I think I’m onto something with Tony Abbott and his dickstickers. Every time he pisses women off, he poses in what is essentially his undies. Like he thinks that will distract us, because our little brains can’t focus on criticising him when faced with His Hotness. Clearly he fancies himself as the Throbbing Member of Parliament.
Yesterday he insulted us with the ironing. Today he’s pulled out the lycra (well, it has been a little chilly lately):
Now, I’m sure there was something I had to be mad at him about, but I’ve come over all unnecessary*.
* This is complete and utter bullshit because he makes my skin crawl.
Tony Abbott has done it again. First he says this:
“What the housewives of Australia need to understand as they do the ironing is that if they get it done commercially it’s going to go up in price, and their own power bills when they switch the iron on are going to go up,” he said.
It’s a nice double insult – not only is ironing women’s work, but they’re not smart enough to figure out that a rise in electricity prices will make electricity more expensive. Unless a man like Tony tells them. See, they “need to understand”. Nice bit of mansplaining there, Tony. (And how are housewives doing the ironing if they “get it done commercially”? Hmm, Tony?)
Then he tells women to calm down:
“We’ve become so hypersensitive about all this stuff,” he said.
It’s not his first comment that annoys me – oh, ok, it does annoy me – it’s the dismissal afterwards. In the World According to Abbott, if women are annoyed by things he says, it’s not important. Kind of a dumb strategy when women represent 50.3 per cent of the Australian population.
Ahhh, Sam de Brito’s “feminism”. Did you read his column on slut shaming in the Sun Herald yesterday? Here’s a bit of it:
One of feminism’s many successes is that a broad cross-section of women are today more sexually confident than ever before. Many have realised it’s far more fun to pick their intimate partners, instead of waiting to be chosen like fruit on a stand.
Despite this, lots of women still live in fear of acting on this impulse too frequently (or publicly) out of the concern they’ll be labelled with slurs or be tut-tutted at by neolithic hypocrites like the leader of the opposition, Tony Abbott.
What, is he talking about teenagers?
What I find curious, however, is that the “slut shaming” dynamic is so internalised with some women that their guilt about unattached sex starts before they even leave the bedroom and hit the world of gossip.
Really Sam? And you know this how? I must say, it’s good to see you’ve picked up the term “slut shaming” from the feminist blogs you visit, but it’s a shame the content of those blogs has gone over your head.
Then there’s some rubbish about a fictional friend who uses a hook-up website, and then this:
However, until proud women can laugh off the idiocy of insults like “whore”, “moll”, or “lowie”, these words retain their power to control female behaviour.
Bingo! There it is. According to Sam the Feminist, if women get upset about being called a slut, it’s their own fault. Not a single word about how we shouldn’t call anyone a slut. Not a single word about the role his own gender can play in eliminating this ridiculous double standard.
You know, with Sam de Brito writing about how women are to blame for everything that happens to women, and Samantha Brett writing about how women are to blame for everything that happens to women, is Fairfax trying to tell us something?
The 21st edition of the Down Under Feminists Carnival is up, hosted by the tastily named Radical Radish. There’s some great writing in there, which shouldn’t surprise anyone because there are many strong, opinionated, funny and poignant female bloggers in Australia and New Zealand.
There are posts about the rights of step-mothers, taxes and toilets, insults, the attacks on Indian students, trusting women, friendships, cougars, sex advice for future children, Jennifer Hawkins and ‘real’ women, fashion and rape, homebirthing, mansplaining, gender and science fiction, and even more. (I’m in it too.)
It’s Friday afternoon, I’ve got cheese and crackers and a glass of rose* (yes, I am a ponce) and here’s a clip from the awesome Decemberists gig Man Friend** and I went to last month (Colin Meloy reminds me of Chief Tyrol):
* Ok, I’m on my second glass.
** Hey Man Friend, that’s two mentions in two posts! You must be loved.
Women are expected to look a certain way; made up, groomed and well-dressed ’sexy’ professionals, whereas men are not. Clean-shaven and a simple suit is enough to appear professional and smart.
Although it is a strict requirement to dress a certain way, high-powered businesswomen would certainly face criticism if they voiced these concerns to a male colleague.
“Well, I’m sorry I’m late for the presentation, I had to do my hair.” Not to mention look after the kids, keep the husband entertained, work an 80-hour week in a high-powered job and look like a supermodel at all times.
Thankfully, there isn’t this pressure in editorial in my workplace, but it’s there for most of the company. Outside in the CBD there are two looks: guys in suits, and immaculate women doing ’sexy professional’. I’m sure part of this is because – for once – women’s work clothes can be cheaper than suits for men. But not if any of it needs dry cleaning.
Anyway, I do have a particular office attire gripe: young women who confuse workplace with nightclub. I know it can be confusing, what with flashing lights, cocktails, desks and photocopiers being found in both places. I’m not saying women don’t have the right to wear what they want, but I think there are some outfits that are inappropriate in some situations. After all, you wouldn’t wear a bikini to your grandfather’s funeral. Or maybe you would. Hmm, I’m getting into dangerous territory here. I think what I’m trying to say is you can look professional without looking ’sexy professional’. If you want to look ’sexy professional’ then that’s your choice and your right, but it shouldn’t be the default look.
One place I worked was run by two guys with coke habits. The head of advertising was a grumpy old misogynistic arsehat. You know the type – white hair, big belly, no arse. Yet thought he was God’s gift. When said arsehat would walk into the kitchen and see cups lying around, he’d say “no wonder all the fucking sluts around here never get laid, they can’t keep the kitchen tidy”. He obviously didn’t think very much about his “unlaid sluts” insult. He insisted on a dress code that said women were not allowed to wear shorts because it was distracting (and this was when those long “dress shorts” were in, not the short shorts we see now), but that miniskirts were to be encouraged. Maybe it’s because of this place that I have such an aversion to flesh-flashing in the office. It is the only place I know of where arse grabbing and bra strap flicking still goes on. If you’ve had this happen to you too, please de-lurk and have a rant.
It’s like when you watch Mad Men and realise that the only thing that’s really changed is you can’t smoke at your desk anymore. Where the hell am I going with this?
Back to Lane:
Whilst the archaic practice of making a triviality (such as makeup and wardrobe) a serious job requirement, larger issues such as the wage gap and promotions will continue to suffer as a result.
At my local pharmacy the tampons, pads and liners are next to the bandaids and it annoys the hell out of me. I know it shouldn’t. After all, both exist to stop blood getting on your clothes. Maybe it’s because they’re near the Elastoplast – man, that shit is creepy. Something about the brownness of it, and the way the edges curl up and get dirty. It’s like nails down a chalkboard.
Periods are not an injury. A vagina is not a wound (enough you lot, I know the jokes). Therefore, tampons, pads and liners shouldn’t be next to the bandaids and Dettol. Mind you, today there was a special on Trix washing up liquid, on display next to the tampons, which was a nice douche-while-washing-up touch.
In a few weeks I go back to uni. I’m starting my doctorate, with the most definitely delusional aim of being Dr News with Nipples in two years.
So I’ve made a list. I love a good list. I’m not as bad as my friend the twin, who makes lists of the lists she has to make. That’s a whole level of listiness that I’m not game enough to reach. My list – The List – is about turning the spare room (junk room) into somewhere conducive to a zillion hours of research. Currently, the room has a desk (covered in papers), two overflowing bookcases, a tall boy filled with books, a lovely wooden filing cabinet filled with Man Friend’s uni notes (from many many years ago), bottles of wine in boxes, assorted boxes, and a chair covered in articles that seemed like a good idea to keep, uni notes from my Masters (which I finished in 2008, mind you), Man Friend’s current uni notes, a foam and fabric stomach-small-intestine-large-intestine combo I made for a costume party (you had to go as something starting with P, so I was a post-mortem) and a dusty blanket. The aim is to move half of this crap into the new junk room, aka the attic, aka the dusty space in the roof that’s really unpleasant to be in.
I wrote The List this morning. It’s now 1pm. Have I done any of it? Of course not. I’ve danced around the house, singing out of tune to the Magnetic Fields (“Zelda looks lonely, I want a zebra”), read the paper and had two cups of tea. And lunch.
Late last year, I stumbled onto a blog post by a girl in Melbourne, about the transferable list – the list that goes from week to week in your diary without any of it getting done. (I can’t remember the name of the blog, so if anyone knows, please add a link). On her list was cleaning the windows. Once I commented that it was also on my list, I went off to clean them. (Do guys ever think about this stuff?)
So, my theory today is that by writing about it, I’ll get off my arse and finish sorting the room. Does it work if you’re doing it on purpose?
Update: I’m now organising our books by genre. Talk about procrastination.
