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Proffessional Sign Makers

I ventured downtown the other day and saw these two signs, which kinda made me wonder why these people have jobs and I don’t.

proffessional

sign_hairsalon

Do you drink tap water?

Have you heard that the City of Ottawa intends to spend over a million bucks to encourage us to drink Ottawa’s tap water? Among other things, they’re going to buy two Watermobiles to deliver water to us at festivals and events, and they’re going to make a video about how great our tap water is.


I already drink tap water. I never got sucked into the whole bottled water thing. Why would I spend money on expensive bottled water when tap water is practically free and readily available and much better for the environment?

That being said, I still don’t want to spend a million bucks to convince others to drink tap water. I figure most of us are already drinking tap water, and a “Watermobile” isn’t likely to convince the rest. Maybe we should just ban bottled water altogether.


(If you’re reading this in a feed reader or email, please come over to knitnut.net to vote in the polls.)

Socks and shepherds

Whenever I try to fix my own knitting mistakes, I make them worse instead of better. I can tink stocking stitch, but nothing fancier than that.

The first time I messed up the socks I’m knitting for GC, Grace fixed them for me. This time Carmen bailed me out. She came over to my house with a beautiful fabric roll. She opened the roll, revealing a stunning collection of quality knitting tools. Some of them were gorgeous wooden tools. Others looked like surgical implements.

And then she buckled down to work. She examined the patient, selected her tools, and began the operation. I was so impressed. Teeny tiny stitches, teeny tiny tools, and she didn’t even need glasses. Plus, she could operate while carrying on a conversation with me as Duncan explored her lap.

Before long, she’d fixed both socks. Not only that, but she offered to help me sew together my Central Park Hoodie, which is knit and blocked but unassembled. We’re going to get together another day and do that.

Knitters are the nicest people.


In other news, GC and I went to the Shepherds of Good Hope volunteer appreciation dinner on Thursday night. We saw a great big photo of Jennifer there. And we saw a poster collage of photos of Shepherds clients from way back over the organization’s 26-year history.

Jimmy Leslie

Jimmy Leslie

I recognized one of my customers from when I worked at Bright’s Wines in the Market as a young woman. I even recognized that coat he’s wearing. Jimmy Leslie would come into the wine store multiple times each day to buy two bottles of our cheapest sherry. Bright’s 67. Lots of old street drinkers did that, but I never forgot Jimmy. One time he came in and he was so happy because it was his birthday and his mother had sent him $10. I was blown away that he still had a mother. He seemed as old as the hills to me.

Years later, I read in the Citizen that he had died and one of the local organizations held a service for him. It might have been Shepherds, which was still a young organization at that time. They said his age in the article, and it turned out Jimmy wasn’t anywhere near as old as he looked. Back when I had thought he was as old as the hills, he was only in his 40s.

Shepherd's clients over the years

Shepherd's clients over the years

You ever notice you don’t see a lot of middle-aged people on the streets? Everybody appears to be either young or old. But maybe most of those people who look old are only middle-aged.

The Tiger fiasco gets even stupider

Today I heard that Tiger Woods has been publicly chastised by the chairman of the Augusta National Golf Club for disappointing us, and worse, disappointing our children and grandchildren.

And then I heard that Nike has released a new commercial featuring Tiger looking like a humbled schoolboy while his dead father’s voice says he wants to know what he’s thinking and what he’s learned from his experience.

This whole Tiger thing is becoming pathologically ridiculous. It’s practically a parody of America’s celebrity culture.

The man had consensual sex with multiple partners outside of his marriage. He cheated on his wife. His transgressions were against his wife, not against you or me or a generation of children or the moral fiber of America.

As far as I’m concerned, Tiger Woods doesn’t owe any of us anything. Not impeccable behaviour, not an apology for falling off the pedestal, nothing. He’s just a golfer. I don’t expect him to be a role model for my children any more than I expect the carpet cleaner to be a role model for my children. There’s something wrong with a society that feels its sports celebrities owe them anything other than entertainment.

I don’t understand how Americans can tolerate so many of the immoral things they tolerate – such as their government invading other countries without provocation – but draw the line at a golfer cheating on his wife.

R.I.P. Junkyard Gary

My friend Junkyard Gary Watson died last night.

Gary had a face like a road map. Hard living had etched itself permanently into his skin.

Over the years, he eked out a meager living for himself as a house painter and junk dealer. He drove a battered old pickup truck. He collected still-useful junk from the curb and then sold it or traded it or gave it away.

I’d known Gary since I was a teenager.

Back then, he used to watch out for me, like a big brother. He was a lot more street-smart than me, and he occasionally managed to save me from myself. Like, for instance, the time I warned the old man that he was about to be mugged. This was a big no-no on the street, but I didn’t know that yet. Gary intervened on my behalf and convinced the self-proclaimed “Queen of Bank Street” to only beat me up a little bit instead of pummeling me to a bloody pulp.

A few years later, Gary found himself on a bridge, debating whether or not to jump. He wondered if there might be a solution to his problems other than suicide, and this was when he decided to give sobriety a chance. If that didn’t work, he’d come back and jump.

Sobriety worked. I don’t know how long it has been since Gary’s last drink. Maybe 25 or 30 years. If you’d known him before, you probably wouldn’t have thought he could do it, but he did.

He kept smoking though, and eventually lung cancer got him.

I like to think Gary died proud of what he accomplished in life. His daughter Janis. Sobriety. The fact that he eventually managed to buy a little house in Hull. Quitting smoking. Falling in love near the end of his life. Being a decent human being and a loyal friend.

R.I.P., Gary. I will remember you fondly.

(Here’s a post I wrote about Gary a few years ago: Junkyard Gary meets Marilyn Monroe)

I went to Charm School

I was in Loblaws with GC a few days ago and I bought two tins of coffee. We each balanced a can on our head and walked down the aisle towards the check-outs.

“Did you ever balance books on your head as a kid?” he asked.

“Only when I was in Charm School,” I replied.

“You went to CHARM SCHOOL??” he asked incredulously.

(A little too incredulously if you ask me.)

When I was in the eighth grade, they started a once-a-week Charm School at my little rural village school. The teacher was a volunteer, a former French model who thought she could make young ladies out of a rag-tag collection of farmers’ daughters.

We practiced walking with books on our heads. We steamed our faces and learned to use nail files. We were given useful tips like “Your knees are good friends, keep them together.” The teacher had us smile with our mouths open and again with our mouths closed, and then she proclaimed which type of smile looked best on each of us, which was how we were to smile from now on.

On Charm School graduation day we hosted a tea party in the school gym and invited all the ladies in the village. We served tea out of ornate silver services, along with little cookies and sandwiches. We had a fashion show and walked like French models. Some us us smiled with our mouths open, and some of us smiled with our mouths closed. We kept our knees together. We spoke demurely. We were charming.

Over time, most of it faded from memory and certainly from practice. I can’t even remember which way I’m supposed to smile anymore. But I can still walk with a coffee can on my head.

I'm still here

It was a busy Easter weekend full of company, meals and gatherings.

My sister and her partner and their two-and-a-half year old Sprout were staying here for the last few days. He’s a busy, busy boy, that Sprout. My house is full of very interesting and appealing things, all of which had to be moved out of his reach. So most of my stuff is on the ceiling now, except for Duncan’s toys and my Groucho Marx glasses.

Last night I made Easter dinner for eight of us. My brother and brother-in-law, my sister and brother-in-law, Sprout, my son, GC and me. Turkey with all the fixings. GC’s newest recipe for tsimmis (sp?) was a big hit. Everybody wanted the recipe. It’s got carrots and apricots and pineapple and prunes in it.

The weather in Ottawa was ridiculously nice this weekend. Sunshine and 27 Celsius degrees. It was crazy. GC and I went to look at our garden allotment plot so we could start thinking about planning our garden. (We mentioned this to my brother last night, who thought ‘garden allotment plot’ sounded like a cemetery plot used for growing vegetables until we die, which is actually quite a brilliant idea.)

I think the drugs are starting to kick in. I feel a little bit better.

The eternal optimist cries uncle

I hate to admit it, but I seem to have sunk into a bit of a depression.

I’ve been feeling kind of down since January, so I took an online depression test, which said I was moderately depressed. (Not that I totally trust these things. Apparently the WebMD.com depression test was sponsored by Eli-Lilly, manufacturer of an anti-depressant, and was rigged to say that everyone was either depressed or “at risk” for major depression.)

But my doctor and counselor think the events of the past year have finally caught up with me, and have combined with some deeply disturbing unbloggable stuff going on in my family to create depression and anxiety.

I’m not naturally prone to depression, and I’ve had no personal experience with it, at least not since I got out of my teens. But I just seem to have bottomed out in the last few months. I’ve temporarily run out of happy.

I started taking anti-depressants about two weeks ago. I haven’t noticed any change yet, so my doctor increased my dosage yesterday.

I know this is irrational, and I would never suspect anyone else of this, but part of me feels like I’m caving in to the depression by taking anti-depressants. Like…maybe I’m using it as an excuse to do nothing.

Unless watching webcams of owls and hummingbirds sitting on eggs is something. (By the way, it was so sad yesterday – Phoebe the hummingbird had laid two fresh eggs, and all was well in the world again, until a crow came along and ate both eggs. I love crows, but this just seemed so wrong – hummingbird eggs are the size of tic-tacs….they meant so much more to Phoebe than they did to the crow.)

When I get tired of watching owls and hummingbirds, I go for a walk around the Experimental Farm, or I play Bejewelled or Farkle or Scramble.

Ho hum.

I still want to live forever. I have lots of people and things in my life that I care about and love. I’m just down. Lethargic. Preoccupied with unhappy memories. I have a creepy feeling in my stomach, and I spend the wee hours of the morning lying in bed feeling anxious.

I’m surprised by how physical depression is. Sometimes I can literally feel it spreading through my body. When I wake up at 4:00 a.m., it’s lying in ambush, ready to pounce. My own brain feels like a minefield, so I try not to think about anything. (Which never works, by the way. It just inspires the gleeful demons.)

Anyway, I’m still an optimist, so I believe absolutely that I’m going to be okay. I’m just not sure when.

Ottawa’s Homelessness Report Card

Yesterday the Alliance to End Homelessness released their annual report card on how Ottawa is doing on the homelessness issue.

Not so good, apparently:

Based on a selection of indicators in each category in 2009, compared to those same indicators in 2008, Ottawa scored:

D for homelessness
E for length of shelter stay
C for housing
C for income.

If my kid came home from school with a report card like that, I’d say he wasn’t even trying.

The full 16-page document, which has TONS of interesting information, is available as a PDF here.

Here is a very small sampling:

*Only 88 new units of affordable housing and supportive housing were created in Ottawa in 2009. (And 55 of them are in my back yard.)

*The number of households on the social housing waiting list increased from 9,692 to to 10,235.
(That list is years long, by the way. I forget how many years – eight maybe? – but it’s so long it makes no sense to even bother getting on it if you’re a family in need.)

*Rents increased by 3.1% compared to 1.2% in prices generally.

*Social assistance rates did not keep pace with rent increases.

*There was a 9% increase in the number of children using emergency shelters.

*There was a 5% increase in the number of youth using emergency shelters.

*There was a 4% increase in the number of families using emergency shelters.

*The length of the average stay for a family in an emergency shelter increased to 64 days.

If you look at average rents relative to the amount of money people receive on social assistance, Ottawa’s worsening homelessness situation makes perfect mathematical sense.

Average Rents in Ottawa, 2000-2009*
2000 2008 2009 Yearly income needed**
Bachelor $573 $671 $688 $27,520
1-Bedroom $723 $827 $853 $34, 120
2-Bedroom $877 $995 $1,028 $41,120
3-Bedroom $1,056 $1,227 $1,257 $50,280
*Compare this to the rates for a single person on Ontario Works, which is $589/month, or on Ontario Disability Benefits, which is $1,042.
**Spending less than 30% of pre-tax income on housing is Canada’s affordability standard.

This is the sixth annual report card on homelessness from the Alliance to End Homelessness, which is a coalition of organizations. This year, for the first time, they’ve set annual goals, which, if met, will end homelessness in Ottawa in ten years. It’s do-able, but I doubt very much it’ll be done.

Transgender misconceptions

GC and I went to a workshop about transgender people at Venus Envy on Sunday night. It was part of Radical Queer weekend. I think we were arguably the oldest and straightest looking people there. Not only that, but because we were so old we got sleepy and had to leave during the break, so we missed the movie, Cruel and Unusual, which we really wanted to see.

But we did manage to catch the first hour and a half, which was a talk by Nora Butler-Burke, a transgender woman from Montreal.

I don’t know a lot about transgender people, and I’m sure I still subscribe to some myths about them. But I’m not as misinformed as I used to be.

For example, years ago I believed trans people must have really rigid gender stereotypes, if their idea of what is male (or female, as the case may be) couldn’t expand enough to include themselves. I thought that if you felt like a woman trapped in a man’s body, then maybe your concept of womanliness and manliness was to blame, rather than your body.

Like most people, I believed a person’s gender was ultimately determined by their genitalia. When we were introduced to the concept, as preschoolers, that boys have penises and girls have vaginas, nobody said anything about any exceptions. So even now, when I meet a trans person, I tend to automatically think that they are “really” whatever gender their genitalia is.

But there are other ways to think about it. Maybe hormones determine gender. Maybe psychology determines it. Maybe it’s some complex combination of factors. The bottom line is, if someone with a penis says they’re really a woman, who am I to say they’re not? If someone’s gender identity does not correspond to their genitalia, should they get to decide which is correct, or should their genitals get to decide?

I admit to some confusion around the sexual orientation of trans people. I used to think they were all gay. (Actually, I was doubly misinformed on this one, because I wrongly assumed that a trans woman was gay if she had sex with men.) Trans people can be straight, gay, bi, poly, pan or asexual. There’s quite a spectrum of possibilities; you can’t assume anything. But I found myself wondering about the actual mechanics of sex, even though it’s none of my business. For example, if a trans woman is gay and she’s having sex with another woman, how does her penis factor into the equation? And in the case of two lesbian trans women, aren’t they actually having gay male sex? (I admit it, I’m still confused.)

Up until the workshop on Sunday night, I was under the mistaken impression that all trans people wanted to make the surgical/hormonal transition to the other sex. I realize now that this is not always the case, nor is it always an option. I also learned about some of the serious issues trans people face with respect to harassment, criminalization and incarceration.

I learned a lot at the workshop. But sometimes, the more you learn about something, the more you realize how much you don’t know about it.