Terrierista, Shades of Gray and Pink Fluffy Icing: Connect the Dots

One great thing about blogging is that you get sucked into the world of bloggers, and there is some pretty smart and interesting stuff out there. Via the comment log on David Murray's "Shades of Gray" (listed in the links column to the right, containing excellent nouns and verbs lined up in a pleasing and interesting order), today I found a new (to me) blog: http://terrierista.typepad.com. A little on the cranky/rant side, but who am I to quibble? This is a smart communicator with some interesting things to say.

And I was completely on board until I landed on June 29: Peggy Noonan on the real immigration issue

It's not that it isn't smart and cranky (and the combination is unbeatable). And I get it that it's really just a snapshot of an opinion, and I, of all people, understand that an opinion is an elusive, opalescent squid of a thing, shifting on all axes as the light hits it from different angles and the surrounding territory becomes more, or less, dangerous. Nonetheless, my thinking on the post grew to a dimension grander than a mere comment on her posting, thus it became your PFIFB treat 'o the day, here. So, go visit Jane's June 29 posting entitled Peggy Noonan on the real immigration issue and then skootch back here for my modest blah-blah-blahg on the matter.

Hello! Back so soon? We missed you. BTW, I speak from the inside here: I am, actually, a "new immigrant." Okay, seven years, and from Canada so I barely count, but given the ridiculous delay immigration services seems to encounter getting through my thorough and LEGAL paperwork, I think I qualify for a hefty indulgence handicap.

So... Jane/Peggy: maybe one influencing factor in new immigrants "... failing to let go of the old country and commit" is the example they see/hear in good 'ol red-blooded 'Maricans on TV, print media, and the break room down the hall. Terrierista, forget the B.S. mongers on your TV (great posting, by the way). You don't have to travel far down many corporate corridors to hear the President (and Congress, Senate, State governors and all the city halls and parking meter maids in between) derided, chided, mocked, mourned, lampooned, babooned and in every way shredded and disrespected, all before the last straggler wanders in to the meeting.

Yes, it is the cherished American right to do so. It's one of the foundations of what makes this country great and sends young men to wars they don't understand. And yes, it is evidence of democracy and the right to despise whoever you darn well please, in action. But I must say, for those of us wandering in from the outside, checking out the seating options and menu before sitting down to a costly meal at an unknown restaurant, it can be confusing. We are lead, by example, to believe that the option "not to commit" is inherently part of the American dream.

But if the right exists for a vile foreigner--albeit, no doubt let in without a proper reflection by authorities on the implications to the American heritage and Way--to take on none other than Jane "Terrierista" AND Peggy Noonan in one measly blahg, and this before the green card is granted, then I say, God bless the internet.

An Epiphany Strikes On The Front Porch: Why It's Called A "Blog"

DING! It's the sound of an epiphany (this one happening as a result of an email exchange with Pookie #1) which, for your reference, can be accompanied by a loud ringing in the ears and actual pain (the epiphany, not the email with Pookie 1). If you benefit from this information, maybe during a limelight moment at an upcoming cocktail party, you owe me.

Some background: My epiphany of a few minutes ago was informed by a singular knowledge that the British phrase "bloody!"--as in "bloody hell!"--came in to being from the smooshing together of "By Our Lady!" a taboo-taunting aspersion on Mary, the mother of Jesus. I'm sure there are many more historic examples available, but that is the only one I know of that presents itself at the moment. And in the words of my dear Granny, an example in the hand is worth all the rocket surgeons in China.

Onward....

Many (most?) bloggers today were subjected to the "Foniks R Us" school of reeding and riting. My hypothesis: the reason it's called a "blog" may have nothing to do with the au courant acceptance of it being a "web_log," smooshed together in lazy speech parlay, as in the example above. Rather (hold on to your hats! this is BIG) could it be a subconscious culture-wide recognition that what we are really talking about here is a blah-blah-blah... blahg? Except that in the process of indulging our propensity for seeking a publicly accessible stream-of-consciousness airing of our oh-so-precious opinions, we are choosing to forget how to spell in a way that keeps us phonetically dis-connected to our linguistic heritage, which is a bloody shame?

More on this laader.

Transplanting Your Teen Into A California High School, Part One

I have the pleasure to work and live among many folk who, like us, moved to California from out of state/country/planet. (Seriously, some of the people I work with are scary smart with social skills that could only have been developed within a social construct entirely different from anything yet observed on Earth.) As a new school year is rapidly approaching, I thought it might be helpful to share a few observations with these folk about what to expect in the process of getting your teen-ager happily tucked in to a typical Silicon Valley high school.

The first clue for us that things were going to work out well came when the paperwork we were told by the Fremont Union High School District we would need—if memory serves, this included a passport, appropriate visa, proof of residency, transfer record, recent TB test, and inoculation records--were, in fact, all we actually needed. This was a refreshing change from “Adventures at the DMV” and my personal favorite of all moving games, “The Social Security Administration Shuffle.” The staff at our local high school was alert, friendly, and helpful. Of course, like any other organization, they won’t think to tell you what they can’t conceive you wouldn’t know.

For example, we were given the choice of three different Phys. Ed. programs for our son: “PE Teams,” “PE Marching Band,” and “PE.” I took the choices back to the huddle around our kitchen table that night, and since Third Child had really enjoyed his music program in Gr. 9 in Ottawa, we all agreed that whatever PE Marching Band might be, it sounded like the most fun and from my perspective, looked like it was least likely to end up in broken bones. Besides, we were assured that even though TC had missed a week-long pre-term “band camp” since we had arrived only 3 days before school began, they would overlook the transgression and let him in.

And this brings me to Lesson #1:

California public high schools often run extra-curricular programs throughout the summer that will affect whether students are eligible to participate in regular courses. This is serious business. Third Child, a trombone player, got stuck with the cymbals his first year. They were the only instruments “left” after band camp.

Why You Should Start Traveling with a Good Buddy EARLY

Aside from the ocean of truth behind the Hallmark sentiments on the value of building life-long friendships, there are a few very pragmatic reasons for women to begin travelling consistently with the same buddy, starting early and practicing often. The advantages are huge and compound over the years, just like that mutual fund you wish now you had started when you were fresh out of college. Okay, so I don't have a huge pile of money waiting for me at the end of my career rainbow, but I have something that is worth more: my sanity, the world's best travel buddy, and some tips that might help you get and/or retain both yourself.

Households blessed with little children are complicated. Downloading the database of how to keep it running on an even keel while you take a week to try and remember what it is like to read the newspaper through at one sitting can be overwhelming. By traveling with a buddy outside the homestead, there is one resident parent left behind who already knows which kid will gag if presented with mac 'n cheese or insists on a slice of avocado in their PB&J sandwich, and why the dog howls when the theme music to Sesame Street comes on. This makes the packing and get-away SO much easier.

The arrangement is actually good for everybody in many ways:

• Kids and dads get to experience each other at new angles of encounter.
  
• Dads get to walk a mile in the wee wifey's pumps and gain in one week a course in sensitivity training that would otherwise take years to develop, if ever.
  
• Done at least annually, you build the precedent early in all parties that it's just how it works because "... they always do it."
• Men don't always experience the same zeal for a particular vacation experience as women do, and it turns out to be quite convenient for them to build a fall back position: "Hey, that sounds like something that Travellin' Trudy would enjoy with you! Why don't you go with her and I'll stay home with the kids?"
• By the time the kids have grown up and gone (or just grown up), you and your TB will have built up a common list of "been there, done that" and "been there, when can we go again?" and "we've always talked about going to see X, Y or Z" destinations that will be unique to just the two of you, seriously shortening the planning curve.
• By sticking with the same buddy, you will learn to anticipate and accommodate for personal preferences before you even leave home. For example, with my TB, I know that we will commit to take in absolutely everything we can at a destination while also looking forward to long, frequent and restful pauses. Despite the apparent contradiction here, there is no inconsistency in this and over the years, we have just figured out how to actually do just that. We also have three specific periods that we plan for each day: the latte zone, the "we must remember to drink lots of water zone," and the "isn't it time for a glass of wine?" zone. All the activities we plan just kind of flows through those zones, and for us, it works.

Finally, by consistently doing this in tandem with another household, the parent left behind has the perception that this kind of behavior is normal. In truth, while it is normal for a parent to, well, parent, it's not that common for the spousal unit of the testosterone persuasion to see it that way. At least, it wasn't twenty years ago. Both my TB and I know and gratefully acknowledge that we have been blessed with quite abnormal spouses. And I mean that in all sincerity.

The Secret To Happiness

I had the good fortune last night to dine with a young sage. He mentioned that he had recently read that a previously frazzled corporate drone had discovered (and evidently published, bless her heart) the secret to happiness. Ready? Create a bedtime ritual where you recall the three best things that happened that day. So far, it sounded a little like, "... and thank you God, that when Billy threw up at recess, he missed me and got Rich Mean Molly right on her fancy-schmancy new shoes...."

But according to The Secret, the real trick is that after you recall one of the top three happy moments, you ask "... and why did it happen?" Apparently, this simple daily tracking, done with consistency and sincerity, begins to train a person to identify and then--here's the secret sauce--unconsciously begin to seek out/attract those patterns, people, choices, and situations in life that contribute to one's moments of happiness. This made immediate sense to me, since it so clearly tracks the same set of rails as "... fixing our eyes firmly on the joy set before us..." and "Watch where you're lookin'!" Frazzled Corporate Drone reports that she now regularly and easily recalls up to 20 "best things" every night.

So on the theory that happiness works like money, ("How much is enough? Just a little bit more.") I thought I'd give it a spin and report back from time to time on how the experiment is going. My list of "The Three Best Things and Why" from last night:

1. After having mentally committing to changing my behavior of often allowing myself to be just a tiny bit late, I made it to my 9:30 meeting two minutes early. Why did this happen? 1) I decided to be on time, and 2) I didn't make my bed.

2. Not one but two kind souls sent me comments with words of encouragement on this very blog. Why? In part because I have started and stuck with writing it, but more importantly, I am blessed with a ridiculous abundance of thoughtful people in my life.

3. I had a delightful dinner with a wonderful young sage. Why? Because it was his birthday and I am his mom. Wait! That's FOUR best things! See?! It's working already!

When Did We Become Wii?

Today, a-parent-ly.

Third Child's (TC) birthday is tomorrow and my miracle-working (or so I am told) husband found a Wii (what's a "Wii?) ... "retail!!" I still don't get the punchline there, although it is starting to sift through the fog that to find such a treasure without succumbing to extortion-by-eBay prices is akin to finding Manolos Blahnik pumps at your local Nordstrom The Rack with a gray "extra 40% off" tag. Go, TC's dad!

Here's the kicker from my perspective: amid all the "Oh boy! A nunchuck!!" and "Zelda!! I didn't think there was a copy left in the whole Bay area!" glee (and what the hell is a nunchuck? Is that like virtual cow tipping?), I was assured that I, even I, would eventually embrace the Wii. Evidently Electronic Gaming had recently published an article that "even old women in nursing homes" had been witnessed enjoying dual-player tennis on the Wii, and therefore, I might possibly get it.

Will I? I don't know. In the late 70's I did enjoy the one of the very first online text-based games, Dungeon, involving the over-the-week-end schlepping home the CPU, monitor, keyboard and acoustic coupler for the ancient hand-sets of rotary phones. I have also read and enjoyed the entire Tad Williams Otherland series. (I'm sure the concept of a "nunchuck" showed up there somewhere. I'll have to go back and speed re-read it.) And I will, sooner than any of us probably expect, be a gum-sucking old ranter in a nursing home, desperately seeking diversion alternatives to gardening in the nude. Maybe there is hope for me as a Wii enthusiast yet.

In any case, Happy Birthday, TC.

Love, mummy

My son is dismantling my iPod

I can hear the "pphhhhhhssttt" hit of compressed air accosting the inner most parts of my cherished music device as I write this sentence.

Yes, he has been doing this kind of thing for at least 20 years. At the time, it was the only way I could get him to sit still to cut his hair.


Yes, he has an interview with Apple next week.

Yes, he has to do a design test within one week prior to the interview on how he would design a back cover that actually gives mere mortals access to the battery so they can replace it BY THEMSELVES!! (Ever waited for an Apple "guru" in a retail store to help you perform what you have been doing for yourself with countless flashlights ever since that hideous two weeks at summer camp back in the seventies? Don't underestimate the connection between the cable company's service scheduling protocol and Apple's "virtual" line-up for customer service... It may just be my inner conspiracy theorist speaking here, but I just know that Steve Jobs and Ted Turner are THIS tight! )

And yes, the sacrifice of the-music-that-cloaks-the-wheezing of my morning run would be a reasonable act if it meant that Third Child, fresh out of mechanical engineering mintage at UCSB could participate in something so cool and now and meaningful as giving iPod users around the world the right and freedom to change their own damn batteries.

Such are the sacrifices of motherhood. I just hope the pphhhhhhssttt I'm hearing right now means he is figuring out how to put it back together. I'll keep you posted on how the interview goes.

K

Tammy Faye and PFIFB

With God's sense of humor, eternity will probably see me having to sit at the Never Ending Great Wedding Feast on a regular basis beside Tammy Faye, so I'm gonna be careful how I say this.

On Thursday, July 19, the day before her death, Larry King asked Tammy Faye what she would most like to be remembered for. She said, "Well, my eyelashes." And this is as good a segue as I'm likely to get to have the chance to discuss why this blog is called "Pink Fluffy Icing For Brains."

In early 1990, the Canadian government struck down the existing abortion law because they had decided it was unconstitutional in that it interfered with women's rights. I, along with a handful of others, objected out loud, leading to a minor brouhaha in our small town. (The worst casualty occurred when some brave and determined soul bashed in our mailbox to demonstrate their pique at our audacity to hold an opinion on the matter.) My argument to this decision was--and is--on the grounds that the value we ascribe to human beings ought to be based on something more substantial than the variables of time, geography and the circumstance of one's temporary landlord. After all, what's a couple months and a zip code between friends? Also, even if I was schizophrenic enough to be okay with offing an unfortunately timed and located little whipper, I was (and still am) convinced that God places a high premium on those whom he has "fearfully and wonderfully" made. Enough, say, to send his Son to pay the price for our willingness to, among other nasty bits of human behavior, cut up little kids whose only crime has been to show up on the planet and get stuck with a panicked/young/embarrassed/"it's my right" landlady. But I digress.

Lurking behind the vote was a group of female fetuses who had already had the good fortune quite some time earlier to upgrade their neighborhoods to the "other side the cervix" who were politically-correct enough back in that day to have an office on (or near... I'm fuzzy on that bit) Parliament Hill. These women felt differently than I did on the subject. They were interviewed by a prominent Canadian journalist, Danielle Crittenden, who reported that above the light switch in their offices, they had a small index card posted that read: "Christian women have pink fluffy icing for brains."

This statement bothered me.

It has continued to bother me for over twenty years because 1) it was nasty and included me in the broad swipe it took, 2) it was funny and nasty and therefore quotable and memorable and made it into print for public consumption, and 3) it's sometimes true. Dear Public Tammy, with her statement about wanting to be remembered for her "signature" eyelashes the day before her death, could be said to prove the case in point. But that doesn't mean that all women who follow Christ are equally vacuous or shallow. Some of us are even more so. Some of us aren't. And I have been waiting 17 years to discuss this.

I suspect, though, as we're juggling for elbow room over the bread plate, Tammy will assure me that it was just a joke about the eyelashes.

On the Pros, Cons and the Significance to the Gender War of Having Orangutan Arms

A couple of years ago, I sought assistance from a store clerk in down-town New Westminster, BC, while shopping for a blouse I needed for my first "real" job interview. (Okay, so it was, like, a bit more than a couple of decades ago but let's not quibble.) It was also the last thirty five minutes in the day that the stores were open, and it was a very small women's wear shop. Between the importance of finding the right blouse, the time constraint, and the number of options that were actually available in the teeny dress store, the mood was intense. Blouse on, "It's too short in the sleeves..." blouse off. Blouse on... "Too short..." blouse off. B on, "Short!," B off, until I had gone through every single B in my "correct size" (we'll get back to this later in the political wrap-up section) in the store. In exasperation, the clerk finally showed me the door, declaring, "You have arms like an orangutan!"

You can only imagine my panic: I had no blouse for the interview. The humiliation was almost equally unbearable, Honestly, I like monkeys as well as the next girl, but the public comparison was a tad rough on the young ego. And how dare she humiliate a well-intentioned and financially responsible--if somewhat proportionately challenged--customer at such a tender moment in her career path! As all the stores up and down the street slammed and locked closed their doors for the night, I exited the dress shop in a royal snit, swearing never to return as I dragged my hairy knuckles across the threshold into the dark and blouse-less night.

The intervening years since "the incident" occurred and now have taught me a few things about the pros and cons of having orangutan arms, and have given me cause to reflect on a sorely under-represented point of discussion in the push for equality between men and women. I'll start with the Pros:

1. If you are actually an orangutan, I can only imagine that it is the best of all possible scenarios to have arms appropriate to your species and not, say, arms like a koala bear or a salamander.

2. As a human with seriously long arms, it is possible to reach the back of high kitchen cupboards, grab impossibly-placed unoccupied hand rings on subways, and clean the bottom of the glass on a 45-gallon aquarium without straining. I see a lot of straining going on with average-length armed women and it saddens me. I didn't even wonder where you could buy a kitchen stool until I had kids who wanted to bake with me. (Target or Canadian Tire, by the way.)

3. When 3/4 length sleeves all of a sudden become an "it" factor on the Paris and New York runways, your entire wardrobe is HOT!

4. In any argument involving the pointing of fingers and possibly shouting, you are way more likely to score first blood. In fact, for fun and amusement, people with long arms have been known to start fights that are destined to lead to physical contact and when the moment comes, plant their palm in the forehead of their opponents and chuckle as their "normally-armed" combatants flail uselessly away in mid-air an inch away from any meaningful contact with one's nose. Seriously, it's only funny once and should only be attempted in relationships without heavy previous investment 'cause man, after? It's over.

It's not all sunshine and roses, though. The Cons:

1. In normal times, shopping for an interview blouse sucks.

2. In one of those ridiculously cold conference rooms, it's tough to borrow a sweater without inviting comments on your anatomy.

3. Your hands are cold almost all of the time: blood just isn't meant to travel AND sustain heat that far.

All of the above would be acceptable, if only it were equally borne between the sexes. But, NO! When men shop for shirts for an important interview, they are met with a blessed abundance of variables from which to choose, all of which affirms their perfect right to be an individual human with perfectly normally dimensions, stretched across a continuum of options which are all perfectly normal. Fat neck, long arms, "tall" fit? No problem. Skinny neck, long arms, husky build? You are SO normal!

Women? We can go either the small/medium/large route (and by the way, small whats? Large whiches? Is there no mix 'n match here?!!) or we get the more refined "stupid 0" to "European 50" with no variation by neck, arm-length (I think this is where I came in), waist-size, and never mind the oh-so-obvious boobage-by-age discussion! How is THIS fair?! Where is the public outcry? Where is the intervening legislation?! We need 100% cotton upper garments that fit too, ya know!!!@!!!

I actually considered a career in politics at one point, but I think I have just discovered why, from a retirement savings perspective, this would have been a very bad idea. I have tried eating cat food but find I don't care much for it.

Enough Is A Feast

In the latest edition of "Geez" magazine, I came across an Arab quotation that has stuck with me now for a couple of days: "Enough is a feast."

I could stop right there and just let that roll around in YOUR heads for a few days and consider it a job well done. However, it reminded me of a Christmas letter I wrote my parents about five years ago, and I found myself really wanting to find it. I did, and I have decided to share it with you.

After a brief preamble, it read as follows:

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

My baby boy (now over 6 ft. and so handsome it often catches in my throat) is home after an amazing first semester at college. He has adjusted so well, seems so happy and proclaims so enthusiastically that he has found "his people" at UC Santa Barbara that it occurs to me that this is why we find ourselves here. It would be enough. He did very well on his finals: only knows his English mark so far, but is happy with his "A," especially since it was a course that he HAD to take and about which he had serious and vigorous objections. He is just so happy to be in an environment that assigns grades based on results versus process: to quote, "If I can learn the content by reading the book and just showing up for the final exam, why should they need to check my "homework"? I HATE BUSYWORK!!!" Thus, the anonymity of university suits him just fine.

The Middle Child also finished with outstanding results: A's across the board. It is of some recompense to the parental units that all the practice of nailing her father to the wall via dinner-table debate, argumentation, and plain old fashioned "calling a spade a spade" over the years is beginning to pay off: this is one chick staring straight down the barrel into a future in law. Her three courses this semester were American Law, Criminal Law, and Criminal Investigation: she aced all three. She is so happy with herself, her social life, and the aspect of her future in sight. Again it occurs: perhaps she is the reason we find ourselves here: it would be enough.

K and T arrive on Monday: can't wait. K's good friend, Johannah, who married two years ago January and had her first baby just before Christmas last year, again finds herself happily expecting #2... on July 17th! next summer! She was supposed to be K/T's bridal party but will probably find herself in the delivery suite instead. It does put into relief for me the social arena in which K has evolved. We are going to shop for the bridesmaid and "mother 'o the bride" git-up while she's here. E says she can live with anything that isn't pink, short, or involves puffy sleeves! K is so happy, broke and busy... just like it should be for a 23-year old. If she were our only child and as content as she is, it would be enough.

S just called me from a sales training session he participated in today, on their way to the restaurant for snackies and some responsible social drinking. He sounds so invigorated and up: turns out that I married a truly resilient, humble man. I am delighted that he has apparently firmly wound in the earlier "lesson we needed regarding business partners" experience, ready to move forward. We have learned so much through this wrenching process... I am not sure a person can learn these kinds of lessons without going through the fire. I am grateful for both the lessons, God's provisions of ALL kinds through them, and the man and family I have been given to go through through them with. Is this why we moved here? If so, it would be enough...

So.. .to me. My time 2nd tour in Palm Springs was unexpectedly fabulous. I was assigned, in addition to re-working our COO's speech to suit this particular audience, a young engineer who had been shanghaied into presenting the new "corporate presentation" that I had been working with a team on for several months in preparation for the grand unveiling at these conferences. The first "unveiling" was at the Sales conference by a very experienced and confidently slick sales dude. Two weeks later, Mr... Slick Sales dude was unavailable for the "unveiling" at Round 2 of the conference, entailing over 1000 of the technical customer-facing support engineers (the brains that accompany the sales people for pre- and post-sales support of our tools). My job was to put Mr. Newbie, the replacement, through "presentation charm school." He had never delivered a presentation in front of so many people, on a spot-lighted, raised stage, with teleprompters, etc. The conference organizers were delighted with his performance, and apparently, so was he. Just today he sent me an email asking if I liked smoked salmon: he was happy with the results of my coaching and scripting help as well! Maybe the most fun part was that when I was leaving on Friday night, I left from a different departure gate, and in a beautifully lit atrium in this area, there was a display of gorgeous glass bowls and sculptures: a little gift to me and my Dad,... It was enough.

NYC was a whirl-wind ride: half hour out of JFK, we were rerouted to Chicago due to the snow storm. Ended up staying overnight in Chicago, didn't get to NYC until 2 pm Sunday, headed straight into prep, graphics re-creation, etc. I ended up working until 3 am, up at 6 to get ready for the event, and totally pooped by 3 pm Monday. However, I had one hour to roam the streets of Manhattan before the car came to take us back to the airport, so out I went. Mom, you would have recognized the hot-dog vendor on the street-corner vignette, AND my dip into Ann Taylor (the same one we went into looking for the elusive velour jumpsuit!) I don't know what it is about New York city, but I always find the energy resonates with something deep within... Other interesting moments in my 24-hours there: 3, then 5, then 8!!! security dudes with the little curly-corded earpieces showed up on my floor, the finale of which was the fatigued-fashioned, red & white squared head-scarved poobah who showed up as I was hauling my roller suitcase down the hallway, under SEVERE scrutiny: a still, small voice of personal survival (was that you, Mom?) instructed me NOT to ask who the big-wig under protection was... Never did find out, but grabbed my 2.5 hours of sleep wondering if I was going to wake up to find myself on an "interesting" floor... Interesting and full of energy: for NYC, it is what is expected, and enough.

I had set aside this past hour- .5 to write the California family Christmas letter. I guess the above is what I really wanted to write to the people I really wanted to write to. I will, tomorrow, now, compose the official letter for the dearly held kin and circle of friends... But you should know that this was my true expression of what matters and what is dearly held this season. I have my God who knows and yet loves me more than I know and love myself, and who will preserve me through whatever light and dark shades will paint the upcoming year...I have my own little nest of oft-bickering yet loyal-to-each-other-to-death offspring. I have my own dear husband and friend, and my own cherished nest from which I flew, for which I am grateful beyond words.

I am healthy, optimistic, and grateful.

Enough.

Love and Merry Christmas,

KL

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

BTW, my conclusions in the letter have stood the test of time: it has been both enough and a feast.

What Canadians Look Like From Here: #1

We moved to California seven years ago, that great land of the free, home of the brave, from Canada, that modest land of the mosquito, home of the careful. The separation has been enlightening regarding my national identity. The big news is that I have confirmed what I suspected all along: I have one.

Americans derive their identity from being American: Canadians find their roots in not being American. It’s one of the few hooks on which we hang our toques and a large part of what makes us truly Canadian. Like the girl next door who creates her identity from not being like the girls from the other side of the tracks, it make us strong and gives us a delightful, childlike approach to our national identity:

“Oh, you Canadians are just like Americans….”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

We won’t argue too long, of course. It’s not polite and it’s not the Canadian way. We are taught to stop strong arguments before they become dangerous with those two profound little words, “Well, anyways….” Even some Canadians (not you, of course, but some people) might have the tendency to think of themselves as un-armed Americans with a health card, but there is more to us than that.

A brief socio-political moment, if you please.

The American Declaration of Independence states that America exists for the individual: the document clearly promises the freedom to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. These concepts all support the individual. Now, don’t get me wrong. Canadians also appreciate being alive, especially if you’re from Winnipeg (so, go to North Dakota and then just keep going) weigh under 120 pounds and it’s January. We also value liberty, although from a very basic physical perspective. The concept is somewhat irrelevant to a people who spend at least 6 months a year in 16 layers of fleece-dominated clothing, topped off by a down-filled parka and an attractive ear-flapped head covering. We’re usually satisfied if we’re free enough to be able to bend over to pull off our snow boots. It’s enough. We also pursue happiness, but it’s just that it’s harder to chase with all those clothes on.

Yes, life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness is the American way. In contrast, the Canadian constitution is founded on the ideals of “peace, order and good government.” I can hear you laughing from here. Stop it. Each one of these concepts are, by default, built around the notion of community. They are about the way we hang out together and how well our families, neighbourhoods (yes, I know it's spelled "wrong") and provinces work. I for one am banking on it keeping Canada united. For all our stiff upper lips and stick-men hugging practices—I’m talking specifically about Anglo-Canadians here—our constitution is amazingly touchy-feely: it’s about, like, relationships and how we, like, commune, you know? (Did I mention I live in California now?)

So far, so good... Jesus, run, work, AND blog!

Bear with me: this self-congratulatory "Hey Mom! Watch me! Watch me blog!!" phase will pass quickly. It was the same way with motherhood, scuba-diving, running, tap dancing in a sequined top-hat, quitting smoking and so on. Pathetic, really, how easily impressed I am with myself when I learn or do something new.

So, the question of the day, posed out loud by someone at work (okay, me): "If I refrain from snagging an image from an online source that I REALLY, REALLY need to use in a presentation I'm working on for a senior executive, and then I find the exact same image on some scummy blogger's site who obviously swiped it off the legitimate source without credit (or permission, no doubt, but at an impressively high resolution) and I snag it off THAT source, is that okay or does it just make me a bigger scum-bag than the first one?

No one said the ethics of the new millennium would be easy. FYI: I didn't.

On Committment

I vacillate between being fit and thin(ner... it's all relative these days), and being spiritually connected, enjoying my friendship with Jesus. It's really a question of time. ("Yah, RIGHT!" yells my truth-telling eternity-dwelling, never-cuts-me-any-wiggle-room core: "it's a matter of priorities!" But she doesn't work on Silicon Valley time, does she?!) In any case, history shows I can get it together to either run every day, or read/pray every day, but not both, or at least not both consistently. So when I like how I look and fit in my skin, it doesn't really matter because I am spiritually adrift and can't really connect that outward reality to who I actually am. When I'm spiritually in tune, I become acutely aware that this "real me" is toting around an extra 20 pounds in the southern hemisphere of my seriously threatened jeans. So what makes me think I'm gonna stick with blogging?