Yesterday, I read an news article that made me sit up a little bit straighter in my chair. It descibed a case in the U.S. in which two lesbians, intent on having a civil ceremony to wed, sued a Christian organization which woudl not allow them to use its private property for the event. The judge ruled in favour of the couple,citing their rights having been impinged upon.
Wow! What was he thinking about, this judge, was my first response.
So I dug a little bit deeper, assuming perhaps there might have been some important details ommitted that would explain such a ruling. But what I dug up was just more of the same. The organization was simply asked if it would allow the couple to use its property in a beachfront area for a private wedding and it refused, basing its refusal on its religious beliefs. Property that, apparently, is used for weddings and other activities by the organization on a fairly regular basis. It might even be a beautiful spot, who knows? Whatever the case may be, the couple wanted to use it and were prevented from doing so. What's more, the those in the organization had the courage to be honest about why, too. I mean, they could have fudged about it and said it was booked already, or some other such thing. They could even have said it was only available to members, which woudl have dissuaded any heterosexual couple. But they did not. They actually cited the real reason for their refusal to comply with the request and that is what started all the trouble.
And I can only assume, based on his judgement, this judge assumes anyone can do whatever they want, wherever they want, as long as they are riding the coattails of a political football - like gay rights, for example.
Now, don't get me wrong. Unlike most serious Christians, I honestly don't have a problem with gays wanting equal rights, mostly because I try to leave judging up to the one Who will one day, judge us all. Goodness knows, I will have tons to account for. Additionally, I understand why so many in the gay movement choose to litigate when employment rights and other issues are at stake. I get it. It's got to be a horribly difficult and challenging tightwire to walk and my heart goes out to them. This post is NOT about my own personal, religious beliefs. There wouldn't be room for that here, anyway. It's a really complicated topic that requires much more space than a simple blog entry can provide.
No, rather, my issue is with what the judgement implies. It speaks to our right to do on our own property as we wish, provided it does not hurt anyone else directly. Humour me for a moment; I mean, we can get drunk on our property, we can smoke on our property (even though, arguably, we are eventually polluting the airspace of others, when the physics of the thing is taken in to consideration), we can run around buck naked as long as we are out of the public's eyes on our own property and we can practice religious beliefs and rites on our own property.
Up until now, that is. At least, not according to this judge, who is setting an incredibly dangerous precedent with his ruling. I mean, will I have to allow anyone of any practice or religious belief to do what they want on my property in the future? Bear in mind, this was a religious organization, not a business or state ordained wedding chapel.
Also, does this mean that private, religious schools will no longer be able to use curriculum materials of their choice? Will opinion pieces, like those published in many blogs like these, be policed for anything that might be offensive to gay rights? Where will the line be drawn, I wonder?
The spiraling reverberations are mind boggling, when you really stop to think about it. So much for having religious freedom, which is slated as one of the most important tenants of both the American and Canadian constitutions, up there with freedom of speech.
It also begs the question, had the property been owned by an Islamic organization would the couple even have tried to book it for the wedding? You can bet your bottom dollar they would never even have thought of it, because they know any judge in the land would have ruled in favour of the organization, not the gay couple.
Taking into account the rights that other religions other than Christianity have gained, overruling other laws of the land, it just seems rather strange to me that somehow, a Christian organization suddenly has no dominant property rights.
To back this up, I cite a case years back where an RCMP officer, a new graduate, who happened to also be a practicing Sikh, was given the legal right to wear his turban on the job, rather than the standard uniform cap or no cap at all. I'm pretty sure, if we all did our homework, we could come up with similar events. So,why is it that other religions get these special considerations, even in the face of overruling circumstances and laws, but Christian ones are seemingly below that?
Food for thought.
Once again, the Emperor is without clothing...and it's getting colder out there, too.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Fish Out Of Water or Did I Do That?
In the summer of 2003 I took my first international flight over the badlands of America, the Grand Canyon and Salt Lake City - and I have to say, those salt flats looked really cool from the air, too. My final connecting flight, in a little eight-row, hiccup of a puddle-jumper, took me through what proved to be the worst turbulance I would ever experience, finally to land in a tiny airport, about 1800 feet above sea level, smack in the centre of the Rogue Valley in southern Oregon. I enjoyed it thoroughly but I can't say the same thing for most of my fellow passengers, many of whom had taken on varying tinges of green about the gills and who were holding on for dear life wherever hands could find a solid grip. I am pretty sure we entered that valley, over a snowcapped mountain, at a thirty degree angle.
As events would unfold, my arrival set somewhat of a precedent.
I had a blast for the first week or so, visiting tourist hot spots including Crater Lake with its impossibly inky blue waters and Jedidiah Smith National Park where the giant redwood forest sprawls across thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of acres of pristine southern Oregon and northern California. All of it wonderful stuff.
About two days before my return flight, however, my adventure reached its hiatus. My host booked a trip on an oversized jetboat on the Rogue River with about sixty-five other eager tourists. The morning of our little escapade, we arose bright and early and took the long drive to the loading dock, somewhere in the remote, Oregonian wilderness, far from civilization. I'm pretty sure I counted two bears along the side of the road as we drove along.
Once we got there, we embarked on this rather wide watercraft which bore no actual physical likeness to a
jet boat, but, nonetheless, proved to be able to do all the neat tricks that most jet boats can manage, including soaking every passenger by spinning around in dizzying circles every so often, as the operator told corny jokes and narrated the 45 minute trip up the river with tidbits about the flora and fauna all around us.
Once at our destination, a huge spread up a slight incline of green, all the passengers were invited to disembark and enjoy a three course meal, complete with large bottles of white wine and jugs of ale every couple of feet pr so along the tops of long picnic tables, upon which were spread snow white linen tablecloths. The menu was the best barbecue I have ever had and I ate loads of it. I actually lost track of how many helpings.
Because I ate so much and wasn't driving that day I figured I could have a few drinks of wine without any ill effects. So I did. Three full glasses, in total. And it did taste rather watered down so I assumed it wasn't very strong. Didn't feel even a little bit of a buzz.
About an hour and a half later, we all piled back into the big boat and started the return journey. I am delighted to say the pilot shared a ton of information about the salmon fishermen who could be seen every mile or so along the river, in tiny rowboats or sometimes fishing from elaborate piers which fronted stunning, multi-million dollar estates. I guess this wasn't such a remote part of Oregon, after all.
At one juncture, he cautioned us to be extra quiet as we came alongside three young men holding poles, sitting in a small craft. He explained how the fish were very easily spooked, even by the slightest noise. Of course, everyone complied immediately as we got closer and closer. Well, almost everybody that is.
That was when the three glasses of wine kicked in.
That was when I noticed the boat the fishermen were in was only a few feet from the dock along the side of the river.
And that was when I nearly got kicked overboard, if only in the imaginations of my fellow jet boat cruisers.
I stood up suddenly and spoke as loudly as I dared, doing my best to keep from falling back as the jet boat slowly manuevered around the now seemingly dwarfed rowboat.
"What are you doing in the boat? You're only five feet out from the dock?"
I thought it was funny. Hilarious, in fact. But I drew only one small chuckle from my captive audience and that from the elderly gentleman beside me, who, most likely was laughing more in sympathy than in amusement. As for the three in the boat, at whom I had thrown my brilliantly insightful comment, you know the saying about if looks could kill? - I can still see them glaring at me from only a few short feet away.
It was my first indication that, perhaps, just perhaps, the liquour hadn't been watered down, afterall.
And I never did find out why that boat was anchored so darned close to the river's edge.
As events would unfold, my arrival set somewhat of a precedent.
I had a blast for the first week or so, visiting tourist hot spots including Crater Lake with its impossibly inky blue waters and Jedidiah Smith National Park where the giant redwood forest sprawls across thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of acres of pristine southern Oregon and northern California. All of it wonderful stuff.
About two days before my return flight, however, my adventure reached its hiatus. My host booked a trip on an oversized jetboat on the Rogue River with about sixty-five other eager tourists. The morning of our little escapade, we arose bright and early and took the long drive to the loading dock, somewhere in the remote, Oregonian wilderness, far from civilization. I'm pretty sure I counted two bears along the side of the road as we drove along.
Once we got there, we embarked on this rather wide watercraft which bore no actual physical likeness to a
jet boat, but, nonetheless, proved to be able to do all the neat tricks that most jet boats can manage, including soaking every passenger by spinning around in dizzying circles every so often, as the operator told corny jokes and narrated the 45 minute trip up the river with tidbits about the flora and fauna all around us.
Once at our destination, a huge spread up a slight incline of green, all the passengers were invited to disembark and enjoy a three course meal, complete with large bottles of white wine and jugs of ale every couple of feet pr so along the tops of long picnic tables, upon which were spread snow white linen tablecloths. The menu was the best barbecue I have ever had and I ate loads of it. I actually lost track of how many helpings.
Because I ate so much and wasn't driving that day I figured I could have a few drinks of wine without any ill effects. So I did. Three full glasses, in total. And it did taste rather watered down so I assumed it wasn't very strong. Didn't feel even a little bit of a buzz.
About an hour and a half later, we all piled back into the big boat and started the return journey. I am delighted to say the pilot shared a ton of information about the salmon fishermen who could be seen every mile or so along the river, in tiny rowboats or sometimes fishing from elaborate piers which fronted stunning, multi-million dollar estates. I guess this wasn't such a remote part of Oregon, after all.
At one juncture, he cautioned us to be extra quiet as we came alongside three young men holding poles, sitting in a small craft. He explained how the fish were very easily spooked, even by the slightest noise. Of course, everyone complied immediately as we got closer and closer. Well, almost everybody that is.
That was when the three glasses of wine kicked in.
That was when I noticed the boat the fishermen were in was only a few feet from the dock along the side of the river.
And that was when I nearly got kicked overboard, if only in the imaginations of my fellow jet boat cruisers.
I stood up suddenly and spoke as loudly as I dared, doing my best to keep from falling back as the jet boat slowly manuevered around the now seemingly dwarfed rowboat.
"What are you doing in the boat? You're only five feet out from the dock?"
I thought it was funny. Hilarious, in fact. But I drew only one small chuckle from my captive audience and that from the elderly gentleman beside me, who, most likely was laughing more in sympathy than in amusement. As for the three in the boat, at whom I had thrown my brilliantly insightful comment, you know the saying about if looks could kill? - I can still see them glaring at me from only a few short feet away.
It was my first indication that, perhaps, just perhaps, the liquour hadn't been watered down, afterall.
And I never did find out why that boat was anchored so darned close to the river's edge.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
My Brain Is Afraid of Heights
On one of my trips to Oregon a few years back, I had the pleasant experience of taking a winter hike up a mountainside, along a trail designated for cross country skiers, snowmobilers and snowshoers alike. I was accompanied by a gentleman who was only there to spend time with me; he really wasn't into fitness of any kind at this stage of his life. I, on the other hand, had been working out three or four times a week; doing a combination of weights and running on a treadmill as well as eating exceptionally well and taking several natural source supplements to aid my health kick. And I had been doing this for the previous three years or so.
My friend not only was not interested in fitness or good nutrition, he also had a heart event two years earlier which resulted in his having a stint put in one of his arteries. He was grossly overweight and still had not really radically changed his lifestyle.
We looked like a horizontal Mutt and Jeff.
Just so you understand I was really the best candidate for getting up that mountain with very little effects or trouble.
It was a beautiful, sunny day. We motored up to the ski lodge, which was about 4,000 feet above sea level, parked in the parking lot and got out of the car, planting our feet firmly on the ground. All around us were skiers coming and going, either carrying their gear and skiis or slaloming along the grounds with skiis still on. Just above us, the main hill showed two or three trails, full of more skiers of all shapes and sizes. I was exhilirated and took in deep, gulping breaths of the clean, cold air. Noticing it was getting late in the afternoon, I urged my friend to join me on a hike up the aforementioned trail, before the sun went down.
He agreed and so we set out.
All along the trail, there were markers that read the elevation. As it turned out, this came in really handy. Up we walked, at times steeply with concerted effort, but most of the time with great ease. At least for me. But we went slowly, to my frustration, because my friend kept wanting to turn around and go down again. He was bored and out of breath. Understandably.
I kept telling him if he did more of this kind of thing, he wouldn't find it so hard the next time. If it had been up to me, I would have practically run up that mountainside. And I rubbed it in every time he whined, too. I was merciless.
Up, up and up we went. 4,250 feet, feeling good. 4,500, still feeling good. 4,750 feet, my friend was still whining and I was still doing really well.
And then it happened. At 5,000 feet above elevation; which turned out to be my personal magic number for oxygen deprivation sickness.
I started to get really giggly and talkative, verily running off at the mouth about just about everything I saw and some things that just seemed to suddenly spontaneously come to mind. At some point, after that as we continued to walk, more slowly now as it didn't seem to matter as much to me anymore, my friend looked at me sideways and suggested we go back down the mountain so I could clear my head.
I felt like the first time I got drunk in university and someone poured whiskey out of a wine skin down my throat from about two feet above me as I lay, prostrate, on the floor of my dorm common room.
I guess you could say I was drunk. Pie eyed in fact. Out of my keester.
And loving it.
I am happy to say when my friend who had the heart condition, ate a steady diet of Big Macs, fries and shakes and had a belly that would shame any long haul driver in the whole U.S. of A. was not affected, I was suitably impressed.
He stayed relatively sane throughout the whole thing and patiently escorted me down the hill to a reasonable elevation where the higher oxygen level kicked in and, I am happy to say, my drunk ended with nary a sniff of a hangover.
On the drive home, as he laughingly reminded me of my silly behaviour on that hill, he told me he had an athletic heart.
It figures.
My friend not only was not interested in fitness or good nutrition, he also had a heart event two years earlier which resulted in his having a stint put in one of his arteries. He was grossly overweight and still had not really radically changed his lifestyle.
We looked like a horizontal Mutt and Jeff.
Just so you understand I was really the best candidate for getting up that mountain with very little effects or trouble.
It was a beautiful, sunny day. We motored up to the ski lodge, which was about 4,000 feet above sea level, parked in the parking lot and got out of the car, planting our feet firmly on the ground. All around us were skiers coming and going, either carrying their gear and skiis or slaloming along the grounds with skiis still on. Just above us, the main hill showed two or three trails, full of more skiers of all shapes and sizes. I was exhilirated and took in deep, gulping breaths of the clean, cold air. Noticing it was getting late in the afternoon, I urged my friend to join me on a hike up the aforementioned trail, before the sun went down.
He agreed and so we set out.
All along the trail, there were markers that read the elevation. As it turned out, this came in really handy. Up we walked, at times steeply with concerted effort, but most of the time with great ease. At least for me. But we went slowly, to my frustration, because my friend kept wanting to turn around and go down again. He was bored and out of breath. Understandably.
I kept telling him if he did more of this kind of thing, he wouldn't find it so hard the next time. If it had been up to me, I would have practically run up that mountainside. And I rubbed it in every time he whined, too. I was merciless.
Up, up and up we went. 4,250 feet, feeling good. 4,500, still feeling good. 4,750 feet, my friend was still whining and I was still doing really well.
And then it happened. At 5,000 feet above elevation; which turned out to be my personal magic number for oxygen deprivation sickness.
I started to get really giggly and talkative, verily running off at the mouth about just about everything I saw and some things that just seemed to suddenly spontaneously come to mind. At some point, after that as we continued to walk, more slowly now as it didn't seem to matter as much to me anymore, my friend looked at me sideways and suggested we go back down the mountain so I could clear my head.
I felt like the first time I got drunk in university and someone poured whiskey out of a wine skin down my throat from about two feet above me as I lay, prostrate, on the floor of my dorm common room.
I guess you could say I was drunk. Pie eyed in fact. Out of my keester.
And loving it.
I am happy to say when my friend who had the heart condition, ate a steady diet of Big Macs, fries and shakes and had a belly that would shame any long haul driver in the whole U.S. of A. was not affected, I was suitably impressed.
He stayed relatively sane throughout the whole thing and patiently escorted me down the hill to a reasonable elevation where the higher oxygen level kicked in and, I am happy to say, my drunk ended with nary a sniff of a hangover.
On the drive home, as he laughingly reminded me of my silly behaviour on that hill, he told me he had an athletic heart.
It figures.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Caught With A Smoking Gun...
Several years ago, I took my first trip to Florida over the Christmas holidays. I went with a friend who had a friend who owned a condo there. We had the place for free so, well, wouldn't you have grabbed that deal too?
Anyway, my friend - the one with the friend who owned the condo - was a gun nut. He had, by his own account, more guns than I had fingers. Gulp. He had even been charged once with illegal possession of a loaded gun.
Now, before you get all bent out of shape, exclaiming, "What the heck were you (me) doing with a guy who had been charged with illegal possession of a loaded firearm?" let me explain that, unlike here in Canada, the United States has a different criminal code for each state and this guy did not realize he was breaking any law when it happened. In his home state, it was apparently not illegal for him to have his loaded gun in a car, but he had been on holiday in another state and had forgotten to check what gun laws were before using his at a local gun range; he left it loaded when he got back in his car and got caught with it when a cop pulled him over for some kind of check; his taillight was out or some such minor thing.
Not a big deal, really. As it turns out, he wasn't as dangerous as his arms count would lead us to assume.
We had been in Florida about two days, going to the beach as many times as possible. In December, central Florida isn't too warm, as it turned out, so we got tired of that really quick. The water was warm but the air was cool. Brrrrr...
So, he suggested we go to a gun range. I guess he had packed two of his guns with him. I thought, what the heck. I will try almost anything once, as long as it is legal and moral. As we were in a rather conservative, Republican state, I knew gun laws were going to be pretty slack and, when we checked at the first range we visited, sure enough, I could fire a gun, even as a foreigner, in a gun range in Florida without having to register or apply for any kind of permit. Imagine.
My friend had two guns, as I said. The first one was a larger one. Cumbersome and loud. I have forgotten the calibre. He gave me a couple of quick tips and I put on the battery operated hearing protection headphones and shot off a round. It did not take long to learn the personality of a round, either, which, frankly, surprised me. Then my friend, impressed with my success hitting the targets, offered to let me use his semi-automatic police calibre pistol; a small, compact, heavy little piece that packed a wallop of a kick.
So I tried it.
I hit every target around the heart designation area each time.
Before we go any further, I have to say I am a pacifist. I do not believe in the use of violence to make a point nor do I support gun ownership by the general public. I have seen and read about too many stupid deaths and injuries and, well, I am a Canuck, through and through, and it just doesn't sit right with me under any circumstances.
But there I was, actually enjoying pulling that trigger and hitting those targets. I even enjoyed the temporary status it gave me with my friend, who was a right wing American, and also with the retired Marine who owned the range. They practically worshipped me once my target sheets were returned to me at the front of the store. They kept asking me if I were sure it was my first time shooting a gun.
Wow. What a power trip.
I am ashamed to say I have had few experiences with which to compare it and I have done some pretty interesting things in my lifetime; including singing in front of large crowds of strangers for money, directing plays which brought audiences to tears and hitchhiking alone as a young woman. I've had a black widow spider walk over me while sunbathing in southern California, with no ill effects. I've climbed a couple of mountains (granted, they were easy climbs), taught myself rudimentary Portuguese (sadly, most of which I have forgotten due to disuse) and interviewed all kinds of interesting people.
But nothing compared to that day at the old gun range in central Florida where I shot my first gun at those human-like target sheets made of shiny newsprint.
Dare I say, "What a blast?"
Anyway, my friend - the one with the friend who owned the condo - was a gun nut. He had, by his own account, more guns than I had fingers. Gulp. He had even been charged once with illegal possession of a loaded gun.
Now, before you get all bent out of shape, exclaiming, "What the heck were you (me) doing with a guy who had been charged with illegal possession of a loaded firearm?" let me explain that, unlike here in Canada, the United States has a different criminal code for each state and this guy did not realize he was breaking any law when it happened. In his home state, it was apparently not illegal for him to have his loaded gun in a car, but he had been on holiday in another state and had forgotten to check what gun laws were before using his at a local gun range; he left it loaded when he got back in his car and got caught with it when a cop pulled him over for some kind of check; his taillight was out or some such minor thing.
Not a big deal, really. As it turns out, he wasn't as dangerous as his arms count would lead us to assume.
We had been in Florida about two days, going to the beach as many times as possible. In December, central Florida isn't too warm, as it turned out, so we got tired of that really quick. The water was warm but the air was cool. Brrrrr...
So, he suggested we go to a gun range. I guess he had packed two of his guns with him. I thought, what the heck. I will try almost anything once, as long as it is legal and moral. As we were in a rather conservative, Republican state, I knew gun laws were going to be pretty slack and, when we checked at the first range we visited, sure enough, I could fire a gun, even as a foreigner, in a gun range in Florida without having to register or apply for any kind of permit. Imagine.
My friend had two guns, as I said. The first one was a larger one. Cumbersome and loud. I have forgotten the calibre. He gave me a couple of quick tips and I put on the battery operated hearing protection headphones and shot off a round. It did not take long to learn the personality of a round, either, which, frankly, surprised me. Then my friend, impressed with my success hitting the targets, offered to let me use his semi-automatic police calibre pistol; a small, compact, heavy little piece that packed a wallop of a kick.
So I tried it.
I hit every target around the heart designation area each time.
Before we go any further, I have to say I am a pacifist. I do not believe in the use of violence to make a point nor do I support gun ownership by the general public. I have seen and read about too many stupid deaths and injuries and, well, I am a Canuck, through and through, and it just doesn't sit right with me under any circumstances.
But there I was, actually enjoying pulling that trigger and hitting those targets. I even enjoyed the temporary status it gave me with my friend, who was a right wing American, and also with the retired Marine who owned the range. They practically worshipped me once my target sheets were returned to me at the front of the store. They kept asking me if I were sure it was my first time shooting a gun.
Wow. What a power trip.
I am ashamed to say I have had few experiences with which to compare it and I have done some pretty interesting things in my lifetime; including singing in front of large crowds of strangers for money, directing plays which brought audiences to tears and hitchhiking alone as a young woman. I've had a black widow spider walk over me while sunbathing in southern California, with no ill effects. I've climbed a couple of mountains (granted, they were easy climbs), taught myself rudimentary Portuguese (sadly, most of which I have forgotten due to disuse) and interviewed all kinds of interesting people.
But nothing compared to that day at the old gun range in central Florida where I shot my first gun at those human-like target sheets made of shiny newsprint.
Dare I say, "What a blast?"
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Menopause For Reflection...
There should be some rite of passage for women who finally make it through menopause. It is a magnificent time, well worth marking and I have absolutely no idea why traditional society, at best, ignores it. If anything, most women, at least those held up in medical journals and magazine articles about the subject, are depicted as rather forlorn, sickly creatures who need to take hormone replacement or watch their diets. Most are seen as being over the hill and out to pasture. How sad that is.
Sad because, nothing could be further from the truth. And I will explain why.
First there was the actual physical suffering of menses for me when I was fifteen and realized, short of the need for a radical hysterectomy, I would have to go through this agony every month for the next 35 years plus! I can still remember my mother applying a hot water bottle on one side and a warmed iron wrapped in a threadbare towel on the other, in hopes the heat would somehow diminish the cramps which ravaged my body between my knees and my shoulders - I kid you not; it was that bad. When Mom told me to try to walk up and down the stairs, saying that exercise might lessen the cramps, I distinctly remember thinking. "Sure I will walk once this monster inside me stops trying to digest my organs..." or something to that effect. It hurt like heck and then some. What's more, that was before the invention of Tylenol, so I had no medical solution until much later.
Then there were the emotional mood swings. Need I go into details? Sometimes I even locked myself in the bathroom, in hopes that my need to yell at someone for extended periods of time would pass. I was Dr. Jekyll and Miss Hyde all over. Hated it.
Furthermore, there is the expense of supplies. It adds up and I always seem to run out of something at the most inopportune moments. And, when I was really young, there was this question of embarrassment. I can't tell you how many teen girls risked the wrath of even the strictest teachers to lean over and ask me, in a whisper, if they walked up to the pencil sharpener at the front of the classroom, could I please tell them if their feminine protection was leaving a "dent" in their jeans. Now, c'mon. You've done it too. You know you have.
And that was well before peri-menopause started. That time in a woman's life where she experienced all kinds of unusual, freaky symptoms like night sweats, cravings, severe insomnia, hot flashes and even more severe mood swings than previously - I mean, could they possibly get worse? And, for most, that time can start anywhere after the age of 30. In the midst of raising young children, for most, and even just starting a family for others. Is it any wonder most of us have "mother" issues?
I digress.
I haven't even gotten into the years of actual child bearing and what all that means to most of us. What we tolerate in the interests of propagating the species is downright cruel and unusual punishment and to top it off, most of us are told by well meaning parents, usually other women, we need to learn to suck it up and put up with a whole lot of crap, essentially, because, as women, we are born to suffering and we had better get used to it. The bottom line is there seems to be some kind of "paying our dues" conspiracy among women who share genetic material and that remains fodder for another article at another time.
Suffice to say, once we are closing in on our late 40s, most of we women are downright tired of and thoroughly peed off at this little "visitor" who has made our lives miserable for the past several decades and we happily anticipate a time when we can ignore that aisle in the grocery store where men fear to tread.
And then it happens. With very little notice, or sometimes not, it just disappears, as if it never even occurred and we are left wondering what all the fuss was about. Just like that. Gone.
Honestly? After having watched other women go through it all over the years, I don't know why there is not some kind of menopausal club or something. Really. Cause there should be; by George, we've earned it!
And then I remember.
I remember things like my mother's 45s club, which met every Tuesday. I remember all those ladies, well past the point of no return, who showed up whenever Mom would have her week of hosting and I get it. They all wore unforced smiles and I think nary a one was self-conscious about her standing or appearance. They'd scratch when and where they pleased, even belch on occasion and told the funniest, crass jokes a lady could get away with. The laughter ensued was honest, loud and confident too. I decided, even back then, I liked this age. There was just something special about these ladies.
They had arrived.
So now, I too, have arrived. I care very little if I offend, yet, share my two cents as tactfully as possible, when asked, just out of habit. Some kind of magic has left me totally indifferent to the opinions and void of needing the approval of others and that just feels really good. To top it off, I have concluded if my husband is still with me at this age, it isn't because I am drop dead gorgeous, so I have nothing to fear. I realize if he can have a pot belly, so can I.
Bottom line? I feel better, physically, mentally and emotionally than I have ever felt at any stage of my life and that discovery is blowing me away.
In summation, the way I look at it, perhaps that fanfare I referred to earlier is really all about a secret society that needs no public acclamation or corporeal recognition. Maybe just having survived what came before ushers all women into this unique place of contentment and wonder, to which they silently welcome new sisters as they walk over that final barrier called menopause. Where celebration happens daily in the lives of each woman who arrives and the giving of trophies and accolades involves skilled perception, honed over time and with each act of learning and sacrifice.
Either way, I can say with aplomb, it's a wonderful place to be.
Sad because, nothing could be further from the truth. And I will explain why.
First there was the actual physical suffering of menses for me when I was fifteen and realized, short of the need for a radical hysterectomy, I would have to go through this agony every month for the next 35 years plus! I can still remember my mother applying a hot water bottle on one side and a warmed iron wrapped in a threadbare towel on the other, in hopes the heat would somehow diminish the cramps which ravaged my body between my knees and my shoulders - I kid you not; it was that bad. When Mom told me to try to walk up and down the stairs, saying that exercise might lessen the cramps, I distinctly remember thinking. "Sure I will walk once this monster inside me stops trying to digest my organs..." or something to that effect. It hurt like heck and then some. What's more, that was before the invention of Tylenol, so I had no medical solution until much later.
Then there were the emotional mood swings. Need I go into details? Sometimes I even locked myself in the bathroom, in hopes that my need to yell at someone for extended periods of time would pass. I was Dr. Jekyll and Miss Hyde all over. Hated it.
Furthermore, there is the expense of supplies. It adds up and I always seem to run out of something at the most inopportune moments. And, when I was really young, there was this question of embarrassment. I can't tell you how many teen girls risked the wrath of even the strictest teachers to lean over and ask me, in a whisper, if they walked up to the pencil sharpener at the front of the classroom, could I please tell them if their feminine protection was leaving a "dent" in their jeans. Now, c'mon. You've done it too. You know you have.
And that was well before peri-menopause started. That time in a woman's life where she experienced all kinds of unusual, freaky symptoms like night sweats, cravings, severe insomnia, hot flashes and even more severe mood swings than previously - I mean, could they possibly get worse? And, for most, that time can start anywhere after the age of 30. In the midst of raising young children, for most, and even just starting a family for others. Is it any wonder most of us have "mother" issues?
I digress.
I haven't even gotten into the years of actual child bearing and what all that means to most of us. What we tolerate in the interests of propagating the species is downright cruel and unusual punishment and to top it off, most of us are told by well meaning parents, usually other women, we need to learn to suck it up and put up with a whole lot of crap, essentially, because, as women, we are born to suffering and we had better get used to it. The bottom line is there seems to be some kind of "paying our dues" conspiracy among women who share genetic material and that remains fodder for another article at another time.
Suffice to say, once we are closing in on our late 40s, most of we women are downright tired of and thoroughly peed off at this little "visitor" who has made our lives miserable for the past several decades and we happily anticipate a time when we can ignore that aisle in the grocery store where men fear to tread.
And then it happens. With very little notice, or sometimes not, it just disappears, as if it never even occurred and we are left wondering what all the fuss was about. Just like that. Gone.
Honestly? After having watched other women go through it all over the years, I don't know why there is not some kind of menopausal club or something. Really. Cause there should be; by George, we've earned it!
And then I remember.
I remember things like my mother's 45s club, which met every Tuesday. I remember all those ladies, well past the point of no return, who showed up whenever Mom would have her week of hosting and I get it. They all wore unforced smiles and I think nary a one was self-conscious about her standing or appearance. They'd scratch when and where they pleased, even belch on occasion and told the funniest, crass jokes a lady could get away with. The laughter ensued was honest, loud and confident too. I decided, even back then, I liked this age. There was just something special about these ladies.
They had arrived.
So now, I too, have arrived. I care very little if I offend, yet, share my two cents as tactfully as possible, when asked, just out of habit. Some kind of magic has left me totally indifferent to the opinions and void of needing the approval of others and that just feels really good. To top it off, I have concluded if my husband is still with me at this age, it isn't because I am drop dead gorgeous, so I have nothing to fear. I realize if he can have a pot belly, so can I.
Bottom line? I feel better, physically, mentally and emotionally than I have ever felt at any stage of my life and that discovery is blowing me away.
In summation, the way I look at it, perhaps that fanfare I referred to earlier is really all about a secret society that needs no public acclamation or corporeal recognition. Maybe just having survived what came before ushers all women into this unique place of contentment and wonder, to which they silently welcome new sisters as they walk over that final barrier called menopause. Where celebration happens daily in the lives of each woman who arrives and the giving of trophies and accolades involves skilled perception, honed over time and with each act of learning and sacrifice.
Either way, I can say with aplomb, it's a wonderful place to be.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Money Makes the World Go Round or Is This Why I'm So Dizzy?
When it comes to the world of business and high finance, I am a first class schmuck. I admit it and could never even begin to hide it.Yet, this out-of-the-closet, financial ignoramus seems to be making an observation about things lately; things that usually mainly concern the economists, politicians and bankers of our world.
I actually subscribe to a rather mainstream, conservative, small player financial site on FACEBOOK which discusses the day to day challenges of investing - very much used by the little guy - hence my interest. I guess that part of me that still maintains, someday my ship will come in, wants to know what to do with the excess when it does, so I have been loosely keeping my ear to the ground so I won't miss any distant, important rumblings.
Here is what I have observed. And for those of you who know this stuff inside and out, up and down, I apologize and beg your indulgence while I set the stage, cause I really do have a point to make here.
See, what I have noticed is that since I was a young woman, some thirty years ago or so, interest rates have slowly gone down and therefore, so have mortgage rates. I remember mortgage rates being as high as 17 per cent. Working class people in my home city were organizing meetings to see what they could do about it. It was the late 70s and early 80s and North Americans, indeed, most of the world, were experiencing ballooning inflation for the first time since the Great Depression. Times were desperate. Even buying a five pound package of sugar took some forethought.
So, rates are now as low as a bit over two per cent for floating mortgages - those which are dependent on base rates set by the banks of our nations - and that makes our economy look REALLY good. If we were aliens who had just landed, we would assume, upon our discovery of how inexpensive it is to borrow money to purchase or build a home right now, that the prices of all commodities are equally deflated. But that is just not the case. Indeed, from what I can observe, prices for just about everything else are so high our world has just survived a rather major, frightening global recession of sorts. Only the presence of long term credit has kept a good deal of us from losing our cars, homes and perhaps our lives, for those who are sadly worse off. Not a pleasant picture.
And that's a darned shame. Not that effort hasn't been made to rectify it.
In the U.S. in particular, the federal government designed guaranteed mortgages for people who had never owned a home before because of financial limitations. But we all know where that has taken them. Properties in Florida, in particular, are selling at all time lows as banks, now stuck with defaulted mortgaged homes that those same self buyers who took advantage of that special program, have vacated, mostly because, frankly, they were oversold. What a joke.
Elsewhere, the housing market has boomed over the last ten years or so, in response to low mortgage rates. Housing has inflated, somewhat artificially, in larger cities, almost double. I mean, WOW! When everyone started to purchase again and housing starts went up dramatically, housing prices and building supplies skyrocketed. Supply and demand, plain and simple. Governments' attempts to artificially lower interest rates and thereby mortgage rates, in order to stimulate buying, in the long run, backfired. I imagine being a homeowner in one of these cities is not unlike being on a rather desperate treadmill, that keeps getting faster and faster.
What I don't understand is why nobody had the foresight to see this coming. I mean, I'm no genius when it comes to this subject - I think we've established that much already - and I didn't miss it at all.
This is how it really went down:
People can't afford stuff so government cuts rates of borrowing money so they can - Once they can, they do and, everyone who has been hurt by the previous lull, jumps in with both barrels, takes advantage of the lower rates by raising prices of whatever the market demands and, voila, we have inflation, all over again.
I guess this is what Jesus meant when He said the poor will always be with us...
Smart man. But then, Judas was his treasurer and he dipped into the communal purse all the time when nobody was looking.
I actually subscribe to a rather mainstream, conservative, small player financial site on FACEBOOK which discusses the day to day challenges of investing - very much used by the little guy - hence my interest. I guess that part of me that still maintains, someday my ship will come in, wants to know what to do with the excess when it does, so I have been loosely keeping my ear to the ground so I won't miss any distant, important rumblings.
Here is what I have observed. And for those of you who know this stuff inside and out, up and down, I apologize and beg your indulgence while I set the stage, cause I really do have a point to make here.
See, what I have noticed is that since I was a young woman, some thirty years ago or so, interest rates have slowly gone down and therefore, so have mortgage rates. I remember mortgage rates being as high as 17 per cent. Working class people in my home city were organizing meetings to see what they could do about it. It was the late 70s and early 80s and North Americans, indeed, most of the world, were experiencing ballooning inflation for the first time since the Great Depression. Times were desperate. Even buying a five pound package of sugar took some forethought.
So, rates are now as low as a bit over two per cent for floating mortgages - those which are dependent on base rates set by the banks of our nations - and that makes our economy look REALLY good. If we were aliens who had just landed, we would assume, upon our discovery of how inexpensive it is to borrow money to purchase or build a home right now, that the prices of all commodities are equally deflated. But that is just not the case. Indeed, from what I can observe, prices for just about everything else are so high our world has just survived a rather major, frightening global recession of sorts. Only the presence of long term credit has kept a good deal of us from losing our cars, homes and perhaps our lives, for those who are sadly worse off. Not a pleasant picture.
And that's a darned shame. Not that effort hasn't been made to rectify it.
In the U.S. in particular, the federal government designed guaranteed mortgages for people who had never owned a home before because of financial limitations. But we all know where that has taken them. Properties in Florida, in particular, are selling at all time lows as banks, now stuck with defaulted mortgaged homes that those same self buyers who took advantage of that special program, have vacated, mostly because, frankly, they were oversold. What a joke.
Elsewhere, the housing market has boomed over the last ten years or so, in response to low mortgage rates. Housing has inflated, somewhat artificially, in larger cities, almost double. I mean, WOW! When everyone started to purchase again and housing starts went up dramatically, housing prices and building supplies skyrocketed. Supply and demand, plain and simple. Governments' attempts to artificially lower interest rates and thereby mortgage rates, in order to stimulate buying, in the long run, backfired. I imagine being a homeowner in one of these cities is not unlike being on a rather desperate treadmill, that keeps getting faster and faster.
What I don't understand is why nobody had the foresight to see this coming. I mean, I'm no genius when it comes to this subject - I think we've established that much already - and I didn't miss it at all.
This is how it really went down:
People can't afford stuff so government cuts rates of borrowing money so they can - Once they can, they do and, everyone who has been hurt by the previous lull, jumps in with both barrels, takes advantage of the lower rates by raising prices of whatever the market demands and, voila, we have inflation, all over again.
I guess this is what Jesus meant when He said the poor will always be with us...
Smart man. But then, Judas was his treasurer and he dipped into the communal purse all the time when nobody was looking.
Thank You Mr. Grinch!!
This morning I was furiously wrapping Christmas gifts for our children, while watching yet another one of those predictable Christmas specials - a movie about a woman who ponders whether she married the right man as she faces another financially tight holiday season. The movie carries us through some twists and turns - nothing challenging to the mind - and finally arrives with the protagonist having learned that, indeed, materialism is not what it is cracked up to be.
Years ago, I used to grind my teeth while watching those shows. Mostly because I thought, surely, they must have been part of some imperialist scheme to keep the poor content in their poverty. See, I grew up poorer than dirt and often suffered from the "if onlies"; if only we could afford that vacation or if only we could purchase that new television or car or whatever other significant "need" may have arisen in my child's mind in those years.
I was singlehandedly the most disappointed and frustrated young lady I knew. And that attitude carried over into my social life as well. I believed if I had only had at least a middle class income behind me, I would have been loved by all, befriended by many and left alone by class and neighbourhood bullies. I am not certain that I was aware, during those years, that I actually thought it through rationally, but, as the years have passed, I have come to realize and accept that this was most probably where my head and heart were.
And, sadly, as I watched that movie and wrapped those gifts this morning, I realized I have never exorcised the demons that accompanied that mentality.
See, it struck me that all of this gift giving; my being able to give my children what I could not have as a child, was actually being done for my benefit! For that little girl inside me who bought all those aforementioned lies for most of her childhood and even into adulthood, as it turns out. Hard to admit. Harder to renounce.
What I do remember is this:
In 1985 I gave my life and heart to Jesus Christ. It was like falling in love. And I knew my lover would never leave me. This is often the way it is with new Christians. But, dear reader, pay heed, because this is very important. My first Christmas with Jesus was horrible. Yup, you read it right the first time. But not because something horrible happened. It was quite the opposite actually. It was a lovely holiday, in which I met my future husband's family and even got to spend some time with my own family.
Rather, it was an issue of relativity.
You see, compared to what Christmas had meant to me in the previous 24 years, the day to day presence of Jesus in my heart, acting on my behalf, was astounding! Earth shattering! Profoundly joy filled! I could literally go on and on, expounding on the intense positive influence He had had in my life over a very short period of time.
I think that was when I had my first real run in with the reality of the futility of materialism. However, it never really took form in my mind. Again, there was only this fleeting sense of things, nothing really concrete developed in my mind. And so, I was too young to understand it's implications and how to apply it to my life.
Now I have lived a rush of things since that time and place and here I am, still buying into the lie that the more I have or the more my children have, it is going to give us/them more peace, joy and satisfaction. It suddenly and sickeningly struck me I had tasted the best and gone back to the trash. Ouch.
That was followed by a deep conviction that I need to start praying, asking God to show me how to teach this most weighty lesson to my children in the midst of giving them all this "stuff". And I wondered if it were too late.
And then I remembered. Not only has He promised to be with us forever, even until the end of all things seen, but He has promised us guidance, protection and His peace and joy when we obey. Most importantly, He has promised us that, with Him, all things are possible.
All things.
Even eliminating the wounds imposed by a sadly mistaken and slow to learn parent like myself. And I am pretty sure He won't insist I throw out the Christmas tree and give all the children's gifts to charity to get it done, either. Not even close. Because, really? These kids are His and He is still in charge, on the throne and more than capable of cleaning up the messes I make without my assistance. And sometimes with it. Either way, He's the boss and He will do the best, because He won't go against His own Word.
Now that's what Christmas is really all about, wouldn't you say?
Years ago, I used to grind my teeth while watching those shows. Mostly because I thought, surely, they must have been part of some imperialist scheme to keep the poor content in their poverty. See, I grew up poorer than dirt and often suffered from the "if onlies"; if only we could afford that vacation or if only we could purchase that new television or car or whatever other significant "need" may have arisen in my child's mind in those years.
I was singlehandedly the most disappointed and frustrated young lady I knew. And that attitude carried over into my social life as well. I believed if I had only had at least a middle class income behind me, I would have been loved by all, befriended by many and left alone by class and neighbourhood bullies. I am not certain that I was aware, during those years, that I actually thought it through rationally, but, as the years have passed, I have come to realize and accept that this was most probably where my head and heart were.
And, sadly, as I watched that movie and wrapped those gifts this morning, I realized I have never exorcised the demons that accompanied that mentality.
See, it struck me that all of this gift giving; my being able to give my children what I could not have as a child, was actually being done for my benefit! For that little girl inside me who bought all those aforementioned lies for most of her childhood and even into adulthood, as it turns out. Hard to admit. Harder to renounce.
What I do remember is this:
In 1985 I gave my life and heart to Jesus Christ. It was like falling in love. And I knew my lover would never leave me. This is often the way it is with new Christians. But, dear reader, pay heed, because this is very important. My first Christmas with Jesus was horrible. Yup, you read it right the first time. But not because something horrible happened. It was quite the opposite actually. It was a lovely holiday, in which I met my future husband's family and even got to spend some time with my own family.
Rather, it was an issue of relativity.
You see, compared to what Christmas had meant to me in the previous 24 years, the day to day presence of Jesus in my heart, acting on my behalf, was astounding! Earth shattering! Profoundly joy filled! I could literally go on and on, expounding on the intense positive influence He had had in my life over a very short period of time.
I think that was when I had my first real run in with the reality of the futility of materialism. However, it never really took form in my mind. Again, there was only this fleeting sense of things, nothing really concrete developed in my mind. And so, I was too young to understand it's implications and how to apply it to my life.
Now I have lived a rush of things since that time and place and here I am, still buying into the lie that the more I have or the more my children have, it is going to give us/them more peace, joy and satisfaction. It suddenly and sickeningly struck me I had tasted the best and gone back to the trash. Ouch.
That was followed by a deep conviction that I need to start praying, asking God to show me how to teach this most weighty lesson to my children in the midst of giving them all this "stuff". And I wondered if it were too late.
And then I remembered. Not only has He promised to be with us forever, even until the end of all things seen, but He has promised us guidance, protection and His peace and joy when we obey. Most importantly, He has promised us that, with Him, all things are possible.
All things.
Even eliminating the wounds imposed by a sadly mistaken and slow to learn parent like myself. And I am pretty sure He won't insist I throw out the Christmas tree and give all the children's gifts to charity to get it done, either. Not even close. Because, really? These kids are His and He is still in charge, on the throne and more than capable of cleaning up the messes I make without my assistance. And sometimes with it. Either way, He's the boss and He will do the best, because He won't go against His own Word.
Now that's what Christmas is really all about, wouldn't you say?
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