We've hit a new plateau in the attempt to grow/ make/ control what we eat, so Himself and I are feeling a little smug right now.
Firstly, though, we had to get our basic tools organized. After weeks and months of searching, we managed to get a nearly new breadmaker and a nearly new fridge in the same week.
It never rains but it pours nearly new appliances.
The nearly new breadmaker came from Himself's boss, who had bought it for his wife for Christmas. So it was never used. Which is almost new. I arrived home from work one day and there it was on the dining room table, complete with recipe book.
The fridge came from a neighbour up the road and was a little trickier. We had to find a dolly, wheel it up the road, strap the enormous fridge to it, wheel it back down the road (which is being dug up by Dexter Construction right now) and then haul it up two flights of stairs to our apartment.
Gnugh....!
Suffice it to say Himself was on the heavy end and I was on the balance it so it won't fall on my head end.
Himself's arms are still sore from hauling a fridge up the stairs (almost) by himself.
But ah, bliss, lovely newish clean fridge.
Secondly, we started harvesting the garden.
This year is UN Year of the Potato. As an Irishwoman, potatoes are incredibly important to me. Potatoes are what you eat with your dinner. Some days I do rice, but really, if there's no potatoes in my dinner, then I haven't really eaten.
But the potatoes you get in the supermarket are crap. Soapy, soggy, too small, wrong species. It offends me to have to buy them, like a heroin junkie forced to rob for crappy junk (well maybe not that life-destroying, but you get my drift).
So I planted my own this year.
They grew. The stalks died. I waited. Himself adopted his doom and gloom tone and said they'd never work. It rained. It was hot. Flashbacks of my famine folk memories started to assert themselves, but I forced myself. I waited some more.
Monday I dug them up.
Lovely, purple, large piles of potatoes.
WHAT I GREW BY MYSELF.
Words cannot express how smug I felt on Monday evening, arriving back from my tiny urban garden patch with a bucket of potatoes.
And that was just three plants.
Also, the beets are getting big and are really good.
The beans are being harvested (but I have to figure out what to do with them as I don't do beans normally).
The carrots are still growing, but they're looking good.
The garlic has started to grow, finally, so that will be ready for next year.
And our tomatos are finally putting out like healthy well-fed tomato plants should.
The other night, we had a tomato and mozzarella salad, with our own basil in the vinaigrette, stir-fried beef with vegetables from our garden, Lyse' garden and Ms. Maggie Beach's garden, and a rhubarb crumble made with rhubarb from a friend in Cape Breton.
And potatoes of course.
A big shout out to all the potato people in the world in this, their SPECIAL year.
May you finally figure out how to end the blight in your lives!!
Last night, I remembered to buy yeast and made my own bread for the first time in my life.
The Queen Mum used to make bread.
(She used to grow vegetables as well, and recycle everything. In the seventies and eighties, when you did that kind of stuff because there was a RECESSION. Not because it is a lifestyle branding choice.)
Anyhow, I started with the basic white loaf, and put the breadmaker on 'nice smell wafting into the bedroom at six am this morning).
At six am this morning I woke up and sniffed.
OHMYGOD!!
Nice smell wafting into the bedroom.
After Himself got up and put on the organic (caressed gently by a yak somewhere in the mountains before being lovingly cradled into a bag by an upwardly mobile coffee farmer co-operative member with happy, educated, clothed kids who don't know what it was like when mama and pappa were young) coffee beans, the smell coming from the kitchen was better than the best French boulangerie.
It made me remember my first ever (not for Queen Dad) job, back in 1984, when I managed the till in Griffin's Bakery, Main St, Birr.
There's nothing like sitting in bed feeling smug about your ability to produce your own food while drinking coffee and eating warm bread and jam.
Nothing.
Now, how do I go about opening my own coffee plantation??
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Hannah has arrived
As usual, after doing all the stuff the EMO told us to including getting water, Hurricane Hannah turns out to be as fearsome as the prevailing westerlies that affect the score on Ballina rugby pitch on a wet Sunday in February.
Oi!
People in charge of disasters and weather and such!
Get it right, or stop telling me to count my candles.
Oi!
People in charge of disasters and weather and such!
Get it right, or stop telling me to count my candles.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Hurricane Summer makes way for hurricane season
So, Himself and the Little 'Un have gone mackerel fishing. Kitty has been dispatched to the mall to buy some clothes for the autumn. Low is blaring out of the speakers. Hurricane Hanna has announced her imminent arrival with some rain.
Queenie made everyone go out for the day in the rain, goddammit, because she needed to do some housework in peace.
That's what she said anyway.
PUNY MORTALS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
They fell for it.
Well, there's the fear factor too. Queenie's in that kind of mood lately that when she says I need you all to leave the house so I can do some housework in peace, they do.
It takes forever but.
"I'll clean the bathroom later. You don't gotta do it, Queenie."
"I'll sit here and keep you company for the afternoon."
"Don't you want to come fishin', sweetheart?"
No.
No.
No.
Eventually I convinced them all that housework was what I wanted to do. And by myself. So they all headed off to do their own thing.
Housework, schmousework.
Queenie just wanted them all out of the apartment so she could spend a few hours faffing around pretending like she's the old Queenie still.
The old Queenie.
She disappeared this summer. Caught up in a hurricane and deposited in the Land of Oz, she was.
This is the new Queenie.
All growed up.
About time, I hear some people say.
Probably.
Where are my goddamned ruby slippers, that's what I want to know!
One minute you're cruising along, doing just as you please, and the next you're starring in your very own movie with the Wicked Witch of the West (and East) and the Lion and the Tin Man and Scarecrow and some poxy wizard somewhere in the corner pulling levers and making everything go to hell in a handbasket.
So, Queenie, whatcha do all summer?
Damned if I can remember, the whole thing is a blur.
Let me see.
Well, Colombo opened the summer with a two week visit. We drove to the top of New Brunswick and looked at the mountains of Quebec and slept in a tent.
Then we drove back.
We did other stuff as well, of course, but that's the bit I remember most vividly. We had our first Melwood bonfire of the season too.
------------------------------------
Then Nancy left cos her work was done and Kitty had been hauled into Grade 12, so we took the girls camping to Hubbards.
That was fun.
Not.
Imagine a long narrow field with 147 campsites on it and RVs, camper vans, tents and trucks parked everywhere. Everyone playing their music at top volume. All day.
I thought I was going to lose my mind.
I nearly did.
I yelled at Himself and packed my rucksack and threw it in the car and went to drive home.
Only the battery was dead because the girls had been playing hip hop on the stereo all day.
So I had to stay.
Until Sunday.
Thankfully, when I yell at Himself he pays no heed to me until I calm down.
-----------------------------------
I spent most of June and July going to the dentist.
My teeth are a mess after three years of no medical insurance.
But they're all fixed now.
It took four and a half hours to clean thirty eight years of tartar off my teeth, including up inside my gums.
And none of the four anaesthetic injections they gave me for that part worked.
I tried to meditate and I got through most of it okay.
But eventually, I had to ask them to stop because I couldn't take the pain anymore.
And the hygienist started to cry.
Because her wrist was so sore from digging the tartar off my teeth.
She tells me I'll never have to go through that again.
Good.
--------------------------------------
Himself got divorced in the middle of July.
And we booked our wedding venue for 8th August 2009.
And I woke up one morning shortly after that and thought, I am getting married.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!
Almost everyone I know started telling me how to organize my wedding.
As you can imagine, that went down well with the Queenie.
So I responded by refusing to think/ talk about/ organize my wedding.
So the aaagggghhh factor has subsided slightly.
But we are getting ready together, in our heads and hearts, to be married.
Which feels very grown up and makes me want to run like the wind down the yellow brick road some days.
But we are getting there, piece by piece.
Himself is better at this stuff than me.
Of course, he's had more practice.
Haha.
Both families seem to be genuinely happy about it, though, so that's a big help.
And the kids too.
-------------------------------
Speaking of.
Rearing kids is like having to watch someone play a never-ending game of hockey, using your sanity for a puck and your heart for a net.
At least it's not football. If it were football, there'd be no sin bin, and no sponsor break every 11 minutes.
---------------------------------
We went camping to Bear Cove.
We had a most excellent weekend. All of Himself's brothers and sister, and his sister-in-law turned up, as well as Ms Maggie Beach and some other friends from Halifax. And all our island friends. So we had a massive lobster and crab boil, and a roaring fire and the whales came in and blew at us and the seals.
And Himself went winkle-picking, and boiled a whole pot full, which nobody ate of course. Because nobody had a pin.
Himself and Little 'Un and Robbie have just arrived home, wet, with NO FISH.
Ah well, I got half an hour to myself.
-----------------------------------
We got new neighbours upstairs. Our nutty neighbour and Peter the Lover left at the end of July, and now we have Danny and Venus, who are nice and quiet and friendly and don't have any rows or tantrums or loud showers at three am.
Venus has a Harley and a pink helmet, as well as a cream VW Jetta with pink accessories.
They work on a building crew together.
Which is good because I noticed this morning that their shower is leaking into our hallway.
----------------------------------------
I drove all over Nova Scotia this summer for work.
I went to Queens, Shelburne, Yarmouth (twice), Digby, Cape Breton (twice), Amherst, Kentville, Windsor, Lunenburg and some other places I can't remember.
That's about 5,000 kilometres.
Man, that tired me out.
---------------------------------------
Then Ammonite arrived for a week.
Shopping ensued.
And Ammonite got all the killer killer heels.
She was showing them to Himself one night and he asked whether she wore them when lecturing.
"Yes", said Ammonite, "and a bullet bra."
I thought Himself was going to implode, so completely dumbstruck was he by her response.
Funny.
Not often he's dumbstruck.
We went whale-watching which was probably the one of the high points of the summer for me.
A whole pod of humpbacks hung out with our zodiac for an hour or more, including a frisky calf who kept nudging up to us.
There's something really awe-inspiring, yet peaceful about watching a whale roll to surface one dark eye and take a long, slow look at you.
----------------------------------------
My big mouth got me in trouble at work.
No change there.
Someday, I'll be growed up and that won't happen.
Really.
-------------------------------------------
We spent Labor Day weekend at Long Tusket Lake, deep in the woods.
That's when I found my centre again.
Just us and the loons.
And some nutty French camper van campers that insisted on starting a generator at 6am every morning.
What kind of nutter hauls a camper van deep into the woods and then uses electricity all weekend to shower and shit?
Anyways, it's all over for another year.
Time to tie the canoe down in case Hannah or Ike or Josephine blow it away.
As for Queenie, she almost untied herself in the eye of the storm, and let the hurricane blow her away again.
But she changed her mind.
Queenie made everyone go out for the day in the rain, goddammit, because she needed to do some housework in peace.
That's what she said anyway.
PUNY MORTALS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
They fell for it.
Well, there's the fear factor too. Queenie's in that kind of mood lately that when she says I need you all to leave the house so I can do some housework in peace, they do.
It takes forever but.
"I'll clean the bathroom later. You don't gotta do it, Queenie."
"I'll sit here and keep you company for the afternoon."
"Don't you want to come fishin', sweetheart?"
No.
No.
No.
Eventually I convinced them all that housework was what I wanted to do. And by myself. So they all headed off to do their own thing.
Housework, schmousework.
Queenie just wanted them all out of the apartment so she could spend a few hours faffing around pretending like she's the old Queenie still.
The old Queenie.
She disappeared this summer. Caught up in a hurricane and deposited in the Land of Oz, she was.
This is the new Queenie.
All growed up.
About time, I hear some people say.
Probably.
Where are my goddamned ruby slippers, that's what I want to know!
One minute you're cruising along, doing just as you please, and the next you're starring in your very own movie with the Wicked Witch of the West (and East) and the Lion and the Tin Man and Scarecrow and some poxy wizard somewhere in the corner pulling levers and making everything go to hell in a handbasket.
So, Queenie, whatcha do all summer?
Damned if I can remember, the whole thing is a blur.
Let me see.
Well, Colombo opened the summer with a two week visit. We drove to the top of New Brunswick and looked at the mountains of Quebec and slept in a tent.
Then we drove back.
We did other stuff as well, of course, but that's the bit I remember most vividly. We had our first Melwood bonfire of the season too.
------------------------------------
Then Nancy left cos her work was done and Kitty had been hauled into Grade 12, so we took the girls camping to Hubbards.
That was fun.
Not.
Imagine a long narrow field with 147 campsites on it and RVs, camper vans, tents and trucks parked everywhere. Everyone playing their music at top volume. All day.
I thought I was going to lose my mind.
I nearly did.
I yelled at Himself and packed my rucksack and threw it in the car and went to drive home.
Only the battery was dead because the girls had been playing hip hop on the stereo all day.
So I had to stay.
Until Sunday.
Thankfully, when I yell at Himself he pays no heed to me until I calm down.
-----------------------------------
I spent most of June and July going to the dentist.
My teeth are a mess after three years of no medical insurance.
But they're all fixed now.
It took four and a half hours to clean thirty eight years of tartar off my teeth, including up inside my gums.
And none of the four anaesthetic injections they gave me for that part worked.
I tried to meditate and I got through most of it okay.
But eventually, I had to ask them to stop because I couldn't take the pain anymore.
And the hygienist started to cry.
Because her wrist was so sore from digging the tartar off my teeth.
She tells me I'll never have to go through that again.
Good.
--------------------------------------
Himself got divorced in the middle of July.
And we booked our wedding venue for 8th August 2009.
And I woke up one morning shortly after that and thought, I am getting married.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!
Almost everyone I know started telling me how to organize my wedding.
As you can imagine, that went down well with the Queenie.
So I responded by refusing to think/ talk about/ organize my wedding.
So the aaagggghhh factor has subsided slightly.
But we are getting ready together, in our heads and hearts, to be married.
Which feels very grown up and makes me want to run like the wind down the yellow brick road some days.
But we are getting there, piece by piece.
Himself is better at this stuff than me.
Of course, he's had more practice.
Haha.
Both families seem to be genuinely happy about it, though, so that's a big help.
And the kids too.
-------------------------------
Speaking of.
Rearing kids is like having to watch someone play a never-ending game of hockey, using your sanity for a puck and your heart for a net.
At least it's not football. If it were football, there'd be no sin bin, and no sponsor break every 11 minutes.
---------------------------------
We went camping to Bear Cove.
We had a most excellent weekend. All of Himself's brothers and sister, and his sister-in-law turned up, as well as Ms Maggie Beach and some other friends from Halifax. And all our island friends. So we had a massive lobster and crab boil, and a roaring fire and the whales came in and blew at us and the seals.
And Himself went winkle-picking, and boiled a whole pot full, which nobody ate of course. Because nobody had a pin.
Himself and Little 'Un and Robbie have just arrived home, wet, with NO FISH.
Ah well, I got half an hour to myself.
-----------------------------------
We got new neighbours upstairs. Our nutty neighbour and Peter the Lover left at the end of July, and now we have Danny and Venus, who are nice and quiet and friendly and don't have any rows or tantrums or loud showers at three am.
Venus has a Harley and a pink helmet, as well as a cream VW Jetta with pink accessories.
They work on a building crew together.
Which is good because I noticed this morning that their shower is leaking into our hallway.
----------------------------------------
I drove all over Nova Scotia this summer for work.
I went to Queens, Shelburne, Yarmouth (twice), Digby, Cape Breton (twice), Amherst, Kentville, Windsor, Lunenburg and some other places I can't remember.
That's about 5,000 kilometres.
Man, that tired me out.
---------------------------------------
Then Ammonite arrived for a week.
Shopping ensued.
And Ammonite got all the killer killer heels.
She was showing them to Himself one night and he asked whether she wore them when lecturing.
"Yes", said Ammonite, "and a bullet bra."
I thought Himself was going to implode, so completely dumbstruck was he by her response.
Funny.
Not often he's dumbstruck.
We went whale-watching which was probably the one of the high points of the summer for me.
A whole pod of humpbacks hung out with our zodiac for an hour or more, including a frisky calf who kept nudging up to us.
There's something really awe-inspiring, yet peaceful about watching a whale roll to surface one dark eye and take a long, slow look at you.
----------------------------------------
My big mouth got me in trouble at work.
No change there.
Someday, I'll be growed up and that won't happen.
Really.
-------------------------------------------
We spent Labor Day weekend at Long Tusket Lake, deep in the woods.
That's when I found my centre again.
Just us and the loons.
And some nutty French camper van campers that insisted on starting a generator at 6am every morning.
What kind of nutter hauls a camper van deep into the woods and then uses electricity all weekend to shower and shit?
Anyways, it's all over for another year.
Time to tie the canoe down in case Hannah or Ike or Josephine blow it away.
As for Queenie, she almost untied herself in the eye of the storm, and let the hurricane blow her away again.
But she changed her mind.
Zogby's Walmart voters
Colombo tracked down this blog post about the US elections recently. Pretty good stuff.
http://sweatingthroughfog.blogspot.com/2008/09/some-on-left-understand-palin.html
Although, having burrowed further into his blog, he's a little Christian for me. However, Christians aren't all bad, now are they. There are worse people in the world.
Conservatives for one thing.
http://sweatingthroughfog.blogspot.com/2008/09/some-on-left-understand-palin.html
Although, having burrowed further into his blog, he's a little Christian for me. However, Christians aren't all bad, now are they. There are worse people in the world.
Conservatives for one thing.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Listen, everybody!
Nobody has to move out, you know!
We could all just live here together, you know!
Perhaps you are not able to compromise enough.
Well, you know, if neither of you feel you can move out on your own.
That's fine.
I would hate to think that either of you were dependent on me for money.
I am dependent on you for family.
Because you're my family I share my money with you.
There's a give and take to sharing.
We all give.
And we all take.
But we all have to do both.
It's in the bible.
At least I've been told it is.
I never actually saw it there.
But I digress.
Sharing is good.
I remember telling Gypsy that once or a hundred times.
We could all just live here together, you know!
Perhaps you are not able to compromise enough.
Well, you know, if neither of you feel you can move out on your own.
That's fine.
I would hate to think that either of you were dependent on me for money.
I am dependent on you for family.
Because you're my family I share my money with you.
There's a give and take to sharing.
We all give.
And we all take.
But we all have to do both.
It's in the bible.
At least I've been told it is.
I never actually saw it there.
But I digress.
Sharing is good.
I remember telling Gypsy that once or a hundred times.
Electric City Picnic
While everyone in Ireland was busying recycling 30 per cent of the waste they had brought to Electric Picnic, we were all busy recycling our waste (by putting it in the car to bring home) down at our favourite secret camping spot near New France, Electric City.
Not so other people.
Other people arrived in trucks with camper units attached, set up camp, started generators at 6 am in THE FRIGGIN' MORNING and then left all their rubbish piled in their fire pit.
Other people burned pressure treated wood doused in two stroke oil (IN THE FRIGGIN' WOODS).
People who are from the same place as other people left a campsite on the far side of the lake full of rubbish - including ripped tarpaulins, Mr Noodle packets, and other plastic deitrus scattered around an area that is home to some of the most beautiful and rare toadstools in Nova Scotia.
Some people drove around with no helmets and no respect on 4 wheelers all weekend, frightening the children and ripping up fragile bog roads.
Some people should be taken out and shot.
And if that doesn't work, they should be forced to camp at the Shore Club in Hubbards for the rest of their lives.
Queenie hates it when she travels deep into the woods to camp au natural, to live off grid, to wash in the lake, to chill out and mostly to get away from other people and their noise and mess, and due to the inconsiderate bastard nature of most other people, ends up cleaning up after them.
Having said that, once all that was done, and the weird people in the campers had gone home, and the loons had come back to the lake to hang out near the kids, we had a wonderful weekend.
Not so other people.
Other people arrived in trucks with camper units attached, set up camp, started generators at 6 am in THE FRIGGIN' MORNING and then left all their rubbish piled in their fire pit.
Other people burned pressure treated wood doused in two stroke oil (IN THE FRIGGIN' WOODS).
People who are from the same place as other people left a campsite on the far side of the lake full of rubbish - including ripped tarpaulins, Mr Noodle packets, and other plastic deitrus scattered around an area that is home to some of the most beautiful and rare toadstools in Nova Scotia.
Some people drove around with no helmets and no respect on 4 wheelers all weekend, frightening the children and ripping up fragile bog roads.
Some people should be taken out and shot.
And if that doesn't work, they should be forced to camp at the Shore Club in Hubbards for the rest of their lives.
Queenie hates it when she travels deep into the woods to camp au natural, to live off grid, to wash in the lake, to chill out and mostly to get away from other people and their noise and mess, and due to the inconsiderate bastard nature of most other people, ends up cleaning up after them.
Having said that, once all that was done, and the weird people in the campers had gone home, and the loons had come back to the lake to hang out near the kids, we had a wonderful weekend.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Yes, I know I'm a bad Queenie
I do have all kinds of excuses though.
I am kinda busy.
First of all I have the incredibly morphing into a behemoth job that involves lots of travel.
Yes, even in August, when everyone's supposedly asleep at their desk.
Secondly, I have a busy domestic situation right now, that involves lots of hands on action.
Yes, even in August, when everyone's supposedly on vacation and relaxing.
And thirdly, I have company.
Well I do this week.
So that's my excuse for this week.
Right now, I have to get dressed so I can do some work, then drive to Yarmouth, go to a meeting, then drive to Digby to get lobster, then drive back to Halifax, then cook the lobster, then do evening stuff, then collapse.
In a good way of course.
Also, it rained for two weeks in August, so there was a lot of 'damn it's too damp to do anything' action going on.
But I'll try to haul my sorry ass into the blogging saddle again soon.
Ammonite is here for a week. Maybe I can get her to guest blog?!
I am kinda busy.
First of all I have the incredibly morphing into a behemoth job that involves lots of travel.
Yes, even in August, when everyone's supposedly asleep at their desk.
Secondly, I have a busy domestic situation right now, that involves lots of hands on action.
Yes, even in August, when everyone's supposedly on vacation and relaxing.
And thirdly, I have company.
Well I do this week.
So that's my excuse for this week.
Right now, I have to get dressed so I can do some work, then drive to Yarmouth, go to a meeting, then drive to Digby to get lobster, then drive back to Halifax, then cook the lobster, then do evening stuff, then collapse.
In a good way of course.
Also, it rained for two weeks in August, so there was a lot of 'damn it's too damp to do anything' action going on.
But I'll try to haul my sorry ass into the blogging saddle again soon.
Ammonite is here for a week. Maybe I can get her to guest blog?!
Sunday, July 27, 2008
'Tis almost August
I have gone through a period of intense learning.
And now I have woken up and it is almost August.
That invokes a learning from a previous year.
When it is almost August, it is time to prioritise.
The first summer I was here, nobody called.
The second summer I was here, I called everybody.
And it worked.
This summer, they call me.
But it is only for a specific item.
That's this year's learning.
This year's learning for them is....
... the only package is the whole package.
Thanks to my soul mate for the day off.
Thanks babe.
And now I have woken up and it is almost August.
That invokes a learning from a previous year.
When it is almost August, it is time to prioritise.
The first summer I was here, nobody called.
The second summer I was here, I called everybody.
And it worked.
This summer, they call me.
But it is only for a specific item.
That's this year's learning.
This year's learning for them is....
... the only package is the whole package.
Thanks to my soul mate for the day off.
Thanks babe.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Humae Vitae - differing perspectives
From today's Irish Times:
FORTY YEARS ago today, Pope Paul VI issued probably the most controversial encyclical letter in the history of the Catholic Church. In Humanae Vitae, he reaffirmed the Church's official ban on artificial contraception, stunning the Catholic world at a time when there were strong expectations of some easing in the traditional teaching.
I was talking about this subject with some friends last night. Telling them about the Contraceptive Train events that took place in Ireland in the late sixties/ seventies (can't remember the exact date), and one of them told me a story about a couple getting married in Nova Scotia in the sixties.
The woman was Catholic, so they had to go to the priest for the talk.
Same deal in Ireland.
The priest explained the rhythm method to them.
Same deal in Ireland.
The priest then told them that the rhythm method was pretty unreliable, so what they needed to do was go to the doctor and get a pill (which you could get back then) that 'regulated' the rhythm.
NOT the same deal in Ireland.
In Ireland, the priest was too busy telling you that the rhythm method was to be used only for the mystery of procreation.
In other words, you could only use the rhythm method to conceive.
Not to not conceive.
There was no talk of the miracle pill that you could get to regulate your rhythm.
No sirreebob.
If you wanted talk of that, you had to go see that communist-anarchist-sinner, Dr. Paddy Leahy.
Canada... deep in its soul there is an innate decency and respect for the intelligence of its citizens that we didn't have for a long long time in Ireland ...
A country that gives Dr. Henry Morgentaler the Order of Canada for his contribution to society, knowing that a large chunk of citizens will be annoyed about it is a good country.
No wonder half the Irish medical graduates from the sixties moved here to practice.
Medicine that is.
Not the rhythm method.
FORTY YEARS ago today, Pope Paul VI issued probably the most controversial encyclical letter in the history of the Catholic Church. In Humanae Vitae, he reaffirmed the Church's official ban on artificial contraception, stunning the Catholic world at a time when there were strong expectations of some easing in the traditional teaching.
I was talking about this subject with some friends last night. Telling them about the Contraceptive Train events that took place in Ireland in the late sixties/ seventies (can't remember the exact date), and one of them told me a story about a couple getting married in Nova Scotia in the sixties.
The woman was Catholic, so they had to go to the priest for the talk.
Same deal in Ireland.
The priest explained the rhythm method to them.
Same deal in Ireland.
The priest then told them that the rhythm method was pretty unreliable, so what they needed to do was go to the doctor and get a pill (which you could get back then) that 'regulated' the rhythm.
NOT the same deal in Ireland.
In Ireland, the priest was too busy telling you that the rhythm method was to be used only for the mystery of procreation.
In other words, you could only use the rhythm method to conceive.
Not to not conceive.
There was no talk of the miracle pill that you could get to regulate your rhythm.
No sirreebob.
If you wanted talk of that, you had to go see that communist-anarchist-sinner, Dr. Paddy Leahy.
Canada... deep in its soul there is an innate decency and respect for the intelligence of its citizens that we didn't have for a long long time in Ireland ...
A country that gives Dr. Henry Morgentaler the Order of Canada for his contribution to society, knowing that a large chunk of citizens will be annoyed about it is a good country.
No wonder half the Irish medical graduates from the sixties moved here to practice.
Medicine that is.
Not the rhythm method.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
The first day of the rest of our lives
So Himself got divorced yesterday.
For those of you who don't know, or who can't keep track (easy enough), Himself got separated in 2004 and met Queenie in mid-2005. Which proves beyond a shadow of a doubt, despite what certain shes-who-would-be-married-forever say, that Queenie did not wreck anyone's marriage.
No need to get into all that anymore. IT IS OVER.
OVEROVEROVEROVEROVEROVEROVEROVEROVER.
Well, not quite.
The judge granted a divorce and an interim custody order for Little 'Un, and the ridiculous squabbling over the matrimonial assets and liabilities has been delayed for another few months.
Himself got what he wanted.
Queenie is very happy for him.
Queenie is very happy for the other people involved too, because they too get to wake up this morning and enjoy the first day of the rest of their lives.
Everyone deserves to be happy.
Everyone deserves to be left in peace to get on with life.
Maybe that will happen now.
Queenie is happy for the kids, because maybe now the ridiculous chess game in which they have been unhappy pawns for four years is coming to an end.
But mostly, Queenie is happy for herself.
Happy that she stuck it out.
Happy that she didn't give in to the occasional urge to run away from the madness.
Happy that those decisions resulted in a long drive home with her soulmate yesterday watching the load being lifted off his (not inconsiderable) shoulders, and the colour come back into his face, and the lines around his eyes reshape themselves into crinkles as he smiled for the first time in a long time.
Tired today. Soooo tired.
But happy.
For those of you who don't know, or who can't keep track (easy enough), Himself got separated in 2004 and met Queenie in mid-2005. Which proves beyond a shadow of a doubt, despite what certain shes-who-would-be-married-forever say, that Queenie did not wreck anyone's marriage.
No need to get into all that anymore. IT IS OVER.
OVEROVEROVEROVEROVEROVEROVEROVEROVER.
Well, not quite.
The judge granted a divorce and an interim custody order for Little 'Un, and the ridiculous squabbling over the matrimonial assets and liabilities has been delayed for another few months.
Himself got what he wanted.
Queenie is very happy for him.
Queenie is very happy for the other people involved too, because they too get to wake up this morning and enjoy the first day of the rest of their lives.
Everyone deserves to be happy.
Everyone deserves to be left in peace to get on with life.
Maybe that will happen now.
Queenie is happy for the kids, because maybe now the ridiculous chess game in which they have been unhappy pawns for four years is coming to an end.
But mostly, Queenie is happy for herself.
Happy that she stuck it out.
Happy that she didn't give in to the occasional urge to run away from the madness.
Happy that those decisions resulted in a long drive home with her soulmate yesterday watching the load being lifted off his (not inconsiderable) shoulders, and the colour come back into his face, and the lines around his eyes reshape themselves into crinkles as he smiled for the first time in a long time.
Tired today. Soooo tired.
But happy.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
You know it's your fourth birthday in a place
when you are listening to the morning radio news show and you know the presenter and then you check your birthday greetings online and you have a message from him saying happy birthday, you old boot.
I'm assuming you mistranslated that from the French for happy birthday you ever-young Queenie.
I am.
Bring it on, world!
I'm assuming you mistranslated that from the French for happy birthday you ever-young Queenie.
I am.
Bring it on, world!
Friday, July 04, 2008
Le Weekend est ici, aujourd'hui, etc.
OHMYGOD, I know there's a recession on in Ireland and all that...
...and I know the weather's crappy and we're having a glorious Canada Day/ Quebec 400 week here in Nova Scotia (but not in Quebec apparently) and all...
... but did you have to punish us by sending Minister Dick Roche over to be your representative at the Quebec celebrations????
Could you not have sent one of the Mary's????
Fragrant, sexy, smart, funny women the pair of them (Coughlan and McAleese I'm talking about).
No, no, no.... we got Dick the Roche.
I was standing in the kitchen last night stirring the lovely salmon in a mushroom, pesto and cream sauce that I was making for dinner, thinking about the lovely week I'd had and the nice long weekend to look forward to, with CBC on in the background blabbering on about how Quebec was the beginning of Canada (thinking there was me thinking it was Annapolis Royal, but how wrong am I, OF COURSE it was Quebec and not Nova Scotia), and how terrible that the $90 million celebrations were washed out (you could hear the rest of Canada sniggering in the blazing sunshine) when, suddenly, I hear THAT VOICE.
At least the Queen Dad got a break from him for a while, I suppose that's the silver lining.
And as Ammonite said on her blog, we don't speak Gaelic in Ireland, we speak English mostly, and a bit of IRISH, seeing as we're from IRELAND.
Anyways, enough of the bitching.
The sun came out on Canada Day and I sat in the yard with Ms Maggie Beach for a while, and then Orc, and then our visitors came round and we had a BBQ and salad made with greens FROM THE GARDEN ALREADY and watched the fireworks round the lake.
Mr. Sun has been blazing down ever since with a good forecast for the weekend and I have today off. Hooray. And so has Himself. More Hooray.
So the canoe will be finished for Queenie's birthday. So I shall get my paddle around the lake.
We painted the canoe white and when it is upside down on its stand it looks like a whale, so we are calling it Moby.
Well, I am calling it Moby and Himself is calling it Moby's Dick.
And everyone has to paint something on it before the end of the summer, so it will be a truly communal canoe.
This week I had to go to Baddeck for two days for work.
Boo hiss.
Imagine having to go to Baddeck for two days, two glorious, hot, still, steamy days in July.
Imagine having to spend a day in a workshop with a crowd of funny, smart Cape Breton women.
Imagine doing that and getting loads of development work done in four hours flat and still having a good time.
And then having to sit on a deck overlooking the Bras d'Or lake eating dinner with said women.
Discussing the nature of love and its little quirks.
One of those great female conversations.
Terrible.
Just terrible.
It was such a pain in the ass.
Really.
I hate my job.
Never mind, I have a three day weekend to recover.
Today is yard day, lots of whipper-snipping and weeding to be done. And then tomorrow is Craig's birthday barbeque, up the hill past Red Chair Man's yard, so that should be fun.
I love the weekends. I love the early morning of the first day of a three day weekend, when Himself and Kitty are still fast asleep and I can potter around on my blog and wait for the day to heat up and not have to worry about anything for a while.
Bliss.
...and I know the weather's crappy and we're having a glorious Canada Day/ Quebec 400 week here in Nova Scotia (but not in Quebec apparently) and all...
... but did you have to punish us by sending Minister Dick Roche over to be your representative at the Quebec celebrations????
Could you not have sent one of the Mary's????
Fragrant, sexy, smart, funny women the pair of them (Coughlan and McAleese I'm talking about).
No, no, no.... we got Dick the Roche.
I was standing in the kitchen last night stirring the lovely salmon in a mushroom, pesto and cream sauce that I was making for dinner, thinking about the lovely week I'd had and the nice long weekend to look forward to, with CBC on in the background blabbering on about how Quebec was the beginning of Canada (thinking there was me thinking it was Annapolis Royal, but how wrong am I, OF COURSE it was Quebec and not Nova Scotia), and how terrible that the $90 million celebrations were washed out (you could hear the rest of Canada sniggering in the blazing sunshine) when, suddenly, I hear THAT VOICE.
At least the Queen Dad got a break from him for a while, I suppose that's the silver lining.
And as Ammonite said on her blog, we don't speak Gaelic in Ireland, we speak English mostly, and a bit of IRISH, seeing as we're from IRELAND.
Anyways, enough of the bitching.
The sun came out on Canada Day and I sat in the yard with Ms Maggie Beach for a while, and then Orc, and then our visitors came round and we had a BBQ and salad made with greens FROM THE GARDEN ALREADY and watched the fireworks round the lake.
Mr. Sun has been blazing down ever since with a good forecast for the weekend and I have today off. Hooray. And so has Himself. More Hooray.
So the canoe will be finished for Queenie's birthday. So I shall get my paddle around the lake.
We painted the canoe white and when it is upside down on its stand it looks like a whale, so we are calling it Moby.
Well, I am calling it Moby and Himself is calling it Moby's Dick.
And everyone has to paint something on it before the end of the summer, so it will be a truly communal canoe.
This week I had to go to Baddeck for two days for work.
Boo hiss.
Imagine having to go to Baddeck for two days, two glorious, hot, still, steamy days in July.
Imagine having to spend a day in a workshop with a crowd of funny, smart Cape Breton women.
Imagine doing that and getting loads of development work done in four hours flat and still having a good time.
And then having to sit on a deck overlooking the Bras d'Or lake eating dinner with said women.
Discussing the nature of love and its little quirks.
One of those great female conversations.
Terrible.
Just terrible.
It was such a pain in the ass.
Really.
I hate my job.
Never mind, I have a three day weekend to recover.
Today is yard day, lots of whipper-snipping and weeding to be done. And then tomorrow is Craig's birthday barbeque, up the hill past Red Chair Man's yard, so that should be fun.
I love the weekends. I love the early morning of the first day of a three day weekend, when Himself and Kitty are still fast asleep and I can potter around on my blog and wait for the day to heat up and not have to worry about anything for a while.
Bliss.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
The Frequent and Vigorous Quarterly, Issue 2
I picked up a copy of this in a coffee shop in Antigonish months ago, stuck it in the front pocket of my laptop bag, and forgot about it until I was rummaging for something to read on the bus the other day.
It's Issue 2 of a creative writing collective endeavour, which is always a good thing to pick up and read.
Inside the front cover, it states 'our title is derived from The Broom of the System, by David Foster Wallace. Please don't tell and get us into trouble. Instead, read it.'
DFW is all about the importance of ignoring the telly and its malign influence on literature and focusing on earnest self-expression, if I remember The Infinite Jest correctly. I haven't read The Broom of the System, maybe I'll try to find it.
Right so.... earnest self-expression. No telly. Just philosophical thought and literature.
From a group of English students in SFX, by the way.
Switch off your irony button, Queenie, and read on.
I thought some of the stuff was pretty good, actually.
There was a pretty good short story by someone called M Johnston, about a kid in a supermarket who gets one over on the nasty manager. It was funny and well written, which is something Queenie has never managed to pull off.
And there was a poem called The Tibetan Monk which I really liked - interesting theme, really interesting structure, great rhythm. It reminded me of the early poetry of one Gavin Kostick, a heady mix of classical themes and political thought.
Then there was another short story that had its roots in the old Oisin and the land of Tir na nOg myth that I didn't really get, and a transcript of MSN sex talk that we'll just skip over and some very nice photos, particularly one by Philippe Mineau that I really liked, and then I got to Pride of an iPod Generation.
Which I read.
Then I read again.
Then I read again.
And I'm thinking to myself.... if this is David Foster Wallace-inspired then this is not ironic.
And if that is the case, then some gentle teasing of the author is definitely in order.
I hope he doesn't mind.
Yes, of course he was a boy.
But I will start by saying I accept that we were all that young, arrogant in an 'ever-so-slightly tongue-in-cheek kind of way' soldier at one time.
I'm sure you'll all remember those days boys and girls, fellow passengers on the tail end of GenX....?
Circa 1988 - 94.
Round about the time we saw Public Enemy perform on Trinity College cricket pitch.
Anyways, I thought I'd share iPod man's wisdom with you.
"I come from the generation that, like every other generation, has a vivid history full of grand achievements and terrible horrors. I saw the rise of reality tv. I watched slow but sure acceptance of rap music. I was taken aback by horrid terrorist acts. I was even lucky enough to watch the progression of razor blades from one to the oh-so-necessary six bladed razors that are available today."
Well, correct me if I'm wrong but I think Public Enemy playing on the cricket pitch of a four hundred year old university would be defined as 'acceptance'. And I think it happened the year you started Grade Primary, sweetie.
I'm assuming the author was born in or around 1988, if he's iPod Gen.
I think what you might have witnessed was the commercialisation of rap music, dear.
I will grant you reality tv. You are entitled to that terrible horror. I don't remember reality tv when I was growing up. They just had shows called drama, and documentaries, and current affairs programs, and movies, when I was growing up.
I do remember watching an angry mob of Republicans drag two British soldiers out of a car, beat them to a pulp and then shoot them in the head when they drove their car into a funeral procession live on the news one time. But that doesn't really count as reality tv, as nobody had to audition to be in the car.
Also, to be petty about it, I'm pretty sure that guy from Gillette had four blades in his razor when I was growing up.
But I can't be definite. I'd have to ask a guy. Anyways, I think you were probably being ironic.
I thought you weren't supposed to be ironic...
Am I being too mean? I'm not meaning to be. I'm just feeling old and grouchy these days, trapped as I am between baby boomers and GenY, stuck with a dirty planet, rising air travel costs and no friggin' pension to look forward to when the end times come.
Anyways, back to the text...
"Every generation has their moments, we have plenty of history books to remind us of that, but I feel that we, the media-dubbed iPod generation, have done more than what historians will write down. What do you notice when you compare the people your age to those say, ten years your senior? Twenty years? Thirty years?"
According to an article I found on The Times online, the iPod generation is comprised of people under 26 (today). iPod stands for 'insecure, pressured, overtaxed and debt-ridden'.
That's just about everyone I know, when you think about it.
Perhaps the iPods are the generation that are annoyed about it.
Or more accurately, the iPods are the generation that weren't expecting it to be so.
Bless'em.
Nothing like a decade of recession in your teens to give you that edge on expectations.
Thanks, Mr. Haughey*, you served me well in retrospect.
* Mr. Haughey was an Irish PM who lorded it over us all during a recession in the eighties. Subsequently, we found out that he was using other people's money to live like a king. Irish people got very mad when they found out, but then realised that that was the way to go, and so a good chunk of them got on that bandwagon. Consequently, Ireland is facing another recession right now, but it's okay, the economy is structurally sound, so it won't be like the eighties again.
Anyways, I'm sure you're dying to know what our young author sees when he compares himself to us thirty-somethings and forty-somethings...and fifty-somethings. (anyone older is not worth a comparison, I think, or maybe he was straitened by the word count).
"You may not agree with me, but what I see is nothing short of amazing. I see a generation who almost never looks first at race or gender, who (almost unbeknownst to them) have environmentally friendly routines in their everyday lives, and who are extremely accepting of gay and bisexual communities. There are exceptions and there always will be, but when I compare us to a decade prior (that would be me - Queenie), I feel that we are vastly superior in these areas. Now I cannot speak for our generation globally, this is merely a tiny spot on the planetary spectrum, but does that make it any less significant?
And there you were, wondering why Queenie was picking on some poor, inarticulate little X-er.
Queenie don't pick on no one unless they're askin' for it.
And this kid is ASKIN' FORIT!
Only the fact that I still remember once telling the Queen Dad that my generation was very unlucky because all we had was Thatcher and emigration and war, and his generation got to do the sixties, and him laughing his ass off and saying, I did the sixties in rural Ireland, Queenie, and before that I had to do the fifties there, and me then realising that all generations ARE THE SAME in many ways, is keeping the gloves on.
Soon to be global spokesman for the iPod generation-man should not have used the word superior.
What the word 'superior' says to me is that iPod man may not see colour or gender or sexual orientation when he looks at people, but that's because he's too busy counting the wrinkles on people's faces and judging them thus.
Mr. iPod forgets to mention the Queen Parents generation when he was comparing. I remember the Queen Mum making compost, recycling paper, separating waste, making her own bread, growing vegetables and doing all kinds of other 'green' things way back before there was any mention of green, because it saved money and reduced what went into the bin and was healthy and useful, etc.
How would the iPods compare to that, eh?
Take a pass on the gap year round the globe travel and maybe it'll be a 1-1 draw.
Anyways, back to the text...
"I am an optimist, and like Delta Goodrem* says 'I don't see the point in being anything else'. I firmly believe that we are the most accepting, equal and green generation that the world has ever seen. We have the previous generations (and fantastic programs like Degrassi and Captain Planet of course) to thank for that, but we also have ourselves. I hope that you agree with me and I pray that the next generation will be able to say the same."
*Star of Neighbours, for those of you that don't recognise the name, but today's Neighbours, not the Neighbours we watched in the eighties. A sort of modern-day Kylie if you like. Slight bending of the DFW no-telly rule, too, if you ask me.
Yes well, thanks for the nod to us oldarses for our minor role in the production of the superior generation of which you are a proud member, Mr. iPod. I'm not sure it bolsters your earlier points regarding our malign influence on the world, but that's okay. We take our manna where we can get it.
I truly hope you are the most accepting, equal and green generation that the world has ever seen, cos God knows, you're going to have to be...
I also truly hope that you are an inspired fifth columnist within the community of The Frequent and Vigorous Quarterly, and that the point of your piece is to undermine the David Foster Wallacian theory behind the publication.
Otherwise, I'm a heading 'er for the compound right now. Before you tackle me to the ground and put me on an icefloe with all the other old people.
It's Issue 2 of a creative writing collective endeavour, which is always a good thing to pick up and read.
Inside the front cover, it states 'our title is derived from The Broom of the System, by David Foster Wallace. Please don't tell and get us into trouble. Instead, read it.'
DFW is all about the importance of ignoring the telly and its malign influence on literature and focusing on earnest self-expression, if I remember The Infinite Jest correctly. I haven't read The Broom of the System, maybe I'll try to find it.
Right so.... earnest self-expression. No telly. Just philosophical thought and literature.
From a group of English students in SFX, by the way.
Switch off your irony button, Queenie, and read on.
I thought some of the stuff was pretty good, actually.
There was a pretty good short story by someone called M Johnston, about a kid in a supermarket who gets one over on the nasty manager. It was funny and well written, which is something Queenie has never managed to pull off.
And there was a poem called The Tibetan Monk which I really liked - interesting theme, really interesting structure, great rhythm. It reminded me of the early poetry of one Gavin Kostick, a heady mix of classical themes and political thought.
Then there was another short story that had its roots in the old Oisin and the land of Tir na nOg myth that I didn't really get, and a transcript of MSN sex talk that we'll just skip over and some very nice photos, particularly one by Philippe Mineau that I really liked, and then I got to Pride of an iPod Generation.
Which I read.
Then I read again.
Then I read again.
And I'm thinking to myself.... if this is David Foster Wallace-inspired then this is not ironic.
And if that is the case, then some gentle teasing of the author is definitely in order.
I hope he doesn't mind.
Yes, of course he was a boy.
But I will start by saying I accept that we were all that young, arrogant in an 'ever-so-slightly tongue-in-cheek kind of way' soldier at one time.
I'm sure you'll all remember those days boys and girls, fellow passengers on the tail end of GenX....?
Circa 1988 - 94.
Round about the time we saw Public Enemy perform on Trinity College cricket pitch.
Anyways, I thought I'd share iPod man's wisdom with you.
"I come from the generation that, like every other generation, has a vivid history full of grand achievements and terrible horrors. I saw the rise of reality tv. I watched slow but sure acceptance of rap music. I was taken aback by horrid terrorist acts. I was even lucky enough to watch the progression of razor blades from one to the oh-so-necessary six bladed razors that are available today."
Well, correct me if I'm wrong but I think Public Enemy playing on the cricket pitch of a four hundred year old university would be defined as 'acceptance'. And I think it happened the year you started Grade Primary, sweetie.
I'm assuming the author was born in or around 1988, if he's iPod Gen.
I think what you might have witnessed was the commercialisation of rap music, dear.
I will grant you reality tv. You are entitled to that terrible horror. I don't remember reality tv when I was growing up. They just had shows called drama, and documentaries, and current affairs programs, and movies, when I was growing up.
I do remember watching an angry mob of Republicans drag two British soldiers out of a car, beat them to a pulp and then shoot them in the head when they drove their car into a funeral procession live on the news one time. But that doesn't really count as reality tv, as nobody had to audition to be in the car.
Also, to be petty about it, I'm pretty sure that guy from Gillette had four blades in his razor when I was growing up.
But I can't be definite. I'd have to ask a guy. Anyways, I think you were probably being ironic.
I thought you weren't supposed to be ironic...
Am I being too mean? I'm not meaning to be. I'm just feeling old and grouchy these days, trapped as I am between baby boomers and GenY, stuck with a dirty planet, rising air travel costs and no friggin' pension to look forward to when the end times come.
Anyways, back to the text...
"Every generation has their moments, we have plenty of history books to remind us of that, but I feel that we, the media-dubbed iPod generation, have done more than what historians will write down. What do you notice when you compare the people your age to those say, ten years your senior? Twenty years? Thirty years?"
According to an article I found on The Times online, the iPod generation is comprised of people under 26 (today). iPod stands for 'insecure, pressured, overtaxed and debt-ridden'.
That's just about everyone I know, when you think about it.
Perhaps the iPods are the generation that are annoyed about it.
Or more accurately, the iPods are the generation that weren't expecting it to be so.
Bless'em.
Nothing like a decade of recession in your teens to give you that edge on expectations.
Thanks, Mr. Haughey*, you served me well in retrospect.
* Mr. Haughey was an Irish PM who lorded it over us all during a recession in the eighties. Subsequently, we found out that he was using other people's money to live like a king. Irish people got very mad when they found out, but then realised that that was the way to go, and so a good chunk of them got on that bandwagon. Consequently, Ireland is facing another recession right now, but it's okay, the economy is structurally sound, so it won't be like the eighties again.
Anyways, I'm sure you're dying to know what our young author sees when he compares himself to us thirty-somethings and forty-somethings...and fifty-somethings. (anyone older is not worth a comparison, I think, or maybe he was straitened by the word count).
"You may not agree with me, but what I see is nothing short of amazing. I see a generation who almost never looks first at race or gender, who (almost unbeknownst to them) have environmentally friendly routines in their everyday lives, and who are extremely accepting of gay and bisexual communities. There are exceptions and there always will be, but when I compare us to a decade prior (that would be me - Queenie), I feel that we are vastly superior in these areas. Now I cannot speak for our generation globally, this is merely a tiny spot on the planetary spectrum, but does that make it any less significant?
And there you were, wondering why Queenie was picking on some poor, inarticulate little X-er.
Queenie don't pick on no one unless they're askin' for it.
And this kid is ASKIN' FORIT!
Only the fact that I still remember once telling the Queen Dad that my generation was very unlucky because all we had was Thatcher and emigration and war, and his generation got to do the sixties, and him laughing his ass off and saying, I did the sixties in rural Ireland, Queenie, and before that I had to do the fifties there, and me then realising that all generations ARE THE SAME in many ways, is keeping the gloves on.
Soon to be global spokesman for the iPod generation-man should not have used the word superior.
What the word 'superior' says to me is that iPod man may not see colour or gender or sexual orientation when he looks at people, but that's because he's too busy counting the wrinkles on people's faces and judging them thus.
Mr. iPod forgets to mention the Queen Parents generation when he was comparing. I remember the Queen Mum making compost, recycling paper, separating waste, making her own bread, growing vegetables and doing all kinds of other 'green' things way back before there was any mention of green, because it saved money and reduced what went into the bin and was healthy and useful, etc.
How would the iPods compare to that, eh?
Take a pass on the gap year round the globe travel and maybe it'll be a 1-1 draw.
Anyways, back to the text...
"I am an optimist, and like Delta Goodrem* says 'I don't see the point in being anything else'. I firmly believe that we are the most accepting, equal and green generation that the world has ever seen. We have the previous generations (and fantastic programs like Degrassi and Captain Planet of course) to thank for that, but we also have ourselves. I hope that you agree with me and I pray that the next generation will be able to say the same."
*Star of Neighbours, for those of you that don't recognise the name, but today's Neighbours, not the Neighbours we watched in the eighties. A sort of modern-day Kylie if you like. Slight bending of the DFW no-telly rule, too, if you ask me.
Yes well, thanks for the nod to us oldarses for our minor role in the production of the superior generation of which you are a proud member, Mr. iPod. I'm not sure it bolsters your earlier points regarding our malign influence on the world, but that's okay. We take our manna where we can get it.
I truly hope you are the most accepting, equal and green generation that the world has ever seen, cos God knows, you're going to have to be...
I also truly hope that you are an inspired fifth columnist within the community of The Frequent and Vigorous Quarterly, and that the point of your piece is to undermine the David Foster Wallacian theory behind the publication.
Otherwise, I'm a heading 'er for the compound right now. Before you tackle me to the ground and put me on an icefloe with all the other old people.
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