Page 401 of 524


I was reading an article in Newsweek that put forth the idea that Barack Obama will be the first female president of the United States much as Bill Clinton was the first black president. The idea that Clinton was “black” in a spiritual sense of the word was first put forth by the author Toni Morrison. I can’t speak to the “blackness” of anything, including the former president, but I can talk about what it takes to be a woman and Obama can have the “woman’s touch” in his leadership style ‘til the cows come home but at the end of the day he still has a “Y” chromosome and a dick and that makes him a man.

 

I am not sure why I am supposed to be just as thrilled that a black man is going to be our next president instead of a woman. It is as though black and woman were interchangeable on the minority hierarchy. As though the level of discrimination against each group was the same. As though the prejudice against being female that has been built into civilization since time began, and still exists in many forms – covert and overtly, will be wiped out by a black man in The White House. A man is a man. Black, brown or white. Being male is an advantage according to the rules by which the world is governed everywhere on our planet. Always has been. Still is.

 

Perhaps it is merely the blinkered view of Western culture that ignores the fact that while racism is not well-tolerated and called out, even in situations where it doesn’t exist at all; sexism is alive and well and so deeply entrenched that most women don’t even recognize it for what it is.

 

Women are still second-class. Look at nearly any billboard or commercial, and it is the open promotion of the female as sex object that sells the best and the most. Young women and teenage girls have been convinced that dressing scantily and being promiscuous and predatory sexually gives them power when the truth is that it is birth control that gives us power and freedom from male oppression. Without the ability to control when and if we have babies, we are chattel; and the insidious assault on our rightful access to things like the pill and abortion is slowly ensuring that someday we will once again be imprisoned by our offspring. Giving birth is the single most important factor in determining if a woman will end up living in poverty. Women with children, and without mates because the upside of the sexual revolution only benefited our brother who can eat cake without having to throw a wedding reception to get it, are more often than not are unable to “do it all”. It is difficult enough to work full-time, parent and be the domestic goddess with even the part-time assistance of a male. Despite the idea of men being more useful in the home and with the children, the majority of women still do the lion’s share of housework and childcare.

 

Women are half the population of the world, but one would never know it judging from the lack of political representation in governments all over the world. Even in the United States, the birthplace of democracy, women are vastly underrepresented in all levels of government. The world/men would have us believe that it is our own fault. We don’t participate. We don’t stand for elections. But the rules are different for us when we do. We can’t play power games by being as smart and as tough. We must still maintain an acceptable level of femininity or be branded suspect. Obama is said to be able to play the game like a woman. How ironic is that? That a man can be a woman and be praised for it whereas a woman would be deemed too weak.

 

Women are at the mercy of those who run the world. And it is men who run the world. They do not need to cater to their reproductive needs as women do therefore they deem it unnecessary to factor such things as survival of the species into the workplace. It is women who stall out on career ladders because of children. It is women who lose jobs because of pregnancy. It is women who are penalized by the Social Security system when they retire because they didn’t have the time to put in the time necessary to ensure receiving a benefit payment a person could live off of. Childbirth and child rearing are not skills, and therefore are not important because men don’t have to do it.

 

 

What does this have to do with Barack Obama being the next president? He is a man, and it will be another great snow-jobbing of women if the majority of them can be convinced that his smooth oratory and charisma is an equal substitute for finally being represented in the highest office in our land.  He can’t know however what it is like to struggle in a society that deems you less because of your gender anymore than Bill Clinton knew what it was like to sit at the back of the bus because he didn’t have another choice. It is apples and oranges. Another man is likely going to be the next president of the United States of America? What else is new?

 


I am not much for slogging through blogs in search of entertainment or good writing or both. The handful of blogs I read regularly belong to women I met through the YWBB and that I have listed on my Widow Blogroll. Anything that is evenly remotely entertaining, my husband Rob found using StumbleUpon and then went on to find others through the links he found on the worthwhile blogs he stumbled across. Stumble is a program that you can use to find specific topic oriented blogs or just randomly flip through like a couch potato with satellite. Through Stumble Rob discovered A Riot is an Ugly Thing along with its host, Uncle Keith. Uncle Keith, I should warn you, will not be everyone’s cup of tea. He is middle-age though he claims to be old. He is unapologetically incorrect and he likes to post pictures of scantily clad women who could be his (of legal age) daughters. But he can be funnier than hell while doing all of the above. Another pervert Rob discovered before the days of Stumble was the host of What Would Tyler Durden Do? (WWTDD) For you non-Fight Clubbers out there reading this from your IKEA-ized domains still in your khaki cubicle uniforms, Tyler Durden is the the name of the character played by Brad Pitt in the movie, Fight Club. It is one of my husband’s favorite movies and my step-daughter’s favorite books by her favorite author, Chuck Palahniuk. When I first began corresponding with Rob via email (because yes, where would two internet junkies meet but on the www), he told me I reminded him of Marla Singer. I was appalled (after I googled her up on Wikipedia) but in retrospect I can think of at least one area where she and I have some in common – though I am forbidden to go there (much) in my blogging. WWTDD is a celebrity eviscerating site, where the host skewers the flavors of the week and waxes pornographically about the current crop of famous tail. He may be Uncle Keith’s nephew. Tyler Durden came to us courtesy of The Gil Meche Experience. This is a cadre of writers there who claim to be law students somewhere on the East Coast of the U.S. The main blogger is a young man named Pulp who is on a mission (one of many) to expose David Brooks as a tepid writing talent. Nurse Myra of Gimcrack Hospital (PG) is someone Rob met through Uncle Keith who obviously enjoys her because on Friday she posts tastefully done pictures of herself in provacative clothing. She is a real nurse though in a real retirement home in the real place of Australia and she is a very talented writer. She writes with wit and style about the day to day of her job and the people she encounters. Rob discovered, inadvertently, that she was widowed as we are and thought at first that I should categorize her with the other widow blogs. While her “about me” states that she blogs to keep sane, she is not writing about her grief. Even if she were, I would still put her with the interesting blogs because she and it are that.The Diary of a Mad DC Cabbie is a Stumble find. He is not mad but he is a cabbie in the DC area and he blogs on all manner of things. He is funny. He is smart. And he is a very good writer. As is Johnny Virgil over at Fifteen Minute Lunch. I would do much to be that funny. His rantings on washrooms have earned him a place of honor in my esteem forever. Waiter Rant is just that, and apparently its author has written a book and was approached about turning it into a movie according to my oldest step-daughter. She is the original source of this blog and though my husband reads it – aloud to me – every so often, I don’t find it compelling enough to read on my own. It is well-written and others find it quite entertaining. And Rob likes it. He has much better taste in blogs as a source of leisure reading than I do. I am from the quaint old school of building community and friendships via the blogosphere. He does not believe that one can be friends with people who may or may not really exist at all. As one of my mommie friends from yore pointed out when she and the other women I now call friends met on BabyCenter – back in the days before we moved to a private group home – who knows who any of us really were. One of us could have really been a 55 year old man simply pretending to be a thirty-something pregnant woman or new mother. After all, you never know what some people will do to entertain themselves. Rob explains us, in case you are interested, as above average anomalies and exceptions to all rules.Blogging, in my opinion – ’cause that is the only one that counts around here, is a viable source of the written word as entertainment or information. One could do worse than to check out and become a daily reader of any of the blogs I have mentioned.


For most of my life adult life I have weighed roughly 160lbs and have ranged from a 10 to a 12 in size depending on my level of fitness (which, of course, was far greater when I was single and could devote hours and hours a week to exercise). During a year long bout with gallbladder disease followed by food allergy issues, I was unable to eat much at all because of the pain and consequently I lost most of my muscle mass and dropped to an all time low (and I mean all time that includes my adolescence) of about 145. I was actually able to squeeze into a pair of size six capri’s. How scary is that for a woman nearly 5’ 10” tall? And though I freely admit to having loved being celebrity magazine skinny for the only time in my life, I was frustrated by my inability to eat much of anything and by my lack of physical strength which kept me from being very active. Having now identified most of my food triggers – a lengthy and nonsensical list – and taken up weight lifting again (about four months now), I am back up to my pre-illness weight and, dismayingly for me, size. A size twelve most comfortably in pants as I loathe form-fitting anything and a size ten in some other styles – notably my Lululemon gear. Like most women my age, especially if they have had children, my tummy muscles are not what they were and I don’t have the same ambition to tame them that I did before (or the time – who has two hours a day for exercise?). As long as I keep the tummy covered, I look really good for an older woman. But I know that I am not quite fit and it bugs the heck out of me. When did I get so effing vain?

 

Yesterday we were in the city to shop. We stopped at Earth’s General Store on Whyte Ave because Jordan had given us a gift certificate to the place as a wedding gift and as we are hurriedly arriving at our first anniversary (June 26th) we needed to get it used. The store is just a room upstairs from street level that has a peculiar odor that stops sort of foul and though it carries a few eco-friendly things (soaps of all kinds, cleaning products, toiletries, baby products and free market coffees) it is mostly a purveyor of over-priced, feel good about yourself without having to do much, tree-hugging, pseudo/wanna be activist stuff. We stocked up on laundry stuff mostly and then after another quick stop at Planet Organic for toaster pastries, we hit the MEC.

 

The Mountain Equipment Co-op (MEC) is really a place for the hardcore outdoor sports enthusiast to gear himself or herself up. It is also a Mecca for the dilettantes. I am not quite the former but not exactly the latter either. I needed a pair of hiking pants for our upcoming honeymoon trip to Shawnee National Forest in southern Illinois. The kind that dry quickly and zip off at the knees if one gets overheated. Lots of over-sized pockets and such. While I was there, I also tried on a few pair of shorts and sports tops. One thing I noticed is that there were a plethora of small sizes. XS, S, and M/M. Larges and X-larges were non-exist or picked to the point that only the bright yellow or neon pink colors were left. And if you were a larger size? Shop somewhere else. Preferably a fat chick store and I say “chick” because the men who shop at MEC are allowed to be more than large but like so many places, women are confined to acceptably size limits.

 

I found this to be true of Lululemon too. The sizes stop at 12. Yes, you read that correctly. Women over the size of 12 must shop elsewhere (though I have noticed when I am there that plenty of my middle-aged sisters are willing to endure muffin top for the sake of the Lulu trademark on their back or bum). And I have gotten to wondering once again, why the insistence by clothing manufacturers and retailers to ignore the obvious? Most of us are not small. We are average (size 14 or 16 depending on your source of information) or larger. At the Lulu store, the 10’s and 12’s are always out. The larges (there are no XL women in Lulu’s world) are picked to the ugly colors and less aesthetic styles.

 

I find this annoying and, oddly, patronizing. At a 12 I am considered a plus size. Remember Anna Nicole in her Guess jeans days? A 12 and referred to as a gorgeous women – for a plus sized model. Huh? Last year I was a bony size eight. Bony. Seriously. Sure, I could slide with ease into just about any piece of clothing but it didn’t disguise my protruding collarbones and the fact that you could see my ribbed chest. And I was an eight. According to the test I took at the Self magazine sight, my “happy” weight is 157lbs. I am a bit over that, but the accepted weight range for my height is 127 – 171lbs. At 145 I was veering on dangerously thin and if you look at the fashion and celeb magazines there are women my height who are routinely about twenty pounds less than I weighed when I couldn’t eat. And that’s the key to being on the lower end of those oddly figured weight ranges. Not eating. You just can’t do that for long and of course that is why diets don’t won’t as well as changing food habits and exercising (although that isn’t as quick-fix or easy).

 

I have to admit that I am struggling with the return to my natural weight. I dislike the in between period of getting toned again. I don’t like feeling encased in my own body even when the reality is less about being buried in fat (which is what I feel like) and more about not being in shape with which I am most contented (and just as an aside – between pregnancy, childbirth, care giving and widowhood – it has been years since I reveled in my own body). At present, my weight training level is now about satisfactory but my cardio level has dropped because I am so effing board with circling an indoor track everyday. I long to run outdoors and I know I am strong enough now to do it again but the winter drags on and on.

 

Mostly though, I am tired of society and its sexist imposition on women via fashion. Although this is hardly the only way in which women are still oppressed in our world, it is one of the most effective ways of keeping us in our “place”. Despite my progress – I have no interest in make up, shun bras and aside from hi-lighting (I love being blonde) don’t fuss with my hair at all I am still a slave.