FML

Okay, so thanks to friend and fellow blogger at roaminginthenight.blogspot.ca I'm totally into FMListings. If you're so over Toronto real estate prices, this blog is amazing. I mean, I saw crap post-war bungalows for sale in the neighbourhood of $600,000 and thought to myself, the hell? In my hometown, such a hole would be $120,000, pretty much for the land value if it's spacious enough.

Here though? Practically nothing is worth everything. Jesus Murphy. And this blogger is calling everyone on it. Preach it, sister.

And that brings me to an unexpected grievance. I knew off the bat this blog was written by a woman. It was smart and witty, which is not exclusively the feminine domain, but there was a somethin'-somethin' about it that made me certain the author was female. Her blog reminded me of other funny and clever blogs out there written by women. There was that chick flavour to it. And I was right.

But then I read this: A Toronto homebuyer takes his frustrations to the blogosphere. Call me overly sensitive, but the male default people have is something that bothers me. It's similar to the White Assumption that is also prevalent in our society. If you don't know the race, it must be white. Unknown sex? Must be male. STFU Conservatives actually dealt with this issue. It irritated her because she never mentioned her sex, but got tired of being called "he".

I've seen this play out on a small handful of well-written non-sex-related anonymous blogs. Writers are assumed male until revealed to be otherwise. Do we assume women don't write well? Aren't interested in real estate or politics or finance? Only write sex or mommy blogs (which have their place, but are not the full scope of what women do in this world)?

This is about a 3/10 on the sexism scale, on par with the common mistake of saying "he" when referring to a doctor or boss of an unknown sex. But it needs to be pointed out. High profile journalists and publications shouldn't be sexist-sloppy. If you don't know the sex of a writer, say, "him or her," "he or she," "s/he," or even the less grammatically correct but colloquial "they".

As sure as I was the writer was female I wouldn't have written so unless I knew for sure. Heh, for one thing, as soon as you label someone or something female you have to explain how you know this. Because male is the default. That is something that needs to change, if for no other reason than that it's annoying and frequently inaccurate.

Smart Asses on the web

Okay, so I've discovered a few new blogs (actually, mostly yesterday) which have me smiling.

Yahoo Answers: Seriously, this is just great. Everyone's read these, right? People ask random questions according to categories and then the community answers? These are the best of the worst questions and answers. I spent an unhealthy portion of last evening on this site shaking my head in shock and awe, periodically giggling with mirth.

The Message Board: Okay, so the premise of this one is this woman's been lurking on a wedding website for a year and has now decided to act out the dialogue in a one-woman show. It's seven different flavours of awesome that taste like God. Well, maybe not seven flavours. At least five. But it's great. It's great satire.

Why Is That Facebook a Page?: Sharp acerbic commentary following posts of the most ridiculous fan pages on Facebook. I've seen most of these on either Lamebook or my newsfeed, but the blogger's *snap* *snap* wit makes it for me.

STFU

Okay, so I'm moving in a week, blah, blah, blah. Stress, stress, stress. I'm barely packed, other than my books, still haven't curbed or sold everything that needs to get its useless self outta my house, and we get the keys to the new place a week later than we thought we would. Still have to clean, patch walls, paint, pack, and basically haul our sorry asses all over God's countryside to get everything done. We won't have a couch for a few days and apparently it's nearly impossible to move one in to the new place. Can't wait to see if my new designated work area will actually be big enough. Excited to see if the closet space will be adequate and if there really is room in the bathroom for the litter box.

But I'm cool. Chill, even. And I hate that word "chill." Like when people say, "I like him, he's chill." I feel like giving that person a small slap on the cheek. But anyway, moving sucks. Everyone knows that.

What doesn't suck are blogs. I'm devotedly attached to STFU blogs. STFU Marrieds, STFU Parents, STFU Believers. I love them. Love, love, love. I can't start my day without reading their updates. Fill me with the bullshit of people who I don't have to know personally. Yes, please! And for good measure, top me up with some Lamebook.

I've learned a lot from STFU Parents, in particular. And from new parents on my friend list on Facebook, who are now updating their status more frequently. Or at all. Prior to parenthood, I suppose they didn't feel they had much they wanted to say.

Anyhoo, one of the things STFU Parents (and the young New Parents I know) is that babies explode poop. I did not know this. It seems to happen on some kind of regular basis. I never would have imagined that small little critter people (babies) expel more than their weight in excrement at various intervals. I will never hold someone's baby again. Imagine, all this time when I accepted offers to hold someone's infant, I was actually craddling a ticking poop bomb. And wasn't warned! WTF?

Another one of the things I've learned is that parents are fascinated by said poop: it's smell, texture, frequency, inconvenient places it happens... That and vomit. Many of the updates I've read in my own newsfeed are about disgusting bodily fluids, only presented as though these things are funny, and not making people like me question yet again whether having children is a good idea.

Frankly, right now the jury's still out. My uterus is really weighing its options right now, as the more gross parenthood sounds, the less I want to do it. And my womb can be pretty prissy, boy howdy.

In any case, I've signed a two-year lease for a one-bedroom apartment. Ain't no chance I'll be creating any new life for a wee while. I don't want one of those dresser drawer babies. My dresser's full.

I kid... I kid... But no really, I'd need a bigger dresser.