My Head = Dense Repository of Moist Cotton Wool

I think it's odd that I've never before realized that all the traditional flu remedies (chicken soup, hot bath, bed rest) involve a sense of warmth and envelopment that is terribly unappealing during 30 degree summer weather.

So I just have to sit here and sweat and feel icky.

(Although a supper of toasted cheese and Catherine's homemade chicken soup was nice, despite the heat.)

My dumb boss.

So my boss at the residences (I work at Queen's residences making beds and cleaning toilets and generally learning about the class system in Canadian society) is this young woman. Her name is Barb and today, I decided I didn't like her very much.

Y'see, at the beginning of the season (about two months ago now) she told all of us workers that she would need to have our days-off requests in writing, two weeks before we wanted time off. This was so she could make up the schedule in a timely fashion.

Turns out this was all a dirty dirty lie. Not once have we had a schedule that was more than four days in advance, and lately it's only because we go ask her at the end of the day that she even tells us (with a look that says "why are you bothering me?") when, or if, we're working tomorrow. So if I wanted, say a weekend off, I would put my request in and then not know if I was actually off until the Thursday before the weekend. For the last two weeks I've just been showing up at 8:45 am and finding out at that point when I'm working until.

Now, I understand that I've been requesting a lot of weekends off. I have things to do, people to see, etc. If Barb had looked at my days-off request (which I gave her more than three weeks ago), and said "You know Lydia, I can't give you all these weekends off. You can only book off two out of these four," then I would have been fine. I would have been sad that I had to work while others were having fun, but it would have been fine.

Instead, she tells me nothing. Nothing at all. So today, when she said "I need you to work this weekend" (the weekend that I'm going up to a friend's cottage, an outing I've been planning all week) I simply said "But I booked it off." She gave me a dirty look, put a red line through my working days on the schedule she was making up as she went along, and said "You know, I give more hours to those people who can give me full availability". I said I understood, and she said "Okay -- you're only working from 9-1 tomorrow."

Now, this very threatening cutback of my hours would have been more frightening to me if 9-1 were not my regular shift. Sure, I've been working 9-3 all this week, but when you add in the lunch break, the difference is only 1 and a 1/2 hours (ie. $15). And considering I just signed up for a psychology study which will pay me $10 for about 45 minutes of my time, I think I'll be okay.

Now sure, maybe I'm being a bit bitchy. But I'm tired of Barb's lack of understanding. She doesn't know what it's like to work in our job (she's certainly never ever cleaned a toilet or made a bed), she doesn't seem to understand that we're frustrated by our lack of schedule, and she never explains anything to us (the supervisor-in-training, Matt, followed her around for weeks before we figured out who he was. She never introduced him or anything. She never announces special events such as a staff BBQ, instead expecting us to 'just know'). And maybe I'll get in trouble later for needing more weekends off. But frankly, right now I don't give a damn. She's a dumb boss, and I'm not going begging for her work when she doesn't give a damn about me.

The Adventures of Miss Canada in St. Louis: Special Features and Cut Scenes

Having just written a long and semi-incoherent post on my feelings about America and Americans, I thought I needed an extra post to put in all the interesting things that didn't fit anywhere else. These then, are the things which, I were to make a DVD about my experience in St. Louis, would go on the extra disc. Some of them aren't properly edited, and they don't fit in with the story arc of my experience, but I thought they were interesting enough to be included on the side.

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Not only was Desmond Tutu's daughter at the conference, I also met the great-great-niece of Pushmataha, the Chocktaw chief who talked to President Andrew Jackson about native treaty rights (as you well know, that didn't go too well). I also met an auto-cephalus (not connected to Canturbury) neo-monastic Anglican man whose uncle is David Hyde Pierce. He told us stories about sneaking 'David' into his graduation ceremony and being on the set of Frasier. This is the same guy who gets up at 5:30 every morning to pray. Strange.

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One of the most interesting experiences of the conference was my roundtable group, which I think I have mentioned was led by a single black woman who is the associate pastor of a church in Kansas City. Since the group was all women, we ended up talking about women's issues a lot and getting very vulnerable with one another. We also, very frightenly, bore out statistics when it slowly came out that three of the eleven of us had been sexually abused by men (all, even more frighteningly, by pastors). Since we all, at some level, knew we didn't ever have to see these people again, we were a lot more truthful than we otherwise would have been. All three young women, while describing their experiences, said at one point or another, "Now, I've never told this to anyone back home." It was powerful.

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I came home more confused than ever about whether or not I want to go into ministry. I have remembered that I love helping people and preaching, and many pastors told me you have a great chance to do both when in ministry. But there was also a lot of discussion about the hard things of the life, the loneliness and the hard work and people on planes randomly confessing to you. One quote was "Ministry is the worst job you'll ever love." I'm not sure I can do that. But it seems to contain so much of what I'm passionate about. And having lots of other people around who are absolutely and totally conviced and commited to becoming a pastor only served to throw my own indecision in sharp relief.

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Also, I actually missed bible study. We went to plenary sessions and church services and workshops galore, but at no point did we actually study the bible. And I missed that. Whether I agree with it or am frightened by it, find it relevant or obsolete, it seems that I am addicted to Bible study. I want to dig in to this book which has changed so much of history and figure out what it's all about. And considering all the contentious issues which we skirted around (what we believe about salvation, our own calling, women in ministry, homosexuality) I was surprised we didn't actually take the time to see what the Bible has to say about these things, and the different ways in which it's been interpreted.

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The food there wasn't very good. I say this with the taste of my own, still-warm fresh bread in my mouth -- the food was starchy, meaty, fatty, and often unnapetizing. One night we had a picnic dinner which consisted of buns, various chunks of processed meat, fried bread, BBQ sauce, ribs, lemonade, and (almost as an afterthought) some glutinous potato salad and coleslaw. It was only when we went to a cafeteria one afternoon that I actually had access to some whole foods, and even then the carrot sticks were scary and the cottage cheese tasted like white plastic. Our last dinner was very fancy, with an appetizer of blue cheese-apple-walnut-spinach salad (which I know sounds gross, but it was good!) and grilled zucchini and squash, and risotto and the inevitable meat and potatoes. But the scary thing was, most people didn't eat their salads (I ate three just to stop them from going to waste) and ignored the vegetables, coming back with bland off-white plates piled high with turkey, potatoes, and buns. It made me sad, because while I understand my food tastes are not those of everyone, I felt bad for their arteries.

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My first noteworthy experience upon getting back into Canada could not have been more perfect if I'd tried. I handed my passport and customs paper to the young man at the booth, and he looked at my Kingston address and said "So, you must go to Queen's then." Surprised, I said yes and asked him how he knew the city. He smiled knowingly "the Aberdeen Street Homecoming party" he said, referring to the biggest annual drunken brouhaha at Queen's. I laughed, he stamped my papers, and told me to go to Clark Hall Pub on Monday nights, when his buddies played in a band there.

I could have kissed the guy. After five days which felt like several weeks of experiences (both good and bad), I was home.

The Adventures of Miss Canada in St. Louis: Why does "the Common Good" stop at the 49th parallel?

Well, I'm back in sweet sweet Kingston now, resting and recuperating. However, I'm making an effort (and it is an effort) to continue to record my memories of the conference before they fade away. This is mostly for myself, so that I don't forget what I did and felt in Missourah. But don't worry -- I don't mind if you read it too.

The conference was, for me, a strange exercise in culture shock. I didn't properly realize it until I was wonderfully seated next to another Canadian on the plane home (one who went to college in the States, but lives in Toronto) with whom I could talk about my feelings of nationality. I hadn't thought I could get culture shock in America, but now I know it is possible. And that (plus the realization that I'd been meeting with people/hostessing for two straight weeks before I went to the conference) helps me feel better about being so antisocial and introverted during the conference.

To put it bluntly, I felt discriminated against at this conference. That's an unfair word, I know, since no one there would ever have meant to make me feel left out. But it was certainly odd that in a group of Christians so terribly concerned about issues of racism, sexism, gender identity, and classism, they unconsciously and repeatedly made assumptions about the fact that their audience was American. Some examples:

1. The theme of the conference was "Ministry for the Common Good". One of our plenary session speakers spoke on this topic, and referred explicitly to the health care situation in America. He told a story of a man he met on a plane who didn't think national health care was needed since he and his family had good insurance. The speaker then went to great lengths to prove that yes, health care was indeed something that should be considered 'the common good'. For me, this is QED. Clearly, this speakers idea of the 'common good' had become 'the common American good'.

2. The inevitable way of meeting people was to ask their name and where they're from. I got tired of saying, "Actually, I'm from Canada. I live in Kingston, which is halfway between Toronto and Montreal". Frequently people thought I was in New York because they associate 'Queens' with New York City.

3. American history was referred to frequently and often. In a seminar on 'ecumenical peacemaking', we were talking about colonial/racial tensions in India and the leader said "The British needed a Marshall Plan for India, but they never had one." That's a great point.... assuming that you know what the Marshall Plan was, which, if you hadn't taken American history, you wouldn't know about.

4. One of our worship services was geared to remind us of language inclusivity, and while this lead to the fabulous sight of Desmond Tutu's daughter (Rev. Mpho Tutu) reading from the Bible in Xhosa, it also lead to us singing a hymn in Spanish. The worship leader said "Let us remember those in our country who wrap their tongues around unfamiliar English words each day as we struggle to sing in Spanish." Now, that's a fine sentiment, but it assumes that one can read Spanish accurately and quickly enough to be able to fit it into the melody of the hymn. I cannot, and so I spent that song feeling dumb and unfaithful because I had to awkwardly sing the English words.

5. On the last day of the conference, two Americans I had gotten to know did what they told me they often do -- randomly stand up and sing the Canadian national anthem. But it was all wrong -- they weren't singing it as if they meant it, or as if they cared about Canada. They were shouting the anthem in strong, off-key voices (even though I knew both of them could sing perfectly well). I asked them afterwards if they always sang it that way, and David told me, with a laugh "Oh, that's the American version of the Canadian national anthem." He meant it to be a joke, but I took it seriously, because that's when I realized they weren't singing the anthem as an ode to Canada -- instead, they were appropriating it as some sort of post-modern American protest song. Much like the button one guy had on his bag which said "I'm moving to Canada!" -- a button which he'd had on the bag for several years. These people didn't care about my country -- they just cared about using Canada to make political statements in their own country.

6. In the St. Louis airport before I left, I saw a wall named (and I'm not kidding) "The Freedom Shrine". It contained framed replicas of famous documents such as the Declaration of Independance, the US Constitution, a draft of the Star Splangled Banner, Ben Franklin's epitaph, and (most disturbingly) the document of Japanese Surrender in 1945. I could only shudder.

Now, that said, I was glad to have a chance to have some of my stereotypes of American Christians shattered. I went expecting to "corrupt a good Christian boy" and raise hell with my un-churchy language and short skirts. Instead, I met a group of American Christians as liberal as I am (and sometimes, surprisingly, even more liberal than me). Here are some examples of what I mean (I apologize for all the lists, but it helps me organize my thoughts):

1. While the Eden seminary bookstore was open, the majority of people crowded into the section labelled "feminist theology".

2. A frank discussion with both women and men about premarital sex around the lunch table -- a discussion started by a middle-aged woman pastor who's congregation had been kicked out of their building when they ordained her.

3. A young man reading a poem at our coffeehouse which he dedicated to "the sacred feminine in all of us".

4. A young woman who described her bad experience handing out Gay&Lesbian positive liturature at a Southern Baptist Conference last summer (Here's where I felt myself, oddly, on the conservative side of things. While I'm all for equal rights, I don't think handing out tracts is going to convice anybody or do any good).

5. Five days with no one ever, EVER referring to God as 'He'.

6. Another young man who told an Indian story at our coffeehouse called "The uncultured man" which involved Hanuman and Sita and lots and lots of warrior monkeys (it was HI-larious). The next morning, at our Sunday service, this same man did liturgical dance while wearing a white flowing skirt. Nobody complained.

7. The fact that it was brought to my attention (late in the conference) that both the men I was semi-chasing after (both named David, interestingly) are quite probably gay. After all, one is the man of #6, and the other is my lovely curly-haired art historian (see previous post) who also played the flute at our Sunday service.

Put the two lists together, and you get this: the people at this conference were wonderful as individuals, but wholly unpalatable (to me, at least) as a group of Americans. Not because all Americans are bad, but just because they are so self-absorbed (in their politics and their faith and their struggles) that they unwittingly shut me out. It was nice to have my own stereotypes broken and to meet some genuinely fascinating people, but I left with the uncomfortable feeling that no one had thought twice about American stereotypes of Canada or had de-stereotyped me. During my frequent splashes in the fountain, I was often called "oh you crazy canuck!" as if my nationality meant that naturally I would act like a childish fool.

When it's really, as you all know perfectly well, simply that I personally am crazy. I blame nothing on the country of my birth.

The Adventures of Miss Canada in St. Louis: What do you mean I've been here less than 48 hours?!?

It's amazing the difference a day can make. Yesterday when I posted I felt tired, overwhelmed and not particularly inspired. Today I am excited and interested and engaged, and feel like all these new people are suddenly my friends.

I'm still tired though.

Here's what changed my mind and my outlook:

1. A fabulously fun evening service run by a Pentecostal Black man currently in seminary in New York City, complete with clapping and singing and a fabulous female black stump preacher. There was "Amen!" shouting and everything.

2. Some good conversations with people, not necessarily about theology, but just about life. I suddenly feel like I know these people, like they're not strangers.

3. Making a spectacle of myself in the fountain which is at the centre of campus. I jumped in and splashed about in it whenever I got a chance, and, in a moment of late evening madness, chased a random golden labrador in and around the fountain. It was some family's dog, but luckily they didn't mind me playing with him.

4. A really good Friday morning seminar on "Transformative Preaching" with the fabulous preacher lady from Thursday night (her name is Teresa Fry Brown) which reminded me part of my impulse to get into ministry in the first place -- I LOVE giving sermons. Something about the words and the bible study and the ability to influence and help others that just makes me all tingly.

5. An afternoon workshop which involved going to the MOCRA (a gallery for contemporary religious art) and being given a really quick overview of art history followed by some fascinating discussion on modern art pieces (including one installation that was a piece of sheet metal inside a huge steel cage. The piece was called "La Pieta", which led to my creation of the memorable phrase "sheet metal Jesus"). We ended the visit off by going inside a church on the University of St. Louis Campus -- a gorgeous place with huge ceilings and breathtaking architecture. I don't know what it is about church architecture, but it really does give me a sense of holiness.

Of course, my interest in this workshop was helped along by the fact that it was led by a v. v. cute young man with curly hair wearing a crisp, untucked white button-up shirt. And most of you faithful readers know my soft spot for men wearing crisp dress shirts.......yum.

The workshop also involved going on a bit of a bus trip out from Eden Seminary, which was nice. I got to see the St. Louis Arch, and realize how creepily segregated St. Louis (along with most major American cities) still is. I have no desire to go sightseeing, but it's nice to say I've seen a bit of the city now.

So basically, I'm happy. Still not quite sure about the whole theology thing, but at least having a better time of it in the here and now. And now I'm off to play in the fountain again.

The Adventures of Miss Canada in St. Louis: Wearing a Short Skirt in the Show Me State

Greetings from the land of the theological conference! My flights went well, and I was greeted by a marvelously affable driver from South Carolina, so my accent metre went off the chart from the beginning. While being driven to Eden Theological Seminary (which, despite its name and charm, is not heaven on earth) I took pleasure in the Missouri license plates which reminded me that Missouri is the "Show-Me State". Is it just me, or does that motto conjure up images of strippers and peep shows? And currently I am showing more leg (in public at least) than I have all year, what with the short skirt and all.

It's been a bit overwhelming so far -- the schedule is very busy and I'm somewhat tired (although I slept well last night). Also, I haven't really connnected with anyone here, probably due to some introversion and apathy towards meeting new people on my part. Also probably because there are only three Canadians here, and all the unconscious Americanisms weary me (overhead bit of conversation at breakfast: "It was a big deal for me to realize that Jesus wasn't an American!") However, due to some questions I asked, Melissa, the director of the conference has dubbed me "Miss Canada". I don't mind too much though -- I find myself being fiercely patriotic here, and have accepted my role by putting a Canadian flag keychain on my obligatory FTE (Fund for Theological Education -- the folks putting on this shindig) totebag.

As for the theology itself, I'm happy to find that most of these people are not scary -- in fact they share much of my theology. To give you two quick illustrations: one speaker mentioned the complementariness (?) of beer and theological discussions, and my roundtable leader last night was a single, black, female pastor from Georgia. The ability of women to lead in ministry is assumed, and people are generally liberal, pacifist, and not very fundamentalist in their beliefs. Which is nice.

Nice -- I think that's a good description for my experience so far. Not at all bad, but somewhat uninspiring. When I was at the NSLC conference in December, I was excited and interested and engaged. I'm doing fine here -- learning things that are consistent with my beliefs, having interesting discussions --- but nothing is making me sit up and really take notice.

Flight.

I know a lot of people don't like flying because of the ever-present possibility of crashing screaming death, but I like it. Not death, but flying. I like that it automatically makes any trip an adventure, the ring of concrete as the wheels run over it faster & faster, the glug feeling your stomach gets as you ascend into the sky, the little tiny drinks they serve, the hilarious emergency procedures manuals, the view from thousands of feet, ... everything.

Well, I suppose I don't like everything. I don't like long waiting times in airports, the possibility of losing one's baggage (mum had her luggage eaten by the conveyor belt monster last year. Oil-stained nighties are never cool.), and the tiny, cramped seats. But when the plusses and the minuses of flying fight, the plusses always win easily.

So today I'm off to St. Louis. I've been variously advised by those close to me to a) not climb the big arch in St. Louis since I will roast alive, b) bait some poor unsuspecting Southern Baptist into revealing his theological fallacies, c) find my True Calling, and d) have some flirtatious fun and corrupt a good little Christian boy. I'm hoping to do all of the above, plus more.

It's bloody hot.

It's very very hot and humid and sticky here. I keep waiting for the heat to break, but it just won't. boo. Is it weird that part of the reason I'm so excited about going to a five-day theology conference this Wednesday (I'm goin' to Missourah to talk about Gawd) is because I'll get to spend at least five hours in air-conditioned airports?

However, I have succeeded in my plan of many years to be able to wear pants on even the hottest days (I don't know why I wanted to do this -- greater summer wardrobe options, I guess). So I sit here, sweaty and hot, but my legs encased in light khaki goodness, are fine.

In other Bento news, in case you care --

-- I finally watched the season finale of Lost (on my new VCR -- whohoo for obsolete technology!). It was predictable and cheesy (let's see, there are five people going into the jungle to get highly dangerous dynamite, and only one of them is not a star of the show. Red shirt anyone?) but also twisty plotty (the Others did take a boy, but not the one anyone thought of). I enjoyed this season, but could easily take or leave the next season. It's already getting a bit tooo soap opera-y for me.

-- After a brief moment of hostess fatigue (I was tired of working in the mornings, doing research in the afternoon, then making dinner for many people and making conversation all night) I had a lovely afternoon of restfulness yesterday and now I seem to be fine again. Sleeping in my own bed for the first time in ten days helped too. But generally I do love having people over, especially when they are fascinating people with many interesting quirks, people who I feel comfortable enough around to dance to the Tragically Hip in an arm-flailing, body-quaking kind of way.

-- Joel finally got a job, and a good one too, working for some crazy weird successful genius in Ottawa. It sounds like the perfect job, as long as he and the boss can get along.

-- The new games store across the street, Minotaur, is the coolest store ever. It has all sorts of wonderful board games, neat little puzzles, the best postcards ever, and tiny magnetic finger puppets of people like Freud and Foucault and Gandhi. Also, the store itself is gorgeous, with exposed brick on one side and limestone on the other, as well as wood floors and beautiful wood furniture. So with this store and the new Ten Thousand Villages (hurrah! Mennonites! Fair Trade! Didgeredoos!) store opening uptown, it's been a good commercial weekend here in Kingston.

that's all for now -- don't be like the priest at the Anglican church I went to this morning and faint in the middle of the ceremony. It's not in good taste.

Being Easily Amused Makes The World A More Magical Place

Here are three things I've discovered in the last day or so which make me happy:

1. Arugula leaves are called 'rocket' in Britain and Europe. So now when Mum and Dad come back from Italy raving about the rocket salad they had at their Tuscan villa, I can assuage some of my jealously by making my very own rocket salad, instead of thinking that Canada is deficient in the salad side of gastronomic delights.

2. Minotaur, the store which for months has merely been a tantalizing sign winking at me from out my apartment window, has finally revealed itself: it is a games store. And not just any games store -- a store with giant dice and monopoly pieces in the window, and a cool hanging metal sign out front with an "M" designed inside a tiny labyrinth.

3. We're finally getting a real crash bang thunderstorm. I love thunderstorms.

Sometimes I feel bad for people who don't derive pleasure from such small things as these -- I mean, it's not as if they chose to not be amused by them. But my easy sense of happiness means that something as tiny as discovering the name of leafy vegetable can infuse my whole day with a rosy sort of happiness. And in true Bento form, I feel guilty that I am somehow blessed with easy happiness where other people just don't get it.

But right now I'm too happy about the thunderstorm to feel really guilty. whee! Thunder!

The Day When Bento Was Born (ie. Yesterday)

Some days, I don't see why my birthday should be so special. If anything, it should be more special to my parent's than me -- it was weird to realize that when my brother had his birthday in May, my mum and dad had been parents for exactly 25 years. whoa.

Some days, I just don't see the point in celebrating an event which I can't even remember. It seems odd and foreign and not particularly significant, except, as you get older, when birthdays become a scary marker of how old you are and how little you've done with your life.

This sort of thinking leads me to often not plan anything for my birthday. "I'll just have a quiet, relaxing day" I think, "I won't stress myself and my family and friends out by planning anything."

But everybody, including me, sometimes wants the whole world to stop and have a parade just for them. Sometimes I really am selfish enough to want people to do special things for me, to go to lots of trouble to make me happy. Sadly, that desire often comes on my actual birthday, after I've gone to all the trouble to not plan anything. Then I'm kind of sad for having such a normal birthday but feel stupid for feeling like that because, after all, that's what I wanted. Or thought I wanted.

Which is why Biku is so good for me. "You can't just have a normal day!" she'll yell. "We have to do something exciting, something fun." And so she forces me to actually make decisions and have what ends up being great birthdays. This year it was the zoo -- a low-key, but enjoyable day of animals (Red Pandas are so cute that it's actually physically painful) and food and skies that alternately looked like sunshine, lollipops and rainbows... </singing> and the End of Days. Now my brother and my mum are puttering around in the kitchen, making delicious seafood kebabs for a family get-together for my birthday tonight.

Of course, I know the "it's your Birthday party!" reason is just an excuse to get the extended family (including my cousins from Toronto) together while Geoff and Meghan are here from Halifax, but it's nice all the same to know we'll have cake and there'll be presents for me.

So I guess, despite the fact that it really doesn't have to be a significant day, I'm glad I've got people around me who like to do nice things for me once a year. Happy Birthday me!