Foxy by Nature

Pink and Blue

2011-12-28T17:51:00.000-08:00

Neither MtJoy kid wanted the toys in the boys section.

I want to show you a couple of videos, but first let's back up a bit. Almost exactly a year ago, my eleven-year old cousin Anna came to stay with me for a week. She was a delightful kid, in large part because that's exactly what she was: a kid. My aunt and uncle hadn't bought her those disgusting Abercrombie push-up bras for kids or let her watch inappropriate movies or anything else that pushed her pre-maturely into adolescence. During her entire stay here, I think she rocked a bear hat (a knitted hat that made it look like she had a full-on bear head on her head) every single day. Like I said, delightful.

Anyhoo, if you know me at all, you can imagine that a little girl who spends any significant amount of time with me will get plenty of two things I love dearly: refined sugar and feminism. Near the end of her stay, I took her on a ride of the ferris wheel inside the Times Square Toys R Us. As you are riding this thing, you basically get a preview of floor after floor of toy heaven. Genius marketing. With every rotation of the wheel, Anna's eyes got bigger, until finally the following exchange occurred:

Anna: Oh my gosh! When we get off, can we go to the boys' section?!?

Me: Anna! What did I tell you!

Anna: Ummm.... gender is just a social construct?

Me: Yes. And so what does that mean?

Anna: Girls can like dinosaurs and trucks if they want to. And boys can like.... princesses?

Me: Yes, thank you. You may go to the truck and dinosaur section when we're done, as long as you remember that toys do not have gender, ok?'

I was so proud. Listen, I liked princesses as much as the next gal. Probably more. I may own ~~two~~ three (four?) tiaras. But acting like what sex organs a person has should dictate the toys they play with as a kid is just crazy crazytalk. True story: One of my earliest school memories is of a recess in 1st grade when I stuck up for a girl who wanted to play Matchbox cars. Of course, school being what it was for me, somehow that resulted in everyone signing a We Hate Roxy petition -- including the girl I was defending. But I digress.

All of this is a means of introducing you to this video (if you haven't seen it already). Enjoy:

And after you've seen that, watch this trailer for a film that hopes to address this issue:

#notfunnyfacebook, Street Harassment, and Me

2011-11-07T13:37:00.000-08:00

#notfunnyfacebook, Street Harassment, and Me; Or, these things are all connected, stupid

Since July, I have been working on a campaign to get Facebook to enforce its own terms of service, remove pages that promote sexual violence, and issue a public statement clarifying its policies going forth on the issue. What started off as me helping a Change.org member refine his petition has snowballed into over 180,000 signatures, media coverage, and Twitter movement (#notfunnyfacebook, in reference to Facebook's assertion that these pages are merely "jokes").

This morning, I was walking to school when I passed a well-dressed man in his 30s or 40s. He leered at me as I walked by, but any woman who has ever walked from Point A to Point B knows that seems to come with the territory. This guy, however, set off my spidey sense. Even now, I can't tell you how I knew that guy was a creep, I just did. Fast-forward ten minutes later, on a different street: I see this man walking towards me. I freeze. He says to me, "I've been watching you. I saw you back there. I had to tell you how sexy I think you are. Are you free right now? Get in my car and I will take you somewhere." It I firmly told him to get away (without trying to provoke him), thanked my lucky stars it was broad daylight, and then waited for him to get into his car and drive away before I continued on my to school.

These are not separate things.

When one of the largest and most influential social media sites -our modern day town square- refuses to take a stand against a culture that promotes sexual violence and objectification of women, it is contributing to the problem. When Facebook implies that pages like “Kicking Sluts in the Vagina,” “Whats 10 inches and gets girls to have sex with me? my knife,” and “Riding your Girlfriend softly, Cause you dont want to wake her up” (all real Facebook pages, by the way) are meant to be laughed at, trivializes hate speech and sexual violence and undermines our ability to address these issues in a meaningful way.

Facebook did not put that man on my path to school, nor did it tell him to stalk me. It did, however, provide a platform for him to normalize his behavior and connect with others who share his views, all the while protecting him under the dubious shield of humor. If Facebook wants to be a company that is a haven for sexual predators, a site that fosters violence, then fine. But don't expect me to laugh.

If you don't think rape is funny, sign the petition here, tweet using the #notfunnyfacebook hashtag, and make some noise.

Tis the Season

2011-11-02T15:45:00.000-07:00

Once again, I am working with NOW-NYC to collect gifts for young women (ages 12-17) living in shelters and transitional housing this holiday season. As a former case manager at a domestic violence shelter, I cannot stress to you enough how much efforts like this are appreciated. Women in shelters are lucky to have the basic necessities, let alone little luxuries.

This is where you come in. I am gathering new/unused items for the NOW-NYC gift drive. Suggestions:

Hair clips
Hand soaps
Toiletries
Baby clothes & supplies
Lotions and hair gels
Costume jewelry
Journals/notecards/books
Craft kits and small games
Scarves, hats, gloves, fuzzy socks

I will also happily accept any wrapping paper/ribbons/gift tags/etc you have. Last year we ended up having to wrap a bunch of stuff in napkins.

If you get your items to me by December 13, I can take them to NOW-NYC headquarters and wrap them in time to be distributed. So, next time you are out grocery shopping or at the drug store, please consider adding one of these items to your cart. If you'd prefer to give me money and have me do the shopping, I am more than happy to arrange that (I can even accept PayPal and give you a receipt, if you like).

#notfunnyfacebook

2011-10-29T11:47:00.000-07:00

Friends,

As you may know, I am currently working on a campaign over at Change.org to get Facebook to enforce its own Terms of Use and remove pages that promote sexual violence. You can sign the petition and read all about it here. We've got over 180,000 people behind us already and it is time to amp up the volume and really pressure Facebook.

Facebook is claiming that pages like "Raping your mates girlfriend to see if she can put up a fight," "Kicking Sluts in the Vagina," and Riding your Grlfriend softly, Cause you dont want to wake her up" aren't hateful or violent, they're funny jokes! Well, this is where you come in.

November 2nd we're having a Twitter Day of Action and we'd like you and your sense of humor to participate. The easiest thing to do would be to use the #notfunnyfacebook hashtag that day (more details to follow).

But I want more! I am lucky to have many talented, hilarious friends and Change.org wants you to put those skills to work for the cause. We want videos --sketch, stand-up, improv, anything-- addressing Facebook's misunderstanding of the concept of humor. Use your funny bones to let Facebook know that rape is not a joke.

Let me know if you'd like to participate or if you have any questions (twitter: @roxymtjoy email: roxann@change.org) If you make a video, not only will you be helping a great cause, but you'll also have the chance to get some great exposure, too. It is win-win! Spread the word. Let's show Facebook what a real sense of humor looks like.

The Help: A Conversation (Part 2)

2011-09-21T06:41:00.000-07:00

Note: This is the conclusion of a conversation between V and I about The Help. Part 1 can be found here.

V,

You know that game people play where they add the words "in bed" to the end of the fortunes they get inside Chinese fortune cookies? I played a similar game during The Help. The game was called "And Then You Died." Here's how it went: Every time someone did/said something that would've likely resulted in lynching/shooting/general-murdering, mentally I said to that character, "and then you died." Here's some fun examples:

1. Minnie feeding Hilly a poop pie - and then she died! (And, no, I don't buy the justification for Hilly's non-killing of Minnie because Minnie was damned/dead if she did and damned/dead if she didn't. If she denies it, then it is her word against Hilly's and we all know how that turns out. If she doesn't deny it, then she has confessed to serving a member of the White Citizens Council poop pie and we all know how that turns out, too. And this is assuming that anyone ever asks Minnie to confirm or deny anything, which they wouldn't.)

2. Skeeter cozying up to the maids (book or no book) and then getting people to drop off used toilets on Hilly's lawn- and then she died! Seriously, people. You did not fuck with the White Citizens Council.

3. Rachel barging in the the front door of the Schmaughters of the American Revolution meeting, disrespecting Charlotte and causing a scene - and then she died! (bonus points, because probably her mom died, too).

I am going to stop here. You get the point. This movie should have had a much higher body count. Because I could go on and on and on about the things that happened in this movie that no person would ever have ever said or done ever. Never ever. Unless they had a death wish. Hell, I think I could make a relatively compelling argument that you still wouldn't do or say many of those things in Jackson, Mississippi today. I wouldn't (then again, I am an ethnic mutt and as such, don't feel real compelled to be saying a whole lot of anything in Mississippi). And yet, as you mentioned, we don't see that in the movie. Oh, sure, Medgar Evers gets shot, but they make it seem like that's because he's a huge Civil Rights icon. The worst that happens to regular folks is that they get fired. Yeaaaaaaah.

One more thing before I toss this back to you: Why did the local bookstore carry that book? Not only did they carry it, they made a huge window display out of it! Why? We are meant to believe that no one at that point knew te book was about Jackson, yes? So I am supposed to believe that the bookshop just happened to order a sizable stock about a book that they had to know would draw the ire of the KKK and the White Citizens Council? One that would make white people look foolish and hateful? (...and then the store owner died) Not only that, but then people bought it, were comfortable being seen in public with it? You know, V, maybe I've got my history wrong. Maybe things weren't so bad after all. What do you think?

Confusedly yours,

Roxy

Hi Roxy,

It strikes me that we could go on and on pointing out the inconsistencies of the plot, the absence of violence and terror, and the horribleness that is Viola Davis having to play a maid to win an Oscar (Seriously, give this woman an Oscar already! But does it have to be for playing a maid?GAAAAAAAAA!) Okay, sorry, I'm back. I mean there is just so so so much to say about the fairytale nature of this movie. What gets me the most is that for all the hoards of people going to see The Help, very few will be able to pick out what is troubling.

The problem with The Help is that it is a good movie.

There. I said it. You laugh. You cry. The acting is good. The costumes are nice. A white person does a nice thing sort of...I mean she doesn't really stand up to her friends or admonish them for treating their maids poorly to their faces but she sits in a black person's living room. So, yeah, she's down. Just like Gone with the Wind is a gripping epic or The Birth of a Nation was technologically advanced, The Help is a problem because it is a version of the past that Americans can feel good about and get lost in without question. No one wants to watch a movie about the violent campaign of terror that white southerners participated in for hundreds of years. Not while we're in a recession. No, American's want to look back to a simpler time. No one who was there for the 1960s would tell you it was a decade of simplicity. Most people would say it was the opposite. But sorta like the US Army of the 1940s was reimagined as integrated racially to make Captain America a nice ra-ra super hero film this summer, this movie made the 1960s look like a decade that was one sassy tell all book away from paradise.

If only the Civil Rights era was really that cute and well scored. If only that nice white girl had told those maids how to write a "tell all" book sooner...then...wait a second...nothing actually changes at the end of the movie. That is the most damning part. Spoiler Alert: Abilene looses her job. Skeeter disappears off to NYC. Minnie opts for single motherhood. And Hilly, well, she goes on being Hilly for all we know. NO ONE CHANGES THEIR WAYS. Nope. Jackson, Mississippi remains a horrible horrible racist place. The book the women risk their lives to produce doesn't change the nature of domestic labor or upend the racial caste system of Jim Crow or even make any of the women who told their stories rich. I mean, it is a cause for gossip and ticks off Hilly but it was no Montgomery Bus Boycott. Skeeter reaps the benefits of telling the stories of African American maids and black women stick around to bare the brunt of the consequences. And yet, audience after audiance is inspired by the Skeeter, the Civil Rights Cinderella. But she's so cute and nice and well meaning and Emma Stone does such a nice job that your average lay audience eats it up.

I leave you with this: http://youtu.be/ZVF-nirSq5s

Unfortunately, The Help was a thing that we saw. It is a thing that we're only going to continue to see.

-V

The Help: A Conversation (Part 1)

2011-09-04T11:58:00.000-07:00

Photo credit: Tim Ellis

Below is Part 1 of a conversation between me and Vanessa (who I am sure you all remember from our discussion of Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution last year) regarding the film The Help. Obviously this is a popular movie right now and I assume a lot of you have seen it, so please comment on the post and add your voice to the discussion.

And now, without further ado...

Hey V,

How are you? Remember how we went to see The Help last Friday? After it was over, I believe the first thing I did was turn to you and say "Soooo... that was a thing I just saw." And that is about as positive as I am going to get when we discuss this movie. Well, that's not entirely true: there were some lovely performances and some even lovelier dresses. Say what you will about Jim Crow era Mississippi, those gals did racism in high style! Now, as for the rest of the movie... saying it was "problematic" is probably too generous, right?

Love,

Roxy

Hi Roxy,

Yeah, so that was totally something that we saw...I was there so I can verify that we saw a well acted movie with moments that elicited empathy from the audience. We laughed. We cried. We said, "oh my God," when the "sassy" character, Minnie, punctuated her sentence by taking a bite from a fried drumstick that seemed to appear from thin air. That was a thing that we saw.

Well, we saw it and so did the rest of the country. It's a hit. People love it. Some of those people are even black people. Women at my church are raving about it. Even those, like my mom, who went into it with a critical eye had to admit that the movie at least got people (read: middle aged, middle class, white women) talking about a place and time that they feel is far far away. And okay, yeah, sure, as an American historian I'm all about people talking about history that isn't Hitler or the Civil War. I'm all about people asking me if the movie was accurate. I'm all about people wanting to know more about the Civil Rights Movement. Unfortunately, I'm not sure that The Help had any of the Civil Rights Movement in it. Let me be clear, I think that we need to hear more stories about those African Americans who didn't march or picket but resisted in other ways. Many middle class blacks, for example, contributed legal aide and much needed funds to the movement. Some people simply opened their homes to SNCC members no questions asked. More than a few dinners were probably spat in. Everyday, as portrayed in the movie, African Americans found small ways to resist the racist system that made sure they would always be subservient and politically, economically, and socially marginalized. To summarize quickly, white people had all of the power and black people survived.

Jackson, Mississippi, was (and is, for that matter) a hot bed of racial violence. Most of the actions portrayed in the movie, the writing of a tell all book, the toilets on the lawn prank, and let's not forget the pie, would have resulted in horrible violence. Not just for the African American characters either. More than one white person who tried to fight white supremacy was murdered, ostracized, lost their home or business...as did their entire family. The KKK and the White Citizens Council were no joke. Sure some of them had big hair and wore brightly colored floral prints and played bridge and relished their power over their domestic staff. But they weren't harmless "mean girls." Their husbands and male kin weren't bumbling shuffling meek henpecked fools who just did what the Mrs. wanted. Nope. Actually they killed a lot of people in the name of "white female purity" and white supremacy: black men and women, Jewish Americans, and even white men and white women. In fact, murder was usually the go-to plan for any black person who stepped "out of line," or was even rumored to have stepped out of line (Emmett Till was murdered because someone thought he may have spoken to or whistled at a white women). This article, written for the Jackson Free Press, by a middle aged white southern woman pretty much sums up the movie's appeal and succinctly describes what is wrong with movies like The Help.

Donna Ladd writes:

The films aren't a problem because, as too many whites complain, "they make the South look bad" or "dredge up the past." Face it, white southerners made the South look bad: Our forebears were horrifying when they joined together to defend their white-supremacist way of life by any means necessary.
The movies are a problem because they dredge up a white version of a much more complicated past (and present) rich with courageous black heroes finding the faith and courage to reclaim a family structure destroyed by slavery, and ultimately changing this nation. But Hollywood seems to believe it takes a white hero saving poor blacks to sell the story. An occasional film like that would be fine--it did happen, too--but it is an injustice when only a victim narrative breaks through.

So, finally, here's one of my many bones to pick with the movie: Given what we know about the violence of the period, why is it that the only violence portrayed in the movie happens either well off camera (Medgar Evers murder) or is propagated by black men against black women (Minnie's abusive husband)?

Thoughts?

-V

This Just In: Women Can Be Breadwinners! (But is it a good thing?)

2011-08-09T12:48:00.000-07:00

Photo credit: Becky F

You guys, Yahoo! has some breaking news I just had to share:

Women sometimes make more money than their male partners! Seriously, I am not making that up. It is true. It can happen. Even to celebrities! And when it does, Yahoo! is there to do the hard-hitting reporting necessary. This is front page stuff.

What isn't front page, however, is the gem of an article that inspired this famous-women-who-earn-more-than-their-famous-boyfriends piece. But, if you click on a series of links and fall down the internet rabbit hole a little, you will find Nell Casey's essay Money Changes Everything: If Mom Makes More Than Dad, Who Changes the Diapers?

My problems with this article are numerous, so let's just go in order, shall we?

We don't have to look far for the first problematic nugget: the title itself. It implies that, short of making more money than her husband, a mom is naturally on diaper duty. What does it matter if she works the same or more (!) hours? As ladyfolk know, vaginas come with specific care instructions and certain obligations and diaper duty happens to be one of them.

Next, join me, if you will, in paragraph three where Ms. Casey poses the central question of her article: How do female breadwinners learn not resent their husbands for not helping out around the house? Obviously, as long as the man makes more dough, it is just fine and dandy for the woman to take on the lion's share of housework and parenting duties. But Ms. Casey is concerned that women will feel that they have "bought" their "way out" of this disproportionate domestic responsibility arrangement. I wonder if it has even occurred to her than women who make less (!) than their husbands might feel that they, too, deserve to have a real partner at home?

The answer to Ms. Casey's question, as it turns out, is more disappointing than her question. According to her, the first step is simple: "stop striving for equality." Ooooohhhh! Of course! I'd be so much happier being the lesser-than half of the marriage if only I accepted it gracefully. In other words, ladies, know your place (and that place is on your knees scrubbing the floor). Women who expect otherwise are expressing a "sense of entitlement" that no good will come of, it seems.

Ms. Casey next implores us to, for the love of God, think of the children! If you can manage to somehow make one of these new-fangled "50/50" marriages work, great. But don't upset your children's pretty little heads over it. The last thing we want is for their impressionable young minds being influenced by Mommy asking Daddy to pull his weight around home. Imagine the ideas they'll get! I don't know what childless couples are supposed to do, but they are another group that I imagine Ms. Casey doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about (along with LGTB people, single parents, stay-at-home dads, polyamorous relationships, women making less money for doing the same job as their male counterparts, and families just thanking their lucky stars they have two incomes in this economy).

Finally, Ms. Casey wraps up her article with this:

Families today seem to be in the midst of a generous improvisation: women taking on men’s roles, men taking on women’s roles, and many of us reverting back to tradition when needed. If we are able to acknowledge this and leave behind idealized notions of equality, we might actually strike the balance we’ve been searching for all along.

Umm, yeah. The role of picking up dirty socks has no gender. Neither does making breakfast, doing dishes, carpooling, or yes, even changing diapers. Leaving behind "notions of equality" isn't progress and, not to be nit-picky or anything, but it sure as hell isn't balanced.

What's in a Name?

2011-07-14T21:22:00.000-07:00

Did you hear the news?

I had to share this.

I like to keep up with what the internets are saying about me. As a blogger for a popular and sometimes controversial progressive website, my name is out there a lot. Actually, my work is out there a lot and my name is not always attached to said work and even when people do remember to give me credit for the things I've said, my name is often misspelled. For the record, it is R-O-X-A-N-N M -T-J-O-Y. There is no "e" at the end of "Roxann," nor is there a "." between the "T" and the "J." I will also accept "Roxy." This should be easy, as everything I've ever written online has my name on it somewhere. And somehow, it isn't.

Anyways, as I was saying, I was rummaging around in the world wide web and saw a blog had quoted me and had remembered to attribute the quote and even spelled my name right. Except I noticed a weird little symbol at the end of my last name. It looked like this: MtJoy°

I wondered if it was a typo, until I saw this at the bottom of the page:

° MtJoy — Don't ask. I didn't. It's what the byline says.

I will take what I can get, I guess.

40 Beads or Bust

2011-07-04T15:36:00.000-07:00

The other day, I happened upon an article about a "sexy" new strategy for revitalizing marriages. It is called the 40 Beads Method and it is awesome.*

*awesome, in this case, being defined as "sexist, horrible, and obviously problematic."

Here's the rundown on 40 Beads: You know how men love sex and women are apathetic to it? Who needs an orgasm when you could just stare meaningfully into your partner's eyes, am I right ladies? Obviously, this creates a problem for men, so author Carolyn Evans came up with a nifty solution: beadwork! A wife gives her husband forty beads. Next, she places an empty bowl next to their bed. When the husband wants sex, he places a bead in the bowl. The wife then has 24 hours to "respond with sex."

Please take a moment to fully grasp that concept before we move on. I'll wait.

Ready? What issue would you like to address first? I am going to start with the obvious overtones of prostitution. The only difference is that wives get beads, not cash. Personally, I'd prefer cash. If I was expected to exchange sex for a damn bead, let's just say I'd make sure the guy got his money's worth and not a penny more.

And, let's be clear, this isn't even high class prostitution. The ladies in legal brothels are free to decline any client they want to, even if that client was super classy and gave them one whole bead and a 24-hour window to deliver. Imagine that! Wives, in the 40 Beads system, do not have that option, unless their husbands behave poorly towards them. Other than the husband being downright nasty (setting aside, for the moment, that giving your wife a bead and demanding she spread her legs isn't nasty enough in and of itself), wives are not permitted to refuse sex. Headache, depression, stress, exhaustion, work trouble, visiting relatives, low libido? Excuses! (Evans does allow for exceptions due to extreme illness and natural disasters) You know, come to think of it, I believe we have a word for a situation when one person forces another person to have sex when they don't want to...

I also just loooooove how women have no beads. Makes sense. Lord knows I've never been in the mood when Patrick wasn't. Nope, I am too busy darning his socks and ordering high-neck flannel nightgowns online to even think about sex. According to Evans, what women get out of this (since, again, female sexual satisfaction is irrelevant) is better behaving husbands. Which is awesome, because I want the same thing out of my husband as I would want out of a new puppy. I do enjoy that Evans clearly understands that wives are perfect and thus don't need their own behavior modification system.

I can't find out how long the man has to use up his forty beads, but the math isn't really where Evans is losing me. I'd love to hear how Evans would solve marital problems in same-sex unions or in partnerships where one or both of the people has a more fluid gender identity. Who gets the beads? Who has to be on their best behavior? Who gets to force sex on whom?

Apparently, people like the 40 Beads. They buy the book. They join Beads Clubs. They make me want to cry.

Photo credit: Heaven Ice Day

Hello, again; Or, Bad Things Happen in Twos, Right?!

2011-06-18T16:25:00.000-07:00

Hello, again. I've missed you. The longer I go between posts, the harder it is to start back up again. That said, sometimes things happen that require one to dust off the old blog and share it with the world. In this case, two things happened...

It all started with an upset stomach. Anyone who knows anything about me knows that, thanks to gastroparesis, that is pretty much a daily, if not hourly, occurrence. This afternoon, however, I was feeling a little worse than usual, so I thought a ginger ale might help. I had two options: walk 2.5 blocks to Duane Reade --the option I'd normally choose-- or, I could throw caution to the wind and patronize my friendly local mob front, a mere half block from my apartment. Now, I've only ever been to the mob front (ironically sandwiched in between a financial services place and a laundromat) once before and that was because I was on a super-tight schedule. This time was different.

Now, I know what you are thinking. "Foxy, how do you know this place is a mob front?" Answer: Because I have eyes. Seriously. First, the name of the store is "Grocery." They aren't even trying. Second, the display window has a dusty selection of phone cards and toys and signs saying things like "We sell birds food," "We have phone assessories," (not accessories) and my personal favorite, "Special Coffee: 50 Cents." What exactly is so special about that coffee? I dare not ask. Clearly, they aren't trying to lure in the customers.

Let's say you did, however, happen to wonder in. What would you find? A bizarrely overcrowded small space. Products line the shelves. Too many products. Like no one has ever bought anything from there before. Yet, for their complete lack of business, there are always a lot of men hanging out inside. The only other time I went in, they all scattered in under five seconds, with the exception of one man who stood smiling stiffly behind the counter and struggled to work the register when I came to check out.

Yet, I still opted to take my business there this afternoon. How bad could it be, I reasoned, to buy a ginger ale there? Walking all the way to Duane Reade is silly, right, when there is an alleged convenience store right around the corner? So, I went in, kept my eyes down, grabbed a bottle of ginger ale, paid, and left. Easy peasy. I was actually pleasantly surprised to only be charged a dollar. I guess the plus-side of shopping at a mob front is that they don't really care about pricing. The downside, I quickly learned after taking a swig of my soda and realizing it tasted funny, was that they also don't care about expiration dates. How long does it take ginger ale to expire? How long does that mean this had been sitting in the refrigerator? I decided to cut my losses and not confront the nice mob people about their old soda.

Good thing, too, since I got home just in time to witness my bathroom inexplicably flooding. That was fun. Also fun was my building super wanting me to help him clean it up and carry tools. Am I a total bitch if I was thinking, "Umm, dude? I rent. This is not my problem"? And he didn't have the right tools. And he stepped in the flood and then walked back through my apartment with wet shoes. And he left like thirty minutes ago to get something and hasn't come back and now I'm here in my apartment with no bathroom, an upset stomach, and expired mob ginger ale.

Miss me?

UPDATE: I spoke too soon. My whole apartment is now flooded.

I Stand With Planned Parenthood

2011-04-08T14:51:00.000-07:00

3: Percentage of Planned Parenthood dollars goes towards abortion care. None of that money comes from federal funds.

84: Percentage of Planned Parenthood dollars goes towards contraception, STD and cancer screenings, and pre-natal care.

90: Percentage over which of all care provided by Planned Parenthood is preventative.

800: Number of Planned Parenthood clinics nationally that serve a diverse demographic of women and families.

620,000: Estimated number of unintended pregnancies prevented by Planned Parenthood annually. (Washington Post)

1.2 million: Number of people who participate in Planned Parenthood educational programs annually

19 billion: Amount in dollars that is saved annually by the use of contraception. (NCBI)

1: Number of ways to look at the attempt to cease federal funding of Planned Parenthood. Ethically, fiscally, the results are the same: keeping Planned Parenthood funded is good for America.

Crippling Planned Parenthood does not end reproductive choice; It ends reproductive choice for the poor. It doesn't stop abortion; It simply ensures that only wealthy women will be able to afford to exercise their right to choose.

It also means that those low-income women, now not able to have access to safe, affordable abortion, will also have severely limited access to cancer screening, contraception, and pre-natal care. They'll also have less access to education, but hey, who cares?

Republicans are willing to shut down the government if it means shutting down Planned Parenthood. Don't let them.

Call your Senator.

Sign the letter.

Help raise pro-choice funds.

I stand with Planned Parenthood.

Dating For Cat People

2011-03-28T11:26:00.000-07:00

First things first: Hi. Long time no see. I've been a bad, neglectful blogger. I missed you. I hope you missed me.

There. Now onto the compelling subject that brought me out of my blogging hiatus: dating sites for cat lovers.

Seriously. I am not making this up.

It all started a couple of days ago, when I was randomly surfing the internet and I noticed a Google ad (much like the ones on this site) that was promoting a dating website for cat lovers. A site, might I add, completely devoid of what I would have thought to be the obvious irony.

Thus was the inspiration for a new blog post. When I sat down ten minutes ago to write about it, however, a problem arose. I didn't remember the website name. Easy-peasy, thought I, I'll just Google "dating site for cat lovers" and the site will pop up. Only, as it turns out, there is more than one such site. There are several. Who knew? So, because I love you all so dearly and I want you to be able to use only the best feline fix-up site in all the internets, I've now decided to review them for you.

1. Purrsonals - "Where cat lovers meet and greet!" First, great name. Love it. When you go to the site, the first thing you will notice is a ~~creepy~~ lovely lady welcoming you to share your "purrsonality" with other cat lovers. This free site offers the following: a chance to share cat videos, get the "latest news on cats," video chat with your fellow cat fanciers, and meet like-minded people to date/marry/stalk. Sign-up now and get a free e-book about cats, a $15 value! Plus, you are then eligible for a discount on that sweet Feline Wellness magazine subscription you've been saving up for.

Overall Grade: A

2. Cat Lovers Personals. Simple site. The only cat-related item I see is a stock photo of a couple petting a cat. Mostly the site spends a lot of time trying to convince you that they are legit. The FAQ includes such alarming Q's such as "Do you create fake ads to lure your members?" "Will you keep charging me and abuse my credit card?" and "Is this really a porn site in disguise?"I am going to go ahead and say that if a site is frequently asked those questions, you should avoid it like the plague. A cat-hating, identity-stealing plague.

Overall grade: F

3. E-Catz - "Single? Have Cats?" This free site claims to take the "traditional concept of online dating and pretty much put it on its head." It does this by putting the "entire international spectrum of cat-lovers at your fingertips." Which sounds dirty to me. Here you can view and share videos, blogs, personals, and stories all related to cat ownership. If there is a better way to find a life partner, I haven't heard of it yet!

Overall grade: B+

So, there you have it folks! Now all you crazy cat-lovin' fools can connect on the interweb and date each other, just like God intended.

I Love Nurses (But Hate ER Docs)

2011-01-17T09:28:00.000-08:00

I love nurses.

Doctors, well... not so much.

But nurses? Adore them.

As an avid consumer of the nation's health care system, I've seen it all. Emergency rooms. Urgent care centers. Private practices. Clinics. Specialists. Laboratories, radiology centers, student health services. Yay me. Unfortunately, I feel that the percentage of complete asshole doctors I've encountered is pretty high. On the flip side, I developed a deep and abiding love for nurses.

This past weekend was no exception.

Ever since I was diagnosed with gastroparesis a year ago, I've had it drilled into my head from my doctors (I have had quite a few) the incredible importance of getting myself to the hospital when I am having a bad flare. I've been told time and time again that if I experience uncontrollable vomiting, severe pain, or a new symptom that I need an ER, stat. Fine.

Well, maybe not "fine." I hate ERs. Haaaaaate them. I hate the florescent lights, the smell, and the endless waiting. More than that, I hate the condescending tone that so many ER docs have towards me. Do you know how many times I've been told my problem must be because I'm sad (which I'm not, until I meet people like that) but then later turned out to be something medical? Let's see... a severe kidney infection, a transformed migraine, gastroparesis... You get the idea.

So in the entire year post-diagnosis, I haven't been back to the ER. I've had plenty of doctors visits and hospital tests & treatments, but no ER. Even when I know it probably is the right thing to do, I just refused to go. Yesterday, however, things were different. I'd been in severe pain since Thursday morning. I hadn't eaten in about 32 hours. Water made me nauseous. I was definitely getting badly dehydrated. So, I thought, four days of increasingly bad pain, horrible nausea, rapid weight loss, and the inability to drink water... okay, it was time to go to the Lawrence Hospital. Besides, now I am armed with a very real, very serious diagnosis, so they can take me seriously and just help.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The ER did not, in fact, take me seriously. At all. She didn't think I warranted a real room, so I got stuck on a gurney in the hallway, up against the linen cart. Seriously. There wasn't even a chair for Patrick. When she came to see me, she, at first, treated me like I was making up my gastroparesis, like I had self-diagnosed with Drs. Google and WebMd. When I told her otherwise, her tune switched to acknowledging the condition, but also completely blowing if off. Actual quote from her, "I saw a guy with gastroparesis once. You are lucky, he had it pretty bad." And thus began my private, in-my-head-only count of "fuck you" to the doctor.

To further demonstrate her complete lack of knowledge about gastroparesis, she proceeded to tell me I'd probably feel all better if I just ate something (FU count: 2). She told me that they'd give me an IV and some pain medication and send me on my way. When I asked what, then, was I supposed to do when I went home and was in the same position that I was in right then, she just asked why I came in the first place (FU count: 3). Gee, maybe it has something to do with the fact that, left untreated, gastroparesis flares can lead to heart problems, major surgery, extended hospital stays, reliance on feeding tubes, and more. When Patrick mentioned that the last time doctors dismissed me like that, I ended up in the hospital for a week in pretty bad shape and we'd rather not go through that again, she got very defensive. And left. (FU count: 4)

Lucky, my lovely nurse took pity on me and actually let me have one of the EMPTY rooms that my hall gurney was next to. And, while she (like the doctor) knew nothing at all about gastroparesis, she (unlike the doctor) felt like she should learn about it. She asked me many questions about the disorder, what my dady-to-day life was like coping with it, and what was it about today that led me to come to the ER. She was openly sorry that the hospital didn't have anyone there who knew what to do with me. While the doctor offered ignorance and disdain, the nurse was nothing but compassionate and caring.

Unfortunately, I'll likely never see her again since, you know, I am never, ever going back there. When I saw the doctor for the second (and final) time, I told her the medication she gave me had no effect and that I was just as bad off when I arrived. So she ordered another round of the exact same medication (FU count: 5). When we asked how that possibly could help, she asked me what tests I personally had hoped she'd order. (FU count: 6). I said I'd hoped she'd know what to do since she was the doctor (supposedly) and I was the patient. She then walked out of the room.

After Patrick told the nurse to come discharge me, as I had no interest in sticking around for endless cycles of ineffective drugs and bitchy doctors, she came in to remove my IV and give me my discharge papers. They included: a prescription for the medication I'd already, repeatedly told the doctor did not work (FU count: 7) and -get this- a fact sheet on gastroparesis (FU count: 8-100). Since I spent most of our limited time together explaining to her what gastroparesis was while she stared blankly at me, I have to believe she herself has never read a gastroparesis fact sheet.

So now my project for the day is learning what Westchester County or Manhattan hospitals are equipped to deal with people like me. Since Pittsburgh has two major hospitals with gastroparesis centers, surely I'll find at least one here.

But, honestly, my nurse was lovely.

Photo credit: Seattle Municipal Archives

The Power of Delusional Thinking

2011-01-15T08:54:00.000-08:00

So... my gastroparesis is fairly under control. Or as under control as one might hope, I guess. Most days I am able to keep food down. Enough days, in fact, that I am able to perform magic tricks on myself, convincing myself that maybe I don't really have gastroparesis anymore. I am cured! Sure, I have nearly constant stomach pain and I'm nauseous a lot, but... well, there could be other, better explanations! Why, I bet I'd be just fine if I ate bacon and apples and popcorn and washed it all down with some lovely white wine! This silly gastroparesis thing was all a big misunderstanding! Silly, doctors.

Then I have days like today where I must cancel all my fun plans, and end up spending most of the day in pain, spooning with my heating pad, and thinking solid food is the work of the devil. I avoid even looking in the kitchen, as it is filled with deceptively delicious morsels of doom. I start thinking a feeding tube, while certainly not very fashionable, might be a delightful alternative to ever having to go through the torture of eating ever again.

I hate stupid gastroparesis. I really, really do.

They Love Me, They Love Me Not: An Etsy Story

2011-01-08T15:38:00.000-08:00

What a crazy ride the past couple of weeks has been.

Just before Christmas, I wrote a post for Change.org describing rape congratulations cards on sale at Etsy, an online marketplace for handmade and vintage items. Two days later, I wrote a follow-up piece that pointed to similar cards for breast cancer and mothers of children with Down Syndrome. In addition, I authored a petition urging Etsy to remove the cards from their site.

I could not have predicted the insanity that ensued.

At first, all was normal. The petition was gaining more steam than average, but nothing crazy. Meanwhile, Etsy briefly removed the cards, only to put them back up within a few hours. Change.org decided to issue an action alert regarding my petition, sending out an email to many of its members, asking them to sign. That's when all hell broke loose.

On one hand, thousands of people responded and signed the petition. Yay! I got many messages of support and thanks. I heard from Change.org members who were starting boycotts and letter writing campaigns. On the other hand, the hate mail started pouring in. I was accused of the following: being un-American, having no sense of humor, being what is wrong with America, dangerous, overly sensitive, bitchy, ignorant, and so on and so forth.

Oh, and did I mention that I then found out that a popular online women's magazine blatantly plagiarized me, and that that story got picked up by several major news outlets? That story, too, is still pending.

The onslaught of hate seemed to be dying down today, so I assumed perhaps that the story was over. Silly, silly Foxy! I read on Jezebel this evening that CNN has picked up the story. In fact, that story links to my original article and, given how much I love Jezebel, that's pretty cool. In fact, many organizations I respect have linked to my post, including the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, the National Sexual Violence Resource Center, and A Safe World for Women.

So, to recap: I've been praised, hated, copied, shared, and quoted. The petition (sign here!) has reached over 15,000 signers to date. I'm currently working on a follow-up piece for Change.org. I'm also considering moving to an internet-less cabin in the woods of Canada.

One more thing! Out of all this craziness, the first ever Official Foxy by Nature T-Shirt was born! Go to here to buy the shirt (available in all sorts of styles & sizes). There's also a mug and bag, too. And some stickers, because I was having fun. If there is anything else you'd like to see at the store, let me know. Make sure you click through the link above so I get credit.

UPDATE: The men's shirt is up now! You know me, if they'd offered gender non-specific shirts, I would have had those, too!

Whew!

Photo credit: The Other View

Hate This

2011-01-04T10:54:00.000-08:00

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the First Amendment. I thought it would be a good place to start today's post. I have a little story to share with you and then I'd like your thoughts. Here goes:

As you know, I blog for the Women's Rights section of Change.org. Last month, I posted a piece about a person selling rape "congratulations" cards on Etsy, an online marketplace for handmade goods. That person also made cards that mocked breast cancer and parents of children with Down Syndrome. After reviewing Etsy's own Terms of Use, I felt that the cards should be taken down and created a petition to that effect.

Normally, when a post goes live, I get feedback, good and bad. People comment on the post itself, leave messages on my Change.org profile, and email me privately. Sure, it can get mean and/or illogical, but all in all, I am just happy people are talking. Talking about things is good, right?

This time, things are different. More extreme. In the last 24 hours, I have received hundreds of comments and messages attacking me. Why? Because I apparently am an enemy of free speech. You see, asking a private company to decide that a particular product doesn't fit their mission and violates their own usage agreement is a violation of the first amendment. At least, that's what I am told.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I don't think the First Amendment means what you think it means.

You have the right to non-harmful speech. This Etsy user has the right to make the most offensive cards he can dream up. I wouldn't dare stop him. However, you do not have the right to sell your goods any which place you choose. That's insane. How does freedom of speech compel stores to sell products they don't want? Oh, right, it doesn't.

Because she said it so well, I am going to quote the brilliant Kate Jenkins (via Facebook) here:

Ugh, "free speech" is the number one way to derail a conversation. It is such a tired trope! Were it the government trying to regulate the content of greeting cards, sure, pull in the free speech issue. Etsy is a private organization with rights of free association (oh, same amendment, look at that), and by such a right, has a right to regulate the content of the stores on their website. You were asking Etsy, not the federal government, to remove speech that could qualify as offensive speech according to the terms of service of Etsy (though it could qualify as offensive speech under certain circumstances in the law as well - think of a rapist or abuser sending this to his/her victims). Plus your right to free speech ends when it harms another; yelling "Fire!" in a crowded theater isn't protected speech.

Exactly. Further, much of the feedback I am getting is demanding I remove my blog post and petition. Irony, meet Crazy Internet People. I don't think you've met. You think it is wrong that I ask a company to take something off their website so you want my company to remove something from its site. Okaaaaaaaay.

It may be odd, but I don't mind the personal insults (including such original zingers as "Fuck you" and "Fuck yourself" and the ever-popular "Un-American" and "You're what's wrong with America"); What I mind is this righteous indignation of people defending an amendment they clearly don't understand. These are the same people who thought criticizing Dr. Laura for being a racist was somehow a violation of her rights.

I never expect everyone to agree with me. I don't think you should be a blogger if you do. But for the love of god, can you please make sure you understand the very law you claim to love so much before using it as a weapon against me?

I have an idea: creating the official Foxy by Nature t-shirt. On the front it will say: "The First Amendment: I don't think it means what you think it means" and on the back it will have the actual wording. We'll change the world one t-shirt at a time!

Ok, now it is your turn. Thoughts?

Quoted: Hillary Clinton

2010-12-12T08:56:00.000-08:00

"Women's equality is not just a moral issue, it's not just a humanitarian issue, it is not just a fairness issue," she said, "It is a security issue, it is a prosperity issue, and it is a peace issue.

Therefore when I talk about why we need to integrate women's issues into discussions at the highest levels everywhere in the world, I'm not doing it just because I have a personal commitment or because President Obama cares about it. I'm doing it because it's in the vital interests of the United States of America."

-Hillary Clinton, speaking at the TED Women Conference

Help a Gal Out

2010-12-01T15:12:00.000-08:00

Tis the season for thinking of others, but we don't always know how to do that. Well, this year you are in luck because I am going to tell you exactly how you can help!

NOW-NYC is collecting gifts for young women (ages 12-17) living in shelters and transitional housing. As someone who spent three years of her professional life working at a domestic violence shelter, I cannot stress to you enough how much efforts like this are appreciated. Women in shelters are lucky to have the basic necessities, let alone little luxuries.

This is where you come in. I am gathering items for the NOW-NYC gift drive. They are accepting the following donations:

New hair clips
Hand soaps
Toiletries
Baby clothes & supplies
Lotions and hair gels
Costume jewelry
Journals/notecards/books
Craft kits and small games
Scarves, hats, gloves, fuzzy socks

If you get your items to me by Monday, December 13, I can take them to NOW-NYC headquarters and wrap them in time to be distributed. So, next time you are out grocery shopping or at the drug store, please consider adding one of these items to your cart.

All Dogs Go to Heaven

2010-11-28T14:04:00.000-08:00

Montana MtJoy

Today, my dog died.

He was a good dog. Correction, he was a great dog. The best dog. I don't even like dogs, but Montana was too loving and wonderful not to adore.

Montana was a Christmas puppy. We adopted him on Christmas Eve about 14 years ago (My mom had run out to the grocery store to pick up some last-minute items for our holiday party and some little boy was standing outside the Shop n' Save with a box of puppies he said that his mom would make him take to the pound if he couldn't find homes for them). He holds the distinction of being the one and only MtJoy dog allowed to live indoors. That is, until he ate my mom's favorite shoes and promptly became an outdoor dog.

Montana's fondest wish in life was to be a cat. He looooved cats. He even preferred cat food. Whenever we had kittens, they'd all sleep on him. He'd chase our old black cat Wilhemina (previously thought to be William until he/she had babies) across the yard, turn around, and let her chase him back in the other direction.

For almost half my life, Montana was my dog. He always greeted me enthusiastically when I got home, no matter how long the absence. Lately, he'd his age started to really show. He was slow and in pain. Logically, I know that his death was merciful, a quiet end to a great life. But right now, I just miss my dog.

Thankful

2010-11-27T12:41:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving 2010

As my my friend Sarah over at Covering the Globe recently pointed out, in the days leading up to Thanksgiving I traditionally post about the things that I am feeling particularly thankful for that year. As she also pointed out, I completely neglected to do so this year because I have been living and breathing grad school, spending and average of 12 hours a day on campus lately.

However, it is never too late to express gratitude. So, here it is folks. In 2010, what I am feeling thankful for is...

Grad school, actually. Really. Yes, I complain about the huge expense and time suckage and undergrads who make me want to stab them in the neck with a fork, but, honestly, I am extremely thankful. Quick, think of the one million biggest problems people have in the world and no where on that list will you find "over-exhausting oneself while pursuing their dream job in the arts."

No, I am extraordinarily grateful for the opportunity to work with my amazing fellow theatre grads and professors. Every day, I get to create art and push my artistic boundaries. I get to take classes like Directing the 20th Century and Contemporary Collaborative Performance and Performing Arts for Social Change.

I am here, yes by my own hard work and merit, but also because of others. I am here because my incredibly supportive husband agreed to uproot his life and business and move 3,000 miles across the country so I could pursue my dream. I am here because wonderful undergraduate professors of mine like Ken Parks, Mara Amster, and Julio Rodriguez encouraged me and wrote me recommendations. I am also here because of parents who didn't skip a beat when I decided to change from pre-med to theatre ten years ago.

Yes, I will continue to gripe about the lack of gastroparesis-friendly food on campus and walking home in the rain and the mess in the grad lounge. But don't mistake my sass for ingratitude. It's not. This year, I am thankful for grad school.

Oh, Baby

2010-11-17T20:28:00.000-08:00

For a good while now, I've been hearing people praise the documentary Babies. So, I did what any modern gal does when she hears a positive movie recommendation: I put it on my Netflix instant queue. I figured, Hey, I like babies and documentary film, so surely I will love a documentary film about babies!

No.

The night started off in a completely different direction. The Foxy Husband is out of town, so I've been trying to watch stuff he's not interested in (case in point: my Tudors mini-marathon last night). Tonight, Dead Man Walking was on deck. Well, after that bucket o'laughs, I thought something a tad lighter might be nice. You know, so I don't dream about Sean Penn murdering me in the woods or Susan Sarandon singing to me.

Enter Babies, stage left. It called to me from my instant queue, "Hey Foxy, remember me? Babies? I'm so friggin' adorable and I am over in less than an hour, much like real babies should be!" So I listened. Maybe I've been spoiled by years of YouTube clips and America's Funniest Home Videos, but... well... I kinda expected these babies to do something.

But no.

They just lie there. And cry. And pee. And normal, everyday baby stuff. Which, I am sure, is fascinating to their parents and understandably so. But me? Not so much. And the exotic locales don't help, sorry. Watching a boring baby is watching a boring baby. I don't care if that baby is from San Francisco or Mongolia or Mars.

To be clear, I am not blaming the babies. I'm not a baby-hater, despite what you may have heard. It is not the babies' fault the movie is boring. The babies are doing their very baby best. It is not their job to entertain me. I blame the filmmakers; It is, in fact, their job. I could splice together footage of four different international kittens and call it a film, but I wouldn't charge people to see it. Even though people would want to. Because kittens are awesome (Exhibit A).

I will say that I did kinda of like the scenes with the babies and the cats. So there's something. I guess next time I should just stick to the death penalty movies and call it a night.

Photo credit: leann_b

Dancers are Worth More than Booty Shorts

2010-11-08T11:28:00.000-08:00

Click below to sign the petition:

Petitions by Change.org|Start a Petition »

My First Love

2010-11-07T15:02:00.000-08:00

Aaron and Roxy, 1982

When I was a little girl -we're talking pre-school age here- I was in love. Sadly, my love was never meant to be, mostly because the object of my affection was my cousin Aaron. Oh sure, you laugh, but I had found at age three what people look for their whole lives: the perfect man.

Aaron tall (well, tall in comparison), dark, and handsome. He was nice to me and let me play with (some) of his Legos. He liked my family. What could be wrong with that? I told my mom that I intended to marry him. She was not as supportive of this plan as I would have liked.

Ultimately, it all worked out for the best. Patrick is a far more appropriate (and legal) choice. I see that now. And Aaron is now married to a wonderful lady and together they have three ridiculously adorable children. Still, you never forget your first love.

Girls Gone Wildly Inappropriate

2010-11-07T14:33:00.000-08:00

If you follow my articles over on Change.org (and of course you do!), you will probably remember a piece I wrote last July about the good (ha) folks over at Girls Gone Wild and their shady filming practices. Specifically, I told you about one appalling case:

"In 2008, a Missouri woman learned through a friend of a friend of a friend that she appeared in a video entitled Girls Gone Wild Sorority Orgy. The footage had been shot in 2004, when the woman in question was 20 years old. She was been out with her friends at a place called the Rum Jungle. Jane Doe was having a good time dancing when a Girls Gone Wild videographer started filming her. While other women voluntarily flashed their breasts for the camera, Doe can be heard on film saying "no" repeatedly. That's when another person or persons yanked Doe's tank top down, exposing her against her will." (Girls Gone Wild: No Consent Required, July 2010)

Pretty horrible stuff, right? Jane Doe decided to sue. The jury, however, didn't see things her way:

"The jury only took 90 minutes to find in favor of the company. In a brilliant display of victim-blaming, the jury foreman Patrick O'Brien had this to say afterwards: "Through her actions, she gave implied consent. She was really playing to the camera. She knew what she was doing." (Girls Gone Wild: No Consent Required, July 2010)

Yeah. You read that right. Victim-blaming comes in so many lovely colors, doesn't it? This woman was assaulted on camera and a company made $1.5 million and counting off of it, but, hey, she had that look in her eye, ya know? Please.

Thankfully, a judge agrees with me (I told you I'm smart) and granted Jane Doe a retrial:

"The Court believes it is highly questionable whether a reasonable person reading the notices defendant contends were posted at the Rum Jungle would believe she was consenting, merely by dancing fully clothed, to the use of her image being spliced into and/or used for the promotion of pornographic material not filmed at the location. It is apparent to the Court that plaintiff did not voluntarily expose her breasts, and it would have been apparent to the person making use of the footage that she did not content to such exposure." (via The Broadsheet at Salon.com)

Thank God. Let's hope second time is a charm.

Photo credit: lewisha1990

D-E-F-E-N-S-E: My Day as A Clinic Escort

2010-10-18T10:43:00.000-07:00

Dr. Emily's Women's Health Clinic

A little over a week ago, I spent my Saturday morning volunteering with NOW-NYC as a clinic escort at Dr. Emily's Women's Health Clinic in the Bronx. This was my first time doing this and the experience was surreal. I meant to blog about this earlier, but grad school sucked up all my time (damn higher education!). Perhaps it was good for me to get some emotional distance from the day. In any case, here is my account of my morning:

I woke up very early (for me, for a Saturday) in order to get to the clinic by 8am. When I arrived, I expected to see protesters and escorts and well, people. However, when I got there, there was only one woman standing in front of the clinic. My point person from NOW is named Kristan, so I asked the woman if that was her name. What resulted was a tragicomedy of errors:

Me: Are you Kristan?

Lady: Yes, I am. Are you here to stand outside the clinic today?

Me: Yes.

Lady: Is this your first time?

Me: Yes.

Lady: Well, we need everyone we can get.

Me: My pleasure.

Lady: It is terrible what goes on inside there, isn't it? I haven't seen anyone go in yet, except for employees. At least I think they were employees. It is so hard to tell.

Me: Huh?!

Lady: Dear, make sure you stand behind the barricades. They don't let us get as close as we'd like.

It was at this point that I realized we were on two very different sides. I think when I said "Are you Kristan?" she thought I said "Are you Christian?" I explained that there had been a misunderstanding and slipped away to text the real Kristan, who told me she'd be there in an hour and to just hang back and observe for now. The lady I had been speaking with glared at me the rest of the day, seemingly convinced I had staged our earlier conversation for my personal amusement and evil master pro-abortion plan.

At this point, feeling slightly uncomfortable and not really knowing what to do, I headed over to a Dunkin Donuts around the corner to get a decaf coffee. When I came back, more protesters had arrived. It was at this point that I snapped the photo above, careful not get any patients in the picture.

When I crossed the street, I once again thought I might have spotted Kristan. You see, all escorts were told to wear red and there was a woman standing off by herself in a red hoodie (I later learned that savvy protesters have picked up on this and have started to wear red, too, to confuse people). However, as soon as I approached the clinic, I was absolutely swarmed by her and a bunch of other people. It seems they thought I was a patient. Once I cleared up that confusion, most turned their attention back to the clinic entrance, but some people stayed focused on me, clearly suspicious. I explained I was here with NOW-NYC to ensure that all patients could enter and exit the clinic with as little harassment and trauma as possible.

I learned that the group was mostly made up of people from an organization called Live Offensively. That is a great name, since I find yelling hateful things at vulnerable women and men to be quite offensive. More than that, there was a cameraman there filming the whole thing, including nice shots of me and the other escorts and guards that day. Classy. I'm sorry, that helps your cause... how?

Also offensive: There was a sketchy van parked on the street with an ultrasound machine inside being operated by a anti-choicer with no medical training. The goal was to lure patients inside and the fill them up with some unscientific mumbo jumbo in an attempt to sway them away from having an abortion. Gee, that's not creepy at all.

All told, I spent a little over four hours there that day, alternating between the front and back entrances. Protesters ranged from the creepy cameraman to the ultrasound non-technician to a group of monks to a Christian rock band to a group called Save the Storks. There was even Cupcakes for Life. I'm not making that up. In fact, they had a tray of their cupcakes o'life on top of a van that was about to drive away. I mentioned it to one of the protesters and they seemed shocked that a baby-hating heathen such as myself would be nice enough to let them know they were about to lose their sugary goodness.

I wanted to tell these people, "If you hate abortion so very much, your time would be better spent advocating for comprehensive sex education and easy access to affordable contraception," but something told me that these folks wouldn't be interested.

All said, it was an incredible morning. I've talked the talk for a long time, but I felt it was time to walk the pro-choice walk. Being there, hearing the hateful, hurtful language being hurled at patients (who, as I informed a stunned protester, might be entering the clinic for any number of reasons, including annual exams and pre-natal care), seeing the deceitful tactics used, witnessing the trauma they inflicted... it was something I will never forget. It is, however, something I will repeat. I plan to be there again next Saturday and whenever else they need me.