A lot of feminists that I admire a great deal will tell you that women are objectified. Men expect women to dress prettily and wear makeup and do their hair, and somehow these expectations are oppressive.

And yet, we ask the same things of men. Okay, sure, we don’t ask them to wear makeup. (Or, well, most of us don’t. I’m actually oddly fond of men in makeup. And glitter. And/Or Kilts. But that’s my thing. Erm.) We giggle over the Old Spice Guy, who is  funny as hell, but he also has all of those nice rippling abs. We might complain over the amount of time it takes to go the whole nine yards, with elaborate hairdos and makeup, but we do it while gawking over men who could only look that way with hours every day spent in the gym.

And yeah, while I appreciate the aesthetic appeal of those pecks, I’ll admit that my personal weakness is a skinny, brainy guy with glasses. (Ph. D.? Hair like a Ralph Lauren model? Slightly metro? Oh my. *swoon*) I like my men well dressed, even though most of the time I’d rather be wearing jeans and a t-shirt.  Thing about all those brainy, bespectacled guys is that usually they dress pretty well, in nice button-down shirts or polos and khakis and suits. Luckily, I managed to find one of these well-dressed blokes, and he doesn’t care if I’m dressed down while he dresses up.

Thing is, why do we complain that men like for women to look pretty while expecting men to look pretty (or, erm, handsome) too? A man can be as macho as he likes, but if he smells, he’s unlikely to get a girl. On the other hand, if he smells really good, even if he’s not all that good-looking, there will be girls that sigh when he comes by.  I have seen this happen. Just ask the local FedEx guy.

We expect men to take care of themselves and look nice, and yet complain when the same is expected of us.

And I’ve always wondered why being expected to be beautiful, or being recognized for beauty, is somehow a bad thing. Sure, there are those guys who think girls only exist to look pretty, and that anything going on inside their brains or hearts is inconsequential, but those sorts of guys are the rarity these days, though it seems the beauty pageant circuit tends to cater to that sort.

I like to look pretty. While most of the time, I’m a jeans-and-t-shirt girl, my one fashion-related obsession is shoes, and I like them pretty and strappy and with heels on. And I like to dress up to have an excuse to wear those pretty shoes. I feel empowered by it, rather than objectified by it.

When I play video games, I like the fact that the character models for female characters are beautiful. In games with many varied races, you can get all sorts of beautiful. And these gorgeous characters go out there and they kick ass. They’re strong and wonderful, they’re dragonslayers and sorceresses and soldiers, but above all, they are strong. The fact that they are also beautiful does nothing to diminish that strength. This something I’ve always found rather empowering.

I also have a great love of old-school burlesque, which, yes, involves women taking off their clothes. However, it’s more about the tease than the nudity, which most of the time consists of little more than a short peak before the curtains close or the dancer dashes off stage. It’s about humor and showmanship and being comfortable in your body, which is a hard thing these days. I know it’s often been a hard thing for me.

I suppose the difference between being objectified and empowered has everything to do with the context of the situation. A woman (or man) reduced to body-parts, with no face or emotion for an advertisement, for instance, is nothing but pure object. And of course, that’s only one example.

But I’ll never be convinced that this is only a one-way thing, where women are the only ‘victims’.  Men are objectified just as often, and women pay attention to appearances just as much as men do. And never will I believe that the enjoyment of looking nice comes solely from the attention of others, sometimes it’s nice just to look in the mirror and think to yourself “Hey, I look good.”

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Terry Pratchett via last.fm

Today is a big day for geeks. First of all, and most broadly, it’s Geek Pride Day. Secondly, it’s the annual celebration of the works of Douglas Adams with Towel Day, with geeks the world over exhibiting their love of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

But all of that is just celebration and mass exhibiting of our inner geekiness. There is something geek related that is even more important today.  Today is the Glorious 25th of May, wherein fans of Terry Pratchett wear lilac on their breast to show their support of him in his struggle with Alzheimer’s, as well as to support Alzheimer’s research.

Just wearing flowers (or purple shirts, or purple towels, to combine the two events) might show a spirit of support, but it doesn’t really do anything to help people suffering from Alzheimer’s or their caregivers.

This is a cause that is close to my heart, to the point that it is difficult for me to write about without getting emotional. Alzheimer’s Disease runs in my family. All of my maternal grandmother’s sisters died suffering from some form of the disease, and she is currently in a nursing home, in the secured Alzheimer’s ward.

This is the woman who taught me how to write, and now she can barely speak a sentence. About the only understandable words she can manage now are “Yes” and “No.” But she laughs, oh how she laughs, now that she is beyond the point where she can realize what is going on in the world around her, what has happened to her.

In some ways, Alzheimer’s Disease is a disease which brings more pain to the caregivers and family than to the diseased, at least once that point is reached, where the dementia is so far progressed that the patient cannot realize their own state. My grandfather was her primary caregiver, before she went into the nursing home.  He has been fighting depression as a result of watching her in her steady decline and from the loneliness of having the woman he loves move so far away from him, and not just in a physical sense.

But she still knows him. When she doesn’t recognize anyone else, when she doesn’t know her daughters or grandchildren, she knows who he is, and he can still wring from her the biggest smiles.

The Wearing of the Lilac - for Memory

So while you’re celebrating your big geek holidays, I ask you to also put your money where your mouth is and do something that’s not just for show, that’s not just a towel over your shoulder or a flower on your lapel.  Do something that makes a real difference, no matter how small.

If you can spare a few dollars, head over to one of the Alzheimer’s research charities of your choice and give a donation today, in support of Mr. Pratchett and the many other people out there who suffer from Alzheimer’s, and the families that care for them. Do something important to celebrate your geekiness today.

UK Alzheimer’s Charities supported by Terry Pratchett:

• The RICE Centre: Terry Pratchett’s Alzheimer’s specialist, Professor Roy Jones, is the Director of this Research Institute
  http://www.rice.org.uk/
• The Alzheimer’s Research Trust: Terry Pratchett is a Patron of this leading Alzheimer’s research organization
  http://www.alzheimers-research.org.uk/
• The Alzheimer’s Society
  http://alzheimers.org.uk/site/index.php

USA Non-Profit Alzheimer’s Charities and Organizations:

• Alzheimer’s Foundation of America
• The Alzheimer’s Association
• The Fisher Center for Alzheimer’s Research

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Warning: The following post contains some adult language.

I’ve been in a bit of an ill-tempered mood this week, so I decided to put this post on the back burner overnight and come back to it to make sure it wasn’t too ranty. But no, after reading it this morning, I think it entails the proper amount of rant for the situation. I’m pissed off. Thoroughly, and with full justification.

Here’s the situation. I have health insurance. I only went without for a couple of years while I was unemployed.  I started out with really good health insurance, actually, but the company (Blue Cross Blue Shield of Georgia) raised my monthly premiums by an average of $50 on an annual basis. I tolerated it for the first few years, but over the last few the increases have been beyond what my budget can handle, and I’ve had to downgrade to a higher deductible, lower benefit plan. Even so, I stayed under the same carrier and even the same member group.

This year they increased my premiums by $60 in March. Today I got a notice that they will be increasing my monthly premium again by $60 in July.

That’s a healthcare premium increase of $120.00/month over the course of less than six months, bringing my premium up to what amounts to a week and a half’s pay.

Now . . . keep in mind that I am in what is probably the best health of my life, where I am neither starving myself as I did in high school or eating mounds and mounds of junk food as I did in college.  I eat healthy. I do an hour of high intensity exercise every day.  I haven’t been to the doctor in years except for my annual physical, which I get at a sliding fee clinic and pay for out of pocket, because over the last couple of years I’ve been forced to raise my deductible to the point where that is the only way I can afford to go.

The only thing that I have ever used my health insurance to pay for since I have had it was an eye exam and a pair of glasses.

I just did the calculations , and this means that I have paid approximately (and this is on the low end) $12,000.00 in premiums for . . . a pair of glasses.

But BCBS feels justified in raising my premium by almost $120/month over the course of less than six months.

Yeeeeah. I’m tempted to drop my insurance entirely and wait out the five years until the new healthcare regulations go into effect, but at the same time I’m terrified that in the backlash will result in a Republican Congress that will repeal and destroy the one hope I’ve had in years for decent healthcare. The free market system for healthcare doesn’t work.  I have health insurance, yes . . . but I still can’t afford to go to the doctor. True, I need it little now, but if I did need it, or goddess forbid, I had an accident of some sort and had to go to the hospital, I would be bankrupt.

Right now I’m looking into the healthcare savings plans offered through my bank, as that may be the best option for me right now.  I’ve tried free market health insurance, and all it ever did was screw me up the ass.  It’s little more than protection money.  I pay through the nose for no benefit whatsoever. It’s time to look into other options.  And I think I’ll be writing to the state insurance commissioner. A $120 increase in monthly premiums in such a short time has to raise some red flags somewhere.

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Tomorrow I’ll be thirty.

It rather surprised me, the closer I came to that number, just how not okay with it I was, how much it worried me.  Which makes me feel silly, just like I felt silly the first time I bought a bottle of wrinkle cream. Whatever happened to the girl who was going to be “cool” with getting older?

I remember when I was a kid thinking of 30 as something cool and awesome and by this point I’d have everything all figured out. Of course, it was a certainty to my 12 year old mind that by this point I would have written a bestselling novel, have a nice little cottage style hermitage full of cats and children and a wonderful man (or woman) and a horse, and I’d be all grown up.

Well, I have the cats and the man. I have a little house, and though it’s not the Thoreau-esque little cottage I used to imagine, it’s mine. I’ve written three novels, none of which have so much as seen a postage stamp for submission, though I have published a decent little stack of short stories and articles. The idea of  children is utterly terrifying, when I haven’t quite figured out how to take care of myself yet, and I would think that knowing how to take care of myself would be a job requirement for that. It should be, anyway. It is, for me. My mom did manage to force some responsibility into me somewhere. Maybe it’s near my spleen, wherever that is.

So I’m not where I thought I would be by now, back when I was a kid . . . but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Back then the world was all sunshine and everything was easy. I’ve not lost my rose-colored glasses, but I have learned that I have to make them fit, and sometimes that requires stepping up to the fight to make the world the way those glasses say it should be.

I know myself now, as best anyone ever can, I suppose. I’ve given up the teenage trying-on-of-labels after realizing that none of them really fit me or anyone, really, and that distilling yourself to fit a narrow label just forces you to block out a lot of other really neat things.  Instead of the labels I used to wear, I’ve instead begun to express myself in things that I like, many of them completely and utterly contradictory, and I actually revel in the contradictions. I’ll readily admit to being a ‘geek,’ but even that is a label that, as broad as it might be, it is still too narrow to encompass everything that I am or like or do. I’m still often subject to existential anxiety (as this post will attest). I still wonder why I’m here and what purpose I have, but the answers to those questions are determined less by the expectations or assumptions of other people than what I feel is right within myself, even if, sometimes, the world wants to tell me otherwise.

Is that what grown-up means? Maybe. Maybe not.  I definitely know I don’t want to be twenty again . . . or, goddess forbid, go through the hell that was high school. Maybe sometime in the next fifty or sixty years, I’ll finally figure out the answers.

Or maybe I just won’t grow up at all.

My Boobquake Guinea Pigs

So today is Boobquake 2010, the great scientific experiment to see if, in fact, immodest women can cause earthquakes.

You see, this Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi, a senior Iranian cleric, has this theory. It goes something like this:

“Many women who do not dress modestly … lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which (consequently) increases earthquakes,”

And, well, since there are a great many female skeptics and scientists out there, and we all come well equipped, as it were, to test this theory, Jen McCreight over at the Blag Hag (who I adore!) proposed that we do so.  She put a call out for women to gather together in a day of Immodest Behavior, pulling out our wonderbras and v-necks to see if, in fact, we can cause an earthquake by the Showing Of The Boobs. (Facebook Event Page: http://bit.ly/bMxo11)

So, in the nature of true scientific inquiry, I have pulled out my best bra, and my most low-cut (and yet still appropriate for work) blouse, and am donating my heaving bosom to the cause.  If, in fact, this sudden increase in exposed cleavage today also comes with earthquakes and horrible destruction, we will know that this cleric was indeed correct in his assumption that Boobs Cause Earthquakes.

Really, I’m not expecting any major earthshaking to happen in my little world today . . . the BF is at work an hour away after all . . . but I am doing my level best to ensure that this is a properly conducted experiment. Perhaps later in the evening, I will even put on a tight tank top and go for a run, to see if jiggling them about has any bearing on whether it is earthquake worthy cleavage or not.

This test, of course, is of a sort that works best the more women get involved, so unbutton another button, put on that low-cut and slightly too tight sweater or t-shirt,  and show the world just how powerful a woman can be!

I expect at least an 8.0 on the Richter Scale by the end of the day!

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The Tenth and Eleventh Doctors together on the TARDIS (Matt Smith & David Tennant)

To say I’ve been crazy busy lately would be an understatement. I’ve got Script Frenzy going on, and it’s going well. I’m actually close to hitting that 100 page mark (though the script will probably go a bit past that).  Work’s been crazy busy, which is a good thing. See, I work for an attorney who deals primarily in real estate, so when the real estate market died, our business pretty much died with it.  The fact that our business has suddenly gone crazy busy is a good indicator that the economy’s beginning to come back.

This, of course, is a good thing for everyone. But with my days spent scurrying around the office trying to Get Things Done and my nights spent clacking away at the computer on my script, I haven’t been able to fit in my usual blogging schedule.

Which is a bit sad, because some awesome things have happened while I’ve been away from the blog working on my silly script.

First of all, the new Doctor Who premiered. You all know that I am particularly fond of David Tennant, but Matt Smith has taken up the mantle of the Doctor even better than I could have hoped.  He had me hooked at the custard-and-fish-fingers.  If that first episode was a test – a “Can I believe this new kid is the Doctor?” test – he passed it with flying colours. And I’m hoping that his tenure will be another long one, like Baker’s or Tennant’s, because when you get right down to it, well, the Doctor doesn’t really have many regenerations left, if they’re going to stick to the Time Lords Have 13 Lives rule.

For some even better news, Obama has extended healthcare rights to gay partners, allowing visitation rights and forcing hospitals to recognize the rights of same-sex partners as next-of-kin. This should (hopefully) end one of the worst problems facing same-sex partners, something that has kept even those with the proper documentation (healthcare powers-of-attorney, etc.) from being able to be with their loved ones during their most difficult times. There is more that needs to be done, of course. There’s always more that needs to be done, but this is a big, important, and very needed step in the right direction.

So there’s my update! I haven’t forgotten about my blog, and I’m not being lazy (anything but!) – but hopefully I’ll be able to get back to my normal schedule once Script Frenzy is over.

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I love springtime.  For those of you who don’t know, I live in South Georgia, well known for long, drawn out summers that rival the ninth circle of Hell, except Hell’s a little cooler and has lower humidity.  Our winters here also aren’t so much cool as dreary, and this year’s has been one non-stop rainshower. Neither our summers nor our winters are particularly conducive to pleasant outdoor activities. No matter how much anyone loves the great outdoors, it’s hard to have fun outside when the air feels so thick and hot that it’s a struggle to breathe.

But spring is lovely. It’s still cool enough outside to enjoy going out and going for walks, smelling the roses, enjoying the flowering dogwood trees.  It’s always about this time of year that I get the urge to get outside into that sunshine that hasn’t yet turned into something to escape from. Generally, along with that desire for sunshine comes a desire for growing things.

I’m a farmer’s granddaughter on both sides.  Though my mother never had much desire for digging in the dirt (that was usually something she sent me to do, when necessary), I enjoy it a great deal, especially this time of year. I usually plant some lettuces and leafy greens to keep myself and my bearded dragon in salads for the summer, and I have several patches of planted herbs that come back every summer regardless of if I replant or not. (Herbs, with their weedy heritage, are excellent for that…)

I fully intend on getting as much outside time as I can manage before the heat of summer sets in. Perhaps this weekend I can get my little garden prepared for new plants.

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When I was growing up, it was a fairly common thing to see girls going to the prom together when they didn’t have a date – or when all of the prospective dates simply didn’t measure up.  They’d go as couples, they’d go as groups, they’d dance together rather than sit on the sidelines.  I know of at least one straight girl who came to the prom in a tux.

But if that girl is a lesbian, and the girl she’s going with is her girlfriend, and the school would rather cancel the prom entirely than allow lesbians to take part in a time-honored right of passage like the prom.

In the case of young Constance McMillan, it is perhaps fortunate that she is fairly well-versed as an activist, and knew just what to do and which channels to pursue to get the ACLU involved. Now, she’s fighting not just for the opportunity to go to the prom with her date of choice, but for the entire student body to have a prom at all.

Meanwhile, the school officials are trying to put together a “private” prom where they can exclude whomever they might wish without getting sued.  This reminds me all too much of a tradition that is, unfortunately, still common where I live where there’s a school prom that everyone gets to go to, and a private prom that only the white kids get to go to.  It’s not right. It’s sanctioned segregation, regardless of the minority being left out.

I’m proud of Constance McMillen for standing up for her rights like she’s done. She’s bound to be getting a lot of abuse from the student body for being the reason their prom was canceled, but she’s become a hero to so many more in the last few weeks.  We need more activists like her.

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I’m going this afternoon to pick up my new car, a spiffy 2010 Toyota Corolla that I’m getting an excellent deal on. I’m a bit of a nervous wreck.

See, the last car I bought, I bought while I was still in college/grad school, and my grandfather did everything short of actually signing the papers for me. He found the car, did all of the bargaining, talked to the bank about getting me a loan, etc. etc.

This time, but for my mom conferring with a friend of hers at another Toyota dealership, I did most of the shopping around myself. I researched cars, I figured out what I wanted, how much I could afford, all that nice stuff.  My mom and boyfriend went with me to the dealership Saturday for moral support (and to help me ask the right questions when I get all shy and tongue-tied), and I’ve been offered a really great deal.

So, this time tomorrow, I will be the owner of a brand-new shiny automobile. Eeek!

And on that note: Does anyone want to buy a hard-driven Galapagos Green 2003 Honda Civic? I happen to have a spare.

Occasionally, I hear despair about how horrible the world is, how filled with bigotry and hate, how so many people are more interested in reviling others for their differences rather than embracing them for their uniqueness.

People don’t like change. As Terry Pratchett’s benevolent dictator, Patrician Vetinari said, “‘They think they want good government and justice for all, Vimes, yet what is it they really crave, deep in their hearts? Only that things go on as normal and tomorrow is pretty much like today.”

This is why big, revolutionary changes never go over very easily. For big changes, it takes fighting and protests and arguing and, yes, revolutions. Sometimes it seems like everyone gets so bogged down in the arguing that there can never be any change, that people can never change, and things can never get better.

But you have to take stock of the small victories, the things that have happened quietly and slowly, without much notice from anyone. The changes for the better that sneak up and whisper in such little ways that people accept without question, because they’re so small that people barely realize anything has changed at all.

Today I saw two young men walking through a store holding hands.  They couldn’t have been more than high-school age, and they did this as if it was no big deal, rather than the declaration of defiance and rebellion that it would have been for anyone my age. To be out-of-the-closet, much less to be seen holding hands and being affectionate with one of your own sex in public, would have been unheard of in my area when I was in high school.

What a difference in the space of a decade. I wanted to cheer them on, thank them for being so brave, to do such a thing in what is still, at least here, a very hostile public. So simple, holding hands – unless you’ve experienced being told that you can’t, that it’s wrong, that you’re wrong for being what you are.

The changes between age-groups and generations was just as evident with the election of President Obama. It was a great victory for equality, with this first black president, but the youth and children being interviewed about it almost universally seemed to be shrugging and saying “So what?” It’s not a big deal. They’re the beginning of true color-blindness.

These aren’t symptoms of apathy, of a “don’t care” attitude, but children and teenagers who never thought that such a thing was near-to-impossible, who never thought that they had to hide who they are or risk everything, who it never occurred to to be afraid of being different.

These are small victories in the way people think about the world and each other, small victories that are barely noticed. It means that there is progress. That people can change. That bigotry and hate can be conquered, even if in small steps.