I am knackered, and as much as I want to writewritewrite, I just don’t have any energy to put together something grand.
Alas, thus goes everyone to the world but I, and I am sunburnt.
I do, however, have one thing to say.
I have written in the past about the amount of time I have spent in the United States, and how these trips have been for a myriad of reasons – be it sports, school, pleasure, or what have you.
For instance –
I got engaged in Hawaii.
My older sister lives in New York.
My dad lives in Palm Dessert six months of the year.
Seattle always feels a little bit like my home away from home. (A city from another missy?)
In short, I have never had a bad experience in any of the places I have visited.
So while I have no qualms at all about the outcome of last night’s election, (I am in fact elated) I would also be lying if I said that I didn’t find the political and ideological divide that currently exists in America to be incredibly disconcerting.
Versipellusfenris over at Unnecessary Words wrote a great op-ed today, reflecting on this (growing) disconnect and the future (but also the past) of the Republican Party. I urge you to read it, as it is excellent food for thought.
In this vein, I want to leave you all with this quote from Jack Layton, the late leader of the Federal New Democratic Party (and official leader of the opposition) here in Canada.
I feel as though his words are very fitting for not only Americans, but indeed all those struggling to find common ground in our world today.
I am actually apt to believe that this company is just trolling us all, and that their employees fill their days playing an endless game of “Sexy Madlibs” in an effort to come up with the most ridiculous costumes as possible.
In fact, because it looks so easy I think I’m going to play too.
Let’s start:
SEXY PLUNGER!
SEXY COMPRESSION SOCK!
SEXY ARMADILLO!
SEXY SIR JOHN A. MACDONALD!
SEXY BOARDING PASS!
SEXY SHOE HORN!
SEXY EUROPEAN UNION MONETARY POLICY!
SEXY AUSTERITY MEASURES!
SEXY WEDGE OF MELTED BRIE!
SEXY SWEATER VEST!
SEXY CHRISTMAS TREE ORNAMENT!
SEXY PONTIUS PILATE!
SEXY JACKSON POLLOCK PAINTING!
SEXY HEAD GEAR!
SEXY NON-FAT PUMPKIN SPICE LATTE EASY WHIP!
Seriously, I want this job. Not only is it completely bonkers, it is great, great fun.
Now, I’m not going to sit here and pretend that I’ve never gone out on Halloween dressed as a slightly more tarted-up version of my normal self.
In first year of my undergrad, I went as a the Short Skirt, Long Jacket girl from Cake’s seminal work “Short Skirt, Long Jacket” (not my finest work, but definitely my most last minute); and the year after I was some sort of trampy vampire (although mostly I was stoked to stomp around in my new Doc Martin boots, flashing my sweet fangs to random passerbys.)
But mostly, I’ve taken advantage of Halloween to dress as either dudes from different decades or Hermione from Harry Potter.
(And not sexy Hermione either BECAUSE COME ON PEOPLE, THAT IS JUST AWFUL AND WRONG.)
I’ve been a 1920s golfer, an Extra Extra! paperboy, and Jerry Sizzler (a clearly insane man, dressed as a woman.)
This year, if I could actually get my act together I would LOVE to go as Psy (although I would have to make sure that I pulled it off and didn’t veer into 1970s prom territory.)
So where exactly am I going with this?
I’m not exactly sure. I mean, on one hand, I feel as though it isn’t my right to stand up and say that women cannot dress the way that they want – on Halloween or any other day of the year.
But on the other hand, the whole “sexy for sexy sake” trope really drives me nuts. It’s lazy and demeaning and ridiculous.
And yet, I also cannot help but keep going back to the line: In Girl World, Halloween is the one night a year when a girl can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it. (From Tina Fey’s brilliant film Mean Girls.)
So. This is true, yes. But what do we do with it?
Let’s talk it through.
For three hundred and sixty-four days of the year women are judged and shamed every day based on their mode of dress (whether it’s too sexy or not sexy enough).
However, for one night each year, some kind of messed up amnesty is called, and a woman can put on whatever deranged outfit she chooses (let’s say, a sexy hamburger costume), and for the next five or so hours have the opportunity to subvert current social norms and attitudes, because sexy now IS the expected and accepted norm, come Halloween night.
To me, this is some messed up crap.
Instead of, oh, I don’t know, making a concerted effort to do away with the incredibly damaging expectations and implications we as a society have placed on a woman’s appearance, mode of dress, and sexuality, we create a night where it’s okay for a woman to be “sexy” and dress in utterly rubbish costumes (but just this one time!) because it’s only make believe and not real life.
Remember ladies: it’s okay to be a slut as long as you’re not really a slut!
TITILATE NOT FORNICATE!
This ludicrous binary of all or nothing sexuality – where it is important to be both chaste and sexual, the Madonna and the whore – is brutal, and restrictive, and archaic, and so alive and thriving it boggles my mind.
And it messes me up because I get all shirty and confused wondering if I am actually okay with women wearing these kind of outfits? Do they really want to wear that kind of costume or do they just think they should wear something like that? Are these choices symptoms of patriarchy or they conscious efforts to subvert it?
For the love of Pete, someone pass me a mini Twix bar.
The long and short of it is – I don’ t have the answer. So I will finish by saying this:
Ladies: Dress up however you wish, and remember – when the clock strikes twelve on November 1, you won’t turn into a pumpkin (SEXY! Or otherwise.)
No matter what you wear, you will still be the same person, the same heart, the same brain, the same soul. A costume, makeup, a mode of dress – none of these things can change that, no matter what anyone (or society) tries to tell you.
Now, if you excuse me, I think I may have just figured out the perfect costume. This year, I will definitely be going as a SEXY CAN OF WORMS!
Well, another day, another dollar. I’m not sure about you folks, but I am absolutely knackered. Thank goodness it’s Friday. And a long weekend at that!
It’s Thanksgiving up here in the Great White North (GWN) which means that over the next three days there will be an extra serving of turkey on dinner plates across the country.
For us (quasi) veggiephiles, Thanksgiving is the perfect excuse to go double duty (or just completely bonkers) on the multitude of multi-coloured tubers and gourmet gourds, so readily available around this time of year.
And goodness knows I plan on eating myself into a sweet potato stupor come Monday, mid-afternoon. Airing on the side of caution, if one of you could check in sometime Tuesday morning just to make sure my glucose levels have returned to normal I would really, really appreciate it.
(If I don’t respond, please contact that appropriate authorities.)
One million thank yous!
In the meantime, let’s get started on this Friday’s Fry-Up.
Hair today, gone tomorrow
Guess what I did?
Check out MAH NEW HAIR!
As a treat to myself for my success at the half-marathon last weekend I got it cut and dyed professionally.
Professionally! For the first time ever!
I’VE MADE IT TO THE BIG TIME MOM!
Meep.
As you may remember from my post last March, all previous attempts at colouring my hair had been self-initiated (with varying levels of success.)
The lows were, erm, very low.
So, I vowed I would never again colour it again with dye from box. I’ve done my time wearing Dexter gloves and ruining M’s t-shirts.
And may I just say, I LOVE the results.
I’m digging the bangs, I’m digging the colour, and my ends no longer look like I stuck my finger into wall socket.
I also totally cracked up when why stylist told me, “You look like Jesse Pinkman’s dead girlfriend.”
Oh I certainly do.
Only, you know, less addicted to heroin and making much better life choices.
I am, after all, a role model.
Next!
Weirdos, weirdos, everywhere
I recently started watching Freaks and Geeks on Netflix. It’s pretty freaking awesome (no pun intended.)
Bill is hands down my favourite character. I just know that if I was fourteen years old I would be head over heels in love with him.
Check out his fancy moves:
I have to say I like the “Geeks” story-line much more than I like that of the “Freaks”. There is only so much James Franco I can take. And I just not that big a fan of Lindsay and her freak-chic slumming ways.
Is that harsh?
Eh, whatevs.
On the other hand, the trio of Neal, Bill, and Sam is just perfection.
I certainly wasn’t the coolest ice cube in the high school tray (my penchant for the musings of long dead Russian communists and nihilistic German misogynists didn’t exactly ingratiate me to a ton of suitors) but even though I wasn’t exactly on the same level as these three nerdos, I sympathize with them entirely.
The brilliance of their friendship warms my heart like mad.
It almost, almost makes me yearn for the days of braces and topical acne gel.
ALMOST.
Onwards!
Bradbury, you evil genius
Given that I’ve been keeping up an intense reading regimen, I’ve been reading a ton of Bradbury.
Just today I finished The Illustrated Man.
All I can say is: HOW CAN SOMEONE WRITE SO WELL ALL THE TIME!? HOW?
How could this man describe things in such unimaginably beautiful ways – describe all things in such heart-stoppingly fantastical language – in a manner that never, ever gets tiring.
In a manner that is never, ever trite.
It is never too flowery, it is never overkill.
It is always perfect.
His words tie my stomach in knots, they bring tears to my eyes; they make me think. They make me fear. They make me nervous for – I don’t know what.
They make me question my life, question my writing; they make me want to be a better writer.
They make me want.
“They moved down the echoing throats of the castle, level after dim green level, down into mustiness and decay and spiders and dreamlike webbing.”
My body seems to be powered by an endless supply of frenetic energy and I’m having a hard time trying to keep still. Something inside of me keeps telling me to “GOGOGOGO”, and sometime over the last week my powers of concentration completely misfired, and during my (failed) attempt to give them a jump start, they escaped through the open window and are now MIA.
It could be the fact that I am not running this week, in preparation for the half-marathon this Sunday.
It could be the fact that it is early autumn, and oh-so beautiful outside, and all I want to do is dress like a cowgirl, go for long walks, and drink pumpkin spice lattes under the shade of a shedding maple, or perhaps elm.
It could be – wait a second…did I really just write that?
Good grief – it’s like I fantasize about living in a pinterest board.
(p.s. Do you guys pinterest? I don’t and am afraid to venture into this world for fear that I will drown in my self-pinned reflection of midi dresses, kittens, lemon tarts, and three piece suits.)
Not a bad way to go actually…
ACK.
See what I mean? I’m so easily distracted it is amazing that I manage to brush my teeth and tie my shoes.
I haven’t been sleeping all that well for the past few nights and as such I’ve had my fair share of individuals letting me know that I “look tired.”
Now, would I be speaking out of turn if I requested that we – the collective whole of humanity – stop doing this?
I’m thinking of writing to my member of parliament asking him to table a private member’s bill that would make it illegal for individuals to point out to others that it looks as though they didn’t get the recommended eight hours.
Because let’s be honest. When you tell someone that they “look tired” you’re not just telling them that they could stand to catch another forty winks (give or take, depending on how closely you adhere to ol’ Rip van Winkle’s sleeping philosophy.)
Oh no.
You are basically telling that person that they look like crap – even if you don’t mean to.
You tell someone that they look tired, and I can guarantee you (100% or money back) that they hear the following:
“Holy moley! You look like a ruddy disaster! What happened to you?”
(Give or take a few colloquialism, adjectives, adverbs, etc., etc.)
Seriously, there is nothing worse than the ZOMGYOULOOKTIRED. Just tell me I look like an arse, and move on.
Oh! And none of this feigned concern. Don’t pretend that you are telling me that I look completely bagged under the guise that you are worried about my well being. If you did think that something was wrong, I assume you would ask, “is everything okay?” and not open with an underhanded assessment of my overall haleness and heartiness.
(Man, who knew that those two words actually are words? I was full-on expecting the squiggly red lines upon typing them both.)
Dance break:
Oh, and this reminds me – one other thing:
What is UP with the re-compliment?
You know, when you see a co-worker, or a friend, and they are wearing a darling little ensemble, or a sweet pair of kicks, and you (being the cool, awesome person that you are) let them know how smashing they look in their terrific shirt/pants/shoes/what-have-you?
And then they – instead of thanking you, or responding that they too dig their outfit – become paralyzed by a need to compliment you back, and start stammering about how they too like your jeans, or fedora, or disposable hospital gown because they are a doctor and you weren’t wearing anything else when you told her that you liked her earrings?
(Yeah…so that definitely never happened.)
(Also – I would also never wear a fedora.)
But!
Can we just agree to put a stop to this weird social interaction?
Can we agree that if someone compliments you, to take the compliment and move on? You are not obliged to return the favour. In all likelihood there was zero ulterior motive in the original flattery – people normally don’t give out praise in the hope of getting it back (and if they are doing this, stop hanging out with these individuals at once.)
Because when you force out the return compliment (or re-compliment) it usually comes across as super awkward and disingenuous (whether or not you really actually mean it.)
This happened to me today and I really wanted to blurt out, “JUST STOP! You’re killing us both!”
And hey, if you actually do like your flatterer’s ensemble? Just give the original compliment a little breathing room, and then let the person know.
Be all, “I have been meaning to tell you that I really like your pink sunglasses!”
Just as long as you don’t follow it up with:
“Are you wearing them to cover those bags under your eyes? Because you look really, really tired today.”
I am typing on the world’s softest keyboard. It’s like having jello fingertips.
I was reading “Skinny Legs and All” again last night. It is such a good book.
I like its definition of art as something that you can see in your head, but you know doesn’t exist in reality, so you try to make it exist.
I think this is what Robert Bateman cannot understand.
Art as imitation? That is just flattery.
Painted fangs and paper coats, a canvas of timeless snow. To make beauty and life something to look at.
I disagree with it all.
Make randomness. Find splendour in it.
Paint the pattern of your mind in the fickle sand, and know that it will blow away.
To be or not to be timeless? Infinite? Or just human?
We err, we die, we hold stiff poses against the sky – a sky that never changes. And what we make and what we shape is beautiful because it eventually ceases to obey the order we have inflicted upon it and metamorphs into something we could not ever have imagined.
And I ask myself, over and over again: where would I be if I had never met you?
A tan, bland comment from a waiter at a tea party. And I would have outlasted the winter with my ice and arctic breath.
But you and I – our pulse, our heart, together: we are not meant for trivia and sullen conversation.
The outside rules are writing themselves in rigid lines of decline, delineating the passive guests – but we, we are undressed and dressed again, an unfolding nebula of muscle, blood, and mirth, and who dares to say us wrong.
Who dares to say but sorry and thank you – these well-wishers and critics.
I see you and I’m dazed understanding. I’m iron on fire.
I’m living, I’m burning; I have stunned the artifex of my life in the shower, and these eyes – mine eyes are dancing the jive with yours.
And I’ll be here.
(kissing your eyelids shut at night).
Rant and Roll 