Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Hey, I have kind of a strange question...

It's, um, kind of an ADULT question. That I'm asking for no reason, especially no reason having to do with writing erotica on LiveJournal.

Okay, so....

Have you ever had sex in, alley, or a parkade? Is it a logistical nightmare? (I mean, assuming reasonable weather. Obviously you don't want your bits out in -50.) And how could this be accomplished by a hetero pairing if the woman is wearing pants rather than a skirt? Just, um, curious. Message me if you have any thoughts on the subject.

Carry on.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Yes You Can!

Bush's last day. Thank God.

Melissa over at Shakesville covers it nicely.

I'm hoping Obama can do something ASAP about that HHS rule and ensure that shit like this is properly dealt with. Assault based on imposed morality and disguised as medical treatment would earn someone a good kick in the cunt if I had my way.

To the Americans reading this...I hope you choose to have a fetus donut tomorrow. Eat some abortion sprinkles for me!!

That's about all...just wanted to congratulate the US on the end of this horrific era.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009


So, I had my MRI last night.

It was horrible.

I considered taking a Lorazepam (anti-anxiety meds) before leaving the house, as I had read that some people find mild sedation to be beneficial during the procedure. I decided against it, however, since nothing had actually been mentioned about it when the appointment was made and I didn't want to be sedated if I wasn't supposed to be. I figured, "I've had a CAT scan before, how much worse can this be?" Turns out it can be a lot worse.

I initially went into the room alone with the technician. Chris had come with me to the hospital, but he stayed in the waiting room. I don't know if anyone reading this has ever had an MRI, but it's not a fun experience. You lie flat on your back in a tiny little tube, with a your head essentially locked in place by a plastic cage apparatus. You've got industrial noise-blocking earphones on, with wiring running into them to play music and allow you to hear the technician's voice. You have to stay in place for a bare minimum of fifteen to twenty minutes, while the machine makes noises that even the music and headphones can't block out. And the magnetic field is's like standing directly in front of the speaker at a club, only the sensation goes all the way around your body.

I lasted about a minute and a half the first time I was put in the tube before I had to be pulled out, shaking and sobbing, by the tech. We talked for a minute, and when I told her I had considered taking a Lorazepam, she said that someone should have mentioned that doing so would have been perfectly fine. Apparently, people with no history of anxiety have had the same reaction I did, so for someone with my history a dose of Lorazepam could have been a great thing. Eventually we decided that we would bring Chris into the room, with the hope that having someone there to comfort me would relax me a little. The tech told me that we wouldn't be able to talk or anything, but he could sit at the end of the bed and she could attach a mirror to the plastic cage around my head that would allow me to see him.

The tech got Chris set up in a chair with another set of headphones, and put me back in the tube. I spent the next twenty-five minutes or so alternating between praying, staring in the mirror at Chris, and squeezing my eyes shut so I at least couldn't see where I was. I somehow managed to lie still for the whole thing, though a few times I thought I would just lose it and try to rip the stupid cage off my head myself. I didn't realize how tense I had been until it was all over and I sat up. Once my muscles started to relax, I almost fell over.

Now all that's left is to wait for the call from my GP's office to tell me what the results are. Hopefully it's nothing major, but I'm still absolutely terrified.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Another One...

Um, dude.


(Please don't ask why I'm posting all these Britney fan videos. I'll just change the subject anyway.)

On a Happier Note...

Okay, this kid is my new hero. For serious, y'all.

Normally I'd be all, "blah blah blah sexualization of little girls blah blah blah" but seriously...this kid can dance.


Some of you may remember about a year ago when I had some serious health problems-fainting spells and random bouts with hives, anaphylaxis and other awesome stuff. No one could tell me what the problem was. The allergist's work was inconclusive and none of the trouble seemed to be related to my blood sugar. The CAT scan, however, showed..."something." That's all they would tell me. Something abnormal, but not urgently so. They said, "we'll book you in for an MRI."

Well, that MRI is coming up on Monday night. (Seriously, don't you LOVE Saskatchewan wait times?) I haven't fainted in a long time, but I still have random dizzy spells. Sometimes I have to sit in a specific position so the room stops spinning.

Honestly, I'm scared shitless. Especially since I have no idea just what was abnormal about my CAT scan. Something going wrong with my brain is (and has been for just about as long as I can remember) one of my worst fears. Aneurysms, tumors, damage due to trauma...I've got a whole list of things that could go horribly wrong, and I (somewhat compulsively) go over it in my head at times. Especially with recent hype about the potential long-term consequences of multiple a survivor of some pretty heinous abuse which resulted in more concussions than I care to remember, and as a garden-variety megaklutz who falls down stairs and bangs her head on things fairly regularly, I'm terrified that there's some sort of trauma-induced time bomb in my head. What if the concussion from that last fainting spell was the trigger for something horrible? What if I'm one "stand up into the kitchen counter" accident away from being the next Chris Benoit?

I know I'm probably overreacting. I do that a lot. But seriously, I'm fucking scared. It's probably a good sign that I sat on that wait list for a year-it means that whatever was on the CAT scan wasn't an immediate danger. But what if it wasn't then, but has grown or gotten worse over the time I was waiting? What if it's an emergency now? I just want Monday night to be over with so I can get some sleep.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

On Religion and Morality

Okay, I'll be honest-this post is primarily about my opinions of Christian morality. It's not that I have a beef with Christians in general, just with the ones who are assholes. But I hate assholes of any faith. This rant in particular is about Christians who want their morality legislated.

In almost any discussion that touches on moral issues, especially where stuff like sexuality is concerned, you'll get someone coming in saying "the Bible says blah blah blah." You'll get told that a given position is wrong because the Christian god says it is.

Let's get something straight here. When a belief or action is dictated in the scripture of a certain faith, that mandate is for the followers of that god and adherents of that faith. Your god says "only have sex with members of the opposite gender within a legal marriage," mine says "only have sex with adult humans who have consented to have sex with you."

Hindu people don't eat beef. Jewish people don't eat pork. Have you ever seen a Christian arguing that no one should eat beef or pork, because a god said in a holy book that they didn't want their followers to do so? I sure haven't. Usually I hear Christians saying that they can eat what they want because their god said so. Hell, a lot of them even apply that concept to the different parts of their own scripture! I've never heard a Christian saying they don't eat shrimp because the Bible says not to, even though it clearly says so in Leviticus 11:9-11. The common justification is that "those laws were for the Jews-there's a new law under Christ." Okay, so if you don't have to follow the Jewish law, then why should people of other faiths follow your religious laws?

I'm sure there are people of other faiths doing this, but the fact is that I primarily see it coming from Christians. That's probably because Christianity is the socially dominant faith in this part of the world, and when you say "god" in North America, people tend to assume you're talking about Yahweh. Even with that assumption, though, I don't see Jews doing this, and they worship the same god. I have Jewish friends who keep Kosher, but they've never told me I'm going to be struck down for liking bacon on my cheeseburger. They seem to have pretty much the same idea that I'm trying to get across here-that their god has told them not to eat the little piggies, and therefore they won't, but until my god tells me what I should and shouldn't eat, I've got nothing to worry about.

That's all I really had to say. It just frustrates me when I try to talk to someone about an issue from a legal standpoint and they keep bringing up what their god thinks about it. I imagine the people doing this wouldn't be very happy to have Hindu dietary law passed into secular governmental law-why do they think it's okay to demand that their religious morality be legislated?

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Girly Insecurity

I try so hard to be all, "RRRAAAAWR SMASH TEH PATRIARCHY" and not give in to all those "ideals" that get hurled around. I really do. I mean, if I were really that worried about it, I'd probably do a lot of things differently-lose weight, dye my hair back to a "normal" colour, dress more "normally"...a lot of things. But in spite of my best efforts to proudly wave my freak flag, every now and then something just gets to me.

This weekend, I had ample opportunity to observe the non-freakish, sense-of-humor-having female of the species, and I couldn't help feeling like I fell horribly short somehow. It wasn't just one thing, either-I can easily find fault with pretty much everything about myself, especially when compared to a room full of "pretty girls," which I am decidedly not. (Note: I'm not saying I'm not beautiful. I know I totally am. But I'm Not A Pretty Girl in the Ani DiFranco sense.)

Let's look first at what's been the biggest hurdle for me-size. When I was all cute and tiny, I somehow felt like I "fit" better in the world, in a very literal sense; I didn't take up too much space. Now, I take up way more than I ever thought was possible. It was painfully evident to me this weekend, dancing with my adorably petite female friends-I felt like a fucking hippo. I felt awkward and excessively fleshy, like parts of my body were just spilling out of my designated compartment and into space that I had no right to occupy. I know that this is an issue that gets addressed repeatedly in both feminist and FA circles-the right to occupy the space that you do, rather than the space that you "should." And I've found it so easy to get on board with that in the bigger picture-I will fight for other women's rights to occupy their space. That doesn't mean that I've completely come to terms with the amount of space I'm taking up.

Even looking at the other women in the room who took up just as much (or even more) space, I felt inadequate. Those other women, while they may have occupied the same area I did, at least had the "decency" to not advertise their occupancy. They had "tasteful" outfits, subtle makeup and quiet hairstyles. They were quiet and tasteful-worlds away from everything I am. My voice is loud, my dancing is stompy and outlandish, my conversation topics are frequently controversial. I don't look or act anything like I "should." Even when someone who is otherwise "ladylike" acts a little like me in some small way, they seem so much more able to pass it off as an isolated quirk. When I do the same thing, it's just one more item on the long list of reasons I'm not "right."

My insecurity about this stuff is, thankfully, no longer overwhelming enough to make me actually want to try to fit in. I'll do what I want, and it's your loss if you don't like it. And I know that part of my insecurity is honestly just my own, caused by previous experiences and other factors that don't necessarily include the way other people actually respond to me. But another part of it is based on how people respond to me. I'm lucky to have some completely non-judgmental friends, and I appreciate them more than I can say. But then there are other people who fall along a whole spectrum from "trying to be supportive but still falling prey to a few societal expectations of appropriate femininity" to "unashamedly judging anyone who doesn't fit into their personal ideals," and that's incredibly frustrating. This is just more venting on my part-I doubt there's actually anything I can do at this point beyond just ignoring people who say or do hurtful things. I just wish people would give me some damn credit once in a while. I'm loud, unashamed of my unconventional opinions, and a little strange-looking, but I'm also one of the smartest, most caring and overall fantastic fucking people I know. It's just too damn bad that so many people will never realize that because they can't see past the fact that I'm not a "hot chick" or a "lady."


My newfound passion and "activism" (inasmuch as arguing on teh internets and being a Humorless Feminist in real life can be called activism) are wearing me the fuck out.

I think I'm just not "recovered enough." I know that my experiences as a survivor could add another dimension to my efforts to change my little corner of the world, and every now and then I think I've reached a point where I can recall those experiences without being completely overwhelmed by them. But then some days, trying to make a point or hearing someone else's story brings mine back in force.

A discussion about reproductive rights takes me back to the man who threw out all my birth control pills, refused to wear condoms, and repeatedly raped me. Not the kind of rape that comes with kicking and screaming and fighting, but the kind of rape that happens when you're at the absolute bottom, almost ready to kill yourself, and honestly believe that the relationship that deepens your despair every day is your only chance for a decent life. He wanted me pregnant-he wanted me to have even fewer options. And I "let" him do those things to me because I wasn't in a position to believe that my body was my own. Someone who is blissfully unaware of their own privilege saying that women "make their 'choice' when they choose to have sex" puts me right back in that bed, staring at the ceiling and halfheartedly moaning with feigned pleasure, waiting for him to finish and trying to convince myself that "he's doing this to show that he loves me."

An essay about sexual abuse has the power to make me fight to stay conscious. My head spins and my stomach tries to claw its way out any opening it can find when I read about someone who sounds so much like me, something about a little girl lying in bed with the covers over her head, hoping HE won't come in again tonight...trying to just "go away," leave her body, go off somewhere with her imaginary friend because his cologne is too strong and his fingers are THERE again and it burns and why isn't anyone coming to STOP this, and what did she do to make him hurt her like this?

A post about domestic violence on a blog I follow can send me into a full-on panic attack, flashing back to any number of horrible memories. I might be 9 years old, cleaning up the milk and blood and glass after my mother smashed a cup on the back of my head. I might be in my teens, begging any one of a string of boyfriends to forgive me for some minor transgression, while he holds me against a wall (or down on the floor, or backed into a corner...) screaming in my face that I'm a stupid whore and can't do anything right. I might be 20-ish, professing my love of kinky sex to explain away the bloody gashes on my back and rope burn on my wrists, because I spilled my boyfriend's coffee the night before and was "disciplined" for it. (Note: I don't have a problem with legit, consensual BDSM practices. They're completely cool by me. What is not cool is when your partner expresses an interest in "some light bondage or something" and you use that as a tool to enable abuse.)

Even discussions related to recovery itself are minefields for me. The mention of someone's supportive partner being patient during their recovery takes me back to the night my ex punched holes in my walls, threatened me, had to be removed by the police, and came back after the cops left to beat the shit out of the friend that I had called to come over for moral support. What was his problem? Well, the small matter of my recovery from self-harm had interfered with our lives a little. Trying not to kill myself left me with no energy to fuck him. We'd been in a month-long dry spell, and in his words, "at least I haven't just raped you yet. I hear that's better than what you've had before." How nice of him.

Of course, life is great for me now. Like I said, some days are great, and my past doesn't threaten to drown me at every turn. But then there are days like today, when reading one article (it was one about child sexual abuse today) makes me feel like it will never be any better. I just needed to get this out.