Showing posts with label feminism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label feminism. Show all posts

Sunday, 6 March 2011

Today

Today I rose with a million women,

and booked it with the Jezebelles,

all in all, a thoroughly enjoyable, enriching day,

reinforcing the twin powers of thinking and doing

("Wonder Twin powers -- ACTIVATE!")

and the possibilities inherent in every London day,

should I seek it out, venturing beyond the endless ennui of Come Dine With Me ,

and its bloodless ilk.

Joy:

It's out there.

Seek it out. Revel in it. Be inspired. Write.

Be To. Or Be To Not.

(The former is infinitely preferable)

Saturday, 12 June 2010

Stickermania #3: The Purple Pen Project


















(Click on images to enlarge)

Here at the Plogquarters, we've been mightily inspired by the subversive sticker project - thanks to my beloved Manchester mishpokha for the Best. Gift. EVER!!!!

Welcome to the launch of a new campaign - the PPP (or Purple Pen Project). All you need to participate are:

-sticky labels, or paper with adhesive. (not necessary if one goes the chalk route)
-something purple to write with (it doesn't have to be a pen - that was just for the cool acronym)
-righteous anger and a burning desire for equality

It's so simple - but can be so effective! Subliminal advertising is everywhere - let's put some worthy messages out there and see how far-reaching and widespread this can go.

Start sticking, sisterhood!

(And if you send your efforts to me, you will warm the cockles (cuntles?) of my feminist soul)

x

Sunday, 23 May 2010

A Big MStake


"There is a void in the English language which, with some diffidence, we undertake to fill ...

Now, clearly, what is needed is a more comprehensive term which does homage to the sex without expressing any views as to their domestic situation, and what could be simpler or more logical than the retention of what the two doubtful terms have in common. The abbreviation "Ms" is simple, it is easy to write, and the person concerned can translate it properly according to circumstances. For oral use it might be rendered as "Mizz," which would be a close parallel to the practice long universal in many bucolic regions, where a slurred Mis' does duty for Miss and Mrs alike."


THIS WAS WRITTEN IN 1901. Nineteen-oh-fucking-ONE, people!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I am so furious that Ms has not replaced the Virgin/Housewife dichotomy. Did you know that in its original seventeenth century usage, "Mistress" -the equivalent of "Mister"- bore no reference to marital status?


I think this might be my calling, people. An anti-Mrs Campaign. Let's eradicate this menace in our lifetime! Who's on board?



Wednesday, 12 May 2010

The Revolution Will Be Blogged About!!!


!!!Exclamation points in title down to woman's irrational hysteria ... NOT!!!

So here it is, in a nutshell (not nut as in testicle, you phallocentric phuck!) ...

I am sick of feminism being marginalised.

I am sick of the fact that feminism, when [mis]represented looks like shrill, hairy, hormonal UNFOUNDED dreck.

I am sick of the fact that women still make 73p to every male £1 FOR THE SAME JOB!!!! Imagine if any other group were earning a percentage of the mainstream wage! Imagine the (rightful) outcry!

I AM FUCKING SICK TO DEATH OF THE FACT THAT WE ARE ROUTINELY GROUPED ALONGSIDE "MINORITIES" WHEN NUMERICALLY WE OUTNUMBER MEN!!!!

The Revolution Starts Here!

If you are with me, add your thoughts below. We need action now.

And before you ask, maybe I am getting my period. Lick it up, haters!

Monday, 20 July 2009

[M]advertising



I love David Mitchell (his columns in The Observer are laugh-out-loud funny) and Robert Webb, but I love even more when men get on board with recognising inequality as the mishegas it is. The fact is that feminism liberates us all. It is so perverse that we have come to be represented as "man haters" when it is so bleeding obvious that men who are with women who subscribe fully to outmoded restrictive gender roles (which invariably inhibit the development of a fully-realised self) are actually the ones living less than love-filled lives.

And I know we're better in bed. Please. I found my clitoris way before it was fashionable ...

Sunday, 28 June 2009

Swedish Couple Keep 2-Year-Old's Gender Secret


This is fucking brilliant. At least until the kid is at nursery or somewhere with other kids. But to be treated as a person for those first formative years rather than a "pretty little princess" or a "big, strong boy!" must be so healthy for the development of an identity unbound by inane conventions.

I wish I had the courage and integrity to put my words into actions, to live my politics, as it were.

We shall see ...

(Thank you, Feministe, for the link)

Sunday, 14 June 2009

Duffy Shows No Mercy

... and we are all the better for it!

The following is the first poem from new poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy, first woman in the position since its inception in 1599! And it's timely, passionate, ballsy (I hate that word but my version, cunty, has so far failed to catch on). It's called, simply, Politics:

How it makes of your face a stone

that aches to weep, of your heart a fist,

clenched or thumping, sweating blood, of your tongue

an iron latch with no door. How it makes of your right hand

a gauntlet, a glove-puppet of the left, of your laugh

a dry leaf blowing in the wind, of your desert island discs

hiss hiss hiss, makes of the words on your lips dice

that can throw no six. How it takes the breath

away, the piss, makes of your kiss a dropped pound coin,

makes of your promises latin, gibberish, feedback, static,

of your hair a wig, of your gait a plankwalk. How it says this –

politics – to your education education education; shouts this –

Politics! – to your health and wealth; how it roars, to your

conscience moral compass truth, POLITICS POLITICS POLITICS.

Saturday, 13 June 2009

Sisterhood Of Shoes?!? I Mean, Really?!?



This can't be real?

You have to check out the Trojan Tickler ad on the comments page. Old ladies need self-love too? Gross!
/sarcasm

Thanks to Sarah Haskins for ALWAYS keeping it real and to all my Lady Friends, old and new, for offering something a little more special than sales pitches when we hang out. And especial big hugs to Y, who was mentioned in the clip ...

Thursday, 11 June 2009

Untying The Knot: The Wedding Porn Edition


Fun Fact! The Wedding Industrial Complex turns over 17 billion dollars annually in the US alone. There are a fuckload of people whose livelihoods depend on the fact that every womanTM wants to be a big white pavlova princess! With photographers and flowers and bands, oh my! I am doing research into porn at the moment and it's amazing how wedding ephemera are fetishised and framed in a similar way to the boobs and bush(less)es on the screen. And I'm actually having trouble working out which is more degrading to women but leaning heavily to the Bride's Side of the Aisle (There is an actually a generic hybrid - link NSFW= Not Safe For Work, ie. dirty images ensue!- unsurprisingly. What is too niche for porn? Absolutely nothing! But that's another post.)

So for years I've had my very own dream wedding in mind. A non-wedding: the dream not to have one, just to be this cool iconolclastic goddess teetering on the edge of respectability, laughing in the face of the bourgeoisie, just me and Susan Sarandon and our Gauloises and arthouse fillums and young toyboys and air of general disdain ... Sorry, where was I? Yes. Not getting married. I'd studied the origins of the institution
at university and am not a fan. In fact one of my all-time favourite quotes is Groucho Marx's "Marriage is a wonderful institution but who wants to live in an institution?".

Unfortunately this bloody man comes along and we bloody well have to fall in love and bloody want to make it legal for a variety of reasons so Ms. BigMouth now looks like a hegemony-happy, heteronormative hypocrite of the highest order.
And it's bittersweet because I am in love but ultimately shackling myself to something that represents so much of what I viscreally, venally despise. But why can't I reframe the experience on my terms? I like big parties and the accompanying food and booze (a little too much sometimes, to which my not-ready-for-summer-bikini-bodTM attests) and we are doing it in Australia!!! It will be our one and only opportunity to gather our various family and friends from opposite sides of the world in one room, integrating so far disparate fragments of our lives and I can't bloody WAIT! We are lucky to have many people making the LONG trip over. If I'd just said "Party in Oz!" it wouldn't happen, no matter how enticing the invitation. But the biggest bonus for me is the official blending of our families - we only have small ones (mine is just my mum, brother, sister-in-law and me) so now he will have my relatives and I will have his, and life feels more supported, in a way. That's what I'm in this for. And, seriously, to hell with all that excess, misogynist (women = monolithic; Which SATC character are you?! I'm a Carrie!!!) WICrapola!

But what is freaking people the fuck out is that I'm not treating the wedding as the be-all and end-all of my existence and I'm not thinking of myself as some new person getting! married! at all: I'm just me, as me, doing a thing that doesn't define me any more than the fact that I have worn glasses for over two straight months (bloody iritis!) and am nursing some killer cramps today. (Missy P FTW!)

When we got engag[g]ed, I changed my facebook status to:"Doctor Plog is taking on the Wedding Industrial Complex". My old friend N wrote:"Good luck with the Wedding Industrial Complex! You will need all your super powers to ward off their insanity". I'm learning that these super powers include: the ability to block out white noise (venues, blah blah, rabbis, blah, blah) and to resist the temptation to punch anyone who refers to you as a bride/ the bride -- hang on, the wedding isn't for a few months. And lasts for how many hours? THAT'S where I'll be playing the role of "the bride", then and then only. But it's an inane title foisted upon you from proposal until the wedding where you become known as the equally preposterous thing called "wife"! I would have thought you were just the bride at the wedding but I guess for marketing purposes, the second you become engaged you become repackaged as a new consumer - one that is expected not to bat an eyelid at spending ridiculous amounts of money on idiotic things. Capitalism relies on the erasure of individual desire in order to effectively perpetuate the mass-market, so our very own wants come to us genetically modified and prepackaged, via spam email or billboard or word-of-mouth or the cultural osmosis that has kept the world going and institutions standing. Isn't it unlikely that EVERY Western woman getting married (age 17 - 70) just happens to have always "dreamed" of having exactly the same thing, irrespective of variabilities in age, experience and subjectivity?

And look at "The Package" itself, Hegemony-Style (£10,000+)! Big white dress, big white teeth, golden tan, slimmer bod in order that the photos be perfect, ripe for self-fetishisation, post-children, in the mournful knowledge that one will never look like that again. Lucky for me, I don't look like that now! In fact, perversely, post-proposal, I have started rapidly gaining weight. Even my body is rejecting this nuptial nonsense! It wants to become a plus-size bride and at this stage I'm letting it. (Come November I'll more than likely freak out and stop eating though. Disordered Eating Runs Deep.)

So here's a wee anecdote to illustrate the idiocy: My lovely mum was in town for a few weeks. Last Friday, we accidentally caught the the tube to Angel so looked at a few shops and saw a nice dress. Then we caught the tube to Selfridges, looked around for an hour, bought aforementioned Angel-sourced dress (gotta love high street chains and their multitudinous replications!) and a pair of shoes dispayed next to dress. Wedding costume shopping: done! Feelin' gooooood!

Then my lovely, proud mum made the fatal (ego-wise) error of sharing our pleasure with the Bitch Sales Assistant. The following scene ensued:

Mum: (to Bitch Sales Assistant) It's for her wedding!
Bitch: (to me, disbelievingly) For your wedding?
Me: (sheepishly) Uh ... yeah.
Bitch: (bitchily) How come you're not wearing a wedding dress?
Me: (having felt pretty and happy only minutes earlier, now wanting the ground to swallow me whole) Um ... didn't really want the big white dress thing ... (apologetically) It's not really me (attempting humour weakly) And ... um ... not everyone looks good in white...
Bitch: Yeah that's what I thought when I was getting married but then you just get swept up in it. (unconvincingly) Oh well, I guess you just want something you feel nice in.
Me: (gratefully) Yes, exactly.

Silly fucking bitch. She's probably still paying off her multi-thousand pound confection. But mostly silly fucking me for letting myself be intimidated by a silly twat who's probably a decade
younger than I am. It gets worse though: I am a fatherless daughter and so many of the rituals are enshrined around that relationship, albeit (a word my dad once pronounced al-bait, as if to rhyme with the 'arbeit' from 'makht frei' - he'd only ever seen it written - how cute is that?) shitty rituals based on the chattel (woman) being traded between older man and younger man. So I may have pissed off my dad with my militancy were he around, but then again, if all this crapola weren't so deeply ingrained in our collective unconscious, I wouldn't have the issue in the first place. So it's also making me really sad too and missing him all the time and it's affecting my sleeping. Boo To The WIC! Causing insomnia as well as Keeping The Woman Down (forcing us to want all this poo and then condemning those who do buy into it with the monstrous Bridezilla trope).

I am not a knee-jerk, pounce-on-every-perceived-cliche feminist -- it's a lot more complex, and beautiful, than that -- but I believe that there are valuable lessons us sad straights desperately need to learn from our gay sisters and brothers in their (necessary) use of gender nonspecific language. Our appropriation of that seems to render the marital roles more fluid, less prescribed. The words "husband" and "wife" are anachronistic to me, aged, outdated and a bit passe, as they carry with them centuries of baggage -- much of which has no place in my home, thank you very much. At their heart they imply a relationship of non-equals, a predetermined power differential. We are partners, equals. We walk down the aisle together, I won't be "given" to him. We wear matching wedding bands, he doesn't get to "bags" me with a diamond (the male-to-female equivalent of throwing a jacket on a chair) which only became a
symbol of enduring love in the 1940s when Frances Gerety, a copywriter, came up with slogan "A Diamond Is Forever". If Mr P and I want to live according to the sub/dom paradigm (not an interest to date, as far as I know) then let choice determine who gets to play which role rather than anatomy.

Also, ixnay on the name changing menace. I'm a grown woman and that name is me: I've always been called it! (To those who reply "But that's just your father's name!" - duh! Have I just been renting it these past three-and-a-half decades?) But beyond discussions of patriarchy, it just feels like a weird, flee-from-self type of thing to do. There are only two legitimate reasons a person ought to change their name and I am neither in Witness Protection nor appearing in a porno. (Although re: the latter, who knows what the future holds? I am, after all, getting married, which is the feminist equivalent of lying back, shutting your eyes tightly, and getting well and truly
schtupped by the patriarchy. It may as well be available on DVD. Sorry, Sisterhood.)

I hate you, WIC.

But, even more, I love you, Mr P. I especially love the fact that you don't mind living in a state that is perpetually subject to deconstruction and reconfiguration. We're so meta! And it proves your gender identity is far more secure than your friends -- I'm looking at you, D and M!
Hello boys and Welcome To The Blogosphere! -- would have us believe.

xxx

Saturday, 6 June 2009

I Am Dr Tiller

This tribute to the abortion doctor murdered last week - as he sat in church* -is so moving and so vital, and perhaps the only response I can posit at the moment given the absolute lunacy involved.

Thank you, Hortense, Jezebel's wonderful weekend warrior, for the link.

And Land Of Meg for the lesson in embedding. Seems you can teach an old doc new tricks.

x

*They say the difference between Islamic terrorists and anti-abortion activists is that the terrorists would have the decency to wait until the target had left the mosque...

Thursday, 4 June 2009

Required Reading For All Ages And Genders


Who in their right mind could ever argue with that?!?

Thanks to Nancy R. Smith, JT Bunnell & Irit Reinheimer for the words and Laura Newburn for the art.

Saturday, 16 May 2009

Theoretical Chicken Stock



I've been accused of being a "Theoretical Feminist", that is, feminist in all that I say but non-feminist in all that I do. See, I'm a loud (too loud?) militant advocate for gender equality yet I live my life in a completely unreconstructed kind of way: I've never learned to be entirely self-sufficient and I've always had other people carrying me, cutting me too much slack, making excuses for me.

I actually used to feel so crazy-guilty when that Destiny's Child track that implored "All the women, independent" to throw their arms about (I'm paraphrasing here) that I would cower in the corner and pray that nobody noticed that I was the only one of my peers (some of whom I would classify as non-feminists if not actively anti-) to whom those words did not relate.

I once tried to argue that I was living a feminist utopia, having elected to have neither a family nor a career. Suffice to say, that was a difficult thesis to defend.

And now I'm becoming a "wife", a classic "female drag" role. Anyway I'm going with "partner", "married partner", if I must. The inherent gender equality of same-sex rather than opposite-sex (!) couples serves as an excellent guide to us sad, tired heteros. Now if only they were afforded marriage equality ... but that's a Civil Rights story for another time ...

"Bride" is another character for us female impersonators to adopt, but it's easy to avoid. I just stare blankly when anyone asks weddingy questions and say, vacantly, "You'll have to ask the Feyonce. He's doing all the arrangements".

Hmmmm, just realised, he actually is doing all the arrangements. Ha! Not so theoretical now ...

Thursday, 14 May 2009

Smurfing While Female



When I was a kid the two best things in the world were (in no particular order): Paddle Pop sticks with the cricketers' names on them, and the Smurf collection available at all fine BP servos (gas/ petrol stations for you non-Australians).

There was one problem though.

It always infuriated me that each Smurf was defined by a personal characteristic/ career (Brainy, Grouchy, Chef), representing multiple identities, while Smurfette was just "the girl" as though that alone was her claim to individualism.

That said, I was a weirdly precocious/ militant six-year-old.

Later , however, I learned that my righteous indignation was indeed on the side of the righteous, and in fact, the misogynist origins of Smurflady Lumps were far worse than I could have ever imagined. Turns out she was designed specifically to sow discord among the male Smurfs, only failing because she was too ugly and (gasp!) brunette ... until the Happily Ever After moment when Papa Smurf used his magic to make her all pretty and blonde!

Papa Smurf as Hugh Hefner? That kindly zaida as the devil? The universe no longer makes sense! Does that make Gargamel the goodie? Na, na, na, na, na, na, sing a happy song, my tuches!

Sunday, 10 May 2009

Not Just Another Hallmark Holiday

I love dismissing holidays that I think are just a big bag of shite. One of my favourite tricks used to involve telling my friends that St. Valentine was an anti-semite, right at the point they were gearing up to get all flowered/chocolated/majorly ripped off at candlelit dinner time. (Perverse I know, but amid all my worthy, caring, humanist qualities there is a palapable strain of - non-polymorphus - perversity. Forgive me, dear reader, for all those occasions ahead where it is bound to rear its fugly head .)

Now, where was I? asked the Tangetessa. Ah, yes, craptastic pre-printed dates for the diary. There are many. Do you know what's NOT one though? I'll give you a clue. It falls today in my native Australia (is native ok in that sense or have I just trashed post-colonial thinking in one fell swoop? Is one fell swoop ok?) and I think, the US.

Mother's Day.

And not just because I love, adore and venerate my mother, which I do, but because it didn't originate in a cauldron of commercialism via Disney and Coke (and origins are sooooo important to me as my marvellous Mr Plog is finding out. So far, so verboten: veil, white, the list goes on). Although a modern holiday (not to be confused with British Mothering Sunday, now also, confusingly, called Mother's Day, which dates to the 16th century), there was an earlier attempt to set this date by Julia Ward Howe (1819-1910), writer of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic". She was so moved by the horrors of war that in 1870 she took it upon herself to rally women together, across national lines, to oppose war. Her Mother's Day declaration follows:

Arise then ... women of this day!

Arise, all women who have hearts!

Whether your baptism be of water or of tears!
Say firmly:
"We will not have questions answered by irrelevant agencies,
Our husbands will not come to us, reeking with carnage,
For caresses and applause.
Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn
All that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience.
We, the women of one country,
Will be too tender of those of another country
To allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs."

From the bosom of a devastated Earth a voice goes up with
Our own. It says: "Disarm! Disarm!
The sword of murder is not the balance of justice."
Blood does not wipe our dishonor,
Nor violence indicate possession.
As men have often forsaken the plough and the anvil at the summons of war,
Let women now leave all that may be left of home
For a great and earnest day of counsel.
Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead.
Let them solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means
Whereby the great human family can live in peace...
Each bearing after his own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar,
But of God -
In the name of womanhood and humanity, I earnestly ask
That a general congress of women without limit of nationality,
May be appointed and held at someplace deemed most convenient
And the earliest period consistent with its objects,
To promote the alliance of the different nationalities,
The amicable settlement of international questions,
The great and general interests of peace.

Tragically so timeless. We're so progressive, aren't we, that in the past 140 years we've reached the moon yet we can't halt this man-made (yep, I went there!) phenomenon. It's not to say that women in power would be all sugar and spice ("Hi! Have you met my friends Margaret and Golda?") but, um, it's worth trying, no?

This morning in London, where it is not Mother's Day, I happen to be going to a session on transnational feminism, part of a seminar organised by European Alternatives. It is described in the programme with the following:

Feminism has become increasingly recognised as a legitimate concern at the international level. At the same time, equality itself remains decidedly allusive in many sectors of life, sex trafficking and female abuse are still prevalent even in ‘Western’ states. What remains of the feminist project of the 60s and 70s, what are the implications of ‘postcolonial’ critiques of feminism, and what possibilities are there for a radical transnational and cosmopolitan feminism to arise?

Thinking about Julia Ward Howe on this day, thinking about all the mothers who have buried their children for a load of piss masking itself as ideology, I think the feminist project needs to be a lot broader. Let's stop war, sistahs! Let's gather together all the good men we know who aren't reflected in the dark halls of power, let's re-educate all those misguided menz and womenz who think gun play and nukular weapons are ok and let's make next Mother's Day and all the Mother's Days thereafter safer, happier, freer and better.

And may all of you mums have a great one this year. Shout out especially to mine and all the cool new ones, of all steps and shapes. I know it's not easy, you guys, but you're all amazing! xxx

Saturday, 9 May 2009

Sarah Haskins Is My Homegirl

I love Sarah Haskins ... and so should you!



To all the funny ladies out there ... especially the one who last night taught me that quinoa is pronounced "key-noir" and reminded me again that nothing is off-limits as far as the funny is concerned ...

Tuesday, 5 May 2009

Zen And The Art Of Sanitary Napkins


I could have been a zillionaire trust fund baby had my mum patented her invention -- pads with adhesive. A sixties menstruater, she hated the belts that were then the sole means so she removed the pads and used double-sided adhesive tape (what we in Australia call "sticky tape", not sure how it translates but yaknowehatimean) to stick the pads to her underwear. Shame my otherwise perfect brilliant amazing Mum has not a shred of enterprising commercial spirit (which I unfortunately inherited)! Ah, well. I hear love is better than money anyway ...

Also - did you know that pads and tampons in many countries still incur a luxury tax? A LUXURY TAX! Do the Dead White Men of the political stage REALLY think that getting your gawdamn period is a luxury? Or are they too scared of the word period to face redressing this social and fiscal injustice of most bloody proportions? Many years ago I found myself getting rather tipsy with our former Prime Minister, Bob "Beer-record-breaker" Hawke. "Bob?" I drunkenly rasped in the Great Man's face. "Yes, Dr. P?" he replied. "'How many years were you PM for?" I asked. "Nine" he replied. "Nine?!" I yelled, "And in nine years you couldn't find the time to take the luxury tax off tampons? Do you really think it's a LUXURY to get your period?!". He looked at me with the eyes he must have used to seduce Blanche/destroy Hazel and said "You know what Plog? You're right. Until now I always thought I'd done a good job but you're absolutely right".

See? The pad IS mightier than the sword.

Thursday, 30 April 2009

Thank You Harriet Harman!

Is it just me or is it absofuckinglutely disgusting that we still live in a world where there is no equal pay?! I mean, how has nothing been done about this? It's mind-boggling.

So I guess we should be grateful (ah, yes: grateful! We women and our lowered expectations - "thank you, kind sir, for the morsels from your plate") that on Monday, Harriet Harman, the deputy Labour leader here in the UK, committed the party to supporting an equality bill that tackles this injustice.

Forget discussions about the eligibility of Dave "the Raver" Cameron, Gordon "Smiley" Brown or (gawd help us) Boris "Slick" Johnson for next term PM -- HH all the way! Also I absolutely love her name! There's something so Ramona Quimby about it.