cheryl santa maria

Last week, everyone was up in arms about the government comissioning a Chinese company to make Ontario flags.  MPP Peter Kormos has described the situation as “embarrassing and insulting” and many people have noted that outsourcing to China completely contradicts the city of Toronto’s (costly) climate change initiatives.

When I first read this article, I was enraged.

And then I thought about it some more and realized I’m not entitled to have an opinion.

I mean, I can’t get angry about a Canadian flag being made in China when almost everything I own is made in China, now can I?

Flags from China cost $13.00 to make. Flags made in Canada cost $18.00. The government was simply looking for the best deal, and they found it in China. I do the same thing all the time. You probably do it too.

Think about the computer you’re using right now. Do you know where it was made?

How about your shirt?
And your shoes?
And what about all the trinkets on your desk?

I bet they weren’t made locally.

If you try to buy Canadian, I applaud you. I’m not that evolved yet.

Sad to say but the first world lives well because the third world does not. We are able to go into Wal-Mart and buy shirts for $7.00 because the people who produce those shirts are paid slave wages and are employed under horrible conditions. If world poverty was to end, we’d have to say goodbye to big box stores like Sam’s Club and Costco, and we would have to pay much more for the products we now consider disposable.

People can bitch and complain about the Ontario flag being made in China, but if they aren’t willing to pay more for local products they’re just blowing hot air.

And that goes for all the MPPs who have been making a fuss lately.

I wonder where their suits were made?

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cdrCalO5BDs]

Douchey as he may be, John Mayer is talented and every once in awhile, he has a good idea.

The other day he Twittered that “Ernest Hemingway … claimed he could write a great story in six words or less” and asked people to come up with their own six word stories.

Mayer’s was: “This heart didn’t come with instructions”, which I am assuming is an all-too-subtle reference to his recent breakup with Jennifer Aniston.

I racked my brain real hard and came up with three six word stories.

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

1. The 401 is eating my soul.
2. Cubicles: Hell in convenient box size.
3. Shoes will completely devour my paycheque.

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

yup.

I’ve got more layers than an onion, I know.  Anyway, I’d love to hear your six word stories.

Providing there’s actually someone out there, reading this.

Is there anyone out there?

hello??

… **tumbleweeds** …

It’s St. Patrick’s Day and I, for one, will be hiding from the bars. I’m not a fan of green beer and every time I go out on St. Paddy’s Day I make a drunken arse out of myself. That, in combination with the fact that I am piss poor, is why I’ll be staying in.

I’m still going to celebrate though, by spending my evening with Frank McCourt.

Irish born and now living in America, McCourt is one of my favourite authors. I absolutley worship his writing style; it’s unlike anything I have ever read. McCourt’s Ireland is not green and idyllic. It is a God-fearing land that is rife with poverty and disease.

I won’t go into more detail, because I want you to read him for yourself.

Anglea’s Ashes and ‘Tis deserve multiple readings.

Click here and here to get yourself started.

March 9-13, 2009

Monday: I woke up feeling glum and I tried to cheer myself up by wearing a pretty scoop neck blouse. Later in the afternoon, I was leaning over some documents when I noticed a few people walk by and look at me funny. I looked down. It turns out I’d been giving everyone a free peep show.

Tuesday: I was too lazy to cook so I decided to walk over to Yonge & Eglinton and get some vermicelli at Lemongrass. I was powerwalking down the street when I tripped. I landed on my knees and my elbows and I almost took down two pedestrians. There were no bumps on the road. I was wearing flat shoes with no laces. A lady helped me up and asked if I’d been drinking.

Wednesday: Had a little competition with a stranger in yoga class. We kept trying to out-pose each other. This was, in restropect, a bad idea. Her skills were superior to mine and somewhere in between the planks and the cobra pose I did something funny to my arm. It’s been five days and it still hurts.

Thursday: Had Japanese food with Nikki and Kim. No complaints there. I heart my friends.

Friday: Came into work and realized that someone had stolen my stapler. I spent my morning storming around the office trying to find it. That night I watched Office Space with some friends. I used to love that movie. Now it just makes me sad.

I felt like I was watching my life on film.

Screw birth control and the right to vote.

Being able to attend university is nothing more than a “nice to have” and having the right to own property – so you can pack up and leave the husband who routinely beats the sh*t out of you – is only somewhat important.

While these things have granted women some small comforts nothing can compare to the power of the washing machine.  It’s done more to liberate women than the entire feminist movement.

That’s According to the Vatican, anyway.

L’Osservatore Romano, the Vatican’s official newsletter, published an article over the weekend entitled, “The Washing Machine and the Liberation of Women – Put in the Detergent, Close the Lid and Relax.”   The article – written by a woman no less – argues that although the “debate is heated” regarding what has granted western women the most freedom, some would argue that it has been the washing machine.

Um.

What?

Granted I wasn’t alive back when women had to wash everything by hand, but really? is that the best they can come up with?

Who needs women’s suffrage? we have washing machines!

I mean, knowledge is power and all but nothing beats having a fresh-smelling apron.

Right?

Right???

Ugh.

To me, the article is the equivalent of a condesending pat on the bum.  It spits in the face of the brave women who have fought, and continue to fight, for our basic human rights.

And now my head hurts.  In light of that, I’m off to partake in an activity that’s liberated humanity far more than any machine.

If you need me I’ll be at the bar, downing a vodka on the rocks.