Take a Ride On the Riled Side

On a frigid day like today (minus twenty-five with the wind chill), I’d like you all to think about the bus riders out there.  You know, those hardy souls who put up with cold and wet and snow in order to utilize our oh-so-convenient public transit, thereby preventing a few of the greenhouse emissions that will eventually kill us all.  Thanks to us, you’ve got a little longer to enjoy the planet.  You’re welcome.

Yes, we also serve who only stand and wait.  And wait.  And wait.  (Don’t let anyone tell you that there’s a bus handy when you need it.)  Winnipeg Transit used to have a slogan:  “Ride Above It All”.  But when you’re standing at a bus stop in January, unable to feel anything below knee-level, you don’t really feel like you’re above anything.  Unless maybe you’re so cold you’re having an out-of-body experience, looking down at your poor shivering self, way down below, frozen to the spot. 

Whether you believe it or not, there’s a price to be paid for every single one of you that decides that they can’t deal with taking the bus.  Pollution is the obvious one.  Someone’s got to take up the slack for you folks who decide you need your Tim’s or your Starbuck’s, and you can’t live without your McMuffin.  So all of us riders deal with the wasted time and the cruddy weather while you guys have your treats and get up half an hour later, just because you think you can. 

As far as I’m concerned, there are only two groups that deserve a pass on this issue:  those with physical challenges (confined to wheelchairs, for example) and parents of small children.  Because if you’ve ever had to haul a baby in a stroller and/or a toddler in a snowsuit (the equivalent weight being a drunken sumo wrestler tied to a boat anchor) any distance, you’ll know that it is soul-crushing to add public transportation into the mix. 

But all you able-bodied, child-free people?  Come on.  Get off your butts and out of your vehicles and face facts.  The world isn’t going to support your behaviour for much longer, either by design or by accident.  At some point, you will have to lower your First World standards to include a little thing called “reality”.  And that will involve not being comfortable and warm and sufficiently hydrated and fed every twenty minutes.  Come on coffee drinkers:  you can make it half an hour without your cuppa joe, can’t you?  Aren't we tough-as-nails Winnipeggers?

You should say a prayer of thanks for all of us brave bus riders.  Brave, not just in the sense that we brave the elements.  No, we are dragon-slaying-type brave.  We share our personal space (sometimes a bit too personally) with the widest variety of the human spectrum on a daily basis.  I’ve seen all kinds of socially unacceptable behaviour, from swearing and yelling to actual fights.  I’ve endured body odors, morning breath, perfume and cologne by the reeking gallon, and garlic breath that could bring down a healthy bull elephant without much effort. 

I’ve been ogled, stared at, chatted up and bored to tears by over-sharing strangers who felt the need to connect with someone.  Anyone, in fact.  I’ve been subjected to all kinds of too-loud music, from thrash metal to hip-hop, whether through crappy headphones or no headphones at all.  I’ve played witness to groping, snogging and make-out sessions that, try as I might, I just can’t un-see. 

But no matter what a pain in the butt it can be, there are still good things about riding Transit Tom.  Feeling morally superior is (obviously) one thing.  Being able to snag twenty or thirty minutes more sleep is pretty awesome.  Catching up on some reading is always sweet.  Not having to worry about finding a parking spot ranks pretty high.  And paying just eighty-four dollars for an entire month’s worth of transportation is fabulous, considering the high price of gas.  Besides all that, it’s just the right thing to do.  It is.  This planet is gasping for breath, and the last thing it needs is another line of gas-guzzling vehicles clogging up the roads or idling at the local coffee shop. 

So:  you think your daily commute is a pain?  Trust me:  if you saw what we put up with on transit, you’d shake our hands.  Maybe even buy us a Timmy’s at the next drive-through. 

Amen to that. 

Halloweenies, unite!!

Now that Hallowe’en is done and dusted for another year, I thought I’d put in my two cents about the occasion.  I absolutely adore Hallowe’en.  I think it’s the best day of the year, bar none.  You know why?  Because of all the holidays, it’s potentially the smartest.  It forces you to think, and I’m a huge fan of thinking.  Probably to my detriment, but that’s another story.  I just like the fact that Hallowe’en encourages creativity and levels the playing field for the Sheldon Coopers among us.  You can be smart, witty even, and you are actually admired for it.  The geekiest kids can be popular on Hallowe’en, unlike the rest of the year, when being intelligent is regarded by most of their peers as showing off. 

Of all the holidays, I think Hallowe’en rates as the smartest, while Valentine’s is at the bottom of the list.  To me, Valentine’s is a no-brainer, and not in a good way.  Everything’s laid out for you, right down to the colours, the flowers, the verbiage.  Of course, as my eldest son pointed out to me, creativity can play a part in Valentine's.  Let's face it, though:  if you really want to do St. V.’s on auto-pilot, you definitely can.  Not that I don’t enjoy getting all the usual Valentine’s gewgaws, but it isn’t a thinking person’s observation.  I mean, anyone with the cash can walk into a flower shop, buy a dozen roses and give them to someone.  Not just anyone can think of and put together a memorable and witty costume.   

Hallowe’en is smart and sassy, shocking sometimes, but never boring.  My kids wonder why I put so much effort into making our costumes every year.  They always want me to buy them superhero getups or creepy masks.  At least, they did when they were little, before yours truly brainwashed them into thinking that Hallowe’en is an excellent chance to showcase their creativity, their individuality.  Why be one of a hundred Spidermen, when you can be one of the few Roman centurions or the lone undead bellhop?   

When my boys were small I used to tell them I couldn’t afford to buy them costumes.  That was true, but it wasn’t the real reason.  Even if I could have afforded to buy them, I wouldn’t have.  Why?  Because as far as I’m concerned, buying a costume is another no-brainer.  It’s the antithesis of what I believe is the spirit of Hallowe’en.  What creativity or thought does it take to spend forty bucks on a costume that’s going to fall apart in a day?  I'm well aware that lots of people (some of my very good friends) buy their costumes.  They say they aren’t creative or have no time to make one.  I get it.  Different strokes for different folks.  But if I had to pick between store-bought and homemade, it’s homemade every time.  Far better to make your own and fly your freak flag as high as you possibly can.  

Great costumes are ones that you have to appreciate, if for no other reason than the thought that’s behind them.  My friend Jessica does elaborate costumes each year, but it’s not just the workmanship that blows me away.  It’s the fact that she spends so much time pondering what she’s going to be.  Like any Hallowe’en aficionado, she regularly comes up with a costume that is original and reveals a great deal of thought.  When you see her all kitted out, you just have to smile and be amazed at what she’s created. 

 

Don't get me wrong:  I love Christmas as much as the next person.  But there's so much emotional baggage that comes along with that particular holiday for so many of us.  Either we have huge expectations of the perfect family Christmas (and let's face it, whose family is perfect?) or we're missing loved ones or we're stuck being alone for whatever reason.  It's not for nothing that the suicide rate jumps at that time of year.  Christmas can be the toughest day of the entire year, and that's why it isn't my favourite.

 

Hallowe'en is far less complicated* and usually far more fun as a result.  A costume and some candy, and you're good to go.  Admit it:  who hasn't caught sight of someone dressed up at work or on the street or on the bus and giggled?  Hallowe'en is clever and fun, and aren't those things we could all use a bit of more of in our lives?  So, that's my shout out to Hallowe'en, in all it's smarty pants glory.  Can't wait for next year!

 

*Please note:  I'll save my rant for how political correctness is ruining the observance of Hallowe'en in schools for another time. 

 

 

 

"The brain is like a muscle.  When it is in use we feel very good.  Understanding is joyous."  - Carl Sagan

 

 

 

 

B is for...

My topic today?  Well, it's one of my favourites, one I harp on almost as much as I go on about postpartum depression.  Bullying.  Bullies.  My whole life, my pet peeve has been people that are inconsiderate of others, and I guess it's pretty obvious that bullies fit neatly into that category. 

 

When I was little, I got bullied.  A lot.  It was partly because I was shy and quiet (hard to believe, I know), and partly because I was different.  I had short hair when all the kids (even the boys, back in those days) had long hair.  I had red hair, was pale and avoided the sun as much as possible, moving from patch of shade to patch of shade like a vampire.  I had an odd name that required me to correct my teacher at the beginning of every school year, since it was my middle name as well.  Confusing, right?  In short, I didn't stand up for myself, and I didn't fit in.

 

My most memorable experience of being bullied happened fairly early on in elementary school.  I was in Grade One, and two boys in my grade thought it would be awesomely fun to whip me with a broken skipping rope.  My face, my legs, my back.  After running away from them til I couldn't run anymore, I ended up collapsing on the playground, crying.  My older brother came over, hauled me to my feet and took me to the principal's office.  What the principal wanted to know was what had made these boys do this to me.  I had no clue.  It wasn't until high school that I finally asked one of them why he had done it.  "I dunno.  Just felt like it." was his answer.  Fab-o.  It was then that I learned that some bullies do what they do for no better reason than they can. 

 

Other bullies came along later in life.  Junior high was one big fun fest, considering that a group of kids in my homeroom used to make fun of me every day.  My clothes, my hair, my glasses, my lack of makeup:  it didn't matter, they ridiculed me for it.  Every.  Single.  Day.  Best part?  One of them was my brother's best friend and the other was my next door neighbour.  When I was at home, they "forgot" about how they treated me at school.  Nice.

 

By that point of my life, I understood that some bullies did what they did because they were feeling bad about something in themselves.  They hurt, so they hurt someone else.  They were afraid of not fitting in, so they fit in by making fun of others who were even more out of place.  I got it, but it didn't make things any easier.  I had kids tell me to my face how ugly I was.  I had people steal my books and throw them in the garbage.  I got pushed into lockers.  One day, two guys in my grade actually spat on me from the landing above.  This ridiculousness happened all the time, and I prayed for it to stop.  Did I bother to report it, you ask?  Nope.  Who wants to tell their principal that they've been spat on or pushed around or told they're *bleeping* ugly?  I was just glad to get to the end of it (sort of) when high school started.  Three years of misery finally came to an end. 

 

The thing about bullies, though, is that they grow up, too.  You don't leave them behind once you graduate.  Nope, they come out of the woodwork no matter how old you get.  The thing about adult bullying is that it can be much more subtle.  As such, it's sometimes hard to distinguish from run-of-the-mill constructive criticism.  Adult bullies usually  hide their bullying by saying that they are just "being truthful".  Honesty is their cover, and it can be crazy-making.  At least when you're an adult, you (sometimes) have the opportunity to respond to it and (hopefully) shut it down. 

 

Now, before you think all I'm doing is whining for no reason, I'll come (closer) to my point.  I watched a documentary with my sons the other day.  It was called "Bully", and I'll tell you, it was hard to watch.  Not only did I feel horrible for the kids in the film, it brought back so many painful memories of my childhood, it left me in tears.  It makes me livid to think that kids are still having to put up with this stupidity on a daily basis, especially after all the anti-bullying campaigns that have come and gone over the years.  I would have thought parents and administrators and teachers would be so attuned to any signs of bullying, that it would have gone the way of the dodo by now.  Or more like, there would be more efficient/effective ways of quashing bullying behaviour. 

 

Apparently, I am delusional.   As Depeche Mode put it so succinctly:  "People are people".  If they smell blood in the water, the sharks of the human variety are more than happy to take a chunk out of those who dare to be different.  On top of that the Internet, as it does with every social phenomenon, amplifies the reach of every antisocial a-hole on the planet. 

However (and here's that point I said I was coming to), there's a funny thing about bullying.   As heinous as it is, it has the potential to bring out the absolute best in people.  Bullying can transform a perfectly ordinary human being into a champ in no time flat.  Zero to hero, just like Malala. 

If you hadn't heard, Malala Yousafzai is the Pakistani teen who was shot in the head by the Taliban (those oh-so-brave defenders of honour and justice) for her activism regarding the right of females in her country to an education.  Shot.  In.  The.  Head.  For wanting the right to go to school.  Not only did Malala not die from these cowards' bullets, she was nominated for a Nobel peace prize this year.  Of course, there was a lot that went on before the assassination attempt.  Malala had done a great deal of work in her young life to that point, including writing a blog for the BBC about life under Taliban rule, and appearing in an American documentary about the same.   She knew that her stance was potentially dangerous, to her and her family.  She spoke out anyway, because that is the way to stop a bully.  Call a spade a spade and don't back down.  

I don't know if Malala was surprised at how many other people rallied to her defense, and how quickly they did so.  Probably not, because she is young and obviously idealistic.  I wasn't surprised.  When someone is so patently in the right (as Malala was, and continues to be), it's easy to support them.  Humans aren't born hating and hurting.  Their default setting is love.  Anyone who's ever looked into a baby's face knows that.  It's that inherent sense of justice that has pulled mankind back from the brink over and over again.

Bullying is bad, no two ways about it.  But as with everything in life, your response to it is what matters.  You can get bitter.  You can shrivel up and hide.  You can pick on others or kick your cat or drink or a million other negative things.  OR, you can use all that negativity and turn it around and refuse to get sucked in.  Stand up and say your piece, knowing that although not everyone is going to agree with you, YOU will know that you haven't been defeated.  And peace of mind?  There's two things about that:

1.  It's more precious than gold, that stuff;

2.  It's something bullies will never have. 

Stacy & Clinton, We'll Miss You!!

As ZZ Top once sang: “Every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man.”  That may or may not be accurate, but one thing I know is true:  there’s no guiltier pleasure for many folks than dissing others’ fashion faux pas, male OR female.  There’s a reason “What Not To Wear” has been going strong for ten seasons, folks, and I’m betting it’s not because we’re all dying to know about how to combine colour, pattern, texture and shine.   No, we want to see the train wrecks that people regularly dress themselves as, thinking that they can pass themselves off as having a “unique” sense of style. 

Not that I’m deluded enough to think that my wardrobe is above reproach.  Please.  My idea of fashion is something that covers what needs covering, isn’t inside-out and doesn’t have (too many) visible stains.  The last time I had an outfit that was stylish, coordinated, and had crazy things like accessories, Miley Cyrus was still a twinkle in Billy Ray’s eye.  Ahem.  They say that those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.  Words to live by, for sure.  Let’s just keep the following “rocks” between you and me, shall we??

Legwarmers:  However you want to look at it, musically, stylistically, “Flashdance” did no one any favours.  Wrapping your calves with woolen sleeves is not cute.  The fact that I am seeing impressionable young women wearing these again is disheartening, to say the least.  Frankly, for me it’s just proof positive that stupid never dies. 

Ponchos:  Unless others commonly refer to you as The High Plains Drifter and you favour smoking cigarillos, this is a ridiculous (yet useless) fashion item.  Too drafty to keep you warm, just long enough to get tangled up in your arms, and vulnerable to strong gusts of wind that will leave you playing peek-a-boo with passers-by.  I’ll ‘fess up.  I had one of these crocheted masterpieces in the 70’s.  My defense?  It was the 70’s.  What else can you expect from the decade that brought the world platform shoes, ABBA and lapels the size of small aircraft?

Sandals with socks:  Really?  Is this something we need to go over, folks?  Let me ask you this:  Would you wear long underwear with your bathing suit?  Sandals are for cooling, socks are for warming.  Wearing them together is unattractive and counter-productive.  Kind of like Stephen Harper. 

Beards:  I’m tempted to lump all beards together, but I’ll refrain, simply because there are some men (my gorgeous husband included) that absolutely rock a goatee.  No, what I’m referring to is the long, grizzled variety, what I call the ZZ Top.  These are wrong on so many levels, it’s hard to know where to begin.  Let’s just say that food and long straggly hair should never be in any sort of proximity.  Ew.

Ponytails on men:  What’s the point, if you never wear your hair any other way? It’s like having a Maserati and never taking off the parking brake.  Trust me guys:  unless you are a pirate swashbuckling your way across the high seas or fighting in the War of 1812, get yourself a haircut and move on.

Yoga pants:  It’s obvious the pendulum has swung a long way back from the time when women were drowning in bloomers, petticoats, underskirts and overskirts.  I get it.  You want freedom and comfort.  Does that really necessitate you packing your coochie into millimetres-thin swaths of Lycra for display to the general public?  Call me old-fashioned but there is this crazy thing called “moderation”.  It’s not all or nothing, gals.  (See “Cyrus, Miley”.)  And while we’re on the subject of stretchy pants, can I just say once and for all to all my fellow XL (as in Extra Luscious) ladies out there:  just because you can squeeze into it does not mean it fits.  If the closest you’ve ever gotten to yoga is flicking past it on morning television, please don’t.  You are so much better than that.

Suits with runners:  Gentlemen:  unless you’re fond of looking like you’re heading to Picture Day at the local elementary school, please don’t.  Women started this God-awful trend in the 80’s, but it was because they were sick of crippling themselves with four-inch heels and pointy toes.  The average man’s dress shoe does not (as far as I can tell) have four-inch heels.  If your feet are so sensitive you can’t hack standard men’s dress shoes, maybe you should consider bedroom slippers.  And a crew of Nubian litter-bearers.  All hail the king.

Pointy-toed men’s shoes:  As with all trends, things get taken past the point of cool to a neighbourhood I like to call “Ridiculous”.  That’s right next door to “Dumbass”, I believe.  If you’re one of those poor souls who got sucked into wearing cockroach killers that make you look like you should be in a Shriner’s parade, I’m sorry.  For you.  And if you’re wearing those thin-soled little lace-ups that we used to call Capezio’s, I have one question for you:  Are you currently in a Broadway revival of “Cats”?

Golf shirts and khakis:  Just like women in over-size shirts and black stretchy pants, this outfit screams “I’ve given up”.  That, or “I never, ever want to have sex again.”  It is unoriginal, it is dumpy and unless you are Tiger Woods (or just want to look like him), inappropriate for anywhere other than a golf course.  You can do it, gents.  Ditch the Dockers and purge the polos. For me.  For you.  For the love of all that is stylish.

Stay fabulous, folks.  I’m out. J

"Free Willy" (and Mommy, too)

Well, the Manitoba government is at it again, bless them.  If you had any worries that your tax dollars were being used for crazy things like infrastructure or eliminating child poverty, I’m here to tell you to relax.  No worries.  Status quo is being maintained.  You can rest easy in the knowledge that in between letting our lakes go to hell in a hand basket and ignoring social woes, your government is fighting hard to ensure the cultural refinement of some of our society’s most neglected members.  Who’s that, you say?  Underprivileged kids?  The elderly?  Those skaters down at the Forks?  Nope.  It’s the whales.  Yes, the whales are happy and frankly, as a middle-class working mother of three who can’t afford a mortgage, a vehicle or to retire before the age of 95, isn’t that what should concern me most? 

What whales, you ask?  Why, those darling belugas in Hudson’s Bay, of course!  They’re being treated to a concert series care of a group of artistes whose work was paid for in part by a grant from the Manitoba Arts Council.  Which is to say:  yours truly and all of you other tax-paying Manitobans.  Yes, it soothes my soul to know that there are folks in our fair province who are able to entertain large mammals with their musical stylings while I’m holding down the fort back here in a little place I like to call “Reality”.  The icing on the cake?  Knowing I get to pay for their dream to come true.  Awesome!

Funny, but when I have a dream, I don’t ask others to fund it.  One of my dreams is to own a house (wingnut that I am), but I don’t know of any group that I can go to and say “Hey!  Give me money...for free!”  No, either I save up the money myself or I go to a bank, where you need to have money in order for them to give you any.  Sort of like someone who’ll only lend you an umbrella when it’s not raining. 

You know what group I’d like to see get handed money?  How about one that’s devoted to helping women suffering from post-partum depression?  I wouldn’t mind my tax dollars going towards a crisis intervention team or respite care or a halfway house.  How about, instead of concertos for our fishy friends, our pals in government fork out a little cashish for that?  I’ll tell you, THAT would tickle me pink. 

In a recent interview published in the Free Press, Health Minister Theresa Oswald said that “…it doesn't appear that there was any deviation from [the] standard supports (for women with symptoms of postpartum depression) in [the Lisa Gibson] case."  (Sidebar:  For those of you who don't know, Lisa Gibson was a mother suffering from PPD who drowned her two children, aged three months and two years before drowning herself in the Red River.)

Really?  Tell me, Ms Oswald, 'cause I'd love to know:  what the hell ARE the standard supports for women suffering with PPD?  Calling the Healthlinks number and telling them you’re trying to figure out the best way to tie a noose?  Sitting for hours in the local hospital emerg sobbing uncontrollably while everybody else looks at you like “Why are you HERE?”  Going to see your doctor, getting a prescription for anti-depressants and white-knuckling it for another month while the drugs start to kick in?  Saddling your mother or mother-in-law or some other lucky soul with the task of babysitting you and your kids to make sure no one ends up dead?  If Lisa Gibson was given the “standard supports” that are on offer here in Manitoba, then I guess they didn’t work, considering her family is currently preparing for three funerals. 

Frankly, having been in a similar situation (suicidal and contemplating infanticide) fourteen years ago, I have yet to hear about any effective “standard supports” for women here with severe PPD.  Let me be clear:  Support groups are very useful, but that can't be the only resource. As far as I’m concerned the “standard support” should be a mental health centre located in a hospital, staffed with professionals who understand PPD and other forms of mental illness and can offer some tangible assistance.  I believe that women with PPD should not have to search through websites trying to find support groups.  They should not have to hope that their husband or someone else can stay home with them while they “ride out” their symptoms.  Even more crucial, they should not be responsible for tiny, defenseless human beings, no matter what others may say or think.  

I'm always amazed at how much pressure women put on themselves to do what society deems acceptable for them, rather than doing what they know in their gut is right for their particular situation.  For example:  How many men do you know would undergo surgery without benefit of anesthetic or any pain medication?  Right.  Then why in God's name is it such a point of pride for so many women to give birth that way?  I realize that some parents are concerned that medication may be potentially harmful to their newborn, and they certainly are entitled to do what they think is right.  But don't tell me I'm the only one who has heard a new mom talk proudly about how she gave birth without taking any drugs, like that suffering made her a better person.  So it goes with PPD. 

As long as PPD is not given the attention it deserves, women will continue to "put on a happy face" and suffer in silence, either unaware that what they are going through is a legitimate illness or unwilling to admit they are struggling for fear of censure.  In an era where acceptance and tolerance for those outside society's so-called "norm" are becoming more common, it's heartbreaking to think that women facing PPD are still (seemingly) living in the Dark Ages.  I'd like to think that as a society, we could put as much effort into helping these women as we do for other groups. 

I bet the whales would agree.

 

How Stupid Do I Look? (Don't Answer That!)

Once upon a time, I believed everything I was told.  I was gullible with a capital "G", no two ways about it.  My dad told me that the robins on the lawn were “listening for worms” every time they turned their heads sideways near the ground, and I believed him.  It wasn’t until 20 years later that my boyfriend pointed out that robins’ eyes are on the side of their heads.  They weren’t listening for worms, they were looking for them, for pity’s sake.  I felt like a dipstick, to say the least.  I am still a fairly trusting soul, but even a hick from the sticks like me isn’t stupid enough to buy some of the garbage that’s being peddled in this world nowadays.

 

"Gullible Jo Loses Her Pants" AKA "Who Would Lie To This Poor Child??"

For instance, do the movie theatre chains really think that I don’t get what they’re doing with these 3D versions of movies?  Am I supposed to believe it's simply a coincidence that "Pacific Rim" is showing in 3D at twenty different times at my local theatre, but only twice in non-3D (read:  cheaper) format?  Really, Cineplex?  Do I look that stupid? 

Scotiabank has a slogan that regularly makes me spit blood during movie previews.  (Jenn, you know this better than anyone.) “You’re richer than you think.”  Really?  Well, I’m pretty sure that if you were to measure wealth in the intangibles, that’d be right.  My sons are more precious than gold to me, as are my husband and my friends and my health.  But since this slogan is coming from a bank, which I’m thinking is a wee bit more interested in cash flow than counting blessings, I’d like to say that NO, I generally am not richer than I think I am.  Usually, the end of the month shows up with a few extra days and my bank account is...ahem...slightly less than equal to the challenge.  In fact, if my bank account was a person, it would be the kid on the playground who just fell off the monkey bars and is lying winded on the ground, crying.  No, Scotiabank, I'm not richer than I think I am.  Not if I’m actually conscious and stone-cold sober.  Which sadly, I am most of the time.  Hyuck, yuck. 

I used to believe that everyone on Facebook was as deliriously happy and busy as they seemed, every minute of every day.  But after a few years, I started to get a little hardened to things.  I think you know what I mean:  “Just bought a new toothbrush…and now I’m going to use it!”  People on FB (including yours truly, much to my shame) sort of remind me of people in beer commercials:  everyone is the best possible version of themselves, and the fun never stops.  In the beer ads, you don’t see guys with beer guts slumped over a bar or teenagers vomiting in garbage cans.  So it is with FB, where you don’t see anything but the high points.  It’s a natural urge, to present our most attractive, vivacious, amusing selves, but are we really thinking anyone believes this load of bull-puckey?  I’d like to be brave enough to post a picture of me in my sweats on the couch, slack-jawed and staring at a re-run of “Gravity Falls” with my boys on a snowy Saturday morning.   That would be truth in advertising, but the fact is that I'd feel like I was letting my FB friends down. 

We show people what we want them to see, and often there’s a huge gap between what we project and what is real.  What’s scary to me is that it's not that hard to forget about that gap.  We start believing our own baloney and giving in to the urge to sugarcoat our lives.  That was brought home to me most recently by the death of “Glee” star, Cory Monteith.  His was an image as squeaky clean as a newly Windexed bathroom mirror, in addition to which he was handsome and talented as all get-out.  To say that the 31-year-old’s death, alone in a hotel room of a heroin and alcohol overdose, was a disconnect between his image in the public eye and the truth of his situation is to say the very least.  I doubt anyone looking at Mr. Monteith’s life would have thought it would end as sadly and ignominiously as it did. 

As Charley Rich used to sing “No one knows what goes on behind closed doors.”  You got that half-right, Chuck.  No one knows, except the ones behind the doors.  I don’t think it helps if we ignore (sometimes) unattractive reality in favour of making ourselves seem like the most popular kid in the class.  Sometimes you just have to believe that being yourself is good enough.  For you and all your friends.  

You Say "Potayto", I Say "Potahto"

As I sit here on this wonderfully sunny May evening, I am pondering the importance of perspective.  As we know, depending on your perspective, one issue or one thing or one person can look completely different. For the good or the bad.  To illustrate, I give you “The Tale of the Unimaginative Unmentionables”... 

Many moons ago, when I was a sweet young(er) thing, I found myself at a family reunion, doing laundry.  We were staying at my mother and father-in-law’s, and I wound up emptying the washer of my in-laws wet laundry.  You know, underwear is a very telling thing.  The difference between a pair of tighty-whities coming out of the washing machine versus a lacy black thong is quite stark.  I think it’s safe to say that what you see does colour (colour!  ha!) the way you see the wearer.  To cut to the chase, my mother-in-law seemingly had only one style of undies, and that was plain, white briefs.  To me, that made her seem like some kind of boring, colourless drone.  I mean, what woman doesn’t jazz up their life with pretty underthings, even if they have to be buttoned-down and conservative on the outside?  Truly, those whites confirmed every negative impression I’d ever had of her as uptight, white and downright lacking in imagination. 

Cut to a few years later:  Miz Jo is in Walmart, searching for a pair of undies that might actually fit her expanding derriere.  Ahem.  Imagine her consternation when the only ones in her size come not with pretty flowers, lacy frills or zingy stripes but...white.  Bland, boring white.  Am I bland and boring?  I’d like to think not.  I’d like to think I’m one of those open-minded, bohemian sorts who are the furthest thing from whitebread.  Being “vanilla” is not what I want.  But if I died tomorrow and anyone saw my unmentionables, all they’d see is underwear that a nun would be comfortable wearing to confession.  You see?  Perspective is everything.  All of a sudden, it hit me that even if my mother-in-law had wanted to wear something else, she might not have had a choice.  Unfortunately, I only understood that once I was faced with the same choice (or lack thereof).  My question is:  Why do so many people assume that their perspective is the only way to see things?  And why in heaven’s name is it so bloody hard to cut other people some slack? 

For example:  my eldest son was in Grade 3, and his class was supposed to take a field trip to the Japanese cultural centre.  It was something he’d been looking forward to for quite a while, and I had made sure his permission slip was handed in on time, along with fee.  It was a big deal for him.  Unfortunately, the night before the “big day”, he was up for hours with asthma attacks, so I let him sleep in a bit.  It wasn’t until almost 9:00am before I remembered the field trip.  Knowing he would be horribly disappointed if he missed it, I drove to the school in a panic with him, only to see the bus heading out of the school parking lot.  I chased the bus, hoping they would stop so I could get him on the bus.  At a red light, I jumped out of the van, raced to the bus and banged on the door to get the driver’s attention.  She shook her head (rightfully so - what was I thinking??) and kept going.  She didn’t know that my gas tank was reading “empty” and it was three days before pay day and I had no money for gas.  I ended up driving all the way across the city, following the bus, praying that we wouldn’t run out before I got my son to where he needed to go.  The bright side?  My boy got to his field trip.  Plus, I found out just how far you can really go after your “tank empty” light goes on.  It’s pretty far, believe me. 

The down side?  Well, when I told my brother the story, he looked at me like I was an idiot.  I was trying to make him laugh at another “OMG, Jo’s A Dip” story, but all I got was the stinkeye.  He thought I was irresponsible for trying to catch up to the bus and get the driver to take my son the rest of the way.  Did he ask me why I did what I did?  Nope.  You see, my brother’s perspective was (and continues to be) that I’m a screw-up.  Any mitigating circumstances would just have gotten in the way, really.  My perspective was that I wanted to make sure my son wouldn’t be disappointed.  The way I saw it, it wasn’t his fault that I had no money for gas because his dad had been downsized out of a job and we were broke.  Unfortunately, since my brother didn’t bother to ask why I’d done what I’d done, from his perspective, I was simply a disorganized twit who was also a useless parent.  Big difference, eh?

It takes a couple of things to have perspective.  Reliable intel is key.  Imagination and empathy are helpful, too.   For sure, it takes a generosity of spirit.  But it’s funny how as some of us become more settled in life, it becomes harder to be generous.  You forget there was a time when you had to choose between paying one bill or another.  You forget that certain foods (cheese, anyone?) used to qualify as luxury items on your grocery list.  Worst of all, you start making assumptions about how other people live, how they approach the world. 

You assume that because you have enough money to put your kids in dance and sports and new clothes that everyone has that ability.  You assume that because you’ve never been fired from a job or downsized (or whatever it’s politically correct to call it nowadays) that the only reason someone would lose their job is because they’re lazy or stupid or lacking in motivation.  (Ah yes, “motivation”.  There’s a twenty-five cent word that gets thrown around a lot without really meaning much.)  You assume that everyone is able to buy new duds for work in order to present themselves in a certain way.  You don’t realize that perhaps the reason your co-worker shows up in the same outfit five days in a row is because he genuinely does not have the means for a second one, not because he’s a slob who doesn’t care.

It takes some effort and imagination to think that maybe some people struggle to get out of bed in the morning.  It takes even more to speculate that maybe some people are desperately lonely, and afraid that they are just one little screw-up away from going off the rails for good.  When you are mentally healthy, your perspective might be that a depressed person is just suffering from a lack of “motivation” to put on a happy face and get to work.  It’s only when you find yourself in the ER with a hysterical friend or relative who is genuinely distraught and unable to “snap out of it” that you realize that maybe (just maybe!) your assumptions are slightly unfair.  Just a wee bit off, perhaps. 

Like a happily married person who doesn’t understand that others are miserable in their relationships.  Unhappy to the point that they will do themselves (or someone else) serious harm if they can’t get out of their marriage.  You might attribute to these people who want out of their marriages, a certain lack of moral fibre.  Your perspective might be that they are weak, self-indulgent asses who only care about their own happiness and don't mind sacrificing their spouse and kids to get it. 

 

The idea that perhaps these same weak-asses have been killing themselves to make their marriage work despite the fact that their partner has unexpectedly morphed into some unfeeling, unsympathetic jackass doesn’t occur to some happily married people who are able to count on their partners to…oh, I don’t know…tell the truth on a regular basis.   It just doesn’t come into their way of thinking, because their spouse is not the kind of twit that spends money like it’s going out of style and then lies to cover it up.  Or develops a drinking problem.  Or starts gambling online.  Or physically or verbally abuses them.  Whatever.  No, for the people who are fortunate enough to have chosen a partner they can actually rely on for that “better or worse” stuff, divorce is just for self-centered whiners who aren’t adult enough to stand by their decisions.  That’s their perspective.  Is that right?  Or fair?  You decide. 

Another example:  Amanda Berry, one of the three women held hostage in Cleveland for nearly a decade, was finally able to escape with help from one Charles Ramsey.  After a quick interview by a local news channel, Charles became a Youtube celebrity.  He came across as charming, funny and likeably down-to-earth.  The kind of person most people would like to have as a neighbour.  At least, that was my perspective.  I’m sure Amanda Berry probably thinks he’s a saint, considering how he helped to free her by breaking the front door through which she was trying to escape.  That’s her perspective.  Unfortunately, another news outlet decided they needed to dig a little deeper, considering that Charles is a poor black dishwasher who doesn’t exactly fit the stereotype of an all-American hero.  They discovered he’d done jail time for domestic violence.  From their perspective, Charles Ramsey is just an ex-con who’s working his fifteen minutes of fame for whatever he can get.  So, whose perspective do you trust? 

 

I was told once to avoid people who start off any sentence with “you should”.  Amen to that.  “You Shoulds” are people who are full of opinions and advice, yet don’t always know what they’re talking about.  Or if they do know a bit, they assume they know it all.  That’s when they’re REALLY dangerous.  However, there’s one statement I'd like to make that does start with those two little words:   

You should try every single day to find someone whose perspective is different from yours.  Talk to them.  Find out why it’s that way.  Learn something new.  Challenge yourself to see things from their point of view.  Maybe it will help you to see the world in a different light.  You think mental illness is baloney?  Talk to someone who is struggling with theirs.  You think someone is a joke at parenting?  Ask them what is most challenging for them.  Think someone's a tree-hugging freak because they're vegan?  Ask them what made them choose that path.  It might change your perspective on things, or at least on that particular person.  Or it might not.  You never know. 

Speaking from personal experience, it sure as heck couldn’t hurt. 

 

Goin' To the Chapel

"Hope springs eternal", as my dad always said.  True enough:  I am living proof.  After twenty-six years in one relationship, I'm taking another stab at love.  Yep, I'm doing it:  getting hitched, jumping the broom, tying the knot, taking the leap, dropping anchor, walking down the aisle, plighting my troth, settling down, joining in holy matrimony, sealing the deal.  Whatever you want to call it, I'm getting married.  Again.  To a guy named Nick.  Again.  Apparently, I am not one for change. 

I'm leaving in two days for the land of "No problem, mon" to marry the man whom I love above all other adults on this planet.  He makes my heart sing.  He makes everything.  Groovy.  Sorry.  I'm just being a goof.  Trust me, I take this whole process deathly seriously, simply because I messed up marriage so badly the first go around.  The stakes are even higher this time, simply because I know what the stakes actually are.  And like a newly-quit smoker who nags every smoker in sight with lung cancer stats, I am on a mission to spread the word about what's important when it comes to getting married. 

I'll tell you what's important, and the answer might actually surprise some of you.  Ladies (and I address this to you because A) I am a realist who knows that even in this whacked-out, politically correct world, women are still the ones who make 99.9 percent of the decisions about weddings and B) I am the furthest thing from politically correct), you know what's important about your wedding?  Well, it's actually NOT your wedding.  It's every day AFTER your wedding.  Not just the honeymoon, but the decades of connubial bliss that come after that.  Just like labour and childbirth which (usually) are only one day in a woman's life and only a blip on that map called "Parenthood", the craziness that is normally referred to as your wedding day is not the be-all and end-all, no matter what the latest issue of "Wedding Bells" might tell you. 

What's not important?  The colour of your bridesmaids' dresses.  Your flowers.  Your dress.  Your French manicure.  Whether or not the groom wears a suit or a tuxedo.  The number of groomsmen.  The maturity level of said groomsmen.  Whether or not your dad is around to walk you down the aisle.  The flavour of the cake.  The grossness of the toast to the bride given by one of your husband's crazy university buddies.  Your sparkly wedding shoes.  Whether or not that angelic (looking) niece/friend of the family drops the rose petals in clumps or sprinkles them nicely down the aisle.  Where you booked the reception.  How good the food is.  The colour of the table linens.  Whether or not your crazy uncle is going to get up and make an embarrassingly off-colour speech.  Trust me.  None. Of. It. Matters.

To be sure, it's all very exciting, and it is fun to make all these decisions and to be the "star" of the whole wedding process.  I guarantee you, though, it's got absolutely NOTHING to do with the ongoing commitment that is marriage.  In getting married, you are beginning a journey that is going to take you into some of the scariest, most frustrating, most soul-searching, most boring, most bewildering territory you will ever come across.  And I'm not talking about my recent afternoon of trying on bathing suits. 

You want to know something?  One day in the future, when you're agonising about which one of you gets to stay home from work with your sick child for the third day in a row, you are going to bust a gut at the idea that you actually cared whether you'd have pink or cream roses in your bouquet.  And that argument you had over seating his Auntie Flo next to your whacko university roommate?  Laughable.  Everything you think is so damned important for this one day in your life just...isn't.  I want you to know that what matters is figuring out how to make your marriage work every day for the rest of your life.  Now THERE'S some heavy lifting for you. 

There are no sure things in this life (except maybe that everything that tastes good is going to eventually kill you), and I don't know any better than anyone else whether or not soul mates exist.  All I know is that you have to treat your spouse with the exact same kindness, respect and good humour that you want from them.  Every single day.  And you have to keep doing that even when you're not wearing a big sparkly dress and feeling fab-ew-lous. 

You have to remember that this person you've chosen above all others is not there to be a punching bag when you have a bad day.  They're not there to kiss your ass or tell you you're right when you're wrong.  They are there to be your partner; to learn whatever lessons life presents you with and to roll with the punches/kicks in the teeth that may come.  Be nice to this person.  Do not take them for granted.  No one deserves that, especially not someone that you currently think is the sun, moon AND stars. 

When I was little, I heard the saying "It take two to tango", and I heard it as "It takes two to tangle".  That might have been a Freudian slip (probably not, considering I was only about eight or nine at the time), but I think it's fitting.  Whether you realise it or not, the minute you marry someone and make things legal and permanent-like, you are entangled with them for all time.  Never mind kids or tattoos:  memories are even more permanent because they don't move out and you can't get rid of them with a laser.  (Well, maybe you can, but let's not go there.)  Everything you two share, just the two of you will remember.  That shared memory bank is a precious, precious thing.  Don't take THAT for granted, either.  Believe me:  there's nothing quite so sad as turning to someone and saying "Remember that time we..." and realising that NO, they don't remember, because you didn't share that experience with them. 

Yep, I'm getting married again.  I'm excited as all get-out.  But this time, it's not about the dress or the flowers or the purple ribbon for the wedding cake.  This time, the only thing that's going to matter is the man that's standing beside me, promising to love and respect me 'til death do us part.  As I will promise him. 

Time to get to work. 

WHO Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest?

Because February is Mental Health Awareness Month, I thought I’d share two things with you:  1. I suffer from depression and; 2) I can't stand Tom Cruise.  You might not think these two things are related, but they are.  Apart from the fact that Mr. C. couldn’t act his way out of a soggy paper bag, the truth is that he was once very vocal about his belief that depression and anti-depressants are hokum.  Apparently, TommyBoy in his infinite, Scientological wisdom was/is convinced all you need to cure depression is vitamins, good nutrition and regular exercise.  (Yeah.  And all I need to do to look like Anne Hathaway is drink a wee bit more water.)  How ignorant and/or arrogant do you have to be to say that no one needs anti-depressants?  Last time I checked, Maverick wasn't famous for his degree in clinical psychology. 



Sad, Sad Rex

As someone who’s been hospitalized with severe post-partum depression not once, but twice, I can tell you that mental illness is no picnic.  With my first baby, it took three months of wintry housebound solitude plus no sleep to put me over the edge.  With the twins, I was only a month in when things came apart at the seams.  Panic attacks became a regular occurrence.  (Note:  If you’ve never had one, they’re way more fun than a barrel of monkeys.  Not.  Imagine someone holding a knife to your throat:  your heart is pounding, your stomach is in knots, you are freaking OUT.  A panic attack is like that, minus the knife at your throat.  You’re flipping out for no particular reason anyone can see.  So.  Much.  Fun.  Especially in social situations!)  I would cry at the least little thing.  Couldn’t get a jar open?  Sob.  Stubbed my toe on the doorframe?  Sob.  Couldn’t find the t.v. remote?  Sob.  Baby wouldn’t stop sobbing?  Sob. 



To say this was exhausting (on top of being exhausted) just doesn’t cut it.  The term “bone tired” doesn’t come close.  Nobody likes being depressed, unless they're Rex Murphy, maybe.  On top of it all, when I wasn’t crying my eyes out or having heart palpitations, I was meaner than a caffeine-deprived Kardashian. It’s probably a miracle my marriage lasted as long as it did, considering how up and down I was. Any time of the day or night, you could come on over to Jo’s house to play on the mood swings. Surprising how few people took me up on that offer…

Overriding the whole mess?  Shame.  Not the kind of shame you feel after a debauched evening spent snarfling King Dongs and bushels of chips and dip.  No, this shame was far more isolating, because with it, I compared myself to all other mothers, knowing that I didn’t measure up in that most important of events:  the Mommyhood Olympics.  While other women cooed about their dreamy babies who slept twelve hours at a stretch and frolicked happily in their Baby Swim classes, I was the loser whose baby wouldn’t sleep for more than fifteen minutes at a time UNLESS I HELD HIM.  I couldn’t relax, I couldn’t put him down, I couldn’t stand to hear him cry, I couldn’t figure out what the heck to do. 

Sidebar:  Here’s the part where all my childless friends shake their heads and say “You wanted ‘em.  You got ‘em.  Suck it up!”  Yes, you’re totally right.  But consider:  before you have kids, the only thing you ever hear about is how wonderful it is.  Sure, people joke about dirty diapers and getting no sleep, but who takes that seriously?  Then you actually have a baby, and it’s too late.  It’s like becoming Prime Minister and then being told “Guess what?!  You’re gonna do this whole gig with no aides, no advisors, no sleep and no intel.  Oh, and BTW?  You can’t resign.  Ever.”  It's the best job in the world, but it sucks the life out of you quicker than a "Twilight" marathon.

Contrary to the Great and Powerful Cruise, depression doesn’t miraculously go away just because you eat your veggies and do your sit-ups.  Funny thing, though.  Lots of people seem to endorse this way of thinking, consciously or not.  Case in point:  when I was freaking out after the boys were born, my brother came over and decided that I needed to go for a walk.  Bless him, he was just trying to be helpful, but I had to shake my head.  First of all, I don’t think it occurred to him that walking near the road just made me think about throwing myself in front of an oncoming truck.  Yukkity, yuk, yuk.  Really, what bugged me was that I got the impression that all I needed to "snap out of it" was a brisk walk. 

Think about it: If someone you knew had diabetes, would you believe that a better attitude or fresh air would change that?  I'm thinking...nope.  What I want to know is why everyone considers mental illness to be a matter of opinion.  When I folded like a cheap tent during my first bout of depression, people I knew said, “But you’re always so happy!”  Uh, yeah.  It’s called chemical depression, not optional depression.  It's your brain chemistry dictating your moods, not you.  Seriously:  do you think if I had any option, I'd choose to be depressed?  Sitting and crying for hours for no reason is not particularly entertaining, or helpful.  Especially when it comes to keeping a job or  maintaining relationships.  Repeat after me, everybody:  "Mental illness is not a choice."  It's not a character flaw, not a bid for attention, not something you'd wish on your worst enemy.  It's freaky, it's frightening, and it's like having one arm tied behind your back 24/7.  You miss out on so much stuff because of it, and it's not fair that on top of that you have to listen to clueless nimrods like Tom Cruise spout off about how all you need is more Vitamin C and maybe some hot yoga. 

I guess because mental illness is mostly invisible, it’s easier for people to ignore.  Kind of like Britney Spears' talent.  I think that there's a lot of fear involved, too.  People don't understand something, so they avoid talking about it.  But that's not the answer.  All that does is force people who suffer from mental illness (depression, bipolar disorder, etc.) to try to hide it, rather than dealing with it openly.  I always tell my boys "knowledge is power".  If you take your flashlight and shine it under the bed, you can see that there aren't any monsters waiting to get you.  Same thing with mental illness.  Bringing it out into the light is the best way for people to come to terms with it.  My ex used to get so angry with me because I wouldn't hesitate to talk about being hospitalized for PPD.  It wasn't that I was looking for sympathy.  What I was trying to do was take away the stigma associated with it.  If you'd ended up in the hospital with a heart attack, you wouldn't hide it.  I figure if my brain chemistry tries to take me down, I don't need to hide that, either. 

You know what I think is the answer?  Be curious.  Find out more about mental illness.  Be kind.  Stop judging.  Start listening.  Stop assuming that everyone is the same.  I can tell you from experience that you don't have to look like Cruella De Vil on the outside to be barely holding it together on the inside.  Know that everyone is different, and not everyone copes the same way.  That doesn't mean they deserve contempt.  Basically, just know that all of us are trying to get through life one day at a time, the best way we know how.  

Even Tom Cruise.