Some technical difficulties: some people see my blog, but others see my domain name provider. I may have impressed myself too soon :(
Will be fixed soon though...
*************
Hey! I have just impressed myself!!
Head on over to http://www.finola.ca/
Not only did I figure out how to move my blog over to Wordpress, but I also changed my domain name. All this while my Tech Support was in Espanola (Hi Tony!)
If you wouldn't mind updating any links you have to my blog, I would be most grateful.
Unfortunately I have no new content up over there yet. I...er...still have to figure out how to put up a new post. Would anyone like to give a blogger a tutorial? I pay in coffee.
And P.S. I also carved two pumkins this weekend. It seems I AM good at stuff. Who knew?
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Water and a Social Media Tantrum
I had a social media tantrum on Friday evening, and it felt gooooood.
Our street and many streets around us have been having their water and sewer mains replaced all summer. It has been barrels of fun.
Three separate times over the summer we have come home from work to find no running water in the house. The last time this happened we called the city and then waited and waited and then waited some more. After calling back several times, someone finally arrived at our house at 9:00 pm to tell us there was nothing to be done until the contracters came back the next day. We had no water overnight, and as we have young-ish children, this was also super fun. Good times!
So on Friday when I got home to find that once again that we had no water, I phoned 311 to report it, but then I was feeling punchy and so I decided to throw a social media tantrum. Twitter, Facebook and email were all whirring from my computer, and now a couple of days later, from my blog as well. I tagged my city councillor, the mayor and as many email addresses as I could from the contractor who has been doing the work. My fingers tapped tapped tapped away. I was exasperated, imagining another long wait into the night to be told that we wouldn't get water until the next day at best, and at worst on Monday.
But! At 6:30 pm, city councillor Katherine Hobbs replied to both my email and my tweets. (Thank you Katherine for being so responsive every time we have contacted you!) She told me that six people from my street had called the city with no water that evening, and that the city truck would be at my house within the half hour. I looked out my window, and behold! There it was.
The city worker turned on our water from the standpipe (I'm learning the lingo) and explained that they had disconnected us from the temporary water lines earlier that day and they had reconnected our house to the watermain. They had intentionally not opened this valve though because apparently they cannot do so when no one is home.
Why was there no plan in place for the water to be turned on for we poor working folk as soon as we arrived home at the end of a long week? Why was there no letter telling us what needed to be done so that six individual homes had to phone and wonder what had gone wrong? I am shaking my head at the mismanagement, but I am grateful to have clean water in my house, so there is that.
As for my social media blitz, who knows if it did any good, but I believe that it did make things move faster than they would have otherwise. I also felt like I had a voice that could be heard in a crowd - something that can be difficult for me. Social media is powerful and empowering. Please use it wisely.
P.S. I need to shout out to Andrew, the poor lone contractor who walked past my house at just the wrong time after all the other workers had gone home for the day. He heard me plead my case, called the foreman, checked the water lines, and was kind and empathetic. He really wanted to help, but in the end there was nothing he could do. Thank you Andrew.
Our street and many streets around us have been having their water and sewer mains replaced all summer. It has been barrels of fun.
 |
| It was awesome not being able to park in our driveway for six weeks. Grocery day was particularly fun! |
 |
| The mud has been particularly enjoyable for our daughters... but even more so for Tony and me. We have had some real quality couple time cleaning up the cakes of mud from boots, hair, floors, hallways, stairs, walls, the bathroom, and then finally the bathtub. |
Three separate times over the summer we have come home from work to find no running water in the house. The last time this happened we called the city and then waited and waited and then waited some more. After calling back several times, someone finally arrived at our house at 9:00 pm to tell us there was nothing to be done until the contracters came back the next day. We had no water overnight, and as we have young-ish children, this was also super fun. Good times!
So on Friday when I got home to find that once again that we had no water, I phoned 311 to report it, but then I was feeling punchy and so I decided to throw a social media tantrum. Twitter, Facebook and email were all whirring from my computer, and now a couple of days later, from my blog as well. I tagged my city councillor, the mayor and as many email addresses as I could from the contractor who has been doing the work. My fingers tapped tapped tapped away. I was exasperated, imagining another long wait into the night to be told that we wouldn't get water until the next day at best, and at worst on Monday.
But! At 6:30 pm, city councillor Katherine Hobbs replied to both my email and my tweets. (Thank you Katherine for being so responsive every time we have contacted you!) She told me that six people from my street had called the city with no water that evening, and that the city truck would be at my house within the half hour. I looked out my window, and behold! There it was.
The city worker turned on our water from the standpipe (I'm learning the lingo) and explained that they had disconnected us from the temporary water lines earlier that day and they had reconnected our house to the watermain. They had intentionally not opened this valve though because apparently they cannot do so when no one is home.
Why was there no plan in place for the water to be turned on for we poor working folk as soon as we arrived home at the end of a long week? Why was there no letter telling us what needed to be done so that six individual homes had to phone and wonder what had gone wrong? I am shaking my head at the mismanagement, but I am grateful to have clean water in my house, so there is that.
As for my social media blitz, who knows if it did any good, but I believe that it did make things move faster than they would have otherwise. I also felt like I had a voice that could be heard in a crowd - something that can be difficult for me. Social media is powerful and empowering. Please use it wisely.
 |
Toodle pip! |
P.S. I need to shout out to Andrew, the poor lone contractor who walked past my house at just the wrong time after all the other workers had gone home for the day. He heard me plead my case, called the foreman, checked the water lines, and was kind and empathetic. He really wanted to help, but in the end there was nothing he could do. Thank you Andrew.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Casual Friday
You know that thing when you try on jeans in the store and they are just a tiny bit tight, and you buy them anyway because you know that when you wear them they will stretch out a little? But then they don't?
So then you buy another pair that fit perfectly in the store, but then when you wear them they do stretch out and you feel all saggy baggy and frumpy?
THAT.
Happy Casual Friday to you all.
So then you buy another pair that fit perfectly in the store, but then when you wear them they do stretch out and you feel all saggy baggy and frumpy?
THAT.
Happy Casual Friday to you all.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Neglecting
This weekend is all about hibernating and recharging. The last few weeks have been a bit ridiculous, and I am very very tired. Very. So many things in my life have been neglected lately, and one of these is my blog; I need to give it some TLC this weekend. With November coming, I have been thinking long and hard about doing National Blog Posting Month again. Even though it has one of the worst acronyms around, NaBloPoMo is a great way to reconnect with blogging and other bloggers. I loved doing it last year even though it was at times just one more thing that I had to add to my day. I am still mulling it over.
Another thing that I have neglected lately is my commitment to doing more cooking. Although I had one spectacular week a little while ago where I made both manicotti and apple cake (which both kids liked!), after that my cooking has either been either non-existent or mediocre, at best.
In the mediocre department, I made a salad for my book club last week. I had been itching to try this quinoa salad that Andrea posted a while ago. I stopped on my way home to pick up the ingredients at our local fresh food store. One of the things that I needed was cilantro, and if you are like me, you know that cilantro can be hard to distinguish from all of the other fresh herbs, especially if you are culinarily-challenged as I am. Seeing what I thought was cilantro, I picked off a leaf and rolled it between my fingers and gave it a sniff to be sure. Yup, cilantro. At home, I got the quinoa cooking, then started chopping my veggies. Everything was looking fresh and colourful. When I started to chop the cilantro, I knew right away that something was wrong. Parsley.
Since I was in the middle of making my salad and Tony was in the middle of making dinner for himself and the girls, we decided that it was the perfect opportunity to send 9-year-old N and 7-year-old B out on their very first errand. They beamed when we asked if they would walk down to the end of the street. We armed them with a cell phone and a Post-It with Cilantro written on it. I told the girls they would need to ask for help at the store, because buying cilantro isn't easy, you know. They set off excitedly and we tracked their movement using Google Latitude. Yes, technology is wonderful.
The girls came back before too long, beaming, and I took the cilantro from them, snapped off a leaf, and guess what? Parsley.
Time was running out and it was getting dark. Tony dashed out to my rescue, coming back with...cilantro! But not only cilantro, he also came back to tell me that the young and apologetic woman at the store had raved about our girls. She told Tony they had been polite, sweet, and downright adorable in their quest for cilantro. Proud Mama here.
I finished making my salad with just a few minutes left before my ride was to pick me up for book club. I gave it a stir and then I tried it. Even though this salad has every ingredient in it that I love, it tasted only mediocre. What? How could I have gone wrong with quinoa, lime, cumin, avocado, tomato, red onion and cilantro? I know that it wasn't the fault of the recipe, and now I am starting to think that I am just not meant to spend time in the kitchen. I do know that for my next book club meeting I am going back to bringing my usual store bought appetizert and a bottle of wine.
Those are things I am good at.
Another thing that I have neglected lately is my commitment to doing more cooking. Although I had one spectacular week a little while ago where I made both manicotti and apple cake (which both kids liked!), after that my cooking has either been either non-existent or mediocre, at best.
 |
| Manicotti deliciousness |
 |
| Made from apples we picked ourselves. It doesn't get more wholesome than this. |
In the mediocre department, I made a salad for my book club last week. I had been itching to try this quinoa salad that Andrea posted a while ago. I stopped on my way home to pick up the ingredients at our local fresh food store. One of the things that I needed was cilantro, and if you are like me, you know that cilantro can be hard to distinguish from all of the other fresh herbs, especially if you are culinarily-challenged as I am. Seeing what I thought was cilantro, I picked off a leaf and rolled it between my fingers and gave it a sniff to be sure. Yup, cilantro. At home, I got the quinoa cooking, then started chopping my veggies. Everything was looking fresh and colourful. When I started to chop the cilantro, I knew right away that something was wrong. Parsley.
Since I was in the middle of making my salad and Tony was in the middle of making dinner for himself and the girls, we decided that it was the perfect opportunity to send 9-year-old N and 7-year-old B out on their very first errand. They beamed when we asked if they would walk down to the end of the street. We armed them with a cell phone and a Post-It with Cilantro written on it. I told the girls they would need to ask for help at the store, because buying cilantro isn't easy, you know. They set off excitedly and we tracked their movement using Google Latitude. Yes, technology is wonderful.
The girls came back before too long, beaming, and I took the cilantro from them, snapped off a leaf, and guess what? Parsley.
Time was running out and it was getting dark. Tony dashed out to my rescue, coming back with...cilantro! But not only cilantro, he also came back to tell me that the young and apologetic woman at the store had raved about our girls. She told Tony they had been polite, sweet, and downright adorable in their quest for cilantro. Proud Mama here.
I finished making my salad with just a few minutes left before my ride was to pick me up for book club. I gave it a stir and then I tried it. Even though this salad has every ingredient in it that I love, it tasted only mediocre. What? How could I have gone wrong with quinoa, lime, cumin, avocado, tomato, red onion and cilantro? I know that it wasn't the fault of the recipe, and now I am starting to think that I am just not meant to spend time in the kitchen. I do know that for my next book club meeting I am going back to bringing my usual store bought appetizert and a bottle of wine.
Those are things I am good at.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Did I Mention the Coffee?
Last week I flew to Toronto for the day for work. It was my first time taking Porter Airlines, and it was impressively civilized. With no class system, everyone has access to the Porter lounge where you can help yourself to free coffee, water, pop and cookies. And coffee. And lattes. Did I mention the coffee?
It was a 7am flight and thank goodness there was coffee. Did I say that already? Thank you Porter. For the coffee.
*
Just before going through security at the Ottawa airport, there is a mat that you have to stand on, and it is this mat that randomly decides who will be selected for extra screening. I am always chosen for extra screening. Every single freaking time. I think it is because of my girl-next-door, sweet and shy persona. They must be on to me at last.
At least now I can choose between the physically invasive pat-down, or the full body scan in which I know that someone, somewhere is getting to look at me naked. And it is probably not Hugh Jackman. Sigh.
*
But all of this is trivial compared to the really important issue in air travel which is: who gets to use the armrest between you and your seat mate? On my way to Toronto, the man beside me who looked to be about twelve but who said he was some sort of regional manager of something or other immediately commandeered it for his own use, resting his elbows, as he Blackberried like a madman. I decided to see if I could wrangle it away from him. I gradually spread out, taking up more more and more room, encroaching on his space slowly but surely.
But then dang, the drink cart arrived. Wait, not dang, because there was coffee.
Have I mentioned that 'dang' is my new favourite word?
Now where was I? Ah yes, the drink cart had arrived and here was my chance. My seat mate reached over to grab his coffee from the flight attendant, but because he would not put down his Blackberry while he grabbed, he spilled his coffee all over me and my new black skirt.
Apologizing sincerely to me, I did not allow myself to become distracted. I saw my opportunity and I took it.
The. Armrest. Was. Mine.
It was a 7am flight and thank goodness there was coffee. Did I say that already? Thank you Porter. For the coffee.
*
Just before going through security at the Ottawa airport, there is a mat that you have to stand on, and it is this mat that randomly decides who will be selected for extra screening. I am always chosen for extra screening. Every single freaking time. I think it is because of my girl-next-door, sweet and shy persona. They must be on to me at last.
At least now I can choose between the physically invasive pat-down, or the full body scan in which I know that someone, somewhere is getting to look at me naked. And it is probably not Hugh Jackman. Sigh.
*
But all of this is trivial compared to the really important issue in air travel which is: who gets to use the armrest between you and your seat mate? On my way to Toronto, the man beside me who looked to be about twelve but who said he was some sort of regional manager of something or other immediately commandeered it for his own use, resting his elbows, as he Blackberried like a madman. I decided to see if I could wrangle it away from him. I gradually spread out, taking up more more and more room, encroaching on his space slowly but surely.
But then dang, the drink cart arrived. Wait, not dang, because there was coffee.
Have I mentioned that 'dang' is my new favourite word?
Now where was I? Ah yes, the drink cart had arrived and here was my chance. My seat mate reached over to grab his coffee from the flight attendant, but because he would not put down his Blackberry while he grabbed, he spilled his coffee all over me and my new black skirt.
Apologizing sincerely to me, I did not allow myself to become distracted. I saw my opportunity and I took it.
The. Armrest. Was. Mine.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Running for the Cure - Updated
I have two friends who have organized teams for the Run for the Cure this weekend. As far as I know, they haven't met each other before, but they have a lot in common. First, they are smart, strong, beautiful women. Second they were both diagnosed with breast cancer at a stupidly early age. I would like to introduce all of you to them, and also to introduce them to each other if they have not already met.
Laurie, meet Melanie; Melanie, this is Laurie.
Everyone, please meet Laurie and Melanie.
Laurie also writes one of my favourite blogs here.
If I were running this weekend, I would want to be on both of their teams.
Laurie's No Pink for Profit will be participating for the second time together, and last year I was honoured to run with them.
Melanie has put together Twin Peaks (ha!) for the first year.
Please consider donating this weekend.
Thank you.
*******
Update: Laurie is in today's Ottawa Citizen, being wonderful! Please check out http://www.ottawacitizen.com/health/Pink+fatigue/5486390/story.html
Laurie, meet Melanie; Melanie, this is Laurie.
Everyone, please meet Laurie and Melanie.
Laurie also writes one of my favourite blogs here.
If I were running this weekend, I would want to be on both of their teams.
Laurie's No Pink for Profit will be participating for the second time together, and last year I was honoured to run with them.
Melanie has put together Twin Peaks (ha!) for the first year.
Please consider donating this weekend.
Thank you.
*******
Update: Laurie is in today's Ottawa Citizen, being wonderful! Please check out http://www.ottawacitizen.com/health/Pink+fatigue/5486390/story.html
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Reinforcing the castle of self-esteem against the battering ram of loss or the darker side of adoption
Do you remember sweet little Button? It is one year now since Cathy and her family brought Button home from China, and Cathy has written about adoption and the challenges that come with it. This is a lovely post - sad, and yet full of hope too. Thanks Cathy, for writing it.
******
Could there be anything more bitter sweet than adoption? At this time last year my family grew from 4 members to 5 and we were on our way back over the North Pole from China. A sweet, sweet event, welcoming a new little one into our family and you can read about it here and here, but that is not the end of the adoption story. An adoption story never ends, you see because it never ceases to have happened. No matter the joys of raising a child, an adoption is, by definition, born of loss if one looks from the perspective of the child. The child loses at least their birth family and in our daughter’s case she also lost her native country, the only home she had ever known, all of the people who were familiar to her and even her language. Yes, adoption is born out of loss but gaining a new family and a new life never erases that loss. It never goes away. No matter what we do as parents, the feelings of loss will come up again and again as our daughter grows up and it will try to exact its toll on her self-esteem for, ultimately, having been adopted means that someone left her.
The loss will come up when we see movies or read stories with an adoption subtext whether it is dealt with in a positive light or in a way that leaves something to be desired. It will come up at school when teachers unwittingly assign a family tree project for homework; ask for baby pictures or when studying genetics in biology. It will come up when strangers look at me (Caucasian) and my daughter (Asian) and ask the inevitable questions. It will come up when I need to go somewhere without my daughter. After all, it is legitimate for her to wonder whether her mother and father will, in fact, return because it has happened to her before that they (her birth parents) have not returned. Ever. And it comes up every time a stranger comes to the house because, again, it is in our daughter’s experience to be handed over to strangers (us!) never to see those she knew at the orphanage again. It will come up when our daughter notices that her gifts and talents and quirks are unique in the family – that none of us is quite like her. And it will come up in a myriad of ways yet to be determined.
It is no wonder then that this battering ram of loss can easily carry with it anger, grief, rebellion and depression. Of course we will do our utmost to see that our wonderful little girl is strong enough and resilient enough to weather these attacks when they come but eventually she will want to know why. Why was she left? And with that question comes even more heartbreak for it can only be heartbreaking to a child to have been left, abandoned, betrayed. Despite the realities of the one child policy I can think of no abandonment scenario (or, in the language of adoption, no scenario resulting in an adoption plan having been made) which is less heartbreaking to a child than another - and I can think of a dozen different scenarios off the top of my head. I do not look forward to the day when it will be my responsibility and duty as an adoptive parent to sketch these scenarios for my daughter, each and every one of them a blow to the self-esteem I will have carefully built and reinforced over time. So, we try to make sure our daughter feels surrounded by love and acceptance, patience and above all, belonging and security.
We talk with her about her life then and now and about the fact that she was adopted. We acknowledge and label her feelings about this process so that she can process it. This is the foundation. Even though our daughter is very young, already she does things which indicate her profound desire to belong.
Pass the mortar, please.
******
Could there be anything more bitter sweet than adoption? At this time last year my family grew from 4 members to 5 and we were on our way back over the North Pole from China. A sweet, sweet event, welcoming a new little one into our family and you can read about it here and here, but that is not the end of the adoption story. An adoption story never ends, you see because it never ceases to have happened. No matter the joys of raising a child, an adoption is, by definition, born of loss if one looks from the perspective of the child. The child loses at least their birth family and in our daughter’s case she also lost her native country, the only home she had ever known, all of the people who were familiar to her and even her language. Yes, adoption is born out of loss but gaining a new family and a new life never erases that loss. It never goes away. No matter what we do as parents, the feelings of loss will come up again and again as our daughter grows up and it will try to exact its toll on her self-esteem for, ultimately, having been adopted means that someone left her.
The loss will come up when we see movies or read stories with an adoption subtext whether it is dealt with in a positive light or in a way that leaves something to be desired. It will come up at school when teachers unwittingly assign a family tree project for homework; ask for baby pictures or when studying genetics in biology. It will come up when strangers look at me (Caucasian) and my daughter (Asian) and ask the inevitable questions. It will come up when I need to go somewhere without my daughter. After all, it is legitimate for her to wonder whether her mother and father will, in fact, return because it has happened to her before that they (her birth parents) have not returned. Ever. And it comes up every time a stranger comes to the house because, again, it is in our daughter’s experience to be handed over to strangers (us!) never to see those she knew at the orphanage again. It will come up when our daughter notices that her gifts and talents and quirks are unique in the family – that none of us is quite like her. And it will come up in a myriad of ways yet to be determined.
It is no wonder then that this battering ram of loss can easily carry with it anger, grief, rebellion and depression. Of course we will do our utmost to see that our wonderful little girl is strong enough and resilient enough to weather these attacks when they come but eventually she will want to know why. Why was she left? And with that question comes even more heartbreak for it can only be heartbreaking to a child to have been left, abandoned, betrayed. Despite the realities of the one child policy I can think of no abandonment scenario (or, in the language of adoption, no scenario resulting in an adoption plan having been made) which is less heartbreaking to a child than another - and I can think of a dozen different scenarios off the top of my head. I do not look forward to the day when it will be my responsibility and duty as an adoptive parent to sketch these scenarios for my daughter, each and every one of them a blow to the self-esteem I will have carefully built and reinforced over time. So, we try to make sure our daughter feels surrounded by love and acceptance, patience and above all, belonging and security.
We talk with her about her life then and now and about the fact that she was adopted. We acknowledge and label her feelings about this process so that she can process it. This is the foundation. Even though our daughter is very young, already she does things which indicate her profound desire to belong.
Pass the mortar, please.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)