Y’all! I think Nathan Moore is flirting with me!

I don’t know what else to make of his bizarre post. Let us examine the evidence:

–Egalia is a nationally-known and well-respected blogger in feminist circles. I write about cooters and boob freckles and think men should be able to opt out of fatherhood and therefore imagine I would not be well-respected even if I were better-known. And yet, that sweetie, Nathan Moore lumps us both together as “the usual suspects” as if our opinions are both equally well-known and regarded.
–He compliments my youthful vigor when he says that I “seem to have the maturity of a slightly-advanced adolescent.”
–He calls me “liberated and enlightened.”
–He thinks I’m so tremendously powerful that I am “backbone of the family and Western civilization.”

Gosh. I don’t know what to say. The last guy that talked that sweet to me had one hand stroking my cooter at the time.

Nathan, I am so flattered, you don’t even know. And not surprised. For whatever reason, married men love me. I think it’s the beer in the fridge and my appreciation for a burp well-executed and gas well-passed.

And I love it when men say sweet things about me, so flirt on all you want. I just want to be up front and let you know that I just don’t see a future for us.

Here’s why.

First of all, you don’t know me. So, for you to say that my concern for rape victims and the victims of incest is disingenuous is just about the biggest asshole move you could make. Who do you think the victims of rape and incest are, Mr. Moore? They’re women like me. They’re my friends. They’re the women in my family. For you to insinuate that I don’t care about them is really amazingly gross.

For a man attempting to make an argument that rests on his position being the most “humane,” your callous refusal to acknowledge my humanity is pretty telling.

But, in case I missed it, you call me a monster again–“ignoble” and “morally bankrupt” and “self-loathing.” This is not the way to a girl’s heart.

Then, bless your heart, you ascribe to me positions that I don’t hold–“Women are biologically different – scrap it. Women are mentally different – scrap it.” When did I ever say that?

In fact, it is precisely because I believe that women are different than men that I’m particularly disturbed by this latest move by a bunch of old men to take control of my uterus and to attempt to legislate what should happen inside of it. How can someone who’s never had a uterus not hesitate before passing laws dictating what I must do with mine?

But all these things I think I could get beyond. We might still have a future if not for this one line: “Why one as woman fights for a ‘right’ to nullify the primary differentiation between male and female boggles my mind.” Are you really suggesting that the primary difference between men and women is that men have the right to decide what happens to their own bodies and women don’t? That I should just accept that the state is trying to take away my right to say what happens to my own body? How can I ever be a full citizen of the United States if I don’t have the right to liberty?

You, as a lawyer, would know better than I, but can you think of any other instance in which the state would compel a citizen to always defer when his rights come into conflict with the rights of another? Yet, when it comes to making abortion illegal, what your side says is that a woman only has the right to be secure in her person–to make her own decisions about what happens to her own body–as long as no one else has a claim on it.

If we only have rights when they don’t conflict with others, we really don’t have rights at all. We just have some privileges you guys have granted us and now that we’re all uppity and “de-feminated,” y’all are determined to punish us by making sure we understand that we don’t belong to ourselves, we belong to the state.

That’s not exactly my idea of a fun date.

Still, Mr. Moore, I appreciate you being so brazen in your mixed love/hate passion for me.

The Kiss on the Forehead Revisited

I’ve noticed that I’ve been getting a lot of hits from searches for “kiss on the forehead what does it mean?” or variations. And today, I find this plaintive cry for help from the comments on that old post. Please excuse her spelling. I’m sure it’s due to the entire ordeal she’s been put through.

a guy told me a kiss on the forehead means more on than a kiss on the lips i think that is crap he claims it means alot more in the way of security and comfort and “all that” whatever all that means to him whne i asked hiom what his lip definition was then he said it was not as important as the forehead and that i didnt udnerstand coz ihadnt experienced it properly HELP what does he mean

Now, I don’t often give advice to strangers, because strangers don’t know me well enough to know that I am full of shit. But my heart goes out to this chick and I am going to tell her a cold, hard truth.

The only men who can kiss you on the forehead without deserving to be smacked upside the head with whatever you are holding in your hand, preferably a brick, are the men who are related to you.

A kiss on the forehead from a man who is related to you says, “Hey, I adore you and think you’re swell.”

Sometimes, a tall man can kiss you on the forehead without it being a dick move, because it’s the tall man equivalent of kissing you on the cheek. It says, “I like you, and think you’re swell. I’m not that sure if you’re going to let me stick my tongue in your mouth and feel your tits, so I thought I’d try this and see if you smack me upside the head with a brick. If you don’t, next time, I’m going to kiss you on the lips and see how that goes.”

But, by and large, the kiss on the forehead is the most bullshit kind of kiss ever invented. It’s a way for cowardly men to co-opt a kiss best left to grandmas when you fall down and older brothers when you get your PhD.

Anonymous, let’s look at your situation, especially. The good thing about the fucktard you’re dealing with is that he’s being mostly honest with you. He’s told you exactly why some men love the forehead kiss–“he claims it means a lot more in the way of security and comfort and ‘all that’.”

This is true. The weaselly thing he’s doing is to claim that YOU don’t understand that because YOU just haven’t “experienced it properly.” Oh, no, my friend. You have experienced it plenty properly enough. You’re absolutely right that a kiss on the lips means more than a kiss on the forehead. Clearly.

This is not YOUR problem. This is HIS problem. He likes the kiss on the forehead because it’s more secure and comfortable for him. He gets to get close enough to you to smell you, to feel your body up against his, and to imagine, briefly, what it would be like if he were to really kiss you. But he never has to put himself on the line. He doesn’t have to worry about you rejecting him or laughing at him or the problems that might come with you not doing either of those things.

He gets to show you physical affection in a way you can’t reciprocate.

I mean, seriously. If he thinks being kissed on the forehead is so great, try doing it to him. I’ll bet you a dollar he’ll be all “What the fuck does that mean?” same as you.

So, trust your gut. It is a dick move. A kiss on the forehead from a guy you’re not related to usually means “I’m a cowardly fucktard who loves how you smell and feel and likes to imagine what it would be like to be with you, but not enough to put myself out there. Probably because I already have a girlfriend or wife.”

I hope this helps.

An Interesting Note on the Fabulous Bra

Too bad the Wayward Boy Scout is becoming less wayward, because last night I noticed the most awesomely funny thing that he would have appreciated.

I was wearing the fabulous new bra and a button down shirt and I was walking to the bathroom and I looked down–because, really, even I cannot keep my eye off the boob freckle–and I realized I could see my feet.

There they were, framed on three sides by the shirt and the tits.

Later, in the privacy of my own home, I spent a good five minutes watching my toes wiggle while looking down my shirt.

Okay, I probably need to get a hobby or two.

Our bodies are the only true homes we will ever know

Bridgett just sent me a link to this awesome post over at Frogs and Ravens.

Power in our culture is the ability to exist in our bodies so comfortably that we can pretend that they do not matter. But they do. The lives of women – and of other people set apart and marked on the basis of their physical selves – are the strongest evidence for this.

We should all be comfortable in our homes, and not because we can pretend that they don’t exist. We should be comfortable in our bodies because they are ours and because they are valued and because we and they matter.

Read the whole thing. It’s good.

A Mushy Post About That Old Man

I’ve been thinking that the one thing Sarcastro needs is a good, slightly-demeaning nickname–like Mr. Snappy Pants or Buggles or Ned. Something that will annoy him upon hearing it, but that he’ll still answer to. “Hey, Nickel-Slots” or “Can you give me a ride, Horseradish?” But I can’t quite come up with something that I like that really fits the bill.

Which is a shame, because he’s getting all mellow and sage-like lately and it bugs the shit out of me when he sits across from me and says these wise things and I’m left with no choice but to take it and ponder it when really I want to say something snappy that will knock him off balance.

Ah, folks, let’s remember the good old days when all our conversations would go something like this:

“Sister, you suck.”

“You wish.”

“You wish I wish.”

“Suck my butt, fucktard.”

“Nice. Real nice.”

But now, he sits across from me and says things like, “We need to be as fearless in our lives as we are in our writing.”

I’ll tell you the main difference between me and Sarcastro–I mean, aside from the fact that he’s the one with the cute dimples and I’m the one with the fabulous tits. Sarcastro is always putting the finishing touches on his having figured you out. By the time he opens his mouth to tell you something, he’s already given it a lot of thought.

Me, I’m putting together a fourth of the puzzle and shouting out to whoever will listen “Look, it’s a basket. The puzzle makes a basket.” And Sarcastro comes along, rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, a basket of kittens. You totally missed the kittens.”*

Does that make sense? As a metaphor, it’s probably shitty.

But my point is that when Sarcastro says something in all seriousness about needing to be more fearless in real life, a girl cannot help but take that to heart a little bit.

And, frankly, this girl doesn’t want to take it to heart. I’d really rather believe that I’m doing enough and that I’m doing it bravely enough and if the world doesn’t love me back, tough shit for it.

I was talking to Divalicious** the other day about that tendency to repeat those same shitty patterns with men, even though you know they’re shitty, because they’re familiar and how hard it is, once you’re used to shittiness, to break free of that, because being around men that treat you well and care about you feels so fucking strange and scary.

And I was like, yeah, at least once every other week, I decide that I’m not going to be friends with Sarcastro any more, because I cannot stand that he likes me and insists that I treat myself well. It makes me so uncomfortable when he insists that I stop being a dumbass about myself that I just about can’t stand it.

And here he is talking about how I need to be more fearless and I’m like god damn, man, the bravest thing I do every day is to believe that I deserve a friend like you.

I don’t tell him that.

Well, I just did. But not to his face.

You know what I mean.

Anyway, he’s right. It’s really not enough that my idea of bravery is having one close male friend and leaving the house occasionally. I mean, let’s be honest, there are two reasons why I’ve not pushed the car thing with the Butcher: 1. Aw, fuck it, let’s not go into one. March is for being happy*** and thinking about the fucked up things my parents say to me and my fucked up responses to them is not happy fodder. and 2. because if I don’t have a car, it’s understandable that I never leave my house.

Anyway, I’m exhausted and I’ve got to go to bed, but my thought is that if March is for being happy, maybe I’ll devote April to being brave. I’ll have to think about what terrifies me, so I can decide what can be overcome. I’m telling you right up front, though, that those fucking wooden stairs outside my office are right out. I will never be that fearless.

*I should, for my own sake, point out though that another big difference between us is that he can be kind of obtuse and will often not realize that the puzzle is not supposed to have a giant hole in the middle. Okay, obviously, this metaphor is too flimsy, but I’m tired and it’s just going to have to work.
**Divalicious lives over the bridge from me and she reads Tiny Cat Pants and asked me to be in The Vagina Monologues.
***And for the state taking steps to insert itself in my cooter…