Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Got milk?

Nothing like reproducing to remind you that very little separates us from the animals (opposable thumbs, sense of self, reality television, etc.). Pregnancy is Cartesian dualism writ up close and personal - your mind's doing the usual things (barring the odd bout of spontaneous sobbing at particularly touching fabric softener commercials), but your body has gone AWOL and is not responding to orders:

Mind: Okay, time to tie up your shoes!
Belly: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA whatever.
Mind: Where the hell did that come from?!#$#
Floyd: [is late for work]

And then there's labour, where your body completely takes over, chasing your mind into a tiny little dusty corner, where it curls up, shaking, amidst rapidly fading memories of what it's like to be able to go more than three hours without peeing.

A life revolving around instinctual behaviour, bodily functions and satisfying the most basic needs for water, food, sleep and randomly howling at people - never before had I felt so close to my animal sisters. Never, that is, until I found myself breastfeeding in public.

I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to - not because I have a problem with public breastfeeding, but because I have a problem with my breasts being public. And for the first few months, feeding in public was a tangle of squawking, squirming limbs and Winnie-the-Pooh blankets. On the one hand, no one made a fuss about it; but on the other, I'm pretty sure it's because they thought I was trying to smother a particularly bad-tempered hairless cat.

Flash-forward a few months - and there I am, sitting at the local coffee/hipster festival with nothing but a baby's head and a successful music career between me and a Janet Jackson-style nipple slip. And, despite my tendency to make everything political (movie nights! family dinners! the food choices of people in front of me at the grocery store!) this particular action wasn't. I was there, boob out in a public place, because at this particular point in our lives, it's the easiest way to feed my child.  No bottles, no battles, no cursing the Creator for giving humans a measly two arms...just me and my (no longer fussing) baby, sitting quietly and secretly envying how effortlessly cool everyone looks in their skinny jeans and pink high tops.

Did I offend someone with my public display of lactation? Maybe. But honestly, I barely have the energy to check my pants for spit-up before leaving the house, let alone concern myself with the delicate sensibilities of complete strangers in regard to a completely normal and unobtrusive action. And to be even more honest, people really do seem to have better things to do than get upset about it.

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Sunday, August 28, 2011

What a difference two years make

Whoa whoa whoa...has it really been that long? My dear sweet Blogger, how I've missed you. There's been a giant, B shaped hole in my soul that neither Typepad nor Wordpress could fill.

But it's not like I haven't been busy - why, I've moved twice or thrice, had a couple new jobs, and watched many new exciting television series!

And then there's the dog, and the house, and the kid. No, not a baby goat (not that those aren't adorable because: yes they are) but the fruit of my very own loins. And though I am resisting the urge to be a mommy blogger (and by "resisting" I mean too damn tired most of the time to care about the most recent innovations and debates in child-rearing, like whether allowing your toddler to play with your shoes will result in emotional detachment and/or a lifelong foot fetish*) Little One is going to appear here and there because he's along for the ride now!

*both, although the emotional detachment will be caused by the increasing awkwardness of family dinners once the who and why of all those missing shoes is discovered.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

On doctors and lady parts

Oh oh oh, it's TMI-time, travellers! This post has been brewing and stewing in my brain for a few months now, ever since a fateful day at the walk-in clinic proved to be the third strike against dudely doctors and dudes-who-aspire-to-be-doctors-but-instead-practice-what-is-largely-recognized-as-quacktacular-medicine.

Strike one occurred back in the 1980s when my mom's then-chiropractor responded to her not unreasonable request to examine her 8-year-old daughter's seemingly curved back with "She just has a large behind." Which a) I should be so lucky, b) is creepy and c) is a lazy, gross, patronizing excuse for medical treatment. (For the record, it is not so much the size of behind as the fact that it is constantly parked on the couch that accounts for my still lousy posture. Hey, do I get a pretend medical degree now?)

Strike two was back in the undergrad years, at the university's walk-in clinic:

Me: I'd like to get my pill prescription renewed, please.

Doc: When was your last physical?

Me: I'm a virgin.

Doc: Good for you!

"Good for you!", as if I'd spent the last eight or so years since menstruation fighting off an army of sweaty, shirtless James Masters-lookalikes, instead of being a gangly and self-conscious homebody who spent her spare time reading Stephen King novels and writing terrible poetry about not wanting to be a virgin anymore. "Good for you!" as if virginity was some sort of grand accomplishment and not the inevitable by-product of my particular blend of self-esteem issues, shyness and tendency to dork out to the extreme in front of any boy I liked. "Good for you!" as if 'virginity' is a medical term requiring no follow-up questions and not some sexist and heteronormative social abstract which means different things to different people and exists only in their minds, anyway.

Now that's a rant and a half, but I have saved the rantiest for last! Strike three happened just this summer when I, a grown lady who had spent a good half her life with (to the best of my knowledge) working lady bits, and had yet to cause some sort of international incident or natural disaster with them, went to get my pill prescription renewed yet again. In my mind, I was qualified  to a)make requests as to my reproductive needs, and b)receive medical advice in a professional, objective, and non-douchetastic manner.

BZZZZTTT!!!! WRONG!!! At least according to the douchiest of all dudely doctors, with whom I had an unfortunate encounter at the walk-in clinic I was frequenting while trying to find a family doctor in my new town. (Which I totally have now, and she is also a lady, and she is pretty swell).

This guy was such a douche, he earned his own three strikes within our five-minute appointment, for:

1) Telling me that once every two years wasn't enough for women with multiple partners, after I had just told him that I was in a long-term, monogamous relationship ("Whatever, slut!");

2) Looking so pointedly at my (wedding ring-less) hand the whole time that I finally snapped a "I'm married; we don't wear rings", which I hate because a)marriage is a legal relationship and NOT a medical one and therefore NOT RELEVANT to this particular conversation, dipstick, and b)when I have to pull the marriage card it reminds me just how patriarchal and sucktastic a lot of people want marriage to be and means that I am in the presence of someone who is probably against things like same-sex marriage, women's equality, and kittens. Because he is an asshole.

3) After the marriage admission, writes me a six-month prescription, "Since [you've] been such a good girl."

If ever you needed proof that Angry Floyd still has self-control - I am currently blogging about this instead of serving time for "aggravated assault with various medical implements". So there.

Ladies, gents and every in-between? Any douchestactic doctor experiences?

Thursday, February 05, 2009

Another female athlete still waiting for my title and estate

Dear CBC sports,

"Lady" is the formal equivalent of "Lord" or "gentleman". Unless it's made up entirely of British aristocrats, it is a women's sport/event/competition.



Wednesday, February 04, 2009

A gaggle of links

Update: Had to add this one for all the techies out there - try this for your next office party! (Cake Wrecks)

Couldn't wait until Friday...so much good stuff out there on teh Interwebs.

Guess which political party is arguing against their country's economic stimulus package by measuring it in Jesuses? Contrary to what I say in the comments, Canada's is almost 3.5 Jesuses. Not too shabby! Er...holy?

The dudes' answer to "My Humps". Why I am not watching this show?

Two thousand words on why atheists are (and should be) angry.

Two thousands words on why feminists and anyone who cares about women are (and should be) angry, but maybe also a little bit hopeful.

Two very thoughtful pieces on the Michael Phelps "controversy" - a look at how pot-smoking is worse than rape and what Phelps should have said.

And let's end off with on a personal anecdote - I went to my first rugby practice with a new team this week and totally face-planted in front of everyone. This site makes me feel better.


Tuesday, February 03, 2009

Meet the Stupid

Although the number one spot on the list of movies I hate is clearly, forcefully, undboutedly and angrily taken, it's important to remember that I only saw that particular pile of aardvark vomit within the last year - meaning there was, indeed, a different pile of aardvark vomit in the number one slot (and one before that one, and before that one, and yes my friends it is aardvark vomit all the way down).

Let's see if you can guess what semi-digested mass of termite remains once held the top spot with a simple hint: here's the article that made me think of it in all it's regurgitated glory:

Got it yet?

Here's another hint:

DeNiro makes a deal with the douchebag, OR
Suggest your own caption in the commments section!

I mean speaking, of course, of the totally irredeemable "comedy" Meet the Parents, which I saw on the plane during one of my frequents trips home from school, and by "saw" I mean "watched the first five minutes with interest and then slowly grew angrier and angrier as the plot unfolded before turning it off and trying to avert my eyes from the other screens lest my rage overwhelm me to the point that I must be tackled and restrained while trying to use the emergency exit at 10,000 feet".

Rather than recap the whole film (because, obviously, I didn't see the whole thing) let me present to you the scene in which two anonymous douchebags come up with the story:

DB1: Okay, so, our main guy, he's gotta be funny. How can we make him funny?Hmmm...He could be well-written and the centrepiece of a clever film? [pause] Naw, that's too hard.

DB2: Let's give him a funny name, like 'Weiner'.

DB1: Naw, too obvious...kay, let's get back to that f***ker later.

DB2: Focker! Awesome.

DB1: Awesome! [high-fives]

DB2: Okay, now we need to give him, like, a funny job. Something really embarassing...like, outhouse cleaner or something.

DB1: Hey, you know what's really funny to my emotionally-stunted mind? When men engage in activities considered by our society to be feminine, which, by illustrating the arbitrariness of gender boundaries and calling into question the rigid social structures based upon these boundaries, challenges my own innate sense of privilege based on my manly superiority to women.

DB2: Uh...what?

DB1: It's totally funny when dudes do chick stuff.

DB2: Yeah! Like, I have this cousin, and he and his wife run a ballroom dance school, and charge like $200 bucks for a lesson and he's always, like, dancing around with women and shit, and I'm like, dude - that's so gay.

DB1: Yeah, like, why don't you just go be, like, a male nurse or something!

DB2: [laughs uproariously] MALE NURSE! That's awesome. You can't make that shit up. I love it.

DB1: Yeah! So this Focker, he's a [giggles] male nurse, and he wants to marry this hot chick, but first he needs to get her dad's permission to take ownership of his property, because it's not like a grown woman is capable of making her own decisions, and would be angry rather than bemusedly tolerant of her father's inappropriate and borderline-abusive treatment of the man that she loves!

DB2: Whu-what?

DB1: Chicks know their place, and let the men duke it out because that's just how we roll.

DB2: Oh.

DB1: And the dad will be super-scary ex-CIA guy, but then he'll totally love sissy shit, like flowers and cats.


And don't even get me started on the sequel. For the sake of my blood pressure, I try to pretend that it doesn't exist.

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