A place in Hell.

There is a place in Hell for women who do not help other women. – Madeline Albright

I thought I’d read just about every angle on the Presidential campaign, but apparently I missed this one:

Hillary Clinton Forum

Yes, here at last is that Mysterious Island of Pissed-Off Women that I didn’t think really existed: the liberal female voters so completely consumed with rage at the Democratic failure to nominate Hillary for President that THEY ARE VOTING REPUBLICAN TO SUPPORT SARAH PALIN.

For the first time in my life, I’m truly ashamed of my sister Vaginal-Americans.

Consider some of the hateful anger against Obama and the Democrats spewed on the Hillary Clinton forum when Sarah Palin was chosen (and this is a representative, if not underrepresentative, sampling of the posts there):

Buuuuurn Obama Buuuurn! What a slap in the face. If it’s Palin, I will put blood and sweat into campaigning for that team.

I am THRILLED if this is true. It will make it easier for me to vote McCain (which I would have done anyway). Now I’m excited! It’s not Hillary (she’ll be President in ’12)…. but it’s exciting none the less!

McCain has picked PALIN!!! I am THRILLED! AS for the Dums whining that she doens’t have experience running things–SHE HAS FIVE KIDS!! TRUST ME! SHE KNOWS HOW TO RUN THINGS! GOD BLESS MCCAIN/PALIN!!!

now you know I will be backing my girl. I admire Sarah and I think it is toooo cool that we were born the same year.

Well this lifelong Democrat is most certainly advocating a Republican vote!!!!

A woman VP is VERY exciting and it makes me advocate a Republican vote even more since Obama refused to allow the Democratic party, especially the women, the opportunity to make this history!!! Obama’s actions should be taken as absolute proof that he is a woman hater. Never did come to terms with all those unresolved abandonment issues.

Talk about cutting the baby in half and then throwing it out with the bathwater. Here’s a group of women so furious that they are willing to sell out all of their own – and their preferred candidate’s – hard-fought visions and ideals in order to vote for someone with the right working parts between her legs. How is supporting a woman who does not support women “supporting women”? If the cognitive dissonance doesn’t cause your brain to implode, the irony is enough to knock you senseless. As my father would say, “Grow up.” These comments – “my girl Sarah”? – sound like jilted vengeful prom dates, not adult women with their faculties intact.

Before anyone claws my eyes out, let me say that I have some solid feminist credentials. Went to a women’s college, marched a whole lot, read (and can still quote) Mary Daly. I still have my 20-something year old T-shirt from my college’s 100th anniversary celebration that proudly proclaimed us “100 years of castrating bitches.” I understand disenfranchised and disaffected and just plain dissed.

Believe me, I would love nothing more than to see Senator Clinton or another intelligent, educated, competent woman elected into office. But not just any woman, and certainly not an ultra-conservative right-wing Republican woman who will set women’s rights back at least 50 years if, say, she has the chance to appoint a Supreme Court justice.

Send me straight to Hell now, but how is changing your vote from Hillary to Sarah any different than saying that I am randomly interchangeable with Jhumpa Lahiri, Pulitzer-prize winning Indian woman writer? That would be offensive (at least to Ms. Lahiri) and, I think most would agree, racist.

Similarly, it’s not ONLY offensive, it’s just plain sexist to claim that any white woman politician, let alone a right-wing Republican, can be substituted for Hillary Clinton with equal effect. That’s right, you crossover Hillary voters. YOU. ARE. SEXIST.

I’m going to hazard a guess that most of these women are white, because otherwise, they would understand that identity stems from many sources. I’m a working woman, but I’m also a minority. Throw in Alaskan, environmentalist, pro-choice, liberal, and you have an amalgam of issues, all of which are important and complex and intertwined. I’m not going to vote to support a crazy old ultra-conservative and his nutty sidekick just because she’s female, any more than I’m going to vote for a jerk like Dinesh D’Souza just because he’s Indian.

There’s still a lot of people out there who subscribe to the notion that women are too emotional to think rationally in a time of crisis. Sadly, some women really are.

And the part of V.P. will be played by…

Ms. Sarah Palin of Wasilla, Alaska!

People have funny ways of making decisions about the future of this country. One commenter here posted that “Osama Bin Laden” could be rearranged to spell (almost) “Obama Biden.” Anagrams: now there’s an intelligent way to vote. If you’re going to go by that method, “Sarah Palin” can be rearranged to spell many things too, like “a sharp nail”, “a plain rash” and “Ha, liar. Snap!” (Want to try out some more anagrams? It’s fun!)

All joking aside, let’s give her credit – the woman can read a teleprompter like no one’s business. Giving her keynote speech yesterday, she sounded confident, looked great, and projected exactly the charming but tough image of a folksy, no-nonsense, gun-toting, gutsy, conservative working hottie mom that the Republicans were hoping to get out of her.

And has any candidate for anything in history ever actually BLOWN A KISS at a political convention before yesterday? You could almost hear the old geezers in their 10-gallon hats wheezing, “Damn, that’s one spunky little filly!” and making mental notes to call in their Viagra prescriptions.

The only problem is IT’S ALL A FARCE. Don’t fall for it, people.

Sarah Palin is great at playing the part of Sarah Palin, Vice Presidential nominee. She’s the new kid on the block, a quick study and a swell actress. But let’s face facts: she’s not real. She just SEEMS real. It’s an airbrushed illusion, a sleight of hand to make you see what you want to see. It’s just what women hope for when they put on their make-up – that it won’t look like make-up at all but their own natural self, only without the flaws.

Sarah’s going to have to ante up on the campaign trail, and I don’t think she can do it. For one thing, she has yet to explain or even admit her flip-flop on the “Bridge To Nowhere”. After campaigning in Ketchikan on the promise of building that bridge, she now tells America she said “Thanks but no thanks.” That line is going to get older and more worn out than her running mate if she continues to use it. More importantly, the people of Ketchikan surely would beg to differ, were they given the chance to be heard.

And another thing: since when have the Republicans been the party of the working class, the downtrodden, the poor and misunderstood (unless you could call Halliburton and Exxon misunderstood)? Somehow, by projecting a certain image and mouthing certain words, the Republicans have turned themselves into the white knights of the people while categorizing Democrats as a bunch of sissified, over-educated, anti-American latte-drinking elitists. Suddenly the Ds are the party who want civil rights for terrorists while trampling small businesses underfoot and killing the unborn. Never mind killing the already-alive through the death penalty, giving massive tax breaks to huge businesses, and making a complete joke out of privacy. We’ve got PIT BULLS HOCKEY MOMS NOW!

And at least right now, eager for illusions that will take away the harsh realities we’re facing thanks to the current administration, people are falling for this drivel, and worse, for the as-yet-untarnished image of Sarah Palin in all her dazzling glory.

It’s enough to give you a plain rash.

These boots were made for kicking.

The Bug and I are not exactly morning people. If we had our way, we’d be up til 2 a.m., then sleep till noon. Unfortunately, his preschool has made it clear that arriving after 9 a.m. is unacceptable. In order for us to cope with mornings in the least stressful way possible, I’ve come up with the following routine:

6 a.m.: Alarm goes off. (This is not my doing, but my husband, who is a morning person and perfectly happy to have time to himself.)

7:30 a.m.: Wake after repeated shaking from husband, insisting he has to be in court at 8:30, so GET UP NOW. Stumble from bed directly into shower. Pee in shower as revenge.

7:50 – 8:00 a.m.: Read e-mail and make tea, then start waking up the Bug.

8:00 – 8:15 a.m.: Make the Bug’s lunch while simultaneously yelling down the stairs, “WE’RE GOING TO BE REALLY REALLY LATE!”

8:15 a.m.: Carry the Bug upstairs, sit him on kitchen counter, and stuff him with jungle pancakes.

8:25 a.m.: Put an end to drum-playing by threatening to give drums away if he does not get dressed.

8:30 a.m.: Assemble lunch and jackets. Put dog out. Turn off lights and appliances. Get shoes on. Leave house.

8:35 a.m.: Find car keys.

8:40 a.m.: Drive back to house to make sure garage door is closed.

9:01 a.m.: Arrive at preschool to receive dirty looks from teachers. Lie about time of arrival on sign-in sheet.

This morning, however, the routine was disrupted at 8:31 a.m. when, as I shoved my feet into my Keens, the Bug looked up from fastening his velcro sneakers and said, “Mama, why don’t you ever wear girl shoes?”

“Huh?” I looked down at my Mary Janes. How much more girlish can you get? Although yes, they have a rubber bumper toe the size of a car tire, and yes, they are caked in silt and mud from fishing in Hope. But they’re the most feminine shoes I own.

“You know, those shoes with criss-cross straps and a pointy back part and your toes stick out the front.”

“You mean hooker shoes high heels?”

The Bug nodded. “I like girls to wear criss-cross shoes. And a DRESS,” he added accusingly, looking at my holey t-shirt and sweatpants.

“Honey, I’m going to the rock gym. And besides, high heels are uncomfortable.”

He frowned at me. “You look pretty in a skirt.”

“Oh, ALL RIGHT,” I said and ran up to get a skirt. I brought it down and showed it to him. “See? I do own a skirt. I’ll put it on after I climb.” His face lit up with the glow of a boy suddenly in love with his mother again.

I’m not one of those women who’s into shoes, although my husband would disagree based on the state of our hall closet. That’s because he doesn’t know the difference between shoes and BOOTS. Boots I love, the clunkier the better. They make me feel taller, tougher too. I like to stomp around feeling like I could kick someone’s ass if necessary.

As far as shoes go, I like them comfortable and sensible, shoes that can be slipped on and worn throughout a fourteen hour day without causing me to need a hip replacement. Keen, Dansko, Born – from the ankle down, I’m frumpy as it gets. Who wants to mince around like a pig on tiptoe anyway? On the rare occasion when I do wear heels, I feel like a drag queen, only not as graceful.

After I dropped the Bug off, I pondered what on earth could have warped him so early. As far as I knew, the only way he differentiated gender was genitalia eyelashes. If it has eyelashes, it’s a girl. If it doesn’t it’s a boy. Sort of like penis envy in reverse, thanks to Disney movies.

At first I thought it had to be the bad influence of all the prissy girls at his preschool, girls with names like Kylee and Kaylie and Kaitlin, the Heathers of their young day, the same ones who once told the Bug he couldn’t wear pink socks to school because only girls wear pink. I’m actually thankful not to be in preschool there, because deep inside, I am afraid of them. They’re the kind of girls who gleefully tear out the hair of awkward shy girls like I used to be, or at least disembowel us with cruel words.

But no, I realized, there’s more to it than that.

When I was pregnant, I secretly hoped I was having a boy. A girl would have been fine too, but I dreaded the possibility of one of those princess-y daughters who only wears pink and hates getting dirt under her nails. I’m feminist to the core, but after observing my friends’ daughters, I’m convinced there’s a stage of female developmental growth requiring horses with pastel manes, glittery nail polish, and butterfly hair doo-dahs. Nope, give me a rough-and-tumble boy, ready to stomp in puddles and play in the mud with me and get good and MESSY.

Well, I got one of those boys. The trouble is, I didn’t realize that what those boys like – those boys who are “all boy” – is: PRINCESS-Y GIRLS. Which is why the Bug’s eyes shine like stars when I wear a skirt and put on a little makeup and yes, my one pair of high heels. If he could write up his own personals ad, it would read:

Cool drummer/animal rescuer, age four and a half, night owl, loves panthers and temporary dinosaur tattoos, seeks long-haired girly-girl with eyelashes and belly button who enjoys wearing pink dresses and criss-cross shoes.

And I’m sure there are plenty of girls like that out there. Good thing I have all these boots, so I can kick their asses.