Hugs Twisty! Whaa?
Well, Twisty may be orbiting some distant star in a talking robot ship that makes her margaritas and tacos, but her fan mail continues to pour in here in Cottonmouth County. The post office at Rattlesnake is swamped, and are thinking of giving her her own zip code. This would be a symbolic gesture, of course, since Rattlesnake’s only settlement is Spinster Aunt HQ at El Rancho Deluxe, and we already have our own zip code.
However, there is neither snail mail nor Internet on Obstreperon (it became obsolete once the natives evolved giant, throbbing omniscient brains), so Twisty is obliged to correspond via subspace vacuum tubes. One such tube arrived this morning. To wit:
“It is a pleasure to reprint this communiqué from blamer T. Daniels, who steeled up her huevos and took blaming from Internet Feminist Theory to real-life praxis.
I would just like to write you a quick note of appreciation and thanks for inadvertently pushing me to stand up for myself against my heathen bloke-manager. I’m 23 years old, I work at an NHS a nursing home in the UK and have recently reported one of my senior colleagues for indecent behaviour towards me. He has made remarks about my appearance (and other members of female staff) and I decided I could no longer stand his low level harassment. Whereas previously I would’ve just brushed his comments off and dealt with my humiliation and embarrassment in silence I know now how important it is to not feel like I’m suffering from delusions of persecution and get this guy done. I feel that without the ammunition your writing has given me I would never have had the confidence to report this arsehole.
Thanks awfully and long live IBTP!
Several years ago, while I was taking a shower, I listened to cult figurine Sarah Vowell on the radio. That I was taking a shower at the time has no bearing on the story, but I am compelled to include this detail because it amazes and infuriates me that I can remember such a trivial minutia ten years later, but that really consequential stuff — what were my father’s last words to me? What is the recipe for that stuffed summer squash thing I used to make all the time in the 90’s? How many liters in a hectare? — these memories and so many more, all dusky ephemera that fluttered briefly in my glistening lobe and are no more. The aging spinster’s mind, once a vigorous, shining, athletic muscle, is now a soupy sponge that someone has thrown into a colander to drain.
So Sarah Vowell — who, despite her “concessions” to Beauty2K-Compliance (lipstick and high heeled shoes) has been called a “curmudgeon” by Bitch magazine — was on the radio in my bathroom in 1998, doing that humorous piece on her Goth makeover. You know the piece: she adopts the Goth name “Becky” and is celebrated by her Goth tutors as having “skipped a couple of levels and gone straight to pink.”
T.Daniels, you remind me of this. You have skipped a couple of blaming levels — i.e. hanging around on the blog, describing your unique relationship with your Nigel, correcting other blamers, engaging in call-out-pile-on mania — and gone straight to actual Feminism: fucking doin’ sommat what actually means sommat.
They might try to beat you into submission, demand concessions, minimize the harassment. Stay burly, T.Daniels. Letters like yours are what keep me from ripping my own head off. Thank you. I hope you apprise me of the outcome of your action. And if you know a recipe for stuffed summer squash, by all means lay it on me.
P.S. On behalf of Jill, thanks to the Blametariat for all the kind internet condoling re: Zippy. She was indeed that once-in-a-lifetime dog.”