I, Attention Whore

But enough about me because this post is about Jordan Peterson, Attention Whore Writ Large.

And it's a short one because I've finally figured out what his problem is - he's a victim of his own binary thinking.

I know, ironic much?

The thing is, while lots of things can be true at once in the real world, in internet arguments they can't be, not at all. We're individuals out there where we live our lives, but either/or stereotypes in here where we argue about how we're living them. And for Jordan, men are all born to be Hank Rearden (from Ayn Rand's fourth and final novel, Atlas Shrugged, which I read and loved when I was a teenager), and if not for Feminists they all would be, while women were all born to be - not Dagny Taggart - but Hank Rearden's wife and/or secretary.

And again, if not for Feminists, we all would be, the wind beneath Hank Rearden's sails, as it were.

Except, I was raised by a single parent, a widow, and a Feminist, and I could see quite clearly by the time I was old enough to go to school, that she was freer to live her life without her Hank Rearden husband than any of my friends' mothers were with their Hank Rearden husbands.

And Gram, who came to live with us, was the wind beneath my mom's sails, keeping the home fires burning while my mom was out and about in the world, living life like a, like a man!

Oh and didn't all my friends' dads not like it. And they'd bravely tell little girl me so, too. Although not my mom because she could shrivel their balls up so far they'd get stuck in their throats.

Of course, being an idiot, that important lesson in life escaped me, the one about living freer without a man than with one, and so, clock atickin', I roped me a man off from the herd, got us married, and made us three children.

And ffs you'd think by his behaviour that he'd had no choice in any of it.

Anyway, it was while reading a recent article by 90s "Prozac IT Girl" Elizabeth Wurtzel, who recently discovered that the man she thought was her biological father wasn't, and ends with her realizing that mother wanted to be a single mom, that I had the breakthrough I want to share with you, dear reader.

Imagine that, I thought for a moment, a woman admitting to wanting to be a single mom. Which was exactly when I realized, "OMG! That's what I should do, too, admit to wanting to be a single mom!"

I realize in quotation marks.

And that, I'm guessing, makes me the worst kind of woman imaginable to Jordan Peterson. So, while I'm admitting stuff on the internet, I may as well admit that I don't really give a shit what Jordan Peterson or ANY man thinks of me now.

This turning sixty in 2019 is going to be fun.

Plumber Butt Blues

So we're alive, but now we know why plumbers make so much money.

We also know how to install a new kitchen faucet. Which is so easy peasy we didn't even need our hurtin' neighbour to walk us through it. What we needed our hurtin' neighbour for was to remove a mother fucker of a rusty bolt from the old kitchen faucet, under the sink, in a small obstructed space that even itty bitty me found a challenge to work in - upside down and inside out as one must.

That upside down and inside out effort actually had me feeling nauseous at one point and I had to lie on the cool kitchen floor for several minutes while it passed. Too soon after lunch to do the plumber's limbo.

I will never titter about plumber's crack again.

I am not a delicate human, either, if that's what you're thinking.

Anyway, we tried, My Blond Companion and I, but what that mother fucker of a rusty bolt needed was a combination of brute strength, delicate touch, and former car mechanic intuition/experience that we've come to rely on in our neighbour, who, as I've said, is hurtin'.

Or WD40, which we do not currently have.

Alarmingly, when I finally threw in the towel (which was under the sink as directed in the out of date repair book we were using), and went next door to get some WD40, my hurtin' neighbour didn't have any, either.

Now, it's actually a little odd for non-handy us not to have any WD40, but for our neighbour not to have any WD40 is, "hm... okay... what fresh hell is this..." territory. And it's terrible but, WD40-less and hurtin' or not, I decided to stand my ground in his house until he volunteered to come over and fix mine.

And he did, using tools that, had we used them instead of persevering with a particular wrench that wasn't cutting it, we maybe could have done, too. But then he hung around because he wanted to and walked us through the installation of the new kitchen faucet - as I knew he would - and we now have a non-leaking brand new kitchen faucet installed.

So now, and this is terrible of me, I know, but now I'm looking around to see what else will need repair/replacement soon. Because that not having any WD40 thing is very disturbing. We're already trying to step it up re snow removal in our shared walkway, etc, because he's not able to do it.

And it's not like he doesn't want to do it. In fact, he's dyin' to do it. The problem is, he can't do it.

Anyway, it all made me think about the people we meet along the way and how our circumstances change over time, so that no matter how independently we think we've been living so far in our lives, we are eventually, inevitably, dependent on others to help us through.

And then this morning I came across the article below in Slate that someone had posted on Facebook and it pretty much sums it up (for me) what our mutual and collective problem really is when it comes to politics these days.

Childish masculinity and the women who love it.

Childish Masculinity Running the World 

Merry What?

 Christmas? What the fuck is Christmas?

There. I've made my annual Christmas joke which you are free to steal if and when the mood strikes. It's a paraphrase of something my earlier life sister-in-law said to my earlier life mother-in-law one Easter.

M-in-L: "So I ran into Mrs. Crestfallen in the IGA and she asked me what I was serving for Easter - ham or turkey. And I said I just didn't know. Maybe I'd even serve a roast beef. So here we are eating roast beef for Easter dinner."

S-in-L: "You should have said, 'Easter? What the fuck is Easter?'"

Oh how we all laughed. Good people from my earlier life.

Minus one!

Otherwise, I'm trying my gosh golly darned best not to criticize this most stupid time of the year, when people use all their free time driving around to malls so they can buy more stuff for their already over-stuffed lives.

Just, please - spare a thought for our retail workers (of the ever expanding precariat wasteland that is our economy now). Because the holiday season for retail workers just means a shit ton more work for the same pay, one statutory holiday off, followed by one statutory holiday on that's, yes, time and a half, but also a shit ton more work on top of the shit ton more work for the same pay they've been doing for weeks.

Thank you, o great union leaders, for your past contributions.

But wtf have you done for us lately, eh? You're never going to organize the retail/service sector so get us a basic annual income instead and let the multinational corporate bloodsuckers figure it out when nobody shows up to work to sell their shitty crap made by political prisoners in China.

And by the way, maybe clam up about bringing us the weekend in your Labour Day promos because that's when a lot of people are at work serving the much better paid 5 day week 9-5ers. Yeah, we get it, the only jobs worth having are unionized. But have you tried to get one lately? No. So just STFU about weekends, 'kay?

It's almost 2019. Get with the now.

And yes, I cover all this in "That Looks Good on You - You Should Buy It", soon to be complete with illustrations and then, well, I don't really know much about publishing. Publishing is the murky grey zone in this venture.

Hey, union leaders, do something useful and get my book published for me!

Thanks!

By the way, is it just me or have you, too, noticed that Christmas People (and my sincere apologies if you are one - come back in 2019 and I'll be a better person, I promise) act like wishing someone a Merry Christmas in this imaginary "War on Christmas" is a subversive act, like they're Victor Laszlo leading a rousing rendition of La Marsellaise in Rick's cafe while the Nazis squirm about uncomfortably.

Speaking of which, you know who loved Christmas? NAZIS!

I mean, Geez Louise, give it up, Christmas People. The public service office I'm currently a temp in is festooned with Christmas regalia, absolutetootily festooned - decorated lit up Christmas trees, holy looking Santas, a fridge full of chocolate eggnog.

Yes, you read that right. Chocolate eggnog. Try that with rum and see what happens, kids.

Oh, and whose responsibility is it to make sure the Christmas lights are turned off at the end of the day?

You guessed it, mine.

Christ, give me Ramadan any day.

Oh shit, I bet I just ended up on a no-fly list. Never mind. Forget I said anything.

Also, I do like a decorated lit up Christmas tree. It reminds me of my first encounter with Harry Dean Stanton, who was in my favourite Christmas movie that I haven't seen in thirty years, One Magic Christmas, but Repo Man before that.

Hey, Merry Christmas, eh? Here's to many more if we don't get ourselves blown to smithereens next week.

Anise Seed, Anise Seed, Whither Art Thou, Anise Seed

I was sort of kinda planning to keep the whole Trump thing out of my blog but I find it too aggravating that people are arguing on social media about what instead of why re the Mobster-in-Chief's announcement that he is pulling US troops from Syria (where I didn't think the US was particularly invested anyway, but whatever).

But the lectures from our Brocialist Betters on social media about the resigning US defence secretary, Jim Mattis, being a Mad Dog o' War aren't helping me keep the whole Trump thing out of my blog as much as they may think, if they think of me and My Blog! My Blog! at all.

Alas, knee hit, knee jerk - whether they do or not, and I guess they don't since they've mostly unfriended me elsewhere and have no idea I'm pontificating here.

So yes, we know, Brocialist Betters, we know. Oh how we know how right you are about the imperialist United States. Please, add another gold star to your Portfolio of Rightness.

Wait, what? The US has a history of raining death and destruction upon countries halfway across the world (from it - home to the dead and destroyed) and then deciding too many American lives have been sacrificed in the effort and pulling out, leaving any living "allies" it may have left among the dead and destroyed to be slaughtered by whoever the new enemy is now?

Do tell, Brocialist Betters, do tell.

But wait, hang tight there for a second. I just need to settle this listening expression on my face while I make a grocery list in my head.

There. Okay. You were saying?

Anise seed for my shortbread cookies. Dammit, where the hell can I get some anise seed? I've been to three grocery stores already (on foot, too, so you can imagine my desperation!) and NO ANISE SEED!

Help! I I Need Somebody!

Not just anybody.

You.

Here's my problem, which, now that I really stop and write about it, I realize, is your problem, too.

I'm an empathetic control freak. But I'm an empathetic control freak who doesn't know how anything works.

So, we, you and I, need two things from you:

1) Run everything properly, and
2) Don't ask me to help.

Anything else is sadistic of you, really.

The Pedestrian Party

As you can see by the title of the post I've decided to enter politics with a double entendre.

Not right now, though, because I have a temp assignment that goes into the New Year a bit and I find that at almost sixty I can either work for money or do things that interest me. But I can't do both. Also, before I can get The Pedestrian Party organized to storm city hall and seize power (because clearly democracy is a bust), I need to figure out how to knit a cowl, learn how to make my own bread (because I don't even really like hipster bakery bread now), and write a second book.

I know, I know. You're asking yourself, "Does the world really need another book, Kathryn McLeod?"

Well yes. Because once The Pedestrian Party storms city hall and seizes power everyone will need something to read on their public transit commute to work and back home again. And don't worry about needing a car for trips to the mall, either, because The Pedestrian Party will seize all the malls and turn them into drop-in care centers for all of us who need a little extra care while the world burns.

But speaking of climate change, as I took my daily walk a couple of weeks ago at lunchtime I overheard the following from a couple of eggheads trudging along in front of me.

"So they're forecasting 19 centimetres of snow."
"Yabbut how do they know it's going to be 19 centrimetres and not 18 or 20?
"Modelling."
"Oh."

So avoid getting caught unawares and pencil it into your journal now: The Pedestrian Party.

Baby It's Cold Outside

But not that cold.

Still, you probably shouldn't drive after knocking back half a dozen of my Ladies Night Specials.

I know! Good, eh? But they really sneak up on you. That's why I always stop after one. I keep forgetting about your drinking problem. Anyway, I'm okay to drive so how be I take you home, drive back here, and we can sort out the car thing tomorrow. You could stay here but I know how gross it is to wake up hungover in someone else's place. Ugh. It's just the worst. They don't want you there, you don't want to be there. So awkward. Here, have a glass of water now, another when you get home. No, just do it. Trust me. Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate. Meanwhile, I'd better get you an extra sweater for the trip. Why do women wear flimsy sleeveless dresses in the middle of winter? Look at me. I'm wearing long johns under my jeans and a fleece-line hoodie over a flannel shirt. Please don't throw up on the sweater. My mom made it for me and she can't knit anymore so that's the only sweater of hers I'm likely to get now. You know what? Just keep it. You'll take better care of it than I will and it'll be super cozy. You're going to love having it this winter. Especially if you're not going to get that extra insulation put in. I think you should, myself. I find your place cold and I'm never cold. Shit. I am so sorry about this. Don't hate me in the morning. Hey, you know what? I'll bring breakfast when I return the car. Get some protein and carbs in you. You'll be back up on that horse in no time. I promise. Just. Please don't throw up, please don't throw up, please don't throw up.

Oh dear. No, no. I'm glad it happened before you put on the sweater. I know! So much better. Don't worry. I'll deal with this when I get back. Now bundle up, Drunkie. We're taking you home!

The Committee

I live in a community that operates with a democratically elected committee to head our housing association, a committee I've been on before and may end up on again.

Why?

Because I got curious and answered my phone when it sang.

Where is my mentor to teach me how to navigate this life without answering my phone when it sings?

But backing it up for those of you new to the term, a committee for a housing association is more or less like a board for a condominium except that housing associations have fewer common elements and aren't covered by the Condominium Act.

Trust me, one man's "red tape" is another woman's "We Need Some Kind of Regulatory Guidance Over Here - STAT!"

In our case we only have two common elements: 1) roofs, and 2) parking lots. The thing is, since one of our two elements is parking lots, we may as well own each other's everything for all the likelihood there will ever be peace among neighbours. That's because parking lots are for cars and people love their cars way more than they even like their neighbours, if they even like their neighbours at all, which they don't. That's because, thanks to cars, everybody hates everybody.

Forget road rage. That's just a one off. Parking lot rage is forever. And our particular community, built in the '50s as public housing and sold off as is in the '90s to the people living in them, we have feuds going back seventy years.

Seventy years of raging at each other over parking.

And their neighbours' visitors. Oh man, don't get me started on how much they hate their neighbours' visitors. Why? Because every member of a housing association believes themselves to be the exception to the rule that visitors' parking is for visitors only - not homeowners or their tenants - visitors. Only. And that visitor is taking up parking meant for them, and by them they mean their wife's car or their son's car or a car they're parking for a friend.

A second vehicle, as it were.

But one parking spot, people - that's what you agreed to when you bought your house - one parking spot.

Anyway, the irony of me ever being on the committee in the first place is that we (My Blond Companion, whom I shall reference here on occasion, and I) don't even own a car. But it was early days and one of those rare annual general meetings where there's not just quorum, there's a mob wanting to toss out the old committee and elect a new one.

I fell for it. Flattered. Like a fool. And it was four nightmarish years of horribleness with a year off and then another nightmarish year of horribleness that ended with me stacking my ridiculous pile of documents and walking out of the annual general meeting.

Then I resigned.

And when I did it felt great because I told myself that I was leaving everything behind well in hand.

Except, if I was leaving everything behind well in hand, why did I walk out of an AGM and then resign?

Ah yes, it all came back to me as I ended the call.

So here I am. Just back from walking the dog and oh so casually popping in on an old adversary whose life I'd like to ruin by asking him to join me on - dunh dunh dunh duhhh - The Committee.

Yeah, I'll keep you posted.