Kasia Babis drew this…. they’re throwing trans women into paddy wagons, preventing gay activists from talking to lawyers, and mass arresting them while taking them all to separate detention centres to exhaust their allies.
Kasia Babis drew this…. they’re throwing trans women into paddy wagons, preventing gay activists from talking to lawyers, and mass arresting them while taking them all to separate detention centres to exhaust their allies.
I’m full of assholery today and it’s only clicked over midnight.
One of my favourite on-line anarchists (how I wish John was alive to comment) said a bunch of stuff about two contrasting lines of thought in anarchism – one side being all glowy about the collapse of civilization but thinking there will still be social markers of hierarchy and the other looking forward to there being no social hierarchy either and I’m like “WHAT THE FUCK DUDES quit sucking your own exhaust!” My contribution was “none of you wankers have tried to raise anarchist kids under capitalism and your arguments are invalid.” Anarchist philosophy which doesn’t sound like it would last ten minutes at the toddler breakfast table is shite. PURE AND SIMPLE.
My take is that social hierarchy is natural, but we have to find ways of controlling the worst excesses of discipleship to individuals. PNW peoples had the potlatch, the cultural creation which allowed social hierarchies to do their thing while flattening the number of possessions rich people had. <—- white lady one paragraph oversimplification, but honestly the potlatch is one of the coolest things humans ever invented or were given as medicine to the people, whichever way you want to parse it.—>
If you haven’t raised children it’s hard to fit into your philosophy that some people are leaders and some people are followers in their bones; from the time they can walk. A proper culture is one in which their gifts are developed without one of them turning into an MBA in corporate raiding and the other into the unwilling mother of fifteen children.
It snowed 4 inches overnight and it’s cold enough I’m wondering if the salt I just staggered out to apply at 12:30 am will fix it so’s I don’t have to shovel that shit.
So, I was in Victoria yesterday because Katie and I could not STAND that Alex was so amazingly verbal these days but mOm had not received a demonstration.
We had yummy food and Alex drove toy trucks over mOm’s feet and called her ZiziMa. He likes ZiziMa house. He used to like the Flying Pig but now it almost scares him.
I chased him all over deck 5 of the Spirit of British Columbia yesterday. My feet are still singing.
I have to take the car back this morning, but I’m going to run some errands first.
Indigo Nai, who lives and works in New York, wrote this
I am abandoning the world of men.
I am abandoning the world of men because masculinity is a sinking ship, and it is loaded with leaking, toxic drums, and it is sinking while we watch, and it is my belief that the men that do not escape it will drown.
Now, I’mma tell you a little story. It’s a long one, so feel free to flake if you start to fade, but here it is:
On my last day in the Bay area, a small gang of us agreed to meet at a local bar to hang out, take in the late summer sun, and drink a healthy amount of bourbon. It’s a warm summer day, and the patio of the bar is crowded; friends and acquaintances of both genders join our little group every once in a while, stay for a bit, and then wander off, but just before things kicked off, our little group is four women, myself, and another male friend. Over on my side of the table we’ve just started a conversation about rape culture and how to help redefine the ways men view themselves within it, because me and my friends really enjoy light conversation. The dialog in our part of the little circle is going great, but at one point I look over and notice that my best friend has been cornered by the other guy in the group, and it’s clear that she’s having *exactly* the kind of conversation that you don’t want to be stuck in; that one conversation where a guy is mansplaining to a woman about the ‘slippery slope’ that prosecuting everyone accused of rape inevitably leads to, in the kingdom of toxic masculinity, at least. My friend is trying her best to be both polite and to be heard, but she can’t get a word in edgewise, so I decide to leverage my own privilege; the next time he interrupts her, I interrupt him, and say, “Hey brother, you know what’s sexy? Letting a woman finish a sentence”. I then turn away, good deed done, to rejoin my own conversation. Unfortunately, this causes me to miss the warning signs as the guy begins to grimly stew on the indignity of having his privilege publicly checked, because masculinity so fragile.
A moment later, he calls out: “Hey, I think Shannon is done talking, so I’d like to share my thoughts, if that’s all right with you, INDIGO”. Now, I admit, I’m obnoxious to the bone, so I toss a quick and merry “That’s fine!” over my shoulder. This, inexplicably breaks him; that simple comment sends him right over the edge of man-child sulking into the abyss of beast-mode rage, and before you can say “can’t hold your liquor” he unfolds from his seat, all 6’3″ and 240 pounds of him, and bellows “Do you want to have a fucking go then, man?”
Now, this is unexpected, since he’s an old friend, and we’re surrounded by a handful of other old friends, and we’re in the middle of a bar that’s run by Family, and we’re there for an unfortunate friend’s fundraiser, so it seems a little strange that he and I have suddenly started doing the man-dance right in the middle of of a crowded patio on a Sunday afternoon. But he’s Scottish, and I’m Irish, and the story of a wee Irish guy scrapping with a great Scottish hulk is a tale as old as love itself, and besides, I’m always one for a story, so I call back “Sure, brother” and stand up.
Before I can even get my arms up, I have a giant meatpile of angry, drunken Scotsman throwing his fists in my face. I hear/feel My tendons squeak a bit as his weight came down on my knee, so I know my knee was wrenched, and at some point I saw stars so I knew he got a good kiss in, but mostly I just kept grappling with him and tried not to worry too much about the damage already done in order to try and minimize the damage that was yet to happen.
Some colder, more removed part of me was also laughing its ass off because I suddenly found myself climbing Mt. Slappy McHaggis when, less than ten seconds before, I had been drinking bourbon and chatting with some very old friends about the nuances of feminism, rape culture, and male privilege.
Trust me, the irony didn’t escape me, even at the time.
It was also, in some sense, tragic: this was someone I had been friends with for fifteen years, someone whom I had always considered Family. This was a man I had always thought would have my back in a fight, not someone who would suddenly be trying to bury their fists in my face.
It was also, in some sense, inexplicable: this was a guy with a six inch height and a fifty pound weight advantage over me, who I know for a fact thinks of himself as honorable and chivalrous.
And finally, in every sense it was hideously dangerous: physical fights are terrifically dodgy ideas to begin with. I mean, I have anger issues, and I’m a big fan of consensual violence between men, but fighting is chock full of the potential for really shitty consequences; come in at a bad angle, you can crack the zygomatic bone and blind someone; land wrong after a takedown, you can tear tendons and lame them; knock them off balance, and you can crack their head on a curb and there you are, in prison for the next two decades of your life, and the guy who was looking at you funny that one night in a bar is shitting into a bag.
I mean, who knew, but physically beating someone into submission is really hard, and pretty risky when it all comes down to it.
And over what?
The perception that you’ve been disrespected when a friend suggests that you stop interrupting another friend while they speak?
The perception that you’ve been disrespected when someone calls you out for rude behavior?
On the masculine side of things, it makes me very sad for men as they grow older; go through divorces; lose their businesses; have their children taken away. As men, we’re never taught to build communities, or examine our feelings, or build genuinely intimate connections with other men. We’re taught that we can share two emotions: lust and anger. And we’re taught to use those two brutal, clumsy tools to solve every challenge that we experience in our worlds. This is the price we pay for our privilege.
But on the feminine side, my experience makes me much sadder. See, I’ve been thinking about that fight ever since it happened. It’s been a long time since I was in a real fight, and a long time since I was in a fight with a real fighter. And that means it’s been a long time since I had to really think about what it must be like to have to be constantly wary of the rage of men. I did well for a wee Irish guy, for the few seconds that our scuffle went on, I held my own; but those few seconds were enough to earn me a black eye an d weeks worth of limping. And if we hadn’t been in a public place, surrounded by friends, I would have been fucked. Right proper fucked. Rabbit in a hound’s mouth fucked. Fucked like every abused wife in a trailer or McMansion is fucked. Which, ironically, is what the conversation we were having to begin with was all about: when that fight popped off, we were discussing the reality that about half of the world’s population has to process that the at any given moment, some member of the other half of it could go savagely violent on you with no warning, rhyme, or reason. And this reality is something every woman I know has to deal with every day. The irony is remarkable: simply discussing the topic of male rage and expecting equality from all participants was enough to provoke this guy to violence. What I experienced in that brief window of time was being punched right out of my privilege for a minute. In that moment, I was reminded, very briefly, what being assaulted by someone much bigger and much more aggressive than you are is like; what it’s like to go toe-to-toe with someone to big for you to resist, let alone overcome. And it reminded me why I care, why I fight, and why feminism is always worth fighting for, with our words, our tongues, our fists, or a goddamn barstool, needs must.
So, yeah. I’m abandoning the world of men. I’m abandoning the idea of egos so fragile they can’t bear criticism. I’m abandoning the idea of size as strength, might as right, and women as an audience. And most of all, I reject the idea of using your power as a tool to enforce your will, rather than using it as a tool to protect your Family.
Always punch up. Never punch down.
We’re going to win this.
Kat Tanaka Okopnik says:
Mansplaining doesn’t mean “explaining done by a man”, it means “a man chose to barge in with explanations without checking the credentials of anyone else in the conversation, assuming his were better than anyone else’s in the room — i.e. that he was the expert by default”.
It is the consequence of a culture that devalues non-men, especially non-white non-men. The individual man who does this is just as likely to be unaware that he’s doing this as he is to be a blatant sexist. It’s only avoided by conscious consideration of context and a willingness to cede the pedestal to others.
Yesterday evening I tol’ my brO that I was marking up the margins of Stephen Pinker’s The Better Angels of Our Nature, what mOm loaned me.
She was okay with it, just like I expected, but when he learned of my gaffe Jeff looked at me like I’d produced a minute long Giardia fart with bean and beer top notes.
Keith gets it next. Hope he doesn’t mind my markups.
My response to a post about a gun being marketed with a bible verse on it (this in Floriduh, natch):
And the arm has got a hand
in it’s habitual place
these days you understand
why it ends up on my face
You’ll say something indefensible
and in the worst of taste
and that is why my hand
will end up on my face
Facepalm facepalm facepalm
Jeremy Corbyn has been elected head of the Labour party in the UK. He is being decried with tweets like this ARRANT HORSE MANURE coming from David Cameron’s office.
The Labour Party is now a threat to our national security, our economic security and your family’s security.
So, about the couple ‘living Victorian’. Three comments.
As you may know, my mOm is transcribing our ancestor’s diary. He was a lower middle class Victorian Englishman with pretensions, since he was an antiquarian and took tea with Carlyle (more than once, I’ll have you know.) He spends an inordinate amount of time diarizing about the weather, and how they had to break the ice on the wash basin in the morning, when they had infant children in the house. Damn right skippy, it freezes hard in jolly old England. Comfort was hard to come by and made much of when it occurred.
When people want to live their cosplay, I have no objections and am in fact quite envious. When I find out about their lack of technology in an article she wrote for the internet, I laugh quite heartily and my envy melts away, unless I missed something and she’s powering her server with a steam-engine. Then I’m envious again, although not of her neighbours.
Victorian birth control. Until you’ve done nappies the Victorian way (ancestors did vaccinate their kids, for what it’s worth) you have a contortionate and dreamily inaccurate view of a Victorian married woman’s life.
Woke at 4:34 with a bug crawling on me. Sigh. I’m sure I have a mild case of RLS because I very often get ‘the crawlies’ but my crawlies don’t move, and bugs do, so that’s how I tell the difference when lying in bed at night.
I’m getting a new mattress. This one is shite. I don’t feel like spending any money.
Patricia and I got together downtown to (briefly) discuss my potential job application but mostly to drink a few sophisticated beverages, in the jungle that is the café at the VAG (no fewer than 4 species of bird and mammal came through). We scored the best seats in the house. She asked to look at baby pictures. I am extraordinarily proud of Alex (also Katie, who is doing a more than creditable parenting job under circumstances that are more difficult than what I experienced), but I don’t spend a lot of time talking about him, because his accomplishments have more to do with the quality of his vocalizations and his digestive processes than anything grownups consider remarkable.
Our server, Claire, a charming woman, talked to us a while about how people freak out about there being animals and she’s like, duh, it’s outside with 25 years worth of very dense foliage and food, and if you see mice there’s no rats, so whatevs. Her attitude was very bracing, and damn us if we didn’t use the last of the pita to tempt Sir Sparrow and the Sire de Mousey. And Patricia said something so complimentary I ain’t repeating it, but it’s one of those things I’m going to be pulling out and mentally burnishing every once in a while for the next couple of weeks any time I have the Thrumps.
After two beers (Sunsetter Summer I b’lieve, and normally I LOATHE wheat bears and they give me an immediate headache but this was delicious and carried no such freight) and some hummus it was aff hame, except I said at Granville (exaggerating somewhat) CRYFACE O WHY IS IT I MUST LEAVE YOU MY FRIEND I WISH TO CONTINUE BEVERAGING.
I pointed to the nearest pub, and she had a better idea (she lives blocks away) and we went to a very nice bar called Uva, with extremely loud music (I need to find a bar downtown with music at a comfy level) and exceptionally nice washrooms and kindly servers, and I had a Raven, because I don’t get to go to Jericho Folk any more because they stopped (rent and exhaustion trending upward as I recollect) and that was the only place I ever drank it. It was very, very good, even better than I remember although that might have more to do with how often the beer taps were cleaned at the Galley than anything else, because it was in a bottle.
So we chatted a while longer and I went home. Very pleasant to discuss the interface of domestic life with contemporary feminism, and on that subject I need make no further public remarks.
And now Jeff’s up and there’s tons on the PVR and it’s another smoking hot day in Vancouver and we are going to a family picnic tonight, yay! Also, it’s a resumé day, and I know better than to try to write more than one kind of fiction on resumé day. I have the job description to hand, which will make things easier.
Writing will commence after the family picnic. I am sure of it. I was a little underfriended, and by the time I’ve done catching up with my dear ones I’ll be much closer to having a full tank. Thank you Mike, Patricia and Alex for that!!
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED…..
So my very favourite Bad Feminist Roxane Gay, who has to deal with so much more intersectionality than I do, has participated in a puff piece in stylist.co.uk talking about her hygiene routine. I told her I would follow her example.
At this point I can hear Jeff saying something, and then when I ask him to repeat it, he says, ‘Oh, nothing, nothing.’
I probably should shower more frequently than I do, being about three times a week, but as I get older I get dryer, and I feel like I’m turning into a desiccated old piece of sod. I use Belle de Provence Honeysuckle soap because it smells very good, lasts a long time and is the one piece of luxury in my hygiene routine. Hardly anyone carries it and since it’s 6 bucks a pop I tend to buy in bulk when I find it. I use Head and Shoulders brand shampoo/conditioner and buy it in the large pump size as it’s cheaper. I use no other soap products. I wash my hands every time I handle the cat, before I prep food and after I come in from being out in public as well as after I groom myself or go to the toilet. I didn’t give a shit about washing my hands before I ran a restaurant. Now I really, really do care about it, and it’s the simplest, fastest and easiest way to prevent illness, so why the hell not.
I hate all deodorants but I stink if I don’t use them. When I’m feeling radical I wash, dry thoroughly and apply baby powder to my pits, but that’s good for about 12 hours before Jeff’s eyebrows do something improbable (the fan in the basement blows my effluent in his direction when we’re watching tv, so … yeah.) Otherwise I use whatever kind of bo juice isn’t loathsome, and I’m like a lightning rod for deodorant being discontinued, so I try to be cool, but right now it’s a pretty loathsome vanilla smelly thing. Gak. Still better than the alternative.
I use two different kinds of eyedrops, thanks to the amazingly practical and super unjudgey Lady Miss Banjola, one for day, one for night, and I am not consistent in their use but by gar it’s a good thing to have them, because when you need them you’re like ACK MY EYES MY EYES I CAN’T GET MY EYES oh thank goodness I can see! Also, thanks to her I found out that dryness amidships can be ameliorated by the twice weekly anointing of der ladygel, and she made brand recommendations, and I can get them reasonably cheap on line. With that one small recommendation she made my life go from a meepy, withered parody of what Beeker sounds like after he’s been mugged, to me being able to contemplate having a boyfriend. I don’t actually want a boyfriend, and the men in my life who squire me around do not wish to fill this or candidly any other vacancy wheresoever situated, but at least the prospect shifted from being painfully impossible to being ludicrously improbable, and only the Rumi’s Beloved could parse that shift in meaningful terms, but I view it as an improvement.
I pluck my eyebrows every day. I watched the best eyebrow guy on the planet do a tutorial on youtube, and I thought “Hey, my OCD and some grooming tips wa-ho!” but I tell you my brow game is fierce, and it helps with the performative feminity, although I have not recently been mistaken for a man (it only happened the once, and I think the person was altered.)
This upping of the eyebrow game was subsequent to Keith picking out to extremely flattering and stylish frames for me. I was looking really hard for a job and I wanted to be ready to interview at a moment’s notice, and now, provided I have a clean dress, I really am. I pluck my chin hairs, and my (sigh, fuck my life) chest hairs. I do not shave my legs or pits and anybody who wants me to can shave his or her legs and pits all they want but this lovely, amazing, FEATURE of adult life called BODILY AUTONOMY does not stop being awesome just because you are creeped out by my hairy legs, and the next time somebody calls me on it I’ll just say that sexism is uglier than hairy legs and any sensible person knows that. Body hair sure makes men who have basic issues with mansplaining and feminism go away right quick, and smell ya later, ya squirrelfondling preverts.
Also, I got really really bad frostbite on my lower legs when I was in public school, so bad that the skin on my lower legs (the shaving zone) is burst-into-tears sensitive, so yeah, no, fuck your leg shaving. It HURTS. I bleed, and then all the little hairs growing back in catch in my bedding, so fuck you and go AWAY if you think I should shave my legs for any reason whatsoever. As for my armpits. When more than 50 percent of north American men shave their armpits, I’ll sign up for one of those monthly boxes of shaving gear, but until that day (bwa ha ha, coming soon!) yeah, just no.
I used to use Garnier number 60 hair dye and I still have some tucked away, but it really really bothers Jeff and I’m not a fan of doing it, I am a fan of having it done. Fortunately the colour is almost exactly the same as the two remaining stripes of colour I have in the mounting nest of grey that is my hair so even when I let it grow out it looks reasonably okay. If I get another interview, which will be hard, as I am officially as of this moment no longer looking for work since hey we’re in a recession, and nobody would want to hire me even if I wanted to trade the best part of me for 24K net a year, which I don’t, and which makes me an elitist asshole. Ok.
I make my own perfume, which is called Cyprus, and has a secret blend of floral oil ingredients, and which smells fantastic on me (to the point where other women have demanded I sell them some, which I did) but everybody from my mOm to my brO thinks it smells like I’m hanging truck stop air freshener from my pits AND about 40% of my friends have chemical sensitivities and find it overpowering even when I’m using it gingerly so it’s only for special occasions.
My last pedicure made me limp for THREE FUCKING MONTHS and I am never paying for one again as Hecate may bear witness; now I cut off the parts of the toenail that stick out and abrade down the rest with a number of different kinds of pedicure gear. I occasionally soak my feet and use footrub on myself or get somebody else like Katie to help out. I am very very on top of my toenails because I can go from Happy Feet to ballerina outtakes (thankfully not shown here) in less than a week. My hair, feet and nails grow at a tremendous rate, which is great because I get rid of heavy metals that way, but I must cut, hack, saw and file away with vigour.
I used to be an assclown about dental hygiene but I brush and floss every single day now (occasional lapses, but not many) since I can’t afford to lose the use of any more teeth when toothpaste and floss is so cheap. I buy firm or super firm brushes and brush whatever way feels right and I pay for getting my teeth cleaned professionally once a year. I am seriously considering investing in dental picks.
I have incredibly clean ear canals. I hate the feeling of anything in there except air, but I no longer scrape them out with anything hard because it removes the hair that grows in the canal and I’m so clumsy I might deafen myself.
I wash my face with soap once a week. Any more and I dry out like something that went with Scott to the Pole.
Once every three months I apply a clay facial mask. I like how my skin feels afterward.
Once in a very long while I get a massage or a spa half day, but I can get the same results from rolling around on Wreck Beach and probably get exposed to the same amount of coliform in the process.
And there you have it. Nobody asked for it, but that is my hygiene routine.
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.
Edited for errors in usage and kindness Feb. 20 2021, the day I learned Bradley Barton is going to jail.
April 2, 2015
unceded Coastal Salish land. MST 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 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. Indigenous and white and mixed and ‘other’. We were men and women and non-binary and children. We wept and drummed and sang and screamed our disappointment and anger that Indigenous lives are forced to be so far from 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.