whiskey in a teacup . com

I approached the entrance to the gym.  Ahead of me, a large oldish guy with a towel draped over his shoulders.  Behind me, a mailman.  The large guy opened the door and held it for me and the mailman.  As we graciously stepped through, he said, “Welcome to the house of pain!” and in so doing pretty much made my entire life.

At the gym, I marveled that the “women’s room” (to which I have so daintily defected after initially working out in the meathead room) features a wall to wall, floor to ceiling mirror directly in front of the row of treadmills.  This means that you must spend your run looking at either your own thighs, your own psychotic-eyed sweaty red face, or your own camel toe.  There is simply nowhere else to look.

On the short drive home from the gym, I was stopped at a red light and observed a young guy on a rice rocket coming down the off-ramp from route 28.  He was standing straight up on the foot pedals and had his arms raised above his head in a curiously triumphant pose as he thundered past the Burger King and towards the A.J. Wright.  Way to rock out, rock star*.

*i.e. Way to suck, you big dumb suck.

Six years ago today I showed up on Jared’s doorstep for our first date.  Save for business trips and the occasional sulk, we’ve been together pretty much every day and night since then.  About two years ago we got married, so that anniversary is the one we celebrate now, but this date remains just as significant to me.

I don’t know if it’s possible to love someone more and more each day, as the platitude goes, but I notice a definite increase every few months or so.  Jared is my partner in everything, a continuous source of laughter, a balm for my open wounds, and the only person in the world whose presence makes me feel more like myself.  I just plain wouldn’t be who I am if not for him.

Dig it!

I let myself get worked up by this song* before bed, and was startled awake at 2 a.m. by a terrible nightmare:  I had been in a horrible screaming fight with a family member, and to escape the chaos I propelled my wheelchair (I don’t think I was disabled, but with dream logic, who can tell?) outside.  Once on the sidewalk I pushed down on the joystick, and suddenly the chair took flight, and away I soared, as fast as I could.

*Forgive me this transgression into teenage girlness, but if you’ve got sorrowful family dynamics like I do, that song is pretty darn cathartic.

A word on Jezebel.com and Slate’s new “female-oriented” site, DoubleX.com:

I used to read Jezebel for banal news updates and the occasional humorous column.  Slowly, I began to realize that the Jezebel commenters (if not the site’s writers themselves) are among the very worst people in the world.  Bitchy, unreasonable, vindictive, and shockingly blind to their own shitty logic, these people made the site less and less worth reading.  I gave DoubleX a fleeting glance because I’ve enjoyed Slate for years, but it was immediately clear that that the new site was not for me.

These sites are supposed to be for women, or more specifically, for feminists.  I don’t identify as a feminist because it’s become a loaded and meaningless word and because I’m lucky enough to live in a society where my gender has never really prevented me from doing anything, aside from having sex with Rufus Wainwright.   There used to be a real need for feminism in this country, and there is and will long be a need for it in many other countries.  But it comes across as pretty disingenuous to call yourself a feminist just because you took Women’s Studies and refuse to play GTA because of its misogynistic themes.

From what I’ve observed, the bulk of modern American feminism is not about political activism or making the world a more just place, but about reframing issues to suit one’s own failings.  If you’re significantly overweight, the problem isn’t your lifestyle, it’s society’s obsession with anorexic models as the ideal of beauty!   If you act like an asshole and people subsequently don’t like you, the problem isn’t your personality, it’s that society can’t deal with a strong woman!

Both of the aforementioned sites have recently posted essays on the “withdrawal” method and how “science” (i.e. one particular study) supports it as a totally rational and respectable method of birth control…a feminist method, in fact.  Jezebel’s article on withdrawal is titled “Can We Stop Shaming Women Who Practice Withdrawal Now?”  No, no we can’t.  This is another simple reframing:  if you’re too fucking stupid and irresponsible to use birth control, the problem isn’t that you’re fucking stupid and irresponsible, it’s that society unfairly shames women for making choices about their bodies!   DoubleX’s article is titled “Why educated young women are using withdrawal instead of condoms”, as if such women have reviewed numerous clinical studies and reached an informed decision, instead of the truth, which is that they’re too fucking stupid and irresponsible to use birth control.  If this is feminism, I want no part of it.

A second issue, into which I cannot delve too deeply at the moment, is Jezebel’s stance on abortion.  Most pro-choicers would agree that they are not actually pro-abortion, per se…most, except for Jezebel and its commenters.  According to them, abortion is always entirely and irrefutably ethical, up to the actual moment of delivery, and any argument against this is an argument against women themselves.

Without really getting into my personal beliefs on abortion, I think there are very few justifications for the actions of adult, educated women who get pregnant by accident.  (What could be more feminist and empowering than using an understanding of your body, as well as available resources, to practice safe sex?)  I tend to agree with Slate’s health columnist Will Saletan, who feels abortion should be legal, safe, and rare.  Speaking of Saletan, Jezebel has specifically called him out for daring to question the mindsets of some women who choose to get abortions.  The comments were not a critical analysis of his argument, but instead a bilious stream of nonsense like “He doesn’t have a uterus so abortion is none of his business!” or “Oh, of course a MAN would say something like that!”  Again, it’s just reframing:  abortion cannot ever be about the life of an unborn fetus (because it’s never an unborn baby or even a human at all with these people), it’s only ever about the woman’s inherent right to have unsafe sex and an emotionless, guilt-free abortion.  Will Saletan, you are free to contemplate and comment on my uterus any day of the week as I know you would do so thoughtfully and intelligently, unlike this band of willfully ignorant harpies.

Please understand that I say all of this as a woman who loves being a woman, who acknowledges and appreciates the differences between men and women, who is frequently ashamed and appalled by the actions of men, and who is just as frequently ashamed and appalled by the actions of women.

-I was in a truly shittastic mood all weekend, and a trip to the beach (to a friend’s place for an annual holiday bash) paradoxically made things much worse.  To wit: while standing by the calm blue yonder of the Atlantic, under the first clear sky of summer, I became annoyed with the way my hair was blowing into my face and remarked, “Ugh, this goddamn ocean breeze!”  I become more and more like a curmudgeonly old Jewish man every day.

-During that ill-fated beach excursion, as I grew increasingly melancholy about some recent family drama, and increasingly uncomfortable about being at a party with dozens of strangers, I received a text message that my pregnant friend had been in a car accident and was possibly in premature labor.  I spent the next several minutes in my car, staring listlessly at distant fireworks, until I decided I was officially done and drove back to Boston.  (She’s fine and the bun is still safely in the oven.)

-I gave blood today and, instead of the usual ten minutes of screening questions (”In the past two hours, have you shot up with a dirty needle while simultaneously having anal sex with an AIDS-infected bonobo chimp?”  Who hasn’t?!) the nurse asked me just one question, then instructed me to answer the rest myself by clicking yes/no buttons on her laptop.  The question she asked me herself was “You were born a woman, right?”

-I was torn asunder by a client’s power wheelchair, which I was driving to help him get around a corner.  My steering technique was poor and I managed to get myself wedged between the chair and the wall, and when I tried to put the chair in reverse the joystick got stuck in forward mode and I was trapped!, wriggling and struggling in grievous pain.  It pretty much sucked, but I think the bruising will be spectacular.

We recently rented The Little Mermaid, which came out an astonishing twenty years ago, when I was six.  I feel pretty lucky to have been young during one of Disney’s golden ages, when the animation was hand-drawn and awesome and there were vulgar subliminal messages in every film.   I was a huge fan of The Little Mermaid and owned such items as t-shirts and leggings with Ariel’s picture on them, and little rubber action figures of her and Prince Eric.   Though I saw the movie many times throughout my youth, there were, of course, a few things I didn’t pick up on until seeing it as an adult:

-This is, essentially, a story about being born into the wrong body.  “Oh, that’s just a random part of the plot,” you say, “and clearly not a metaphor for transgendered people.”  Yeahbutt!  A major character in the movie is modeled after Divine, a hero of the LGBT community.   COINCIDENCE?  Yes.

-This is also a story about how, if you want a man to fall in love with you, you should drastically change your physical appearance and lose your ability to speak.

-There’s a weird moment during the Under the Sea montage where the lyrics refer to a “blackfish”, and then a fish who is very obviously supposed to be a black soul singer appears on screen and sings a few notes.  At least it wasn’t a catfish?

-The movie suggests that it’s totally fine for a sixteen year old to get married…to a dude she’s known for less than a week.

-I had always wondered about the mechanics of merpeople sex, but it never occurred to me that along with Ariel’s legs, she must have got a human vagina with a presumably intact hymen.  Considering how little she knew about life above the sea (she used a fork to comb her hair, etc), I think someone was in for a big wedding night surprise!