Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Benedict Cumberbatch was ROBBED.

A few nights ago I came across this photo on Pinterest:

It was captioned as "Sexy Chewbacca cosplay."

It is a cool costume. It's fun and unique. Spending the day at a fan expo in a full fur body suit would be unpleasant, so this woman's choice to have bare arms and legs has practical considerations. It's a fun gender-spin on Chewbacca. Granted it would be cooler if it was a re-imagining of Mallatobuck (that's Chewbacca's wife, for those of you not of the nerd-persuasion).

But it is not sexy.

We need to codify the meaning of sexy.

It's looking at someone and saying "I am having lustful thoughts about you and I bet our lovemaking would be passionate and sensual."

Sexy is not a Wookiee.

Sexy is not fun fur.

Sexy is NOT Tim Tebow.

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.

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.

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 Eliza Malone was sexually abused by Mia's ex-partner Woody Allen,
2. People who are monsters.
I'm more impartial than Ms Farrow so I'd actually describe the groups as:
1. People who believe Dylan Eliza Malone was sexually abused by Woody Allen, or
2. People who do not believe [I'm gonna stick with Malone since that's the  name she uses professionally and on social media] 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.

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.

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."