On Todd Akin, this time with a little more anger

21 Aug

Okay.  So, as I wrote yesterday, I was done talking about the Todd Akin thing.  At that moment.  Well, that moment has passed and my anger has been renewed.  Partially that anger was renewed by reading Eve Ensler’s amazing post from yesterday on Huffington Post.  If you haven’t yet read it, get on it now.  It is so worth it.  It is worth it for so many reasons.  Here is one:

You used the expression “legitimate” rape as if to imply there were such a thing as “illegitimate” rape. Let me try to explain to you what that does to the minds, hearts and souls of the millions of women on this planet who experience rape. It is a form of re-rape. The underlying assumption of your statement is that women and their experiences are not to be trusted. That their understanding of rape must be qualified by some higher, wiser authority. It delegitimizes and undermines and belittles the horror, invasion, desecration they experienced. It makes them feel as alone and powerless as they did at the moment of rape.

And then there’s this:

Were you implying that women and their bodies are somehow responsible for rejecting legitimate rape sperm, once again putting the onus on us?

And this:

Why don’t you spend your time ending rape rather than redefining it? Spend your energy going after those perpetrators who so easily destroy women rather than parsing out manipulative language that minimizes their destruction.

And so much more in between.  She says all the things that I could never articulate.  That it would take me a few days to really come to.  My initial reaction to his “gaffe” was an exasperated exhale, a violent roll of the eyes, and the need to slowly and methodically rub vertically between my hairline and the bridge of my nose, a habit I have developed in recent years at times of intense frustration.  I swear one of these days I am going to rub right through to my skull.  My initial reaction was full of disgust, but I honestly don’t think I fully realized the deep-rootedness of the issue associated with Todd Akin’s comments.  He was idiotic, sure, we all think that’s the case. Even Shawn Hannity thinks he should withdraw himself from the Missouri Senate race.  But the thing is, it’s not because many of these people disagree with what Akin said.  They disagree with the way that Akin said it.

Meanwhile, in Texas, a court of appeals ruled today that the state can withhold funding from Planned Parenthood clinics before the original case, in which Planned Parenthood sued the state of Texas for a law that violates their freedom of speech, goes to court in October.  (For a more eloquent and less confusing explanation of the pending litigation, read this Times article.)  These clinics provide health care for low income women for things from regular gynecological exams to cancer screenings, from maternal health care to contraception.  And yes, abortion services.  It is important to note, however, that no state or federal funds go to finance abortions.  They go towards helping poor women with no or insufficient health insurance obtain access to quality, and essential, services.  As Cecile Richards, the president of Planned Parenthood, said, this case

has never been about Planned Parenthood — it’s about the women who rely on Planned Parenthood for cancer screenings, birth control and well-woman exams.

The reason I bring this up is that issues like the one in Texas have been cropping up with alarming regularity.  Todd Akin is not alone.  He has many, many people who agree with him.  Many people who think that women don’t know how to make decisions about their own bodies.  Many people who think that women cavalierly make the decision to have an abortion.  Many people who think that women will scream rape to obtain an abortion in places where rape, incest and the health of the mother are the only exceptions to an all out ban on abortion.  Don’t believe me?  Just watch this video of Eric Turner of Indiana.  As I said, Todd Akin is not alone and his ignorant statement was not an isolated opinion.  Let us use this moment of anger, and hurt, and disbelief to blow the roof off the party who, just today, the same day they were calling for Todd Akin to step aside, approved a party plank that would strive to outlaw abortion without any mention of exceptions for rape or incest.  This is our time, ladies and allies.  We are too smart for this and there is too much at stake.  We need to hold the Republican party accountable not only for the statements of Todd Akin, but for those of many others.  And, more important still, we need to hold them accountable for the anti-woman legislation they unceasingly push on us.  As Eve Ensler rightfully said,

I am asking you and the GOP to get out of my body, out of my vagina, my womb, to get out of all of our bodies. These are not your decisions to make. These are not your words to define.

Yes.

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On Todd Akin and Other (Unrelated) Things

20 Aug

This blog is going to be about the following three things.  First, I would like to share with you all a search term that led a potential reader to my blog that I found both funny and sort of infuriating.  Second, Todd Akin.  And third, a quote that  I read in The New Yorker this past issue that I found especially interesting.  I really think that if you don’t feel like hearing my rant on Akin, you should just skip down to the quote at the bottom, labeled “Part III: The Quote” for your convenience.  Also, there is no reason behind the order of the post.  It’s just how I felt like doing it.

Part I:  The Search Term

Okay, so if any of you read my post from yesterday, you will understand my astonishment when I went to look at my site stats to figure out what kinds of search terms are getting people to my blog and one of them read

up skirt shots reddit

Ugh.  Really?  I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I will hope that this person was (a) looking for an article about how awful this specific SubReddit is or (b) was actually looking for the SubReddit but upon reading my blog post decided to forgo looking at unauthorized and demeaning pictures of women and girls and become a decent human being.  I highly doubt either of those things to be actual possibilities but, hey, a girl can dream!

Part II:  The Idiot

Now I am going to weigh in, ever so slightly, on Todd Akin.  So, for those of you who have been living under a rock, the 6-term, Tea Party-backed congressman from Missouri said the following thing yesterday, as quoted in a New York Times article:

If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down. But let’s assume that maybe that didn’t work or something: I think there should be some punishment, but the punishment ought to be of the rapist, and not attacking the child.

He then quickly claimed to have “misspoke” and tried to make it better by saying this:

In reviewing my off-the-cuff remarks, it’s clear that I misspoke in this interview, and it does not reflect the deep empathy I hold for the thousands of women who are raped and abused every year.  I recognize that abortion, and particularly in the case of rape, is a very emotionally charged issue. But I believe deeply in the protection of all life, and I do not believe that harming another innocent victim is the right course of action.

He has empathy for women who are victims of violent crime yet he has no empathy for women who find themselves pregnant by their rapists because that would be victimizing an unborn child.  You can’t have your cake and eat it too, Akin.  And, misspoke?  Is that the best he could do?  The thing is, that Mr. Akin is not the first person to make a remark like this.  Statements just like his have been made in the past by Pennsylvania Representative Stephen Freind, North Carolina Representative Henry Aldridge, Dr. John C. Willke, and Arkansas politician Fay Boozman who was, at one time, the director of the health department in Arkansas.  I really want to just be like, “wow, how stupid can you get?” and move along with my day but then I realize that these people are in actual positions of power and they, as well as some of the people who listen to them, actually think they are speaking the truth even though once they realize how bad it sounds they try as hard as they can to pretend they didn’t mean it.  (I swear, if I ever read somewhere that some asshat rapist tries to deny paternity of a child by saying that due to a women’s natural trauma-secretions the baby in question can’t possibly be his I will have a full on fit.)

Here’s the thing that’s really scary about it.  After Akin “misspoke,” Republicans and Democrats alike could not distance themselves from him faster.  Everyone across the board saw this specific statement as heartless and horrifying.  Romney told the National Review,

Congressman Akin’s comments on rape are insulting, inexcusable, and, frankly, wrong.  Like millions of other Americans, we (he and Paul Ryan) found them to be offensive.  I have an entirely different view…What he said is entirely without merit and he should correct it.

How do you correct something like that??  As Meg Ryan said in When Harry Met Sally, “You can’t take it back.  It’s already out there!”  The thing is, as pointed out in this Huffington Post article, Romney’s running mate, Paul Ryan actually doesn’t hold opinions that far off from Akin, he just knows how to package his beliefs in a less infuriating, less “out there,” way.  According to Michael B. Keegan of HuffPost,

Rep. Paul Ryan not only opposes abortion rights for rape victims, he was a cosponsor of a so-called “personhood” amendment that would have classified abortion as first degree murder and outlawed common types of birth control. Ryan has also bought into the “legitimate rape” nonsense, cosponsoring legislation with Akin that would have limited federal services to victims of “forcible rape” — a deliberate attempt to write out some victims of date rape and statutory rape.

So there’s that.  Also, Romney claims that he is not opposed to abortion in cases of rape, but if he is elected president he will work to overturn Roe v. Wade, putting decisions about abortion in the hands of individual states.  It seems that therefore, he is giving individual states the ability to make all forms of abortion illegal, regardless of circumstance.  If that’s the case, then when states make a decision about, say, abortion in cases of rape there wouldn’t be a damn thing he could do about it if he did disagree with the state which, at least in this current iteration of Romney, he supposedly does.  And, unless he’s really stupid which I don’t think he is, he is well aware of that fact.  It’s great that people are getting all up in arms about this because what Akin said really was demeaning and insulting and wrong and all manner of other things.  But the thing is, I don’t see a huge distinction between the shitty science that Akin and company have referred to and some of the studies and statistics I hear Republicans site to justify their anti-choice stances.  Also, in a lot of these cases when politicians and pundits and whoever else make statements about the rights of the unborn child, they are immediately discounting the rights of the woman.  We cease being human beings and instead become vessels for the unborn.  Akin is an idiot, but sadly he is not even close to alone in his beliefs.  Okay.  Moving on (for now).

Part III:  The Quote

In the August 13th and August 20th edition of The New Yorker there was an article by Adam Gopnic called “I, Nephi:  Mormonism and its Meanings.”  It was a review of 4 books that have been published in recent months that was spawned, I would imagine, by the fact that Mitt Romney is Mormon and a lot of people find Mormonism baffling. I have to admit at this point that I didn’t read the entire article because, although I consider myself a curious person, I am not currently terribly curious about Mormonism.  I did, however, come across this quote that I found interesting and figured I would share with you all.

…almost every American religion sooner or later becomes a Gospel of Wealth….The astonishing thing…is that this gospel of prosperity is the one American faith that will never fail, even when its promises seem ruined.  Elsewhere among the Western democracies, the bursting of the last bubble has led to doubts about the system that blows them.  Here the people who seem likely to inherit power are those who want to blow still bigger ones, who believe in the bubble even after is has burst, and who hold its perfection as a faith so gleaming and secure and unbreakable that it might once have been written down somewhere by angels, on solid-gold plates.

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Peeping Toms

19 Aug

It’s 12:30am on a Saturday night.  I am telling you that for two reasons.  First, I am not at my best late at night, blog writing included.  And second, like every other weekend for the past 3 years and for the foreseeable future, I worked all day today and tomorrow I have another full day of tending to my adoring public. Therefore, Saturday is generally a pretty low key night for me.  Being tired and/or hungover at work generally makes for a less than enjoyable bartending shift.  So why, you might ask, am I awake right now?  Why am I sitting on my sofa typing this rather than lying in bed, staring at the inside of my eyeballs? Well, I’ll tell you.  Are you sitting down because this might seem a bit of a shock.  It’s because I am stewing.  Surprise!

Here’s what happened.  After working all day I came home to have a nice relaxing evening involving a bit of ice cream (AKA a stomachache waiting to happen) and watch some mindless television, enter Law and Order SVU.  I achieved all of those things, stomachache included, and decided to cap off my raucous evening with a game of suduko on my cell phone.  I changed into my pajamas.  I sat down on my bed.  My bed, as it happens, is against a wall with a window.  The window is right next to my pillows.  So there I am, on my bed, minding my own business when I hear, yelled from across the way,

You’re really sexy, baby!

I look over at the window in disbelief.  That couldn’t have been directed at me.  Fuck, I didn’t put down the blinds.  Fuck, that dickwad who always plays his shitty ass music at ridiculous volumes is home, entertaining friends and playing his shitty ass music at ridiculous volumes.  And his blinds are up.  And my bedside lamp is on.  And it’s dark outside.  Fantastic.  There is nothing quite like having someone harass you when you are in your own bedroom and on your own bed.  I mean, really?  I don’t know.  Maybe I should thank him.  Thank him for reminding me that people are gross and that I should be more militant about closing my blinds when I am in my bedroom at night lest someone creep me or, worse yet, take a photo of me and post it on the internet along with all those other photos of unsuspecting girls that are popping up in Photobucket and Reddit subthreads.  It’s a real problem, you know.  I mean, really, it’s gotten to the point where I am actually nervous about wearing skirts and dresses in this city because some perv might be walking behind me up the stairs and sneak an up-the-skirt shot and post it online for all his pervy buddies to look at.  And the thing is, it’s not like if that happened I would even know about it.*  What am I going to do, spend all my time online, image searching for photos of my underwear that may or may not exist?  By the way I have totally done that before.

There was this one time a few years ago when I was in the shower and I swear to you I saw a camera flash go off in the window across the way.  Out of the corner of my eye.  I thought about the height of my breasts relative to the height of the window and, while frantically trying to cover myself up, analyzed whether or not it was possible for the photographer to (a) get an angle of anything other than my face and neck, which, by the way, would be creepy enough and (b) to make anything out through the very steamed-up window.  And then, after I hastily jumped out of the shower and measured for a curtain (we ended up covering the window with a ratty t-shirt for quite some time) I looked online to see if photos of me had surfaced.  I don’t really want to go into what my search terms delivered to my computer screen.  I gave up after the first set of hits came back.  So there may or may not legitimately be photos of me showering on the internet which intermittently gives me the heebie-jeebies and also bursts of intense anger on a semi-regular basis.

I know that both these incidents have the common denominator of me forgetting to close my blinds.  I get it.  I will take full responsibility for my carelessness on that front.  But the thing is that in my house is the one time when I really let my guard down.  I come home from runs during which people whistle at me and catcall me.  I walk past construction sites.  I get hit on or threatened when I am at work.  I get spit on.  I choose my wardrobe based off what will make me feel the least victimized while I am going to the bank and getting my morning coffee.  And I actually worry, every time I walk up the stairs, feel my shirt go up in the back when I sit on a chair, notice the wind from the subway slightly moving the bottom of my skirt, that someone is looking and maybe snapping a photo.  My house, and specifically my bedroom, is the one place where I stop worrying.  But that’s silly.  It’s not safe here either.

*Let it be known that if I ever catch someone taking an up-the-skirt shot of me I will push that person down the stairs.

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My No Good, Very Bad (Fluid Filled) Day

13 Aug

Is that blog title a copyright infringement?  I kind of feel like no because it is only a small portion of the title of the kids book but I also kind of think I am only saying that to make myself feel a little less like Fareed Zakaria.  If you have any insight or opinions, kindly leave them in the comment section below.  Thanks.

And now, on to the blog post!  As I have done before, I would like to preface the actual telling of this tale by saying that if you think girls are made of raw cookie dough and scotch, you probably should skip this post.  I refuse to feel badly for the men-folk out there who read this post despite my warnings and then complain to me about how they wished they hadn’t read it.  It’s happened before.  You know who you are and you have been warned.  Very well.

So yesterday before 2pm, about 1/4 of the way through my bartending shift, was a really shitty day.  Like epically, epically shitty.  Nobody died or anything so don’t go getting that idea.  It was just one of those days where nothing of consequence really happens but all of the non-events just generally blow.  It all started at 12am the night before when I decided to go to sleep rather than watching an episode of Friday Night Lights with my boyfriend.  I was trying to be responsible.  So, I got myself all ready and got into bed.  Generally, I am a very good sleeper.  One game (or part of a game, let’s be honest) of sudoku and I am sleeping like a baby.  But not that night.  I played a game, then another, and another.  Midnight turned to 1am…2am…3am.  I listened to my kittys running around the room with one of their favorite toys:  a wrapped straw.  I got annoyed at the noise it was making, got up, and hurled it down the hallway.  They brought it back and continued with their game.  At some point, I fell asleep.  And then, at 8:30, I awoke with a start.  Wide awake!  So, I went down the hallway to the bathroom to discover the thing that every woman hates to discover first thing in the morning.  Leakage.  God damnit.  Well, that’s okay.  Actually, looking back, I didn’t feel like it was okay in the moment, to be entirely honest.  I looked in the mirror to see an angry Rebekah staring back at me.  A Rebekah who wanted to rip her ovaries and uterus out of her body and then get back into bed and sleep soundly, and cleanly, for the next 10 days.  I decided instead to seize the moment and do the thing I had been putting off all week — I would wash my hair!  For those who know me, I have incredibly thick hair practically down to my ass so washing it is really nothing to sneeze at.  Afterwards, I felt much better.  I started packing for my upcoming trip to visit my Aunts in Pennsylvania.  I decided it wise to pack my back-up running shoes instead of my actual running shoes for a myriad reasons that I don’t feel it necessary to go into at this time.  I went over to the line of shoes outside my bedroom door, picked up my back-up pair and…what is that smell?  Ew!  What’s running down my arm?!  CAT PEE!  I stood there in disgust and disbelief, called to my boyfriend who was in the room presumably playing a game of backgammon on his phone.

Peeeeeeeeeee-eeeeeeete?  Will you come out here for a sec…?

I was trying to sound relaxed but I imagine there was a serious degree of panic and murderous rage in my voice.  I can only imagine the face he opened the door to.  The next 10 minutes saw me and Pete with bleach and paper towels, him calmly cleaning, me angrily cleaning and cursing the kittys at every opportunity.  It sounded something like this.

Me:  Stupid kittys.  Why do they do this?  No one else’s kittys ever pee on things.  Carrie’s kitty, she doesn’t pee.

Pete:  Actually, I’m pretty sure Carrie said she has gotten pretty adept at cleaning cat pee smell out of laundry, so…

Me:  (Stewing in silence at being proven wrong.)  Well, whatever.  These ones are the worst.  Why do they have to be such assholes?  Right now I hate them so much I wish we never got them.*  Ew!  Ew!  A drip!  Oh god.

Once the cleaning was complete, and I had sufficiently scoured my arm so I felt about 75% as clean as I did when I got out of the shower, Pete and I headed off, with packed bag in tow, to the bar.  Going to a bar job when you are already in a bad mood and having a bad day is not something for the faint of heart.  But I persevered (in all honesty, I didn’t have much of a choice).  One of my customers ordered a Chelsea Hop Angel.  It immediately kicked.  Had to run down and change it.  Ten minutes later, someone else ordered the Kelso Pils.  It kicked.  Had to run down and change it.  Then the same fool who ordered the Chelsea Hop Angel ordered his fourth Brooklyn Lager and, wouldn’t you know it?  It kicked.  Had to run down and change it.  By this point I was so frustrated that I was storming around the walk-in fridge imagining that I was hearing a strange humming and that something in there might explode at any moment and wouldn’t that just figure?  I went to change the third and, as it turned out, final keg of the day and, in my haste to avoid death or dismemberment by walk-in fridge disaster, I didn’t put the sankey in properly and BOOM!  Beer geyser!  It was everywhere, but mostly it was everywhere on me.  Dripping down my face.  Stinking-up my hair.  Soaking into my clothes.  I was dripping and I was furious.  I stormed upstairs and stomped into the bathroom, likely alarming my few customers on the way through.  I took a quick sink-shower, praising myself for the choice to go make-up free at work that day.  No running mascara for this girl!  I went back behind the bar and begrudgingly served the offending beer to my normally-offensive sometimes customer.  Even he knew to keep his mouth shut (actually…he knew after I told him talking to me was probably not in his best interest at that particular moment.  Whoops).

Then, 2pm came around and as fast as the bad day started it came to a grinding halt.  I ate some snacks.  I threw some darts (4 bulls!).  I made some money.  And then I headed back to New Jersey for the first leg of my vacation.  And that’s where I sit right now.  At my grandpa’s old desk, looking forward to the week and hoping that I am a few good laughs away from my crappy day.

*I would like to say at this juncture that this is a sentence that leaves my mouth every now and again.  Truth is, I love the kittys.  I think they are the cutest kittys in the world and if you let me I will show you a picture of Grete in a bag.  I just wish they wouldn’t piss on my things.

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Running in a Type A City

6 Aug

One of the things about New York is that we have the best of the best here.  I’m not saying that we have all the best people in the world but that, in almost any walk  of life, any academic or athletic pursuit, basically anything at all, we have some highly talented people and, unless you know someone or are really good at whatever it is you do, you will have a hard time competing.  For an example just look at our women’s roller derby team, The Gotham Girls, who routinely trounce all their competition.  As a person who considers herself to be more or less average — although I did just manage to accomplish a feat I never thought possible:  I cut my forearm on a not-very-sharp table corner because I was mindlessly leaning on it while reading pointless articles about women’s gymnastics on the internet rather than working on my thesis — New York could, potentially, be frustrating and disheartening.  Luckily for me, I am not Type A.  Not even close.  I am a steady-goes it, low-stress, often-running-late kind of a gal.  And, honestly, I like it that way.  What I do not like, however, is when my blissful Type B day gets invaded by some Type A nutjob in running shorts.  And now, story time.

This morning I did what I do most mornings (or afternoons, depending on the amount of farting around I engage in):  I laced up my running shoes.  I then proceeded to waste about 1/2 hour, meandering around the house, complaining to no one in particular about how hungry I was.  Once that ritual was completed, I headed out the door for my loop around the park.*  Up I went, following my normal path.  Over and up, over and up.  I got onto the main running road and assumed my slower-than-normal pace because, due to my new and theoretically better plan which is explained in the below asterisked portion of the post, I have become significantly less fit.  No matter.  At some point either approaching or ascending The Big Hill I came upon a man in his mid-60’s.  I approached him from behind, breathing more heavily than normal, and assumed I would just cruise by him.  But no.  He sped up.  I hate when people do that.  Whatever.  I didn’t let it bother me.  At the top of The Big Hill I decided to give the man some space so my running experience wouldn’t be negatively impacted.  I pulled over next to a tree to stretch.  I was joined, moments later, by a friendly speed-walker who, when I greeted her, dazzled me with a thick accent reserved for Jewish people born and raised in New York City.  We chatted for a minute or two, I wished her a good walk and carried on.  Not too much later I caught back up with the older man.  Clearly, he had fallen off the pace he had earlier assumed in order to not allow me to easily pass him on The Big Hill.  I chuckled to myself.  As I approached him for the second time that day he did the thing I hoped he wouldn’t do but which I knew deep down he absolutely would do:  he sped up.  Ugh.  Annoying.  As we covered the final .8 miles of the park loop, the man kept slowing down to the point where I’d come up over his left shoulder and then, when his Type A Spidey Sense alerted him he was about to be caught and passed by a girl with boobs and hair, he sped up again.  So I decided to do what any normal person would do:  I controlled my breathing and pushed the pace because you know what?  If he is going to get all competitive and annoying and take the fun out of my run, then I am going to make him want to vomit by forcing him to run faster than he is comfortable doing.  So, slowly but surely I continued to speed up.  He followed suit.  When I came up to the final 100 meters of the run, more or less, I decided to do what I often do, sprint to the finish and, wouldn’t you know it, he started racing me.  I mean, really?  Rather than stew in sweaty silence I called out to him

Is it really that important to out sprint me?  Do you feel good now?  Thanks for ruining my run, jerk.

He looked over his shoulder with a scowl that expressed anger, embarrassment, and shock.  I had called him out on his poor Type A behavior and he was not happy about it.  I ran home, feeling less cleansed than usual from my running experience.  Damnit.

But seriously, this sort of thing happens all the time and, I would like to point out, the annoying party is always male.  Always.  Never do women seem insulted by being passed by a runner who is (A) faster (B) having a random really awesome running day or (C) doing some sort of a tempo run.  So I want to say to all you Type A runners out there, please leave me be.  I am out there running not to be faster than everyone else in the park, but to have fun and clear my mind.  Running is the one hobby in my life that has been a constant for me.  I have picked up and dropped so many other activities — trumpet, tennis, gymnastics — but, for whatever reason, this is the one that has stuck. I love it because I can do it in my own time and on my own schedule.  I love it because it’s something that I do just for me, not to be better than anyone else, not for bragging rights, just for my own happiness.  And I love it because it allows me a small bit of time to be outdoors without a huge, heavy shoulder bag, more or less alone.  So please, please, if you see me running, don’t try and out run me.  Don’t try to prove to me that you’re faster.  Honestly, I could care less.  All I ask is that you let me continue, unchallenged, doing what I love doing.  Just let me run.

And one last thing.  Get a life.

*Recently I decided that I would try and run just one loop around the park, about 5 1/2-5 3/4 miles, 6 days a week rather than put pressure on myself to run more miles slightly less often, thereby lessening the pressure quotient and making running more fun.  Pressure takes the fun out of things for me.  The problem, however, is now I have put pressure on myself to run 6 days a week, which effectively dissuades me from actually running those 6 days, resulting in less weekly mileage and more difficult (read: less enjoyable) sometimes-daily runs.  I think I need a new, pressure and commitment free, plan.

 

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I’d like to register a complaint…

18 Jul

First things first.  For those boys out there who tell themselves that women don’t fart or poop and tell their friends that oft repeated “joke” about women being the only things that bleed for 7 days and don’t die — not funny, by the way, never was and never will be — this is not the blog post for you.  For the rest, read on.

I would like to register a complaint with New York City for a severe lack of public restrooms.  Seriously, it’s crazy.  As a woman in the midst of my menstruating years, I do not enjoy having to keep track of all usable restrooms in the city during those few blessed days.  And, furthermore, as a woman with a relatively heavy flow, I do not enjoy being tethered to my house during the more, er, active days.  When in India I was not overly shocked by my need to attend to my situation in a dark, dank, roach and rat infested back room of a YMCA in a small town wearing a headlamp.  That is not, however, something I wish to stoop to in my home city.  Of course, having access to a dark, dank, roach and rat infested back room of a YMCA in a big city, with or without headlamp, would be preferable to tense moments spent sitting on the subway, wishing the train would move faster and hoping against hope that I make it home before the dreaded leak.  And, while I am at it, I would like to register a few more complaints, if I may.  First, to the Johnson & Johnson Company, owner of my beloved OBs, who pulled the product off the shelves for months in late 2010 through early 2011.  When the OBs finally returned (although they still are not stocked by my local CVS, another complaint I would like to register at this time) one of the crucial sizes was decidedly missing:  the purple-colored Ultra.  By now I am sure you understand that as a woman plagued both by a heavy flow and a city devoid of public restroom, these Ultras were my life blood, no pun intended.  And I am not the only one who feels the sting of loss!  A quick search on ebay revealed that a single 40 count box of OB Ultras, previously $9 at my neighborhood pharmacy, are now selling for $40.  (Anyone previously unsure what to buy me for my birthday this year, consider yourself informed.)    Why, oh why did they discontinue such a necessary item for the comfort, both physical and mental, of so many women?  Maybe we can gather some insight through a quote from this Jezebel article:

…if you check out information about OB Super Plus (AKA Ultra), you are greeted with a box asking the question, “Heavy Periods?” Clicking this box sends you to a site called Pelvic Health Solutions, which in turn suggests that if you have heavy periods, you may have menorrhagia, in which case you should find a doctor, go on the some kind of birth control or get a hysterectomy.

As the woman who penned the petition asking for OB Ultra to return writes: “I did find it pretty upsetting that O.B. chose to explain no longer carrying the Ultra tampons by posting a link that implies there is something wrong with those of us who prefer using them.”

There is nothing wrong with me, despite a severe lack of access to public restrooms at semi-regular intervals which, as you know, I have already registered a complaint about.  So, until OB Ultra is returned to the shelves, which I hear will be happening sometime in the near future, I suppose I will throw a headlamp in my bag and go about my day as usual while listening to this Johnson&Johnson song (on repeat) which apologizes to all of us OB Ultra loyalists for the discontinuation of our trusty cotton insert.

Rant over.

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When is it safe to be outspoken?

16 Jul

I.

This past weekend I had one of those experiences that goes into the negative column of my pluses and minuses analysis of being a bartender in New York City.  It was my second night working until 4am in a row and, if you know me, you know I am not at my best on little sleep.  Around 9:30pm, about 1.5 hours into my 8 hour shift, these two guys walk in.  One of them orders a vodka soda, the other an orange juice.  I serve them and go about my business.  Every time I look over, the one with the alcoholic beverage is looking at me expectantly, despite the fact that his drink is almost full.  I walk over to see what he wants (a glass of water, perhaps?) and he looks me up and down and says, in a thick Russian accent while simultaneously miming squeezing someone’s ass cheeks,

Those shorts look nice but they could be tighter.

Cue Rebekah’s Blind Rage.  I do a few quick deep-breathing exercises, turn to the asshole sitting across the bar from me and say

Yea, this isn’t going to go like that.  Mind your manners or leave.

I continue doing my job, hoping that the many shades of anger have drained from my cheeks.  Whenever I look up, however, the man is still staring and I vaguely hear him asking me questions.  Do I work out?  What’s my name?  Where do I hang out?  Okay, that is it. I grab the man’s credit card from where I had placed it behind me, run it through the machine, and slap his card and receipt down in front of him.  He gently takes it, signs it, and pushes it back towards me.  Good, I think, he got it.  But that would be too easy.

Can I get another drink?

No.  There are plenty of other bars around here that you can go to but, just a word to the wise… keep your opinions about your bartender’s wardrobe to yourself if you want to be welcome anywhere for more than 5 minutes.

And then the fun really begins.  He stares across the bar at me with this awful little smirk on his face, arms folded in front of him while his friend looks on with knowing silence.  Clearly this wasn’t his first rodeo.  I stand there, staring back, blood pressure rising.  I tell him to leave, he seems to think his comment was completely acceptable.  I get more and more annoyed.  He isn’t going anywhere and I’ve decided neither am I.  I am fully aware that as long as I am standing in front of him, he is going to try and stay in control of the situation but I just can’t allow it to happen.  I have to prove a point, even though I know the point will be completely drowned in his misogyny.  He tells me I am harassing him.  Clearly he needs a dictionary.  Finally, I’ve had it and I say, calmly with my arm pointing towards the exit,

Get the fuck out of my bar.

And, all hell breaks loose.

What did you say to me?  You wouldn’t say that to me on the street, bitch!

I absolutely would, actually.

You whore!  I will kill you!  When I see you out of here I will fucking kill you!  I will knock you down and spill your blood on the street!*

At this point, standing up to achieve the highest possible level of intimidation and still yelling his head off, his accent getting thicker with each spat threat, he reaches a pointed finger across the bar and, unintentionally I think, pokes me violently in the bottom lip.  His face registers just the tiniest bit of shock and he turns on his heel and walks out of the bar, friend silently following behind.  My anger goes through the roof.  I storm down the length of the bar, and out the front door, screaming at him as he retreats down the street.  Some friends and regulars of the bar, looking an even mixture of confused and concerned, pursue the man down the street and I retreat to the office to catch my breath, leaving the fate of the bar to my bar back who was of relatively little help during the whole altercation.  My boss and I check the business name on the card, a garbage and carting business.  Great.  As usual I get into it with the wrong guy.

*This is not a word-for-word quotation but I’m pretty sure I got all the key phrases down.

II.

There was, of course, the inevitable moment when I retraced the build-up to the blow-out, thought about all the things I did and what I could have done differently.  Did I overreact?  Should I have just ignored him?  Could the whole thing have been completely avoided?  Could I have calmed this man down rather than riling him up?  The list of questions amassed, relating to ways that I, the victim of sexism, verbal abuse and assault had actually been the instigator.  How classic.  This then led me, the next day, to a downward-thought spiral about what it means to be female.  It means that, to many, my body is public property there to be ogled, critiqued and touched.  It means I have to think about when it is safe for me to stand up for myself and when it is best to put my head down and walk faster.  It means that, as much as I disagree with this, I feel compelled to contemplate my outfit before I leave the house lest it lead to additional attention that I don’t want, am not looking for, did not ask for.  I know that me calling this man out on his behavior was not the most productive use of my time, anger, righteousness, but behind the bar, for the most part, I am safe and, for once, powerful.  I have something that he wants and cannot just take.

On the other side, though, his over-sized reaction got me thinking about issues of power, powerlessness and safety.  I know what my capacity for violence and reaction is.  I can assume where that line lies for most of the people I come across but there are some, mostly male, oftentimes white, who have never had their privilege questioned by someone they see as lesser than they whose actions I cannot predict.  It was at that moment when I realized I was not safe.  As a woman, I am not safe.  The power dynamic between genders that flourishes, oftentimes unchallenged, in everyday life is one that puts me at an express disadvantage.  I am worth less, I have less ownership of my body and because of these things it is my responsibility to pick my battles wisely because, in asserting my own equality, in demanding respect, my body can easily become the battleground and that is a battle that, sadly, I would lose.

I do not regret what I did and, if placed in the same situation tomorrow, I would handle it the same way.  But I will take the experience as a teaching moment in which I got a glimpse into the depth of violent anger possessed by, and uncontrolled by, someone else.  It’s a scary thing to face.  I was (relatively) safe where I stood and I had plenty of people there to back me up.  But if I came up against that guy on the street, alone, and hurled my favorite choice words in response to his degrading comments, I might not have been so lucky.  It’s an unfortunate reality.  What we as women face is not only violent language, it’s violent actions and in the latter case we are largely disadvantaged, we will oftentimes lose.  It’s something to keep in mind.  For me, for all of us.

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Was that you kissing my boyfriend last night?

12 Jul

Yesterday I received the following message on Facebook:

Hi,

I really hope this is the same Rebekah I met last night. If not than this message will be even more awkward than it already is. I first would like to apologize for how rude I was last evening. But to be fair I did think I walked in on you and my boyfriend making out. I know that this does not concern you at all this is between him and I, but he swears i’m seeing shit and that it’s not true. And while I do trust him, it’s really easy to believe things you want to hear. I’m sure you understand what i’m saying because most girls go through this situation. So the purpose of this letter is to find out what really happened. Because I don’t want to be made a fool of or be with someone who is going to lie and cheat on me. I’ve been down that road one two many times. But I would really just appreciate the truth. And i’m sorry to have been a rude bitch last night and now to be messaging you about it. I’m sure you think i’m one whacky one.

Anyways sorry to have gotten off on the wrong foot, i’m sure your a lovely person.

And my response:

This actually isn’t the same Rebekah, unless I was somewhere I don’t remember being doing something I don’t remember doing which would be highly problematic. Anyway, good luck figuring everything out.

So there are three things that I am curious about after having read this message and done the most cursory of background checks on the sender, ie I looked at as much of her page as was allowed without us being “friends.”  One, how in the world did she find me on Facebook because all of my privacy settings make it so I am unsearchable unless you are either friends with a friend of mine or super crafty.  Two, did she actually walk in on this other Rebekah making out with her boyfriend?  Three, how did she graduate from college with such…creative…. spelling and grammar?

Also, I would just like to say I feel a little bit like an asshole for posting this because the sender was rather embarrassed by her misidentification of me as the boyfriend kisser but I couldn’t help myself.  It was just too awesome.

Proclaimed Busyness

5 Jul

Busyness.  Or supposed busyness.  Claimed busyness.  It is something that has driven me crazy for years and something I could never quite articulate.  Why do people compete with one another to see who is the busyiest?  Who is so put upon that they don’t have time to do any of the enjoyable things in life?  Who is so awkwardly proud about that?  And, why do I care about how much more packed your day is than mine?  Well, finally someone has done it.  Tim Kreider of the New York Times wrote this article about the boastful complaint of busyness and I think in a lot of ways he hits the nail on the head.  He points out that

it isn’t generally people pulling back-to-back shifts in the I.C.U. or commuting by bus to three minimum-wage jobs who tell you how busy they are; what those people are is not busy but tired. Exhausted. Dead on their feet. It’s almost always people whose lamented busyness is purely self-imposed: work and obligations they’ve taken on voluntarily, classes and activities they’ve ‘encouraged’ their kids to participate in. They’re busy because of their own ambition or drive or anxiety, because they’re addicted to busyness and dread what they might have to face in its absence.

He then continues.

The present hysteria is not a necessary or inevitable condition of life; it’s something we’ve chosen, if only by our acquiescence to it…. It’s not as if any of us wants to live like this, any more than any one person wants to be part of a traffic jam or stadium trampling or the hierarchy of cruelty in high school — it’s something we collectively force one another to do.

It’s true.  And, I’ve noticed, it is largely though the guilt attributed to the feeling of having free time.  There are plenty of things I do, like watching The 15 Biggest Tear-Jerking Moments in Summer Olympic History*, that I don’t necessarily tell people about because I can’t stand to hear the retort of “Oh, I’m just too busy to watch something like that.”  Talk about making someone feel useless and indulgent, you know?  But maybe Kreider’s existentialist musings can add a little insight.

I can’t help but wonder whether all this histrionic exhaustion isn’t a way of covering up the fact that most of what we do doesn’t matter.

And then in the conclusion Kreider addresses the issue that might have popped up a bit throughout his piece.  That it is a luxury for one to choose a life that allows for long bike rides in the middle of the day and routine drinks with friends at night.

My own resolute idleness has mostly been a luxury rather than a virtue, but I did make a conscious decision, a long time ago, to choose time over money, since I’ve always understood that the best investment of my limited time on earth was to spend it with people I love.

For some people, due to their skill set, the impacts of institutionalized sexism and racism and a myriad other isms, their time, unfortunately, is not worth enough monetarily to allow them to invest quite as much of it with loved ones as Kreider claims to.  And that’s a shame.  But those of us who do have the ability to spend time with friends and family should make an effort to do so, and we shouldn’t have to schedule it in or make people feel like burden on us.  Those of us who aren’t so busy as to be tired to the bone should feel proud, not ashamed, and we should hope that some day everyone will be so lucky.
* Definitely watch the one about Derek Redmond, a real tear-jerker.  That is, if you aren’t too busy.

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Public Assholes for the United States

28 Jun

Disclaimer: This post was written in a state of severe agitation.  It really should be better thought-out and better written, but I am going away for the weekend and would rather write now when the anger is fresh and directed.  So, enjoy.

Today I had a plan to write a blog about a somewhat heart-touching moment that occurred while I was doing some angry food shopping at Trader Joe’s yesterday.  But then I saw a link to this on my Facebook feed.  The basic gist, for those of you who are either (1) too lazy to read about it yourself or (2) working in a Big Brother-esque office that doesn’t allow you to surf the intertubery freely, is that a photograph (one that happened to be taken by an incredibly talented photographer in my neighborhood named Kristina Hill) shot at a wedding was stolen, photo-shopped with a politically-motivated message,  and used by a group called Public Assholes, I mean Advocates, for the United States in a campaign targeting Senator Jean White for her vote for the last two years that allowed same-sex couples to form civil unions.  Here is the original photo*:

Photograph by Kristina Hill Photography

And here is what Public Advocates for the United States did to it:

I’m sorry, really??  How can you be so awful as to steal from a couple a photograph which, in the words of the couple,

“…represents my first home away from home, my beloved NYC, which at the time this image was taken (2 years ago) did not allow same sex couples to marry. It represents my longterm relationship with my best friend, my partner, and now husband – the love we share and obstacles we have overcome. It is a reminder of the happiness I felt the day he proposed to me and of the excitement I had all throughout our engagement. It represents hope and it represents love. Or at least it did…”

The action taken by Public Advocates for the United States is just so nauseatingly wrong to me it makes me want to scream.  It is horrific.  It is immoral.  And also possible illegal.  I’m pretty sure the photograph is a possession of the photographer and the couple (who presumably purchased it from her) and therefore is not in the public domain and therefore should not be used without the express permission of the owner of the photograph, ie Kristina Hill herself.  And, knowing Kristina, I cannot imagine any circumstance in which she would even for a millisecond consider giving someone permission to use any of her photographs for such a hateful purpose.

From their own website, this group claims its mission is

“defining political issues of our time, always defending the rights of fathers, mothers and children to live their lives free from government intrusions and the self-serving motives of liberal special interests and agendas.”

I just, wow.  Okay.  I don’t understand what is not self-serving about what this group has done with this image.  And I also don’t understand how a group that truly wants less governmental intervention in the lives of “fathers, mothers and children” can possibly advocate for the governmental regulation of the private lives of individuals who, as it turns out, are oftentimes they themselves mothers, fathers and children.  I also don’t understand how a group which claims to have been a vocal supporter of “equality under the law, regardless of one’s sexual orientation” can then turn around and offer strong and vocal opposition to “same sex marriage and furtherence of so-called ‘Gay Rights.'”  (I would also like to point out that the phrasing used there is highly redundant.  If the rights are “so-called” then I really don’t see the need for the quotations surrounding Gay Rights but I suppose that is neither here nor there.)  I am just flabbergasted and horrified at the state of politics in this country today.  Have your views, that’s fine (even though I disagree with them and think they are horribly bigoted and homophobic).  But to steal from a couple an image representative of the moment in which they officially cemented their love, after years of waiting, is horrible.  How can you use someone’s love like that?  How can you attempt to trivialize something so important?  Someone, please, explain this to me.

And another thing, Public Advocates, fuck you and your milquetoast, repressive, hate-filled “family values.”  I’ll take acceptance, understanding and love any day.

*Both photos are taken from the website thegayweddingexperience.com

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