Amid all the rage and dread, my friend Dr. LaRue relayed the news that Pantone has come out with a new color called Period! Not as in punctuation but as in menstrual period…”an original shade of red that represents a steady flow during menstruation.”

How empowering, right ladies?

I’m going to say that this red, described by Pantone as “an active and adventurous red hue,” is not the color I associate with menstruation. Maybe the first day? You tell me.

Pantone goes on to say that

‘period’ emboldens people who menstruate* to feel proud of who they are. To own their period with self-assurance; to stand up and passionately celebrate the exciting and powerful life force they are born with; to urge everyone regardless of gender to feel comfortable to talk spontaneously and openly about this pure and natural bodily function.”

Well, good! I know that I personally was proud to menstruate, and enjoyed clearing a room of men simply by bringing up the subject. I liked brandishing a tampon instead of hiding it discreetly. I almost threw one at a bad opening act at the Palladium or somewhere, hoping to hit the lead singer in the face, to register my displeasure. Doubting my aim, I changed my mind at the last moment.

Years ago I wrote about menstruation here, and I recall the incredible sense of female community that arose from the discussion! It was really wonderful. (Go read the comments if you’re a *Person Who Menstruates, or was one formerly.)

As an old bag, I miss my periods. I loved everything about them. Now, it seems crazy that in 2020, women and girls sill need prodding to feel okay with menstruation. If men had periods…well, you know what Gloria Steinem said! Periods are great but not as art, imo. I’m thinking of icky feminist “art” centered on used Tampax or whatever. They are great, but you don’t deserve a medal for having them. Let’s stop at the new Pantone color.

Will Pantone develop a color for menopause?? I want them to. What would that look like, do you think? The color of autumn leaves mixed with the steel grey of Accidental Icon’s hair? What color is estrogen, anyway?

As we ponder Period red, lets list all the reds we can think of, quick!

Scarlet, ruby, rose, brick, cardinal, blood (not menstrual), vermilion, garnet, and cherry! Somehow I doubt that Crayola will give us a period red. As we lean into our female power, I think we’ll be okay without it.

I’ve been thinking how stupid it is to have an International Women’s Day, but I didn’t know how to approach my feelings without seeming reflexively contrarian. Women are great, but no greater than non-women.

International women are great but so are local women. Women have supported me but woman have also been mean to me, and I mean mean. Woman make up half of the world’s population, so a single day of recognition seems absurd. All the jargon of fourth-wave feminism is repellent to me. I want equal pay for equal work and equal treatment under the law, but that’s where my interest ends. I know, I know.

I once believed that women wanted three things: Oral sex, ice cream, and a nice handbag. Now I feel I was way too hasty. We don’t want the handbag anymore. It’s no longer a big deal, right ladies? So I don’t know what that third thing is. Maybe my readers can suggest something.

I do know what women don’t want. We don’t want to be raped or assaulted. We don’t want mansplaining, pantyhose, clitorectomy, burkas, menstruation-shaming, honor killings, forced marriage, cellulite, and we don’t want men to push on our heads when we’re servicing them, alright? We want to breathe!

Luckily, I’ve just discovered the word “canceled” even though I’m late to the concept. Canceled refers to total disinvestment in something (or someone). It can come swiftly with one stupid tweet, or any instance of pissing people off. Jussie Smolett has been canceled, obviously, and so has Kanye. But not all cancellations are the result of a transgression; you can be canceled for no reason. We must all live in fear of being canceled, especially if we’re heavy users of social media.

“It’s a cultural boycott,” said Lisa Nakamura, a professor at the University of Michigan who studies the intersection of digital media and race, gender and sexuality. “It’s an agreement not to amplify, signal boost, give money to. People talk about the attention economy — when you deprive someone of your attention, you’re depriving them of a livelihood.”

If you announce that someone is canceled, they’re canceled. But the cancellation may not be universal. Or people can forget you’ve been cancelled, as in the case of Kanye or Taylor Swift. Under certain circumstances, the canceled may be uncanceled.

I’m canceling myself before someone else does it. But first I’m canceling International Women’s Day. Because once you’ve been canceled, you probably lose the power to cancel.

Wait! Now that I’m canceled, and stripped of relevance, can I conscript people into canceling shit for me? Will someone cancel Ivanka Trump? And Tucker Carlson? Also, Halsey? Let me know!

The best example of cancel culture is a Kosoko Jackson, a writer whose young-adult novel was pulled before publication due to a frenzied twitter backlash. Jackson, who is not only black and gay but also a “sensitivity reader for a major publishing house,” had the temerity to include an Albanian Muslim character in his novel and MAKE HIM A VILLAIN!!! Ha. Bastard. I hope he’s learned his lesson.

The commuinques above are from the esteemed owner of Dolly Python, a shop in Dallas, using a nom de guerre.

~

This one below is from the classy socialite and fashion maven Judy Aldridge (regarding Anna Wintour):

What do they have in common? I see a disturbing preoccupation with menstruation.

I remember being around 10 years old and having to see a film in school about menstruation. I   recall feeling intense embarrassment and general discomfort.

But then I got a little older and had my first period. My sister showed me what to do. It was kind of upsetting. She forgot to tell me that you had to keep changing your pads. But soon enough, I learned that menstruation is just a part of life. I never used cute little euphemisms like “My friend is in town” or however that one goes. I never   called it “the curse.” I would say, “I have my period, do you have an extra tampax?” or something like that.

Once, after a night out and being a little tipsy, I couldn’t find my tampax! I tried and tried but the more anxious I became, the more impossible it was to do it. Finally, I went to get my date (now my husband) who was waiting in the bedroom.

Now, for you gals in Texas, it’s time to leave. You’re never going to be able to handle this. Scram! Shoo!

Okay, so then, my gracious date told me to lay down and relax. He would find it for me. I will never forget how gentle he was.   Gentle, confident, and manly. Manly enough to remove the tampax and go throw it away like a gentleman. I felt my heart go CLUNK. This was a man in a million. I fell in love right there, right then. Nineteen years later, he is still the only man whose hands I want on me. Except for Johnny Depp, of course.

I always loved having my period. It’s messy but sensual. It reminds you that you are a woman. It reminds you of the cycles of nature, the moon and the tides.

Where does the fear and loathing come from, ladies of Texas??

If you would like to share your memories or point of view and you can do so without being a slobbering lunatic, jump in.

Here is a quote from the blog where I saw this photo:

“When I came across this picture on the facehunter a few months ago, I started thinking about [the shoes] night and day. Staring at them didn’t do the trick though: I still had no idea about who made them and where I could get them from.”

A normal person (i.e., a male) would consider it nuts to think about a pair of shoes night and day. I am disgusted to say that I’ve been just as fucked up by a pair of shoes, and like these stupid wedges, they were shoes that would only appeal to another woman.

What the hell is wrong with us?

I can’t say what every man likes or doesn’t like, but I’m pretty sure they’re not attracted to droopy harem pants or huge wedges. We women clearly dress for each other, and I think it’s a pathetic and expensive endeavor. I’m looking for away out.

Maybe it starts when girls first go to school and begin to jockey for position. Popularity was always based on clothes and how willing you were to make other girls feel bad. Brains were not an advantage, but money was. I’m assuming that in schools with uniforms, one’s status is determined by handbags and accessories.

Why can’t we get over it once we’ve grown up? I know that fashion is supposed to be a means of self-expression but it’s mostly about conforming to what the fashion media tells us is cool, so that other women will admire how quickly we jumped on board the current trend.

The feverish quest for a pair of shoes is clearly a form of sublimation.   And unless the shoes have stiletto heels,   it’s not part of a mating ritual.

What do you think fuels the desperation to be fashionable? I know that men often feel like this about cars, but the sexual symbolism is obvious there.

If you’re reading this and you’re a woman. you are going to be looking for a dress or jacket with padded shoulders. Don’t bother insisting that you’ve always liked padded shoulders. You’re going to want them and all you’ll get for your trouble is some girl going “OMG, that is so fierce!”

I’m hoping for some enlightenment or a debate, but for extra credit try showing these pants to your boyfriend or husband and ask what he thinks:

A while back, I wrote on the subject “Why Men Hate Women,” and I still get comments from angry men. (If you enjoy angry men, go and look!)

Today, after reading some of my email, I’m wondering if women are starting to hate themselves, too. Why else would anyone listen to Suzanne Somers, who went on Oprah to discuss her beauty regimen: 60 pills a day and injections in her Female Area!

Why else would anyone want to wax her Female Area, spray it with “24K gold” and have Swarovski crystals glued to it? You must really have to hate the sight of your crotch to mess with it like that.   Ladies, or gay men, do you want to see your man’s Johnson sprayed gold and glued with rhinestones?

God, it’s depressing. We haven’t come very far if this is our lot in life. If the best we can hope for is to pump our faces full of Botox and work out 3 hours a day to look like Madonna at fifty, it would be better to go back to the good old days when pubic hair was actually sexy and you didn’t have to look young forever. You could just wear a girdle if you got fat, and you could stay home and play bridge instead of touring the world in a leotard and top hat.

Are there any decent role models out there besides Patti Smith and Naomi Klein? Maybe we need to cultivate other qualities besides youthfulness and hairlessness. This might be a good subject for our pajama party.

Here is the badge thingy I made for it, but I know Honeypants or someone else could improve it.   Please have a go at it, and send it to me!

The Intimate Grooming market seems to be booming, based on the success of a product line known as “SweetSpot.”   I’ve noticed these products at beauty supply shops over the last year, and now they are hard to ignore. My friend Rebekkah and I were fascinated recently by an entire shelf of this crap, and I’m ashamed to admit that we shrieked like ten year old girls hearing the word Tampax for the first time.

Eeeooow! This shit is not only ridiculous, it comes in Basil Grapefruit and Geranium Lavender.   They want you to Celebrate “That time of the month” by wiping, misting and washing your special place, Down There.

Is that celebrating, or is it obliterating?

I really enjoyed the SweetSpot website, with its wacky euphemisms and made-up words like ‘sweetification.’ They also throw in ‘self-love’ for those women who can hear the word ‘pleasure’ used as a verb without wanting to throw up.

Ladies, do you want your man’s Package to smell like grapefruit and basil? How about oil and vinegar? Let me answer for you: No.

Even though I find the whole idea of feminine grooming to be absurd and insulting, I’m planning to give the On-the-go Wipettes as Christmas gifts, because laughter is the best medicine,   every day of the month!

Arts & Letters led me to an essay titled “Are Men Boring?”, where I expected to find some breakthrough study that proved the obvious, beyond a doubt.

Instead, it was the usual anecdotal findings of irritated wives and girlfriends whose male companions had nothing to talk about. Not “nothing” exactly, just nothing that they cared to share in conversation with a woman. I did like this quote from neuropsychiatrist Louann Brizendine:

“Connecting through talking”, she wrote in her book The Female Brain (2006), “activates the pleasure centres in a girl’s brain. We’re not talking about a small amount of pleasure. This is huge. It’s a major dopamine and oxytocin rush, which is the biggest, fattest neurological reward you can get outside of an orgasm.”

Yes,  Louann, DUH, we love to talk. We are starved for conversation if we live with men. We will make conversation with practically anyone after being home all week with kids who only know how to yell, “BUT WHY? JUST TELL ME WHY!” when you don’t cave in to some demand. We crave conversation so much that we’ll talk to anybody who’s wiling to venture an opinion or relate some experience, however mundane.

Are Men Boring? Is the Pope a former Nazi? Of course men are boring, because they talk only to achieve a goal. The process is just too girly for them and makes them uncomfortable. Sometimes you can put two obsessive men together and they’ll talk about drill bits or blues singers or even sports, but it’s not talk as females experience talking. It’s a dry exchange of information, or else a competition.

Lately, I see there’s a breed of men who talk endlessly about their game with women, but it has the same quality of men talking about business strategy, only more paranoid.

Men must know deep down how boring they are. And I guess they’re proud to be indifferent to conversation. They’re not pussies, dammit!

One thing men don’t like even more than talking is a woman with armpit hair. Every so often, I like to seperate the men from the boys by lifting up my arms. I’m not trying to be obnoxious! I’m just letting them know who they’re dealing with.