But of Course!

The National Right to Life Committee doesn't support SCHIP*! How completely unsurprising! What a non-story. Is ANYBODY shocked that an anti-woman, anti-choice group doesn't actually appear to give a shit about the foetus once it pops out of the host?

Forced to continue a pregnancy? Compelled to give birth to a child you can't afford and can't care for? Child sick and in need of affordable medical insurance? Tough titties! The National Right to Life Committee have done their bit. They only want to know when there's someone else's uterus involved. After that you're on your own.


*For those of us Brits who don't know, SCHIP is a US initiative: the State Children's Health Insurance Program, providing low cost health insurance for Families who earn too much to qualify for Medicaid but can't afford private insurance.

According to the website: Families that do not currently have health insurance are likely to be eligible, even if you are working. The states have different eligibility rules, but in most states, uninsured children under the age of 19, whose families earn up to $36,200 a year (for a family of four) are eligible. For little or no cost, this insurance pays for:

doctor visits
immunizations
hospitalizations
emergency room visits

Oh, How I hate that word...*

Do you "slow down for whores"?** I ask because if you are the driver that does, there's apparently a bumper sticker you can buy, letting other drivers know that in the event of you espying a woman who, in your estimation, is in fact a whore, you will drop your speed to some ludicrously slow level in order that you may do whatever it is that you do when you have your whore in sight without causing some kind of horrendous pile-up.

I wonder, how do you identify your whore? Is it dress? Hair style? Attitude, location, general air of downtrodden misery? Is the only qualifying factor her evident femaleness? Does it even really matter to you that who choose is actually a prostitute? Will any woman do in a pinch? A man even? I'm guessing that big breasts are essential, given the logo that accompanies the info on your bumper sticker.***

While I'm at it, just what is it that you do? There seems to me to be a notable distinction between stopping for whores, and slowing down. If you're only reducing your speed, you clearly aren't paying your chosen whore for any service. Unless you expect her to stick her head/arms/bum through the car window and get swept dangling alongside as you get blown/wanked/fucked while you drive? Are you slowing down to shout advice? Are you slowing down to toss out money that you owe from earlier encounters? Are you slowing down to ogle, sneer, laugh and generally degrade your whore-elect? What? What's your intent? I don't get it.

Well I'll tell you something you stupid, ignorant pig, your bumper sticker demeans me. It demeans your mother, your sister and your wife. It demeans your daughter. It demeans all women, whores and otherwise. Not only that, (and which I suspect will worry you not at all) it makes you look fucking stupid. You know, you really aren't cool and edgy. You are in fact tedious and simple. And the next time I'm parked behind you in the supermarket, that bumper sticker is done for. Idiot.



* I hate it. I really do. Just so you know.
** Actual bumper sticker I saw yesterday.
***The sticker read "I slow down for whores" and had that awful mudflap woman logo on it. Sometimes I despair.

EDIT: It isn't the mudflap woman, It's similar but not quite the same. I just located the source of the stickers, you can find it yourself if you search using the sticker phrase in quotation marks. I'm not linking. Yuk.

Pippa, Bored.

I am. Really, really bored. I have no work to do, no reading that must be done, no writing, editing, chewing of pencils. There are a thousand things that I could do, and many that I OUGHT to do, but all I really want to do is work on my thesis. And I can't, because it's over.

All the time I was writing it I wanted to get to the end and move on. Now that I have, I want it back. There are a hundred things wrong with it, and I know that and could correct them. I am re-excited by my primary texts! I can see the value of my study in a way that escaped me before. So, I'm pining away at my computer, and getting more bored by the minute. I hope it's a phase.

On Charity

I mention sometimes that I work as a volunteer in a charity shop. I love it. I get to meet some of the most generous, loving, thoughtful people in my community. Every person has time and thoughts to share and you'd be surprised how often I get a free cuddle from somebody! I really do consider myself blessed.

And then the shit happens. Someone with an overly flashy car pulls up and donates their stuff. Or we get a request to collect donations from some huge house in a leafy suburb. And then we spend the afternoon marvelling at the thought processes that enable someone so conspicuously wealthy to consider donating dirty nappies, broken toys and stained, unusable clothing to charity. It is utterly mind-boggling. What the fuck do they think they are doing? If it's dirty, smelly, broken, incomplete, or, in the case of food items, PAST its sell-by date, we can't use it!

I kid you not, since I've been working in this shop I have seen the smelliest, most faeces-ridden, urine-soaked, sweat-stained rubbish I have EVER come across. And I've worked in skips and tips. I have opened donation bags and dry-heaved from the pit of my stomach at the contents. I have cut my hands more than once on broken pottery, glass and unpackaged needles. And every time one of these particular treasure-filled bags arrives for sorting, it arrives in a posh car. I do not understand it.

Don't get me wrong, not all the wealthier people donate total (and literal) crap. We get amazing donations and we are so grateful for those. But some people really seem to think that people who shop in charity shops deserve nothing better than ripped, piss-stained trousers. Or damp clothes on which a heavy layer of mould has grown. Or broken toys and incomplete jigsaws. Or dirty underwear. Or wet and stained bedding.

I could be bang out of order, complaining like this. As a charity, perhaps we ought to be grateful for anything we get. But really, should we? I wonder if there's something about privilege and social awareness wrapped up in this somewhere. Does having money affect perception? Have the wealthy got so far away from the poor that they don't know or don't care that thrift store purchases need to be clean and useful? Don't they think that people in straitened circumstances deserve better? Do they somehow imagine that our customers fall on their magical bags of gruesome and hazardous largess like starved Victorian street urchins? I'm pissed off because I am starting to think that they do.

Told you So!

Indeed we did!

Us feminists know a thing or two about women, and we know about abortion. As it turns out, safe and legal abortion REDUCES the incidence of abortion. Why don't the anti-choice brigade get that? Why don't they care that "desperate women who are denied access to safe abortions often turn to charlatan doctors, poisons, sticks and coat hangers, procedures that often result in death, infertility or permanent physical injury"? Misogynistic attempts to deny women their reproductive choices and freedoms just don't work. Yet the woman-hating continues.

Well, guess what? It doesn't work.

We told you so (does strange but happy little dance, wiggling bottom and stamping feet). We told you so.

Well, That's that.

I did it. I finished my thesis, wrote it up and sent it for printing. Tomorrow I submit and then who knows what? I feel tired and emotional and deflated and happy all at once. I may not pass, I may never look at my work again, but I set out to finish and finish I did, and for that I am thankful. And a tiny bit proud. It's over, and I can move on.

My new life starts here...

Little Updates

Thanks to you who commented and gave me support over the last few days! I feel better, my daughter is happy and coping, the house still feels empty but I'm getting used to it quite quickly.

My neighbour passed away this morning. I mentioned a couple of posts ago that he had cancer, it has taken less than three weeks from diagnosis for him to succumb. I am glad for him that it was fast and that he was unconscious during most of those days. I am sad for his family, who will miss him and mourn him and who had no time to get ready for this. I know that no-one can really ever prepare for cancer and death, but really, this was FAST.

I have six days left before I pack up my books and head off to submit my PhD thesis. It can't be done in the time that I have left. Except that it must be. And then my life will change and that scares me. What will I do? Who will I be without my thesis and my writing? I'll let you know when I find out!

Waving Goodbye.

Today I left my astonishing, compassionate and beautiful daughter in a town 130 miles away from home, in a strange town, with strange people, so that she can learn new things and get all clever and come home with a degree. And right this minute all I can think of is that her room is empty and the cat misses her and there is less "stuff" all over the house and I feel lonely. She is destined for great things, as, I firmly believe, are all of our young feminist children.

About My Daughter: If you feel lonely, she will hold your hand. If you are frightened, she will stand behind you, holding you up, or in front of you, guarding you. If you are hungry, she'll give you her food. You may absolutely always no-matter-what count on her.

But it's her first night living away from home. I hope she's okay. I hope she's not missing me. I hope I feel better than this tomorrow.

Happy.

This just makes me all kinds of delighted! I think it's about time we all started shouting about civil partnerships vs. marriage; separate but equal isn't fucking good enough. What an awesome dad!

How Did I Miss This?

I know I've been a bit slow blog-wise these last few months; but really. When The Vatican gets into it with Amnesty International, a radical feminist, pro-abortion, potential catholic convert ought to be on the ball. So, not a moment too soon, here's a link to the relevant info. Amnesty International News

Three cheers for that paragon of Christian charity, Cardinal Tarcisio Bertone, who is reported to have said: “Violence cannot be answered with further violence; murder with murder; for even if the child is unborn, it is still a human person. It has a right to dignity as a human being.”

No mention of the right to dignity of the woman whose body has been brutalised and invaded by a clump of multiplying cells that carry the DNA of her attacker. Nope. No dignity for her then. Oh, but he did bang on a bit about ending violence towards women, blah blah. You know, the trivial stuff. The church treating women less as chattel and more as capable, intelligent, morally self-determining human beings might kick start that process. Just a thought.

Oh. Sad.

Anita Roddick died. I feel quite sad today. The Body Shop was a huge and unusually powerful thing when I was growing up in the greedy, finance-driven 80's. The very presence of a woman-owned big business that had some heart and was focused on ethical trading and ecological awareness was a strong influence on my developing radical feminism. I gloss over what happened next: all the accusations of selling out and secret exploitation. I forgive her pushing of the "beauty" message that I now find so loathsome.

Anita Roddick was, for a long time, a strong and generous woman whom I very much admired. And so, today I shall mourn her passing.

I Guess I'm Just One of Those

lazy arsed Radical Feminists getting such a bad name in some parts of the blogosphere recently.

I have just been catching up with the latest round of blogwars! Hurrah! I learned that intellectual theorising is meaningless. I learned that stripping and getting sexually humiliated and ass fucked is all about whether I like it or not; if I do, then it's feminism. I have learned that if I identify with Radical Feminism then I am useless to REAL women in the REAL world, preferring as I do to sit and pontificate the politics of gender, sex, patriarchy and oppression. I am a dinosaur. I know nothing of reality. I sit on my duff and read Dworkin. I am humourless, sexless and dry.

Except.

I do my part. I get off my arse and DO stuff for people. I volunteer my time, I give what money I can. I work HARD. And I still recognise and celebrate the women who do the thinking. The kind of hard thinking that allows me to operate within my own moral and ethical codes. The kind of hard thinking that exposes subtle inequality and highlights oppression. We humans NEED our philosophers. Women NEED feminist thought and theory. And you know what? There are women who blog Radical Feminism because that's where their contribution to the cause lies. That's their best fit, and that's fucking awesome. There's room for all of us. The REAL LIFE activism has its genesis in the theory that some amazing women spend so long learning and developing.

So that said, from this moment on I will not be engaging my brain in any more debates about who does most for women. I won't be fretting about my intellectual feminism versus my "real life" activism. I won't be listening to any denigration of Radical Feminism. I will be Radical Feminist, embracing all the facets of my life. Join me!

Margaret. And Me.

I got my internet back! Sporadically. So I'll do my best to catch up with you all when I can. I've been active on the radfem front, the yoga front, the kitten front and the PhD front. Only four weeks to go before I must submit, so posting here will be light until then I'm afraid. Until then, I could use your good thoughts. I feel a tad overwhelmed and lacking in ability! Here's how Margaret is helping me out in her own special way:






She's totally lovely and she smells fantastic. I love burying my nose in her fur! She is my sweetheart. I forgot how goooooood cats are.

At Last! A tag...

Mwezzi tagged me. I feel honoured. So here we go (from my mother's tiny screened computer)

A. Each person lists 8 facts/habits about themselves.
B. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed.
C. At the end of the post, the person then tags 8 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog.

Eight facts about me:

1. I had all my wisdom teeth removed and kept them in my jewellery box for ages. They were perfect and strong. I miss them.

2. I have a "finger bud" on the left hand little finger. It's hereditary and should have been a sixth finger.

3. I love brussel sprouts and can eat a plate of them with no accompanying food. And no unpleasant after-effects. Mushy peas on the other hand...

4. I do everything naturally left-handed except writing.

5. I got pregnant at sixteen.

6. I don't regret getting pregnant at sixteen.

7. I crochet things to relax my mind. And I'm really good at it now. Name your winter clothing item, doily or whimsical bag and I can whip it up for you in an evening.

8. I have had a nightmare every single night of my life. Thirty five years of vivid dreaming, and I can remember pretty much everything that I dream and I am able to revisit the dream later. Sometimes this worries me...


I tag Spotted Elephant, Ms Jared, Anne Bartow, Arantxa, Merdeen, Kitty Glendower, lost clown and witchy! Most of whiom, I suspect, have already been tagged! That was fun. Thanks!

Aaaaaaargh!

I'm internet-less. I can't STAND it. I'm reduced to snatching moments on other people's computers, until the techies can get my line up and running again. And at the last update the time frame was five days. So posting will be light, but hey, what's new there then? Oh, I'm soooo frustrated.

Margaret had DOUBLED in size. She is the most affectionate kitten ever and just flops over on her back and goes to sleep when she is my arms. I love her so much already! More pics when I get up and running again.

I'm off to my dentist in a minute, to sit and be irritated in the waiting room for half an hour. She does botox and the like as well as dentistry and every single poster that advertises that service depicts a white, slim, middle-aged woman. No men. No fat women. No people of colour. I feel singled out and wrinkled. So I'm going to complain today, just as soon as she has her pointy metal implements out of my mouth. Wish me luck!

I miss you...

Introducing the Mighty Margaret!

Hee! Looks who lives with us now:





My old boy is not overly thrilled by Margaret's tail fetish!:



Margaret is seven weeks old and she's lived here for two full, anxious days. She didn't poop until this morning and she's being really picky about her food but she'll settle down soon. She's totally unafraid of anything and completely clumsy! We love her to bits already. Our house is catfull again!

Have I Ever Told You

About the Inappropriate Yoga guy? He turns up at my yoga classes wearing the MOST REVEALING shorts. Every single pubic hair is outlined against the tight lycra. Or he wears loose shorts and no underwear. He often winks at me and tries to be a bit flirty and he likes to take up loads of space at the front of the class. He's training to be a yoga teacher and he LOVES himself. So last week I'm talking about him to a friend and she tells me about this video and I swear to God, the character is based on my guy. Except my guy is much older and has no hair. Inappropriate yoga guys must be a common phenomenon. Anyway, here it is. Enjoy!

It's STILL raining

and I'm feeling blue. Somebody send me a link to something REALLY wonderful and make my day! I'm off to my voluntary job in a few minutes and I am not looking forward to it. I am so stressed out with what I see going on there, but I looooove the work and the customers and the sense of well-being that comes from volunteering. How am I going to keep doing this if it gets me so down? I need to look for something new. How are y'all anyway?

Just b coz.

Heh. Male violence up close.

So, I'm on my way out last Tuesday and I'm in someone else's car, being driven v e r y slowly because she's careful and a bit nervous. We get overtaken (in a residential area, in a 30mph zone) by a really cross man in a sports car with a numberplate that appeared to be a rude word for genitalia, you know, when they try and make numbers look like letters(oh how jovial!). He then stops dead in front of us. Of course, we are going sooooo slowly that we can easily swerve round him and we do, but really, he's just pissed off at us and trying to show us that. So, being the impetuous person that I am, and rude, I reach over and smack the horn. Biiiiiig mistake. This fucks him off and he chases us.

Now, I'm not suggesting that this was in any way a chase of the kind that leaves devastation in it's wake; our heroine, the driver of the slow car, barely got above 20mph. But it was quite scary. At one point the man chasing us drew alongside and threatened us through the window with a beating. Then he dropped back and started pounding HIS horn and waving at me with closed fist. I turned right round in my seat and watched him through the back window, because I WON'T be intimidated. He appeared to be shouting "you are fucking dead" at me. He pointed and thumped his dashboard and windscreen. It was quite a display. Through all of this, his (female) passenger sat there looking bored. She's probably utterly sick of his behaviour. Anyway, my slightly bemused and mocking expression seemed to only rile him further and he had another go at getting alongside and screaming at us, at which point I made it obvious that not only were we not scared (we were), or impressed (we weren't), I was dialling my phone and calling the police. He sped off down a side street. We pressed on with our journey relieved but a little shaken.

So my point is this: he got really fucking pissed off and violent over the speed at which we were travelling. He got himself involved in the slowest ever street chase. He felt that it was appropriate to threaten us with beatings and death. He was bigger than us. He was male. And everything that he did, he did only once he had established that we were two women in the car. What a loser. What a scary, powerful, violent loser. My abiding thought that evening was "what about the woman in HIS car? Is she safe?" My guess is no.