The People on the Bus Go 'Round and Get Stranger

Earlier this month, I stumbled across some of my old writing from high school. Even in my teen years, I gravitated towards personal essays as a storytelling format. Although, I doubt anyone who has spent any time talking to me and who has experienced my disastrous "mouth words" firsthand is surprised by my preference for written communication. As my final project for my Creative Writing 15 course, I completed a series of personal essays on various topics that were important to me at the time. These are exactly what I have decided to share with all of you through this blog over the coming weeks. Looking back at these pieces has given me the opportunity to observe the ways in which both my personality and my writing abilities have progressed over the years. I can look back and realize just how fearless my writing used to be, back before my pre-frontal cortex began to interfere with my lack of caring about social consequences. I tackled all sorts of topics that I would be reluctant to touch now. There is a sense of naivety that emerges through these old pieces, as they were all written before I had experienced some of the formative events that have shaped the person I've become since then. I am glad that I can see a marked improvement in my technical writing skills from what they used to be five years ago. Thank goodness I stopped writing entirely in passive voice... 

I have updated certain technical aspects of these pieces, but have attempted to keep the content authentic to my original drafts because 18-year-old me was way funnier before I had to throw out most of my humour to make room for learning APA style and thesis writing techniques. This first essay is a true story. Without further ado, here is high school personal essay #1! 

The People on the Bus Go 'Round and Get Stranger

Public transit. You meet the most interesting people on the bus. Some might make the argument that the people watching you are able to do during your morning commute to school or work is reason alone for opting out of owning a vehicle. There are those who find pensive tranquility and inner peace in their favourite seat next to the window, while others bump into their soul mates during their awkward shuffles out the door. Personally, I’ve had my fair share of memorable bus adventures over the years. Amidst the random conversations I’ve been forced into, the noxious smells my nose has witnessed, and the numerous personal bubbles I’ve had the misfortune of invading after a sudden brake, one particular incident stands out from among the rest.

For the three years I spent in Junior High, each morning began with me meeting up with my best friend before boarding the bus to school together. On the morning of this aforementioned life-altering event, our walk to our bus stop had been exceptionally normal. My friend had successfully completed her daily ritual, which consisted of her frantically scavenging for her misplaced school materials, before we proceeded to spend our walk filling each other in on our previous uneventful evenings. Our bus driver had acknowledged each of us with a slight nod of obligation and gratitude that neither of us had forgotten either of our bus passes that morning. Out of habit, we meandered towards the back of the clunky metal beast to our usual seats at the top of the stairs, just off to the left. That morning, however, our zombie-like promenade was halted abruptly by a middle-aged man wearing a brown jacket.

                “Look out. Look out.”

He spoke without emotion as he half-heartedly gestured toward the bus floor at the back exit where a disgusting puddle of sludge was occupying the pathway. My friend, who appeared to not have heard the monotone man’s warning, continued to advance precariously close to the unidentifiable pile of nasty.

                “Look out. Look out.”

Once again, the sludge guard repeated his unfeeling phrase to stop my friend from treading through that awful-smelling bus slime on the floor. She heard him in time and stopped just short of a ruined pair of sneakers.

                “Ooh! Peach smoothie!”

Perhaps, my friend would have been correct if we had boarded the bus a few stops earlier; the miscellaneous slime may very well have been a fellow bus passenger’s delicious peach smoothie at one point in time. However, it was apparent that it had become nothing more than a stomach-rejected breakfast fail. Needless to say, my friend and I quickly transferred to another bus that was carrying 100% less vomit than was our first vehicular attempt at commuting to school that day. 

I wish I could have seen the expressions on our faces for the entirety of that fateful bus ride. At the time, I wasn’t thinking anything more than about how disgusting that whole experience had been. Later, I found myself wondering more and more about that brown-jacketed man’s role in this weird story. Was he the protagonist of this tale? Was it HIS once-delicious smoothie that had evaded his small intestine for a chance at freedom within the public transit system? Perhaps, he felt guilty about how he had defiled an otherwise peaceful commute for his fellow passengers and decided he was now obligated to protect us oblivious teenage girls from an embarrassing first period of the school day. I wondered if, maybe, he was simply nothing more than the Good Samaritan who had watched this unfortunate exposition take place and was now playing the hero’s role in the story. Whatever the situation, both my friend and I were both grateful that he had raised his emotionless voice to steer us clear of a potentially disgusting fate.

I suppose it doesn’t really matter whose gastronomical fluid was residing on the bus floor. It was not important whether it belonged to the man in the brown jacket or to another transit taker who had since opted to take the scenic route to work. Even though nobody directly accepted the blame for the peach smoothie mistake, there was someone there who was willing to make sure that it did not unnecessarily ruin another person’s day. That monotone man stepped up and avoided a bystander losing their innocence to another stranger’s queasy stomach. I often think about what a wonderful world it could be if there were more of us who acted like Mr. Sludge Guard.

If people were more willing to help their fellow humans avoid potentially mortifying situations instead of silently ill-wishing them to a face-plant in the name of morbid entertainment, I am sure that there would be less war. Of course, America’s Funniest Home Videos would probably have to be taken off the air to achieve this radically pro-social goal, but I am positive that we could all find something better to do with our time than spending it watching crotch shot montages. It is probably true that the world would be a better place if everyone volunteered in their community and donated blood every two months.  Not to repeat another cliché, but it really is the little things that count. The least one could do is to hold the door open for the frantic looking stranger carrying a million bags of groceries in their arms. Failing that, one could at least assist said stranger in picking up their groceries after they explode all over the sidewalk. Pain is funny until it’s your own. It is unnecessary to intentionally inflict it upon another person. Standing by while someone walks into a disaster that you could have prevented leaves you just as guilty as if you were the one to push them into it. We are all in this together, friends. Pay it back. Pay it forward. Contribute in whatever way works best for you. If I ever happen to cross paths with that brown-jacketed man again, you better believe that I will be paying my debt by treating him to a peach smoothie.

Everything Hurts

Hey there, humans!

In case you were wondering where I've been for the last week, I'm just chillin' like a villain in Victoria. You know how I be. Kirsten's cat, Thatcher, and I are having a great time now that we have been temporarily reunited.

I am super sore but oh-so fulfilled after spending the past weekend in Vancouver at LINDY BOUT! What's Lindy Bout, you ask? It's only the largest annual Lindy Hop competition event in Western Canada. NBD. This year was actually my first time attending this glorious event due to the fact that I no longer have to spend the end of April writing a billion finals and crying. Hallelujah. Lindy Bout was amazeballs. The music was fab, the people were super, and I was stoked to compete with not one, but two of my original choreographies for the Team and Short 'n' Sweet divisions. My tap shoes even made it onto the stage into for the first time in ~4 years which was pretty darn cool. I flung my hat somewhere backstage into Narnia, apparently, because it was nowhere to be found when I went to look for it after my number. In typical fashion, the stage felt 980767354095 times more slippery during my actual performance than it did during the floor trials. I almost died. OH WELL. I danced so hard this weekend, not that you would know it from what my broken fitbit recorded... However, I still won my weekend step count contest even though the darn thing only recorded half of my steps. I also didn't even get seriously stomped on until the end of the Sunday night dance, which is honestly the best time to obtain a majorly bruised ankle during a dance weekend.

That's not a shadow; that's a bruise. Ideally, I wouldn't get any body parts annihilated by a hard-heeled dance shoe, but if it has to happen... My feet also hate me now. The only thing that saved my muscles was my daily "stretch your freaking legs, Kate" alarm and the discovery of the hotel Jacuzzi with its miracle jets. Oh, sweet calf massage...

In other news, Kirsten and I ran our first Lindy Hop Switch class last night here in Victoria. It was a successful hour of making mistakes and figuring out fancy role switching moves. We both had a total blast sharing our knowledge with everyone who showed up and we are looking forward to our next workshop which will be taking place in Edmonton near the end of the summer! Check out our website here and the Facebook event here for more info! I promise I will only play "Switch" by Will Smith a reasonable amount of times...

Other than these exciting updates, I'm spending the next weekend back in Vancouver before flying back to the real world on Sunday. All good things must come to an end, I suppose. I've had a great vacation full of dancing, friends, and nearly getting crapped on by a bird. It's been a blast but I'll be glad to get into my regular routine again at home. Fewer birds in Edmonton, you know?

Until the next time!

Love and Swing-Outs!

A Second Cup Of Reflection

Sitting pretentiously by myself next to the window in a coffee shop and reading an old book of personal essays which speculate about the meaning of life, I'm suddenly struck by the sheer number of stories unfolding around me. Is anyone else noticing this too or am I the only one tuned into this channel in this moment? At some point, I've connected what the author of my book was writing about with the episode playing before my eyes right now. 20 something odd years later, I'm doing now exactly what this author must have been doing around the time I was only being born. How much has changed since the days he might have spent sitting in a coffee shop watching people live their lives while they unknowingly shared with him their stories?

Outside the window, an unofficial parade of pick-up truck floats decked out in Oilers paraphernalia is noisily roaring past. People lean out of their windows to cheer and encourage nearby pedestrians to share in their playoff excitement. The last time our city's team made the playoffs, I wasn't even old enough to enter most of the establishments located on Whyte avenue. In fact, I was nothing more than a dorky kid cutting "Go Oilers" into the lawn with scissors as I attempted to find a way to participate in the collective excitement over a sport I didn't, and still don't, care all that much about. Continuing to absorb the energy of the crowd through the large pane of glass, I begin to recall flashes of news images of the riots that engulfed this street following the playoff loss a decade ago. Some mobs revolt for worthwhile causes like political change; drunk and privileged Canadians riot over hockey. I'm realizing that tonight may not have been the best time to embark on a reflective journey in this coffee shop. However, I'm caffeine deprived and I've still got time to kill as the band I want to see doesn't get on stage for another hour and a half. I'm not entirely trusting in my ability to travel unscathed through the impending sea of rowdy fans, but I'm hoping I can go relatively unnoticed while their eyes are glued to an infinite selection of bar TVs. Outside, calmer spring-time couples amble by me hand in hand. A young man leans his bicycle trustingly unlocked against a pole and joins us inside to get himself a cup of coffee. Is anyone outside the window judging me the way that I judge strangers who sit reflectively inside coffee shop windows to write? I've never really understood the appeal of working in a public space until trying it now for the first time. I am beginning to understand how this hum of activity can be both inspiring and conducive to productivity. I am willing to admit my previous judgments about these coffee shop people have been misguided now that I have become one of them. 

Inside, the man sitting just up and to the right of me has pulled out of his backpack, a set of headphones and an iPad, obviously well used but still being carried around in its original packaging. He appears to be watching a drummer's how-to video and following along with his own frantic tapping rhythms on the coffee shop table. Aspiring bongo drummer, perhaps? I am not about to ask now that he has begun to talk to himself. Besides, he probably wouldn't be able to hear me over the coughing noises coming from the man sitting immediately to my right. I'm concerned that this other stranger's lungs sound like they might break free from his chest and escape out from his throat at any moment. Will I be caught in the bodily fluid cross-fire?? Between coughs, he seems to be watching me as I glance over to check on his vital status again. I wonder what, exactly, he has observed other than my distressed facial expressions. Behind these two men, one of the baristas reacts like she has just received the most distressing news ever to land in her ears from the other barista behind the counter. She's crying like she has no awareness of the dozens of customers milling about around her. It's possible she simply doesn't care. Something in her world has been drastically altered, potentially permanently, and the rest of us are continuing on to drink our coffee like nothing has changed. She pauses briefly to bid farewell to the table drumming man, addressing him by his first name. "See you next time!", the baristas call as he waves goodbye. 

As I quietly observe these events occurring in this space, I feel the way I do when I watch a movie. I am an observer trying to piece all of the separate events into the larger puzzle picture. I am noticing things like the excessive number of coffee cups taken from various different coffee shops that a stranger is carrying in his walker basket. Has anyone else observed this or am I the only one wondering why the cups are there and what the man's plans for them are? Did he not have time to find a garbage can or does he collect these treasures like scavenger hunt prizes? Why do I take so much joy in these little moments? Life's truest Easter eggs never fail to make me smile whenever I stumble upon one of them. There is so much we fake about ourselves in front of others that it makes these refreshing seconds of mundane truth even more special glimpses into the reality of our shared human experience. Spending most of my time being disappointed by people, these quiet observances of unfiltered expressions give me hope. Witnessing the raw vulnerabilities of people around me seems to lessen the weight I so often feel in the presence of the evils which are so prevalent in the world. These strangers are as innocent to me as I wish to imagine, so long as I have no more knowledge about their histories and intentions. The realist in me knows there is a danger involved in ignoring these certain kinds of information, but the idealist in me is fulfilled for now. Every so often, it is necessary to indulge the latter to ensure the will to get out of bed still exists by the time the next morning rolls around. 

When I stop to take a break from reading and jotting down bits of my stream of consciousness, I discover a friend's first post of their new blog. As I read it, I think about the fact that everyone is out to tell their own stories. With movies, books, music, dance, writing, poetry, and creations of all kinds, we're all looking for the acknowledgement of our experiences. I am delighted when someone shares their tales with me, as I think most of us usually are. We spend much of our time seeking out storytellers, whether artistically or interpersonally, because it allows us to validate our own thoughts and experiences through those of another. Some people are natural storytellers whereas others prefer to listen. I would consider myself to be a story sharer. When I am quiet in a group, I am likely listening to the stories someone across the room doesn't realize they are telling me. When I nudge your shoulder to say, "look over there", I am extending an invitation to you to share in the story being told in that moment. As much as I love to say, "I hate people", I am often fascinated by others, especially when they are not thinking about being watched. To be the only one who witnesses a stranger stumble over a curb and then look around to determine whether anyone else noticed is to share a unique bond with this person you've never met. You know what they're thinking because you've been there too. Maybe they catch you looking at them, but maybe they don't. If they do, you share a smile that lets them know their secret is safe with you before you both proceed with the rest of your days. Life resides in these moments of understated connections. 

Well, with the not-so-subtle actions of the baristas wiping tables and stacking chairs around me, I can take the hint that the credits are beginning to roll. For now, it is time to leave my front row seat to continue on with the rest of my evening. As much as I have enjoyed taking in the stories of the people around me tonight, I now have the opportunity to share a few of my own on the dance floor. 

Until the next time, 

- Your Friend With The Pen

Back In Blog

Hey there, party people.

It has been quite a while since my last blog post so I've decided to ease back into blogging with some good ol' "weird stuff keeps happening to Kate" (surprise!) story time. This is basically the only time I pretend I'm even remotely funny so, HUMOUR me, if you will. 

Sigh. Not exactly starting off on a high note...

ANYWAY. 

Buckle up. Put on your adult pants. Here we gooooooooooooo. 

So, I've recently discovered that I have stretch marks on my calves. Say what? YEEEUP. Honestly, I'm not upset about it, but also, WHAT THE HELL? I'm not entirely sure whether I've been doing too much tap dancing recently, or if my genes have just failed to allot me enough skin to accommodate my Hercules legs. Either way, I'm a little concerned that it is only a matter of time and a handful of dances before I hulk right through my own skin. My thighs have already burst themselves Alien-style through one pair of pants and are currently making quick work of their next victim. Fortunately for me, my lovely sister was willing to bring me an intact pair of jeans to campus the day I discovered there was a massive hole in the pair I was wearing on my way to work. Gotta love having the kind of sibling relationship where one of you can call up the other to request new pants, meet in a public area, and then do a sketchy-looking trouser transfer while making shifty eye movements and saying things like, "You got the stuff?". All of you people with siblings know what I'm talking about. Life isn't all ripped skin and clothing for me, though. Not to brag, but my massage therapist once told me that I have "well-developed feet". Whoo, sorry. I'll calm down the bragging going on over here. Apparently, it's a common dancer thing..? (Dancers, check your feet and get back to me on that. Let's gather some data). As my mother would explain, I've simply got "a good strong Ukrainian farm girl body built for pulling a plow through a swamp", an ability that is super useful for daily life in this dry city. This is something I hope I never have to attempt. I seriously doubt that being built to do that kind of activity makes it any more enjoyable. In any case, pass the pyrohy. 

For those of you who keep up with my Facebook statuses, you'll know that I nearly attacked a stranger's face with my snow brush the other night. PSA for you all, DON'T SNEAK UP ON PEOPLE ON WHYTE AVENUE. Realistically, you probably shouldn't sneak up on strangers ever, but especially do not walk up behind someone while they are alone, brushing the snow off their car, on Whyte ave, on a Saturday night. Just, no. From the perspective of the guy who nearly had to get new teeth, he was just trying to get into his car which, unfortunately, happened to be parked adjacent to mine. From my perspective, this random dude was approaching me head-on at an alarmingly quick pace to, most likely, hit on me in one way or another. He should be appreciative of the many years of softball I played in my youth because I managed to check my swing in time to avoid crushing his face once I determined that he was not a real threat. Holy smackapoopies, was that ever an unnecessary heart attack. To his credit, he did apologize to me after I lowered my weapon. In response to that, I said, "It's fine. I mean, I almost smashed your face in, but it's fine." At least he owned up when he said, "That's fair. I would have deserved that". Seriously, though, he had a nice face and I would have felt bad if I had shattered it with my ice scraper. This whole charade might have even made for a great "meet-cute" for a romantic comedy. Of course, the universe would have to allow me to have a single non-awkward interaction with a person for that to be a possibility. We all know that won't be happening any time soon. 

This isn't even the first incidence of near-violence against a stranger on Whyte avenue that I have almost initiated. A couple of months ago, I was walking down the street when I heard the sound of running footsteps quickly approaching me from behind. Naturally, I whipped around to face the would-be attacker with a raised fist, prepared to land the first blow before they had a chance to get to me first. To this, the running party yelled out, "It's just me, a woman! I'm just running to get out of the cold!", as she scuttled sheepishly away. GAH. THAT'S GREAT, BUT WOULD YOU MIND NOT RUNNING DIRECTLY TOWARD ME?? I would really love to not punch innocent strangers in the face but people are making it more and more difficult to achieve this goal every day. 

Speaking of awkward encounters, here's a little piece of advice for any of you considering messaging a complete stranger over Facebook messenger: Don't do it. I don't care if you think you're doing them a favour by throwing a random "compliment" their way. 1) You're probably not. 2) They likely don't care what you think about them because they don't know you exist. And 3) You're definitely not as eloquent as you think you are. Rando from who-knows-where, Saskatchewan, sent me an unsolicited Facebook message a few days ago which read, "We don't know each other but I wanted to tell you that you are absolutely stunning." I mean, my profile photo features me in a reindeer onesie. "Cute" would have at least made sense. "Stunning" just made me think he had some weird kinks he was trying to project onto me. No thank you, sir. I replied with, "Please never do this to anyone ever again", because I figured I'd at least try to proactively curb this dude's creepy behaviour to save future women from having to deal with it. However, this is where he made his fatal mistake because he responded by saying, "What, compliment them?" HOO BOY. One more time for the people in the back, UNSOLICITED COMMENTS ABOUT ANOTHER PERSON'S APPEARANCE ARE NOT COMPLIMENTS. I had started off our exchange relatively politely for dealing with someone who evidently had zero respect for me right off the bat. That "compliment" claim will get me every time, though. To deal with his tomfoolery, I made the super mature decision to bombard him with custom-made memes of a child flipping him off to make it clear I don't have a single fuck to give about what a strange internet guy thinks about my face. Gotta say, it was pretty satisfying to outdo him at his own game until he felt forced to block me. Do you like apples, internet dude?  Well, how do you like THEM apples? 

Moving on, my caffeine tolerance is currently approaching an unmanageable level. I'm popping caffeine pills like they're candy and then wondering why I haven't slept in a week and my anxiety levels are through the roof. I put a little sticky note with the word "BREATHE" written on it on my computer monitor so I could have an external reminder to practice breathing properly. While running on pure stimulants, however, I've spent more time angrily glaring at this sticky note, frustrated that I am seemingly only capable of tense, shallow breaths, than I have actually heeding the message I wrote for my own damn self. 

It's funny that I mentioned running on caffeine because I've recently experienced my coffee running away from me. Gripping things with my weak post-sleep hands before the coffee has hit my bloodstream is the most difficult part of my average morning. Holding things while walking in this pre-caffeinated state is basically impossible. Imagine, if you will, zombie-Kate stumbling after her fallen travel mug while it rolls away down the LONGEST FRIGGIN' HALLWAY IN EXISTENCE while dropping other important items along the way. My phone made the decision to jump and got halfway to activating the "Facebook live" feature before I stopped it just in time. The last thing this world needs is documentation of my disastrous ways. Wait a second...

Alright so, before y'all take off on me, I've got a few more serious things to say. I have recently decided to get back into writing on a more serious/regular basis with the intent of actually doing something with it. I mean, do I even have a right to highlight the spelling mistakes of others if I'm not actively writing anything of my own? I think not. So, consider this the light-hearted re-entry blog post to shake off the rust and kick off what will, hopefully, be a coherent series of written work. It is entirely possible that I am simply going to start throwing words at various audiences with no pre-determined plan just to see what sticks. (Lucky you). In any case, expect more blog posts and shoot me a message if there's something you'd like to see me write about. I'm open to collaboration and requests. This also means that I am now accepting offers to create content for your projects! That's right, I occasionally write things that read like they were written by a competent adult. I also edit/revise/proofread things written by other people because it makes me feel good to make other people look good. Do me a favour and help me build a portfolio while doing favours for you! I would also appreciate you all spreading the word that I do things with words throughout your own social networks. Feel free to send me a message and/or tell your friends to send me a message at kdproofreading@gmail.com. Y'all rock!




If you've made it this far, here's a video of me doing the Napoleon Dynamite dance at the PLEX 2017 cabaret in Calgary last weekend. Now you know why I've been so unavailable for the last few months. It's not a great reason, but it's the truth. Honestly, if you've read this entire blog you're probably one of the cool people that has already bothered to watch it/saw it live at PLEX so here's a video of screaming goats for you to enjoy. Also, the rest of the entries in this blog are not a particularly hilarious but some of the entries on my old breakfast blog are chuckle-worthy, if I do say so myself. Check it out if that's what you're looking for. 

Party on, dudes. 

Love Overcomes All

Happy pride month, everyone!

This one is extra special for me because it's the first since I've -drumroll please- officially started identifying as non-heterosexual. Straight up, not straight. Fluid af. Floating all over that spectrum. Actually, I've been telling people that I'm bisexual, but the label is really only a tool of convenience. I'm into who I'm into and I don't think the label matters very much.

But wait, wasn't I telling y'all for a really long time that I was "really straight"? Yep. Thought I was. The funny thing is, I think I was just letting everyone dictate my sexuality for me. Friends, family, society... Everyone told me I was "really straight" whether it was directly or indirectly. (Yes, some people literally told me how "straight" I was.) I dated a long string of boys and men for basically all of my dating life so I can see why this seemingly sudden shift might be confusing to some. I've always been the type to need to try something to know what I'm into. Turns out, I'm into women!

I've always been attracted to strong women. I mean, my favourite movies were and still are Mulan and A League Of Their Own. I've been all about the girl power for as long as I can remember. I truly admire women who live their lives in their own empowering way despite the ridiculous misogyny still so prevalent in our daily lives. My relationships with the amazing women in my life feel truly equal in addition to being incredibly supportive. With that in mind, it's not much of a stretch to think that I might want to seek the same qualities in a romantic relationship where I feel I'm more likely to find them.

However, I've spent a lot of time worrying that people would not believe me when I came out to them. I was worried some people would see it as a phase or just the next step in my "overly dramatic" feminist journey. But it isn't a phase, it isn't a result of my failed relationships with men, and it isn't something I just randomly decided to try out. True, I am thoroughly exhausted from dealing with the toxic masculinity spewing all over our society. And yeah, it did take some thought to get to where I am now. I had to release the inhibitions keeping me from exploring the full extent of my sexuality. Breaking out of the societal pressures that just make it easier to be straight was difficult. Even I had trouble at first believing that I could be anything other than heterosexual. I had spent most of my life comparing myself to other women which just made it simpler to be with men who didn't evoke feelings of envy related to body image. Nobody would stare at me if I was holding hands with my partner in public. I didn't have to constantly restate my sexual orientation because people just assumed I was straight. Coming to the realization that these things were limiting me felt like finally releasing a part of myself I had been inhibiting my entire life. I now feel free to love who I want without being ashamed of their gender. After all, does it make sense to limit yourself to one favourite colour when you can love the entire rainbow?

I'm so lucky to have so many kickass people in my life that have hardly blinked an eye at my transition from heterosexuality to my now label-less self. Some expected it or saw it coming. ("Well, you stopped shaving your legs and wearing bras...It wasn't exactly a surprise." -- Thanks Kirsten). Like I said, it seemed like an obvious next step in my feminist journey, a journey that I know not all have taken very seriously up to this point. However, I'm very grateful to have so many awesome people in my life that have taken me seriously and were nothing less than stoked to meet my new girlfriend. It was a relief how easy it was to say to these people, "hey, this is who I'm dating now", and for them to accept it without skipping a beat. (Get it? Because most of them are dancers! HAHAHAHAHAHA!).  But seriously, it gives me hope that people eventually won't have to "come out" anymore as we work toward accepting something other than heterosexuality as our norm.


To you people actually reading this, you are the people who really matter. Sharing my story through writing seemed like the most fitting way for me to get it out there while avoiding multiple awkward interactions where I say things that don't make any sense. So, thanks for sticking around! Please, feel free to talk to me about any of this and I'll do my best not to make it awkward!

Happy pride month, everyone! Love overcomes all!

Broken System, Broken Logic

Obligatory mention of the Johan Ghomeshi trial results as a segue into this next rant.

What the hell is wrong with society?

Let's just start with the fact that the false report rate for sexual harassment and assault is about the same as the false report rate for most other types of crime (ie. ~2%). When you consider the tiny percentage of actually reported sexual assaults (~11%), the number of people claiming falsely that they are a victim of sexual assault is actually much smaller than other crimes. However, because this type of crime is mostly reported by women, obviously it deserves more scrutiny. SHOCKING. We've found another way to diminish the credibility of women and exert social control over the least important half of the population through the court system.

Does anyone actually ever think about how illogical that is?? Yes, it seems SO WORTH IT to make up a fake sexual assault claim just to go through a long/humiliating/degrading court process where your every decision and clothing item is dissected and laid out in plain sight for the public, you'll probably be the target even more violent/sexual harassment via MRAs on the internet as a result, a male judge will condescendingly blame you for being the victim of a crime, and the case won't even go your way. SOUNDS LIKE SO MUCH FUN.

Let me tell you about my experience with the justice system. After being stalked and harassed for several months by someone who made it his personal mission to destroy my life through vicious comments, creepy notes, manipulative pleas to my friends/family, and physical assaults, I finally decided to get some official help.

This involved me taking time off work, only to listen to the judge nitpick at my frantic handwriting in front of the entire court, deal with the unhelpful counter clerks who gave zero shits about whether or not my restraining order got filed properly, spend the buttload of money it cost to get a process server (because police officers can't deal with anything that is "only a civil matter"), get a response affidavit served on me while at work, and then go to court and stand 3 feet away from the person I was trying to get as far away from as possible while the old, white, male judge FUCKING STARTED GIVING HIM LEGAL ADVICE because I guess a man's right to harass me trumps my safety???

(Oh, and shout out to the old white dude who spent 20 minutes obliviously ranting to me about "suing an entire town because yadda yadda something business related" while I was literally having an anxiety attack because I was there trying to deal with my own silly girl problem of being stalked... REALLY glad we had that chat...)

Only after the other party stuck his foot in his mouth and revealed himself to be OBVIOUSLY less credible than me, did I get the 6 month restraining order. And then I got to go through the fun process of re-filing everything with those previously-mentioned clerks and, lucky me, RE-SERVING HIM WITH THE OFFICIAL ORDER BECAUSE HE LEFT BEFORE WE COULD DO IT AT THE COURT. So, instead of having someone mail it to him (logical right?), I had to find someone to serve him with it AGAIN for it to be enforceable by police. And even that didn't really give me much peace of mind. If he had broken the terms of the protective order, it would still have been on me to call the police and hope like hell that I had the document on me so that they could actually make an arrest.

And let me tell you, I think it's absolutely cruel to force a person to make the decision to either pay for a process server (again) or ask someone they know to serve a document to a person known for impulsivity and aggression.

I would have much rather dealt with my harasser outside of the justice system. But you can bet that I would be facing way harsher legal consequences if I had so much as laid a finger on him than he received after all of the legal hoops I jumped through to do it the "right way". This won't even show up on his record. He's involved as an authority figure in communities that have no idea what his past is like and how deeply he's manipulating them to get what he wants.

The system is broken. When we work harder to protect the rights of perpetrators than we do to ensure the safety of victims, something is wrong. I didn't even have to deal with the victim-blaming questions related to what I was wearing, if I was drinking, how I might have led him on, etc. and I will never willingly bring another grievance to court. So, expect those ridiculously small percentages of reported sexual assaults to get even smaller because unless we fix this clusterfuck of a system, you're not going to find people wanting to willingly endure that torture for absolutely no benefit. And that IS (unfortunately) logical.

Christmas Time Shenanigans

The Dawsons put up our Christmas tree this evening which can mean only a handful of things...

1) I've already dropped and/or broken at least one ornament
2) My sister and I have fought over hanging an ornament on the same tree branch simultaneously
3) The cats have started batting the "soft" ornaments at the bottom of the tree
4) The dog is sleeping underneath the tree while we try to work around him
5) We've had a hearty laugh at my sister's famous nude ornament
6) We're all wondering where the disco spider ornament came from

The best dialogue of the night has been awarded to Maddie for this gem:

Maddie: *Setting up the nativity scene* "WHERE'S BABY JESUS??"
Mom: "What do you mean, 'where's baby Jesus?'???"
Maddie: " There's a manger, but no baby!"
Mom: "Jesus is in the manger, idiot."
Maddie: "Oh...I was looking at it upside down." *turns manger toward us so we can see* "DOES THAT NOT LOOK LIKE A BABY HOLE TO YOU????"
............
 Mom: "Who's baby hole have you been looking at??"

 Couldn't have written that better if I had tried. 

Happy holidays, everyone!