So -- perhaps not surprisingly -- Ottawa said no to the atheist bus ads that read:
There's probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life.
What came as a more pleasant discovery was the editorial by Atheist Bus proponent (and Freethought Association of Canada president) Justin Trottier in today's Citizen. Expecting a confrontational tirade on Ottawa's conservative approach and the slippery slope of censorship, I was surprised to find a relaxed, fact-based (23% of Canadians don't believe in any god?) argument that called for continued discussion (and some talk of free speech, rightly so).
So here I am, Justin, trying to keep the conversation up.
I took interest in the mention of public transit as an ideal space for moving this discussion into the mainstream, and the suggestion that the United Church and other groups are in support of this dialogue.
Good defence on the money-well-spent front, and I've never really heard atheism summed up so succinctly:
"While atheism is not itself an ethical system, secular and humanistic values are crucial to an open society. They are the values of individual autonomy and universal human rights. They include the belief that evidence, reason and free inquiry form the best way of seeking solutions to shared problems. Try fitting all that on the side of a bus."
I've been following most of said discussion, but I'm still left wondering: how did you come up with the text for this ad?
I know you couldn't fit all of the above on the side of a bus, but as a Christian I'm confused. My belief in God doesn't make me enjoy life less. Rather, the exact opposite. I worry, sure, but doesn't everyone, regardless of their worldview? And I don't worry that much. Maybe that means I'm not a real Christian.
In any case, in all the debate I haven't heard where this text came from -- and I'd love to.
Showing posts with label Ottawa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ottawa. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Fashion Weeks
Here we go ...
Over the next few weeks I'll be covering a few events in Ottawa aimed at giving local and national designers more coverage. There's a strange thing going on -- best to read my advancer story the Ottawa Citizen
Tonight, it's the launch party for Ottawa Fashion Week. I'm particularly excited because it's a free event; the organizers are working hard to keep their events accessible, have given free tickets to all high schools in the city, and are keeping it alcohol-free. It feels very welcoming, and that's a good thing, cause it's my first fashion week.
Better run. Lots to learn and, despite my love for wit, I don't want to arrive fashionable late.
Over the next few weeks I'll be covering a few events in Ottawa aimed at giving local and national designers more coverage. There's a strange thing going on -- best to read my advancer story the Ottawa Citizen
Tonight, it's the launch party for Ottawa Fashion Week. I'm particularly excited because it's a free event; the organizers are working hard to keep their events accessible, have given free tickets to all high schools in the city, and are keeping it alcohol-free. It feels very welcoming, and that's a good thing, cause it's my first fashion week.
Better run. Lots to learn and, despite my love for wit, I don't want to arrive fashionable late.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
What you lookin' at?
Just in from a morning run (finally able to pull myself out of bed and the bizarre REM dreams that come with the snooze button!), and I've got to say, I'm feeling a bit paranoid.
While it wasn't the 17 degrees we saw yesterday in Ottawa, the air was warm and thick, with a fog that reminded me of Trois-Rivieres. That usually means paper-mill stinky, but I have good memories of TR, so for me it was nostalgic. Maybe it was this reminiscence that, as I quickened my pace and made for the Library and Archives (my new locale for stairs and hills) brought the creeping sensation of paranoia.
And then I remembered that the pants I'm wearing are cheap tights circa 2003, which means they've fallen apart at the seams ... right around the crotch. Last night it seemed inconsequential, as I made my way like a ninja through the dark streets. But now, under the increasing glare of slick bureaucrats making their way to their well-put-together offices, I felt a tad ... nasty.
When I meet red lights I usually do a few crucial stretches. Now I only roll my ankles.
The people I expect to be admiring my gait, not to mention my dedication to run outside, in the morning, despite the cooler weather ... now I see as mean-spirited gawkers, ashamed for me and my skanky pants.
As I made my home I remembered something I read about schizophrenia. That paranoia, the feeling that people are whispering about you behind your back, is common for these folks struck with a most misunderstood disease. And I remember that sensation as a small, brown, not-particularly coordinated or confident person in public school.
Usually runs leave me feeling on top of the world, like I can do anything. And while this was somewhat true of this morning's run, I feel this one did more -- it gave me newfound empathy.
While it wasn't the 17 degrees we saw yesterday in Ottawa, the air was warm and thick, with a fog that reminded me of Trois-Rivieres. That usually means paper-mill stinky, but I have good memories of TR, so for me it was nostalgic. Maybe it was this reminiscence that, as I quickened my pace and made for the Library and Archives (my new locale for stairs and hills) brought the creeping sensation of paranoia.
And then I remembered that the pants I'm wearing are cheap tights circa 2003, which means they've fallen apart at the seams ... right around the crotch. Last night it seemed inconsequential, as I made my way like a ninja through the dark streets. But now, under the increasing glare of slick bureaucrats making their way to their well-put-together offices, I felt a tad ... nasty.
When I meet red lights I usually do a few crucial stretches. Now I only roll my ankles.
The people I expect to be admiring my gait, not to mention my dedication to run outside, in the morning, despite the cooler weather ... now I see as mean-spirited gawkers, ashamed for me and my skanky pants.
As I made my home I remembered something I read about schizophrenia. That paranoia, the feeling that people are whispering about you behind your back, is common for these folks struck with a most misunderstood disease. And I remember that sensation as a small, brown, not-particularly coordinated or confident person in public school.
Usually runs leave me feeling on top of the world, like I can do anything. And while this was somewhat true of this morning's run, I feel this one did more -- it gave me newfound empathy.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
First Snow/Run
Yes, it snowed in Ottawa this evening. Just as the sun was setting and I was getting up from a much needed nap -- filled with turbulent dreams spurred, no doubt, from my current read Three Day Road -- I saw the first flakes of the season.
And I was excited!
Weird, I know. But last year at this time I was in Hawaii, where Halloween wasn't the same and winter just meant wetness, no whiteness. When I finally arrived in Ottawa in January the snow was an assumed fact of life. And if we are going to make it through this season smiling or at least sane, we've got start it off with a bang, laughing and crying and knowing that winter in Ottawa is nuts.
So I ran.
Not far, mind you. But far enough to see some swirling leaf tornadoes and hear, through my iPod (yes, still needing musical motivation), a passerby whoop out a cackle at the oncoming storm. Long enough to smell woodsmoke. And fast enough to beat three yellow lights.
Bring it on.
And I was excited!
Weird, I know. But last year at this time I was in Hawaii, where Halloween wasn't the same and winter just meant wetness, no whiteness. When I finally arrived in Ottawa in January the snow was an assumed fact of life. And if we are going to make it through this season smiling or at least sane, we've got start it off with a bang, laughing and crying and knowing that winter in Ottawa is nuts.
So I ran.
Not far, mind you. But far enough to see some swirling leaf tornadoes and hear, through my iPod (yes, still needing musical motivation), a passerby whoop out a cackle at the oncoming storm. Long enough to smell woodsmoke. And fast enough to beat three yellow lights.
Bring it on.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Cigarettes, and something that seems to work
At first, I thought I was just the first one to visit the Quickie on Bank and Gilmour that day: covering the cigarette stand there was a piece of hard plastic. (As my previous post attests, sometimes I get up pretty early in the morning, for no apparent reason).
Then, on Friday night, a group of us happened to be in another local convenience store -- this one just a block way, at Bank and Maclaren. If you know the area and enjoy fries, cheese curds and gravy, you'll know the place.
This time it was sheets of pale orange cotton material that adorned the area behind the cash. We all know what sits there, we all know that they lead to lung cancer and are a scourge on our public health system, and yet many of us still enjoy a cigarette or twenty now and again.
And here it was that I realized the coverings were not because the Quickie was actually slow to fully open up (isn't it a 24-hour joint anyway? and why would they cover the cigarette racks overnight? perhaps dawn isn't my best time after all...). No, it was because, as of May 31, retail stores in Ontario and Quebec aren't allowed to display cigarrettes.
Especially since I'm a journalist, I felt pretty out of the loop. The only excuse I can provide here is that, at the time, I was preoccupied with the healthy endeavor of running a half-marathon. But I happened to be one of those 'runners who smoke;' not often, but occasionally, after a big meal and with a glass of wine, I'll enjoy a drag of a cigarette.
In any case, the rule is out. Apparently cig stands were known as 'power walls,' and were one of the last remaining areas for tobacco companies to push their product.
And, apparently, the crumbling of these walls are having the intended effect. While the studies haven't come out yet, people are talking.
About alcohol-induced purchases, the painful process of trying to quit, the situation of the 'social smoker,' and starting a rally at Giant Tiger.
Yes, Your All Canadian Family Discount Store also sells tobacco products, but when a friend attempted to inquire about the price of her favourite brand, the cashier timidly responded that she was not allowed to divulge this information. Promotion? I guess so. Soon the people behind her in line were up in arms, complaining about the ban.
And while she may have gathered momentum for the opposition, she didn't buy cigarettes.
Then, on Friday night, a group of us happened to be in another local convenience store -- this one just a block way, at Bank and Maclaren. If you know the area and enjoy fries, cheese curds and gravy, you'll know the place.
This time it was sheets of pale orange cotton material that adorned the area behind the cash. We all know what sits there, we all know that they lead to lung cancer and are a scourge on our public health system, and yet many of us still enjoy a cigarette or twenty now and again.
And here it was that I realized the coverings were not because the Quickie was actually slow to fully open up (isn't it a 24-hour joint anyway? and why would they cover the cigarette racks overnight? perhaps dawn isn't my best time after all...). No, it was because, as of May 31, retail stores in Ontario and Quebec aren't allowed to display cigarrettes.
Especially since I'm a journalist, I felt pretty out of the loop. The only excuse I can provide here is that, at the time, I was preoccupied with the healthy endeavor of running a half-marathon. But I happened to be one of those 'runners who smoke;' not often, but occasionally, after a big meal and with a glass of wine, I'll enjoy a drag of a cigarette.
In any case, the rule is out. Apparently cig stands were known as 'power walls,' and were one of the last remaining areas for tobacco companies to push their product.
And, apparently, the crumbling of these walls are having the intended effect. While the studies haven't come out yet, people are talking.
About alcohol-induced purchases, the painful process of trying to quit, the situation of the 'social smoker,' and starting a rally at Giant Tiger.
Yes, Your All Canadian Family Discount Store also sells tobacco products, but when a friend attempted to inquire about the price of her favourite brand, the cashier timidly responded that she was not allowed to divulge this information. Promotion? I guess so. Soon the people behind her in line were up in arms, complaining about the ban.
And while she may have gathered momentum for the opposition, she didn't buy cigarettes.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Wondering while wandering
This morning, I did something I've never done before -- in Ottawa.
I woke up early, by accident, and, unable to got to sleep and too sore to run, I went for a walk.
I knew I wanted to climb, to a vista or up a mountain or even just some stairs. Centretown is pretty flat, though yesterday from my balcony I realized we have a view that belies our concrete surroundings (if I look to the northwest, all I see are the trees of precious Dundonald Park). In any case, whether dreams or calf muscles were calling for it, I went in search of a climb at 5:55 a.m.
I've always been a morning person, so it's no surprise that I felt a rush of positive energy upon stepping out into the streets. I also felt mist, fog, or rain; it was a wet morning but, unlike yesterday when I was already late for a meeting with a financial adviser, I didn't run back for my umbrella. No, I kept walking and threw in my earphones, striding through the mist with Bjork.
On the way, it occurred to me that ...
... I have had the best success in running races when I don't try or strategize that much. As I enter the final week of training for my second triathlon, I plan to take this lesson to heart and play with the water, listen to my body, and have fun on race day.
... some people might get cute, fluffy chows because they are lonely and enjoy talking to strangers. Dogs that, when wet, feel like wet toques near a fireplace and could probably use some training, but nonetheless really tug at my heart strings perhaps have owners that need some warm-heartedness, too. All this in an effort to reconcile my conflict about pet owners and my deep, constant, dog-envy.
... the headlines do affect me. I am scared of our NCC pathways. I feel safer when I see, from afar, tiny bodies making use of the Ottawa River pathway, but the cyclist and the runner may not be able to save me from the attacker.
... in some ways we walk around in a bubble of our own making, engaged in dialog with ourselves or plugged into iPods. But in other ways, ways that hit me like a ton of chemically-saturated bricks when I hit Bank Street, we are utterly consumed with projecting a fresh face, a strong scent, a put-together image. The scent of cologne really hung in the air this misty morning, and I realized those hyper-sensitive people might be onto something in their demands for a scent-free workspace.
All to say,
what a way
to start a day.
I woke up early, by accident, and, unable to got to sleep and too sore to run, I went for a walk.
I knew I wanted to climb, to a vista or up a mountain or even just some stairs. Centretown is pretty flat, though yesterday from my balcony I realized we have a view that belies our concrete surroundings (if I look to the northwest, all I see are the trees of precious Dundonald Park). In any case, whether dreams or calf muscles were calling for it, I went in search of a climb at 5:55 a.m.
I've always been a morning person, so it's no surprise that I felt a rush of positive energy upon stepping out into the streets. I also felt mist, fog, or rain; it was a wet morning but, unlike yesterday when I was already late for a meeting with a financial adviser, I didn't run back for my umbrella. No, I kept walking and threw in my earphones, striding through the mist with Bjork.
On the way, it occurred to me that ...
... I have had the best success in running races when I don't try or strategize that much. As I enter the final week of training for my second triathlon, I plan to take this lesson to heart and play with the water, listen to my body, and have fun on race day.
... some people might get cute, fluffy chows because they are lonely and enjoy talking to strangers. Dogs that, when wet, feel like wet toques near a fireplace and could probably use some training, but nonetheless really tug at my heart strings perhaps have owners that need some warm-heartedness, too. All this in an effort to reconcile my conflict about pet owners and my deep, constant, dog-envy.
... the headlines do affect me. I am scared of our NCC pathways. I feel safer when I see, from afar, tiny bodies making use of the Ottawa River pathway, but the cyclist and the runner may not be able to save me from the attacker.
... in some ways we walk around in a bubble of our own making, engaged in dialog with ourselves or plugged into iPods. But in other ways, ways that hit me like a ton of chemically-saturated bricks when I hit Bank Street, we are utterly consumed with projecting a fresh face, a strong scent, a put-together image. The scent of cologne really hung in the air this misty morning, and I realized those hyper-sensitive people might be onto something in their demands for a scent-free workspace.
All to say,
what a way
to start a day.
Friday, May 16, 2008
The Tire Experiment
It all began last Sunday, when the tires went out.
My buddy made sure it was garbage day Monday, but by the end of the day the trucks had come and gone, but the four tires remained, stacked on our lawn. Apparently they don't take tires.
What to do?
While we pondered and made phone calls, we watched from our front room/ office at the reactions of passersby to our sculpture of rubber. We live on the corner of Lyon and Gilmour in Ottawa and, in addition to The Beer Store Parade, plenty of interesting folk stroll, rush, and chat past our window everyday.
On Tuesday morning, we noticed a small boy -- maybe four (at least taller than four tires) -- stop and stare down the recess created by the four tires. He stood there awhile, and eventually his father came to look. We saw them nod in agreement, and we *thought about* running out and telling them they were free for the taking. But then they were gone, and we were left with our curiosity.
When it got the better of us and we went to check things out for ourselves, we saw that someone had put a slice of pizza down there. Just a few bites gone.
Were they coming back?
You don't usually see largely-uneaten pizza on the street. Were they looking for a garbage can and thought this the next best thing?
Does Ottawa need more garbage cans?
Later that day, our landlord came to mow the lawn. Tires moved to sidewalk (no boulevards on Lyon). Following this development, we garnered a few nasty looks from our neighbours in adjoining townhomes, and we remembered just how ugly tires are.
On Wednesday, the tires had been moved again. This time into two stacks of two. I believe this was done on behalf of the local squirrels, who had now broken the pizza slice in two with their nibbles.
The status of the tires remains unchanged Thursday, but for some glances ... and increasing guilt on our part. Ottawa sure is beautiful this time of year, what with the blossoming, lush trees, the multi-coloured tulips and the flurry of folks enjoying the warm, sunny weather.
Whose tires are those??
On Friday morning, I looked out the front window with glee: two tires gone!
"Should we put a sign out? 'Take the rest?" my roommate asked. Hmmm ... we wondered. Is there a resale or recycling value for tires? Hopefully...
Just then, a guy on a bike dressed in a reflective vest stopped in front of our house. Wouldn't you know it, he draped one tire on each of his handles and rode away, barely wobbling. Gone are the tires!
As a final chapter, and a nod to our neighbours, the next-door dog owners came by and, pooper-scoop style, bent down and picked up the pizza remains so their beautiful huskies would not be tempted to mow down gone-bad people food.
This whole experiment made me realize my love for a few things: our neighbourhood, Ottawa in the springtime, freelance writing that lets me stay at home and watch the outside world while I work, and the way spontaneous intentions of others can remove guilt and solve problems.
My buddy made sure it was garbage day Monday, but by the end of the day the trucks had come and gone, but the four tires remained, stacked on our lawn. Apparently they don't take tires.
What to do?
While we pondered and made phone calls, we watched from our front room/ office at the reactions of passersby to our sculpture of rubber. We live on the corner of Lyon and Gilmour in Ottawa and, in addition to The Beer Store Parade, plenty of interesting folk stroll, rush, and chat past our window everyday.
On Tuesday morning, we noticed a small boy -- maybe four (at least taller than four tires) -- stop and stare down the recess created by the four tires. He stood there awhile, and eventually his father came to look. We saw them nod in agreement, and we *thought about* running out and telling them they were free for the taking. But then they were gone, and we were left with our curiosity.
When it got the better of us and we went to check things out for ourselves, we saw that someone had put a slice of pizza down there. Just a few bites gone.
Were they coming back?
You don't usually see largely-uneaten pizza on the street. Were they looking for a garbage can and thought this the next best thing?
Does Ottawa need more garbage cans?
Later that day, our landlord came to mow the lawn. Tires moved to sidewalk (no boulevards on Lyon). Following this development, we garnered a few nasty looks from our neighbours in adjoining townhomes, and we remembered just how ugly tires are.
On Wednesday, the tires had been moved again. This time into two stacks of two. I believe this was done on behalf of the local squirrels, who had now broken the pizza slice in two with their nibbles.
The status of the tires remains unchanged Thursday, but for some glances ... and increasing guilt on our part. Ottawa sure is beautiful this time of year, what with the blossoming, lush trees, the multi-coloured tulips and the flurry of folks enjoying the warm, sunny weather.
Whose tires are those??
On Friday morning, I looked out the front window with glee: two tires gone!
"Should we put a sign out? 'Take the rest?" my roommate asked. Hmmm ... we wondered. Is there a resale or recycling value for tires? Hopefully...
Just then, a guy on a bike dressed in a reflective vest stopped in front of our house. Wouldn't you know it, he draped one tire on each of his handles and rode away, barely wobbling. Gone are the tires!
As a final chapter, and a nod to our neighbours, the next-door dog owners came by and, pooper-scoop style, bent down and picked up the pizza remains so their beautiful huskies would not be tempted to mow down gone-bad people food.
This whole experiment made me realize my love for a few things: our neighbourhood, Ottawa in the springtime, freelance writing that lets me stay at home and watch the outside world while I work, and the way spontaneous intentions of others can remove guilt and solve problems.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Worn
worn |wôrn|
damaged and shabby as a result of much use : a worn, frayed denim jacket
Thanks to my friendly neighbour who came by Saturday to remind about Ladyfest on Saturday, I made it out to 'Not your grandma's craft sale' at the Jack Purcell centre in Ottawa. A first time for me, and despite the fact that I was feeling a little grubby, cheap, and irritable, I had a great time! I can only imagine my impression should I have woken on the right side of the bed.
My 'nose for news' has recently taken on new meanings, as I inhale with glee favourite glossies and train passengers -- somehow guessing my interest -- offer me magazines they've found. Likewise at LadyFest, I immediately found myself at the magazine stand. Or, at least, Serah-marie with her publication, Worn Fashion Journal.
Worn really struck me. It is indie yet polished, smooth and well-designed, with lots of content and visuals. The publication aims to bring 'a political, environmental, historical and cultural context to fashion,' and in my browsing I found articles on galleries, textiles, and the influence of music on fashion. Basically, it seemed, if it's high-end now, it could have started in the pages of Worn. Not to say it's a place for newbies aiming to hit the big-time (their writer's guidelines demand opinions and list the following words as 'Banned, unless there is a very good reason: Discourse
Uber
For example
this article
fav
fashionista
No, Worn seemed to me like the beginnings of culture. Though it looked much better, it reminded me of mold. Looks like a dot on the cultural radar, but can be brewed into a fine cheese we're all vying for -- once the marketers have stepped in to direct.
Of course I asked about contributing, and Serah-marie seemed interested, though we soon nodded appreciatively at each other about the business end of it all. No, she can't pay contributors. Hopefully soon, they all say. In any case, I enjoyed flipping and chatting, and told her that I liked the look of it, and would keep my eyes peeled for Worn around town.
But I'd barely passed a rack of shapeless T-shirt dresses (who looks good in those?) when my mind snapped to something I'd read in Worn. It was about Astria Suparak, a curator in Syracuse, NY. As part of her profile, she'd noted clothing exchanges as a source of inspiration. It was, in fact, the #1 item on her list.
I've been trying to pitch this story for a couple years now. Clothing exchanges as fashion inspiration, yes, but these events also serve as excellent 'social lubricants' (more on that later), and fit into the green movement better than recycled fleece. And yet, as of yet, no bites. The green movement is gaining ground, reaching a new 'tipping point,' they say, though there's hope yet for that angle. But still...
In my research for pitches to these stories, I often do some mad Googling, offering the search engine any combination of the words/ ideas Clothing + Exchange. The movement is growing, and I find myself excited about more hits, which is why I returned to Serah-marie's booth and took down Astria Suparak's name. More fuel for future pitches! This way I can 'prove' clothing exchanges not only happen, but have a special place in the world of fashion.
Alas, my discovery was bittersweet. As I walked away (Serah-Marie kindly let me take down the name without buying a copy) I realized something about freelancing and this whole 'trend identification' thing. Freelancing for magazines requires long lead times; you have to think months ahead and hope/ plan for an issue or idea to remain relevant. But it's not so much the logistics as it is the mindset of editors that was bothering me last Saturday.
Why is it that something must be written elsewhere, have a Google presence, or an NGO-affiliation in order to be valid?
and how long can something original and sincere, like a clothing exchange, maintain a Google presence without becoming tired, old news? After I write the article of my dreams, will the clothing exchange be 'damaged and shabby as a result of much use'?
Monday, April 21, 2008
Runnin' down a dream
"It felt so good, like anything was possible...
Yes, such was my passion for running this Sunday morning that I casually (ok, there were some stomach butterflies) joined the marathon group with the Running Room, deciding that instead of 12 or 16 or 18 kilometres (the Half-Marathoners were doing 12), I'd go for 24! Why not?!
I realized why not at about the 18 kilometre mark. My muscles didn't want to be pushed anymore, some chipper blond had just suggested that my plantar fasciitis symptoms meant I shouldn't be running at all, the conversation was dying down, and ... I'd already run 18 kilometres!
But I pushed on. Outside the DFAIT building, while the group waited for a red light, I tried to sound casual when I asked group leader Scott "would you mind telling me how far we've gone?"
About 21.5 km, he figured.
Exactly the distance of a half-marathon. What a coincidence.
The coincidence would only last about another five blocks; by the time we hit that weird intersection outside the National Gallery my mind was made up (or at least my mind could not convince my body otherwise any longer). I filtered off to the side and let my fellow runners stream ahead. Then I walked. It only lasted about two blocks, but it felt great.
It didn't feel nearly as great to walk home. And I apologize to anyone in Hartman's or on Bank Street Sunday at 11:30; if I gave you the death stare it's just because you were not my bed.
Speaking of which, right before bed I decided to check out this whole plantar fasciitis thing. It's bad. You know carpal tunnel syndrome? The secretary disease that puts people out-of-commission or in orthopaedic contraptions for years? There's also tarsal tunnel syndrome, and it can lead to all sorts of nasty things...namely, not running.
Have I learnt nothing?
On Sunday morning, as I was cavorting with the marathoners and feeling all proud of my ambitious self (hubris!!), one of the marathoners said "well, at least you know your limits." I had been explaining how, ten years ago, I ran a beautiful 4:06 marathon in Victoria, B.C. Then I got all excited about being a 'real' marathoner and attempted one six months later in London, Ontario.
Too soon! Not enough training! Too sick the week before! I don't know what the Greeks said about resting on your laurels, but I'm all for that now. My second marathon was weak, unsatisfying, and 40 minutes slower. I missed a concert and I only remember pain. O yes, and that awful Cher song that I couldn't get out of my mind:
"Do you believe in life after love
I can feel something inside me say
I really don't think you're strong enough, no ..."
Imagine that for 42 kilometres with nothing but your ho-hum hometown to distract you.
So the lyrics continue. Now I seem to be running down some dream that may, in the end, require surgery. I iced my legs and wore shoes to bed, and this morning my feet didn't feel like they had marbles surgically implanted in them overnight.
Like resting and icing and stretching, we have to ward off our ambitions in order to stay injury-free.
Yes, such was my passion for running this Sunday morning that I casually (ok, there were some stomach butterflies) joined the marathon group with the Running Room, deciding that instead of 12 or 16 or 18 kilometres (the Half-Marathoners were doing 12), I'd go for 24! Why not?!
I realized why not at about the 18 kilometre mark. My muscles didn't want to be pushed anymore, some chipper blond had just suggested that my plantar fasciitis symptoms meant I shouldn't be running at all, the conversation was dying down, and ... I'd already run 18 kilometres!
But I pushed on. Outside the DFAIT building, while the group waited for a red light, I tried to sound casual when I asked group leader Scott "would you mind telling me how far we've gone?"
About 21.5 km, he figured.
Exactly the distance of a half-marathon. What a coincidence.
The coincidence would only last about another five blocks; by the time we hit that weird intersection outside the National Gallery my mind was made up (or at least my mind could not convince my body otherwise any longer). I filtered off to the side and let my fellow runners stream ahead. Then I walked. It only lasted about two blocks, but it felt great.
It didn't feel nearly as great to walk home. And I apologize to anyone in Hartman's or on Bank Street Sunday at 11:30; if I gave you the death stare it's just because you were not my bed.
Speaking of which, right before bed I decided to check out this whole plantar fasciitis thing. It's bad. You know carpal tunnel syndrome? The secretary disease that puts people out-of-commission or in orthopaedic contraptions for years? There's also tarsal tunnel syndrome, and it can lead to all sorts of nasty things...namely, not running.
Have I learnt nothing?
On Sunday morning, as I was cavorting with the marathoners and feeling all proud of my ambitious self (hubris!!), one of the marathoners said "well, at least you know your limits." I had been explaining how, ten years ago, I ran a beautiful 4:06 marathon in Victoria, B.C. Then I got all excited about being a 'real' marathoner and attempted one six months later in London, Ontario.
Too soon! Not enough training! Too sick the week before! I don't know what the Greeks said about resting on your laurels, but I'm all for that now. My second marathon was weak, unsatisfying, and 40 minutes slower. I missed a concert and I only remember pain. O yes, and that awful Cher song that I couldn't get out of my mind:
"Do you believe in life after love
I can feel something inside me say
I really don't think you're strong enough, no ..."
Imagine that for 42 kilometres with nothing but your ho-hum hometown to distract you.
So the lyrics continue. Now I seem to be running down some dream that may, in the end, require surgery. I iced my legs and wore shoes to bed, and this morning my feet didn't feel like they had marbles surgically implanted in them overnight.
Like resting and icing and stretching, we have to ward off our ambitions in order to stay injury-free.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Who's my Ottawa?
That's right, I'm hooked into Richard Florida again.
He's the author of the Rise of the Creative Class, an amazing reflection on the shape and character of society.
Now he's living in Toronto, and his newest book, Who's your city? dares to defy the notion that place is dead.
He argues that life is basically made up of three questions:
What do you want to do?
Who do you want to do it with?
and ... Where do you want to do it?
Now that I seem to have answered the first two questions, I'm pondering Ottawa.
Through lists and graphs, indexes and anecdotes, Florida suggests that certain cities are good for certain demographics. Boulder, Colorado is a good small town for singles. Washington, DC is a great city for families. Young professionals looking for a mid-size locale should check out Bridgeport, Connecticut.
Unfortunately, Canadian cities aren't listed.
And while I loooved Ottawa as a student, and continue to appreciate it as a young professional, I don't quite see myself raising children here.
In Ottawa, as in many urban centres, children are sort of treated as lepers. Don't touch them -- you'll be considered a pedophile. Don't look to closely at my toddler -- I'll keep my eye on you to make sure you're not some kind of sicko.
Worst of all, kids have to learn not to talk to strangers. How do you teach them this while maintaining that society isn't made up of whackos, that humanity is still, on the whole, good?
By moving to the country?
That's what I'm thinking.
He's the author of the Rise of the Creative Class, an amazing reflection on the shape and character of society.
Now he's living in Toronto, and his newest book, Who's your city? dares to defy the notion that place is dead.
He argues that life is basically made up of three questions:
What do you want to do?
Who do you want to do it with?
and ... Where do you want to do it?
Now that I seem to have answered the first two questions, I'm pondering Ottawa.
Through lists and graphs, indexes and anecdotes, Florida suggests that certain cities are good for certain demographics. Boulder, Colorado is a good small town for singles. Washington, DC is a great city for families. Young professionals looking for a mid-size locale should check out Bridgeport, Connecticut.
Unfortunately, Canadian cities aren't listed.
And while I loooved Ottawa as a student, and continue to appreciate it as a young professional, I don't quite see myself raising children here.
In Ottawa, as in many urban centres, children are sort of treated as lepers. Don't touch them -- you'll be considered a pedophile. Don't look to closely at my toddler -- I'll keep my eye on you to make sure you're not some kind of sicko.
Worst of all, kids have to learn not to talk to strangers. How do you teach them this while maintaining that society isn't made up of whackos, that humanity is still, on the whole, good?
By moving to the country?
That's what I'm thinking.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Going Natural
What does that phrase mean, anyway?
I believe there was a time when 'going natural' meant not dyeing ones hair. Generally referring to women of a certain age (for me, it was 25), going natural meant embracing the process and consequences of aging, and allowing the world to witness the emergence of grey.
The subject-verb agreement does seem a bit twisted, though, because we are all born natural. What does going imply? The fact that we were once not natural?
It's true, I spent a few years experimenting with boxed dyes.
And then I decided to "go natural."
Now, in the rising green economy, 'going natural' implies organic, chemical-free goodness. In food or in cleaners, lubricants or toilet paper, natural is the oasis, the green pasture in which we will be reborn, erasing all our chemical sins of the past.
But, as I learned this week, it doesn't always work that way. Forgiveness may be swift but chemical exposure--harmful as it is--cannot always be dropped cold turkey.
I recently visited Pure Joy, a natural hair salon in Ottawa. No, not because I'm stil fighting the grey (though the stick-em-up strands, the ones that are so dry they're kinky? They meet the tweezers).
No, my visit to Pure Joy was pure research, for a short piece on the salon. We were a bit concerned that the place was selling itself as greener than it really was. Why are there still chemical products on the shelf?
Because, the stylist explained, hair gets hooked on it.
The natural stuff is, well, weaker.
What, it doesn't burn my eyes? Will it really work??
Apparently the results are better, softer, even 'more youthful.'
So this is a way to 'go natural'-- but without the grey.
Hmmm...I'm still a bit confused on the subject-verb agreement, but to be honest, I don't completely understand the expression subject-verb agreement.
I believe there was a time when 'going natural' meant not dyeing ones hair. Generally referring to women of a certain age (for me, it was 25), going natural meant embracing the process and consequences of aging, and allowing the world to witness the emergence of grey.
The subject-verb agreement does seem a bit twisted, though, because we are all born natural. What does going imply? The fact that we were once not natural?
It's true, I spent a few years experimenting with boxed dyes.
And then I decided to "go natural."
Now, in the rising green economy, 'going natural' implies organic, chemical-free goodness. In food or in cleaners, lubricants or toilet paper, natural is the oasis, the green pasture in which we will be reborn, erasing all our chemical sins of the past.
But, as I learned this week, it doesn't always work that way. Forgiveness may be swift but chemical exposure--harmful as it is--cannot always be dropped cold turkey.
I recently visited Pure Joy, a natural hair salon in Ottawa. No, not because I'm stil fighting the grey (though the stick-em-up strands, the ones that are so dry they're kinky? They meet the tweezers).
No, my visit to Pure Joy was pure research, for a short piece on the salon. We were a bit concerned that the place was selling itself as greener than it really was. Why are there still chemical products on the shelf?
Because, the stylist explained, hair gets hooked on it.
The natural stuff is, well, weaker.
What, it doesn't burn my eyes? Will it really work??
Apparently the results are better, softer, even 'more youthful.'
So this is a way to 'go natural'-- but without the grey.
Hmmm...I'm still a bit confused on the subject-verb agreement, but to be honest, I don't completely understand the expression subject-verb agreement.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Meeting the neighbours
Today's the day! We're going over to the neighbours tonight, at 8:30 p.m., to crash their book club and *hopefully* make new friends.
For some reason I'm placing a lot of importance on this event—-I canceled plans with a friend I haven't seen in months and I'm now basically counting the hours.
Admittedly, I don't have much of a social life and I love things that are free. But here's one more attractive quality of tonights rendez-vous: it's next door!
One thing I love about living in a small town is that everything is either really close, or unthinkably far (as in, you need a car to get there). From Molokai, to rural Japan, to ski resorts in B.C...I've always found a comfortable vibrancy in communities that have barely enough entertainment venues to sustain a night life.
With slim pickins', we're forced to frequent shadey bars and sketchy taverns, make buddies with locals (albeit sometimes out of fear), open up to happy hour regulars, and generally believe deeply in our own basic need to socialize...cause there ain't no In Da Clubs Columnist telling us this is the place to be.
It's in these same small towns that I've had the best relationships with my neighbours.
Nowhere was this more true than in Whitecroft, B.C., a little hamlet at the base of Sun Peaks Resort near Kamloops.
The place is all of one mile around. No CBC coverage. Nothing in the way of commercial enterprises (though I think one failed condo development is now being used as a Bed and Breakfast).
There were more dogs than people, and both ran wild.
Packs of canines ran and howled through the night.
Gangs of ski bums wandered in search of weed.
And if you had a fire in your backyard --generally big strips of land leading into the centre of 'town'--be prepared for every Whitecroftian to show up.
Toilet paper was sometimes an issue, but the general consensus was 'the more, the merrier.'
It was also seen as a way to move the action off the hill, the mountain resort that paid our bills--barely--and then took us for what little remained via food and booze. Besides, moving up and down the mountain was always a drag. Better to lose a couple cheap cans to overly-familiar neighbours than to pay three times as much to party ... especially when you know your boss is reaping the benefits of your hangover.
I shouldn't say boss. Employer.
My boss was all about the in-house parties, organizing monthly potlucks for our department that were the talk of the town.
I remember clearly when he first gave me the low-down on these events. Rob, the lift operations manager, sort of took me under his wing, we'd gone to the same Ski Resort Ops college, and I was asking him safe, well-informed questions about schedules and visitor demographics. But I think he saw right through me: I wanted the low-down.
He told me they're always a riot, a great way to get to know people and rock it out in our snowpants.
And what a rockin good time they were! Outsiders vied for opportunities to stop by; word spread fast about locations; the 'what would you bring to a potluck' question became a stock question for new recruits.
To tell you the truth, I'm a bit sick of potlucks now.
I just want some easy-to-follow directions to a social outing, and a place to borrow an egg if I get half-way through a recipe. But you never know, with this weeks run-in with the white teeth (see former post), maybe karma is on my side and I will have a fortunate, fated encounter ce soir.
So I'm probably idealizing tonight's event, but I'm still excited. Just an hour and a half to go...
For some reason I'm placing a lot of importance on this event—-I canceled plans with a friend I haven't seen in months and I'm now basically counting the hours.
Admittedly, I don't have much of a social life and I love things that are free. But here's one more attractive quality of tonights rendez-vous: it's next door!
One thing I love about living in a small town is that everything is either really close, or unthinkably far (as in, you need a car to get there). From Molokai, to rural Japan, to ski resorts in B.C...I've always found a comfortable vibrancy in communities that have barely enough entertainment venues to sustain a night life.
With slim pickins', we're forced to frequent shadey bars and sketchy taverns, make buddies with locals (albeit sometimes out of fear), open up to happy hour regulars, and generally believe deeply in our own basic need to socialize...cause there ain't no In Da Clubs Columnist telling us this is the place to be.
It's in these same small towns that I've had the best relationships with my neighbours.
Nowhere was this more true than in Whitecroft, B.C., a little hamlet at the base of Sun Peaks Resort near Kamloops.
The place is all of one mile around. No CBC coverage. Nothing in the way of commercial enterprises (though I think one failed condo development is now being used as a Bed and Breakfast).
There were more dogs than people, and both ran wild.
Packs of canines ran and howled through the night.
Gangs of ski bums wandered in search of weed.
And if you had a fire in your backyard --generally big strips of land leading into the centre of 'town'--be prepared for every Whitecroftian to show up.
Toilet paper was sometimes an issue, but the general consensus was 'the more, the merrier.'
It was also seen as a way to move the action off the hill, the mountain resort that paid our bills--barely--and then took us for what little remained via food and booze. Besides, moving up and down the mountain was always a drag. Better to lose a couple cheap cans to overly-familiar neighbours than to pay three times as much to party ... especially when you know your boss is reaping the benefits of your hangover.
I shouldn't say boss. Employer.
My boss was all about the in-house parties, organizing monthly potlucks for our department that were the talk of the town.
I remember clearly when he first gave me the low-down on these events. Rob, the lift operations manager, sort of took me under his wing, we'd gone to the same Ski Resort Ops college, and I was asking him safe, well-informed questions about schedules and visitor demographics. But I think he saw right through me: I wanted the low-down.
He told me they're always a riot, a great way to get to know people and rock it out in our snowpants.
And what a rockin good time they were! Outsiders vied for opportunities to stop by; word spread fast about locations; the 'what would you bring to a potluck' question became a stock question for new recruits.
To tell you the truth, I'm a bit sick of potlucks now.
I just want some easy-to-follow directions to a social outing, and a place to borrow an egg if I get half-way through a recipe. But you never know, with this weeks run-in with the white teeth (see former post), maybe karma is on my side and I will have a fortunate, fated encounter ce soir.
So I'm probably idealizing tonight's event, but I'm still excited. Just an hour and a half to go...
Monday, March 10, 2008
Biting Back
I knew instantly that he'd broke the skin. It all happened so fast, so close to home...and after a weekend of dog-cuddlin' and animal lovin'.
This morning, eager to get my week off to good start and start piling on the mileage in anticipation of the Ottawa half-marathon I'll be running in May, I headed out for a neighbourhood jaunt.
I'd barely ran ten feet when I was jumped, snapped, and yes, bitten by a little white lap dog. I was wearing thick lycra running pants and tough running tights, but I felt the sharp points make contact.
I jumped back and took an earphone out.
"Your dog just bit me!" I said, surprised, to the sunglasses woman dressed head-to-toe in fur.
She seemed almost as surprised as I was, even dropping the leash of the other dog she was walking.
I put my foot down on the leash and took in the situation.
I've been road running for nearly twenty years, and a dog lover even longer. My two passions were colliding in the worst way. I always prided myself on being able to stride past the gnarls and growls of the feistiest animals. I believed that if they smelled your fear they'd take a bite out of you--if they didn't, they'd become passive and let you on your way.
But this was a different situation. The woman explained that another dog, a big black one, had just 'attacked' her little white one (looked like a West Highland Whitie this morning). The little guy was spooked and on the offensive.
I told her she was lucky--I'm a dog person.
As I continued on my run I thought about how I should deal with it. On the surface, my leg hurt. I shouldn't have to worry about my personal safety when walking out my front door.
Then I thought about litigation. A friend of mine used to work in mediation, and she explained that a lot of cases are now being settled with mediators rather than lawyers. Not only does this save on court costs, my friend told me, but much of the time it isn't money that plaintiffs want, but empathy. They want to know that someone understands their point of view, the fact that something unjust occurred.
It was then that I decided to visit the owner; she'd pointed out her house, we were practically neighbours.
Later in the run I remembered my accident in the summer of 2003, when I cracked my pelvis at work, in a strange collision that involved me, a golf cart, and a tree. My boss picked me up at the hospital afterward, bought me ice cream and french fries...and had the golf cart disposed of the following day.
By the end of the summer the tree was also gone.
By the end of the year, I'd wished I'd taken the company to court. I'm sure Intrawest can afford to offset my student loan. It could be seen as a send-a-kid-to-camp program...only for ski bums who've hurt themselves in the line of duty.
But of course, this is Canada, and one of the things we pride ourselves on is the fact that we're not Americans, that we don't sue.
But sometimes I wish I could talk to my boss now, hear his side of the story. (If you want to hear more of mine, please ask. It's a pretty funny story).
As I made my way home I knew my leg was fine but I resolved to seek out the dog owner and get the full run-down.
Just now, I noticed her in front of my house, walking in the late afternoon sun Daylight Savings time has provided us.
I stepped out in my slippers, called her over, and identified myself as the runner from this morning. We chatted about the incident and I asked about shots. I even caught a few glances from the slow-moving rush hour cars on my street, smiling at the exchange between neighbours. Winter holes us up--spring is almost here.
Her name is Evelyn, and her dog is Spencer. Up close he looks more like a laso apso.
This morning, eager to get my week off to good start and start piling on the mileage in anticipation of the Ottawa half-marathon I'll be running in May, I headed out for a neighbourhood jaunt.
I'd barely ran ten feet when I was jumped, snapped, and yes, bitten by a little white lap dog. I was wearing thick lycra running pants and tough running tights, but I felt the sharp points make contact.
I jumped back and took an earphone out.
"Your dog just bit me!" I said, surprised, to the sunglasses woman dressed head-to-toe in fur.
She seemed almost as surprised as I was, even dropping the leash of the other dog she was walking.
I put my foot down on the leash and took in the situation.
I've been road running for nearly twenty years, and a dog lover even longer. My two passions were colliding in the worst way. I always prided myself on being able to stride past the gnarls and growls of the feistiest animals. I believed that if they smelled your fear they'd take a bite out of you--if they didn't, they'd become passive and let you on your way.
But this was a different situation. The woman explained that another dog, a big black one, had just 'attacked' her little white one (looked like a West Highland Whitie this morning). The little guy was spooked and on the offensive.
I told her she was lucky--I'm a dog person.
As I continued on my run I thought about how I should deal with it. On the surface, my leg hurt. I shouldn't have to worry about my personal safety when walking out my front door.
Then I thought about litigation. A friend of mine used to work in mediation, and she explained that a lot of cases are now being settled with mediators rather than lawyers. Not only does this save on court costs, my friend told me, but much of the time it isn't money that plaintiffs want, but empathy. They want to know that someone understands their point of view, the fact that something unjust occurred.
It was then that I decided to visit the owner; she'd pointed out her house, we were practically neighbours.
Later in the run I remembered my accident in the summer of 2003, when I cracked my pelvis at work, in a strange collision that involved me, a golf cart, and a tree. My boss picked me up at the hospital afterward, bought me ice cream and french fries...and had the golf cart disposed of the following day.
By the end of the summer the tree was also gone.
By the end of the year, I'd wished I'd taken the company to court. I'm sure Intrawest can afford to offset my student loan. It could be seen as a send-a-kid-to-camp program...only for ski bums who've hurt themselves in the line of duty.
But of course, this is Canada, and one of the things we pride ourselves on is the fact that we're not Americans, that we don't sue.
But sometimes I wish I could talk to my boss now, hear his side of the story. (If you want to hear more of mine, please ask. It's a pretty funny story).
As I made my way home I knew my leg was fine but I resolved to seek out the dog owner and get the full run-down.
Just now, I noticed her in front of my house, walking in the late afternoon sun Daylight Savings time has provided us.
I stepped out in my slippers, called her over, and identified myself as the runner from this morning. We chatted about the incident and I asked about shots. I even caught a few glances from the slow-moving rush hour cars on my street, smiling at the exchange between neighbours. Winter holes us up--spring is almost here.
Her name is Evelyn, and her dog is Spencer. Up close he looks more like a laso apso.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
IWD: A Journalists' Conundrum
And so it is, on Wednesday morning, I still haven't made a decision about the weekend.
Most of the time I couldn't care less about my nightlife, being pleased as punch to curl up around a laptop and watch whatever random pick I've ordered from Zip.
But this weekend is different—it's International Women's Day (IWD).
It also happens to fall on the Vermont Weekend, the weekend my friends and I were planning on visiting the Green Mountain State for a little White Mountain Fun (hosted, no less, at a hot tub- and horse ranch-equipped cabin in the woods).
For me, IWD usually comes and goes without so much as a high-five or a you-go-girl, but this year I'm writing about a unique event that's bringing female urban artists together at Babylon nightclub in Ottawa.
(Check out http://ladiesinthehouse.wordpress.com/ and come out!)
I've already interviewed the organizers——two DJs and b-girl——for the piece that will run in Saturday's Ottawa Citizen. I've already transcribed my notes, written the piece, and I'm about to send it...once it's out I can wash my hands of it, right?
Wrong——apparently.
The thing is, I can't stop hearing the voices of my sources.
It happens sometimes, with stories or people that really hit home. I used to think this was a sign that I was less of a journalist--a softie wanting to please everyone.
But earlier this week I read 'Reinvent Journalism in 10 easy steps' at
http://www.concernedjournalists.org/reinvent-journalism-10-easy-steps
Last on the list is 'Cover your community like it's your hometown...be invested in your community and care about its people.'
And I have to say, since arriving in Ottawa in 2003, I've felt nothing but welcome; I've seen artists rise up through the ranks and impromtu house parties foster new talent. Ottawa, specifically it's arts community, feels like a hometown.
And it's people like my 'Ladies in the House'that set the tone in this community.
It's easy to say I've done my part; I pitched the story to the Ottawa Citizen and kept at them to make it happen. I've done more than a $6 cover charge will in terms of awareness of IWD and urban arts in Ottawa.
I care about the people involved in this story and I've invested much mental energy in crafting this story. I guess I just want to 'show' it, by attending the event on Saturday (it's also gonna be plenty fun!)
But, as one of my sources said, "364 days of the year we're DJs, b-girls [and journalists]; but on one day of the year we’re really focusing on the fact that we’re women.”
As a writer, I was lucky enough to sit down and talk frankly with these people that hold down the arts fort in Ottawa.
As a woman, I'm proud of them...and leaning toward a weekend sans snow fun.
As a skier, it's tough. My mom visited Killington when I was a wee tot——missing my sisters' birthday. I've heard it's Amazing. Huge. Snow is coming on Saturday. In fact, were it Mother's Day, I'd feel obliged to hit the slopes instead of the clubs...
Most of the time I couldn't care less about my nightlife, being pleased as punch to curl up around a laptop and watch whatever random pick I've ordered from Zip.
But this weekend is different—it's International Women's Day (IWD).
It also happens to fall on the Vermont Weekend, the weekend my friends and I were planning on visiting the Green Mountain State for a little White Mountain Fun (hosted, no less, at a hot tub- and horse ranch-equipped cabin in the woods).
For me, IWD usually comes and goes without so much as a high-five or a you-go-girl, but this year I'm writing about a unique event that's bringing female urban artists together at Babylon nightclub in Ottawa.
(Check out http://ladiesinthehouse.wordpress.com/ and come out!)
I've already interviewed the organizers——two DJs and b-girl——for the piece that will run in Saturday's Ottawa Citizen. I've already transcribed my notes, written the piece, and I'm about to send it...once it's out I can wash my hands of it, right?
Wrong——apparently.
The thing is, I can't stop hearing the voices of my sources.
It happens sometimes, with stories or people that really hit home. I used to think this was a sign that I was less of a journalist--a softie wanting to please everyone.
But earlier this week I read 'Reinvent Journalism in 10 easy steps' at
http://www.concernedjournalists.org/reinvent-journalism-10-easy-steps
Last on the list is 'Cover your community like it's your hometown...be invested in your community and care about its people.'
And I have to say, since arriving in Ottawa in 2003, I've felt nothing but welcome; I've seen artists rise up through the ranks and impromtu house parties foster new talent. Ottawa, specifically it's arts community, feels like a hometown.
And it's people like my 'Ladies in the House'that set the tone in this community.
It's easy to say I've done my part; I pitched the story to the Ottawa Citizen and kept at them to make it happen. I've done more than a $6 cover charge will in terms of awareness of IWD and urban arts in Ottawa.
I care about the people involved in this story and I've invested much mental energy in crafting this story. I guess I just want to 'show' it, by attending the event on Saturday (it's also gonna be plenty fun!)
But, as one of my sources said, "364 days of the year we're DJs, b-girls [and journalists]; but on one day of the year we’re really focusing on the fact that we’re women.”
As a writer, I was lucky enough to sit down and talk frankly with these people that hold down the arts fort in Ottawa.
As a woman, I'm proud of them...and leaning toward a weekend sans snow fun.
As a skier, it's tough. My mom visited Killington when I was a wee tot——missing my sisters' birthday. I've heard it's Amazing. Huge. Snow is coming on Saturday. In fact, were it Mother's Day, I'd feel obliged to hit the slopes instead of the clubs...
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