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"You really are clueless, an embarrassment to the name. Hope you're adopted." -- June Dever
"this guy is right about conserving a clue. he hasn't one and that leaves more for the rest of us." -- Jim Lovell
"Your e-mail addy... should be 'dever@getalife.net.'" -- Sponge
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| Cry Me a Fucking River Already |
| Posted by: dever on Wednesday, July 30, 2003 - 03:00 AM |
Fred Reed started the ball rolling, writing that guys in America shouldn't marry women here in the states and proceeded to explain why he felt that women in this country have a chip on their shoulder. Now, I'm not going to sit here and defend Reed, because in many respects he's just plain wrong. Not entirely wrong. Not 100% out in left-field wrong. Not O.J. Simpson wrong. Just wrong enough that the few valid points he might have had were buried beneath all the other bullshit he dumped on top.
His article, and the contemplation thereof, led Venomous Kate down some path of introspection, admiring the meaning of peaceful bowel movements, finally ending at a giant lake of self-pity:
I was taking a shit for chrissakes. You know: door closed, pajama bottoms around ankles, bare ass, bad smells. A moment that most of us consider private. A moment in which most of us are gladly alone and which some of us enjoy immensely for the relief it affords but which, because one of my loved ones needed something from me, I had to rush through.
It's things like that which make me angry.
First off, I suddenly feel like I know more about Kate than I ever wanted to. I can't help but flashback to Fight Club, "Strangers with this kind of honesty make me go a big rubbery one." I'm not sure why this couldn't have been handled with a terse, "Don't bother mommy while she's in the bathroom." Sure, we've all had that rather uncomfortable experience where someone wanted to talk to us while we were taking a dump, but a quick, "Look, I'm trying to take a shit here!" usually ends the discussion - I go back to my book or magazine, and all is well with the world once again.
It's the culmination of moments like that - not merely moments spent trying to shit in a bathroom but all sorts of moments in which I'm racing through one thing to deal with another - that make me angry. It's the fact that even my most basic of human needs must be juggled with the needs of others which makes me feel chronically pissed off.
Have you considered Zoloft? Why be that frowning, bouncing oval when you can go through the day as a smiling, bouncing, not-quite circle? The rest of us put up with the same nonsense day after day, and most of us without the luxury of sitting on the beach while bitching about it.
I'm angry because it shouldn't be like this. I'm angry because when women say that we can't handle it all, we can't do it all, we can't be whores in the bedroom, tycoons in the boardroom, maids in the living room, cooks in the kitchen, washwomen in the laundry room, psychologists in the family room, teachers of homework in the kid's bedrooms and still remember where a man put his goddamned keys - when we talk about being tired or about being pushed beyond our limits, the response is always the same: "You wanted this, remember?"
I am angry because I know - and mark my words, you'll see this in the comments from some asshole who didn't take the time to read this far - that when I say that I'm tired of it, that I've had enough, that I can't handle it anymore, I am labeled a failure and branded as selfish for merely wanting a break.
Meanwhile - meanwhile - I am angry that I am expected to stroke the egos of any man who "pitches in" and performs duties around the house that his father would never have done. Don't believe me? Then watch the comments for the first guy who points out that he bathes the kids or feeds them dinner, and read his comment carefully because there you'll see a man who is wanting credit for doing those things.
I'll defer to Jeff Goldstein writing to Asparagirl 20 June 2002: "Getting too much to bear, is it dear? No problems. Just pen some wistful, world-weary words (a few fat paragraphs ought to convince people of your sincerity), strain a few analogies, and then its off to Starbucks to share a Caramel Macchiato and a rasberry scone with your pathos. (Or, if you're feeling particularly melodramatic, you can maybe hide out in a neighbor's attic or something and write journal entries until the world is dusted in irradiated ash -- or until the Stoli vanilla runs out, whichever comes first).
"Jesus. Just fall on your pen already. Get it over with."
Do you really think it's any easier for men? We're supposed to be corporate tycoons while at work, protectors when things go "bump" in the night, sensitive and caring when dealing with our families, and completely understanding every time you get your panties in a bunch for no apparent reason. We're supposed to just accept that you don't want to have sex anymore, but we're not supposed to go outside the house to find it and take care of our natural biological functions. Then to top it all off, we're supposed to be the Amazing Kreskin, reading your mind to find out what stick is up your ass on any given day so we know what verbal minefield to avoid, knowing if we ask what is wrong, inevitably the answer is "nothing." All that and you get the house, the kids, and half our paycheck when you decide that well, maybe it really was "something."
If you want to stop hearing about how angry we women are, then help stop the things that make us so mad. If you want to help - if you really mean it when you say that you do - then help us help ourselves.
Excuse me? Women are angry because they got everything they asked for. I'm sorry if it wasn't the bed of roses you thought it would be, but women made that bed, not men. It was women in this country who wanted - demanded even - to have it both ways. They wanted a career and they wanted kids and a family. Women wanted a bunch of wussified, pussy-whipped guys who were afraid to open a door for a woman without offending her sensibilities or sense of independence, or to tell a joke, or - god forbid - have an opinion of their own. Well, congratulations, we gave you everything you asked for. We stopped opening doors. We stopped being polite. We stopped carrying groceries, giving up seats on the train, and let you prove that you could do it all for yourself. We learned to just keep our head down and mouths closed with the exception of the occasional affirmative style grunt, all the while biting our tongues and hoping you'd just get it out of your system. We surpressed our natural instinct to be the aggressor, the challenger, and the breadwinner. In the war of the sexes women were the hands down victor, and now that society has changed to accommodate that, women are deciding they don't like it. Well, excuse me, but tough shit.
Be careful what you wish for... you might actually get it.
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