Alcohol, consent, double-standards and why I wouldn't want to be THAT judge.

Oi. The Book of Face is a frustrating place sometimes.

I've been agonizing over whether to respond to shitty things I see on Facebook or just to take a deep breath and exercise my 'hide-button' finger when I see egregious shit being posted by people I otherwise love and respect.

It's a tough call, sometimes.  Do I risk being piled on or alienating people by playing the role of feminist (or anti-racist, or pro-LGBT, or otherwise anti-oppression) killjoy? Or do I quietly keep scrolling and secretly hate myself a little as I click the 'hide' button?

It's hard.

Someone I especially love and respect posted this image* the other day:

I agonized over whether to comment on this, to the point that I had a bit of an anxiety attack and ended up deactivating my account for a few days.

But here goes:

Yes, loved one.  Neither party in this particular infographic could legally consent.

I'll be quite honest, I would hate like hell to be the judge or jury in the rather unlikely event that the charges went to trial, because that person would be in the uncomfortable position of calling someone a rapist,or calling someone else a liar (and also, possibly, a rapist as well).

I say unlikely, because a very small percentage of rape cases actually go to trial.  Most charges are dropped or dismissed due to lack of evidence.  This case here would be a prime candidate to get dropped, mainly because of the he said/she said position and the fact that they were both drinking.  Many a rape survivor has heard the chorus of "If they didn't want it, why did they go with/drink with/get in a car with/flirt with/building a fucking sand castle with them?"  Seriously, anything to discredit the charges.

Don't believe me? Not only did over 40 women come out against Bill Cosby, he is also on tape admitting to purchasing Quaaludes to incapacitate women for the purposes of having sex with them.  And people will STILL perform mental gymnastics of Olympic Gold proportions to discredit the victims and give Cosby the benefit of the doubt. FORTY.

In a similar vein, Jake is also in a terrible position, were he to try and press charges.  He's be assumed to have consented based on the fact he's a dude.  Because male victims of rape only count when it's in prison. It sucks.  People DO need to get over the idea that women are incapable of raping men, whether through force, coercion, or incapacitation. 

Anyone (male, female, nonbinary folk) who is drunk cannot consent to sex.

It's pretty simple.  Don't have sex with people who have been drinking if you don't want to be accused of rape.  People will argue that "So what, if my partner has a glass of wine, I shouldn't have sex with them?"

Don't be silly.

Having a glass of wine is not the same as being drunk. That being said, some people can drink until the cows come home and be a clear as bell.  There are also situations (medications, not having eaten enough that day) that can cause one drink to hit someone like a ton of bricks.

If you know for sure your partner is totally into it and fully consenting - ie. they are tearing your clothes off and is maybe only one drink in; maybe you have been in a relationship for years - and you know they are not operating under the influence of outside substances, then knock yourself out!

Consent! A fun, sexy time for all!

If you are unsure the person you are with is able to fully consent, maybe don't have sex with them.

If they *seem* fine, but you know they've killed a case of beer or a bottle of wine or a 26er that day, maybe don't have sex with them.  Hell, if you're NOT sure they DIDN'T kill a 26er, or a case of beer or a magnum of wine, maybe don't have sex with them.

If the person you are with is exhibiting any behaviour that might suggest that they are not totally into having sex with you - for example, freezing up, zoning out, making weird whimpering noises, expressing doubt ("Maybe we shouldn't.. this isn't a good idea.."), even seeming bored or distracted, use your words and say something to the effect of "Are you okay with this? We can do something else."  Give them a safe out, and if they don't take it, then proceed.  If you're still not sure they're into it, maybe don't have sex with them.

If you fear that the person you are about to have otherwise consensual sex with might turn around and accuse you of rape, then maybe don't have sex with them.

If you fear that the person you are with is going to mock you, or call you a pussy, or a cock-tease or otherwise disrespect your "No," then they are a boundary-disrespecting douchebag and maybe don't have sex with them.

You'll notice that I'm using a lot of gender-neutral terms here.  A lot of "they" and "them".  That's because these are rules that should apply to ANYONE.  No one is entitled to the sexual use of anyone else's body, male, female, genderfluid, or otherwise.

Note to my ladies:  We are also capable of victimizing men. I cannot emphasize this enough.  Please remember that. Climbing on a passed-out dude and going for a ride, that's rape.  Threatening, coercing, until you get your way... same deal.  We need to hold ourselves to a standard of consent as well.

So yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and yes, my dear loved one, that is how equality should work.  We're working on it.  In the meantime, make sure the consent you get (and the consent you give) is sober, un-coerced, and enthusiastic and things will probably be okay.

* I do want to add that the initial ad that the meme is predicated on is a problem, in the fact that it only states that Josie couldn't consent, not that neither of them could. This denies agency to women while simultaneously perpetuating the stereotype that men are always good to go, anywhere, anytime.

Aunt Laura Wasn't Crazy, After All.

Nanny and Aunt Kay. They don't really pertain to this story, but I couldn't find the picture of them with Aunt Laura.

I used to labour under the impression that my maternal grandmother was one of three girls, mainly because I never really heard her speak of any of her siblings besides her sister Kay and her sister Laura.  It wasn't until I was well into adulthood that I found out that Nanny had been one of upwards of around 8 children.

My great-grandparents had so many kids, it turns out, that the youngest had to be given up to foster care.

But, no, for years I thought it was just the three of them. To this day, the only other one of her siblings I remember meeting was Uncle Jack.  One day after class I decided to pay Nanny a visit and a quiet, somewhat unfriendly man opened the door, grunted, and let me in.  I had no idea who he was.

That was uncle Jack.

Aunt Kay and Aunt Laura are the ones I remember.  They're both gone now unfortunately.

I used to think Aunt Laura was insane.

She was married to a man named Gord Arnold.  He died when I was quite young, possibly before I was born.  I have no memory of him, but I knew who he was, and I knew he was dead.  But for years, during family visits, Aunt Laura would make comments about how she had "been talking to Gord the other day" and how "Gord had fixed the kitchen sink last week, it's about time," and so on and so forth.

I always thought it odd, that Aunt Laura talked to her dead husband.  I also thought it was very understanding, albeit a little creepy, that everyone in my family was totally okay with humouring her whenever her dead husband was mentioned in the present tense.

I'm going to be honest.  I'm not always quick on the draw.  There was a very important puzzle piece missing, one that pertained to the fact that Laura and Gord had about a million kids.

I found this out one day when Nanny was showing me the framed picture of her many, many nieces and nephews that she had received for her birthday that year.

"That's Annie and Donna, and there's Tim, and that's Gord..."

*light bulb*

As my mistake became all to clear to me, I dissolved into hysterical laughter.

"OF COURSE! OF COURSE!" I cried.  "AUNT LAURA ISN'T CRAZY! HOW COULD I HAVE BEEN SO NAIVE??"

I had never met my mother's cousin Gord.  Or if I did, I had no recollection.

Nanny was alarmed at my outburst, and through the tears streaming down my face, I explained that for years, I had thought that my insane Aunt Laura had been talking to her dead husband and that no one in the family had the heart to set the poor woman straight.

She had been talking about her son the whole time.

Years later, I told Aunt Laura of my ill-conceived notions about her mental health, and to my relief, she was more than a little amused.

"Tut tut, looks like rain."

Oh, these glorious spring days, when I can sit on my porch and watch the world go by.  I feel utter contentment settle around me as my cheeks warm from the kiss of the sun.  Where I can lazily strum my guitar, pausing to sip a cold drink.

People pass by: on bikes, with their dogs.  A mere few weeks ago, snow banks still stood multiple feet high next to driveways, now melted ice flows down the gutters and pools in the corners of my yard.

My neighbour waves a friendly hand, just before he proceeds to turn around and pee on a nearby bush.

*sigh*  

Maybe spring is over-rated, I think to myself, shuddering as I head back inside.

**************************************************

This post is part of the Studio30plus weekly challenge.  This week's prompt is "Kiss of the Sun".  Visit them at www.studio30plus.com

A Case of Mistaken Identity or When Life Gives You Lemons...

I was reminded today of an odd phone call I received about three weeks after the birth of my youngest daughter, as surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and children's toys, I attempted to nurse said newborn child.

Picking up the phone and awkwardly squeezing it between my ear and shoulder, I heard a male voice on the other end ask for me by my full name.

"This is she," I replied, adjusting kiddo in one and dragging a nearby chair over to the telephone table.

"Oh, hi!" the voice on the phone said affably. "My name is Dave*.  I know your friend Mike*."

I plunked myself down and took a moment to switch my fussing child from one boob to the other.

"My friend... Mike?" I replied, grunting as she latched.   I knew a few Mikes.  Puzzled, I asked, "Which Mike?"

"Your friend Mike that works for the OPP.  Yeah, he said you were single and that I should call and introduce myself... See if you want to get a coffee sometime."

By now it was obvious this guy had the wrong number, as I was 99% sure none of the Mikes I knew worked for the OPP.  Apologetically, I told the guy, "That's very nice but I'm afraid I don't know Mike that works for the OPP."  

"Are you sure?" The stranger that is called Dave asked, sounding perplexed. "Your name is {redacted}, right?"

I chuckled and replied "It is, but I assure you, I don't know any Mike that works for the OPP."

There was a lengthy pause as he mulled this over.

"Are you black?"

The conversation had officially hit a new level of weird.  Glancing down at my arms, I said "I'm definitely sure I'm not black."  (In fairness, I don't exactly have my genealogy entirely mapped out, so theoretically I could have been wrong).

"Oh.  Mike told me you were black.  I must have the wrong number."

"Yup, I you do," I replied.

The stranger on the phone that was called Dave paused again.

"Do you want to go out sometime?"

Flabbergasted, I searched for words. "Um.. Yeah.  Actually, I just gave birth less than a month ago.  I'm not exactly in a dating place right now.  But thanks? I guess?"

"Oh well, figured I'd try!" He said, then hung up.

I guess some people just gotta take a chance when it presents itself.

*names have been changed, because quite frankly, I don't remember them.

(Overheard) Conversations with my kids: perspective.

In the car while we headed home from getting groceries, my children discussed an incident on the bus where another kid expressed sympathy for their father and stepmother for having to listen to the girls fight over stuff like taking their dogs out to go to the bathroom.

T: "... Thing is, when they said that  on the bus, about feeling sorry for our parents, I wanted to say 'at least we only fight over little things. We don't really ever have to fight over big things.'"

R: "Yeah, like getting rid of a corpse."

Survivors Guilt, or Something Like It

I've been reading through the colon cancer tag on Tumblr, after being followed by another young woman who is also dealing with with this disease, and I really can't believe how easy I've gotten off with the whole colon cancer thing.  Aside from the diagnosis itself, which obviously is not awesome, I've really been getting a lot of best case scenarios along the way, and a lot of it has been pretty flukey, starting catching it early enough (stage 1) that chemo and radiation were not necessary, by virtue of what was a routine scope.  

The worst of my colitis was concentrated in the ascending colon (where the tumour was located) which meant that my rectum could be left in place even while removing the rest of the colon, making it possible to do a resection that let me avoid things like iliostomies (pooh-bags), when originally I was looking at pooh-bag for life. I had very little post-surgical problems aside from a minor ish infection in my join.  I didn't pop any staples or sutures, haven't had any subsequent surgeries.  I had a six-week follow up appointment with my surgeon and he's pleased with my progress.  I can return to a normal diet, and should be able to return to most normal activities in another month or so.  I'm going back to work half-days next week.  Did I mention, work has been fantastic and crazy-supportive about this? I know not many people get that luxury when facing major illness.

Even my bathroom trips have been best case scenario.  Where I was told I'd probably have to crap 3-4 times a day, it's been mostly once a day, like clockwork almost.  

The weird thing about all the best-case scenario business is that I almost feel like I have no right to complain.  Long ago I started dealing with shitty things by thinking of all the ways situations could be worse.  Problem with that is that I start feeling like I should ALWAYS be looking on the bright side and unless I am dealing with the absolute worst-case then I'm just being a whiner because somebody always has it worse than me.  It's the kind of thing that results in me telling doctors in the ER "Oh, I'm okay..." before the Well-Travelled One nudges me and whispers "uh.. No, you're NOT. That's why we're here."  It's the kind of thing that makes me apologize to people for getting upset, because I am scared because I had FUCKING COLON CANCER AND HAD MY ENTIRE COLON REMOVED, but it's okay I'm fine.  It's also the kind of thing that leads me to sometimes overdo it because I don't always ask for help when I should.

That's messed up, right? I forget that I have every right to get freaked out from time to time, which I still do, not gonna lie.  I downplay how tired I get sometimes, because my muscles are shot, post surgery that my body is not used to holding itself up.  I feel weird blogging about all this because I kind of feel like, okay, surgery is done, no more cancer, you can stop talking about it now.  

Meh, I guess it could always be worse.

I saw my own rectum. They call this "progress."

As of Friday I had my shit figured out.

So, naturally, everything had to change, because reasons.

I got a call from my surgeon Saturday morning, informing me as i sat, dazed from just waking up and not yet having had coffee, that she had contacted another surgeon friend of hers in Toronto, who is, and I quote, both a "guru" and a "godfather" of colorectal surgery and is willing to find a spot for me ASAP in order to perform a restorative proctocolectomy and ileo anal pouch. In laymen's terms, he can take my colon out and make me an internal pooh-pouch in one fell swoop, which means a longer downtime (4-6 weeks at least) for this surgery but less surgeries overall. 

It also means changing the date of my surgery, my surgeon, the hospital it will be at AND my plan of action in regards to work, so I'm going to be dealing with EI and insurance companies and all that fun stuff.  But apparently this guy is a colorectal rockstar who has been doing these reconstructive surgeries since they could do these reconstructive surgeries, who will be doing the surgery in one of Toronto's biggest, swaggiest, gastro-specializing hospitals (Mount Sinai) so I'm thinking all the chaos of the past couple days and the on-coming weeks may be worth it.

It also meant, however, that I had to go in for a flexible sigmoidoscopy today to make sure that my rectum, upon having this pouch built, isn't about to erupt in little colitis-babies.  

Unlike its more invasive cousin, the colonoscopy, a sigmoidoscopy involves a camera about as long as that thing they use to suck the saliva out of your mouth at the dentist, with no anesthetic and no prep involved.  I was freaking out a bit at the no-anaesthetic bit, but it was only vaguely uncomfortable.  It was more comfortable than when the receptionist, working with 10-year-old contact info, mistook the Well Travelled One for the Ex-Hub.  Yay outdated records.

Did I mention a camera? And a monitor. I've officially seen the inside of my own ass.  Cross that one off the bucket-list.

My now-former surgeon, having been informed, my myself, of my history with random blood clots is also quite adamant that, Doppler or not, I should be put back on anti-coagulants, not just because I'll be laid up in hospital, but because did you know what else ups your chances of blood clots?  Give yourself a hand if you said Cancer.

Before that, I had to have a blood-work up this morning that I am pretty sure consisted of every possible test for things that could result in a predisposition to clotting.  After 20 minutes of waiting while the attending nurse entered the requisition, she came out with a strip of vial labels as long as my bloody arm and more vials than she could hold in one hand.

And I didn't even get a cookie.

So I'm being put back on anti-coags of the injectable sort for the next several months (at least) which means I'm going to look like a smack addict or a victim of domestic violence but at least I won't need weekly blood tests like when I am on Coumadin.  Also, Coumadin is essentially rat poison, so there's that.

So I'm enjoying my last couple of drinks before I go pick up my script tomorrow and wait to hear when my new pre-op appointment is.

And in one fateful monologue, Jon Stewart kills childhood.

My kids are pretty cool in that they have a fairly sophisticated sense of humour for their respective ages.  Yes, some *may* call me a bad mother for allowing their preschool viewing habits be interspersed with episodes of Kids in the Hall and Arrested Development and I can and will accept some responsibility when and if it turns out that I have warped their fragile little minds with bawdy humour.  I've definitely had moments of shock and self-doubt when I find them guffawing at jokes that I thought would fly right over their heads.  But the love of comedy is one of the things that I enjoy sharing with them and they always surprise me in the most delightful way with their ability to appreciate different stylings.

One incident stands out, wherein they had been grounded from TV for some minor infraction.  This is a hard one for me to stick to since there are certain household chores that are so mind-numbingly tedious that I require something to occupy my mind.  Oh, hai, laundry-folding.  So my cunning plan was to put on something that would be so obviously over their head that it would bore them to tears while still keeping me amused.  Recalling how it had been an acquired taste for me, I put on "And Now For Something Completely Different" and hoped that the sort of drab 70's BBC quality image and obscure absurdist humour would cause them to roll their eyes and retreat to their room.

No such luck.  They were riveted.  Total backfire.

The last week or so, my nine-year-old has taken to cuddling up with The Well Travelled One and I to watch The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and surprisingly has really taken to it.  She's a smart cookie, that one, but the humour on the Daily Show tends to be very adult.. not raunchy or risque, but very current events based political humour.  Boring, grown-up stuff.  But she laughs right along, as I eye her wondering if she actually gets the jokes or just likes Stewart's funny faces.   Either way, I get to sit there and think "Man, my kid is just the friggin' coolest."

And then Jon Stewart outs the Tooth Fairy. 

Outta freakin' nowhere.   One minute he's talking about Lance Armstrong and the next he's undoing all my hard work and telling my nine-year-old there is no tooth fairy.

BOOM.  Just like that.  (That's a link to the clip.  It's right at the 4:05 mark.  Keep your kids out of the room.)

I froze and tried to gauge her reaction.  Kid DID NOT EVEN FLINCH.  It's possible she may not have noticed but my money is on the more likely scenario that she TOTALLY caught it and has since been calculating how to use this information to her benefit.

"Don't react. Just Don't. React.  Don't blow this, kid.  Free money for dead teeth.  We need to ride this as long as possible.  At least until those 12 year molars come in."

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.

You know Canada Has No Interest in its Celebrity Culture when...

.. one of our cultural icons DIES and it takes five freakin' years for anyone to even notice.

Or, more accurately, we're too interested in U.S. celebrity culture to notice when one of our own dies.

In the past I have expressed my annoyance with the disproportionate amount of grief that people express in the wake of celebrity deaths, as once again was demonstrated over the last week after news of Whitney Houston's death broke.  So in light of that, I feel more than a little hypocritical to say that I felt PROFOUNDLY FUCKING SAD when I found out that Neil Hope, who had played Derek "Wheels" Wheeler on Degrassi Junior High and Degrassi High had not only died, but died FIVE YEARS AGO without anyone really noticing or giving a shit.

You said it, Ed the Sock.

I do have to add that I find it funny that I found all this out from a sentient, chain-smoking sock.  So that says something... about.. something.  I guess.  Score one for patent absurdity.

Anyway, maybe it's the affinity I have for those original Degrassi series' after they got me through weeks of being hospitalized in my late teens (along with Guiding Light, as well as reruns of Law and Order and Northern Exposure) or perhaps it's that it sounds like Hope in spite of his name had a pretty shitty upbringing not unlike his on screen counterpart but this made me sad in a way that usually doesn't happen with me.

Source

Maybe it's because after Degrassi ended, Neil Hope seemed to kind of fade into obscurity, popping up once for a brief cameo on the pilot for Degrassi: The Next Generation.  It's entirely possible  that the family purposely hid his death from the media, and if that is the case more power to them.  That would at least be a less wholly depressing thought than the idea that this guy died in a fire and it took five years for anyone to really notice or give a shit.

According to the story in the Globe and Mail, creator Linda Schuyler and executive producer Stephen Stohn had kept quiet out of respect to Hope's family.  Odd that the Globe cites natural causes, whereas the National Post says he died in a fire.

Apparently, the news was finally made public due to a Facebook group dedicated to bring 'the real' Neil Hope to Facebook.  I guess the family confirmed so as to not waste everyone's time.

In the spirit of blaming all that is wrong with the world on Mark Zuckerberg I say "Good job, Zuck.  Way to make things AWKWARD."

Here's a clip from the movie/series finale School's Out, where Wheels gets drunk and kills a kid and maims Lucy in a car wreck.  Trigger warning.



UPDATE: So most of the other news outlets are reporting that Hope died of natural causes (Wow.. out of context, that phrase is like.. really depressing). Our lesson here is that the National Post kind of sucks.

Affirmative Consent and Erring on the Side of Caution.

I was introduced to a new term the other day - Hate-Reading.  You know, that thing when you continually read the same web site or subscribe to the same media outlet even though the thoughts and opinions expressed are generally full of fail and make your teeth itch?

One of my recent hate-reads has been Slate.com's resident advice giver, Dear Prudie. The other is The Stir by CafeMom (with the exception of Jenny Lawson and Becky Harks - they're pretty awesome) but that's a blog rant from another day.

Anyway, dear Prudie usually has few gems up her sleeve, such as the post linked above where she basically plays into the idea that someone who drinks heavily can't really be raped, they're probably just ashamed. Yup, we're still not over this. Twenty-first century, even. Yeah, Prudie is kind of an asshole but that's not really what I'm talking about here.

It brought up an interesting discussion on feministe regarding good consent when drugs and alchohol are involved. Somehow in these discussions there is always someone who wants a clear line in the sand showing exactly when someone is too drunk to consent, like legally. It's friggin' sketchy, like people want to know "exactly To what extent can I take advantage of a situation before I am legally culpable?"

Dude (or Dudette, because you know, it happens) if you have to ask, you probably have or will cross that line.

Where's the problem of erring on the side of caution and if you're not in a position where you're entirely sure you have genuine consent, then politely back off.

Remember that movie, the one where Michael Cera played Michael Cera playing every role he's ever had and sang "These Eyes" and Jonah Hill was fat and loud and the cops blew up the car and the drunk chick tried to blow Michael Cera but he said no because she was pathetically drunk?

You can learn a lesson from that movie. A lesson besides the one that says cops are generally bored and really do want to be your friend, because they're afraid of becoming irrelevant and old. Shocking, I know.

Worst thing that happens when you say to a drunk person that you're not comfortable having sex with thm when they're drunk is that you don't have sex that night. Not the end of the world.

Okay, one guy argued that someone could take great offense at you refusing to have sex with them, and assume you are an agency-denying, patriarchal slut-shamer, to which I say that consent works both ways. The non- or less-drunk party also has the right to say no, regardless of the other person's hurt feelings. So in that situation I say that the worst thing that will result from saying no is that you don't get to have sex with an asshole that night.

Before I close off I just want to mention that "erring on the side of caution" doesn't have to mean that once that bottle of wine has been cracked that all bets regarding sexy times are off, no matter who you are. Mileage is going to vary depending on the consenting adults involved: their trust levels, previous dialogue, and hell, alcohol tolerance comes into play as well. Just remember, affirmative consent is the presence of "Yes", not the absence of "No". And if that yes is more like a Yesshhhh, unless you Trust each other well enough or your date just happens to have a lisp, take that yessssshhhhh with a grain of salt, because it's a damn site better to be called an asshole than a date-rapist.

Conversations with my (sister's) kid: names and sounds.

My youngest nephew is three. I watched him tonight.

Playing with a see-and-say type toy:

Me: ..and what's that?
E: mmm. Sheep!
Me: and what sound does a sheep make?
E: umm. Sheep sounds?

Later I register that he is addressing me by name:

E: Auntie, look!
Me: awwwh, you called me auntie!
E: (looking puzzled) yes. Yes I did. (pause) you name is auntie, right?
Me: yeah buddy.
E: (looking mildly relieved) 'Kay.

If you don't have anything nice to say, STFU and go order your coffee.

People amaze me with their ignorance sometimes.

As you may be able to tell from my display picture, my hair is currently a shade of pinkish red not usually found in nature. Originally part of a Halloween costume, I decided I liked this look and would keep it for a while.

Needless to say, reviews have been mixed, and I totally accept that.

The other day however, my friend Tess and I were sitting in the timmie's downstairs from work and a woman i know, who shall remain nameless, came in and lined up. I said hi, and the following conversation ensued:

Her: what did you do to your hair? (I've kind of gotten used to this line of questioning)
Me: I stuck my finger in a socket
Her: that wouldn't turn your hair... Well, what do you call that color?
Me: I call it "I used to be red but I have showered many times since then"
Her: ugh.. You need to dye it back.
Me: I dunno. I like it.
Her: (in what i'm guessing was an attempt at humor) yeah but what you want doesn't matter, other people still have to look at it
Me: yeah I'm not particularly concerned with other people.. Haha. Like I said, I like it.
Her: really, though, it doesn't look good.

At this point I shrug and go back to my conversation with Tess.

When I posted about the incident on Facebook I got a whole lot of support and compliments, which was awesome and sweet, but missed the point, which was "who the hell asked?"
Like I said, i'm totally cognizant that this particular aesthetic choice is not to be everybody's cup of tea. I've recieved my fair share of backhanded compliments ("well, you're still very pretty") from people who don't get that I did this on purpose. I would think, though, that unless it has been solicited, so-called constructive criticism should be kept to oneself.

I mean, how many times should someone have to say "well, I like it" before they take the hint and drop it. My own dumbfoundedness at the gall and my generally sweet nature prevented me from getting really nasty, which maybe I should have. Hell, even my grandma only got to make so many comments before I finally said "listen lady, if you don't let it go, then next time I see you, it's going to be Green.". And I LOVE my grandma.

If I ask someone's opinion, then I expect an honest response. Otherwise, don't rain on my fuckin' parade.

It's pretty basic Kindergarten 101 stuff: if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.

On the subject of boundaries and courtesy.

Read a post on Feministe today about an advice column on Slate.com that questioned what to do when your seat-mate on a flight pulls out a lap-top and starts watching hard-core porn during the flight.  The letter-writer in this case was a grandmother travelling with her daughter and small grandchild.

Not surprisingly, a lot of people's response was "Oh hell, no.  Call the flight attendant on that shit," because that's a pretty blatant broach of other passengers' personal boundaries, natch.  Regardless of the age of your seatmates, I would think it's safe to say this is never cool.

If you're ever wondering if it's appropriate to watch porn on an airplane, well, unless you are chartering your own private jet, one should usually err on the side of "Porn on an airplane? What the hell is wrong with you?"

A few people asked the question 'Okay, well where do you draw the line? What if it's not porn per se, but a movie or show the occasional scene of graphic sex or violence such as Dexter (which I use as an example, because it generally has a fair amount of both and I'm not really familiar with a lot of other shows).

It's hard to draw a line in the sand, because different people have different tolerance levels and are triggered by different things - imagine if you will, having trauma-related PTSD and finding  yourself with a seatmate watching a movie with a graphic rape scenes like The Accused or Precious.

I'm not sure about everyone else, but if it were me, I'd rather go a couple hours on a plane keeping my viewing at a PG-13 level or lower, than ask someone who may be easily triggered to just get the hell over it and let me watch my movie in peace, especially when considering that in most economy flights, you're practically sitting on your seat-mate's lap.

But where to draw the line?  What can be considered acceptable and what is not?  It's virtually impossible to tell these days what one may find acceptable for public viewing and what one may not.. especially if you get kids involved.  (Again, if it's porn on a plane, just don't.)

What surprises me is how few people consider simply asking their seat mate "Hey, I was thinking of watching this movie but it's kind of graphic in parts.  Would it bother you if I watched it?"  Worst case scenario,  seat-mate might actually say "Actually I'd really appreciate if you didn't."  Or they may say it's okay but decide since you have spoken to them that they want to be your bestie now and chat you up when all you want to do is watch your movie.

In the name of courtesy though, I'd be willing to take that risk.

As a society we seem to be developing a phobia of actually talking to people and creating dialogue.  We'd rather draw hard and fast lines of etiquette in the sand than actually reaching out to each other and creating dialogues around personal boundaries.  Respecting one's boundaries is a way of being empathetic.. to say "Hey, I get it, you're not cool with this and I respect that."

Another post having to do with boundaries I found interesting was in regards to not forcing children to hug and kiss relatives and friends at Christmastime or other gatherings.  We've all known a kid that doesn't like to hug or be hugged, and it's common for such a child to be admonished for being rude to not accept hugs and kisses from family members.  However, in trying to prevent abuse it is important to teach a child that their body is their own and that no one is allowed to touch it without permission.  So I think it would stand to reason that it might be confusing to a child to encourage bodily autonomy while simultaneously say 'but you still have to kiss Grandma'.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think rudeness is acceptable and if my kid refused to hug or kiss someone, I'd let them know that they still have to say hello or thank you or the appropriate acknowledgement.. but if they don't want to be hugged, that's okay.  Some people are very uncomfortable being touched.. whether it is tied into psychological issue or a physical issue - some are very sensitive to touch and it can be over-stimulating.

Respecting a kids boundaries also teaches them to understand and respect the boundaries of others.  Paying attention and respecting a child's boundaries can also help a parent be aware of issues.  My oldest daughter, as a toddler/preschooler was ridiculously affectionate.. WITH EVERYBODY.  She even wanted hugs from strangers.. anyone who made eye contact with her, pretty much.

I remember her running up to an elderly lady pushing a walker and exclaiming 'Up! up!'.  Another time in a bank, she ran up to a young boy who was probably no older than eleven or twelve and threw her little arms around his legs.  This poor kid looked like he was going to die of embarassment on the spot.

Being such an affectionate little thing, I paid attention when she didn't want someone to hug her.

There was a time when the ex-hub and now-wife had some company over including one or two people they didn't know.  My usually exuberantly affectionate preschooler refused to give this one guy the time of day. Instead of vying to have attention lavished on her, she quietly guided her sisters into another room, away from the company.  I don't know the details, but this one guest ended up later saying things to now-wife that had crossed a few of her boundaries and left her quite upset.  I have little doubt that T. picked up some kind of vibe from this guy.

I think small kids can have the ability to read adults better than we can of each other, because they have not yet been socialized into prejudices about different people, and may be able to better follow their instincts when it comes to getting 'bad vibes' from someone.

Just like we should listen to those around us in order to show courtesy and respect boundaries, with kids while there are times to teach, there are also times to listen.

Sorry.  Couldn't Resist.

I'm Pretty Sure June Cleaver Never Dealt with This Kind of Self-Doubt.

It starts with a phone call or a paper invitation sent home in a school backpack.  The birthday party.  Some small child in your own progeny's class has decided that your kid needs to be at their birthday party.

And it's good.  Who doesn't love knowing their kid isn't a social pariah?

I sometimes wonder if maybe I'm a bad parent because I don't immediately wonder if the parents of these children are derelicts or Satan-worshippers or sociopaths.  You want to take my kid for 3-4 hours and feed them sweets and pizza?  Is it bad that I'm totally okay with that?

Whether one is prone to excessive paranoia or not, etiquette and basic safety rules dictate that you meet the adults to whom you will be entrusting the life of your little one.

There is little in the world to make a parent feel more inadequate than the prospect of meeting another child's parents.

I'm lucky in that I have a few close friends who are in similar situations as myself and have kids in my girls' age cohort.  But meeting parents outside of my social circle.. it's harrowing.  You may have been there, yourself.

It starts with a phone call.  An invitation.  A time and an address.

Dropping your child off at the address provided and realizing it's in a rather posh area of town.  These parents, they aren't renting an apartment in that sprawling century home.  They live in, and may even own the whole thing.

As you're invited to come in, suddenly you become hyper aware of your own tiny dwelling, and even though you're not there, you feel a little ashamed of the dust in the corners and the old futon on the front porch and the dirt and gravel driveway, as though each dust bunny, each unmade bed, each fingerprint is written on your face.  Walking into an immaculate kitchen, you think of the unwashed dishes in your own sink.

Was her coat that dirty when we left? you wonder as you try to casually run your fingers through your child's hair, using a seemingly-affectionate gesture to hide the fact that you're really just trying to get it to look neat as suddenly it seems impossibly messy.  And in need of a trim. You find yourself wishing you had some scissors.

You see the fridge with the professional portraits of each child taped neatly to the door and think of your own fridge, with pictures of your kids from five years ago and a number of magnets with off-color jokes and advertisements for fast-food restaurants.

You make idle chit chat with this parent who is the same age as you, looks five years younger, but seems so much older, so much more put together, so much more... grown-up and you take off your hat and realize.. holy shit, I'm standing here talking to this totally-put-together parent who is making fruit smoothies for her kids SNACK  - meanwhile your kids had a handful of goldfish crackers in the car -  and I have pink hair.  Pink fucking hair.  What am I, 15?


Feeling ridiculously uncomfortable, you just thank Gord that your Shut Your Whore Mouth or equally inappropriate T-Shirt was in the laundry today.  Standing there in your coat, you wonder when you should excuse yourself.. too short, and you might appear rude.. overstay and you might appear.. well... still rude, not to mention over-protective.  This is part is especially fun for the socially inept like myself.


You find yourself comforted when you realize that Ms. Other Mom is talking a mile a minute and it dawns on you that perhaps, just maybe, they are just as intimidated meeting you.  After all, you're entrusting your child's well-being to them.

Maybe one day I'll get over the nerve-wracking experience of meeting other parents.   More likely is that I'll be that parent who has a near-coronary when one of the girls wants to introduce me to the parents of their significant other.  Such is life.

Tucker Max, You'll be Happy to Know They DO Serve Beer in Hell, I've Been There - OR - Texts from Last Night: Legion Karaoke Edition

(705):  God help me.  So drunk guy tells me his friend likes me* and wants to dance... I say sure if he wants to come ask me I will dance.  No, dude is 'too shy' and won't come ask**. End up dancing w/ drunk dude who is currently sporting a pretty wicked asscrack.  I'm in hell.

(705): Oh and now drunk dude has requested I sing "18 and Life" by Skid Row.  I can't even make this shit up.

My milkshake totally brings all the drunks to the fucking yard.

*having never previously met, spoken or seen me.
**I'm expected to go ask him.  Apparently I'm in grade seven.   

A post in honor of Movember or "Dirty Porn-staches Abound"

Oh Movember.  So many dirty pornstaches.  Secretly, or not so secretly, I love it.  Last Thursday, a group of mustachioed men at karaoke lipsynched at my friend Tess and I and it was the greatest, funniest thing ever.

I'm reminded of a story of a few years back.  A co-worker of mine had grown out a rather nice goatee.  It was working for him, until he shaved off the ... um.. the 'tee and left the goat?  Is that a terrible way of putting it?  Okay well, the beard was gone, and just a mustache left.

It was distracting.

I had to say something, in the name of the public good.  "Dude," I said, being awesome and definitely not a dork and never EVER too old to use the word dude. "What is the deal with your porn-stache?"

"I beg your pardon?"
"The porn-stache.  What is up with that?"

My friend looked rather indignant.  "That's a little personal, don't you think?"

I thoroughly confused by his indignance.  Okay so my question wasn't exactly tactful, but I didn't think asking what possessed someone into a particular style statement was overly personal.  I asked him what he meant.

"I don't see that my reading material is your business, and besides that's hardly suitable conversation for work."

Light bulb.

"NO!! no no.. PORNSTACHE.  Like, Mustache?"
"Oh.. oh Jesus."

This why you choose your words carefully folks, or you may accidentally out co-workers on their questionable reading material.

If you're reading this now, I still apologize.

On that note, with Movember almost over, I leave you with this classic clip from The Tick

Say It, Don't Spray It.

I have a lisp.

Or I used to.

I've been told that it's gone away.  Some claim they still hear it.

I don't know, I've never really been aware of it, personally.

I figure it's a result of an underdeveloped jaw and teeth that are just too bloody big for my head.  I have vague memories of being sent to a speech-language pathologist as a small child who spent hours with me insisting that I try to make a boat with my tongue...

Clearly, the pathologist was a waste of time, because 20+ years later I still had this impediment.  Go figure.

I once dated a guy who had a real 'thing' for my lisp.  For reasons entirely beyond my comprehension, he found it...sexy?

Let me be clear.  I don't have one of those cute cross-between-a-two-year-old-and-Tweety-Bird lisps where all your Elle's and Arh's come out like Double-You's.

"Hewwo Saiwor.. Buy Me a Dwink?" - Source

No, indeed, I have the Say-it-don't-spray-it brand of lisp that results in all of your Esses making you sound like a drunken anaconda.  HAWT.

In university, I somehow always ended up doing oral presentations on topics that succeeded in aggravating my particular speech impediment:

For History of Science:  An independent study on the history and development of the Oral Contraceptive.  Lots of fun words to say, like Estrogen, and Progesterone!

For Minority Groups throughout the World:  A presentation on... The Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment

and for Environmental Science: The Commercial Fishing Industry in Canada:  Pacific Salmon.

Oh yeah.. for that last one, I had a choice, east coast or west coast.  Do you think I picked the east coast?  Oh Hell no.  That would have been too easy.  Not nearly enough Ess sounds in ATLANTIC COD, noshiree.

*sigh*

Wait.. 

*shigh*

Amazon is trying to make me out to be a Nazi.

It's pouring down rain today so I'm taking advantage of wanting to go nowhere on my break to do a quick blog-post about censorship, as I think I may have inadvertently been the victim of it in a small, small way.

Earlier today I was checking Amazon and adding various things to my Wishlist (yes, I've linked it so if anyone wants to buy me something pretty..) and found myself caught rather off-guard by the 'People who bought this..' feature.

Apparently there's some kind of weird link between scatalogical humour and a sociopathic desire to commit genocide.  Turns out that that people who bought Superbad: The Drawings (which yes, is a book of dick drawings inspired by the film.  If you haven't seen it, this will not make sense to you.  Consider yourself lucky) also bought Mein Kampf?

What the Fuck?  Why do I need to know this, Amazon?

Look. I'm not even kidding.  And it's the Uncensored version?

So as I do whenever something strikes me funny, odd or downright abhorrent, I took to Twitter to express my disbelief thusly:

Really #amazon? I'm disturbed to know that people who bought "Superbad: The Drawings" also bought "Mein Kampf"? #WTFF

The reason I didn't screen shot the actual tweet itself is that it has disappeared.  Folks, this is why programs that scan for 'questionable' words or phrases are bullshit.  Crawlers cannot account for context.  Someone who mentions Mein Kampf in a Tweet may not actually be trying to spread Nazi propaganda.. some of us are just trying to express a little bit of disbelief at this world.

I'm probably on some kind of government watch list now.  FANTASTIC.

Do these coat-tails have airbags?

WANTED:

Guitarist/Vocalist with vague inferiority complex seeks collaborators interested in being launched into rock superstardom, or possibly mediocre local notoriety.

Men, Women or highly advanced primates welcome.

Influences:

Pixies, Violent Femmes, The Tragically Hip, The Headstones, Peggy Lee, Robert Johnson, Metric, Lunachicks, burlesque, cartoons, Canadian cinema, Goldfish crackers, righteous indignation and delayed adolescence.

Must be willing to allow me to ride the coat-tails of those with less-negligible talent, and have own equipment.  That I can borrow.  

Songwriting ability is an asset.  Barring this, a willingness to pass off obscure covers as originals will do.. (pass off?  No, I mean.. must be willing to play covers and TOTALLY GIVE THE ORIGINAL ARTISTS CREDIT  *looks around*)

Renumeration:  I make a mean grilled cheese.






....


so... who's in?