Sunday February 07 , 2016

Category: Sooey Says

Gord Works in Mysterious Ways

I was thinking (and tweeting) last night about the Ghomeshi trial for sexual assault. It seems like it’s no different than a trial for sexual assault would have been decades ago really.

His lawyer, who is not about to let being a woman get in the way of being every bit as much of an asshole as any man, I guess, has successfully made it all about the behaviour of the complainants after they were assaulted.

You go grrl. Fuck those dumb bitches for getting punched in the head by your client and then going back for more. Or not. Whatever. Fuck those dumb bitches for acting contradictory like.

Cripes, I hope she never cross-examines me on the stand. I’m going to a potluck later today and if you read the email exchange you’d think I was just delighted to be doing it. Oh my gord, do I! Of course I want to go to a potluck! Thank you so much for inviting me!

Not! I so don’t want to go to this potluck!

That’s the subtext, though, and not visible to the recipient’s eye, only my Beau’s ear.

He doesn’t have to go.

On the surface, in the emails, the pictures, they don’t seem to be acting like the punches to the head put them off him any, do they. In fact, they seem to be acting like they’ll risk more just to have another chance at his company. Except they don’t actually seem to get more of it, do they. And he doesn’t seem to have delivered more of the punches, either. So they were just one offs, like they claim to have been hoping they were, and that deep down he was normal.

Oh, and by the way, where is the sex in all this assault? How frustrating would that have been, eh? To have thought you snagged this real sexy catch (if smarmy boyish hipsters are your type), but then he doesn’t have sex with you, he just punches you in the head and then acts like it never happened, leaving you wondering if it in fact did.

Our courts indulge in pretty one-sided psycho-analysis, if you ask me, which nobody ever does, rest be assured.

You know, I can remember chasing a guy, a real prick, too. But I was so infatuated with him. This was back in my first year of university. Anyway, he was so mean, really awful, but eventually I wore him down and made him my boyfriend.

Oh, and when I say mean and awful, I don’t mean physically violent because he wasn’t that. But he was into stuff I wasn’t into and looking back I realized I managed to avoid doing any of it. I can’t imagine how frustrating that was for him but I’ve come a long way in life to just have plain old straight up sexual relations with a human of the male persuasion, thank you, sir, and I’ll have none of your kinky shenanigans on the side.

Now straighten your pajamas and go to sleep. I must vacuum.

No, he was mean and awful in other ways, having sex with me like I was a last resort, shit talking me to his posse, and later pointing out all my various and sundry flaws, including friends and family.

Meanwhile, a girl who lived on my floor in residence, one of those girls who keeps track of everybody else’s goings on without ever compromising herself with any of her own, said to me after I’d finally managed to make him mine, “You’re like a cat who has her milk.”

Oh my gord I was an idiot back in the day.

But I was, I was like a cat who has her milk. Meanwhile, he would complain I was too tall, my breasts were too small, my teeth were funny. And I would pretend to listen while he went on about Spinoza ad nauseum while all my friends more or less said they’d see me when he dumped me because they couldn’t stand to be around him.


I got a venereal disease from him, he would regularly break up with me during exams, he had me convinced I was an entire inch shorter than I am, that I should have been thinner, I mean the list goes on and on.

If he could see me now.

Then one day we were sitting in the quad, which was unusual because he really didn’t like being seen with me (he thought it impeded his chances of doing better), and he said something about getting married (to me) and having kids (with me) and that he would send them to private school and so on and so forth and more of the same etc etc.

Now, he had a litany of complaints about his father, who was an old man when he was born, and his mother, who was the kindest and most giving woman I’d ever met, and both had been very involved in his educational comings and goings at the public schools he ad attended over the years, one elementary, one secondary. In fact, his father was a retired principal from one by the time I was dating him.

Anyway, something clicked in my head when he said the thing about sending our future kids to private school. I suddenly saw him. Us. And I realized it was not going to happen, this future.

It started to percolate around in my  head, this realization that it wasn’t me, it was him. As time went on I realized he’d been telling me that since I first saw him, a short, wiry haired guy with nice hands. Very nice hands. He had been a magician, in fact, and could still do magic tricks.

It’s funny, you know, because I’ve always had at least a bit of a drinking problem, but he would only ever have, say, a beer.

He was always watching his weight but he liked to eat so drinking was out. I just cut out food.

It wasn’t long after that little monologue in the quad that exams came along and he broke up with me again, as was his want. Except when he said it was time to get back together again (after exams) it was too late. I’d met someone else and begun a whole new relationship that would eventually devolve into the usual divorce but in between I very forcefully took the reins and was a homemaking mother of three.

And just to make sure I got enough homemaking mother of three in I stayed at it for a good dozen years. And I volunteered in their elementary school, continuing on reading with grade ones well after my son had moved on to higher grades.

You know, I really was born with a horse shoe up my ass, I’m not kidding about that. My actually quite good judgement was impeded for years by this and that, and the women in the Ghomeshi affair are fine now, too, aren’t they. They’ve come through to the other side, obviously, and this whole thing is shitty but I like how they’re making statements through their lawyers, letting us know that his lawyer did her worst, they did their best, it’s over now.

I think that’s the attitude women need to take, that the chance of conviction is zilch but just keep at it, knocking on the door of our justice system, such as it is, being let in, telling your truth, having everything that happened after dumped into public view, and letting it all go.

One after another and so on and so forth and more of the same etc etc.

Because every little bit helps. It really does. And maybe, you know, a special thanks to Ms Heinen because gord works in mysterious ways.






Evidence Matters

Holy cow, people – Heinen’s just doing a job like any other defence lawyer would. Her gender is irrelevant. Cripes, her expertise is, too. A monkey could get Ghomeshi off and I’m sure the brave women telling their truth in court know it.

They have lawyers, too, after all.

And yes, I believe them. So fuck off if you don’t and relax, he’ll get off.

But I wonder at CBC’s coverage a bit, I really do. They seem almost eager at the pitfalls of testifying in a sexual assault case and yet CBC executives were rattled enough by what they witnessed in Ghomeshi’s video presentation that they fired him. Instantly. After years of denialist enabling.

Grr. Whatever. Evidence matters.



Feelin’ Guilty

Okay so I try to do three short walks a day in my new temporary gig because I’m used to doing hour long perambulations with the dog and I want to stay a little bit in shape.

I know, it’s kind of telling that my major concern is keeping some semblance of my ne’erdowell routine from home while I acquire secretary spread at the office, but get off my slacker back.

I told you. I don’t like having to work for money.

And office jobs are such a menace. Although I have to really wring out the complaints for this one because it’s just not that bad, which almost makes it worse. If you’re me, I mean. Easier for you, I guess.

Cripes, I’m even kind of interested in the subject matter.

Today I read the Criminal Code. It has nothing to do with the job but I got sidetracked doing something else and one thing led to another and now I know things I didn’t before.

Who knew how easy law is.

My manager seems super disappointed that I’m not fluently bilingual but I’m like the littlest hobo and will want to move on in a few months anyway so her disappointment just reassures me that I’m okay for now.

Anyway, today I was on my morning break walk around the block and a young man approached me.

“Hi. Can you give me some money? I’m trying to make twenty dollars in twenty minutes.”

So I looked in my purse, shielding it from his prying eyes because I had a loose twenty dollar bill in there I was pretty sure, and found a twoonie and a loonie. So three dollars.

“Here you go, three dollars in about ten seconds so you’re off to a good start.”

“Thanks. Do you have any more money?”

“Well yeah. But I need it.”

“Okay. Have a good day.”

“You, too.”

Oh my fucking god I feel so guilty now. I could have so totally made his day by giving him twenty dollars. Ugh. I’m such a miser sometimes. I even made up for the twoonie already by being cheap elsewhere.

I’ll level with you. I have a bit of an obsessive compulsive thing going on and the first couple of days that I worked I didn’t spend any money at all. I brought everything I needed from home. I also don’t drink coffee or tea at work, just boiled water. And those first couple of days set a pattern.

Anyway, today a co-worker told me that his people believe that a baby cries when he’s born because earlier in the womb he is visited by a spirit who tells him what his purpose in life is. But as he travels through the birth canal he starts to forget what the spirit told him. And when he finally makes it to the other side he cries out because he doesn’t know anymore what his purpose in life is.

And he’ll have to spend the rest of his life looking for his purpose and he might never find it.

Don’t worry, he’s got a million of ‘em and I’ll pass them all along.


To the Women Testifying Against Jian Ghomeshi

I’m sure what’s her name is a good lawyer, but I’m not sure a man needs one to get off on charges of sexual assault.

And the media can report that a woman’s credibility has been brought into question under tough cross-examination by the defence, but it really hasn’t.

I believe the woman who testified yesterday against Jian Ghomeshi. Don’t you? Of course you do. I’d have believed her even if she kept going out with him, which she didn’t, and so would you.

Sexual assault trauma is weird like that sometimes. It can play tricks on a person. She can think she deserves it because it happened. But we know all that because we read, we watch, maybe we’ve even had therapy and learned.

Jian Ghomeshi is a violent misogynist in disguise as a boyish hipster and he’s as guilty as fuck. Of course he punched the woman who said he did in the head. Of course he pulled her hair. Of course, of course, of course. And he was enabled by every Tom, Dick and Mary before, during and after the CBC.

So his lawyer is giving him the only defence she can, which is to question memory and motive of the women he sexually assaulted.

Go for it, sister. Shouldn’t be hard to get him off, although I’d keep your distance. He’s a bad date.

Bleed him, at least. Then give the proceeds to a women’s shelter.


Anyway, this post is a shout out to the women testifying against Jian Ghomeshe to let them know that we believe you. He’ll be found not guilty, and it will feel like you weren’t, but you told your stories in court, and there’s not much more you can do.

I’d say every little bit helps, but I suspect it doesn’t make any difference. Although thanks for the statement after court yesterday letting us know that you feel unburdened, at least.

There is no justice.

My advice is now to let it go.



Wishing Well

Oh my god oh my god oh my god – it’s Friday! I’m going to wear to work what in any other era would have been a firing offence. No, not jeans – sweatpants!

It’s okay, they aren’t thick with elastic around the ankle, they’re thin and flared. I’ll wear tights underneath them, too. And a permutation of my usual shirt with sweater combo. That’s a carry over from the store where I sold ladies wear looking like quite the dapper (is he or isn’t he) little gentleman.

I’m having a hard time finding fault with this job but you know how I feel about working for money so don’t think for a minute that I’m not suffering in silence.

Here’s my mantra again. Do it for me, please, because I keep forgetting on account of this damned hell shit job is always doing that Jedi mind trick thing on me:

Everything is fine.

I wish everybody well.

It works great while I’m sitting there doing nothing saying it. Of course, as soon as I move it’s chaos again and I hate everybody.

Not you, of course.