A Visual Clue

Sometimes people need a punch in the face in order to take a hint.-monkiss

Ha! quoted muhself.

I know it might be weird since my healing progress is going well, but I bought a cane a few days ago.

All the struggling onto buses by drivers who think my stablising boot is some sort of fashion statement, all the people getting mad at me for sitting in the priority seating area, made me realise people are completely and utterly stupid and need flashcards.

Wanna know who won't get up outta priority seating for me? ....this guy....and his whole damn posse

So I bought a cane and low and behold! The bus driver started using the kneeling thingy, people started offering me seats, it’s a bloody miracle!! Because the limping didn’t give it away, the brace made of steel and foam that I nicknamed the iron maiden is not obvious enough.

The crazy thing is, it actually made a huge difference in my pain, the massive overcompensating pain is less, uh, massive. Huzzah!

It’s also my first full time week back at work. Ugliness….ugliness personified. I scrabble around on hardwood floors and my motions have made my wife and I giggle our new turn of phrase for my fruitless movements…seal pupping!

This is how I get from place to place, on my belly...wooo good times

Well, I have a bottle neck situation in my brain, there’s so much I wanna write about that I don’t know where to start and so my writing is minimal. I’ll sort it out while I wait to get my computer back…the one I’m using belongs to the in-law.

g’night dear readers! monkiss


Dear Mr.Harper, meet the Radical Handmaids won’t you?

“Maybe none of this is about control. Maybe it isn’t really about who can own whom, who can do what to whom and get away with it, even as far as death. Maybe it isn’t about who can sit can who has to kneel or stand or lie down, legs spread open. Maybe it’s about who can do what to whom and be forgiven for it. Never tell me it amounts to the same thing.” Chapter 23Margaret Atwood, A Handmaid’s Tale

Dear Stephen Harper:

I see what you’re doing and I don’t like it one god damned bit.

Cutting the time the public has to respond to environmental assessments, dismantling social programs, under funding Aboriginal education programs and this….motion 312. You and your politics sicken me.

As feminists, we are the victors of small battles but we’re miles away from winning the war against your kind. And by that, I don’t mean men (some men are awesome, supportive allies) I mean conservatives, religious right, classist, white people who suffer from entitlement issues.

In a previous post I wrote called: my body, my rights, I mentioned motion 312 – this is a Canadian Conservative government initiative to decide when ‘life begins’ in the womb.

A body of male politicians will be working on this report with no input, it would appear, from the 51% of people in this country who it affects most.

This is what women in this country are doing about it:

I am not just ranting about this, I’ve done something about it as well. I wrote my local Member of Parliament saying that this was disgraceful and I did not want her to support it.

I read online she is choosing not to support it because apparently, she has received from pressure from her constituents. YAY!!!

Personally, pregnancy is not something I have to worry about on a day-today basis, but my straight female friends do.

If they don’t have access to safe and affordable birth control and reproductive health options, then I’m going to join in the fight. My straight friends were allies in the fight for same-sex marriage, I support their right to choose.

The more voices, the harder it will be to ignore us…I’m not easily ignored Mr. Harper 😉

Why I Stopped Liking People Today Or …#First World Problems

Since I no longer expect anything from mankind except madness, meanness, and mendacity; egotism, cowardice, and self-delusion, I have stopped being a misanthrope. -Irving Layton

Hell is other people. Truly.

Am I walking around with a ‘be rude to me sign on my forehead?’

Today I saw a man walking in the middle of a busy 4 lane street.

His black jacket waving in a frigid April wind like a winged creature whipping its arms against his heels.

Maybe the creature in his brain told him today he would die, maybe it was the alcohol.

As he sauntered confidently toward oncoming traffic, I was hurtling forward in a minivan in the outermost lane.

To my right, a red mazda 6 sped up, aimed like an arrow at its target, a flesh and bone human and the motorist driving his foot deeper into the floor, gas peddle revving the engine, stopped short of the man to swerve in front of us at the last second.

He narrowly avoided hitting the person, clearly disturbed to be walking in the street in the first place and then proceeded to put me, my co-worker and our 2 clients in danger.

I was ready to jump out at the red light, open his car door and beat him to a bloody pulp for thinking because he was behind the wheel of a 2000 lb projectile that he was entitled to kill me and several other perfect strangers.

Was that to be the worst part? No dear reader, sadly it was not.


This should have been my answer to incident #2

“If you’re looking for sympathy you’ll find it between shit and syphilis in the dictionary.”

Upon arriving home safely, my coworker brings client #1 into the house while I collect the belongings of client #2 and wait for the coworker to come back and help me with the wheelchair of client #2.

Cue psycho hose beast…

Her hair is a mix of black and grey, dried from over processing and her make up appears to be layered on with a trowel.

She approaches the fence separating her property line from our group home’s driveway and calls,

“Hey, are you staff at this group home?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Do you see a mat down the walk way there,” she points in the direction of the walkway and grassy area between the two houses.

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.” The gate to the fence is closed, I have no clue what she is talking about and I can’t see past a six foot closed gate.

“Really? Are you blind? You don’t see a mat sitting in front of your door?”

“I’m sorry what?” This come out in the tone of, no bitch, you did not just take that tone with me

“It’s my mat! It’s been missing for 3 years and there it is outside this group home!”

I’m dumbfounded, struck into speechlessness for a second while this woman mouths off to me.

“Were your legs broken? Is that why you didn’t go get it?”

“How dare you!” she hissed.

“Are you shitting me?” I think I said, though it might’ve been in my brain, I lost all sense of time and composure at this point.

“They told me when this group home went here we wouldn’t have any trouble and all there’s been is trouble.”

For the record, I have no clue what she’s talking about. Both my clients are non-verbal, one is in a wheelchair and the other is concerned only with rides in the car and cartoons. I can’t imagine what she means by trouble.

“Have you ever lived next door to clients with mental illness who destroy property?” I ask her.

I say this because I’ve worked at houses that look like a warzone, where holes are made in drywall faster than they can be patched, where I’ve safety restrained people in rotating 4 hour shifts because they were a danger to staff and themselves.

This house she lives next door to is decorated with flowers and shrubs it has a lovely natural wood fence and trees all around that are all maintained by staff.

“My issue isn’t with the clients.”

“Well it isn’t with the staff either,”

“It’s not very neighbourly to put up a fence without consulting me.”


“Everything about this house is a problem, stealing other people’s property, my house is the most expensive thing I own,”

“Congratulations,” I say, turning to open the van door to my client who is waiting patiently to go inside.

“Listen bitch, I got more important shit to worry about…so go fuck yourself.”

“Excuse me?” she said, before walking away.

“Oh you heard me.”

My coworker has come back by this time, he’s wide eyed and helps me with client #2.

He whispers, “Did you just say that?”

“Yeah I did,” I replied, “fucking psychopath.”

Yep, I was unprofessional.

Nope, I don’t care.

I don’t know what happened before I arrived here over a year ago.

If you can’t have the civility to come knock on the door and clear up a misunderstanding while I help my clients get through day to day life with a disability, then you will have no respect and no patience from me.

Tell someone who actually cares.

I know what her fundamental problem is: like most people who live next door to a group home, she’s pissed because she thinks her property values are going down, she feels like her ‘tax dollars’ are paying for it so she can accost me and yell at me like I’m ‘the help’, that people with disabilities should live in the ghetto where she doesn’t have to deal with them, this is what her snotty obnoxious mouth is really saying.

And I’m replying with an unapologetic, FUCK you.

“I’m killing time while I wait for life to shower me with meaning and happiness.”

Only Rights Can Stop The Wrongs

I met a woman who escaped life as a sex worker and addict to come out the other side with a career and a family.

Her story and the stories of thousands of other girls and women are heartbreaking; these lost daughters and sisters, their bodies property for reasons of necessity, exploitation and drugs.

There are no sinister strangers taking advantage of these women, the “johns” are teachers, bus drivers, social workers, brothers and fathers paying little girls for sex.

It was a rough day, to do my counselling job, to hold crying women who’ve been violated, to listen to people of colour who’ve been the victims of racism and just want to take their lives, sometimes they find the hardships they experience to be just way more than they can bare.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t cry about it all sometimes.

I’d also be lying if I said it didn’t make me want to drink. But I won’t. It would put me on the wrong side of the front lines.

It’s weird, but I wouldn’t trade my experiences for anything, I love every second I spend caring for strangers.

That doesn’t make it less hard.

Sex work is a far more complex issue than this, there are some women who do it, like it and have no intention of leaving. They are the minority.

The women and girls I heard from, it was never a choice, it was never the glamour of “Pretty Woman” it is never the easy road.

They are so easily preyed upon by rapists, serial killers, gangs, pushers, dealers and hustlers.

Sometimes it’s easy to come home from a day like today and want to give up, but if I don’t add my energy and my will to the powers of good, then what’s my purpose?

Instead I’ll love my family and take care of myself so I can care for others…and, I’ll remember this phrase…

“illegitimi non carborundum”

Don’t let the bastards grind you down

My Body, My Rights!!

The state has no place in the bedrooms of the nation.

Pierre Trudeau, former Prime Minister of Canada proclaimed this statement back in the 1970’s and if you look at women’s rights, women’s social and economic standing, we have barely moved an inch since then.

The Conservative majority government of Canada wants to keep beating that dead horse based on their own uninformed religious, conservative infuriating beliefs.

If you want to add your voice to the following petition, be my guest:

Douchebags Among Us

Don’t get the impression that you arouse my anger. You see, one can only be angry with those he respects.

I suppose furious is more like it.

In my local community, a social media group event was mobilised to help protest the denial of city funding for a women’s shelter.

This shelter is known for helping women and children escape domestic violence.

One woman wrote a long rant, as did a lot of us, about how the city found money for business projects and a new sports complex but not for the women’s shelter.

Then another person proceeded to cut that woman down by insulting her grammar and spelling. On a blog supporting an event to raise funds for violence against women, here was this person, shitting on a woman for not having perfect spelling and grammar.

I flew into a rage.

I had to know who this person is that decided to come down on a woman who maybe, wasn’t well-educated, who was raising children, maybe low income, because maybe she has other shit to worry about aside from how well she writes.

Maybe she had escaped a violent spouse and was expressing her outrage as a result. Who cares why she was commenting, it was her right, she has freedom of speech.

Ofcourse, the offending human who was reprimanding this woman’s spelling was a man.

What the fuck?!

Excuse my language but the sad irony is disgusting.

Here we are, participating in a dialogue about how to protect women from violence and here he is, this insect of a human being telling this woman he disapproves of her grammar.

I have no respect for people like that.

Well, in general I have no respect for people but I try to keep that under wraps as best I can.

I have a brother, male friends and co-workers that I like so don’t paint me with the brush of lesbian, feminist, man basher, but this guy makes me feel the following:

“There are two perfectly good men, one dead and the other unborn.”