Thanksgiving. Time to count my blessings. Tallied them up, realized I had six fewer than Les Leyne. Ticked me right off.
Which is why I’m writing to you, God. Having taken the time to reflect on all the good things in life, I demand to know why I don’t have more of them. Frankly, I’m surprised we’re having to have this conversation again.
Being an important middle-age Canadian man like myself, God, You know full well there are certain benefits to which we are inherently entitled: clean water, a warm bed, the latest iGadget, whatever we want to eat whenever we want to eat it, RRSPs, Netflix, $4 coffees, extended health coverage, bicycles that cost more than the average Mexican makes in a year.
Others might be satisfied living in one of those countries where words like “democracy,” “gluten-free” and “I want your badge number, officer” have no meaning, but here in the Great White, where we explode like Don Cherry stepping in dog crap when Rogers cell service disappears for a couple of hours, we assume a higher standard.
This is quantifiable. When the Paris-based Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development released its Better Life Index this spring, measuring everything from disposable income to housing, Canada ranked third-highest in the world, trailing only Switzerland and Australia. (Here’s a quirky stat: Canadians average 2.6 rooms per person, more than anyone else on Earth. We also report the fewest assaults.)
But wait! A separate study, the UN’s Human Development Index — which in the 1990s regularly rated Canada as the best country on Earth — saw us continue a decade of slow decline, plunging all the way to 11th place. Imagine that, only 11th best out of 187. Quick, call the grief counsellors.
Likewise, there are indicators that my own quality of life is diminishing. The dishwasher broke. My phone is a BlackBerry that looks like it lost a hammer fight. My car has manual windows (what am I, Amish?).
I circled the Thrifty Foods parking lot FOUR TIMES but only the handicapped spots were empty (those lucky handicapped people get everything). Then I got stuck in line forever at the checkout because everybody was doing their Thanksgiving shopping at the same time. I bet people who live in Niger (dead last in the Human Development Index) don’t have to worry about long lines of overflowing grocery carts. My life is an unrelenting hell.
Nonetheless, I have decided to suck it up and list the things for which I remain grateful this Thanksgiving:
• I am grateful that they were just joking when they unveiled those ghastly Canadian Olympic hockey jerseys this week. They were joking, right?
• I am thankful that Mike Duffy and Pamela Wallin have cemented Canadians’ opinion of both journalists and senators. Wouldn’t want to raise expectations too high.
• I am thankful that Thou created me in Thy image, God, though my wife wonders why Thou couldn’t look more like Colin Firth.
• I am thankful for Rob Ford, as his election proves Torontonians have a sense of humour after all.
• I am thankful that the powers that be have rebranded Victoria’s $783-million sewage project “Seaterra,” as that will also allow them to rename the Hartland dump “Trashaven.” I look forward to casting a fly line into the idyllic urban oasis of Walden Settling Pond.
• I am glad John Cleese is spending a week in Victoria. Maybe he can show Christy Clark around if she comes here.
• I am grateful for the little Peruvian street dog who now lives in our house, even when she jams her cold, wet nose in the back of my knee.
• I am glad she isn’t taller.
• I am grateful that Thou art all-seeing, God. Where did I leave my good winter gloves?
• I am glad I have the mind of a genius, but hope no one looks in my freezer.
• I am thankful for the love of my family, though I continue to question their judgment.
• I am grateful for my sense of entitlement, without which I would have no sense at all.
