Posted by zoom! on September 28, 2008, at 1:54 pm |
Remember Ginette, the panhandler who became self-conscious about smiling because all her teeth had been pulled?
Well, shortly after I blogged about her, Melinda, a Swiss blogger (she writes Misadventures in Knitting), very kindly knit Ginette a beautiful hat and sent it to me to give to her.
I had a hard time tracking Ginette down. She seemed to have abandoned her usual spot at Bank and Slater. For weeks I walked around with the hat in my knapsack, hoping to run into her. Winter turned to Spring. When I finally saw her on Elgin Street in June, hat weather had turned to hot weather, and I didn’t have the hat with me.
We sat and talked for awhile, and she told me she usually panhandled down in the Glebe now, but she’d gotten a few tickets for doing so. (If you knew Ginette, you’d know she just stands in her spot and smiles and hopes for the best. She doesn’t speak to anybody unless they speak first. She’s friendly but timid. I don’t understand why anybody would ticket her.)
She told me there was a church that paid her fines for her. She also told me that she and her husband had just celebrated their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. She’s still in love with her husband, who has severe disabilities. They have three children, two of whom are doing well. Her youngest daughter was about to graduate from high school in Edmonton, and Ginette’s eyes shone as she told me about her. The daughter’s social worker was trying to arrange for some funds for Ginette and her husband to attend the graduation. Ginette said that if the worker could get them out there, they probably wouldn’t come back to Ottawa.
I told Ginette that my friend Melinda in Switzerland had sent me a present for her, and I asked her to meet me the following day so I could give it to her. She was surprised and pleased and puzzled, and she said she would try to meet me at the same corner the next day at lunchtime.
She didn’t show up. This was a few months ago and I haven’t seen her since. I sincerely hope she made it to Edmonton.
Meanwhile, I’ve been wondering what to do with the beautiful handknit hat from Melinda.
I’ll ask Melinda, of course, but I think I’d like to give it to Nicky-Diane. (When asked her name, she sometimes says it’s Nicky, and sometimes Diane, and probably other names as well. So I just call her Nicky-Diane.) Nicky-Diane is almost always at the corner of Bank and Albert, outside the Bridgehead. She’s tiny – I’m short, and I tower over her. She’s Aboriginal, has a terrible cough, gets cold easily, and is always warm and friendly to anyone who stops to talk to her.
The other day she told me a man had just given her five twenty-dollar-bills a half-hour earlier. “I’m still shaking,” she said, “Five twenties! I’ve heard of it happening to other people, but it’s never happened to me before! Five twenties!That’s a hundred dollars, isn’t it?”
Maybe Nicky-Diane’s luck has turned, and Melinda’s hat could be part of that.
Other options for Melinda’s hat: the Women’s Shelter next to my office is always looking for warm winter clothing for the women. And there’s a young woman who sits on the sidewalk near the grocery store at Bank and Somerset, selling her drawings for $5. She might be needing a warm hat pretty soon.
Posted by zoom! on September 27, 2008, at 2:56 pm |
Dear Duncan:
Why did my badkittymom hang the flypaper where she knew I would lose my balance while walking on the counter and brush my gorgeous tail against it?
Why didn’t she make the hook stronger so the flypaper wouldn’t break it?
Why did the big nasty mean empty loud plastic bag follow me around the house? (and yard, and undercar and basement and yard and house?)
Why did they put olive oil on my fur? And THEN, just when that wasn’t awful enough, why did they GET me WET and soapy and wet again and the water was too hot and wet and stinky soap and THEN sqeezed me with a towel?
Do you think she hates me?
PS — Yes, I peed on her bed because she’s a meanbadkittymom.
Yours truly,
Gwyndolyn O’Shaughnessy,
Queen of All She Surveys and Empress of Everything Else, Princess of Kitty Doors, Duchess of Dresser Drawers, Marchioness of Mice and Men, Countess of Clocks, Baroness Boxenbag, Mistress Underbed and a host of lesser titles. Also Endo Skidmark, Acrocat Extraordinaire.
Dear Gwyndolyn O’Shaughnessy,
Nice titles.
I am mystified by the bizarre behaviour of your human. Have there been other episodes? Did she seem angry or jealous when she attacked you? Has she always hated you?
It’s always a good strategy to pee on their beds when they displease you, but in this case I don’t think you went far enough. She needs to know that you will not tolerate this kind of abuse. I suggest that you pee and poop on her bed every day for a month. Don’t waste those hairballs either.
Please take care of yourself Gwyndolyn O’Shaughnessy. Watch your back. And keep me posted. I care.
Posted by zoom! on September 26, 2008, at 3:10 pm |
I’m no economist, but I couldn’t believe it when George W. Bush said “The market isn’t behaving properly.” It seems to me it’s behaving exactly the way it should behave under the circumstances.
It’s the same thing with the economy, which has been subjected to years of short-sighted and reckless mismanagement by the Bush administration as it racks up unfathomable debt in the pursuit of foolish and expensive priorities such as perpetual, unwinnable wars.
Spending way more than you have is unsustainable at the household level and it’s unsustainable at the national level. What’s equally unsustainable is artificially bailing it out when it does what it must naturally do. Self-correction is the market’s safety valve. If it isn’t permitted to self-correct, it’s doomed.
Bailing it out also prevents anybody -especially those making critical decisions – from experiencing the consequences of bad decision-making. One of those consequences should be improved decision-making in the future as people learn from their mistakes. What do they learn if colossal failure is rewarded with colossal bailouts?
Like I said, I’m no economist and maybe I’m dead wrong. This bailout just seems like throwing good money after bad. Or paying your student loan with your credit card. Or throwing water on a grease fire. Or sticking your head in the sand. Or cutting off your nose to spite your face. You know what I mean?
Posted by zoom! on September 25, 2008, at 4:14 pm |
I was wandering through Shopper’s Drug Mart a couple of weeks ago when a lovely young woman persuaded me to participate in Beauty Makeover Day. All I had to do was let them make me up with Smashbox products.
“Okay,” I said, “but can we go for a natural look, because I don’t really wear makeup.”
“Of course!” she lied enthusiastically.
So, next thing you know I’m perched on a stool and Brooke is extracting thousands of products from her bag of tricks.
“Your face is a canvas,” said Brooke, “and the first thing we want to do is prime the canvas so it can flawlessly accept the full range of glorious colours.”
She then coated my face with invisible $50 silicone gel stuff. If felt kind of interesting, like dry liquid.
“Then we put a little concealer on trouble spots, to soften any imperfections.”
Well okay, but my imperfections must have been fairly extensive because she put concealer everywhere.
She followed this with layers and layers of other stuff. I lost track. There was a $72 powder with 18 different minerals and revolutionary new Smart Technology. There was bronzing powder and blush and a white stick to open up my eyes and eyeliner and eye shadow and finishing powder and lip stick and lip gloss.
The whole time she was working on me, she chatted about the products, using words like replenishing and rejuvenating and nourishing and nurturing. I sat there thinking about Naomi Wolf’s book, The Beauty Myth, about how women are drawn to these adjectives and promises from makeup because that’s exactly what we need and are not getting from life. (Being a feminist is a full-time job; even when you’re doing girlie shit, you’re still a feminist. Maybe especially when you’re doing girlie shit.)
By the end of all this, I looked not so good. Not awful, not tarty, just overly made up. Like pop me in a casket and invite my friends to visit between seven and nine.
Brooke and the other beauticians gathered around and oohed and ahhhed and lied about how much better I looked and how natural I looked.
And of course the inevitable sales pitch followed. This kit, that brush, this extra little essential, etc. “You can’t afford not to buy them,” said Brooke.
On the other hand, it seemed to me like a lot of time and money to spend each morning just to look a little bit better than the real natural, which is free and easy.
And honestly? I’m not even sure I looked any better. Nobody said “Wow, you look fantastic!” after I left Shopper’s Drug Mart. My friends at work were lukewarm – they said I looked too made up. I was even told the makeup made me look older.
The thing is, I wouldn’t mind a fast, easy makeup routine if it made me look better. But on both occasions I’ve gone for one of these free makeup demos, I’ve been subjected to a lengthy, complicated and expensive set of procedures that doesn’t even look that good in the end.
Maybe I’ll just stick with my multipurpose tinted sunscreen/moisturizer.
Posted by zoom! on September 24, 2008, at 3:02 pm |
I’ll tell you what’s weird.
When you’re sitting in the hairdresser’s chair getting highlights, and every now and then your hairdresser comes back and opens your tinfoil packages to inspect the strands of hair within, and after awhile she starts to look concerned and then finally she goes and whispers something to her boss.
He comes over, opens some of your tinfoil packages, looks alarmed, and the two of them retreat to the corner and start whispering in Lebanese, all the while shooting troubled glances in your general direction.
And then, all nonchalant-like, your hairdresser comes over and quietly asks you if you’re on any medication.
Posted by zoom! on September 23, 2008, at 5:03 pm |
It’s good to know the Ottawa Department of Public Worx has a zombie disaster plan. You can find out more about it on Slater Street, just east of Bank, exactly where the Last Supper took place. (It’s signed Elmaks on the side of the box; that’s also where the ODPW ID is located.)
While I was taking pictures of it (and it wasn’t easy because it was a sunny day, so I was catching a lot of reflection in the plexiglass), a man stopped and said, “You know, I’ve walked past here hundreds of times, maybe thousands, because I work just over in that building over there, and I never noticed this thing on the wall until I saw you taking a picture of it!”
I didn’t tell him it only went up a few days ago. I figure for a few days at least, he’ll be walking around with his eyes wide open, hoping to see what else he’s been missing. It’ll be good for him.
Posted by zoom! on September 22, 2008, at 8:48 pm |
I carry a camera all the time because you never know when something interesting is going to happen.
Like today, for instance. I was walking through the construction zone that is Bank Street, when suddenly I spotted, walking towards me, a man pushing a stroller with a grown up dwarf in it. I think there was a baby or a toddler in the stroller too, but it all happened so quickly I barely had time for a double take.
My hand automatically reached for my camera, but then my eyes met the dwarf’s eyes and I couldn’t go through with it.
I suppose when you take a picture of a complete stranger with their knowledge, you’re saying “There’s something unusual about you.”
And that ‘unusualness’ could be anything: beauty, ugliness, deformity, eccentricity…..anything.
I think I would feel funny if I was walking down the street and a stranger suddenly pulled out their camera and took a picture of me. I’d wonder why. I’d probably feel paranoid.
But I guess if you’re a dwarf in a stroller, you probably already know you look a little unusual, so maybe it’s not a big deal if somebody whips out a camera. At least you know why you’re visually interesting.
I’m self-conscious on either end of the camera. I am a far worse photographer because I won’t take the pictures head-on; I end up taking them from a safe distance or from a safe angle.
What is it about photography that makes us feel so self-conscious?
Posted by zoom! on September 20, 2008, at 5:43 pm |
My immediate reaction was “$!%%^!”
GC’s immediate reaction was “Don’t blog about it!”
Of course I have to blog about it. One of the best things about having a blog is that when life hands you a bag of steaming shit, at least you’ve got something to blog about.
Duncan peed on the bed again. Just when I’d started thinking his peeing on the bed was a momentary lapse, an almost-forgotten aberration, an accident even, he peed on the bed again.
After I swore and fretted and did laundry, we contemplated shutting Duncan out of the bedroom as a preventative measure, but decided not to do that.
He joined us in the nice freshly made bed, made himself extra comfy and purred up a storm.
“Poor Dunky,” I said.
GC burst out laughing. “Poor Dunky??”
“Poor Dunky wet the bed,” I said.
You’re probably wondering why GC said “Don’t blog about it.” It’s because he knows Duncan has quite a following of blog readers who think he can do no wrong and who will therefore blame GC for Duncan peeing on the bed, and who will say “Dump GC, keep Duncan!”
But maybe Duncan peed on the bed for reasons completely unrelated to GC.
Duncan likes GC. Oh sure, the time he peed on GC’s clothes, that was probably about GC. But Duncan and GC are good buddies now. They cuddle and snuggle and Duncan likes to hang out with GC when he’s playing the clarinet and he runs to greet him at the door when he comes over.
Maybe Duncan peed on the bed because I switched brands of kitty litter that very morning. PetSmart discontinued his regular brand, so I got the closest thing I could find – both were made by the same company, both were non-scented and clumping. To me, peeing on the bed seems like a huge over-reaction to such a minor change, but maybe it was a big deal to him. He didn’t use his litter box all day. Poor Dunky.
Or maybe it was because I stayed out late that night after going to the Sex Trade Workers rally and dinner afterwards, and poor Duncan could see the bottom of his food dish and was traumatized by the possibility of impending hunger.
In any event, Duncan peed on my bed again, which is worthy not only of a blog post, but a poll too. Go ahead – vote!
Posted by zoom! on September 20, 2008, at 8:50 am |
I love reading books written by people I know, or by people who know people I know, or books set in places I know. I love catching glimpses of the familiar in the imaginary terrain, and I’m inspired by the sense of plausibility it give me about writing.
I was recently given a book by someone in the Ottawa blogging community. It was written by someone close to her. Even though I have never met the author of the book, I still feel that sense of connection, as in “This book was written by someone I almost know!”
Bittersweet: Confessions of a Twice-Married Man, by Philip Lee, is a true account of the author’s journey through the aftermath of his first marriage and beyond. It’s described as witty, warm, honest and hopeful – my kind of book. Here is the first line from the inside front flap: “Sometimes the life we’ve constructed needs to fall apart before we can begin to make something better.”
I love the image on the front cover – morning light on slightly rumpled white bedding; a pillow recently vacated by a head. It makes me want to go to bed and cozy up with a good book.
It’s sitting on my coffee table right now, this book. I’ve read the back cover and the inside flaps and the quotes and the acknowledgments. Everything up to Page One and everything after The End. I’ve been putting off digging in till I have some time to savor it.
And now it’s time.
This weekend only, Bittersweet is available free of charge at Goose Lane Editions’ website, so we can all curl up on our couches and beds and read it together.
Posted by zoom! on September 18, 2008, at 10:45 pm |
After work today, GC and I attended two very different events: Marion Dewar’s Lying in State at City Hall, followed by the Sex Trade Workers Rally on Parliament Hill.
The lineup inside City Hall led directly to Marion Dewar’s five children, where we could offer our condolences before filing past the closed casket and signing the guest book on our way out.
After half an hour we were getting close to the front of the line and I chickened out. I didn’t want to look her children in the eye and tell them I was sorry their mother had died. I was afraid I’d burst into tears. I felt just awful for them and thought it was a generous thing they were doing under such difficult circumstances. But I couldn’t look them in the eye and not cry, so we ducked out of the lineup and headed over to the Sex Trade Workers’ rally.
The rally was sponsored by POWER: Prostitutes of Ottawa/Gatineau Work Educate & Resist. Their mission statement is: “We envision a society in which sex workers are able to practice their professions free of legal and social discrimination, victimization, harassment and violence and in which sex work is valued as legitimate and fulfililng work making an important contribution to society.”
This event was to raise public awareness about Canada’s current prostitution legislation, which isolates and marginalizes sex workers and therefore puts them at increased risk of harm. POWER wants prostitution decriminalized.
There were several speakers, including a University of Ottawa criminology professor who used to be a sex worker, and an older gay man living with HIV who spoke quite eloquently about the role of sex workers in society.
Eloquent though he was, I had some difficulties with his assessment of sex workers as teachers and healers who are sexually authentic and have a genuine understanding of human sexuality. I’m sure this is true of some of them, but I suspect they’re in the minority. Most sex workers haven’t had the luxury of choosing their occupation. I’d guess most have ended up doing sex work because their options were limited by abuse, addiction, poverty and despair. I’m not sure it’s helpful to try to glamorize prostitution in an effort to decriminalize, de-stigmatize and politicize it.
I think we have to address the social problems that result in involuntary sex work, before I’ll be able to regard sex work as “honourable work, worthy of celebration.”
This doesn’t mean that I oppose the decriminalization of prostitution. I was at another rally earlier this week on Parliament Hill for missing and murdered women, and many of them were sex workers who just disappeared. It was chilling.
Do you think it’s time for Canada to decriminalize prostitution?
I’ll ask Melinda, of course, but I think I’d like to give it to Nicky-Diane. (When asked her name, she sometimes says it’s Nicky, and sometimes Diane, and probably other names as well. So I just call her Nicky-Diane.) Nicky-Diane is almost always at the corner of Bank and Albert, outside the Bridgehead. She’s tiny – I’m short, and I tower over her. She’s Aboriginal, has a terrible cough, gets cold easily, and is always warm and friendly to anyone who stops to talk to her. 
I love the image on the front cover – morning light on slightly rumpled white bedding; a pillow recently vacated by a head. It makes me want to go to bed and cozy up with a good book. 
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