Irony is still not dead...

I have an update on the Blarney Woollen Mills saga. A quick recap: most of my order with this Irish shop weren't received. I paid twice as much in duties and taxes as I should have, and they sent me a four-leaf clover charm by mistake.

I sent an e-mail to the Blarney folk and was very impressed with how quickly they got back to me. They apologized for the duty error, which, it turns out, was their fault. They've paid half of my duty costs, which was nice. Most of my order has now arrived, including my two sweaters that I absolutely love. They even sent me a sterling silver necklace that was either a nice peace offering or a complete mistake, but a nice mistake.

And yesterday, I was excited to receive another small Blarney package containing the proper charm for my mother. I eagerly opened the package only to find, yes, you guessed it, another four-leaf clover charm. I've been sent four-leaf clover charms twice, both by accident. I'm not sure if this is doubly good luck, or doubly bad luck. I'll buy a lottery ticket this weekend just to try them out.

Do you remember Old Yeller?

At the hands of Mr. Disney, children of the fifties, sixties and seventies were taught many life lessons in harsh, abeit entertaining ways. We went into theatres excited to see Old Yeller, the story of a nice frontier family and their pet dog. But all too soon our warm, fuzzy jaunt to the theatre became a bath of ice cold water as we tearfully watched Travis shoot his beloved dog. There was no warning. This was Walt Disney. A nice little film that ends with a kid having to shoot his own pet. Nice. A life lesson.

This film was, of course, preceded 15 years earlier by Bambi. Another lovely little cartoon story about a deer and his cute little friends living in the forest. Again, ends in a rather harsh death. Another life lesson.

Don't even get me started on The Yearling.

My point is that, I'm guessing in an effort to teach us about life, adults liked to surprise us with lovely little stories that ended in death. Such is life. For better or for worse, we learned these life lessons and I don't know anyone who's needed therapy as a result. In fact, Travis was the person on my mind when, as a teenager, I had to hand over my beloved pet cat to be euthanised. I still resent my parents for this, but hey, I survived and may have learned something from the experience.

So, it was with mixed emotion that I read on the wires Friday that the Kids Help phone centre in the UK was adding extra staff to help kids deal with the deaths in the new Harry Potter book. I haven't finished the book, but since the world has not fallen into a deep period of mourning, I'm guessing that Harry doesn't die. Good, neither did Travis or Bambi. And although I think the Kids Help Phone is great and am thankful it's there for kids who need it, I couldn't help but feel disappointed that such a big deal was being made of the two deaths in the book. Death happens. Kids need to learn that. And it's never easy. Maybe I'm just a big meany, but would it be so bad for the kids to just deal with it, and maybe talk to their parents about it?

It may sound silly, but watching Old Yeller and Bambi made me feel tougher. I was proud to have watched them. They were a badge of honour, like I'd just learned something about the adult world. And I can't help but feel that we're taking those opportunities away from our children, almost as though we have no faith that they can handle life lessons. Shit happens. That's a lesson better learned sooner than later.

Irony is not dead...

As practically no one who reads this blog will know, I recently returned from a lovely trip to the UK and Ireland. One of the places we visited was the Blarney Woollen Mill in Dublin. If you visit http://www.blarney.com and click on the "Customer Comments" link, you'll see photos of Bill and Hilary Clinton shopping in said store. Bill, incidentallly, is in the women's section.

At the Blarney Woollen Mill, they sell lots of jewellry, including charms for bracelets. My mother is a charm bracelet kind o' gal, but they were all sold out of the charm she wanted when we were there. So, good daughter that I am, I thought I'd go online and order the charm for her as a surprise. The other part of this story is that I, too, saw something I wanted at the Blarney Woollen Mill. Here's a hint: it was woollen. Well, THEY were woollen. I saw a couple of sweaters that I absolutely loved but didn't have room for in my luggage. And we'd already been accused of carrying dead bodies in our luggage by a mannerless taxi driver in Belfast. So, while online, I thought I'd throw a few more things in the basket in addition to the charm. Though the charm, of course, was always the most important item in the basket. I ordered the Trinity Knot charm, which matches earrings my Mom bought on the trip.

The bill came to just over $300. Fair enough. When I got home from work yesterday, in a gross, sweaty, heat wave state, I found a note in my mail saying the package had arrived. Yippee! And ahead of schedule too! It was then that I noticed the fee to pick up the parcel - the fee for duties and taxes - $137.93! Holy sheep! That's a lot of money for a few little things and two bigger things.

Expecting it to be a large package for that price, I drove to the post office. However, the unsympathetic staff person emerged from the back with a box about the size of a Mac Mini. Wha? I thought perhaps the Irish were very good at packing things into little boxes. But when I got home I found that neither of my sweaters was in the box, and that the charm, the start of it all, was the wrong charm. And the irony of it all? They'd sent a four leaf clover charm, clearly, by mistake.

Now is the summer of my discontent, made less glorious by this sun of York...

The heat! My God, the heat!

Baby, it's hot outside and I'm feeling queazy. No, not from the heat, but from the painful sights I've had to endure by poorly dressed people. Yes, it's warm and yes it's humid and we're all suffering for it. But do we have to suffer even more by looking at mass amounts of cleavage and ass?

I don't care how hot it is, there's no need to dress like a skank (male or female) and burn a hole in my retinas in the process. So, in an effort to do my best for the greater good, here is a list of how not to dress no matter the temperature.

WOMEN

- If I can see your cheeks, they're too short. Find bottoms that fit OVER your bottom. Whether your buns are like steel or are dimpled like jelly, this is real life and not a Snoop Dog video, I don't want to see your booty.

- Dress appropriately for work. Even if you have a casual workplace, what you wear on the weekend isn't necessarily proper work attire. Remember: you want to be a PROfessional, not a HOfessional.

- If I can see the muffin top, your pants don't fit. And what's with the fatties in lowrise? Hello! It's OK to be a little overweight, but sometimes you can't squeeze all the cheese back in the tube. I don't need to see the excess oozing overtop. Wear clothes that fit, and that fit above the flab.

- if it looks like you've sprouted a baby's ass on your chest, you're showing WAY too much cleavage. And honey, don't worry, if they're big enough to look like ass, they're big enough to be noticed under a shirt that isn't from the tween deptartment.

- If you're bigger than a B cup, skip the spaghetti straps. Oh honey, do your boobs hang low? Can you tie 'em in a knot? Can you tie 'em in a bow? Can you throw 'em over your shoulder like a continental soldier? Do your boobs hang low? Don't let them swing low sweet chariot. Enrol the girls in a 12 step program and give them the support they need.

- I fully admit that I have ugly feet. However, your toes should not hang over the front of your shoes, nor should the heel hang over the back of the shoes. Act your age and get your shoe size mama! Also, let's try to baby our feet and buff and moisturize once in awhile. This goes for the men too. Gross, callused feet are just icky.

MEN

- see note above about being bigger than a B cup - insert "please wear a shirt" in place of "spaghetti straps". Same rule applies if your back or chest look like a Brillo pad.

- Don't wear shorts so high or so tight that we can see your b'niz. Your bits are your bits. Let's keep the mystery alive, shall we?

- Don't wear shorts and boxers so loose that we can see your b'niz. We want to see no wiggling or bulges of any kind. And please be sure to wear underwear and keep the mouse in the house.

- Never, under any circumstance, do you wear socks with sandals. We all get sweaty feet. Deal with it.

- Unless you're a competitive swimmer, and perhaps not even then, never, EVER wear a Speedo.

- Keep the shirt on, Tarzan. Women don't go whipping their shirts off when it gets hot (though you may prefer it if we did.) There's something to be said for modesty. Try it. You'll like it.

Now, go forth and dress with a little class. Not with a lot o' ass.

Dear St. Peter...

Tonight, while walking home from work along Spadina, my faith in humanity was both quashed and renewed.

I was crossing a little side street in Chinatown, when out of the corner of my eye I spotted something moving on the road. There were three baby racoons mvoing along the street toward Spadina. They were very cute, as racoons go. But also very young. They were barely bigger than a guinea pig. And they were also headed for a very busy street where they would get squished in no time.

There were at least 10 people standing at the corner with me, and at least half noticed the racoons and said "awwww...." but none of them tried to stop the babies from going to Spadina, which struck me as odd. If you think they're cute, then maybe you should stop them from heading in the path of many, many cars.

So, being the suck that I am for all animals, I started to shepherd the babies back from whence they came. I thought some of the people on the corner would help, but no. They were only little, and weren't violent at all. In fact, they seemed pretty damn scared and probably just wanted to get home. As I was guiding them away from Spadina, I heard a voice from above. No, no God. Some other guy with long hair called to me and said that the babies lived on the roof near his patio. And did I want his help to move them back to the roof. Thankfully, he and two of his friends came down to retrieve the babies. They lived there, so they had gloves to wear, but the gloves weren't necessary. The racoons didn't try to bite or really fight at all. One yelled a bit, and then covered his face and pooped. Poor thing. Each of the patio dwellers took a baby and headed to the roof. I thanked them for their help. They thanked me. And I thought we did the right thing and I felt good about it.

I know they were only racoons, but they were harmless babies. And it's not their fault that we've built on top of the land they used to call home. I'll try to remember then the next time they try to get into my garbage or wake me with a fight in the laneway behind my house.

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They were journalists, and then they died...

In the past two months, two of the most influential people in my life as a journalist have died. And I hadn’t met either one of them.

For twenty years Doris Anderson served as the editor of Chatelaine magazine. With Doris at the helm, Chatelaine became a more than the stereotypical women’s magazine of the fifties and sixties. Moving beyond just recipes and household tips, Chatelaine became a vehicle for social change, carrying groundbreaking articles about gender equality, divorce and abortion rights.

And as we celebrate the 25th anniversary of the Charter of Rights, it is with gratitude that I remember Doris Anderson. Feeling that the Charter undermined women’s rights, and pressured by the government not to talk about it, she resigned as head of the Advisory Council on the Status of Women. That inspired an uprising of women across the country. And the result is the short but significant Constitutional clause that states that men and women are equal under the law. Doris Anderson died on March 2nd.

Like Doris, June Callwood was a pioneering member of the press. She started in the newspaper business when women were the typists, not the journalists. We know her as June Callwood, and not June Frayne, because in the forties, The Globe and Mail didn’t employ married women. So she used her maiden name. Doris had the stigma of being a working single mother. And June had the stigma of being a working married woman. The operative word there being “working.”

June died on April 14th, which happened to be my six-year anniversary as an employed journalist. No other person has had a greater influence on my career. In 2002, June delivered the first Dalton Camp Lecture in Journalism. It was broadcast on IDEAS that fall, and a friend gave me a cassette copy. I’ve listened to that lecture countless times, and each time, my passion for journalism is renewed. Addressing students at St. Thomas University in Fredericton, she spoke about journalism being at the heart of democracy. And said that “the profession of journalism enjoys its finest moments when it speaks against oppression and greed, but journalism does a glorious job of celebrating the triumphs of human spirit that elevate us all.” Through all that June accomplished, the awards, the foundations, it is that lecture that most endeared her to me. She said that you don’t have to be a journalist to be a good person, but you have to a good person to be a good journalist. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. And now she’s gone.

And I’m left wondering to whom the next generation of women journalists will look for guidance. Who will be their mentor? To whom has the torch been passed? And you know, I can’t think of a single person in the same category of Doris and June. They were peers, and yet peerless.

Sure, there are female colleagues that I admire and look to as mentors, but it’s not the same. I’m not sure why that is. Doris and June paved the way for us, breaking down barriers that seem ridiculous by today’s standards. Today, we take for granted the open doors for which they cut the key. And I fear we’ve stopped to rest on their laurels. We’ve come a long way baby, but there’s still a long road ahead.

When she was 15, Judy Maddren wrote to the CBC asking for advice on how to become a broadcaster. She received a polite letter in reply saying thanks but no thanks, there were several fine gentlemen already performing that role. She’s now the host of CBC Radio’s World Report. And on occasion, fine gentlemen fill in for her.

To see how far we have yet to go, we need look no further than the news events in the days surrounding June Callwood’s death. Belinda Stronach announced that she was stepping down from politics. Love her or hate her, no other politician in recent years has been scrutinized as closely as Ms. Stronach. Even the sponsorship scandal could be forgotten when the sexy blonde was in the room.

Don Imus, a nationally syndicated American radio host was fired making racist and sexist comments about the Rutgers women’s basketball team. And only days after June’s death, a shooting in Virginia was thought to be a domestic dispute, an event so common it wasn’t important enough to lock down the campus of Virginia Tech.

I have a male colleague who completely disagrees with me. Who feels that there are so many women journalists today that the focus is diffused, that there isn’t one person to look to, and that I should celebrate that fact. I do celebrate that there are so many women journalists, and there are many that I look to as excellent writers and broadcasters. That said, there isn’t anyone on a national level that I would hold up as a mentor. June Callwood stood out among the masses because she used her position of influence for the greater good.

I looked to the generation of trailblazers, and come from the generation of Promo Girl and Contest Girl. I have colleagues who hide their pregnancies for fear their contracts won’t be renewed. It wouldn’t hurt to take a step forward.

June Callwood and Doris Anderson were feminists before feminist became a bad word. The definition of feminism has since been hijacked. These days, if you’re called a feminist, it’s like being called religious – both sound radical and exclusive.

So, perhaps in moving forward, we should adopt a new term in the fight for equality. Today, I declare myself a Junist. A person defending the principles of Junism – the theory that all people are created equal, that good journalists are thorough and accurate and that kindness should prevail above all.