Looking For A Lighthouse

Activist Ambition (Skip this if you don't want to read about ALL MY FEELINGS.)

2011-04-28T21:52:00.000-07:00

I was going to write a long post about how my finally being in a position to undertake the kind of community work I've always wanted to do has affected me. I feel like it's a subject I need to talk about at this point.

One particular group I'm working with right now has thus far been an amazing experience, but also difficult in certain ways. It's forced me to face my "shortcomings" (I use the quotation marks for a reason which will hopefully become clear shortly) in a way that is very uncomfortable for me. Specifically, I volunteered to be a "facilitator" for one of the committees involved in the project. I feel like I'm falling far short of what I should be doing in that role. I have very little experience in this area, and one of the other women involved with the project (who is the facilitator/coordinator for a separate committee) has been doing a lot of what I feel like should be my responsibilities. I feel like I'm letting people down. On bad days, I feel almost like a "placeholder," so the same person's name doesn't have to be at the top of two different committee lists.

To be clear: this isn't about my ego, or about wanting recognition for anything. This is about feeling like I volunteered for responsibilities that I'm horribly failing to meet, feeling like I'm letting everyone down and forcing someone who already has enough on her plate to pick up my slack.

Now, before you all start shaking your heads at me and bemoaning my attention whoring, self-deprecating, whiny bullshit, finish reading. I've been giving a lot of thought to why I feel this way. (Because it's not enough for me to have too many feelings, I also have to overanalyse all my feelings. It's what I do.) The way I phrased it to a friend a couple of weeks ago is still the most accurate: I feel like an imposter. I'm working with people who have all kinds of experience in this area, and I just don't have that. I'm surrounded by people who have a grip on the more academic or technical aspects of activist work, and all I am is a single mom who's spent the past ten years (while the rest of the group has been getting educations and experience in this type of work) busting my ass to survive and raise my son on my own. I have an absurd amount of intellectual potential, but actually knowing how to do shit like grant writing? HA. It's been a struggle every minute.

Right as I was opening this browser tab, getting ready to write a long, whiny post about how shitty I feel about myself, I saw something on a friend's Facebook that I think I really needed. She said, "Raising kind boys is also a political act, yes?"

That's when it hit me. I haven't been doing this kind of work for the last decade because I've been doing an entirely different kind: raising a son who will carry on my ideals. My son is intelligent, talented, passionate and caring. He is becoming the kind of person I would want the whole world to be. I've been living the situations that my colleagues have been trying to fix: poverty, single (teen) parenthood, surviving sexual assault, living with mental illness. My activism has been in my survival, in my refusal to "fall in line." My intelligence and strength show in my personal growth, in the woman that I've become against all odds. My feminism is not academic: it's lived.

There are things I don't know. That is a difficult thing for me to admit: I hate not being good at everything I do the first time I do it. I have some weird hangups about the learning process. But I am aware that I do have something valuable to contribute to social causes: I have passion, intelligence, and a willingness to learn. And with the rest of it, I hope the people who matter can understand that we've had a different set of opportunities and experiences, and continue to be patient with me.

Body Stuff (TW for weight, inclucing gains/losses, ED and exercise issues)

2011-03-28T06:19:00.000-07:00

So, yeah, trigger warning. And also, there's some TMI in here. Just so ya know.

Those of you who have known me for a while may know (or may have not noticed, which is actually awesome) that I weight cycle. I weight cycle a lot. I know that this is in part caused by the fact that my body has only very recently been allowed to just do its thing.

I developed extremely disordered eating habits at a very young age, and spent the first half of my teen years in that pattern. Then I got pregnant before my body had fully finished developing. I gained so much weight so fast that I have glanced at photos from the last months of my pregnancy and not recognised myself. I never had a visible belly-I simply ballooned all over. I gained over 90 lbs in 20 weeks. (Between finding out I was pregnant around 10 weeks, and Ronin's birth just past 30.)

Once I stopped breastfeeding, I immediately started fighting my body again. I didn't just want to be thin, I wanted to look like the thin girls at my school. You know, the ones who hadn't had babies. None of them had that little fatty deposit just below their belly buttons. When they wore halter tops with no bra, you really couldn't tell-their breasts were perky and firm. They didn't have any "extra" jiggly bits on the insides of their thighs that made their tiny little shorts ride up and look awkward and inappropriate. When their low-rise jeans slid just a tiny bit lower, you could see the curve of their hipbones; when mine did that all you could see was belly fat and a c-section scar. I spent the first half of my grade 12 year starving myself down to a size 5. By the time my 18th birthday rolled around, I had made it. But soon even that wasn't enough. By 19, I was down to a size 2. When the man I had (against pretty much everyone's better judgment) fallen horribly and irrationally in love with the summer I was 18 broke my heart, I decided that it was because I was too fat. By 20, I weighed 100 lbs.

A month before my 21st birthday, I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. That was the same year I got married and divorced in rapid succession, as well as finally breaking all ties with my mother. Needless to say, 21 was a rough year for me, and all the stress and medical issues (in addition to my continued disordered eating) contributed to me going from just over 100 lbs to near 160 and back to about 115 by my 22nd birthday.

A few times in the last five years, I have realised that I had problems surrounding food and weight and tried to start eating normally and taking better care of myself. Every time, I start to gain weight, panic and start restricting food/overexercising again. It's a terrible cycle. But finally, this most recent time around, it seems to be sticking. I don't weigh myself anymore. I slipped once over Christmas holidays-the scale said 180, and I spent weeks feeling terrible about it. But other than that, I haven't stepped on a scale voluntarily in over a year, and if I have to be weighed at the doctor's office I close my eyes and ask them to not tell me the number. I'm learning to listen to my body's hunger cues-I mostly eat when I'm hungry. I try to eat what I'm actually hungry for-I've learned that when I want grilled cheese on white bread, trying to placate myself with tuna on a whole wheat pita does absolutely nothing and will result in my eating more than I want and feeling worse. I try to just eat the damn grilled cheese, because if I do that one sandwich is more likely to satisfy me. I also try to stop when I'm full, which has definitely reduced my desire to purge. I'm developing a healthy relationship with food, a little bit at a time.

Exercise has been harder. I like working out; I like feeling strong in general, and the endorphin rush that immediately follows a good workout is great. The problem is that I've found exercise to be a "slippery slope." I start by going to the gym a couple of times, and before I know it I'm spending an hour at a stretch on the treadmill and another hour with weights, six days a week. Not only that, but something about intentional exercise triggers me to start thinking about what foods I could eat or stop eating to get "better results." Then I'm back to restricting, and so on. So I have to try to make exercise an "organic" thing-walking more often, dancing, stuff like that. That's great and all, but I do still enjoy gym time. I like lifting weights. So there's this struggle for me to incorporate healthy physical activity in a way that is enjoyable.

The point of all this rambling is that my body, having been so badly abused for so many years, is suddenly out of my control, and that's scary. First, I'm worried that I may have done permanent damage to myself. But I realise that if I have, there's nothing I can do now other than just try to live as healthfully as possible and deal with any problems that arise as they come. The more immediate issue is this: I am bigger than I have ever been, and I am terrified.

That is hard for me to admit. I feel like it's a betrayal of the Fat Acceptance attitudes I've embraced in the last couple of years. And I realise that any fat people reading this could very well be offended by that statement. I also realise that I'm not really all that fat-hell, I'm probably still under 200 lbs. But here's the thing: accepting the idea of fat and loving fat bodies in general is completely different than learning the reality of living in a fat body. This is an accepted concept in FA, and something that has recently been a hot topic, what with the inbetweenie drama on Tumblr. (That link was just the beginning-there's a whole pile of other stuff related to that which I can't be arsed to track down and link to.) You can be a fat ally, you can wholeheartedly embrace the ideals of FA, but until you actually live in a fat body you don't know what it's like to be fat. Well, I'm suddenly learning that. And for me, this is scary.

For one thing, suddenly clothes are this huge issue. I can't afford to buy a whole new wardrobe, even from a thrift store, so I've basically just recently bought a couple of items so that I have something to cover myself with when I have to leave the house. But I don't have clothes that I really like, or that make me feel attractive at all. And even the stuff that more or less fits me doesn't fit me the way I'd like. And the whole leaving the house thing? It's exponentially harder than it was a year ago. Even if I can work past the anxiety that comes with going out and being around people at the best of times, I have to find something to wear, and if I've spilled coffee on the one pair of pants that more or less fit me, I literally have NOTHING. Dressing myself becomes this massive panic-inducing thing, and I have cancelled plans in recent weeks because I couldn't zip up my jeans. It's not a fun thing, and something I can't even effectively describe. If you haven't dealt with the experience of suddenly having a body you don't know how to dress, you probably don't understand.

For another thing, there is fat on parts of my body that I didn't even know could get fat. An example: my pussy is fat. The first time I realised this, I had a bit of a freakout-I was kind of like, "oh my god, what is going on with my body, how is this even a thing?" Every time I've gained weight, I've gotten a bit of a spare tire-I tend to carry a lot of weight around the middle, and having had a c-section means that the way that weight sits gives me a bit of a belly overhang situation. I'm getting used to that. But suddenly when I put on tight pants or a tight dress, there's that fat roll that is my belly, and then below that there is a whole other roll which is actually the fat on my mons pubis. And then there's the fat on my thighs, and all in all it just creates a topography that I've never seen before on my body.

I don't even know where I'm going with all this rambling. I just know that my body is changing, and it's freaking me out a bit. I feel like a character in some horrible cartoon health class video about puberty. And I feel like I need to get this out, because trying to muscle through and be all, "blah blah rad fatties everything is awesome" is not fucking working.

This Week In "People Not Getting It..."

2011-03-17T05:05:00.000-07:00

Racism. It is everywhere. I don't want to get into too much detail about the crap I've been seeing on my Facebook feed, but a couple of things need to be said:

White males ages 18-45: it is not a hard-knock life for you. Get over it.*

Other white people, even (especially?) other mixed-race folk with passing privilege, or those of you in interracial relationships: racism exists. If a person of colour points out that they have experienced racism, details slurs that have been used against them, states that there is a possibility of other people of colour/mixed race people experiencing the same thing, wants to discuss ways to prevent or work through these problems-that does not make them racist. Saying "I have been called/some people of my race get called/this particular person of this race in this scenario may be called (insert rude name here)" does not equate to calling said specific or hypothetical person that name. If a person of colour responds to your assertions that you have never seen or participated in such behaviour by pointing out that you are white (or at least appear to be so) and therefore have a different experience than they do on a pretty major scale, do not just keep yelling. Listen. Educate yourself in regard to your privilege. Grow up.

*Speaking in broad generalisations here. I know individual white men don't necessarily have an easy time of things. I'm just saying that in terms of large scale or systematic oppressions, this demographic doesn't really "get it."

In Which Scott Adams Is Desperately Screaming, "WHAT ABOUT THE MENZ!?!?!"

2011-03-08T02:42:00.000-08:00

Talk of a blog post by Dilbert creator Scott Adams is not quite all over the internet yet, but likely will be in the morning. Here's a link to a Reddit thread in which the post is quoted.

Adams starts by talking about what his readers have told him the problem is:

"...examples of unfair treatment of men include many elements of the legal system, the military draft in some cases, the lower life expectancies of men, the higher suicide rates for men, circumcision, and the growing number of government agencies that are primarily for women. You might add to this list the entire area of manners. We take for granted that men should hold doors for women, and women should be served first in restaurants. Can you even imagine that situation in reverse?
Generally speaking, society discourages male behavior whereas female behavior is celebrated. Exceptions are the fields of sports, humor, and war. Men are allowed to do what they want in those areas.
Add to our list of inequities the fact that women have overtaken men in college attendance. If the situation were reversed it would be considered a national emergency.
How about the higher rates for car insurance that young men pay compared to young women? Statistics support this inequity, but I don't think anyone believes the situation would be legal if women were charged more for car insurance, no matter what the statistics said."

Here is a thing of which you are evidently not aware, Scott Adams-"feminism" as a whole is not about reversing existing inequity and putting women in the place that men have been in for pretty much all of human history, which is to say being the Grand High Poobah Dictators For Life. It is, in fact, about ensuring true equality for all people, rather than the currently pervasive attitude of "Look, you can vote and have a job! Now please stop bothering us and go put on some lipstick!" But since you have such overwhelming evidence that we lady types are trying to take over the world and repress you with our lady parts, let's discuss this point by point.

"...many elements of the legal system"

Which elements might those be? It would help this conversation if you would be more specific. Just for the sake of covering all bases, though, I'll assume that you're at least partially referring to the Father's Rights Movement and other groups who are insisting that men are being unfairly denied custody of their children and falsely accused of certain types of crime, specifically domestic and sexual violence. Those seem to be the most common points raised by Men's Rights Activists (MRAs).

First, it is estimated that 95% of divorces in the United States and upwards of 81% of divorces in Canada are uncontested, meaning that all property and custodial issues have either been resolved by the involved parties, or the conditions submitted to the court in the original filing are agreed to without argument by the party being served. Of the remaining cases, 25 to 50% involve some kind of abuse. And for those who claim that mothers are making false allegations in order to intentionally and unreasonably deprive fathers of custodial or visitation rights, it's useful to note that studies on the subject have shown the majority of abuse allegations in divorce proceedings to be true, with a tiny percentage (less than 2% in one Australian study) believed to be intentionally misleading or false. And of intentionally false allegations in one study, 1.3% were initiated by the woman, while 21% were initiated by the man. Precise statistics vary globally, but remain in similar ranges and consistently show the same thing: the majority of abuse allegations are true. Of false allegations, the majority are based on reasonable belief of their legitimacy. A small percentage are blatantly false, and those are more likely to be brought by men than by women. Considering the material and emotional expense involved with extended divorce proceedings and defending oneself from such allegations, as well as the fact that manipulating and controlling financial matters is a kind of abuse, it makes sense that false child abuse allegations in order to further one's own cause or simply make things more difficult for a former spouse would be an appealing tactic for an abuser.

None of this is meant to denigrate fathers or men in general. There are certainly people of all genders, on all sides of these arguments doing reprehensible things, and I do not believe that men are naturally more inclined to perpretrate violence than are women. I believe that these statistics reflect learned behaviour and social trends, but we still must face their reality.

As an extension of this argument, consider the many cases that can be found with a simple web search where a parent previously accused of abuse has then kidnapped, severely harmed or killed either the children or the other parent during or shortly after a custody battle. Abuse allegations must be taken seriously in all cases, following the principle of "innocent until proven guilty" but still taking precautions to protect potential victims. Yes, there is a risk of false allegations being found to be truthful, but frankly I believe that the risks to the lives of the partner or children of an abuser who is not investigated outweigh the risk of someone being falsely imprisoned. Convictions can be appealed and overturned; murder cannot.

In cases where primary custody is awarded to the mother without an extended battle, it is frequently due to the fact that she has been the one performing the majority of parental duties. Status quo is a significant determinant in custody disputes where there are no exceptional circumstances. Most judges see no reason to greatly disrupt a child's life by forcing them to live with the parent who has not been their primary caregiver.

As for the argument about the prevalence of false rape allegations, I will simply refer you to RAINN for statistics on the reporting and prosecution of rape, as well as this analysis of a study performed about false allegations.

"...the military draft in some cases"

And this is the fault of women how? Remember, Mr. Adams, it was men who made these laws. But ok, I'll bite.

Besides the fact that a large part of feminist thought is also in line with a pacifist philosophy, wherein the draft is regarded as a bad thing all around, this is an example of patriarchal ideas being damaging to men, too. An all-male military draft is based upon an ideal of women as purely "nurturing" beings who are inherently weaker than men. This is an idea against which feminists actively fight. Additionally, the Universal National Service Act would require compulsory service for men and women in the US. And let's not forget that when the draft ended and all-volunteer service began, the percentage of women in the US military went up considerably. Women do not, by and large, see exclusion from military draft and combat positions as a "privilege." It is a remnant of a paternalistic, condescending ideology, and many women want to see that gone.

"...the lower life expectancies of men, the higher suicide rates for men"

This has nothing to do with "rights." In fact, it may well be another function of patriarchal ideals and expectations damaging men. Men frequently engage in more risky behaviours, for one thing. In a society that polices behaviour with phrases like "man up" or "take it like a man," or even "don't be a pussy," is it surprising that men are raised feeling obligated to engage at a higher rate with things that are likely to kill them?

"...circumcision"

First, the roots of circumcision come in large part from the dictates of a male god and patriarchal religion. Also, feminists want to stop routine male circumcision.

"...the growing number of government agencies that are primarily for women."

These agencies exist primarily as a means of beginning to rectify the historical injustices against women. When you consider how much of human history consisted of all male government and voting bodies, a government department existing to help half the population "catch up" and be treated as equals doesn't seem so ridiculous.

"We take for granted that men should hold doors for women, and women should be served first in restaurants."

Do we? You'll have to clarify for me: by "we" do you mean "everyone in the whole world ever," or do you mean "those of us who support archaic gender roles based on the frailty of women and the assumption that all (or at least most) women are whiny princesses who expect constant service?" Because I open my own damn doors, I hold doors open for people behind me regardless of their gender, and I expect that whoever's plate is most convenient to set down first will be served in a restaurant. "Chivalry" is a system in which women are assumed to be inherently weaker than and dependent upon men. Politeness is one thing, treating women like children is another.

"Generally speaking, society discourages male behavior whereas female behavior is celebrated. Exceptions are the fields of sports, humor, and war. Men are allowed to do what they want in those areas."

Gender essentialist, evo-psych, "women aren't funny" bullshit that I don't even have the patience to respond to. Next?

"Add to our list of inequities the fact that women have overtaken men in college attendance. If the situation were reversed it would be considered a national emergency."

I have exciting news for you! A number of sources are treating this as a national emergency! Don't you feel better knowing that?

Oh, wait, your point wasn't that people aren't panicking enough? Your point was that average college populations in the US are now about 57% female? Huh. Well, would it help to know that at your nation's top rated colleges, the student body is anywhere between 51 and 65% male? Honestly, I don't know what to say to this. Are colleges supposed to be fully fifty-fifty with regard to gender division? There are issues in the academic system to consider, yes. But believers in the "boy crisis" have created a false dichotomy where for women to succeed academically, men must fail, and that's just not the case.

"How about the higher rates for car insurance that young men pay compared to young women? Statistics support this inequity, but I don't think anyone believes the situation would be legal if women were charged more for car insurance, no matter what the statistics said."

You don't think so? Well I think you're wrong. In any system where something such as insurance rates are based on statistical averages, certain people will necessarily be unfairly lumped in with their demographic group. That's a broken system, not large-scale discrimination against men. Where I live, we have government auto insurance where the cost is determined by the type of vehicle you drive and your personal driving record. Most Americans would never agree to such a system, because it has its grounding in socialist ideals, which we all know are bad, right? Capitalism is the way of the future! Oh, except for the part where you have issues like this one, with statistical averages used to calculate your insurance costs.

After a couple of paragraphs where he pays lip service to the existence of pay inequity but then brushes it off with typical privileged tripe about women "opting out," Adams has this to say:

"Now I would like to speak directly to my male readers who feel unjustly treated by the widespread suppression of men's rights:
Get over it, you bunch of pussies."

I SEE WUT U DID THAR. Clever, Scott Adams, clever indeed. Use a term for female genitalia as an insult to men who are complaining about women being treated better than they are. Because we all know that a pussy is the worst thing in the world, right? These men should man up and start acting like dicks instead of pussies. That's what you were going for, right?

In any case, what follows is truly the most amazing piece of writing ever to flow forth from the clearly superior brain of a man, advice for the ages on just what we are to do about the scourge of bitches thinking they're people and shit:

"The reality is that women are treated differently by society for exactly the same reason that children and the mentally handicapped are treated differently. It's just easier this way for everyone. You don't argue with a four-year old about why he shouldn't eat candy for dinner. You don't punch a mentally handicapped guy even if he punches you first. And you don't argue when a women tells you she's only making 80 cents to your dollar. It's the path of least resistance. You save your energy for more important battles."

That's right, folks. Ableism, sexism and, we might argue, a touch of ageism all in one brilliantly crafted paragraph. Let's take a moment to ~~vomit~~ let the genius sink in.

Are we ready for more? Do you think you can handle further brilliance?

"How many times do we men suppress our natural instincts for sex and aggression just to get something better in the long run? It's called a strategy. Sometimes you sacrifice a pawn to nail the queen. If you're still crying about your pawn when you're having your way with the queen, there's something wrong with you and it isn't men's rights."

OH MY GOD YOU GUYS this is genius. It's all so simple! Let the bitches whine and then you can put your dick in them! If you argue with them, they may not let you fuck them! I UNDERSTAND EVERYTHING NOW.

In case you haven't noticed, it gets more difficult to remain reasonably coherent the further you read into this article. Not helping that is the fact that reading it over more than once in order to effectively rebut it necessitates large amounts of alcohol to keep the rage at bay.

"I realize I might take some heat for lumping women, children and the mentally handicapped in the same group. So I want to be perfectly clear. I'm not saying women are similar to either group. I'm saying that a man's best strategy for dealing with each group is disturbingly similar."

Or you could do something crazy like talk to adult women as though they are adult humans. I KNOW IT IS INSANE. Me with my radical ideas.

Seriously, at this point there's no reason for me to even have to continue rationally arguing my point. Scott Adams is saying that men should placate women, with their silly demands for equality that are equivalent to a child wanting to eat enough candy to make themselves sick. He is saying that adult men are to adult women what mental health caregivers are to their patients who may lash out for various reasons and hurt people around them. This is disgusting and unacceptable.

Adams took this post down fairly quickly once the backlash started. Links to it now go to this:

"I deleted today's post. My regular readers have the capacity to deal with this sort of topic but it gained a bit too much attention from outside my normal reading circle.

Knowledge is a dangerous thing."

That's right. People who find this offensive and disgusting when read on the public blog of a syndicated cartoonist with a huge readership just lack the "capacity to deal with this sort of topic." Too much knowledge has just addled the brains of the silly women and our allies.

I suppose it's for the best that this came out...now that we know what the creator of Dilbert really thinks of us, we don't have to strain our pretty little heads trying to read it.

I Think About Consent At 4 AM.

2011-02-25T03:38:00.000-08:00

As seems to be the case with everything I write lately, I want to be extra cautious and throw a trigger warning on here. I'm talking about consent and agency, and respect thereof. Also, there is discussion of sexytimes in a potentially sexy manner. Additionally, all persons and events in this blog post are composites of several case studies (because I think it's fun to call my hookups "case studies," shut up) and details have been changed to protect identities.

I have distinct memories of nearly every single time a person I was maybe-considering-doing-something-physical-with stopped when I said stop. Seriously, I don't have clear memories of every sexual encounter I've ever had, nor even every enjoyable one, but memories of every time in my life when I've been so much as kissing someone, and have decided that this is not something I can/want to do right now, and have voiced that, and that has been immediately respected? Those are permanently imprinted on my brain.

I can remember plenty of times when I have said "stop" or "wait" or "*incoherent mumbling that was supposed to be 'I am too drunk to make this decision'*" or "*safeword*" and the other person has kept touching me, or tried to talk me into continuing, or stopped and not really immediately said anything, but then gone on to make little comments about it in what seemed like an effort to wear me down. But there have been exactly five times (prior to my current relationship, in which I have always felt listened to and respected, thanks honey!) where I have said something similar and the other person has immediately stopped kissing me, touching me, whatever, moved out of my personal space, and either said nothing (as I continued talking) or asked "are you ok," or "do you need to talk about this" or hell, even "did I do something wrong?" Which is totally an ok thing to say when the person you are half-naked with is suddenly in full on panic mode, going rigid and starting to cry! Thanks for being so cool about that, guy that I was half naked with!

To put this into perspective, five occasions of respected non-consent may seem like a lot, if you've only had sex with a couple of people, or have so thoroughly thought through every single move before it happens and are so self-aware that you never have cause to second guess yourself. If such applies to you, I say hooray! Good for you, and your personal decision to not have sex with lots of people, and your self-awareness and sobriety. I mean that sincerely. However, that has not been my experience. I have been promiscuous for the majority of the last decade. I have had drunken hookups. I have started to fool around with friends and realised as I was unzipping their pants that maybe this is not the best move for the friendship. In terms of percentages, for me, five occasions where my lack of continuing consent was immediately respected is downright shitty.

Now, for those of you who may be reading this and thinking, "Maybe if you were less slutty/drank less/had more foresight, this wouldn't be an issue," on some level you are probably right. If I had only ever had sex with one person, while completely sober, under ideal conditions where everything was well-discussed before it happened, I would possibly (probably?) never have had cause to think about whether my continuing consent would ever be an important issue. You know, assuming that the other person was totally on board with the same definitions of consent that I use, and totally committed to establishing said consent. But that is not my point.

My point is that consent is not the absence of no, but the presence of an enthusiastic yes. And if you're saying to yourself, "but I don't want to have to get my partner to fill out paperwork before sex," or something similar, you should either stop being an idiot/smartass/rape apologist (if you are being sarcastic/thinking that I should stop being such a Humourless Feminist and bake you a pie while giving you a blowjob) or read on and maybe learn something fun (if you are genuinely unsure of what I mean and concerned that I may want sex to be less fun).

Consent is sexy. SO SEXY. Seriously, it's not about formal agreements and initialing Nipple Clauses (though if that's what turns your crank, I'm not here to judge). Some of the hottest sex I have ever had (and by "sex" I don't just mean intercourse, I'm using the term in a fairly broad sense, as I usually do) was when consent was obtained at nearly every step.

Okay, story time. Before I continue, I'd like to point out that none of what I say here is intended as ideal models of consent, or a script to which you should adhere. I'm just going to talk a bit about times when I felt that I honestly had the option to continue with the sex or not, that the other person would have accepted my answer either way, but continued "check-ins" were made as things progressed in a way that felt like it made the experience more pleasurable rather than making it weird and legalistic.

Many moons ago, because I am SO OLD YOU GUYS, I was at a party at this guy's house. I was pretty sure he had actually invited me with the express purpose of getting me naked, which was cool with me because I had more or less accepted the invitation with the express purpose of getting him naked. We ended up alone in his room, under the pretense of me "looking at his guitar" or some shit (this is why musicians get laid, you can totally use "guitar" as a euphemism for "genitals") and were sitting next to each other on the bed, doing the semi-awkward sexual tension thing. Excuses were made to brush against each other, one thing led to another, and I was leaning in close to him with his arm around my waist. We looked each other in the eye, he nodded slightly with this sexy half smile, and we started kissing. Fast forward through much making out, including several half-hearted motions on both sides to return to the party which were swiftly terminated with "well, just one more kiss..." because we all know how that goes when you're young and horny. We were taking a smoke break, because making out is hard work or something. He was looking at me appreciatively, idly running a hand across my stomach, and "suddenly noticed" that my pants had laces on each side of the waistband, almost corset-style. (Hot damn I miss the wardrobe I had at 18, but anyway...) He said something terribly smooth like, "do these actually come apart?" while looking me in the eye, taking note of my reactions. I informed him that they did, and what's more, the similar lacing on my shirt (I like grommets, okay, don't be so judgy) also came unlaced quite neatly.

See what he did there? He asked "can I undo your pants" in a way that was still sexy (ish, shut up, we were young and awkward) and allowed me the opportunity to move things forward or not. I also took the opportunity to be an active participant in this sexual adventure rather than just lying there and getting fucked (see how passive that is?) by saying "why yes, and you may also take off my shirt." Once we had finished smoking and resumed our fevered mashing together of faces, I asked him in a semi-teasing voice if he should get back to his party. He replied with something to the effect of, "I maybe should, but I'd rather just spend the rest of the night in here." I said that I agreed, that staying in his bedroom sounded much more fun than going back out. Again, see what we did there? Gave each other a perfectly respectable "out" with mention of returning to the group in the living room. We both said that we would rather stay where we were and continue with the undressing.

Another story. Hot guy at an event, eye-humping the shit out of each other all night. (In fact, I think that is the exact phrase I used to explain to a friend why I was leaving Denny's in such a hurry... "That guy? The one I've been eye-humping the shit out of all night? Yeah, I might go get naked with him.") The actual physical contact between us began with a "goodnight hug" that turned into a kiss. A hot, spontaneous kiss with me backed up against the door of my car, hands all over each other.

Frequently the "consent is complicated, this is too hard" crowd worry that a model of enthusiastic consent will end spontaneity. It really doesn't have to! Here is an important thing-body language. If the other person is doing their best to wrap their legs around you while standing awkwardly on a curb, grabbing on to your belt loops and pulling you against them, they're probably into it. If you move in for a kiss and they go stiff, or are half-heartedly kissing back while turning their pelvis away from you and fiddling with their keys? Maybe not so much. In either case, if in doubt, ask. Seriously, just ask. Hot Spontaneous Kiss Guy said something to the effect of, "would you like to spend the night?" Asking something straight up does not have to be clinical, or weird, or a mood killer. Maybe try to avoid a Beavis and Butthead-esque, "Heh, heh, so, are we gonna like...do it?" unless that's what turns you and your partner on, in which case go nuts. But a simple "would you like to go somewhere more private?" or similar is HOT. And face it, if you can't discuss what you're about to do, you probably shouldn't be doing it.

Everything that happened that night was consensually hot. We both laid our boundaries right out from the get-go, with regard to specific things we were not willing to do. At every step, we were checking in with each other to be sure we were both still on board with the way things were going, and making the check-in part of the sexy fun. To paraphrase...

"Your legs are beautiful. I'd love to see them without your stockings on."
"I want to bite your neck."
"Would you please stroke my cock?"
"Do you like it when I lick you there?"

Always waiting for the other person to actually respond in the affirmative. That's sexy. "Yes" is a sexy word.

A model of enthusiastic consent, where "no means no" is not enough but must be accompanied by an understanding that "yes means yes," is only possible if every person is empowered to make their own sexual decisions. Each person must be free to learn and express what turns them on, what they don't like, what lines they absolutely will not cross. Women must be able to be active participants in their own sexuality, rather than passive objects of desire. The current cultural model of a woman who always appears to be available for sex, while only actually performing (I use that word for a reason) the act under certain conditions, who has effortless, vocal orgasms every time and finds no greater pleasure than when being penetrated with a penis, has to end. Slut shaming has to stop-in order to be able to fully enjoy and participate in their sexuality and that of their partner, women must not be demeaned for making decisions in this area. (I have a whole other blog post about what I call the "illusion of availability" which I'll save for another time.)

I hate to make this clinical now, but in sex, as in medicine, informed consent is key. Accurate information must be available to allow risk assessment of sexual activity. People must be able to protect themselves from STIs and unwanted pregnancy. So-called "education" that teaches teenagers that condoms don't protect you from disease (rather than giving truthful information about failure rates and allowing people to make their own decisions about what percentage of risk is acceptable) will not help them make sensible decisions. Regardless of how often you tell your kids not to have sex, or how much you think they've internalised that message, there will always be a certain number of people who get caught up in the moment and decide to proceed with sexual activity anyway. If they have been taught that condoms won't do them any good, do you think they're likely to use them?

Anyway, it's late (early?) and I've been rambling for a while. I just wanted to get this down.

In Which I Use Run-On Sentences

2011-02-23T21:12:00.000-08:00

A close friend is going through a horrible divorce. The marriage has been over and they have been legally separated for...oh, I don't know, like two and a half years now? But the property division and child custody issues are just now being hashed out, and it is awful.

Here's the thing that gets me: if marital property has been divided equitably (assets sold and proceeds divided) and both parties agree that at this point, the main focus should be on providing the best life possible for their child, what is the point of dragging things out and trying to "get" as much as you can out of your former spouse? Really, there is no good reason for it.

I want to tell my friend's ex to stop being such a miserable person. If you still have any caring feelings for someone to whom you were married, it would make sense to just let go of the situation that has caused you both pain and hope that they can find peace and happiness in their life, because 1 Corinthians 13:4-7, morons, I'm pretty sure it says something that could apply here, and that you can both heal and grow from this. Then get over yourselves and try your best to resolve the situation peacefully, for the sake of your child. If you are full of hate and anger toward your former partner and the end of the marriage has caused you immeasurable misery, it would make sense to try to get past the hurtful situation and heal and grow on your own terms, rather than clinging to every last scrap of connection to the other person and trying to exact your revenge by dragging out court proceedings and accusing them, with really no evidence, of violating various (really insignificant in the big picture) aspects of your separation agreement just so that you can get more money than the six figure sum you have already gotten from the sale of your combined assets, because regardless of whether every single detail has gone the way YOU wanted it to, you are both grownups and the end result of everything has been really pretty alright, so just deal and move on.

Also, there are other friends of this couple who I know have been not only taking sides (not gonna judge you there, I've totally picked my side) but "sneakily" trying to obtain information about one party to feed to the other to stoke the flames of hate and bitterness. Like asking mutual friends "oh what was that thing that I suddenly remembered you were saying six months ago about what Bob said to Susan?" in what they seem to think is a totally subtle way but is not at all. I am on to you, and IMO you should probably butt out. Seriously, this is a horrible enough experience without you "helping."

Really, regardless of how two people feel about each other at this point in time, isn't there something to be said for having once shared a deep love, and for trying to raise a child together without traumatizing them excessively? What is the actual purpose of dragging someone into court to say "I think that you probably did (x) two weeks before the date that was officially written in our separation agreement two years ago, and even though whether or not you did had absolutely no bearing on how anything was accomplished and I have no evidence, I am going to have your bank accounts frozen and try to get an extra twenty grand out of our shared assets because I am bitter and angry?" Is there any possible motivation for this other than hate, control issues and being a rotten, money grubbing asshole? Grow up, dood.

Terrible Things I Think About (TW for Everything Being Terrible)

2011-02-22T18:05:00.000-08:00

If I could go back in time, would it be good or bad for me to tell Younger Me how I turn out?

13-year-old Me- "I'm totally gonna be a famous singer. Or maybe a writer. Or a psychologist. Anyway, I'm gonna do something AWESOME with my life because my scary family is really scary and treats me like crap, and I'm SO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT, and then I'm gonna start a charity or something where I help girls who get raped by their mom's boyfriends and beaten up by their mom, because that happened to me but I'm gonna rise above it and be a shining example of awesome for the whole world!!!!" Wears ridiculous outfits and too much burgundy lipstick ALL THE TIME because there is nothing cooler than burgundy lipstick, because it is 1997. Awkward and full of body image issues, self-harm and suicidal thoughts, but pretty sure that there is something fantastic on the other side of all this horrible, because there HAS TO BE or it wouldn't be worth it.

26-year-old Me- Constantly terrified of human contact/the outside world. Usually wearing a coffee-stained tank top and granny panties, wrapped up in a blanket. Frequently sits in the bathtub with the shower running and the radio turned up, attempting to hide the sound of hysterical sobbing induced by everything being terrible. Has a ten year old son who wants nothing to do with his insane mother and would rather live in his grandparents' basement with his father, who he doesn't know is basically a horrible human being. Has accomplished nothing and is in fact barely recognisable as an adult human.

Yeah...the inside of my head is a terrifying place.

Saskatoon's Tequila Nightclub is the Body Police.

2011-02-19T23:18:00.000-08:00

Trigger warning for fat hatred, sensations related to eating disorders, and male entitlement.

Tonight I went to Taboo with Chris and some friends. It was "masquerade night," according to their advertising, so I put together mask/headpiece setups for me and my friend Amie. I figured, hey, in addition to being pretty and crafty and fun, wearing a mask will help with that whole "if I go out in public I might barf on myself" issue. I was right-with my face covered the whole thing was surprisingly easy.

While we were at the show, we found out that there was body painting being done by Ace Angels International. Amie and I both decided to get torso paintings done to match our masks. This meant, of course, that we were topless except for pasties/tape over our nipples. I would like to say that I was thrilled with the professionalism and skill of the Ace Angels team. The artists, photographer and informational team made everyone feel very comfortable and were supportive of anyone who wanted to get involved with this sensual, artistic endeavor. Additionally, the paint jobs themselves were excellent, and we got countless compliments on them, as well as our masks and general attitudes of bravery and fun. Being a public event, of course there were some creepy people, some lecherous types, and some disapproving glances from a few random passers by, but overall the atmosphere at the event itself was very positive, and none of the organizers or vendors were in any way negative or gross.

I got painted first while Amie was at another booth, and she came over and got hers done a bit later. While I was getting my paint job, two women came to the booth and were discussing with the booth operators and artists that they were from Tequila Nightclub and were getting painted for the event, and going back to work after the show closed at midnight. It probably goes without saying, but I'll mention the fact that these women were both conventionally beautiful. They both got torso pieces done-one kept her bra on, the other was completely topless. The Ace Angels photographer also mentioned to me that they were hosting a VIP lounge at Tequila, and that all their body painting customers were welcome. He said that "Miss Taboo" (the winner of a mini-pageant specifically for event staff) would be there in her "winning outfit" (which consisted of torso paint and boy short panties). Basically, the premise seemed to be "hey, topless painted women, come to this bar where there will be more topless painted women and we'll all have fun." I was vaguely disinterested, thinking I'd wait and see how the rest of the night went, but filed the information away.

After we had both gotten our paint jobs, Amie and I were in line at the bar with our boyfriends when we were approached by a man representing Tequila. He gave us some more detailed information about the VIP party, including the fact that we had to arrive before midnight and give a password at the door. Very cheesy stuff, but hey, it's a nightclub. Anyway, the group of us discussed it and decided that we'd go for a little while. If you're all dressed up (or painted up) and have the opportunity to go dancing, you may as well take it, right?

When we arrived at the club, Chris and I went inside while Amie and her boyfriend went to the Tim Horton's next door to meet up with the rest of our group. They were going to meet us inside once they'd gotten everyone together. After getting past the bouncer at the entrance, the coat check, and a second bouncer just inside the club, all of whom saw exactly what I was wearing, Chris and I were standing in line at the ATM, and I was getting "looks." One woman gave me a thumbs-up from a couple of metres away and mouthed, "you look awesome," a few people just looked me up and down either appreciatively or disgustedly but made no comment, and I heard one woman from behind me yelling, "OH MY GOD she's not wearing a shirt!!!" At that I turned around and replied, "Nope, just the paint" with a big smile on my face. Apparently she had nothing to say to me, just about me, because she turned back to her group with a look of disbelief on her face. Most of them were laughing, and one man said, "She could have at least painted that gut to hide it." Naturally, this bit of comedic genius was met with guffaws and giggles from the assembled elite. I shook my head and turned back in the direction I had been facing.

Within about 60 seconds of that, my arm was grabbed and I jerked away, then turned to find a very muscular man in a suit standing to my left. He proceeded to call me "sweetie" (because coming up in my blind spot and touching me just wasn't quite violating enough) and tell me that I needed to put a shirt on. I was kind of confused at this, not to mention having no clue who this dude was, and tried to explain to him that I had just been at Taboo and been told that there was a VIP lounge related to the event and that I had been told by event organisers and representatives of Tequila Nightclub (I didn't say it quite so pretentiously, just wanted to make sure that I mention Tequila Nightclub enough times that Google will pick up on how disgusting and anti-woman Tequila Nightclub is) that I should show up exactly as I was. His response was, and I quote:

"I really don't care what you were told. I'm the head of security here, and the owner of this club just asked me to come tell you that you need to put a shirt on. We're getting complaints. You can't be in here looking like that." (Emphasis original.)

At this point I was feeling a bit triggered, to say the least. I wanted out of there. While I was getting my coat from the coat check, he was hovering behind me and trying to usher me out a side door. Trying not to fall to pieces, I asked Chris to go outside, where I could see the rest of our group standing in line, and tell them what was going on. Suddenly Mr. "Head of Security" said, "Oh, there are people meeting you right now?" and disappeared from my side. By the time I actually got outside, apparently the rest of the group had been told that either due to a miscommunication or "something," the dress code was not what we had been told.

Apparently all of this was communicated politely enough that when I tried to tell everyone what had been said while they were outside, their responses made me feel like I was being brushed off as paranoid.

So, right now I'm a big pile of "triggered" and am going to bed. I am typing this only with the aid of Lorazepam and staying upright with sheer force of rage. I have that lovely sensation that I haven't missed at all since I've been dealing with my disordered eating, where I'm hungry and know I should eat something, but the thought of food makes me panic and twists my stomach into knots, and I know if I try to eat anything it won't stay down.

Tomorrow I'm going to write down the bare-bones details of the events (basically this blog post without personal commentary) and this will be Dealt With.

Regardless of whether there really was some grand scale miscommunication wherein everyone I spoke to at the original event was somehow misled, the way that bouncer handled the situation was Not Okay. And seeing as how their freaking waitresses were at the body paint booth at the same time I was, I'm inclined to think that the only miscommunication was the weight limit in their dress code.

At best, this situation is an epic marketing and PR failure. At worst, it's exactly what it looks like.

Colour Me Not At All Shocked.

2011-02-17T15:25:00.000-08:00

Via the always awesome Shakesville, I found this little gem. After today's events, I am too drugged up to articulate a real response to it. Maybe later I'll have something useful to say in comments.

For now, discuss.

I Am Uneducated!!

2011-02-16T15:16:00.000-08:00

Dear Friend of Chris' With Whom I Argued on Facebook,

I understand that you have Important Opinions, which you gained while Studying! For Four Years! To obtain A Degree! Good for you.

I also have Important Opinions, though since mine have only been developed through Living In The Current Society, Being Conscious Of My Experiences, and occasionally Reading Something, they are likely not as exciting as yours.

Also, apparently I have a Utopian Utilitarian worldview. You told me this today. As an ignorant savage-one who votes NDP no less!-I would like to thank you for teaching me about myself. If it weren't for "Realists" like you, where could I turn for Valuable Information? I am humbled by the revelation that my expectation of decent treatment for all humans is "utopian."

Sincerely,
Me.

P.S. I apologise if this letter takes overly long to reach you. Sometimes the postal service here in my Magical Fairy Queendom is slow.

Insanity And Dessert

2011-02-15T06:20:00.000-08:00

As some of you know, I am having a wild adventure with psychiatric medications, or rather the lack thereof. The stuff I had been on for over three years has stopped providing enough benefits to justify the level of side effects, so my doctor thinks there is something better for me. The fun part is that before I can start on anything new, I have to get the old stuff completely out of my system. I am currently down to the 37.5 mg dosage of Effexor once a day, which is really not much at all. I take this dosage for two more days. Then I am officially unmedicated for the first time since the era some of you may recall as "the drunk and naked years," during which I did a lot of exactly what that sounds like, as well as being unable to do much of anything without having insane crying fits.

Well, I guess I won't be *completely* unmedicated. I have Lorazepam! Yay! Or something! So basically, I still can't really do anything, but it's because I'm unconscious. It's like I'm a crying baby, and my doctor was like, "here, have some scotch" and BAM it's quiet time for the next few hours.

This has basically led to me being a complete failure at everything. I sit around my house and have panic attacks, then take a pill and nap for like seventeen hours, then do it all over again. I can't keep plans made with anyone, I can't have Ronin around, I can barely shower. Apologies to anyone who has been subject to my "hey that sounds awesome, I'll totally leave my house and do stuff with you...oh wait I'm insane and I can't."

Yesterday was in all honesty the worst day I have had in a long time. I woke up from an incredibly bizarre and frightening dream in a panic, feeling this deep sense of hopelessness. Honestly, the only coherent thought I could formulate was "I am going to die before ever being ok again." (To clarify- I am not feeling at all suicidal, thankfully. I do not *want* to die, and have no intention of speeding up the process. I just felt that I would never get better.) I can't even fully express how awful it was. The panic, the sadness, the hopelessness...I just really don't have words for it. It was like floating through space, being pulled closer and closer to a black hole and knowing there was nothing I could do to stop it. I ended up spending almost the entire day in bed. I just couldn't face consciousness.

Today I feel a tiny bit better. I'm still in a near-constant frightened state, but it's a low-grade "everything is terrible and scary" rather than a full-fledged panic. I can't really see colours like normal, and I kind of feel like I'm covered in bubble wrap and can't really interact with the world. But in retrospect, that's pretty much how my life feels when I'm unmedicated.

On a slightly more cheerful note, dessert! I had been seeing pictures all over the place of these delightful, pretty little cookie things. I did some clicking, and discovered that they're called macarons. I did some more clicking and found a recipe, and said to myself, "hey, those are basically the meringue cookies I sometimes make when I'm feeling fancy. Except they are even more fancy, seeing as how the batter stuff is delicately piped onto baking sheets instead of just slopped on with a spoon, and also they have lovely filling." So sometime soon maybe I'll try to make the extra-fancy filled version. Lemon and raspberry, perhaps.

For now though, I have a family-sized package of croissants and some squeezable jam.

CRTC Feedback!!!

2011-02-10T06:24:00.000-08:00

CBC News - Technology & Science - CRTC seeks internet billing feedback

Comment there!!

EVERYONE STOP EATING RIGHT NOW OMG.

2011-02-10T06:09:00.000-08:00

CBC News - Health - Diabetes diagnoses expected to surge: report

OMG THE OBESITY EPIDEMIC BOOGA BOOGA.

*headdesk*

I Am Baking!!

2011-02-10T05:10:00.000-08:00

Cupcakes. There will be delicious cupcakes.

At least I hope there will be...it was one of those, "hm, what's in the cupboards that could potentially turn into deliciousness?" moments.

True Fact: I am not a Food Blogger. Ulla, Pixee, Barbie, and everyone else who writes wonderful things about food, with precise measurements and actual ingredients and stuff-I love what you do. I am just not well equipped to do it. Because as I said, I am not a Food Blogger. I am a Kind-Of-Fat, Ineffectual-Rage-Filled Feminist, Yeah-I-Am-A-Mom-But-That-Is-A-Touchy-Subject-Right-Now, I-Have-Many-Opinions-But-If-You-Disagree-That's-Totally-Rad-As-Long-As-You-Afford-Me-The-Same-Respect, Lazy Blogger. And I cook like I blog. In that, hey, here's a link/ingredient/concept that seems like it would be great, so let's throw it in there and see what happens. Having said that, here is my cupcake recipe.

You will need:

Some dry stuff. I used flour, baking powder (because science), sugar, cocoa (because chocolate) and fairy dust.
Some wet stuff. I used half a pot of cold coffee, some dark rum, about an ounce of chocolate almond nondairy creamer, some olive oil, and a couple of eggs. This is stuff I happened to have around that I thought would make good cupcakes.
A big bowl. Mine is pink.
A cupcake baking tray doodad.
Cupcake paper things. Today I happened to have white ones on hand, but I usually enjoy the multicoloured kind. Because, well, bright colours.
A mixing/scooping device, if you're not into using your hands.
A heat source. I prefer an oven.

Procedure:

Put the dry stuff in your big bowl and mix it up, to avoid random clumps in the batter. If you are tempted to not mix it, remember that while a random chocolate clump may sound delicious, a random baking powder clump will probably make you barf.
Add the wet stuff. Mix it all really well. You can use a traditional mixing device, like a stick or your hands, or a spoon, or if you're feeling really classy, one of those electric mixing things.
Get your heat source ready. I heated my oven to about 325 F. YMMV, depending on your heat source.
Line your cupcake tray thing with your cupcake paper whatsits. Use your scooping device (hands, spoon, whatever) to fill them about halfway with the batter.
Bake them. You will know they are cupcakes when they look cupcakey and also don't get goo all over the toothpick you stick into the middle of one to test it.
Take them out of the oven and cool them at least enough so that you don't burn yourself by taking a bite. Nothing takes the joy out of baking like a trip to the emergency room. Okay, a lot of things probably take the joy out of baking in a severe manner, but I am here to be happy about cupcakes, so shut your negative facehole.
Decorate your cupcakes if you want, or just put them in your face and eat.

Now, some of you may be all like, "But Becca, those are not cupcakes! They are at best, chocolatey muffins! You said decorating was optional! Those are MUFFINS, which are basically lazy and ugly cupcakes!!" And to you I say, "My cupcakes don't have to fit your baking beauty standards. If I want them to be all unadorned, they are no less cupcakey in their cupcakeyness! Stop pigeonholing delicious beauty!" And then you look at me kind of funny and start slowly backing away, and I vehemently insist that I TOTALLY DID NOT drink most of that rum before I added the last bit to the cupcakes, and GOD WHY ARE YOU ALL SO JUDGY.

Ahem. Ok, if you want to decorate your cupcakes, which should be done as an extra thing because it is fun, not as a mandatory practice to conform to the unrealistic standards perpetuated by the Food Network, then here's how you can do it, the ~~Crazy Person~~ Super Fun Becca Way.

You will need:

A big bowl. This time I'm using a blue one.
A mixing device
Icing sugar.
Something gooey, like butter, cream cheese, or mayonnaise. Today I'm using a mixture of mayo and peanut butter, because shut up and try something new.
Maybe some vanilla or something? Or essence of whatever the heck flavour you want? I dunno, it's your tastebuds.
Food colouring (optional)
Smaller bowls to make different colours of icing (optional)

How to do it:

Mix the gooey stuff, flavour and icing sugar in the big bowl. It should look and taste like icing. Figure it out. This is not the Food Network, and I am not Rachael Ray.
If you want to make it all one pretty colour, add some food colouring. If you want multiple colours, divide the mixture into as many bowls as you want colours and add food colouring appropriately. Today I'm just doing it all a really bright teal-ish green sort of colour.
Spread it on the cupcakes.

There, now you have cupcakes. Nom them.

##############################################################################

Ok, so mine turned out...meh. The cupcakes themselves were yummy, though they maybe could have used a bit more wet stuff. The frosting was excessively oily and weird looking, but delicious. But once they sat in the fridge for a bit, everything set up nicely and now I have yay cupcakes. I would take a picture, but my camera batteries died and I can't find the spares, so you'll just have to take my word for it.

About that whole abortion thing...

2011-02-09T21:42:00.000-08:00

I was going to say something articulate and wordy and brilliant, but I'm too fucking tired and heartbroken after everything I've read lately. So I'll just say this: anti-choice is anti-woman. There's no way around it anymore. Even if we leave out "minor" reasons for choosing abortion and focus only on keeping women alive, this is a medical procedure that must be legal and available. I am so blessed to live in Canada, but I die a little every time I read about what women in America are facing right now.

Seriously, the US government is currently looking at a bill that would not only further restrict abortion in most situations, but would allow doctors the legal power to use their personal morals to decide whether a woman lives or dies. If an abortion will save her life but the doctor thinks abortion is wrong, under this law they could refuse to perform the procedure or refer the patient to someone who would-and there would be no consequences for them. If a woman presents with a tubal pregnancy which will kill her within days or hours, the doctor can shoot her up with morphine for the pain and let her die on the fucking table. If she has congestive heart failure that will kill her within weeks, he can send her home to die in front of her family, including any living children. If she has kidney failure that will kill her within the year, he can wash his hands of the whole situation and leave the woman to give birth to a baby that will grow up without a mother.

You know what, fuck your conscience clauses. Whose conscience, the conscience of the Judeo-Christian men who will never be pregnant?

Separation of church and state my ass. Dying to bring new life into the world is great if that's what you want to do. And it helps if your existing, breathing children will be well cared for in your absence. What about someone who has no other family, whose children would be given up to the state and an uncertain future? And who's going to explain to the hypothetical other children that their mother cared more about her religious ideals than about caring for them for the rest of their lives? If you CHOOSE to sacrifice yourself for your fetus, I respect that. I also respect the CHOICE to sacrifice that fetus for the family you already have.

Here's the thing. I think that life is sacred, and the hearts and minds we were given by our creator are there for a reason. We can make these choices. Motherhood and pregnancy can be sacred, and that's why I don't believe they should be forced on anyone. Would you tie someone down and pour sacramental wine down their throat? Then why force someone to go through an unwanted pregnancy?

It's been said many times, if you're against abortion, don't have one. No one is out here trying to legislate that you HAVE to terminate a pregnancy that will cause inconvenience, health problems or death. Like I said, that's your choice. Legislating morality is just not ok.

Heh.

2011-01-22T12:53:00.000-08:00

More stuff I found. A Facebook message from someone who is actually one of my favourite people prompted me to go looking for stuff I'd put on the intarwebs many moons ago. This post from my old LJ made me smile.

Also....

2011-01-20T18:50:00.000-08:00

Fuck you, Google.

Hey, I found this.

2011-01-20T18:40:00.001-08:00

It's my old blog, that I was using before I for some reason made this one instead. Can't for the life of me remember why I switched, but meh. You should probably read the old one, just for the lulz.

Trigger Warning times eleventy billion.

2010-12-30T15:19:00.000-08:00

Let's start here. Then go here. Then consider the fact that even the Bible seems to think that not saying no is the same as saying yes and that only ultra-sodomized Christian virgins are really rape victims.

So, yeah...I don't stand with Naomi Wolf.

OFFENSIVENESS ALERT!!!! (With linktastic goodness!)

2010-12-25T09:42:00.000-08:00

Help! We're being oppressed!!!

On another note, how about that orgiastic revelry?

My problem is NOT what you believe. That's your business. But when you say antagonistic things based on your beliefs, you're MAKING it other people's business. And when people defend themselves against your hurtful words and express their own opinions, accusing them of attacking you really doesn't make things better. If you're out for a walk, minding your own affairs, and a bear jumps out of the bushes and attacks you, I will feel really bad for you. But if you walk up to a grizzly and start poking it with a stick, I will feel justified in laughing when it eats your face.

Also, religious folk of all stripes need to walk their talk or stop talking. I'm hugely in favour of a personal, liberal, non-dogmatic interpretation of any faith system. However, you don't get to preach dogma on one account and suddenly pretend religious legalism isn't important on another. Consistency, folks. If legalism and dogma are oppressive, silly and unnecessary, that holds true across the board.

So...

2009-10-12T17:13:00.000-07:00

I haven't had access to a computer for a long time now, and that's why posting has been nonexistent. I don't know when the next time I'll have access will be, so I'm posting this now to let y'all know what's what. I'm in a rush, so excuse my piss poor sentence structure and what not. For those of you who read on Facebook, I'll be around...I crackbook from my phone all the time.

Anyhoo, a lot of stuff has happened. I broke up with the boyfriend MONTHS ago, contrary to what some of you may have heard. We were still living together as awkward roommates for a while, and apparently he chose to not tell anyone that we had split. Whether he was secretly hoping we'd get back together or what...I don't know. But in any case, I started dating someone else while still living with the ex. We were hanging out at the house one day while the ex was at work, and things got a little out of hand, as tends to happen in a new relationship. And what do you know, the ex walked in on us. Next thing you know, I'm sleeping in a borrowed car while frantically looking for a place. I ended up moving in with the new boyfriend, which was WAY too soon for me, but shit was hitting the fan from a dizzying height, and I did what I had to do. I don't know if the ex still has me on Facebook, if he'll be reading this, or what. And I know that some people who read this will simply not believe that he would be capable of anything mean or nasty. But he is. Things had been absolutely HORRIBLE between us for a while before we split up. I'm not saying he's a terrible person-he's not. Just REALLY immature, and I think to some degree he honestly didn't know any better, didn't know that the things he was doing were wrong. I'm not saying I was perfect. I wasn't. I'm just saying that I refuse to accept full blame for everything, and that some of the things the ex has done to me in the last couple of months have been absolutely unconscionable.

So now I'm living on the West side, with no vehicle and no internet access except from my phone.

I also completely quit the shitty sales job. Long story short, I snapped when the boss got really out of hand one day. I'm now working at a tire and lube place, hopefully starting school next year to get a start on the whole mechanic thing. Woo, me!!

As for the new man...we're good. I don't want to gush too much, but stuff is good. If you met him and then met me, you'd never picture us together, but once you see us together it makes more sense than anything else. We've fought and survived, we're navigating the whole living together thing quite well, and we're very happy 99% of the time. Even when stuff is hard, if I'm really honest with myself, there's no one I'd rather fight with.

So, I'm alive, the midget is doing well, I have a good man who is taking good care of me, I'm *letting* myself be taken care of, and I don't want to hang myself at the end of the work day anymore. In fact, I can't remember the last time I was this happy at the end of the day. Things are just tough in the areas of finances and transportation, so bear with me for not being around much. Message me on Facebook, or text me, or something. Love you all.

Quote of the week...

2009-08-02T20:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday while we were walking across the Broadway bridge, my son was worrying out loud, as he often does, about the bridge breaking. I told him he had nothing to worry about, that it would take a lot to damage the bridge.

Being the hilarious kid he is, he started listing what it would take, in his estimation, to damage the bridge.

"It would take lightning, and a meteorite, and a million ninjas with a million dogs, and a t-rex, and God. Then maybe it would break, right mom?"

Random Book Review Post

2009-07-22T01:22:00.000-07:00

Here's a sampling of what I've read over the past few months that I thought was good enough to pass on to all of you. Read these books!!

Title: He's a Stud, She's a Slut and 49 Other Double Standards Every Woman Should Know
Author: Jessica Valenti
Why it's awesome: Jessica Valenti, founder of Feministing, is amazing. In this book, she breaks down 50 common gender-based double standards and gives advice on how to overcome them. I heart her.
Quote: "A guy throws rocks at a girl's window in the middle of the night. He won't take no for an answer-he must date her! He serenades her, shows up at her classes, waits at her car. These could be scenes from a burgeoning romance or a stalker gone mad-American culture doesn't differentiate, really. If a woman does these things, however, she's always a stalker. A crazy ex-girlfriend. A psycho. Shit, women are called stalkers for even daring to call a guy a couple of times! Never mind that the majority of stalking is done by men, and the majority of victims are women. When it comes to romance, women are the stalkers and men are just...romantic."

Title: World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War
Author: Max Brooks
Why it's awesome: Written in interview style, it's the story of the zombie apocalypse told by the survivors. Hypothetical futuristic journalism. Love it.
Quote: "I...I'm not totally sure. When I try to remember, everything goes by too fast. I had it by the neck. It pulled Jenna toward its open mouth. I squeezed hard...pulled... The kids say I tore the thing's head off, just ripped it right out with all the flesh and muscle and whatever else hanging in tatters."

Title: I Was A Really Good Mom Before I Had Kids
Author: Trisha Ashworth and Amy Nobile
Why it's awesome: The authors interviewed moms from across demographic lines and compiled the results into a book that addresses more of the reality of motherhood than almost anything else I've read.
Quote: "Now that we're entering preschool, I feel like I'm back in high school. The peer pressure is immense. You want to get friendly with other moms so your child is included in playdates and gatherings, and to some extent that responsibility lies with the mother. I'm not into that at all! I thought I was done with those politics in high school!"

Title: Breathers
Author: S.G. Browne
Why it's awesome: It's a zombie romance novel. Need I say more?
Quote: "If you've never woken up from a car accident to discover that your wife is dead and you're an animated, rotting corpse, then you probably wouldn't understand."

Title: Women Who Run With The Wolves
Author: Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Ph.D.
Why it's awesome: Dr. Estes uses myths, stories and archetypes from multiple cultures to express the beauty and strength of the feminine psyche, the "Wild Woman" in each of us. This book is wordy and intense, but well worth the time and effort it takes to get through it.
Quote: "So like many women before and after me, I lived my life as a disguised criatura, creature. Like my kith and kin before me, I swagger-staggered in high heels, and I wore a dress and hat to church. But my fabulous tail often fell below my hemline, and my ears twitched until my hat pitched, at the very least, down over both my eyes, and sometimes clear across the room"

Title: Lessons From The Fat-O-Sphere: Quit Dieting and Declare a Truce With Your Body
Author: Kate Harding and Marianne Kirby
Why it's awesome: Marianne Kirby and Kate Harding, both of whom I have praised here before, wrote this awesome book of awesomeness about seemingly simple concepts like Health At Every Size and self-love and all that awesome stuff. You should probably read it.
Quote: "And so we are proud to present to you, for the low, low cost of free (well, if you're reading a library copy or thumbing through this chapter in a bookstore), the Harding-Kirby Lifetime Diet Plan: Eat what you're hungry for when you're hungry for it, and stop when you're full. Period."

Title: Ask A Ninja Presents: The Ninja Handbook
Author: Douglas Sarine and Kent Nichols
Why it's awesome: Do I really need to explain this?
Quote: (From a chapter discussing ninja skills like kicking, punching and dodging) "For one month, simultaneously date a vampiress, an Amazonian queen, a mermaid, a witch, and a Hollywood actress. Tell each one that you love her and her alone, keeping each relationship hidden from the others. On the last day of the month, send the following e-mail to all of them.

Dear Stinky Butt,

I hate your face. I have totally been doing it with like all these models and sick people since the day we met. Consider this trash day and yous on the curb, biznatch.

Eat Gerbil Poop, (her pet name for you)

Now dodge these scorned ladies and duck the hell that their crazy asses bring at you. You are not allowed to fight them or harm them in any way. You are only allowed to evade their fury."

Title: Yes Means Yes! Visions of Female Sexual Power & A World Without Rape
Author: Compiled essays, edited by Jaclyn Friedman and Jessica Valenti
Why it's awesome: This collection of essays discusses the relationship between rape culture and female sexual agency. It tackles the issues from many different angles, but the unifying theme is the idea that the "no means no" model of rape prevention is insufficient-what needs to be added is an understanding that consent means saying "yes," not simply the absence of "no." And for that to happen, women need to be free to say yes, to agree to and ask for what they want sexually and romantically, and not be shamed for it.
Quote: "What does it mean to say to someone, 'Fuck me?' Or, to put it a little more delicately, 'Touch me?' To tell them exactly how you want to be kissed, licked, petted? Or to tell them just what it is you want to do with them? For one thing, it means that you are taking the bull, as it were, by the horns. You're letting your lover--and yourself--know what you're looking for, rather than leaving it up to the imagination. You're giving them explicit instructions and thereby saying 'yes' so loudly, they have to hear you."

Title: Pride And Prejudice And Zombies
Author: Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith
Why it's awesome: It's Pride and Prejudice. And zombies.
Quote: "Elizabeth accepted their company, and they set off together, armed only with their ankle daggers. Muskets and Katana swords were a more effective means of protecting one's self, but they were considered unladylike; and, having no saddle in which to conceal them, the three sisters yielded to modesty."

Quote Of The Day

2009-07-19T20:07:00.000-07:00

I was out for a walk by the river with my son today, and was telling him stories about being his age. One of the things I talked about was the duck slide that used to be by the art gallery. You Saskatoon folks remember that, right? :D

Anyway, I mentioned that the slide had been taken down some years ago, and the Midget said, "You should make them put it back! Say if they don't, you'll sue them for taking a piece of your childhood."

I love that kid. :D

The rational part of my brain just exploded.

2009-07-05T17:26:00.000-07:00

I'm too tired to be wordy and clever about the weirdness of the past week. I'll just summarize in poorly structured sentences and maybe some bullet points. Bleh.

About the random "messages from God." Three of the five were just random folks on the street. Granted, one was kind of visibly crazy, but the other two were seemingly sane and "normal" people who suddenly stopped in their tracks when walking past me, stopped me, and said that God had just told them to talk to me. All of the three completely random people said that they could "see Christ in me" and that "God doesn't care how broken you are, he'll take you back in his arms no matter what." Creepy.

The fourth was a woman (who happened to be in a wheelchair and mostly blind) that I went to see for a work demo. I got to her house, and as she was telling me that her husband had just gone out and we'd have to reschedule, she suddenly burst into tears. I went and sat next to her and asked her what was wrong, and she said, "I don't know you and you don't know me, but God is telling me right now that you'll understand." She went on to tell me that she lives with serious bipolar which is not under very good "control" at all, in addition to her physical problems, and that her husband seems to not understand at all, and that he had stormed out moments before I got there because they'd gotten in a fight, he spoke to her rather harshly, she asked him not to, and he told her that "her bad attitude was making him act that way." Wow, can we say domestic abuse? She also said that she "saw a light and a joy in me that could only come from Jesus" and asked about my personal faith. I just said that I had a personal relationship with God. I didn't want to get into details. So we talked for a few minutes. I told her about my depression and anxiety and how some days my cheerfulness is all fake, so she shouldn't feel badly about not being full of joy all the time. That seemed to help her a lot. I told her that her husband has no right to treat her the way it sounded like he was, she agreed with me. Then as I was leaving, she called me back from the door and said, "I don't really know what this means, but God is giving me a message for you. He says that you have enough scars now, and it will all stop if you go back." Then she shrugged her shoulders and turned her chair to leave the room. I left feeling a bit disconcerted.

You see, this was the point where the random babbling of slightly off-balance strangers started to hit a little too close to home. Some of you know the stories about Christian Centre, the place where I went to church and school until I was 9. For those of you who don't know, I'll summarize: the church is more of a cult than anything, they manipulate and abuse their members, and until very recently still used corporeal punishment in the school. Even in the adult church members, there was a preoccupation that went beyond normal Christianity with the physical suffering endured by Jesus, and with the concept that the only reason we didn't have to suffer like that was because we were covered by his blood. Without that salvation, the logic went, we deserved nothing more than a lifetime of literal physical torture. Some of the church elders practiced self-flagellation, and nearly every adult member of the congregation would fast for days, allowing themselves only a few small glasses of water a day, as a method of doing penance for their (real or perceived) sins. They earned their salvation and redeemed themselves by taking on physical pain, and expected their children to do the same. A simple wrong tone of voice when answering a parent would earn a Christian Centre kid ten swats with what was essentially a short-handled canoe paddle, sometimes with a couple of holes drilled in it to reduce the drag on the swing of the parent's arm. The stronger parent was always the one to administer "discipline," because "it has to hurt to be effective." Refusal of bathroom privileges was a common tactic in the school. The sight of a ten year old walking down the hallway with wet pants, sobbing, followed by a teacher carrying one of the paddles and a clean set of gym clothes, was almost a daily occurrence. If you were bad, you had to hold it until you repented. If your apology wasn't sincere enough, you weren't allowed to use the bathroom for the rest of the day. Then you got paddled if you peed your pants.

I was personally called out from the pulpit when I was 8 years old. Well, really my mom was, but I was sort of "collateral damage." See, all my mom's other kids were adorable, cherubic, Aryan looking kids. They all had blond hair and blue or green eyes, chubby cheeks, and sweet smiles. I showed my First Nations blood a lot more as a child than I do now-I was always dark, thin and angular. Even my baby teeth were crooked, and my smile has always crinkled up my eyes so much that they nearly disappear. When I was 8, my mother was called on to testify about her "salvation," the salvation she received through the grace of God even after consorting with an "evil man" and conceiving a child out of wedlock-a child that clearly bore the evidence of the devil's hand in her conception. (Never mind that the older two of my younger siblings were also bastards-I was the only one who looked like it. I was the only one who carried the blood of savages.) To illustrate that God will love even the worst among us if we ask for it, I was brought in front of the church. I was the example for the entire congregation of what Satan's hand will do, and what God can overcome.

And people wonder why I'm so fucked up.

Families who left the church were often threatened with physical harm. The sermon the week after someone left would focus on the hellfire and eternal pain that awaited those who "turned their back on God." Children of the family who had left would be mentioned by name, with graphic descriptions of how their flesh would be rent from their bones over and over for eternity, all because their parents had turned away from the Lord and not given them a fair chance. These sermons were given in front of the entire congregation. I heard my first one when I was 5.

I know that the indoctrination I received as a child is at least part of the reason I've struggled with self-harm all my life. My parents, my teachers, and the church leaders all told me that if I did something wrong, I had to be hurt. The pain made it okay. Even after we left Christian Centre, my mother and stepfather maintained the "pain makes your many failings more acceptable" attitude until the day I broke contact with them. Now I don't know how to cope with failure unless I hurt myself. Even just not knowing the answer to a question puts me in a state of mental distress that doesn't stop until something hurts. I can't focus on anything but how wrong I am, how much everyone around me must hate me, how I will never be accepted or loved until I redeem myself. But when I bite into the inside of my cheek until it bleeds, or dig my fingernails into the flesh of my arms and legs, or slice into my skin with whatever sharp object I can find, somehow the fog clears and I can allow myself to carry on with my day.

I used to focus primarily on forms of self-harm that wouldn't draw blood or leave marks-pulling out my hair, banging my head against walls, slapping myself, sometimes scratching without really breaking skin. But lately it's been more satisfying to cut. I've carved things into myself, words like "fuckup" and "failure." It's one of the things I'm trying hard to stop. I don't talk about it to get attention or sympathy, I talk about it because hiding it makes it too easy for me to keep doing it. If people know, I feel more motivated to stop because I'm really ashamed of this whole situation. Just so that's perfectly clear.

Anyway, when this woman said "you have enough scars now," in almost a "that'll do, pig" tone of voice, a chill went up my spine. I know it's a random coincidence, but since I had just been talking to a friend earlier that day about my history with religion and its connections to my current problems, it hit me pretty hard.

The last one of the incidents was last night outside the bar. I was having a cigarette (I smoke when I drink, leave me alone) with one of the bouncers when this woman walked up to me and started talking about God. At first she was sort of incoherently rambling about God's love and peace, but she strangely became more lucid as she talked. She talked about how she had prophesied over people in power, mentioning the names of a few local politicians. She talked about how Jesus was tortured so we wouldn't have to be, and how without God's love we will be tortured that way. (At some point in this conversation, the bouncer I was talking to went back inside and I wandered across the parking lot to go get a cup of coffee. The crazy lady followed me.) She took off her glasses and stared into my eyes, and said "I can see that you've suffered a lot in your life." My first thought when she said that was that she was using a technique commonly known as "cold reading," or "how 90% of the douchebags I hooked up with between the ages of 17 and 21 convinced me that we had a real connection." Walking up to the drunk chick who is wearing too much black eyeliner and silver jewelry usually gets you a good cold reading audience, in my experience. Unfortunately for the crazy lady here, I'm wise to that game. I shrugged and tried to change the subject. She continued, saying that "God will still let you come back. You've suffered enough, you've done your penance."

Then she told me that she was from City Centre Church, the urban outreach project run by Christian Centre. And repeated that "God wants you back."

So, to whatever god it is that these fuckwits are following: ENOUGH.

ETA: I'm not saying that there's necessarily some big scary deity trying to recruit me back to his creepy kool-aid party or anything. This is likely just a random set of coincidences that hits too close to a difficult personal subject. But still...it was creepy.

"I hope someone treasures you the way you deserve."

2009-06-23T01:43:00.000-07:00

I always smile and nod when I hear something like that, thinking that whoever's saying it likely doesn't mean it. Even if they do, why would I want to be "treasured?" I roll my eyes a little, hoping it's not too obvious, and carry on with whatever I was doing.

But I'm starting to think I might want to be treasured. One day it might happen, and I'm getting less and less inclined to push it away if it ever does.

A Blog, In Which I Reclaim My Fucking Life.

2009-06-14T14:33:00.000-07:00

Here's some background information.

I come from a very complex family background. My mom's (I'll call her K) family is what you might call "white trash," as well as being abusive alcoholics several generations back. My dad's family is primarily First Nations, lower-middle class, and has a history of substance abuse and trouble with the law. Unfortunately, many of them are the "stereotypical Indians" that get so much bad press, though an equal number are not. (It's a big family.) My stepfather's family is upper-middle class, from an academic and artistic background, and were always very ashamed to have me as a member of the family. Upon finding out about my First Nations heritage, my step grandmother's response was, "well, you don't LOOK like one of them, so you don't have to tell anyone about that." For anyone who has wondered why I have so many issues and heaps of guilt surrounding the whole "passing" thing, think about that for a minute. Also of note: my stepfather (referred to from here out as M, and those of you who know my maiden name can put some pieces together) is the Concertmaster of the symphony orchestra here.

Growing up, I was always involved in music, drama and the like. I played violin and double bass, taking the bass far enough to play in the Saskatoon Strings (basically the junior level of the youth orchestra) for a couple of years. I acted and sang, even getting parts in a couple of productions done by the amateur theater company in town. I was getting involved in the "crew" angle of theater as well, working on stage crews and doing the sound for one production with the same company.

I started having sex when I was 15. At that point, I was taking a year off from any active performance, having aged out of the Strings but not been accepted to the regular Youth Orchestra yet, and being too busy with other things to do much theater. I was continuing my bass lessons and working hard at school.

I may have had a genius level IQ and been brilliant at many things, but as is so often the case with "gifted" kids, common sense was unfortunately not my strong point. I ended up pregnant twice before the pregnancy that resulted in my son. The first one I miscarried within days of the positive pregnancy test, and never told my family about. The second one, however, I carried to about 13 weeks before miscarrying. My family knew about that one. That pregnancy was what turned my entire life upside down.

When I told K and M about my pregnancy, I didn't expect them to take it well, being that they were both rather abusive to begin with. What I hadn't prepared myself for, however, was exactly how much they would punish me for it.

"Well, I guess that's it for the Youth Orchestra," said M. "Being that they're kind of affiliated with my workplace, and I'm not going to tarnish either organization by having my pregnant whore of a stepdaughter appearing onstage."

"And you can forget about theater, too," said K. "I still work with them sometimes, and I'll be damned if you're going to fuck up my good name too."

I was told that I was more than welcome to continue my bass lessons, if I could pay for the instrument rental and lessons myself. Of course, that wasn't really an option, so that was the end of my performance career in a lot of ways. All I've really had since then is karaoke.

Anyone who has a background in acting, music and the like will understand what I mean when I say that for the past ten years or so, something has been missing from my life.

I have kept a lot of this "on the down-low," so to speak, because for a long time I felt that it would be unfair of me to jump back into the artistic community, give people an explanation of what happened to make me disappear for a decade, and not only start drama but potentially tarnish M's reputation.

After I moved out, which happened for the first time around when I got pregnant with my son, I found out that K and M had spread gossip and lies about me to other members of the artistic community. That clinched my decision to keep everything quiet and just keep to myself. I felt that even if I had the opportunity to get involved in another play or something, I would likely not be welcomed with open arms by my old friends. And as I said, explaining the truth would just "start shit."

Today, I went and helped my friend Jen do the makeup for the local production of La Boheme. It was a lot of fun, although seeing the members of the children's chorus, some of whom are the same age I was when I got involved with acting, damn near tore my heart out. The thought that some of those kids will be lucky enough to have all the support and opportunities they deserve, while others will likely either have their dreams somehow dashed or simply slip through the cracks, is more depressing than I can really articulate.

I left the theater around the end of the second act. On my way out, I ran into a few members of the orchestra who were backstage during the intermission. Of course, among them was M. He tried to ignore me when I said hi to him. One of the cellists said, "M, someone is talking to you," and he couldn't continue the attitude without looking childish. Still, he was standoffish and rude to me.

Somehow, that brief and unpleasant exchange of small talk flipped a switch in my mind. I've decided that I've sacrificed enough, and foregone enough joy. It's time for me to start taking steps to get back into acting, if nothing else. I will not be shamed and forced out of something I enjoy any longer. I will not make an active effort to get the truth about the last ten years out, but I will also no longer make special efforts to hide it for the sake of someone who willfully destroyed my dreams and crushed my sense of self worth. If, in the process of doing what I have always loved, someone finds out the truth about M, so be it.

I deserve this, and it's time that I took it back. I'm pulling my passion and my dreams out of the hands of K, M, and their elitist asshole friends.

Fuck.

2009-06-08T13:09:00.000-07:00

After the whole head shaving incident last year, it took me a while to get back into a good headspace. Hair has special significance for me, and what I'm doing with mine generally reflects how I'm feeling. Once I got past the problem of feeling like I didn't deserve to have hair, muscled through the awkward, fuzzy, growing out phase, and tried a few different varieties of pixie cuts, I finally decided a few months ago that I was ready to grow my hair again. I've been so excited about it. I finally unpacked my hair accessories from where I shoved them when I shaved my head, and every time I go shopping I look at glittery hair clips and the like with rising anticipation. I miss my hair. I miss it a lot. I remember what it looked like when I moved back to Saskatoon from Shellbrook, and DAMN. I was hot. So the prospect of having long, gorgeous hair again has made me very happy.

My hair is baby fine, but there's a lot of it. It takes a great deal of razor cutting and texturizing to make it behave at all. Since I'm broke, I've been texturizing it myself lately. This has worked out quite well for me. Much better than I thought it would. (Yes, Jackie, I know I promised I'd come to you. But you have no idea how broke I really am. I'm very sorry.)

Last night, since I couldn't sleep anyway, I decided to do some prettifying. I gave myself a mini-facial, re-shaped my fingernails, and decided it was time to texturize my hair and trim my bangs a little. Everything was going well until what was supposed to be the last little bit of texturizing, at the front of my head just behind the bangs. Apparently lost in a daydream, I grabbed the wrong pair of scissors and cut a giant chunk out of the front of my hair.

After trying pretty much everything I could think of to fix or hide my mistake, I realised that the only option was going to be shaving my fucking head again.

So now my hair is gone, and I'm devastated. I couldn't even finish cutting it myself-I had to get Chris to shave it for me while I bawled like an infant.

There's no real point to this post, just me getting this out there. I'm bald and depressed. FML.

Freak Walk

2009-06-07T15:10:00.000-07:00

As some of you know, I was one of those teenagers who did bizarre things just for the shock value. I like to think I've grown out of that. Now when I do bizarre things, it's because that's genuinely what I feel like doing. :D

Last night I got together with my brother and a friend and went for a walk in the middle of the night. It was nice. We had some fun conversations and took pictures of each other. The thing is, we were all dressed strangely. I was wearing a glittery minidress and stripey tights, my brother was wearing a kilt, a leather vest, and a top hat, and our friend, though otherwise normal-looking, had borrowed my hot pink feather boa. Before last night, it had been a very long time since I had occasion to get all dressed up and go gallivanting.

Of course, sometime over the course of the night, we got caught up in the fun of looking weird in public and ended up taking some pictures and such that were pretty much just for the "freak value." Then I ended up feeling bad about that. Really, I'm not out to be a big attention whoring weirdo anymore. I want to have what I consider to be a normal, happy life. It just so happens that my version of normal includes stripey tights, fire-eating, and midnight strolls. Occasional moments of attention whoring are fine, I guess, but I don't like the idea of being "freaky" just for the shock value. I'm weird for its own sake, and in a very organic way. It's the whole "self-expression" thing. I like sparkly clothes and slightly outlandish forms of entertainment, but forced strangeness bothers me.

I guess what I'm thinking right now is this: if you're a member of some fringe culture or other, where's the line between just going on with your life regardless of what you look like and taking it in stride that people will likely think you're out to be "shocking", and actually trying to be shocking? How often do you make the effort to get attention and be weirder than usual? Does it bother you, as someone who just happens to look like an oddity, when friends act intentionally strange as a method of garnering stares from passers by? Do any of these questions even make sense?

Random thoughts of the day, likely poorly phrased.

Adventures In Direct Sales: Um....okay?

2009-06-01T11:25:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a disaster. We usually don't work on Sundays, but I didn't work on Saturday, so I said I'd take a couple of appointments on Sunday to make up for it. The first one I went to, the lady said she had told the person on the phone that she wasn't interested in seeing a presentation. So, whatever, didn't do that one. The second one was even worse. As I pulled up to the house, the family was actually getting into their car. I introduced myself to the husband, who was just locking the front door. He told me that they had changed their mind, because his wife said it sounded like a scam. (As scamtastic as the employment practices have turned out to be, I'll give this company credit for the fact that the products themselves are good, and their sales practices aren't scams. They never fuck with the customers, just the employees. :P) Anyway, I said, "Okay, can I just use your phone for a minute to let the office know I won't be doing this appointment, then?" He said no, and ordered me off the property.

I called the office from my cell phone. As I was calling, the family pulled out of the driveway and drove away. C answered. I told her what was happening. I could hear J in the background yelling, "oh, what the fuck is it this time?" Because, you know, it's totally my fault when I can't get into demos. C told him what was up, and he started yelling, "Oh, that's bullshit. If that happens, she needs to call us from their phone, and she knows that. This is total bullshit." C told him that they wouldn't let me use the phone. She was about to say that they had left already, and J cut in with, "then she can call from her cell and put one of them on the damn phone so we know she actually talked to them. This is fucking bullshit." C told him that they had ordered me off the property and left, and J continued ranting in the background. Then he got on the phone and told me I could do an evening appointment. Now, keep in mind, Sundays are extra and optional to begin with, and just the other day J said that we never do Sunday evening appointments. When I said no, he got all pissed off and hung up on me.

Fast forward to this morning's meeting. The first little bit was fine. But S, N and I were all coughing. N had it the worst, coughing so hard he could barely talk. He looked pretty rough. J told S that he didn't want to send him to someone's house if he was sick, so he should just go home and rest. Then he said to N and I, "you two aren't allowed to be sick. Take some cough syrup and get over it." Yep, the white guy got sent home to rest, and the brown guy and the girl get told to "just get over it."

As the meeting was wrapping up, J asked me to stick around for a few minutes after everyone left. He told me that he was giving me a "promotion" of sorts. Basically, certain regions of the province are now going to be my areas. It means more travel, but I also got bumped up a level on the pay scale-better commission and bigger bonuses, plus (obviously) more gas money and pay for mileage and such. I just said thank you, but I was really wondering why he was giving me whole regions of my own after yesterday's fiasco. I'm thinking maybe it's so I don't sue him or something. :P

What really pissed me off, though, was when we finished talking about this new position and I asked about my equity term coming to an end soon. Hoo, boy.

A little background-if I make a full-price sale that's paid by cheque, cash or credit card, I get full commission, obviously. If it's financed, and the customer gets approved on what's called "A-line," basically meaning they have spectacular credit, I also get full commission. But a discounted sale, or a full price one on B or C line financing, cuts into my commission. I don't care so much about that, but the important thing to note is that with B or C line financing, the finance company only gives J a portion of the money right out, and that's why it reduces our commission.

What I didn't realize was that my final system, the one that I have to sell to get my account paid off, has to be either cash, cheque, credit card or A-line financing. I was under the impression that any full-price sale of the final system would work, but now I find out that it doesn't work that way. Yeah, thanks for telling me that right out of the gate, J. Seriously, it's 10 weeks this week, so I'll be working on that final sale starting, I believe, Thursday. But in the entire 10 weeks I've only sold 1 full-price system on one of the "acceptable" payment methods. So I'm stuck here until I duplicate that feat. So now the pressure is on, and I'm pissed off.

Speaking of sales, J and I were talking about one customer of mine who didn't get approved at first, but was getting a co-signer. I have to go back to her house tomorrow to get signatures and stuff. J asked if she was black. I said no. He asked, "well then, what is she?" Yeah, he's classy like that. After I glared at him a little bit, I replied, "she's First Nations." His response? "Well, then, I hope you're not counting on that commission for anything. In my entire career, I've only seen one indian get approved, even with a co-signer." Seriously, I could just kill him right now.

Adventures In Direct Sales: It's Hard To Have Principles

2009-05-29T13:24:00.000-07:00

Some of you may be aware of exactly how racist, sexist and otherwise unpleasant my boss is. I don't think I've talked a lot about that trouble here, primarily because I've been really ashamed of the fact that I just don't know how to react at this point in time.

But enough is enough. It was bad enough when it was just me dealing with his nonsense, but there are new people working with us now, and his bullshit is going to start affecting them one way or another.

First of all, I'll do a brief cast list. J is the boss, an upper-middle class white man in his early twenties who has, even by his own admission, always had it "pretty easy." C is his wife, who is also the office manager. I like C. She evidently used to be quite the little gothy princess, and was a very strong and independent woman. Now she's pretty firmly under J's thumb and doesn't even decorate her home the way she likes anymore, because J won't let her have "those skulls and crap" up in "his" house. It's sad.

The new hires are S, a white man in his early twenties from a conservative, upper-middle class family; M, a young, fat white woman (who the boss told me "still has a pretty face") from a very similar family background as S; T, a black man around his mid-twenties who moved here from Ontario and from all appearances has a relatively middle-class background as well, though I haven't had a chance to talk much to him about that; and N, a First Nations man in his early to mid twenties whose family is on the lower end of "middle class." Then there's me, a mixed race (white and First Nations), queer woman from a family that always lived well below the poverty line, who has suddenly found herself with a whole lot of passing privilege to examine. I look pretty white, I'm in a hetero relationship, and I've carved out a fairly middle class life for myself, which differs hugely from my childhood.

When this new group first got hired, the boss was telling me that in the original interview group, only about half of which would end up getting hired, there were two Sudanese people, who he refers to as "purple people." He says, "they're so black they're purple." I was stunned into silence by this line of conversation. What made it even more horrific was when he flat-out said, "purple people aren't people." He's talked a lot about black people in general having "zero work ethic," said that as soon as a job gets a little hard they quit.

J's opinions of First Nations people are none too flattering, either. He's got story after story of times that "some Indian" either screwed him over in business or caused some other kind of trouble, and he uses these to justify his blatant racism. He doesn't like to hire First Nations people because "customers get nervous when they see an Indian on their doorstep. It's not my fault, just how the world works." Because, you know, it would be too much for you to just hire whoever is qualified, regardless of race, and stand behind your employees if a customer starts shit with them?

One of J's favorite things to talk about has been the fact that I have made a lot of sales to First Nations people. Apparently, I "can sell to brown people like nobody's business. Now we just need to get you selling to some white people, so you actually get some financing applications approved." Because, you know, everyone who isn't white has shitty credit, and everyone who is white has GREAT credit. That actually came up once, when he got all bent out of shape because he saw a customer's last name on a contract, guessed that she was First Nations, and said, "Oh, great, now I'm all worried that she won't get approved." I got a bit irritated and told him to not talk like that, pointed out that I have First Nations blood and maybe he should watch what he says. His response? "Yeah, I know you're Native, and I also know what your credit looks like." Followed by a self-satisfied smirk.

When the new group was doing their practice demos for friends and family, J's big beef was that N and T were doing theirs for their families, who, "you know, being black and Native, probably don't really have any money. Thy're not gonna sell anything that way."

All in all, he's a misogynistic, racist fuckwad. This isn't even getting into the details of the dynamic of his and C's relationship, or how he talks about women in general.

It's already become clear that S is J's favorite, closely followed by M. She may be a woman, but at least she's soft spoken and traditionally feminine. J has already pointed out to me that M "dresses better for work (she wears skirts and tops that apparently show the right amount of skin) and doesn't have an attitude like you do." Because, you know, it's bullshit when women demand respect and fair treatment. And I should be wearing a skirt for a job that involves a lot of movement and bending. (I've stopped wearing shirts that show pretty much ANY cleavage, and now the big issue about my clothing is that "it's too butch." I can't win here.)

I've given this a lot of thought, and I know that I'm walking a fine line in a lot of ways. I have to be aware of my passing privilege, because I don't want to come off as some white person who figures they know what's best for the persons of colour, coming in to "save" them. But I can't allow J's racism to stay a secret. And if race were taken out of the equation, if the boss were talking shit about someone behind their backs for any other reason, it'd be right to tell the other person about it, so I figure this is the same thing. So today I told T everything, and next time I talk to N I'll tell him the same stuff. I can't decide what, if anything, to say to M. She seems aware of the undercurrent of misogyny and hasn't said anything about it, but who knows what's actually going on in her head? She could be feeling like she's the only one who gets it. I don't know what to do.

Health At Every Size

2009-05-27T11:57:00.000-07:00

I'm by no means an "expert" on this subject, but I think this is something that really needs to be addressed and more widely accepted. You can read a bit more about HAES here, here, here or a million other places on the internet. A lot of the blogs I link to from here talk about HAES and related theory.

It's not fat that's the problem. Poor eating habits and a sedentary lifestyle are bad for you, no one is arguing with that. But what if you're doing everything "right" and you're still fat? Or you're doing everything "right" and you're still really skinny? That's where the concepts of HAES come in handy.

One thing: a lot of people argue with the "eat what you want, when you want, in an amount you want" concept, because they figure that, left to their own devices, they would just devour the entire planet, or at least their weight in ice cream. And at first, yeah, you might. Because cookies or cake or whatever have been so firmly ingrained in your mind as "bad" foods, the taboo will make them much more appealing, and you'll want to just stuff your face with them. But after a while, when you start to realise that you can have a cookie or two whenever you want, you don't want them as much. You'll learn to listen to your body's actual cues, learn that your body actually WANTS nourishing food, like fruit or veggies, and with the mindset that you're not "bad" if you eat a cookie, you'll be more comfortable just having one and putting the box back.

For better writing about this subject, check out The Rotund and Shapely Prose, then go read Lessons From The Fat-O-Sphere, by Kate Harding (founder of Shapely Prose) and Marianne Kirby (The Rotund). Do it!! There are also a billion other fantastic blogs dealing with the same subject matter, I just linked to these two today because I wanted to plug their book. :P

Coming Clean...

2009-05-20T22:42:00.000-07:00

The past two months or so, I've been having some "inexplicable" health problems. The reality is, I know what's causing at least some of them.

I've been purging. A lot. At least two or three times a week, sometimes every day for a few days when I really feel like shit.

I keep trying to stop and falling right back into it.

The last week or so, I've been throwing up involuntarily after meals. Not every meal, but most of the stuff I've tried to eat in a day, my stomach just doesn't seem to want. I've been living off a lot of liquids, because they're easier to keep down. And my stomach HURTS. Not nausea, just cramping pain.

On top of this, I've been off my meds for a bit...my prescription ran out. So the last...two weeks? Ish? I've been extra special.

Yesterday, I got scared and went to a doctor.

As some of you know, I don't have a family doctor right now. My old doctor, who I'd been going to for years, turned out to be a bit of a...well, a useless, unethical fuckstain, for lack of a better term. I tried to talk to him about my disordered eating, the psychological problems I've been having and what I feel is contributing to them, and he just wrote me a prescription for Effexor without even wanting to talk about anything else. When I insisted on going a little deeper, explaining to him how long some of this (specifically the self-harm: about a year ago I progressed from pulling out hair and slapping/pinching myself to actually cutting, and that scared me) had been going on, and how it related to stuff I'd gone through as a kid, guess what he did?

He phoned my mother.

That's right, when your patient comes to you and says "my mother beat me and let her boyfriend rape me," the NEW treatment is to just call the mother. Let her, her ex-husband, and ALL the siblings on that side repeatedly phone and threaten me. (I've changed my landline, but have had the same cell number for years now, and they all got it from my sister.) Let a couple of them actually show up at my house to call me names and intimidate me in person. Let her get a lawyer and try to take custody of my child. Never mind that it'll never happen: Social Services has a file on her a foot thick, I'm sure. The point is, I've been through a metric fuckton in the last year, and now I'm dealing with my chronic physical and mental illnesses without a family doctor.

Anyway, what I did was go to the doctor that we saw last week for Ronin's stuff. He's awesome. He's referred me to a psychiatrist, written me a new prescription for the crazy pills, and also prescribed something called metoclopramide. (Yeah, it's a Wiki link. Deal with it.) It's TERRIBLE for long-term use, but it'll get me re-fed for now.

So, this is me saying....I'm not okay. At all. I've tried to be all "Ooooh, lookit me being so tough," but I'm not. I don't know what to do right now, except just throw this out there and ask for prayers/happy thoughts/love/whatever.

And for those of you sitting there going "I knew she was still fuckin' crazy," good for you. You win. Some things really don't change.

Excerpted from an entry in my super-secret ninja LJ

2009-05-20T04:38:00.001-07:00

I wish I could stop hating my stomach. I love almost everything else about my body-the way my hair grows stick-straight but thick and tangled like prairie grass, the way my eyes always betray my feelings, the shape and colour of my lips. I love my powerful shoulders and back, my arms that are much stronger than they appear, my full breasts that have both fed my son and aroused my lovers. I'm absolutely infatuated with my own pussy, from the plush outer lips to the velvety wetness inside. I can't get enough of the way my muscular legs look and how much they do for me. Sure, there are other little details of my body that sometimes irritate me, but in truth I usually feel that they add depth and uniqueness to my beauty, like tiny inclusions in a radiant gemstone. But my stomach...it's too big, there's too much baby-fine hair on it, it bulges and rolls in places that I can't stand. There's a slight overhang where the muscles have never been the same since being severed for the c-section that brought my son into the world. It makes my pants fit poorly. Sometimes I hate it less than usual, but I never love it, and I wish I could.

Adventures In Direct Sales: Why Do I Stay?

2009-05-15T19:47:00.000-07:00

There are a few reasons I'm still doing this job. First of all, the reality is that as much as I want to hang myself half the time, the money is better than I'd make doing anything else at this point, and I need that. There's all the usual bullshit about how I'm just not qualified for a hell of a lot, and what I can do doesn't really pay well.

The biggest thing, however, is that I'm a fucking moron and I got myself in deeper than I can dig out. See, the way I got involved with the company is that the boss did a presentation for us. I wanted the system, Chris was ambivalent about the whole thing, and we knew we really couldn't afford it. The boss suggested a program that they offer where you fill out all the contracts and such for the purchase, then work for ten weeks and they basically pay for your machines. Sounded pretty rad. I was also looking for a new job at the time anyway, so after the first week or so, when things were pretty good, I decided to go full-time with this. The part where I'm a moron? All the purchase and financing contracts are in Chris' name.

Now, if I quit before my ten weeks is up, a few things happen: the machines get repo'd, we still get billed for them, and Chris has a repo/collections on his credit report. That's the worst of it. I don't care about the system anymore, aside from the fact that we'd still get billed for it and be out 3 grand for something we didn't even have. Besides, it IS a good system, that's why I wanted it in the first place. But I can't be responsible for us being out that much money AND Chris' credit taking a hit. See, I'm a fucking moron and I got myself into this. That's why I stay.

Adventures In Direct Sales: Just...No.

2009-05-15T18:14:00.000-07:00

More background. I have thus far been the only "associate" in the Saskatoon office. This means that my training has been...unique, to say the least. There hasn't been time or resources to properly train me, so I've done everything by the seat of my pants. The boss hasn't actually watched and reviewed my presentation yet, and hasn't given me a lot of the information that new hires would usually get during training.

This week, there was a hiring cycle and training class going on. One of the managers from Calgary came out to help with that. Funny thing is, not a single person was hired. Apparently, no "quality people" wanted the job. Interesting, I say. Anyway, this freed up today to work on my training. Bear in mind that I've been doing the presentation that I figured out myself from the bits and pieces that I was taught for almost two months now. So, the three of us sat down in the conference room that was supposed to be used for training this week's crop of new hires and went over my dem.

Hoo, boy. Apparently I've been doing EVERYTHING wrong. Now, this wouldn't bother me as much if the boss would acknowledge that it's because I got inferior training. But no, a good chunk of this stuff he insists that he did teach me, I just "wasn't paying attention." I know this is bullshit, and him just covering in front of his Calgary buddy. Besides the fact that I think the two of them were being too harsh on me...there are some things that I feel I've done extremely well which they felt the need to pick apart anyway. Of course, they made sure to point out that they "weren't trying to gang up on me" the whole time both of them were tearing apart everything I did, without a compliment or any buffer for the criticism aside from "you really know the science and statistics side of things, but your knowledge doesn't matter if you're presenting it this way." Um, thanks?

But wait! My presentation is not the worst they've ever seen, and they don't think it's the real reason I'm having so much trouble! You know what IS the problem?

My appearance.

I'm aware that I don't look quite as amazing as I always used to, at least from a wardrobe perspective. I used to have a whole closet full of clothes that were just perfect for work like this: professional but still pretty, pulled-together without being stuffy, and just the right dash of sex appeal thrown into the whole mess. However, I've gained a LOT of weight and gotten rid of all those clothes, and haven't spent the money on a FULL new wardrobe yet because my size and shape are still fluctuating so much that it's pointless to do so. I've bought enough pieces to get by as I can afford them. Now, neither the boss or Mr. Calgary today would flat-out say that I end up looking either slobby or slutty, but that was the gist of their concerns. They talked a lot about the need for "well-fitting" work clothes and how it's problematic when clothing "puckers and bunches and just doesn't look right" or is just too big. Gaping blouses are bad, but so are blouses that are too loose around the waist and shoulders.

Hey, guys: grow a pair of DD's and then go find blouses that fit. I fucking dare you.

Another concern is that the clothing of mine that DOES fit is...well, just inappropriate. "I didn't want to say anything," says the boss, "but it's just that it's all really....well, clinging. You know, in...certain areas." I get it. I have boobs. I cannot dress them to your specifications. I have not achieved the proper madonna/whore balance for your business desires.

Look, I get that I have to dress appropriately for work. But I'm trying so fucking hard, and it doesn't make it easier that every time I find something that kind of fits me, I either gain or lose weight and it all goes to shit. I don't need a couple of young guys (both younger than me and sure that they know more than I do about EVERYTHING) pointing out that sometimes my blouse rides up when I move around and you can see my love handles a little, and it's probably grossing out the customers. (Not their exact words, but it didn't take much to see that's what they were hinting at a few times.)

Also, the reason I have trouble selling to older couples and single women? Probably because I "look like a homewrecker," according to Mr. Calgary. I mean, never mind the fact that I've wrecked at least one home in my day (totally by accident, I swear); where the fuck does he get off saying that out loud?

Sexism and privilege at work, folks.

So, because my day hasn't been awesome enough, I was on my way to a 6:30 appointment and started to feel queasy. I pulled over and went to get out of the car, and I guess I wasn't fast enough. Yep, I barfed on myself. So, I was allowed to go home and shower. Isn't that nice? Unfortunately, I was wearing my last clean pair of pants, so I think I'll have to phone in and say I can't make an 8:30 because I have nothing appropriate to wear. The boss and Mr. Calgary should appreciate that, right?

Adventures In Direct Sales: Overreacting?

2009-05-14T15:41:00.000-07:00

I've run into my share of crazy people doing this job. And probably your share, too. :P Some of them have been just amusingly kooky, while others have been downright frightening. What's unfortunate is that when I tell my boss about the really bad ones, his reactions range from flat-out not believing me and accusing me of just trying to get out of work, to insisting that I should still have finished the presentation in spite of being in a situation that is more terrifying to me than he can likely wrap his head around.

Let's take a situation that I've been in several times in the past few weeks, with some variations. I introduce myself to the man who answers the door and go inside. I see his wife, possibly some kids. I attempt to introduce myself to his wife, and she mumbles her name, then looks at her husband. He shakes his head at her, and she spends the rest of the time I'm there staring at the floor and looking like a scared puppy. That's bad enough, but I can usually muscle through and finish the demo if I have to. (See why I call my job "soul sucking?") What gets me really upset is stuff like what happened yesterday morning, when the domineering husband in question first of all said that "on the phone, it sounded like there was supposed to be a man coming to do this," and then actually grabbed my hands and pushed them away from what I was showing. Seriously, he grabbed both my wrists and pushed my hands to my sides. At that point, I decided to cut it short. If the guy's wife is sitting there looking terrified and he's the kind of person who will, without hesitation, put his hands on a stranger? Yeah, that's not somewhere I'm going to be staying for long. After that, I went to a house that smelled so strongly of human waste that I could smell it on the way up the driveway. When I called my boss and tried to explain that I couldn't go through with it, he told me to do it anyway. Then the whole "random stripping" incident...all in all, I ran into a ridiculous amount of crazy for one day. And for every one of those situations, the boss had a reason I was "overreacting."

His favourite is to just not believe me. "Oh," he'll say, "people just aren't like that." No, young, middle-class white man, they're not like that to you. He refuses to believe that I get treated this way, not just occasionally, but every freakin' day. I don't even know what to do anymore, aside from bitch about it.

Adventures In Direct Sales: WTF Just Happened?

2009-05-13T20:28:00.000-07:00

Um. Wow.

I just went to do this demo, and first of all, there were about 10 people there, all of them high beyond all imagining. My boss hasn't taken kindly lately to me bailing on presentations because of silly little things like rampant drug use or the smell of human waste permeating the house, so I decided to try to muscle through it. Oh, boy.

The woman I was actually there to see was probably the most wasted of all. At the beginning of my presentation, I go over some basic information and statistics and such. Halfway through this little spiel, she got up, grabbed the cordless phone, and started walking into the other room......

......and taking off her clothes. I'm not even kidding.

I don't think anyone even noticed me leave. Just...wow.

The best part? When I called the office from my car to explain why I hadn't finished, I was talking to the boss' wife, who is also the office manager. I told her the story, and the only part she repeated out loud was "there were about ten of them, all high," and I could hear the boss in the background insisting that I "still could have done the dem." Because that's safe.

*headdesk*

Yes. Yesyesyes.

2009-05-12T10:52:00.000-07:00

From Jill:

For all the data which shows that teen motherhood is socioeconomically damaging for the mothers, what often fails to be mentioned is the fact that a whole lot of teen mothers were coming from lower socioeconomic positions in the first place; so sure, a lot of teen moms won’t go to college, but if college wasn’t on the radar screen anyway, that’s not much of a threat.

Ancient Post, Revisited.

2009-05-11T11:36:00.000-07:00

I posted this on MySpaz way back in the summer of 2006. Now THAT was a hell of a year, lol. I think it's time for an updated list, what has touched and affected me since then, but I figured I'd repost this first. :D

Defining music. What was yours? Everyone has those songs that helped define them, for whatever reason. I have a few, from different points in my life.

Moist-"Leave it Alone" Moist was the first big concert I went to, and the "Creature" album was what got my attention. I later discovered "Silver, " which was actually released first, but I was really young when it came out. And for a lot of reasons, Moist has been significant for me throughout my adolescent and young adult life.

Kim Stockwood-"You Jerk" Every pubescent girl needs an angry song. 'Nuff said.

Tragically Hip-"Ahead by a Century" The theme song to the summer of my first kiss. Ten years ago now. Wow, time flies.

Pachelbel's Canon I played double bass in the junior orchestra. Those, what....six? notes bored the shit out of me, but I'll never forget it.

Marilyn Manson-"The Beautiful People" I was such a good kid. So very, very boring. Listening to bad music was the only way I even halfassed rebelled.

Garth Brooks-"The Dance" I listened to this one a lot the year I was 15. It was when I really learned what it meant to live with no regrets.

Rob Zombie-"Living Dead Girl" Dancing at the all-ages goth club after I moved out of my mother's house. Sexy beyond my years, and I never even knew it.

Joy Division-"Love Will Tear Us Apart" More dancing, same club, different makeup. I started to actually grow up a little.

Johnny Cash-"Hurt" I always loved Johnny. Always. My goth friends were ashamed of me. :P And then the two parts of my life suddenly intersected. Not to mention that the lyrics of this song were so right about then......

Jack Off Jill-"Angels Fuck" I didn't want to like them. My roommate, however, was obsessed. After a while, and given the state my life was in at the time, they started to grow on me.

Then my life went very quiet and very dark for a while....bad things happened.

Moist-"Push" Some stuff happened with some things and some people. It was a good year. I smiled a lot. This whole album (Silver) was on repeat. It put the sunshine back in my life.

Since then, there's been a few. But those songs that I listed...hearing them takes me right back to where I was when they touched me so deeply, and I remember both what I was and what I wanted at the time. Sometimes it makes me long for something past, sometimes it reminds me of why I'm glad I moved on...but in any case, those songs (and some others, these are just the biggies) shaped me.

Road Dust, Sweat, And a Driver's Side Tan

2009-05-10T16:22:00.000-07:00

Holy crap. I needed that.

Some of you may be familiar with my semi-regular crises. Twice a year or so, usually around seasonal changes, I completely lose my shit. This time around, after making myself and my family miserable for weeks, I decided the easiest way to cope was going to be running away from home. I needed a change of scenery and time to sort out some shit in my head. Unfortunately, time away for me is rare, and I knew I couldn't run all that far, so the whole "running away" plan looked pretty bleak.

Last night, a few things came to a breaking point all at once. Too much time spent inside my head combined with a few issues which some of you know about to push me over the edge. So, kind of on a whim, I got in touch with an old friend and jumped in the car. It was a long drive to make in the middle of the damn night, and somewhere around 1:30 AM I made a wrong turn and almost drove right into the South Saskatchewan (not *literally*, but there was a moment of "WTF am I doing at a ferry crossing instead of on a road"), but otherwise it was a good trip.

The drive gave me time to just think, not to mention some great scenery. Last night it was pretty dark, of course, but I saw a few meteors and a bit of wildlife. Today I had a better view of the landscape, and in addition to the standard bunnies and birds, got to see a couple of pronghorns just grazing by the highway!! It was AMAZING. I feel all sweaty and gross from sitting in a hot car for 4+ hours, but I don't really mind. The friend provided great conversation, passable coffee (:P), a couple of HBO comedy specials so I didn't have to spend the whole time thinking, and a shoulder to cry on when I finally couldn't dodge the issues anymore and momentarily lost it.

Now I'm home, and I feel better than I have in a while. I have a new perspective on a few things, and I feel like I'm really BACK, in more ways than one. It's amazing what a little time away will do. :D

Adventures In Direct Sales, Pt. 2: "Your Christians are so unlike your Christ" and Other Annoyances

2009-04-29T15:11:00.000-07:00

So, I wish I had something positive to say about work today, but I just don't. First problem: the office is being stupid and letting me take the heat for it. To make a long story short, when someone books a presentation, they receive a free gift. They have a choice between two items. Right now, however, we are out of one of the items and won't likely have more for two weeks. So when the office calls the customer to confirm the appointment, it might be nice of them to say something like, "by the way, I see you wanted item B, but we're currently out of it. Is item A okay, or would you like to reschedule for when the shipment arrives?" But NOOOOO. They just carry on like nothing is out of the ordinary, and when I get to the house and hand them item A, I'm the one that takes shit for it. I'm tired of it. Then when people don't want to see the presentation until we have the gift they actually chose, I get in trouble from the boss. Because you know, it's totally my fault.

Also, the system I'm selling is expensive. I get that. I totally believe in what I'm selling, but I admit that it's a big investment. Now, between the economy being in the shitter and the fact that in Saskatchewan, people don't finance things (that being a big part of the reason we've been hit less by the recession to begin with) any sales I do make tend to be cash or credit card sales. That in itself is good. The "problem" is, people who are otherwise interested but don't have the money right now are not buying on payment plans. According to my boss, this must also somehow be my fault, at least judging by the tone in his voice when I tell him that a customer just doesn't want to finance and therefore won't be buying today. See, he comes from a city where people practically finance cups of coffee, and he "doesn't understand why [I'm] not making sales."

Now for the story referenced by the quote in the title of this post. (Disclaimer: I know not all Christians are douchebags. Love you guys. :D) I had an appointment yesterday in a Christian senior's condo complex. To get my equipment to and from my car takes two trips. So, after I was done with the presentation, I took the first load down, moved my car into the loading zone for the building so I wouldn't have as far to carry the second load, and buzzed the lady's suite to get back up there and get the other stuff. Now, she had mentioned that she was having some trouble with her buzzer, so it might take a couple of minutes for her to let me in, just in case she had to actually come downstairs to open the door.

As I was getting out of my car and walking to the door, a guy walked up and introduced himself as the building manager, then asked who I was looking for. I told him I was here to see "Anna" (name changed) in suite 300. He very gruffly informed me that "there is no Anna in 300" and tried to hustle me along. Of course, since I have a terribly overactive imagination, my first thought was not "wow, this guy is a douchebag" but instead, "holy crap I was just having tea with a ghost." Yes, you can all laugh at me now.

Anyway, I smiled and politely said that I had been upstairs with Anna in 300 not five minutes before, and she had mentioned some trouble with the buzzer, so I'd just ring her and wait for her to let me in. The jerkface building manager informed me that "this is a Christian building, and we don't want just anybody (said while leering at the negligible bit of cleavage shown by my blouse, which can't be helped because I have big boobs, and I'm very sorry that my FUCKING GENETIC MATERIAL is so offensive to your religious beliefs) loitering around and causing trouble." Furthermore, he informed me, "if you don't move your car right now you're looking at a $500 ticket." I pointed out that all the clearly visible signage said that the spot I was in was a fifteen minute loading zone, and I had been there for less than two minutes-in fact, he had seen me pull up. I then pressed the buzzer for Anna's suite and stood there waiting. All the while, this charming fellow kept sputtering about how parking and visitors are up to the manager's discretion. Yeah, the condo manager can TOTALLY tell the condo owners when they can have visitors. Uh-huh.

After a few minutes, Anna from 300 (who the manager had said didn't exist) came down, let me in, and told Mr. Assface that he had better get someone to work on her buzzer, because it was getting to be a pain for her to have to come all the way down and let her visitors in. Yay, nice old lady.

I'm just getting really frustrated with taking crap and getting yelled at by strangers for something that I can't control, which could be avoided if the office would just be honest with people. Ugh.

Adventures in Direct Sales

2009-04-29T12:24:00.000-07:00

So, this blog has been a long time coming. Some of you have various levels of knowledge about my mysterious "new job." I'm doing direct sales. I sell an air purifier and a home cleaning system. It's not a door-to-door thing, though I *can* do that if I want to, which I don't. People make appointments with our marketing department, and I go try to sell them stuff. I've been doing it full time for a month now, which is why I've been so unavailable and spacey. The way the job works is that I'm basically "on call" from around 11 AM to 8PM, six days a week. Sometimes I'll randomly have a full day free, but I never know when a call is coming. That's why I can't commit to any other activities during those hours, unless it's something that I can just bail out of midway through if a call comes in. It's stressful and busy, but also a lot of fun. The money is good, and I get to meet some really awesome people and drive all over the southern half of the province, which I usually love.

Of course, along with the awesome comes the terrible. Like when I get a call from the boss at 7PM saying "I need you to go to North Battleford right away." For those of you not in the know, North Battleford is about an hour and a half out of Saskatoon. So, leaving at 7 PM, getting there around 8:30, doing a two-hour sales meeting, and then driving home in the dark on a stretch of highway very densely populated by deer and coyotes, which increases the driving time because I have to actually do the speed limit...it makes for a long night. Not a problem if I know it's coming and can plan for it, but on no notice whatsoever, it's a bit of a hassle.

Or when I go to a presentation at a home where the owner (a single man) gives me a creepy vibe right out of the gate. For example, I went to the home of one guy who spooked me a bit and had framed pictures of his Pomeranian all around the house. Not that there's anything wrong with being devoted to one's pets, but the combination of the creepy level of puppy love and the bad feeling I got the second the guy opened the door meant that I would not have been shocked at all to find out that this guy had a pit in his basement into which he lowered lotion in a basket. I was prepared to just bail out, but I noticed that there were a bunch of other people there. It turned out that this guy lived on the main floor of his house, and had converted the basement and second floor into rental suites for students. The other people were about four of his tenants. I figured that I'd be safe with a bunch of witnesses, so I got started. Halfway through my presentation, the renters all went out for supper, leaving me alone with the creepy dude and the dog. The guy sat right next to me on the couch, uncomfortably close, and said in what I assume he thought was a seductive tone, "so, they let a pretty little thing like you go to strangers' houses all alone?"

Yeah, I bailed as fast as I could.

Better yet is when I get sent to a bad neighborhood. First of all, no one who lives in Pleasant Hill (the "hood" around here) is going to buy a $3000 system like ours. It's just not going to happen. My boss, however, is new to Saskatoon and doesn't quite get this. Then you factor in that most apartments in this city don't have visitor parking. So when I go to an apartment in the bad neighborhood and have to park three or four blocks away, then walk that distance lugging twenty pounds of equipment, I'm not very safe. That being the reason I'm in a bit of pain these days-I'm pretty sure I actually sprained my ankle the other day when, in the exact scenario described above, I was attacked by three girls who figured I was "looking at them". I didn't get as bad a beating as I was expecting, just a twisted ankle, banged up knee and a few scrapes on my hands and elbows from falling over while trying to get away.

Then there was the lady who chased me out of her house. Seriously, a 70-75 year old woman yelled and swore at me and was grabbing a frying pan to chase me with.

So, the last month has been crazy. I just figured it was time to fill y'all in.

Swine Flu?

2009-04-28T11:34:00.001-07:00

Okay, I have a theory about this. Using information obtained by following the work of Al Gore, I've figured out the problem.

See, Manbearpig drowned, right? But what happened was the Republican party, acting on orders from Karl Rove and the Emperor, took samples of Manbearpig's DNA and used it in research to develop a virus that would affect both humans and pigs. (It will also affect bears, but at this point that's neither here nor there.) Now, we all know that the Republicans hate anyone who isn't white, so they decided to test this virus in Mexico. They infected a bunch of pigs, intending for the virus to be spread to the Mexican people via direct contact with the animals.

Unfortunately, because forethought isn't their strong suit, the Republicans didn't realize that the virus would actually become airborne and spread that way. Their little experiment got out of hand. By the time they caught on and were prepared to employ their emergency shutdown plan (Dick Cheney was going to go to Mexico and shoot all infected people and animals in the face), the infection had spread too far. Changing air currents caused by global warming had facilitated mass spread of this virus.

You guys, I'm super serial here. The Republican party, using Manbearpig's DNA, gave us all swine flu.

How?

2009-03-28T20:28:00.000-07:00

I have this...problem. A neurosis, a bad habit, whatever you want to call it, this has been with me as long as I can remember. I want it to go away, I want to stop feeling like this, but I don't know how.

See, if I have to be taught something, I feel like a failure. If someone has to tell me something, explain anything to me, or show me how something works, my feeling is that any progress I may have made or any accomplishments, either past or future, in that area, are essentially null and void. My work is worthless if I had to be taught or told something, rather than just figuring it out myself.

Of course, I know exactly where this came from. Even as a very small child, if I asked my mom to help me with something, her response was "If you're so fucking smart, why can't you figure it out yourself?" Not "How about I help you work it out?" or any similar encouraging suggestions. No offer of support while still allowing me to explore my own world. Either I figured everything out entirely on my own, or anything I accomplished was worthless. Entering school only made the problem worse. If I hadn't read ahead in the textbook and learned the concepts before they were actually taught in class, if I had to be "told by the teacher just like everyone else in the class," my intelligence and work were immediately rendered moot, at least in Mommy Dearest's opinion. I'm pretty sure that's how I ended up in AcTal. Not because I'm actually "gifted" in any way, but because I spent kindergarten through grade four trying so hard to be good enough for my mother that I somehow garnered the same level of attention as people who are now at least working toward becoming doctors, lawyers and engineers. Fancy that-me, the future drug-addled teen mom who would barely finish high school four years late, in the same class as future fucking world leaders. I knew there was a mistake somewhere.

Anyway, one of the things I've worked so hard on since gaining my freedom is getting that shit out of my head. Rationally, I know that I can't be expected to just absorb everything through osmosis, or have a preemptive basic working knowledge of every subject I will ever encounter. And even though I pride myself on being a fast learner, I will occasionally struggle with some subjects or tasks. That doesn't mean that I can't perform those tasks and become fluent in that subject matter, even excel in those areas-just that it may take me longer to reach that level of fluency than I would like. And rationally, I know that what is amazing about me is not necessarily natural genius, but my willingness to throw myself into learning and to work as hard as it takes for as long as it takes to achieve my goals. I even know that it's stupid to compare myself to my former classmates, because while I certainly have a few areas of privilege that I have to face, what I don't have is class privilege or the privilege of a supportive family. That means that I wasn't starting on equal footing with many of them, and therefore can't be fairly expected to finish on equal footing. But that doesn't make it any easier to placate the ten year old inside who still believes that unless she figures it out for herself, absorbs all the information in record time and does everything better than everyone else, none of that hard work and basic reality matters in the slightest.

Right now, for example, I am typing with puffy eyes and a runny nose caused by spending the last half hour in tears. I've been struggling with my sales closing at work. Now, my sensible, grown-up, "recovery brain" tells me that closing a sale, especially the sale of a very specialized product, is not "basic knowledge." Even more so when that closing is done in a very specialized, scripted way dictated by the office rather than by your own situational judgment. This is like nothing I have ever done before. I shouldn't feel bad that after three tries in the field by myself, my boss doesn't feel that I've quite gotten it down. Three attempts at a brand-new skill not ending in complete success (I haven't even done what could be called "failing" at this, just haven't performed completely up to par with more experienced people) does not make me an idiot or a failure. The fact that my boss wants to review some concepts with me and do a little review/training on Monday doesn't mean that I'm stupid. At least, I hope not. See, that's how fucked up I am-I don't even know if I'm being hard enough on myself here.

Anyway, that's the part of my brain that is having so much trouble right now. The fact that I haven't fully developed this skill after three tries, that I have to be taught more about it, is killing me. I feel like a failure and a moron.

So, how do I fix this? How do I start believing the sane part of my mind instead of the part that probably just got punched one too many times when I was a kid?

And I Thought Cats Were Smart...

2009-02-28T15:51:00.000-08:00

Today while we were doing some stuff around the house, cleaning up and getting ready to take Ronin to his dad's place for the night, I heard the cat absolutely yowling from the living room. I ran in there to find out what was up and found him tangled in the vertical blinds. Somehow, he had managed to get one paw caught in one of the tiny chains that connect the bottom of the panels, then proceeded to get himself even more tangled up in his panic to escape. There were chains and strips of the blinds wrapped around all four legs and his neck. I seriously have no idea how he got like that, but I'm just glad it happened while we were home and able to help him so he didn't choke himself.

So, I'm trying to get him untangled and he's fighting and panicking, biting and scratching the crap out of me. Ronin is next to me, crowding in and trying to see what's happening, freaking out, crying and yelling. I'm alternately yelling at Ronin ("That's not helping, either shut up or go into the other room!" Because, you know, it's hard to keep your cool with a psychotic cat and a screaming kid.) and at the cat ("I'm trying to help you, stop scratching me!"), both of which I'm sure were really helping the situation. After I nursed my kitty wounds and comforted first Ronin, then the cat (who was cowering in terror and staring at the blinds like they were going to run across the room and attack him), I dismantled the bottom chain connector thingies. The blinds are a bit floppy now, but at least they won't kill the cat.

Seriously, how does this shit happen?

Real Men Do Terrible Things.

2009-02-10T02:09:00.000-08:00

And so do real women.

I've gotten a lot of Facebook invites lately for the "Causes" application, specifically the cause called "Real Men Don't Hit Women" or some such. While I appreciate the intent of the app, there's something about it that doesn't sit right with me. It's the use of the word "real." Authenticity is not something that can be determined this way. Melissa over at Shakesville explains it better than I ever could, 'cause she's crazy smart like that. (Follow the link to her letter that's in that post-it's also amazing.)

Real men do all manner of things, both good and bad, and so do real women. The use of the word "real" in this context has always bothered me, in many different circumstances. It bothered me when I was thin and struggling with the "real women have curves" claptrap that gets thrown around as a poor substitute for size acceptance. It bothered me when I was a single teen mom and heard the owner of the daycare my son was in making a distinction between teen moms and "real moms." It bothers me when used as a tool to enforce gender stereotypes and heteronormativity, as in "real men don't cry" or "real women know how to cook" or any one of a million phrases like those. And it bothers me to see authenticity used in this context, however well-meaning.

When life is stressful...

2009-01-26T18:18:00.000-08:00

...watch these videos. Seriously, you can't stay upset. You'll be too busy making little squeaky noises.

Awesome.

2009-01-26T15:41:00.001-08:00

I watch this video and jizz in my pants.

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

2009-01-21T18:47:00.000-08:00

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, say...an 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.

Yes You Can!

2009-01-19T12:00:00.000-08:00

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.

MRI

2009-01-14T01:27:00.000-08:00

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 palpable...it'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.

Another One...

2009-01-10T14:08:00.001-08:00

Um, dude.

AWESOME!!!!

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

On a Happier Note...

2009-01-10T14:00:00.000-08:00

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.

Scared

2009-01-10T12:15:00.001-08:00

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 concussions...as 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.

On Religion and Morality

2009-01-07T21:57:00.000-08:00

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?

Girly Insecurity

2009-01-06T16:27:00.000-08:00

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."

Exhausted

2009-01-06T01:32:00.000-08:00

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.

I Stopped Counting

2008-12-20T21:40:00.000-08:00

While I'm on the subject of women and sex, there's something else I'd like to discuss.

Partner counting, or "The List."

Some time ago, I'm not sure exactly when, I just got out of the habit of counting my partners. Then the subject of our "numbers" came up with a friend, and I realized that I honestly didn't know what mine was. I panicked. I mean, only total trashbag whores don't know how many people they've fucked, right? (This was during my "blend in with the other girls" phase last year, when I was all concerned about what people thought of me.) A little while after that, I decided to sit down and try to write out my "list." Doing that raised some concerns that I pushed to the back of my mind at the time, but recently took out for closer examination.

As a bisexual woman, how do I accurately decide exactly who I've had sex with? Only counting penis-in-vagina, hetero intercourse discounts the value of the female partners I've had, not to mention supports the patriarchal heteronormative ideal that I dislike so much. Given that, what standard do I use to decide what women to include on my list? "Easy," said my patriarchy-managed brain; "fingering or oral, giving or receiving, constitutes fucking a woman."

But then what about the men I've engaged in manual or oral play with, but not intercourse? Do I put them on my list too? And if not, why? Why does it "count" if a girl fingers me, but not a guy? That's not equitable or logical.

Then there's the fact that I've been raped more than once. Do I count those, because from a purely medical/scientific standpoint they could potentially matter, or do I ignore them because it was rape, not sex?

"Your logic hurts me," replied patriarchy brain. "Shut up and look pretty."

And so I did, for a while. But now I think patriarchy brain is kind of...well, naive, at the very least. So, I abandoned the "list" idea and decided to just accept the fact that I've had lots of sex with a variety of partners, some good, some bad, some non consensual...and all of it is a part of my history. If I don't care about the numbers, and in fact went at least a couple of years without even thinking about that issue, why should anyone else care? Now my stock answers to the "what's your number" question run the gamut from "none of your fucking business" to "um....lots" to a straight-up "I honestly don't keep count."

That's why I stopped counting-what about the reasons I think other people- especially heterosexual people with "normal," non-controversial sexual histories-should give up their "lists?" The question is, really, why should you keep track? If it's for medical purposes, all I can say is that yes, it's a nice idea to try to remember who you've slept with since your last STD check. That way, if anything comes up, you can either contact people yourself or give their names to the nice folks at Public Health. But that's not always feasible-people have one-night stands, former partners move away or change their numbers, people forget names...shit happens. Even in the STD test example, why does the number matter? The tests should really be done without that question, then if anything comes back questions can be asked about who needs to be contacted.

Let's face it-partner counting exists as another slut shaming mechanism. Remember American Pie 2, with the "rule of 3?"

"If a guy tells you how many girls he's hooked up with, it's not even close to that. You take that number and divide it by three, then you get the real total."

"When a girl tells you how many guys she's slept with, multiply it by three and that's the real number. Didn't you fuckers learn anything in college?"

Seriously, who the fuck cares how many people you've slept with? What matters is how you feel about your sexuality and your history. Be safe, have fun, and be true to yourself-sex isn't about numbers.

"She's Not Like That"-Slut Shaming and Taking Credit for Your Sexual Choices

2008-12-20T20:37:00.000-08:00

I was talking to an old friend and ex-lover (let's just call him S) on MSN last night, and in the interest of catching up on each other's lives, I teasingly asked him if he was still a "slut." (It should be noted here that I wasn't using the word in a negative context-I teasingly and lovingly call myself and my friends "slut" from time to time, but if anyone expresses discomfort with the word I don't use it to describe them anymore. It's a reclamation thing for me.) While I was humming "Otherside" in my head, he replied that no, he wasn't a slut anymore. He said that he's looking for a serious relationship and ready to settle down. We chatted a little about the whys and wherefores of his thoughts and moved on. Later in the conversation, something came up about this girl he's "sort of seeing." Now, when I say I'm "sort of seeing" someone, it's usually a euphemism. So, I (again, somewhat teasingly) asked, "So you're sleeping with her?" He replied, "No, she's not like that. That's why I like her so much. She doesn't sleep with guys she's not dating."

I was definitely bothered by that statement, but I couldn't quite put my finger on exactly why it was so wrong. I mean, it offended me personally, in the sense that this guy obviously knows that I'm "like that," or at least was before I got all monogamous and shit. But a voice at the back of my brain was telling me that it was wrong on a larger scale. I just wasn't listening closely enough to hear exactly why. So I settled for pointing out that I was annoyed, to which he replied, "Oh, that was years ago." I didn't feel like getting into it any deeper than that, so we changed the subject and moved on.

This morning, it hit me. S was putting all the responsibility for sexual morality on the woman.

Now, I'm not trying to convert people to promiscuity here-if you don't believe in sleeping with someone until the relationship has reached such and such a stage (exclusive dating, marriage, whatever) that's your business, and I applaud your conviction. If S has decided that he's not into casual sex anymore, that's totally rad for him. But saying "she's not like that" makes no mention of his decision to wait, instead dumping the burden of purity, virtue and self-control squarely on the shoulders of the woman.

Also, the very phrasing of the sentence implies defensiveness. What if he had said "I'm not like that"? Such a turn of phrase would imply that he was scandalized, or at the very least somehow offended, by my assumption that he would be open to the idea of casual sex-it implies that willingness to engage in sexual activity outside the confines of a specific relationship structure is somehow a negative trait. Therefore, using this wording on the behalf of the woman, coupled with "that's why I like her," implies that any woman who is "like that," any woman who has sex when she's not "supposed to," is somehow unworthy of his affection. It also implies that her relative "purity" (in the sense of any sex she has being "appropriate" and therefore somehow less "dirty") is the primary reason for his attraction to her. The suggestion is that her "virtue" is prized over any other positive personality traits.

Now, S isn't a bad guy. Quite the contrary, actually. I don't really believe that he would intentionally convey the messages that I outlined above. This is just an example of how the prevailing patriarchal value system has completely taken over speech patterns and thought processes.

"Oh, Rebecca," I hear you saying, "stop being such a paranoid feminist. You know the poor guy didn't mean anything by it. Don't be so sensitive."

The problem is that when such oppressive language is acceptable, women suffer. Maybe S wasn't trying to be a slut shamer, but his choice of words accomplished that regardless of his intention. As for being oversensitive, I believe that the cultural mandate to not take offense to anything, regardless of how it is phrased, contributes hugely to the culture of victim-blaming that I see so much today. It is not your responsibility to not be offended by me, it is my responsibility to not offend you. I don't have to be less sensitive to your hurtful speech, however inadvertent it may be-you have to be more aware of what you are saying and to whom you are saying it.

So, here's a little fantasy script detailing what I think (I hope) S actually meant, in language that more clearly expresses a healthy attitude towards women and sex, while taking personal responsibility.

Me: So are you sleeping with her?
S: No, I don't sleep with people I'm not dating anymore. She feels the same way. I like that about her.

See what I did there? I phrased it so that he takes personal responsibility for his sexual choice and acknowledges that she has the same value system and that he appreciates that, without making her sexual morality into the sole factor for his attraction to her.

I realize that this level of consciousness in everyday speech is difficult. I slip up sometimes too. And I'd like to reiterate that I'm not trying to frame S as some sort of horrible misogynistic douchenozzle. I'm using his statement as an example of how prevalent anti-woman language is in our everyday lives. Most people probably wouldn't think twice about saying exactly what he did, or about having it said to them. But the fact that such things pass so many lips and ears without comment is both a symptom of and a contributor to the shaming of women who dare to make personal decisions about their own bodies and sexuality, the idea that women must bear the burden of "purity," and that if they don't there's something wrong with them. These ideas and language patterns must be noted and corrected whenever possible if we ever hope to live in a truly equitable society.

Yes, the world in my head is a fantasy utopia of social awareness. Also, there are unicorns. It's quite nice, really.

Diva Cup FTW.

2008-12-20T17:53:00.000-08:00

Once again, here is some vagina talk that is pretty much TMI even by my usual standards. I'll give you a minute to navigate away from the page if you don't want to read it.

Still here? Freaks. :P Don't say I didn't warn you.

So it turns out the Diva Cup is pretty much the greatest thing ever. I'm about 4 days into my period, and it's the most comfortable one I've ever had. When I was considering the switch and researching it, I couldn't actually find a lot of detailed user reviews-there was a lot of general "I like it" type stuff, but nothing actually addressing specific things I wanted to know. So, here is everything you never wanted to know about my bloody cunt and would therefore not ask.

My first impression of the cup was "OMG it's huge and will be horribly uncomfortable." Turns out I was almost right. It is a little bigger than I expected, but I am also using the bigger of the two available sizes. Not because I have a gaping, cavernous vagina (I don't, in case you're curious) but because I have spawned. Size 1 is for women under 30 who have not had children, size 2 is for women over 30, or of any age who have had children either vaginally or by c-section. So I'm not sure if size 1 is less intimidatingly large. Anyway, back to my story.

Insertion is not an issue, because you fold it up to put it in. Once it's in properly, you really don't notice it's there. Removal, however...the first couple of times were awful. But, as with so many other things that involve vagina, it's all about relaxing and finding the right angle. Once you get that sorted out, it's easy.

Using the Diva Cup forces you to reach a whole new level of being comfortable fishing around in your vag. There's no handy little string to pull on. There is a stem on it, but you don't want to leave it outside while wearing the cup or it pokes you in the labia. Not so much fun. So, you have to actually stick your fingers in there to take the cup out. Insertion and removal do take a little practice to get the hang of, especially insertion. But you can actually practice while you're not bleeding if that will help you...get used to the action without all the bloody pressure. The last thing you want is to be in the bathroom on your heaviest day, all emotional with blood on your hands going OMG WHY CAN'T I GET IT IN? Trust me. o_O

On the subject of not bleeding all over the place...OMG SRSLY AWESOME. I slept in the other day and ended up having the cup in for about 12 hours. First, you don't risk TSS with the Diva Cup, unlike tampons. That part is awesome. Second...okay, so it was kind of overflowing when I got up. But after 12 hours, there was just a tiny bit of spotting on the toilet paper when I wiped the area before reaching down there to take out the cup. I'll take that over my usual crime-scene mattress any day.

I'll admit, there is a bit of an ick factor. I mean, it's menstrual fluid in a cup. I'm all for accepting my cycle as a natural part of womanhood and all that happy hippie stuff, but it's menstrual fluid in a cup. Luckily, I'm fairly quick to overcome ookiness where these things are concerned. And if you're really interested in the intimate workings of your girl parts, there are little measurement lines on the cup so you can see exactly how much you've bled. (Bear in mind that the fluid is not all blood, so don't get all OMG I NEED A TRANSFUSION if you decide to follow that information.)

So, that's the Diva Cup. It rules all. I think I covered everything...

Coming soon, a blog post that is not about my period.

Serious overshare alert.

2008-12-15T01:16:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I'm not kidding. I'm about to talk about my vagina, and not in a fun, sexytime kind of way. So, stop reading if you don't want to hear it.

Okay, if you're still here, don't say I didn't warn you.

I have always had extremely heavy periods. Like, for serious. As an example, one month when I was about 13, I knew I was bleeding super heavily and was about to go hang out with this guy I was seeing (translation: our families were friends and we used to make out while the adults weren't looking) and I didn't want to be an icky, period-stained blob. Which was something that was, unfortunately, often unavoidable for me...my mom did a lot of things wrong, but one of the few things she got right was usually calling me in sick on days 2 through 5 or so of my period, because there was just no way for those days to go well for me. Anyway, back to my gross story about the cute boy... right before I left for his house, approximately a five-minute drive, I put in a tampon AND stuck on an overnight pad. After my stepdad dropped me off and the boy and I went through the requisite pleasantries with his parents, we wandered off to "get slurpees and go to the park." (You know, walk through some back alleys to a park on the opposite side of the neighborhood and make out under the slide. Don't get all judgey, you all did it too.) Anyhoo, by the time we got to the park and settled in for some kissing, I had been wearing my tampon and pad for about an hour and a half. I ended up on his lap. We were there for...probably about 20 minutes? I'm not completely sure, but it couldn't have been long. Anyway, when we stood up, I had bled through a tampon and heavy flow pad, through my pants and onto his jeans. That's roughly two hours time, soaking through what should be a minimum four hours of protection. And this kind of flow was a monthly occurrence for me for a few years. Yay for my woman parts, seriously. *headdesk*

After I had Ronin, my periods actually got somewhat normal, in the sense that I usually didn't lose so much blood that I fainted every month. Still, though, I was a gusher in the most disgusting sense of the word. The only time I've had periods that didn't leave my crotch looking like something out of a horror movie is when I've been on hormonal birth control.

The problem is, right now I'm at this place where I'm not comfortable with the potential risks of HBC for myself, given the other health issues I'm dealing with, so I just stay away from it. It tends to change my natural responses to insulin in particular, and I've found that teh diabeetus is easier to control when I'm not otherwise screwing with my endocrine system, so...yeah. Yay, barrier methods. The downside of this, though, is that I'm back to my vagina (and my underwear, and my bedsheets, and sometimes my pants if I'm not RIDICULOUSLY vigilant) looking like a crime scene. No level of menstrual protection does me any damn good at all. Thankfully, I've gotten to the point where a super-flow tampon AND a backup pad will usually protect my clothes in the event that I have to go more than three hours without changing my protection, but it's still pretty damn ridiculous. (And no doctor has been able to make it stop. Apparently, I'm just one of those women who bleed a lot.)

So, I have decided to try the Diva Cup. From what I've heard, it's a much better way to protect during heavy flow than tampons, and you can still use pads as backup if you want to. I'm hoping it will work. For the first time in pretty much forever, I'm actually looking forward to my period...it's gonna be like a science experiment! Watch this space for updates, since I like to talk about my cunt every chance I get. :P Also, let me know if you've tried the Diva Cup, and what kind of experiences you've had with it.

For the Saskatonians...

2008-12-13T22:43:00.000-08:00

There's a kiosk in Midtown right now, called "[Can't remember the name]'s Natural Beauty" or something to that effect. It's on the second floor, outside that Capz store that's in the sort of middle area. Know the kind of region I'm talking about? (Sorry I can't be more specific, but I hope that's descriptive enough.)

DO NOT SHOP THERE.

I'm serious. I was walking around the mall today, trying to get ideas for the last couple of gifts I have to buy. I approached this kiosk, wondering what they were selling. Almost immediately, one of the staff members grabbed my hand, saying, "I want to show you something." I was kind of in shock and didn't immediately jerk away.

Now, it should be noted that my hands aren't "pretty." I do manual labour, for one thing, and even if I wanted to have my hands look a certain way, I just don't have time for that. When I do put on nail polish or something, it usually ends up chipping off fairly quickly. I have callouses and dry skin and cuts on my hands from newspapers, plastic, and occasional accidents with a utility knife. But you know what? I love my hands. They're functional and strong and accomplish amazing things, and while they may not be conventionally pretty, I think they're fucking beautiful.

Anyway, this guy proceeds to take the nail polish off one of my nails, saying he's going to show me how this product works. While he's putting this oil stuff on that nail, he gestures at the rest of my hand and says, "That's freakin' nasty."

Um, excuse me? First you touch me without my permission, then you call a part of my body NASTY? I still didn't just pull away, because I was so fucking stunned. I let him finish his little demonstration, then quietly thanked him like a fucking moron and wandered away in a fog, trying not to cry. Of course, halfway across the mall I sort of pulled my brain together and reported the incident at the Customer Care Centre. I thought about going back and giving him a talking-to, but decided against it.

The end result is that I'm (a) totally ashamed of myself for not reacting faster to that bullshit and (b) surprised at how much it hurt for some stranger to call my awesome and functional hands "nasty." Mostly a, though. I feel like a jackass.

Anyway, for real, don't shop there. Bad fucking news.

The F Word

2008-12-13T17:20:00.000-08:00

As some of you may be aware, I have recently started calling myself a feminist. Really, I've always held feminist ideals and beliefs on a lot of subjects, but was reluctant to label myself with "the F word" for a few reasons-not the least of which being that many self-identified feminists I had encountered in my life were the "scary kind" of feminists. You know, the women who say that if you wear makeup, marry a man or spend any amount of time as a stay at home mom, you can't really call yourself a feminist, because you're actually setting the cause of equality back hundreds of years. Then there was the fact that I spent a little bit of time being actively "anti-feminist," which is something I'm not proud of...it turns out that what I was basing that decision on was some horrible misinformation as well.

I never did a whole bunch of work as far as researching social issues for myself in many cases, because honestly, I haven't had that luxury for most of my life. My goal has usually been survival, and any "free time" I have had has often been spent on purely recreational activities. Living constantly in survival mode, with every moment being a crisis, is very stressful, and using my personal time to do research or become an activist has had absolutely no appeal for me under those circumstances. I'm taking it as a sign of great progress that I have recently found myself with the time, resources and energy to focus on things other than the bare necessities or "blowing off steam." So, I've been able to look past the No True Scotswoman crap that I've seen from so many women who identify as feminists, as well as the other bullcrap I've been fed on the subject, to see that a great deal of what I've always believed and fought for in my personal life is based around feminist ideas. So with that in mind, why not call myself that?

One of the side effects of finding the time to care about social issues in a more general sense than "what is affecting me directly at this precise second" and giving myself a new "label" has been that I a) notice things in a whole new way and b) have a whole new set of language to apply to situations that I used to describe as bad or wrong but could never articulate why. The second of the two is definitely nice, because it's giving me a framework to understand problems that I've had personally most of my adult life. Looking at things through the lens of feminism and/or women's issues has helped me to see that there are very likely other people going through the same crap somewhere in the world, and that it's not my fault it's happening. And as always, I'm hoping that understanding and putting words to the issue will be the first step in solving it...though I realize that it's a teaspoon issue at this point. *headdesk*

On the subject of lifelong struggles, I have always had trouble dealing with the majority of women I encounter, and I've never been able to articulate what the problem was. I mean, I could see that they were treating me badly, but couldn't get any further than that with the concept. Part of the issue was that I had spent so much of my life being treated so badly by so many people that I had normalized and internalized abuse and mistreatment, and to this day am still not entirely sure of what is okay and what isn't, what I can expect from other people and when I might be overreacting. The other part was that the women I felt comfortable with and could actually interact with on any significant level were always in the minority in my life, leading me to believe that women, as a rule, were just stupid cunts and that my female friends and I were just "the good ones." (That was actually part of the reason I was so disdainful of feminism for a while there...why would I support women when most of them treat me like shit?)

This issue hit a high point at my last job. I was harassed by other women on staff to the point that I suffered a "minor" episode that some people would label a "nervous breakdown." I began struggling again with the suicidal impulses that I have kept fairly well under control for nearly ten years, I began self-harming again, my past disordered eating reared its ugly head and consumed most of my life again, and I became utterly incapable of basic social function. My home life suffered, because I was in such abysmal personal condition that I couldn't properly care for my son or manage my household. Hopefully there's been no permanent damage done to my son's psyche as a result of this, and he seems to be healing well at this point, but I was not a good mother for most of the last year or so.

The type of harassment that I suffered is probably immediately imaginable by any woman reading this. Constant gossip, both comments made to my face and behind my back, about my appearance, speculation about my sexuality and sexual history (neither of which I have ever attempted to hide from anyone on a personal level, but having that bantered about at work is not acceptable to me), direct interference with my ability to do my job properly, people going behind me and messing up something I had just done (unsetting a table, changing the numbers on my cash count, etc)...if you can think of a way to torture a person, these women did it. And at one point the behavior extended to management-the former department head spread rumors about my home life and revealed to anyone who would listen that I was on antidepressants. She told people that they shouldn't take me seriously because of my "mental issues." When I was physically assaulted by a coworker-during a shift and in front of customers, no less-and left work to get medical attention for my injuries, she wrote me up for not finishing the shift. When I had a diabetic seizure at work and was found on the bathroom floor by a customer, then left work to get medical attention...well, three guesses what she did. And that time around, she actually threatened to fire me, but "settled" for transferring me to another department, with a pay cut.

The thing is, that place was remarkable in the level of shit dished out. But the general type of treatment, like I said, is likely familiar to most women reading this. Since I had encountered something like that at most places I worked, I was getting to the point where I assumed it was my fault-that there must be something wrong with me as a person that made people want to treat me that way. Or maybe I was overreacting-maybe that's just how adults treat each other. It's normal and I should just "fucking shut up and quit whining," as I was directly told on the night that set off the chain of events that led to me leaving that job. However, the last couple of months have given me an opportunity to examine my history of dealing with other women. I started by thinking about what seemed to "set off" the abuse at my last job.

When I showed exceptional skill at a task, or learned a new one quickly, the abuse got worse.
When I showed up at work with makeup on and obviously time-consuming, fully styled hair, I was treated slightly better.
When I showed up to a staff function dressed somewhat "unconventionally" (read:not trendy or "sexy") I was treated worse and gossiped about more that day.
When I was seen being friendly with men, not only did I hear the expected battle cries of "slut" and the like, the abuse got worse for at least several days.
When the women in question found out (by him bragging, naturally) that I had, at one point, slept with a guy who worked in another department and decided not to date him, the attempts at sabotaging my work/getting me in trouble with management increased.
When I stood up for myself, the attempts to sabotage me got worse.
When I reported the woman who physically assaulted me to the police, the other women began to assault me in smaller ways-"accidentally" spilling things on me or bumping me with trays and carts whenever there was no one looking.
On one particular occasion when I was overheard discussing an academic issue with a customer, who then filled out an extremely positive comment card about me, the woman who heard the conversation filed a false report with the General Manager about me.

Before I looked at many of these from a feminist perspective, they seemed utterly ridiculous. But in retrospect, it seems that they fall under the same basic category as many anti-woman attacks. Any time I displayed independent intelligence, skill above what I was "allowed" to have, any kind of body autonomy, or an expectation of respectful treatment, the attacks got worse. When I conformed to a more acceptable standard of femininity, and anytime I "laid still and took it," so to speak, I was treated almost like half a person.

What frustrates me is that I have encountered this treatment in a much more insidious way, and more frequently, from other women than I have from men. I'm still a little reluctant to jump on the "blame the patriarchy" bandwagon, but I don't see another way to explain this issue. Women have been trained to keep each other "in line." If a woman dares to show individuality, to be different from the herd and not ashamed of it, she is singled out for torment.

I'm facing some stuff at my new job that, while not nearly what I dealt with at the old one, appears to be the same kind of problem. I get teased about anything "different" about me-and believe me, there's a lot different about me. It's been pointedly said in front of me that women in their late thirties or older have "earned the right to be themselves, even be a little weird if they want to be." (The implication being that I haven't "earned the right" to be myself?) The other women feel that they have a right to touch me, specifically my hair. Some of them will go so far as to pull my hat off my head (when I wear one specifically as an effort to not have people play with my hair) and tousle my hair, calling me "such a cute little girl." I'm not even fucking kidding. I get spoken to like a child, and have actually been referred to as such by women who know damn well that I'm a divorced woman with a child who is working to pay my mortgage, same as they are. There are a couple of them who, while they don't actually try to sabotage my work, will try to make it appear to the supervisors as though I'm doing badly. They'll stand by my station and "fix" things that I'm doing just fine, often going so far as to "rearrange" things into the exact positions I had them in. Just as long as it looks like I'm screwing up and need help, they're happy. A few of them constantly ask questions about my personal life, and when I say I don't want to talk about it, I get called "snobby" and "antisocial." And when I do answer, usually with half-assed responses meant to end the conversation, there's inevitably some unnecessary commentary on it. For example, someone was asking about my parents. I answered with simply, "I don't talk to my parents." No explanation, because I didn't think it was their business. I got, "Oh, everyone goes through that rebellious stage. When you grow up, you'll get over that." (So, not talking to the people who beat you and allowed their friends to rape you is rebellious? Shit, I'd better fix that. I guess good girls don't take steps to keep themselves and their families safe, huh? Then, coming from people who, to a lesser extent, clearly think parts of my body are public property, I shouldn't be surprised.) Rebellion. That's their favorite theme. Any display of individuality or independent thought is outright called "rebellion," and any attempt to stand up for myself-pointing out that I'm an adult, even if I'm the youngest adult in the room, asking someone to not touch me-is met with derision and comments about how I'm "rude." Granted, a lot of these women are a bit older than I am, and some of them have a real fixation on the "respect your elders" paradigm. But I was raised to believe that once a woman (or anyone, for that matter) had taken on adult responsibilities, such as marriage, parenthood, or a full-time job, you treated them as an adult. And living in the modern world, I was under the impression that it's just expected that you treat your coworkers like equals, not kindergarten students.

Seeing this situation from my new perspective helps a little, but doesn't make it completely stop hurting. The worst thing is, I know how to stop it. There are other women about my age who work there and don't get the same shit every day. If I were to dye my hair back to a more natural-looking colour, start dressing "like a girl" (though why the hell I would want to wear the kind of uncomfortable-looking clothes I see lots of these women wearing to do dirty, physical work every day is beyond me), stop being so damn good at my job, giggle more and stop asking for respect, I'd be fine. And at least one of the other girls my age has said as much to me. "It's because you're different. If you fit in better, they'd leave you alone."

Or, there's the option that no one will mention. The environment would be better... if I had a penis. There's a man at work who is a lot like me-about the same age, quiet, keeps to himself, does really well at the job, and doesn't take shit from anyone. I would think he's "rude" too, wouldn't you?

Actually, he's a "self-starter" who "doesn't waste time talking when he doesn't need to," and people are "impressed with his independence."

*sticks head in the paper-feeder*

Please note, I'm not saying my current job is horrible, or that it's torturing me the same way the old one did. The incidences of being picked on are relatively minor, in the big picture, but the fact is that if each person in the group that's doing it does one rude or hurtful thing every day, it adds up. And I'm not prepared to sweep this under the rug, because the reality is that it's just not fucking right. It may be "no big deal," and I could very well be overreacting to one unpleasant feature of an otherwise awesome job. But to my eyes, it's sexist, ageist, and generally unfair, and I shouldn't have to "earn the right" to do what I please with my body and have my own personality.

Have you seen me?

2008-11-27T23:22:00.000-08:00

I've been kind of nostalgic for "the old me" lately. Not for the eating disordered, drug-addled, promiscuous old me, but for the super confident, fun-loving, passionate me. Of course, they were the same person-being thin made me "confident," pot made me fun, and I was passionate about sex. But I've been wishing I could have the good parts without the bad. That's a hard thing to do. Stability and good health have made me feel kind of settled and boring.

I'm sure I could have all the good parts back if I tried. It's just that I've associated so many of my old personality traits and behaviors-even harmless ones-with all the bad stuff for so long that I've forgotten the healthy ways to express them. Besides that, I'm still getting used to actually having a good life. Most of my life was crap for a long time, exciting as it may have been. Sure, there were good times mixed in there. But overall I was really living in hell. So "exciting and fun" in my mind is pretty thoroughly entangled with "scary and dramatic." I'm still trying to figure out how to do "exciting and fun" in a safe and positive way.

I hate being so scared of new things. I used to be so fearless and adventurous because I really didn't have much to lose. It was easy to take risks because there wasn't too much that could go more wrong than it already was. Now that I'm in a better place personally, I don't want to take any major leaps because I know where the bottom is, I spent a lot of time there, and if I take a wrong step I could fall right back there. It's terrifying.

What's brought all this to the surface is that I've been talking lately with a few old friends who were part of the GOOD stuff in my life during the darkest days. I've missed them terribly. They stayed with me during most of my ups and downs- they dragged me out of the scariest holes I found, and they kept me tethered when I was about to fly right out of my mind for one reason or another. They knew how to make me smile. Granted, a couple of them in particular also knew how to make me cry, but at the time I was so much more appreciative of negative feelings. That's another thing I miss-the knowledge that if I was crying, at least it meant I was alive. Now crying scares the shit out of me, because it might mean that I'm "slipping."

These friends are in my soul. Certain sounds, smells and sights immediately bring them to mind. I was honestly scared that they may not like this new, somewhat more sane me, but it seems that they do. The problem is that I don't. I mean, I love not wanting to kill myself half the time. I love feeling safe in my home-hell, HAVING a home. I love feeling in control of my own decisions. But I don't love this feeling that if I put one toe outside the lines of the box I've put myself in, I'll collapse into the same hell that I ripped all my fingernails off trying to crawl out of. I don't love feeling so sterile and dry that I can barely remember what it felt like to just DANCE, inside and out.

I don't know what to do or how to fix this. I need to find a happy medium-I need to come back to myself without losing my sanity. I always swore that I'd never be afraid to live, and in the last few weeks I've realized that I am. It's a shitty feeling, and I'm kind of angry at myself now.

So many things to say...

2008-11-25T23:37:00.000-08:00

I honestly have so much sitting in my head lately. All the noise in there is making it hard to sleep again. :(

One sort of weird thing is this feeling I have that I'm on the verge of something. I get like this once in a while...I just start to feel kind of spiritually/emotionally pregnant. Depending on what time of year it is, I usually brush it off as cabin/spring fever. Of course, ignoring that internal command to do something usually results in me becoming horrendously dissatisfied with the state of my life and making huge and impulsive decisions. I felt like this before I moved back to Saskatoon, before I went back to school, before I got married...as you can see, the decisions based on this itch are sometimes good, sometimes spectacularly bad. So I'm trying to figure out what it is I should be doing to fix this. Or if maybe this time just sitting back and letting something gestate would be the best choice. After all, I do seem to finally have a stable life and be in a better position to actually chill out and let nature take its course with whatever is poking me in the back of the brain. It's just so damn frustrating sometimes.

I can't even think straight for long enough to put anything else down coherently, so I'm just going to go drink some tea and try to sleep. Hugs and kisses, internet people.

Bad Mom Day

2008-11-18T06:46:00.001-08:00

Hey, moms...ever have those days when you just feel like you're not doing enough for your kids? I've felt like that for the last week or so. I couldn't tell you exactly what I could be doing better, or why I feel like I'm walking around with a big FAIL stamp on my forehead, but I just feel like I'm being a crappy mom.

Maybe some of it comes from the fact that the Boy is having all kinds of trouble at school, and has been put in both a special "social development" program (meetings a couple of times a week with other students and some staff to talk about behavioral stuff) and counseling sessions. I don't know what I'm doing wrong, but if my kid is a "problem child" to that extent, there must be something. Have I not spent enough quality time with him? Have I somehow inadvertently taught him terrible behavior? Have I fed him the wrong stuff, or not enough, or too much, or something? I can't even begin to describe the terrible feeling that happened when I got a letter from his teacher last week telling me that I need to "make sure he has enough food in the future" because he was apparently "still hungry after lunch." I had sent him a sandwich, some carrot sticks, an apple, some yogurt, a cheesestring, a couple of cookies and a juice box-I thought that was a big enough lunch. But the school says it's not. You want to talk about "triggering?" Hoo, boy. I've been a wreck since then.

I know that no parent is perfect, and in some ways I've probably screwed up more than most. Of course, in some ways I've also done better than most, so I was kind of hoping it would balance out. But now I'm dealing with all this shit hitting the fan, and being told by the nice people at the school that since he's out of his "formative years," the problems he's having are serious and not just developmentally normal childhood brattiness.

Oh, good. Whatever is wrong with him, it's something I caused in his "formative years" which is now going to take years of therapy to fix, if it even can be fixed at all. Having gotten to the point where I've finally realized how messed up my mom was and how messed up I am because of what she did, I'm more terrified than ever of the same thing happening with my son. I mean, I had finally pretty much forgiven myself for not being perfect for the first six or so years-I was doing the best I could with what I had, and doing a hell of a lot better than most women in the same situation would have. I figured that even if our lives were a little wacky and unstable at times, he knew that I loved him, he was always fed and clothed, and I did my damndest to shelter him from the shit that was constantly going on in my life. All the rest can be dealt with, right? Well, maybe not. According to the form his teacher filled out, even the fact that his dad and I aren't together is a "family problem" that needs to be addressed by the counselor. His dad and I broke up when he was an infant. He has never lived with the two of us together-this is normal for him. If that's a "problem," what would they say if they found out that we've been homeless? That I'm so heavily medicated? What's going to happen when he gets older and remembers that my ex beat the crap out of me and I was too scared to leave for months? How much is he going to hate me? How much have I damaged him?

I just don't know how to fix this.

Episode IV

2008-10-27T12:32:00.000-07:00

I guess the point of all my ramblings here is that I haven't always been the healthiest person, or had the best habits. And with things like disordered eating, it's hard to tell sometimes where "personal quirks" end and the really bad stuff starts-even I'm not sure how many of my bad habits (excluding the obviously bad stuff like purging) were disordered and how many were just weird. I just needed to get that stuff off my chest and admit that I've been full of crap most of my life.

But here's where the title of this blog comes in, for those of you who caught it. I honestly am trying to adjust my way of thinking about food. What I eat isn't a moral issue, and I have no special virtue if I eat or don't eat certain things. I don't have to be "good enough" with my eating habits, or prove anything to anyone by controlling what I put in my mouth. I've always loved good food (and by good I mean tasty) and thought of myself as a bit of a "foodie," but for a long time I felt like I had to apologize for that. I'm trying to change that.

On a much more cheerful note, I have a new favourite song. Check it out, because evil genii need love too.

Full Disclosure, Part 3

2008-10-25T23:06:00.000-07:00

I guess I'll make it a trilogy. And then I'll go back and digitally add Jabba the Hutt to the first entry. Because I'm evil like that.

Dealing with the whole pregnancy and breastfeeding thing forced me to take a good look at a lot of my eating habits. I became much more aware of excessive thinness as a problem rather than something that was just fine. Unfortunately, this led to me hitting the opposite end of the spectrum at times. I'd cycle through a month or two of restrictive eating, followed by a panicked month of overeating because I was afraid of becoming too thin. Then I'd be okay for the better part of a year before the cycle randomly started again. I didn't really see this as a problem at the time. It's only looking back now and actually putting it in writing that makes me think "hmm, I was messed up."

Then, about a month before my 21st birthday, I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. I spent a lot of time wondering "why me?" I wasn't overweight-I had been a fairly "normal" weight by medical standards before my pancreas quit, and then lost even more weight when that happened. I had an active, healthy lifestyle, and I couldn't understand why this would happen. Of course, looking back now I would suspect that my lifetime of messed-up eating and the like probably contributed to my "latent adult-onset pancreatic failure," as the doctors called it when I pressed them for details. I'll never know for sure what really triggered it. Was my pancreas just a ticking time bomb my whole life? Did going on Depo-Provera a few months prior to my diagnosis have anything to do with it? Would I be okay now if I had eaten normally as a child? In any case, this gives me a whole new set of challenges.

For a while after my diagnosis, I was as okay as can be expected. I did well with the eating thing, at least. For a few years, I ate more normally and healthfully than I had most of my life. Then, not too long ago, I became a complete mess again. I had been through hell with an abusive relationship before getting my shit together and ending up with Chris. Work had fallen completely apart. My whole life seemed out of control, and I was gaining weight like mad. So what did I do? Jeopardized my health and my relationship by setting all kinds of absurd food restrictions, using my diabetes as an excuse. Sure, I need to eat healthfully, and I shouldn't put a whole lot of crap in my body. But does that mean I should refuse to allow white bread or pasta in my house? That I should put my partner down when he doesn't follow the same stringent rules I do? Honestly, obsessing about food was taking up ridiculous amounts of my time a few months ago. And I was eating about 1100 calories a day because nothing was "good enough" to put in my body. Lots of fresh fruit and veggies, paired with whole grains and lean meats-that's great. But when I couldn't get my hands on "good" food, I just wouldn't eat at all. And if I had a "hypo" and had to have some quick sugar? That would be quickly chased with a Lorazepam to stop the panic attacks that were caused by eating something "bad." And really, there's only so much fiber-rich, tasteless junk you can cram into your belly. That's why it makes such a good weight loss diet-you eat a lot less. 1100 calories. I figured it out a few times, and that ended up being pretty much my daily average. Sometimes more, sometimes less, but typically I was eating about 1100 calories a day. That kind of restriction, and panic attacks from eating life-saving glucose? That's a very slippery slope. Thank Deity I had that nervous breakdown-it forced me to take a good look at my life, and to not allow those habits to continue for more than a couple of months. The other day I asked Chris why he hadn't said anything when I got obsessive and scary like that. He said that he had believed me when I said it was "a diabetes thing." He wanted me to be healthy, and I had convinced him that starving myself was what that would take.

I'm sorry I've lied to everyone my whole life. I feel like a terrible person.

Full Disclosure, Part 2

2008-10-25T21:41:00.000-07:00

So, I've poured myself a cocktail and decided to get this all out. Yay, it's the second part in my series about eating disorders! If that isn't just a pile of fun, I don't know what is.

I'm not sure whether it's funny or sad that I developed my very own set of disordered eating habits after I had "recovered" from what basically amounted to forced anorexia. Part of me now wishes I had paid more attention in therapy instead of smiling and nodding and wondering when I would get to eat again. Maybe I would have learned some coping skills or something that could have saved me from what happened to me later in life. Then again, maybe not. Who knows?

The last couple years of elementary school were interesting in their own right, but nothing stands out as far as food, fat and all that fun stuff goes. I learned to smile and nod and ignore Karen when she started going on about how fat she was, how fat David was, and how fat I was going to get if I didn't watch myself. I ate pretty much like a normal kid, I think.

Then...high school. Take an outspoken, nerdy, highly-intelligent thirteen year old with a messed up family history and no social skills to speak of, and throw them into grade nine. Yeah, there's a recipe for something good.

Long story short, within a week I started "secretly" (meaning everyone knew but if Karen had found out she would have literally hospitalized me) dating an equally nerdy and messed-up grade 12 student. (Who some of you now know. I'll leave you to guess at who, lol.) We had a torrid two-week romance which ended with him threatening suicide when I dumped him at the welcome dance. There's a good low-key start to a high school career. It may seem like a small thing, but when your home life consists of daily beatings and "time outs" in the linen closet, a bizzaro high school drama like that is a big deal. I started looking for things in my life I could control, and the first thing I found was-you guessed it-food. Before too long I was splitting my breaks between groups of friends to make it easier for myself to pull the classic "I ate with the other guys already" line. I usually had breakfast, and something small for dinner, so I didn't feel like skipping lunch was a problem. It's not really a disorder if you're eating two meals a day, right? But now I think that was setting the stage for bigger problems down the line.

Grade 10 was my "athletic" year. I played football, at least until I was taken out for the season by this TOTAL dickweed...but that's another story. Anyway, I ate really well during the football season, and for once I was really healthy. But once football wasn't an option I cut down on my meals (you don't need that many calories if you're not burning them) and took up biking and running-anything to keep me burning calories. I regularly walked to and from school, which doesn't seem like a big deal until you consider that I was attending Bedford and living on the corner of 20th St. and Avenue T (for you non-Saskatoon folks, that's a long damn walk) and usually only ate supper. (By this time I was just having coffee for breakfast, and kept up the lunch routines of the previous year.)

To compound matters, grade 10 was the year I suddenly became aware of my sexuality. Where previously I had enjoyed kissing boys and got vague tingly feelings in my girly bits sometimes, I was suddenly caught in a flood of hormones and desire, as well as all sorts of confusing feelings about girls. (I'd like to have a nice long chat with anyone who thinks that sexual orientation is a choice.) I mentioned in my last post that Karen didn't like girls...well, that's because she figures that young women are all filthy whores looking for something, anything, to stick in their cunts. (Apparently she was quite the little tramp as a teenager and decided that all girls are naturally like that.) So when I tried to talk to her about all this confusing teenager stuff, all I got was a lot of "you'd better fucking not come home knocked up, you little skank," and "what are you, some kind of fucking dyke?" (Both of those sentences now amuse me to no end, but at the time it just scared me more.) So, in the throes of my first "serious" relationship (five whole months with someone way more popular than I was) and the subsequent painful breakup (he did it over the phone), the only thing I could really understand and control was my food intake. I had started to worry about myself by the time I got serious with my boyfriend. I didn't want to become truly anorexic. So I started eating more, but I was rigorous with my portioning, as well as with what I allowed myself to eat. Some of my girlfriends admired my discipline and healthy eating habits, and I was more or less following the food guide, so I figured it was okay. What I want to tell young women everywhere is that obsessing about only eating "healthy" food is not okay. It's called orthorexia, and while it's sometimes hard to draw the line between healthy eating and unhealthy obsession, it's pretty safe to say that if you spend more than an hour or two a day thinking about and planning your meals because you want to be sure you're putting the "right" things in your body, then you should look at your priorities.

In true mood-swingy, teen girl fashion, once the tears stopped flowing over the breakup, I dropped the obsessive eating habits and started trying to be "normal." But when you have no frame of reference as to what constitutes proper behavior, normal is a dangerous word. I filled the void in my life with alcohol and pot, and intentionally lost my virginity to a guy I hadn't even been on one real date with just because I knew my ex didn't like him. How's that for wholesome-my first time was a spite fuck. Then within a couple of weeks after that, I started dating a guy who would end up raping me. Not too long after that, I started dating the guy who ended up fathering my child. As you can see, "stability" wasn't really key for me at this point.

Once I got pregnant, I essentially moved out of Karen's house. I mean, all my stuff was still there and my mail still went there, but I bounced around between friends' places a lot for the whole pregnancy. I just couldn't deal with being around her. When I did stay at home, I had either Ray (Ronin's dad) or a friend stay with me.

Because I had actually been pregnant before Ronin and miscarried just into my second trimester, resulting in wacky periods and all sorts of other fun, I didn't actually know I was pregnant until the first trimester was almost up. When I found out and told Karen, the first thing she said was "I had noticed you getting kind of fat." For some reason, that really hurt me. And I'm sure you can guess what kind of behavior that triggered.

I didn't starve myself. I ate something every day, and I took my vitamins. But for most of the second trimester of my pregnancy, I claimed to be too nauseated to eat much at a time. I was scared to gain weight. Thankfully, after a few months of this I smartened up and started eating for two...okay, really for about seven. After the sixth month of my pregnancy, I suddenly ballooned all at once.

The thing is, Ronin was so small when he was born. Granted, he was premature. And I was in an accident a few weeks before his birth that affected the last bit of his growth. So some of that couldn't be helped. But I've spent the past eight years wondering how much bigger he would have been if I had eaten better during my pregnancy. He was born weighing three and a half pounds. If I had eaten, would that have been four? Five? Would his lungs have been just that little bit stronger? Could he have avoided at least some of that time in the hospital? Would he have been able to fight off the infection (RSV) that led to him being re-hospitalized at 3 months of age? And since it's those weak preemie lungs and early infections that make him so prone to pneumonia now, what have I really done to my child? Once he was born, I did everything I could from the first moment to help him grow. But what did I do before that?

Full Disclosure, Part 1

2008-10-25T19:35:00.000-07:00

All that stuff about how my thinness was something I could never control? I might have been lying a little. Don't get me wrong-I have always leaned naturally toward thinness, more so than many women I know, and I don't think I'd ever have gotten "fat" per se before I had Ronin. I've never intentionally starved myself long-term, or regularly purged, but that doesn't mean that my habits have been healthy. In fact, I'm starting to suspect that I did hold off a bit longer than I naturally should have in putting on this most recent and endlessly thought-provoking fifty pounds. And I think that I need to get some of this off my chest, because I won't fully heal from it until I do.

My recent explorations of "intuitive eating" have been way more difficult than I let on. Through most of my life, I have actually struggled with disordered eating. Not an eating disorder-I was never "consistent" enough to be diagnosable. But my relationship with food has never been healthy.

When my mother, a woman who prided herself on her 23 inch waist in early adulthood, got "fat" (translation: roughly a size 8) after I was born, it was a huge problem for her. I know this partly because of what I've been told by friends and relatives, and partly because anytime her clothes didn't fit when I was a child, she would beat me. After all, me being her first child, it was naturally my fault she was "fat." If she had just done the sensible thing and aborted me, she would still be thin. (Never mind that she went on to have six more kids after me. At that point it didn't matter anymore, I suppose-I did all the damage, no point in stopping now!)

After me was David. He was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck and had to be revived at birth. He was also born with several disorders that have affected his hearing, made him blind, and caused his growth to be out of control for most of his life. As a child he had to have steroid injections as part of his treatment, and his sight and mobility issues have always interfered with his physical activity. Add to that the fact that he's always been just a big kid (he's two years younger than I am, and to look at photos of us from around his first birthday you'd actually think I was the younger sibling) and you have a recipe for a very fat boy. You can't imagine the kind of abuse that was heaped on him. Being such a protector by nature, I tried to take care of him. And usually, I was the first target for mommy dearest anyway, being the firstborn and a girl. (She didn't like girls.) But sometimes kicking me around just wasn't a good enough substitute for beating up the little bastard that brought all this FAT into her house.

Through most of my childhood, mom was constantly "on a diet." Looking back, she was really just cycling through anorexic and bulimic behaviors. After a week of eating almost nothing, she'd down an extra large pizza and lock herself in the bathroom for hours. My stepfather, while seemingly more normal, didn't honestly help matters. He loved healthy food and exercise, and he taught me so much. I learned from him how to read food labels and ration my calories, how many grams of fiber I needed to help me "fill up" so I wouldn't eat as much, and why drinking LOTS of water is good for you-it helps that icky "hungry" feeling go away. And if you want more flavour, just squeeze a bit of lemon into it. All this by the time I was eight.

I don't remember exactly when mom started starving us. It was pretty gradual. First she stopped insisting that we clean our plates. Then she stopped cooking enough for second helpings. Then she started measuring and rationing, making sure that we each had only a certain amount. By that time, I was nine years old or so and already hitting puberty. I needed a training bra and I was getting little pockets of fat on my thighs and butt.

Sometime after I got my first period (which happened the same month I turned 10) mom decided that she couldn't stand to look at David's fat ass anymore. To make matters worse, I was getting fat too! Goddamn it, how dare I develop secondary sex characteristics? No self-control, I tell you. So both of us were put on a diet. We split packets of instant oatmeal for breakfast, lunches were limited to one tuna sandwich and an apple, and dinner, while usually slightly tastier, was strictly portioned out. We drank skim milk in very limited amounts and even took a "supplement" that was supposed to speed up fat loss. To this day I don't know what we were taking. But given that I'm talking about the mid-90s, before phen-fen was banned, I count myself and my brother fucking lucky to be alive. As far as exercise goes, I got off lucky. Running stairs was mom's regime of choice. Since I wasn't quite so fat, I only had to go up and down the twenty-ish stairs in our gorgeous character home about ten times a day. David, however, ran until he literally dropped in his tracks, till he couldn't even catch his breath to sob, till he was coughing up blood and begging for water.

Sometime during that year, the school health nurse noticed that I wasn't exactly healthy. I had constant headaches, I wore sweaters even while sitting right next to the heater, I couldn't concentrate on anything, and I was having unbelievable dizzy spells. From what I've seen in pictures, I looked like crap, too. Skin that had gone from naturally pale to white to almost gray, dark circles under sunken eyes (though those were hidden by the prescription sunglasses I wore inside and out to counteract my headaches and photosensitivity) and not nearly enough flesh on my expanding skeleton. (I had also missed a few periods, but whether that was because I had just started them and was still irregular or due to starvation-induced amenorrhea I never did figure out.) The fantastic nurse (her name was Jill Scott, and I'd love to find her and thank her for setting in motion the events that got me re-fed) asked me if I was alright. I said that I was unhappy with the diet David and I were on. I honestly didn't think anything of it-I certainly didn't mean to imply that I was being abused at home. (I was a very intelligent child, as my AcTal teachers would have confirmed. But not so much with the common sense.) I'm not sure whether I was the victim of something like Stockholm Syndrome, or if I just believed firmly in my mother's insistence that I was worthless and didn't deserve good treatment, but I loved her intensely and would have killed to keep our family together. Hell, by that time I'd already lied to the police about bruises once or twice. So I innocently mentioned the conversation to Mom when I got home.

I have seen a lot of emotional explosions in my time, but few have inspired the same kind of fear that I felt that day in the kitchen. Karen (because calling her Mom really feels unnatural) turned from the meat she was cutting and held the point of the knife at my throat. She screamed-I don't even remember exactly what she said. I'm not ashamed to say that, at nearly eleven years old, I pissed myself. (What feels slightly more shameful is the fact that I sat in those wet pants for the rest of the day, because Karen wouldn't let me change.) All I remember about the rest of that night is a flurry of phone calls, a lot of whispering, and a suddenly very different Karen at the end of it all. When she finally allowed me to get out of my dirty clothes, she ran me a bubble bath and made me a special snack. (Cinnamon toast made with raisin bread, and a cup of hot chocolate. I'll never forget that, because those were some of my favourite "bad" foods and I couldn't figure out why she was letting me have them.) Once I was in my pyjamas and fed, she hugged me and said "we're going to get through this."

The next day, I didn't go to school. Instead I went to a special "emergency" appointment with our family therapist. (After the previous abuse allegations, Karen was ordered into therapy. In addition to her solo sessions, there were a certain number of family sessions we had to go to. By this time, however, those were supposed to be over.) Having not seen this guy for months, it seemed strange to me that it should suddenly be so urgent for me to have a solo appointment with him. But even with my common sense deficit, it all clicked when he asked, "Rebecca, why don't you want to eat?"

"I do want to. I love food," I replied, "and I just wish Mom would stop making me be on a diet."

"She said you might say something like that. Rebecca, what we want to help you understand is that your mom wants you to eat healthfully. She's trying to help you make good choices. Your refusing to eat and then blaming it on her is getting you nowhere. What we need is to get to the root of your eating disorder."

Holy Munchausen by Proxy, Batman. I couldn't put that label on it at the time, of course. But it seemed that, once someone became suspicious of my condition, Karen made some phone calls to tell everyone how "desperate" she was to "get me some help." Needless to say, her quick thinking ensured that by the time social services got the report of a young girl looking malnourished and complaining about her mother, there was already a report from a family counselling service describing the same girl as "showing signs of anorexic tendencies." The woman is evil, but not stupid. Of course, part of the blame falls on the counsellor for taking her at face value rather than actually working with me for any length of time, but still...this shit will fuck up a ten year old.

From there, it was medical evaluations and constant therapy for two years. My "quick recovery" (when they put food in front of me, I was fully willing to eat it) was attributed to my "condition" having been a "cry for attention" in the face of "the stress of being the eldest in a large family and feeling lost as attention fell on the younger children." That's right, kids-anorexia is just attention whoring! The internet trolls are right! *headdesk*

Of course, I still went through the physical pain of re-feeding, though not nearly the way "real" anorexics do. But I did learn that suddenly having a normal food intake after months of starvation is a whole new level of suffering. I desperately wanted to eat, and the vomiting, bloating and pain were still almost enough to make me give up on myself and food forever. I can't imagine what that process would be like for someone who was legitimately anorexic. But I came out of the process "fully recovered," if somewhat underweight and prone to illness. I still wonder what effect that period of my life had on my later developing diabetes and the other health problems that plague me.
***********************************************

Check back for the next installment, in which I discuss disordered eating in pregnancy, or "why I was a terrible mother before I even started."

Another Quick Hit

2008-10-19T09:16:00.000-07:00

I think I peed a little.

Quick Hit

2008-10-17T09:43:00.000-07:00

Before I run away for the day, here is something amusing.

If you don't insist on absolute moral victory, the terrorists win!

2008-10-16T20:17:00.000-07:00

So, all that stuff I said about not taking shit from anyone and never backing down? I'm about to (possibly) make myself a filthy liar.

On the subject of backing down, walking away, quitting and the like, where does one draw the line? See, I'm in this terribly uncomfortable situation (I can't give too many details, but trust me when I say it sucks) where I desperately want to Stay the Course! and Be the Bigger Person! while, naturally, Proving Them All Wrong! The problem is that it's going to be unfuckingbelievably stressful to do so. It would probably be smart to just walk away.

But if I back down, there are a couple of problems. First, I'd be walking away from an otherwise enjoyable situation/place because of these very unpleasant people. Second, if I leave, then the bullies win. Intellectually, I know it's silly to place so much value on a "moral victory" over people that I don't even like. But my tendency to stand my ground didn't come naturally-it's been an uphill battle most of my life. I spent my childhood and adolescence being trampled on constantly, so my adulthood has been spent overcompensating for that. If I walk away from a painful situation, I feel like I've failed, like I just couldn't hack it. I have to stick it out to prove to myself, more than anyone else, that I'm Strong Enough, Smart Enough, and generally Good Enough. Besides, like I said, I don't want the big stupid meanies to ruin an otherwise good situation for me.

I just don't know how long I can really keep Standing Firm! before I get worn down. Then after that point, how much shit do I take before I just call it a day?

*headdesk*

Fun Facts!

2008-10-16T17:46:00.000-07:00

And by "fun" I mean "ranty," and by "facts" I mean "crap that's on my mind right now."

I've been thinking a lot lately about "adult bullying." To me, that seems like an oxymoron. I would think that if one is an adult, i.e. "fully developed and mature," one would not engage in bullying, correct? Then I remember that physical adulthood has no necessary relationship to mental or emotional maturity. At that point, I usually find it necessary to bang my head against something until the stabby feeling goes away, but I digress....

According to dictionary.com, when we talk about a bully, this is what we mean:

bul·ly

[bool-ee]

noun, plural -lies, verb, -lied, -ly·ing, adjective, interjection

–noun

1.	a blustering, quarrelsome, overbearing person who habitually badgers and intimidates smaller or weaker people.

2.	Archaic. a man hired to do violence.

3.	Obsolete. a pimp; procurer.

4.	Obsolete. good friend; good fellow.

5.	Obsolete. sweetheart; darling.

–verb (used with object)

6.	to act the bully toward; intimidate; domineer.

–verb (used without object)

7.	to be loudly arrogant and overbearing.

–adjective

8.	Informal. fine; excellent; very good.

9.	dashing; jovial; high-spirited.

–interjection

10.	Informal. good! well done!

This particular definition leaves out the meat-and-cattle related meanings of the word. Clearly, "bully" can mean a lot of things. Let's narrow it down a bit.

–noun

1.	a blustering, quarrelsome, overbearing person who habitually badgers and intimidates smaller or weaker people.

–verb (used with object)

6.	to act the bully toward; intimidate; domineer.

–verb (used without object)

7.	to be loudly arrogant and overbearing.

In 1, what I feel to be the key is the use of the word "habitually," as well as the phrase "smaller or weaker people." You can be mean to someone once, and it's not necessarily bullying-just being kind of an asshole that particular day. What makes it bullying is when it becomes "business as usual." The "smaller or weaker" part is what I feel needs some clarification. Some cases of bullying are clearly a stronger person picking on a weaker one. The classic television portrayal of a bully, like Nelson on The Simpsons, fits this category. Sometimes the "strength" is that found in numbers-several people can gang up on one, thereby intimidating the single person. Social status can also be a powerful source for the bully's "strength," as anyone who attended high school can tell you. In any case, bullying is not so much about actual strength or weakness as it is about making the victim believe that they are weak and the bully/ies is/are strong.

I'm pretty sure that most people have been the victim of bullying at least once in their lives. Whether it was twenty years ago on the playground, or yesterday at the office, someone has likely tried to impose their will upon you in a hurtful and terrifying way. That's a hard situation to face, regardless of your age. It's easier for some than for others, but it's a rare person who can face down a bully without even the slightest bit of apprehension.

At this point, the subject matter starts to tie into my recent fascination with the fat acceptance movement. On one site, I found some references to the experience of fat hatred (which is just bullying by a different name, in my opinion) both past and present, and how the discussion participants would love to be able to talk to both their younger selves and their bullies. Many of them posted what they would put in a letter to their younger selves. I think that's a fantastic idea. Whether your bullying experience is current or years in the past, what would have helped you (or is helping you) deal with it? Did you merely survive the bullying, or did you thrive in the face of it? If you were bullied for being "different," did you assimilate to try to make it stop, or did you continue to flaunt your uniqueness? What would you say to your past bullies? To a hypothetical bully now that you're older and (theoretically) wiser? Also, can you make a list of things about yourself that you love or just refuse to change, but for which you have been bullied or criticized? (In a rare display of love for feel-good lingo, I'm calling it an "empowerment list.")

I actually plan to post my responses to a lot of the questions I've asked here. First, my empowerment list. I'm going to write it in big pink letters, because that makes me happy.

I am not "girlie," I am womanly. I value my femininity, but I don't feel the need to behave a certain way to validate said femininity. I don't have a specific standard of beauty to which I believe the whole world must adhere. I don't giggle.

I will not participate in "fat talk" or general cattiness. Women are too cruel to one another, and I will not contribute to that. I would love to have more female friends, but many of my personal rules have thus far interfered with that. Unfortunately, many women just don't seem to "get" the things that I value or believe in.

I identify as bisexual, but am currently in a hetero relationship. That doesn't mean that I want to sleep with anything that moves, or that I make out with girls when I'm drunk to impress boys. It does mean that I love and desire whoever I happen to love and desire, and I don't worry so much about what gender they are.

I may be in a committed relationship now, but I haven't always been. Before this relationship, I sometimes liked to have sex with someone without feeling the need to immediately start calling them my boyfriend/girlfriend. I am a sexual being, and my sexuality does not conform to many people's standards of acceptability. This is not to say that I inappropriately boasted about my sex life at any time. However, information has a way of getting out sometimes. When it did, I didn't bother to lie or rush to "legitimize" my experiences. To some people, that makes me a "slut." To me, it just means that I value honesty and integrity.

I am loud. I do not have a small voice or a small personality. I can modulate my volume when it is situationally appropriate. However, I will not stop laughing heartily or turn my everyday speaking voice into a whisper just because "nice girls should be more quiet."

I care what people think of me. That doesn't mean that I will change myself to please someone else, simply that it hurts when someone has a very negative opinion of me. It is human nature to desire acceptance and affection. I happen to feel that part of human nature very strongly. This is why bullying has always affected me so deeply.

I do my best to not take shit from anyone. This is probably why, when I've been bullied, it typically gets worse before it gets better. Someone pushes me around, I push back (or at the very least stand firm and refuse to let them push me over), they push harder, rinse and repeat. Most of the people who have tried to push me around in my adult life have either given up or found themselves on the receiving end of legal action. I have been the one to back down once or twice, but I usually try to tough it out.

I am highly emotional. Of course, this has its drawbacks at times-my emotions can sometimes interfere with my logic, I've been known to overreact to some situations, et cetera. However, by and large I think my capacity to feel contributes hugely to my fantastic personality.

I think I'm beautiful just the way I am. Sure, I've had some conflicts with my body. I think most women have. But when you get right down to it, I've always been blessed with an unusually high level of body confidence. I am 5' 3" and weigh close to 170 lbs. I'm about five pounds away from being medically classified as "obese." My c-section scar means that, unless I starve myself and/or work out obsessively, I will never have a flat stomach even if I were to lose weight. My breasts sag a little from having breastfed for nearly a year. I have insanely crooked teeth-one of them sits nearly sideways. My hands are calloused from a combination of hard work and playing string instruments most of my life. My fingernails are extremely short, and I usually don't polish them. When I wear makeup at all, it's because I think it's fun, not because I think I need to.

I eat what I'm hungry for, when I'm hungry. I use full-fat dressings because I think they taste better, and 1% milk because I don't like the way fattier milk feels going down my throat. I eat in public. I sometimes go to a restaurant alone and don't bring a book or a project to make myself look busy. I just enjoy my meal.

Above all, I am real. This is, I think, what scares people the most about me. I don't bullshit about anything, really. I don't lie to spare people's feelings, though I may try to be tactful in how I say things. I don't play "fake nicey-nice" with people I don't like, though I will make every effort to be civilized and interact with them in an adult manner when necessary. I may tone down certain aspects of my personality or refrain from talking about certain subjects when "polite society" or "appropriate behavior" requires, but I will never change who and what I am to please anyone but myself. If you don't like me, it might actually make me sad for a while, but in the end it's really not my problem. To pretend to be what I'm not would be to lie to myself, and I don't deserve to be lied to.

There are a thousand more things I could probably put here, but these are the ones that are most significant to me at this very moment. These are the things that have "invited" the most pain into my life recently, the things that have offended the sensibilities of the most people, and I think it's about time I took a real stand and claimed them.

Yay, me!

2008-10-14T09:01:00.000-07:00

I'm trying NaNoWriMo for the first time. They say telling everyone you know that you're doing it helps keep you committed to it when it gets tough, so...I'm telling everyone. :D

"But Rebecca, you can't be part of the FA movement. You are TEH EBIL THIN GIRL."

2008-10-11T03:20:00.000-07:00

I love Fat Acceptance. I really do. Yes, I have railed against it in the past, but it turns out I was mistaken about the actual purpose of the movement. Recently, in my quest for more general self-acceptance, I have come to understand what it's REALLY about. (Also, I'm fat now.) If you're currently saying to yourself "that's why she's suddenly so pro-fattie. Easy to support something that works for your own agenda" or anything of the like, kindly FUCK OFF. I'm not that fickle. It just happens that in my search for information on general mental health issues, I came across legit FA information and chose to dig more deeply into it, since it now potentially applies to me. I was never "anti-fat," I just misunderstood certain agendas, as will become clear later. Alternatively, if you're thinking "serves her right, skinny bitch finally sees it from OUR SIDE," you can fuck off too. This has never been about "sides," as will also become clear later.

First, some background. Some of you may remember one or more of these points, but I'll review all of them.

Until recently, I was always naturally on the thin side. As a child I was even thinner than I should have been because my mother deprived me of food. When she was investigated by child services because the school nurse suspected that was happening, she lied to all the doctors and psychologists we were sent to and had them "extensively monitor" me because I "seemed to be developing an eating disorder." The woman is crazy, but not stupid-she knew that if she went in there all weepy, claiming that I wouldn't eat no matter what she tried, saying that I was being rebellious and blaming her and I wouldn't tell the truth to anyone, the blame would shift to me. Nice how her ass was so well covered. So my false anorexia diagnosis messed me up for a long damn time. I had trouble accepting my natural tendency toward thinness for a very, very long time.

Something that didn't help that difficulty in any way was when I had a serious "falling out" with more than one friend over the subject of weight. Now, it was never explicitly stated that weight and body image was the reason for these breakups, but it was. One case in particular was when I happened to be the thinnest girl in a certain social group. This was not planned. I don't buy into the "fat friend" system-the idea that if you're friends with girls who are bigger than you, you'll look better by comparison. I'm friends with who I like. The other girls in this group didn't believe that for a second. It seemed to be automatically assumed that I was only friends with them because it made me feel good about myself. As a result, most of our outings deteriorated quickly into skinny bashing. Shopping trips were hell because these girls would grab something off a rack, start talking about how "only anorexic bitches would look good in this," and then suggest that I try it on. Then they'd all laugh. Mealtime was worse. If I ate something low in sugar, low in fat, or otherwise "healthy" (which I do to take care of my diabetes, NOT to look a certain way) I was bombarded with cracks like "no wonder you look like that, you're just like all those other scrawny skanks that don't eat."

I'm sorry, are you suggesting that I jeopardize my health to pander to your insecurities?

I tried to point out to these girls that if I were to speak to them the way they spoke to me, but using "fat" in place of "skinny," it would be Not Okay. And by extension, it should be Not Okay for them to speak to me that way. So far, I've lost numerous friendships because other women can't see the logic in that.

And then there was "The Fat Blog." Remember, the one I had to make private on MySpaz because I was getting hate mail? (If you didn't see it, you're not missing much. I was venting on the subject of skinny bashing. I had recently been through some hell at the hands of "friends" like the ones discussed above, and the whole "skinny model" issue was all over the news, so it seemed like an opportunity to rant.) Okay, so I went a little far. The "heifer" comment in particular was probably uncalled for, though I did attempt to clarify it. My vitriol was aimed at the self-hating fat people whose thought process operates as follows:

"I'm fat and I hate myself. I don't actually want to try to lose weight, but I don't like being fat either. Accepting myself or changing my circumstances would both involve effort that I don't want to expend, and I've already alienated most of my social circle with my whining. Oh, look, a skinny person. YOU ARE TEH ENEMY AND MUST DIIIIIIIEEEEE WHARBLEGARBL."

The problem was that I thought these crazy women represented the Fat Acceptance movement. "Their kind" talks big, but the truth is that a huge part of FA is self-acceptance. If you haven't taken steps to accept your own fat and you're still angry at the world because you don't like yourself, you're not doing any good for FA. The message of FA is, at its core, about not judging people based on size. Got that? DON'T JUDGE PEOPLE BASED ON THEIR SIZE. Not "don't judge people who look like you," not "the only good shape is your shape," but ALL SHAPES AND SIZES ARE GOOD. Size, food, and other such "weighty issues" (lawlz) are not moral issues.

Turns out, the people at the heart of the FA movement are really about self-acceptance. They have accepted their fat selves, and they want others to do the same no matter what their size. I was so scared of the whole concept because my only exposure to people claiming to want fat acceptance was through fringe crazies who wanted fat people to be allowed to torment "average" people. All I had seen was women who wanted the rest of the world to accept that they were just naturally fat, but couldn't accept other women being naturally thin. Women who didn't really like themselves that much, but were looking for outside validation in the form of persecution of anyone who weighed less than they did.

What really helped drive it home for me was when I saw the things this fantastic woman had to say. She's used sentences like "thin people are not our enemy." She emphasizes that FA is not about superiority, it's about accepting oneself and refusing to be discriminated against. She also says "no one is too thin for FA."

So, I was wrong. Go ahead, link to this page in case you never get another chance to hear that from me. :P I do want to make it really clear that I was never "anti-fat" or "a fat-hater" (which are some of the more polite things I was called). I just want women to stop torturing each other over their weight- in either direction. Let's all do our own thing and be the sizes we want to be. Apparantly, my use of hyperbole, sarcasm and general bitchiness failed to get that point across, so I'm trying something completely out of character and using sincerity and feel-good lingo. Let's see if that helps.

LOLLERSK8S

2008-07-30T17:03:00.000-07:00

$176,070 Soul Dollars
Quiz brought to you by money.co.uk

Jamie Lynn and dumpster babies...

2008-07-23T11:53:00.000-07:00

I'm really disgusted with Western society right now. I mean, more so than I usually am. There are a lot of people screaming that Jamie Lynn Spears is glamorizing teen pregnancy. And maybe, to some degree, she is. But that's a side effect of her reality. This kid has lots of money. She has been working in TV and movies for several years now, and has amassed some serious cash. So yes, when she got knocked up there wasn't some big panic for her of "oh my god how am I going to pay for this baby?" She was able to just have the kid and carry on. Good for her. It's not as if she's saying that all sixteen year olds should rush out and get pregnant. And now there are people freaking out that in an interview with OK magazine, she says that being a mom is "the best feeling in the world." Apparantly she's supposed to hate her life, hate her baby, and be miserable for the rest of eternity. Apparantly by saying that she loves her daughter and is extremely happy to have her little family, she is singlehandedly bringing about the destruction of childhood in North America.

FUCK YOU, ASSHOLES.

As a "teen mother" (god I fucking hate that phrase, more later) I can tell you that there is nothing glamorous about getting knocked up young. And the reality is that for us normal folks, having to provide for a child is HARD FUCKING WORK. Some girls are lucky enough to have immense support from their families-they continue to live at home rent-free, their parents babysit while they're in school/working/just continuing to be normal young women, they get huge amounts of financial support...and to those girls I say "stop whining you spoiled cunts, you get all the good parts of having a baby with none of the hardships." If anyone is "glamorizing teen pregnancy," it's these completely average young women whose parents continue to support them AND their children. They have no extraordinary circumstances (such as celebrity and wealth) yet they continue to have perfectly normal lives while procreating at extremely young ages.

Some of us don't get that help. I have survived innumerable hardships and done everything short of prostitution or theft to provide for myself and my son. Having him so young made my life harder than it really needed to be. But does that mean I should love him any less? Should I wallow in misery and self-hatred for the rest of my life? Should I start some sort of movement advocating mandatory abortions or adoptions for anyone who gets pregnant before they're 20? Should I tell young moms that their lives are over and they may as well just give up?

This is why I hate the phrase "teen parent." It carries such negative connotations. While I was in the hospital after Ronin's birth, recovering from an emergency c-section, I got a harsh introduction to the world of "teen parenthood." I woke up from a nap the day after the birth to be told by a nurse (possibly the only decent human being working on the maternity ward...mat nurses are by and large cuntsmears) that the hospital social worker had been down to NICU (Ronin was quite premature) to "check up" on my baby. This didn't sit well with me. As some of you may be aware, you just don't fuck with The Beckstar. So, in spite of my still oozing incision, residual fuzziness from the anaesthetics, and the fact that I hadn't walked on my own since the surgery, I figured I had to deal with this. I plopped my bloody, stoned self into a wheelchair and headed off to the social work office on another floor of the hospital. When I confronted this woman with questions about why she had been down to "check on my baby" without my permission or even knowledge, while I was having a nap and recovering from fucking SURGERY, she responded with, "It's policy. All children born to mothers under the age of 18 receive a routine welfare checkup." When I asked why parental consent for this "checkup" wasn't required, she told me that "when the parent is under 18, it doesn't really count."

Excuse me?

So, a HEALTHY baby is born to a HEALTHY mother, albeit prematurely due to TRAUMA RECEIVED IN AN ACCIDENT, not by any defect or fault of the mother, and because the mother is under 18 you can just waltz in and poke and prod the baby, looking for a way the mother may be unfit, and her consent "doesn't really count?" What the fuck country is this, lady? I'm sorry, I thought I was in Canada, with a Charter of Rights and Freedoms or some shit like that. I raised quite a fuss about this little incident and informed the self-righteous cunt sitting across the desk from me that either I received an apology in writing or the Human Rights Commission and every media outlet in the province received my story in writing. The end result? I got a letter from DSS apologizing for my "being upset by the behavior of their employee," and stating that they "regret her decision to perform the inspection without my knowledge, but it is department policy to conduct said inspection, and parental consent is not required where the welfare of the child may be at stake." Basically, they didn't need my consent for the same reason they don't need the parent's consent when allegations of abuse arise. If you are under 18 and give birth in Saskatchewan, you are automatically under investigation for child abuse. Now, this may have changed in the past eight years, but that's what the policy was "in my day."

Let's recap. Western society says that if you have a baby when you are a teenager, you WILL be a bad parent if left to your own devices, you probably already have abused your child somehow before they are born, and your life is effectively over. Therefore, you must do penance by hating both yourself and your child forever, and you are not allowed to enjoy the experience of parenthood. You must instead don sackcloth and ashes anytime you are seen in public with the child, go on welfare for the rest of your natural life and refuse to even attempt to better yourself, because you are a Teen Parent and the best you can hope for is meager survival.

People, this is why things like the "prom baby" happen. Granted, girls who do shit like that are probably a little fucked up to begin with, and it's utterly wrong. I'm not excusing their behavior. What I am saying is that when we bombard young women with these ideas that if they get pregnant they're completely fucked (ha ha) and then expect some sort of contrition in place of celebration from the ones who do have babies, we create a culture of fucking dumpster babies. I have pulled Ronin out of a daycare centre because the owner had the balls to make a distinction (while I was in the room) between "teen moms" and "real moms." I have said very unpleasant things to complete strangers who have made comments like "don't you think you should have at least had the decency to give that baby to someone who can take care of it properly?" I have gotten into a physical altercation with a girl who told me that I shouldn't be happy to be a mother at my age. You just don't fuck with The Beckstar. But not every young mom can be me. The reason these attitudes are allowed to continue is that many young moms don't feel they have the right to stand up for themselves as women and as mothers. And unfortunately, in many parts of our community, the stereotype of the undereducated young mom is true, so these girls don't know how to defend their family the same way I have. (With a few notable exceptions, I tend to believe that the pen is mightier than the sword. But when you mess with my family you'd best believe that I will fucking gut you with that pen and write a letter to my MLA in your blood.)

Let's educate these teen moms, you say? Open special daycare centres and programs for them?

Let me ask you something, my friend. ARE YOU FUCKING HIGH? Have you paid any attention to today's lesson at all? Better yet, have you ever set foot in one of those "special programs" for teen moms? Go ahead, try it. I fucking dare you to see how long you can take being spoken to as though you're a five year old sociopath before you just give up and flush all your kids down the WalMart toilet.

What we need is for people to pull their heads out of their asses and treat mothers like mothers, regardless of age. Discrimination against young parents is a form of human rights violation that is not only still legal, but in fact sponsored by our government. Yes, educate children about sex, pregnancy, birth control and everything that entails. I am a huge proponent of reality-based education, and telling young women that if they have a baby before they are truly ready it will be HARD AS FUCK. What I want is for girls who do get pregnant to be told that they can still accomplish anything they choose, they might just have to work a little harder for it. We need to get rid of these "daycares for children of teen parents" and "teen parent programs." In fact, I wholeheartedly applaud the Saskatchewan Party for abolishing that den of government-employed fuckstains that used to operate on Avenue M South. I have struggled in my life with depression and suicidal thoughts, but never so strongly as I did after my only visit to that building during my pregnancy. Looking back now, I kind of want revenge on the government health nurses and counsellors who psychologically fucking raped me that day, but at the time I walked home KNOWING that my life was effectively over and that I would truly be better off throwing myself in front of a passing truck than ruining my life and dooming my unborn child to the worst kind of hell on earth by having the audacity to have a child at that age.

We as a society need to start treating parents like parents, no matter their age. I am a better mother than many women twice my age. Good or bad parenting does not depend on one's birthdate. I am all for support programs for parents, but they must be all-inclusive. It is extremely psychologically damaging for a young pregnant woman to have to face a distinction between herself and a "real mother." We cannot segregate parental support based on age-it must be done based on need. And regardless of age, a woman who chooses to give birth to and raise a child MUST be allowed and encouraged to see the joy in her decision, and to love her child the way nature has dictated. If we tell young women they shouldn't be happy, love their children and enjoy being mothers, they very likely won't. And that leads to poor parenting and a repeating cycle of poverty, abuse and misery in a far more direct way than age ever can.

I celebrate my child. I have walked a hard road because of my decision to keep him, and I celebrate that too. It has made me who I am today, and this child has brought me more joy and more learning opportunities than anything else in my life. Anyone who says that young mothers shouldn't celebrate their children the same way older mothers do should be sterilized on the spot, because they obviously have some deep seated hatred of children if they advocate parental apathy like that. And if this celebrity controversy can raise public awareness of this travesty, I'll be thrilled. Unfortunately, what it seems to be doing is giving these hateful, discriminatory fear-mongers a platform for their filth. And that makes me a sad panda.

Clap your hands.

2008-05-30T01:51:00.000-07:00

Yes, I do believe in fairies. You got somethin' to say about it?

Vindicated?

2008-05-29T23:56:00.000-07:00

I recently had this conversation with my doctor...

Doctor (looking at test results): Wow, you're getting much healthier. In fact, you've been steadily improving for a few months now.

Me: Yay!! When did that start?

Doc: Early to mid January, I'd say. Did you make any significant changes around that time?

Me: Ummm, well, I switched departments at work. Otherwise, not that I can think of.

Doc: And I'm guessing that was a change for the better?

Me: How did you guess?

Doc: Well, starting in the fall, your blood tests and exams were showing progressively worse results. That peaked around December, which was when you had those fainting spells, and those strange allergic reaction type rashes started. Then early in January, you started to show a marked improvement, and now you're almost back to where you were at the beginning of last summer, health-wise. Since we never really found a physical explanation for those fainting spells and rashes, I'd say it was related to stress. Now, I'd hate to jump to any conclusions about your personal life, but it seems to me that something in your life, which you got rid of or away from in early January, was making you physically ill. To the point that it was endangering your life. Just something to think about.

Me: Well, that's interesting.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today was good. I've had a good run recently, as far as the whole insanity thing goes. There were a couple of bad days last week, when it took every ounce of willpower I had to even get out of bed, and it felt like I'd never stop crying. But mostly the meds seem to be working.

Why does it still hurt so much?

2007-12-20T15:36:00.000-08:00

I recently dealt with a situation where someone about whom I care a great deal caused me a great deal of pain. It's supposed to be all better now, and for the most part it is. But every now and then I still get this twinge inside, like someone's twisting my guts into a knot. Don't get me wrong, I've completely forgiven the person in question. I'm not even a little angry anymore. I'm just...sad. Very, very sad. And I wish I could just turn that off.

Just fer shits and giggles.

2007-12-14T11:09:00.001-08:00

Yoinked this from a friend's facebook. I love silly surveys so much.

57 Girl Confessions

1. Is it cute when guys kiss you on your forehead?
Depends on the time and context. Sometimes it's cute, sometimes it's condescending and makes me want to punt them through a wall.

2. A big poofy dress or a short party dress?
Poofy. If I'm going to wear a dress, I'd usually rather go all out.

3. What would you do if you received a long love letter?
First I'd probably get all sappy and cry like a twerp. Then I'd wonder what he did wrong that he was trying to cover up with the love letter.

4. Group dates or single dates?
Single dates. I do like doing couple-y things in groups, but don't really think of that as a "date" per se.

5. Do you hate it when guys act different around their friends?
Depends on how different.

6. Are diamonds a girl’s best friend?
Not this girl.

7. Is your hair up or down today?
Under a hat.

8. Do you straighten your hair?
No. When I had long hair I did once in a while, but mostly I'm lazy.

9. Favorite mascara?
Whatever's cheapest?

10. Do you get your nails done?
For now.

11. Small or large purses?
Large.

12. In your purse, what are your must haves?
Wallet, keys, cell phone, glucometer and insulin. Plus whatever scraps of paper and assorted things belonging to my kid happen to be in there that day.

13. Jeans or sweats?
Jeans. They are fabulous.

14. Do you wear clothes/shoes/jewelry that’s uncomfortable?
I try to avoid it. Once in a while I make a bad footwear decision...usually while trying to find work shoes. Otherwise I'd rather feel good than look good.

15. Do you text message a lot?
Sometimes it's my sole method of communication for weeks at a time.

16. What would you do if you got pregnant?
Oh Em Gee, like, my life would be, like, over and stuff.
*headdesk*

17. What’s your favorite color?
Currently it's green.

18. Heels or flats?
Flats.

19. Did you ever cry during a romantic movie?
Yeah. I'm a pussy.

20. Would you ever leave the house without make-up on?
Almost every day. If I ever get to the point where I answer no to this question, I want someone to promise they'll put me out of my misery.

21. Walmart or Target?
Somebody dun bin to the Walmart.

22. Do you wear collared shirts?
Sometimes.

23. Do you like preppy boys?
They can be cute, I suppose.

24. Do you think lip gloss is the best!?
OHMYGAWD, it's like you're reading my mind! You're like, telespastic or something!

25. Do you own any big sunglasses?
I could answer this question, but then I'd have to kill you.

26. How long does it take you to get ready in the morning?
Including food? Hm. Two hours? Hour and a half to lay in bed and complain that I don't want to get up, five minutes to shower, twenty five to run a comb through my hair while I cram cereal down my throat and panic that I'm going to be late.

27. Do you like to wear band-aids?
Only the cool Ninja Turtles ones.

28. Do you like skater boys?
I did when I was younger. Road rash is teh sexx0rz.

29. Do you often wish there was something you could change?
Um, have you actually read the rest of this blog?

30. Gold or silver?
Usually silver/white gold. But gold is pretty too. I'm really not picky.

31. Do you like to receive flowers?
I love flowers. And I guess it's nice to get them from someone. But I also, you know, buy them myself. Flowers is purty.

32. Do you like surfer boys?
They entertain me. But IRL, not so much. There was an incident.

33. Do you dress up for the holidays?
Totally. Reindeer antlers and all.

34. Do you like to wear dresses?
Sometimes. But I tend to forget I'm wearing them and act all unladylike.

35. On a scale of 1-10 how much do guys confuse you?
Um, probably about a 2? Women are way more confusing.

36. In the last 48 hours have you hung out with a guy?
Yes.

37. Would you date a guy shorter than you?
I have.

38. Do you like to hold hands?
Yep.

39. What is the youngest you would date?
*does math*
I'll go with 24.

40. What is the oldest you would date?
39. Just cause I'd feel weird saying 40. But an ex of mine actually turned 39 this year, so it seems like an okay age difference.

41. What do you notice when you first meet a guy?
Whether or not I have an immediate urge to stab them in the throat. Then their eyes, lips and shoulders in no particular order.

42. Is it hott when guys sweat?
Yes. As long as they clean themselves shortly after. A man doing something physical and sweating is sexy. Stale sweat makes me throw up in my mouth a little.

43. What is the best feature in a guy?
Physical feature? Um, lips, eyes and arms.

44. Do you like making eye contact?
Usually.

46. Would you kill for chocolate?
Only to defend myself against a man armed with a skor bar. First you force him to drop the skor bar. Then you eat the skor bar, thus disarming him.

47. Did you ever spend all day/night getting pretty for a guy?
No. That's silly.

48. On a scale from 1-10 how fun is shopping?
I'm going to go with -87.

49. Do you freak out if you miss your favorite show?
No.

50. Do you yell a lot?
More than is probably healthy.

51. Do you wear sweatpants/pajamas to school/work?
I totally would if I could get away with it. I have at school/other jobs.

52. Have you ever dressed unlike yourself to impress a guy?
Once. STUPID idea.

53. Do you write a lot of mushy love poems?
No, just a lot of hateful poems.

54. What makeup could you not live w/ out?
If I couldn't live without makeup, I don't think I'd really want to go on anyway. Seriously, what the shit is this?

55. Do you fall in love easily?
Yes.

56. Do you have cramps?
Not currently. I get wicked period cramps though.

57. Do you think you have the bestest friend ever?
Yep.

My superego can lick my sweaty nutsack.

2007-12-12T18:03:00.000-08:00

That's right, I went there.

I recently said to someone that my life would be easier if I had multiple personalities. That way someone else could handle all the badness, and I wouldn't have to deal with the painful memories and such. When shit started hitting the fan, the tough one could come out and deal with it. It sounds terrible, I know, but I sometimes think that would honestly be easier. But after giving that some serious thought, it's occurred to me that in a way I almost do have that. The difference is that I remember and control every personality. Before you all write me off as even crazier than you thought, hear me out.

See, there's the me that I really like. She's smart, creative, sexy, cool under pressure, doesn't really care too much what people think of her, and has turned all our painful memories into fuel-she's righteously angry, and that anger is the spark for her internal pain combustion engine. Problem is, that me doesn't have too much concern for social niceties and is likely to get in a whole lot of trouble if left to her own devices. It's id dragging ego along for a scary ride.

Then there's this me. Fuck, I hate this me. She's whiny, terrified of her own shadow, insecure and easily flustered. Why? Because she's the product of the goddamn superego. She's bent on doing things the "right" way-suffering through all manner of hurt and indignity in order to reach the most socially and politically correct conclusion. She sure as hell remembers all the bad stuff, but she's internalized it in a scary way. Part of her still believes that if she'd done something differently, things like that wouldn't have happened. Not that she really thinks it's her fault, just that maybe she didn't try hard enough to stop or change it. This me wants to forgive everyone who's hurt us, to understand why they did it and let go. She's a fucking hippie freak. She's a people pleaser, she needs approval, and she feels like a failure as a human being if she "lets someone down" or does anything less than perfectly. This is the heavily medicated me.

I suppose someday I should try to integrate these two. And writing all this stuff down probably makes me sound completely batshit bonkers. But I'm starting to think it makes sense. I don't really know where I'm going with this-I just had to get it out.

I'm too lazy to pick a title.

2007-11-28T22:56:00.000-08:00

Random out-of-context quote of the day: "I make a point of trying not to give oral sex to annoying people."

I've been crazier than usual lately, and I don't know why. I really felt like I was getting on an even keel, but the last week or so I've been floundering in a sea of psycho.

All I've been able to think about all day is food.

Nothing else to report, really. Just feeling crazy and hungry, and wishing I knew what's gone wrong.

Something about this time of year...

2007-11-23T18:45:00.000-08:00

I have no idea why, but the period between the beginning of September and the end of December always feels so hopeful to me. I think to some degree I secretly have a lot of the same beliefs and feelings I did as a little girl. This time of year I always feel like something spectacular will happen to make me feel like less of a hopeless dork. Because really, deep down I am still the sad little nerd I was in high school, pretending to be more confident than I really feel. Okay, so the nerd isn't buried that deep...

Let's run down how these few months offer so many opportunities to nerdy twerps like myself. The new school year still seems like a fresh start-maybe no one will remember that time last year that your pants fell down in the middle of the cafeteria and you had somehow forgotten to wear underwear that day. And because no one remembers that, maybe this year you'll be the coolest kid in school. Except they will remember, and you won't be any cooler. Damn it. Okay, try again with October. Halloween is fun. It's a chance to showcase your awesome creativity and ingenuity with your super sweet costume idea. Except once again, you leave it to the last minute and end up drunk, wearing a spray painted cardboard box. Crap. November doesn't really have that much to offer pathetic kids, but for me it's a month associated with some pretty good memories. So I typically spend the entire 30 days in a vain effort to recreate those feelings. But by the end of the month, I'm just burned out from nostalgia and not really feeling any better about myself or my life. Shit.

And on we go to December, the biggest disappointment of all. I think I'm still waiting for a Christmas miracle. I refuse to relinquish my silly hope that somehow everyone gets one at some point in their lives. Don't get me wrong, I love the holiday season on its own merit, and the joy I derive from it is not lessened any by not having a lightning strike moment. I love the decorations, the food, the annoying music...all of it. But some part of me always hopes that I'll wake up on Christmas morning suddenly impervious to the problems in my past and my present, with a joyful family, a self cleaning house and a magical bank account that always has a positive balance. And of course, it hasn't happened yet. So I make New Year's resolutions, hoping that somehow the magic of the Gregorian calendar will give me the strength of character and unending resources necessary to actually keep them. Surprise, surprise-I resolved to get my finances in order the last four years running, and I still throw my bank statements in a drawer without opening them because they make me so damn sad. So that brings us to the end of my holiday season-crushing disillusionment and a growing hatred of both Santa and God, because once again neither of those white-bearded bastards came through for me.

I realize that all of this makes me sound like some weak willed, simpering moron with no self-esteem or real drive to take care of herself. And in some ways maybe I am. But when I really look hard at myself I know that I'm not. I'm a hell of a lot stronger than I look, and most of the time I know I'm capable of being one of those vibrant, effortlessly confident women who always seem to have it all together. I can take care of myself, and I have for the better part of nine years now. Not only that, I'm a SUPAMOM and I have, like, an automatic +6 to all my charisma rolls. BOO-YAH. But most of the time I really still feel like the awkward kid I always was, getting kicked around by the whole world and not knowing how to fix it. There's always that little voice in my head telling me that I'm socially inept and that my looks are mediocre at best. The only thing I have going for me, says Mean Inside Voice, is my brain, and I'm even wasting that. Really, the nasty bitch in my head chastises me, what have I done with that storehouse of genius I could have had? I'm 23 years old and still Planning to Maybe Someday Go to University, maybe even Considering Making Something of Myself. But a fat lot of good that does anyone now, right?

I don't know, maybe I'm just tired of it being so fucking hard all the time. I hate constantly feeling like I'm on a treadmill, and I hate doing it alone. I know I'll get past this feeling-I always do. And I know I'll somehow make my life work. But that somehow doesn't make me feel any better right now. So if anyone talks to Santa or God this year, could you ask them to throw me a fucking bone?

The Happy List

2007-11-18T19:03:00.000-08:00

Okay, first the update portion of our program. Some of you know that I've struggled with anxiety and depression most of my life. I've had it under fairly good control the last few years, but there have been times in my past where it became a hugely disruptive force. Recently I hit another one of those patches-the moment that clued me in was having a complete breakdown at work. I'm talking hysterical sobbing, shaking, inability to physically function...not a pretty picture. So I finally caved into my doctor's recurrent suggestions that maybe a bit of chemical help wouldn't be the worst thing for me. I fought that idea for a long time-I felt that if I needed medication to be functional it meant that I had failed as a person somehow, that I wasn't strong enough to handle my problems. But I finally decided that was bullshit. I've "handled" enough. I've been an unshakable island through shit that would destroy most people. I'm allowed a bit of "weakness." So, I'm on meds now. I thought about keeping it a big secret, but decided that anyone who is going to think less of me because of this issue is pretty much a piece of shit and not worth my time. It's amazing what a difference this has made for me. It's been a few weeks now, and at the risk of sounding horribly cliched, it's like a fog has been lifted. The clarity and control that has been restored to my life is something I'm thankful for every day.

On a somewhat related note, I'm trying to be more positive. Not that I'm a huge proponent of the attitude that you should be happy all the time-that actually really pisses me off. If you're not happy, you're not happy. That's okay. But I also didn't enjoy the constant state of misery I was in for the last little while, so now that I'm over it I'm reveling in joy. Yay, joy. So I'm going to periodically post a list of what's making me smile that day, or of things I particularly love. And for November 18, 2007, the list is:

Warm socks out of the dryer
Kisses
The Riders kicking some BC ass
Egg nog
Making plans that I honestly believe I'll keep
Chris' T-shirts
Long naps
Snow
Smelling pretty
Feeling secure
Nearly 24 hours without a crazy outburst (don't laugh, it's progress)

Yep, all in all I'm loving the happy. It's fantastic to actually feel like a person again. There's nothing worse than feeling completely powerless over the bad stuff in your life and your own reactions to it. For the longest time I felt like I was watching myself through a big sheet of plexiglass or something. I could see the shit unfolding, I knew I was handling it really badly, but there was nothing I could actually do to change it. I suddenly feel in control again (at least most of the time) and I love it.

I'd love to set a new goal for myself now that I'm starting to feel like real people, but I know it's too soon. I can't overwhelm myself while I'm still adjusting. So I'm going to see how I handle the holidays. Hopefully in January I'll be ready to start on something bigger. Right now just getting everything under control has been fanfuckingtastic.

Oh, but something slightly more cheerful...

2007-10-04T23:01:00.000-07:00

...I make the awesomest chocolate mousse EVAR. For realz, yo. Okay, so maybe it was slightly on the dense side. Which I guess defeats the purpose of making a mousse...um.

Anyway, melted chocolate mixed with other stuff in a bowl=better than sex. SRSLY.

I'm such a bad liar.

2007-10-04T22:21:00.000-07:00

Okay, I know I promised to minimize the shit and bitching on here. But right now I think I'm justified. So, if you will, allow me a ~~brief~~ rant.

As many of you know, I recently ended my engagement and kicked him out of my house. It was a messy situation and I don't want to go into too much detail here, but I will say that it's been a massive source of stress lately. There's also been some ongoing fallout from that, and all in all it sucks.

Shitty situation number 2-a friend of mine from high school was killed this week. We had lost touch over time, hadn't talked much recently, and now she's gone. I won't even be able to go to the funeral because it's in Shellbrook and I can't get there this weekend. I'm going to pass along some communication in a more personal way as well, but if any of you folks reading this are going, pass on my condolences to Geanine's family. They'll all be in my prayers, as will the other two passengers. Robert, however...I can't bring myself to pray for him yet. Maybe eventually.

And because everything hasn't fallen apart quite enough, I'm running into all kinds of obstacles as far as school goes. Here's where I really start ranting, as opposed to quickly summing up what exactly went bad. For those of you who don't know yet, I have decided that I want to be a doctor. But to qualify for pre med, I have to pick up a couple of high school classes I didn't bother with the first time around. (I have my grade 12, but need some prerequisites for university.) I'm over 22, so I have to pay for high school classes. $300 a pop, and I need four of them. It's not going to be cheap. So, I plan to continue working while I'm in school and take night classes. Once I get to university, I'll have some student loans. Not that I need any more debt, but it's probably not an option to do otherwise at this point. I don't have parents to pay for everything, and I honestly can't make enough money to survive, support myself and my kid AND pay tuition for what...eight years? Seriously, not going to happen. But anyway, since you can't get loans for high school, I tried to find out if there are any options as far as some financial assistance, me being a working single mom and all. I was basically told to go fuck myself.

Well, not in so many words. See, if I want to quit my job and sit around on welfare, the government will be more than happy to pay for my high school classes. God knows they're paying for enough fucking useless single mothers in this province to lay around and not attend high school classes. Take the woman that birthed me, for example. She's been put through several different classes by the government. She could be making all kinds of cash as a gainfully employed member of society. Instead, she is still sitting on welfare. And I personally know at least four women who are currently being carried through life by the provincial government, enrolled in classes they don't attend and with no intention of actually working to support themselves or their broods at any point in the forseeable future. The government loves slutty useless bitches. Dropping hundreds of thousands of tax dollars to support those who refuse to support themselves is priority number fucking one. But a single mother who wants to work to support her own family, as well as attend school and maybe be part of the solution to this "massive physician shortage" everyone keeps talking about? A little bit of help to bridge the financial gap created by trying - completely on my own, no less - to better myself and my community? Can't have that. Look at that, I'm so angry I changed from third to first person in the middle of a fucking paragraph. Ugh.

Seriously, the whole pile of crap the government thinks is an effective assistance program to offer education options to low income families or single parents? Miserable failure. I say we need to start flat out refusing education assistance like that to people who aren't working at least part time while in school. And if you're willing to work enough to supply your own living costs, and the government wants to cut you a break on the cost of your classes so you can actually accomplish something with your life other than being a professional semen receptacle? That's fucking awesome. Love that idea. I'm not even mad that they won't pay for even part of my classes. I'm mad at the inequity. I'm mad that it's being made so difficult for me to become what I know I'm capable of becoming, and so easy for these trashbag whores to become...I don't even know what they're becoming. Bigger trashbag whores?

I'm just feeling unbelievably shitty. I need a hug.

I'm loveable.

2007-10-03T21:46:00.000-07:00

Really, that's about it. I'm loveable. So proud of me. XD

So much for that "awesome content" thing...

2007-09-16T23:07:00.000-07:00

This is the lamest blog evar. SRSLY. But, um, news...

Well, I'm all employed and shit. It's pretty awesome. Yay, money. Money allows me to purchase video games and alcomahol. You know, the essentials. On a related note, Guitar Hero is CRACK.

I chopped all my hair again. And dyed it black. Cuz I'm hot like that.

Chris asked me not to say this online, but I'm going to anyway. Because Goddammit, I wrote it, and it's TRUE. Chris is FUCKING AWESOME.

Now with 82% less crap!

2007-06-08T14:56:00.000-07:00

It's a new blog! And this one won't suck, I promise. Okay, maybe it will suck. But I'll bitch less. At least, any bitching I do will be more fun to read. E-pinky swear.