September 8, 2010 - Posted by Chara - 0 Comments
Is anyone besides me upset about all this Sept 11th anti-Muslim crap besides me? People are outraged because they intend to build a mosque near the Twin Towers site. American pastor Terry Jones adamant that he will carry through his plans of burning several copies of the Qur’an as a Sept 11 “protest” despite warnings from the President AND Gen. David Petraeus (the top U.S. General) that it could endanger troops currently in Muslim countries. Not to mention that it is a wholly un”Christian” and ill-informed thing to do. This is insanity.
The Twin Tower bombing killed EVERYONE in the buildings regardless of ethnicity or religious preference. Al Quiada didn’t call all the brown people that worked there to say “Don’t go to work today”. They attacked everyone there, and on the planes, equally because they knew it would make a sensation. Why are we still punishing an entire religious group for the actions of a small faction??? It’s been almost 10 years now. Yes, it was a BIG deal. I’M still rattled over it. It was the single most significant public action of my life, and it didn’t even directly affect me. BUT, even I, at the age of 17 (circa 2001), could see that it was not the entire Muslim community to blame. I could see that it hurt, shocked and offended many Musilms all over the world. What is wrong with all these people that they can’t see that 2 wrongs will never, ever make a right? We’ve been trying it for thousands of years now people, we have the feedback. You hurt me + I hurt you does NOT = even. It equals, you hurt me again, and I hurt you again, etc. Why don’t we try that universal religious concept of forgiveness, of turning the other cheek. Try breaking the cycle, you know, just for something different to do!
April 28, 2010 - Posted by Chara - 0 Comments
Ok Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m about to break the Woman Code and say right out, I’m 26 years old. Now, for a girl who originally (in highschool) planned to be having her first child at 25, my biological clock has been doing an admirable job of not ticking too loudly for the most part. But here’s the thing.
About a year ago, my close group of girl friends started getting pregnant. When it was just one, it wasn’t a big deal, but the count got up to 4 all at once and they gave birth between June and September 2009. This was hard enough to resist, despite examples of how difficult parenthood it though my previously mentioned friend and her sleep-fighting baby, and another who had birthing issues (poor jaundiced girl), not to mention my sister’s shining (not) examples 7, 12, and 14 years ago. But almost 2 weeks ago, another friend said hello to a handsome baby boy and the jealousy is nearly consuming me.
I’m not rich. Duh. I’m not even “comfortable”. I am doing a little better than going paycheque to paycheque, so the LOGICAL, RESPONSIBLE side of me is content to wait for nature to take it’s course. But the part of me that wants a small thing to cuddle, and make things for, and care for, and teach, and watch grow, is becoming bigger and it’s developing claws.
I made a baby blanket for this newest baby. I crocheted 36 squares made up of 3 different colours, crocheted them together, and carefully finished it with a border. I started this project at the end of February, and through the aching hands, the bruised fingers and the broken nails, through the teasing of my friends and the exasperation of my husband, all I could think about was how much I wished it was for MY baby instead and how much I wanted to start one when I had a child growing inside ME.
None of my friends that had babies in the last year are rich, a very few are comfortable, and 2 are usually in the same financial situation I am. So why is it that money should be a concern for my husband and I when considering having a baby? My argument frequently is “If everyone waited until they were financially sound to have children, no one would have them at all.” I know my parents weren’t. Neither were my husband’s. But both of those examples worked out all right in the end.
About a year ago, my husband and I made a decision; we weren’t going to TRY to have a baby, but we weren’t going to NOT try either. Definition: We aren’t doing anything special to encourage procreation (special positions, fertility testing, dietary changes, etc.), but we stopped using protection. I went off the pill, we stopped using condoms (except for during March, because with several December birthdays in the immediate family, no one can afford another lol) and we decided to let nature take it’s course. OBVIOUSLY, I’m not pregnant yet, but that’s not a shock since I’d been on the pill quite a while and it takes some time to get out of your system.
Lately Hubby has been more on a “let’s not” binge than usual. USUALLY it’s me saying, “let’s wait”, but as with many things in marriage, our opinions are seeming to agree at opposite times. I don’t know what will happen in the future, but as much as I want to be as careful as possible and give my child all the things it deserves, it’s hard to be the only one without a baby in her arms.
<3 C
April 24, 2010 - Posted by Chara - 17 Comments
So, yesterday I log onto facebook to find a fairly desperate post from a friend who is battling through the wonders and horrors of her first (and she threatens only) child. He’s 7 months old and this kid just DOESN’T sleep. I’m not talking like, the stubborn type who has to cry himself to sleep every time. I mean he’ll cry for hours, never get exhausted, and then stay up when you finally give in and pull him out of his crib.
But I digress. I see this message begging for a hand, she hadn’t slept and the little princeling wouldn’t go to sleep. I offered my services since I’d called in for my on-call at work to discover I wasn’t needed that day. I pop over asap, luckily she lives only about a 15 minute walk from my humble abode. She heads to bed, I head to. . . trying to convince mini-Ali to go to sleep. Play to tire him out? Fail. Trick him into a cradled position. Fail. Sing him to sleep. Slightly less of a fail, but still fail. I give in and set him up on the floor to play, and stay quiet so mum can sleep. My friend gets up after a couple hours, we eat lunch, all three of us, and she brings up my previous suggestion to go for a walk to get the little man to sleep. “Sure!” I say, “I need exercise anyway.” and we proceed with all ceremony out the door, with the dog in tow, to the ravine that runs between our houses.
We arrive in the ravine, let Maggie off her leash and proceed to enjoy the sunny, but nicely cool spring day. Distracted by animated conversation, the dog, checking to see if the baby had fallen asleep yet (finally did) and various other things, we find ourselves at the end of Taylor Creek Park. We look at each other; not tired yet. We look at the dog; not tired yet. We look at the baby; still zonked out happily. We shrug. “Onward!” We exclaim. “To adventure and exploration.” Both of which are dogging our very steps because by now not only has Maggie managed to lose her collar somewhere in Taylor creek and we’re having to leash her the slip-hold way, but we’ve never traversed this particularly scenic portion of T-dot.
Now, both being country girls, we had more than a general idea of the direction we were heading and where we might end up, but we had no real concept of how far we’d travelled or how far we still needed to go to accomplish our new goal of finding civilization in order to buy Maggie a new collar. So, upon entering Lower Don Park (the next in a charming chain of parkland that stretches down to the lake by the way all you adventurers out there) we stop a nice lady on a bike and ask for some figures. “How far to get to downtown and which path will we want to take to get there fastest?” We ask her. She looks at us like we have two heads each for a moment and says uncertainly, “Well, you’ll want to go down that way,” Pointing to the more southern path, “But it’s an awfully long walk.” We laugh. We’re country girls. We have spent half our lives walking, we say, we walk everywhere, it’s ok, we say. She smiles at us as we thank her, we wave goodbye, and we head down the path. “I told you the park ends up at the DVP” I tell my friend. She laughs and we proceed cheerfully along. After about half an hour, we;re starting to wonder where the path was taking us. Trapped in the wilderness between the DVP and the train tracks, following only a paved path with no personal experience to guide us, we were feeling a little anxious about the nearest outlet leading to the streets. Pottery Road, we’re told by some helpful people with dogs in the middle of nowhere, about another 15, 20 minutes down the path. OK. We can do that! We arrive at Pottery Rd, there is 200 metres between us and the nearest sidewalk and we’re towing dog, and stroller, and cars are whipping up and down the stretch faster than anyone sane should be. We make an executive decision, Riverside Park is only another 3 km according to a sign on the far side of the road. We’ll last.
By this time, we’re getting tired, we’ve both had to pee for at least 10 minutes, the dog hasn’t found anywhere low enough for her to get down the bank to the water for a drink in a while, and I am starting to feel just how warm that sun is on my skin. “There’s a sunburn in the making.” I think in passing, and promptly forget about it. No stopping it now, why worry? Now, I should mention also, that my friend’s baby had kicked her hips apart during pregnancy and this isn’t fully healed yet, and I was in a car accident 3 years ago that’s left what my chiropractor thinks is arthritis in MY hips, not to mention a hereditary knee issue I got from my dad. And our feet hurt lol. So three more kilometers, even after all we’d walked, seemed more like 30. We start making notes for the next time we decide to trek. Water bottles are must. Maybe toilet paper. Sunblock. Pain killers. Knee brace. Better shoes. Man, 10 years ago we wouldn’t have even been BLINKING by that point let alone considering support items. As great as we’re feeling about the trek, we’re feeling a bit old due to the backpack full of dream-supplies we needed.
We finally get to Riverside Park. On the FAR side of the DVP from the park. Don’t we lol. Cross a bridge, find the stairs. Well, at least there’s landings. I take the dog up to the first one. The higher we go, the less Maggie is enjoying it. I tie her to the railing and go back for the stroller. We carry it up, Wash, rinse, repeat two more times. The higher we go, the more Maggie is FREAKING out. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so pitiful. She’s walking up the stairs almost flat on her belly and splay-legged. I take Maggie to the top and tie her up again and as SOON as I walk away to get the stroller Maggie just FLIPS out. Whining and barking and twisting, I guess thinking that we were leaving her. Poor puppy. We come back up and calm her and she doesn’t really relax until we’re off the bridge.
We stopped for coffee, bathroom, and a rest at Coffehouse, right across from Riverside Park on Broadview. AWESOME little shop, great people, FABULOUS view of the city, great coffee, you should TOTALLY go. After, we walked up to the subway and took transit home. We felt we’d gotten more than enough exercise.
After I got home, I decided to map our route out of curiosity, to see how far we walked. I hit our starting point, type in our ending point and fill in the twists and turns along the way. 12.8 km. Now, keeping in mind that it’s only 7.4 km to my work downtown using roads, that’s one winding path we took to just get to the BORDER of downtown. It was totally worth it though. Beautiful walk and I had fun with my friend, even though we walked away with tomato-red faces and I was sore in places today that I don’t even know the name of.
<3 C
April 3, 2010 - Posted by Chara - 0 Comments
Ok, so I live in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Being of a fairly low income, my husband and I take the TTC EVERYWHERE. My monthly bus pass is the most valuable thing in my wallet, by far. For those who don’t take public transit as their sole mode of transit (aside from the heel-toe express, aka walking) my transit pass to me is as your car is to you. Hubby and I budget tightly every month and have just enough to afford our passes beyond our other necessary expenses. I live in paranoid fear every moment of every day that I’m in public that I will lose it and be marooned somewhere. I check it’s location obsessively. So, when my brand new transit pass was stolen from my wallet, my reaction was much as yours would be if you walked up to your parking spot and found your car missing. Yes, I can compare these two feelings, I HAVE had my car stolen, but that’s another story.
My friend, my husband and I decided to treat ourselves to a movie on Wednesday night at Scotiabank Theatre, which is a Cineplex. We went to see Avatar, in 3-D, so for those of you who are not in the know, we paid $16 each just to sit in the theatre. Luckily, we have a family who knows that date nights are rarely affordable for my hubby and I, so every Christmas we get gift cards and movie passes so we can splurge a few times a year. We went to choose our seats in the theatre and I ran to get popcorn and drinks while the other 2 stayed to defend our territory. I left my wallet sticking out of my purse on the seat so as to not have to juggle it and the drinks, and the popcorn and the candy. You all don’t know me yet, but you’ll see soon (I’m sure) I am a major klutz. I mean, Klutz to the point where I probably should be declared disabled. I cannot walk across a flat, stable surface without tripping, I cannot pick something up without dropping it, etc. ANYWAY, I come back with this ridiculously heavy tray containing a barrel of popcorn, a vat of Fruitopia, a half-vat of Diet Coke and a bag of Cherry Blasters. My friend kindly lifts my purse off my seat and we theorize that this is the point where my black wallet made it’s slippery escape to the black floor.
The movie plays, we enjoy, we tell talkers to shut up, we glare at the stupid theatre employee who saunters FIVE times in front to the movie screen doing “checks”, and we walk my friend, who’s from out of town, back to Union station to make the final GO train to Pickering. At this point, I go to pull out my snazzy April transit pass and am shocked to find that my fairly large wallet is not in my fairly small purse. Hubby, being a male and therefore without purse experience, at this point asks if I’m SURE my 6 inch-long black wallet with lime green cat-eyes on it is not in my 9 inch long, 6 inch deep, turquoise purse.
Not amused, I whip out my cell phone and do what no one in my financial situation would dream of unless in dire need, I dial 411. Approximately 45 seconds later I am connected to the theatre’s automated answering service and I hit the button to speak with a manager. After 3 tries I get the manager on duty who, when I describe my wallet, informs me that it is safely in his custody. I tell him I’ll be back there in 15 minutes and my husband and I proceed to move with all speed back through the streets at midnight. After what seemed like an age I arrive at the theatre, out of breath and sneak in the locked doors as someone else is exiting. I RUN up the no-longer-escalating 4-story escalator from hell, arrive at Guest Services and gasp my name. The somewhat effeminate manager cooly hands me my wallet, I sputter my thanks and beeline for the down escalator, hoping I’ll make the subway before it stops running. Halfway down I flip open my wallet and notice my ID is partially pulled out of the window. ‘No worries’ flashes though my head. As a supervisor, I have had many wallets handed to me and it’s one of the first things I pull out in order to return the wallet to the right person. Three quartersof the way down I realize my transit pass, which had come valid less than 30 minutes earlier, is missing. My stomach drops. My heart begins to race more erratically. My eyes lock with my husband’s at the base of the escalator and I croak out “My buss pass isn’t in here.”
I hit the bottom of the escalator and, for the second time in less than 5 minutes, start running up the massive staircase. Hubby is a few steps behind me, and I arrive at the top about ready to collapse. At Guest Services I tell the manager that the pass is missing and he immediately begins spouting textbook crap about how he isn’t liable for what the cleaning crews do with items before they’re turned in to him, blah blah blah, etc. I am trying very hard to be as logical and pleasant as possible despite the despair that has settled into my chest. The entire 20 minutes or so he’s being unhelpful, unconciliatory and uncaring, I’m thinking ‘No bus pass, I have no bus pass, without it I can’t get to work, I can’t get home tonight, I can’t go grocery shopping, I can’t get anywhere!’, and trying not to panic. I finally, after hearing yet another reason why he can’t do anything about it, I lose my cool. I start yelling at him, in the middle of the concessions area of one of the biggest theatres in the city. He finally, I think, clues in that I am not going away and calls HIS manager down. Furious at the way he’s handled the situation, I don’t say another word to him. When she arrives, we talk, she explains, she is helpful, she is calming, she offers the best solution she can: She takes the info about the situation, she takes my name, she takes my contact info, she gives me a way to contact their district manager and promises to take it up with the cleaning crew and offers me $3.00 so I can at least get home tonight. Still heartbroken, but at least presented with a solution, we start home.
On the way we miserably try to figure out how we could POSSIBLY afford a THIRD bus pass from the tiny amount of emergency money we set aside each month, and how I was going to get to work for the rest of the week since I don’t get paid until the 8th. LUCKILY, Hubby’s parents are very sweet, very compassionate and VERY good to us and they’ve fronted us the $121 bucks for a new transit pass. Happy Easter Chara, aren’t you lucky your in-laws love you?
