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If women got pregnant from washing dishes, and not from having sex (ooh, horrors!), abortion wouldn’t even be a debate. Once you bring sex into the equation, all rational thoughts are off the table because Oooh slutty women are stupid! We have to tell them how to behave! Honestly, abortion/birth control/abstinence/whatever is a personal decision and none of my business. If these hypothetical women who get 100 abortions a month stopped having sex altogether, they’d be frigid bitches in the eyes of society, and therefore less than human. The way to be an “acceptable” woman in this society is such a narrow path, I try to refrain from making judgments. Women spending all the taxpayers’ money on abortions! Oooh how terrible! Women spending all their own money on abortions! Oooh how terrible! Women spending their own money on going to NASCAR rallies and buying Twinkies! Oooh how terrible! Poor women keep having babies they can’t afford! Ooh how terrible! The government spent my hard earned tax dollars on subsidies for billion dollar corporations, yet we get all worked up about the hypothetical pennies spent on women. Oh no! We’re gonna have to pay for bitches’ birth control thanks to the ACA! Thanks, Obama! I don’t want my hard earned money to be set on fire so chix can be sluts! But wait, what’s the best preventative measure of abortion? That would be birth control. (for the record, you can’t use federal money for abortions in most states, though insurance covers Viagra, and nobody seems to have a problem with that.) Also, why should I have to pay for some stupid guy’s testicular cancer treatment? I will never have testicular cancer. Why should my hard earned tax dollars go to some dumb dick’s ‘nads?
1. how many abortions one gets
2. how “necessary” it is [i.e., was the embryo conceived happily in wedlock, but is medically defective for some reason? Is the woman’s life in danger? Is the prospect of motherhood just inconvenient for whatever reason?]
3. how one pays for said abortion
4. The circumstances of the conception [was the embryo created after a night of drunken debauchery in a barn? Was the woman raped by a stranger in an alley?]
are NONE OF MY BUSINESS.
Abortion is legal in the USA, and none of the above gives anyone more or less right to one.
Theft is illegal in the USA, yet nobody cares about circumstances of theft.
1. how many other people has the thief robbed?
2. is the thief just robbing to feed his or her starving children, or because he or she just likes that Rolex the victim was wearing?
3. what precautions did the victim take to ensure she was not robbed of her watch?
All irrelevant. Theft is still illegal.
On another note: why is there no male birth control widely available except condoms (which guys say they hate)?
Further note: I have proverbially “kept my knees together” (i.e., never been pregnant, never been a drain on taxpayers’ money to feed out of wedlock children) yet I am a selfish evil bitch because I don’t want to ever reproduce. Go figure. You can’t win. Stop judging.
I was a life long nail biter. My grandmother tried to bribe, shame, incentivize, enact consequences, and every other way coerce me to stop. I tried. I would stop for small periods of time, enough to collect the reward (or be disqualified from the vague punishment), but then I would relapse. It was a tough habit to break!
However, on February 2001, I decided to stop for good. I had the willpower. I was going to do it. I did! It took several years before I learned how to properly use nail clippers, scissors, and nail files and stuff (I still bit the nails when they got too long, what I considered “for maintenance” and not out of habit), but now I can say I have the knack!
Every year on my anti-nail biting anniversary, I make a tentative plan to get a manicure, but never do. I have always been fascinated by the concept of getting one’s nails done– it seemed to be something all women did, regardless of ethnicity, socioeconomic status, regional inhabitation etc. When I worked at Cornell, every woman, from the lowliest trailer dweller to the fanciest professor went to regular nail appointments. I was curious to see what a manicure was like, as manicures seemed to be the Great Social Equalizer. In a small city such as Ithaca, rich and poor alike went to the same nail salons, as there weren’t that many.
This year, I was determined to actually follow through on my manicure plan. I got my friend Athena to come with me, and I found a place not far from home to go. I was a little apprehensive because I had read this article, and didn’t want to support what is essentially slavery in the industry, but the place I picked seemed legit.
The place I went was in a building that used to be a real estate office where I had been contracted to take care of the plants when I was a plant care person years ago, so that was a little odd. It looked totally different now, though–the inside was well-lit and cheery, instead of the dark paneled “professional” look, staffed by disgruntled but immaculately dressed women who clearly hated their jobs of yore.
I sat down at the fingernail painting place, and the friendly Chinese women looked at my hands and said “oh, you have kids?”
“no,” I replied
“You don’t? No kids?” she seemed confused.
“No really. No kids.” Then I looked at my hands and discovered that they were covered in pink and green marker because I had been experimenting with coloring Barbie hair. This is business as usual for me, but I guess in the real world this is a sure sign of reproduction!
“Why no kids?” she asked.
“Too expensive.” I said. She laughed. Then asked
“You have boyfriend?”
“No,” I said, and she laughed again and patted my arm.
“Oh, but you so beautiful!” she said, and then, sadly “no boyfriend.”
Later, she kept saying “Next time you get red!” and held up a bottle of red nail polish and motioned to my fingernails.
“OK.” I said. “Maybe next time.” She laughed.
She brought up the red nail polish a few more times.
“Red is lucky. It’s a good color…” I said.
She laughed and said “Yes! Very lucky!” then she grabbed my shoulder and whispered in my ear “maybe you will be lucky and get boyfriend!” and then laughed.
Uh… I think it will take a little more than red fingernails for me to get lucky!
But hey, you never know. I never paint my nails red; I always paint them blue or green or purple or something. Maybe if I painted my nails red I would have to use those hands to fight off all the men who will be throwing themselves at me! Somehow I doubt it.
Anyway, my first nail experience was an interesting anthropological experiment. I’m not sure I will ever do it again, as it seems kind of a lot of money for what amounts to having your nails painted. I’m not sure I see the appeal. The people I used to work with would go to get their nails done on a regular basis! How often are you “supposed” to do this? I still have no clue. Maybe I should go and get long fake bejeweled fingernails with, like, sunsets airbrushed on them or something. Maybe then I will understand the allure.
October 2, 2014 at 12:49 am Enter your password to view comments.
Years and years ago I dated this Russian guy; we’ll call him Boris. He wondered why I never wore perfume. I didn’t really have an answer. He said that women were supposed to wear perfume, so that when a dude smelled it on something somewhere, it would make him think of her. I thought that was sweet, but kind of pooh-poohed the idea for myself because perfume made me think of old ladies and how it kind of annoyed me if I was in the grocery store or at a movie or something and had to constantly smell them.
I had a string of jobs where my supervisors were way into smelly candles and aromatherapy and things of that nature. I remember one job where the denizen of office to the left of me liked “energizing lemon” and the office on the right of me’s occupant constantly had a “calming lavender” thing going. I joked that my left half was wide awake while my right half was falling asleep. Altogether I felt like my personal airspace was being violated by other peoples’ scents. The scent I enjoyed most was nothing. I didn’t think it was fair that someone else’s particles of smelly shit should be able to attack my nostrils without my consent. It was like olfactory rape. Why couldn’t they make air fresheners that destroyed all smells and made the air smell completely blank? That’s what *I* wanted.
However, I kept the idea of the perfume in the back of my head. I experimented with essential oils, because I liked the smell of flowers. Not the flowery perfumey scents; the smell of actual flowers, and essential oils were the closest thing I could find. I liked jasmine a lot, but got accused of smelling like a hippie, so I switched to roses. That, of course, prompted people to think I smelled like their grandmother’s bathroom soap, so I eventually gave it up altogether.
Enter Klaus, my current beau. He is very scent-oriented, he says. While he doesn’t burn aromatherapy candles, thank goodness, he does like a good perfume. In fact, it was at his suggestion (bordering on insistence) that we go to The Mall and check out a department store perfume counter. The last time I had gone to a department store perfume counter, I was probably about 7 and was with my grandmother, who instructed the counter lady to spray me with something (probably “Charlie,” she always wore perfume called Charlie). I remember smelling like perfume all day and being slightly annoyed, but it also sort of made me feel vaguely like a grown-up.
Anyway, it must have been quite the sight at Macy’s in the Burlington Mall yesterday– Klaus was the one taking the lead on the perfume. Since this was Klaus’s project (and he was paying), I was totally fine with it all. He kept describing what he was smelling to the old ladies, who eventually drifted away to help other customers. “I smell grass… with some musk.” It turns out he likes super duper flowery things that are a little too sickeningly sweet for me. I like citrusy things, which make him think of being in the produce aisle. He doesn’t want “food smells,” as he put it. At one point the old lady who was showing us the perfumes said, somewhat sarcastically, “is SHE gonna be wearing this, or YOU?”
If, at age 22 when I was way into being an independent non-girly woman, you had told me that in nearly 20 years I would be at a Macy’s perfume counter with a dude who was going to buy expensive perfume for me, I would have scoffed. Why should I let some dude dictate what I smell like? Yet, here I was. After huffing like 20 different kinds of perfume, we finally settled on Chanel No. 5. Yes, we sniffed all these different things, only to come back to a perfume that has been around 95 years; that generations of women have worn. I smell like legions of dead flappers and grannies… and I kinda like it!
I am wearing it now, and it’s really weird– it doesn’t smell like me. I keep thinking there’s someone behind me that I’m smelling. I like how it smells a lot, but since I have spent a lot of my life thinking that the best smells are the absence of perfumes, I gotta get used to it!
June 8, 2014 at 7:53 pm Enter your password to view comments.
My first car was a 1968 VW Beetle, which I bought in 1993. It had been sitting in someone’s barn for many years and only had 40k miles on it, which is unheard of. Anyway, I loved that car, but it broke down 3 times on the 4-hour drive home from college. This set the tone for the rest of the year I owned it– it needed some sort of repairs at least every month. Needless to say, I knew all the towtruck drivers by name in town. This was not my first shitty, car; I have never owned a new car, so I have had lots of experience with numerous car repairmen in two states in the past 20-odd years of car ownership. It is almost never good.
Being female, I have gotten all manner of condescending, patronizing, and downright mean behavior from repairmen. I remember once I had a car with some kind of weird congenital brake problem that nobody could figure out. The brake pads would wear out faster on the inside than on the outside. Nobody knew why. However, when I described this issue to repairmen, they would roll their eyes and sometimes tell me to my face that I was crazy; that was impossible and that my brake pads were fine. Then, 3 weeks later the inside pads would wear out, the calipers would freeze up and I’d have to pull over and take my car to the nearest repair place only to get a lecture along the lines of “honey, didn’t your daddy tell you have to get your brake pads replaced when they wear out? Sweetie, you should have your boyfriend drive your car sometime. He’d know what to do.” This scenario happened at least 3 times.
Because of my lifelong bad experiences with car repairmen, I have developed this crazy condition, where anything revolving around auto mechanics makes me really agitated and anxious. I tried to learn about cars, so I would sound knowledgeable, but obviously I would never know as much as a repairman, so if I tried to demonstrate my knowledge, the repairman would engage in a one-upping war until he won (which wasn’t hard, truthfully. I know about brakes, but that’s about it). So, even thinking about dealing with car mechanics is one of the few things that fills me with a special cocktail of anxiety, fear, apprehension and rage all bundled up into one little ball of me not wanting to deal. Thus I avoid car repairs if possible.
Wednesday, after waiting a year and a half, I finally got the windshield replaced on my car, because it needed it to pass inspection. I had taken it to shady places before that passed it with the crack (I had bought the car with the crack in the windshield), but the last place gave me the big red R rejection sticker. I had been driving around with a big red R for about a year and a half, yet only managed to get 2 tickets. When I took my car into the inspection place, I learned that In the time it took to save up the money to get the windshield repaired, more things broke that would render the car uninspectable (not surprising, since, made in 1999, my car is almost old enough to drive itself). So, I forked over a zillion dollars and had them fix all the things. Upon driving home I noticed that the car smelled like weird exhaust, and rattled and vibrated really loudly.
Here’s where my brain started freaking out. First of all, I was filled with rage for having been screwed over again. Then I searched for ways I could live with it so I wouldn’t have to talk to the repair people again. Then I thought “maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I am crazy and I’m just hearing things.” I agonized about this whole thing for far too long.
In the end, I took the car back, explained it to the people, and they fixed it for free (something needed tightening), rendering all that angst pointless. The place where I take my car is actually really cool, and that’s why I’ve been going there for years. Why all the angst? I don’t know. I need a support group or something. Geez. Now I am beating myself up for being such a wimp about the whole thing. This may be a sign I should just get rid of the car!
So, I’ve sort of been attempting to think about dating again. I put up a profile on one site (I answered the questions, didn’t write anything in the essays because I’m not THAT committed yet). A bunch of people “favorited” my profile or something (didn’t actually send me a message, but indicated they were interested in some way). Here are some excerpts from the profiles of the ones who did that:
- im looking for very calme lady I want her like a baby.
- I am a realatively intelligent individual
- ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………. (description of perfect first date)
- I NO LONGER WILL DATE GIRLS WHO HIT UP CLUBS .. please dont hit me up saying a hardly ever go and then the mintue we not together for a day im going to find you in a clyb and if you are the type to go just becuz i said this and you want to get me mad it will work and i will forget about you Im sorry (this guy is 40 years old with kids)
- Wherever I decide it may be at..my way or no way…tired of being a sucker and a gentleman to people who can’t grasp the concept of what a Real Man is about. (Ideal First Date Description)
- ima hard worker and im looking for that specail someone who i can give me heart to. (and me Lucky Charms!)
- in the summer i love swimming all so love cooking out side because the food taste better off grill love all kinds of music.
- Iam a easy going lad that limes to enjoy as much as I can what life has to offer.
- Someone whose headline is I BANG HOT CHICKS, yet his description says “looking for that special lady for a seriouse relationship”
- Me just ask I will tell like to cuddle and walks on the beach going to movies layed back easy going love to laugh and good communication is a plus don’t be shy message me some time. (apparently not written communication)
I don’t want to sound like a jerk; these are probably all fine gentlemen. I just appreciate complete sentences and spell-checking. Also, over half of the responses are from Catholics. WTF? I am not religious in any way, shape or form! If anything, I am personally anti-religious, in that I don’t really care what other people believe, but I don’t believe in anything. This site also matches people by socio-economic levels (how much education you have and money you make), so I get matched with a lot of construction workers from Southie. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but that’s probably where the Catholic bias comes in. I think I am much more into the anthropology of the people this site and the algorithms they use to match people than the actual dating aspect. This is probably a sign I should crawl back under my non-dating rock.