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Valentine’s Day is bullshit. Except for chocolates. I’ll take those.

11 Feb


So the mathematical wizards over at Jezebel have worked out a formula that determines how much money one has to spend on Valentine’s Day to ensure sex with a paramour happens. The ladies are not just handy with numbers, people, they are wordsmiths, too. Sex is described as “going to Poundtown”. How romantic.


This comes in the form of dinner and presents and presumably one should bring either a calculator or the receipts in order to determine if the correct amount of cash has been outlaid to secure sex.


And needless to say, this is the MAN buying sex from a WOMAN. Split the bill on VDay?!? Surely you jest. That’s not the kind of equality women are interested in. No, sir. On VDay, dudes spend their money and ladies spread their legs.

We should just start calling it Vagina Day and be done with it.

I’ve never been one to get overly excited about Valentine’s Day and not because I’m a cynical bitch who is too clever to fall for a commercial holiday crafted by chocolate makers, florists and greeting card companies. I think that’s a pretty stupid objection, actually. St, Patrick’s Day, Halloween, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, hell even Christmas and Easter are pretty much just straight up commercial holidays, and who cares?

They’re fun!

No, my principal lack of interest in Valentine’s Day stems from the fact that to me, it feels like a children’s holiday. Cinnamon hearts and pink cupcakes and exchanging Valentine’s at school and making hearts out of doilies and red and pink construction paper. It’s lovely and fun and sweet and poignant, but it just seems like something CHILDREN do.


In our house, I’m not the one who gets in to Valentine’s Day.


I’ve already told you the story of how I came to be in possession of a diamond engagement ring, but I also happen to be the owner of several other pieces of jewellery, all gifts from Mr. JB.

pearl diving

True story: When Mr. JB was a young man, working in Japan, he went on a tour of the famous Miki Moto Pearl Diving Facility and watched the divers harvest pearls and ate oysters and had romantic thoughts about the wife he had yet to meet. He wanted her to have pearl earrings to wear on her wedding day, so he purchased two matching, glossy pearls and set them aside for his one-day bride.


We met in August, and by February, we both knew that we had found our life partners. So for our first Valentine’s Day, he had those pearls set and I found them under my pillow in the morning. Under his pillow, actually. We spent the night in his room. On a single bed. Christ, we must have been in love!

single bed

I did not wear them until our wedding day. I’m not good at keeping track of my things, so I gave the pearls back to him for safe-keeping, and I’ve only worn them a handful of times since. The thought of losing them makes me feel ill, so they live in my jewellery box, safe and sound.

At one point, Mr. JB ended up with Dr.K in Thailand, and he purchased a beautiful blue sapphire for this bride he had yet to meet, so she could wear “something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue”. I found the sapphire under my pillow on our second Valentine’s Day together.


So much for the idea that men don’t spend any time thinking about their wedding day. The amount of minutes I have dedicated in my entire life to pondering my nuptials: ZERO. Never gave it a thought. I thought about being married, but the wedding didn’t capture my imagination at all.

Valentine’s Day just seems to bring out the poet in Mr. JB, and not the one that writes limericks.

And I suppose that’s how I feel about Valentine’s Day, in general. If it’s a day you genuinely enjoy, that feels romantic, feels like a celebration of love, then by all means, carry on and have fun. Caveat: the person who cares about the day should foot the bill for it.


But if it’s just a cynical, opportunistic and narcissistic way to cast yourself as the Princess in your own fairytale, then I’m not so much into it. If you’re going to be a sulky cow and insist that your boyfriend/husband ruck up that $218 dollars, you’re not celebrating love, you’re celebrating prostitution.

And hey, why not? Go for it.


Nothing wrong with a little VDay prostitution, but don’t pretend it’s about love, unless by love, you mean “$218”.


As always, I will find a thoughtful, lovely present under my pillow on February 14th and a romantic card with a handwritten sentiment. And in exchange, I will give Mr. JB his favorite present. The one money can’t buy.

Oh wait. Scratch that. Money can buy it. From this gorgeous lady, for one.


But Mr.JB prefers to get his at home.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Lots of love,


A young woman has collapsed in the snow. Do you leave her there to freeze to death A) because you’re a racist piece of shit; or B) because she’s a hooker; or C ) all of the above

29 Jan

Hey, remember that time I got mistaken for a hooker?

So yesterday afternoon, I was walking to the shopping district, not right along the strip but a few streets over because I wanted to cross a little footbridge and stop to admire the river frozen in an embrace of willows crusted with snow.


It’s so pretty!

At the far end of the footbridge, I came across a young woman collapsed unconscious in a bank of snow. She was wearing jeans and trainers, a light grey bomber jacket and a hoodie.  No mittens and no hat. Dressed marginally, but not appropriately for the weather. Oh, she was also clearly part of racial group that doesn’t get a lot of good press around these parts.

How did she come to be in the snow?  I have no idea.  It looked like a substance abuse issue, but I left the house without my toxicology kit, so I couldn’t be sure.  Maybe she was hit by a car and had been tossed into the snow.  Maybe she had some kind of health issue and had come to see the pretty river, just like me, and had collapsed.  Maybe she was seriously injured under that bomber jacket.  I couldn’t tell.

And neither could the other three people who walked by me, looked at the woman in the snow, and just kept walking.


Jesus Christ, people!  This isn’t Manhattan!  This is a small town, where we supposedly care about each other!

The probability is that the young woman was drunk or drugged out of her mind, she was dressed lightly because she is a sex worker on the strip and she had passed out in the middle of the day.  Regardless of any of the above, do you know what happens when people fall unconscious into snow?


I called for an ambulance, obviously.  And I stayed beside her, waiting.  She was too big for me to move out of the bank and onto the footpath, and I didn’t think that was a good idea anyways, in case she was injured.  After a few moments, a large black SUV pulled up and two uniformed police officers got out, and they asked me if I had made the call.

“Yes,” I told them, “but I called for an ambulance, not the police!”  Turns out that someone else had seen the woman in the snow and had called the POLICE and then just left her there.

Let’s see.  A young woman has collapsed into a snow bank, she is unconscious and at a very real risk of dying from hypothermia and YOU CALL THE POLICE and then just walk away?


I hate when people say “never judge someone else until you have walked a mile in their shoes”.  Oh, bullshit. I can judge everyone and everything, and I do, obviously.

Watch this: whoever saw a young, inappropriately dressed young woman passed out in the snow, called the POLICE and then walked away:  YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE.  I don’t give a shit what you’ve been through.

Judging other people for the stupid, thoughtless, selfish, cruel, idiotic things they do doesn’t come at the expense of their humanity.  No matter who you are, and what you’ve done, I will pretty much assume it doesn’t warrant a death penalty (I don’t think ANYTHING warrants a death penalty, but that’s another story) and if I come across you in a snowbank, I will call an ambulance.  And I will stay beside you until I know you are safe.

So what happened?  Why did normally caring people turn into a pack of heartless bastards when they saw this woman?  Her racial background had something to do with it, I’m sure.  The assumption (probably reasonable) that she was a hooker had even more to do with it. Add to that the guess that she was either drunk or high and suddenly no one gives a shit if she lives or dies.


That’s a lot of issues all tangled up together.  Her racial identity, her occupation, her addictions.  Just another dead hooker.

The common narrative around sex workers is that they are victims in need of rescuing, and plenty of sex workers are pushing back against that description.  “Nothing for us without us” is the rallying cry.  I’ve argued before stigma is what really hurts sex workers, and that addicted, trafficked, poor sex workers are a problem because they are addicted, trafficked and poor, not because they are sex workers.


It  turns out that sex workers ARE victims.  Victims of a society that doesn’t care if they live or die.  Victims of cruel contempt, and utter indifference.  They live in a world that will walk past them on a cold, snowy day and leave them to freeze.  And that sword is double edged.  When the world stops caring about the most vulnerable among us, we have shattered ourselves.

Your own soul is nourished when you are kind; it is destroyed when you are cruel.

King Solomon

Calling out people for being idiots, as I do on this blog isn’t cruel.  Walking past a young woman freezing to death in the snow?  That’s cruel.  And yes, I’ll judge you for that, and not in a nice way, either.  I’ll be a right bitch about it.

Lots of love,


I went to college and there aren’t enough men! Wah! I stayed home and there are too many men! Wah! Jesus, bitches, could you pick one?

17 Jan


So, the always lovely, always articulate Amanda Marcotte has a new post up at Slate’s XX blog about how much it sucks to live in a town with men.

Amanda 5

Apparently, there is an oil patch in North Dakota (who knew?!) and since working in an oil patch is scrubby, dirty, physically demanding work, there are a whole bunch of men about!  Interesting that Amanda doesn’t touch that little nugget, isn’t it?  Let’s see, shitty, dirty, strenuous , back-breaking labor – of course men are doing it!  For six figure incomes.

oil patch 7

Nope, Amanda just lets that slide.  What she wants to talk about is NOT the fact that the world’s most difficult, demanding work is done by men, but rather the fact that these men SUCK.  They move to small towns, where the work happens to be, in small Northern States (with “conservative” cultures) and suddenly whammo, blammo!  They’re ENTITLED to treat women as garbage.  And by garbage she means “notice” and “try to talk to”, which, as we all know, is what no woman wants ever. Especially not Amanda. (Hey, maybe she’s a lesbian?  I don’t know.  In which case, of course she doesn’t want men to talk to her and oops, my bad.  I really have no idea, though.)

amanda 1

[Men sucking is] a result of the heavily transitory population that comes with oil fields and the highly conservative culture of rural North Dakota, where men feel entitled to treat women like garbage in a way they don’t feel—or can’t express, at least—in places where “feminism” is actually thought to be a good thing.

Why, you fuckers!

oil patch 1

If the abundance of (crappy) men in small towns comes as a surprise to women dwelling in cities or on college campuses, well, that’s because you ladies have the RIGHT SORT of men, there’s just not enough of them.

And the sisterhood of sluttiness means that the RIGHT SORT of men don’t have to settle down with any one woman when all the vaginas are theirs for the taking!

Oh my.  Well this is a right mess, isn’t it?  Go to the cities, and there are not enough men.  Stick to the countryside, and all the men suck.  What is a lady to do?

Amanda 3

Amanda’s article is a perfect example of HYPERGAMY, (colloquially referred to as “marrying up”) – the act or practice of seeking a spouse of higher looks, socioeconomic, caste or status than oneself.

oil patch 6

These oil patch lads, well, they have money, and the work keeps them in fairly good physical shape, but they just don’t have the STATUS a proper feminist wants. Most of them probably haven’t even BEEN to college. Sure, they know to weld and fit a rigging and understand how couplings work, but I’ll bet they have never even heard of Monique Wittig and they have no idea how completely irrelevant they are!

What these men are is, well, MEN.  These do not look like the sort of essay-writing, feminist-leaning, soft-bodied boys you find on college campuses.  They do not appear to be the sort of men willing to put up with a lot of shit.  You spend a day on an oil rig, and I highly doubt you have plans to come home and negotiate who will be microwaving Lean Cuisine for dinner.  Men who do men’s work (and oil rig workers ARE men) expect to be treated like men, and to act like men, and that right there is what gets Amanda all in a tizzy.

Amanda 6

There is one group of women who really, really love oil patch workers:  prostitutes.  Now there is a group of women who understand what men want and they are willing to provide it.  For cash.  And good for them.


Amanda doesn’t like competing on those terms. And she doesn’t want other women competing on those terms, either.

Amanda 4

Hmm.  I wonder why?  If men can simply buy sex, then women who are interested in something more will have to offer something more!

Ladies, don’t let Amanda scare you!  Methinks the lady has a bad case of “I WISH men would hit on me”. There is nothing wrong with small towns, nothing wrong with men who work dirty jobs (for lots of money!), and the idea that men who live in small towns feel entitled to treat women like garbage is just straight up slander.

Here’s my advice:  leave Amanda to her cat.  They look happy together.

Amanda 2

If you have something more to offer men than just your pussy and a bucket of sneering contempt, load up your car and head for North Dakota.  And forget about wearing white for a while.  Crude oil is hell to get out.


Lots of love,


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