Mary Mancini, You Can Call Me Anything You Want. Just Don’t Call Me Late for Dinner.

I was listening to Liberadio this morning and had a thought.

Here’s what came of it.

(Yeah, I, too, wish today weren’t filled with half-assed posts, but everyone and their uncle has come here from all corners of the internet to learn about my awesome vagina and I always find it hard to write when I know everyone is watching.)

I’d Rather Not Go Blind

For the past three nights, I’ve had this dream that I have to go to the Nashville Knucklehead’s house and make him and his daughter dinner so that we can then go to a strip club he wants me to invest in.  And, frankly, it’s the kind of strip club I would invest in, like the club from Idlewild but with buck-nakedness and sex.  Especially if I had my own private box, which, in my dream, I seem to.  Though where I’m getting the money to invest in this club, I’m not sure.

But here’s the thing about the dream.  Every time I dream it, I’m driving on my way to go make dinner and I go blind, while driving, and my brakes don’t work.  I can go slowly, but I must go forward and I cannot see anything but blinding whiteness.

And yet, I still get to the house okay.

But it’s so real that when I got in the car this morning to come to work, I had this moment of panic when I was sure that my brakes didn’t work, even though, they clearly did.

Can You Even Do That?

I’m not normally one to argue that there should be requirements on who can run for office.  Shoot, I’d like to see the House of Representatives run like jury duty.  You vote, you have a chance of being picked to serve.

But it’s things like discovering that four of our state representatives have so little a grasp on how our system works that makes me think that maybe you ought to have to be able to demonstrate a working knowledge of how things work before you can run for office.

I mean, shoot, on the one hand, I don’t care if you want to file eight million lawsuits against the President (though, when you do, don’t expect me to have a whole lot of sympathy when you come back later and piss and moan about frivilous lawsuits).  I don’t believe anyone is angry at you, so much as laughing at you and trying to prevent you from making bigger fools of yourselves.

On the other hand, I do expect that you, as an elected official, in charge of making laws, understand what GoldnI points out here.

If you file a lawsuit against someone else, that makes you the plaintiff. That means you have to prove something to the court. You cannot simply walk into the courtroom and say, “Hey judge, we have a suspicion that Obama’s birth certificate may not be real, make him show it to us!” You have to show actual evidence that it may have been falsified, and at that point the judge can decide whether or not to compel Obama to show the birth certificate.

And it is scary to me that these state legislators don’t get that.  Jeff, if you do requests, I’m begging you, could you ask them what evidence they have that the birth certificate has been falsified?  Because it’s sounding like, from what you report that Glen Casada says, they don’t think it has been.  So, maybe a follow-up question should be whether they know what their roles as plaintiffs are and, if they don’t, whether their constituents should be worried about their abilities to understand, make, and pass basic laws.

An Open Letter to My Dad

Dear Dad,

When something goes shittily wrong with something a member of our family was doing, please tell me so that I don’t, when talking to them, ask them how that thing is going and thus causing them to have to recount all the ways it’s gone terrible and causing me to feel like a complete chump for bringing it up.

Love,

Your Unhappy Daughter

Spending Sunday with Dead Strangers

Marigolds and Other Garden Matters

garden

This is what I’m thinking about as a layout for the garden, leaving three feet between rows, but doubling up the rows of stuff that don’t need as much room.

I’m a firm believer in the miraculous properties of marigolds and have purchased some French marigold seeds to rim the garden with.  My question now is, do I plan on putting marigolds in with the plants, too?

Anyway, I’m open for suggestions about the garden layout and interested to hear what you’re doing in yours.

The Edmondson Exhibit

We went out to Cheekwood to the Edmondson exhibit.  There are, maybe, ten pieces, but the other exhibit on the floor–of local high school kids–is really, really good, too, so it’s cool.

Still, I was hoping for more than one room.

The pieces are mostly statues but there is one headstone, which both the Butcher and I snickered over.  I mean, can you imagine that moment when you discover that your grandma’s headstone is an invaluable piece of art?  Sorry, Grandma, but we’re making a switch.

Anyway, the thing that stands out when you see the sculptures in person is how, while all the faces seem like mere suggestions and the clothes are all rock, stiff, all the women’s hair looks like you might touch it and find it soft.

It’s Those Little Things

–The Professor emailed me about this, but I didn’t see it.  Jagosaurus says most everything smart there is to say about it.  I would only add that when you run down Appalachia, you’re running down Dolly Parton.  So, think on that, America.

Jane Q. Public, how I wish I were you, tonight.  I must, however, walk to the grade school and back without dying before I walk around downtown looking for ghosts because I would be mortified if I died while on the ghost tour.  And I reiterate my question–are there no Fisk ghost stories?  Where are the people who know the Fisk ghost stories?

Just when you think penises aren’t getting their due

–My tomatoes have sprouted, too!  No peppers yet, though.  I kind of have a feeling it’s not going to be hot enough in here for them to sprout, which is okay.

–I think the tiny cat is looking better.  I could be wrong.  But I think the wet food has helped.

I’m hoping I can talk the Butcher into going to see the Edmunson exhibit at Cheekwood.  I’ve been to Cheekwood three times and every time they’ve not had any Edmunson pieces out and I have been sorely disappointed.  But now, if they’re going to have an exhibit of his pieces, they, by definition, have to have his pieces out!  Where I can see them!

Beautiful Things to Look At

I was looking for pictures of watermelons and discovered Boris Kustodiev, who is a Russian artist from the turn of the last century.  Did I ever tell you guys about my brief attempt to learn Russian?  See, I went to some piddly high schools and I got to college and everyone had taken Spanish, so I was afraid to take Spanish for fear that I would be terribly behind, so I took Russian as my language requirement, because I figured no one would have a leg up on me there.

I also worked in the cafeteria with a lanky Russian and a cute Ukrainian.  I worked on the line serving food and they were the guys who ran you full dishes of, in this case, lasagna.  And that evening they were insisting that I practice my basically non-existent Russian skills.  They would not bring me more lasagna until I asked for it in Russian.

So, imagine, if you will, me, finishing up the pan and I shout out “Я кончу” thinking that I’m yelling “I’m finishing.”  “What?!” they say, in English, too, so I knew I was in trouble.  “Я кончу?”

“Oh, ha ha ha ha ha.”

Turns out, in Russian slang, if you don’t say what you’re finishing, you’ve just yelled out across the cafeteria, “I’m having an orgasm.”

Hmph.  The lasagna wasn’t that good.

Still, once you can say “пиво” in one Slavic language, you can pretty much make yourself understood in all of them, and that, my friends, is what’s important.

And if any drunken Russian three year olds want to talk about cows, cookies, milk, or vodka, I am ready to chat.

Anyway, where were we?  Oh, beautiful things to look at.

kustodiev_merchants_wife

The Merchant’s Wife.  See?  Watermelon!

kustodiev_russian_venus

Russian Venus, which is, I believe, what is says right there on that piece of paper.

Speaking of women as gods, have y’all seen this?

I Almost Wish My Vagina Were as Mysterious and Powerful as Campfield Thinks It Is

You know how “sacred” has that sense of both “holy” and “cursed” in it?  That the sacred thing is something so powerful and weird and not of this world that it has to be set aside and only talked about under certain circumstances and in certain ways and that it has special powers able to tear at the fabric of society if messed around with too much?

It’s really hard, when looking at the legislation Campfield is trying to get passed, as a whole, to not get a sense of my vagina as some ancient, sacred thing–like the Ark of the Covenant in Raiders of the Lost Ark–that Campfield is trying to keep closed except under special ritual circumstances in order to keep it from melting the flesh off people.

How sacred is my vagina?

It is so sacred that parents should be able to keep their children from learning about what it does in school (HB0811).  So taboo that advertisements for it should be subject to a 25% sales tax (HB0809) and that, if you want to look at it, you should be charged an “amusement tax” (HB0810).  So mysterious and full of danger is my vagina that we must forbid kids from even learning that there are other things you can do with it besides have babies (HB0821).

According to Campfield, my vagina is so powerful and mysterious that it can fool a man into raising a kid that’s not his without his knowledge and trick him into paying child support for a child he isn’t genetically related to (HB0805).  My vagina has magical powers that confir legal personhood on the fetuses that die just north of it (HB0807 & HB0819) in some cases causing a person to be issued a death certificate before he or she has the legal ability to be dead.

But the most amazing power my vagina has, unbeknownst to me, is that it has the ability to defy the Constitution and make a nation appear between my legs (HB0817).  Yes, you see, in real life, if you are born in the United States, you are a United States citizen.  But in the fantasy world where a vagina has special, sometimes evil, powers, passing through it on your way into the world irrevocably taints you with the homeland of your mother.  You can’t even get a Tennessee birth certificate, because, even though it may have seemed to the doctors and nurses who were there, that you were indeed born in Tennessee, my vagina is so powerful as to make that not true.  We can’t be certain of where you were born.  We cannot issue you a birth certificate.

Fear my great and powerful vagina!  Step off, Stacy Campfield, or I will wiggle my hips suggestively in your direction!  Bow to me, Campfield, and quiver before its slippery pink awesomeness!  And then, run in terror!  Legislate against it all you want.  My vagina will simply wait for its chance to leap out of the dark and smother you with its magical powers!!!!!  (That’s right.  You’d better not keep the legislative parking garage too warm [HB0813].  It’s easier for a vagina to do its work in a warm parking garage and you never know when is going to spring.)

Bwah ha ha ha ha!

Campfield’s Anti-Fatherhood Campaign

Rachel wrote about Campfield’s nonsense last night, too.  And she noticed something interesting.  Campfield has submitted a bill (HB0807) that replicates state law 68-3-504.  And when I say “replicates,” I mean “is almost word for word the same in the short form” in that it requires all miscarried pregnancies later than 22 weeks to be reported, which is the law right now.

This is an ongoing trend with the Republicans and their social issues–make repeated laws that accomplish the same thing to… to what end?  A girl wonders.

And then your eye might drift to the second page of the bill and read:

(And I just have to warn you that we are about to enter a realm of such cruel jackassery that I almost cannot believe Campfield can walk around and look women in the eye.)

If the mother was married at the time of conception, birth or fetal death, or anytime between conception, birth or fetal death, to the natural father of the child, the name of the child shall be entered on the certificate as that of the natural father, except that where the mother though married has retained the mother’s maiden surname, then on sworn application of both parents, the child’s surname to be entered on the birth certificate may be the maiden surname of the child’s mother, or both surnames as the parents mutually agree.

and

If the mother was not married at the time of conception, birth or fetal death, or between conception and birth or fetal death, the name of the father shall not be entered on the certificate of birth, and the surname of the child shall be that of the legal surname of the mother. All information pertaining to the father shall be omitted.

Let this sink in for just a second.  Remember, we’re talking about people who miscarry pregnancies that are over 22 weeks along, meaning that the fetus is either viable or just about.  If you’re the father, you’ve been able to place your hands on the woman’s stomach and feel that child move.  And Campfield is saying that, if that baby dies in utero, if you’re not married to the mom, you’re not legally that baby’s father.  In the eyes of the state, you didn’t lose anything.

Imagine this.  Let’s say you have a woman you’re deeply in love with and you find out you’re getting shipped to Iraq.  You ask her to marry you upon your return.  While you’re overseas, she calls to tell you that the last night you spent together resulted in her being pregnant.  Now you’re even more excited about getting home and marrying that girl.

If she miscarries, Campfield says, “Fuck you.  You’re the dad of nothing.”

These are the Family Values Campfield’s trying to advance.  If you’re not going to play by his rules, he wants the right to turn your personal family tragedies into a chance for him to teach you a lesson about the importance of being married.

As far as he’s concerned, a family isn’t something you decide to be; it’s something the state gets to decide to let you be.  And, if you aren’t married to the woman you love before you start fucking her, you’re not a family and any kids you have with her aren’t yours.  If she miscarries, Campfield doesn’t even think you’ve lost anything and he wants the law to reflect that.

I Have a Bud!

NM said I couldn’t have daffodils until I had not only green above ground, but a bud that would then develop into a blossom.

Well, science folks with your science logic, I am delighted to report that I have a bud!  One bud among the green stuff out by the rose.

How soon until it opens?

Won’t You Help Campfield Get His List of Sinners?

So, yes, Campfield has once again submitted his “Issue Death Certificates for Abortions” legislation.

Let’s recap why this is a terrible idea.

1.  The State already keeps records on the abortions performed in Tennessee.  We don’t need another piece of llegislation to accomplish something we already do.  39-15-203 says “A physician performing an abortion shall keep a record of each operation and shall make a report to the commissioner of health with respect thereto at the time and in the form as the commissioner may reasonably prescribe. Each record and report shall be confidential in nature and shall be inaccessible to the public.”

2.  A death certificate is public record.  There is no provision in the Tennessee code to make parts of a death certificate unavailable to the public.  So, if Campfield wants to issue real, actual death certificates for aborted fetuses, he can’t say “Oh, but no one will see those records and the information in them” or “I’m only going to allow researchers to have access to the information” because that is against the law.  Those are public records.

3.  Because they’re public records, anyone who wants to could go through and compile a list of women who’ve had abortions and use that list for whatever nefarious purposes they like will be able to.

4.  Does Campfield support issuing death certificates for miscarriages?  If a 9-week old fetus who is aborted gets a death certificate, why wouldn’t a 9-week old fetus who is miscarried?  Okay, you say, fine, we issue death certificates for miscarried fetuses, after all, they’re people, too.  But what about the mother who doesn’t even know she’s pregnant?  She thinks she’s just having a heavy period?  How will we determine when an early miscarriage is happening in order to know we need to issue death certificates?  Will everything that comes out of your vagina when you menstruate have to be turned over to the State?

5.  An abortion is a medical procedure.  Has Campfield considered whether this violates HIPAA statutes?  What right does he have to reveal to anyone a medical procedure that you’ve had?

6.  There is no way for this law to not eventually drag women who miscarry into it.  There’s just not.  The law does not allow for two classes of people.  You can’t say some dead fetuses are people for the purposes of issuing them death certificates and some dead fetuses are not and their loss is just a private tragedy.  It just doesn’t work that way.  If you know any woman who’s been through a miscarriage, you know how terrible that can be for a woman.  Are we really ready to head down a path that is guaranteed to increase their suffering?

7.  By law, a child’s father’s name goes on its death certificate.  Right now, paternity is established by the mother naming someone and it being put on the birth certificate.  At the moment, there is also pending legislation that would require a DNA test before a man can go on a birth certificate.  Will such a test be issued before a man can go on the death certificate?

8.  According to Tennessee law, an abortion is “administration to any woman pregnant with child, whether the child be quick or not, of any medicine, drug, or substance whatever, or the use or employment of any instrument, or other means whatever, with the intent to destroy the child, thereby destroying the child before the child’s birth.”  That means, taking mifepristone to end a pregnancy would result in a situation in which a death certificate would be issued.  And yet, also according to Tennessee law, a death certificate can only be issued when a person is legally dead and, under Tennessee law, you are legally dead when you have sustained either “Irreversible cessation of circulatory and respiratory functions; or Irreversible cessation of all functions of the entire brain, including the brain stem”

And yet, in cases when a woman takes mifepristone, she’s often inducing an abortion before there are developed circulatory and respiratory functions or a brain.  So, how can the State issue death certificates to people who don’t meet the legal definition of dead?

The bottom line is that the state already collects information on the abortions performed in the state and this piece of shit legislation is just designed to make it easy for folks to make a database of women who’ve had abortions.  Our only salvation as a state is that it’s so poorly thought out that, even if it does pass, it’ll be tied up in court forever.

But you can bet I’ll be waiting to see if Campfield has the balls to vote to make gun records private at the same time he’s trying to make medical records public.

How soon? How soon?

So, I guess the crocuses I planted were a bust, or something ate them, or something.  No sign of them at all.  But the daffodils are all over the yard and the flower beds and they are all up and all about a pinky finger tall and how soon until they bloom?  How soon?!

My Mom v. Rushing and Reeves

I spent all night reading the Rushing and Reeves book, which, on the one hand, is a bit of a scam, because clearly they wrote some parts of the book to be slapped into any book about gardening in any Southern state.  But it’s a scam I can appreciate.  But on the other hand, the book is excellent and I poured through it and have about eleventy billion thoughts.  It’s organized by plant and all the plants they talk about are ones that can grown in Tennessee (though here, especially, is where you can see that the content is designed with an eye for repurposing–the “Banana” entry says that only those of us on the coast can expect to get fruit from our banana plants, though anyone can enjoy the plant itself.  Now, if there’s some coastal area of Tennessee, I’m afraid it will come as a great and unpleasant shock to the people of Alabama and Mississippi.)

But most of their advice boils down to “get a good fertilizer, work the soil well, and plant your plants in a sunny spot.”  Their biggest concern are pests.  They have pages of advice for how to protect yourself from bugs and animals and more bugs.

I called my mom to get her advice and I told her all of the plants were were thinking of growing and she just said, “Oh, no, B., think of all of the weeds you’ll have.  You will die.”

I could hear my dad shouting in the background, “Weeds never bothered her Aunt B.  Look at all the stuff they pull out of their disgraceful mess of a garden.”

Anyway, Rushing and Reeves recommend you not depend on a mere sunny window to start your plants.  The marigolds and, hmmm, looks like maybe the broccoli, disagree.

p1010017

An Open Letter to Kenny Chesney

Dear Kenny Chesney,

A lot of gay men our age have slept with women, even a lot of women.  Claiming that you cannot possibly be gay because you have slept with over a hundred women is like claiming that you cannot possibly like chocolate ice cream because you have had over one hundred bowls of vanilla.

I don’t give a shit if you’re gay or not.  What I do give a shit about is that, as usual, country musicians keep making ’00s country music look like ’70s rock, but in a sad, tattered, generic way.  It’s like country music is ’70s rock for folks who still find ’70s rock a little scandalous.

I mean, seriously.  100?  You’re one of the biggest country stars alive.  You were married once, briefly, and the best you could do is 100 women?  Come the fuck on.  That’s nothing to brag about.  Shoot, in his day, I’m sure Gene Simmons fucked 100 women between lunch and dinner.  I think Def Leppard fucked 100 women a week.  Led Zepplin had 100 groupies following them from hotel to hotel just watching them have sex with 100 women. A hundred women is just getting started for ’70s rockers.  I inadvertently fucked a hundred women just in the time it’s taken me to write this post.

Bragging about how many women you’ve slept with is kind of a douch move.  But, good lord, man, once you’ve committed to being a douche, at least really commit to it!  Don’t say a hundred.  Shoot, any damn fool who puts his mind to it can sleep with 100 people.  Give us the rock star fantasy.  Give us a number to aspire to.  A thousand, five thousand, ten thousand!  Start a rumor that every baby named Kenny in the southeast is secretly yours.  Something noteable, man.

But a hundred?  I’m sorry, but considering what you do for a living and how popular you are, a hundred makes it sound like you just weren’t trying very hard.

And that could lead a girl to wonder why.

Suddenly exhaustedly yours,

b.

Whew, Doggie, What a Day!

I will say that I got a big bag of seeds from Beth, who it turns out knows a German woman I am almost sure is the Professor’s Austrian friend.  How small is this town?

And the Professor brought me a book, The Tennessee Fruit and Vegetable Book (Induding Herbs and Nuts!), by Felder Rushing and Walter Reeves.

Hurray!

An Open Letter to Jeff Woods

Dearest Jeff,

Yes, I know how simply gauche that these little bloggers and their readers have the audacity to give money to the Democrats in such small number.  Why, just last night, I was at a cocktail party at the Frists and we were laughing over this very thing.  Who do these people think they are, only giving, what, $40 each and expecting that the likes of us should take them seriously?  The valets at that very party probably made $4,000 in one evening.  I’m sure your poolboy makes that in tips on warm afternoons.  Four thousand dollars?  That’s such a poor person amount.  It’s practically unseemly.

And, oh ho ho ho ho, I practically wept with laughter when I discovered that the money they gave didn’t go directly to Chip Forrester.  I mean, it was called ‘Chip In.’  And it didn’t even go to Chip.  Oh, these naive fools.  Tut tut tut.

You will be joining me for tea this afternoon at the Club, won’t you, darling?

In Snobby Solidarity,

Aunt B.

p.s. Just wondering, what’s the going ad rate at the Scene?  I mean is $4,000 something you scoff at all the time or just when other people bring it in?  Because I have a feeling that your sales department would be very happy if someone decided to land a $1,000 ad on Wednesday, did that at lunch, and then by Thursday had $3,000 from that account and a week later had $1,800 they weren’t expecting.  But maybe not.  What do I know?

And let’s talk about the hundred people for a second.  You know what your circulation is?  According to the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies, it’s sitting at about 50,500.  What do you think a person’s rate of return on a mention in The Scene is?  If you write a story, say, about an exhibit at the Frist, how many people do you think go to that exhibit and put out money based on what you write?  Three hundred?  Five hundred?  Maybe two hundred?  I’m going to tell you straight up, if you combined all of the readership of the blogs who participated in this and weeded out the duplicates (excluding the Kos folks, who came into the mix late Thursday, if I’m remembering right), I’m betting you’re talking about a readership of somewhere around 7,500 people, possibly less, if I’m overestimating the Knoxviews numbers.

You see what I’m saying?  You tell 60,000 people about something, and maybe 300 people decide to open their wallets.  We tell, maybe 6,000 people about something, and 60 of them decide to open their wallets (again, excluding the Kos folks).

So, yeah, you keep going with your “Oh, isn’t it cute how ineffective the bloggers are!” story.  It’s a lovely fairytale.

The Things Going in My Garden

Some people may have a little problem in the seed acquiring department.  I’m not mentioning any names, but you may be reading the blog of one of them (and her brother, who’s all “Let’s have four kinds of tomatoes!).

So, here’s the list

Vegetables

Broccoli

Regular tomatoes

Cherry tomatoes

Hot peppers of some sort

Banana peppers

Oblong small tomatoes

Even tinier cherry tomatoes

Sugar snap peas

Regular peas

Dark green watermelon

Light green watermelon

Cantalope

Supposed 300 lb pumpkins

Sweet corn

Medium green watermelon

Carrot

Okra

Reasonable pumpkin

Spinach

Celery

Flowers

Regular Marigolds

Single-blossom marigolds with red spots

Red poppies

Orange poppies

Mammoth sunflowers

Pollenless sunflowers

Red sunflowers

Mexican sunflowers

Morning glories

Sweet peas

Pansies

Foxgloves

Lupine

Canterbury Bells

Alyssum

Rose Campion

Snapdragons

Black-eyed Susans (Rudbeckia)

Painted Daisies

Larkspur

Zinnias

Delphinium

Purple Coneflower

Pink Columbine

Herbs

Cilantro

Sage

Thyme

Basil

Oregano

Lavender

Catnip

Already in the Yard

Lillies

Irises

Daffodils

Whatever the stuff that’s sprouted this week is

Peonies

The rosemary, if it lives

What have I learned from this?  That the Butcher really, really likes sunflowers.  But nothing else!

Change v. Exchange, again

I had a big fight with the Man from GM on Sunday, though it was one of those fights where I’m sure I hung up the phone going “Whatever, motherfucker,” and he hung up the phone going, “Yep, B. just has to do x, y, and z and she will be on her way to blogging superstardom.  Glad we solved that.”

I tried to explain to him that I didn’t want blogging superstardom and he actually said to me, “Oh, you’re always slowly backing away from things.  But it works for you, so, I’m sure this will work for you.”  Which stung me to the core, which probably means that it’s true, but god damn it, I could have driven up there and ran him over three times and gladly sat on his carcass in front of the police station until someone came out to arrest me and felt okay about it.

The thing is, as I’ve said before, I believe the system is fucked.  It needs to be different for the health and well-being of all of us.  But, growing up in the system and being schooled by the system, I am fucked up by the system.  I do not know what the right different is.  I don’t know.  I just know that this is not right.

I’m sorry.  This is going to be very jumbled because there are about four different situations in my life to which this is all applicable and focusing just on one to try to talk about it is proving to be difficult.

But let’s take the feminist blogosphere.  How I understood it was that, in the beginning, there were a few self-identified feminist bloggers.  And slowly, large readerships started accumulating around some of them.  Not because those bloggers were the best bloggers (which is not to say that they weren’t, just that it wasn’t a meritocracy), but because they were the easiest to find or great at self-promotion or they had a lot of time to comment around the blogosphere and link and build readership.  They were, in fact, not “the best” but in many ways, the most fortunate.

There’s nothing wrong with being fortunate, except when you mistake it for reflecting on your merit.  But that, from my perspective, seems to be what happened.  Yes, of course, the people who are successful do deserve their success.  But I cannot help but wonder if they understand that other people, who are not successful, also deserved that success.

I said over at Lauren’s that I felt like we have a lot of leading feminist bloggers, but not a lot of actual leaders.

But, honestly, I don’t know what a feminist leader looks like.  I guess because, in my heart, I feel like “feminist leader” is a contradiction in terms.  At least now, at this point in the system, I just don’t believe that any urge to lead feminists isn’t problematic.  Women need to learn how to lead our own lives.  It’s not the only goal of feminism.  But I think it’s an important one–that women learn to first live ourselves for ourselves.  Swapping out whoever’s the boss of you now for some feminist leader to boss you around in the future just doesn’t cut it with me.  That’s meet the new boss same as the old boss shit.

And I don’t want to be a leader.

But, you know, of course I do.  I’m in the system.  I’m fucked up by the system.  I believe that, if I’m good enough, I will be rewarded with power and fame and riches and happiness and it will be great!  And it will prove my worth as a human being.

But that is fucked up.  It’s so tempting, but it’s fucked up.

And I do wonder, once you start with the book deals and the media appearances, or shoot, even the meetings with politicians or the fund-raising campaigns, once you start using the system to get ahead, how easy is it to forget that the system itself is the problem?

I don’t know.

I do want real change, but I also want to be the one on top for a while.

I know that’s only human, but I want to be honest about those competing impulses.

I don’t know.  The thread over at Lauren’s has stirred up a lot of things for me I don’t quite know what to make of or do with.

So, who knows?

More Science Stuff

1.  An announcement.  Since I cannot magically pull a gardening blog out of my ass for Middle Tennessee staffed by the brilliant people I know working under my thumb for no pay while I plot the downfall of the world, maybe we just make Sundays here an unofficial official gardening discussion.  I’ll let y’all know what I’m up to and you can talk about what you’re up to and it’ll be interesting or not.

2.  The Squirrel Queen posts about worms.  I am grossed out by worms, but I always try to save them when I see they’ve been caught on the sidewalk after it rains and the sun comes out.  My favorite part from the place the Squirrel Queen links to?

A worm called Xenoturbella bocki is the master of minimalism in worms. It has no mouth, stomach, brain, or any internal organs! The only thing this primitive worm has in common with other worms is its shape. Scientists couldn’t quite classify it on discovery. DNA tests indicated it was related to molluscs, but later testing indicated that the worms may have eaten the molluscs -somehow, even with no mouth or organs.