Dick Sends Pics. Really.

Eric Bolling, who I guess has a show on Fox News, has been suspended from the network pending an investigation into alleged wrongdoing.

Specifically, several female Fox News employees have accused Mr. Bolling of texting them unsolicited photographs of his genitalia.

History will show that there was a Squidward reaction GIF
for every situation.

I have a few points I wish to make on this subject.

First: I don't know who Eric Bolling is.

I don't watch Fox News. I knew who Bill O'Reilly and Megyn Kelly were, but they're both gone. I know who Tucker Carlson is, because he used to wear those ridiculous bowties on CNN before he decided that impartial journalism is for suckers. But I have no idea what Eric Bolling says or does. Whatever it is, he's been suspended from saying or doing it while he's accused of texting unsolicited dick pics to female co-workers.

Second: Why do women work at Fox News?

I totally get that there are female conservatives. I respect their views, even though they differ from my own. What I don't understand is how any woman can look at a cable news channel that is overtly anti-equality, anti-choice, anti-feminism and think, "I want to work there, yeah buddy." I assume they think they're gaming the system for personal gain, and that's great. But don't whine because you didn't realize the tiger was a carnivore.

Third: Let's talk about male genitalia.

News flash: The human penis is not intrinsically attractive. The scrotal area is not physically appealing. Speaking as only one woman, I find the male sexual organs to be unfortunately placed and unnecessarily vulnerable to harm. My own boyfriend describes them as as God's 5:45 on a Friday decision with regard to configuration and placement.

In other words, the physical appearance of your bait and tackle is unlikely to stir sexy-feels in any thinking, feeling woman.

So sending a photograph of your junk to a woman is like sending a pic of your big toe, or your left knee, or the blackhead on your ear.

And sending it unsolicited and without context is almost exactly like posting a Tinder profile that says "I'm a complete tool and treat women as objects, swipe if you have zero self-esteem like me."

Let me repeat if you didn't get the message.

Nobody cares what your penis looks like.

Nobody cares what your penis looks like.

Don't send me pictures of your freaking penis, because nobody cares.

I totally realize that the people who need to hear this message will not hear this message.

Still, I'll try.

Got it?

I Have Discovered the Phenomenon of Menunpause.

Today's word is:

menunpause n. (men' un 'pawz): the condition of going almost 12 cycles without a menstrual period, signaling the official onset of menopause, only to wake up one random morning with blood coming out of your wherever.

If there are any males still reading...sorry.

But dammit, I was so close.

Shut up, LeBron.

At 48, I realize I'm a few years shy of the average age of onset of menopause. Which is 51, which by the way I will never be 51 because I plan to stop aging next year, possibly by means of drinking snake venom or burning incense or something.

Chicken sacrifice, maybe.
This part of my life plan is still in the "research" stage.

But damn, I was ready to be menopausal. Perimenopause began a couple of years ago: hot flashes, female...um...dryness...skin issues. Yeah. Good times. Also, I gained a crap-ton of weight. Ugh.

Then, over the last year or so, I lost about 15 pounds. Granted, a good part of that was stress-related. You know, that whole selling-my-house, getting divorced, starting-my-life over stress. Hey, 15 pounds is 15 pounds. It wasn't anywhere near my fighting weight, but it was a bright spot in an otherwise dark goddamn period.

Shown here: 2015.

So here I am, a single, independent woman, happily perimenopausal. The hot flashes have faded, the emotions have leveled (OK, somewhat), and months have passed since I last experienced menses. I am cautiously optimistic that my period is, finally, an actual literal full stop.

And then...

Well, over the last couple of months I've regained almost all the weight I lost. I'm eating well: almost zero sugar, lots of lean protein, as many veggies as I can manage. Still, I'm packing on pounds like a fucking Kardashian after a bad breakup.

Insensitive AF, but I'm pre-menopausal.
Bite me.

Normally I would have assumed hormones were the culprit. Except, you know, I'm thisclose to being in menopause, so hormones should no longer be an issue, right?

Sigh.

Yesterday was my day to spend with Drummer Boy. We had a Cowboys game to watch. We had Ro-Tel dip (WITH SAUSAGE) to eat. Precocious Daughter was with her dad for the day.

We were going to get freaky, you guys.

We were going to get Snorkledorf.
Look it up, millennials.

Then I went to the bathroom.

If any guys are still reading...women periodically (swidt?) wipe themselves and see blood on the TP. We know that we're not hemorrhaging, we're just having a visit from Aunt Flo. We can handle this because we are awesome. It means our period has started.

For several decades, our reaction is: ho-hum, time to break out the tampons/pads until my uterus has emptied itself of non-essential baby-nurturing blood and tissue.

Again, we are awesome.

On the rag RIGHT NOW.

But you know what? When you're a certain age, and Aunt Flo hasn't visited since last winter, you're not expecting a random wipe to reveal the 28-day curse. You're just...not.

Go ask Alice, I think she'll know.

So let's sum up.

I now have to wait until at least October 2017 to declare myself in menopause.

My tenuous truce with gaining middle-age weight for no goddamn reason has been broken.

I did not get laid yesterday.

I love being a strong, independent, self-sufficient middle-aged woman...except for the part where I still have to buy Kotex like a teenager.

Menunpause, you guys. Make it trend. Support my cause. Pity me.

Fuck.

Ten Thoughts on That Punk-Ass Stanford Rapist

I just read Brock Turner's statement to police after he was arrested.

I have no words, so I'm just gong to link to it.

Please read.

My first thought was, "Why, this could have happened to any red-blooded American college boy put in this position. THAT SUCKS SO HARD."

My second thought was, "Why is it OK for ANY male under ANY circumstances to sexually assault a woman?"

My third thought was, "Why do we as a society assume that men's right to have sex with women is even a valid point to defend/refute/modify?"

My fourth thought was, "Who the FUCK is teaching our children (male or female) that the traditions/practices of a school activity (swimming, Greek societies, etc.) trump the basic values of decency, so long as they result in a successful college experience?"

My fifth thought was, "Which institutions breed the bottom-feeding lawyers who default to blaming the victim in every case of sexual assault, regardless of the facts?"

My sixth thought was, "Why did the victim's brave, eloquent statement about her attack result in Brock the Cock receiving a six-month sentence, of which he will likely serve just three months??"

My seventh thought was, "Wealthy white people suck, and please don't anyone think I'm one of them."

My eighth thought was, "Had this not happened to an athlete at an elite school, it never would have made the news, because nobody cares what happens to anybody else."

My ninth thought was, "How many other Brock Turners are there, whose victims didn't dare voice their experiences?"

My tenth thought was, "If you raise a single entitled finger against my daughter, EVER, I will gladly accept whatever sentence is handed down for protecting her from you. And if she finishes you before I have the chance, I will defend her actions to my last day. Never forget these words."

That's enough. It's not enough, but it's all I've got.

Finger on the Trigger

Note: There will be no illustrations accompanying this post. Use your imagination.

So I am a huge throbbing supporter of the #cocksnotglocks movement started by UT student Jessica Jin.

In case you missed it, Ms. Jin is calling for women (I mean, I guess men can also participate? Sure, why not, let's get the guys involved in this) to openly carry dildos on the Austin campus in response to the Texas law that will make concealed handgun carry legal at state universities.

Austin being Austin, i.e. a refreshing oasis of weirdness in a state that is otherwise utterly without a sense of humor about itself, the movement has gained considerable momentum, with thousands indicating they will pack their finest sex toys in solidarity.

Of course, Texas being Texas, i.e. a state so ridiculously backwards that "South Park" can't even find a way to satirize it, Campus (DILDO) Carry has come under attack by the very people who prove that a lot of mentally unstable assholes own guns.

I've read a number of the thoughtful, reasoned comments left on the group's Facebook page, all of which I'm sure were intended to provoke a productive dialogue on gun laws and social mores. For your benefit, I've summarized them all here:

"Y'all liberal sluts who can't get a man y'all cunts gonna get raped and wish you had a gun [incorrect form of "their"] Texas Jesus guns liberal skanks [incorrect form of "your"] *spits*"

I'm paraphrasing, of course.

If I haven't said it before, I'll say it right now: I know a lot of people who own guns. Never once has any of them pulled one out and pointed it at me "in fun," or cleaned it while my kid was visiting, or gotten in my face about my personal dislike of guns, or said "Hold my beer and watch this." I know a lot of responsible gun owners, is what I'm saying.

And I'm fairly confident that at least a few of them support concealed campus carry, which will take effect in August 2016. I vehemently oppose it, yet none of my gun-owning friends and acquaintances have called me out as a slut or wished violent crime to befall me because of our conflicting opinions. Not to my face, anyway. I'm sure people say all kinds of shit about me behind my back. I would, if I knew me.

I would never say that all gun owners are angry, misogynistic rednecks. I will say that angry, misogynistic rednecks appear to comprise a sizable subset of gun owners who feel a need to attack a viewpoint they don't agree with. I will also say that these trolling haters generally possess a third-grade command of the English language, which means they will struggle to persuade anyone whose own level of literacy is a notch or 15 higher. (Translation: You sound like a dumbass, bruh.)

Bottom line: I think the idea of carrying dildos on campus is hilarious. Let's find out who thinks sex is obscene but public shootouts are the 'Murican way. Let's talk about which device trades in fear and anger and which is all about smiles and fun.

I think such a discussion would separate the men from the boys pretty quickly.

Life Beyond 1980's Power Ballads

An old song very randomly jumped into my head today.

Get ready for an earworm.

OMG, Google, I love you so much.

Remember The Karate Kid, Part II?

The year was 1986. We were all wearing oversize shirts,
pleated pants, and, uh, kimono blouses, I guess.

Remember "The Glory of Love"?

Remember Peter Cetera's hair?

Peter Cetera, the former lead singer of Chicago, had decided that Chicago simply rocked too hard with songs like "Colour My World" and "No Tell Lover" and struck out on his own with his mellow vibe and incredible golden waves of feathery blondeness. His first solo effort was the theme song to The Karate Kid, Part II, "The Glory of Love." Even if you didn't see the movie, the song was everywhere. And on MTV, the video was in extra-super-mega-hard-heavy rotation for a large part of 1986.

And if you're under 40, chances are you don't know what the hell I'm talking about. So here's the video; prepare to be devoured by the 1980s for the next four and a half minutes.




Pastels? Check. Japanese imagery? Check. Awkwardly incorporated film clips? Check. Peter Cetera gazing soulfully into the camera while layers of keyboards wash over you like ocean waves?

Damn, I think I just checked myself.

Anyway. I have to own this song as part of my '80s experience, just as much as working at a video store and wearing brightly colored oversized blazers and drinking wine coolers.

But as part of my older-but-wiser, 21st-century experience, I have to say that "The Glory of Love" contains some of the creepiest, least emotionally healthy lyrics I've ever heard.

I didn't realize that in the '80s. Believe it or not, young women of 2015, in 1986 it was considered romantic for a man to sing lines like "I am a man who will fight for your honor/I'll be the hero that you're dreaming of."

We wanted a 40-year-old pop crooner to save us from dishonor. Or at least promise he would do so in a Top 40 power ballad.

May I also remind you that this was
considered the face of female empowerment
at the time. The '80s were weird.

Today I hear those lyrics and I think: Well, thank you, Mr. Peter Cetera, but if we're even going to cling to the outdated notion that my honor is something to be defended, it's goddamn well going to be me who defends it.

And to quote Alice Childress (who truly is to be admired), a hero ain't nothin' but a sandwich.

Yet as nostalgically corny as those lines are, let's not forget that they are immediately preceded by these:

Sometimes I just forget
Say things I might regret
It breaks my heart to see you crying
I don't wanna lose you
I could never make it alone

If you've ever been in an abusive relationship, you may be shuddering right now.

If you've never been in an abusive relationship and think those words are kind of sweet and charming...I'm going to suggest some self-care and "you" time, because this is not what you deserve. Trust me.

If you don't believe me, perhaps you'll believe
beloved grumpy cat Tardar Sauce.

And this?

I have always needed you
I could never make it alone

Two pieces of advice:

1. Don't ever say this to another person
2. If another person ever says this to you, RUN.

I hate to think that Peter Cetera's picture appears in the dictionary next to the word "co-dependent." But shit, man.

Please tell me we've evolved from thinking this is a love song and not grounds for a restraining order.

Wait, one more couplet, because facepalm.

Just in time I will save the day
Take you to my castle far away

I have excellent credit, and I'll buy my own castle, thanks.

You can live there with me and help pay the bills, as long as you don't get caught up in your Prince Charming fantasies.

Christ on a sidecar.

Google fucking rocks.

Oh, 1980s. You shaped me. And every day I'm striving to reshape myself. I'm getting there.

Peter Cetera: Love your voice. Love your '80s hair. Hate those lyrics.

Ralph Macchio: Where are you? You totally deserve a Robert Downey, Jr. - size comeback.

P.S. I miss MTV, yo.

This Post Is for Women Only. Seriously. You've Been Warned.

Male readers: Welcome, but you may regret it.

Yeah, right.

So, Precocious Daughter has, you know "become a woman." It happened a while back, actually.

When I got this package in the late 1970s,
it may have contained the word "groovy."

Well, now - perhaps inevitably - our cycles have synced.

It's a beautiful thing.

Every month, like clockwork, the trash can in our shared bathroom gets really full during the same five-day period. I totally said period, huh-huh.

This is known as the McClintock Effect. Take it away, Wikipedia:

Menstrual synchrony, also called the McClintock effect, is the alleged process whereby women who begin living together in close proximity experience their menstrual cycle onsets (i.e., the onset of menstruation or menses) becoming closer together in time than previously..... 

Martha McClintock's 1971 paper, published in Nature, says that menstrual cycle synchronization happens when the menstrual cycle onsets of two women or more women become closer together in time than they were several months earlier. Several mechanisms have been hypothesized to cause synchronization.^[4]

After the initial studies, several papers were published reporting methodological flaws in studies reporting menstrual synchrony including McClintock's study. In addition, other studies were published that failed to find synchrony. The proposed mechanisms have also received scientific criticism. A 2013 review of menstrual synchrony concluded that menstrual synchrony is doubtful.

Whatever, Wikipedia. All I know is that PDaughter had to back out of a swimming party today because menses, and then I went to the bathroom and...synchronicity, as Sting might say.

Gordon Sumner, noted songwriter and gynecologist.

My real point here is that I'm curiosity. Lady Drunkards, have you ever experienced the so-called McClintock effect? With a mother, a child, a roommate, a BFF?

Gentlemen Drunkards, do NOT respond to this question. Unless you have something truly awesome to say. Which many of you often do, so...go for it, I guess.

The floor is open.

I Got a Question for You

Lady Drunkards: You know how you go to the bathroom, and you realize your period is starting, and you think to yourself:

Gentlemen Drunkards: How do you explain those weeks when you've been a total headcase emotional jerkwad?

My entire week makes sense to me now.

Guys...you never blame hormones and/or menses for your sense of entitlement/rage/free-floating dissatisfaction with all life has to offer?  Is that what's it's like to be male 24/7?

That's just...wow.

I can't even.

OK. Well, vive le difference.

Women be crazy, I guess.

But my period is starting, so don't fuck with me.

Kthx.

Random Things That Are Pissing Me Off

Rant mode on.

"Marriage Isn't For You." That damn viral blog post by Seth Adam Smith tops my list of aggravations this week. Haven't read it yet? Here it is.

Go ahead, I'll wait.

Now that you've read it, let me give you a word of advice: Run away as fast as your little drumsticks will let you from anyone who believes this nonsense about marriage, or for that matter, any relationship. Take it from someone who had a very happy marriage before it crashed and burned: Marriage is not about making your spouse happy. That's an arrogant, self-centered, and ultimately suffocating attitude to take toward another adult. Most people who aren't stalkers grow out of the "I'll do anything you want if you'll like me back" relationship paradigm circa eighth grade. Besides, expecting your partner to devote him/herself to your happiness in return is a waaaaay unrealistic burden to put on another person.  The best thing you can do for your significant other is to be an independent, functioning, self-sufficient individual. Spoiler alert: It's a lot harder, and much more rewarding.

Abortion laws. Here are some words and phrases I do not want to hear in any debate about passing laws to restrict abortion: "Clump of cells." "Slut." "Adoption." "Culture of life." "God." "Responsibility." "Love." "Medical necessity." "Welfare." "Choice." Let's talk about all of these things in the broader social context, of course. But when it comes to legislation, the only issue is this: Does the state have the right to force a pregnant woman to give birth? That's the only issue. No, that's the only issue.

This. This is on CNN.com's home page today

Why the fucking fuck is this on CNN.com's home page?

This is not news.

This is not news.

THIS IS NOT NEWS.

I hate this culture sometimes.

Rant mode off.

Wasn't Going to But

I wasn't going to post tonight.

But I decided there is a message I want to get across.

That message is this.

If you are a man: There is no excuse, ever, for having sex with a woman who isn't 100% willing. You have other outlets. If you can't perform unless you have a warm body under you, even if she turns her head and sobs during the act because she's afraid to tell you "no": Stop. Find something else that makes you a man, because sticking your penis into an unwilling partner isn't it.

If you are a woman: Find the strength to say "no" if "no" is what you feel. There are consequences. Rejection is one. Derision is one. Threats are one.  But being raped is the consequence of pretending it's OK, and nothing - ever - will take that away. Maybe you will be great despite being raped. But it will never go away.

That is all I'm saying.

Maybe it mean nothing.

Or maybe you'll share.

Also, Pink Floyd Should Totally Play More Chick Music

It's an immutable law of nature: Women like dainty, pink things.

D'awwww.

Well, I like piglets, anyway. And actually, it's the immutable law of marketing, not nature, which dictates that women should have consumer products marketed especially to them. There are two main ways to accomplish this: either by underscoring some special need we maybe even didn't realize we as women had, or by making shit pink.

It's a pretty pink pussy. WELL IT IS.

Recently the freaking geniuses at Bic put out a line of "Bic for Her" ballpoint pens, and the response from the online community has been gratifyingly hilarious. If you haven't read the Amazon.com reviews for these pens, you're in for a treat. I really prefer to think someone at Bic knew perfectly well that the insane idea of gender-specific ballpoint pens would be a publicity bonanza. Because the notion that someone felt the need to label a line of pastel-colored pens as being "for women" makes me want to cry and stab someone in the eye with a manly sharp pencil.

Be that as it may, if you Google terms like "stupid/crazy/worthless products for women," you'll find all kinds of articles about such items as pink tool sets and razors that are identical to men's except the handles are prettier (and they usually cost more). A lot of those articles repeat the same products over and over, in accordance with the Internet logic that imitation is the laziest form of flattery.

Can I help it if everyone else who has the same brilliant
idea as me lives in an earlier time zone?

But today I saw a "for her" product I hadn't seen before. Check this out.

If you listen to Ozzy through these,
no one will ever want to marry you.

Yes, women's headphones. See, they're "petite" and have "jewel-like detailing." And they make Sarah McLachlan sound fabulous. I love Altec Lansing - I have a pair of their speakers that came with a computer I bought 15 years ago, and I've thrown away the speakers that came with every computer I've bought since then because they sound so damn good. But really? Last time I checked (let me check again...ooooh, yep), I was a woman, and my ear-holes aren't particularly diminutive, and I don't care if these come in pink, I like BASS. So I'll stick with my big over-the-ear headphones that sound great and hope onlookers find some other way to identify me as female. Like, I don't know, my tits or something.

So then of course I had to find other products ridiculously marketed to women to make fun of. And, I'll be damned, it just wasn't that difficult. Like this:

It must work. I'm stunned.

 



Now this product hits the trifecta of shameless pandering to the stereotypical woman consumer: making us feel unsafe, promising to fight breast cancer, and being pink. And let's not forget looking like a vibrator. We chicks dig anything we can use as a vibrator. HOLY SHIT WHO WOULD MAKE A 2.5 MILLION VOLT STUN GUN THAT LOOKS LIKE A VIBRATOR??? Whether you're being attacked by a would-be rapist or relaxing in the privacy of your boudoir, you do NOT want to pull out the wrong device at the critical moment.

Let me be clear: I make a point of not buying anything because it donates "a portion of the proceeds to fight Breast Cancer." I can give my money directly to the American Cancer Society, and it's tax-deductible. I don't gravitate to products that are pink, either. Now, that "6 inches long and 1 inch thick" feature...that's a different story.

Speaking of cancer. I have never had to deal with a diagnosis of cancer, and I have no idea how shattering to self-esteem and morale it can be to lose your hair to chemo. So I'm totally not going to mock products that allow women to feel prettier or more whole when that happens. Except this one.

Also for monks who want a more stylish tonsure.

See, you can wear hats or scarves. You can wear wigs. Or you can buy a wig that consists only of the part of a hairstyle that sticks out underneath your hat or scarf. So that if the wind blows your hat off, you appear to have the world's most feminine combover. And never mind that the women (and men) I've known who have had chemo have suffered numbing exhaustion associated with the treatments. Like the kind of exhaustion where on a good day you might mess with a hat OR a wig, but certainly not both. This just smacks of a item designed to make other people feel better about how you look, instead of making you feel more confident about living with a terrible illness. Awesome message to send to women. If I should ever have cancer myself (God forbid), my message to the world is going to be be "Screw you and your fussy little hairpieces."

Now check out this item, found in the "Women's Gifts" section of a shopping website.

Bitches love overpriced butterfly-catching contraptions.

See, butterflies like minerals. I guess. So if you want to attract them to your garden, you should evaporate salt water outside - like putting out a salt lick for deer. I guess. But only a complete asshole would let salt water evaporate on a convenient rock or an old saucer. What are you, some kind of oversexed male oppressor? Ladies buy a $40 piece of recyled stone to pour goddamn water on. Butterflies know when they've been offered mineral salts on a quality piece of feminine giftware and when they haven't. And you know what they say about (ahem) women who don't employ a proper butterfly puddler.

Kill me. Please. Now.

I found this next one on an inventors' website, so in fairness it may not even be in production. I don't care, it's still hilarious/horrifying.

Put a battery in it, and we'll buy anything.

It's a battery-powered emery board. You know, to end the drudgery of moving one back and forth across your nails all by yourself. As the description says, it's "ideal for working women." Amen! I know when I come home at the end of a long day, all I want to do is put my feet up and order my family to cater to my every whim. But when I do, I get a look at those feet, and I realize OMG, my big toenails are hideous! But who has the time or energy to lovingly shape them with a ten-cent emery board? I realize I could tell my child to do it, but she lacks the skills required and also refuses to touch my feet. If only I had an overpriced, battery-powered device that might save me upwards of 30 seconds per foot over doing it by hand! The inventor of this product truly understands the needs of modern women. Is it any coincidence that this thing is also a cylinder approximately six inches long? Although...you know, scratchy. Ow.

Here's a product that I've seen featured in other dumbass-products-for-women stories. But I saw it kicked up a notch at Target. It's called the GoGirl, and it's a portable urinal for women. Because the world needs that.



I say, if you have enough privacy to pee into one of these things,
you have enough privacy to just squat and go. Amiright?

Yes, this is a totally dumb product. But I give the manufacturer huge props for making it available not just in girly lavender, but in stylish, preppy khaki. I would love to see the market research that led to khaki being picked as the second-best color for a portable women's urinal. I just...really really would love to see that. Wow. Oh, but look, there's more! There's a GoGirl Gift Pack, consisting of a three-pack of portable women's urinals and a T-shirt emblazoned with the name of the product! The shirt makes a statement. And that statement is "I suffer from light to moderate bladder control and am carrying a pocket bedpan and also I kind of enjoy drawing attention to it."

Rejected T-shirt design (by a narrow margin).

And finally, for the girl who knows she's most attractive after getting it on:


On the other hand, I do NOT want to know the marketing research that led to this.

You win. I'll buy the damn pink screwdriver. Just promise me I don't ever have to match my makeup pallette to a post-coital flush. Especially when these days I'm more likely to wear a shade called "Hot Flash."

That was a joke. If such a product exists, please please please please don't tell me about it.