Okay, not the whole country, but the Swedes continue to kick the rest of the world’s ass in terms of making gender equality a central issue. On the extreme edge of a wholly worthwhile effort comes news of a young Swedish couple who have raised their child, “Pop”, gender-free, refusing to reveal the sex of the two-and-a-half-year-old. Pop is allowed to wear dresses or pants, play with whatever toys Pop chooses, and is not referred to by either masculine or feminine pronouns. As AOL reports:
Back in March, the parents gave an interview to the Svenska Dagbladet newspaper, saying they decided not to reveal their child’s sex because they believe gender is a social construction.
“We want Pop to grow up more freely and avoid being forced into a specific gender mold from the outset,” said the child’s mother, “Nora.” (The paper used fake names for the entire family to protect their privacy.)
“It’s cruel to bring a child into the world with a blue or pink stamp on their forehead,” the mother said.
Predictably, a lot of people think this is a terrible idea and potentially long-term damaging to the child. I’m not so sure. First off, Pop’s well-meaning parents say that Pop’s sex will be revealed when Pop decides that it is time, and seem to accept that this will likely be at school-age when social pressures dictate. They’re not enforcing a gender-free lifestyle on a kid going through puberty. (more…)
Even though we get the Financial Times at work, I don’t generally pick it up for a browse, which is a shame because a supplement laying in reception caught my eye today, and seemed worth sharing. Here’s what I decided to ostentatiously flick through on the bus on my way home, occasionally murmuring, “indeed, indeed” in earshot of other passengers:
With less than 4,000 yachts in the world, it seems like, I dunno, those actually involved in yacht-building, yacht-buying, yacht-racing, and yacht-cruising could, I don’t know, just get their yacht news in a special yacht magazine. It sort of seems like the rest of us non-billionaire plebes don’t need to pick up an FT Wealth that boasts the headline:
Damage control: As the financial crisis sparks anger and envy, how can the wealthy protect their image and privacy?
The shipbuilding industry is a huge one and employs a lot of people globally (particularly in the UK, Caspian, Middle East, and Southeast Asia), but that’s a little subheader up there that’s hard to get behind (you can read the actual article here, if you’re interested in the trials of the super-rich).
I actually found it more humorous than embittering, and a funny little portal into a world that bears little resemblance to my day-to-day existence. For those of us on the outside looking in, it’s hard to work up a sad face about the prospect of people being forced to time-share their yachts. But I guess everybody’s got problems.
So my son’s been gone a week and while yes, I miss him, I must admit there are some delightful pleasures about living completely on your own, without even the chance of a friend dropping by unexpectedly.
1. Laundry once a week.
2. The ability to eat any of the following for supper whenever you want: a hunk of cheese and some olives, a bowl of honeycrisp applesauce, one sausage with a bowl of cherry tomatoes, a bowl of raisin bran, a pot of steamed brussels sprouts.
I am quite certain it wouldn’t have gone over so well with my teenaged boy if, when asking what’s for dinner, I replied: “A handful of almonds and some dried apricots. With maybe a hard-boiled egg.”
3. The ability to walk around naked and do housework naked.
4. The ability to blast Ryan Adams and/or Wilco for hours on end, without the plea: “Can you please put something else on or at least hit shuffle??” Ditto: dancing to A Tribe Called Quest for hours in the living room
5. No demands to fix the XBox, the laptop, the cellphone, the PC, the microwave, the TV, the remote, etc.
It’s really not been as traumatic as I expected, but even so, I wish he’d hurry home. I miss having him around although it’ll be quite some time before I miss making the same five dinners for him night after night after night.
I love my friend Stacy. We have been pals since childhood, despite some of her serious eccentricities that I won’t go into here but let’s just say I can no longer travel with her due to the many neuroses.
But Stacy is a stunning, drop-dead gorgeous woman. She is smart and funny and fit and compassionate and a good, loyal friend. My whole life I have been completely overshadowed by her sheer physical beauty — guys didn’t even see me when she was around. And yet I had more boyfriends, more dates and more proposals. Why? Because Stacy is a terrible game-player when it comes to dating. Everything is over-analyzed and strategized. She is constantly fretting about men and how to play them, even if they simply approach her to say hello. She has rules about when to call, how to act, what to do that has ended up sabotaging every decent relationship she ever had. At 45, she is alone, unhappy because she always wanted children, and involved with a married man who treats her like shit. (more…)
I recently saw this photo of T.I. and there was a lot of commentors who were saying that he should trim that bush yada yada but I found his shrub to be hugely erotic and I could not stop thinking about it. I know – I need to get laid yo, but I wonder – is manscaping what most women want or am I old-skool?
What say you?
kadinsky: check this pic of TI and his crotch ‘fro. Opinions on that much pube?
Tailfeather: I don’t know who this Mr. TI is, but he looks GOOD, and I am not afraid of his Bermuda. I say wear it loud and proud. Although, um, public dick-grabbing is a no-no in general.
kadinsky: is it grabbing if he’s offering? I say no, there is another pic to go with this one that shows him damn near taking his pants off. I don’t mind a slightly unruly nappy dugout but that shit looks long enough to floss with. or braid a rug.
Trixie: There was also that recent EW cover or Ryan Reynolds looking really hairy and it was hot as hell. I am FOR. I like men to be manly and that means hairy. I am against all this waxing shit.
kadinsky: Panda likes the girly men, I bet she is a NAY.
BiscuitDoughJones: Actually, I’m for it.
A) nothing is as gross/creepy as a dude who shaves or waxes. I’ve been unfortunate enough to snag 2 guys who regularly bald-ified themselves down below. It’s no coincidence that both of them mentioned how they thought that ‘scaping made the junk look bigger (it didn’t). Uh, and the stubble down there hurts like hell.
B) The funny thing about pretty boys is that they have no hair anywhere, not on the chest, arms, even legs – but you take off the pants and a lot of times there is a giant power bush. It’s fucking funny. And kind of cute. Like, most dudes I’ve known haven’t been ‘scapers I think because it’s the only upfront sign of virility they have, so they must nurture it. Or something.
I remember be-boppin’ along to this in the early nineties and always found it catchy. Today I caught it on satellite on my way in to work, and with the sun shining (finally) accompanied by a relatively good hair day, it’s put me in a good mood.
As always, I want to know what you’re jamming to today, hit the comments! (Amoreuse, you always have something good).
Today I packed my kids up and kissed them goodbye and sent them to Toronto for eight weeks with their Dad. Of course, I have become accustomed to the separation from my 18-year-old daughter; she left for a faraway university last fall and was only here for a brief visit before starting her summer job back in Canada. It was painful and sad but it was made slightly less horrific because of my son’s continued presence in my nest.
But I have not been apart from him for more than a week his entire life, and no more than a handful of nights since we moved here.
I must confess I thought it would be liberating to have the house and my life to myself for eight weeks, but instead, after he hugged me good-bye and they drove off, I felt a sort of low-level panic at the idea of being separated from him, and totally childless for the first time in almost 19 years.
What will I do with myself? Who will I talk to, other than the cats??? (DING DING DING — crazy cat lady alarm bells ringing!!!) Who will I cook for? Will I even bother cooking? Will I only do laundry once a week? Who will I rush home to? What will I do when he’s not shrieking from the basement for me to come and kill a bug (he has some serious issues with bugs, and they grow ‘em big here)?
I am going to be relieved when eight weeks is up, and I am seriously dreading when he goes off to university too.
If anyone had ever told me that when I moved to D.C., I would encounter a wonderland of wildlife, I would have never believed them.
But see this deer? She’s living in my backyard and has eaten all my hostas.
And see this wild mare and her little foal? They live on Assateague Island on the Maryland shore, a really amazing spot with big sand-dune beaches and 200 wild horses that are surprisingly docile. This foal nuzzled me and her mother couldn’t have cared less and yes, I clutched this fluffy little angel to my bosom and cooed “sweet little horsey baby” at him.
And every night at dusk, when I look out at my backyard, it looks like it’s on fire because there are hundreds and hundreds of fireflies hovering over the grass. I have had no luck capturing the image on film but it fascinates the cats, who just sit and stare in wonderment as though they’ve just eaten shrooms.
Since we’re always looking for new ways to kill twenty minutes of our work days staring at some newly discovered piece of internet inanity, I thought I’d hook you up with TextsFromLastNight.com.
It’s not particularly original, and probably functions similarly to a Twitter feed (I wouldn’t know – my Twitter boycott remains intact). Some of them are falsified, certainly, but some of them are all-too-familiar, and I am no stranger to the perils of late-night texting.
The basic idea is that people submit parts of text message conversations to the site, and the site owners explain their goal: “the funniest texts are those we can all relate to… without the context of the conversation.” I agree, and tend to save the best/most-ill-advised texts from my friends on my own phone for blackmailing entertainment purposes, so I’m happy to read other people’s, such as:
(919): so I was just driving high and I stopped to let a pinecone cross the road because I thought it was a hedgehog.
(850): Are they still out there making out on the couch? How can we get them to leave?
(850): I ‘m gonna go stand naked in the kitchen with a knife
(330): I don’t know where I am but the food in the fridge is awesome.
(502): I just got really nervous and swallowed all of my birth control
(201): she offered me iced tea and went to go change.then her dad came in the door.i thought i was on how to catch a predator.
Like, seriously? If I was a situational comedy writer I would be mining this site for gold. Oh, yeah: Leave your favorites in the comments. ;)
Last night I suffered through 28mins of Joe ‘I Will Always Be In My Daddy’s Shadow’ Buck’s live show on HBO. (Yes, I know how you feel and weed is great for nausea, pass it on). And for my trouble, I got to hear my #1 Big Daddy Brett Favre telling me how entirely unimportant all the hoopla surrounding him is, and he’s right. I don’t think I’m even mad, that laconic drawl of his makes it all so blase. He basically said his past achievements and record breakers will always be just that, that it’s only football, that it would be a good fit for both his skills and his goals (to play in MN), that time heals all…..and that if Vince Lombardi did it, so can he. (Hello ballsy!)
And really, who can fuckin’ argue with that? Playing for the Queens will give Favre the one thing he’s never had, an all star running back and a dominant defense at the same time.
But still, it doesn’t feel right and it makes me sad. There are not many things I can’t find a way to handle, but watching my Big Daddy play in a purple jersey is one of them. Le sigh.
But one thing is for certain – without a doubt, no question, hells to the yes and fo’ sho’ – Joe Buck needs to be taken off the air immediately, for the love of god, people! There are whole wings of decrepit, drugged up seniors and legions of dinner theater patrons just begging for someone of Mr.Buck’s wit and timing to drag them to their excruciating deaths. Go, Joe! No really, Joe, GO.
The only entertaining part of the show came after 48mins when Artie Lang starts swearing for the fuck of it and Joe launches daggers at him from his fivehead and announces that his first show has been ruined. “Please sir don’t smoke that!” And then there was a hug? Followed by the douchiest teenage snapshot ever and finally, a closing of Joe puking up words that make you want to pound his balls like they do to Bond at the end of Casino Royale. So yeah, you didn’t miss anything.
Okay, not the whole country, but the Swedes continue to kick the rest of the world’s ass in terms of making gender equality a central issue. On the extreme edge of a wholly worthwhile effort comes news of a young Swedish couple who have raised their child, “Pop”, gender-free, refusing to reveal the sex of the two-and-a-half-year-old. Pop is allowed to wear dresses or pants, play with whatever toys Pop chooses, and is not referred to by either masculine or feminine pronouns. As AOL reports:
Since we’re always looking for new ways to kill twenty minutes of our work days staring at some newly discovered piece of internet inanity, I thought I’d hook you up with 
