Don’t buy this shit! All you get is more shit!

I don’t have cable TV, just a set of rabbit ears. And my viewing habits consist mostly of Buffy and Glee DVDs, which have no commercial breaks. So advertisers have just a teensy window of time to explain why I must have whatever they’re selling. But even people with satellites full of obscure little specialty channels (like my parents) are bombarded with commercials, all trying to make them believe their product or service is the best in the universe.

I am astonished by the number of colossally horrible ads. I’m don’t mean the cheesy “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” emulators and the ambulance-chasing lawyers and debt consolidators promoting their services. Those are bad because they are low-budget. But how dare those big players who have their choice of the top ad agencies to produce their commercials give us drivel like the following:

1.Cottonelle Saved my Marriage

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H0CTJj_-nJI&feature=related –

Perhaps something got lost in translation from the French version, but all this ad did was make me cringe.

I’m guessing the intent was to be humorous, but I felt only pity for that woman. She’s gushing over the virtue of a freakin’ toilet paper as we hear hubby make happy male noises off-camera, supposedly from the ensuite bath. She’s smiling in that “he hasn’t touched me since I had the kids and I was desperate to save this relationship! Thank you Cottonelle!” way. And right on cue, hubby steps out of the bathroom in his vintage Herb Tarlek finery ready to dry hump her on the dance floor at the local disco.

If their marital problems weren’t caused solely by hemorrhoids, this campaign is just sad and will not compel anyone to pay that dollar or two more to upgrade from store brand bathroom tissue.

2. Pull Ups training pants (featuring the “potty dance”)

I refuse to link to this one. It has already led to dozens of ill-advised youtube “tributes” made by misguided parents hoping to one day embarrass the crap out of their kids. I for one am embarrassed to be in the room when that bloody song interrupts The Young and the Restless. I’m guessing they paid the poor shlub who sang it a lot of money (though no amount of money can buy back dignity) as well as the potty dancing kids and adults. I can’t fathom why the hell anyone would anyone consent to being seen by millions doing the stupid thing for free.

As my children were all born crack litter box users, I am aware Pull-Ups doesn’t care what I think. But if I were part of their target market, I’d go out of my way to buy the rival big kid pants for fear of catching the stupid that led to those youtube So You Think You Can Potty Dance travesties.

3. Dairy Queen- 1/4 Lb. Bacon Cheese Burger Grill Burger

Disembodied whore lips singing about dreaming of “meat and bouncing pickles” then telling us to “shove it in our mouths.” And then fireworks explode out of nothingness. Creepy. I’d add that it makes me wonder what they put in the secret sauce, but that would be too easy.

4. Tim Horton’s “Worst. Ring Tone. Ever.”

What, because Timmy’s is a Canadian institution they don’t have to pay writers to come up with clever ads (at least I hope they didn’t)? Their commercials have been stupid for a very long time but the recent ad for their Caramel Café Mocha with a grating, synthesized “I Love Caramel” ring tone is just irritating. Wow, this gal must be batshit about caramel.

5. Multigrain Cheerios- “The box says I’m a bad, bad man and have a small penis.”

Television is overrun with ads that portray men (or at least husbands) as overgrown children who can’t be trusted to do anything around the house but can always be counted on to say the wrong thing. Why? Such commercials appeal to women (who still do most of the grocery shopping) who married losers in order to have babies and are now kicking themselves.

“Oh, that’s my husband all right! Lord, how I hate the bastard but I must swallow my resentment and carry on for the sake of our spawn who never, ever stop wanting STUFF—and he thinks I’m FAT! Why oh why did I go off the pill?”

These ads do neither sex any favors (men are morons, women are insecure ball breakers) and have caused me to never want to marry. At least we don’t have to suffer through the horribly dubbed (why the hell do we need to dub a commercial that was already in english? Would British accents make Cheerios seem snooty?) version that got foisted on Americans.

I know times are tough and even very big corporations may have less money to spend on advertising.

But how do you expect to penetrate our collective brain fog with advertising so bland and irritating? Or maybe it’s the brain fog that’s allowing such ads to happen.

You can’t throw a dried up old pen out the window in a major city without it bouncing off a hungry writer willing to compromise art in the name of eating or buying a second pair of trousers. No need to overpay talentless hacks or ask your ten-year old kid to write your scripts.

Dear readers (especially my adoring subscribers), you have the power to stop such ads. Don’t buy what they’re selling! Send your kids Pull-Ups back in protest (especially used ones)!

Please, before I am forced to get rid of my TV.

A hollow threat, yes. But just do it anyway! This revolution will not be televised. But it may end up on youtube.

Sand vs. Machinery attempts to cure verbal diarrhea!

It’s been a good while since I’ve kvetched about the embarrassment the English language has become. So I’m going to do so now. I know for too many years it’s been “fashionable” to speak like someone who spent more time sniffing paint thinner in the woods behind the school than in an actual classroom.

And I know we (and by “we” I mean everybody and me) like our slang and when used properly colloquialisms make language richer and can turn communication an art. But most modern slang is simply displeasing to my the ear. To the point where I have to turn up my ipod to drown out the garbled verbiage that seems to follow me everywhere I go.

First off, we need to get rid of “vajayjay.” Honestly, did we need another childish euphemism for the female sex organ? “Sick” when used to describe something cool*, also needs to go. Anything shortened to webspeak (OMG! LMAO!) said aloud is just stupid for stupid’s sake. Do you really have so many vitally important things to express that you must speak in abbreviations?

It also pisses me off that “gay” is still being used as an insult. It makes people sound more even more like rednecks than they look.

But rather than deride our poor word choices (any more than I already have), I humbly offer some suggestions for new buzzwords. Not new in the sense that I invented them (if I were that clever I’d be ruling the verse by now) but resurrections of a few classics and one from the future as envisioned by Joss Whedon.

1 Zounds: popular in the fifteenth century, “zounds” is a fun word for expressing a sort of horrified awe. It is short for “God’s wounds” according to Ned Flanders. Used in conversation it might sound like “Zounds, I can’t believe Pip turned over all the wastebaskets and still had time to squeeze in a power nap in a space of four minutes!”

2. Pish-posh: first used around the 1590s, it is mild cry of contempt. It is so damn cute that it should both express one’s displeasure and also diffuse any tense situation. “Pish-posh! Justin Bieber is not the new Beatles! You take that back!”

3. Cat: as in “cool cat.” When a person is labeled a “cat,” he or she is clearly a creature above other humans, much like an actual cat. Originated in the Jazz Age. One clever variation is “cat’s pajamas.” “That cat just walked through the door wearing skin-tight pleather trousers like he owned the joint!”

4. Bamboozle: to deceive or puzzle someone, eighteenth century style. Additionally, it’s just fun to say. “Ack, I’ve been bamboozled! Curse you Taco Bell!”

5. Gorram: a version of “god damn” useful for both agnostics and those who don’t want to take their lord’s name in vain. I first heard this word on the brilliant television series “Firefly,” uttered by Captain Malcolm “Tightpants” Reynolds. Sadly, the show lasted a single season and “gorram” did not get a chance seep into our daily vernacular, but it really should. “The gorram power went out in the middle of Glee and it looked like Mr. Shue and Neil Patrick Harris were about to make out!”

I humbly ask that we all do our part to bring these words  into common usage. Please, before I destroy my hearing due to explosive ipod volume.

* The word “cool” is timeless, and always will be.

The World is no longer Quiet Here

My computer recently turned on me (as machines tend to do) and kept me from accessing the internet for over a week. A few days ago I became so desperate to log on I broke down and braved the local branch of the Toronto Public Library, much like I had to do all summer and most of the fall.

I sign up for a computer and sit back and read the Oprah magazine while waiting for it to become available. The place smells rather…”ripe.” As it often does, as sadly mental health care in this country is an embarrassment and some of those who fall through the cracks end up here simply because they have nowhere else to go (that is a seperate and weightier rant for the future).

Things got even less comfortable when I saw the troll who lives under one of the neighborhood bridges sitting at the computer next to mine. He was watching porn, really, nasty-ass porn, sound on, for everyone to see and hear. He was grunting a bit too, and not very sneakily sneaking glances at me. Sadly, this happened a few times over the summer too.

Since no one on the library staff was minding the second floor where the computers are located, there was no one I could wave over so I gave the porn troll a stern look and tried very hard to ignore him as I checked my backlog of e-mails.

Then the White Knights* rode up and tried to rescue me.

“How dare you watch such filth in the presence of a lady, you cad!”

“Are you quite all right, Miss? You’re not traumatized by that man’s boorish behavior? Can I fetch you some smelling salts?”

When I could hold my tongue no longer (and the troll challenged one of the white knights to a duel), I got up and proceeded calmly downstairs to the front desk and informed the guy sitting there that there was trouble brewing upstairs. He looked at me and shrugged “what do you want me to do? Get in the middle of it?” I replied that someone bloody well should. A lovely clerk asked out loud, though to no one in particular “should I call security?” I told her that yes, she should. She then asked me to explain what had gone on and I helpfully pointed out the culprit. By that time I was sick of the whole damn place and quickly took my leave.

For a brief period in high school, I contemplated becoming a librarian. I liked the idea of spending my working life amongst volumes of musty, rich texts, and maybe sneaking in a nooner with a sexy English lit professor in a secluded section of The Stacks. Veeery quietly, of course.

But to study library science required some level of achievement in math so I decided to become a poet instead.

Maybe if I had become a librarian our libraries wouldn’t be in the sad state they are currently in. Even though library usage has increased in recent years, they are no longer sanctuaries to go and read or research in peace.

Remember when libraries were serious places where no one even spoke unless it was absolutely necessary and even then we had to whisper? Not the case anymore. Kids shouting, babies screaming, adults carrying on inane conversations using “outside” voices…most modern libraries may as well be coffee shops or Chuck E Cheezes. And when I shush someone, I get the dirty looks.

But allowing patrons to watch pornography in plain sight? A little kid could easily walk by and see it. And so could a lawsuit-happy parent. And libraries are on shaky ground as it is.

Isn’t it best to keep disruptive people under control in places people go to read or study? Sadly, libraries are in danger of becoming so unpleasant that those who don’t go there to watch porn may just stop going and maybe the government may get rid of public libraries all together.

That would be a damn shame. Free books during a recession, accessible and affordable public space and internet access for when your computer has a boo-boo are all valuable services.

As of last night I have my internet back. So I can get shit done in my own apartment, one of the few quiet places left in my world. With all the meaningless noise out there, I’m tempted to never leave it again.

*White Knight: according to urbandictionary.com “a person (usually a male) who sees the typical maiden in distress, and believes that he can help her. A male version of the “mother figure” that some girls become.”

“Why is he going out with her? She’s broken, and a little crazy.”
“The fool’s just being a White Knight.”

Damn right it gets better (but not for bullies)

This month is chock full of anti-bullying initiatives.  We have International Stand up to bullying day (November 19), Bullying Awareness Week ( November 14-20)  and Anti-Bullying Week (November 15-19). There are no doubt countless others.

It took a pretty high adolescent body count to finally get the issue taken seriously.

I was constantly bullied from grade school until about grade 10 (I can hear the collective gasp of disbelief ). I was a smidge overweight. I listened to the Beatles instead of Bon Jovi. I occasionally did and said odd or smart-ass things.  Nothing that ever hurt anyone, but for some reason a number of kids felt they had the right, nay the duty, to hurt me. And some adults agreed with them.  I was told to ignore them. I was told that I brought the torture on myself because I was so different and refused to hide it, that those poor bullies had no choice but to make my life hell.

I thought about killing myself almost every day.

It’s tempting to use this blog as a platform to scream for bully blood and demand that schools round the little fuckers up and throw them into a pit full of giant flesh-eating lizards. But in the years since graduation, I’ve learned a few things about these mini tyrants.

A little distance and a lot of therapy helped me figure bullying out. Much of their strength lay in numbers, which is why they tended to roam in little gangs (or cliques). How those who weren’t targeted stood by and watched in silence because they didn’t want to become targets themselves, not because they hated me.

I’ve also figured out those bullies were no better than me or any of the kids they picked on, and behind their smug hostility they knew it.

It’s likely their parents treated them like shit, and as no one was protecting them, they took it out on those they perceived as “weaker.” They were often ugly and dumb. Those who weren’t, like the elite Mean Girls, had their own insecurities. They were terrified that the slightest disturbance in the school caste system would threaten their status (and their spot at the cool cafeteria table) and had to keep us peasants downtrodden by any means necessary.

A U.S. study from 2003 found that bullies are seven times more likely than other students to carry weapons to school. Another found that children who bullied in grade 6 to 9 are six times more likely to have a criminal record by the age of 24. As adults, children who bully may display harassment in the workplace or may commit spousal, child, or senior abuse. Clearly, the problem does not magically end after graduation.

And if the internet had existed in my school days, damn straight it would have been utilized by the nasty kids. Those with the cranial capacity to turn on a computer, anyway.

But the internet is also full of resources for kids thinking death may be the only relief from the agony of school. Bullying is  a criminal offense, kids are finally learning.

http://www.torontopolice.on.ca/crimeprevention/bullying.php

They don’t have to take this shit.

I deal with the long-term effects of bullying to this very day. When you’re told you’re garbage nearly every day for years, eventually you believe it. Like I said before, I thought about killing myself constantly. But I got through my time in hell with the aid of a very strong imagination.

I often fantasized that one day I would win an Academy Award and I would use my acceptance speech time to “out” my former tormentors, knowing my legions of fans would mock and shun them and leave flaming bags of dog shit on their door steps. Those who weren’t in prison that is. Thanks largely to them repeatedly telling me how fat and ugly I was, I didn’t have the ego to pursue acting when I was young. I did take it up recently though (very casual and part-time) and now have two IMDB credits. If I ever get an award for anything, I won’t be mentioning my bullies.

I’ve forgotten most of their names.

I admit, I looked a few of them up on Facebook a couple of years ago out of morbid curiosity. I’m pleased to boast I look better than every single one of them. And their bios were bland and often contained blatant spelling errors. They also tend to live in the same bland suburb they were hatched in or worse.

My life is not what you’d call normal because I am not normal, as those bullies loved to point out.  But unlike in my school days, I see this as a good thing.  My literary stardom is imminent. I live in a great city in a nice place with two gorgeous and lovable cats. People pay me money to take my picture (not so fat and ugly anymore). I have purpose (being active in animal rights) and REAL friends who like me because of the quirks I was once shunned for. I’m alive, in every sense of the word.

I triumphed. Bully for them!

Stop being so polite, bitch!

Years ago, I worked for a long distance carrier who shall remain nameless. My job involved calling up ex-customers and try to win them back. Sometimes we have to work demeaning jobs to keep that roof over our heads.

My supervisor was not satisfied with my numbers so one evening he had me listen in on the call center’s top producer (we’ll call him “Dave”) to pick up some pointers. I was astonished by Dave’s phone manner. He’d read the scripted intro in a booming, hostile tone of voice and by the end of the call he was practically barking at these people in broken English. And he actually got disgruntled former customers to sign back up.

I left work that night perplexed. I asked my then-boyfriend how the hell Dave was not fired. If someone called me up and shouted at me I’d demand to talk to a supervisor.

“They probably just wanted to get him off the phone,” he shrugged. But if people wanted to be rid of him, why not hang up? What the hell was wrong with people?

But truth be told, I have let myself be manipulated by such rude people as much as anyone.

Many times I’ve bought useless things due to hovering, pushy salespeople .Why the hell didn’t I just leave the shop and keep my money?

I’m ashamed to say I have even agreed to go out with men who badgered me into having a drink with them who didn’t understand the concept of “no” even when repeated more than once.Too often, I’d agree to that drink just to shut them up and regretted it.

Why didn’t it occur to me that I had the option to tell these idiots “hey you, shut up!”

That’s what sucks about being raised to be courteous. The inconsiderate oafs of the world (and there are many) tend to get what they want simply because we don’t have it in us to tell them to go fuck themselves. And in the end, we are the ones who suffer for being the better persons.

Granted, there are times when you can’t fight rudeness with rudeness.  At work, for example, telling your boss she is an unholy bitch is usually a bad idea (even if she is one). But far too often being brought up proper can work against us.

Whether some un-evolved creature is violating your personal space trying to get laid (and this happens to guys too) , or talking at the theatre, rude people make the world less pleasant. And as the parents of these morons (who should be deeply ashamed of themselves) couldn’t be bothered to do their jobs, it is up to us to put these boors in their place.

Sure, it can be hard for those of us not raised by rabid inbreds to tell these idiots off. The first few times I tried it I could feel the ghost of Emily Post frowning and clucking her tongue at me. But then I thought good and hard about how these uncouth individuals  have made me feel irritated, uncomfortable and sometimes even unsafe over the years.

Like the stinking drunk at the pub who had the nerve to ask me if I was in my thirties or my forties. I told him that was a very insulting question and to please leave. He took his time staggering back to his great unwashed drinking buddies until my gal pal snapped “you heard the lady, bugger off before we alert the bouncer!”

Or the five giggling teens who felt it necessary to amass around a library computer and loudly critique some poor girl’s Facebook page (no doubt cooking up some rude posts) who were oblivious to my shushing and dirty looks. Finally they left when another library patron went to complain to a clerk. Why didn’t I get up and complain myself (other than fearing they would retaliate by stealing my stuff)?

Or the sad lump of a man with delusions of studliness who attempted to chat me up on the Bathurst streetcar, followed me off the streetcar badgering me with questions about where I was going oblivious to my one word answers and lack of eye contact. Undeterred by my fictitious boyfriend he continued to demand my number and then got out his cell phone and showed me a picture of his penis.

Why did I not verbally emasculate him in a loud voice when he ignored my repeated “nos?” Why did I not take that cell phone, hurl it to the ground, repeatedly stomp on it and tell him “be thankful I’m not taking my hostility out on your actual wang you piece of shit!” and threaten to call the cops if he continued to follow me?

Lately I try to minimize my likelihood of running into any of that sort. Ear buds are a great way of pretending you don’t hear people. I also try not to make eye contact with anyone if I don’t have to (sunglasses are a great help here). But sometimes I ache for a second chance to give these assholes I have come across a bit of what they’ve been dishing out to the world.

Rude people only understand rudeness. And really, these lunkheads do not deserve to be treated with respect when they so blatantly disrespect us. Time to give rudeness the finger.

An open letter to those of you looking for kiddie porn (though you can still read it if you aren’t)

Dear pedo scum *,

I know you arrived here expecting to find images of abused children. I know this because I see the search engine terms you typed in that sent you here. Sorry to disappoint you.

When I first started seeing these terms I was squeamish, and then disgusted. I wondered if I should just go back to writing about my cats. But since you’re here anyway, I figured I’d better tell you that I now have your IP address and have forwarded it to my buddies on the force. They will soon show up at your home (or your parents’ home or the sewer you inhabit and somehow managed to access the internet in) to search your personal effects and hard drive. They may bring along chemical castration home kits, or pruning shears. Then you’ll be off to the Big House.

During your (hopefully extended) stay you will meet lots of inmates and guards who are a lot bigger than you and have had lots of time to work out in the yard.  Some of them have little kids at home. Some of them will just be happy to get some fresh meat. Either way, they’re all very interested to meet you.

You may have had trouble making friends before, but on the “inside” your dance card will be full every night of the week. Until you’re all saggy and used up, but by then you won’t mind so much.

I know you’re not entirely to blame. The filth responsible for the kiddie porn you seek will eventually be buggered up the arse with red-hot pokers by karma, though not soon enough (karma can be a bit slow, it has a big job). There’s also the parents who tart up their little girls for fun and profit (“Oh, but my little girl loves being in pageants” you say? Kids like a lot of things that are bad for them. Are you going to sit back and watch them eat mud or play with the sparkly broken glass on the sidewalk?)

Still, you had the option of calling your shrink (you do have one, don’t you?) instead of going online.You make the world an uglier place. You’ve made parents suspicious of every single male teacher their children will ever have. You have created generations of terrified kids. And probably more than a few disturbed adults.  All so you could get your rocks off.

If you have any suicide pills handy, I advise you to take them now. If  not, you’ll have plenty of time to think about what you’ve done in prison, when you’re not trying to hide your shame behind a tiny bar of soap in the shower. I don’t think they allow you on the internet, or if they do there will be heavy supervision. Still, try to jerk off to images of poor little Noah Cyrus with all your fingers broken. You’ll end up like Gary Glitter, minus the fame. I’d be sad for you, except I’m not.

Watch your ass (both figuratively and literally),

Lesly

*It has come to my attention that not everyone who reads this blog is a friend. Some people come across it by chance, using various search engine terms, which I get to see.  Turns out, this blog has been found by certain varieties of scumbag which make my skin crawl. “Little girl taboo sex,” “Powerpuff Pedo” (that one particularly made me want to smash my keyboard), “beautiful thirteen year old pageant girls” and “little girl pedo pic” just to name a few.  Sheesh, you write a couple of (negative)pieces about kiddie beauty pageants and child molesting game show hosts  and end up attracting the worst sort.  I have decided to make the most of the three seconds of attention I will get from them before they realize they’re in the wrong place and look for images of abused children elsewhere.

The Sand vs. Machinery Back to School Special or Is It Summer Yet?

Except for the odd continuing education night class, I haven’t been in school in over a decade. And I still get that feeling of overwhelming dread and nausea every year around this time. It’s just a matter of days until school is back in session. Fun time is OVER.

I feel for the poor kids. I have not forgotten what they are facing as I periodically attend Dream School (see sidebar at the end for more information).

But the heartless adults in the advertising industry have clearly forgotten (maybe they don’t dream). All those commercials featuring kids excited about going back are insulting. In what parallel universe are kids happy about having to abandon swimming pools, swing sets and daydreaming (all the things that make childhood worthwhile) to sit in austere rows of desks, eyes forward and unable to speak or pee without permission for seven hours a day, five days a week?

That Wal Mart commercial is the worst offender (“Ay! Oh! Ay! Oh! We-re goin’ back!”). Children joyfully racing towards to the conformity factory? Please.  No trendy pair of sneakers or shiny Justin Bieber backpack could incite them to burst into song about returning to school. If real kids actually sang about such a thing, it would sound more like a funeral dirge than Mini Pops sings the Ramones.

I’m also perplexed about that new Kleenex ad which features what appears to be a highly choreographed, school-wide game of Pat-a-cake. If this were attempted at a real school, you can’t tell me sooner or later someone wouldn’t slap too hard and end up hitting someone’s face instead of their hands “accidentally.” Germs are one of the least scary things about school. Bullies, being called on, P.E., feeling stupid: that’s what keeps kids up at night.

The only commercials that ever seemed to get it right were the ones for Staples, like the classic below:

Incidentally, I find it hilarious that this guy, who along with his baby mama, probably couldn’t wait to breed a decade or so earlier is now so elated to be getting rid of them for a good chunk of the day. You’d think he’d be at work during those magical hours, though, maybe he’s a stay-at-home dad. The commercial doesn’t make that clear. But the undertaker march of his offspring screams the truth: “the Most Wonderful Time of the Year?” More like “Another Brick in the Wall.”

I remember the night before starting the seventh grade, lying in bed and entertaining an elaborate fantasy in which all the middle schools in the district magically burned to the ground. As no one got killed, I think it was a healthy fantasy. Until I got to university where I was living away from home and taking subjects I chose and were actually interesting to me, I had slight variations on the same fantasy at the end of every summer.

But maybe things have changed? Am I out of touch? Do twenty-first century kids actually anticipate the first day of school with starry eyes and fresh optimism? Has this newfangled Helicopter Parenting and reckless application of Ritalin robbed a generation of their innate ability to amuse themselves?

I asked a group of sulky-looking adolescents at the coffee shop I frequent who appeared to trust me because I was reading Harry Potter if they or anyone they knew was excited about school. One girl rolled her eyes and said “no!” Another said maybe a handful of nerds, but generally no, they were not excited. The others grunted in agreement and went back to slurping what may be their last whipped cream topped frozen beverage of the summer. I didn’t press. Their sad eyes said it all.

I am not advocating getting rid of school. The planet does not need more stupid people, so sadly it is a necessary evil. And I am aware that actual truth in advertising is rare. But most kids are very aware that they will be stuck in classrooms until at least their twenties and that it’s hard to even get a job as a ditch digger without a high school diploma (or does that require a master’s degree now?) But don’t try to tell them they should be pleased about it.

Sidebar: What is this Dream School I speak of? You know, those dreams where you’re inexplicably back in school (usually high school with me but occasionally middle school). Except you haven’t been to class all semester and have no idea where your math final is taking place and you’re terrified of some foul creature lurking in the boiler room. For a better explanation, read Tom Robbins’ Villa Incognito, which I can guarantee you won’t be on any high school reading list.

http://www.hcs.harvard.edu/~hbr/issues/5.2summer03/articles/robbins.shtml

Not so much “lost” as “invisible”

A couple of years ago, when the word “emo” seeped its way into our vernacular, I assumed everyone was referring to the absurdly hilarious little man and was pleased he was making a comeback:

But no, they were talking about those sad-eyed children who enjoy mopey and (often) pretentious bands. And for the first time in my life, I felt my age.

I don’t really feel a kinship with most of my peers. I don’t have a mortgage, human children, mini van (or any vehicle for that matter) or bags under my eyes that would identify me as part of the Lost Generation. Most of my friends are either in similar situations or are a bit younger. The fact that my nephew and I read the same books for years (but he is now sixteen and has sadly moved on from Harry Potter and Lemony Snicket) didn’t help (or is it “hurt”) either.

Then I started getting lists like the following e-mailed to me:

http://www.beloit.edu/mindset/2014.php

I am blown away that people I went to high school with have offspring who are entering high school (astonishingly one is probably ready to graduate by now!) My first reaction when someone my age announces they’re going to be spawning is still “oh no, did the condom break?”

But I never did feel like I belonged to my own generation. During the 80s I became obsessed with all things 60s and was mocked for it. Strange how I felt so much older than my peers then. I can’t help but feel a smug satisfaction in the fact that those who mocked me now have kids who are no doubt looking at their parents’ old year books and laughing at their big, asymmetrical hair and shoulder pads. But then how do we explain 80s or 90s retro (which seems to be fading but still…)

I will probably go see the Smurf movie (mainly because I’m curious to see if it will be ironic and if Smurfette is still the only female in the entire Smurf Village). But did we really need a new 90210 or Melrose Place? Neither were very compelling the first time around (yes, kids watched them because there was nothing good on television!).

Last summer I confronted a slack-eyed teen wearing an over sized “Killroy was Here” t-shirt and grabbed him by the baggy sleeves.

“Who is Killroy? Tell me!”

“I d-d-dunno lady, please don’t hurt me and make me look like a goob in front of my peers!”

I relaxed my death grip on him and steadied my breath.

“Well, that’s okay kid. No one knew who the hell Killroy was in my day either!”

I smiled and released him with a pat on the head.

“Off you go then!”

(Okay, I only confronted him in my mind but if I’d had a few drinks in me…)

Truth be told, there hasn’t been a retro-worthy time period since Woodstock (okay maybe the glam seventies but sadly it was disco that made a comeback. At least disco was funny, though).  Small wonder we were the Lost Generation as there was little or nothing for us to find. There has been little to capture our hearts or minds and engage us. I just hope by the time Britney and One Tree Hill reruns start popping up on VH-1 (if we still have VH-1 or even television by then) that I’ll be senile and lost in the happy world in my head.

Take this job and #@!^^*@##$!!!

I won’t rehash the story of rogue Jet Blue steward Steven Slater. Not because we all know the story, but because I doubt we’ve heard it all yet. We may have to wait for the movie.

http://www.cnn.com/2010/TRAVEL/08/09/new.york.escape.chute.opened/index.html

But it’s no bloody wonder he has achieved folk hero status. Customer service jobs are agony!

Sure, we’ve all been on the receiving end of rude clerks and surly waiters, but at least we have the option of bitching to the manager or the Better Business Bureau. I have worked in retail, call centers, fund-raising and waited tables to put a roof over my head and have seen humanity at its most uncouth. And short of customers actually throwing punches or pulling a gun, we have no recourse. We must stand there and smile and take all sorts of abuse.

Too many people think buying a plane ticket or a latte buys them the right to treat those who serve them like garbage.

I imagine Slater took a lot of crap before he reached his breaking point. Screaming kids (and the parents who let them scream), people catching smokes in the microscopic bathrooms, being hit on by drunken morons, people who flout the rules of safety even after they are patiently explained over and over. Friendly skies my arse!

Being on the front line dealing with the public is a pain even if you are a people person. If someone’s hamburger wasn’t cooked just the way a customer wanted it, it’s the server who gets the threats of lawsuits over salmonella poisoning and gets to relay it to the chef. And don’t try to get any sympathy from management, sitting behind the protective barriers of their desks or their clip boards. There are a lot of people out of work who could do your job, they will not hesitate to remind you before sending you back into battle.

Many times I wished I had the guts to hurl a Frappucino in some rude buggers face before storming out of Starschmucks forever. But I endured the java junkies and their insane demands (you don’t serve “French Vanillas”? I’m sorry, but did you see a sign outside that says Tim Freaking Hortons? No? You know why? Because there isn’t one! You’re going to have to settle for a plain old vanilla latte or drive the twenty minutes to get to Timmies and no amount of whining will tell me their secret formula!) until I had the safety net of a marginally better job. Even then all I had the guts to do was sign my resignation letter “I hope you’re not too miffed. Bye-eee!” and then dance a little jig after my final shift.

But then, I never ended up with a cut on my head due to passengers who deliberately flouted the rules of airline safety. And to those who say his dramatic exit was irrational and he inconvenienced a whole plane load of innocent people, take a good look at how bloody rude the average person is, imagine having to deal with hundreds of such people five days a week for thirty or so years. And take a good look at how you treat those who serve you.

Death to Shoes!

I hate shoes! Quite literally, they rub me the wrong way.

I have mutant feet.  Even as a kid shoe shopping was a nightmare. It was bad enough I was always one or two shoe sizes bigger than my peers, but my feet were also unusually narrow. There was a single shoe store in all of Mississauga that stocked anything that would fit me, and even then I was relegated to wearing shoes with straps or laces because I would walk straight out of the cute slip-ons my normal footed friends got to wear.

Sometime in junior high I found the cutest mod black shoes at the mall and in a brief fit of  fantasy, I asked a salesman if they had them in my size. The unfeeling asshole laughed at me. I’d like to say I chewed him out for his rudeness or demanded to see the manager or set off a stink bomb before storming out. But I promptly ran out and cried into an Orange Julius, cursing my deformed feet.

My feet remain narrow as ever, plus I am a half-size and not many manufacturers feel the need to make shoes in half sizes. I also have arch trouble so I’ve been wearing orthotics for the past ten years. So my choices in footwear are still sadly limited. When I can find shoes that will stay on my feet I have to strategically stick bandages to my feet or I end up with nasty blisters and calluses. Granted, I’m a city dweller and I walk everywhere, but it’s not like I prance around in stilettos, I’m talking casual so-called walking shoes here!

My mother gave me an innocuous looking pair of sandals last week and I thought maybe I could finally just slip them on and go out the door without having to prepare my feet in advance. But no, not only did I end up with a massive blister, but it ended up bleeding and hurt like a bugger for several days.

So yeah, shoes and I, not friends.

With all the trouble I have with shoes, I’m constantly baffled at women who purposely harm themselves with the ridiculous shoes that are currently all the rage.

Cobbled by Satan Himself!

Heels have reached stupefying heights. In addition to making it impossible to run without putting yourself in peril, we risk wrecking our knees and backs, no matter how cushion-y those Dr. Scholl insoles are supposed to be. Those stupid pointy toes that just beg for accessories like stripey socks, broomsticks and insane cackles, they pinch and lead to attractive things like bunions and hammer toes. But since were now expected to wear them all the time, who will see our feet anyhow? Except the doctors who may end up performing osteoarthritis surgery on us someday.

Shoes were invented with the noblest intentions: to protect our feet from elements (and mastodon droppings). But who will protect us from these fashionable torture devices? Certainly not the fashionistas.

“But they make your legs look long and sexy! You don’t want stumpy legs, do you? No man wants a gal with stumpy legs!”

Sure, men love ‘em. They don’t have to wear them. Heck, the damn things may have been invented by a certain type of man in order to make it difficult to impossible to run from them. Consider the dreadful chopine:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chopine

Not that I don’t enjoy wearing a slinky pair of heels (though not pointy stilettos) to nice sit-down dinners where you’re not expected to walk a lot, but they do tend to get kicked off  if there is dancing involved. And they’re pretty much a requirement for glamour shoots and runway (not that I do much of the latter). But I see these women hobbling along the sidewalk going to work and I just want to start a Jimmy Choo bonfire. But sadly there is little else available in stores now (I once went into a shop and asked for “plain, black flats” and the sales girl looked at me as if I were speaking Swahili).

But then we have tortured ourselves in the name of fashion as long as there has been fashion. I suppose when we’re in our fifties and our feet are shot to hell, we can reminisce about how good we looked as we slip on our orthopedic loafers. Sexy, indeed!