Another Open Letter to Kleinheider

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.


Act Like a GRRRL!

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.

Orgasm: Just Something We Do to Piss off Men

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.

God, this Weather’s Great

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.