Serious Poop

When in America

I don’t vomit often but every time I do,  it seems to be in America.

Maybe it’s the free-pouring of liquor, in contrast to our responsible and regulated 1oz shots, carefully measured out one after another. Maybe travelling is hard on my stomach. Maybe it’s the $2.50 beer specials. Maybe it’s the cloak of justification that I place upon my shoulders every time I cross the boarder, or the voice of Lady Liberty in my ear whispering: “Yes…indulge! Eat and drink and be free… this is America! This is FREEDOM.” Either way, you could trace the path of my proverbial vomit-comet all the way from Boston to NYC, down to Miami, over to Oakland and you’ll end up, most recently, in Seattle.

I’m not proud of this; vomiting is a disgusting facet of life and something that should only happen to you after the age of 25 because of severe illness or pregnancy. But a few weekends ago, in Seattle, I found myself crouched over the hotel toilet at 2am barfing as if it was my high school graduation and praying to a God I didn’t know I believed in, when my boyfriend walked in. He looked at me, silently, and I shooed him away with a mortified wave of my hand. Two minutes later, he walked in again. I begged him to leave. This back-and-forth happened two more times, until he finally pointed at the toilet and it dawned on me that he was indicating a need to use it. Terrified that he was about to expel the same demons that had been haunting me, I got up and moved to the sink. Moments later, I glanced over to see him peeing, as if nothing out of the ordinary had been happening.

Mildly confused as to why my significant other had made eye contact with me while vomiting, ignored my pleas for privacy and kicked me out of the bathroom without uttering a single word the entire time, I finally fell asleep. The next morning, I woke up still feeling like an involuntary vessel for all things evil. “Oh no,” he said innocently, as if just learning about my pain for the first time, “do you think you need to throw up?”

“I literally threw up six times last night. You WATCHED me.”

“What?!”

“You watched me, and then you pointed at the toilet and made me move, so you could pee.”

He’d been sleepwalking. A wave of relief washed over me. He hadn’t seen me heaving violently over the toilet, sweaty hair matted to my forehead, bloodshot eyes pleading with him to look away! HE HADN’T SEEN IT.

The thing is, he never sleepwalks. This was completely, utterly, abnormal behaviour. Suddenly we both had strange, international behaviours to account for… but really, isn’t that what love is? Cradling the weirdest parts of you in your palms and offering them to someone else in the hopes that they’ll accept them like the precious stones they are? That they’ll offer you back a few palmfuls of their own? That’s one of my favourite things about this big love of mine, the way it is continuously revealing itself, piece by piece, over time. The most joyous moments being those when you find a piece that matches one of your own in its weirdness. Because then you start to put these pieces together and they create this serene, unique, and brilliantly fucked up landscape that only the two of you get to live in. A map of America covered in vomit and sleepwalking through life together.

S.

 

I mean…

Despite the title of this blog, we rarely (re: never) actually post about the act of defecating. And for that, you’re welcome. That being said, I still felt somewhat obligated to post this… just… because:

 

So there’s that.

Shout outs to the Reformed Whores. You’re doing God’s work, ladies.

S.

Fun and Easy Ways to Stop Slut-Shaming in 2013

Hey.

Happy New Year.

I’d like to add another resolution to your 2013 self-improvement plan. Ready for it? No more slut-shaming!

Some of you may read this and automatically think: “But wait…. why? Sluts are bad, aren’t they? And shameful! SHAME THEM! SLUTS!!!” And if you did, sit the entire fuck down and let’s have a chat about that. For those of you who thought: “Oh, I don’t slut-shame. I just think it’s REALLY bad when girls, like, just have all this sex with dudes that aren’t even their boyfriends, y’know?” You also need to sit down, right beside that other asshole.

Just to make it clear: slut-shaming is the act of making someone – usually a woman – feel guilty and/or inferior for engaging in sexual behaviour that violates traditional gender expectations. For women, that usually means those who became sexually active at an early age, those who have had multiple partners and those who engage in casual sex. Okay?

Besides the fact that judging other people instead of worrying about yourself makes you a useless asshole who contributes literally nothing to society, here are the two main reasons why slut-shaming is bad:

  • It populates victim blaming, which is one of the stupidest fucking concepts that has ever plagued us humans. Victim blaming is exactly what it sounds like: blaming the victim of sexual abuse instead of THE PERSON WHO SEXUALLY ABUSED THEM. It means accusing them of doing something, saying something or wearing something that somehow invited their attacker to come abuse them, thus making it their fault. Let’s make it as clear as possible here: not wearing a short skirt and not having that sixth shot of tequila is not what needs to happen for a woman to avoid being raped. What needs to happen for a woman to avoid being raped is for MEN TO STOP RAPING WOMEN.
  • It prevents unity between women, which makes us weaker in a society that is out to divide and conquer. We are constantly being conditioned to fear and judge the sexuality of other women which achieves two very detrimental things: it makes us jealous and competitive towards our fellow women and fuels our own personal insecurity, making us far more susceptible to this type of shit and therefore easier to control.

And just because I want to make it as EASY AS POSSIBLE for you to be a better fucking human being this year, here are some fun and easy ways for you to stop slut-shaming in 2013:

  • Do you personally know the woman you’re calling a slut? Is she putting herself in danger? Do you think she may possibly need help? Maybe try talking to her about it. Y’know… like a friend, instead of a passive-aggressive asshole.
  • Do you NOT personally know the woman you’re calling a slut? Maybe try shutting up. Everyone has a story. You don’t know hers. She doesn’t know yours. Respect that fact. Go read a book instead.
  • Think about your own relationship with sex and intimacy. What does slut-shaming reflect about your own insecurities, your own self-worth, your own experience? Make a pie chart. Followed by a real pie, as a reward for analyzing yourself instead of others.
  • Stop using the word slut. Reconsider how you let society effortlessly control you through language. Focus on words that are fucking awesome like “ominous” or “crescendo” or “fuck” instead of words that reinforce this toxic, subtle and stubborn attack against an entire gender.

My friends. I hope you will join us in this crusade and I would love to hear your thoughts.

Here’s to a 2013 free of slut-shame.

S.

Oh Shit, It’s Christmas

Nothing better than routinely celebrating a major holiday of a religious denomination neither you or your family have ever subscribed to, AM I RIGHT?!

Being back home for the holidays is always a little surreal. And by “always” I mean the two years that I’ve done it so basically, drink up from my deep well of experience. It’s strange to feel out of place in a place that was really the only place you knew for your entire life. PLACES. AND FEELINGS. AND FEELINGS ABOUT PLACES. And so on. My hometown feels like someone I used to be really close with but haven’t seen in a while; we pick up where we left off for the most part, but there are more awkward silences than there used to be. There is a gap between us that we both know is only getting bigger so we compensate with empty promises to “totally hang out more often.”

I’ve learned how important it is to stop comparing my own life’s narrative to that of my peers. But it’s not easy. Without exception, every one of my girl friends are now living with a significant other. One of them even reproduced. Like…a tiny human came out of her vagina, you guys. I met it in real life. It squirmed a lot and then it shit itself, but it was really cute. Anyways. The beautiful realization that I’ve come to is that I am not in some state of stunted emotional growth. I am not falling behind in some proverbial rat race. I choose not to chain myself to these expectations or deadlines or throw myself into situations simply because I feel obligated to fulfill these roles that I may not be ready to fill yet. I am the third wheel. I am a wheel of brie for dinner. I am whatever, whenever, with whoever. And that’s okay.

So my Christmas present to you is a challenge. Think about an area of your life where you feel like you’re not living up to other people’s standards or schedule and then UM YEAH, HI – STOP IT.

Also, I got you this picture of Snoop Dogg in a Christmas sweater smoking a blunt:

Happy Festivus,
S.

There Are Times

There are times when, for a self-proclaimed communicator and lover of the written word, I say literally the worst combination of words that could ever be chosen. Like when someone tells me something – something that is potentially a very big deal – and I feel so many complex emotions at all once it’s like they cancel each other out so I reply with:

Cool stuff, man.

Because that happened. And I can’t take it back. It happened, and it’s out there.

There are times when I am consumed with the universal truth that everyone has nicer clothes than me. Like everyone in the world is just one big, well-thought-out outfit. Is it possible for fabric to laugh at you? Because secretly, during these times, I think it does.

There are times when I am amazed at the quality of human beings around me. Even strangers.

There are times when I wish serious, legitimate, real life, physical harm on people who storm onto an elevator before I’ve gotten off.

There are times when I want to be everybody’s hero. But then I’m all like yo dawg (I call myself “dawg” in my head, see)…chill out. Just because you tend to shove all your feelings deep down into a hidden volcano doesn’t mean you have to carry the burden of other people’s broken emotions on your shoulders. But I do, you guys. That’s how I connect with people I love. I’m like a parasite, except with way less horrific side effects. You know, without the parts that are physically harmful. I won’t make you poop out your life, is what I’m saying. But I will, however, annoyingly worm my way into your heart and intimate personal problems until one of three things happens:

  1. We bond on a deeper level than you or I ever have – or ever will – with another human being (or parasite – the jury is still out).
  2. You walk  run away.
  3. I walk run away. 

Obviously one (or more) of those thing happens far more often than the other. And by “far more often” I mean basically always.

There are times when I feel like I am mediocre at a wide number of activities and silently curse those who are extraordinary at one. Those are the people who define culture, shape history, get all the babes. But there are other times when I feel like maybe this a good thing. Maybe it’s actually the people who are “okay” or “just-above-okay” at a multitude of things that make the world go round. Maybe it’s Jack of All Trades who is truly holding this world together and not Jack of The Best Jenga Player in The World or Jack of The Most Precise Turkey Carving Abilities.  Although I would definitely invite both of those Jacks to a party.

AND….there are times when I write utterly pointless blog posts like this one. But that’s what blogs are for, right? Being devoid of points but hoping that someone out there connects to it and feels a little less….pointless.

Cool stuff, man.

S.

Let’s Politic For a Second…

We just had (another) federal election in Canada and the results were historic, for many reasons. We ended up with a Conservative majority (ew) but alongside that comes some sweeping change in Canada’s political landscape – including gender representation in Parliament.

The first female Member of Parliament was elected 90 years ago and we’ve just NOW – for the first time in Canada’s history – reached the point where women make up a quarter of the seats in the House of Commons.  That’s both good news and bad news though because…

Canada remains 52nd in the world when it comes to female representation in political office, and it’s falling further behind as other countries take more aggressive measures to even out the gender balance.

(Source: Globe and Mail)

52nd IN THE WORLD when it comes to female representation in politics. Our  numbers are at an all-time high now, and that’s great, but it would be even more great (and FAIR) to see this number hit 50%. Gender parity in politics is necessary for true democracy, plain and simple.

Yet I say this as a woman who isn’t doing anything about it herself. Sure, I vote, but I’ve never actually considered getting into politics. I drink and swear too much, and while that seems to go over really well for some of our male counterparts in the political sphere – women (still) need to watch their step carefully. Kidding. But only kinda.

So I suppose all I can do is blog about it in the hopes of inspiring young, sharp, confident and competent young women to look at politics as a career path. Do it for us. For all the women that have too much embarrassing stuff about them circulating the Internet. For all the women who are passionate about politics but don’t have the attention span or the patience to actually make it work.

DO IT FOR US.

S.

It’s Friday Night – Get Some Shit Off Your Chest

It’s Friday night and I’ve got sweat pants on, eight tabs open and a jar of jalapeno-stuffed olives.

What?

SAY SOMETHING.

Anyways – check out this cool new blog-movement that our BFFIOH (that’s BFF-in-our-heads, for the record) Almie from APOCALYPSTICK recently blogged about. In her words:

The idea is to, well, get things off our chests. Our mission is to make the world an easier place for women (and girls and anyone who doesn’t fit into these narrow descriptions) to be happier, by helping them feel they’ve got permission to kick happiness-hating inhibitions, insecurities, cultural expectations, and ideals TO THE CURB. And also because there’s nothing more annoying than getting something off your chest only to hear, “Are you on your period or something?”

Word.

The story behind Off Our Chests is really cool. These two super rad parents are on a mission to rid the womanly world of “happiness-hating inhibitions” – basically, all those ridiculous things that stop you from being YOUR DAMN BEAUTIFUL SELF. Off Our Chests is a place to share (anonymously or not) “what is inhibiting you, limiting you, keeping you up at night, making you anxious, and hating on your happy.”

And let us be the FIRST to tell you how powerful simply saying (or typing) these things out loud really is….I mean, how do you think this blog even started?

So major props to everyone involved with this.

Check out the website here – http://offourchests.com/
Follow them on the Twatter. And Like them on Facebook.

And get some shit off your chest already, would ya?

S.