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4:25 p.m. - 2011-06-06
HOOP-ing it up.

Somewhere along in that wonderfully long and rambling conversation on Ms Steph's magical porch a couple weeks ago we got onto the topic of sisterhood. The feminist kind. The woman code that says you never do another woman dirty. We didn't get as deeply into the corollary of always giving a woman a hand. Mostly we wondered about the doing dirty thing and why are some women so mean? We just don't understand why anyone finds pleasure in being a bitch. Sure, the occasional snark or meow moment is fun, but we meant chicks who make careers out of being twats to other women. It's such an anti-feminist thing to do.

Steph and I grew up in a time of rapidly evolving feminist goals and ideals. Because it was speedy sometimes the focus got blurry and the rules changed too fast to keep up, but one thing that never changed for either of us was the 'Don't Be a Twat' rule. The first and most important tenet of feminist belief. Don't be a twat. For instance- Don't undercut your co-workers. Not only will you make enemies of the other women, the guys will only keep you around until you cease to amuse with your backstabby ruthless antics, then you're gone and ain't nobody sorry to see you go. Also, please, once out of jr high outgrow cliques as quickly as possible and avoid making new ones masquerading under names like 'Cub Scout Mom' or the lunchtime walking club. Stay off (and out from under) other women's men. Don't tear someone down under the guise of 'helping'. Be supportive or STFU.

This seems the natural order for us. If you can't rely on another woman the whole thing breaks down. You're left to drip dry in a stall with no toilet paper. Seriously. If women didn't look out for each other it'd be impossible to ask the stranger in the next stall to pass some over. But we do it all the time and never expect anyone would say no. We're sisters. Nameless, faceless, toilet paper passing sisters. So when a woman does another woman dirty it feels horrible. We're left wretched and stranded. Shocked because it's so unexpected. She's okay with refusing a request for toilet paper! Who could be like that? We're women! We stick together!

To me and Steph twats are mind-bending. Like Log Cabin Republicans. How much self-loathing and misanthropy must you have in your heart to be part of a political party which actively works to curtail your civil rights and uses you as a boogeyman to whip up a frenzy of hate amongst the fearful faithful? Heh. At least until Bravo started the 'Real Housewives' thing twats usually ran solo. Now they have franchises. Like sports teams. Every major city gets its own crew of twats. Major league bitch ball.

Though while I'm thinking about feminists and public restrooms I remember getting together with a gang of blogging friends in PA some years back. On the last day we were having a farewell lunch together at a steak and ale place. Dichroic and Mary and I got into a giggle fit in the ladies room. To a one we eschew that dopey thing about women going to the restroom in pairs and gangs, we're big girls and can go all by ourselves, but somehow we'd managed to end up in there together anyhow. Each of us leaving the table independently to take a whiz and yet here we were primping in the mirror and laughing over being potty pals anyhow. Also laughing over our reflection. From left to right we were lined up in descending size order and such was the perfect reduction of height and girth from me to Mary to Dichroic that we looked like a set of life-size Russian nesting dolls.

I remember a mutual admiration over all of us wearing cool ass boots too. But this is a bit hazy. Cool boots, yes, you two? My darling Deb was at that soiree too, but somehow resisted the magnetic pull of the group outing to the ladies room. It is also unknown if she wore cool boots.

In a neat segway into this paragraph, I had a terrific visit with another blogging buddy today. Di and her cutie-patootie hubs, the Pfabulous Pfred, stopped by on their way home from a weekend camp-out at a nearby mountain resort listening to good tunes and b.s.-ing with old friends. It was lovely to see her. I wished they could have stayed the afternoon, at least long enough to say hi to Wolf and Mick, but even our short visit did me good. We laughed and caught up. On their way out Di gifted me with a hula-hoop. A grown-up sized one. I love it! Never a prodigy or anything, but I was a decent hula-hooper back in the day. I gave it a couple tries already and can see it's going to be great to add it to my fitness program. Really works the mid-section. And it's fun. And imagine the horror on Wolf's face when he sees his dorky mother playing with a hula-hoop! I might even do it outside! In front of the whole world! Wolf loses 26.9 bazillion cool points! Forever shamed and nerdtastic, doomed to being the captain of the AV squad before he even starts high school.

Bwhahahahahaha! I am quite sure hula-hooping mothers are even worse than moms who call you pet names. ~LA

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