Showing posts with label Don't Be a Douche. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Don't Be a Douche. Show all posts

Thursday, December 12, 2019

Preying upon the vintage nerds

Dicks. SO many dicks out there on the interwebs. Leaving virtual spooge on our screens and an ether trail of fake websites / Facebook pages / online stores. Preying upon the vintage clothing / cheap electronics / insert niche market here nerds.

I freely admit, I click that bait. Vintage style wool coat?  The Angels' chorus sings: Halle-fucking-lujah!  My years' long search is now over!!

It's only $50.12!!!  Shit. That price is too low.

Too low, you say? Yeah, it's too fucking low. Come on, even the Bay when it's selling its wool coats for 50% off will still rate $100 or more for a well made wool coat.

It's a fucking scam.


Victorian style boots? $42.46.                                   









Vintage Dress? $34.59.


Mother fucker.







Go ahead and order from this site. You're right, the price is SO GOOD. And you might even get something shipped to you that could possibly, maybe somewhat resemble the product in the photo, but odds are you're not going to see it and when you attempt to contact the sales department asking either where it is or try to figure out how to get your money back for the piece of shit that they did ship you - the company will be long gone.

Want an I PHONE 11 for $100? You're not going to get it. An accurately-crafted Victorian ensemble for $30? You are deluding yourself.

The modern snake-oil salesmen are pitching to the niche nerds / bargain hunters and will keep doing it as long as people are buying it. And then you read in the comments sections of "Is <insert fraudulent company name here> a scam/legit?" from all the poor schmucks who only wanted a double-breasted wool English riding jacket for $35 instead of $350 for the real deal and are shocked that they didn't get it.

If it seems too good to be true? Come on now... everyone!

"IT'S TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE!!" 

Google it. DuckDuckGo it. Hell, you can fucking Bing it. Just don't buy it.


Tuesday, July 25, 2017

The Destruction of Generation Z.


It might take a village to raise a child, but God forbid if you actually attempt it in North America. 

Parenting in the new Millennium seems to have taken on the Three Monkeys approach: See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. 

Parents have become myopic helicopters hovering over their children's playgrounds, test scores and job interviews. The result? You can't swing a selfie-stick without hitting an entitled, self-serving Millennial or Gen Zer who is in no way ready for the real world. Basically our generation is fucking over our children's generation  - all in the name of supportive parental love.

I never thought I'd become that vintage dinosaur.  "Back in the day..." if any of my parents' friends saw me fucking up, I'd get called out on it and after I took that deserved tongue lashing, I'd get to tell my parents what I'd done. Now? Our village is more apt to speak up about strangers' kids than friends' kids. When a child's safety is in question? Folks mobilize. That kid left in the backseat - the child teetering on the edge of the sea wall? Emergency Services are called and the parents are virally shamed. But with friends' kids? When their kid is behaving abominably, when they themselves are sucking at their job? Surreptitious, eye-rolling silence.  You don't mess with other people's parenting. It's the unspoken rule. "Darling, it just isn't done." 

Why not? Why can't we tell our best friend that their kid is a whiny asshole? In the nicest way possible, of course. Why aren't we speaking up? Why do we not call out our friends' bad parenting choices - when they allow their 7 year old to take them hostage because they don't want to cause a public scene? When they do their kid's homework so that little Morgan gets her 'A.'

Isn't it our job as parents to raise contributing and functional members of society? Can't we help each other do that? We're not supposed to be their best friends, we're supposed to teach them not to be dicks. For every autonomous young adult, it seems as if there are three more absolute dicks beside them. 

So, no, your kid doesn't get a ribbon just for showing up. Mediocrity isn't something that should be celebrated. Having a cell phone active in class is not a requirement. Your kid is in school, learning - if it's an emergency the office will contact her! Didn't you see Ferris Bueller's Day Off? Please don't call to negotiate with potential bosses when your kid fails at a job interview. You're ensuring that they will NEVER be considered for employment. Don't text your 19 year old every five minutes while they are at their summer job - they are fully capable of putting in a full day's work without communicating with you.


Kids need to fail to thrive. They really do. Failure will help them learn. They need to be able to regroup on their own. Allow them the opportunity to make mistakes in safe ways, like not studying for a quiz and roiling in the "12% OF MY FINAL GRADE!" panic when they get that D+. Sure, you can proofread their essay, but don't rewrite it for them. They can do it. I promise you. Kids are resilient. They're smart. They can multi-task, plan and figure shit out. They're the future -  please, for the love of all that's holy in the universe - don't fuck it up for all of us.




Monday, February 11, 2013

Did I SAY you could touch my stomach?!?


When you're pregnant you become a public commodity.  Strangers ask you your business, tell you whether you're having a boy or a girl and have opinions on what foods go in your cart at the No Frills.

Way back when... when I was pregnant with Rissa - I was working in an office.  I did a lot of work with the desktop publishing department.   I came into the office one day and this desktop publishing dude suddenly put his hands very low on my pregnant stomach.  I'm not a touching-phobe, in fact I'm pretty darned snuggly with those I'm close to,  but if I don't KNOW the person, I'm not really cool with being touched, up close and personal - low on my body, adjacent to my hooha.  I didn't know this guy.

Without a pause, I reached down and grabbed his crotch, firmly... in such a way where he could not extricate himself easily.  I then said this:

"You need to ask first."  I squeezed a little bit.  His eyes got a little wider.  I smiled kindly at him, waiting, my head resting in an "I'm listening" tilt.

"Sorry..."  he strangled out, his eyes watering.  "I'll ask."

"Good man."  I waited patiently, hand still a claw around what manly bits hadn't crawled back up inside his body.

"May I... "  he swallowed and looked a bit green.  "May I touch your stomach?"

I released him and feigned delight.  "Why thank you SO much for asking!  You know a lot of people just touch without asking."  I lifted up my top, exposing the vast expanse of child-incubating skin. I take on a conspiratory tone. "You can even touch my popped belly button if you like, I don't let just anyone do that."

Thursday, February 7, 2013

Trapped in Virus Land


Oh Noro Virus - you yellow rat bastard... You don't just take the 24-48 hours of hovering near-death from your sufferers, but you take the "still contagious" time after the infected begin to improve.  So even though I'm now only slightly nauseated and achy and could probably handle getting back to work if I were doped up on Gravol, I'm not going to, because I try to follow this rule:  DON'T BE A DOUCHE!

And it's douchey to infect the population with something that gives you explosive diarrhea.  Just accept the fact that you are not the most important person in the universe, the world can survive without you, lose the couple of day's pay and DON'T BE A DOUCHE!

Because it you decide you are going to be a douche? Others are going to hurl when they put plain white rice in their mouths, others will be lying on the bathroom floor, hands clutching the cool porcelain of the toilet as their only connection to life and other people's families will be giving them the "Do we need to go to the ER?" eyes and walking in front of them when they go down the stairs in case they pass out. 

I'm losing the two days' pay. 

Friday, January 18, 2013

Hurray! I get to run on the beach and ride white horses!

HURRAY!!!!

Recently, Rissa arrived home from school, all moany and growly and generally not her usual bouncy self.

"Are you tired honey?" 

"NO!  My PERIOD started."  Grrrrrrrrrr...

(So... I have this thing.  Women shouldn't use their periods as a convenient excuse for just being moody bitches.  Yes, most definitely it can be a pain in the ass, both metaphorically and quite literally (say if your sit bones come into play - I mean Sweet Mother of Creation - how can you even HURT there - they are bones!?!)  But you know what?  You don't have to decimate the rest of the world with your hormonal fallout.  I had no cramping until I was in my 20s. It only really got bad for me AFTER having babies.  Unintentional moodiness happens, sure, but if I find myself doing it, that's when I know to take a breath, regroup and pour myself a scotch tea.  For me, the first 36 hours suck like a Dane getting the marrow out of a turkey neck; I'm pretty much medicated/drunk the whole time clutching my heating pad and watching bad t.v., but you're not going to find me yelling at random dudes on the street, "You fucking fuckers have no fucking clue what the fuck I'm going through here!!"  It is what it is.)

Rissa's new to the game, I therefore take a patience-filled breath before I ask, "Are you cramping?"  Maybe she's in true discomfort.  I ready my bosom for a commiserative hug.

"No... but the universe is mean!!  We shouldn't HAVE to bleed."

Well I can't really fault that sentiment.  "How about this?  How about you become a scientist and you can figure out a way for women not to actually have to bleed, but they can still ovulate and have babies?"

"No, that seems like a lot of work.  Especially if I'm having my period."

Chart Your Cycle - by Chella Quint - awesome zine!!



Thursday, November 29, 2012

Paying it forward...


Everybody wants something, right?  And you don't get something for nothing.  That's the rumor.  Watch out folks, my inner Pollyanna is courteously clawing her way to the surface!   The sun is shining and I'm filled with the frickin' milk of human kindness.  I have a proposition:  what if instead of all the take, take, taking - we just did a bit more of the paying it forward?

Doesn't come easily to some.  You're in your own world, you're stressed, your credit line is through the roof, the kids need to be taken to dance, or hockey, or piano...  You're busy, you don't have time.  But how about this?  Just for today -  do something without wanting anything in return.  Today, it's not going to be about you.

So leave the quarter (or loonie) in your No Frills cart, drop a handful of lucky pennies in a public place, if you've got a granola bar (or leftovers from your pricey lunch) give them to someone who's hungry.  Say "Yes" instead of your automatic "No."  Spread the word about a cause that needs momentum.  Throw accolades at the unsuspecting.  Compliment that gal at the bank who has awesome hair.  Smile at a stranger - say a "Good morning!"

Yes, it's corny, but you know what else?  I can guarantee that every little act that you do - every little act not for you - every act of kindness without that selfish core - makes you happier.  That's what's so great about it.  The less selfish you are, the more you think of others, the happier you become.   You end up getting something for yourself, just by being... nice. 

So how about just for today, share the happy.  Tomorrow you can go back to being an asshole.

Thursday, November 22, 2012

Faux Christians

I hate the faux Christians.  Love, love, LOVE the real ones - I know a bunch and they are the kindest, most supportive and liberal-minded folks out there.  The faux ones?  They're the ones who hide behind the Bible and pretend to be all godly, but are actually prejudiced, racist and pretty much ignorant of, not just how to be a good Christian, but how to be a good person. They're the ones who make organized religion sketchy.  They're the ones whose behaviour convinces me to talk about spirituality instead of religion.  The faux Christians are the ones who abandon their child when that child comes out or chooses the 'wrong' spouse, or lives a different lifestyle.

Those professed 'good Christians' love to lob around Biblical quotations, like "Love the sinner, hate the sin," or any variation thereof, as if Jesus himself was speaking through them.  So here's the thing.  Jesus never said that. Now, I haven't actually read the entire Bible, but I have spent WAY too much time this morning doing internet searches on that particular quotation.  And you know something?  It's not from scripture.  And it's not from Gandhi as is rumoured.   It's from St. Augustine of Hippo, who wrote 400 years after Jesus.  And you know what?  It's still a crappy quotation.

So for those who want to spout meaningful quotations that are actually attributed to Jesus in the actual Bible...  You know what a better quotation would be?  "Love one another."  How about if,  instead of following some archaic notion of what sin is and what sin isn't, how about we choose love?

So here's me, the next best thing to an atheist, starting a campaign. The  Let's put the Christ back in Christian campaign.   Because these faux Christians?  They're giving the real ones a bad name.






Thursday, November 15, 2012

If I were ridiculously wealthy...

The phrase "SPARE NO EXPENSE!!!"  would readily fall from my lips.  My holiday shopping would be joyfully a la carte.  I would tip with bills, not toonies.

I don't have that kind of disposal income... right now.  But very soon, very soon (insert scheming world-domination maniacal laughter here) it shall come to pass...

So here's what's going to happen until then.  Every time I see something that I know my loved-ones would go apeshit for, but I can't afford - I'm going to file it.  And for Christmas, I'm going to let everyone know about all the things I will get them when I am ridiculously wealthy.

I'm starting file folders for everyone I know.  That way, when I see that $700 etched print by Liz Menard  that would be perfect for David, I'll add it to his file.  Same with the ridiculous cat bean-bag warmer Cuddle Kitty that would make Rissa giggle...   And when I see an exorbitantly priced coffee table book that I know Meg would salivate for - it's going in her file.   Then I'll just give them the lists of their future gifts.

This epiphany hit me yesterday while I was helping my friend Lisa at the Moose Show.  Lisa, my crazy friend, my incredibly talented artistic friend, the friend who makes me snort ginger ale through my nose.  (That makes it sound like she has me tied to a chair and is waterboarding me with ginger ale.  She totally doesn't do that.  She does, however, make me laugh so hard that I snort and just so you know, snorting ginger ale is painful.  "It burns!  It burns!")

I was watching Lisa yesterday do a wire sculpture of a gold fish, from a freaking photograph.  She had the photograph and was artistically extrapolating.  My brain just doesn't work that way.  What I want to be able to do for her?  I want to be able to commission pieces and pay her WHAT THEY ARE WORTH!!!   If she spends 150 hours making something - she should be earning WAY more than just a couple of bucks an hour for her artistic labour.   I want to rent a public space in downtown Toronto to display her astoundingly awesome 7 foot long Korean Dragon wire sculpture so that the A freakin' G O stands up and takes notice of her brilliance.  Check out her works here: www.lbrunetta.ca

And now I need to research sand sculpting companies who might offer workshops.  Then I can tell David and Rissa that as soon as we're rich, we are going someplace like Hawaii or California and we're going to learn how to build even bigger and more bad-ass sand sculptures than the ones we do now.

'Cause you know what?  Dreams come true.  It's happened to me over and over again.  And I am determined to continue my dreaming in TECHNICOLOR and no frickin' bank statement is going to stop me!

Carly Sioux 2012
ps.  I'm included in a Blogger Soundoff this month at Circle of Moms along with other fantastic women!!

Saturday, September 1, 2012

An open letter to the Bloggess's publishers...

Dear Amy Einhorn Books/Putnam:

Please let Jenny Lawson rest.  Please.  Let's Pretend This Never Happened was on the NY Times Best-Seller list for 4 months - often in the top 15 books.  You've made TONNES of money off it.  She's done her bit with touring and readings and book signings and BIG SURPRISE she ended up suffering from vital exhaustion.  Let her rest.
She should be doing this.

I'm sure that she, of the diagnosed generalized anxiety disorder, agreed to do all these signings, but dudes, seriously, LET HER REST.  And when she says she's ready to do more, tell her "That's okay Jenny, we're good.  Thanks for sacrificing your tenuous mental health for our book sales, but we'd rather have you alive and well."


This is me, and I'll throw myself in front of her, so that she has time to rest.

I'm in Mama Bear mode here.  I know that this touring has probably pushed her boundaries in a lot of good ways, and that she may have learned many coping mechanisms to deal with the crowds - all good - but when I read her posts about suffering from Vital Exhaustion - I got scared.  And I felt guilty - because I WAS a person in one of those crowds in Toronto - knowing who she was and how she copes (or doesn't) and I loved hearing her read and speak with clarity and compassion to people in that crowd.

And now, I'm worried for her.  I worry that she feels pressure to be in the public eye when she doesn't have to be.  Those who admire her will continue to read her blog and her book.  I've recommended both and will continue to do so.  But now, what I really want, is for her to have time to rest and relax and reboot and concentrate on being less exhausted, so that she doesn't lose it completely, because frankly, she's no good to me completely crazy.  Selfishly, I want the caustic, cuckoo-bananas writing that I've come to crave and if she's gone completely around the frickin' bend, I won't get it. 

Please.  LET HER REST.  There are a lot of us Mama Bears out there.  You don't want us to attack. 

Friday, May 11, 2012

TRYING NOT TO SUCK

TRYING NOT TO SUCK...

So this is me getting back on the Blog Wagon.  Typety-typety-type up in the office.  Listening to my almost 12 year old daughter telling her friends as they come in from the back yard, "PEOPLE!!!! Feet... covered in dirt!!"  Wonder where she gets that from?  Yep it's her voice, MY speech patterns.  Freaky.

She's become a mini-me.  I didn't see it for the longest time, but now when I post pics to Facebook  people who have known me for decades say "OH MY GOD!  She's just like you!!"  Which I take to be a huge compliment because I think she's stunning.  I'm supposed to - she's my kid.  I'm biased.  But really...  she's freaking gorgeous.  Long legs, beautiful hair, smile to die for.  I was never that beautiful.  I still cringe when my husband calls me that.  I am getting better at just taking the compliment when it's offered.  I still, however, wrestle with my inner vampires lisping around their extra-long teeth "Look at thothe wrinkleth!"  "How can one woman have that many ingrown hairth on her neck?" "Your hair... ith... thinning... a lot."

Speaking of vampires....  I've written this show - it's a rock opera about vampires.  Mythos: The Crimson Chorus.  Check out the website crimsonchorus.com Think Beauty and the Beast but instead of a prince getting cursed by a witch, it's a vampire getting cursed by a Greek Goddess.  I hadn't planned on writing it.  I was aiming to write the book to a Bat Out of Hell musical and got a wee bit sidetracked.  I wrote a song and then another and another.  Then I found a composer and he wrote melodies and then my husband orchestrated them.  And now we have an entire rock opera.  Which is amazing, right?  A whole freaking rock opera - that's 100 minutes long!  Holy crap.  I should bask in the brilliance that is me, shouldn't I?

'Cept I tend to stress about stuff.  Like we're going to be workshopping this sucker in Toronto this summer and we're fundraising (and why hasn't anyone donated in two whole days?!?) and I have to find a musical director and singer/actors and a place to audition them and... this is when the hyperventilation and angina usually starts.  OY.  And I'm not even Jewish.  OY.

And my husband just reminded me of the production of Peter Pan that I will be directing in winter is on the radar and we'll have to give measurements to the flight director for the harnesses for all those who will be flying so that they won't... die.  Where's the paper bag I can breathe into?

As it is now after 5:00 p.m. and I have accomplished much this afternoon - not the least of which is having written a blog post - I think it's about time for me to mix a chocolate martini and make some tacos.   'Cause that's how I roll.