Monthly Archive for July, 2011

Spinster aunt dashes off some fluff, proceeds with overbooked Sunday

No time to post, but look at this, I got another head-pat from a dude!

Hello,

While I am a dude, and disagree with a lot of your worldview, I’d like to let you know I really enjoy reading your blog. You’re a very good writer and your posts are entertaining and thought-stimulating. Please keep up the good work — there is a paucity of actual quality content in the blogosphere, and I daresay that you’re propping up the mean.

When women write me, they never, ever tell me that I am “a very good writer” and to “keep up the good work” because there isn’t enough decent writing on the Internet. Women say things like “that post on consent changed my life,” or “Now I know I’m not alone/crazy/hysterical.”

Dudes, on the other hand, always feel compelled to inform me that they disagree with me (this is a non-negotiable component of dude fan mail), but that they are nevertheless are willing to be entertained by me. They usually include a couple of 25-cent words, like “daresay” and “paucity.” “Keep up the good work” is another essential element. Thanks for the dudely encouragement, dude! Because I was totally thinking about packing up shop and opening up a pole dancing studio at Whole Foods.

UPDATE (or, perhaps, DOWNDATE): I wrote a much better post on this topic last year, back when I was smarter and there were more patriarchy-blaming hours in the day. The Hanging Chads of Savage Death Island. This post is better because it’s more long-winded, and also because at the end it explains how feminist revolt will make pornography obsolete. Thanks to MaryK and AlienNumber for reminding me of it.

Bad mothers get paid

Every so often the Internet at Spinster HQ gets stuck. Right now it’s stuck on the CNN website. Note the woman-free character of today’s “Top stories.”

However, the public appetite for shaming women-gone-wrong is like my appetite for ceviche tacos: ravenous! So, although women are only rarely “Top”, they are always — what else? — “Entertainment.” In today’s CNN entertainment stories, bad mothers figure pretty prominently. They figure prominently because they’re broke on accounta they’re such bad mothers, and CNN is willing either to pay them to perform their bad motherhood on TV, or to pay somebody else to pimp their bad motherhood on TV.

• One of the all-time greatest Bad Mothers is Nadya Suleman, the so-called “Octomom” who controversially gave birth to octuplets in 2009 as the result of fertility treatments. Suleman was reviled — whereas someone like serial preggster Michelle Duggar, who has about 157 children, is celebrated with her own reality show — because she was single, broke, perhaps a bit unstable, and already had six kids.

With no steady income and expenses of over $18,000 a month, Suleman has struggled to get by raising her children. She has previously hosted a yard sale at her La Habra, California, home to deal with the hardship, and had reportedly signed on to be on the HDNet reality TV show “Celebridate.”

And now, Suleman said she is grateful for money she gets from media interviews, especially with overseas outlets.

She also claims to have received “hundreds of death threats,” some targeting her children, as well as a few female stalkers.

“I am hated in my hometown,” she said.

Suleman is still in the news because she recently appeared on TV to denounce her fertility doctor. The doctor has apparently lost his license for perpetrating “gross negligence” against Suleman when he implanted buttloads of embryos in her. This sterling character allegedly drugged her prior to her signing the buttload-of-embryos consent forms.

The State of California knows how many embryos may be implanted in a poor, unmarried, perhaps a bit unstable woman who already has six kids: less than eight. How many kids can a devoted Christian wife with a non-Arab-sounding name can give birth to? Let’s just let God decide.

• Acquitted Bad Mother Casey Anthony is still in the news, this time because icky mofo pornographer Larry Flynt has offered her half a million bucks to pose nude in his icky mofo pornography magazine. Apparently, “there are men who wanna see her in her birthday suit.”

In “droves.”

CNN would like it to be as controversial as possible for Anthony to accept TV and publishing money. She’s a name brand baby killer, and there are big, if fleeting, bucks to be made in exploiting her, sexploiting her, and sensationalizing her.

“Do you think Casey Anthony should take one of these offers? Should these offers have been made in the first place? “

Well why the heck not? She’s broke, right? Even acquitted bad mothers with personality disorders need to eat. Compensating her for sensationalizing her shame is the least the media can do, since they turned her into Public Spectacle Number 1 for three years.

Shit like this is why I laugh and laugh every Mother’s Day.

What fresh old hell is this?

I thought I’d heard it all when it comes to the fine tradition of loving mothers forced by sicko patriarchal culture to inflict unspeakable sex-related tortures on their daughters for their own good, but I was wrong. I most regretfully bring you breast ironing.

When I saw the headline “Breast ironing tradition in Cameroon” I thought, “that can’t mean breast ironing.” But at the same time I knew it did mean breast ironing. Because “breast ironing” sounds like something just fucked-up enough to be a tradition: women try to stunt their teen kids’ breast growth with these hot pokers so they don’t get knocked up.

Every morning before school, nine-year-old Terisia Techu would undergo a painful procedure. Her mother would take a burning hot pestle straight out of a fire and use it to press her breasts.

With tears in her eyes as she recalls what it was like, Terisia tells CNN that one day the pestle was so hot, it burned her, leaving a mark. Now 18, she is still traumatized.

Her mother, Grace, denies the incident. But she proudly demonstrates the method she used on her daughter for several weeks, saying the goal was to make her less desirable to boys — and stave off pregnancy.

A study found that one in four girls in Cameroon have been affected by the practice.

There is apparently some effort underway to initiate the use of sex ed, rather than red-hot pestles, to “stave off pregnancy.” I’m pretty sure that if they ironed their son’s dicks instead it would achieve the desired result.

This TV ad is also puke

Summer’s Eve — the douche subsidiary of Fleet Laboratories, the company that makes enemas and other crap you stick up your ass — has a new spokesfist. According to this fist, which talks by thumb-synching to a voiceover, it can “perform the miracle of birth” and “make men drop to their knees in about 2.1 seconds”. It’s time, says the fist, that “we all celebrate and hail to the V!”

That’s right. The fist is a humorous stand-in for a vulva, which collection of organs is, as we all know, too flippin ugly to show on the internet unless it is being violently penetrated by something. “V” doesn’t stand for “vulva,” though. Its stands for “stinky ladypart.” Just as “hail” means “spray cheap perfume on that rank shit.”

You know what, thank the lard for advertising. They’ve got our back. They’re not afraid to light a fire under our complacent ass and foment revolution whenever it’s finally “time” for stuff. A while back, you might remember, it was “time” to get real about toilet paper. Now it’s “time” to “hail the V,” which we only know thanks to Summer’s Eve. Without this consciousness-raising ad campaign, we probably would have continued walking around like a bunch of hairy primates, not spraying any shit-o on our vulva at all. But I digress.

I was not expecting the spokesfist when I looked up the Summer’s Eve website. I was trying to find their current TV commercial. Though spokesfist-free, the commercial is nevertheless a fairly vile tableau in which the concept “woman” is reduced entirely to the concept “vagina” in a series of expensively produced cinematic spectacles designed to sell vulva deodorant. This woman-to-sex-organ reduction is no harmless synecdoche. The message, in no uncertain terms, is that your “V” — because it is the “center of civilization” and “men have died for it” — belongs to the world, that you are essentially nothing more than the guardian of this “V”, and that it is your obligation to keep it perfumed for the greater good.

Yeah, this ad is bad, but the website is several orders of magnitude more abhorrent. It is, in fact, so profoundly patronizing, insulting, and absurd, we here at Spinster HQ blew several lobes in succession within 4 clicks. I mean, there’s a spokesfist, for crissake. Which, although it is more closely analogous to a vulva, they keep referring to as a “vagina.” Or “The V.” Which they want you to “hail” by purchasing carcinogenic products to squirt all over it.

So I took the “V 101 Quiz,” where the spokesfist reassured me not to feel bad if I got any answers wrong, because “even I [the spokesfist] got one wrong the first time, and I’m a vagina!”. What a stupid fucking spokesfist.

When I got to the “Vagina Owner’s Manual”, wherein the spokesfist explains to the dimwitted human how to shop for feminine hygiene products, I read this:

March right down that aisle, head held high, grab whatever product you’re looking for (there’s plenty from Summer’s Eve to choose from), and place it on top of everything else in your cart. Don’t hide it! Heck, choose the checkout lane where the hottie is working and get your flirt on.

Yeah, “I’m buying coochie spray, doesn’t it just make you wanna fuck me?”

You understand that I can no longer form coherent sentences on the subject.

TV ad is puke

Whenever I accidentally ingest poison and need to induce vomiting in a hurry, I watch a TV commercial for a beauty product. Recently, none* has been as efficient in producing instapuke as this ad for Mederma stretch mark remover.

Navel-gazing as beauty ritual

The commercial features attractive young women in underwear and fuzzy socks. Light, fluffy “la la la” soundtrack. The women childishly, gigglingly give us a quick peek at their young thighs and tum-tums. Their body movements, expressions of wide-eyed innocence, and fascination with their own navels recall very young children. Not regular children, though. These are young, sexy children performing a peep show. Seriously, these women’s relationship to the camera is precisely that of a 5-year-old to whom creepy Uncle Ernie has said “show Uncle Ernie your wee-wee,” where the 5-year-old is not a real 5-year-old, but a pedophile’s fantasy 5-year-old who likes to seduce grown men.

I urge you to watch the vid (embedded in the afore-linked-to page) and do the regender thing in your head. Imagine a straight dude in fetching spandex hip-huggers lifting up his shirt, bending over, and giggling like mad at the sight of his own adorable stomach.

The childified woman is a prominent archetype in the Beauty Industrial Complex. Infantilization is a major component of femininity. See leg-shaving, head-tilting, sexy schoolgirl porn, pinkification, the dumb blonde, the ubiquity of the phrase “women and children” (American version). See driving ban, ownership by male family members, arranged marriage, hardcore restrictions on education, employment, and legal rights (“Over There” versions).

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* Well, almost none. Next: an even more horrible commercial for a douche product. You aren’t gonna believe this shit!

Photo from Mederma website

Note to blamers contemplating using annoying baby talk (e.g. “widdle”) in their comments: you will be spamulated.

From the No Shit, Sherlock Dept.

I hope you’re sitting down, because you’re going to be shocked, shocked at the totally unexpected results of this study on crime and prostitution:

Men who pay for sex are more likely than non-buyers to commit a variety of offenses, including violent crimes against women, according to research conducted in the Boston area.

I know, right? It seems impossible! I mean, as the liberal dudes are always telling us deluded, unfunny, hairy harridans, prostitution and pornography are awesome! It’s a victimless crime, a harmless way for regular guys to do what comes naturally according to their evolutionary destiny. Also, prostitution and pornography empower women! Seriously, those bitches are laughing all the way to the bank!

And yet, here are these pornsick johns (or, as Reuters quaintly refers to them, “buyers of commercial sex”), roaming the city of Boston, committing felonies and assaulting women left and right. It’s almost as if there’s a relationship between violence and misogyny!

For example, significantly fewer sex buyers, 47 percent against 70 percent, reported that they were taught about respect for women in sex education classes.

Almost three in four of the sex buyers reported they learned about sex from pornography, whereas only 54 percent of the non-buyers did so.

The two groups also held significantly different attitudes regarding whether prostitution was consenting sex or exploitation. Men who bought sex were significantly less empathetic toward women working as prostitutes.

But sex buyers “seemed to justify their involvement in the sex industry by stating their belief … that women in prostitution were intrinsically different from non-prostituting women,” the study’s authors said.

And my very favorite:

Sex buyers often commented that they liked the power relationship intrinsic to prostitution.

Well knock me over with a feather.

Discuss.

A bit of lighthearted fun

This morning I am delighted to take the opportunity to bloviate on the notion of consent as it pertains to the sex class in a male-dominated society. As longtime readers are painfully aware, I trot this topic out for an airing semi-annually, because nothing says “patriarchy isn’t just some dull academic idea; it actually obtains in your most real life, girlfriend” like the notion that our social order renders consensual sex between straight people impossible.

Today’s excuse for the Consent Lecture is a discussion that erupted on a recent post. Let’s join it where blamer Jezebella says to blamer yttik:

“Are you suggesting that any woman who has consensual PIV sex, even with contraception, is a victim of…. what? disrespect? Really?”

To which yttik replies:

“Darn right I am. The majority of men don’t even begin to comprehend the health risk, indeed, even the potential death to a woman, that creating a pregnancy can cause. If inserting my penis into somebody’s vagina had the potential impact of causing something as minor as a root canal, I’d make sure I was a whole lot more careful on account of her biological vulnerability and the potential harm I could cause. In fact, if men could get pregnant, causing one an unwanted pregnancy would probably be viewed as criminal negligence.”

To which Jezebella, now exasperated, rejoins:

“Oh, fer fecks’ sake, it is absurd to posit that all women who engage in consensual PIV sex are victims of some dude’s rapey disrespect. Give me a break, lady.”

To which I say, check the weather reports in Hell, because I think I’m sort of agreeing with yttik.

For it is the stated position of the Savage Death Island Chapter of Spinster Aunts International that, in a patriarchy, “consensual sex” (between women and dudes) doesn’t even exist. This is because, in a patriarchy, agency is not conferred equally upon women and dudes. This untoward circumstance creates a contingency wherein the notion of consent is, for women, entirely non-substantive, a figment, a desperate fantasy invented to obscure the true nature of women’s status as the sex class. The true nature of our status as the sex class is, by the way, that we are imprisoned in a rape continuum. This continuum ranges from the “voluntary” performance of femininity (which quantifies women’s usefulness to men), to compulsory heterosexuality (which ensures availability to men), to pornography (which eroticizes inequality), to violent sexual assault (which is at the apex of the Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women).

Wait. What?

The issue of consent — or, more precisely, the idea that women are considered by both custom and law to abide in a persistent state of always having given consent — is the absolute crux, nub, hub, axis, polestar, and epicenter of women’s oppression. The thing is, women can’t freely give consent because women can’t freely withhold it. “Consent” is a meaningless concept in the context of women’s reality.

In a patriarchy, women are, at essence, considered to be giant vaginas with the word “YES” stamped all over’em in red. Because of the sex-based power discrepancies inherent in our social structure, members of the sex class — that is, women — are always “yes” unless they specifically, adamantly, and in front of 3 witnesses with video cameras, say “no.” But even when “no” obtains, other (subjective and arbitrary) factors are almost always seen as mitigating it into a “yes.” Such as not saying “no” loud enough, not fighting back physically, being the dude’s girlfriend, or wearing a tight sweater.

Thus, as I have written elsewhere, “consent” in the context of bumpin’ uglies is nothing but a binding contract the terms and conditions of which exclusively describe male use of women as receptacles. As we have seen, the tactics that may be used to obtain this contract do not exclude coercion, drugs, or fraud. Once obtained, the contract is non-revocable.

Not your Nigel, though, right? It is absurd, as Jezebella suggests, to posit that all women who do it with dudes are “victims of rapey disrespect,” right?

Well, if your enlightened, feminist Nigel has never coerced you, then your Nigel, in the sweaty throes, has never said to you, when you were ready to stop, “no, wait, I’m almost there.” Or you’ve never closed your eyes and thought of England because you knew you’d hurt his feelings if you said no.

Lucky you.

But maybe you have complied in such situations, only you don’t consider those little things “coercion.” Maybe you think you were just doin’ him a solid. Letting him use you as a toilet shows how much you love him.

OK, but if one agrees that male privilege exists at all, and that this privilege is conferred upon every male person by law and custom and is his identity, and that this privilege afflicts all other aspects of human interaction, it would be nonsensical to assert that sex is the only behavior that escapes the taint. Rarely, if ever, does there saunter along a dude-paragon who never wields his privilege.

And you know one of the provisions of this privilege dictates that dudejaculation is the only natural and lawful fulfillment of the consent contract “negotiated” with a giant Yes-vagina.

The “rapey disrespect” to which Jezebella alludes may be thought of as male privilege that is brought to bear whether or not the male in question specifically intends to bring it. One aspect of this privilege is, as yttik suggests, the cavalier attitude dudes assume when it comes to pronging women. And as we have seen, privilege expressed by the privileged is experienced by the non-privileged as oppression. And often, sadly, interpreted by the non-privileged as love.

Many straight women — especially those with substantial emotional and fiscal investments in the hetero-nuclear family scenario — fling turds at this analysis because it’s so bleak they just don’t want it to be true. I feel ya, but I’m not the one asserting all this stuff. Your male supremacist culture asserts it; I’m just a lone patriarchy-blamer who happened to notice.

So if you’re bummed, let me suggest a spot of feminist revolt; it’s the only cure for patriarchy.

Spinster aunt loses train of thought, abandons essay

It is one of the bitterest, lobe-burstingest ironies of feminism that its meager success has collaterally enbiggened the opportunities of antifeminist women. Susan Faludi once pointed out that progressive women who succeed professionally often publicly give props to feminism even as they inwardly struggle with patriarchy-generated guilt and self-doubt, but that prominent right wing women do the opposite, publicly espousing antifeminist ideology to the masses while personally putting feminist principles smoothly and efficiently into practice on the DL.

Take Michele Bachmann. She hates gays and fluorescent light, and loves Jesus and compulsory pregnancy, but has no qualms whatsoever about enjoying an influential, self-determined career outside the home as she flits about the political sphere.* It’s almost as though she fancies herself a liberated woman with some personal agency. She has used the feminist springboard to swan-dive into prominence, from which spot she can proceed to gay-bash, suck up to Dude Nation, and demand constitutional amendments prohibiting abortion.

Now one hears all this absurd murmuring about Bachmann (and her creepy godmother Sarah Palin) having turned themselves officially into something called “evangelical feminists.”

You know, like Jews for Jesus, or Baby Seals for Canadian Seal Clubbers.

Apparently there really is a movement of evangelical feminists, and they’re cheesed. They appear to actually grasp the idea that women are human, so they’re voting Bachmann and Palin off their island (Women Who Ignore Biblical Misogyny Island. It’s a about a thousand nautical miles south of Savage Death Island).

“This application of the term ["evangelical feminist" to Bachmann and Palin] twists the meaning of both “evangelical” and “feminism.” It equates “evangelical” with a far right political ideology rather than its historic definition. And it equates “feminism” simply with a woman’s running for public office even though she may deny full equality and autonomy for women in other areas of life. — Letha Dawson Scanzoni, founding mother of the Biblical feminist movement

Meanwhile, actual feminism continues to gasp for breath as it gets simultaneously coopted, beaten with fundie clubs, and redefined as antifeminism by various assholes. For example, the quotation above came from this blog called Religion Dispatches, where blogger Julie Ingersoll also hipped me to the existence of Smart Girl Summit 2011.**

Smart Girl Summit 2011 will feature arch-misogynist Phyllis Schlafly, who will address “girls” (actually women, but calling them girls reassures everyone of the actual status of female adults) on the subject of how feminism threatens to destroy all life on Earth. Smart Girl Politics is an antifeminist 501(c) dedicated to nurturing misogyny in nascent conservatives by “empowering” them to “fight like a girl” for their right to cram patriarchal mores down everybody’s throat.

Uh oh. This essay had a point, but I’ve forgotten what it was, and now I gotta go to work, so I guess I’ll just leave it here flapping in the breeze. Pointless, breeze-flappin’ essays; they’re what separate the spinster aunt hacks from the responsible journalists who are paid by employers to write professional, polished, unbiased pieces on Justin Bieber or health care reform.

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* When feminist women buck the hausfrau system, it’s a different story; Bachmann’s evangelical brethren view it as “a satanic attack on the [American family].”

** How fucking patronizing is that name, “Smart Girl Summit”? Can you even imagine a conservative political action group holding a Smart Boy Summit for adult men? To teach them how to fight like a girl? Haw!

The intersectionality of menopause and male enhancement

Daily hot flash laundry pile

2:46 A.M. Sudden, overwhelming sense of despair. Blast furnace embedded under skin cranks up to eleven. Hot sweats. Uncontrollable shivers. Cold sweats. Drenched and freezing. Yelling “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Toweling off, changing clothes, changing sheets. Back to the Tempurpedic for two hours of sleepless ceiling-staring/channel-flipping.

6:30 A.M. Alarm goes off. Discombobulation commences.

[Open appeal to architects: when designing bedrooms for people who will be turning 50 or coming down with lady-cancer, kindly install an automatic espresso machine within reach of the bed. Otherwise, your client's hapless, lurching feet will become entangled, every morning when the alarm goes off at 6:30, in the giant pile of hot-flash laundry that has accumulated on the bedroom floor.]

That’s menopause!

The above has been my nightly ritual for five-and-a-half years, ever since the Cancer Industrial Complex cut out, among other organs to which I had become rather attached over the years, those dear little estrogen-generators, my ovaries. Because of the estrogen-loving nature of the cancer that occasioned my many amputations and toxic therapies, hormone replacement is not an option. This is too bad, because spinster aunts, it turns out, actually need a little estrogen, if only to prevent their going absolutely batshit from hot-flash-induced sleep deprivation.

I blame surgically-induced menopausical insomnia for my having seen an infomercial last night to which no eyes as delicate as those of a fuzz-brained spinster aunt should ever have been exposed. The producers of this infomercial might just as well have been throwing acid alien blood right in my grimacing face.

The infomercial was selling a dick-enbiggener pill. The thing that was so grippingly, vomitationally absurd about it, besides everything about it, was the slew of giggling 22-year-old pornulated chiquitas who purported to speak for all of womankind on the subject of dicks. They revealed — in “candid confessions” consisting almost entirely of the phrase “like, why even have sex if it’s, like, so small you, like, won’t even feel it?” — women’s general disgust with any dick that isn’t the size of a Mexican Coke bottle.* They all agreed that the only sorts of dudes they’ll ever want to pork are “confident” and “aggressive” men who have “grown some balls.”

Also grippingly, vomitationally absurd were the “Men’s Minute” segments, wherein a porn actor named Dr. Victoria Zdrok, speaking in an unearthly-yet-strangely-familiar accent, urges the viewer to buy the product because it was made in America out of time-tested ingredients you can trust. “Over 88% of women admit that size does matter,” quoth the good doctor heteronormatively, “and the other 12% are lying.” In the background is footage of a rocket launching.

Now, I’m not going to argue either that “size” does or doesn’t matter, as this is simply personal preference and is therefore irrelevant to the revolution and shit, and because thinking about actual you-know-whats (Dr Zdrok’s clinical term for “penis”) makes me retch. But I am going to propose two hypotheses.

One: that the idea that women universally yearn to be impaled by tireless, oversized bratwursts-of-iron attached to “aggressive” men is a myth. This myth portrays women as insatiable sex maniacs*, which in turn informs the Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women, which in turn enslaves women as the sex class. The women-as-sex-maniac myth adversely affects women in many ways, not least of which is the interference of “male enhancement” drugs with the natural attrition of the invincible peen. How many women were looking forward to a mid-life reprieve from prong-duty, only to have it snatched away by ViagraNation’s aggressive marketing of the “cure” for “erectile dysfunction”?

Two: that, even if I were a straight woman who, despite the fact that our social order has co-opted my sexuality to turn me into a receptacle for my oppressor’s incontinence, still wanted to do dudes, and even if I were one of those women whose preference for you-know-whats leaned toward something in the Macho Combo Burrito range, I would find other ways of scratching this itch than by boinking the kind of dude who would buy pills from porn stars on TV infomercials as crappy as this one was.

Not to denigrate dear old Dr Zdrok, though! After carefully analyzing her accent, I believe that, like me, she is formerly of the planet Obstreperon. Sadly, it appears that Dr Zdrok has been rather more extensively assimilated by the dude-borg than I. The obstreperal lobe bleeds for her.

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* Mexican Coke bottles are really big. I thought about using the Washington Monument as my metaphor, since it’s even bigger than a Mexican Coke bottle, but Phil says that shit’s pretty played.

** “Sex maniac” is a quaint phrase I hadn’t heard in a while, until yesterday’s TCM broadcast of the 1967 misogyny farce “Divorce American Style,” starring Debbie Reynolds and Dick Van Dyke as a star-crossed married couple. This sexist romp through mid-century marriage angst features a scene where D.V.D. and his best bud get snockered at a lingerie bar populated by models in marabou peignoirs. The best bud convinces Dick he should cheat on his wife, whereupon Dick — comically! — pays to rape a prostitute.

Photo 1: collected from this part of the Internet.

Photo 2: collected from this part of the Internet.

Spinster aunt forgets she has blog, again

I’ve just been through the comments queue and freed those of your brilliant remarks that set off the spamulator. Sorry for the delay. It’s almost as though my assistant Phil hasn’t been doing his job!

Meanwhile, about Casey Anthony: the global frenzy over her trial and acquittal says more about our culture’s obsessive sentimentalization of motherhood and its addiction to misogyny than it does about this particular little instance of adjudication. Crikey, it’s like a woman can’t even kill her kid these days without setting off a grotesque national spew codifying the precise manner in which it permissible for any mother to behave!

We can learn a thing or two about proper, Patriarchy2K-Compliant female deportment from Casey Anthony’s mistakes. If your kid goes missing, even if there’s no forensic evidence linking you to the crime, you’d better look fucking suicidal all the time. Like, never leave the house without looking like you’ve been up all night crying, and never, ever, be seen yukking it up in a bar, ever again. No partying, no selfishness, no murdering, and it’s so tacky if you sell your story afterward. Watch it, ladies, because we’ve got our eye on you.