From the Highs of Dressing Like a Dude, to the Lows of Dressing for the Office: My Year in Fashion Rehab

It was approximately six months ago when I found myself shuffling through the grocery store wearing camo-print pajama pants. Witness accounts may claim I was making a Honey Boo Boo, Mama-June, bingo face while humming Kim Mitchell's Go For a Soda, and I will neither deny those statements, nor feel ashamed of their possible validity.


 Mama-June makes BINGO FACE.


However, I did break a cardinal rule: I wore my pajama pants in public and came closer to becoming a Red Deerian.

There are lots of reasons why I stopped caring, the main reason being the nature of my former job which enabled me to spend six, luxurious years dressing like a dude. I also experienced a change in my life priorities when I became serious about my writing. Superficial shit like dressing myself fell to the way side, and disturbing past times like discontinuing to shave my legs to see how hairy they could get just seemed right.

When I started my current job a little over a year ago, I was thrust into a world where a certain standard of presentability was expected. Having a history of innately rebelling against superficial codes of conformity, my initial response was to freak out, flail, and find some way to stick it to somebody, or something, somewhere. While I had no choice but to adhere to wearing casual office attire, I decided the best way for me to RESIST! was to continue to dress like a dude. Except now I would dress like a classy dude.

My mother, who stood by me as I travelled this tumultuous journey, was supportive, and she suggested I model my new wardrobe after Ellen.

Ellen DeGeneres.



I was receptive to Mom's suggestion; Ellen is undeniably handsome. But when I stood in front of the mirror clad in loafers and a dress shirt that screamed TESTICLES!, I realized it wasn't dressing like a dude that I liked.


I wanted to dress like a  sixteen year old skateboarder circa 1995.



No, wait. That's not entirely correct.

I didn't just want to dress like a vintage, sixteen year old skateboarder, I wanted to dress like the love child of a skateboarder who had immaculately conceived a bum-baby with a lumberjack bear named Biff.



I officially crossed Classy Dude off my fashion inspiration board, and I accepted the fact that my best bet was to resort back to dressing like a heterosexual woman.



Those who met me within the last six years will be surprised to learn that at one point I had style. Now that I was re-entering the world of chick-wear, I realized that I had lost all sense of my fashion coordinates and was walking in circles like a runway model at a People of Wal-Mart fashion show. I also realized that the people in my life didn't actually love me, because if they did, I would have already been on a flight to New York City to get therapeautically belittled by Stacy and Clinton in the 360 degree mirror.

After the trials and errors of learning how to dress myself as a teen, from posing as a 65 year old, Frasier loving male, to eventually dressing like an underage, Russian prostitute, I did come to develop a strong understanding of the shape of my body and the importance of enhancing my silhouette. Now I didn't know shit. While the general shape of my body remained, I was ten to fifteen pounds heavier. It wasn't that I disliked my curvier dimensions, I just didn't know what to do with them. As small town, shopping mall fashion desperately attempted to swoon the teen market, it seemed as though they had overlooked women with curves, aside from (maybe?) the plus-sized niche, but I'm confident that many plus sized women could write a 30-page essay for the Journal of Why Can't They Make Cool Shit That Flatters My Figure, Too?

For the first few months of the new job I hobbled around in ill-fitting, business-casual attire that swaddled my soul like a death cloth. But that wasn't the worst of it. For the first time in my life I not only experienced what it was like to sit at attention in an office chair for eight hours a day, but I also experienced the pain of sitting in stiff, tight fitting pants that wedgied around my crotch, battering my porkchop as if I had been a victim in a Toddler With a Bat reel on America's Funniest Home Videos.


Things began to look up when I discovered the versatility/ comfortability of black leggings (in conjunction with bodycon minis and boots), a discovery that was prompted by my boss' habit of stating, "GET OUT YOUR STRETCH PANTS, GIRLS!," when she'd return to the office with donuts and homemade desserts called Lard on the Beach, and I Can No Longer See My Lemon cake. Since discovering leggings, my fashion angst has greatly diminished, and I half-assedly feel like I'm getting back on track to being a girl.

A few weeks ago my best gay, Will and I were discussing our tendencies to immediately divert our eyes to people's asses when people watching, and I made some stereotypical girl comment about my blossoming Bonita Applebum.

"Please," Will said. "You just look more ethnic."



Will's herione, Celine Dion asks, "but ain't that bitch white?"


Since I now live in redneck, White Person Land, the white-girl box of beauty ideals surrounds me like a claustrophobic dressing room with a distorted mirror and track lighting, but Will's comment removed me from my temporary mind-fuck and reminded me of the world that extends far beyond, and the diverse beauty it encapsulates-- or some shit like that.

More than anything, I was stoked that Will had unknowingly made it "okay" for me, a pasty white girl to classify my figure as 'ethnic'. This set a whole new politically incorrect precedence for me to burst out of a change room, throw a pair of jeans at an equally white sales girl, and make the declaration that due to the fit of their jeans pinching my "jelly", I could no longer shop at their establishment and support their refusal to celebrate ethnically diverse body shapes. Awesome, huh? So wrong it almost seems right.

The road to fashion rehabilitation has been a long one, and while I still occasionally revert back to Carhartt work pants and a plaid lumberjack coat, I do feel as though I've returned to a balanced ground of fashion-appropriateness. Hopefully this will be a starting point for me to regain some creative inspiration and have fun with clothes again.


Camel toes.



Smoke and Mirrors and Guns . . . and a Totalitarian Police State?: State of the Union Address 2013

The Hope-nosis Continues

On February 12th was the Obaminator's fifth State of the Union Address since joining the Masters of the Universe, and it played out like Kumbayah on a left handed guitar. The mesmerizing hope-nosis of B.O.'s smoke and mirrors took me back to his first round of presidency, when I, and many others, buzzed on the prospect of change, not only for the U.S., but also for the countries that are both directly and indirectly affected by the American hegemony (which covers pretty much all of us).

But the change that has materialized, and continues to materialize is not the change sold to the American people by the Obaminator, which is no surprise. We now acknowledge that many of these political figures are merely puppets who are bought and owned. Instead, the change has sprouted from the stagnant pile of shit that sits smoldering in the heat, shrouded beneath an empiric veil; it's the change that is stemming from the increasing number of people who are awakening to the growing stench of bullshit.

B.O.'s speech seemed to follow two themes, I) The government is your sugar daddy and we care, II) We need to control you and infringe on your rights to keep you safe from "threats"-- a common model of mind-massage used to foster social control.


B.O.'s Key Points and Related Links

1. Tax reform: We care.

2. Immigration reform: Open arms.

3. Federally funded pre-school and education reform: We Care.

4. The development of sustainable sources of energy: We care.

5. Raising the minimum wage: We care.

6. Jobs: Change. Hope. Change. Hope. Change. Hope.

7. Troops out of Afghanistan by 2014: You're welcome. And by the way . . .

8. Cyber-security: We'll protect you from threats against America. And your neighbours. And yourselves.

9. Gun Control: We'll protect you from your neighbours and yourselves.

The Obaminator wrapped up his State of the Union speech by revisiting the issue of gun control as  cameras panned to the dozens of strategically placed victims of gun violence who sat in attendance. The wafting aroma of shit came from the hypocrisies behind Obama's demand for tighter gun control.

Like providing Mexican Drug Lords with semi-automatic weapons under the gun-running operation, Fast and Furious:

And of course, this:

And this:


Looking Deeper Down the Barrel

Evidence suggests that the American government doesn't actually care about the killing of innocent civilians (children included), and that evidence is in their systemic, on going actions.

If we take basic, human morality out of the equation, or value for human life, where does that position the American government in this resurgence of the gun debate? Are they truly attempting to validate the democratic voice of the people? To ease public fear and restore a sense of "justice"? On the flip side, the American people are passionate of their Second Amendment (which was put in place to empower civilians to potentially organize and defend themselves if the government were to become tyrannical), and backlash from pro-gunners is strong.

But the true reason why this push for gun control smells like bullshit is the government orchestrated, augmental descend into a fascist, police state.

Sound dramatic? According to history, it's not. The above article by Naomi Wolf, which is a synopsis of her book End of America: Letter of Warning to a Young Patriot, offers a starting point to understanding what the freak-out is about, and it was also adapted into a documentary that is accessible on youtube.

The tightening of gun control was predicted prior to Aurora or Sandy Hook because it is as an incremental piece to the government's on going agenda to gradually "close" American society, one freedom at a time, under the gentle guise of protecting people from some threat. If the government is at the point where it's gearing up potentially weaponized drones to surveil everyday, American civilians, disarming the civilians is a given, and it's the patternized predictability of this shit that is becoming truly, fucking terrifying.



Canadian House of Commons Discuss Zombie Resistance

We, the Canadians, have had few moments of pride since Emperor Harper's Styrofoam bucket-hair and anti-democratic ominous bills, but watching this brief address in the House of Commons makes me want to grab a twelve pack of Pilsner, saddle up the sled dogs, and go for a joy ride around the igloo complex while singing Gordon Lightfoot's The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Despite my thrill (and eagerness to sign up for the Canadian Military Zombie Resistance Forces), David Frum, AKA Zombie Pacifist of the National Post took a different stance:

Zombies face a frightening humanitarian crisis — aggravated, it may be said, by the sanctions and boycotts imposed on them by living people who refuse to accept the need for coexistence with their mindless, flesh-eating neighbours.

And to that I say . . .



December 21, 2012


.        .        .        .        .        .




If I Had Met the Premier of Alberta (Story May or May Not Include Smoking Bath Salts)

I almost voted in the last provincial election, but only because Wildrose Alliance made my asshole pucker when they introduced their Republican-esque "conscience rights" and let party candidate Allan Hunsperger out of his underground holding cell to post a poetic, online rant telling gay kids they will "suffer the rest of eternity in the lake of fire."


Face palm!


I stuck to my convictions and opted out, partly because I'm sick of "fear voting" (voting against a party rather than for a party), and also because my faith in our so-called democratic system died long before this election. I had returned to my punk rock leanings as a youth and reclaimed the title of Anarchist. Apparently I, too, would spend the rest of eternity in the "lake of fire," but at least my homo friends would be there to keep me company.

The Progressive Conservatives ended up winning a majority government (again), putting Alison Redford on the throne as Premier of Alberta. I resumed my comfortable, Albertan life, largely ignoring provincial politics as my focus returned to the capitalist whoredom of Emperor Harper and our federal government, and the scary-as-fuck political debauchery going on in the United States. But as much as I've tried to ignore Alberta politics, Alison Redford keeps popping up in the media and making me do a double take.


Double take!


I first winced from what-the-fuckery? at her Laissez-faire response to the Plains Midstream Canada oil spill, which turned out to be a kick in the groin for the area residents who are now suing Plains in a $75 million class action lawsuit. Then there was the $113, 687 tab that Redford and fellow shmoozers racked up during their trip to the London Olympics on unused hotel rooms (wtf?). And now Redford is rejecting a public inquiry into the E.coli contaminated beef that sprung from XL Foods in Brooks, Alberta, because there is no better way to rebuild a tainted reputation than to convolute shit.


Token Embarassing Cowboy Hats!


Redford was recently in town speaking at the Central Alberta Leaders dinner, and I heard through the grapevine that one of her pit stops was my old office building where she held some sort of a press pow-wow. Obviously I'm devastated I missed that glorious opportunity-- not to shake her hand, or to see our highness in the flesh, but the opportunity to say something inappropriate. 

I've been mulling over what I woulda/coulda/shoulda said or asked her if the opportunity had presented itself, and I've been fantasizing about how it could have all gone down . . .


"Redford!" I yell from the back of the room like a drunken heckler, or possibly an old lady with mental health issues and a beard, "how was the Bilderberg meeting?!"

Redford's body twitches, but she gracefully ignores me. Probably some youth, her mind scowls, probably some youth who reads words on websites inside the online interweb. Security dudes stir and mumble into their headsets, "shit disturber at two o'clock. I repeat, shit disturber at two o'clock." My former office manager (the same woman who wheeled a TV into reception as to not miss the opening ceremonies of the London Olympics and stated, "THE QUEEN JUMPED OUT OF A PLANE WITH JAMES BOND!," brings her hand to her mouth in horror-- this is her day.

And I know this is her day. Besides the birth of her future grandchildren, this is her moment. Right now. This is the day she will relive for the rest of her life, the key moment that will be typed in bold at the top of her life resume, that day of elation that will someday be mentioned in a speech of tribute at her funeral: the day she wore her special outfit to play hostess to the Premier of Alberta. Although she has no knowledge of what I, the lowly dissenter means by "Bilderberg meeting, " she knows by the neener-neener-neener tone in my voice that I mean trouble.

Special Outfit!

I reach for a complimentary danish, only because I know it is not meant for me to eat. I pick at it, methodically, licking my fingers as I taunt members of A Certain Non-Profit Organization Whom I Shall Not Name who are inhabitants of the office building and notoriously known for not sharing stuff: sweets, coffee, tea, sugar, whitener, coffee filters, stir sticks, the use of dishware, coffee makers, kettles, second hand couches, second hand coffee tables, empty parking stalls, oxygen.

Unsatisfied by the lack of response I received, I bellow again, this time as I munch on a mouthful of danish. "How was London, Redford?!"

"Shit-disturber may be under the influence of bath salts," a security dude reports into his headset, "I repeat, shit-disturber may be under the influence of bath salts."

The office manager is now lunging towards me, savagely reaching for the danish (THE DANISHES ARE MEANT FOR OUR HIGHNESS) as security dudes swarm me like I'm a hippie on a lawn protesting for peace. My first response is to throw my body on the ground and scream, "I CAN'T BREATHE," just as I did when I was a kid getting a beat down from my brother, but that seems a little too realistic for my Meet the Premier fantasy. And while I'd end the fantasy with a Tarantino-like fight scene, I don't want to get flagged on some government watch-list as a terrorist, Kung Fu ninja.

Terrorist Kung Fu Ninja White Girl!

I guess I'll just run.

So I throw the danish at Redford and take off running towards the stair case that exits into the back alley, except someone had used the motorized wheel chair ramp-- possibly Redford's ego-- and had left it down. Due to the mechanical ineptitude I suffer as a result of being an arts n' crafts nerd, I cannot fold the ramp into it's track on the wall. A low growl rumbles from my pastry-covered mouth as I search for a lever. The Global TV camera man is now filming my struggle as the security dudes, as well as the office manager (who, I must emphasize, will never forgive me) tackle me onto the wheelchair ramp, NFL style.


I later awaken at an undetermined time with my wrist cuffed to a hospital bed. I see my boss staring down at me. "Hiiii," she says with a low giggle, like she always does, as if we're sharing an inside joke that neither of us know the punchline to.

"Hiiii," I say back and smile.

"You know I love you," she says with butterscotch sweetness. "But you're fired."