Monday December 22 , 2014

Speaking of Buses – *Updated With Added Ball Shriveling Tedium

I just posted this on Facebook so I thought I’d jolly up my blog a bit and post it here, too.

On the bus home today I sat in the only empty seat which turned out to be beside a woman on the phone, telling her former boyfriend – over and over and over – why they wouldn’t be getting back together – again.

“No, we’re not going back there. I’m done with you and your lack of ambition. All you want to do is hang out. I’m going places.”

(Remember – we’re on the bus. And not one of the transitway buses, either. A local route bus.)

*I forgot this part in my Facebook post which I remembered later in a comment. It’s important because I came home and repeated it to my Beau and now I’m worried I may have permanently shrunk his balls.

“You’re too late. Where were you when I needed you four years ago, three years ago, two years ago, one year ago, one month ago, one week ago, one day ago, one hour ago, one minute ago.”

It was like sitting beside a Montel Williams episode.

*For four years, three years, two years…

Finally, after telling him he should have asked for her hand in marriage the moment he met her (immediately after which she barked, “It’s a figure of speech, you f&cking dumb&ass! Omigawd! You’re such a loser! I can’t believe I wasted four f&cking years of my life with you!”) she ended the call.

I thought that was it and the rest of us could go about our ride in the usual discomfort, but no. Some IDIOT sitting TWO ROWS away from her starts giving her the thumbs up.

“You go, grrl. You were too good for him. I heard all that and he took you for granted. Good for you.”

A man. A man, oh, say, about 40 (evidently a case of arrested development – at the 16 year old girl stage?) starts in about his ex and how SHE took HIM for granted for like, eight years, and now he’s glad she dumped him because he’s got a better girlfriend.

“You can do better, too!” he tells her. “I’m 40 and she’s 39. It’s never too late.”

So she gets all fired up again.

“Yeah! I’m just 34. This is great I feel great. I’ve got a clear horizon. He was totally holding me back. I told him a thousand times to quit smoking hash and he wouldn’t.”

At this point I’m only pretending to read “The 100 year old man who climbed out the window and disappeared” and sneak a peak at Buddy Idiot and sure enough I could practically see the wheels turning slower, slower, slower.

“Oh yeah? Huh… So like, huh. Hash, eh? Wow. It’s been years since I smoked hash.”

And then I glance at her and see the wheels in her head speeding up, faster, faster, faster.

“Omigawd, I thought at least you wanted to score with me, but you just wanna score. Omigawd, omigawd, omigawd. Druggie pervert!”

And then, praise be to the gords, she pulls the cord because it’s her stop and Buddy Idiot turns around and faces forward and that was the end of the show.

Seriously, who needs cable when you’ve got public transit?

Except I canceled cable because of crap like this!


Keep Calm and Carry On (the Buses, etc)

Okay, I’m trying to do that thing humourists? do and keep a certain tone to “my book! my book! won’t everyone please think of my book!” – but – I don’t want to do that thing humourists do and alienate people like me from reading it.

Do you know what I mean?

I know this will surprise you, but it’s easy for a Feminist (like myself) to slip into a pointy, some might say hectoring, tone that’s funny for, say, someone seeking to mock Feminists (like myself) for being pointy, but then that person gets the credit, doesn’t HE.

Q: How many Feminists does it take to screw in a light bulb?

A: That’s not funny!

But it’s also easy for humourists to alienate me with a certain tone that implies nothing matters because HE’s just an asshole who doesn’t give a shit, which causes me to think (I think in quotation marks) “Fuck you, asshole who doesn’t give a shit, I’m not reading your book then!”

Retail is a joke, but I’m not sure how funny it is. Except, I guess, that it’s a joke on all of us so, okay. Hm. Ah. Got it. Never mind.

Back at it. I’m writing the chapter on “Black Friday” today because it’s funny, dammit!

Get laughing, you bastards!

So I have a new commenter, you may have noticed, and while you probably think he’s proselytizing for Conservatism, I believe he’s challenging me to keep a sense of humour.

For writing my book. Not for blogging. I save pointy for blogging, as you have probably also noticed.

For instance, when I detect what the young Feminists refer to as “slut shaming” coming from a middle-aged man, it irks me, not in a funny way, in a pointy way, because slut shaming, we should know, is how a middle-aged man was able to murder Amanda Todd without actually laying a hand on her.

It’s how the good citizens of Nova Scotia were able to murder Rehtaeh Parsons without actually laying their hands on her, too. It wasn’t being raped while under the influence (although we assume she was vomiting because of the alcohol and not because of the assault) that killed her. It was the slut shaming that did.

She doesn’t know that the rapists essentially got off (because law and order is such in Nova Scotia, at least, that rape isn’t considered a serious enough crime for investigation) because slut shaming had already killed her.

It’s why I speak up, and why I try to keep a humourous tone about my own sexual history, because if I’m not careful – and I’m a middle-aged woman – I can misremember it (to use a word a former book club member insists isn’t, but fukker for being a former book club member and not a current one) in a humourless way. And that’s not how it was.

My poor dead friend and I laughed ourselves silly over it. Sluttery was fun. And I’d been lucky enough to fall in with a good crowd on my 18th birthday in the Sault, so I had a clue when I ran into slut shaming from South House, Burwash Hall, Victoria College, University of Toronto in 1977/78, and I knew that it wasn’t me who was behaving badly, it was them.

And if you don’t believe me, one of them ended up doing time in prison for attempted murder – of his girlfriend. And thanks to U of T turning a blind eye to his assaults against women while he lived in their residence, he was able to become a lawyer first.

It could have been worse, ladies, because he could have become a doctor!

So check those graduating years before you sign on the dotted line, is my advice. The late ’70s/early ’80s were times of terrible backlash.

I don’t know if he was a Young Conservative, as they’re called, but he was certainly a Conservative Party prosyletizer, I hate to inform my recently arrived commenter, who is absolutely welcome, I’m sure.

Total lie (except for being absolutely welcome – he is). It’s fun informing him that slut shaming, violence against women, Conservatism, it’s all just fifty shades of grey to me.

And not in a good way, either.


Heap Big White Crook

Hi, I’m back from insufficiently satisfying attention whoring on Dr. Dawg’s blog again to contain it here until my book is finished.

All together now: “Her book! Her book! Won’t somebody please think of her book!”

But I’ve noticed something mildly unsavoury about myself, internet-wise (talk about an oxymoron, eh?) which is that I fall into all of those categories of awful human being that I’m constantly reading about online, my personal failings well exceeding my height to weight ratio, which I often pat myself on the back for calculating out to slim.

So yeah, once I’ve written about my year in retail, I think I’ll take a stab at my decade and a half online. There’s banality and bathos to be mined there for sure.

Spoiler-alert: The villain is also the match-maker.

“Grrroooheee!” he’ll hyenasqueal as he shakes his fist at an indifferent universe.

Oh my. I’m excited about it already. It’s because I still have this book to write, though, isn’t it, that I’ve started going on (and on, just you wait!) about the next one.

So tricky, procrastination, which I learned online is actually the flip side of impulsiveness.

Or maybe instead of writing I’ll add another layer of material to our blinds and risk the two of us falling into comas at night so dark and insulated is our bedroom now.

Just kidding.

Today’s a day off so I’m blogging out this upcoming mea culpa to the world now so I can get the introduction to “my book! my book!” down before noon.

Yes, I’ve got a forward and now I’m doing an introduction.

Heads up, critics (and haters) -  “unorthodox”. Also, a quick read.

But that’s not what this entry is about (my book! my book!) because this entry is about reading Chris Rock on race relations in America, which he says boil down to the fact that white people were crazy and now we’re not as crazy.

And the Daily Kos took his accusation, which is addressed to us white liberals who think we get it but actually don’t, and juxtaposed it to what Susan Brownmiller says in Against Our Will, Men, Women and Rape, which is that even though most men don’t rape women, all men benefit from the constraints that the threat of rape imposes on women.

Here is it:

And it was then that I had my eureka! moment by intellectualizing what my daughter had suggested to me recently in conversation, which is that white Feminists need to step aside and cede the space we’ve inherited to women of colour so that they can take our places and have their voices heard.

Move yo’ lilly white asses over, beeyatches.

I know, I know, but Chris Rock concedes it isn’t fair but neither is inheriting all that money you didn’t work for so shaddup about fair, although he doesn’t say “shaddup about fair”, that’s me, because I have to one-up even Chris Rock, I’m such a racist I realize now.

By the way, I referred to Stephen Harper as “Heap Big White Crook” the other day and it really resonated with people so pass it on, eh?

So yes, I do feel freer, acknowledging how racist I’ve been, thanks for asking, and I hope to go forth in this life ceding space to others because I am so effin’ privileged it’s beyond ridiculous, every bit of it inherited, and you should, too, you should.

NOT that I’m here to tell you what to do except BUY MY BOOK!

Anyway, time to get writing it but I wanted to blog out a bit of politics first, which can be burdensome and tedious and best to get it out here for free than trick you into paying for it, don’t you agree?

I also realized that if I can figure it out about my racism then Chris Rock can figure it out about his sexism and instead of making documentaries about how black women are doing it all wrong because, you know – hair – he could turn the camera around and analyze how he benefits from the constraints that the threat of rape imposes on them.


Because we’re all people now.



Ready Your Piggy Banks!

Omigawd. So far, I’m lurvin’ my book. I wrote the forward/introduction thingy this morning (which I hadn’t even planned on doing until there it was!) and I’m just going to leave it now and move on to chapter one, which will be about getting the job at the store.

I’ll probably want to do an outline sooner rather than later but I’m writing while the mood is hot (as opposed to fraught, which is worse than useless).

Holy crap, I can hardly believe it, myself so you’re probably having an even harder time believing it! But it’s true! I can feel it! It’s happening this time!


Sooey Solver

You’ll have to excuse me, I’m a little bit hoarse from shouting at CBC’s Hard to Watch panel last night, which also caused me to feel very let down.

Very. Let. Down.

But I want to move on from this topic (I start my book in ten minutes – wish me luck) so I thought (in quotation marks) “Hm, I belong to an awesome program that has helped me sort the rational from the reactionary. Why not try that here?”

And it came to me.

We have to stop referring to gender and and start referring to people.

So here goes.

Everybody: stop making excuses for people who sexually assault other people.

Pass it on.


Moving Right Along

Omigawd, I’m boring even me now. Seriously, I like men.

As people.

Just. Not as a gender.

Aw c’mon, guys, you don’t like us as a gender, either. Admit it.

But I was out tonight, with friends from the internet, at an overpriced new eatery in Ottawa where I tried the spelt risotto with grilled vegetables.

Now that I don’t drink (we were at a beer palace for hipster douches – I had a very nice iced tea) it’s not so much about how good the meal is as about trying something different.

It was okay, except for the spelt risotto. The smoked meat poutine was awesome, though.

My friends over-ordered.

My Beau had a steak, which reminded me that I should make steak every now and again because I’m an omnivore.

One of my friends is a gourmand and kind of like an opposite me in terms of how she lives. It’s very inspiring. It would be fun to pretend to be her some time when we’re out. See if she notices.

Omigawd. Then carry it over into the next day and toss all that baggage I’ve been carrying around for no good reason.

Also, I’m very excited about writing a book now and will keep my blogging light (of mood) so as not to bog myself down. I’ve even got a little plot on the go with rumours and suspects and whatnot.

I’ll try not to use the word whatnot in my book. It’s really the worst cop out for ending a sentence.

One of my AA friends was talking about learning how to meditate on her last vacation and I said, “Cripes, isn’t not drinking enough?”

By the way, if you were at the beer palace place we were at tonight, I was the middle aged lady who looked like Rex Reed. Not that Rex Reed, either, the other one, the one from the 60s. It was my hair, I think. Possibly, my ascot.

Anyway, here’s a bone for you men if you’re still reading my blog after I splattered it with all my man-hating (which is so not real, honest, or I’m the fakest flirt on the planet, and I’m not). Our friend is going through a terrible time and it’s all because of a woman he met who is just the worst gold-digging nightmare you can imagine. I hate her and I don’t even know her. She gives gold-digging nightmares a bad name.

Know, please, that I have nothing but sympathy for anyone decent involved in a relationship with anyone indecent. I wish I could help you. I’ve never really been in that kind of relationship, though, so all I can do is tsk tsk and that’s a shame and offer over and over and over to come to your house and kick her out of it for you because I can’t stand it when decent people are taken advantage of by indecent people.

I always say to my kids that it’s not the people, it’s the relationship between the people that’s the problem (because you never know when a kid will get back with whoever it is they’ve dumped or been dumped by so never cut him/her out of pictures like my mom did with my ex (the one before my next ex) because it was very awkward when we were looking through the box of pictures one Christmas and his head was missing from them all) but in this case it’s the person.

Worst. Person. Ever.

And she’s a woman. So there you go, guys. And, omigawd, he had such an awesome bachelor life goin’ on, too. It was like a show on the tele-o-vision.

And, oh, no wait, nope, I’m saving the rest for my book. I’ve got two more buyers lined up and I can probably get my Beau to cough up and now that I’ve blogged about my inspiring friend I’m sure she’ll buy a copy, too. And her manfriend, although maybe I’ll just get him to tweet about it.

He’s got a gazillion followers.

Which is what this entry is about because I feel like Andrew Coyne is better than me now on account of he left Twitter and I don’t think I can stand for Andrew Coyne to be better than me so if I figure out how to leave Twitter this week I think I will.

Seriously, fuck you, again, Al Gore. The internet is the worst time wasting moron of them all.




My daughter came over last night and we talked about this and that.

She’s so much smarter about sexism than I am. More insight, less emotion, so know that our daughters must have grown up in a better society, at least.

Starting from where we left off?

And they have better fathers who want as much for their daughters as they do for their sons. That’s a big change, isn’t it. Wanting equality for your own, at least.

But Louis CK is still right so don’t go patting yourselves on the back, daddies. Until you care about my daughters, too, eff you.

It’s irksome how men in politics can get away with talking so effin’ much about future generations of other people’s children, when they don’t show any concern for them now, and yet the media never calls them on it.

For a while, she would send me updates from The Good Men Project.

“Grr. How come men get to refer to themselves as good just for pointing out that other men are bad?” I said.

“Hah! I know, eh?”

But she’s not mad about it, like I am. She breaks it down into manageable bits of humanity while I lash out in all directions at an indifferent universe.

“Meanwhile, women still can’t take a walk alone at night”, I said.

“Well, we can, we just don’t. We’re taught to be afraid.”

I think it’s where my rage comes from, knowing that instead of teaching my daughters to be free, I taught them to be afraid.

My fear for them is crazy. Or crazy-making. Either way, it doesn’t matter, does it. They can walk around alone at night but if anything happens to them they’ll be blamed for it. By their own mother, no less.

There’s no good reason why I couldn’t have been made to feel safe to walk alone at night, so that I could have taught my daughters to be free, but no one who could did anything to help get me there, to my safe place, which in Canada should be everywhere but isn’t anywhere.

“What? She left her doors unlocked at night? Her bedroom window was wide open? No wonder she was raped!”

But my older sister was raped by a knife wielding stranger who leapt out from behind a bush while she walked home from work late at night in her long hippie skirt and there were police and suspects and other victims and an investigation and in the end no charges.

One of the suspects is now a police officer.

Why isn’t it safe for my gender to walk alone at night in the country where we live and work and get married and have children and pay taxes that only ever go up for us but go down for the straight white men who have all the power in the world to make it better?

(My daughter is much more politically correct than I am and believes that the voices we need to make room for now – by moving over, and it’s our responsibility to move over – are those of the LGBT community and women of colour.)

She’s right. Addressing racism addresses sexism and vice versa so why not let people affected by both lead the discussion.

Evidence that it isn’t safe for a woman to be out and about alone at night lies in rape and murder statistics.

Of course, evidence that where and when doesn’t matter lies in rape and murder statistics, too.

Why is rape so often followed by murder, or, more exactly, why do we put it that way, as if one is in any way equivalent to the other.

It isn’t. It’s just put that way in a Stones’ song by Marianne Faithful, the soulful Stone. Rape has nothing to do with murder. Murder is the end, unjustifiable injustice, one human being assuming the power of death over another.

Yes, I know, more men are killed by men.

Won’t somebody please think of the men killed by men?!

Femicide is honour killing is suttee is back again to murder/suicide is she was out walking alone at night.

I’m struck by all the excuse-making for Ezra Levant finding himself on the losing end of a libel suit, that he has some kind of mental disorder and isn’t just playing politics with people’s lives in the same way that his mentor, Stephen Harper, does.

Meanwhile, it’s as easy as pie to sue and win for libel in Canada. I’ve been slandered many times on the internet, always by men.

I figure the slander falls under the category of being pissed on from a very low height, though, and I’ve never bothered to sue. Besides, the men who slander me are regularly sued by others, men with deeper pockets, for the same.

It’s one of those games that is more fun to watch than to play.

Why doesn’t the Conservative Party or Pierre Karl Peladeau pick up Ezra Levant’s libel tab?

After all, he once worked for Stephen Harper, helped get him to power, even. And, like I say, Stephen Harper’s entire modus operandi has been to slander his perceived enemies, people like you and me, his sister and brother taxpayers and co-citizens, even his colleagues, and look where it got him.

Cripes, he’s Prime Minister, isn’t he. I just saw him on the news beating his chest about women somewhere overseas and how he, Heap Big White Man, is going to save them from their brown men using our multicultural tax dollars.

Be nice if he’d used our multicultural tax dollars to save us from Heap Big White Men, eh?

Too funny that oil is falling in price and we’re being warned from the airwaves that we’re all about to suffer for it, so don’t think it’s funny, there, Li’l Missy.

“Stop laughing! It’s not funny! Grr! Just you wait, Li’l Missy! Don’t make us come up there!”

I don’t give a shit if the store I work in goes under or not. Why would I care about oil prices out in Alberta? Sink. Swim. What difference does it make to me? What difference does it make to all the missing and murdered Aboriginal women out in Alberta (and everywhere else in Canada, of course).

Did that one party banana republic company town out west ever even get around to improving conditions on the death road to Fort Mac?

No. No it did not. Dumbasses.

Vote Conservative again why doncha?

Apparently, Michael’s has been sued for inflating original prices before Black Friday and then sale pricing craft items back up to their original prices.

By whom, though? Who does the suing in these suits? Can you imagine suing a retail chain over its pricing practices?

Me, neither, but I guess somebody does it. I don’t go to Michael’s because I don’t have a car and crafts are pointless now because they already arrived finished to stores from China. Really cute crafts. Tout finis.

That makes me sad, actually, but my daughter makes crafts all the time, so I guess it’s me that’s the problem, not the cute crafts already made-in-China that line the shelves of the Dollar Store.

Speaking of which, when I stand waiting for the bus to show up so I can get to work before my shift is over, I watch single occupancy vehicle after single occupancy vehicle go by me and most of those single occupants are women.

Cars are worth almost any expense to women because they give us freedom. I had a manager once in the government who put it thusly, “My car is my freedom and it’s been that way since I was sixteen.”

I see all these road warriors out on their bikes and I think, “How nice for you. Heads up, ladies. Men are biking.”

The MP who claimed to wear a camera to prevent besmirchment of his good character by bad women was made to retract his comment by the pinocchios who work in the Prime Minister’s office, but I think he might be on to something.

So ass backwards, isn’t it, that people in power, with power, continue to blame people who don’t have any for all that’s wrong with the world.

Disclaimer: #notallmen.

Oh, except, when you do take the bus, men, please understand that I make myself as small as I can, not so that you can spread your legs even wider, letting your knees comfortable splay out to either side, touching two women at once, but because I recognize that you’re bigger and need more room. I shouldn’t have to look over at the other woman and the two of us roll our eyes at each other for you to get it, but I guess that’s as good as it gets, some days.

So thank you. And give yourself a pat on the back for not raping and murdering us later, my good man.

Ah, but the dog story requested by sharktooth in the comments. Well, I’m written out for today. Besides, my daughter says I have to start my book or I’ll never finish it.

So smart, that kid.

I know, I know, lighten up, Sooey. Why are you so effin’ angry at men?

Well, why aren’t you?


Black Friday Blues

For the first time since I started selling ladieswear, a year ago (almost) now, I missed a shift.

It wasn’t just my screw up, though, so I don’t feel too bad about it.

(Total lie, I don’t feel bad about it at all.)

And then I gave away a shift because I needed it less than someone else, so this may be the beginning of the end and I’ll have more time to write my book.

(Total spin. I’m a lazy cow who dumped her shift on someone else.)

My book, my book, won’t somebody please think of my book!

(My mom phoned today with her idea for part one of the opening line for my book. Are you ready? “Just got home from the store and…” That’s it. What do you think?)

Embarrassing as it is to admit, having a job to go to takes me off the internet, which isn’t exactly making me a better person, is it, so instead of selling ladieswear, which isn’t exactly making me a better person, either, but whatever, I was cruising the internet wondering at the number of men (and women, too!) who insist that men have a right to expect sex under certain conditions and that women can’t claim to have been sexually assaulted (later) if men believe those conditions were met.

Or even if they don’t and they weren’t but one thing led to another and jesus h christ on a candy cane how can sex for me be assault to you and so on and so forth and more of the same etc etc.

I mean, you’d think men were being charged and convicted for sexually assaulting women every time they had sex with a woman who didn’t want to have sex with them the way they carry on about ruined careers and destroyed lives, every other Tom Dick and Harry (er, hairy dicked tom?) carted off to prison thanks to a wanton dame’s regrets after a little of the in/out.

Relax, Canada. Jian Ghomeshi is unlikely to be found guilty of sexual assault even though we all know he is. The trial won’t even be about sexual assault, or even him, it’ll be about the women he punched and/or choked, their words against his silence, his lady lawyer stripping them down one by one to expose all their self doubt and second guessing and failure to act like any sane adult would to a punch in the head or a hand around the throat.

Get out of the house!


We’re all guilty. It’s not hard to ask enough questions to prove it.

Why are men (and women, too!) having to be dragged, kicking and screaming, into civilization? What is so difficult about the concept of “yes means yes”, that women should be enthusiastic initiators, even, so that men know the sex is consensual, that men (and women, too!) are railing against it and gnashing their teeth about it. Are these men who rail against and gnash teeth about the right of women to actually want to have sex with a man, unequivocally, before he can presume to have sex with her, as opposed to having to have it because he wants it and she’s there, so… are these men routinely having sex with women who don’t want to have sex with them?

Are Canadian men all a bunch of rapists?

Or are they arguing out of habit and there’s a whole cyber world to indulge them while they lament these new fangled times where a woman can go alone with a man to his hotel room and not expect that he can have his way with her?

Anyway, I apologized to a man I was quite rude to some time ago because he knew Julian Assange to be a rapist because not one, but two, women came forward to report that he had used his body weight to over power them, each claiming that he then put his penis in her vagina (as in, committed sexual assault). And I was in denial in those days because I was still an idiot and busy believing that it was some kind of vast rightwing conspiracy and that he wasn’t just a run-of-the-mill rapist who maybe/maybe not shared some of my political sentiments.

Always remember, no wait, never forget, ladies – there is no solidarity for women as long as this is a man’s world.

And it is a man’s world.

But it’s late and Black Friday is coming up and so I’ll leave off this discussion that has left me so disappointed in everybody. Except I guess myself because I’m feeling kind of chuffed about deleting that piece of shit Julian Assange from my Christmas card list.

(And no, I don’t really have a Christmas card list or you’d have been getting Christmas cards from me every year for putting up with my personal growth spurts.)

Now do what I say and stay out of the stores tomorrow or Canadian retailers will never learn and everything will be every bit as stupid next year as this.



Dear Jerry – Updated To Be Less Rude To Jerry

When I read the account of what took place I could feel the rage rising. And I tweeted in haste because I wanted to dump some of it into cyber space. Then a man who favourites and retweets a lot of my stuff replied that it didn’t really seem like sexual assault.

And I tweeted “wrong. it was sexual assault. & this conversation is over.”

So he retweeted that because he’s apparently a passive aggressive fuckwit and good for him.


Some conversations I don’t have anymore. Most of them, actually. Fuck you, men. I don’t have to converse with you. Some days you’re lucky and I do, most days (going forward, as they say) you won’t be so lucky and I won’t waste my time.

You’re deliberately defensive of savagery and I dearly wish you could all be sexually assaulted by each other so you could have the merest inkling of what sexual assault is, what it feels like, so you’ll know.

We know. You don’t.

I read this comment while I was having my coffee this morning, in spite of the fact that I’d vowed earlier to stay away from such haunts and just blog and write a book about my year in retail:

Jerry says:

Not that I really want to wade into this, but isn’t handing someone a condom to have sex with you when you almost sort of want to have it somewhere near ‘no means yes’ consent? The man’s life has been ruined without appeal over this kind of moral ambiguity?

I worked for politicians, almost all of them male, I’ve worked for and with lots of men over the years. I’ve been in lots of “situations” and I’m only now starting to realize how lucky I am to be alive. I partied, was a party girl, for a good decade before I abstained – completely – from alcohol and drugs, got married, had kids, lived in the ‘burbs.

It’s amazing to me that I’m still heterosexual, when it comes right down to it.

The man behind this comment, he’s added the “you almost sort of want to have it” to claim there was “moral ambiguity” to her forthcoming, brave, and very honest account of what happened.

He’s imagining the “you almost sort of want to have it”. He’s pretending there is “moral ambiguity”.

And far from ruining this man’s life (the MP at issue) perhaps he’ll feel shame for once in it and get help, apologize, do whatever it takes to leave his unconscionable ways behind and become a real live man.

Don’t hold your breath, ladies. We know the likelihood of that, don’t we. More likely he’ll sue her. And win. It’s Canada, after all, where anyone with a lawyer can win a libel suit.

And yes, she added a condom to the mix, a condom that he would not have added because he’s a big old ugly mutt scoring, getting his rocks off, with a young woman who was sexually assaulted as a teenager (as so many women have been because men sexually assault teenaged girls, out and about and finding ourselves in their company as it happens) and who froze, was paralyzed, acted in a way that I completely recognize – well into my 50s, I completely recognize it – as normal.

It’s a normal reaction when you’re about to be sexually assaulted, I’m sorry to say. It’s a weird and awful truth but somewhere deep down a survival instinct kicks in and you start mitigating. And mitigating means you go ahead and let him do it to you.

Sometimes, and this is really sick, I know, but you even pretend to like it.

You don’t get it, Jerry. You just don’t get it.

She was in pain for three days. She could barely sit down. There isn’t a woman in Canada who can honestly deny her story doesn’t just have the ring of truth to it, it is absolutely the truth.

Dishonest women will deny her, the shameless man defenders will rush in to fill the void every fucking time a woman tells the truth about what sexual assault is, they will deny her story is the absolute truth because they’re sociopaths and they don’t care about men or women, they just care about power.

And men have power.

The truth of sexual assault is that he sexually assaulted her because, no, she didn’t want to have it, Jerry.

Look at him.

Listen to her.

The sex hurt, she said.

“Three days after the incident, I had trouble sitting down without being in pain.”

She grimaced every time she sat down, feeling pain in her abdomen.

She never confronted Pacetti after the fact. “It was in a box, and we pretended it didn’t exist,” she said.

See, fellas, you can pretend that she “almost sort of wanted to have it”, but she didn’t, and you know she didn’t. You’ll never go to jail for it (not our lawmakers, who’ve been up to this sort of criminality since forever) don’t worry, but don’t expect me to give a shit about anybody’s career. Rape just isn’t as big a stretch for you as society (i.e. your constituency) pretends it is.

Now. Now that we’re all so educated about no means no – right?

Except it’s not no means no, ya dumbasses, it’s yes means yes.

Please try to keep up with civilization.

Let me put it this way, at least: Real men need an unequivocal yes to even want it. How’s that? Because if you aren’t getting that unequivocal yes, you’re stretching consent to suit your overdeveloped primitive brain and denying your underdeveloped frontal lobe because you’re still a savage, you’re not fully human, and maybe you shouldn’t put young women in a situation in which they’re alone with you in a hotel room.

Don’t invite her to be alone in your company, ‘kay? How hard is that? Know in advance from Sooey Says that she doesn’t want to have sex with you because you’re a big old ugly mutt and she’s a young woman.

So yes, Jerry? Be sexed upon by a big old ugly mutt until you can’t sit down for three days and come back and tell us all how good it was, please, and that you almost sort of wanted to have it because you thought to protect yourself from worse with a condom.

Better yet. Don’t. Just stop. Shut up. Listen.


It’s the Shop Shoppingest Day of the Year…

I’ve commented a couple of times at my old haunt but I’m stopping again now so if you missed me you’re too late.

I’m doing a couple of home repair projects and then it’s full steam ahead on my book, which is going to be about my year in retail, in case you haven’t been reading my blog lately, either.

If you live in the Ottawa area and feel lower’n a sow’s belly, it’s because of the weather, which is delivering unto us a seriously windy low pressure system.

It’s not the economy because YOU are the economy.


(Although I suppose it’s true that you can depress yourself, so stop depressing yourself and get a second job at the mall if you need more money. Black Friday is this week and you’ll get hired, no questions asked, if you have a head. Your brain doesn’t even have to work, you just need to look like you have one because your head, your head will be there to say, “Can I help you, you stupid moron, for lacking any sense at all such that you’re shopping at the same time as every other stupid moron?”)

(The best part about Black Friday is that it never lives up to expectations and then stores complain all Christmas season about lower than expected sales, and point to Black Friday as the culprit because Canadians aren’t spending as much money they don’t have as they used to back when we didn’t know you need jobs to keep up with making money.)

I made so little money last year that I got the taxes I paid back.

So, I guess I’m not entitled to my entitlements anymore, which is fine with me because I never go to the doctor anyway. I’m afraid she’ll tell me I have osteoporosis, and since there’s nothing to be done about it, I’d rather just add more milk to my coffee.

I’m thinking of giving up coffee, did I tell you? Yup. The good stuff is too expensive and the bad stuff just pads the evil empire of the Koch Brothers, so yeah, soon I’ll just boil water and play pretend.

Expect a few seriously crabby blog entries shortly.

And then nothing because I’ve dropped dead from a lack of coffee.

I almost lost my mind the other day when the Premiers of Ontario and Quebec got together, finally, to transform our provinces into a couple of powerhouses, and the man half pointed out to the media in attendance that climate change hurts the economy, too.

Do you fuckin’ believe that it was the first time I’ve heard a governing politician say something to that effect? Those eedjit goons in Ottawa have been shilling for Tarsands Inc for eight years and finally – finally – another politician said, “Yabbut, climate change, too, eh”.

Facebook says the Koch Brothers are funding the goons in Ottawa. No seriously. Check it out. Everything evil is the Koch Brothers. The rest of us are just helpless victims because it’s too hard to protest and too easy to go along.

No, I’m not lecturing you, I’m juss sayin’. It doesn’t matter. The sooner we’re all poor, the better. Seriously, it’ll be fun. Stop trying so hard and be poor, dammit!

It’s like Santa has a special style section in his workshop with elves designing outfits just for Premier Wynne, eh?

No, I’m not criticizing. I voted for her because she’s so stylish. I’m thinking of voting Liberal because Justin Trudeau is so stylish, too.

Just kidding. I’ll vote NDP because he or she is bound to be more stylish than the Liberal.

I don’t know if you watch The National or not but last Thursday night Wendy Mesley (who seems to have expanded her range from best interviewer ever when she worked on Marketplace and grilled crooks to worst interviewer ever on The National – no seriously – bring back Jian Ghomeshi, please) announced the important news on the nation’s most watched political panel that Andrew Coyne has left Twitter.

No, I cannot get out of here. Andrew Coyne has left Twitter.

Anyway, it got me t’inkin’ about what a time wasting moron I’ve been (you’re welcome, haters) and that the only reason I haven’t written a book yet is because I’ve been busy shouting one-liners out into cyber space.

(I don’t consider my blog a waste of time. Quite the opposite, thank you very much, haters.)

I doubt a single thing I’ve shouted is original, too, I just think it is at the time of tweeting because I don’t read anybody else’s tweets because I’m THAT asshole on Twitter.

Thank you so much for all your favouriting and re-tweeting, good and decent users of Twitter.

It was so funny because he looked like someone had recently told him, “Look pal, you’ve got a problem – Twitter” and he’d realized, “Omigawd, you’re right! My life is almost over and I’ve wasted it on Twitter!” And now he’s all on the straight and narrow, his quipping in 127 characters (for re-tweeting) days well and truly behind him.

Too bad. It was my favourite thing about Andrew Coyne. My Beau would read aloud the odd tweet and I’d think, “Hm, I really should read other tweeters before I tweet my brilliant and original insights into the political realm.”

Political panels bug me now though because every week they wipe the slate clean as if last week the Prime Minister wasn’t guilty of masterminding fraud, bribery, contempt – whatever – but that was last week and this week is, oh look, another free trade deal, isn’t that wonderful, the economy is back on track.

Nevermind week by week – day by day. Ohferfuckssake, eh? It’s as if a 24/7 news cycle has resulted in a media-wide attention deficit disorder.

Not to mention the fact that our free trade world has made anyone working in retail dependent on our provincial governments for any increases in salary, since our corporate owners will only pay the legal minimum required by law now while they collect their tax cuts at our expense.

It’s why I don’t care about joblessness now. Whatever cuts down on spending is fine by me.

No discretionary income? Yay! Join me at the bottom of the economy and don’t pay taxes, too. After all, they’re just used to shill for Tarsands Inc and join bombing campaigns in the Middle East (where you’d think they have enough bombs of their own).

Oh, apparently the latest scandal is that some douche out in Alberta (the same douche as another couple of times) taped a Liberal MP complaining about income splitting and how beneficiaries of it will just buy more televisions and cars and how that isn’t going to do much for the economy (?) except that it turns out it was a Conservative voter who actually said it (at least, he’s stepped up to claim it was him) and now Sun Media, which reported it, is left looking stupid.

My rightwing nutjob friend must be rolling over in his grave.

Kidding, kidding, he’s just resting his eyes.

Well, see you Black Friday. It’s the shop shoppingest day of the year, don’t you know, and all that crap you don’t need is cheaper’n at any other time of the year (not really) and you can line up to buy it like a bunch o’ chumps, too.

No, seriously, “Welcome! And what brings you to our store today?”

That’s called an open-ended question to engage the customer so that she pays for her merchandise instead of just stealing it, which is easier. Faster, too. Probably even safer, now that I really stop and think about it, which no one ever does or she wouldn’t line up to pay for crap she doesn’t need in the first place.

Always remember, no wait, never forget – we ARE the economy.