You can't keep us barefoot and pregnant.

I "overheard" one of those conversations that are meant to be overheard today. You know what I mean, two rednecks practically yelling their supposedly private conversation so that nobody is spared, everyone within fifty metres is forced to listen.

Topic of conversation? Men's rights, and how they have been eroded......although Einstein and Brainiac could not have come up with a word like "eroded", too many letters, too many syllables.

As I stood there, grinding my teeth to powder, blood pressure inching toward myocardial infarction territory, my internal dialogue screamed into overdrive.

Goddess, I wish I had the nerve to externalize my inside voice!!

According to Daryl and his other brother Daryl, women have all the rights. Women have "taken over" and men are now second class citizens.

How I wish!

I gave their whining, snivelling tantrum a lot of thought, and here are some of the "rights" we, as women, have:

The right to make less money for work of equal value.

The right to have serious illnesses blamed on "women troubles".

The right to be expected to bear and raise children, run a household, contribute to society and be satisfied with no salary, no respect and no recognition. The right to often juggle child rearing with caring for aging parents. The right to do this without support or compensation. The right to do it without complaint.

The right to be told that our manner of dress can be cited as a reason for being raped.

The right to see our female children treated as less than capable as their male counterparts in math and hard sciences.

The right to be called "bitch", "whore", "slut" and worse in music, movies and television on a regular basis. The right to be told to "lighten up" when we object.

The right to be told by Police that the best way to prevent sexual assault or harrassment while jogging or walking is to go in groups.

The right to make up 50% + of the population of the country and only be represented in Parliament by a total of 65 out of 308 Members. Provincial numbers, in most cases, are far worse.

The right to have more than 50 of our sisters go missing, seemingly without anyone noticing or caring, only to have their remains found buried and stored on a pig farm.

The right to be objectified, dehumanized and humiliated through pornography.

The right to be victims of murder in the guise of "honour killings". The right to have community leaders do little or nothing to curb this barbaric crime.

The right to be called "frigid", "Dyke", "ball breaker" and/or "tease" if we choose not to engage in sexual activity with a man.

The right to be told that "no" can mean "yes".

The right to be held to impossible standards by the fashion industry.

The right to be made to believe that "pretty", "thin" and "nice" are far more important than "smart", "decent" or "compassionate".

The right to be seen as the appendage of a male companion, not as an equal partner.

The right to be told that women who don't marry (men) and have children are somehow unnatural.

The right to be told that women are not fit to lead many of the world's churches.

The right to have millions of newborns and children of our sex murdered at birth, sold into prostitution or indentured servitude, bartered as commodities, subjected to genital mutilation, forced into arranged marriages and denied education, medical attention or any of the other most basic human rights.

The right to live in fear with abusive partners because there is so often no viable alternative, and the lack of support is totally debilitating. The right to be murdered by those abusive partners with frightening regularity.

The right to have 14 of the best and brightest of our gender be mowed down in the prime of their lives by a woman-hating narcissistic sociopath at Ecole Polytechnique.

Yes, boys, I can see why you are upset about all the rights women enjoy.

Go to hell. I hope Satan is a woman.

In Memoriam

Serena Abotsway

Andrea Borhaven

Heather Bottomley

Heather Chinnock

Wendy Crawford

Sarah DeVries

Jane Doe

Tiffany Drew

Cara Ellis

Cynthia Feliks

Marnie Frey

Jennifer Mae Hallmark

Tanya Holyk

Sherry Irving

Angela Jardine

Andrea Joesbury

Patricia Rose Johnson

Debra Lynne Jones

Kerri Koski

Jacqueline McDonell

Diana Melnick

Georgina Faith Papin

Diane Rock

Mona Wilson

Brenda Ann Wolfe



Cousins. Daughters. Granddaughters. Friends. Mothers. Sisters. Women.

Things Need to Change

I nourish an on-again, off-again obsession about the absolutely shameful fact that child poverty exists in this country.

Today I met a little girl who brought me to tears.

She was probably six or seven, although she was clearly undernourished, and might have been older. She had serious tooth decay. Her clothes were ill-fitting. She had that haunted, desperate look that hungry children have, and she already has that look of abject hopelessness that destroys the soul. She was dirty, smelled bad, and looked really tired. She should have been in school. She would have fit right in with a group shot of children from a third world country.

Except that this is Vancouver, one of the "best cities in the world to live". Fuck. In Canada, one of the "have" countries in a world filled with "have-not" countries. It's appalling, it's a fucking disgrace.

How did this little girl fall through the cracks? How did we let this happen? If nothing changes for this little girl, what does life hold for her? Substance use? Unwanted preganancies? Abuse? Lack of educational opportunities? The sex trade? Welfare?

The little girl looked totally lost, but she wasn't. Her mother was with her, although she paid precious little attention to her vulnerable daughter. I was able to find out her name, where she attends school, when she does attend, the street on which she lives. I found out that yes, in fact, she was hungry. I asked whether she would like a sub and a drink. She asked whether I could get one for her mom, too. I did. Her mother did not react at all when a total stranger approached her child, and she seemed to take my buying her lunch as a normal activity.

Buying one lunch for one little family will not change anything. I'm a realist, I know that this little soul is doomed unless there are some major repairs made to Canada's social safety net. I walked around the grocery store with little "H", picking up some of her favourite foods. I was quite prepared to spend every cent I had with me, but this little girl, so accustomed to having nothing, wanted little. $20 covered her "wish list". She did ask me to buy cigarettes for her mom, but I had to refuse her request. I bought some fresh fruit and milk instead. Her mother was unimpressed; oh well.

This is my dream; unattainable maybe, unrealistic probably, but it is my vision:
I want a country wide program that ensures a level playing field for all Canadian children. I want a guaranteed standard of living, not welfare rates, but a dollar figure recognized by the United Nations as being adequate for physical, emotional, spiritual and educational requirements until the age of majority. It is not acceptable that accident of birth gives some children such an advantage over others. It is not acceptable that children raised in poverty are so often robbed of the opportunity to reach their potential. Life should not be merely a struggle for survival, but sadly, for kids like "H", it is just that. All children should arrive at school well rested, well fed, clean and healthy. Not just middle class kids from the 'burbs, but sweet dirty-faced little girls from East Van, too.

I gave "H" my card, and told her to call me if she needed help with anything. She said she would. I know she won't. As I watched her walk away, clutching her two grocery bags full of "treasures" (her word, not mine, apples and milk are not treasures to me) I was certain I'll never see "H" again.

I hope I'm wrong about what life has in store for her.

We're Married. Deal With It.

I'm married.

When faced with those little boxes on forms that ask about marital status, I check "married".

That means legally wed, Stephen Harper, just as legally, as morally, as spiritually wed as you and the missus.

I don't have a wife. I don't have a husband. I don't have a "significant other", I have a partner, for life, til death do us part, in sickness and in health. We share a name, we share a home, we share a life.

Holy matrimony, Harpie!! The world hasn't ended. No sign of the Apocalypse happening out here on the Left Coast. I haven't even heard of plagues of locusts or burning bushes in Alberta! How could that be?

I'm a woman who, with close friends and family present, pledged to love, honour and cherish the woman I love. We had a Spiritual Advisor, and she joyfully led us through the most important part of this ceremony: my promise to Christine to be faithful and loving through all our days, and that same promise from her to me. That, to me, says we are married. The Justice of the Peace, who signed our Marriage License, made it "legal".

Therin lies the rub.

We are "legally married". That has nothing to do with God, a church, religious doctrine, morality, beliefs, dogma or opinion. The Charter of Rights and Freedoms says that it is our right to be treated equally to every other Canadian citizen. Equal means "the same as", so no, "holy union" will not cut it. A "Commitment Ceremony" is not the same as a "Legal Marriage", I'm MARRIED.

I, like many others, used to feel that a Certificate of Marriage was "just a piece of paper". No longer. Since we received that piece of paper, it has become sacred to me. It means, in a very real way, that Christine and I are considered equal to every other couple that has chosen wedded bliss. We have all the very same rights and responsibilities. I imagine that women felt much the same way just after they were declared "persons", and slaves felt it after being given their freedom. It has nothing to do with the opinions of Gomer's Uncle Dad, it has to do with what is right, and just, and equal. It is the law. Eventually, it will be required that all ten provinces and all three territories provide Marriage Licences to same sex couples. Even Alberta. Even New Brunswick(the armpit of civilization). People can protest, they can spew all the hate-filled rhetoric spoon-fed to them by churches and the right-winged bigots they support, but it will happen.

Deal with it.

So, Mr Harper, and every other person in Canada with highly overblown ideas about your own importance, get used to it, I'm married, I'm staying married. If that offends your precious sensibilities and makes you feel that your own marriage is now somehow tarnished, get a divorce....but do it quickly, we'll soon have that right as well!

I Hate 24.

There, I've said it.

As I sit in my home, labouring under Christine's psychotic "24 Rules", I have come to the conclusion that the Cult of 24 has taken control of my partner's mind, and the terrorists, sadly, have in fact won.

"24 Rules", for the uninitiated, demand no talking, no running water, no vacuuming (even during commercials) for the entire time the program is on. Supposedly that is one short hour, a mere sixty minutes, but it seems like an eternity!! And tonight it is two hours! One hundred and twenty minutes! Two eternities!!

Do all 24 fanatics get so testy when glaring errors of reality and/or probability are pointed out (in mime, naturally, since speaking is forbidden) ? My little crush on Jimmy Smits is NOTHING compared to Christine's crush on Keifer Sutherland. Who can blame her, though, for lusting after a guy who who plays another guy who doesn't need a bathroom break in 24 hours, never eats, and can face 10 terrorists armed with machine guns and come out, the only one still alive, with just the help of his trusty handgun?

24 is bubble gum for the brain. Not sugar-free gum, either.

Betty and Phil are Getting All Wet! Pity.

Seems the weather isn't cooperating for Betty and Phil's visit with the little people. Bloody hell!

I come from a long line of rabid anti-monarchists. That's no easy feat, given that I was raised in Newfoundland and Nova Scotia, where her Majesty's loyal sheep follow her every move with baaaaited breath. Any two provinces who drink more tea per capita than milk, water and beer combined, and can actually understand what those daft buggers are saying on "Coronation Street" can be labelled as nothing but Monarchists. Baaa Baaa.

I have never understood the allure of the House of Windsor. Queen Elizabeth is a dry, humourless, distant old lady....and she likes CORGIS!! What's that about? She married Philip (she must have been faced with an unplanned pregnancy or something, 'cause why the hell else would she marry that cadavar?) and had the four most un-royal offspring on the planet. Charlie the Chump, Anne (saying anything about Anne is unkind.....where to begin, where to end?) Randy Andy the Pudgy Playboy Wannabe, and Ed, who we ALL know is as gay as Elton John, but not nearly as brave.

And the various spouses, ex-spouses, trophy partners (in Edward's case....Sophie is doing both queens a huge favour) .... are we supposed to be loyal subjects to a monarchy that included Di the Ditz and Weight Watchers Fergie? The House of Windsor would fit in better with the Trailer Park Boys than it does in London.

It may not seem like it, but Canada is a grown-up country, and it's time to cut the apron strings. Let Betts and Phil stick their fingers in some other country's business....

My Dirty Little Secret.

"Secret" no longer, of course. My loyal blog fan base now know that I, a Dyklie Dyke, a big, tough, loyal worshipper of women.......have a long-hidden, intense crush on Jimmy Smits.

Sorry Christine, sorry Angelina, sorry Karmel, sorry Faith...... (that's my "loyal blog fan base")

You have to forgive me, He's exotic, he's gorgeous, he's funny, he's smart (he has a Master's degree fronm Cornell, y'know) and he's gorgeous. Did I mention that he's gorgeous?

Oh, and he can act, too. Who will ever forget his two-episode-long death on NYPD Blue? *Sob*

I don't worry that this little crush will push me over to the dark side. I'm not afraid of "turning straight" (AS IF!!) and my feelings for Jimmy will never be as strong as my feelings for Queen Latifah, who is DA BOMB!

I just felt that sharing my dirty little secret would bring me closer to my fans. I hope it has.

:o)

Is There a Place for Rodeos in Civilized Society?

Hell no, Cowboys and Cowgirls.

The Rodeo apologists say that this spectacle is a mirror of ranch life.

Bullshit. That is like saying The West Wing is a mirror of the White House.

Terrified animals, fitted out with various appliances meant to do nothing but cause pain, "ridden", roped and wrangled by men drunk on testosterone in front of huge, bloodthirsty crowds. This is a sport?

Again, bullshit. There are people who consider dog fighting, cock fighting, bull fighting, and trophy hunting "sport". None of those events are "sport", they are cruel, vicious, inhumane "games" invented by humans to appeal to blood lust and stupidity.

Just like Rodeo.

The fact that the Cloverdale Rodeo, the Calgary Stampede, and all similar events wherin terrified, traumatized, agonized animals are further abused by "cowboys" for human amusement proves the sad truth that humanity has not evolved much. Sad. We should all hang our heads in shame.

Neanderthals Among Us.

They have called her "whore", "prostitute", "dipstick", "bimbo". They have questioned her intelligence. They think the simple act of brushing her hair is newsworthy. They focus on her facial features, her measurements, and her choice of shoes.

"She", of course, is Belinda Stronach.

They wonder why more women don't run for public office. Gee, could it be that being judged on a whole set of criteria that their male counterparts do not face is one big drawback?

The name calling, maybe?

The paternalistic, misogynistic, chauvenistic peers, and the voters who still think women belong in the kitchen?

Why are we not hearing "Poor pathetic Peter" being called the slimy, backstabbing, lying snake-in-the-grass he has proven himself to be? Karma is a beautiful thing, and I'm sure David Orchard is gleeful that this whining, snivelling twerp is getting some of his own back. Even his own father is telling Peter MacKay to "suck it up".

Belinda Stronach deserves the support of all women, everywhere. Liberal, Conservative, NDP, Green, Bloc and Independent supporting females should be telling their Members of Parliament that their behaviour is an abomination. Every woman has or had a mother, how would they feel if it was one of those mothers being called a whore?

We like to think that women have come a long way during the brief herstory of Canada....

Think again.

Belinda Stronach has made my day!

Wow, today is a great day to be a political junkie! Belinda Stronach has deserted the Harpies and crossed the Commons floor to the Liberals. She has basically derailed Stepher Harper's plan for a white, anglo-saxon, protestant, straight Fatherland. Maybe Mr Harper and his henchmen will crawl back into their caves in Alberta. Maybe they will all move to a country more in line with their beliefs (if they can find one), or start their own country. They could call it Moronicstan.

Belinda is also leaving Peter the Punk behind. Good riddance, she can do much better. Is Hedy Fry available? Jane Stewart? Anne McLellan? She's joining a party that will finally acknowledge human rights for all Canadians, regardless of sexual orientation, so maybe she will let her hair down....

Peter MacKay can find comfort with Elsie Wayne.

And Gordo is getting spanked tonight. I bet he secretly likes it. Way to go Carole James and co.!

Shitapalooza!

Okay, "they" say that confession is good for the soul. I hope this makes my soul happy...

I have nursed an intense and pathetic addiction to codeine for years (many many years). I am a person who has, through "nurture" more than nature, developed a totally addictive personality. As a result I have always abstained from the use of alcohol and illicit drugs, having watched these substances destroy far too many members of my immediate family, taking the lives of several people I once loved. My addictions are more socially acceptable...Diet Coke, chocolate, over-the-counter medications.

With Christine's support and concern I finally went cold turkey. One day, the normal high number of milligrams of codeine, the next day, nothing. The headache was brutal, but it subsided after several days. The vomiting was expected, not pleasant, but not a surprise. The detoxification side affects were bearable, and faded with time.

Then, last week, with no warning and no mercy, I was hit with shitapalooza. We are not talking a minor bout of diahrrea, we are talking long-lasting, making deals with God, painful, embarrassing, wishing for a quick death shit-o-rama.

I went to my doctor today, and now, to add insult to injury, I need to provide a stool sample, just to make sure sheer stupidity is at fault here, and not some bug or dreaded disease.

The good news? I'm no longer waking up every day with a blinding "rebound headache". For the first time I can remember in many years....more than a decade and a half anyway, I go for days without a headache. The vomiting has stopped. I feel a sense of accomplishment at having overcome this problem.

Now to find a way to end the Revenge of the Shit....with apologies to George Lucas.

National "Teeth Optional" Day.

Oh. My.

Yesterday was one of those days. I dealt with the usual assortment of freaks, geeks and truly frightening people, but the day was made memorable by the fact that I had to have serious conversations with not one, not two , but THREE people who were celebrating National "Teeth Optional Day".

Who answers the front door without putting in her/his teeth first?? People in Vancouver, that's who! Casual living is great, I'm totally into being comfortable, but teeth? Come on folks, gums are NOT sexy. If you insist on keeping your dentures in a cup in your bathroom, please get someone else to answer the door!

Shirts are nice, too. There is something sad (and gruesome) about beer-bellied old guys with more body hair than your average ape walking around naked from the waist up. Hotties....?
Notties!

My worst fear is knocking on a door to have it answered by a toothless, shirtless chimp-wannabe wearing sandals and white socks. I know it's going to happen.....

Dogs and Gods, Gods and Dogs.

We just came back from the p-a-r-k. We don't say the word here anymore, it is just better this way.

There are some days that I would almost rather swallow lye than take the Goon Squad to the p-a-r-k. It is not always fun for the two-leggers in the family to accompany three loud, pushy, attention seeking dogs, and Kirby, to a muddy, wet, loud area full of other pushy, attention seeking dogs, but it is a necessity. Dogs need to socialize, dogs need to bark, dogs need to run, jump, swim, play and roll in really gross stuff that smells like something from Calvin Klein to them.

Then there are nights like tonight that cause me to stop, smile, and remember why I love these little gifts from a benevolent goddess so very much.

My MacKenzie is a beautiful dog. She is needy, difficult and oh-so-very-sweet. She runs like the wind, she is poetry in motion. I watch her bounding, carefree, across the park, and every single moment of frustration, aggravation, doubt, anger and sadness just disappears. She is totally worth every ounce of effort we have put into her, and although she may never be "perfect", who cares? Who among us is perfect? She is an amazingly resilient animal and she will survive. MacKenzie is the dog most like me. Remember that when you hear stories about the days she was referred to as "Sharka".

Madison is the Chief Inspector of the Canine Fun Police. She is clearly a believer in "misery loves company", but one has to admire the Chutzpa of a dog who will invade the petting space in front of another dog's human, then growl at that dog if she/he comes too close. Maddie is Eeyore before Prozac, "nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I think I'll go slit my paws...." Poor Muddy-Puddles, she's a beautiful, screwed-up mess.

Then we have Junior. Jasmine the Rottweiler in a Shiht-Tzu-for-brains body. The dog gods were cruel when they put that spirit and that attitude into that body. Tonight a young intact male dog tried to mount Kirby. He didn't react much, but 14 lb Jasmine protected 65 lb Kirby from the unwanted advances of the 40-odd lb sexual miscreant. She was ready to do a complete neuter, sans anesthetic, on the grass at Trout Lake. Jazz has no idea that other dogs see her as a cat that barks, she truly believes she is a Bull breed. Rock on little sister!

Kirby..........
Kirby..........
Poor, sweet, dumb as dirt Studly Boy. I love him. I adore him. I feel privileged to share his life, but there are moments when I wake up panicked, thinking he has forgotten to breath.
He is a physically gorgeous dog. He's this deep, rich reddish-brown and has awesome eyes. And he loves me. Almost as much as he loves his own Mr Winky.
Kirby will never hurt anyone. Well yes, he will, he'll hurt Christine and Angelina and he will break my heart, when he leaves us, a hundred years from now. He will never cause pain willingly, though, Kirby is a lover, not a fighter. He trusts me, and that is a responsibility I cherish and take very seriously. If I ever hurt this dear, damaged boy, I would never forgive myself.
Watching Kirby slowly, slowly emerge from his shell of fear, distrust and anxiety at the p-a-r-k is beautiful. He has come so far, my sweet prince, my mancub, my dogly-dog. He is taking chances, trying hard to grow stronger, and I will kill with my bare hands anyone who ever causes my boy pain.

Chunka-Chunka Burnin' Shih Tzu hates the p-a-r-k. Of course she does....DOGS go there. Chunky will never be convinced she is a dog. Prima Donna, yes, Queen of All She Surveys, naturally, but dog? I dare anyone to tell Chunk she's a dog! I'll be waiting in the hallway with the First Aid kit. Chunky hates to get her feet wet. Or cold. She hates rain, too much sun, sand, mud, rocks, or pebbles. She is quite happy to be doted upon, worshipped and revered. And she is. Chunky is our dog most like Christine. They actually resemble one another, which is cute but a little odd....

Our Clio is a walking ad for the will to live. This little miracle never should have been born, never should have survived, never should have lived, but God, I am so glad she beat the odds.....over and over again. She's blind, seriously brain-injured, has luxating patellas, was thrown from a moving car on Boundary at Marine Drive, and ended up at the Shelter where I am an Animal Control Officer.
At any other Shelter, Clio would have been destroyed. Our little miracle met Christine, they began a relationship that has morphed into a mutual admiration society that makes me love Christine even more than I did before Clio. Clio adores Chris. She loves me, but I am clearly "the other mother". Christine is the centre of her universe, and she has great friends in Angelina, Wendy Ruth and Candis. Not bad for a creature that was given no more status than garbage, a forgotten little dog who knew knew nothing but fear, pain and hopelessness. Sometimes humans really suck, but Clio has given our species another chance. Christine, Angelina, Wendy, Candis ans I will do our best to honour her trust. Always.

I'm going to hug my Goonies, I owe so much of my happiness and good mental health to them.

Dyslexics of the World: Untie!

I have come to the realization that I am not normal.

Don't hurry trying to convince me that I'm fine, it's the rest of the world that is abnormal, cause truly, I'm okay with my status. Actually I'm more than "okay" with it, I embrace my oddity. I've witnessed "normal", but one could substitute "boring", "pedestrian", "dull" or any number of other similarly shudder-inducing words. I never want to be known as "average".

I drive a 1980 Suburban that costs an average of $125 per tank to fill. It is a h-u-g-e Dykemobile, and although it is a pain to park, my dogs love it and I do, too.

As I've said, I'm built like a refridgerator. One of my witty friends asked, "side by side"? No, not yet, but menopause is coming.

My family consists of six canine members. Who in her right mind has six dogs? Only those of us fortunate enough to know how it feels to be loved by six dogs understand. Even our cat is not "normal". Bella is a Maine Coon, 25 lbs plus, bigger than any of the Shiht Heads.

I live life out loud. I'm sarcastic, passionate, judgemental, generous, determined, strong, tenacious and loyal. I love with every fibre of my being, but I am not quick to forgive, and I never forget. I wish I could say that I don't hold grudges, but I do.

I surround myself with great people, interesting people, funny people. I admire intelligence, but I honour passion. I think beauty is nice, but heart is real. My friends complete me, and they are as much a part of me as my skin. All that being said, my dogs are the most important beings in my life, and outside of a very, very few humans, I would save them first in a fire, flood, or alien invasion.

Nobody I choose to spend time with is "normal". Cool, huh?

Mother's Day. An adopted child's perspective.

My birth mother, I was told, was 17, a rape victim, a small town girl whose life had really yet to begin when I was born.

I think about her a lot, but never more than during the days leading up to the Holy Grail for All Things Maternal: Mother's Day.

I was raised by parents who, wisely, chose not to procreate, but who, unwisely, gave into the myth that two people cannot be a "family" without children. They adopted. Sadly, I was one of the chosen. This blog is not about this mother, it is about my first mother, wherever she is.

Is she still alive? Where is she? Is she str8, or has she been forced to live as str8 or is she a Lesbian, Bi, Trans? Is her name now Frank? Does she love animals the way I do? Is she built like a truck, or was my size and shape determined by the rapist? Is she a night owl? Does she love to read? Is she allergic to lilacs? Does she love Motown and see Aretha Franklin as a goddess? Does she think television is a sad case of garbage in garbage out? Is she a practicing Jew, or did she finally "get it" and stop practicing? Is she happy? Is she safe? Does she miss me?

My sister found her birth mother, and it was a disaster of epic proportions. Her mother rejected her and left absolutely no chance of reconciliation. It broke my sister's spirit. I'm a quick learner...especially when pain is involved, so the thought of really trying to find my mother is not high on the list of things to do this week.

As I hear the ads, see the posters, walk by the displays of gifts, cards and flowers devoted to Mother's Day, I feel the most crushing sense of total loss.......

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. Wherever you are.

Adopt a Dog. It Will Change Your Life.

It's May, "Be Kind to Animals Month". D-Oh! We need a be kind to animals month? What the hell is up with that? Be kind to animals, period, people....every day that you are lucky enough and blessed enough to share your lives with them.

Being "kind" means providing not only a roof over a pet's head and good quality food, but socialization with humans and other animals, plenty of appropriate physical activity, regular Veterinary care, including spaying and neutering of all pets. Being "kind" means ensuring your pet has status as a "member of the family", and as such, spends as much time involved in family activities as possible. Being "kind" means that your pet is aquired through adoption from a Rescue organization or individual, a Shelter, or purchased from a reputable breeder, not through a "free to a good home" ad, a backyard breeder, a pet store or at a flea market.

Most people are decent, and want to do the right thing, simply because it is the right thing to do. Some people are selfish, stupid, irresponsible, lazy, mean, or a combination of any of those characteristics. The pets of those people are the reason Rescues, Shelters and Animal Welfare groups exist.

Being "kind" means taking a long, hard look at the realities of pet guardianship. There are costs involved, sometimes major expenditures are necessary, can your family take on the financial commitment? Do you have time to devote to an animal's physical, emotional, and spiritual needs? Are you ready, willing and able to accept the responsibility of caring for a pet for his/her entire life?

Pets are awesome. Companion animals add an uncalculatable joy to life, and I simply cannot imagine my life without my "furkids", but I admit they are a constant source of worry, even though I love them so much it hurts. Are they healthy? Are they happy? Are they getting all their needs met? Am I doing enough to keep them safe? Do they know how much I love them?
I don't advocate for every person to adopt a pet. Some people just can't handle the responsibility, and that's okay. Some people (shudder) just don't like animals. Some people can't find housing that allows pets, there are a whole lot of good reasons for avoiding pet guardianship. I wish everyone would seriously weigh the pros and cons before thet added a pet to their families. I know that every Rescue and Shelter would be thrilled to be rendered unnecessary.

Hey you, yeah you with the shopping cart!

It's me, the person you ran into, twice, at Superstore. In the baking aisle. I'm the one to whom you said "Oops, didn't see you." I'm wearing navy blue, am built like a refridgerator, and am swinging a big green basket at the time. How the hell could you miss me? The second time you rammed me, you didn't even pretend to be sorry. Of course, it's all relative, since you hit that little old guy hard enough to knock him into the sugar display.

I got stuck behind you in the checkout line. Is there a medical condition that prohibits you from understanding what 12 items and under means? I saw you loading your big, shiny SUV in the parking lot. Scary, since you can't see a large woman six inches in front of your face. I also saw you smack your door into the door of the little pickup truck parked beside you. You left a nice dent, but no note, so I did it for you. License plate, description of you, your SUV, time, date, my name, and the name of another witness.

Have fun with ICBC. Jerk.

Dear Commercial Drive Pedestrians:

Dear Commercial Drive Pedestrians:

I'm one of those invisible drivers of those seemingly invisible vehicles into the direct path of which you wander, jump, meander or dart with apparently no worries of being struck, maimed, injured and/or killed.

Crosswalks. Walk/Don't Walk lights, corners. Any of these things ringing bells in your heads? No, that noise you're hearing is an ambulance.....

What IS it with people on the Drive? I KNOW BC Bud mellows people out, I know that if one breathes too deeply on the Drive while walking between 1st and Napier one can get totally stoned, but people, please....watch where you are going!

It can't be just me. People just step off curbs, or from between parked cars, or against lights and assume drivers will stop. They do it holding the hands of children. They do it dragging dogs on leashes, or with dogs off leash and trailing them. They seem totally oblivious to the fact that several tons of steel (or fiberglass, or whatever) could mow them down in the blink of an eye.

I don't want to hit a pedestrian. The thought of injuring another creature (human or otherwise) while driving, is distressing. The fact that Jaywalkers are the authors of their own misfortune doesn't make the thought any less horrible.

I avoid the Drive like the plague when I'm in a vehicle, but sometimes being on the Drive in a car is unavoidable. Those times are moments of serious stress, just because some people think they are invincible.

News flash, people.....generally when it's vehicle vs pedestrian, the pedestrian loses. Big!

Dude, get an imagination!

I'm short. I'm built like a square (on short legs) . Were I about 11 feet tall, I might be the proper weight, but to say I am gravitationally challenged is to say water's wet. Yeah duh!
I also wear a uniform for my job. (Polyester, but that's another blog) People seem to think that any unarmed person in a uniform is fair game. Okay, so be it. Mad at your boss? Yell at me. Pissed at your partner, frustrated with your kids, hate your mother-in-law, just plain cranky? Take a shot, go ahead.....

....but please use your imagination!

I get so tired of "Fat Dyke". Oh, that and "Fat Bitch". Sometimes, for variety, I hear "Stupid Fat Bitch". It would be refreshing to have someone come up with new epithets and abuses to hurl. I mean really......how much effort does it take to be a little more imaginative? I do all the work for the creatively-challanged, abuse spewing public. I'm 5'5" tall (when I s-t-r-e-t-c-h the facts to fit my needs) and weigh a whole lot more than I should. I have little to no hair, based on my mood and the season, I walk like a Dyke, I look like a Dyke, I'm very obviously a Dyke. It is not something I have ever tried to hide. And while one can mask or manipulate a few unwanted pounds. I cannot hide the excess pounds I carry; David Copperfield couldn't provide an optical illusion that big. Yeah I'm fat. It doesn't take Einstein or Stephen Hawking to figure that out!

People (well meaning but thick as bricks) say "it's not you they are yelling at, it's the uniform". 'K. My uniform is neither fat nor sexually active. Nasty people screaming "Fat Dyke" are yelling at me, not my polyester work clothes.

So...my plea, a simple wish, really. Come up with more thought-provoking, intelligent insults. Get a thesaurus, join Toastmasters, I don't care how it's done....

Oh that, and keep your dogs on a leash!

Nights are long when sleep won't come.

My partner wears not one, but two "night splints" (I refer to them as "bigfoots") to bed every night to correct Plantar Fasciitis. And she is hooked up to a C-Pap Machine for her Sleep Apnea. Add at least three dogs, the air conditioner, traffic noise from 12th Avenue and one would think she would stumble, haggard and exhausted, out of the family bed every morning.

Nope. She's up, obscenely early, bright eyed and ready to go each and every day.
It's gotta be the earplugs. She is unnaturally addicted to her earplugs. We actually have a little ritual on "new earplug night".

Then there's me. No gear. No plugs. Almost no sleep.

Before anyone says it's the noise, the dogs, the whatever....it isn't. I've *never* slept peacefully through the night, not since early childhood. I've tried medication (prescribed and self-administered), every kind of relaxation exercise and technique ever invented, you name it, I've tried it. I'm doomed to catch a few hours here and there when the sleep gods smile on me.
Only people who are low-grade tired all the time understand how it impacts on life. If I'm going to get any meaningful REM sleep, it's between 7:00 and 11:00 AM, when everyone else is busy leading normal lives.

I understand my inability to sleep. I've endured every wonky theraputic intervention anyone has thrown at the cause, but here I am , at 40+, still staring at the dark ceiling at 3:00 AM .
The only plus in this situation is that my dogs are thrilled. Bed buddies all morning, bed buddies all night, woo hoo! Dogs sleep A LOT, and they seem to enjoy having company....as long as we remember our places. We keep trying to explain to our canine cuddle buddies that a King-sized bed is as big as it gets, but they don't seem to get it.

Just like me and sleep.....I just don't get it.

Gordon Campbell is an Idiot.

That's not news, though, is it?

He's proudly telling everyone that British Columbians who earn less than $15 000 per year pay no BC Income Tax. Woo Hoo Gordo. $15 000 in Vancouver will buy you a tank of gas and a Slurpee.

Most of the people I know are marginalized. Low-income/no income, disabled, ill, substance addicted, non-caucasian, and identifying as something other than heterosexual.....I have str8, healthy friends, but they are in the minority, and they are mostly unaware of the fact that they enjoy heterosexual, caucasian priviledge based soley on reasons beyond their control. They didn't earn their priviledge, and they can't lose it. Nice gig if you can get it.

I can't complain about my place in the universe, either. I'm caucasian, educated, employed, housed and healthy. That buys me a way of life that others can only dream of. The difference between me and Gordon Campbell is that I feel a responsibility to my fellow humans. I understand that hard work isn't enough, that luck plays far too great a role in the drama of life, and that Chris and I really are only a few paycheques away from Main and Hastings. Gordon Campbell doesn't get that.

I see old ladies shuffling along the sidewalk, some pushing shopping carts filled with everything they own, some talking to themselves, some just looking lost. These people are daughters, sisters, mothers, grandmothers, friends. They sleep in doorways, they get abuse hurled at them, they root through garbage cans in search of treasures. And worse, far worse, they appear to be invisible to Gordon Campbell. I guess his mother is taken care of. I bet his grandmother never had to go "binning" to survive.

I know other places in the world are far worse. We're here. It's bad enough, and until Gordon Campbell and his Band of Fiscal Firebombers see what their slash and burn policies are doing to real live humans, it won't get better.

Vote. If you don't vote, don't bitch, 'cause it's your fault for supporting the status quo.

About a boy....

....dog.

His name is Kirby. He came to us as a foster dog ("HE'S NOT STAYING, HE'S A FOSTER DOG!") That was almost six years ago.

He's a mutt. A bodacious, beautiful, bouncing, baby brown boy. I love him with a passion that borders on obsession. People have "heart dogs", the dog that defines their relationship with all dogs that come after. Kirby is my heart dog.

Kirby is , to put it nicely, as sharp as a rock. He's a dim bulb, but he's gorgeous, think a canine Ben Affleck. He is afraid of everything that moves, the result of his life before he came to us; except when he is at home, in the middle of his harem. He's surrounded by females here, and everyone (except the cat) dotes on Studly Boy. (Chris calls him Spudly Boy - The Half-Baked Russett) Here he is safe, and loved and protected. Here he never knows fear or hunger or lonliness or uncertainty. On the other hand, here he is "alpha'd" by five female dogs (one who is blind and brain injured) and a cat, but I'm not sure he gets that....

My love for this sweet, damaged dog is so intense that I lose sleep (a lot of sleep) worrying about the day he is no longer here. Kirby brings out the best in me, but he also brings out the warrior, the sword swinging goddess of war that will slay anything and anyone who wants to cause him harm. What is it with jerks who, when told that Kirby is shy and scared, and they should back off, say stupid things like "oh, ALL dogs love me". Mine doesn't. Or "you need to toughen him up", hell no I don't. He's perfect just the way he is.

Only people who share their hearts and lives with dogs understand how deep and strong the bond is. We love them so much and they are with us for far too short a time. When I come home from work and he bounces and "roo-roos" his hello, my heart melts. At that moment in time it's just me and him in a perfect place. How do people survive without that?

...And so it begins

It was a dark and stormy night......

No, that's not it.

I'm new to "blogging", so I'm not sure whether this will be a success, or another reason for people to say "she's almost as funny as she thinks she is".

My blog is entitled "Fat People are Hard to Kidnap". It comes from a T-Shirt that says the same thing. Walking in a mall or on a crowded street in Vancouver while wearing the shirt has become a lesson in psychology. Everyone has a comment. Except on Commercial Drive, nobody said a word about the shirt on the Drive.

As an introduction, I'll briefly (I CAN do brief, really I can) mention the people who will no doubt figure prominently in any and every future post. I'm Deb. Refer to me as "Debbie" and I'll hunt you down and cause you pain. My partner is Christine. We were legally married in 2003 (and the world didn't end, who knew?) and live in a Co-Op in East Vancouver (We are SUCH a cliche!)

Our family consists of seven spoiled rotten furchildren. The dogs: Madison, Kirby and MacKenzie. The ShihTzu Mafia: Chunky, Jasmine and Clio. The cat: Bella. Chris has human family, mine is no longer relevent to my life.

I met Chris in Calgary. Yeah, Calgary, that wild-and-crazy destination for Dykes. She got me when she asked, "Do you want to meet my dogs?" No "You complete me", no "You look a lot like my future wife", nope, I fell hard for "Do you want to meet my dogs?"
We have the requisite freaks and geeks, friends, pains-in-the-ass and loved ones in our little world. Some are memorable, some will only be exorcised with intensive therapy or mind-altering substances. None are boring. You'll meet all of them. Fun times!

We have an election looming in British Columbia! As a political junkie, I'm stoked. As a jaded, cynical Dyke with a firm grasp on "the more things change, the more they stay the same" I worry that the rednecks and the frightened will ensure Gordon (honestly ossifer, I'm not under the affluence of incahol) Campbell is still Premier when the Olympics come to Vancouver. Ugh.