Politics aside….

I don’t want this post to incur any arguments for or against the Olympics.

I don’t like over-spending by any government for any reason. I wish the archaic “values” of the IOC could be re-examined and renewed. I think the Games could be put on for much less. I also think that all that aside, the money would never go to what many people wish the money would go to instead, and that is an argument about government, not about the Olympic Games.

HOWEVER.

I loves me some Olympic Games, boy howdy. Especially the Winter Games. I have watched almost everything that the Vancouver Olympics has offered up, from Jennifer Heile winning silver,  being swept up in our first home-won gold medal by Alex Bilodeau, to seeing the police try to stop the boozing fans run amok in downtown Vancouver, to feeling absolutely heartbroken for Joannie Rouchette and, in the same breath, deeply inspired by her bravery. It has evoked in me, and millions of other Canadians an outstanding and fervent patriotism that we have not seen before. The inspiration that it offers me and so many others is unmeasurable.

I honestly don’t think that VANOC quite knew that Canadians would become this crazy with their love of this country.

I’ve heard the snickering and admonishment of other nations of our “Own The Podium” campaign. That we aren’t acting like Canadians.

Wait, what? Are they saying we shouldn’t love our country as much as other nations love their own? That we should still be complacent and apologetic towards people that we win against? PLEASE. It’s about time we stepped up to the plate and said to the world that YES, we love our country, just as much as you love yours.

And, yes, we love kicking some ass too.

Please allow me a minor rant, thanks.

I’ve had the same cell number for about 3 years now.

Sidebar: My hubby surprised me with a cell on Mother’s Day, years ago, by stashing the phone in my car and then calling me when I was driving home…. before the new laws of course… I was frustrated at first, because I could hear the ringing, and could not for the life of me figure what the hell was going on. When I finally did find the phone, I thought someone had randomly threw a found phone in my car that day. Yep. Sometimes, I am reeeeeaaaaaally slow on the uptake.

Well, anyway, I finally had a phone and immediately questioned my ability to live without it for the previous 36 years of my life…

However. Someone named Denise began to haunt me.

I got many, many calls for Denise. At first I was sweet and nice in my response. “Oh, no. Sorry, this isn’t Denise’s number anymore…”

Then, after a few months of extraordinarily annoying messages from Blockbuster regarding late fees for that bitch Denise, and other folks asking me if I knew what number she had now, I changed my voice mail message to explicitly reveal that I was not Denise, and NO I did NOT know how to get a hold of her….

I began to intensely dislike Denise. Return your goddamn movies Denise. Tell people you’ve changed your f*cking number, Denise. Jeebus, Denise, I swear, if I ever find you, I WILL KICK YOUR ASS!!!!

Then the calls stopped. Yay! I was released from the torture of saying “No, this isn’t Denise” to random people.

But then, on Thursday, I got another call from a restricted number, whom I thought was my Dad. My months, nay YEARS of Denise-free torture was gone, just like that.

Me: “Hey!”

Caller: “Hi, is this Denise”?

Me: (Fingers slowly clutching the phone in anger) “No. This hasn’t been Denise’s number for about three years now.”

Caller: “Oh. Well. Can you tell me how to get a hold of her, then?”

I slowly expelled a snort through my flared nostrils…… and realized that I was about to tell this kind and somewhat oblivious woman exactly how I felt about Denise….

Me: “Now how do you think I would EVER know that? This is a random number given to me by the phone company. I do NOT know Denise, I have NO idea where she lives, I don’t know who she is…”

Me, thinking in my brain: “Hey, wow! You didn’t even use a the old F-bomb. Good for you Kris!”

Silence.

Caller: “Well, I’m sorry to bother you.”

Me: “That’s what they all say.”

Click.

Seriously, Denise. If there is ever a time that we meet, I just might have to explain why I don’t like you very much.