Saturday, September 29, 2012

Femanism--Evolution in Action

Once again, a bitter feminist opens her mouth (or, rather, her word processing program) and reveals how truly shallow and selfish she really is. In this case, it is Sandra Tsing Loh at the Atlantic in her article about men being the weaker sex. She obviously is one of those feminists who believe that the ultimate goal of feminism is to crush and grind men into the ground.

Ms. Loh writes (with some of my comments interjected):
And—as Dr. Phil would ask—how’s all that freedom working … for us? Not very well, says Mary Eberstadt, author of Adam and Eve After the Pill. The sexual revolution’s legacy, she maintains, is “the paradox of declining female happiness.” She cites a 2009 study in which two Wharton School professors, using 35 years of General Social Survey data, found that despite educational and employment advances, women were reportedly less happy than they used to be. Ouch! [Geez, you mean that men didn't go off to "work" in order to play and have fun all day long?]

Into this gloomy landscape, however, strides Liza Mundy, her bold new vision encapsulated in The Richer Sex: How the New Majority of Female Breadwinners Is Transforming Sex, Love, and Family. Instead of being a castrating, unmarriageable harpy, today’s reproductively and economically free female
[translation: childless and shallow], Mundy asserts, is the trigger for a challenging but exciting new social order. In 2012 America, as she points out, women are better educated than men (women earn the majority of bachelor’s and graduate degrees); an escalating number of single women younger than 30 earn more than their male peers; and nine of the 10 U.S. job industries with the most projected growth are women-­dominated. [Wow. Over thirty years of bias against boys and men in education and employment--everything from drugging boys into submission, to preferential scholarships and admissions at universities, hiring quotas that benefit women--and she is amazed it finally worked. This is sort of like someone from the pre-civil war South using college graduation rates of rich whites to prove that they were the mental and moral superiors to the black slaves]. This last figure has resulted from various societal shifts, ranging from a late-20th-century fall in manufacturing jobs to the rise of such lucrative, almost exclusively female professions as psychotherapy. (Indeed—do you know a male therapist? I don’t, and my last therapist charged a murderous $275 an hour.) [I've never felt the need to pay someone $275/hr just to bitch about my life--maybe the gender disparity is because men don't need therapists].
Ms. Loh then relates how her one married friend storms into a girls-night out party to bitch about her husband not having gotten around to changing a light-bulb for several days and--surprise, surprise--transforming his neglect in this one task into an overall irresponsible personality. Her friend apparently doesn't appreciate that raising children and maintaining a household is actually work. So, rather than helping around the house, she instead runs off to a bar to drink with her buddies. Just like the men their mothers divorced in the 1960's and 70's.

She then relates:
Annette continues: “Those shallots. He may be an A-plus house­husband, but he’s a B-minus housewife. He knows the toilet’s clogged, so why doesn’t he call the plumber and—more important—arrange a time to let the plumber in so he can fix the problem? At midnight last Wednesday, I’m bailing out the flooded balcony with a four-cup Pyrex.”

“Well,” I say, in the sudden vibrating silence, “this is interesting. Here sit four divorced women who are okay with our exes, and one married woman furious at her husband. I wonder if part of the problem is that we have partitioned off our men’s tasks and you haven’t, because, um, what all married women maybe secretly yearn for is not one husband, but four.”

Every­one agrees; we tease it out and come up with, essentially: The Four Husbands of the Apocalypse.

Mr. X: the financial partner
. Not necessarily the financial provider—he’s more that calm, intelligent partner with whom to navigate the tedious finan­cial technicalities of life—the 401(k)s, the 529s, the various faintly conflicting health-insurance plans. If you are a mother in our economic class (we all married sensitive, intelligent, professional men, rather than barflies), this man will typically be the father of your children. You will feel that you chose correctly, never mind that you are no longer married (hence the name: “Mr. Ex”). [Translation: real nice guy, but boring; good to have around when the women was making less, but not so much now...].

Mr. Y: the feelings guy
[Translation: the gay boyfriend and/or "free" therapist]. He is all about the glass of chardonnay proffered with soulful active listening at the end of the day. “Pampering”—a vague enough word—may ensue, but the DPMs decide this needn’t include “massage” (as some “date night” guidelines arduously insist). We agree that any sensible human would prefer a massage from a professional. When your “mate” rubs your back, it’s impossible to relax while you anticipate what reciprocation will be required—five minutes of sex or, worse, a 20-­minute massage back. This is a complex role; while it falls to Mr. Y to provide amorous rela­tions if needed, for some—most?—women, it would be enough, or even preferred, for Mr. Y to function as the gentlemanly squire (Maurice Tempelsman holding umbrella aloft as Jackie O steps out of Doubleday into the rain). Or he could even be (or appear to be, although he says he’s not) gay. (David Gest, to the staff: “Liza will be home at 7 o’clock. Ready the Vosges chocolates, draw the bath!”—although of course, that ended, after 16 months, in lawsuits and allegations of beatings, herpes, etc.) (Doesn’t Sir Elton John have a Mr. Y?) (I’ll Google this.)

Mr. Z: The Brawny paper-towel man
[Translation: the guy that does all the man-jobs around the house]. This Mr. Fix-It wheels out the garbage cans, repairs the electronic garage-door opener, resets the computerized and (why?) tankless water heater.

Mr. Q: the cheerful intern
[Translation: the maid]. Mr. Q executes whatever tiny tasks you assign, without argument—he accepts a stack of envelopes and addresses them, picks up the dry cleaning before noon, is on call for 24/7 emergency carpooling, and, best of all, when handed a grocery list, returns with—get this—that grocery list’s exact items (“not Tropicana carton orange juice but fresh-squeezed Naked Orange Mango”).

The problem, of course, is that no one man can possibly be all four of these people. Mr. X is notoriously bad at processing feelings, Mr. Y is notoriously bad at fixing things, macho Mr. Z hates to be micromanaged, and Mr. Q does not actually exist in real life, although in modern marriages, husbands and wives often do treat each other as interns (“You pick up the dry cleaning!” “No, YOU should, by 5 o’clock! And put it on the United miles card, NOT Bank of America!”).
Dang-it. They want slaves, but it is illegal. And frankly, since they have the personalities of a pregnant dog, they wouldn't be able to attract the bevy of boyfriends they want for their harem.

Anyway, read the whole thing. It does a lot to explain the declining birth-rates in the United States. Evolution in action.

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