There were better bars, more worthy bars, deeper into the bowels of the market, but I was wearing spike heels and a dress so short it barely (maybe not even) covered my girly bits, and there was wetness bordering on snowness starting to fall, and our bellies were full of sushi and sake so we just wanted a dark corner to sit in and drink in and wait until it was late enough to go home and fuck.
These are all perfectly good reasons for accidentally watching UFC, I swear.
The cover charge at the door of a pub should have given it away, I guess, but I was distracted by the the 42:1 ratio of men to women and Andrew couldn't wait to get in somewhere (anywhere!) warm enough to remove my coat and get another look at my Grecian dress ("Grecian" meaning very low cut in the front and very very low cut in the back), or rather, the things falling out of my Grecian dress.
The UFC, if you have the good fortune not to know, is the Ultimate Fighting Championship, which in theory involves a couple of scantily-clad mixed martial artists going at it until one of them just can't go anymore. If this sounds homoerotic to you: ding ding ding. However, the UFC seems to have some unspoken rule about not engaging anyone who is even remotely good looking, so if you're looking for the male equivalent of mud wrestling, keep looking. In fact, I would wager that mud wrestling involves more grace and more athleticism and possibly more testosterone than the UFC on any night. But maybe that's just me.
Supposedly, back in the glory days of the UFC, the only rules were no biting, and no eye-gouging, which led to brutal, bloody fights that John McCain likened to "human cock fighting", which apparently was a bad thing. Now there are more fouls than you can shake a stick at, which includes not shaking your stick and also: no head butting, no hair pulling, no groin attacks, no fish hooking, no spitting.
And they call that a fight? Come on! My six year old sister and I got dirtier than that on the concrete floor of our basement when we couldn't agree on who would be Barbie and who would be Ken.
The fighters enter the arena to the tune of their favourite CCR song, high-fiving the eager pre-pubescent crowd. Then while scowling menacingly (but not convincingly - if you want convincing, I refer you once again to my Mom's basement when someone has just eaten the last poptart) the fighter is undressed. The official rulebook states that a fighter's gloves must allow fingers to grab and grapple, but somehow they are unable to remove their own shirts. Someone in the entourage actually has the job description of Official Shirt Taker-Offer of the UFC. Shirtless (disappointingly), they climb into the ring, which isn't a ring, but an octagon-shaped enclosure called (brilliantly) The Octagon.
The fight starts and the bar is packed tight all around us, violating all fire safety codes and also the warning that keeps crawling across the bottom of the big screen TVs that says pay-per-view is for individuals only and it is expressly forbidden for public viewing, such as that in bars. Wings and nachos are being consumed in vast quantities and I appear to be the 1 in 400 not drinking beer. The two fighters in silk shorts dance around each other for much of the "fight", and action is so scarce that just lunging at an opponent is enough for the beery crowd to erupt in cheers and jeers. Andrew fails to find anything amusing in watching former high school bullies wail on each other, but I encourage him to take a closer look.
These are not the bullies, these are the outcasts. The official and exclusive beer of the UFC is Bud Light for a reason. These are the dudes that were picked on and swirlied and stuffed into lockers in high school. These nerds are getting revenge, and using the UFC to show that their tap-dance\karate lessons were not in vain. Through the miracle of steroids and spending every Friday and Saturday night in an otherwise empty gym, the dweebs have got their day.
Showing posts with label Controversy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Controversy. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Losing My Religion
I believe in god. I do not believe in religion.I believe in learning. I'm not sure I believe in education.
I believe in fate. I also, at the same time, do not believe in fate.
I don't believe in belts that don't hold anything up, or in giving high-5s (unless the recipient is mentally challenged), or in pennies.
I don't believe in bagels that aren't pre-sliced.
I believe that black people are more highly evolved, and that my freckles are trying to tell me something.
I believe that libraries are more sacred than churches.
I believe that people who spray me with perfume samples at the mall should be shot in the head.
I have an inkling of a belief that I might be slightly over-reactionary.
I believe that John Cusack has indeed made life harder for all men, but I do not believe that any woman should settle for less than her perfect boom-box moment.
I believe in Sex. I would like to believe in Love. I'm not sure how.
I don't believe in regrets.
I do believe in moisturizer.
I believe in hard work, I just don't want to.
I don't believe in sweet-flavoured toothpaste, smoked meats, or flannel sheets.
I believe that Elvis is dead, and so is disco. I also believe in ghosts.
I believe in the goodness of laughter, and tongue kisses, and red wine.
I don't believe in magic. I don't believe in sin. I do believe in karma.
I believe in a thing called Soul.
What do you believe?
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Childfree By Choice
I don't have children. I won't ever have children. And I like it that way.
For lots of people, I may as well have just admitted that I have human hides lining my freezer.
I never wanted kids. Not even remotely. But there's a huge stigma attached to choosing the childfree lifestyle. People always feel they have the right to ask - when am I having kids? Why don't I have them yet? And they don't take no for an answer.
Oh, you'll change your mind, they say.
Which, incidentally, isn't true, and is massively disrespectful.
I used to feel that way too, but then I had kids and now they're the light of my life.
Which is an even stupider thing to say. If you change your mind, you were never childfree to begin with. 'Childfree' is not a waiting period or a holding pattern. It's not what you are before you have kids. It's what you are if you feel in your soul that it's the right and permanent thing for you.
I don't hate children. I don't hate the people that have children (or at least, not all of them, and not by default). But many of them have no qualms about expressing pointed hatred toward me and people like me, just because I don't share the same fertility goals as they do.
Here's the deal: children are not mandatory, they are not an obligation to all married couples. Some people cannot have children. Some people do not want them. Somehow, we manage to have very fulfilling lives anyway -
despite the people who tells us we're incredibly selfish (never mind that deciding NOT to have kids is exactly as selfish as deciding TO have kids - we make a choice and do what we want)
despite the people who tell us we deserve to die alone (meaning, Jason and I will check ourselves into an old folks' home instead of having our ungrateful children do it for us)
despite the people who look inquiringly at my stomach and ask oh, what's wrong with you? (because if it's not a physical plumbing problem, it's obviously a mental one)
despite the people who say that "people like us" shouldn't be breeding anyway (you know, because the world does not need more open-minded liberals, right?)
despite the people who cluck and say, oh, but you seem like such nice people (obviously, this opinion needs to be revised once our repulsive lifestyle is revealed).
When people ask about the kids issue, I'm pretty upfront about it. I don't want kids. We're not having kids. We're pretty damn happy about that. But it doesn't always pay to speak up.
Valerie Francescato, host of a childfree podcast, is under fire recently for daring to say that she doesn't want babies. She has been submitted to such indignities as these:
Look, if she doesn't want to have kids, that's fine, but there's no need to form an organization about it, which will inevitably escalate into demanding special rights and privileges. Besides, who'd want to procreate with these broads anyway? These women couldn't get a man if it was closing time at the bar and were the only guys inside of it.
and
I really wish here mother made the decision to be child free.
and
First, her thinly-guised childless self-admiration club is more practically a post-abortion guilt-avoidance club as in "I made the right decisions -didn't I?" These people are nothing more than narcissistic, self-serving oxygen thieves! Their voting rights should be rescinded.
Right. Except for the fact that the world is practically overrun by support groups for parents. Because nobody says boo about the 8 million Mommy Bloggers, but if a group of women get together and talk about their own experiences that happen to be opposite, suddenly it's terrible. There are television shows and sections of the newspaper and entire magazines devoted to the "joys of parenting" - but apparently the rest of us should just sit quietly.
It's hard to be a minority in this world. Personally, I'm not looking for "privileges" - I just like fairness. And there are a lot of things that just aren't fair. It's not fair, for example, that at Jason's work, he pays $8 a month for health insurance. To add me, the "family" premium is $42 a month, because though we are only 2 people, we are expected to subsidize families that have 17 children. Is that fair? No, it's not. It's not fair when a workplace offers the perk of free childcare without offering a childfree alternative to those of us without kids. Perks are a part of your income package. If you are excluded from cashing in on those perks, that's not fair either. I don't want anything crazy - I just expect equality from the world, and sometimes the world is slow to offer it.
But I think that if brave people like Valerie continue to speak up for what's right - and for a valid if somewhat uncommon choice - then maybe the world will advance by tiny increments. In the meantime, I'm happy to be a purple woman, and a member of the Toronto chapter of No Kidding. I'm not anti-kid. Since 99% of people have children, 99% of my friends have them also. I enjoy kids for the most part. I like being an aunt, or a god-mother, even an occasional babysitter. But once a month, it's nice for me to get together with a group of people who have conversation that at no point mentions diapers, or snotty noses, or the wiggles. It's almost surreal that for 3 whole hours, a group of adults can manage not to mention children. That never happens naturally in the real world.
It's much harder to not have children than to have them. Lots of people get accidentally pregnant, but it takes thought and planning to stay without. I don't know what drives people to have kids. I have no idea what compels a woman to grow a baby. No idea. I've never felt even a small stirring. I think pregnancy is a beautiful thing though, in the same way I think Renoirs are beautiful, and like to visit them in museums, but have no intention of hanging one on my wall, since they don't particularly suit my furniture or my personality.
I'm happy for the people who love their kids. I'm sad for the ones that never wanted kids but had them anyway, and let them know it. I knew my family was complete the day I married Jason. Maybe mine is a small family, as families go, but it's a happy one, and I like it very much, just as it is.
For lots of people, I may as well have just admitted that I have human hides lining my freezer.
I never wanted kids. Not even remotely. But there's a huge stigma attached to choosing the childfree lifestyle. People always feel they have the right to ask - when am I having kids? Why don't I have them yet? And they don't take no for an answer.
Oh, you'll change your mind, they say.
Which, incidentally, isn't true, and is massively disrespectful.
I used to feel that way too, but then I had kids and now they're the light of my life.
Which is an even stupider thing to say. If you change your mind, you were never childfree to begin with. 'Childfree' is not a waiting period or a holding pattern. It's not what you are before you have kids. It's what you are if you feel in your soul that it's the right and permanent thing for you.
I don't hate children. I don't hate the people that have children (or at least, not all of them, and not by default). But many of them have no qualms about expressing pointed hatred toward me and people like me, just because I don't share the same fertility goals as they do.
Here's the deal: children are not mandatory, they are not an obligation to all married couples. Some people cannot have children. Some people do not want them. Somehow, we manage to have very fulfilling lives anyway -
despite the people who tells us we're incredibly selfish (never mind that deciding NOT to have kids is exactly as selfish as deciding TO have kids - we make a choice and do what we want)
despite the people who tell us we deserve to die alone (meaning, Jason and I will check ourselves into an old folks' home instead of having our ungrateful children do it for us)
despite the people who look inquiringly at my stomach and ask oh, what's wrong with you? (because if it's not a physical plumbing problem, it's obviously a mental one)
despite the people who say that "people like us" shouldn't be breeding anyway (you know, because the world does not need more open-minded liberals, right?)
despite the people who cluck and say, oh, but you seem like such nice people (obviously, this opinion needs to be revised once our repulsive lifestyle is revealed).
When people ask about the kids issue, I'm pretty upfront about it. I don't want kids. We're not having kids. We're pretty damn happy about that. But it doesn't always pay to speak up.
Valerie Francescato, host of a childfree podcast, is under fire recently for daring to say that she doesn't want babies. She has been submitted to such indignities as these:
Look, if she doesn't want to have kids, that's fine, but there's no need to form an organization about it, which will inevitably escalate into demanding special rights and privileges. Besides, who'd want to procreate with these broads anyway? These women couldn't get a man if it was closing time at the bar and were the only guys inside of it.
and
I really wish here mother made the decision to be child free.
and
First, her thinly-guised childless self-admiration club is more practically a post-abortion guilt-avoidance club as in "I made the right decisions -didn't I?" These people are nothing more than narcissistic, self-serving oxygen thieves! Their voting rights should be rescinded.
Right. Except for the fact that the world is practically overrun by support groups for parents. Because nobody says boo about the 8 million Mommy Bloggers, but if a group of women get together and talk about their own experiences that happen to be opposite, suddenly it's terrible. There are television shows and sections of the newspaper and entire magazines devoted to the "joys of parenting" - but apparently the rest of us should just sit quietly.
It's hard to be a minority in this world. Personally, I'm not looking for "privileges" - I just like fairness. And there are a lot of things that just aren't fair. It's not fair, for example, that at Jason's work, he pays $8 a month for health insurance. To add me, the "family" premium is $42 a month, because though we are only 2 people, we are expected to subsidize families that have 17 children. Is that fair? No, it's not. It's not fair when a workplace offers the perk of free childcare without offering a childfree alternative to those of us without kids. Perks are a part of your income package. If you are excluded from cashing in on those perks, that's not fair either. I don't want anything crazy - I just expect equality from the world, and sometimes the world is slow to offer it.
But I think that if brave people like Valerie continue to speak up for what's right - and for a valid if somewhat uncommon choice - then maybe the world will advance by tiny increments. In the meantime, I'm happy to be a purple woman, and a member of the Toronto chapter of No Kidding. I'm not anti-kid. Since 99% of people have children, 99% of my friends have them also. I enjoy kids for the most part. I like being an aunt, or a god-mother, even an occasional babysitter. But once a month, it's nice for me to get together with a group of people who have conversation that at no point mentions diapers, or snotty noses, or the wiggles. It's almost surreal that for 3 whole hours, a group of adults can manage not to mention children. That never happens naturally in the real world.
It's much harder to not have children than to have them. Lots of people get accidentally pregnant, but it takes thought and planning to stay without. I don't know what drives people to have kids. I have no idea what compels a woman to grow a baby. No idea. I've never felt even a small stirring. I think pregnancy is a beautiful thing though, in the same way I think Renoirs are beautiful, and like to visit them in museums, but have no intention of hanging one on my wall, since they don't particularly suit my furniture or my personality.
I'm happy for the people who love their kids. I'm sad for the ones that never wanted kids but had them anyway, and let them know it. I knew my family was complete the day I married Jason. Maybe mine is a small family, as families go, but it's a happy one, and I like it very much, just as it is.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Why Science Fiction Sucks the Big One: An Expository Essay
Good lord I hate science fiction.
I tried to keep an open mind, I really did, but the first sentence that goes a little something like "and then we ate some freeze-dried meatloaf" or "you walk through this portal to get to the next planet" and my mind just slams firmly shut in a stunning display of superiority and snobbery.
I guess my main beef with stupid science fiction is that the authors' imaginations are always so limited. Space travel quickly becomes a bore: the aliens always look vaguely like humans, but maybe their skin is green, or their craniums are disproportionately large (as if all intelligent creatures are humanoid by default!); travel is quick, but somehow it's always done by a variation on the theme of rocket ship which is totally improbable (we move everything else virtually, or by fiber optics, but somehow for outer space, we like to travel by tin can); humans invariably start colonizing other planets, which are always conveniently similar to earth, even their atmospheres are amazingly not a problem for human lungs.
You can usually tell what decade a sci-fi story was written in. In the 70s, writers apparently believed that in the future, even centuries or millennia into the future, there would still be disco, but this disco would just have a lot more lasers and holograms to it, and the platform shoes would double as moon boots.
Lame!!!
But science-fiction writers appear to be even less able to imagine the future than the average cat. In the eighteenth century, science fiction consisted of: we travel to places quite quickly with our new hover-horses, and we wear hoop skirts with many pockets in them, convenient for storing our super-cool gadgets, like the combination garlic press\candle stick that comes in handy ever so often and we have no idea how people used to live without them, and a loaf of bread costs a whole 90 cents these days! Science fiction today is pretty much the same crap, with different hover crafts, and slightly different gadgets, but never different by much, and slightly different spellings, like putting a K where a C belonged.
Lame!!!!
Science fiction writers seem to only be able to predict, say, the next 20 minutes or so. I just finished reading Snow Crash, for example, which was a pretty decent read, except the entire novel was discredited for me by its constant referral to videotape. I mean, this story was written in 1992, which means that videotape was obsolete about 46 days after publication. How can I possibly envision this future when I already know that tape is a relic of the past?
Lame!!!!
It's painful for me to read this crap. It's also painful that this stuff is labeled 'science fiction'. Better possible names for the genre:
stunted imaginations
unscientific-barely-educated-conjecture
laser-licious
nerd alert!
books that will make fools of their authors about 30 minutes after they're published
God I hate science fiction.
Although....one of my all-time favourite books is The Handmaid's Tale, which seems misplaced to me in the science fiction section, but there it is. What's the difference?
Well, for one thing, it doesn't emphasize silver parachute pants as the major fashion statement of the year 3287. Gadget talk is kept to a minimum. The usual trappings that only serve to stem and date an author are cast aside for what's really interesting about the future - I mean, who cares how much storage my computer will have 15 minutes from now? Instead, Margaret Atwood tells us of the human experience, the psychology of the future, the moral implications of living in an ever-changing world. I was much, much less in love with Oryx and Crake. It hurts me to say that my favourite author may have fallen prey to the sci-fi formula that I find so repulsive.
But as I think about it, I realize I have also read and enjoyed a lot of Isaac Asimov's work. Normally, the merest mention of 'robot' would have me running for the hills, but Asimov has more in common with Atwood than you might first think. While she writes about human morality (or lack thereof), he writes about machine morality (or lack thereof). These are equally compelling when done right, and equally appalling when done wrong, which it so, so often is.
Dan Simmons, I am sorry to say, you are a moron. Your "frightening alien" seemed more to me like the recycling of "swamp thing", only with sharper fingers.
Lame!!!!
Douglas Coupland, I am not sorry to say, I seriously doubt that the future consists solely of people getting gayer. Why are all the men of your future nerdy metrosexuals?
Lame!!!!
After you read a few of these books, you quickly get the impression that these guys live in mouldy basements with the same curling Star Wars posters on the wall, and tatty underwear in their drawers, and underused toothbrushes drying out by their sinks. Science Fiction is often paired with or synonymous with fantasy, which is ironic, isn't it? I mean, what kind of fantasy is pretty much like reality, except with slightly smaller cellphones with slightly better reception?
Dream bigger, boys!
I know, I know, I'm being awfully hard on science fiction novels here.
If it makes you feel any better, there is one thing I hate more than reading science fiction, and that's watching it. George Lucas, you'd better know you're on my shit list too. I'm coming for you, baby.
I tried to keep an open mind, I really did, but the first sentence that goes a little something like "and then we ate some freeze-dried meatloaf" or "you walk through this portal to get to the next planet" and my mind just slams firmly shut in a stunning display of superiority and snobbery.
I guess my main beef with stupid science fiction is that the authors' imaginations are always so limited. Space travel quickly becomes a bore: the aliens always look vaguely like humans, but maybe their skin is green, or their craniums are disproportionately large (as if all intelligent creatures are humanoid by default!); travel is quick, but somehow it's always done by a variation on the theme of rocket ship which is totally improbable (we move everything else virtually, or by fiber optics, but somehow for outer space, we like to travel by tin can); humans invariably start colonizing other planets, which are always conveniently similar to earth, even their atmospheres are amazingly not a problem for human lungs.
You can usually tell what decade a sci-fi story was written in. In the 70s, writers apparently believed that in the future, even centuries or millennia into the future, there would still be disco, but this disco would just have a lot more lasers and holograms to it, and the platform shoes would double as moon boots.
Lame!!!
But science-fiction writers appear to be even less able to imagine the future than the average cat. In the eighteenth century, science fiction consisted of: we travel to places quite quickly with our new hover-horses, and we wear hoop skirts with many pockets in them, convenient for storing our super-cool gadgets, like the combination garlic press\candle stick that comes in handy ever so often and we have no idea how people used to live without them, and a loaf of bread costs a whole 90 cents these days! Science fiction today is pretty much the same crap, with different hover crafts, and slightly different gadgets, but never different by much, and slightly different spellings, like putting a K where a C belonged.
Lame!!!!
Science fiction writers seem to only be able to predict, say, the next 20 minutes or so. I just finished reading Snow Crash, for example, which was a pretty decent read, except the entire novel was discredited for me by its constant referral to videotape. I mean, this story was written in 1992, which means that videotape was obsolete about 46 days after publication. How can I possibly envision this future when I already know that tape is a relic of the past?
Lame!!!!
It's painful for me to read this crap. It's also painful that this stuff is labeled 'science fiction'. Better possible names for the genre:
stunted imaginations
unscientific-barely-educated-conjecture
laser-licious
nerd alert!
books that will make fools of their authors about 30 minutes after they're published
God I hate science fiction.
Although....one of my all-time favourite books is The Handmaid's Tale, which seems misplaced to me in the science fiction section, but there it is. What's the difference?
Well, for one thing, it doesn't emphasize silver parachute pants as the major fashion statement of the year 3287. Gadget talk is kept to a minimum. The usual trappings that only serve to stem and date an author are cast aside for what's really interesting about the future - I mean, who cares how much storage my computer will have 15 minutes from now? Instead, Margaret Atwood tells us of the human experience, the psychology of the future, the moral implications of living in an ever-changing world. I was much, much less in love with Oryx and Crake. It hurts me to say that my favourite author may have fallen prey to the sci-fi formula that I find so repulsive.
But as I think about it, I realize I have also read and enjoyed a lot of Isaac Asimov's work. Normally, the merest mention of 'robot' would have me running for the hills, but Asimov has more in common with Atwood than you might first think. While she writes about human morality (or lack thereof), he writes about machine morality (or lack thereof). These are equally compelling when done right, and equally appalling when done wrong, which it so, so often is.
Dan Simmons, I am sorry to say, you are a moron. Your "frightening alien" seemed more to me like the recycling of "swamp thing", only with sharper fingers.
Lame!!!!
Douglas Coupland, I am not sorry to say, I seriously doubt that the future consists solely of people getting gayer. Why are all the men of your future nerdy metrosexuals?
Lame!!!!
After you read a few of these books, you quickly get the impression that these guys live in mouldy basements with the same curling Star Wars posters on the wall, and tatty underwear in their drawers, and underused toothbrushes drying out by their sinks. Science Fiction is often paired with or synonymous with fantasy, which is ironic, isn't it? I mean, what kind of fantasy is pretty much like reality, except with slightly smaller cellphones with slightly better reception?
Dream bigger, boys!
I know, I know, I'm being awfully hard on science fiction novels here.
If it makes you feel any better, there is one thing I hate more than reading science fiction, and that's watching it. George Lucas, you'd better know you're on my shit list too. I'm coming for you, baby.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Estrangement
It's such an unsatisfactory word, estrangement. It's so hollow, so impersonal.
It lacks the emotional gravity to convey the loss, the loneliness, the rejection.
It doesn't accurately describe the reality of being motherless.
It doesn't express the ache of the 652 days that you've spent not talking to her, not belonging, not loved.
It doesn't tell us about the desperation of the day you learned that unconditional love is just another fairy tale that doesn't apply to you.
It doesn't effectively communicate how it feels to be told that she used to think she had room in her heart for all 4 daughters, but now she knows she doesn't, and you're the one to go.
It doesn't imply the heart break or the bitterness, or the strength it takes to move on. It simply suggests that two people have become strangers, perhaps indicating that they were once close, but no longer are.
Except that in our case, we never really were.
And it leaves me wondering, if it was so easy for her to stop, did she ever really love me in the first place?
I rage against the failure of the English language because it's easier than saying this:
my mother doesn't love me.
It lacks the emotional gravity to convey the loss, the loneliness, the rejection.
It doesn't accurately describe the reality of being motherless.
It doesn't express the ache of the 652 days that you've spent not talking to her, not belonging, not loved.
It doesn't tell us about the desperation of the day you learned that unconditional love is just another fairy tale that doesn't apply to you.
It doesn't effectively communicate how it feels to be told that she used to think she had room in her heart for all 4 daughters, but now she knows she doesn't, and you're the one to go.
It doesn't imply the heart break or the bitterness, or the strength it takes to move on. It simply suggests that two people have become strangers, perhaps indicating that they were once close, but no longer are.
Except that in our case, we never really were.
And it leaves me wondering, if it was so easy for her to stop, did she ever really love me in the first place?
I rage against the failure of the English language because it's easier than saying this:
my mother doesn't love me.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Hello. My name is Jamie; I'm a Canadian and I hate hockey.
So help me god.
When we moved to Toronto from Ottawa, our new landlord actually thought it was important to warn us that we should cheer for the Senators very quietly if we didn't want to be knifed.
No problem.
My IQ is like, oh, 100 points too high to think that hockey is any way, shape or form, entertaining. I mean, it's just a bunch of guys who would otherwise be unemployed, and most of whom are too dumb to tie their own skates, smashing into each other on ice. It's just ice capades on steroids really, and with dumber costumes and less attractive men. For most of these numbskulls, the drunk tank is their second home, and yet we arm them with blades and big sticks, and then sell tickets at 200 bucks a pop to see who can have the most teeth knocked out. Frankly, I think fans of hockey are not much smarter than the players.
But hey, that's just me. Just because I think literacy and culture are more worthy pursuits than watching a neanderthal chase a tiny black puck doesn't mean that anyone else does. For the most part, it's easy enough to stay oblivious to the whole hockey thing. I avoid the sports page and any drinking establishment where a large proportion of the patrons wear jerseys, and I do okay. Except when I go home.
Like many Canadians, I come from a mixed family. Some of them (inexplicably) like the Habs. Some of them (fervently) like the Leafs (there are Canucks and Sens fans in the mix also, but these teams are mostly peripheral). This has created a rift in the family that gets particularly nasty during match-ups and play-offs. My sister is a die-hard Leafs fan. Her life's ambition is to marry Mats Sundin. Her bedroom looks like the Leafs giftshop had explosive diarrhea in it. My grandfather, who is also a Leafs fan, pretends to be a Canadiens fan just to rile her up. There have been tears at Christmas dinner because of this.
As for myself, well, I can think of about a kabillion things I'd rather do on a Saturday night than sit in a ratty recliner eating pork rinds and drinking cheap beer, and screaming at the TV because the damn ref isn't calling icing on the other team.
When we moved to Toronto from Ottawa, our new landlord actually thought it was important to warn us that we should cheer for the Senators very quietly if we didn't want to be knifed.
No problem.
My IQ is like, oh, 100 points too high to think that hockey is any way, shape or form, entertaining. I mean, it's just a bunch of guys who would otherwise be unemployed, and most of whom are too dumb to tie their own skates, smashing into each other on ice. It's just ice capades on steroids really, and with dumber costumes and less attractive men. For most of these numbskulls, the drunk tank is their second home, and yet we arm them with blades and big sticks, and then sell tickets at 200 bucks a pop to see who can have the most teeth knocked out. Frankly, I think fans of hockey are not much smarter than the players.
But hey, that's just me. Just because I think literacy and culture are more worthy pursuits than watching a neanderthal chase a tiny black puck doesn't mean that anyone else does. For the most part, it's easy enough to stay oblivious to the whole hockey thing. I avoid the sports page and any drinking establishment where a large proportion of the patrons wear jerseys, and I do okay. Except when I go home.
Like many Canadians, I come from a mixed family. Some of them (inexplicably) like the Habs. Some of them (fervently) like the Leafs (there are Canucks and Sens fans in the mix also, but these teams are mostly peripheral). This has created a rift in the family that gets particularly nasty during match-ups and play-offs. My sister is a die-hard Leafs fan. Her life's ambition is to marry Mats Sundin. Her bedroom looks like the Leafs giftshop had explosive diarrhea in it. My grandfather, who is also a Leafs fan, pretends to be a Canadiens fan just to rile her up. There have been tears at Christmas dinner because of this.
As for myself, well, I can think of about a kabillion things I'd rather do on a Saturday night than sit in a ratty recliner eating pork rinds and drinking cheap beer, and screaming at the TV because the damn ref isn't calling icing on the other team.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
What I Learned From Disney
Cartoons are inherently sexist. If I was a parent, I can tell you positively that most of the Disney collection would be outlawed from my home, and the hugely successful princess line would not be fit to line the cat litter box.
"Hello, my name is Belle. I am beautiful and smart, and yet I managed to fall in love with my abusive kidnapper."
"I'm Ariel, and I learned that in order to land a man, you have to transform yourself physically and never speak up again."
This is what the next generation of women will have grown up learning. Women should lie passively until their prince charming decides to come rescue them. Inspiring, isn't it? And yet, we're lucky to have even these role models, because other than the princesses, it's hard to find a female character. Male characters vastly outnumber the females, and I'm not just talking Disney, I mean every animated film house.
Main characters of the most popular animated films:
Toy Story: Woody, Andy, Buzz Lightyear 0/3
Lion King: Simba, Pumba, Timon, Scar, Mufasa: 0/5
Monsters, Inc: Mike, Sully, Boo, Randall: 1/4
Aladdin: Aladdin, Genie, Jasmine, Jafar, Sultan: 1/5
Shrek: Shrek, Donkey, Princess Fiona, Lord Farquaad:1/4
Ice Age: Manfred, Sid, Diego: 0/3
Winnie The Pooh: Pooh, Piglet, Eeyore, Rabbit, Christopher Robin, Tiger, Gopher, Owl, Kanga, Roo: 1/10
Finding Nemo: Nemo, Dorie, Marlin: 1/3
Grand total: 5 females out of 37 characters ...and I'm not even sure if we should count Fiona or Jasmine since they're princesses!
(Aside: Is anyone else concerned that Winnie the Pooh is basically all male, except for Roo's Mom? Is this the biggest gay orgy ever, cleverly disguised? I have nothing against gay orgies, but I do wonder how exactly this forrest continues to thrive with no females.)
There are a multitude of male characters that get into all kinds of scrapes and adventures: James and the Giant Peach, Hercules, Jimmy Neutron, The Fox and The Hound, The Emperor's New Groove, Tarzan, Robin Hood, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Peter Pan, Dumbo...But females rarely get the title position, and if they do, you bet they're princesses: The Little Mermaid, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella. I want a girl who scrapes her knees and gets her fingernails dirty,who goes on adventures and takes risks. I want to see a girl who reads books and is good at science, a girl who wears shorts and rubber boots instead of dresses and glass slippers. I want to see a girl catch frogs and save the day. But all I see are girls who lie in wait, blushing and tittering.
There are 2 exceptions to the rule, that I can see: Mulan, and Pocahontas, incidentally two movies that I own and cherish. Pocahontas is the disneyfied story of a girl who embraced all people and brought peace to her troubled village through love and acceptance. Mulan is the story of a girl who replaces her ailing father in a Chinese war and ends up being the hero(ine). Finally, movies I would not be ashamed or apprehensive to show my daughters. Even without blonde hair and blue eyes, you can find love and accomplish things. Even as a poor, undereducated woman, you can win the respect of your peers with hard work and perserverance. This sounds more like the kind of thing young girls should be exposed to, and yet these are rarities.
Mulan dressed for battle:
Smart, strong, brave. But make no mistake: Disney doesn't make role models, they make money. Therefore, I shouldn't be surprise when they pimp out Mulan to make her princess-friendly. Make no mistake, these movies are still far from perfect, but I would rather see a woman who 'can paint with all the colours of the wind' than a girl who hopes that 'some day my prince will come.' Sigh.
Girls will only fancy the doll if she's in a dress. Forget the spirit of Mulan, forget who she is and what she stands for, give her heels and blush and fashion accessories, dammit! Make her pink. Girls are all about the pink.
I hang my head in shame. Mulan, I think you had it right: when I grow up, I want to be a boy.
"Hello, my name is Belle. I am beautiful and smart, and yet I managed to fall in love with my abusive kidnapper."
"I'm Ariel, and I learned that in order to land a man, you have to transform yourself physically and never speak up again."
This is what the next generation of women will have grown up learning. Women should lie passively until their prince charming decides to come rescue them. Inspiring, isn't it? And yet, we're lucky to have even these role models, because other than the princesses, it's hard to find a female character. Male characters vastly outnumber the females, and I'm not just talking Disney, I mean every animated film house.
Main characters of the most popular animated films:
Toy Story: Woody, Andy, Buzz Lightyear 0/3
Lion King: Simba, Pumba, Timon, Scar, Mufasa: 0/5
Monsters, Inc: Mike, Sully, Boo, Randall: 1/4
Aladdin: Aladdin, Genie, Jasmine, Jafar, Sultan: 1/5
Shrek: Shrek, Donkey, Princess Fiona, Lord Farquaad:1/4
Ice Age: Manfred, Sid, Diego: 0/3
Winnie The Pooh: Pooh, Piglet, Eeyore, Rabbit, Christopher Robin, Tiger, Gopher, Owl, Kanga, Roo: 1/10
Finding Nemo: Nemo, Dorie, Marlin: 1/3
Grand total: 5 females out of 37 characters ...and I'm not even sure if we should count Fiona or Jasmine since they're princesses!
(Aside: Is anyone else concerned that Winnie the Pooh is basically all male, except for Roo's Mom? Is this the biggest gay orgy ever, cleverly disguised? I have nothing against gay orgies, but I do wonder how exactly this forrest continues to thrive with no females.)
There are a multitude of male characters that get into all kinds of scrapes and adventures: James and the Giant Peach, Hercules, Jimmy Neutron, The Fox and The Hound, The Emperor's New Groove, Tarzan, Robin Hood, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Peter Pan, Dumbo...But females rarely get the title position, and if they do, you bet they're princesses: The Little Mermaid, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella. I want a girl who scrapes her knees and gets her fingernails dirty,who goes on adventures and takes risks. I want to see a girl who reads books and is good at science, a girl who wears shorts and rubber boots instead of dresses and glass slippers. I want to see a girl catch frogs and save the day. But all I see are girls who lie in wait, blushing and tittering.
There are 2 exceptions to the rule, that I can see: Mulan, and Pocahontas, incidentally two movies that I own and cherish. Pocahontas is the disneyfied story of a girl who embraced all people and brought peace to her troubled village through love and acceptance. Mulan is the story of a girl who replaces her ailing father in a Chinese war and ends up being the hero(ine). Finally, movies I would not be ashamed or apprehensive to show my daughters. Even without blonde hair and blue eyes, you can find love and accomplish things. Even as a poor, undereducated woman, you can win the respect of your peers with hard work and perserverance. This sounds more like the kind of thing young girls should be exposed to, and yet these are rarities.
Mulan dressed for battle:
Smart, strong, brave. But make no mistake: Disney doesn't make role models, they make money. Therefore, I shouldn't be surprise when they pimp out Mulan to make her princess-friendly. Make no mistake, these movies are still far from perfect, but I would rather see a woman who 'can paint with all the colours of the wind' than a girl who hopes that 'some day my prince will come.' Sigh.
Girls will only fancy the doll if she's in a dress. Forget the spirit of Mulan, forget who she is and what she stands for, give her heels and blush and fashion accessories, dammit! Make her pink. Girls are all about the pink.
I hang my head in shame. Mulan, I think you had it right: when I grow up, I want to be a boy.
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Shocking New Interview About Wendy's "Finger" Incident!
Even though I haven't eaten at Wendy's since 2000 when I threw up their Spicy Chicken sandwich, I was just as concerned about the finger-in-the-chili incident as the next guy. Unless the next guy is Jason, because that man loves his chili, and my concern just doesn't measure up to his. Anyhoo, in order to get to the bottom of this disturbing find, I thought I'd go right to the top dog, and interview the founder of Wendy's, Mr. Dave Thomas.
Look, the guy from all the commercials!
The only problem is, Dave Thomas has been dead for 3 years, and one of the feet on my Ouija Board broke off last time I had a heated discussion with Jimmy Beam. So, I went with the next best thing, an interview with his granddaughter, Miss Sabrina Thomas.
Jay: Thanks for being with us today, Sabrina.
Sabrina: No problem.
J: So what do you think your grandfather would have said about "FingerGate"?
S: Oh, he's not too happy about it. He says he'll never eat at Wendy's again.
J: He won't? Wow, that's shocking.
S: Not really. He's pretty stubborn. He hasn't eaten at McDonald's since they got rid of the McRib in 1983.
J: He used to eat at McDonald's? Isn't that a conflict of interest? What about consumer confidence?
S: I don't know what you mean.
J: I just mean that I don't think Dave Thomas should be seen eating anywhere but at Wendy's. Stocks would plummet; it would be terrible for business.
S: Isn't Dave Thomas dead?
J: You should know, he's your grandfather!
S: No he's not. My grandfather is Artie Thomas. He used to be a steel worker, but now he just drives around town on this little motor scooter, scaring small children with his false teeth.
J: Are you sure?
S: Yes I'm sure! Jeez lady, what did you do, just open the phone book to the Thomas section and pick someone at random?
J: Um...no.
S: I see.
J: Well, do you have any relation to Dave Thomas at all? Any affiliation with Wendy's?
S: Not really. I had a baked potato there the other day.
J: Shit. This really fucks up the rest of my interview. Listen, do you think you could just pretend, or something?
S: I guess...
J: Okay, so Miss Thomas, what's it like being the heiress to a fortune? Do you hang out with the Hiltons?
S: Well, I've seen Paris Hilton on TV before. That girl has a face like a horse.
J: So you're not close personal friends then?
S: No.
J: What do you do then? What's a day in the life of Sabrina Thomas like?
S: Well, I get up, eat breakfast, take the bus to school, go -
J: You take the bus to school?
S: Limo. I meant limo. Sorry. I take the limo to school.
J: You still go to school? I thought heiresses all dropped out when they were 12 to get plastic surgery and become anorexic fashion models.
S: Oh. Right.
J: So, did it hurt?
S: Did what hurt?
J: Your boob job!
S: Um...yes?
J: I thought so. Jeez, you’d think your grand-dad would have sprung for more than just a B cup. Is he pretty stingy? I thought Wendy’s was doing pretty well, but then why not the bigger model?
S: Listen, this is getting weird –
J: Okay, fine. We’ll let the before and after pictures speak for themselves.
S: I have to meet my boyfriend in 10 minutes, so if you could just wrap this up –
J: Boyfriend? What boyfriend? Who are you seeing? Orlando Bloom? Josh Hartnett? One of the Hobbits?
S: No. His name is Ronald. He’s a senior at Rydell High –
J: Oooh, I bet it’s Nick Carter! That boy just loves the rich bitches. So, has he tattooed your name anywhere yet? It would be cool if he tattooed the Wendy’s logo to his bicep. Wendy’s would get some better press anyway.
S: I guess so.
J: So tell me, how is Nick Carter these days? He’s gotten chubby since he broke up with Paris. Is it drugs, or is he just depressed that the Back Door Boys are splitting up?
S: The Back Street Boys are splitting up?
J: I don’t know, you tell me!
S: I really don’t know anything about it.
J: What are you, the new Ono or something? Don’t be so coy.
S: I just...no comment.
J: Fine, fine, have it your way. You don't have to be so secretive. I don’t work for the tabloids you know.
S: I kind of figured that. Your ‘press credentials’ look a lot like a library card.
J: Shut up!
S: You shut up!
J: Oh, real mature.
S: Listen lady, I’m just a high school kid who is trying to be nice to a lady who obviously didn’t take her meds this morning. I don’t have to stay here and take this.
J: Oh, please stay. We were just getting to the juicy stuff. It’ll be over soon, I promise.
S: Fine.
J: I won’t even mention your boyfriend anymore. But you know, the secret’s only safe until the paparazzi catch you two having a Jamba Juice or something, and then it will blow up in your face. You better start wearing a little more makeup. And tell Nick to do a few more crunches.
S: He’s not my boyfriend!
J: Okay, okay! Jeez, can someone say Diva much? Let’s just move along to the next question, shall we? What do you think about the new Louis Vuitton line this season? Is green really the new pink?
S: I wouldn’t know.
J: Oh, is Louis Vuitton out this year? Did you send Jessica Simpson that memo?
S: Uh, no.
J: So where do you go for all your handbag needs then?
S: Oh, Target, mostly.
J: Target?
S: Yes.
J: Target?
S: Yes.
J: Honey, you might want to keep that little nugget to yourself when the reality shows come sniffing.
S: Well, thanks for the unsolicited advice.
J: No problem.
( uncomfortable silence)
( 7 minutes later)
J: Well?
S: Well what? You didn’t ask me any questions.
J: You know, they say Russell Crowe is a real bitch to work with, but you’ve got an attitude on you bigger than 100 old-fashioned hamburgers stacked back to back.
S: Okay, lady, this interview is over. I hope you get medical treatment for your condition.
J: Wait, come back! Please! We can talk about the ski season in Aspen! I'll be good, I promise! Come back! I have nothing else to put on my blog this week, and Ashton Kutcher's third cousin's best friend's neighbour's hair-dresser just took a restraining order out on me...
[end transcript]
Look, the guy from all the commercials!
The only problem is, Dave Thomas has been dead for 3 years, and one of the feet on my Ouija Board broke off last time I had a heated discussion with Jimmy Beam. So, I went with the next best thing, an interview with his granddaughter, Miss Sabrina Thomas.
Jay: Thanks for being with us today, Sabrina.
Sabrina: No problem.
J: So what do you think your grandfather would have said about "FingerGate"?
S: Oh, he's not too happy about it. He says he'll never eat at Wendy's again.
J: He won't? Wow, that's shocking.
S: Not really. He's pretty stubborn. He hasn't eaten at McDonald's since they got rid of the McRib in 1983.
J: He used to eat at McDonald's? Isn't that a conflict of interest? What about consumer confidence?
S: I don't know what you mean.
J: I just mean that I don't think Dave Thomas should be seen eating anywhere but at Wendy's. Stocks would plummet; it would be terrible for business.
S: Isn't Dave Thomas dead?
J: You should know, he's your grandfather!
S: No he's not. My grandfather is Artie Thomas. He used to be a steel worker, but now he just drives around town on this little motor scooter, scaring small children with his false teeth.
J: Are you sure?
S: Yes I'm sure! Jeez lady, what did you do, just open the phone book to the Thomas section and pick someone at random?
J: Um...no.
S: I see.
J: Well, do you have any relation to Dave Thomas at all? Any affiliation with Wendy's?
S: Not really. I had a baked potato there the other day.
J: Shit. This really fucks up the rest of my interview. Listen, do you think you could just pretend, or something?
S: I guess...
J: Okay, so Miss Thomas, what's it like being the heiress to a fortune? Do you hang out with the Hiltons?
S: Well, I've seen Paris Hilton on TV before. That girl has a face like a horse.
J: So you're not close personal friends then?
S: No.
J: What do you do then? What's a day in the life of Sabrina Thomas like?
S: Well, I get up, eat breakfast, take the bus to school, go -
J: You take the bus to school?
S: Limo. I meant limo. Sorry. I take the limo to school.
J: You still go to school? I thought heiresses all dropped out when they were 12 to get plastic surgery and become anorexic fashion models.
S: Oh. Right.
J: So, did it hurt?
S: Did what hurt?
J: Your boob job!
S: Um...yes?
J: I thought so. Jeez, you’d think your grand-dad would have sprung for more than just a B cup. Is he pretty stingy? I thought Wendy’s was doing pretty well, but then why not the bigger model?
S: Listen, this is getting weird –
J: Okay, fine. We’ll let the before and after pictures speak for themselves.
S: I have to meet my boyfriend in 10 minutes, so if you could just wrap this up –
J: Boyfriend? What boyfriend? Who are you seeing? Orlando Bloom? Josh Hartnett? One of the Hobbits?
S: No. His name is Ronald. He’s a senior at Rydell High –
J: Oooh, I bet it’s Nick Carter! That boy just loves the rich bitches. So, has he tattooed your name anywhere yet? It would be cool if he tattooed the Wendy’s logo to his bicep. Wendy’s would get some better press anyway.
S: I guess so.
J: So tell me, how is Nick Carter these days? He’s gotten chubby since he broke up with Paris. Is it drugs, or is he just depressed that the Back Door Boys are splitting up?
S: The Back Street Boys are splitting up?
J: I don’t know, you tell me!
S: I really don’t know anything about it.
J: What are you, the new Ono or something? Don’t be so coy.
S: I just...no comment.
J: Fine, fine, have it your way. You don't have to be so secretive. I don’t work for the tabloids you know.
S: I kind of figured that. Your ‘press credentials’ look a lot like a library card.
J: Shut up!
S: You shut up!
J: Oh, real mature.
S: Listen lady, I’m just a high school kid who is trying to be nice to a lady who obviously didn’t take her meds this morning. I don’t have to stay here and take this.
J: Oh, please stay. We were just getting to the juicy stuff. It’ll be over soon, I promise.
S: Fine.
J: I won’t even mention your boyfriend anymore. But you know, the secret’s only safe until the paparazzi catch you two having a Jamba Juice or something, and then it will blow up in your face. You better start wearing a little more makeup. And tell Nick to do a few more crunches.
S: He’s not my boyfriend!
J: Okay, okay! Jeez, can someone say Diva much? Let’s just move along to the next question, shall we? What do you think about the new Louis Vuitton line this season? Is green really the new pink?
S: I wouldn’t know.
J: Oh, is Louis Vuitton out this year? Did you send Jessica Simpson that memo?
S: Uh, no.
J: So where do you go for all your handbag needs then?
S: Oh, Target, mostly.
J: Target?
S: Yes.
J: Target?
S: Yes.
J: Honey, you might want to keep that little nugget to yourself when the reality shows come sniffing.
S: Well, thanks for the unsolicited advice.
J: No problem.
( uncomfortable silence)
( 7 minutes later)
J: Well?
S: Well what? You didn’t ask me any questions.
J: You know, they say Russell Crowe is a real bitch to work with, but you’ve got an attitude on you bigger than 100 old-fashioned hamburgers stacked back to back.
S: Okay, lady, this interview is over. I hope you get medical treatment for your condition.
J: Wait, come back! Please! We can talk about the ski season in Aspen! I'll be good, I promise! Come back! I have nothing else to put on my blog this week, and Ashton Kutcher's third cousin's best friend's neighbour's hair-dresser just took a restraining order out on me...
[end transcript]
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Things Are Not Always As They Appear
Last week, I wrote a post about The GAP. I had no idea that people's sentiments toward this establishment ran so deeply. Rusty was disgusted with a post on clothes, and wrote that he hoped it was a "metaphor...for something." And without really knowing it, Rusty was right. It was a metaphor.
As my husband says, as a post about clothes, it was pretty crappy. As a post about God, it's more up to your usual standards.
Feel free to reread it and draw your own conclusions.
I grew up in a Catholic family. My mother was a Catholic like her mother before her (whereas GAP was only founded in 1969, which would make it an impossibility for my grandmother to have shopped there). When I was born, there was no question that I would be a Catholic too.. For the first several years of my life, religious decisions were made for me. I was baptized a Catholic before I was even old enough to know what it was, or that there were other choices.
I went to a Catholic school, but for a brief period of time, there was one boy in my class who was different. He was Presbyterian. He was excused from class when read the Bible, learned prayers, or went to confession (did any of you actually read GAP catalogues in class?). He was a mystery to us until the day he left. We whispered to each other about him for weeks: sure, he went to church like did, but a different kind where they didn't take communion or believe in the same things.
When I grew older, the alternatives called my name. There was something more than just Catholicism out there, and I wanted to explore it. I liked what I found. Dogmas that fit me better, beliefs closer to my own, prayers that I could get behind. Catholicism, for me, had always been lacking. In my adolescence, I stopped going to church.
My mother was devastated. Her religion comforted her, reassured her. Catholicism was like a family tradition, and even if she didn't prescribe to every tenent of the Bible, she never expected that I would turn my back on it completely. She did everything she could to bring me back. She left religious pamphlets in my room. She openly criticized other religious systems. She even had a priest call me to tell me what a valued child of God I had been, and that I would be missing out on all the benefits of being a good Christian, like heaven and salvation. All of these things just pushed me further away. I'd never liked the snobby church members, the elitist environment, or those pretentious rituals. I wanted to worship where all parishioners were treated the same, who weren't discriminated for what they believed when they walked in the doors, who weren't turned away for sexual preferences or which meats they eat on Fridays.
Some people love Catholicism, and always will. I'm okay with that. I'm fine with whatever way you pray, as long as your choice was made by an informed decision.
Today I don't believe in organized religion. I believe in God, and I don't need anyone's help to do that. I do it on my own.
...
Of course, this version is largely metaphor too. My mother didn't actually leave pamphlets. But when it comes to religion, I feel satisfied to write in metaphors because though I may not agree with what the Bible says, I have read it, several times. And Jesus was pretty big on speaking in metaphors too. No mention of The GAP in the Bible though, in case you were wondering.
As my husband says, as a post about clothes, it was pretty crappy. As a post about God, it's more up to your usual standards.
Feel free to reread it and draw your own conclusions.
I grew up in a Catholic family. My mother was a Catholic like her mother before her (whereas GAP was only founded in 1969, which would make it an impossibility for my grandmother to have shopped there). When I was born, there was no question that I would be a Catholic too.. For the first several years of my life, religious decisions were made for me. I was baptized a Catholic before I was even old enough to know what it was, or that there were other choices.
I went to a Catholic school, but for a brief period of time, there was one boy in my class who was different. He was Presbyterian. He was excused from class when read the Bible, learned prayers, or went to confession (did any of you actually read GAP catalogues in class?). He was a mystery to us until the day he left. We whispered to each other about him for weeks: sure, he went to church like did, but a different kind where they didn't take communion or believe in the same things.
When I grew older, the alternatives called my name. There was something more than just Catholicism out there, and I wanted to explore it. I liked what I found. Dogmas that fit me better, beliefs closer to my own, prayers that I could get behind. Catholicism, for me, had always been lacking. In my adolescence, I stopped going to church.
My mother was devastated. Her religion comforted her, reassured her. Catholicism was like a family tradition, and even if she didn't prescribe to every tenent of the Bible, she never expected that I would turn my back on it completely. She did everything she could to bring me back. She left religious pamphlets in my room. She openly criticized other religious systems. She even had a priest call me to tell me what a valued child of God I had been, and that I would be missing out on all the benefits of being a good Christian, like heaven and salvation. All of these things just pushed me further away. I'd never liked the snobby church members, the elitist environment, or those pretentious rituals. I wanted to worship where all parishioners were treated the same, who weren't discriminated for what they believed when they walked in the doors, who weren't turned away for sexual preferences or which meats they eat on Fridays.
Some people love Catholicism, and always will. I'm okay with that. I'm fine with whatever way you pray, as long as your choice was made by an informed decision.
Today I don't believe in organized religion. I believe in God, and I don't need anyone's help to do that. I do it on my own.
...
Of course, this version is largely metaphor too. My mother didn't actually leave pamphlets. But when it comes to religion, I feel satisfied to write in metaphors because though I may not agree with what the Bible says, I have read it, several times. And Jesus was pretty big on speaking in metaphors too. No mention of The GAP in the Bible though, in case you were wondering.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Why I Don't Believe in Gap
I grew up in a Gap family. My mother shopped at The Gap like her mother before her. When I was born, there was no question that I would shop at The Gap too. For the first several years of my life, purchases were made for me. My drawers were filled with khaki, my closet bursting with Gappy goodness. I dressed myself in Gap from head to toe because it was all I knew. I was initiated into Gap before I even knew there was a whole mall full of different choices. I wasn't exposed to the mall though, we went right to the Gap outlet, and stuck to it.
I went to a school where Gap was the uniform, but for a brief period of time, there was one boy in my class who was different. He shopped at Banana Republic. He was excused from class when we flipped through the Gap catalogue, discussed this season's styles, or performed our Gap rituals. He was a mystery to us until the day he left. We whispered to each other about him for weeks: sure, he wore jeans and sweaters like we did, but the sleeves would be shorter, or the colour more muted. It was roughly the same style, but the label was different, and we all knew it.
When I grew older, the mall called my name. There was something more than just The Gap out there, and I wanted to explore it. I liked what I found. Sizes that fit me better, prices that suited my budget, styles that complimented me, shelves well-stocked with what I wanted. The Gap, for me, had always been lacking. Khakis are okay, but sometimes you just want a slutty mini skirt, and The Gap just ain't giving. In my adolescence, I stopped going to The Gap. I tore up my store credit card. Gradually, The Gap line began to filter itself out of my wardrobe.
My mother was devastated. The Gap comforted her, reassured her. The Gap was like a family tradition, and even if she didn't wear every piece of clothing they had, she never expected that I would turn my back on it completely. She did everything she could to bring me back. She left sale flyers in my bedroom. She openly criticized my Silver jeans, my Doc Martens, my Tommy Hilfigger top. She even had a clerk call me to tell me what a valued customer I had been, and that I would be missing out on all sorts of future promotions and customer benefits. All of these things just pushed me further away. I'd never liked the snobby clerks, the elitist environment, or those pretentious headsets they all wear. I wanted to shop at a store where all customers were treated the same, who weren't discriminated for what they wore when they walked in the doors, who weren't turned away for preferring boot-cut to flares.
Some people love The Gap, and always will. I'm okay with that. I'm fine with whatever store you shop at, as long as your choice was made by an informed decision. Shop around, compare the lines, try something on if you're not sure. If The Gap is not for you, there are plenty of valid alternatives. Invest in a line that suits you.
Today my closet is as varied as they get; I don't believe in shopping anywhere exclusively. I know I'm not a nudist, I love clothes way too much, so I wear a style that's all my own, and I can live with that.
I went to a school where Gap was the uniform, but for a brief period of time, there was one boy in my class who was different. He shopped at Banana Republic. He was excused from class when we flipped through the Gap catalogue, discussed this season's styles, or performed our Gap rituals. He was a mystery to us until the day he left. We whispered to each other about him for weeks: sure, he wore jeans and sweaters like we did, but the sleeves would be shorter, or the colour more muted. It was roughly the same style, but the label was different, and we all knew it.
When I grew older, the mall called my name. There was something more than just The Gap out there, and I wanted to explore it. I liked what I found. Sizes that fit me better, prices that suited my budget, styles that complimented me, shelves well-stocked with what I wanted. The Gap, for me, had always been lacking. Khakis are okay, but sometimes you just want a slutty mini skirt, and The Gap just ain't giving. In my adolescence, I stopped going to The Gap. I tore up my store credit card. Gradually, The Gap line began to filter itself out of my wardrobe.
My mother was devastated. The Gap comforted her, reassured her. The Gap was like a family tradition, and even if she didn't wear every piece of clothing they had, she never expected that I would turn my back on it completely. She did everything she could to bring me back. She left sale flyers in my bedroom. She openly criticized my Silver jeans, my Doc Martens, my Tommy Hilfigger top. She even had a clerk call me to tell me what a valued customer I had been, and that I would be missing out on all sorts of future promotions and customer benefits. All of these things just pushed me further away. I'd never liked the snobby clerks, the elitist environment, or those pretentious headsets they all wear. I wanted to shop at a store where all customers were treated the same, who weren't discriminated for what they wore when they walked in the doors, who weren't turned away for preferring boot-cut to flares.
Some people love The Gap, and always will. I'm okay with that. I'm fine with whatever store you shop at, as long as your choice was made by an informed decision. Shop around, compare the lines, try something on if you're not sure. If The Gap is not for you, there are plenty of valid alternatives. Invest in a line that suits you.
Today my closet is as varied as they get; I don't believe in shopping anywhere exclusively. I know I'm not a nudist, I love clothes way too much, so I wear a style that's all my own, and I can live with that.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Jason and Jesus Up in a Tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!
So, just go put this out there, when it comes to God, I think the G-man and I are okay. I don't necessarily go play at his house every week, but if I passed him on the street, I'd be like "Hey, what's up?", and I think he'd respond with a friendly nod. We're buds. So when I say something that sounds blasphemous to you, well, it's different for me. I don't really dig on the bible, nor am I a big fan of the 10 commandments. I mean, I have a list of maybe 37 rules posted for Jason on the fridge, and people have the nerve to call ME bossy! Those are just rules, guidelines for conduct, and the worst that will happen if Jason fails to follow them is divorce. Commandments, on the other hand, are serious business. It's an order. You must, or else. Not friendly at all. And the penalty for insubordination? Eternal damnation. So yeah, when it comes to the G-dawg, I keep things rather simple. I like to keep G on a chummy basis, we pal around some, and I believe he can appreciate a good joke.
So, I signed Jason up to receive a free prayer calendar from Billy Graham. Billy of course was more than excited to have himself a new disciple. He loves to convert heathen like Jason. He wanted to help Jason "find Jesus". I mean, I didn't know Jesus was missing, I haven't seen the posters or his picture on milk cartons or anything, but if Billy says he is, then I guess Billy is right. Billy and God are tight. Right? Well, that's what Billy likes to think anyway.
Another thing that Billy likes to think is that his new converts will enthusiastically send him money so he can help more people find Jesus. Jason has been inundated for requests for cash. Send money now! You can pay to have prayers said for you (how lazy are we?), pay to be saved, pay to save others, pay to send Billy and his family on posh vacations around the world, conveniently called "Missions" to make them sound legit.
This month's cheque should be made out to - get this- saving Australia. The whole damned country. According to the 'literature' Jason received, Australia has turned its back on God. None of them go to church. None of them read the bible. They're a bunch of stinking secularists, and it is our job as good Christians to make them see the light - if not God's light, then at least Billy's. Billy has taken it upon himself to go to Australia this summer and single-handedly churchify them all. It used to be really popular to do this in Africa, but Billy has now realized that Australia has just as many non-Christians, with the added benefit of nicer hotels, Coca-Cola, and air-conditioning.
Personally, I had no idea that Australia was the new "dark continent". Australians look a lot like Canadians, but apparently they're a lot less moral, which is surprising because Canadians aren't super-religious either (especially when we are so close in proximity and therefore compared to red state values). This makes me wonder if perhaps in Australia, they receive donation requests in order to save us agnostic Canadians. I probably am not setting a good example for the Canadian people, but I assure you, we're not all as bad as me. If I burn in hell, at least I'll be warm. Australians don't need hell, they've already got a nice, temperate climate. Don't be so greedy, Australia: you got some good real estate here on earth, let someone else have the prime location in the afterlife, okay?
So, I signed Jason up to receive a free prayer calendar from Billy Graham. Billy of course was more than excited to have himself a new disciple. He loves to convert heathen like Jason. He wanted to help Jason "find Jesus". I mean, I didn't know Jesus was missing, I haven't seen the posters or his picture on milk cartons or anything, but if Billy says he is, then I guess Billy is right. Billy and God are tight. Right? Well, that's what Billy likes to think anyway.
Another thing that Billy likes to think is that his new converts will enthusiastically send him money so he can help more people find Jesus. Jason has been inundated for requests for cash. Send money now! You can pay to have prayers said for you (how lazy are we?), pay to be saved, pay to save others, pay to send Billy and his family on posh vacations around the world, conveniently called "Missions" to make them sound legit.
This month's cheque should be made out to - get this- saving Australia. The whole damned country. According to the 'literature' Jason received, Australia has turned its back on God. None of them go to church. None of them read the bible. They're a bunch of stinking secularists, and it is our job as good Christians to make them see the light - if not God's light, then at least Billy's. Billy has taken it upon himself to go to Australia this summer and single-handedly churchify them all. It used to be really popular to do this in Africa, but Billy has now realized that Australia has just as many non-Christians, with the added benefit of nicer hotels, Coca-Cola, and air-conditioning.
Personally, I had no idea that Australia was the new "dark continent". Australians look a lot like Canadians, but apparently they're a lot less moral, which is surprising because Canadians aren't super-religious either (especially when we are so close in proximity and therefore compared to red state values). This makes me wonder if perhaps in Australia, they receive donation requests in order to save us agnostic Canadians. I probably am not setting a good example for the Canadian people, but I assure you, we're not all as bad as me. If I burn in hell, at least I'll be warm. Australians don't need hell, they've already got a nice, temperate climate. Don't be so greedy, Australia: you got some good real estate here on earth, let someone else have the prime location in the afterlife, okay?
Thursday, December 23, 2004
It's Hahrrrible!
The other day, Jason came home from work just shaking. He had that devilish grin on him that just screamed I HAVE A SECRET!
Jamie: "Jason, do you have something to tell me?"
Jason: "Well, I have a story. No wait. I shouldn't tell you. God I want to tell you."
Jamie: "Out with it."
Jason cannot keep a secret from me. He's almost as bad at keeping secrets as I am. I love to buy him presents. I shop weeks or months ahead, bring it home, hide it anywhere really (Jason is really unsuspecting and agonizingly gullible), but as soon as he gets home, he's all like:
"Hey."
and I'm all like:
"Okay, yeah, I bought you a present! It's hiding in the closet! Go try it on!"
My mom always says that I will forever be a faithful wife because I wouldn't have the good sense to keep the affair a secret. Yeah, Mom, that's why.
Anyway, so Jason had a secret to tell, and I knew it wasn't going to take much to get it out of him. Turns out, he had found another loophole at work. When he started at this company, he went into email withdrawal because hotmail is blocked...but he signed up for a gmail account and bypassed that problem. Then he was sad to find out he couldn't get onto blogger at work...until he realized that he could google my site and get here via a link. However, one of those links was not like the others, one of those links just didn't belong...
My new friend Rico The Squirrel has a site dedicated to criticizing the blogs he reads. As he puts it, "Blogs suck. Nobody wants to read yer fucking diary. So just stop. God, blogs really suck. -Shut yer blog." And of course starting your own blog where you consistently misspell the difficult word 'your' is the best way to propagate your message.
Jason had discovered that on December 10th, my site had received the honour of the second worst blog he'd read that day. Now that really bothered me, because I always say that if you're going to do something, do it well. Be the best, or be the worst, but never, EVER, come in second!!!! Who beat me? Fred Durst, the dude from Limp Bizkit. I'm not even in good company here!
His beef with me is concerning my December 9th post, and here's what he had to say:
Let's cut to the chase. Yer a whore. You don't get up before noon. But if you absolutely must do, you act the bitch. To avoid doing anything besides sitting on yer fat ass and daydreaming, you shake yer teats in yer husband's face "for like 5 minutes straight." Do you finish the job? Does he get full release? Not likely, cuz yer a lazy, baws-tripping slag. Will someone please slap this woman? And unless yer going to start posting nude photos of yerself, SHUT YER BLOG.
Here's what I have to say:
1. Okay, that's kind of a cute thing to do, I guess. I'm usually a pretty critical person myself. He's also down on Jenna Elfman, Margaret Cho, Dave Barry (hey, I love Dave Barry!), Mark Cuban, and plenty of every-day people like me.
2. Lazy? You bet! Have I ever denied this?
3. Baws-tripping slag? Can someone please define this for me, I'm too lazy to look it up myself.
4. Ohhh...you wanted nude photos. Sorry dude. Here I thought you were a witty critic, and turns out you're just another kid who can't get laid and wants free pictures of my tatas. Yeah, no.
So here's the deal:
I am now campaigning for him to give me the #1 spot on his worst blog readers list. I'm going to get Ben Affleck to stump for me, and a cute be-dimpled running mate, and I'm going to threaten to take away America's favourite ketchup souce if I don't win.
Oh wait, wrong campaign.
I don't need a pretty vp or catchy slogan; I think my posts stand for themselves. I have written plenty of crap this month, surely something will be worthy! So please, spare me a moment out of your busy lives, go to his site, scroll down to December 10th, and leave a comment under my second place ranking saying you would looove if I could be upgraded to #1 on some future date. Thanks all, I really appreciate it.
Jamie: "Jason, do you have something to tell me?"
Jason: "Well, I have a story. No wait. I shouldn't tell you. God I want to tell you."
Jamie: "Out with it."
Jason cannot keep a secret from me. He's almost as bad at keeping secrets as I am. I love to buy him presents. I shop weeks or months ahead, bring it home, hide it anywhere really (Jason is really unsuspecting and agonizingly gullible), but as soon as he gets home, he's all like:
"Hey."
and I'm all like:
"Okay, yeah, I bought you a present! It's hiding in the closet! Go try it on!"
My mom always says that I will forever be a faithful wife because I wouldn't have the good sense to keep the affair a secret. Yeah, Mom, that's why.
Anyway, so Jason had a secret to tell, and I knew it wasn't going to take much to get it out of him. Turns out, he had found another loophole at work. When he started at this company, he went into email withdrawal because hotmail is blocked...but he signed up for a gmail account and bypassed that problem. Then he was sad to find out he couldn't get onto blogger at work...until he realized that he could google my site and get here via a link. However, one of those links was not like the others, one of those links just didn't belong...
My new friend Rico The Squirrel has a site dedicated to criticizing the blogs he reads. As he puts it, "Blogs suck. Nobody wants to read yer fucking diary. So just stop. God, blogs really suck. -Shut yer blog." And of course starting your own blog where you consistently misspell the difficult word 'your' is the best way to propagate your message.
Jason had discovered that on December 10th, my site had received the honour of the second worst blog he'd read that day. Now that really bothered me, because I always say that if you're going to do something, do it well. Be the best, or be the worst, but never, EVER, come in second!!!! Who beat me? Fred Durst, the dude from Limp Bizkit. I'm not even in good company here!
His beef with me is concerning my December 9th post, and here's what he had to say:
Let's cut to the chase. Yer a whore. You don't get up before noon. But if you absolutely must do, you act the bitch. To avoid doing anything besides sitting on yer fat ass and daydreaming, you shake yer teats in yer husband's face "for like 5 minutes straight." Do you finish the job? Does he get full release? Not likely, cuz yer a lazy, baws-tripping slag. Will someone please slap this woman? And unless yer going to start posting nude photos of yerself, SHUT YER BLOG.
Here's what I have to say:
1. Okay, that's kind of a cute thing to do, I guess. I'm usually a pretty critical person myself. He's also down on Jenna Elfman, Margaret Cho, Dave Barry (hey, I love Dave Barry!), Mark Cuban, and plenty of every-day people like me.
2. Lazy? You bet! Have I ever denied this?
3. Baws-tripping slag? Can someone please define this for me, I'm too lazy to look it up myself.
4. Ohhh...you wanted nude photos. Sorry dude. Here I thought you were a witty critic, and turns out you're just another kid who can't get laid and wants free pictures of my tatas. Yeah, no.
So here's the deal:
I am now campaigning for him to give me the #1 spot on his worst blog readers list. I'm going to get Ben Affleck to stump for me, and a cute be-dimpled running mate, and I'm going to threaten to take away America's favourite ketchup souce if I don't win.
Oh wait, wrong campaign.
I don't need a pretty vp or catchy slogan; I think my posts stand for themselves. I have written plenty of crap this month, surely something will be worthy! So please, spare me a moment out of your busy lives, go to his site, scroll down to December 10th, and leave a comment under my second place ranking saying you would looove if I could be upgraded to #1 on some future date. Thanks all, I really appreciate it.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Jason Has A Maiden Name: Get Over It!
When I got engaged, I never seriously considered becoming Mrs. Jason T___. That's a little too archaic for my taste, not to mention sexist. To be honest, I am shocked that any woman this day in age is still blindly doing the name change thing. It would be really easy to become a T___; in fact, it would probably save me from that blank stare that cashiers and such give me when they have to spell E____. But a name is about more than just convenience, it's your identity. I'm not that attached to the name E____ itself, but it was the name I was given at birth, and I certainly won't be trading it in just because of convention.
If I had asked Jason to simply take my last name, I know that he would have. And it's hard for a man to change his name because all of society oppresses it. On the man's side of paperwork, there is never a box for his maiden name. By definition, since Jason was never a maiden (a young, unmarried woman...although the defintion also contains connotations of "servant", "modest", "delicate" and "virginity"), he cannot have a maiden name. However, there is a very strong argument that I was not a maiden either, and I certainly detest the word. But shockingly, there is currently no alternate word for the name you held before you got married. However, I did not ask Jason to take my name. Some people argue that to be a feminist, sometimes we have to endorse ideas that are a little unfair to men to make up for all the iniquities that women have faced. Well, the fact is, I am not a feminist. I have always held myself to be a humanist: I believe that men and women should be equal in all things. So that meant that when we got married, we would either hyphenate or take a whole new name.
Early on, I lobbied for a new name, using the beginning of my last name melded with the ending of his, short and sweet. But in the end, we decided on E___-T___, in that order for aesthetic purposes. And we are really happy with this name because to me, it is the symbol of how I want our marriage to be. I was a whole person before I got married, and so was Jason. We are still 2 whole people. Traditionally, one whole person, one whole identity, is just lost (the woman, of course), and it's as if she never existed or mattered before her wedding. Lots of people still ask us about it. Some family members still criticize us about it (we expected no less). We were married in 2002, and we'd like to think that the world has made progress, but the truth is, here in North America, 90% of women still lose their last names entirely when they get married, and less than 1% of men change theirs.
Lucy Stone is a name you may or may not be familiar with. She was born in 1818 and lived under her father's rule until the day where she would be transferred to her husband's care. Her education was a non-factor to her father, so she worked as a school marm and did housework for others to earn the money to put herself through college. She graduated with honours, the first woman in Massachusetts to do so, and was asked to write a graduation speech. She refused because as a woman, she would not be allowed to read it aloud at the ceremony; a male classmate would have that honour.
Her first public speech would be on women's rights, and she continued work in the field and in abolitionism despite the fact that people would pelt her with prayer-books while she talked (one of her speeches in 1850 convinced Susan B. Anthony to join the movement). When she met her soulmate in Henry Blackwell (a man 7 years her junior!), the couple renounced marriage law and she became the first woman in the United States to keep her own name after marriage. Of this, Henry stated that he would never "degrade" his wife in that way (Henry's sister Elizabeth became the first female physician in the U.S., so he was indeed a modern man who came from a family with a new way of thinking). The house and property were owned in Lucy's name throughout the marriage, and she often refused to pay her taxes because she did not believe in taxation without representation. In 1878 women in Boston were allowed to vote on the school committee, but Lucy was prohibited from doing so unless she voted under her husband's last name.
Anyway, it's because of women like her that we can keep our own identities today. But you shouldn't keep your name in her honour, or anyone else's. You should keep your name in honour of the great person that you were for the 20 or 30 or 40 years before you got married, and for the same great person you will continue to be after it. By accepting a man's last name, you also accept his inherent right to give it to you.
I am proud to be a family of E___-T___s (and do you know, that we are the only 2 E___e-T____s in the whole entire world!), and I am also proud that after 20 years of being an E____, my mother has reclaimed her name and goes by C____ once again. Neither she nor I are pioneers, but my mother is the matriarch of a group of very strong women, and that is something very important to hold on to. She has made me into the kind of woman who continually challenges the expected male-female stereotypes (I carry my own canoe). And she, in turn, cuts down her own Christmas tree, pumps her own gas, and she has more uses for duct tape than any man I know.
p.s. I am not against women taking their husband's last name, I just think it should be a decision, requiring a thought process and some conversation. Know that there are alternatives. Don't do anything just because it's tradition.
If I had asked Jason to simply take my last name, I know that he would have. And it's hard for a man to change his name because all of society oppresses it. On the man's side of paperwork, there is never a box for his maiden name. By definition, since Jason was never a maiden (a young, unmarried woman...although the defintion also contains connotations of "servant", "modest", "delicate" and "virginity"), he cannot have a maiden name. However, there is a very strong argument that I was not a maiden either, and I certainly detest the word. But shockingly, there is currently no alternate word for the name you held before you got married. However, I did not ask Jason to take my name. Some people argue that to be a feminist, sometimes we have to endorse ideas that are a little unfair to men to make up for all the iniquities that women have faced. Well, the fact is, I am not a feminist. I have always held myself to be a humanist: I believe that men and women should be equal in all things. So that meant that when we got married, we would either hyphenate or take a whole new name.
Early on, I lobbied for a new name, using the beginning of my last name melded with the ending of his, short and sweet. But in the end, we decided on E___-T___, in that order for aesthetic purposes. And we are really happy with this name because to me, it is the symbol of how I want our marriage to be. I was a whole person before I got married, and so was Jason. We are still 2 whole people. Traditionally, one whole person, one whole identity, is just lost (the woman, of course), and it's as if she never existed or mattered before her wedding. Lots of people still ask us about it. Some family members still criticize us about it (we expected no less). We were married in 2002, and we'd like to think that the world has made progress, but the truth is, here in North America, 90% of women still lose their last names entirely when they get married, and less than 1% of men change theirs.
Lucy Stone is a name you may or may not be familiar with. She was born in 1818 and lived under her father's rule until the day where she would be transferred to her husband's care. Her education was a non-factor to her father, so she worked as a school marm and did housework for others to earn the money to put herself through college. She graduated with honours, the first woman in Massachusetts to do so, and was asked to write a graduation speech. She refused because as a woman, she would not be allowed to read it aloud at the ceremony; a male classmate would have that honour.
Her first public speech would be on women's rights, and she continued work in the field and in abolitionism despite the fact that people would pelt her with prayer-books while she talked (one of her speeches in 1850 convinced Susan B. Anthony to join the movement). When she met her soulmate in Henry Blackwell (a man 7 years her junior!), the couple renounced marriage law and she became the first woman in the United States to keep her own name after marriage. Of this, Henry stated that he would never "degrade" his wife in that way (Henry's sister Elizabeth became the first female physician in the U.S., so he was indeed a modern man who came from a family with a new way of thinking). The house and property were owned in Lucy's name throughout the marriage, and she often refused to pay her taxes because she did not believe in taxation without representation. In 1878 women in Boston were allowed to vote on the school committee, but Lucy was prohibited from doing so unless she voted under her husband's last name.
Anyway, it's because of women like her that we can keep our own identities today. But you shouldn't keep your name in her honour, or anyone else's. You should keep your name in honour of the great person that you were for the 20 or 30 or 40 years before you got married, and for the same great person you will continue to be after it. By accepting a man's last name, you also accept his inherent right to give it to you.
I am proud to be a family of E___-T___s (and do you know, that we are the only 2 E___e-T____s in the whole entire world!), and I am also proud that after 20 years of being an E____, my mother has reclaimed her name and goes by C____ once again. Neither she nor I are pioneers, but my mother is the matriarch of a group of very strong women, and that is something very important to hold on to. She has made me into the kind of woman who continually challenges the expected male-female stereotypes (I carry my own canoe). And she, in turn, cuts down her own Christmas tree, pumps her own gas, and she has more uses for duct tape than any man I know.
p.s. I am not against women taking their husband's last name, I just think it should be a decision, requiring a thought process and some conversation. Know that there are alternatives. Don't do anything just because it's tradition.
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