|Do meetings like this actually exist? Just who is she giving eye|
contact to in this instance? Is she framing her breasts?
Pictured: successful presenter at a meeting sharing high
Not pictured: me.
|Pictured: woman in sensible coat with largely|
sensible hair charges an EV.
Not pictured: me.
In short, it was a typically masculine day. As in 'typically masculine' rather than a day that was typical to me. I have tended to the car rather than childcare (itself an extension of gadgets and logic: I lowered the brightness of the display and was rewarded with even more efficiency, to quite a considerable margin too) and I have worked as the primary wage-earner rather than done home things. I had my food prepared for me so that I could eat on my return (including ingredients that Tilly does not like and a meal that Tilly did not share). Tilly even prevented the girlie from 'bothering' me as I ate because I'd "just got in from work" - this was, in my defence, over my protestations that I did not need 'protecting' from being 'bothered'. I am nothing if not a big, fat, walking stereotype of male-ness in a stereotype of a nuclear family situation. Parsons would love me and Oakley would illustrate treatise with my slovenly male behaviour.
|Pictured: how I feel I must appear to my family,|
my colleagues and readers of this post.
Not pictured: mainstream understanding and
depiction of patriarchal terror.
I was feeling rather clever until I read the comment on the last post and realised that I am so much not clever that, sometimes, it's painful to observe. Basically I am, as I have always been, an agent of the status quo and the sort of boorish pillock that perpetuates both gender binaries and the genderisation of virtually everything from body spray to cup-holders. Even wearing a camisole, I'm just a male stereotype colonising the female experience playing at being a unique snowflake.
|Pictured: me as a fork. The broken one.|