imbalance

What triggers anger? Fear? Arrogance? Impotence? My anger is a rich blend of all three and something deeper and more primal. No, it's more about my inner child. My history.

Many smart, capable female friends have been posting on Facebook about getting old. And fat. And not being pretty. I see decades of creativity sucked dry by bullshit. And I got angry.

"Why do you waste your energy puling about aging? All you have is time and you're pissing it away. There's a million more fascinating, enriching and amusing things to do out there than moan than something you can't change. I am 53. I don't give a rat's ass about getting older. Get on with your lives and stop this ridiculous, first-world whiny shit.
You are smart and I love you but you are wasting your precious time. The End."

It probably won't make a bit of difference and I'll offend people and make them defensive. I should just block them so I don't have to read it. 

Who do I think I am, telling people that they're full of shit? 
Who do I think I am, telling them I know better than they do? 

This goes back to power. And balance and imbalance. 

Do I have the right? 
Do I have the obligation? 
Do I see clearly?

Well, I guess I think I do. I think I have the right and obligation to say that the Emperor is stark naked. I am pretty sure, however, that it falls on deaf ears and I want to be okay with exorcising cultural demons even if it seems I'm the only one witnessing the act.

perpetual idiocy rules

Let's face it: facebook sucks the life out of blogging. But here I am because facebook also provides endless fodder for blogging. (If one has time/energy left after logging off.)

A friend posted the tripe above. She, like a million other women, view this as the romantic ideal.

It's not.
It is patronizing, controlling and offensive. Insulting to both men and women.

Let's take it apart (without the stupid title caps and random punctuation crapulence), shall we?:

When she pulls away, pull her back.

Oh dear. How much like "when she says no she really means yes" is this? By all means, pull her back against her will; just hope her left jab isn't better than yours.

When you see her start crying, just hold her and don't say a word.

Because you are an imbecile and couldn't possibly figure out how to ask her what is the matter. And if you speak, you'll just fuck everything up.

When you see her walking, sneak up and hug her waist from behind.

Whatever. If she hates surprises, wear protection.

When she's scared, protect her.

Because everyone knows that women dissolve into little piles of scented hankies when they're scared.

When she steals your favorite hoodie, let her wear it.

She's just a cutesy little klepto-muffin and isn't that adorable?

When she says that she loves you, she really does mean it.

And you couldn't possibly assess that based on your own observation, right?

When she grabs at your hands, hold hers and play with her fingers.

Seriously. Stop that.

When she tells you a secret, keep it safe and untold.

As opposed to what you normally do when someone confides in you.

When she looks at you in your eyes, don't look away until she does.

Nothing more romantic than a staring contest.

When she's mad, hug her tight and don't let go.

Unless she's armed. In which case, really don't let her go.

When she says she's okay, don't believe it.

Sigh. Really? Try to forget middle school.

Treat her like she's all that matters to you.

Every woman's dream guy is the obsessed stalker.

Kiss her in the pouring rain.

Yawn.

When she runs up to you crying, the first thing you say is: "Whose butt am I kicking, baby?"

Even if she's genuinely upset about something of merit, threatening bloodshed will make it all better.

Men and women will not break worn out and limiting patterns until they recognize this as just imbecilic role-playing.

why pink and blue annoy me

Interesting article in today's New York Times on Caster Semenya, a South African runner who won gold at the world track and field championships in Berlin but who is being gender-tested because she was 2-seconds faster than the rest of the runners (though she did not break the world record) and it seems, she just doesn't look female enough.

First of all, let me get the wordplay out of my head: Her name is Semenya and I want her to be from Kenya. Okay. Thank you. Moving on.

Two quotes from the article were particularly fascinating:
It turns out genes, hormones and genitals are pretty complicated,” Alice Dreger, a professor of medical humanities and bioethics at Northwestern University, said in a telephone interview. “There isn’t really one simple way to sort out males and females. Sports require that we do, but biology doesn’t care. Biology does not fit neatly into simple categories, so they do these tests. ”

Dreger...said the doctors could examine genes, gonads, genitalia, hormone levels and medical history. “But at the end of the day, they are going to have to make a social decision on what counts as male and female, and they will wrap it up as if it is simply a scientific decision,” Dreger said. “And the science actually tells us sex is messy. Or as I like to say, ‘Humans like categories neat, but nature is a slob.’ ”

Nature is a slob. That's my kind of science.

five yesterday; one exhausted post for today

I was feeling a little puny yesterday and stayed home from work. Unable to just relax and do nothing, I took the opportunity to flesh out a few draft blog entries. Then for good measure, I whipped up a couple more posts.

I have got to fucking learn to pace myself. I've had a blogging hangover all day.

More hair of the dog, please
There is one more thing, of course. I hear people say this about their offspring way too often: "Oh, my son will probably run wild in here...he's all boy!" Or, "If Suzie sees a bug, she'll run away screaming...she's all girl!"

I'm starting a new fractional gender measuring system. It goes like this. Your five-year old son loves video games and climbing trees BUT also enjoys reading and pottery. So you say, "Oh, my son might run wild in here...he's 87% boy!" Your seven-year old daughter plays t-ball, hates wearing dresses but squeals with fear at the site of a spider. So you warn, "If Suzie sees a spider, she may run away...she's 63% girl!"

You see? Rate your children on their gender strength and you'll be able to stave off the frightening prospect of having a queer child. Remember, folks, I am living in the land of big hair and "get a rope." This pussy/dick division is serious business.