Chelsey Cosh's Blog: From Mind to Mouth - Posts Tagged "rant"
Waiting, Waiting, Waiting on the World to Change
I like to think I'm a patient person.
Good things often come to those who wait. Prolonged anticipation of a reward deepens its satisfaction.
Yada yada yada.
Today, however, I began to realize that I am reaching the limit of what is considered an acceptable length of lines, both in the number of lines to be in as well as the number of people within each given line.
I queued up at nine this morning, waited two hours to renew my driver's licence and health insurance card (their online service was down), and witnessed a questionably long line. It looped in on itself, forming concentric circles after twenty minutes, much like a snail's shell and exhibiting the same sort of speed.
While there, I heard the usual anti-government rants that you'll hear near any office of governmental authority in a free country. The rants this time were about CERB. The Canadian emergency government benefit for those suffering income loss during an emergency (i.e. the coronavirus pandemic), acronymized to CERB, is a conversation starter, I'll tell you.
"It should not benefit those who worked five minutes in the same way that it benefits those who have worked for five decades."
"How did they come across $2000 as the magic number for a basic living income." (I learned that this amount is somehow both too much and too little.)
"A basic living income should be granted to all dependents all the time, rather than simply in times of emergency."
And so on.
I took no part in these discussions and read about eighty pages of my book while waiting. Although my time was productive, at least in the literary sense, I did feel sorry for a few of my fellow citizens as they wandered in behind me (or, considering the circular formation we established, in front of me, and then beside me). One elderly lady limped in on crutches. Another man and his wife walked in after driving nearly two hours, gazed at the queue wide-eyed and baffled at where it ended and began, and then left immediately to drive another two hours home after I told him that I was, in fact, near the front after looping the building twice. And honestly, I cannot blame him.
I hate needing food, hoping for a robotic existence so I can avoid the grocery store and its agonizing lines.
The theme parks studded with roller-coaster rides that I once adored? Don't even think about it. Those places already had lines. It boggles the mind what it may look like now.
As a supporter of libraries, the second they reopened I began using the physical collections again through curbside pickup. In essence, you pull up to a numbered spot on the curb, dial the extension on the sign, and they bring your items to your vehicle. I waited 13 minutes on hold for a 45-second conversation. It was another ten minutes before I received my library items. Granted, all of this time I was on my ass in my car with the air conditioning blasting my unmasked face, so it was far less annoying conditions to face and thus a much easier wait.
But now that I've started calculating, I can see my time on earth trickling away, ten minutes here and fifteen there, until we're all high-risk eighty years old and, frankly, we cannot wait one second longer.
Waiting makes me morbid now.
So it turns out, we all need to rant now and then. For some, it's about their government benefits. But, for me, it is directly related to the time spent on my feet not of my own volition. And since I am now leaving the liquor store and waiting to buy my sin juice is no longer impeding my feet, this rant is now over, especially considering I wrote the entirety of it while waiting in a queue.
We can now recommence living in three… two...
Good things often come to those who wait. Prolonged anticipation of a reward deepens its satisfaction.
Yada yada yada.
Today, however, I began to realize that I am reaching the limit of what is considered an acceptable length of lines, both in the number of lines to be in as well as the number of people within each given line.
I queued up at nine this morning, waited two hours to renew my driver's licence and health insurance card (their online service was down), and witnessed a questionably long line. It looped in on itself, forming concentric circles after twenty minutes, much like a snail's shell and exhibiting the same sort of speed.
While there, I heard the usual anti-government rants that you'll hear near any office of governmental authority in a free country. The rants this time were about CERB. The Canadian emergency government benefit for those suffering income loss during an emergency (i.e. the coronavirus pandemic), acronymized to CERB, is a conversation starter, I'll tell you.
"It should not benefit those who worked five minutes in the same way that it benefits those who have worked for five decades."
"How did they come across $2000 as the magic number for a basic living income." (I learned that this amount is somehow both too much and too little.)
"A basic living income should be granted to all dependents all the time, rather than simply in times of emergency."
And so on.
I took no part in these discussions and read about eighty pages of my book while waiting. Although my time was productive, at least in the literary sense, I did feel sorry for a few of my fellow citizens as they wandered in behind me (or, considering the circular formation we established, in front of me, and then beside me). One elderly lady limped in on crutches. Another man and his wife walked in after driving nearly two hours, gazed at the queue wide-eyed and baffled at where it ended and began, and then left immediately to drive another two hours home after I told him that I was, in fact, near the front after looping the building twice. And honestly, I cannot blame him.
I hate needing food, hoping for a robotic existence so I can avoid the grocery store and its agonizing lines.
The theme parks studded with roller-coaster rides that I once adored? Don't even think about it. Those places already had lines. It boggles the mind what it may look like now.
As a supporter of libraries, the second they reopened I began using the physical collections again through curbside pickup. In essence, you pull up to a numbered spot on the curb, dial the extension on the sign, and they bring your items to your vehicle. I waited 13 minutes on hold for a 45-second conversation. It was another ten minutes before I received my library items. Granted, all of this time I was on my ass in my car with the air conditioning blasting my unmasked face, so it was far less annoying conditions to face and thus a much easier wait.
But now that I've started calculating, I can see my time on earth trickling away, ten minutes here and fifteen there, until we're all high-risk eighty years old and, frankly, we cannot wait one second longer.
Waiting makes me morbid now.
So it turns out, we all need to rant now and then. For some, it's about their government benefits. But, for me, it is directly related to the time spent on my feet not of my own volition. And since I am now leaving the liquor store and waiting to buy my sin juice is no longer impeding my feet, this rant is now over, especially considering I wrote the entirety of it while waiting in a queue.
We can now recommence living in three… two...
Do you know what I know?
The holiday season… quite an oddity this year. My family got struck with the great plague of late 2021, the Omicron variant, which I am confident they confused for seasonal allergies; yes, they were fortunate not to be dealing with anything severe.
So dinner was canceled.
I watched neither Elf nor National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation this year; the latter I would argue is the best holiday film of all time for those realistic folks (sorry, you saccharine types).
I have read not one but two books this month in which, unbeknownst to me, a character is horribly bullied and then commits suicide (or murder-suicide actually, in one novel, if we're going to be pedantic).
So, yeah, to say the holiday spirit did not move me in the same way is a slight understatement. That being said, spending time with my husband has been a joy. And I know it is hard to read tone on a page, but I swear there's not an ounce of sarcasm in that last sentence.
He makes me appreciate life in new and unusual ways. We feel safe to be silly in a world that is not particularly safe right now. In fact, we now on a regular basis speak using purely the vocabulary of our nearly-two-year-old grandson for stints of two or three minutes before busting out in giggles. Shockingly, we are able to communicate a great many ideas. If you've ever wanted a practice in creativity, that may be it.
We have seen countless films in the cinema and one stage play at the Shaw Festival; we figured get them in while we still can. (On a tangent, I cannot help but giggle at the irony of this latest headline that the people putting on Come From Away have decided to permanently toss out all the people from the theatre in the face of an emergency--granted, different kind of emergency we're dealing with here, but this is the place where my dark and twisted mind may leap.)
We took walks together, up until the weather got spiteful and the furnace so delightful. Now we frequent the mall for our speed walks, like the elderly couple we're swiftly becoming.
We've attempted to empty some of the backlog on our streaming queues. Best of bloody luck, I say, but I have at the very least started Hacks which has turned out to be hilarious, with Jean Smart being consistently stellar and this newcomer actress who I swear looks like the second coming of Molly Ringwald making me empathize with her circumstances. I think they may have more in common than it seems, though. It's like when the prince and the pauper first meet, except set in Caesar's Palace as opposed to an actual palace.
And, in an effort to show some Christmas exuberance, we put up our prelit fake tree, plugged 'er in, and… that's it. We hadn't the energy to unwrap and debox all those ornaments. The tree looked better without it. As Marie Kondo says, if it doesn't spark joy…
But there's that word again: joy. Joy to the world, the Lord (or whomever) has come. Oh, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy! We know the refrains, we've warbled along to the chorus. But this year, joy was a bit different in our house.
We've found our joy this Christmas in a place I least expected: Amy Schneider, my favourite juggernaut Jeopardy champ. The fact remains she's been on a hot streak since back at American Thanksgiving, at which time she famously wore the trans pride pin on that day's episode to spark dialogues around the turkey dinner at family gatherings and whatnot.
But, seriously, she spells Christmas for me. No joke. In lieu of doing the Jingle Bell Rock, I am tracking her stats like a sports commentator, and together my husband and I unite every weekday evening at 7:30 pm (or slightly after if we actually let the PVR do its job) to support Amy. I don't think us yelling the wrong answers at the television has helped her much, especially considering its prerecorded, but we all must do our part, okay? We cheer for her as she finds the Daily Double and bets a modest $4000. Every. Single. Time. My heart pounds at Final Jeopardy. Will she get it right again? Of course she will.
Amy is where my faith has found its place this strange Christmas season. You want joy? Wait until she is the most winningest player. I'll be doing cartwheels.
So dinner was canceled.
I watched neither Elf nor National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation this year; the latter I would argue is the best holiday film of all time for those realistic folks (sorry, you saccharine types).
I have read not one but two books this month in which, unbeknownst to me, a character is horribly bullied and then commits suicide (or murder-suicide actually, in one novel, if we're going to be pedantic).
So, yeah, to say the holiday spirit did not move me in the same way is a slight understatement. That being said, spending time with my husband has been a joy. And I know it is hard to read tone on a page, but I swear there's not an ounce of sarcasm in that last sentence.
He makes me appreciate life in new and unusual ways. We feel safe to be silly in a world that is not particularly safe right now. In fact, we now on a regular basis speak using purely the vocabulary of our nearly-two-year-old grandson for stints of two or three minutes before busting out in giggles. Shockingly, we are able to communicate a great many ideas. If you've ever wanted a practice in creativity, that may be it.
We have seen countless films in the cinema and one stage play at the Shaw Festival; we figured get them in while we still can. (On a tangent, I cannot help but giggle at the irony of this latest headline that the people putting on Come From Away have decided to permanently toss out all the people from the theatre in the face of an emergency--granted, different kind of emergency we're dealing with here, but this is the place where my dark and twisted mind may leap.)
We took walks together, up until the weather got spiteful and the furnace so delightful. Now we frequent the mall for our speed walks, like the elderly couple we're swiftly becoming.
We've attempted to empty some of the backlog on our streaming queues. Best of bloody luck, I say, but I have at the very least started Hacks which has turned out to be hilarious, with Jean Smart being consistently stellar and this newcomer actress who I swear looks like the second coming of Molly Ringwald making me empathize with her circumstances. I think they may have more in common than it seems, though. It's like when the prince and the pauper first meet, except set in Caesar's Palace as opposed to an actual palace.
And, in an effort to show some Christmas exuberance, we put up our prelit fake tree, plugged 'er in, and… that's it. We hadn't the energy to unwrap and debox all those ornaments. The tree looked better without it. As Marie Kondo says, if it doesn't spark joy…
But there's that word again: joy. Joy to the world, the Lord (or whomever) has come. Oh, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy! We know the refrains, we've warbled along to the chorus. But this year, joy was a bit different in our house.
We've found our joy this Christmas in a place I least expected: Amy Schneider, my favourite juggernaut Jeopardy champ. The fact remains she's been on a hot streak since back at American Thanksgiving, at which time she famously wore the trans pride pin on that day's episode to spark dialogues around the turkey dinner at family gatherings and whatnot.
But, seriously, she spells Christmas for me. No joke. In lieu of doing the Jingle Bell Rock, I am tracking her stats like a sports commentator, and together my husband and I unite every weekday evening at 7:30 pm (or slightly after if we actually let the PVR do its job) to support Amy. I don't think us yelling the wrong answers at the television has helped her much, especially considering its prerecorded, but we all must do our part, okay? We cheer for her as she finds the Daily Double and bets a modest $4000. Every. Single. Time. My heart pounds at Final Jeopardy. Will she get it right again? Of course she will.
Amy is where my faith has found its place this strange Christmas season. You want joy? Wait until she is the most winningest player. I'll be doing cartwheels.
