The BIOTI Fallacy

Sean Dietrich published an article today titled "Fat Girls", and while he makes one extremely excellent point, ("A woman is a hell of a lot more than a body.") I have some serious issues with some of the other things he says (although I understand what he is trying to say, and the goodness of heart that drove him to attempt to articulate it).

There are two tightly entwined things that need unpacking the article: his declaration of what is beautiful, and his declaration that a five-year-old-girl is "not fat".

Let's start with what is beautiful.  My main problem is that in his essay, Dietrich uses the classic, "Beauty Is On The Inside!" (BIOTI) argument, by substituting the word "beauty" for "character".  The BIOTI argument comes from mistaking "beautiful" for "valuable", as is often the case for objects. And I understand why he makes this connection- it's something our culture shoves down our throats from every angle, that your worth as a female comes down to your physical attractiveness, and if you aren't beautiful, you aren't as valuable as someone who is.  But that doesn't actually make it true, any more than calling peanut butter "almond butter" is going to keep someone with a peanut allergy from going into anaphylactic shock.  Because you are a person, and not an object, you have value whether you are physically beautiful or not- and that's something we as a society need to work harder at internalizing.  Because BIOTI is blatantly false- beauty is on the outside; character is on the inside- and children, who are not stupid, can clearly see that.

Now let's take a moment to talk about the word "fat".  What does "fat" actually mean?  I turned to my good friend Google, who gave me (among other definitions) "having a large amount of excess flesh."  That's right- fat is a nice, neutral adjective, with no moral worth attached.  Nowhere in the definition of "fat" is there the word "ugly" or "stupid" or "lazy" or "worthless" or even "not beautiful".  Nowhere.  "Fat" is not actually a pejorative, and we need to stop treating it like one.  

 
It's something I've had to consciously work on, myself.  There was a time in my life when I was fat.  Many people (who love me and don't want me to "talk bad" about myself) are quick to assure me that no, I wasn't fat- but I was, and I say that with no shame.  I was about 10 sizes larger than I should have been at that time (hello excess flesh).  I was also beautiful and smart and funny.  I lost that excess flesh and became skinny.  I was still beautiful and smart and funny.  I gained some of the weight back, and was still beautiful and smart and funny.  I could go on, but I think you get the point- the amount of flesh I carry (excess or not) has nothing to do with my physical beauty- or my worth as a person.

Because we unconsciously equate "beautiful" with "worthwhile", when someone tells our daughters, "You're not pretty," what we hear is, "You're not valuable", and because of course our daughters are valuable, we rush to reassure them, "You are beautiful!  Look at how nice you are to Susan!  Look at how you help your brother with his chores!"  Which is, in a completely unintentional way, reinforcing in our daughters' minds that only beautiful people are worth loving- and again, they can see for themselves that BIOTI is not true.

Those girls and women Dietrich mentioned?  In spite of his use of the word "beauty", we have no way of knowing if they're beautiful or not.  But he illustrates their character for us; he indicates that they are strong, loving, determined, compassionate, kind, generous, brave- and valuable.  So it doesn't matter if they're "beautiful" or if they're "fat" or if they're "left-handed"; those are descriptive words that tell us nothing about their value as people. The words "kind" and "generous" and "brave" tell us who they are.  Because, as Dietrich so flatly states, "A woman is a hell of a lot more than a body."

So maybe that five-year-old who got called fat, is fat. And- radical concept here- that's okay. If she is a healthy, happy, well-adjusted little girl, who gives a rat's ass is she's fat or skinny or freckled or near-sighted or any other valueless descriptor word? And rather than rushing to reassure her that she's "not fat" (and is therefore valuable!), maybe we should teach her to look whoever called her fat in the eye and say, "What of it?"

(One last thing- "fat" is just a descriptive term, neither good nor bad, but "lard-ass"?  "Lard-ass" is not neutral, and therefore no one is a "lard-ass", no matter how much excess flesh they carry.  Even if they are physically repulsive, even if they are the world's biggest jerk, they're still not a "lard-ass", because again, your physical shell has nothing to do with your character- and vice versa.  If someone's pissing you off by being a horrible human being, you need to focus your commentary on that, and not on how they look [even if they look like a deranged Cheeto].  And if someone calls you a lard-ass, you know that they're too immature to articulate their actual problem with you [or, more likely, themselves], and you can safely ignore them.)

Soft Thoughts on Die Hard

I am pleased to say that all of the stuff I thought I knew about Die Hard, I did know about Die Hard.  And none of that knowledge in any way ruined the experience of watching it, either, so that was a relief.  Although I was a bit shocked that I didn't have any sort of fore-knowledge about the super-insightful chatterbox that is Argyle.  What the heck, pop culture osmosis?

Anyway, I did have a few thoughts on the movie, and I feel compelled to share them beyond the long-suffering audience that is my husband.

First and foremost, I had no idea that Die Hard is essentially the grown-man-version of Twilight, by which I mean just absolute, unapologetic self-insertion fantasy.  And I don't mean that in a derisive way at all (I happen to enjoy the hell out of Twilight, personally): I found it delightful, but also think it's just hilarious that no one, when they are talking about this movie, comes out and says, "By the way this shit is basically a ludicrous daydream that you have when you're pissed at the bureaucrats in your office."  It even had levels of self-insertion, you know?  Obviously everyone wants to be John McClane (looked up the spelling this time), lone wolf bad ass taking out a building full of super scary bad guys, but if we're honest with ourselves we know we wouldn't actually be that cool, because we don't have even as much training as he had (which, frankly, was not enough to do what he did but yes yes fantasy I get it).  But then there's Sgt. Powell, who any one of us totally could be- just an ordinary, overweight desk-jockey, whose main super power is seeing that all his superiors are fucking idiots.  We might not be able to save the day on our own in real life, but we can totally be the person smart enough to listen to the guy who can.

Anyway.

Another super great thing about this movie was just how much a product of its time it was.  Hauling around a giant freaking teddy bear on a plane!  Smoking everywhere, including with that giant teddy bear you're giving to your kids!  Coke is definitely something we do at a company party!  Naked boobies for literally no reason whatsoever!  It was great.  When McClane (super-sexy-tough-dude-that-every-single-lady-including-the-pregnant-one-has-been-Making-Eyes-At) pauses in the middle of things to touch the pin-up boobies for luck I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants.

So yeah- Die Hard was great, I get it now and I would gladly watch it every Christmas.  But also anybody who loves this movie doesn't get to give Twilight fans any shit whatsoever about their taste in entertainment.

Pissed Off Pussy

Let me be clear: I am not offended because a man used the word "pussy".  Words are nothing more than sounds that we have assigned meaning to- they are not, in an of themselves, inherently offensive (or inoffensive) things.  If you doubt this, all I have to do is point out that I am perfectly capable of telling someone (in a professional environment, mind you) to fuck right off by using the extremely bland phrase, "Have a great day."  All I have to do is alter my tone and change which words I stress, and what should be a pleasantry becomes a verbal cudgel.  Don't tell me you haven't ever done something similar.

No, what upsets me is not the vocabulary used, but rather the message sent.  I am offended- nay, enraged- by the mindset that believes sexual assault is something to brag about, regardless of the terms used to describe it.  Trump could have said, "Grab them by the vulva," and it would not have made one iota of difference to my reaction (although I might have been momentarily impressed that he actually knew the correct anatomical term).  Why?  Because he is bragging about a crime.  And not a potentially harmless crime, like jaywalking in an empty street.  No, he is bragging about committing a crime that straight up violates another person, an action which, in my personal moral code, is about as horrific as it gets.

Of course, he doesn't actually see women as people: he sees them as animals ("I moved on her like a bitch") or, worse, objects, things that he can do anything he wants to, because he has the power.  And that's what's so wrong with him: not his vulgar vocabulary- his vile attitudes.

Stranger Danger

It took us a while, but we did finally get around to watching (and finishing) Stranger Things.  I'm sure it will come as exactly 0% of a surprise to find that we loved it.

There were many things that I appreciated about the show: from the pure aesthetic of the thing, to the craft involved in keeping it so perfectly 80s; from the gripping story-line to the outstanding performances; from the adorable rpg sequences to the commentary on the power of friendship.  And, of course, the wonderful things they did with the female characters, making it a truly feminist piece of art.  And yes, generally I would want to really dig down deep into the whole "here's how they treated the ladies like actual people," aspect of it:

Nancy has a best friend to save, and zero fucks to give about relationship drama.

but the truth is that it was not the stereotype-subversion of a female character that really made me stand up and cheer the loudest:

The hair you give your virginity to.

That's right, it was what they did with the obligatory 80's popular-douchebag-love-interest, Steve Harrington, that made me just respect the hell out of the creators of Stranger Things.

We all hated Steve at first sight, right?  We're supposed to.  He's that guy.  That arrogant jock guy the nerdy-yet-still-hot girl has to sleep with (or at least want to sleep with) before coming to her senses and falling in love with the sensitive-artist-best-friend-type-she's-been-overlooking-for-years.  And Steve does his best to live up to that stereotype, putting pressure on Nancy to skip studying for smoochin', breaking John's camera, and generally being a thoughtless dick.

But then (in an already wow-didn't-see-that-coming reversal) he gets his ass kicked by the sensitive artist.  Like, hard.  But what does he do?  Does he double-down on his dickishness with his dick friends, like we totally expect him to?

No, no he does not.  He realizes that hey- maybe he is the one with the problem.  And he starts to try to make things right the best he can.  And then?  Then he actually goes to John's house to apologize for being such a dick.

(Obviously his timing was absolute shit, but he did eventually stop his [understandable] freaking out and become genuinely useful.)

That made my chin hit my chest.

You see, it's pretty freaking easy to subvert young female stereotypes.  Just, like, make them not think about a boy for thirty seconds and you've done it.  Like shooting fish in a barrel, really.  And these days it's the cool thing to do, and everyone is doing it, and that is awesome, but not everyone is examining and combating the harmful male stereotypes (hello toxic masculinity), so I want to give props when I see it done, especially when it's done well.  Especially when the character in question is rewarded for acting like a person with a functioning brain and heart, and admitting their errors and working to redeem themselves.  He's not portrayed as weak or broken or any less attractive- he's just human, like the rest of us.

So yeah, lots and lots and lots to love about Stranger Things, including the arrogant jock.  Hells yeah, feminist television.

Raising a Feminist

Once upon a time, when I was still a child-free individual, I had this vision of what it would be like to raise a little girl, a fierce little feminist.  It was going to be so awesome- she wasn't going to take shit from anyone, and she was going to wear whatever the hell she wanted (pink and sparkly or blue and covered in trucks and footballs) while doing whatever the hell she wanted (playing house or playing helicopter pilot), and be a strong and smart and confident and did I mention not taking any shit?

Other people bought into this vision, as well- like without me even bringing it up in the first place.  I heard from more than source, "Oh my god you'd be such an amazing mother to a little girl!"

But I didn't have a little girl.

At first I found myself puzzled- what the hell do I know about raising a little boy?  But then I reminded myself that strictly speaking, what I "know about" is being a little girl, not actually raising one, and thus I was starting in the same place regardless of sex.  Except that I hadn't really put any thought into raising a boy.  So I put some thought into it, and the immediate thought I had was,

"Don't raise a rapist!"

This is the quip I trot out for laughs when talking to people about my child-rearing goals, but it's also not really a joke at all.  And honestly, it's a damn short step from "Don't raise a rapist!" to "Raise a feminist!" which works just as well for a boy as a girl.  After all, raising up a feminist girl is, frankly, easy, if for no other reason than all you have to do to get them to buy into it is look around at how awfully they get treated by the world.  Raising up a feminist boy, on the other hand?  A boy who will enjoy undeniable privilege due to the accident of his chromosomes, to the point where he might not naturally pick up on the fact that the patriarchy is screwing pretty much everyone over?  Well, that's a whole 'nother kettle of fish.  But "easy" is for suckers, and so I say, fish accepted!  No wait, I mean challenge.  Challenge accepted!

Which means that all that stuff I was going to do for my kick-ass daughter?  I'm doing it for my kick-ass son.  Because that is hard-core the spirit of feminism.  I'll point out inequalities, and talk to him about what he can do to make the world less shitty for him and everyone else.  That he doesn't have to be limited by society's expectations of him, and that if he does something coded as "feminine" it doesn't make him inferior, and more than him doing something coded as "masculine" makes him superior.  That he should use his privilege to give a hand up to those who could use it, because that's what real men do.  Real men behave like decent human beings.

And they don't rape people.

About Some Books

I noticed that a lot of my friends, at the end of last year, had a count of how many books they'd read- apparently as a result of a resolution to read more that year.  Well, none of my resolutions include reading more (writing more, yes), but I thought it still might be interesting to keep track of all the books I finish in 2015.

I started re-reading the Outlander series last October, because a) the tv show came out and I wanted to be able to properly bitch about inaccuracies, and also b) the new book came out and I needed to refresh myself on What Came Before (hey, it's been five years).  I figured the series would keep me occupied until at least March, even if I only stick to the "main" books- although I may also re-read the John Grey books just for the hell of it.  I finished up the fourth book, Drums of Autumn, last week, and it pretty much confirmed what I remembered about the series- that while the first three books are worth re-reading again and again, the series takes a definite turn with Drums.  I'm about two-hundred pages into The Fiery Cross now, and I know that page number because, just like the first time I read it, I am having a hard time dealing with the fact that Gabaldon spent over two-hundred pages on one. single. day.

And that more or less sums up why I enjoy the first part of the series so much more than the latter part.  The first three books are very much adventure-oriented, and very fast-paced.  But this one?  Some people write an entire book in two-hundred pages.  It is perhaps literally the slowest-paced novel in the universe.  Like to the point where I found myself wondering if she'd made a bet with someone about whether or not she could do it, just to fuck with her readers.

Which is not to say it's not a good book- it is good- but to be honest I almost feel like it's a chore for me to finish re-reading this particular entry into the series (a sprightly 1400 pages!), rather than the can't-wait-to-get-back-to-it-pleasure that the first three were.  ::sigh::  Hopefully the next three (clocking in at over 3400 pages total!) will be more engaging than I remember.

Stay tuned!

The Abduction

My aunt and uncle took us to see the Trans-Siberian Orchestra this evening.  They were performing The Christmas Attic.

you will be assimilated

I was pretty excited about it, but unfortunately ended up a bit less-than-impressed.  The musicians themselves were incredibly talented, and I enjoyed the hell out of it every time they were doing an instrumental arrangement.  The laser and pyrotechnic effects, too, were super freaking awesome, and I enjoyed the hell out of that, too.  And it's always fun to go do things with people who are passionate about those things- and TSO has an exceptionally passionate following, which meant the energy was really great.

So those were the good things.

The bad things were  more or less threefold: one, the music was too loud (if I have my ears physically plugged and the music is still too loud, your music is too fucking loud) and not properly balanced (the guitars almost totally drowned out the orchestra, which was particularly disappointing to this cello-lover); two, the animations were distractingly bad (very 90s-era CGI); three, these guys are in desperate need of a competent lyricist.  Every time there was narration, or an 'original' song was played, Nathan and I just gaped at one another over the terribleness of the lyrics.  At one point Nathan whispered, "Why do they keep using the word candle?" and I responded, "Say candle one more time!" and we dissolved into fits of giggles.  I also started mentally replacing the word "Christmas" with "Murder", which added interest back to the proceedings.  ("On this most holy murder eve, the spirit of murder speaks to us all here in the darkness of the murder attic...)

Nathan later pointed out that if only it had been in another language, one we didn't understand, we might have enjoyed it more, and I agree.  Because like I said- the music itself, and the overall performance were just fabulous... but not quite enough to make up for the rest of it.

On the bright side, I did get a fabulous idea for a creepy short story out of it, so maybe that will get posted later...

LoveSick of Love

You may have noticed that it's Valentine's Day.  Probably.  And maybe you're like me, and you love this holiday- or maybe you hate it.  If you already love it, awesome; if you hate it, let's talk about that.

Every year I come up against Valentine Haters, and every year I find myself getting aggravated with them.  I hear all their excuses, and all I can think is, "Why are you crapping on my awesome day?"

But I had a realization today, Gentle Readers.  Aided in no small part by my dog.

Beloved

See that disgusting ball?  That filthy, slimy object of horror?  That thing that you definitely don't want to pick up with your bare hand but you will because you're a good dog owner, damn it?  My dog loves that thing.  Loves it.  When she looks at that ball, she sees something exciting, something she can play with and carry around and generally possess.  It is a thing of great beauty to her, a piece of happiness that she can fit in her mouth, a bonding session with her humans.  It's a fundamentally different object to her than it is to me.

And Valentine's is a fundamentally different holiday to me than it is to Haters.

Valentine's is, to me, a day to celebrate love.  Just love.  Not only one kind of love.  All love.  The love you have for your parents, your siblings, your relatives, your friends, your friends with benefits, your best friends, your lover(s), your life partner(s), your children, your classmates, your animals, your climbing bros.  Your self.  All your love are belong to Valentine's Day.  It's a wonderful occasion where I get to run around expressing to people how happy I am that they're in my life, and enjoying when they express the same.  People have been all about "Galentine's" and "Palentine's" this year, but for me there's no need for those holidays, because Valentine's Day already encompasses them.

For some people, however, Valentine's is the day that a card company declares who has value as a human being and who doesn't, based on their relationship status.  Or it's a day where you're forced to spend money and time on someone you already spend a lot of money and time on, but apparently that's not enough.  And you know what?  Those do sound like pretty crappy holidays.  And I'm awfully glad that I'm not forced to participate in them.

But here's the thing.  If you're reading this, you're probably a grown up.  And if you're a grown up?  Yeah, you pretty much get to pick your own beliefs.  So why in the name of stars would you pick such a crappy, crappy definition of Valentine's Day?  Why would you ever celebrate any less-than-awesome holiday, now that you're an adult and can do what you want?  What I'm saying here, people, is that the problem is not Valentine's Day- the problem is people who cling to definitions that honestly shouldn't have any hold over them whatsoever.

"But Jenny O," you might whine.  "It's not me making the definition- it's society!"

Guess what, kiddo?  You're part of society.

So.  Make your own holidays.  Make them all awesome.  And for the love of all that's glittery, quit crapping on those of us who already do.

(and if you're one of those people who is all, "I don't need a special made-up day to express my love for someone!" I say, "Awesome.  So make it like any other day, and get with the love expressing.")

The Importance of Marriage (or Not)

I was hanging out with some dude friends the other day when another dude friend came in.  We’ll call him friend A, and the other two can be B and C.  Anyway, friend A is in the midst of prepping to propose to his girlfriend, and I happened to know that he’d been trying to have The Talk with her dad, but that the two of them kept getting interrupted before he could bring it up.  So as he walked up to us I got all squeaky about the whole process (as is my right as the Token Female), and asked how it had gone, and he caught us up on his progress, and we all gave him a hard time and teased him about Lady A dodging his proposal like her father had been dodging The Talk.  And then friends B and C, who are unmarried, gave friend A a little further grief about getting engaged at all, making reference to their own “perpetual bachelorhood”.

“Oh please,” I said to friend C, rolling my eyes. “You have a life partner.” Because it’s true- he does.  A lovely young woman with whom he plans to spend the rest of his life.

“Yeah but I’m still a bachelor,” he countered, and I had to admit that yes, technically he was- although not by my personal connotation of the word.  Friend A wandered off and I thought about it a little longer while B and C made “marriage isn’t important to commitment” noises.  Finally, during a lull in that conversation, I turned to C and said,

“You know, marriage wasn’t really important to me, either- until it was important to Nathan.”  C sort of raised an eyebrow, and I continued; “I was like, ‘meh, marriage’, but it meant something to him- and that meant something to me.”

“I guess I’m very lucky with Lady C,” he remarked, referring to the fact that marriage is not important to her, either.

“Well yes,” I said.  “But that’s part of the whole point of a life mate: finding someone whose values align with your own.  I was never anti-marriage, tho', so for me getting married to make him happy made me happy.”

This statement caused both C and B to backpedal a little bit and discuss marriage vs weddings, and how sick it is that our society beats into little girls’ heads the whole “happiest day of your life” thing.

“That’s the problem,” I said.  “Too many people confuse the words ‘wedding’ with ‘marriage’.  Don’t get me wrong- I loved my wedding, and I had a lot of fun.  But if your wedding day is really, truly the happiest day of your life- then you are doing it wrong.”

I had to go at that point- because my own life mate turned up- but if I could have continued the conversation I think I would have asked those guys what exactly the word "marriage" means to them.  It’s an important question, I think, and one that not enough people actually give any thought to.  But here’s the secret- marriage is something different to every individual person, and it’s damn important to make sure that your definition bears at least some resemblance to that of the person you’re marrying (/spending the rest of your life with).  Better yet, compromise on a new definition, one that suits the two (or more) of you.  Because according to my definition of marriage, C and Lady C are married.  They’ve made a commitment to being together for the rest of their lives, and they treat one another with love and respect, and so as far as I’m concerned they’re married.  Period.  C can make “bachelor” noises all he wants to, but it looks like a duck, and swims like a duck... etc, etc.  And that is because to me (the only one who actually was legally “married” in that little conversation) marriage really has jack-all to do with a piece of paper.  There are other people who have that piece of paper who are just awful to one another- it seems like they don’t even like one another- and I have a hard time believing they are actually married: but by their definition of the word they must be.  And I can see being actually anti-marriage, if your definition of marriage includes treating one another like crap.  But why would you let anyone else define marriage for you*?  Especially your marriage?

These are probably ducks.  Probably.

I’m definitely anti-plenty-of-other-people’s-marriages, but mine?  Mine is awesome, and I’d recommend this level of happiness to anyone- even if I did have to sign a piece of paper to make it happen.

*After all, there are people who would refuse to recognize my marriage, since Nathan and I don't share a faith.

Bella Swan is so a Feminist

Okay, I know there are some people out there who do not give a rat's ass what I might have to say on the subject- they are going to hate Bella Swan, and they are going to hate the whole Twilight franchise, and I'd have a better chance of convincing them that the sun rises in the west than I would of changing their minds.  This entry is not for them.  This entry is for the people who look at me askance and say, "Jenny O, you are an intelligent woman and a reasonably vocal feminist- how could you possibly enjoy the Twilight books and their milquetoast heroine, Bella Swan?"

Well Gentle Readers, I shall tell you.

When I first read Twilight, I enjoyed the hell out of it.  And I enjoyed the hell out of it because it took me back to when I was seventeen, and love was life-or-death dramatic.  I remember when relationships were all-consuming like that, and while I am relieved I'm no longer subject to such (you could not pay me enough to be a teenager again), that doesn't mean I can't enjoy an occasional trip down memory lane.  So in terms of good ol' fashioned entertainment, Twilight did its job.  Good on you, Stephenie Meyer.

Because I'd enjoyed the first book I went ahead and got the second, and the third, and eventually the fourth, when it came out.  Now I had some issues of my own with those books (a different entry entirely), but Bella Swan being anti-feminist was not one of them.  In fact, the first time I encountered that charge, I was baffled- had the person read the books? (answer: probably not)  Because here is the thing about Bella- all she wants is to be equal to her chosen mate.

That's right, Bella just wants equality.  In a world full of monsters and supermen, she does not want to settle for being the fragile little human who must be protected- she wants to be a monstrous superman, too, thereby be able to protect those she loves.  How, exactly, is that anti-feminist?

And then there are the people who rant that Twilight is all anti-choice, because Bella chooses to carry a fetus to term that is killing her.  Wait, let me say that last part again, with some added emphasis: Bella chooses to carry a fetus to term that is killing her.  Please explain to me how that is anti-choice?  A woman making her own decision about her body?  A woman saying to the people around her, "I don't care what you think is best for me, I am making the choice that I think is right."  Too often, I think, people get caught up in this idea that "pro-choice" means, "Making the choice I would make".  Same thing applies to feminism- some people act like, "Feminism is making the choices I would make," and they look down on those women who don't.  Hence we have women who are ashamed to admit that they don't want to "have it all"- they want to be stay-at-home moms and housewives and not go in to an office every day- or at all.

And I cry BS on that.  You shouldn't have to feel like you're not a feminist because what you want doesn't match what certain members of society are telling you should want.

I recently read an article talking about how when they interviewed girls who'd read Twilight and asked them what they admired about Bella Swan, they rattled off a list of positive traits that aren't actually mentioned in the books.  Which says to me that Stephenie Meyer achieved her goal of making a heroine you could put yourself into, up to and including strengths and weaknesses.  So I have to ask, if I read those books and came away believing that Bella Swan is a decided feminist, and other people come away thinking she's not... well, is there any sort of commentary there on what sort of baggage we're bringing to our respective readings?

On the Quality of My Melons

Let's be blunt here: when you look like I do, you get used to Unsolicited Comments Upon Your Physical Qualities.  Most of the time they do not bother me- I choose to take them in the flattering manner they are most often intended.  Wolf-whistles or appreciative stares don't get my back up- on the contrary, often times they please me.  I may not have had anything to do with my genetic makeup or the symmetry of my features, but I have plenty to do with my physical fitness, clothing, makeup, and hairstyle.  So it's nice for my efforts to be appreciated.

However.

As I was riding home from work today, a cluster of boys (I'd say they ranged in age from about 14 to 17) who were conversing in Spanish (a language which I have a tentative grasp on) deliberately switched to English long enough to comment on my "huge melons" as I zipped past.

Readers, it pissed me off.

Those are supposed to be cantaloupes, in case you were wondering.

 And I spent the rest of the ride home trying to figure out why.  Why did that particular remark make me so angry, when other incidents have not?  I mean, I understand and appreciate the culture of piropos (goes back to that whole, "studied Spanish" thing) but this- this was not that.  But why wasn't it?  Was it just the crude phrasing?  (Piropos ought to be poetic, and I'll admit there was a tinge of insult to my anger- a sort of, "Screw you, my breasts are worthy of far better compliments than that!") After much thought and furious pedaling, however, I think I figured it out.

The incident pissed me off because those boys weren't trying to show their appreciation, or make me feel beautiful or good about myself- they were expressing their power over me by intimidating me.  A group large enough that I certainly didn't feel comfortable stopping and confronting them (as I have been known to do if just one or two males are being inappropriate), deliberately switching to a language they figured was my native tongue, to make absolutely certain that I understood the rude thing they were saying about my body.

Melons, indeed.

Michael's Sword

Warriors have been very much on my mind, lately, a state of being which led to today's doodle of a flaming sword done in the same style as my angel wings, because why not?

(as well as some random thoughts)

Which brings me to my next point about what sorts of images I find appropriate for Memorial Day.  I am the daughter and granddaughter and sister and niece and cousin of military men and women, and I feel pretty secure in my entitlement to an Opinion on the matter.  Which is why I will tell you that I, personally, am greatly aggravated by all these images of grieving people sprawled across graves that keep popping up on my Facebook feed.  It is not obnoxious to me because I don't think Memorial Day is important or that it shouldn't be acknowledged as something more than just a day off from work- in fact I do know that it's about and I do believe it's important that people remember that men and women have given their lives for freedom.  What aggravates me is that these particular photographs arise from one of two scenarios: either they have been set up for effect, in which case they are a slap in the face to everyone who has experienced actual loss, or else they are exploiting people's genuine suffering so that others might put self-congratulatory status updates on their Facebook page because they remember the "true meaning" of Memorial Day, one long weekend out of 365 days.  And I find both scenarios equally distasteful.

Other people's grief should not be a spectacle or a mockery.  Let us remember the sacrifices made, yes- but let us do it with dignity and respect for all parties involved.

Body Politic

It's been a while (::coughtwoweekscough::) but I finally got back to Crossfit.  Today's WOD:

30 Box-jumps
Walking lunge from the door of the box to the gate at the end of the parking lot
Run Devine Hill
Walking lunge from gate back to the door
30 Box-jumps

That doesn't sound so bad, right?  Yeah, that's what I thought.  You'd think I'd have learned by now that it's the ones that seem the most innocuous that kick my ass the hardest:

I was last to finish- but only by ten seconds!

That last illustration is an exaggeration: I did manage my final thirty box-jumps, although it was through sheer force-of-grunt-power, I think.  I really hate it when people make loud noises when they work out, but for some reason I can't not grunt when I do box-jumps.  So I guess I need to adjust my loud-noises-opinion, or end up hating myself...

In other news, we took Isis to the Farmer's Market today for the first time ever, and she was in doggie heaven.  On the way out some woman-with-a-clip-board asked if we want smoke-free parks in Clark County...

"Welll," I said, "Yes and no,"

"Um, alright," she said, and backed away.

"Our bodies want smoke-free parks," Nathan said as we walked away,

"But our sense of..." I started,

"The Constitution," he helped,

"...means we believe in freedom."  And then I said something to Nathan that's very true;  "It's so annoying- my love of the constitution is constantly coming up against my personal convenience."

But that's the way it should be, in this little libertarian's opinion.

F Bomb

There is a certain word that begins with an F that a lot of women (and men, for that matter) seem uncomfortable using, especially as it applies to them.  I  have a difficult time understanding this discomfort, and I can only attribute it to an imperfect understanding of the word's meaning.  In fact, it was my reading an interview of a young starlet that prompted me to write this.  Her grasp of the F word was... well, the nicest thing I can say about it was that at least it was benign.

That F word, by the way, is "Feminism".  And for the purpose of my blog entry today, that word is "Feminist".

I am a feminist.  And no, unlike so many celebrities who, when asked point blank whether or not they are, I have absolutely no qualifiers to that statement.  I am a feminist.

But what does that mean?  Well, here's the actual definition of the word:

...which is all well and good, as far as it goes, but as we all know, a word is more than its denotation.  There is also connotation to consider.  So when I say I'm a feminist, I'm saying the following:

I have the right to choose.

And no, I'm not talking about the abortion debate (in this entry).  I'm talking about the right to choose what I do with my life, with myself.  I'm talking about the right to work any job I'm physically and mentally qualified for, and get paid a fair wage for it, and not be harassed while I'm at it.  I'm talking about the right to leave my (theoretical) children with caregivers so I can do that job- and not be guilt-tripped for doing so.  But I'm also talking about the right to stay at home with those children and be a full-time parent, and not be told I'm "squandering opportunities".  And I'm talking about the right to choose not have any kids at all, and not be made to feel any less of a female.

I'm talking about the right to burn a bra- or to wear a push-up.  I'm talking about the right to dress in a mini-skirt or a hijab, as my own conscience dictates, and not be hassled for it either way.  I'm talking about the right to use all the tools in one's personal arsenal: intellect, humor, physical strength, and yeah- physical attractiveness.  I'm talking about the right to make my own decisions, and to have an equal say in the decisions that affect my family unit.

But do you know what else I'm talking about?  I'm talking about men being able to make those choices for themselves, too.  This isn't about "us vs. them", because when I say I'm a feminist, I'm saying that I believe in equal rights- be they civil, economic, social, or cultural- for all people, regardless of gender.

Dodging Holiday Bullets

It's been mentioned a time or two on this blog that my husband and I do not share a religion.  He's Christian, I'm...  not.  As such, Christmas is a holy day for him and his family, whereas for me it's... well, not.  Christmas, for me, is an entirely secular holiday, an excuse to not go to work, to exchange presents, and to see my family (or friends, those years I was working retail.  But I respect that it's a sacred day for many people, and as such I have never felt comfortable sending out Christmas cards, per se.

Yep, you read that right: I sent out "Happy Holiday" cards not because I'm "at war with Christmas", but because I respect it, and because I don't want to falsely represent myself as someone who observes it as a religious holiday.

This caused me to have a tiny little crisis during out first Christmas as a married couple, because- as I mentioned- Nathan is Christian, and as much as I don't want to falsely represent myself as a Christian, I don't want to falsely represent him as not.  He celebrates Christmas, his family celebrates Christmas, and they are the type of people who do not settle for a generic "happy holidays": nor should they.  They have a specific holiday, and it's theirs, and they shouldn't have to censor their greetings any more than I should be censured for saying "Happy Solstice!" (which falls on the 22nd this year, in case you were curious).

Now, let me clarify: Nathan doesn't care about holiday cards, Christmas or otherwise.  Left up to him, there would be no seasonal greetings upon card stock, let alone photos and letters, etc etc.  So he was just as happy not sending anything- which was a perfectly reasonable solution to my holiday-spirit-ual dilema.

But I was not okay not sending anything.  I like sending out cards (you should see me around Valentine's Day), and I didn't want to not do it just because we couldn't agree on the wording (and by "we", I mean my own brain).  At last, however, a solution sprang fully formed from the aether, allowing me to to make everyone happy- including, most importantly, myself.

Thus did my tradition of sending "Happy New Year!" cards begin.

This Man is Not Afraid to wish you a Merry Christmas

An Open Letter to Delta, Whom I Hate

In response to the laughable question, "How can we help?" on Delta's complaint form:

"You know what?  You can't help.  Or perhaps I should say, you WON'T help.  You never have in the past, and I don't know why you even bother to use that term on your website, or anywhere else in your literature.  Nor do I understand your insistence on using the phrase “customer care”, when it’s so obvious you DON’T.  I chose to stop VOLUNTARILY flying Delta over three years ago, in large part because of how bad your “customer service” had become (also because at least 25% of the time- and I’m being GENEROUS- you seem to be incapable of getting a flight to any given destination on schedule) but there are times when I, or my family members, MUST fly, and Delta is unfortunately the only option.  Such is the current scenario, wherein my husband, who had to go to the east coast for work, is currently stuck in Columbus, Georgia.  Now don't get me wrong- I understand that it's not your fault Atlanta closed due to weather.  I get that.  What I do NOT get is why, even though his flight was diverted and landed in Columbus FIRST, the other two flights that arrived AFTER him were gotten out of there before him (his flight is still trapped there, over three hours later).  Even more than that, I don't understand why you had over 100 people milling around the airport (with only ONE agent) for OVER AN HOUR before ANY sort of announcement was made.  Furthermore, I don't understand why, when a Delta agent FINALLY called my husband back after an hour, the man told him that his system was "locked up" and then HUNG UP ON HIM.  Weather happens, and you have no control over it- but the fact that you tolerate such unprofessional and callous behavior amongst your employees is INEXCUSABLE.

Would you like to hear more?

I expressed my displeasure via a post on FaceBook, and a friend responded by sharing her most recent experience (also from today).  She was flying in to New York from Tennessee: her travel time should have been three hours, according to her tickets, but it turned into eight.  First they sat on the runway for a long, inexplicable while, only to find out there was electric generator failure. So they taxied back to the tarmac and deplaned, waited on another plane, and once it arrived proceeded to wait on the crew. Finally she had the pleasure of circling three turbulent holding patterns.  Again- we understand that mechanical failures aren't REALLY your fault.  But the way you treat passengers while they wait IS.

Another story that was shared with me today was about Delta shafting my 70+ year old grandparents.  I did not hear this from them, of course; they’re too old school to complain about that sort of thing.  I heard this from my mother, who related to me that AFTER she had paid for FIRST CLASS TICKETS for her parents, you guys decided to bump them off their flight, and then pressure them to take coach seats on another flight.  The agent told them that if they took the coach then they'd be reimbursed the difference in price, and since my mother was the one who had paid they went ahead and took the coach seats (the promise of reimbursement is the ONLY reason they even mentioned this heinous treatment to my mother).  Well after three months of your "help", my mother finally gave up trying to get her money back.  And you know what?  It's not even about the money.  It's about the fact that you bullied a pair of senior citizens (one of whom is a WAR VETERAN, if that means anything to you) because YOU overbooked a flight, and then refused to take responsibility for it.  I guess it’s good to know that not even paying more can make you care about your customers.  At least you’re egalitarian in your abuse.

If you want to be the great company you USED to be twenty or more years ago, you need to re-evaluate the kinds of people you let work for you.  These bullies, cowards, and unfeeling louts are representing your brand, and they're doing it poorly.  People HATE your company.  The phrase “I’ve been Delta’d” is commonly understood amongst my social set to mean “I’ve been screwed over.”  Go ahead and google "I hate Delta" or "Delta sucks" or "Delta is evil".  Go on, do it- see how many hits you get.  Why?  Not because of weather delays, I assure you.  It's because of the way your employees are allowed treat people.  Maybe you should take some lessons from SouthWest or Chick-fil-A, two companies I NEVER hesitate to do business with: they treat people not just well but RIGHT.  They have their share of mistakes and delays as well, but they actually APOLOGIZE, and try to MAKE IT RIGHT.  They treat people like PEOPLE, and not like dumb sheep to be herded from one location to the next with kicks and scorn.  It's called taking responsibility for (and pride in) what you do, and maybe it's about time Delta remembered how to do that.

But you know what?  You probably stopped reading this about seven hundred words ago, and I'll probably just get a form letter response saying, "Delta apologizes for you unfortunate experience.  We hope to see you soon!" and that will be the end of it.  If there's still a human being reading this, prove me wrong.  Prove to me that Delta hires more than just bullies, thugs, and sociopaths.  Prove to me that SOMEONE in this company actually gives a damn at how much they’re hated.  I dare you."

EDIT: I got my auto-reply telling me they try to respond within seven business days.  We'll see.

Lovely Things

Some of you might possibly be familiar with my red Dr. Martens.


More specifically, you might have noticed my love affair with said boots.

It all started back in autumn of 2003... the year I decided to be Punk Rock Dorothy for Halloween (yes there are pictures: no they will not be posted). I chose that costume specifically to justify buying a pair of red (oxblood or cherry, depending on whom you ask) docs. They put me back about a hundred dollars- no small change for a recent college grad. But I got them in the mail and I put them on and they were so gorgeous I knew they were worth every penny... just as they were worth the subsequent months of sheer bloody (literally) misery it took to break the damn things in. But break them in I did, until they were so comfortable the blisters became a gentle, half-remembered nightmare. And you can ask anyone I've dated or lived with since then- I take care of my boots. I'm not quite military-level-obsessed with it, but I do enjoy polishing them, caring for them. Which is how, seven years after the initial semi-impulse of a purchase, they are still a beautiful (and practical) staple in my wardrobe. Audrey Hepburn had the little black dress: I have the supple red boots.

Over the years I have looked at other Dr. Martens- I do enjoy the aesthetic of the brand, after all, not to mention their sturdy construction- and occasionally dreamed of getting another pair. But I never went through with it, for various reasons. First of all, when it comes right down to it, I'm a bit of a miser when it comes to buying myself impractical stuff. Second of all... well, actually, that pretty much sums it up. Sure, docs last forever, but I already had a pair- and they were living up to their long-lived reputation. There was no way I needed another pair, and I just couldn't justify spending that kind of money on something just because I wanted it, when I already had it... or a version of it, anyway... am I making any sense at all here? In a thrifty way?

And then a friend of mine pointed these out to me. And oh, how I lusted.

See, the thing is, my boots? Are distinctly masculine. This makes sense, seeing as how they're men's boots. I like it- I tend to have a fairly distinct masculine streak, myself, and I certainly have never let it stop me from wearing my boots with skirts and dresses... but a part of me saw the feminine detailings on those Manor Alettas and just... purred.

So appropriate for work, I thought to myself, so subtly subversive. Perhaps I shall allow myself to daydream of these boots...

And I did. But I did not, gentle readers, actually purchase them...

Which brings us to today, and the early exchange of Christmas presents with my husband. My darling, wonderful husband, who is also a photographer. Behold:

Boooooooots!

Are they not lovely? Here, have a shot that gives them a better angle:


As you might have guessed, Nathan and I decided to take the opportunity to use his new lighting set-up (Christmas gift from his parents) to try and get a few more "product"y-type shots. You know, the kind where the focus is on the merchandise for sale rather than the model's... assets? (Did I just call myself a hooker? Maybe? Don't think about that- look at this photo!)

(I definitely look concerned that I might be a hooker...)

This is probably my favorite, in terms of what we set out to accomplish:

Can't you just see that in a magazine? With a hand-scrawled "Dr. Martens" across the top? With a catchy little phrase like, "always appropriate" or some such nonsense... anyway it was fun! And as a bonus, here is a picture that shows me with ::gasp:: cellulite!


Yup, little dimples there on the back of the thigh. So I'm here to tell you, ladies (and dudes)- if my highly muscular and sexy legs are showing dimples, then dimples are just a part of life and nothing to fret over so screw those air-brushed alarmist magazines!

Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go polish some boots...

Own Your Age

Living in the South as I do, I tend to see a lot of females who are not comfortable with their age. Little girls dressed up like teenagers, teenagers dressed up like adults, older women dressed up like younger women, and still older women who have done everything in their cosmetic power to appear anything but their own age.

It's depressing, it really is.

Why can't we just accept the life stage we're in? I can almost understand, when it comes to the younger females- they know nothing but childhood, so they don't realize that every age has its own blessings in addition to its drawbacks. And anyway they theoretically have parents that should be helping to guide them into age-appropriate actions and apparel. But as far as the adults go... why do they fight their age so hard? What's so wrong with being the age you are?

I want to see more women owning their age. I want to see more women acknowledging the fact that no, 30 is not 20. And 40 is not 30. And 50 is not 30, etc, etc, etc. And that is a good thing. You've already lived through your 20s, 30s, 40s, and 50s- why on earth would you want to go back? Yeah, it sucks that you're not as spry as you used to be, that your skin isn't as tight and your muscles not as toned- but you know what? You're not as dumb as you used to be, either (one hopes, anyway). You have all this fantastic life experience under your belt now, which you can use to make better decisions and generally lead a happier, healthier life. So why would you want to gripe about that? Why would you want to camouflage where you're at with botox and dye? Why not own those crow's feet? Man, I'm friggin' pleased as hell with my crow's feet. They prove that a) I smile a lot and b) I spend a lot of time outdoors, squinting in the sun. I am proud to call both of those things essential parts of my make-up, and I would never want to hide them.

I know that some people will argue that it's easy for me to talk, when I'm still six months shy of 30 (let alone the higher decades) but my mom feels the same way. Sure, she doesn't like that arthritis is starting to take up residence in her knuckles, but she prefers it to the alternative (you know- not aging because you're dead.) I'm glad that I have her example to counterbalance the women who act as though getting older is the worst possible tragedy that could befall a female.

But then, if you're not gaining any sort of wisdom with your years, maybe it is...

Smelling As Sweetly Legitimate

It's possible that you're not up-to-speed on the current tizzy regarding whether or not women writers are taken as seriously as men writers- if you're not, there are a number of good articles out there right now about that topic, and other related topics (such as Linda Holmes' excellent piece on whether or not "chick lit" is even a thing) (she says no, and I agree) that will catch you up on the squabble. But there is one article in particular (by Chris Jackson) which addresses something that I remember very distinctly from my own book-selling days:

"...it's clear that women are willing to buy books by male writers, but men seem much more reluctant to buy books by women."

In my experience, men are not only less willing to read a book written by a woman, they are far less willing to read a book about a woman. Obviously this is a sweeping generalization, and does not apply to every man, but it is definitely prevalent enough that you notice it if you work in The Industry. Even my husband, who happens to adore the Honor Harrington books, as well as author Naomi Novik's work, did not pick those books up without prompting. My mother introduced him to the first, and I to the second.

In their defense, I do believe that men are conditioned to this from a young age. I remember one specific incident where I was working back in the children's section, and a mother came in looking for an adventure story for her son. I gave her a selection that met the criteria she laid our for me, and do you know that woman rejected every single one that had a female protagonist? She even came out and said she would prefer he have a book about a little boy. And these were not coming-of-age stories, people. They were picture books. Like this one. Ladies and gentlemen, the "gender-appropriate" brainwashing of our youth.

It is for this exact reason that, when I started toying with the idea of writing a novel, and I got far enough into it that coming up with a pen name seemed like an excellent Procrastination Exercise (you know you have them, too, fellow writers), I knew without doubt that I wanted one that was at the very least androgynous. Initials are a good way to go, I figured. And then came the quandry- author's photo, or no author's photo? Because I honestly feel like I could probably sell more books if no one knows my gender- specifically if men don't know my gender- but at the same time, I also know that being attractive has rarely hurt anyone's chances at anything. And my husband takes some darn flattering photos of me, knowhatI'msayin'?

(And before anyone points out to me that things like pen names and dust jackets really ought to be reserved for after the novel is finished, I say to them- hush with your kill-joy-ness.)

But the fact that the thought entered my mind at all- what is this, the 19th century? Shall I call myself Currer Bell II, perhaps? To ensure better sales and a chance at legitimacy, rather than being banished to the realms of Genre Fiction? Part of me is disgusted with myself that my brain just automatically went there- but then the pragmatic part of me just sort of shrugs. I guess I, too, am just a product of my society.

Copping Rattitude

Okay, here it is: I'm tired of people hating on my rats.

Now, the vast majority of people who may or may not be reading this blog probably don't have any problems whatsoever with my rats. But there are people who do. And this is addressed to them.

When we are at a party and I happen to mention that I have rats, it's totally cool if you want to say something along the lines of, "Ooo, rats. I'm not really down with rats." I mean it would possibly be more polite for you to smile and say, "That's nice," before quickly changing the subject, but it's cool- I get it. Rats are not for everyone. But here's the thing- there is no need for you to go on a long diatribe about how much you are not down with rats. I could quite probably do without the theatrical facial expressions, the repetition of the words "hate" "disgusting" and "bleaugh", and to be frank the pretty dang offensive stories of you having to call the big strong man next door over to discard of the tiny mouse you killed with your stupid trap. And then you made him put it in his garbage can instead of yours, because apparently you're not just skeezed out by rodents, you also fear rodent zombies. I would probably call antics of these sorts "insensitive", to say the least.

It's especially annoying when you act this way even after I've carefully explained that I do not keep New York sewer rats as pets, but rather domesticated fancy rats. Seriously, lady- it's like the difference between a wolf and a particularly good-natured dachshund. Most people would not like to be in the same room with a wolf, no matter how well-behaved. But few of those people would put a dachshund on the same level of Uh-Oh.

And it's not like I'm whipping out pictures of my little darlings, demanding that you admire them- they just came up in passing conversation. Because come on. I cannot tell you how many times I have refrained from using the words "bug-ugly" "disgusting" or "bleaugh" in regards to people's hideous human offspring. And I have never told stories about inhumanely killing them when they stumbled onto my property. So why can't you show me the same consideration when I happen to mention the small creatures in my care? At least mine are cute, well-mannered, and clean.*

Oh wait I lied- admire my thoroughly superior rats!

(Zelda Ratkins)


(Camilla Ratkins)

*Of course this entire paragraph in no way relates to the children of any of the people I know and love... I'm only friends with people who have superior genes, so they necessarily breed superior kids.