If anyone thinks they can park in my driveway to watch this bullshit (there have been 2 vehicles so far to pull in and sit there hopefully until they caught sight of me scowling from my window), I'm here to tell them it's balls o'clock. They can fuck off and park in Gordon Campbell's driveway.
Stupid Olympics.
Clay and I got subpoenas today-- going to bylaw court against that guy whose dog charged us and bit Simon in the face when we were out walking. That should be an interesting experience, and I am going to look as vulnerably pregnant as possible. Okay, actually I look ridiculous, like a bobblehead of myself if the bobbleheady part had become lodged in my midsection, but no one at court needs to know that. I will strive to look misty and weepy and in touch with my sacred but fragile womanliness, like someone who would have her nude newborn photographed in a bed of flowers.
(Which, I've wondered lately: if you're going to do that stuff to your baby at all, why not dress them in a suit and pose them in an office setting? Why are those Anne Geddes-type babies always costumed at this weird intersection of fertility and constructed innocence-- bees, bunnies, fruit, eggs? I wonder why the objectification thing gets less okay as the specialness/innocence factor decreases-- like, why no babies dressed as gas station attendants? I am not gonna look this up, though, for fear of ending up on some corner of the internet where adults dress up in diapers and mate with whales or something.)
Cultural Pregnancy Irritation #46 aside, it's amazing to me how little responsibility this guy feels for his big, scary dog's behaviour, that he's actually willing to go to court and bluster when this is his year-old dog's 4th recorded offence, and 2nd bite. He's that sure he has a whisper of rightness here. Damn. How do people end up with senses of entitlement like this? Are they just more evolved than us, able to do-- no, absolutely justified in doing at all times and in all situations-- whatever they want? I need to get on that action, because training my dog to not intrude on people's personal space was kind of a hassle.
Which reminds me of Cultural Pregnancy Irritation #22: Don't Fucking Touch Me. Last week a young female student at the conference I went to, total stranger, trotted up to me and squealed "BABY!" (Um, not quite, but "ALIENY FETUS!" just isn't Anne Geddes enough I guess.) I just ignored her and continued my conversation with some school friends, because seriously, fuck off, until she stretched her paws out to my midsection, at which point I said pleasantly, "I'll break your hand," and she gave me the wet-eyed look of womany hurt and how to explain to someone like that that no, you do not get to have your feelings hurt simply because you didn't get your own way, which in this case was groping a stranger's body? And you don't get to have your feelings hurt either, Jay Leno!
I wonder if the case will be settled by dance-off, in true You Got Served fashion. If so, I'm fucked.
Finding out you've been scheduled to present at a TRU conference less than a week away is awesome.
Fuck.
Fuck!
See what happens when you compare babies to Alien and don't forward your bra colour to 7 people by midnight? Academic nonsense bites your ass! I'm sorry: bra colours can change the world, and I want to hear everybody's fascinating and special and not at all inappropriate birth story because babies are unicorns.
FUCK.
Obliquely referencing your bra colour on Facebook is the dumbest fad ever, but if you say so, women are all, "You hater! This is for breast cancer awareness!" as if saying something is dumb means you're pro-cancer. Look here special-bitch, who likes cancer? But how a narcissistic campaign that purposely leaves men out of the loop most effectively promotes "awareness" of anything other than the fact that we all spent time in Grade 6 escapes me.
I have noticed, too, that a lot of the women posting "ivory" and "blush pink" (oh shut up you delicate flower) are also the mega-annoying ones who set their profile picture as their distended pregnant belly or an ultrasound image, which, yeah. I think my own developing kid looks like Alien, and I have hormones to condition me to not think that and I still think that, because that's what ultrasounds look like, so I think that theirs look even more like Alien, and also: no one cares. Point is though that if you are knocked up or have had a baby and are throwing around a medical image of your own guts, why be coy about your damn underwear? As I have discovered to my horror, lots of women see nothing socially wrong with regaling people with their own or their cousin/mother/friend/coworker's detailed birth stories (a fetish that manages to be somehow both horrifying and twee-- as if David Cronenberg started writing a mommy blog) and I mean: women will blithely lob gross/banal minutiae about their goddamn vaginas at you like a conversational grenade, and then they get all Tee hee! Bras are secret!
...really?
Is this game supposed to actually accomplish anything? Women are all, Wow! A social phenomenon! It's the power for change Obama windfarm energy! Or, you know, it's a cutesy fad. How many women who posted, "None... ;)" the other day actually went to get a mammogram? Yeah, thank God for the brave women pioneers of Facebook: we woke up today in a world without breast cancer.
For fucksake.
I feel like Jimmy Stewart in "It's A Wonderful Life" - "Merry Christmas, movie house! Merry Christmas, Emporium! Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan! J! E! T! S! JETS!! JETS!! JETS!! YEEEAAAHHHH!!!"
"I'm one of the baddest motherfuckers of all time, one of the best singers, and one of the best lookin' motherfuckers you've ever seen.
Hold my drink, bitch."