Every day, I see new op-ed literature that calls for women to embrace their body types by shunning the shapes and sizes of women who don’t look like whatever shape is favored in whatever literature presented. I give you exhibit (a), the latest meme to be passed around the Facebooks:

At first glance, this appears to be a righteous demand for Hollywood to stop determining that, in order to be attractive, women should represent the women depicted in the top half of this image. Women that I know and love have been passing this around like a figurative joint, high on the fumes of empowerment.

Except what you’re doing when you perpetuate images and attitudes such as the one represented in this photograph is the exact opposite of what you think you’re doing, and here is why.

We discuss the detriments presented in teaching our girls to discriminate against other girls who aren’t America’s standard for pretty, fashionable, thin. We tell them that size discrimination is a form of bullying; we go to great lengths to make sure that our girls are not the targets of the girl-on-girl hatefest that breeds whenever body size is the topic of discussion.

Except, what the hell does Natalie Portman have to do with that mission? Or Kiersten Dunst, or Marilyn Monroe, for that matter?? Further to my point, what exact role do these women have in our own measures for conveying and projecting confidence?? What does favoring one of them simply for their body shape have to do with justifying our own body shapes?? Does focusing on the shape of one woman and labeling it “unhealthy” somehow bold the ideal that the body you live in is better, healthier, thus more entitled to attaching confidence and validation? The fact is, most of the women depicted in the top row of that meme have spoken out against body type discrimination themselves, as have the women in the bottom row.

You don’t fight fire with fire. You don’t end discrimination by discriminating. It will never, ever be possible to develop a healthy sense of confidence by putting down women who do not parallel your body size or shape.

To me, if the goal is building confidence, the path is self-validation. Once that happened for me, I didn’t allow Hollywood, or the women who think it’s okay to tell us that fat = disgusting, or the women who say that thin = eating disordered, onto my spectrum of what determines my own self worth. My self worth, my confidence, is determined by my own basis for the terms, and is fulfilled by the pursuit of a healthy lifestyle that includes a mostly healthy diet and rewards, regular exercise, and positive self-talk. The rest can go fuck itself. I don’t need to slam Hollywood’s ideals for the perfect figure in order to feel confident, and I don’t need to adopt the ideal that all women of a certain size suck more than I do.

To the women who perpetuate these images, ideals, and mindsets: I get it. I know what you are trying to say and that your intentions are honest and that you are not, in fact, an evil, angry woman-hating mine field of misery. You’re all good, loving, confident people. (Well, most of you.) I also formally request that before we speak, post, or comment, we think about what exactly we are saying about women who don’t look like us. I’m calling all women to really consider what these statements are doing to our own gender, and if it’s really necessary to adopt a negative connotation when we can defeat any discriminatory attitude we are forced to wade through as women simply by saying and believing, I am beautiful. I am worthy. I am healthy. The woman who can look at her reflection and say that with a smile? She is truly liberated, truly empowered, truly confident. And if you are unable to do that, then the problem is not Hollywood, and the fault is not with the people who judge you, shun you, or talk about you behind your back.

It starts with you.

I see it all the time. Women discussing just how irate it makes them to be objectified by men and society. I think it’s safe to say that on the whole, women are tired of outdated notions regarding our sex. That we cannot accomplish as much as the average man because we are too delicate. That we can’t handle stress because we’re too emotional. That we deserve less pay than a man.

And then I see these same women openly discussing how much better they are than their fellow women based on body size. “I’m not a bon bon eating fat bitch.” “Real women have curves.” “I’m a full figured woman and I’m better than you because you’re just a toothpick who will blow away in the breeze.” “I work out, therefore I am healthier and superior to your fat lazy ass.”

It happens all. the. time.

The same women who whine about being subjected and objectified in a man’s world will turn around in the next breath and tear down their fellow woman based on her body size.

How exactly does this practice of tearing each other down on such a mind-blowing shallow basis make it any harder for the very men — the very society who we abhor for telling us how we should look, act, and think — to stop treating us like objects whose thought pattern only exists on a superficial level? Can someone please explain to me how we are expecting the world to treat us right as women, when we can’t seem to find a way to set the standard within our own gender?

I’m not saying that I have always been impervious to these types of behaviors, but I am making a concerted effort to change. Not just for my good, but for the good of my own kind. We set the bar, ladies. We can’t expect the world to treat us fairly when we are making it so blatantly easy for society to treat us like shit based on our own examples of how we treat other women.

No, this really has nothing to do with actual standardized testing. It is about standards, and perhaps it is a bit of a test.

I guess I’ll start by asking if you believe that there is a double-standard between men and women that says that when men sleep around, they are heralded like kings with harems, but when women do it, they are sluts? Do you buy that?

Well good, because it’s true. Not the label, but the notion. This common belief is definitely as abundant in human conduct as drinking water. It’s just an assumption that so many of us make: A man can sleep with many women, and he is a hero. A woman sleeps with many men, and her morals are questioned.

I’ve spent a lot of time pondering this over the last week or so, for no apparent reason, and the conclusion I have come to is this:

If you believe that a girl is slutty for sleeping around,
And you simply accept a man sleeping around as the norm,
And you are more willing to put up with this behavior from a man because he is expected to be deceiftul
But in the situation where a woman sleeps around, you automatically begin acting appalled
Then you are the living, breathing perpetuation of the expectation that men are allowed to fail
On basis of having penises
And that women, on basis of having vaginas
are expected to maintain moral dignity in the face of our prolifically-failing male counterparts
And that, should she be the overtly sexually active one
She is a deviant
And she should not only be regarded as filthy, a failure, and unworthy of love,
but she should also be discriminated against and objectified because of it.
By men.
By women.
By religion.
So instead of breaking this cycle of expectations by creating equal standards for relationships,
we perpetuate the current standard, as creatures of the same species.
We whine about sexual equality while we rely on number of sexual partners to determine
a woman’s worthiness for love,
a man’s worthiness for praise,
how we define our own romantic relationships.

Does that even make sense?

If you are okay with these labels, and you think it is normal behavior to call a woman a slut for sleeping around, while you congratulate your male friend for bagging a runway model, then you fail.

If you are okay with these labels, and you find it comforting to check your husband’s text history while you call your girlfriend a slut for misrepresenting her morals in some fashion, then you fail.

If you refuse to acknowledge that the only way to stop sexual discrimination as defined in relationship expectations is adopting EQUAL EXPECTATIONS AND REFUSING TO WAIVER FROM THEM, then you fail.

Edit Preface: At the request of my husband, I am adding the minor detail that I am, indeed, a very sexually satisfied wife who only has to masturbate in his absence. He rocks my socks on a regular basis, so there’s that.

My dear friend and confidant informed me the day before yesterday that there are some local folks who clutch their pearls over some of the things I post. Let me just say: This post is not for you.

So that same friend told me a story of someone else close to her whose husband basically treats her like a doormat. Not only does he refuse to sleep with her even though she is the mother of two of his four children (the other two he fathered with other women); he is apparently also having an affair with his co-worker and refuses to acknowledge his wife publicly.

This is a woman who has survived cervical cancer. What in the mother of fuck is a strong, independent survivor such as this woman doing allowing this man to dust the bottoms of his shoes off on her each and every minute of the day?!

It’s infuriating, and I have a hunch.

Ladies. We need to be having orgasms. If we are not getting them from the significant others in our lives, then we need to be giving ourselves a hand. When we allow the people we share beds with to talk down to us, clearly there is a problem with our own self-confidence. Chances are, if you are repelled by the thought of self-pleasure, you’re one of those types and/or you’ve never tried it.

I’m not going to start citing studies because this is a blog and I write essays like every day for school. Let me just be clear, though: Number of orgasms is the first indicator of how comfortable and confident we are in our own skin.

Of the men I’ve known in my life, the most brazen of them also beat the meat like eight times a day, and if they don’t own stock in Jergens and Kleenex brand, I’m willing to bet that they should.

Look, I’m not generalizing here, but I do have a hunch. So ladies, take my advice: If you are in a marriage that has you feeling trapped, under-appreciated, un-loved, and lacking in love-face exchanges, hug the nearest pillow, put on some Kenny G., and have a go at yourself. Please? You may actually find that along with intense pleasure comes intense bravery and ability to stand up for yourself…and gasp! Be happy?! Wait, what? Orgasms can do that??

Yes. Yes, they can. Hear me out, I beg you. Because if I have to endure one. more. sob story of a marriage situation, I’m going to start sympathy masturbating.

WARNING: THIS IS A POST ABOUT PERIODS. I do not want comments like, “Wow, thanks for over-sharing” or “Ughhh I’m a dude who can’t handle girl talk, WHY did you not warn me of the impending period talk?!” You have been warned, mmkay?

So I started my period today. I knew it was coming because I was sluggish and grumpy and my husband said yesterday, “If PMS were a mammal, I would hunt it to extinction.”

Anyway, after the initial relief of knowing that the bloating and heat flashes and sensitive nipples was over for this round, I remembered that I was out of tampons. In order to remedy this, I needed to visit a store and buy some, but in the meantime I needed a pad.

So I reached for some random pads that I bought at Fred Meyer the last time we were in the city. I was immediately reminded of why I hate pads, and why the majority of women in America likely agree with me.

Why the wings? Why, oh why, do I want to meticulously peel tiny pieces of paper from the sticky backing of each of the four wings on my pad, to have them only fit partially around the sides of my tiny underwear? Why don’t they make winged pads that fit nicely into your underwear, instead of the gigantic phone book winged pads whose wings inevitably don’t stick to your underwear and wind up glued to your lady bits like a fucking press-on nail that you have to pry off? If I wanted my hoo-ha waxed, I’d go to a salon and pay some woman a large sum to torture me with the special wax that does not take my vagina along with its hair.

Also, once that paper comes off the back of the pad, it begins a life of its own thanks to static electricity. The backs of the wings inevitably meet their end on the bathroom floor, or the side of the trash can, or the back of my jeans.

Fuck wings. I hate wings and their stupid sticky torture and their stupid staticky paper backings.

And don’t even get me started on overnight pads with wings. So instead of wearing a phone book in my underwear while I sleep, I get to wear the thickness equivalent of an entire roll of paper towels, all held into place by, you guessed it, a few flimsy wings. That’s like trying to tie an ATV to a trailer using dental floss. The shit is coming loose, and it’s going to wreak havoc.

It is two thousand and mother fucking eleven. I can now video chat with my mom, sister, and uncle Luigi in Zimbabwe — if he existed — all at the same time. I can wear a watch that calculates down to a tenth of a second what my running pace is, and that navigates my precise running path. I can create entire documents with software programs that record my voice, and my iPhone does everything except bathe my kids and cook my dinner.

I challenge all pad companies to find a better way to put some sticky wings on a piece of cotton. I challenge you to make it possible for me to spend less than five entire minutes peeling off your backings and attempting to shield my crotch from your wrath. Look, I just want you to make this task easier, so that I can more swiftly and less painfully get back to pretending that I’m not on my period for another couple hours.

Please?

Don’t you love feminism?

You know what I’m talking about, right? Don’t worry; I didn’t burn any bras in front of the Tok Visitor Center today. See, I am what I consider to be a modern feminist, in that I support women being outspoken in any way that they see fit. Uber religious, uber liberal, pro-life, pro-choice. I respect and admire women who are not afraid to get heard.

Naturally, we know just by reading our middle school history books that the feminist movement was, in essence, a civil rights movement by women, for women. We were tired of the glass ceiling, we were tired of having less rights than our male counterparts, and we were tired of being told how to properly conduct ourselves (by men, no less).

I think a byproduct of the feminist movement was what modern feminism has come to be: women unafraid to say, do, be, wear what they want. Which brings me to my next point.

From 2003 until last summer, I was a member of a private parenting community whose members happened to be all women. I remember one thread that was started about three years ago. Discussion was centered around whether or not it is proper conduct to wear shirts that show your bra straps. I couldn’t believe the debate! I remember taking the angle of “Bra straps are tacky; I judge people whose bra straps show.” And then I promptly stopped wearing shirts that showed my bra straps; which, for my then-floppy-skin-flap AA’s, meant no spaghetti strap tank tops because the women at my mommy community generally thought that was tacky.

Granted, this was some years ago and now I couldn’t care less what anyone thinks of my attire — much like I could not care less about the attire of other women who don’t sport camel toe or something equally offensive and/or ridiculous — I still catch myself thinking about that and the many other times I’ve seen and heard and participated in this kind of petty judgement.

I realize the general assumption is that it’s in our nature to be judgmental over these types of small taboos, but really, is it? Or is it that we have done such a great job belittling our own sex that we are just expected to be that way by our male counterparts? If that is true, then we fulfill our own stereotype.

The bottom line is, whatever makes you feel sexy: tattoos, short shorts, high-waisted Mom jeans, open-toe slingbacks and hooker earrings, a nice cashmere sweater, or a tank top with bra straps showing — what matters is that it makes you feel good about yourself. What doesn’t matter is what anyone else thinks of it. And if you’re one of those women who I see out and about in attractive skirts or belly shirts, and you’re pulling it down or covering it up or crossing your arms over your chest, you have a decision to make. Either go home and change into something that makes you feel good enough to walk around town in, or own your outfit and every curve that you have put into it.

You cannot own your sexuality until you own at least a few ounces of confidence. It doesn’t go both ways, and one definitely comes before the other. Being confident in our own clothing, despite what other less liberated women may think or say, is something that every modern woman owes to every original feminist who ever fought for our civil right to being ourselves.

I think this is one of those posts that was meant to happen. Maybe it’s just my head pulling from my life and putting events together like a puzzle, but I choose to lace up the series’ of events of the last few days in a nice, messy, confessional rant about something I — something we all — bear witness to each and every day.

It all started last night when I forced my husband to watch The Vagina Monologues on HBO. I’d seen it live, but Eve Ensler is like magical mystery dust for my pre-existing feminist nature. Before you click that little “x” in the corner of your browser, hear me: I am not speaking of feminism in terms of the blanketed, commercialized version of feminism chastised by religions everywhere. I’m speaking frankly; of feminism in the opposition of being discriminated against because I am female. Because I have a vagina. Strangely, I was watching the monologues while experiencing my own antibiotic-induced, rip-roaring, make-you-cry yeast infection. (Stay away from that “x”!) Watching The Vagina Monologues is always entertaining, but experiencing it while undergoing the very real dispositions associated with lack of probiotics in my body really intensified the experience.

Hearing Ensler’s variations of moans, listening to her speak poetically about rape camps in The Ukraine, remembering all of the times in my life where a man thought that putting his hands on me, in me, was something he was entitled to because I am a girl and therefore the “weaker sex” — because I have a vagina….hearing her words, moans, laughs, swear words…It all incited a very familiar feeling inside of me. It’s really unfair.

Here’s the thing: As women, we put up with entirely too much shit. Not specifically from our male counterparts, or from our kids; I’m talking about expectations, stipulations, imbalances, we inflict upon ourselves.

Today I called the doctor’s office because I wanted a Diflucan pill to cure me of this debilitating yeast infection. I had been to the doctor’s office yesterday, to get an allergy shot, and the PA asked me if there was anything else I needed. I responded, “No”, because the onset of the infection wasn’t apparent until last night. Thinking foolishly that I could get a pill today, less than 24 hours after seeing the doc, I called and was immediately let down.

“Is this an emergency?” inquired the female receptionist, “Because we are only taking emergencies today.”
“Well I certainly don’t want to sit around with a yeast infection for an entire weekend; would you?” I replied after a significant silence.
“We can get you in at 10:45 but it will be quite a wait, and you will need to undergo an examination. Otherwise, he (the PA) says you can buy some Monistat cream from the grocery store.” (As if shoving cream up my hoo-ha every night for 3 – 7 nights is a great alternative to the diflucan pill.)

In resolution to the situation, I simply hung up and called my family practice doctor, who wrote a script and faxed it to Tok Clinic without incident, and within the confines of the afternoon, I was on my way to comfortable mobility again. I am, however, still stewing about the incident of this morning.

WHY is a yeast infection not considered a fucking emergency?? Since when is it expected that I should sit around, fighting the urge to go rub my snatch against a tree for an entire weekend until my non-emergent situation can be remedied by the invasive procedure of a PA shoving cold, metal duck lips into the deep confines of my vagina, and then clamp down on my cervix with a literal serrated, screw-driver like object that will then open my terrified little infected, already burning cervix so that said PA or doctor can then use a q-tip with a bristled end to SCRAPE the sides of my now absolutely reeling cervix? I am then expected to climb down from the table, strange disgusting lubricant dripping down my legs, and go out into the waiting room while a lab tech looks at a slide and confirms that I do, in fact, have a yeast infection, and I am, in fact, worthy of the pill that could have cured my “non-emergent” infection on Friday, without the invasive and humiliating experience of getting shoved around by some duck lips. (Oh, and don’t forget to take care of that co-pay on your way out.)

This hardly seems fair, especially when you consider than a man can score Viagra at any time of the day or night by visiting his local urgent care clinic. I don’t know why the staff thought that putting up with a yeast infection for an entire weekend was a perfectly suitable expectation…Is it because I have a vagina, and those pesky things are just expected to be troublesome?

Ironically, while I was in the clinic, I read an article in the May edition of Time (which I stole, yes I did) about men and abuse of power. The article chronicled the exposing of recent infamous indiscretions of two big-wig political figures; the recent arrest and indictment of French International Monetary Fund official Dominique Strauss-Kahn, and the now laughably tragic Arnold Schwarzenegger scandal. We all know that Ahnold fathered a kid with his maid, but Kahn sits in Riker’s Island as I type this, arraigned on charges of forcing a hotel maid to perform oral sex on him in the bathroom of his New York City room. He faces charges of attempted rape, among others. His accuser recalls him attacking her violently, ripping her clothes off, and hitting her several times before locking the door and forcing her to perform the act.

“..Strauss Kahn…not a falling star like Tiger Woods or Charlie Sheen or one of the libidinous lawmakers and Luv Guvs whose confessions can be as infuriating as their sins. Strauss Kahn was not accused of seducing prostitutes while prosecuting prostitution rings, like former New York governor Eliot Spitzer, or lying about an affair while impeaching a President for lying about an affair, like Newt Gingrich.”

I took this article in, reading over the various explanations from psychologists specializing in powerful men with sexual disorders (yes, they have those kinds of specialists), knowing that some kind of voice was growing inside of me, and it was deeply-rooted in unsettlement. I began to recall just how many events in my life have involved being violated by a boy or by a man who was intent on exerting himself or feeling powerful, and the exacting of this Need to be Powerful came in the form of violating my body, upsetting my spirit, my emotional state, and detracting from my ability to be powerful. I can recall incidents of varying degrees of demoralization starting as young as 10 years old.

So why me? Because I am somehow vulnerable to them? Because it’s my job in the role of Woman to take on these burdens and still somehow remain ever-graceful? Because I have a vagina.

When I walked in the door from the doc’s office, I was greeted with a vision of John Edwards on my TV, informing me that he did not break the law, nor was he ever aware that he was acting criminally by using campaign funds to silence his mistress and Baby Mama, his political-affiliate-turned-snitch, or anyone else he wished to quiet.

Then it dawned on me. It has become the norm for men in positions of power to act like perverted, chauvinistic, sex-crazed monkeys, guised cleverly in Armani. All around me — everywhere — you, me, and the world are surrounded by absolutely piss-poor examples of husbands, fathers, lovers. While our men in power are trying to save fatherless children from certain depravity with the implementation of after-school programs and arts funding, they are banging their interns, their nannies, screwing the high-paid prostitutes, soliciting sex from little girls (and boys), getting blow jobs in airport bathrooms…the list goes on. To say it is rampant would not be justifiable; it is an epidemic.

These men are, apparently, allowed, entitled to fuck whoever they want, whenever they want, despite the fact that it is immoral or philanderous or criminal. Using these women’s vaginas is seemingly like their award, their bounty, for all their “good works”.

What disgusts me more is how the wives of some of these men “support” their husbands through these scandals. Kahn’s wife, Anne Sinclair, is quoted in Time as declaring that she is “rather proud” of her husband’s reputation, referring to him as a “chaud lapin” (hot rabbit) and bragging that his skills in seduction are what make him such a fine politician. She also vehemently denies his guilt, despite the fact that Kahn is accused of violently attacking at least four other women since 2007.

It would seem to me that she, like so many other women, is speaking from a motive unrelated to dignity. It would seem to me that she, like him, is not impervious to the charms and attraction of power. The French lawyers representing Kahn have dug up the history of his accuser, the hotel worker, exploiting her name and photograph in French papers and wrongfully declaring that she comes from a project home in the Bronx for people afflicted with HIV. Another thing power will afford you no matter your gender: great representation.

This caused me to remember all the times my “friends” subjected me to their wrath because a boy liked me better, or because I wore something short to a party and got attention for it, or because I am outspoken. I remembered being called a whore by girls who were once my closest friends, just because I broke up with a popular boy. Memories began to flood; grown women sitting around at football parties, laughing and joking and speculating about who I could be cheating on my husband with. Women who called themselves my friends, spreading rumors that I throw up my food. Women making fun of my size, shape, nose. So why do women do this to themselves, to each other? When women do this to each other, it is because we are defeated by the people who tell us to look perfect, the men who groped us against our will, or the mothers who told us that we need to be thinner. We do it to each other because subconsciously, we have become victims of our own selves. The people who made themselves powerful by taking power away from us have infected us with the same sickness, so we prey on each other. We have given up on bettering ourselves, so we simply demoralize others in order to feel like we are all on the same playing field. Superficial self-validation.

All day, my mind has been wandering to the women I know who were raped, assaulted, injured by a man. I have been thinking that all these well-publicized instances are nothing more than more magnified, more sensational versions of what happens to women and girls every single day. Because we have vaginas.

It seems that because we have vaginas, women are given a whole lot of expectations — that we will nurture even when we are being wronged, that we will put up with being objectified, that we will deal with unwanted sexual attention, and that when we do live in opposition of the traditional woman’s opinions of what is proper in a woman, we will take the heat from our own sex.

I say that because I have a vagina that gives birth and bleeds and suffers infections and is minimized and ostracised and violated and objectified and sexualized all the day long, I start screaming louder. Bragging more. Succeeding more. Breaking barriers and speaking out for whatever, whoever, and whenever I want to. Calling bluff on people who want to minimize my success by demoralizing me. Supporting other women who recognize the need for a change in balance. Demanding relief from a yeast infection when it begins, because nobody’s physical pain should ever be prolonged because some douchebag doctor deems it non-emergent.

We are behind in the times. We need to start counteracting the examples of the types of men and women who enjoy the feeling of power they gain from our demoralization.

We need to own our vaginas. We need to own our successes, our achievements, and our endeavors, our femininity, our beauty in every mentionable form. We need to speak out for ourselves, express ourselves, brag about our accomplishments unabashedly, be egotistical and self-righteous when we do good things and take conscious efforts to learn from our mistakes instead of hiding them under the rug (pun intended). It is so important that as the already-objectified creatures that we are, we find solace in recognizing each other for inherent goodness, and not in spite of the negativity that surrounds Being a
Woman, but in the name of being a truly empowered woman who lacks fear. We need to instill in our daughters the same exact notions; through example, through openness, through reinforcement that what makes them so incredibly powerful is the fact that they are girls.

We need to stop being victims of our vaginas, and start being advocates for them.

They’re ours, after all.

So a few weeks ago, I typed a blog referencing several scenes of utter female disrespect played out in front of me.

I would like to revisit that to say exactly one thing: If I had a dollar for every high school-aged girl who has told me that they are constantly regarded in this manner by boys their age, and that seeing adult women stick up for them makes them feel empowered to stand up for themselves against this type of outright verbal abuse, I would be able to buy my boss an entire week’s worth of 12 oz. mochas. With whip. Including tip.

Onward. Lucky me; I have so very many women in my life who understand what it means to be truly empowered and independent of thought and action. Women from all walks of life, who hold a huge spectrum of beliefs; all of whom I admire greatly and consider myself fortunate to call them friends. There is a very solid reason why women of this nature are so dear to me, and I am reminded of it almost daily.

To the women in my life — my mom, my sisters, my close friends and acquaintances, my boss, my running partners and fellow running-lovers, co-workers, and my daughters who I hope to raise to be as free of thought, mind, words, and actions as not to turn bitter — I appreciate all of you for being the inspirational people that you are. You have affected my life in ways unmeasurable; you truly keep it real. I treasure you!

And to my husband, who understands that a strong, courageous woman is the most desirable thing in the world, my deepest and most sincere gratitude. Our daughters are incredibly blessed to call you their dad, and I to call you my husband.

When women fail to stand up for their own, we have nothing. We have no identity of our own. When we allow men — or even worse, other women so embittered by their own oppression — to bring us down, we are actively giving ourselves away; as if we’re standing outside with a plate of brownies labeled with every possible strength we embody and shouting, “Get your free brownies here!”

If you are a wife and a mother and you have no courage, you are just a wife and a mother. When you are a courageous wife and mother, you are a woman, and you are a woman I want to call a friend.

Don’t let anybody steal your damn brownies.