In at least one anti-feminist post, I’ve read people posit that they “used to be feminist, but then [they] had kids.”

What.Ever.

Having a daughter has been an eye-opening experience about gender roles in our society. While I might have some left over baggage from the messages I’ve heard all my life, you’d better damned well know I will fight like crazy to ensure my daughter doesn’t hear the same. Maya has inspired me to learn more about (and embrace) feminism.

I’ve always loved Disney animated movies. My senior year in high school, I wrote an essay for English that looked at their place in movie culture and beginnings with Snow White. These days, however, I see them very differently as I look at the messages about gender roles that they may deliver to my toddler’s spongelike psyche.

We planned a 6-mile hike this morning, but the weather didn’t cooperate. It’s Saturday morning at the movies instead, and The Little Mermaid is on display. I’ve avoided picking up some of the older Disney “princess” movies, but it’s time to shelf this one too, as much as I’ve loved it. Here’s my take on the messages this movie imparts:

1. A girl *needs* a guy to be complete.
2. Girls are empty-headed and care about nothing more than catching the cute prince’s attention.
3. Girls should throw away their talents in order to get the guy.
4. If a woman is powerful, she is an evil bitch.
5. If a woman is powerful, she is ugly and undesirable.
6. The fat girl won’t get the guy. (song: Poor Unfortunate Souls)
7. The scrawny guy won’t get the girl.
8. Being thin (female) or muscular (male) and coupled up = happiness.
9. Even when you’ve thrown your life down the toilet, it’s okay. Daddy will step in to save you. (Let’s not analyze this one too closely, shall we?)
10. It’s okay to marry at 16, before you’ve even come close to developing a concept of self. After all, the (equally empty-headed) Prince will look after you.

Don’t even get me started on the concept of happily-ever-after. Life is real, and marriage is just the beginning of a new part of your life, not a happy ending. Anyone who thinks otherwise is begging for misery (and lots of marriage counseling and/or divorce) farther down the road.

I’m sure there’s more, but that’s what comes to me off the top of my head. This makes me very happy that Maya’s favorite movies are Toy Story 1 and 2. While they are significantly lacking in female characters, at least their entire story isn’t rooted in patriarchal bullshit.

The Little Mermaid is now officially shelved. Sigh.

Fucking brilliant.

h/t Pandagon

To the man in 80s-style weightlifter pants and a bright goldenrod tshirt with the sleeves cut out:

• You didn’t catch my eye at you because I think you’re hot. You were a gym train wreck.
• Patterned grey baggy pants and bright gold tshirt? No, they don’t go together.
• On that note, they’d look pretty bad on their own, too.
• Giving me the Buddy Christ salute is not going to work your way into my heart.
• When I went to the other side of the gym to complete my upper body workout? You. were. the. reason.
• Consult a trainer about your form, please. With jerky movements like that, you’re begging for an elbow injury.

(/snark)

I wonder how this ties into Hugo’s conversation about sausage-casing girls. Is it wrong for my eyes to be offended by the (lack of) aesthetics of this guy’s entire being?

Ego snacks from SWM, 45 in Kansas City:

We probably will never meet, but if you think that you’re special, I will second that motion. You radiate. You’re the kind of woman that a man can love hard and you will only be stronger for it.

Daayummm. Nice morale booster.

I just finished what was a difficult session with my counselor, but one that provided insight into some ideas I believed true (deep down, if not consciously), but hadn’t even considered.

One of the biggest presenting symptoms for me with this current dip into depression is frustration with my seeming inability to get. stuff. done. It’s not that I’m incapable. It’s not that I don’t know what to do. I just don’t do it. This can be something as simple as mailing invitations for a party or as complex as applying for professional positions and/or graduate school. Through a conversation where my counselor had to pretty much pull ideas from my head with pliers (I just wasn’t getting there on my own and was really tense/anxious.), two primary aspects of my current lie-based thinking emerged:

1. No one will ever take me seriously.
   This one has appended to it, “because I’m a girl.” The very fact that this one existed in my mind is pure embarassment. Yet, there it was. The culture I grew up in contributed more than a little to this — it was the Deep South, in a backwards, redneck, good-ol-boys type of small town. While I *intellectually* reject this notion, it was still lurking in the back of my mind. I’m hopeful that calling it by name will do me some good, because it’s a ridiculous idea.

2. If I am successful, I will be alone.
   This one’s a lot more straightforward, and yet it was the embedded lie that surprised me the most — and which explains the most about my tendency to torpedo anything great I have going in my life. In that backwater town I called home from age 8 to 18, it wasn’t a particularly cool thing to be a smart kid. Especially not a female smart kid. Or a female, goody-goody smart kid. I was all three, and emblematic of that was the “trophy” that I won each and every year I attended one particular private school — a trophy for earning the best grades. I usually would come home with trophies in individual subjects, as well. Being the class brain didn’t earn me a whole lot of popularity — but it did give me a deeply-rooted sense that if I wanted to fit in, ever, I needed to dumb myself down a lot. *Especially* as a female, I needed to not showboat, be the best, and “take away” some prize that “rightfully belonged” to a boy.

   It only follows from this twisted logic, that I *can’t* let myself succeed. I mean, really, the last thing I want is to be ALONE. (To clarify this, I’m not just talking about dating here — this isn’t about being married or not. It’s about enjoying acceptance, camraderie, and a connection in my social life, whether from male or female friends.)

Interesting stuff, that. I feel lighter after pulling this tangled mess out of my head, and I’m hopeful that over the coming days and weeks, my perspectives toward myself and my gender will shift from an superficial intellectual acceptance to a deeper level.

Oh, and maybe I’ll get shit done.

Yesterday morning, I flipped on the car radio to catch the end of the opening news story: “…Ken Lay was 64.” What? Wow, did he kill himself? Have a heart attack?

I didn’t have to wonder long — NPR continued coverage of the breaking story, with what I felt was a weird slant about how his death might make Kenneth Lay a more sympathetic character now. What is this, Much Ado About Nothing? Since when (in real life) does death suddenly proclaim someone’s innocence? Mr. Lay passed of a heart attack, but a thought floated in the back of my mind: what if his death were planned? Reading this story in today’s NYTimes makes me wonder again. Hmmm. Let’s get this straight: he’s nearly broke, but he was at his vacation home in Aspen? Aspen? Last I checked, broke people didn’t have vacation homes anywhere, much less, Aspen.

(Cross-posted from MM. Groan away.)
Update: I’m embarassed to admit it took me two days to realize I’d written all of this BACKWARD structurally — 7/5/7 instead of 5/7/5. Does that make it KuHai?

Back in my room — woe is me!
My 3am offense?
An obstacle course is mom.

Sharp toes dig into her thighs.
Clip, clip! Tomorrow.
She’s waited long enough now.

A contant stream of babble
Flows from my sweet lips
She covers her ears, oh why?

There’s more (bad poetry) where that came from. I have no idea why haiku seemed an apprpriate way to pass the time until she finally complained herself to sleep back in her room.

What amazes me is that I believe she crawled all over me, carrying on her monologue, for perhaps 30 minutes before I realized what time it was. Since she normally wakes me this way, I initially assumed it was at least 6:30am, maybe even 7…and just stormy outside. Uh…no.

Who the hell picks a username like “DominantDan” anyway?

I am looking for a strong, fiesty spirited submissive who’s willing to challenge my mind, as well as obediently serve her Master for both our needs.

Oh, that’s who. And this person send *me* a wink? Wha…?

On Monday, something that’s blindingly obvious in retrospect ocurred to me: I’m teetering on the edge of a serious bout with depression, and I’m starting to lose my balance. Collapsing into a puddle of tears and heaving over something minor was a big wake-up call, and since then, I’ve felt a bit better because I actually am aware of what’s going on. But, I also feel worse because I’m aware of what’s going on, and yet it’s still there, dammit.

I’d already started to consider that my thyroid might have crashed — I’m eating well, exercising, whatever…yet nothing happens. When I’m not caffeinated, I can barely hold my head erect once 3pm hits. (I’ts 3:17. I’ve had coffee today.) Last week, when I met a friend for a hike, I had a reaction to heavy traffic that was much stronger than the situation warranted…to where I wanted to put a fist into the windshield, maybe not *quite* literally, but close. There was a sense of being outside of myself, watching the reaction, but unable to stop the physical dizziness that always used to accompany a mild anxiety attack.

What else?

Hmmm…reading a lot, not for the joy of reading, but more to fill my mind with something besides its usual contents…fixating on the new-and-shiny, whether it’s an annoying article or the next big purchase…falling behind on real work, yet just letting it happen…finding myself overly stressed about my bitchy dog’s usual grumblings. (She’s getting arthritic. I can’t say I blame her for being cranky.)

It ain’t pretty. Honestly, it was pretty damned frightening, once I admitted to myself what was happening. It’s been years since I’ve felt like this, and yet it came on so slowly, I didn’t even notice it. In my intellect, I know who I am and what I offer. I see the smart woman who can take on the world, raise an amazing child, and live life with vitality. Depression isn’t about intellect. It’s something irrational that all the “thinking yourself out of it” in the world won’t solve.

What’s different this time is that it’s not just me. There’s a surly (she’s teething today) toddler who counts on me to help her life make sense. Her presence is, I think, why it took so long for me to recognize the signs. I’ve coasted along, performing on a slightly subpar level, for months, but have always kept the proverbial house in order. I think that’s why Monday’s lightbulb moment was such a shock to me.

I’ve called my counselor, and we’ll talk soon.
I see my doctor (PA, actually) on Tuesday.
In early August, I’ll see an endocrinology specialist if I still believe that this might be hormonally induced. Considering my mother lost most of her thyroid function in her early 20s, it really wouldn’t be surprising.

I’m also seriously looking at work options outside the home. Working from home while simultaneously caring for a 21-month-old child is becoming difficult for me emotionally. While I can physically do it, my mental health can’t hack the isolation. My current problem is that even though I’ve found a job that interests me, I’ve worked myself into enough of a funk that I’m terrified to apply. Egads, what if I’m (gasp) rejected? The horrors!

For Maya, I don’t think she’s been adversely affected…yet…and I intend to keep it that way. One bright spot: while nearly everything else in my life can act as a trigger for either anxiety or tears, I don’t react like that to Maya. She invariably gives me a lift, even when she’s throwing herself on the floor into a tantrum because her mouth hurts and I won’t allow more TV.

Fear
Fear is the hallmark of this episode — the one thing that seems to tie all of the symptoms together. When I’m feeling more up to it (or trying to procrastinate getting something else accomplished), I have more to say on that subject. For now, I’m back to work. Or not.

~~~~~

What does it mean that I recognize ways I could have written this into some clever dialogue between me and a visiting shrew, but I just don’t have the energy to make that happen?

I just. don’t. feel. that. clever.

~~~~~

Because of all of this, blogging might be light. Then again, it might be especially heavy, intense and a TMI view into my deep, black soul. Who can tell?

Today was a mildly bah humbug 4th for us. We blew off the small-town parade in favor of a quiet morning and a long bath (for me). The afternoon found us lazing around at my parents’ house, enjoying a steak, corn on the cob, and grilled vegetables. During a gloriously violent thunderstorm (hooray for rain!), we watched a movie.

The sky cleared, and I contemplated keeping Maya up late so we could watch fireworks in a nearby town (which claims the title of “best small town display,” and from years past, I agree). By 8pm, however, Maya was fussy and walking like a drunken sailor. Keeping her up late was simply out of the question, so we returned home, and I eventually got her to bed. So much for fireworks.

I’d opened windows to enjoy the evening’s monsoon-induced cool temperatures, and while putzing online, noticed a driving rain starting up. Upstairs with me to close windows! When I reached my South-facing bedroom, what do I see through the rain? Spectacular fireworks on top of America’s Mountain(tm), Pikes Peak. Nice.

While I’m off doing the holiday thing, here’s something worth reading from Echidne of the Snakes:

America Haters

The radical right calls me an America-hater almost every day. The idea that anyone criticizing this administration hates America and plots treason is spread all over the net and the traditional media. The intention is to make us critics ashamed and fearful of saying anything. The intention is approving silence, the only love that is acceptable to the most extremists on the right.

But it is we, the noisy and complaining ones, who really love America, love her as she is…

Go read the rest.

Why is it that…

• Potting soil is sold in bags measured in cubic feet,
• the instructions on said potting soil tells what you need for various pots in quarts, and
• there is absolutely no conversion factor on the bag…anywhere?

From today’s editorial section, About Breast-Feeding…:

For right now, the science comes down hard on behalf of educating women about the clear advantages of breast-feeding. But that is no license to imply that mothers who cannot breast-feed or choose not to are putting their babies in grave danger. Experts on both sides agree that formulas are safe and nutritious. Millions of Americans have thrived on them and are doing quite nicely as far as we can see.

Emphasis mine. They got the right idea — finally — but it sure took them a long time to respond.