And here’s something else that would never happen to a man …

So this guy in our neighborhood has early Alzheimers and dizzy spells.  He’s looking for a babysitter (his word) and someone to cook for him and do his cleaning so he doesn’t have to go into a home.  And he asked me.

I have no experience babysitting.  And absolutely no aptitude for it.

Yes, I do my own cooking and cleaning, but I have no interest in it, at all, and do as little as possible.

So why did he ask me?  Because I’m a middle-aged woman.  Apparently that’s what middle-aged women do, that’s what we are, that’s what we’re for.

Yes, I’ve been friendly with him, stopping to chat or at least wave when I walk by (as a result of which he once asked me if I like sex and whether I’m any good at it—apparently that’s another thing women do, are, are for), but I doubt that friendliness on the part of a man would have indicated that he’s available for babysitting, cooking, or cleaning (or sex).

I’ve got three degrees, I used to be a philosophy instructor, I’ve published several books, and I’m currently making a living as a freelancer.  Would a man with such credentials be asked to be someone’s babysitter and do their cooking and cleaning?

Ah, but this guy doesn’t know I’m all that.  And that’s also telling.  If I were man who has lived in this neighborhood (small, rural) for twenty-five years, everyone would likely know all of that about me.  But I don’t go around announcing these things, and no one’s ever asked.  Because they just assume I’m—well, none of that.  After all, I’m just a middle-aged woman.

P.S. – Spread the word – I invite women to add their own “And here’s something else that would never happen to a man” entries via the comments function.  I’d love for this post to turn into a blog sort of like ‘What is it like to be a woman in philosophy?’

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How to Make a Man Grow Up

I was recently surprised to discover that in the U.S., men are required by law to register for the “selective service system”.

Only men.  I thought women were allowed in their military now.

And required.  I didn’t think they had ‘the draft’ anymore.

When I expressed my surprise, hoping to engage someone in conversation, the guy in line behind me (I was in a U.S. post office, where the brochures reminding men of their duty were prominently displayed) said he agreed that it should be mandatory to serve for two years: it makes ‘em ‘grow up’.

Hm.  How does teaching someone how to kill make a person grow up?  That is, what’s mature about learning how to kill?  What’s mature about actually killing?

Of course, being in the military is not just about killing.  Arguably.  But what’s mature about not being pressured to conform, to obey orders?

Sure, the forced routine, of physical exercise and psychological effort, might become a habit.  And that’s a good thing.  A grown-up thing.  But there are other, far better, ways to achieve that same result.

And sure, the presumed altruism—you’re serving their country, life’s not all about you—is good, mature.  But again, is killing someone for others really the best example of altruism we can put before young men?  Young men who need to grow up?

It seems to me the selective service system is a bad way to fix a bunch of other bad ways.

The question we have to ask is how do boys get to eighteen without growing up?

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More censorship re trans …

Check it out –

 

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Solo Women’s Invisible Economic Expenses

It really hit home when my father gave me twenty bucks for a pizza, his treat.  As if I were a teenager.  Instead of a 50-year-old woman with a mortgage to pay, property taxes,  and monthly bills for oil, electricity, phone, internet, tv, house insurance, car insurance…  Amazing.  He was sitting in my living room at the time.  (My living room.)  A carpenter I’d hired to do some renovations on my house (my house) was outside working at the time.  And yet, he seemed to think I didn’t need, or couldn’t use, any real money.  He couldn’t see me as an adult negotiating my way in the real world, the one with jobs, paycheques, mortgages, and bills.

How did he think I came to own my own house?  Who did he think would be paying the carpenter?  Who does he think bought the car sitting in my driveway?  And pays for its repairs?

I don’t doubt for a minute that my parents have given my brother and my married sister a lot more than twenty bucks over the years (I divorced them thirty years ago, so I don’t really know) (and for that reason, I don’t feel entitled to anything from them, but that’s not my point), starting with the hundred-dollar (thousand-dollar?) gifts they gave them to start their households.  Said gifts were ostensibly wedding gifts, but hey, I had a household to start too.  Why do they get a new fridge and I get a hand-me-down blender just because they’re starting a new household with someone to whom they’ve contracted themselves?

And it’s not just my parents, of course.  The twenty-bucks-for-pizza incident wasn’t by any means the first time my economic expenses have been apparently invisible.  A neighbour (a kept woman) explained to me once that she and her husband were happy to have given the commission from the sale of their property to a certain real estate agent, a woman, (instead of selling the property without involving her, which they could have done), because her husband had recently died, so she was on her own now.  No similar sympathy has ever been directed my way.  And I’ve been on my own since I was twenty-one.

Why is this?  What can explain this phenomenon, a phenomenon that is surely causally related to women’s lower salaries?  The belief, clearly mistaken if anyone cared to open their eyes, that every woman is married?  (And every married woman is completely supported by her husband?)  The insistent belief that women are, or should be, considered children?  (And children don’t have adult needs, adult financial responsibilities…)

In 2009, American single women outnumbered married women (All the Single Ladies, Rebecca Traister).  So what do people like my parents think?  That banks waive our mortgage payments, and landlords never charge us rent; that insurance companies waive our premiums; that oil and propane companies fill our tanks, but never send us a bill; that we get our cars and bus passes for free; that we don’t have to pay for gas; that grocery stores let us walk out with all the food we want, for free; that our dentists and optometrists don’t charge us for check-ups; and that little elves come in the middle of the night and leave heaps of money so we can pay for whatever else we need.

 

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Balls, by Jass Richards

Hilarious!  Check it out:

http://www.jassrichards.com/pdfs/Balls.pdf

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All White Male Panel Topics, Chris Hardie – from McSweeneys

Check it out!

https://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/all-white-male-panel-topics

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That said, I also hate women.

I hate the way they defer to men.

I hate the way they expect a man to pay their way through life.

I hate that they accept the privileged status that accompanies being married to a man.

I hate that they sexualize themselves with make-up and clothing choices as a matter of routine.

I hate that they pretend to enjoy sexual intercourse when they don’t.

I hate that they have children even when they don’t really want them.

(I like people.  People who have not accepted the straitjackets of gender.)

 

 

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Do I hate men?

Yes, generally speaking, I do.

I hate the way they take up more physical space than necessary, sprawling over the confines of their chairs, elbowing the people beside them.

I hate the way they take up more conversational space, speaking slowly, repeating themselves, and making irrelevant comments that derail the discussion.

I hate the way they lecture me as if I’m a child.

I hate the way they automatically assume they know more than me.  Even when they’re students in a class I’m teaching.

I hate the way they feel entitled to tell me what my problems are, to tell me whether I measure up to their standards, to tell me whether I please them or not.

I hate that they work less hard in school, obtain lower grades, and yet receive better job offers.

I hate that they get paid more for work of equal or lesser value.

I hate that they relentlessly sexualize women so we are reduced to nothing but our sex.

I hate that they sexually assault women.

I hate that they kill women who have been sexually assaulted.

I hate that they are entertained by images that humiliate and degrade women, and start watching such images as early as ten years of age.

I hate that they buy and sell girls for their sexual use.

I hate that they enjoy hunting and killing animals.

I hate their reluctance to engage in self analysis, to take responsibility for any of the above, to change any of the above.

I hate that they like the way things are.

So the question that should be asked is not do I hate men, but why do you not?

 

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I’m too drunk. No I’m not.

According to the Canadian Criminal Code, (self-induced) intoxication is no defence against charges of assault (33.1): if you’re drunk, you’re still able to form the general intent to commit said assault.

And yet, with regard to the sub-category of sexual assault, belief that someone is consenting is cancelled if that someone is intoxicated (273.1(2)): if you’re drunk, you can’t consent to sex.

So if you’re drunk, you’re capable of forming the intent to assault, but you’re not capable of forming the intent to have sex?  Given that it’s mostly men who do the assaulting, and it’s mostly women who do the consenting (and given, it’s my guess, that the lawmakers had men in mind for 33.1 and women in mind for 273.1(2)), is this some sort of ‘protect the weaker sex’ double standard?

Hey, if we expect men to foresee the effects of alcohol and to be responsible for their behavior while under its influence, we should expect the same of women.  Yes, it may be morally wrong to have sex with someone who’s drunk, even though she’s climbing all over you and moaning ‘do me’, especially if you suspect that if she were sober she wouldn’t be quite so willing – but you’re not her legal guardian.  ‘Yes’ means ‘yes’ and if she regrets it the morning after, that’s her headache.  Doing something really stupid is the risk you take when you get drunk (unless you’ve got a dependable designated sober friend with you).

If while drunk she says I can borrow her car, and I do so, am I really justly accused of theft?  Am I my sister’s keeper?  She said I could.  Do I have to second guess her?  She may well say I can borrow her car when she’s sober too.  Or not.  Am I supposed to know?  (Aside from it’s not always easy to tell if someone has had ‘too much’ to drink.)

The only way the difference can be justified is if in both cases we consider the man to be the agent, the only one doing the deed.  In the first case, that’s fine.  But in the second?  Well, okay, if she’s the one done to, I guess, maybe, he’s the only one who’s guilty.  But the tricky part is that then the legality of the deed depends on her behavior.  If she, drunk, does to him, she’s the one guilty of assault while intoxicated.

 

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Ugly, Fat, Hairy Feminists

The reason most feminists are ugly, fat, and hairy is that most feminists are old.  That is, over forty.

And there are two good reasons for this.  The first is that most living feminists became feminists in the 70s when it was ‘in the air’ and, therefore, easier to be convinced that women are subordinated in our society.  That means they were at least in their late teens in the 70s, which means they’re around fifty or sixty now.

The second reason is that too often it takes until you’re forty to figure it out.   Women in their late teens, their twenties, and thirties seem to have it good.  They get married.  Let’s say that means love, a house, and a pension plan.   At forty, you get traded in for a younger model.  Good-bye to all that.

They have kids.  Let’s say that means happiness and fulfillment.  At forty, they’re treated with contempt by their teenagers, dismissed as naïve and incompetent.  So much for happiness and fulfillment.

They get interviews; they get jobs.   At forty, rather suddenly, it hits you: you’re still in the same job, whereas so many of the men around you, even the younger men, have been promoted past you.

So all of this is to say that in your late teens, your twenties, and your thirties, you (seem to) get taken seriously.  Sexism?  The patriarchy?  What are you talking about?  But at forty, you stop being taken seriously.  You become invisible.  No matter what you do.  No one hears you.  No matter what you say.

And you suddenly realize that the only reason you were ever taken seriously was that you were fuckable.  Any attention paid to you was pretense.  In service to the possibility.  You realize that you’ve been sexualized.  Your whole life.  Whatever you were had female affixed to it.  Prefixed to it. You suddenly see the sexism you’ve been swimming in your whole life.

And, so, you realize you’ve been subordinated your whole life.  Because female means lesser.

And so you become a feminist.

Of course, there’s nothing about being over forty that makes you suddenly ugly, hairy, and fat.  It’s being a feminist that makes you so.  It’s being a feminist that makes you realize that it’s against your best interests to accept societal standards about beauty—to volumize and style and colour this hair, while simultaneously shaving and waxing and plucking that hair; to redden your lips and your cheeks; to eat less than you need.  Because those standards are set to attract the male gaze.  (Because, really, there’s nothing intrinsically ugly about our natural appearance, nor are we fat at our natural weight.)  Those standards keep us sexualized. (In fact, those standards are sexualized: beautiful means fuckable—which is in large part means young.)

And, so, subordinated.

Plus, quite simply, we have better things to do with our time.

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