Call it what it is, peer abuse

I was always shy in school and slow to make friends. I didn't have many. I was socially awkward, didn't dress well, and my hair never looked good. I was smart and got good grades.

I remember the teasing starting in grade 6 or so, the last year of elementary school. Kids were paying attention to their clothes more, and I wasn't. Whatever, grade 7 started and I moved on up to junior high. We heard nice tales about how everyone was more mature in junior high.

Fuck that.

Grade 7 photo, taken in the beginning of the
year. I was happy and confident.

I was in Mrs. Nasadyk's class. Within the first day or two I'd met a bunch of new people, boys and girls, they were friendly and developed a group. I'd never been part of a group before. Pretty soon it was evident that I was different. I dressed differently, I didn't like the same music or tv shows, and I wasn't interested in boys. I didn't draw in the same style (yes, this was an issue). I didn't wear makeup. I was 11 when I started school and turned 12 in November. Then it happened. I DID get a boyfriend. We went to the Halloween dance together. He got me a rose on my birthday. And I... didn't get the point? I was not interested. At all. I wanted to "break up" with him. I confided this to one of my friends and asked how I went about doing that. She'd known him longer, so she told him herself. He broke up with me via passed note. I was confused but not overly distraught.

But then the friendship slowly disintegrated. Except no one told me. They started doing things without me. They had a sleepover and called me from it to tell me what they were doing. I still didn't get it. Shortly after Christmas holidays, the three other girls cornered me at my locker and giggled their way through a rehearsed speech, each taking turns saying a word.

We. 

Don't.

Really.

Want.

You.

Hanging.

Out.

With.

Us.

Anymore.

I was shocked. Speechless. Crushed. I didn't know what to say. In my memory of this I see it as if I'm watching a movie, looking over their shoulders and watching myself in the corner, too ashamed to do anything. They left and it took all I had to keep the tears in as I finished getting my stuff and walked down a reeeeeeally long hallway to leave the school. Perhaps it was a kindness they waited till the end of the day. Probably they just needed the day to rehearse.

My mom was there to pick me up as usual. I started crying as soon as I got in. I told her what happened.

"Well, you must have done something to upset them. Maybe you should apologize."

Or some shit like that. Point is, the victim blaming was alive and well in my house. Previous encounters with teasing had been met with "If you ignore it, they will stop" and "They only tease you because you react."

ADULTS LIE.

Peer abusers won't stop if you ignore it, and they tease you because they can. They tease because it makes them feel powerful. They tease because they are amused by your reaction, and they tease because they want to see how far they can go before they get a reaction. Or they do it because they have no idea how not to. They will not stop if you ignore it. They want to hurt you.

All that advice, all of it, is victim blaming. You know how tight jeans, short skirts, low cut tops, and being drunk aren't an excuse to rape women? Being small, awkward, and uncool isn't an excuse to abuse your peers physically, emotionally, verbally, or in any other way. You stop rape by teaching men not to rape. You stop peer abuse by teaching abusers not to be shitheads.

Back to the hallowed halls of Robb Road Junior Secondary. So either that incident happened on a weekend or I refused to go to school for a few days. I don't remember. But I was a wreck. I dreaded going back to school. Where would I sit? What would I do? The kids who ate lunch alone were losers. I was a loser. I talked to no one all morning. It was weird and scary. At lunch I was terrified walking into the lunch room. I looked around and picked a table where the kids didn't look too intimidating, summoned some courage, and made a really lame excuse about why I needed to sit down (I think I sprained my ankle). They said okay. Phew!

Grade 8. I'm still fearful of sharing this. This
girl? Lonely, depressed, confused, and
awkward.

So I wasn't completely fucking alone, but it didn't really fix anything. Grade 7 was a shit show and it got worse and worse and worse. I was a target now. I was teased for just about everything. I got volleyballs thrown at my head in gym class. I got poor grades in gym class because I didn't participate, but I didn't participate because a) I sucked and b) the teachers liked to mix the teams by skill level, which meant I was always split from my friends (who also sucked) and put with mean girls who didn't like me and wouldn't let me participate.

I had my locker vandalized with nasty writing. I don't remember what it said, just how humiliating it was to walk up to it and have to open it. I was threatened with violence. The rest of it was just that insidious girl bullying. Exclusion and judgement and just general nastiness. Because it's not over or obvious, it gets easily ignored, swept under the rug, and dismissed. Adults have dismissed it when I speak of the experience. I was too sensitive. Oh, we don't let that happen in schools any more (this one said by a current educator). We know the damage bullying causes and we're working to stop it.

No.

We.

Aren't.

It happens every day, all day, and it continues to happen when kids go home thanks to the magic that is Facebook. If social media existed back then I could very, very easily have been Amanda Todd or Rehtaeh Parsons or Jamey Rodemeyer or Aaron Dugmore or Courtney Brown or Ryan Patrick Halligan or Amanda Brownell or Jamie Hubley or Hope Witsell or or or. All the talk is of how isolated the victims were, how they didn't get the help they needed. Nothing talks about stopping the abuse before it happens. All these cases show that it's getting WORSE.

High school was marginally better than junior high in that I had friends I could count on regularly to sit with and not be alone. I still didn't get invited to do things outside school. I was and still am an introvert, but I would probably be more outgoing if it weren't for my junior high and high school experience. Instead, high school taught me to be incredibly self conscious about being enthusiastic about anything lest I be criticised for it. I learned to hide what I enjoy reading, listening to, watching, and doing. I learned not to try dressing stylishly because I wouldn't get it right and would just get mocked. I learned to stay quiet and out of the way as the best way to avoid ridicule. I learned to expect to be excluded from fun experiences. I didn't go to dances because I wasn't invited. I pretended disinterest in the traditional grad class minuet because I knew I wouldn't be welcome. I didn't go to the after-grad party or participate in a single one of the grad activities aside from the ceremony. I was a prolific writer all the way through high school and university and self-published on the internet. I hid that. I still refuse to let anyone read a single word of my fiction (when I have time and inspiration to write), because of my ingrained fear of ridicule.

You know what? All that hiding didn't help. And now, fifteen years later, I still haven't let go of the animosity I hold for one particular girl because she hated me for my very existence. When teachers posted grades, she looked for mine. Every time. The teacher stopped posting names and just posted student numbers. She knew my student number. She would find my grade and curse me every single time. She dropped out of a class because I was at the top of it. I did nothing to this girl I had known since kindergarten. I never spoke to her, never engaged with her in any way. She hated me, for no other reason (that I know of) than my grades were better than hers. Yes, that did give me a pleasant sense of satisfaction in a way, but it didn't help the crippling feeling of powerlessness.

Grade 12 graduation photo. Still choked my
mom didn't pay for the real deal, because
I was proud of myself and pleased with my
appearance for once.

So all the others? Whatever. They were pretentious, self-absorbed, cliquey and mean. I'm over it. But this one? Not so much. That's a lot of talent, creating a lasting 15-year impression on someone. You know who else has left a lasting 15-year impression? The girl who stayed my friend throughout high school even though I probably brought her down a few notches in popularity and is still my friend today. You rock.

I will also take this opportunity to apologize to Rose, Mary-Anne, and Emily. Rose and Mary-Anne - you had no friends. I felt bad for you. People were horrible to you and I ignored it because I was busy trying not to be abused myself. That is not an excuse. Everyone needs friends. I'm sure you were awesome. Emily, you were awkward just like me. We were friends. In high school a bitchy "friend" of ours started an anonymous campaign to tell you either not to be so weird or not to be our friend, I don't remember. It was brief and lasted one day, and I don't even know if you ultimately knew about it. I knew it was wrong then and it's still wrong now. I knew better. I should have stopped it. I'm sorry.

Hey, did you notice I never once used the term bullying? Bullying is so over-used it has no effect. School yard bullying is easily dismissed as just "something that happens." Except it doesn't "just happen" just like spousal abuse, elder abuse, child abuse, and rape don't "just happen." Someone commits an act against another and often other people let it happen. More on victim blaming next time.

I thought it would be hairier...

Penis graffiti in Pompeii,
because I think it's funny.

So on the continuing theme of Fifty Shades, a conversation between Laura and I prompted me to send the following message to my first romantic conquest.

This question needs to be prefaced by some explanation, although perhaps that just makes it more awkward.
So my friend Laura and I have been blogging away together and discussing the (de)merits of Fifty Shades of Grey. She is reading a different blog that provides a play by play synopsis of each and every chapter. She mentioned that she stopped reading in disgust when she reached the chapter when the protagonist has sex for the first time. Her reaction to seeing a penis was "holy cow" and Laura thought this was pretty stupid. I replied that there are many things wrong with the book, but that much didn't bother me as it may have been my reaction the first time I saw a penis had I not already been looking at porn for years. I do not remember what I actually said. So...
...
...?

We are still friends, and given that there is an ocean apart, and our usual general lack of communication, this hasn't caused any animosity for our respective significant others. (actually, I'm just assuming on his part... Scott doesn't care). Still, it's a rather personal question and while I was pretty sure he'd take it with the humor in which it was intended, I was still nervous. Fortunately, several hours later I woke up to my reply.

Lol!
Best Facebook message ever
You expressed surprise that it wasn't hairier. That's all I can recall. Pretty sure I'd remember if you'd said anything like "holy cow".

It's so flattering and romantic, it has to be what I said. I have no memory of it, but apparently thirteen years later he does, which means I must have left quite an impression. I am, of course, a goddess, but it's nice to have that confirmed. All I remember is high-fiving like 12-year-olds afterwards, which he does not remember.

I decided to poll others to get a variety of responses.

• Pretty sure I giggled, or was silently shocked.
• Disgust. So I didn't say a thing. Haha!
• Even though I can't remember that far back of what I thought, I CAN tell you that when I first saw my first uncut guy I was like WTF! What's wrong with your penis (in my head of course I said that). I had never seen or even heard of a penis being uncut. I wasn't too experienced when it came to the human anatomy. I never did anything with the guy because I was mortified. Fast forward to today.. My hubby is un-cut and damn he is the best I have ever had in bed! lol.
• Disgust, horror, wouldn't look at it. It was circed.
• I remember thinking it was smaller than I expected (not [husband], for the record!) and I also didn't really see what the big deal was...penises, in general, aren't all that nice looking, kwim?
• I don't even remember what I thought, lol. It was usually dark? It looked like I expected, I guess. ETA with one guy I noticed the curve, lol.
• I don't know because I am old and can't remember, but it wasn't anyone uncut.
• I thought to myself now I know why they call it the one eyed monster...

So... what did you say? Comments and contributions welcome, anonymous or otherwise. Men are welcome to reply with their first reaction to seeing female genitalia (I will not say vagina, because unless you're a doctor you're most likely not actually seeing the vagina).

Laura Learns to Camp, Part 1

Laura's and my children together attend a church program for kids. We recently celebrated our last session of the year. To celebrate, we had a picnic on the beach. We had previously mulled over the food possibilities for this. Cooking presented a challenge. Laura had a camp stove, but she did not know how to use it. She thought perhaps it would be easier to visit the 7-11 across the street. Pshaw, I said. We can figure out the camp stove!

After work, before the event, I went to the grocery store to pick up my portion of the meal - fruit. I found a great hotdog deal and texted Laura to inquire if she needed any. No, she said, because she didn't get her planned camp stove lesson from her husband, so she was just going to go to 7-11. Nope, nada, no way, I replied. A series of blog posts featuring Laura attempting camping hacks was the initial inspiration for this blog. It was the perfect opportunity to begin Laura Learns to Camp. So reluctantly, she packed up the trusty camp stove and I picked up the wieners and buns we needed (teehee! I said wieners and buns!). Then we met at the beach.

We do generally feel very fortunate to live about three minutes from this spot.

Laura investigates the equipment and successfully opens the case.
We all observed that the camp stove looks like a fancy projector!

Yay, I opened it!

"This looks like something," Laura says, as she attaches the
propane pipe thingy.

We all query if there is actually any propane in that container.

Some time later, Laura decided the propane tank probably wasn't
meant to stick straight up like that.

Maybe this knob does something?

Thwarted! Turns out the starter button was malfunctioning.
Fortunately, Val's husband was able to produce a barbecue lighter
from the trunk of his car.

This photo doesn't illustrate much other than how not to focus
an iphone camera, but Laura successfully lit the stove!

Umm... there seems to be some fire. Is that normal?

No, no it's not.

In Laura's defense, at this point there were three experienced campers watching her set up the camp stove and not one of us realized that the flaming thing was a) the drip tray, meant to go UNDER the stove and b) made of plastic, and not meant to be kept close to a very high heat source or open flame. The photo is deceptive. The smoke was thick and black, not grey. The child in the background is retrieving water to douse this fire. Tongs (good job, Laura, on your forethought to bring tongs!) were used to transfer the flaming piece of black sludge to the sand, where we used our advanced knowledge to bury it in sand to put out the fire.

Camping 101: Learn to improvise.

That'll work.

In the end, we had cooked hotdogs, which was the ultimate goal, so I still call Laura's first camping lesson a success. Her husband, the purchaser, owner, and user of the camp stove, disagrees.

Apparently that was a really important drip tray.
"It just drips grease everywhere now," he says.

He has no defense. He was supposed to give Laura a lesson and didn't.

EDIT:  Nope, it was me (Laura) who was all, "I don't want to deal with the camp stove. I will just go buy overpriced 7-11 hot dogs."  So it's my fault, not Chris's.

Poor drip tray.

Books I was Forced to Read

When you're an English major, you (pretend to) read a lot of books you wouldn't normally read but have to because it's a requirement. Somewhere in my third or fourth year, I took a contemporary Canadian literature course. I'm not sure how I passed this course, let alone achieved at least a B, because virtually all of the books sucked ass. I just found a bunch in my basement I'm going to make Laura read, for validation that I'm not just uncultured and they do actually suck.

My Paris, by Gail Scott

"My Paris is not for those who dislike grammatical experimentation. But for those who do enjoy playing with language, this memoir (billed as a novel) of six months in Paris in 1993 is a pleasure."

It is not a pleasure. Not. A. Pleasure. Here is the first paragraph. I didn't get past the first page because I was too busy gouging my eyes out. 

1. Like a heroine from Balzac. I am on a divan. Narrow. Covered with a small abstract black-and-white print. At end a rice-paper screen. Three mahogany-framed partitions. Pale eggshell walls curving gracefully at corners. Staring up at slender almost ceiling-high radiators. A library with four crescent shelves. Low comfortable black-and-white canape. Low end tables. Glass posed on metal. Grey round dining table and matching chairs on heavy chrome legs. Teak desk with computer. Teak console with television. Video. Fax. Green and yellow rugs on hardwood floors. One with a designer's initials in the corn.

I was a Professional Writing minor. I learned how to edit people's sentence fragments. Then I was required to read this, which government tax dollars helped to publish.

Ana Historic, by Daphne Marlatt

"Ana Historic is written in a stream of consciousness narrative mode, which uses a flow of language that resembles thought, and often a lack of punctuation, to represent an interior thought process or point of view."

Again, I did not get past the first page because I was in the emergency room receiving treatment for my bleeding, injured eyes. Except apparently this makes me uncultured, because this novel is Canadian literary canon, and especially queer literary canon.

Who's There? she was whispering. knock knock. in the dark. only it wasn't dark had woken her to her solitude, conscious alone in the night of his snoring more like snuffling dreaming elsewhere, burrowed into it, under the covers against her in animal sleep. he was dreaming without her in some place she had no access to and she was awake. now she would have to move, shift, legs aware of themselves and wanting out. a truck gearing down somewhere. the sound of a train, in some yard where men already up were working signals, levers, lamps. she turned the clock so she could see its blue digital light like some invented mineral glowing, radium 4:23. it was the sound of her own voice had woken her, heard like an echo asking,
         who's there?

I prefer the books I read to be accessible and engaging. I would rather read Fifty Shades a thousand times over than attempt to complete reading either of these novels. If that makes me uncultured and gauche... well...

Autobiography of Red, by Anne Carson

"The award-winning poet Anne Carson reinvents a genre in Autobiography of Red, a stunning work that is both a novel and a poem, both an unconventional re-creation of an ancient Greek myth and a wholly original coming-of-age story set in the present."

He came after Homer and before Gertrude Stein, a difficult interval for a poet. Born about 650 B.C on the north coast of Sicily in a city called Himera, he lived among refugees who spoke a mixed dialect of Chalcidian and Doric. A refugee population is hungry for language and aware that anything can happen. Words bounce. Words, if you let them, will do what they want to do and what they have to do. Stesichoros' words were collected in twenty-six books of which there remain to us a dozen or so titles and several collections of fragments. Not much is known about his working life (except the famous story that he was struck blind by Helen; see Appendixes A, B, and C).

I made it further in this book. Except most of it's in verse, and I'm not a huge fan of poetry in general, so I have no clue what this book is about either.

Restlessness, by Aritha Van Herk

Restlessness is about a paid assassin an international courier who hires another paid assassin to kill her rather than commit suicide. It's a fascinating exploration of depression and loneliness. And this summary is not in quotations because I wrote it myself, because I actually read this novel and enjoyed it. The only thing I had to look up was the narrator's occupation, which I remembered incorrectly. My copy of this book is riddled by notes in all different colors, which I find visually pleasing. I read this book when I was 20 or 21. I was depressed at the time, but have since gone through several cycles and different types of depression, as well as counselling, and have otherwise got 10 (okay, 12) more years of experience under my belt and may actually read it again. I also wish I still had the essay I'm sure I wrote about it (judging by all the margin notes) so I could more accurately compare my thoughts on depression between then and now.

I am alone in a room with the man who has agreed to kill me.
      Such an ordinary room, without a hint of gothic foreboding or sinister intent, the walls papered with some elegant stripe, the curtains hanging a polite two inches above the floor, which is decorously warmed with good quality Berber. Two armchairs hold wide their elbows in front of the window, a bed, substantial and bolstered and duvetted, metaphor for comfort and the sleep that is supposed to knit up raveled sleeves, rafts the center of the room.

That first sentence alone is enough to suck you in. The description of the room is pretty evocative, except the last sentence could really use some help a red Sharpie.

If I remember correctly, this course also included some plays and several books of poetry. I read the plays, not so much the poetry. One of the books of poetry was written by the instructor of the course, which seemed like a great way to force people to actually buy your really boring poetry. I think this course was probably English 455: Contemporary Canadian Fiction and Poetry, or something close to that as it's the closest one on the list on the English department website currently. It has been rebranded  Canadian Literature in Transnational Times and sounds infinitely more interesting.

The Ecstasy of Rita Joe is about a First Nations woman who moves to the Downtown Eastside and eventually dies. It would have been really interesting to study this after actually having spent time working in the Downtown Eastside, and then post-Robert Willie Pickton.

The Rez Sisters I read, but don't actually remember. Billy Bishop Goes to War was fun cuz I like me some history, and it's a one-man play.

Boringass books with bad grammar aside, if I hadn't majored in English, I don't think I would have come as easily to the realization that - for reals, dude - it's not just white people who make contributions to art, culture, and society. For serious. I grew up in a blue collar home in a really, really white town. The high school books read were, as far as I remember, all about white people. Except Hiroshima and Obasan, so Japanese people existed and made contributions, but they were limited to topics related to WWII. Otherwise it was just white people.

The Things She Says

My daughter Gwen is kind of known for having a way with words.  Here are a few "Gwenisms".

Mom, make sure you do (oink noise) when I put the money in the piggy bank.  It sillies me out.

Mom, I think your skeleton is just getting so old that it's starting to fall apart. (I had a sore back...)

I always listen to my heart. (Leans head down, whispers) Yes. Uh-huh. Okay, good idea. (In a normal voice) It says we should do puzzles on the stairs.

More Than A Mistress: Chapter Three

 As Jane watches the Duke at his desk, she notes that all his servants are afraid of him, and that his

“ habitual expression appeared to be both harsh and cynical.  And arrogant.”

"Three!  The THREE expressions of his face are harshness, cynicism, arrogance, and hotness.  FOUR ..."

Jane has decided to be “a quiet, meek nurse who was lucky to have this position.”  In the very next sentence, however, she reflects that “it was difficult not to be herself – as she had discovered at great cost almost a month ago.”  Not only does Balogh set her heroine up for failure at being meek and quiet, but we also get another clue about Jane’s [if that IS her real name] mysterious past.  Namely, that her past was almost a month ago.

It turns out Jane has already failed (told ya) in her mission to be meek and quiet – remember, the last chapter ended when she told the Duke to call her Miss Ingleby, and then prompted him to follow doctor’s orders and get to bed.  Seven paragraphs into this new chapter, the Duke responds to this request.  That was confusing because I'd totally forgotten about the earlier suggestion, and after all this description and reflection suddenly the Duke says, "I beg your pardon?" and I thought he might be hallucinating.  But no, he's just turning down her suggestion of going to bed, because of course “men really [are] foolish.  She had known several just like him – men whose determination to be men had made them reckless of their health and safety."  You know what's even better than misogyny?  Man-hating.  Men are all dumb, foolish, hapless creatures who need women to take care of them or else they'd just bumble around bumping into the walls all day.  Yay women!  (The equivalent term to misogyny is misandry, but nobody knows that word because it doesn't get the media attention that misogyny does.)

Tresham explains to Jane that “it is a long time since anyone spoke to me as if I were a naughty schoolboy in need of a scolding.”  This underscores the "men are dumb" theme and also, perhaps serves as some hot kinky foreshadowing.  Jane is fed up by his lecture.  However, she notes that his raw masculinity (dumbness, I guess?) must make him “impossibly attractive to any woman who liked to be bullied, dominated, or verbally abused.  And there [are] many such women.”  Oh, are there?  Really?  Because I don't know any.  But if you say they must exist - in droves - then who am I to argue?  Anyway, Jane notes that she has had quite enough of such men – but we all know she’s going to be jumping Jocelyn’s bones in a few chapters, so maybe she actually secretly likes men who bully, dominate, or verbally abuse her.  Yay, misandry to misogyny in only a few paragraphs!

Jocelyn (yes, he is totally referred to by this term on page 31) is starting to suspect what I already suspected about Jane: “She was no serving girl.  Nor brought up to spend her days in a milliner’s workshop.  She spoke with the cultured accents of a lady.  A lady who had fallen upon hard times?”  He also reflects that he has no idea why he has hired her and also no clue why he has not subsequently fired her.  This is how sexual attraction works in romance novels: it makes you do things that you have absolutely no explanation for, things that make no logical sense, and you are completely baffled as to why.  That’s not sexual attraction, that’s a personality disorder.  Then he rationalizes that he does need mental stimulation during his convalescence, and that she might be smart and interesting enough to provide good company.  He shows how much he values this companionship by continuing to speak to her irritably and sarcastically, and reflecting that he wishes she would keep her mouth shut. Maybe he's an introvert, and prefers silent companionship.  

Tresham asks a few questions about Jane’s upbringing.  She lies to him (brought up in an orphanage) but the narrative tells the reader that she had a loving mother and father who brought her up with every one of life’s comforts until she was sixteen.  Shortly after, they both died, though not before Jane got a chance to take care of her ailing father for a while, which is why she’s so comfortable being the Duke’s nurse now. 

After Jane fetches a stool to elevate his foot, and changes the bandages, a new character bursts onto the scene!  She is the third female character in the book so far, she talks WAY more than Jane, and it turns out she is the Duke’s sister.  She calls him “Tresham” which I guess Val will have to explain – doesn’t ‘Tresham’ refer to the place he is a Duke of?  Why would his sister call him that instead of Jocelyn? – and after alluding vaguely to some “business in Cornwall” that Jane is super interested in for some reason, she leaves. 

End Chapter!

Mominism is the new Feminism

All of the following terms can either be applied to me in some way:

• Mommy blogger
• Mompreneur
• Soccer mom
• Mommy porn

To some people, these are badges of honor. To others, and in the same context, they are terms of derision and scorn. Here are some (sorta) comparable terms.

• Policewoman
• Stewardess
• Science kits for girls
• Women's erotica

In the same way that the second list can be corrected red Sharpied to police officer, flight attendant, children's science kit, and erotica, the first list can be rewritten as blogger, entrepreneur, soccer parent, and porn/erotica (or mom, mom, mom, and fiction... or parent, parent, parent, and fiction).

I totally do this. Or, I let me kids get their own cereal,
sleep in, and then several days later clean the crusted
Rice Krispies off my table couch floor.

See where I'm getting at? If I have a blog, and I mention my kids, I'm automatically a "mommy blogger," a demeaning term that dismisses my interest in writing (which existed long LONG before I was a parent) and minimizes my role as a mother. Also, guess what? There are 9.2 million mothers in Canada, 3.6 million with children under 18. That's a lot of people. Why would we dismiss content directed at them? There are also a whole lot of daddy bloggers, also known as bloggers, who are very talented and write about parenting and non-parenting-related things. Except when you're a parent, every single thing you do is affected by your status as a parent, so it's all parenting related. How about we call all of thsee people bloggers, or writers, or parents?

I do not look like this.

I really, really hate the term mompreneur. It makes me want to poke my eyes out with the pen I stole from the guy who sells me paper (who inconveniently does NOT sell printer paper, and is nothing like Jim, Dwight, Stanley or Andy). I have a small business. It doesn't make a whole ton of money, but I enjoy it. I meet lots of people. It's fulfilling. But rather than be called an entrepreneur, like every other male business owner (or female business owner in a business completely unrelated to children), I am called a mompreneur because my business is aimed straight at moms and kids (and, you know, dads, grandparents, aunts, friends... lots of people). Technically, mompreneur is defined as "a female business owner who is actively balancing the role of mom and the role of entrepreneur." Except that is what any working parent is doing. My husband is a dademployee (which is not a word) who is having a hard time balancing the role of dad and the role of employee working 60+ hours a week. But his role doesn't get a gender attached to it. I'm not sure who has it harder. Yes, I can close up shop when my kids are sick, or have an appointment, or have a super-duper-important school thing that I absolutely must attend. But my business suffers. My husband, the dademployee, just can't do any of those things at all.

Then there's also Laura, aka adequatemom, my co-writer here. She's a "mompreneur." She would really, really like to make a living as an editor, or even a greeting card maker, and put her talents and education to use to do something she loves. Instead, she spends 1/3 of her day at a job she doesn't particularly enjoy (but is damn good at anyway) because there are still bills to be paid, in a perfect world spends 1/3 of her day sleeping, and divides the remaining third between mundane tasks like cooking, eating, bathing, driving around, maybe possibly finding some time to herself to read a book, very occasionally seeing her husband, volunteering... and being the primary caregiver to her daughter. But yeah, let's reduce that to "mompreneur." Let's do that.

This does not resemble
my family.

Soccer mom. Just look at the hatred in some of those definitions. Why? Just why? Okay, I'm not actually a soccer mom because none of my kids are in soccer, but I do drive a minivan and this term is often applied to any parent who chauffeurs kids around in a minivan. I don't really hear the term soccer dad, and it's often the dads who are doing the soccer coaching. I do hear the term hockey parent (no gender). So why soccer mom? It actually started as a political term, coined by US Republicans, and specifically refers to white middle income women with school-aged children, who supposedly have nothing better to do than ferry around their children, but who would love to vote conservative. I find the term dismissive of the moms themselves, because they do have better things to do and they certainly have interests outside their children. I do. And I don't have anything resembling right-wing politics.

I enjoyed this piece of shit and I'm not
ashamed to admit it. Also, I wish my
husband would wear a tie.

And, finally, mommy porn. First off, don't Google that term, because it won't bring up a bunch of references to EL James' Fifty Shades of Grey like I thought it would. Anyway, as I have previously written, Fifty Shades is dismissed as "mommy porn." Why? Because it is a book that appeals largely to women of child-bearing age and has graphic sex scenes in it. You could also call it "porn" or "erotica" or "a book." I like the term "book" because it doesn't come with any implications of the reader except that they... like to read? Incidentally, one of the search results that did come up when I googled "mommy porn" was this one, about a new book set to be a bestseller, featuring a variety of cliques at a primary school in England... mom cliques, not kid cliques. The subject matter hits home for me. There are a ton of childish mom cliques in my town. Except it's being compared to Fifty Shades, despite its completely different subject matter and lack of sex, because it appeals to the same demographic. And the new term? Mumlit. Literature that appeals to Mums, a term apparently coined by a legitimate news agency, which helps to legitimize the term. In North America, I'm sure it would be translated to "mommylit." Hey, here's an idea. How about we just called it "literature"? Nah, then dads (or "men") might accidentally read it and find some insight into the lives of their female partners. Or non-parents might read it and find some insight into the lives of parents. No, it's better we warn them off entirely and compartmentalize people's reading tastes. Girls, you read these ones. Boys, you read these ones. Guess what, there are more bestselling authors, award winners, and modern classics on the boys' list.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my mompreneuring now. There's a potty seat just waiting to be sold.

Nailed It: Rhubarb Dump Cake

Last weekend I was supposed to bring contributions to two meals.  First, on the Friday night, we had a wedding rehearsal dinner for two dear friends who were finally tying the knot: our daughter was the flower girl, hence our presence at the rehearsal dinner, which was to be a potluck.  Second, we were invited to Father's Day dinner at my in-laws' house, and I was to bring dessert.  Figuring I'd save time and energy, I decided to make the same thing for both: Rhubarb Dump Cake.  I shopped accordingly and bought a bunch of rhubarb.  (Aside: am I the only one who finds it annoying when recipes give weight or cup measurements for produce?  I have no idea how to relate stalks of rhubarb to cups of rhubarb, so I ended up buying way too  much.  This isn't really a hardship, because I love rhubarb and will happily stew the extra and enjoy it over vanilla ice cream.)

This is probably the first time I've ever paid for rhubarb in my life, because generally people who grow rhubarb grow way too much and I am always eager to respond when people offer free rhubarb.  I learned that rhubarb from the grocery store is expensive.  Oh well.  By the end of the week when I was ready to make my first dump cake (this recipe REALLY needs a better name), the rehearsal dinner plans had changed and it was no longer a potluck.  Now I had a LOT of extra rhubarb.  I offered to make an extra cake for a friend, because I'm crazy that way.

On to the cooking!  The recipe I'd found online prompted me to cut up 1 pound of rhubarb and put it in a greased 9x13" pan.  With the help of my trusty kitchen scale, I soon learned that one pound equals 4-5 stalks.  (Recipe writers!  How hard is that to write?!)  Then sprinkle on top one cup of sugar.

Already my mouth is watering.

Then sprinkle Jell-O (or off-brand, which is what I used) strawberry gelatin powder on top.  And then sprinkle yellow cake mix on top of that.  I got all annoyed at this stage because I couldn't find my yellow cake mix anywhere.  Either I forgot to buy it, or my kitchen is so disorganized that I can't find it.  Both of these are equally likely and both of them make me very annoyed.  Anyway, I did find some white cake mix and figured that would work just as well.

The final step was to add 1 cup of water on top of the cake mix, and then melt 1/4 cup of butter and pour that on top as well.

I'm feeling somewhat skeptical about this.

I did all this and was overjoyed to note how few dishes I had used in the entire process.  Even making the cake mix, without rhubarb or gelatin, would have created more dishes.

Measuring cups (dry and liquid), bowl to melt butter, knife to cut rhubarb, kitchen scale.

Into the oven for 45 minutes at 350 degrees.  When the timer dinged, this is what I found.

NAILED IT.

 This doesn't look like a cake.  Blech!  There are still large patches of dry, unmixed cake powder.  There were also juicy bubbling craters of rhubarb-and-gelatin goodness, though, so I used a spoon to push down the powdery bits into the bubbly bits, cranked up the oven to 450, and put it back in for another 10 minutes.

Better.

Now we are at the "close enough" stage.  I'm still super thrilled about the recipe's very low dish-usage, though.  The dessert was delicious (especially with vanilla ice cream) and received good reviews at Father's Day dinner.

When I Googled "rhubarb dump cake" this morning to write this post, I found the actual recipe at the Kraft website (as opposed to the random photo that I'd seen on Facebook the previous week).  The official recipe calls for a bit more effort in the cake mix area, which I think would help immensely.  Instead of just sprinkling on the dry cake mix and then pouring water and melted butter on top, this recipe suggests that you stir these three ingredients together just until moistened, then pour on top of rhubarb/sugar/gelatin.  It would require dirtying another bowl, but I think it would be worth it.

The recipe (from Kraft Canada):

what you need

1 lb. (450 g) fresh rhubarb, chopped (about 4 cups)

1/2 cup sugar

1 pkg. (85 g) Jell-O Strawberry Jelly Powder

1 pkg. (2-layer size) white cake mix

1 cup water

1/3 cup butter, melted

1 cup thawed Cool Whip Whipped Topping

make it

HEAT oven to 350ºF.

PLACE rhubarb in 13x9-inch baking dish sprayed with cooking spray; sprinkle with sugar and dry jelly powder.

STIR cake mix, water and butter with fork just until cake mix is moistened. (Do not overmix.) Pour over rhubarb; spread to completely cover rhubarb.

BAKE 45 min. or until golden brown. Serve warm topped with Cool Whip.

Stop telling me what not to read

EL James is a fucking genius. Don't like her writing? Don't read it. But give her the credit for producing a vastly popular money making product and turning self-published fanfic that would otherwise sit in obscurity in some corner of the interwebs, next to Buffy sequels and Sulu/Kirk slashfic. They're in the early stages of planning a film that will probably also make a lot of money. She took Twilight and produced something for the early Twilight fans who grew up. Genius!

Fifty Shades is criticized for being nothing more than a romance novel with slightly kinkier sex. Guess what? Romantic fiction is a billion-dollar industry. It outsells every other category.

People don't like the characters. Ana is naive and Christian is abusive. Blah blah blah. Sometimes, in books, there are characters we don't like. Somewhere in junior high I learned the basic rules of writing fiction. The characters need to develop and change. These characters do. The kinky sex? Actually manages to advance character development (most of the time) and drive the plot forward (more on plot later). It actually takes a pretty decent writer to use a sex scene to advance plot and character, and James does it multiple times.

What I actually think is happening when certain critics put down the books and the characters is some pretty judgmental bullying tactics. Yes, bullying. I've read some rather virulent anti-Fifty Shades reviews. They claims the books are misogynistic and anti-feminist. They usually rail on and on about Ana and how she's a terrible example of a woman in an abusive, co-dependent relationship. Mostly they complain that she is naive and stupid. Here's what's wrong with that:

Ana is 21. The books are written in the first person present tense. We are reading them from the point of view if a chick in her early 20s who was an English major who focused on classic British lit. Guess what! I was an English major. At 21, I was pretty fucking naive. It was a different kind of naive than Ana, but still pretty naive. I knew Anas. I still know some. I know some who are older than me now. They don't deserve hatred and derision for their naïveté. Usually they're quite content in their naïveté. And there's nothing wrong with that. My favourite really stupid Ana mistake? I probably would have made the same mistake at her age. Brand new on the job, she sends a bunch of deeply personal emails to her boyfriend on her work email. That's just dumb. You don't do that. She is warned not to and she keeps doing it. Then she gets caught. Duh.

Look, I was bullied in school. Girl bullying. What was I made fun of for? Lots of things, but my choice in books, movies and music were targets. So I am the last person to rail against someone for her choice in reading material, or rail against a character for her life choices. Tease? Sure. I will tease Dr. Who fan geeks because ther enthusiasm is cute and endearing. I've tried Dr. Who. I don't like it. I don't really "get" it. But I don't dismiss the entire scifi genre because I don't like it. I also don't like (most) fantasy. That's also securely in the realm of geeks and nerds and their ilk. All those imaginary creatures and invented languages and an entire mythology... that's a lot of creativity and passion there. I just don't like it. I don't dismiss fantasy fans as unrealistic heathens unable to connect with the real world, or some crap like that. So why is it okay to dismiss romance fans, and thus fans of Fifty Shades, as weak, misogynistic anti-feminists because their version of a fantasy escape is different from someone else's? This has happened my entire life. Hell, my mother dismissed my enjoyment of Little House on the Prairie as a child because it depicted, apparently, unrealistic idealized family life and would give me unrealistic expectations of my future spouse. That's fucked up thinking, and I knew it was fucked up thinking at the time. Guess what? I still love Little House, and I've long since given up on my husband ever being as handy as Charles Ingalls. I still love him, too.

I'm sick of being told what I should and shouldn't read/watch/listen to. It's one of my insecurities now, telling people what sort of entertainment I should enjoy. Because you can say "I like scifi" or "I like comic books" and no one bats an eye. Try telling a group of your peers you like romance novels. Go ahead. So you can tell me not to read Fifty Shades because it alters and lowers God's standards of marriage and sex (and 49 other reasons Christian women shouldn't read it, my favorite being #8). Or I shouldn't read it because "It’s dangerous because it tells women, possibly young, innocent women who are just like Ana, that it’s okay for a man to treat you like garbage." I shouldn't read it because it's considered nothing more than "mommy porn" (how fucking patronizing is that?) and it sets feminism back decades. Half the time it's the audience - "housewives and mommies" - being attacked, not the content. Seriously?

What's wrong with the book? Plenty! Horribly repetitive phrasing and vocabulary. I don't care about all the "oh mys" and "holy craps" and "whoas". That's the character's internal dialogue and that's her voice. I did get sick of Fifty, hair ties, subconscious and inner goddess. The sex got old by the third book and I skipped most of the scenes.

And the plot! The first book was my favourite partly because it had the most realistic plot. The story was character driven and the conflict was internal. In the second book, there was a lot of internal conflict, but the climax involved an external force. That external force still drove character development, though, so it was bearable. The third book? The plot was contrived, boring, predictable, and really, really old. The villain was one-note and predictable. The ending was predictable.

There are tons of red Sharpie moments you can attribute to a bad (or lazy) editor. EL James is British. There are a whole bunch of Britishisms spattered through the book that any decent editor could have easily changed, a well as a basic error of geography (you don't go to Seattle from Vancouver WA by first going through Portland!).  And let's talk about a basic error of human anatomy repeated by many MANY romance novelists, or really any author depicting a girl's cherry getting popped. Your hymen is located at the entrance of your vagina, not deep inside. The level of pain a girl can feel on its breakage can depend on a great many things, like whether or not she's used tampons, ridden a bike, or ridden a horse. I'm pretty sure I broke mine falling on the seat of my bike in grade 6.

Then there was just some inappropriate grossness that didn't belong, like suggesting a fetus liked sex already because it moved during intercourse (it moved because its safe little nest was jostled, and because an orgasm is basically a contraction). I was also disturbed by a scene at the end involving a small child eating a Popsicle, when it had previously been used as a sexual safe word and, prior to that, referenced as a euphemism for a penis during oral sex. Another red Sharpie moment - my iPhone autocorrect knows that Popsicle is a brand name and should thus be capitalized, but apparently neither EL James nor her editor were aware of that. They need only refer to the fine print at the bottom of the Popsicle website: "POPSICLE® is a registered trademark of Unilever and is NOT a name for just any frozen pop on a stick"!

So dislike Fifty Shades because you dislike the romance genre. Dislike it for bad editing, repetitive phrasing, and contrived plots. Dislike it because you prefer a different depiction of relationships. But don't dislike it because it's not the book you expected or wanted it be. Certainly don't dislike it because you have rather elitist and presumptuous opinions against the sort of people who read and enjoy it. Because really? Get over yourself. I like that. I was an English major with a pretty damn decent gpa who also took a bunch of Women's Studies and Women's History courses who wrote for the campus feminist newspaper. I. Still. Like. It.

Nailed It: Sandals

"Mummy, can you make these shoes into sandals? And if you can't make sandals, can you make iced tea?"

NAILED IT!

Jack the Giant Slayer

A few months ago I was introduced to the concept of the Bechdel Test. It is a feminist movie review method. To pass the Bechdel Test, a film has to meet the following criteria:

1. It has two named female characters
2. who have a conversation with each other
3. about something other than a man.

It's harder than you think. Much to my surprise, Ironman 3, a scifi/comic/action/dickflick actually passes the test. But the movie adaptation of the classic fairy tale Jack and the Beanstalk? Not so much. It only has two female characters total, and one of them has only a few lines and dies in the very beginning.

In Jack the Giant Slayer (I guess it needed a more badass title?), Jack is an orphaned, peasant farm boy living with his uncle. He is sent to the market to sell their horse. While there, he is distracted by the sites and sounds and is drawn in to a theatre performance where he encounters Isabelle, the princess. He saves her from ruffians before she is whisked away by her protection detail. Isabelle, it seems, has just been out for a bit of adventure and has quite typically got herself into the position of needing to be rescued.

Princess Isabelle, pictured in gold armour, doesn't actually feature prominently in much of the film's marketing. It took a while to find this image.

Jack and Isabelle were both raised with the epic tale of King Erik, who defeated the evil race of giants who live in the sky.

As we all know and expect, Jack loses his cart and then sells his horse for a small bag of beans. He returns empty-handed to his uncle, who would have much rather had some seed to plant or at least some food. Uncle goes off to try to solve the problem. Meanwhile, Princess Isabelle slips away from her protection detail again and goes off adventuring. Alas, the weather turns sour - a dark, blustery storm, and she ends up on Jack's doorstep. One thing leads to another, the beans get wet, and a giant magical beanstalk bursts from the ground and takes Jack's house with it. The princess is trapped inside, sailing up toward Giantland, and Jack is unable to open the door to rescue her.

Yes, of course, the adventuring princess has once again gotten herself into trouble and needs to be rescued. This isn't my biggest feminist complaint with the film. No, the king and all his men arrive in search of the princess and see the giant beanstalk. A small search party is sent up, including Jack, and we soon seeour first giant. They are huge, hairy, incredibly ugly, and they like to eat humans. Several members of the team are soon eaten and others are carried off. We see more and more giants - hordes of them. There is not a single female giant. Not one. They must be immortal because they have no way of reproducing their race.

Jack rescues the princess and is hailed a hero. There is a brief moment where the princess gets her own armour - armour she has apparently had all along - and rides back to the castle more or less as an equal with her father. Also worth noting - this princess will inherit the kingdom one day, regardless of who/if she marries, and become queen. She is not actually destined for a lifetime of being secondary to a man. This is not a key plot point, but worth noting because...

The giants figure out how to make their way down to the kingdom and attack the castle. Jack and Isabelle work together, but ultimately she needs saving a few more times and it is Jack who saves the day and becomes the hero. He earns the crown of the mythic King Eric and, in effect, eclipses any power that Isabel might have had as Queen in the future.

I enjoyed the movie, don't get me wrong. The action was great and the makeup and/or cgi on the giants was really well done. I was initially struck by the complete absense of female giants, because how awesome would gigantic hairy, slobbery, big-nosed female giants be? But I still looked at it as a movie my kids would enjoy. There's violence, yes, but it's not all that realistic so I don't think it would give them any ideas. I wanted to hear George get excited and scream "Mummy, look! A giant!" similar to how he screams "Mummy! Helldoctor!" every time he sees a helicopter on tv. But then I thought about the Bechdel Test and the more I thought about Jack the Giant Slayer, the more I second-guessed myself. Did I want my daughter seeing a film and internalizing anything about her role as a female in life? Did I want my sons internalizing the hidden message that women are so secondary that they are largely invisible? Or that their job as men is to rescue women and supercede them, rather than support them in their own chosen roles? Probably not.

Meanwhile, there is a new movie that I have not seen yet called Epic, featuring a heroine named Mary Catherine. I think there's an environmental twist, as well as a fantasy race of mini people or fairies or something. From previews I've seen, the fantasy race of people include both males and females, so it's already one step ahead of Jack the Giant Slayer.