Let's sloooow things down for a minute.

One of my favourite websites, Sociological Images, posted a link today to the following documentary from the 1970s, titled "Ways of Seeing".



As I began watching the documentary, I found myself growing impatient with what I felt was an incredibly lugubrious pace, and could imagine my contemporaries having a good laugh at the video with its seemingly awkward, long pauses.

However, it occurred to me a few minutes in that perhaps the video was proceeding at a perfectly reasonable pace, but that most of us have become so used to being continuously bombarded with sights and sounds and information, that extra time to process information seems strange, maybe even inefficient.

Thus enlightened, I was able to put aside my irritability and appreciate the content of the documentary, which turned out to be fantastic indeed. Let's all sloooow down and enjoy the show.

Summer-induced nostalgia

When my younger sister was really little- maybe three years old or so- she had a most amusing way of sitting down when wearing a dress.

First, she would hold the corners of her dress, as though about to perform a curtsy:


Then, she would lift up the bottom half of the dress entirely, exposing her tushy to the world:


And finally, she would sit down, bum fully in contact with the seat:


This whole motion was carried out smoothly, and without a trace of self-consciousness.

Now that it's quite hot out, I find myself wearing skirts often, and whenever I am about to sit down, I remember my little sister and giggle to myself.

On Canada's annual period of introspection

Here we go again.

July 1st, Canada Day.

I know, I know, today of all days, I should put aside my cynicism and just enjoy the day, right? But I can't! (I'll blame it on a traumatic childhood incident...or something.)

I like Canada Day...a lot! Actually, it's my second favourite holiday after Thanksgiving. However, every year without fail, on the days leading up to July 1st, and on the day itself, the nation's media outlets work themselves into an unbecoming frenzy, attempting to "define" what makes Canada so awesome. This annual introspection (or navel-gazing as I like to call it) is exactly the opposite of awesome. It has about it the juvenile stench of seeking acceptance, of trying too hard.

Today's Globe and Mail, for example, boasts the following headline: "The Year Canada Grew Up"

The author, Patrick Brethour, claims in his commentary that at the age of 143, Canada may now call itself a mature country. Why? Well, we had the Winter Olympics in Canada this year, you know! We held the G8/G20 summits here! We developed a global-maternal health initiative! The Prime Minister finally offered an apology to the families of the Air India attack victims!

Let's take a closer look at all these supposedly fantastic events. Hosting the Winter Olympics and the G8/G20 summits shows that we spent scads of taxpayers' money this year on impressing the world. (Did it work? Is Obama finally going to invite Harper over for a sleepover?) Many of the actual Olympics events were overshadowed by whinging about how few medals Canada won, while the G8/G20 summits showed off an eerily empty Toronto framed by arguably mismanaged police deployment.

Discussion of the G20 leads to that of the global maternal health initiative, on which, let's be frank, most of Harper's own team was unclear (wait, are we funding contraception or not?) Anyone who thinks that this initiative will actually make a lasting, positive impact need only look at the dozens of initiatives and treaties and pacts and pinky swears of summits past that lie covered in cobwebs to realize that optimism for this new initiative is naive.

And lastly...Stephen Harper's apology to families of victims of the Air India tragedy. That it took so. many. freaking. years for the Canadian government to finally recognize these families as Canadians wronged by their own government and deserving of acknowledgement, apologies, compensation, SOMETHING, should be a point of national embarassment. Harper's apology may mark a turning point in the ongoing Air India story, but let us not confuse it for an event that helped Canada to "mature."

I recently read a book called "More Money than Brains", in which author Laura Penney says of her university students and certain public figures, "Anything that happened before [they] were born is part of the same undifferentiated mass." I would suggest that Brethour is guilty of similarly treating everything prior to 2010 as "an undifferentiated mass".

Many events of note have happened in the years prior to this one- the silliest statement to ever be made- but the fact that Brethour attaches more importance to those of 2010 could be indicative of any number of things, ranging from the possibility that events of this past year indeed are MORE IMPORTANT THAN ANYTHING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO DATE IN CANADIAN HISTORY (which, if you can't tell, I doubt,) to Brethour having given up marijuana and embraced a more clear-headed lifestyle in early 2010.

Now that I have sufficiently depressed/enraged/bedazzled you (man, my blood sugar is quite low from all that typey-typey-thinkey-thinkey), let me tell you the things that actually make me eternally grateful to live in Canada.

Being able to write this blog with utter freedom; being able to read whatever I want; an abundance of food and water; less right-wing lunatics than the U.S.; receiving free medical treatment for anything from the littlest stomach ache to full-on gunshot wounds; Canadian literature; the CBC; and...many many more things that I appreciate on a daily basis and don't need to rattle off here.

Now, let's stop the navel gazing, and enjoy the fireworks. Happy Canada Day to all my fellow Canadians!

Friends in high places

However, here is someone who does take credit for the earthquake:


Her name is Lavinia, and she is a scary woman, but if I keep on her good side, all should be well.


Look at those eyes and tell me she didn't do it.

Earthquake? So I'm not just losing it? Phew.

As all Canadians know, Toronto is the centre of the universe. Well, I must inform you that an earthquake took place at the centre of the universe today, and disrupted life for approximately eight seconds.


I, personally, did not realize it was an earthquake until a fellow building resident (aka neighbour) asked me if I had felt the earthquake.

"Oh, is that what it was?!" I asked, incredulously.

In all seriousness, I had attributed the moving and shaking to my imagination or low blood sugar. At one point in those eight seconds, I even thought, "Maybe it's really windy out," and continued reading my book.

Learning the truth was a relief- I'm not crazy or physically ill!- but I was also surprised at how readily I had taken credit for an earthquake (only a small one, but still.)

The end is nigh

Thank you, Globe and Mail, for this incredibly nuanced visual:

(click to enlarge)

Perhaps yesterday's "Africa" edition (with contributions from such intellectual heavyweights as Christie Turlington and Carla Sarkozy) wasn't cringe-worthy enough.

The BEST thing EVER

I am a little upset that this event is being held at the mall where I work, on my day off:


This is so unbelievably hilarious, I don't even know where to begin my commentary. Are the races broken down by weight? By age? By ambulatory ability? Are babies going to arrive sporting headbands and carpet burns from weeks of practice? Do the prizes include reserved spots at prestigious daycares?

All I can say is...AMAZING.

Spanx this

As a woman with a body fat percentage in the double digits (gasp!), I feel that I'm supposed to embrace Spanx like any good, self-conscious woman. However, I'm of the mindset that my clothes should make me look good, and not the other way around. A revolutionary concept, non?

Anyhow, here is a picture similar to one that appeared in the Globe and Mail today, in an article on how far feminism has not come:


Couldn't Spanx at least make an effort to find some women on whom wearing Spanx might actually make a physical difference? I highly doubt that the model shown is in need of any sausage casing to hide her non-existent fat deposits.

And now take a look at this height of stupidity:


That's right, pregnant women! Your fat should be distributed just so! Be ashamed no more! Look like the perfect, holy vessel of miracles that you are. Encase yourself and your baby in a thin layer of spandex! (Good luck peeing.)

A letter

Dear future offspring,

Every month, I (quite seriously) consider having my uterus removed because of the wretched beast that is my menstrual cycle. But, I endure the waves of nausea and debilitating pain, because I am expecting you, future offspring, to be cute and smart and loving and take care of me when I am old.

Okay? Don't ever forget my sacrifices.

Love,

Mumsy, QoT

May Day, or another day at work for me

On May 1st, synonymous with International Workers' Day in many countries, citizens took to the streets of cities across the globe to rally for better working conditions. Having become incrementally more lefty every year since the end of high school, I would have loved to attend this protest, but instead spent the day at my full-time retail job at a company that I shall lovingly call Winkleskeet Inc.

Winkleskeet Inc. is a relatively new company that promised to be different. Employees will be adequately compensated! they said. You will love your job and will provide excellent customer service as a result! they said. Born a cynic, I did not believe a word of this (paying me 50 cents an hour above minimum wage can yield only mediocre customer service at best,) but clapped along with everyone else at the initial team-spirit-corporate-rah-rahs in order to not call attention to myself.

And guess what! Winkleskeet has failed me and my coworkers, and sooner than I could have possibly imagined. I am paid a barely liveable wage. If it were not for the fact that my sister pays all our rent (in exchange for groceries and Sunday sister-snuggles), I would be positively destitute. Winkleskeet does not operate on commission, meaning that I am stressed out, grumpy, and dealing with the worst aspects of humanity for eight hours a day (sometimes without breaks for we are that busy and that inadequately staffed) for very little reward.

There are those that would argue that this is my own doing; after all, I used to be an engineer earning an annual salary that is absolutely disgusting compared to the pittance I earn now. I left the country to travel and wander for a few months, and returned during the recession, when obtaining a decent job was a wet dream for most. Granted, I did not throw out any muscles on my job hunt, seeing how I abhor engineering (not the field in general, but as a career fit for me) and I took my time to find a relatively simple job that would act as a nice stop-gap between careers.

This relatively simple job has turned out to be like an onion, with each alternate layer either a blessing or a nightmare. The blessings are the very excellent friends I've made, learning to make do with less (what on earth was I spending my money on two years ago?) and to hold my own against people who attempt to bully me. The nightmares are some of these people who bully me, elevated blood pressure (I haven't measured it, but it sure feels higher), and not receiving the full amount of my paycheque on payday.

There are times when I find myself thinking, "Well, it's a shitty retail job. What was I really expecting?", but I have to stop myself, because this is a very snobby, highbrow judgement. I am luckier than many: I have family who will support me through these times, I have an amazing job awaiting me in September (in Europe, no less!), I have a significant amount of savings from my previous employment, and I have the education, the confidence, and the support to eventually leave this job and develop a rewarding career. But what about others who may not be so lucky? What about those who rely on this job to pay their rent and to buy their groceries due to their life circumstances? What about immigrants whose skills are not recognized in this country and are forced to undertake work for which they are overqualified? Should they not be adequately compensated for the (grueling) work that they do? Do they not deserve to rest on statutory holidays like all upper middle class folks?

The argument that people who wish to live a comfortable lifestyle should seek the education required to earn such a salary is a flawed one. If everyone were to become bankers, engineers, doctors, lawyers, etc, who would sell groceries and other things we expect to be able to purchase 24/7? Who would manage our apartment buildings and run daycares? All these services that we consider to be vital should not be treated merely as short term jobs from which everyone should seek to break free in order to achieve some distorted capitalist dream, but as perfectly respectable jobs which should allow employees to live healthy and sane lives, with decent housing, food, and vacation.

And that is my rant for today. Merci bonkers for reading.

Mary QoT

NEMESIS of 2010

There is a older man at the gym who drives me bonkers!

His offenses include:

1. Wearing teeny tiny shorts from which his boxer-briefs are visible.
2. Performing 80s-style calisthenics (think Jane Fonda) and dangerous weight-lifting manouevres in said short shorts.
3. Exclaiming "I love that women work out now! It means I have something to look at!" to a fellow male gym-goer.

Ugh. No further comment necessary, methinks.

Back to blogging, with a new theme!

I've decided to document things that make me despair for humanity, and the occasional thing that gives me hope!

Here is one of the latter:

Thoughts for the day

I have not blogged in over a month now; for the last few weeks I have felt like the epitome of "zen" (which is not an acceptable word in Scrabble, by the way) and have been spending my free time knitting, reading, and savouring a feeling of utter contentedness. This contentedness is slowly wearing off as an urgency about making decisions for my future creeps up (back to university? or attempt to find a career-type of job?), but I've learned about one thing and hope to remember it throughout my life: the power of words.

I don't use the word "power" in the sense of hurting another person or yourself; rather I mean that one should choose one's words carefully in order to preserve their worth. I've discovered in the last month that most people talk far too much, about the utterly mundane or the negative, just to fill up time and space, thus reducing the worth of their words. Let's not even mention people who invent large words to make themselves sound more intelligent. Talking without thought and intent = waste of time and energy.

There are disadvantages to this new-found awareness. I find myself utterly bored with small talk, and barely try to make it, giving the impression that I am a snob or socially stunted somehow. The advantage, however, is that I cherish intelligent conversations as though they were precious jewels. A good conversation with someone can make my day. An intelligent conversation doesn't have to be about astrophysics or the meaning of life; I have had funny and interesting conversations on a variety of subjects, ranging from Virginia Woolfe to poo.

In our North American society of small talk, blowing one's own trumpet, and the desire to be charming and well-liked, considering the worth of words might seem somewhat new-agey and contrary to all the principles we are raised with. However, I urge you all to look around you and notice the people who speak a lot while saying little, and those who produce interesting gems now and again.

Yours zenfully,

Mary, Queen of Thoughts

Shudder!

When I arrived at The Body Shop this morning to pick up some moisturizer, I was surprised to find the sales staff in bizarre outfits involving headbands and leg warmers. "Wasn't Halloween last weekend?" I thought to myself. But, as it turns out, the girls were dressed up to promote the resurrection of Body Shop favourites from the 80s.

I have but two comments:

1) Why on earth would anyone resurrect products from a decade associated with bad hair and Sally Hansen upper lip bleach? I am afraid that the use of any products from the 80s would instantly result in me looking like this:


2) The sales associate asked me which product from the resurrected line was my favourite. Let me point out that I am 25, and therefore, in the 80s my age ranged from zero to five years, and I did not use "products". The associate, however, was not a day over 20, and perhaps assumed that I was waaaaayyyy older.

Quite frankly, this line of products repulses me and is giving me horrible flashbacks to my early childhood. I predict that this marketing campaign will fail horribly. However, it may be that there are people who loved the 80s, and have just been depressed for 20 years since their favourite products were discontinued, and who will be very happy now. How does thinking about the 80s make you feel?

An egg for thought

As I inspected an egg prior to its use in my Thanksgiving baking, I found myself imagining an odd scenario.

What if there were creatures larger than humans, who kept us in cages? What if, as female humans gave birth, the creatures came by, collected the newborn infants, packaged them in a cardboard tray, and sold them in some version of a supermarket? How strange that would be!