Oh, Internet.
I remember when you were shiny and new. Like a puppy that hasn't yet shit on your floor or ripped up your favourite shoes. Everywhere on the internet seemed teeming with possibilities, and people! in digital format. Always always there were a few people online to chat to. The internet was like a small town where you kind of new everybody without knowing their name.
I don't know quite when it happened, but the internet has become a scary place for me. I think this might signify my move into old age. It happened very suddenly. One day I was liking shit on Facebook, adding another comment onto a dumb picture, driving everyone who liked it and can't stop getting updates on their smartphone about it crazy. And the next it felt strange and confusing. I think, because the majority of what I.. we, maybe? understand the internet to be suddenly become filtered into one site: Facebook, the rest of the internet got turned into a kind of ghost town. Going back to the old message boards where you had to refresh the forum obsessively to see if anyone replied felt like going home. Except home was deserted and there were only a few drunk idiots peeing on what was once your best friend's house.
I haven't logged in to MSN messenger in YEARS but I assume it will be as dead as the next thing. Any social networking site is just kind of... gone. And using Facebook after this las update is... just... shitty. I know it's stupid, it's basically the fucking same old shit. But I can't choose to not see "top posts". I don't give a shit about top posts, like Facebook is some popularity contest between my friendslist. I just want to see what the people I care enough about to add to my damn friend's list are doing. Chronologically, preferably. And since I can't do this, I just get frustrated and feel like I'm missing my people everytime I log on, because I am inundated with over-shared, liked-by-57-drunk-19-year-olds crap when all I want to know is how my friends are doing.
I feel like I've reached a point where I understand what my parents must feel like when I try to explain some aspect of the internet to them and they just don't get it. They look blank, scared, and confused.
And that's how I feel, now. Like all of a sudden I looked up and "The Internet" as I knew it was gone and all I can think is "but I was here the whole time".
This is what feminism looks like
Monday, 10 October, 2011
Friday, 7 October, 2011
Life in the Cat House
Weyll, our cat and my parents cat still don't get along. And our Cat, Bailey, is getting sick of living in my old bedroom. So she regularly escapes, especially when we are half asleep in the morning and trying to run around quietly in the dark not waking one another up. Which is what she did on Monday as Amanda was trying to leave for work. Normally it's not a big deal—we scoop her up and put her back in as she meows protest before anyone else notices. But Monday was different.
No, on Monday, she ran downstairs as fast as she could, with Amanda trailing after her. Upon seeing a dog, she ran back upstairs, unfortunately not into our bedroom. No, she ran into my parents bedroom, where their cat sleeps, nestled up next to my parent's bodies. In she trots, pleased as punch to have found the perfect speed, where Amanda is fingertips away from grabbing her without reaching a full on sprint. She danced along the edge of the bed, gloating over her victory and freedom. That is, until grey cat saw her. Grey cat, who actually never got a name—he's kind of an enigma. One name just doesn't suit him. We tried Hunter, Skuggi (shadow in Icelandic), Vampire Bill (when he sleeps his incisors stick out so he looks like a vampire, and he's kind of emo. Suki!), Beast, Enigma, you name it, so I just think of him as grey cat now, but my parents call him Kitty Boy the Second (KB II)—did not appreciate her little foray onto his bed. Onto his human's bed, no less. So he begins to chase her, using my dad as a springboard to propel himself forward (which is necessary as he's kind of fat), causing my dad to wake up like the plastic game piece in Don't Wake Daddy. And so they tear down the hallway, yeowling, ending their little race under our bed where I am still in a half state of sleep hiding under the blankets as best I can as Amanda left the lights on during this idiocy.
I am stunned to alertness by the fact that a five alarm cat fight is going on under my head under a mattress under a bed spring. It sounds pretty much like your generic cat fight until Bailey's yeowling and growling takes a higher, slighty more blood curdling note than before. I am still sitting in bed shocked. The only thing I could think to do? Start jumping up and down on the bed. Because apparently the imminent threat of my behind crushing the cats through two mattresses will stop them. I wish I could have seen what I looked like, bouncing up and down and screaming at the top of my lungs as Amanda came to the doorway, looked at me and said, "Rachel, really? How is that helping?"
We finally got grey cat out from under the bed with a stick. Why I had a random piece of wood sitting around in my bedroom, I don't know, but thank God it was there. Amanda left the room, and I attempted to coax the cat out from under the bed. This is when I noticed her paw was bleeding.
Now, I should preface by saying that once she came out from under the bed she was all too happy to take a treat and walk around, shaken, but not too worried about life, and not treating that paw any differently.
But I get owning a cat is a lot like having a child. Especially with Bailey. She acts like a baby. She likes to be held almost constantly. She talks to us even though we don't understand her. She likes to put things she shouldn't inside her mouth. She is constantly getting herself into trouble and is only too happy to be "saved" by one of us. She doesn't really have a sense of balance and falls over a lot. And she refuses to cover her own poop so we have to bury it for her. The silver lining in all of this is we get to keep a permanent baby who will never learn the language to talk back and we won't have to put through college, just buy the occasional bag of Greenies for.
Anyway, I saw the blood and freaked out. I can't really explain the emotion I felt when I saw her injury. Some mix of disgust with sadness and shock and righteous anger and vengefulness complemented with tenderness and deep concern for her as well as anger at myself and general helplessness and ineptitude. I guess that's what being a parent and seeing your child unwell is like. I just knew something wasn't right, I couldn't do anything about it myself, but we needed to find someone who could. I called for Amanda, and convinced myself that we had to take her to the vets. I was hysterical. I'm sure being woken up at 6:45 by a cat fight after five or so hours of sleep didn't help, but I was crying followed by manic laughter followed by blaming myself for Bailey escaping because I got mad at her for chewing my book jacket—a real hot mess. Amanda, bless her heart, agreed to go to the 24 hour vet clinic with me and be late for work. So off we go on our crazy adventure into rootin' tootin' Newton.
We get to the vets office and it looks closed. I get out in the grey early morning drizzle and check, not seeing a bolt or latch between the metal and sheet glass doors, I go and open the door for Amanda and pull the kennel out. We open the doors and are immediately hit in the face with the overwhelming scent of fresh and stale dog urine. A look at the door mat confirms the presence of both. A man, in far worse condition than either of us sits in one of the three old pleather wrapped metal framed chairs, checking his phone sporadically. There is an animal cage of some kind left empty on top of one of many filing cabinets; it does not bode well. After what feels like a half hour, a man wearing a lab coat and the same Sandals my dad likes to wear around the house comes out.
"Are you together?" he asks with a thick accent and gestures towards the man.
"No," we respond.
"Have you been before?"
"No."
"Ok." He places a pen on top of a clipboard filled with blank sheets.
"You want me to fill this out?"
"Jes. I come back, you done. What is problem?"
"Our cat has a cut on it's paw." He looks pained. There has been a dog screaming and barking non-stop since we arrived. It sounds part hound as its please almost turn into yodeling when he gets particularly upset. Our "emergency" pales in comparison to what his night was surely filled with. He leaves.
I hate filling in paper work. I always fuck something simple up. The first time I took Bailey to the vets I out her date of birth as the day we got her, which is what the SPCA wrote on her files. The vet looked at this and said "Uh, date of birth says Nov. 16 2010. That would make her three days old, and she is obviously more than three days old." That vet visit was also a nightmare, but it's a story unto itself. This time I just write 2007. After what feels like an hour, he returns and checks the paper work.
He asks again, "O-k. And what was wrong? She is throwing up?"
"No she has a cut on her paw. The other cat she lives with attacked her and we wanted to make sure it wasn't worse than it seemed."
I guess this explanation made our situation seem slightly less ridiculous as he softened and reassured, "It is good to double check—be safe. She is spayed?"
"Yes."
"Ok. You go to waiting room B."
At first I am excited to get into a room, to feel like some progress is being made, like this nightmare is closer to being over. Until I inhaled. The smell of urine from before is amplified by ten, like the tiles were grouted with excretory materials. The room is small with one chair and nowhere that feels clean enough to put anything down. The smell makes my nose feel warm and makes me feel nauseous. We wait for what feels like another eternity. We hear people enter the building, starting their shift, figuring what area they work in that day. A short woman with long, pierced earlobes and a white coat walks in.
"Ok, hi. So Bailey, jes? You take out." I open the cat carrier. "Her paw, jes?"
"Yes." Bailey, obviously very hurt was running around the room, smelling and investigating.
"She seem ok, she is very active," the vet said. "Can you hold?"
The only time someone has ever asked me to "hold" like that before was at a salon while getting my eyebrows threaded. It made me a little more nervous, if that is possible. We attempted to hold her on the table like a normal cat, but she was having none of it. The entire vet visit was conducted with her clinging to Amanda's shoulder, her favourite place on earth, I think, we me occasionally steadying her head so she couldn't bite the vet. The best part of the whole visit was when the vet wanted to shave her paw to clean the wound better. Great idea in theory, but the second the clippers were turned on she practically vaulted for the ceiling from Amanda's shoulder. Again, clearly disabled from her injuries. We managed to get the wound cleaned, a bandage put on, and an injection of antibiotics into her.
I don't know if you've ever seen a cat with a bandaged foot before, but beyond the horror of your beloved pet looking like s/he belongs on one of those sad, late night, Sarah McLaughlin, donate to the BC SPCA commercials, it is hilarious. As soon as the vet left the room to go get the antibiotics, she tried to shake it off. If you've ever seen an animal try to shake water or something off of their paw, but they shake it like a polaroid picture so to speak. So here's Bailey, still on Amanda's shoulder, trying to shake off this bandage that makes her paw kind of like a little tiny hand in a boxing glove, whapping Amanda in the side of the head like a cartoon kangaroo, setting her Pork-Pie hat askew. Twice.
Anyway, after the madness, we shove her back into the kennel (easier than trying to get her there) and go out to pay for the visit, hoping to God it doesn't put us in the poor house. We leave the room to watch the man from the waiting room being told that the dog he came in with will be returned to him in an urn, wrapped in paw-printed cello-paper in a little twine handled paper bag—the worst gift you could ever receive. Definitely a humbling reminder that it could have been a lot worse. From his conversation with them at the desk, we learn that it wasn't his dog, but a friends who was away for the weekend that he was looking after. I don't know which is worse: loosing your pet while away, or having to make the decision to euthanize a friend's pet as an act of mercy. Ugh. In better news the bill was less than a hundred dollars with medicine and tax included, so really it was reasonable. And honestly they were very good. They were patient with us and our crazy cat who insisted on being on Amanda's shoulder the entire time and our grave concern over a 4 mm long cut that the cat didn't care about. They operate an emergency clinic, not a posh office and they do a good job. I make the situation sound grim, but I would go back, urine and all.
She did pull the $20.00 dollar bandage off during the car ride home, though. And she has been fine since, and her paw seems to be healing well and isn't giving her any trouble. The whole situation just left me feeling defeated. My financial/job issues were still very unresolved (they still are, but they will be fixed tomorrow), my cat was injured, I felt like I had failed to keep her safe (I've always been completely paranoid that something bad might happen to her, I don't know why. I wonder about her when I'm out and hope that she's all right and worry that something outside of my control will happen. I told Amanda while driving her to work that if she could make enough money for me to stay home, write brilliant essays and stories and what have you but otherwise be a stay at home cat mom, I would), I felt like we would never get the two cats socialized and that this whole moving to my parents house was a terrible idea, that grey cat would try to kill our cat—that it was beyond hope and repair. That my life was beyond hope and repair. I cried for the majority of the drive home from Amanda's work, my misery compounded by a trojan-y type Email from a friend that said there was "a real bad blog about me someplace". Monday had won. After I got home I did not leave the house. I couldn't possible face the world, especially not after the bad news another friend delivered.
Tuesday left me frustrated as well, but for no particular reason other than it came after Monday.
Wednesday happened, and I felt better, but still unsettled by the cats. My OCD around making sure "everything is ok" before I leave the house got to the point where I was (and I still am because this is fresh in my mind) just standing outside the bedroom door, pushing on it repeatedly to try to convince myself that there was no way a freak accident could happen and grey cat could get the door open and kill Bailey while I was gone. I went to class and returned home, excited to have the afternoon and evening to myself with the cat and dogs and the other cat, but separately. And so I spent the day in pyjamas, hair unwashed (I wore a hat in public, not that that makes it any better), just hanging out with the cats and the Golden Girls. So help me, when Betty White dies, I am going to get a memorial tattoo to the Golden Girls, for all the sad times they've helped me through. During this, I got a text letting me know that a good friend was in fact not dying, but was officially in remission. I don't think I had really admitted to myself how upsetting the potential diagnosis could have been, but afterwards I felt a bit renewed and lighter. Until, the cats saw each other through the window and Bailey just seemed upset and miserable and grey cat looked like he wanted to attack her, so it only served to remind me that all was unwell on the homefront. Then I made the mistake of watching the news. Bad idea. Wednesday afternoon was beginning to feel a lot like Monday, despite how good it felt to know my friend got to have a second chance and that I didn't have to lose her.
Later, I ended up on the computer. The computer room is Bailey's favourite room because there is lots of shelving with boxes of things and lots of dark corners and places to climb up and hide in on and at. She constantly disappears and then reappears, covered in cobwebs, pleased as punch to have discovered a new dark crevice. After tiring of adventuring, she decided my lap was a good place to curl up in while I watched New Girl. After a while, Brandy walked around the corner, looking at the cat, stepping gingerly, but wagging her tail. I assumed the cat would want to be left alone so told Brandy to go, and she did, begrudgingly. Up until then, Bailey had been put off by Brandy's strange stalking followed by wagging and had tried to hide from her and avoid her at all costs.
I should tell you that Brandy has a difficult relationship with cats. She loves them. She loves all small animals, but especially cats. If you say "Brandy, where's the kitty?!" she perks up and starts wagging her tail and scanning the room excitedly. The problem is she doesn't get the whole... big dog, small cat thing. And she likes to chase small animals. Not in a prey kind of way, but it looks like it when she's doing it. She just chases them, and then once she catches up she doesn't really know what to do with herself and acts sheepish and wags her tail a lot and looks away, making hurried glances back in her new friend's direction, trying to sneak a sniff in without getting her nose batted at. If that happens, she looks kind of confused and hurt and half backs, half dances away, wanting to come back but not sure if she should. When the crazy cat fight was in progress/slightly after, she was sitting outside the bedroom door politely (I never used to let animals in my room before this whole move in thing so she likes to sit at my door until someone pays attention to her but doesn't like to enter the room) but looking very concerned, trying to see around the door and under the bed to make sure this new little thing that had entered her life was ok. I didn't see this, but Amanda did and told me about it after I related this next bit to her.
After Brandy started to retreat from the room, Bailey crawled off my lap and climbed through the shelving next to the desk and meowed at Brandy, kind of like she meows at us. I couldn't see either of them anymore, but neither returned so I assumed they were both out in the living room or kitchen where my mom was. I thought it was strange, but I didn't think much more of it. A little while later, my mom came in the room to report to me that Bailey had just walked up to Brandy and rubbed herself all against her legs, practically on her face. Finally, finally, finally, something clicked. Finally I felt like "we" as a family unit were accepted into the fold. It wasn't perfect, but it was a step forward when everything else had felt like a step back. And seeing Bailey's behaviour change was a relief too. Instead of skirting around the house, pausing to focus herself to jump over and run away from the dogs, she started to trot around and really enjoy exploring, finding new places, but fearless enough to actually sit on the furniture in plain view. Everything seemed to switch from black and white to technicolour.
I guess life is funny like that. Just when you give up hope, it reminds you that the world is, in fact, a very nice place to be, and that it is filled with abundance and potential. In AA, people say you have to hit rock bottom before you can begin to get better. Maybe you have to hit your rock bottom in a given situation in order to really appreciate the good things that life has to give. Either way, I'm grateful that things are going better, and as fucked up as things seem to be sometimes, and will probably get in the future, the good news is that all the shit really does, as my Amma always said "come out in the wash". Things are getting better. I'm excited for all the potential the present has and that the future promises.
No, on Monday, she ran downstairs as fast as she could, with Amanda trailing after her. Upon seeing a dog, she ran back upstairs, unfortunately not into our bedroom. No, she ran into my parents bedroom, where their cat sleeps, nestled up next to my parent's bodies. In she trots, pleased as punch to have found the perfect speed, where Amanda is fingertips away from grabbing her without reaching a full on sprint. She danced along the edge of the bed, gloating over her victory and freedom. That is, until grey cat saw her. Grey cat, who actually never got a name—he's kind of an enigma. One name just doesn't suit him. We tried Hunter, Skuggi (shadow in Icelandic), Vampire Bill (when he sleeps his incisors stick out so he looks like a vampire, and he's kind of emo. Suki!), Beast, Enigma, you name it, so I just think of him as grey cat now, but my parents call him Kitty Boy the Second (KB II)—did not appreciate her little foray onto his bed. Onto his human's bed, no less. So he begins to chase her, using my dad as a springboard to propel himself forward (which is necessary as he's kind of fat), causing my dad to wake up like the plastic game piece in Don't Wake Daddy. And so they tear down the hallway, yeowling, ending their little race under our bed where I am still in a half state of sleep hiding under the blankets as best I can as Amanda left the lights on during this idiocy.
I am stunned to alertness by the fact that a five alarm cat fight is going on under my head under a mattress under a bed spring. It sounds pretty much like your generic cat fight until Bailey's yeowling and growling takes a higher, slighty more blood curdling note than before. I am still sitting in bed shocked. The only thing I could think to do? Start jumping up and down on the bed. Because apparently the imminent threat of my behind crushing the cats through two mattresses will stop them. I wish I could have seen what I looked like, bouncing up and down and screaming at the top of my lungs as Amanda came to the doorway, looked at me and said, "Rachel, really? How is that helping?"
We finally got grey cat out from under the bed with a stick. Why I had a random piece of wood sitting around in my bedroom, I don't know, but thank God it was there. Amanda left the room, and I attempted to coax the cat out from under the bed. This is when I noticed her paw was bleeding.
Now, I should preface by saying that once she came out from under the bed she was all too happy to take a treat and walk around, shaken, but not too worried about life, and not treating that paw any differently.
But I get owning a cat is a lot like having a child. Especially with Bailey. She acts like a baby. She likes to be held almost constantly. She talks to us even though we don't understand her. She likes to put things she shouldn't inside her mouth. She is constantly getting herself into trouble and is only too happy to be "saved" by one of us. She doesn't really have a sense of balance and falls over a lot. And she refuses to cover her own poop so we have to bury it for her. The silver lining in all of this is we get to keep a permanent baby who will never learn the language to talk back and we won't have to put through college, just buy the occasional bag of Greenies for.
Anyway, I saw the blood and freaked out. I can't really explain the emotion I felt when I saw her injury. Some mix of disgust with sadness and shock and righteous anger and vengefulness complemented with tenderness and deep concern for her as well as anger at myself and general helplessness and ineptitude. I guess that's what being a parent and seeing your child unwell is like. I just knew something wasn't right, I couldn't do anything about it myself, but we needed to find someone who could. I called for Amanda, and convinced myself that we had to take her to the vets. I was hysterical. I'm sure being woken up at 6:45 by a cat fight after five or so hours of sleep didn't help, but I was crying followed by manic laughter followed by blaming myself for Bailey escaping because I got mad at her for chewing my book jacket—a real hot mess. Amanda, bless her heart, agreed to go to the 24 hour vet clinic with me and be late for work. So off we go on our crazy adventure into rootin' tootin' Newton.
We get to the vets office and it looks closed. I get out in the grey early morning drizzle and check, not seeing a bolt or latch between the metal and sheet glass doors, I go and open the door for Amanda and pull the kennel out. We open the doors and are immediately hit in the face with the overwhelming scent of fresh and stale dog urine. A look at the door mat confirms the presence of both. A man, in far worse condition than either of us sits in one of the three old pleather wrapped metal framed chairs, checking his phone sporadically. There is an animal cage of some kind left empty on top of one of many filing cabinets; it does not bode well. After what feels like a half hour, a man wearing a lab coat and the same Sandals my dad likes to wear around the house comes out.
"Are you together?" he asks with a thick accent and gestures towards the man.
"No," we respond.
"Have you been before?"
"No."
"Ok." He places a pen on top of a clipboard filled with blank sheets.
"You want me to fill this out?"
"Jes. I come back, you done. What is problem?"
"Our cat has a cut on it's paw." He looks pained. There has been a dog screaming and barking non-stop since we arrived. It sounds part hound as its please almost turn into yodeling when he gets particularly upset. Our "emergency" pales in comparison to what his night was surely filled with. He leaves.
I hate filling in paper work. I always fuck something simple up. The first time I took Bailey to the vets I out her date of birth as the day we got her, which is what the SPCA wrote on her files. The vet looked at this and said "Uh, date of birth says Nov. 16 2010. That would make her three days old, and she is obviously more than three days old." That vet visit was also a nightmare, but it's a story unto itself. This time I just write 2007. After what feels like an hour, he returns and checks the paper work.
He asks again, "O-k. And what was wrong? She is throwing up?"
"No she has a cut on her paw. The other cat she lives with attacked her and we wanted to make sure it wasn't worse than it seemed."
I guess this explanation made our situation seem slightly less ridiculous as he softened and reassured, "It is good to double check—be safe. She is spayed?"
"Yes."
"Ok. You go to waiting room B."
At first I am excited to get into a room, to feel like some progress is being made, like this nightmare is closer to being over. Until I inhaled. The smell of urine from before is amplified by ten, like the tiles were grouted with excretory materials. The room is small with one chair and nowhere that feels clean enough to put anything down. The smell makes my nose feel warm and makes me feel nauseous. We wait for what feels like another eternity. We hear people enter the building, starting their shift, figuring what area they work in that day. A short woman with long, pierced earlobes and a white coat walks in.
"Ok, hi. So Bailey, jes? You take out." I open the cat carrier. "Her paw, jes?"
"Yes." Bailey, obviously very hurt was running around the room, smelling and investigating.
"She seem ok, she is very active," the vet said. "Can you hold?"
The only time someone has ever asked me to "hold" like that before was at a salon while getting my eyebrows threaded. It made me a little more nervous, if that is possible. We attempted to hold her on the table like a normal cat, but she was having none of it. The entire vet visit was conducted with her clinging to Amanda's shoulder, her favourite place on earth, I think, we me occasionally steadying her head so she couldn't bite the vet. The best part of the whole visit was when the vet wanted to shave her paw to clean the wound better. Great idea in theory, but the second the clippers were turned on she practically vaulted for the ceiling from Amanda's shoulder. Again, clearly disabled from her injuries. We managed to get the wound cleaned, a bandage put on, and an injection of antibiotics into her.
I don't know if you've ever seen a cat with a bandaged foot before, but beyond the horror of your beloved pet looking like s/he belongs on one of those sad, late night, Sarah McLaughlin, donate to the BC SPCA commercials, it is hilarious. As soon as the vet left the room to go get the antibiotics, she tried to shake it off. If you've ever seen an animal try to shake water or something off of their paw, but they shake it like a polaroid picture so to speak. So here's Bailey, still on Amanda's shoulder, trying to shake off this bandage that makes her paw kind of like a little tiny hand in a boxing glove, whapping Amanda in the side of the head like a cartoon kangaroo, setting her Pork-Pie hat askew. Twice.
Anyway, after the madness, we shove her back into the kennel (easier than trying to get her there) and go out to pay for the visit, hoping to God it doesn't put us in the poor house. We leave the room to watch the man from the waiting room being told that the dog he came in with will be returned to him in an urn, wrapped in paw-printed cello-paper in a little twine handled paper bag—the worst gift you could ever receive. Definitely a humbling reminder that it could have been a lot worse. From his conversation with them at the desk, we learn that it wasn't his dog, but a friends who was away for the weekend that he was looking after. I don't know which is worse: loosing your pet while away, or having to make the decision to euthanize a friend's pet as an act of mercy. Ugh. In better news the bill was less than a hundred dollars with medicine and tax included, so really it was reasonable. And honestly they were very good. They were patient with us and our crazy cat who insisted on being on Amanda's shoulder the entire time and our grave concern over a 4 mm long cut that the cat didn't care about. They operate an emergency clinic, not a posh office and they do a good job. I make the situation sound grim, but I would go back, urine and all.
She did pull the $20.00 dollar bandage off during the car ride home, though. And she has been fine since, and her paw seems to be healing well and isn't giving her any trouble. The whole situation just left me feeling defeated. My financial/job issues were still very unresolved (they still are, but they will be fixed tomorrow), my cat was injured, I felt like I had failed to keep her safe (I've always been completely paranoid that something bad might happen to her, I don't know why. I wonder about her when I'm out and hope that she's all right and worry that something outside of my control will happen. I told Amanda while driving her to work that if she could make enough money for me to stay home, write brilliant essays and stories and what have you but otherwise be a stay at home cat mom, I would), I felt like we would never get the two cats socialized and that this whole moving to my parents house was a terrible idea, that grey cat would try to kill our cat—that it was beyond hope and repair. That my life was beyond hope and repair. I cried for the majority of the drive home from Amanda's work, my misery compounded by a trojan-y type Email from a friend that said there was "a real bad blog about me someplace". Monday had won. After I got home I did not leave the house. I couldn't possible face the world, especially not after the bad news another friend delivered.
Tuesday left me frustrated as well, but for no particular reason other than it came after Monday.
Wednesday happened, and I felt better, but still unsettled by the cats. My OCD around making sure "everything is ok" before I leave the house got to the point where I was (and I still am because this is fresh in my mind) just standing outside the bedroom door, pushing on it repeatedly to try to convince myself that there was no way a freak accident could happen and grey cat could get the door open and kill Bailey while I was gone. I went to class and returned home, excited to have the afternoon and evening to myself with the cat and dogs and the other cat, but separately. And so I spent the day in pyjamas, hair unwashed (I wore a hat in public, not that that makes it any better), just hanging out with the cats and the Golden Girls. So help me, when Betty White dies, I am going to get a memorial tattoo to the Golden Girls, for all the sad times they've helped me through. During this, I got a text letting me know that a good friend was in fact not dying, but was officially in remission. I don't think I had really admitted to myself how upsetting the potential diagnosis could have been, but afterwards I felt a bit renewed and lighter. Until, the cats saw each other through the window and Bailey just seemed upset and miserable and grey cat looked like he wanted to attack her, so it only served to remind me that all was unwell on the homefront. Then I made the mistake of watching the news. Bad idea. Wednesday afternoon was beginning to feel a lot like Monday, despite how good it felt to know my friend got to have a second chance and that I didn't have to lose her.
Later, I ended up on the computer. The computer room is Bailey's favourite room because there is lots of shelving with boxes of things and lots of dark corners and places to climb up and hide in on and at. She constantly disappears and then reappears, covered in cobwebs, pleased as punch to have discovered a new dark crevice. After tiring of adventuring, she decided my lap was a good place to curl up in while I watched New Girl. After a while, Brandy walked around the corner, looking at the cat, stepping gingerly, but wagging her tail. I assumed the cat would want to be left alone so told Brandy to go, and she did, begrudgingly. Up until then, Bailey had been put off by Brandy's strange stalking followed by wagging and had tried to hide from her and avoid her at all costs.
I should tell you that Brandy has a difficult relationship with cats. She loves them. She loves all small animals, but especially cats. If you say "Brandy, where's the kitty?!" she perks up and starts wagging her tail and scanning the room excitedly. The problem is she doesn't get the whole... big dog, small cat thing. And she likes to chase small animals. Not in a prey kind of way, but it looks like it when she's doing it. She just chases them, and then once she catches up she doesn't really know what to do with herself and acts sheepish and wags her tail a lot and looks away, making hurried glances back in her new friend's direction, trying to sneak a sniff in without getting her nose batted at. If that happens, she looks kind of confused and hurt and half backs, half dances away, wanting to come back but not sure if she should. When the crazy cat fight was in progress/slightly after, she was sitting outside the bedroom door politely (I never used to let animals in my room before this whole move in thing so she likes to sit at my door until someone pays attention to her but doesn't like to enter the room) but looking very concerned, trying to see around the door and under the bed to make sure this new little thing that had entered her life was ok. I didn't see this, but Amanda did and told me about it after I related this next bit to her.
After Brandy started to retreat from the room, Bailey crawled off my lap and climbed through the shelving next to the desk and meowed at Brandy, kind of like she meows at us. I couldn't see either of them anymore, but neither returned so I assumed they were both out in the living room or kitchen where my mom was. I thought it was strange, but I didn't think much more of it. A little while later, my mom came in the room to report to me that Bailey had just walked up to Brandy and rubbed herself all against her legs, practically on her face. Finally, finally, finally, something clicked. Finally I felt like "we" as a family unit were accepted into the fold. It wasn't perfect, but it was a step forward when everything else had felt like a step back. And seeing Bailey's behaviour change was a relief too. Instead of skirting around the house, pausing to focus herself to jump over and run away from the dogs, she started to trot around and really enjoy exploring, finding new places, but fearless enough to actually sit on the furniture in plain view. Everything seemed to switch from black and white to technicolour.
I guess life is funny like that. Just when you give up hope, it reminds you that the world is, in fact, a very nice place to be, and that it is filled with abundance and potential. In AA, people say you have to hit rock bottom before you can begin to get better. Maybe you have to hit your rock bottom in a given situation in order to really appreciate the good things that life has to give. Either way, I'm grateful that things are going better, and as fucked up as things seem to be sometimes, and will probably get in the future, the good news is that all the shit really does, as my Amma always said "come out in the wash". Things are getting better. I'm excited for all the potential the present has and that the future promises.
Saturday, 24 September, 2011
Vancouver is a Fucked Up City
So I was reading The Straight (big surprise there) and came across an article that is about a couple who has built a sweet as garden behind their apartment building in East Van. Sadly, the article isn't about how stupendous gardens are. Rather, it is about how their landlord has basically given them a cease and desist letter re: gardening. One of their (the landlord's) issues is with them "running a business". After googling the address to see what the building looked like (I'm such a fucking real-estate nerd now. It's gross), a few results on a site called Village Vancouver came up where Jodi (she's one of the gardeners) and a group she's part of called "Backyard Bounty Collective" who are all about "City Folk growing their own food" which I think is pretty rad, but there again, I'm kind of a hippie. Anyway, I guess I could vaguely see the direction the landlord is coming from there. Sort of. Except she's basically just offering people who are interested a look-see at her system. For free, from the looks of it. Not really a business. More like the epitome of "non-profit". Anyway, IANAL (best acronym ever! "I Am Not A Lawyer"), so I'm not here to argue the minute legal issues here or tell you who I think is right or who should win. I get that if money ever exchanged hands the landlord is responsible for the "business" that was conducted and if the building isn't zoned right they can be fined. It really sucks for everyone.
And that, good friends, is what I'm here to bitch about. When the fuck did our lives become so fucking zoned, bylawed, legalized or criminalized so that we couldn't sell a fucking tomato to an acquaintance if we wanted to? Jesus, I mean by those standards because Amanda has cut a few people's hair in exchange for food or company we should have had our apartment zoned for it? Fucked up. Can't have a bloody bake sale because no one has foodsafe? Fucking stupid. Oh wait, no, thank you, Board of Bullshit, for saving us from another Cookie Cholera outbreak like we had back in '86 before idiotic laws were in place like they are today. Man, I feel so safe knowing that everyone who hands me my cookie on a napkin will have taken a course to do so. Don't mind the fact that a four year old went missing for a couple of days and was returned to the house which was "under surveillance" without the police noticing. I WILL NOT DIE FROM EATING A COOKIE SOME RETIRED OLD LADY BAKED, THANK GOD!!!!!! I will also, apparently, not buy a few home grown carrots out of a back alley, because the Residential Tenancy Board will keep me safe from.... pesticide free food? Me supporting local people? ... umm... Getting excited about being more green... ? People affording rent? Thanks for that.... I feel better already.
I think what really kills me about this is that a whopping 20 dollars or so may have at one point been exchanged (and that is a hypothetical assumption, I know nothing about this fact) and people are potentially going to lose their fucking home over this and I STILL haven't been paid my last pay-cheque by my former employer? Who the fuck is championing this case? Who the fuck is ensuring people aren't getting screwed left right and centre by their employers, landlords, et al? No one. The worst thing that could possibly happen in this city is that someone might make an extra buck by having a garden, and someone might hand you a cookie that someone else who hasn't taken a day long course that teaches you to not be a fuckwit has touched.
So, in short: you can't have a garden, but it's ok to work for free in Vancouver. Don't drink the Kool-Aid, no one has Serving It Right.
And that, good friends, is what I'm here to bitch about. When the fuck did our lives become so fucking zoned, bylawed, legalized or criminalized so that we couldn't sell a fucking tomato to an acquaintance if we wanted to? Jesus, I mean by those standards because Amanda has cut a few people's hair in exchange for food or company we should have had our apartment zoned for it? Fucked up. Can't have a bloody bake sale because no one has foodsafe? Fucking stupid. Oh wait, no, thank you, Board of Bullshit, for saving us from another Cookie Cholera outbreak like we had back in '86 before idiotic laws were in place like they are today. Man, I feel so safe knowing that everyone who hands me my cookie on a napkin will have taken a course to do so. Don't mind the fact that a four year old went missing for a couple of days and was returned to the house which was "under surveillance" without the police noticing. I WILL NOT DIE FROM EATING A COOKIE SOME RETIRED OLD LADY BAKED, THANK GOD!!!!!! I will also, apparently, not buy a few home grown carrots out of a back alley, because the Residential Tenancy Board will keep me safe from.... pesticide free food? Me supporting local people? ... umm... Getting excited about being more green... ? People affording rent? Thanks for that.... I feel better already.
I think what really kills me about this is that a whopping 20 dollars or so may have at one point been exchanged (and that is a hypothetical assumption, I know nothing about this fact) and people are potentially going to lose their fucking home over this and I STILL haven't been paid my last pay-cheque by my former employer? Who the fuck is championing this case? Who the fuck is ensuring people aren't getting screwed left right and centre by their employers, landlords, et al? No one. The worst thing that could possibly happen in this city is that someone might make an extra buck by having a garden, and someone might hand you a cookie that someone else who hasn't taken a day long course that teaches you to not be a fuckwit has touched.
So, in short: you can't have a garden, but it's ok to work for free in Vancouver. Don't drink the Kool-Aid, no one has Serving It Right.
Friday, 16 September, 2011
Four Simple Rules to Not Get Fucked by Corporations or alternatively, Why Unions Are Good for Workers
Recently, I stopped working for a large corporate entity. I shall not name them or any coworkers and I shall not specifically tell you which entity has done what (I've worked for a variety of large corporations), because I like not getting cease and desist letters. What I will offer you is rules to live by to keep you from getting dry-fucked by them as little as possible. The "don't drop the soap" of the corporate world, so to speak.
1. Remember That a Corporation Doesn't Actually Care About You
I think this step is the most important, because most companies go to great lengths to try to make you believe otherwise. They will give your boss money to put towards buying you guys lunch every few months. They will give you crappy generic tangible goods for having worked for them a certain amount of time. They will give you cards, thanking you for the things you do well. They will call your workforce a "family" so you feel a sense of community, and superiors often give you pet names like "hun". It's easy to go through your work life thinking that you have a boss and that they would go to bat for you if the shit ever hit the proverbial fan because you're his or her "hun" or "bud", and that even though you are a peon in the feudalistic scheme of the company, you matter to someone. But at the end of the day, you fucking don't. Your manager can't go to bat for you, because orders come from mysterious men (and a substantially smaller amount of women who undoubtedly make less) who pull the strings behind the curtain, making the big greasy smiling head say Politically Correct things and giving orders like they are god, or as your manager will call them "Head Office". This is easy to remember as "Head Office" is where the giant talking head lives. Until you realize that you are thought to be as stupid as the Scarecrow, Soulless like the Tin Man by your superior's superior (and trained to be as cowardly as the Lion), you are going to continue to get fucked while your cell mate whispers, "Welcome to Oz, Bitch," in your ear.
2. Understand That You Are Not Entitled to Anything
Upon signing the documents that confirm your employ at a corporation, you should be informed of your rights as an employee, or, rather, the things you are entitled to. These things will probably include an approximation of 5 days off a year, usually divvied up with the majority being sick days, with a bereavement day or personal day thrown in there. They will also inform you that you are entitled to a certain amount of holidays (maybe, most places just pay them out on your regular payroll and expect you to keep a separate savings account for the whopping $4.00 they will give you every two weeks towards that. Wooo-eeeeee, hunny, weez a-going to the fair! And when you quit, if you have used your vacation time (assuming you were "entitled" to any to begin with, they will inform you that vacation time is allotted based on portion of the year worked. So your 9 vacation days for the year is based on working the full year. If you do not quit on December 31st, you will have not worked enough time to warrant "deserving" vacation time paid, regardless of how many years you worked for them without having guaranteed hours, never getting benefits, getting fucked five ways from Sunday. The fact that you did not complete that year means they are going to take that money back from you. And the best part is they will word it such that it is the money "you rightfully owe them", and you will have to sign a document agreeing to this and allowing them to do so. Here is the Catch 22: when they say you are "entitled" to 5 days off per year, they mean that's how many you can take without them getting mad, treating you like crap, sending you nasty letters saying they won't pay for any further days you take off. They can't actually not pay you sick time if you are, indeed, sick. So if you know you need a day off to write a paper; if you know you need a day off to go to a family function that doesn't involve someone's death; if you just need a fucking day to yourself because your job runs you ragged and pays you as little as is legally possible or the work you are doing: don't book a goddamn vacation day off. Just say you're sick. Say you have a migraine. They can't ask you to get an MRI. They can't ask you to bring in a sample of your explosive diarrhea or projectile vomit. They just have to say "feel better!" and be passive aggressive the next day that you do come in. Be a sickly unreliable asshole, because you will not be rewarded for your honesty.
3. If You Are Not White, Heterosexual, With a Boring Haircut and Plain Clothes, You Are Trouble
Corporations don't know what to do with people who break the mold. And I'm not talking 00 Guage ears with full sleeves. I'm talking about someone who has bright red hair and likes to maybe dress kind of pin up. Or who look coloured, even worse, indigenous. Or who sends visible/audal cues that they are *whispers* gay! Or maybe who aren't afraid of breasts and their sexuality, so perhaps show a little more cleave than some are prone to. Or who might want a small tattoo somewhere visible, but tasteful. Or who aren't obsessed with controlling their bodies so they don't wear a bra. Or maybe who are just fashion forward and understand that a nice walking short in a decent material can make a really nice, professional outfit. All of these people are too scary for a corporation. They don't look like they could be part of a public service announcement for the GOP, and so they don't belong. Oh, they will tell you that they support diversity. The will donate to local charities and sponsor runs that they will expect you to be involved with and donate money to. They will probably also inform you that you are entitled to a harassment free workplace and that if you don't feel comfortable talking to your direct superior you can talk to this person, or their superior, etc. etc. and that no one expects you to just have to put up with a shitty workplace—that "we" (whoever that is) cares about your day to day happiness. But, if we remember rules 1 and 2, we will know that this is all a rouse. You can complain as much as you want. You can have to sit there in the lunchroom and listen while a coworker tells you that Indo-Canadians just need to get their barbaric side "bred out of them", and then there would be no more gang violence (I had to). You will have to listen to people talk about how homosexuality is not natural because capital-G Gaaawwwwwd intended for men to be with women, and that anything besides that is an affront to Gaaaaaaawd, so no wonder their relationship is failing (I had to listen to a divorcee say that one. Rich, n'est-ce pas?). You will have to listen to your manager say things like "It's good your parents accept your lifestyle. Because if my daughter was gay, I would have a problem with that," (I did). You will get to watch while your largely Indo-Canadian coworkers get told that all of "their people" are cheap crooks (Are you sensing a theme?). And when you talk to your coworkers about this, they will say, "Yeah, I know. They're crazy racist fucks" or "They're a religious zealot, so... what can you do?" And understand that even IF someone gives a damn and comes in and talks to people about "tolerance" or some bullshit like that, it won't change anything, because the bottom line is the All mighty Dollar, not your well being. So if bigots bring in the bacon, no one cares about your minority ass. And if someone comes in to talk about queer tolerance, everyone will know that the big gaylord called up the PC-Po-Po. And you will be shunned, because they will think about how hurt they are that you didn't just say something to them about it, like you should have to say something in the twenty-first century, or like you could form words beyond "FAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCKKKKKKKK YYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU, I'M GOING TO RIP OFF YOUR HEAD AND SHIT DOWN YOUR NECK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" So understand that if you are different, you don't really have support systems in a corporation. You are just going to have to rock your bad self, Stonewall style (or, AIM style, or Komagata Maru style, or Burlesque style, or Women's Movement style, or Stacy London and Clinton Kelly style, or Etc. style). Be louder than the assholes, but always be appropriate. Don't let them get the chance to be fucking idiots. Because they will. And no one cares about you. And you aren't entitled to shit.
4. The Bottom Line is The All Mighty Dollar
I've hinted at this previously, but I will now spell it out for you. You don't matter because corporations don't care about people; corporations care about profit. Corporations don't care that you're fucking exhausted, that you do more work than your coworkers, that you are continually short staffed, that your manager is so incompetent that if given a gun and a barrel of fish, the only thing s/he would shoot is him/herself in the foot, that all of your customers are dirt-ass poor and can't afford up-selling and that it makes them feel like they don't deserve your product, that the single mom up to her tits in debt doesn't need another loan, muffin, shirt, latte, toy for her screaming child or any other temporal, tangible and/or useless shit. It just matters that you are selling what they ask you to, regardless of the fact that your workplace is inconducive to doing that. And even when you do sell what they have asked you to, they will only praise you momentarily, and then they will expect more. What you have to offer is never enough. More is always needed. And when you fail to provide them with more, more, more, more, more, they will say "Oh, RCL, but you were doing so well, what happened? What happened to you? I know you're capable of it. Is something wrong? Do you need some coaching?" like there is something wrong with you. Like you aren't doing your job. Like you are a malfunctioning computer (not that they know how to use a computer. Your manager will undoubtedly ask you how to do things like copy and paste, or forward an E-mail) that they can't figure out how to install MakeMoneyFast v. 5.9 on or remove the cookies from. Fuckwits get to be fuckwits as long as they bring in the money. It doesn't matter if their selling techniques are unethical and essentially involve lying to customers. It just matters that they appease the bottom line. These people can call in sick. These people can do fuck all all day. These people can piss off every other customer that comes in. They can fail to do the actual components of the job required to sell things. But if they create revenue, who cares? Who cares that they slow an entire team of coworkers down? Who cares that they bring down morale? Who cares that they don't deserve a promotion? who cares that they've only been there for a week and don't know shit about shit? Who cares if they're even human, as long as they create the most revenue possible, it doesn't matter if they go home and have sex with Satan. They will be the biggest "asset" your manager has ever seen, and s/he will lick their asset to keep them around. Your commitment to a Corporation counts for nothing. Your skills and abilities don't mean shit if you can't increase your corporation's revenue. So don't worry about doing the best job you can. Don't worry about being the most productive employee. As long as you can adhere to certain codes and make money, it doesn't matter because you don't matter. And the only way to be of value or to maybe deserve something (but never be entitled to it) is to whisper sweet monetary figures into the moist crevices of the beast's ear.
So! These are the four simple rules you should understand before working for a corporation. If you can remember that no one cares about you, or thinks you are entitled to anything—that they just care that you are conditioned into being a money making automaton who is indistinguishable from your coworker (because free thought and individual worth is dangerous when the All Mighty Dollar is the bottom line)—then perhaps you can come out on top. But I doubt it. Like most people working at a corporation, you will more than likely come to the same understanding as the rest: bend over and take it. And don't forget to smile. Customers like it when you smile.
I think this step is the most important, because most companies go to great lengths to try to make you believe otherwise. They will give your boss money to put towards buying you guys lunch every few months. They will give you crappy generic tangible goods for having worked for them a certain amount of time. They will give you cards, thanking you for the things you do well. They will call your workforce a "family" so you feel a sense of community, and superiors often give you pet names like "hun". It's easy to go through your work life thinking that you have a boss and that they would go to bat for you if the shit ever hit the proverbial fan because you're his or her "hun" or "bud", and that even though you are a peon in the feudalistic scheme of the company, you matter to someone. But at the end of the day, you fucking don't. Your manager can't go to bat for you, because orders come from mysterious men (and a substantially smaller amount of women who undoubtedly make less) who pull the strings behind the curtain, making the big greasy smiling head say Politically Correct things and giving orders like they are god, or as your manager will call them "Head Office". This is easy to remember as "Head Office" is where the giant talking head lives. Until you realize that you are thought to be as stupid as the Scarecrow, Soulless like the Tin Man by your superior's superior (and trained to be as cowardly as the Lion), you are going to continue to get fucked while your cell mate whispers, "Welcome to Oz, Bitch," in your ear.
2. Understand That You Are Not Entitled to Anything
Upon signing the documents that confirm your employ at a corporation, you should be informed of your rights as an employee, or, rather, the things you are entitled to. These things will probably include an approximation of 5 days off a year, usually divvied up with the majority being sick days, with a bereavement day or personal day thrown in there. They will also inform you that you are entitled to a certain amount of holidays (maybe, most places just pay them out on your regular payroll and expect you to keep a separate savings account for the whopping $4.00 they will give you every two weeks towards that. Wooo-eeeeee, hunny, weez a-going to the fair! And when you quit, if you have used your vacation time (assuming you were "entitled" to any to begin with, they will inform you that vacation time is allotted based on portion of the year worked. So your 9 vacation days for the year is based on working the full year. If you do not quit on December 31st, you will have not worked enough time to warrant "deserving" vacation time paid, regardless of how many years you worked for them without having guaranteed hours, never getting benefits, getting fucked five ways from Sunday. The fact that you did not complete that year means they are going to take that money back from you. And the best part is they will word it such that it is the money "you rightfully owe them", and you will have to sign a document agreeing to this and allowing them to do so. Here is the Catch 22: when they say you are "entitled" to 5 days off per year, they mean that's how many you can take without them getting mad, treating you like crap, sending you nasty letters saying they won't pay for any further days you take off. They can't actually not pay you sick time if you are, indeed, sick. So if you know you need a day off to write a paper; if you know you need a day off to go to a family function that doesn't involve someone's death; if you just need a fucking day to yourself because your job runs you ragged and pays you as little as is legally possible or the work you are doing: don't book a goddamn vacation day off. Just say you're sick. Say you have a migraine. They can't ask you to get an MRI. They can't ask you to bring in a sample of your explosive diarrhea or projectile vomit. They just have to say "feel better!" and be passive aggressive the next day that you do come in. Be a sickly unreliable asshole, because you will not be rewarded for your honesty.
3. If You Are Not White, Heterosexual, With a Boring Haircut and Plain Clothes, You Are Trouble
Corporations don't know what to do with people who break the mold. And I'm not talking 00 Guage ears with full sleeves. I'm talking about someone who has bright red hair and likes to maybe dress kind of pin up. Or who look coloured, even worse, indigenous. Or who sends visible/audal cues that they are *whispers* gay! Or maybe who aren't afraid of breasts and their sexuality, so perhaps show a little more cleave than some are prone to. Or who might want a small tattoo somewhere visible, but tasteful. Or who aren't obsessed with controlling their bodies so they don't wear a bra. Or maybe who are just fashion forward and understand that a nice walking short in a decent material can make a really nice, professional outfit. All of these people are too scary for a corporation. They don't look like they could be part of a public service announcement for the GOP, and so they don't belong. Oh, they will tell you that they support diversity. The will donate to local charities and sponsor runs that they will expect you to be involved with and donate money to. They will probably also inform you that you are entitled to a harassment free workplace and that if you don't feel comfortable talking to your direct superior you can talk to this person, or their superior, etc. etc. and that no one expects you to just have to put up with a shitty workplace—that "we" (whoever that is) cares about your day to day happiness. But, if we remember rules 1 and 2, we will know that this is all a rouse. You can complain as much as you want. You can have to sit there in the lunchroom and listen while a coworker tells you that Indo-Canadians just need to get their barbaric side "bred out of them", and then there would be no more gang violence (I had to). You will have to listen to people talk about how homosexuality is not natural because capital-G Gaaawwwwwd intended for men to be with women, and that anything besides that is an affront to Gaaaaaaawd, so no wonder their relationship is failing (I had to listen to a divorcee say that one. Rich, n'est-ce pas?). You will have to listen to your manager say things like "It's good your parents accept your lifestyle. Because if my daughter was gay, I would have a problem with that," (I did). You will get to watch while your largely Indo-Canadian coworkers get told that all of "their people" are cheap crooks (Are you sensing a theme?). And when you talk to your coworkers about this, they will say, "Yeah, I know. They're crazy racist fucks" or "They're a religious zealot, so... what can you do?" And understand that even IF someone gives a damn and comes in and talks to people about "tolerance" or some bullshit like that, it won't change anything, because the bottom line is the All mighty Dollar, not your well being. So if bigots bring in the bacon, no one cares about your minority ass. And if someone comes in to talk about queer tolerance, everyone will know that the big gaylord called up the PC-Po-Po. And you will be shunned, because they will think about how hurt they are that you didn't just say something to them about it, like you should have to say something in the twenty-first century, or like you could form words beyond "FAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCKKKKKKKK YYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU, I'M GOING TO RIP OFF YOUR HEAD AND SHIT DOWN YOUR NECK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" So understand that if you are different, you don't really have support systems in a corporation. You are just going to have to rock your bad self, Stonewall style (or, AIM style, or Komagata Maru style, or Burlesque style, or Women's Movement style, or Stacy London and Clinton Kelly style, or Etc. style). Be louder than the assholes, but always be appropriate. Don't let them get the chance to be fucking idiots. Because they will. And no one cares about you. And you aren't entitled to shit.
4. The Bottom Line is The All Mighty Dollar
I've hinted at this previously, but I will now spell it out for you. You don't matter because corporations don't care about people; corporations care about profit. Corporations don't care that you're fucking exhausted, that you do more work than your coworkers, that you are continually short staffed, that your manager is so incompetent that if given a gun and a barrel of fish, the only thing s/he would shoot is him/herself in the foot, that all of your customers are dirt-ass poor and can't afford up-selling and that it makes them feel like they don't deserve your product, that the single mom up to her tits in debt doesn't need another loan, muffin, shirt, latte, toy for her screaming child or any other temporal, tangible and/or useless shit. It just matters that you are selling what they ask you to, regardless of the fact that your workplace is inconducive to doing that. And even when you do sell what they have asked you to, they will only praise you momentarily, and then they will expect more. What you have to offer is never enough. More is always needed. And when you fail to provide them with more, more, more, more, more, they will say "Oh, RCL, but you were doing so well, what happened? What happened to you? I know you're capable of it. Is something wrong? Do you need some coaching?" like there is something wrong with you. Like you aren't doing your job. Like you are a malfunctioning computer (not that they know how to use a computer. Your manager will undoubtedly ask you how to do things like copy and paste, or forward an E-mail) that they can't figure out how to install MakeMoneyFast v. 5.9 on or remove the cookies from. Fuckwits get to be fuckwits as long as they bring in the money. It doesn't matter if their selling techniques are unethical and essentially involve lying to customers. It just matters that they appease the bottom line. These people can call in sick. These people can do fuck all all day. These people can piss off every other customer that comes in. They can fail to do the actual components of the job required to sell things. But if they create revenue, who cares? Who cares that they slow an entire team of coworkers down? Who cares that they bring down morale? Who cares that they don't deserve a promotion? who cares that they've only been there for a week and don't know shit about shit? Who cares if they're even human, as long as they create the most revenue possible, it doesn't matter if they go home and have sex with Satan. They will be the biggest "asset" your manager has ever seen, and s/he will lick their asset to keep them around. Your commitment to a Corporation counts for nothing. Your skills and abilities don't mean shit if you can't increase your corporation's revenue. So don't worry about doing the best job you can. Don't worry about being the most productive employee. As long as you can adhere to certain codes and make money, it doesn't matter because you don't matter. And the only way to be of value or to maybe deserve something (but never be entitled to it) is to whisper sweet monetary figures into the moist crevices of the beast's ear.
So! These are the four simple rules you should understand before working for a corporation. If you can remember that no one cares about you, or thinks you are entitled to anything—that they just care that you are conditioned into being a money making automaton who is indistinguishable from your coworker (because free thought and individual worth is dangerous when the All Mighty Dollar is the bottom line)—then perhaps you can come out on top. But I doubt it. Like most people working at a corporation, you will more than likely come to the same understanding as the rest: bend over and take it. And don't forget to smile. Customers like it when you smile.
Tuesday, 21 June, 2011
Quick Thoughts on the Riot
I need to write this before I forget to. So, I do have a few thoughts on the riots. But I'm more interested in how they have proved me right, because I LURVE being right.
1. Rioters are dumb. Anyone who can't think for themselves and does shit because someone else is doing it is clearly an idiot.
2. A half assed apology in which you ultimately defend your actions is B.S. But some individuals keep updating their apologies, so it's good to see an actual dialogue established.
3. This is my favourite, because it makes me right. The internet is a separate entity unto itself. It is a country that doesn't really exist. And on the continuum of "civilization", the internet is in it's wild west days. How do I know this? Vigilanteism. People would never say this "PEOPLE NEED TO ATONE, THEIR HOMES SHOULD BE BURNT DOWN, THEIR LIVES SHOULD BE RUINED" to someone's face. A few bold people might say it in public, but not TO someone's face.
But on the internet it is ok. And there aren't really laws for the internet like we have for real life. We try to apply those laws, but it's like the wild west: too big with practically no law enforcement. So shit happens anyway. Very interesting example of human nature, and what happens when we are let alone to express as we please. It will be interesting to see if the internet ends up as policed as our everyday lives. And if that happens, what will be the next arena for release?
1. Rioters are dumb. Anyone who can't think for themselves and does shit because someone else is doing it is clearly an idiot.
2. A half assed apology in which you ultimately defend your actions is B.S. But some individuals keep updating their apologies, so it's good to see an actual dialogue established.
3. This is my favourite, because it makes me right. The internet is a separate entity unto itself. It is a country that doesn't really exist. And on the continuum of "civilization", the internet is in it's wild west days. How do I know this? Vigilanteism. People would never say this "PEOPLE NEED TO ATONE, THEIR HOMES SHOULD BE BURNT DOWN, THEIR LIVES SHOULD BE RUINED" to someone's face. A few bold people might say it in public, but not TO someone's face.
But on the internet it is ok. And there aren't really laws for the internet like we have for real life. We try to apply those laws, but it's like the wild west: too big with practically no law enforcement. So shit happens anyway. Very interesting example of human nature, and what happens when we are let alone to express as we please. It will be interesting to see if the internet ends up as policed as our everyday lives. And if that happens, what will be the next arena for release?
Monday, 13 June, 2011
The Hospice Issue
Oo, what a hot ticket topic in Vancouver. UBC decides to build a palliative care hospice next to an overpriced highrise, and the residents claim that living by the dead is against their culture.
Ensue racist tirades and illogical whining.
I've been hesitant to talk about this as I feel like it is a loaded topic, it is something not all of my peers would agree with me on, and I truly feel like it has brought out the worst in everyone.
Now that I've committed to this, where to start?
Well, foremost, I am glad that UBC decided to go ahead with the hospice. I take issue with people saying they can't do something because it's not all right in their culture, or saying that progress should stop because of them. I don't think the feelings of the few should trump the needs of the many, which is ironic, because that's a fairly socialist view, and many (I assume old white folks) have said, "Don't care about the dying? That sounds like an unfeeling Communist attitude—go back where you came from!" Except with poorer grammar. I think the students of UBC were right to have reservations about a hospice going up near dorms. Who wants to get yelled at for causing a ruckus near the terminally ill or very old constantly? And what person living out their dying days wants to hear frat parties? That is just good planning. But when someone says "my beliefs trump your very presence here," that is a big problem. Why? Because that's intolerance. I know this is about very personal cultural beliefs, and I accept that. I accept them as ridiculous, but that's besides the point. If a religious group of any Christian denomination populated most of a high rise, and a long term care facility for patients with HIV/AIDs was to be erected next door, and they decided to protest, those people would be publicly shamed. The odd few might agree, but I'm pretty sure, "I don't wanna catch the gay, how would you feel living next to that, looking at the gay all day long?" would be subject to public mockery. So why did anyone bother to even consider the ridiculous fear of the dying? I know the dying aren't really a minority group that gets the short end of the stick very often (besides the longevity stick), but my point here has more to do with illogical beliefs. People are allowed to have them. But we shouldn't create public policy around them.
"RCL, you can't call someone's belief system illogical! That's as bigoted as your hypothetical, any-denominational Christian "Catch-The-Gay" group!" you might be thinking. Maybe. But I disagree. Why? Well first of all, any religious type belief is illogical. That's what makes it religion! But seriously, any belief in anything that isn't proven goes against logic, i.e illogic. I'm not saying they are invalid, just illogical. And secondly because a host of Chinese Canadian community leaders came out and said their beliefs have nothing to do with hospices, and even if death is a concern, simply placing a mirror on a balcony is enough to reroute the overwhelming yin energy emanating from the sick, reflecting it away. If this were truly a cultural issue, then the cultural solutions to this would be enough. However, residents claim they have had to go to counseling and therapy over this. Hmmm, so, you mean you used our healthcare system to try to make sense of why you don't want to add to the value of its services.... Meaning that you believe in certain cases, Western practices are more relevant to your life in Canada than your cultural beliefs.... Iiiiiinteresting. I should clarify here that I think immigrants having access to our healthcare system is a necessary, positive thing. All Canadians deserve to be healthy, new, not quite official yet, landed refugee, or otherwise. That is a basic human right. I am not saying that people who oppose certain aspects of our healthcare system shouldn't have access to it (and anyone who does think this doesn't deserve to access a social system intended to benefit all rather than a select few), just that it seems very hypocritical to me to find Western solutions (which clearly are not working) when there are Eastern solutions that align with the belief system this whole problem is rooted in.
In short this all seems like a load of bull. We should have never pandered to this. I'm not going to speculate that this is about property value or anything else, or if UBC would have catered to the beliefs of another ethnic group. This was the belief of a few, not all, and this should not be an issue of Chinese culture being at odds with Canadian culture. this issue highlights the veiled racism and intolerance we find in Canada. It's not all right to tell people to get the fuck out if they don't like something. New citizens should be allowed to express their likes and dislikes for Canadian public policy. Change isn't always a bad thing.
Ensue racist tirades and illogical whining.
I've been hesitant to talk about this as I feel like it is a loaded topic, it is something not all of my peers would agree with me on, and I truly feel like it has brought out the worst in everyone.
Now that I've committed to this, where to start?
Well, foremost, I am glad that UBC decided to go ahead with the hospice. I take issue with people saying they can't do something because it's not all right in their culture, or saying that progress should stop because of them. I don't think the feelings of the few should trump the needs of the many, which is ironic, because that's a fairly socialist view, and many (I assume old white folks) have said, "Don't care about the dying? That sounds like an unfeeling Communist attitude—go back where you came from!" Except with poorer grammar. I think the students of UBC were right to have reservations about a hospice going up near dorms. Who wants to get yelled at for causing a ruckus near the terminally ill or very old constantly? And what person living out their dying days wants to hear frat parties? That is just good planning. But when someone says "my beliefs trump your very presence here," that is a big problem. Why? Because that's intolerance. I know this is about very personal cultural beliefs, and I accept that. I accept them as ridiculous, but that's besides the point. If a religious group of any Christian denomination populated most of a high rise, and a long term care facility for patients with HIV/AIDs was to be erected next door, and they decided to protest, those people would be publicly shamed. The odd few might agree, but I'm pretty sure, "I don't wanna catch the gay, how would you feel living next to that, looking at the gay all day long?" would be subject to public mockery. So why did anyone bother to even consider the ridiculous fear of the dying? I know the dying aren't really a minority group that gets the short end of the stick very often (besides the longevity stick), but my point here has more to do with illogical beliefs. People are allowed to have them. But we shouldn't create public policy around them.
"RCL, you can't call someone's belief system illogical! That's as bigoted as your hypothetical, any-denominational Christian "Catch-The-Gay" group!" you might be thinking. Maybe. But I disagree. Why? Well first of all, any religious type belief is illogical. That's what makes it religion! But seriously, any belief in anything that isn't proven goes against logic, i.e illogic. I'm not saying they are invalid, just illogical. And secondly because a host of Chinese Canadian community leaders came out and said their beliefs have nothing to do with hospices, and even if death is a concern, simply placing a mirror on a balcony is enough to reroute the overwhelming yin energy emanating from the sick, reflecting it away. If this were truly a cultural issue, then the cultural solutions to this would be enough. However, residents claim they have had to go to counseling and therapy over this. Hmmm, so, you mean you used our healthcare system to try to make sense of why you don't want to add to the value of its services.... Meaning that you believe in certain cases, Western practices are more relevant to your life in Canada than your cultural beliefs.... Iiiiiinteresting. I should clarify here that I think immigrants having access to our healthcare system is a necessary, positive thing. All Canadians deserve to be healthy, new, not quite official yet, landed refugee, or otherwise. That is a basic human right. I am not saying that people who oppose certain aspects of our healthcare system shouldn't have access to it (and anyone who does think this doesn't deserve to access a social system intended to benefit all rather than a select few), just that it seems very hypocritical to me to find Western solutions (which clearly are not working) when there are Eastern solutions that align with the belief system this whole problem is rooted in.
In short this all seems like a load of bull. We should have never pandered to this. I'm not going to speculate that this is about property value or anything else, or if UBC would have catered to the beliefs of another ethnic group. This was the belief of a few, not all, and this should not be an issue of Chinese culture being at odds with Canadian culture. this issue highlights the veiled racism and intolerance we find in Canada. It's not all right to tell people to get the fuck out if they don't like something. New citizens should be allowed to express their likes and dislikes for Canadian public policy. Change isn't always a bad thing.
Monday, 25 April, 2011
Election Time!
It is election time here in See Ay Enn Ay Dee Ay, and like anyone else that gives a flying fuck I feel like I will have underlying anxiety (possibly followed by a bout of depression, depending) until the damn polls are in. Mainly because Harper cannot get in again. It just cannot happen. I refuse. Straight up.
What is baffling me is the kind of people who support Harper. No, not the whackadoodle Christians or the business owners (although unless you're the CEO of a bank, he really hasn't done much to help you. At all. Not even a little. Probably not a fucking bit. Actually, he probably sleep raped you.) The entire thing reminds me of a Patton Oswalt bit where he talks about Bush supporters:
Like this one chick I found on a networking site who responded to a poll that asked "Which candidate is the most trustworthy?" Answering "Harper, obvs!!" And maybe she was being sarcastic, but I highly doubt it.
So I decided to look at her page, to see if she was some crazy religious zealot or some rich white chick.
No. No no. She was a vaguely ethnic looking, maybe native, maybe not, I'm not into eugenics. A raver (what the fuck, they still exist??), and "bisexual" who also described herself as "homoromantic" whatever the fuck that means. Watching the sunset while peeping two old fags go at it at the beach? That's what it brings to my mind. She also likes recreational drugs. And luckily for us she's not old enough to vote.
Anyway, my first thought was, "WOW. HARPER FUCKING HATES YOU!" How the hell can someone consider another human being that thinks homosexuality is the sin to tarnish all other sins, who doesn't know the difference between First Nations and East Indian, who doesn't give a fuck about women and children, who could give two shits about the general population's health, who probably can't even spell "environment", who doesn't care if you have a job, or if there's money in Employment Insurance to make sure you don't starve when you can't find work, who wants to throw anyone that's ever smelled pot smoke in jail, and who doesn't care about anything besides his wallet and some supa kewl fighter jets—PEW PEW!!!!— to be trustworthy? HOW? WHAT ABOUT THAT SAYS TRUSTWORTHY??? Trustworthy of what? Always being a completely unaccountable sack of shit?? Maybe he wants the fighter jets so he can get closer to his super cool sky man faster? Because he believes the end is nigh and that Sky Man will come to save him (but not women, and definitely not gays) Zzzzzzoooom!
Hysterical rant aside, there's one ad that pisses me off to no extent, moreso than all the bullshit we've had to (well, took lying down, really) put up with for 8 years, or whatever, I don't know. You know the one where the average Canadian mom (some Aryan looking lady) is sitting at her coffee table, trying to balance the family budget, saying Harper's tax cuts have made it so much easier to balance the family budget? And then worrying that Layton and Ignatieff don't know where they're going to get the money to make all these promises, except to tax us more??
That ad makes my Goddamn head explode. Seriously? WHERE DO YOU THINK THE MONEY FOR ANY KIND OF SOCIAL SERVICE HAS EVER COME FROM?!?!??!?!?!?! Whatever tax breaks Harper has given you have to be offset by the amount of shit you have to pay for yourself now. Like if you're a single mother, you have to find child care on your own. If you're an ethnic minority group, a lot of your Governmental funded support groups have had to shut down. If you're poor, and have to use services like the food bank or the Salvation Army, donations have dwindled because we are in a recession. If people have anything right now, they are holding on to it for dear life, and they're sure as hell not giving it to some dirty, poor darkies. That's what happens when there's a recession. All of that volunteering people can afford to do? They can't anymore. All of those donations people make? Can't afford them anymore. If we don't have a social welfare system to fall back on in dire cases, we're fucked. Just like now.
So for the love of God, Sky Man, Pot, Nature, Jobs, Women, Minorities, the Elderly, Double Rainbows, Education, Health, Peace, Freedom vote for ANYONE BUT YOUR CONSERVATIVE CONSTITUENT. Just not the Christian Heritage Party. Because that's a whole new level of scary. Let's not go there right now. Oi.
Here, have some more videos:
What is baffling me is the kind of people who support Harper. No, not the whackadoodle Christians or the business owners (although unless you're the CEO of a bank, he really hasn't done much to help you. At all. Not even a little. Probably not a fucking bit. Actually, he probably sleep raped you.) The entire thing reminds me of a Patton Oswalt bit where he talks about Bush supporters:
Like this one chick I found on a networking site who responded to a poll that asked "Which candidate is the most trustworthy?" Answering "Harper, obvs!!" And maybe she was being sarcastic, but I highly doubt it.
So I decided to look at her page, to see if she was some crazy religious zealot or some rich white chick.
No. No no. She was a vaguely ethnic looking, maybe native, maybe not, I'm not into eugenics. A raver (what the fuck, they still exist??), and "bisexual" who also described herself as "homoromantic" whatever the fuck that means. Watching the sunset while peeping two old fags go at it at the beach? That's what it brings to my mind. She also likes recreational drugs. And luckily for us she's not old enough to vote.
Anyway, my first thought was, "WOW. HARPER FUCKING HATES YOU!" How the hell can someone consider another human being that thinks homosexuality is the sin to tarnish all other sins, who doesn't know the difference between First Nations and East Indian, who doesn't give a fuck about women and children, who could give two shits about the general population's health, who probably can't even spell "environment", who doesn't care if you have a job, or if there's money in Employment Insurance to make sure you don't starve when you can't find work, who wants to throw anyone that's ever smelled pot smoke in jail, and who doesn't care about anything besides his wallet and some supa kewl fighter jets—PEW PEW!!!!— to be trustworthy? HOW? WHAT ABOUT THAT SAYS TRUSTWORTHY??? Trustworthy of what? Always being a completely unaccountable sack of shit?? Maybe he wants the fighter jets so he can get closer to his super cool sky man faster? Because he believes the end is nigh and that Sky Man will come to save him (but not women, and definitely not gays) Zzzzzzoooom!
Hysterical rant aside, there's one ad that pisses me off to no extent, moreso than all the bullshit we've had to (well, took lying down, really) put up with for 8 years, or whatever, I don't know. You know the one where the average Canadian mom (some Aryan looking lady) is sitting at her coffee table, trying to balance the family budget, saying Harper's tax cuts have made it so much easier to balance the family budget? And then worrying that Layton and Ignatieff don't know where they're going to get the money to make all these promises, except to tax us more??
That ad makes my Goddamn head explode. Seriously? WHERE DO YOU THINK THE MONEY FOR ANY KIND OF SOCIAL SERVICE HAS EVER COME FROM?!?!??!?!?!?! Whatever tax breaks Harper has given you have to be offset by the amount of shit you have to pay for yourself now. Like if you're a single mother, you have to find child care on your own. If you're an ethnic minority group, a lot of your Governmental funded support groups have had to shut down. If you're poor, and have to use services like the food bank or the Salvation Army, donations have dwindled because we are in a recession. If people have anything right now, they are holding on to it for dear life, and they're sure as hell not giving it to some dirty, poor darkies. That's what happens when there's a recession. All of that volunteering people can afford to do? They can't anymore. All of those donations people make? Can't afford them anymore. If we don't have a social welfare system to fall back on in dire cases, we're fucked. Just like now.
So for the love of God, Sky Man, Pot, Nature, Jobs, Women, Minorities, the Elderly, Double Rainbows, Education, Health, Peace, Freedom vote for ANYONE BUT YOUR CONSERVATIVE CONSTITUENT. Just not the Christian Heritage Party. Because that's a whole new level of scary. Let's not go there right now. Oi.
Here, have some more videos:
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