OK so the truth is (and everyone will attack me):

We don't care about sex as much as you project that we care about sex enough so you can call us all sluts. LOL! Thats where the irony really comes in: we really don't care as much as you do so call us all sluts! Who gives a shit!

'he was OK with me...

...being somewhat of an intellectual and not just a set of tits.'

What more can I say, but read the rest at Dancing On Colette's Grave

Is There a Difference Between Men & Women Bloggers?

Imagine my surprise when I found this blog! I don’t know how exactly I found it but I was just wandering around on links from other blogs until something caught my eye. Typepad Refugees writes here about how male blogging is often focused more on politics. I have a few blogs (listed on the sidebar) but there is a difference between the way women blog, in my personal opinion. Decide for yourself. But as for me, I'm going to check out the rest of it and decide for myself.

I Can't for the Life of Me...

understand how we can care one bit about a Catholic institution that while raping altar boys, was decrying the sinfulness of abortion.

I'm wondering why there isn't much outrage

regarding the anti-abortion legislation in several states. Is it just me or are women silent on the issue?

Thirty Years in Prison for an Abortion

Here is a slideshow from the April 8 New York Times about women in El Salvador who secure back-alley abortions and pay for it with their own lives.

Link

The other day, I was pondering my neighbors’ condos.

I was wondering what Jeanette’s (not her real name) kitchen looked like—if it was as bad as mine was. And, I was wondering what Laura’s (not her real name either) parlor looked like—if it’s as bad as mine. This morning as I sat determined to read the entire New York Times, as I determine every morning and fail as often, I wondered what I would do if someone came to my door at that moment I thought to myself: sure, I’ll just start tidying it up a little when/if someone knocks at the door. So, with another cup of coffee to cruel my gut a little bit more, I persisted in my goal to find a feature story about cleaning, women, men, marriage and feminism 40 years after.

It was so ironic to realize that one, I have become a total slob since I determined to focus on work and career about ten years or so ago, and, I remembered that I was a slob as a child as I focused on my life then too—much to my mother’s chagrin who expected me to use a toothbrush to scrub the corners of the baseboards when washing the floor and sinful to use a handle-mop. There was only one way to wash the floor and it was with Brillo pads, urine-smelling ammonia and a toothbrush.

I apparently fall into the “rebellious category” in this story or have returned to my pre-Cinderella experience before I was old enough to clean (about seven or eight, If my memory serves me correctly.)

The writer said that although men and women approach the old story in completely modern ways, there’s one thing that has remained the same:

A common thread through so many of these stories, though, is that of men doing what they want (Mr. Thompson wanting the house clean and simultaneously wanting to leave his dishes in the sink; Mr. Gussman wanting to do chores in the dark because during the day he is a competitive cyclist) and women doing what is left, a thread that still makes this conversation all about women.

What men want to do, they say, is most often a domestic version of something macho. Mr. Chethik enjoys the laundry, he said, not only because he gets to watch television while he folds, but because "it's basically working with heavy machinery: picking up big loads of stuff, moving them from one place to another, setting buzzers and timers and then hitting the on button."
More…

Are there "women's issues" anymore or is it all over?

There's a new tattle tale sort of blog for women, or so it seems at OregonLive where people can complain about the not-so-nice stuff going around on the internet. I'm not sure if it's a women's-only site. Only time will tell.

We are women

Forced Prostitution

Campaign to protect victims of trafficking in the UK
Thousands of women and girls are trafficked into forced prostitution in the UK every year.

Amnesty International is campaigning to persuade the UK Government to sign up to the European Convention Against Trafficking to guarantee victims of this crime some protection

Read the rest: We are women

The Morning Star of the Eastern Sky, Which Planet?

The blogosphere is a funny place to try to connect with people while at the same time it is just what I need. When someone gets on my case here, I just change the channel, switch the button, turn it off and click a new site. It's both beauteous and miserable because we do tend to attach ourselves to certain personalities and when things go sour we realize that we don't know how to keep a certain connection with those planets. On the other hand, I’ve had to trash other sites that took a lot of work because of unscrupulous respondents. What’s a girl to do? But to look for the last light she sees as she drifts off to sleep and watch the first light she sees as she awakens. And this post is to all the blogs and all the friends I have not been able to help them find my path. Yes, this is maudlin as life so often is. And as men and women enter a new sphere, we find ourselves needing to carve ever new paths. Then again, I skipped school today and am on my second Stoly’s, straight up with a lemon twist so sue me.

Crying for Mercy and Justice

"I love the lord for he heard my voice, he heard my cry for mercy."

This is simply a memorized verse from the ancient text my father used to read to me years ago. I felt a need to post it. I am no longer religious as religion is typically a reason for too many wars, but I love poetry and beautiful words and I understand the truth of the writer--even if the writer's meaning has been misused and abused. I am quite sure it is from the Psalms of David but which one I'm not sure. Maybe it's 93 or 101 or something. But it doesn't matter. I just needed to say that I am grateful for those who hear our cries for mercy, and justice. Amen

Moving With the Flow

I found another blogger today from a friend of a friend of a friend (what would we do without friends!?) So, I'm going to post a little excerpt of it just to whet your whistle.

...What else can she do but to move with the flow?
Some days a severe wind forces her to bow....


[mindinside]

'If Only Women Would Stay the SAME'

Apparently, they’re at it again, trying to fit us all into a nice little compact box so that everything will make rational sense and they can just do their own thing. Well, it’s not really that simple: Read more ...

It reminds me of a line from one of my favorites, Clarissa Pinkola Estes: "If all things were logical then all men would ride side-saddle."

Got that right Clarissa. Ouch!

Amid Irony

As I ponder loveliness of my own soul, I am frightened. Could I jump off yet another cliff, but this one my own, just to discover that this time there is no water in the ravine to break my fall? Wouldn’t that be an irony amid all the ironies in my life?

Hums and Howls of a Hush

I don’t know where to start anymore. I’ve started over so many times, taking courses and everyone telling me what I have to do, how I need to do it better, all the ideas I have that are not what they’re looking for, how you are all my voice of reason (huh? How can you be my voice of reason?).

I’m weary of trying to be right through your advice. When will I find the outlet, and the place where I can do what I do best (I thought that’s what you love about me—but now you act like I need your voice for reason—you’ve no idea how mad that makes me).

In the world and at home, all my livelong life, everyone’s telling me how to do it right. And trying to be the girl good, I’ve lived so much of my life all wrong. I can’t chance this danger anymore. It’s not safe for me to keep doing my life so wrong. I want to live and I want to sing the way I hear the song, the way I want to play the tunes, the way I know how to make the melodies—if I can still remember.

I’m so spread thin with all my stuff all over the place because I’ve given my rooms away to everyone else who needs a break from this world, so they can rejuvenate, repose, restore and rehear their own voice. Where can I go to get some peace of mind, to hear myself think, to remember how to take deep breaths, to listen to the bright and shining morning star seen in the eastern sky at dawn?

I wait for you my love to leave so that I can listen to what it was I was trying to say. I’m sorry, I really do love you but you think you know everything. But you know nearly nothing about my opus just as I do not know better than you how to do your job. But I know this and the problem is that you don’t believe that you don’t know more about what I am skilled at; how sorry and cliché your ideas are.

You listen to me just to try to figure a way to correct me, set me on the reasonable course, according to your own perceptions. I suppose I simply must stop trying to explain it to you. As it only invites reprimands, as if I am your child and not your lover.

Please leave my mind alone. Because, if I don’t get some silence soon, from your voice of reason resounding in my mind along with all the professors who want me to perform in a particular manner, I’m going to get lost for good. But you laugh when I tell you I don’t have enough time. That’s simply because you don’t understand how I write my songs.

Maybe cotton for the ears is all I really need.

You can clean your ears at the breakfast table and shoot balls of wax across the kitchen floor, you can pass gas onto my thighs as I snuggle behind you in the cold of night, you can lose ten thousand dollars in a day and you can forget to do the things you promised and I will but peep a sound. But I can’t comment on my own contemplation without hearing your voice of reason.

Perhaps I need a muzzle strapped onto my free expression.

There’s no doubt that I love you my dear, but can I love myself now? Can I just hum or howl a hush so you can’t hear the stillness amid this noise--in pregnant expectation of my melody?

You risk feeling unloved if I keep the calm close to my breast; why can’t you trust me to fill my own void with my own voice of reason? When I return to my own haunt to my own harmony, there will be a new hum or echo or swish or thud. Fear not, I am always with you--f you can just trust me—because I love you.