rants

Let’s Make a Deal

Publicity photo of Carol Merrill, Monty Hall and Jay Stewart from the television program Let’s Make a Deal. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

You don’t call me a Feminazi, and I won’t call you a misogynistic asshole, okay?

If you absolutely can’t give up the term, just know you’re aligning yourself with Rush Limbaugh. I’m not certain that he is the originator of the term, but he is the one who popularized it in the ’90’s. I know, I know, you’re really in favor of equality, might even be someone who self-identifies as liberal, it’s just “those women” who you’re referring to. I understand, it’s only the emasculating ones; who have the audacity to want equal pay, respect, control over their bodies, and access to quality, affordable childcare. The right to not be strip searched and molested on the side of a highway. The right to not be under continual assault for appearance, or choices in love, work, or dress.

Lest I be accused of a man bashing post, let me stop and be clear. I’m also speaking to women who use this term. I know, I know, there’s nothing wrong with being a woman who embraces being a woman, meets Daddy at the door with a martini and a smile, ready to make that deal…blow job and meatloaf in exchange for an allowance. Because, yanno, if you’re an at home mom, taking care of the house and children isn’t really work. And if you work outside the home, you’re still the one primarily responsible for the house and children. Because, yanno, wimmenz work. What? That isn’t what you meant?

I wonder what you did mean, then. You, a modern American woman. Perhaps you don’t enjoy the right to own property, a right secured by earlier generations of feminists. How about the right to not be property? Or the right to vote. That must be it. Maybe you should share that info with the other women in the world who are still trying to secure those rights. Or the right to call the police if you’re assaulted, regardless of what length your skirt was, or if your assailant was your husband, your father, brother, or uncle.

I have a daughter, I’d like her to be safe. I have two sons, I’d like them to be safe. Silly me, I’d like to be safe. No one should have to live within a “rape culture,” yet we still do. Tremendous strides have been made, but no, it isn’t finished. Our society is a work in progress, and will be until every individual’s humanity is recognized and respected.

Feminazi. Really? Fighting for women’s rights is on par with the slaughter of sixteen million people. How silly of me not to make the connection myself.

Sorry Fringelings. This rant was brought to you by some disturbing comments seen on Facebook today. Not on my page, so I didn’t want to rant there. Now Mrs Fringe will go back to her thoroughly subversive, militant feminist crochet work.

Tangled up in Blue (Photo credit: chickeninthewoods)

Scared Titless

oral surgery stuff (Photo credit: Newbirth35)

I know, I know, I’ve been an exceptionally bad blogger. My tooth pain didn’t go away no matter how much I tried to pretend it wasn’t there, resulting in much misery, three trips to the dentist, and oral surgery. I’m on the mend now, not all better but much better than I was.

Have I ever mentioned that I have a dentist phobia? I do. The pain, the sounds, and most of all, the someone is in my frickin’ mouth!!! If you’re now tempted to explain how illogical this all is, save your breath and your fingers. Phobia. Irrational fear, I get it.

And now for what I don’t get, but I’m even more afraid of. What’s happening for and to women in this country.

You Say I’m a BITCH … SlutWalk in Miami: FIU Students March to Reclaim the Term “Slut” (Tue., Apr. 2 2013) …item 2.. Woman bit her live-in boyfriend’s penis (16 May 2013) … (Photo credit: marsmet532)

I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, started making notes for a post about what ever happened to feminism, pushed it to the back burner. Well, it’s now so front and center my eyelashes are singed, my bra has burned off, and my ovaries are experiencing shrinkage.

Some say the War On Women is a myth, fabricated by those stinky, left leaning, unshaven and leftover hippies. I don’t think so. I think it’s real. Never in my life have I heard so many ignorant, threatening comments made by those in positions of power (yanno, those “service” positions– politics), never have I seen and heard about so many attempts to repeal women’s rights, as I have over the last 18-24 months. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been naive. If it’s so widespread across the US, if there is so much support for those making these statements, I suspect it’s been there, this war, all along. I just didn’t hear about it because there weren’t cameras everywhere catching these speeches, these comments, there was no twitter, no internet, and a limited number of channels and news (?!) shows on tv. I think it’s been a Cold War, and now the heat’s been turned up using the fuel of electronic eyes and the internet.

I’m upset, I’m nauseated, I’m afraid. Why? Well, because of this. How the fuck is this ok? Down what black hole have I fallen to find myself in this alternate history where it’s systemically acceptable for police officers to sexually assault women, and do it in public while putting their health at risk too? Yes, I said it, systemic. One lone or occasional psycho I understand. Still horrible and scary, but I understand. But this wasn’t one renegade mama hating small weiner syndrome sociopath.

Whether it’s written in the manual or not, obviously this is an issue that goes beyond one evil trooper. In the first instance, the male state trooper called for a female trooper to come perform this cavity search. On the side of the road. And don’t forget to recycle, use the same glove for both women. Yeah, these troopers were all about caring for Mother Earth, after all, these cavity searches were prompted by a cigarette butt being tossed out a car window. littering. Another by speeding (waste of gas) And they might have smelled marijuana in the car during one of those stops. Cause every pot smoking woman I’ve ever known would have the instinct to shove a joint up her hoo haa and or butt. And nothing poses a bigger threat to the public, necessitating an immediate public and unsanitary cavity search than a skunk weed tampon.

A beaver pair (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Number One Threat to Public Safety. Oh, why be coy? We all know Public Enemy Number One is

Seated Female Nude, ca. 1937-1940 (Photo credit: americanartmuseum)

So no, it wasn’t this one evil female state trooper, it was a process that involved multiple officers all thinking this is acceptable. And it turns out this isn’t limited to one instance, there have been others in other parts of Texas. And don’t think of blowing this off as a crazy Texas thing, because there have been documented instances in other states. For the record, the female (and only the female) trooper was fired. I’m guessing she’s cursing the fates, smoking women, and the (I assume) unwritten policy that caused her to assault these women in the first place.

Another no, I don’t feel smug and secure because I live in left leaning, blue voting New York. If you’re a New Yorker, you shouldn’t either. Remember, we’re the country’s capitol of Stop-and-Frisk. Not such a big leap from Walking While Black being a crime to Walking While Female.

I think of the Holocaust Survivors I’ve met over the years, the history we haven’t learned well enough. In the beginning, it was all about well they’re only coming for them. Only “them” came to include many. The psychology we KNOW and have studied. “How could the individual SS officers commit these atrocities?” Pretty damned easily. They were broke, unemployed, hungry and afraid. They were given purpose, respect, food, commands, and fear. Told by their superiors, those holding the food and safety of their families, “You have to do this. For your safety. For your family. For your country. Do it. They aren’t really people. They’re a threat to us all. They’re JewsGaysMentally/PhysicallyDefectiveNotUs.” And from post war experiments conducted, we learned that most humans are sheep. We don’t actually need to be hungry or threatened. Just told to do it. Cause another person pain, suffering. Too easy.

Maybe this is the last roar of a dying breed, those who pine for the good ole days. Except the good ole days weren’t really so good, unless you were wealthy, white, and male. I hate to be the one to break the news, but “Leave it to Beaver” was fiction. Being poor sucks, being hungry sucks. Nothing new, it wasn’t fun to be poor and/or hungry 50, 100, 150 years ago either. Being a person of color continues to involve multiple indignities that too many pretend don’t exist. But our President is black has replaced But my best friend is black. Does anyone really believe there’s a significant difference between those statements?

I get it. It’s all about fear, and I understand fear. I’m afraid for me, afraid for my daughter, afraid for my women friends, my goddaughter, my sons’ female friends, the women of America today. WHY aren’t we continuing to move forward instead of sliding backwards? I don’t believe our rights to own property will be revoked, our consumerist society will never give up consumers. The right to vote? I don’t know. Perhaps full body searches will be required before women can cast a ballot. You know, for everyone’s safety.

Suffragettes in Bow Street (Photo credit: Leonard Bentley)

Suckage and Despair, Chapter 438

English: Danebridge Church Choir singing al fresco (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Sing along, now.

There are glorious highs and lows to writing. The highs come from when you know you’re clicking, a sentence is exactly what you want it to be, you’re in a great rhythm, being productive, you look at a completed piece and think, “yes,” this is worthy of submission. The lows, of course, are when you’re struggling, unsure of clarity, convinced that the work you’ve dedicated hours, weeks, months, years to is absolute crap. Lows also come in the form of letters/emails where the salutation states, “Dear Author,” and continues on to blah blah blah too much boring suckage, move along.

There are a few areas of writing where I’m fairly confident, and ride those highs. Logically, it makes no sense, I shouldn’t have any highs or confidence without validation. But they’re necessary in order to pursue this insane, frustrating road. Some days I wish doing laundry could give me that high. Today is one of those days.

I have an idea, and I want to roll with it.

Pencils (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve begun the new WIP. Here’s my high/low paradox. One of the areas I’m normally confident in is openings. I’m pretty good at hitting that “right” first sentence or three, just enough for a reader to want to know where the fuck I’m going with this. I’ve got, for now, the right opening scene, but my opening sentences aren’t strong enough. Even for manuscripts that rely heavily on atmosphere and characterization, you’ve got to hit the ground running. Maybe especially so. Being a lunatic, this naturally leads me to wonder if it’s time to give away my favorite pencils and have a party with the delete button in my documents section.

It doesn’t matter if I’m going to change the beginning later, delete it, shift it, whatever, I’ve got to hit the right note starting out. For me. It’s my crazy process.

It’s Sunday, and I don’t generally write on Sundays. They’re my day for general wallowing. I didn’t write yesterday because of computer issues, so I want to be productive today. Big Senile Dog and Little Incredibly Dumb Dog are looking at me, wondering why it’s 11am and I haven’t fed them yet. If I go into the kitchen to feed them, I’ll be faced with the sink overflowing with pans and dishes from last night’s dinner. So I’ll have to wash them. Once they’re washed, I’ll see how messy the counters are in general. So then I’ll have to clean the counters. Clean counters will remind me of the layer of dust in the living room. I’ll dust, and then realize I should wash/polish the doo dads lining the windowsills. Then I’ll remember the laundry pile, be too tired to sort and bring the laundry downstairs to get involved in laundry wars when I still have to make dinner, and remember I was supposed to be writing. Then I’ll remember why I didn’t write, because what should be a high for me is currently a low. Proof of suckage.

Is it bedtime?

Under the covers (Photo credit: Being a Dilettante)

And Happy Father’s Day to all!

Ahh, Nothing Like Blustery Autumn Day

In May.

A pair of well-used flip-flops. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This is what I should be wearing. Instead, I’m wearing a turtleneck and winter coat. For the love of God, I’ve got socks on! Socks!

I hate socks. Don’t put them on until the last possible day in the fall, and put them all away the moment my toes don’t actually get stiff in the spring. Yes, I’m whining. And yes, I know it isn’t just NY, it seems like much of the country is experiencing unusually cold temperatures right now.

Last year Flower Child and I spent one of the days of Memorial Day weekend on the beach. I’m sure, over the course of the weekend, I cooked things that were seasonal. Tofu dogs, cole slaw, burgers, whatever.

At least it’s still a three day weekend. And today Husband was going to work later, which meant I could sleep in. (I try to walk the dogs at least once while he’s home so Flower Child doesn’t have to get dressed and come out with me in the mornings of her days off.) Except I didn’t get to sleep in. Something went wrong with the plumbing yesterday; dirty, disgusting water backed up into our tub. So instead of snoring, I was downstairs harassing the handyman at eight AM, to make sure he didn’t “forget” to come up and fix it. Again. In my coat, because it was 44 degrees this morning.

I’m making soup for dinner today. Kale and cannellini bean soup. So wrong for the calendar, I didn’t have soup stuff in the cabinet, and had to go food shopping first thing this morning.

1) Saute your base in olive oil. I used garlic, red onion, carrots, celery, fresh ground salt and pepper, thyme and oregano.

2)Add canned peeled tomatoes, smush them in pot, cook about 20 minutes.

3)Add water and or broth (I used about half and half), kale, beans, and a hunk of Parmesan rind. Bring to boil, then lower down and cook about half an hour. *I prefer escarole, but the store didn’t have it today and I didn’t want to go to another store.

4) Immersion blender into pot, blend part (but not all, and don’t blend the Parm rind) of soup, I did a rough, quick few runs with it, leaving it mostly chunky, just adding texture.

5) Add torn stale Italian bread. Or baguette, whatever you’ve got, cook at least another 40 minutes over low heat.

: Saute

: Add your stuff and cook down.

: Final cooking, after blending part

Judgement Day

Judgement Day (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

is every day, here on the www.

I’ve talked before about how much I love the internet, the people I’ve met through it, blah blah yawn. It’s a funny thing, though. I continue to get lulled into a false sense of happy happy joy joy free love and learning, and then get biffed upside the head.

Not everyone you meet online is someone you’d want to sit and have a beer with. So what? Just like the offline world, smile, nod, and move on.

Except, online there seem to be a lot more people who don’t want to move along. You know who I mean, the ones who paint themselves as experts in X, and believe it is their great duty and privilege, perhaps even an obligation, to engage in argument. It took a bit for me to catch on to how this works for these cyber types. When I first became engaged with online communities where you saw this type of action, I took the bait. Argued back to explain my position, and proclaim my rights to my opinion. Then I learned a bit more about how socializing through a screen works/can work, and would attempt to steer the discussion with a more civil tone. Yah, done with that, too.

Journal of Community and Applied Social Psychology (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

From there you find the people you enjoy spending online time with, and figure out how to narrow your interactions with others while still remaining engaged in the greater community.

Or not. I no longer visit most of the forums I’ve joined over the years, because I found my “peeps” and we now interact in smaller groups through Facebook, email, sometimes even *gasp* face to face. Let’s be honest, here, do I need to post questions and have discussions with 8000 other navel gazers? Thirty, twenty, even ten can be sufficient for a lively debate and interesting discussion. Every so often someone new gets brought in for fresh air and new perspectives. Not only does everyone involved not have to agree, it’s a more productive discussion when they don’t. I learn other people’s opinions, new facts, and my mind gets opened a bit wider. As long as it’s all conducted with respect and basic courtesy, it’s all good.

Let’s look at that word again. Respect. It doesn’t matter if the poster is 14, 40, or 80 (and often you don’t know). It isn’t my job to slam anyone else in a personal way. I’m not talking about engaging in debate, but attacks that can/will be interpreted as personal. You know what I find to be one of the best parts of being a grown up? Understanding that not everyone will like me, and I won’t like everyone, and that is just fine. In person or online, still fine. Remember, I live in a small space. I can’t fit an entire forum around my dinner table. My laptop is old and cranky. A reflection of me, it stops and freezes every time I click on a new post or thread. It can easily take me 30 minutes to read two short threads, 45 if I want to reply. In many ways that’s ok, it forces me to choose carefully before clicking.

There are internet trolls who are obvious trolls. Fine. Some are annoying, some are amusing. But the tricky kind are those who don’t seem to understand

English: “Wikipedia troll at play” sign, based on a yellow “Children at Play” sign that symbolizes a child kicking a ball. The ball was replaced by a Wikipedia globe, and the child’s head was decorated with unruly “hair” reminiscent of troll dolls. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

they’re trolling, and are passionate about their way/belief being THE way. The ONLY way, for everyone, and they must “correct” any and all who question a different path. Personally, I’m a silly, flighty gal. Know what I do when I see a question/thread/post that seems pointless to me? I don’t click on it. Forgive me, I’m such a radical.

Mmm hmm. Would you and your hand like a room, buddy?<< phrased respectfully, of course.

Homestead-Nowhere-Motel (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s OK, My Dog is Friendly

English: "A Mad Dog in a Coffee-House&quo...

English: “A Mad Dog in a Coffee-House” by Rowlandson, showing a rabid dog terrorizing a coffee house in 18th century England (possibly Garrison’s or Jonathan’s, near the Exchange). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Um, no it isn’t ok. I’m glad your dog is friendly. That’s nice for you. My dogs aren’t friendly, therefore your dog charging up to my dog is a problem. You can consider your dog a member of your family (I do the same), you can call your dog your kid or your baby, but guess what? It’s a dog. Which means if your dog runs up to mine, and mine freak out, yours will too. Because they’re DOGS. I know you love your beasts, I love mine too.

Dogs in the city are generally pretty awesome. They tend to be well trained, and tolerant of sharing “their” space with others. Some are better than others. Mine fall into the “other” category when it comes to dealing with other dogs. They are not going to share the elevator nicely with your dogs, so when I see you on the elevator, I’m not getting on. I do this in the interests of everyone’s peace and safety. Trust me, they’re mine, I know them. So stop holding the fucking “open” button on the doors, trying to convince me to get on with them when you see them freaking out, and there’s an elderly woman cringing in the corner behind her shopping cart. It’s ok, they are my responsibility so I can wait for the next elevator.

Big Senile Dog won’t bark at another dog across the street or down the block, but he doesn’t want to pass right next to another. For the love of all that’s holy, you people with ultra friendly pups, when you see someone else walking a dog who is clearly bobbing and weaving to avoid run-ins with others, don’t wait for them, or follow them so the dogs can say hello and “make friends.” Sorry, my dog doesn’t want to make friends. He wants you and your dog to get the fuck away from him. I do my part, you do yours, please. Go to the dog run. Really. If Cesar Millan is with you, fine. Otherwise, let me move away.

Having a dog in the city is wonderful, but it’s tricky. You do have to make sure the dog gets enough exercise, and you have to be aware of the many dangers. Cars, bikes, poison, rats, the list goes on. I’m sure there are equivalent dangers in the suburbs and in rural areas. But somehow, we seem to have this privileged subset of dog owners who don’t think these dangers could ever, possibly apply to their beloved Rover.

Bucket-headed dog (Photo credit: Paul Kidd)

I’m always in awe of the sheer stupidity of some people. Truly, the vast majority of city dog owners are great, caring, and responsible. Their pets are well cared for, groomed, exercised, loved. But then you have the few who think all the dog needs to be happy and healthy is unconditional smooshies and freedom. There are leash laws for a reason. The reason is to PROTECT YOUR DOG as much if not more than anything else. You think your dog will always listen to you no matter what. Mmm hmm. These are the siblings of My-Kid-Would-Never, and their names are My-Dog-Would-Never. Yes, they will. Given the right/wrong circumstances, your dog will indeed get into a fight with another dog, scare a child, run into the street and become urban road kill. I have seen this more times than I can tell you, and it inevitably ends with the dog owner sobbing because they “don’t know what happened, Mitzi has never run into the street before.” I know what happened, Mitzi is a fucking dog and you treated her like a child old enough for higher order thinking! **I am excluding

professionally trained service dogs from this, because they truly are amazing**

Now here come the cousins to My-Dog-Would-Never-and-Doesn’t-Need-a-Leash, My-Dog-Would-Never-So-I-Let-Him-Have-All-25-feet-of-the-Retractable-Leash. Can I slap you now? The freakin dog might as well be off the damned lead! Large or small, if that dog runs into the street when a car is coming and the car doesn’t see him, that’s the end of the dog. If you’ve got a little dog who startles another, larger, unfriendly dog, your dog is getting his butt kicked before you can get him in your arms.

City Dogs Are Friends (Photo credit: ilovemypit)

If you’ve got a big dog at the end of that lead and they take off after a juicy rat, odds are excellent that you will either let go of the lead, get your wrist/arm broken trying to hold her back, or at the very least, you’ll end up on the ground. It’s science (physics?), a big dog with four on the floor with 15-25 feet of running lead has a lot more traction than you do. Hell, a 50 pound dog with four on the floor has more traction than many.

There are options for people with friendly, well trained dogs to be off leash and romp with other dogs. There are dog runs throughout the city, and dogs can be off-leash in Central Park from dawn until 9am, and from 9pm until park closing. By the way, just because you can let them off leash doesn’t mean you should. If your dog is not friendly or well trained, those ordinances won’t magically make your dog friendly and obedient.

This has been a public service announcement from Mrs Fringe.

Polski: trufla nosowa psa (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Good Morning, Angels

Publicity photo of the cast of the television program Charlie’s Angels. From left: Jaclyn Smith, Farrah Fawcett-Majors, and Kate Jackson. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Remember them? By today’s standards, it was a sweet show, despite being the beginning of “Jiggle Power” on tv, also known as “Jiggle TV.” Funny, the themes and outfits would probably be rated G now, and yet with all the toning, tanning, muscles, and enhancements on the female tv stars you see now, there’s nothing natural enough to jiggle.

Now we have different angels.

victoria’s secret fashion show 2010 (Photo credit: cattias.photos)

Not my definition of angelic, but that’s okay. I don’t have to shop there, and don’t. We’re all grown up women, and can decide for ourselves what type of underwear we’d like to wear. I find dental floss up my ass to be uncomfortable, and don’t see a woman picking her butt as an enticement, but whatever floats your boat, or lifts your boobs, or frames your artfully sculpted hoo ha. God Bless.

But wait. Victoria’s Secret has realized there’s an untapped market waiting for them. That’s right, jail bait. Future pedophile victims. Have I gone too far? Maybe. But certainly victims of a society that doesn’t know how to allow children to be children. Make no mistake, at 10, 11, 12, 13 years old, they’re still children, regardless of when their bodies begin to change.

I would like to hear from the adolescent and child psychology experts who sat on the panel in the Victoria’s Secret meetings, and said this is a good idea. That there’s nothing wrong with teaching little girls to start objectifying themselves early by wearing padded push up bras, panties that say “Call Me” (WTF happened to the ones that said Monday?), and of course, lacy thongs.

What mother who gives a shit about her daughter’s sense of self is buying her this type of underwear? Am I being judgmental, perhaps alienating readers who might buy my books down the road? Yup, and that’s okay. There are some things I feel strongly enough to take a stand on, and this is one of them. Am I uptight when it comes to my children? You betcha. Childhood is short, life is long. But the lessons learned in childhood last a lifetime. I’d like them to gain the tools they need during childhood for long, productive, happy, and healthy adulthoods.

Middle schoolers, tweens, are a mass of hormones and changes. This is the very beginning of independence. By the time a child is 14, you can see the adult they will become–though they aren’t that adult yet. What are they prioritizing, what have we taught them to prioritize? This is the time for young people to develop a sense of self, a sense of conscience, an understanding of their place in the world, and what roles they might step into. This is a time of self doubts and insecurities. If we parents buy them these types of garments we are prioritizing sexuality, and dating (or hooking up), over social justice, respect, community, intelligence, productivity, healthy body images, and healthy relationships. Yanno, to “get” the cute boy, strip down to your skivvies so he can see the message stamped on your butt. Because that’s what he should be paying attention to, right? Of course, with all these messages, stripping, and hoo ha infections caused by these special undies, I understand, there was no need or time to study for your biology test. And now that he/she has broken your heart because he/she has no clue or emotional tools to have a healthy relationship because he/she is also a child, no one wrote that Language Arts paper, either. Because they’re crushed, the very fragile beginnings of self esteem have been stepped on because Mary is cuter, or John is a better dancer.

This isn’t new, really. OK, marketing thongs to 10 year olds is new, but does anyone else remember this?

Nothing Comes Between Me and My Calvins (Photo credit: Evil Erin)

Brooke Shields was fourteen years old when this ad campaign for Calvin Klein jeans came out, implying there was no underwear between her and her super tight, super sexy jeans. That was in 1980. We should have known better. But certainly, we should know better by now. And none of this even begins to touch on the damage done to adult women, who are looking at ads that show models they can’t possibly look like, yet are told they should.

Dating and early acting out of sexuality, by its very nature, is emphasizing exclusivity. How does this make sense for young people who are searching desperately to be included? It might seem like nothing, innocence, “puppy love.” But it isn’t nothing, it sends a message about what is most important. Kids of this age need to find safe ways and places to be included. How about respect? How does that fit into this equation? Certainly, we aren’t teaching respect of self or others when we place value on prepubescent sexuality. How about self esteem? Doesn’t this bring us right back to encourage girls “not to be too smart,” and boys to value their sexuality over other, tangible, long term and contributory accomplishments. How about caring about other human beings, not just cataloguing them? Yes, let’s all cry about America slipping further down in academic standing when compared to other countries. Bottom line, with this type of message, we’re teaching our kids that commitment to self and others doesn’t matter. Because 12 year olds can’t commit to a long term, healthy relationship. Why? Because they haven’t yet learned how to commit to themselves, their future. For the love of all that’s holy, their brains aren’t finished yet, even if their boobs/butts/dangly bits are almost there.

Will there be a separate fashion show for the prepubescent line? Will it be photographed, filmed, televised? What’s that? You think that might be icky, uncomfortably close to child pornography? You should be thinking that, because it is. These garments are designed to be looked at, encourage fantasies so they will be purchased. There is no reason for these sweet whispers of lace and cotton to exist outside of sexual ones. I’m saying no thanks, I’m saying fuck you Victoria’s Secret.

Hey, you, adult woman! You don’t get to complain about men objectifying you, not taking you seriously, not giving you equal pay for equal work, and not holding up their end of child rearing if you’re feeding into this crap, and teaching another generation that these priorities are okay.

Perhaps we should bring corsets back. You know, the ones that literally warped the rib cage and cut off oxygen. Obviously our girls don’t need those brain cells anyway, since we’re teaching them to put their sexuality above other aspects of their development, or sense of self.

English: Corsets (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

English: FIG. 15.—The effect of bending forward, when seated, with and without corsets. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Justifiers and Qualifiers

The two women friends are shocked at a third woman dressed as a man. But Harlequin and Pierrot are also men. From the Danish “Punch” magazine (not the British Punch), July 1876 no. 30 page 233 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I feel like I’ve done quite a bit of moaning and groaning here on Mrs Fringe in the past couple of weeks. New week, I’d like to start out positive before beginning my usual ~~obsessing~~ musings. While I didn’t write as much as I would have liked at this point in the month, I have worked on both my WIP and a couple of short stories. There. I’ve given my dear readers unicorns and rainbows, you too, can chase your tail while sorting laundry and cleaning lost bodily fluids from canines and dependents.

On to the whine portion of happy hour. As I’ve said in the past, I write romance (the current WIP) and literary fiction (short stories, and a temporarily shelved WIP). None of this includes the blogging, which is another entirely different style of writing. Everybody’s a critic. Those who like romance, other types of genre fiction, or even–squee–my romances, don’t understand why I write lit fic. “Ew. Oh. It’s so dark. Aren’t those the books where nothing ever happens? Why do you write that? Well, it’s not my cup of tea.”

For those who like lit fic, or even–squee–my lit fic, when they hear I also write romance. “Really? Why are you wasting your time with that shit? You can do better than that. Well, I guess it’s easy money.”

I can’t win for losing. First of all, let me repeat, for the 8000th time, nothing in writing is easy money, or an easy path to publication. After 40,000 years I am still, but hopefully not always, one of the unwashed and unpublished masses. Maybe not unwashed, I bought an absolutely divine magnolia pear scented soap.

As a reader, I have a wide variety of books on my shelves. Romance, lit fic, short stories, poems, biographies, essays, non fiction books about economics, various religions, cookbooks, thrillers, horror, mysteries, even a fantasy or two. Some people are more focused, but I know many whose bookshelves look like mine.

Fiction Stacks (Photo credit: chelmsfordpubliclibrary)

So why do these same people with varied titles on their reading lists sneer at me for writing two seemingly disparate styles? Yes, the style of writing, pacing, sentence structure, word choice, these things are different. One is more introspective and character driven, the other quicker paced and it’s true, the black moment is a lot more, ummm, navy blue. But honestly, most (all) fiction is about exploring people, our emotions, our responses, our needs, wants, desires, connection to others, how we respond in any given situation, societal dilemmas and individual dilemmas.

I’m guessing there are slurs for every style and genre, but it feels like the two I write in are particular targets. Romance is for frustrated housewives, girly-porn (not sure what these critics make of M/M romance, but hey), they can be knocked out in a week, blah blah blah. And this doesn’t begin to touch the many subgenres of romance, or the different levels of “heat,” from sweet to yowza! I like writing romance. It isn’t easy, but it’s fun. How do two people (or vampires, if that’s your thing) fall in love? What makes someone heroic, or lovable, for that matter? What makes someone with an independent, fulfilling life want to make the drastic changes necessary to incorporate a significant other and arrive at happily ever after, or even happy for now?

And literary fiction. Sigh. It’s pretentious, self conscious, an excuse to break the rules of grammar, there’s no plot, it can’t be literary if it hasn’t won an award, navel gazing, yada, yada, yada. If you haven’t been following Mrs Fringe for long, let me tell you, I’m quite fond of navel gazing, and wondering why the fuck we make the decisions we do. Yanno, the human condition. Also, not easy to write, and for me, even the pace of production is slower than when I write romance. Is it “fun” to write? No, but there’s a depth of satisfaction I can’t describe, and I love it.

I wish I was like Stephen King, able to create believable, relatable characters that battle unreal creatures and situations. I wish I was like Margaret Atwood, sculpting a marriage of poetry, brilliant prose, and speculative fiction. I don’t have either of their levels of talent, certainly not the imaginations required. But if I did have an imagination that leaned towards alternate realities and creatures that go bump in the night? I’d write those stories too.

Why this rant? Because I am feeling good about working on both, I get different but definite satisfaction from working on each, but I’ve received several of these not so sly little pinches in conversation this week. Unknot your panties, folks. If I’m ever blessed enough to be published in both, they’ll be in different sections of the bookstore (assuming there still are brick and mortar bookstores by then), and I’ll use a pen name for one of the styles.

“Another belief of mine: that everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise.” Margaret Atwood (Photo credit: katerha)

Plucked, Tucked, and Fucked

¿Rolling Stones? No, gracias (Photo credit: alvarezperea)

As a no longer young woman who doesn’t travel with the movers and shakers of society, it sometimes takes me a while to hear about trends and movements. Last night, I saw an article on Facebook that horrified me. So much so, I suspected it was a hoax, and googled. Labiaplasty. Not a hoax. A (sur)real cosmetic plastic surgery, available at a doctor’s office near you. Heh.

Just in case you’re as behind the times as I am, labiaplasty is a surgery to trim, or completely remove, a woman’s inner labia. Ready for the kicker? This is a purely optional procedure.

So I ranted with my feminist FB buddies for a bit, and then kept googling. I did find instances of women who said they chose to have the procedure done for more than aesthetic reasons, citing discomfort when running or biking. I read about one woman who said she was tired of her lips falling out of her underwear. Now those are lips. Except when I continued reading, it turns out she was referring to thong underwear. What’s that, dear? Your dental floss isn’t as comfortable as you’d like it to be? Get off my lawn!

old lady feeding pigeons (Photo credit: mvhargan)

Adult women look different from young girls, the body changes in many ways. This surgery seems to be an effort to replicate the appearance of prepubescent girls. As a woman, as a mother, as a sorta kinda feminist, I am appalled. Exactly how does this fit into “first do no harm?” Those labia aren’t like your appendix, serving no function. They are part of your body’s natural defenses, protecting the vagina and urethra, have glands that produce secretions that kill bacteria, and I’m no gynecologist, but I’m pretty sure they help keep your urine from spraying out between the bowl and the seat. As someone who is a designated toilet scrubber, I approve of this function.

I am naturally slim, always was. Somehow, it’s more socially acceptable to admit to surgical body sculpting and radical diets than to say this. We, as women, are supposed to spend our entire lives hating our images, taking ever more extreme measures to look like a continually changing physical ideal. Men seem to be jumping on this bandwagon for themselves, can be found waiting to have their eyebrows threaded, pedicures done, chests waxed, and of course, cosmetic surgeries.

How much more can we hate ourselves? We starve, we shave, pour hot wax and rip it off, send electric shocks through our pores, apply acid to remove layers of skin, vacuum fat, lift, tuck, stick bits of plastic on our eyeballs, we paint, we polish, tattoo, pierce, inject water, silicone, and botulism.

But after I logged off, and kept thinking, that pesky little voice in my head kept whispering. You know the voice, the one that calls you out on your own bullshit and contradictions. Is this really so different than any other plastic surgery done for purely cosmetic reasons? I’ve never had any plastic surgery done, and I’m not likely to, but I can’t say I wouldn’t if an opportunity presented itself. The younger, more militant me hates this.

I have what I like to think of as probiscis magnificus. Yanno, a nose that qualifies as a shnoz. When I was younger, the opportunity for a nose job presented itself. Did I already hate my nose, wish it didn’t look like a mountain climbing challenge? Yes I did. But I declined the offer, because it was so against my political views, my belief that each of us needs to embrace who we are, including our physical characteristics. In other words, my shnoz is and always was a part of me, and our physical self contributes to who we become, our self image in every way. I’d also had my nose broken twice. It hurts like hell, and I wasn’t in a phase of life where I wanted to volunteer for pain.

At this stage in my life, though, I’m not so young, perky, or firm. I’m in reasonably good shape, but my skin isn’t so tight. I’ve nursed three children. I know who I am, and understand physical changes won’t change the woman I’ve become. So I’ve thought about it, and if I won the lottery, I might have a rhinoplasty done, and a boob lift to get the girls back to the zip code they used to reside in. Is there a difference between these procedures and labiaplasty? I could justify a nose job for medical reasons, the two breaks left me with scar tissue that make my nasal passages permanently stuffy and a snore that rivals an old coal train. No justification other than vanity for a breast lift. I think this means I don’t have the right to judge anyone else’s elective procedures. What’s the line?

Description unavailable (Photo credit: *Bitch Cakes*)

Cuddling With that Late Night Booty Call: Want

Deutsch: Irische Hard Shoes, auch Hornpipe Shoes oder Jig Shoes genannt. Jig Shoes. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

*Warning: Defensive post ahead.

Yesterday afternoon, I walked past a favorite shoe store, recently renovated so the ambiance matches the price points. In the window was an absolute wantwantwant Pas de Rouge shoe. So much so, I took a picture with a phone, posted it to my personal Facebook wall, and had fun with friends dreaming about $400 shoes. (for some reason I can’t transfer pics from my phone to this blog, sorry) Fun? Yes. Silly? Absolutely. But there’s something about a sole full of awesomeness that some roundheels like myself can’t deny. Resist, sure, but not deny.

But here’s what I’m thinking about today. We’re expected to deny our wants. As women, certainly as women with children, we’re supposed to forget about our pesky little wants, dreams, and desires, at least until all children our grown and gone. I’m not talking about ridiculously expensive shoes, but the other stuff. Like writing, or painting, or photography (except of our children), or going back to school, or a vacation that isn’t educational. Even hobbies are relegated to after the kids are asleep. You know what? After the kids are grown and gone is a long, long time. Add in a special needs child and multiply this by eleventy billion.

A newborn child crying. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It doesn’t seem so long at first, when they’re babies, toddlers, and young children, and your days meld together with feeding and changing, soothing and crooning. Hell, just looking at this photo makes my boobs tingle, preparing for a non existent milk letdown, and it’s been years since I nursed.

My belief that children come first is strong. Most of us deny ourselves a lot of wants, put off needs, because the kids come first. It’s what our biology and our society dictates; in my opinion this is as it should be. I know it isn’t just women who put certain wants off until the kids are grown, most of us, male and female, are on limited budgets, and many of us have to either give up or put dreams aside until the immediate responsibilities are fewer. Being last is okay, as long as I’m still in the race.

But since I began blogging about my newly rediscovered determination to get back to a regular writing and submitting schedule, more than a couple of my female followers have made reference (both on and off the blog) to wanting to do X, and waiting to do X until the kids are gone. Feel free to jump in and tell me you’ve heard otherwise, I’ve never heard a man say he’s waiting to investigate and pursue a hobby until the kids are gone. When I read the stories of writers who have been successful after having children, but before the kids are gone, they’re a little different. Both male and female showed tremendous drive, dedication, and passion. The men talk about coming home from their day jobs, locking themselves in whatever little nook they can carve out for themselves in their home, and writing. Women talk about coming home from their day jobs, supervising homework, making dinner, doing the bedtime thing, and then going to whatever nook they’ve carved out for themselves. Or, if they were SAHMs, writing during naps and loads of laundry. And of course, eating all those bon bons. Who needs sleep, right?

I don’t know about you, but when I sleep and dream, it isn’t about juicy younger men or my formerly perky parts. It’s about space and time for myself that isn’t shrouded in guilt.

English: A photograph of an engraving in The Writings of Charles Dickens volume 4, Oliver Twist, titled “Oliver at Mrs. Maylie’s Door”. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I think it’s valid, sensible, and important to recognize the difference between wants and needs, and then further breakdown to prioritize these needs and wants. What I don’t get is why this is supposed to equal no wants or dreams. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I recognize that I live in this spoiled American society and I am a spoiled American. I don’t have a McMansion and don’t want one. I also don’t want to live in a hut, with just enough grains of rice to keep me going, foraged Pepsi bottles strapped to my feet with woven grass. I hear those are terrible for dog walking.