A Plague of Wokeusts

As I wrapped up my morning worship service at the altar I set up for Chris Harrison, in the hope he'll one day return to the Bachelor franchise, I wondered: Will Black Friday be changed to "Day you can trample your neighbour to buy useless shit that's on sale"; will the Indian Ocean be changed to "Indigenous Persons' Ocean"; will anyone ever again understand what someone means when using the word "they"; will Shotgun Wedding now be known as "Pre-matrimony pregnancy ceremony"?

Should humans born as biologically female ever bother again with competitive swimming? Since "she" competitors may have been a former he who's now a she and claiming to be two spirited. Or is that too spirited? I get confused.

I figured while public discourse in the West was raging over whether Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head should have a gender, I'd learn Mandarin. 

Aren't the homeless visible enough to be considered a "visible minority"? 

If there's Metis blood in my European family tree, is that cultural appropriation? 

I was blindsided by the interdiction of the word "blind". 

Should "competitive pricing" now be "participation pricing"?

Should He-Man and She-ra now be referred to as "They-man" and "They-ra"? Will it matter when Putin takes Ukraine?

As a white, Gen X, cisgender, heterosexual female pondering the sins of others that have somehow become my own, I wonder: "If I enter the confessional, can a pedophile in a dress absolve me"?

If you're into BDSM, can you still use the word "slave"?

Richard Nixon brought in the EPA. Al Gore sits on Apple Inc.'s Board of Directors. Don't judge a book by its glossy cover. 

If I'm spooked by a savage lack of veracity in one's discourse, am I consciously referring to a racial slur from World War II and using centuries-old European colonizers' language or am I simply saying: "That makes no sense."

I would stop using the term "first-world problem" except that would deny the fact that there is indeed a global class system, and I doubt that a poor African villager's worst problem is that Uber Eats is late with their Thai food delivery. It's a first-world problem. 

My spirit animal is the sloth. I can say that because I have Metis blood in my family, and I'm lazy.

Elvis Presley sang about the "ghetto" so I guess we should cancel him. Oh wait, he's already dead, and ghettos still exist.

European inspired root canals

So the boyfriend and I went to Europe for three weeks. We booked our flights and a couple of nights at a hotel in Frankfurt, where we were landing, and that's it. The remaining 19 nights were not booked, nor destinations planned. We were just gonna wing it. We had an idea of the general geographic area we wanted to stick to (Central Europe) but no more thought was really put into it than that.

Strangely, leading up to the trip, we didn't think about it much. I guess we were busy with our daily lives and since we had decided on relatively little planning, it really wasn't front of mind. It only started sinking in about a week before we were leaving when I drew up my "pre-trip" to-do list. Then it was like, holy shit, we're going overseas for three weeks. WTF.

Now, you might be thinking, big deal. Everyone goes to Europe. A lot of people don't really plan their trip. So what? And I would say, yes, that's true. I would also say there is truth to the old adage that people go to Europe to "find themselves", because I found myself. At 39. Racked with anxiety and wonderment.

That first night in Frankfurt, I couldn't sleep because our idea was finally hitting me. We're on this continent for three weeks and I have no idea where we're going or what we'll be doing. A complete blank slate. Sheer panic started to set in, and I was hit with a sharp pang of homesickness.

You see, I plan for a living. I'm always thinking of the future, booking things in advance, organizing, and I have a very stable lifestyle, i.e. my ass is on the couch most nights watching TV, after a day of work. I also have a touch of the OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) and the specter of the unknown for three weeks hit me like an abusive husband on a bender.

I guess you're supposed to work this shit out in your late teens / early twenties when most people go backpacking across Europe. I've always been a late bloomer. We ended up going to Berlin, Dresden, Prague, Vienna and Budapest, and at 39, I discovered that major urban centres, although stimulating, stress me out a bit, especially when I don't speak the language and we're trying to use public transportation to get around cities we're unfamiliar with. As the boyfriend put it, I earned my orienteering badge on this trip.

I realized I'm a nester, and just as I was getting comfortable feathering my nest in one city, we would up and leave for the next. I guess I've always known this about myself but nowhere was it more evident than on this trip. Wow, I'm really not a gypsy. Ok. Except that "nester" doesn't sound as cool as "gypsy". "Nester" sounds like generic suburban housewife, which I am most definitely not. I think.

Then, on day 4 of 21, I developed a very mild toothache which I consequently, at varying degrees, on different days, obsessed about. I mean, it didn't hurt or anything but I knew something was amiss. Again, with the unknown. What's causing this? Should I see a dentist right away? Can it wait? It can wait. I mean, I'm in a foreign country, and it's not an emergency. But can it wait another two and half weeks? I've had a root canal before. What if this is indicative of another one? What if my tooth is rotting from the inside right now? Or maybe it's just my gum that's inflamed. I DON'T KNOW. The idea of not getting any answers for at least a couple weeks was somewhat traumatic. I don't cope well with uncertainty, and yet it's the basic condition of human life. Go figure.

It was a deeply profound experience in that I remained on my edges for 21 days, without the comfort of the familiar, constantly exposed to new cities, languages and cultures, and ultimately reminded that we all resemble each other so much more than we differ from each other. All our unplanned logistics fell into place beautifully and helpful, friendly people always seemed to show up when we needed them. I guess I realized it's ok to not know, and the world "out there" is nothing to be afraid of. Unless you're traveling to Somalia. Then, you should probably be afraid.

I did have to get a second root canal when we returned home. Both of my canine teeth are now dead. It's a matching set. I wonder if that makes me kind of a vampire.

Pavement and my ass: two things that should never meet unexpectedly

I recently caught a severe case of fallis on assis on a busy street in front of a gaggle of pedestrians. There's nothing quite like public embarrassment to keep it real, you know? The culprit was a patch of black ice. I know what you're thinking: "Why is there ice to contend with in April?" Well, this winter has been particularly harsh, the kind of winter they're referring to in Game of Thrones when they say "Winter is coming."

I've started commuting via bicyclette and it's still colder than a witch's titty out there. I know, WTF right? So, I'm riding my bike down a busy street, all proud of myself for paying attention to parked cars and people coming out of them (as a cyclist, parked cars can be a menace if a door opens and you're unprepared) but what I fail to notice is a light turning red at a pedestrian crosswalk.

I keep going merrily on my way when I realize I'm about to run over someone innocently crossing the street. Shit. Slam on the brakes. Except, double shit, ice. Back wheel fishtails forward and gains serious momentum due to frozen water underfoot. So much momentum it drags the rest of the bike and me along with it until I find myself flat on my ass. WTF just happened.

Then I hear tidbits of conversation among the onlookers: "What the f*ck! Look, there's ice. Are you ok?" Once I realized I hadn't run over anyone, I felt marginally better, except when I tried to get up. My left knee hurt like a mother f*cker. But my ego was already severely bruised so I pretended like everything was ok, and rode off to continue my trek to the office.

I was shaken up by the sudden trauma of public embarrassment but I managed to arrive at work in one piece. However, I realized my knee had sustained some kind of injury. But I was a trooper. I wasn't gonna sit around all day, feeling sorry for myself. I went to the gym over lunch and realized that my knee actually felt better when in motion and worse when static for long periods of time. Weird.

I was really bummed out when I thought I might not be able to run for a while because of my sore knee but the boyfriend said I should probably keep moving it, so I did, and realized I can still run. Good thing too because I just started up again after being unable to run due to my frankenvein (aka vericose vein) treatments over the last three months. At first, I was all like: "Universe, what up yo?" but now I'm like:" Ok, it's cool, everything still works".

So the moral of the story is: there shouldn't be any ice left in April. (global warming my ass...)

A tale for the anal, I mean, annals of veterinary medicine

So I've been busy lately. My 6-month old kitten had to be taken to the vet clinic last week to get spayed. It was going to be a simple procedure. However, my kitty has a frankenpaw, a weirdly deformed thing with a crazy huge nail growing out of it. I thought we'd be able to manage it on our own, but alas, I was wrong.

When I brought her in for surgery, the frankenpaw had worsened. The nail was growing into the pad of her paw and bleeding. I knew something had to be done. So, with a very heavy heart, I left her in the care of the vet clinic.

I got a call a few hours later. They had taken x-rays of kitty's paw. Our vet had never seen anything like it and suspected he never would again. Three digits were fused together. So, he put her surgery on hold and called in a couple colleagues to assess the situation and decide what to do. This was truly a unique case.

By evening, my boyfriend and I made our way to the vet's office to discuss the plan the veterinary team had come up with to fix kitty's frankenpaw. They showed us the x-ray:

I know. How crazy is that shit. She's truly one in a million. You see, we found her abandoned in a provincial park at four weeks old. I figure her previous caretaker(s) took a look at her paws and decided she was the expendable one. Oh ye of little faith. My little trooper prevailed and found herself a loving home and an excellent medical team.

So, the next day the surgery went ahead. They spayed her (which involved taking out all her lady bits - who knew?) and they fixed her paw:

We picked up kitty the day after surgery. The ordeal was not quite over yet. Kitty had to wear the cone of shame. You see, she has to keep it on until her stitches come out. I suspect it's more traumatic for me than it is for her. For the first few days after surgery she wouldn't put any weight on her former frankenpaw. I called her McLimpy. She recently started walking on it again. Here she is, resting comfortably:

How can you not love that face?

 
Kitty is progressing well. She's emerged from her stoned post-op phase and has regained all her former energy and verve. The cone comes off in two and a half days. Mommy can't wait. In the meantime, mommy needs a drink.

It's official - Apple owns me

The sheer depth of my dependence on handheld electronic devices was revealed to me recently. It was, to say the least, a disturbing incident. Not so much because of what actually happened but more so because of how I reacted to it.

There I was, late on a Sunday evening, getting ready for bed. I had just finished texting a friend, and was about to check my calendar, or the weather, or something on my iPhone, when this message popped up: "No SIM card installed". WTF? At first, I didn't pay much attention to it. I was in the midst of downloading updates to my Angry Birds app, and it didn't seem affected by this strange message. 

However, I sensed something was amiss. Again, the message popped up. Then, I noticed the name of my cellphone carrier had disappeared from the top left hand corner. OH HOLY JESUS WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY iPHONE! I then proceeded to check my settings and the phone was disabled. Can't make any calls without your cellphone carrier. 

This is when I started to freak out. What do I DO? Why isn't it working? I didn't do anything to it! What's happening? Why God, WHY? As I'm unraveling, my boyfriend is looking at me with some concern. "Why don't you call the carrier? They have 24/7 technical assistance." "They do?" I respond. "Yes" says my boyfriend. "Ok, yeah, that's a good idea. I should call them. I NEED to call them."

So, I call the cellphone carrier's tech support line, and was put in touch with a very friendly tech dude who walked me through what could be going wrong. 

He indicated that my SIM card may have gotten displaced or may have an error. He told me how to pop it out, give it a clean, readjust it and pop it back in. Once this was done, I turned on my phone again. I remember feeling like the heavens opened up and legions of angels took me into their arms. It worked. All was right with the world again.

Turns out it was a fairly simple problem, and if what I did that night hadn't worked, all I had to do was go to one of the carrier's stores and they would install a new SIM card. Problem solved. 

Once this was all over and I hung up the phone, my boyfriend was looking at me, with a hint of a smile. "What?" I say. "I don't think I've ever seen that look on your face before. It was all contorted" he says. "Oh, like that girl on the Bachelor, who made those clownish faces all the time? And it was really funny?" I say. "No", he says. "Like a serial killer." "Oh", I say.

The irony of this whole situation is that the feature of my iPhone that was momentarily disabled is the one I use the least, the actual phone part. But the idea that I could be cut off from my iPhone world was unbearable. I lost my shit. If I hadn't figured out what was going on immediately, I wouldn't have slept that night. Seriously. 

The degree of my dependence on this device is concerning. I suppose it was Apple's goal to make their products seem utterly indispensable to the smooth functioning of our daily lives. They have succeeded. I drank the kool-aid.  Why not just insert an Apple chip directly into my brain. Or have they already...

Say it ain't so Joe... (I don't know who Joe is, it's a saying, just roll with it)

There I was, innocently perusing the Huffington Post when I came across not one, but two harrowing headlines: 1) a photo of Family Guy characters with the heading: Ending Soon? and 2) '30 Rock' may end this season. In the words of Elaine Benes, from the infamous Seinfeld episode The Contest: "Okay, you tryin' to hurt me? You tryin' to hurt me? You're tryin' to injure me, right? You're tryin' to hurt me..."

Seth MacFarlane has mentioned that there would still be a Family Guy movie every few years  instead of a TV series, but still. What about those years in between movie releases? I get that TV shows have a certain shelf life, and some do pass their expiration date. However, I don't feel that Family Guy has reached that point. 

I was kinda hoping it would be like the Simpsons, seemingly lasting forever. I want to say I understand where Seth is coming from, since change is inevitable and we need to embrace it but if I'm truly honest... f*ck that shit! You can't take away my weekly dose of Family Guy! What will I DO? 

It's the only antidote to political correctness, right-leaning religious fanatics, impotent journalism, broken democracy and vapid entertainment. In other words, it's a necessity to true democratic discourse. It's an anthropological record of 21st Century social mores. Are those enough fancy words strung together to sound like a seriously pondered argument? Good. I have no idea what they mean but they sound intelligent. 

Like that wasn't enough trauma for one day, I find out 30 Rock may be nearing its conclusion. I worship at the altar of Tina Fey. The very thought that this show might end is inconceivable. Why can't it go on indefinitely? I know Tina's had another kid, and Alec Baldwin would like to pursue other projects but c'mon people, you can't leave us in the lurch. 

You can't shower us with your brilliance every week, then just walk away. That's cruel. I mean, if there were other prospects out there, 30 Rock's absence might not be such a frightening thought and, like a break-up, it's always easier when a rebound is lined up, you know? But it ain't a "great comedy" buffet out there, if you get my drift. Shows of this caliber are rare which is why we cling so obsessively to them.

If you're going to produce socially-relevant, jaw-droppingly clever, thigh-slapping, laughter-inducing material, you should resign yourself to the fact that you can never, ever quit.

She lives!

Before I get to the story behind this post's title, I want to talk a bit about the wonderful game of golf. I never thought I'd be one of "those" people, you know, golfers. It was a little too hoity-toity, a little too mainstream for this artsy rebel. Well, I've basically sold out and don't have the energy anymore to be rebellious so I've taken up golf.

If there's anything I've learned so far it's that this game requires emotional fortitude because right now, I suck at it. My best game so far was actually my first game this season. From there, I got progressively worse. You'd think it would be the opposite. But as our golf instructor told us, golf is very counter-intuitive. I guess it's also counter-progressive too. 

It's the kind of sport you absolutely adore when things are going well. You feel accomplished and capable as you relish the natural beauty of the golf course. You feel you belong. However, when things start to go south, and you've lost your mojo, it becomes one of the most demoralizing exercises in perseverance. Gone is the sense of accomplishment, only to be replaced by utter despair and anger and it's almost as if you expect the golf police to come by and throw you off the course. "Come back when you can hit a straight shot, you flunky!", you imagine them saying. 

However, I'm not one to cower when faced with a hefty challenge and I will master this game. That pesky little white ball will bend to my will and I will be victorious. Mark my words, I WILL be victorious.

And now for something completely different.... (thank you Monty Python)

You know when you wake up in the morning and you go into your living room and find your cat sprawled on the floor, and you pet her a couple times but she doesn't move and it looks like she's not breathing and for a split second you think she's dead and your heart starts to pound and tears start rolling down your cheeks and then suddenly her little head perks up and she looks at you as if you've lost your marbles?

Well, that's what happened to me the other morning. You see, I have an old cat with a chronic kidney condition. She hadn't eaten in about a day, was quite lethargic and things were looking dire. Hence the immediate assumption that she may have passed away on my living room floor. 

However, Phoebe was still alive. So we called the vet and brought her in. Apparently, she had contracted a respiratory infection which was unrelated to her kidney condition. The vet gave her some subcutaneous fluids, a shot of antibiotics and got her to eat. If all went well, she would be better within about three days. It's about day two and a half and my cat seems to be on the mend. Yes, she still has her chronic kidney condition but she's perked up and is eating again. She's a tough old bird and is presently relaxing on our backyard deck.

Being faced with a cherished pet's mortality is not pleasant. I had to put Phoebe's brother down almost two years ago and it was one of the most difficult, heart-wrenching things I've ever had to do. However, Phoebe seems to have cheated death, at least for now, and my heart has been put back together.