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Bad Neighbours & Stubborn Feminists

creepy neighbourThis afternoon I came home to a dead bunny.

It had been tossed over the fence and into my backyard. Intentionally.

My right-wing, conservative sweetie isn’t convinced. Mostly because he’s not the one who takes the brunt of my miserable neighbour’s passive-aggressive-patriarchal misogyny.

I am. 

This is not going to be a popular post for any of my fellow left-leaning social-idealists. Mostly because I live in a little pocket of the city that has been sold out from under our feet to foreign investors. And the ‘foreign’ part comes from a part of the world that doesn’t value human rights, especially not women’s rights. As a matter of fact, (and it is a fact), female offspring were often offed in favour of males. Hey, facts are facts and it’s best to face them.

I knew where the dull-eyed, disemboweled bunny  came from because the day before, my asshole-misogynist neighbour pointed out that there was a dead rabbit on the sidewalk in front of our house.  I don’t walk down that sidewalk every day, so it may have been there for a while, but it didn’t look or smell like it. I know death. I know what it looks and smells like.

I don’t think the neighbour knows I’m a mortician. I don’t think he knows that dead things don’t really bother me. But miserable old pricks do.

Anyway, after he pointed the animal out to me, I shovelled it off to the curb so that the municipality could pick it up. I shovelled it into a small pile of leaves, which made it really difficult to see. I want to point out here, that it was me, not the man of the house who didn’t shy away from cleaning up the carcass from the public sidewalk. I watched as the neighbour walked down the street again to find out where I put the rabbit.

So, today, when I came home to find that same bunny (that was well camouflaged on the side of the road in the little bed of leaves) in the middle of my vegetable gardening area, it didn’t take long to know who put it there.

throw stones at frogs

It was the-dink-next-door who told me to clean up the leaves in the front yard last year, but waved and smiled to my man. Same jack ass who told me to shovel the garage entrance and doesn’t whisper a word to my sweetie.

Anyway, creepo-neighbour-dick-wad, had to walk onto the road, pick up the rabbit, cross back over the sidewalk and then swing the rabbit over our fence. I am infuriated.

And I’m about to become the world’s most annoying neighbour.

In a civilized culture, we contact the municipality, and they safely clean up what is basically road kill (although from the look of this, it was a coyote who caught and chomped the upper abdomen of the little bunny). In the civilization I grew up in, we do not throw dead animals into the neighbour’s yard because we’re passive-aggressive women-haters. But we do take psychopath people who do that kind of thing, to task. And I have every intention of doing just.

Unless we come up with some really great protection against foreign ownership of Canadian property, and create a market that reflects housing needs and affordability based on the local economy, we’re in for big trouble. And by we I mean women, and by god, especially marginalized of women.

I don’t think it matters in my neighbourhood that I’m a woman, or a homosexual, or trans. I think it matters that I’m not a man. Being politically involved, and realizing the impact that our unaffordable, but competitive real estate market can have on the values we hold dear, becomes very important for anyone who values human rights.

Picking up the dead rabbit and tucking it into the compost bin was a more respectful option than grabbing it by the back feet and nailing it to my bastard neighbour’s front door, or playing a game of throw-a-bacteria-infested-carcass-back-and-forth. After all, the spirit of the animal deserves some respect.

Even though I resisted my urge to educate my neighbour about what is neighbourly behaviour and what isn;t, while holding the dead rabbit against his face, this is not over.



I hope it happens when I’m looking anything but the picture of feminine helplessness. As a matter of fact, I hope it happens while my hair is still wild from bed, and I’m in a loud, unflattering muu-muu. I like to make a statement. And that statement will be; I don’t give a fuck what you think of me, and I’m not to be crossed. Especially by a man whom I could snap in two with my unfeminine big-boned frame.

Perhaps however,  it will happen while I’m in dirty yoga gear that doesn’t quite fit, after a long-hot, day of gardening, hair stuck to my sweaty forehead, and garden spade in hand.

made bail

Regardless, I have now committed to be the neighbour who plays great female vocalists right up until 11pm on my brand-spanking new outdoor blue-tooth speaker. I’m thinking Maggie Rogers or Janis Joplin or Sinead O’Connor, just loud enough to be heard through closed windows and above his television. I will likely add some pulsing strobe lights on the garage eaves for good measure, and invite my feminist friends over to have enthusiastic, unfiltered conversations in the back yard.

I will make a point of making my point. And I will do it often, over and over and over again.

What was it that, that cool 80’s girl-band sang about? Oh yah, “It’s a cruel, cruel summer.”


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I Took Etiquette Lessons – Asshole

gone…that’s the beginning of the punch-line to my favourite Southern Belle joke.


Hmm? What on earth is that?

As the world has come to worship the almighty dollar, and take life itself for granted, etiquette has become a lost art, much like kindness, compassion and patience.

Civilization as we know it has come to judge the measure of a person, not by how they treat one another, but how much wealth they can amass, always at the cost of another.

Despite our access to a multitude of communication platforms, our language has been degraded to social statements of 140 characters or less, emoticons (think cave drawings), and text lingo.

We are living in the dark ages.

Instead of being beholden to a corrupt church, we are beholden to the corrupt 1%  who hold the purse strings. Being corrupt in the name of God is no more heinous than being corrupt in the name of the almighty dollar.

Etiquette my friends, is no longer valued or displayed. It is a dinosaur in the age of prized individualism. Grace needs space, and with our stretched commitments, more and more people are losing their ability to be kind, live with grace, and practice etiquette.

These things  are the foundation of civilization, and the foundation is crumbling.

With our pressured lifestyles, and expectations of instant gratification, a new epidemic seems to be taking over the GTA.

It’s true, Assholeitis is spreading. Reliable sources report that becoming an Asshole is highly contagious and infects the young and old alike.  Often passed on by those infected during rush-hour traffic, store line-ups or any other interaction with another human being.

Just remember you are never more important than another driver, customer, someone else’s schedule, or someone else’s sense of self-worth. In other words, don’t drive like an obnoxious moron, take 20 items through the 8 items or less lane, or treat any other person disrespectfully. If you do, I hope someone has the backbone to put you in your place darling, because keeping one another accountable is civilized.

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The Working Class

It's not always easy to find meaningful work.
It’s not always easy to find meaningful work.

The middle class is increasingly being squeezed into the lower class. It’s much like strapping a size 8 girdle on a fat chick. The wee sexy, delicious bits poke out the top end, but the rest just oozes out lower, and is far less tantalizing.

With that comes a broader, deeper, blanketing sense that the world is out to get you. No matter how hard you work, try to save, or hoped your now outdated Bachelor’s Degree would save you, the realization that this is as good as it gets depresses you even more.

Or maybe you don’t reach that obvious conclusion. Maybe you’re just bitter. Maybe you’re too lazy to think about what you read in the newspaper, or don’t see on the news.

But I don’t think that’s the case with you my sweet little dried apricots. No. If that were the case, you wouldn’t be here, with wonderful ole’ me now, would you?

If you work eye-to-eye with anyone (as in any type of customer service, or human services profession), you’re getting the short end of the stick. Someone else is making all of the money, and you’re schlepping their stuff so you can try to pay your bills.

If you were eye-to-eye with the end-user of any product or service, you get the brunt of every interaction. Some are pleasant, and others, well, let me sum it up;

1) People always think that you (personally) are trying to rip them off.

2) That your schedule should revolve around them, no matter what the hour or what the cost to you. (My personal favourite is the line, “Well, I work”, when trying to schedule appointments. I’ve got news for you genius, I do too, and this is when I’m available. ) No one is out to get your personally. We all have our limits.

3) People who disrespect your time. If you’ve set an appointment, you’ve done so for a reason. In other words, you’ve set aside time to pay particular attention to that individual. Being late for an appointment flies in the face of allowing anyone to provide good customer service.

4) Wasting time. If a professional has given you information. That’s the information. Don’t take it to Philosophy-Flipping-101. Just do what you need to do.

5) Leaving multiple messages the same day or within 24 hours for someone just slows down how fast they get back to you. Listening to your annoying 3 minute long whining session more than once is a waste of time, and as annoying as a toddler with a snotty nose and cling-on booger.

A special note to seniors and folks who don’t work…poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on someone else’s. Take up a hobby and make a cup of tea. We will get back to you. No one puts you off because they’re trying to tick you off. At the end of the day, unless you’re a sociopath, you want to leave your work feeling like you’ve at least helped someone, even in a small way.

Just a note to everyone out there who is poo-pooing unions right now; Give your head a shake. Unionized environments are quickly becoming the ONLY jobs that are secure, and can sustain a healthy family and social lifestyle. Don’t fall for conservative government fear mongering. Health care, fair wages and working hours are a right we should not have to fight for again.

Businesses are squeezing every second out of their employees until they burn out. If you have a problem with customer service these days, I suggest you get your saggy butt down to an Occupy event.

These are just a few short examples of how our faltering and bourgeois economy is dividing and conquering the working class. When you meet with someone eye-to-eye, as I like to say, you are meeting with another human being just like yourself, who is as worried, stressed and blessed as you are.

So, remember, if you’re meeting with a person, and their name isn’t on the sign above the business, they’re just trying to get by like you and I. Don’t be an asshole darlings.

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Weekend News Summary

Kissing Black-tailed Prairie Dogs (Cynomys lud...
Kissing Black-tailed Prairie Dogs (Cynomys ludovicianus). Français : Chiens de prairie à queue noire (Cynomys ludovicianus) se faisant la bise. 日本語: キスしてるオグロプレーリードッグ (Cynomys ludovicianus) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yes, here it is my sparkling little diamonds of lust, the not-so-breaking-weekend-news-summary.

Cozy up with an icy mimosa and get ready for a titillating journey through the basic news stories of the weekend.

The gap between the rich and poor widens. Artists continue to pump out inspiring, heart-wrenching and thought-provoking work, and someone has written a self-indulgent book.

Yes sweeties, that just about sums it up. However, I am going to enlighten you with how all of it ties together in the teeny, tiny, immaculately decorated chambers of my girl-brain.

First, let me discuss the self-indulgent book review about The Art of Sleeping Alone, by Sophie Fontanel. This isn’t a title that would catch my eye, so God bless Globe writer Sarah Hampson for the warning.

Basically some French broad gives up sex at the age of 27, and has orgasmic experiences with nature, and her own sensations of the wild, wonderful and sometimes wicked world in which we live. End of summary darlings.

Skip to the front page of the Globe TO section that highlights the differences between two rivals fighting for the federal riding of Toronto Center. It’s a face off of pretty faces as the liberals (boo) and the NDP (yay) talk about how they will vie for the seat amongst the poorest of the poor and richest of the rich.

The interview consists of questions focused on the ever-widening, vastly dangerous gap between the rich and the poor. Of course the liberal walks a fine line (after all, she’s led by the ever handsome born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-my mouth descendant of Canadian royalty), and the NDP fight for the underdog.

I, on the other hand realize that myself and most of my contempories belong to the group of folks working our tushes off to carry the upper-class. Ugh. Not sexy darlings, not sexy at all.

We are however, the artists and dreamers that keep the human spirit alive. Creativity, the great mother of art, only swells under oppression and strife. Raise your glass fellow writers, for we are the subversive, joyous protector of the soul.

The front page this weekend, “Toward a New Brazil” takes us to a country that has recovered from the dire economy, resulting violence, poverty and crime as predicted will be our gloomy economic future of have and have-nots.

Now, doesn’t that make you want to snuggle? Seriously, doesn’t it make you want to hold everyone near and dear to you a little tighter, celebrate the simple things, and have someone to snuggle up with at the end of a long, hard day?

Exactly. Just what I thought my delicate little songbird. Just what I thought.

As far as Sophie Fontanel’s book is concerned, I know what it’s like to never want to have sex again. Basically, her predicament is summed up as having suffered a lot of bad sex, resulting in her preferring celibacy.

Believe it or not, I can relate. Following my last long-term relationship, the last thing I wanted was to have any man touch me. Yes darlings, that’s how absolutely appallingly repulsed I felt about him. I vowed a year of celibacy. It only lasted a few weeks, but I’ve been to the edge darlings, and have made it back.

I reveled in stretching out in my bed, not having to wake up to some whiner who’s first words every day were negative. I loved not sleeping with someone who snored. I especially enjoyed falling asleep without wanting to launch the horse’s ass out of my window. Ah, yes, the bliss of sleeping alone.

I’m not one to lose hope though my darlings. I know that there are still wonderful, loving, handsome, deliciously sensual men out there who make my heart skip a beat, have handsome shoulders on which I can rest my pretty, little head, and who have hugs that, no matter what, make me feel loved, safe and ready to take on the world again.

So, in light of our decidedly selfish upper-class and toiling lower class, wouldn’t you feel better curling up beside the love of your life, or perhaps the love of a season, taking refuge in the beauty and simplicity of love?

Screw this French celibacy celebration and bring me my champagne!