Sometimes There Are Things More Important Than Blogs.

Sometimes those "things" aren't things at all.

My sweetie has just endured the week from hell. It followed last week, which was also a week from hell. Actually, January hasn't been kind to her at all.

It sucks.

So, instead of blogging, I am going to pull my lover away from her computer and give her a back rub and shoulder massage. This much stress is not good for her physical or mental health, and I can't do much to eliminate the stressors (would that I could), but I can let her know, through the warmth of touch, that I understand how hard things have been, and that we have to try to stay on top of it.

I love you, Babe. I hope things get better soon.

Migraines.

My cranium feels like it has been used as the ball in a FIFA world cup. One that ended in a kickoff.

I'm awake and upright now (obviously), but I've spent the past two days plus prone and in and out of a state of hazy, painful consciousness. Light hurts, sound hurts, sudden movement hurts, breathing hurts.

My migraines begin with an aura. I see deep red in the area of my peripheral vision. My doctor has no explanation for this phenomenon, most people have auras involving scent or sensation, and although some have visual auras, most are unlike mine.

Lucky me.

It used to be that if I caught it fast enough, and took my prescribed medication, things wouldn't be so bad. Not so much anymore....I think it's time for a stronger med., but that's not the topic of this blog.

Many people, especially women (don't we just get all the breaks?) suffer from migraines....it's really not an uncommon illness. Many more people get headaches, and think they have migraines. Trust me, I don't lose two days work and basically four days of my life over a headache, no matter how bad it is. Migraines have a pathology and must be diagnosed by a medical doctor, there are several conditions that have to be met before the diagnosis is made.

I look like a zombie when I'm fighting a migraine. I bruise, from the inside out. There's no way to mistake this condition, one that interrupts my life, from a headache, which is a speed bump, at most.

The worst of this one is over. I'm feeling more alert, less drugged out. The searing pain inside my skull has abated pretty much, although the actual hurt deep inside the bones won't end for awhile.

If you suffer migraines, you have my sympathy.

If you don't, consider yourself very fortunate.

Why "Normal" Makes Me Cry.

I have two young friends, a happily married couple, who recently welcomed a baby son to their small family.

I'm sure life is not perfect for them, it never is, but they are healthy, happy, good people, busy with family (human and canine), work and the events of daily life. They are active in their community and volunteer for several worthwhile organizations.

The thing that makes this couple especially important to me is the fact that they adore their baby boy. To many, if not most people, that's a no-brainer. Couples get pregnant, welcome babies, fall in love with them, then raise them to be good, decent adults.

Not always.

My parents adopted children that they didn't want, for reasons known only to them. Childhood is something we survived, and adulthood is something I'm navigating with varying degrees of success on any given day. The scarring is far too deep for me to ever hope for "normal", but "okay" will do.

The sweet, loved, wanted, sheltered, beautiful baby boy with whom I am blessed to share a relationship is being raised by parents who will make sure he always has what he needs, even if he doesn't always have everything he wants. He'll be taught to be confident, but not haughty, he'll have opportunities to see how others live, so that he doesn't assume every child is as fortunate as he is, and it will teach him empathy and compassion. He will learn to respect others, which will also teach him self-respect. He will know that violence and hatred have no place in his family, and that there is a peaceful solution to every problem, even if it seems hard to find.

I hope that my darling "nephew" leads a charmed life. I wish only the very best for him, and will always do what I can to make that happen. May he only know enough disappointment to keep him healthy, and may his victories be many and sweet.

This little guy already has the best start any child can have...parents who love each other and him.

What Kind Of Person Has No Photos Of Her/His Dog?

Or cat?

This is too weird. Four (count 'em, one, two, three, four) times within the past seven days I have seen lost dog posters on which there is no photograph of the animal, or, even worse, a compilation of pictures that may resemble the general appearance of the lost dog.

Honestly, is that the best an animal guardian can do? Photo-shopped pictures cut from a magazine? One lost ad had four pics of four different breeds, with instructions to take the head of dog one, place it on the body of dog two (I guess the dog has no neck) and imagine the legs of dog three and the fur length and "approximate" colour of dog four. Simple. Oh, and if you see this much-missed, well-loved family member, who, by the way, is intact, has neither tattoo nor microchip, is not licensed, and is not wearing a collar or any means of identification, could you please call (###) ###.#### because the woman of the house feels unsafe without him.

Really, who doesn't take pictures of his/her dog? I realize that I'm nuts, and take more photos of my furkids than most people take of their human children, and I don't expect everyone to have a thousand images to sort through, but one or two? One would think that the poor yard dog to which the lost poster above was referring would have accidentally shown up in a photo of a family barbecue, or a trophy shot of the three cars up on blocks on the cement pad.

A lost dog poster without a current picture of the real deal is useless, and further, a photograph may be the only proof of "ownership' if an animal has no identification whatsoever.

One can only hope that dogs with so little value to their "families" find a much softer and safer place to land, and never have to return to homes where they don't even warrant a single, solitary photograph.

Good luck Prince.

Us And Them, Ours And Yours, It's All Wrong

I attended a fund-raising event last night night for VAST, the Vancouver Association for Survivors of Torture. It was called "Salsa for Social Change" and was a great evening of dance, good food and great people.

The day before the event, I mentioned at work that I would be acting as MC. A coworker said something along the lines of "It's great what you do for them". "Them" being the clients of VAST, refugees fleeing torture and trying to make a new life in Canada.

Her comment pissed me off (In the interest of full disclosure, most of what comes out of her mouth pisses me off, she's an idiot). In my heart and mind, there is no "them". There are people who, through pure accident of birth, were lucky enough to be born and raised in the safety and relative luxury of Canada, and there are people who were unlucky enough to be born in unsafe, poor, dangerous countries. It's not fair, not fair at all. None of us did anything to deserve the family or country that welcomed us, or refused us, whichever the situation. Pure dumb luck, that's all.

Last night a good, decent, kind man spoke of his experiences, including being adopted and raised in Turkey, starting his professional career, being imprisoned and tortured by his government, then escaping and making his way to Canada as a refugee.

His life has been horrific, and most would say "Well duh, the man was tortured." That's true, but his physical torture is only one part of the cruelty he has endured.

Because my friend was a refugee, he could not work. He could not open a bank account, he could not buy property, apply for credit or get the help he needed to recover from his torture. His treatment by the government was abysmal, just another refugee...until VAST.

Canada is a young country, most of her citizens, unless from a First Nation, are only two or three generations away from being refugees. Still "we" give newcomers a rough ride, treating many of "them" like "they" don't belong here. Why the hell not? Has nothing been learned from the treatment the first immigrants to Canada faced?

Intolerance is an ugly thing. Treating anyone else as "other", whether that person is a refugee, an immigrant, a person with a disability, a non-WASP type, or a member of any ethnic, cultural or sexual minority is wrong.

We all need to think about the words we use so that we can start changing the thoughts we have and the actions we take.

The Real Reason Parliament Has Been Prorogued

There is no way in hell our "Right Honourable Prime Minister" can seriously believe that the citizens of Canada are stupid enough to buy proroguing as anything more than an excuse for the Harper family to jet off to the Wet Coast for the 2010 Olympics.

Stephen Harper couldn't care less how voters feel about the fact that our military outsources the torture of political prisoners. Public opinion regarding the economy isn't important to him, either. Does he care about our feelings surrounding the justice system? Not so much. Why miss traveling to the Olympics with Laureen, Ben and Rachel, on the country's dime? The legal, ethical and moral questions proroguing brings up are totally irrelevant. Who are we, the people the Prime Minister is charged to serve, to hold him to account anyway?

I think a career in "public service" requires a great deal of ego and a fluid sense of truth to begin with. Our Prime Minister has both, in spades.

Just Because People Don't Want To Hear Things Doesn't Make Those Things Disappear.

I'm so very weary of hearing people say "Oh I can't stand to hear stories about child abuse, animal abuse, domestic violence, torture, human suffering...." (enter subject matter here). Refraining from talking about or hearing about the harsh realities of life does not make them disappear.

Until every single person capable of making change in the world does so, unimaginable horrors will continue to be visited on the poor, the weak, and the vulnerable. The perpetrators of crimes against marginalized populations are, of course, the most responsible, but everyone who knows those crimes are being committed, and remain silent, are complicit. Guilty of selfishness, weakness, fear, or just plain callousness, it matters little, guilt is guilt.

Many people were aware of the abuse suffered by my siblings and me at the hands of our parents. There were many opportunities for neighbors, teachers, social service providers and others to step in and rescue us from the hell that was our life. Nobody did. There's no excuse for their neglect, and today they would be held criminally responsible...I guess society has evolved a little.

But certainly not enough.

May The Gods And Goddesses Have Mercy On Haiti.

It's unfortunate it took the horror that has befallen Haiti for the rest of the world to take notice of how desperately the citizens of the western hemisphere's poorest nation need help.

I think most people had at least a casual understanding of the remarkably primitive infrastructure with which Haitians had to survive. One thing the Governor General of Canada, Haitian-born Michaelle Jean has done is raise awareness of her country of origin and the struggles the country faces. Water, sewer and electrical services were spotty at best, with almost nobody living outside of Port-au-Prince having access to those services at all. Grinding poverty, with more than 70% of the population living on a dollar or less a day, plus an unstable government, and proper housing, health care and education out of reach for many, and inadequate for most, made simple survival for all but a very few Haitians almost unbearable.

But they persevered. They survived. Theirs is a strong culture borne of overcoming nearly insurmountable odds. Family, music, art, faith and hope keep Haitians from giving up.

Until now. What happens now?

The world is rushing to provide aid to Haiti during this, its darkest hour. The country lays in ruin, with basically nothing left to repair, which means the entire country will need to be rebuilt, from the ground up. Will the rest of the western hemisphere take this opportunity to give Haitians a brand new start, or will the money, food, supplies and specialized personnel disappear with the next natural or financial meltdown?

My heart goes out to the citizens of Haiti, and to ex-pats and foreigners who choose to call this country home. Godspeed to the victims of this horrific event, and peace to their surviving friends and loved ones.

It is to weep.

Why BC Provincial Court Is Better Than Reality Television.

I was in court today (from 9:30 a.m. - 4:30 p.m. for a 5 minute voir dire) on a work-related matter. There were all the usual suspects; the speeders, the dudes who don't think the seat belt laws were written with them in mind, the jaywalkers, the guys who think public spaces = urinals, nothing terribly exciting or provocative.

Until the drunken brawler's case was on the docket.

The guy was charged with fighting on a city street and public intoxication. He entered a plea of not guilty to the fighting charge and then proceeded to make a total ass of himself in front of a packed courtroom.

First it was his claim of self-defense. That would be all well and good, and maybe even valid, if not for the fact that the man from whom he was defending himself was on the ground, in the fetal position, trying to protect his face and head as this ape and his friend rained kicks down on his body.

When the Justice looked skeptical about that line, the guy changed tactics. He and his buddy were leaving a bar after he consumed two drinks, when they noticed their victim beating a homeless man. Good citizens that they are, they commanded that he cease and desist, at which point their victim punched the Good Samaritan in the mouth. In return, our guy knocked the alleged homeless-man-abuser out cold with one well aimed right to the jaw. He then put his foot on the chest of the victim to restrain him.

Enter the VPD. Two constables on foot patrol saw the ape and his sidekick (pun intended) putting the boots to a third man who was prone on the sidewalk. They were approximately a third of a block away, on a well lit street. Witnesses told them that the three men had been in altercation, a fight that had spilled out of the club at which they had been partying. The police officers noted that both of the men kicking the shit out of the third guy were heavily intoxicated (our guy is a longshoreman, a strong, burly man; his two drinks, the Crown Prosecutor remarked, must have consisted of eight shots each).

This is where the story gets fuzzy. The two constables said they placed all three men in custody, which means they were face down on the ground with their hands cuffed behind them. Standard operating procedure. They were then placed in the police wagon and taken to the drunk tank.

Our champion-of-the-homeless says that he was beaten by the police officers for thirty minutes. Half an hour. At Davie and Robson, in the heart of the entertainment district, from approximately 3:30 - 4:00 a.m., when bars are closing and there are literally hundreds of patrons on the streets. No video clips, no cell phone photos, no calls to 911 or the media (not necessarily in that order). Two police officers punching and kicking a man with his hands cuffed behind him for half an hour.

When the Crown Prosecutor challenged Ape-Man's version of events, he said that he was lucky he hadn't ended up like Robert Dziekanski. When the Prosecutor said that was the RCMP not the VPD, and that there was an Inquiry being held to determine whether the police acted appropriately, the guy said all cops are the same, and they'll use any excuse to beat up "innocent people trying to do the right thing". He claimed that hundreds (?) of people are assaulted and murdered by the B.C. (again ?) police every year.

I'm truly surprised that this Neanderthal didn't break his shoulder patting himself on the back. Fortunately the Justice saw him for what he is, a goon. There was no evidence (from dozens of voluntary witnesses), that there was a homeless man who had been assaulted. What happened was simple, a drunk was punched (for whatever reason....listening to him piss and moan for an hour made me want to knock him out) in front of his friend, and in a testosterone and alcohol-induced rage beat a guy senseless.

Our guy couldn't believe it when he was found guilty. He stated that if he really was guilty that he should have been charged with assault.

That's the one thing everyone in the courtroom could agree on.

Say Hello To Sawyer.

Our family has expanded by one. We welcomed Sawyer, a Boston terrier/French bulldog cross puppy after a friend got in over her head on an impulse purchase. It's sad for her, but our world, and mine in particular, has become so much the sweeter because of Sawyer.

Nobody will ever replace MacKenzie in my heart, but this boy is a happy, healthy, loving little ray of sunshine who brings smiles to the faces of everyone he meets. He's cute, that's true, but it's his temperament that makes him such a pleasure.....he wakes up full of joie de vivre and spends his days running, jumping, playing and cuddling. He goes full out and then crashes, a typical baby.

Sawyer is doing well with his raw diet. Chicken legs are a favourite. Bully sticks and Kong toys are a hit, as is his hide-a-squirrel.

Deputy Dawg gets to come to work with me on days that I'm not in court or meetings. That makes the bonding process so much easier, and Sawyer has made a bagillion friends. He's a social little creature, a very special, loving little soul who has made the process of beginning to heal from the heartbreaking, premature loss of my Kenzie dog just a little bit easier.

Terrorism Takes Many Shapes.

The U.S. "War on Terror" has long been an issue I've regarded as a wholly disingenuous way for the American government to do what it wants, when it wants, to whomever it wants, with no fear of a backlash from the citizens it represents. Ever since George W. Bush, one of the worst war criminals in recent history, made it perfectly legal to torture, rape, and murder civilians and refer to the victims as "casualties of war" and destroy hospitals, schools, homes, villages, towns and the futures of generations not even born yet as "collateral damage", terrorism is no longer something Americans need only fear, it is something in which they are complicit.

The U.S. has enjoyed the role of "the big fish in the small pond" for decades. The flexing of American muscle, whether in Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Korea, Vietnam, Iran, Iraq or Afghanistan has never been called terrorism, but why is it any different than the Al Qaeda attacks on American soil? Hundreds of thousands of innocent people have died at the hands of U.S. troops. Does any rational, reasonable human being not think that American soldiers have terrorized the citizens of which every country they have attacked?

In this new age of heightened security, no-fly lists, terrorist watches, and general American paranoia regarding all persons not WASPish, one has to take a moment to wonder about Karma. Maybe what goes around really does come around.

The Narcissists Shall Inherit The Earth.

My job has its ups and downs. More downs than ups, unfortunately, but my awareness of the fact that there are thousands of people who would give their right arms for the chance to be a full-time, well-paid, union-protected civic employee with great benefits keeps me from bitching too often, at least publicly. But to those thousands who would give up an appendage for my job; a warning, you'll need that arm to do the work I do.

This week wasn't so bad, although every day I leave for work with a sense of impending doom. I wasn't always this way: quite the opposite, really, I used to go in early and leave late, but that was a different time, and you can't unring the bell.

The one glaring exception to "it wasn't so bad" was a call I had to attend about off-leash dogs being allowed to dig holes in a tiny west side green space. The complainant was upset about a reduction in property values because the grass is being destroyed. Okay, whatever, it's my job to enforce bylaws, and dogs must be leashed while in public places, unless in an area posted as off-leash. Pretty simple, certainly not rocket science.

The complainant (isn't that an awesome word?) wanted the area patrolled at a specific time, because dog owners tend to congregate there during a certain window. Hey, cool, we live to serve.

I arrived at said green space at said time to speak with said dog owners. The area is in Kitsilano, and anyone who knows me understands that traveling anywhere west of Cambie Street gives me hives, but again, I had a mission to fulfill.

What happened when I arrived at the little park-like space reinforced every single reason I am an East-Van-Dyke-In-A-Uniform-Who-Should-Never-Try-To-Play-Nicely-With-Overly-Indulged-West-Side-PITAs.

I understand the west-side sense of entitlement that appears to be okay with everyone who lives in Vancouver. I think it's crap, but I understand everyone treats the Kerrisdale, Kits, Point Grey, Shaughnessy, West End crew like they are as special as they think they are. I don't have to like it, though.

It was apparent as soon as I arrived on scene that the interaction with these people who live in the rarefied air of the West Side would not go well. When I got out of my truck some guy shouted to everyone within hearing distance that the "Dog Gestapo" was there. As a Jew whose grandmother survived the camps during the Holocaust, the flippant use of the word "Gestapo" by some pissant with a toy poodle just doesn't sit well. I didn't even get to speak before I was told that I should get back into my truck and go back to the Downtown Eastside where I belong. I told the assembled group that their dogs where not permitted to be off-leash in this tiny green space. I was told, in return, that I had no fucking right to be there, that "they" paid taxes, and they would let their dogs run wherever they wanted. I asked whether their dogs were licensed, and got a similar response, they all pay taxes, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. A Labrador retriever came close enough to me that I could touch his collar, to check for a license. As I did , his owner, a large, angry man said, "That dog is trained to attack on command, and if you touch him, I'll give the command."

Nice. His mommy must be very proud.

It went downhill from there. I told the dog owners that there had been a complaint, and that the city would continue to patrol the area and issue tickets until the problem was solved. That made me exceptionally popular. People who heard the commotion from inside the condos and apartment buildings surrounding the green space began to come outside to get a closer look. I was reminded, uncomfortably, of the scene in Young Frankenstein, where all the townspeople are chasing "the monster" with torches and shouting "Kill him! Kill him!"

Trying to explain that their dogs were tearing up the grass was answered with "Show us the holes." Hard to do in the dark. When I said the area was not off-leash approved, I got "Show us the signs." By then I was pissy enough to say "There are no signs saying 'Do Not Murder', or 'No Breaking and Entering', either, and absence of a sign is not an excuse to break the law." Oops.

That's when they all got into the "Don't you have anything better to do, like picking up used syringes in playgrounds on the East Side?", or " Why don't you get a real job?", or "Aren't you ashamed of yourself for harassing innocent people?" I made my exit then, there was no point in staying.

As I left, and the crowd was crowing in perceived victory, I said, out of pure spite, "I'll see you all next week when I return with the police."

It should be fun.

Missing MacKenzie

A sweet bright light in my world was extinguished almost two and a half months ago. MacKenzie has left a giant hole in my life, and although I am trying hard to focus on filling the void with fond memories and the understanding that we gave Mac the best life possible, the hurt is as raw today as it was on October 21st, and it has only been compounded by the loss of Tucker earlier this month as well as my hedgehog Booker two days before Tuck.

I don't think I realized how much real time I spent with MacKenzie. Before she became ill the time was spent managing her behaviours and keeping all of the dogs safe while making sure Kenzie's physical, spiritual and emotional needs were met. After she got sick, I was with her as much as I could be because her levels of fear and anxiety meant she required almost constant reassurance. She cried whenever she was alone, her medications creating a totally terrifying and alien world. Without the meds her body and mind failed her, it was an untenable situation.

Not everyone understood my special girl. She was complicated, difficult and trying sometimes, but she was beautiful, intelligent and loving all the time.

I still hear her cry, and sometimes see her shadow. I can't believe that the force of nature that was MacKenzie will never grace us with her presence again.

I love you baby girl.

This Place Is So Not Ready For The Olympics.

First I want to make it perfectly clear that I did not vote to bring the Olympic Games to Vancouver. Chris did, so blame her.

We've lived with years of pre-Olympic construction, cost-overruns, controversy, protests and inconveniences large and small. Now, during the final countdown, Whistler is dealing with "Olympic Aversion", the taxpayers of Vancouver are looking at hundreds of street closures, the bright bulbs of VANOC are asking tourists and visitors to the Games to pay for the carbon offsets it had vowed to purchase but now can't afford. I can see it happening....not. Why in the name of God would people visiting the most expensive city in the country for a totally overpriced sporting event, voluntarily shell out more money for such a dubious reason?

Translink is intent on fleecing visitors to this (un)fair city as well. The regular fee of $3.50 for a skytrain ticket from YVR to one of the downtown stations is being jacked up to $8.50. There are ways around this thievery, but unless some kind locals lets the tourists in on the secret, they'll get hosed. Parking prices are being conveniently raised in city-owned lots and parking meters, as are the hours paid parking is in effect.

A cynic might think that the citizens of the Lower Mainland are being screwed by the City of Vancouver.

Hundreds of millions (billions? trillions?) of dollars have been spent by a city on the brink of disaster, a province running a deficit and a country in a recession to host an event where only the most elite athletes in the world are invited. Nobody is naive enough to believe the Olympic Games are about excellence in amateur sport anymore....only professional athletes are welcome in hockey, and other sports boast athletes with huge amounts of money backing them.

Meanwhile, the City of Vancouver is laying off hundreds of employees, cutting services and laying waste to social programs. The province is closing schools, can't see it's way clear to raise the minimum wage to more than $8.00 an hour (the lowest in the entire country, in the province with some of the highest costs of living), is closing hospital wards, the list goes on.

Hey, but it's all good, because Roberto Luongo might actually live up to his hype and not choke during an important hockey game. That's gotta be worth a billion dollars.

British Columbia Liquor Control Board Whores.

There has been a radio ad getting frequent airplay lately that makes my blood boil. The ad is beseeching people who buy alcohol to do so at government owned liquor stores as opposed to those that are privately owned .

Yes, the ad is paid for by the union representing employees of the government liquor stores, and not the provincial government itself, but the whole idea of plaintiff statements regarding how much hospitals, schools and other publicly-funded institutions rely on the profits of alcohol sales is beyond the pale.

I make no secret of the fact that I hate the use and abuse of alcohol. I know, from first hand experience, the this most lethal and readily available of drugs destroys individuals, families and communities. It's abhorrent to me that governments not only sell this scourge, but are trying to convince its users that by purchasing their poison at a privately run store they are stealing bedpans from hospitals and gym mats from schools.

With the promise of the lowest prices available on booze in British Columbia, the province is basically the Wal-Mart of drug dealers. It would be laughable were it not so pathetic.

I Sleep With a Buzz Saw.

And it's not Christine.

Zoe is a Shih Tzu. They are an odd little breed by nature, but Zoe takes "unusual" to a whole new level. She is a solid, compact rectangle of a dog....we call her Low Rider, among other things....many other things. She has these short little legs and none of them work in sync when she's running. She has a ball at the park, but she is toast when she gets home, and sleeps for hours. Poor little girl has to take twenty steps for every one of Kirby's or Sienna's. She's blind in one eye, the result of an old injury, and her sighted eye is a fair bit larger than the blind one. When she stares you down with that mutant eye, it's enough to send chills down the spine.

Zoe prefers to watch the world go by from the comfort of the middle of our dining room table. She's too short to see out the window otherwise. She'll spend hours spread out like Miss January. We've never really felt the need to ask her to move....

This dog sleeps in the oddest positions. I personally love it when she is flat on her back with her four legs all akimbo. She can be lifted and carried in that position without waking. It's like packing around a bag of sand with paws.

And speaking of sleep, Zoe snores like a 2-pack-a-day smoker with adenoid problems. Christine's C-Pap machine doesn't keep me awake, but Zo-Zo's snoring does. It's worst when she's dreaming or in a deep sleep, and that's the time one is most likely to be treated to a nice dog-snot shower, too.

Zoe's life used to be shit. She was nothing more than a commodity to some greedy bastard, but she knows she has arrived at the doggy promised land. There are few rules for her here, and none of them are arbitrary. She's not allowed to harass the Guinea pigs who can die of heart failure if badly startled, she's not allowed to fight with Gemma, although they antagonize the hell out of one another, and she has to go outside to do her thing. Not a bad deal. In return for those simple expectations, Zoe gets good food, lots of exercise, vet care (which she would happily do without), warm beds, toys and all the cuddles and love she can handle from her four doting humans.

Zoe is an amazing, loving, vibrant, funny, self-actualizing little buzz saw, and she deserves only the good things in life. That's what we've promised her, that's what she's getting.

The Abortion "Debate". Please Just Make It Stop!

I passed yet another "vigil for the unborn" in Maple Ridge yesterday. To say I hate the self-serving, narcissistic, egotistical people who are fighting so hard to remove the dominion of the very bodies of all women, is a grave understatement. I detest the female zealots, sheep who have internalized the almost universal misogyny and regular abuse nearly all women face at the hands of men, on a daily basis, and are standing in support of those very purveyors of misery. I wonder how female anti-choice advocates feel about sacrificing their sisters in order to ally themselves with men who have no respect for any woman?

My real disgust, that which makes my blood boil, is the type of spectacle I witnessed yesterday. All of the "loving children of a loving God" were men. There were no women there at all. IF anyone has the right to tell a woman what she "should" or "should not" be doing regarding a pregnancy, a female doctor, nurse practitioner, nurse, or other health care provider ought to be the one doing it. If a woman has made the difficult decision to abort a fetus, women, not men, should be providing factual, useful and practical information to her.

Yesterday's small but vocal little gang of pro-life thugs were uniformly middle to early senior aged, wearing expensive, carefully chosen casual clothing. They were trying hard to look like someone's sweet uncle Bob, but under the genteel masks and the designer clothes were vile, hateful fanatics who are all the more frightening because they believe their own press. These men, all of whom enjoy male privilege simply due to accident of birth, all of whom have horribly overdeveloped senses of their own importance, think that it is their right, no, their calling, to scare women into carrying unwanted children to term . None of these self-righteous bastards give any thought to what becomes of that unwilling mother and her unfortunate child after she has given birth.

These men carried horrific, graphic photographs of abortions in progress, enlarged to poster size. Strategically placed posters of lovely blue-eyed blond babies were in serious competition for all furtive glances.

Why are we still "debating" the right of women to decide what happens to their bodies? If a woman wants to abort, why is it anyone else's concern? There ought not be a "reason" required, ever.

And why in the name of God are men involved in the abortion debate at all ? Until the male of the species can get pregnant and deliver babies, they should shut the fuck up. The argument that abortion is a public policy issue, a moral issue, a community issue, a family issue or any man's issue is bullshit. The choice to abort a fetus belongs to the woman carrying it. Period.

Oh, and the Adoption not Abortion faction fails miserably. My partner and I were both adopted, and in both cases it was an unmitigated disaster. Same for my three siblings. There are hundreds and hundreds of children awaiting permanent homes and families in British Columbia, but the homes just aren't there. When a healthy baby is born with an adoption plan in place, it's the kind of fairy tale ending everyone lives for, but most babies being born into the child welfare system are not healthy infants with ten families desperate to adopt them. Foster care is often their lot.

Abortion is never an easy decision to reach, and women who comes to that choice deserves support.

Best Buy, Your Biggest Asset Is Your Sales Associates.

This past Christmas at our house included a lot of electronic toys for overgrown kids. Car stereos were the big ticket item for three of the four members of our household. We did some comparison shopping, looking for high quality brands that had all the features important to each of us.

We ended up spending a lot of time at Best Buy. The store is, in a word, unimpressive. Christine and I both wanted a very high end stereo with GPS, that was both blue-tooth and Sirius Satellite-ready. There were none in stock (aside from the demo model) at the store with which we chose to do business, based on its location. We needed two, but no worries, there were more on order, and the shipment would be in well before Christmas. Needless to say, the units that were due to arrive tomorrow, always tomorrow, never did. I managed to find the stereo at another Best Buy, but there was only one.

So skip to January. Chris has her stereo, with all the bells and whistles she wanted, and it's installation day. I have a different stereo, having decided that I didn't really need or want anything that complicated, and Angelina has her unit, which was exactly what she wanted. Chris's installation is belaboured by the need for umpteen "extras" that are not sold with the stereo, and which, of course, are all out of stock. She leaves with the basics in place, only to arrive at home to find that two of three cords are missing and the one cord in place is the wrong one.

Angelina's stereo went in without a hitch, except that she has to wait for her Sirius Satellite add-on, which is, of course, on back order. Mine too. I'm okay with that, I have an i-Phone that gives me thosands of songs from which to choose.

All-in-all, Best Buy was a clusterfuck. There were angry people complaining (rightly) about false advertising...extremely low sale prices with only two or three of the sale items per store. Angry people complaining about the fact that items had been on back order for weeks. Angry people complaining about the lack of selection.

One thing I noticed was the very small number of angry people complaining about customer service from the sales associates. With good reason. These (mostly) young adults were literally run off their feet. We dealt with a young man named Jayke at the Coquitlam Best Buy. He was polite, friendly, knowledgeable and very good at his job. He answered our myriad of questions patiently, he made suggestions, helped us come to decisions and tried as hard as he could to make amends for the fact that his workplace seems intent on frustrating the hell out of consumers.

I also dealt with a young man named Michael at the Cambie Street Best Buy. He was as dedicated to his job as Jayke, and although he couldn't meet all my electronic needs, it certainly wasn't for a lack of trying. Michael was totally frustrated that customers had to wait for long periods and then often couldn't find what they wanted.

So to Jayke and Michael, thanks. And since I know they won't be reading my blog, I have sent thank you letters to them via their respective stores. It's something I always do when I have good experiences with retail sales associates. God knows they are woefully underpaid, and most put up with shit from all sides. I'm not sure why so many people feel it is acceptable to be abusive to those in the service industry, but sadly it's true.

Best Buy, I doubt we'll be shopping at any of your stores in the future, but if we do, it'll be because of people like Jayke and Michael.

Do We Ever Really Move On?

Recently a friend asked a very fair question, one without an agenda or any reason to cause me pain...it was just a simple question:

"If your brother wanted to reestablish a relationship with you, how would you react?"

Simple question, easy answer, I would welcome him back into my life with open arms.

Of course it isn't nearly as simple as that, nothing ever is. My brother is never going to ask me to "take him back", so I'll never really have to face the possibility of dealing, face to face, with the man who caused me more pain than I ever thought bearable.

My brother and I have a very twisted, complicated history. I haven't actually seen him in more than 15 years. Our childhood experiences were horrific, and he was literally the reason I made it out, because I felt I was responsible for his survival. We did not escape unscathed, however; we both bear the emotional and psychological scars that physical, mental and sexual abuse leaves on victims.

I loved my baby brother more than life. He was beautiful, he was sensitive, he was sweet, he was shy, he was gentle. He was everything my father hated in a boy child. I stepped in front of all manner of weapons to save my brother from harm. I hid him, stole food for him, took beatings for him, lied for him, held him when he cried, picked him up when he fell. We were inseparable.

And then we weren't.

I left home on the day I turned 16. I was going to high school and couldn't take my brother with me. He couldn't deal with being left behind and all that entailed, and he turned to drugs.

We saw one another only sporadically in the ensuing years. I went to university, working several jobs and struggling to finish my four year programme in three years. My brother spiraled downward and ended up on the streets. I tried to help him, but he blamed me for most of his problems, and the only help he wanted from me was financial. I loved my brother, I loved him far too much to feed the habit that was killing him.

My brother eventually found help through a street youth ministry. He got clean and sober, and was encouraged to face his demons. I was one of those demons. He had a love/hate relationship with the person he remembered me to be. It embarrassed him that I had been his protector, it angered him that I made him "dependent" on me and then dumped him, he was furious that I hadn't failed without him.

And he had been convinced that I was evil because I was an admitted lesbian. I say "he had been convinced" because my little brother knew about and understood my sexuality from a very young age. It was a non-issue. The minute he became involved with his new "church", I was no longer a human being deserving of compassion, understanding, respect or love. I was a pariah.

This hurt, naturally. It hurt like hell. This boy, this man-child who I held at night while he sobbed and shivered and wet himself in stark terror now saw me as the enemy. I kept this boy alive, and he ripped my heart out.

I thought nothing could hurt more, but I was wrong. My brother married. He and his partner had three daughters, my nieces. After his first daughter was born, my brother held her up to a plexiglass window and told me to get a good look at her, since I would never see her again. Lesbians are homosexuals, and homosexuals are pedophiles, and his child(ren) were never going to be put at risk.

I never did see my niece again, or her two sisters. I've not seen my brother or sister-in-law, either.

I'm fortunate that there are children in my life. I have a great friendship with a lovely young couple who recently gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. They allow me to be part of his life, and "Auntie" is a role I cherish. They know I would never, ever, upon pain of death, do anything to harm their son.

I would love to have my brother, sister-in-law and nieces in my life, but he's not going to make the move, and I just can't. As much as I would love to begin a relationship with these three young women I don't know, the past has me trapped.

Maybe when they become of age they will search me out. God knows I would welcome them with open arms.

Young People......

We hear about "today's youth" pretty much 24/7. Television, radio, newspapers, magazines, the net; "kids today" begins many, many sentences.

Tonight I was waiting in line for take-out at a Commercial Drive restaurant. The place was really busy, and the noise level was high. People were laughing, talking, eating, having a good time when this very loud male voice shouted "Shut up, bitch!"

The noise level abated as pretty much every eye in the small room fixed on the table where the yelling had come from. The female half of the couple looked mortified, and scared. She said something to the guy, quietly, and again he yelled, only this time it was "Fuck you!"

The crowd in the restaurant was murmuring, as crowds will do in situations like this one: "jerk", "poor girl", "why does she stay with an asshole like that?", but nobody tried to stop the verbal assault. When the guy stood up and grabbed her arm, saying "we're getting the fuck out of here", though, there was actual movement.

That was the moment when a young person, perhaps 16 or 17 years old, put his hand on the shoulder of the brute who was making his companion wince in pain. The brute was my age, at least, the woman about the same. The young man very politely said "Sir, you're hurting the lady, let her go." The brute didn't take this well, as one might imagine, and shouted a few choice words at the kid, but he let go of the woman and left the restaurant. Then the younger man asked the woman who was old enough to be his mother if she was going to be okay, if there was someone he could call for her, if she needed help.

Young people today.....

NaBloPoMo

It has been a very long time since I blogged with any regularity, and I'm hoping that blogging religiously once per day for a month will ease me back into an activity that I find enjoyable and stimulating.

The topic for this month is "best", probably meant to be viewed as a "best of" or "most enjoyable" list or group of subjects, products, events or people. In my skewed world, I'm looking at best a little more negatively, as in "is that the best they can do?"

I was hit with inspiration when I heard, umpteen times, a thoroughly disgusting, degrading, revolting radio ad for Virgin Mobile. The scenario is a young man who is signing up and paying for "phone services", and of course it's his "very first time" and he's nervous and doesn't know what to do. The absurdly sex-soaked voice that guides him through his experience is appalling. The ad is beyond provocative, it's voyeuristic.

If this radio spot played only on adult stations, maybe it wouldn't bother me so much, but I heard it on The Beat 94.5, a Top-40 station whose demographics are decidedly not adult-heavy. Kids who want the very product this ad sells are hearing that sex is just a phone call away. The same kids whose parents think their kids need cell phones at 9 or 10 years of age are being subjected to radio porn.

That can't be the best Virgin can do.