June 4, 1999.

Look who's the bastard...

One month 'til Independence Day. Not that this Canuck maiden gives a rats ass. But I was reminded of something amusing about Canadian history in the just-over election campaign...to whit: whenever you disagree with something in politics, it is in your party's best interests to smear the opposition with 13 red stripes, 13 white stripes and a hell of a lot of stars. There is a huge resevoir of anti-American sentiment in the Canadian collective, and it's always ripe for exploitation.

I saw a poster which shouted something like, 'save Ontario from Mike Harris' Americanization!!' The great thing is that with the multiplicity of policies in American government, you can label anything American. I'm not sure what they meant in this case...perhaps that the Progressive Conservative program to cut social spending puts us on par with Yankee indifference to the social safety net. If so, I agree. Sort of. Indifference and callousness isn't trademarked by the Americans - not yet, anyway. I can just see some muticorp trade-marking rapaciousness and immorality.

"McDonalds: if you want to screw over the world, you must speak to our lawyers first."

I actually found the results of this campaign amusing, in a bitter sort of way. Yes, I voted. No, it didn't make any difference, not even at a local level. I'm registered in the suburbs, and these affluent ridings never watch the homeless die by inches, never have to slave away in a workfare program, never pay insane rents to unregulated landlords. They vote Conservative. What do you expect, really?

I have noticed an interesting trend in the conversation of my peers, most of whom share the same broad political values. If you vote Conservative, you are evil and selfish. If you vote Liberal, you're practical and safe and strategic. But if you vote NDP, you're virtuous, for your principles have determined your actions. It's an interesting moral shading in political culture...or at least our little corner of it.

My parents bought me a dress today. We were off doing various errands, and my mom wandered into a dress shop to look for wedding outfits. The tragic part about shopping with and for my mother is that she's essentially a fashion casualty. Like many of the mature women in our sorry culture, she is too large for what boutiques determine extra-large. I myself am a size 12, and thus a whale by modern fashion standards...but while I can squeeze into the odd item of fashion, my mother's case is hopeless.

And it depresses the fuck out of me. She shouldn't have to feel awful every time she wants something pretty to wear. She's a strong, intelligent, thoroughly remarkable woman...and can't shop at most clothing stores. The insanity of this absolutely stuns and saddens me.

But anyway, we were in a dress store. We had already given up on her, and I was idly trying on dresses...not with any intent of purchase, you understand. I like wearing pretty things, even if I don't own them. But since both my parents were there, the visit had the character of a serious shopping trip and it wasn't long before I was the somewhat reluctant owner of a midnight blue evening gown with a silvery sparkly pattern on the skirt and a filmy navy scarf. It's awfully pretty, I will admit...but how many formal gowns do I need?

I suppose that's the embarrassed NDP-voting prole talking. Or perhaps the penny-pinching Scot, who knows. I could've gotten tattooed twice with that money. Perhaps my mom sensed this ink-centred hesitancy on some level, as when we got home she tossed me a little stretch plastic band that she'd picked up earlier. Push it far enough up your arm and it looks like a butch tattoo...as long as you fail to notice the dents it makes in my arm fat. Win some, lose some.