Tuesday's Grey
So, here it is another day in my weekly marathon of actually updating the old blog. I'm continuing with my theme of Boob week, but frankly I'm having a bit of a problem deciding what to write about. It's not that I have a dirth of moronic events that I could share with the world, me-oh-my no! it's just that a lot of them are just a little too embarrassing. I may have to borrow a couple of party-approved boob stories from friends and/or neighbours. We'll see.
At any rate, this is my latest blunder:
I am. An idiot. I used to be one of those people who liked to think I was better than other people simply because of my nationality. I've heard people like that called patriotic, but I have since realized that folks like that are merely obnoxious jerks.
Canada is a young country, comparatively, and as such we're still searching for an identity. For a long time we were too shy to think we even deserved one and spent a good deal of time deprecating ourselves, but in the last decade or two we've become defiant and started to cast about for something like patriotism of our very own. Unfortunately all we've come up with is "we're not American". (And we like to drink beer and play hockey.)
As little as four years ago I bought into this silliness myself. I was an ever-so-proud Canadian(tm) and I didn't care who knew it, but it was somewhere in Mexico when I realized that perhaps being a cocky, loud, anti-American Canadian isn't really much to be proud of. So there I was, innocently dancing on a bar when the nice young man behind me in the bunny-hop line leaned over and asked me if I was American. "Me?! American?! Certainly NOT! I am CANADIAN! Pfft! American! As if!!" and while my words might not seem like they were the epitome of insulting, my tone and body language certainly were. He may as well have asked me if I was into beating sickly orphan children with the toys of privileged kids for all the vehement rejection in my voice.
It was in the silent few seconds after my outburst that I realized something painfully obvious. "You're American, aren't you?" The bright young lad chirped, "I'm from Iowa!" and continued dancing happily along the bartop.
And even though he didn't seem to mind being insulted by me (I'm guessing the tequila had something to do with it), it was then I realized that perhaps my particular brand of patriotism could use some scrutiny. I have since revised my views, and while I'm still proud to be Canadian I try not to put down other countries (especially America), either. So thank you, Iowa Boy, thank you for letting me be a jackass to you. You might be pleased to know that I actually learned something from it.
(Also, I hope the violent retching and pounding headache from the tequila the next day wasn't as harsh on you as it was on me. Ai chihuahua, the Mexican sun on a poor, hungover person!)
So, here it is another day in my weekly marathon of actually updating the old blog. I'm continuing with my theme of Boob week, but frankly I'm having a bit of a problem deciding what to write about. It's not that I have a dirth of moronic events that I could share with the world, me-oh-my no! it's just that a lot of them are just a little too embarrassing. I may have to borrow a couple of party-approved boob stories from friends and/or neighbours. We'll see.
At any rate, this is my latest blunder:
I am. An idiot. I used to be one of those people who liked to think I was better than other people simply because of my nationality. I've heard people like that called patriotic, but I have since realized that folks like that are merely obnoxious jerks.
Canada is a young country, comparatively, and as such we're still searching for an identity. For a long time we were too shy to think we even deserved one and spent a good deal of time deprecating ourselves, but in the last decade or two we've become defiant and started to cast about for something like patriotism of our very own. Unfortunately all we've come up with is "we're not American". (And we like to drink beer and play hockey.)
As little as four years ago I bought into this silliness myself. I was an ever-so-proud Canadian(tm) and I didn't care who knew it, but it was somewhere in Mexico when I realized that perhaps being a cocky, loud, anti-American Canadian isn't really much to be proud of. So there I was, innocently dancing on a bar when the nice young man behind me in the bunny-hop line leaned over and asked me if I was American. "Me?! American?! Certainly NOT! I am CANADIAN! Pfft! American! As if!!" and while my words might not seem like they were the epitome of insulting, my tone and body language certainly were. He may as well have asked me if I was into beating sickly orphan children with the toys of privileged kids for all the vehement rejection in my voice.
It was in the silent few seconds after my outburst that I realized something painfully obvious. "You're American, aren't you?" The bright young lad chirped, "I'm from Iowa!" and continued dancing happily along the bartop.
And even though he didn't seem to mind being insulted by me (I'm guessing the tequila had something to do with it), it was then I realized that perhaps my particular brand of patriotism could use some scrutiny. I have since revised my views, and while I'm still proud to be Canadian I try not to put down other countries (especially America), either. So thank you, Iowa Boy, thank you for letting me be a jackass to you. You might be pleased to know that I actually learned something from it.
(Also, I hope the violent retching and pounding headache from the tequila the next day wasn't as harsh on you as it was on me. Ai chihuahua, the Mexican sun on a poor, hungover person!)
posted by Alanis at
9:52 AM
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