The US$100 note has been redesigned. But don't worry—Ben Franklin still looks pissy.
"You're not going to spend me on THAT, are you?"
All About the Benjamins
"You're not going to spend me on THAT, are you?"
Today's Edition of "Conniving and Sinister"
See Deeky's archive of all previous Conniving & Sinister strips here.
[In which Liss reimagines the long-running comic "Frank & Ernest," about two old straight white guys "telling it like it is," as a fat feminist white woman and a biracial queerbait telling it like it actually is from their perspectives. Hilarity ensues.]
Someone Get This Guy a Cookie
[Trigger warning for sexual assault and clergy abuse.]
Pope Promises to Confront Sexual Abuse Crisis:
Pope Benedict XVI pledged Wednesday that the Roman Catholic Church would take action to deal with the widening scandal over sexual abuse by priests, making a rare direct public comment on the crisis.The unmitigated temerity of a man claiming to have "shared their suffering" with survivors whose suffering was caused by people whose actions he abetted and concealed is truly breathtaking.
During his weekly audience here, Benedict told pilgrims and tourists in St. Peter's Square that he had met with abuse victims during a recent trip to Malta and had "assured them of church action."
"I shared their suffering and emotionally prayed with them," the pope said.
Wednesday Blogaround
This blogaround brought to you by Shaxco, proud distributors of McEwan Brand Fuzzy Robes for Fatties and Not-Fatties.
Recommended Reading:
Echidne: You Are to Blame for Your Grandkids' Cancer!
Bluemilk: Perspective, You Are Lacking It
Resistance: Being "Different"
Andy: Proposed Louisiana Adoption Law Would Recognize Gay Couples
Melissa: Quotable America Ferrera
DougJ: And Nero Fiddled...
Leave your links in comments...
Roethlisberger Benched
[Trigger warning]
Alleged rapist Ben Roethlisberger had been suspended by the NFL for six games following the latest round of accusations of sexual assault.
Word is his suspension could be reduced to four games if he doesn't rape anyone else in the meantime. I mean, "for good behavior." Terms of the suspension also require a "comprehensive behavioral evaluation by medical professionals," whatever the fuck that means.
As an interesting aside, where interesting equals rage-inducing, I will note that raping a woman will get you suspended for four to six games, but killing a dog results in an "indefinite" suspension. What a wonderful world we live in.
Quote of the Day
"One of the things that's flummoxed [I Dream of Jeannie] writers is how to update the 1960s sitcom, which incorporated more than a few pre-feminist ideas, for anything resembling the modern age. It's hard to imagine that too many stories about an astronaut who keeps a subservient woman in a bottle would play on a contemporary screen, at least those outside a certain kind of movie theater."—Steven Zeitchik, in the LA Times, on the difficulties Officially Given-Up Hollywood is having remaking the classic television series about a 2000-year-old female genie who falls in love with and marries her master.
Well, I for one fervently hope that Officially Given-Up Hollywood solves this conundrum, because there just aren't enough films about the whimsical magic of sexual servitude these days. BRING ON THE LAUGH TRACK!
Two Days in the Life of Fatty Fatastrophe
A couple of weeks ago, I went to the doctor to get a pap smear.
The appointment started, as usual, with a weigh-in, followed later by the requisite fat-shaming from my GP, who scolded me she wants to see me "losing a pound and a half a week!" because I'd been exactly the same weight when I'd been in the office a week before for acute costochondritis.
So, I was supposed to lose weight, apparently, exclusively by starving myself, since I was meant to be on almost complete rest to heal from the chondritis which made exercise out of the question. Um. Was my doctor really recommending something so absurd? Well. It was no more absurd than the contention that weighing in at the same weight two weeks in a row meant I hadn't lost a pound and a half, or gained it, or a little more or less, and then arrived back at the same place again on that particular day, since weight can naturally fluctuate a couple of pounds every day, anyway.
I was aggravated more than anything about being talked to like I am a stupid person. I thought: I need a new doctor. But this doctor is the only one in town who's in my insurance network. So.
But back to the pap smear.
The nurse gave me two sheets of material that was something between the butcher block paper they put on the tables and a giant paper towel. "One for your top and one for your bottom," she said. "Just kind of cover yourself up with them." She avoided my eyes. The offices that use those disposable paper "gowns" never have them in a size big enough for me. I know this. But instead of her saying to me, honestly and forthrightly, "I'm sorry—we cannot accommodate your body with the covers we have," she awkwardly avoided the subject altogether. As if I couldn't figure it out. As if her embarrassment for me was not evident.
When the doctor came in and looked at me, she asked the nurse, "Where's the top gown?" The nurse quietly stammered, "Those ones are too, um, flimsy—I just gave her two of the bottom ones." They both looked at me, lying on the table, naked, but the two giant paper towels laying over me. I would have preferred to just be naked, instead of lying there, feeling obliged to cover my fat body for the comfort of my nurse and doctor. The proverbial lightbulb went on. "Ah," said the doctor. They exchanged a look.
Later, I would consider with bitter amusement that the USian medical community constantly howls about the Obesity Crisis!!!eleventy! and all their OMGFAT!!!eleventy! patients, and yet despite servicing a fat clientele they can't shut up about, they can't find a fucking paper gown to fit me.
As my doctor began the procedure, she gave me the same line I always get from doctors doing my pap smear, the "sometimes smears are hard to get on obese patients" disclaimer, to which I responded, as I always do, "You won't have any problem. No one ever does." Which naturally elicited a dubious rejoinder, just to make sure I felt good and shamed, before the sample was retrieved instantaneously and with no problem whatsoever.
Afterward, my doctor began to give me a breast exam. She sighed and told me my breasts are too big. She wrote me a prescription for a mammogram. She told me to lose weight.
"Okay," I said miserably. As she swept out of the room, one of the giant paper towels slid off and fell to the floor.
On the way home, I felt like shit. I thought about all the fat women who have experiences like that and decide that preventative care just isn't worth it. I thought about the fat women (and men) who have died, because of the emotional toll going to the doctor can take. I considered that I hadn't had a pap smear in several years, because I dreaded having the day I'd just had. I'm still waiting anxiously for the results.
I made a mental note to bring my own robe from home next year.
Yesterday, I had my mammogram. I went to the same place I'd been five years ago, when I'd discovered a lump in my breast that had turned out to be benign—the Breast Care Center at St. Anthony's in Crown Point, Indiana.
It is a space designed for care. Medical care, yes—but not just. When you walk in, you are greeted by a nurse who signs you in and then directs you to a table with coffee and tea and water, and into the waiting area, which looks like a living room. There are upholstered couches and overstuffed chairs, an area rug, and a cherry-finished armoire and shelving, holding a television tuned not to Fox News, but the Food Network. In the corner is a game table with a glass chess set. It is bright and warm and cozy.
It is the opposite of clinical.
I wait and watch a female chef whose name I don't know make a strawberry torte. After only a few minutes, a nurse-technician calls my name and introduces herself to me as Jennifer. She leads me back to a changing room, which is appointed like a small guest bathroom in someone's home might be, where she hands me a cloth gown. "Just for your top," she tells me. "You can leave your jeans and shoes on. Just walk through the door at the back when you're ready."
I close the door and put on the gown. It is loose. I am swimming in it. It could accommodate a woman much larger than I am, women who are not used to being accommodated.
There is no weigh-in.
When I open the door at the back of the small room, it opens into the mammography room, where Jennifer is waiting for me. She smiles and reminds me to make sure the front door in the changing room is locked.
And then we begin.
I slide half out of the gown, and I position myself beside the machine as instructed by Jennifer. She lifts my breast into position. She helps me get my arm just right, my torso turned just so. She is gentle, and she is comforting, chatting to me about the beautiful weather and this and that, manipulating my body, my fat body, with care and ease.
She explains what she's doing, what each different angle will capture. "This one will be from your nipples backward." She talks to me like I'm an intelligent adult woman who is engaged in her own care. She touches my body, my fat body, with the casual confidence of someone who is familiar and comfortable with fat bodies, even though she is thin—I am not an alien, but just another woman with breasts that need imaging.
She guides me through four images on one side, and five on the other—because one turned out a bit fuzzy and she is a perfectionist, she tells me, laughing.
I am so grateful to her for allowing me to just be another human in her care and not a grotesque monster whose body makes her uncomfortable, for letting me feel safe and respected in this very vulnerable moment.
I want to tell her all of this. But instead I just say, "Thank you for making this so easy. I really appreciate it."
Which is all I can muster, because I am overwhelmed with brimming gratitude—and a slowly boiling anger at the world outside the Breast Care Center that I should be so grateful to have been treated with basic dignity.
Lost Open Thread
SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BLUB.
Last night's episode will be discussed in infinitesimal detail, so if you haven't seen it, and don't want any spoilers, move along...
Seen
On a church sign on the way to the doctor yesterday: Enjoy this beautiful day courtesy of God.
So, remember: Next time it pisses down rain on your picnic, God hates you.
Question of the Day
What was your most prized possession as a child?
I'm split on mine. For toys, a biggie was the set of radio shack walkie-talkies that I got on my 11th birthday, but these are closely rivaled by my secret agent camera that turned into a gun (Christmas, 1968).
Quote of the Day
[Trigger warning.]
"Anything that can draw interest to our town and make people want to visit, we would like. ... If it peaks people's interest about our city, we would certainly welcome them here."—Mayor of Milledgeville, Georgia Richard Bentley, on the alleged sexual assault committed by thrice-accused NFL footballer Ben Roethlisberger in Milledgeville, and what a great tourist draw it is.
The hat tip goes to Shaker Maria, who emails: "As if it wasn't bad enough that the investigation of Pittsburgh Steeler Ben Roethlisberger's alleged rape of an incapacitated young woman wasn't hopelessly botched from day one (including the now resigned police officer who didn't want to take the complaint in the first place and referred to the accuser as a 'fucking bitch...This drunken bitch, drunk off her ass' and who had himself earlier in the night posed for a photo with Roethlisberger), we now have the mayor where the alleged assault took place proclaiming that the incident is good for tourism."
Three times Roethlisberger has been accused of sexual assault. And there are still people—cops—who think it's just "fucking bitches" out to get him. And mayors who think that shit's great for tourism.
Just another day in the Rape Culture.
Choi and Pietrangelo Arrested Again
Lt. Dan Choi and Capt. Jim Pietrangelo, and four others were arrested today after handcuffing themselves to the White House fence.
During the protest Choi said:
"We call on our commander in chief, the president of the United States to take bold action, to show firm resolve and real leadership on his promise to repeal 'don’t ask, don’t tell.' To make good on that promise, he has an opportunity to transmit to Congress for the defense authorization bill repeal language."
Seems pretty straight-forward to me. And still, Obama wonders why we're hollering.
Keep on hollering. Lt. Dan Choi, Capt. Jim Pietrangelo, Petty Officer Autumn Sandeen, Corporal Evelyn Thomas, Cadet Mara Boyd, Petty Officer Larry Whitt, keep hollering. It's the only way the White House will hear us.
Obama Takes On Hecklers
I know what you're thinking: It's about time the President told those tea-baggers to shut their mendacious pie-holes.
Not so fast there...
It turns out Obama chose to respond to hecklers who were shouting "Repeal don't ask, don't tell!"
He said "When you've got an ally like Barbara Boxer and you've got an ally like me who are standing for the same thing, then you don't know exactly why you've got to holler, because we already hear you, all right. I mean, it would have made more sense to holler that at the people who oppose it."
Except that those who oppose it aren't in charge, aren't in a position to change the discriminatory policy, aren't actively avoiding the issue.
Another heckler retorted "It's time for equality for all Americans" and Obama replied "I don't know why you're hollering."
Really? You don't? I find that hard to believe.
A Timely Reminder
The US' National Women's Law Center sent out a press release today calling us to action to support The Paycheck Fairness Act.
A bit of information to make the point clear:
American women who work full-time, year-round are paid only 77 cents for every dollar paid to their male counterparts. This gap in earnings translates into $10,622 less per year in female median earnings, leaving women and their families shortchanged. The wage gap is even more substantial when race and gender are considered together, with African-American women making only 61 cents, and Latinas only 52 cents, for every dollar earned by white, non-Hispanic men.I don't think it needs many words from me to point out how this is a feminist issue.
Have at it, Shakers. o.oP
Tip of the CaitieCap to (I believe) Shaker Anitanola, via Liss.
Edit: I'd like to add a link that was left in the comments here; Shaker flioba gave us this one, and I'll use her words to include it:
The American Association of University Women and the National Partnership for Women and Families also teamed up and created factsheets for each state and DC - detailing the wage gap for each state and how much food, rent, mortgage payments and gallons of gas could be purchased for that money. Check it out here.
Mexican Authorities Block Abortion For 10-Year-Old Rape Victim
[Trigger warning.]
Authorities in Mexico are restricting access to abortion for a pregnant 10-year-old who was raped by her step-father.
I don't have much to add, as it's all been said countless times before, but again, the fetus is alleged to be more important than the life and well-being of the mother, who in this case happens to be a child.
The girl's home state on the Yucatan peninsula allows abortion in cases of rape during the first 90 days of the pregnancy. But the 10-year-old girl is at 17½ weeks, nearly a month past that limit.
Advocacy groups are calling for federal officials and the United Nations to investigate the matter, claiming officials did not inform her of her abortion rights.
Discuss.
[Hat tip to Shaker koach.]
Blog Note Update
Per Photobucket, the issue has been resolved, and things now look back to normal for me. If you're still getting error message instead of images, clear your cache and refresh your page and that should resolve the problem.
Thanks for your patience and, again, my apologies for the inconvenience.
Two-Minute Nostalgia Sublime
KMFDM: "A Drug Against War"
(Trigger warning for cartoon violence and anyone that may experience photosensitive epilepsy.)
