Barbs & Jabs

Plenty of hot air in 2006

I'm not a big fan of New Year's Eve.
When I was young, I use to hide in the washroom when the clock struck mid-night. That's how I avoided being kissed by drunks.
When I was older, I stayed home. Since there are no drunks in my house, I no longer have to hide in the can. Life is, indeed, full of changes.
One a scale of one to 10, I'll give 2006 a seven.
On the personal front, I lost my mother, a tree fell on my house, my car gave up the ghost and I gained 15 pounds.
On the positive side, I learned how very much I loved mom, nobody got hurt when the tree, the second in two years, hit my house, I'm now driving a shiny new car and I'm on a diet.
On the national front, I didn't cheer when Prime Minister Stephen Harper was sworn into office, the weather was totally weird and too many Canadian soldiers came home in body bags.
It wasn't all bad — Mr. Harper didn't destroy the country, the odd weather delivered above-average temperatures in December and, hopefully, our soldiers in Afghanistan didn't die in vain.
It wasn't all good news for York Region — motorists spent the year stuck in traffic, a 200-year-old storm had its way with Newmarket and a mayoralty candidate in Markham landed in jail.
On the brighter side, the subway extension to York Region got the green light, Vaughan was treated to a new mayor, Whitchurch-Stouffville welcomed Wal-Mart and got its old mayor back, while construction started on Richmond Hill's multi-million dollar performing arts centre.
Happy New Year.

Common decency left out in cold

No one community has a monopoly on being mean.
The banner story in today's Toronto Star reminds me, once again, that some people are not only nasty, they're proud of it and have no qualms about flaunting it. 
Organizers of a Toronto-based Out of the Cold program were forced to put the brakes on a plan to open a 12-bed temporary shelter in a church after being threatened with a legal injunction from residents in the upscale Silver Beach Avenue-Queen Street area of The Beach.
The snobs are worried: Out of the Cold is getting too close for comfort, leaving them no option but to mobilize.
The opening for the one-night-a-week shelter has been delayed for three months, while a community meeting is slated for mid-January.
As a reporter, I've covered similar meetings.
At one in particular, I witnessed society at its worst. The meeting held in a Whitby school was set up to discuss a rezoning application to accommodate a 40-unit affordable townhouse development near a pricey subdivision.
It was one of the few times in my media career that I had to duck to avoid injury.
Residents of the upscale neighbourhood resorted to throwing chairs at a six-member panel, made up of people interested in providing decent housing. The very moment I took cover, I knew I had a front-page story.   
The mayor tried but failed to restore order.
Just before police arrived, a local real estate agent handed out, "sell now" flyers. The realtor's scare tactic included warnings that once the townhouses were occupied, seniors would be attacked in the park, wide-open drug deals would take over the streets and everybody's kids would be lured into unspeakable criminal behaviour.
The mayor pulled out all the stops — gave the real estate agent a tongue lashing, told the snobs to go home or he'd have them arrested, while announcing he would do everything in his power make sure the townhouses were built as planned.
At this moment, I knew I had the front-page banner story.
Funny thing happened, life carried on — 40 families got affordable housing, nobody was murdered, seniors didn't get mugged in the park and the mayor was re-elected in a landslide.
Here's another story that proves, once again, that money doesn't care who owns it.
Residents from a mansion-style housing development in north Stouffville turned a community event notice into a front-page story. The Keep-the-Riff-Raft-Out card was played to the enth degree. It was the talk of the town.
Here's what happened:
A developer partnered with the local cancer society to host a fundraiser. It would be an open-house tea party held on two afternoons in a just-built mansion located in the "We're All Rich" part of town.   
It was be a tea party to end all tea parties - Sterling silver tea pots, antique tea wagons, English bone china, complete with hot scones and jelly.   
Toronto's very best interior decorators agreed to work together to turn the unoccupied mansion into a showcase of elegance. 
While I was making plans to invite my mother, two ladies from her church and three old aunts to the high brow tea party, the residents of the neighbourhood weighed in and quickly realized they were being pushed beyond tolerance.
Within three days, the folks from the local cancer society took cover, while the neighbours put the cow-bash on the tea party. 
Who can blame them?
Here's what the rich folks faced: moderate-priced cars parking on their pretty streets, old gals strolling arm-in-arm past their $5-million houses, signs reading "Help Fight Cancer," and blue-haired, God-fearing ladies pouring tea.
One resident suggested it was an open invitation to crime - some of the ladies wouldn't really be from the churches, but rather they'd be thieves in disguise coming to stake out their next job - a home invasion was inevitable. Another hinted that on the way to the tea party, the little old ladies would, as old ladies are prone to do, engage in wreckless driving and run over her rich children. 
Some front-page stories write themselves. This was one.
Back to now:
When the folks from Toronto's St. Aidan's Anglican Church decided to offer the homeless a warm place to sleep, they had the silly idea it was a good thing to do. Instead of stepping over people on the city sidewalks in the dead of winter, a warm bed and a bowl of hot soup seemed to fit their Golden Rule-driven Christian doctrine. 
Facing an Out of the Cold program in the neighbourhood left The Beaches residents with no option but to arm themselves with a lawyer.
At the upcoming meeting, the lawyer will stress that this is not a case of NIMBYism, but rather a meaningful examination that should result in Out of the Cold organizers looking elsewhere for a place for the shelter.
While flying chairs, threats of wild tea parties and a move to make sure some homeless guy freezes to death makes front-page news, why do snobs insist on being part of the story? 

Millions to build cancer centre money well spent

Cancer's not a big deal until it comes to your house.
When it hits you, a family member or a friend, it hurts.
Close to 20 years ago, I was successfully treated for an easy-to-cure cancer. Last year, I lost a best friend to this damned disease. And on Christmas day, cancer took the life of my 45-year old cousin.
Every summer throughout her childhood, Elaine Ransberry would join her parents and three siblings as they left their Montreal home and headed to Ontario to attend our family picnic. Elaine and her family always stayed at my house for the three-day weekend.
The arrival of the Quebec cousins was the highlight of the summer. 
About an hour before Elaine and the others were expected to arrive, my kids would gather on the front step. They'd almost burst with excitement.
One particular summer, our dog had given birth to six puppies. The moment the Quebec cousins arrived, my kids let the puppies loose. The one that squealed the loudest was Elaine — she will be remembered for always. 
A few days before Christmas, a provincial cabinet minister turned up in Newmarket to deliver good news on the cancer front.
The new Southlake Regional Health Centre cancer facility will be built "on time and as promised," was the message from Health and Long-Term Care Minister George Smitherman.
Construction of the cancer care centre is to begin next year and the multi-million dollar project will wrap up in 2009.
Some treated at the new facility will be cured. Some won't. The winners and the losers are unknown. One thing is certain: Having access to a nearby cancer treatment facility will mean a great deal to this community.
I don't know what it costs. I don't care what it cost. If the target is cancer, it'll be money well spent.

Mom died knowing she mattered

Most of us are missing someone.
This marks the first Christmas without my mother — she died on June 18.
In keeping with a 103-year tradition, the family will gather at the Ransberry farm, south of Peterborough. The tree's up, the foods planned and the gifts wrapped. Everything's in its place. Except for Mom.
While I looked like my mother, I never had her patience, her quiet charm, her wisdom or her loyalties. I'm not as kind, as frugal or as forgiving. Nor, did I work as hard.
Norma Ellen liked people and people liked her. However, if you didn't laugh, she didn't trust you. If you didn't share, she'd wonder who raised you. If you didn't work for no reason, she'd make it clear: lazy was not part of the family makeup. 
While genetically outfitted with an iron will, Mom was gentle. She could deliver a cup of tea in two minutes and said "Oh dear" in all the right places.
When I turned my 34-year-old mother into a grandmother, she was thrilled. Mom liked babies. From where she viewed the world, babies didn't take up too much room. You simply feed them, give them water, keep them warm in the winter, cool in the summer and hug them 27 times a day. Mom's recipe for raising kids was simple: Sprinkle a little old-time religion, a dash of culture and lots of music. Go easy on starchy foods and formal education, heavy on the importance of work and play and moderate on both sugar and alcohol. And, last: don't forget your manners. 
Norma was an enigma. She could dance but she couldn't sing. Oh, could she dance.
My father asked my mother for their first dance in 1943. She was 14 and danced so well, he married her a year later. Other than each other, they had nothing.
I always feel the need to defend teenage mothers, including pointing out that 30-something, first-time mothers don't have a monopoly on good parenting. Nor do they know it all.
Now, I do this in memory of Mom. She had her third and last baby at 18. She wasn't a baby having babies. My mother knew damned well what she was doing.
One thing is certain: Norma Ellen loved her man. She loved him through the good times, the bad times and all the in between times. And, her man loved her back. Poor when they started out, they changed that.
My father looked out for his wife. In keeping with tradition, commitment and honour, Mac stood up to the plate in illness and in health and he never stood back. He went the distance. Mac did it for his touch stone, his soul mate, his lover, his farming partner and his very best friend. When Mac kissed his wife just before she died, he kissed her full on the mouth. It was that kind of marriage. 
My mother had a knack for burning liver, was proud of her Irish roots, grew beautiful peonies, studied Canadian history, prayed in the United Church of Canada, always voted Liberal, watched her money, was a dedicated community volunteer and she was the only person I ever knew who smoked one cigarette a day for 25 years.
Norma rode the waves of change. She stuck by her kids when they changed their addresses, their careers, their politics and even their husbands. When we made very stupid mistakes, Mom would help pick up the pieces, grow  quiet or say, "Oh dear" in all the right places.   
To mom, her grandchildren were perfect in every way. From the time the grand babes were minutes old, Gramma could tell they were beautiful, very smart and destined for greatness. She had the same insight when the great grandchildren arrived. For good measure, Great Gramma would remind the new moms that babies don't take up too much room.   
When putting the finishing touches on Christmas, I'll take the time to visit the cemetery in Orono where Mom is resting. It's a pretty spot — she's on the far west side overlooking an open field.  A hummingbird is engraved on her tombstone. Mom hung a hummingbird feeder outside her kitchen window for as long as I remember.
Before I leave the cemetery, I'll still the tears by reminding myself that my mother loved in all the right places and died knowing she mattered.
I miss her so.

Christmas worsens pain of poverty

The boardroom at York Region Newspaper Group in Newmarket is a wild sight.
Instead of its usual clean, plush and boring business look, it's wall-to wall-toys and kids clothes.
Instead of making the company money, staff is wrapping, marking and delivering Christmas baskets to 62 families in York Region.
Of those, 19 families are spending Christmas at a local women's shelter.
The Santa Fund includes gifts for the moms, too. They deserve a gift or two. They're the bravest women I know. 
I'm turning my back on the news for a couple of hours tomorrow to help with the Santa Fund delivery.
Like many people of my generation, I've lived with poverty.
The memory softens with the passing of time. Still, I never want to go there again. It's a hard-hitting pain, especially felt at Christmas.
If ever we smarten up and eraticate poverty, I hope it comes at Christmas.
In the meantime, let's continue to care.
To all those in York Region who donated to the Santa Fund, thank you.
To all those receiving the gifts, enjoy.

Two whole days? Gee, thanks

Dear Boss:
Yes, it's me again.
I know this is the third letter within a week, but I've just found another example of your being mean.
In my first letter, I suggested I be treated like Hydro One CAO Tom Parkinson. After little Tommy mismanaged millions of dollars, the government gave him $3 million. When I offered to take a hike for a mere million, you threatened to fire me and have me arrested.
In my second letter, I hinted you should model yourself after the premier of Ontario and tag an additional $22,000 onto my annual salary. Since the 25-per-cent salary hike for our MPPs is one or two steps away from a done deal, I figured you'd want me to have the same. 
I was a little disappointed in your response. When you threatened to kick me to the curb, I had to question this free-enterprise style of bossing.
But Boss, let's let bygones be bygones. This letter is about Christmas.
Did you know our MPs have already fled Ottawa for the Christmas/New Year's break. They're not going back to work until the end of January.
And, then there's me.
I get two days off at Christmas. Here's my work-free schedule:
Christmas Day: three hours to pack and travel, eight hours to cook and serve and three hours of washing up.
Boxing Day: It'll be a breeze: two hours to help clean up some relative's house, three hours to pack and travel, one hour to unload and half an hour to get clothes ready for work the next day.
Boss, I know my manners. Thanks for two days to celebrate Christmas. If I have any time left over, I'll call my MP and ask what I can do for Canada.
Love Joan
(in newsroom at the back of the building)

Dear Joan:
What part of You Don't Work for the Government, don't you understand?  If you start acting like an MP and not turn up to work until the end of January, you can take the rest of your life off.
Merry Christmas.
The Boss
(in the big office at the front of the building)

Thinking like a zillionaire

Zillionaire Bill Gates and I have little in common.
He’s rich. I’m not.
That’s the end of it.
Still, when I read a speech he gave at a high school listing a few things they’re not learning at school, I was thrilled somebody has the guts to tell it like it is.
When Gates talks about how today’s feel good, politically-correct teachings are creating a generation of kids with no concept of reality, he deserves to be heard.
Here are a few Gates tips for children, their parents, their grandparents and yes, their teachers:
•  Life is not fair: get used to it;
• You have to accomplish something before you can feel good about yourself;
• If you think your teacher is tough, wait till you get a boss;
• Before you were born, your parents weren’t as boring as they are now. They got that way from paying your bills, cleaning your clothes and listening to you talk about how cool you are
• Before saving the rain forests from the parasites of your parent’s generation, try delousing your room;
• Your school may have done away with winners and losers. Life has not;
• Flipping a burger is not beneath your dignity. Your grandparents called it opportunity;
• You will not make $60,000 a year right out of high school. Get use to it;
• Life is not divided into semesters. You don’t get summers off and no employer is interested in helping you find yourself. Do that on your own time;
And, this one is obviously close to Gate’s heart:
• Be nice to nerds. Chances are you’ll end up working for one.
Thank you, Bill Gates.
Pass it on.

A Woman’s Place is in the House

I don’t have to be liberated — I’ve never been captured.
The Liberals are putting on a special push to convince prominent and successful women to run as candidates in the next federal election.
In a drive to get more women on board, newly selected Grit leader Stephane Dion has appointed lawyer Linda Julien to head up the party’s women candidate search.
Of the candidates in the next election, Mr. Dion wants at least 33 per cent to be women. 
Since Newmarket-Aurora MP Belinda Stronach and Thornhill MP Susan Kadis are among the six local Liberals elected to the House of Commons, York Region has met the 33-per-cent quota.
We need to move the bar, sending at least one more woman from York Region to Ottawa.
Also, we’d better kickstart the old ’60s slogan, A Woman’s Place is in the House.
For years, I blamed the old boys’ club for keeping the Men-Rule doctrine alive in Ottawa.
I believed that, given time, many of life’s injustices would disappear and we’d finally achieve gender balance in our  government. 
After all, life dictates that, at some point, prejudice people get old and die, taking all their discriminatory idealism along with them to the grave.
So, here we are: while women are making major inroads, we’re still not represented equally in government.
Time’s running out.
I can no longer blame the lack of women in government entirely on men.
Despite all that has been done to get women to recognize their own strengths and to take control of their own lives, some are so burdened with low self-esteem, they’re reluctant to put their faith in other women.
I see a flaw in Mr. Dion’s plan.
Why doesn’t the Liberal leader have lawyer Linda Julien join forces with Ms Stronach, the Liberal’s women caucus chairperson, and head up a 50-50 male-female Liberal candidate search?
Stop with this ongoing lip service and go into the game with a one-net approach designed to catch an equal number of talented and, yes, honest men and women candidates.
Of the four national political parties, women make the best gains with the Liberals’ warts and all. 
Last summer, 26 current and former women MPs joined Ms Stronach at an Aurora-based, two-day retreat to focus on women in Canada.
There, they produced the Pink Book, dealing with ways to improve women’s economic security and economic empowerment.
While I don’t like the colour of the Pink Book, I applaud its content. The Pink Book calls for national child care and early learning programs, a system that would be on par with the one the Liberals signed with the provinces before they got turfed out of office last January.
The Liberals deserved to get the boot, but not because of their position on child care.
A few thieves got hold of Liberal reigns. Party officials turned a blind eye.
The result was it tainted, embarrassed and humiliated the party, sending it to the repair shop where it belonged.
Will the Liberal party be fixed before the next election is anyone’s guess. 
Of the four national political parties, the best chance for women to move toward equality remains with the very imperfect Liberals.
While from an ideology standpoint, the New Democrat Party offers women the most respect and the best recognition, the socialist party writes cheques it can’t cash.
The NDP have been in a stalled position for years. A political party can’t deliver unless it’s moving forward.
Instead of sulking, living in the clouds and chasing itself in circles, I dearly wish the New Democrats would grow up, get real and learn how to grow. 
The Conservatives, meanwhile, are OK with women, providing there’s not too many of them.
Women in large numbers make the Tories nervous.
Now, if you give women in large numbers power, Prime Minister Stephen Harper would break out in hives.
Of course, the Bloc’s focus is on taking Quebec out of the country.
There’s no interest, time or energy being spent on little else.
If women are to occupy half of the 308 seats in the House of Commons in my lifetime, I’ll have to live a very long time.

I sent a letter to my boss...

The tag on today’s blog should read: I sent a letter to my boss and on the way I lost it. A little government picked it up and put it in its pocket.

Dear Boss,

I know, I know. I wrote you yesterday outlining my plan to steal thousands of dollars from the company purse, followed by a demand I be treated in the same fashion as Hydro One CAO Tom Parkinson; showered in money. When I pointed out that Mr. Parkinson mismanaged millions of dollars and was given $3 million to get lost, you reminded me I don’t work for the government. You made it clear: If I stole from the company, I’d get fired and go to jail.

Boss, today, I’ve got a new plan. Like yesterday’s, it’s modelled after the provincial government. I
want you to write down the figure representing my annual salary, multiply it by four, add this amount to the original and send it me NOW.

There’s no need to go into the old boss rant; turning purple and pounding your fist on the desk doesn’t scare me. I’m demanding a 25-per-cent raise for my thieving efforts and you’d better learn to live with it. Them’s my terms and I ain’t gonna budge.

If it’ll make you feel any better, let me point out that yesterday, members of the Ontario legislature voted overwhelmingly in favour of giving themselves a 25-per-cent salary hike. As a result, our MPPs would see their base pay climb to $110,775 from $88,771 a year. Boss, you know what you pay me...Just increase it by 25 per cent and be done with it.

Remember. If you pay peanuts, you get monkeys.

Love, Joan

Dear Joan,
When I kick you to the curb, you can expect some pain. Love, Your free enterprise boss.

Dear Boss, I'm thinking of stealing thousands of dollars

If I stole $45,000 from my employer, I don’t know which would come first: getting fired or getting arrested.
Maybe I’m missing something, but when the provincial auditor general reported Hydro One’s CEO Tom Parkinson slipped $45,000 worth of charges to his secretary’s government credit card, I figured the big head would roll right into the cop shop.
Instead, Hydro One’s big head quit.
The province was quick to respond, giving Mr. Parkinson $3 million in severance is the cheapest way to get rid of him.
From where I view the world, the head of Hydro One is a thief and should be treated as one.
Then again, maybe I will modify my view and write a couple of letters.
Dear boss, 
I’m thinking of stealing thousands upon thousands of dollars from the company purse.
If you have any objections, I’ll quit.
I’ll remind you that the Hydro One guy got $3 million in severance pay following one year of service at about $2 million a year. When writing my cheque, keep this in mind.
Yes, my annual salary is a little shy of $2 million, I have been with the company 29 years.
Love, Joan
While waiting for my buy out, I’ll send the second letter.
Dear government,
I understand when the auditor general stuck his nose into Hydro One, he uncovered a $100 million worth of expenses that were not justified.
As a taxpayer and customer of Hydro One, I’ll not whine or bitch providing you’ll accept my not paying my electrical bill for the next 179 years.
Love, Joan
P.S. If we can’t make Mr. Parkinson face a criminal court judge, what’s the reason we didn’t fire him with cause?   
Since I live, work, pay taxes and vote in Ontario, I’d appreciate  if our local MPPs could explain why Mr. Parkinson got filthy rich from the very public purse I help hold.
Hopefully, Greg Sorbara, Mario Racco, Frank Klees and Julia Munro could explain.
The truth is: I feel like I’ve been had.
Speaking of letters, I just got this one from the boss.
Dear Joan,
This ain’t the government. If you swipe thousands of dollars from the company, you’ll land in the slammer.
P.S. Your severance pay will be a serving of bread and water.
Love,
Your private enterprise boss