Christmas Wit Da Homey

My ancient grandmother (a.k.a. Oma, or "Homey") is slowing down . . .

She has always had an unusual vigor, as if she regularly sips just enough from the Fountain of Youth to keep her spirit in its teenage form. In fact, my little brother and I often sing the "Spiderman" song of our own youth with a few slight alterations:

"Alte Frau. Alte Frau.
Friendly neighbourhood alte Frau.
Can she swing from a thread?
Take a look overhead! Hey there . . .
There goes the Alte Frau.

Is she strong? Listen, bud.
She's got geriatric blood . . . "

And so on.

I wouldn't exactly call Ruth Strosser a mentor--she tried to teach me, in my teenage years, to avoid the sexual advances of young gentlemen by using her soap operas as illustrations of good behaviour (I believe it was Ashley who was abstinent). And her moral decisions do change from situation to situation. Beseeching God to help one get through Customs when one has purchased a fur coat and doesn't want to pay extra charges doesn't exactly constitute ethical behaviour. (Note that God answered her prayers in the form of another wee old lady who agreed to wear said coat and, whilst sweating profusely, pass it off as her own. God works in mysterious ways . . . or maybe not. Maybe he just shakes his head or enjoys a good chuckle.)

That said, Ruth Strosser is a fine example of living out each one of your days with enthusiasm. She is almost 96, but still lives in her home. When she recently fell, knocking herself unconscious, she fought the emergency team who wished to escort her to the hospital.

"But I'm all ready for church!" she protested. (Why waste a nice outfit and combed hair on an emergency room, however kind the staff?)

She continues to fly to Hawaii each year, and she embraces the funerals of her peers with enthusiasm. (Why waste the opportunity to enjoy a fine spread--free of charge, of course--and to watch a certain degree of drama unfold?)

This Christmas she definitely showed the signs of aging, and I was a little sad about that. After all, we've enjoyed her through many seasons of life. I recall annually decorating her with tinsel during the many years tinsel was used to smother our gangly Christmas tree.

Where have the years gone? Where has the tinsel gone?

We love you, Alte Frau. You've got geriatric blood, and you make my kids a little nervous, but you've been our Oma for so long that I can hardly believe that there will someday be a Christmas without you.

Best Report Memories . . . the Final Countdown

Here we are, folks. The final two reasons why I'll never forget my stint at the Report.


2. The Anti-Virus Campaign

My first computer at the Report had a green cursor and no images--that's how out-of-date things were with the magazine's limited budget. Eventually I was given a real computer.

Since I was often on the crime beat, covering unspeakable atrocities (such as the Rebecca Bluff case), I had to do some less-than-pleasant research. One day, I (tech savvy person that I was) discovered that my computer was no longer working. Rapidly turning it off and on--on-off-on-off-on-off--didn't solve the issue.

Tony, the computer tech guy, was appalled that I hadn't updated my anti-virus software. I had viruses coming out of my yin-yang. I thought that he would have taken care of things such as that--I was a writer with the tender heart of a poet, not the sort to attract vicious and brutal computer viruses. I took my computer's illness as a personal affront.

Alas! My computer fell ill a second time, since I did not actually know how to update the protection that Tony had installed on my computer. (I had merely nodded my head and said, "Uh huh.") This time, I accused my computer of having loose morals.

It was then that I took decisive action. Kevin Steel had purchased a nativity set for the Christmas cover photo, and the pieces of this set were just sitting around. Why not ask a higher power to care for my computer--and all the computers around the office? And so I took a sheep, a donkey, etc., and placed one gently, reverently, on the top of every computer.

It was an unfortunate coincidence that another news agency came in (armed to the hilt with video cameras) shortly thereafter to do a piece on the Report. Everyone was a little ill at ease because the Report did not always garner positive attention. (I have no idea why. We were nice folks. Albertans.)

It was unlucky, too, that a puzzled reporter with the other news agency said to Kevin Steel, "What's with the nativity pieces on the computers?"

"It's our anti-virus software," Kevin said, quite seriously, before moving on.

The strange thing is that I never again had a virus on that computer. Tony could have learned a thing or two.


1. What Happens at the Water Cooler . . .

Ah, the water cooler. The place where thirsty reporters converge to share a drink and a tidbit of news or gossip.

I never really understood how water coolers worked. I assumed that the water that dribbled into the drip tray went somewhere. Did it go back to join the ocean from whence it came? Did the liquid leak into Narnia, or Atlantis? I did not know.

What I did know was that it was a long walk from my desk to the restroom. And I had little patience for disposing any leftovers (rinds and leftover liquids and such) in the restroom garbage. So I simply walked the few steps to the water cooler and dropped the liquids and any other remains that would fit into the drip tray. It was an easy and efficient method.

One day Dave Stevens said, "Hey, have you guys noticed a smell lately?" I had not.

Then David said, "Seriously, I think the smell is coming from around here." He circled around the vicinity of the water cooler, sniffing the air with great concentration. Kevin Steel joined him, equally bewildered.

"That's strange," they said.

It was then that I understood the truth about water coolers. And about myself. This was a profound moment of clarity--a moment I will never forget.

I snorted, and tried to choke down the laughter. I failed miserably. Kevin Steel raised an eyebrow.

I then confessed. Kevin Steel removed the drip tray to discover the moldy horrors within. No Narnia! No Atlantis! It was truly a moment I'd never forget, and the muscles of my stomach still recall the workout I got trying to contain my mirth.

Thank you, dear Report, for these memories.

Memories 4 & 3 . . .

More on what I loved about working at the Report . . .


4. The Variety

One of the best parts about the magazine was that new reporters weren't asked to write soft non-news stories about kids selling crafts to raise money for charity or the guy who taught his dog sign language. Don't get me wrong: I respect kids who raise funds for others. And I would very much like to meet a dog that signs.

Instead, we were immediately given more challenging tasks. (That said, I wasn't expecting, six weeks in, to  write a cover story that was due the day the judgment I was to write on was made in court. I don't work well under tight deadlines.)

What I loved, though, was the adventure of discussing a wide variety of topics with all walks of life.

Typically the conversation went like this:

"Hello, this is Carmen Wittmeier from the Alberta Report Newsmagazine. I was just hoping to . . . "

[profanity]

"Um . . . I was just hoping to ask you a few . . . um . . . "

[slam]

However, other interviews were more lively and engaging. I met with good folks who were collecting donations--including a thong bikini--to give to Kosovar refugees. I tried to persuade a lovely woman who was too frightened to read The Lord of the Rings trilogy (because of the dangers inherent in fantasy) that literature had the power to reveal truth, even if hobbits didn't really exist (though I do think that my brother is one, based on the amount of hair on his feet). I talked to professors, and radio show hosts, and a man so afraid of chemical contamination that he wouldn't leave his house without a mask. I talked to a little boy who had survived the experience of having his head clamped in the jaws of a grizzly bear. Everyone (who didn't hang up on me) had a story to tell.


Some of the work was challenging indeed. I spoke to the judge residing over the case of Rebecca Bluff, a beautiful three-year-old brutally tortured and murdered by her own mother and her mother's boyfriend. I met with a family devastated when a pedophile (whose history was unknown to them) moved into their basement suite, abused their eldest son, and then left shortly before all three children were removed from the home. I went to the trial of a petrified, baby-faced thirteen-year-old boy who had fatally shot his eleven-year-old friend in a home filled with guns. I hoped that my words might make a difference.

Sometimes I left the office feeling very low.

Then there were the uplifting interviews. Perhaps my favourite interview ever was with Lucien Needham, the former conductor of the Lethbridge Symphony Orchestra. The very first thing he did was critique my interviewing skills.

"Honestly, Ms. Wittmeier!" he said with utmost contempt. "You have a great deal to learn about elocution." At that moment, I loved him. I loved his English accent and his disdain for me. I wanted him for a mentor and a father figure. I was filled with gratitude for all the wisdom he would undoubtedly impart.

And he was generous with his views on everything that was wrong with the music of today, and the youth of today, and the entire world in general. Strangely enough, his passion, though laced with disgust, was inspiring. He was a wonderful interview, and I think that, over the course of that phone call, he was able to tolerate (and perhaps even like) me. I was sad to learn that he passed away two years ago.


3. A False Positive

One dear editor (let's call him "Mark" Byfield) worked out of the office and was very curious about my physical appearance. Some of his comments made me uncomfortable.

So I decided that the very best thing to do would be to feign a crisis pregnancy to make this man equally uncomfortable. Perhaps my physical traits would be less pronounced in his mind if I were with child.

Kevin Steel was on board, and he made comments to Mark about how odd I was behaving--always rushing off to the bathroom, and sitting at my desk trying to look like I wasn't crying. Mark grew suspicious and Kevin, David, and I grew increasingly amused.

Then things began to get uncomfortable. Mark behaved in a fatherly, chivalrous manner, saying that he knew I was going through a difficult time and that I would get through it. My pregnancy lasted, I believe, for a couple of weeks, with Mark getting increasingly concerned for my wellbeing. I didn't know how to end a false pregnancy--I was truly in denial and kept up with the charade. That is, until Mark drove to the office with his daughter in tow to meet with me. I'm glad I wasn't there that day.

When Mark discovered the truth, he was livid. In a loud phone conversation he compared me to a female water bug called a strider. He gave me a more severe tongue lashing than Lucien Needham ever had. He said (and this was good) that he would never again made awkward remarks about a woman's exterior.

And I was just fine with that. Mission accomplished.

Top Memories of the Report . . . The Countdown Continues

7. The Gingerbread Episode

Now, reporters didn't actually work at the Report: we pretty much lived there. I wanted a well-rounded life, and so I was, at one point, teaching a college course and volunteering as a Big Sister as well as writing three articles a week. I was rarely at my own apartment. And so, since no one seemed to care, I allowed the boundaries between home and work to blend. For instance, I once brought my beloved bird "Woody" to the Report (she loved the magazines that covered every wall and landed on one . . . I removed her before she could relieve herself, as she was prone to do). I also regularly brought my Little Sister Michelle in, with the misguided belief that she would see what it was like for a "normal" adult to work at a "normal" job in a "normal" environment.

Little Michelle, streetwise and witty, settled in quite nicely. We celebrated Easter in the office by having an Easter egg hunt, we made slime (I'll admit the carpet was never the same afterwards), and we constructed what was intended to be a gingerbread house.

The other reporters were kind to her. Michelle affectionately called Dave Stevens "Toy Boy," and they shared a love of horror movie characters. We turned out the lights and told ghost stories in his office. And Kevin Steel helped me hide the Easter chocolate for our annual egg hunt. I still recall how he and Dave hid the candy again as soon as Michelle found it. Eventually this little eight-year-old was so frustrated that she stood upon a table with a broomstick in a fit of rage. We were amused. Dear little Michelle.

One of my fondest moments involved the construction of the gingerbread house mentioned earlier. I bought a kit, and Michelle and I made a lovely mess of icing and candy. The walls didn't stick together, but we were having fun. Unfortunately, Michelle had a brutal cold at the time, and the spit would fly with every cough. Many a cough was directed onto the gingerbread. I was gracious, and pretended that I wanted to take my piece home so that I could savour each bite. I suggested, however, that she give Kevin Steel a piece of our finished product. I would warn him later.

Good Kevin. Kind Kevin. Noble Kevin. He smiled at my Little Sister and thanked her, and then took a huge bite. I smiled awkwardly, and my Little Sister, who had no clue about the thousands of germs that had just been transferred into Kevin's system, beamed.

6. "Send to All" 

Forgive me, Linkard, but I would like to share a glorious event that transpired after one of your careless moments. The confidential email outlining the salaries of the reporters was meant to go to a single recipient--not to all the potential recipients.

Let me set the stage: some of the reporters who worked outside of the Edmonton office were slightly competitive. Or perhaps moderately competitive. Okay, fine: they were highly competitive, especially Marnie Ko.

[As an aside, at one point I was given the task of ensuring that writers met their deadlines. It was simple: I would send out an email mocking those who hadn't and praising (to high heaven) those who had. Anger and protests and excuses would abound, but I had their attention. This was, above all, the best task I've ever had to complete. I can't believe I was paid--MONEY!--to do this.]

At any rate, all hell broke loose when the reporters discovered how much their peers were being paid. I don't think I've ever seen Link sweat more, or Kevin Steel smile more (discretely, behind his desk).

5. Kevin Steel's Parties

I was probably the most wide-eyed, naïve person who'd ever set foot in that office. But I learned a great deal from Kevin Steel--and a lot at the parties he held on a frequent basis.

Kevin Steel lived in a great loft next to an artist. We would often head out onto his large flat roof where chairs were set up. Since it was a seedy part of town, I learned about prostitution from an excellent vantage point. The poor women would stand huddled on one corner (that Kevin pointed out, while puffing on a cigarette), and the johns would circle. Kevin could always pick out those cars.

At one point, the characters we were observing noted that we were observing them (we waved in a friendly manner), and moved to another block. But by then, I was a little bit wiser about the ways of the world. Kevin, in turn, was friendly and comfortable with all people, and the poor souls who sold themselves or who spent their time on these rough streets would allow him to photograph them. They were beautiful images.

Kevin's parties, I must say, were fabulous. There was wine, and there were the finest of cheeses, and the best cat you could imagine, and we wasted much of our youth playing highly competitive video games. What fine company! May we one day play again . . .  

Top Ten Report Memories . . . the First Three

Allow me to share some of the most memorable moments (in my view) at the Report Newsmagazine. Only then will you understand why I loved working where I did . . .

10. The Organization of the Library

At one point pretty much everyone was laid off. I was a little bit emotional until I scored a job back in the "library." The pay was minimal and the work was not difficult: I ran to the public library to steal photos for various articles, transferred the text from each issue onto a database, and sprinted to the bathroom whenever the phone rang so as to avoid customer requests. I was made for this job!

Now, I was also given the task of organizing the collection of books that had amassed through the years. I divided said books into two basic categories: "worthy of the nicer white shelf" and "boring." Untouched books of poetry that had been sent to the Report and anything resembling literature were deemed "worthy." Anything to do with politics was deemed dry and slotted to the lower shelves of the ugly bookshelf. Average material was relegated to the central shelves. The books generally went from tall to short, or were grouped by colour. How pretty they looked!

Now, imagine my pride when Paul Bunner came over and asked for a book on Diefenbaker. I didn't say, "Now that is boring." Rather, I said, "Right there on the bottom shelf. No, a little lower. Right on the bottom."

I knew exactly where every book on those shelves was located. My sorting strategy was flawless.

However, Paul Bunner scratched his head. "Ì don`t quite understand how you`ve organized these," he said. He wasn`t upset--just a little puzzled.

I learned, that day, that sometimes people don`t think like I do. No wonder their lives are so chaotic.


9. The Drama Between the Receptionist and the Telemarketing Department

I was fond of our receptionist, Cheryl. She had a good heart and an equally good work ethic. When I left the magazine she gave me a present full of dozens of little gifts with notes, and I appreciated the gesture.

However, Cheryl had a weakness for men. She had broken up with her ex, who was living in a tent by the river with his new girlfriend. No more would this brave hunter carve up deer in her hallway (yes, I`m serious). At any rate, Cheryl had her eye on someone special, a handsome young telemarketer I will call "Frank." Frank had muscles, and a tan, and a pleasant face to look upon.

Frank was not my type, but . . . oh my gosh . . . when he sauntered by to use the facilities, Cheryl`s heart would swoon.

"Do you think he noticed me?`` she would say, and there was only one answer she`d hear.

The one problem was that Frank already had a girlfriend, one he`d committed to in a long-term relationship.

"What a b----!" Cheryl would say, her eyes aflame. "Who does she think she is?"

Then she`d embrace hope once again. "Do you think Frank would like a chocolate for Valentine`s?"

"Oh, boy," I`d reply. "I hear `Mark` Byfield is single."

Cheryl never won the heart of Frank, though she did her hair and make-up with fervour. Poor, dear, Cheryl. I hope you`ve since found a Larry, or a Zane, or a Michael to call your own.


8. The Wolf Posters

Now, there`s nothing like a special promotion to get subscribers excited. And readers of the Report were deemed worthy of only the best. For a limited time, those lucky enough to renew their subscriptions or to subscribe for the first time were given . . . get this . . . a wolf poster. Yup. I would have subscribed in a second if my pay as a librarian had allowed any purchases other than food and water and a roof over my head.

At any rate, a few hundred of these beautiful limited edition posters were left over (though the sales department phoned their little hearts out, bless their souls!). I decided that the office needed dressing up. Something classy, of course. So I put a poster on every door. EVERY door (except for Link Byfield`s office, that is).

The office looked beautiful--though perhaps not to Little Red Riding Hood`s standards. However, I had not foreseen some of the difficulties wolf posters would pose.

"Where`s the men`s washroom?" a guest might ask.

"Second wolf to the left," I would reply.

One day, to my horror, the wolves were gone . . . but their memory lives on.

How to Excel as a Journalist: Tips from a Semi-Pro

I was deeply grieved to read the following sentences in the Wikipedia write-up on the Report:

"A number of right-wing journalists/commentators or pundits in Canada who are prominent today began their careers writing for The Report magazines, including Kenneth Whyte, the editor in chief of Maclean's; Colby Cosh of the National Post, Kevin Michael Grace, Lorne Gunter, Ezra Levant, Brian Mulawka, and Kevin Steel. Other distinguished alumni include: freelance journalist Ric Dolphin, former National Post writer Dunnery Best, U.S. food writer (and founding editor of Equinox magazine) Barry Estabrook, former PROFIT editor and publisher Rick Spence, author D'Arcy Jenish, and Paul Bunner, who in 2006 became a speechwriter for Prime Minister Stephen Harper."

My name does not appear on this list. Anywhere.

I was one of the best. The best of the best, in fact. I'm sure my giftedness was so painfully obvious that the writer of this Wikipedia entry didn't even bother to mention my name.

At any rate, I would like to share a couple of tips to any aspiring journalists out there:

Rise Above the Competition in Media Scrums

This is where I truly shone. Here's how I did it: First, I would press into the crowd of eager journalists surrounding the subject to be interviewed. I tried to look intense; I tried to look passionate. Then, as the competing voices rose in volume and intensity, I would say something . . . anything. It wasn't coherent, and I hadn't prepared a question. The rapid recitation of a line from Mother Goose would suffice.

All I knew is that to nail my story, someone else had to ask something intelligent.


Get Your Mug on the Screen

I remember injuring my ankle in soccer. At around that time, I had the privilege of sitting in on a murder trial. The experience was memorable. What I really wanted, though, was to be on television. How funny would it be, I asked myself, to be on the news that night? So I made sure to walk right behind those in involved in the case, trying to make my positioning look accidental.

The problem is that I generally can't be bothered to watch television. The next day, however, our  receptionist Cheryl said to me: "I saw you on T.V. last night!" It was one of my finest moments as a journalist. It's just too bad that I was hobbling so badly.


Don't Be Afraid of Who You Are, but Don't Identify Yourself Either

I was doing one story in particular and needed some information to discredit an organization. So I marched on over to this particular Association and said that I needed such-and-such information and could I please comb through the records? The receptionist said, "Certainly!" and I thought, "How kind."

I spent some time taking notes. Then the receptionist, making polite conversation, said, "So who did you say you are again?"

I hadn't said anything. She hadn't asked. When she heard my honest reply, however, she paled and  confessed to assuming that I worked for the Association. I said no, that I was writing a story on behalf of someone who was very angry at the Association.

She asked me to accompany her to a board room. I started to feel a little awkward because she interrupted what appeared to be a significant meeting with significant people. The people in this meeting, upon discovering what had happened, asked that I please not use the information I had gathered. They were all staring at me in astonishment, and asked me several times to keep what I learned confidential. I said that I would. And I did.

I couldn't bear to hurt anyone's feelings, or to get the receptionist in trouble. I have a soft spot for receptionists.


Learn to Transfer the Difficult Calls

One editor in particular was harassing me to find out information on a person I was interviewing. This question  was very awkward to bring up in a conversation. Even I, a person known for asking very personal questions due to my unquenchable curiousity, realized that trying to weasel certain details out of this individual was beyond tacky.

Finally, however, my editor's relentless badgering got to me. I asked the person I was interviewing the question directly--"Are you . . . ?" He was appalled that I would ask such a politically incorrect question, and he started yelling at me. I, in turn, was appalled that the only way to obtain such information was through such a direct and personal question. It wasn't even information interesting enough to satiate my curiousity, and that upset me.

So I did what all good journalists do. I told the person yelling at me on the other line that I didn't really want the information--that my editor put me up to it. I said that I would transfer him over. I calmly told my editor, "Someone would like to speak with you."

Moments later, my editor was shouting, and the man on the other end of the line was shouting, and all hell was breaking loose. I went back to writing my story. I never did get that piece of information.

Our Dear Colby and Other Sordid Tales

Now, trusting that nobody of consequence actually reads my blog (no offence, dear reader), I am going to share some of the inner happenings of my former office--the water cooler gossip, so to speak. I will begin by introducing you to some of the staff of the infamous magazine once known as the Report. In some cases, I may use pseudonyms to protect the identities of colleagues who make me nervous (which makes me wonder if I should be using a pseudonym):

Link Byfield: I had never met, nor will I ever meet again, a man named Linkard. At least I hope that's his name because that's what I called him. Link is a good man, a solid man, a family man.

I particularly remember one occasion, when the pressure in the office was building, and tension was high, and angry calls were flooding in, our receptionist came into Link's office and announced, "I bought a new stapler, Link. I hope that's okay. I just thought the office could use a new stapler."

Link stared at her and nodded. The receptionist assumed that he hadn't heard her and said, louder, "I hope it's okay with the budget and all, but I bought a new stapler." She stared up at him with wide eyes, seeking affirmation that it was a good decision, a wise decision, to buy that shiny black dispenser of staples.

Link, despite the pressure he was under at that moment, was gracious. "Yes, it was a good decision to get that stapler," he said. I respected him for that, and the receptionist left his office smiling.

Colby Cosh:

Colby was the bravest of colleagues. He was the only one, to my knowledge, who ate a hotdog out of the vending machine. I still have nightmares about that. Somehow, however, a lifetime of eating hotdogs has made Colby very, very smart. It doesn't mean he's good at video games, however (it's all about the mines, Colby).

Will Gibson:

This dear mustached man was great fun to prank. He frequently laughed heartily at my interviewing techniques, and I had to be careful not to conduct an interview any time he was hovering nearby. He always called me "Wittmeier" or "Butchie."

One Thursday afternoon, with the publication deadline looming and his calls incomplete, William was anxious and fretting. The moment he stepped into the washroom, I phoned his line and left a phony message from the individual he was hoping to interview.

When William realized he had missed his call, he paced about the office, spewing profanities.

As time progressed, nature called again, and so did I. Once again, William shouted out in rage and frustration, this time shaking the phone in the process.

Unfortunately, I got caught the third time. Never before have I heard such an outburst of words that cannot be published. I still treasure that memory, Will. I really do.

Carla Yu (Smithson):

I wonder what has become of Carla, the only other reporter with double-X chromosomes in the Edmonton office. She was the one person who finished her stories ahead of deadline, and she did her work quietly and conscientiously. She did not throw things at walls, or waste her valuable time playing video games. She was nice, and dating preferences aside, appeared to be incredibly normal. You had to wonder what compelled her to work at the Report.

She also gave me a taste of my own medicine with a prank phone call of her own, and I still respect her for that. Some part of me still envies the fact that she got to go home at suppertime on Thursdays.

Dave Stevens (a.k.a. "David"):

David, our "production generalist," was a great man with a great cap. The cap could not be extricated from his skull, no matter how formal the occasion. Dave had a remarkable collection of toys and plastic models in his office, an office of order and pleasant smells. David, I believe, did not appreciate the profound disorder of my own work space.

I wanted to alleviate his distress at the general stench of the office, so one day, with the enthusiastic support of Kevin, I picked up a dozen air fresheners or so. These were the cheap air fresheners, the ones that reek of watermelon and bubble gum and entire forests of pine trees. I planted these in various places around the office until the entire building was filled with a wretched (albeit fresh) smell of pine bubble melons.

David didn't notice a thing. He really didn't.

Soon the complaints started coming in from other areas of the building, moaning about dizziness and tightening lungs and seizures and other ailments. I promptly removed the air fresheners, still perplexed by Dave's immunity to extreme freshness.

Joan: I'm not sure what Joan did. No one knows. But she did like to tell me about the criminal investigation television shows she dutifully watched. She was a good person, Joan, and she would wring her hands and shake her head at the audacity of the perpetrators whose conniving acts she had gleefully witnessed on screen. Sometimes I wonder if she was the kind of person you'd swear couldn't have done what she did.

"Mark" Byfield:

I hope that "Mark" has forgiven me for feigning that crisis pregnancy (of which he had no involvement whatsoever). I have forgiven him for likening me to a strider, a female insect that can be vicious to the male of its species. Further research has shown me, however, that it is actually the male of the strider family who uses questionable and disturbing techniques in wooing the opposite gender. "Mark" needs to brush up on his science.

"Mark," wherever you are . . . are you still angry? If it's any consolation, I only have only a few more years of my life to feign an unplanned pregnancy, should the occasion arise again. I'm no longer that spring chicken clucking about the office. I'm a mother hen, now, and I'm generally a pretty boring one at that.

TO BE CONTINUED

On Human Bondage--Ghomeshi Style

I will confess that I once owned a cat o' nine tails whip.

My grandmother picked it up at a garage sale. "You put it up on the wall for decoration, Carmen," she said in her thick German accent. She was pleased as punch.

My little brother and I winced, thinking of our naïve, adorably plump, eighty-something-year-old elder handing over the coins from her change purse. What did those selling the whip think? More importantly, what were they thinking? Did they just decide that morning to slap that thing out between the cracked mugs and the vintage clock and the perfect copy of some W. Somerset Maugham novel they'd found disappointing?

At any rate, Wittmeiers do appreciate absurdity, and so I kept that whip for many years. I put it on my wall, just because it did make my abode a little more homey. And when Bible Study was held at my house in Vancouver, I hung it in the bathroom closet next to the vacuum cleaner--and then proceeded to forget to close the closet door.

It's funny how much time and life experience has changed me.

My young daughter recently received a Monster High Doll as a gift. With a dismissive shrug, she handed me the doll, still in the box, and proceeded to gush about the stickers she'd also received. I stared at the doll, wondering how it was that something this outlandish and sexualized would end up as a little girl's plaything. How does one play creatively with a Monster High doll? I breathed a sigh of relief that it's all about the Lego and the plastic animals and the construction of elaborate animal rescue facilities at our house.

I also recently dodged the Cowboy's bullet--that ugly advertisement featuring breasts and blonde manes and vacuous smiles that graces many a billboard and bus.

"That's really sad," I said to my daughter as she stared, perplexed. "All that the people who made that advertisement seem to care about is women's bodies. Don't women have ideas? Don't they have interests? Don't they have hearts? That ad doesn't show anything about them that matters."

It wasn't too long afterwards that my daughter came back with a biting diatribe against Dora the Explorer.

"I hate Dora!" she pronounced. "Diego is a boy, and he gets to rescue animals. Dora is a girl, and she just asks everyone else for help. And she asks for help for silly things she could easily do on her own!"

I nodded in agreement. Inside I was beaming, wanting to shout out that my daughter might have a chance in this world. Maybe she'd make it through adolescence with a healthy body image. Maybe she wouldn't be among the one in three girls who are sexually abused by age 18. Maybe she'd find a life partner who'd see beauty in every facet of her being, and who would embrace her when those rougher edges showed.

But we live in a culture of Monster High dolls. We exist in a society where women who criticize female media stereotypes are subject to rape threats and are forced to cancel speaking engagements. We live in a culture in which pornography is a staple, and demeaning sex is acceptable, provided it's "consensual."

I no longer have the whip my grandmother bought me, her only granddaughter. I won't be passing it along as the family heirloom, as much as I want the story to live on. Indeed, if I have any say in it, my daughters and granddaughters will inherit the message that they're worth far more than their bodies--that their minds and hearts and courage and integrity are of the highest value.

It might not be quite the conversation piece that that cat o' nine tails was, but I'm fine with that . . .

Memories of The Alberta Report, Part I

Recently, I heard that my former boss has taken on the fight of his life--against terminal cancer. Link Byfield was a fine boss indeed, and if you took out the clouds of cigarette smoke and the splashes of coke that covered my computer (thanks to the pre-deadline rages of a former reporter), The Report was a strange and brilliant place to work. I am a better person for it, though no less eccentric.

Now, let's be clear. I was probably not an ideal hire. When asked during my interview what news channel I watched, I answered "Channel Two." Basically, I had Peasant Vision, and I knew that I had Channel 2, Channel 4, Channel 9, and Channel 13 (Access . . . boring). I thought that "Two" was probably the best answer I could give, and I wasn't lying because sometimes you flick through the news to get to other channels.

Mr. Paul Bunner said that although I was lacking in my knowledge of current events, I could write. My ability, he said, appeared not to have been ruined by my graduate degree in English literature, and I was thus given the opportunity to write a story.

"It's sink or swim around here," Paul said, slapping a phone book on my desk.

The fortunate thing was that my first story involved a seedy radio show contest. I didn't actually listen to the radio, but I did find the seedy aspect intriguing.

The other fortunate thing was the reporter behind me--Kevin Walter Steel, or "Kevin Steel" as he liked to call himself. Kevin was a kind man, a good man, and he helped me. He helped me turn on my computer (which had a green cursor--I liked the colour). He showed me how to save my story onto a disk. He told me that the brown liquid all over the computer and walls was harmless, and that it came from a former reporter named Davis Sheremata, who sometimes felt the pressure of the deadline. He told me that the people who didn't like the magazine sometimes mailed dead birds in, but that Victor Olivier handled those.

I didn't know that people didn't like the magazine. I had never read it before.

At any rate, SUCCESS! I wrote a pretty darn average story, but since you couldn't go too far off on a seedy topic, I was given another opportunity to write a story. And then another. And then a cover story that nearly pushed my mental health over the edge (but that's another story).

I was a reporter. Sometimes I wore my pajamas to work, and once I went two weeks without combing my hair (because I lost my comb), but I was the real thing. I learned that "Byline" and "Byfield" have very different meanings, and that a "scrum" wasn't the fungus you find at the bottom of your sink. I learned that the catch tray of a water cooler doesn't drain by itself.

And oh, I would learn many other things, secrets I will share in my blog (should I have the discipline to continue to write and you, the discipline to read). I will share, dear friends. I will share.