The Hobbit Vs The World: Where Have All The "Excuse Me's" Gone?

Good Evening Humble Readers...

This post has been percolating for a while, and I hope you will bear with me.  I have ranted about some of these things before, but I need to revisit for the sake of my sanity.

You are probably aware that I work in retail.  In general I love my job.  I enjoy interacting with our customers, and I enjoy our staff.  I know I gripe a fair bit about work, but really, there aren't many other jobs that I think I would enjoy as much. 

But one of the things that I love about the job also makes me want to tear my hair out... the customers.  I could go on and on about how the customer is NOT always right, and some of the loony things that I have experienced over the years, but that's not the point today. 

Today I'm talking about manners...

Now, it may be because I am a large hobbit and I take up a fair bit of space, but I think everyone appreciates their personal space.  So when meandering the aisles of my store, why do customers find it acceptable to push past me without saying 'excuse me'?  Why do they think it's okay to practically knock me over (as happened two days ago, without so much as an apology) to get by?  If they were to simply do the polite thing and let me know they are there, I would gladly get out of their way!

And when someone needs assistance and I am focused on tidying up a shelf, why don't they speak up, say 'excuse me' and ask for help?  Why do they feel it's alright to either tap me on the shoulder & scare the bejeepers out of me, or just stand there staring at me until I get that creepy feeling of someone watching me?  All they have to do is say 'excuse me' and I would be happy to help them. 

Do not even get me started on the people who snap their fingers at me, or start our conversation with 'hey you'.

People who work in retail are not less intelligent than anyone else, and do not deserve to be treated with anything less than the same respect anyone hopes for in their work. 

I will confess, the way I am treated by a customer is directly related with the quality of service I give them.  I'm much more inclined to be go above and beyond for someone who treats me with dignity and respect. 

My mom always taught me to treat others as I want to be treated.  It's just good common sense. 

Okay, rant over.

The Hobbit vs. The World: Breastfeeding Rant

Good Evening Humble Readers...

Before I start this post I have to say... I have never breastfed a baby, but I plan to.  And as an owner of a pair of milk-producing breasts (in comparison with, say, John Goodman) I think I am allowed to have an opinion. 

Over the last week I have heard a lot of opinions expressed about breastfeeding in public.  I have read blog posts, news stories, and heard some opinions that just shock the poop out of me.  And today, I saw a trailer for a national tv news story about it.  Who knew it could be so darn controversial?

The gist of all the stories I have come across is that breastfeeding in public should be restricted, if not outright banned. 

I'm sorry, but I just can't believe this. 

Yes, I am a relatively conservative hobbit, and no, when I am breast feeding I don't plan on just whipping my b00bs out any old time and place.  I plan on using some sort of a cover up (even that's not good enough for some of the people complaining).  But to say that a mother doesn't have the right to feed her child in public just makes me cranky. 

Apparently, it makes people uncomfortable. 

Well, you know what makes me uncomfortable?  Seeing every tom, dick, and harry's butt crack!  Men and women alike.  If your skinny jeans don't allow you to bend over without showing half of your ass, then I think you need to reconsider your wardrobe.  But you can bet that would never make the CTV and ABC evening news. 

There are two very extreme sides in this debate, and I don't fit in either camp.  I'm not (and I really and truly do not mean to be offensive here) a militant 'breast is best' person.  I don't disagree that breast milk is best, but I know that breastfeeding is hard, especially at first.  I watched my sister struggle in frustration and pain, and ultimately switch to formula after her son was getting more of her blood in his mouth than her milk. But I have read several comments from women who say they don't even see their breasts as private parts and that exposing them is no different from exposing one's arms or legs.  I just can't get that argument at all.

Nor do I identify AT ALL with one commenter who said that 'those women need to get a life' and that it's 'inappropriate in the extreme'.  In my opinion, the people who find breastfeeding in public offensive need to get their minds out of the gutter, because that's the only type of thinking that makes it offensive. 

There are plenty of things that I do in the privacy of my own home that I would never do in public, but that doesn't make them wrong.  Yes, I think that we need to be aware of our surroundings and be respectful of others.  Absolutely! 

However, no one has the right to tell me or any mother where and when and how I can feed my child. 

Okay, rant over for now.

Blame It On The Olympics... Again

Okay, Humble Readers... I'm mildly irritated.  Maybe a little more than mildly...

The Canadian government, in its infinite wisdom, announced yesterday in the Throne Speech (similar to the State of the Union Address) that on Parlaiment's agenda this year is going to be a debate about the gender-inclusivity of 'O Canada'.  Specifically the line, 'in all thy sons command'. 

Really?!?!  This is what our government deems important enough to address from the throne? 

I may be opening myself up for attack here, but I will admit that I don't consider myself much of a feminist.  Yes, I believe in equal pay for equal work (but that isn't just a gender issue), and that all people deserve to be treated with equity, with the same respect and care.  And I see how language plays a role in those perceptions. 

But come on...

I think, if our government was so concerned about social equity they would spend time and energy rectifying the lack of support in our country for single mothers and the lack of funding for child care.  They could address the fact that 43% of adults in Canada are functionally illiterate.  What about the ever present health care and unemployment issues?  Heck, they might even look at the whole adoption and foster care system, and how it should be streamlined and improved.

In this day and age, I have bigger things to get knickers in a twist about... Stressing out about the language in our national anthem that was written at the beginning of the last century is not on the top of my worry list. 

And why did this whole situation start in the first place?  Because we heard the anthem so often at the Olympics and the Honourable Mr. Stephen Harper latched onto it as a pet project.  Or maybe a distraction tactic?

The Hobbit vs The World: And These People Are Allowed to be Parents?

Good Evening Humble Readers...

Maybe I'm being overly sensitive here, but...

I was minding my own business. At work, doing the bookselling thing. I catch a glimpse of the headline on the local newspaper sitting on the desk in our office... "Name My Baby!"

The story, on the front page, is about a woman in a neighbouring community who is 23, 28 weeks pregnant with her second son, and is just absolutely flummoxed on what to name her newest little one. Apparently she and her partner chose the 'perfect name' when they named their first son, and now they just can't come up with anything else.

In an effort for their child to not be nameless at birth, she has instituted a local contest. She even indicated that doesn't want the name to end in particular letters, presumably because they wouldn't work with her last name.

Honestly, I stopped reading at that point. I didn't read about what her grand prize would be or when her deadline for submissions would be. I was just disgusted.

What the story and her contest say to me, admittedly a very biased infertile, is that she cares so little about the child she's carrying that she can't be bothered to come up with a name for him.

If she wants names, I've got names. Names that I have carried in my heart for years. Names that I still cling to as beacons of hope. I can also give her the names of numerous babies, longed for and loved and cherished... babies that my bloggy friends never got to hold that have names.

The least a mother can do is put some thought into naming her child, and not make it a publicity stunt.

I would like, 12 years from now, to be a fly on the wall when she has that conversation with her son... "no, I didn't name you. We drew your name out of a draw box. Your brother's name was perfect, so we didn't even try."

Ok, rant over.

The Hobbit Vs. The World: How Do You Spell Fiasco?

H1N1!

Humble Readers, if someone actually spent more than 5 minutes of thought into how these clinics were going to run, I would be very surprised.

Our little city's second H1N1 public vaccine clinic was today. It was held in one of the bigger churches in town. My Beloved and I got to the church at 7:45am. It was still dark (0ne of the things I'm still not used to living here on the flatland... the sun doesn't come up until well after 8 in the fall and winter), and -6 degrees. We were prepared to wait outside until the doors were scheduled to open at 9am.

When we got there, the line up was already more than halfway around the parking lot. The people at the front of the line got there at 5am. By 9:30am there was a traffic jam on the cross street and the highway, and they were turning people away.

We ended up having to wait outside, in the very chilly morning, for more than two and a half hours, before we actually got into the church. My toes were so numb they hurt, and my poor Beloved's ears were redder than a tomatoe. When we got inside the church, we ended up having to wait another two and a half hours in line, just to get to the gymnasium where we were given a number (853 & 854, respectively) and were able to sit down. There wasn't even a separate line for people in wheelchairs, for pregnant women, or the elderly.

Did I mention that I was supposed to be at work at 11am? (and guess who hates to be late for anything?)

I hadn't eaten breakfast, and all I had to drink was some peppermint tea that I thought to bring last minute. I was starving, which I will admit made me cranky. Sitting in a very echoe-y gym, surrounded by a lot of stressed out moms with fussing children in tow (not that I blame the moms or the tots). When we finally got called up, I was about ready to lose it.

We got our shots, and were supposed to then wait there for 15 minutes, just to make sure that we didn't have a reaction to the shot. Of course, we didn't and we took off as quickly as we could. My Beloved dropped me at work, 2 hours late (still having not eaten) and I had to get right down to it.

The whole time I was there, I kept thinking that they could have come up with some better way to do this. They health minister was on tv the other night saying how they weren't expecting the response they have gotten. That they were not able to anticipate how inadequate their plan for dispersing the vaccine was. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?? He's the same guy who went on tv a couple of months ago with the dire predictions of how many people were expected to be hospitalized or even die from this. Grab a clue!

(And don't even get me started on all the people who are saying they aren't going to get the vaccine because they have heard that it will cause sterility or birth defects or will turn you into a monkey... Gah!)

I ended up staying at work until close, to cover for our GM who went home sick, so at least I made up the hours I missed. I'm tired, my arm really hurts at the injection site, and my back is aching in that distinctive pre-AF way.

I just have to keep telling myself it could have been a lot worse. It could have been snowing like it is now. *sigh*

This cranky hobbit is off to bed. Hopefully everything will be normal when I wake up in the morning.

The Hobbit vs The World: Two Big Annoyances

Good evening Humble Readers! Your friendly neighbourhood hobbit is irked tonight. Beyond irked actually... pretty pissed off!

Now you may be asking what can get under the skin of a relatively even-keeled hobbit? Well let me tell you...

First up... you may recall that I mentioned that a member of our leadership team at work gave notice a week ago. I was happy for her because she was leaving for a good reason, but I was concerned that someone in her position (in the management heirarchy, she was one level above me) would only give two weeks notice, especially when she gave notice the day before our general manager went on vacation.

So fast forward one week... how many shifts has she shown up for? One and a half. She called in 'sick' for two shifts, and then just stopped showing up. When one of the other managers called to see what was going on, after getting the voicemail run around, she finally owned up to the fact that seeing as our boss wasn't in, she wasn't going to come in either. She was just done. But, oh... 'it's nothing personal', and you know what? She 'still loves us all tons and tons'... Pardon me for saying so, but BULLSHIT!!! And really, the not personal bit? All I could think of was that line in 'You've Got Mail'... ''saying that it's not personal only means that it's not personal to you. It's very personal to me." The remaining three of us have had to juggle our schedules, rearrange our personal lives to cover for her lack of responsibility and respect. And let's not even get started about how she's not going to be able to use any of us as a reference...

Alright, so the other thing that is pissing me off today... read this story. It's ok, I'll wait.

Ok, done?

Are you as disgusted as I am? Yes, I have taken the source into consideration... Fam.ily G.uy is not known for being socially conscious. I know that it's an irreverent and purposely shocking show. I don't watch it for a reason. Infertility, surrogacy and abortion... anyone see anything joke-worthy in that list? And this is the show that was nominated for the Best Comedy Emmy? I applaud Fox for pulling the episode from the broadcast schedule, but it's still going to be out there... on the season 8 dvds. Gah!

Thank you, humble readers, for letting me vent. I needed to get those things off my chest.

The Hobbit vs The World: How Sad is our World?

I will admit that back in the day I had a little crush on MJ. He was the first musical artist that I actually connected with... in my ten year old way.

And yes, I agree that his death is a loss to the music world. Not that he's made any big contributions in the last few years, but I acknowledge that he was a talented man.

The thing is, how twisted is our culture? I was watching the news last night and I was absolutely disgusted. The first 20 minutes of the broadcast was about people who were celebrating the fact that they won tickets to MJ's memorial service.

Have you clued into how messed up that last sentence is? Celebrating winning tickets to a funeral???? That is absolutely disgusting!

And do you want to know what was on the news following all the coverage about MJ, his funeral, the tickets, and his estate? It was a story about fallen Canadian soldiers in Afganistan! A story about our fallen soldiers, dying while serving our world, was bumped on the news by more than a half hour about a dead musician!

This week I am ashamed of the human race.

The Hobbit vs. The World Volume 3: Sunburn

It's been a while since I did a Hobbit vs. the World post, but today I have a bit of a gripe. And really, I'm not cranky at the world. I'm more cranky at myself.

But I need to give you some background. I come from good northern European stock. German, Irish, English, Ukrainian... that's right, the pasty ones. I was born so blonde that no one could see my hair. I looked bald until I was almost three. As an aside, my biological parents were often asked how old I was when they adopted me, as they both have dark hair and darker colouring (how the heck did that happen?). The kicker is, when you look at me and my grandmother it's like a chunck of her fell off and started growing where it landed.

Anyway, sorry for the digression.

I'm pale. I always have been. Whenever someone complains about how they need some colour, I can one up them by showing them the inside of my forearm. We are talking white. Whiter than white.

And I don't tan.

I never have. I go from white, to lobster red, to white (with a few more new freckles thrown in for good measure). I won't go into how living in Florida was a challenge. Once when I was 16, I went fishing in an aluminum canoe. I forgot my sunblock on the beach and we were out on the lake for several hours. In July. In the Okanagan. I ended up getting so burnt that I peeled for more than two weeks. Gross! I still have scars from that burn on my shoulders.

So, what am I cranky about today? I'm cranky because my Beloved and I went out to the Farmer's Market (more about that on Show and Tell day) this morning, and I completely forgot to put on sunblock. The burn I got isn't terrible, just irritating. My neck and chest, and the end of my nose. (In fact, I look like I've just downed a bottle of wine on my own.)

I know better!

The Hobbit VS. The World - Vol 2: Down with Birds

The Hobbit VS. the World is a place where I can vent and explain some of the idiosyncrasies that make me me. Sometimes it will be about things that pi$$ me off and other times it will be about my deficiencies as a person. Read, comment... whatever... these are just thoughts of little consequence.

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I think I may have mentioned briefly in the past that this hobbit is afraid of birds. The official terminology is ornithophobic. On an average day, it's not terribly debilitating, just annoying. Basically, anything with feathers and anything that flies makes me freak out. Feather pillows, butterflies, even Big Bi.rd... and don't get me started on the feather boa my sister bought for me to wear at my bridal shower... UGH! And I don't hate birds... I think they are beautiful. I just want to see them through my window, at a distance, and not up close and personal. (Moths are another story... they can go to hell)

I don't have a conscious memory of when it started, altho I have been told that it probably stems from an incident when I was about a year old. We lived in a very old farm house at the time, and the heat register in my nursery did not have a vent cover (what were my parents thinking... very unsafe!). Apparently, a small bird, like a sparrow or a swallow, managed to get down our chimeny pipe and came out through the vent in my room. It flapped around, basically trying to find a way out. My parents heard me screaming and ended up shoo-ing the bird out the window. All I know is, birds scare the tar out of me... always have and likely always will.

Unfortunately, my scary encounters with birds don't stop there. Once when I was 7 or 8 years old, my family decided to go camping in the Cypress Hills. This is a beautiful area in southern Alberta... an island of foothill-like terrain in the midst of the bald-ass prairie. We often camped there, and had the privilege of seeing a great deal of wildlife. Once, I ended up surrounded by what I referred to as some 'big ugly deer' (yeah, they were moose) when I woke up before the rest of my family and snuck out of the trailer. Anyway, there was an occassion when I had to take my younger sister to the outhouse. She hated the outhouse and was terrified that she would fall in. So, she's crying the whole time she's doing her business, and all I want to do is get her to shut up. I hustle her out of the outhouse... right into the midst of a flock of wild turkeys! Ok, so it wasn't a flock... it was a mother and her brood of chicks. All I saw was feathers, beaks and those beady little eyes! I dragged my sister back into the outhouse, where she started to scream again. Meanwhile, I'm having heart palpitations and hyperventilating. Eventually the poor turkeys went on their way, but it was a harrowing few minutes.

My biological mom likes birds a lot. When I was in my mid-teen years, she decided to keep cockatiels as pets. And as you can probably guess, she like to let them out to fly around the apartment. Guess who locked herself in her bedroom?

The city which I refer to as my hometown is known for the multitude of quail that live in the hills. There are restaurants and golf courses named for the silly things. I loved to watch them from my front window. They were everywhere, in huge flocks (I mean hundreds of them). They particularly like low-lying shrubbery and dense bushes, just like several of my neighbours had in their front yards. I can't even begin to count the number of times I was terrified out of my mind by the whole flock taking flight at the same time as I would walk to the bus stop. Imagine the sound of more than a hundred little birds, exploding out of the cedar hedge less than three feet away from you... *shudder* Terrifying, I can assure you!

The last bird-story I want to share is from my time in Florida. Now, I clearly didn't think things through when I decided to accept a job with a church just outside Orlando. I mean, where do all the little (and not so little) birdies go in the winter? South! And where is Florida? South... almost as far south as you can get and still be in North America.

One day I was working in my office, typing away, when I see a shadow go past my window. I glance to my left, expecting to see one of the pastors or one of the teachers from the school our church supported walking by. Was it a person? NO! It was a sandhill crane. Looking in my window at me. Watching me. Can we say panic attack, kids?

Now, if you don't know about sandhill cranes, let me educate you. These are big BIG birds. The one outside my window was almost as tall I am (granted, my hobbit-ish stature doesn't lend itself to comparisons with big scary birds, but you get the idea). It's head was about the size of my fist and it's beak looked at least a mile long. They generally have a wingspan of somewhere between 6 and 7 feet. They mate for life. They are very territorial. VERY territorial.

This particular sandhill crane that was staring at me was one of a pair. That's right... they had chosen the soccer field right outside my office as their nesting ground. I was trapped in my office (my only door exitted right out onto the soccer field). I called up to the main office to advise them of the situation, trying to sound calm and professional and generally not like I was going to have a panic attack. Then I closed the blinds and attempted to put the birds out of my mind. The kids in the school had to stay inside for recess that day. Animal control was summarily called and they dispatched a crew to come and remove the monstrous beasts. Eventually I felt safe enough to leave my office.

Now, before you ask... yes, I was subjected to that awful movie "The Birds" by some friends when I was in high school. The stuff of my nightmares, I assure you. But I did enjoy "March of the Penguins" very much (except for the scenes with other birds attacking the babies). Go figure.

The Hobbit Vs. The World - Volume 1

I have decided to start a new little feature here in my corner of the blogosphere, 'The Hobbit Vs. The World'. This will be a place for me to get out my crankies about the things that get under my skin, from the ridiculous to the sublime. As usual, it's your choice to read... and comment as the case may be. These are just thoughts of little consequence...

The Hobbit Vs. Old Man Winter

I'm sure if you've read any of my posts over the last few weeks, you will have recognized a trend.

I can't stand winter! I want it to be spring!

When I was a wee little hobbit, knee-high to a cricket, I loved winter. I loved the snow, I loved toboggining, mittens, seeing your breath when you walked outside, and frost on the windows. I would watch anxiously for the first snowfall, and would jump around like an idiot when I would wake to a few centimeters of the white stuff on the lawn. I would dawdle all the way to school and home, throwing snowballs and sliding on the ice. I was notorious for wearing out the knees on my snow-pants because I loved to run and slide down the ice on my knees.

When I got a little older, I still loved the snow. I didn't understand when my mom would gripe about the winter. How could you not love watching the big white flakes falling on the mountains?

But somewhere between my late teen years and my early twenties, something changed. Maybe I became more klutzy. Maybe it's because I became 'too cool' to wear winter boots. Maybe I just got tired of landing on my backside in the snow. Whatever it was, my relationship with snow and ice changed. It became my enemy.

To say that I am accident prone is an understatement. If someone is going to get hurt doing the most mundane task, it's going to be me. Heck, I almost gave myself a concussion a few weeks ago doing laundry (but that's a tale for another time). And as the world's biggest klutz, I see every snowfall as another opportunity for Old Man Winter to cause me bodily injury.

Over the years I have aquired a collection of tensor bandages , ripped trouser knees, and ice packs to rival any midget hockey team. My tendancy towards winter injury is legend at my workplace. Last year was no exception. Twice in the early part of winter I wiped out on my way to work. Once, I actually made it to work, only to wipe out on the tile inside the entrance due to my wet shoes.

The final insult combined with injury happened last year in April. This region of the flatland is notorious for freak snowstorms in the spring and fall, and last year our final snowfall didn't come until the last week of April, after the trees had finally started to bud. We got a ridiculous amount of wet, sloppy snow, and it took a few days before it warmed up again enough to melt the white poop away.

The day after the snowfall, on my walk to work, I encountered a section of unshovelled sidewalk, where the slush and snow had frozen into a trecherous mess. Knowing my ankles, I wouldn't make it ten feet before a sprain would ensue. So I made a choice. A dumb choice... but I will admit that it seemed reasonable at the time.

I looked at the street to my left. The cars had packed down the snow. There were no frightening lumps of ice to navigate. I stepped off the curb, intending to avoid certain bodily harm, only to feel my heel hit a exceptionally slick patch of ice.

I can see it in my mind's eye. I'm sure if anyone was watching, they got a good chuckle out of it. A plus-sized hobbit, bundled up to the eyes, going ass over tea kettle, purse flying in one direction, mp3 player in the other.

The only thing to differentiate this particular fall from the thousands previous was the way I landed. Normally, I would land on a knee or twist an ankle. But not this time. This time I landed square on my pride. Yep, the old derriere. More specifically, my tailbone. I was so stunned by the pain that I wasn't even able to catch myself before my head hit the ice.

I think I laid there for a good two or three minutes before attempting the oh-so-gracefull job of getting myself up, collecting my things, assessing the damage and getting back on my way to work, all without landing on my ass again. I was only a block or so from work, so I hobbled the rest of the way, and that is the end of my sad tale.

Almost...

I had cracked my tailbone. It took a month before I could sit like a normal hobbit (or human) and even now it gives me uncomfortable twinges. Especially when it gets really cold. How ironic.

So, today when I heard the weather advisory for a winter storm warning, predicting 10-20 centimeters of new snow, I said a few words that should never be heard from a hobbit. I have, miraculously, made it through this winter without hurting myself. No falls, no spills, no twisted ankles. But with every snowflake that comes, I know that the odds are just getting higher and higher against me. *sigh*

As of 11:00 tonight, the storm hasn't arrived. I'm hoping we've missed it. But in case you don't hear from me tomorrow, look for me in traction.

Update - When I woke up this morning, I found the snow had arrived. About 10cm. *shudder*