Based on my previous post, I have envisioned the following exchange between Kate Harding and a commenter who respectfully disagrees:
Kate Harding: All men are Schroedinger's Rapists. [Meaning that all men should be viewed as rapists until they prove otherwise... um... yeah.]
Commenter: Kate, I've loved your blog since its inception, and I admire the things you've done for women. I must, however, respectfully disagree with the idea that all men are Schroedinger's Rapists. This is taking things a bit too far.
Kate Harding: I took from your post the fact that you disagree with what I have said. I would point you to the following Feminism 101 websites. Read those and then come back here and post when you "get it."
Commenter: Thanks, Kate, but I've been a feminist for almost three decades now, and I am the author of one of those Feminism 101 sites which you recommend. I still must respectfully disagree with what you've said about all men being Schroedinger's Rapists.
Kate Harding: You mean you still disagree? Read the fucking sites and don't post until you have.
Commenter: But... Kate, as I said, I authored one of the sites that you recommended. I know about feminism. I am a feminist. I simply disagree with what you've posted.
Kate Harding: You obviously don't get what feminism is all about, do you? All men are Schroedinger's Rapists. Anyone who doesn't get that, doesn't get feminism. Goodbye.
[Commenter is banned]
Or, the following scenario might better illustrate Kate Harding's pugnacious refusal to acknowledge any point of view but her own:
Children mill about at a party, eating cupcakes and speaking softly lest they disturb Kate Harding, the Birthday Girl. She cannot stand the quiet, so she yells, "Don't you like my birthday cake?" Another little girl whispers yes, followed by another, and another. One little girl says kindly, "It's pretty, but I don't really like green icing."
Kate has her bodily ejected from the birthday party.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Kate Harding and Her Clitorises
I've been keeping a baleful eye on Kate Harding's blog at http://kateharding.net/. I've noticed a pattern in the threads there. Kate or one of Her Minions* post. Comments ensue. People are banned, and banned often.
There are the usual trolls, whose asses are admirably kicked to the curb almost the instant they post -- one thing I admire steadfastly about Kate and Her Minions is their dedication to their blog. And, indeed, their blog is a work of [PC feminazi] art; tenderly cared for and fiercely protected from posters whom are called (and I'd wager money on this) "those people" by Harding and Her Minions.
But here's the part that pisses me off. Some of those who find themselves banned number not with the trolls, but are actually people who disagree, and very respectfully at that, with whatever it is that Kate or Her Minions have posted.
I post the following exchange as proof of what I claim (see the whole thread at http://kateharding.net/2009/10/05/would-it-kill-you-to-be-civil/#comments):
"2009 October 5
goldnsilver wrote:
Fourth rule: If you even fucking mention “free speech” with regard to my comments policy, you will be banned.
I didn’t mention free speech in regards to your comments or comments policy. Read your own rules. I mentioned political correctness in the context of literature, media and texts.
Tenth Rule: If you are tempted to begin an argument against something we’ve said here with, “God, stop being so PC!” just stop right there.
You’ve got me on that one. I personally hate political correctness, but if that’s one of the rules of your blog then I’ll respectfully leave it out of the discussion.
“However, I think this kind of criticism is going a step too far, when it’s clear that I was only trying to talk to you about how pretty you look in that dress. Would you prefer that I was never allowed to say anything nice about anyone ever, or only allowed to talk to other men? Maybe you want me put in a camp and castrated?”
For fuck sake, that’s childish exaggeration and you know it. Does this mean that you guys can never be criticised, because my criticism is obvi0usly one step away from me supporting rapists?"
Fillyjonk saucily tossed out the following reply:
"Oh my god, you are PRECIOUS! I love how I call you out on your slippery slope fallacy and you set up a new one twice as fast. I can’t wait until you contravene the policy one more time and I get to ban you."
[Author's note: Fillyjonk seems to derive much enjoyment from the act of banning people.]
goldnsilver responded a few comments later with:
"I guess that I just disagree with this. And I shouldn’t be banned for disagreeing."
[Author's note: goldnsilver does realize that s/he is on Shapely Prose, right?]
Finally, the frank discussion of being banned, as given by Sweet Machine:
"And I shouldn’t be banned for disagreeing.
Oh, I guess you missed Rule 7."
If you've got the inclination and nothing better to do, you can comb through new and old posts over at Shapely Prose, and you'll see that goldnsilver is nowhere near the first to respectfully disagree, then fall to the Ax That Bans. It raises the serious argument that Harding and Her Minions are busily knitting an environment in which they May Not Be Contradicted. Which is their right; it is their blog. But what it amounts to is that these women wind up massaging each other's egos as they simply prop up their own arguments without ever respectfully and logically addressing an argument which challenges what they've already decided to think. They call people out frequently for Confirmation Bias. Let not the confirmation bias escape you on your very own blog!
They advocate the following behaviour as perfectly acceptable for a woman to follow:
Man sitting a seat or two away from a woman on public transportation says, "Hi." Woman screams, "Why the fuck are you talking to me? Did I say 'hi' to you first?"
I ask you, reader, to reverse the genders in this exchange so that it goes as follows:
Woman sitting a seat or two away from a man on public transportation says, "Hi." Man screams, "Why the fuck are you talking to me? Did I say 'hi' to you first?"
I'd say, and with good reason, that the man in Scenario No. 2 comes across as not only paranoid, but perhaps violent and dangerous as well. Certainly angry and / or emotional overall. Not someone I'd want to be alone with. Ever.
Hence, the woman in Scenario No. 1 comes across very much the same way. You can argue that because of Rape Culture (see Shapely Prose for a one-sided but thorough discussion on this topic), the woman is justified in repelling the man's greeting. I contend, however, that flipping the fuck out and screaming at the man to "DESISTE!" is psychopathic. And rude.
If you want to be fucking rude, fine. Be rude. Just keep in mind that you're coming across as seriously fucked up to the people around you. I'd say, for example, that the man in Scenario No. 2 needs some counseling at the least. The last time I saw someone react that way in public, it was scary. Definitely not pretty.
By the way, I think that vaginas rock. If you say that on Shapely Prose, however, you'll be reprimanded (and banned) for objectifying women. Dude, vaginas rock. It's as simple as that. The power of Woman, and that of Man, is very strong, and should be respected. But no -- if you say something akin to that, you'll A) be accused of being a pervert, and banned; and B) dissed for saying anything remotely positive about men, and banned. They may even ban you again, just to make sure that you're... well, banned.
*I've decided to grant A Sarah, Fillyjonk, and Sweet Machine the status of Minions because they lack only the hand-stitched standard ("Pro Penis Decorum Est," perhaps?) to complete their Kate Harding Battle Regalia. Perhaps they are more deserving of the title Clitorises instead?
There are the usual trolls, whose asses are admirably kicked to the curb almost the instant they post -- one thing I admire steadfastly about Kate and Her Minions is their dedication to their blog. And, indeed, their blog is a work of [PC feminazi] art; tenderly cared for and fiercely protected from posters whom are called (and I'd wager money on this) "those people" by Harding and Her Minions.
But here's the part that pisses me off. Some of those who find themselves banned number not with the trolls, but are actually people who disagree, and very respectfully at that, with whatever it is that Kate or Her Minions have posted.
I post the following exchange as proof of what I claim (see the whole thread at http://kateharding.net/2009/10/05/would-it-kill-you-to-be-civil/#comments):
"2009 October 5
goldnsilver wrote:
Fourth rule: If you even fucking mention “free speech” with regard to my comments policy, you will be banned.
I didn’t mention free speech in regards to your comments or comments policy. Read your own rules. I mentioned political correctness in the context of literature, media and texts.
Tenth Rule: If you are tempted to begin an argument against something we’ve said here with, “God, stop being so PC!” just stop right there.
You’ve got me on that one. I personally hate political correctness, but if that’s one of the rules of your blog then I’ll respectfully leave it out of the discussion.
“However, I think this kind of criticism is going a step too far, when it’s clear that I was only trying to talk to you about how pretty you look in that dress. Would you prefer that I was never allowed to say anything nice about anyone ever, or only allowed to talk to other men? Maybe you want me put in a camp and castrated?”
For fuck sake, that’s childish exaggeration and you know it. Does this mean that you guys can never be criticised, because my criticism is obvi0usly one step away from me supporting rapists?"
Fillyjonk saucily tossed out the following reply:
"Oh my god, you are PRECIOUS! I love how I call you out on your slippery slope fallacy and you set up a new one twice as fast. I can’t wait until you contravene the policy one more time and I get to ban you."
[Author's note: Fillyjonk seems to derive much enjoyment from the act of banning people.]
goldnsilver responded a few comments later with:
"I guess that I just disagree with this. And I shouldn’t be banned for disagreeing."
[Author's note: goldnsilver does realize that s/he is on Shapely Prose, right?]
Finally, the frank discussion of being banned, as given by Sweet Machine:
"And I shouldn’t be banned for disagreeing.
Oh, I guess you missed Rule 7."
If you've got the inclination and nothing better to do, you can comb through new and old posts over at Shapely Prose, and you'll see that goldnsilver is nowhere near the first to respectfully disagree, then fall to the Ax That Bans. It raises the serious argument that Harding and Her Minions are busily knitting an environment in which they May Not Be Contradicted. Which is their right; it is their blog. But what it amounts to is that these women wind up massaging each other's egos as they simply prop up their own arguments without ever respectfully and logically addressing an argument which challenges what they've already decided to think. They call people out frequently for Confirmation Bias. Let not the confirmation bias escape you on your very own blog!
They advocate the following behaviour as perfectly acceptable for a woman to follow:
Man sitting a seat or two away from a woman on public transportation says, "Hi." Woman screams, "Why the fuck are you talking to me? Did I say 'hi' to you first?"
I ask you, reader, to reverse the genders in this exchange so that it goes as follows:
Woman sitting a seat or two away from a man on public transportation says, "Hi." Man screams, "Why the fuck are you talking to me? Did I say 'hi' to you first?"
I'd say, and with good reason, that the man in Scenario No. 2 comes across as not only paranoid, but perhaps violent and dangerous as well. Certainly angry and / or emotional overall. Not someone I'd want to be alone with. Ever.
Hence, the woman in Scenario No. 1 comes across very much the same way. You can argue that because of Rape Culture (see Shapely Prose for a one-sided but thorough discussion on this topic), the woman is justified in repelling the man's greeting. I contend, however, that flipping the fuck out and screaming at the man to "DESISTE!" is psychopathic. And rude.
If you want to be fucking rude, fine. Be rude. Just keep in mind that you're coming across as seriously fucked up to the people around you. I'd say, for example, that the man in Scenario No. 2 needs some counseling at the least. The last time I saw someone react that way in public, it was scary. Definitely not pretty.
By the way, I think that vaginas rock. If you say that on Shapely Prose, however, you'll be reprimanded (and banned) for objectifying women. Dude, vaginas rock. It's as simple as that. The power of Woman, and that of Man, is very strong, and should be respected. But no -- if you say something akin to that, you'll A) be accused of being a pervert, and banned; and B) dissed for saying anything remotely positive about men, and banned. They may even ban you again, just to make sure that you're... well, banned.
*I've decided to grant A Sarah, Fillyjonk, and Sweet Machine the status of Minions because they lack only the hand-stitched standard ("Pro Penis Decorum Est," perhaps?) to complete their Kate Harding Battle Regalia. Perhaps they are more deserving of the title Clitorises instead?
Friday, August 28, 2009
Fear Not The Vitamins... Though If You Do, I Understand
I just read part of a blog wherein the blogger wrote that food was poison, and that to counteract cravings for said poison, one should use heroin and marijuana. S/He also stated that vitamins make you gain weight.
No. They. Don't.
Let's visit the first part of that in detail: the blogger's contention that food is poison and that drugs should be used to combat hunger. In a purely logical, intellectual sense, the blogger has lost her / his fucking mind. Food is not poison. Food feeds cells and permits life. Things like heroin are literally poison. This is like saying cheese will kill you, so drink bleach when you feel that pesky craving for gorgonzola a-sneaking up on you.
But -
I've been anorexic before. I know all too well the terror of vitamins. Food is poison because, really, the sufferer doesn't want to live; and most fucking certainly of all, doesn't even like her / himself - loving oneself in that condition is simply out of the question. Drugs aren't poison because somewhere inside the sufferer's mind is the knowledge that drugs ARE poison (yes, anorexics and bulemics do think this way), and that is what the sufferer wants: poison. Food is nourishing, and drugs are not. The sufferer is not able to nourish her / himself. So because drugs are poison, they are not poison.
...Get it? Kinda?
Food is poison because it nourishes, because it provides life. The anorexic / bulemic doesn't believe that s/he deserves nourishment or life. Drugs are permitted because they further the cycle of self destruction that defines an eating disorder. For whatever reason - sexual abuse, physical / verbal abuse, or other horrible trauma - the sufferer has decided that s/he hates her / himself, and has determinedly set off upon a course of crucifying pain. Sometimes it isn't even a direct trauma that triggers an eating disorder; it's years of buying into the societal projections of the ideal body, which is currently (and has been for decades) impossibly thin. I use the word IMPOSSIBLY because the human body generally cannot maintain such slimness without serious health risks and detriments, both to the body itself and to the psyche. There are some people who are naturally "impossibly" thin, but theirs is only one body type of many. It's hard to place that in its proper perspective when this thin body type is all you ever see in advertising, television, movies, and other media, ad nauseum.
My own relationship with food is... troubled. It's something that I must deal with on a day to day basis. Sometimes I am okay eating a cookie or a sandwich. Other times, I feel guilty over lettuce. I never know which kind of day it will be.
I hate all of the adults from my formative years.
No. They. Don't.
Let's visit the first part of that in detail: the blogger's contention that food is poison and that drugs should be used to combat hunger. In a purely logical, intellectual sense, the blogger has lost her / his fucking mind. Food is not poison. Food feeds cells and permits life. Things like heroin are literally poison. This is like saying cheese will kill you, so drink bleach when you feel that pesky craving for gorgonzola a-sneaking up on you.
But -
I've been anorexic before. I know all too well the terror of vitamins. Food is poison because, really, the sufferer doesn't want to live; and most fucking certainly of all, doesn't even like her / himself - loving oneself in that condition is simply out of the question. Drugs aren't poison because somewhere inside the sufferer's mind is the knowledge that drugs ARE poison (yes, anorexics and bulemics do think this way), and that is what the sufferer wants: poison. Food is nourishing, and drugs are not. The sufferer is not able to nourish her / himself. So because drugs are poison, they are not poison.
...Get it? Kinda?
Food is poison because it nourishes, because it provides life. The anorexic / bulemic doesn't believe that s/he deserves nourishment or life. Drugs are permitted because they further the cycle of self destruction that defines an eating disorder. For whatever reason - sexual abuse, physical / verbal abuse, or other horrible trauma - the sufferer has decided that s/he hates her / himself, and has determinedly set off upon a course of crucifying pain. Sometimes it isn't even a direct trauma that triggers an eating disorder; it's years of buying into the societal projections of the ideal body, which is currently (and has been for decades) impossibly thin. I use the word IMPOSSIBLY because the human body generally cannot maintain such slimness without serious health risks and detriments, both to the body itself and to the psyche. There are some people who are naturally "impossibly" thin, but theirs is only one body type of many. It's hard to place that in its proper perspective when this thin body type is all you ever see in advertising, television, movies, and other media, ad nauseum.
My own relationship with food is... troubled. It's something that I must deal with on a day to day basis. Sometimes I am okay eating a cookie or a sandwich. Other times, I feel guilty over lettuce. I never know which kind of day it will be.
I hate all of the adults from my formative years.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Sarah Palin: Evil, Expensively Outfitted
The Comcast forum was lit up today with a discussion entitled: "Is Sarah Palin more powerful as an advocate for the people?"
No.
No politician is. Show me a politician who honestly can empathise with "the people" and I'll show you a bridge in Brooklyn that I have to sell. Think about it, right? Politicians' primary incentives are getting into office and staying there. (Never mind the obvious power and authority issues that people such as these must have; that's for another blog post, another day, another chocolate bar.) Which means they have to make people like them. Which people? The voting majority. Which means the lowest common denominator. Which means the reactionary and the ignorant. Which means that politicians are primarily concerned with winning the affections of SHEEPLE.
Palin is a heartless, wolf-killing, evil woman. The day she just shuts the FUCK up can't come soon enough for me. Her Neanderthal ideas about women's rights are chilling. (That isn't meant to insult Neanderthals. For all I know, they were quite balanced in their treatment of both genders. But I'm using them in a stereotypical caveman sense. Sorry, Neanderthals.)
She has quite a bit of charisma, which I think makes her appealing to people who don't think for themselves: She laughs a lot, and she's bubbly. Bubbly is good, right? Palin projects a happy, smiling, easygoing, hockeymom (and definitely lipsticked) image, behaviour and imagery which also coincide with the general public's ideas of how a woman should behave. And which gloss over her lack of experience and her horrifying ignorance with regard to global affairs. For if you actually listen to, and try to analyze, what she says, it turns out that she has hideously uninformed opinions about virtually everything. Riding astride this ignorance is the fact that apparently, she never reads (according to that infamous interview with a local newscaster that had Palin literally stuttering because she was caught in a lie about what she reads). So you have to ask yourself: If she doesn't read, then where does she get her knowledge of history, current events, politics, culture, human nature? A) She doesn't have any knowledge of these things; or, B) Someone tells her, which begs the question, to whom is she listening? What bee is buzzing in her ear? Is this a trustworthy bee? Is this a bee with an agenda?
It sounds like I'm hung up on the issue of reading. That's because I am. Reading is correlated strongly with critical thinking & analytical skills, a stronger imagination (because, unlike television and moving pictures, books rely upon you to wield your own brush and palette and breathe colour into scenery and action), and a wider array of general knowledge. Depending on what a person reads, that general knowledge could be stunningly powerful. Scientia potentia est: Knowledge is power (in Latin!).
Reading is important. Palin doesn't read.
I don't think she has the sense to pour milk into her cereal, which makes leading the country out of the question for her.
No.
No politician is. Show me a politician who honestly can empathise with "the people" and I'll show you a bridge in Brooklyn that I have to sell. Think about it, right? Politicians' primary incentives are getting into office and staying there. (Never mind the obvious power and authority issues that people such as these must have; that's for another blog post, another day, another chocolate bar.) Which means they have to make people like them. Which people? The voting majority. Which means the lowest common denominator. Which means the reactionary and the ignorant. Which means that politicians are primarily concerned with winning the affections of SHEEPLE.
Palin is a heartless, wolf-killing, evil woman. The day she just shuts the FUCK up can't come soon enough for me. Her Neanderthal ideas about women's rights are chilling. (That isn't meant to insult Neanderthals. For all I know, they were quite balanced in their treatment of both genders. But I'm using them in a stereotypical caveman sense. Sorry, Neanderthals.)
She has quite a bit of charisma, which I think makes her appealing to people who don't think for themselves: She laughs a lot, and she's bubbly. Bubbly is good, right? Palin projects a happy, smiling, easygoing, hockeymom (and definitely lipsticked) image, behaviour and imagery which also coincide with the general public's ideas of how a woman should behave. And which gloss over her lack of experience and her horrifying ignorance with regard to global affairs. For if you actually listen to, and try to analyze, what she says, it turns out that she has hideously uninformed opinions about virtually everything. Riding astride this ignorance is the fact that apparently, she never reads (according to that infamous interview with a local newscaster that had Palin literally stuttering because she was caught in a lie about what she reads). So you have to ask yourself: If she doesn't read, then where does she get her knowledge of history, current events, politics, culture, human nature? A) She doesn't have any knowledge of these things; or, B) Someone tells her, which begs the question, to whom is she listening? What bee is buzzing in her ear? Is this a trustworthy bee? Is this a bee with an agenda?
It sounds like I'm hung up on the issue of reading. That's because I am. Reading is correlated strongly with critical thinking & analytical skills, a stronger imagination (because, unlike television and moving pictures, books rely upon you to wield your own brush and palette and breathe colour into scenery and action), and a wider array of general knowledge. Depending on what a person reads, that general knowledge could be stunningly powerful. Scientia potentia est: Knowledge is power (in Latin!).
Reading is important. Palin doesn't read.
I don't think she has the sense to pour milk into her cereal, which makes leading the country out of the question for her.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Shaving... the Hair-y Truth
Fuck shaving.
I don't do it anymore. It was a momentous day when I sentenced my faithful razor, Winkie*, to death by way of Trash Can.
I tired of watching men traipse about, mindless of the multitudes of hair on their legs; of witnessing guys clad in tank tops, tufts of manly hair jutting haphazardly out from armpits. (I always figured that guys should have warning signs for all that armpit hair. Really, some of it is quite impressive, to the point where I wouldn't be surprised if it inspired a neo-artsy movement. The Body Hair of Men: A Retrospective Study.) Body hair on men: Natural, expected. Bodacious. Telling of testosterone.
All of that man-hair was strolling about, even while I was wrestling with and combatting my own, equally natural, yet shockingly brazen-for-being-there body hair. Why the fuck is my body hair so offensive? Why should my legs be hairless? Because men prefer it? Why the fuck do I care what men prefer - am I a toy? What if I preferred men with hairless legs? A) I'd be SOL, and B) Men shouldn't care about what I prefer - they should care about what they prefer to do with their own bodies. While it's possible that social pressures for men to be hairy are preventing hordes of men from embracing their Venus razors and letting the fur fly so that they can achieve the dream of hairlessness they've always dreamed, I somehow doubt it. Shaving - any body part - is simply not fun. Nicks, razorburn, and missed spots are all part of the deal. And are all un-fun. I truly believe that the majority of people, of both genders, detest the act of shaving.
So I decided: Let the hair grow. What the fuck do I care? If men don't find it fuckable, then they can fuck some other chick. I'm sick and tired (a trite phrase, but so applicable when you really are sick and tired) of women grooming their bodies for the ultimate purpose of being, in a word, fuckable. As for the argument that women are competing with other women rather than trying to catch men's eyes: Women compete with other women for the express purpose of winning the local 'Miss Fuckable' title.
An additional reason in my fight against shaving: I've been abused by men ever since I was little. I'm over worrying about what men want. I don't give a damn if other men find me "fuckable" or not. I am with the man I want. He's enlightened enough to realise that women have body hair. (Few men are this enlightened. My father, for instance, freaks out when he sees my mother shaving. As though she came out of the womb the hairless fuckdoll he always wanted.)
I realise that Americans are conditioned to view body hair on women as freakish and horribly unattractive. Seeing a woman with hairy legs throws most people for a loop. I still start on occasion when I glance down and spot my legs, hairs waving freely in the wind.
And they're quite spottable: I am not blonde. I've always been hugely amused by the women who refuse to shave and who are also blonde. Unless you are close enough for an in-depth view, blonde body hair just isn't visible. Dark hair is. It takes far more in the way of brass ovaries to refuse to shave when you're brunette.
Women's bodies grow hair. To quote Florence King: "Tough titty." Grow up & accept that we're mammals already.
*Name has been changed to protect the innocent.
I don't do it anymore. It was a momentous day when I sentenced my faithful razor, Winkie*, to death by way of Trash Can.
I tired of watching men traipse about, mindless of the multitudes of hair on their legs; of witnessing guys clad in tank tops, tufts of manly hair jutting haphazardly out from armpits. (I always figured that guys should have warning signs for all that armpit hair. Really, some of it is quite impressive, to the point where I wouldn't be surprised if it inspired a neo-artsy movement. The Body Hair of Men: A Retrospective Study.) Body hair on men: Natural, expected. Bodacious. Telling of testosterone.
All of that man-hair was strolling about, even while I was wrestling with and combatting my own, equally natural, yet shockingly brazen-for-being-there body hair. Why the fuck is my body hair so offensive? Why should my legs be hairless? Because men prefer it? Why the fuck do I care what men prefer - am I a toy? What if I preferred men with hairless legs? A) I'd be SOL, and B) Men shouldn't care about what I prefer - they should care about what they prefer to do with their own bodies. While it's possible that social pressures for men to be hairy are preventing hordes of men from embracing their Venus razors and letting the fur fly so that they can achieve the dream of hairlessness they've always dreamed, I somehow doubt it. Shaving - any body part - is simply not fun. Nicks, razorburn, and missed spots are all part of the deal. And are all un-fun. I truly believe that the majority of people, of both genders, detest the act of shaving.
So I decided: Let the hair grow. What the fuck do I care? If men don't find it fuckable, then they can fuck some other chick. I'm sick and tired (a trite phrase, but so applicable when you really are sick and tired) of women grooming their bodies for the ultimate purpose of being, in a word, fuckable. As for the argument that women are competing with other women rather than trying to catch men's eyes: Women compete with other women for the express purpose of winning the local 'Miss Fuckable' title.
An additional reason in my fight against shaving: I've been abused by men ever since I was little. I'm over worrying about what men want. I don't give a damn if other men find me "fuckable" or not. I am with the man I want. He's enlightened enough to realise that women have body hair. (Few men are this enlightened. My father, for instance, freaks out when he sees my mother shaving. As though she came out of the womb the hairless fuckdoll he always wanted.)
I realise that Americans are conditioned to view body hair on women as freakish and horribly unattractive. Seeing a woman with hairy legs throws most people for a loop. I still start on occasion when I glance down and spot my legs, hairs waving freely in the wind.
And they're quite spottable: I am not blonde. I've always been hugely amused by the women who refuse to shave and who are also blonde. Unless you are close enough for an in-depth view, blonde body hair just isn't visible. Dark hair is. It takes far more in the way of brass ovaries to refuse to shave when you're brunette.
Women's bodies grow hair. To quote Florence King: "Tough titty." Grow up & accept that we're mammals already.
*Name has been changed to protect the innocent.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Parte the Seconde
Since Saturday went so well, Mom invited my Partner & I over on Sunday. She promised that no surprise guests would turn up, so Partner & I duly drove over to that bastion of dungeonliness.
Ma, Pa, & Stanley were watching the third Fast & Furious movie at an incredibly high volume. They refused to turn it down or turn it off, so Partner & I were a bit confused. Surely, we thought, they're completely clueless as to how rude this must seem. If they're busy, we can come at another time...
Partner & I sighed, collected bowls of food, and trooped off to the living room to dine together in [relative] quietude. Looking around for something with which to entertain Partner, I spotted a family photograph album. Intrigued, I turned the pages slowly, marvelling at things like stamps collected over decades, pictures of my parents when they were young, a picture of my molester --
This is where that screechy sound of brakes being applied for all they're worth comes in.
I freeze, and at that moment my mother walks in. I ask her, "Can I rip him out of the photograph?"
She Flips Out.
She says NO!, that she doesn't want her pictures ripped up. I am shocked. Literally. I can't even move; all I can do is stare at her face, mouth flapping open & closed as she spews vile all over me. I think that, although mommy-slapping is not usually my thing, I would nevertheless savour the opportunity to slap the shit out of her at this moment. I say to her, "Oh, well, that's fine then. He's just the person who molested me. He only ruined my childhood, my adolescence, oh yes and my young adulthood --" She interrupts me by shouting (yes, she is shouting at this point -- and beginning to sob rather uncontrollably) that she tried her best, that I did not tell her what happened so how could she possibly have known? I should have told her! Because blaming the victim is what mommy does best.
Life is and always has been all about Her. She doesn't know how I am feeling; she doesn't care. She saw that interaction as, "You failed as a parent." Not as, "This picture hurts me. May I get rid of it?" When I called her this morning to see if she'd come to her senses, she still defended her decision to protect her precious photographs.
I have made an executive decision: My parents win the Defective Parenting Award.
Ma, Pa, & Stanley were watching the third Fast & Furious movie at an incredibly high volume. They refused to turn it down or turn it off, so Partner & I were a bit confused. Surely, we thought, they're completely clueless as to how rude this must seem. If they're busy, we can come at another time...
Partner & I sighed, collected bowls of food, and trooped off to the living room to dine together in [relative] quietude. Looking around for something with which to entertain Partner, I spotted a family photograph album. Intrigued, I turned the pages slowly, marvelling at things like stamps collected over decades, pictures of my parents when they were young, a picture of my molester --
This is where that screechy sound of brakes being applied for all they're worth comes in.
I freeze, and at that moment my mother walks in. I ask her, "Can I rip him out of the photograph?"
She Flips Out.
She says NO!, that she doesn't want her pictures ripped up. I am shocked. Literally. I can't even move; all I can do is stare at her face, mouth flapping open & closed as she spews vile all over me. I think that, although mommy-slapping is not usually my thing, I would nevertheless savour the opportunity to slap the shit out of her at this moment. I say to her, "Oh, well, that's fine then. He's just the person who molested me. He only ruined my childhood, my adolescence, oh yes and my young adulthood --" She interrupts me by shouting (yes, she is shouting at this point -- and beginning to sob rather uncontrollably) that she tried her best, that I did not tell her what happened so how could she possibly have known? I should have told her! Because blaming the victim is what mommy does best.
Life is and always has been all about Her. She doesn't know how I am feeling; she doesn't care. She saw that interaction as, "You failed as a parent." Not as, "This picture hurts me. May I get rid of it?" When I called her this morning to see if she'd come to her senses, she still defended her decision to protect her precious photographs.
I have made an executive decision: My parents win the Defective Parenting Award.
Meditations from a Dark Hotel Room...
...well, not really. My office, actually.
So, my sib's graduation. Right. Well, watching him walk across the stage was mind-blowingly awesome. The after-graduation party at my parents' house was farcical. Firstly, no one told my Partner & I when to arrive. I called -- no one answered. We got there just as my sib was opening presents. Sib*, Sib's girlfriend, the Parents, my Partner, and I were happily hanging about, enjoying the day and my sib's accomplishment.
When who should arrive but...
My half-brother, the Product Of An Affair Which My Father Conducted During The Early Days Of My Parents' Marriage! (One of many, I might add. My mother laughs about them. How fucking sick & hollowed out & beaten down do you have to be to laugh about your husband cheating on you so many times?)
We'll call the Product Of An Affair Jimmy.
So, Jimmy rolls up in his noble steed. I'd like to kill whomever it was who invited him -- either my sib or my father -- since he didn't even fucking tell people at the gathering that Jimmy might show up. Sigh!; alas!; woe! -- but it gets better.
Along with Jimmy is young Maribel**, Jimmy's daughter. Which, if you're following along, makes Maribel... that's right... shout it out if you know it! My father's granddaughter!
I saw her, had kittens (a nice healthy litter), and literally ran for the back of the house, where I ensconced myself in my mother's bedroom. I'm not proud of my behaviour as I view it with the famous Lens of Hindsight; after all, I'm sure that young Maribel noticed that I spotted her, assumed the deer-in-headlights look, and ran away -- but I could not cope with her. None of us knew she would be coming; there were no preparations for her, no toys, no childproofing (she's old enough to refrain from drinking bleach, but still young enough that you'd want to make sure things are safe for her). None of us was prepared, emotionally or mentally or cognitively or whatever-y, to see this young person who is my dad's granddaughter.
I saw her, and it was like I regressed to her age (and, perhaps not surprisingly, she resembles me a little more than superficially when I was her age). I felt alone, hurting, suicidal, abandoned, unloved, lost at sea, all over again. (These are all things I still feel, but I have coping skills today which I did not have when I was a child.) It was the eeriest feeling I think I have ever had; time spun backward to the 1980s, and I was a vulnerable little girl again, sans coping skills, sans the knowledge that the shitty situation in which I found myself would someday get better (because I would be able to move out!). She even has the same big dark eyes that I have. She and I can't possibly share more than 1/8th of the same genes, yet she and I could have been sisters.
Jimmy told me once that he regretted having Maribel, and I would wager my life savings on the fact that she picks up on this. Just as I picked up on the fact that my parents didn't want me. (They later admitted it. Um... go me for ESP?) I know that her home life is hellish; she & Jimmy live with Jimmy's mother, who is a Bitch On Wheels. I feel so badly for her. So badly. I know what it is like to grow up with no stability, no adults who love you.
For the past few days, I've been wondering how she took all of that. That was nowhere close to being a gradual, slow introduction to this child who symbolises (to me) my parents' wreck of a marriage and my wreck of a childhood. Nor was that how she should have been introduced to a bunch of new people that I'm sure Jimmy has told her are her "family."
He introduced my mother to her with the words, "This is your step-grandmother." How must that have made my mother feel? a) Jimmy must cause her great pain regardless, and b) She has longed for grandchildren for years. She kinda got one... the one from my dad's affair.
The weekend gets better. See Parte the Seconde.
*It's time to give young Sibling a name -- Stanley!
**Name has been changed. Obviously. ;)
So, my sib's graduation. Right. Well, watching him walk across the stage was mind-blowingly awesome. The after-graduation party at my parents' house was farcical. Firstly, no one told my Partner & I when to arrive. I called -- no one answered. We got there just as my sib was opening presents. Sib*, Sib's girlfriend, the Parents, my Partner, and I were happily hanging about, enjoying the day and my sib's accomplishment.
When who should arrive but...
My half-brother, the Product Of An Affair Which My Father Conducted During The Early Days Of My Parents' Marriage! (One of many, I might add. My mother laughs about them. How fucking sick & hollowed out & beaten down do you have to be to laugh about your husband cheating on you so many times?)
We'll call the Product Of An Affair Jimmy.
So, Jimmy rolls up in his noble steed. I'd like to kill whomever it was who invited him -- either my sib or my father -- since he didn't even fucking tell people at the gathering that Jimmy might show up. Sigh!; alas!; woe! -- but it gets better.
Along with Jimmy is young Maribel**, Jimmy's daughter. Which, if you're following along, makes Maribel... that's right... shout it out if you know it! My father's granddaughter!
I saw her, had kittens (a nice healthy litter), and literally ran for the back of the house, where I ensconced myself in my mother's bedroom. I'm not proud of my behaviour as I view it with the famous Lens of Hindsight; after all, I'm sure that young Maribel noticed that I spotted her, assumed the deer-in-headlights look, and ran away -- but I could not cope with her. None of us knew she would be coming; there were no preparations for her, no toys, no childproofing (she's old enough to refrain from drinking bleach, but still young enough that you'd want to make sure things are safe for her). None of us was prepared, emotionally or mentally or cognitively or whatever-y, to see this young person who is my dad's granddaughter.
I saw her, and it was like I regressed to her age (and, perhaps not surprisingly, she resembles me a little more than superficially when I was her age). I felt alone, hurting, suicidal, abandoned, unloved, lost at sea, all over again. (These are all things I still feel, but I have coping skills today which I did not have when I was a child.) It was the eeriest feeling I think I have ever had; time spun backward to the 1980s, and I was a vulnerable little girl again, sans coping skills, sans the knowledge that the shitty situation in which I found myself would someday get better (because I would be able to move out!). She even has the same big dark eyes that I have. She and I can't possibly share more than 1/8th of the same genes, yet she and I could have been sisters.
Jimmy told me once that he regretted having Maribel, and I would wager my life savings on the fact that she picks up on this. Just as I picked up on the fact that my parents didn't want me. (They later admitted it. Um... go me for ESP?) I know that her home life is hellish; she & Jimmy live with Jimmy's mother, who is a Bitch On Wheels. I feel so badly for her. So badly. I know what it is like to grow up with no stability, no adults who love you.
For the past few days, I've been wondering how she took all of that. That was nowhere close to being a gradual, slow introduction to this child who symbolises (to me) my parents' wreck of a marriage and my wreck of a childhood. Nor was that how she should have been introduced to a bunch of new people that I'm sure Jimmy has told her are her "family."
He introduced my mother to her with the words, "This is your step-grandmother." How must that have made my mother feel? a) Jimmy must cause her great pain regardless, and b) She has longed for grandchildren for years. She kinda got one... the one from my dad's affair.
The weekend gets better. See Parte the Seconde.
*It's time to give young Sibling a name -- Stanley!
**Name has been changed. Obviously. ;)
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