Friday October 24 , 2014

If We Had a Government, I’d Stand With It

Alas, we’ve had Conservative Party operatives hacking away at it for the past eight years.

But it’s okay, sister and brother Canadians who care about us here in Ottawa. Don’t worry. We’re as safe as you are, I guess.

Even got a call from head office yesterday, checking in.

It was nice. Chatted a bit with the lady, from elsewhere in the world, told her that my first born was in lockdown downtown. She tsk tsked about it all and told me to stay safe.

Stay safe? It’s staying safe that got us into this mess, lady. We need to get out into the streets and protest.

My first born saw uniformed shooters on rooftops before the call came to stay away from windows.

Very sad about the young man killed guarding the war memorial, which apparently requires guarding because another young man urinated on it one Canada Day a few years ago.

Of course, he didn’t urinate on it because it was the war memorial, he urinated on it because he was drunk.

Conservatives are running ads right now on CBC warning us all about the danger of smoking marijuana. And so, Justin Trudeau.

Of course, the death toll caused by smoking marijuana is nothing compared to the death toll caused by the Mexican drug cartels that benefit from Conservative politicians deliberately standing in the way of its legalization.

Looks like the killer of the young man guarding the war memorial used a long gun.

If I was to be political about this “lone wolf” “radicalized” “jihadi” “convert” I’d juxtapose Alberta Conservatives celebrating their sabotage of Canada’s gun registry with images of bystanders trying to revive yesterday’s “soft target”.

How are we supposed to stand with our government when we don’t have a government to stand with?

Anti-government politicians guilty of committing electoral fraud can’t not govern in the public interest for eight years and then pretend to be up to the task because now disaffected young men are perpetrating domestic violence with foreign strings attached.

Isn’t this the Conservative dream come true, another excuse to restrict our civil liberties while ramping up our involvement in the American “war on terror” without having to seek any kind of mandate or even consultation with Parliament?

It’s just a week ago that Stephen Harper was up in Sault Ste. Marie lying to real life gun nuts there about having to stop “the bureaucracy” from trying to re-introduce the gun registry, which he claimed it’s “always” trying to do.

That’s a lie.

He even pretended to them that he wasn’t trying to add to any paranoia they might have that public servants were trying to take their guns away.

That’s another lie.

You’d think he’d be challenged by our media more often than he is.

Anyway, no, I’m not playing along. He and his can call me names, have me audited, play politics with my life like they’ve been playing politics with the lives of other Canadians who won’t play along, but I’m standing up.

Because we don’t need no stinkin’ government – right, Stephen Harper?

 

Whose Fucking Face Is It, Anyway?! (*Updated) (**Updated)

Odd how upset everyone is over Renee Zellweger’s new look. So yesterday I tweeted what 80s Cher had to say to her plastic surgery critics, “I’ll put my tits on my back if I want to.”

No exclamation mark. Cher has always had a low key delivery. Remember “If I Could Turn Back Time”? which she performed sans pants or skirt, surrounded by sailors? I wonder if that was on purpose or if she just forgot and nobody had the stones to tell her.

I believe she was in her 80s, after all.

I know a guy whose daughter has been systematically tattooing and piercing over the years. She wears her own designs, too, which are haphazard and unfinished looking to my perfectionist eye. It upsets people d’une certaine age, probably most particularly mothers of daughters, that she’s deliberately doing this to herself.

And, of course, mental illness comes to mind, as it always does now if a girl (she’s a woman now, I guess, just that slight physique we associate with girls) isn’t towing the looks line.

Lena Dunham? That nut?

I have a real appreciation for a pretty face, and no – I AM NOT A LESBIAN! (I don’t even want to have sex with men these dry old days…) I just derive a certain pleasure from prettiness. It’s why Paul was my favourite Beatle when I was young.

I don’t have a favourite Beatle now, although I had a crush on John Lennon for a bit (after he was dead) and enjoyed George Harrison’s take on being a Beatle back in the day, “It was boring. Four guys trapped in a hotel room all the time.”

I also liked his annoyance at everything, particular parades with confetti, “Who’s going to clean all this up?”

I do have a lesbian friend, one of the wild women I met on a camping trip who’s on Facebook and who commented on my tweet about Renee Zellweger. She’d be modest about it so I didn’t mention it on Facebook but I doubt she reads Sooey’s. She’s a natural beauty and you notice it right off. It’s like, “Wow, what a pretty woman!” That’s when you realize pretty isn’t really a dime a dozen, as the saying goes.

I think about this guy’s daughter a lot. She used to worry me. It also bothered me when people would comment to each other about her look in a negative way. It’s a challenging one, especially for mothers of daughters, though, and it took me a while to get it.

She’s art. She’s not going for pretty, she’s going for art. She’s the living, breathing canvas. She challenges us, therefore she’s art.

Did I get that right?

It changed my way of looking at people, that realization. It’s had a profound effect on how I interpret the world and other girls and women in it, how I see looks.

It’s not her, it’s us. Especially us mothers with daughters. It’s really quite terrible and life/art denying.

We’re terrible, mothers. ISIS has nothing on us.

(**Yikes! Given the current situation on Parliament Hill I should probably edit that out, but you know what I mean, right? Right.)

But speaking of ISIS, everyone and her Aunts Thelma and Louise are up in arms because Value Village is selling girly Halloween outfits again this year marketed to girly little girls.

Please. People. Value Village is a for-profit business owned by the Ellison family and a private equity firm. Stop shopping at Value Village and go to the Salvation Army. I know, I know, they discriminate against homosexuals in their hiring practices, but not really, because they don’t make men have sex with women at work.

I mean, I’m bilingual on my resume, but I don’t actually speak French at work.

But if you insist, some little girls like girly costumes. Some little boys do, too. Stop reacting to girly crap as if there’s something wrong with it. We need more sexy nurses, not fewer. And flight attendants could use a little niceness added, if you ask me, which no one ever does, you’ll be glad once again to know.

Cinderella didn’t behave badly, everyone around her did.

I was a tomboy. I wanted to be a boy. I got Mrs. Scott to cut my braids off, I wore a little cap, I told people my name was Joe Pete.

?

(It’s no wonder, reading that back, that my older sister spent years trying to kill me. There but for the grace of realizing at a fairly young age that my push-ups had paid off go I. Meanwhile, she would become one of those pathetic specimens who was felled by monthly periods, like Marilyn Monroe she’d lay in bed for days, bleeding and moaning. I ran a marathon on my period, which my mother phoned all her friends to announce. Alas, my sanitary napkin became stuck to my pubic hair and I was stymied until my older sister told me to soak it off in the bathtub and then take a shower. Stupid. What kind of moron runs a marathon? A question I’d like to ask a lot of middle-aged female friends of mine, actually.)

But once at university it was full on slut-a-rama for me at Halloween. Cripes, if I’d had the body for it I’d have gone as Pamela Anderson (I dropped the Lee after that piece of shit gave her hepatitis C) at Hugh Hefner’s 150th birthday celebration.

She went as a letter carrier except instead of a letter she was carrying a cake and instead of a uniform she was completely naked.

I forget how young I was but my best friend T. and I took to wearing dresses just long enough that you couldn’t seen the lowest frills on our underwear. I’m pretty sure we were in grade five. We’d vie for the chance to go up to the front board and solve math problems (we were at the top of our half of the class, the grade six half being leagues ahead, though, so it was kind of dispiriting).

Our teacher was male, too, and from Guyana. It was quite an education for him, I’m sure. The grade six girls, I used to think all of them but I’m remembering now it wasn’t, some of them were having sex already.

It was the Sault, where Stephen Harper was recently, lying to the gun nuts about “the bureaucracy” supposedly trying to bring back the hated gun registry.

Nothing, I repeat, nothing happens in government without governing politicians initiating it. And everything, I repeat, everything must go through ministerial approvals before anything, I repeat, anything is enacted.

Stephen Harper is flat out lying to citizens when he claims that public servants do anything.

Okay. That didn’t come out quite right, but you know what I mean. The important thing to remember here is that Stephen Harper is lying, and he knows he’s lying, when he claims to a bunch of already paranoid nutcases who love their guns more than their children or there wouldn’t be any children dead because of gun owners, that “the bureaucracy” is trying to bring back the gun registry – because it isn’t.

Kim Campbell, on the other hand, Kim Campbell told the truth and nobody voted for her so there’s that, I guess.

It’s tricky enough being a girl in a world that sees you first as a girl, second as a person. We are the default sex, even though we aren’t, world over. And yet female first, person second, so it’s all very contradictory and unfair and weird, but it would be nice (there’s that word again – nice) if we didn’t deny our girly girls anymore than we deny our girls who challenge us by turning pretty into art.

And always remember, no wait, never forget – it’s Renee Zellweger’s fucking face and she can do whatever the hell she wants with it!

(*Well there you go, everybody and her Aunt Thelma and Louise. We can stand down. Apparently, Renee Zellweger’s new look is just the result of living better and away from Hollywood.)

 

And She’s Off…

So, continuing on, I guess my question is this: If the goal is to have citizens working and making money, why isn’t our government doing everything it can to find employment for those of us who want it?

And yes, jobs that we want to do. I mean, why aren’t employers knocking on my door, instead of me having to figure out how the hell to find a way to make enough money to put some of it back into the economy, and so on and so forth and more of the same etc etc.

If Conservatives want us all working for money, why is it so fucking hard to get a decent paying job that I can stand to do for a few hours a day?

Why make it more difficult instead of easier for citizens to have kids AND jobs?

Why make it easier instead of more difficult for corporations to hoard tax cut profits instead of reinvesting them in people who want to make enough money to pay taxes?

I make so little money now, and so spend even less, that I’m barely paying taxes at all.

Why are politicians, federal ones, at least, making it all more and more difficult, instead of easier and easier, and then blaming us for not keeping up with this economy that makes no cents, I mean, sense?

When I say, too, that temp agencies in 1982 were paying (me, because this is personal) $12/hr (and by the time I took a job with the NDP, it was $14/$16) to do the same sort of office work that temp agencies now offer $11/hr to do, I should stipulate that they’re only offering that $11/hr because it’s legally required.

They can’t offer less or they would. And people would work for it because their employment insurance has run out and/or they don’t qualify for employment insurance.

Joblessness is an epidemic. Look around. Believe your eyes, your ears are being lied to by statistics and politicians.

By the way, the $12/hr I made in 1982 was well above the legally required minimum wage, too, so there’s that.

My mother quipped that my Conservative friend should hire me (to do what I can’t imagine, but that’s not her point) or risk being just another corporation hoarding his profits. But she’s a Big L Liberal, and so she would say that, wouldn’t she. She hired people to do anything and everything – cleaning, painting, accounting – if she could hire someone else to do it, she did.

But she’s also of a previous generation and was a teacher with a pension (and a gravel pit that put us through university!) and was first in on RRSPs so that her early retirement was over-funded.

Don’t forget, people who write in to the Globe and Mail business section worried about whether or not you have enough to retire on, kill yourselves now. Tell Gord Sooey sent ya.

Her retirement, as sure as the hell the Globe and Mail editorial board will burn in, isn’t over-funded now, though. Chartwell, with ads galore on CBC all of a sudden-like, raises its exorbitant rents every year without fail, while fixed income residents and their families nervously eye the stock market.

I’ve met at least one woman, she works are the new hospital in the Sault, built with gambling proceeds, whose mother was kicked out of a Chartwell residence because she couldn’t make rent after they raised it.

So don’t be fooled. Seniors’ residences aren’t goodwill endeavours, they’re cold hard cash businesses. And they nickel and dime the staff just like over-priced ladieswear stores do, staff who nevertheless are good citizens doing their best in these inexplicably miserly times.

My Conservative friend in a comment to my previous entry refers me to google to answer my question: Who benefits from free trade?

He’s right, it’s a rhetorical question, isn’t it.

 

 

 

 

Money for Nothing

Elizabeth Renzetti’s column on Saturday (Globe and Mail) is about Iggy Pop’s claim that he can’t support himself just by making music, that consumers of it won’t pay for it, so he has to take on other jobs to make ends meet.

She’s my favourite columnist and even if my partner didn’t routinely buy a Globe and a Citizen (Ottawa) every Saturday, I probably would because I have to read her every week.

I follow Mike Holmes in the Citizen.

I wonder if he’s on Twitter? I think it’d be funny to tweet do it yourself repairs to see how long it would take before he’d show up with a crew of orphans “this is all gonna hafta come down” so he can “make it right”.

Anyway, the column made me think about writing, which I do a lot of for free, and how I feel about that, which is conflicted. I’m currently reading a friend’s book, which I bought last year for $27 or so. I ordered it in soft cover. It takes place in the made up country of Carnivorous and I think it’s about how capitalism is failing us but there’s also a lot of men treating women badly in it.

I bought another book, this one by a woman I’ve met a couple of times. Her politics are anathema to mine, Ann Coulter-ish, but I’ll give it a go. She’s entertaining, it’s all showbiz, her beliefs beginning and ending with herself.

No one can possibly believe that neoconcrap, right? Am I right?

I also bought a book of poetry by a Facebook friend.

I used to be annoyed that anyone can read my blog and lift ideas, but now I welcome it. Please, go ahead and lift. Make money writing while somebody still can.

Stephen Harper seems ready to eliminate copyright for the purpose of making Conservative Party attack ads that he hopes will stop Justin Trudeau from becoming Prime Minister.

Except that the attack ads will backfire because every time I see the striptease one I think, “What a handsome Prime Minister Justin Trudeau would be. And so talented, too. How refreshing that he doesn’t take himself seriously, like Ol’ Dead Eyes.”

Michael Harris has written the biography of Stephen Harper that he deserves, “Party of One”. I’m buying it for my mom for Christmas.

I once checked out the strip clubs of Toronto (with a male escort because a woman wasn’t allowed into a strip club unescorted, maybe we still aren’t) thinking I could make big $s, but there’s no way I could handle props while dancing while taking off my clothes, which I was more inclined to put on in those days to discourage any ideas from my on again off again boyfriend later husband now ex.

Suffice it so say that I’d like to see Stephen Harper try the same.

But this is all excuse-making and I’ll write a book yet just you wait and see if I don’t. No one is stopping me from achieving my dream except l’il ol’ me.

Just do it, stupid!

I was talking to my Conservative friend, who seems to think we had the same sort of middle-class life growing up. It’s startling to me that he thinks that, but I suppose that’s what the middle-class is, a swath of society so all-encompassing that it really doesn’t have any meaning beyond “I’m Okay, You’re Okay”.

It set me off for some reason.

No, he sets me off because of his opinions.

It didn’t help that I could hear Ezra Levant of Sun Media in the background, harassing protesters. Apparently, one of them clobbered him with her sign, a rational response – finally – to Ezra Levant.

Ted Cruz and Sarah Palin have a website and on it they publish lies masquerading as news. Right now they’re claiming that 17 children in Dallas have died of Ebola. To me it’s the equivalent of yelling “FIRE!” in a crowded theater, to claim such a thing to a population of gun-totin’ racists, but my Conservative friend would argue it isn’t, that it doesn’t matter, it’s just entertainment.

Like Ann Coulter is entertainment, I guess. Certainly, my Conservative friend is a fan. He must know that she’s a complete hypocrite, too, a single childless workaholic, white, and therefore not a REAL woman.

Anyway, it strikes me now that I’m writing about it, which is why I blog, that what’s a game to him isn’t a game to me, his economic power has increased dramatically of late, mine has decreased just as dramatically, and yet, here we are, still having the same argument.

I can’t repeat often enough that I literally make less money per hour now than I did in 1982. Please, somebody with a column reading this, pass it on. In 1982 I made $12/hr as a word processor, working for a temp agency (I mean that I cleared $12/hr – no idea what the agency was charging) and now I make $11/hr selling over-priced ladieswear.

And I’m selling over-priced ladieswear because I can’t get a job in the government via an agency. In two years of trying, in spite of being experienced/edjumacated, not a single possibility has panned out. And every possibility that hasn’t panned out has been for the same minimum wage I’m making in retail anyway so who cares.

Not me, to be honest. The government would have to pay me a lot more than minimum wage to work for it now.

What a shit factory.

And yet, as I probably don’t stress enough, I prefer this lifestyle, the one I have now, which, to be more honest with my Conservative friend here on my blog than I was on the phone, is my choice.

Glory hallelujah. Breakthrough. I choose to live the way I do. And it’s all good because it’s a good life. The hard fact, a real number that even an economist should be able to understand, that I make less money per hour in 2014 than I did in 1982, doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t matter because my Conservative friend is right – middle-class is middle-class is middle-class.

Meanwhile, he is literally in the fabled 1% now, or, at least, his company is. His focus since forever has been on making it there. And I have another friend who works all the time at her job which she enjoys, too. I don’t know what she makes but it’s a lot. I remember once my Beau and I being out with her and when she heard our combined income I saw her discreetly slide our bill over to her side of the table, so that’s how much.

It was a lovely gesture, really, and much appreciated. But it wasn’t necessary. We can afford our lifestyles.

I have yet to even draw up a budget.

Part of it is not drinking, it’s had an effect. But it’s more of a mindset effect than a monetary one, I’m pretty sure.

But all this is leading up to a question I have that I hope somebody will put out there more officially, which is, who benefits from free trade? I mean, really. Who is all this for? And I ask sincerely because I’m not clear on what the big deal is (pun intended) and why it’s characterized by economists everywhere as a common good. Yay! Another free trade deal! Thank goodness!

I mean, it’s inevitable, I guess, because there’s no going back, even Cher can’t turn back time, but my household income is a fraction of what it was in the 80s – literally – thousands of dollars less – but I’m still living the good life.

Is that the benefit of free trade? That we can make thousands of dollars less and yet still live the good life? Because that doesn’t sound like something Conservatives would applaud, if you ask me, which no one ever does, so that’s why I’m asking you.

A better life, really, I’m living it on less. Less has actually turned out to be more. Who knew (except Zen)? Sure, I’ve taken retirement out of the equation, but retirement never had to be in it, it was just another made-up product for sale that it turns out we don’t need.

In fact, retirement can often be a cause of death, can’t it. And while my Beau’s parents are retired, they probably work as hard as they ever did, just not at their former jobs.

Me? I finally have a job that has taught me to take it easy when I’m not working for money, physically and socially challenging work that ticks off that box I need ticked off to tell me I’ve worked and now I need to think about stuff.

Eventually, I will figure out how to make money thinking about stuff, or I won’t.

Maybe it’s not about making money?

Because if it really is about making money, if making money is what it’s all about, if making money is so good for us, if making money is what the powers that be want us all to go out and do – why can’t I make money doing this?

Writing is work. I’ve spent an entire morning working. I started at 9:00 a.m. and I’ve worked steadily until now, just after 1:00 p.m. Soon I’ll publish my product, an original piece of writing, for you to read and muse over, maybe even lift from, and I won’t make a penny.

Why not?

 

There, But for the Grace of Sharon, Lois & Bram

I’m being spammed again, bots galore, so if you’ve never commented on an entry before, hold off while the rightwing nutjob responsible for tech support, DOES SOMETHING!!

Meanwhile, if you’ve already commented here your comment will show up in comments for publication, as opposed to the spam filter where all the bots and newcomers end up.

We had really happy news this morning from rellies elsewhere, happy news I didn’t realize I needed to hear until I heard it. New life is just the ticket sometimes, isn’t it, not that there’s anything wrong with old life.

No wait, I take that back. Old life is a pain in the ass, although better than the alternative, as my mother would say.

I should join one of those Dying with Dignity groups. Put a little scare into her for my next visit.

Just kidding! I kid! I don’t think we want Stephen Harper legalizing euthanasia, if you really stop and think about it, which I hope people do before old socialists start disappearing after political protests and United Church potlucks.

Alison at Creekside has a rundown of political lobbying activities by the gun nuts of anglers and hunters fame that she’s juxtaposed to the bird watchers currently being harassed by Revenue Canada employees turned Conservative Party shakedown artists.

We’re paying for this harassment, Joe Sixpack and Sally Housecoat.

But you may never hear from me again because I tweeted her piece with the comment that this isn’t government, this is a conspiracy to intimidate citizens.

I’ll stand by that in Gitmo, too. What the hell. It’s not like I’m doing much good (even for me!) selling over-priced ladieswear for minimum wage to a shrinking (literally!) pool of consumers.

By the way, if you thought there was any hope for the future, you didn’t hear about the traffic jam caused by a new mall opening in Kanata, Ottawa’s geek ghetto. It was all the talk at work yesterday, too, when I asked “Where the hell are our dwindling customers?”

“They’re at the new mall in Kanata. Stupid idiots. Who drives all the way to Kanata to go shopping?”

Indeed. I wanted to stand along the Queensway reminding drivers with a sign, “Remember, you’re not stuck in traffic – you ARE traffic!”

I know, I know “ISIS loves you!” would have been funnier.

It’s mean, but I enjoyed hearing later on the news that there wasn’t enough parking once the (let’s face it) ladies finally arrived at their shopping destination. That must have been frustrating, knowing that Jim Watson, Ottawa’s once and future mayor, was safely parked and delivering kudos to whichever developer asshole is responsible for this latest crime against humanity.

I didn’t overstate that. Malls kill. Just ask Elliot Lakers.

Not that I give a shit about the actual success of the store that currently feeds us – my job pays for groceries, but not quite hydro/water&sewer/heat/internet/phone (mine) – seeing as it doesn’t matter how well it does or doesn’t do, we won’t get a raise or more hours. Still, it has to keep some staff on hand or it’ll close altogether. And then I can get a job at another store.

I make it a lot more money than it makes me, that’s for fucking sure.

It’s comical, the loyalty expected, though. The pep talks about how we have to pull together as a team and up-sell because it’s not enough for customers to buy stuff, they have to buy more stuff. Our job isn’t to sell, it’s to sell more.

No one ever asks “Why?” because that would just be inviting mass hysteria on behalf of management. Especially since we easily could sell more if we stocked one size smaller and one size bigger than we currently do. Also, more of certain items and none of others. And fewer sales. Really. Sales are a snare and a delusion, as they say, and just tell customers that your regular prices are inflated.

They’re also discriminatory and people should object to them more often than they do, benefiting certain sized people more than others, as it were.

Our conversion rate sucks, too, according to the little doohickey that counts customers vs the number of items they buy. I suggested having an 80% off sign in the window was drawing in a lot of people who thought there would be something for them to buy that was 80% off, and then leaving in a huff when there wasn’t, might be a factor in our poor conversion rate.

Also, our regular customers have been laid off, taken early buy-outs, retired, died, and/or are shopping online, so it stands to reason that they’re not in the same clothes buying market as they were when they had good paying full time jobs with benefits in the public service.

Retirees live in “Not Your Daughter’s Jeans” and “Lululemons” and microfibre onesies (pajamas) from Giant Tiger.

All of it made in conditions that should be completely unacceptable to citizens living here by people who have little to no choice thanks to free trade deals rigged by politicians and their multi-corporate CEO masters to increase their cash profits at the expense of mutually beneficial social and physical infrastructure built up by more civic-minded generations of taxpayers.

Also, the fun young manager was fired, so it’s all work and no play now.

I would have fired her a week into working there, but I’m not management so it had to be dragged out for almost a year to make a point to somebody about something. I guess. I really don’t know why a store manager wouldn’t fire an assistant the second time she phoned in sick on a Saturday morning. I’d have done it for her more than me, too, so don’t go accusing me of being a hard ass.

Not that I’m not a hard ass. In fact, I’m usually quite gobsmacked by how minimal standards are everywhere, although yesterday we had repair work done on our little house and it seemed the tiny crew was straight out of a fairytale, diligently at the grindstone for a couple of hours, pause for a wee sit down meal on overturned buckets on the lawn, then back at it again, pause for a tipple and a piddle, and so on and so forth and more of the same etc etc until the job was done and the invoice handed over for a tad less than expected because I’d mixed their quote up with a bigger one.

But that’s not what this entry is about because this entry is about Harper’s Henchmen (and women) apparently thinking that mothers who send their babies to daycare are shiftless and lazy and not taking parental responsibility for raising them. It’s the best they could come up with, speaking of dwindling standards, by way of response to Tom Mulcair’s sudden push for a $15/day national childcare program.

Now, as a former homemaker and current advocate for a guaranteed annual income (so I can do more blogging, learn to knit, make pastry, read more self help books, write a book of anecdotes, bike more often now that I’ve rediscovered it, take up yoga or even stretching – I wake up stiff in the mornings and not in a good way guys!) I guess I’m okay with it, although I think it should be $20/day to discourage people from working for peanuts when they could be at home relaxing while TVO raises their babies.

And no, I’m not kidding (pun intended). TVO is the best for raising babies. Although “The Elephant Show” may have been on CBC, I can’t remember. Whatever, in those days we had to make our own tapes, and so it was that I had Sharon, Lois & Bram (with Eric & Elephant) impressing upon my kids all the good stuff of kiddom while I wasted my time making play dough and putting vegetable faces on butter sandwiches.

I have never, as Gord is my witness, fed a child a cold cut – except – when I briefly took in a couple of daycare leftovers and after the one asked, exasperatedly for a 4-year-old, I thought “Can I at least have some mustard on my butter?!”

It was quite funny, actually, but her mother, being a terrifying person who sold cars for a living – very successfully – came to mind and I figured I’d better cough up with some ham or something, which then my son got wind of and wanted, too, and so began our brief descent into trailer park style living.

But back to staying at home with children instead of working for a living. Yes. I highly recommend it. I even more recommend staying at home without children, which is maybe why Tom Mulcair pegged his daycare plan at $15/day and not $20/day. So, okay, having thought it over just now, I’d go lower to $11.25/day so that moms and/or dads who actually like working part-time retail (in Ontario, anyway) would know that one of those working hours is depriving their kids of two Elephant Show episodes.

Three?

Anyway, it never ceases to amaze me how ass backwards it is that men who live in almost complete isolation of women who have to decide whether or not to even have a baby, let alone whether or not she should give up her livelihood so that Sharon, Lois & Bram can do the awesome job they do of raising it (and if she’s a sex worker or solar energy producer wouldn’t Peter MacKay and Stephen Harper be happy if she did?) want to make it all that much more likely that she’ll just say “Ah, fukkit. It’ll just grow up to be traffic anyway.”

My mother, who claims being a homemaker was the best time of her life, had to go back to teaching when my father died. She was lucky. The superintendent of education literally came knocking after the funeral. My gram came to live with us a few months later. And my father’s life insurance paid off our house.

I didn’t realize until later in life how important it is to me to be able to make my own money, but I guess when you grow up with a single parent purse-holder-and-filler-upper it leaves an impression.

The problem with being a homemaker wasn’t being a homemaker, it was not making any money being a homemaker, and in this society, not making money is decidedly at odds with being independent, being respected, being seen or heard – most particularly by men living what may as well be a world away from your wee small quark of an existence.

Really, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart, I thank you and my kids thank you, Sharon, Lois & Bram.

 

Plan? We Don’t Need No Stinkin’ Plan!

Well glory be, the governor of the bank of England has spoken to say that we shouldn’t burn our fossil fuel reserves, reserves being a somewhat misleading term since fossil fuels are there aplenty for burning, just harder and harder to access.

Gee, thanks for the heads up, Mark Carney. But where were you when Harper bet the farm on burning Canada’s tarsands?

Oh yeah, right here, being governor of the bank of Canada.

So I guess the keystone xl pipeline is so yesterday it may as well be Lindsay Lohan. It’s all energy east now and Liberian (no, liberian) tankers transporting tarsands product up the St. Lawrence for cheap sale to any takers, not that there are or will be any.

India is full steam ahead on solar power. India. Where fate is determined by caste, where leprosy and suttee thrive, where women are raped and murdered without consequence simply for going outside.

India is ahead of us on power generation.

Call me a stickler for details but I’m not clear on the economic strategy at play here. Alberta’s a one party state that has forever been known for its boom/bust economy so we’re all Albertans now because Alberta Conservatives are running Canada instead of Quebec and Ontario Liberals and Conservatives?

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve thought “oh you piece of shit!” the past couple of weeks, while pundits and politicians support the troops, opine on petro fortunes, and ignore climate change as the real and actual challenge of our times.

Not that we can do anything about it now, of course, so yeah – drill baby drill, I guess.

Hey, Harper should pitch a reality show to Sun Media. That would be worth subscribing for, Stephen heating up a tv dinner at 24 Sussex, Laureen ordering in at the Chateau Laurier.

There’s a candidate in the mayoral race in Toronto, Ari Goldkind, who is telling Torontonians that taxes should be raised to pay for improvements to city infrastructure, both physical and social.

It’s a pretty radical platform so he’s considered a fringe candidate, but, who knows, stranger things have happened.

Rob Ford was elected mayor of Toronto.

But speaking of Rob Ford, there’s a story trending on my Facebook page about a couple of unauthorized employees of Mount Sinai having “inappropriately accessed” his medical files. I clicked on the story but there’s no more information than that, except that Rob Ford has been notified.

What information could there possibly be in Rob Ford’s medical files that we don’t already know via video tapes and press conferences? NOT that I’m condoning whatever it was – most probably nothing that hasn’t happen a million times over to anybody and everybody else – files left out in the open and somebody  not a file clerk asking “where should these go?” – but because it involved Rob Ford, drama queen at large, it has to be a big hairy deal/Toronto Star conspiracy to out Rob Ford as a very sick person, mentally, emotionally, physically.

I think he exhibits symptoms of fetal alcohol syndrome, myself. Impulsive, no regard for consequences, lacks empathy. Just sayin’. Hey, my mom went to plenty of cocktail parties when she was pregnant with me. Smoked, too.

“Oh we went to cocktail parties every other night. And everybody smoked. But we didn’t have birth control in those days.”

Doug is just plain repulsive, though, so I don’t get it. What voters see in that grimacing creepazoid is beyond me.

Speaking of which, a birding club is being harassed by Revenue Canada’s storm troopers now for writing a letter to, Leona Aglukkaq, not the brightest northern light and pretend minister of the pretend ministry of the environment – which was a PET creation in 1971, don’t you know – about a type of pesticide still being used in Canada that is known to be killing off the world bee population.

It’s why Europe has pretty much banned the use of neonicitoids, those old country commie bastard conservationists.

It’s sad, but Canadians continue to believe that Environment Canada was created to protect our natural environment, and not to facilitate industry’s access to it for the purposes of plunder and profit.

Regulations aren’t made in the interests of nature unless you consider money to be nature, Canadians. Please get with the program and notice that you’re not living in one big national park.

I notice no one is even asking what the hell is political about a nature group writing to a government’s environment department about an approved-for-use pesticide responsible for killing off the world bee population.

Whoever credited Harper with the idea that he has a grand plan to destroy Canada should be deported, I think. It’s like my ex used to say when I’d accuse him of planning to ruin everything all the time, “There is no plan!”

Please, everybody. Stop. Think. Realize.There is no plan.

Okay? Are we good? There is no plan.

Now what? Any ideas? Anyone? Anyone? Carney?

 

Shit Just Got Real – and Wet

It’s a little bit nerve-wracking, the gradual coming to of North Americans as they/we realize that “don’t worry, be happy – and go shopping” isn’t going to do much to hold back the rising seas.

Of course you’ve seen the news about the sidewalks turned canals of Miami Beach. The city is buying time by building higher seawalls, but it looks like owning waterfront property is about to lose its exclusivity.

We were there, the Plucky Pauper Canucks, just a couple of years ago. I tried to swim in the ocean, but it’s not for swimming, is it.

Oceans are for sailing.

Meanwhile, here in Canada, where our governing politicians name buildings after each other, so impressed are they with their economic stewardship, we all get to share in Alberta’s boom/bust economy – minus its Heritage Fund.

Is there a Heritage Fund even for Albertans?

I’m not sure now I agree with such a thing anyway. I’d prefer a workaday economy and a guaranteed annual income for those of us who’d rather spend our time blogging.

Of course, we’re not developing the tarsands so much as a handful of speculators are plundering our habitat, but reality has long since given way to the siren song of the economy.

I can’t stand the news, anymore, because it’s beyond stupid. And we get regular lectures now at work about how business is down so we have to work harder to increase sales. Except that we’re paid the same whether we increase sales or not. The company expects a certain loyalty, especially from its long-time staff (we have 20-year veterans in our store) in spite of having stripped that same long-time staff of full-time hours and benefits a few short years ago.

One of them was and is the top seller in North America. She’s kind of annoying, but I like her, and I’ve stopped trying to give her advice and encouragement to look elsewhere because she’s really not up to it and what business is it of mine anyway.

It’s hard, isn’t it, minding our own business. I invite a lot of business minders into my life because I share information. They misunderstand my openness as advice-seeking. I just tell anybody and everybody how it is for me because my economy is your economy is Stephen Harper’s economy, and it doesn’t benefit any one of us if we aren’t honest about how we’re faring in it.

I told my Beau this morning that I was thinking of writing to the Globe and Mail business section, giving them a rundown of our finances, and suggesting we’d like to retire soon – just to make them work a little bit.

I refer, of course, to those angst fests in the Saturday edition involving couples with million dollar homes/vacation properties/hundreds of thousands in the bank/fully indexed pensions seeking advice from a financial consultant on how and when they can retire comfortably.

I’m always disappointed when he doesn’t tell them it’s hopeless, kill yourselves now, there’s no way you can ever afford to retire.

But that’s just it, isn’t it. The truth is, I’ve never felt less insecure about money and yet I’ve never made so little of it. I didn’t even make enough last year to pay income tax. And yet, I buy the odd piece from our store now with my discount, a store I never shopped in even when I did make decent money, because what the hell, it’s good for team morale.

I’m a bit of a fashionista, too, I guess, but not that into shopping, anymore, so it’s convenient.

The money I save by not owning a car is worth taking the bus no matter how high they jack the fares, because it’s not just about the expense of owning a car, is it, it’s about not getting in the car and driving to the mall or an outlet and doing some recreational shopping.

It would have been kind of a drag last night watching The National report on Canadians filling up their gas guzzlers, less cranky because of lower gas prices and not because governing politicians had just announced that they were abandoning their support for the unconscionable plunder and polluting of our natural resources, except that one of them more or less put it out there that the real upside to a drop in oil prices is that oil speculators will get dinged.

And maybe that’s as real as this shit is ever going to get.

In the meantime, I plan to keep on keeping on, chronicling as I go, bearing witness to the experiences of others, while minding my own.

Because it turns out my poor dear shark of a co-worker has a lovely property in Portugal she can retire to should any Arctic wolves show up at her door here.

Cripes, she’s got it all over the mayor of Miami Beach, who has to go down with the city, doesn’t he.

 

Bring Back the Draft

On the other hand, nothing is really a secret, or even a surprise, thanks to the internet.

Or Globally Interconnected Truth & Conspiracy Theory Generator.

We know why certain courses of action are taken and others are ignored or scorned as unmanly, manly being represented by soldiering, literally, which is why women need not apply.

Or maybe women should apply until we outnumber men and soldiering becomes just more unpaid stuff that somebody has to do so it may as well be someone with ovaries as somebody with a penis.

Protect penis owners from unpaid work!

Meanwhile, it’s journalists who are being beheaded by foreign (and domestic!) tribalists.

When was the last time you heard a governing politician thank a journalist for saving us from total ignorance of foreign and domestic affairs?

I feel so badly for kidnapped journalists, too, because they must know as soon as they’re kidnapped how doomed they are, given the likelihood of any governing politicians coming to their rescue, as opposed to using their beheading as war propaganda.

The first masked beheader brought to mind the actor from The Wire, didn’t he. The drug dealer, not the cop.

But it doesn’t even have to be in our own interests for us to go along with politicians authorizing, in our name, the killing of people living elsewhere in the world.

It’s the economy, stupid.

Always remember, no wait, never forget, the economy will save us, but first we have to save the economy.

We can call it Harper’s War (which he loves, by the way) but it’s ours, we’re paying for it. And we’re giving up public services to pay for it, too. So I was wrong, we are making sacrifices for war. We are, we are, we are.

Highway of Taxpayers.

Meanwhile, young Canadian men today prefer computer game interaction to real life interaction because, well, they just do. Is it good? Is it bad? I dunno. Yes? No? It just seems to be the way it is.

Inside/outside, they’re at it, staring straight ahead at a screen or staring down at one in their lap.

But I would say that, wouldn’t I. I spend as much time, expend as much energy, trying to articulate my thoughts about war and what is it good for on the internet as my son does playing the latest global sensation.

He doesn’t see that time as wasted, though, not like I do.

I have friends and rellies with soldiering sons. It’s not something I have any particular respect for in a young man, although I’m intrigued by the young women who sign up. On the other hand, I recognize that young men need something to do while their brains finish developing, which is apparently somewhere between 25 and 30.

My friends and rellies whose sons signed up would be the first to admit that their sons weren’t doing much and had become somewhat burdensome prior to donning uniforms.

I can’t imagine the experience of war will make them any less so, sadly. Better to wait out the lame years, I say.

I just wish more Canadians could see the cynical disconnect between politicians sending some of us overseas to fight in foreign wars while lowering taxes for some others of us. And since the same people seem to be voting for both, I’m starting to think we should all have a more direct say than just in voting as to where our taxes are allocated.

Maybe Revenue Canada could send a tick-off form with our T4s.

Oh, and our T4Es, lest we forget unemployment as a prime motivator for signing up to kill other people living elsewhere, and yes, in our names.

Is it possible that Conservatives don’t want to stop corporations from bringing in temporary foreign workers to do jobs that used to be done by Canadians, while at the same time making employment insurance increasingly less likely, because they want young men (and, I guess, women) to have no choice but to fight?

It would be nice if we could use passive resistance to force them to bring in the draft, at least.

That would put the truth out where we’d have to face it.

 

 

 

Fascist Fucks

I missed all the action over the long weekend (there’s no such thing for retail workers – long weekends, I mean – we get plenty of action – plenty) when Don Martin, a Calgary-based pundit for CTV, apparently used the “f” word to describe Stephen Harper.

I thought that meant he called him a fuck, which I could imagine coming from Ezra Levant of Sun News Network about Justin Trudeau’s dead dad, Pierre, but not really Don Martin of CTV about Stephen Harper.

“Hey Harper, ya fuck!” said Don Martin, never.

“Hey Justin Trudeau’s dead dad, Pierre, ya fuck!” said Ezra Levant, again.

And yes, I did consider the possibility that maybe Don Martin had just had too much jive turkey for thanksgiving (I no longer capitalize our holidays because I’m no longer a patriot) except that out in Calgary I believe the celebratory dinner bird is a cow.

But it turned out that Don Martin only called Stephen Harper a fascist.

Cripes, pretty soon Stephen Harper’s head will be too big to fit into the House, eh?

Meanwhile pundits hither and yawn took the opportunity to go on and on about the deceptive face of fascism and how it pretends to be all friendly and then <wham!> before we’ve even had a chance to elect JT to be our first actually friendly –> fascist prime minister (ditto the capitalization of job titles) leaving Tom Mulcair to fight the good fight in Opposition (which is way too important to leave to JT, and we shouldn’t leave anything to Stephen Harper) we’re fucked.

Also, JT would be our first actually friendly fascist handsome prime minister, not that I didn’t have a bit of a thing for Sir Wilfrid Laurier, back in the day, but that’s a blog entry for another day.

(Not really, there’s not much to say beyond that I had a bit of a thing for Sir Wilfrid Laurier back in the day. I believe it annoyed my older sister so much she threw my halloween candy into a snowbank. Or maybe she just couldn’t tolerate my moderation in all things. My god she was crazy.)

But as I’ve blogged already, I’m not blogging about politics anymore. This time I’m not blogging about it because I keep reading that the country is being run by boys in short pants and not a bunch of fucks in the prime minister’s office. It’s aggravating and I want it to stop. So until it does, I’m boycotting all pundits who refer to BiSPs and not blogging about politics.

Anyway, I was thinking today about how a bunch of fucks like Stephen Harper keep telling us our relative prosperity (relative because the folks – see what I did there? – hanging around outside the Rideau Centre in downtown Ottawa asking passersby if they have any spare change don’t look so prosperous to me – and I’m making $1 less per hour than I was in 1982) will disappear unless we continue to let a bunch of oil and gas fucks dump toxic waste into our water and air supply.

I suppose it could be worse and we could be living in Beijing, heading off to become more prosperous every morning in smog masks.

Hey, I wonder if smog masks are made in China, too

And then I realized that, even though Stephen Harper is a tail-ender, like me, it’s possible everything really is about baby boomers and, without even needing to take a vote on it, they’ve decided that it’s going to be all over for everybody after the last of them has bought a one way ticket to “mars” (ditto planets/afterlife, it’s too much, all this senseless capitalization).

Here’s what I mean. I had a sister bookclub member who complained to me all the time about our bookclub, and how much she hated being in it, and I kept talking her into staying because I didn’t realize until it was too late that she couldn’t leave bookclub because she didn’t want to take the chance that it would continue on without her.

So when she finally decided to take her leave, she did it by way of tossing a bomb into the clubhouse and running down the street to join a new bookclub.

(Don’t worry, bookclub survived. I just finished this month’s selection “State of Wonder”  – and boy are my lips tired.)

But you get it, right? Maybe you’ve even thought it? About baby boomers wanting to take us all with them when they go because they can’t stand the thought of life going on without them?

The fucks.

So yeah, I think that’s what we’re facing, everybody – Boomergeddon.

Pass it on.

Oh, and kick a boomer today. Tell ‘em it’s from tail-ender sooey.

 

 

Linda and Bill, I Hardly Knew Ye

I read a piece by Linda McQuaig this morning. In it, she references William Robson of the C.D. Howe Institute, whom I knew back in university days as Bill. He dated my best friend at the time and I have to admit I kind of admired him for it.

She was a very strange and troll-like girlfriend for such a good-looking fellow to have. Really strange. And very troll-like. I’m talking almost Marty Feldman-ish  (although she was oddly pretty?) and J.D. Salinger-ish strange-like. Or I guess I mean Holden Caulfield-ish lost-like.

We had a lot of fun, which is cool to remember for me because she didn’t drink – just coffee – or smoke pot (not that I did much pot-smoking, either). Once we were coming home around 3 or 4:00 a.m. from an all-night donut shop and two of Toronto’s finest pulled over and shouted at us, “Hey! What are you doing out after curfew? Get in the car!”

So we walked up to the window and J. who was naturally giggly (when she wasn’t depressed and completely unresponsive to outside stimuli no matter how funny I was being – great training for the comedy club circuit I never went on – even though Punchline is one of my favourite movies) giggled and countered the notion that there was such a thing as a curfew in Toronto.

“Oh yes, there’s a curfew alright. And you girls have broken it. Now get in the car. We’ll get you home.”

I’m perhaps not conveying the lack of choice we had, or maybe I am. That was (is?) the thing with cops when we were young, at least. They had all the power, we had none, and only fools and drunkards would mix it up with them.

The thing was, J. liked to carry a joint around with her in case someone wanted one and she’d given it to me earlier because I was always looking to drink less/smoke more.

It was partly a weight-watching thing, partly an awareness that, even though I didn’t like anything about alcohol, really, it didn’t stop me from drinking it.

It’s funny, I hung out with her a lot and none of our escapades involved alcohol or drugs (minus the joint she always insisted on carrying around with her), so it’s possible I wasn’t the party girl I recall myself being.

I’m working on memories right now because my memories of being a homemaker have been submerged by the great wave of divorce. It’s terrible, really, probably what’s hardest on the kids, parents playing who suffered more for cold hard cash.

Gord forbid one half of the couple could just say to the other half “I don’t want to live with you anymore” and both halves could forgo all the whys, herewiths, and wheretofores, share the kids, and split the existing assets down the middle.

I know, I know – whose middle?

Anyway, she carried on in her giggly but steadfast way about this whole curfew thing, while I panicked quietly about the joint in my pocket.

We didn’t have purses back then. Isn’t that funny? I just remembered that detail. I’d go out with J. and we’d both be wearing painter’s pants and oversized men’s shirts that D. the don from the Caribbean had given us, enough money for coffee and that was it. J. drank hers black, because she was a recovering anorexic, the real kind, the kind who had to be fed intravenously in hospital.

I had cream in mine because, even though I was always flirting with anorexia, I have a lot of self-preservation instincts, too, and looked down the road to old age and osteoporosis, which isn’t in my family at all, so it’s just Forrest Gump’s good luck for me that I did.

Even at my worst I would drink a glass of milk (which I never even liked) to keep my bones strong.

Really, give up, parents. We know nothing that matters about our teenaged daughters, trust me. Their real lives happen where we’d never even think to look. All we see is what they show us and that’s how it has to be or we couldn’t bear it, they and their random survivalist world would terrify us too much.

Anyway, the cops didn’t believe that we were university girls and not runaways until Bill (residence security – an 80-year-old man with a hearing impairment and bad eyesight), who had a special relationship with J. because she was always coming and going at odd hours, vouched for us.

It was a little nerve-wracking there for a minute for me because he wasn’t too sure I lived there on account of my low profile, but if we had a sign-in/sign-out sheet or something to that effect I would have cooperated with it.

I was always diligent about leaving clues for the authorities should I not return home for any reason.

I think I recall the cops thinking it pretty weird that a residence full of young women had such lax security, but it was never a problem until a bunch of hooligans barged by him one night and tried to ransack their way through the residence. It was very hard on him and eventually the university had to hire real security. A lot changed between my second and third year at university, including the expectations of students, who all seemed to major in commerce.

Commerce. Imagine. It’s really such a load of horseshit the way pundits and politicians go on about the good old days.

Anyway, the upshot of it all was that J. and I had to sneak out again to walk off the calories that we hadn’t walked off because the cops had given us a ride home.

But that’s not what this entry is about, because this entry is about income-splitting and how it’s portrayed so often by pundits, including Linda McQuaig, who I also knew back in the day, although after university.

I was at the NDP caucus, when I met her and for some reason I kept confusing her with another Linda. Finally, she snapped “Why do you keep confusing me with the other Linda! We’re nothing alike!” so then I had to remember to deliberately confuse her with the other Linda (a non-abrasive, gentle soul who made guitars) because I have that Woody Allen thing about authority.

Really, I was totally jealous of both Lindas, the one for her spectacular man appeal that rendered them gaga when she’d fly in and out of a room on her broom, the other for her subtle man appeal that was all for naught because she was apparently gay.

Later, my boyfriend (then husband, now ex) and I would play basketball with a group that involved both Lindas, although only the nice Linda played while we were part of the group. But we were a decade younger than these real life baby boomers with high fallutin’ jobs and back-country skills and after two games we took our leave, or rather, my boyfriend (then husband, now ex) threw himself down on the floor and kicked and screamed until I said okay we don’t have to waste another Friday night playing basketball with the Lindas, etc.

I think it was the night one of the male members of the team complained about having to leave off making documentaries at The Journal (CBC) for some other equally preposterous sounding employment to our tail-end boomer ears that did it.

My friend A. from the caucus couldn’t understand our leave-taking and I kind of couldn’t believe that I was in my boyfriend’s camp, either, but there it is, or was.

In later years I would join a bookclub and come to understand how difficult it is for people to break into an established group, not to mention how difficult it is to leave one, but we never got that far with the basketball boomers.

As I tell my kids, it’s never the people, it’s the relationship between the people that either works or doesn’t. Sometimes that matters so much that the trauma of divorce has to happen, sometimes it matters enough that you forgo basketball group dreams of acceptance in favour of watching Dallas or Street Legal with your lame-a-zoid ball-&-chain of a boyfriend.

Income splitting. Well, I was a homemaker, and yes, it was by choice, my choice, but yes, too, it meant that we lived on one income that would have been below $40k in 1990, although secure, too. And I knew other people like me, women mostly, although our landlord back in the day was a stay-at-home dad (and actor) while his wife worked as a casting agent to the stars (not her husband, which always struck me as kind of… pointed).

Other people’s lives and all that.

I get the objection, that wealthy people will benefit more than anyone else, that it’s not going to matter much to middle-class parents, but I’m not sure that the objection isn’t rooted in that sort of old-fashioned notion that work defines us, that we’re all better for making money, that work will set us free or make us better Feminists or boost the GDP.

Because if it benefits couples with one making, say, $60,000 now, while the other stays home with kids, that’s a good thing.

But I would say that, wouldn’t I, because I want people to quit their jobs and stay home with their kids.

Heck, I knew a couple without kids and he stayed home and she worked and they were the happiest couple I’ve even encountered. I’d see him all the time on the dog walk, me with the three kids and dog, him with just dog. We talked politics and this and that and he shared a couple of recipes he thought might help me out. And she was all bustling activity that I’m pretty sure involved screwing a co-worker but THAT’S NOT IMPORTANT HERE!

I’m not sure what it will take to convince ourselves that work is mostly a crock, that people who actually enjoy it would do it for free because whatever it is that they’re doing for money isn’t work to them. That’s how homemaking was for me. It mattered, I felt like I was doing something worthwhile. The cooking, the cleaning, the cooperative games. Going for walks every day, watching cooking shows with the kids (Delia Smith was our favourite), taking in a couple of rugrats when a friend went back to being a psychiatric nurse and I inherited part of her daycare.

The problem wasn’t being a homemaker. The problem was not being a part of the paid economy so that I felt like I had rights equal to my partner. That was the problem. He was part of paid society, I was a dependent appendage. And people can claim all sorts of nonsense about running the home but that’s all it is – nonsense. He who controls the purse strings wins.

Young men really aren’t at their best in relationships with young women, I’m afraid, and sharing didn’t come as naturally to him as it had to me back in the day when there were no kids and I was making twice as much money for doing the sort of job I would have done for free, while he was working retail.

Income splitting would have made a huge difference to us because it would have recognized my contribution to society as having economic value. The fact is, it does have economic value to stay at home – when that’s what you want to do – because you live differently than you would if you were working – when that isn’t what you want to do.

It’s just not valued economically by government because it’s not how we measure our worth as a society, and how we measure our worth as a society is hogwash, the only real measure of a society beginning and ending with how it treats its most vulnerable members.

But good luck with all that these days.

Once again, here I go, like a broken record: I literally – literally – make less money per hour now than I did in 1982 when I was a word processing temp working for an agency in Toronto. And I can guarantee anyone reading this that neither Bill nor Linda, one a tail-end boomer like me, the other an actual baby boomer, have even the slightest clue what it’s like to risk financial security by opting to stay home with kids.

(Although Linda would support a guaranteed annual income, as I do, which puts her leagues ahead of Bill, unless he supports a guaranteed annual income, too. Stranger things have happened than rich people supporting such a thing, although I can’t offhand think of any.)

But let me leap to my current hobby horse, which is that it’s all a crock, all of it, and we should be downing tools, not hacking away at life with them. And this idea that income-splitting is a sexist plot, well, sure it is. But it comes too late so who cares. The partner quite likely to stay home with the kids these days is the husband.

Meanwhile, it’s been probably ever thus that the partner driving the bus of life is the wife. She’s why the marriage. She’s why the kids. She’s why the house.

In many cases, she’s the why of his job, too.

She makes the decisions, is what I’m saying, and even back when I made the decision to stay home, it was all mine. My husband at the time was panic-stricken. It wasn’t until he realized how much easier our lives were (compared to contemporaries with both parents working full-time and trying to manage and pay for kids and kidcare – so everybody we knew) that his knickers untwisted and he could see straight.

And now I’m working in retail, part-time, to pay for groceries and it’s beyond stupid but I kind of like it, too. I’d like it even more if I could be paid the same amount of money to not work in retail, of course, because it’s hard work, physically, and I’d just as soon not do it and do yoga instead.

My point is, working for money is hardly the fulfilling lifestyle so many pundits and politicians pretend it is. I know people who would do their job for free (they wouldn’t, not really, but they like their work enough to say that they would) but I sure as hell wouldn’t (although I’ve come to appreciate the clothing discount more than I thought I would, being a bit of a style maven, as it turns out).

I’d make pie every day. I’d read more. I’d blog. I’d learn to knit. I’d sew clothes for my girls (I’ve already made pajama bottoms for my son). I’d sew clothes for my mother, who has trouble with buttons and zippers. Heck, I’d visit my mother more often, too. She can afford it, money-wise, but I can’t afford it time-wise. All on account of my stupid and pointless job selling over-priced ladieswear to women who already own so many clothes they’ve admitted to buying the same outfit twice, their closets are so impenetrably full.

And I’d commit to reading to grade ones or somesuch useful volunteer activity that shouldn’t be volunteer so much as work done by people on guaranteed annual incomes or parents-at-home taking advantage of income splitting.

I don’t stand to gain from it now, but I suspect there would be a not insignificant reduction in parents working for money, and that, I venture to suggest, would be a good thing, which I guess means I would gain from it. We all would.

And in the end, that may be why it doesn’t actually happen.