Friday, July 11, 2014

But who will save the baby humans?!?!

In early 2013 I started a seal hunt board over on pinterest. It's mostly photos of seal skin products and seal meat, plus links to posts and quotes from news articles about the traditional and commercial seal hunt in Canada and elsewhere.

I update it only sporadically. More so in the last few days as a cadre of animal rights activists (**cough** angry, middle class, white women without young children at home**cough**) started re-pinning and commenting on that board.

There is -- I can now assert based on 10 minutes of perusing their boards -- a correlation between people who say they love animals, and people who post death porn photos of dead seals. That seems like a contradiction. Plus they also might be misanthropes and hate freedom of speech. And, quite possibly, themselves.

I am of course making hasty, glib judgements about their lives based solely on their  Pinterest usage. They are doing the same to me.

As these individuals do not know me in real life -- or online -- they don't know that I respond to internet drama thusly:

Then I yawn and pin photos of fur coats.

They were apparently looking for this response:

But all I could muster was this:

Ah, zealots. They're so...full of zeal. And other baser emotions.

Which is why I'd take it as a great favour if you could report the following users to Pinterest for breaking the TOS agreement:

 Amanda Hernandez

And Denise Tetrault

And Chanel Updyke


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Edited on July 16,  2014: A friend emailed me a link to a post at "Cold Antler Farm" called An Open Letter to Angry Vegetarians.  This is my favourite passage: 
But do not come to battle here, accusing those of us raising good meat of murder. Those are fighting words, unkind words, and for someone so intensely passionate about treating animals well you seem to have no issue treating human beings like crap. I’m an animal, too. I would appreciate some ethical treatment.
Well said, Jenna Woginrich. Tomorrow I will make up some Masonades (this is just brilliant, by the way) and make a toast in your honour. 

Monday, March 17, 2014

Flogging A Dead Horse.

On the weekend, while in the Big City, we took the boys to see the Lego Movie. My favourite part was the Kre-O ad that played during the previews. My second favourite part was when my 12 year old nudged me and said, "Wake up. You fell asleep." To which I replied, "Yes. I did. On purpose, because this movie is terrible." It was the stupidest excuse for a movie I have ever seen. I can't even formulate a list of complaints about WHY it was terrible because the terribleness was so pervasive.

"I love you, but you have crap taste in movies," I told my sons as the credits rolled. Neither was put out by this, however the three twenty-something hipsters in the row ahead of us gave me a dirty look. I would be chagrined about this except that they were obviously losers and/or perverts.

We also stopped by the independent bookstore in the Big City. In doing so, I felt I was betraying those bastions of socialism, public libraries. Confession: I love reading, but I don't often buy books. This is because I don't place a high premium on owning books -- an offshoot of hating clutter and being raised by a librarian. I was making an exception this time because the kids have government money leftover for curriculum and because I'm presently obsessed with The Musketeers on BBC (but if you are following my tumblr blog, you probably know this already) and wanted my own copy of the Dumas book.

Another reason I seldom frequent bookstores is because they are not arranged properly. Books are shelved and displayed by theme or subject. There is no reliance upon the Dewey Decimal system. Alphabetization is not strictly respected. The shelves aren't even lined up in nice neat rows. It's a mess.

After a few fruitless minutes trying to find the book, I gave up and asked a teenage clerk to check the store's inventory computer for a copy of The Three Musketeers. She typed in "Three Muskateers" and chirpily informed me there were no copies in stock.

"I think there are three -Es in Musketeers." I said, because I thought it was a more clever/passive-aggressive alternative to "Hey dumb-dumb, you spelled that wrong."

[In hindsight, is it possible she thought I wanted her to search for The Three Muskateeers?]

"Nope. That's how it's spelled. And we don't have any copies in stock. I could bring one in though."

I declined the offer because I felt like it was wrong to financially support idiocy and arrogance. Well, other than my own idiocy and arrogance. That's different.

Monday, February 3, 2014

At the end of this post there is a cute picture of a puppy and a kitten! You might want to skip to that part.

In the mind of Mia Farrow there are two kinds of people:
1. People who believe that her daughter Dylan/Malone was sexually abused by Mia's ex-partner Woody Allen,
2. People who condone sexual abuse.
I'm more impartial than Ms Farrow so I'd actually describe the groups as:
1. People who believe Dylan/Malone was sexually abused by Woody Allen, or
2. People who do not believe Dylan/Malone was sexually abused by Woody Allen.
But I also believe there is at least one other faction:
3. People who are really uncomfortable tossing aside the legal principle of "innocent until proven guilty" and/or averse to swift-boating a victim of abuse.
I'm in this latter group.

This doesn't mean I'm a rape apologist. This doesn't make me Woody Allen's stooge. This doesn't mean I found Dylan/Malone's New York Times' column less interesting than Robert B. Weide's Daily Beast post.  It simply means that I'm uncomfortable voicing an opinion on a decades-old news story that is so muddled and convoluted it makes my head spin. I don't have an opinion about it. I should NOT have an opinion about it. None of us should.  The American judicial system is flawed, to be sure. But in this instance I'm more than happy to throw my hands up in the air, announce "No charges were filed against Allen? Fair enough. I'm good with that!" and carry on.

Quite frankly I'm much more interested in the different names that the various Farrow/Allen children have adopted thru the years. Ronan = Satchel = Seamus. Malone = Eliza = Dylan. Moses = Mischa (I'm not sure about that one, actually). What does it mean that Malone reverted to 'Dylan' for the purposes of the NYT article? Same thing with the Vanity Fair article in 2013 (the one where Farrow dropped the bomb about having an affair with Sinatra). Meanwhile she tweets under her current alias and does not hide her connection to her famous mother. Huh.

And as I promised...

Just a reminder, everyone: Ronan Farrow's new show debuts February 24 on MSNBC! And Woody Allen is nominated for an Oscar!

Saturday, February 1, 2014

In the long interlude...

In the long interlude between seasons 2 and 3 of Sherlock, I turned to Pinterest as a coping mechanism. I created a board called Renovating 221B Baker Street.

This was in addition to my Trekkie Cumberbitches board.

Neither should be confused with Possible Replacements for Benedict, a board I created when I'd (quite naturally) overdosed on CumberKhan.

One of the pins from my 221B board is this:

Since I posted it in the summer, it's been "repinned" 152 times. As far as I can tell, every single repin has been to a board for kitchen renovations or dream homes. And none of those 152 people have bothered to either read or edit my caption about using it to store body parts. 

I can't tell you how much this amuses me. 

Monday, January 27, 2014

Day 526. [A Post Authored By My Dog]

Today's entry in my prison diary finds me in the hole. Or in the parlance of my jailers: my dog crate.

What crime has lead to this spell in isolation? I once again attempted to build a rapport with the other inmates, aka The Cats. My latest ploy: grooming them. It seemed like a fair idea. They are constantly cleaning themselves and one another. It stood to reason that my larger tongue would do the job in less time. Alas this overture of friendship was not well received. And in my haste to escape the hail of cats' claws, I overturned some furniture.

I wish to state for the record, that I do not have any genuine affection for the cats. I prefer the company of dogs and no other. I was merely hoping that the fostering of convivial relations with the cats would lead to our joining forces to rise up and overthrow our "owners," aka the Hairless Long Dogs Who Imprison Us. But the cats are stooges who appear to enjoy this "life." They even sleep with the Long Dogs. Furthermore the cats are allowed to defecate and urinate INSIDE THE HOUSE.  The three-tiered system of privilege in this jail turns my stomach.

No. Wait. That's the worms I got from eating a mouse last week. Or maybe it was from eating that rabbit poo this morning?

Meh -- that is not the point.

The point is that my life is MISERABLE.

The Long Dogs sometimes say they "rescued" me. This makes no sense.  What did they rescue me from? My life was perfect before they brought me here. Running free around the reserve with a pack of my brethren. Drinking from puddles. Eating anything/everything I found. Playing games of chase with other dogs. And with cars. Sleeping outside at night. Barking whenever the mood struck me. I miss my freedom.

Now I have to wear a leather collar with metal tags that clang on the garbage can when I attempt to feed myself.  I am scolded for barking. I drink from a metal dish. My (admittedly delicious) food comes from a factory and I am only fed twice a day. When I go outside I am tethered -- often to a Long Dog's wrist. There is no appreciation for the way I can jump a six foot tall fence. There is no praise for the way I rip through the plastic of a garbage bag in seconds. I am now only permitted to be free of my restraints when far away from "civilization" and its delicious buffet of garbage.

[At this juncture I would like to point out that my eating food from the compost bin is very environmentally friendly. It is recycling at its most elemental. Why don't the Long Dogs understand this concept?]

 Their cruelty is limitless.

Can it really only 526 days since I was imprisoned?

When will my sentence be over?


Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Laughter is the best medicine. But modern drugs are also pretty damn fantastic.

"You have a really big uvula!" my doctor told me this morning, his voice filled with awe.

I replied, "If you're going to talk like that, at least buy me a drink first."

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No. I did not say that. I thought it. But I kept my mouth shut, thereby disappointing my husband.

"I'd only met the guy 3 minutes beforehand. We had no rapport." I answered Mr Wrath's query of "Why didn't you say that? That would've been funny!"

Also I am 40 now and the doctor was significantly younger and I really, really don't want to be labelled a Cougar. That's what happens when you hit 40: you start to be concerned about unseemly behaviour.

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This is actually the second time I have returned home from the doctor's office and immediately called my husband with a story. The last time was almost exactly 10 years ago, after the birth of our second child when I went to my doctor for a pap smear.

After the smearing of the pap (honestly, I have no idea what a pap smear technically entails so please do your own research on the topic and then go get one -- provided you are female), the doctor and his nurse/witness left the cubicle so I could change out of my paper gown. A few minutes later the doctor returned, clipboard in hand. He asked me a few questions about my general well-being, my moods, the baby, and so on. Then he went to make a note on my chart.

He reached into the left hand pocket of his lab coat. Then the right. Then the left breast pocket. Then the right.

"Huh. I can't find my pen."

Again he search those pockets.

"I just had it a minute ago."

He pulled back the edge of his lab coat, reaching into the front pockets of his trousers. Then the back ones. All the while muttering. "I know I had it when I came in. It's my favourite pen. Where could it be?"

He dropped to his knees and began to peer under the furniture.

"I swear I just had it."

He stomped on the lever of the garbage can, the lid swung open and he peered hopefully inside. "Where could I have left it?"

This entire time I was sitting on the edge of the examining table. My lips clamped between my teeth. My face bright red with suppressed mirth.

Finally he turned to me and said, "Do you kno--" and stopped short.

If this was a comedy sketch or a rom-com movie I would have replied with a shrug of the shoulders or quipped "Search me!"

But I didn't.

I couldn't.

And I didn't need to, because as soon as he made eye contact with me, he knew exactly what was going through my head.

"AAAH! Here it is!" he said suddenly aware that it was in the front pocket of his dress shirt. "Great. Good bye.  We'll see you in a few weeks!" and he hustled out the door with admirable speed. And I melted into a puddle of goo -- laughing-like-a-maniac goo.

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Anyway back to my big uvula...

I am mostly recuperated from having the flu, all that remains is my cough. This isn't particularly alarming to me, because I have a lot of difficulty in shaking coughs. Long after the rest of the family is back in fighting form, I'm still coughing. Today I went to the doctor, not for the cough, but because I hurt my back WHILE coughing. More particularly I have strained muscles in my back, torso, chest, breast, upper arm, and ARMPIT. The blame lies with that stupid  "Cover Your Cough" pose were suppose to strike:

I am 40, I have a big uvula and I got the flu despite getting the flu shot -- HAVEN'T I SUFFERED ENOUGH?! Do I also need to contort my body into this ungainly position? And honestly -- is it really all that more effective (at preventing the spread of germs) than coughing into the back of your hand?  If we're going to get serious about spreading the flu, these need to be funded by Health Canada:

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And now I'm off to bed, just me and my big uvula, my new puffer and my codeine ("Those muscles are never going to heal if you are coughing constantly. We need to treat that first." said the doctor about my chronic cough). 

So...good night. 

Saturday, January 4, 2014

How to organize your home in 2 easy steps:

Step 1: Get rid of shit.

Step 2: Don't buy anything to organize your shit.
The problem is you already bought too much.

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Please note: neither Step 1 nor Step 2 works if you spend hours everyday on Pinterest, collecting organization and de-cluttering ideas that involve shopping.