Denied boarding

I’m always amazed when I travel by the number of people who think traveling by air is the equivalent of boarding a Greyhound bus. That they can saunter into the boarding lounge seconds before the scheduled departure time and expect that they will not only be allowed to embark, but that it is their right to do so.

This morning it was a man in a suit headed for Washington-Dulles. By my watch it was 5:59 a.m. The scheduled departure time for his flight, as it appeared on the departure screen, was 6:00 a.m. As he wandered up casually to the check-in counter, with a Starbucks grande bold in one hand and a Tim Horton’s toasted bagel with butter in the other, I could see from my vantage point that his flight had already pulled away from the gate.

I was devilishly amused by the combination of rage and bewilderment that crossed his face. Though I was not close enough to hear the entire conversation with the gate agent, his body language indicated his complete disbelief that the gate agent would not call the plane back so that he could board. The only words I did hear were “I’m sorry sir, but we have to cut the flight off at some point.”

I was able to sit smugly in my seat watching these events because I anally arrive long before any flight departure. Fresh out of university, my first real job was as a customer service representative for Canada 3000 Airlines. As a charter carrier, and it being the early 1990s, Canada 3000 performed a manual check-in (nary a computer system in sight at the ticket counter) and did not offer pre-assigned seating. Printed on every ticket and other piece of literature that got stuffed into the ticket wallet (remember those?), we advised passengers to arrive two hours prior to departure for domestic and US flights, and at least three hours prior to departure for international flights, particularly if they were seeking any kind of preferred seating. We also advised, rather sternly, that check-in for all flights would close 30 minutes prior to departure, after which time, without exception, passengers would be denied boarding. I can’t tell you the number of calls I received from passengers who arrived 20 minutes before, or 15 minutes after, a scheduled time and could not understand why they were denied boarding. But it was the calls from passengers who left their homes two hours prior to departure but ended up missing their flights because of a traffic accident that emboldened my paranoia about getting to the airport on time. After all, there were no refunds…without exception. My experience with Canada 3000 taught me to prepare for all contingencies and arrive three hours or more prior to departure.

Now that I am a frequent business traveller I’ve learned to relax a little bit. But not that much. In preparation for my 6:40 a.m. flight to Boston I rose at 4:00 a.m. I had a car pick me up at 4:45 a.m. and I was at the airport by 5:10 a.m. I did this despite having, by virtue of my Nexus card, the ability breeze by the staggering queues for passport control. I was through security, breakfast purchased and comfortably seated at gate 166 in Pearson’s Terminal 1 by 5:25 a.m. – more than an hour before my scheduled flight time. Which of course is how I was able to have a front row seat for the early morning performance of “Denied boarding.” I can only imagine the excuse denied boarding man gave for missing his meeting in Washington. “What can I say? I needed my Starbucks and my Timmy’s.”

I, on the other hand, arrived in Boston on time and two and a half hours prior to my first meeting. I am completely sleep deprived and can barely string two coherent sentences together, but at least I showed up.

Reprogramming my internal GPS is an exercise in futility

Life is a funny thing. We may think we have clear control over the choices we make and the paths that we follow. But the more the years pass, the more I’m convinced that Fate and Destiny control my destination. Oh, I may appear to be the driver. I may sit behind the wheel, pressing accelerator and brake, steering in one direction or another. But like the old fashioned car ride at Toronto’s Center Island, I always get pulled back on track.

I’ll give you an example.

Two years ago I found myself in the funny predicament of being doggedly recruited for a job — a job I had already turned down once. I went through a series of pros and cons. Reasons to take the new job. Reasons to stay where I was. I drove my friends crazy with my agonizing vacillation. Ultimately, I boiled it down to what I wanted in my heart of hearts. I listened to the little voice within. I wanted to be a playwright. I wanted to pursue a life as a creative writer.

And so I turned the job down for the second time.

A scant two weeks later, after much hand-wringing over lost opportunity, I changed my mind and veered off course.

It wasn’t the right job for me. I knew that from the start. But my ego had swelled mightily at the thought of a Vice Chair recruiting me with such determination. There seemed no way of stopping it. My ego literally crushed my little voice within.

Fast forward to present. The Vice Chair has moved on to greener horizons within the company. And I’m still in the ill-fitting job. As a new Vice Chair enters and the company restructures, my value on the team becomes increasingly tenuous. The prospect of the company laying me off looms ever larger as each day passes.

And so, after a two-year detour, it would appear as though Fate and Destiny are pulling me back on track. Back to the path my little voice so wisely counselled me to choose, the path that sees me pursue a life as a creative writer.

It remains to be seen whether I will stay on track. I may once again attempt to blaze my own trail. But I feel that no matter how many country roads and laneways I explore, at some point I will have to rejoin the route that Fate and Destiny programmed into my internal GPS the day I was born.

Finding the road less traveled

Have you ever felt as if you are living someone else’s life? That you are heading down a perfectly acceptable path that leads to prosperity and security, and yet it’s not your path to take?

That’s how I’m feeling right now. I live in a nice urban house. I have a good job that pays for that house. I even have a lovely partner to share it with. But is that really what I want? That is the nagging question haunting me these days.

At what point did I say, “sign me up for the middle-management job, white picket fence, two kids and a Buick please!” I don’t remember ever really thinking it. Not as a child. Not during my university days. Not through my twenties. And yet, somehow in my late thirties, minus the two kids and the Buick, that’s exactly what I’ve got. Is this the life I want to live? Honestly? Truthfully? NO. NO NO NO. That’s the answer that screams from the very depths of my being. But it is a reply that sticks silently in the back of my throat on its way out, not voiced and not heard as I continue to blithely speed along the five lane highway to mediocrity and boredom and away from whatever the alternative is.

So, what kind of life do I want to live?

Well, I’ve always been drawn to the theatre. From the time I was five I wanted to be an actor. In a haphazard way I actually pursued that childhood dream. I went to school for it. I majored in Drama…twice…at undergraduate and graduate levels. And for a short time, after earning my second degree, I even lived the dream. I was happy in many ways. But it offered me little in the way of financial security, which was hugely important to me. Playwriting, another love, has been similarly soul enriching, yet financially barren.

Then there’s the environment. I am a huge proponent of self-sustainability; of sourcing energy from the air and the sun rather than from the bowels of the earth; of growing the food that we eat right in our own backyard. Again, not very lucrative. In fact, it’s darned expensive to achieve. But it’s something about which I am passionate.

What kind of life am I living now?

If those are my passions, and they are, then it’s easy to see why the path that I’m on is leading me in the wrong direction. To feed my deeply entrenched need for financial security, I have honed my skills as a creative writer to suit the suits. That is, I am using my powers for evil rather than for good. I write proposals and thought leadership and technical white papers and nonsensical articles on ETFs and IFRS and, ironically, climate change and sustainability, all for Corporate America. It clothes my body, shelters my head and fills my belly, but it does not nourish my soul. In fact, it does the opposite. It sucks the life blood from me.

How do I get from where I am to where I want to be?

That’s the six million dollar question…or more. I’ve always wanted to take the road less traveled. So how do I find the off-ramp that gets me off the corporate superhighway and onto the county road that leads to the road named after a long-forgotten (or still remembered) pillar of the community that leads to the windy, potholed dirt road upon which I am destined to travel?

The first thing I need to do is embrace the idea of poverty. The road less traveled is not paved with bricks of gold. I’m a city girl, born and raised. I have a sense of entitlement and the luxury tastes that go with it. I like my designer wear, my couture hair cuts, my fancy toiletries. I like good food and good wine. Only the best of the best will do. I have champagne tastes on what will soon be a well-water budget. Beer will be a luxury item at the watering hole I next frequent. Can I be okay with that? Can I forego all the creature comforts to which I have become accustomed to pursue the passions that satiate me emotionally? To date, the answer has been no, which is why I’m on the road well-traveled, the stagnation highway.

Someone once said, “follow your dream and the money will come.” That may be true, but I need to prepare for the fallacy. That I follow the dream that leaves me poorer than dirt. I need to be okay with that.

The next thing I need is to have the courage to pull the rug out from under me. To wake up one morning, resign from my corporate job, sell my urban house, pack up my car (actually, we’ll be packing up my partner’s car) and go. People the world over dream every night of walking into their boss’s office and saying, “take this job and shove it.” Few have the nerve to do it. I’m heading to the gym to bench-press my way to nerves of steel.

Okay, so I’m poor, jobless and homeless. Now what?

Well, I may be poor and jobless and homeless, but I have a partner who loves me and I have exited off the corporate highway to hell. Have I found the off-ramp to the county road to the road named after the pillar of the community to the dirt road toward my destiny? I think the answer is yes. It may not be a mighty yes yet. Rather, it’s a soft yes with a booming voice in the background, at the ready to shout out to the world whenever I give the word.

It’s definitely a road less traveled. Or, at least, it’s a road that hasn’t been traveled in awhile. It’s a bit of a pioneering quest if you want to know the truth. To find out more you’ll have to stay tuned to the new blog I’m going to begin in the very near future about the two happy hoes of painted nickel farm.

In the cacophony of thumping election drums, can anyone hear the orchestra?

An election is coming in Canada. There is little doubt about that. Stephen Harper says the government is dysfunctional and taking Canadians to the polls is the only remedy. Forget the blight of the fixed election law. He’s our surgeon general, our fearless leader, here to save us from the “lefty” plague out to ruin the country.

It’s a bit of a masterful stroke, his plan. Though no one is paying much attention to the larger picture it seems. More conductor than general, Mr. Harper plays the opposition parties, special interest groups and the media like a trio of finely tuned violins.

If his actions are any indication, he’s been carefully orchestrating a multi-pronged attack to bring down the government for months, survival of endless confidence votes notwithstanding.

First, he paints himself as the tough on crime guy (as every Conservative does). Then he becomes Canada’s saviour with his unwavering support of our military in Afghanistan. Now it’s protecting the Arctic waters from rogue countries and saying he’s the only guy who can steer Canada clear of a recession.

At the same time, Harper introduces Bill C-10, a seemingly logical and benign omnibus bill meant to tinker with a number of Income Tax Act measures, but in which the Conservatives bury in Section 120 a clause that would allow the Heritage Minister to withdraw tax credits from productions determined to be “contrary to public policy.” This roughly translates into, if it doesn’t support the Conservative agenda or ideology, no tax credit for you! The Conservatives then went ahead and slashed $45 million in arts funding. These acts, of course raised the ire of lefties everywhere.

Amidst all of this, Stephane Dion hands Harper a gift wrapped in a big green bow – the Green Shift plan. It’s a well-meaning pollution-based tax plan that focuses on raising taxes on high greenhouse gas emitters, while lowering personal and corporate income taxes to offset the inevitable rise in commodity costs. It’s a great and noble plan, but the Liberals have yet to find a way to explain it in a nano-second sound byte, which is all the time they have before Harper gets to label them as “tax and spend” Liberals. Today, Harper even invoked the ghost of Trudeau and suggested that Dion was more left-leaning than any Liberal leader since Trudeau or beyond.

As Stephen Harper taps his baton, his cheerful violinists give virtuoso performances. The opposition cries foul on the fixed election law, while practically ignoring the half-truths and outright lies Harper is discharging about their party policies – in carefully packaged sound bytes – at every opportunity. Special interest groups cry foul over funding cuts, making Harper look fiscally prudent in these ailing economic times. All the while, the media bobs and weaves, focusing on bits and bytes so as to avoid the dreaded media bias label.

If Mr. Harper’s former Chief of Staff, Tom Flanagan, is to be believed, Harper is reaching the climax of his destruction campaign against the Liberals. As the violins crescendo in unison, leaving the country enraptured by the performance and unable to hear the subtle concussive noise in the wings, Stephen Harper may well receive a standing ovation in October, giving him the much coveted power he seeks to convert the talented orchestra we call Canada into little more than a marching band.

"Sorry for the incontinence..."

It’s been a stressful few months. Which is why the email that I received on Friday afternoon turned out to be a salve that healed the wounds of my chronically overworked spirit.

The email was sent from a company intern who had attended a project meeting earlier in the week and was tasked with writing and circulating the minutes. Being the over-achiever that only our organization would select, the intern diligently sent the minutes out to all participants the following day.

Alas, having only been on the job for little more than a week, she was not familiar with the myriad layers of reviews and approvals even a simple minutes document must endure before being blessed for distribution. And so I received a second email a scant three hours later with "slight" changes. Sadly, no one gave her the full list of reviewers, for today I received yet another version with still more "alterations and additions."

In this, the third email, she apologized for having to issue yet another version. "This is the final version," she wrote. "Sorry for the incontinence." Sorry for the incontinence. Poor thing.

I laughed so hard I nearly peed my pants. And then I sent it to all of my overworked colleagues, prompting such delightful responses as "I always apologize for incontinence," and "Sad to see that in someone so young." Yet others talked of one of the reviewers obviously having scared the crap out of her, and the need for a certain intestinal fortitude to work as an intern in our organization.

It’s mean, I know. I can only imagine the mortifying humiliation she will feel when she recognizes her malapropism. But that’s not going to stop me from sharing her email with a few more friends. To make amenities, I will remember to thank her for her rare form of verbal diarrhea that relieved so many constipated souls.

“Hi, my name is Jane…”

I was propositioned by a cab driver the other day. His name was Biki. Apparently, he only works Sundays and Mondays, but I should feel free to call him anytime. "Anytime," he repeated. He offered to drive me anywhere I wanted to go "for free."

This happens to me on a fairly regular basis. I’m not bragging about it. In fact, my feelings are quite the contrary. It makes me feel uncomfortable. I have gotten used to neanderthals whistling and shouting out of car windows over the years, but the lusty cab drivers take it to a whole other level. A level that distorts my feelings of safety and in some ways defeats the entire purpose of hailing a cab on a quiet street, in the late evening hours.

To safeguard myself from repercussions that could result from these undesired advances, I have learned to take action on two fronts:

1) I rarely have the cab driver drop me off at my door. Rather, I have them drop me at the top of the street and I will walk the short distance home from there.

2) I never give them my real name. For all the cabbies who ask, my name is Jane. Jane Morgan. I’m happily married with two cute-as-a-button children -- River and Current. I was going through a water phase at the time.

It’s taken me several cab rides to perfect my story. The first time I told the truth and very nearly was not allowed out of the cab. Later, I adopted Jane as a pseudonym, but shortly realized I had to take it a step further when, several months later I hailed THE SAME CAB DRIVER that wouldn’t let me get out of the cab. He didn’t remember me -- though he told me I looked familiar -- but boy did I remember him. "Are you sure we haven’t met?" he kept asking. And then he propositioned me...again. I told him I was on my way to meet my boyfriend for a romantic dinner. He was cooking. But that wasn’t enough. He wanted to know how long I’d been dating him. Was it serious? Was I sure he was the right guy for me?

Someone asked me once why I didn’t tell them I was gay. But I know that in this situation that’s a can of worms best left sealed.

And so, anytime the question comes at me from the driver’s seat of the cab, I answer with confidence and conviction: "My name is Jane. Jane Morgan. Seafort and I are happily married, thank you very much."

How is it...

...that with the plummeting popularity of George W. Bush in the U.S. for his ultra-right wing views, muddling of church and state, and appallingly bad foreign policy that includes the disaster in Iraq, right-wing pundits are still considered Gods in the media?

I do not watch ABC's The View and I'm not a huge Rosie O'Donnell fan, but as John Doyle's article in the Globe and Mail last month (which I am repeating below because it has been archived on the Globe and Mail website and can only be accessed as "pay-per-view"), the redneck republicans continue to revel in their 15 minutes, while Rosie and other left-leaning oddities with the courage to speak their minds are being further and further marginalized.

Culminating, of course, in the catfight that had Rosie leaving The View for good this week, a month before her contract expired.

Following 9/11, I swore that I would not set foot in the U.S. until George W. Bush was no longer at the helm. I have since reversed that decision. Reversed it to such a degree that I recently accepted a position within the firm I have been working for, and love, for the past three and a half years, that will have me reporting to the U.S. and traveling extensively south of the border. I am going to love my new job. I already am. I love the people on my new team. I am particularly thrilled to be working for the woman who leads that team. But I am left to wonder: as a left-leaning woman, and lesbian, who likes to speak her mind, will I receive the same treatment from right-wing redneck republicans off air that Rosie has received on air?

I thought the winds of change were afoot in the U.S. I never thought it was a gale force wind, but I was hoping for more than a gentle breeze.

Herewith, Mr. Doyle from the April 26, 2007 issue of the Globe and Mail...

It's unspeakably scary that Rosie O'Donnell is leaving The View

In the normal course of events, there is little reason to pay attention to The View, or its hosts.

The View (ABC, CTV 11 a.m., weekdays) is off the radar of most people reading this newspaper.

It airs in the morning, and it is usually as airheaded and silly as other morning TV programs. Most of you probably know as much about it as you know about The Bold and the Beautiful.

The program is officially described as "a daily gabfest that tackles the day's headlines from a female point of view, hosted by Rosie O'Donnell, Barbara Walters, Elisabeth Hasselbeck and Joy Behar. Topics covered on this Emmy-winning show also include food, fashion, Hollywood and health." There are many TV shows that fit that description. Only the name of Barbara Walters sets it apart.

Still, today, The View is both newsworthy and worth considering because something very weird and possibly emblematic of the culture in the U.S. has happened. A bunch of heavyweight, right-wing media figures have managed to silence an abrasive, left-leaning woman.

Oh, it's true that nobody has fired Rosie O'Donnell. The contract negotiations with ABC went awry. Yep, Rosie O'Donnell is leaving The View. She's not going away completely, or immediately. It's just that she's not going to be on TV every weekday morning.

This is big, big news inside the world of U.S. TV and the media in general there.

What's unnerving is the fact that, whatever might have happened with her ABC contract talks, the exit of O'Donnell seemed inevitable.

When O'Donnell failed to reach a new contract agreement with ABC to be part of The View, it was actually breaking news on CNN. O'Donnell is middling-famous in the U.S. as an actor and comedienne, and a lesbian, but mostly she's famous for speaking her mind. She doesn't always make sense, and some of her jokes have been mind-bogglingly crass, but she says things that are, for many, unsayable.

Yesterday morning on The View, after getting the news of her departure out of the way, O'Donnell launched into a tirade against various Republicans and called for the impeachment of George W. Bush and Dick Cheney, on the grounds that they misled the United States into a war in Iraq. She also called for the immediate withdrawal of U.S. troops from Iraq. Barbara Walters dismissed these ideas, but O'Donnell got plenty of applause from the studio audience.

O'Donnell raised the profile of The View and caused considerable controversy a few months ago when she mercilessly mocked Donald Trump and drew a vicious response from him. More recently, she pointed out that several members of the U.S. Supreme Court were Catholics and suggested this would influence a court decision on abortion. She launched into a tirade about the need to separate church and state. The other day, she mocked Rupert Murdoch and his entire media empire.

To judge by the reaction to most of what she has said, you'd think O'Donnell was a left-wing radical. (It's true that she also said she believed some of the conspiracy theories about the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks.) Over the past few months, it has become common for the hosts of shows on MSNBC and Fox News to attack O'Donnell. Bill O'Reilly never tires of it. His fellow Fox hosts also take glee in ridiculing her. MSNBC's Joe Scarborough has also joined in the lambasting.

Their point is essentially this - somebody should force O'Donnell to shut up. Anyone who has watched this circus unfold has been watching the rage of right-wing males aimed at a mouthy, unfettered female. And there's the fact that O'Donnell, short and stocky, doesn't fit anyone's idea of what a TV host should look like. She says some things that are simply outrageous and others that are simply the opinion of someone who is skeptical about the U.S. establishment. Those cranky, harrumphing pundits got their wish. And now the question that remains is this: Who's next?