Canadians are not sorry.
We say we are, but we’re not.
And if you had supersonic hearing, you’d know that.
If you stopped to listen closely, after banging into one with your grocery cart at the supermarket, you’d hear that after the words “I’m sorry” are the words that show our true colours.
“I’m sorry…” and then in an almost inaudible tone and volume that only dogs and fruit bats can hear…
“that you are so self-involved and oblivious to anything that’s going on around you, that you just smashed your stupid &*^%$ng cart full of diet fruit flavoured beverages and fatless, sugar free, non-vegan-yogurt-light into my knee, you entitled blind bitch.
Canadians aren’t sorry, they’re passive aggressive.
Oh and also,
Canadians are not polite.
It’s true. I mean, we’re more polite than most people but we aren’t as polite as you think. I mean, we act polite but mostly that’s just a power trip. And again, if you were a wax moth, you’d have a hearing frequency of up to 300 kilohertz so you’d know that.
“No please, go ahead, I’ll hold the door open so you can go ahead of me…
since you’re panting on the back of my head and your breath is so bad it’s curling my ear hairs, while dodging around my heels like a tailgating road rager, because apparently you’re that much more important than me with much more important places to go than I have, even though I can’t imagine anyone on earth wanting to spend more than 3 seconds in the same room as you and I actually have a real life and real friends and real places to be but – really no please, go ahead, you first, after you.”
Canadians are not polite. They’re self-righteous.
Oh, and also…
Canadians are not passive.
We’re just on this team:
“All violence consists in some people forcing others, under threat of suffering or death, to do what they do not want to do.” – Leo Tolstoy
“Violence as a way of achieving racial justice is both impractical and immoral. In spite of temporary victories, violence never brings permanent peace.” Martin Luther King, Jr.
“I object to violence because when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary; the evil it does is permanent.” – Mahatma Gandhi
Canadians are not passive. We’re just compassionate, intelligent and evolved enough not to act aggressively. Passive aggressive on the other hand…
Canadians are not Tree-huggers. We are tree appreciators and tree protectors. That doesn’t mean we are flakey hippies, even though some of us are. It means we are trying to survive.
Let me break this down for you. Breathing is the process of moving oxygen into the lungs, and carbon dioxide out of them. You know… to keep us alive.
Oxygen makes up roughly 21% of the Earth’s atmosphere and at least half of this oxygen is produced through photosynthesis in trees and other plants.
Trees also play a significant role in moderating the climate, removing carbon dioxide from the atmosphere and providing a habitat for many species of animals, insects and plants. Trees provide shade and shelter, timber for construction, fuel for cooking and heating, and fruit for food as well as having many other uses.
So basically, the planet needs trees on it and if they disappear we will all die. More importantly, without trees we wouldn’t be able to hack them to pieces and make them into logs for our hearths and campfires.
That’s right. No trees means no smores.
And that, my friends is why, when idiot developers come along to chop them all down, we Canadians (and Vermonters but let’s be real – they’re basically Canadians born abroad) wrap our passive aggressive, self righteous, compassionate, intelligent and evolved and possibly chained little arms around them in protest. We are trying to save their lives, and yours.
Canadians are not Tree-huggers. They just still have the will to live.
In a good way though.
For real, I admire them immensely. In fact I want to be them.
I want to be 3 years old and here’s why:
My daughter Julia answering the phone circa 1994, during a somewhat intense obsession with the animated movie Aladdin.
“Hello Julia, this is your grandmother, is your mama home?”
“This isn’t Julia, it’s Princess Jasmine”
Just like that! She just didn’t feel like being Julia, and she wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. Just hangs up on her grandmother, not in the mood to be anyone other than a Disney princess, and anyone who wasn’t going to respect that could pretty much suck it.
My mother called back three more times, the first two times she was hung up on again, the third time she had the sense to ask “Hello Princess Jasmine? Is Jennifer home and may I please speak to her?”.
I want to be 4 years old and here’s why:
My daughter Cloee circa 2000, finishing up a batch of colouring on looseleaf lined paper.
Cloee: Mom! I’m going outside to sell these. Is $5.00 a good price?
Me: Sounds good to me
My Dad: Cloee, you can’t sell scribbles for $5.00
Cloee: Richard, they’re not scribbles, they’re Jackson Pollocks.
She walked through the front door and out to the curb in front of the apartment and was probably outside for all of 15 minutes before walking back in with a handful of cash.
I want to be 5 years old and here’s why:
My daughter Annika circa 2000 after watching her little sister make $25 in fifteen minutes, off of Forged art.
Annika: MOM! I’m going outside to sell this rock. Is $5.00 a good price?
Me: For a rock? You mean like a pet rock? Are you going to paint eyes or something on it?
Annika: Why? Rocks don’t have eyes.
Me: Maybe $3.oo is more realistic then
My Dad: Annika, there are free rocks all over the ground, why would anybody buy a rock from you for $3.00?
Annika: Because I’m cute
And you know that not only did she sell that rock to the first person who walked by, but they gave her $5.00 for it too.
I want to be 6 years old and here’s why:
Ever see kids in a school yard, just running and shrieking at the top of their lungs for no apparent or obvious reason, and wonder what the hell is wrong with them?
Me too, until one beautiful sunshiny day…
I was sitting on my back porch not minding my own business, having my morning vodka coffee and listening to the neighbour’s kid playing with her friend, when one of them said…
“ Let’s run and scream!” and the other, without any hesitation, yelled “YEAH!”
and then they both just started running and screaming, at the top of their lungs. They just ran and ran and ran and screamed and screamed and screamed. Not any actual coherent words, just screaming, until they fell into a giggling exhausted pile of joy.
Can you imagine doing that right this second? Can you imagine how amazing, albeit excruciatingly annoying to those around you, that would feel?
I want that. All of it. I need that in my life.
I want to get to know and respect my inner princess, and force other people to respect her too, or at least hang up on them when they don’t acknowledge her existence. I want to recognize the value of my art, be ambitious enough to exploit it and to know when to stop what-iffing, over-analyzing and banging my head against the wall, drop everything and just run and scream and run and scream and run and scream until I fall into an exhausted pile of joy.
It finally happened.
Jo was quietly running through her morning routine; drinking coffee, scrolling away on her phone, stalking chicks on the right, bombarding me with questions I can’t possibly answer.
“Are these actual people???” “Are people this stupid?” “Are these idiots for real??”
If they’re idiots there’s not much validity to what they’re saying, and if they make you so angry, maybe stop going on their page.
“Are they living in the dark ages?” “Who hates feminists? Feminists are just people who want equal rights! “
It sounds like it’s stressing you out, maybe you need to close that page and start the day doing something more likely to make you feel good, like crosswords or yoga, or clubbing baby seals.
“What’s to hate about being treated like the equals that we are?? What kind of women hate women’s rights???!!!???? Narrow minded, homophobic, waspy conservative littl*&^#%#$#!!… grumble grumble grumble…”
I’ve tried to brush it off, deflect, distract her with latte art, cat videos, and topless tap dancing, but she’s relentless.
“Jen stop please! Go read their stuff! You wouldn’t believe this crap!”
After weeks of protesting, I finally conceded and went to their site to see what it was about. I started with their mission
“We think conservatism needs a big-time makeover.” seems harmless enough and also true.
“Not all conservatives listen to country music and pack heat. Not all of us have rebel flags in the back of our Ford F150s”
Most of the conservatives I know are rich business owners and probably don’t listen to a lot of country music, pack heat or own a Ford anything, much less have rebel flags to wave from the back of them. So sure, fair enough.
“We appreciate traditional family values, but don’t mind a great dirty joke”
Great! I too appreciate traditional family values (Honesty, commitment, compassion for those in need, spending time together as a family, but also pursuing individual interests, not killing anybody you live with – even if they keep leaving the toilet paper roll in the bathroom empty, treating everyone equally, regardless of ethnicity, race, religion, or sexual orientation etc…) and dirty jokes, even though I first accidentally wrote traditional family jokes and dirty values.
“We like men who hold the door open for us, and don’t FLIP THE FREAK OUT if they sneak a peek as we’re walking by.”
Okay, I think people (in general) opening the door for other people is the polite thing to do and I’m a bit confused at who the all caps FLIP THE FREAK OUT is for, unless that’s a jab at women who don’t appreciate being ogled and objectified, which is kind of aggressive and weird.
“We embrace our own feminism, and leave the bra-burning and hairy armpits to the Gloria Steinem-ites.”
Okay, so here’s where you started to lose me chicks, because you now seem to have officially left your own mission statement behind and launched into a an anti-I’m-not-sure-who-exactly rant. There are conservatives who don’t wear bras, and liberals and democrats who do, and plenty of die hard feminist butch card-carrying lesbians who can’t stand armpit hair. So… I’m not saying I won’t keep poking around your site to try and understand where you’re coming from but I am saying that you’re losing credibility, and quickly.
“We believe that America is not only just exceptional, but that it is simply the most kickass country that ever existed.”
Have you traveled anywhere? Ever?
Here’ a few quick stats for you:
World’s Best Health Systems:
1 France 18 United Kingdom
2 Italy 19 Ireland
3 San Marino 20 Switzerland
4 Andorra 21 Belgium
5 Malta 22 Colombia
6 Singapore 23 Sweden
7 Spain 24 Cyprus
8 Oman 25 Germany
9 Austria 26 Saudi Arabia
10 Japan 27 United Arab Emirates
11 Norway 28 Israel
12 Portugal 29 Morocco
13 Monaco 30 Canada
31 Finland 32 Australia
14 Greece 33 Chile
15 Iceland 34 Denmark
16 Luxembourg 35 Dominica
17 Netherlands 36 Costa Rica
I’m just saying… Or there’s this one:
I mean… The United States of America is on the lists and is home to the Statue of Liberty, Wild Ginger PanAsian Cafe, AND the Puget Sound Goat Rescue, so it can’t be the worst country in the world but… “most kickass”?
Oh I know, I know it’s probably all fake news, and if we ask Donald Trump he’ll tell us that we have the most highly respected education system in the world, only to get even more tremendous with Besty-can’t-spell-to-save-her-life DeVos in office, and that the medical system will be A+ Number 1 as soon as he’s done obliterating both *cough* Obamacare AND The Affordable Healthcare Act, and that while the US isn’t necessarily the richest country in the world, he is the richest person blah blah fake news, and more fake news…
Speaking of which,
Despite you losing pretty much all credibility with me, during your opening statement, I read on. I gave you the benefit of the doubt.
I might not have a very conservative perspective on life, what with my having, in the past, lived a rollercoaster of lifetimes leading up to this day, as a single mother living well below the poverty line, a non-heterosexual, a burlesque performer and a (god forbid) feminist.
But I am also community mobilization worker, an open minded person, and a human with a heart and a soul.
Also, I appreciate tradition, white picket fences, and a healthy dose of self-righteousness, so I read on…
And when I did, I found genius, eye opening, breaking-news articles like these:
Oh! And these gems:
And then I made the mistake of actually not only clicking on a link, but reading the article and, even worse, the idiot comments left by a the swarm of ignorant trolls who honestly I would be embarrassed to have supporting my blog because…
And I tried to stop, I did, I swear but…
I must have caught whatever Jo has because not only did I start getting annoyed, but I found myself working hard to refrain from responding… until I couldn’t anymore, then suddenly…No Jen don’t do it noooooo!! I know, I don’t even know, but I can’t… I just… oops.
And that’s when it happened:
That’s right people. I’m news. And I’m not just any news or old news or news, I’m FAKE news!!
Unlike Chicks on the Right…
“I miss cooking” she said.
“You do all the cooking around here, I feel like I never cook” she said.
“I never cook anymore. I’m going to start cooking again” she said.
I didn’t mind planning the menu. I have been wanting to make vegan buffalo wings for years.
I love making Nachos, and chilli, jalapeño poppers, and oh so very many other tasty Super Bowl snacks.
Admittedly, I haven’t found the perfect Super Bowl dessert yet, and find it weird that when I search the subject; I mostly come up with football shaped cakes and a plethora of various bars and brownies because honestly, who eats cakes and lemon squares after stuffing themselves silly with chilli dogs and kraut?
“Is that all the coriander you’re putting in the guacamole?” She asked, disapprovingly.
“What?” I asked, “you’d like to make the guacamole? Is that what you said? Oh yeah, you were going to start cooking again and look at me, hogging all the recipes. I’ll just leave the avocados here for you.”
I made a cup of tea, and sat on the couch to enjoy the fire in the fireplace.
“Jen!!!! Ow! F@#$!! Jen hurry please! I cut my finger off!”
I flew off the sofa, knocking my tea all over the coffee table, and ran down the hall.
Find finger before dog or cats do. Grab ziplock. Fill ziplock with ice. Place finger in ice-filled ziplock.
No wait.. grab towel, wrap around her bloody hand and elevate. Then find finger before dog or cats do. Grab ziplock. Fill ziplock with ice. Place finger in ice-filled ziplock
“Where’s your finger?”
“Show me your hand please. I need to see your hand”
She unfolded the towel slowly, cringing and turning her head away, eyes diverted from the horror that was what was left of her trembling hand.
Her finger was entirely intact, with a 1/2 centimetre cut across her pinky finger.
I’ll grant her this, the cut was deep, and could have used a stitch, and I’m sure it scared her when she felt the knife slip past the avocado pit and into her hand, but I’m not sure it warranted the howling, and false promise of amputated limbs.
I called thing 2, “Pumpkin, can you come babysit the fire in the fireplace? I need to take Jo to the hospital to…”
“Ooooh.. mom, no sorry. My boyfriend doesn’t have his keys and…”
and from the next room
“Ohh God! Oh God, why?? I see chefs on the cooking channel do it all the time…”
I grabbed car keys, escorted my invalid to the vehicle and tucked her in.
“Do you think you could do up your seatbelt honey?”
“I can’t, every time I let go of my hand, blood spurts EVERYWHERE…”
“I can’t go babe, it’s a red light”
“It’s taking too long!”
“It will take even longer if we get pulled over for running a red light”
“At least then the police will escort us and make sure I get to the hospital faster”
“You don’t need to hold your hand over your head. It’s over the heart, not over the head”
“You’re not coming in???? You’re leaving me here!?”
“Sweetie, we have a fire going in the fireplace, I can’t leave it unattended. They’re just going to give you a tetanus shot and a stitch. You’ve left me alone at emergency a few times now, and look at me. I’m fine.”
“Your finger wasn’t falling off!”
“Neither is yours. Call me when you need me to come pick you up.”
“It’s turning white!”
“That’s normal Jo, you lost blood, it’s okay.”
“Well actually it’s blue!”
“Keep me posted, bye…”
When I got home, I rolled up my sleeves, prepared to clean-up the crime scene but found not even so much as a drop of blood anywhere in our house. I searched high and low but found no evidence whatsoever of the carnage that allegedly ensued after Jo’s culinary attempt. I did however, come across her phone, on the coffee table, so I called the hospital.
“Yes, hello. I just dropped my girlfriend off at the ER with a cut finger and…”
“Oh her, yeah, I just had to help her with the… anyway, yes?”
“Could you make sure she has my phone number so she can call me when she needs to be picked up?”
About an hour later, I was crushing garlic, mincing cilantro, and watching the cats bat an avocado pit back and forth across the kitchen floor,when my phone rang:
“Come get me.”
” Did you get sewn up?”
“No. They gave me a tetanus shot and I’m bored of waiting. Come get me.”
I would have just left her there but she didn’t have a jacket with her and I knew that if I left her there she’d probably walk home, and then I’d have to nurse her invisible hypothermia as well as her imaginary amputated finger. And the tetanus shot, well that in itself is gold…
In the dark of the quiet night, neighbours throughout the land knew, every time she rolled over in the bed, or shifted, or breathed really…
“Ouch! Oh GOD my arm!!!”
The good news is, that her finger is intact, and she was home in time to watch the Super Bowl, and eat nachos, guacamole, and vegan buffalo wings.
The other good news is that she also apparently has post traumatic stress syndrome and won’t be attempting to cook again anytime soon.
But seriously, what do people eat for Super Bowl dessert? Anyone?
I’ve heard rumours of marriages being dissolved over some of the dumbest things, like leaving the cap off the toothpaste or leaving the lights on when leaving the room, forgetting the baby on the roof of the car etc…
I don’t know who these people are married to but honestly, if they walked a day in my shoes…
I don’t know why or how this makes sense in her head, but for some reason, she can take it off the roller, and she can set it down on the counter, but she just can’t seem to bring it with her into the kitchen and throw it in the recycling bin.
Obviously, after the two (or three) millionth time that I walked into the bathroom and saw this:
I announced that I was leaving her. To myself. In my head. And as I pulled up craigslist apartment searches in my browser, something occurred to me. Maybe I was giving up too soon. Maybe I wasn’t approaching the problem creatively enough. Maybe she’s more of a visual or kinesthetic learner, than an auditory one.
So I decided to try something different. Every time I would find the lone empty roll on the bathroom counter, I would put it somewhere of hers, where she would see it. I’d put it on her dresser, in her underwear drawer, her coat pocket, her mitten etc…
And she found them every time. She even named them “the elephant” and she understood, without my having to explain.
I hid it in her box of cookies, in her luggage for our trip to Provincetown, and even in her wallet
“are you kidding me??”
“I’m on a business trip Jen! I’m in Toronto! I just almost tried to pay for my taxi with a toilet paper roll!”
And she started retaliating. I’d find him on my pillow or in my shoe. I’d pull out my boxing gloves, and the elephant would fall out onto the floor, in front of my trainer and everyone else at the gym.
She understood my point but clearly thought this was a game, so I did what any frustrated out-of-their-mind-with-desperation person would do.
I did what made sense to me. I made it personal. I drew a face on him.
And she did what made sense to her. She gave him to me as a stocking stuffer for Christmas.
I was racking my brain, pulling my hair out, packing my bags and filling out a forwarding address card for Canada Post when it came to me.
And that is when, I turned the elephant… into Donald Trump.
In fact, I even did it on Inauguration day, for added effect. And guess what! She hasn’t touched him. He’s been sitting there lifelessly on her dresser ever since. At first I thought it was because she couldn’t bring herself to discard my genius work of art, but then it occurred to me that he probably terrifies her as much in toilet paper roll form, as he does in real life.
She’s too scared to touch him I thought. This is it. The war against empty rolls is over. Our relationship has been saved! And not soon enough. I celebrated, I rejoiced and I thanked the higher powers that be,
I knew I couldn’t leave her over this.
We have too long a history, too strong a bond. We have pets in common and too much crap to sort, divide and pack. And too many secrets shared, that I couldn’t let her walk away with. I’d have to kill her and honestly, that’s just so laborious and messy.
It was a long journey and a true test of patience but the rolls aren’t being left on the counter anymore.
I may need help burying a body.
People are complaining about the cold and the wet and the snow and yuck and I get that. I really do. I don’t love any of those things, and I don’t like to be that annoying yeah but person but..
For those of you do (or don’t) remember, last year on this very day, the sidewalks were so icy here in Montreal, that it was actually safer to get to work on ice skates than by walking, and I took a video of Jo proving that very fact
Happy New Year!!
So here’s the thing: Every year I update my New Year Resolutions from the previous year – checking off the ones that were accomplished, and reevaluating the relevance of the ones left undone – I either delete or update them accordingly and repost.
I wouldn’t say that these resolutions are necessarily boring, but they’re personal – and not in a juicy secret exciting kind of a way. i.e.. publish blog posts more consistently, learn to speak Spanish, set up a housekeeping schedule etc…
And while anyone who knows me, knows that I still set practical resolutions this year (and by set, I mean wrote the list, illustrated it in full colour and scheduled every single baby step leading up to the accomplishment in all three of my agendas and 2 online calendars) but I’ve decided to also try something new. A fun and somewhat interactive set of resolutions that I can literally share with you. If you like petting goats and playing board games that is…
New Year Resolutions 2017
I plan to include, invite and keep you all posted on all of the above events, and I expect you to feign interest, fake support and encourage, at least half heartedly, every step of the way.
I know that talking about Facebook is so old and done, but I still keep finding myself surprised by how seriously people take it.
“You didn’t like the video I posted yesterday. Why? I thought you like goats.”
” I do like goats. I didn’t see your video.”
“Yes, on Facebook. I posted it yesterday.”
“Yeah, I understood that. I just didn’t see it.”
“You didn’t look on my page? It’s on my page. I posted it around 2pm. Go see. And like it.”
” Okay but I don’t actually go look at my friends pages. I mean, I see a few things in my newsfeed when I sign in but I don’t go looking for my friends to see what they’ve been up to.”
“Really? Why not? Don’t you care about your friends?”
“I’m here with you right now. Because I care. I like you. Isn’t that more meaningful?”
“Man, I have been dealing with some serious idiots on Facebook these days, it’s exhausting!”
“Dealing with? What do m.. I mean wh… how d.. What??”
People “deal” with people on Facebook?
Like actually dealing with people (i.e.: negotiations, conflict resolution, consoling them (actual consolation, not just clicking the sad emoji and a heart), and bartering, buying and selling to and from them?
Or do you mean “dealing” with them, as in banging your head on your computer keyboard while chanting “I CAN’T. I CAN’T. I CAN’T ” in robo-monotone, because if you’re subjected to even one more day of the constant barrage of simultaneously ranty and narcissistic status updates, passive aggressive memes, and kitten vids, you’re going to stab yourself in the eye with your cocktail straw?
Because if it’s the first one… really? No you don’t and no you haven’t.
And if it’s the second one – Stop it. Facebook isn’t even real life.
Real life is real conversations, where you can hear each other’s voices and look into each other’s eyes. Two things that help prevent people from name-calling, un-friending and most, but not all, unwelcome naked-body-part-exposition.
Real life is fun. Or so I’m told. It’s been a while for me but I thought I’d give it a whirl.
I used to host dinner parties all the time but now that I own 648473 pets, and our apartment is likely about 96% comprised of dog fur and blobs of cat hair, I’m too embarrassed to invite anyone over anymore.
Also, I’m kind of a busy gyal, and my schedule often changes without warning so I find it really hard to make time to socialize.
Also most of my friends are Facebook drones and very resistant/afraid to come back to the real world.
So, I was thinking that maybe I could somehow marry Facebook life with real life, and then incorporate real life into my even realer life.
And this is what I came up with: Random announcements of what I’m doing, and where I’m doing it – accompanied by general invitations to Facebook… to join me.
I could mix it up a bit. I could alternate between errands that need to be run, work tasks, and leisure activities.
I was thinking my first one could be something like…
“At the YMCA in half an hour. Bring active-wear. Meet me on the treadmills and act like you didn’t know I was going to be there.”
Because having a workout buddy is motivating. Just ask my friend Mel, who used to jog with me in the mornings. Before she got bored of me and left me (for Pokemon Go) to motivate myself… leading me to becoming 27 inches rounder, 10 pounds heavier and consequently 2 inches shorter.
Thanks Mel. You’re the best.
“Surprise! It’s bring a friend to work day! I’m walking around the neighbourhood handing out flyers for the upcoming community meeting. I’ll be dragging my feet up and down Chestnut street for the next hour and a half. Bring tape or thumbtacks, nimble fingers, and a grandé soy latte.”
Because it occurred to me recently, when I was soliciting my Facebook friends for donations for a Christmas party that my clients are organizing, that a lot of my friends don’t even know that I’m a community organizer, and may have thought that I was literally just begging for food and toys.
A lot of those friends don’t even know that red isn’t my favourite colour anymore, that I prefer pie over cake, that I am passionate about collaging, or that I only love everything pumpkin in theory (because it’s a pretty colour and symbolizes autumn), but not really (I only like pumpkin in decorations, gardens, and pie – because it smells weird and certainly has no business being in coffee ever) – much less know what I do for work.
“The Secret Life Of Pets. 2pm today. Cineplex. Wear your favourite pyjamas. *BYOPC.”
Because who doesn’t love a matinée?
“Another thrilling dentist visit this afternoon. Come dressed to entertain. Bring whatever short stories you would like to read to me. And your wallet!”
Just as an experiment you know? Just to see if anyone shows up. This is NOT a test. Not a friendship test. It’s a totally non-obligatory experiment. Just for fun. Just to see.
What do you think? Genius right? Okay maybe genius is too strong a word but clever no? Cool? Cool-ish? What Ev ER. If you’re living in an app, it’s time to stop dealing with Rumi Quotes, celebrity gossip and fake news, sign out of fb, and deal with real life!
The secret life of pets is totally real life. yes it is. yes it is!
Are you in?!? Say yes!!! You know you want this! Yes you do!!
See you at the movies!
*Buy your own popcorn
So I was sitting around mourning my life losses the other day,
lamenting closed windows and opportunities untaken, torturing myself by searching for the audition tapes of all the women who have lived and/or are presently living my personal life-long dream to be a writer/cast member of Saturday Night Live.
Yes, I have more than one personal life-long dream and yes, one of them is to rescue a family of goats, but I have it on good authority that I should aim high so…
If ever, by some miracle, I should one day “make it”, at the top of my acceptance speech list will be my parents, my children, my girlfriend, my agent, my manager, and The Deer Garden.
As I continued to surf the interweb of my broken dreams, one link leading to the next, and the next and the next, I suddenly I realized that somewhere I’d taken a very wrong turn. I was no longer watching audition videos, but scrolling through what may have been one of the most disturbing internet forum threads I’ve ever seen.
Granted I don’t really peruse forums much, unless they’re about word press plug-in compatibility issues, or DIY home remedies for anything that can be cured with tea tree oil, turmeric or ginger, so what do I know?
Did you know, that there are online forums crawling with bazillions of creepers who are obsessed with other people; talking about the things that they do or do not know about them and having actual virtual real-life arguments about them like they know them personally even though they don’t???
Do famous people realize that the people who wait outside for them, after a show, and ask for selfies and autographs and stuff, run home and post them in these weird underground stalker caves, where other stalkers sit and wait with bated breath to hear and argue amongst themselves about it???
Do. They. Know. That? If they don’t, You. Should. Tell. Them.
I’m not going to lie. At first I was somewhat fascinated.
Really? Her maybe-girlfriend is a clown…? Weird. Clowns are weird.
But the more it went, and the deeper I got, the more uncomfortable I became…
Okay wait… so you checked the twitter account of her maybe-girlfriend to see who she is following, and then you checked the twitter accounts of the people she’s following to see if they are following her back?? And you then did the same on Instagram??? And then you used this scientifically proven, highly respected and indesputibly reliable method of research to determine whether or not the two victims of your voyeurism are dating each other? For real? Actually?
She reminds you of your ex? How?? Did you also NOT know your ex in real life???
And also… you know “normal” “stable” lesbians?????????????
The more I read, the more nauseated I became. I felt guilty for ever looking at anything that was even remotely related to her, let alone intentionally googling her audition tape/youtube videos of absolutely every single sketch or interview she’s ever done in the entirety of her whole life.
but I kept scrolling, kind of like one might, when witnessing a traffic accident; with our head turned slightly to the side, hands over both eyes, but with one eye kind of squinting and peeking through the fingers.
I was amazed by some of the things that people casually announced, as though there was nothing weird or restraining-order-inducing about what they were saying.
No! No it is not okay. And neither is this:
You know why? Because Kate McKinnon is not Perry Como.
And can I just take a moment to ask you all what a “Fancy Dress Mask” is?
And can we please just take a moment to remember that these people you are talking about are actual human beings? Please? I mean, I can’t imagine how violating it would feel to see this kind of craziness about your own self?
Granted, I’ve never been famous, on account of those crushed dreams that I mentioned earlier, but if I could imagine what it was like, were I famous enough for people to dedicate entire forums to dissecting my life like it were on a glass slide under a microscope, I would imagine this would scare the crap out of me!
Think about it really. Take any of those lines and replace the celebrity’s name with your own, and just sit with how weird that feels.
Soft Butch……..? I was 7 years old in 1977 for God’s sake! What is wrong with you people?
Okay you know what? It was more like mid-march when word got out. And also, do you though? Do you hope it goes well? Because…
I’m not feeling’ it. And my girlfriend does not look like doom and gloom okay? She does smile and laugh, she’s just super shy, and also she likes to look super cool and aloof – It’s her thing. Just like your thing is being a creepy jealous weirdo.
Yeah… near/far, pretty much all of the above. I mean, I can kinda almost see properly in that space that’s right betwe.. wait. Who wonders that about a person???
Okay I can see how some people might think she’s my assistant but she likes to carry my luggage for me and I’m just joking when I call her my Burlesque Sherpa. Kinda…
People please! This has to stop. Right now!
Oh my GOD STOP! You really think I’m funny AND smart? Really? Thank you sooooo much. I think you’re pretty too Bekah. Well, if you look anything like your avatar that is…
But seriously people, you actually need to stop. You need to ask yourself why you are so freaking obsessed with these celebrities. Ask yourself what they have that you don’t. And go get whatever that thing is, because I promise you PROMISE you A) That person isn’t who you think they are, B) If they knew you were talking about them that way, they (unless they are Taylor Swift) would be horrified and want nothing to do with you, and C) The internet is not real life.
Except for the cat videos. Those are real. 100%.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying it’s crazy to have a little celebrity crush. Or somebody who inspires you to the point where you may or may not have added this first ever lesbian action figure to
my your Amazon Wish List…
I’m just saying… Step away from the computer. Stop living vicariously through somebody else, and start living your own actual real life. You can hate me right now if you need to, but if you follow my advice, you’ll thank me later. When I’m famous. Right?