What to Wear: The Poppy ( Red is the New Black)

I've been hard pressed to find a bare jacket collar this week. Not only am I seeing pinless scores of them littering the ground but I am dazzled by bright red poppies adorning virtually every lapel, sweater, even backpack I see on our city's streets.

Is the Poppy's ubiquity something new or is my noticing it simply something new to me? Official "poppy policy" sees our civil servants and broadcasters don the poppy two weeks prior to Remembrance Day, November 11th. In late October, our young cadets and Legion members swamp grocery and liquor stores trading poppies for donations. From what I have seen, business is brisk.

Perhaps it is my own predilection for the poppy that has me interpreting my world through red-coloured glasses, but I can't help sense that Canadians are establishing a new patriotism, a patriotism that naturally extends to our appreciation for our active military personnel but also to those who helped establish Canada as a nation. This pride in our country, in ourselves, may stem from the new-found respect afforded us as a global leader side-stepping a crumbling world economy or it may simply be that we are growing up.

As I move into what my son refers to as a "certain age", I am finding myself more sentimental, even nostalgic but I am also more grateful. And perhaps that is all it is, those of us in developed nations are finally feeling grateful for what we do have.

In the news today, Prince William "demands Fifa U-turn on poppy ban", a long-standing policy that match 
shirts should not carry political, religious or commercial messages. The Duke of Cambridge insists that poppies do not represent political, religious or commercial messages. I don't know quite what to say to that except that perhaps they don't, but they so also obviously do. What the poppy represents may now become the stuff of future debate. For me, it is a show of gratitude and quiet commemoration.

As Rick Mercer says: remember to remember. I'm looking forward to seeing you and your poppy until 11:11 a.m. on November 11th and then we will do what our military personnel, their families, and our veterans do every year, move past the remembering and back into the doing. 

And just to prove I am a sentimental old fool, here is Terry Kelly's "A Pittance of Time"

It's election time - do you know where your children are?

Rock the vote, man, Yeah, like rock it totally. Come on you young uns - get out and VOTE! Tweet your vote, facebook your vote, shoot, facepaint your vote. Just VOTE already.

We oldies are sure keen to get our youth democratically motivated. And we should be; it ain't no democracy without every last eligible voter voting.

( Are you sure all your boys are doing their best? Are they ALL making noise? Are you sure every Who down in Who-ville is working? Quick! Look through your town! Is there anyone shirking?)

The funny thing I've noticed lately, though, is that only parties of a certain colour seem hyper-engaged in rockin' the youth vote. By colour, I mean the red, green, and orange variety. The blues, well, they are noticeably absent on this particular mandate.

This is good, right? I mean, getting those 18+ "kids" out to vote can only be something fantastically great and democratic, regardless of who lights the fire under their derrières. Right?

Cue ominous music and whisper: be careful what you wish for....

Ponder this: there is the remote possibility, dear parents and assorted oldies, that, even though you may be waving a red, green, or orange flag, the brilliant son or college-aged niece that you've been pushing aggressively to the ballot box may actually be A CONSERVATIVE. Still want them to vote? Huh?

I can almost hear the deafening silence that would transpire should those 2.6 million young voters show up on May 2 and vote in a Conservative majority.What if Jo-jo is no shirker but simply a quiet Conservative?

Now don't panic. Just because our first born put campaign signs in his bedroom window when we denied him the front yard and embarrasses us in public with his bold blue pin. And just because he's been reduced to saying "the Party" in mixed company. And just because he may blast his political beliefs all over public radio sometime this afternoon - don't panic. Or toilet-paper our house, please.

All of that and none of that necessarily means we should be careful what we wish for. I'm just saying, democracy can sometimes be a bit of a surprise.

Now get out and VOTE. Election. May 2nd, 2011. Coming to a school gym near you.

	Talking Heads - Burning Down The House .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

YOPP!

I gave to #japan and all I got was this stupid t-shirt

It usually comes in plain white, with short square sleeves, and a banded snug neckline. It is also usually printed with a bold logo stretched across its front in some horrible primary colour, or worse, a pastel.

It is the Charity T-shirt - perfunctory, ubiquitous and quite possibly the ugliest and most unflattering item in my wardrobe, (except for those beige, flared cords - shut up, Judy)

Not suprisingly, the Charity T-shirt happens to also be the least worn item in my wardrobe and somehow, regardless of its many sizes, it still manages to fit me only slightly better than a paper bag. The crazy thing? My Charity T-shirt is not alone - oh no - I have at least TEN CHARITY T-SHIRTS, each as equally ugly and unworn as the next.

The origins of my collection could quite possibly be traced to a crazed night at the Vagina Monologues when I got carried away and insisted my newly-purchased "I heart Vagina" t-shirt would be my favorite protest shirt when disillusioned with my three boys at home. My teenager was predictably disgusted but even I couldn't bring myself to wear it in the end. Not even to bed. Bed, by the way, being the place where all my Charity T-shirts go to die.

I realize that my I-heart-vagina shirt does not strictly qualify as a Charity T-shirt, but something slipped that night, some small sliver of sense. Soon I had drawers stuffed with Cancer, MS, and Chicken Pox T-shirts.

Do not get me wrong - I LOVE CHARITABLE ORGANIZATIONS (except of course when you call mid-lasagna-bite). Some of my friends even belong to charitable organizations. But, please, for the love of Japan, can we lay the Charity T-shirt to rest?

There have been some decent alternative efforts out there. Thanks, Lance - the bands worked for awhile, until the kids got bored and their parents started making them wash their band-infested and increasingly sweaty lower arms. Stickers and pins, bless them, are hanging in there. But do charities truly need to spend money and to manufacture junk to thank people for donating?

Of course I understand that such items also have a promotional component, as well as sending a strong social message. Perhaps it is simply the style of the shirt that has run its course. By that I mean, the cheap style. The style that is literally a T and of no fashion use to anyone.

Japan, I am more than happy to raise and donate money for disaster relief, but I will be satisfied with a mere thank you when you get around to it. Keep the shirt.

	Right Said Fred - Right Said Fred - I m Too Sexy .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

Dear God: please don't let it snow on a Sunday

Living in the the "green" belt of BC, snow comes perhaps twice a year and usually, a light dusting at worst. Here today. Gone tomorrow.

That said, we have been blasted by Mother Nature a few times in the past decade and have been completely paralyzed - our ineptitude and anguish drowned out by the loud snickers and snorts of Canadians elsewhere. Our comeuppance usually arrives in the form of a high flower count in late-February.

Our fair city is adapting to climate change, however, and so, when the latest wintry blast blew somewhat unexpectedly in the early hours of morning yesterday, Victorians were basically back on their feet by this morning.

Well, let's say some Victorians were back on their feet. Those with wheels on their strollers or wheelchairs or those with casts, canes, crutches, unsteady feet, high heels or just plain common sense took one look at the minefields the sidewalks in their neighbourhoods had become and beat a hasty retreat back inside.

My youngest and I crunched and tiptoed and slid to school this morning, along the ice-pocked sidewalks of our urban-residential neighbourhood. He, brashly pushing forth like any five-year old with some pluck, sturdy boots, and a close proximity to the ground should. Me, less so -older, wiser, fragile bones reluctant.

Yesterday was smooth sailing by today's comparison. Soft, wet snow. The smush and crunch of boots. If not driving or cycling, your chances of calamity were slim. Of course, for those who have any sense whatsoever know, if you didn't shovel and clear your sidewalk yesterday, with an overnight forecast of more snow and -7 degrees, those same pathways would be deadly today. Not clearing your sidewalk is basically telling your neighbours to f*ck off and break a leg.

I think it goes without saying that we do not expect people who are incapable or unable of clearing their sidewalks to do so. Being a lazy a*s does not qualify as a good excuse. Nor does being a renter. Nor does worshipping God. The single worst perpetrators of sidewalk sabotage by apathy in my neighbourhood? Houses of the holy.

Um, are you there, God? It's me, Fiona. Nope, don't have my period. No, not worried about kissing Sam in 4th grade. Um, please don't send me to Hell just for this but, um, your peeps are not doing their civic duty and I'm pissed.

The bricks and mortar that occasionally house your faithful sit on larger, longish corner lots. With two longish sidewalk sides. On snowy, inclement weather days, these lengths of sidewalk lie embarrassingly and treacherously unshovelled. Uncleared. Ice-pocked. Hazardous. Pray tell why they are not cleared? Are you in our hearts always, but in church only on Sundays? I know someone was there, I saw footprints in the snow exiting from the side door. Do your worshippers only kneel, not scoop or sweep? Do they pretend not to see their church as they walk their kids to school? Cough and look the other way?

Listen, I'm not trying to judge you or anything but I'm not fast or strong enough to catch every able and un-able being that is trying to pick his or her way across the icy path that is your threshold.

I know, I know - it's a weekday. I feel your pain. Faith these days seems to be practiced only on Christmas Eve and Sundays.

Dear God: I pray it snows this Sunday, so everyone can walk home without falling on their arses.

Love the Chilis:

	Red Hot Chilli Peppers - Snow .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

Say It Like You Mean It Dammit

In a recent Globe and Mail piece, Ian Brown wrote about public speaking and political rhetoric and reflects, mainly, that well, the speech-making of our modern-day leaders sucks. Brown quotes one of Winston Churchill's powerful rallying cries:

"You ask, 'What is our policy?' I will say: it is to wage war, by sea, land, and air, with all our might and with all the strength that god can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark and lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy. You ask, 'What is our aim?' I can answer in one word: victory; victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival. "

I imagine Brown quoted this in its entirety for the same reason I have. Churchill's words are unequivocal. They are bare. They are terrifying. They are truthful. They don't give one fig what spin the newspaper might put on them.

Brown, as my husband did over coffee this morning, conceded that Churchill had a war as a dramatic, galvanizing backdrop. Brown and my husband also suggested that we don't trust our leaders anymore, so instead of being galvanized into action by their words, we roll our eyes and say, whatever.

Blame Wikileaks; blame the media. Hell, blame the economy, the schools, the parents, the weather - whatever floats your boat. Brown writes that President Obama is one of the better speakers on Earth - but we are not receptive to [his rhetoric]. I disagree. A great speaker creates a receptive audience. Our leaders and speakers today make tepid calls to action, if at all. In trying to predict what the spinners might spin, all content is stripped of substance.

There doesn't have to be a war going on to be passionate about something, to be brutally truthful about something, to inspire your people into action. As it happens, there are many current, ongoing conflicts around the world that fall under the banner of "monstrous tyranny". As it happens, there is no shortage of difficult issues or problems that are not scattered in a minefield of political correctness.

Leaders, shout clean and clear your policies on human kindness, on work ethic, on common human values and concerns.

Imagine bellowing:

"You ask, 'What is our policy?' I will say: it is to wage war on child poverty with all our might and with all the strength that our faith can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark and lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy. " You ask, 'What is our aim?' I can answer in one word: victory; victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival. "

You are not just our governors, you are our leaders - inspire us. Scare us a little. Galvanize us.

Let the media muddy the waters if they wish but it's your job to say it like it is and say it like you mean it. Do your job, dammit.

	Muse - Uprising .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

Hi Pammy! And Other Truncation Horror Stories

Don't EVER call me *Liz*, she spat.

I choked a little.

It was my second week on the job and I was loving it. My new colleagues were smart, fun, and funny. I couldn't believe my luck. When "Thanks, Liz" left my lips one afternoon and entered our immediate sound space, I had no idea I had committed a punishable offence.

This witty, stunning Elizabeth had transformed into a spittle-spraying dragon lady. I backed up a few inches, looked down at my shoes and promised never to do it again. I felt 12. Unbeknownst to me, Elizabeth detested being called Liz, perhaps for many reasons, but none more paramount than the fact that her husband's ex-girlfriend, also an Elizabeth, was called "Liz".

Later in life I will meet another Elizabeth who refers to her husband's ex as "Elizabeth I", or sometimes just "crazy Elizabeth" while my friend is, naturally, the current reigning monarch, Elizabeth II. But I digress.

You see, I am one of those people, those friendly folks that shorten other people's names. All the time. Just call me the Truncator. In linguistic terms, I am often guilty of what is known as "apocopation", a shortening of the sort that retains only the beginning of a word, also known as "back-clipping" (thanks Wikipedia). Now before you go and wag your finger at me, I think it goes without saying that the newest, youngest generation are back-clipper, truncators extraordinaire, what with texting and tweeting and well, talking and everything.

And really, it is just people's first names that are victims of my clip. Unfortunately, this little habit of mine ticks some people off to the mammoth degree. Who knew?

I was having a wee chat with a good friend or two, let's call them Krissy and Pammy (not to their faces of course), when the conversation steered towards what one prefers to be called, is called, and any discrepancies there within. Turns out, Pamela gets right steamed when someone calls her Pam. Just who do they think they are, she says. My new best friend? I HATE being called Pam! By the time Kristina has expressed her feelings about being called Kris, Krissy, or, egad, Kristy, I am looking intently at my shoes and feeling my ears turn bright red.

P and K are not only frustrated by such presumption, they are insulted. The nerve of these people. P and K are certain that some sort of sycophantic, ingratiating plot is at work. By some small miracle, neither of these ladies is aware that I am one of these people. And as my backbone would have it, I am far too chicken to confess my sins, so instead I attempt to come to the defense of my fellow clippers.

Perhaps he feels comfortable with you. Maybe her pet rabbit is named Pam. Could be that she just really likes you alot.

Truth is, I don't know why I do it. There are certainly people to and with whom I will never do it. Especially Pamela. A list of some of my oldest and newest friends might look and sound like this: Col, Marn, Steph, Lis, Uni, Kat, Seoni, Sheel, Dee, Jude, Nik, Lor, Em...

Ladies, please forgive me.

Future friends: I promise that if I clip you, I'm not being sycophantic, I simply feel comfortable with you and maybe even like you alot. I also promise I won't clip you if you already have a single syllable name. And I promise I won't name a pet rabbit after you.

I can't promise, however, that I won't touch your arm when we're talking. It's just the way I am. Oh, and please call me Fi.

KD & Me: personal story * travel guide & playlist

UPDATE: I've been living 2+ years now with my PRC and suffer from very little pain and almost only when I "overuse" my left hand. My right wrist has happily not yet progressed, so I'm just careful - and grateful!

press play & read4(double-click first track if necessary - the rest will play!)