A NOTE ON STUBBORNNESS

I don’t know what my issue is about having to have a tow service involved but I get mad when I have to do it. And if it involves the scooter? Forget it. There is no reason why I should ever have to have my scooter towed home. I never let my gas gauge fall into dangerous territory. Okay, sure, I can be lackadaisical about my tires but I do make sure they’re not flat before I zip of down the road. The engine is not complicated enough for me to not be able to figure it out. On Monday, Michael suggested we ride the scooters to lunch following up with a trip to an outside mall. I agreed and thought it would be a great ride, but it turned out to be hot with no shade anywhere. The roads and parking lots where just one giant stove top with burners set to high. When we got ready to head home, my scooter started but then immediately died. We stood in the heat staring at the scooter and Michael asked me what I wanted to do. Meaning which of the two of us is calling in road side service?

I was hot and tired and I didn’t want to make a decision. I’d spent the last two days having terrible dress shopping experiences and I was cranky. But I called road side service while Michael took the Cabbage to their mom’s with the promise to come back with his truck. My road side request was picked up by one place with an hour to two hour wait time. Then they cancelled and I had be re-assigned. Then new place had me at a two to three hour wait time. So I sat in the shade of the building and watched YouTube videos. By the time Michael showed up, I was attempting to take the front engine panel off my scooter. The screw was in too tight for me to turn it and I put Michael to work. I pointed and instructed and eventually we pulled out the spark plug, which is what I was looking for. I cleaned it the best I could with an old mask I found in my scooter seat. We put it all back together and Michael said “I doubt this is going to fix it.” But guess what? The scooter started. I canceled my road side service request and rode Valerie home.

I’ll tell you one really good way to throw a log on my anger furnace is to doubt my ability to fix a mechanical issue. Not too long ago, I replaced an objective turret on one of our microscopes instead of waiting on the microscope rep to find time to come and take care of it. I know many of you have no idea what any of that means other than I took apart something complicated and put it back together in working order. That’s the main take-away. When the microscope rep called me to see if he could talk me through the install, I told him I had already taken care of it. He responded with “Oh! Look at you, you go getter!” and if he’d been standing in front my face, I would have punched him in the throat (not really). This was also in the same week I had someone from tech support explain tape to me and where to buy it.

I am a spoiled princess because for the first thirty something odd years of my life, not a soul questioned my abilities as they have been questioned now. No one protested or argued with me when I said “Leave it. I can do this.” Chris, seeing a look on my face, would step back and out of the way unless further instructed. No one looked at me and saw a delicate helpless flower. Because of that, I was not trained to deal with misogynistic ideas of the capabilities of a woman. So hearing others describe me as “Independent” or “a loose cannon” or “a go getter” while using slightly negative tones sends me into a rage. I can’t shake the idea that I am now seen as incapable or in desperate need of help because Chris is no longer here. Is this what happens when a woman loses a husband? Is just the act of having a husband create a protective shroud a woman? Surely not. Stubborn, obstinate, independent. These are words said by someone insecure in their own abilities or fear invalidity. I’m not stubborn. I’m a fighter who doesn’t give up easily and yeah, I’m independent because I am capable.

I have ordered a new spark plug and when it arrives, I will install it. Not because I am stubborn or a real go getter, but because I am capable and I know how to do it.

WHAT IF THE PATRIARCHY DIDN'T EXIST

In 1963, three (male) anthropologists, unearthed the remains of a woman nearly 10,000 years old. They found that she had been buried with a projectile point that the men declared to be a '“scraping tool”. The male-centric consensus was that women were/are gathers while men are always the hunters. It took fifty five years and the discovery of a 9,000 year old woman buried with a hunting kit, for this narrative to change. Since then it has been concluded that hunting was/is a gender neutral activity.

This is a prime example of how men have been shaping the history of women and their roles in society for hundreds and thousands of years. I don’t even remember what started the conversation, but recently the Cabbage mentioned an old book of fiction written by some male author telling a woman’s story. I said that I “prefer to no longer read women’s stories written by male authors.” The Cabbage then replied “But what if they do it well?” My response was “Good for them, but men have been writing the story of women and thus defining the idea of what a woman should be for so long that I no longer have the energy to waste on yet another male perspective of a female story.”

This ended our conversation.

I was not completely enthralled with Barbieland. It sounds great. All woman government. A Supreme Court of only women. Women scientists. Women doctors. Women Nobel Prize winners. Every woman in Barbieland is extraordinary in some way. Extra. It is so extra that even Stereotypical Barbie questions her ‘enoughness’. This is where my thoughts get real complicated. In fact it sent me into a tailspin of research. Did you know that the original Barbie was inspired by a German doll that was based on a comic book character named Bilde Lilli, a voluptuous pin-up that was sold as a sexy trinket for World War II soldiers? Ruth Handler may have made some very slight changes, mostly in marketing and she probably did have good intentions in introducing a doll that she said was to be “aspirational”, but this “aspirational” doll’s narrative began as male driven story. Barbie was introduced as a fashion doll for dress-up play in 1961. It took several years for those dress-up clothes to resemble astronauts and doctors. Which left years of little girls aspiring to be pretty and the type of woman their daddies would like.

It is literally impossible to be a woman…

Gloria in Barbie, played by America Ferrera

This is the start of Gloria’s (played by America Ferrera) monolog on the expectations of women and all the contradictions in how we should conduct ourselves. Having to be a perfect Barbie in a perfect Barbie world is exhausting. How many times do we hear Margo Robbie’s character say “I’m just Stereotypical Barbie.”? Even this Barbie thinks she should be more. This group of male executives dreamed up a place where every woman is extraordinary. Barbieland is an expectation to be more not an aspiration for more. Expectations and aspirations do not have the same definitions. Barbieland is a product of the patriarchy. There has been criticism of Barbie’s easy forgiveness of Ken’s actions in this movie. I’d like to take a moment to remind everyone that Barbie had maybe two days of Ken’s bullshit introduction of the patriarchy. Ladies, we’ve had years of this bullshit.

This may sound like I did not like the movie. That’s not true. I thoroughly enjoyed this movie. I’m a huge fan of Greta Gerwig, the writer/director and I believe she found a fun and entertaining way to tell a story about women. Go see it. The music and dance scenes are spectacular. Just be prepared to have some thoughts.

Did you know that women have thoughts?

I LOVE HER I HATE HER

From age four to probably eight or nine, I was strictly a Strawberry Shortcake girl. Thanks to Mom and Katrina, I owned every Strawberry Shortcake doll that was produced between 1980 and 1985. I had themed bedding and dishes. Even the canopy on my bed was made from material patterned with Strawberry Shortcake. It was a lot ridiculous, but sometimes I miss that canopy bed. I can remember loading up all the dolls into the giant, plastic, Strawberry case, grabbing a blanket and marching out to the pasture where I would spend hours making those dolls have all kinds of adventures.

I wasn’t much of a Barbie girl.

Look, I tried. I wanted to like Barbie. Really. I did. I had two or three Barbie dolls and two of those Barbie cases that held the dolls and all the clothing. I spent a lot of time organizing the ‘closet’ of my Barbie cases. Most of my readers just read that sentence and said to themselves “of course you did.” What? My Barbies had a lot of clothing thanks to a mom who sews and loves garage sales. There was plenty to organize. This is really all I did with my Barbies. They did not have adventures. They had closet clean out parties. While this post is not intended to go in this direction, I have to point out that this explains a whole lot about the person I have become.

Any way… Barbie… I wanted to love her. Even when I out grew her, I wanted to love her. For the longest time, I owned an Astronaut Barbie that I kept safe in the original box. I wanted to buy into this idea that women could be anything because, LOOK! Barbie’s an astronaut! Chris and I made almost weekly trips to Toys-R-Us to just browse. He’d roam off to the SciFy area and I would roam around the Barbie section debating the need for the Doctor Barbie or the Veterinarian Barbie. I felt that Doctor Barbie was pretty important because for years before they released this one, all the Mattel line had was a nurse Barbie. The first time I saw it, I wanted to fist pump the air and shout out “Yeah, that’s right! We can be doctors too! Boom!” Once I made it past the career path Barbies, I would be smack in the middle of all the stuff I hated about Barbie, the fashion plate unrealistic beauty standard Barbie.

These were the Barbies I had been given as a child to play with because those career path Barbies didn’t really exist yet. They were not doctors or lawyers. Their sole purpose was to be beautiful and have the tinniest waste imaginable with perfect tits. I did my best with them, spent time brushing their hair and changing their outfits, but it didn’t take long to get bored. They just did not represent anything realistic to me. I was not a fashion plate kind of girl and criticism about my weight told me I would never come close to attaining that kind of beauty. Over time I would eventually end up cutting the hair short on all of them. I painted on pubic hair and added a drop of red nail polish to their underwear. Some acquired extra piercings and a tattoo. They sold some shoes for books. My mother said that I ruined them, but I argued that I improved them. These Barbies said “We can do anything we want. Period. Fuck the patriarchy and the social construct horse they rode in on!”

I started writing this all before seeing the Barbie movie because I was already having thoughts on it that I didn’t want to lose. I was writing this during a week when I had one too many interactions with men who questioned my abilities because of my female parts. I had one man explain tape to me and that I could get tape at Home Depot. My friend Amanda said that she would not have been surprised if the man told me that I needed to have my husband go buy the tape for me. Then Sinead O’Connor’s death hit the news and I deflated. I remember the first time I saw her. It was in her video for Nothing Compares To You and I was struck by her beauty, both physically and musically. When you get a chance, listen to her rendition of Don’t Cry For Me Argentina. An amazing artist and such a brave advocate, she was our Joan of Arc standing up for the abused and saying a firm “NO” to corporate music and the commercialization of her art.

I will live by my own policies
I will sleep with a clear conscience
I will sleep in peace - Sinead O’Connor, Emperor’s New Clothes

I know now that when I altered my Barbies I was attempting to make them reflect a person I wanted to be. Cool. Tough. Brave. A warrior. I may have managed to be half of those things. We’re taking the Cabbage to see the Barbie Movie tonight and while I love and trust Greta Gerwig’s vision, I have a feeling I’m going to love/hate this Barbie as well. A Barbie who questions death and existence and who struggles with the idea of hurting Ken’s feelings even when he’s driving her crazy.

That kind of Barbie may be too relatable.

SIX

I think it was during the lock down when Talaura sent me a link to a soundtrack and told me to listen. It was the soundtrack for the musical Six and that soundtrack made its way into my daily listening playlist. It got played so often that the Cabbage discovered it in our shared Amazon music account and they started listening to it. So when Six was on the touring list for Kansas City this year, I bought tickets for the two of us. My first instinct is to tell you that this musical is like Spice Girls as the wives of Henry the Eighth, but that is a true simplification of the underlying fuck the patriarchy story that this musical tells.

It all starts out as a competition to decide which one of Henry’s wives had it the worst. Of the six, there were two divorces, two beheadings, one natural death and one survivor and history has not been kind when telling the stories for these six women. Because history is generally unkind when it comes to telling a woman’s story. I’ve heard a number of historical recounting in which at least three of Henry’s wives are described as manipulative and conniving. For sure, it was all of their own faults for whatever fate befell them. Even history lessons tell us that woman are asking for it, it’s the victim’s fault.

While The Cabbage and I sat waiting for the show to start, I overheard the two older ladies behind us discussing these women.

Isn’t one of them Anne Boleyn?

Yeah, well she angled for him for a while before he finally went for it.

What is not so funny about what I over heard is that it sounds very similar to an article I read with historian Hayley Nolan, author of Anne Boleyn: 500 Years of Lies. Anne Boleyn left court for at least a year to avoid Henry the Eight’s advances. Yet he still pursued her with written love letters.

The historians who do acknowledge this say it was a calculated tactic and sexual blackmail — the ultimate example of ‘when a girl says no, she really means yes. - Hayley Nolan

There’s a word we use now to describe his behavior. It’s HARASSMENT.

History has highlighted the so called faults of these six women. Temptress. Tease. Unable to produce a male heir. Didn’t look like their portrait. Conniving. Manipulative. Let me remind you. These women were Queens. Anne Boleyn was influential in passing the Poor Law which would require local officials to find work for the unemployed. Not to mention she birthed a daughter who would become one of the most powerful and longest reigning Queens in history. Catherine Parr, Henry’s last wife, was well educated and pushed forward education reform for women. Which one of them had it the worst and was asking for it?

The answer is none of them. None of those women truly wanted to marry Henry the Eighth. He treated his wives so badly that he made sure history would too. Henry the Eighth was the original Harvey Wienstein, except he was worse. Not only did he ruin reputations but he was a murderer of women. He’s the historical figure that should be forgotten. The patriarchy wants to pit us women against each other because it distracts us from the injustices they are doing to us.

You want to burn down the patriarchy? Stop falling for their bullshit distractions.

MY LEAST FAVORITE THING TO SHOP FOR

Saturday was one of those odd days where Michael got up at the same time as me and we both ended up doing the grocery shopping. The original plan was for me to get him up when I got home from grocery shopping so we could go to early voting at Union Station. The new plan included a car wash and tag teaming grocery shopping (tag teaming grocery shopping means, I get most of the things on the list while Michael roams around the store grabbing things not on the list). Groceries purchased and put away, we finally headed to Union Station, parking at Crown Center because parking is free on Saturdays and we can walk the sky walk over to the station.

We wandered around Union Station looking for the polling place which turned out to be closed, and while we were walking, I told Michael about the bra I had on because the one I wear all week is in the washer. He stops and says “Wait. You wear the same bra everyday? This is unacceptable. Where do you buy bras?” and he immediately pulls out his phone to start looking up places to buy underwear, finding a boutique near by. I voiced my concerns about bra shopping but I couldn’t tell if he was not listening or just flat out ignoring me, because we got on the streetcar anyway and rode it a few blocks up the street. The closer we got to the store, the more anxious I became about even looking into the store window let alone stepping inside. This is not a department store or Target (where my last bit of lingerie was purchased). This is a BOUTIQUE, the kind of place you make an appointment to go to. Walk ins are welcome, but it’s better to make an appointment. I did not have an appointment. I did not have any business walking into this store. Michael sort of shoved me through the door and said “I’ll be back in a bit. Have fun!” It was not unlike any time I’ve ever dropped Josephine off at the groomer’s or that time Talaura shoved a cookie into my hands while pushing me off the bus at the airport in NY so there would not be goodbye tears.

The boutique, Birdie’s, is tiny and filled with beautiful bits of ethically sourced lingerie displayed in old glass and wood cases and at first I didn’t know where to start, but the woman behind the counter stepped up. She asked me a few questions about what I needed in a day-to-day bra and then she measured me. She pinned closed the curtain, sealing me into the tiny dressing room and then came back with a handful of lacy bras and said she’d be back with some slightly padded ones next. My shoulder sagged a little at the stack of lacy bras. Once, while I was in graduate school, a guy in my department looked right at my chest and said “Oh! It must be cold in here.” I have worn a padded bra ever since. I never reach for just lace when shopping for a bra. I want to reach for the lace. I’d love to wear something pretty every day, but that one comment ruined me. I tried on every single bra the woman handed me (there were a lot) and every one of them fit me and was comfortable. I finally had to narrow it down to three based on color and only one of them has padding. It is also mostly lace. I bought three lacy, very pretty bras that fit, are comfortable, and make me feel like getting in a time machine so I can go back to that day in grad-school and give that jerk the response he deserved and probably still deserves.

Michael came into the shop while the woman was ringing up my purchases, which included a new, very sexy sticker for the scooter. I looked at him and said “There’s a lot of things in here that I like and this is a very appropriate place for you to buy gift cards for me when you don’t know what to get me.” I walked into Birdie’s feeling insecure and cranky about having to do my least favorite kind of shopping. I walked out of that store feeling empowered, knowing that I would go back in there in the near future able to confidently point at any style or lingerie set and say “I’d like that in this size please.” Heck, I don’t even have to go in there and point. All I have to do is tell her my size and an array of beautiful things will just be brought to me to try on.

I think Birdie’s just turned bra shopping into my new favorite thing.

FEMININITY

How do you express your femininity?

That was a question on a questionnaire that I had to fill out for this retreat. I had zero answers. I ended up writing something about a favorite dress, but even then I felt I was just putting down place holder words. That favorite dress is basically a tent. I might even make it my Halloween costume this year because it makes me look like an umbrella. But I LOVE it. I have always gravitated to clothing that hides my shape. Baggy t-shirts and jeans, oversized slip dresses with giant cardigans, large draping tunics. Clothing that doesn’t touch my skin. That’s my jam. Amani introduced me to a clothing store in Vancouver filled with crisp, clean drapey clothes. With unlimited funds, I would have purchased one of everything.

Expressing my femininity has never been a thought in my brain. Until now. Now, I sit around pondering this question and every answer I come up with is still place holder words. I have excuses. They all center around the patriarchy and living in a ‘man’s’ world. I was a very determined and driven youth. So I hid the feminine parts of myself to avoid unwanted attention and groping. Nothing would deter me from my goals: get to college, be a scientist. It worked so well that I didn’t have my first kiss until I was almost seventeen and it was one hundred percent on my terms. Boys did not look at me and I only had to say a few sentences for them to decide that this was not a girl to hang with. I had too many thoughts, too many views. Chris was different, but then again he was more man than boy when we met. My femininity took second place to my brain. He didn’t mind the thoughts and the views. He relished them.

Hilary Clinton recently revealed her reasoning behind her famous pant suits. She was wearing a skirt while on a visit to Africa. A picture was taken of her sitting on a couch with a diplomat and even though she thought she was sitting properly, apparently her underwear was showing. Photographers took advantage and before she knew it, that picture was being used to advertise lingerie. After that, she questioned every time she walked on stage and the angle of a photographer’s lens. Her answer was to wear pants and not worry about it ever again. So much of our femininity tends to be wrapped around our appearance and the judging eyes of men. We’ve been conditioned to the idea that femininity is in the dresses we wear and paint we put on our faces.

fem·i·nin·i·ty

/ˌfeməˈninədē/

noune

qualities or attributes regarded as characteristic of women.

"she alternated between embracing her femininity and concealing it"

Seeing the written definition of a word has a way of striking cords and changing perspectives. Over time, words sort of lose their original meanings or the meaning becomes hidden, construed. Whenever I am struggling with a word, I always take a moment to remind myself of that word’s basic meaning. One of the things that I told Roze before heading out to this retreat was how excited I was to be going to something like this and not having to do anything. I would not have to teach a class or help with meals. I would not have to care for any one but myself, but after our morning of digging for crystals, I found myself stepping into the kitchen and helping Erica with dinner preparations. I was not asked. I just saw a need and stepped in. Of course I was breaking the rules. Roze had already put a “No Cindy In the Kitchen” rule in place, but in that instance, I ignored the rule.

This is how I express my femininity. I do not express it with appearances. I express it in my actions, in how I care for those around me and in my willingness to step in and help in times of need. Caring. Nurturing. These qualities feel soft to me and my first instinct is shove aside the idea of softness, as if softness is a weakness. But caring and nurturing others requires strength.

I am embracing this softness with open arms.

THE GIRLS' TRIP

After poking around in our brains for a couple of minutes, Amy, Deborah and I determined that we all met either the Spring or Fall of 1995. We’ve been framily for roughly twenty seven years, but the last time we were all in the same room was probably nine years ago at Amy’s wedding. We have stayed in contact through random texts and social media, which is fine, but not the same as being together in a shared space. And with everyone’s crazy pants schedules, carving out a window of time to be together in a shared space is difficult. So last Fall I floated the idea of the three of us meeting at an Airbnb for a weekend. Surprisingly, that idea did not float away. In fact, it settled and landed and we made the idea a priority.

It’s real stupid that it took so long for us to do so.

We talked. We laughed. We cried. We laughed some more. We ate spicy pretzels and too much cheese. We drank more than what we were used to drinking. We slept as if we were still living in our old dormitory, me in one room and the two of them in the twin beds in the room across the hall. We slept with our doors open and brushed our teeth together, sharing the bathroom sink. We played Uno while wearing those creepy face masks and we talked and talked and laughed and laughed. After getting caught up with each other’s life events from the past nine years, we reminisced about our time at USAO which brought more laughter and a few tears. We all agreed that we left USAO with some holes in our education. I mean, I started a graduate program in microbiology and molecular genetics without ever having taken a molecular biology class. At the same time we all agreed that we left USAO with the very best education from a curriculum that taught us to think creatively and most importantly the very best friends.

Amy is now the director of the Duncan Public Library and is working on her Masters in Library Sciences all while caring for and teaching her own child. Deborah is going through a really messy awful life event that every time I think about it makes me want to cause physical harm to the idiot making the mess. She’s dealing with this mess and the impact this mess is making on her and her children and it’s hard, but she’s doing it. She’s dealing. Our lives are all so different from each other, yet we are still the same people to each other. Once, a group of HS friends pushed me into what was meant to be a girls’ night/reunion. I told Chris that there would not be spouses present, but when I arrived to the restaurant, I was the only one without a spouse. The evening was weird and awkward and I felt out of place. These women had started families, had babies. Meanwhile, I was still in school, working towards a career, no inkling of an idea of having a baby or babies. Our paths had just diverged so greatly, that after that evening, I never saw those women again unless it was on social media. I also refrained from ever using the phrase ‘girls’ trip’ or ‘girls’ night’ ever again.

Amy, Deborah and I may have travelled off into different direction, but we did so with all of us attached to a bungee cord. When someone’s cord gets too tight, too strained to hold, we all bounce back together into one spot. This weekend was all about a break from the strain of tugging on cords for far too long and we all agreed that we needed this way more often than every nine or ten years. I am leaning into the phrase ‘girls’ trip’ with open arms and plans to make this a yearly event. Correction. I have plans of making this yearly event a priority. I didn’t take enough pictures of our weekend together and I am greedy. I want more. More laughter. More comfort. More love. More time.

We are deserving of more.

MOOD

I voted!

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I finally got around to watching Captain Marvel over the weekend and it was everything I could have hoped for in a superhero movie. It was nice to see a movie where the woman just saves the day (because real life, women mostly are saving the day every day). And by ‘just’, I mean the story line was just about saving people and aliens. There was no romantic interest or reference to sexual preference at all. Carol Danvers is just a regular woman, serving her country in the Air Force and fighting for justice with superpowers. Carol Danvers is just a woman doing her job. This is an unfortunately rare thing to see in a movie.

I read The Lost World by Michael Crichton when it was released in ‘95 and I remember being so excited when the movie came out. In the book, its lead female character is totally badass and saves everyone. The movie version made me want to punch Stephen Spielburg in the balls. The movie version turned the female lead into a dippy idiot who ran around the island with baby T-rex blood on her jacket and then was confused as to why the mother T-Rex was following them. This was 1997 and women were still being portrayed as helpless nincompoops. The things we read and watch are all part of the stuff that molds and shapes us as individuals. It gets in your head that this how you are supposed to be. Women must be a little bit dumb and helpless. Men must be the brut force and saver of the day. All girls are pretty princesses and all boys are rough and tumble frogs.

Except none of that is true.

That day the tornado hit the campground while we were camping, my Mom did not stand by wringing her hands all Laura Petri like. She jumped into action to do whatever she had to do to protect her children. That day Michael and I could hear a cicada buzzing around in my car? I will remind you it was Michael who ran screaming from that car before I even had a chance to put the car into park. I have also been the one woken up in the middle of the night to remove a giant moth from the kitchen. That time I had my brother and sister-in-law come up to help me buy a new car was not because I thought I needed my big brother to stand up to any dealership salesman. It was because I knew it was my sister-in-law who would be standing up to the salesman and making sure I didn’t get screwed over. I could ask any man I know, and this includes the ultra conservative men, if they think they believe their wife/girlfriend/partner is a badass and I could guarantee that everyone of them would reply “Oh yeah, you don’t want to mess with her.” Because they all know how much work she does to keep everyone fed, warm, safe and on time. The reality is that men and women are equally strong and equally capable of saving the day.

Executives will say that no one wants to pay money to see a woman in a non-romantic movie where she is the hero. These same executives push movies and TV shows that propel the stereotypes that woman must fit a specific mold. You want to know why I never got into The Big Bang Theory? I couldn’t get past the female characters in that sitcom. The pretty, fashionable blond woman was ditzy and uneducated, while the women with pHDs were slouchy and wore glasses and orthopedic shoes. None of those women scientists are representative of me, ALSO A WOMAN IN SCIENCE! The bottom line is that the entertainment industry needs new executives.

Because there is no specific mold.

#IBELIEVEHER

Weaver

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It must be a shock to you, after all this time, that we are finally standing up and fighting back. You’ve spent so much of your life believing that you had the advantage, that you could do whatever you wanted, when you wanted with out consequences. You’ve spent much of your life believing that our bodies where meant for you to use. I mean, why shouldn’t you believe that? Our bodies are on display in advertisements plastered across all media formats. Business models are specifically designed to lure you into their stores with the promise of a beautiful scantily clad women for you to abuse. There are no laws that govern your body.

Except now we are no longer willing to silently put up with your “boys will be boys” mentality. We are no longer willing to let you just go on without being held accountable for your actions. We are no longer willing to let you bully us. When one of our tribe steps up and points a finger at the man who assaulted her, no matter how old the crime may be, we believe her. We believe her and stand behind her because it could just as easily be any of us speaking up. We stand behind her and support her because we know how scary speaking up is. We know her fear. We know the shame she feels. We know the hurt she feels. We are a collective, brought together by similar experiences, afraid to speak up. Afraid that no one will believe us. We’ve been told our whole lives that women are liars, temptresses, sirens. We’ve been told that we were asking for it. We’ve been told to keep it a secret. No. We’ve been threatened to keep it a secret. And then you sit there arms crossed and ask “why didn’t you say so sooner?” after you threaten a girl with her life if she says a word.

What was the tipping point? I don’t know. Maybe it was your unfailing devotion to a man who openly, without qualms, gleefully humiliates women and your insistence on making such a man leader of this country. Really though, it has been brewing and festering for years before that. It is one thing for us to declare that we will no longer allow you to govern our bodies. It is quite another to take action to legally keep you from governing our bodies. Which is what you have done to us for years. The statue of limitations does not run out on your crimes against women and you are no less guilty of those crimes just because she didn’t speak up. You are no longer allowed to bully us. You are no longer allowed to just get away with it.

I get it though, change is hard. It’s not easy giving up a way of life you known for far too long. It’s not easy giving up your roll as bully or always getting your way. But if you’re not going to change, then be prepared for the consequences.

It’s your turn to feel threatened.

MARCH WHOOP-DEE-WOO

Simhasana #yogainart #lionsbreath

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Every year, each member of my department fills out a NCAA Men's Basketball bracket. We tape them up to a wall and there is a complicated point system for determining who wins the brackets. I don't know anything about basketball, but I fill out a bracket every year because it's kind of fun. Especially if your bracket does well and you know nothing about basketball. We don't have a prize other than bragging rights. It fosters camaraderie. My bracket is already dead seeing how I picked Virginia to win the whole kit-and-caboodle. Any way. That's March Madness for you. There's always some big surprise and upset.

This year I thought I'd shake things up around here and make us all fill out brackets for the NCAA Women's Basketball Championships. Actually, the more I thought about it the more I wondered why we never filled out a bracket for women's basketball before and I got a little irritated. Now to be fair, I don't know anything about women's basketball either except U.Conn is THE team. I don't watch basketball because it makes me nervous. I get so anxious watching the ball move from one end of the court to another that if I don't turn it off, I will need to take drugs. That being said, I fully recognize the amount of work and skill that is required to be a good ball player. It is an intense sport no matter what gender is playing it. So I kind of felt like our lack of filling out women's brackets was bullshit, but when I went online to get a printable bracket for the Women's Basketball Championship, I had the hardest time finding a printable bracket. I found interactive brackets, but an actual printable one was not easy to get ahold of. The one I did end up printing is kind of crappy. The spaces for writing in teams are small and confusing. They really just don't make it easy to follow the Women's Championship. 

And this made me mad. 

Why is it that women's sports, in general, are ignored? I mean, women play just as hard (at times harder) and as intensely as men in these sports. A number of the WNBA players are mothers. New mothers. They're juggling babies while getting their bodies back into playing shape and traveling across the country with that baby. I read an article from 2015 about Taylor Hill, a guard for the Mystics. Her son was a one year old at the time. The team checked into their hotel on Tuesday for a Wednesday game. In the time after checkin and before the Wednesday game, Taylor unpacked her luggage, fixed baby bottles, changed diapers, attended practice, planed and hosted a birthday party. These women work hard off and on the court, but still Women's basketball has yet to bring in the hype and endorsements equivalent to Men's basketball. Women's basketball is not the only sport to fall victim to this either. Just last year the women of the U.S. Soccer team, sued the U.S. Soccer Association for equal pay. From 2012 to 2016, the women's national team played 40 to 50% more games than the men's team. And they make less money than the male players. 

The argument for not paying women in sports equally comes down to endorsements. Not that the college players get any money from the endorsements, but it does set the precedence for professional sports.  "Well... the NCAA Women's Basketball Championship just doesn't bring in the outside money like the men's does." So maybe it's time we start voting with our money and promoting women's basketball. The more we turn our attention to it, the more advertisers will want to be involved. Sports related TV channels will make it easier to follow the championships and they'll come up with a better printable bracket. When I made the announcement to the group about filling out a women's bracket. I was met with very mild enthusiasm, but they filled out a bracket.  One person said "but no one cares about women's basketball." I looked at that one person and said "we do now!" 

We do now!

UNCOMFORTABLE

Skillz

10 Likes, 2 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "Skillz"

I've had some thoughts rolling around my brain for a few weeks now that I haven't felt eloquent enough to put down into words. Those thoughts center around the #MeToo movement and all of the commentary involved. Several days ago, Michael was trying to remember the name of some celebrity and he asked "Who's that guy who recently exposed himself?" and I replied "which one?" We narrowed it down to James Franco, but still...it could have been any male. I think that most guys hearing these stories of exposed penises think that this is a rare event or it's not so bad as long as the guy is not in a position of authority. First of all, exposed penises are not rare occurrences and secondly exposing your penis is bad. END OF FUCKING SENTENCE!

I'm going to make up some statistics and just say that one out four women are unwillingly exposed to a male penis every day. More often than not it is some random stranger on the bus, subway, in the park, walking down the sidewalk, standing in line at the grocery store, at the gas station. Pretty much anywhere. My friend Sarah was recently talking to a group of women about the #MeToo movement when one woman spoke up and said that she didn't understand how so many women could be coming forward with these kinds of stories. She said that nothing bad had ever happened to her. Then she told a story about how there was this one time while working at a fast food place when the other employee working with her that day pulled out his dick, but nothing happened. She thought this was maybe not normal, but just something that occasionally happened. No big deal. Just a penis. This brings me to my next topic, which I've been struggling to articulate about in discussions and that topic relates to the Aziz Ansari story where a woman described an encounter that made her cry. People are wondering if this qualifies as sexual harassment and why she just didn't remove herself from the situation. It also applies to that poor woman who didn't realize she was being sexually harassed by her co-worker.

Women are enculturated to be uncomfortable most of the time. And to ignore their discomfort.

That sentence comes from a really well written article called The Female Price of Male Pleasure. I recommend that you go over and read it right this minute because it talks about an issue that is just not discussed and it is an issue that really really needs discussion. In fact, it is the type of discussion that could clear up some things for the men who are confused by all of these tales of sexual assault. If you read that article, you will find that women and men have way different scales for what constitutes good sex vs bad sex. Women consider the sex 'good' if she didn't feel coerced or more likely it didn't hurt. Not if she orgasmed. Our pleasure comes second if at all or when we are alone and have no one to please but ourselves. According to the National Survey of Sexual Health and Behavior, 5% of women between the ages of 25-29 masturbate more than four times a week compared to 20% of men who do. That number evens out a little for those who masturbate multiple times a month (something like 21% of women 25-29 and 25% of men in the same age bracket). But I'm curious to know how honestly those women responded to that survey. 

We got the Cabbage a new electric toothbrush for Christmas and it sounds like a vibrator. Over the weekend, I was walking through the living room and I asked "did she brush her teeth?" Michael replied "No. Did you here her vibrator?" Which we both laughed at and then I said something about when the Cabbage is older we're going to wonder why she brushes her teeth so much. Though we were making a joke of it at the time, it made me realize that female masturbation is not something often talked about, particularly when it comes to teenagers. When people talk about teenage masturbation it is almost always in regards to their teenage son. No one ever mentions the idea that the teenage daughter is masturbating. So right off the bat, as young women are learning about their bodies for health reasons, they are also learning that their own sexual pleasure is something that doesn't happen or is shameful and should be kept secret. 

When Michael and I started talking about the issue with Ansari, Michael said that it was that girl's responsibility to say something and get herself out of the situation. I agreed with him, but said "it's not as easy to do as that sounds." He was dumbfounded by this and I stopped talking because I couldn't find a way to explain to him why it is that getting out of unwanted sexual encounters, even if the guy is nice about it, is so difficult. It's almost even more difficult if the guy is nice. Because women have been cultured to please, even in disregard to her own pleasure. It may be hard to understand, but sometimes doing the thing you don't want to do is the easiest solution to a get away. Raise your hand if you have had sex when you didn't really want to have sex. I am positive that there are men out there who are raising their hands because I've heard Michael say it. So I ask you, why didn't you just make it clear that you didn't want to have sex and leave the situation?

It is not an easy question to answer.  

PUSSY

Side eye

3 Likes, 1 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "Side eye"

The other day, we were all standing around talking about various music artists, when someone mentioned John Denver. I said "Every time a John Denver song comes on the radio, Michael turns it off and calls John Denver a 'pussy'. Which bothers me." It doesn't bother me because I like hearing John Denver sing about sunshine and country roads. His songs were among the songs we would sing around the campfire. Sure, his lyrics tend to lean towards happy optimism, but sometimes after you've been listening to a whole lot of Cure, a little happy optimism is nice. Michael's dislike of John Denver is not the issue here. It is his use of the word 'pussy' to describe someone he sees as weak and wimpy. He is not alone in this use of language and really the only time I've ever heard him call someone a pussy, that someone has always been John Denver. But still...

Definition of pussy in English

1. A cat

2. A woman's genitals

    2.1 Women in general, considered sexually

    2.2 A weak, cowardly, effeminate man  

In 2009, a woman broke vaginal weight lifting records when she attached weights to an egg, inserted that egg into her vagina and lifted thirty pounds by contracting her Kegel muscles. The human vagina is lined with ringed muscular ridges that can contract and expand and during childbirth, those muscles expand up to 200 percent. In rare cases, the vagina has been known to spasm and clamp down on a penis hard enough to inflict pain. The vagina is just one organ that makes up the complicated system that is women's genitals. The vagina and the vulva are often confused structures. Let me clear that up for you. The vagina is inside and vulva refers to the outside structures like the labia and clitoris. The clitoris has over 8,000 nerve endings, twice as many as the penis. There is no doubt in the strength of the female reproductive system

Last year, 2.6 million people marched in the Women's March, a march that screamed to the world that women will no longer put up with inequality, harassment and disrespect. We wore pussy hats and carried signs that read 'not my pussy'. We proved to the world that the pussy is mighty. Yet, we are still using female words like 'pussy' as an insult to describe weakness. I think if any offensive adjective is required to describe weakness and cowardice it should be 'limp dick'. Though I don't condone it. Two wrongs never make a right. Just say that person is weak. As Seth Meyers said at the Golden Globes: "It's 2018, marijuana is finally allowed and sexual harassment finally isn't." This also applies to our language. This is the year that we remove article 2.2 from the definition for the word 'pussy'. 

Wait.

This is the year we rewrite the definition for the word 'pussy' to say 'strong and amazing'. 

ME TOO

Instagram post by Cindy Maddera * Oct 16, 2017 at 1:51pm UTC

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There was a man at my church, who whenever he saw me would want to pick me up and carry me around. He'd ask me to kiss his cheek. I was maybe five or six. I remember being small and feeling his large hand tight around my upper thigh, just under the skirt of my church dress. The first time he did this, it made me laugh. Every little kid wants to be picked up and carried around. I was just at that age were I was too big to be carried around by my Dad. So being picked up was a treat. But then this man did this every time he saw me, picking me up and squeezing me tight. He was always begging for kisses even though I pushed away. I didn't want to be picked up. I didn't want to feel his hands on my body. I didn't want to kiss his cheek. But I played along because I didn't want to hurt his feelings and when I couldn't take another encounter with him, I started hiding, ducking behind a bookshelf or into a stairwell. 

I thought for a long time that this is just the way things are. A woman's body is never just her own. In everything I had seen on TV, covers of magazines and the romance novels that piled up next to my mother's bedside table, a woman was always being manhandled. We were told this was normal and that this is what we should want. We should want a man to touch our bodies. We should be flattered by it. We should even use it to our advantage. As a young girl and teen, those moments when a boy tried to touch me were so rare, that when it did happen, I almost felt grateful. I had zero confidence in my body or how I looked and those rare encounters made me believe for a moment that maybe I was attractive. Maybe I wasn't just a chubby pimply faced awkward girl. We were taught that our self worth was measured by how much a man wanted to touch your body, even if his touch makes you feel like throwing up. 

It wasn't until college when I found my voice. I'd hang out with my roommate in the guys dorms. She had a thing for one of the basketball players and we'd sit in his room while they smoked pot and listened to R Kelly. One of the other basketball players was always trying 'get with me'. Those where his words. He was never forceful, just persistent. His persistence made me feel uncomfortable, like there was something wrong with me for not wanting to be with this guy, for not wanting him to touch me. Maybe I was 'frigid'. I had yet to lose my virginity. Was it because I wouldn't just give in, even when I felt nothing for this guy other than annoyance? It seemed like punishment for having standards, for wanting a partner who was my equal. Punishment for wanting a partner who treated my body less like an object and more like a temple. One day, for no reason other than I had finally had enough, I told that guy "NO". I told him that his advances made me feel uncomfortable. It made me not want to be around him. So I wasn't. I walked away and stayed away. 

Then there was Chris, who was that equal partner. He treated my inexperience carefully and gently. He did not persist. He let me make my first skittish moves. He let my body be my own. This in itself made me feel more attractive than any of those previous encounters. Chris was a protective barrier to a point, but Chris's presence didn't stop other men from the occasional touch. There's always that guy who thinks it's just fine to pat you on the ass. After Chris, when I was alone, I found myself in more and more situations where a guy would find excuses to touch me. I would recoil, step back, jump away. Even though there were times I craved human touch, I did not welcome this encroachment on my personal space. I did not encourage it. I was never asking for it. A couple of years ago, I went to get a massage. It was at a spa I'd been to before, with a massage therapist I had been with once before. Near the end he asked me if he could massage my chest. I was just recovering from a chest cold and the muscles in the upper part of my chest were tight. I consented thinking that the massage therapist was going to work on that area, which he did. Then his hands were on my breasts. I remember thinking even then 'this is okay, there's muscles there too that need to be released', reassuring myself. Then his hands moved to my nipples and alarm bells rang in my head. This was not okay. But I laid there and let it happen, too ashamed to say a word. 

So many people wonder why it has taken so long for all of these women to come forward with their confessions of sexual harassment. Those people must be fortunate enough to never have experienced the shame and humiliation that comes from being sexually harassed. I have never told the story about the massage therapist to any one, until today. At the time it was happening, I was too shocked to believe it was really happening. Then, I was ashamed of myself and embarrassed. I had given him permission to massage my chest and when he crossed a line, I did nothing to stop it. I had asked for it, right? Except it does not make his actions right. What about that man from church? I never told him "no". I never asked him verbally to stop. I was six. Just because I didn't say no, does not make his actions right either. Admitting that you were vulnerable and trusted another human to not take advantage of your vulnerability is not an easy thing to do. 

It takes a lot of courage. 

Every woman who steps forward, even if it has been years since the incident, gives another woman courage to speak. It sends the message to every man that we will not stay silent and we will not let you behave this way. Fathers who thought this could never happen to their daughters or brothers who believed they could protect their little sisters from predators, are now aware that, yes this can happen. Because I am positive that there are fathers out there who truly believe that this is not going to happen to his little girl. My own brother is probably going to be completely surprised by my own stories of sexual harassment. For far too long we've let society put the blame on the victim and it has silenced us. It stops now. I'd like to believe that the Cabbage is never going to have to tell a story about being sexually harassed. Though, I am not that naive. I don't want her to feel ashamed. I don't want her to be scared to speak up, to scream "NO!". I want her to know that she owns her own body, and nobody else does. 

That's why I am telling my story. 

I'VE GOT BOOBS AND AN IPHONE

Underdeveloped

6 Likes, 1 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "Underdeveloped"

Michael and I left to the concert only to get to our car who's battery was dead. You see, when Michael parked the car, he put it in park and then just got out. I sat there for a minute wondering if he was going to figure out that he'd left the car running, but he was busy marking our parking spot on the map for later. So, I reached over and killed the ignition and retrieved the keys. Turns out that when this is done after the driver side door has been shut, the car lights decide to not shut off on their own. They stay on and drain the battery. We got into the car and nothing happened. 

Right at that moment, a guy on a golf cart drove by and we flagged him down. Michael asked him about getting a jumpstart from someone. The young guy looked at us and said "uhhh...yeah...uhhh..let me go check on that." Then he left and we never saw him again. We stood there for five minutes or so trying to figure out what to do next. Occasionally someone would walk by and we'd ask if they had jumper cables. No one had jumper cables or they were parked "way over that away". Michael looked at me and said "I'm going for help" and he walked off in the direction of the stadium. Meanwhile, I stayed with the car and continued to ask people as they walked by if they could help. 

Two men walked by and I stepped up and asked them if they had jumper cables. The guy who answered said "We're parked way over at the Taco Bell. I got tacos! But Hey, You've got boobs and an iPhone, so you should be okay." I don't even know if I managed to get any words out. Now that I think about I might have said "thank you" and if that's true, then I'm punching myself in the face. But I'm pretty sure that I mumbled a thank you as I stood there by my car with the hood up and an awkward half smile on my face. A few minutes later my phone started ringing. It was Michael and he'd found real help from an actual tow-truck service provided by stadium parking. When he got back to the car, I told him about what had happened. He said that it was probably a good thing he hadn't been there. The tow truck guy arrived and we got to work on getting the car started and then headed home.

On our way home, Michael asked me how I felt about the whole thing with the taco guy. I told him that at the time of it happening, I was too stunned to really think about anything, but now I'm super pissed that I wasn't quick enough to come up with a witty and cutting reply for the jerk. Michael wanted to know how big the guy was and if he could have beaten the jerk up. This must be a Y chromosome thing. I appreciate the sentiment, but I could have beaten the guy up and had in fact been wearing the proper shoes to do so. When I posted the exchange on Facebook, I had one commenter suggest that I really did have an upper hand because of my boobs and phone, while the jerk only had tacos. I've had a really hard time letting this comment go. Again, I'm sure he means well but it is an ignorant, naive and stereotypical response. 

First of all, having boobs has nothing to do with my ability to properly apply jumper cables to my own car battery. Implying that I need to 'use' my body parts to get some other person to do this for me, is insulting. Secondly, I know that this commenter has daughters, which leads me to wonder what he's teaching them. I have an image of his lesson forming in my brain where he says "Now girls, when you get a flat tire, here's what you need to do. Reach your hands inside your bra and plump up your bosoms. You might even lean forward to reposition them in your bra. Then tug your t-shirt down low. When a guy stops and asks you if you need any help, lean into him slightly, leading with your breasts. After he's done changing the tire for you, he may decide to cop a feel. This is understandable considering you did use your boobs as leverage for his services. I say, go ahead and let him. It's the least you can do for him changing your tire." 

Men, I want you to imagine teaching your own daughters that lesson. Yeah...just go ahead and teach them how to show a little cleavage instead of how to actually change the tire on their car or how to hook up jumper cables. Look into your perfect little angle's eyes and tell her that it is perfectly acceptable for men to objectify her body. Because that is what you are doing every time you say objectifying words to another woman. 

But, I mean, hey! If you've got boobs and an iPhone, baby you can do anything. 

THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES

Instagram post by Cindy Maddera * Jul 31, 2017 at 1:29pm UTC

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Not too long ago, I was listening to Wait Wait Don't Tell Me on the way to the grocery store. The question up for answering had to do with dragonflies and their mating habits. What does a female dragonfly do to avoid an amorous male? It sounds like a joke right? Like you're sitting there waiting for a punchline and the answer does kind of sound like a punchline. The female dragonfly will play dead in order to avoid unwanted attention from a male dragonfly. She will literally drop out of the air and crash into the ground, arms and legs curled in and body stiff with false rigor mortis. All of this effort is to avoid unwanted attention. Now, here is where the language differences between men and women become so blatantly obvious. When the men participating on the show heard the answer to this question, they all said something like "Man! She'd rather die than have sex with you!" and all the women said something about "knowing exactly how it feels to be that desperate to just be left alone."

Men saw it as the ultimate insult. Women nodded their heads in complete understanding. This particular female male dynamic transverses species. 

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy sex. Regular readers here know that I enjoy sex. I don't see any point in being coy about enjoying sex or pretending that I would rather be eating chocolate cake. The feminists before me paved the way for women to own their sexuality, be proud of it even. I also like to feel desired. Genuine compliments from that special someone just makes a person feel good about themselves. Those are moments of wanted attention, a behavior that also transverses species. There's a species of South African frogs that when the female has eggs ready for fertilization, she doesn't wait for a throaty call from a male. She starts making her own noises to call the boy to her. She lets it be known that she wants attention. As it should be.

It is amazing to me that we have made so many advances in equality and yet a woman still can not go out alone without the worry of being accosted in some way. If you are sitting by yourself in a cafe, you are probably just waiting for someone, got stood up for a date, or you are a sad lonely lady who probably has a bunch of cats living with you in a one bedroom apartment. There is something wrong with a woman sitting alone. It is for some reason, wired into the male brain that this woman doesn't want to be sitting alone. She is most likely just pretending to be working on that laptop. The fact that she is completely ignoring your idea of a smoldering stare and your random attempts at small talk doesn't clue you in that you are providing unwanted attention. Every time a woman steps outside to walk down the street, she is taking the chance that someone is going to yell something at her regarding the way she walks, what she is wearing or something about how she needs to smile more.

This type of guy is the male dragonfly you don't want anything to do with. He's constantly buzzing up, getting in your way, when all you want to do is get to that lili pad on the other side of the pond and maybe catch something to eat. It's really that simple. You are not interested and you are just tired of finding some way of conveying that you are not interested without encouraging more attention. It would be easier to drop to the ground and play dead. The female dragonfly just might be onto something here. I used to think that the praying mantis had it right with sexual cannibalism. Then I read that the female mantis only bites the male's head off while mating if she's malnourished. Also, if it is mildly unacceptable for a guy to cat call a woman, it has got to be highly unacceptable to rip is head off and eat it. 

Sure, I have reached that age where this stuff doesn't really happen to me all that often. Occasionally when I'm stuck at a stop light while riding the scooter, I have to pretend not to notice the guy yelling at me from the bus stop or that dude with his arm laying on his rolled down window who is looking me up and down while picking at his tooth with a toothpick. That's the guy who usually asks me something about gas mileage and 'how much my tank holds'. For the most part, I've joined the invisible women club which is sad in it's own way, but this doesn't exclude me from having the same experience where you find yourself rolling your eyes at that guy who thinks his ridiculous cat calling is going to make you want to kiss him on the mouth. 

No it doesn't. It just makes me want to play dead. 

BOSSY NASTY LESBIAN

Go Pussy Grabbers! #aidswalkkc #aidswalkopen2017 #holepatrol

9 Likes, 1 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "Go Pussy Grabbers! #aidswalkkc #aidswalkopen2017 #holepatrol"

There's some stuff that has been bothering me and I need to rant about those things. On Saturday, while on Hole Patrol, I was using the bullhorn to call up the next team and to remind people to buy raffle tickets and mulligans, a young man snapped his fingers at me. Then he said "ooohhh....bossy authoritative lesbian with a bullhorn!" I paused and said "Wait. What part of this makes me a lesbian?" His reply was that bossy and authoritative obviously meant I was a lesbian. He then hung out at the bar for a bit and would occasionally yell out "that's what a lesbian would say." whenever I said something he thought a lesbian would say.

You guys know me. You know that it doesn't matter a hill of beans if someone thinks I am a lesbian. The part about all of this that got under my skin was the linking of my sexuality to being able to take charge of the current situation. There is also great irony in hearing misogyny come from a gay man. This encounter could have easily just fallen to the way side without mentioning, but the next day I was watching an interview with Kellyanne Conway on CBS Sunday Morning and that dress she wore to the inauguration came up. Kellyanne said that she didn't care what all those black stretchy pant people out there had to say about it. This caused me to shake my head and think "Oh, Kellyanne". Her defense was to say something negative about other women's clothing when her response should have been how ridiculous it is to still be having a conversation about the dress she wore instead of real issues like health care and why she lied about Bowling Green. 

Look, Kellyanne Conway is not one of those women I'd choose to have over for an all girls dinner party, but that has nothing to do with her appearance. I disagree with her ideas and lying. Though it might be interesting to just pick her brain, scientifically speaking that is.  Kellyanne is a strong, hard working woman. She's working a very stressful job (that is taking a tole on her physically; Kellyanne please eat a sandwich). She's in the process of moving her husband and three children to Washington while two of those children are begging to not make that move. This could be any one of us. Disagree with her policies and her words, but hurling tweets at her like "you're a whore" or "you stupid bitch" makes you no better than this current president. A negative plus a negative does not equal a positive.

During the campaign, an hour after telling the American people how much respect Trump had for women, he called Hillary Clinton a 'nasty woman' during a PRESIDENTIAL debate. Does any one know what prompted Trump to call her this? 

CLINTON: Well, Chris, I am on record as saying that we need to put more money into the Social Security Trust Fund. That's part of my commitment to raise taxes on the wealthy. My Social Security payroll contribution will go up, as will Donald's, assuming he can't figure out how to get out of it. But what we want to do is to replenish the Social Security Trust Fund . ..

TRUMP: Such a nasty woman.

CLINTON: . . .  by making sure that we have sufficient resources, and that will come from either raising the cap and/or finding other ways to get more money into it. I will not cut benefits. I want to enhance benefits for low-income workers and for women who have been disadvantaged by the current Social Security system . ..

Trump called Hillary Clinton a 'nasty woman' because her ideas on how to handle social security did not align with his own ideas and included a side eye to his non-disclosed taxes. Which he still has not disclosed, but that's another rant. Now, many of us women may have taken that phrase back and have turned it into something positive. We also use it to make sure no one ever forgets the misogyny of this president. So...for the people who just don't understand, let me put it as simply as possible: a man calling a woman 'nasty' or 'bitch' or 'bossy lesbian' simply because she has said something he disagrees with is misogynistic. 

Equality is more than just about a paycheck. It is about respect and an acknowledgement to an equal contribution to our communities, our society and to great innovative ideas that make our communities and society a better place. We all want equality regardless of gender, race, religion and or sexuality. The positive and negative impacts we make are a choice.

Choose to be better. 

BOOBS

Little brown buttons

See this Instagram photo by @elephant_soap * 1 like

I used to wear a thin cotton bra. I didn't really know much about bras other than I needed to wear one. I liked the cotton ones because at least they were comfortable. The problem was, is, that I have nipples. Chris used to say that I had the kind of nipples that you could hang a hat on. This was something I also didn't know. I wasn't conscious of the showiness of my own body or that this was something that drew attention. I'd be standing in a room and suddenly I'd hear a male voice say "It must be cold in here." Then I'd notice the direction of his stare and instantly cross my arms over my chest. My face would grow hot with shame and embarrassment. I started wearing thick padded bras and multiple layers of t-shirts. 

I guess I consider myself lucky because I was never groped or physically accosted. I've only been subjected to lewd comments. Most of the time, the comments are easily ignored. A few times I've even welcomed the comments out of a shallow need to think someone thinks I'm pretty or sexy or beautiful. Those few times were when I was still a girl and had little confidence in myself. It was back in the day when I still let boys and men dictate my own beauty. I know better now. At least I hope I do. Sort of. There are still times I let those lewd comments and stares evoke feelings of shame and embarrassment. I cut a training short because the guy did nothing but stare at my chest. I left the room hot with anger. I was angry with him for his behavior and angry at myself for once again letting a man make me feel ashamed of this body. 

I started thinking about all of this before the release of those tapes of Trump being so vile and gross. As if we didn't know this about him already. It was an article headline passed through my news feed, something about a study in France that suggests bras do not keep a woman's breasts from sagging with age that brought all of this to mind. I didn't read the article but it just made me think about how bras are just another element of the cover up. It's just part of the schooling of girls to cover up their bodies because if they don't, they're asking for a man to comment, to touch, to rape. For those of you who don't get it, who are linking Trump's 'locker room talk' with women who buy 50 Shades of Grey let me explain it to you. There's a difference between a woman who chooses to own her sexuality and a woman who has her sexuality forced upon her by a man. 

Let's take a moment to think about how we want our daughters to value their own self worth. Let's take a moment to think about our daughters growing up feeling ashamed of their own body. Is that something we want for our daughters? It doesn't matter where Trump said those things. It matters that he said them at all. Our children are watching and listening and learning. What do you want the take away lesson to be?

BARBIE FOR PRESIDENT

You guys, I picked this up and put it back like five times. I don't need it, but I sure do want it. #barbie #girlpower💪

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Well, I did it. I was in Target several weeks ago, roaming the toy isle because that's a habit I never broke and that's when I came across the best Barbie set I've ever seen. Mattel has released a Barbie President and Vice President doll set. I stood there holding the box in my hands while wheels turned in my head. I don't know if any of you have noticed, but the people at Barbie have really been stepping up their game. Barbie has a normal body shape and there are dolls of all shapes and colors these days. Barbie is also doing more things than galavanting around in a pink car and shopping. She's a pilot. She's a firefighter. She's a doctor. And now, she's a president. I have to admit, my inner Lisa Simpson was jumping up and down with joy over these Barbies. I could totally envision setting up a Presidential State of the Union in front of an all female Barbie Congress. 

Then practical Cindy stepped in and said that we didn't need those Barbies. There was no place to put these Barbies. They would just end up in the basement with my Harley Quinn Barbie, Roller Girl Barbie and my Astronaut Barbie. I set the Barbies down. I picked them up again. I set them back down. The Cabbage had asked for Barbies for her birthday. The few Barbies she had at my place had disappeared. I suspect they got left over at the neighbor's place, but didn't feel like pressing it. The little girl over there is older than the Cabbage and doesn't really like playing with her. She always has some excuse when the Cabbage goes to ask if she can play. Any way, the Barbies she'd taken over there were the kind of Barbies that make me roll my eyes. Goodbye and good riddance Princess Ballerina Barbie. I picked up the President and Vice President Barbies again and thought that these Barbies would be way better than Princess Ballerina Barbie. 

I put the Barbies in my cart even while making my skeptical face. The Cabbage was turning six, is now six actually. I'm sure the first thing she would have planned for her Barbies would be to switch outfits, not attend a special UN meeting. Because she's six and doesn't even know what any of that means. I told myself that I was going to give these Barbies as a gift with the full knowledge that the Cabbage was probably going to wreck them. I just couldn't not buy them. When the Cabbage opened them at her birthday party on Saturday, her mother looked at me with big excited eyes and said "you got them?!?!" She'd seen my Instagram post about my indecision to buy them. She then held the Barbies up so that all the other mothers and women in the room could see them. We all cheered and fist pumped the air. The Cabbage and her friends just sort of shrugged their shoulders and then shouted "Yay! Barbies!"

Because this is a nonissue for them.

It doesn't even dawn on those six year olds that an all female presidential ticket is not possible or even unique. "Well of course the President and Vice President are women. Duh!" Can you even imagine it? All of the mothers in that room are of an age that grew up being told that woman can do almost anything. We could be doctors and lawyers, maybe even be a nurse in the military. We also grew up seeing that women who wanted to do those things had to do EVERYTHING. It was like your sacrifice for wanting to do a "man's job". You worked your ass off, then you came home and was a homemaker for your family. A woman had to do it all. And just as a side note rant, I'd like to add that my Mom did all of those things even when she had the flu so bad, it gave her a heart murmur. When I was a little girl, I was under the impression that Mom had a job because she needed a hobby and something to do with herself now that all her kids were in school. Once I got to college, I noticed that the language started to change. It was no longer "we can do almost anything." Now it was "we can do anything!" 

I think a lot of us took ahold of the whole we can do anything without actually believing it. We'd preach it and shout it, but deep down we would be hesitant to really truly believe that women are equal. Now we are raising a new generation of girls who actually believe that girls can do anything. These six year olds are going to think nothing of an all female ticket because it seems totally normal to them. This makes me sit back and say "WOW!" There's going to be a day when kids are going to not believe you when you tell them stories about phones with cords attached to a wall. Even better, there's going to be a day when you tell kids stories about how only men were ever Presidents of the United States and they're all going to be like "No way!"

And I will be all "Yes way! Crazy, right?"

SEX AND FEMINISM

Urchin

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Last night, Michael and I were catching up on episodes of Bill Maher while we ate dinner, because nothings better for digestion than yelling at the TV over politics (please note the thick coating of sarcasm). The episode we were on was one of the thirty minute specials he did during the week of the DNC. They were discussing speeches and Bill Maher said something about how Bill Clinton probably got a really great blow job when they got home after his speech. Now, normally I'm OK with Bill Maher's blunt crassness. We mostly have similar beliefs and views, though there are times when he steps over into territory that just doesn't sit well with me. His comment about the blow job was one of those moments. I winced at the words and let me tell you why. I've got a number of reasons.

Since the beginning of written history and probably even before that, a woman's value has been based on their sexuality, their ability to have sex, their ability to bare children, their ability to be used for sex. I love how the book of Genesis, puts the whole blame for "carnal knowledge" on Eve, setting us up right from the very beginning to need to be controlled. As if a man would never have come up with the concept of sex all on his own. Women didn't have property rights, voting rights, or rights regarding her own body. It would be simplest to say that women didn't have rights, period. If you wanted something, you found a way to use your body as the bargaining chip. In some cases, the only leverage a woman had over a man was sex. The best example of this was Queen Elizabeth I who used her virginity to form and break alliances as the country needed. It is unfortunate that this has been our bargaining chip for so long because there are still women out there who feel the need to use the tactic to get their way. Sex is not a bargaining chip and continuing to use it as such perpetuates the view of women as sexual objects. We are well passed the age where a woman has to 'sleep her way to the top'. Women become CEOs of major corporations now based on their merit, education and work ethics. 

Some may argue that the person giving a blow job is performing an act of submission and therefor this would be a way in which Hilary would be submissive to your husband. Because we still live in a society that thinks women should be submissive or at least give the illusion of submission. Again, I disagree. The person that allows the most sensitive parts of their body to be in such close proximity to someone else's teeth is the one being submissive. It also implies that sex is a reward. It makes sex nothing more than a gold star sticker placed on an A+ paper. So Hilary should reward her husband for doing his fucking job which is to support her because they are PARTNERS. But I suppose what really bothers me about Maher's comment is that it is the type of comment that would never have been said if Hilary Clinton wasn't a woman. Can you imagine even thinking such a thing about Michelle Obama after her 2008 DNC speech or Laura Bush's speech at the 2004 RNC? What kind of "reward" did those women get for supporting their husbands? You think they got new fancy vibrators?

One way ( of many) to achieve gender equality is for women to stop using sex as bargaining tools or a reward for some good deed and men need to stop expecting sex as reward. Taking out the trash and doing chores are not things that need to be rewarded. Supporting your spouse, the person you chose to be a partner with until death do you part, is not something you need to be rewarded for. Sure, it's great, but it's what you signed on to do when you took those vows. It doesn't matter if your spouse turns out to be a presidential candidate one day or just has a regular old job. Just stop doing it or using the language that implies it. 

Thank you.

TURN INTO SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL

Some time around one thirty Saturday morning, Josephine was at the door wanting out. I let her out and then heard a ruckus that involved some squeaking sounds. I stumbled into the living room just in time to see a flash of gray and Albus sitting cooly to the side while Josephine tried to crawl under the couch. I also noticed a thumb sized bug like thing on the rug. I went to Michael's room and said "the animals are chasing a mouse in the living room and there's a weird bug thing in there too." Then I crawled back into bed. After Josephine caught the mouse and took it outside, Michael came in with the bug like thing on the dustbin to ask me if I knew what it was. It looked like a large fat worm, but it was compact and it moved when Michael poked it with his finger. It was weird. I said "I don't know what that is, but it's creeping me out. Get it away from me."

I have to admit that this is not my normal reaction to odd biological things. Usually, I get my face right up to it and ask "What is that?!?!" and then I start doing some research. So I was pretty sad when I woke up the next morning and the sleepy cobwebs had cleared because I realized that the creepy thing was probably a pupae for a butterfly or moth. Michael had already stuck it into a baggy and tossed into the garbage bin. We threw a pretty moth of butterfly into the trash! But I blame my sleep fogged brain and the fact that I've been watching Stranger Things . It's a Netflix original show that feels like what would happen if Dean Koontz and Stephen King got together and had babies. I'm totally hooked but completely terrified while watching it. The other day, I screamed out loud while walking on the treadmill in the gym. Michael walked in while I was watching an episode yesterday and I had curled up into a ball on the couch and was rocking back and forth. 

I was going to blabber on about how much cleaning I did in between watching Stranger Things. I was going to tell you about how I pulled out every drawer of my desk once again and cleaned out mouse poop, once a again. I was going to tell you that I swept up enough cat hair to make a new cat, one that would catch the mice and take them outside. Then I thought no one wants to hear how I spent the weekend cleaning and scrubbing a house. I am always cleaning a scrubbing a house. Instead I just keep thinking about that pupae. I'm sure the cat brought that in from somewhere outside, but it's not where (or what dimension) it came from that matters. I can't stop picturing that creepy, ugly, wrinkled, brown thing and marveling at how that would turn into something beautiful. And I let Michael throw it away.

Way back when I was in my preteen years, I'd stare at my reflection in the mirror trying to see something likable about my face. My hair was a limp dirty blond dishrag. My cheeks were round and plump. My teeth were too big. My nose was too big. Yet, I believed that I would grow out of this awkward, too big, too round stage. I would look at my sister, tall and skinny, dressed like Andie Walsh and I would think to myself "I will also grow up to be tall and skinny and as stylish as Andie Walsh." I believed those preteen years to be my caterpillar stage and that my pupae stage would only be one or two years of my early teens. I would emerge on my sixteenth birthday as a beautiful confident butterfly. When that didn't happen, I assumed it would happen when I turned twenty. Maybe when I turned thirty. How about forty? At forty I would finally be that confident beautiful butterfly. 

We stood outside the recreational supply store, waiting for them to open so that Michael could buy wool socks. The kayak tour guide recommended wearing wool socks because they would keep your feet warm even if they were wet. Michael hadn't packed his because he didn't think it would actually be that cold, but after reading a warning about hypothermia he decided he needed socks. As we stood there, jabbering about nothing in particular, I caught my reflection in the window. I was wearing my silk lined yoga pants with my Threadless yoga animals tank top. I squinted at the reflection and said "huh. I don't look as bad as I thought I did." I can feel my ribs with out trying too hard and my legs are long and lean and strong. My breasts don't really need a bra to keep them pert and lifted. My smile is large and bright and my eyes have been known to take away breaths. I've known these things all along.

The truth is, I've been waiting to emerge into something I already am.