How Old Are We, Really?

Greetings Friends,

In my first post of the new year, I shared the fact that I am turning 46 this year, and mentioned that I neither feel nor look my age. This morning, it dawned on me that looks can be deceiving. Many people can look or act older than they actually are, and for even more, the exact opposite holds true. While many of us strive to look our best no matter what the date of birth on our drivers licenses, we are sometimes guilty of acting much younger than we are. And that, more often than not, can be a very bad thing.

When a person attains the age of 40 or older, one of the most oft-lamented sentiments you hear is how glad that person is to be so far removed from the high school-stage of life. I've uttered that statement many times, even though my high school experiences left me relatively unscathed emotionally. My most traumatic experience from that era occurred when I was 16, when I had to watch my older brother marry a woman who, to this day, most likely still thinks I am the same 12 year-old girl she met in late 1979. Other than that, I was fortunate to not have to endure many of the traumas most teenagers must experience. I believe those experiences used to be referred to as "rites of passage." Today, they're known as bullying.

What strikes me about people my age is how reluctant we are to share our experiences with those who came after us. We are, after all, the last generation to grow up without computers, cell phones, flat-screen televisions and the Internet. When I was a kid, I had a black-and-white TV in my bedroom, and my brother had an 8-track tape player as part of his integrated stereo system. Making long-distance phone calls to Canada was still frowned upon, so I wrote letters to my cousins. I wore Buffalo sandals with my Faded Glory jeans, and for my tenth birthday, I received a powder-blue t-shirt with an iron-on decal of John Travola as "Vinny Barbarino," which promptly peeled off the first time my mother washed it. My friends and I sometimes referred to each other as "flat-leavers," and one of our favorite things to do was to go to the corner candy store two blocks from my house to buy copies of Tiger Beat magazine and Goldenberg's peanut chews. That right there pretty much encapsulates my childhood.

Today, I sometimes feel like I am enduring a second childhood. Unfortunately, this soon-to-be-46-year-old childhood does not include such innocent treats like peanut chews and Tiger Beat. It consists instead of juvenile behavior from my contemporaries I can honestly live without. Instances of perceived backstabbing, "flat-leaving," and the forming of clique-ish factions of friends are the things I was hoping were gone for good from my life. While these modes of behavior are expected of children, another expectation is that said children will eventually abandon them. That, sadly, is not the case. I am acquainted with some people who are shining examples of how not to behave in your 40s and 50s. And, what strikes me as really ironic about that, is their adolescent behavior is exponentially more vicious now than it likely was when it was somewhat appropriate to act that way. Experience is supposed to accompany age; part of that experience should be learning from past actions so as not to repeat the ones that can potentially hurt others. Instead of gaining the necessary maturity we need to thrive during the post-adolescent stages of our lives, we regress, finding infinite ways to hang on to the adolescent angst we should have left behind years ago. Technology hasn't helped on that front; with its assistance, we are now able to inflict ourselves on others with a degree of cruelty unmatched by previous generations.

If a genie were to appear (virtual or otherwise) before me, my one wish would be to eradicate this behavior in all who feel they must cling to it so late in the game. I'm not naive enough to believe that those older than I are not capable of it as well - I once met someone who worked in a nursing home who playfully referred to it as a "high school with wheelchairs" - but I do find myself easily exhausted by watching those my age who are stuck in perpetual adolescence. If I'm this exhausted now, it will certainly be interesting to see how I'm feeling 30 years from now.

Nava

The Sickness

Greetings Friends,

The writer Marcel Proust once said (when he wasn't too busy eating cookies), "Three-quarters of the sicknesses of intelligent people come from their intelligence. They need at least a doctor who can understand this sickness." 

I consider myself an intelligent, reasonable person, but when it comes to sports, I abandon all reason and morph into a sheep, guided only by my instinct to follow the rest of the herd. In my case, the herd I follow is made up of other mostly intelligent people who can't help themselves when confronted with football, basketball, soccer, baseball and hockey. We might as well be drooling vegetables in the presence of our chosen poison. 

After enduring yet another National Hockey League work stoppage, the realization has never been more apparent that being a sports fan is a sickness. Anyone who must stop the world to turn on a baseball, football, basketball, or hockey game has got some major issues. Further, anyone who spends thousands of dollars every year in the form of season tickets has a few screws loose. And, any individual with the financial resources to actually purchase a professional sports team should take that money and donate it to a worthwhile charity. Supporting unionized, professional athletes in today's world is like giving candy to a blind, diabetic amputee. 

Early Sunday morning, the NHL announced that its labor issues have been resolved, and it will soon embark on an abbreviated season. My head told me to ignore the news and get on with my day. My heart, however, was rejoicing with the knowledge that there would soon be hockey to gnash my teeth and bite my nails over. That is my sickness. It has been with me since childhood, and it won't be going away any time soon, despite my level of intelligence. 

 Speaking of intelligence, one of the most intelligent athletes to ever play professional hockey, former Montreal Canadiens goaltender Ken Dryden, put down some very astute words about the NHL lockout for Canada's Globe and Mail newspaper. I've always admired Mr. Dryden for his intelligence - he became a lawyer after retiring from hockey in 1979 - but he never achieved great success as a front-office hockey guy, or as a politician (he was my Member of Parliament for a short time when I lived in Toronto). Maybe his calling was to be one of the greatest hockey players of all time; maybe he is an above-average lawyer; maybe, just maybe, he is as stupid as the rest of us, waiting for the puck to drop on the first game of the 2013-2013 season. 

Nava

Superstitious New Year

Greetings Friends,

I'm sure I'm not the only one who is slightly (who am I kidding - it's way more than slightly) superstitious about the dawning of this particular new year. The number thirteen is a symbol of bad luck to some; myself included. I try to avoid it when I can, and when I can't, I shudder with fear of what havoc this offensive number might wreak on my life. These thoughts, on what should be a propitious day of new beginnings and resolutions, have instead lead me to take stock of what it is I am afraid of, and what I might be able to do to quell those fears, as I have no choice but to live with the number "2013" for the next 364-and-a-half days. Here goes:

Fear of Running Out of Gas: The vehicle in my possession at the moment has something of a "sticky" gas gauge. I've noticed that when the needle gets close to the "E" side of the display, it engages in a bit of wiggling, causing the gas tank image to light up, when in fact there is at least one-quarter of a tank of gas left. It was quite worrisome at first, but when I realized the multitude of gas stations in my midst, I will never be too far from one even if I do actually drain the entire tank. The price differential, I'm afraid, is another fear factor; The price per gallon varies about 30 cents depending on where you go to fill up. Ponderous.

Fear of Aging: In five months time I will celebrate birthday number 46. Where the hell have all those years gone? I don't feel 46, nor do I think I look 46, although I will never look as good as some famous women my age or older. Admittedly, if I had the financial means to have a personal trainer, chef, and top-flight plastic surgeon at my disposal, things might be different. But, reality says I have to make do with what I have. That means not thinking about the number of my next birthday, but how I feel instead. I have a lot of work to do on that front, and it's time I got cracking.

Fear of Being too Zen: The digital lifestyle I find myself living has made me think about all the material possessions I used to have that are now superfluous. I don't have any records, CDs or DVDs in my home at the moment (all those items are in storage), because I've finally realized that all I ever want to watch or listen to is housed in an electronic device. All my music is on my laptop hard drive or in my phone, and any movie or television show I want to watch can be accessed online. I literally sleep with my laptop instead of falling asleep to the sound of the television. I am afraid that one day, the extent of all our possessions will be reduced to a few pieces of necessary furniture and a handful of electronic devices. The presence of a console television and a rack stereo system would be such a comfort to me.

Fear of Not Being Heard: In April, I will be writing this blog three years. I appreciate each and every one of my readers, even though I sometimes feel this is just another byte of unnoticed bandwidth in the great electronic void. Someone very special in my life keeps reminding me how important it is to write for myself. I promise to try to keep that in mind and focus more on writing what I want to, instead of just writing what I have to.

Fear of the Future: With all the recent events of destruction and violence, both natural and man-made, I fear that the future will be darker, rather than brighter. I don't want to feel this way, but sometimes it's unavoidable. I want to be positive and hopeful, but when I witness things like destructive weather events and unspeakable acts of murder, I worry. Will tomorrow really be better, or are we kidding ourselves? I sincerely hope not.

Fear of too Much Visibility: There are countless cautionary tales about people who have gotten burned online. I've come to the conclusion that the Internet is both a blessing and a curse, and it is up to each one of us to choose how much or how little we share on it. There are literally no secrets anymore, hard as we try to keep them. My only hope is that the mistakes I made in my past will stay there, and the things I hope to achieve will be celebrated. I must also toughen up and realize that all of this is completely beyond my control.

Happy New Year, friends; and try very hard to be healthy, prosperous and happy, despite the lousy number.

Nava

Weather, Sports, and Politics: A Friday Mixed Bag

Greetings Friends,

When you envision the New York City skyline, it is usually as a tableau of lights and impressive skyscrapers, not the metaphorical black-and-white cookie seen here: one dark half mingling with a light half. This image is the least of what "superstorm" Sandy inflicted on my hometown. I'm sure most of us have seen enough horrific pictures of coastal New Jersey, Queens, and Staten Island to leave indelible images on our hearts and minds forever.

Right now, it seems like the good people of the East Coast of the United States will never recover from Mother Nature's wrath. They will eventually. It will be long, hard, and painful, but it will happen. It is not fun to wake up one day to find life as you know it changed forever. It's happened to me, and to countless others. From my own personal experience, I know it sometimes doesn't seem possible to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and move on. But, it was possible for me, and it will be possible for the thousands who were impacted by Sandy. True, life will never be the same, but eventually, it will begin to brighten. There will be a new normal, and life will go on.

In the meantime, we could surely use a distraction from the devastation. Here are two topics that have been distracting me since before Sandy, the dreaded "superstorm," materialized:

Pucks and Padlocks: Well sports fans, it's no secret that labor disputes have become a fact of life for those of us unfortunate enough to be afflicted with the sickness known as fandom. This year's lockout marks the third major interruption of a National Hockey League season in the past 18 years, and it looks like it's going to be every bit as lengthy as the last one in 2005. Today, NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman announced the cancellation of the Winter Classic, the outdoor game between the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Detroit Red Wings that was supposed to be played on New Year's Day in front of about 100,000 people.

The bullshit -er, rhetoric, associated with this latest work stoppage has been even more vitriolic, particularly on the part of the players. They do in fact have much to lose, but for every middle-sized North American boy who dreams of lacing up a pair of skates to risk jarring his brain loose on a sheet of ice, there is no league other than the NHL in which to attempt that. So, guys - all of you - please cease the threats of not coming back if your salaries are cut and your contracts are capped at six years. Just please concentrate on putting your jellied heads together and sorting this all out. Then, when you finally do, members of both sides should have to kiss the hairiest asses of the fans who will flock back to the arenas to see you play. Remember: all is fair in love and lockouts.

Politics: I picked the perfect time to skip back across the border into the United States: three weeks prior to the presidential election. I've tried like hell not to listen to all the rhetoric - er, bullshit, but some of it is unavoidable, particularly the stupidity that's been spewing out of the mouths of certain Republican congressional candidates. Abortion and a woman's right to do what she chooses with her body should never be politicized, but it seems this year, there is no avoiding it. Morality and religion aside, you have no right to tell me how to stuff a ballot box, let alone tell me what to do with an even more personal box. That's crude, I know, but so is saying that a child conceived during an act of rape is a blessing from God.

Watching New Jersey Governor Chris Christie smooch President Obama's buttocks for federal disaster relief money this past week has been almost as distasteful as listening to the right wing nuts go on about abortion. So was watching CNN politicize an unfortunate weather event. Mother Nature has some pretty ironic timing, and I think her message is very much in keeping with what Joan Crawford told the Pepsi Cola board when she took over for her deceased husband, CEO Alfred Steele (that is, if the dialogue in the movie Mommie Dearest is historically accurate): "Don't fuck with me fellas, this ain't my first time at the rodeo."

Have a great weekend.

Nava

Back In the U.S.A.

Greetings Friends,

If there is anything I've learned over the past three years, it is to never count on anyone but yourself. As much as we would like to believe that there are family members and friends who will be there for us no matter what (sometimes they might be), the majority of the time, we are our own best friends. It's a tough lesson to learn, but thankfully, I've not only learned it, I've lived to tell about it.

Without going into copious detail about why I'm glad to be back living in the United States, I will say, however, that I did appreciate what Canadian life had to offer me during the time I spent there. I learned some new skills, gained some valuable insight, and finally made peace with the fact that my Canadian family is nutsy-fagan-batshit-crazy. That's a technical term; I found it in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM).

I feel blessed to have had the opportunity to live in my mom's birthplace for a few years. For a very short period of time, I truly felt like I belonged there. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a huge mistake for reasons beyond my control. I beat myself up about my decision to move there for a long time, and now that I'm back below the 49th parallel, I can say with complete honesty that that mistake lead me to something even better than I could have possibly imagined. Life is not easy, and the journey it takes you on is not always pleasant. Sometimes, you have to endure a hell of a lot of unpleasantness to get to a place where things start to get better. I thought Toronto was that place for me, but it wasn't. The place I am in now is that place.

I am deliberately being vague about my current location for reasons having to do with the nutsy-fagan-batshit-craziness I had to endure during my time in Canada. I will, however, say this: To those who might read this (and you know who you are), you can no longer hurt me; you can no longer control how I live my life; you can no longer inflict yourself and your insanity on me; you will never see or hear from me ever again. And lastly, I want to say that I feel sorry for you; it is your loss that I am no longer in your life.

Now that I've gotten that out of the way, it's on to bigger and better things. I will look back on my time in Canada as a pit stop I needed to make in order to get to where I am. I am grateful for the experience, however horrible and painful it was to endure, but I am even more grateful for where it has lead me. And, I am happy to say that I still have the ability to experience the joy and happiness it has brought me.

Have a glorious weekend.

Nava

Labour vs. Labor

Greetings Friends,

Labour/Labor Day is here, and instead of bemoaning the 8.3 percent American jobless rate, I want to talk about another topic that is uniquely Canadian: hockey.

Why am I choosing to discuss hockey on a day meant to honour hardworking Americans and Canadians? Well, for those of you who are unaware, the NHL's collective bargaining agreement with its players is set to expire on September 15. Once again, and for the third time in Gary Bettman's tenure as commissioner of the sport, the NHL is poised to lock out its players because of a labour dispute.

I have always maintained the stance that professional athletes should not be allowed to unionize, but that idea is about as well-received as asking Donald Trump to get a decent haircut. Instead, every few years the owners and players like to play a game of "chicken" with their sport, while the fans wait to see who flinches first. This might not be big news in the States right now, what with the Democratic National Convention set to begin this week, and millions of Americans waiting to see how President Obama will respond to Clint Eastwood's "empty chair" speech at last week's Republican National Convention. Americans have many more pressing matters to attend to than wondering if a metaphorical padlock will once again be slapped on the second-rate sport of hockey. Granted, millions breathed a collective sigh of relief last year when the NFL avoided that scenario, and still more gleefully tuned in when the NBA started its season late after settling its labour dispute. But, the NHL subscribes to the "go big or go home" way of doing things, so chances are, hockey fans are looking at yet another lost season.

The first time the NHL tossed an entire season (2004-05), I had a vested interest in the outcome: I was a season ticket-holder of the New York Islanders. Now, I hold no such status other than that of a somewhat interested bystander. I amuse myself by reading impassioned pleas from Canadian sports writers to team owners to make "smart business decisions," rather than "putting hockey teams in places where 12-year-olds knew they couldn't survive," and tweets from fans attempting to convince themselves that they won't have a Pavlovian response to the first Hockey Night in Canada game that airs post-lockout. Come on people, at least fess up to caring. We can't help it; we're sports fans. As I've said previously, being a sports fan is an affliction there is no cure for.

As the deadline looms, and things continue to look bleak, I can't help but think about the people who will really get hurt by all this labour strife: the individuals who work for the teams and the arenas in which they play. That list includes vendors, ushers, maintenance people, office staff, and others who rely on much smaller salaries than the players and owners enjoy to support their families and live their lives. These people are the ones who really get lost in the shuffle; the ones who have to worry about finding alternate employment if the worst case scenario materializes. The players will be fine. The owners, better than fine. It's the labourers no one ever hears about that suffer the most. Maybe Donald Fehr and Gary Bettman should think about those people at their next meeting. Chances are, they won't.

So on this Labour Day, think about those who are struggling, and those whose hearts are heavy with the worry of imminent struggle. The wealthy enjoy the privilege of success from the sweat of others. Sadly, professional athletes are no different.

Nava

It's My Body, Damn It!

Greetings Friends,

Okay, I admit that my use of the image of a wire hanger might be puzzling (I "borrowed" the idea from the Huffington Post), but it certainly grabs one's attention.

For the past few days I've been listening to anyone with a voice and an electronic device communicate their disdain for the comments Rep. Todd Akin (R-Mo.) made about a woman's decision to seek an abortion in the event she becomes pregnant as a result of being raped. They are as follows:

"From what I understand from doctors, that's really rare. If it's a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down. But let's assume that maybe that didn't work or something, I think there should be some punishment, but the punishment ought to be of the rapist, and not attacking the child."

Before I read these comments on CNN.com on Sunday, I had never heard of Rep. Akin. Since then, I have learned that he is a "longtime hero" to the antiabortion movement, one of many evangelical Christians who believe that "during a rape, the trauma sets in motion biological blocks so a woman cannot conceive a child." Oh really? That sort of thinking might encourage other biologically ignorant people to believe that the "trauma" of a woman's first experience with sexual intercourse might trigger similar "biological blocks" that would prevent her from getting pregnant if she is not using some form of birth control. Funny how so many young woman wonder how they get pregnant after having had sex only once. As the saying goes, "once is all it takes," whether the sex is consensual or not. It is a biological fact. These "blocks" evangelical white men speak of, simply do not exist. But, how would they know that? They are, after all, men.

A woman's legal right to seek an abortion has been in place since the 1973 landmark Supreme Court decision, Roe v. Wade. The court decided that a Texas statute forbidding abortion unless it became necessary to save the life of the mother, was unconstitutional. The justices arrived at their decision by stating that, according to the Constitution, a woman's right to an abortion is a private matter. They did however, include the following statement in their decision:

"State regulation protective of fetal life after viability thus has both logical and biological justifications. If the State is interested in protecting fetal life after viability, it may go so far as to proscribe abortion during that period, except when it is necessary to preserve the life or health of the mother."

What that means, in plain English, is that a particular state can make it very difficult for a woman to obtain an abortion, if it chooses to do so. And that's what many American politicians, including Todd Akin, have devoted their careers to doing for the past 39 years.

In 1973, I was 6 years old. I have effectively lived my entire life knowing that it is my right to have an abortion if I choose. I cannot begin to imagine what life was like for women when abortion was considered a criminal act, performed in secret, and often to the physical detriment of the woman. Granted, I don't believe the decision to have an abortion is one that should be made lightly, but I do, however, believe that I as a woman, have every right to make that decision for myself. A group of men, white, black, blue, purple, or any other colour, have no right to make that decision for me, regardless of the circumstances. And, to further muddy the waters, said men have absolutely no right to define rape as "legitimate" or "illegitimate," or to make nonsensical statements about a woman's biological ability to become pregnant.

I could go on for pages about how evangelical Christians and other religious groups choose to ignore science by making ridiculous claims about biological blocks and other issues that have no basis in fact. That has been done and will continue be done as long as humans walk the earth.

What I will say, however, is that the right to free speech should be cherished and not perverted by individuals who seek elected office to gratify their own egos. Todd Akin and his brethren are not interested in protecting women from themselves. They are nothing more than narcissistic agenda-pushers who attempt to bully people into believing in their skewed vision of a perfect world. Sorry, gentlemen, but there is no such thing as a perfect world. We women have the right to govern our bodies as we please, just as you do. That is one biological determinism that you and God can't do a damn thing about.

To women of my generation who might not realize how infuriating this is, do a little research about what risks were involved in obtaining an abortion before Roe v. Wade. I ain't spoon-feeding this to you, ladies; this is something you must make an effort to be aware of. 

Nava