Death may take a holiday but Influenza does not

Thursday, December 27, 2007

'Twas the evening of Christmas, and all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, except for Dawn Rouse;

The stockings were empty,the gifts all unwrapped,

The cookies were eaten, I had not yet napped;

My child finally nestled all snug in her bed,

The two hours of sleep she'd gotten finally messed with her head;

And Terrance in his skivvies, and me, feeling groovy,

Had just settled down to watch a bootleg movie,

When out in the hall there arose such a splatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Terrance was out cold, I was all by myself,

To deal with the issue that presented itself.

The moon on the breast of the newly puked vomit

Gave the lustre of pearls to the puddles upon it,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But my own puking child, covered toe to ear.

The fluid spew forth, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment she was getting quite sick.

More rapid than eagles the vomit, it came,

That I whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Lysol! now, Pinesol! now, Bleach and Windex,

On, Comet! on Downey! And Thank God I bought another box of Tide!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now clean it up! Wash away! Wash away all!"

As dry heaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

My daughter sat before the toilet and cried.

And then, in a twinkling, I knew without doubt

That my evening would be fraught with effluvia all about .

As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,

More vomit flew out of her mouth with a bound.

She was wearing new jammies, picturing Hannah Montana,

which were now all tarnished with what looked like banana;

the bundle of toys she had flung on her floor,

Now looked as if they'd been involved in a gelatinous war.

Her eyes -- how they watered!! Her forehead all sweaty!

Her PJ's were covered, blankets, rugs and Poor Bitty.

Her droll little mouth was drawn up in an "O",

making it easier forthwith from the vomit to flow;

I leapt over puddles of still steaming puke

to reach my poor daughter and give no rebuke;

While trying quite hard not to step in the yak

I murmured kind words, held her hair, rubbed her back.

And where was my husband, I hear you all wonder,

A sleeping pill he'd taken had put him quite under;

Once finished, I started a nice steamy shower,

And pre pared her toothbrush with all of my power;

I spoke not a word, but went straight to my work,

And stripped down her bed, rugs, stuffed animals, towels, sheets, pillowcases, dear god, you can't believe how much stuff she actually HIT with her vomit....

My daughter I fetched from the shower with care,

and dressed her in clean clothes and braided her hair,

Her temperature I took, it was 104.

I knew that I needed to also clean the floor,

And stuffing the laundry inside of the washer,

I found the kids motrin, a bucket and water.

I knew for a fact that I would not sleep that night,

so I cleaned up the floor, separated colors and whites.

My daughter was sick, there would be no sleep for me;

And indeed there was little, between the puke and the pee.

But I heard Influenza exclaim as it drove out of sight

"Got you Bitches! Enjoy your puke filled Christmas Night!"

* and still it continues- Day Two. Maybe sleep tonight?

Clearly written by a guy

Monday, December 24, 2007

"twas the night before christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring not even a mouse"

It is 11:40 p.m. on Christmas eve. I have not been NOT stirring since six a.m.

Now normally - I am not a last minute kind of gal. I mail my holiday cards out the first weekend of December. I have addressed these cards in August. They were purchased the previous January.

On every other Christmas eve, I have simply waited until my spastic, over sugared kid was knocked out then hauled out the gifts. I had wrapped them days, sometimes weeks before hand. I simply needed to artfully arrange them, fluff the bows I had crafted from tinsel, and marvel at the splendor of my tree and gift wrapping and arranging.

Not this year. The cards sit in stacks - addressed, but not signed. I finished wrapping the last gift not more than ten minutes ago, and frankly I was a little aghast at the poor quality of my wrapping. There are No bows to be seen on any gifts this year.

I also had grocery shopping to do today. ACK. I thought a fight was going to break out in the dairy aisle over buttermilk - of all things. As the grocery store was out of eggnog, I went to the Second Cup ( my coffee joint) and begged a cup of eggnog from the barista. She kindly filled a cup with the nog, which I explained was going to be happily mixed with rum at the conclusion of the wrapping. I only partake of the nog once time per year. Christmas eve. And it must be mixed with rum.

And the soap. Remind me to keep my great fucking ideas to myself,can you? After proving myself to be a competent soap maker, my husband decided this afternoon that I needed to make soap for the neighbors. So there I was, at 6:30 tonight, making soap. Terrance suggested to Emily that I might like to make cookies for Santa too, at which point the lasers that shot from my eyes and set my husbands hair on fire seemed to have signaled that I was otherwise occupied.

Did I mention that my period waited until Sunday to roar back into my life?

And that Emily has decided to wake every 30 minutes and peek out to see if Santa had come yet?

I sit here - drinking my rum and eggnog pondering the truth of nobody stirring, and deciding that this poem was clearly written by a guy - for other guys. If it were written by a woman, here is what I imagine the poem to be like:

"Twas the night before Christmas,

What? No. I haven't seen the tape. I bought three rolls of tape yesterday.

and all through the house

No. I haven't made cookies. And I don't have more boxes. I gave you all the boxes I had.

Not a creature was stirring

well, except my child -who won't fall asleep. Which is terrible, because I know she is going to make a break for it at 3:30 a.m. when I have just fallen asleep...

not even a mouse.

Who am I kidding? I am going to sit down and drink this eggnog and rum because this is all starting again at 6 a.m. during which I will also be required to take pictures - while looking as if I have been on some kind of meth binge.

I raise my glass to you, fellow adults of the world, and wish you a relaxed and enjoyable holiday.

The power of one

Saturday, December 22, 2007

Hello Dawn

Thank you for your e-mail,

In regards to this matter, thank you for your comments we will no longer carry the Zoey 101 merchandise.

La Senza Girl

-----Original Message-----
From: []
Sent: Wednesday, December 19, 2007 10:55 PM
To: Webmaster LaSenzaGirl
Subject: La Senza Girl Contact Form

Date : Wed, December 19, 2007

Name (age):
Dawn Rouse (37)

Country/Province :

Email :

Comments :
Dear La Senza Girl, I would like to know the status of your promotion of the Zoey 101 show in light of the recent announcement of the pregnancy of the 16 year old actress, Jamie Lynn Spears. I had a most uncomfortable discussion with my nine year old daughter today regarding this situation. I have purchased many La Senza Girl products for Emily - clothes, snowsuits, etc. She likes the styles, and as a mother, I am pleased that the clothes cover all of her body. Fashionable - but not too grown up. She still looks like a nine year old girl. For this reason, there are other "tween" clothing stores from which we do not purchase products/clothing. While I understand that your company does not have a personal relationship with Ms Spears, I can not stress strongly enough that a barely of-age pregnant actress does not promote the type of image or lifestyle that I wish to purchase for my child. I can only suspect that your organization feels the same way. I look forward to your response. Sincerely, Dawn Rouse

Mini Motherhood Smackdown

Thursday, December 20, 2007

Dear Mama Spears,

I am not one to call the kettle black when it comes to parenting. And I held out for a long time when it came to your older kid. I mean, Britney IS an adult, and there comes a point where parents have to let their children be responsible for their own actions.

Of course, I did think it was a bit odd to dress your little girl up like a hooker school girl and strut her out in front of the world. But Hey. To each his own.

And then your oldest lost her ever-lovin mind. That string of guys? The white trash husband with the babies mama, the pantry free photographic Pap smear, the crazy BatBoy look she took one when she shaved her head?

Seriously? I suspected heavy duty post partum depression. And I thought - Where is the Women ( and I use the capital "W" here) in this girls life? Where is her Mom? Is there not one true friend who can sit down with her and say "Honey, you are fucking up your life beyond normal boundries" - one friend who isn't influenced by the fame and money? And even if it ISN'T a mom, we all have at least One of those friends, right? One who can reach into your skull and grab ahold of you - even as you insist that you are fine and don't need help.

But, I reasoned, a Parent can't be held for their adult kids messed up decisions. We do what we can, us parents, but there comes a time when we have to let our babies out into the world and we hope for the best. That the training and guidance that we have offered come out of the recesses and crevices of their brains and form a tiny voice of reason. We hope. But we can't know for sure until they are faced with the hard things, the crucial choices.

But today, Mama Spears. Today, you have pissed me off. Today I pass judgment on you - not knowing you or your situation. And why is that, Mama Spears?

Because today I had to explain to my nine year old daughter that YOUR 16 year old daughter is pregnant. Your daughter plays the lead character on a television program that mine daughter enjoys.

Can I hold your 16 year old accountable for her actions? Sort of, I suppose. I mean, I was 16 when I became sexually active too. I know that there was nothing my mother could have said to deter me from that path. However, here is the difference, Mama Spears - I went on the Pill before I became sexually active. I planned it. I went to the clinic and had an exam and was prescribed the pills. Why did I have the wherewithall to do this, you wonder? My mother. While she did not condone my sexual activity, she also had ALWAYS emphasized that being responsible - thinking about MY health and future, was the primary thing.

My mother, while unhappy, was AWARE of my changing into a young woman.

I can't help but start to see a pattern here with your girls. They have become the girls that I would discourage Emily from befriending. The type of girls who have too much information, too much freedom and not enough boundaries and rules.

And your parenting book?


Stop trying to live your life through your children. Perhaps then your children would understand that a child is a responsibility to be taken seriously - and not a means to an end.

Ding! Dong!

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

On Monday morning, our doorbell rang.

It was a little after nine, and Terrance assumed it was our neighbor, asking for help to push him out of his driveway. I mean, who else Could it be? There was four feet of fresh snow on the ground - almost everything is closed...schools, work, mail delvery ...everything.

Nope. It's not our neighbor.

All I have to say is that there are large scale organizations which should take note of the training going on here, cause these are some seriously motivated folks.

For those of you dreaming of a white Christmas

Monday, December 17, 2007

We respectfully suggest that you kiss our frozen asses here in Montreal....

This was during the storm on Sunday. Terrance valiantly attempted to keep up with the no avail

Do you see the neighbors swing? Yeah, I don't think he will until May either.

This is the garland. Can you see it? Of course not. Damn you winter!!!

The measurement of the snow is now 4 and a half feet. You can see that the snow has come almost to the edge of the balcony.

So, brethern in warmer climes - I now officially declare you the winner.

Is that a finger in our tree?

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Ah yes. The promised second part of the tree story. Of course other things were happening in the field as Terrance dragged the behemoth to the edge of the field.

You see, internet friends, I occasionally attempt to be NICE. You know, give it the old college try for the benefit of my child. I stand with the farmer - Elwood - and listen to his stories of farm hardship. I smile at him and thank him for having such a lovely farm. I express how much we missed cutting down our own tree.

Now I have NO problem with grizzled old farm types. Living in Vermont and New Hampshire has familiarized me with these types of people. I usually stand there and agree that the world is going straight to hell. That farming is a losing proposition. That I recognize that he works too hard for too little money. And that the banks suck ass.

This is the moment that Elwood injects the truly gruesome and macabre into our fun family outing. He tells us of his mauling in October by his tractor. The one coming to pick us up. Emily's eyes grow wide. The other mother standing in the field with us looks horrified. But Elwood? Ignores all signals coming from his captive audience. We hear of his hospital stay. The morphine. The weeping wound. The stitches. And then - in a move I can only describe as oddly poetic, he launches into a story of his neighbor. The neighbor with the three year old daughter. Who had her in his lap as he drove the tractor this summer.

Do you see where this is going?

Cause I seriously didn't. It happened so fast.

Elwood tells two mothers and four collective children about the three year old who fell out the back window of the tractor cab and was mangled by the machinery "Never to be seen again." At which point he adds this festive gem: "And her aunt, who was working in the emergency room when they brought in the pieces - cause they brought the whole machine with them - yeah, she didn't even recognize that it was her niece she was trying to put back together..."

Now let's rejoin Terrance:

When we left the Rouse-(other last name redacted), they were (scratch that, I was) attempting to secure the B.A.T. to the roof of our car. After being assisted by two farm employees, we finally secured (somewhat) the tree. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of the two farm employees shaking their heads in a disapproving manner. I'm sure they were calculating their legal liability.

The first mile of the journey back home was trouble free. This gave me confidence that I could take the highway without fear. However, my confidence was about to be challenged. As we pulled onto the entrance ramp of the highway-Emily announce, "Daddy, I can't see the tree anymore." What! I rolled down the window to discover that the tree had shifted. While still secured, the tree had slid from the left to the right-side of the car. This was going to be a long 30km's.

I would like to say without reservation-that Montreal is a wonderful city with a wealth of natural beauty. However, ask anyone what they dislike about the city and you will hear, the roads and the drivers. Montrealer's are notoriously bad drivers. Courtesies in the forms of signaling before turning and allowing someone to merge into traffic are rarely given. Quebecer's view driving as a competitive sport. They routinely weave in/out of lanes, tailgate, run lights at 100 mph, while simultaneously smoking, drinking coffee, talking on their cell phone, flipping you the bird and cussing you out in French. Ahh yes, these are the only driver's in the world that make you long for the good old days of driving in Boston. Driving on a Montreal highway at 40 mph with your flashers on give you the feeling of being a three legged dog trying to run across a six lane highway! You might as well paint a target on your trunk and put a sign in your rear window that reads, " Hey, I from the U.S., your country sucks, that's not really French your speaking, Poutine taste like Ass!

By the grace of Xmas-we made it home. This is when the real fun began. Once we got the tree off the car -we decided to drag it into the backyard and allow everyone to eat and rest. Oh, by everyone, I mean me. Upon returning from dinner, it was decided ( again, not by me) that the tree needed to be brought inside and put up. For reference sake, our ceiling is about 15ft high, the stick next to the tree in picture 1 is 15ft high. I'm looking at this tree- it's not going to make it into the living room. After knocking everything over from the back porch to the living room- we finally try to put the tree up. Just as I thought, when we try to stand the tree-it scratches up the ceiling. I take two feet off the top, place the tree in my fancy self-watering, self-centering stand and we get the tree up. We step back to gaze upon our accomplishment and take a collective sigh of relief.

The saga is over. Not! On Sunday, I'm finally able to put the entire tree episode out of my mind. There's something to be said about the peace and serenity that comes with having a pollen infested, asthma inducing, fire hazard in your house. My peace is soon broken as Emily walks into the living room and request that we trim the tree without mommy. What, "Honey, why would we want to do that?" The crying starts. "Mommy put the decorations up outside without me. I'm going to be in school all week and won't have time to decorate the tree." I explain to Emily that we can't decorate the tree without her mother-and unless she was now attending a boarding school-she would have plenty of time to decorate the damn tree. A few moments pass and I hear Emily crying again and Dawn ordering her to her room. What the hell is it now! It appears that Em' had tried to convince her mother to decorate the tree immediately, for fear that her mother and I are so lazy that somehow it wouldn't get done. I yell into the next room, "I just want to watch the game and eat my pizza in peace, is that to much to ask?" Emily starts to cry louder as she stomps away into her room, Dawn closes our bedroom door, and I head for the kitchen to consume whatever has alcohol in it. I yell at both of them, I drink because of you two!

Terrance has failed to mention the six hours of handmade garland twisting I endured. Because plastic garland is for pussies.

Terrance Speaks!!!

Thursday, December 13, 2007

I know many of you have oft wondered about the long suffering Terrance.

He, of the "female issues" and general squeamishness about illnesses. He, of the "I can smell cat piss everywhere". I know, internet, that you have been perplexed by his ability to stand silent as his spouse wanders off into the world of true wife confessions and bad penii pictures.

No longer. He wants to share His version of the hunt for the Killer Sapin. Which I will graciously present....with my commentary in italics. I mean, you really didn't expect me to sit here silent and let him tell this story, didja?


Dear Family and Friends,

This story recounts our adventures over the past weekend to hunt and capture this years B.A.T. (Big Ass Tree!) While I enjoy Christmas as much as the next person, I don't understand why we have to have such a BAT every year. For my wife and daughter, Christmas is somehow diminished without the addition of a mutant sized tree. In the past, we have actually cut down trees that woodland creatures were still residing in. Birds have left their nest, only to fly back and find a smoldering stomp. Still, they need a tree that can be seen from space.

So far, so good. All of these things are true - as offered in pictorial evidence above. Remember - the man grew up in Detroit and misidentified a star nose mole as a RAT.

Okay, let me set this years scene for you . The tree farm that Dawn found this year was in Ille Perrot, a small town approximately 30km west of Montreal. This means at least an hour in the car to get a damn Christmas Tree. After arriving at La Ferme Quinn, Dawn and Emily decide that the trees that were pre-cut, netted and tied were not up to their B.A.T. standards. So we boarded an open air wagon pulled by two Clydesdale Horses and headed into the woods. While this sounds like a beautiful -postcard picture thing to do, it was -9C outside. It was cold as hell!

In point of fact, Em and I didn't even look at the precut trees. We already knew without talking that these would not be up to our standards. Why drive 23 km to buy a tree that was already cut? And Yes. It WAS cold. But the pretty horses! Look at the pretty horses!!

The "Sapins de Noel" were located in the very back of the woods. The long trip to get to them seemed even longer with little kids all around you coughing in your face. This wagon trip was one big germ incubator. I have never seen so much frozen snot in my life. This combined with the repeated warning to the kids to sit down while the wagon was in motion -least they fall off and be crushed under wheels, made this trip even more enjoyable.

See the germ phobia there?

Upon reaching the tree section, the hunt for the perfect B.A.T. began. After searching for a tree for an hour, Dawn and Emily finally settled on one. While they say that they asked for my opinion, it really didn't matter what I wanted, they were going to get their BAT. So, Dawn and Emily pick the biggest tree in the woods. They do this primarily for two reasons; they generally believe that "bigger is better", they also know that I'm the one who has to fell the beast. I must admit that I didn't cut the tree this year. The farm owner fell the tree. I simply dragged it back to the wagon.

In many ways, Terrance has finally embraced his extraneous position in the choosing of the tree saga. He follows Em and I around waiting to agree with the one we decide upon. With the addition of child in my arsenal of persuasion, he simply gave up.

On past occasions Dawn and Emily would generally stand around and offer words of encouragement as I struggle to cut through the tree with a butter knife passing as a saw. That was in the past, now, they simply point at the tree, turn around and head into the warming barn for mulled cider and hot cocoa. After getting the tree back to the barn I was told that it was to large to be netted. This means that I would have to tie the tree to the roof of the car with all of the branches exposed and catching the wind as i roll down the highway at 60 mph! Would we make it! I'll let you know in part two of the Saga.

Although in years past, this MAY have been true, I can assure you that there was no warming barn in the back 40 of the tree farm. My feet had frozen, only to be re-warmed by the walking. However, here is the point in the tale when Terrance, who was guarding the tree lest some nefarious other person swoop in and claim our hard earned prize missed something special - spending time with the farmer and his tales of farm land violence - which is what Em and I were graciously doing.

Attack of the Killer Sapin

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Now, it is well known that I am not an Uber-Mom. I don't bake stuff, I don't take Mommy and Me Thai dancing classes, and god knows the few times I have visited the park the other Moms stayed FAR away from me.

Christmas, however, seems to bring out something primal in me. There are urges. And these must be listened to - for the good of the whole family.

The main urge? A ridiculously large tree. That - if possible- we must hunt and cut ourselves.

For comparison purpose, I present the tree of 2005:

Please note that we had cathedral ceilings and that this 12 footer (ok maybe closer to 15)had no problem occupying the space.

It was a lovely time, back then. We would saunter out to the tree farm in October, choose, tag and pay for our chosen tree. Get a free organic pumpkin. December would arrive and we would drive up the hill to the tree farm to retrieve our temporary member of the family. All for about 30 bucks! For a fresh, just cut balsam!

2006 arrives and we are at a loss. We now live in a city and have no idea how people procure their trees. What to do?

Go down to the florist on the corner and pick this specimen....

Now truth be told, I wasn't THAT satisfied with this tree. It wasn't fresh and the needles dropped everywhere. Plus, we paid 60 bucks for it, which Terrance was having FITS about. The damn thing Barely made it through Christmas with needles intact. Oh, and it too was big. Really big. But it has a nice shape. And it too is Balsam. But the joy of watching Terrance struggle to cut the trunk and then drag it through the snow to our car? Missing.

So THIS year, I made it my year long task to find a tree farm around Montreal. I mean, good LORD, these people pride themselves on being farmers - there has GOT to be a fresh tree farm somewhere, right?

And I did it. I found a Tree Farm about 25 minutes from our house.

WHOO- HOO!!! I get a fresh tree! My tradition continues!

Except that here, the "idea" of a tree farm is quite different from my American version of the tree farm. In fact, this is a story which will be told in the coming days - but suffice to say for NOW that the feeling of "let them grow free and wild" seems to be the overriding mantra. A live and let live philosophy, if you will

cause this is what we came back with:

I had to mercilessly hack off over two feet from the top to get it to stand up in the house. The thing is a wild beast in our house.

LOOK AT IT! You can't look away, can you?

But wait.

Look at the trunk:

Do you see the normal, human sized bookcase in the back? Do you see the massive, monster trunk in the foreground? What you can't see is the 4th tree shooting off the back. Yes. 4 trees in one.

In my defense, it didn't look as big in the field, and it was the nicest tree we found.

And the house smells really, really nice.

Now, let me go give Terrance his pain pills with the shot of bourbon.

Next up- Sex through a hole in the sheet

Friday, December 07, 2007

I felt kind of cruddy today.

As Terrance passed by the bedroom, he inquired:

"You Ok?"

"yeah", I said, "I am either ovulating or you have perforated my uterus..."

He stops and pops his head in the door.

"EWWWWWW! I don't need to know about your female Issues!"

"Good Christ - Did you just refer to ovulation as a Female issue? What next? Referring to my period in hushed tones as "lady problems"? Building me a hut so as not to infect you with my "evil humours"?"

Terrance rolls his eyes and walks away.

I yell after him "I'll get the sheet ready so you can cover me up while we're having sex so you don't offend my delicate nature and blind me with the sight of your manhood!".

Boys are so silly.

This womans work

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

I was sitting in the multicultural education class I TA the other day - and we were talking about gendered issues. Not simply in education, but in life. The article we were discussing involved the higher rejection rate of female applicants to the "upper tier" colleges and universities. The problem? Women are over qualified. This leads to tougher competition among female applicants.

While this, in and of itself is not a problem - the unintended result is a problem. Young men are being accepted with lower, less stellar transcripts/academic backgrounds in order to keep the gender balance on campuses.

"Hmmm", I thought to myself. "This is intriguing."

In education, of course, we see FAR fewer men in the pool of undergraduates. Even fewer of those will choose to teach elementary school, preferring High School or Physical Education.

It may be a status thing - I know my family's reaction when I announced I wanted to teach Kindergarten was "Why are you wasting your intelligence on KINDERGARTEN! You are incredibly smart - you could do anything you wanted!"

And well, Yes. I COULD do anything I wanted. And I wanted to teach kindergarten. After all, I reasoned, wasn't this where is started? Don't we need the best and brightest teaching our youngest children?

It may be a money thing. Very few male (or female) teachers support a family on their salary alone. Almost all are part of working "families" - two incomes combining to sustain a household.

As I pondered these things in my head, the discussion was occurring around me. While these students read and understand the article, I know that for the young women in the room - their lives both professionally and personally are going to be filled with moments that they will find difficult to envision now.

If, like myself, they are smart and articulate, they will be labeled unfeminine. In one interview, I was told "off the record" that they just wished I was "warmer" - you know, not so "direct".

This is code for "You don't act like a girl and we don't like women who don't act like girls."

As a teacher, I felt guilty for asking for a raise when I earned $7.50 per hour for caring for other peoples infants. I apologized to the parents when their tuition was raised so I could have a .25 cent an hour pay raise.

As a mother, although I worked in child care and early childhood education, there existed unspoken expectations that I not take "too much" time off to care for my child if she was sick/on vacation/home for a snow day. I was expected to be at my post ready and willing to do my job.

As a writer, I am told "There are no experts and we don't pay for any writing". I take this as more code that the work of parenting, the work of "women" should be given freely, with good cheer and a happy heart. After all, aren't we all in this together? Lend a hand, help a fellow woman out! Smile while you do it, dammit!

No, I think the issue is the same shit, different day.

Raising and Educating children is not something that is valued - regardless of the bullshit rhetoric spouted by the politicians...and yes, even parents. Everyone WANTS the best schools for their children, but nobody wants to pay for it. Everybody WANTS dedicated professionals who have Master's/PhD degrees in education teaching their child - but what crazy person is going to invest that kind of money to earn 40K a year?

By extension, the work of mothers, of women is expected to be given freely and without complaint. When you point out that women are still discriminated against in the workplace in a variety of ways, you get called an "angry feminist". When you point out that the educational system is failing our girls by asking them to achieve the highest they can - AND STILL REJECTING THEM what can that mean for these future mothers, partners, wives and women?

I suspect that the cult of womanhood will tell them that there "are no experts, and no one is paid" for the work they will do.

What my Spam says about me

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

I recently started looking at my Spam email. I am not sure Why exactly, except that I noticed the Spam folder had grown by 200+ in one day and was curious about the flood of offers that I was not taking full advantage of by not reading these pressing missives.

So, this is what my Spam says about me:

1. I am very Ill

Why else would William and Gilbert be so concerned about my health and their ability to be my "cureall". Apparently, they have heard that I am not "full of health". They are also concerned about my ability to locate the drugs I may need here in Canada, so want me to know that were I to "click here" I would be whisked to the virtual "pharamcy" of my choice. William, in particular, wants me to know that he cures "any desease".

My confidence is slightly diminished by his poor spelling.

2. I am Heavily in Debt

The jig is up. Leo and Armando want me to be completely debt free. They CRAVE my debt free status. I am insulting their manhood by continuing to live my heathen life of deficit spending. What do they have to do to get me to come to the other side???

3. I want better sex!!!!

There is a multi pronged approach with this (ha-ha, a pun) Walter, Jackie, Cleon, Stephen, Ralph, Reginald, Peter, Artur, Phillip, Ingvar and another Walter want me to know that they know I want better sex. The have the right drug to make me happy. However, it seems that this must be an erectile dysfuction drug known on the streets as "Vragra", "V1gr@" or "love pi11". Also, Jackie adds that "Pleasure shouldn't end fast. Proove her that you love her forever!"

While I applaud Jackie on the sentiment and agree that it shouldn't end "fast"...let's be honest. Forever is a mighty long time and I got shit to do, Jackie.

4. I am lacking in computer software.

Aidan, Ingebord, Phillip, and Kristopher have what I need. Which is OEM software. And look, they've uploaded it for me. How kind.

5. I have alot of money laying around that needs to be invested.

Why else would Morton, Lavonne, Jessie,Francine, Alexis, Stan, Imelda, Bret,DeeDee and Misty be in such a tither about Nanotechnology? Perhaps they should get with the "V1agr@" folks. Sounds like their product could do well in the other market. It isn't the size but the motion of the ocean, right?

6. I have a Penis.

April wants me to know that I shouldn't be so critical of my lack of penis. With her Penis enlarge patch, I can have the penis of my dreams. She is very concerned about my self esteem. VERY VERY CONCERNED.

7. My Income could be higher!

These folks must not have access to the Investor folks. Qyeyn, Latita and Frank all have ways for me to vastly improve my earning potential. Most of which involve Ebay, or other "New, Unknown, Exciting and HUGE income profession." Well, shit. What am I going to school for? Dude. If I had known about this in high school, I would have saved all this money I spent in college! Wait, does this involve my dressing up as a zoo keeper and giving spankings?

8. I am interested in a "specialized" type of Porn.

Most of which involves
a. Busty Granny's
b. Blonde Transexuals
c. People posing on the toilet
d. Deep throat, specifically Asian women
e. Amateur Teens
f. Anal sex

Really? Wow. There are some fetishes that I have no idea about. Geesh. I need to get out more.

9. I have friends who are waiting to hear from me....Desperately.

Like Brandy and Mui. In the body of their email, I begin to believe that they may be alien geniuses.... I mean, check out these phrases:

"diskette and graduated a a some, believe accurately a scythe snooty a for barely."
"A cargo tornado they are pour grits polar to atom! but Most laughs. suit to dolphin sandwich are prime"
"a stovepipe heart snack remember prime .and grand Indeed,"
"cough the The tornado mating to living dances hydrant. to money a a the a a are conquers. accurately The love judge the toward Indeed, beyond."

Wow. Like an acid trip without the time committment.

10. I'm not sure what these folks need, but it is clearly Something.

Perhaps they are being held captive by Osama, and this is the only way for them to communicate to the outside world.

Jessica seems to be telling a terrifying story about Fred freezing to death...

"warning, dropped into the snow and begged Fred to go on without him. He sound in the room behind her, trying to tell her somethingto warn binder twine served as hinges on the doors and also as latches.herand it was in vain that she tried to shake off their influence.
bath ham a higher order of We collar must find a cave." Already we sculptural could see the blazing green eyes of man than we had as yet seen, source other than Ahm,
was all right, he declared, warm and comfortable, and wanted to rest.Once or twice she caught a glimpse of a black shadow over her shoulder,They gave as a reason for sticking the new part against their ownjust a reflecting vanishing glimpse, and when she turned hastily round
beef the Neanderthal herald the hungry carnivora. I seized a brand dialectal from the fire and  
calorie soya bean man.

Youll freeze to death Fred cried. Thats the beginning of it.there was nothing there, but the voices, mocking and gibbering, wereirregularly that they intended to use the alcoves for verandahslouder than ever. "

If you know where Jessica and Fred are, send help.

And the Mysterious "95" sent me a very existential email that was full of Question Marks. As if to ask..."What is the meaning of life, Dawn. Please tell us."

I don't know the meaning, but I got a shit load of snow to shovel in order to get out of the house tomorrow. And my annoying husband is coming to bed.


Monday, December 03, 2007

Dear Montreal Drivers,

Living and Driving with you for the past year and a half has been a truly edifying experience.

I no longer expect blinkers to be used for example. I am also ever alert to the threat of attack by bus, the veering of a large diesel powered vehicle sharply into the left hand side of my car. Additionally, I understand that Stop signs are "suggestions" and can not be relied upon to actually stop a car coming from an opposite direction.

Let me preface this next statement by saying that I am not one of THOSE Americans. No, sir. I am not a flag waver, or a crazy "love it or leave it" kind of gal. You will note, in fact, that I left it in July of 2006. I am a relaxed and easy going person.

However, you are collectively in sore need of some American etiquette regarding Gas Stations. I have never seen such chaos at filling stations as here in Montreal. It is a Freaking free for all. Pulling in at all angles, parking and leaving your vehicle in front of - say the AIR PUMP - allowing no one else to fill their tires. Upon your very slow return, you look at me as if I have done a wrong unto you by WANTING to fill my tires.

And can we pick ONE entrance and ONE exit to the gas station? Please? Pretty Please? When the entire entrance and or exit is 15 inches (yeah, I know - I don't understand the damn metric system) it makes it difficult to both enter AND exit by the same conduit.

I know that to suggest this is sacrosanct. I know.

But you could take a lesson in how to behave in gas stations from your neighbors to the south.

I will happily acquiesce your cultural superiority in many, many things. Croissants - Maple products and combining maple into things I had no idea could be combined with maple - tasty meat pies - pates - and wine.

However, if there is one thing we know, it is how to fill up our giant, gas guzzling, Kyoto hating SUV's.

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