Dear Butcher… Dear The Butcher…. Whichever,
If you are reading this, you may have noticed that I fixed the computer.
Dear Butcher… Dear The Butcher…. Whichever,
If you are reading this, you may have noticed that I fixed the computer.
I had to add a category called "The Conservative Soap Opera" just to reflect the fact that it’s getting ugly over there on the Right side of the Blogosphere.
When last we chatted, right before I had lunch with the fabulous and witty CeeElCee, Roger Abramson was too smart for his own good. Now, Smantix*, a right-wing blogger just about as pleasant as a jagged metal Krusty-o, has accused Kleinheider of being "this crypto-nazi."
Kleinheider has responded thusly, "Smantix, I’m not crypto-anything — not politically anyway. If I were an admirer of National Socialism, I would tell you."
If this were a real soap opera, of course, we’d learn that Smantix was carrying the baby of Kleinheider’s father, thus making Smantix’s potential son Kleinheider’s half brother and the rival heir to the Kleinheider family fortune. But maybe that comes next!
*Some of you may remember Amanda (whom I would link to if she had a blog) accosting Smantix and, I believe, offering to punch him in the nose at the last blogger get together.
It turns out that Roger Abramson may not be a conservative, but may instead be one of those snooty "elitists" we keep hearing so much about. Yes, folks, the accusations flying against Abramson at the moment can be boiled down to one thing: The fact that Abramson is so smart makes his conservative credentials suspect.
Let’s just let that wash over us, slowly like corn syrup drizzling across our cool skin.
Conservatives are up in arms about Abramson writing too much and, thus, appearing elitist and snooty. Lest we forget, these are also the same people who were pissed at Sarcastro for such treacherous behavior as wanting things spelled correctly.
Apparently, there’s an informal movement afoot to purge the right wing of people who can read and write.
Not very hard, though, because we’ve seen the Democratic party over and over again try to pander to the core of the right-wing, so I’m sure that, just as we now have to suffer through "we can reach a compromise on abortion as long as you women just shut the fuck up and let us men talk" and "we have to stop alienating religious people so you liberal church goers who are offended by our pandering to the fundamentalists need to shut the fuck up" and other forms of "let us go after the right’s special interest groups while we mock our core constituencies for being loud special interest groups" nonsense, I’m sure the second someone points out the conservative movement away from basic literacy, the Democrats will jump right in to try to woo the folks on the right by claiming that, though a lot of Democratic candidates went to college, they didn’t actually learn anything while they were there.
I also read most of A History of Pagan Europe. I skipped the Celts. I know, for shame. But the Greek and Roman part just went on so long and then I really wanted to skip ahead to the Germanic stuff and so I did and I just haven’t gotten back to the Celts, who, I’m sure, are wonderful people.
Anyway, here’s everything you need to know about pagan Europe, if you are not interested in either paganism or Europe:
1. Paganism is fluid and constantly changing. One century one way of worship was in vogue and fifty or a hundred years later another set of gods with other ways of worship become central. I think I tend to view “the Greeks” or “the Romans” as monolithic people with set beliefs in certain gods. It’s messier than that.
2. There is no long, unbroken line of pagan beliefs running from here back into history, where I believe what my parents believed, who believed what their parents believed, on and on back, toasting good health to Old One-Eye for 1400 years.
However, neither has Christianity been able to completely eradicate pagan beliefs from Europe and so every place you look throughout European history, someone is practicing some form of paganism.
Other than those two things, everything else in the book is thought-provoking, but I don’t know. It’s one of those books I don’t think you can take at face value, but that inspires you to want to search out primary sources in order to see if you agree with the conclusions they’re drawing.
I did a little bit of everything tonight. I handed out programs. I worked the sound. I stood there afterwards with a box and tried to guilt people into donations. But basically, I just sat up in the booth in a little bit of awe.
It’s hard to describe it if you haven’t seen it. The girls are both incredibly awkward and young looking and so mature and graceful and gutsy. They do this bellydance that is so amazing you just can’t help but roll your hips along with them. And then they do this African dance with drums and more hip shaking and just kind of controlled abandon.
I want to be the kind of feminist those girls deserve as a role model, someone who is smart and funny and self-assured and at peace with herself and unafraid to live in the world. I want to know, really know bone deep, that y’all are lucky to have me.
In other words, I’d like to take more of the brazen hussy you find here and move that part of me into my real life.
It’s weird. Can we digress for a little bit? When I started Tiny Cat Pants, this was clearly something private, a space to kind of work out who I wished I was and to practice being it. But there’s a lot of ways in which this has become my public face, the way that many folks first come to know me and the way that even people who knew me before keep up with me now. So, I think I’m still kind of uncertain and graceless in real life; it’s just no longer the first impression people have of me.
That makes a big difference in how I perceive myself. I feel braver and more together.
Still, when I watch those girls on that stage… I worry that they see me and think, “Wow, I can be like her.” I want them to look at me and see me as a sign post to a way of being far better than anything I have worked out for myself.
It’s complicated. On the one hand, I know we can’t wait around for perfect people to do things. There’s only us messy fucked up complicated prone to failure folks to do anything. We’re all there is to do things. Still, how can we teach these girls lessons we don’t know how to learn?
I know the Professor always says that we teach best what we most need to learn. On the one hand, I hope that’s true. On the other hand, I came away from tonight feeling slightly disingenuous.
I hope they get that we don’t know what we’re doing. I hope they have not put their faith in us, but in themselves. Because we don’t know what we’re doing, really. I don’t think.
I don’t, anyway.
Anyway, my heart is full and it’s broken a little. I don’t know if I really know what I want to say. The girls were marvelous. I’m struggling to be.
Dear Absent-Mindedly Charming Kleinheider,
I know we have our disagreements. You are wrong about everything and I am insufferable about pointing it out. If I were a proper lady, I would just let it go and stop reading you. You probably wish I would.
But, every once in a while you write something so quirky and endearing and just so you, that I am unable to give you up.
Today, that thing is
B-Mo notes on Nashville’s Metroblog that our interstate system is fifty. Indeed it is. And America hasn’t been the same since. I don’t mean that in a good way. [Emphasis mine.]
“I don’t mean that in a good way.” Of course you don’t.
Darling, if any sentence has ever summed you up so completely, I just don’t know what it is. I’m sorry. I just find this so charming I about want to come over there and give you a squeeze.
Your Aunt B.
Hostess Cupcakes and a Diet Dr Pepper.
This morning, I watched the dress rehearsal for the program the girls at the feminist indoctrination camp are putting on (Tonight, 6:00 p.m. at the Darkhorse on Charlotte. FREE!!! and tomorrow at 7:00 p.m.). It’s just fantastic.
They sing, they dance, they put on little skits. It’s really amazing. They’re so brave and creative it’s hard not to be inspired by them.
Anyway, I hope if y’all are bored and looking for something free to do, you’ll come by.
The Professor lent me The Technology of Orgasm: "Hysteria," the Vibrator, and Women’s Sexual Satisfaction which is one of those scholarly books that you almost loathe to start because you are both excited and afraid every other word is going to be hegemony or heteronormativity and all of the references to Foucault will be these beatific paeans to how brilliant he is and how he has never in the history of the universe said one wrong or stupid thing. Oh, that lucky Foucault. I’d love for legions of young scholars to lick my nether regions every chance they got, but alas, I am not him and so I must do without. Not that I don’t deserve it. But I have stuff to do. Trying to get a blog written with a crotch full of young scholars all struggling to get their tongues in me? Nearly impossible. So, you know, maybe once you’ve written a bunch of stuff and can just afford to coast on your reputation, it’s a pleasant way to pass the time, but someone in my house has to go grocery shopping and I just can’t figure out how that’d work, logistically.
Anyway, where were we?
Yes, this book. The only jargony word in it is androcentric and it’s used in context and is the best word choice so I think, though it looks like jargon, it actually sneaks out of jargondom and into usefulness. And Foucault is in there, but how the hell is he supposed to compete against Freud? Once Freud starts in with his "All women secretly want their dad’s penises" nonsense, Foucault’s insights just don’t seem as flashy. Freud. Shit. No one wants him to show up at their parties, because they know he’s going to dominate every conversation.
Anyway, the book repeatedly makes a couple of simple, yet elegant, points. First is that it’s nearly impossible for most women to have an orgasm based solely on vaginal stimulation, but nearly impossible for us to not have an orgasm with proper clitoral stimulation*. And yet, the androcentric view of sex by philosophers and other experts on sex**, has for thousands of years been that sex is when a penis enters a vagina and the man has an orgasm.
If the woman does not also have an orgasm, this is not the fault of a definition of sex that revolves around an easy and pleasant way for men to get off, but of defective women.
These defective women, who exhibited symptoms which look suspiciously similar to women who are highly aroused with no way of achieving release, were diagnosed with hysteria.
Interestingly enough, hysteria is one of those diseases that has existed for thousands of years, but magically disappeared in the middle of the twentieth century, thanks in part to a lot of things, one of which being the wide spread, crazy idea that women could enjoy sex and could regularly orgasm if they or their partners took matters into their own hands, so to speak.
But I’m not quite that far yet. I’m still laughing–yes, hysterically–through the history of the vibrator, a device designed so that doctors could get a break from the tedious work of manually inducing hysterical paroxysm in their patients.
I have to tell you that, at the same time that male doctors come off looking like a bunch of morons, there’s something kind of sweetly naive about their commitment to their worldview. I mean, here are all these guys who are supposed to be so worldly and wise who think that most women are suffering from some disease which can only be cured by rubbing or mildly shocking or spraying with water women’s genitals to the point where the women are writhing around, calling out, trembling, and then their vaginal muscles noticeably contract. And most of these guys find such "physical therapy" tedious. They try to pass it off to midwives or flunkies. "It’s hard and it takes too long," they complain. They spend long hours building elaborate contraptions designed to induce hysterical paroxysm without the aid of anyone.
And they’re despondent because their patients don’t ever seem cured of hysteria, because the women need to come back often for more treatments!
Bless your hearts, smart men of history. Bless your hearts.
*I hope any young scholars who are contemplating spending some time licking my cooter will keep these handy facts in mind.
**Yes, this is a joke.
Anyway, Coble, I will ask the Professor when she gets back from where ever it is that she’s jetted off to this weekend if you can borrow it. You’ll get a kick out of it, I bet.
I fell asleep outside reading The Technology of Orgasm: "Hysteria," the Vibrator, and Women’s Sexual Satisfaction. I dreamed that Bruce Willis, who asked me to call him "Reilly," worshipped me as his goddess. Strangely enough, this involved him putting me in a cart and hauling me all over the countryside. Perhaps this proves that the history of pagan Europe is more interesting to the unconscious mind than the conscious mind.
Anyway, I woke up to discover another installment of "Conservatives Eat Their Young!" Well, that and to discover that when one naps for three hours in the backyard, one wakes up with a crick in her neck.
I’ll just say this, it’s really too bad that Coble tries so hard to be nice, because she’s got such an elegant way of being nasty, I love to see it. Check this out:
You once asked me to apologise for mischaracterising a statement of yours. I did so, and in return asked for an apology from you. Did not receive it. That has always struck me as indicitive of where you’re coming from. It seems as though you believe you have sole ownership of the moral high ground, and get to rent it out to whomever you see fit.
"It seems as though you believe you have sole ownership of the moral high ground, and get to rent it out to whomever you see fit." I want to randomly call up strangers and just say that into the phone, just to feel that icy polite tingle of rebuke in my own mouth.
Oh libertarians, you tickle me so much I have composed this poem in your honor.
Roses are red. The sea is dark green.
Most conservatives are boring,
But you’re witty and mean!
No thanks necessary.
So, I’m at Wendy’s today for lunch and ahead of me in line are three old people–two women and a man. Now, I don’t mean old like Sarcastro-old, I mean, really old like late 60s/early 70s. The man was ordering and the women were standing in front of me. The slightly older looking woman, who had these long fingers, reached to the waist of the other woman and kind of stroked at her waist and the nice round curve of her hip. So, imagine that. I’m watching this old woman gently running her hands along the ticklish areas of her companion.
If you did this to me, I would either turn around and start humping you right there in public or laugh and try to wiggle out of your reach. It’s just not a place on me that one can just casually stroke at without eliciting some response.
But just as I had myself about convinced that it was just some way for old women to be physically close and didn’t mean they were lovers, the old man pulled the woman being petted over to him and he rested his hands on her hips in pretty much the same manner as he ordered for her. And that, to me, was clearly a “we are intimate” signal.
Then, he also ordered for the other woman.
So, I was left perplexed. Was it a man and his two lovers? A woman and her two lovers. A man, his lover, and her sister?
Is this becoming a popular arrangement for old people? I mean, I know you men can’t seem to cling to life with the same vigor as us women, and so we might have to consider more complicated sleeping arrangements as we get older in order to stay satisfied, but is this becoming common?
And yes, I might be a little sensitive about this because my mom and dad will be staying out in their trailer with my aunt Julie when they come to visit and yet again my dad talked about how nice it would be if Julie would just marry them.
Update on Wednesday, June 28, 2006 at 12:41PM
I should point out that I have no problems with anyone else in the whole wide world being polyamorous. I just don’t want to think about my parents as such. Like the rest of their sex life, I’ll assume they have it; I don’t want to know for sure.
Also, I love my parents, but I think my aunt Julie could do better.
So, yes, this week has been both a grueling endurance test of not-fun and a perfectly fine week just hijacked by my own inability to realize the proper size of problems.
But I did realize something interesting. When things were at their lowest, I prayed, instinctively, to the Christian god this prayer, “Oh god, why do you hate us? Why can’t we get some fucking breaks occasionally? If you just let us get through this…”
I’ve thought long and hard about all the reasons I left Christianity and I felt, and still feel, pretty justified in them, but I had never until this week realized how closely I associate the Christian god with my being extremely miserable, and with no choice but to just pray for the strength to endure my misery.
Y’all, I have been unhappy some in my non-Christian life, but it’s been a long, long time since I felt this specific kind of misery–the “bad things are happening, they are out of your control, just suffer through it” brand. And I had forgotten how I used to feel that way most of the time. And I know I haven’t ever realized how I link the Christian god and my misery.
And I say “linked” because, obviously, I don’t consciously think the Christian god is responsible for making me miserable; it’s not causal. But it clearly seems to go both ways. When I am miserable, I expect the Christian god to be close by and, when the Christian god is close by, I expect to be miserable.
I think that’s important. I’m not sure how, but when I realized it, it kind of brought me up short.
I’ve got to mull this over a little bit, obviously. I’m not sure what it means.
Y’all, another animal in this house has maimed me. I’m starting to take it personally.
We–Mrs. Wigglebottom and I–were walking along and she picked up this big stick, ran at me, and flipped her head so that the stick hit me right in the knee and scraped it all up.
Is that not the lame-o-ist injury to ever be incurred from a pet?
And who does the dog think she is? Some kind of mafia enforcer?
Oh, Kleinheider, how I’d love to get you drunk and tattoo the following on your arm so that you can refer to it whenever you doubt my brilliance:
When two people’s rights come into conflict and you are working to pass laws that would require one person’s rights to always be abridged in order to protect the rights of the other, you are creating a situation in which the person whose rights can never be abridged, even if it infringes on the rights on another person, has special rights, because, as you are well aware, everyone else in this nation has rights only as far as they do not infringe on the rights of others.
Using the law to grant special rights to fetal people at the expense of the rights of women does indeed constitute using the law as a “tool designed control the lives of women.”
Quoting Shaun Groves as you do is also slightly disingenuous because Shaun Groves is a minister. Damn straight it’s his job to search his heart and consult with his god and then minister to his flock as to what the right course of action for them to take is. That’s his job. He’s in a position of authority over the pregnant women who come to him because he’s their fucking pastor. He’s supposed to guide them to do what he believes his god is calling them to do–to make sacrifices to preserve the life of the fetus.
So what? All this proves is that Shaun Groves doesn’t believe his god when his god says that killing a woman is murder and killing a fetus is a property matter (Exodus 21:22-23).
What Shaun Groves thinks his god wants has nothing to do with what the actual law of the land should be. The law of the land should be that a woman has control over her own body at all times and can do with it what she sees fit. The Church is more than welcome to argue that abortion is wrong and that women should, if they get pregnant, carry their babies to term. In fact, that seems like the exact right position for the Church to take.
But, we are not a theocracy and it is not the job of our laws or legislatures to enforce the will of the Church on people who don’t necessarily go to church.
And also, until you’re willing to tell me to my face that you believe that women who have abortions should go to jail for life, if not face the death penalty, don’t even bullshit me about how you believe abortion is murder.
I did all this research to refute Exador’s misguided wrongness last night, but my heart just wasn’t in it, and so I ended up deleting the post. I thought, “What’s the use in pointing out the errors of his ways if he’s never going to talk to me again?” But since he claims he will, I just can’t let this nonsense stand.
So, the point of his little rant is that, supposedly, women are twice as domestically violent as men.
This is interesting, I thought. What does the government say?
My, my, my. Looky here. If a woman is murdered, there’s a one in three chance it was her husband, ex-husband, or boyfriend who did it. Two-thirds of the people who are killed by an intimate partner are women. Two-thirds of the people who kill their intimate partners are men.
I don’t mean to point out a huge flaw in the Wayward Boy Scout’s beloved data, but since the study interviewed 1615 co-habitating couples, it by definition didn’t interview anyone who had fled an abusive relationship or anyone who had killed his or her partner. So, you cannot say that women are more violent than men (though good try); you can only safely say that in ongoing partnerships, women tend to be more violent. We might surmise that, in relationships that have come to an end due to violence, such as when your partner kills you or makes you so afraid that he might kill you, then the more violent partner is usually male.
Rachel over at Women’s Health News helps the Tennessean fix the error of their ways and, in thanks, they insist she take down a chart of theirs.
In response, I must insist that the Tennessean suck my butt.
Behold the law:
Notwithstanding the provisions of sections 106 and 106A, the fair use of a copyrighted work, including such use by reproduction in copies or phonorecords or by any other means specified by that section, for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching (including multiple copies for classroom use), scholarship, or research, is not an infringement of copyright. In determining whether the use made of a work in any particular case is a fair use the factors to be considered shall include —
(1) the purpose and character of the use, including whether such use is of a commercial nature or is for nonprofit educational purposes;
(2) the nature of the copyrighted work;
(3) the amount and substantiality of the portion used in relation to the copyrighted work as a whole; and
(4) the effect of the use upon the potential market for or value of the copyrighted work.
The fact that a work is unpublished shall not itself bar a finding of fair use if such finding is made upon consideration of all the above factors.
[emphasis mine, for the butt-suckers at our local daily, who seem unclear about the fucking law]
I totally should have been a copyright attorney. Hurray for copyright law!
Yes, I’m still a man-hating feminist pig, whatever. I tried to give it up for the day, but I like feminism. It’s fun and it makes me happy. Plus, if I’m not a feminist, who will refute the Wayward Boy Scout when he is wrong?* Who will mock and shame Kleinheider, while at the same time closing her eyes and smiling at the thought of his massive penis?** Who will cause right-wingers to throw up their hands in disgust?
No, the void left by my retreat from feminism is just too large. I must soldier on. Not for myself, but for society at large.
Before we get to that, though, let us spend a moment listing more good things about the men I know:
1. Sarcastro will continue to talk to me while I’m in the bathroom peeing. I don’t know why, but I find this comforting. There’s “girl you know,” there’s “friends,” and then there’s “fuck it, you’re like family” and I think acknowledging that the person in your house is still in your house even when she’s peeing is at the “fuck it, you’re like family level.”
2. Sarcastro does not offer touchy-feely advice about how I should deal with my feelings.
3. The Butcher bought me a Globe from the grocery store that has, as its lead story, Laura Bush moving out of the White House in anger at W.’s “affair” with Condi.
4. You may not have noticed, but I am frazzled. I mean, I am frazzled. I scheduled two things for the same time this afternoon. And I scheduled two things for the same time Thursday. And I told the guy from State Farm that I would not need a rental car while my car was in the shop and he said, “You know, that’s probably going to be a week” and I was all like “What would I possibly need a car for?***” And I’m sure he was thinking, “Oh, I don’t know, to get places, you dumb bitch,” but instead, he said nicely “Why don’t you just give me a call back when you’ve talked to the repair shop and we’ll get something set up.”
5. The guy at the collision repair shop talked to me like a normal human being. He took me outside and we looked at the car and we both looked at how funky the hood is sitting and he was all like, “I bet you the some-fucking-thing-or-other is bent, but we won’t know until we get in there and take a look. Don’t you think?” “Yep, it probably is the some-fucking-thing-I-have-no-idea-about-because-I-am-not-a-car-or-a-car-fixer-upper, surely.” And then I said, “What do you think it’ll cost me to get that door fixed?” And he said, “Well, now, if you want to get it fixed and all blended and looking like new, it’s going to run you eleven hundred bucks, but hold on” and he gets on the phone and he’s all like “I got me a 2002 Dodge Stratus sedan needs a front passenger door. You got one? In white? White. Yep. Great.” and turns to me, “He got one in white. It’s probably got some dings, but nothing like you got there and I can just swap it out for $550. I’ll give you a call when the door gets here and we can look at it together.” Collision Repair Shop Guy, if you hadn’t had a big ole wedding ring on your hand, I would have probably kissed you, full on the mouth.
6. I know y’all thought it was funny when Exador got all huffy and threatened to leave. But it made me cry. That probably makes me a bad feminist, so I’m going to say it now before I resume my feministory duties. I don’t expect you to understand, but I find the libertarians very comforting. Exador, especially, soothes my soul and I feel lucky that Sarcastro introduced us. He has this way about him that is so solid and self-assured, not in a cocky way, just in a “I have a right to take up space in the world” way that I really like.
He seems unflappable. But his comment was that of a man very flapped. That’s what scared the shit out of me. I really thought he might not come back and, if he didn’t, who could I look to for inspiration on how to be solid and sure of myself?
He claims he’s not mad at me. I hope he’s not just saying that so that I’ll stop writing him pathetic emails. Especially because it’s hard for me to feel good about pointing out how he’s wrong about things when I think he’s really pissed at me.
7. At the park this weekend, Mrs. Wigglebottom and I saw the tall guy again. I don’t know if I told you about him. He’s this tall guy, obviously, who walks at the park and he stands so straight with his arms so gracefully at his side, like lanky ornaments, that I thought for sure he was African. But he said ‘hello’ to us in this deep Southern voice and when he walked by he smelled so good it made my knees buckle. Wow. He smelled like good soap and something kind of musky, but not too pungent.
Okay, seven is good. Seven things that have made me glad this week. I mean, it’s only Tuesday.
*And folks, the Wayward Boy Scout needs a fist full of refuting today.
**And Kleinheider needs to both be mock, shamed, and imagined naked, except for a large, pink feather boa and some kohl black eyeliner.
***I know! Me. Thinking I could last a week without a car. What the fuck? Did I think I was just going to live at the office? Where would I shower?
So, I talked to Beth over at State Farm, who had also talked to the Butcher and she told me how upset he was on the phone and how he told her that she should in no uncertain terms call me until he had a chance to talk to me because he was, "going to take care of this himself, so that my sister wouldn’t have to worry."
I don’t know why, but that breaks my heart.
Sarcastro asked me this question yesterday–"Isn’t it disillusioning to see that the people who you figure are living the dream turn out to be more fucked up than you?"–and I think he meant it rhetorically, which is good, because I didn’t have an answer for him, I was so taken aback by it.
Y’all, I am kind of a dumb fuck. I really do kind of think that you all have things together so much better than I do and, I’ll be honest, sometimes I write things here just as kind of giant explanations as to why you have to share the streets with someone who does not have her shit together in the way that she should, by now, have her shit together.
But I think the truth is yesterday, that we are all kind of fucked up in ways that would surprise each other if we knew them for true, and in spite of that, you still have some folks who try, in their own fucked up ways, to take care of you and you, in return, make your own half-assed efforts to return the kindness.
Anyway, so I talked to Beth, who sent me to Kevin, who set me up an appointment at a place near here to get my car fixed and it’s going to cost me $250 bucks and I’m going to ask them to give me an estimate on the door, just so the Butcher has something to aim for as he saves up to get it fixed.
I told Kevin I didn’t think I’d need a rental car, but I was clearly momentarily insane. Of course I need a rental car. How am I going to get to the feminist indoctrination camp performance without a car?
Er, because, of course, someone must be there to set those girls straight about the joys of the patriarchy.
Back before I learned to stop worrying and love the patriarchy, an article like this one in the New York Times about the benefits of using animal training techniques on your husband, would have pissed me off for the fucked up ideas it perpetuates about how men and women should relate: Men are big fucking babies who cannot be reasoned with and so women have to stop treating them like human beings and instead, treat them like exotic animals who must be taught new tricks through the use of behavior modification.
Yes, it’s just an never-ending supply of grossness–men are unreasonable brutes; it’s women’s job to manipulate men into proper behavior; women are responsible for the emotional wellbeing of the household; men have to be carefully studied and scrutinized; if women have problems with men, the appropriate solution is to force the men to change, instead of either changing women’s own expectations and responses or explaining to the men what the problems are and letting the men either decide to change or deal with the repercussions of not changing; etc. etc.
See, I think this kind of article is insidious because the author comes to a good conclusion before veering off into "let me run your life" land. Her husband loses his keys. He grouches. She attempts to appease him. He grouches some more. They end up fighting. She decides to stop trying to appease him, thus he grouches, she ignores her desire to meddle and provide for him something he can provide for himself, he grouches a little more, and he finds his keys.
But does she take from this success that she should not try to appease her husband when he is upset about something that doesn’t concern her, because it’s kind of meddlesome and patronizing to run around trying to provide for your spouse something that he can provide for himself, especially when he’s not asked for help?
She just changes her meddling tactics. Now she’s not meddling by trying to do things for him. Now she’s meddling by manipulating him.
If I were still a feminist, I would point out that this is bullshit. Grown ass men are, by definition, grown ass men. They can take care of themselves and they can ask for help when they need it. Anticipating the needs of your man and trying to meet them, when you’ve decided for him what his needs are instead of him, is disturbing.
Ha, and if I were still a feminist, I’d point out how this is doubly insidious because it looks like the innocuous and pleasant "We take care of each other and I do things for him, because I love him, and he does stuff for me because he loves me" stuff that happens in relationships.
But, alas, I have renounced my patriarchy-renouncing ways and so, instead, all I can say about it is "I’m glad that she seems to be doing the laundry and making dinners. What a good wife! Go patriarchy! Woo hoo."
Or can I even say that?
I may need to check with Kleinheider and see if I can still blog as a patriarchy-supporting woman or if I should be spending that time in his kitchen or scrubbing his toilet. I probably haven’t been a PSW long enough to earn myself a Shafly or Coulter dispensation, but for the sake of Tiny Cat Pants, I’m hoping I can keep writing.
Probably luck is like birds on a wire. You get used to a wire full of birds, you don’t notice any more when there are more or less or none at all. It’s just those moments when you look up and watch them all take flight at the same time and you catch your breath as they all turn and then turn again and then fly off to places unknown, that you think, that can’t possibly be ordinary. This can’t possibly be how things go. It must mean something; it must be an omen, a change I can’t live with.
Of course, that’s not true.
Mrs. Wigglebottom still curls up under my feet, rests her head on her paws, and snores quietly like there’s nothing more soothing than the sound of my fingers tapping on plastic keys.
That’s not true, either–I’d argue that letting me rub your head is much more soothing–but it makes me feel calm and calming anyway.
Y’all, clearly when you start talking about the Patriarchy’s prostate, the Patriarchy fights back. You hit it where it hurts and it hits you where it hurts, right in the car.
Well, the Patriarchy might be able to live without its prostate, but I cannot live without my car.
I left work early, cried all the way to Sarcastro’s house, pulled myself together enough to drink the last of his liquor, and decided on the way home to renounce my patriarchy-hating ways. After all, the Patriarchy has 3 billion, give or take a few, prostates and I have but one car. And you all know that I need my car, for both practical and emotional reasons.
I know when the deck is stacked against me.
So, I’m done.
From here on out, the Patriarchy rules, especially its magnificent penises and its love for pre-born humans.
I take back all the nice shit I said about him.
Good thing I’m made of money and can just get all this shit fixed right up.
Oh, wait. I am actually not made of money. I am made of flesh and bone and rage mixed with "what the fuck"ness?
Seriously, what the fuck?
I’ve got to go talk to State Farm about this shit. I can’t be driving around some fucking mess of a vehicle. I’ve got to go get this stuff straight.
Hey, y’all! Did you see the media coverage? And don’t forget, it’s free and it’s this Thursday and Friday.
1. He folded my laundry.
2. He cleaned the house.
3. He got my oil changed.
4. He got me a new air filter.
5. He’s using this new shellac on his art that makes it look all shiny and cool, like stained glass or a really super car finish.
6. He just called me from Walmart where they’re having some kind of crazy sale on crayons (24 for $.25) and he bought $5 worth.
Y’all, I don’t know. He’s just cool and it makes me happy to have him around.
I wish we had a digital camera so you could see how awesome his art is lately.