Vanessa Woznow

When we were good

Hi friends,

I’m deviating a bit from our regular scheduled program because of the rage-out I am currently undergoing.

Today, in rapid succession, I read three newspaper articles, each of which could have been nominated for the most “inflammatory, intolerant and overwhelmingly ignorant article” of the year award.

I don’t know why I do these things, because it certainly isn’t for my health – physical, mental (or otherwise.) I must be one wacko masochist.

And I’m not going to lie; my heart is feeling really darn heavy at the moment. These pieces have really got me down about the state of the world, and in particular, about my place as a woman in a society where institutionalized sexism and homophobia is not only the norm, and therefore accepted, but also propagated by large scale organizations that people look to as pillars of our “communities,” which just further reinforces these already cancerous and destructive ideals.

It’s actually at times like this that I feel as though I can never have children because I can’t imagine bringing them into a world where they would have to be subjected to this crap.

This is how I feel about the world right now.

My exact feelings on the matter can be summed up in a one line e-mail I sent to a friend:

THESE THINGS RUIN MY DAY AND GIVE ME WRINKLES!!! AND I SHOULDN’T EVEN CARE ABOUT WRINKLESSS!!!

*brain explosion*

Okay. Breathe.

1. Dear Christie Blachtford. WHY ARE YOU SO SAD AND ANGRY? Seriously, what is your damage? Why must you constantly write about ridiculously-negative-to-the-point-that-I-think-this-HAS-to-be-performace-art things? Does the Grinch actually exist, and if so, are you doing his PR?

Also, meditate on this thought for a second: if one of your greatest sources of strife in your life is coming across young boys (who are excited to see each other) hugging each other YOU ARE DOING PRETTY WELL.

Like, THE BEST.

Seriously, the entire female population of Saudi Arabia just collectively rolled their eyes at you before exclaiming, “LADY, WHAT THE SHIT ARE YOU COMPLAINING ABOUT? WE LIVE IN A COUNTRY WHERE WE AREN’T EVER ALLOWED TO DRIVE A BLASTED CAR!!!”

I am so incredibly exhausted of the whole “when men were men” fallacy – as if there is some naturally prescribed recipe for what “makes a man.” After reading Ms. Blatchfords blechfest of an article (see what I did there?) I can make a pretty informed guess as to what she thinks are the ingredients:

Axe body spray
Budweiser
Flannel
Beard growth
General misogyny
No tear ducts
PENIS

Her whole argument is not only insulting to women (proposing that feminine traits are somehow lesser than the (long lost) masculine traits, particularly when embodied by a man) but also completely offensive to men!

Let’s use a seasonally appropriate simile, to help Ms. Blatchford understand the very simple, innate concept that MEN, (JUST LIKE WOMEN) ARE LIKE SNOWFLAKES. YAY!

Each one is an individual, with different traits, mannerisms, likes, dislikes, passions, ideas, goals (bloody hell, I cannot believe I am actually writing this or that THIS NEEDS EXPLAINING IN THE 21^st CENTURY) – the list goes on and on.

The archaic notion that a man needs to be X in order to past some kind of Dude Test is silly AND CRAZY. Being a man isn’t like being a bush pilot. You don’t need a licence.

And if you`re really wondering what makes a man? The Dude here (that’s what you call him) and the Big Lebowksi have the answer for you:

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2. Pat Hickey. I don’t have too much to say to you other than you probably need to go away. To Baffin Island. For about forty-years of hard labour. That might just be enough time for you to think about the things you say and how utterly obtuse you ideas are about what it means to be a victim of sexual assault.

What is even worse is that you have a platform to spew your prejudiced bile. You are like an internet troll that has somehow figured out a way to get paid to piss people off.

You need to know, need to understand, that it is attitudes like yours that are one of the biggest reasons that so many victims are unwilling to come forward and accuse their abusers. Simply put: PEOPLE ARE AFRAID OF BEING BLAMED FOR THEIR ASSAULT BECAUSE VICTIMS ARE BLAMED ALL THE DAMN TIME.

You say so yourself that you have never been assaulted. So what makes you think you could ever cast judgement on someone who has?

The old adage goes that you can’t judge someone until they walk a mile in their shoes, so Patty ol’ Boy, I think you should thank your lucky stars you haven’t ever had to endure that long march.

And you should thank them every day.

3. Dear Chicago Blackhawks organization – When you have a complete tool bag like Dave Bolland play for your team, and he goes on the radio and shoots his mouth off, delighting his listeners with a lovely array of sexist, misogynistic crap, it really looks as though your organization openly endorses these antiquated, dangerous and violent gender norms.

The only other thing I have to ask is:

WHAT THE HECK IS UP WITH PRO ATHLETES CALLING EACH OTHER WOMEN AS INSULTS?

SERIOUSLY. WHY?

Do none of these idiots have mothers? Sisters? Wives? Daughters?

Do they respect these women? Do they love them? CAN they love them when they do crap like this EVERY DAY OF THEIR LIVES?

The thing that really gets me is that as much as I hate that this happens, it’s always women who come out looking the worst because at the base of it all – we (women) are the insult. The punch line.

Our looks, our strengths, our intelligence, our capability, our interests, our passions, our friends, our choices, OUR EVERYTHING – REFLECT POORLY ON A MAN .

PERIOD.

This enrages me ever more when I think about how the Williams sisters (in tennis) are often called men, or manly, or

brothers, but it never has the same effect as when (for instance) that idiot Bolland calls the Sedin twins girls. Because the Williams (as women) are still at fault for not being girly enough – manly characteristics are not innately bad – they are in fact the socially prescribed superior characteristics, but for a woman to have these traits and not look like how a WOMAN should look, well, that just doesn’t jive.

BAD WOMENZ! BAD!

Either way, it’s either the female sex, or the female herself that is at fault, and ultimately, not good enough.

Yeesh.

Well, on that note, I’ve definitely just convinced myself to get me to a nunnery, and stat. I may also never read a fricken newspaper again for all the days of my life.

Dear Genie of the Lamp – tell me something good so I don’t have to cry?

Please?

Oh make me over

I have a question for all the beautiful people.

What, pray tell, is the difference between “very black” and “classic black” in terms of mascara?

Or equally confounding, in life?

Won't somebody please think of the children!?

I mean, there can’t actually be a discernible distinction between the two – can there?

From what I remember of Art 8, (and there really isn’t much) black isn’t even a colour, so there can’t be all that much variation in terms of its presentation (or interpretation).

Right?

Of course this conundrum doesn’t even begin to scrape the surface of the impossible and completely insufferable colour coding on the (seemingly) millions of packaged eyelash-extending products available for purchase at your friendly neighborhood drug and/or department store.

The amount of merchandise on display is overwhelming to the point of paralysis.

Seriously, what is this? Bill’s Candy Shop? I mean, a company (that shall remain nameless) actually markets a product called “blackest-black”.

Those twisted bastards.

To be fair, I totally get why they do it. They’re just trying to make as much money as they possibly can, through their totally warped and markedly transparent manipulation of the otherwise blissfully unassuming masses, and yet I still want to scream: HELLO COMPANY EXECS! WE ALL SEE WHAT YOU’RE DOING HERE AND WE KNOW ITS ALL ABOUT STUFFING THOSE GIANT ALREADY FIT-TO-BURSTING MONEY BAGS OF YOURS!

Also, if we are going to venture into this totally inane, waste-of-time-marketing-territory couldn’t we get a little creative? Where is my “the-Grinch’s-heart-pre-Cindy-Lou-Who-black,” or “black-hole-before-you-knew-anything-about-physics-black,” or “everyone-knows-you-look-skinnier-in-black-black”?

No?

Well, give me time. I’m working on it.

In the interim, I can’t bring myself to buy any other brand than this one pictured below:

It’s still the cheapest product available that (in my opinion) provides the best results. Yet, I’m worried. The price has been steadily rising and I’m afraid that its affordability may be heading the way of the dodo.

So, in the near future, should you see a woman stockpiling Greatlash mascara with an almost deranged fervor, don’t fret – I’m just saving up in preparation for the zombie apocalypse. Because if there is one thing I’ve learned from the Resident Evil franchise, (and I’ve learned a lot), it’s that the hotter I look, the more proficient I will be at kicking major flesh-eating, walking-dead butt.

So boy do I plan to look SMOKING.

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Another point I feel as though I must touch on today is a bit of a post-script to my post from Monday, in which I mercilessly lampooned Forever Twenty-One’s horrifying fashions and equally disastrous window display.

Not to be outdone, it seems as though Holt Renfrew has thrown its hat into the ring in order to compete for the “erm…right…okay…” prize of the year.

Exhibit A:

Yeah, I’m pretty sure the last time I checked, right below “buy couture clothing” on my bucket list DOES NOT READ “bottle feed baby cow.”

In fact, the more I think about it, those two enterprises done in tandem just seem downright counter-intuitive.

(I’ll let you guys guess which of those two is actually on my bucket list. Please, be nice.)

Also, I cannot help but think of all the individuals of Swiss heritage I know, and how hard they would laugh at this display – not so much in a “hah! What a novel idea for a high-end department store to employ over the holidays,” but more of a “hah! Canadians are such silly, simple creatures. Please pass the gruyere.”

The other displays are equally alarming: bird people playing tin-can telephone? French maids wearing lace corsets over Victorian-style blouses?

Voulez-vous acheter des vetements vraiments cher? EH?

Didn’t anyone ever teach the store’s head display designer the dangers of mixed metaphors?

Can they even read?

(I kid. I kid.)

(Maybe.)

I worry that someone could end up with a bad case of mistaken (or even lost) identity from simply setting foot in the store! Though to be fair, something tells me they are more likely to suffer from massive hemorrhaging of sweet cash dollars that anything else.

But I digress.

I also shouldn’t lie and say that I don’t desperately want those birds chilling out on the teeter-totter. These awesome dudes were what definitely caught my eye in the first place:

IMG00086 - Copy — Come on Jim! Left, left, left, right, left!

(Though the Swiss-miss Vogue cover shoot was a close second.)

They would make an excellent addition to my office, any day of the year.

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Finally, yesterday my excellent friend A accompanied me to the Hyatt over lunch where we perused some of the stellar gingerbread creations currently on display in the hotel’s lobby.

It’s really quite amazing to behold how creative people can be in terms of the tasty treat! These people aren’t just culinary masters – they are bloody architects to boot!

Now, if I can just find a way to make this one life size I’ll be set.

Even more so if those Holt Renfrew birds want to join me.

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I want to be a supermodel

So.

_Device Memory_home_user_pictures_IMG00082 — Ch-ch-check it.

I used to be really good at getting all of my holiday to-dos done well before the stress and just general madness of the December month consumed not only me, but all of my loved ones.

I was a planning, shopping, and wrapping force to be reckoned with – my plans were executed with such precision I felt as though I could have established my own holiday-planner guild – apprentices and all.

Mostly I was imagining living in a Terry Pratchett novel, but you know, I’ll take when I can get.

However, for the last few years this once-strength of mine has waned; more and more I leave things- once easily accomplished errands – to the last minute.

I am unsure of what evil force is at play here (perhaps some deranged woman obsessed with her own reflection has sent a metaphorical huntsmen to rid me not of my beauty (HAH!) but of my festive organization skills) – yet somehow I don’t think this tale achieves quite the same level of drama as the original.

Either way, it is a dangerous line to walk, what with the majority of my family living over one thousand miles away and Canada Post being notoriously unreliable, especially anytime after the first of December.

It’s imperative that I get their gifts in the mail – STAT. And with less than three weeks left before the grand opening (of presents) I was starting to feel the anxiety of not having anything prepared.

To combat my ever rising sense of dread, last Friday I decided that it was high time to get my rear in gear, and trekked out after work, armed to the teeth with a razor sharp resolve.

The effort alone nearly destroyed me.

Good grief.

M was supposed to meet me downtown after my two hour head start. He was going to help me fill in any gaps in gifts for people, while at the same time we could enjoy the festive decorations of the downtown core.

(Side note: after spending Christmas in the UK, I cannot help but feel as though our streets are pretty darn bare and wish that our cities would take part in similar spectacular and magical light displays. But like I said, I take what I can get.)

Anyways, I gave him a call and promptly told him not to bother coming all the way downtown but that seeing as though he was already on transit, I would meet him halfway at Metrotown.

And that friends, is where I saw these:

I need a nap. Good thing I have this jaunty cap.

Oh. My. Goodness. Gracious.

Forever Twenty-One is so awesome for so many (facetious) reasons, it actually boggles the mind.

M won’t even go into the store because he says that the combination of the loud, crap music, crowds of overzealous teenage girls and just general gaudiness brings on the mother of all panic attacks.

I don’t doubt it. You should have seen him in Primark.

I thought he was going to pass out.

But seriously, who styled these mannequins? Who got home after the most hard core yoga session of all time as thought, “holy crow, the body can move in the most peculiar of ways! Let’s make sure we highlight this interesting factoid in our next window display – it may even move the attention away from how absolutely insane looking ourclothing is.”

I was in a giggle fit for the rest of the night just thinking about it, but ever more so after M pointed out that two of the mannequins look like they are casually trying to give birth.

“What am I up to you ask? Oh, you know, not much…just heading into my twelfth straight hour of labour, but sheesh – don’t I look stylin?”

No lady. You look stone cold CRAZY.

I also don’t know exactly what to do with these boots:

I mean, how many wookies needed to die to create this abomination?

M has been playing a ton of Skyrim of late and he says that they look like something his character would don before going into battle against a dragon.

Erm. Yeah…

If that doesn’t signal cool, hip and fashion forward, than slap my face and call me T’analia.

(Don’t do that.)

Heck, I know I don’t go anywhere these days without my leather jerkin and long sword. But that’s only because I haven’t yet figured out how to properly style my battle ax.

Anyway, I couldn’t stop myself form posing like this for the next two days, just because the idea of them kept cracking me up.

2011-12-11 21.04.33 — I’m just waiting for Ford Models to phone.

From now on, anytime I am a waiting in a line I am going to stand in this position, because I’m pretty sure people will either think that 1) something is wrong with me, or that 2) I am very, very desperate. Either way, I am sure to guarantee that I am served first.

Or you know, I’ll end up committed.

Is it a price I’m willing to pay? I’m not sure – yet.

Knowing that I may never have to lay eyes on another Forever Twenty-One floral patterned unitard or pair of hotpink hammer pants, may just tip the scales.

We’ll just have to wait and see.

Oh, and all you folks living across Canada, waiting for your Christmas gifts? You now know what what’s heading your way.

I can see your halo

Hi folks! Welcome to the latest edition of the Friday fry-up.

First on today’s docket:

Holy fresh hell – am I ever digging Sigur Ros these days. I cannot believe it has taken me this long to start listening to them.

Most of the reactions I’ve been getting to this news have been pretty hilarious. The lovely M put it best when he said: “Jeeze lady. You’re only ten years too late to the party.”

No doubt!

CIMG7806 — "Sigur who?" Asks Nymeria. (She too being late to the shindig)

Even worse, it’s not as though I didn’t know the band existed.

In my last year of undergrad I read one of the most breathtakingly beautiful books of all time – an Icelandic work entitled Angels of the Universe. I sobbed through the last three chapters and watched as my heart broke into thousands of tiny pieces as I turned the novel’s last page.

I actually don’t know if I’ve ever been the same since.

If you ever have a chance to read it, please do. It’s a must.

Anyways, in the lead up to exams we watched the movie that was made from the book in order to facilitate a discussion on the similarities and differences employed by the two artistic mediums.

(Or you know…kill time during the last week of school.)

I liked the film and thought they did a fair job adapting the material. But in the end it just couldn’t live up to the overwhelming majesty, power and heart-wrenching grief of the book.

I did however find the soundtrack haunting in its melancholy. And even though I knew many of the songs were by Sigur Ros, I just didn’t take any steps to explore the band or their discography once the course was over.

For some reason I just always lumped them together with Radiohead, a band which I cannot like no matter how hard I try (and believe me I’VE TRIED – they’re my husband’s all-time-favorite) and just assumed that Sigur Ros was the Iceland equivalent to the music that makes me want to take a bath in a tub full of razorblades. (This pretty much sums up all my musical ventures with Mr. T. Yorke in any and all incarnations.)

And FYI – I’m all for music making me feel things, I’m just not on board with it taking me to a place where I believe that there will never be anything good about the world ever again.

Seriously dudes, to me, Radiohead are the bloody Dementors of the music world.

Good grief.

Either way, it’s all water under the bridge now.

One last note on Scandinavian tunes though – the best song ever to be featured in a movie (or perhaps indeed EVER) is Paha Vaanii by Marko Haavisto from the brilliant and hilarious The Man Without a Past by Aki Kaurismäki.

I routinely listen to this on loop as I frenetically clean my house on weekends. I pretend to know the words and everything. For serious, the day I arrive in Helsinki I’m going to have this song DOWN PAT.

Check it:

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Number two on the dial for the fry-up is not nearly as sexy as Icelandic post-rock but, any way you slice it, just as important:

DINNER.

More specifically, those dinners where you’re not really eating a traditional “dinner” but you’ve still taken the time to prepare something totally tasty and exactly what you’ve been craving all day and you’re about to sit down to a really good book, or maybe a collection of New York Times Crosswords, or a new Parks and Recreation or even better yet, a combination of all three to be shared with the person you love more than anything in the wide world, and everything is just GOOD.

No. GREAT.

Who are we kidding here? EXCELLENT.

And if you are alone maybe you’re eating this:

Or, perhaps you are with someone else, and you’ve both decided that breakfast for dinner is pretty much the most incredible invention of all time so you cook up some apples in butter, cinnamon and brown sugar and make chai French toast with raspberries, whipping cream and maple syrup:

_Device Memory_home_user_pictures_IMG00076 — Okay, this photo is terrible BUT! It tasted like heaven.

Or any incarnations of these meals:

CIMG8669 — Baked sole with homemade salsa and roasted veggies!

I guess for me, I used to spend so much of my life agonizing over every meal – what I was going to eat, how much I was going to eat, who I was going to eat with, what I was going to do after I ate – that I cannot help but feel totally excited and liberated just looking at these (totally crap quality, sorry peeps) photos.

I sometimes like to take pictures of the food I prepare because it is proof for how far I’ve come: that I cannot just take pride in the excellent meals I’ve prepared, but also a new strength that allows me to enjoy the excellent food I’ve prepared ALL. THE. DAMN. TIME.

Now, if only I could quit diet pop drinks I would be a bloody superwoman and my office desk wouldn’t look like this every day at 3pm.

Baby steps!

AAAAANNNNNNNNDDDDD –

DANCE!

What women want

Hello friends.

Have any of you had a chance to see that meme that’s been floating around facebook for the past few days? It’s made up of two photos – one of Nigella Lawson and one of Gillian McKeith (a UK based nutritionist and tv presenter).

The nub and gist of its message is: one woman (Nigella) is kind of old but majorly hot, and the other, Gillian, IS SO OLD, OMG DEFINITELY LIKE CRYPT KEEPER STATUS AND SO UGLY I WISH I COULD UNSEE THAT MESS.

The comparison between the two is supposed to bring on the major LOLZ.

The reasons supporting this conclusion, and, undoutebly, your uncontrollable laughter?

That Hottie McHot Nigella eats butter, meat and carbs (aka doesn’t give a hoot about what she puts in her body and because of this attitude, holds the much coveted status of Hottie McHot), while in contrast, that Old Ugly Boot of a Bagmeister Gillian emphasizes clean, healthy eating (which in turn, only further emphasizes her Old, Ugly Boot of a Bagmeisterness.)

A relatively new boot, for comparison purposes.

Now, this is really grating my gears for a number of reasons:

1.) It’s hasn’t been all that long (oh, I’d wager 30.7 seconds) since I was last told that my net worth as a woman is first and foremost determined by my looks that I really don’t need two hundred bastards on facebook reminding me of this.

2.) Body-snarking? Really. Not. Cool. Or. Groundbreaking. Get back to me when you have something else – not at the expense of someone else’s looks – which you want to talk to me about.

3.) Trying to frame this meme as an argument for the whole – eat what you want and feel great about yourselves!!! – movement is a total fallacy. Anyway you look at it the people posting this image are still shitting on someone for not only what they eat but more importantly how they look.

Eat what you want and feel good about it – period. Leave other people out of the equation.

If this meme was comprised of two photos, say, one of Chanel Iman and the other of Melissa McCarthy and the caption mocked Ms. McCarthy on not only her looks, but implied that she looks the way she does because of her eating habits, something tells me that people probably wouldn’t be posting it on social media, nor would it enjoy the same popularity of the current image (if any at all.)

4.) Lastly, that photo of Ms. McKeith was taken when she was appearing in the (totally awful, tabloid schlocky) TV show “I’m a celebrity get me out of here” (meaning: she was living in the blasted JUNGLE and not the Clinique makeup counter at Harrods. To be honest though, what in the world was she thinking not bringing at LEAST an under-eye concealer or eyelash curler? Sheesh!)*

Nigella meanwhile (who I will freely admit is a gorgeous, glamorous woman) is pictured on the red carpet at some kind of soiree/movie premier deal. Sitting at home in her snuggie, post-Saturday-night-do, she is not.

I cannot help but feel (and this relates back to #3) that if someone was to call shenanigans on the discrepancies between the two pictures – for instance yelling out: “NIGELLA IS TOTES OBVS ROCKING THE SPANX AND MAKEUP GUN HERE GUYS!!!” that this person would be lambasted as a body-snarking, fat-shamer.

Meanwhile, I would be there sitting in the corner whispering: you all are completely tone deaf to the rampant bullying that is presented in the original message. RED RUM.

Okay, so now that I’ve gotten that off my chest (and in its place I am putting some metaphorical vapo-rub – otherwise known as The Muppets Christmas Carol) I will move onto item #2 on today’s agenda.

Why for the love of Pete, WHY, do bookstores insist on marketing certain books under the banners: FOR HIM/FOR HER?

Seriously – I almost had a bloody coronary today walking into Coles.

HEY MS. REISMAN! Could we emphasize destructive, totally outdated gender norms ANY MORE IF WE POSSIBLY TRIED!?! Oh sweet mother of pearl give me strength.

Let’s look at some of topics covered in the books put aside for him shall we?

Fiction, Sports, Politics, Humour, History and Biography.

And for those silly, simple womenz?

Fashion, Diet cookbooks, Regular cookbooks (thanks for not forgetting teh fatties guys!), and Autobiographies by some ladies from the “Real Housewives of Beverly Hills”.

What. The. Heck.

For serious, Tina Fey’s book was included in the men’s section and not the women’s! My heart is actually racing just thinking about it.

The crazy thing is, I know that there is definitely an excellent meme in here somewhere. So stay tuned!

I just need to make my way out of the jungle first.

*Please see: OED – sarcasm

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