The following is a condensed version of a post I wrote on my own blog about one of the most important and amazing nights of my life: my marriage. Please check out the original post for the full story, complete with the wonderful photos taken by my fabulous friends.

Here is the happy jist of it:

Last month, I got married. To my Wife Rebecca – or Bex, as she is better known.

My Post Modern Marriage. (Lauren Blue)

Truth be told, we’ve been married (on Facebook at least) for many months. But we thought it was time to do our marriage justice and tie the knot properly, with 70 friends and a crate of champagne.

Let me be clear: We are not lesbians. We do not have sex with each other. This is not a legal marriage, nor a civil partnership. We are not going to raise children together. We have long-term sexual relationships with men, and we both fully plan on finding “the one,” being with them forever and having babies.

Many people seem to have misunderstood this point, and a surprising number declined the invitation to our wedding because they found the whole concept so odd. It made them uncomfortable. More’s the pity.

So I wrote this for everyone who was confused by our marriage, to explain why she is my Wife.

(more inside…)

No Film Friday today, but here’s a video of my puppy eating an apple to help you start your weekend right!

I’ll be back next week with a review of, breathe, Twilight.

What’s in a name? Well, in the case of BC’s Square Lake, a bunch of racism, sexism and half-assed attempts to change.

Sign showing peeling stickers covering what was “Squaw Lake.” (The Tyee)

Over at The Tyee James Ward has been exploring the use of the word Squaw as a place name in BC Parks. He first wrote about it in March, and then again last week. Unfortunately, eight months later, nothing much has changed.

For those who don’t know, “squaw” is a bastardized pronunciation and spelling of the beautiful Algonquin word iskwew (pronounced es-kway-ew), which simply means woman. But somewhere along the way, as multilingual Turtle Island was forced to become mainly English-speaking, “squaw” became the ugly, common term used to refer to an Aboriginal woman, regardless of her indigenous heritage.
- James Ward, The Tyee, March/08

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My younger sister informed me of this during my latest research on youth sexual health resources online.

rejectionhotline.com provides a telephone number you can give to those who apparently “can’t take a hint” when you turn their proposition down.

The thought of this (US-based) company making profits now over the reality of pushiness that exists in our overtly sexual world is disgruntling. But I have to admit the message you hear when you call it is actually kind of funny.

Now, I’ve had my fair share of persistors, although I’m someone who really doesn’t care about being “mean” or being called a bitch if the answer isn’t what they want to hear. No means no, and I have frequently been annoyed by the “Oh but I’m saying no because I have a boyfriend” reasons. Actually if I were single, I’d say no to you too. Thanks.

But not all situations play out like that, and I can definitely see where safety and violence prevention must be considered, especially if you just aren’t a very vocal person.

Thoughts anyone?

Cool posters and banners at www.thingsarefine.org

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Challenge of the week: assert a boundary.

It was a rough weekend and the new week isn’t any more smooth.

I decide to just take care of myself and let the crises in my life sort themselves out. I order the medium instead of the default small. I let the dishes sit over night. I get a massage.

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Not tied to any particular event or anniversary, but because I’m feeling a bit nostalgic, and I’m a sucker for emotionally compelling Canadian history. And I find us Canadians so darn cheek-pinching, moose-hugging, maple candy cute when we tap into our nationalism.

So start your week off right with a Canadian Heritage Minute (it’s like oatmeal for the mind):

Emily Murphy: Women as persons under the law.

And then (related?) the bonus round — on the success of the beaver in Canada:
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I’d wager my winnings from Hot Flash that we’ll all agree this video is creepy. Yes, it has the dreaded “breast-bared-but-nipple-censored” thing going on, but exactly how and why it’s so disturbing may be up for debate.

From Treehugger:

“This send-up of the new greenwashing trend in advertising will give you a good belly-laugh, if you don’t pause to consider the tragic fact that even human milk is not free from chemical contamination.”

First I thought it was clever. Then it offended me. Now I’m just confused. What do you think?

I’ve lived in Toronto essentially all my life. Downtown Toronto for most of my adult life. I’ve had to deal with various incidents over the years, but never, ever, have I felt really and truly unsafe. Until a couple of nights ago. That was first number one.

On New Year’s morning my husband and I were coming home from our friend’s party. Taking advantage of the free TTC ride to cross the city — back from the Danforth to the west end. Even before we headed out for the evening though, I’d expressed hesitation about what coming home on the Rocket was going to be like that night. “As though the whole line is the Vomit Comit” I said.

But I always feel better when the husband cajoles me onto public transit over, say, a warm and speedy cab. So this time I thought I would be urban and eco/public-friendly and good and we all (husband, I, and another couple) managed to get on a train at about 3:15am.

There was, as predicted, a good amount of vomit. We got onto a subway car total passengers about 6 or 7 (including us). At the far end of the car was one clearly drunk, likely homeless, man with a bicycle. The other couple was riding with us as far as Yonge, and it wasn’t for a few stations before the drunk man began being loud, playing a harmonica, yelling and lurching around a little.

But that’s not unexpected on the TTC. It happens all the time, often during the day actually. Drunk, lurchy, loud people are 9 times out of 10, only that. They don’t especially bother you, or accost you. So we weren’t taking much notice of him.

Our friends got out at Yonge. At this point on the car there was us, an older well-dressed couple, and maybe three other people.
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