The Rape Monkeys

Hoo boy.

I’ve been watching the U.S. presidential campaigning with great interest, mostly because I am stunned at some of the things the Republican candidates are saying. I truly have not heard so much stupid  said in a few short weeks, ever. But one thing is sticking in my craw, oh yes. To the point where every time I hear it mentioned, the GACK-choke sound issues out of me so loudly me family turns and stares.

What in the blue fuck is with all the Rape talk? Yes, I am capitalizing it, as I believe it is a word that needs due accord and is not to be tossed about willy-nilly as has been of late.

I’ve read the term “Rape easy”, I’ve heard that you won’t get pregnant from “forcible Rape” and that “pregnancy resulting from Rape is the will of god” or some such. Wow. I’ve learned a lot.

I get the idea that some people vote according to their religious views. Trust me, as a Canadian I know we have a government that is filled to overflow with the evangelist christian right and they are doggedly trying to change our abortion laws as we speak. However, thus far, they haven’t gotten into the whole soft pedalling of the Rape issue. I feel that’s what they are doing in the Republican campaign in the U.S.

As someone who has been Raped and narrowly escaped two other Rapes, I must protest. As someone who knows several women that have been Raped, I must protest. (I’m not going to get into the birth control and abortion issue as I believe that is your personal choice as a woman or a man. For the record, that’s called having Rights. Know them.)

I don’t care which way you spin it Rape is ALWAYS an act of violence. ALWAYS. There is nothing else to be said about it. EVER. As a woman, it find it insulting that it’s being used as just some noun or verb, without any emotion put behind it. As a person, I feel that way.

Rape is awful, dehumanizing and should never be used to attend to a political or religious agenda. Not anywhere, not ever.

I’m also insulted by the thinking of these men. That they truly believe that the “men” they are campaigning to will see things the same way. In my circle of friends and family, at least 50% are male and I going to go with the safe bet that 99% of them don’t espouse the notion that Rape is just something that happens sometimes. So, help me out here. Is this election a complete farce of humanity with 11 rapists sitting around casting the votes for the next president or is this something many men really believe in?

Yes, I’m a Canadian but my Grandfather was a first generation immigrant in this country from Michigan. So yes, I do consider my American friends as cousins. (I do love you folks.) But I am gobsmacked at this. And I feel for you.

All I can hope is that once these monkeys are out of the barrel, it’ll be pretty fucking hard to stuff them back in. That no one will forget the idiocy of anyone using the word RAPE in their platform to get elected.

I don’t care what anyone says, using that word to further any cause regarding reproductive laws implies that it’s okay to commit the act. That it happens. No big deal.

It’s not okay. It’s a big fucking deal. If these men get in, fear for your wives, daughters, even your sons and brothers. Your love ones will need you to.



The Traveling Red Dress

Take a walk with me. Here, hold my hand. Got your snow boots on? Good. It’s miserable out.

The busyness of living has worn me thin like tissue. I’ve wanted to run, fly, somehow, leave it behind.

No. There is too much here, in this life. There is so much that makes my heart skip a beat. So much that makes me want to stand still and listen. Watch. So much that makes me want to be here. With you. All of you.

I can do this. So can you.

Sometimes all we have to do in this life is show up, be present, and allow the magic to unfold. ~ Unknown.

p.s. Thank you, Jenny, for sending me this beautiful dress. If you know the story of the Red Dress, you will know it has to travel. Please email me at I’m in western Canada and hope to get this going here.

Love to you.

Boobs and Birthdays

I turned 43 last week. Forty three. Fortythree. fortythree.furtytree.forryhree.

You know, if you say it enough times, it stops making sense.

I don’t particularly care about my age. It’s one year closer to death. Big deal.

I have a few wrinkles, more grey hair than I ever did. So what? I’ve earned every one of them. I’m all for passing the beauty torch on to the younglings that can handle the pressure. I did my turn.

But my boobs! My god, my boobs.

Now, I’ve never been a well endowed girl, and as I was a tomboy, they just got in the way. Alas, I’ve gained some weight in the past couple of years. Consequently, I’ve developed what my mother delicately refers to as a “rack”. And those things are just a pain in the ass.

Here’s my issue. Every birthday, I swear they drop an inch. It’s like they hate getting older and are moving south. Like retirees. Except south is towards my belt.


Last year at christmas, my mom and I were cuddled on the couch. She’s a rubber. You know the ones? They can’t just sit, they have to rub some part of you until the skin wears away and there is a bloody gaping hole where they’ve left the mark of their affection. The dogs like it. I don’t.

So she’s rubbing my arm, and I told her to stop. She asked me why. I said, “Mom, you’re kind of rubbing my nipple”. She jolted, howled with laughter and said “Jesus! Why is it by your elbow?”

Oh mom. I wish I knew.

A few weeks before christmas, our lovely neighbours called us at about 6 p.m. and said “We’re in our pajamas. And drinking. Come for pajama drinks.” Excuse me, but how badass is it to have folks in your life you feel so comfortable with that you can have drinks in your pajamas? PAJAMA DRINKS,PEOPLE!!!! Actually, it sounds a wee bit kinky, but these weren’t our orgy neighbours so we felt safe.

About half way through the evening, my friend Dee gave me a friendly stomach tickle. (Wait. This does sound kinky.) Anyway, it was one of those mom-love-ya grabs us mommies do, but sadly I had to tell her that what she’d thought was my side was actually my boob. I flustered the poor woman for a bit until I explained that now when I sit down, the girls tend to hover oh so gently to rest on my lap. An honest mistake.


I just don’t know why they’ve decided to become long and tubular. I thought that only happened to National Geographic tribal naked women. I’ve been so misled.

I’m already losing my navel behind them. “Where’s my navel? Oh wait, it’s right here, behind my boob. Duh.” What’s next, tucking them into my socks?

I’ve thought about getting them pierced. Not for any reason other than to slip a chain through one, lace around my neck and attach it to the other piercing. Kind of like a poor mans breast lift.  Might work.

But this is my advice to all the younglings. Don’t pierce your boobs! Don’t ever add weight to something thats going to sag naturally anyway.

As for me. It might just be time to buy a really good bra I can wear all the time. Do they come in tubular sizes?


I first met Sophie when we were twenty-two. I was living with her cousin, a musician in the infamous downtown eastside of Vancouver. We were living the late night ‘glamorous’ artistic lifestyle. The best gallery openings were always one of our friends, the best parties started at one a.m. Poetry readings, indie films, too many cigarettes, tons of coffee, too much cheap booze. Various illegal things. Some people fell by the wayside. But in all, we hung out as a pack, promotive of each other, all of us feeling on the fringe of society. Very creative, very cool.

Then Sophie came to town. Pale blonde, blue eyes, clean-cut, good clothes. Piercing gaze. Sparkling with intelligence. Together. Smart. Too smart. In my thrift store clothes, with my crap hairdressing job, this confident, conservative, multilingual success set me to quaking in my fish net stockings and pointy toed skull boots.

Oh, fuck.

God, I was intimidated. Could barely speak for fear of my farm girl accent coming out.

My chap and I took her out for drinks. Yes, I was appraised. Yes, I think she thought I was a dullard. The pointed questions and my stuttering responses mostly likely left her no doubt. Silly young punk or not, I knew when I was in the presence of greatness. I kept my filthy mouth shut.

Eventually late in the eve, we found ourselves at a speakeasy with a punk band playing. Of course I knew all there, so grabbing my plastic glass of overpriced warm beer, I beat a retreat to safe faces and left the cousins to themselves. An hour, two, later, one of my fellows looked over my shoulder at the mosh pit and with wonder and wide eyes said, “look at that.”

There was Soph, floating above a sea of mohawks, safety pins and leather, her $200 blouse filthy and untucked, letting herself go to the anarchy of the music. She stayed at the front of the stage for the rest of the night, elbows flying, head bobbing, cursing, swearing, screaming and shoving. She held her own.

Well. I fell in love. I may have even kissed her on the mouth that night.

The next day over hung over coffee, we bonded. I dropped my guard and a true friendship, honest and unquestioning, was born. Nothing off-limits, no judgement.

My fella and I broke a couple of years later. Soph said that didn’t matter. I  was her family now, and always would be. I felt the same.

The trappings have changed. We’ve taken our lumps. Grown. Now we exist in children, mortgages, careers. The cars are better. The worries are different. But we’re not.

Some people stick. Thank god.

Love you, Sister Friend.

Me And Lucinda

My ‘friend’ Sophie made some comment about dirt under her nails growing faster than I write. So because of her big mouth and because I’m boredy- bored- bored- bored, I’m about to make you look at  pictures of me. Also my parents are here and I’m hiding from them because even though I love them, they smell old and my mother talks so much I want to stab myself in the ear just to get some peace.  I shit you not, I have feigned death to try to get her to quit babbling for a few minutes.  Didn’t work. She just told me to quit pissing around and kept on yakking.

Without further ado,

My Summer So Far. (Really, you should got to another blog. Like right now.)

My hubby and I went to see Lucinda Williams last month. I LOVE HER. Seriously, I’d give her a kidney, that’s how much. For two weeks before the show, I’d crank her music, and start squealing “LUCINDA FUCKIN WILLIAMS! WE’RE GOING TO SEE LUCINDA FUCKIN WILLIAMS! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?” Pretty excited…

Me, looking thoughtful.


In the car, bellowing "WE'RE GOING TO SEE LUCINDAFUCKINGWILLIAMS!" I scared the bejesus outta my husband, but he smiled because of the camera. The last time I saw him look startled/fake happy like this was when I heaved a 10 pound human out of my vagina. He's a brave man.


When he told me he wasn't sure who LUCINDAFUCKINGWILLIAMS was. I contemplated divorce for about 3 seconds. Then I thought about chicken nuggets. Same face.

I got this instead of a sandwich. Cake on a stick. I can't even tell you how good these are. Suffice to say, I've filled my purse with them. I would like to french kiss whoever came up with this.


I kinda got nothing to say here...


Accidental pic of some guy as I was trying to hide the camera from the security guard who was hustling over to tell me to put the camera away. He seemed nice.


A fantastic photo of me and hubby. It was taken by a lovely woman sitting next to me who reeked of garlic and booze and would not stop talking to me. She gave me a hug, I gave her a cake on a stick. We're BFF now. I can't remember her name, but I'll never forget her .


Yum! Nothing like $35 a glass concert wine! This is also a split second before my new BFF staggered over to say hello,tripped over my purse and landed on me. Ha ha, that girl is fun!

This was the last picture of the evening as I ended up wearing most of the wine you see. It was an amazing concert. Lucinda is still my fave. And as a bonus, I realized that I can make friends that won’t bust my balls about writing, Sophie.  Although when she yelled drunkenly in my ear and landed in my lap, it did make me think of you.
p.s My husband doesn’t want to be in my blog or ever have his name mentioned here. (I don’t really blame him.) So please don’t look directly at his photo. Just glance, okay?
 Thank you.

Just A Tampon

*This is in no way an endorsement and I didn’t get paid for this post.* There, that’s taken care of. But really, if you are a tampon marketer, you should read this.

At the store this morning, I just blindly grabbed a box of tampons. This has been going on 30 years. I pretty much know what I’m getting. But when I got home, as I was putting them away, I decide to read the box.(I had a little time on my hands.) Holy shit! Without my knowledge, tampons have  become “cute”. When the fuck did this happen? And why?

Seriously, the box is rather startling to me. Are teenage girls that shallow and so easily targeted by the ad men that they make these purchases based on what the box looks like or says? Is this a new popularity thing?

“OMG! Your tampon is soooo cute!!!! What brand is that? My mom has to get me some!!!!! I bet it would look great with that new purple t-shirt I got!!!! I’m gonna phone her now!”

I kid you not, the box says ‘secretly super’. ! I needed that exclamation point just to let you now the tone of the box. ‘Daringly protective,delightfully small! ‘ On the back, it has directions (cute) that say ‘ready,click, go!‘ and that cute little tampon looks like it’s flying out of the applicator at mach 10. Fuck me! That is just frightening people!!!! You really do not that kind of speed with ANYTHING down there. I don’t choose my gynecologist because he is fast! I choose him because he’s got small hands!!

Where the hell are the tampons for me and the other girls who’ve squeezed out 10 pound babies? I have the ad already in my mind:

Bovine Sized Vagina Protection!!!!! This thing will absorb ANYTHING!!!!! Caution: No swimming or hot tubbing. Your tampon WILL hold up to 300 gallons. Embarrassment and possible death will ensue. (Your cha cha may explode.) And no!!! You don’t have to shoot it into you!!! Can be applied slowly and carefully!

I heard a story from a gal a few years back. She was in a line up at a shop, buying her tampons. Huge line up behind her. The checkout girl asked the sweet young teenage stock boy for a price check on her maypax. To which he responded “Is that the push in or the hammer in kind?” Everyone turned with that gaping look we all get, and stared at him, like what the fuck? He said “Thumb tacks. The push in, or hammer in kind?” Poor woman had a moment right there. She thought ‘Oh great. Everyone thinks I hammer in my tampons’.

Maybe that’s a marketing ploy. Real big ones that you have to use a mallet to get in? I don’t know. I’m just so fucking concerned about my new cute tampons. I’m not sure if I should have them displayed proudly on top of my purse? Will I ‘fit in’ with the cool girls? I’ll ask my husband.

“Hey! Do these tampons make me look younger?”

Stephen Harper

Mr. Harper,

I can’t bring the funny right now. In most situations, I can find the irreverence, if not flat-out guffawing humour, but today I can’t.

I have kept myself away from the news to maintain as much joy in life as possible, and as you well know, it’s mostly bad and repetitive, so why bother?  But something came to my attention and I have been weeping because of it for a couple of days.

I’m speaking of the rape of the Lybian women and children. Don’t you turn your head! You look! You see! Here, I’ll get you a flashlight to bring it all in a little clearer

I thought about adding a link, but I don’t think its necessary. We all can find the information we need.

As a world leader, I implore you to step in and do something about this. I know it’s complicated. I understand the mechanics of politics and war.

As a Canadian woman, I’m fairly certain you or any of our serving men would never allow this to happen to your own female populace. So why is it okay somewhere else?

Rape is a ‘weapon of war’, but why is it not quite considered a war crime? How can we as a shiny christian democracy  participate in actions that have monetary rewards, and peacekeep in others messy battles, yet draw some invisible, arbitrary line that in essence is telling the Ghaddafis of the world “That’s okay, they are only women”?

I know women are still chattel in some countries, but that does not make it right.

I know it’s an uphill battle. I know that there is an ethnic component that is permissive of rape as a form of control. I know how long it will take to change that mentality.

But someone needs to start. Someone needs to be a hero.

Why not you? Why not us? Why not?

I don’t condone war, per se, but sometimes it has to be done. It must be an honourable battle.

How about humanity? Fighting for human dignity? Protecting those that cannot protect themselves?

Us Canadians have been pretty good at that in the past. Let’s try it again.

Look. See. Help them. I’ll hold the flashlight in case you’re missing anything. Pretty disturbing, isn’t it?

I’ll help in any way I can. Send them to my house. I’ll look after them until they are better, if they ever can be. My hubby won’t let anything happen to them.

Look. Bear witness. Do something!

Be a hero. Please!

I need to laugh again. And I just can’t when I know my sisters and their children are not safe.

p.s. If you comment, and please do, please attatch any relevant links you would like readers to see, with regards to this post. Anything else that we can do to help and inform.