There's nothing ladylike about being a lady

A few days ago Variety magazine TV critic Brain Lowry wrote a piece about Sarah Silverman’s new HBO standup special. In his review, he laments that such a talented (and good-lookin’!) woman comic would limit her career by having such a dirty mouth:

There’s something simultaneously fascinating and maddening about Sarah Silverman – graced with genuine talent and a well-defined comedic persona on one hand, and a commitment to pushing past the edge in a way that blunts her appeal on the other. Despite all manner of career-friendly gifts – from her looks to solid acting chops – she’s limited herself by appearing determined to prove she can be as dirty and distasteful as the boys, an attribute very much on display in her HBO special “We Are Miracles,” which premieres on Nov. 23.

Frankly, it would be a shame if Sarah Silverman wound up confined to Comedy Central roasts and the occasional special, but that’s about as much mileage as can be expected from her act as presently constituted.

As for going much further with those self-inflicted restrictions, that would be the real miracle.

The whole idea of “being ladylike” or “acting ladylike” is something that has always pissed me off. There have been a couple of times in my life when I’ve considered giving up swearing, and then I thought Why the everliving fuck would I do that? I love to curse. But I’ll never understand why some people think that certain words and behaviors should be off-limits to women, and that “being ladylike” is the only acceptable way for women to behave.

Because there is nothing, I repeat, nothing ladylike about being a lady.

Being a lady means you start bleeding from your hoo-haw sometime between the age of 9 and 15 and try to hide the stains every month for the next 30 to 50 years. Being a lady means always being aware of your surroundings, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is following you, especially when you’re walking back to your car by yourself at night. Being a lady means being naked from the waist down spread eagle in stirrups while 15 people you’ve never met in your life wander in and out of the hospital room where you’re giving birth. I could go on, but you get the idea. There’s a whole shit-ton of things that ladies have to deal with that are light years from “ladylike.”

You know how old I was the first time a grown-ass man tried to pick me up? Twelve. I was at a music festival with my mom and brother. I didn’t even understand that this asshat was coming on to me until my mother, to her credit, marched straight over to him and said, “That’s my daughter. Leave her alone.” This is not an unusual experience. When you’re born female, that’s just par for the course. So forgive me if I think that we've earned the right as a gender to let a few colorful four-letter words fly. The idea that women are somehow soft and delicate and must behave as such, while men are tough and hard and have therefore earned some arbitrary right to be course and vulgar, is laughable. I am not saying that being a woman is more difficult than being a man. I’m not saying that women are better than men. I’m saying that we’re equal, and holding women to a different standard of behavior is bullshit.

This is Brain Lowry’s description of himself on Twitter:

Brian Lowry is a critic and columnist for the entertainment trade Variety. He also knows a George Carlin quote for any situation.

So Brian’s a Carlin fan. Huh. Me too. In Brian’s mind, it’s okay for George Carlin to be dirty (and really, has there ever been anyone dirtier than George Carlin?) but not Sarah Silverman, because she’s “limiting herself.” Despite their foul language, George Carlin and Richard Pryor are widely considered to be masters of the spoken language. You know what I think they’d have to say about Brian’s dumb ass review?

Fuck that double standard. Fuck it hard. Fuck it long. Fuck it until it dies.

Merry f*cking Christmas

 

It’s that time of year again. That time of year when my mother begins to wind herself up into a holidays induced frenzy. It’s like she she’s smoking more than turkey. Maybe mistletoe joints while downing cup after cup of holly tea with a candy cane shoved up her ass.

Anyone who knows me more than a little knows that my mother and I do not get along. She is difficult and childlike, a barely functioning adult with a serious personality disorder. I know to some people it might sound cruel to talk this way about someone who’s mentally ill, but you know what else is cruel? Having two kids when you’re mentally ill and then expecting them to take care of you.

No matter how much we’re not getting along, my mother always makes sure that we’ve “made up” before the holidays, because she can’t stand the thought of not “celebrating” with family, and god forbid she doesn’t score any loot. I always go along with it, forcing my husband and daughter to participate, because I guess in some dark corner of my brain that I haven’t managed to completely wall off, I still feel sorry for her.

She started pestering me with phone calls about two weeks ago, because she is already planning for Christmas. That means that she started thinking about Christmas before Halloween was over.

“I want to do something really wild for Christmas dinner this year,” she said. “I’m tired of the traditional meals. So start thinking about what we might have.”

This is annoying to me because I seriously don’t give a shit. All I want to do is get in and get out, hopefully with my sanity in tact. But each year my mother builds Christmas up into this impossible ideal that no one can live up to, and every year she tries to force the rest of us into sharing in her mountainous delusion. No one can possibly be cheery enough. The presents can’t be plentiful or large enough. The food is never quite as satisfying as she thinks it should be, and each year she lays out a spread that could feed a large extended family, even though it’s just the five of us. No one is ever as grateful or surprised as they should be, no matter how emphatic his or her appreciation. In order for her to be satisfied, our smiles must split our very faces. We must practically soil ourselves with excitement. She is over 70 now, but she views the holiday through the eyes of a four year old, and not in a good way. It is exhausting.

My husband, daughter, brother and I spend Christmas Eve as opposed to Christmas proper with Mother, because she refuses to be in the same room with my dad, even though they’ve been divorced since 1980. So several years ago she surrendered Christmas day and has completely taken over Christmas Eve as her own, insisting that we have it at her house, where she can have total control over the decorations and the food. Her decorations, while beautiful and Martha Stewart-like, completely engulf her small house, looking like the Hobby Lobby vomited up several aisles in her living room. I’m fine with celebrating at her house, though, because that means we can leave when we want.

I told a close friend of mine that my mother was insisting that I come up with an idea for Christmas dinner. She’s a witty, sarcastic woman, much like me.

“You should tell her you want fondue,” she said, and we shared a good laugh.

It was so funny to me that when my mom called today to ask if I’d been thinking about Christmas dinner I said, “What about fondue?”

“Oh,” she said, clearly surprised. I could hear the cogs clicking in her head. She was intrigued. “Have you had that recently at a friend’s house?”

“No,” I said, instantly realizing my blunder.

“Well, I used to have fondue pots ...” she said, which is true. They were olive green and she bought them in the 1970s, the last time that fondue was hip.

“It’s fine,” I said. “We don’t have to have fondue. Don’t go out and buy fondue pots. Let’s just have pizza or something.” Because my mother has no money. She never does. But no matter how much my husband and I try to insist that she save her money and not buy us gifts, she refuses to listen. And now, I thought, she’s going to go out and buy a bunch of goddamned fondue pots that she can’t afford.

Shit.

She said that maybe we would just have pizza, but I kinda doubt it. I have a feeling that come Christmas Eve, there will be a little forest of fondue pots dotting her dining room table, simmering over sterno cans, glistening with various cheeses, broths and chocolates, because though my mother is irritating, she is a damned good cook.

And who knows. Maybe this year, the fondue will be so fucking exciting Christmas will finally live up to her expectations.

State-sanctioned rape

There’s a case blowing up in the news lately that’s getting a lot of media attention, both traditional and social. Apparently two cops in New Mexico making a routine traffic stop decided that the man they pulled over was “clenching his buttocks” which made them think he might be hiding drugs in his colon.

The police took the man into custody and had his abdomen x-rayed. No drugs. Allegedly, the police then had the man's anus searched by a doctor for drugs, twice. When they couldn’t find drugs that way, the man was forcibly given three enemas. Finally, he was sedated and given a colonoscopy.

In all of the probing, exactly zero drugs were ever found.

The general outrage, from both men and women, has been palpable.

Not that he’s a lighthouse of justice, but here’s the headline of an editorial about the matter from Glenn Beck’s website, written by Beck himself:

This actually happened in America: New Mexico man forced to undergo anal cavity search after routine traffic stop

Following the editorial is a string of comments full of fury, with not one person, that I’ve been able to find, on the side of the cops. Here’s just a sampling of folks’ indignation:

Everyone involved in this absolutely horrendous ordeal deserves to be fired and barred from holding any type of job where they have to deal with the public. They then need to be prosecuted for assault and battery. I hope Mr. Eckert sues the crap out of the police department and the "care" facility. Wake up people - your government is out of control. Time to hold feet to the fire and refuse to put up with this kind of abuse.

Assault and battery? They need to be prosecuted for rape.

That's right. They penetrated his body.

He was legally molested.

WTF LEGALLY MOLESTED. There is no such thing a legal molestation. He was Totally and by any law ILLEGALLY MOLESTED and anyone involved needs to be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. NO QUESTIONS ASKED.

Yet in eight states in these Great United--Alabama, Idaho, Illinois, Kentucky, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, Virginia and Texas--legislation has been proposed by state senators and representatives--people voted into office--to require that women undergo transvaginal ultrasounds before they can obtain an abortion.

Has there been outrage? Sure. But not the across-the-board outrage that there should be. Nobody thinks it’s okay for the cops to search a man’s anus, but stick a wand in a pregnant woman’s vagina? Well, that’s kind of different, isn’t it? I mean, if she’s pregnant, somebody’s obviously already been in there once. What’s the big deal if a doctor roots around in there a little more?

This shit has got to stop.

Fundamentally, we understand that a man’s body is his own, to be done with as he pleases, to be penetrated only when he says it’s okay. We don’t have that same understanding of women’s bodies.

Women’s bodies are vessels. Vessels for babies, vessels for pleasure. Vessels to be filled. Vessels to be invaded. Parents--and I mean parents of both genders--have got to start teaching their daughters that their bodies belong to them. That they are their own. That they belong to themselves. Not a boyfriend, or a girlfriend or a husband or even a doctor. Not for reasons of shame or virginity, but for reasons of dignity and worth. And parents need to teach that concept to their boys as well.

And kids need sex education. Proper, real, sex education that teaches them how to avoid pregnancy. Boys need to be taught not just not to rape, but to respect a woman’s boundaries. That he can have access to that vagina only when birth control has been discussed and decided upon and she has given her explicit, well-thought-out permission. Not an “I guess so,” or some sort of half-assed consent because she’s afraid he’ll leave her if she doesn’t. Women have got to be taught that "I guess so" isn't a phrase that should come out of her mouth, and men need to be taught that "I guess so" doesn't mean "Yes." Because it benefits both men and women when women have control of their own bodies.

Finally, more women have got to run for office. We need more women politicians, judges and police officers. That’s how public policy will become more women-friendly and women-centric. Women must come out in great numbers to vote, and we have got to start voting the right people into office.

That’s how we’re going to finally gain ownership of our bodies.

The wrong side of the tracks

Here in the quirky, liberal, wonderful town of Lawrence, Kansas, we live on the wrong side of the tracks.

The wrong side of the tracks in Lawrence is the west side, west of Iowa Street. It’s where the “new” high school (opened in 1997) is, and even though the dividing line in Lawrence that demarks where kids will attend was drawn from east to west to equalize the socio-economic statuses of the kids attending, Free State High School--the new one--is perceived as the “rich” high school while Lawrence High School is perceived to be the high school of “real,” down-to-earth Lawrencians.

Recently, in anticipation of a rivalry football game, some kids at Free State wore t-shirts referring to Lawrence High kids as “peasants.”

Some people on Facebook and on the Lawrence Journal World website are putting it down to “kids will be kids,” and not letting it bother them that much. Other people are pissed. I’m just … Ugh. Really?

I’ve lived and worked all over this town. My parents owned the house at 24th & Ridge Court in the 1970s, long before Redbud Lane became the supposed hotbed of drugs and dangerous it is now. (I say *the* house because there are apartment buildings on every other corner.) I’ve lived near Burcham Park on Mississippi Street. I worked at Roger’s Food Center in North Lawrence for almost two years. It would take about a year before the Sand Rats would accept one of us college kids from over the bridge, but once they decided we were okay, they’d beg us to come party with them after work. That’s how I and my fellow Roger’s coworkers ended up at the Congo bar more than once, a place with a legendary reputation in the rest of town as a bar one simply didn’t set foot in if one valued one’s life. We found the Congo to be relatively uneventful, populated mostly by the same good-natured alcoholics we waited on at Rogers. Eventually, the Congo burned down; I’m not sure of the circumstances. I’ve spent a lot of time hanging out with friends in Central- and East Lawrence. There’s not a single part of this town that I’m afraid to drive through or visit.

Now, though, my husband and kid and I live on the west side. There’s this perception amongst many Lawrencians that westsiders are all rich assholes living in McMansions. Here’s the reality: my kid goes to Deerfield School, a school built in the 1960s, the most crowded school in town. I have lots of friends on this side of town, very cool folks who like to eat and buy local, frequent the farmer’s market and downtown, and not one of whom lives in a McMansion. Most of us are either two-parent working families, or a one-parent working family that pinches pennies and cuts coupons so that the other parent can stay home with the kids. Some of us are even same-gender families, families who, I’m told, feel supported by their neighbors and school communities. Most of us live in modest homes. Some of us live in duplexes or apartments.

We ended up where we are because we had become one of those households that needed to be near one of the turnpike entrances/exits. Oh. I can hear some of my fellow Lawrencians saying. You’re those people. Those people who live in Lawrence but commute to Kansas City or Topeka. Yeah, well, we didn’t start out that way. Jim’s job was in Lawrence, but once it outgrew Lawrence, much to his (and my) great annoyance, the job moved to Kansas City. I had a great job in Lawrence that I loved, until that business failed. The next job I found in my field was in Topeka. When we were looking for a new house to buy, we had it narrowed down to North Lawrence or where we are now, based solely on being close to turnpike access. The decision to move where we are now cut a full half hour off of Jim’s commute, saving us, and the environment, lots of fuel and emissions.

What I find amusing about the perception that all the money in town is on the west side is that it’s getting to be very expensive to live in the older, more desirable parts of town. Neither of us is handy, and there’s no way we could afford the TLC that a house built before the 1940s needs. And some of those grand Victorians in Old West Lawrence? They cost as much, if not more than, some of the McMansions on the far west side.

There’s a perception that all westsiders are stuck up, conservative bastards. (A couple of my westside girlfriends and I also learned courtesy the final Victor Continental Show that we’re being shunned from the shittons of swingers parties that are rampant over here.) The truth is that I know several people who live on the west side who play in local bands. The truth is that the west side has come out en masse for recent local elections to vote for things like the T and the refurbished library.

Now, truth be told, there’s also a perception amongst certain westsiders that East and North Lawrence are “dangerous,” and schools like Central Junior High are full of low-class thugs.

I always take time out of my busy, busy day to reassure those folks that that perception is pure-D horse shit, and that they’re behaving like the pompous assholes some people think we all are over here.

The truth, in my opinion, is far more nuanced than the typical perceptions. I love this town. I love all parts of it. Are there assholes on my side of town? Sure. But there are assholes all over town. There are also cool people all over town. I know. I’ve met them.

I sincerely hope those kids were joking. I hope the Free State kids were joking and the LHS kids know that. Only the kids know for sure. It’s also my hope that someday, all Lawrencians will open their minds, and their eyes, and let go of some of their preconceived notions.

Liar, liar, plants for hire

 

A friend of mine thought that since I wrote about the huge pile of dirt that was plunked behind our house, I should do a follow-up now that the situation has changed.

The dirt pile appeared the first week of July. It was there through July, August and September. Sometime about the middle of September I flipped out a little and wrote a pretty heated email to the road building company that had shoved it there—and I CC’ed a couple of city commissioners in on the message as well. I told them that what bothered me most was the bald-faced rudeness of what they’d done—as if no one had put any thought into how their actions might affect someone else.

I received a couple of sympathetic emails in return with the promise that something would happen as soon as possible.

HA! I thought. That dirt pile will sit there all winter.

Another month went by. Then, about a week and a half ago—mid October—trucks and loaders started hauling the dirt pile away. It disappeared, chunk by chunk, and was gone in two days.

Did my complaint make it go away faster? I don’t know. What I do know is that the removal of said dirt pile has honestly improved our collective dispositions in the house. It’s just more pleasant to look out in that direction, even though they’re still working out there. They’re putting in a new neighborhood behind us, which leads me to the larger issue of development and sprawl, something maybe I’ll address in a future entry.

But I digress. The point is, I made a stink, I called some people some choice names, and the situation has been rectified. So I’m here to say that maybe I was wrong and reacted a little strongly.

(Or maybe not.)

Last week I wrote an entry about beauty and social media and how social media makes us feel about ourselves. I wrote that I can post a “selfie” on Facebook and “rarely” get the reaction that I’m pretty. That was a lie. Up until a couple of days ago, I’d never been told I was pretty when I’d posted a selfie on Facebook. I’ve also noticed that some of my very good friends, women who are smart and witty, never get that reaction either, while some women are told that they’re pretty quite predictably. (If you read the original entry, I swear it’s a little more complicated than the self-involved pile of drivel it sounds like here.)

Well, it happened. I posted a photo of me on Halloween, and unexpectedly got the “hubba, hubba” reaction I’d never received before.

AND I WAS THRILLED.

Am I proud of that? Hells no. What the fuck is wrong with me? What does it matter? Why is it so goddamn important for women to be pretty? (I was going to say why is it so goddamn important for women to be pretty in this culture, but let’s face it, isn’t beauty important for women all over this whole planet?) What kind of values can I possibly pass on to my daughter when I can’t even get my own self esteem under control?

GAH!

Oh well. I figure I’ll never get that reaction again. I’ll just put this one in the bank and look back on it fondly when I’m having a weak moment. From here on, I’ll try to move forward positively and not give a shit what anyone thinks.

Because that’s what’s important. At least to me.