Best commentary by a man on the subject of maxipads that has ever been written in English. Required reading for all men who consider themselves to be feminists, and for any woman who has ever had a period. ALSO VERY FUNNY. I said in my facebook post on the subject: This is one of the funniest, truest, most ah-ha pieces I’ve ever read. By me, he’s got a man card the size a phone book – far too big to be casually ripped up!
I am very sore today because merely standing triggers my pelvis pain to the point where I drag both my feet. Also, Paul very efficiently tricked me into mowing the back lawn, so I was really, really sore by the time I was done. 2.0 hours on the cpap – keep forgetting to put the mask back on.
I wrote this in my notebook over a rather lavishly irrigated lunch yesterday. I went to the rally, which was triggered by this. As is my custom, I did a square search count of the crowd. It was never fewer than a hundred people and swelled to 150 around 11 am. Knowing that we were gathered in 20 cities across Canada (including Saint John’s NFLD, where it was ass freezing cold and blowing snow) made me very proud. And sore, as I mentioned. I am going to pick up another one of those mini-chairs from Lee Valley, I simply cannot stand for an hour and a half without problems.
So I was angry when I wrote this. I am still angry, but it’s the quiet, smoldering kind.
April 2, unceded Coastal Salish land.
Canada is the kind of country where a sex trade worker deserves to die for being a sex trade worker. If she’s indigenous, and ‘somehow’ ends up with an 11 inch stab wound in her vagina, a vagina which is paraded through the courtroom in a specimen jar in a grotesque parody of a ceremonial object, she had it coming. Somehow the fact that a misogynistic piece of sh*t named Bradley Barton murdered her in a drunken stupor gets dropped from the equation, and he left the trial a free man.
I’ve been angry at the Canada ‘justice’ system before. Lots. But I don’t normally get off my ass to protest.
Cindy Gladue did not deserve to die.
She didn’t get justice.
Her children and her family and loved ones did not get justice.
I am enraged that Cindy Gladue and her 1200 and counting indigenous sisters are being treated by the justice ‘shitstem’ as entirely disposable human refuse. The UN has asked Canada to investigate. Harper says it isn’t even on his radar.
F*CK THIS RACIST SEXIST ENTIRELY HORSESH*T SYSTEM.
It’s gotta come down.
Let it come down.
With unity of purpose and steel in our veins, let us BRING IT DOWN.
There were 150 of us in front of the Courthouse yesterday. We were FN and white and mixed and ‘other’. We were men and women and children. We wept and drummed and sang and screamed our disappointment and anger that indigenous lives are so entirely devoid of justice, or even its prospect or possibility.
Justice for Cindy Gladue.
Who is a noted MEN’S RIGHTS ACTIVIST. Who doesn’t want women to work outside the home at all.
No matter how much work of what type women do, they are going to get told that it isn’t real work, because real work is what men do. I hear what he’s feeling – he feels useless, he feels like his role has changed and nobody told him, he feels like that uselessness has to be somebody’s fault, the fault is society allowing women to work outside the home. What his emotions are doing to him is pretty ghastly. Too bad all the crap about women working that bothers him so much is a consequence and outgrowth of where feminism met the needs of the permanent war economy and of capitalism, and he’d rather hack his feet off and eat them than critique that. He’s not rational, and nobody in their right ****ing mind should even think about trying to refute him, because he’s too emotional. It’s a free country and he can say whatever he likes, but don’t waste a calorie on thinking about him; he’s the ineffectual and drunken uncle at the family reunion who wants attention for his divorce story and surrounds himself with the guys who don’t question him, and I’d rather party with the cool shiny haired dyke and her new wife, the guy who’s training to be a doula, and the spectrum kid who’s helping me learn to crochet, all of whom are better exemplars of humanity. Murmur ‘sh*tplatter’ and pass on. And yes, Jim, I totally agree that men need their own space. Men who don’t get the support and socialization of other sympatico men suffer, and many are too stoic to complain.
I haven’t seen Alexander yet. Katie called yesterday and she’ll call me when she’s ready to receive visitors at home.
This infographic on prayer made me alternately very uncomfortable and amused. As an atheist, I can’t separate prayer from ‘wishing so hard that you’re practically grunting so that an imaginary being of its infinite kindness rearranges causality and the laws of physics for your personal benefit’. As a church lady, I have to say I understand the benefit of GROUP prayer, which is a form of prosocial entrainment. Personal prayer, the petitioning kind unencumbered by meditation or humility, is just plain gross.
Somebody on Reddit said that Gilbert Gottfried and Fran Drescher “should have children. The marines could use them to clear public areas.”
Stop motion parkour fight. I laughed out loud watching this.
The pet relationship is very important to humans and now of course we have the science to prove it.
Dealing with bullies changes with the technology. Professors deal with bad reviews.
Am I jealous because the last time I was catcalled I was 36? No, it’s one of the best damned things about getting older.
Gosh, if only dealing with conspiracy nuts was this easy. Cause it really isn’t.
- They reduce the number of women interested in sex. Then they blame women for not being available. They drag you along for that ride.
- They damage women physically and sometimes give them long term health problems which your taxes help pay to ameliorate.
- They spread diseases.
- They make men who don’t rape look bad by association.
- They use men who don’t rape as camouflage.
- They can sometimes leave psychological damage resulting in some women have a hard time being open and honest about their sexuality. Some women vomit, cry or go limp during consensual sex because they’ve been raped. If they won’t tell you why, it can leave you devastated about your own sexuality.
- They are convinced that women deserve to be raped, and con younger men who look up to them into believing the same thing. That younger man could be you, your brother, your son.
- They mess with your reality, your life, your future and your trust by raping women you love and continuing to be your ‘friend’. THIS HAPPENS WAY MORE THAN MEN REALIZE.
- They are the men who invented the friendzone, and try to convince you that the way out of the friendzone is rape.
- They tell women you love that no-one will believe them as they rape them, with the end result that the women you love will lie to you about what’s happened to them, by omission.
- They hurt people and spread the blame across all men.
- They expect you to stick up for them if they are caught.
- They trick you into agreeing if they say she deserved it, so you can be reduced to their level of selfishness.
- They gloss over how much of rape is rape PLUS child abuse PLUS mental cruelty PLUS messing over the reproductive futures of the women they rape, and possibly, as a consequence, you.
- They honestly believe that what they are doing is merely ‘having sex’, ‘getting laid’; their inability to feel remorse or consequences mars the relationships between and among men.
- They prop up the notion that sex is something women have that men want, rather than sex being a continuum of desire / consent / ability / availability.
- They misuse science to prop up their belief systems and turn up the volume when they are repeatedly proven wrong, to the point that any evidence that rape is not a ‘natural state of affairs’ gets shouted down.
- They turn men who don’t rape into faceless villains. It’s hard to be the hero in your own life when you’re the bad guy in literally thousands of other lives.
- They kill the ability to be sexually spontaneous in some women, one of whom may end up being your partner.
- They rape your sisters, daughters, mothers and friends.
- They kill discourse by threatening rape to women who say things that irritate or refute them.
- They make it possible for human trafficking for sexual slavery to occur by making rape part of the breaking in process, hurting every close family member of the victim.
for a callback
for the onset of a period of adjustment – I’ve finally bought my machine.
for inspiration about esthetics for sunday
for inspiration to make my comments on the minister’s Rite of Ordination
but despite the waiting there has been movement; I made supper for breakfast this morning; chops and fresh green beans and fresh brussels sprouts, quartered lengthwise, both steamed together, and quartered purple spuds done up in rosemary and garlic and salt like last time since they were a spectacular hit if the comments were any indication. That you get to watch them disappear and get thanked for them… that’s rooted in the place happiness comes from.
and I have my machine. It smells plasticky, but that is really hard to avoid. There are a number of lovely features, preheated moistened air, a quiet period so you can sleep before it fires up and then just sleep through that part, really quiet fans, a really nice LONG and robust power cable for those times when you really have to string it aways across a floor and he gave me a good long walk through the features. The mask I’m already used to; it is apparently a medium and covers both nose and mouth. It’s of a milky silicone hue, and sensorily I must report with all gravity that it feels like somebody’s upended a little hovercraft over my face. Before I figured out how to seat it properly, there’d be blasts of icy cold air going across my eyebrows, evenly on both sides, until I (once again I am not exaggerating) thought my eyebrows were going to freeze in the act of fleeing as far up my forehead as they could fling themselves.
In other acts of random candor, I must report now in a spirit of feminist self criticism.
I recently started plucking my eyebrows so that about half their normal mass is now yielding before the first pair of tweezers I ever owned that was worth a docken.
I am pleased with the results and believe it makes me look, along with new stylish glasses, and a short neutral haircut, and me resting in the ammoniacal arms of Garnier number 60, reasonably well-kempt in a low key way. I no longer care to wear contacts even though I own a relatively recent prescription pair; the capacity to wear makeup except in the context of a miracle play or other public event, or possibly dressing up for an awards show I got invited to by accident… I wouldn’t even wear makeup to my own wedding, were my life to break out in bizarreries of that nature; no creature who loved me would countenance it, let alone ask for it.
But I must now say that every ravaged follicle under both eyebrows rose up and said in one voice, as the arctic blast from my cpap mask chased my denuded brows into the heather, “Bet you wish you hadn’t plucked us now, you sellout!” I can’t say how much warmer I would have felt, but their ghostly cries interrupted my five minutes of thinking of this and that before I fall into my nightly ‘sleep’.
I’m amazed I remember that; my sleep is like a special case of amnesia, where all my bad memories go down dark hallways and get conveniently throttled, while all the sunshine and fireworks and gleaming new bicycles and a pair of pantyhose that lasted ten years lived.
My Mac died, and I’m sad. I have another machine, so I’m happy.
There is a balance in everything. Sometimes you’re at the pivot point, and sometimes you’re hanging on for dear life off the end. Sometimes the only thing you care about, as you fly through the air frightened and alive and hyperaware, is that the right kind of music is playing. That is the rather neurasthenic and precious point I find myself at, and I’ve tied myself into this wildly swinging rope in the hope that inertia reasserts itself and the rope quits moving soon. I have a sack of popcorn, a tarot deck and a small stringed instrument.
There are a lot of men rubbing their eyes and scratching themselves and thinking…. the math isn’t right.
Here’s the offending document, from Skepchick.
Here’s my response.
I was interested to read your email to skepchick. I have a number of questions. I am sure that your email box is full, so I’ll give you a couple of weeks to shovel your way out from under the uptick in mail volume to respond. There is always the possibility you were pranked, so I am keeping my questions civil. Here they are.
Are you implying that your reaction to a woman’s appearance is more important than what she has to say on the subject of atheism?
Are you implying that because you do not like a woman’s appearance you have an obligation to ask her to stop commenting on atheism?
Are you implying that your personal preferences regarding a woman’s appearance should factor into whether she continues to make comments about atheism on youtube?
I ask to confirm that you were indeed serious. If so, kindly direct me to your youtube account so I may critique your videos regarding atheism in the light of your personal appearance. If you have none such, allow me to express disappointment, as the world of atheism would undoubtedly be better off with your contribution to it more readily accessible. If you weren’t serious, please advise how I was supposed to know you were joking from the context of the email.
In the spiriit of tolerance and inquiry,
Amazing. The power of a good metaphor should never be underestimated.
My Moleskine comes with stickers. There are romance stickers. One suited nominally male and skirted nominally female, two more that are same sex. My first thought, “But what about transpersons, genderqueers, fellagirlies and the polyamorous?” Is it possible I’ve been hitting the self-paced gender studies a little too hard during my time off? bwa ha ha. Oh, and props to Moleskine.
….is a blog, not mine. The rude and rowdy feminist who runs the site quoth she, quoth she:
Did you know that not being happy for people on demand is some sort of crime? It’s true! The minute you aren’t happy for somebody who is making the worst decision of her life, they absolutely have to take you off their speed-dial and snub you in social situations.
This in response to not being thrilled when a friend announces impending nuptials.
Wow. I don’t hate men, and I don’t hate these men. The poster and the commenters are very confused, though. I can’t remember seeing this many unexamined assumptions in one place since I visited a white power site.