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My daughters and I had just wrapped up the audiobook of The Witches with Miranda Richardson yesterday, having listened to it all week in the car, and we were still blissed out on those wonderful, awful witches. . . .
. . . when this idiot playground dad got in my way.
So, the story goes like this. . . I'm an animated woman. I love stories, both listening to them and telling them, and I love a good joke, too. And I found myself, yesterday, engaged in conversation with a playground dad's mother, here visiting for the Thanksgiving holiday. We were having a good time, talking and laughing, but I could see that Sonny Boy was getting irritated, because this woman (me) was receiving attention from his Mommy, so when I made a joke about how everything in your body seems to hurt more, after you hit 40. . .
wounded Baby Man suddenly spat out, “Well, it's clear you're no spring chicken. I bet menopause is right around the corner for you.”
That, my friends, is called misogyny. He sought to insult me, but he made sure his insults were directed toward my womanhood, rather than my humanity.
Off come the gloves. . . sharp are the nails. . . fire fills my mind.
If only. . . oh, if only I could truly perform spells.
It's interesting, isn't it, that Roald Dahl (one of my most favorite writers) invented witches who loathe children and turn them into mice. . .
Why children? Why mice? They're all perfectly harmless enough. Well, of course, he chose witches and children and mice, because his brilliant story was written to make children laugh at the things they fear most.
But, we grown-up women know that the best story ever told about a witch was Circe from The Odyssey. . . men acting like pigs being turned into pigs. They eat her food, they sleep in her bed and they disrespect her island. They act like pigs, so she feeds them some magical food and summons their true essence.
I do not say this to disrespect men. I am surrounded, generally, by righteous men, and I tend to adore them.
But, to Baby Men. . . men who can't handle a woman's boldness. . . I say. . . with my eyes and my taloned fingers. . . I make you swine.
When we got back into the car after this harried playdate, I said to my daughters, “When a man reduces you to your female form, then pokes fun of you, just remember, he is afraid of you. . .
And you could do a lot worse than to summon your inner witch.”
(Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Witches everywhere, unite!!)
. . . when this idiot playground dad got in my way.
So, the story goes like this. . . I'm an animated woman. I love stories, both listening to them and telling them, and I love a good joke, too. And I found myself, yesterday, engaged in conversation with a playground dad's mother, here visiting for the Thanksgiving holiday. We were having a good time, talking and laughing, but I could see that Sonny Boy was getting irritated, because this woman (me) was receiving attention from his Mommy, so when I made a joke about how everything in your body seems to hurt more, after you hit 40. . .
wounded Baby Man suddenly spat out, “Well, it's clear you're no spring chicken. I bet menopause is right around the corner for you.”
That, my friends, is called misogyny. He sought to insult me, but he made sure his insults were directed toward my womanhood, rather than my humanity.
Off come the gloves. . . sharp are the nails. . . fire fills my mind.
If only. . . oh, if only I could truly perform spells.
It's interesting, isn't it, that Roald Dahl (one of my most favorite writers) invented witches who loathe children and turn them into mice. . .
Why children? Why mice? They're all perfectly harmless enough. Well, of course, he chose witches and children and mice, because his brilliant story was written to make children laugh at the things they fear most.
But, we grown-up women know that the best story ever told about a witch was Circe from The Odyssey. . . men acting like pigs being turned into pigs. They eat her food, they sleep in her bed and they disrespect her island. They act like pigs, so she feeds them some magical food and summons their true essence.
I do not say this to disrespect men. I am surrounded, generally, by righteous men, and I tend to adore them.
But, to Baby Men. . . men who can't handle a woman's boldness. . . I say. . . with my eyes and my taloned fingers. . . I make you swine.
When we got back into the car after this harried playdate, I said to my daughters, “When a man reduces you to your female form, then pokes fun of you, just remember, he is afraid of you. . .
And you could do a lot worse than to summon your inner witch.”
(Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Witches everywhere, unite!!)
