Friday July 29 , 2016

Category: Sooey Says

Next Stop, Eganville

I thought I got a re-tweet by Donald Trump the other day but it turned out to be a Donald Trump parody account.

It was threatening that Putin would spill the beans on Sanders’ wife (very bad!!) if Sanders didn’t throw his support to Trump, except that it was grammatically awkward, so my re-tweet questioned why Putin would spill the beans on his (Putin’s) wife if yadda yadda blah blah.

I guess you had to be there.

Christ, Twitter is boring and stupid. What a waste of time and energy. I thought I’d be uber rich and famous by now but instead I’m just unemployed. Again. But at least I’m not working and not getting paid, unlike our public servants.

I got a vicarious thrill, though, I have to admit, from a story on CBC about a mother who quit the public service because she couldn’t afford her daycare fees while working for free.

Odd the union hasn’t advised public servants to just stay home until Phoenix is fixed, eh? I mean, what’s up with your members working for free, PSAC?

Thank gord I told my daughter about the Donald J. Trump re-tweet thing before I told my son. She only mocked me for a minute or five. He’d still be mocking me today.

Sons can be so cruel to mothers about how we do or don’t use technology.

It makes my left foot itch, this cruelty. It wants to connect with his posterior very badly.

Even my daughter was like, “Oh my god, mom, the green check mark. Always look for the green check mark. It means Twitter has verified it’s the real person. How did you not know that?”

Oh, I don’t know. I guess I was busy making vegetarian risotto for a certain vegetarian to learn all there is to know about Twitter, which is more work than it looks like for its participants, in case you don’t appreciate us, you non-Tweeters you.

But it doesn’t matter anyway because I’m back on Facebook (as me, myself, and I) because that’s where the “social” is in “social” media. Whoever outed me as using a pseudonym did me a favour, really.

I know that sounds paranoid, but whatever. Last night I put the “smart” in my “smart” phone, too. I need to stay in touch with a traveler in my life so I’m expanding my techno skills like a madwoman on speed.

And by a madwoman on speed I mean a luddite on tranquilizers.

There’s a fear some of us have, maybe a lot of us, that hovers over our use of technology. You’d think we’d have learned that the worst has already happened, that all our time and energy is going into this thing that is simultaneously sucking all the money out of our economy. But who’re you gonna call when something goes wrong? And now I’ve got a message on my phone about something wanting to install and no one handy to tell me whether I should let it or not.

But we must be brave and take techno-risks or we’ll be left out here in the cold, while everybody else is living it up inside, posting photos of their cats and liquor cabinets. And cats in liquor cabinets.

We just walked through Confederation Park and it was lousy with people playing Pokemon Go. Non-Pokemon Go people are like the fringe of society now. It happened so quickly, too. One minute everybody and her Aunt Thelma were navigating downtown Ottawa at lunchtime, staring at their phones, the next they’re navigating downtown Ottawa at lunchtime, staring at their phones, and playing Pokemon Go.

We were dropping off a car, having taken a little jaunt, during which time I swam the Bonnechere at Eganville. It’s my favourite summer activity, diving off a dock or a raft into a river or lake and going for a swim. I feel like Huckleberry Finn except in a super cute red and white checked bath suit from Giant Tiger, once upon a time.

Speaking of Giant Tiger, after we had our arepas at Gooney’s we caught the bus home and saw a guy spit into a Giant Tiger bag hanging off his walker. It was pretty disgusting. Then the driver let a guy on who walked more or less in front of the bus to get it to stop for him. They almost never do that so I was surprised when he did. And of course he turned out to be the kind of drunk person who thinks we all want to hear what he has to say. He directed most of his blah blah at a young woman who, because she was a young woman, thought she had to indulge his nonsense. I was with my blond companion, though, so I kept it to myself, the urge to go to the front of the bus and tell him to “Shut the fuck up!”

Women need to be cognizant of not dragging their men into situations which could result in fisticuffs, in my experienced opinion.

I wouldn’t really do that anyway. I’d just do what I was doing, which was to stare in annoyance at his big stupid drunk head and then in exasperation at the young woman for thinking she had to indulge his nonsense.

Live and learn, though, and she will if she continues taking the bus long enough.

I can be a little judgemental now that I don’t drink anymore myself and annoy other people on the bus. And by a little I mean a lot.

Anyway, in case you’re wondering, Ottawa is a fucked up mess in every way possible right now it seems.

I’m thinking of moving to Eganville.

 

YUGEST WAR EVER!!!

Just heard a really bad thought and had to share it.

Why would Americans, or anyone, not know by now that a megalomaniac like Donald Trump will want to be Commander-in-Chief of the YUGEST war in human history ten minutes after he’s bored being just President?

Seriously, if you don’t know that, or worse – know it but don’t care – take me off your Christmas list, please.

But no, more seriously – the joke’s gone far enough, ‘kay?

 

Dead Or Divorced

It bothers me, a niece of Jagtar Gill speaking for her family regarding the first degree guilty verdict for Jagtar’s husband and his girlfriend, claiming that Jagtar’s happy in heaven now.

Well, no, she isn’t. She’s just dead, her life ended by her husband and his girlfriend. Because for some people, even here in Canada where we have no fault divorce, murder is preferable to it.

It’s all on record now. Jagtar Gill was murdered because her husband and his girlfriend wanted to be together and, for whatever reason, but I’m going to guess religious and/or cultural (and what’s the difference when religion defines the culture, anyway), divorce was not an option.

So murder.

The risk of 25 years in prison for first degree murder was preferable to this couple (who truly seem to have deserved each other, so there’s that) to the patriarchal approbrium that would follow divorce.

It’s bad enough that Jagtar Gill was made to live her short life in an arranged marriage to a man who would rather murder another human being than be divorced from one, but to slap a “she’s happy in heaven now” bow on it, no.

No.

That’s just not fair, not to Jagtar Gill, not to any woman trapped in her terrible and terrifying situation.

Down with patriarchy everywhere for the good of everyone.

 

 

 

Death to the Patriarchy Before It Kills Again

There was a murder here in Ottawa, a couple of years ago now, of a woman named Jagtar Gill. Her killers, a man and a woman, were convicted the other day of first degree murder, as anybody with even a passing familiarity with the case  wanted them to be.

Oh, the man was her husband, the woman her husband’s girlfriend. As was mentioned several times in the media, both were OC Transpo drivers.

Everybody and her uncle Singh knew the two were having an affair, apparently.

Ottawa is a small town disguised as a medium sized city.

The female half of the murderous duo is quite the looker, the male half schlubby at best.

Jagtar Gill never stood a chance. She was sent here from elsewhere to live out her life in an arranged marriage to a man who would eventually kill her (or rather, have her killed, because apparently his girlfriend did the work of actually killing her, that’s how schlubby he is) so we can only imagine how difficult and stressful her life was.

And how sad and alone she must have felt.

We lived across the street from an Italian arranged marriage in Belleville. He was an idiot, his family having tricked her into marrying him so that he’d be her problem and not theirs. They had three children, the third a boy. He celebrated the birth of his son in the street.

Okay, I can’t blog about that right now. It’s too upsetting. Nothing terrible happened, don’t worry, it was just hard to live across the street from the unfairness of it all.

I was probably experiencing a depression of sorts, already. Certainly I was lonely.

Oh, did I tell you? She didn’t speak any English. Just enough to tell me when I finally got it together to go across the street and say hello that maybe we could get together in the summer.

It was December. She had the heat way up in her house. The smell of paint was nauseating.

Okay, stop me right now.

After the verdict, her family, led by a couple of patriarchs, celebrated outside the courtroom with a ceremonial chant, but it was a niece who spoke on their behalf to the media, expressing her belief that Jagtar Gill is happy now, in heaven.

If only.

Alas, there is no heaven, dear girl.

But there is, in Canada, no fault divorce available to anyone who no longer wishes to be married, which, in Canada, is roughly half of us.

Sure, it’s still wrenching and horrible, because, as luck usually has it, only one of the two in the relationship wants out, and kids and money are hard to divide fairly.

Also, they’re bargaining chips for the one of the two who doesn’t want out.

I highly recommend rolling over on kids and money if you’re the one who wants out.

But be warned, if you’re the female half of the couple, it means a lot of sucking up of social stigma, because patriarchy is a hard nut to crack.

It can be done, though. I did it. And I’m totally obsessed with what other people think of me. Also insanely competitive.

Hey, there you go, haters, new material.

It’s so enraging to read about the lives and deaths of women in other countries because of patriarchal belief systems that don’t recognize women as people, isn’t it. Even more enraging when it happens here, though, where we even have a statue dedicated to the Person’s Case.

It’s on Parliament Hill, too, where Pierre Elliot Trudeau decreed that we shalt have no fault divorce.

Imagine, Jagtar Gill was placed in an arranged marriage by her family and then murdered right here in the capital city of Canada because of it.

I don’t understand the complaint from some Canadians, particularly men, about people coming here from countries where girls and women can be murdered by the men in in their lives with impunity. After all, they can’t claim to care about girls and women from elsewhere, and then turn around and deny them entry to Canada, can they. And yet that’s what they do. They even claim to be of a superior politics to those of us who want to let more of these girls and women into what should be a safe haven for them, Canada.

We’ve come a long way, baby, but not far enough from that waspy reserve that condemns so many girls and women to sad and lonely lives behind closed doors.

What happened to Jagtar Gill is on a lot of people, I think, and we need to figure out how to help women like her before they end up just as dead here as they would be in the old country where the patriarchy thrives.

 

 

 

 

Good Eggs R Us, Too

So I did a bit of gardening yesterday and, honestly, I still have no idea what people like about it. I mean, I want our little patch of dirt to look nice, but already I wish it was fall so I could press delete and start all over next spring.

It never ends, the work. And our little patch of dirt is teeny tiny, too.

Alliteration is always a chuckle, isn’t it.

“Toto, too?”

“Toto, too.”

I was sad when Dorothy left colourful Oz for black and white Kansas because I didn’t get it. I was too young. I was bleak with disappointment when I realized in subsequent viewings that Dorothy had just been knocked unconscious by the window, and had dreamed Oz.

Oh, sorry eh.

Spoiler alert!

I was a very materialistic child and didn’t appreciate that you and your dog being in the way of idiot farmhands and cranky grandparents on a shabby farm was a much better life than leading an expedition into the unknown with three awesome amazing friends and your dog.

Anyway, I lifted and hauled and planted and so on and so forth and more of the same etc etc, and then I had to smoke a bit of my friend’s medicinal marijuana to relieve a new and different lower back pain than the one I usually just live and let live with.

It’s not bad, my usual lower back pain. It’s not even back pain, it’s a mild ache after I walk too far (which I often do) or stand too long (ditto) or do too much physical labour (ditto dee do).

I routinely do too much physical labour. If I wasn’t such an idiotic workhorse, I wouldn’t have any lower back pain at all, I’m pretty sure.

But apparently, marijuana is good for inflammation, which I did not know. I thought everybody was just making shit up about marijuana, claiming that it was medicinal because they wanted to get high, not that there’s anything wrong with getting high, although it won’t do much for our GDP.

Criminal that it isn’t yet for legal sale, for all of us, I mean. Because it did the trick for my back with the bonus that it didn’t make me as high as a kite, which I don’t like.

It’s back today, though.

That’s something I’ve discovered about myself post AA. I don’t actually like being high, I just want my body to relax and my mind to focus so that I can sit with my Beau and watch an entire season of television in one go on Netflix.

I am not good with tension and/or suspense but for some reason I can watch Bloodline, a bit of a Ewings/Kennedys mash-up set in the Florida keys.

I still don’t drink, and have no desire to, but after three years of absolute abstinence, I’ve decided to just say yes to marijuana.

Like, a month or so ago now.

But we were talking about AA, my medicinal marijuana friend and I, and she mentioned a male relative of hers who found a group that’s both agnostic and accepting of marijuana use. But I told her that wasn’t enough for me now because I don’t like the language or the steps, either.

I can’t read the literature because it just isn’t up to my standards and I can’t do the steps because I just don’t feel like it.

Look. Everybody. I’m sorry. Now get lives.

I do miss the people, though, and it’s been hard not being a part of the group, because they’re fun and interesting and down to earth and into being better people, unlike me, I guess.

Then she said something very interesting.

“AA’s for men. It gives them something to do while they don’t drink.”

Adding, “Muslim men who don’t drink bang their heads on the ground five times a day for something to do.”

She was talking about facing in the direction of Mecca and bowing down to the ground to pray, which I’ve seen Muslim men do on occasion even here in old stock Ottawa.

My friend used to give a nod to political correctness, although she’d always laugh if it was funny, regardless.

We go back to the NDP caucus at Queen’s Park, when saying girl instead of woman could get you the death penalty, but now she tells it like she sees it.

We have to watch a video she gave us so if I start denying climate change, you’ll know why.

Heck, she even voted Liberal in the last federal election. I didn’t, but I can’t say I wasn’t relieved when they won. Today I even tweeted an answer to our Prime Minister’s request for input into his youth strategy as Minister thereof.

Tell them: “Unless your parents have $$$, downsize expectations, because there’s no way to make $ now.” #pmyouthcouncil

But that’s not what this entry’s about because this entry is about a new hashtag I started (unless there was already one, I don’t really know how Twitter works, except that it’s a cesspool of sexism and racism) after I got back from Farm Boy.

It’s #ProblemSolversAtLarge and I started it because there was a young mother at the cash and she didn’t have enough money to pay for all her groceries. It was quite busy but before people could even react to the delay, the woman behind her gave the cashier $20 to cover the bill.

And she only got back a bit of change, too.

Anyway, the young mother was very appreciative and the woman who’d helped her out just waved it off like nothing and then paid for her own groceries with a debit card. I’m guessing because she’d just used the last of her cash.

It reminded me that not all of the problems of the world are too big to solve and that having someone do that for me, or being able to do that for someone else, is the world I live in, too.