What the world needs now – Page 8

A day for the ducks

This weekend Mr. M and I trekked out to the Reifel Bird Sanctuary, for an afternoon of water fowl and barnyard owls.

(Unfortunately, sightings of our flexible-necked friends were few and far between.)

We did however, espy a few swallows, a couple of herons, many, MANY ducks (mallards and otherwise), and a crap load of other birds I don’t know the names of, because who the heck do I look like people?

Ranger Rick?

Yeesh.

(I kid, I kid. Except not at all about knowing anything about the different species of birds I encountered. About that I seriously do know squat.)

It was a truly gorgeous afternoon – blue skies, brilliant sunshine – although the wind was a little snappish; I could feel each gust of cold sea air nibbling at my ear lobes, nose, my fingertips, and toes.

I was super thankful for my last minute decision to bring my winter coat, but even with the extra layer, I walked around with my arms speckled with gooseflesh (how appropriate for the venue, no?) for the majority of the time we were there.

However, when you’re strolling around a nature reserve, surrounded by hilarious, chirping, feathered creatures, your “problems” are put into perspective pretty darn quickly.

I sometimes have a really hard time visiting places like this because I get so over wrought with need to SAVE ALL THE BIRDS the world over.

(This reaction is much the same to the one I wrote about last week. See: Ethel v. SPCA adoption website.)

It’s also intrinsically tied to the paralysis I undergo every time I take out my recycling and see, once again, that the tone deaf dirt bags that live in my complex have once again placed their recyclables in the bin, in a bloody plastic bag.

For serious, one day someone is going to find my body, dead, splayed about on the ground in front of the blue boxes, empty cans in hand. I will have passed over to the other side from a complete and utter rage out (combined with a complete lack of understanding) over why someone would do this.

I mean – HOW LAZY CAN YOU POSSIBLY BE THAT YOU CANNOT JUST EMPTY THE CANS OR BOTTLES FROM THE PLASTIC BAG INTO THE BLUE BOX?

Good grief.

Yesterday Mr. M found a broken toaster in the recycle bin.

A TOASTER! AND IT WAS IN A PLASTIC BAG!

Okay, I need to take it easy. My heart probably shouldn’t be pumping this fast.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Seriously though, what the heck is the point of “recycling” if you’re not going to do it right? Wouldn’t it actually be better if they just threw everything into the trash, because at least that way they wouldn’t be buggering it up for the rest of us that actually, you know, care?

I thought about these indolent bastards as I walked about the park (but just for a little while – I didn’t want to give them too much airtime, or the satisfaction of ruining my entire afternoon.)

But then I started to think about how if the people who already inhabit the earth don’t care, what kind of destruction will the planet oversee when we have an even greater population of (I’m afraid to even imagine) people who care even less?

And then I thought about how many species of birds will be around for my children? Or their children?

Will this amazing bird sanctuary be a moot point because we’ve annihilated everything that would be targeted to live and thrive within the reserve itself?

My heart grew heavier and heavier just thinking about it all.

But then M took my hand, and we say on a bench and ate some grapes, and I slowly started to feel better.

This heaviness I felt was gradually offset by a new set of competing factors and thoughts – indeed it became harder and harder to imagine such a dark world, because everything and everyone I was encountering at the park was the complete antithesis of that humanity and ecological peril I was fearing.

There were so many families out together – parents, children, grandparents, babies – teaching, watching, talking, learning about the different plant life, the insects, and course all the birds – calling out to the chickadees, and marveling at the swooping, circling falcons, feeding the ducks, and laughing at the geese.

There were exchange students with guide books, young couples on early spring dates, long-time husband and wife duos, and bird watching aces with camera lenses the width of my living room.

There were so many people, out enjoying the sun, basking in the beauty of the day, the park, the birds – the earth.

That it gave me hope.

And continues to give me hope.

It gives me hope that the Reifel sanctuary will be here for years to come.

And that out there people actually know how to properly dispose of toasters.

The feminine critique

Much has been written about Miss Universe Canada’s decision to remove Jenna Talackova from the Miss Universe Canada Competition.

According to the organization, Ms. Talackova was barred from competing because, “She did not meet the requirements to compete despite having stated otherwise on her entry form.”

You see, in order to qualify as a Miss Universe Canada contestant, individuals must be:

• a Canadian citizen

• between the age of 18 and 27

• neither pregnant nor married

• a “natural born” female (also a requirement of every other Miss Universe pageant).

Natural born females, eh? Sounds like an Oliver Stone production that never made it past the drawing board.

Now, the absurdity of these rules isn’t the main reason I am writing this post.

That I believe Ms. Talackova should be able to compete in the pageant is a truth – not only does she identify as a women (and has since the age of four) but legally (like – BY LAW PEOPLE) she is a woman.

Period. (No pun intended.)

Hence, she should qualify.

The fact of the matter remains that we, as a society, are missing the much bigger problem at hand.

The real issue is the fact that we’re living in the twenty-first century and beauty pageants are things that actually still exist.

I don’t know if I can think of anything more ridiculous, antiquated and painfully sexist that marching a bunch of women across a stage and marking them on how well they model a bikini.

Or evening gown.

And don’t even get me on those events that try to promote some level of “legitimacy” because they have a talent component.

You’re going to tell me that some washed up NBA star, or some hate-mongering gossip columnist is going to be able to (competently!) judge between a Mozart-penned aria and a baton twirling routine? A Schubert fugue in A minor and a rhythmic gymnastics programme?

Give me a break. No, give me all the breaks.

To me, the choice to include a talent section and then market the event as progressive is basically akin to the organizers trying to frame their competition as the Diet Coke of beauty pageants.

Let’s call it “sexism lite.”

But it’s not like they’re any better than the original product (which would be Coke, or “sexism original” if you will.)

Both are still responsible for reinforcing highly destructive, prescriptive, and dangerous gender norms.

Or, to go back to the drink analogy – having some kind of special skill component in your competition might spare you from contracting diabetes, but don’t kid yourself, you’re still going to develop that brain tumor.

I mean come on. At the root of it, both propagate the socially accepted, (nay institutionalized) notion that all woman everywhere must first and foremost be judged on the way they look.

Good thing because goodness knows that’s a movement that needs all the help it can get.

For more information please see:

I am of the mind that we should just make it so that no women EVER are allowed to enter these contests.

Because then, finally, we could add them to that special collection in our planet’s attic (you know that trash bag labelled “what the hell where we thinking?”) along with Lysol douching products, lead based makeup (which I’m actually afraid isn’t so much a thing of the past), and shoulder pads.

Another reason why I loathe these competitions is the (always brutal) question and answer component of the evening.

The women stand there in their bedazzled gowns, smiling as if their lives depended on it, calculating how they will be able to answer a question without really, you know, answering the question.

It’s like a bloody political debate all of a sudden appears and sets up shop on stage. Afraid of alienating voters, the contestants must find creative ways of filling up their allotted thirty seconds by not really saying anything.

And as such, none of the contestants ever give a real, heartfelt response.

This, I imagine, is in part due to the fact that they know that 1.) Unfortunately, the majority of the audience has no interest is what they really think, 2.) should they go out on a limb and speak their mind, the chance that this choice would come back and bite them is huge (both during the competition, or throughout their careers post-pageant, and 3.) the rule of the game is please everyone, so try your best not to rock the boat, and just give an answer that is non-threatening and easy to digest.

Now, I take great issue with all of these points. But just thinking about number three makes me feel like tearing out my hair and setting fire to my entire wardrobe.

Because, these notions of having an opinion, but not being pushy about it; about pleasing others before yourself; of not rocking the boat with your convictions; about worrying about how others will perceive you and your ideas (and how they could impact your career) – these are behavioral mechanisms force fed to women, all around the world, all day, every day.

And to see them glamorized, (and celebrated!) on a local, provincial, national, international stage – well, that just demoralizes the heck out of me.

We should be celebrating actions over aesthetics; convictions and passions over rhetoric and clichés.

In the end, wanting world peace isn’t wrong.

But a system that dictates that one need qualify this want by looking good in bathing suit and providing proof of their “natural femininity” on national television IS wrong.

A competition that buys into this system and (dangerously) sells itself as some kind of measuring stick for femininity IS wrong.

And I know that as of this moment, I am really ready for something that is right.

Oh how the girl feels

One of my favourite bands ever is Franz Ferdinand. If you don’t know about them, I definitely recommend that you check them out – they are tip top groove troopers and pretty much my number one choice every time I feel the need for a mad, solo dance party.

I saw them live a couple of summers ago and these rocking Scotsmen put on a fab show, despite the pouring rain, slick stage, and a brutal opening band.

Anyway, there is a song of theirs that I love very much – it’s off of their third album and is called “No You Girls”. It’s a great tune, so definitely have a listen if you are interested:

The lines that always get me are near the end, when Alex (Kapranos, the band’s lead man) sings:

Sometimes I say stupid things
That I think
Well, I mean I
Sometimes I think the stupidest things
Because I never wonder
Oh how the girl feels
Oh how the girl feels

I feel as though these lyrics work for so many different situations (whether taken literally or not). I mean, who hasn’t been in the position where they have said something that (inadvertently) comes across as ignorant, because they haven’t taken the time to consider whether or not other parties involved may be offended, or come at the issues from a different point of view?

Not I, that’s for sure.

These kind of things happen all the time – rarely for malicious purposes, and hopefully the offending party can quickly rectify their faux pas.

Unfortunately, I feel as though the self-awareness required to do said rectifying is often lacking when it comes to the majority of these situations.

For instance, yesterday I felt very much like I was in fact the girl in those above lyrics – awash in a sea of inconsiderate, unaware, and uninformed comments, made by so, so many individuals who hadn’t given a moment’s thought to whether or not their words may 1.) be impolite or 2.) indicative of huge social problems existent the world over or 3.) infused in such casual misogyny that trying to explain why their comments are harmful would be pointless because a.) JEEZE ETHEL they weren’t meant that way, so how could I misconstrue them to such a degree? or b.) I should probably just lighten up and learn how to take a joke. You feminists have no sense of humour!!!

For the sake of full disclosure, I should let you know that This Is True. As someone who cares about the status of women, I am required by law to be a full-on laugh suck-hole, governed by nothing more than my intolerance of jokes and laughing.

(My hatred of all men of course, is second only to this.)

Le sigh.

You see, lovely readers, yesterday was International Women’s Day.

Which I’ve actually come to believe is also “International Day for Men to Ask Why There Isn’t an International Men’s Day?”

For the answer to this question, please consult the answer to, “So, like, why don’t we have White Entertainment Television?”

P.S. To all people (whether male or female) who ask these questions, you are part of the reason why International Women’s Day and Black Entertainment Television exist.

Also, I just want to put this out there (for hopefully the last time): the number of times “get back in the kitchen” or “make me a sandwich” have ever been funny is zero.

Zero times.

What’s that you say? It was all in jest?

Yeah, no. Answer’s still zero.

(And anyone who says otherwise should probably stay away from choral arrangements, or singing in front of dogs, because they are tone deaf.)

Right at this moment as I am typing these words I am doing ninja-style yoga breathing in an attempt to both regulate my heartbeat and bring my blood pressure down to a simmer (and not the roiling boil it is currently checking in at.)

I also LOVE to laugh, you stinking rats!!!

Breathe in…breathe out…

As some of you may have guessed, my mood today hasn’t exactly been one hundred percent cheerful.

I keep oscillating back and forth between happiness and rage. As soon as I start to feel cheerful, I slip-slide back to wrath so quickly that it makes my mind spin.

*In all seriousness folks, I am beginning to think that as I get older I am going to become so consumed by sadness over all the world’s ills (that as much as I try, I just cannot change) that I may die of a broken heart.

(And that’s probably the best case scenario! In reality, I’ll probably keel on the treadmill, have working myself up into the frenzy of all frenzies, wearing the shorts that always fall down when I run.)

And that’s serious class (with a K.)

So because I spent so much of today thinking of these things, and because the weather was absolute crap during my lunch hour, I walked over to the mall and proceeded to try on three outfits from H&M, all from the men’s clothing section, all based on what was advertised on the male mannequins.

And I have to say, I really, really liked them.

IMG-20120309-00002 — The crotch on the pants was a little low, but overall they were super comfortable.

I don’t know if this is because of my sour mood, or my pre-existing penchant for men’s fashion, but I had a hard time not buying every single thing I tried on.

IMG-20120309-00003 — I REALLY like these pants.

(I also thought about how the guy working in the dressing room didn’t bat an eyelash when I handed him the clothes I wanted to try on. I couldn’t (and still can’t) help wondering what reactions the exact opposite of that situation would garner – how would he have felt if I was a man, trying on women’s clothes?)

IMG-20120309-00004 — I think I will buy this sweater. But the pants were so tight I think I may have cut off some circulation.

I’m almost even interested in taking up a short sociological experiment: for two weeks I would dress solely in masculine clothing. After the time was up, I would switch, and wear only (what society deems) feminine clothing – along the way I would chronicle the different reactions I encountered to both modes of dress, and how they varied during the course of the trial. This is a topic that I’ve given much thought to for a long time, but am only now thinking of acting on it.

What do you think?

I’ll let the idea marinate a little longer, and let you know as my deliberation process progresses.

In the mean time, I am going to continue to do my yoga breathing.

And I am going to weigh the pros and cons of those burgundy pants.

And I am going to wish all the amazing, brilliant, and inspirational, women I know and love, a very happy, (belated) International Women’s Day.

I don’t know what I would do without you.

Love, actually

So I know it’s all the rage to slag-off love and put down romance (and proclaim Valentine’s day to be nothing more than a consumerist, wallet measuring contest, etc., etc.), and it is very well known amongst those who know me, and those who read this blog (or both) that I am pretty direct about what I abide, and what I don’t, but – I just can’t get behind this movement.

Because I love love.

LOVE it.

So, all’s I really got to say is:

You hear that haters? TO THE LEFT!

What’s that you say? Relocation isn’t something you’re interested in? Well then, because I’m not a cold-hearted bastard, I’ll give you a second option.

In order to banish these bummed-out blues of yours, all you need to do is watch one film, and I promise you that it has the power to change both your mind and heart:

The magnificent, magical, mesmerizing tour-de-force that is Le fabuleux destin d’Amélie Poulain.

If you let it, it will change your life.

After a week of where every day began by lugging my sluggish, bedraggled body out of bed, folding myself over the frozen porcelain of my tub, and standing under the searing stream of my shower – steaming my eyelids open as water pooled around my ankles (think the way you do to envelopes, when you’re not supposed to see their contents) – this movie pretty much saved my soul.

If you have never seen it, I recommend that you run (not walk) to your closest video rental store (erm, do these even exist anymore?) and rent the crap out of it.

You will not be disappointed.

Unless of course, you detest the accordion, because then, well, we may have hit the one and only snag.

No! I cannot say that. Because even if this was the case I would still recommend this film, because I am of the mind that even those who are intolerant (wrongly so, might I add!) of this fantastic instrument will still appreciate the soundtrack – a score that is beautiful and haunting and romantic and sublime.

Just listening to the beginning notes of the first song makes me want to dance in the middle of cobble-stone streets, kiss under water-stained, moonlit bridges, and ride bicycles with baskets filled with fresh herbs, sunflowers, and one (very) well behaved cat – don long, flowing skirts, and fitted, cap-sleeve blouses, and take round the world trips, – drink wine by the gulp, and cafes by the sips.

Alas…

Also, I have also decided that my favourite word in the French language is ronfle. (This, to be fair, is not so romantic. But still awesome.)

To spring, or not to spring, that is (Mother Nature's) question...

In the spirit of adventure and intrigue, on Saturday afternoon Mr. M and I threw caution to the wind, and went on the hunt for escapades and exploits a-plenty.

We started off on Commercial Drive, walking the length of the neighbourhood, stopping in at the fine art and clothing vendors along the way.

We had run pretty hard earlier that morning, so when it came time to eat, we decided to have lunch at the absolutely delish La Grotta Del Formaggio.

Oh my goodness.

Seriously people. GO THERE.

What I love so much about this establishment, is that it is like stepping into a time warp. I’m pretty sure the layout of the store hasn’t changed much in close to fifty years (and I’d wager a guess that the same can be said for the management) – the shelves are stocked with everything you could possibly imagine: dozens of different brands of olive oil, biscotti, dried pastas – a veritable smorgasbord of good eats!

Their sandwiches are also to die for – chose your bread, topping, meat (and if you don’t want meat, you get extra cheese!) and then they toast it up for you in jiffy.

We found two seats outside, sat down with our sammies, and just watched the world go by, stuffing our (very happy) faces with roasted red peppers, and eggplant, artichoke hearts and jalapeno havarti.

That’s another thing that’s so great about this part of Vancouver. The people-watching is tip-top and fabitty fab (aka DA BEST.) The range of individuals passing you by is mindboggling, and it’s unlikely you’d witness such diversity in many other areas of town.

Also, since I am incapable of walking the Commercial corridor without visiting the (always) taste bud tickling Fratelli’s baker (seriously my friends, it is a sensory overload and a half heading into that establishment) I made sure to make a quick pit stop while M was waiting for our paninis to toast.

After finishing up our first course, we set to work on this box of treats:

Due to rampant and soul-crushing indecision (and one massive, massive sweet tooth – or is it many, many sweet teeth?) I couldn’t decide on what to order, so I ended up buying a whole swathe of treats, of different sizes, shapes and varieties.

I think overall, my favourite was the red velvet cupcake, and M gave his gold star to the pistachio cake.

Next we continued on our merry way, ever on the look-out for a used edition of either Mind Trap or Trivial Pursuit.

Mr. M wants to play Mind Trap with his students, whereas I want Trivial Pursuit so we can play it every night for the rest of our lives. I’m a little unclear as to why I find playing this game pretty much the most humorous thing to do ever, but there you have it.

Needless to say, the end goal of this mission did not come to fruition (we are still on the hunt – so heed this search flare (or request) my fellow weirdos: if you know of where to procure good quality, used trivia games, do tell (but also consider letting me know ifncode, just to, you know, appeal to my geekiness.)

Okay, I feel as though I’ve fallen quite a bit from my introduction on the brilliance and beauty of love to some strange tangent about board games and nerdiness (one and the same?).

If I can't have Trivial Pursuit, I'll take this awesome sauce desk.

Soldiering on.

Remember how last Monday I wrote about a dress I tried on at Zara and my feelings towards it hadn’t really disappeared and the fact that I hadn’t purchased it was kind of sticking in my craw? Well, I considered taking Mr. M to the store for a second opinion, but before we even made it halfway there, we made a strange, and rather off-the-cuff pit stop at The Bay.

Now, The Bay has recently decided that it is Holt Refrew Part Deux, so I can’t go in there too often lest I begin to convulse compulsively and just start shouting (at no one in particular): Who do you think you are kidding with this crap?

But as long as I make it to the third floor in relatively stable condition, I am good to go (and not bait for the men in the white coats.) Anywho, to make a long story short, I ended up trying on and purchasing this majorly cute BCBC dress for twenty dollars!!!

(For serious, this may be the most proud I have ever been of a purchase in my life. Plus it has little stars and planets all over it! And pockets! My head explodes with happiness just thinking of it.)

I should also say that I really, really love clothing from BCBG. I know a lot of it can be pretty kooky and out there (two characteristics I should never judge, lest I break all the glass houses with all the stones) but most of their pieces are so beautiful my heart beats faster just thinking about them.

And here I was, purchasing one at an eighty-five percent markdown.

Bliss.

Which, I feel I should point out, probably wouldn`t have happened, had it not have been for a love-fuelled adventure, inspired by a love-filled movie.

So there ya go.

Haters gonna hate, but this lover is gonna rock her discount frock – until the sun supernovas, the stars fade away.

I read the news today, oh boy

I try to live my life free of binaries.

That they exist I am sure – that our entire social (nay global?) make-up is dependent on them I am convinced.

They are malleable, overarching scapegoats, (or get-out-of-jail-free cards) that limit the scope arguments, constrain the parameters of research, and stop each and every one of us from ever diving into the very deepest depths of self-analysis.

And try as I might to do away with them, they are almost impossible to get away from, let along ignore.

Because boy do we love them:

Black-White; Good-Bad; East-West; Heaven-Hell; Rich-Poor; Madonna-Whore

_Device Memory_home_user_pictures_IMG00200 — Spring has sprung, but my spirits have sunk.

The reason that I am thinking about this, is because the events of the world have got be feeling pretty blue.

Seriously dudes, I am bummed out.

If I have to hear one more time about how Syria (or Somalia, or insert “disaster-prone war zone here”) is on the brink of a humanitarian crisis, I am going to go ballistamungus (my code word for BAT SHIT CRAZY.)

On the BRINK of crisis?

If these catastrophic situations are looked at (by zee experts) as teetering on the verge of collapse, well then, I think their rating system is just a tad out of whack with reality.

No joke, I really want to get on the blower with the UN and have the following exchange:

United Nations (UN): Hello, United Nations.

Ethel the Dean (EtD): [thinking to myself] Woah, that was easy.

UN: Hello?

EtD: Yes hello! I’ve noticed that lately, your organization has been reticent as-all-get-out about describing the situation in Syria as an actual humanitarian crisis. This whole “will-they-won’t-they” game you seem to be playing has got me awfully curious.

UN: Oh?

EtD: Yeah. You see, I’m wondering what actually has to go down in that country for you to determine that it is undergoing a legitimate crisis, you know, in your expert opinion.

UN: Erm…

EtD: Because you guys also have a pretty solid track record of not doing squat when it came to other emergency situations – most notably (off the top of my head) in Rwanda and the former Yugoslavia – so I’m wondering what’s got to give, for the Syrian people to maybe receive a little love from either Ban Ki Moon, or if he’s too busy, maybe Navi Pillay.

UN: […]

EtD: I mean, isn’t it time that we all just come out and said it? That your organization, as a global actor, is basically impotent, incompetent and incontinent?

UN: […]

EtD: WELL, CAN’TCHA?!

I assume that at this point I would be hung up on. But you get the picture.

Urgh.

(p.s. that’s a really long video, but it’s one of my all-time faves. Plus I’ve been feeling super Daffy-esque today.)

Adding to my overall malaise, is the overwhelming sense of unease I got from watching the film “Inside Job” last night with Mr. M.

If I wasn’t sure that Wall Street, government, and academia is dominated by a small, incestuous group (of heavily recycled) money-hungry sociopaths, well, I definitely am now!

Plus, I cannot even begin to describe how heartening it was to read this morning on the metro that Vancouver is getting its very own edition of The Real Housewives franchise.

That sound you’re hearing is me barfing in the CEO of Bravo television’s shoes. Oh, and my heart breaking.

Also, the hoof steps of the horses ridden by the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

What a swell crap-storm of cacophonous bile! Bring out the conductor and play on maestro!

To try and lift my spirits out of the giant dumpster of doom, when I arrived home from work today I decided to make my terrific, and tantalizing banana bread.

Bananas! In pyjamas! Are baked into this bread...

I have a couple of recipes that I would classify as old hat (but in a non-pejorative sense) – more so that I’ve made them so many times that I have committed them to memory.

When Mr. M and I first moved in together, I couldn’t cook for the life of me, and the only recipe book we had was “Loneyspoons” and The Joy of Cooking. Often times the only ingredients we had in our pantry fit the bill for the book’s banana bread, so I became an expert really quickly.

We never had anything for The Joy of Cooking. Seriously, who cooks squirrel?

(As an aside, M received the The J of C from his parents as a high school graduation gift and he would like to reassure them that we have used it many, many times since its appearance of his bookshelf.)

Oh yes, we have no bananas...except we do and they will make something delicious!

Anywho, my banana bread is pretty healthy in comparison to other recipes, using yogurt instead of oil, and it doesn’t call for too much sugar and butter.

Plus it tastes bloody good.

Two summers ago, I got many of my work mates hooked on the stuff, and would often have to parcel out the goods a little at a time in order to ensure that everyone got a chance to have a piece, lest the greediest goons took all of it on the first go (or plating).

(In my opinion, it’s that little pinch of cinnamon I’ve added to the ingredient list that just might push it right over the edge.)

So coming home, I quickly assembled my ingredients and got to work.

I was all excited to listen to some sweet, sweet CBC as I worked, but unfortunately the news proved to be far too depressing for me to make it longer than three minutes.

Instead, I settled (and by settle I mean happily took part in) a hilarious conversation with M that revolved around photographs, dish towels, cat food and sushi orders.

What proved even more delightful was that the outcome included some tasty, tasty treats from Okonomi sushi, just up the street from us.

Now we are sitting down to another night of Netflix documentaries – tonight we are watching “This Film is Not Yet Rated.”

I know that the subject matter will probably make me think, cringe, laugh, squirm – but hopefully not cry.

But even if I do, I just need to remember that it’ll be okay.

Because there’s always banana bread, sushi, and fake phone calls.

Not necessarily in that order.

And maybe, one day, not necessarily fake.