, because it's not the flippin' Epic of Gilgamesh, it's tween fiction.

I decided to read them so that I could actually qualify my disgust for the books that turned soccer moms into squealing pre-menstrual girls.

I'm about halfway through the first book, which I'm told you must slog through before you start to get swept away in the love story for all time that is Bella and Edward. And I must say that, as difficult as it is to read and hold down vomit simultaneously, it's strangely compelling.

But the writing is bad. So bad. So. Excruciatingly. Awful.

One day soon, I'm going to find my old shoebox filled with angsty poems I wrote in junior high and compare them to Twilight. I swear to you, the language is the same. Explains why kids go cuckoo for it. It's speaking their lovelorn, inexperienced, self-involved language. But to the adult reader, well...it's a little tough to take without a generous helping of Pepto-Bismol.

I've started a running tally of the number of times the words "dazzled", "despair" and "devastated"--and all synonyms--are used. 200 pages in, and I've lost count. Bella, the protagonist, is so helpless, whiny and needy she can't be trusted to go to a beach without drowning. But her "knight in shining skin" is there to sparkle at her and whisper tormented nothings in her ear.

Barf.

I get it. It's a young female fantasy. The dangerous but beautiful, troubled man just looking for the woman to set him straight. But do they need to put it into such clothes-rending, hair-tearing melodramatic terms? Could the author have at least invested in a thesaurus? She beats you into submission with her nauseatingly minute details of this unrequited love, until you cry out, "no more!"

I've been warned about the second book, told that I'll want to poke my eyes out with something pointy to make the agony stop. Tripe.

And don't go saying that "well, Harry Potter is written for young kids, too, and that's also popular." Harry Potter is well-written. Harry Potter uses a variety of words to convey meaning. Harry Potter stands up to Voldemort and saves the day, rather than waiting for Hermione to come to his rescue while he wees himself in the corner. It's great that Twilight is getting kids to read. Maybe next, though, they could, you know, read something good.

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Sock Monkey

2009-08-07T08:10:00.003-06:00

Who doesn't love these? Though I never had one as a child, my fondness has grown over the years. They've made a recent comeback, and I've found them at hip home outfitters and curio shops around town. I've got a pattern to knit one, and I even found a sock monkey toque pattern here. Rad, no?

Blargh.

2009-08-06T08:19:00.003-06:00

Blargh (expletive):
1. An exclamation indicating that one has absorbed or is emitting a quantum of unhappiness.
2. An expression of barbaric anger or frustration.
3. The noise you make whenever you're going through another FGE (Fucking growth experience).

From the Urban Dictionary (I've chosen my top three definitions from the dozens available.)

Raining. Cold. Dark outside.

Summer has reached its apex and is now dwindling ever faster towards another nine months of snow.

Tired and stressed. Mild bout of depression. Hormones and other girly suckitude.

Personal issues of relationship variety. Anxiety, frustration and a dollop of self-loathing to taste.

Sadness. Emotions high and logic giving emotions the wary side eye.

I think number three about sums it up for me today. Just another fucking growth experience.

Lisztomania.

2009-08-04T11:03:00.011-06:00

Wow. Long weekend. Jam-packed with ups and downs. Downs of the frustrating variety, not the depressing variety. The variety that makes one stomp around muttering "fuckfuckfuckfuck" under one's breath. The variety that makes it abundantly clear that I'm not ready for children. Or dogs, for that matter. Since they are, underneath it all, small furry children who never grow up or take care of you when you're old and diaper-clad.

On the flip side? Fantastic good times sort-of made up for it. Immersed self in a band whose music causes pure elation and helped rid me of the "fuckityfuckfucks".

Shall we?

***

Last week decided to do a selfless thing (won't say altruistic, since there was definite reluctance on my part) and told my mother about great seat sale I found online that would allow her to go visit stepdad in BC. Unfortunately, this conflicted with her puppysitting for the brother and sister-in-law, who spent the weekend in Vancouver. Sister was also unavailable, having written her MCAT on Thursday (fingers crossed!) then immediately skipped town for Jasper.

With most friends and all family out of town, I decided to take one for the team and babysit both brother's dogs and mom's wee old grump for Sunday and Monday. Easy, right?

Friday
Washed the new car lovingly for the first time, did some housework and went to see Funny People with one of my favourite sets of marrieds.

Saturday
Decided to enjoy the weather and go shopping, purchasing three new CDs (now on heavy rotation in the Yaris's stereo) and The Lovely Bones, a fantastic read that I quickly devoured over the course of that evening and Sunday afternoon.

Spent Saturday night observing another wicked thunderstorm in Sherwood Park at the brother's with mum. Slept (un-)comfortably with three mixed-and-matched sized bedmates:

Alden, the well-behaved, 5-year-old lab mix
Colby, the football-sized Ewok/old man
Maggie, the year-and-a-half old whippet/demon spawn

Sunday
Awoke at 5am to get mum to the airport on time, driving through a surreal blanket of fog that made visibility nigh impossible and made me feel like I was travelling across some Scottish moor. Creepy yet cool. Returned that afternoon to get ready for the Big Valley Jamboree in Camrose, which was later cancelled after the main stage collapsed in Saturday's torrential downpour and tornado-like winds. One killed. Seventy-five injured. Sad.

Was supposed to see Jamboree with former work girlfriend, but we decided to meet for lunch in Edmonton instead. Since I'd put the dogs outside in the sun for the better part of the day, I (wrongly) assumed Monster, erm, Maggie, would be fine out of her crate for an hour or two while I had lunch. Wrong.

***
I should have known better, considering that in her short 9 months with the brother and sis-in-law, Margaret has been whisked to the emergency vet clinic several times: once having inhaled an entire bag of M&Ms while brother's back was turned, resulting in a $400 stomach pump; the next time requiring her head examined when her face swelled due to a self-inflicted black eye and simultaneous ear infection. Also, considering that she has eaten several pairs of sister's shoes and has a nasty habit of pissing on the carpet if you look at her sideways, this was my bad.)
***

Returned home to what looked like the remnants of a frat party, replete with cups and paper strewn everywhere and shaving foam (!?) covering every surface. Seems Maggie found brother's travel toiletry kit and proceeded to gnaw up the deodorant, shaving cream can and all the razors in sight. Fortunately, razor blades were found and accounted for, so there was no emergency vet trip to remove those from pup's stomach. Shaving foam left carpet sticky, but, luckily, the longest-lasting effect will be a noticeable cologne smell in the living room. Idiot dog.

Monday
Another night of dog cuddles, this time more welcome, as the temperature had dropped noticeably. Put pups outside for some playtime, then headed back into Edmonton with Colby, who was feeling a little peaked. Figured he'd be less bothered by spending time with Ollie in my apartment than by having Maggie constantly harrass him to play. (Lesser of two evils: being pounced on by dumb dog or batted at by bored cat?)

Got home and had time to feed pets, take shower, and grab a quick bite before I met my friend for trip to Heritage Festival. Exited shower to find that, not only was dog sick, he was sick on my floor. Grumbling and cursing, I took him outside, where he promptly howled and had diarrhea, which, being a responsible pet caretaker, I had to clean up. Lovely. Returned inside to find out that he was sick not only on the floor, but on the couch. On my white crocheted blanket. That my grandmother had made me. Ugh. So, now running further behind, and still not full of breakfast, I tossed my blanket in the laundry with bleach and hot water and tossed the dog in the tub, where he received a vigorous bath, followed by a quick towel wrap and an unceremonious dumping on the couch. He was then warned not to puke on the carpet, lest his little ass get a beatdown.

Then it was off to the Heritage Festival with C.P., where we enjoyed delicious meats-on-a-stick from around the globe and took in dozens of sights and sounds. Mmm, multiculturalicious.

On our way back to the shuttle downtown, sister called from Jasper in pain, wondering what to do. I took the obvious, "go the hospital, dummy" route, which she did, though didn't seem to pleased about it. Apparently, it was a ruptured ear drum made worse by an undetected ear infection. And that, friends, is why I don't go cliff diving.

***

And now, the best part of the weekend: my new Phoenix album, "Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix". French rock/pop band with a great single (1901) that I've played approximately 37 times over the course of the weekend. Nothing short of euphoric. Please, buy this album. The songs gave me goosebumps and made me smile when I'd rather have been grumbling about idiot canines.

Have a good week. Immerse yourself in Lisztomania. You won't be sorry.

Oh, fuck off.

2009-07-30T15:52:00.005-06:00

Over the weekend, an 18-year-old boy was stabbed to death at a house party in Sherwood Park--at a condo complex next door to where my family lived from 2001-2007. Two boys at the party got into an argument, another boy came to his friend's defence, and was killed for his effort.

Today's newspapers and radio reports included a statement from the accused's father that " he believes his son acted in self-defence."

wha-wha-WHAT?!

While I'm not an attorney in this case, from all the news I've read on the fight, these weren't two boys with kitchen knives sparring in the yard. This was an escalation of violence during a drunken argument. Even if it WERE the case that this boy acted in self-defence, was he in fear for his own life? Was this a kill or be killed scenario? Because that's the only real situation where the taking of another life might be put into a different context. But considering that the boy is being tried for first-degree murder, I call BULLSHIT.

I don't really give a shit what "situation" a person is put in. If you feel that your physical safety is threatened, you have several courses of action to either decelerate or remove yourself from the situation:

1) Walk away.
2) Run away.
3) Scream until someone comes to your aid.
3) Call the cops.
4) Scream, try to disarm or otherwise incapacitate the offender, walk/run away and call the cops.

The father, Mark Faltermeier, says: "He's very sorry for [the killing] and it hurts him a lot. He's very emotionally upset. I told him you've got to be strong to get through this ordeal. It wasn't your fault. You were put in a situation."

It wasn't your fault

...cough...

You were put in a situation

...sputter...

Oh please, sir: fuck off.

He stabbed another kid to death at a party. But it wasn't his fault. He was possessed by some evil stabby demon. The alcohol/drugs did it. The other kids peer pressured him into it. But fuck, no, don't--under any circumstances--place personal responsibility for this heinous act squarely on the shoulders of the perpetrator. No one's denying he did it. Not even this father. But hey, it's ok, sonny boy. Because it's not your fault. You are just a spoiled rich kid who was never taught that your actions have consequences, so just hushaby, little baby, and daddy will try to get the media to whitewash this away for you.

Perhaps one of the reasons a teenaged boy is dead and another may spend a good portion of his adult life in jail is because they were raised with the suburban pop-psychology parenting of high self-esteem and zero responsibility for one's actions. Such is the way of Sherwood Park, mecca of entitlement and complete dissociation with real life and its inherent horrors.

First-degree murder. That's the charge. Not manslaughter. Not a charge that would indicate self-defence as a plausible motivator. First-degree murder. Which means he had intent and carried it out. So don't piss in my ear and declare it glorious raindrops.

The father is in shock. Perhaps grieving the very real loss of his child to the justice system. He's scared for his son. And well he should be. Maybe though, he should have been more scared when he was raising the kid. Scared that he might raise a vindictive little monster who felt entitled to make life-and-death decisions. To raise the stakes for himself and another. To snuff out another's life.

He said he hopes his son has a fair trial and reiterates that the death was "absolutely" self-defence, but declined to discuss the circumstances further under legal advice.

Self-defence? Fuck off. Your son's about to get a heaping dose of the reality he was apparently kept so sheltered from. Tough way to learn. But better late than never. No, wait: it is too late. Too late for the other 18-year-old, who's now lying cold in the ground. You people make me sick.

Read the entire Edmonton Journal article here.

Buckle up, dummy.

2009-07-28T13:24:00.008-06:00

Part of my job working for a rural-focused organization is finding and disseminating news on rural issues and government initiatives. The Government of Alberta just published its 2008 traffic safety report, which indicates that the vast majority of fatalities in the province take place on rural roads. And a good portion of those are due to people rolling their cars and being thrown from the vehicles.

Wait, hold up. Thrown from the vehicles? That must be quite a force. Oh, no. That's not it.

The Calgary Herald article explains:

"People aren't wearing seatbelts. That's the case in about 35 per cent of traffic fatalities Alberta RCMP investigate."

Seriously? Wow. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, we're living in the midst of a seatbelt-free epidemic. Did I step through some sort of time-warp, where people are still listening to phonographs and doing the jitterbug? Dear god, folks: they still make people like you?!

With all these technological advancements and new safety measures--and the fact that the average driver has never even been in a car that didn't come equipped with seatbelts--I'm unsure how this trend got going. Are seatbelts somehow uncool? Did I miss the societal memo where we go back to junior high and try to out-idiot each other behind the swingset?

Sure, as a city gal born and raised, I don't know what I'm talking about when it comes to combines and cattle, but seatbelts? Sorry. Seatbelts, I know. And we're not just discussing driving in your daddy's pickup down the gravel lane towards the back acres. We're talking about 110 km/hr on a paved highway. There are still lots of things to hit out in the country. There are still shitty weather conditions and shittier visibility.

Is this a throwback, rural machismo cowboy bit of horsecrap? Maybe if the seatbelt came equipped with a giant silver buckle you'd do it up? Or does it feel too tight on your lap? No, wait, that can't be it: wearing two-sizes-too-small nut-hugger Wranglers would cut off any sensation below the waist, thereby negating any discomfort felt by the pressure of a safety belt.

You're not too good for a seatbelt. And trust me, fellas, as a well-endowed female, you ain't felt discomfort until you have a chest strap riding up towards your chin because it won't sit properly across your boobs.

Eegads, people. No wonder people think Albertans are backwards yokels sweet on our own livestock. We can't even get the complete no-brainers down. Fail.

If you can start a car, you can take the 1.5 seconds it requires to do up your damned seatbelt. And I thought me on a cellphone was bad...

Ugh.

2009-07-27T12:34:00.010-06:00

A tireless, 71-year-old British heroine is working her butt off to keep the English language from being completely flushed down the loo. Chrissie Maher's Plain English Campaign works tirelessly toward a single honourable goal: making language intelligible.

I must admit to developing a noticeable facial tic upon reading of schoolchildren getting partial marks for inserting "LOL" or "OMG" into academic papers. There are plenty of other travesties, however, sure to keep me up at night.

Selected quotes from the London Daily Telegraph article:

“Youngsters have their own jargon and that’s all very well in its place but if they aren’t taught plain English it will hold them back when it comes to applying for jobs."

“With mobile phones it is so easy to slip back into text language and then suddenly you have used 'woz’ instead of 'was’ in a formal letter without even realising.”

"Research shows three-quarters of school pupils believe it is acceptable to use abbreviations such as 'LOL’ in academic assignments."

I'd be ready to throw my hands up in despair and bewail the total waste of this generation's frontal lobes but for this intrepid crusader.

Now, I know that some of you will go, "oh, stop making such a fuss. It's easier to say things in fewer than 140 characters if you've got some shorthand available." Fine. Good. But when you've got 1,500 words to express yourself and knock your teacher's socks off with your utter brilliance, such usage is repulsive. Get a grip on yourselves, people, and stop fucking around with the language until it bears almost no passing ressemblance to any communication known to humanity.

Communication is the key to language, and if you can't get your point across in a succinct, erudite way, then you've fallen short of reaching what English teachers are supposed to instill in you: the ability to write coherently and effectively. It doesn't have to be filled with purple prose or create a mindgasm with its brilliance. It just has to get the point across in the easiest way possible without making readers scratch their heads wondering what OMFGROFLMAO means or, more worryingly, whether your brain has fled the vicinity of your skull.

Ugh.