Dear Margaret Wente,
Thanks for reminding me that my vagina keeps control of my need to have, and express opinions. Clearly, I had forgotten.
But it seems that you’ve also forgotten something very important: you write an opinion column and you’re a woman.
What am I missing here?
I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt here and suppose that maybe you were too busy for any of that pesky “journalism” stuff like research, but women blog. Women blog a lot.
I don’t have any numbers, but I do have some experience. I have been blogging for years. I know lots of women who blog. There are entire conventions for women who blog, books about women who blog, listing sites, and of course, the blogs.
Salon has an section of paid women bloggers, where brilliantly smart women like Kate Harding, Tracy Clark-Flory and Mary Elizabeth Williams write about their opinions daily.
I would like to avoid using “women” as a category because it cannot express the differences of the 3 billion women on earth, and declaring their sameness by virtue of their reproductive organs isn’t very useful (it’s a little like telling me that women, by nature, don’t like sports, action movies, the colour blue…and on and on and on). But without getting into the details of why women blog, it’s safe to say that there is a wide variety of female opinion on the internet.
You don’t have to like their blogs or agree with their opinions, but suggesting that they don’t exist is just stupid.
So I have to wonder if there is something else that you don’t like about the idea of women bloggers. Is it that you look down on blogging in general? (Is this like the time Gwyneth Paltrow referred to Jennifer Aniston as “that TV girl”) Or just that you don’t like women to express opinions outside of the confines of a major newspaper? Maybe you don’t want to believe that women need a space to share, bond, rant, express, or pontificate. Is that it?
You said this in your piece:
“Do you ever wonder why, long after the rest of journalism has become pretty much gender neutral, the talk shows and opinion pages are still dominated by male voices?”
The answer is “sort of.” Actually, what I wonder is how is it possible to think we’ve come so far, and yet women are still underrepresented in many professions? I’d be more inclined to think it might have something to do with women getting invited to the metaphorical party less often. Maybe because people (ahem, like you) think that women just aren’t interested/capable/smart enough to give opinions, they aren’t offered the jobs at the same rate as men. Just a thought.
Or maybe not. But one thing is true: Just like you say in your article, “Margaret Wente is an idiot.”
Love,
Lizz
*note to reader: I know being a jackass is kind of Margaret Wente’s thing, but sometimes I just can’t bite my tongue. Sigh. I wish I could be a better woman.
Today was a big day for my bicycle… err… for me on my bicycle. I not only took my bike on the TTC for the first time, but I rode home from work at Eglinton and Avenue Road.
That’s not exactly a big deal for people who commute by bike everyday in Toronto, but it was certainly a big deal for me.
I was nervous – both about the bus and the ride.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to make it up to Eglinton by bike – I’m far too out of shape to ride uphill for 30 minutes straight, and I figured I shouldn’t be too exhausted to do anything by the time I got to work – so the bus was really the only option.
The TTC has bike racks on most of their buses on major routes these days, but I’ve rarely seen anyone use them.
I had visions of an angry bus driver who would get mad at me for not knowing how to use the rack, and I half-expected my bike to fall off in traffic and get run over by the bus (I had a dream about that the other night).
But none of that happened, and I lucked out and got the regular driver I was hoping for (the perfect TTC employee).
Then there was the issue of getting home without dying.
There are very few bikes in the uptown area, and even fewer bike lanes. Even worse, so many of the side streets end, wind, or change directions that it can be really difficult to find a route that gets you all the way downtown.
Luckily, Joe at BikingToronto answered my Twitter plea and helped my find a route. I altered it a little bit, but I would never have known about the wondrous Russell Hill Road had it not been for him.
The road doesn’t start at Eglinton, but otherwise it is perfect. It is a lovely, winding route through a beautiful (and rich) neighbourhood, with a bike lane all the way from St. Clair to Davenport. There was barely any traffic, and riding beside the park felt like I wasn’t in the city at all.
Oh yeah, and for scaredy-cats, the hill isn’t as steep as Avenue Road so it makes it a much more leisurely route for newbie cyclists like me.
I’ve come a long way from crying at the bike shop. Yay me!
If you’re afraid of making mistakes like I am, and want to learn how to use the racks, check out the video on the TTC’s Bike Page
If you happen to be biking from Eglinton to College, here’s my route: View Larger Map
I’m horrified to admit it, but I’ve been using Twitter.
I’ll pause now for the mocking I so rightly deserve.
You might remember that I really hated Twitter for a very long time.
I thought the basic concept as described by Twitter was silly, the media hype was irritating, and the made-up words were stupid.
I’m not the only person to publically hate Twitter. Vanessa Grigoriadis wrote this piece for Vanity Fair. The patronizing article basically calls everyone on Twitter morons (yeah, like I did). But to quote Ryan (from a piece I highly recommend):
Twitter brings out strange reactions in people, particularly among those who have never used it. My lovely girlfriend was at one point so annoyed by Twitter that I set up an appropriately named account just to spite her.
And he’s right. I hated Twitter without ever using it. (Ryan says that makes me a Twitter Bigot. A Twigot?) But it isn’t entirely my fault.
In my time leading up to becoming a Twitter-user, I consistently saw asinine media “reports” about old-man U.S. Congressmen tweeting during important speeches and meetings, about Ashton Kutcher and CNN in a race for followers, or numerous other reports about the way the site was infiltrating lives.
Still, I made a [moderate] effort to understand Twitter by going to their “About” section. It used to say this:
Twitter is a service for friends, family, and co–workers to communicate and stay connected through the exchange of quick, frequent answers to one simple question: What are you doing? “Why? Because even basic updates are meaningful to family members, friends, or colleagues—especially when they’re timely.
- Eating soup? Research shows that moms want to know.
- Running late to a meeting? Your co–workers might find that useful.
- Partying? Your friends may want to join you.
The description put forth by the creators of Twitter was inane. I couldn’t take it seriously and I couldn’t understand the usefulness. After all, I already had Facebook to update my friends on my antics, post pictures and read about my friends’ day, why would I need a second medium?
Then I grudgingly started using Twitter for my job. And gradually, I wanted to follow people of my own who didn’t really make sense to follow at work. Then I wanted to re-tweet things people posted that weren’t always appropriate.
So I got my own account. And I was ashamed.
After all, I had been a very public jerk, and I wasn’t sure if my new-found curiosity for Twitter would actually result in a fondness for the micro-blogging site.
So I kept it a secret for a while — I didn’t even tell Ryan right away (if you understood how much he mocks me you’d know why). I certainly didn’t follow anyone who knew me. But I tweeted away in secret.
When I finally decided that I liked Twitter enough to quit being ashamed, I realized that I needed to start using it properly and effectively. This meant using hash tags to join conversations, following people with similar interests to my own (bloggers, writers, angry ranters, etc), and posting my own writing to my feed using catchy titles and good keywords.
It also meant understanding that Twitter isn’t necessarily about connecting with people you already know — there are other, more personal, social media sites for that. I knew I didn’t want Twitter to be a place just to share what I had for lunch, I wanted it to be a place to promote myself as a writer, and to network with people that I otherwise wouldn’t have a chance to “meet.”
As it turns out, it is pretty neat to chat with a writer you like at Newsweek, and read bitchy live-blogs from your favourite gossip columnist during awards ceremonies.
Despite Twitter’s seemingly useless beginnings, it actually has become an important part of the social-mediasphere – and many people post very interesting (and sometimes hilarious) things.
Businesses use Twitter to connect with customers. Felicia Day, and others like her, has used Twitter to promote her brand (she has several successful web series) by developing a massive following. I get strangers following my blog because of a tag I used in a post.
Some people still post mundane thoughts, and young girls still bicker over who is the best pre-pubescent boy superstar, but that’s hardly a surprise. Twitter as whole looks a lot like the Internet, or even the world as a whole. Some people are awesome, some people are OK, and some people are idiots.
Twitter has since changed their “About” page to reflect what the service has become, but that is due in large part to the people who use it — people who have figured out how to make something dumb into something brilliant.
Yes, it is still a place for morons, but it’s also a place for rebellion and a place for connection.
Even without those very good reasons, it turns out that Twitter is…sigh… just kind of fun.
I’ve always been a bit of a know-it-all — a statement which comes of no surprise to anyone who knows me. But behind the need to show everyone how smart I am is a need to actually be smart. I like to collect weird information.
So tonight I went to a special presentation at CBC about the Dragon’s Den television show — not so much to learn about business, but instead to sate my curiosity about how the show works. It was sponsored by Enterprise Toronto, and as such David Miller showed up to talk about all the great things the City is doing for entrepreneurs and how great Toronto is. It was super positive.
Then some former contestants, Mark of Ecotraction and the women of Dig It Gardening Gloves, spoke about their success, a bit about how the deals, and answered some questions on strategy. Mostly it was pretty vague.
When I first saw the Dig It women in the lobby I was disappointed. I had seen their episode, and remembered the deal they got on the show: for $50,000, Kevin O’Leary got 10% of their company, plus 3% of future sales in perpetuity. The other dragons tried to warn the women against the deal because it was such a crap deal. Basically, I thought these women were idiots.
But then the news broke: The deal we saw the Dig It girls take on TV was not the deal they actually ended up with.
In reality, the women left with a deal from Kevin that was exactly what they asked for: $50, 000 for 10% of their company. There were no royalties and they reserved the right to buy that 10% back at the same rate if Kevin failed to get them into the US Market.
That’s a huge difference! Not only did they turn down Jim for a good deal (despite the way it looks in the episode) but they made a very good deal.
Reality TV is a big, fat, fucking liar!
I know that this isn’t exactly news– afterall, most people know that shows have producers, and some (like The Hills and Jon and Kate) are much more scripted than others. Even on the Biggest Loser I realize that clever editing is often to blame for making some characters heroes while others are vilified.
But this isn’t just any reality TV, this is the CBC. And more than that, it is business TV.
It blew my mind. And kind of pissed me off that it was that far off what had actually happened.
But then the producers of the show, Lisa Gabriele and Tracie Tighe, came on they totally restored my faith.
It wasn’t just that they were total bitches (in the BEST possible way!), and it wasn’t just because the face off between the producers and the moronic audience members asking stupid questions felt like live reality tv, it was because they were honest.
These women wanted to make the best possible TV they could. Sure, some of the editing is sneaky, but the end result is not meant to be misleading. It is crafted to be really good TV. And if you’ve watched the show, you know it is, in fact, good TV. These women just won a Gemini award for Dragon’s Den, they know what they’re doing.
No one was hiding the fact that there is creative editing. They were proud of it. And it was that honesty, combined with the passion for their work (ok, and the snarky responses) that made me fall in love with them.
All and all, for a free event it was rather fabulous. It left me seriously amused, and a tiny bit better informed. I’ll be sure that you know that last part any chance I get.
Didi Benami doing “Rhiannon” on idol last night.
And if you dare, Taylor Swift and Stevie Nicks at the 2010 Grammy Awards.
I heart Sandra Bullock. I didn’t always. For a while I was really disheartened by her string of bad movies. Hell, from what I can tell on IMDB, she is going to continue to do a slew of bad movies .
But what I really like about Sandy is that she seems like someone you’d really like to have a beer with. Anyone who would show up to collect a Razzie Award (worst performance/movie) on the same weekend she could potentially be winning an Oscar must, at the very least, have a sense of humour about themselves.
She’s not a bad actress — though she is clearly not a brilliant actress– she’s really just only good at certain types of movies. Five years ago, no one, especially not Bullock herself, would have believed that she was going to win Golden Globes and be nominated for an Oscar.
I admit, this is a bit of a blind defense because I haven’t seen most of the movies in the “Best Actress” category this year. In fact, Meryl Streep’s performance in Julie and Julia is the only one I’ve seen (and the only part of that movie worth seeing).
I have no doubt that Helen Mirren in The Last Station, Carey Mulligan in An Education, and Gabourey Sidibe in Precious (fuck you Sapphire, I’m not typing the rest) are also very deserving of the prize. But that doesn’t mean that Sandy isn’t also deserving.
Gabourey Sidibe is super-delightful, but I haven’t seen her movie, so I have no idea of her acting ability. What I do know is that she is new, and young. People don’t generally win Oscars right out of the gate – they have to pay their dues to Hollywood.
I hear that Carey Mulligan is amazing in An Education. But her movie couldn’t compete with all the hype this year. With Bigelow and Cameron’s imaginary fight, and all the awards hype surrounding Precious, she really didn’t have a chance. When I get around to watching her movie and find out that she was phenomenal I might be furious. But until then, I’ll have to be content with the fact that Oscar is a game and Carey Mulligan has been forgotten on the sidelines.
And then there’s Meryl and Helen.
Meryl Streep has been nominated sixteen times for an academy award and won two. Helen Mirren has been nominated four times and won once. Everyone knows that they are phenomenal actors and that they deserve awards. They’re clearly better actors than most (although Kate Winslet with her five nominations clearly deserves to be in the same category as these women), but they’re also held to a higher standard than others in Hollywood. If they weren’t, they’d win every year. And that would be boring.
People like to pretend that the Oscar winners always correlate with the best performance, or the best art. But we all know that isn’t true. Academy Award winners often win for a variety of reasons — politics, timing, subject matter — that is not always relevant to their talent.
In a recent article in the Globe and Mail about how Oscar hates comedy, Rick Groen says this about “Oscar”:
This year, he may love Avatar, James Cameron’s latest. Or maybe he’ll go for Kathryn Bigelow’s The Hurt Locker. It’s a case of either/or – nothing else is really in the running – and the contest keeps getting billed as David versus Goliath, the big-budget opus against the worthy art flick. In truth, that simple contrast is a bit bogus. Bigelow’s ticking-time-bomb set pieces are the stuff of pure commercial suspense, while Cameron’s last frontier tropes are shrewdly rooted in enduring aesthetic archetypes.
Clearly things get ignored, but The Academy doesn’t nominate shit actors either. Sandra Bullock may have given the best performance of her lifetime in The Blind Side but her nomination was probably only possible in a year like this one — with the greats in not so great movies, and the other nominees being virtually unknown (plus an emotional movie about being the bestest adoptive mother in the world).
Sidibe and Mulligan might get passed over this year because of the hype. But that happens at every Oscar ceremony – someone wins because it is their time not necessarily because it was the best performance. But both girls are young, and have plenty of time. If they’re amazing actresses they will get nominated again (like Kate Winslet) and they’ll win when it is time. That’s the way the Oscars work. Pretending they work any other way is just silly.
Sandy may not be brilliant, but she doesn’t suck, and I like her. Afterall, if Reese Witherspoon can win an Oscar, it’s really not absurd that someone like Sandy can win too.
So good luck, Sandy. I wish you well.
Punch it!
At least that’s what you do when you’re playing Gold’s Gym Cardio Workout.
It was unexpected. I unlocked the “roadway” game during my regular boxing workout and thought I should explore the other things this game has to offer. So when I was done boxing (and miraculously still had energy left over) I went to check it out.
It appeared to be a running on the spot exercise, similar to the one I wasn’t particularly fond of in Wii Fit. But I quickly learned that it was so much better. This game has bears!
It’s the kind of thing that Ryan or I would say to each other (when no one else was within earshot): “Hey, you know what this game is missing? Bears. Bears you can punch.”
Someone out there in video game land really gets me.
Even without the bears though, I really love this game. I get completely invigorated by the punching. I didn’t know I had so much pent up aggression but it feels amazing.
And being rewarded with virtual gold so I can buy new outfits for my avatar is pretty fun too.
The other thing these (video game creator) guys really seem to get is exercise.
Each day time I play I can either choose individual workout pieces or a prepared workout. The prepared workout changes every time (I don’t think I’ve had a repeat yet) and this variety is part of why I have been playing this game almost exclusively since I got it.
I can jump an imaginary rope, or punch a virtual sandbag. I can do sit-ups and push-ups (but I don’t), and run around punching bears. There are boxing exams to test my skill level.
I can choose the level of intensity I’d like for that day (light, regular or hardcore) and the workouts start slow, and get more difficult. Wii Fit does not address the issue of warm-up or progression of difficulty within a workout — and that’s a huge flaw.
Nintendo wanted to sell the “idea” of exercise at home, but didn’t want to commit. That has created enormous opportunity for other developers to fill a very large market. And there is no shortage of games to help fill the void.
Thank goodness for that. I broke a sweat today in my living room. Something must be working.
Every time I go into a shoe store I feel like a freak. I’m six feet tall so, unsurprisingly, I have big feet. Over the years I have learned to avoid “regular” stores altogether because they don’t stock shoes in my size, and looking at all the things I want but can’t have just makes my heart ache.
If I’m with friends I’ll either wait outside, or sit down in the “boyfriend” chairs and zone out until it is over. But today I decided to tough it out and I went into the Naturalizer store with Jessica.
As we entered the store the smell of leather filled my nose. It wasn’t immediately terrible.
We were greeted by a ridiculous pair of running shoes with rounded soles like the rockers on a rocking chair. The shoes looked like they had been melted around the side of a melon before tying the laces up. They were certainly not shoes that I’d covet.
The painful florescent lights highlighted a wall of “comfortable” shoes – the kind of shoes your grandmother would wear – with their thick soles, and supportive leather uppers. They screamed celibacy.
But on the other wall, there was beauty. Sling backs! Peep toes! Kitten heels! And they were in glorious colours – golds, blacks, zebra prints. Oh, glorious shoes.
And then I remembered: I can’t wear regular shoes.
But as Jessica picked up a fabulous pair of all-leather Mary Jane’s, I couldn’t help myself anymore. I carried the pair over to the sales woman to ask what size they carried. I expected her to say the usual “nine” or “ten.” To my surprise, they carried up to size 11.
I waited anxiously as she ducked behind the curtain to find shoes for me. I gave her appearance little attention because I was completely focused on those shoes. But that didn’t last long.
When she reappeared with the box, I heard a loud voice that said “now, if you need something larger, that’s what we call ‘specialized’ and you’ll have to check out the website.”
I looked up to see an enormous head of red, curly hair, thick, gold hoop earrings, and a three-inch gold cross that hung around her neck. Her denim jumper looked like it could have been borrowed from Michelle Duggar, while the lime green tee-shirt she wore underneath reminded me more of a summer camp tye-dye project.
I suddenly felt like I was at a roadside diner not a shoe store at trendy Yonge and Eglinton.
Luckily, she didn’t have the personality of a typical sales clerk at Yonge and Eg — only moderately friendly and mostly disinterested.
She was boisterous. She was friendly and knowledgeable. She was a delightful woman. But it was a bit like sales on speed as she manically raced between customers, shouting to one while finding shoes for another.
The woman seemed so out of place, yet oddly comforting. She reminded me of someone’s small town aunt who’d come to visit from “home.”
As I slipped my foot into the shoe I quickly realized what I already knew: I don’t wear a size 11 shoe. My feet are, indeed, “specialized.” I only tried the shoes on because it was the closest I’ve ever come to finding shoes in an average shoe store.
But I wasn’t immediately flooded with sadness over the loss of those shoes because my focus had already switched to watching the sales woman’s interaction with the next customer.
Watching this delightful and surprising woman made me smile. I didn’t get any shoes, but it didn’t really matter. I left happy.
In the recent Toronto Star article “Testing TTC service as ‘guest from hell’”, Raveena Aulakh writes about her recent “experiment” at the One King West hotel, in an attempt to show Toronto that the recently appointed head of the TTC’s Customer Service Advisory Panel, Steve O’Brien, can’t save the embattled transit system.
Unfortunately, she chose to do this by posing as an “unreasonable, difficult and demanding” guest, and harassing hotel staff who have absolutely nothing to do with the public image crisis the Toronto Transit Commission is facing.
It was almost clever. By framing this charade as if it were about the TTC, instead of what it really was – a reporter having a little fun at the expense of the One King West employees — Aulakh might have convinced a few people that it was a reasonable attempt at collecting evidence.
Unfortunately, the flaws in logic are so great, and the subjects are so far away from anything that resembles her target, this article can’t be considered as anything less than shameful.
After spending the night at the Toronto hotel, and irritating the staff to no end with requests such as finding her sanitary napkins in the middle of the night and changing her room service request after her original order had already been prepared (and then changing it back again), Aulakh still wasn’t satisfied.
The staff apparently acted professionally and courteously throughout the ordeal, and yet Aulakh’s final conclusion was this: No one knocked “on the door to ask the guest who made 59 calls what was wrong. I know I would have lost my cool after three such calls. But I think I would have tried to talk to the queen of complaints. ”
Please. After hours spent trying to appease the unappeasable, the last thing anyone wants to do is spend anymore time talking.
This absurd reasoning is nothing more than reaching after she clearly failed to prove her point.
I’m going to take a guess here and say that Ms. Aulakh has never worked in customer service for any length of time. If she had, she would never have treated the unsuspecting staff to those kinds of antics simply for sport.
I’ve worked in customer service for 10 years. I generally deal with amazing customers in my job, but I’ve also had terrible ones that have completely ruined my day. Trying to broker some sort of détente with an irrational customer is not only infuriating, but also demoralizing.
But I do it because it is a part of my job, and I take pride in my job.
There are certain types of customers who can never be satisfied, and Ms. Aulakh’s alter-ego was one of them. So to suggest that the hotel staff didn’t do their jobs well enough after dealing with her ludicrous demands for 15 hours, simply because they didn’t want to chat with her at the end, is outrageous.
But as angry as I am with Raveena Aulakh for disrespecting the One Kind West staff, I am also frustrated that she did so to continue to drag the TTC through the mud.
The TTC is hardly a difficult target to hit these days. In the numerous public shamings in the media recently, people seem to have forgotten that Toronto Transit employees are people with feelings and lives. And after a long day of passengers breaking rules, withholding manners, and being generally disrespectful, I would imagine it can be a very difficult job.
That’s not to say that some employees don’t need serious attitude adjustments, but they do deserve to be treated like human beings – much like those employees of that hotel.
I know that good customer service on the TTC is sporadic, but absolutely terrible service is also rare. Occasionally it is exceptional, but most of it seems rather indifferent.
I’m sceptical that an advisory panel is going to be able to fix that. But setting traps isn’t going to do much to help either.
I wouldn’t want Mr. O’Brien to ask TTC employees to cater to irrational requests of disgruntled passengers. It would be a waste of tax dollars, and a waste of energy.
It is not a ticket taker or a streetcar driver’s job to deal with people like Ms. Aulakh’s character. It is their job to keep the system moving, treat customers with respect, and to be helpful. But that expectation is only fair if we, as customers, are respectful in return.
Aulakh was neither fair nor respectful. Any point she may have wished to make was lost in her mean-spirited and misguided agenda.
But it was an opportunity for a cheap shot, and that appears to be all that is required of a journalist working at the Star these days.
Penelope, a movie about a girl born with a pig snout, was released in 2008 with little critical attention. With little attention of any kind, really.
But through the wonder that is Super Channel on demand, I watched it.
Now I wouldn’t go and give it any kind of award, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought.
It’s a fairytale, much like Beauty and the Beast, where a girl is cursed and needs to find someone to see past her ugliness and marry her. Well really they just need to marry her, they don’t have to like it. And she’s not really that ugly. She is more like a beautiful pig, than a hideous woman.
But that seems to be part of the point. If she’s not that terrible, then maybe society is the problem. I like that.
Throughout her entire life, her family has treated her like a freak, and taught her that her face is the only thing holding her back from true happiness. Hello, internalized hate.
And then there’s her mother. Catherine O’Hara is fabulous in this role as the seemingly well-intentioned, hyper-critical mother. She’s neurotic, high-strung and judgmental. She tells Penelope that she loves her, and wants what’s best for her, but her actions as a mother tell Penelope that she isn’t good enough. I can relate to that.
Peter Dinklage plays the sneaky reporter that spends his life trying to get a glimpse (and a picture) of the pig girl.
I heart Dinklage. He’s an excellent actor, and when warranted, has a great sense of humour about his height (have you seen the 30 rock episode?)
In this movie, however, he really isn’t playing “the little person.” He is just playing a guy, and playing that guy well. Love it.
The extremes in this movie make it both enjoyable, and clever. Her mother’s over the top character, the ridiculous reactions of suitors, and fake deaths, make modern society and treatment of outsiders so obviously absurd.
One thing I couldn’t quite figure out was why several characters were British. A child here, a suitor there. Not everyone, but not just one or two. I was completely confused.
My biggest criticism is that the girl who is smart the whole way through, still agrees to marry the bad guy even after she has seen the outside world. This doesn’t make a much sense to the story, nor to her character. She discovers that people still like her once they’ve seen her, and she realizes she can survive without her parents. So what gives? Why would she marry a guy who publically slanders her, runs away, and is cruel.
My other criticism is that the story is still focused on finding a man to be happy. She may have been free, but she is never really happy until she gets to make out with Johnny/Max (the delicious James McAvoy).
It would be unfair to judge someone in real life for this desire. After all, many people want a partner to go through life with, and many want that partner to be a man.
But movies don’t represent real life – particularly not movies like this. Movies have a unique opportunity to change the way that things usually go, and give characters the strength, and free thought that real people can’t always have.
It would have suited her character well to be happy living life for a while — after all, she was finally free of the task of finding a suitor.
But since she had to find a man, I am glad it was a decent man. Max/Johnny didn’t care that she was weird looking. He never had to come around, he never had to try to love her. He just did. And that’s an OK message to send.
This fairytale is better than others that have come before it because the moral of the story is that the girl must learn to love herself, not find love from others, in order to be saved.
While it still suggests that the pretty is better, maybe we’re all a little prettier when we stop all the hate.
Facebook is where I learned that my friend had died.
Weeks later, mixed up with all the heart-wrenching and complex feelings that death brings, I faced an emotional struggle I could never have imagined when the question arose: is it time to “unfriend” her?
I met Tiina in the summer of 2007 when I moved to Victoria for a job. Shortly after we met she told me “I just knew that we would be friends,” and we were. But the job didn’t last long and I found my way back in Toronto only months later.
Despite our short time on the same coast, she was a good friend that I cared about dearly. The distance made it harder to keep in touch, so like most modern twenty-somethings, we kept up via the Internet.
It was second-nature to both of us. When I updated my Facebook relationship status or shared good news, she’d send me an e-mail. When she posted pictures or when I just missed her, I’d find her on MSN messenger. The Internet kept our friendship alive.
I discovered that she was sick a year ago – a brain tumour – when her online status revealed strange details about health and asked for prayers from friends.
Throughout her illness, she frequently updated her status as a way to share information with a large group — I assume to avoid having an awkward conversation with everyone she knew. This let me keep up to date on her health my interpreting her photos and activities as they were posted to her world.
She relied heavily on her faith. I’m convinced that the great deal of emotional support she garnered from the masses in her virtual and physical world helped her last as long as she did.
On Christmas Eve Tiina changed her status to say she would no longer be using her account. I knew something was wrong, but we were a country apart and had few friends in common.
I was afraid.
I tried calling her mother, but it felt awkward and I was afraid to pester her when she clearly had much more important things on her mind.
So I turned back to Facebook. I couldn’t get enough information from people we both knew, so I had to turn to people I didn’t know. I scoured her friends list for names I had heard and finally sent a message, nearly begging for details, from a girl I had heard of often but never actually met.
I think I was hoping to hear something miraculous even though I knew she was nearing the end. I needed to hold on because I wasn’t ready to deal with the pain, the loss, and the guilt of not going to visit her when she still had time.
It’s a little perverse, I admit. But without Facebook, I wouldn’t have known anything. She didn’t like to talk about her illness with me and limited our talks to details about life and boys. She was forever hopeful and positive – a trait that unfortunately meant that I didn’t know the severity of her disease until it was too late.
The next day, messages of love and sympathy flooded her “wall.” The numerous wishes to “rest in peace” made it clear: My friend had died.
Immediately following Tiina’s death, images of her began to appear in my News Feed. People tagged her in photos to celebrate her life. Someone created a “group” for people to post their thoughts.
At the time I was desperate to see these updates – I would go to her page just to feel like she was still there. I joined her group, I wrote a blog post. It felt like maybe she was still around.
But now her “wall” is filled with other people’s messages about charity runs and rides in her honour. There are messages of love, presumably for her family to read. But Tiina is no longer there.
The page is now the ghost of my friend – a place where other people’s memories linger, but her life has left.
Sometimes I find myself forgetting that she is dead. As a long-distance friend, I don’t have the everyday reminders that she is gone like I would with a local friend. There is a part of me that still feels like she might be sitting in the pub in Victoria, ready to welcome me at my next visit.
But then I log-on to Facebook and the reality sets in when someone tags her in a photo, or a Facebook application unknowingly suggests we “re-connect.”
I know that I could simply hide updates about her in my News Feed – it might dull the pain while still maintaining our virtual link. After all, if I remove her from my friends list there is no turning back. There will be no more chances to see pictures of her when I miss her. Never again will I write on her wall or comment on a picture.
Eventually someone will delete her page – surely a task that will mean a great deal to whomever has the job. But what do I do until then?
I worry that deleting my friend somehow invalidates our friendship or suggests that I have moved on, that I am done with her.
But I need some sense of closure; a start to the healing process. In coming to terms with her death on the Internet, maybe I can come to terms with her death in my life.
So when I’m ready – maybe not yet, but soon – I will “unfriend” my friend on Facebook. Like other people I have lost, I will keep her in my memories, not on my screen.
I don’t like war movies. At least I didn’t think I did.
Violence in films makes me uncomfortable, and I have conflicting feelings about the military. So I originally avoided watching “The Hurt Locker” because I was expecting two hours of macho bravado with guns.
Needless to say, my frame of reference is limited, and I went in to it full of prejudice.
But I was pleasantly surprised that the much hyped film didn’t make me squirm. In fact, I really enjoyed it.
I was still quick to judge. My first reaction, a completely unfair generalization, was “yeah, this was directed by a woman.”
I hate that kind of conclusion because it assumes that women are “sensitive” and don’t know how to make an action movie, and that men are tough and incapable of being emotional. It’s the kind of thinking that makes it so difficult for women in hollywood.
I’m not sure if I would have thought that if I hadn’t been hearing about Kathryn Bigelow (or the “rivalry” with her ex-husband) for the last three months. But all the media hype clouded my viewing.
So instead, I will say that I liked this movie because the soldiers, though underwritten in many cases, had moments of sensitivity that I wasn’t expecting from a movie about Iraq.
The Hurt Locker is more than just a string of action sequences and battle scenes. It’s about fighting, and fear, and mortality, and danger. It’s about conflicting personalities, and obligations. And it’s about bombs.
The opening scene, though thoroughly predictable, expertly established the tone of the film, and trained the audience on what to expect. In the first few minutes, we learn that danger is everywhere, no one can be trusted, and just about anything could get you killed.
It was excellent set-up for a later scene where James (Jeremy Renner) is trying to diffuse a complicated bomb. In a place where following the rules doesn’t guarantee survival, James’ renegade actions are both frightening and comforting. He has no fear. And that’s terrifying.
I felt immersed in the situation; I could imagine being there. There were no blaring sirens or dramatic explosions. I could imagine facing death, with no soundtrack except for the thoughts in my head. The silence was disturbing.
One obvious flaw is that with one main character, we know from the beginning that he’s not going to get blown up – at least not before the very end. It’s also easy to guess who will get blown up and when, making supporting characters’ deaths less momentous.
But despite the violence, the film does not minimize the emotions of killing and facing death. The constant fear that some soldiers experience wasn’t avoided and it wasn’t in any way shameful. It was a fact of war.
It was another one of my preconceptions, but I didn’t expect these men show vulnerability or warmth.
James is both a warrior and a caretaker. In one poignant scene, after fighting insurgents in the desert, James asks for a juice box. Without discussion, James opens the juice, brings it to his friend, and makes him drink. After taking out the enemy with a sniper gun, the soldier is distraught. James cares for him. It was a simple, yet effective act.
That kind of multifaceted man does not show up in most mainstream movies – particularly action movies.
There are still moments of typical “army guy” moves that we’ve come to expect in many American war movies – pushing around the locals, and generally acting like jerks to each other, but it was definitely not the focus.
And while there is some gore, it wasn’t gratuitous. It was painful. It was death.
Because of all the pain, it was no surprise that James’ fellow soldiers were struggling to get by. It’s a feeling that the audience can related to. But James remains mostly unfazed.
He’s hurt by the violence, but doesn’t hate the war. It is not until he goes home to his mundane, suburban life that he realizes that he craves the danger in his life. It doesn’t feel cheesy or forced – he’s just a guy who can no longer find fulfillment any other way.
While this movie stands alone because of its merits, it also needs to be understood in its broader social context.
Kathryn Bigelow is one of only four women to be nominated for Best Director at the Oscars. She could be the first to win. That’s a pretty pathetic stat considering women make up half the population.
I don’t want this movie to be judged as a woman’s movie, but I do want it to be a wake up call for the industry. Like most things, directing movies should be based on talent, not what you’ve got between your legs.
Some people don’t think that women can direct action movies, and I didn’t think I could appreciate a movie about war.
I came around. Will Hollywood?
**Disclaimer: if you really love the Olympics and all that comes with it, don’t bother reading this. It will only piss you off.
Normally I don’t care about the Olympics. Not even a little. But all the hype leading up to it, and the coverage during the games has turned my apathy into anger.
I’m not irritated for the more “obvious” reasons, ranging from complaints about stealing First Nations land, huge municipal costs, and wasted money that should have been spent on social problems – mostly because those problems exist outside of the Olympic games too.
And I don’t have anything against athletes, or the state sponsoring athletes (unless the State is Russia, but that’s a different story). In fact, though I have little interest in most sports, I truly admire the things that Olympic athletes can accomplish.
But what I really can’t stand is the ridiculous lead up and inescapable manufactured patriotism.
“I Believe“, the gag-worthy CTV Olympic theme song that seems to get played every three minutes during the games, and several times a night leading up to the games, is still number one on iTunes (Canada). “I believe in the power that comes from a world brought together as one, I believe together we’ll fly.” Somehow this translates into Olympic victory? Maybe if I believe hard enough, Canada will win.
The images of previous Olympic victories demonstrate the very real emotion the games can bring out in the athletes and the spectators. But the lame lyrics, and images of children’s choirs and waving flags turn clips of a highpoint in those athlete’s lives into cheesy propaganda.
Since the hype on TV (not to mention the giant clock in Vancouver that’s been counting down to the games for several years) is enough to keep me disinterested, I usually don’t watch any of the events unless they happen to be on. But this past weekend I was out of town visiting friends who are Olympic fans, so we watched the Men’s Mogul event.
As good luck would have it, that was the event to watch. Alexandre Bilodeau’s gold medal victory was the first of its kind on Canadian soil.
Bilodeau was ecstatic. So was his brother, Frederic, who we would later learn was Alex’s biggest inspiration. I felt happy for Bilodeau, despite not giving a damn about mogul skiing. I felt happy, and then I wanted to move on. But CTV wouldn’t let me.
Instead of switching the coverage to a different event so that I could be happy for another athlete, I was stuck watching 20 minutes of CTV “analysis” of the event — not about skill or even about the sport, just force-fed feelings.
They re-played footage of his run, and panned the crowd and the excited faces of spectators. I saw Bilodeau’s disabled brother Frederic’s cheering face no fewer than 5 times, followed up by a segment called “The Difference Makers” — a pre-arranged interview with both Bilodeau boys about Alex’s success.
If it hadn’t been given the cheesy title of “Difference Makers” and I hadn’t been told repeatedly that Frederic was his inspiration, I would still have been very touched by their story. It was a very lovely story. But instead, all the clutter distracted me from the message.
So instead of appreciating Bilodeau’s win and story, I’m pissed off at the artificial nature of the whole thing.
As a viewer, I wasn’t trusted enough to feel emotions about the story on my own. I don’t appreciate having my intelligence questioned – certainly not by a cable network.
Let’s put aside the question of why it is so much more important to win events on Canadian soil and how that makes other gold medals seem so much less important. I want to know why this fabricated nationalism needs to be shoved down our throats in order for us to support athletes?
I don’t doubt that many people were very excited for this win. But I wish that as a country, we were given the opportunity to be excited, or even not excited based, because of real feelings, not because a newscast was manipulating our emotions.
Good journalism reports facts and events, it doesn’t create them. The games, and Bilodeau’s win were events worth watching and reporting on. The extra features don’t add to the story, they detract from it. And they piss me off.
I read a great blog the other day about learning to love yourself. It wasn’t one like you’d expect – full of positive affirmations about convincing yourself that you really do like yourself despite everything your brain has always told you. The most reasonable point was simply this: self-loathing takes way more energy than self-acceptance.
On top of all the self-hate I’ve inflicted on myself for most of my life, I also have an uncanny ability to fantasize about the worst possible outcome of an event or an action – to a point that I become angry, or completely disinterested in trying. Maybe it’s my evil superpower.
But through the wonderful process that is therapy, and that other magical thing that is simply known as growing up, I at least have the ability to reflect on past mistakes and realize how silly they were.
So today, when Ryan commented that it was obvious that my Wii workouts were having an effect — intended as compliment, as always — I went to a familiar place in my head. That place of self-consciousness, and worry. Thoughts that I need to lose weight to feel good and be loved – like some magical transformation will occur in my mind, and in the minds of others.
Luckily, I caught myself.
I took a second to reflect. I thought about all the other times in my life when I struggled with my weight. When I simply couldn’t stand the sight of myself and when I couldn’t understand how anyone could really love me. And then I thought about times after that, when I was heavier, and I couldn’t believe that I didn’t like myself then, before when I was so much “better.”
It sounds ridiculous. I get how absolutely ridiculous it is. It is just a long, hard process to really understand it and be able to move on.
I can blame all my messed-up emotions on a disgustingly distorted media presence, or a complicated relationship with food and dieting for most of my childhood. But while I have yet to rid myself of all those things that make me angry, I can at least realize that blaming other factors is just as consuming, and just as useless as hating myself.
So I am trying to make myself “better” physically. Because despite reasonable and convincing arguments to the contrary, I feel better when I am thinner. I like clothes better, I feel more confident, and all the exercising and food choices required for any weight loss do, indeed, make me healthier.
But on this long road of self-acceptance, I feel the need to applaud myself for stopping to pause, and to think. And for giving myself a break every once and a while.
