why is fat a feminist issue?

I wrote this in response to a query over on the IBTP forum, and thought it worth repeating here. Why is fat a feminist issue?

Another forum member asked this question:

But being overweight/obese is unhealthy, and why would you encourage anyone to embrace being unhealthy?!”

And here are my answers:

There's no SOLID MEDICAL EVIDENCE that being overweight is necessarily bad for you. A couple of points:

1. The definition of "overweight" is culturally determined, and has changed even in our lifetimes.

2. Being "overweight" can certainly be a symptom of an unhealthy lifestyle, but isn't necessarily going to be bad for you. Slightly "overweight" people have longer life expectancies. It is a danger sign that one might be unhealthy, but no one has proved that it can kill you. I'm talking about being over a size 12, not morbidly, over-300-pounds obese. Size 12 is AVERAGE and it is HEALTHY and in our culture, it is considered FAT. It is a MYTH that being "overweight" is unhealthy. Let me repeat: it can be a symptom of ill health, but there is no proof that it is a CAUSE of ill health.

2a. The point at which obesity actually endangers one's health (stress on the joints, cardiovascular system, etc.) is MUCH higher than the point at which a woman is considered "fat" in our culture.

3. The culturally acceptable size for a woman in the US is actually unnaturally, unhealthily thin.

4. Genetics have at least as much to do with one's weight as one's diet and exercise habits. Expecting women to spend all of their time and energy trying to conform to an arbitrary cultural beauty standard is BAD FOR WOMEN. Like other beauty myths, the beauty and diet industry preys on women's inculcated insecurities about our fuckability. It costs us time, money, and self-esteem. It weakens us.

5. The more time we spend worrying about our weight, the less happy and productive we are. A woman who spends two hours at the gym every day will never finish her dissertation and get a tenure-track job, nor will she make partner at a law firm, nor will she have time to do things that make HER happy, whether that is knitting, political action, or doing yoga.

6. The diet industry is a behemoth designed to make billions of dollars. If diets worked, they'd put themselves out of business.

7. Why is it a feminist issue? Because only women are hounded for our weight 24/7 in every possible media venue. Because women are constantly being pressured to conform to fuckability standards - weight, hair, makeup, clothes, shoes, and sexual compliance are only some of the things that women are subjected to.

8. Men are not subject to these pressures to conform. Men are only considered fat if they are well over 50 lbs. overweight. Every inch of a man's body does not have to be fat-free, sculpted, cellulite-free, etc. for him to be considered a real man. A woman with fat on her body (except breasts and hips) is hardly a woman at all.

9. Fat-hatred is rampant. The stereotype of the fat person - the fat WOMAN - is that she is a lazy,disgusting pig who eats trash all day long.

10. Being fat is considered a failure of personality, of will, of character. For women. Men are encouraged to eat big portions, giant steaks, drippy disgusting burgers and fries: this is considered manly. Women, however, are not supposed to eat in public. Especially fat women.

11. Women in our culture are taught to hate our bodies unless they conform to sexbot standards. This is not acceptable or healthy. It is highly damaging to women who are too tall, too short, too big-breasted, too flat-chested, too dark, too pale, too loud, too quiet, too fat, and even, in extreme cases, too thin. Fat is a large part of this equation.

Well, duh.

You Are 100% Feminist

You are a total feminist. This doesn't mean you're a man hater (in fact, you may be a man). You just think that men and women should be treated equally. It's a simple idea but somehow complicated for the world to put into action.

Are You a Feminist?

I once read a poem

It was called "All Rabbits are Republicans." In fact, rabbits, like Republicans, do not approve of much of anything human beings do.

Linky: Disapproving Rabbits

De feets! De feets!

Also, the teeny tiny tail.

have I ever happened to mention...

That here in the buttcrack of Mississippi, people who keep their plants in pots refer to them as "pot plants." Not POTTED plants, mind you. "Pot Plants." The first time I heard our 60-ish receptionist say she had to bring her "pot plants" in because it was going to freeze, I think I choked, tripped, and my jaw hit the floor, all at once. Huh-what?

July

...is certainly getting off to an interesting start.

Revelations.
Reunions.
Too many cigarettes.
600 miles in three days.
Brunch at the Court of Two Sisters.
Used bookstores.
Death, but no taxes.

And it's only the 6th.

Support the troops

Not with car magnets or waving flags, but with health care, reasonable wages, and proper equipment. Support them by bringing them home.

Army of One

Thanks to Jack-Booted Thug at the IBTP Forum for the link.

A note on grammar

Pippin Sequence

Finally, Pippin the Bitey sits still long enough for me to snap a non-fuzzy shot:



However, upon noticing the camera, and its enticing dangly strap, calmness gives way to scrambling:



And, within ten seconds of being a calm little poser, he's all up in my face chewing on the camera strap:

woot!

I'm off to NYC in the AM. It's almost 10 pm and I'm still doing laundry. Yet to come: dishes, trash, cat maintenance, and the obligatory wardrobe crisis.

Back Tuesday; don't wreck the place.

Confessions of a Bourgeois Asshole

I confess: I hired a housekeeper to clean up after me.

I loathe cleaning, especially the bathroom and kitchen. I can organize, tidy, and move piles around with great efficiency. I don't hate laundry or even handwashing the dishes. But I HATE scrubbing toilets and floors.

So, after I finished grad school, I got a recommendation from a colleague, and discovered I could pay for cleaning twice a month for less than I was spending on tuition. Those two Tuesdays a month that I come home to a clean house are glorious. I am gleeful with anticipation, and never less than delighted. My quality of life and mood has improved exponentially. I never have a yucky tub or tumbleweeds of cat fur drifting through my house.

As a feminist, I know that I am exploiting another woman by paying her to do my dirty work. I know that I'm participating in a global patriarchal economy of oppression of women of color. But then I think: why is it okay to pay a guy to do my yard, or change my oil, or paint my house, but not okay to pay a woman to clean my house? Is it because cleaning is "women's work" and I feel guilty for not doing it myself, not being an obedient, conforming woman who scrubs her own floors?

Check this: she makes the same hourly wage I do. I have a PhD, $100k in student loans, and a professional job. I make the same hourly wage as a person who cleans houses for a living. How is THAT fair? Really, we should both be making more money. If she worked for a cleaning service, she'd get benefits and vacation days, but then she'd only be making $7-8/hour. I do get health insurance and vacation days on top of my salary, but when it comes down to it, we're both getting paid far less than we're worth. One because she's doing "women's work" and the other because I'm doing non-profit cultural work.

I just can't defend this choice but I also don't want to give it up. I don't grow my cotton and make my own cloth and clothing; I don't grow my own vegetables; I don't make my own electronics; all of these industries - EVERY INDUSTRY - relies on exploiting the labor classes. I know this. I hate it. I don't want to live off the grid and dig potatoes all bloody day long. I don't think I have to in order to be an ethical person. I do resent being typecast as a spoiled honky because I spend $80 a month on avoiding something I really just hate doing, but I also know that I AM a spoiled American honky. Not as spoiled as many, but certainly living like a queen by third-world standards.

I guess this is all about white liberal guilt, isn't it? It's the oldest and most boring story in the world. Sigh.

Jezebella on tour: Greenville, MS

It's a long way to the ass-end of the Delta: Greenville. It's on the Arkansas border, right on the Mississippi River, and it's a solid four hours from me. I didn't take any pictures, but I can recommend a visit to the Greenville Arts Council to visit their gallery, and their freshly restored, century-old carousel, which is just gorgeous. It's been restored to function, but it's only open a few hours a day.

On Friday night, I ate at Fermo's, which had fantastic eggplant parmesan, a civilized wine list, and home-made fried cheese that was spectacular (not that Sysco fried-cheese-stick stuff). Alas, it being a small town, they were vacuuming and stacking chairs at 9:fucking:20 PM, while we were still seated. Tres gauche.

On my way out of town, I took a ride over to see the new - but not yet open - Greenville Bridge over the Mississippi. It's a fine-looking bridge. The old bridge is a fairly alarming, narrow, two-laned thing. I'd bet it's an old WPA project, it's that narrow. Nonetheless, it gives a great view of the new bridge, and the river really is gorgeous there. It being the Delta, the river is not controlled by levees. This allows for river expansion and silt spread, which is the reason for that rich dark farming ground all over the Delta. Corn, soybeans, and catfish farms are your main scenery up Highway 49W and across 82. It's okay for a while, but then it just gets boring.

Greenville is a bit grim in that broke-down southern town way, but the Arts Council is doing a good job of keeping the community filled with theater, visual arts, and so forth. Some of the older houses are being kept up, but a lot of houses with amazing bones are being let go to hell.

Greenville does have a real live independent bookstore, the McCormick Book Inn. Their emphasis is Mississippi writers and info, plus they have a big children's section. The back room is a kind of de facto Greenville History Museum, featuring books, postcards, and memorabilia from the town. I wanted to have a chat with the owner about the damaging effects of flourescent light on vintage paper & photographs, but I decided to let it be. He's doing a community service by keeping that stuff in his commercial establishment as it is.

Greenville, by the way, has brown water. When I checked into my hotel, I thought someone had left piss in the toilet. Seriously. Turns out the water is brown everywhere, and they claim it's perfectly safe, and there are signs in every single bathroom in town addressing the issue. Ooookay, whatever. It kind of freaked me out.

On my way home I stopped in Leland to visit the Highway 61 Blues Museum. I'll be honest with you: those guys NEED your five bucks. They've got memorabilia, a temporary exhibit of blues musician photos - a lot of Son Thomas and BB King - and I hear their festival is quite fine. Why do they need your five bucks? Because, holy crap, they need some damn air conditioning. Whew. They do have good t-shirts and posters, and they're doing a decent job considering their limited resources. I do believe you would find some truly down-home Delta Blues jam sessions there during festival weekend, if you can take the heat.

Cohabitation

On Heterosexual Cohabitation:

1. Don't do it.

2. Live next door to each other.

or

2a. Live in a shotgun double with one connecting door.

3. Never share a bathroom.

4. Don't live in the same house as a man unless you can both afford to pay a housekeeper.

Introducing Pippin

It's kitten season! Pippin was found wandering on a busy street by my boss's wife. She drove past, then turned around, because she just couldn't leave such a tiny kitten wandering around in the middle of the street. As they have two unruly children, adding a kitten to their family was not an option. So, she took him to their vet (which also happens to be my vet) and paid for a checkup and shots. She called work to see if anyone wanted him, and I agreed to go visit him to see if we got along.

I knew one thing: if he was a tortoiseshell, I was going to pass. Every tortie cat I've ever met is batshit insane. Pippin is a mix of tabby and Siamese, I think, with little white feet. He is feisty, blue-eyed, and a complete lunatic. I am covered in tiny little kitten scratches because he likes to climb up my back and perch on my shoulder. Last night, he had a claw-clipping. There was much lamentation of the feline, during which I kept saying, "I'm bigger than you! I'm bigger than you!" Hopefully the claw-clipping will get easier. I never did get the other boys into the habit.

Why is the picture blurry? Because he has two modes: running around like a little streak of white lightning, or sleeping on my neck. I never happen to have a camera handy when he settles down to a nap on me, so all my Pippin pics are blurry. One day he'll settle down long enough for a proper photo shoot. I hope.

It's mammogram time!

A few observations on the annual Mashing of the Boobs:

1. My mammogram occurred at the new "women's center" in Nearby College Town. In the womens' center ob/gyn services, the Breast Center, and, get this: Plastic Fucking Surgery! Because, you know, women are tits, twats, and artificial beauty. I can't tell you how much this irritates me. When my gynecologist told me last year about this new development, I wondered aloud whether they would put a plastic surgery clinic in a "men's center." She just sort of raised her eyebrows and made no comment. Look, they need to build a men's center with the pee-pee doctor, the prostate doctor, plastic surgery, hair clinic, and perhaps a re-education center...sigh. Fucking patriarchy.

2. This year, instead of scotch-taping tiny BB's to the nipples, they have a fancy new product that is so very Feminine, so Girly, it totally negated the pain, discomfort, and general feeling of angst that accompanies the mashing of the boobs:



Isn't that SO much better? Pretty pink and purple flowers on the scotch tape!? Oh my, yes. I snuck them out of the clinic because I just knew I couldn't leave such pretty, pretty nipple-BB's behind!

I just hope that, when a man needs a mammogram, he gets the flowery stickers.

Of course, they probably just give them ultrasounds on account of they'd pass out from the pain. What a bunch of babies.

My new favorite word!

cha·toy·ant

adj.
Having a changeable luster.

n.
A chatoyant stone or gemstone, such as the cat's-eye.

[French, present participle of chatoyer, to shimmer like cats' eyes, from chat, cat, from Vulgar Latin *cattus, perhaps of African origin.]

Nausea

First, check this: De Anza gang rapists go free

... and you'll see why I'm nauseated. As I was reading this article about a 17-year-old girl being raped by a group of college students, I found myself rocking back and forth, nauseated, blinded by rage and fear and horror.

And then I had a vivid memory, something I forgot about, that happened years ago.

Spring Break, Destin, Florida, 1984. My mom brings me and a few girlfriends to Destin. We go to a party in another condo, all boys from Jesuit High School in NOLA. We are drinking, we are, actually, drunk, and me and my girls are all 16 years old. I walk into a bedroom and see my friend D. making out with a boy. Okay, this happens, right? But then I realize, she is drunk as hell, and he is unbuttoning her jeans, and there is a crowd of boys standing around cheering him on.

I look at the guy I'm talking to, his name is Chris, and I say: Stop this. This cannot happen. Get her out of there. And, thank god, he does. The other guys object but because it's one of their buddies, he gets her off the bed, out from under the enormous football player who is groping her, and he walks us back to our condo. D., I must confess, was drunk as hell and could certainly have been perceived as giving consent. But if I hadn't been there, what would have happened? Would it have stopped at the first guy? The second? What would I have been able to do if Chris hadn't been willing to step up. I remember I was, if not actually crying, close to tears. I'm nauseated thinking about it. Nauseated thinking that she would've had no justice, no recourse if I hadn't intervened, hadn't had assistance in my intervention. But, christ, we were SIXTEEN YEARS OLD.

I just, as I was writing this, remembered who was all over D. that night. His name is Nick, and he's married to someone I know, someone whose mother is friends with my mother.

The gorge rises.

PSA

I haven't really talked about New Orleans much lately because it's such a complex topic. Mainly, I describe it as an entire city with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Some people are coping, others aren't, a lot of people are medicated, and a lot of relationships are going down the toilet. On the other hand, a lot of people have re-prioritized, are pursuing their dreams more aggressively, and re-committed to their relationships. It's complicated. I can tell you this much: most everybody could use a little therapy, and I've just heard that the Red Cross has a new funding initiative to assist Katrina, Rita, and Wilma survivors with mental health care. Coverage is retroactive to August 30, 2005, so people who've already had therapy or paid for meds can get reimbursed.

Here's the 411:

American Red Cross Access to Care program

Call 866-794-4673

http://www.a2care.org/

Do a good deed for Mothers' Day

Register with the National Marrow Donor Program.

Starting May 7th the National Marrow Donor Program is typing people for free!

In an effort to help all patients in need, the National Marrow Donor Program kicks off its national Thanks Mom Marrow Donor Drive on Monday, May 7, with a goal of adding 20,000 new donors to the National Marrow Donor Program Registry in two weeks. Thanks Mom will run May 7-21 and sponsor free marrow donor drives online at marrow.org and in more than 350 cities nationwide.

Anyone between the ages of 18 and 60, in good health and willing to help any patient is eligible to join, free of charge, from May 7 - 21, at a donor drive in their city or by registering online.

internet radio

I heart internet radio, and a new copyright law is going to kill it unless a ruling on copyright fees is reversed. For more info, see Save Net Radio

addendum to the latest tale of the patriarchy

So Misogynist Campus Killer didn't kill his girlfriend, or his ex-girlfriend even. Yet, just because it was a MAN killing a WOMAN (and, bless his heart, the man who tried to help her), everyone assumed it was "domestic." The term "domestic" makes it sound like someone spilled milk, like it was a harmless, everyday occurrence, the brutal murder of a young woman by a young man. And because everyone in charge had that mindset, thirty MORE people are dead than would have been if anybody on this earth could take the "domestic" murder of a woman seriously.

Men hate you, it's true. Women are targets, always, just by living and breathing. If any man, ever again, tells me that my awareness, my vigilance, my door-locking, my daily security measures amount to paranoia, I swear to bog I'm going to rip off his head and shit down his neck. I want to say, "Look, buddy, YOU walk through a war zone, where you can't tell who's on your side and who's not, who's dangerous and who's not, every single fucking day of your life, and see if you don't start practicing a little more personal security. Paranoia?! Fuck you."

A woman walking down the street of any city or town is in the same position as an American soldier walking down a street in Baghdad. Only it's all day, every day, your whole life, and sometimes, the enemy lives in your house, or says he loves you, or is related to you.

They don't come with labels: Good Man, Bad Man, Rapist, Thief.

I'm tired of seeing that face of hatred on every TV screen, on every web page. I can't look into his face without thinking: someone had to know this kid was deranged, had been deranged for months or even years, but his misogyny and sociopathy were dismissed, ignored, fell through the cracks. No-one turns into a seething ball of rage and hatred overnight.

more local dialect

I forgot to mention:

If one is to be ill for some time, "He's gonna be stove up for a while."

If one is too tired to do something, she is "too give out" to do it.

And if one is really hungry, it is "about to starve slap to death."

and yet another tale of the patriarchy

Either 22 or 31 people are dead in Virginia, because some entitled tool with a couple of firearms wanted to kill his girlfriend.

So it goes.

another tale of the patriarchy

I'd never been to an opera, on account of all the hollerin', until yesterday. I was persuaded to dip my toe into the subject with a free ticket to a performance of Carmen at USM in Hattiesburg. I'm still processing the experience as it was not quite what I expected. The conventions of musical theatre are, to me, absurd. I don't much like non-operatic musical theater, either, because why break into song when you could just talk? It's ridiculous. Nonetheless, I gave it a try.

People make like opera is this big intellectual serious stuff, but Carmen? Carmen is fluff. It's pretty noises and costumes and a little acting. It's good hair and ruffly dresses. How seriously can you take it, really? I couldn't at all. Which is not to say that an evening at Carmen with good company was the worst thing I could've done on a Thursday evening. It just wasn't at all what I expected.

I noted with interest the tissue-thin plot (if you can even call it a plot), the total lack of character development, and the pretty songs and music. I also noted with interest the contrast between the seductress, dark-haired, gypsy Carmen in her red and black, and the sweetly virginal, pale Micaela, dressed in the blue and white of the Virgin Mary. Naturally Micaela is a soprano, Carmen a mezzo. Women of questionable or dangerous sexuality can't be sopranos, with their innocent, girlish voices! It also, honestly, takes forever for anything to happen. Practically nothing happened in the first act. They spent ten minutes singing about how they were going to stand around the square, smoke, and chat. Maybe twenty minutes; I'm not sure, because it felt like forever.

There was an entire sequence about how seductive the smoking women were, how the smoke was intoxicating, etc., but: no one was smoking! I realize singers don't smoke, it's bad for you, but really, it's fucking absurd to sing about intoxicating tobacco smoke without at least pretending to smoke.

There was a really rotund toreador. I'm all for fat actors, but seriously: a toreador? Those guys are usually rail-thin. When it came time for the chubby toreador and the stout Don Jose to have a knife fight, it really got absurd. These guys were just not built for action sequences.

I must say: the guy who played Don Jose wasn't just singing, he was *acting*, and he was good at it. He kind of reminded me of Jack Black, and I mean that in the best possible way. Carmen was acting, too, but the character is impenetrable, clearly written by a man. She is a cruel seductress, switching from one man to the next every so often, and for this, she dies. Never mind that Don Jose abandoned his fiancee and became a criminal for Carmen, that's okay. It's not his fault. Carmen put a spell on him.

The final scene, when he alternates from pleading and begging to violent rage, frankly made me nauseous. It's domestic violence writ as romance. The first time he slapped her, the romance was over for me. When he wept after killing her, I felt nothing but disgust that he didn't go ahead and off himself. You know? Fuck that guy. She bailed on him, so he killed her. It's the oldest, ugliest story in the world.

In conclusion: opera, just like every other cultural production, is a tool of the patriarchy. It just happens to have pretty music to sweeten the poisonous message.

local dialect

Here in the Piney Woods of South Mississippi, one does not "push" a button, one "mashes" a button.

Also, the word spelled "bye" (as in "goodbye"), it's "bah" not "bi".

And I'm not sure I've ever been anywhere else where people who live outside the town proper live in "the county." (not "the country")

Folks from way out in the county don't say "daddy" they say "diddy".

is it just me?

...or is Adam Sandler starting to look a lot like Bob Dylan?

Perhaps it's just the hair.

passing the word

From tigtog:

This is a crosspost to effect a Googlebomb, correcting an injustice against a fellow feminist blogger.

Jill Filipovic, who blogs at Feministe and Ms. JD, is a NYU law student who has been the subject of cyber-obsession on a discussion board allegedly populated by law students. The discussions regarding Jill Filipovic (and many other female law students) are sexist and sexual in nature, rating the women’s physical attractiveness and fantasising about sexual contact, both consensual and non-consensual. Neither Jill Filipovic or any other of these women contributed, or gave their permission to be discussed, to the discussion board in question.

Jill Filopovic’s name and class routines etc have been regularly posted to this board, and at least one of the pseudonymous board-members claims to be Jill Filipovic’s classmate. Photos that Jill Filipovic posted (with full rights reserved) to an internet photo-storing and sharing site have also been posted to the sleazy discussion board without her permission. This is a horrendous invasion of Jill Filipovic’s privacy, a violation of copyright law, and calls the ethics and character of the alleged law-students participating in these discussions on the discussion board into question.

A major side-effect of an already nasty situation is that the sexist, objectifying cyber-obsession threads come up on the first page of internet search results on Jill Filipovic’s name. To an inexperienced user of the internet, it may even look as if Jill Filipovic and other female law students chose to compete in these Hot or Not rating competitions, instead of having their pictures posted without permission.

This post is an attempt to balance those internet results to point to the significant writings of Jill Filipovic instead, using the Googlebomb tactic and also linking this post to social networking sites (eg. del.ici.ous, Stumbleupon). Please feel free to copy any or all of what I’ve written here to your own blog in order to help change the top-ranked search engine results for Jill Filipovic. If you don’t have your own blog then please at least link to one of Jill’s this post[s] listed below at your preferred social networking site and give it the tag “Filipovic" (as well as any others you think appropriate).

I have linked to these sites in this post:
Jill Filipovic’s bio page at Feministe
Jill Filipovic’s blog posts at the Ms. JD blog
Jill Filipovic’s article about these scummy lawschool sleazebags at Feministe
Jill Filipovic’s article at Ms. JD: When Law Students Attack

If any of the other female law students stalked by the same sleazy site wish to copy this text with names altered, you hereby have my full permission to do so. All other rights reserved. (C) 2007 tigtog

Mississippi Moment: how to spell

It is my contention that Jackson is really just a pretentious cowtown. I drove there last week to drop someone off at the airport, and drove through Brandon, Mississippi. Brandon is obviously becoming a whiteyville-outlying-bedroom community for Jackson commuters. The high school looks like an outlet mall. Across from the high school is a gated community of identical mini McMansions. Outside of these hideous developments, the landscape is pretty boring, especially in winter.

This subdivision is called, I shit you not: Provonce. Clearly it is meant to be pronounced as in "Provence," the region in France, giving it snooty European appeal. And yet, this being Jackson, Mississippi, SPELLED FUCKING WRONG. AAAAAGGGHHHH. Pro-VONCE. Because one of two things happened:

1. the bourgie redneck developers never bothered to check the spelling.

2. They decided people were too stupid to pronounce "Provence" correctly and it would interfere with their marketing/branding/making piles of money selling prefab generic mini-Tuscans to the whitey-flighty masses.

Either way, I wish I'd had my camera with me so I could share this abomination.

media check

reading (finally): Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys

listening to: Radio Paradise

staying up too late for reruns of: Scrubs

Sexual Harassment Sunday

Here's a new one. I'm in my front yard, working in my garden. Wearing normal gardening clothes (knee-length shorts, t-shirt, garden clogs, hat), right? And I'm adding topsoil to a bed, which will be followed by mulch. It's a lovely spring-like day, my yard is looking nice, I put in some new plants yesterday, and I'm pretty relaxed, in my own little world.

Which all comes to a screeching halt as a car drives up and I hear this:

"You bend over much more and somebody's gonna stick something in your ass."

Here's the kicker: it's a WOMAN. Two women in the front seat, a guy in the back, driving with all their windows open, looking for people to harass on a Sunday afternoon. Holy crap. I stand up, give her the stinkeye, and lift my middle finger in salute.

"Oh holy crap, she's turning around," think I. "She and her friends are going to jump out of her car and beat the crap out of me for flipping her off."

No. She goes up the block, turns around, so that her female friend in the passenger seat can say the same thing:

"You better not bend over any more because someone is gonna stick something in your ass."

Again with the middle-finger salute, because I can't think of anything to say but I'm not just going to stand there and do NOTHING. This time, however, I'm backing towards the front door.

Then she follows up by pointing to the guy in the back seat and says, "You need some black dick." He leans forward like he's going to say something and I just turn around, go get my keys that were hanging out of my car door, and head to the front door to get my phone & camera. I hear "Look at her...something something something," as I shut the door, and lock it.

MotherFUCKER. I get my camera and cell phone, come outside, they're gone. I sit on the porch, fuming, seething, shaking, and about ready to cry but determined not to. Part of me hopes that they come back so I can take their picture and get their license plate. I've got the phone ready to dial 911 if they get out of the car. I sit there for like ten minutes, adrenaline pumping through my veins, furious, terrified, indignant, outraged.

They never come back, but as I finish in my yard, I cringe every time I hear a car come down the street. I give any number of people the stinkeye just because it looks like they might be slowing down to look at me. My adrenaline is high the whole time. I can't bend over without wondering if somebody driving by is going to threaten me with anal rape. AGAIN.

MotherFUCKER. I can't bend over to pull a weed in my own fucking yard on a sleepy street in a sleepy little town without being sexually harassed - by WOMEN? WOMEN are doing this. Holy fucking crap. Did they do it to impress Mr. Black Dick in the back seat? Did he put them up to it? What would have happened if I said anything? I mean, THEY KNOW WHERE I LIVE.

So now I guess I have to carry my phone & camera in my pockets whenever I go out front to work in the yard, in case I decide to bend over. I'm mad at myself for thinking I'm no longer safe in my own home because the reality is, I was never safe in my own home. Nobody is. I'm depressed that women will do this to other women. It's bad enough when men do it, but when women do it, it's also a betrayal.

Boy, complacency, it'll do a number on you. My guard was down because I thought I was in a safe place, and those women just fucked up my whole goddamned day.

quote of the day

"Language shapes consciousness, and the use of language to shape consciousness is an important branch of magic."
- Starhawk, Dreaming the Dark (p.23)

the litter in new york city

As previously noted, I was in New York City a few weeks ago, and let me tell you what I mostly remember about the city itself, besides the freezing-ass cold: those fucking Norbit movie ads. I was going to grab one off the web and put it in this post, but you know what? I can't stand looking at it another second. They were on bus shelters, taxicabs, billboards, draped ten stories high on buildings. Eddie Murphy in fat drag lying on top of Eddie Murphy in man drag, with the tagline "Have you ever made a really big mistake?"

God forbid anyone should accidentally fuck a fat girl.

This is the subtext of that nasty poster:

"Oops, it was an accident! I was just walking down the street minding my own business, and suddenly! SUDDENLY!! I was alone, naked, with a fat woman, putting my dick in her, over and over again! I have no idea how this happened. I would never admit to having gone to any trouble to do this, because everybody knows, you don't have to make any kind of effort to fuck a fat girl! No! They are grateful and desperate and given half a chance, will carry your narrow ass up the stairs, into the bedroom, and fuck you! I swear, I didn't mean to! I'm not ATTRACTED to fat girls! Ha! Like that would ever happen! Nobody likes fat people! NOBODY! Also, if you fuck a fat girl, she will suddenly be desperately in love with you and chase you all over the place, to hilarious effect, in slapstick fashion, while wearing absurd clothing."

You know, I haven't seen this movie. I don't need to. Nobody does.

Hollywood knows: There's nothing funnier than a fat girl in a nightie, unless it's that same fat girl in a nightie chasing a skinny guy. Ask that woman from the Parkers. Monique is her name, I think? She's making bank off working the stereotype, and of course doing her sisters no damn favors.

I bet I know why Eddie Murphy has to play the fat lady in Norbit. I bet even Monique wouldn't take on such a degrading role, and she has displayed a real willingness to take it on the chin for a paycheck.

I wonder how Eddie's fat black sisters feel about this nasty movie. I wonder how his brothers (fat or thin) with fat wives, girlfriends, mothers, sisters feel about it. I can imagine the brothers, being as dudely as white boys, not seeing Eddie's hateful "comedy" as offensive because, dude, you know, it's just a movie, right? But in black America, fat women are far less offensive to the overall community than fat white women are. So why is he making millions off this premise?

I wonder: This misogynistic movie, making millions and millions every day, does it even reflect black America, even though Eddie Murphy is black? His appeal has always crossed racial boundaries, I guess, and fat jokes, it turns out, are something we all have in common, white, black or brown. Well, in that case, what a great day for racial harmony in America, when whites and blacks alike can all point and laugh together at the very notion that someone, somewhere, might accidentally fuck a fat girl.

Mississippi Moment

This morning, I'm at the salon, having my eyebrows waxed by a man with frosted tips, a lot of hair product, and a lisp. Okay, nothing out of the stereotypical ordinary, right?

Wrong, because I'm in Mississippi. He's married to a woman, has children, and spends our time together telling me about this great church camp he takes his kids to, where they get to shoot rifles and learn archery while camping. Why a church camp includes the training and use of a .22 rifle is beyond me, but then again, I ain't from around here.

how come I've never heard of this guy?

Oscar Micheaux

I was wandering around my twelve channels yesterday afternoon, the television a wasteland of dudely sports (golf, car racing, basketball, blah), and I ran across a short documentary on Oscar Micheaux, independent black filmmaker. The most prolific indie filmmaker of the early 20th century, who did everything from write the screenplay to casting, production, direction, distribution, and when he had to, town-to-town PR at each black theater. He produced a direct response to Griffiths' Birth of a Nation, the pro-Klan epic that is cited in nearly every film survey as the Great Birth of Cinema, though the racist narrative is usually glossed right over. He was one of the first directors to successfully jump from silents to talkies. The dude was a one-man movie industry.

How come I've never heard of this guy?

Oh, right: he was a black filmmaker. He made movies starring black people, for black people. Un-frackin-believable, the stuff that's buried skin-deep in this country.

splain me this

Last Tuesday afternoon, deep into the funk of a fresh new flu, I was ensconced on my couch watching bog-knows-what on the television. Trash, no doubt. Sniffling, coughing, etc. Right? Suddenly someone is in my driveway honking. I ignore it. They honk again, and again, insistently. I think, "Well, perhaps they are trying to pick someone up and have the wrong address. I will open the door a smidge and let them know I'm not who they're looking for." As I'm in my pajamas, I peek out the door as the person is honking (AGAIN) and she starts shouting to me, asking about the status of the house next door. Her engine is running, it's desperately in need of a tune-up, and she has imperiously honked until *I* came outside to answer her fucking stupid ass questions. Jeezus. NO, I do not know if it's for rent. Do you see a sign? I don't. NO, I also do not know if it is for sale, or rent-to-own, as noted previously: there's no sign. No, I don't know who owns the fucking house. If I did, I'd call them and tell them to clean the place up. This whole conversation, mind you, held while she sits regally in her loud-ass car and I am on the porch in PJs. Apparently she couldn't be bothered to step out of her fucking car like a civil human being and knock politely on my door. NO, I had to come outside and shout over her engine. Who does that? Seriously? Who the fuck does that?

At the end of the conversation she says, "Sorry I woke you up," as though I was a lazy motherfucker who should've been awake at 2 pm and I said, "Actually, I'm home sick." Instead of apologizing she said, I swear, "I've been sick for three weeks." Which information is of no use to me.

I really am left with a giant case of What The Fuck here, because since when is it my job to come out of my house to answer your random questions upon being summoned by your horn?

oh, jeebus.

pole dancing parties

That liberal-media-bastion, the New York Times, is at it again. Herewith, a story about women going to "pole dancing parties," learning to pole dance because it's good exercise, because it'll make their men happy, and of course buying some new shoes in the process. Christ. Where do you start with crap like this?

Let's start with this lovely quote:

It taps into this kind of exhibitionism, or show-womanship, among younger women who did not grow up with the gender politics of the sexual revolution

Uh-huh, right: the sexual revolution ended in 1973, and there have been NO GENDER POLITICS since then. This is code for: "young women who have been fooled into thinking feminism has done its job because women are allowed to have jobs & votes." I call bullshit. I also note that most of the women interviewed were over 35, and many were in their 40s and 50s. I'm guessing most of these women remember the fight for ERA, women's liberation, and the sexual revolution. Hell, *I* remember the sexual revolution, or at least phase two of it.

Here's another choice nugget:

...most of its instructors were stay-at-home mothers looking to earn a little extra at night after their children were in bed — though one man signed up with his wife, she said.

“He knows how the men benefit after the party,” Ms. Huitema said.

Ah, yes, because men with stay-at-home wives don't get any benefits at ALL from that relationship, right, until mommy tucks the kids in, straps on a g-string and some stilettos, and starts hanging off a greased pole. Woohoo! Suddenly, the life of the husband has some bright little light in it: he can get his pornified sexbot at home, in his own bedroom, instead of online or at the titty bar!

This, however, takes the cake:

"Their entire world is reduced to caretaking, and this is sort of the opposite of that"

Actually, NO, it's exactly the same thing as that: it's taking care of their husbands' sexual desires, not their own. They're just going from taking care of children to taking care of men.

Naturally, it's being billed as "empowering," because, as we all know, conforming to the sexbot ideal is empowerful. Really! Spend your voluminous spare time acting out your husband's adolescent fantasies! Spend a lot of money on a pole and some trashy shoes! It's GOOD FOR YOU!

Jeezus.

new york crud

Scintillating details of my trip to frigid New York City will have to wait. I am currently in a haze, induced by codeine cough syrup, ingested in response to a hacking, congesty crud acquired in an airplane, subway, hotel conference room, museum, deli, movie theatre, or possibly Bloomingdale's.

At least one person in a conference session sneezed on the BACK of my HEAD and didn't bother to apologize, and another sat in front of my snorking, horking, snotting, and generally making me gag, when she should've have kept herself and her germs in isolation. Jeebus. My only consolation is that her clingy whiny boyfriend probably got her crud, too.

Jezebella is fixin to go on tour...

to Noo Yawk City, woot.

On the schedule: Kiki Smith show at the Whitney, Design Life Now at the Cooper Hewitt, the new MoMA expansion/reinstallation, and Judy Chicago's Dinner Party, which finally has a permanent home at the Brooklyn Museum of Art.

Sunday, the Whitney, I have a drink at Sardi's, go see Spring Awakening, thence out to dinner.

Monday, shopping (Town Shop for bras, Saks for Bobbi Brown makeup, and H&M for a cute new outfit that will be up-to-date in NYC, but is ahead of the curve in Mississippi)

Tuesday, dinner with mathematician ex-boyfriend, thence to the Cooper-Hewitt

Wednesday, Brooklyn and conference

Thursday, MoMA in the morning and then two (TWO!) job interviews in the afternoon, then dinner with my grad school best pal Sam

Friday - Saturday, conference nerdifying, including an all-day Feminist Art Project session on Saturday

and, sadly, Sunday: I have to come back home

We are just going to have to pretend like it is NOT Mardi Gras, and most definitely deny any knowledge of this thing they call Valentine's Day. I refuse to acknowledge a holiday designed to make single people feel like crap for weeks on end.

Report to follow. Possibly with pictures, even.

Molly Ivins

Look, I'm not smart enough to figure out how to embed a YouTube video, so please click on this linky here:

Molly Ivins

for a video of Molly Ivins in her usual fine form: smart, funny, and fired up.

She died of the dread breast cancer earlier this week and she will be missed.

state of the union

You know, in all these years of Bush's idiocy, he's never actually been so heinous that I've been brought to tears. Until now. In his entire State of the Union address, he made NO MENTION of New Orleans, the Gulf Coast, or the continuing needs of the entire Katrina-affected Gulf South. I guess the "union" no longer includes south Mississippi and south Louisiana, millions of people, billions of dollars of damage, deaths, ruination, disease.... Un-fucking-believable.

I guess now I know how the gay community felt when Reagan and Bush, Sr. refused to even acknowledge the AIDS crisis for the entire combined 12 years of their reign.

a day late and a dollar short

yesterday was Blog for Choice day, and I have only this to say:

Abortion should be available
ON DEMAND
and
WITHOUT APOLOGY

that is all.

the new york times wants to know...

Why are there more single women than married women?

why so many single americans?

simple: because marriage is a losing proposition for so many women. Married women have a lower life expectancy than single women. (the reverse is true for men). Because too many men won't do their fair share of housework or child care. Because too many men abuse their wives physically, verbally, and/or emotionally. Because too many men have double standards regarding fidelity and aging and beauty, to name just a few. Because too many men won't compromise in order to make it possible for their wives to pursue a fulfilling career. Because sometimes it's just easier to raise children by yourself than it is to raise them with a man who doesn't understand the concept of co-parenting. Because we are not obligated to stay in unfulfilling, abusive, or empty marriages, now that we have the opportunities that allow us to support ourselves. Because too many men are addicted to porn and infected with the unreasonable, hateful, misogynistic bullshit that comes with porn-sickness.

Because, as Bridget Jones would say, too many men are alcoholics, workaholics, perverts, and/or emotional fuckwits.

Was that so hard to figure out?

Jezebella on tour: Jackson

Took a quick trip Saturday night to Jackson. Had dinner at Keifer's Greek Restaurant, home of the best veggie gyro I've ever had. I love that joint.

Proceeded to go the wrong way on State Street and end up way the hell north at Target instead of going south to downtown. I love it when I take one of my "scenic route" detours with a witness in the car. Have I mentioned that I'm geographically challenged? My instincts for directions are almost always wrong. I've grown accustomed to it, and always factor in extra time to get to new places, but it's still kind of embarrassing.

Next up: the Mississippi Invitational 2007 opening at the Mississippi Museum of Art. My favorite artists included are Jeff Schmuki:





Lee Renninger:




and Carlyle Wolfe:



This is a view from an installation elsewhere; the installation in Jackson is bigger and features more paintings. I would say, actually, too many paintings for the space. Her piece mounted in glass, though, paper with sewn flowers and cut-out flowers and drawn or printed flowers, was very strong. I'd like to see more of those.


Otherwise nothing really jazzed me up. There was a lot of post-storm photography and I found it reportorial.

it was a winning season...

and our Saints haven't seen nearly enough of those. If we'd brought our A-game, we could've beat the Bears. But the weather, the venue: we just fell down. We would've won that game in the Superdome. Next year, though, next year.

Our consolation prize: NOLA homeboy Peyton Manning is in the Superbowl!

I just can't help it....

... I have come to feel, over the course of the last 39 seasons, a passionate regard, respect, love for the Saints which despite all rational objections I cannot overcome. Football is a ridiculous sport costing billions of dollars, it is rampant with misogynistic marketing, the valorization of brawn over brains, and yet, and yet:

I love my New Orleans Saints. We won our first playoff game - EVER - and it was joyous. We, the New Orleanians of the world, needed this. If we can EVER beat the Bears in their own den, in freezing-ass Chicago winter temps, we can do it now.

I find myself amazed by the players and the game because their every single skill is absent in myself: extensive rote memorization, intense physical discipline, fearlessness, the ability to improvise within a highly controlled environment, grace under pressure.

what kind of weather am I?

I'm pretty sure that a rainbow isn't, technically, weather.

You Are a Rainbow

Breathtaking and rare You are totally enchanting and intriguing But you usually don't stick around long! You are best known for: your beauty Your dominant state: seducing

What Type of Weather Are You?

is this a southern thing?

So I'm in a strategic planning meeting this morning for a statewide arts organization, and every other person has to provide a lengthy personal anecdote along with their every suggestion. What is that? Yes, we all have personal anecdotes that lead to our opinions, but when thirty people are brainstorming, is it really necessary to listen to everyone's? REALLY? Bog.

Come to think of it, maybe it's not a southern thing. I went to grad school with a guy, who I actually refer to as Mr. Personal Anecdote, who could never say anything in a seminar without prefacing it with an anecdote. I'm not sure he ever contributed much besides that. But, damn, give him a word or two and he will free-associate a personal anecdote that will be long and pointless, and he will look miffed if you stop him in the middle of it to leave, in the event that you have, you know, SOMETHING ELSE TO DO besides listen to his long-winded tales. Mr. Personal Anecdote is from Kansas. So maybe it isn't a southern thing.

If you have made it through my own tedious personal anecdote, by all means go watch this, which is scary/hilarious.

And then maybe somebody can explain to me why Hattiesburg is the only city in American where NO ONE uses craigslist.

that is all. I have to go back to the strategic planning chatfest. I really need to put a bottle of vodka in my desk drawer for days like this.

I almost completely forgot to mention

Designer Shoe Warehouse, which I visited in Atlanta.

Oh my bog. You need the latest pair of plastic Jessica Simpson hooker shoes? They've got 'em. Impossibly tall Prada heels? Check. Cole Haan? Naturalizer? Skechers? They've got it all. And at discount prices. Damn. I didn't buy anything but it sure would be nice to live near a store where I know I could get a pair of shoes if I really needed something specific. Plus it's like ORGANIZED and CLEAN and the rows are nice and wide and there are really cute gay boys shopping over in the mens' department.

I so miss living in a real city.

Jezebella on tour: Atlanta

Went to Atlanta this weekend on business, and visited, as usual, some museums.

If you dig Western art, which is not so much my cup of tea, go to the Booth Western Art Museum in Cartersville, which is north of Atlanta. The building is astonishing. The elevator is the size of my office. The collection is top-notch, for what it is. I totally dug the Duane Hansen Cowboy and the Andy Warhol Cowboys and Indians prints. Nice gift shop.

I went to the High Museum, recently expanded, and as always, found it incoherent and disappointing. Their collection isn't really top notch, the spaces have no flow, and I refuse to pay another ten dollars (after paying ten dollars for parking) to see a few dozen third-rate pieces from the Louvre. I have an AAM card, after all, and I get into the ACTUAL Musee du Louvre for FREE, so why do I have to pay to see Louvre paintings in Atlanta? I protest. I did not go. I hear it's a smallish show, and nothing so spectacular I needed to see it. The next installment may include some must-see pictures. I did see the Morris Louis show, which was very nice. I love big giant Abstract Expressionist paintings, and Louis' post-painterly abstraction is pretty spectacular. Master colorist, amazing technique that no-one knows how to replicate, good stuff. I could've looked at more and even more of them. There are 27 altogether - and beautifully selected, major pieces - but I could've stood another fifteen or twenty.

Thence, to the Atlanta History Center, an impressive edifice. I went for the quilt show which was of personal interest, as my grandma taught me to quilt in the same tradition as these Georgia quilts. As soon as I get my back room cleared out I need to get out my quilting things and try and remember how to put together a quilt frame. The Atlanta history exhibit there was nicely done, and the '96 Olympics exhibit. I don't really care so much about the Olympics but it was a good exhibit. The gallery about money, snooze-o-rama, and I just passed right by the one about a golfer. I couldn't give a crap about golf, though I did note some very nice mahogany casework. I wish the weather hadn't been so crappy, or I could've visited the gardens, which I hear are very nice. I'll try and go back next time I'm in the ATL to see the grounds and outlying buildings.

I'm really about to give up on the High, though. Next trip, it's the Carlos at Emory for me, unless there's something at the High that I just cannot miss. Even then, I'm not going to bother with the permanent galleries again.

I did finally bring my mp3 player to a museum and discovered that it's much, much nicer to listen to Sufjan Stevens than to a bunch of people saying stupid shit about abstract art. Call me a snot, I just don't care: it greatly lessens my enjoyment of art to hear people saying dumb stuff all around me. I will never go to a museum again without my own personal soundtrack. I do not, however, plan to listen to Metallica:

http://www.theonion.com/content/from_print/area_man_takes_metallica

i wish this was true

Your results:
You are Superman

Superman 70% Hulk 65% Green Lantern 65% Batman 65% Wonder Woman 63% Robin 52% Spider-Man 50% Catwoman 50% Supergirl 48% Iron Man 35% The Flash 30%

You are mild-mannered, good, strong and you love to help others.

Click here to take the Superhero Personality Test


because if it was true, I could've just flown home from Atlanta on my own power, instead of sitting in the Atlanta airport for hours and hours and hours on Sunday night and then Monday morning.

God, Superman's kind of a dork superhero to be.

just for the record: Harry Potter prediction

I'm pretty sure that the mysterious RAB who got to the horcrux in the cave before Harry & Dumbledore is Regulus Black, Sirius Black's brother.

media check

Just finished reading Straight Man by Richard Russo, a tale of dysfunctional academics. Am now embarking on Moo, by Jane Smiley, another slice of academic fiction.

The Devil Wears Prada was funny but I haven't quite gotten over Meryl Streep calling the waifish Anne Hathaway "the fat girl" because she's a size SIX. Still, Meryl Streep is genius and the clothes really are as gorgeous as the shoes are completely ludicrous. It's a wonder none of the actresses broke something during filming, every time I turned around Andy was running - RUNNING - in 4" stilettos.

And The Forty-Year-Old Virgin, I know I'm late to this party, but holy crap, that was funny. Despite a scene with gratuitous homophobia, which they could've done without ("I know you're gay because...," which I guess is the white-boy version of the dozens). And the ongoing kidding-on-the-square misogyny, wherein you can laugh at the dude for saying stupid sexist stuff, or you can laugh with him because you're a sexist dude, too. But I do have this to add to the plus column: the forty-year-old virgin falls in love with a forty-year-old woman. Possibly even 40-something. Oh yes, her stomach is impossibly flat for a woman who's had three children, but she's a natural-looking fortyish hot grandma. Catherine Keener really rocks that role. Steve Carell couldn't be any funnier.

New Gwen Stefani, The Sweet Escape = perfect workout music.

I am a list geek

I am motivated by lists: check them off, cross them off, erase off the whiteboard, whatever: I'm a list geek. It's how I download anxiety about Stuff That Needs Doing: I write a list and it stops floating around my head pestering me. Hence, I adore Joe's Goals. Once upon a time, I actually used to print out lists that look almost exactly like the Joe's Goals grid, and put them on the fridge at the beginning of each week. I like this better because it keeps statistics (statistics about lists are even better!), makes cute little charts (see my sidebar) and is infinitely variable. I can add a goal for short-term use, delete it, change the way I use it, any time I want.

Current goals involve exercise, vitamins, getting fruits and veggies, cleaning my house, getting to work on time, and the hardest one right now: "one less thing," in which I get a check if I donate, sell, or throw away one thing I no longer need. Alas, junk mail does not count. It has to be something I paid for.

reason #648 I do not have children

mama mama mama MAMA MOMMY MOM
momma mama mama mamma maaaaaaaammmmmmmmmmmmaaaaaaaaaaaa
mommeeeeee mommy mimi momo mamamamamamamamamamama
mamamamamamama MOMMY MAMA MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM
momma? momma! MoM!! mom. mom? mom. mamamamamamama.
mamamamam. mommeeee. mommy mommy mommy mommy mommmmmmmmaaaaaaa!!
MOM. MOMMA. MAMAMAMAMAMAMA.

[repeat 24/7 for approximately 18 years]

reasons not to have children

#1,220 - #1,229

complications of pregnancy:

anemia
placenta previa
pre-eclampsia
gestational diabetes
gestational hypertension
placental abruption
low amniotic fluid
high amniotic fluid
cervical insufficiency
death

my new favorite political artwork

Hell, it ain't pretty, but 37 years later, the sentiment still holds:



Larry Rivers, America's No. 1 Problem, 1969
acrylic on shaped canvas sheathed in plastic with cut plastic affixed to silver metallic paper

Reproduced without any permission whatsoever.

[haters, before you get all hinky, Larry Rivers was a MALE ARTIST, so get a fucking grip already]

I've got a million of 'em.

Reason #1,219 not to have children:

Seven-year-old steps on a Little Debbie snack cake. Seven-year-old walks all over the courtyard with smushed icing and cake on shoe. Seven-year-old tracks Little Debbie into classroom. Does seven-year-old know he is tracking crap every where? Yes. Does he care? Hell no.

meme

meme

pick up the nearest book, look at page 123, reproduce sentences 6-8:

from Mira Schor's "Wet: On Painting, Feminism, and Art Culture"

"Success can lead to paranoia. Those young men everyone looks to as examples are all obsessedwith those who might want to get at them, knock them down. Because of their success they see themselves as targets, as indeed they had targeted the previous generation, for the link between progress/success and forms of patricide is grafted onto the belief structure of Western civilization."

[this is actually the second nearest book, as the nearest is a dictionary, which has no sentences in it]

got a secret?

oh yes you do. It's hard to keep secrets, isn't it? You can cage them up in the far reaches of your memory, but they still rattle the bars now and again. Sometimes one will escape and dominate all of your waking hours with the awful secret you are keeping. Should I tell A. that his wife is cheating on him? Should I tell B. that her relationship is a train wreck? Should I tell C. that I know he's got one foot out the door? Should I tell NASA that I've perfected warp drive? Should I tell the CIA that Osama bin Laden is shacked up in a Motel 6 in Purvis, Mississippi, binging on pork rinds and Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper? You know, that kind of stuff.

Every Monday I go to PostSecret.com and see the fresh batch of anonymous secrets. They're sad, or happy, or weird, or funny, in different combinations. You know that each person telling a secret is relieving himself or herself of a burden.

Hey, hetero!

I would totally love to see this in Mississippi:

Hey, hetero!

radfem blogging commentators: consider the bonobo

I love I Blame the Patriarchy, I really do. I read it almost daily and always enjoy Twisty's point of view. Do I agree with her 100%? As a matter of fact, I do not. More like 85%, probably. I still enjoy hearing her take on things. Go figure.

What is bugging me right now is the comment section, which I used to blissfully ignore. But now that I know it's there, it's hard to ignore. Especially when there are 150 comments. So I read, I am amused, I learn a few things, I get irritated, sometimes I comment, but lately, not so much. Why? Because yahoos will eternally plop themselves down into someone else's blogspace and be predictably tiresome. Commenters on feminist blogs seem to get mired in the same conversations over and over and it's really getting on my nerves.

There are the people who complain that the Blogger or Commentors are too strident, too militant, not "nice enough," and proceed to explain in a patronizing tone that more people would pay attention if only they would tone it down a bit. Because, you know, asking nicely for an end to patriarchy would surely work; if only we had thought of it before! Use a soft, well-modulated voice, passive tense, wear lip gloss, and tilt your head. It'll work, sweetie! Go ahead, try it!!

These same folks often get their knickers in a twist because somebody disagreed with them, vehemently, perhaps impolitely even (shocking!), and suddenly the commentor feels that everyone is picking on them. Wah, wah, and wah. You walk into someone's house and act an ass or say something disagreeable, someone is going to call you on it. Same with someone else's blog. If people disagree with you and you don't like it, don't go there. Attendance is optional.

Then there are the straight girls who think they're being disagreed with just because they're straight. At every feminist blog I've visited, this is not true. They're being disagreed with because they're wrong. Or misguided. Or ignorant. Or whatever. But it is a convenient distraction from the substance of one's opinion: "You hate me because I'm not a lesbian!" Jeez, could you get any more stereotypical? Absurd. I'm a straight girl and have never had my opinion discounted for that reason, so far as I know. Now, if I started making ignorant unqualified assertions on behalf of the lesbians of the world, I'd deservedly take some flak, since I'd have no right to that. Likewise, I sure as hell wish other hetero commenters wouldn't decide to make comments on behalf of all the other man-fuckers in the house. I didn't elect a Speaker of the Hetero Female Population, so leave me out of your pronouncements, dig?

Then there are the people who don't understand why their rhetorical or universal questions about feminism, patriarchy, capitalism, why the sky is blue, and why a frog aren't answered immediately, with footnotes, by everyone in sight. They need to shut up and read a book instead of expecting the world to drop everything and explain it all to them on demand.

Finally, what's with the CONSTANT FUCKING FLOW OF PERSONAL ANECDOTES? Yes, I know I'm shouting. I know it. Why, oh why, must any pronouncement of one person's opinion on any feminist-inflected topic open a floodgate of personal testimonies about the joys of blowjobs, housework, childbirth, high heels, corsetry, BDSM, bonobos, cats vs. dogs, macs vs. pcs, etc.? Jeebus. It's almost like there's an outside agitator at every blog whose job it is to shout into the midst of any fruitful feminist conversation "blowjob"!! or "high heels"!!! (or both) ...and thereby distract, befuddle, and irritate every participant, thereby resulting in no conversational progress AT ALL. God. Why does it all come down to shoes and makeup and hair and sex in these conversations? Sweetie, I don't care what kind of shoes you wear. I really don't. Do you care what kind of shoes I wear? I didn't think so. So quit it. Seriously. (Unless you want to write a shoeblog, in which case, go see Manolo's Shoe Blog for lessons on how to do it. But let me reiterate: do it on your own time, on your own blog, mmmkay?)

The best part is when, after someone has threadjacked a comment section in one of the aforementioned directions, someone else says, stentoriously: "Don't you people have anything more important to talk about? Shouldn't you be worrying about Darfur or China or world peace instead of something so silly and petty as clothes and fellatio?" Bog, I love that. Because, you know, anyone who talks about sex or clothes or makeup is clearly incapable of thinking about anything else, ever, at all.

I'm trying to quit reading comments, really I am, but I am powerless to resist the comment count. 125 comments! 175! 200! How can I resist such lively discourse?

internet friend of an internet friend, sort of

http://acephalous.typepad.com/acephalous/2006/11/measuring_the_s.html

I read Bitch PhD's blog fairly often, and she's doing a favor for a friend, who wants to track the speed of a meme. He says:

"What is the speed of meme? People write in general (typically truimphant) terms about how swiftly a single voice can travel from one side of the internet to the other and back again, but how often does that actually happen? Of those instances, how often is it organic?

Most memes, I'd wager, are only superficially organic: beginning small, they acquire minor prominence among low-traffic blogs before being picked up by a high-traffic one, from which many more low-traffic blogs snatch them. Contra blog-triumphal models of memetic bootstrapping, I believe most memes are—to borrow a term from Daniel Dennett's rebuttal of punctuated equilibrium—"skyhooked" into prominence by high-traffic blogs."

So I thought I'd play along. Go visit Acephalous' blog and link to it. If you're going to MLA and go to his talk on memes, you can be proud knowing you've contributed to Knowledge and Wisdom.

Or something.

oh and by the way

Nola Darling is indeed correct: Drunk people will sing to damn near anything. In fact, they WANT to sing to damn near anything. My Thanksgiving evening concluded with many hours of hilarious karaoke. I can't remember the last time I laughed that hard.

cruelty-free shoes?

I was googling images of "winkle-pickers" just now because someone mentioned her "purple winkle-pickers" in a thread on I Blame the Patriarchy that was sort of about shoes, but not really. Turns out winkle-pickers look like the boot you see here. Twisty's post is actually about alien shoes that would change the world and then rocks would inherit the earth, and maybe a few bacteria, so I really figured a conversation about winkle-pickers might in fact count as thread-hijacking. Thanks to google, I didn't need to pester the winkle-pickers' owner. (it's a fine turn of phrase, isn't it? Winkle Pickers. I want to say it out loud, as much as possible. I vow, yes vow, I will find a way to work it into conversation at some time in the next seven days).

So I'm pleased to have found a picture, curiosity sated, but then I realize something: I've landed in fetish-boot territory. Even better, in VEGAN FETISH SHOE territory. Who knew you could buy vegan fetish boots? This would make more sense if shoes that look like this:


.... were not being advertised as "cruelty free." (I know, it's not a boot, but it's on the same page as the boots, and no, I won't be linking to the website, so find it yourself).

You know, just because a shoe isn't made from dead animals, doesn't mean it's not cruel. Because that, my internet friends, is a cruel shoe. It hurts my eyes, my aesthetics, my fashion sensibility, and my feminist sensibility. Those are shoes about submission, designed to keep a woman from walking, running, or even standing upright. So how does your tool of the patriarchy, your submissive fetishist, collate her own "willing" submission with her opposition to the dominance & torture of wee animals? How does that work? Because I don't get it.

interesting developments

1. First of all, it's cold here. So that means my cat is actually sitting ON MY LEFT HAND as I attempt to type. He wants me to think it's because he loooves me, but really, he's trying to suck up my body heat. You try typing with a fifteen-pound Siamese in the way. It ain't easy, is all I'm saying. Later this evening, I get to try to sleep under a blanket of cats. There's only two of them, but somehow they manage to take up the entire queen-sized bed all by themselves.

2. Thanksgiving. I can already feel the inevitable metamorphosis into a pissed-off teenager which results when my mother starts talking to me as if I'm twelve. Basically, during the holidays, everything I do is wrong. It's infuriating.

3. The pathological liar mentioned in a post - a long ago post - was apparently, pathetically, Googling himself late last Thursday night, rather than spending time with his loved ones, or, you know, sleeping or doing something non-pathetic. Turns out, if you google "his name + blog," you find me. I confess it threw me for rather a loop when his name appeared in my comment alert from Blogger but now: Baaaa haaa haa! I say. Ba ha and ha. It's so nice to know that some things never change, like, say, unrepentant liars.

4. Because my best friend since 7th grade is now married, she has two families to meet, eat, greet with for the holidays. It hadn't occurred to me that this would be the case, and it totally interferes with my own personal agenda. Dagnabbit. Now I don't get to hang with her until I'm home for Christmas.

5. A Yankee I had a fling with like four years ago emailed me last week to say he was going to be in Pensacola & Mobile on business, did I want to get together? I hadn't heard from him in the 2+ years I've been dating the poet, so it was quite a surprise. Ironic that he was going to be in Pensacola, which is where the poet lives, which of course is what I told him, after I let him hang for a couple of days. Had to figure out a nice way to say "bugger off, got a boyfriend," don't you know.

6. Have been ignoring my Netflix movies to watch Alias: Season Four, my birthday present from the poet. I don't love any show that's on now nearly as much as I loved Alias. There aren't any kickass girl shows on right now. It's all procedural crime dramas, poking dead bodies, reality bullshit, and lame sitcoms. You'd think I'd be all up in Lost but it just hasn't held my attention.

Frank O'Hara

once asked in a poem for the

"grace to be born and live as variously as possible"

i hope so.

Never learning their lessons

Trent Lott wins back leadership slot - Yahoo! News

Want evidence that the Republicans are completely unapologetic, unhumbled, and downright determined to be the same racist assholes they've always been? Check it: Trent Lott is back in Senate leadership, after a secret ballot that voted him in 25-24. Secret so that none of the senators that voted for him can be held accountable.

Gah.

On Losing Edges and Winning Senate Seats at I Blame The Patriarchy

On Losing Edges and Winning Senate Seats at I Blame The Patriarchy

Sometimes, I find myself blathering on too long on someone else's blog, and I think: why am I littering her comment section with my only-slightly-related musings? So then I come to my senses and just respond over here, littering my own personal space with said ramblings. So.

Look, I live in Mississippi, so I take my political joy where I can, right? So I have this shit-eating grin on my face all day yesterday, despite Trent Effin Lott's re-election. (and because Gene Taylor, my beloved democratic representative, got re-elected).

Then I go to the gym after work, in my continuing good mood, and mid-workout I look up at the monitors and see the quote in which Shrub says he can recommend a good interior decorator to Nancy Pelosi to help her change the drapes. I damn near fall off the elliptical trainer, I'm pretty sure I cussed out loud, and my heart rate went up directly. BOG, he just can't let up for a minute, can he? And I can see his frat-boy grin, shrugging shoulders, "what? what'd I say? heh heh" if someone were to say, what the fuck? What the fuckity fuck are you doing making snide suggestions to Nancy Pelosi about hiring a decorator?

In other news, red state chatter is incorrectly passing the word that Pelosi intends to immediately send more troops overseas, which is not even truthy, it's the exact opposite of the truth, according to her press releases, which I googled this morning. Google 'em yourself, though, because frankly I'm too lazy to run the search again. Try this one: Nancy Pelosi more troops to Iraq

squidophile sent this to me

and it was too good not to share:

PET RULES
To be posted VERY LOW on the refrigerator door - nose height.

Dear Dogs and Cats,

The dishes with the paw print are yours and contain your food. The other dishes are mine and contain my food. Please note, placing a paw print in the middle of my plate and food does not stake a claim for it becoming your food and dish, nor do I find that aesthetically pleasing in the slightest.

The stairway was not designed by NASCAR and is not a racetrack. Beating me to the bottom is not the object. Tripping me doesn't help because I fall faster than you can run.

I cannot buy anything bigger than a king sized bed. I am very sorry about this. Do not think I will continue sleeping on the couch to ensure your comfort. Dogs and cats can actually curl up in a ball when they sleep. It is not necessary to sleep perpendicular to each other stretched out to the fullest extent possible. I also know that sticking tails straight out and having tongues hanging out the other end to maximize space is nothing but sarcasm.

For the last time, there is not a secret exit from the bathroom. If by some miracle I beat you there and manage to get the door shut, it is not necessary to claw, whine, meow, try to turn the knob or get your paw under the edge and try to pull the door open. I must exit through the same door I entered. Also, I have been using the bathroom for years -- canine or feline attendance is not required.

The proper order is kiss me, then go smell the other dog or cat's butt. I cannot stress this enough!

To pacify you, my dear pets, I have posted the following message on our front door:

To All Non-Pet Owners Who Visit & Like to Complain About Our Pets:

1. They live here. You don't.
2. If you don't want their hair on your clothes, stay off the furniture. (That's why they call it "fur"niture.)
3. I like my pets a lot better than I like most people.
4. To you, it's an animal. To me, he/she is an adopted son/daughter who is short, hairy, walks on all fours and doesn't speak clearly.

Remember: In many ways, dogs and cats are better than kids because they:
1. Eat less
2. Don't ask for money all the time
3 Are easier to train
4. Normally come when called
5. Never ask to drive the car
6. Don't hang out with drug-using friends
7. Don't smoke or drink
8. Don't have to buy the latest fashions
9. Don't want to wear your clothes
10. Don't need a "gazillion" dollars for college.


And finally,


11. If they get pregnant, you can sell their children

I confess: I have too much stuff

So I'm attempting to institute a daily policy of "One Less Thing". One thing goes in the garbage, the goodwill bag, onto eBay, or onto Bookmooch. Which, by the way, anyone with too many books should check out:

Bookmooch

It's a book swap website. Get a point for giving a book away, use it to mooch a book off someone. The cost of media mail shipping is low, and you're basically getting a book for the cost of shipping another one to someone else. You can specify mailing within the US only if you don't want to deal with international shipping, which I certainly don't. Dig it.

How is this legal??

Corpse for sale

So I'm flipping through the Autumn issue of Tribal Art magazine, and lo, what do I find but an ad for a mummy. Unwrapped, Nazca/Huari, c. 600-1000 AD. With "extreme cranial elongation," the result of head-wrapping during infancy and early childhood, practiced primarily by cultural elites. It's been on display since the late 19th century, so at least I know the mummy was dug out of its grave before UNESCO and other international laws prohibiting grave robbing. Price available upon request. Jamieson's website also has a mummy of an Egyptian child for sale, including x-rays so you can be sure you have a REAL mummy, not a fake.

But "legal" doesn't make it okay. I'm surprised it's STILL legal to trade in human remains. The dealer is in Canada, and I'm not familiar with Canadian law, but he is advertising in a magazine with a strong American readership. I've always gotten the heebie-jeebies at museums with human remains on display. The peat bog mummy at the British National Museum bothered me. The Metropolitan's show of late Egyptian mummy portraits, also disturbing. Depressing.

Displaying dead bodies, the bodies of people lovingly wrapped, interred, or mummified, seems wrong to me. Distasteful. Disrespectful. And wrapped up, deeply entwined, with the racist history of Western anthropology and ethnology. These bodies on display are almost always of people of color, not Europeans. They are Indians or Egyptians or Africans or South Americans, not whitey. They are someone else's grandmother, not yours.

There are people who think NAGPRA (the Native American Graves Protection & Repatriation Act) is bollocks, that museums should be entitled to keep what they have no matter what. But then I say to them: "Mainly, they just want their grandmother's bones back." This way of looking at things never fails to stop a whiner in their tracks.

They just want Grandmother's bones back.

Is that so hard to understand? So why are we as an industry - museum/collector/gallery - still dealing in human remains? I don't have answers. I don't mean to demonize this particular dealer because he's one of many in the trade dealing in sacred things, in human remains, in things stolen and looted from tribal cultures. Because some of these goods have been legitimately sold or traded by their rightful owners. Museums, anthropologists, researchers, all benefit from the study of material culture of ancient civilizations, whether mummies or pot sherds. But there comes a point where the line is crossed, and corpses on display is definitely on the other side of that line.

[that contemporary body art show where people donated their bodies to the artist to be flayed & artistically embalmed, that's a whole other story, because the participants were willing]

Why I hated Catholic school

I won't quit, says sheik - National - smh.com.au

The sheik says women who expose themselves are at fault for sexual assaults.

The nun who taught my tenth grade history class - Sister Mary Henry - called me up to her desk one day. I was wearing "civilian" clothes for an off-campus event instead of my uniform. It was the early 1980s, and I was wearing pink corduroy jeans and a buttoned-to-the-neck ruffled pink & white striped shirt of the duran duran pirates via Esprit sort (look, it was the EIGHTIES, okay?), and penny loafers. Sister Henry looks me over and says "Clothes like that are the reason so many young girls get raped."

Seriously. I was wearing LONG PANTS and my shirt was buttoned up to the NECK. The pants were probably form-fitting but not obscenely so, or mom wouldn't have let me out of the house. Damn, I thought I was pretty cute in that outfit. And here she is, this bitch nun, telling a 13 or 14-year-old girl that it's MY FAULT if I get raped. I hated that woman, I swear to bog, and I don't see any difference between her and Sheik Asshole calling women "uncovered meat."

Fucking Catholic school. It would've actually been easier to rape a girl in the uniform - a skirt - than in that civilian outfit. Which, by the way, 90% of the men I meet, when they find out I went to Catholic school, want to know if I "still have the uniform" because apparently, it's a near-universal fantasy to fuck an underage catholic school girl, or a grown woman pretending to be one. Oh, HELL NO. I do not have the uniform. I still can't wear houndstooth, won't wear houndstooth, will not even consider purchasing houndstooth. Three years in black& white houndstooth was enough.

You know what was the only good thing about it? No boys. No daily sexual harassment from my classmates, as I had endured all through co-ed junior high. No favoritism of boys in science and math classes. No worrying about how I looked or whether the boys in my class wouldn't like me because I was too smart. I think the only reason I dated in high school is that the boys I dated assumed they were smarter than me, having no in-class evidence to the contrary.

But at what cost? Having nuns tell me I'm at fault if I'm assaulted. Knowing my peers got thrown out when they got pregnant but their boyfriends didn't get kicked out of their own Catholic school. Bog, and religion class! Jeebus. Religion class and our annual "discussions" about abortion and birth control. And no AP classes because we had to take Home Ec, and Religion, and Study Hall. What girl needs AP classes, or Latin, or Calculus?

And this at the "college prep" top girls school in the city. The boys schools started in the 8th grade with freshman-level courses, so their senior year could be almost entirely AP or college-credit courses. Five years of Latin and Greek, calculus, AP physics, english, math, language.... they got all of that. All girls schools started in the 9th grade and none of them offered those opportunities. It could've been worse: we could've been Holy Angels, the wife-in-training school, but still, we didn't get the education our male peers did.

samhain in hooterville

My usual Halloween party hostess has decamped to Flagstaff, and besides I was driving home from Nashville until 8:30 Saturday night, so no Halloween party for me. However, I did end up donning a 15-minute costume and drinking with some coworkers til midnight on Tuesday. What do you get when you add together:

one black skirt
one pair overly tall lace-up boots
one Morrissey t-shirt
a lot of black eyeliner and some really dark red lipstick
and a freakin enormous purple wig?

I'm not sure, but I'm leaning towards saying I was a Goth Winona Judd.

Did I mention that the wig is FREAKIN ENORMOUS? I bought it for a few bucks at an after-Halloween sale at Kroger's a few years ago, and only just now busted it out. It's large. And purple.