(For Carly, For Olive)
My very own Detroit Rock City.
The only place to begin is directly at the beginning. Friday Night.
I hear Motley Crue's in town and not sold out so I think fuck yeah I'm going to Motley Crue. Done deal. Let's get this shit sorted out tonight. Get the tickets off craigslist, pick them up off some dude Friday night. The transaction was relatively smooth. I got killer seats at a killer price. Call little mamma Carly. Hasn't been out in like what? a year? Clear your calendar your first night out is Motley Fuckin' Crue. Could we be any more stoked? I lived, ate, breathed, thought Motley Crue for 2 days solid. Nikki Sixx and I in the same room? Get the fuck outta here. Stoked.
In the process, because we surround ourselves with only amazing people, we get two invites to free drinks. Hot Fire Becky Jacks at The Morrissey and Girls, Girls, Girls at The No. 5 Orange. What did I do to deserve the universe raining down on me? Drinks, Strippers and The Crue? On a Sunday? Hang on. Give a girl a minute. I'm gonna to need to dig out the red shoes for this one. Debauchery 101. Let me have it.
Carly ends up taking a million years to get her shit together. Which isn't a slight. As women we should all be allowed the proper amount of time to get ready. In addition Car's gotta pump milk, find her head, find her shoes, find her jacket, whatever it's a gong show. Love the girl. We leave a million years late. We gotta make a sacrifice. What'll it be?
Go to the Peeler Joint. Obviously. This is a Crue night. Respect.
Carly's brother is the gentlest giant you've ever met and offers me some food before it all gets out of hand. Knowing the consequences, I accept. In amazement and pure gratitude I lean in to Kurt and say, "I know this is your life but it's not often mine simultaneously includes grilled cheese sandwiches and strippers." Absolute joy.
Carly mingles and jingles the No. 5 rounding up an ex-stripper and her fiance who just spent 10 years in the clink. I couldn't make this shit up. The night falls perfectly into place. The way it should. Environmentally focused (read: i hate cabs.), we carpool to the show.
We know we've killed just enough time to miss Airbourne and The Joe Perry Project. Thankfully. Scan our tickets to hear "These are Returned Tickets. Step to the side please ma'am." Instantly I knew. Friday night my head smelled a rat. But I went ahead and bought the tickets because something else said it was gonna be alright. Sucker punched with a scam. I goddamn well knew it!
We got to the ticket master booth to find out the only thing I can do is purchase more tickets. My good deal is quickly turning into a shit deal. I'm not sussed. This night is meant to be had. 2 more tickets. The teller insists I take a photo copy of the fake tickets. I don't get the point but I take it anyway. Get passed the line up and we're in. The energy is mint. I don't care what this show cost me. I'm in. I don't care where I'm sitting... wait. It felt like it dawned on Carly and I at the exact same moment. I pull out the photocopy of the fake tickets and head right for the seats. My plan? No idea. But I want to see who's sitting in those mother fucking seats. I want to see if it's that fucker from Friday night. I'm gearing up to get ugly.
As soon as I hit the arena I hit the roof with calmness. It's not a problem. None of it. It's gonna be all good. The night is gonna rock the shit out of me. and I know it. Suddenly Carly is verbally slicing some guys throat open. As in her direct quote was "I will slit your throat!" We mildly argue with a couple who may or may not have been the original scam artists. But I spot 2 single seats. Let's rock Car. Leave this shit. I have no idea who's seats these are. And until someone shows up I'm not gonna worry. Suddenly 3 angels appear. The chillest dudes on earth let us watch the Crue 2 seats over from my scammed fake tickets. In the end - I paid a little more than necessary but I was right where I wanted to be. That doesn't have a price. Seriously.
We had some moments that I'm never going to remember. And some moments I'm too secretive to reveal. The pictures speak a thousand words. It was chaotic, sexy, serene, surreal and full of fire balls. Motley Crue took me to a whole new ethereal level. And if you've been there you get it, and if you haven't, man I wish you do.
Alls I can say is Take a ride on the wild side. ;)
Monday, January 25, 2010
Friday, December 11, 2009
R.E.S.P.E.C.T. Find Out What It Means To Me.
It means enough for me to want to clear your head off your shoulders and nail it to my wall as a reminder of the day I taught you a lesson.
I am burnt up! All the different ways that we've become accustomed to disrespecting each other has got me lit on fire! It goes from big to small. From the dicks who continue to turn left on a red to - actually no, that's a big one. We have to collectively stop doing that. I'm fixin' to blow.
You know the initial reason I got to writing this out was related to work. If this were pen to paper the table would be indented I swear. Let me just get this out of the way. This is on behalf of all the commissioned, appointment based workers out there: We only make money when you show up. So when you don't call, don't show up...this isn't a goddamn nightclub. There isn't a line up outside the door waiting for you to maybe, maybe not show up. I can't pay rent on your com ci, com ca attitude. It's that simple. Respect.
And I don't know if you heard but we're in a pandemic state of life. It's possible you missed it, it's only been all over the news. I'm just saying maybe don't cough directly into your hand when I'm giving you a manicure. Oddly, now I'm going to feel rude when I have stop to pull out the hand sanitizer.
It's just starting to be too much. I'm calling Uncle.
You know Son, I may not look much like a lady, and you look more like a pussy than a man but Ladies First for fucks sake. Chances that I want to be bowled over exiting a store? Slim. Yes, everything only costs a dollar, I get your excitement but chill - it ain't closing down tonight. I may be 5'2 maybe you felt like you tripped on a rock but Christ Almighty, pay attention. Afford me a little, that's right, respect.
On the flip side those of you who breeze by me when I'm politely holding the door open, 3, 4, 5 of ya, do you see white gloves on my hands? Do I look like a goddamn door man because if I do a tip would be appreciated. But since I'm not a simple thank you will suffice. Or perhaps the Helen Keller Society of Mutes is on a field trip I just happened to be holding the door. Doubtful. I will yell at you, trust me, you deserve it.
And let's not get into it here, but for those of you who get real dirty with your disrespect. We love you, we support you, we bake you cookies, hell we may even pay your bills. Cheating, lying, ladder climbin' thief. Not only do you look a fool but now you're making a mockery of your mother. You need to put yourself in a corner and think about it. Seriously.
Compassion? WWJD? For they do not know what they do? Man, forget Jesus. What Would First Testament Jehovah Do? He would drown your sorry ass in a sea of misery is what he would do. You best be a damn good ship builder if you think you're gonna dare tread on him. An eye for an eye is no way to live but we're starting to force each others hand's and it's getting ugly.
Am I innocent? Of course not. Sainthood is never going to be on my life's agenda. Do on to other's. Quit being an example of how not to be. Basically, I know you have places to go, but allow me to get through my green light, too.
I am burnt up! All the different ways that we've become accustomed to disrespecting each other has got me lit on fire! It goes from big to small. From the dicks who continue to turn left on a red to - actually no, that's a big one. We have to collectively stop doing that. I'm fixin' to blow.
You know the initial reason I got to writing this out was related to work. If this were pen to paper the table would be indented I swear. Let me just get this out of the way. This is on behalf of all the commissioned, appointment based workers out there: We only make money when you show up. So when you don't call, don't show up...this isn't a goddamn nightclub. There isn't a line up outside the door waiting for you to maybe, maybe not show up. I can't pay rent on your com ci, com ca attitude. It's that simple. Respect.
And I don't know if you heard but we're in a pandemic state of life. It's possible you missed it, it's only been all over the news. I'm just saying maybe don't cough directly into your hand when I'm giving you a manicure. Oddly, now I'm going to feel rude when I have stop to pull out the hand sanitizer.
It's just starting to be too much. I'm calling Uncle.
You know Son, I may not look much like a lady, and you look more like a pussy than a man but Ladies First for fucks sake. Chances that I want to be bowled over exiting a store? Slim. Yes, everything only costs a dollar, I get your excitement but chill - it ain't closing down tonight. I may be 5'2 maybe you felt like you tripped on a rock but Christ Almighty, pay attention. Afford me a little, that's right, respect.
On the flip side those of you who breeze by me when I'm politely holding the door open, 3, 4, 5 of ya, do you see white gloves on my hands? Do I look like a goddamn door man because if I do a tip would be appreciated. But since I'm not a simple thank you will suffice. Or perhaps the Helen Keller Society of Mutes is on a field trip I just happened to be holding the door. Doubtful. I will yell at you, trust me, you deserve it.
And let's not get into it here, but for those of you who get real dirty with your disrespect. We love you, we support you, we bake you cookies, hell we may even pay your bills. Cheating, lying, ladder climbin' thief. Not only do you look a fool but now you're making a mockery of your mother. You need to put yourself in a corner and think about it. Seriously.
Compassion? WWJD? For they do not know what they do? Man, forget Jesus. What Would First Testament Jehovah Do? He would drown your sorry ass in a sea of misery is what he would do. You best be a damn good ship builder if you think you're gonna dare tread on him. An eye for an eye is no way to live but we're starting to force each others hand's and it's getting ugly.
Am I innocent? Of course not. Sainthood is never going to be on my life's agenda. Do on to other's. Quit being an example of how not to be. Basically, I know you have places to go, but allow me to get through my green light, too.
Friday, November 27, 2009
The Doomed Generation
Written February 23, 2009
Did I ever think when it was my generation's turn at the plate it was gonna be this fucked up? No, I sure didn't. Just like every generation thought before mine, "We'd rule this world if it was ours! We'd knock it outta the park!" Man, If we'd only known it'd be up on blocks with but a few sellable parts we would have never wanted it.
I hate to be a 90s girl on you but we thought we had this thing in the bag. With our grungy plaid, social causes and weed in hand you couldn't get any truthier than us. The 60s and 70s couldn't dream of the realism we were getting to the bottom of. We were gonna have better jobs, less wars and our kids were gonna put the way you raised us to shame. Then Al Gore lost. And just like God punished us all for the actions of Eve was the same way Ticketmaster bent us over and tore us up the backside for Eddie Vedder's. Capitalism reigns and all us coffee shop lovin' poets of the 90s will repent on our knee's somewhere in the middle of a Starbucks line.
You baby boomers coulda told us somethin' in the milk ain't right. If you'd really loved us you would told us in those damn career building classes to pick a job we could handle cause Lord knows we wouldn't be out doing the job we'd love. You shoulda said "What won't make you want to shoot yourself in the face while sittin' in the after 5 traffic jam? Okay then, go do that." But no. I don't know if it was false hope, absolute denial or pure cowardice that made you fail to mention or prepare us for The Heartbreak we'd all individually face.
Ah, The Heartbreak. Unrequited and lost love has nothing on this one. This is a deep well of sadness and darkness that takes a few years to really land on your ass in.
The first stumble backwards happens just around 21. Life is generally care free for most of us. But suddenly driving down some familiar road in your hometown you realize if you don't hurry the hell up you ain't never gonna be that rockstar you thought you were. Or European traveler, National Geographic journalist, ruler of the world, whatever. Whatever it was you thought you were gonna be at 16 reaches out to you for a hand in survival. Free falling, it screams at you to get your shit together before you have a nasty wife who's gained more weight than you can fathom and two kids you barely care to remember the names of. The kick in the gut is too hard to handle and easy to ignore. Life will just work itself out. You'll get there, little rockstar. The world is your oyster and all that shit. You're not going to let that happen to you.
Of course, until you're driving that same goddamn road you were before listening to the latest Top 20 Ear Rape, loosening the tie of that temporary, "stepping stone" job you've been in for the last 6 years. Boom! It piercingly strikes your brain that your dream never worked it's way to fruition did it. The heartbreak fully reveals itself. Ouch, kiddo. Year's in the making this is one painful revelation not even a kiss on the forehead could mend.
Stand up. Dust yourself off and look around. Not even Alice would believe the shit that's down this rabbit hole. How in the hell did we get here? Human bombs are going off in Iraq but so long as gas is under a dollar a litre and we've all got a little sex appeal we could really care less what's happening in those brown skinned countries. I'm sure Obama will take care of it. We've been so bruised and betrayed that we've lost ourselves. We got sold down the river, bought into every shit eating grin that was put before us and all we've got to show for it is high rent, student loans and ridiculous visa bills. We're too busy distracting ourselves from The Heartbreak to admit the cost of dreamin'. Disappointment is an ugly depression. But if you can scrape together enough for the prescription we've got a pill that can put you right back on the path of debt building delusion.
Man, there's something in this death, in this heartbreak that relates to every glass of wine your mother ever had after work, doesn't it? Especially when she had the whole bottle. Not only did she not become the "whatever" she'd thought she'd be, but her AND her children are celebrity obsessed, emotionally devoid, financially strapped standing at the foot of a greed induced recession.
Hey, some mornings the mirror doesn't relay the prettiest image. We struck a foul ball, 90s child. a very foul ball. If we had anything left from the good ol' years of honesty we'd admit to ourselves that bringing a cloth bag to the grocery store is not a good enough band-aid to this colossal boo-boo. We done fucked up. Congrats. You're an adult in the Doomed Generation. You might as well smile, even though hell, you're not even on candid camera.
Did I ever think when it was my generation's turn at the plate it was gonna be this fucked up? No, I sure didn't. Just like every generation thought before mine, "We'd rule this world if it was ours! We'd knock it outta the park!" Man, If we'd only known it'd be up on blocks with but a few sellable parts we would have never wanted it.
I hate to be a 90s girl on you but we thought we had this thing in the bag. With our grungy plaid, social causes and weed in hand you couldn't get any truthier than us. The 60s and 70s couldn't dream of the realism we were getting to the bottom of. We were gonna have better jobs, less wars and our kids were gonna put the way you raised us to shame. Then Al Gore lost. And just like God punished us all for the actions of Eve was the same way Ticketmaster bent us over and tore us up the backside for Eddie Vedder's. Capitalism reigns and all us coffee shop lovin' poets of the 90s will repent on our knee's somewhere in the middle of a Starbucks line.
You baby boomers coulda told us somethin' in the milk ain't right. If you'd really loved us you would told us in those damn career building classes to pick a job we could handle cause Lord knows we wouldn't be out doing the job we'd love. You shoulda said "What won't make you want to shoot yourself in the face while sittin' in the after 5 traffic jam? Okay then, go do that." But no. I don't know if it was false hope, absolute denial or pure cowardice that made you fail to mention or prepare us for The Heartbreak we'd all individually face.
Ah, The Heartbreak. Unrequited and lost love has nothing on this one. This is a deep well of sadness and darkness that takes a few years to really land on your ass in.
The first stumble backwards happens just around 21. Life is generally care free for most of us. But suddenly driving down some familiar road in your hometown you realize if you don't hurry the hell up you ain't never gonna be that rockstar you thought you were. Or European traveler, National Geographic journalist, ruler of the world, whatever. Whatever it was you thought you were gonna be at 16 reaches out to you for a hand in survival. Free falling, it screams at you to get your shit together before you have a nasty wife who's gained more weight than you can fathom and two kids you barely care to remember the names of. The kick in the gut is too hard to handle and easy to ignore. Life will just work itself out. You'll get there, little rockstar. The world is your oyster and all that shit. You're not going to let that happen to you.
Of course, until you're driving that same goddamn road you were before listening to the latest Top 20 Ear Rape, loosening the tie of that temporary, "stepping stone" job you've been in for the last 6 years. Boom! It piercingly strikes your brain that your dream never worked it's way to fruition did it. The heartbreak fully reveals itself. Ouch, kiddo. Year's in the making this is one painful revelation not even a kiss on the forehead could mend.
Stand up. Dust yourself off and look around. Not even Alice would believe the shit that's down this rabbit hole. How in the hell did we get here? Human bombs are going off in Iraq but so long as gas is under a dollar a litre and we've all got a little sex appeal we could really care less what's happening in those brown skinned countries. I'm sure Obama will take care of it. We've been so bruised and betrayed that we've lost ourselves. We got sold down the river, bought into every shit eating grin that was put before us and all we've got to show for it is high rent, student loans and ridiculous visa bills. We're too busy distracting ourselves from The Heartbreak to admit the cost of dreamin'. Disappointment is an ugly depression. But if you can scrape together enough for the prescription we've got a pill that can put you right back on the path of debt building delusion.
Man, there's something in this death, in this heartbreak that relates to every glass of wine your mother ever had after work, doesn't it? Especially when she had the whole bottle. Not only did she not become the "whatever" she'd thought she'd be, but her AND her children are celebrity obsessed, emotionally devoid, financially strapped standing at the foot of a greed induced recession.
Hey, some mornings the mirror doesn't relay the prettiest image. We struck a foul ball, 90s child. a very foul ball. If we had anything left from the good ol' years of honesty we'd admit to ourselves that bringing a cloth bag to the grocery store is not a good enough band-aid to this colossal boo-boo. We done fucked up. Congrats. You're an adult in the Doomed Generation. You might as well smile, even though hell, you're not even on candid camera.
Facebook: Diary of My Alter Ego.
Written July 6th, 2009
Never in all my recognition and awareness of totalitarianism did I think it would happen with such active, avid participation from we, the individuals.
what started as a whisper, a hobby, a slight waste of time, became something that grew into a brand new level of communication between humans. At this moment, this is the height of the internet. And at this moment it is the decided and preferred method of communication. If I so wanted, through out my day, I could 'Facebook' you. We are so dedicated to our new found connection that we go so far as to build pocket sized hand held machines so that at anytime we can pull the blinds on our real life and log onto the alter reality of our photo-shopped existence. Like Morse code or the telephone but with the added dimension of vanity. This is quite literally the strangest time for our human race.
Plagued with chronic dissatisfaction we collectively fed into celebrity obsession. We bred the Grass Is Greener Syndrome and support tabloid magazines to put together faces and stories. We don't even want the truth - just a stage to create the fairytale. That sated us just long enough until the envy became too much to bear that we created an outlet for our own self-adoration. Forget Sims. Forget World of Warcraft. I can create a character that looks just like me only with better hair and eyes that sparkle. Look all the backdrops I can photograph my character in. Suddenly wearing an outfit twice becomes a faux pas! And just like a celebrity's over the shoulder glance, we've come to know our own poses well.
We have all become corporate salesman. The product is ourselves and the potential gain is a successful alter ego. Does this sidewalk star come with cement imbedded with my hands and feet? Is there a place for my autograph? And the very strangest part about our socially created nether world is that we're not even unaware of our own self obsession. It's not like I'm Chicken Little screaming that they sky is falling - actually I am - but the point is that we're all well aware and we don't even care.
We're far too busy holding poses and documenting moments carefully painted with rose coloured glasses to care about insignificant situations where women are being snipered down in the middle of the street to protect basic human rights. Alter-ego creation included. I never once saw a reference to Neda on facebook, and if it was there, it was buried deep between the test to find out what sexual position you are and the test to showcase how tragically clever you are when it comes to obscure music. We've stayed so plugged in that we've conditioned ourselves to tune out. I repeat, we've conditioned ourselves.
You could argue that Facebook is a beautiful creation where we can easily access the ones we love, we can communicate with speed and bravado in a way that we never allowed ourselves to before. But it does not come without it's sickness. We have desensitized ourselves to what is morally real and humanly intense. We long so much for a fairytale that we forget to appreciate our reality. Nothing is good enough. We are becoming incredibly ill.
We are standing in the middle of history. You are living in what will undoubtedly be a chapter in someone's textbook. We need to lift our heads from this digital cloud or internal combustion will be a definite option for the near future. I know I'm not stating ground breaking information here, but I'm most certainly calling us on our bullshit.
Never in all my recognition and awareness of totalitarianism did I think it would happen with such active, avid participation from we, the individuals.
what started as a whisper, a hobby, a slight waste of time, became something that grew into a brand new level of communication between humans. At this moment, this is the height of the internet. And at this moment it is the decided and preferred method of communication. If I so wanted, through out my day, I could 'Facebook' you. We are so dedicated to our new found connection that we go so far as to build pocket sized hand held machines so that at anytime we can pull the blinds on our real life and log onto the alter reality of our photo-shopped existence. Like Morse code or the telephone but with the added dimension of vanity. This is quite literally the strangest time for our human race.
Plagued with chronic dissatisfaction we collectively fed into celebrity obsession. We bred the Grass Is Greener Syndrome and support tabloid magazines to put together faces and stories. We don't even want the truth - just a stage to create the fairytale. That sated us just long enough until the envy became too much to bear that we created an outlet for our own self-adoration. Forget Sims. Forget World of Warcraft. I can create a character that looks just like me only with better hair and eyes that sparkle. Look all the backdrops I can photograph my character in. Suddenly wearing an outfit twice becomes a faux pas! And just like a celebrity's over the shoulder glance, we've come to know our own poses well.
We have all become corporate salesman. The product is ourselves and the potential gain is a successful alter ego. Does this sidewalk star come with cement imbedded with my hands and feet? Is there a place for my autograph? And the very strangest part about our socially created nether world is that we're not even unaware of our own self obsession. It's not like I'm Chicken Little screaming that they sky is falling - actually I am - but the point is that we're all well aware and we don't even care.
We're far too busy holding poses and documenting moments carefully painted with rose coloured glasses to care about insignificant situations where women are being snipered down in the middle of the street to protect basic human rights. Alter-ego creation included. I never once saw a reference to Neda on facebook, and if it was there, it was buried deep between the test to find out what sexual position you are and the test to showcase how tragically clever you are when it comes to obscure music. We've stayed so plugged in that we've conditioned ourselves to tune out. I repeat, we've conditioned ourselves.
You could argue that Facebook is a beautiful creation where we can easily access the ones we love, we can communicate with speed and bravado in a way that we never allowed ourselves to before. But it does not come without it's sickness. We have desensitized ourselves to what is morally real and humanly intense. We long so much for a fairytale that we forget to appreciate our reality. Nothing is good enough. We are becoming incredibly ill.
We are standing in the middle of history. You are living in what will undoubtedly be a chapter in someone's textbook. We need to lift our heads from this digital cloud or internal combustion will be a definite option for the near future. I know I'm not stating ground breaking information here, but I'm most certainly calling us on our bullshit.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Are We Not Men?
Written November 23, 2009
No. We're not. And that's just the way I'd like to keep it.
This particular frustration of mine is so deeply rooted to the core of my being when every now and then I'll come across an objection to femininity it will set about an internal fury that threatens the otherwise quaint manner I carry myself in. (...)
Whilst flipping through the literary journals known as the 24 Hour 'news', I came across an inane article regarding Twilight. (Forget about that, listen to the point.) Some one actually got paid to write an article about how helpless Bella is as a woman and what a terrible terrible role model she is for young girls. Yes, my eyes hurt from rolling. It's a book. Even more so it's a romance novel. The general, mundane, true to life way in which women keep a man's world together isn't usually the premise.
An even deeper response was to knock the lights out of the girl who wrote the article, and the UVic gender and politics professor who also gets paid to spout off at the snout. Oh and the UBC professor too, "He's not just rescuing her emotionally, he's also rescuing her economically. It's never just a matter of love. It's also a question of money..." Mary Mother of God, Woman Studies.
Lovely Ivory Tower you've put yourself in, the view looking down on us must be incredible. What is it about girls who attend a Woman Studies class getting a hate on for their own kind? How very dare you tell me that I can't dress in revealing clothing, wash the dishes, tend after my man and produce an image of womanhood worth emulating?
How very dare you tell me that I can't, with a clear mind and high self esteem, lust after a male suitor's attention, get excited about his domineering disposition, put in my place once or twice and ask for more. Why does it never occur to you that we enjoy some of these stereotypes. You mean to tell me you don't think any one of the suffragettes didn't like a good spanking in bed? Please.
I don't mow the lawn. I don't change my own oil. I haven't a clue how to fix a computer and my brain will literally shut down if you attempt to talk to me about sports. I prefer to not break a nail and putting air in my tires is not the kind of dirty job I'm interested in. And did you know, I even have my very own little bank account! The shock.
Docile. Niave. Helpless. Not general terms used to describe me, or any other females I surround myself with, who I gather enjoy a shopping expedition or feast on bon bons when the situation arises. The world is made of shades of gray my dear feminists. Which means I could clean the house wearing only heels and an apron and still have the capabilities to read a book and stand up for myself.
I will exercise my right to fret over a potential mates phone call, just as much as I will exercise my right to reject the throwaways. While this may seem like games to you, there's only so much fun this world offers. And I prefer to play mine in pink frilly underwear.
The next time one of you militant females see a woman engaged in behavior you'd like to label weak, pathetic, helpless you may want to remember the dictionary also includes words like paradox, dichotomy and best of all, variety.
No. We're not. And that's just the way I'd like to keep it.
This particular frustration of mine is so deeply rooted to the core of my being when every now and then I'll come across an objection to femininity it will set about an internal fury that threatens the otherwise quaint manner I carry myself in. (...)
Whilst flipping through the literary journals known as the 24 Hour 'news', I came across an inane article regarding Twilight. (Forget about that, listen to the point.) Some one actually got paid to write an article about how helpless Bella is as a woman and what a terrible terrible role model she is for young girls. Yes, my eyes hurt from rolling. It's a book. Even more so it's a romance novel. The general, mundane, true to life way in which women keep a man's world together isn't usually the premise.
An even deeper response was to knock the lights out of the girl who wrote the article, and the UVic gender and politics professor who also gets paid to spout off at the snout. Oh and the UBC professor too, "He's not just rescuing her emotionally, he's also rescuing her economically. It's never just a matter of love. It's also a question of money..." Mary Mother of God, Woman Studies.
Lovely Ivory Tower you've put yourself in, the view looking down on us must be incredible. What is it about girls who attend a Woman Studies class getting a hate on for their own kind? How very dare you tell me that I can't dress in revealing clothing, wash the dishes, tend after my man and produce an image of womanhood worth emulating?
How very dare you tell me that I can't, with a clear mind and high self esteem, lust after a male suitor's attention, get excited about his domineering disposition, put in my place once or twice and ask for more. Why does it never occur to you that we enjoy some of these stereotypes. You mean to tell me you don't think any one of the suffragettes didn't like a good spanking in bed? Please.
I don't mow the lawn. I don't change my own oil. I haven't a clue how to fix a computer and my brain will literally shut down if you attempt to talk to me about sports. I prefer to not break a nail and putting air in my tires is not the kind of dirty job I'm interested in. And did you know, I even have my very own little bank account! The shock.
Docile. Niave. Helpless. Not general terms used to describe me, or any other females I surround myself with, who I gather enjoy a shopping expedition or feast on bon bons when the situation arises. The world is made of shades of gray my dear feminists. Which means I could clean the house wearing only heels and an apron and still have the capabilities to read a book and stand up for myself.
I will exercise my right to fret over a potential mates phone call, just as much as I will exercise my right to reject the throwaways. While this may seem like games to you, there's only so much fun this world offers. And I prefer to play mine in pink frilly underwear.
The next time one of you militant females see a woman engaged in behavior you'd like to label weak, pathetic, helpless you may want to remember the dictionary also includes words like paradox, dichotomy and best of all, variety.
Monday, November 16, 2009
"I'll Meet You Under Freddie Mercury."
Written June 6, 2008
The story of Danny Piert.
I met Danny ages ago when I first moved back from Texas on a journaling site. (Clearly I've been doing this for far too long.) He had piercing eyes and a hankering for Shane MacGowan. I was in internet love.
Over the twists and turns of life's bumpy road we both ended up in London, finally, at the same time. This was it.
He: I'll meet you under Freddie Mercury.
Me: What?
He: Just come out of the tube station and I'll meet you under Freddie Mercury.
Ugh. What a nightmare. How the hell am I going to find Freddie Mercury? Until that is, I come out of the tube station, turn around and am greeted by a 15 foot, gold statue of Freddie Mercury. Dang. Talk about monumental. His eyes more brilliant than I expected and his face more gorgeous, Danny tells me he's going to treat me to a night of fun. Done. I'm in.
We, and a few of his friends start at one pub and then hit up a Texas style bar. They did quite a good job of it and I felt like I was in the middle of America whilst in the middle of London. Johnny Cash on the juke box. Beer in the belly. Great times.
Can I not make an ass of myself? Of course not. It wouldn't be the same.
So we're all sitting around a table. Me, Danny and his London friends. Bullshitting, talking about life, when suddenly Danny asks me for a kiss. It was quite out of the blue but I decided, what the hell. "A kiss? Sure!" and kissed him good and hard. This brought the conversation to a halt. When I pulled back, everyone, Danny and all his friends are giving me the exact same look of utter confusion. And in that silent pause I realized that Danny had asked me if I wanted KIDS.
Awk. Ward. Heh....heh...ayee.
Alas, the evening went on and eventually ended with us rushing to the bus in the wee hours of the morning. A fevered goodbye as the bus pulled away, I left my sweet Australian internet crush outside a Texas bar somewhere on the streets of London town.
And that is Danny Piert, a boy I will always willingly meet under Freddie Mercury and forcefully kiss.
These Are My Cards. How Was My Poker Face?
Written June 23, 2008
I want to start this off by saying "Fuck you, I'm in my 20s."
Any good personal growth starts off with "fuck you", right?
I suppose I'm on the defensive because I'm worried that we're not all human and you won't get it. Of course, we are all human, we all spend intervals in our days mentally torturing ourself and you will absolutely get it.
I'm in a time. I'm in a zone. I'm in a space. It's what you do when you're in your 20s and act like Oprah. Such as I do. I'm feeling very 'Oprah'. I'm in a state of puzzlement, growth, whatever the hell you wanna call it - that's where I am.
I took this week off to check in with myself. Recently I had some major life plans change and when someone asked me what my plan was now, I had absolutely no idea. Well you can't live with absolutely no idea. So I just wanted to kind of have some re-arrangement time. Some "get your shit together" time as some might say.
So as it was, I was already feeling out of order. My deck needed some shuffling for sure. Then, as MySpace was kind enough to tell me, my ex-husband got remarried. Oh. Ok. And a photo to go with it? Lovely. The last time I saw him looking dapper, standing next to a pretty little gal in a wedding dress, the pretty little gal was me. So this was new. And visually perplexing.
Instantly I had one of those dreamed up conversations that takes place somewhere in the middle of what looks like Purgatory with the two of us standing there:
"I'm in love and happily married. Where are you at?"
"Oh... I'm uhh... well I'm just over here...um, aimlessly wandering life."
And because life is shades of gray, I'm ok to say that I am extremely excited for him, happy with where I am at, sad for the couple we once were, loving and regretting parts of the past, and incredibly stoked for the future. All in one big ball. And while part of the reason why we're not together is because I needed to aimlessly wander life - it's gotten a little old. Time to wrap it up.
So here I am. In the Oprah Zone. Even reading an Oprah Book Club book. And can I just stop here to give you a piece of advice. When you're connecting with a book and really relating to it's main character, it's probably not a good idea to look up reviews of said book.
And I quote: "She is the most vapid, narcicistic, insecure, self-absorbed, spoiled brat I have ever had to listen to. I could not wait to get her whiny, foolish voice out of my head."
Dot. Dot. Dot.
Although I've said it myself before. This term self help is just another way to say self obsessed, self absorbed. But if you go on this trip, hopefully you make it worth while by coming back with better function and production in the overall world. I know listen to me, I'm fucking Ghandi already. Give me time, Deepak Chopra, I'll show you.
But right now this is me. This is my hand of cards. A few years ago I once asked Rob, "Am I crazy or is this just my 20s?" His answer, I will never forget:
"a little bit of column A, and a little bit of column B."
I want to start this off by saying "Fuck you, I'm in my 20s."
Any good personal growth starts off with "fuck you", right?
I suppose I'm on the defensive because I'm worried that we're not all human and you won't get it. Of course, we are all human, we all spend intervals in our days mentally torturing ourself and you will absolutely get it.
I'm in a time. I'm in a zone. I'm in a space. It's what you do when you're in your 20s and act like Oprah. Such as I do. I'm feeling very 'Oprah'. I'm in a state of puzzlement, growth, whatever the hell you wanna call it - that's where I am.
I took this week off to check in with myself. Recently I had some major life plans change and when someone asked me what my plan was now, I had absolutely no idea. Well you can't live with absolutely no idea. So I just wanted to kind of have some re-arrangement time. Some "get your shit together" time as some might say.
So as it was, I was already feeling out of order. My deck needed some shuffling for sure. Then, as MySpace was kind enough to tell me, my ex-husband got remarried. Oh. Ok. And a photo to go with it? Lovely. The last time I saw him looking dapper, standing next to a pretty little gal in a wedding dress, the pretty little gal was me. So this was new. And visually perplexing.
Instantly I had one of those dreamed up conversations that takes place somewhere in the middle of what looks like Purgatory with the two of us standing there:
"I'm in love and happily married. Where are you at?"
"Oh... I'm uhh... well I'm just over here...um, aimlessly wandering life."
And because life is shades of gray, I'm ok to say that I am extremely excited for him, happy with where I am at, sad for the couple we once were, loving and regretting parts of the past, and incredibly stoked for the future. All in one big ball. And while part of the reason why we're not together is because I needed to aimlessly wander life - it's gotten a little old. Time to wrap it up.
So here I am. In the Oprah Zone. Even reading an Oprah Book Club book. And can I just stop here to give you a piece of advice. When you're connecting with a book and really relating to it's main character, it's probably not a good idea to look up reviews of said book.
And I quote: "She is the most vapid, narcicistic, insecure, self-absorbed, spoiled brat I have ever had to listen to. I could not wait to get her whiny, foolish voice out of my head."
Dot. Dot. Dot.
Although I've said it myself before. This term self help is just another way to say self obsessed, self absorbed. But if you go on this trip, hopefully you make it worth while by coming back with better function and production in the overall world. I know listen to me, I'm fucking Ghandi already. Give me time, Deepak Chopra, I'll show you.
But right now this is me. This is my hand of cards. A few years ago I once asked Rob, "Am I crazy or is this just my 20s?" His answer, I will never forget:
"a little bit of column A, and a little bit of column B."
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