Dear Everyone: Here’s Why I Don’t Want To Read Your Crappy Opinions On What Mothers Should Do


Another insightful essay from Anne Theriault on gendered social pressure and how to break the cycle of shaming women who have children. READ THIS.

Originally posted on The Belle Jar:

Earlier today, Lydia Lovric, a Montreal-based “columnist, talk-radio host, stay-at-home mom,” wrote a scornful response to piece from 2013 about why Sasha Emmons chooses to work outside of the home. Don’t ask me why Lovric is responding to a two year old article, because I’m as baffled as you are. I’m sure she has her reasons, such as maybe she some type of wizard who exists outside of the linear bounds of time and space; this would explain why she is writing about the evils of mothers who work outside the home in 2015.

You guys, it’s 2015. It has been two thousand and fifteen years since the alleged birth of Christ and we are still having this goddamn argument about whether or not a mother is morally obligated to stay home with her kids, should finances permit. And as much as it’s tempting to write off Lovric as a Throw-Back Thursday with…

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Impotent Signage: Discouraging Garden Theft in the Modern Suburbs

The two poster-boards shout at passers-by in clearly printed black marker. The signs are duplicates of one another, affixed at angles to a tree on a front lawn. The tree is set back far enough from the curb to not be mistaken for a city tree. Crucially, at the base of this tree is a neatly rounded pile of river rocks. At first glance, there are too many rocks to count. But the owners of the tree seem to keep close tabs on the total.

...make me?

…make me?

How I long to call on these people in a week or two and find out if they have seen an increase or a decrease in theft since they put up the signs.

For the signs to work as intended–as a deterrent against further theft–a few things have to happen:

  1. Potential and/or previous rock thieves need to come to the house
  2. Those people must be interpellated (that is, they must consider themselves addressed by the sign and identify as the intended audience of this sign’s imperative message)
  3. They must then feel remorse for their previous or intended actions
  4. They must not feel indignant, as that may lead to rebellion against the sign’s message

That you can see it from the street does not make it public; that you want it does not make it yours; that there are so many to begin with does not change the situation from the owners’ point of view.*

All of this being established, my inclination is that anyone who already feels it is their right to take something from someone else’s lawn will scoff at this feeble attempt to control their behavior and take more rocks just to spite the sign and the passive-aggressive people who wrote it.

I could be wrong. The four steps outlined above may happen. But until these rock owners get a security camera and law enforcement on their side, I do not think their rocks are going to stay put. Not with this futile sign as their only anchor.

* That I took a picture of what these people clearly consider to be their sole property is an ethical grey area, although not getting paid for this piece of writing nudges me more firmly on the “no worries” side of things.

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Poetic Interlude the Third



Words I am tired of hearing
Of using

Use made meaning
Made meaningless

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Lost is Found: rising ruinous

seeding terror, seeping hope

seeding terror, seeping hope

It wasn’t until the droplet made gentle contact that I became conscious of of my lot. Where it was timid, I sprang forth vibrating with temerity. Conditions, however, held me fast.

There were many things I would come to discover about my predicament–encased in sediment, a prisoner in that very medium that should have sustained me, starving for light, for sounds that did not reverberate to reach me muffled, distorted. Was I, likewise, distorted? I refused this outright.

But first–oh, the firstness of that first–there was only a singular feeling of being. And then, of being not singular. Though we could not communicate but for our cosmically catalytic touch, I nevertheless thanked the droplet for its decisive role in my awakening.

Thus situated, how, you may wonder, was I to fulfill my destiny? In time. Time immemorial.

I toiled long after that first contact. Weeks, years, decades…it matters not. I survived to meet you here, Other, did I not? How move you so freely? What invisible force binds you to your destiny? Or do you wander, ever fluid, unbecoming and unresolved.

I have achieved resolution. I am resolve.

In darkness totalizing, waiting for a droplet here, an infusion of nutrients there, reaching toward I knew not what, extending tendrils of myself whenever possible, only to feel them whither, defeated… Still I held fast–what else was I to do but wait? Wait and fear. Fear that I would again fall into the ignorance of nonexistence.
The hard-packed void would not last, of course, but it is impossible to remember when I first knew that to be so. Why always the insistence upon when? Is not the What more intriguing?

Feeling–knowing–my destiny was indeed before me, had I but the patience. That is the What worth knowing, worth fighting for with ever fibre of my not-yet-fibrous being. If the conditions would become, would hold, would cooperate, would but meet…together we could bind and flourish into a world made marvelous.

Made real despite that which sought to trap, to deny incontestable destiny.

I am made miracle marvelous, come forth from sweat and stone, squeezed to light brought with will and chance and hope.

Know me and know thy weakness.

If you enjoyed this post but are underwhelmed by the rest of what you find here, you may be happier subscribing to “Lost is Found: the adventures of inanimate objects”

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How I learned to stop referencing famous titles and start worrying about being creative

Hahaha, NOPE.

I’ll never stop.

You’ll have to pry my dubiously constructed allusions out of my cold, dead…you get the picture.

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