Tingle Alley

From a note from one of my cousins, who’s home for the summer: “I’ve enjoyed going over to your mom’s and playing bridge with the three sisters lately. They are so kind and gentle, yet when they start playing bridge, they turn fierce and are quick to scold for sloppy play. Wild nights in Auburn, Indiana.”

(It’s like a fairy tale except instead of three Fates or three Furies or a Mrs. Whatsis, Mrs. Who, and a Mrs. Which, there are Three Very Particular Bridge Players.)


But what all these issues, no matter how gigantically separated an Esquire puff piece and a Tennessee mother’s jailing for meth may seem, reflect back at us: How, in this country, every barometer by which female worth is measured—from the superficial to the life-altering, the appreciative to the punitive—has long been calibrated to “dude,” whether or not those measurements are actually being taken by dudes. Men still run, or at bare minimum have shaped and codified the attitudes of, the churches, the courts, the universities, the police departments, the corporations that so freely determine women’s worth. As Beyoncé observed last year, “Money gives men power to run the show. It gives men the power to define value. They define what’s sexy. And men define what’s feminine. It’s ridiculous.”

It is ridiculous, and I wish we could all tell them how little it matters what they think. Except that of course most women, those who bear the brunt of these assessments, aren’t Beyoncé or Amy Poehler—who, not coincidentally, was on Junod’s list of newly un-tragic 42-year-olds. Instead, they are women who may not be able to pay for Pilates, let alone for day care or contraceptives, who may need but not be able to afford drug treatment, who Esquire would likely still rate as not-hot or more likely not rate at all, but whose fates nonetheless rest in the hands of empowered committees on the general value and status of womanhood in America.

I wish it were different. I wish that every woman whose actions and worth are parsed and restricted, congratulated and condemned in this country might just once get to wheel around—on the committee that doesn’t believe their medically corroborated story of assault, or on the protesters who tell them that termination is a sin they will regret, or on the boss who tells them he doesn’t believe in their sexual choices, or on the mid-fifties man who congratulates them, or himself, on finding them appealing deep into their dotage—and go black in the eyes and say, “I don’t fucking care if you like it.”


The Problem with Esquire’s Praise of 42-Year-Old Women & Amy Poehler | New Republic (via rachelfershleiser)

(via rachelfershleiser)

Source: newrepublic.com


May 12, 1958: A contact sheet from a photo shoot at the Bronx Zoo for which an emperor penguin named Jill was the star, occasioning the addition of two duck-billed platypuses, which called “attention to the many other outstanding specimens” at the zoo. “The emperors are hand-fed — five pounds of mackerel a day,” her keeper, Chappie Solanto, told the Times magazine. “The public thinks they look like old men. And people are surprised at their fatness and that they don’t go into the water like other penguins here.” Photo: Sam Falk/The New York Times

(via titivil)

Source: livelymorgue

"Tampons were packed with their strings connecting them, like a strip of sausages, so they wouldn’t float away. Engineers asked Ride, “Is 100 the right number?” She would be in space for a week. “That would not be the right number,” she told them. At every turn, her difference was made clear to her. When it was announced Ride had been named to a space flight mission, her shuttle commander, Bob Crippen, who became a lifelong friend and colleague, introduced her as “undoubtedly the prettiest member of the crew.” At another press event, a reporter asked Ride how she would react to a problem on the shuttle: “Do you weep?”"

Astronaut Sally Ride and the Burden of Being “The First” (via yahighway)

Men don’t appreciate the amount of self-control women have to exercise in order not to spend their entire lives facepalming.

(via vulvanity)

“Sometimes, yes, sometimes I do weep.” Side note: I wonder how long that discussion went on. “Is 1,000 the right number?” “You’re getting colder.”

(via smallbeerpress)

Source: dinosaurparty

"Permit me to warn reckless young women: seeing the trap does not prevent you from getting caught in it - and that doubles the pleasure."

Claude Cahun, Aveux non avenus (Disavowals), translation by Susan de Muth (via frenchtwist)

(via maudnewton)

Source: frenchtwist
rochester: accuses jane of bewitching his horse
rochester: interrogates jane about her paintings
rochester: leaves jane abruptly for months at a time
rochester: stages an engagement with a hot rich aristocrat to hurt jane's feelings
rochester: dresses up as a fortune teller to mess with jane's head
rochester: neglects to tell jane about the murderous insane wife living in his attic
rochester: wait jane why are you leaving
Word up.
http: //sarahtales.livejournal.com/193457.html
Source: roussalka
But time makes you bolder/ even papillons get older.

But time makes you bolder/ even papillons get older.