Put your hand up if you totally saw THIS coming.

It was only a matter of time wasn't it?  Only a matter of time until the horrid shitshow attack on reproductive rights (aptly termed the War on Women by the media) started to creep its way north of the border.

Today Parliament, in spite of Steve-O's empty promises not to reopen the abortion debate, is debating whether to have a big old special committee to discuss the whole “Does life begin at conception” thing.  I caught a snippet on the news this morning regarding the debate, and later came across the story through Twitter (via @creativetweets).

Abortion rights debate spurred by MP's motion

Granted, the definition of the current law, which basically states that life begins when you fall out of your mom's vagina, is rather outdated seeing as it's based on a British definition that goes back about 400 years.  Any woman who has had her ribs bruised to shit by a fetus that seems to fancy itself the next Bruce Lee will tell you that this definition doesn't quite ring true.

But I am not, for one second, buying that this debate is being held in the name of clearing up an old definition in the name of being more scientifically accurate and “in line with 21st century medicine”.  Especially when you consider that Stephen Woodworth, the Conservative MP who brought it to the table, all but admitted that the motion is linked to abortion.

Woodworth wants to have an honest discussion but I think it's a discussion that should be kind of moot.  Regardless of when government rules ‘life’ begins, does one ‘person’ (or fetus') right to life cancel out another person's right to NOT have another person take residence in their body for up to nine months, possibly to the detriment of her own health?

I'd say no, regardless of how this fetus or person got there (ie, the ‘good' abortion vs the ‘bad' abortion) and no regardless of whether the reasons for abortion are considered selfish or noble/tragic.  Pro-choice means choice for all, even if we don't like or agree with those choices.  Anything less and we run the risk of allowing our rights over our bodies to be eroded.

I'm glad to hear that at least the NDP is planning to vote along party lines with the idea that the right to choose is NOT up for debate.  Conservatives, we don't know for sure, but it doesn't look good.  Rae has said that the Liberals will likely be allowed to 'vote their conscience'..

My friend @corecorina posted a link on twitter to a petition put forth by Liberal party member Lucie Pepin.  I will be signing and I encourage those who are eligible to sign as well.  We've already seen from the way things have been going to hell in a handbasket in the U.S. that allowing this debate to open again can quickly dissolve into a slippery slope to the point where even a miscarriage could potentially be grounds for criminal charges.

Mommy wants a new shiny.

Some people have what are called ‘Champagne taste on a beer budget'.  Not sure when it started, if it was as a kid when Christmas-season warnings that “There wouldn't be much under the tree this year' always seemed ludicrous when Xmas morning rolled around, or when I was a teenager and was content with thrift store clothing and a job that afforded me just enough money to keep me in cigarettes, but I've always been more of a Beer Taste on a Beer Budget type girl.  

Population: Me.

I'm not great with having money and I'm especially not great with spending it.  When I was younger it was just a case of not having a desire for expensive things but as I got older it's become a bit of a phobia.  A lot of it stems from some very bad financial decisions during my ill-advised way-too-early marriage.  The ex-hub and I were neither of us very good with finances, probably as a result of neither of us really having any money.

We got into what seemed at the time some pretty serious debt.  There were calls from collectors and there were days when I ate melba toast and jam from the food bank for days on end.

Eventually, with some help and guidance from my parents we were able to climb out of the whole we had dug for ourselves.  This is especially fortunate because it meant that when the marriage fell apart we really had no debt to speak of.  No real property either, but that's a story for another day.

As a result, I absolutely loathe being in debt and I have a hard time making large purchases, especially ones that I cannot pay cash upfront for.  Seeing as I am looking at buying a house within the next year you know this means I'm pretty much shitting my pants at the prospect.

Today I am a happy girl, because I got my tax return back with enough of a return to pay off my remaining credit cards.  I cancelled the one with the larger credit limit and the other one will be locked away, only for emergencies.

This means I am now down to one debt, my huge mother-loving student loan.  It also means I have a little bit to play around with, although the bulk of what is left over will be going towards my down-payment.  

Mommy wants a new shiny:

Say it with me:  “Ooooooh...”

There's one of these babies in our local pawn shop for about $400 bucks.  It's a Takamine acoustic (which is probably my favorite acoustic brand) with a built-in pickup.  This isn't the exact one they have but it's pretty damn close.

My problem is the actual act of spending money.  Over the next week I will probably hem and haw and think of a million and one things I *should* spend my money on... namely the kids, because maternal guilt, you know.  They NEED things like summer clothes and I need stuff for the house and blargh blargh blargh.

I totally over-think this shit.

I can afford it.  So why do I find every reason in the book NOT to treat myself?

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I have another post up at Different Paths, Same Destination.  Go read, and while you're there, give the other ladies there some love as well.

Five Years in the Saddle and Other Things of Varying Import...

Ah yes, so here I am again.  Two weeks since my last post and doing what I said I wouldn't do... the obligatory “I'm such a bad blogger” post, apologizing for not posting.

Meh.

I'm not really sorry.  Well, kind of.  Maybe a smidge.

But life happens, you know?  I've had lots to do and not a whole hell of a lot to say.  Or maybe lots to say, but not much time put it all in words.  And since those things distracting me from the computer are ultimately good things, I don't feel much like apologizing.  I will only ask that you bear with me and express my gratitude to those humble few of you who choose to stick around.

I've done some housekeeping here, to freshen things up a bit.  New layout and such.  It's a bit dark, I know.  I tried to avoid the light text/dark background thing but my aesthetic tastes got the best of me.  I'm a bit dark, myself.  At any rate, it's nothing compared to my newly-created Tumblr account, which I am still trying to decide on a layout for and as such is a complete and utter mess.  I'm still not sure what I'm doing there.  If you click on that link, shield your eyes.  It's pretty garish at the moment.  What can I say? I loves me some animal prints.

Today marked a grand total of five years at my current place of employment, who shall go unmentioned here for the sake of preventing embarassment should their name come into connection with my various ramblings, off-color humour, strong opinions and penchant for saying shit and fuck a lot.

But yeah, five years.  Not bad for what was supposed to be a temp job.

Fresh out of university I was faced with the ungodly task of actually trying to find a job.  Having recently attained a Bachelor of Arts in Sociology (because fuck employability) attaining paid work seemed a daunting task indeed.  As I was contemplating what to do,  my sister gave me a call to let her know her workplace was looking for a temp to come in for a week and do some data entry work.

I said sure.

A day or two before I was due to start, I called her in a panic.  I had not done paid work in over four years, and previous to those three years of university and one year of maternity leave before that, I had been more or less steadily employed as a convenience store.  Office work seemed way over my head.

Quickly bringing me back down to Earth she reminded me that I was being hired without an interview or a resume.

“Really, Andie?  How hard do you think it's going to be?”

So my initial fears turned out be pretty unfounded.  By the end of the week it had been mentioned that I would be needing work for the summer and after being impressed by my ability to listen to and follow instructions I was asked to stay on.  Summer turned into fall and I stayed on part-time my initial plans to go back to school and upgrade my degree from a general to an honors degree fell through.  When my sister decided to leave the following winter, I figured I was pretty much in it for the long haul and moved into her cubicle.  The work was challenging and even stressful at times but I knew I liked (and still do like) all the people I worked with.  To this day, I can honestly say that I do not dislike a single one of my co-workers.  Given stories I've heard from others regarding workplace drama, that's a pretty rare thing.  I've collected a fair share of customer service stories and this last Christmas I came to a shocking realization that I'm no longer ‘the new girl’ (although learning as I went I got a lot of mileage out of that title) but actually kind of a veteran around the place.  Which kind of blows my mind.  That's what happens when you just kind of show up and never go away, which is the abridged version of this story.

In other news, my asshole cat, Simon, had his visit with the vet and has been officially rendered sterile and female cats in the area rejoiced.  Bob Barker would be proud of me.  Simon, not so much.  That's a post for another day.

G'night.

An Easter Tale from my Idyllic Childhood

My parents run a local magazine (the Tay Report - 49 issues for 49 dollars!) and this week my mother's column reminded me that some of my .. ahem.. creative parenting practices.. are something I come by honestly.

Source

Picture it, Aurora Ontario, 1986.  Get your tissues ready, folks.

A small, quiet child about six years of age wanders forlornly around the house, brightly colored basket gripped in her pudgy little hands. She peeks in corners and under furniture looking for the brighlty colored candy eggs she has been anticipating for weeks.

But there is nothing there...

That child was me.

Meanwhile my parents were being awoken after a night of merrymaking by my sister, age 14, hissing at them in disgust.

“You forgot to put Easter eggs out for Andrea! She's been wandering the house for an hour! What the hell is wrong with you two??&rdquot;


They promptly leapt out of bed to find me downstairs, eyes filling with tears as I told them about the Easter Bunny's oversight.

&ldquot;Mommy.. Easther Bunny forgot me...  Wath I bad?&rdquot; (I've added the lisp here, because it makes the story that much more pathetic and heartbreaking in that Cindy-Lou Who kind of way - yeah, total manipulation all the way).

“Why, Santy Claus? Why? ” - Source

Thinking quickly on their hungover feet my parents assured me that since the Easter Bunny had so many kids he had to hide eggs for that he would need two whole days and that he would surely come the next day.

Source

To their credit, my parents never missed another Easter.  Now here's the part that Tay Report readers didn't hear about.  For years afterwards, I was convinced that the Easter Bunny came on Easter Monday.  I couldn't quite place why I knew this.  I guess maybe I had repressed that particular Easter, the Easter I was forgotten, somewhere deep in my tiny little psyche.  I was told over and again that, no Easter was always on Easter Sunday.  But a little nagging part of me insisted that there was a time, once upon a time, that it fell on a Monday.

My mother's revelation has made everything so clear.  Not just my confusion regarding the Sunday/Monday issue, but also where I get my penchant of messing with my kids heads, ever so slightly, in the name of both maintaining the credibility of childhood myths but also for my own cheap amusement.

Thanks, Mom and Dad.  Happy Zombie Jesus Day.

Oh, Toronto Sun, I guess I shouldn't be surprised..

But this seems sad, even for you.

I stopped reading the Sun years ago, not being able to take the sensationalist, pearl-clutching, chicken-littling right-wing rhetoric. I got tired of the blatant objectification that is the Sunshine Girl, Michael Coren's rampant bigotry and homophobia, and hell I even got sick of the snarky little comments in the letters section.

For a publication that started out as a youthful voice in the face of the Old Guard of Canadian news media, they're not exactly a bastion of progressive thinking.

So I guess I shouldn't be surprised when they show a distinct lack of sensitive for trans issues, by referring to Former-now-current Miss Universe contestant Jenna Talackova as a he/she on their front cover.

Source

Keep it classy, Sun Media.

I had hopes when I saw the headline on their homepage that read "A True Heroine" that Mike Stroebel's column about Talackova would be a little less insensitive and transphobic, but again, I was disappointed.

Disappointed but not surprised.

I can't put my finger on it but both yesterday's column and the follow-up today  seemed to ring with a bit of snarky condescension.  Maybe it's the reference to 'men-turned-women' and their 'advantages' in the beauty pageant circuit.  Because, sure expecting a contestant to drop trou in order to prove that they 'meet gender requirements' when none of the other contestants are expected to (I could be wrong.. is the lack-of-swimsuit or 'most-legitimate-vagina' competition a new thing I haven't heard of?) is nothing compared to the advantage of leaner muscles and no monthly bloating.

The Sun's lack of sensitivity not-withstanding, there are issues with the idea of having to 'prove' oneself as a woman in order to compete that are wholly problematic. Let's pretend for a minute that there aren't a MILLION AND HALF things about Miss Universe that are problematic.  One's gender and how they identify goes so much deeper than simply what kind of equipment resides in one's crotchal area.  I, for one, even without her having had gender reassignment surgery, would be willing to give Jenna Tarackova the benefit of the doubt when she says she was 'born' a woman and would thus meet the guidelines of being a naturally-born woman, since being a woman is more than the presence of a vagina or breasts.  Why shouldn't the Miss Universe pageant do the same?

Once again I offer the caveat that my knowledge of transgender issues is limited, so my grasp on some concepts and terminology may be shaky, and I totally invite people to call me out in the comments if I fucked up.

That said though, I would think that advising a major publication to avoid terms like He/She is a pretty obvious no-brainer.

Can we stop having this conversation already?

I haven't read, nor seen, the Hunger Games, although the more I read about it, the more I want to check it out, as it sounds pretty freaking cool.

It seems there's a bit of a kerfuffle over one or two of the major characters in the book being cast with black actors.

Can we gets over this already?

Every damn time a POC gets cast as a known character who is not explicitly Black, Asian, Native or whatever, a bunch of "I'm not racist but..." assholes get their collective panties in a bunch and start muttering about "polital correctness running amok", like a POC couldn't actually be cast because they are, you know, a Good actor or something. No, it's all part of some big liberal bleeding heart affirmative action agenda.

Can we just accept that, except in cases where you are dealing with historical context (like, real people who actually existed) or when race is a fundamental part of the overarching narratives, the race or ethnicity of the actor or actress being cast should not fucking matter, especially in cases where descriptions of the character don't really allude to their enthncity at all.

"If someone cast a white person as {Insert known POC character here} then it wouldn't be okay.. You're a hypocrite!"

Not the same thing, folks. There are oodles of roles for white actors and actresses, already. There are a lot less good, fleshed-out roles for Black and Asian actors that aren't total stereotypes. And even LESS for Native or East Indian actors.

Basically, if your enjoyment of a film can be tarnished by the casting of a POC, when you'd imagined the character as white, then at best, you're unimaginative as hell and at worst, kind of an asshole. And a bigot.

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New, happy post up at Different Paths, Same Destination. Go check it out.

When do they stop running?

I drove home tonight and happened to pass three girls, a mere year or two older than my eldest daughter. They walked slowly, sauntering, almost a careful gait. Arms close to their sides, swinging slightly.

When do little girls become so careful in their stride, so measured?

I think of the past summer and the one previous, when I would let my girls, shiny Toonies in hand, walk to the corner store for candy. They'd run, momentarily untethered by a mother still nervous about negotiating boundaries. They run, they'd skip, on rare occasions they might hold hands, or maybe that's this mothers nostalgia giving these recollections a Norman Rockwell patina.

When do little girls stop running?

My oldest, my blonde beauty, who still at times seems so young, so naive has begun to walk with the lazy, sauntering step of one who is navigating her way between childhood and preadolescence. She lags, without the same excitement of getting where she is going. In a few more years it will be sharp angles, hands on jutted hips, an eye-roll here and there.

My littlest still bounds ahead, still skips as her hair swings from side to side. There is no self-consciousness, just the journey ahead however short it may be, that promises newness.

My oldest still runs, from time to time, but only if no one is looking.

Why do we stop running? Why the importance in seeming unaffected? When do we lose the wonder in the journey, and worry only about arriving in style?

Being a woman in public: just like wearing swastikas and shouting racist slogans

Well, I can't say I wasn't warned.

Tallulah Spankhead of the Lady Garden warned readers not to, under any circumstance, read the comments on this article about a woman who was assaulted in a well-known "problem area" in Wellington, New Zealand.

I was told but did I listen? No. So of course I was subjected to the usual victim-blamey bullshit like women shouldn't expect to be able to just walk anywhere without being assault, like actual people.

My personal favorite was Comment 19 from Scott:

Its not about blaming the victim, its about common sense about keeping yourself safe. Its like walking into south Auckland with a swastika on your head shouting racist slogans. Sure you can do it and in a perfect world it would be your right to free speech but your a dumbass if you do.

So the very act of being a woman in public is akin to wearing swastikas and shouting racist slogans? Our very existence is provocation to violence? AWESOME.

I love the "in a perfect world, but it's not a perfect world" bullshit attitude. It's not a perfect world but it's definitely not going to improve as long as people keep shrugging their shoulders and saying "Well, that's the way it is."

That's not the way it has to be. We can start by placing blame for assault squarely where it lay - on attackers.

Meet Simon, King Asshole of Felines.

I have an odd relationship with my cat. It's rather adversarial and frankly, a little weird.

He's kind of a dick.

Maybe it stems back to kittenhood trauma, when mama Chloe was forced to evacuate her babies from under my bed when an ex and I got a little too frisky. She sure as hell didn't like me much. Nor him, for that matter. Maybe in his little kitty brain he was traumatized by the late night flight and has been trying to get back at me ever since.

Maybe it's because I never intended to keep him. My status as his owner is a begrudging one. He was one of the last of a litter that I had a bitch of a time finding homes for. My girls, heartbroken after Chloe ran away (and who can blame her? I'd run away too if I had two nearly-grown sons who were trying to rape me on a daily basis), wrested a promise that if Chloe didn't ome back, we could keep Simon.

That's right. Cats have no natural incest taboo. Apparently that's totally a human social construct. Way to find that out the hard way.

But yeah.. We have a bit of a passive-aggressive thing going on. Some people treat their cats and other pets like children. Mine is more like a belligerent room-mate that wrecks my shit and doesn't contribute to the grocery bill.

He's kind of a dick.

Even other cats don't like him. I can hardly let him outside without him getting his ass handed to him by other neighborhood cats. And I get it, I totally get it.

Did I mention that he likes to 'lay claim' to stuff of mine, in that special, disgusting way male cats have of saying "mine!"? Yeah. My winter coat. My guitar case. Various pieces of furniture.

My children. Me. I don't think I need to elaborate, do I? Let's just say, I do a lot more laundry when he gets feeling territorial.

I decided to get on the ball and get all his shots up to date so I can get him snipped so hopefully he'll A) not be so damned possessive of everything, B) quit pissing off the other cats and C) shut up once in a while. Seriously. Loudest Cat Ever.

Plus, it's good for their health to have their Immunizations up to date. Hell, I'm nice enough that I even bought him the crazy vet cat food instead of friskies because I'm NICE and I don't WANT him to get crystals in his urine.

And how does he repay me for PROTECTING HIM FROM DISEASE AND TRYING TO ENSURE HE DOESN'T GET CRYSTALLIZED URINE ALL UP IN HIS URETHRA?

By unleashing and unholy torrent of every bodily fluid imaginable on the way home in the cat carrier, and rolling around in it for good measure. Which resulted in me having to figure out how to clean the carrier (which is out in my yard right now, on "low priority") and more importantly, how the hell to clean this cat?

I've mentioned I don't have a tub right?

So this involves me having to shut myself up in the shower stall with a very unhappy, piss-and-shit covered cat. You're enjoying this image, aren't you? Perverts.

Now I sit, exhausted and drinking wine and blogging and the little bugger is curled up next to me like nothing happened and like there isn't a gouge in my foot from when he tried to make a break for it. What a kiss-ass.

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Jeezy creepy, I almost forgot! I Have an awkward guest post up at Best of Fates. If you haven't read Megan's stuff, I highly recommend it. Plus I have respect for anyone who abuses brackets like I tend to abuse ellipses...

And paragraph breaks.

Quick dream recap from last night

It's around twilight sometime in the spring and I'm walking up the big hill on hIghway 93. My feet are bare and there are broken beer bottles all along the dirt shoulder. As I walk I can occasionally feel tiny bits of glass dig into my feet. I keep thinking I should dig my phone out of my bag and post on Twitter in regards to the shitty walking conditions.

"Broken glass everywhere. People are assholes."

For some reason I don't get around to it, in spite of the fact that the two sentences are swimming through my head. Instead I press on, up the hill.

Out in front of Smiles Per Hour I spot another phone on the ground. Picking it up, I examine it a bit and eventually decide to toss it away. I continue walking but I find it more and more difficult to avoid the glass that has become increasingly noticeable and irritating. I worry a little that I may seriously cut myself to the point that I cannot walk any longer and decide to cross the road to the other side where there is a sidewalk.

Next stop, buy some shoes.

I reach the mall and my youngest daughter is there, sobbing that she had found a phone and tried to call me but she couldn't figure out how to use it. I reassure her and we go into a restaurant. Upon entering it appears there is some kind of raucous party going on. I quickly find myself shoved into a corner near a dark, wide staircase.

Suddenly four guys carrying a fifth guy in a wheelchair start pushing their way through the crowd towards the dark staircase. I have to do some fancy footwork to avoid being shoved into the abyss as they crowd past. I mumble apologies but stop, because suddenly I'm a little pissed off that these guys don't seem to have any regard for their surroundings. Just because they have to carry their friend in his wheelchair it doesn't mean that they get to be jerks about it.