monster sarcasm rally

One year ago today

One year ago today I hopped on a plane to London, where I proceeded to experience The Worst Holiday Ever (parts -1, 0, 1-5, 6, 7). London was not the reason for the awful-ness of the trip — far from it. In fact, it was during that trip that I made a decision. For a long time I had been wanting to move there — you know, someday. But I never did anything about it.

So last year I decided it was time to... well, in the words of Doctor Lisa... suck it up, princess. I decided to work towards making it happen. But then along came the sun global economic crisis and dried up all the rain bonus money. So the saving-up-cash process slowed down. And then the Santa Claus Incident swallowed what savings I did have. But now that's behind me, the uber-pricey MBA is history, and I even got a bit of a raise. 

What does this all mean? It means I'm moving to London, baby. I've done up a fancy budget thinger, and I've got my spending habits (mostly) under control. I'm on track to make the move some time around March.

All this talk of London reminds me of a Toronto story. Sort of... Let's say you land at Heathrow and you get on the tube. You will hear a voice clearly announce something like the following: This is a Piccadilly line train to Cockfosters.

In Toronto you can enter any TTC station at any time of day, and you will hear this announcement: -- tion all -- bway pas -- periencing a delay at our -- ation with a ---- se crews are ------ expect serv -------- Repeat: -- lay at our sta --

I believe this message can be interpreted as: Attention all subway passenger-hopefuls. We are experiencing a delay at the station near your house with yet another jumper and/or drunk person. Emergency response crews are dispassionately observing the scene. We expect service (if you can call it that) to be restored the moment you give up and start walking. Repeat: We are experiencing a delay at a randomly selected sampling of our stations due to a last-minute strike.

Anyways, that's my ramble for the evening. Thank you for joining humouring me.

...and zombies

Why did I not know about this? What cave have I been living in?

FAIL

This is the story of how I failed. I took a situation that was less than ideal and made it much worse.

On Tuesday afternoon I arrived at my grandmother's house 300 km west of here in the town that rhymes with Narnia. She came to the door and smiled. She bent to pat both the dogs. Then she frowned and looked towards the car. Are you alone? I thought you would bring — she paused — a friend.

We had a good afternoon and a nice evening. As it started to get dark I flicked the light switch in the kitchen. Two of the four bulbs came on, but very weakly. They sort of glowed, but didn't illuminate anything.

I commented on it and said we could get some new bulbs for it in the morning. She fretted about me being on the ladder, but whatever. Later the light changed and two different bulbs were on at full strength. Eventually all four were on at full strength. At another point a different combination of two bulbs were on.

She said not to worry about it, this is what they do when the bulbs are dying. That's all. I wasn't so sure. It's fine, she said. I don't ever use that light fixture anyways. I only ever use the lamp on the table.

In the morning we went to the hardware store. I described the problem to an employee, and Gram jumped in to say it was just the bulbs. It might be, said the clerk, but it may well be the ballast. If that's the case, it's cheaper and easier to replace the fixture than than the ballast. I called my dad and he gave the same prognosis.

I said we should replace the fixture. I've replaced all the light fixtures in my own house. It's not hard. Oh no, Gram said. You need a man to do that!

I... Um... I'm... You... Er, what?

I told her she'd better not let my father hear her talk that way. She was insistent. So was I. Then I put her on the phone with my father and he set her straight. She said the ceiling would need to be repainted. He said that was an excuse for me to come back another week. She relented. I removed the old fixture and we went to Home Depot. We looked at all the different fixtures and discussed the merits of several. She picked out the one that she liked.

We got it home and I climbed up the ladder to install the new one. I fiddled with it and stared at it for a bit, but something wasn't right. I was missing one piece. The new fixture was unadjustable and sized for a 6-inch junction box. The junction box was 4 inches. To complete the job I would need an adjustable mounting bracket: a run-of-the-mill $2 part. Very easy. The shop up the street would have them. Quick and painless. The rest of the job would take 10 minutes.

Of course, by this point the shops were closed. I said I'd do it first thing in the morning. Fine.

This morning I got up and walked to the shop, but it wasn't open yet. When I got home she was waiting. She said she'd changed her mind. She didn't like the new fixture. It was too small. It wasn't bright enough. It was too different. The ceiling would have to be repainted.

I tried to rebut, but she got upset. She told me she was an old lady and she didn't want change. She didn't like it. She wouldn't have it. The fixture was very important. It was always on. It was very bright and she needed it. A new one wouldn't be as bright.

She said it wasn't me, I hadn't done anything wrong. She thanked me for trying to help, but said she just couldn't deal with the new fixture. I backed down and called my dad. He told me I had done what I could.

I decided to let it drop. The moment I did she said, you're just a girl, and a small one at that. You need a man to do this.

She said she'd get somebody from the seniors' centre to fix it. I went down to the centre and asked them. They said they weren't allowed to do electrical work, only a licensed electrician could.

So now she has two light fixtures on the floor and none working.

Be my ethics committee

Hypothetical scenario... Let's say, for instance, that a good friend of yours has been unemployed for six months during the biggest economic travesty since the invention of feet. Imagine that he's had no leads, no calls, no hope, and is scraping by on the tuppence a month that the government so graciously bestows upon him.

You decide to help your friend find work. You help him with his CV. You send him job postings he may not have seen.

Then you come across a great posting. It's ideally suited to your friend's skill set and experience. It provides room to grow. It's a long-term thing. It pays well and has grown-up benefits. But, because we know that too-good-to-be-true usually is, it involves working for an organisation he reviles.

Now, to be fair... His hatred is not entirely undeserved. They have done some pretty unpleasant things in the past. And they'll probably do more in the future. They have good values, but let's just say their methodology isn't always up to scratch. That said, they're looking pretty good right now compared to (say) Mr Brown and his Roving Band of Thieves.

You know your friend will be hesitant to apply for the job, because if he got it he'd have to work for them. On the other hand, it's a job. With a paycheque and everything.

Now here's your dilemma. As a good friend, should you:
a)  Not send him the link, because you know it would upset him;
b)  Send him the link, and let him make his own mind up;
c)  Send him the link, and nag him to at least apply; or
d)  Write a letter that gushes with praises for the group, and proclaiming the opportunity to be your life's ambition and heart's desire, sign his name to it, and send it along with his CV and a little song you've made up about how much he loves them all, most especially dear old Maggie?

Please advise.

Seven-layer post

Every day I think of things to write and every day I'm too lazy to follow through. 

_____________________________________ 

I've been speaking with several dog rescue groups about fostering. Most have turned me down (mainly because I can't commit to more than 6 months). Two accepted me, but then didn't have any dogs in need of care. 

Today one of them called me about a German Shepherd. They're currently doing a temperment assessment to see if he's suitable to be placed with me. If he is, he'll be coming later this week. 

Then one of the groups who turned me down called me. Well, okay, they didn't so much turn me down as just hate every answer I gave to their questions (for starters, they really didn't like that I had a job). But now they're desperate, so suddenly I don't seem so bad. Anyways, I said I didn't want a bonded pair as it would be unfair to my dog. So of course, they called about a bonded pair. 

Whatever. 

_____________________________________ 

We'll see what happens. A few weeks back I had a finance exam. I sat down to write it and promptly forgot everything I know. I barely remembered my own name. Since I'd done well in the class to that point, they agreed to let me rewrite, on the condition that I do so in Waterloo (150 km west of here) during business hours. So I arranged to take Monday off. At the last minute though something came up and they decided I had to work. 

I left the house at seven, drove 90 minutes to the university, wrote a three-hour exam, grabbed a smoothie to suffice as lunch, drove 90 minutes to the office, and worked until eight. Nice day off, eh?

_____________________________________ 

So, this swine flu thing... Love this article, by the way... Now normally I'd disregard all the hype and carry on with life as usual. But two things are making me just a wee bit paranoid this time. 

First off, I just finished reading Earth Abides by George R Stewart. If you haven't heard of it, it's a sci-fi book from the 1940s. It starts off with a post-grad university student doing an eco study of some isolated area in the mountains in California. He returns home after being completely alone for a month or two to find everybody's gone. It becomes apparent that some plague has wiped them out. 

He travels all over the US searching for survivors, and finds a mere handful. The book follows the changes in the earth as well as his life (and ultimately his little tribe) for a period of about 60 years. It's an excellent, well-thought-out and profoundly sad book. But, yes, the fact that I was reading this as the swine flu began to hit the news... Um, ya, little paranoia going on in my head. 

The other thing that's adding to my paranoia is that... Well... Remember the allergy attack I've been having for the last year? Did I mention I was on nasty, evil drugs I was on? Right. I'm taking immunosuppressants. I'm supposed to stay away from anybody who's the slightest bit sick. I've been instructed that if I have the slightest fever or anything, I am to check myself into the nearest emergency department. 

I may be a wee, little bit paranoid, but I think it's understandable. 

_____________________________________ 

Also, speaking of the nasty, evil drugs... My scalp is finally in good enough shape to colour my hair. Yay! I don't even care what colour it is. Just different, you know?

_____________________________________ 

Also, also, why does nobody ever understand when I'm joking? I hate that. Somebody will be joking around, saying absurd, blatantly obviously untrue things. I'll say something equally ridiculous on the same theme. Then the original joker will explain that he was joking and that I shouldn't take everything so seriously and that there's no need to get so upset. Sometimes they even apologise for having upset me. Really, what's up with that?

_____________________________________ 

Also, also, also, um... I forget.

Plenty of fish

My father and I have many repeat conversations. He has a bit of the selective memory loss thing going on. Maybe I do too; I can't remember.

Today we had our annual fish e-mail conversation, wherein he tells me about a fish and chip shop in Toronto that he's heard good things about. He suggests we go there for dinner while he's visiting this summer. I respond that I don't eat fish.

He says I used to. I say, I know, but I don't anymore. Since when, he demands. 1999, I say.

Then he doesn't speak to me for a while.

Square

My co-workers pointed out that today is a square day: 3/3/9. 3x3=9. The next one isn't until 4/4/16.

That's sufficiently geeky for me to want to celebrate it.

And yet... And yet, I'm sufficiently pedantic enough to be troubled by the fact that the year is not in fact 9, but 2009. And as we all know (I trust), 3x3≠2009.

So, if you choose to celebrate this square day, then may it be merry. If not, well, that's all right too.

Economics simplified

Yes, I stole this. Just deal.

SOCIALISM
You have 2 cows.
You give one to your neighbour.

COMMUNISM
You have 2 cows.
The State takes both and gives you some milk.

FASCISM
You have 2 cows.
The State takes both and sells you some milk.

NAZISM
You have 2 cows.
The State takes both and shoots you.

BUREAUCRATISM
You have 2 cows.
The State takes both, shoots one, milks the other, and then throws the milk away.

TRADITIONAL CAPITALISM
You have two cows.
You sell one and buy a bull.
Your herd multiplies, and the economy grows.
You sell them and retire on the income.

SURREALISM (this one's for Rose)
You have two giraffes.
The government requires you to take harmonica lessons

AN AMERICAN CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You sell one, and force the other to produce the milk of four cows.
Later, you hire a consultant to analyse why the cow has dropped dead.

VENTURE CAPITALISM - AN ICELANDIC CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You sell three of them to your publicly listed company, using letters of credit opened by your brother-in-law at the bank, then execute a debt/equity swap with an associated general offer so that you get all four cows back, with a tax exemption for five cows. The milk rights of the six cows are transferred via an intermediary to a Cayman Island Company secretly owned by the majority shareholder who sells the rights to all seven cows back to your listed company. The annual report says the company owns eight cows, with an option on one more. You sell one cow to buy a new president of the United States, leaving you with nine cows. No balance sheet provided with the release. The public then buys your bull.

A FRENCH CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You go on strike, organise a riot, and block the roads, because you want three cows.

A JAPANESE CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and produce twenty times the milk. You then create a clever cow cartoon image called ‘Cowkimon’ and market it worldwide.

A GERMAN CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You re-engineer them so they live for 100 years, eat once a month, and milk themselves.

AN ITALIAN CORPORATION
You have two cows, but you don’t know where they are.
You decide to have lunch.

A RUSSIAN CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You count them and learn you have five cows.
You count them again and learn you have 42 cows.
You count them again and learn you have 2 cows.
You stop counting cows and open another bottle of vodka.

A SWISS CORPORATION
You have 5000 cows. None of them belong to you.
You charge the owners for storing them.

A CHINESE CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You have 300 people milking them.
You claim that you have full employment, and high bovine productivity.
You arrest the newsman who reported the real situation.

AN INDIAN CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You worship them.

A BRITISH CORPORATION
You have two cows.
Both are mad.

AN IRAQI CORPORATION
Everyone thinks you have lots of cows.
You tell them that you have none.
No one believes you, so they bomb you and invade your country.
You still have no cows, but at least now you are part of Democracy….

AN AUSTRALIAN CORPORATION
You have two cows.
Business seems pretty good.
You close the office and go for a few beers to celebrate.

A NEW ZEALAND CORPORATION
You have two cows.
The one on the left looks very attractive

And my own contribution...

NAFTA
You have two cows.
The government signs a contract with the Americans guaranteeing them the milk from one of your cows. Your other cow dies. You buy the milk from your remaining cow back from the Americans at an inflated price.

Life in my skin

I've been seeing a dermatologist for my allergies & eczema for a few months. She's not the first dermatologist I've seen, but she is the first who didn't instantly dismiss me with the entirely unhelpful statement: ugh, this is just eczema. Get out of my office.

The first time I saw her I told her what I was allergic to. Amongst other unpronounceable things, that would include: cocamide, cocamidopropyl betaine, isoproyl mistrate, sodium lauryl sulphate, and sodium laureth sulphate. Now if you happen to have an advanced degree in chemistry, you'll notice the common thread running through all these things. In case you don't, I'll spell it out for you: C-O-C-O-N-U-T. More specifically, I'm allergic to coconut oil. As far as I can tell, I'm one of approximately three people on the planet who are allergic to coconut oil. And the other two don't count as I made them up.

In a nutshell, what this means is that I'm allergic to the stuff that makes soap bubbly, the stuff that makes cremes and lotions smooth, and the stuff that makes food taste creamy (because actual cream is just way too expensive).

In December, after discovering I was allergic to the first three things she prescribed to me for treatment of my allergies, the dermatologist decided it would be good to do an allergy patch test. This involved me spending a week in a hell dimension of unbearable itch. At the end of the week she told me I was allergic to exactly what I'd already told her I was allergic to. Oh, and paraben. Frak me.

She then wrote three new scrips and said try all these. See if any of them work. Because I know how to use this little thing called google, I looked them all up. Guess what they had in them.

For some reason, this left me feeling frustrated, so I went to a naturopath. He gave* me a load of supplements to flush all the toxins out of my body. Sounds great.

After a few days I called back and said I'm getting worse. Why am I getting worse? He said this was perfectly normal; it was just the toxins surfacing.

After a week and a half of hiding in my basement (i.e. not going to work, school, or anywhere) I went into his office. Look at me! I look like I've got chicken pox, the measles, and a bad sunburn. This can't be normal. He pulled a worry face, but told me it was perfectly normal. He assured me I'd look human again within a week.

After two weeks in hiding I still looked like I had chicken pox, the measles, and a bad sunburn. Only now my ears were swollen, my eyes were swollen shut, my whole face was swollen, I couldn't feel my face, my skin was burning to the touch, and my lips were tingling. At this point I finally clued in. Oh right, this isn't toxins coming out. This is me having a full-on allergic reaction to the supplements.

I pumped myself full of all the antihistamines I could find and hauled myself into the emergency room. The doctor listened to my story (the same one as above) while giving me a look that said he couldn't believe I was wasting his time with my stupidity and told me to go home and take some reactine. He prescribed me 1% hydrocortisone creme.

What's it in?
What do you mean?
Well, what is it in?
It's not in anything. It's just 1% hydrocortisone. That's all.
Forget it.

I shouldn't expect everybody to be as mathy as I am. Dumbass.

Today was my first full day back at work. If one more person asks me which sunny destination I spent my holidays and motions cheerily at the 'sunburn' on my face, I will punch him.

*Ya, he 'gave' me the supplements for the low, low price of only $200 on top of the  cost for the visit.

Bored now

Ugh. I am so bored with my life. I can't think of anything interesting to say.

Instead, here's a Christmas photo.

Farce

Who needs fiction when you've got a farce for a parliament?

For the record, I think this coalition is a very bad idea. But Harper's little speech tonight? I mean, he didn't actually say anything. And for that he interrupted the nation's tv watching... And the whole thing sounded like a satire of itself. I kept expecting somebody to jump out and sream LIVE FROM NEW YORK, IT'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

Worst Holiday Ever: day 6

Plan: Fly from London to Krakow. Spend evening wandering around the old city. Stay in hostel near city centre.

Actual: Woke up, had breakfast, went to internet cafe to check my e-mail. Found a message from my dad saying that my aunt was doing poorly and that my mum had flown to Toronto to be with her. She had planned to go that afternoon, but had moved her flight to the night before.

Decision time... Stay in London, forfeit my flight to Poland, and try to book new accommodation, or proceed as planned. In what is now one of my top five worst decisions of all time, I flew to Krakow.

Landed and began looking for a cash machine to get some local currency. Didn't find one. Oh well, I thought, surely there must be one at the train station, right?

All the tourist sites brag about the fabulous train service and how cheap and timely it is. You can get from the airport to the city centre in just 15 minutes on the train. So, I caught the shuttle bus to the train 'station'. The train station turned out to be a slab of concrete sandwiched between a single train track and a dirt road, served on a plate of wide-open countryside.

We were herded onto the train. And I still had no Polish zloty... A woman came along and asked me to pay for my ticket (in Polish of course). I smiled and showed her my wallet full of pounds. A friendly French girl who lived in London and conveniently spoke Polish offered to pay for my ticket. I thanked her and said I'd gladly give her the equivalent (all of £1).

A Polish woman sitting near us — who inconveniently spoke English — demanded to know why I had no local currency. I said I had seen no cash machines in the airport. She said there were several exchange offices. I said I was looking for a cash machine. There were two, she informed me haughtily.

Well, I didn't see them. And I assumed there would be some at the train station. This response seemed to shock her. She said that I had to pay for my ticket on the train; I couldn't wait until we got to the train station. I meant the train station at the airport.

This is not train station! This is train stop.

Right. I can't believe I didn't know that. Keep in mind, that wasn't even a train official. That was just a random fellow passenger.

When I got to the train station I looked again for an ABM. Didn't find one at first, but I did find a washroom. In most European countries I've been to the public toilets are pay toilets. Fine. I have no objection to this. In every case I've encountered in my travels, there will be a fee marked clearly at the entrance and a turnstile. You deposit your coins and then enter. No coins, the stile won't turn.

Not so in Poland... In Poland there are no turnstiles. You walk in and do your thing. On your departure from the washroom a crabby old woman will appear out of nowhere (always a crabby old woman) and shout at you in Polish. She will continue to do so until you give her money.

Leaving the train station I followed the crowd, assuming that people must be headed into the city centre. After 100 metres or so I came to a T-intersection. To my left I spotted a sign that said the main market square was this way, 1100 metres. I went that way. I walked through the cold and the rain with my 10 kg duffel bag. There were many more forks in the road, but no more signs.

Eventually, I gave up and retraced my steps to the T-intersection. I went to the right. After a few metres I was greeted by a sign that said main market square, 700 metres.

I eventually found my hostel and checked in. I went to a nearby vegetarian restaurant I'd read about online. The menu was in Polish. The cashier offered me an English version. I sat down to look it over. There was a hot guy checking me out. Definitely checking me out. It has to be pretty darn obvious if even I notice it.

When I went back to the counter, there was a different cashier. She wasn't very nice. Decidedly unpleasant. I sat down with my food and the hot guy continued to check me out. Then the cashier went and sat down with him, holding his hand and stroking his hair. Right. No wonder she was unpleasant.

I went back to the hostel and crashed at about 9:00.

Worst Holiday Ever: days 1-5 (updated)

Plan: Stay in central London. Spend some time eating, drinking, wandering around, and reminiscing about the good old days with Ford, Anne, and a former housemate you've never heard of.

Actual: Stayed in central London. Spent some time eating, drinking, wandering around, and reminiscing about the good old days with Ford, Anne, and a former housemate you've never heard of.

On day 2 I got an e-mail from my mum saying that her sister hadn't been feeling well for a week or so and it looked like it was liver related. On day 5 got another message saying that it was cancer and that she was going to go to Toronto to spend some time with her sister.

Update: On day 3 I pissed off Littlebabycryingpants from  4,000 km away. I know what pissed her off, but it had to be done, so I did it. She interfered with my project, demanding that extra work be done even though it was completely pointless. I followed this up by making bets with several people that she would call in sick before I got back.

So far, mostly great, but with a side of bad news.

Look, it's Janice from Friends

Dear Americans,

I know nothing about this woman's politics, experience, intelligence, or competence, nor do I care. Frankly, I can't recall her name. However, based solely on the size of her hair, I urge you not to vote for her.

Thank you. That is all.

Sars

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

In other news... I'm going to Poland. Don't ask me why. I just am.

Blah

Work sucks. School is hard. Life is boring.

In other news... I want to go to Croatia.

Today's grammar lesson: eschewing obfuscation

I had a crappy day at work. Crappy. Miserable. Pissy.

After seven hours I finally had a chance to sneak out to grab some lunch. I crossed the street and walked straight into an angry mob picketing... Um... Er... They were picketing something. They had placards and they were shouting. The signs all said the same thing: CIBC honk to show support.

You see my dilemma, right? I mean, that doesn't mean anything. The words are English, but when you put them together in that order, they don't say anything.

Unsurprisingly, nobody was honking.

Perhaps they meant to say: We are CIBC. Honk to show you support us. Somehow I doubt it.

Maybe they meant: Hey, CIBC! Honk to show you support us. Still doesn't seem right.

How about: You there, honk if you support CIBC like we do. Hmm... Probably not.

The one thing that sentence fragment definitely doesn't say is: We have an unspecified grievance against CIBC and we encourage you all to show your support for us in our  efforts even though we'd prefer not to tell you why. Yet somehow, I think that's precisely what they were trying to communicate.

Not very effective, eh?

PS to the 400-pound woman wearing the t-shirt emblazoned with union thug across it: You can say whatever you want. Please don't hurt me.

Jackasses

After promising 48 hours notice in advance of a strike, and after hammering out a deal to avert a strike, the TTC (our public transit) announced on Friday night at eleven that they would be on strike as of midnight.

I'm sorry, but a cashier just doesn't warrant a wage of $28 an hour, or whatever the hell it is they're holding us all hostage for.

And then some

Go here. Fast forward to 6:56.

Now you understand how I feel right now.

Also

Darnit again! I hate it when typepad deletes lengthy, well-thought-out posts on me.

I've decided I need to make me one of these. Partially because it's incredibly cool. Partially because I feel an incredible need to pattern myself after somebody named Evil Mad Scientist. Mainly because I need a dining room table and I'm too broke to go buy a real one.

Also mainly because I think I need a creative outlet. I don't know, you know? I used to write stuff on walls. I used to paint stuff, build things, write stuff. I used to listen to music. I used to do stuff, have an interesting life, know interesting people. I used to go places, meet people, do things. I used to get excited. I used to get angry. I used to get happy. I used to get righteously indignant. I used to get bitchy. I used to care about stuff.

I used to feel.

Stop calling me Shirley!

Why is it that every company I call (you know: the cable company, the phone company, the gas company, etc.) insists on calling me Mrs? For starters, I hate honorifics. For seconds, I'm nobody's Mrs. For, um... many, given that I'm nobody's Mrs, I'm pretty sure I've never identified myself as Mrs to any of these companies.

I always tell them to stop calling me Mrs. They always respond the same way, by graciously asking for permission to use my given name, like I've just done them some kind of unspeakable honour by granting them the right to bypass my formal titles and treat me as some kind of unequal intimate. It makes me want to throw stuff at them. It's not about crossing the boundaries between formal and informal, restrained and intimate; it's about not calling me by the wrong name. It's about not making lifestyle judgements against me when you don't even know me.

Do I mind if they call me Sars? No. But then, I don't really care what they call me, so long as it's at least some form of my actual name. In fact, they're all perfectly welcome to address me as 'hey you', since that at least has the benefit of being accurate.

This morning's conversation with Toronto Hydro was a first, though. The service rep called me Mrs and I requested she not do so. So far, so normal. Her response was perplexing: But I'm required to.

Could somebody please explain to me why any company on earth would insist that its employees address clients by names that are not their own?

Christmas with Sars

Got up early and let the dogs out. They came back in and we curled up on the couch to watch Doctor Who and contemplate our patheticness. Well, okay, maybe that last bit was just me. My dogs don't consider themselves pathetic.

[sniff, sniff] What stinks?

So, um, ya... The Stinky Monkey was extra Stinky, which was largely due to the fact that he had a whole poo stuck to his hairy bum. Not a dangleberry, a whole freakin' poo! Then, of course, I had to give him a bath and an arse haircut.

Nothing but class in this house, I tell you.

Later on I made mac & cheese and watched more Doctor Who with a couple of the housemates.

If you could be me...

You would know how much it sucks to be me.

In other news... If your neighbourhood pub holds a firemen's Christmas party, for frig's sake, go in!

PS: Been busy. Hi. How are you?

Jabberwocky

Littlebabycryingpants isn't around much anymore. She's busy doing other things. Important things, like showing up 20 minutes late every day, leaving two hours early, taking long lunches, surfing for new jobs, and going for smokes.

So, inevitably, the boss comes looking for her to get her to do some rush job or other, and she's not around... I have to do her job for her. Of course, I also have to do mine. And the new one I've inherited.

Fine. Whatever.

But then he sends the department a message, thanking me for doing her job so well?

I feel like I'm waiting for the punch line before this will all make sense.

Bah.

Three weeks from now I'll be on holidays. I won't tell you where I'm going first. But I'll give you a hint: um... Sorry, can't think of any. Oh, wait. Yes, I know. They have amphitheatres there. And pottery.

In other news, my newest fictional crush is Sheldon Cooper.

Tell me where to go

I need a holiday. Have I mentioned that? Surely not more than a few dozen times or so... I had hoped to go in September. Then October... Then November... Now it looks to be be early/mid-December, probably the two weeks leading up to Christmas.

I definitely want to hit London for a few days. But I need more. I need a few days of something completely different. I'm thinking a hiking tour of Morocco, or doing the archaelogical tourist thing in Egypt, maybe a wildlife sanctuary in Uganda, dogsledding in Finland... Kenya? Jordan? Libya???

Just somewhere... other... you know?

Econ lecture (updated)

[Ascends soap box] Ahem. [Tap, tap, tap] This thing on? Okay.

People of the western, democratic nations of this planet, particularly the Ontario NDP and their Coalition for Working Families and all their representatives who keep showing up at my house and on my TV, may I have your attention?

I would like to talk to you about a very basic economic concept: market price. Specifically, I would like to talk to you about the market price for basic, unskilled labour, which is generally referred to as minimum wage. Although I disagree with most economists' notion that legal minimum wage should be abolished, I am equally opposed to your suggestion that it should be raised substantially.

First off, let me clarify. I do not in any way disagree with the reasons behind your aim. Your intentions are good; however, and let me be very clear, your it is your method I take contention with. Your dumbass method is pointless.

Allow me to explain why most economists object to the notion of a legislated minimum wage. Money, contrary to what seems to pass for conventional wisdom, has no fixed or inherent value. It has value only insomuch as we all agree to the idea that it has value. Moreover, what a unit of currency is worth is subject to outside forces.

What is one dollar? Is it a loaf of bread? Is it a litre of gasoline? Is it a cup of coffee? Not so many years ago, it would have bought you one of each. Today, it might get you one of the three, but probably not. My point is, even though we attach fixed numbers to currency, they don't really mean anything.

If we allow the market to set the base rate for unskilled labour, it will do so. It won't be exceedingly high, because employers wish to pay as little as possible. It also won't be incredibly low, because people will refuse to work. They will go on social assistance, or move away. The market will settle at a certain price because employers compete with one another for decent workers.

Now, if we artificially inflate the minimum wage, what happens? Can workers suddenly buy more bread, coffee, gasoline, or whatever with their earnings?

Obviouly, you* think the answer is yes, but it's not. In the short run, employers are forced to take one of three options. They can take money out of their own pockets (and their kids' mouths) to pay the extra. They can buy less labour, such that the full amount of their expenditure on labour stays the same. Alternatively, they can raise prices.

Have you ever had your hours cut back or been forced to work in an under-staffed environment? Have the prices of goods and services ever gone up? Have employers ever gone broke while their employees got rich?

Right.

So, in the short run businesses may operate with less than a full complement of staff. That doesn't work as a long-term solution, though. So, companies raise prices. And guess what. Even though you may be making nominally more than you were a year ago, your minimum wage doesn't buy you any more than it did.

Yes, I agree that poverty is a problem. Yes, I agree that legislated minimum wage is necessary to protect certain parties from being taken unfair advantage of. But no, arbitrarily raising the minimum wage will not solve anything.

Also, while I'm up here... Attention New Chick, effective immediately, please cease and desist telling me about your infected toe.

[Climbs down off soap box] Please return to your everyday work avoidance techniques and procrastination tools.

Update because I forgot to mention it earlier...
Funny thing. I explained all this to the perky little NDP volunteer who showed up at my house on the weekend. Her response? But the government has a surplus in its budget!

Er... Ya. What?

_____________________

*The 'you' here refers to the people addressed in this rant.