Secnarf Speaks from the Great Beyond

 

 

 

Francie:  Secnarf!  Is it really you?

Secnarf: Sort of.  I'm on the other side now.

Francie: Eek.  You mean you joined the Tories??

Secnarf: Hardly.  Everybody here is a Dipper. 

And it happened long before Jack Layton arrived.

Francie: Jack Layton!  You mean you are ...?

Secnarf: Just tell my fans that I'm at that big Rhinoceros Party of Canada Political Convention in the Great Beyond.

Francie:  Gosh, Secnarf, how did it happen? 

Last we heard you were in Ottawa having secret meetings with Justin Trudeau.

If I remember correctly you were thinking of running for the leadership of the Liberal Party.

Secnarf (sighs):  Yes I was going to call the new party the Progressive Resolute Erudite Persons Occupying Safe Territory Party.

When I combined it with the Rhinoceros Party it would have become the P.R.E.P.O.S.T.EROS PARTY of Canada.

It looked like I was on my way to the top.

But then Bev Oda pushed me into the Rideau Canal.

Francie: That's terrible.

Secnarf: I know. I never got to finish my orange juice.

Francie:  Well I'm sorry to get such terrible news.

Orange juice is just so expensive.

Secnarf:  And so political!

Oh, well I'm off to Quebec.

The provincial election is next week and I'm planning to present the new Rhinoceros Party of Canada platform.

 

We promise to solve the language issue by making everyone speak and write in Cree.

 

We also promise to solve the $16 per glass of orange juice for travelling Canadian politicians problem by annexing the state of Florida and making it our 11th province. 

 

Francie:  Well I'm not sure the Americans won't notice that Florida is missing but it's worth a try I guess.

 

But anyway, Secnarf, I thought you said you were... well, dead.

 

Secnarf:  Hey, I've been in Toronto all week.

 

. 

 

Remember folks:

 

Vote Secnarf

the only politician who looks like a former Cabinet Minister.

We're Here for You, America!

Thanks to my friend Barb in Vancouver whose facebook posts are so often topics in my blog.

Keep 'em comin', Babs!

Bite Me

Image via Wikipedia

Yesterday  I took Flynn the dog for a jog around the North Pelham ball park.   Just after we arrived a car screeched to a stop and the young man inside rolled the window down.

"Do you mind If I let my dog run free? 

He's a Golden. Friendly."

My eyes narrowed.

Golden.Friendly had just about taken my hand off the last time we crossed paths at the park.

The driver must have recognized me at that point because he said nervously, "On second thought I think we'll drive around for a bit."

Which was a good thing.

For him.

I don't have a lot of patience anymore for people who own animals that like to nibble on human flesh.

Years ago I was in a pet shop one Saturday afternoon because, even though I couldn't afford to own one,  I liked to scratch the heads of the parrots.

Heading towards my favourite bird, I set my purse down on the floor to free up my parrot-head-scratching hand and promptly  felt a pain in my ankle.

I lifted my leg.

There was a ferret hanging off my ankle by its teeth.

Now this presented a problem because I didn't know what to say. 

I don't mean that I didn't know what to say to the ferret.

I mean I didn't know how to let the other people in the store know that I had a problem.

For some reason screaming "HELP" seemed more like the kind of action you would take if you were being attacked by a pit bull.    

I was under attack by six inches of fur and it was embarrassing.

On the other hand it hurt.

I surreptitiously shook my leg and glanced around hoping no one had noticed.

People passed by me, chatting and laughing, not realizing the bloodletting and horror unfolding at ground level.

On the embarrassment scale the situation had the potential of being a 10.

Maybe a 10+.

But how, in the middle of a crowded store, does a middle aged school teacher lady get rid of a rodent that is attached to her ankle and retain her dignity?

The answer is that she can't.

In total humiliation I had to hobble to the cash register, dragging the enraged ferret behind me. 

When I was close enough I lifted my leg and shook the ferret at the guy at the cash register.

"CINDY!" he cried in an ecstasy of love. "Oh Cindy! I wondered where you went!"

And then, rather than being all apologetic and letting me take one of the parrots home for free with a giant cage and a lifetime supply of food, he accused ME of putting my purse on poor Cindy's head, thus being the cause of my own misfortune!

I tell you, my friends, there's no justice in this world.

Jeesh.

Secnarf - The Debate and The Constitution

This is the second in my series of interviews with Secnarf the independent Rhino candidate from North Pelham. Secnarf's campaign promises include giving women two votes, taking the calories out of chocolate cake and moving the head office of Bell Canada to North Pelham.



Francie: What do you think about the fact that not all of the Party leaders will be allowed to take part in the televised debate?



Secnarf: I agree with the decision.

It is called a "Broadcast".

Elizabeth May and I are the only broads.

Therefore, although I sympathize with the other parties, the bottom line is that either you have a vagina or you don't.



Francie: You are saying that only you and Elizabeth May should be allowed to debate?



Secnarf: That's right.



Francie: Elizabeth May is the leader of a national party.

You are a candidate for a party that doesn't exist anymore.

You don't even have a riding.



Secnarf: Hogswaddle.



Francie: That's your riding?



Secnarf: That's my response to your nitpicking.



Francie: Fine. Then let's talk about your policies.

What are your thoughts on the idea that the constitution should identify one part of Canada as a 'Nation within a Nation'?



Secnarf: I believe that identifying Rural Canada as a 'nation within a nation' is the right move.

The culture and language of Rural Canadians from coast to coast to coast must be protected from the insidious encroachment of the evil city dwellers in Toronto and Montreal.

If elected I promise to see that the constitution is amended accordingly.



Francie: Which culture and language would that be?



Secnarf: Sorry you've had your five questions for today.



Francie: Hey that was only four!



Secnarf: And don't forget to take a lawn sign on your way out.

*

Vote Secnarf

The only candidate who looks like a cabinet minister

*

 

Related articles

• Elizabeth May takes her quest to join the leaders’ debates to court (theglobeandmail.com)
• Most Canadians want Elizabeth May at leaders' debate, poll shows (theglobeandmail.com)

Not a Beaver Joke

Image via Wikipedia

Did you hear the one about the Brit, the American and the Canadian?

It usually starts with the Brit and the Yank boasting

 about their history, technology, weapons, size, etc.,

and ends with the Canadian boasting about beavers.

Or moose.

Or lumberjacks.

Or Mounties.

(Okay, okay, it's usually beavers.)

Anyway this one is different.

It starts with a poke at the English and the Americans

and then sets us up for the usual humorous punch-line-at-our-own-expense.

 

But there is a goofy twist at the end of this joke that made me laugh.

(I've included the original joke in the link at the bottom, but I like this version better.) 

 

I figure that as this is the start of the first full week

of Federal election campaigning and mud slinging everyone could use a laugh today.

Many thanks to my 'oldest' friend Jane G. for forwarding.

Wired


After having dug to a depth of 10 feet last year, British scientists found traces of copper wire dating back 200 years and came to the conclusion that their ancestors already had a telephone network more than 150 years ago.


Not to be outdone by the Brits, American archaeologists dug to a depth of 20 feet and found traces of 250-year-old copper wire.  They concluded that their ancestors already had an advanced high-tech communications network 50 years earlier than the British.


One week later the Canadian Department of Mines and Resources reported that amateur archaeologist Jack Lucknow of Thunder Bay, Ontario dug to a depth of 30 feet and found absolutely sweet fuck all.


 They concluded that 250 years ago Canada had already gone wireless.

Related articles

• Humour: Ancient Advancements in Telecommunications? by Mark R. Perez [Ziona Etzion] (ecademy.com)

Well! 

Finally getting highish speed Internet service has really made a difference in my life. 

The greatest change has been the amount of time I spend online.  I have found that I suddenly have hours and hours of free time. Time I used to spend playing solitaire while I waited for the computer to switch from one thing to another.

I've had time to get back to editing my 'book' - "Somebody Shot the Principal".

It is really a Novella and there is no chance of it ever being published, so I have decided to blog it.

It is a humorous murder mystery.  The story of a group of teachers caught in a school overnight during a snow storm. 

The principal gets murdered, they don't know who did it, no one can get in to help them and they can't get out - you know the drill.

My posts to 'a North Pelham Journal' will probably be more sporadic for awhile.

If you are interested in following "Somebody Shot The Principal" chapter 1 is already posted at Http://7thdecadegirlscribbles.blogspot.com

If I don't see you before Christmas have a wonderful, peaceful holiday.

Francie

Man-Who-Wanted-a-Wife

When I lived in Dawson City, Yukon, there was a man I avoided as if he had the Spanish Influenza. Not because he was bad looking or smelled or was abusive. I avoided him because he was so needy.

His name was Man-Who-Wanted-a-Wife. Man-Who-Wanted-a-Wife did things for people, particularly women. He majored in being helpful.

But he was so depressing and self-centered that even a few minutes in his company was enough to drive me gratefully back into spinsterhood.

This is not the story of how I discovered his nobler side.

"FIRE! GET OUT! FIRE!"

I recognized the voice. It belonged to a teacher who lived in one of the bottom floor apartments in our 12 unit prefab building.

I heard her start pounding on my neighbour's door.

I hadn't been completely asleep. I had heard the town's fire siren wail a few minutes earlier and had debated about getting up to see what was going on. Fire was a big source of entertainment in Dawson City in those pre-computer days, but it was 11 p.m., extremely cold outside and I had to work the next day. I had decided to stay in my warm bed.

"We're on fire," I thought. "I have to get up!"

I stumbled to the closet, threw my parka over my nightgown, grabbed my mukluks and headed out the door. I could smell smoke.

I ran barefoot down the closest staircase but I pulled up short when I saw the fireman standing in the doorway.

It was Man-Who-Wanted-a-Wife.

It would be hard for any man not to look good in a fire fighter's uniform. He was no exception. I hadn't imagined him doing anything so selfless and brave. I ratcheted up my opinion

But the door to the building was open and it was 30° below zero.

"Have to put my mukluks on," I said to him through chattering teeth.

I fumbled with the long laces.

"Never mind those," he said in a manly voice as he swept me into his arms and carried me next door to safety.

Oops. I lied.

That's not what happened.

Actually he knelt down and slipped the mukluks over my bare legs and then carefully laced them up before he smiled and held the door open so that I could leave safely.

Okay, that isn't what happened either.

The truth is that give me an irritated look and said in his whiny voice, "Well, hurry up, will ya!"

What a crab.

Reality 1, Romance 0.

Your Car Insurance Company. What's Not to Love?

Image via Wikipedia 

Just kidding.

More likely you are horrified when you hear about never ending rate increases, the CEO Christmas bonuses and the profits they rake in year after year while we, the common people, work the ground with our bare and bloody hands trying to eke out a living in this cruel northern vale of tears.

(sob)

Anyway, after working the cruel ground with my bare and bloody hands yesterday, I happened upon a radio talk show quite by accident. It was about a court case in Waterloo where two people were accused of having faked major injuries after a minor car collision.

The insurance company smelled a rat, (or rats), and hired all kinds of lawyers, engineers, doctors, etc. to disprove the claim.

The upshot was that the judge found the couple guilty and they are being forced to repay the company $150,000.

Radio listeners proceeded to phone in with stories about their fellow Canadians ripping off insurance companies.

If the stories were true, and they sounded true, then I'm sad to tell you that there are some despicable people out there.

And insurance companies are apparently starting to mount a serious counter attack against fraudulent claims.

Great.


...I guess...


Call me a cynic but I think it is about as likely - even if they catch every liar and cheat in Ontario - that our car insurance rates will go down as it is that Dalton McGinty and the Liberals will win a majority government in the next Provincial election.


In other words - don't hold your breath.

News o' the Week

Image by Getty Images via @daylife

News o' the Week #1

Like all Canadians when I hear the words 'potash' and 'Saskatchewan' in the same sentence I start to quiver with excitement.

So it is understandable that the country has been in a tizzy recently because of the threat of a takeover of Saskatchewan's foreign owned Potash Corporation by a different foreign company.

I know I was riveted to the CBC.

This past week Prime Minister Stephen Harper finally deep sixed the plan.

We're particular about which foreign company owns our natural resources.


And okay, I admit it. I looked up 'potash' in the dictionary.


Potash: ... substances ... made from wood ashes and used in soap, fertilizers, etc.


Anyway, Saskatchewan has a lot of the stuff, enough to keep the national soap dispensers full for 4,000 years

News o'the Week #2

Prince William announced his engagement to Kate Middleton.

As a wedding gift Canada plans to give them a giant, Inuit hand carved, beaver shaped, soap dish made out of dried moose nuggets.

And a lifetime supply of potash.

The Staples of Life

The Weapon That Won the War in Europe

My father, age 18

The next time you find yourself caught in a foxhole, out of ammo and pinned down by Nazi machine gun fire you'd do well to remember the lesson of Canada's most secret weapon of WWII.

My father's infantry unit landed on Juno Beach on D Day + 1.

One day in 1944 he found himself trapped in a foxhole somewhere in France. He was with his best buddy, another kid from Maple Street in Merritton.

They'd been in the hole for days and the only things they could move were their bowels.

When they looked around for something to fight with, all they had were two shovels and a pile of the stuff that usually hits the fan.

Remember when you were in grade five, how the boys used to flick gross things at each other from the ends of their pencils?

It didn't take long for the intrepid young Canucks to substitute a shovel for a pencil and invent the 'The Great Canadian Stink Bomb'.

Eventually, thanks in part to the new weapon, they managed to scramble safely out of the foxhole.

Months later Hitler killed himself.

Rumour has it that he said it was because he just couldn't take any more shit from the Canadians.

Bad Bad Facebook

 

Image via Wikipedia

There is something creepy about The-Entity-That-Is-Facebook.

Recently it snuck into my blog site, grabbed my blog and posted it to my wall before I even decided I was going to post to fb. Okay, I always post to fb, but that doesn't matter.

Computer programmes shouldn't be wandering around the internet thinking things like, "Oh there's another blog by Francie. Won't she be surprised when she wakes up!"

I was surprised. Horribly.

And spooked.


It seems that every few months The-Entity-That-Is-Facebook has taken another liberty.

It's like being on a date with Roman Polanski when you are only 13.


So, keeping Erma Bombeck's advice in mind, i.e., "If you can't be a good example, be a terrible warning." (Thanks, Barb), I decided to take matters into my own hands and walk where no sixty-year old, female non-geek has walked.

Yes folks, I went into the blogsite toolbox.

Alone.

I fiddled with more things that I didn't understand than Dalton McGinty does just before an election.

So either The-Entity-That-Is-Facebook, will start respecting me and my link or the whole blog site will come crashing around my ears and I will have to pay some grade eight kid to come and fix everything for me.

Jeesh.

I hate being the terrible warning.

A Back to School Story

Image by Thorne Enterprises via Flickr

I managed to weasel out of teaching music for twenty-five or so years. Eventually the day came when try as I might, I just couldn't figure out how to get someone else to teach it for me.

I did what any teacher caught in a similar situation would do.

I ordered a class set of recorders.

"How hard could it be?" I thought. "You blow in one end and music comes out the other."

When the recorders arrived I pestered the kindergarten teacher until she took pity on me and taught me how to play 'Hot Cross Buns'.

Realizing that I was born to rock I spent the next few day playing my song for anyone who crossed my path.

Eventually I passed the recorders out to my grade fours. I explained that we wouldn't be making beautiful music until we learned about the instrument. I pointed out that the round holes were given letter names; the top one was B, the second A, the third G and so on. I showed them how to cover the openings with their fingers.

I said, "Now we'll have a little test. I'll call out the letters and you use your fingers properly. Is everyone ready?"

Enthusiastically they all nodded.














At this point I have to tell you that for years after this happened I got down on my knees every night and thanked the Good Lord that I wasn't teaching grade eight that day.















How was I supposed to know that in the music world they are called apertures?














I told thirty ten year old kids to put their fingers on their A holes.

Don't Panic! I'm Sharing My favourite Plague Cure

Image via Wikipedia

I've got an appointment with my dentist at noon and I'm not in a good mood.


I slump at my computer and check face book. I get a little cheered up when I win a game of lexulous. I schmooze around fb for awhile then I jog over to blogger.

It's Friday so I know there will be a few good posts.

As 'Heinous Hats' starts to unfurl across my screen I wish I could be organized enough to commit myself to a time schedule. Heinous hats is published three times a week. Good heavens, even when she had food poisoning she managed to drag herself to her computer to tell her faithful readers she was too sick to blog!

I beat myself up for awhile about my lackadaisical attitude.

I'm depressed again.

But wait! What a blog! Hats made out of cakes! (There is a reason I have so many root canals and another one is looming.)

I'm smiling again.

More cheerful now, I blog on over to see what the Geezeronline learned this week.

PLAGUE IN SASKATCHEWAN?

Somewhat alarmed, I click on the link and this is how, in my pre-dental appointment funk, I read the article from the Star.

The plague has been found in a dead prairie dog in Saskatchewan 's Grasslands National Park, but staff say the risk the notorious disease poses to people is “very low.”
The plague which killed millions during the Middle Ages, is a disease caused by a strain of bacteria that can affect both animals and humans. It’s naturally occurring throughout the southern Prairies in wildlife such as ground squirrels and mice and can be transmitted to humans through the bite of an infected flea...

The plague is usually is extremely rare in humans and treatable if diagnosed in time. The last case of a human contracting the plague in Canada was in 1939, but there are 10 to 15 cases every year in the south-western United States.

Two deaths were attributed to plague in the United States in 1996.

There have been several outbreaks of plague in human history. It has killed 200 million people around the world. In 14th century Europe, plague — or Black Death, as it was known — killed 30 per cent of the European population by some estimates...



Jeesh!

Luckily, I know the only cure for the plague is a chocolate hat cake or you don't have one sitting right there on your counter - warm scones with jam and whipped cream... mmm.

Cancelling my dental appointment...

I Spy

I don't know why CSIS isn't pounding on my door begging me to work for them.

Who is better equipped to be a spy than a middle-aged woman in a non-descript car? I tell you, I could drive right into Stephen Harper's bedroom and have my way with him and the Mounties would never find me.

I know the visual on that one isn't pretty but I'm trying to make the point that If CSIS is hiring, then I'm their woman.

The spy car is so non-descript that even I can't find it.

I managed to prove that yesterday, (again), when I went to the gym. My gym is on the second floor of the Superstore. The Superstore, in case you haven't been to it, is the huge grocery/department store that has shopping carts the size of hospital beds.

Anyway, after my class had finished and I had managed to find the door, I made my way into the Manitoba sized parking lot.

As I started walking down a row of cars I began to notice that the parking lot was full of cars identical to mine. And horrors! Most of the people in the vast parking lot searching for their vehicles were middle aged women who looked just like me! We all had our car finder beepers going and the place sounded like a Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote impersonator convention.

All I could think about were those penguins in Antarctica. All the birds are identical, but parents and offspring still manage to find each other in the middle of a snowstorm at a bizzillion degrees below zero.

Unfortunately GM hasn't made that skill a component of their vehicles and until they do I think somebody should invent a device that, when pressed, causes a personal flag to be raised over your car.

Or better yet, every car should be sold with a chauffeur and free valet parking.

Better make your offer quick, CSIS, with all these great ideas GM is gonna want me bad.

Here I am in my clever cat disguise,
demonstrating a get-away-quick spy manoeuvre.

Green Garage Sale Blues

Do not take this woman's financial advice.

I arrived all bright eyed and bushy tailed at the Green Party Garage sale just before 8 a.m. on Saturday. I off-loaded a few things from the spy car and presented myself to my betters.

"Here to help!" I announced, proud to be finally contributing some of my time.

"Good, you can stand over there," She motioned in the general direction of a table that was piled high with a collection of medieval torture devices.

"Wow!" I thought as I slid behind the table. "Here's the actual instrument the Inquisition used to rip fingernails off the Satan worshippers." I looked at the small metal contraption with interest.

Luckily before I could stick one of my own fingers into the thing to see if it still worked I was distracted by a pair of garage sale shoppers.

One lady picked up a brown mug that came with two plates and a bowl.

"How much?" she asked.

We both spotted the $12 price tag at the same time.

Now I don't know about you, but when I think garage sale I don't think dollars, I think cents. I actually thought that was the whole point.

"Oh ignore that price!" I said reassuringly to the rather shabbily clad woman. I'll sell it to you for a quarter.

"And the plates and bowl?"

I ignored those price tags too. "Oh give me a dollar for the whole bunch."  I was beginning to feel just like Mother Theresa - doing good among the leprous poor of Beamsville.

Her pal picked up a solitary blue mug.

"You can have that for a dime," I said happily, peeling off the original price tag. I was really getting into this garage sale thing.

As a matter of fact I was so into it I didn't notice the two Green Party Members who descended on me the way the RCMP Swat team descended on the nudists at the 'Naked People Against BP' protest march in Toronto last week.

Turned out the prices were real and the ladies I thought were homeless bag ladies knew exactly what they were doing.

I made it to the end of the sale but as I pulled away in the spy car I think I saw them taking up a collection to bribe the NDP to take me back.

And that Medieval torture device? I remembered to ask before I left.

Pasta maker.

Jeesh!  I gotta get out more.

The Unbendable Cello

Being Greenish, rather than true blue Green, I occasionally feel a bit guilty that I have joined the party and haven't been very active.

So I was feeling quite good about myself after I agreed to pick up a few items and deliver them to our Green Party Garage Sale this weekend. The woman in charge put me in touch with a party member named John who said he had a few things to donate, including a cello.

A cello?

My spy car is not only the most non-descript car in the parking lot, it is also very small. I pictured myself driving from North Pelham to the garage sale in Beamsville with the cello lashed across the hood of my car the way Yukoners carry a dead moose home for butchering.

"I hope it's bendable," I e-mailed him.

"I'm donating some books, some tapes and my unbendable cello," he e-mailed back rather crossly.

I was surprised to find out that the cello fit comfortably across the back seat of the spy car. And it came in a cello shaped back pack! I was impressed. If I any musical talent or knowhow and was twenty again I would have bought it myself.

Anyway, as these things are wont to happen the cello never made it to the garage sale. A friend of a friend wanted to buy it after she saw a comment I made on Face book.

I e-mailed the local Green Party headquarters.

"See if they'll make a cheque out to the Green Party for $50. They'll get 75% back in income taxes."

"Ha ha," I wrote back. "These are dyed-in-the-wool, card carrying members of the Conservative Party. We aren't going to get a cheque from them written out to the Green Party!"

"CONSERVATIVES! Make them pay cash through the nose because of the fake lake in Muskoka!" came the directive from on high.

"Sir! Yes, Sir!" I strapped on the sword of righteous indignation and snapped a salute at the monitor.

A lovely young couple turned up at my house a few days later to look at the cello and the sword of righteous indignation evaporated.

"Well," I said tentatively after they had examined the cello and were making happy sounds.

We all looked bashfully at each other.

I tried again. "Wellllll, John said it's worth $50.

Long pause.

Finally the young man said, "How about $35?"

"I'LL TAKE IT!" I said a little too loudly, relieved the painful twenty second money ordeal was finally over.

"$40," cried the young woman.

We looked at her.

I was almost certain that this wasn't the way it was supposed to work, but I'm a Canadian and we haven't had to barter for things since beaver fur hats went out of style.

"Well, it's just because I don't have any change," she said cheerfully.

It made sense to me.  

We parted on a very happy note. They with the unbendable cello and me with $40 for the Green coffers.

Green Headquarters e-mailed to ask how things had gone.

"Great. I got $40 for it. I'll bring the money to the garage sale or if you would like, I can run it up to Ottawa!"

The humourless reply came back that the money was to stay in our riding.

Jeesh. Ottawa is a two day car ride away.

Don't politicians ever get a joke?

I feel unappreciated. Which way to the Rhinoceros Party?

Serviced Again, Ontario

Last week I received a phone call from the local medical clinic asking if I had found my Health Care card.

"I didn't lose it," I said.

"The last time you were here you used a card that was later identified in our computer as 'lost'," insisted the receptionist.

"Oh?" My eyebrows were furrowed in puzzlement. I had no idea what she was talking about.

"You'll need to phone this number and straighten your problem out."

I definitely wanted to 'straighten my problem out' so I hung up and obediently dialled the number she had given me.

"Service Ontario," was the crisp salutation when we were connected.

Oh no! The enhanced driver's licence swindlers! My heart sank.

"Um...Hi... The medical clinic says I've lost my health card," I said bravely. (I mean what were the chances that anybody who worked there had ever googled 'Service Ontario' during their coffee break and happened upon my sarcastic blog, Service This, Ontario 2/28/10).

"Where did you lose it?" asked the voice with the sigh of one who is forced to deal with the imbeciles of Ontario day in and day out.

"Well, actually I didn't lose it - the medical clinic thinks I lost it. I'm looking at it right now."

"Humph. What is your health care number?"

She took my number then said, "When you applied for your new health care card last year it was returned to us because your address was incorrect. Your card has been cancelled."

My health care cancelled? What good is a Canadian without health care?

"Well! I'd like you to know that Canada Post delivered my Health Care Card right to my house and I'm holding it in my hands as we speak!" I let a lot of annoyance creep into my voice. Some things like health care are worth fighting for, (unless you are from the U.S. apparently).

"Yeah? Well what colour is your card?"

"What colour is my card?" I gave a nervous laugh.

I was stalling because I was 98 % sure my card was the same colour as everybody else's card but I was beginning to feel guilty about something. I just didn't know what I had done.

" Well I used to have a red and white one but now I have a green one and ..."

"Dark green or light green?"

Yikes! Was this a trick question? Dark or light green compared to what?

Hoping we could meet half way I opined that it was sort of a medium green. My hands were starting to sweat.

"Well, Frances...

"Here it comes," I thought. I gripped the phone and braced myself for whatever bureaucratic nonsense was about to befall me.

"I'm going to send you a new one! Have a good day."

I'm sure I imagined it, but I could have sworn I heard the laughter of a room full of civil servants before she clicked of.

Jeesh!

The House of Sober Women

In 1867 the people in power chose to model the Canadian Senate after the British House of Lords. It was always intended to be a place for the upper crust to rest their unelected bottoms. But I think we just don't have enough of the historical upstairs/downstairs mentality to carry it off. It may work in Britain because most people there, after a few thousand years of conditioning, really believe that a few aristocrats are entitled to a life of money and leisure. And most aristocrats really feel, not only the weight of the family name, but also beholden enough to the nation to do their minimal part in the governing of the U.K.  But it doesn't seem to be working here according to the shrieks we all heard coming from reporters in Ottawa last week.

There are 105 Senators. Each Senator is making about $300,000 with travel expenses allowed on top of that. Those are your tax dollars and my tax dollars. Is that money being used the way it was intended to be used? The media is making it sound as if we have a group of unaccountable and seemingly unconscionable people draining our coffers. It is hard to prove or disprove something like that when even the Auditor General of Canada, Sheila Fraser is not being allowed to inspect the books.

Do I detect the aroma of Senate reform in the air? Hope so.

This week I came across a quote from George Elliot. She said, "It's never too late to be what you might have been." Maybe we need to go back to the beginnings of the Senate and turn it into what it should have been in the first place. Not modelled on the Brits, modelled on the Iroquois.

My proposal is that we base the new Senate on the Iroquois Clan Matron system. It would be made up of women. There are thirty-six there already and some of the names I recognize as women who have contributed greatly to Canadian society. We would start with them. The senators would continue to be unelected, continue to be chosen from all parts of the country, but have some real power.

The passing of the bills would not be a part of the Senate's mandate anymore. The Iroquois clan matrons controlled the warriors by withholding food if they disapproved of their actions. I'm not saying the Senators would starve an out of control House of Commons into submission. I'm suggesting that each new law or tax would have to be presented to the public showing the Senate's thumbs up or thumbs down. The withholding of approval could be very powerful.

The older I get the more I see the sexes as equal but different - way different. The House of Commons is never going to be a comfortable setting for most women. Why not just give it to the men? They can holler and shout and curse at each other all they want and the women can meet in the Red Chamber, bring the grandkids, drink tea and do the work of monitoring the actions of the Members of Parliament.

Then, truly, at long last, we would have the "house of sober second thought" that Sir John A. always wanted.

The Secret Diary of Frazzee1

Dear Dairy,

I'm being followed by a tomato in Twitter.

The tomato doesn't do anything. It never posts an entry. I mean I suppose nobody really cares how things are going in the vegetable garden, but still you'd think it would make an effort. Post a new recipe for chicken cacciatore or something.

The tomato found me. I didn't follow it first, I swear, although I might have if I had known about it. I mean If there had been a vegetable category when I first started browsing through Twitter looking for interesting people to follow, maybe I would have picked the tomato over say, the bean sprout.

Not that there is a lack of things to admire, but sometimes I wonder what is it about me that is so attractive to the tomato. Given my gene pool, if it had been a potato or a haddock following me around I could understand. But a tomato? I'm at a loss.

It's kind of creepy knowing this big, red blobby thing is in my personal cyberspace. Watching. Well maybe tomatoes don't actually watch. But they can hear. Remember the earmuffs in "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes"? Or was that in "Killer Tomatoes Eat Paris"? Hard to remember, so many good movies.

I guess I shouldn't go to Twitter alone at night, diary, but I can't help myself. I need to keep up with things. I'd even miss those two weirdoes who keep trying to sell me naked pictures of themselves.

You are the only one who knows about the tomato and I trust you not to tell.

Until next time, dear diary, I remain your intrepid,

Frazzee1