MRSA Superbug Research

This week I came across a study by a US researcher who has discovered another strain of MRSA, or an antibiotic-resistant Staph, which has colonized livestock and farm workers on factory farm operations.

One of the saddest documentaries I have ever seen was about factory farming, which is common in the US and Canada. One segment of the documentary focused on the lives of animals living on factory farms, or Confined Area Feed Operations (CAFOs). These facilities put thousands of animals together in a relatively small area. Their movement is restricted by their neighbours. Their food and water are contaminated by their neighbours' urine and feces, and they are repeatedly injected with growth hormones and antibiotics to fight infections. In their confined space, these animals are also exposed to large amounts of pesticide to kill all the carriers of disease.

Maybe a century from now, treating animals this inhumanely will be viewed as animal slavery. I understand the argument that livestock is meant to die for meat one day, but why couldn't their days on this earth be under better conditions.

Yesterday, I thought about how I would explain factory farming to my daughter. I know that she would be absolutely horrified by the living conditions of these animals. And the obvious question she would ask is "why." The answer... money.

Sometimes answering your children's questions makes you re-examine them yourself. We buy free-range meat without antibiotics, and when we can find organic meat we buy it too. But now I'm starting to wonder why we buy meat at all.

More food for thought.

Patience

Some days when responsibilities and stress abound, you still manage to put them all behind you as soon as you see your kids. Their little lives revolve around you, and they're so thrilled to see you. Sometimes, it's so easy just to live the moment with them. Then there are other days when things are more trying.

We've all had days when everything is going well, and you just need to get one more chore done, but this fine balance is hard to negotiate. It doesn't end the way you want. You grasp for patience, but it's nowhere to be found, and you snap or yell...And then you feel AWFUL. You beat yourself up because you shouldn't have attempted to do just one more thing. Your choice upset the delicate balance. You were not patient when you should have been. Have you ever heard yourself say that?

We approach patience as though it's a test, and we always aim for a perfect score because we know that some days, even under enormous strain, we are patient. So then why can't we be patient all the time?

Maybe this is the wrong approach. It sets us up for failure because no one can be patient all the time.

This week I was reading a book set in Haiti in which the author describes the two main characters praying for...patience, understanding and strength. When I lived in Colombia, I remember people praying for strength and patience too. Isn't this an acknowledgment that patience ebbs and flows and that it isn't always there when you need it?

Isn't this a much healthier and more positive approach to patience, to pray for it instead of beating ourselves up for not having it?

This week the light went on. I suddenly realized that patience is a virtue. I've heard it a thousand times before, but today, I finally understood.

I let my husband read this post, and he had a lot to say about it. He thinks that patience is a skill like any other and that it can be learned. I agree it can, but our threshold for patience differs depending on the circumstances. He disagreed again. He claims that Buddhist monks spend years working on patience and that patience requires a change in perspective.

Well, if I had years to meditate I would probably have patience too! Anyway, I will give my husband's opinions some due consideration.

My So-Called Day Off: A Sign of the Week to Come

My husband and I spent Monday together, with our computers. This is my weekly day off that we try to spend both physically and psychologically together. While he slogged away at an endless contract, I combed through my Tim Hortons piece. One of my friends reminded me that a group of activists had been sued by McDonalds for handing out leaflets on the corporation's rape of the the rainforest (or sumpin' like that). As my piece casts the donut-meister in a somewhat unflattering light, my paranoia went into high gear and led to some obsessive fact-checking.

Although hubbie realizes that writing is important to me, he's had it up to the eyeballs with Tim Hortons! Can't blame him. I was just glad to get it off my chest. But let me just point out that HE was the one who insisted I start blogging. I did, then obsession took over, and now it's almost compulsive. This experience was further enhanced by checking the number of views of my profile.

Anyhoo...

The day was not spent together, and little did I realize that this was going to be a week that sorely tested my patience. I should have used Monday for some much deserved R&R. Tuesday was a surprise training session on a very complicated piece of software, which lasted for six-hours. Then on Wednesday, I attended a meeting of the Well-Ness Committee, which I thought wasto address the high incidence of employee burnout. Instead it turned out to be more like some social committee, with an extremely wide mandate and no budget.

All of this was in addition to all my regular deadlines, family obligations and posting a 4-part investigation (except there were 5 articles). It was kind of stressful, especially because I could not stop myself from checking to see how many people had viewed my articles on NowPublic.

We ended the week with a little bit of union-management strife.

Anyway, I'm so excited to be writing and having people read my work and comment on it. It's pretty freakin' exciting!

A taker for my green investigative blog

Waking up at 5:00 am for most people would be inconvenient, but for me, it's a chance for some uninterrupted time alone to ponder, plan and blog. Sometimes I feel as though I have to type more quietly because I hear my son stirring. He's a light sleeper and once he's awake, so is everyone else, foiling any chance I have of finishing my sentence. So shhhh!

The actual waiting has caused some butterflies, and well, a little anxiety. Because of course now, my investigative blog HAS TO BE PERFECT. In addition, there are a few technical issues that must be resolved, which only my hubbie can remedy. Unfortunately, he has a very pressing deadline for Monday, so I'll have to ask him very nicely to help me this morning...Cross yar fingers for me.

We also need a very good picture of a Tim Hortons paper cup. I picked one up on an R&D mission with my daughter. We went to the TH on Mont-Royal, where I snooped around reading all the signs, looking for the recycling sorting station (non-existent) and whether the paper napkins were made from recycled materials...my regular activities that TH employees find so annoying. In fact, when I asked the cashier whether the paper coffee cup was recyclable, she barked, "No!" but then was nice enough to give me a paper cup (sans café) anyway. I still have it and hopefully this morning, we are going to make it a STAR!

I'm so excited, but oh so nervous. I'll post the link to my article in my next blog entry. I promise. AKA Mamma

The Deep Freeze: 9-min Trek to Metro Station

Another visitor making an appearance in our lives on Henri-Julien, and everywhere else in Eastern Canada, is this freeze-da-bejeezus-outa-ya cold snap. We are in essence in deep freeze, or the victim of a "Siberian" cold front. Funny how globalization even seems to affect the language of weather. In the early nineties, this would have only been "an extreme cold front" probably coming down from somewhere like James Bay, or Baie James as it's known in these parts. But my guess is that Siberian makes it sound even colder and more dramatic.

"So how cold is it already?" you ask.
(Okay, I promise not to cheat. I will not give the actual temperatures or windchill factors, as Canadians are so annoyingly wont to do.)

What is most surprising is that you don't immediately notice the cold when you step out the door. You might notice the visual sharpness of objects, or how amazingly clear they look. If the sun is shining, which it was most of this week, your first reaction is to think that everyone has been exaggerating about the frigid temperatures. The colour of the sky is also a clue. This week, I saw some beautiful shades of pastel pink, purple, blue and orange, which you only see in winter. You might also notice the crunch of the snow under foot. This sound is also an indication that it's a very dry cold, which people from Winnipeg enjoy telling you isn't so bad. There is a crispness to the cold air that is both fresh and exhilarating. You quickly come down from this initial winter high after you've walked a 100 metres or so, when the discomfort of the cold settles in.

Your immediate reaction is to cover your nose with your scarf, as we know that the first things to freeze are those parts furthest from the warmth of our body. And tips of noses have been known to freeze. As a woman, I can't even imagine what the cold does to the...ah...masculine members. But as a child, I seem to remember a metaphor describing frigid temperatures and their effect on the parts of a brass monkey. And I have to admit, the expression was lost on me. After all, what's a brass monkey anyway? Okay, back to the weather.

At 200 metres, the cold feels as though it's burning all parts that are exposed, such as the teenie tiny space where the cuff of your coat meets your glove, and your exposed eyes and forehead. And remember you're no longer enjoying the crispness of the cold air because your mouth and nose are covered. This is also about the time you start to wish that you'd worn long underwear because the cold makes your pants feel pretty flimsy. Waiting for the light to change so you can cross the street becomes an eternity. Your eyes are already darting ahead to see if there is a powerful gust of wind coming. Because if there is one, even if you're wearing a one-piece snowmobile suit, you're going to freeze your booty off.

At 300 metres, the metro station is in sight, but out of focus because your eyes have started to tear up. You're past freezing now; you have parts that are burning from the cold. This doesn't mean you have frostbite. You've only been out for six minutes. It just means that your skin will stay red for awhile and be pretty dry. Would someone please pass the moisturizer and lip balm!? As you approach the doors of the metro, you're already getting set to take off some of your clothing, as the metro with its thousands of commuters can be a hot and stuffy place even on the coldest days. But as you step through the door, you follow the winter ritual. You let out an audible sigh of relief, dust off your clothes and stamp your feet to get the snow off your boots.

As you get out your ticket, you hear the loud whistle of the wind tunnel created by the frequently opening and closing doors. You feel the blast of warm and cold air, the cleanliness of which you refuse to ponder, as you walk by the person handing out newspapers. After you step through the turnstile, you unzip your coat. You remove your hat, gloves, and scarf, and put them in your bag on the escalator down to the subway platform.

You've done the 9-minute trek, and luckily the memory of fresh air is still with you.

Who let the bug in?

When you have children, weekends become "together time." Expectations are high. People want to go outside, skate, play in the snow, build a fort, and have fun. I had my kids late in life and keeping up with them can be a challenge. Being tired is an integral part of being a parent and member of the labour force, and juggling your children, a job and relationship is a fine balance indeed. Mothers are people who have to recognize signs and make informed decisions even...for themselves.

So when you've gone to the gym, done the shopping, taken the kids to the park and then start to see yellow and blue spots, you might first come to the realization that you're tired. Never mind! Tired is for wussies. Mind over matter! But then you start to see stars, and think "Oh, maybe I should eat something instead of drinking more coffee." Then there's a chill in the air. It's bone-chillingly cold outside, but all the windows are shut. Hmmm...Your daughter has complained during the day of stomach cramps, but they seem to have gone away. Now she looks right as rain.

Then out of nowhere, something strange happens. You have a knot in your stomach, which starts to constrict. There's pressure that you can't immediately explain. You go down the mental checklist: coffee, exercise, food poisoning, and as the pain increases, you start to ignore your daughter's questions because you can't seem to focus on what she is saying and wish that she'd just speak English instead of French. There's a temperature shift. You suddenly feel hot, and the Christmas tree (Yes, it's still up. No one's perfect!) starts to blur. The reflective decorations have increasingly long streaks of light running through them. Just when you think to yourself, "God, that tree is hideous!" your brain stops processing, you're close to an answer. There's a short replay of a clue from late Friday afternoon.

As the daycare specialist cheerily hands you your son, she says, "Oh, and by the way, he vomited today. Not a lot. Nothing to worry about!"

As I sprint down the hall holding my stomach, I know that I have a bug. But not just any bug. It's a bug from the daycare. As I reach the bathroom door, I think, "Oh, any time but now. Why me?" Not realizing how lucky I am.

The bug is just gathering momentum, and the real victim will be my husband, who gets it twice as bad 12 hours later.

Identity and Raising Bilingual Children

This weekend, my six-year-old daughter brought me over a coffee cup that had the word coffee written on it in several languages. She pointed to the word coffee in English and said, "That's how English people write café." And then pointing to the word café she said, "This is how we write it in French."

You might think that her comment simply demonstrates her skills in both languages. But what took me by surprise me was the "we" part. Obviously, my daughter identifies more with her French side (her father's side), which I find somewhat strange. Okay downright weird! And for reasons beyond my control, I start to wonder is this really my daughter? I mean when exactly did I get relegated to "you people" status? Or more specifically when does identity start?

To me, language is a strong marker of identity, and I find it hard to imagine that my daughter would not feel at least partially an English speaker. After all, the term "mother tongue" has to do with the language that a mother speaks to her child, and in our case, it is English.

If you think back to life-changing events, most of them are in your mother tongue. In my case, about 30% were in French, like explaining that I was having contractions, or insisting that my water had broken. But my formative or childhood years were strictly in English, and anything French was three hours due east on the Trans Canada highway or in a beautiful foreign country where people wore nice clothes.

I guess I could say that my daughter's life so far has transpired in a community with a Francophone majority, but a fair-sized English minority. We chose both my daughter's daycare and school based on the quality of instruction and care, rather than on language, and it just so happened that the predominant language in both cases was French. Yes, obviously these are two factors that would influence the language she best relates to, but I was always under the impression that a mother's language would outweigh these factors in influencing identity.

I realize that bilingual children go through different phases where one language is stronger than the other. I have also been told not to relent. Your child's English will improve. And bilingual children, we are told, have better professional opportunities later in life. But sometimes I fear that having two languages creates distances that might not otherwise exist.

My Guerrilla Gardening site (August 2008)

Photo Courtesy of Roger Latour

Special thanks to the above-mentioned photographer who took this picture, and then sent it to us via gmail. If you look closely enough, you can actually see our gmail address on the blue wall.

The site didn't look too bad on that particular day. I must have just been by, as I only see a little garbage--blowing paper courtesy of the ugly brothers.

I thought of another important tip for anyone who might want to try guerrilla gardening.


Tip 9
You should never have your site looking absolutely fabulous. Why you ask? I have a proven theory that attractive, well-cared for plants attract the worst type of admirers--thieves! Here's some convincing empirical data. On several occasions last summer, I left the site beaming. I was thrilled that the flowers were thriving, the garbage was picked up, and the grass was cut. Without fail, flowers would be stolen shortly thereafter.

You may notice that there is only one red geranium. This is the last remaining geranium from the original dozen we planted. Remember, your best bet is to start from seed, and you may want to find something a little, ah... prickly to ward off flower thieves and vandals. I definitely have a few thorny ideas for next year.

Anyway, no need to dwell on the negative. After all, we were lucky to receive this beautiful photo, which is proof enough that there are great and appreciative people out there. ;)

The Charm of Winter Cycling

What a fine morning it turned out to be! Although it was -12 Celcius (-18 with the wind) , I took my bike to do my errands this morning, and now I know what everyone is raving about. With the right clothes (an ear band under your helmet and a scarf are de rigueur), winter cycling is exhilarating! And as we all know, there is nothing better to break the winter monotony than a blast of fresh air.

However, there are few points to remember. First there is the mechanical side. You should take along some oil for your chain and use a de-icer for your brakes. Then there is the human side. Motorists are not expecting cyclists, nor do they warm to the idea of sharing the road in winter.

For instance, just this morning while waiting for the light at Park Avenue and St. Viateur, I had every intention of going straight, but the SUV beside me wanted to turn right. As I looked up to see if either the passenger or the driver had noticed me, I saw the driver lean over to get a better look at me, while his passenger stared at me in utter disbelief. I couldn't make out whether the passenger was a man or a woman, as the being was zipped into a parka of some sort, with a furry trim obscuring most of the face.

I returned the stare probably with an arched eyebrow; after all, what were they looking at? Then I was dumbfounded to see the passenger mouth the words Elle est folle (She's nuts), to which the driver slapped his thigh and laughed, just before he cut me off to make his right-hand turn.

Was I miffed you ask? Not in the least. After all, you can't expect much from the fur-trimmed parka wearers or SUV drivers of the world, they have to get back to much more important and stimulating pursuits, such as navel gazing.

The bike, baby seat and commuter cup

This year when I headed back to work, I tried a new routine--taking my bike to work. The highlight of my summer was definitely taking my kids out on my bike and cycling to work. It became a whole new way to see the city and enjoy the summer.

The ride home is a challenging uphill climb, but the daily endorphin rush made Mamma a very happy camper. In fact, I asked myself why I hadn't started sooner.

When I take off the baby seat and walk around downtown, I do get a few stares. But when I explain that the baby seat is worth twice as much as my bike, people usually understand.

In addition to taking my son every morning on my bike and dropping him off at daycare, I started taking a commuter cup as a preventive measure, so I wouldn't spend money on coffee and waste paper cups.

After six months of rattling, rolling and smashing around in my bike basket, the commuter cup still doesn't leak and keeps my coffee both hot and cold. When I was shopping around for one, I was told that the OXO commuter cup was the best because it didn't leak, even when it was turned upside down. And true to its word, it hasn't leaked yet.

For those interested, I have included a picture of my model, and by the way, it really has been an effective means for saving money.

Recycling-Bin Diving

A few days ago my husband and I took down our Christmas recycling only to find that the bins were full. Of course, recycling bins are in high demand around the holiday season and finding them full is par for the course, but this time hubbie decided to "make some room."

I have tried this before and aim to avoid it, as I quickly lose respect for a few of my neighbours. I let my honey sort through the refuse, and in mere seconds, I heard similar comments that echoed my sentiments on previous occasions.

First of all, several of our neighbours seem to think that no sorting is required, and they mix paper and plastic. Comment 1 from hubbie, "Duh! Hello, there's a pictogram on the bin for a reason."

Then of course, he found some boxes that weren't broken down, which takes up a heck of a lot of room. Comment 2 from hubbie, "Well, I guess our neighbour didn't read the notice or attend any meeting about breaking down boxes. That notice probably went in with the plastic anyway."

Finally, he found a small unbroken down box with a plastic container and a dirty undergarment in it. Comment 3, "Would you look at this, someone thinks that his or her dirty underwear is of some value."

We broke down a few boxes and managed to fit all our recycling in. As we walked away, my hubbie asked, "Why do people think that once they get rid of something that it doesn't exist anymore?"

That's a great question?! And I've made it my New Year's resolution.
I won't buy anything unless I know that it can and will be recycled or reused.

In our borough, we do recycle soiled clothing, but they have to be taken to an Eco-Centre.