Bedside Manner? WHO NEEDS IT. It is for SUCKERS.

You know, I read a lot of blogs, and some of them talk about important things, like politics, or human rights, or intelligent reviews of things. And I could do that. I could totally do that.

But instead, I bring you: 

A FOLLOWUP VISIT WITH DR. LADY-BUSINESS 

As some of you might remember (except I did send the men away that day, and I’m warning you right now, men who are not into these things, you might want to go do manly things right now. And men that are perverts, you should stop reading just because ew), last month I had a couple of visits with Dr. Lady-Business. I escaped with my parts intact, so I considered that a win. 

In order to not have Dr. Lady-Business remove my internal organs, he prescribed pills which made me into a total and utter insane person who cried over things like OMG I AM OUT OF ICE CREAM SANDWICHES and I THINK THE SUMMER IS ENDING. Those symptoms passed, eventually, so I thought I was in the clear. 

I was so not in the clear. 

Two weeks ago apparently I had a very bad reaction to the pills which I will not detail. Suffice it to say I would not wish this reaction on my worst enemy. (OK, that’s a lie. And you know me too well for me to get away with that. You know I totally would. I hate my worst enemy and if this happened to her she’d deserve it, and more, because of the bitchy over-the-top things she did to me. But I digress.)  

I called Dr. Lady-Business’s office after a few days of thinking I was pretty much on death’s door. Now, you’re wondering, aren’t you, why I wouldn’t call sooner? Because I am pretty stoic about things. I mean, yes, I bitch and moan and think I’m dying, but that’s all a front, really. I usually don’t even bother going to the doctor for things. So for me to call the doctor about something means something is very, very wrong. 

My conversation with Dr. Lady-Business’s office: 

Me: I need to make an appointment with Dr. Lady-Business as soon as possible, please. I think I might be dying. I’m having a reaction to the medication he prescribed.

Nurse: He’s out of town.

Me: Um. OK. I can see someone else, then. I just need to be seen.

Nurse: No. You need to see Dr. Lady-Business.

Me: I don’t think this can wait. Did I mention the dying? That I might be doing?

Nurse: Yes.

Me: Hmm. OK. Thought you might not have heard me or something. I don’t think this can wait. When is he coming back from his trip?

Nurse: A week from now. I’m sure it’s nothing.

Me: What is?

Nurse: Whatever’s wrong with you.

Me: Oh, I can assure you it is.

Nurse: These pills have severe side effects. We have people calling about them all the time.

Me: What? I – no one even told me this. Why wouldn’t someone tell me this?

Nurse: I’ve said too much. You’ll really have to wait for your appointment. With Dr. Lady-Business. And only Dr. Lady-Business. On Monday.

Me: So, what if I die in the meantime?

Nurse: You won’t. Also, if you get better, please call and cancel the appointment. There are people who actually need the slot. 

Well! This was a reassuring and not-at-all rude conversation with someone you can tell TOTALLY CARES ABOUT MY IMPENDING DOOM. So I waited, and waited, and waited. And then, on Saturday morning, I started to feel better. I thought about cancelling the appointment, but I wanted to have a discussion with Dr. Lady-Business. I felt like maybe we needed to talk about some things. Like: 

Since these pills are something you expect me to take on a regular basis, will they cause these side effects regularly?

and

Am I totally dying? 

And since I have an astronomically high co-pay with my piss-poor insurance, it’s not like he wouldn’t be well-paid for his five minute conversation with me. 

I showed up yesterday and first, the parking lot is very, very small. There were two spots left. A woman pulled into one right in front of me. No, I take that back. She pulled into one and a HALF. Leaving me a half-spot. For my full-sized car. I began to back out of the parking lot, because it’s very small and you can’t turn around, and she got out of the car and started air-traffic-controlling me into the spot. I shook my head no and she started FURIOUSLY WAVING ME IN. Also, she was massively pregnant. Well, listen. I am pleased you are gestating. But I will park on the side of the road and walk to the clinic, and you just take up your 1.5 spots, lady. You are aware that even though you’re 1.5 people at the moment you don’t get 1.5 spots, or to make 1.5 decisions as to where other people park, right? 

I went in, and the nurse called me back almost immediately. Nice! Running like clockwork! Until: 

Nurse: So you’ll be seeing Dr. Lady-Business’s Colleague today.

Me: Well, on the phone the nurse told me I had to see Dr. Lady-Business.

Nurse: No. Dr. Colleague.

Me: I don’t mind, it’s just that last week? I was dying? And you told me I had to wait until this week to see Dr. Lady-Business, and only Dr. Lady-Business. So I find this all very confusing.

Nurse: GO BACK INTO THE WAITING ROOM. 

Then, after a lengthy wait, because I obviously screwed up their scheduling, I was shown back to Dr. Lady-Business’s exam room. My favorite nurse was there. She’s the only one in the office I like, because she is covered in tattoos and has a hair color not found in nature and hipster glasses. I feel like she doesn’t belong there. I enjoy her. Lydia the Tattooed Nurse told me to wait and that Dr. Lady-Business was showing around a medical student (still? It’s been over two months since my first appointment, does that med student live there?) and would I mind him watching? Since I wasn’t going to be all spread-eagled for this visit, I didn’t mind. I believe that children are our future! And that they need to learn about side effects of medication! 

Dr. Lady-Business came in, followed by the YOUNGEST MED STUDENT I’VE EVER SEEN. Seriously, Doogie. Doogie was watching my consultation. It was so off-putting I can’t even tell you. He looked like he couldn’t be more than 20. But probably he was at least 26, right? Something like that? That made me feel ancient. Poor little Doogie. He looked uncomfortable. 

Dr. Lady-Business’s office has recently upgraded to laptops for their records, and Dr. Lady-Business does not enjoy the digital age. His manner of dealing with the laptop is to bang on it, chimpanzee-style, with a loosely-clenched fist, while asking me, THE PATIENT, why it’s not working. (Once, the answer was, “I think you have to have it turned on, but I could be wrong.”) This went on for a while, and then he asked me why I was there. Here, in all its glory, is the best consultation between a doctor and patient that might have ever happened, ever. 

Me: I had severe side effects to the medication you prescribed; I wanted to discuss them. (I explained them here. I’m not going to rehash this. I guarantee you, you’re better for not knowing.)

Dr. Lady-Business: Yes.

Me: So I guess I’m wondering, first off, are these going to keep happening? On a recurring basis?

D L-B: Probably not.

Me: Probably not. Can you elaborate?

D L-B: I didn’t tell you about these side effects because the odds of them happening this severely were very slim. I would think that each month they would be less severe, until they are not severe at all.

Me: OK, so I should or should not keep taking the same exact dosage of pills that almost killed me earlier in the month? 

(Dr. Lady-Business then began grunting and smacking around his computer keyboard. I heard a muffled noise behind me; it was Doogie. Doogie attempting not to laugh. I feel really bad for Doogie. Although he is really learning what NOT to do when he goes into practice, I suppose.) 

D L-B: Yes. Keep taking them. Until December. We’ll revisit the situation in December.

Me: Okaaay….

D L-B: Did you notice any changes in mood while taking the pills?

Me: Good GOD yes. I cried over ICE CREAM SANDWICHES. And CELL PHONE COMMERCIALS. And I thought, well! I lost my mind! Until I thought to read Wikipedia.

D L-B: We really don’t recommend getting medical information online.

Me: No, you know what? I don’t recommend it, either. I recommend getting it from my doctor. Except, oh, you know what? HE DIDN’T GIVE ME ANYTHING OTHER THAN A PRESCRIPTION AND A FARE-THEE-WELL.

D L-B: Sometimes these pills cause mood swings. That might get better. It might not. It depends on the individual’s mental stability.

(muffled laugh from Doogie)

Me: I am going to pretend you didn’t just imply that I brought a bag of crazy to the table and move on in the conversation.

D L-B: Also we probably need to deal with these tumors.

Me: WHAT?

D L-B: You have tumors, right?

Me: Not that I am aware of, no.

D L-B: I don’t know if I’m looking at your chart or not. Do you think I have your chart up?

Me: I really have no way of knowing that. I’d hope so, though. Since I’m the patient you’re seeing at the moment.

D L-B: (poking laptop) Oh, yes, this is you. Yes. Tumors.

Me: So, was anyone going to call me with these test results?

D L-B: They’re not serious tumors. We don’t think, anyway.

Me: I think you’re kind of discounting my tumors.

D L-B: We’ll look more into them in December.

Me: Unless I die first because they’re the super-fast-moving death type of tumors.

D L-B: Odds are in your favor that they’re not. 

And – I am totally not even kidding? THAT WAS THE END OF THE APPOINTMENT. I hope Dr. Lady-Business signed Doogie’s permission slip so he won’t get counted as absent from kindergarten. 

On the way home, the strip club right around the corner from my office (it’s actually in a really classy part of town, so the strip club’s a little out-of-place) had a big sign up that said “We will never forget 9/11” and that was really the best thing I’d seen all day. Usually, that sign advertises coming attractions, like “Performing in October, Cherries Jubilee and Pussy Galore!” So this made the strip club both patriotic AND classy and I’m sure their clientele is richer for it. 

What did we learn from this appointment? 

I NEED A NEW LADY-BUSINESS DOCTOR. 

And that strippers love America.

An imbalance of bodily humours, perhaps caused by a toad or a small dwarf living in her stomach.

I am currently reading A Clash of Kings, the second book in the Song of Ice and Fire series. I’m loving it, of course. I loved A Game of Thrones, and I’m loving this one just as much – maybe even a little more, because there’s a little less getting-to-know-you awkwardness. There are a few new characters, but you’re also revisiting the old characters, and I know them, so it’s like meeting up with old friends. It’s extremely enjoyable and I don’t want to do anything but read. That’s not all that different from normal – I’d honestly usually rather read than most anything – but when the book’s good, I definitely have problems concentrating on other things. 

I was thinking while I was reading – it’s set in an alternate world, Westeros, but it seems to be set in what’s comparable to our medieval times. People tend to romanticize medieval times, and there are people who think they lived previous lives and whenever you hear them talk about the past lives they supposedly lived in medieval times, they were always a pretty pretty princess. Which is very hard for me to believe because listen, there were a lot of commoners. Like, a LOT. I can’t believe every one of us walking around today has a soul that was once a medieval princess in a medieval tower or something. Because that would kind of be statistically impossible, right? So let’s just assume, because I am practical, if I had lived in medieval times, I would be the equivalent of what I am now, which is kind of a poor person. But probably totally still awesome, I mean, that wouldn’t change. Awesomeness of this magnitude crosses many generations. 

As much as I enjoy reading about medieval times, they don’t tend, in these books, to concentrate on the commoners. Because that would be one boring and depressing-ass book. Commoners did not live lives filled with excitement and mystery back then. Also, today I did some research, and I could never, never have survived in medieval times for the following disturbing and disgusting reasons. 

WE DON’T NEED NO EDUCATION 

Common women were ignored in the educational process. This should surprise no one, as it’s only a somewhat recent development that women were even allowed to go on for higher education. But in medieval times, women weren’t educated. At all. There weren’t a ton of books to be read, which I guess was good? Because I wouldn’t have been able to read them. Due to not being able to get an education. 

HOW ABOUT A COUPLE OF TOTALLY SEXY KIRTLES? 

Medieval women wore a shirt, then a kirtle - a long tunic that hung to their ankles – and then another shorter kirtle over the longer kirtle. Then you put your hair up – you had long, long hair, which would totally not annoy me in the least bit and make me want to shave my head bald – into an intricate bun, or left it down, or braided it up tight, and wore a tight cap or a veil over that. So you were kind of all swaddled up and long-haired and wearing what, kind of a nightie? A series of nighties? All the time? This seems like a distressing outfit to be walking around in and completely uncomfortable. You see in movies people looking all sexy and laced up and such with mighty fine cleavage but that seems like it wouldn’t be the case what with these seemingly endless layers of kirtles. 

Two things related to kirtles. One, I was in a play a couple of years ago when I had to wear a kirtle-like contraption, and do you know how many times I tripped over the damn thing? 4. IT WAS SO LONG YOU GUYS AND I AM CLUMSY. Also I looked like a nun, a weird cranky nun. Nothing about it was appealing. Second, I just want to add that in searching for information about kirtles I found a number of places that STILL SELL KIRTLES. I assume these are for medieval reinactors? Or plays? Or maybe if you want to be totally stylish at your office picnic, I don’t know. 

THE SMELL PROBABLY WOULD BE ENOUGH TO KILL YOU DEAD 47 TIMES OVER 

So here’s the thing. To take baths, you had to be a rich person. Because to heat the water, you had to be able to afford firewood. And firewood apparently was scarce. Also fires were a serious concern. So one website I read said that by the mid-1300s only the very wealthy could afford to bathe in the winter. Now, listen. This is the most upsetting thing to me. Last night I took the longest, most luxurious hot shower known to man. It was delightful. I was chilly, because it’s fall here, and I’m catching a cold, so I’m a little chilled and achy. And it was just like a big old warm hug. Also, can you just imagine how badly everyone must have smelled. Apparently in the summer, people collected rainwater and bathed in a family barrel. Well, that’s not at all restful or relaxing or gross. No, thanks, medieval times. 

ALL THE BARTERING 

I can’t barter, you guys. Totally can’t. If there’s not a price on something I want at a street fair or whatever, I convince myself I don’t need it because I can’t even mentally imagine the nightmare that bartering would be. I would haggle the wrong way. They’d tell me $20 and I’d say no, how about $25. Bartering was how they bought EVERYTHING in medieval times. I would have starved to death in my stinky kirtle. 

EVERYONE WAS ALL UP IN YOUR BIDNESS 

If you were born somewhere, you lived and died there. You knew everyone there, you married someone there, you raised your kids there, you farmed there, and I’m sure everyone would talk about you if your second kirtle was too short or if you weren’t keeping your husband’s clothing clean enough or if you spoke too loudly at the Winter Festival and you would never live that shit down. I would die in a small town. I grew up in one and I moved out the minute I was able. Everyone knowing my business gives me the hives. I like my relative anonymity. Also, if I had to marry someone I’ve known since childhood, I’d probably throw myself down a well. You don’t even know the winners I grew up with. None of them were potential mates, I can tell you that right now. 

YUM, MORE POTTAGE PLEASE, EXTRA SCURVY 

The most basic bread was rye. Well, I hate rye bread, so that wouldn’t work for me so much. They put honey in their water to sweeten it. That’s confusing and kind of gross, wouldn’t the honey just sink to the bottom? There was very little protein, and when they could, they added peas and beans to their bread (what?) or pottage (don’t know what that is? I didn’t either. It’s a thick stew of boiled vegetables and grains. I guess that’s not the worst thing I’ve ever heard of but it doesn’t sound the most delicious. Also, onions and garlic were almost always in it. YOU CAN’T BATHE SO LAY OFF THE ONIONS AND GARLIC, MEDIEVAL FOLKS.) Also, the diets were lacking in Vitamin C. You know what that means! Scurvy. Arr! 

THEDORIC OF YORK WAS PRETTY ON-TARGET 

Doctors (or barbers, same, really) thought pixies and trolls were real. That their health was controlled by the stars. If you were sick, you had been cursed by God. There was bleeding, and leeches, and humours. If medicine didn’t work (sorry, “medicine”, it was usually a poultice of some sort, or cupping, or something), they’d get a priest in to exorcise your demons. Also? Black Death & leprosy. All the fun was being had in medieval times! 

YOU BELONG TO ME 

Women in medieval times? Property. Marriages among the lower classes were a business transaction and the participants had no say in the matter. So in other words, my father would have picked out my beau. Now, listen. I love my father. A great deal. But who he thinks would be a good match for me and who actually WOULD be a good match for me are two very different people.  I absolutely shudder to think who he’d choose. Passion was considered sinful in a marriage. Well! That would certainly be a fun, loveless, and passionless marriage, with nothing to take up your time but waiting to die. The job of women in medieval times was to stay home, bear children so the husband had fieldhands, make food (and strangely enough, brew the beer? This was a woman’s job. I’m pretty sure some arsenic would have found its way into that beer) and keep quiet. 

BATHROOMS - ??? 

You would think the websites I was checking would talk more about the bathroom situation. I mean, I know there wasn’t indoor plumbing. Was it so disturbing they couldn’t talk about it? I mean, I’m disturbed just thinking about it but I wanted some internet research backup so I could reinforce my belief that the medieval bathroom situation would just about kill me dead. OK, further disgusting research led me to chamber pots. Kill me dead now please. 

VERMIN VERMIN WHO’S GOT THE VERMIN 

Oh, you do. You totally do. You’ve got rats and mice and body AND hair lice. Isn’t that spiffy? I mean, you’re not bathing, so of course you’re filthy and covered in tiny arachnids. I’m itching right now, Middle Ages, I hope you’re pleased with yourself. I also can only assume there were crabs running amok. And I don’t mean the delicious ocean type. 

If you were a pretty pretty princess, none of the above holds true for you. You lived a charmed life in your pretty castle and all was well and birds probably landed on your damn hand chirping away, I don’t know, whatever, and knights jousted for your honor and you got to wear pretty dresses and jewels and such. And since everyone who’s ever done a past-life regression ever was totally a princess, well, bully for you all.  

I would have been a miserable stompy smelly kirtled peasant with a demanding husband and too many kids and they probably would be bleeding me every third day for bad humours. 

No, thanks. I’ll take now, please. Perfectly happy with it. Very few complaints. Shower – check. Flushing toilet – check. Education – check. Ability to speak my mind – check, check, check. 

Although if medieval-me got to be with Tyrion Lannister…well, all bets might be off.

All Up in My Business

Guys, you might want to move on today. I’m going to talk about lady-business. I mean, I guess you might want to read about lady-business, if you’re, like, a hard-core fan of mine (and hey! thanks! awesome! air-kisses!) or maybe totally sensitive or a perv. I realize pervs might be interested in this kind of thing. But it’s not bow-chicka-wow-wow sexy, pervs, so go look for some weirdo porn or something. In order for me to not come up on creepy Google searches, and to not ick people out, I will use euphemisms for things that are most likely not going to come up in a search that pervs are making. And also, to protect THE CHILDREN. GOOD GOD WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN. So I guess you could stick around for those, because they might be funny, I guess. 

Today’s installment of “every day’s an adventure when you’re living my life” is the very fancy “Lady-Business Doctor” edition. A while back, I had to make a trip to Dr. Lady-Business because I was having some issues in the lady-business department. You don’t need details and I’m not handing them out SO STOP ASKING. 

The first appointment was kind of like a gigantic car crash of insanity. I went into the exam room and a very no-nonsense nurse had to do an ultrasound. Now, this isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world. And this nurse was devoid of human emotion. Like, I almost would have settled for Nurse Ratched because at least she showed something on her face. This woman was a blank. So she’s doing the ultrasound, and the whole thing is really not very dignified, you know? You’re kind of at your most vulnerable, there. But you get to see your insides on a screen. I mean, it’s not clear, or anything. It looks like green scribbles. But it’s interesting! I like seeing things you don’t normally see. I like x-rays and things like that. I mean, how often do you get to see the man behind the curtain, you know? (THAT IS NOT A EUPHEMISM. ALTHOUGH IT WOULD KIND OF BE AN AWESOME ONE SO LET’S START USING IT.) So it wasn’t like I had anything else to do, up there on that table. I wasn’t able to bring a book or play Angry Birds or anything. I turned my head to look at the screen. Nurse Pokerface saw this and started turning the screen so I couldn’t see what was on it. Well, that seemed suspect. Are we playing Scrabble? Why are you hiding your tiles? Because technically, they’re MY tiles, right? So I leaned over to see the screen more. And she turned it more. Well, that was annoying. 

Me: Can I see the screen?

Nurse Pokerface: No.

Me: Why?

NP: You wouldn’t know how to read it.

Me: I know. Can I see it anyway?

NP: That’s against policy.

Me: Really? Why? That seems like a strange policy. Am I dying of cancer?

NP: What? THAT’S NOT EVEN WHY YOU’RE HERE. I don’t know. I’m not qualified to read the screen.

Me: Really? But you’re doing the ultrasound? Hmm. You seem an odd choice for this job, then. If you had to GUESS, am I dying of cancer?

NP: I don’t know. STOP LOOKING AT THE SCREEN.

Me: I’M SO BORED UP HERE THOUGH. Don’t you have a magazine or something I could look at? 

So then it was done, and Nurse Pokerface (who didn’t find me adorable! I know, right? What the hell!) got up to leave. 

NP: Dr. Lady-Business will be in in a moment. He…

Me: Whoa. I specifically asked for a female doctor, because once? I had a male doctor, and he was really odd and accused me of whoriness.

NP: I don’t think that happened.

Me: Which part?

NP: Either. But if you’d asked for a female doctor, you would have been scheduled with one. If you want to reschedule, put your pants back on. (Note – only in the Lady-Business doctor’s office is this an actual thing they say without it being a funny joke.)

Me: Well, I know I asked, but, I mean, it seems like a waste of time to reschedule, and I’m already all half-naked and crap. Fine.

NP: Dr. Lady-Business is showing a male med student the ropes, so he’ll also be in on the exam.

Me: Um. I’m already uncomfortable with the male doctor, so I’m thinking bringing an additional male in is not the best way to allay my fears. Do I get a say in this?

NP: Yes.

Me: Then I say no. Also, can you warn Dr. Lady-Business that if there’s any whore-accusations I’m totally walking out, pants or no pants.

NP: (sigh) FINE. 

(The whore thing did happen, which is why I always ask for a lady lady-business doctor. And NO, it wasn’t a lady-business doctor practicing out of his van. It was a real doctor. He just acted very skeptical when we were discussing my sexual history, as if I secretly had lovers stashed all over the exam room and was just waiting ‘til he left to wash his hands to get it on. I found that off-putting.) 

When Nurse Pokerface left, I totally looked at the screen. And I didn’t know what it was but I still felt justified that I looked at it. Then a screensaver came up of a mother and child grinning like morons so I couldn’t look at it anymore. WELL-PLAYED NURSE POKERFACE. 

Dr. Lady-Business came in, and listen. You’re up on a table at your most vulnerable and you already are worried you’re going to have a doctor who thinks you’re whorey, so you’re not really in a good mental place, and here is a rendition of the facial hair Dr. Lady-Business has.

Note – this is not Dr. Lady-Business. Note 2 - I find it odd that this man's hair and moustache are completely different colors.

I felt like I was about to get checked out in an 1800’s saloon. 

Dr. Lady-Business does his investigation, and HE lets me look at the screen while he’s spelunking, NURSE POKERFACE, so THERE, and when he’s done, he says, and I’m not even exaggerating: 

“So I guess we could schedule a hysterectomy, then.” 

Um.  Well! That was…abrupt! 

Me: I totally have cancer, then? I SAID that. To the nurse. But she said she couldn’t tell me.

Dr. Lady-Business: No. You’re fine.

Me: So…I guess I’m wondering…why we’re thinking major surgery, then?
DL-B: It would solve all of your issues.

Me: Ha. Yes, well, blowing up the Earth would also solve pickpocketing, but I think there has to be a better solution, don’t you?

DL-B: Why is this an issue? Are you planning on having children?

Me: Why? Did you see a baby on the screen? IS THAT WHY THE NURSE WOULDN’T LET ME LOOK?

DL-B: No.

Me: Oh. In the abstract. I don’t know. Maybe? Do I have to decide right now?

DL-B: (looking at my chart) I see you’re in your mid-thirties. You’re not getting any younger.

Me: Oh, stop flirting, you. You’ll make me blush.

DL-B: So we could schedule that surgery right now, then.

Me: I’d like to put my pants back on now, please.

Today was follow-up time with Dr. Lady-Business. 

First I met with another nurse. There are a LOT of nurses there. This nurse was skeptical. 

Nurse Scoffington: Are you on any medications?

Me: (laughing) Oh, my, yes.

NS: Which ones?

Me: I told you last time I was here. It’s on my chart.

NS: I don’t have that chart.

Me: Really? Why not? OK, well, I can’t recreate my regimen without notes. There are a lot of them. And their names are INSANE. Like, all the consonants in the world are in one drug name. I can tell you what they’re for. Does that help at all?

NS: Are they all prescription?

Me: Are you asking if I do street drugs?

NS: Why, do you?

Me: Not this week. But it’s only Tuesday! Ha! Right?
NS: It's Wednesday.
Me: Oh! Well, where does the time go. If I'm going to get those street drugs, I'd better get crackin'.

NS: WHAT PILLS ARE YOU TAKING. 

And then, Dr. Lady-Business. Oh, Dr. Lady-Business. How I have missed your bedside manner AND YOU STILL HAVE THE MOUSTACHE DAMN. 

DL-B: Are you married?

Me: Not that I’m aware of. I kind of think we covered this a few months ago.

DL-B: Plans to become so?

Me: I guess anything could happen. I mean, there was an earthquake yesterday. End times, doctor, am I right?

DL-B: So you want to keep your options open?

Me: Are you hitting on me? You didn’t even take off your wedding ring. I like that kind of forthrightness.

DL-B: You might want to have children someday.

Me: Yes. I’m pretty sure Prince Charming might still be coming. You never know. I have a secret internet boyfriend, for example, who doesn’t even know he’s my internet boyfriend and we haven’t and probably won’t ever meet in real life? So I’ve got that going for me. Once he shows up I probably’d better have a uterus, you know? What if it’s like a Cinderella situation and he’s looking for the perfect uterus and YOU THREW MINE IN THE TRASH? Way to be a cock-blocker, Dr. Lady-Business.

DL-B: Here are some pills. See you in December. 

Whoo-hoo! I escaped with my uterus! I totally win gynecological bingo! 

Yeah, this day was a total win. On the way back to the office, I bought an iced coffee, which I promptly spilled all down the front of me, so that’s nice. Just a matter of time before that eventual wedding, Dr. Lady-Business! NO ONE CAN RESIST ME I AM LIKE A SEXY SIREN IN GREEK MYTHOLOGY. A sexy, sexy, iced-coffee-covered siren. Get in line, suitors!

Every Time You Speak to Me You Tell Me What to Do

About a week and a half ago, The Huffington Post featured a post in its culture section by Peg Aloi entitled "Tough Gals: Do They Still Exist?" This article was pointed out to me last night by one of my friends. Where was I on August 11th? How did this particular article escape me for 9 days? I know I worked that day, and I'm guessing I had rehearsal that night, because that's pretty much been my life for the past month or so. I do remember seeing mentions on Twitter over the past week, women saying that they were cupcake-baking, knitting, kick-ass women, but I didn't know it related to anything in particular. I just thought they were giving their own personal credo, or something. And they are kick-ass women, so I approved of that message.

Although I'd like to not give Ms. Aloi any additional traffic, I do encourage you to click above and read the article. If you'd rather not, for one reason or another, here's a brief summary:

Women who blog about cupcakes, Hello Kitty, gardening, knitting, and cats are girly. Not that there's anything wrong with the blogs...but there's something wrong with being girly. Because we're women! And we shouldn't be girly! We should be badass! Feminists who came before us fought hard for that right, and we're throwing it away with these girly pursuits! We've "lost sight of what it means to be a badass, tough, strong woman"! Women aren't having fun - instead, we like cooking, Jane Austen, and heirloom tomatoes! We've "become complacent"! "We're not tough anymore; we're soft"!

Oh, for the love of Sanrio.

Listen. LISTEN. We've talked about this, here, on my blog, in the past. Women telling us what to do and what to feel and who to be because the author knows the right way to do these things, under the guide of feminism. Because the author is the arbiter of womanhood. Because there's a mold, and women should fit that mold, and if they don't, they're lesser - lesser human beings, lesser women, lesser examples of shining femaleness than the author herself.

I AM SO GODDAMN TIRED OF BEING TOLD WHO TO BE.

Men, sorry to leave you out, here, and I'm sure you face societal pressure up the wazoo as well, but as I am not in possession of a Y chromosome, I don't know what those are, exactly. This is not meant to slight you. I'd be interested, actually, in reading a post about the type of societal pressures a young man faces; if someone wants to point me in the direction of a good one, it would be appreciated.

Women, from a young age, are told how to act in order to fit society's norms. There are exceptions, but overall, even in this day and age, there are toddlers in frilly dresses and bows scotch-taped onto the bald heads of baby girls for photo day and the moniker "tomboy" (usually said either with a sneer or a knowing nod.) As we get older, more expectations. Makeup. What to wear. How to act. At what age to start dating. What's appropriate and what's weird. The list goes on; I'm sure the women reading this can think of a million examples in their own life where they wanted to be doing one thing but were gently (or not-so-gently) nudged in another direction because it wasn't "cool" enough or "girly" enough or whatever enough to fit in the very strict lines that were drawn by whoever draws these things.

But as we grow up, we realize things, like being who we are is more fulfilling than making other people like us, and that there's nothing at all wrong with, say, watching Vh1 Celebreality all day rather than shopping or getting a mani-pedi or whatever it is the "cool" kids are doing. We're not here to please anyone but ourselves, when we get older. And that's a nice feeling, you know? It's a feeling I'd like to be able to go back and bestow upon the teenage me, who was always scrambling to keep up with what was expected of her and failing miserably and very unhappy in the bargain.

But then you get women like Julie Klausner telling us that we're too infantilized if we like Converse sneakers, cupcakes, Etsy jewelry, or birds, and Peg Aloi telling us that we're not tough if we like knitting, gardening, Hello Kitty, or, again, cupcakes. (Why so much cupcake hate? Do these women equally hate sheet cakes? Who hates cake? I feel like hating cake = hating America, honestly.)

These women are just grown-up versions of the bitches in high school who set the trends. The Plastics, really. The Wednesdays-We-Wear-Pink girls. The girls who arbitrarily decide "on this side of the line is what's cool, and on this side of the line is what's not, and I'll tell you how high you have to jump and how hard you have to beg to be on the right side of the line." And do you know how to tell they're bitches? Because they're telling you you're not good enough. They're making you feel less-than. They're telling you, "Listen, if you like this, this, and this? You don't measure up."

I don't want to be in your Special People Club.

It doesn't make you less tough if you knit, bake, or garden. The article actually contradicts itself all over the place - Aloi will make a blanket statement like "Tough girls don't knit because that's what our foremothers did!" and then couch it with "But man our foremothers, right? Whoo! They were certainly tough, you know, in their own way!" Why are the two mutually exclusive? Why can't you be a badass tough-as-nails mofo AND make a mean cupcake?

Because Aloi SAYS SO.

There are currently 326 comments under her article. I didn't read them all - I actually do have a life, sorry to disappoint! - but have read a large number of them, and the themes running through them are:

• Screw you, Peg Aloi, you judgmental hag.
• Why can't you kick-ass and knit?
• What the hell?
• This isn't the 1800's. We aren't *required* to knit now. It's a *choice* we make.
• I kind of want to stab you with my knitting needles.
• You know what's awesome? Feminist women telling others how to behave.

And do you know what's missing? Ms. Aloi. She hasn't made a PEEP. She is GONE. Just like Julie Klausner, who, to the best of my knowledge, dropped that load-of-shit article on us back in June and never commented on the fury it ignited, Ms. Aloi hasn't responded in the least.

Now, I'm not saying she has to. She has the right to her own opinion. It would be hypocritical of me to say I can't stand women telling me how to behave and then turn around and tell Ms. Aloi how to do so.  On some level, I almost, almost, think I get, in a tiny way, what she might have been trying to say. Because listen, girly-girl giggly shit sets my teeth on edge, too. Feigned helplessness. Doe-eyed false childishness. But that's never mentioned, so I assume that's not what she's referring to, and what I take objection to in these behaviors is that the women using them are pretending to be something they're not because they think that's how they have to act in order to get what they want - a man, a promotion, taken care of, etc. (And yes, I realize I'm being a little hypocritical - I tell people they're doing douchey things on here all the time, and even in judging these type of women, that's doing something I'm calling her out for. Thing is, I have a blog that doesn't have a fraction of the readership that The Huffington Post does, and I'd like to think that I wouldn't make a blanket statement like "knitters= weak women so go out and learn to shoot a gun instead" at all without my tongue planted firmly in my cheek. And "pretending you're helpless to 'catch' a man" is very different than "baking cupcakes = weak", no?) 

Here's what it all boils down to, for me. First, being tough is not measured by your leisure activities. Toughness is a state of mind and is reflected in how you react to situations, I think. Am I alone in this? Second, being a bully does not make you tough. Being a bully is actually one of the biggest signs of weakness a person can show. And what Ms. Aloi is doing in this article is bullying. She's bullying women into thinking they are not good enough, that their pasttimes are an affront to womanhood, that they are weak and small and unimportant and childlike because they like traditionally domestic activities.

Personally? I bake a mean cupcake (although my cookies are to die for - seriously, if you've had my Double Dark Chocolate Chunk Espresso Cookies, you know, I am the queen of cookies), I'm wearing a Hello Kitty band-aid RIGHT NOW (honestly, it's because there was this kickass sale a while back and I got a ton of boxes of kiddie band-aids for free so that's all there is in the house at the moment), I can't garden, I hate tomatoes (both heirloom and regular), I love my cats, I can cook enough to keep myself fed, I like Jane Austen but am not in love with her, and I can't knit. But I can crochet. Like a madwoman. And I'm a badass crocheter. I mean, I can make CLOTHES. I've made WHOLE BLANKETS. I'm very, very good at it.

I'm also tough. And no one telling me I'm not, based on my habits and activities, is able to take that away from me. I'm secure in the knowledge of my strength. Bigger bullies than you, Ms. Aloi, have worked me over, sorry to say. You're small-time.

If you're not secure in your own inner strength, Ms. Aloi, don't try to pass that off onto the rest of us. That's not very tough of you. And as for women who aren't having enough "fun" - well, I'm glad you're the fun police? What a nice title to have! But please let me be the judge of what's enjoyable in my own life.

Women - if you take anything away from this, please let it be this. You are good enough. You are amazing. You are just who you are meant to be; you love what you are meant to love; and anyone who tells you that you are not good enough, and that you don't measure up, and that your behaviors and the things you enjoy are not acceptable? IS AN ASSHOLE AND A BULLY. People like this should not be in your life. They are emotional vampires. They will take away your inner strength and use it to prop themselves up because they don't have any of their own. You are the only person who can stop this behavior; you are the only person who can say, "No, you know what? I don't accept this treatment, I deserve better than this" and get gone, either by removing them or removing yourself. 

I'm not telling you how to act; I'm not bullying you; I'm just saying your personal net worth is immeasurable, and you can't even imagine the weight that's lifted the moment you realize that.

(Side note - research on Peg Aloi tells me that she teaches at a college here in the town where I live. So, that's fun. And maybe when I'm buying groceries I'm rubbing elbows with her! Good gracious I hope I'm not buying heirloom tomatoes OH THE HUMANITY. Don't worry, I'm not. I hate tomatoes.)

(Title's from a Cranberries song - "A Fast One.")