Category Archives: Gender

Once More Into the Breech

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I did get a tiny bit of backlash from yesterday’s post. Surprise, surprise! Woman speaks her mind online and people give her shit.

But neither of them gave me the “special snowflake” or “suck it up, buttercup” reply. One made no damn sense whatsoever so, meh. The other…called me pathetic for tearing up, and said I should brace up and stop thinking that my preferences should control the world.

Okey dokey then. This is quite similar to many pro-Trump memes I’ve seen. The ones that say ‘you lost, get over it’ or ‘deal with it’, or call us snowflakes or whiners or sore losers. 

Those posts have annoyed me, but it was only today that I started to think about why it is that they annoy me.

It bothers me because I’m a grown-ass adult and I’m not ‘throwing a temper tantrum.’ I know dammed well that things aren’t going to go my way! I learned that shit in 3rd grade. I also was unhappy with Bush Jr being elected twice. Yep, I “lost” then, too! The horror! 

Why didn’t people call me a special snowflake then? I did dislike him, yes. I didn’t trust him, yes. I felt he was a puppet, yes. But damn, I never felt about Bush like I do about Trump.

I’m not upset about “losing.” That is ridiculous. This isn’t just another damn reality TV show, it is dammed important

I spent a lot of time yesterday in my post, trying to list my reasons why. Personal, emotional, global.

But yet, I’m still labelled as a sore loser. 

No, honey. Again, I’m a fucking adult, finally, and I don’t whine when things ‘don’t go my way.’ I listed my reasons yesterday. But the thing is…the thing is…this is not a game. This is real. Your idea that I’m only upset because I lost speaks more about you than me. You thought it was a competition. A game. No, honey. This is no game. It’s not Risk or Monopoly, no matter how much it might feel like it to those with all the right cards.

When it is a game, I don’t give a fuck who wins or loses, as I, unlike the people spreading the sore loser idea, like the interaction and fun – yes fun! – that makes it a game.

To compare my factually backed up worries about Trump, shared by millions of others, to a game that we lost and you won not only belittles our sincere worries, but shows how very little you take the ideas and thoughts and worries of others seriously.

I wish I could condense this down into a tl:dr quote. Any help with this is welcome. I am still having trouble putting into words why this attitude is so wrong.

I’m Depressed Tonight.

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I have so much to share here, and instead I’m just…low. And I need to vent.

I walked into the canteen at work twice today, and the lovely big TV they got for us was on, turned to the news. Guess what dominated the news? Yep, the Cheeto President’s Inauguration coverage. I didn’t actually catch any of his speech. 

I haven’t had yet enough drink yet to watch it online, either.

Both times, I found myself starting to tear up. To actually cry at the evidence that this is really happening – has happened. Just because I am 3,000 miles away does not mean it doesn’t matter to me.

All reference to LBGT and climate change has already been removed from the Whitehouse website. ACA is under attack with nothing to replace it. There are no foreign-to-US diplomats anywhere in the world tonight. He’s nominated so many wrong (and rich) people for cabinet positions that my brain actually can’t grasp how fucked up it all is. 

I have family that isn’t white. I have family that are elderly and not financially well-off. I have family and friends with very young girls. I have family and friends that are relatively young but permanently ill. I have a lot of atheist friends and family. I have no Muslim friends, but I do have Hindu and Wiccan friends. I have gay friends, bisexual friends, transgender friends, polyamorous friends, asexual friends. I have friends with Asian heritage, South American heritage, Nigerian heritage.

All are targets now.

I fear for all of these people. Mostly because of how Cheeto’s supporters now think it is open season on ‘the different’ – meaning anyone who is not straight and white and has no discernible accent. Or funny clothing. I know it happens, every day. Not just in the USA, of course. My point is that his election lets some people think it is perfectly fine to discriminate now.

My husband has gotten into physical fights because he ‘looks gay’ with his beautiful long hair. Ireland. 

I’ve had guns pointed at me twice, because I dared to date someone with a different skin colour than my own. America.

Do you see the difference there? No one ever tried to fight me. They threatened my life, instead. This is not acceptable and this bastard has made it clear that white supremacy and violence are just fine with him. Expect more guns pointed at teenage girls in love.

I have two friends on FB who support Trump. One just liked his inaugural videos. The other? Posted some shitty meme about how no one ‘violently protested’ Obama’s inaugurations. Pretty sure that isn’t true… it also called people like me ‘snowflakes’. I’m somehow weak because I have these concerns? How does that make sense? No, I’m not crying because ‘I lost’ or ‘it didn’t go my way’. I’m genuinely worried for the state of not just the USA but how it will affect the rest of the world. FFS, two of the people behind the big housing crisis are now cabinet nominees! Ireland is FUCKED because of that! I couldn’t get a job for nearly two years because of that!

Right, I’m done. I’m going to go prepare my protest signs for the Women’s March in Galway tomorrow. Oh yes, we are going to one of several protests being held in Ireland tomorrow. Hubby made us some wonderful laminated posters, too. 

You might see us on the news.

A Draining Morning

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Do you ever have so much going on that you want to share that you shut down entirely and say nothing? That’s been me, lately. I don’t know where to start so I … haven’t started. But there’s one thing I want to talk about, and I’ve been holding off because I don’t want to accidentally offend anyone. I’ve been put in that position recently on the blog, and now I have to write with my tiptoes. As you can imagine, those contortions aren’t comfortable.

A not-funny thing happened, that led to something funny, that led to a not-funny thing. I feel a rant of sorts coming on…

There was a clog in our big outside drain pipe. It was my fault. So of course I should be the one to fix it.

I have a plumbing snake, but it was too short to reach the clog. Being creative and not willing to either give up or pay someone, I electrical-taped an old shower hose to the snake, as an extension. It was still too short! So I electrical-taped a new shower hose to the old shower hose that was taped to the snake. Good thing I keep things like two unused shower hoses, eh? You just never know when random junk around the house might come in handy! Hoarder? Naw, just prepared for any eventuality. I choose to believe that. Nahnahnah I can’t hear you, Socks…

In any case, in the process of being shoulder deep in a big drain pipe, I got shit-water on me. I got it on my arms, on my hands (despite the gloves I changed about nine times in the course of my work), on my pants, on my shirt, and on my FACE. Yeppers: Poo-soup, on my face.

That’s funny, to me. I rather deserved poop all over me: I caused the problem. How, I will not detail. It was an attempt to save myself work that backfired badly. If it got in my eyes or mouth – maybe not so funny!

What really isn’t funny: someone saw me doing the work and asked about it. After I explained I was told, ‘That’s a man’s job. You tell your husband I said so!’

It wasn’t even physically challenging, unless you count kneeling on concrete for ages (ow). I didn’t explain why it was me doing the job beyond the simple answer that I’m plain-old-better at this sort of job. Hubby and I each have our talents, and this is one of mine, such as it is. I can deal with poop-soup on my face and clothes way better than he, and I deal with the frustrations of how long it takes to clear a big clog more calmly, too.

This is not to say that I don’t have a horrible temper that rockets off into incandescent rage for what seems like no reason (to anyone but me). Plumbing issues aren’t one of the things that piss me off – I don’t know why (or why not).

But this wasn’t a “man’s job”: it was a dirty, smelly, disgusting job. I have never believed that just because I don’t have a penis, I should be automatically exempted from doing dirty, smelly, disgusting work. I’m pretty sure every mom out there would back me up on that. Also: every female pet owner, every female carer for an elderly person, every female doctor or nurse – I could go on. How much excreta of various kinds and from various species do women deal with on a daily basis? I can’t imagine just because it was flushed it means it is less icky, can you? Hell, at least I knew who pooped the poop – a stranger’s poo would likely make me gag.

I’m not angry at the person who made the comment – he didn’t give me time to think about and explain why it was sexist. To be honest, I doubt I would have bothered, because I feel the comment was sexist toward men, too. I’m just as tired of hearing that men should be the ones to do all the physical work as I am at hearing that women shouldn’t do any of it.

Has anyone else had a moment like this? What did you do or say? I think next time it happens, I’ll say a lot more in response, myself.

Boys and Girls, Guys and Gals, Men and Women

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Well. Isn’t that a broad topic? Gender and gender issues have been on my mind a lot lately. Always a big thing for me, actually, but I get outraged and angry so very quickly that I rarely get a chance to think rationally.

Anger is an energy, according to most of the former members of the Sex Pistols, otherwise known as PIL. Yes, it is, and if I could harness my own I could power a small city. (Great song by the way)

My family will confirm that I have always been prone to rage. “Temper tantrums” they said when I was little. “She’ll grow out of it.”

The thing is: I have never grown out of having temper tantrums. I have never seen the reason why I can’t be loudly outraged, to the point of kicking or throwing things, when shit is just that dammed stupid and I’ve had enough, enough, enough!

I can explain, or excuse, a good bit of my ability (or inclination, or sheer desire) towards letting loose and having physical expressions of rage by seeing my father lose his shit, and taking him as a role model. But my mom never did that, and my sister never did either: so why did I?

The only reason anyone has ever given me to not lose my shit, too, as an adult, is that women just don’t do that. So, is it a gender thing? is my first question. I have always been taught, by example, that women aren’t allowed to show anger. Or, god forbid, outright rage. Why the hell not? I certainly feel it, why do I have to hold it in? Isn’t that the same as holding in the tears when they want to come? Emotion is emotion, right?

Maybe not so much. Why is it that I refuse to shed tears unless I’ve really lost it, and only when I feel safe with the one I’m crying in front of. Or I do it secretly, which just makes me feel so alone and pathetic. I fucking hate it, and that’s a fact. Why did I choose the stereotypical male way of dealing with stuff that makes anyone want to cry?

Why is it that I have seemingly, unknowingly, chosen the male way of dealing with extreme frustration? Why do I react this way when my sister doesn’t? It can’t be nurture, it has to be nature. I had two older female role models, but what felt right to me was to be like dad.

So. Does that mean I’m a boy in my secret heart? Well. If it does, I’m a gay boy. Or a bisexual boy with a preference to other boys. My dad and my sister both read my blog, and while they don’t need details, I rather expect that they already know I’ve been adventurous with my sexuality. And I also know they both don’t judge me for whatever they think I’ve done. I love them both very much for that. (It’s not ever been as weird as you might think, guys! Or it didn’t seem weird to me…)

As usual, I’ve rambled.

I recently got quietly angry over a comment that I literally walked into at work. Some shit about how one fella’s wife has no ‘spacial awareness.’ I come through with a pallet full of boxes – that I personally didn’t put on that pallet, and the squeeze is tight and two of my boxes fall off. “Perfect example, women have no spacial awareness!”

Me: “you mean whoever loaded this pallet did a shit job of it, right?”

“Nope, women are shit at spacial awareness! Hahahahhahahahhaha!”

Didn’t say a dammed word at the time, because I was furious. I grumped about that for hours, really annoyed. I couldn’t decide if they were having fun with me as a member of the crew, or if I’d actually been slighted, hard. Truly, it was meant in fun. However. It put me in a shitty mindset, and that helped me make the decision: that was fuckin’ sexist and I had a right to be annoyed.

I never want to be the annoying asshole, but I also think I can, and should, speak up when it sucks to be the butt of a joke just because I’m female. I am sooo tired of that old joke. How do I respond, however, in a way that I can not only show that I’m not getting really angry (I’m not) but that it isn’t fuckin funny, either – so next time maybe don’t, okay?

All the over-sharing background just leads up to the last question. Is is me? Is who I am and what I feel based on my genitalia? I didn’t have a choice about what I was born with, but I’ve been dealing with people badly, awkwardly, my whole life. I never seem to quite understand anything other people say or do, confidently. I’m rather more comfortable at the moment with my interactions with the guys, and have a lot more fun with the boys than I ever did with the girls. It’s nice to take an insult as a joke, and a compliment with ‘shut up you’re distracting me!’

I’ve gone nowhere with this, and I’ve been writing for hours now. What do I tie this up with? I guess this: most of my followers appear to be CIS women – so how do you feel? Did anything I’ve said hit a chord in your heart-strings?

*sorry, dad, if I’ve upset you in any way. I know you aren’t the same person I knew as a kid. It’s still my history, upbringing, and the things I took on board when that was what kids do.