In defense of the sanctimonious women's studies set || First feminist blog on the internet

In Which Dear Prudence Turns Into Maggie Gallagher

The Pink Superhero has been waiting ALL. DAY. LONG. for us to tackle today’s Dear Prudence column, and the Pink One has waited long enough.

Dear Prudence,
I am a 22-year–old, self-sufficient adult. I have been dating the same man for the past two years. We recently found out that we will be having a baby. I have a full-time job making a decent amount and he has a good job as well. My main concern is breaking the news to my parents. Although I don’t live with them or depend on them financially, I’m afraid they may think we are not financially or emotionally ready. If they take the news badly, I will be devastated. His family has embraced the news and all seem genuinely happy for us. Although this was not planned, I believe that any pregnancy is God’s blessing and should be embraced. How do you suggest I tell them. and how do I react if they do react badly?

—Mother-To-Be

Now, most people would expect an advice columnist to provide advice for the problem presented, or at least make an effort. Sure, sometimes there are other lurking issues that need to be pointed out, but they’re usually actually related to the problem presented, or at least they’re issues that are lurking underneath the problem presented.

But Prudie, as we know, isn’t like most advice columnists.

Dear Mother,
At the risk of sounding like I had a triceratops as a childhood pet, I am concerned by the absence of any mention of a wedding in your letter. Are you going to continue to “date” the father of your child while you figure out if he’s the guy for you? Yes, your baby was unplanned, but now you have to plan how to create a stable home in which to raise this child. Since you and the father are already committed to each other, marriage would be a good place to start.

As you know, this isn’t the first time that Prudie has doled out moral hectoring masquerading as advice. This Prudie certainly seems to have a problem with women who don’t follow the script. If a woman doesn’t want to have children, and asks for advice for dealing with people telling her she’ll change her mind, Prudie tells her she’ll change her mind. If a woman is happily pregnant and in a committed relationship and wants to know how to break the news to her parents, Prudie will lecture her about why she’s not married yet and question her commitment to her SO as well as her maturity. A woman asks for help in getting her husband to share the housework so she’s not stressed out and angry when he wants sex is told to suck it up, put out, and not to expect the poor dear to contribute — you know how those men are. A woman who wants to know how to tell when the guy she’s having casual sex with might be ready for a relationship is told that she’s the kind of trash men don’t have relatioships with.

Perhaps it’s fitting that Prudie is at Slate, where being “contrarian” with regard to issues like reproductive freedom is the order of the day. And it’s not like she’s alone in the campaign to stuff women back into the kitchen. Maybe she’s gunning for a column in the New York Times Style section. She’s retrograde enough.

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Oh, No! My Boyfriend’s Fat!

It’s time for another Cary Tennis column!

Actually, while I usually think Cary gives crappy non-advice, I do think he got this one right. First, the letter:

Dear Cary,

Currently I’m dating a man who just won’t leave my consciousness, not for a moment. I think of him all the time. He’s pretty special.

My problem is this: This wonderful man with whom I’ve shared some amazing moments and do share a phenomenal connection … he’s overweight. He’s not merely out of shape or a hike and a swim away from fit, he’s fat.

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It’s tomorrow morning.

They haven’t yet told me when. I’m actually a little anxious about releasing my postoperative body into my care. That’s not weird, is it? I found out this morning that I have even more reason to worry.

My doctor prescribed me pain pills–not Valium, unfortunately for my itchy skin–and an antibiotic. The pharmacist told me to start taking them right away. In fact, he said I should take them at shorter intervals than prescribed for that first day, since it was late afternoon and I was behind schedule. I assumed I was supposed to start taking them up until the day of surgery. I went home over the weekend, and my mother pointed out that there were far too few pills to last me until D-Day, or B-Day, or whatever. There would have been far fewer, if I hadn’t skipped at least one dose almost every day.

On Monday, I told the nurse-practitioner about it at my pre-op history appointment, and she called my doctor to ask him. He called me, but I failed to check my home messages for two days. When I finally heard the message, I started worrying that my surgery date would be vacated because I hadn’t taken my pre-op meds reliably, and was all set to harangue him into getting me another surgery date right away. (“I’m not going to be penalized because no one at Kaiser can figure out how many times four goes into twenty-eight…”)

I finally reached him this morning, and he told me that they were post-operative antibiotics, and that he was sending a scrip down to the pharmacy which I should make sure to pick up prior to surgery.

In other words, I kept forgetting to dose myself with a medication I wasn’t actually supposed to be taking at all. If I go septic, I want you all to know how much fun I had blogging here.

Many Happy Returns of the Day

Speaking of disability, accomodation, and social support, the Chronicle has been reporting on the death toll from our little heat wave:

The Great Heat Wave of 2006 was not just an epic meteorological event — it was an epochal one, unprecedented in the north state’s weather annals, meteorologists agree.

It has been hotter for longer than ever before, and the weather patterns that caused the scorching temperatures were positively freakish. The region’s last significant hot spell — in 1972 — lasted two days, and never in the past has the Bay Area suffered through as many consecutive days of temperatures above 110.

Not to be alarmist or anything, but I have difficulty believing that this is a freak event rather than a milestone in a trend. Sixty-eight percent of Chronicle online readers agree with me, apparently. Even if this particular heat wave is a meterological quirk, heat waves in general are increasingly becoming a problem. That means that deaths from heatstroke and dehydration are also an increasing problem:

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Pervert-ass pervert!

Hee hee hee.

I saw Small-Town Gay Bar at the Frameline Film Festival. It contains an interview with Phelps Himself. The filmmaker described him as, “Your grandfather meets Hitler.”

Oh, and hat tip to belledame, who pointed me to it.

Pron is Dead! Long Live Pron!

I’m sorry to put you all off your breakfast (hot links?), but I just had to draw everyone’s attention to the dadaist smut cluttering our comments threads:

celebrities

i lay there like a piece of meat, being seen to by a butcher with seven and a half fingers left.

The Vulnerability of the Aged

There’s a weird story developing here in New York involving charges that Brooke Astor’s son is robbing her blind while failing to provide her with proper care.

Mrs. Astor is very, very old — 104 — and was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a few years ago. She’s also quite wealthy (though less so, her grandson alleges, now that her son is stripping the artwork from her Park Avenue duplex and taking millions from her). She’s the widow of Vincent Astor, whose father, John Jacob Astor, died on the Titanic. The Astor family, if you’re familiar with Edith Wharton novels, was one of a few families at the pinnacle of New York society when that was all that mattered. Through much of her life after marrying into the family (and in particular after her husband died, leaving her a philanthropic foundation to run), she was an active philanthropist and socialite, regularly turning up to dedications, fundraisers and events until the age of 100 and giving away millions and millions of dollars.

But in the past few years, her grandson alleges, his father took advantage of Mrs. Astor’s condition to steal from her while neglecting her care. Just how isolated a person who has servants can be is one of those imponderables, but the servants likely keep their mouths shut to keep their jobs — and to make sure they can keep an eye on this frail old woman (a woman who identified herself as Mrs. Astor’s cook told reporters gathered outside the building, “I think it’s great that the truth has finally come out”).

It’s sobering to realize that even money and social connections can’t protect you should you become old, frail, and disoriented. And in some ways, Mrs. Astor is very average:

Whether it takes the form of neglect, physical or emotional abuse, or financial exploitation, elder mistreatment is an emerging problem as the population ages, experts say. If the allegations are true, Mrs. Astor, who is 104, would fit the profile of the average victim: a woman, more often than not white, and among the oldest of the old. Indeed, advocates for the elderly said yesterday the accusations were an example of a problem that has been largely hidden, particularly when, as in this case, they involve another family member.

The very elderly tend to be hidden away from the world, relying on their families for care; the potential for abuse is magnified when there is a loss of control over financial affairs:

The broad outlines of Mrs. Astor’s failing health and the concerns about her care suggest that neither money nor family can necessarily insulate the elderly from the vicissitudes of aging.

She lost control over her everyday affairs, faded from view and has been largely confined to her Park Avenue apartment for the last few years. There her care is overseen by her only child, Anthony Marshall, and her grandson Philip Marshall charges that her living conditions are bad enough to cause him to seek to have his father replaced as his grandmother’s guardian.

Lorraine V. K. Coyle, a Bronx lawyer who specializes in cases involving the elderly, said the allegations suggest that no one is secure from mistreatment. “It makes me tremble,” she said. “What does it mean for people who don’t have those assets?”

As bad as nursing homes can be, they are at least subject to regulation. Family members who are caring for their elderly relatives don’t have any oversight. Moreover, they may be perfectly well-intentioned but just not equipped to provide adequate care. And if they are put in charge of the financial affairs of a relative, the temptation to make sure they get something out of it can be great.

Financial exploitation, he said, “is most likely to occur when you have a sizable estate when the temptation for self-dealing may be greater because they’re concerned that the assets are going to be lost and not inherited.”

Another expert, Dr. Gregory J. Paveza of the University of South Florida, said that often when family members have been selected as legal guardians, “the court’s oversight is cursory at best.” The guardian, he said, “has absolute control over your life.”

It will be very interesting to watch this case developing (especially now that the tabs have gotten hold of the story — The Daily News broke it yesterday) and see what kind of light it throws on the issue of elder abuse.

To BlogHer I Come

So I get home from work tonight and all I have to do to get ready for the trip is two loads of laundry and throw a bunch of crap in a bag. When I mentioned this to my boss, she shivered and said she’d freak out if she weren’t completely packed the day before a trip. I’m used to flying my the seat of my pants, I told her.

And lo, what should amount to an easy night is quickly becoming the stuff of Murphy’s Law. My washing machine is broken.

If you see me at the conference and I smell bad, you know why.

UPDATE: Oh yeah, I can’t find my bag either.

Happy Belated Birthday

…To the ADA, whose sixteenth Gordon K mentioned in comments. Because I never pay attention, I didn’t notice the date even though I just spent a long time searching up information and blog posts on the ADA’s fifteenth anniversary, one year ago today. Of course.

Blue at The Gimp Parade has a post up, with a link to a story about disability in the world of tomorrow:

There’s a short story that further illustrates this need for a paradigm shift. In a fictional utopia of disability inclusion in the year 2050, a historian tells the awakened Crip Van Winkle how things have changed:

All conveyances, public or private, for transportation by land, air, sea and cyberspace, for individual or collective travel are naturally covered by the Universal Design principle. You don’t seem to understand, van Winkle, the United States of Europe officially abolished Apartheid in the year 2024 — 30 years after South Africa but better late than never. Since then, Universal Design has been the law of the land and the international sign of access that you guys were so proud of, is forbidden. It singles out and stigmatizes a particular group of citizens. Besides, it is not necessary anymore — I guess it never really was necessary. Already in your day and age it would have been better to mark the places that were inaccessible in order to point out the full extent of the injustice. By using the symbol of access you did yourself a disservice, because the symbol served as an alibi for the accepted norm of inaccessibility emphasizing the exception rather than the rule.

She also links to this post, which is the one I was attempting to find for the post about ignorance vs. hatred:

But in the current print edition of New Mobility (other portions of that issue viewable at the link), Mark E. Smith of wheelchairjunkie.com describes a situation the law was designed to stop, where lack of wheelchair access fueled the rationale of exclusion and exclusion fueled the bigotry that belies the patronizing belief that all people just want to help the disabled if only given the chance.

Only a few months before the ADA’s 1990 passage, Smith, his future wife, and three other couples went for dinner at a restaurant in the San Francisco Bay Area. Smith’s friends easily carried his wheelchair in the inaccessible front entrance, but the hostess refused to give Smith a menu or even speak directly to him:

“If he wants to eat here, you’ll have to order for him — we don’t serve people like him.”

But Women Don’t Have Sex For Fun!

In a not terribly startling finding, a new study has found that over 50% of Australian women have had (gasp!) casual sex:

In a study of more than 650 women of all ages, 53 per cent admitted to having a mate for regular but non-committed sex during their lifetime.

Sexologist Stacey Demarco said this type of relationship offered women a safer sexual environment than a classic one night stand.

But it still allowed them to be emotionally unattached.

And, God knows we can’t have that.

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