Feminism

This is something I wrote a few years ago on another site, and I'm reposting it here.

     Feminist. Feminism.  Those words conjure up a lot of emotion in people. Some consider them fighting words. They dredge up images of ball-busting Femi-Nazis. I've heard women say, "I'm no feminist." Mostly in effort, I think, to distance themselves from that image.
     First off, let me tell you what feminism ISN'T. Feminism isn't about hating men. It isn't about wanting all men castrated. It isn't about putting women above men. It's not about putting men in their place.
     Don't get me wrong. Women like that do exist. I won't deny it. But if that is how you identify yourself as a feminist, then let me be the first to say You're Doing It Wrong, Sister.
     I've entertained feminist thoughts as far back as I can remember. They were further reinforced after I become a mother. So let me tell you what feminism IS.
     Feminism is growing up in a rural area, questioning why it was acceptable and encouraged for women to serve food on plates for men, and then to let them sit at the table and eat first. It is thinking to yourself, how are you better than me? How about we each fix our own plates and sit down and eat together?
     Feminism is realizing that the sexualization (or de-sexualization) of female political candidates is to strip her down to what use she is to a man. To reduce her to the level of being the bearer of a vagina he either would or would not touch. To realize this is done by those who are fearful of the power she represents and has earned.
     Feminism is shutting your mouth firm against what all you have been indoctrinised about what girls should like, when you realize your daughter is happier playing in dirt than with Polly Pockets and wants a Bob the Builder cake for her birthday.  And to stand up for her, if someone calls you on it.
     Feminism is hearing a man say that he thinks women belong at home taking care of the kids and hoping that your daughter is never reduced to that level of thinking when you know she is capable of so much more.
     Feminism is letting both your daughter AND your son take turns mopping the floor and doing the dishes. Because either way, it is not only a useful skill to have when they are an adult and living on their own, but also to create a better husband for your son's future wife.
     Feminism is wondering how a man came to develop the idea that it is ok to get even with a woman for being a tease by sexually assaulting her when she's passed out. Then to assure yourself to work hard to never let your son pick up beliefs such as these.
     Feminism is raising your son to have respect for women and never to let the barbaric thought of hitting a woman or hurting her physically in any way cross his mind. To look down on those who would with disgust.
     Feminism is to encourage your daughter to play football or be on the wrestling team, instead of ballet, if that is where her interests lie.
     Feminism is when you realize that it IS true that a woman has to work twice as hard as a man, with no complaint and less compensation, to earn just a grudging amount of respect. And to KEEP doing it, because it may make things a little easier for your daughter when she grows up.
     Feminism is a dad teaching his daughter how to fix a car or playing basketball with her.
     Feminism is a dad knowing better than to comment on his daughter's weight or appearance so as not to encourage an eating or body image disorder.
     Feminism is a father willing to confront his own indoctrinations about gender and to encourage his children to be their own person and develop their own interests despite what their gender may dictate.
     Feminism is a man willing to be a single dad or a stay at home dad, despite the looks he may get.
     Feminism is a man who shares the responsibility of his children, because he is a parent, not a babysitter.
     Feminism is a man who realizes he married an equal partner, not a second mother to adopt him and take care of him.
     Feminism is a woman appreciating what is often taken for granted, whether it be driving or holding down a job. Because her forbears didn't have that option and paved the way for her to have those things.
     I think most of all, feminism is activism. Activism not just for women, to promote women. But activism to level the playing field. Not just for us, but for our children. And not just for our children, but any of us who are so ballsy, and brash and outspoken that we are willing to rattle the cage.

Catching up

It's been a while since I've done any sort of update. So here's the lowdown.

The Hubster is still working away. The pay is unpredictable at best, and he's considering taking a similar position with a different company. The positive things would be a more predictable (and slightly better) income, and having him home a little more often.  The cons are the insurance isn't too great. He could probably get hired on the spot, we're just trying to build a little financial cushion before he switches.

I'm still a pseudo-single parent. I'm getting better at this, actually. I like having only myself to answer to, and not having to run every single little decision through someone else. It's nice being the boss, except for the times I really NEED a second opinion, and for whatever reason am unable to to reach my hubby.

The downsides to being the primary caretaker are the facts the kids still miss their daddy, and he's better at instilling morals, character and discipline than I am. So when the kids are acting like bratty heathens in a store, I know it's MY fault. Being the parent 24/7 ensures there are going to be times when I'm too tired or emotionally exhausted for disciplinary follow-through. It shows in their behavior. I really need to be stricter and less laissez-faire, but I'm so low-energy and wrung out I just let it go.



The kids will be starting school in about a week, and that gives me about 2 months daily alone time until my school starts. I'm excited to finally get some time to myself. This past month has been hell. I contracted a case of shingles. It took about a week before I realized it wasn't poison ivy and sought treatment for it, so it took longer to get cleared up than it should. Then both kids developed chicken pox from being exposed to shingles.

Between my misery and their illnesses, we'd been pretty much cooped up and quarantined for a month. We've driven each other crazy. So believe me when I say I can't wait for school to start.

I also can't wait for my school to start. I'll be learning massage therapy, but I'll be soaking up some New Age-y stuff in the process. And meeting New Age-y sorts of people. I welcome this as an opportunity to start showing my eclectic/New Age-y side to others.

I'm tired of hiding some of the parts of who I am. It's nice having people like you, but it's miserable when you realize a good many of them wouldn't like you if they knew ALL of you, instead of the side you show them. "This is one little facet of the gem that I am, hope you like it," and knowing that if they saw the whole gem they'd find it flawed.

I'll probably lose some friends and the like and appreciation of some family once the walls start tumbling down. But like a new friend of mine espouses, "Those who matter won't mind, and the ones who mind don't matter."

That's all for now. More to come later.

Love, Actually

So here's the big fat love blog everyone's been waiting for. What do I think about love?


Can people marry, stay true blue, and it be happily ever after until the day they die? It happens, but it's not bloody likely. If you set yourself thinking that's how your marriage is going to be, you're going to be disappointed.

Monogamy is not natural for most people. Serial monogamy works for others.

The more I read about polyamory, the more I agree with it. Can you love more than one person at a time? Absolutely. Do you love your children exactly the same? Do you love your spouse with the same love you have for your parents? No. So therefore, it is quite possible to hold differing amounts of love for different people with no diminishing of the qualities of the other.

It's quite possible to be in love with one person (or more), and in like with others. And that if everyone is grown-up enough about it, to make a love triangle/decagon/tetrahedron, or any other shape they like.

That's pretty much it, in a nutshell. I know that I've led up to this blog like it's some big revelation. I know there's been other blogs I've deleted. I postponed writing this for quite a while.

Most of that had to do with some horror stories some friends of mine shared with me. A lot of new stories I hadn't heard before, shared in a coincidentally recent time frame of each other. Stories that involved beatings, rapes, emotional tortures and various physical abuses inflicted on them by the men they had been involved with, and for reasons circumstantial to each relationship, they were unable to leave.

Those stories shook me to the core and left me wondering where I stood on the issue of love. If these women had suffered through not just these traumas but blatant, rampant cheating, how could I possibly sanction polyamory?

It took a while to sort their traumas from the notion of informed consent. But with time, distance and fresh perspective, I have. 

There may be other sub-topics related to love I may share my thoughts on from time to time, but that's pretty much the bulk of it. I'll likely write more later, but for now, this is enough.

Not Your Barbie's Dream House

So a friend and I were talking about the mansions we'd build if we were suddenly imbued with huge amounts of money.

Mine would have the typical rooms -- kitchen, bathrooms, bedrooms, etc., but it would also contain some wacky stuff you'd never see on Cribs. Let's take a peek at the rooms in my dream house, shall we?

First up is the Mirror Room. So named because all walls, ceiling and floor would be covered with mirrors. I may make the room an unusual shape, so that it has a faceted effect. Maybe even have several panels here and there to make it a little like a fun house. The back of the door would also be a mirror, and would fit nearly seamless with the rest. Extremely disorienting. Uber-cool.

Next, is the Padded Room. This room would have nothing but plush, red, velvety cushions and padding all over. You could lounge in there all day, and waller all you want. Extremely comfortable. Uber-cozy.

The Dungeon would have stone walls and be decorated with medieval-type stuff. Swords, crests, suits of armor, tapestries, etc.

The Game Room would be one of my favorite places. There would be a big table for old-school D&D pencil/paper/dice gaming. I'd get one of those custom made tables that had a grid for miniatures. The room would also contain various game consoles and even arcade games.

My mansion wouldn't be complete without a couple of hidden rooms and secret passageways. I'm not telling you what they're for, because I'm not even sure why. I just think it would be cool to have them.

Last but not least, my mansion would have to have an honest-to-goodness turret, just like a castle. Why? Because I like castles. In fact, it would be nice to just build a castle to start with, instead of a mansion.

So, there you go. Weirdo Mom's dream house.

Beliefs

I have a difficult time sharing myself with people sometimes. I've learned the hard way, that when the things you believe and feel are different from those around you, they tend to be openly critical, attacking and judgmental.

I don't really care what the people I don't know think. However, I DO care what friends, family and those close to me think. I care what they think about me, and it's painful when those that are supposed to care for you turn on you, simply because you were...different.

The result of these experiences is that unless I feel there's an open, non-critical, non-judgmental floor, I will clam up tighter than a miser's purse about what I think or feel about something. Because of some recent conversations though, I'm willing to stand here, on my semi-anonymous blog and just say it all out. I can't say it out there, in real life. But I CAN say it here.

Most of my beliefs tend to be rather nebulous. I have ideas, but I don't always know the labels for these ideas. Privately, I refer to myself as Christo-eclectic. I grew up in a loosely Christian home, and I have built from that foundation.

Some people feel that the Bible is the Word of God and should be taken literally. I'm not one of those people. I feel the Bible was Divinely inspired, but it was also filtered through the viewpoint of the men who transcribed it. It was also decided by a council of men what books should be considered to be part of the Bible. I don't feel those men had anyone but their own best interests at heart.

Therefore, I think while it contains some good ideas, I'm not going to swallow it hook, line and sinker.

I've got some Celtic, Native American, Pagan and Shamanistic beliefs blended in as well. Some may feel that those can't be blended in with Christian beliefs, because of the involvement of other gods. I call bull. Whatever you call your god, is just the name of one facet of the gem that is God.

I'm more open to sharing my beliefs about religion than I am about my beliefs about love and marraige. People are a little more open to religious differences these days, but not so much when it comes to the Sacred Institution of Marraige.

I am already feeling the beginnings of an anxiety attack beginning by just offering to state my opinion on that subject. So, Dear Reader, I am going to pause here, gather my courage, and write a second blog installment on that topic here in the very near future. I know you'll hold me to it.

My latest little thing to obsess about

Last night, I was on a popular social networking site, when I saw an acquaintance of mine online. We'd never chatted online before, but I impulsively decided to say hello.

We exchanged pleasantries, I said "How are you?" and the person responded, "Doing good. Brb, ok?"

That was the last I heard. I was online at least another hour after that. The person's icon showed that they were still online as well. But there was nothing. No response.

I just don't get it. I could handle someone saying, "I can't talk right now." I wouldn't even get upset if the person had said, "I don't feel comfortable talking with you online."

This is a person I see at least once a week, and we've chatted briefly on every occasion. They had even voluntarily offered to put in a good word for me at a company I was seeking employment at. Every interaction we've had convinced me that they saw me in a positive light.

Thanks to this weird, incomplete online exchange, my paranoid mind tries to convince me of several theories.

That perhaps the person thinks I'm mentally unbalanced and that they're only being nice to me, because it's a good idea to stay on the good side of the crazies.

That perhaps while dodging me, they were messaging some other friend of theirs, "That creepy crazy chick is on right now. She just tried to talk to me! What should I do?"

Now I'm worried that they secretly think ill of me. I don't know what to do about the next time I happen to see that person. Ignore what happened? Ask?

My natural inclination, given that I think that they think I'm unbalanced or crazy, is to feel embaressed that I've been inflicting my presence upon them. That I went so far as to friend them or try to talk to them, and they only went along with it because of a sense of social pressure, or out of fear of upsetting me. That perhaps I should avoid them.

I can't believe that one brief chat exchange has so rattled my views of myself, and made me feel so low. What is the outside perception others have of me? My close friends know the real me, but what about those others who only see me briefly? Am I one of those unsavory types, an undesirable?

Why did this happen? That's what I really want to know.

Well, isn't that just odd.

Yesterday, I was driving, and suddenly, I was overwhelmed with the need to cry, hot tears stinging my eyes. I dabbed at my eyes with my sleeve, and tried to continue talking nonchalantly with the kids as I chaffeured. I hoped they wouldn't notice, and they never seemed to.

How weird, I mused. I wonder why? I'd been perfectly fine, and then, bam! Tears!

Then today, I was watching a movie. A romantic comedy of all things. I don't usually dig chick flicks, but this one had me howling with laughter, watching certain scenes over and over, because it was that damn funny.

The next thing I knew, I was bent over double, racked with sobbing. A few tears came out and I just kept wailing and crying, but the whole episode probably lasted less than 5 seconds. As I dried my eyes, I wondered, Why am I crying?

Then, just like that, the tears dried up.

I really don't know or understand why. It's not "that time of the month". I wasn't thinking about anything even the slightest bit depressing or distressing. The second time I was in the midst of laughter when it happened. I don't know what emotion is bubbling up, or why it chooses the oddest times to do so.

I'm not worried about my sanity or mental health. Just honestly perplexed by these sudden outbursts that have all the unpredictibility and intensity of a summer storm. I'd hoped that by writing about it, I'd glean some insight as to why, but I'm still just as confused as when I'd begun.

Little Sister had to go

A few years back, my parents went on vacation at a popular beach, inviting the whole family along -- my brothers and their spouses and children, as well as my own little clan.

One night, my sister-in-law and I decided to have a Girl's Night Out. We kissed the little ones good-night, left our respective spouses in charge and decided to hit a local bar. As luck would have it, that bar was having a karaoke night.

I have a love/crazed fear of karaoke. Occasionally I feel brave enough to open the song book, pick something out, write and give my request to the dj before I chicken out. If I'm completely sober when I do this, the overwhelming stage fright gives me .... ahem... digestional issues. I'm not even kidding about that. But the intense thrill of singing onstage usually outweighs the fear of shitting my pants.

However, this night? I had a couple drinks. Though I grew increasingly nervous as the time approached, I was feeling fine, baby.

My name was finally called, and I got on that stage and had THE BEST karaoke experience of my life. I had chosen "Look At Little Sister" by Stevie Ray Vaughan. And I ROCKED it, absolutely, singing with such passion, fervor and depth, that I heard a shout of, "Sing it, sister!" from the black couple in the front row, who were rocking along with it.

Ordinarily, I do not mention race, because I believe that a person's skin color has no bearing on their worth as an individual human being. Though I am painting with the broad brush of generalization here, just like white teenagers know pop, many black people know the blues.

To me, even now, that couple's call of "Sing it, sister!" is the highest praise I have ever received from singing. I don't know that any compliment I could get would ever match that for me. From what I've read about SRV, he also considered it high praise if his music and style was called black.

I finished the song and left the stage to wild applause, and somehow my trembling knees carried me back to where my sister-in-law was sitting. Who hadn't even noticed I was gone, or heard the song. Distracted by trying to decline advances from another patron, she'd missed the whole thing.

The excitement didn't stop there. We finished our drinks, and left the bar. At some point the SIL and I realized we both had to pee. Really bad. And we were still blocks away from our hotel. There were no stores or gas stations open nearby. We tried asking a clerk at another hotel if we could use their restroom, and the response was negatory.

So, driven by necessity, and the desire for revenge, we snuck onto the beach behind the hotel, and furtively glanced around to see if anyone was present.

And that, my friends, is how I found myself dropping trou and pissing on the beach with my sister-in-law at 3 a.m.