The Fem Spot

Oh, the sexist things we say…

Posted in News, Pop Culture by femspotter on March 26, 2011

March 26, 2011

“What would you rather do: make 80 cents on the dollar or have your head cut off?”

Um, those are my only choices? (If that’s true, I’ll cut my own head off.) Quite obviously, I’d rather…make 100 cents on the dollar and keep my head, Bill Maher. Yes, the liberal commentator – in making his morally relativistic point that “degree matters” in the maltreatment of women – posed that question to talk show host Tavis Smiley on Maher’s Feb. 18 “Real Time.” Why? Apparently, according to Maher, it’s important to understand the difference between United States sexism and Muslim-world sexism. We non-Muslim Americans should be patting ourselves on our backs for only hating women…a little.

Smiley replied that sexism isn’t relative: “It’s either right or it’s wrong. It’s either acceptable or it’s unacceptable.” Exactly! Thank you! And Bill Maher was arguing that sexism on the lesser end of the spectrum – such as paying women less money than men get for equal work – is acceptable because it’s not as bad as violence (which we have plenty of in the U.S., by the way). No. NO, NO, NO, NO, NO! He also said that the statement that women are being maltreated in the U.S. is “bull shit.”

And in case you think Maher’s sexism begins and ends with women, think again. He also said a mouthful about how men are universally uncivilized by default: “Civilization begins with civilizing the men. The women are sort of already there.” What?! Been to a sorority hazing lately, Bill? Women are often equally less civilized than what would be desired. Not only can we be equally productive, we can also be equally destructive.

Smiley had the last laugh, however. Maher tried to diss Smiley’s liberalism by saying, “When you tolerate intolerance, you’re not really being a liberal.” (That should be embroidered on a pillow.) But, Bill, you’re the one tolerating sexism – or sexist intolerance: “I mean, in this country, we treat women badly because they don’t get equal pay, or someone calls you ‘sugar tits,’ or something like that.” I guess he doesn’t read past front page headlines. (To be fair to Maher, rape stories usually are buried on page 10.) 

***

***

“One of the things that is troubling is that people see a Natalie Portman or some other Hollywood starlet who boasts of, ‘Hey look, we’re having children. We’re not married, but we’re having these children, and they’re doing just fine.’ But there aren’t really a lot of single moms out there who are making millions of dollars every year for being in a movie. And I think it gives a distorted image that yes, not everybody hires nannies, and caretakers, and nurses. Most single moms are very poor, uneducated, can’t get a job, and if it weren’t for government assistance, their kids would be starving to death and never have health care. And that’s the story that we’re not seeing, and it’s unfortunate that we glorify and glamorize the idea of out of children wedlock.”

Criticizing Portman for unwed motherhood when her real crime is those earings?! (Kidding.)

We’ll get to sexism in a moment, but I’d first like to point out the Republican double standard at work in this Mike Huckabee quote from a radio interview with Michael Medved earlier this month: Republicans champion the likes of Bristol Palin completing her out-of-wedlock pregnancy before completing her high school matriculation, but Natalie Portman – a Harvard University graduate, is the enemy? Now, I would never claim that an Ivy Leaguer is more prepared to successfully handle pregnancy and motherhood than any other woman…I leave that to the conservatives. That is what Huckabee was saying: “most single moms are very poor, uneducated, can’t get a job…” But, married or otherwise, Portman does not consider herself single. So, whether she hires a nanny or not, she and the father of their child purport to be united as parents…ergo, she will not be poor or jobless because she has the help of a supportive partner and thus time enough to work outside the home. And Mikey, single mothers have a job: it’s called “raising a child.” The pay is shit, but it’s nonetheless a JOB!!!

Bristol Palin – of the pantheon of young women fighting the temptation to choose to terminate their pregnancies so they can get on with their lives unfettered (let me add that this is – quite obviously – a choice that plagues ONLY women) – is somehow heroic to Republicans. But here’s what Palin and Portman have in common: money. Neither is married, but neither is poor. So if there’s glamorizing going on, it’s happening in both places. Not all single mothers are poor, just as not all married mothers aren’t. In fact, as of 1993, only about 40% of the women receiving food stamps in the U.S. had never been married, and a similar portion were currently married, according to a report by the Census Bureau. Ergo, matrimony does not an autonomous mother guarantee. It’s sexist to assume that only the presence of a man makes for a financially stable family.

The real sexism at work here, however, is making this statement targeted at any woman…at all. That’s because it automatically implies that pregnancy is the fault of women and women alone. The last time I checked, pregnancy results from sex/fertilization between lady AND man bits. The instructions that Huckabee and other anti-Choicers (thanks to my girlfriend L***** for encouraging my use of this term) – many of them Democrats – are sending are mixed: don’t have children out-of-wedlock, but don’t terminate your pregnancies either…and don’t come to us for help to feed your unwanted babies once you do as we say (not as we do, sometimes). We won’t let you choose, but we won’t support your forced hand either.

Sure, they’d love us all to abstain from sex…but that’s not really plausible in a rape culture, and one in which we’re constantly bombarded by both temptation (sex sells) and the message that sex is bad for us or morally wrong (don’t teenagers do everything they’re told not to do?). Once there’s a pregnancy and the abstain message is no longer valid, the completion of the pregnancy is a must…which, let’s face it, is often a problem for women alone. I mean, teenage girls lose their scholarships, jobs, families, etc. over pregnancy; yet, in most cases, all a teenage boy need do is deny he’s the sperm (I’d write “father” but that’s really too generous a designation for one who had sex…that one time…and then conveniently “forgot” about it). Huckabee should be commending Natalie Portman’s partner, Benjamin Millepied. He’s there. He’s responsible. He may not yet be married; but he will be a father. Marriage is etched with ink on a piece of paper; parenthood is etched with blood on our souls.

***

“It’s just destroyed our community. These boys have to live with this the rest of their lives.”

Why is it that, whenever there’s an alleged gang rape (as in the November 2010 incident in Cleveland, Texas detailed in this March 8  New York Times article) , people express concern for the accused? True, the accused are not always guilty; and the victim(s) is not always telling the truth. But wouldn’t it be better to reserve comments such as this – spoken by Sheila Harrison, 48, a hospital worker – until the verdict is in. Assuming the accuser is lying is just as bad as assuming the accused are guilty, is it not? 

The fuss over victim-blaming in the aforementioned article reached newsworthy status – and hopefully brought attention to the alleged rape – after Change.org set up a petition to shame the New York Times into apologizing for its story. The specific language in question is as follows:

Residents in the neighborhood where the abandoned trailer stands — known as the Quarters — said the victim had been visiting various friends there for months. They said she dressed older than her age, wearing makeup and fashions more appropriate to a woman in her 20s. She would hang out with teenage boys at a playground, some said.

I didn’t sign the petition. I think this proves victim-blaming – a hot topic in the feminist blogosphere – on the part of residents but not on the part of the reporter. (I myself have been accused of victim-blaming for admitting to a plan to encourage my daughter to avoid drinking from open containers at frat parties in college. I don’t agree with this reaction because I think preventative measures taken to avoid possible sexual assault are appropriate, though certainly not safety guarantees. Unfortunately, if I tell my daughter not to drink from open containers, but then she does anyway…and then she’s raped; it sounds like I should be saying “Well, I told you not to drink from open containers…so it’s your fault you were raped.” It’s never the victim’s vault. This is a tricky situation. I hope we can evolve to be a culture in which women, and some men, don’t have to curb their own behavior to avoid becoming rape victims.)

I agree with Arthur S. Brisbane and his New York Times’ follow-up to the reaction to its earlier article:

My assessment is that the outrage is understandable. The story dealt with a hideous crime but addressed concerns about the ruined lives of the perpetrators without acknowledging the obvious: concern for the victim.

While the story appeared to focus on the community’s reaction to the crime, it was not enough to simply report that the community is principally concerned about the boys and men involved – as this story seems to do. If indeed that is the only sentiment to be found in this community – and I find that very hard to believe – it becomes important to report on that as well by seeking out voices of professional authorities or dissenting community members who will at least address, and not ignore, the plight of the young girl involved.

It should have struck the writer, and subsequently his editor, that the story “lacked balance.” But prior to that, it should have been obvious to Cleveland community members that rape is not justifiable, EVER! – and certainly not in cases where an 11 year-old girl wears make-up.

Again, reserve your judgement. It’s okay to express sadness for all involved, but not at the expense of the accuser.

Hmmmmm…………..

Up next, from comedian Bill Maher:

“What would you rather do: be gang-raped at age 11, or have your head cut off?”

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Postpartum sexy

Posted in Humor, Marriage, Personal Essays, Sexuality by femspotter on October 17, 2010

October 17, 2010

(This post is about sex.)

A girlfriend of mine and I were moseying through town the other day, with our beautiful new babies in tow, when she confessed to me that she doesn’t want to become part of one of those married couples who never has sex. She and I both agreed that we love having sex with our respective husbands.

Incidentally, the idea that women don’t care about, or even like, sex was invented by the patriarchy to aid and abet a rape culture wherein men think they don’t have to perform well or worry about a woman’s feelings during sex because they’re convinced that women don’t like sex anyway, and men believe they can just take what they want from women because they deny that women care if they do. Stereotypical frat boys think this way…not all frat boys…indeed, not all boys. Heterosexual intercourse – or PIV, as the radical feminist Dworkinites refer to it, which makes it sound like a disease – is a very popular subject amongst the hetero females I know.

Gentlemen, many of us like sex and most of us could talk about it all day long (hence the high turnout at Friday’s mothering group meeting for which the theme was “relationships” – yeah, the main topic of that conversation was sex too).

My girlfriend and I discussed the fact that we both had attempted to have sex with our wonderful husbands since the birth of our children, 10 and seven weeks ago; but that our attempts had been painful and unsuccessful. (The sensation – if I may – is like tearing off a Band-Aid®…slowly…on the inside of your vagina. Why? Breastfeeding can lead to vaginal dryness. In short: without the proper lubricant, sex can hurt like hell!)

Why did we perceive that there are couples who “never” have sex? …because cynics like Bill Maher and others claim that marriage and children ruin sexuality in a relationship. …because it’s a punchline and a cliché that married people are unhappy under the sheets. …and because, when you’ve just had a baby and tried to resume your sex life – which was really good during pregnancy!!! – but your attempt fell flat, you worry that you’re in for a long dry spell. It’s the human condition to assume the worst, right?

Let me tell you how it all went down for us. My husband and I celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary on October 8th with dinner and a hotel room. He, being a romantic, went all out on the hotel room; this wasn’t a cheap motel, even though that’s what we were using it as. Years from now, I will tell this story as if we intended a romantic evening, but right now is the time for absolute truth…so – fuck it! – I confess that we both were looking to get our rocks off, sexually speaking. We hadn’t had sex since our daughter arrived nine weeks before. We felt emotionally ready to reconnect physically. I had been helping myself for a couple of weeks, thus I knew I possessed the urge. We knew that all we needed was the right time and place to get it on successfully. Or so we thought…

Our daughter was thriving so we asked my mother to watch her overnight. I booked our dogs into a boarding facility near the hotel. I wore real shoes instead of flip-flops – ahhhh…the sacrifices we make for l’amour. Everything was in place. I kissed Ellie “good-bye,” dropped off the dogs, and strolled breezily into the restaurant, tossing my hair as I went. My entrance was like a Pantene commercial. (Not really.)

Despite what awaited us following dinner, I savored a beet salad and halibut filet in a roasted tomato reduction, along with a great glass of Chianti. I checked in with my mother before dessert: a festive pumpkin cheesecake. (Truth be told, the highlight of the meal was the beet salad.) Our daughter had not, according my worst irrational fear, evaporated. She was merrily cooing, drooling and had taken a conference with the blue elephant who dangles from her bouncy seat. (On second thought, the dessert probably rocked…but I really missed Ellie by then, and so my memory has decided it was a bland cheesecake. Is it possible to love your child too much?)

We made our way up to the hotel suite so that I could change into flip-flops for a walk by the neighboring riverside (Hey, I wore pointy shoes with heels for almost two hours!) My husband decided he couldn’t wait for sex and so we began foreplay. I excused myself to put on some sexy lingerie, which I’d brought for fun. I looked pretty good, I thought. I’d managed to tuck the hanging folds of skin on my belly into some lacy knickers – pause for applause. (My appearance has not strayed too far from pre-pregnancy, I’ll have you know. While I’m still about 30 lbs. – or two clothing sizes – over what I’d like to be, I am only about 10 lbs. over my pre-pregnancy weight. And I haven’t yet cut my hair short indiscriminately or donned the so-called “Mom jeans,” despite my empty-baby-bag-of-a-gut.) The lingerie nicely displayed my full, round breasts. I felt really good about myself: not just my appearance, but my efforts to keep the sex alive and well in my marriage. (Fuck you, Bill Maher!)

My husband seemed pleased by my efforts too and told me so (he’s good about compliments). I pushed him back on the bed and straddled him. “Just don’t touch my breasts,” I warned. (The thing about breastfeeding, wonderful though I find it, is that it sort of hijacks your breasts. When they fill with milk and become engorged, they look like you’ve had implants and are large yet perky; but they hurt a lot. They’re hard and sore.) The fact that my husband couldn’t touch my breasts was tough for both of us: they’ve always been a great preoccupation for him during foreplay. And I enjoy that too…which is probably why, when I began to get aroused, I noticed that the right breast was particularly large yet perky.

“Shit! I’m engorged!” I shrieked. I got off the bed, grabbed my breast pump and ran into the bathroom for the second time since we’d entered the suite. Sexy, huh?! (Just nod and smile.)

“I’ll just be one moment,” I assured my hubby through the door. I opened the pump case, got out the motor, the rubber hose, the bottle and the nipple cover. I assembled said parts.

“Shit!”

There came a hesitant request for clarification from somewhere beyond the door.

“I forgot the rubber parts that connect to the hard plastic parts.” (At this point, there were hard parts all over the place, if you know what I mean. But the hard right breast had to be soothed as soon as possible.) I tried to hand express some milk from the nipple, but the milk just dripped slowly into the sink. That was not going to work. I exited the bathroom cupping my leaky boob.

“I’m sorry, Babe, but I really need those parts.” (Wait for it…) “Can you go home and get them?”

Can you believe it?! Can you believe I asked my horny husband to put his clothes on, descend to the parking garage, drive home to his mother-in-law, collect rubber breast pump parts, drive back to the expensive hotel suite and wait outside its bathroom door while his severely engorged wife – who was trying to be sexy, by the way – pumped milk from her no-longer-very-sexy breasts?

Well, I did. It had to be done.

And he went. I wrote down the pieces I needed. “They’re in the microwave sterilizer steamer (which is a big plastic dome resembling a cake carrier) by the sink in the kitchen.”

He nodded and told me, sweetheart that he is, that it wasn’t a big deal at all. I settled into the round window seat and looked out over the river. I studied the New York City skyline and almost forgot about my failure to achieve postpartum sexy and my sore and leaky right breast. I thought about how lucky I am to have such a wonderful best friend and husband. I thought about how blessed I am to have such a happy, healthy daughter. I thought about homelessness and hunger and rape and hatred…and how none of those things affect me right now. I thought about how much love I had accumulated; not just the love that I get from others, but the love that I give. I thought about beets and halibut and cheesecake and red wine and how delicious they all are. I thought about sex…and how I’d one day like to have it again…and…where the hell is he?!

About an hour after he’d departed, the suite door swung open and my husband sauntered through it bearing a cake carrier. “Howdy, Ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat. It was just like a scene from an old spaghetti western. (Not really.)

Just when I was about to ask him where he’d gotten a cake at close to midnight, I realized that my husband hadn’t just brought the three rubber pieces that I’d written about in detail on the back of an old receipt that had been hanging out at the bottom the abyss that is my handbag; he’d brought the entire steamer…and there was still water in it! Oh, J***…you carried that steamer all the way through the lobby of this fancy hotel, didn’t you? I thought with a laugh. You silly man. The thought of him being so desperate for sex that he didn’t fuck around with the parts of the breast pump freaked me out a little, though. I had failed him. I grabbed the steamer and went into the bathroom for the third and final time before sex.

I proceeded to pump something like 7 ounces from my right breast (the usual is 2 or 3 – I guess the alcohol helped things along)! I was so excited about the volume of milk that my body had made that I forgot I was trying to get postpartum sexy back. I ran out of the bathroom with the bottle in my hand and showed it to my husband. I mean, I wanted him to know that this was a serious situation he had helped me avoid. My right boob could have exploded or something! “See,” I said, dangling the bottle before his eyes. His face displayed quite possibly the most frustrated/defeated/exhausted/horrified/compassionate look I’d ever seen on a human being before. He waved me off. (That display probably wasn’t sexy of me either, was it?)

Well, as I mentioned earlier, the first time feels something like a slow Band-Aid rip. It was not good for me; but it did provide my husband with some relief. Needless to say, I was disappointed and scared. But after speaking with some other mothers about postpartum sex, I learned that it hurts like that for most women the first couple of times.

The thing about postpartum sexy is that it’s different from the kind of sexy we knew before. When you’re newly married without children and your husband brings you flowers or strokes your hair or rubs your feet after a long day…that’s sexy. I used to want to make love to my husband because of his goodness. But after pregnancy and childbirth, I have found that I love him the most when I observe his tender yet strong paternalism, and that can be harder to spot. At first, he didn’t seem to relate to Ellie the way I did. No surprise there as I had known her for almost a year before she emerged. He’s had significantly less time to bond with her than I. And speaking of bonding: some days, it feels as though all Ellie and I do is bond because I hold her for hours. By the time my husband gets home from work, I have reached my fill of human contact. What I really want is not sex but space…and chocolate.

I have tried to get to postpartum sexy for both of us. I’ve been looking for his new sexiness: his loving attention paid to our daughter. I have figured out ways to get the physical autonomy that I need so that I can spend time physically bonding with him too. I swim laps. I practice yoga. I shower. (New moms everywhere probably know how special showertime is!) I’ve even been known to put on scented lotion, and make-up…and high-heeled shoes.

But sexy really is a two-way street, isn’t it? My husband didn’t wear lingerie on hotel night. And he has taken to farting loudly and blaming the nearest small creature lately: “Oh, that was the dog/cat/baby,” he jokes. The first time he did this, it was funny, because they do fart often and without apology. But it has since gotten really tedious and gross. Before the baby, he used to quietly leave the room before passing gas. Why can’t he try to be postpartum sexy too?

He’ll get there. He loves Ellie more and more every day. And we know we have to talk to each other about what we want and need to move things forward. I asked him what I do that he finds sexy. He thought about it. “I think it’s really cute how you get embarrassed when you toot,” he confessed and grinned.

Well, at least somebody does.

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