I've never been a believer of love.
It’s been a blast.
An English affair: Pontefract Castle
13 years ago
Showing posts with label werbowetsky. Show all posts
Showing posts with label werbowetsky. Show all posts
Monday, October 4, 2010
Heart vs... Heart
Friday, July 30, 2010
An ode to revolutionaries
Imagine trudging through snowstorms or hail, or pushing through heavy sheets of rain as the constant spattering on your face makes continuing on almost unbearable. Imagine the relentless pain of blisters, sore ankles or exhaustion.
Now imagine having to keep going until you reach the other edge of the country.
The revolutionary Terry Fox was the first to do it. His determination and strength led him to embark on a 143-day journey across Canada.
Fox's world-changing run to find a cure for cancer in 1980 changed the way strong-willed activists fight for change — one man, one dream and a lot of heart is all it takes to make a difference.
Errol Povah, a 57-year-old anti-smoking activist, embarked on his own four-month trek from British Columbia to Quebec May 31.
I had the opportunity to interview Povah — an absolute revolutionary in his own right — as he passed through Swift Current last week.
He didn't have a sob story nor was he looking for sympathy or heaps of publicity. He didn't have an entourage and no TV cameras were fighting to get a shot of him.
Povah was just walking down the highway, giving a subtle wave to the traffic as it sped by him.
His T-shirt was fittingly adorned with the blood-red words "Tobacco Kills" spread across his chest, and a small Canadian flag was fashioned to the back.
I realized as I walked next to him eastbound down the shoulder of the busy Trans-Canada Highway just how much strength, determination and selflessness it must take to walk across an entire country — and for no self-promotion, personal gain or acclaim.
I, like many others I'm sure, donate to a charity or two each month and volunteer at the local SPCA from time-to-time. I've even participated in the organized cure-for-cancer fundraisers. By no means do I consider myself a revolutionary or hold myself above Povah, Fox and all the others who have dedicated their time, bodies and soul to their causes.
Oprah Winfrey, Angelina Jolie and other Hollywood celebrities are endlessly praised for their periodic trips to developing nations across the world, and charitable big-businesses make it well-known of their contributions.
It doesn't take high-profile celebrity status or millions of dollars to make even the slightest of differences in this world. Terry Fox, and his revolutionary Marathon of Hope, was the first to prove it.
It doesn't take much to write a monthly cheque, drop a couple pennies in the charity jar at the grocery store or volunteer your time to help out.
As the runners, walkers, rollerbladers or cyclists pass by you during their journeys to make a difference, wave, and relish in the satisfaction of knowing there are people out there willing to risk it all to save the world.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Prairie skies reach even the biggest city hearts
Whoever it was who biasedly referred to people living in small towns as inexperienced, unworldly or sheltered from real life must have been a New Yorker — because my experiences over the last few months have proved that theory otherwise.
Being raised in Toronto, I had the big city at my fingertips.
I went to professional hockey, baseball, basketball, lacrosse and soccer games, watched plays and concerts performed in massive amphithetres, and sipped lattés with the best of them on Bay Street.
Okay, so I'm a city girl — I'm spoiled, I wear make-up and heels to the grocery store, I relate more to synthesized songs by Lady Gaga than the soulful Gretchen Wilson. I don’t know how to two-step and I’ve never witnessed the birth of a calf.
It's been nearly one year since I moved to Swift Current last July, and every day I’ve spent here, I’ve learned something new or experienced something I’ve never before had the opportunity to do.
I attended a community-wide Halloween dance at the hall in Maple Creek, went snowmobiling for the first time on a frozen lake, volunteered at the local live theatre and SPCA, and spent my very first night camping in a tent surrounded by the evergreens of Cypress Hills Park.
If I’ve learned anything of importance so far, it’s that there is nothing more spectacular than gazing up at the huge open Prairie sky in pitch-black darkness in the middle of nowhere.
Big-city skylines are bombarded by bright lights, skyscrapers and smog, and I’d bet most people who live there have never really seen the expansive sky stretching far beyond the rooftops.
Stars are as big and as bright here as you'd imagine flaming balls of gas to be, and there are millions more up there than the selective few that make up the small and large dippers that can be seen from anywhere.
There is something to be said about small-town education as well. My high school graduating class was of 400 students, and even after four years, none of the teachers remembered my last name — never mind how to pronounce it.
We never skated or learned how to curl in gym class, and field trips were always too much work for teachers to organize.
People seem happy here, which is something of a rare find back in Toronto. They aren't rushing around or stressed out, and spending time with family actually means more to them than gathering around the flat screen television set Thursday nights.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to knock big-city living. It, of course, has its perks as well. However, I feel I must admit my former Toronto-esque naivéty had me convinced that there was no way one year here, not the many years in Toronto, could open my eyes to the world.
I was wrong.
Being raised in Toronto, I had the big city at my fingertips.
I went to professional hockey, baseball, basketball, lacrosse and soccer games, watched plays and concerts performed in massive amphithetres, and sipped lattés with the best of them on Bay Street.
Okay, so I'm a city girl — I'm spoiled, I wear make-up and heels to the grocery store, I relate more to synthesized songs by Lady Gaga than the soulful Gretchen Wilson. I don’t know how to two-step and I’ve never witnessed the birth of a calf.
It's been nearly one year since I moved to Swift Current last July, and every day I’ve spent here, I’ve learned something new or experienced something I’ve never before had the opportunity to do.
I attended a community-wide Halloween dance at the hall in Maple Creek, went snowmobiling for the first time on a frozen lake, volunteered at the local live theatre and SPCA, and spent my very first night camping in a tent surrounded by the evergreens of Cypress Hills Park.
If I’ve learned anything of importance so far, it’s that there is nothing more spectacular than gazing up at the huge open Prairie sky in pitch-black darkness in the middle of nowhere.
Big-city skylines are bombarded by bright lights, skyscrapers and smog, and I’d bet most people who live there have never really seen the expansive sky stretching far beyond the rooftops.
Stars are as big and as bright here as you'd imagine flaming balls of gas to be, and there are millions more up there than the selective few that make up the small and large dippers that can be seen from anywhere.
There is something to be said about small-town education as well. My high school graduating class was of 400 students, and even after four years, none of the teachers remembered my last name — never mind how to pronounce it.
We never skated or learned how to curl in gym class, and field trips were always too much work for teachers to organize.
People seem happy here, which is something of a rare find back in Toronto. They aren't rushing around or stressed out, and spending time with family actually means more to them than gathering around the flat screen television set Thursday nights.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to knock big-city living. It, of course, has its perks as well. However, I feel I must admit my former Toronto-esque naivéty had me convinced that there was no way one year here, not the many years in Toronto, could open my eyes to the world.
I was wrong.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Paying it forward, mailbox-style
Allow me to start off by first rising to my feet, slapping my hands together in applause and shouting loudly: “Newspaper carriers, I salute you!”
It’s cold, it’s wet, it’s exhausting, it’s underpaid — but somebody’s got to do it, right? Last week I — and admittedly with some resistance — agreed to be one of those somebodys.
By now I’m sure most of you have heard of the new reality TV show ‘Undercover Boss,’ in which CEOs of major big business corporations in the United States go ‘under cover’ as an employee in one of the lesser-paid, dirtier positions of their particular company.
After going through the paces in the shoes of a porta-potty cleaner, garbage picker or delivery guy, the CEOs are supposed to establish an appreciation for what some of their employees go through in an average day.
Okay, so I’m not the CEO of a major company — I’m just a reporter — and I’ll admit I didn’t agree to deliver the newspapers last week with the goal of gaining some sort of a greater understanding about the carriers.
However, that’s exactly what happened.
Last Friday afternoon I set out on my endeavour as a newspaper carrier. It was bitter cold, raining and the bag hung snugly around my shoulders was weighing me down as I walked.
Yet, I was determined to hand deliver all 216 papers on my route.
After nearly three hours of trudging down puddle-filled, muddy sidewalks and driveways, and climbing up 103 — yes, I counted — sets of rickety stairs to reach the mailboxes, I just had to call it quits.
I felt defeated.
But hey, I’m not looking for your sympathy. After all, I’m not a newspaper carrier. The sympathy belongs instead to the men, women, boys and girls who do this every week.
To give you a little perspective about what I’m talking about, let’s do the math.
It’s takes approximately one minute on average to deliver a paper to one house — keeping in mind most mailboxes are located either at the top of a high set of stairs, down a long driveway or sidewalk, or completely hidden from first glance.
Times that by the 216 houses on the route and you’re looking at a 216-minute (or three hour and 36 minute) job for much less than minimum wage.
So, I’m proposing a revolution.
To help our friends the newspaper delivery people and perhaps make their job just a little easier, I say we all take our hard-to-get-to mailboxes out from the far-off reaches of our yards and return them to plain view.
I mean, who was the guy who decided mailboxes should be removed from their former stands conveniently placed at the end of driveways and mounted instead on the high-up or far-back exterior corners of our houses?
Let’s call it ‘Operation Move Your Mailbox’ — for lack of a better, more creative name.
Just think, the easier our mailboxes are to get to, the less likely the carriers are to throw our papers in a puddle, trample over our flowerbeds and cut across our perfectly trimmed lawns.
Everybody wins.
So grab your toolboxes and a piece of plywood and join the revolution.
It’s cold, it’s wet, it’s exhausting, it’s underpaid — but somebody’s got to do it, right? Last week I — and admittedly with some resistance — agreed to be one of those somebodys.
By now I’m sure most of you have heard of the new reality TV show ‘Undercover Boss,’ in which CEOs of major big business corporations in the United States go ‘under cover’ as an employee in one of the lesser-paid, dirtier positions of their particular company.
After going through the paces in the shoes of a porta-potty cleaner, garbage picker or delivery guy, the CEOs are supposed to establish an appreciation for what some of their employees go through in an average day.
Okay, so I’m not the CEO of a major company — I’m just a reporter — and I’ll admit I didn’t agree to deliver the newspapers last week with the goal of gaining some sort of a greater understanding about the carriers.
However, that’s exactly what happened.
Last Friday afternoon I set out on my endeavour as a newspaper carrier. It was bitter cold, raining and the bag hung snugly around my shoulders was weighing me down as I walked.
Yet, I was determined to hand deliver all 216 papers on my route.
After nearly three hours of trudging down puddle-filled, muddy sidewalks and driveways, and climbing up 103 — yes, I counted — sets of rickety stairs to reach the mailboxes, I just had to call it quits.
I felt defeated.
But hey, I’m not looking for your sympathy. After all, I’m not a newspaper carrier. The sympathy belongs instead to the men, women, boys and girls who do this every week.
To give you a little perspective about what I’m talking about, let’s do the math.
It’s takes approximately one minute on average to deliver a paper to one house — keeping in mind most mailboxes are located either at the top of a high set of stairs, down a long driveway or sidewalk, or completely hidden from first glance.
Times that by the 216 houses on the route and you’re looking at a 216-minute (or three hour and 36 minute) job for much less than minimum wage.
So, I’m proposing a revolution.
To help our friends the newspaper delivery people and perhaps make their job just a little easier, I say we all take our hard-to-get-to mailboxes out from the far-off reaches of our yards and return them to plain view.
I mean, who was the guy who decided mailboxes should be removed from their former stands conveniently placed at the end of driveways and mounted instead on the high-up or far-back exterior corners of our houses?
Let’s call it ‘Operation Move Your Mailbox’ — for lack of a better, more creative name.
Just think, the easier our mailboxes are to get to, the less likely the carriers are to throw our papers in a puddle, trample over our flowerbeds and cut across our perfectly trimmed lawns.
Everybody wins.
So grab your toolboxes and a piece of plywood and join the revolution.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The glitz, glam and shame of small-town journalism
It's questionable how one should act when something as big and important as world women's curling strolls into your little Saskatchewan town.
From TSN cameras and a packed Credit Union i-plex to fluorescent polka-dotted pants and rubber things called sliders, this past week has been nothing short of a three-ring circus.
As a reporter I've been granted what some may refer to as 'special privileges,' including clearance to go out onto the ice as well as into the backstage area where all the action happens behind the scenes.
From day one as the prestigious letters Z, I, B and M were inked on my accreditation pass — which, by the way, I still have no idea what they mean but, heck, I guess it's got to be good — I knew this nine-day curling extravaganza was going to be something this nobody journalist has always hoped to experience.
Okay, so I’ll admit sitting at the feet of the curlers as they compete and schmoozing with the CTV, Canadian Press and, of course, TSN hot shots in the media room has been rather exciting.
Other aspects, however, have been much less glamourous, I assure you. Even the coveted media room located in the dungeon-like bleak basement of the i-plex is unfriendly at the best of times.
And as I sit at ice level taking pictures, I pause and take a moment to survey my more distinguished media counterparts. I look at their pontoon-sized camera lenses before returning my gaze back down at my much smaller, much less cool Nikon D-90 and 300 millimetre lens. Pathetic in comparison.
A pang of lens envy and even a little bit of embarrassment rushes over me. However, after the draw is finished and the overzealous cameras are put away, we meet in a scrum and are all equals once again.
All business aside, there’s no denying that little Swift Current can throw one heck of a party. Jeff Chambers’ Keith’s Patch has been the place to be since opening night last Saturday.
Although the bands have been entertaining to say the least — and I'm especially referring to my personal favourites, the platform-wearing, boa-sporting Men Without Shame — the hands down best part about the Patch has been the coming together of curling fans of all ages.
As I cruised the crowded, sweat-filled former curling rink — now the Patch — on opening weekend, I noticed people well into their 70s cheerfully carousing with others young enough to be their grandchildren.
Who knew a sport and a couple of five dollar beverages could bring generations of strangers together here in Swift Current.
So after all is said and done, the flags are ripped down and given back, and the i-plex is once again converted back into a hockey arena, I’ll be sad to see the world leave and this experience become a distant memory.
From TSN cameras and a packed Credit Union i-plex to fluorescent polka-dotted pants and rubber things called sliders, this past week has been nothing short of a three-ring circus.
As a reporter I've been granted what some may refer to as 'special privileges,' including clearance to go out onto the ice as well as into the backstage area where all the action happens behind the scenes.
From day one as the prestigious letters Z, I, B and M were inked on my accreditation pass — which, by the way, I still have no idea what they mean but, heck, I guess it's got to be good — I knew this nine-day curling extravaganza was going to be something this nobody journalist has always hoped to experience.
Okay, so I’ll admit sitting at the feet of the curlers as they compete and schmoozing with the CTV, Canadian Press and, of course, TSN hot shots in the media room has been rather exciting.
Other aspects, however, have been much less glamourous, I assure you. Even the coveted media room located in the dungeon-like bleak basement of the i-plex is unfriendly at the best of times.
And as I sit at ice level taking pictures, I pause and take a moment to survey my more distinguished media counterparts. I look at their pontoon-sized camera lenses before returning my gaze back down at my much smaller, much less cool Nikon D-90 and 300 millimetre lens. Pathetic in comparison.
A pang of lens envy and even a little bit of embarrassment rushes over me. However, after the draw is finished and the overzealous cameras are put away, we meet in a scrum and are all equals once again.
All business aside, there’s no denying that little Swift Current can throw one heck of a party. Jeff Chambers’ Keith’s Patch has been the place to be since opening night last Saturday.
Although the bands have been entertaining to say the least — and I'm especially referring to my personal favourites, the platform-wearing, boa-sporting Men Without Shame — the hands down best part about the Patch has been the coming together of curling fans of all ages.
As I cruised the crowded, sweat-filled former curling rink — now the Patch — on opening weekend, I noticed people well into their 70s cheerfully carousing with others young enough to be their grandchildren.
Who knew a sport and a couple of five dollar beverages could bring generations of strangers together here in Swift Current.
So after all is said and done, the flags are ripped down and given back, and the i-plex is once again converted back into a hockey arena, I’ll be sad to see the world leave and this experience become a distant memory.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Could Canada be next?
As Canadians, we all likely find it difficult to imagine what it feels like to be taken under the harsh, relentless wrath of a natural disaster. Mercilessly torn away from our homes and onto streets now flooded with broken vehicles, orphaned pets and blood-stained asphalt.
It is difficult to imagine what it would have been like to be in Port-au-Prince, Haiti Jan. 12 or Feb. 27 in the Maule Region of Chile.
The devastating 8.8-magnitude earthquake, tsunami and 50 aftershocks which shook and shattered cities along the Chilean shoreline killed nearly 800 people.
The powerful earthquake was 500 times more severe than the 7.0 which struck Haiti a month earlier, but killed 0.3 per cent of the estimated 250,000 declared dead after Haiti's quake.
A likely difference in the two death tolls was preparedness.
Chile is accustomed to earthquakes, receiving a magnitude 7.0 or higher at least once every five years. Haiti, on the other hand, is more prone to hurricanes.
After a massive 9.5 earthquake hit Chile in 1960 - the strongest ever recorded - a new building code was drafted by the Chilean government requiring all new developments be built following strict earthquake-resistant guidelines.
Most, if not all, Haitian buildings were not built to withstand earthquakes, which likely had a lot to do with the extreme variant in the two death tolls.
Now imagine the same occurring right here in Canada. It makes me wonder how well our buildings would hold up against even the slightest movement or shift under our own feet. How many of our lives would be taken by a similar freak act of nature?
Afterall, the only earthquake-related deaths in Canada ever recorded was back in 1929, when a 7.2 on the Richter scale rumbled beneath the Atlantic Ocean sending tsunami waves crashing over Newfoundland. An estimated 30 people were killed.
Sometimes it's easy to get caught up in our safe northern bubble, blissfully immune to the peril of frequent earthquakes, tornadoes, avalanches and tsunamis.
Natural disasters never truly hit home unless friends, loved ones or even acquaintances get caught in the action elsewhere in the world.
Thanks to two vague updates on a former classmate's Facebook page, I learned he and a couple of friends were smack dab in the middle of it all when the quake hit Chile.
"We are okay here, but it was pretty scary. Not sure when we can get out since the airport is closed," one message read.
I have tried to contact him since then via Facebook messages, but have received no reply. All I can assume is they are still trying to get a flight back home to Calgary.
According to an Associated Press news report, the airport in Santiago - Chile's capital city located 321 km from the epicentre of the quake, and where they'd likely fly out of - reopened its runways on Mar. 1 for a limited number of flights.
Until then, I suppose it's fingers-crossed for their safe return to Canada.
It is difficult to imagine what it would have been like to be in Port-au-Prince, Haiti Jan. 12 or Feb. 27 in the Maule Region of Chile.
The devastating 8.8-magnitude earthquake, tsunami and 50 aftershocks which shook and shattered cities along the Chilean shoreline killed nearly 800 people.
The powerful earthquake was 500 times more severe than the 7.0 which struck Haiti a month earlier, but killed 0.3 per cent of the estimated 250,000 declared dead after Haiti's quake.
A likely difference in the two death tolls was preparedness.
Chile is accustomed to earthquakes, receiving a magnitude 7.0 or higher at least once every five years. Haiti, on the other hand, is more prone to hurricanes.
After a massive 9.5 earthquake hit Chile in 1960 - the strongest ever recorded - a new building code was drafted by the Chilean government requiring all new developments be built following strict earthquake-resistant guidelines.
Most, if not all, Haitian buildings were not built to withstand earthquakes, which likely had a lot to do with the extreme variant in the two death tolls.
Now imagine the same occurring right here in Canada. It makes me wonder how well our buildings would hold up against even the slightest movement or shift under our own feet. How many of our lives would be taken by a similar freak act of nature?
Afterall, the only earthquake-related deaths in Canada ever recorded was back in 1929, when a 7.2 on the Richter scale rumbled beneath the Atlantic Ocean sending tsunami waves crashing over Newfoundland. An estimated 30 people were killed.
Sometimes it's easy to get caught up in our safe northern bubble, blissfully immune to the peril of frequent earthquakes, tornadoes, avalanches and tsunamis.
Natural disasters never truly hit home unless friends, loved ones or even acquaintances get caught in the action elsewhere in the world.
Thanks to two vague updates on a former classmate's Facebook page, I learned he and a couple of friends were smack dab in the middle of it all when the quake hit Chile.
"We are okay here, but it was pretty scary. Not sure when we can get out since the airport is closed," one message read.
I have tried to contact him since then via Facebook messages, but have received no reply. All I can assume is they are still trying to get a flight back home to Calgary.
According to an Associated Press news report, the airport in Santiago - Chile's capital city located 321 km from the epicentre of the quake, and where they'd likely fly out of - reopened its runways on Mar. 1 for a limited number of flights.
Until then, I suppose it's fingers-crossed for their safe return to Canada.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Diet Pepsi
Smoking is deemed no longer socially acceptable, I quit; the media tells me to reduce my carbon footprint, I ride my bike to work; gyms become the social capital of the city, I join the biggest and most expensive one.
Health has become a monopoly.
Ever since Billy Blanks and his Tae Bo videos took over the sports & fitness shelves at Blockbuster and Chuck Norris began endorsing the Total Gym on late-night television, we've become hooked on working out and being “healthy” — whatever that may mean exactly.
Does it refer to the annoying pang of guilt we all feel when we choose regular Pepsi instead of diet, or white bread instead of multigrain? Or is being healthy as simple as depriving ourselves of ice cream?
Low fat, non-fat, diet, sugar-free, 50 percent less salt, low-cal, organic — we’ve seen them all before. They are the pesky health food labels that consistently taunt us as we cruise down the aisles at the grocery store. Everything we eat has been made into these for-your-benefit weight-friendly products — even potato chips are low in fat.
Ever since we were old enough to sit-up at the dinner table, we’ve been told to eat our vegetables, and we all remember getting a stern slap on the wrist as we reached for the cookie jar. And the Body Break team, Hal Johnson and Joanne McLeod, have been telling us this for years, why now have we only just started to listen?
It's not the celebrities that we're mimicking (they're too busy getting drunk and crashing into things) and I don't think there have been any amazing medical discoveries that have recently convinced us to wise up.
Perhaps we should all thank Lululemon for making workout gear part of our everyday attire or ER, Grey's Anatomy and House for making the ugly consequences of ignoring your health so in-your-face.
Exercise and healthy eating are mainstream now, and almost too easy and too fun to be "good" for us. I compare working out to broccoli and the fancy gyms and workout gear to the yummy Cheez Whiz that makes it all edible — or in this case, enjoyable. Lifting weights in a three-storey fortress in figure-hugging yoga pants and munching on a cookie dough-flavoured protein bar sounds like a pretty good Saturday afternoon to me.
Why wouldn't you want to join the healthy people?
So I pick up the diet Pepsi because I feel like it's the right thing to do and hold it in my hand like a trophy. I gaze proudly at the tiny black writing under the "Nutritional Facts" on the side of the can: "Calories 0%," "Fat 0%." "I am healthy," I say to myself, satisfied, yet totally oblivious to the 124 mg of harmful aspartame stewing inside it.
Health has become a monopoly.
Ever since Billy Blanks and his Tae Bo videos took over the sports & fitness shelves at Blockbuster and Chuck Norris began endorsing the Total Gym on late-night television, we've become hooked on working out and being “healthy” — whatever that may mean exactly.
Does it refer to the annoying pang of guilt we all feel when we choose regular Pepsi instead of diet, or white bread instead of multigrain? Or is being healthy as simple as depriving ourselves of ice cream?
Low fat, non-fat, diet, sugar-free, 50 percent less salt, low-cal, organic — we’ve seen them all before. They are the pesky health food labels that consistently taunt us as we cruise down the aisles at the grocery store. Everything we eat has been made into these for-your-benefit weight-friendly products — even potato chips are low in fat.
Ever since we were old enough to sit-up at the dinner table, we’ve been told to eat our vegetables, and we all remember getting a stern slap on the wrist as we reached for the cookie jar. And the Body Break team, Hal Johnson and Joanne McLeod, have been telling us this for years, why now have we only just started to listen?
It's not the celebrities that we're mimicking (they're too busy getting drunk and crashing into things) and I don't think there have been any amazing medical discoveries that have recently convinced us to wise up.
Perhaps we should all thank Lululemon for making workout gear part of our everyday attire or ER, Grey's Anatomy and House for making the ugly consequences of ignoring your health so in-your-face.
Exercise and healthy eating are mainstream now, and almost too easy and too fun to be "good" for us. I compare working out to broccoli and the fancy gyms and workout gear to the yummy Cheez Whiz that makes it all edible — or in this case, enjoyable. Lifting weights in a three-storey fortress in figure-hugging yoga pants and munching on a cookie dough-flavoured protein bar sounds like a pretty good Saturday afternoon to me.
Why wouldn't you want to join the healthy people?
So I pick up the diet Pepsi because I feel like it's the right thing to do and hold it in my hand like a trophy. I gaze proudly at the tiny black writing under the "Nutritional Facts" on the side of the can: "Calories 0%," "Fat 0%." "I am healthy," I say to myself, satisfied, yet totally oblivious to the 124 mg of harmful aspartame stewing inside it.
Crisis, really?
I'm a student. When it comes to finances, I'm worth nothing more than the measly $7,000 I have idling in my bank account and the $2.50 subway fair I have tucked in my pocket. My family doesn't rely on my $650 bi-weekly paycheck to survive, I don't own a struggling independent business and my investments are limited at best. If it weren't for the daily media reminders plastered across newspapers and CNN broadcasts, I wouldn't have a clue that something bad was sweeping over our country's economy.
Over the last few months families and individuals alike have felt the repercussions of a suffering Canadian economy. Men and women have lost dream jobs they've held onto for years, lost thousands of dollars invested in crashing stock markets and even declared bankruptcy. Yet somehow Canadians maintain a steady desire to vacation.
My parents recently traveled to Mexico, my boss just left for the Dominican Republic on a "business trip" and my roommate leaves tomorrow for two weeks in Cuba. I have to wonder, is this really what a financial crisis looks like?
Economists have questioned whether or not our generation would ever witness a recession; some have said that it was inevitable. We are a generation of spenders. Period.
It has been estimated that when our grandparents were in their twenties and thirties they saved 20 percent of their paychecks, putting money away monthly for retirement and their kids' college funds; our parents (the baby boomers) put away 10 percent; we, on the other hand, save negative one percent. In other words, most of us spend money we don't even have. And any money we do have kicking around on our Visas or in our savings accounts we blow on week-long benders in tropical paradises or on shiny new Mazda 6s — or whatever your toy of choice may be.
Is it our greed that keeps us wanting more? What is it about laying on a beach in the middle of February that makes it worth maxing out all five of our high-limit credit cards to get it?
Wanting warmth is no excuse to splurge on a trip we can’t afford. Welcome to Canada! We get snow in winter and yes, it does drop below minus 30 sometimes. We should be used to it by now, right?
However, if going on vacation means being completely relaxed and stress-free for a few days, I suppose I can understand the allure. I just can't help but wonder if our minds wouldn’t be continuously burdened by the overdue notices stuffed in the back of our nightstand drawers awaiting us when we returned home. Sure ignorance is bliss, but it's also irresponsible.
A television newscast did a special a few weeks ago on ways to financially outlast the downturn. One tip highly advocated on the show was to make your vacations work for you. Taking day trips, as opposed to expensive rendezvous’ down south, can be very productive in troubled times. Spend quality time with your family, rather than waste a week lounging on a pool-side beach chair, and you will be able to rationalize spending money you can’t necessarily afford.
Makes getting more out of your holidays than an itchy sunburn or bad case of malaria almost vital to your financial — and emotional — survival, doesn’t it?
But I digress. I think I’ll just stick my hand in my pocket, fish around for that toonie and two quarters, and continue to trudge blindly through the unfamiliar world of financial stability, happy that I don’t have millions to lose on Wall Street.
Over the last few months families and individuals alike have felt the repercussions of a suffering Canadian economy. Men and women have lost dream jobs they've held onto for years, lost thousands of dollars invested in crashing stock markets and even declared bankruptcy. Yet somehow Canadians maintain a steady desire to vacation.
My parents recently traveled to Mexico, my boss just left for the Dominican Republic on a "business trip" and my roommate leaves tomorrow for two weeks in Cuba. I have to wonder, is this really what a financial crisis looks like?
Economists have questioned whether or not our generation would ever witness a recession; some have said that it was inevitable. We are a generation of spenders. Period.
It has been estimated that when our grandparents were in their twenties and thirties they saved 20 percent of their paychecks, putting money away monthly for retirement and their kids' college funds; our parents (the baby boomers) put away 10 percent; we, on the other hand, save negative one percent. In other words, most of us spend money we don't even have. And any money we do have kicking around on our Visas or in our savings accounts we blow on week-long benders in tropical paradises or on shiny new Mazda 6s — or whatever your toy of choice may be.
Is it our greed that keeps us wanting more? What is it about laying on a beach in the middle of February that makes it worth maxing out all five of our high-limit credit cards to get it?
Wanting warmth is no excuse to splurge on a trip we can’t afford. Welcome to Canada! We get snow in winter and yes, it does drop below minus 30 sometimes. We should be used to it by now, right?
However, if going on vacation means being completely relaxed and stress-free for a few days, I suppose I can understand the allure. I just can't help but wonder if our minds wouldn’t be continuously burdened by the overdue notices stuffed in the back of our nightstand drawers awaiting us when we returned home. Sure ignorance is bliss, but it's also irresponsible.
A television newscast did a special a few weeks ago on ways to financially outlast the downturn. One tip highly advocated on the show was to make your vacations work for you. Taking day trips, as opposed to expensive rendezvous’ down south, can be very productive in troubled times. Spend quality time with your family, rather than waste a week lounging on a pool-side beach chair, and you will be able to rationalize spending money you can’t necessarily afford.
Makes getting more out of your holidays than an itchy sunburn or bad case of malaria almost vital to your financial — and emotional — survival, doesn’t it?
But I digress. I think I’ll just stick my hand in my pocket, fish around for that toonie and two quarters, and continue to trudge blindly through the unfamiliar world of financial stability, happy that I don’t have millions to lose on Wall Street.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Dating Game: The 'Ugly' of Online
“So, Jack Astor’s in 20 minutes,” I type in a hurry before running back to the bathroom to wipe more mascara on the lashes of my already make-up heavy eyes. I run back to my computer just in time to see a new message flashing on the screen.
“Ok,” it reads.
“See you soon,” I write.
I dash back into the bathroom for a final once-over. I look good. I should look good, I’ve been getting ready for an hour now and I’ve made sure that everything is perfect. My hair looks good, my complexion is flawless – thank God – and my butt is dynamite in these jeans.
I get into my car but I don’t start it until I’ve glanced in the rearview mirror. I smear lip gloss on my lips and smile, for practice. I choose a subtle half-grin because it’s not as obvious as a full smile and doesn’t make me seem so anxious.
I race down the highway. I decide that at this speed I should be there in 10 minutes. We’re not meeting at the Jack Astor’s close to my house. This one is a bit out of my way, but because it’s about halfway between us, we thought it would be a good spot to meet.
I’m late. I’m always late by at least five minutes. It’s mostly by accident, but I’ve also come to the conclusion that it’s better to be the one to arrive second. Let him stand there by himself waiting. “Better him than me,” I say to myself.
I pull into the parking lot and look around. He’s not standing there. I grab my cell phone, feeling a tinge of irritation building. “Strike one,” I mumble. I know he hasn’t stood me up – actually I never worry about that – but it’s still bad form for him to be late.
“I’m inside,” chirps the voice on the other end of the phone. “First booth on the right.”
I am not impressed. That is a first date no-no in my books, well, unless we were amidst a torrential blizzard or I was more than a half an hour late. But it wasn’t snowing and I was only eight minutes late. He should have waited outside so we could walk in together. After all, I don’t want everyone to know that this is a first date.
But I walk through the front door, strutting of course, and quickly spot the back of his head. “Oh no!” I yelp, a little louder than I should have. He’s going bald!
I have to admit that the thought of just turning right around and making a run for it did cross my mind. But that is terribly mean and I would never do that. So I take a deep breath and continue on.
“Hi!” he jumps up as I reach the table. If he had a tail, I think to myself, it would definitely be wagging wildly behind him, and his smile is stupidly large.
He’s short, I notice. Now I’m angry. As it turns out, men on the Internet lie.
***
I began online dating about two years ago, soon after my boyfriend at the time and I broke up. My friend had told me about this dating site she was on and suggested that I try it out. It’s free and she seemed to be dating quite a bit so I thought it couldn’t hurt.
Within an hour, I had created a profile, uploaded some fabulous pictures of myself and had already received six messages.
I have been on a lot of dates since then and I’ve definitely learned some valuable lessons. I think the most important thing to keep in mind while you do the meet-and-greet tango online is that just because you’re putting yourself out there, you might not find your perfect match right away. In fact, you most likely won’t. Be picky!
At first, you will receive hundreds of emails and messages. Be selective and don’t respond to them all. You don’t have to.
You really can’t tell very much about a guy from a couple of blurry pictures and a short blurb he wrote about himself, that more often than not just reads: “If you wanna know then ask me.”
The guy that starred in the date tragedy I described above lied in his profile. I even reread it after our date to make sure it wasn’t someone else’s profile I had expected to meet. But it was him all right.
He had written that he was 27-years old, a non-smoker, no kids and six-feet tall with an athletic body type. And his picture showed him posing beside a Hummer.
There was no way he was any taller than 5’7” because I’m 5’9” and I towered over him, and by “athletic” he clearly meant overweight with stubby arms and legs. He even wore tapered black jeans that were faded from over-wear – not for style – and white New Balance running shoes, the kind even my dad refuses to wear. He said on the date that his friend had rented the Hummer for his wedding two years ago.
Needless to say, I deleted and blocked him on the site and haven’t heard from him since.
That’s the great thing about online dating. You only give out the information you want to give out. So there really is no worry about crazy stalkers. But at the same time, they only have to reveal a short amount of themselves to you too. You must still be cautious of who you choose to meet.
And here’s the Catch-22. It is easy to imagine a man of perfection when you first start talking to someone. He looks cute in his pictures – but keep in mind, his worst picture is usually what he really looks like. He can hold up his end of a decent conversation and is generally fun to chat with.
And you’ve waited two weeks to meet him. At this point you should be able to rule out the possibility that he could be an axe murderer or child molester, which is always important, but now you’ve gotten yourself all riled up and excited to meet him. You are inevitably setting yourself up for disappointment.
Nine times out of 10 he won’t be what you imagined him to be, and the date will soon turn into just another ‘waste of time,’ like me and my man, Mr. New Balance.
There is a successful middle-ground span of time between initial verbal interaction and the first time you meet face-to-face. I would say chat with him online for a week, tops.
When I first started out online, I would chit-chat back and forth with a guy for days before I would agree to meet. I was initially very skeptical, but I learned quite quickly that most men can’t hide innate creepiness. It will become obvious if he is there for only one thing.
I am now much more apt to meet someone I only started talking to the day before. First dates are always awkward, but I think to myself, “What is the worst that can happen?” Meet at a coffee shop, have a cup of joe and talk. He will be just as nervous. If the attraction is there, great, if not then that’s great too. At least now we know and we’ve gotten it out of the way.
Don’t give off the wrong impression. If you’re not into him then let him know. He is there to meet someone too and doesn’t want to spend time talking to you if there is no future.
Make sure he knows from the start what your intentions are and make sure he tells you his. Be suspicious. But keep in mind that most guys on these sites are there to meet dateable women. On some sites, such as eHarmony and Lavalife, men have to pay to join. There will be fewer guys to choose from there, but at least you know they’re legit. Match.com, MatchMate and Plentyoffish.com are free for both men and women to join. They are more amateurish and will attract a younger, more promiscuous crowd.
Don’t be scared of online dating. It is becoming increasingly popular and the majority of the people on these sites are normal. Soon it will no longer be an embarrassment to admit you met someone on the Internet.
But still be careful who you choose to talk to and what you reveal about yourself. If you’re comfortable with someone, add him to Facebook if you have it, because most people have an abundance of pictures on there. Pay particular attention to the ones tagged by his friends. Those should give you a pretty good indication of what to expect.
Have fun. The more comfortable and confident your profile is, the more attractive you will come across. And beware of the liars.
“Ok,” it reads.
“See you soon,” I write.
I dash back into the bathroom for a final once-over. I look good. I should look good, I’ve been getting ready for an hour now and I’ve made sure that everything is perfect. My hair looks good, my complexion is flawless – thank God – and my butt is dynamite in these jeans.
I get into my car but I don’t start it until I’ve glanced in the rearview mirror. I smear lip gloss on my lips and smile, for practice. I choose a subtle half-grin because it’s not as obvious as a full smile and doesn’t make me seem so anxious.
I race down the highway. I decide that at this speed I should be there in 10 minutes. We’re not meeting at the Jack Astor’s close to my house. This one is a bit out of my way, but because it’s about halfway between us, we thought it would be a good spot to meet.
I’m late. I’m always late by at least five minutes. It’s mostly by accident, but I’ve also come to the conclusion that it’s better to be the one to arrive second. Let him stand there by himself waiting. “Better him than me,” I say to myself.
I pull into the parking lot and look around. He’s not standing there. I grab my cell phone, feeling a tinge of irritation building. “Strike one,” I mumble. I know he hasn’t stood me up – actually I never worry about that – but it’s still bad form for him to be late.
“I’m inside,” chirps the voice on the other end of the phone. “First booth on the right.”
I am not impressed. That is a first date no-no in my books, well, unless we were amidst a torrential blizzard or I was more than a half an hour late. But it wasn’t snowing and I was only eight minutes late. He should have waited outside so we could walk in together. After all, I don’t want everyone to know that this is a first date.
But I walk through the front door, strutting of course, and quickly spot the back of his head. “Oh no!” I yelp, a little louder than I should have. He’s going bald!
I have to admit that the thought of just turning right around and making a run for it did cross my mind. But that is terribly mean and I would never do that. So I take a deep breath and continue on.
“Hi!” he jumps up as I reach the table. If he had a tail, I think to myself, it would definitely be wagging wildly behind him, and his smile is stupidly large.
He’s short, I notice. Now I’m angry. As it turns out, men on the Internet lie.
***
I began online dating about two years ago, soon after my boyfriend at the time and I broke up. My friend had told me about this dating site she was on and suggested that I try it out. It’s free and she seemed to be dating quite a bit so I thought it couldn’t hurt.
Within an hour, I had created a profile, uploaded some fabulous pictures of myself and had already received six messages.
I have been on a lot of dates since then and I’ve definitely learned some valuable lessons. I think the most important thing to keep in mind while you do the meet-and-greet tango online is that just because you’re putting yourself out there, you might not find your perfect match right away. In fact, you most likely won’t. Be picky!
At first, you will receive hundreds of emails and messages. Be selective and don’t respond to them all. You don’t have to.
You really can’t tell very much about a guy from a couple of blurry pictures and a short blurb he wrote about himself, that more often than not just reads: “If you wanna know then ask me.”
The guy that starred in the date tragedy I described above lied in his profile. I even reread it after our date to make sure it wasn’t someone else’s profile I had expected to meet. But it was him all right.
He had written that he was 27-years old, a non-smoker, no kids and six-feet tall with an athletic body type. And his picture showed him posing beside a Hummer.
There was no way he was any taller than 5’7” because I’m 5’9” and I towered over him, and by “athletic” he clearly meant overweight with stubby arms and legs. He even wore tapered black jeans that were faded from over-wear – not for style – and white New Balance running shoes, the kind even my dad refuses to wear. He said on the date that his friend had rented the Hummer for his wedding two years ago.
Needless to say, I deleted and blocked him on the site and haven’t heard from him since.
That’s the great thing about online dating. You only give out the information you want to give out. So there really is no worry about crazy stalkers. But at the same time, they only have to reveal a short amount of themselves to you too. You must still be cautious of who you choose to meet.
And here’s the Catch-22. It is easy to imagine a man of perfection when you first start talking to someone. He looks cute in his pictures – but keep in mind, his worst picture is usually what he really looks like. He can hold up his end of a decent conversation and is generally fun to chat with.
And you’ve waited two weeks to meet him. At this point you should be able to rule out the possibility that he could be an axe murderer or child molester, which is always important, but now you’ve gotten yourself all riled up and excited to meet him. You are inevitably setting yourself up for disappointment.
Nine times out of 10 he won’t be what you imagined him to be, and the date will soon turn into just another ‘waste of time,’ like me and my man, Mr. New Balance.
There is a successful middle-ground span of time between initial verbal interaction and the first time you meet face-to-face. I would say chat with him online for a week, tops.
When I first started out online, I would chit-chat back and forth with a guy for days before I would agree to meet. I was initially very skeptical, but I learned quite quickly that most men can’t hide innate creepiness. It will become obvious if he is there for only one thing.
I am now much more apt to meet someone I only started talking to the day before. First dates are always awkward, but I think to myself, “What is the worst that can happen?” Meet at a coffee shop, have a cup of joe and talk. He will be just as nervous. If the attraction is there, great, if not then that’s great too. At least now we know and we’ve gotten it out of the way.
Don’t give off the wrong impression. If you’re not into him then let him know. He is there to meet someone too and doesn’t want to spend time talking to you if there is no future.
Make sure he knows from the start what your intentions are and make sure he tells you his. Be suspicious. But keep in mind that most guys on these sites are there to meet dateable women. On some sites, such as eHarmony and Lavalife, men have to pay to join. There will be fewer guys to choose from there, but at least you know they’re legit. Match.com, MatchMate and Plentyoffish.com are free for both men and women to join. They are more amateurish and will attract a younger, more promiscuous crowd.
Don’t be scared of online dating. It is becoming increasingly popular and the majority of the people on these sites are normal. Soon it will no longer be an embarrassment to admit you met someone on the Internet.
But still be careful who you choose to talk to and what you reveal about yourself. If you’re comfortable with someone, add him to Facebook if you have it, because most people have an abundance of pictures on there. Pay particular attention to the ones tagged by his friends. Those should give you a pretty good indication of what to expect.
Have fun. The more comfortable and confident your profile is, the more attractive you will come across. And beware of the liars.
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