Rant – Page 4 – Rant and Roll

My Christmas wish(es)

So.

First things first.

Look what happened this morning!

Talk about magic.

Now, on to the important stuff.

The brilliant Ms. J from Ambling and Rambling (the big sister blog to ye olde Rant and Roll) has asked me to pen my 2012 Christmas wishes, as, interestingly enough, one of her Christmas wishes.

How very meta.

So it’s got me thinking (literally, I’ve put on my pondering cap and everything) as to what is it that I want most, for not necessarily myself, but for the entire world as we head into the holidays and New Year.

So let’s just dive right in, shall we?

It’s going to be a doozy.

First, I wish that a fitting punishment be doled out to all these offenders listed below:

– escalator standers

– sidewalk shufflers

– gym grunters

– movie talkers

– chair kickers

– mouth breathers

– staff meeting monologuers

– perpetual cell phone checkers

– non-signalling drivers

– mansplainers

ESPECIALLY MANSPLAINERS.

They are the absolute worst.

Don’t know a mansplainer?

They are those dudes who, because they’re a dude, like to corner women at parties, or bars, or their offices, or the bus stop, and explain to them what it’s like to be a woman, and what, as a woman, they should be doing with their life.

As a woman.

Yeah.

My reaction to this phenomenon is always the same:

THANKS TIPS BUT I’M DOING JUST FINE.

Yeesh.

As punishment, these individuals will have to complete a minimum sentence of twenty years of hard labour, to be served on Baffin Island, carrying rocks from one coastline to the other.

And back again.

However, in a bid to seem lenient, it will be their choice as to whether the rocks are carried North-South or East-West .

(I want to see fair, after all.)

Next!

My second wish is that anyone thinking about getting a pet next year, first looks at adoption options, before purchasing their little one.

There are so just many animals out there that need our help. And if you don’t believe me, just watch that awful Sarah McLachlan SPCA commercial.

(You know, the one that destroys viewers with all those clips of abused and sick puppies and kittens.)

ACK.

I get choked up just thinking about it.

(Seriously, if your heart doesn’t break into ten thousand pieces by the 2.7 second mark of that ad, congratulations, you are officially a psychopath.)

Anyways, what I’m trying to say here is that it would make such a difference if more people looked into their local shelters before buying, because there are so many awesome little gals and guys currently available for adoption who need a warm and loving place to call home.

It was actually at our neighbourhood SPCA that we found Ms. Nymeria, and as you may have guessed, we couldn’t (and wouldn’t want to) imagine our life now without her.

(Even when she’s limbering up her killing paw.)

Phew. Where did all this rain falling on my face come from?

Onwards!

Third on the docket is my wish that Hot Chip returns to Vancouver ASAP, so that I can once again dance my mad face off to them in concert.

(HOW SELFISH CAN I GET, RIGHT?)

But seriously, looking back on the past three hundred and fifty-odd days, this concert was a major musical highlight (in a year already defined by many, many boughts of tonal awesomeness.)

So Alexis Taylor, et. al., – I implore you. Get your groovetastic selves back to Vancity, and STAT.

Over, and over, and over, again.

Side note: I kind of feel like I’m writing a Friday Fry-up here. But on a Wednesday. MIND BLOWN.

Finally, my Christmas wish (my real one) is for the whole world to just take a moment, and CHILL OUT.

Just stop.

Stop fighting.

Stop shooting.

Stop bombing.

Stop spending.

Stop talktalktalking.

Instead –

Start listening.

Start learning.

Start dialogue.

Start change.

Make change.

Make time.

Make beauty.

See beauty.

Love.

See love.

Be love.

Reflect.

Revise.

Breathe.

Believe.

Take one moment, and believe.

Because I believe our world can be better – little by little, person by person.

I believe we can make it better.

And so that is my wish.

I wish for all others to believe.

Understanding the order of things

I, like most people, have some pretty weird day-to-day habits (that may or may not border on compulsions.)

Nothing too severe or debilitating of course – just silly things that sometimes throw a crank in my style, or cause me to write using awkwardly mixed metaphors.

For instance –

I cannot abide nails longer then the ends of my fingers. Even if they come close, I have to cut them down.

When I played piano, I could never start to practice if I hadn’t brushed my teeth.

I’ve written before about how I have to take the same shower every time I step into the bath. At night, I floss, then brush, then wash my face, then moisturize, then put in my mouth guard.

I also have routines for cleaning the bathroom, folding laundry, and making the bed.

I “chew” hot drinks to cool them down.

I had to cut and re-paint my nails to keep from going mad.

There are others, I’m sure, but these are the ones that immediately spring to mind when I think about the routines I employ within my life.

They are processes that make me happy, and that help order and becalm my days (and my nights.)

But!

You’ll never catch me trying to label them.

I just find that too many people (especially of late) like think it’s cool to claim they suffer from some kind of behavioral disorder or condition.

Words like ADHD or OCD are thrown around like baseballs or chakrams.

(Side note: I totally wish that I had a chakram.)

(OKAY FINE – I totally just wanted to use the word chakram.)

(Chakram.)

Enough!

For example, how many times have you ever heard someone say an iteration of the following:

“ZOMG. I’m so ADD!”

“That’s just part of my OCD!”

Or what have you.

I mean, I really wish these people understood that these disorders aren’t sweaters one can casually model one day and then promptly shove to the back of their closets for the next six months.

These are legitimate conditions from which people suffer, and treating them like they’re accessories is a pretty solid way of stripping individuals – who actually spend their lives working through their symptoms (and as such, their consequences) – of the legitimacy they deserve.

And I understand that it’s hard, in particular when 1.) the individual doing the appropriation are likely doing so without malicious intent and therefore don’t fully recognize why what they’re doing could be harmful, because 2.) our society is pretty crap at educating people about these conditions (or really any illness in general.)

I mean, I’d wager a bet that if you typed in “why do I like to wash my hands?” into Google, you’d probably get a giant red banner screaming:

CONGRATULATIONS YOU ARE OUR 1,000,000 VISITOR TO HAVE OCD. CLICK HERE TO CLAIM YOUR PRIZE.

The second search result would most likely be: BECAUSE YOU HAVE CANCER.

(Off topic, but never, ever use the internet as a tool for diagnosis. Stick to cat videos and ermagherd.)

Anywho, what I’m trying to say here is that this lack of knowledge and discussion hurts everybody, and sometimes making silly little statements about our silly little lives can (unwittingly) hurts others.

And goodness knows I’m by no means a perfect example of this – this awareness is something I work on every day.

However, I sure am I’m hoping that one day it will become routine.

I’m a mouse, duh!

Halloween has officially jumped the shark.

Exhibit A:

Sexy-Banana-Costume-BN-7014 — SEXY BANANA!!! http://www.yandy.com/Sexy-Banana-Costume.php

Exhibit B:

sexy-sw-3 — SEXY CHEWBACCA!!! http://www.yandy.com/Sci-Fi-Furry-Costume.php

Exhibit C:

1.19001-Spoonful-of-Sugar-IMG_8821x — SEXY MARY POPPINS!!! http://www.yandy.com/spoonful-of-sugar-costume

And so it goes.

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!

Now where’s my can opener…

I’m losing it

Hey kids.

Today I am bummed out. You see, yesterday, sometime betwixt the hours of two and seven, some crafty bastard stole my wallet.

DAMN YOU CRAFTY BASTARD!

Sigh.

This – this gives me a major sad. Like, the biggest.

So the majority of today was spent stressing over the fact that someone was sure to steal my identification, ruin my credit score, apply for EI in my name, and sign me up for membership in the CPC – THE HORROR!

As such, I spent a significant amount of time on the blower with Visa to cancel my credit card, waiting in line at ICBC to get a new driver’s license, shooting the breeze with Service Canada, getting a new debit card, applying for a replacement for my CareCard, etc, etc.

Urg. This kind of thing really, really stresses me out.

And as such, I take it as a good time to beat the ever living crap out of myself.

Seriously, just crown me Miss Flagellation 2012 and call it a day. I’ve earned the title.

It goes a little something like this:

First, I cry. Huge, heaving sobs wrack my body like some 18^th century Victorian palsy. Once I’m sufficiently exhausted, my skin is consumed by a clammy, cold sweat, while the last of my fat teardrops slide down my cheeks and off of my chin.

Then I spaz.

I pace. I rant.

I blame myself for not taking better care of my stuff. I berate myself for not being careful enough; I chalk it up to bad karma for not buying the homeless newsletter, or for laughing at all those blooper videos on Youtube.

Then I start to make up armageddon scenarios in my head, and play them over and over again – for both M’s and my pleasure.

Repeat.

Of course all of this drives my poor husband up the wall (nay up all the walls.) He is already so busy with work that his threshold for my ravings is rather limited, particularly those that are only precariously balanced in reality (and that too may be up for debate.)

I am so lucky to have him in these silly (but very real for me) times of crisis.

He is the calm to my storm.

He talks me down from the ledge, and has a really brilliant way of not only helping me laugh at myself, but also being kinder to myself.

This is a great thing.

And the good news? None of my cards were used, nothing was stolen (other than my lovely little wallet that I loved.) I don’t ever carry cash, and everything is replaceable.

So while I am still bummed out, I’m working on taking it easy. And it’s getting easier.

Today I was going to write about mini-skirts.

I’ll save that post for tomorrow.

However here is a slight teaser for something that makes me less bummed out, and well, very, very happy:

So remember – same bat time, same bat channel! And keep your eyes peeled – this be bat country.

Dear John

When I was sixteen years old I was sexually assaulted at a resort in Peurto Vallarta, Mexico. I was leaving the hotel’s disco around ten thirty at night, when one of the bartenders followed me out of the club. He came up to me from behind, took hold of my arms, and told me that he was going to walk me back to my hotel room.

I told him no, but he insisted, digging his hands, hard into the tops of my arms and the nook of my elbow.

Instead of taking me back to the room, he dragged me far down into the darkened open-air theatre.

Pushing me into a seat, he held on my arms, and told me that he loved me.

You don’t love me I whispered.

I love you, I love you, he whispered back.

I remember watching myself sitting in that seat – almost as if I was looking down from above, or from the side – my body, immobile, my voice, gone. I felt unable to scream and unable to fight back, too afraid to move; I shouted over and over again in my head, telling myself to run away, to punch and kick him, knee him in the balls, scratch his face, tell him to fuck off, do whatever it takes.

I watched myself sitting there in the chair; and as I sat there I felt my heart beating so hard I imagined it punching its way right out of my body, and I felt this man’s hands all over my skin, over me, his sticky, foul lips on my face, and I cried.

I cried, and I cried, and I said no, please, no, no, no, please.

No, no, no, I said it again, and again. Please.

No.

Yes, he said. Yes, yes, please, yes. Again and again.

Yes.

And then he put his hands under my skirt, into my underwear.

And through my sobs I managed to cry out. NO.

And he stopped.

I’ll never forget the look of absolute disgust he gave me, as he stood up, and brushed his hand on the shirt, his shorts.

As if it was his decision to stop. As if I was nothing.

You are nothing he said. Don’t tell anyone. They won’t believe you.

And I didn’t.

I was too ashamed, too horrified.

Because I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t done anything. Why I hadn’t screamed, why I hadn’t fought back.

Why I had been afraid of causing a scene. Why I had been afraid of hurting this man’s feelings.

And I remained afraid.

…

There have been other similar situations since that night where I have a similar powerlessness.

Times where men, sometimes faceless, sometimes not, have said things to me, yelled down a sidewalk, whispered them at parties, or mumbled the on the bus – words that debase me, strip me of my humanity, words that remind me that I am a sum of my parts – I am hair, breasts, legs, ass – a body.

Not brain, heart – not strength.

Not a person.

And I remain silent. Still.

Burning with shame at my silence, my stillness.

And this happened to me again, two nights ago.

And this is what I would like to say to that man, so drunk on a mix of himself and spirits, careening about the world defined by a complete disregard for not only my humanity, but the humanity of all other women:

Dear John,

You are not a gift.

You are a predator.

Your lechery makes me feel like garbage, because I want to yell obscenities in your face – but I don’t because we are in a social setting and I don’t want to make a scene.

But you know this, don’t you?

You know that because I am polite I won’t tell you to fuck off, or physically assault you, and because of this, you are happy to continue to harass and verbally assault me.

You make inappropriate comments about my physical appearance.

(Because that is what I am to you – a physical appearance, and nothing more.)

And because of this, you do not understand that you do not have a right to speak to me. You do not have the right to dance with me.

You may not just sit down.

I am twenty-seven years old. You are seventy-two.

I am married.

You are old enough to be my grandfather.

And I hear that you’re upset – you think others are treating you unfairly.

I would recommend opening your eyes, and realizing that the problem is not other people.

The problem is you.