The Lifespan of a Fly

What We Lost

Doris Anderson

Doris Hilda Anderson, CBC: Life and Times

Last week I handed in an essay on Doris Hilda Anderson. If you’re a Canadian, and a woman, and you don’t know who she is, please do me a favour and quickly Google her. actually, you know what? Just click this and be re-directed to a Wikipedia page, because you really should know who she is and what she did for us. So, now that you’d read a little bit about her, aren’t you embarrassed to not know who she is?

Her autobiography “Rebel Daughter” was absolutely fascinating. It outlined her life growing up in Calgary, Alberta during the Great Depression and her continued fight against the status quo. Pretty much, you’re freaking lucky this lady was around, girls. Women have only really truly had their equal rights in Canada since 1981. Yeah, only thirty years have gone past and yet my own generation is completely in the dark about how it was. But I think we lost something when we gained feminism.

I think we lost an essential skill set: domestication. My own generation of women are, well, sort of useless. Oh sure, we hold down jobs and are good at things, but how many actually know how to cook? How many can cook without a recipe? How many of us bake? How many of us can sew? Yeah, not very many. And why would we have to? Dinner is a phone call away. You can have that pretty dress for the office Christmas party for $120, in all sizes and colours. This is capitalism, and this is feminism.

When we gained the freedom to pursue our own interests, we forgot how to do those things our grandmothers spent a life doing. So ladies, have we really helped ourselves? Or have we traded in our over mitts and sewing machines for computer screens and drive-thru? We have lost what made us the queens and conquerors of our homes. We have lost autonomy from mass-produced, capitalistic, shit.

So ladies, remember the women who lived through the Great Depression, who saw the fight for our freedom, and who watched us forget all about it… do them a favour, Ok? Let’s learn to do those skills that are taken for granted; that are needed, but unappreciated. Let’s learn how to do this stuff because if we don’t, we will never be able to gain back what we’ve lost.

Edit: We’ve already kicked men’s asses in the workforce, so let’s kick their asses at home again. Cool?


Hold Your Questions Please!
September 22, 2011, 1:33 PM
Filed under: Generalizations | Tags: , , , , , , ,

You know what bugs me? Ok, ok a lot of things bug me, but you know what really drives me batshit? Questions. Not questions like “What are you going to make for dinner?” or “Do you want to watch The Shining or Halloween?” but questions that just aren’t anyone’s damned business. For the first six years of our relationship, Mike and I dreaded going to weddings. Short of the booze and bad music, you just knew some distant family member was going to corner you and go “So, when are you two going to tie the knot?” *wink wink* and you’d have to smile and think of some lame excuse like “Oh, it’s not really a priority to us right now”, when what you’re truly thinking are things like “Get lost old bag” or “Who is this person talking to me?”

Well, it gets worse after you get married. People assume that now you’re married you’re just dying to procreate. As if you’ve really been waiting seven years until marriage, because a child out-of-wedlock is a sin…and other bullcrap.

They also assume you want lots and lots and lots of little you’s running around, screaming, eating candy and taking turns crying and pooping. Now, please don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike kids. But to be fair, I don’t like very many kids either. So this whole “kids” thing? Yeah, I’m thinking about it. It seems kind of cool. I’d like my life to have more meaning then the things we want to do, and well, to be honest, kids have cool toys.

So you answer something like, “Yeah, maybe in a few years we’ll have a baby. Just one though”. Well, that starts off this whole new thing. The family member (whose name you can’t remember and relation you’re skeptical of) starts in on the whole “Just one? Oh, wow. If it were me I would have just had oodles of little babies. I just love their little cheeks and the way they smell”.

Look, I’m thinking about it ok? I don’t really want to commit to a whole slew of kids. That’s like saying “You know, you may as well give me all the BMW’s in the lot, since I like luxury vehicles a whole bunch”. I’m ok with just the one. You know? See how it works out and stuff. Then maybe… maybe I’ll have another one.

Besides, babies are like these perfect, clean little people. They’re canvasses for parents to fill with colours and paint in little personalities. And guaranteed us adults are gonna fuck them up. So I wonder to myself, how many little people do I want to screw up? Cause I’m gonna. So if I only screw up one person, does that mean I’ve mitigated the damages?

I don’t know, this is a lot of pressure.

Is there anywhere I can rent a kid for a bit and see how I do?

The New Black?

This is why I refuse to get a chaise lounge. Naked people....

So I’ve been seeing this advertisement posted all over the Internet, particularly Facebook, in the past 24 hours or so. I wanted to talk about this today because I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. On one hand, my inner-feminist and outer-chubby girl are all like “F*CK YEAH!” Bust down conventional beauty standards, portray women as they really are and not as the fashion and beauty industry tell us we should look like! You know, all that socialist-female-jazz. I feel proud to be a woman when I see an image that shocks people. And besides, Ruby’s one hot tamale!

But then there’s this little voice in my head that also wants to have a say in this. It whispers words like: diabetes, heart disease, cancer, cholesterol, eating disorders, and other creepy things that have been proven to be associated with a little junk in da trunk.

While I’m not trying to criticize an advertisement that is meant to empower women, I wonder what will be accomplished by this. I had one Facebook friend post this image up and mention Marilyn Monroe. I’ve heard Ms. Monroe was anywhere from a size 12 to a size 16, and her beauty and her curves were renown across the globe. And yet, this woman boozed and drugged herself into an early grave. So is she really a role model for women striving to break down conventional beauty standards? Perhaps there are some other strong women we can take a look at as role models for ourselves, and the generation of women that will follow us. Women such as Jan Arden and Queen Latifa who are beautiful, strong, ambitious, outspoken, and curvy.

So I suppose where I’m confused here is this: are we trying to become healthier, not only as women, but as a nation in crisis? Or are we trying to make excuses for ourselves and guilt others into agreeing with us? Are diabetes and heart disease the new black?

Event Planning as Dictated by the Rapture

Totally got Raptured

So I think I survived the Rapture; and so did everyone else I know. I didn’t do any head counts, but I did call my most socio-responsible/aware friends and they were still around. So either Jesus didn’t come and save us all, or everyone I associate with does the Devil’s work; which is definitely more probable. Whatever, at least I won’t be lonely in Hell.

Also, not being Raptured sure clears up my calendar for this summer. No angelic feasts for me to participate in, only bar-be-ques and beheadings for this girl. Although Griff did invite me to a rally this morning. I get invited to a lot of rallies, which is why I was sorta counting on the Rapture and following apocalypse to provide me with an adequate excuse. Sorry guys, can’t make your rally today. Got Raptured and you’re going to burn. But Skynet failed and now I’ve been invited to a rally.

I probably wont go. Not that I don’t believe in whatever the cause is this time, I probably do. I dislike quite a bit of my world and shouting with signs does seem like a great way to spend a Saturday, but I’m kinda lazy.

First, I’d have to make a sign and I kind of ran out of glitter. All signs must have glitter on them, or their opposition loses its effectiveness. Trust me on this. Politicians are known for their short attention spans, so shiny shit that attracts their attention to my big sign is a must. Besides, it’s pretty.

Secondly, I’d have to find something really clever to write on my sign. I wanted to have Welcome Skynet!, but I don’t know how to make a tinfoil hat.

Third, I kinda just don’t want to. See, there’s a level of expectation here. If I go to your rally, then I’ve gotta go to the next one too and, well, my calendar is kind of full with non-angry activities. Anger gets sort of boring after a little while. Sure, it would be cool to burn down the Parliament building, or throw cream pies at Premiers, et cetera. But after the Parliament is a smoking pile of Rapture, and the cream pies have been destroyed (a travesty if I may say so), then what else is there left? It all feels a little anti-climatic.

So if it’s all good with you, I’m probably not going to participate in a rally. I’m a little claustrophobic and if I wanted to spend an entire day getting my face smashed in by/with an angry mob, I’d go moshing. And really, what kind of shoes can I wear to a rally? Is there proper etiquette for rally-wear? Close-toed or sandals?

Adieu Humans, Bonjour Zombie/Robot/Natural Uprisings

Have you ever felt like a little red ant, tramped beneath a magnifying glass while some grand cosmic force pulls your legs off and watches you burn?

No, me neither.

But apparently we’re all wrong because tomorrow the world is supposed to end. For reals this time, yo. This is nothing like Y2K wherein Skynet did not become self-aware and when the clock ticked to midnight on that fateful day, many of us went “Meh” and continued drinking. How is this different, you may be asking. Because this dude said so and he’s got billboards backing his story up. So if you aren’t too busy at 6 p.m. on May 21, 2011, why not come out, grab some smokies and burgers and let’s watch the rapture together.

I’ll be there, while the sky burns and the people run around screaming, with a Bellini in my hand. Perhaps during that time we could all discuss what we regret most in our meaningless, fragile little lives. The Robot Overlords, fuelled by their army of zombies aren’t expected until about 6 p.m., so until then, let’s get some nostalgia on.

I regret not drinking more bellinis. They are yummy, fruity, and you don’t even realize how drunk you are until you stand up and start trying to dance to Boney M.’s Rasputin.

I regret not getting involved in Wicca. Maybe if I had gotten involved with worshiping Mother Gaia she wouldn’t be so intent on wiping me out. Everyone else is cool, but I need to kick around so that I can provide the Robot Overlords with a human perspective on the world they destroyed.

I regret not finishing that book. Oh, and that other book too. I do, however, regret finishing Catcher in the Rye. The only good parts came when Holden Caulfield got the shit kicked out of him repeatedly, sometimes by pimps. I regret him not being a real person for me to beat up too.

Finally, I regret not taking Terminator more seriously and never learning how to shoot a shotgun. Skynet finally became self-aware on April 19, 2011 and I still can’t blow up zombies.

Just wondering, if I end up having my neck ripped out by a member of the Great Zombie Army and become infected, thus ensuring my passion to eat the flesh of my brethren, was my years as a vegetarian for naught?


Hobo Magic

So, I really hate political correctness. There’s nothing more aggravating for me, as a writer, than to have to say “his or her”, “police person” and other stupid compromising phrases. I’m not a feminist, so that may have something to do with it, but I really don’t see the problem with “his” or “policeman”. Sometimes though there’s a PC term which is much more insulting than more common, slang terms.

I’m talking about the homeless people of Edmonton. A few years ago I heard someone refer to them as “undesirables”. I dunno, there’s something about being called undesirable that I just don’t like. Therefore, I’ve decided to examine the more common terms for these people and how they reflect a more positive image than of just being undesirable (which seems to by synonymous with “garbage”).

Bums – You know, there’s some really awesome bums out there. What about tight bums in yoga pants? Personally, I’d rather be a hot bum than an undesirable individual. So, Bum stays.

Tramp – I just like this better.

Hobo – I love this word. It sounds like they have this mysterious, inclusive club that us showering people are not privy to join. They have bonfires under bridges and travel the world on the soles of their feet. How is that not a magical image? Short of smelling like cheap wine of course.

Vagabond – When I think of vagabonds, images of gypsies spring to mind. Hot gypsies twirling barefoot in flowing skirts and screwing us hard-working saps out of our money at their super-cool carnivals. Yes, vagabonds are pretty kick ass.

So the next time you see an undesirable human being, remember, they’re cooler than you and you can’t join their club. You smell too good.

(Writer’s Edit: I’ve now spent most of my morning thinking about Hobos and have decided that their personas of “down-and-out” folks is a complete lie. They are actually magical elves spread among us so that we may remember what human generosity is about. And for beer. They bring beer. BEER. BEER.)

You know, the kind where you use pens and stuff
February 4, 2011, 6:43 PM
Filed under: Generalizations | Tags: , , , , , ,

Normally I relate funny anecdotes from my life, or lists of shit that make me laugh, you know, that sorta thing. Well tonight I’d like to talk to you about something serious: the Internet.

How could we live without this vast landscape of knowledge? No longer are we restricted to information in print form only. You would think that with this wealth of information at our fingertips, our tech-intelligence would grow. Apparently, that view is wrong. If anything it seems like people are getting dumber, more secure in their online lives, and therefore more blatant about the things they put online.

I just want to make this very clear to all Internet users (and I assume you are one since you’re reading this blog post): The Internet is Not Private!

*Gasp* Yes, it is true.

Sometimes I write things I regret online, and I quickly scramble to erase whatever it is I’ve done wrong this time. But no matter how quick I am to click that little “x” box, it’s still permanent. That is until they invent a laser or something (lasers for eyes, ears, tattoos and in the near future: laser-shooting orangutans with a grudge).

So I’ve got a little advice to you. If, say, you leave an assignment to the last-minute, say, and then you email your teacher about said assignment and he calls you an apathetic loser, don’t go posting shit on Facebook about it. Especially if that teacher happens to build websites for a living, and therefore is perfectly capable of navigating an open Facebook group which is directly linked to the program he teaches.

Again, the Internet is NOT private. If you want your bitching to be private, I suggest text message, email, phone conversations, or a journal; not the online ones (public vs. private, remember), but the kind with pages and margins and stuff where you use a pen.

Of course, this is all just hypothetical. I’m just killing time while I wait for the orangutans to come and get the party started.